What Football Taught Me About Being a Mom

For nine years I would stand on the sidelines and watch him. At first, the hits would take my breath away as I waited for him to stand up between plays. It took a while for us to get a system down where he trained me to watch for the tap. 

It's well known in football that you take full advantage of every down second you can when you know you're coming out the next play. A gentle tap in the grass would be my queue on the sidelines, signaling the difference between a true injury and a few extra seconds of down for teammates to catch their breath while his playability was being determined. No tap signalled a reason for concern but only twice in his whole career would that be the case. 

Mom-ing is hard. As mothers, we are our own worst enemy and critic. We beat ourselves up over what we've done, what we could have done, what we should have done. There are times we wish we could gently tap the grass, longing for a few extra seconds to breathe. But rarely do we have that convenience. 

In our middle son, God crafted a young man who was named leader of the team every single year that he played. It wasn't his charismatic personality. It wasn't his will power and strength of voice to command. It was by gentle service and encouragement to his teammates. Why then, would I be surprised the night God used him to encourage me?

I often bounce things off of him, mostly because we think the most alike. I am able to take his gentle nudgings and rebukes easier than any of our other children. It's not because they're wrong and he's right; it's because of the delivery. 

In the quiet, darkness of driving home from his girlfriend's house, I told him some things I was struggling with. Mistakes I had made in raising them and how all of those things are so crushing at times that I feel like a failure. I feel like all of the bad things that have and do happen are my fault. I didn't protect them. I let them down in my depression. I didn't push them hard enough when I was supposed to and too hard when I wasn't. 

Then. It was silent. 

I thought maybe I had gone too far. I mean what 20 year old really wants to do therapy with his mom? 

His gentle voice pierced the darkness as tears welled up in my eyes. 

"You see mom, it's like when I was quarterback. There were things that happened beyond my control. Maybe the ball slipped as it left my hand, maybe it was a bad snap, maybe it just wasn't my night. At any rate, I let my team down that play. They would be upset with me but only because they weren't in the position to do my job. I always did the very best with what I had been given. I could either keep dwelling on that play, the moment it messed up, their feelings of letdown and tank the rest of the game or I could apologize to them and move forward to the next play. 

Only once did I let it get into my head and Coach Dale pulled me when he saw it happening. I was able to think clearer on the sidelines and was ready to return to the game. But I never gave up.... You have to move on to the next play."

Next play was code with the Lions for "well that screwed up but let's recover and press on..." How many times had I myself yelled that from the sidelines? But here in my own head, in my own mom-ness, I was unable to let things go and move on to the next play in order to salvage the game. 

I've never been so thankful for a dark drive home as the tears rolled freely down my face just listening to him. He was willing to meet me where I was, encourage and rebuke me simultaneously, in a way that the two of us had shared for nine years. 

Feeling like a failure dissipated as wonderment took its place and I heard those words coming from my son. My son, whom I had raised, telling me to shake off the dust, breathe deep and move on to the next play. 

He didn't learn "next play" from all those years of bible study. He didn't learn that having watched his perfectionist mother struggle with her constant feelings of failure. He learned that from a group of godly men who invested in his life to build his character and ability to forgive himself in order to move forward. 

To all you mommas, pat the grass, take the few seconds of timeout, dust yourself off, breathe deeply, and get ready for the next play. This game is far from over. 

To all you coaches, thank you will never suffice for the investment you made in our sons. 

Life, Locusts, and Covid19

On July 29, 2015 our lives would be forever changed. None of us could see it coming and none of us was prepared. In the three short months to follow, Brian, the kids and I would find ourselves living in some type of alternative reality despite our best motivations and attempted to maintain "normal". 

Having grown up in the homeschool community, the kids had the flexibility a more regimented schedule would not allow as we helped to care for our neighbor, my 92yr old grandmother after her fall that hot summer day. And care we did. The majority of our daytime hours were spent working through some type of math, literature, or history curriculum while tears and fear of the reality we were facing taunted every lesson, every problem that had been worked through, laced every new concept. Sometime between 2pm and 4pm I would put my rubber boots on and walk the well traveled trail to grandma's to take up my shift for the day. There were days the kids would go with me but most days they were mandated to finish their schoolwork before joining me. Crockpot meals, dinner provided by momma and daddy's Sunday School class and the newly developed skills of our 19 year old were our new norm. 

Rarely would I be home before midnight and time together as a family during this time was virtually non existant. The kids, with help from their dad who had worked a 12hr shift, were expected to not only perform daily and evening routines largely alone - they were expected to excel at them - without a goodnight or "good job" from mom. They did fabulous though - as much as a 15, 13 and 9yr old can do. I would tell them during the day I was proud but then routine had to begin. It HAD to. 

Our children grew a lot that fall. We were bumping along just fine, or so I thought. Until one morning, just two weeks before gma would pass, as I sat across the table at McDonald's sharing with my friend at our normal "tea time" date while the kids were all at co-op. I couldn't hold back the tears any longer. (Poor Susan! She was so very patient and loving with me during all of that!! 💕) I was exhausted. My kids were exhausted. We were reaching the end of the hardest leg of this new journey that none of us wanted to take. Gma was slipping away from us right before our eyes and we were still learning about the civil war and integers and codyledons. I just wanted to enjoy these last few days and hours. That's when she asked, "So why don't you?" Also a seasoned homeschool mom, Susan was the voice in the darkness that God used to remind me why we made the choice that we did to homeschool in the first place. She reminded me that we serve a God who can, and will, "repay all that the locusts have eaten". (See Joel 2 for some really fabulous encouragement)

After repeating the mantra "No regrets" every afternoon to the kids, we FINALLY lived it from that day on. Textbooks were put away. Pencils only drew pretty pictures that would adorn Gigi's room. Now the kids spent every waking moment they could WITH me at great grandma's house, where they had all found such great comfort throughout their young lives. 

It was the best two weeks of that entire journey. Though we were saying goodbye to one of the people we loved most in the entire world, there was an indescribable peace. There was laughter again. Fears dissipated. Tears of sorrow were now coupled with a certain reassurance that I had not been able to remind them of in my absence, both physical and mental. 

I share this today, not to brag about our wonderful, amazing, fabulous, one of a kind kids. I share this today to encourage you to just STOP. 

Stop sitting your kids at the table to do worksheets. That's not how homeschool works - take it from someone who learned the hard way. Life is learning. The largest lessons our kids learned that fall were not taught out of a book or contained in any curriculum. 

Stop attempting to teach new concepts in academics. THEY AREN'T GOING TO RETAIN THEM RIGHT NOW ANYWAY. Their psyche won't let them. 

Stop attempting to maintain a rigid schedule when kids' emotions don't have clocks to tell them when it's an appropriate time to be afraid or sad or angry. Be in the moment WITH them. 

Stop feeding the fear and anxiety your kids have about this virus. Our own daughter had it like 3xs this week, she was sure! (Our daughter - who has been on spring break for two weeks with no physical contact outside the five of us and has been on allergy medicine since she was 9mths old...)

Stop not living life. Go outside! Make small goals and work toward them. Start having fun again! Life is learning.

Stop attempting to go on like normal. This is NOT normal. Let your kids know that. Let them see your frustration and how you are coping with it to help them know their feelings are ok. Let them know that you can just be together without having to check things off of a list. 

That fall our kids had a fundamental change in their psyche. Our daughter will tell you that was the fall she grew up, at 9yrs old. And after learning how to make coffee, properly trim wisteria, help someone to the restroom, change sheets with someone still in the bed, love to the very last breath - I would tell you that she's partly right. This time around, in this new not normal that none of us asked for, I refuse to push her, or our boys, into growing up any faster than they should already. 

This time we are living with no regrets on the top side. This time we are creating our own temporary new normal. This time I will steady them as the locusts continue to strip away at what has been planted. This time I will be 100% present and with them. Because that's what our kids really need right now. 

Pic: Our daughter, learning to cross stitch the week after saying goodbye to her Gigi. It is a skill that her Gigi taught me. 

I saw you last night

I saw you there. In my dream last night. It's been almost two years since I saw you last. Since I heard that beautiful voice.

Oh, how I prayed that God would let me dream of you in the months and months that would follow, just so that I could have some sort of peace, trying to grasp that you were in His arms, safe and whole again. But it wouldn't happen until last night and even then I was startled awake by the morning call of the clock, reminding me that time won't stand still just because I'm still trying to figure things out.

I tried to call you a couple times over the holidays. I don't know why. Something in my brain just didn't connect until my fingers started punching numbers on the screen. Then. I remembered.

But there you were last night. Just as beautiful as ever. No edema. No striations going down your arm. No nausea. The look in your eyes was that same 'ol glittery shine from days gone by. The one that could comfort the most weary and unsettled hearts. And though I still haven't heard your voice, you communicated to me that you had had to go. There was a place of healing beyond our wildest dreams. You knew that we would never be able to let go and so...in His infinite wisdom and sovereignty God took you. He took you to be healed into that bubbly, bouncy blonde everyone else remembers you to be. And now I remember too.

You were so beautiful. And I miss you every single second of the day. But now, maybe the beginning of a touch of peace.

And a whisper of "Thank you Lord for your goodness to me."

Kindness Disguised As a Shake

Twenty three years ago I became a mom. Growing up I wanted nothing more than to be a stay at home mom and wife. Perhaps my dreams were idealized or my youthful brain downplayed the struggles that would come with it or I severely underestimated the toll my own adolescent emotional outbursts took on my mom but alas, this is all I ever wanted. And I love it. Maybe not every minute of it but I can't imagine myself doing anything else. 

We would have one boy, then two, then three. I settled quickly into the boymom life and it suited me well. I was made for this! Then.....A GIRL! Oh bliss, right? But all I can remember was being terrified. I still am most days. Growing up as the only girl in the house, I only know that I have no idea what to do with this tiny pink thing about 125% of the time. No really. When she told me at 4yrs old that I had hurt her feelings, I vividly remember thinking, "You have those already?"

So as puberty has made its rather unwelcomed home in my baby girl, I've found myself leaning more on all of the girlmom experts in my life and hers. I've been coached by the best to respond, "I'm so sorry honey." or not respond at all to the on slot of estrogen induced swings and tears. I don't have to fight every battle, I don't have to prove my authority. Listen more, talk less. Got it. 

Last night, in the midst of one such occasion, a stranger's timely kindness would bridge a gap preventing a canyon from growing. 

As a reward for helping earlier in the day, I took two of the kids to Whataburger for dinner and bumped the drinks up to shakes. With a single income, eating out is a rare treat and you NEVER get a shake. From a very young age, part of practicing social skills for our homeschooled kids has been that they have to order their own food. Only when it was time for my daughter to order her food, she started to break down into tears of unknown origin. I placed her order with the kindest cashier I think I've ever met. We talked about our kids and how extensive it is to feed teenage boys then closed out the order and took a seat on the bench facing the counter to wait, my daughter crying silently under my arm. About seven orders had been placed immediately before ours so we knew we were going to be waiting a while. 

As we sat there, my precious baby took my hand and looked up with tear stained cheeks, "Momma, will you cry if you're tired?" 

"Yes, my love." 

"Momma, will you cry because you know that you're tired?" 

"My sweet girl, right now you will cry for reasons you don't know and then you'll cry harder because you're crying and you don't know why."

I guess the lady heard us talking or saw the tears that just wouldn't stop. She disappeared behind the wall then reimerged with three shakes in her hands. She walked over to us, having skipped all of the other orders, took my daughter's hand and said, "Here you go baby girl. This will help." Through tears, my daughter saw a shake but I saw something more. I looked for a name tag but she didn't have one. I wanted to report the depth of my gratitude to her corporate office, knowing most of what they hear is negative. So I just said thank you and we walked to the car after getting the rest of our food. 

I sat there for a few minutes, still debating on how to adequately thank her for the kindness she poured out, when I finally told the two kids I would be back. I walked into the restaurant, barely able to control the tears welling up in my own eyes at this point. I took her hand across that counter and thanked her for the simple gesture she had made for my struggling daughter. I told her I feel like I don't know what I'm doing with a girl most of the time and how both of us have been struggling so hard lately. She replied that she has six kids of her own and knows there are those days but could tell that we loved each other very much. I was crying by that point, thank God no one had walked in to order food! She started to make her way around the counter and asked if she could hug me. She whispered in my ear that everything would be ok and we would make it through. 

I returned to my car to find our two kids that fight the most laughing together and talking about a game we all play. It wasn't the shake itself that saved our evening, it was the unmerited kindness of a perfect stranger. No doubt a daughter of a different one time Stranger who poured out unmerited kindness to us all. 

Be kind. Look for opportunities to love with the same grace you have been given. Say thank you more often. You don't know who's life you may change. 

Anxiety weighs down the heart, but a kind word cheers it up. Proverbs 12:25

The Story I Did NOT Want To Write

Below you will find a blog I began July 16, 2017. It just was not the time to share, nor did I have any specific direction to go with it. I still don't have a whole lot of direction but have been urged to share.

*********original*********

In all the years that I've written the things I've shared, I've always stayed away from writing other people's stories. The experiences that other people have are theirs to share, not mine. But a year ago, during a casual conversion, Aunt Suzie told me she would consider it a gift if I ever wrote about her story. I took it under consideration & filed it away until the time would come that we would rally around her & carry her to the finish line, like we had done for gma.

This is NOT the story I wanted to write.

I, not unlike my family probably did, envisioned days & nights of keeping watch over her. Making memories that we would have to hold close on these hard days. Resurrecting that dadgum bicycle horn that she could honk when she needed us, just like gma had. Massaging her shoulders & arm with whatever lotion she would have chosen. Singing to her as she would drift off to sleep. Walking in to the room to see even a hint of that smile that would set our hearts at ease. But those were my plans. They obviously weren't what God had in store.

Thank you to all of the kind souls who attempt to lessen the pain with statements like "She's in a better place now", "No more pain", "Think of all that God spared her from suffering", ect. My head knows these things but my heart is a little further behind. My heart still cries one thing, "But why? Why her? Why now? Why so quickly & like that?"

If you never knew her personally, you missed the honor of knowing a true fighter. Aunt Suzie had cancer but it never had her. But that's not the fighter I'm focused on. She fought for us. ALWAYS reassuring us that she trusted WHATEVER plan God had. She fought so that those who knew her first and foremost saw someone who was so in love with Jesus that cancer didn't even enter the room. That's not to say that there weren't moments, days, when the burden that she carried got too heavy. But even on those days, she would reach out & ask people to pray for less nausea, more strength, less pain, more glitter. Her focus stayed the course & "But Even If He Does Not" truly was who she was.

She asked me a question one day that has been one of the only tangible things I've been able to hold on to lately. I've poured through texts, emails, messages for a date & cannot find it anywhere. The message simply said, "Thy Will". I remember going back & forth with her, giggling the whole time, as she explained she hit the send button before she finished typing. She wanted to know if I had heard the song.

Duh! Amy Grant sang it in the 80s, of course I had heard it. I grew up hearing it all the time. But that wasn't the version she was talking about. Hillary Scott released "Thy Will" after the death of her baby. I vaguely remember listening to it & thinking, "Oh, that's nice." but at the time, I couldn't relate to the lyrics. It wasn't until the week after she went Home that the song would leave me totally 

wrecked & relating more than I ever wished to do so:

I'm so confused
I know I heard you loud and clear
So, I followed through
Somehow I ended up here
I don't wanna think
I may never understand
That my broken heart is a part of your plan
When I try to pray
All I've got is hurt and these four words:
Thy will be done

We had such different plans. We proclaimed His goodness & our willingness to follow Him through the valley that we knew lay ahead. God have me a blog that would become the anthem we would sing, only a week before the popular "Even If" was released. A blog that I can't even go back to read. A blog written in a different time & place when I was so sure I knew the story that I would write. We followed through with His plan. Now here we are with broken hearts that don't understand. Through gritted teeth, I would make myself say, "Thy will be done" outloud.

I know you're good
But this don't feel good right now
And I know you think
Of things I could never think about
It's hard to count it all joy
Distracted by the noise
Just trying to make sense
Of all your promises
Sometimes I gotta stop
Remember that you're God
And I am not
So - Thy will be done

Nothing about this feels good. At all. And counting it all joy is a little hard when your glitter partner isn't there to call you, send you a text, sing you just one more song. My brain thinks it can begin to reason out the things God thinks about. One thing is sure though - I AM NOT GOD. This is NOT the plan I would have made.

I may never know why but I can tell you that day when I heard that song, our conversation immediately came back to me. Like a gentle reminder that she was ready when He was. That she knew there would be immense sadness & we probably wouldn't understand. A gaping hole where once our sunshine & glitter was.

********end original*********

She was ready to follow Jesus wherever He lead her. I'm not sure that we would ever have been ready to say goodbye. So as I sit here tonight on the eve of the anniversary of saying goodbye to her that final time, there are sights and sounds seared into my heart and mind of that hospital room. A waiting room full of her friends with literal glitter sprinkled all around. The songs we sang to her. The seasoned ICU nurse that had to leave that evening because "I was just getting too attached to you all." Hours spent kneeling, face down, on that cold floor over my bible as tears dropped to the pages below, looking for, begging for His peace and comfort for the people I love most in this world. Taking her hand and gently stroking it during that 4am hour as my family tried to rest a little, wanting to not ever let go. Such a privilege they allowed me to be with her, with them.

Here we are a year later and we are all still broken. We are all still intentionally having to look for whatever glitter He pours out.

I don't have a neat little ending to this. What I can tell you is that just like with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, Jesus has been right here in this fire with us. Protecting us as the flames lick at our heels. Carrying us on days when laying in bed, crying all day simply seems more appealing. Giving us strength to put one foot in front of the other as He guides our steps into the unknown. Constantly reminding us there is coming a day when no heartache will come, no more clouds in the sky, no more tears to dim the eye. All is peace forever more, on that happy golden shore. What a day, glorious day that will be.

More than the sparrows

I know that what happened today may seem so very small to the vast majority of people. I am quite aware that my love of nature, nurtured by a mother who sees God in every aspect of His creation, is unusual and quite overwhelming at times. But today, my heart hurts in a way that I simply didn't expect. 

As homeowners, you become aware that your work is never done. There is always cleaning to do. Maintenance to vie for precious moments, stolen away from children that refuse to stop growing up for even one second. Trees and water have been our inanimate enemies for these busy years in the throes of caregiving with those we love the most. Following the clearing of the land around us, the dreaded pine beetles moved on to munchier ground - ergo the towering pines that inhabit our back yard. 

In the midst of all this though, we have had a pair of beautiful Indian Hen Woodpeckers to take up residence year after year in the magnificent dying trees. Circle of life and all.... So when I heard the commotion outside by bedroom window, I clambered to throw on some outside worthy clothes and my trusty waders in order to check out the crash I had just heard. 

Much to my amazement, the dead pine we were worried about the most had fallen in such a way that no damage was done to any property, despite landing on top of the shop it had been standing beside. Mom ran down the dusty trail to meet me at the back fence and we marveled at God's goodness in sparing our home from another tree - roof incident. 

We were so caught up in the lack of property damage that we temporarily had forgotten our beautiful friends who were out on their daily task of foraging for babies totally dependant on their provision. I mean, we just knew they had nested in the other dead pine that was still standing just feet away. But as we walked into the property next door, in order to further survey the damage done, the laughter and smiles gave way to sorrow and tears. 

Three of the most beautiful baby Indian Hens laid there, motionless, at the top of the wreckage now plunged to the ground. The only solace we could take was that their deaths were instantaneous as the top of the tree  hit the ground first. 

Being ever so in tune with their momma's emotions and love of all things living, my boys, who now all tower over me, gently held me close and just let me cry. They didn't mock my sorrow as misplaced or dismiss it as some silly overreaction to a natural event. They didn't scoff when asked to help me prepare a resting place for three tiny baby birds. 

I cried for a while, thinking about the momma and daddy birds, wondering if birds feel sorrow like we do. I thought about her entire clutch being gone in one fell swoop and where they would go now. I thought about all the loss we have experienced in much a short time and the glitter of God's goodness seemed to disappear for a moment. 

"Are you not worth more than two sparrows? I see when each one falls and I gave them you today so that you could take care of them, even in dying. I gave you them, though, so that you would know My love for you."

As a sit here now, I think about all of you who have come along side us the past few years and carried our sorrow. Those who have said,  without words, how much you love us as you gently hold us and just let us cry. Those who never hurry us along in bearing a grief so deep that it has changed who we are. Those who never see our tears and sadness as misplaced or lingering too long. Those who continually shine a light into the darkness so that His glitter is seen. It is through you we are reminded of His deep, unfailing love for us. It is through you we are reminded His eyes are on the sparrows. It is through you we KNOW that He is still watching over us. 

And it is for you that we are grateful. 

What I Wish I Could Tell You in My Grief

If it is said "Experience is the greatest of all teachers" one might wonder what lessons are to be learned in a year with eight funerals, SIX between Mother's Day and Labor Day weekend. While there are many lessons to be learned, I can tell you that most of them will be hard and heartbreaking. Perhaps two of the greatest I have learned are: Death effects everyone at some time & Grief looks different to every person in each circumstance.

Many of you have encouraged me to continue writing in the months following our loss of Aunt Suzie. What you must know is that she was my biggest cheerleader when it came to my blogging and sharing. Many times I have sat in front of a blank screen, staring and praying for the release that comes when words begin to flow like they used to, when my fingers had to move fast enough to keep up with my brain. But the words just have not come. My heart is so far behind everything else that is me as silence is all that I hear when the tears begin to fall on the keyboard in front of me. I am still broken beyond anything I have ever had to face before.

But this morning, as I attended yet another funeral to support someone that I love dearly, this very raw, very honest blog that I began in September came to mind. Admittedly, I was in a very dark place when I penned it. Collected from conversations with those I now live with in this life without the one person I know would have read it and encouraged me, I offer you a glimpse into the thoughts of someone in deep grief so that you may learn how to love them where they are....

What I Wish I Could Tell You in My Grief

1. Funerals are hard. They are the reminder that life here comes to an end. Attending one for someone else that I love to support them through their own loss will leave me raw, emotional and flat out exhausted in every sense of the word. I will need time to decompress & recuperate from things & feelings I thought I had already dealt with.

2. Please don't tell me that my loved one is watching down on me. What a wretched thought. To see & watch the pain & agony that I face on a day to day basis, as I learn to live without them, would be a fate that I wouldn't wish on anyone. That's not peaceful. That's not Heaven. It's not remotely Biblical anyway. EDIT 12/18/17: For me, the knowledge that my loved one is with Jesus is far more comforting than them watching me.

3. If you loved her, if you even just like me a little, PLEASE say her name to me. Your dancing around the hole that she left only makes that hole deeper. Fill it with her stories. Fill it with how she loved you & changed your life. Fill it with anything but please don't pretend that she just didn't exist because you're afraid to make me cry. I cry all the time anyway. Happy tears are welcome.

4. This hurts. This hurts in a way that "I understand" or "She's in a better place" only hurts more. You can't understand my personal hurt. The relationship that we shared was unique. Be very careful in comparing. I also know she IS in a better place, but my heart remains broken over not having her here with me. Just about anything feels better than this hurt.

5. Stop asking me "How are you doing?" Honestly, I've never done worse in my life. But that's not the answer you're looking or prepared for. I hide behind casual answers because so many have asked that have no intention of listening anyway. You don't know what to say? Most of the time, neither do I. A simple "I LOVE YOU" is great. Talking about her is better. (See #3)

6. I just can't......anything. Somedays I can't talk. Somedays I can't text. Somedays I can't listen. Somedays I just don't even want to get out of bed. I am trying though. I did put pants on today.

7. In those times when I HAVE TO be with others, sometimes I still can't engage. I may find a quiet corner. I may sit silently with tears streaming down my face. I may actually have to leave. Please don't take it personally. It's not you, it's me.

8. You miss me, I know. Because I miss me too. My kids, my husband, they miss me. The old me is gone though. Please grant me grace & mercy until I figure out the new me. Until then, if you really love me, look for glimmers of the me that you once knew & love me where I am.

9. Things I do don't always make sense. Things I feel don't always make sense. I may forget things or repeat them. My brain is stuck in a fog & I'm fighting for clarity with every breath. Really, I am. But I may forget things or repeat them.

10. Approximately two weeks after the funeral, most everyone else's lives moved on. Mine didn't. There are still no phone calls. No texts. No songs. Don't be that person who, at the time, said they would be there & vanish on me now. I'm still broken. I'm still crushed. I still need you.

~End original~

Here I sit today, seven months after holding her hand that weekend to walk her to the finish line. This morning, the waves of nausea that overtook my body returned as I faced the harsh reality that I won't hear her voice again until I see her face to face. The bleakness of a southeast Texas rainy winter afternoon following a funeral has my emotions all over the map again and the tears are still hitting the keyboard. 

So why force myself to do this? Because someone else needs to hear it. 

Someone else needs to know how to love someone in this deep, dark valley. They need to know how to be that "I'm bringing you dinner tonight. Chicken and dumplings. Be there in 5." person. Someone else needs to know that there probably won't be a reply when you send, "Just thinking about you. I love you." but you need to send it anyway. You need to know that the person you love is still there, clinging to whatever love you can pour out into their brokeness.

Then there are the broken. And they need to hear it too. They need to know that they aren't alone. That it will be "normal" for sorrow and tears to be their ever constant undesired companion. And that THAT IS OK. But they also need to know that one day, very slowly, the color will begin to appear in their world again. That they will hear the birds singing. They will laugh, no really laugh. That those memories and songs and smells won't always leave you completely wrecked. There will, one day, be a hint of a smile as the tears fall and you will regain the strength to do the hard, step by step, again. Then you will retreat and rest again, having just accomplished that one hard thing for today. And if you look, really look, perhaps you will see the little flakes of the glitter of God's faithfulness that couldn't be swept away in the storm. Then MAYBE you can whisper like gma did those last few days, with all the strength that she could muster, "Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus." as the tears fall.