Category: hope & grieving

Braver Than You Think  2

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Wednesday, a few hours before Kate got home from school, there was a knock at my door.  It was our neighbor, one of our favorite regular visitors at our house.  She had a strange look on her face and she asked me if we’d seen Seal, Kate’s cat, that day.

 

My heart dropped.  He had been mysteriously missing all day, which happens from time to time, so I hadn’t been too concerned.

 

But there was a reason Seal hadn’t been around.  He had been hit by a car earlier that day.  The thought of telling Kate her beloved cat had died made me want to throw up.

 

Peter, who always gets handed the job of digging the graves of our pets, put Seal in a box and dug the hole.

 

And then Kate was home and we had to break the news that the cat she’d loved for 3 years was gone.

 

There is nothing worse than knowing you are going to break the heart of your child.  To sit them down and look them in the eye and know that your words will cause pain and sorrow.

 

I was reminded, while holding her sobbing body, that death, not matter how small, is always sad.  And these moments are what deepen and mature her.  Sadness changes us, even the ones we may foolishly deem insignificant.

 

She wasn’t sure if she could face school the next day or her baseball game the day after that, but I cupped her sweet face in mine and I said, “Kate, you are braver than you think.  You can do this.” And guess what?  She is.

 

We do our best to protect our kids from the weight of the world, but I was reminded again this week that it’s an impossible task. It’s necessary to let them grieve. If I’m going to raise kids who are brave and alive, I want to be the one who gently teaches them that life has rough and rotten days.

 

In my heart, I know I’m not raising a kid…. I’m raising an adult.  And the way I respond and lead her through this time that is so very sad for her will shape how she processes death and disappointment.  Now, I’m tempted to think I’ve put in my time when her sister died seven years ago, but the truth is, how she processed death when she was two is completely different from how she’s processing it now.  I’ve had to put aside my thoughts of how she should be reacting, and instead let her work it out herself.

 

While I want to take it away, fix it, and protect her, I can’t.  So I’ve done a lot of listening, holding, and comforting this week.  I listen as the anguish pours out and we cry with together.  She texted her teacher, told her friends and made a special frame with Seal’s picture.

 

I don’t always get it right.  I don’t always have the words to say or the patience I need with my kids.  But I do know that when the hard days come, my kids need to know down to the tips of their toes that my heart is busted open for them.  I want them to be confident that I’m on their team and I hurt with them, but I can’t rescue them from the sadness of the world. And while it breaks my heart to see the tears pooling in her eyes, I know that the words I spoke over her are true.

 

She’s braver than she thinks.

 

 

Well, hello!
I’m so very glad you’re here.  I hope you’ll stick around so we can get to know one another a little more.  Go here if you’d like to receive my posts via email.  –Sarah

For the Brokenhearted on Mother’s Day  6

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Last week I bought a few cards and I let my kids use my sharpies to write a little note to their Grandmas.  One of the hard things about living far away from family is when these small holidays roll around.  We are too far away to make plans to be together, so we send packages and FaceTime lots and make the best of it.  (Also, full disclosure: the cards didn’t get sent until Thursday.  Late.  I’m always late)

 

I use the term “hard” loosely, because I am well aware of the number of people in my life who’d rather just skip Mother’s Day…. By falling asleep on Saturday night and waking up on Monday morning.  Erase the whole thing.

 

Sometimes holidays like Mother’s day are salt in the wounds and the anticipation of a day celebrating Moms brings up pain and hurt.

 

Maybe you lost your Mom and when you mindlessly reach for your phone to call her, you realize afresh that she is gone.

 

Maybe you always wanted to be a Mom, but for any number of reasons, you sit with empty arms.

 

Maybe the relationship you always longed for with your Mom never materialized and you’re left with a lapful of painful encounters, hurtful words, and longing.

 

Or maybe, like me, Mother’s day seems to be a reminder of what you’ve lost and all you see is the empty chair at the table.

 

What I do know is that as we live life and grow older, very few of us have the idyllic life we imagined we’d have.  We live with pain and sorrow, buried dreams and quiet hurts.  And while we do our best to push them down, there are days we wake up and realize that we need to come face to face with our sorrows.

 

There are days when we just want to sit at home and hurt.  And while the answer to healing may involve giving ourselves space, there’s something I’ve been wrestling over for the past few days.

 

It’s this little verse in the middle of Romans 12 and chances are you’ve heard it before.  Paul is telling the people how to live and in verse 15 he says,

 

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”

 

Here it is in a few different translations:
Be joyful with those who are joyful. Be sad with those who are sad. (NIrV)
Be happy with those who are happy, and weep with those who weep. (NLT)
Laugh with your happy friends when they’re happy; share tears when they’re down. (The Message)

 

It’s a sad time in our church right now.  My husband has done three funerals in that many weeks. We mourn together.  We go to the funeral and we hug those who hurt.  We make casseroles and send cards.  We mourn with those who mourn. But that’s only half of the verse.  

 

“When we are hurting, we like the part of the verse that tells people to ‘weep with those who weep.’ But we think we’re exempt from the first part, ‘Rejoice with those who rejoice.’ Those of us who are sad find it difficult to be happy with others when they are happy, to enter into the joys of their lives.  It is painful and costly to celebrate the joys and successes of other people when we are weighed down by our own sorrows, losses, and failures— especially when their gain is exactly what we’ve lost.  The ugly truth is, while we don’t think their happiness should keep them from sharing our sorrow, we see our sadness as an adequate excuse for refusing to enter into their joy.” (Nancy Guthrie, One Year Book of Hope)

 

We who have broken hearts, or who have buried our idea of what we thought our life would be, need to be very careful to not let our sadness keep us from being joyful with others.

 

It’s part of living in community with others.  While it may be difficult, we must acknowledge that all of life does not revolve around our sadness (and yes, I do realize just how hard that statement is to swallow).  God is doing good in the world, and part of our healing depends on our ability to be able to rejoice with others.

 

So how do we share joy with others on Mother’s Day when our hearts are breaking?

 

Maybe you lost your Mom.  But maybe there is someone today who is celebrating their first Mother’s Day, who has never had a Mother until some brave person said yes to adoption.  There’s someone today who isn’t an orphan.  And we must rejoice.

 

Maybe your arms are empty, your dreams of becoming a Mom dying within you.  Maybe a friend who has walked this same path with you has experienced the miracle you wanted for yourself.  It takes all the bravery and courage in you to be glad with them and it may be the hardest thing in the world to acknowledge their joy…. but it will mean the world to her if you do.  And when you cry alone later, may you know that God sees your tears and knows your deep pain.

 

Maybe the relationship you always longed for with your Mom never materialized and you’re left with a lapful of longing.  But you have a chance to write a new story as you parent your child.  This is the heart of redemption— to take what you’ve been given and watch Jesus make it new.

 

Or maybe you’re like me, reminded of what has been taken from you, tempted to be jealous of those who seem to have the perfect life.  But what if you dare to look outside your grief and rejoice?

 

We rejoice with others who rejoice… and we weep with those who weep.  Because the thing of it is, while we may be tempted to think we’re the only ones with broken hearts, if we open our eyes, we will quickly see a world of hurt.  No matter your circumstance, you aren’t the only one.  Chances are there’s someone else who needs someone to weep with them.  What if instead of skipping the day, you make an effort to reach out to someone else experiencing the same thing?  To tell them you know just how they’re feeling? Suddenly, in all the ugliness of grieving, you may find you have a purpose.  Jesus brings beauty out of our brokenness and He can use your hurt in ways you never imagined.  We just have to be the brave ones who take the first step of reaching out to others who are hurting.

 

I don’t know your story, but I do know a God who can redeem your story.  He’s done it for me.  No matter what, may you know today that you are loved and valued, that there is a God who sees your tears and knows your hurts. And you can be the person who reminds someone else of that truth.

 

So while I open my homemade cards and dandelion bouquets, all the while thinking of my sweet Annie in the arms of Jesus, I’ll be praying for you.  That you will be able to see how God cares for your broken heart and you will have the courage to be happy with those who are happy, even as you weep with those who weep.

 

(Need more encouragement? Here are a few other posts on Mother’s Day I’ve read this week from Lisa-Jo Baker, Ann Voskamp, and Shannan Martin)

Well, hello!
I hope you’ll stick around so we can get to know one another a little more.  Go here if you’d like to receive my posts via email.  I’d love to be able to pray for you and to send you a few verses that have meant so much to me.

–Sarah

How to Answer Awkward Questions  0

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It happened right after Annie died.  I was at the grocery store, wrestling 5 year old William and 3 year old Kate in the checkout line.  Grocery shopping has never been on my list of favorites, but add in restless kids, expired coupons, and a too-long list and I was a sweaty mess by the time I faced the conveyor belt.  I had done my best to be creative and efficient … but my fuse was rapidly shortening.

 

The cashier was so sweet.  She winked at the kids and gave them a sticker.

 

“You only have two kids, huh?” she said, indicating that I should have more.

 

I looked at William and Kate and realized how empty the word ‘only’ sounded.  I didn’t want to cry in the middle of the grocery store line, I just wanted to pay and escape.

 

So I mumbled, “Yup.  Two kids.”

 

But the sonar ears of the kids didn’t miss my answer.  Selective hearing.  It’s real.

 

“Mom! That’s not true!  What about Annie!?” They were hurt and shocked that I hadn’t rolled out the whole story to a stranger.  If it were up to them, we would have announced her death over the loud speaker.  Including her in our family, even in the most trivial circumstances, mattered to them.

 

I really don’t remember what happened after that, but I’m sure I managed to make it as awkward as possible, because, well, at that point there was no way to make a graceful exit.

 

It was the first in a long line of painful encounters from friends and strangers… most of whom have good intentions.  But I’ve always struggled with knowing when to share about Annie, and how not to feel guilty when I choose to dodge the questions with passing strangers.

 

Our friends, David and Nancy Guthrie, taught us about the Trump Card (think euchre, not The Donald).  Bringing the death of a loved one into a conversation has the power to completely change the exchange, even bringing it to a screeching halt.  But it can also open up amazing opportunities.  Either way, I know that when I share about Annie all eyes are on me. Gulp.

 

It’s up to me to use my trump card wisely.   In the right circumstances, my story can change hearts and encourage people.  But it’s not always necessary to show the trump card, as was the case of the grocery store clerk. She didn’t need me to spill the story of my daughter with a line up of full carts behind me, anxious to check out.  I must discern if it’s right time.

 

It used to be a bit easier, because most people I had contact with knew our story.  But time changes our spheres of influence, so that’s not as true anymore. To the outside world, we are a normal family with 3 kids.  They don’t see the gap between Kate (9) and Eliza (5) as a gaping wound where a little seven year old should be.  So I’m forced a little more to share, to approach the awkward questions with grace.

 

A few years ago, Peter and I were sitting with a group of people we had just met when someone asked the woman next to me how many siblings she had. I watched her as choose her words carefully:  “I have a sister named ______, another sister named ________ and a brother named __________”, she said.  Instead of answering with a number, she simply named them. I noticed her hesitation and later asked her about it.  She told me she had lost a sister in a terrible accident, but hadn’t wanted to delve into it with a large group of acquaintances. By simply giving us the names of her siblings, she hadn’t excluded or included her sister.  It’s a trick I use now when someone asks me how many kids I have and I’m not sure about spilling my guts.  Instead of answering how many kids I have directly, I’ll say, “Will is 11, Kate is 9, Eliza is 5.”  It’s a simple way for me to answer the question, but to keep the conversation open to more.  I keep my Trump Card hidden, but I’m ready to use it if the conversation keeps going.

 

Often, I feel an urging from the Holy Spirit to be vulnerable.  It still feels risky to me, but sharing my heart gives others permission to share theirs.  I believe that God can use our broken hearts, so I have to be willing to be open about what we have gone through.  I’ve never regretted taking an opportunity to share my hurt.  Ever.

 

This precious treasure— this light and power that now shine within us— is held in perishable containers, that is, in our weak bodies.  So everyone can see that our glorious power is from God and is not our own. (2 Corinthians 4:7)

 

There will always be awkward conversations.  There will always be opportunities for me to use my trump card or to let it go.  But I’m thankful for the way these encounters deepen my dependence on God.

 

How do you approach these awkward encounters?  Because we all have something, don’t we?  Maybe you’ve lost a child, or maybe it’s something completely different for you.  There’s a trump card for us all.  May you have courage to hold it loosely, to see opportunities to be vulnerable.  May you hold tight to the Holy Spirit who promises wisdom to you when you ask.  Sharing your hurt may be the catalyst someone else needs to begin their own healing.

 

 

 

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Six Ways to Turn Sorrow into Celebration  4

We were walking around Barnes & Noble when Kate said to me, “Someday when I grow up and have kids, will you buy them a book on Annie’s birthday?”  I laughed and teased her, “Well, what if you have six kids? How would I afford that?” Secretly, I hope that someday on Annie’s birthday I can take a whole truckload of grandkids to the bookstore and buy them a book.  I hope that years from now we’ll still be talking about the ways she changed us and how Jesus has led us from sorrow to celebration.  

We celebrated Annie’s seventh birthday a few weeks ago. Since she lived just six months, we never had a chance to have even one of those birthdays with her.

We’ve done something quite by accident, at least on our part. I have no doubt that when we were so fresh in our sorrow, Jesus led us to truly celebrate Annie’s birthday.  Each year the joy in this day seems to overwhelm the sorrow a little more and it’s something we now work to intentionally cultivate.

Sometimes I have these ideas for posts and I hesitate to write them because I feel so far from an “expert” on these things.  I don’t want you to think we have this all figured out, or that if you follow my suggestions life will suddenly be peachy. It’s awfully tricky to write about grief and healing because it’s not a one-size-fits-all kind of life.  But I’m pretty sure if I were to wait until I felt like an expert, I’d never write a single word.

So, full disclosure: Sometimes we knock it out of the park and feel like we’ve conquered the day.  Other times, we end the day in exhaustion, feeling like we’ve blown it.  Honestly, isn’t that like parenthood in general?

Here are six ways we’ve turned our sorrow into celebration:

We keep our expectations low.  We try not to make birthdays so elaborate that when things don’t go as planned, we end up depressed.  We expect there to be moments of sadness, moments when things are tense, moments when we feel so happy.  In spite of our best efforts, there will always be BIG FEELINGS for everyone, young and old… because behind it all is a sorrow for what we really wish for: a birthday girl, here with us.  When I have high expectations for everything to go beautifully and perfectly and then one of my kids has a bad attitude about something ridiculous (hypothetically, of course), I’m tempted to think the day is ruined.  But I have to step back and realize that we’re all sad in our own ways and it’s hard to express feelings on these days.  So it’s important for me to keep my expectations low, which makes it easier for everyone else to do the same.

We find a way to reach out.  Serving in our sorrow is always, always a blessing— to us and to others.  It’s impossible to stay stuck when you’re reaching out.  Each year we try to take the money we would love to be spending on Annie for gifts and instead we find ways to bless others, whether strangers or friends.  We’ve done different things over the years, but our favorite is to decorate envelopes and slip cash inside.  This year we put $20s in a few envelopes, then sat in our car and watched people find them.   It’s such a blast. We sat there and yelled and cheered inside our car and it was so much fun! It’s certainly not an original concept and there are a million ways to make someone’s day.  You could pay for someone’s meal or help out a single mom.  Get flowers for someone or be creative with a random act of kindness.  Providing others with something they need gives them joy and makes you joyful, too.

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See that little tiny envelope? It has $20 in it!

We establish loose traditions.  Every year we go to a bakery and eat cupcakes.  Ok, here’s the deal.    I decided this year we could probably find something more exciting, because the cupcakes are fine, but they aren’t amazing, you know? Ohmygoodness, my kids got so mad at me!  Apparently I messed with the wrong tradition. Lesson learned. We will continue to buy expensive, so-so cupcakes and I’m going to be okay with it.  Which means…

We go with the flow.  We’ve had seven birthdays now without Annie and we no longer have the luxury of stopping everything and taking a day to celebrate.  So we found the cracks of our week, stopping to remember where we’ve been and where God has taken us.   That meant that we had our adventure earlier in the month.  On the day of her birthday, after a full day of school and practices and small group, we  declared a late bedtime and had a little party with banana muffins and pink lemonade.  I want my family to remember these days as bittersweet, heavy on the sweet and light on the bitter.  Going with the flow and not demanding that everyone should stop everything and BE SAD WITH ME goes a long way in creating good memories.birthday celebration.003

We guard against isolation.  This one is tricky.  Listen, I know how tempting it is to cut off all communication.  Sometimes it’s good to step back and just reflect.  But there’s a danger in isolating ourselves in our grief.  Others are grieving the loss, too, and it’s good to give them permission to grieve along.  I’ll often post on social media when the day is coming, even when it’s hard for me.  One year we collected books for the hospital and we asked others to give.  It was a great way for our friends to join us in our grief.  On the flip side, if you feel quiet, be quiet.  There’s also something very freeing about not blasting your feelings everywhere and being quiet. So basically, do what you need to do, but beware of isolating yourself in an unhealthy way.

We work on extending grace to others. We’ve all had it happen.  Someone says something that offensive or makes it worse and I just can’t believe they would have the audacity to be so unhelpful.  Those are the moments I have a choice.  I can be angry and let it take over my thoughts… or I can be gracious to them, realizing that they most likely did not try to offend me.  In fact, haven’t we all been there, when we desperately want to say something to help, but instead we end up saying something crazy or stupid?  At those moments, I must choose to extend the grace that Jesus has shown me.   It’s not easy, but it’s what I would hope others would do for me when I make the same blunder.  I have to work to see the good intention behind the hurtful words.

 

So another birthday has come and gone, filled with joy and sorrow, good and bad.  We made some good memories and we powered through some hard moments.  We ate the cupcakes and stayed up late, which seemed like a good decision, but ended up making the next morning a little rough.  Whatever.

birthday celebration.004Someday, when I load up all my grandkids to buy them cupcakes and books, I’ll remember the first hard years, squeeze them a little tighter and be thankful for the ways we intentionally celebrate how God is holding us until the day we can all be together with Him.

May you, in your hard anniversaries, have the courage to face the days with hope that God will turn your tears into joy.  May you see that His good gifts don’t end in death. He will restore you if you just hold on.

 

P.S.  A few weeks ago, I wrote for the #oncomingalive project.  If you’d like to take a look, you can find it here.

Rebuilding After Loss {A Birthday and an eBook}  4

rebuilding after loss.001When Eliza was born, I would get up to feed her in the wee morning hours. I’d drag myself out of bed and bring her out to the couch. It was dark and quiet. Suddenly, I would hear it – the first chirp of a bird, calling all the other birds to wake up. Immediately, the air would be filled with all of these beautiful songs. Have you heard it? Every morning I would wait in expectation for the first brave bird. In those days, just eighteen months after Annie died, my heart still felt ripped to shreds. The full force of the loneliness of grief was still hitting me. In spite of the fact that we had three healthy, living children, we were still so sad. So I would sit on the couch, listening to the birds, crying for the baby who had been taken from me. In many ways, I felt like I was in the middle of a never ending dark night.

But I also knew God was calling me to rebuild, to catch the song of the birds and to welcome a new day.

I had spent a lot of time surviving, collapsing into bed each night simply thankful I was one day closer to heaven. And while surviving is a natural response to our grief, and is necessary, there was a day when I knew I didn’t want to only survive for the rest of my life. In the back of my mind, I was aware of the fact I have been given this one life to live, and I didn’t want to waste my years merely surviving.

In some ways, we’re forced to live in this delicate tension of loss and life, aren’t we? I remember the second anniversary of Annie’s death, because I was determined to go to the cemetery with the kids. But life was crazy. We were between errands, so Peter and I made the kids stay in the car while we took a few minutes at her grave. We held each other close, tears spilling over…. and then we heard the kids screaming in the car. The two oldest were fighting, the youngest was screaming for her lunch. As much as I wanted to stop and reflect, my stage in life was so demanding.

We mourn, but we go on living.

The grass keeps growing, the floors need mopping, and there is daily work to be done.

Nestled into the middle of Psalm 84 is this verse: “When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs, where pools of blessing collect after the rains!” If anyone knew about suffering, it was God’s people, the Israelites. The Old Testament is full of stories of how they fought and failed and stumbled and grieved. Yet somehow, they knew that God is a God of redemption and rebuilding. They knew, in some unexplainable way, he would take their tears and make them into pools of blessing. The dark of night would give way to the beautiful song of birds to usher in the day.

And so, in our grief, the day comes when we spend less energy surviving our loss and we begin to rebuild.

Rebuilding your life takes courage and bravery, because the person you become will be very different from the one you were before. But bravery is a choice, not a feeling. You, like me, might realize you’ve been changed as a result of your grief. As we sift through our memories and emotions, we slowly find a way to get back up on our feet, to realize we will have the strength to go on.

We look at the dry valley of our life and realize the tears of sorrow have suddenly turned to pools of blessing.

Nicholas Wolterstorff wrote a book called Lament for a Son, written when he lost his grown son in a mountain climbing accident. He says, “And sometimes, when the cry is intense, there emerges a radiance which elsewhere seldom appears: a glow of courage, of love, of insight, of selflessness, of faith. In that radiance we see best what humanity was meant to be… In the valley of suffering, despair and bitterness are brewed. But there, also, character is made. The valley of suffering is the vale of soul-making.”

I don’t know when or how this will happen for you. The beautiful and maddening thing about grief is that there is no set agenda. But when you see the beginnings of a new thing, when you hear the first song of the bird, grab hold of it. You see, it’s impossible to get stuck in your grief if you’re doing something new. Don’t buy the lie that your loss will make you less. It can, indeed, make you more if you allow the Holy Spirit to turn your tears into pools of blessing. The rebuilding is difficult and scary, but in death it is possible to find life.

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Screen Shot 2016-03-09 at 8.17.51 AMToday is Annie’s 7th birthday, and I always struggle with what I should write in this little space when these days come.

So many of you have been so kind to us over the years, always remembering and praying for us. Thank you.  This year, I have some exciting news that I’ve been holding close for the last several months:  The words above are an excerpt from a new eBook I have coming out soon! 

MOPS International reached out to me awhile ago, asking me if I would partner with them to provide a resource to others who have lost a child.  So we’ve been working hard and it’s almost ready to go!  The eBook will be a free resource, available to everyone–  so even though it targets grieving moms, it will also be a great read for friends, spouses, pastors, and leaders or anyone who just needs a little hope as they walk with someone who has experienced loss. I’m beyond honored to be able to use Annie’s story to help others.

I’ll have more details for you in the coming weeks, but Annie’s birthday just seemed like an appropriate time to let you in on what I’ve been working on.   Please be praying for the ways this eBook could reach those who need it most.

Hope for YOU Today {An invitation and a gift}  0

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I just spent the last few minutes looking out the window, praying for you.  Today feels like spring, yet the news of a whole boatload of snow tomorrow taunts me.  It feels like life sometimes– just when the promise of spring is within reach, a storm comes out of nowhere. And I may get up on the outside, but each time, it takes more courage stand up on the inside.  Maybe you feel the same way?

 

I’ve been studying you, my friends, over the last months. I’ve been paying attention to the conversations and comments and emails I get from you.  And while you’re so supportive and kind no matter what the topic, what speaks the most to your heart are my posts about grieving and sorrow… and about the hope Jesus holds out to us.

 

It’s like we’re all trying to figure out how to live with the promise of Spring in one hand, while expecting a blizzard in the other.  It’s messy, it’s hard… but oh! the promises and the way Jesus gently leads us.

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I want to put my arms around you and tell you I’m right there with you.  For some of you who are my real life friends, I get to do that, and I love it so much.  But for others, we’ll have to settle for a friendship between our computers. No matter if we’re the best of friends or if we’ve never met, I want you to know that as my fingers type words, I’m praying for you.

 

I’ve prayed that Jesus would reveal Himself through His Word.  That you would find His words, not mine, to heal you and show you the power of His redemption.  The words of Scripture are a balm to my soul.  They have carried me through the good and bad days. I could type a million words on this little blog, but if they aren’t rooted in the Truth of Scripture, they are simply words.  Nothing I write on my own brings healing… Jesus is the one who does that.  Oh, they would probably be nice words that you would agree with, but they wouldn’t change you or give you what your soul longs for most.

 

printable verses.004I’ve been working on a little gift for you.  When you sign up to subscribe to my blog, I’ve figured out (it was no small task, at least for me) how to send you a few Scriptures I hold dear to my heart.  They’re hope for your hurting heart.  They will bring you power in times of hopelessness.  Just sign up at the bottom of this post or over there on the side —>, print them out and cut them up. They aren’t the most professional, high resolution little things, but what really matters are the words.

 

Put them in a strategic place, like your kitchen sink or bathroom mirror.  Laminate them and put them on a key ring.  Take a screenshot and put one on your lock screen. Then say them out loud, think about them and believe them.

 

It’s just my little gift to you to let you know I’m praying for you, … and even more importantly, Jesus sees your hurt and He cares deeply. He wants you to live in joy and to be healed.

 

Thank you for following along as I try to make sense of life.  I’m glad to have you along for the journey.

Join along…






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When Fear Strikes Again  4

 

when fear strikes again.001A few months ago, I was jolted awake by the sound of a puking child. I hurried to the bathroom, pulled back Kate’s ponytail and rubbed her back. As I willed myself not to start heaving, my mom brain was already flipping through the next few days of activities and what we would need to cancel. Peter got up and started making her a bed on the floor next to us. I gave her a bowl and tucked her in.

 

But something wasn’t right. She curled up in a fetal position and her eyes got wide. She started clutching her chest and sweat was running down her her forehead. “I can’t breathe!” she gasped. She told me her chest hurt… and then she told me she wanted to go to the hospital.

 

Now, I’ll pause and let you know she’s fine. But at the time, we didn’t think it was fine. The Unknown hit us like a ton of bricks, our minds racing a million miles an hour. Peter loaded her in the car, drove way too fast to the hospital, where they did several tests and x-rays and determined it was a weird symptom of the flu that had been going around. Within a few hours, she was back to normal.

 

I stayed behind with the other sleeping children, feeling very, very alone, crying and praying. Even now, as I write these words, my hands start to shake. Because it wasn’t so long ago that Peter and I had another child in the backseat, racing to the emergency room.

 

That time when we drove away from the hospital, the carseat was empty and so were our hearts.

 

Those memories come fast and they remind me of what we’ve lived, of what hovers just under the surface all the time. And while I’m so very thankful for all God has tenderly led us through, I also realize that there’s no quota to loss. I’m not immune to it happening again. Just because I’ve buried a child doesn’t guarantee me a sorrow-less life from now on.

 

I have to admit to you, it terrifies me.

 

How do we cling to hope when we have lost? What do we do with our sorrow and our fear?

 

When Lazarus was sick, his sisters Mary and Martha must have surely thought that Jesus would heal him. After all, Jesus had been to their house. They were friends and healing was His specialty. But Jesus didn’t heal him. Lazarus had been dead four days by the time Jesus arrived. Mary and Martha both said the same thing to Jesus— “If only you had been here, he wouldn’t have died!”

 

Imagine with me the weight of grief these two women felt. The hope they wanted to cling to, but lacking the strength. Have you felt that weight? Are you, like me, terrified at times at the unknown?

 

 When Jesus saw her weeping and saw the other people wailing with her, a deep anger welled up within him, and he was deeply troubled. “Where have you put him?” he asked them.

They told him, “Lord, come and see.” Then Jesus wept.

John 11:33-35

Jesus’ emotions and actions fill me with such hope. They are raw, they are real…. they are familiar. I can’t tell you what it does to me to know that Jesus understands what I feel because He also has felt the heaviness of sorrow. He didn’t shut down His emotions or sweep in to quickly make it all better, but He took the time to enter into the heartache of what was happening all around Him. And it troubled Him.

 

I hold it so close to me— the way He grieves with us.  The way He reminds me that my tears aren’t a sign of weakness or faithlessness, instead they are a way to  communicate my fears and brokenness to Him without even using words.

 

Jesus wept.

John 11:35

 

It’s the shortest verse in the Bible— the one we all clambered for as kids when we had to memorize a verse. It seemed the easiest and fastest. Little did I understand the gravity of the words. It may be the shortest, but behind those two little words is a world groaning from the weight of sorrow.

 

Today, may you sit and cling to those two little words. Jesus wept. May you have the courage to believe that Jesus weeps over your heartache. He knows the terror that grips you during the night. He knows the dreams that lie buried deep. You may feel alone, but He is with you. He meets you in your sorrow and weeps along with your tears.

Balancing the Holidays with Grief  10

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I was baking with friends and the conversation was easy and light.  My mind kept drifting to one girl, knowing that as we were talking about Thanksgiving plans, she was facing the first one without her dad.  I wanted to ask her about it, but I also didn’t want to kill the mood of the room, or make her sad.

But as I remembered the first Thanksgiving without Annie, I remembered the awkward silence or the questions followed by an apology… and the truth was, I was thinking about her all the time anyway.  I was relieved when someone would bring up our grief or say her name.

So I asked my friend how she was doing and I was glad I did.  Sometimes we need others to help us carry our sadness during this time of the year, because it can be hard to be thankful when there’s an empty chair at the table.  And we certainly don’t want to usher in a New Year when the last one has left us broken.

Thanksgiving came just two months after we buried Annie and we were afraid to be alone, yet too exhausted to make any decisions about what to do.  Our kids were small (2 & 4), and we felt caught between trying to make things as normal as possible for them… and not really having the energy to do anything more than what was essential.  Initially, we made plans to drive 20+ hours to see Peter’s family.  The week before, though, we were so depleted and knew we just didn’t have the stamina to make a big road trip.  We love Peter’s parents deeply and felt terrible telling them we couldn’t come, but we also knew our best decision was just to be home.  They were so gracious and understanding, and I honestly don’t remember what we did that year. But taking the pressure off of ourselves to quickly leap back into regular life allowed us to gain a little traction.

By the time Christmas came, I thought I would have a better handle on my grief…. but instead I felt crushed by the busyness.  My memories of that Christmas are few, but I do remember humming “the weary world rejoices” over and over in my brain. I couldn’t shut it off. I felt so weary.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to move to the next line, “but yonder waits a new and glorious morn”.  Honestly, I didn’t really want to.

The bitter that year overpowered the sweet.  What I didn’t realize was that each year the sweet would grow a bit as we worked out our grief and determined we would choose joy. There will always be a sadness to this time of year, but there are a few ways we’ve determined not to let it swallow us up.

When I especially struggle with sadness, I think of my living children.  I don’t want their memories of the holidays to be consumed with grief.  I want them to remember the joy and peace of the season, sprinkled in with the reality God has made our family different, and sometimes that means we cry.  Each year we get out our Jesse Tree and Annie’s stocking filled with ornaments.  We try to be honest with them when we’re sad, but we make Christmas about Jesus, and the hope we have because of Him.  My kids have helped me do more than just survive the holidays.  They’ve forced me to participate when I just wanted to hide out until it’s all over. I don’t know what I would do without them.

I also give myself permission to be sad during the holidays.  My life has permanently changed, and I will never be the same person I was before Annie died.  I’m sad there aren’t more presents under the tree; I’m sad when there are just five pies for Thanksgiving instead of six (#onepieperperson).  In a million different ways, I miss her and I don’t want to gloss over my feelings and pretend everything is okay.  I’m not naturally a sad person— no one really wants to be, do they?— so it’s hard for me to admit my sadness sometimes.  But even the happiest situations have a tinge of melancholy to them, because our family is fragmented.  It just is.  And so I am sad.

This will come as no surprise to you if you’ve read this blog for long, but one of the most powerful ways I’ve found to overcome my grief is by serving others.  You may feel lonely and isolated in your sadness, but if you open your eyes to the hurt around you, you’ll notice a world of broken people.  The reality is, very few people get to have the quintessential happy Christmas.  So our family always tries to find a way to help others during the Holidays.  Sometimes it’s simple, like inviting another family over for dinner or writing a quick card to a hurting friend.  We’ll send shoeboxes or gifts to others in our own community and around the world.  And goodness, there are so many who need to be reminded that they matter and Jesus cares for them.  Stepping outside of my isolated grief to be a part of someone else’s healing process takes the sting out of my own story.

There’s the part of the Charlie Brown Christmas movie, at the very end, when Linus quotes the angel announcing the birth of Jesus in the Bible (it’s Luke 2:10, actually).  In his lispy little voice, he says, “Do not be afraid.  I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”  Jesus came to heal our broken hearts and give us joy. Great joy.  It’s a gift to us even in our sadness.

No matter where you find yourself during these next weeks, grasp on to the truth that you are not exempt from the good news of great joy. It’s a promise for you and for me, too.  The world may be swaying around you, but He promises you joy.  Search for it, and when you find even a little sliver, hold on to it with everything you have.

 

P.S. If you’ve lost someone and are overwhelmed by the immensity of your grief, I’d recommend the book When Your Family’s Lost a Loved One by David and Nancy Guthrie.  They are empathetic, practical and compassionate, and address things you’re probably thinking about, but don’t know how to express.

The Story of Broken Leftovers  5

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There are a few stories in the Bible I read and skim, like a girl who has read these stories for her whole life.  They tend to be familiar and comfortable, like putting on my favorite pair of slippers.  But once in a while, I read with new eyes, with new understanding.  Jesus gently leans down and points out a passage.  “This one is for you today,” He says.

 

In Matthew 15, there is a crowd of people coming to Jesus.   They are lame, blind, crippled and mute. They are sick and broken and desperate to be healed.  Many of them are unable to come alone and the Bible says those who brought them laid them at the feet of Jesus.

 

What a tired, weary group they must’ve been.  Both those who needed healing and those who cared for them, needing rest for their weary souls and their tired feet.  But they were not only weary, they were expectant.  And hopeful.  And determined. They were looking for Jesus, a man who could heal.  Their trip to the mountainside meant everything.

 

I wonder about the look on Jesus’ face as he looked at the weary crowd.  The Bible says He told His disciples He had compassion on them.  When He looked into their eyes, He saw so much more than their broken bodies.  He saw the ridicule they had endured, the way they had fought to get to Him.  He saw those who had risked so much to care for the ones they loved…. And He had compassion.

The people were amazed when they saw the mute speaking, the crippled made well, the lame walking and the blind seeing.  And they praised the God of Israel. Matthew 15:31

 

When I read closely, I realize Jesus’ compassion didn’t end with their physical healing. I wonder about the process that day. Did He go to each person individually and touch them? Or did He heal them in one huge swoop? Whatever His method, after it was all over, they were all still standing there.  And we see His compassion went beyond.

 

Because after Jesus healed them, He fed them.  He took the bit of food the disciples scrounged up (seven loaves of bread and a few fish) and thanked God for it.  Then He broke it and the disciples began to hand it out to the people— who were standing on the mountain wondering just what to do with their feet that walked and eyes that could see.

 

Not only did He feed them, but they ate enough to be satisfied. There was more than enough to go around, an abundance for those who had brought only their broken.

 

I wonder why He took the extra step to feed the people.  Jesus did what they expected, but He also did what they did not expect, with humble food— just bread and fish.  Jesus is the master of taking simple things and making them miraculous.

They all ate and were satisfied.  Afterward the disciples picked up seven basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over Matthew 15:37

 

On the day we buried Annie, everyone dispersed and Peter and I were left, holding one another, looking at the tiny casket that would soon be buried deep in the ground.  And I felt like my whole life was shattered, like I didn’t know how to do anything anymore.  Even the tears did not come easily…. as if my pain was too deep even for the relief that comes with crying.

 

I tend to push that memory down deep, but it comes back up around this time of year.  There’s a certain crispness in the air that does something to my heart and I can’t fully explain it.  Every year when the anniversary of her death comes at the end of September, I am reminded of my need to place the shattered pieces of my heart into the healing hands of Jesus.

 

We live with broken pieces, much like the leftovers the disciples picked up on that mountainside.  Because Jesus knew that just because they were healed didn’t mean they would magically have an amazing life.  He knew the scars to their bodies, to their hearts.  He knew the words that had been spoken to them, the anger they had, the sorrow they felt.  He didn’t expect them to disappear.  And so He fed them and He picked up their broken pieces.

 

He had compassion on them.

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What do we do with our broken pieces? When our hearts are shattered and the dust has settled and we’re left holding something that can never be put together in the same way again?

 

Do I really trust God to look at those broken leftovers of my heart and make them into something that gives life, that provides satisfaction?  On these beautiful late September days, when the tears come without warning and I’m taken back to Annie’s grave, her funeral, the hospital room, it takes everything I have in me to walk to the mountainside to be with Jesus.  I struggle to see the beauty of my brokenness.  I find myself weary and soul-tired. And yet, when I lift my shattered heart to Him, I see how He redeems our pain, how He gently cares for me.  I see that He not only heals, but He also fills me with satisfaction and, dare I say, joy.

 

I still have questions, I still grieve.  But like a balm to my soul, He has compassion for me.  Maybe the miracle that day wasn’t only that Jesus healed the people and turned a bit of food into enough to feed thousands.  Maybe the miracle was that He sees our broken pieces, our broken hearts and lives and makes them into something beautiful. He trades our weariness for hope and our sorrow for expectation.

 

May you find Him today, wherever you are. May you see His compassion for you and trust Him with your brokenness.

Hold Tight; Hold Loose  1

 

IMG_8790I, like much of the world, cannot get the image of little Aylan, lying on the shore of a Turkish beach, out of my mind. I cry whenever I see footage of the refugees, feeling so hopelessly far away to do anything.

I’ve learned to pay attention to my tears and so I’ve been thinking about them as I pray.

It seems that the death of this sweet boy is changing the world, transforming what so many have seen as simply a nuisance. One heartbreaking photograph has awoken us to the tragedy that these people– with histories and families and anguish of a world turned upside down– deserve to be treated as guests, not as dispensable.

And I wonder how it feels to his father, who lost both of his sons and his wife while trying to bring them to safety. What it must be like to know that a world is staring at his sweet boy’s lifeless body on the shore of the sea.

Whenever we share Annie’s story, a battle ensues in my heart. I want so much to hold her close to me, to treasure my memories and what little time we had with her. I don’t always want to share her. What we had was so short and in my selfishness I want to keep it all to myself.

But something happens when we share her… when we allow God to redeem our pain and work in the lives of other people. I find that it doesn’t diminish the gift of her life, but it strangely expands it. It’s unexplainable and you’d think that after almost six years I’d be quicker to share, quicker to let go of my desire to gather it all close to me.

I fully realize that little Aylan may be the catalyst to save the lives of millions in an unbelievable crisis. I see how God uses what is viewed as the weakest among us to do powerful things.

But behind it all, I see a father in the deepest of griefs. I can imagine the pain and cost that comes with the family he has lost.

Last week Peter shared our family’s story in his sermon. It’s been awhile since he’s done it and I was so anxious the whole morning. I knew it was the right thing for him to do, however it just doesn’t get any easier. I texted my friend after the service saying I’m glad God uses our story… but I just wish it was someone else’s story.

The weight of carrying something so precious is unbearable sometimes. I get stuck weighing out the pros and cons. The death of little Aylan may save countless lives, and the impact of those photographs will circle the world. But underneath it all is a father, who will live with unbelievable grief for the rest of his days. He will carry those photographs like none of the rest of us will. For us, we see just a photo. For him, a million memories and a shattered heart.

In a small way, I understand. I vacillate between the why questions and the aha moments. There are times when I look at our story and am in such awe God would trust us with Annie’s life, with sharing this story and experiencing the amazing ways He is changing others through someone who couldn’t even speak or walk. And yet, I miss her so. When the school year starts, when we take a family photo, in a million little and big ways I’m reminded of the gaping hole in our family.

So today, I am praying. For those beautiful, amazing people who are fleeing for their lives. Their faces make me weep. And I am praying for Aylan’s father, who must hold lightly to his son who has captured the world in his death. In his deepest of grief, may he have the courage to see that God can use the smallest to bring rescue.

Come, Jesus. Oh, how we need You to bring peace to our chaos and joy to our sorrow.

(The Bible is clear about the importance of bring justice to the oppressed. We, as the Church, have to act.  Ann Voskamp has an excellent list of ways you can help.)