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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.

I’m not sure where it comes from, but I am often reminded of a parable of two farmers praying for rain.  The point of the story was that one farmer just prayed for rain, but the other farmer prepared his fields for rain.  He prayed with an expectation that God would give what he was asking for.

Lately our prayer lives have been transforming.  We are hearing from many promises, urging us to be diligent in our prayers, pray specifically, down to the details of what we are asking for, and to pray with expectation in our hearts that we will receive.  That last part is the hardest.  Deep down I want to protect myself, to not get my hopes up so I won’t be let down.  My heart is convicted though. . . pray specifically, and pray with expectation.

I some ways I AM preparing my fields, but I also feel the hesitation in the depths of my faith.  I hold back from telling most people what we are hoping, because I fear having to come back and tell them we were wrong.  Sounds silly when I hear some of the stories of prayers answered, but I am seeking, striving, to be able to give myself wholeheartedly to the expectation of our requests.

Tomorrow is the day we may see into a window of how our prayers will be answered.  The anticipation is light and excited, but not without fear.

Pray with us please, that every day we would increasingly trust He will give us the desires of our hearts, and that this story will develop into one of incredible goodness and faithfulness as we see our expectations come to fulfillment.

We have read again and again of His desire to give us good things, and His prodding to ask and we will receive.  We believe our desires were His desires first, and look forward with anticipation.  

Pray on with us my friends, and watch for good things!

I have faced it.  Challenged it.  Decided to keep living like I wouldn’t let it rob me of my dreams.

I thought I had been throwing myself hard enough to make that happen.

Last week though, there were words that cut.

I had urged the kids that if they diligently and obediently completed their chores and schoolwork, I would take them out for some fun that afternoon.  Obviously, since that was the first time in their lives that they had ever been required to do work or school, I was met with grumbling from one tired heart.

Sitting at the top of the stairs, my presence unknown, I could hear the frustrations being muttered from the next room.  My heart dropped hard as I realized what a deep and wounding disappointment had been planted in the freshness of a young soul

      “I doubt that will happen anyway; we won’t get to do anything special because YOU will probably feel sick again.  You’re ALWAYS sick and hurting, and you never are strong enough to take us anywhere.  You will never be well, because God doesn’t listen to me pray for you to get better.”

My joy fell, and my chest ached at the realization that life, the bitter grating side of it that drowns out all the good, had cast such a choking shadow on the spirit of my little one.  I cried. It was true.  No matter how stubborn my efforts to prove I can carry on as I always have, things are different.  In my determination, I have neglected to see how observant little hearts are, and how attentively they can sense the smallest changes.

That was a low.  I desperately want to cover my weakness, to be the mom my babies need  instead of such a painful disappointment to them.  It  hurts that they don’t understand.  While some of them have come to comprehend that a snuggle on the couch is the new best way to spend time together, others have written me off and stride out to find the attention their hearts need in other places.  It hurts.  I want to be able to do anything for my children. . . to chase them around the house or keep up with them at the park.  They deserve that.

Truth is, I can’t make it all seem right.  I can’t go farther and longer than my body allows, and I am prisoner to the days when I can’t stand.  It is a new challenge to reach tender hearts from the sidelines, and I pray that one day they will see that although the dynamics of our lives change, my love for them and my prayers for them have stayed the same.  They are my reasons, my inspiration, and my greatest joy. NOTHING can ever change that.

            PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT,
            IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING.

For my Lobster, my One Love.  Together we can move mountains.

The song that so defines us must be shared. . .

                                                     

                                                Those of you close to my story know the last few weeks have been very painful.  I have never thought life needs to be perfect to be wonderful, but there are some times the pain is so heavy, so deep, every breath takes effort.
 
Disheartened, worn, clinging by strings of faith, it took a quiet sunless drive for me to cry out aloud for mercy. Convictions of where I could improve tapped at my heart, and my immense desire to live a legacy worth remembering pulled at the weight of my soul.

That was the night I cried for presence.  At the very desperation of clinging to hope, I needed to know that there was indeed a reason for this suffering, a purpose in the raw scraping of my heart, a confidence that yes, God is real and giving Him my all and enduring the wait of healing was what He really desired for me.  I begged aloud that I would see a sign that would give me the push to keep on in this blind and treacherous marathon to store up my treasures in Heaven.  I felt like I was losing, being mocked at my attempts.  I longed to know there was purpose for all this pain.

Two days later, things came crashing down again.  The deeper I dug, the more trials clawed at our foundation.  Our dreams of adding to our family collapsed.  Our marriage pulled thin.  There was disharmony in our children, and another joy-shattering loss slammed us in the chest.

My white flag flew. Tears burned hot scars of defeat across my face and my soul.

In the midst of my deep dispair, there was my man smiling and turning my eyes up.

    “Don’t you see?” “This IS the answer!”

His voice so gentle, heart so pure, spoke of how our strength is a threat. A powerful threat to the darkness that thirsts to destroy us.  The closer we walk, the faster the punches come, trying to end us.

At first, this seemed motivation to throw up my hands, give up my hope.  I would be lying if I said those thoughts were not seriously entertained in my mind.  In the end though, I had to admit I’m a fighter, and for a reason that good to fight, I’m going to remain gloved-up.  The heartache is painful, the blows discouraging, but with my mighty soulmate and the ever-cheering teammates beside us, it is a race worth running.

I have come to know life is filled with pain, but it is making the joys even more worth celebrating.

I’m sure there will be more days of being face-down, but I am thankful and blessed that my loves and my friendlies will always be willing to pick me back up and point me back on my way.

                PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT,
            IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING.
   

Please leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!

Those who know me well agree that I like order.  I’m not a big fan of surprises, I like to know what’s coming, and have predictable, straight lines.  If I’m going to be “spontaneous,”  it had better be written on my check off list for the day.

I find that my need for control has only grown since burying my daughter. I hunger for the peace of mind that I have done everything possible to protect my loved ones from whatever complications the day could present.

Life is not conforming to my plan.

Maybe that’s the point… to let go.

But I don’t like it.

Recently,  I missed work for the first time because of my disease.  It was humbling and  frightening. I have fought hard.  I have trudged to dozens of appointments, complied with every treatment, pushed through days of pain and not wanting to get out of bed, all with the desperate hope that I can control this instead of it

controlling me. But this day came that no matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t do it; I literally could not walk down the stairs that day.

Mark had faithfully tended to me through the night, bringing my medicine, quietly letting me squeeze the circulation from his hand through the pain, and offering words of comfort and encouragement when I didn’t want to breathe through another minute.  I was at the mercy of my body and my sickness, and it terrified me.

My family has been weathering my storm with such grace.  My husband has never complained when he has worked all day and then come home to clean and cook and tend to the kids so I can rest.  He has never uttered an ill word about accompanying me to all my appointments, or missing an opportunity to go out when I needed someone to sit next to me while I slept.  My sweet children have quietly understood when we have missed special outings because mommy wasn’t up to it.

 They have cried with me, snuggled up beside me, and whispered earnest prayers for healing.  I will never forget the disappointed sweetness on Jacob’s face when we were supposed to go out on a Mommy/Son date and I felt terrible that day.  Trying to hide his discouragement, he said, “that’s OK

Mommy, how about we snuggle on the couch together and watch a movie instead so you can rest.”

Always a tender heart

I want to call a time out… I want to shout that I have already done my “tough.”  I want my “get out of jail free” card.  I know that sounds so selfish… but I’m scared, and I’m worn, and I don’t want my husband and my kids to have to bear the burden of fear again.

I am struggling to accept that the things I imagined for my future are being reshaped by this new normal.  Right now I am fighting with letting go. It is a hard battle, one that in reality probably every person struggles with in some way.

People try to give comfort by saying “God won’t give you more than you can handle.”  Have you heard it? Have you asked where He said that?  He didn’t.  So maybe when I reach the point of being burdened beyond my strength, when I am empty and have nothing left, when I reach the point of giving up…maybe that’s when His strength will be seen in me.

I am terrified to get to that point… but I am thankful beyond words for my faithful team that is here to walk through it with me.

He will strengthen my heart!! YOUR heart!!  What a powerful promise; one I will be clinging tight to as I learn to loosen my grip on the things I can not control.

Time for more patient waiting, and less kicking and screaming.  Oh boy. That’s not my strong suit. Please pray me through it, and my poor family and friends who have to put up with me along the way.

Please leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!

Last week I tried to be normal.  I insisted hair be combed and clothes be matching, and made sure smiles were pasted on, so as to not make anyone uncomfortable.  I tucked in the ragged edges of my soul and leaped high over my protective wall to face the picture perfect world that I have scowled at for so long… and I landed with a thud.   No matter what face I put on, the truth is something on the inside has changed, and that is why I just don’t fit in.

But that was the day I also realized I really don’t want to.

These days instead of boasting coordinating shoes and hair ribbons, it is an achievement for my children to make it through the day without breaking down sobbing.  Instead of performance in school or sports, it is a joy when they sneak out of bed for “one more hug and kiss.”  It is an accomplishment  to get up and make them breakfast instead of staying curled up in a ball under my covers.

My little people are my life, and I don’t ever want to take one moment with them for granted.

There came a day  when it stopped mattering if pigtails were lopsided and if I ended up sharing my bed with three sets of sharp elbows by morning… because it matters more that I am still getting to experience these moments, no matter how imperfect.

Everything feels so shallow, so trivial compared to the depth of missing a life instead of a milestone.  With my youngest, now those milestones are miracles no matter what age they may come. With each adorable new outfit he grows into, I am thinking about a lonely stack of unworn clothes tucked away in a closet stacked with memories.  That is the new normal.

I decided not to fit in.  I would rather wear my raw heart on my sleeve and scare away the shallow-minded, than become a facade playing pretend in real life.  I want my children to remember that I cherished their winter-boot-summer-dress style, cheered at whatever age they reached a new goal, and accepted them whether they had a smiling-skidding-through-the-house-in-socks-day, or a hide-under-the-covers-cry-cause-I-miss-my-sister day.

I want them to know it’s ok to be real, because it’s too hard to pretend… that they don’t have to act like everything is ok, when they feel like the world is crumbling.

If I have learned anything from these past few years, it is that no moment should be taken for granted.  I hope I can instill in my children to cherish the things that are eternal.

Letting my sweet baby boy suck some icing off my finger this week, I got bitten by the edgy rough of a very first tooth.  My heart swelled with joy at this next new milestone and the thought of the new discoveries it will bring… and then just as fast, my heart throbbed, bleeding from shards of guilt at enjoying this moment.  A milestone I never got to see… and it felt like I replaced it, and it didn’t seem fair.

So many moments, stolen by the sharp sting of the real.

Death, where is your sting after all?

The sting is when the muscles of my arms remember what it felt like to hold her.

The sting is when I see a little girl her age running around with pigtails bouncing behind her.

The sting is when I dream of holding her and kissing her cheeks, only to wake up to realize she is not here.

The sting is when no one mentions her anymore, and the only time I see her is on the background of my phone.

The sting is when I look at a picture of her and her features seem unfamiliar because it has been too long.

The sting is when I see the beautiful green I chose for a bedroom she doesn’t sleep in anymore.

The sting is everywhere, and it is just as hot and sharp every time.

I am ready; ready for the sting to be soothed and the moments to be sweetly savored.  For joys to be embraced, never stolen.

Until that day my hope holds on, though by a string.

Please leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!

This week was not pretty.  Rather, the way I acted was not pretty.

I threw an all-out “inner” foot stomping, arm crossing temper tantrum.

This was supposed to be the week that began the uphill climb.  For the past three months, that day was my target, keeping me looking past the muck and focused on a goal.

That day did not go exactly how I had planned.  Well, not AT ALL how I had planned, so I took my hope and my patience, put them on a shelf, and embraced a frustrated rebellion.  I will spare you the picturesque details… it was bad and ugly.

I apologize to those of you who asked how I was doing and got more than you bargained for.  I am also sorry for those of you that wanted to pray and got held back at arm’s length.  I am embarrassed at the despair my husband and my children witnessed, and also so humbled at the way they stood close and waited for me.  I am married to one of the most gracious, steadfast, patient men on the planet.  I truly do not deserve.

And that is not even my REAL pouty face… thank goodness no one took a picture of that…

My turning point came through the words of my wise friend, Matthew.  It came from a simple verse I have heard many times, but I guess never really let it sink deep.  That night it sank, and it sliced.

“In this world you will have trouble, but take heart; He has overcome the world.”

He spoke of how our time here is such a tiny glimpse in the picture of eternity… how our troublesome days are nothing compared to the number of days we will spend in perfect joy.

Duh.

I felt silly for having missed that.  I do not like to be uncomfortable, so I bargain constantly!  “Ok God, I got through that hard season, now you owe me a smoother one.”  That evening I realized, maybe this all is the hard season… we were never promised it would be easy.

As I chewed on this through the evening, my temper tantrum ended.  I need to stop trying to cram this twisted world into a shape it will never fit.  I need to accept whatever I have to walk through, and only then, I realize, will I be able to truly say I found joy in the midst of suffering.

Please forgive me if I hurt you this week.

I won’t apologize for the things I said, because they were truth… coming from the pits of a dark and very real desperation… but I will apologize for not saying it more gracefully, or being willing to  listen past my own screaming.

At least next time you can point me back to this post and help me remember that I didn’t get anywhere stomping the hole deeper.

I am ever grateful for each of you that journeys with me… in my joy and in my sorrow.  Someday I hope you get to see the story He is writing in me.

My Love brought me my favorite flowers in the best color to lift my spirits…

On that note…. a new week is beginning.  I am embracing it; the good, the bad, and the ugly… what about you?