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It’s a quiet winter day, and families are snuggled in to enjoy their favorite breakfast and watch the little ones open surprises cloaked in shimmering foils and patterns.  There’s a comfort in the warmth of a hot mug, and excitement in the day of celebration that lays ahead.

All about my day there are “Merry Christmases,” and jolly hats, and baked goods, and lobbies boasting colors of the season.  I’m reflecting in my heart the gravity of this day for all creation, and quietly thanking for the rescue that it means, and the hope we received from this one little baby in the stable.

All this joy and celebration and quiet awe, and my heart is feeling heavy, feeling like that little-girl enchantment of this long awaited day has been rubbed away by the scraping of the hard sorrow that meets us in the corners of a broken world.  There is chatter of wanting a white Christmas, and I am thinking  to myself, “I would give up every white Christmas for a Christmas without cancer.”  There are couples arguing over splitting time evenly with the sets of parents, and I am thinking of Kara having whispered, pleading that she would get to be home with her family for Christmas, for any amount of time.  In the decked halls and the holly hung, I still meet faces that can’t enjoy the eating and the unwrapping and the telling of the ancient story, because they have to leave the glow of home for the sterile white of the hospital and the hopes of a remedy to soothe their broken bodies, broken souls.  I meet in the eyes of a sad-faced man the dashing of a silent night as he waits for the coroner to arrive.   I choke back my “Merry Christmas” and instead an “I’m sorry, so sorry it happened today.”

In the dark end of packing up my day, I drive weary to get home and spend the last hours with an angel food cake and a birthday song, and curling up with the little loves of my life to feel their sweet warmth,  watching those last few Christmas sparkles in their eyes as they nod into a satisfied sleep.  The traffic is thicker as the travelers leave their gatherings to return to their own homes to finish the night.  My radio still crackles low the carols of hope and new life, and the weight of the world breaks loose the dam that held my tears from the questions of those around me.  A cry for the loss of my innocence, of the knowing that even in the glimmer of a Christmas day, when all is celebration and family and gratefulness, that it’s still not fixed.  Hearts still break and pain still ravages, and families missing loved ones make the gatherings feel missing.  Then the radio is a deep lulling voice, and David Crowder is telling me to lay down my burdens and heartbreak; that Earth has no sorrow that Heaven can’t heal.  And I know it’s for me, and it’s for all the hurting, that in each of our days where we fight to see grace and we beg for some mercy, we are one more closer to the healing that we reach for.  That one day, some day, Christmas will be all joy, and all newness, and all the glisten and gleam of the healing we got when that baby came here, right in the middle of our mess and braved the heartbreak Himself, will be the only thing on our minds on Christmas.

Shepherds’ Meal, Christmas Eve

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Right now all I can taste is bitter tears.  Just when I thought I had spilled every last one, another flood comes rushing.  That’s the thing of life, isn’t it?  Every day requires our tears; joyful tears, bitter tears, tears of mourning, tears of relief.  That is where we see again the paradigm of joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy.  The same hot, rolling tear can mean the both of them.

In the weeping, we hope that the rush of our joyous tears can drown out the flood of droplets that burn with deepest heartache; that someday each tear that has been counted and held will dissolve with the radiance of true healing.

There is not much that will express my true heart right now, other than the sobs which tell far more than my words can explain.

While this night of weeping seems to have no end, I rest in knowing each tender drop is captured by the only One who knows the meaning behind each one.

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This sweet little phrase has become so common!  Tell me you haven’t seen a hundred wooden plaques, stenciled picture frames, and wall decals with this on them!  It’s well worn, perhaps overused, but really, perhaps it deserves a closer look.

Seems only in the darkest days we lament our neglect to clinging more tightly to these 3 simple rules.  As we aim to grasp hold of the ordinary amazing graces between our tears, let me urge you friends:

LIVE fully. Don’t get caught up in the imperfections of the day.  Let the crumbs stay on the floor of the family car, the library books go a few days late, and let go of the guilt for hastily whipping up mac-n-cheese for dinner.  Spend those moments drinking deep the beauty in every gift to be found, the mighty swell of lungs still puffing life. 

LAUGH often.  How light the heart feels with the rush of roaring laughter.  A giggle brought to someone’s lips is something long remembered.  Find those smiles, the humor, the inside joke, and engage it often.  A merry heart does good like medicine.

LOVE much.  Don’t hold back.  Bear your scars and dare to let someone in, loving with all abandon.  You never know when you may be the only soul to show that person love.

We are rich, so blessed in every dawn of our days, don’t wait to grasp hold of the best of life until it’s too late.  We have today.

July has been a tough month the past few years. (The Why of July)  This July though, is going to pack a different punch.  I have felt it coming the past few days, and by the tears and misbehavior the kiddos have been showing, their hearts must sense it too.  It’s always been funny to me how your soul remembers the day is coming, even when your mind isn’t thinking about it.

Grandpa and Ben

It started with the day of my sweet Grandpa’s home going, the 4th of July.  A perfectly fitting day, since he was one of the most patriotic men I know.  Then it was Ellianna’s passing on the 14th of July.  It’s hard to go through that day without remembering the devastating events that took place.  This year, the 2nd of July will be another day of mixed emotion.  July 2nd is the day I became a big sister.  My brother Ben came into the world 29 years ago on my mom’s birthday.  Being so close to Independence Day, it was natural that the 4th became an extension of his birthday, and his favorite holiday.    He waited all year long for the opening of the first firework stands.  Each year, his own firework show grew, to the point where he was having them shipped from the places who supply professional shows, and his small town of Sterling brought a crowd each year to enjoy his masterpiece.

This July will be a salty-sweet month of grief and celebration.  We will be remembering and honoring our precious ones that are absent, and celebrating the moments that we enjoyed with each of them.  We will cheer my little sister as she begins life with her new husband, while quietly sorrowing over the empty chair.

We are immeasurably thankful that we do not grieve without hope.   We know where our loved ones are, held close, and surrounded by joy and healing.  We will miss them in our celebrations this July, but we will fondly replay our happiest memories, and whisper prayers of thanks for their salvation.

I hope that somewhere in Heaven there is a firework show like none Ben has ever seen…

Pyro…yep, that’s about right.

Birthday buddies

Celebrating Ben

My first ever attempt at a “fancy” cake was for Ben. Please leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!

“There may be pain in the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  That is a phrase we often hear as struggles are afoot.  I have to tell an embarrassing story… the day after Ellie died, my kind neighbor gave me a cd she had burned with one song on it.- “Joy Will Come,” by The Desperation Band.  I put it in and listened to the first few sentences before ejecting it.  Anger bubbled.  I thought, how dare she!  To imply this bleeding of my heart would ever turn to something beautiful.  I never said anything, but I didn’t pull that cd out again until a good two years later.  Two years when I could see beyond the crippling pain, and know there are pieces of good falling together because of our loss.  I could finally hear the hope in a song for the broken.

Ever since we went through a grief support group/grief study as a family, we have talked about someday leading one of our own.  For the longest time though, the heaviness of my heart kept me from believing that I could minister to anyone else.  Now we are stepping out.  Our awesome new church is supporting us in getting a Grief Share up and running, and we are thankful, so thankful that He can use our loss to reach out to the hurting.

There is another battle we fight, one that is only shared with our innermost circles.  A pain that brings fear, heartbreak, and uncertainty.  Right now, I don’t  know how to get through the muck, but I know with certainty that one day, when we are emerging on the other side of this storm, there will be a whole new opportunity for me to share with others who are in the thick of it.  That’s pretty humbling, to think He can use ME.

The greatness of life is not in avoiding the struggles, but in leaning into them, being changed by them, and then using them to bring hope to crumbled hearts.

God’s plan wasn’t for this world to be broken, but He has been faithful to make beautiful things from our suffering.  What will you do with your battle?

Perusing the local thrift store in L.A., we came across one of those finds that makes you dance right there in the aisle.  A very nice boogie board. . . for about an eighth of the price of a new one! Baylie and I were so stoked we could hardly stand waiting the 10 minute drive to get to the beach!

My brave little beauty

We had so much fun!  Baylie and I were the only ones brave enough to get out deep enough for the big waves, but everybody sort of tried it at least once, even Bella just barely gliding on it while I strapped it to my foot. 

It was grace for my body, I felt like a kid, healthy and strong. We laughed and laughed.

Colby did amazing! This boy quickly got over his timid shyness of the ocean, an charged for it every chance he could.  Oh my word this kid is giving me gray hair!  I have never had one so adventurous!

No fear!

Wipeout!

We had such a blast, and it was great to enjoy ourselves and the time together.  Mark is terrified of the ocean, but we are plotting to get him out there on the board by the end of the week!

Baylie getting read to head for another wave

Picking up to go again!

The other day I came across  this picture I hadn’t seen before.  It is simply, beautiful.  My heart melted to see such a perfect freeze-frame of her little button nose and her sweet, tiny lips.  Truly a gift to this mommy’s heart.

This picture though, it released a wave of  hurt so deep I sat in my closet and cried; an ugly, red-faced,  runny-nosed, swollen-eyed, hiccupy cry.  I didn’t cry because she’s precious, I cried because I. Am. So. Tired. Of. Missing. Her.

Her 3rd birthday this March, I really felt like I had turned a corner.  I finally felt joy, genuine joy about where she is, and really came to a place of  being happy looking forward to being with her again someday.  I felt like I could see Heavenward, past the deep wounds that had been left.  I was able to smile for all the good memories.

One step forward, three steps back.  I don’t know why; I think the death of my brother brought me back to those days, the horror days of  losing her and walking empty-carseat home, folding vacant blankets, packing up hopes and dreams.

I am tired of being a bereaved mother, tired of  being told how I should and shouldn’t grieve, tired of  all the things that remind me that she’s gone.  I am worn by the tears always hovering beneath the surface, by the questions, and the guilt, and the sheer agony of moving on without her.

I can barely stand right now, and I’m wondering where You are, wondering when You will make beauty from these ashes. . I know you can hear my heart.  It’s raw, it’s exposed, and it’s waiting for Your healing touch.

This broken bone, it’s never going to heal right.  Please help me learn to dance with this limp.

I was asked to write a memory of my brother. . .   In the vast expanse of our lives intermingling, there seems no single recollection that could justify the deep intersections of him in my life.

Ben was often misunderstood.  Misinterpreted, misdiagnosed, misjudged. Determined to have an impact on his world, he overcame challenges, pushed past labels, and stood tall in his dreams and aspirations to be who he wanted to be.

A tough and quiet front, he was shy to speak up and flushed a cherry red when attention was on him.  Rather than launching his opinions, he often held back, reflecting deeply on what was spoken and keeping his judgement harnessed for a more intimate conversation.

He was all guy.  Video game loving, hot sauce pouring, practical joke playing, fart-laughing, animal catching fellow.  Underneath all that rough and tough though, he was one of the most tender hearts I know.  He cared so deeply, sympathized so gingerly, loved so infinitely.  He never fought to show a facade to anybody, he was real and sincere and trustworthy.

This dear brother held close many of my secrets.  He was the first I could tell that we were expecting because  I knew we could give each other secret winks across the room of those we weren’t ready to tell yet.  He could give a most impressive eye roll as we giggled about the most recent frivolous family drama.    He was an extension of my heart, as I was confident he could hear my burdens, rejoice in my triumphs, and be unwaveringly supportive because no foolishness could come between us.

When distance separated us, he visited more than anyone else.  He made an effort to spend time with us whenever he could, sometimes staying for weeks. He became the favorite, silly uncle who not only snuggled them close as babies, but grew to be the most patient, funny, and “cool” uncle around. He loved a good xbox battle or Nerf war, but also wasn’t afraid of dress ups and tea parties.

When my husband had to deploy and I was scared to be so far and alone, Ben sat and wrote my fears, acknowledged the unease ahead of me and the strength we would need to pull through; a poem folded into a cherished rectangle of  solace.  He worried with me and stayed available when I was overwhelmed and needed to vent my inadequacy of being a single mom for a time.

After endless months of effort and exhaustion, he was the one who celebrated with me when I finally got to pin on the badge of a paramedic.  In a crowd of no one who seemed to notice, he was proud of me, and spoke of following in my footsteps. He made me feel valuable and important.

When we stood at the gulf of my daughter’s grave, his eyes spoke what his words didn’t need to.  His embrace told the weight of his grief, and his gentle words laid empty consolations aside when he apologized for the self-involved, and blurted,
                          “somebody died here, can’t you all get along, for funeral’s sake?”
There was no ease in his words, but the fierce protection and sensitivity with which he spoke them soothed cooling over my heart wound.

Ben was the one as weeks ticked by and life moved on to remember my heart. He knew it hadn’t all melted away when everyone went back home.  He called just to ask how I was, to acknowledge what was lost, and to make sure I knew in his eyes she would never be forgotten.  He dared to imagine with me what she would have been like,  and didn’t fear upsetting me to speak of the things he would miss in her.

He texted all hours of the night to relay what exciting new call had brought more passion to his life as an EMT.  He wanted to hear my stories too, and in a world where it takes one to understand one, I had a soulmate, a punch line, a sounding board.  When the world showed disinterest, he admired my trade in a way that gave validation to what I believe in, and made me proud to blaze our trail.  He grinned with satisfaction when I taught him how to achieve what became our trademark; a lustrous spit-shine on toil cracked boots.

Ben didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve, he wasn’t quick to blurt out his point of view, but his enduring strength and quiet compassion made him an irreplaceable friend.  Had anyone gone to Heaven before me to love on my little girl, I may have been jealous, but Ben? I could think of no company sweeter to be with her while we finish our earth days.

My words are too small to capture my brother, but my memories swell to hold every bit of him I can cling to.

It’s going to be one marvelous reunion when I get there someday, and many more memories to be made.

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I promise my life story won’t always be about grief, but that’s the season God has me in right now, and I’m  doing my best to learn from it and move through it.

Bad news is always a bit surreal until it sinks in.  I don’t know if I quite believed my brother had died when Mark told me.

I don’t remember how we got packed, only laying in a daze telling the nurses my IV needed to go faster because I needed to leave for my brother’s funeral.

Then, we were there.  The familiar Kansas plains stretched on in bright sun as if everything was right in the world.  Some part of me expected I would see him, well as ever once we arrived.

  Settled at my mother’s house, he never walked in to spend the evening with us like he usually did.

That’s when I knew what my eyes needed to see.  I set out with my hubs to drive to Ben’s house, needing to be surrounded by everything that reminded me of him.  Maybe this was all a dream and I will walk into his kitchen and see him pouring hot sauce on something, or cleaning silvery meat from a successful day’s fishing trip.

It was night, and his house had a dark stillness to it. All was quiet except the usual cracking of the aged deck beneath our feet.  That’s when my eyes saw it, and my heart started to believe it . . . The bookmarks of the horrible thing that brought us here.

His window smashed by the first rescuers trying to make their way to him, and once inside, the air felt thin, watery, lifeless.  There was no warm assurance that the nightmare was over.

His toil-stained caps that hung waiting  across the dining room, because what bachelor wouldn’t?

The cluttered bookcase where his firefighter books slumped, tattered by his earnest ambition to one day brave the hot flames and quench to victory its fiery talons.  The pulse of his passion for fire now blood-drained, left slouching in frayed pages of blank words.

I knelt at the place where he died, arms spread wide,  an empty embrace held closed-fisted by his absence.

Walking into his bedroom it seemed he had simply hurried off to work, not gone forever.   His sheets and pillow still rumpled from a night’s rest, as he wasn’t expecting visitors.  For a seemingly  unending  clock face of minutes I sat soaking up the essence of him.  Looking at the strips of all that he put his life into.  So many memories, happy, joyous, tender, but still mirrored by a veil of  heartbreak.

The realness my eyes took in was stored to solidify these truths once my heart is able.  For now it has been too much.  The pictures, the music, the seeing him still and breathless rakes too deep a hurt to occupy my emotions.  I scarce can think of it because it hurts so profoundly that fears rises and unease comes crippling to shatter my soul.  There’s just not time for that, I have to be solid for so much more.

There will come a day of facing it head on, of grappling with what’s left and realizing what never will be.  That day I will stand strong and feel all that I feel and not run; let loose the gravel that binds heavy with my sadness.  This day however, I can’t think on the pain, I have to only gratify the knowledge of his current wholeness, and acceptance, and rejoicing as he is no longer weighed down by this world.  I imagine the tenderness with which he scooped up my small daughter and held her close in the city of light, waiting for our homecoming.  My heart longs deeply for that day.

For now, days hammer on, and I still my heart-screams to focus on the ones who need me present.  Soaking up every memory made, thanking for the ordinary amazing graces that soothe the emptiness, and walking, walking stranger-like through this world that is not my home.