Jesus reveal Yourself to me as long as it doesn't hurt

Last Thursday I found myself in a place I had hoped not to be this soon again, my neurosurgeon's office. As I sat there in that crowded waiting room though, something amazing happened. A SINGLE conversation. Not between two or three people but amongst all of the occupants of that small room. In an attempt to drown out the emotions I was not dealing well with and because I am an observer by nature, at first, I merely listened as a husband and wife shared their experiences of being hospice caregivers. However, since missing my gma was one of the emotions I was trying to suppress, I found myself drawn into the conversation quickly as the words to "my" song came thundering back to my ears and heart - "Jesus be near to me. Let me know you are here. How I need you to be near to me."

 
Like a wound that must be debrided in physical therapy, I felt the bandage I had attempted to put on my heart being ripped off so that the hole that had been left could be dealt with a little more. After listening for a few more minutes, I tearfully thanked these two very special people for serving families, not just patients, in their time of greatest need. My heart's cry had been answered in the most unusual way - through two complete strangers - reminding me that even when I don't feel Him close, Jesus is ALWAYS pulling me near to Him. 

But that's the thing with me. I want Jesus to be near to me and make me feel better. Unfortunately that's also the image we've portrayed to the world - Come to Jesus and all will be well. I often forget that it's in the inconveniences & pain that He's getting my attention. I want to be safe and unburdened and happy. But it's in the pain that He shouts the loudest. Not because the pain is what He has for me but because it's the pain that makes me listen and look for Him more. 

In C.S. Lewis' The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, Peter, Susan and Lucy are having a conversation with Mr and Mrs Beaver about Aslan. The children are under the impression that Aslan is a man when Mr and Mrs Beaver step in. Mrs Beaver informs them that, "Certainly not......Aslan is a lion - THE Lion, The great Lion." To which safety immediately becomes a concern for the children. (I mean, they're about to meet a lion. Who wouldn't be concerned!)

"Safe?" said Mr Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But He's good. He's The King, I tell you."

So often we want Jesus to be near to us as a safe little baby, born in a manger, over two thousand years ago. But that's not all of who He is. He's good. He's The King. And he wants more for us. He wants us to grow and become more like Him. He wants to use all of the inconveniences and letdowns and scary moments and pain to draw US near to HIM. That's when our hearts' cries are answered and we find Jesus being revealed to us in a new way, unlike anything before, because He is good. He is sovereign. He is King.

Today my son caught an interception because yours could not

There are many concerns homeschool moms have as they raise & educate their children at home. Socialization is NOT one of them. Fifteen years ago when we began this journey in life that may have been a little more true, should one think ideal socialization is linked only to the time spent in a classroom. But today, even if one thinks far beyond that box, it isn't a lack of socialization homeschoolers have to be cautioned against, it is the opposite - over socialization. Activities must be weighed with both academic & personal interaction/relationship building as beneficial factors. Enter football.

Our middle guy is an athlete in a family of nerds. He's pretty much the typical middle guy - quiet, unopposing, peacemaker, compassion driven. So when we found a local homeschool middle&high school football team, he was over the moon. He found a place where he belonged - not that he didn't belong with us, it just wasn't as forced.

Two years of middle school ball with amazing godly coaches & he was finally beginning to gain more confidence in his physical abilities. He was leading by example & looking forward to varsity ball. I had caught a few names & even fewer faces - you try doing a lineup when all you ever see are facemasks & jersey numbers! And so here it is - OUR first year of varsity ball. That taller, skinny, fast kid was now dwarfed by these Goliath type Amazonian men who were breathing fire & aiming to break him in half with their glares. Ok, I jest! 

Everybody who's ever played ball knows this fact - FRESHMEN MUST PAY THEIR DUES! So unless you're one of those Goliath Amazonian types or as good as JJ Watt, you're going to do a whole lot of practice followed by a whole lot of second string play. Having just lost a pretty big class the previous year, a smaller - let's call it "concentrated" - team meant most of our guys would have the opportunity to play both sides of the line though. 

There's something to be said of team sports & the family mentality you develop as you join together with people you otherwise wouldn't hang out with on a daily basis. If the homeschool community is tight knit, sitting & watching these young men grow together as they take that field every Friday night to face the giants on the other side of that line builds bonds that rival a newly built family that you cheer on, struggle with and face defeat with head on. So with that, we set out for the National Homeschool Football tournament in Florida with a little less than a winning record. 

I'll never forget the 11hr drive there, alone, with my kids. I had never set out to do anything like this before without my parents, without my husband. So finally driving up in that driveway of the retreat that was hosting the tourney, I felt a relief. I was once again with my people. But almost as soon as the relief washed over me, a deep grief gripped my entire being as my dear friend, A, met me at my car to deliver the news. 

The undertone of our trip to tourney this year would be the loss of one of our precious player's dad. Unbeknownst to me in my little red pathfinder driving away, less than an hour from our hometown, a phone call had been received that a long, hard battle with cancer had taken one of our dads. The young men that had made it ahead of us were somber as they waited for the team van to arrive that carried their teammate, their friend, their brother. I pulled my own player aside & through tears told him the devastating news. 

And though I have always made a point to not tell the story of others, I will share with you that this young man, L, told Coach S, our conditioning coach, that the way he wanted to honor his dad was to continue on and play in his name. Our baited breath that night dissolved into tears of mourning as the van pulled in a little while later. I watched these young men surround L, unsure of what, if anything to say. All they had to offer him was their presence, so that's what they gave. Very few words were spoken, unlike Job's suckie friends in the Bible. I watched this team of boys become men that night as they faced together the worst that life has to give. Loss. 

With determination and purpose, L was on FIRE for our game the following day. You could see it from the sidelines in the way that he carried himself. He would lead our guys into a win, the first win at tourney in our team's history. But what many missed at the end of that game was the heart crushing sight of the help L received from Coach S in taking his pads off, normally a dad's job. We moms stood there sobbing as we were privy to this moment of tenderness & love. 

L stayed with us the next day, our team building day with a light practice & some play on the beach. Coach S, Coach F & Coach P then drove L to the nearby airport for him to make the flight home to be with his mom & sister. But he left his determination & purpose with our boys. They would play in the championship game the following day in L's name, in honor of Mr K.

L is an upperclassmen - my Jay, a freshman. Aside from occasionally being Chemistry lab partners, these two frequently subbed for each other on the field. With L at home in mourning, Jay would find himself in a place where he loved the extra play time but upset by the way he got it. Every time he took that field today, he knew that it was because L could not. The weight of the situation on his 5'9" 120lb soaking wet frame was very heavy. And every time that he took the field, I thought of J, S & L at home and my heart hurt a little more each time I saw my son playing the game that he loves. 

So when today's game came down to the wire with us up by less than a touchdown, we all knew exactly what was at stake. The march downfield by the Blue Angels had us all on pins & needles. With seconds left on the clock, they passed the ball with their last play. And there he was, my excited, heartbroken freshman, playing cornerback. Jay was in place about our 5yd line and caught the ball to end the Angel's march & the Lions season. Win. Lions. 

Watching these young men overcome a season of injuries & adversity with a win was exhilarating. Of course we were jumping up & down, knowing exactly what this win meant. But when my freshman finally made it off the field & over to me, he removed his helmet & with tears streaming down his face said three words, "Mom, but Levi."

We both had the same thought. The same reaction. Gratitude coupled with deep grief. It was because of L's loss that Jay had been on that field. It was because of S's loss that Jay's siblings were dancing around like nuts. It was because of J's loss that my son caught that interception. 

A simple trip to tourney in Florida gave birth to many more life lessons than any of us set out to learn. I wish that I had words to offer J, S & L that would comfort them in this time but words simply escape me. I do know that Mr K would have been thrilled to know that these young men rallied around L & they dedicated the entire trip to both of them. But I also know that because of Mr K's deep faith in Jesus, that he would have wanted our boys to play in a way that honored God. I can tell you that they did. Through the deepest loss of your lives, please know that God was honored. Our family will remain changed by L & Mr K. I will always remember why my son caught the interception that yours could not. 

Caregiving, one year later

Perhaps one of the hardest things for me to experience this past year has been all of the memories social media keeps reminding me of on a daily basis. Don't get me wrong, some of the pictures are hilarious. I smile at posts about the babies that were born or the accomplishments that had been made. Some days I've had my own football reel of highlights. But peppered in amongst all of that, there have been reminders of each & every single blog I wrote last year, both for escape & to share our family's story. These are gut wrenching for me.
The irony that my beloved WR/K/TE's first varsity football homecoming game is also the anniversary of gma's first Homecoming has not escaped me. In recent days, I've found myself having a little more difficulty coping, at least without tears. My hallelujah is just tired.
Being the hands, feet, heart & soul of Jesus, here on earth, is a demanding & overwhelming task at times. My physical body feels this fatigue that sleep just can't relieve. My mind & heart worry constantly that this momma, the one I am now, is the only momma my kids will have from now on or the only one they'll remember. Not the one who could spin any situation into a reason to give God praise. Not the one who saw creation new, everyday, in a vibrant array of colors with the wonderment of a small child still, but the one who seems to be missing a color, seen through the dull glasses of Homesickness. Not the one who seemed far more emotionally stable or at least didn't cry as much.
As the memories of the snarky, gray haired woman replay in my newsfeed, heart & mind I see:
Gma&momma dancing that first night after she fell as we tried to figure out how this all was supposed to work.
Momma curling her hair with the systematic smoothness I don't think any of the rest of us could have had.
The smile on her face when Aunt Suzie called her from the hospital.
Aunt Birdie showing her how to work the tablet so she could escape into solitaire for hours.
Hummingbirds, Dr Stanley, cheese & garlic pepper oatmeal, purple satin nightgowns.
Her reaching to Heaven the second to last night we would have with her, no doubt preparing us.
I hear "Thank you Jesus."
But I also see:
The pain, the nausea, the weariness.
The last interaction I had with her, begging me to let her go, slapping at me in pain, as momma tried to clean her up a bit.
And I feel like my hallelujah is broken. But maybe that's just it - It is meant to be.
It's widely known that hallelujah means "Praise ye the Lord." But perhaps what isn't known is that, in the Greek, it is an imperative verb conjugation. That means it is a command. "You, wherever you are, whatever you're experiencing right now, no matter how you feel, PRAISE THE LORD."
In my brokenness, I've felt a peace & a comfort that I just can't explain to you. In my weariness, God tells my Gma P to say to me, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you & your momma do," words Gma B would say that calmed my tired heart. In my darkness, God gave me a little girl who never fails to draw pictures with little sayings like, "In the rain, I'll look for rainbows. In the darkness, I'll look for stars." In my sadness, I hear, "Thank you Jesus" and I'm snapped back to words of praise.
The hallelujah I had before was yesterday's hallelujah. It wasn't meant for today. Today, in my brokenness there is a different hallelujah, a different reason to praise Him. One that sees gma in that beautiful great white throne room Revelation tells us about, with her true love, Jesus. Telling him face to face, "Thank you" over & over again. Singing with the saints who have all gone before us, "Holy, holy, holy are You, Lord, God Almighty." Just about the time my hallelujah is worn out, weary & done, God gives me a new song. Because that's just how faithful he is.

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Psalm 40:3a

Sing to the Lord a new song, for He has done marvelous things. Psalm 98:1a

Chores, lies & a beautiful princess

All I did was ask a question she'd heard many times before - Who are you? Maybe it was the circumstances. Maybe she was just ready to tell me. Either way, I'm glad she did.
Last night as Brian and I sat in the livingroom discussing a problem common to every household - chores - unbeknownst to us, our precious, sensitive little Piggy laid a room away taking in every word that was being said. I must have gone on for close to 45 minutes just telling him about how little help I had been getting, how it was causing my back to hurt so badly by the end of the day that I needed my pain meds, how I just couldn't keep it up. You know the general mom stuff.
I stopped long enough to take a potty break when I took the few steps of a detour to her doorway. My initial thought was, "Why is she still awake at 1130? She knows better & should have been asleep an hour ago." But thankfully before my mouth could open, following my frustrated brain's lead, my eyes caught a glimpse of a tear as she sat there, frantically writing away.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm writing myself a note," she choked through the tears & kept on writing.
I walked through the doorway & over to her bed. I leaned down to find out what could possibly be so important that she was still writing. I was obviously still frustrated. My hardened heart instantly shattered as I read the lies my daughter had written about herself.
"Dear future self, I hope that I'm being helpful. I want to say that I hope I'm not a bratty, sneaky, cry baby anymore. I'm sloth-like, sassy, lazy, useless & a careless jerk. I'm a thief & a mess-maker......"
No words. There was nothing I could say to this precious little girl who heard what was being said, internalized it then translated it into something far worse than I could ever have imagined or said. I turned and walked out but quickly returned with the beaten up, paper stuffed, marked & remarked Bible she'd seen me read from before. I knelt down beside her bed & placed it between us. She laid her pencil down & stared straight head, avoiding eye contact with me. I took her hand and began to read to her, through my own tears - For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in that secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
"My precious girl, this is who God says you are. You are fearfully & wonderfully made. He knew long before today everything that would happen. He even knows what you will & won't do later. But you know what? He loves you so much & thought you were so worth it that he sent Jesus for you anyway. These things aren't who God says you are. Who does God say you are? Who are you?"
And there it was. I know the images she saw in her head when I asked that question because they were the same ones I saw. It was a smaller version of herself, laying in that hospital bed last fall with her great grandma whispering in her ear the question that had been asked so many, many times before. I could see that grey hair fall down around my little girl's face as gma cupped it with those delicate, wrinkled hands. Gma drew her so close that their noses were touching. "GiGi, I'm a child of The King." Then they giggled, kissed each other's cheeks & laid there until I sent her home for the evening.
But tonight, my Hope whispered it to me, "Momma, I'm a child of The King."
I took her note from her. "That's right my sweet girl. All those lies that you heard before, the ones you wrote down, none of those are who you really are. So I'm going to take this. You are a daughter of the Lord, the Lord, the compassionate & almighty God. Who is slow to anger & abounding in love. How do you know?"
"Because momma, I asked Jesus to come into my life."
Woah! Wait. A. Minute. "You did? When?"
"At Bible study one night. When Ms Adcock & Ms Soltman were my teachers."
My wheels started turning. That was THREE YEARS AGO. I grinned. "Can I tell you a secret? I already knew. I didn't know when, but I knew. I've seen Jesus in you. Like when you love on people that others don't. Or when you cry on vacation because someone you don't even know was made fun of by others. Or when you helped to take care of Gigi everyday like you did without complaining. I knew. And another secret? Gigi knew too. She & I had already talked about it. It was one of the last conversations we had. When you love Jesus, others can see there's something different about you."
All I did was ask a question she'd heard many times before - Who are you? Maybe it was the circumstances. Maybe she was just ready to tell me. Either way, I'm glad she did. A night that began with my complaining exposed the lies my daughter was beginning to believe about herself and ended with a resounding answer -
She IS a child of The King!

Unexpected Joy

I just stood & stared. What in the world was that little piece of red in amongst the grow up weeds? Growing up in the east Texas country, red on the ground typically meant only one thing - the dreaded East Texas Coral Snake! My danger radar shot through the roof until my eyes began to focus more - this was only a single red flat something or other. No black. No yellow. No tubular body. With this new found confidence, I braved it enough to bend over to have a closer look. JOY?
What I at first thought was one of the most poisonous creatures known to all Texans turned out to be a dirty, entangled, old Christmas decoration made out of nothing but simple foam. It seemed as though this once useful little object, that brought purpose with its presence, had been discarded & abandoned. I snapped a few pictures of it where it laid, then picked it up & moved it to a place with more traffic so that others might be as puzzled by its placement as had I.

My momma texted me tonight, just like she does every night to tell me that she loves me. Only this time her text included, "Jeff said he's coming to church tomorrow. He's bringing his trumpet to play a few songs. I told him to play one for me. I love you very, very much."
You wouldn't think a little text about a trumpet would bring me to my knees. But it did.
My little brother towers over me by nearly a foot at 6'9". He towers most people though. He's a gentle giant who quickly learned that sports just weren't his thing. Oh, but the talent he's been given to play that trumpet. I hear him occasionally, playing on his front porch. The sweet, old hymns he plays are music for my heart, as they are for many others. I stop whatever I'm doing & sing with him from a football field away, a fact he's never known.
For Christmas, as far back as I can remember, momma & my gmas only ever wanted one thing - to hear Jeff play. That's why the text from momma took me back for a moment. The last time I sat & watched my brother play was October 19, the night before Gma B went home.
She had teetered that day between fretfulness & being completely unresponsive. When my husband walked through the back door that night in tears, the news he gave only added to the grief I was trying to handle. His cousin, Tonya, had been found that day, unresponsive & the Drs gave no hope for her. I was devastated. Out of all of his cousins, I was the closest to Tonya. We sat there in the silence for a while until we heard the music beginning to play on the front porch. It was Jeffrey. With that same old trumpet. Momma, my cousin Erin, and I walked to gma's room. Her tent of a body was still there & so we sang to her. The music, those words of those songs brang us all the peace & comfort that God could give us. It was almost more than I could bear.
But that would be the last time I would watch my brother play, as he offered the only thing he had to give, and God magnified it into something so much greater.

In the morning, I'll sit with my friends, some that live inside & some that live outside. I'll attempt to hold a straight face as my brother plays, bringing peace, comfort & joy to my heart again. I'll think about that JOY I found, dirty & in the weeds this week . How it had been a part of a kit intended to make something simple into something fabulous. How God gave me his joy to make my life fabulous & complete, even when life just keeps on coming. How that joy has gotten overgrown by the weeds of life & battered by the storms that are still raging on around me. How it is frequently discarded & abandoned when my eyes fail to focus on the one who is in control. It's dirty & needs to be brushed off. It needs to be put up in a place in my life so that others can see it & wonder - What in the world?
I never would have suspected that these memories, a simple foam Christmas decoration & a talented trumpet player would bring me to this place. But it's so like God to do something completely unexpected just when I need him most.

Sweetest Name I Know

A few weeks ago while we were visiting family in Garland, I mentioned that the Spanish church we were sharing our space with that week sang songs that I knew. It was then that I was told the songs that I had grown up with, singing Sunday to Sunday, were new to a lot of churches. These hymns that seemed to have fallen by the wayside within the English speaking church had just recently been accurately translated into Spanish. I remember thinking how awesome it was that though our words sounded different, our hearts were saying the same thing.

I spent the evening with my Aunt B today. In a year of firsts, today we soberly realized that this day was the first day last year that life as we had known it was winding down. A year ago today I watched my momma & my gma dance for the first time. But today, for the first time, I reflected on all of the details lost in the blog post I wrote last year.
Momma & gma danced because gma had fallen that morning. We were sure that she had broken her recently healed hip as the telephone cord jumped right in front of her, tripping her up & causing her to take the tumble she wouldn't recover from. I remember the anxiety of the day. I remember waiting for the x-ray machine to come to the house - that was such a God thing. I remember watching my daddy & my brother pick her up & carry her to the bed. I remember the moaning & the pain that caused. Then we watched as they picked her up again to move her back to the couch when we couldn't get the machine in the bedroom for the privacy had she requested. I remember the dark walk home that night. The first of many more to come.
But today would bring out something from deep inside me that I just didn't expect. The whirlwind of emotions I felt in the weeks & months to come have been closely rivaled by the emotions I've felt leading up to today. But for the first time in a week, I woke up this morning without that sense of dread I had been feeling. For the first time since last fall my first thought was - Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. The trio of words that were spoken from that hospital bed more times than I can count. For the first time this morning of all days though, I finally remembered gma saying them. 
In a year of firsts, it's funny how the little things come back to you. It's almost as if through all the pain God translates something you took for granted & makes it fresh & new to bring you that indescribable comfort only He can give your heart. In a year of firsts, there has been tears and laughter. There have been phones picked up & put down only to remember she wouldn't answer on the other end. There have been voicemails replayed over & over in those quiet, lonely moments. There have been memories revisited and new celebrations made. In a year of firsts, I find God being just as faithful as He was when He walked us through all that would unfold.

Tonight as I walked home, checking the fairy lights along the way, my words were much different than I had expected them to be. I found that it wasn't just my heart speaking, but my voice singing because in a year of firsts God continues translating my pain into something new.  ~  There's within my heart a melody. Jesus whispers, sweet and low, "Fear not, I am with thee. Peace. Be still. In all of life's ebb and flow." Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Sweetest name I know. Fills my every longing. Keeps me singing as I go.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

All I have to give

I have always hated the term "mission trip". If you take the two words on their own by definition, you get a combined definition of a journey taken for the purpose of a task or activity. But when you dig a little deeper, you find that "mission trips" have traditionally been short term vacations with a purpose including time set aside for designated projects & activities that all make us feel super good about what we're doing for these poor people, complete with a photo montage so that you too can feel good about what I'm doing. Don't we all feel so good about what we're doing for God now? I bet he is just waiting to congratulate us. If only my arm was a little longer I could scratch my own back instead of merely just patting it. - Ok, so I added that last part for myself but seriously - look at what we in the western church call "mission trips".
So please, please, please do us both a favor & don't put me in the awkward place of telling me face to face that you're going on a mission trip. My questions would probably start with - So, how are your neighbors doing? What do you know about the culture in the place that you're going? Did you know that there are folks in our own hometown who sleep outside & that you don't have to go to _________ to "minister to" them? What does "ministering to" people even mean? When will you return to that place? Are you investing in each other's lives or merely going to "save" theirs?
Now, before you begin to get offended & start pointing fingers, please finish hearing me out. Eight years ago, I went on my very first, and last, mission trip. Eight years ago, God knew I needed a safe place & he took me to Garland, Texas to find it. In an old Gold's Gym, God met 8 heart broken adults & 9 kids in the body of one of the spunkiest little white haired ladies I've ever met. Through her, Jesus loved on us. Through the other staff members, God has taught me what the church is supposed to be like. Through the kids that would come to eat at the state's free summer lunch program & the teenagers that came to serve community service, God reminded us again what unconditional love looked like by splashing it across their faces. That summer, I had nothing to offer them. Nothing. They gave me so much more than I could have ever given them. Ever.
And so, year after year, we have returned to Garland, not on mission trip, but to reconnect with our friends, our brothers & sisters, who live here. I've got at least 4 years worth of duct tape name tags stuck to my bathroom wall as a daily reminder to pray for my boys. It's so humbling to be in a place where these elementary aged boys have people shuffle in & out on a weekly basis & yet they remember me. "Miss, didn't you have a mustache last year?" (I dressed up like King David everyday.) "Miss, didn't you put gummy worms in chocolate pudding them dig them out with your face that one time?" "Miss, can we make slime again this year?"
So when it came time to begin preparing for getting to visit with my boys, there were a lot of questions I had to ask myself. Can I go & trust that God is in control with everything that's going on with Gma P & Aunt S? Will I be able to physically do this? How can the schedule be arranged so that I can teach both the boys & the girls? But there was one question I dreaded most of all - What will you do when there's no call Wednesday night from gma asking how things are going & then praying over speaker phone for not only those of us who drove 4hrs to get here, but those at home, those who walk here, those who came to eat lunch, those who didn't AND what will you do when she's not there to take down the list of boys names & pray for them this next year?
In a room with 7 children & 3 other adults, I admit I cried myself to sleep last night. You see yesterday, we talked about how God can take our broken hearts & fix them into something new. Just about the time that those 30 boys were about to get rowdy, I smashed a beautiful red plate with a hammer. They were shocked. I asked them if anything had ever broken their hearts & watched those very active bodies sit still as I sat down on the floor in front of the stage where they were seated & told them about my gma. I told them how my heart had broken & how sometimes it still felt broken. I told them how gma loved them even though she never got to come meet them. I told them how she prayed for each of them by name everyday. It got really quiet. "But Miss? You'll see her in Heaven again one day, right?" I smiled. "Yes, and so can you. She'll love to actually meet you there."
Yesterday I realized, these boys have people who come through all summer long & want to convert them into little tiny Jesus lovers. They know all about Jesus & his 12 friends that went everywhere with him. They know about a short tax collector & a tree....which incidentally wasn't part of anything I had prepared....but anyway.... I have nothing more to offer them but myself. To be silly with them & wear a mustache. To fake the "Eww...gross" when we make slime on Friday, which also wasn't in my plan. To ask them & listen when they tell me what was for lunch. (I wish I could run downstairs & play soccer with them, but that's just not in the cards for me this year.) And to ask them again on Friday for their duct tape name tags so that I can pray for them again this year. I'm sure my momma will pray with me since gma's waiting for us.
These boys & girls don't need somebody announcing their wonderful plans to take a purpose-driven vacation. They don't need somebody to come in & re-invent the wheel of Bible school. They really don't even need me to tell them about Jesus - they have heard about him. They just need me to love them like Jesus would and that's all I really have to give them.
There are faces that I miss incredibly this year - some who have aged out, some who have moved on, some who are out of town for a while. But this is NOT eight years of mission trips for me & our birth children - this has been eight years of being completely invested, giving everything I am & everything I'm not. Eight years of boys. Eight years of laughter & tears God has given me. Eight years of watching them grow up a week at a time. Eight years of God writing their names on my heart. Eight years of spending a short week with our friends from a different town. Eight years of watching God grow & use the many staff members we've come to treasure & love. Eight years of being fully committed to loving & praying for them year round.
Until God tells me otherwise, I will continue giving them all I have to give, which is just myself. But because of Jesus, myself is just enough. 

He had a name

Tonight as many in our area were anxiously awaiting news reports concerning possible violence at a presidential candidate's rally, one family mourned, for the second time, the loss of their father. They had already lost him once to choices he made that brought about the circumstances in which I would meet him.
The complexities of homelessness can not be explained in one simple blog. Nor do I profess to be an authority in the matter. What I do know is that Mr B had a name; he wasn't just some nameless, faceless drunk that roamed about the streets of Conroe. He had a story, if you only sat down to listen. He had a family. He always had a cane. And a lot of the time he had a bottle in the other hand.
Unfortunately for most, the bottle was all that they ever saw. They just couldn't look past it. Perhaps more unfortunate for others that could see past the bottle, they saw a project that needed to be fixed. It's true that Mr B often needed shoes or a pair of pants that would fit his gauntly shaped body. He needed a shower and soap, although not so much with the shampoo. He needed to eat more and drink less. But what Mr B needed most of all was to know that he was loved unconditionally.
I could honestly sit for hours & just listen to the stories from his life. Stories about his childhood, his wife, his kids. There were stories he told me about his own gpa, the many jobs that he had worked, and I can still hear him say "Brooklyn" in that thick northeast coast accent. Sometimes he'd tell the same story, forgetting a few more details from the time he had told it before. There were stories I would ask about that he couldn't remember. But there was one thing Mr B never forgot - he was deeply & unconditionally loved by a mighty God, even in the middle of all of his mess.
My path with Mr B crossed almost 7 years ago. I was immediately drawn to him because I watched the way he would interact with my children. He loved children unless, of course, they touched his cane - even though it was just a Swiffer handle this week - but that's another story for another day. Watching this 90lbs man throw a football with the boys was sometimes the highlight of our Sunday mornings together. One Christmas when we were trying to unravel the Christmas light ball, he wound himself up & urged the kids to plug him in like a Christmas tree.
We would look for him, and a few others, as we drove through certain parts of town. I always had to keep the windows unlocked so that the kids could, at a moment's notice, roll them down & yell, "Hey Mr B!" while they waved so hard I thought their hands would fall off. We'd see him in the rear view mirror, just a shakin' that cane in the air. My kids loved him unconditionally.
So tonight when I sat them down on the couch to tell them, I knew their hearts would be broken. We talked about our favorite Mr B moments & how much they'd miss him. I told them the message my friend relayed from his son, "At least we know he's not suffering anymore." And that's when it hit me - I've only ever known a broken Mr B, weighed down by the death of his wife, his go-to coping technique, & a very fractured body & mind. But the next time I see Mr B, he will be completely whole! He won't need a cane - though I'm sure he'll call it a staff just so that he can carry around a stick. He won't need shoes or a new pair of pants. And he won't need to cope with anything. I shared that with the kids & watched their sad faces change with the realization of the hope that brought.
Though gma's life was radically different from Mr B's, I knew I could share with them the same hope we found in October when we read some verses from Revelation - He's serving God in his temple, day & night. The sun isn't scorching him anymore & the heat doesn't beat down in him. He's not hungry. He's not thirsty. And God himself has once & for all wiped away all of Mr B's tears.
I'm going to miss Mr B but had I not taken the time to just sit & listen to him, I wouldn't even know his name, let alone his story. It's so easy for us to throw well meaning things, possessions, at people in hopes that we might fix what ails them. But all that stuff wears out or gets used up or lost. What doesn't wear out or get used up or lost is the time we spend just loving them. Mr B wasn't always an easy man to love, but then again, neither am I. Thankfully Jesus loves us both enough that we learned from Him how to love each other. Unconditionally.

This is Mr B. He had a name. Billy. But he also has a title - Son of The King.

A Mother's Day fable

Ya, ya, ya. So I wrote this blog about my mom on Mother's Day. Ever since then I've felt like this horrible hypocrite. Don't get me wrong, I meant every single word I said about my momma. It's just, well, it's just that that day was anything but a warm fuzzy day for me.
Aside from the giant hug from my own mom brought on by the salami cheese rolls, my Mother's Day was spent largely either in tears or on the verge of tears. The fact that there would be no trek across the field to gma's effected me more than I wanted to admit. She wasn't my mother but especially in those four months before she went Home, I morphed into this weird forth daughter kind of person. Mother's Day will never be quite the same without her. It just sucked. 
But that wasn't all that was amidst. My own children didn't seem to recognize that I deserved to be recognized that day. (Insert sarcasm here) Don't get me wrong, the instantaneous "Happy Mother's Day" from my oldest as we walked into the dollar store was welcomed but tempered with the fact that I had just mentioned it was Mother's Day. Ya, I was fishing for acknowledgement. So what? My middle guy apparently offered his own verbal version of accolades in the middle of me having to get on to him for something - a fact reported to me by my oldest so the jury is still out on the validity of the report. My youngest son? He didn't get any memos. Then there was my daughter.
Oh the lovely little pink Piggy - who had just days before in her anger thrown her soccer ball & beamed me, an innocent bystander, in the back of the head. In her anger, her stubborn side (which comes from her dad, I assure you) refused to let her apologize to me. One day. Two days. Three days passed. No apology. She walked in with this tiny bouquet of flowers from gma's yard, offered, "I'm sorry I hit you with my soccer ball. Happy Mother's Day." And there it was. My Mother's Day 2016. I know you're fabulously jealous.
Monday I spent the day fighting a horrible headache & celebrating at my pity party for one. No, really. The only thing missing was a white cake with buttercream icing. I played my music & cleaned the house so lovingly left a mess. I'm sure left that way ensuring I wouldn't get bored the day following such a fabulous outpouring of about me-ness. It sucked. Mother's Day sucks.
So this morning when my pitiful self woke up with a debilitating headache, I was sure that I'd be on my own again. When my prescription strength painkillers for my back did nothing to curb the pain, I quickly found myself on the bathroom floor, laying on my robe, trying not to expel the nothingness that was in my stomach. I cried. Surprised? I didn't think so.
When I finally made it back to the bed, a tiny face peered through the crack in the bedroom door. "Momma? Are you ok?" I motioned her to me. "I really need some water baby girl." That was it. Like a call to arms, my children, the ones who two days before failed my expectations, immediately sprung into action.
Throughout the day, there were cups of water, an offer for the thermometer, repeated trips taking out the trash & rebagging the can, peeps through the cracked door and silence. Wonderful, beautiful silence. In my stupor and fog, I had missed the tray of food they had prepared at some point - a granny smith apple cut & cored, a cinnamon bagel topped with cinnamon sugar butter they had made because we were out, a Monster and a beautiful pink carnation from Piggy's own recital bouquet with a note - We hope you feel better soon.
The gravity of what transpired today didn't hit me until the fog wore of this evening. No, my children did not set aside this one day out of the year where society & culture tell them they have to acknowledge & praise me for doing my job. What did happen was something far greater. In a time when I needed them most, they set aside themselves & served me all day long. Those acknowledgements & servants' hearts speak volumes louder than any "Happy Mother's Day" ever could. They demonstrated their love, they didn't just say it.
I like to think that all moms wonder - Are my kids ever going to "get it"? Unfortunately for me, today my kids demonstrated that not only do they get it but they get it even when I don't. It's not that they didn't love me on Mother's Day, it's that they continue loving me the other 364 days a year.

Mother's Day & the opening of a new chapter

Ever since October 31, momma & I have ridden to our early, no EARLY, Saturday morning Bible study meeting together. Having spent hours together everyday this fall, Saturday became our stay connected time. Some Saturdays we sat together, especially those first months. It was a necessity for both us. The strength provided in sitting in even the most loving of circles didn't compare to the strength I gained in her gentle hand on my back when we would sing "In Christ Alone" or a question would strike particularly close to home. As time moved on, God began to strengthen us enough that we could sit apart, even across the circle from one another at times. After all, there would always be the ride home.
But it was always more than just a simple ride home. To be completely honest, most Saturdays neither of us really needed anything from the grocery store, it was just an excuse to spend more time together alone. Without fail, every week we ended up at of all places, Walmart. I am my mother's daughter in that "shopping" means groceries and I'm perfectly ok with that.
When caring for Gma P moved to the next level, our time together had an extended purpose. Most Saturdays looked like a morning begun with singing & prayer, sharing & listening, followed by a trip to Walmart, Kroger & Gma P's. Breakfast at 5am wouldn't last until 3 or 4pm so a solution had to be found.
I picked up a package of these totally amazing, totally greasy, totally comfort food salami cheese wraps. Mom grabbed the equally healthy donuts or zingers. When we were done shopping & loading the car, she'd toss me the hand sanitizer & a napkin. I'd open our second breakfast while she put the shopping cart away. She'd talk. I'd listen. Then I would talk & she would listen. In the middle of all of the chaos of life, a new tradition, one meant for just the two of us, was born. There was no question in my mind this week as to what I would offer this amazing woman as a small, but extremely meaningful, gift on Mother's Day.
You see, tomorrow night is our last night of our Revelation Bible study. I won't miss the 430am incessant beeping that came from my alarm. But I will miss the ladies who carried us through this fall with their texts, emails & prayers. I will miss my seniors, especially since I won't be their leader next year. I will miss spending Saturday afternoons with momma & Gma P alone. Most of all though, I'll miss  spending practically all day with my momma. For those few short hours every week, I had her undivided attention & she had mine.
It was in those hours that such wisdom & kindness was spoken. There was a kindred bond made in knowing we were equally invested in the tasks the week would unfold before us. Schedules were synced & plans of attack made. In love. With grace.
So if you call one Saturday morning & can't get ahold of either of us, please don't panic. We're probably on a back porch somewhere, with our phones turned off, playing the cd that Gma hummed along with until she went to sleep, syncing our schedules, making plans of attack, enjoying our salami, cheese & donuts, and talking about Jesus. Because I don't care how old I get, I'll always need time alone with my momma. 

Because sometimes love is a pot of hot water

I guess Brian & I were like any typical teenage couple. We couldn't be together enough, couldn't be apart too long, couldn't wait to spend the rest of our lives together. Well, maybe that last one was just me. I jest. Maybe.
At any rate, the things we defined as love in our teens were different from the things we defined as love in our twenties were different from things we defined as love in our thirties and all those were even different from what we define as love now, as one of us has already begun their forties. Getting married so young meant literally growing older and growing up together if we really meant those words we said that day twenty-one years ago.
Love in our teens was very typical for young love. Lots of romance & gifts. Long calls on the long distance phone. (You'll have to look that one up kids....) Handwritten notes & cards. Boxes with trinkets commemorating our "anniversaries". Then, we got married.
Now, for those of you that know us now, you might be shocked to know that love in our twenties meant lots of fighting & just staying with it. Those first years together as husband and wife are years that I would never go back and live again. But they have made me, made us, who we are today. Gifts turned into packages of diapers. Dates turned into bill money. With alternating schedules, handwritten notes looked more like something a teacher would send home - "Today I really could have used your help but I know you'll try better next time. ♡" The heart meant to mask the dripping sarcasm & passive aggressive tone, of course. Baby one, baby two, baby three and even baby four arrived during that oh so fun time as arguments about money & "quality time" filled the air of the 1050sq ft home we made. Our thirties couldn't come fast enough.
By the time they arrived, patterns & routines had been established. We both realized either the money was there or it wasn't & the one person we fought with about it was the one person on the same team. We only had one year of diapers & sleepless nights left. We could do this! And so, we did. Gifts started re-emerging again but they looked a little different. Instead of flowers & chocolates, a crockpot was great! Forget the jewelry, I never wear it anyway. I want a vacuum cleaner that works please. You want to watch another football game? Ok. But the best gift of all? Who would take the first shower. Before we knew it was even happening, love went from something we were doing to something we simply were being. Being aware. Being available. Being second.
Now, as we've (almost) entered this new decade together, love again is different. Some days it is - Really, sports again? Other days it's a text with a picture of a penned on wedding ring and an "Oops, look what I forgot today." Gifts today are wonderful, cherished Symphony bars. Love looks like the trash taken to the end of the driveway or dinner actually ready when he gets home. Grooves & routine are just that. Habit. We are set. But then there are those moments when love goes above & beyond, taking me back to where it all began.
For me, this week, those moments have strung together. Steriod injections Monday warranted flowers & an early birthday card that made me cry when I got home that night. Tuesday it was the quality time I was given to recuperate by having the whole day off while he filled my homeschool mom shoes. With a storm Wednesday morning, we divided and conquered - Brian cooked dinner & I searched for flashlights, batteries, fans & other basic supplies. But we're (almost both) in our forties now. Thursday would be different.
I, thinking I was being the selfless one, sent him to gma's to take his shower. I would have a simple bath here, at our house, by warming pots of water outside on the burner. So selfless, right? But I watched as one stockpot, two stockpots, three stockpots, FOUR STOCKPOTS were warmed & carried for me to the bathtub. With temps in the high 70s & a humidity of 85%, the shower he had taken an hour before had been pointless. But there he was, not complaining a bit, even when the plug drained & he started all over again.
You see, sometimes love IS flowers & chocolates. Sometimes it's diapers & there's a whole lot of crying, from everyone. Sometimes it's in realizing you're on the same team & dividing to conquer. But sometimes, love looks like a pot of hot water. Gentle filled, lovingly poured out, refilled again & again.
There was nothing for him to gain from that constant pouring out other than the smile on my face. For me, it was the reminder that sometimes I think I'm being selfless but love is really about being poured out, over and over again. Even when I don't want to, even when it's uncomfortable, even when I think I've done my fair share. Love, true love, is always about being poured out.

Living a marathon life in a sprint paced world

The fact that I was laying in bed on a heating pad Tuesday evening at 630 probably did not surprise my husband a bit. The fact that I was staring at my phone with tears rolling down my face, again, probably did not surprise him either. But the words - I don't want to be me anymore - flashed a saddened look across his face. It wasn't that I didn't want to be me anymore. He knew the words that came out mouth were just a cover as I attempted to deal with the flood of emotions I was trying to suppress from the day. The pain from the day was just more than I could bare at that moment.
Seventeen years ago we made the somewhat unpopular decision for me to stay at home with our kiddos - well at least the one we had at the time. All worlds were rocked two years later when we announced that we would be a granola-eating, grain-grinding, cotton-weaving homeschool family. Ok, I jest. Although I really do like granola.
Perhaps one of the biggest lessons for me in this homeschooling journey has been to pace myself. When we first started, school looked a lot like I had plucked it out of its public school atmosphere & duplicated it at home. Teaching posters lined our kitchen & the crates of books, workbooks & worksheets probably cost us, globally, a small forest. There was a strict schedule outlined on the wall, complete with a clock mounted next to it. Now, before all my vet homeschool mommy friends pee on themselves in absolute hysterics, remember your first years. Remember that new-to-this-journey mom that you know & take her a cup of coffee today, ok?
At that to say, FOR MOST HOMESCHOOLERS, the sprint paced public school model either constantly drives them crazy or they succumb to a new way of life. Homeschooling children is no sprint. Most vet homeschool moms would tell you that attempting to duplicate what we've always understood education to look like just doesn't work in their world. And that's ok! I spent 13 years in the public school system, got an excellent education (at least well enough to homeschool my own children, right?) & do not think that homeschooling is the right education mode for all families. (Yes, I'm an oddball even in my granola eating world!)
But for us, the ability to homeschool our family has meant more than a simple academic education. It is a way of life. For us, it is a slllloooowwww way of life. And we've lived that way, not because we're just to lazy to be more involved (although......), but because we've been extremely intentional in our activities. With all of the opportunities out there for homeschoolers today, we could EASILY fill our schedule 6 days a week, 8 hours a day. That's just not who the Fosters are.
So when a friend texts me and asks me to visit at a time when her world has been stripped out from under her, academic education takes a backseat. When a young momma reaches out because she feels lost & forgotten in the middle of reading Treasure Island, I slip away & cry through the next few hours with her. When math & history & science were spread across every surface of the livingroom & kitchen table but gma just wanted to show us the hummingbirds, math, history & science stayed where they were as we slipped our boots on & headed out the back gate.
It's not that homeschooling is better, it's just different. And it's caused me to live differently.
Sprinters train by studying the technique of their individual strides, constantly trying to lengthen each pace & keep their posture straight so as not to lose their balance. Marathoners train by finding their lactic acid threshold & running at or near it for an hour or better so that their body builds a tolerance to the lactic acids their muscles are emitting. One isn't better than the other, they're just different and serve different purposes.
Every person in my family would tell you that the past three years now have been the most difficult marathon we've ever run together. There has been plenty of training as we joke about survival not being a lifestyle but a mode to get you through a time. There has been no time between situations to examine pacing techniques nor any desire to lengthen our steps.
This is our marathon. And with God as our trainer, we have been held at the threshold of what seems like "I can't take one more step" for a very long time. No, what we're going through isn't enjoyable. No, it's really not a comfort to hear you say, "It's such a blessing to see how faithful you guys are being." Honestly, we're tired. Each and every one of us is tired.
BUT when we look back & see the endurance that God has built in us over the past three years, we can all say - I'm not who I was. There's a strength there that wasn't before. There's a fortitude that only threshold training could build.
So as I continue to make conscious decisions about the busyness I allow into my life, I temper it with the ability to continue running at my threshold. No, I don't want to go shopping; I'd rather be available to sit at Chili's & cry with a friend for three hours. No, I don't want for my kids to be involved in more activities; I'd rather spend a couple of hours in the garden with them & my aunt everyday. No, I don't want to nail another schedule to the wall; I want to teach my kids how to run the marathon that will be their life, learning along the way. I want them to run with the Trainer we can trust as he pushes us past our limit so that our endurance in him can grow.
It's not that I don't want to be me. It's that sometimes "me" feels the burn of my muscles while my endurance grows. I'd much rather feel that burn though than forever stay the me that I am now.

You're done ladybug

This is actually a pre-blog writing I shared a year ago today. 

This past Saturday night I wanted my momma's advise on my Monday night lesson. Honestly, this isn't at all new - I frequently want my momma's advise and frequently I want it about my lesson. On the surface, there was really nothing new about what was going on. But really there was.
We live on a compound - well, l use "compound" loosely. With conjoining properties, gma, mom & dad, Brian & I and Jeff all live within "I need a roll of toilet paper now!!!" distance. I printed my lesson, slipped on my rubber boots, trekked through the lot next door, checked on our garden, and meandered my way to gma's house.
Now, to all of those people who are taken back by the idea that a 92yrs old woman lives by herself, I scoff. Why did I go to gma's? Because my momma & gma have a routine every Saturday night. Gma's not winning any marathons and honestly, her strength has decreased more than I would like to admit to myself over the past month but mom & gma's routine is for gma to be able to have a bath - as long as she wants - and to have her hair curled afterward. She's just not strong enough to do it all alone.
My plan was to have mom read my lesson and leave so that I wasn't in the way when gma got done. But the older I get, the more I realize, things don't always go the way that I have them planned in my head. Gma got done WAY earlier than I thought she would. So I sat at the kitchen table, wondering if I should leave. Then I heard my momma call me. She needed help with something that was just out of her reach. I handed it to her and resumed my place at the table, now waiting to see if there was anymore help that was needed. Another five minutes or so went by and then my gma called to me.
I walked into her room & stood at the end of her bed. All of the activity seemed to have taken the strength out of her. Over the next 30-45 minutes, I stood there in that room, soaking in EVERY SINGLE SECOND. The thought that one day it would be me on the floor, rubbing the lotion in on my momma's tired, frail feet & legs was almost too much to hold the tears back. "You're done ladybug," words that I will remember for a long time to come - even though they will mean nothing to anyone else. I watched in amazement as they had this whole routine down with the comb and the curlers and the bobbie pins. Momma knew right where every curler went. And gma remembered exactly which curlers had been a gift from my gpa. "Ok Ms Butt, you're done." I giggled at their silliness. Ms Butt, Ms Burt - ha!
It was only a silly bath & momma was only curling gma's hair like she's done every Saturday for the past year. But the humility that my gma has shown in loosing some of her independence is a testimony of her confidence in who she is. And she'll tell you - She's a child of The King.
And my momma. The gentleness and tenderness that I watched that evening - she wasn't rushed or hurried or just doing it because she had to. She was serving her momma just because she loves her. She was pouring out all of that grace and mercy on the same tired and weary feet that had carried her all those years ago.
So on a weekend when my own family had left me feeling overlooked and unappreciated, God again gave me a small glimpse of who he is....who I'm supposed to be. God is faithful and he is loving. Jesus demonstrated humility that goes beyond all human comprehension. He is gentle and he is tender. And this time, he used two of the women I hold most dear, and a bath, to show me.

The day I had to face it - I can't do everything

As much as I share things, as much as I try to see God at work in every situation so that I can share His goodness, there are still things that I keep ultra personal. A lot of it is I simply LOATHE being the center of attention so I don't draw any purposefully. Other times I just don't want to be treated differently or be reminded about what's going on.
This fall though, with the intensity life provided, the pain I've felt in my back, as far back as I could remember, became unbearable. I took handfuls of ibuprofen and naproxen on a regular basis. I wore Thermacare heat packs until my back was covered in blisters. I would have to take a few days off then start the cycle again. I slept on heating pads & even got a jack for the car so it could travel with me. The occasional numbness in my right thigh moved down my leg until it finally reached my toes & became constant. Life gave me no option to slow down at the time nor would I go back & change a single decision that I made.
Then momma tried to hug me one night. I recoiled because the blisters hadn't quite healed from the day before. My secret was exposed. She made me promise that night to make an appointment when "life settled down a bit". I went to the doctor in January and ended up at the neurosurgeon last week.
I was faced with the reality that the damage done to the discs in my back meant no more "just push through it", no more slap a heat pack on & get to it, no more mowing my yard, no more running. No more running. But all that news also meant that it wasn't just in my head, as most people with chronic pain fear. I've never had a doctor tell me that I don't take enough medicine. Then again, I've never had a doctor tell me, at only 39 years old, that I will have to have multiple discs in my back replaced in the foreseeable future. There was a lot to take in at that appointment. A lot that would need to be processed.
The kids' science fair is this weekend though so let's just get through it, right? No. Tomorrow morning I begin treatment, for what I thought was all in my head, with steriod injections to prepare for the next phase of treatment. I'm not afraid of the appointment or the procedure, I just don't have time for it. I don't have time to be down. I'm still trying to recuperate from all the time off we took this fall. Then you tell me that I can't sweep or vacuum anymore? I'm a stay at home mom, doc. Sweeping & vacuuming ARE my job. Cleaning, mowing & running are my healthy coping techniques. I felt lost. I feel lost. With everything else our family is facing, I'm barely hanging on.  
Enter a tiny ballerina. Pig's ballet class is early on Monday afternoons. I confess that because of the craziness that has been life lately, I drop her off & return to pick her up two hours later. I haven't actually seen her ballet routine this semester, nor had I heard the song until she jumped in the car following class.
"Momma, you have to hear what Ms Whitney chose to be our ballet song!" Before I go any further, Ms Whitney didn't know anything that was going on in our lives until that evening. She, nor my precious Piggy, knew how much I had been struggling that morning, holding back tears & whispering the conversation I was having with God - Please calm my heart. Please calm my heart. I'm so anxious & all these things.....I just need Your reassurance.
I listened as Pigs fumbled with my phone, trying to find the song on YouTube. She plugged my phone into the car's sound system and I listened as the piano began to play. I recognized the song, I've even blogged about it before. But it hadn't been where my heart went that morning.

Be still my soul
The Lord is on your side
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain
Leave to thy God to order and provide
In everything, He faithful will remain.

Tears began to roll down my face as my whispers had a very tangible answer now. I sang along until I got to the bridge. This was a new version to me so I just listened.

In You I trust, In You I found my hope
In You I trust, You never let me go.
I place my life within Your hands alone.
Be still, my soul

Calm my heart. That was what I had whispered.  I'll never let you go. That was God's loving response.
The only way my whispers could have been answered more tangibly would have been for me to have seen the spiritual battle that was going on around me. The oppression. The depression. The lies.
Before the piano stopped playing, that ball in the pit of my stomach was gone. I felt like I had a little more breathing room. My situation hadn't changed at all. My limitations were still in place. I still face reality that the three things that calm me the most will no longer be the activities I can go to for solitude. My heart, my trust, my hope had been redirected by my head. But only temporarily. My head & hands felt lost, & they probably will for a while, but my heart had been refocused.  
Chronic pain is a rollercoaster. Those that suffer do so quietly for the most part. Why? Because complaining doesn't change their reality and sympathy doesn't help their situation. The physical pain is rivaled only by the emotional. Everyday is a battle as they want to, & think they should be able to, do everything. The battle that goes on within themselves is exhausting & most of the time they're on the verge of just giving up. Then the anxiety of giving up ties them in knots as they think about all they're not doing. Their level of self expectation is higher than any that is imposed on them.
The truth is NONE OF US, chronic pain or not, CAN DO EVERYTHING! In those moments when I'm threatened to be swallowed up by what I'm not doing, I have to trust that God will never let me go. My hope isn't found in all those tasks that are now off limits anyway. My hope is in the One who never changes. He has no limitations. He can take my rollercoaster days & still my soul. I have to leave it to Him to order my days & provide everything that I need - not everything that I want, but that I need to grow.

Even when my focus shifts, He is faithful to remain.

It was my turn to drive

I was born on my daddy's 24th birthday. Back before the days of ultrasounds & pink baby showers, before dads were allowed in the delivery rooms, I'm told he anxiously awaited my arrival with his ear to the door. When he returned to that family filled room, he didn't say a word but was smiling like the Cheshire Cat, enjoying the momentary secret about the pinkness that had just entered the world. I have from that day, and will always be, my daddy's little girl. 
For months this fall, I enjoyed an evening ride home from gma's with him & Buster the wonder dog. Following gma's journey Home, there was a large adjustment period as those rides quickly ceased. So how then would it escape me that tonight would be the beginning of another journey in which I would drive him home for the first time?
It's no secret that Gma P isn't doing well. The long term steriod use for a rare type of pneumonia has caused some neuropathy in her spinal column. Neuropathy we prayed would be alleviated by a procedure two weeks ago. But that just isn't the case. Fortifying one vertebra meant compromising those surrounding it. And here we are, two weeks later, in the same amount of pain, in a different location. An emergency MRI was ordered this afternoon.
Because of the events of the day, it would be necessary for someone to stay the night with Gma P. Momma. But that meant daddy would need a ride home. As I drove the 8 miles to her house, flashbacks of this fall filled my mind & flooded my eyes. Here we are again.
There are still many unknowns with Gma P's future but one thing we do know is that we are quickly approaching the point that she cannot live alone anymore. Moving her means moving life itself. The house she's lived in her entire adult life was lovingly & painstakingly built by Gma P, Gpa P & her dad. Each floor board & attic beam was hand chosen. This is not just a house that she's lived in but literally a home that she built.
As I drove home tonight, with daddy & Buster the wonder dog in the passenger seat of my car, I relished the time we were again having alone together. Only this time it would be different. It was his mom. They were his thoughts we processed and my fears he listened to this time.
I don't know what the future holds for us but I do know that this time it will be my daddy that needs me. I've never known that feeling before. He's always been my hero. He's always been invincible. He's always been my rock. How can I ever be his?
By doing what I've always done.
A friend of mine started my day with a text send by God himself through her. It was a picture of our lesson notes from the bible study we attend together. - "The most commonplace activities - if done for Christ through the Holy Spirit - are of eternal significance. Every thought, all your prayer, the smallest of acts, though imperfect, become as fine linen that adorns you as Christ's eternal bride."
By loving Jesus enough to sacrifice the things I want, the time I don't have, the gas to drive home so that I can do those commonplace things for Gma P & daddy means that I can be one of his rocks. Because it's in the commonplace things that eternal significance is made.

In four years time

Call me a little slow but as much as I've been looking forward to Leap Day, when Facebook popped up with memories from only four years ago I was a little confused. "You mean I've done nothing in this day in the past four years?" Of course I haven't! This "extra day" only comes around that often.
I had already determined a few weeks ago that Foster Academy would be closed for the day. Instead we would spend the day however we pleased, making memories along the way. Today was mostly spent being lazy, although we did cash in $25.60 worth of aluminum cans. Then it hit me - a time capsule! We could make a time capsule.
In four years, my two middle guys will both be seniors. In four years, my oldest will be 24 and probably out of the house. In four years, I'll only have four years left with my baby girl.
An empty paint can would do the trick. I told the kids I wanted them to all write letters to their future selves. "About what mom?" the question was asked. My reply then opened a discussion my Leap Day celebration hadn't prepared for - "How about your favorite color? Or what you're learning right now? What your favorite thing to do is? Or who you think will be president?" My youngest son's question then took me back, "Or how our hearts have been broken?"
Yes, I want them to write about that. I want them to process their heartbreak and hurt over missing their great gma. I want them to write about how anxious they are about the things that are effecting their lives. I want them to remember, in four years, the pain, the sorrow, the anxiety. I want them to remember because in four years they'll be completely different people who need to see that life isn't always what it was, nor will it always be that.
I thought back to four years ago before Gma B fell the first time or Aunt Suzie's cancer had metastasized or Gma P had pneumonia. I thought about a time before I had an adult child & was in the blows of his teenage years. A time before football or theater or ballet. I thought about a time when I thought life would always be like it was. Then I thought about today.

Dear 43 year old self,
The past few years have been very tough. And some days it seems that there's very little sun on the horizon. It's so easy to lose focus and give in to this sinking feeling that this is the way that things will always be. But if the past few years have taught me nothing else, they've taught me that life will not always be like this.
Undoubtedly right now, in 2016, we're in a season of sorrow that slowly lingers on. Soon there will be days of joy, days of smiles and laughter, days of celebration and new lives to welcome. The sorrow you felt for those long years in between were used to handcraft you into the person you are today, the one reading this letter. You've said, "I'll see you soon," to some of the most important people in your life and today that day you will see them again is one day closer.
The missed calls and texts will still sting. The birthdays will be hard and the holidays bittersweet. But before those tears filling your eyes escape and make their way to this paper, think back on God's faithfulness during that time. Think back on that peace you couldn't describe with words. Think back on those times when the darkness could be felt and remember that still small voice that shouted into it, "I AM still here. Right here with you. Focus on Me. Give me that yoke and take Mine. I'll give you rest. I'll mount you up on eagles wings so that you soar. I'll give you strength to run when you are weary. I'll carry you when you cannot walk so that you won't faint." That voice still calls to you today.
So 43 year old self, no matter what is going on in our life right now, be it good or bad, remember it won't always be like this. Those two young men set to walk across the stage in two months will still need their momma in three. That wonderful young man who would sacrifice his own happiness just to make his momma smile at 20 still loves you that much at 24, even if he doesn't say it as much anymore. That precious little Piggy is nearing the time when she'll assert her independence from you - don't take it personally. She'll be your best friend one day. That man you married loves you enough to have put up with you for 25 years. Thank him. Love him, even when he can't love himself. Stop what you're doing today & have dinner with your parents, they won't be here forever.
And thank God for those sorrowful times because they made us understand that life won't always be what it is today. Remember He has been so faithful through it all. He's been right here with us this whole time, sometimes holding our hand, sometimes carrying us but always giving us strength for what He's told us to do.

I went and got your mail today but you weren't home

Compounding life is so very different. I can remember growing up all of the Saturdays & Sundays when we would load the car up for the day & drive the 10 minutes to my grandparents' houses. It would be an all day affair. We would come home completely exhausted but thoroughly happy. Life for my own children has been very different.
This small 4 acres of land has been their home since before they were born. My gma moved into her house on the homestead 13 years ago. The younger kids have no recollection of the old 40 acre homestead that my cousins & I, like our parents & aunts & uncle before us, roamed until the car horn sounded the "It's time to go".
Compounding is different than spending all day once a week together, it is living life together. "You need toilet paper? Ok, be right there." "But I really thought I had two more eggs..." Going to get gma's mail has been a staple since her fall two years ago. Most days she'd call & ask for one of the kids then they'd slip their shoes on & head out the back gate. Momma has been getting gma's mail lately. 
Yesterday my parents finally made a break for it though. They packed up the car & drove out to meet the sun on the horizon. Momma retired eight months ago & the furthest they'd been together was the grocery store yet even that trip together had been quite rare.
I rushed through my errands yesterday morning desperately trying to return before they drove off but my phone rang just as I turned to head out of town. "We're pulling out of the driveway now," came daddy's voice over the airwaves. Sure I was disappointed but I had been the one pushing them to go. I couldn't ask them to wait now just so that I could tell them goodbye.
Our conversation wrapped up after a few more instructions from momma and my eyes filled with tears as I fumbled for the "end call" button. The realization that I was now the one responsible for life in our little compound was simply overwhelming. Never before had I been the only adult female, let alone the oldest one. I was anxious. I was scared. I was lonely and perhaps the saddest I'd been in a while. What I wouldn't have given to have just heard gma's voice, "You can do this. We've prepared you. And, pssst, you're not really alone."
The fact that my aunt lives three streets away & we had made plans with her for today helped tremendously. The reply to my SOS prayer request to my friend gave me great comfort too. Then there would be a text with an attached recording.
I was so very excited at the idea of hearing my cousin's two baby boys that I hit the play button before I could fully prepare myself. "Laura, it's Mawmaw. I just wanted to call & tell you that you're special and I love you very much."
It was the first time I had heard that voice since October 17. I hadn't mustered the courage to listen to my own voicemails yet. Although she clearly said my cousin's name, she was speaking to me too.
Momma & I have been talking lately about people that need a "phone call from God". A phone call to calm them & reassure them that He's still in control. That He loves them & sees exactly right where they are. I didn't know that I, myself, needed a phone call but apparently He did. And though I didn't hear His voice on the other end of that recording, I heard the voice of one who constantly pointed me back to Him. The most amazing woman who always told each of her children, grandchildren & great-grandchildren how special we were, how much she adored each of us & how much her love for us paled in comparison to His. That recording I didn't have time to prepare for would be the medicine my soul needed to push through this weekend.
After we got home from my aunt's today, I walked over to get momma & daddy's mail then gma's since momma wasn't home. I could hear the TV in the livingroom playing one of those sappy AMC movies we always watched together. I unlocked the door with my bundle of junk mail & let myself in. I sauntered over to the kitchen table & placed this pile next to the other ones. I bent down & took a drink straight from the kitchen faucet, like I always had, then checked on the Christmas cactus. I walked to her bedroom door & choked back tears as I peered into the emptiness.
I thought about sitting on the bed for a few minutes but my kids were at home alone. I turned & walked to the backdoor. I quietly muttered, "I went & got your mail Mawmaw. But I guess you're not home here."
As I stepped out on the back porch & turned the key, I glanced across the field to momma & daddy's back door with tears rolling down my face. Standing there, all alone, those words resonated in my soul, only from a different voice - "Tiffany, I just wanted to call you & tell you how very special are you. I love you very much. Never forget who you are. You, my precious daughter, are a child of the King. And you're never alone."

Shattered

I recognized the look on the nurse's face. "Really? Jay again? What this time?"  You should have seen her face when I told her that our emergency visit was because Jay had jumped off the bed & well, uh, there was definitely something not right with his pinky toe.
An immediate referral to the orthopedist that afternoon would reveal that my acrobatic 13yr old had not bumped his head jumping off the bed but had shattered the tiny inch long appendage that the doctors forbid me to simply tie off & let time take its course. No. The necessity of this appendage became questionable as it would require SURGERY to the tune of TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS to fix! One thing was clear - For the sake of Jay's future health, maintaining status quo wasn't an option. Something had to be done as soon as the swelling went down.

This past week I heard a new song. Ok, it's really a rewrite - Tell Your Heart To Beat Again by Danny Gokey. It's been no secret that I've had a really hard time since gma went Home. She was an integral part of the lives of her daughters, sons, grandchildren, & great grandchildren. Even though we knew her time with us was nearing an end that didn't keep our hearts from shattering the morning we all got that early morning phone call.
In the past 3 months I feel as though I've lived another lifetime, much the same as I did last fall. There have been countless times I've picked up the phone & thought, "Oh ya...." then choked back tears hoping nobody else noticed my mistake. More than once I've caught myself thinking, "I wonder if anyone told Mawmaw about this?" Early morning appointments are the hardest as I pull out of my driveway with a clear shot through the trees to her lighted back porch. She used to be up this early and now I start the day all alone.
Caregiving and grief have so radically changed who I am that like the song says, "(I'll) never get back to the (me) (I) used to be." But I'm beginning to find peace in that too. I don't know that I want to be that me that was before. I mean wouldn't that be pretending none of this happened in the first place? Would she really have meant as much to me if my heart bounced back to the way it was? Still, I struggle sometimes with the everyday things - those silly little pinky toe things that could as easily be tied off & forgotten.
This past Saturday I had the privilege of spending time with an amazing woman, who though my age had just lost her husband. The words that greeted my momma, her leader & myself were, "This feels like so much more than I can carry." The words took my breath away. She stood there, repeating again & again how worried she was for their girls & how much she wanted them to know that their daddy had loved them. But perhaps it was her parting words that struck me the deepest. "This is not a surprise to God. We may not like it, we may not understand & we are definitely surprised but God knew this was going to happen & He's going to steady me through."
I managed to hold back the tears long enough for our friend to drop us off at momma's car. Then. Then I found myself crying so hard I literally could not breathe this time. Her world, her girls' world - shattered - doesn't even begin to describe it. Yet there she stood, reassuring us that this was indeed within God's control.
Here she is at the beginning of a journey she didn't ask for, a journey where the darkness could easily consume her & the shadows will loom at every turn.
Monday I heard that song though. Monday was when I knew I had a choice to make. I could either continue to live in the grief that began my journey on October 17 or I could let the shadows fall away & step into the Light of day.
Grief has been my friend. It's been the mask I've hidden behind as the fear of moving forward with life, in my mind, meant moving on without gma. Will I forget the things I've learned? The sweet moments this fall gave? The way she smelled? The firmness of that hug that could make everything seem better? Her voice?
Those pinky toe things all seem so insignificant when compared with everything I've experienced. Everything this young mom is now facing. But it's in the pinky toe things that I feel broken. Shattered. Is that what I'm really asking? To stay shattered?

Within two weeks, I scheduled my baby boy for surgery. He'd never been put under anesthesia before and my family doesn't typically handle it well. I couldn't let my fear of what might happen leave his pinky toe broken. He's his football team's kicker, not to mention that the human body maintains best balance through the big toe & this seemingly inconsequential inch long, now shattered, toe. Surgery wasn't just AN option, it was THE only option.
The scar that he sports is a reminder of not just what he's been through, but a symbol of who he is. He's active. He's a daredevil. He's full of life & takes every moment to live it to the fullest. Years later, the bone in that toe is not only healed but twice as big and strong as the converse toe on his left foot. But in order to get there, we had to make the conscious decision to move forward, to close the door of the pre-surgery Jay & trust God to carry us through. He has his balance back again.

I have a choice to make. I can stay comfortable BFFs with grief and allow it to continue consuming me or I can take that first scary step forward & begin close the door on the rawness of the previous chapter of my life. As time goes on, I will forget some things but I will never forget the journey that got me here. And though my heart was shattered, God has already begun putting the pieces back together in a beautiful mosaic, glued together with the grout of His love, stronger than it ever was before. My balance is beginning to return & those pinky toe things don't seem so daunting anymore. I just had to tell my heart that it was ok to beat again. 

When what it wasn't outweighs what it was

This Christmas season there was a local radio station that promoted the theme - Choose Joy. I think I understand what they were attempting to say but the phrase rubbed me the wrong way.
Christmas in a season of mourning is anything but normal. In fact, every year since I've been a mom I remember this sad feeling the day after Christmas that I had missed out on something. This year, a new sentiment came on the scene though - Man, am I glad that's finally over!
In the days following Christmas I realized that I had spent the entire month of December going through the motions. Sure, my body was at each gathering. I ate the food. I watched the kids open presents. There were even times that I laughed. But that lingering feeling that something, someone, was missing never left my thoughts. Now I would be able to return to routine, not forced to slap a smile on my face & "choose joy" because that's what made everyone else comfortable. I fought back tears at every turn & even feelings of resentment, at times, because everyone else's Christmas was normal. For me, there was more of what Christmas wasn't than what Christmas was. I felt alone. I was glad to see it go.
To my surprise, the day after Christmas at mom & dad's, momma asked me, "So, did YOU feel like we were just going through the motions yesterday?" Excuse me? What did you just ask? You mean, I'm not the only one?
Gma had ALWAYS joined us at momma & daddy's Christmas. After everyone got there, someone would either jump in their car or on the 4 wheeler, if it was warm enough in deep east Texas, and escort our honorary matriarch to her place on the couch, bring her a plate or bowl of whatever we were eating then we'd watch as she opened the same gift we got her last year, satin pajamas. She'd squeeze our necks & tell us how much she loved them, then, of course, tell each of us how much she loved us. This was the Christmas gathering I had dreaded the most. There would be no ride through the woods, an empty spot in the couch and no satin PJs. I couldn't even make myself leave the dinning room table. This wasn't Christmas.
For weeks now, I've been attempting to make sense of the "meh" emotions I've felt. I've tried to make sense of "choose joy" but it's just not happening. To be quite honest, joy is something God gives freely to his people, not some magical mystical FEELING we pull out of our pocket when life SUCKS. Joy is satisfaction in understanding that DESPITE my feelings, God is in control of my life & the lives of those I love so that I don't have to be. That means that even when I don't feel happy, happy, happy there will still be joy.
But, we don't like to hurt and we don't like it when those we love hurt. So we make up little phrases that put bandaids on hearts that have been torn apart thinking we've done something good. What if - what if we were supposed to feel broken? What if it was through that pain that God would meet us in a place we've never met him before?
This truth has never been more evident than it is to me now. A friend of mine is in a season of deep mourning & loss as well. In my conversation with her, I told her that I wished I could do something to ease the pain that she felt. Her gentle reply was, "But I want to feel this now. I need to feel this right now." And she's right. We do ourselves an injustice by merely attempting to alleviate the pain when God can heal us as he walks us through every agonizing step of it.
There will be times in our lives when the way that things aren't overshadow the way that they are, the way that our hearts long for them to be. The grief doesn't diminish our joy, only the happiness we feel for right now. God is still in control even when we don't like what's going on. And he doesn't shame us for not liking it. He wants to meet us in that place too.

Oh soul are you weary & troubled, no light in the darkness you see? There's light for a look at the Savior, and life more abundant and free. Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full on his wonderful face. And the things of Earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.