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

Hello Monday!  0

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Ready or not, it’s the start of a new week.  No one looks forward to Mondays. Sunday night rolls in and we all groan as the mental lists of the next seven days start scrolling through our head.

 

But Mondays are new starts.  And there’s hope in new starts.  Let’s take away the dread and replace it with intention.  How can your tasks be turned into intentional opportunities to see God at work?

 

Maybe you’re working in a child’s classroom this week.  Instead of simply filing papers into their mailboxes, pray a sentence prayer for each child as you put their work away. As you grocery shop, take a few moments to look around you, praying for the clerk and the person you pass over and over (there’s always one).  Instead of averting your eyes, smile and make eye contact.  Call a friend and see if you can meet her for coffee, even though you’ll sacrifice your lunch break.  Being intentional means you value people over tasks.

 

As you rewrite your to do list for the week, here are a few thing I’m thinking about:

 

This Book…

 

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I was able to snag an early copy of the book but it’s available to all now!  It has been such an encouragement to me.  This is a book about what God has been doing in Annie’s life, taking her “broken crazy” and turning it into something beautiful.  I marked several pages, but my favorite was this: “If you aren’t experiencing pain, you aren’t experiencing beauty. Darkness makes us appreciate the beauty of the light.  If you aren’t allowing yourself to feel the hurt, sadness, loneliness and disappointment this fallen world has to offer, you probably aren’t feeling the fullness of the joy and beauty the redeemed moments have to offer.” You can snag your copy here.  It’s joyful and fun and REAL. Plus, her name is Annie and I just have an affinity to anyone with such a great name.

 

This Story…

Eliza (5 years old) wandered out of her room, well after we had put her to bed.  It happens almost every night.  Someday it will stop and we’ll probably be sad about that, but for now, we find it mildly annoying.  Last night she said very solemnly, “I’m not comfortable anymore.  I was lying in my bed, trying to sleep and I was comfortable.  But then, all of a sudden, I was uncomfortable.”  And then she waited expectantly for us to tell her how to cure it.  Peter calmly replied, “Thank you for telling us.  I think you should try to lie in a different way and see if that works.” She was satisfied and skipped back to bed.  We didn’t hear from her again, so apparently he had great wisdom.  I’m still laughing about it.

 

We don’t like the feeling of being uncomfortable, do we?  But sometimes we miss what God wants to teach us because we are so worried about getting comfortable.  What if we quit tossing around and instead listened long enough to what God is whispering to our hearts in the midst of the hard?

 

This Verse…

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This Prayer I’m praying for you and me…

Jesus, there You are, handing us hope, but we foolishly forget we are the ones who must take it.  We are afraid of disappointment, so we avoid hope and oh! we miss so many good gifts when we let fear rule us.

 

In our moment and seasons of discomfort, may we lean hard into Your truth.  May we not miss what You long to show us in the uncomfortable.

 

Fill our hearts with the love that only You can give.

 

As we face this week, in all the big and little ways, may we see how You can take our tasks and turn them into opportunities.  Remind us to value people over tasks.  Redeem our moments.

 

Thank You for loving us… for DEARLY loving us.  Amen.

 

 

 

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.  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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Why you must fight for the heart of your child  2

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My older two kids are hovering around the double digit mark (Will is 11, Kate is 9) and I have lots of memories of who I was at their ages. Will is more like his dad every day, so I’m not always able to pick out the behaviors that take after me.  But Kate.  Oh boy.  She gives me flashbacks all the time. Sometimes she’ll let me sneak a peak into her journals and I’m shocked at how similar they are to my 9 year old ramblings.  Or I’ll slip into her room to turn off her light as I’m going to bed and she’ll give me a sheepish grin.  It takes me right back to those nights that I just couldn’t stop reading, even when my parents insisted that I go to sleep.

I love being a mom to elementary students, but I realize every day that the stakes are higher than I ever imagined.  It seems like every time I turn around, there’s something else we need to guide them through.

But there’s one resounding thought in my head as we have conversations about a million different things: As I fight for the heart of my kids, I also have to fight for my own heart.  Because if it’s not in me first, my words will fall on deaf ears.

Kids today value authenticity.  And if I don’t practice what I preach, there’s no way my words will hold any weight.  Now that may seem almost impossible, but the truth is, whatever I want my kids to become, I must lead the way. Sitting back and hoping that my kids turn out to be decent adults is not an option. It’s something that must be intentional, a goal we actively work toward together.

It doesn’t mean I have to be perfect, but it does mean I need to be honest.  With myself, with others around me, with my kids.  Because the truth is, if I waited until I had my life figured out, I would never  accomplish anything.  It just isn’t going to happen.  But if I’m willing to be honest, to have the hard conversations and not shy away from where I feel most inadequate, then I have a shot at fighting for the heart of my kids.

Last week I was the guest speaker for our mid-week kid’s ministry at church.  I told them a story that I’ve told many times: The Parable of the Mustard Seed (It’s in Mark 4).  Jesus told the story to his disciples to help them understand what the kingdom of God is.  So I had all of my little props in a box and one by one I pulled them out.  I showed them the jar of mustard seeds, tiny little things.  I told them that when it’s planted it becomes a big, big bush.  Then I showed them a nest with an egg in it, because Jesus said that the mustard bush is big enough for birds to build their nests in it and they are safe.

The kingdom of God is like that.  It started as just a rag-tag group of 12 disciples with Jesus and has become one of the biggest movements in the world.  Pretty amazing.  But maybe the story is also about our own faith journey.  We pray one tiny prayer to ask Jesus to forgive us, to change our hearts and lives and actions…. and that prayer grows and grows until Jesus creeps into every part of our life and we are changed forever, in the very best of ways.

I then asked those sweet kids if they were part of the Kingdom of God and if they remembered when they had asked Jesus to come into their heart.  Hands shot up everywhere.  “Tell me!” I said.  “I want to hear your stories!”

The first little girl told me how her mom had prayed with her in the middle of the night, after she had a bad dream.

A boy told me how he’d talked to his dad and afterward he had prayed.

Another boy loved skateboarding because his dad loved skateboarding and they heard a Christian skater talk about Jesus, so his testimony prompted the two of them to pray together.

Over and over, hands shot up and they bravely told me of the time they had become part of the kingdom of God.

You know what struck me the most?  The power parents have in ushering their child into the kingdom of God.  Parents who take opportunities to talk, teach, and pray with their kids. Teachers, pastors, and small group leaders are certainly important, but at the end of the day, it’s us as parents who hold the privilege of fighting for the heart of our children.

Now, I know the parents of many of those kids.  I know just how normal they are.  In fact, I recently talked to a mom about her feelings of inadequacy and discouragement as she seeks to lead her family.  But as she matures in her faith, she is finding out what it means to fight for the heart of her kids.  And the testimony of her daughter shows me that she’s doing just fine.

All the little seeds… five minutes of listening to what’s on our kiddos’ hearts, praying on the way to school, reading a Bible story together, saying “I’m sorry”… grow to become a big tree.

One of my favorite verses is in Deuternomy 6:

Love God, your God, with your whole heart: love him with all that’s in you, love him with all you’ve got! Write these commandments that I’ve given you today on your hearts. Get them inside of you and then get them inside your children. Talk about them wherever you are, sitting at home or walking in the street; talk about them from the time you get up in the morning to when you fall into bed at night. Tie them on your hands and foreheads as a reminder; inscribe them on the doorposts of your homes and on your city gates.

So, let me tell you this:  You have been chosen by God to be the parent to your child.  He does not gift you with the life of your child and then sit back, wondering how you’re going to handle this mess.  He leads you and guides you and gives you just the tools you need, even (especially?) when you feel enormously inadequate.  He fights for the heart of your child. But don’t you for one second forget that He fights for your heart, too.  So when you feel discouraged, get His commandments inside you.  Talk to your child about them in the every day tasks— in the school pick up line and as you make lunches.  Let your kids see you on your knees, praying for them.  Write a verse out and stick it next to the kitchen sink.  While you’re at it, make an extra copy for your child’s locker.  Keep the fight on the front of your mind and see how God works.  Don’t be a perfect parent… be an authentic parent.  And never ever give up the fight.

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.

What Does it Really Mean to Celebrate Easter?  0

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As a kid, Easter was my favorite.  It promised a new dress and tights (and maybe a hat, too!).  It meant that we would hurry out of church to my Grandparent’s house for lunch and an Easter Egg hunt. My Grandma would buy Reese’s peanut butter cups shaped like an egg and she would use a piece of white medical tape with our name to label each one.  She would hide one for everyone all over the yard and we would scramble when Grandpa hollered, “GO!” hoping we would be the first to find ours.  Inevitably, several of us cousins wouldn’t be able to find our egg and we would go back to Grandma and beg for her help.  The problem was, she never remembered where they were.  Every year it would happen.

Finally, one year she made a list of where all the eggs were hidden and hid it on the kitchen counter, probably somewhere between the sweet corn and jello salad.  The problem was, my Uncle Jerry secretly found the list and before the hunt even began, we all knew exactly where our eggs were hidden.  I was just a little kid, but I still remember it so clearly.  When Grandpa yelled, “GO!” we all walked straight to our hidden eggs.  It completely baffled her. I don’t know if we ever told her.  Haha.

So the next year, she thought she’d really get us.  Instead of just writing our names on the white medical tape, she wrote our names backwards on white medical tape. Tri-cky.  I’m grinning so big right now, remembering these memories.  My grandparents were the best.

(It should also be noted that for years my parents convinced me that those Reese’s eggs from Grandma tasted terrible.  I could never figure out how they disappeared so quickly and what was so bad about them.  But I’ve got kids of my own now.  I know exactly where those eggs went.)

Easter’s a great family time.  It’s sweet and springy and it’s exactly what we need to usher in a new season.  I loved going to church on Easter because Jesus rose! He had conquered death and we were going to eat deviled eggs at lunch to prove it.

But something happened when I went to college.  Peter started working in a liturgical denomination, one where we recited the Apostle’s Creed and the Lord’s Prayer every week.  We had a Prayer of Confession and sang the Gloria Patri after the offering.  All of it was new to me as an evangelical girl… and I was surprised that I liked it.  I liked the rhythm of the Lectionary and the predictable seasons of the church.  Suddenly Easter was not just a day that Jesus rose from the dead and we ate ham and date pudding— it was a season.  Ash Wednesday.  Lent.  Palm Sunday.  Holy Week.  Maundy Thursday. Good Friday. Easter Sunday.

When I was able to walk through the 40 days, anticipating the death and resurrection of Christ, everything came alive for me.  Even though we left that particular church many years ago, they planted roots in my faith that have grown deep.  As we’ve had kids, we’ve been intentional about teaching them what Lent is all about.  We light the candles and read the story after dinner.  We study the famous pictures depicting Jesus’ death and resurrection.  We have a Seder meal on the night that Jesus would have celebrated Passover with His disciples.

But this year.  This year, we’ve been struggling to keep up with the traditions.  I’m not sure what it is, but we just can’t seem to get it to stick.  We keep forgetting to light the candles.  We read our Bibles together for a few days, but then we forget.  I even scrambled to put together our Seder meal, juggling around two meetings and a Baseball practice.

So I’ve been feeling pretty empty lately.  Unprepared for Easter.  Too busy to really focus very long on the cross.

Today I sat at the table, looking out the window for a long time.  I had a million other things I should have been doing, but there was something about the quiet of the afternoon that stirred my heart. I read some familiar words in my Bible, but I let it wash over me in a new way.

Jesus entered the city on a donkey.  The people were sure He was the king they had been longing for and they spread their coats and palm branches on the road as he came closer. And yet,

“As He approached Jerusalem and saw the city, He wept over it…”

(Luke 19:41)

He wept.  For a people who refused to take the peace handed to them.  For a people He loved, in spite of the fact that they would kill Him in just a few days.

And just like that I was reminded of the way we also are loved to the very end.  How He weeps for us when we’re wandering far from Him.  How He longs for us with a love we don’t deserve. Jesus weeps over our souls.

We’ve talked about tears here in this space before.  We can read lots about tears in the Bible, and we can only imagine the numbers of people who were brought to tears by what Jesus did for them. But now, at the very moment He should have been feeling the most triumphant, He weeps.

N.T. Wright says,

“Jesus’ tears are at the core of the Christian gospel.  This was not a moment of regrettable weakness, something a real Messiah ought to have avoided…. It is an essential part of Jesus’ message of warning and judgment that it is uttered, finally, through sobs and tears.” 

He weeps.

For me. For you.

 

…As we live in the shadow of a sin we just can’t believe He’d forgive.
…As we stumble again, too tired to fight anymore.
…As we pound our fists in frustration, the anger bubbling to the surface faster than we know it should.
…As we look at the sunset and hear His voice whispering to us, yet we talk ourselves out of it and move on.
…As we fall into bed, determined to do better tomorrow, because surely God expects more of us.
…As our words tumble out, sharp and unnecessary and we wish we could just pretend it  never happened.

 

He weeps. He loves to the end. He forgives over and over when we ask. Let it wash over you.

The Lamb on the Throne will shepherd them, will lead them to spring waters of Life. And God will wipe every last tear from their eyes.”

(Revelation 7:17, The Message)

Don’t you see?  Because Jesus wept over us, He is able to wipe our tears.  Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, gave His life to give us life.

As Jesus wept that day, approaching Jerusalem, he says, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring peace— but now it is hidden from your eyes.” (Luke 19:42)

I have lots of great Easter memories that I treasure.  Today I even bought the Reese’s eggs for us to hide on Sunday.  But I refuse to buy the lie that the cuteness of this season is what will bring me peace.  I need Jesus.  I need Him to weep over me.  I need His forgiveness and His love to the end… a Shepherd, to lead me to Life.

May you, today, know deep in your soul the way Jesus weeps over you.  May you have the courage to stop and listen to His voice, to ask His forgiveness, to allow Him to wipe away your tears.  He loves you so.

 

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.

Family Narratives  4

family narratives.001

A few weeks ago, my aversion to answering phone calls from unknown numbers led to this bizarre story.  When a number pops up on my phone that I don’t recognize, I am not ashamed to let it go to voicemail.  It’s the introvert in me, I suppose.  Or maybe it’s the part of me that doesn’t like surprises.  Also, it’s usually junk and who has time for that?  At any rate, the other day I saw a number from out of state and I promptly ignored it.  To my surprise, there was a voicemail from a stranger and when I listened, well, this is what I heard:

Please take a good moment to chuckle and to wonder why this woman would leave a voicemail after listening to a message in my voice, stating my name.  Now, because my brain must process All The Things, I cannot quit thinking about this voicemail.

You see, I think there’s a narrative that our families tell.  Our families,  the ones we share the most words and space with, have a collective story we’re telling one another and the outside world.

Peter’s mother (just to be clear— this is not my mother-in-law, even though I’m married to a Peter, too!), bless her soul, did not expect me to hear her voicemail.  Admittedly, I don’t know anything about her  beyond her 26 second message.  But from her words, I can make a few assumptions (which may or may not be true):

1. Peter does not usually get gifts to his mother on time.
2. Peter has not talked to his mother since Christmas.
3. Peter did not see his mother for Christmas.

4. Peter’s mother may love her son, but she does not tell him.
5. Peter’s wife, Marian, does not help him send things.

 

There’s this thing that Carey Niewhof calls “family voice”.  He says, “It contains hints of expectation, exasperation, frustration and quiet fatigue. Add in tones of command, whining and a touch of rudeness, and you’ve got family voice. Sometimes it’s strong. Sometimes it’s subtle. But all the time it’s reserved for the people you live with.” (source)

I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t admit I know exactly what he’s talking about.  There’s a certain way we communicate with those in our family that we wouldn’t dare talk to others. Often when this happens, I make excuses:  They’re my family.  I can be real with them.  I have to have somewhere I can be completely honest.

But is that the kind of narrative I want to tell?  Is that the kind of legacy I want to leave?  When I think of my kids, after they’re married and on their own, what kind of relationship do I want to have with them?  What would my voicemail say?

I’ve been reading the book of Ruth, one of my very favorites.  Naomi and her husband and two sons move from Bethlehem to Moab because of a famine.  While there, her husband dies, her sons get married to Moabite women and then they die, too.  It’s a story of extreme loss and bitterness… and, my favorite, redemption.  Naomi, alone in Moab, decides to return to Bethlehem and urges her daughters-in-law to stay and find a new love and life.  One daughter agrees and moves on, but Ruth refuses to abandon Naomi.  You’ve probably heard the words she declared:

 

But Ruth replied, “Don’t ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.  Wherever you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord punish me severely if I allow anything but death to separate us!” When Naomi saw that Ruth was determined to go with her, she said nothing more.

Ruth 1:16-18

Their family narrative was one of loss and abandonment, but in the midst of the sorrow, Ruth chose to change the family narrative.  While her mother-in-law was bitter, Ruth was hopeful.  And slowly, over time, the plan for their family unfolded and it was beyond what anyone had imagined.  Eventually in their family line came a baby boy who would be named King David, and later, the True King, Jesus.  Ruth rewrote her family’s voice.  She followed Naomi, even though it was no personal gain for her at the time.  She had no guarantees that her life would ever rise above poverty and hardship, but she refused to believe the narrative that had been handed to her.

It’s a powerful lesson, isn’t it?

I sit at the dinner table, after serving the food that inevitably someone will be made to choke down because they don’t like it.  We iron out the disagreements that happen like clockwork: who gets to sit in the polka dot chair, who gets the pink plate, who gets to pray.  Someone will look at someone with the wrong face.  Someone will chew with their mouth open, which will send another child into a deluge of unnecessary comments.  They will leave the table and I will clean up the crumbs, wondering just where I went wrong.

However, my voice sets the tone for our family.  My voice rises to the top as I tell our narrative.  And it may not seem like it’s making a difference, but it does, little by little. When I speak over my children, using Truth, believing that there is hope right in the middle of our mess, I’m building our narrative. When I fail, it’s important that I’m real with my family, asking for forgiveness.

Because someday, when I inadvertently leave a voicemail on a stranger’s phone, I want them to know that I deeply love my children.  That I delight in them.  I want my words to bring out the best in my kids.

May you have the space today to step back and see how the Holy Spirit is guiding you as you build your Family Narrative.  May you have the courage to change the voice of disrespect and negativity and replace it with hope and delight.  You may feel like you had little control as a child what narrative was spoken over you, but there is One who can change that story, who will rewrite history for you.  And may you send your Mama a gift on time, to prove to her that you’re not always late.

 

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

printable verses.001

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.

printable verses.002

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…






P.S.  If you’ve already signed up to follow this blog, but you’d still like the printable, just drop me a line (sarah@sarahdamaska.com) and I’ll be glad to send them to you.

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.