With Hope

Grief.  That thing we feel when someone dear to us, steps into eternity.  That empty, hollow, overflowing feeling.  The way the world looks gray and dull when picturing it without our loved one there.  Most of us know the ache of waking that first morning, knowing it's your first full day without him or her.  Most of us know what it is to stand there in the cemetery, waiting for them to lower someone precious into the ground for a final time. 

But not all of us know hope.  Not all of us believe in heaven and eternal life.  That is the part I don't understand.  How does a person who has no hope, grieve and then move on?  Where do they draw their strength from?  How do they reconcile the death with the eternal nature of our spirits - something we know deep inside regardless of creed?

I believe in eternity.  I believe in Heaven.  I believe that my daughter and my other children are all there waiting for me.  I believe my Gramma is there, and that as we always talked about when I was growing up, she will meet me at the Eastern Gate.  I believe my great-grandpa Max is there.  My great-uncle Elmer.  My brother.

And it fills me with hope and anticipation.  The day is coming when I'll be reunited with them all, and I will never have to say goodbye again.

So I grieve, but with hope.

What I Am Proudest Of

This is what I am proudest of.  Out of every thing God has given me the ability to do, everything I have accomplished, every drop of sweat and blood and every tear, nothing has meant as much to me as this. 

When I was twelve, I was just a scrawny, insecure, abused little girl with no hope and no concept of "future."  All I had was the present, and the present was nothing I wanted.  But one afternoon, my dad came home from his new job and handed me a newsletter put out by a local hospital.  He said "read the class list - see if there is anything in there that you would like to do together."  My eyes landed on "Karate for adults and children aged eight and up.  Maximum 25 students."  Dad and I made 23.  All of us white belts, with one lone black belt as the instructor.  That man became first an instructor and then a mentor and then my doctor and then my friend, as years passed.  And it turned out not to be Karate - it was Tae Kwan Do, but with some Judo and Hapkido mixed in. 

At our school, earning a black belt is no easy feat.  It takes years, and it takes everything you have to give - and then more.  At age twelve, I saw that and suddenly, I had something in my future.  Something I wanted - needed even.  Something that I could do. I knew I could.  It literally changed everything about who I was.  Not dramatically, especially at first.  But a subtle shift from hopeless to hopeful, from lost to found, from broken to healed. 

There has not been a day since, that I have questioned whether God used martial arts to save my life.  He did.  He still is. 

And that is why this is what I am proudest of.

P.G. With No Baby

I've been told  many, many times that "whatever is wrong is self inflicted" in reference to my leg.  And I've been assured that it definitely couldn't hurt as much as I say it hurts.  I've been told I'm not sick, that there's no physical reason for the symptoms I battle daily.

But recently, that's all changed.  My doc believes in me and has fought to help me heal, and has endured the highs and lows as my leg gets better and worse unpredictably.  And finally, there's a word for what I am fighting.  Two words, actually.  Pyoderma gangrenosum.  Look it up if you want, but be warned that most articles include graphic and rather unappealing pictures.  Basically, it means my body attacks itself from the inside out (so in that regard, I suppose you could call it self-inflicted).  It favors previously damaged skin, but I have no control over when or where or how badly it will do so.  When it flares, my skin first turns red, then warm and spongy, then blisters, then peels and rapidly erodes  until I have ulcers muscle-deep and usually bigger than a silver dollar.  It is excruciatingly painful - far more so than it should be given the wounds themselves.  It has coupled with a disturbing lack of immune response to allow infection after infection to form, for which I am almost daily at the clinic receiving treatment. 

Now, that said, I'm not trying to whine.  I honestly have a beautiful life, made that way by a faithful God.  It's just that people often wonder what it is that is actually wrong with me - what keeps me so sick so much of the time.  And this is certainly not the only problem, but it is a big one.  One I'll overcome.  And when I do, God will get the glory because it will be by His grace.

What If?

It seems like the longer I live, the more chances I get to ask myself "What if?"

What if June 1, 2006 had gone differently?  What if that ultrasound had shown a healthy, living fourteen week baby?  What if my deep-rooted fear and sinking feeling had been unfounded?

I'd have a child now; she'd be about five and a half.  I'd be thanking God for the time with her and mourning how quickly it had passed.  And she'd have had five and a half years of experiences to shape her into who she is. 

Instead, my baby went to heaven before I got to meet her.  Instead, my husband and I saw that still, silent ultrasound and spent the next day begging and praying and trying to hope that things weren't as they seemed.  Instead, we chose her name with tears and longing.  Instead, we watched her due date come and go and our arms stayed achingly empty.

What if on January 31, 2007 I had let my Gramma stay at my house to take care of me after my knee surgery?  What if she had not been in the van during that crash?  What if the van hadn't been there?  What if the driver of that milk truck hadn't chosen to use his cell phone?  What if the road crews had done a better job of spreading salt on that particular stretch?

Would that mean that today, I'd be able to ask my Gramma how to love my dying friend?  Would it mean that I'd have someone to give me the push I need to love without reservation?  Would it mean I'd have fewer nights filled with empty, silent tears?  Would my heart hurt a little less?

What if I had chosen to ignore the growing attachment and attraction I felt toward Derek nine years ago?

I'd have loved and perhaps married someone else.  And I'd have missed out on so much.  I'd have missed the laughter and the joy and the tender moments.  I'd have missed the frustration and fear and uncertainty.  I'd never have stood in disbelief as I watched my new relatives dance in a circle to weird Greek music.  I wouldn't have found myself having to choose between what I wanted and what was right as I responded to certain situations.  I wouldn't be laying on the couch with my leg in the air, knowing that tonight my husband will come home and I will be proud of how well he did today as he works a job that he is not "naturally gifted" to do.

What if in September of 1999, the person visiting me in the hospital had simply said "That is sad and I am sorry" when I told him I had to find a new home?  What if his wife had said she didn't want to start again with yet another teenager?  What if my dad hadn't been agreeable?  What if the doctors had said no?

I wouldn't have learned to love.  I wouldn't have learned to laugh, or to trust, or to be honest.  I wouldn't have experienced unconditional acceptance into a family that loved me just because they wanted to.  I wouldn't have had the foundation I needed to go out into the world and build a life.  And truthfully, I probably wouldn't have survived.

What if my childhood had been easier?  What if I'd never been betrayed, abandoned, or abused?  What if I hadn't survived things that are almost unspeakable?

I would have been closer to "normal."  I wouldn't have been living with PTSD for as long as I can remember.  I would have had less fear, less anger, less pain.  I wouldn't have had to be as strong or as brave.  I wouldn't have learned to lie about everything.  I could have "just been me."  But I wouldn't have had a reason to develop the compassion I have today.  I wouldn't have such a personal motivation to drive so much of what I do.  I wouldn't know how profoundly forgiveness changes a person.  I would never have seen the amazing transformation that happens when someone literally turns from evil and surrenders to Christ.  I probably wouldn't be as accepting of others and I am certain that I'd have less wisdom, less strength, and less hope. 

I could go on, and on, and on.  Because there are hundreds, no, thousands, of "what ifs" in my life.  In every life.  There are so many things that change the course of our lives from that moment on.  Sometimes, we get the better option.  Sometimes, we don't.  Always, we can choose to look back and ask "What if?"  Sometimes, doing so can help us.  It can give us insight, it can give us wisdom, help us make better choices in the future.  It can give us a chance to be grateful and an opportunity to embrace peace and acceptance.  But it can also hurt us.  It can make us regret things we cannot change.  It can make us grieve, it can make us angry and uncertain and afraid.  We can look back and feel slighted and compel us to make decisions that are hurtful to us now.

I have one final "what if" that I would like to ask.  One question that I think we all need to answer for ourselves, in our own hearts and minds.  One thing that needs to be settled permanently within each of us.

What if I choose to look back at my life from time to time, and ask myself how things could have been different, and then I take that perspective and use it to answer the 'what ifs' that face me every day, so that I can face tomorrow without regret?

Leg Time

1st Peter 2:24:
Who His own self [meaning Christ] bore our sins in His own body on the cross, so that we, being dead to sin, should live righteously:  By His stripes you were healed.

Healed.  It is with joy and excitement and hope and thanksgiving that I speak that word.  Healed.

For years, I attacked my own body.  I kept it hidden from most of the world, but not from the doctors who worked so hard to help me heal from those attacks.  I received compassionate, skilled medical care; many who admit to self injury are not so fortunate.

But medicine and time can only heal so much.

My right leg has been hurt quite badly, many times.  A few years back, it caught up to me.  Requiring yet another set of sutures landed me in the hospital.  Hospitals are good places to go if you are sick.  Hospitals are also good places to go if one wishes to be exposed to a plethora of hurtful bacteria.  My leg got infected, and for the first time in my life, the medical care I received was sub-par.  It festered and deteriorated for months before I had the first of too many emergency procedures.  At that time, it was found that the years of injury had caused significant vascular impairment.  In other words, you can only wreck so many arteries (big and small) before your foot simply doesn't get enough blood.  Because of the circulation problems and the effects of stress on my immune system and the unfortunate combination of resistant bacteria, it has been a rocky road since then.  I have spent more days either in a walking boot or on crutches, than I have spent walking normally.  I've got very limited sensation.  Lasting muscle weakness.  Pain, all the time.  And when stuff happens - little stuff, like a scuff on my heal from the stairs or a scratch from one of the cats - it doesn't heal like it should.  It can't. 

Last fall, things cascaded downhill really quickly. 

I am proud to say, though, that I have not done anything to deliberately harm myself in any way since the beginning of 2010.  I've been taking care of my body; seeing it as a gift from God.  It has been a fight.  A difficult, frustrating fight that has been worth it every second of the way. 

But it is in my medical record that I used to hurt myself, deliberately.  Every time a professional has entered the picture to try to help with my leg, it has been assumed b y them that I am still doing things to hurt myself.  It's led to ineffective and unprofessional treatment.

I am now three months into a process of trying to heal the ulcers that broke through the surface of my skin graft and proceeded to worsen and deepen for weeks as wound care specialists treated me for infection.  Infection that isn't present.  And it has been three and a half weeks of daily (yes, every day) appointments with my family doctor.  Three and a half weeks of finally having someone acknowledge that this is not something within my control, and it is not something I have caused.  Three and a half weeks of compassion and the best medical care that my doctor and the nurses working with him can provide. 
And healing is happening.  All the fancy solutions and ointments have been abandoned in favor of simplicity.  Pain relief has been not only provided but encouraged.  Nobody is wasting time trying to place blame.  And the wound that physically should not be able to do so, is healing.  Rapidly and well.  Skin is growing where skin can't grow.  I am completely without signs of systemic infection, and there is also no evidence of bacterial colonization.  Some of the defects that were present even after reconstruction and grafting surgeries have been filled in with healthy tissue.

It is nothing short of amazing.  Even miraculous.

And instead of a future full of continuous appointments and frustration and pain, there is an end in sight.  The day is not so far off when I will be able to leave the clinic and know that I don't have to go back any time soon.  Don't get me wrong; my doctor and the nurses and even the receptionists are wonderful people.  People I care about, people who are uplifting and kind, who are the sort of people I would choose to spend time with simply for the sake of their company.  It's just that the daily appointments, the constant need for said appointments, and the amount of energy, time, and attention being devoted to me, feels suffocating.  I'm the sort of person that prefers to fly under the radar.  Solitude doesn't feel lonely to me - it feels peaceful.  There are times when I am not sure what I look forward to more - being healed or the simple reality of not needing and not receiving this sort of intervention every day. 

Eventually though, I will be well enough to just pack a bag and go stay with my dad and family without having to worry about making it to my next appointment.  Eventually, my time and energy will be put into something more, something better.  Eventually, I  won't require so much as an Advil or Tylenol for pain relief, let alone narcotics.  Eventually, I'll walk into that clinic on two feet with no crutches in my hands, and I will undergo the recommended yearly physical exam, and there won't be any problems.  I'll smile at the nice people and walk back out the door.

There Are Days

Ten years ago (well, nine years and eleven and a half months), I graduated from high school.  I remember sitting in the second row of chairs, surrounded by people I'd spent most of my life knowing.  I remember looking around me and seeing how easy they had it.  How simple and enjoyable and effortless their lives were.  How beautiful they were.  How little they struggled and how seldom they had to fight.  I stared briefly at every face.

And I remember them.

But the last ten years have taught me something.  They didn't have it easy.  Their lives weren't necessarily any simpler than mine.  They didn't have a unequal share of happiness.  And they fought.  They grew up with one parent, they were abused, they had eating disorders and were addicted to drugs and self harm.  But they fought.  And because they fought, they got to keep going.  They got to build lives and families and careers.  They got to develop strength and faith and wisdom. 

I see those things reflected in them now.

And I see them reflected in me now.  I'm thankful.  I'm thankful for the lessons and for the joy and for the beauty and for the relationships I've had since that day.  Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the negatives though.  On mother's day, I let that happen.  It was an empty, heavy day.  I found my thoughts constantly focusing on one thing:  my Gramma, who was the closest thing I had to a mother growing up, is in heaven.  My babies are there too, and I've never met them.  And my mom?  There's an ocean of time and emotional distance between us.  I miss her, always.  She's sick; each night when I am trying to fall asleep, I inevitably find myself thinking about the fact that I don't know if I'll ever see her again.

I let myself focus on that, and it pulled me down. 

This week has felt like swimming through quick sand.  My physical energy is depleted.  Emotionally I've been on edge.  Mentally, my thoughts are jumpy and disconnected.  And each day has gotten just a little harder.

Those things have combined with the reappearance of pain and other symptoms from endometriosis to create days like today.  Days when I'm just... unwell.  Unwell enough to lack the strength even to sit upright.  Unwell enough that I can't focus to follow the plot in the book I'm trying to read.  Unwell enough that my body temperature is up and my blood pressure is down.  Unwell enough that lab work is coming back abnormal.

There are days like that in every one's life, as far as I can tell. 

And as far as I can tell, the only thing I can really do about it, is to rest.  So that is what I am doing.  I am resting.  I want to be with people, to do things, to "be productive."  But there are days when that seems to be too much to ask.

There are certain truths that keep rolling through my head and heart though.

Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares about you.

Come to Me all who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

He leads me beside still waters.  He restores my soul.

Fear not.

Fully God, fully man.  He has done it all, lived through it all, faced it all.  Perfectly.  I don't have to be perfect, because He already was and still is.  And that is why I can have faith and hope.

Even though there are days...

Swearing In

In court, if you are part of an actual trial and you have to testify, they have a procedure in which you are "sworn in."  Once you have done that, you are committed to telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

So help me, God.

I am swearing in, here. 

And it scares me.  I've always maintained a certain amount of detachment, freedom, from this blog.  That won't change.  But I also have frequently hidden behind "this is not for public knowledge" to avoid telling the whole truth about situations.

This post is months in the making, folks.  That's weird for me.  And different.

But the phrase at the top of my blog talks not just about being living proof, and not just about carrying light into the darkness.  It talks about the truth giving light.  And the truth is, there are ways to maintain privacy and anonymity without concealing that truth.

The truth is, I have been in a tooth-and-nail, knock-down-and-drag-em-out fight for my life.  In November, that fight had a temporary time out, as I was too sick do any more than lay in a hospital bed being filled with medication and connected to lines and tubes and having lots of surgery.  But I've healed well physically, and I'm back in the fight full force.  And I claim here to be honest, I claim to want to use my life, both the good and bad parts, to touch others and minister to them, and show them how God can do so much to help them.

And it's been clear for some time now that accomplishing that means telling the truth.

The truth is, my fight is the sort of fight that Ephesians 6 talks about.
And that about wraps it up. God is strong, and he wants you strong. So take everything the Master has set out for you, well-made weapons of the best materials. And put them to use so you will be able to stand up to everything the Devil throws your way. This is no afternoon athletic contest that we'll walk away from and forget about in a couple of hours. This is for keeps, a life-or-death fight to the finish against the Devil and all his angels.
Be prepared. You're up against far more than you can handle on your own. Take all the help you can get, every weapon God has issued, so that when it's all over but the shouting you'll still be on your feet. Truth, righteousness, peace, faith, and salvation are more than words. Learn how to apply them. You'll need them throughout your life. God's Word is an indispensable weapon. In the same way, prayer is essential in this ongoing warfare. Pray hard and long.  (MSG)

If the things I am fighting, were things I could fight on my own, then I wouldn't need God.  I wouldn't be leaning completely on Him.  I wouldn't be entirely dependent on Him to just get through the day.  I wouldn't need a supernatural boost to walk out my back door and try to face life.

When my daughter went to heaven, I thought I was truly and entirely broken and dependent on my God.  And then my Grandma was killed, and I realized I had never known dependence before.  And then, something changed.

The past I had been fighting so fiercely to hide from everyone who loves me, started leaking out.  A little bit at a time, the truth started to spill out.  Tiny bits at a time were revealed first to my husband, and then to my Pastor.  My husband, didn't know what to do.  He didn't know what words to use or what he should feel or what I needed... and he didn't know what he needed either.  Our Pastor, wasn't lost.  He wasn't overwhelmed.  He wasn't confused. 

And he wasn't surprised.  Through a series of meetings and pre-meeting letters, I shared more of my past with him than I'd shared with anyone.  And I was amazed.  It didn't hurt him.  It didn't hurt me.  It didn't cause a cascade of terrible events.  And it didn't change the way my Pastor treated me or my husband.  He continued to show us God.  And His love.  And for the first time in my life, I thought maybe I didn't have to hide the truth.  I thought maybe I could actually tell it and still be okay. 

The first counselor I saw was a good man.  I do mean that - he was good.  He was kind and compassionate and loved God and assured me that my Pastor was right when he told me that this counselor would understand and help without any need for me to feel out of place or ashamed.  But... he didn't seem quite strong enough to handle the things I told him.  I started... tentatively.  I shared just a little bit at a time, things that I knew were more... average.  Things I went through that I assumed lots of others had gone through as well.  And those first admissions were received with compassion and gentleness and support, which is what I needed.  He reminded me often to lean on God and to let my faith carry me.  Which would have been fine, but the things I was not saying, make faith and trust so very difficult.  And terrifying.  And I was convinced he was not strong enough to handle it if I were to tell him the things I still had bottled up.

He eventually decided to ask another counselor for help, to attempt doing EMDR

Flashbacks and nightmares and almost every symptom associated with PTSD took over my life.  Each day seemed longer and harder than the day before.  I couldn't eat - on a good day I would manage an entire tangerine and a handful of goldfish crackers.  Most days, it was less than that.  Anything more and I would vomit uncontrollably.  It wasn't an eating disorder; it was fear and anxiety and depression taking over my body.  Out of desperation, I turned to the only thing that had ever overcome the memories in the past.  I started cutting myself, deeper and more extensively than ever before.  With that came dishonesty and shame and constant fear that the wrong people would find out.

My self-destructive spiral landed me in the hospital.  It saved my life; I would never say otherwise.  But I was repeatedly reminded that I was there for crisis intervention.  My past was not appropriate subject matter for any of the counseling services received there.  A close friend visited daily and became the only person I could share the memories with.  Slowly, painfully, they came out.  Not all and not even most.  But some, a little at a time.

The counselor I started seeing after being released was different than anyone who had tried to help me, ever.  The first thing I noticed was that he was strong.  And intelligent.  Painfully blunt, which is what I crave in communication.  He was and is in many ways similar to my Pastor; the difference was, I actually care what my Pastor thinks and feels about and toward me.  The counselor, was only a counselor.  I had no fear or shame in revealing what was really happening, because there was no pre-existing connection.  He was in my life for one purpose and only one.  And that was what I needed most.

Since then, it has been two years.  Those two years have been spent in this battle I talk of.  I am overcoming a past that belongs in one of those horror films that is too bizarre to be believable.  A past that consisted of polar opposites in almost every arena.  The things that were done to me, the things I saw and heard, the people in my life, all seemed to be either very, very evil or very, very good. 

I was hurt.  When I was a child, a very, very young child, I was hurt.  I was abandoned and neglected and abused physically, emotionally, sexually, and spiritually.  As I grew, I had two worlds.  The world of good parenting and love and loving God and doing healthy things, and the world of abuse and shame and pretending to worship something distinctly not God.  Harming myself was my way to bring back reality on days when it all became too confusing.  It is something I started doing in kindergarten - maybe earlier, but I still clearly remember the first time I chose it as a way to turn off the images playing through my head.  It was the one thing, other than my body, that was part of both worlds I knew.

The abuse continued for years.  It was horrific and graphic and nearly destroyed my spirit, soul, and body.  I am not sharing details here, not because it's "not for public consumption" but because when it comes to sharing, they aren't needed.  It's not the specific events or even the people involved that make living today so hard.  It's what those things did to shape my thoughts and my beliefs and the way it impacted my body.  It's the fear and anxiety and flashbacks and disconnects and the random things that trigger terror and anger and specific thoughts.  And it's the way it interferes with my faith and my beliefs and the way I feel scared and ashamed almost all of the time.

God is the one constant that has been with me.  The only One who is strong enough and faithful enough to see me through.  And He has put people in my life to act on His behalf.  I don't know exactly what I will be sharing in the coming months.  I probably will never go into any detail; I just feel like the details of what I went through aren't what the world needs to know.  I think the part that matters most is how it changed me - and how I am fighting those changes now.

Thank you all for reading and for your support and encouragement. 

My Precious Daughter

My dear Annaliah,
Today is your day.  The day you were predicted to be born.  The day, five years ago, when we expected your arrival.  I had picked out music for you to hear after you were born.  I had started your baby book, with a letter from me, and from your daddy, and from your grandparents.  I had felt you moving, felt the thrill of life that was separate and yet entirely dependent on me.

And then, you went to heaven.  You didn't wait until December 17th.  You met your Jesus months before that.  I know that you are safe, that you are warm and happy and not alone.  It isn't for you that I mourn... it is for the relationship I so desperately wish I had with you.

It is for sticky fingers and maple syrup kisses and sandy hugs.  If you had been granted an earthly life, you'd be around five years old now.  Do you know that at this age, I could start teaching you martial arts?  You'd still be too young for class, but on our own, I could show you things.  You could start learning the lessons that could shape your entire life.

If you were here, you would never lack for hugs and kisses.  Not from me, and certainly not from your daddy.  He would have delighted in you the way that only fathers can, and you would have grown up knowing that you were truly cherished.  If you wanted to marry, you'd have met a good young man, because you would already know what love and respect and honor looked like.

Sweet Anna, on your day this year, I am grieving more than in years past.  I used to think that maybe some day, you'd have a little brother or sister that could live with me here.  Someone who could absorb the love that is burning inside me, breaking my heart.  But I know now, that is not to be.  My body just isn't capable of doing that.  I know you've got your brothers and sisters there in heaven, though.  For that, I'm thankful.  I am glad there is such a place, for you and for them.  I am glad there is a Savior who loves you.

This year, you got to meet one of the Better Men.  You see, Anna, there are regular men.  And then there are good men.  And then there are Better Men.  Jim is a lot like your great-grandma Eileen.  Passionate for his God, gentle and generous in spirit, a person of integrity... and someone who had an unusual love for children.  Saying goodbye to Jim has been a little easier, because even though it hurts me to live here without him, I know that now, you get to be with him.  He isn't family biologically, not here on earth.  But your old enough now to start understanding that sometimes, families aren't made of biology... they are made of faith.  They are made of trust and love and loyalty.  I like to think that you know your family there... and that you know Jim and Roy, and have played with Natalie, and with Judith's babies.  I wonder if you've met my brother?

This year, I am sad as I think of all that I have lost.  All that I have missed.  But that sadness, dear child, is not all consuming.  There is also joy.  How well do you know Billy?  Has he told you how his cousin and her parents pulled me back from the destructive path I was on, and into their own family despite their horrible grief?  Do you and him share a bond - children whose mothers question their own responsibility for the end of your time on earth?  I am joyful, Anna, that you know this young man who changed my life.  Because I do not know him.

I wonder if you've met Grandpa Jean yet.  I remember sitting on his lap, as he gently traced my face with his fingers.  His eyes were unseeing, and yet he said I was truly beautiful.  I asked how he could know, and he said he could see me in his heart.  Anna, that's what I do.  I see you in my heart, and I know you are beautiful.

I'm not coming Home yet, my child.  I thought I was, several weeks ago - and the doctors did too.  But God spared my life, and I am still here on earth.  I have so many things to finish, so much work to do, so many people to love.  I long for heaven, though.  I long to hold you, to see you, to hear your voice.  I long to bow before our King beside you.  You may be physically unreachable, but you are always close to me.  And like Grandpa Jean... I know you are beautiful, because I can see you in my heart.

And I know heaven... heaven is for real.  I'll be there when it's time.  Maybe you can come with Great Gramma and meet me at the Eastern Gate.  When I get there, after Jesus, you are the first person I want to see.

I love you for always.

-Mommy

It's Not Forever.

This life, I mean.  Eventually, we leave this earth and enter heaven, or we enter hell.  Death isn't scary if you are confident of your eternity.

But for those left here on earth after someone dies... it hurts.  It often does not feel temporary.  It feels like a giant hole has been ripped through you, a hole that will never heal.  It DOES heal, at least some.  It takes time, it takes faith, it takes hope, it takes support.  But healing happens.

Today, one of the best men I know is dancing in Heaven.  His son was there waiting, and his granddaughter, and so many others.  He's without pain, without chains, without flaws.  And I rejoice for him.  I truly do.

And my heart is aching, tears are flowing, for his family.  Because  good-bye hurts, even though it's not forever.  I remember how badly it hurt when my Gramma left my house healthy and happy, and didn't make it home.  That's as close as I can come to understanding what my friends, my family, are feeling.  Steven Curtis Chapman did a pretty good job of saying what's on my heart tonight.




This is not how it should be
This is not how it could be
This is how it is
Our God is in control

This is not how it will be
When we finally will see
We’ll see with our own eyes
He was always in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day

This is not where we planned to be
When we started this journey
This is where we are
And Our God is in control

Though this first taste is bitter
There will be sweetness forever
When we finally taste and see
That Our God is in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day
We’re waiting for that day
We’ll keep on waiting for that day

And we will know
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy

*This song was written and recorded by Steven Curtis Chapman. 

I Will Be Happy If...

I've noticed a lot of people lately talking about how they finally have what was supposed to make them happy.  Kids, a spouse, friends, money, a home, whatever... and I've noticed something.  The ones who are happy now, were happy before.  It seems to have almost NOTHING to do with whatever they wanted.

So.

What will make you happy?

Personally, I will be happy if we pull ahead further in our finances.  I will be happy if I can actually get pregnant before time runs out (actually, I will be happy if I find out time has not run out already).  I will be happy if we can adopt some babies.  I will be happy if we can adopt some older children.  I will be happy if we finish our house.  I will be happy if I can spend more time with friends.  I will be happy if I can be healthy.  I will be happy when I heal from the surgery I had just over a week ago.

But all of that... all of that is nothing when I try to compare it to knowing my God.  I can't even make the comparison, because they are too far apart.

And I realize something... I have to be happy.  Not because it's important.  Really it's not - my lungs work just as well when I'm sad as they do happy.  My finances don't go any further, my life isn't easier, and I'm not any more saved if I am happy than I am if I am sad. 

But people are watching.  Sad people.  Angry people.  Hurt people.  Scared people.  All those emotions I don't like, they feel.  And so do I.  So I let them see.  And then I let them see me happy in spite of it all.  I let them see me happy while we can't fathom how we'll pay next week's taxes and bills, while my uterus is painful empty (it really is painful; part of last week's procedure has made sure of that), while I scramble to find a way to try one last time before surgery takes away my chance for the rest of my life, while I dream about adopting babies and older kids and wonder if it will ever really happen, while our house has insulation showing where there is no drywall and I don't know when the last time I hugged certain friends was, and it's been over a year since I last thought of myself as "healthy" and even while I lay curled from the pain of the last operation.  I am happy.  Yes.  Right now, right this second, I am happy.  I have something that shines so brightly that all of those other real and painful and unpleasant things lose their emotional pull, and I.  Am.  Happy.

Are you?

~Psalm 119:2:  Happy are those who keep His rules, who try to obey Him with their whole heart.

I cannot even begin to TRY to count the number of times when people have heard me express longing for children.  Countless times.  Also, sorrow for the children who I've conceived and then had go on to heaven before they were even born.  I admit, it's been a big focal point for a bit over five years now.

And so many well-intentioned people have said "Just be happy with what you have."  And the reality is, I am not happy "with what I have."  I am not happy about the loss.  I am not happy that my husband is taking a Sunday afternoon nap with no children around him.  I am not happy that the surgeon has said that really, this last surgery was it.  End of the line.  Time for baby or time to move on.  I am not happy that my house is, 3 years later, still a construction zone.  I am not happy that our choices as a family have not meant greater financial prosperity.  None of those things are reasons to be happy.  But truthfully, if I was rich and had ten kids and a mansion and had never had so much as a cold, none of that would be a reason to be happy, either.

The only real reasons to be happy, are not impacted or changed or touched at all by the circumstances of life.  Our salvation, peace, eternal life, hope, confidence, and the fact that Romans 8 promises that NOTHING can separate us from the love of God.  THAT is why I am happy.  I am unshakably, undeniably happy.

And I still want babies.  I still cry sometimes when I think about what could be.  I still ache to hold a child that is biologically related to my husband and to me in my arms.  That may never happen - each day that goes by is a day closer to saying "Okay, nope."  But even if that day comes - even if things get painful enough or I find myself in danger again - and I say "Okay, do it" and the surgeon spends her day sectioning off my abdomen and wrapping organs and taking steps that make pregnancy a very dangerous idea... even then, I will still cry about my desire to be a biological mother.  But while the tears stream and my heart aches, I will also be happy.  Just like I am today.

Take My Breath Away

Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver her.”  But You, LORD, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. 
I call out to the LORD, and He answers me from his holy mountain.
~Psalm 3:2-4

There are moments in life that take my breath away.  Beautiful moments. 

Like the day my nephew Israel was born, and the first time I held him close to me. 

Or the day my daddy walked me down the aisle at my wedding.  He was wearing his flip flops and I was wearing... nothing on my feet.  I had heels but they hurt so I left them in the back of the church.  I kept looking at my daddy's face.  He'd see me looking and his smile would get bigger still.  And then mine would.  And then his would. 

And then I looked up and I saw my husband.  Derek is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% in love with me.  Do you know how amazing that is?  To have someone so loyal, so committed, so passionate?  To not have any real fear of abandonment or even harm or neglect?  It will take your breath away, just for a minute, when you realize that there is someone who feels that way about you.

Other moments... walking along a path in the woods, crying privately about the recent death of my Gramma.  Knowing I would wait the rest of my life before I could be reunited with her.  Aching and broken and trying so hard to be strong.  And there, on a snow-covered branch, with big flakes floating all around me, was a flawless cardinal singing so sweetly.

Looking to my left and seeing my dad and my Kelly and my husband and my dad's friend Charlie, all beaming.  Looking in front of me and seeing my friends and instructors.  Raising my arms up so that a black belt could be tied around my waist... less than a month after getting out of the hospital with my hand, and 8 months earlier than it was predicted I'd be able to even START training with my leg again.

Trying to teach a very happy 10 year old how to do some ground-fighting.  Trying to be serious.  Starting to get annoyed with his unstoppable laughter and unyielding smile... and finding it suddenly pouring out of me, too.  Laying next to him on the mat, just laughing.  Looking into his black, almond-shaped eyes, at his tan skin and a smile so big it looks like it almost hurts... and realizing that the isolation and resignation and sadness have faded away.

Hearing my closest and dearest friend after Derek tell someone that I am a good, good friend.  That I would be a strong place for them, that I could hold them up during a hard time.

Those moments take my breath away.

Seeing lines of clouds in a deep blue sky, with fields of hay rolling in the breeze and birds singing. 

Watching the hillside behind our house blinking with so many fireflies it seems impossible.

Coming in softly late at night, and watching my husband sleep.  All the tension gone from his face.  Gently kissing him, pulling the covers up over his shoulders.  His mumbled "I love you" that is so deeply ingrained, he says it even in his sleep.

Sitting on the back of a horse for what would be her last full-speed run... ever.  And what was my first full-speed run with a horse, ever.  And feeling for just a moment that I was somehow joined together with this animal who CHOSE to obey me, and that the world rushing by could not touch me.

Tiny, sticky arms wrapping around my waist as two young boys dash across a restaurant to greet me.  Spaghetti stains left on my shirt from their faces, and warmth spreading through my heart with their "I love you" still fresh and new.

Feeling my pocket vibrate and hearing the strumming of a guitar, telling me that my daddy - my hero, my protector, my friend - is calling me.

Those moments, take my breath away.  Not for long, but briefly.  Just briefly, I am too full of so much good, and I don't have room for air.

And then there are other moments.

Watching a young father gently pick up a tiny, tiny white coffin that holds his newborn daughter.  Watching him walk, alone, down the aisle of the church while my heart exploded with grief and love for that child's family.  Watching that man slowly sink to his knees at the back of the sanctuary as tears poured and his shoulders slumped.  Watching him rise up again.

Driving too fast for too long in order to make a cross-country trip in time to attend a "brother's" funeral.  Feeling my heart explode with new grief as I notice one of the pictures by his coffin - it was him, holding his baby girl, before she went to heaven.  Dreaming so vividly of him stronger even than he was here, with his giggling daughter, dancing in heaven.  Seeing his bride comforting those who came to mourn this wonderful man, and vowing not to cause her any more grief or hurt... knowing I would bear all of her pain for her if I could.  Hugging her and suddenly feeling the crushing weight of what she was facing, and being so unprepared that I began to cry.  Forcing a smile as I said to her, "My heart is broken for you, for your kids, for all of us who will miss him.  He is in heaven, and we WILL meet him again." 

It took my breath away.  So intensely that I wouldn't have been surprised if I had physically turned blue.

Standing with a camera, as requested by my Grandfather.  Taking pictures silently, as he bent to kiss my Grandma goodnight.  Hearing him tell her she was beautiful.  That he loved her - that he'd always loved her, from the first time he met her.  Watching the back that had always been straight and the shoulders that had always been square slowly droop.  They've dropped further in the years since.  And when I look at him, it takes my breath away.  This man has known death, has known grief, has known financial hardship, has carried personal burdens that he is afraid to put down... and what did he choose for the inscription on the grave site he will someday share with his wife?  "But you MUST be born again."

I relived that moment when the film came back.  All you can see is the flowers around the coffin.  The middle of the pictures is completely white.  It takes my breath away.

Seeing a still, perfectly formed but not-beating heart on the ultrasound screen before the technician turned it away.  Falling to my knees in the bathroom of a convenience store on the way home, and crying out to God in sheer, broken anguish.  A month later, getting "lost" in the Black Hills with my husband.  Still waiting for my body to release its hold on our daughter.  And being filled with a gentle peace that did not remove the sadness, but made it easier to bear, as we sat beside a mountain stream surrounded by millions of tiny blue flowers, and tiny blue butterflies.  Anna's flowers. 

It took my breath away, to be so broken and so at peace and surrounded by both beautiful life and ugly death.

Watching my friend be blasted financially, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  And seeing no end in sight.  Knowing I cannot fight this battle for him, I cannot take it on his behalf.  And loving him so deeply that I would.  I would take every last bit of it, if it would take it from him.  Watching that friend give up over and over... and over and over, renew his fight, renew his vow to NEVER give up.  Knowing that I am so blessed... to have my husband, my daddy, my friend... men who treat me with respect and love and honor and gentleness, and who defend not just me, but everyone around them.

Walking into a nursing home and having tears start welling up and my throat clamp shut when I see a strong, intelligent man curled up like a baby in the bed, having shrunk drastically in such a short time.  Wondering if that day, he'll know who I am or if he'll once again thank me for being kind enough to "visit a stranger."  Kneeling down to hug him, and feeling his hands soft and warm gripping my hand and around my neck, holding on with every bit of strength left in his failing body.  Feeling his tears wet against my cheek, and hearing him whisper thank you.  Trying to stand strong, maintain composure on the way out the door.  But unable to stop the ache inside, and unable to stop myself from imagining that it will be my dad in that bed some day.  Breaking inside for him, and for his children, for his wife.  Knowing that the burden he carries, the aching and sorrow that come when a parent buries a child, aren't fading along with the rest of his memories.  Knowing that soon, he'll be with his son in heaven... and that his other son will be here on earth and will be more broken than he's ever been.  And knowing I'm powerless to do anything more than be present.

It takes my breath away.

Watching my husband walking the same difficult path I walked down myself just a few short months ago - the path of genuinely and fully grieving the fact that all of our children live in heaven, and not here.  Facing the very real probability that we will not raise any of our biological children here on earth.  And hearing his stifled sobs as he does what I've been doing... and reads a childrens' book about heaven.  As he gets the truth of eternity ingrained more deeply into his heart, giving him the strength and courage to feel the temporary loss here and now.

Seeing so vividly that it seems as if it's playing out in front of my eyes, an image of that daughter who went to heaven.  Seeing her holding my Gramma's hand and beaming as they wait for me at the Eastern Gate.  Remembering Gramma's soft promise, made each night that she tucked me in.  "Make sure you look for me in the Rapture, Jenn.  It will be beyond description.  But if I beat you to heaven, I promise, I will meet you at the Eastern Gate."  Aching for that day with every fiber of my being.

Knowing that in Heaven, there is so much.  And loving my life.  But wanting so much to just be done.  To go there, and be with my Jesus.  To see my Grandma smile, to hear my childrens' voices.  I wonder if my uncle Paul is a carpenter there?  I wonder if Gramma takes care of kids who get there before their parents?  I wonder what it's like to truly and eternally be free of oppression.

And it takes my breath away.

And when I have no breath, when life squeezes the air out and I am at the end of myself... I remember these words from Job, chapter 33.

"The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life."

Drawing Anna.

My God, the Creator of the Universe, speaks to me.  Through His Word, every time I read it or hear it, He speaks.  I have had very few instances where I believe he has spoken to me that were anything else. 

One of those times was in December of 2006.  It was the day our daughter was due... the daughter we'd miscarried that summer.  I was so broken inside, longing so much for her... I prayed fervently, "Lord, give me peace.  I trust You.  I love You.  And right now, I desperately need You to do something inside me... something to make me okay again."

And then I went back to bed, since I really prefer NOT getting up that early.  And I had the most vivid, beautiful dream.  I saw my baby girl... she was laying in my lap, wrapped in a very pale purplish-pink blanket.  She was brand-new... still red and puffy eyed.  But she was so beautiful.  Smooth, soft skin.  Gently rounded cheeks.  A perfect little mouth that turned up at the corners like her daddy's.  A cute little chin that reminds me very much of her aunt Cari.  A nose that clearly came from daddy (or daddy's mom, however you want to look at it), but was still exquisitely formed.  Her eyes were shut, and she had one hand up by her face.  I picked her up carefully, and she settled against my chest.  I could feel her breath on my skin, smell her new-baby smell, I could feel her heart beating against me and the rise and fall of her chest.  I could feel her warmth and her weight, and in the dream, I thought to myself, "This is heaven."

I woke with a start... and could still feel her, almost.  It took a long time to fade, and I expected that eventually the dream would fade all together.  But then I noticed something... I didn't have the heaviness.  I didn't hurt quite so much.  I missed her just as strongly, but I knew she was okay.  

I believe without any hesitation, that dream was a gift from God.

I kept it to myself for a while - weeks, if I remember correctly.  Then I shared it with my husband.  And he wanted to know what she looked like.  All I could say was beautiful.  I tried to describe that mouth, her nose... the shape of her brows being the same as the shape of my Gramma's... her tiny hand that looked just like mine, her chin like Cari's... her complexion dark, like Daddy, with just a tiny bit of soft brown hair.  But words don't work for things like that.

So over the next few months, I drew her.  I drew her so many times... and each time, I ached to hold her, to have her, and I felt so much peace about where she was.  And then I'd finish the drawing, and I'd look at her, my daughter, and I couldn't stand it.  The picture would get tucked away into a box... a box I no longer know if we even have.

One year later, we mourned together the fact that our daughter was not turning one.  And that night, I saw her.  Wobbly, chunky baby legs.  Sparkling brown eyes, that mouth that turned up just a little at the corners, soft, dark hair that was almost black.  That perfectly adorable little chin.  In the dream, she was standing across the room, and I called out her name... "Anna, come to mommy" and she did.  She ran to me, and I felt her slam against me and wrap her pudgy arms around my neck and it was so beautiful.

2008, I dreamt of her again.  She was obviously two.  She told me "I can do it" when I offered to help her get up into a rocking chair.  I asked if I could sit with her... she said "Yes mama.  I like snuggles."  She looked even more like her daddy, and seemed even more beautiful.  I held her, and rocked with her in that chair, and it was glorious.  I woke aching for her, but filled with joy.  I thanked my God.

2009, she would have been three.  This last year, she would have been four.

I keep dreaming of her... on her due date.  On Mother's day the last couple of years.  They are the most vivid dreams I have ever had, and they leave me with so much peace.  I miss her, I long to be with her, I long to just... stay with her, always.  But I have a life to live here and now, and I have to focus on that. 

And I keep drawing Anna.  I keep drawing and it feels so good to get it down on paper, and then I look at her face, and it's a reminder of what is not here, of what is missing... and I can't keep the drawing.

But this year, I want to share her with Derek.  I want to show him.  I want to draw Anna for my husband, and I need God's help and strength to do it.

I know this may not make sense, but... it is where I am at today.

When I Get Where I'm Going

Brad Paisley and Dolly Parton.  It's not that I actively dislike them, it's just... well, you won't normally find anything from either one of them on any of my play lists.

But there is one song... one song that I just plain like.  I know it's not 100% scripturally correct.  But.  It IS accurate in its message and outlook.  Focus on what is yet to come, what we cannot see, what we have not felt or heard or breathed.  Focus on when we get where we are going.

I am going to heaven.  Maybe this very same hour, maybe 80 years from now, or maybe anywhere in between.  I do not know.  All I know, is I am going there, and when I do... when I do, I will see my Jesus face to face.  I will worship without end.  I will love without fear.  I will be made perfect.  I will meet my daughter Annaliah, and all of her siblings.  I will see my Gramma's shining face, and I will walk beside my Great Grampa Max, and I will see my Grampa Jean.  I will meet David, and Peter, and I will meet Paul.  I will meet so many I've never heard of.  And we will all be there forever.  And we will all be there because God loves us. 

So for now, when things get rough and I have a hard time just living day to day, I have been listening to this song and letting it get my mind back where it needs to be.

When I Get Where I'm Going.

When I get where I'm going
On the far side of the sky
The first thing that I'm gonna do
Is spread my wings and fly

I'm gonna land beside a Lion
And run my fingers through His mane
Or I might find out what it's like
To ride a drop of rain

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
I will shed the sins and struggles
I have carried all these years
And I'll leave my heart wide open
I will love and have no fear
Yeah when I get where I'm going
Don't cry for me down here

I'm gonna walk with my grand daddy
And he'll match me step for step
And I'll tell him how I've missed him
Every minute since he left
And then I'll hug his neck

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
I will shed the sins and struggles
I have carried all these years
And I'll leave my heart wide open
I will love and have no fear
Yeah when I get where I'm going
Don't cry for me down here

So much pain and so much darkness
In this world we stumble through
All these questions I can't answer
So much work to do

But when I get where I'm going
And I see my Maker's face
I'll stand forever in the light
Of His amazing grace

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
Oh when I get where' I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
Hallelujah
I will love and have no fear
When I get where I'm going
Yeah when I get where I'm going

It's April 17th.

Today is April 17th.  When I woke up this morning, my phone was blinking.  It was telling me something. 

I let myself think about him... about Roy.  And his wife, Carman.  And their three children.  And about how Carman is still living life and having joy.  I prayed for her, and the children, that they'd know the strength and hope that only our Father gives us.  That they'd never lose sight of the fact that the day is coming when they'll be reunited with Roy.  And that they'd live life to the fullest, today and tomorrow and every day until our Lord returns for us.

You see, today is Roy's birthday.

He went to heaven in 2007.  I remember that phone call so clearly.  It was Sunday morning, and Derek and I were standing outside our tent in that early-morning mist, half a country away from home.  And we got that call... our 'brother' died.  It ripped at our hearts and we knew we had to get home.  Get home and be with our 'family.'  There may not be any legal relationship to these people, but they are blood-brothers, having chosen Christ as Lord.  We drove, and drove, and drove... it was a long, rough trip, but we did it. 

It wasn't that long after my Gramma died.  I feel like we (Roy's legal and biological family, and I) have grieved together.  And I pray that today, they are where I am.  I pray that they can think of him and smile, even though their hearts are a little sad.  I pray that there is peace and hope, not sorrow.  I pray that they feel whole again.

1 Thessalonians 4:15-18


For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord will by no means precede those who are asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

Happy Heaven Day.

I know I haven't posted much (okay, not at all) in the last months.  It's not for lack of words or motivation, it's... well, trutfully, it's because I've been using up my words in otherplaces, before I make it here to write.  This post is two years old now, but I want to bring it back... for a special anniversary.

Original Post - April 9, 2009
This post is one that I feel ill equipped to write. It needs to be written - deserves to be. But I don't think I'm in a position to actually write it the way it should be written. It's something I don't know anything about. It's something I've never experienced. And yet... I do know something about it. I have experienced it. Or rather, something like it.

You see, today is special. It is special to a mother and a father. It is special to sisters. It is special to an aunt and an uncle. Two cousins. Countless others I've never even heard of. And it is special to me.

Today is an anniversary. Not the sort of anniversary that is usually associated with happiness, balloons, cakes, or cards. Not the sort that everyone dreams of one day "celebrating." You see, this is an anniversary of sorrow. On this day, too many and yet not enough years ago, an earthly life was ended.

It was unexpected. I have been to the place of unexpected death. I have felt the very breath I need to live knocked out of me. I have felt so shocked, so... unprepared. I have whispered into the darkness, "It wasn't supposed to be this way." I have forgotten, upon awakening, that my lived one was no longer "with us." And I have been crushed all over again when I remembered the truth.

It was tragic. This was not a gentle death at the end of a long life. It was fast. It was violent. IT was traumatic. It was unfair. Many would say it shouldn't have happened. I have been there. I have listened as my grandfather whispered from his hospital bed, "this never should have happened." I have felt the sting of unfairness. I have known death that wasn't just a fact of life, death that was the result of tragedy. A single terrible event, which stilled the beating of a beautiful heart.

It was deliberate. This is the part that really gets me. It's one thing to keep living in the wake of an accident. Something that we had no control over. But in this case... there was no accident. There was nobody left on earth to blame. This deliberate, tragic, unexpected death - suicide - leaves nobody behind to take the blame. Yes, this particular suicide left a mother behind, believing that if her faith had been just a little stronger, she'd still have her son. It left a scared young girl who tearfully named her firstborn son after her brother. It left a particular twinkle in the eyes of children, a twinkle that reminds his loved ones that he was here. And it left, truly, nobody to blame. But it was deliberate.

To that end - he is not to blame, either. Not really. Yes, he made the choice. He took the actions that took a life - his own life. But he had help. A demon, perhaps several, whispering to him. Convincing him that if he just ended things, all would be well. Striving to keep him from living, from doing what God had planned for him. I have heard those voices. Felt compelled to obey them. I am ashamed to say, I even tried to listen to them. I failed - and I am thankful. He did not fail. I wish he had. But he didn't. I've heard people say that suicide leads inevitably and instantly to an eternity in Hell. I don't see this in my Bible. I see that there is nothing - neither life NOR death, nor height nor depth, nor anything in all creation (see Romans 8) can separated us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus. I see that salvation can't be earned, nor can it be accidentally "lost." Given up, walked away from, and declined, but not lost. And I believe that the young man I am writing about is in heaven. I believe that this act, this decision, was not a choice to turn his back on God. I believe it was a lost battle with temptation. We've all lost battles with temptation. We've all sinned. The difference here? There are so many left here trying to sort the results of this sin out. I believe that this young man's parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends... family... classmates... they can see him again. And I... well, I will meet him for the first time.

You see, I never knew this young man. At least not while he was here. I feel like maybe I know him a little, now. Now that he has changed my life. Permanently. His death shook so many. But they kept living. In their sorrow, they looked around. They saw me. For whatever reason, they took compassion on me. They took me with them to church. They, in many ways, made me a part of their family. And in knowing them over the last seven years, I feel like I have gotten to know this young man. I am thankful to him. I am grateful that he lived. And I look forward to meeting him.

Today is not about me though. It is about them - his family. His friends. So, today, I want to say this to them:
I remember. I am glad he lived. Glad he was loved. I won't say who I am writing about... but those of you who knew this young man, know who you are. You don't need a reminder of what happened on this day years ago. You don't need me to say he is missed, and you don't need me to remind you of the pain. But one thing you do need... is for me to remember. For me to say, "It matters to me. I won't forget. I know it hurts. And because I love you, on this day, I hurt with you."

I remember. It matters. I won't forget. I know it hurts. I love you. And I hurt with you.

And on this day, I celebrate. Will you celebrate with me? Will you celebrate the fact that this one life has touched so many? The fact that even cut off prematurely, his presence on this earth made an impact that we can't begin to fathom? Will you celebrate the fact that on this day, years ago, a young man shook off the chains of this life and stepped into his eternity? But most of all, will you celebrate the truth? The truth that like us, he was a sinner SAVED BY GRACE. The truth that not even death can separate him from his God? Because that is something to celebrate. Even in the midst of tears and sorrow.

It's Not Me - It's Him

It seems like most of the time, life involves trying to prove something to someone.  There are tests, requirements, standards which must be met or exceeded.  We go to first grade and our efforts begin to be graded - not based on our actual abilities, but on the way our performance adheres to certain standards. 

Truth is, it's exhausting.  And it contaminates our thinking and beliefs regarding our God.  At least, it contaminates mine, and I've seen the contamination in the words and actions of so many others that I've lost count.  Maybe it doesn't impact you.  Maybe it doesn't carry over into your faith, into the one thing that will matter for eternity.

It seems like we look at our lives, and see the short-comings, and think either one of two things:

 -"I have to try hard, do more, be better, or I will never make heaven and God will never accept me."
 -"I cannot possibly succeed, cannot possibly be good enough... I've already messed up so much, what is the point of even attempting to do any better?"

Okay.  I know what a lot of you are saying:  "No, it's not that black and white."

And you are right.  It isn't that clear-cut.  At least not on the surface.  We rationalize.  We tell ourselves we aren't being extreme so it must be right.  Do any of these thoughts sound familiar?

 -"I know He forgave me for lying yesterday, but today I did it again.  I'm out of chances."
 -"I am worthless."
 -"I won't actually make it to heaven."
 -"I cannot continue this way.  I am done."
 -"I can't do this.  What is the point of even trying?"
 -"I know this is wrong, but I am already condemned so why does it matter?"
 -"I give up."
 -"I will never win."
 -"I am captive."
 -"I am not really saved.  If I was, I wouldn't really (insert the thing you battle most)."
 -"I have to do (insert ideal that you hold in your mind and/or heart) so that I can be accepted by Him."

I don't know.  Maybe the emails, the questions, the comments that I have received represent a dramatic minority of those who trust Christ for their salvation.  I doubt it though. 

Read Colossians 2, verses 11-14 with me:

Entering into this fullness is not something you figure out or achieve.  It's not a matter of being circumcised or keeping a long list of laws.  No, you're already in - insiders - not through some secretive initiation right but rather through what Christ has already gone through for you, destroying the power of sin.  If it's an initiation ritual you're after, you've already been through it by being baptised.  Going under the water was a burial of your old life; coming up out of it was a resurrection, God raising you from the dead as He did Christ.  When you were stuck in your old sin-dead life, you were incapable of responding to God.  God brought you alive - right along with Christ!  Think of it!  All sins forgiven, the slate wiped clean, that old arrest warrant cancelled and nailed to Christ's cross.

Look at these words.  Just look.  Do you know what they mean?

They mean it isn't up to you to earn salvation.  You don't have to earn your way into favor with God.  There isn't a test or a set of standards that you have to conform to before He will love you, before you can become part of His kingdom.  It's already been taken care of.

It isn't you.  It's Him.

**Disclaimer: I am not suggesting, not even remotely, that sin in our lives does not need to be addressed.  Our actions and thoughts are to conform with the Word of God, and we are to try our hardest to make that happen.  What I am saying is that our failure to be perfect isn't what we're going to be judged or charged by.  The thing that will determine our guilt or innocence for eternity is Him and what He did.  Not us and what we did.**

But what about those things that consume us?  What about the sin that we vow every day to never repeat, and then the next day, it happens again?  What about the thoughts we can't seem to capture.  The intentions that are not pure, the fear, the anger, the hurt? 

What do we do with the things that our adversary, the devil, has stacked against us?

Colossians 2:15:
God disarmed the principalities and powers that were ranged against us and made a bold display and public example of them, in triumphing over them in Him and in the cross.

Did you catch that?  The devil, and his minions, those powers and principalities that are out to destroy us, have lost their ammunition.  They are disarmed.  No war can be won if one side is armed and the other is not. 

But wait.  Yes, this says the other side is disarmed but if we have no weapons, then how can we win?

Read Ephesians 6:17
Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.

The principalities and powers get disarmed, and we get a sword.  Seems like we will win.  It may take us a while to figure out how to actually use the sword.  We might not remember we even have it sometimes.  But we do.  We are armed; they (it, he, etc.) are not.

We win. 

The fight is hard.  We take hits.  We fall down.  We fall short.  Our technique is flawed and our courage sometimes fails.  We may wave our white flags and we may fall to our knees, believing we are defeated.  It can hurt, it can be overwhelming, it can be terrible and frightening sometimes. 

But He (Jesus) said to me, "My grace, my favor and loving-kindness and mercy is enough for you; it is sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully (successfully and with strength).  For my strength and power are made perfect, fulfilled, and completed, and show themselves most effective in your weakness.
(2 Corinthians 12:7a)

He can handle our weakness.  He planned for it.  He paid for it.  It's already been dealt with.  Those areas where we simply can not, He can.

It's not us.  It is Him.

So what do we have to do about it?  What's is expected of us in response?

Hebrews 4:14-16 answers that:

Now that we know what we have - Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God - let's not let it slip through our fingers.  We don't have a priest who is out of touch with our reality.  He's been through weakness and testing, experienced it all - all but the sin.  So let's walk right up to Him and get what He is so ready to give.  Take the mercy, accept the help.

I'm running out of steam for tonight.  So I leave you with this final statement:

Yes, I believe we are required to act upon what He did.  I believe our faith isn't truly faith without actions to back it up.  I believe we should live the best lives we can and strive to be free of sin.  But I also believe that when we stand before God Himself, the thing that matters most isn't going to be us, but Him.

Because it's not me.  It's Him.

Colossians 3:1

Since, then, I have been raised with Christ, I set my heart on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.  I set my mind on things above, not on earthly things.  For I died, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God.  When Christ, who is my life, appears, then I will also appear with Him in glory.

I remind myself of this today.  Today, I am not the only one missing a child.  I am not the only one who knows my child is in heaven, but does not know the color of his eyes or the texture of his hair.

I have a friend who is missing his child today, too.

It is a secret, painful ache.  One that people don't run around talking about.

"Hey, Bob, what's up?  Me... oh, well, I'm just thinking an extra lot about my dead children today."

Right.  When is the last time someone admitted such a thing to you?

That's what I thought.

So today, rather than talk about my friend or his child, I will talk about me.  Because if you know about me, you will know about my friend.  And you will know about Suzie and Matt, and you will know about J. & C., and M. & J., and S. & J., and R. and J., and T. & E., and L. & F., and so many more - and these are just people in my life.  I am sure there are just as many in yours.

There are parents who knew their child.  Who looked into his or her eyes, who stroked his or her hair, who prayed desperately to not have to say good bye.  Parents who have stood before a tiny coffin, tears streaming. 

There are parents who have paid all the fees, filled out all the papers, been approved on every level... and who must spend the rest of their earthly lives knowing their child (or children) will never come home because for whatever reason, the adoption never came to fruition. 

There are parents who met their child briefly... tiny babies, babies too tiny for life in the world.  Babies with beautiful souls and eternal spirits and no breath.  Babies who spent minutes, hours maybe, here on earth.

There are parents who have not met their child.  Parents who knew the child was on the way, and parents who didn't.  Parents who found out later, or who knew right at the moment, that a tiny life was leaving this planet and going to "a better place."

Some of these parents have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful for the children you do have."  As if they do not have, and never had the child or children that are already in heaven.  As if one child replaces another.

Some of these parents do not have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful you don't have to do the work of parenting.  Be thankful you can do whatever you want."  As if raising their children would have been hurtful.  As if they didn't want to raise their child.  As if pain and sadness were what that parent really wanted.

Today, I ask you to do something with us.  With these parents who have children who don't live on earth, but live forever in heaven.  You may or may not be one of these, but that doesn't change my request. 

Picture us in heaven, with our children.  Don't worry about getting the hair color or eye shapes or smiles all right.  I suspect that in heaven, these things are not going to be so important.  Just picture us together.  See that in your heart.  And remember this togetherness, in perfection for all eternity.  Remember this is what His perfect will is. 

I leave you with this... an image generated by a just-for-fun website.  If aging were to proceed in heaven as it does on earth, our children would be four years and seven months; four years and two months; three years and nine months (twins); three years and four months; and our recent twins were due in August of this year. 

Truth is, it hurts.  It always hurts.  But when I close my eyes, and picture our family of nine walking through eternity together, it hurts less.

Stars. And Him.

Last night, I spent some time with a good friend and my husband.  Then my husband went home and I got to chatting with said friend and ended up staying pretty late.  Then I had the 35 minute drive home.

It was so quiet... no other cars (I saw one, in 35 minutes.  A county sheriff on patrol who followed me for the last 5 minutes of my trip.  I assume to run my plates out of boredom.).  The sky was so clear, with little patches of steam and smoke rising up from houses.  No lights other than in the one tiny town I went through. 

The stars were so bright.  It was so cold and so still that they didn't really even twinkle.  Everything looks bigger that way.  And there were meteors.  Lots of them.  Just as I reached the top of the final hill, a particularly large and bright one flashed into view and trailed further than usual.  It was one of those rare moments when you look up at just the right instant; one of those moments that burns vividly into memory and can be recalled at will.  Or maybe you need to think in pictures for that to happen?  Regardless, it did.

I got to spend those 35 minutes worshipping and praying.  "God time" is the most special time... to be able to communicate with the One who created the entire universe is just so... humbling, and beautiful, and amazing.  It is a time when I can express myself, yes.  But more than that, and better, is that He can communicate with me.  Peace.  Joy.  Hope.  Assurance.  Correction.  Rebuke.  Love.  Most of all, love. 

Do you know how amazing that is?  That One who can created everything, Who knows all, sees all... that that One loves me?  It is something that is irrevocably true, and yet... and yet, I cannot wrap my mind around it.  HE loves ME.  Wow.

Psalm 8
LORD, our Lord,

how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
in the heavens.
Through the praise of children and infants
you have established a stronghold against your enemies,
to silence the foe and the avenger.
When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?
You have made them a little lower than the angels
and crowned them with glory and honor.
You made them rulers over the works of your hands;
you put everything under their feet:
all flocks and herds,
and the animals of the wild,
the birds in the sky,
and the fish in the sea,
all that swim the paths of the seas.
LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!

I Might Be In Love...

with this perfect little boy...

His parents let us call him our nephew.  When I hold him in my arms, his warmth, his softness, his perfectly formed face and super-fine hair, the way he smells, the way he puckers his face just like his mommy and the way his features are shaped just like his daddy... the feel of his heart beating against my chest, his breath rising and falling against me... I am in heaven.  Or as close as it comes this side of earth.  Little Israel James... Tia and Tio love you so very, very much.

Heal the Wound...

Every once in a while, I write a post wherein I expose to you the things that I usually keep carefully covered up.  The things that are uncomfortable, unpopular... without beauty and without grace.  This is going to be one of those.  If you want to continue to look at me the same way you always have - stop reading here.  I'll resume "regular" posting soon.

If you are okay with maybe changing what you think of me, of my life... if you're okay with reality being different than you might think, keep going.

If you were sitting here in the room with me, you wouldn't see my legs.  They'd be covered.  My right hand would probably be covering my left arm.  I'd talk to you, look you in the eyes.  You'd see me smile, see my brows pull together with concern.  I'd listen to your every word, tell you I cared.  And I would care.  I'd do whatever I could to show you His love.  But you wouldn't see my legs.

Unless you were truly broken.

If your hope was gone, if your heart was shattered, if tears were streaming down your face.  I'd take your hand, look into your eyes.  I wouldn't look away.  I might shake, and my voice would get quiet.  I'd pull up the leg of my pants.

You'd look down, wondering what I was doing.  The ugly, red hole in my leg... the lines across my skin... the evidence of old wounds would be there for you to see.  Your face would register surprise.  Maybe repulsion, maybe curiosity.  You'd stare, for a few seconds, maybe minutes.  Silence, until your eyes shifted back to my face.

And then, I would tell you why the song that is playing right now means anything at all to me. 

I would tell you that my hope has been gone.  My heart shattered.  I've cried until I had no more tears.  I've stared silently at the darkness, afraid of the light.  I would take a deep breath.  I would tell you that time and again, the pain and the blood have flowed out of me.  That my own hands have been instruments of destruction.

I would look down, and you would too.  Together, we'd look at the scars.

And I would tell you why I have stopped wishing for God to take them away.  Each one is a silent witness, proclaiming this truth: He is enough.  He is there.  He is faithful.

I do not show them off.  I do not want the world to see them if I don't have a chance to explain.  I am ashamed of what I've done.  But I am not ashamed of Him.  I am not ashamed to say that out of the ashes left by burnt out hope, He is creating a masterpiece.  I cannot see it - it is not finished, and I am on the inside looking out. 

I am breathing.  My heart is beating.  My hands are warm, there is fire in my eyes, my back is strong.  And it is not because of anything I am or have or can do.  It is Him.

He has preserved me.  He will present me blameless.  He lifts my head, He washes the shame from my face.  In Him, there is freedom.  Life.  Liberty.  There is no condemnation.  No fear.

He is your hope.  He is the only thing that can hold the pieces of your heart together.  He is the One who never leaves, never fails, never ends.  His shoulders are broad - they can carry the weight of the world.  And He loves you.  He has redeemed you.  He knew you before you were born, and He knows every minute tomorrow holds. 

The hurt, the loss, the destruction I have known, are not visible.  You can't see them.  If you were here in this room, there wouldn't be any way for you to know about them.  Except for the scars.

They speak.

They might make you cry.  They might make you cringe.  They might make you wonder if I've ever known the pain that you're feeling now. 

They will show you dependence. 

If you were here, I would squeeze your hands, ask you to look at me.

I would tell you that you will fall, again and again.  That your heart might be broken anew.  That you will feel more pain.  And I would tell you that He will pick you up.  That He will hold you, and wash you, and purify you.  I would remind you that in Him, there is healing and fullness of joy. 

And after you left, I would be thankful for the scars.  Not for the pain.  Not for the wounds.  Not for the sorrow.  But for the healing.  For the truth.  For Him.  For you.

If you were here.