The Lost Post

Photo by Nicole Honeywill on Unsplash

Last Saturday morning I thought I had the perfect window to write a post for this blog.

I had actually started it a couple of days before, and knew this topic would be relatable.

I sat down at my desk in my kitchen and began to type. The ideas seemed to be flowing and I was easily able to track down the quotes and scriptures I wanted to use. Soon, I realized that it was taking longer than I had anticipated - a lot longer...

It didn't take long, however, to feel my patience wavering with the seemingly endless string of innocent distractions and interruptions. A certain 5 year old kept wanting me to see the progress she was making in her attempt to clean her own room. Another child, this one 10, kept me informed on her plans to play next door with her BFF. Then occasionally the teen would seem to aimlessly wander into my space with a question or two that she, if she were honest with herself, already knew the answer to.

Finally, as I was trying to reread and edit the piece before hitting "post," I heard whistling.  Growing up, I can remember my dad walking around the house whistling all the time, but as I married woman I can't remember the last time I heard my husband whistle. Without thinking I found myself asking him, "Why are you whistling?!"

He shrugged his shoulders and responded, "Because I can?" I know and fully trust that he was not in any way trying to sabotage my writing. He is very, very supportive of this space - but the whistling was the proverbial straw that broke this camel's back.

In an act of desperation to finish, I picked up my laptop and retreated to my bedroom. As I closed my door, I reprimanded myself for not going to Starbucks or Panera or anywhere to write. I finished proofing the product of my last couple plus hours and hit "preview" to see what you would see on the blog. An error message appeared. As I tried to figure out what was happening, the same error message appeared a couple more times. Fearing what would be the inevitable, I hit "save." I had never lost a paper or a report or a post before . . .

There is a first for everything . . .

In the week that has passed, I have wrestled with losing my work, my thoughts, my time and my effort. I have nothing to show for it and I honestly mourned a little over it.

Maybe God didn't want me to post it? Maybe Satan didn't want me to post it? Maybe I should rewrite it? Maybe I shouldn't?

Maybe I will - one day, but today isn't that day.

As I have prayed over the whole debacle, I have realized that my lost blog post has brought to the forefront an ongoing, reoccurring struggle of mine. It's more than just being able to "sabbath," to set aside time to intentionally rest, reflect and recharge in the Spirit, in the body and in the mind - but I have a definite need and desire to be productive, to leave a mark, to have something to show for my time.

During the school year - which because of my job, is also my "work year," I procrastinate projects to the summer months. This May I actually wrote out a list of all these things I wanted to do with my summer - clean out the basement, clean out the garage, paint my bedroom, paint the playroom, re-pot some houseplants, have lunch dates with friends, read fiction books, spend quality time with my children.

With the end of June and the beginning of July descending upon us, I am very aware of quickly my summer is slipping away. There are SO many things I am wanting to accomplish and I am growing more aware that some things just won't get done. Last week when the blog didn't get posted I felt that I lost more than my words. The loss of an entire morning was seriously depressing.

The Holy Spirit has gently pointed out that I have a pronoun problem.

I never wanted this blog to be about me - but about Him. Maybe my motivations were off as I wrote that lost post. The heaviness surrounding its loss revealed many feelings of ownership and pride.

My prayer for this summer is that it would be a season where I had the time and could intentionally seek Him. After all, that has been a theme for in my Sunday school class for teens over the last 6 weeks.

But if I am giving Him my summer, then why is the stubborn wallpaper border I am removing from my bedroom walls so frustrating? It is taking so long, I have not opened the first can of paint yet! Again, my feelings and reactions reveal something about my heart. Not that I shouldn't try to paint my bedroom, but my attitude about the work has left me questioning: Have I really given my time and attention purposefully back to Him? Am I letting Him guide my steps and order my plans?

"Me."
"Myself."
"My."
"I."

He has used the lost post to show me that He IS answering my prayer for this summer.

I truly want it to be that I would seek Him first and trust that He would add all the things second.

Yet, when my post was lost, I couldn't just accept it and move on. I complained and felt crummy. I let my feelings cascade into a place of failure - because I had "wasted" my time and my energy. . . .

Maybe I was only supposed to process those feelings and write those words for myself. I couldn't look at it that way at the time. But with time, comes perspective...

Maybe the post was lost so I would re-examine the why I am doing the things I am doing this summer, so I can re-prioritize my to-do list, so I can accept that, like my house, my heart is still and will continue to be, a work in progress too.

Each day this summer is a gift. My girls will never be these ages again. August will all-too-quickly arrive and the busy routine will return. My prayer is that I will hold MY plans loosely so I can experience the blessings HE is gracing me with today.

I can now definitely and definitively say that I see His grace in the lost post.

Redeeming Mother's Day

Me and The Three That Call Me "Mom"

Today is full of a bunch of different emotions for a bunch of different reasons.

Mother's Day. 

This is the first Mother's Day since my grandmother's passing. I miss her, but I also hurt for my mom, whom I know misses her so much more. 

May is the month the baby I miscarried would have been born. I hurt for the friends who see today as one of "what ifs" or "why not me." 

I have already been showered with gifts and attention from my three little ladies who call me "mom" and I have thanked God for the incredible blessing it is to be their mother. I feel grateful.

Currently, my feet are propped on the ottoman as I sit on the couch watching a movie with the girls as their daddy is slaving away in the kitchen making me a feast of my choosing. I am relaxed. 

There are lots of good reasons to celebrate this holiday. There are also more than a few valid reasons to explain why people would want to skip it too. A quick google search shows that there is even a little controversy about the origins of this day. It seems the lady who began the holiday wanted it revoked after a few years. 

Mother's Day has not, is not, and most likely will never be a religious holiday - BUT, it is a good opportunity to stop and reflect on a few things spiritually. This is what I am thinking about today: 

• First, I am thankful that God saw fit to bless me with my mom. She instilled in me a deep love of God and His church. I am who I am because of who she is.

• Second, I appreciate beyond measure that God's plan for me included motherhood. I do not take their role in my life for granted. They are simply fun. I love their giggles and their games. It is a privilege to watch them grow. I love being not just any ol' mom -- I love being their mom. 

• Third, I understand that my role in their lives is a God-ordained calling and ministry. Loving and caring for them requires prayer on a whole other level. My mission field is first and foremost our home. My deepest desire is for them to know and love Christ with a growing and abiding passion. The Holy Spirit saves and sanctifies them, but I am fully aware of my influence to cultivate an environment for His work. 

• Fourth, Paul writes in 1 Timothy about how women are saved through child-bearing. This passage can be confusing, but with a look a little deeper, his meaning is clear. God uses our kids to make us more like His Son. Being a mother is sanctifying. It is hard and wonderful and ugly and beautiful all at the same time. My kids can point out and bring out my sinful weaknesses. But, they can also highlight the areas and aspects of my life and heart where God has done the most work and brought the most healing. 

• Fifth, Mother's Day, with all its expectations and baggage, is a reminder that I am not my kids and my kids are not me. They are their own God created people. He determined to set us together in this family. They are not my identity and, as they grow, they will realize I am not theirs. He can and does things for them that I cannot - that was never mine to do. He holds them and keeps them. His plans for them are bigger and better and higher than mine because He is bigger and better and higher than me. 

• Finally, I know who I am has been set by God and determined in Christ - that reality is bigger than my kids. My purpose is higher than them, and that's pretty high. I do not live for them I live for Christ. When I fail, His grace covers me over and over again. It is more than okay that I am not Instagram/Pinterest perfect. In my weaknesses, He is glorified. I am satisfied not in my role as a mother, but in who I am in Christ. 

Yes, my feelings today are multi-facted and my thoughts are deep. But, overall, I am using Mother's Day to be grateful, to reflect, but to be in the moment. 

Now I am going to get off this computer and play some board games with my girls. 

Facing Fears By Holding Hands

I could tell from her cry that the fear was as sincere as it could be. Mommas know the differences in their kids' cries. It starts when they're young - there is the hungry cry, the tired cry, the change-my-diaper cry. . . As the baby gets older and is better able to communicate, some of the cries stop altogether, but there are a few tears that linger - the hurt cry, the angry cry and the scared cry.

At five and a half, Eliza had not cried the scared cry- not like this - in a long, long time. I recognized it instantly though and my heart hurt for her heart. I got on her level and did my best to help teach her how to address this very real, very valid fear.

"Look at me Eliza. What do you know to be true? Look at me. Let's think this through. Look at me. Look at me. The hippo isn't real. Look at me. It's just a robot. It can't get you. It won't get you. Look at me. I am right here. You aren't alone. Look at me. I won't let it get you because it can't get you."

Her sobs slowed and she slowly began to repeat the truths after me - "The hippo isn't real. Mommy is here. It's just a robot." We hugged and I took her hand as we proceeded into the restaurant to look at the aquarium of Finding Nemo type fishies.

Parenting that day outside of the Rainforest Cafe of the Opry Mills Mall, was definitely a moment where I felt the weight of my responsibility as a parent and, also was reminded about my role as a child of God as well.

Two of my three daughters have been deathly afraid of the life-sized animatronic hippopotamus outside of this particular restaurant. We've even nicknamed the whole mall, The Hippo Mall. On one level, it seems something silly to be scared about, but from their small vantage point in a time of their life where they are trying to ascertain reality from fantasy - it is a legitimate some thing to fear.

Eliza had been dreading that moment when we would arrive in THAT corner of the mall. Her feelings were so overwhelming, she could not rationally think through what she knew to be true. She could not talk herself off the ledge.  Her cry was one of desperation and despair.

As her parent, I know that she is old enough to handle this kind of thing - if she knows how. As her parent, I know that is my responsibility to teach her how to face this fear. As her parent, I know that teaching her to handle this fear gives me an opportunity to teach her how to face other fears, bigger ones, scarier ones, ones that won't be so easy to conquer.

So, I taught her to focus on the things she knew to be true. By teaching her to speak truths aloud, she can hear her own voice reminding her heart of what her brain already knows. That silly hippo no longer has a hold over her. His power is lessoned as her faith is strengthened.

Walking away with her little hand still grasping mine, I felt the nudge of the Holy Spirit.

This is why I read the Bible daily.
This is why I should memorize more scripture.
This is why I need to intentionally preach the gospel to myself.

I had studied a long time ago the inverse proportional relationship between faith and fear. When one increases, the other decreases. The more faith you have, the less fear and vice versa. If my faith increases, my fear will decrease. . .

When I find myself afraid, I need to do the very things I taught Eliza to do in the midst of that busy Nashville shopping mall. . . .

Look at Him.  - Just as she struggled to take her eyes off the thing causing her fear and refocus on her loving parent, I know I struggle too. I can't seem to take my eyes off my circumstances - that they will get worse or get me while I stop to look to God. Yet, He gently, consistently and patiently calls me to look at Him.

What do you know to be true?  - My God is bigger, My God is stronger, My God is higher than any other. (Do you know that chorus too?) He loves me. He has good plans for me. He will never leave me or forsake me. As I claim these truths, He shifts my perspective. What seemed so large, so overwhelming and so frightening no longer seems so daunting. He is given the rightful, dominate place and position over me and my fears.

Just as I reminded Eliza that I loved her and was there to take care of her - our God loves and cares for His children in the same way.

A few of the most fear-filled moments in my life were the hours I spent birthing our three loves. The Holy Spirit never failed to bring truth to the forefront of my mind as I dealt with painful contractions. The specific passages were ones I had memorized years before, but focusing on their timeless truth helped me to overcome my fears.

Despite His continual faithfulness in circumstances big and small, I still so easily become irrational and, at times, inconsolable over things that should not scare me. Satan knows my deepest insecurities and unashamedly exploits them.

His grace intervenes. Praise Him!

I need to be reminded of His presence in my darkest places and I need to know His truth reigns over all my feeble attempts of bravery and bravado. The Holy Spirit whispers, reminding me to look at Him, to reflect on what I know to be true.  As I speak the promises of God aloud, my heart hears the truth my brain knows and I am encouraged and empowered. My faith increases and my fear decreases.

Just as Eliza and I moved on, hand-in-hand, so will I. As faith, slowly and surely displaces my fears, I can walk confidently, holding the hand of my God who understands and controls what I cannot.


Photo by Jon Flobrant on Unsplash

Big Deal, Big Day

I remember when I used to think 40 was old.

Then Wally turned 40 and it didn't seem THAT old. Now, it's nearly 3 years in my past and 40 doesn't seem old at all anymore.

Today is the day that 50 no longer seems THAT old. Yep, today Wally is 50 years old, half a century, five decades . . .

He threatened me not to plan anything special for his birthday and I promised him I wouldn't. That would be my gift to him, not making a big deal out of his big day. If you know him at all, then you know that is the perfect gift for him.

Wally has never wanted a celebration for his birthday. He would be happiest if we just ignored it and just kept swimming through life. He doesn't want the recognition. He doesn't need the validation. He likes the appreciation, but receives it best in small, sincere portions.

For years I have told him that he is important to us and definitely worth the hoopla of cake, candles and gifts. For years, he has humored me and played along, but he has only longed for the hubbub of the day to end and for the normalcy of March 4 to commence.

I normally try to find a birthday card and had pretty good luck on Valentine's, but this year I didn't even try. (Especially after my fruitless card search on our anniversary!) Honestly, I hope that these words here, might try to convey what I am thinking and feeling on this major milestone birthday.

Our marriage is special. Our relationship is unique. My husband truly is one-of-a-kind. God uses Wally to make it so. He designed me for him and him for me. He is the God of details and in His sovereignty, leaves nothing to chance or happy coincidence.

So often, I try to explain this to Wally, how I feel about him and how blessed I am to call him my husband. I want to add more descriptive words calling him my best friend and telling him that he is my favorite person to spend time with. I tell him how I trust his counsel and respect his Biblical knowledge. My feelings for him have only deepened over time and my appreciation of his hands-on approach to parenting has only grown. He truly shares the household responsibilities with me and we both often look at the other, commenting on how we are glad we are in this thing together.

Lately, as I have contemplated Wally's fulfillment of the role of husband, I realize that I don't need him to be my best friend, or my teammate. Somehow, somewhere the role of husband and dad has been cheapened in our culture and society. Whether it is the "dumb dad" stereotype in sitcoms or the emasculated, follow-the-strong-woman part many men succumb to in the relationship - there seems to be a disconnect from what a husband is Biblically supposed to be from what a husband has become.

Wally may have been a little older when we married. He has not yet been married even half of his life, but in his pursuit of Jesus, he epitomizes what I understand a Biblical husband and father to be. He loves me as Christ does. He gives up his wants and desires to see mine fulfilled. He speaks truth to my heart. He apologizes to our daughters without condition. He serves us with no task being beneath his masculinity.

The name "husband" should mean all of these things. The name and role should not be cheapened by our contemporary culture that is challenging and changing so very much.  When a Biblical worldview is skewed, then everything is up for grabs. The definition of marriage is now negotiable in certain circles and some people believe their gender can be whatever they want to identify it as. While these topics have become hot button issues in denominations and politics, the degradation of the role of husband has been much more subtle.

I appreciate the strong, quiet way Wally loves mercy, seeks justice and walks humbly with his God. He pushes back against the stereotypes in how he fulfills his manly role as a husband. Wally may always be in the minority in his generation, he may not realize how rare his faith walk truly is, and he may never realize the God-given value he invests in others by what he models.

Jokingly, I have said our daughters need to marry men that cook and iron like their daddy. But, all joking aside, Wally has set the bar incredibly high. We do pray that if it be God's will for the girls to marry, that they would marry men who understand and hold to the Biblical definition or who a husband is and what a husband does.

Wally doesn't see what the big deal is all about. He assumes that he is just doing what all "Christian" husbands do. Just like his birthday, he doesn't want to be fussed over or made much of. It isn't mock humility. It is simply who Wally is.

I get it. He is a big deal. I am thankful for his birthday today and I appreciate the opportunity to celebrate who he is and the man God is making him to be. I am blessed to be on this journey with this remarkable man. I am beyond blessed to call James Wallace Vinson, my husband.

HBD Wally. I love you so.

Holding On And Letting Go

Photo by Milada Vigerova

He had only been gone for 15 or so minutes when the phone rang. I had been enjoying the slow start to my Saturday and reading the news on my phone when his picture popped up. Swiping left, I answered his call. What could he had forgotten? He didn't really need anything to help the sweet church lady move into a smaller place.

I could tell instantly by the tone in his voice something wasn't quite right. His words were coming at my ears faster than I could comprehend what he was saying. "A cut . . . a china cabinet . . . I'm okay . . . headed to the ER at Exit 11 . . ."

Trying to assimilate the facts, I stammered out a question or two, still not able to ascertain what had happened. Did he want me to come? Was he sure he was "okay"? Did he think anything was broken?

I was to stay with the girls. He did not want me to come. I needed to wait. He kept saying he was okay.

About an hour and half later, he was on his way home and called again. Eight stitches. The full story - trying to clear the top of the moving van, holding the upper half of Mrs. Evans' china cabinet with the pastor, he slipped, landing on his knees, dropping the solid piece of furniture. It "just happened" to miss crushing his left-hand.

Yes, there had been a lot of blood.
No, he hadn't damaged the furniture.
Yes, it could have been a lot worse.
No, he didn't mean to get out of all the work by injuring himself on the first trip from the house to the truck.

I found myself looking at him randomly all afternoon and into the evening, silently praying, thanking God for His protection, for answering my prayers after the first phone call, and for taking care of my husband in ways I cannot.

At one point, Wally asked me why I kept looking at him "like that." My answer caught in my throat as the realization of what I was feeling bubbled to the surface. As I uttered the words, I fought to keep the hot tears from streaming down my face.

"Believe me, I am very aware that you are the exact age your older brother was when he died."

Saturday, I was faced with my very healthy husband's vulnerability, and, if I am honest, my greatest fear - that he would be taken from me.

On Sunday morning, as I stumbled from my bedroom into the kitchen to start the coffee, I had the fleeting moment when I had forgotten that my oldest daughter spent the weekend away on a church retreat. Seeing her door open and knowing that her bedroom was empty sent a numbing thought through my bleary, barely-awake brain - it wouldn't be long until I awake every morning to find her space empty. College may be a little over two years away, but they will be the fastest two years of my life.

Riley will be gone and the great responsibility to parent and disciple her will look vastly different. Right now, at least I have some kind of control and a greater influence to speak into her life-choices. As she has grown and gotten older, I have realized that she has to learn who she is and be able to make more and more decisions on her own. As she slowly stretches her wings, she has to face her own consequences for those decisions and my role her life, while it doesn't necessarily diminish, it has to change.

This is a hard truth pill to swallow.

She is not the little girl with the Star Wars fascination and collection of small lions she played with in her room. She needs me, but not in the same ways. I miss the grade-school kid she was, but I do love the young woman she is becoming too. I want to hold on to her, but I know I must let her go as well.

Holding on and letting go is a balancing act I am facing with my youngest daughter too. She is set -completely ready in every aspect possible - to start kindergarten in August. Due to the age gaps in between all three of our girls, it will be the first time in 16 years we have not had a preschooler in the house.

No more babies . . .

As I process all of these things, I realize I have to hold all of these relationships - my marriage, my three girls - in open hands before God.

To grasp onto any or all of them too tightly puts them all in the position of idols in my life. No one truly wants to be anyone's idol. What kid, or spouse for that matter, can handle that kind of pressure? Besides, that gapping place in all of us can't be filled by any one person or group of people. God put that hole in us to seek Him and find that only He can fill that void.

It's a total control issue for me. Control -mixed with my own expectations of how I think things "should" be. I continually set myself up for frustration and disappointment. When things don't go how I think they should, or if they don't respond how I think they ought to, then I am angry and even depressed. There is only One who can ultimately control the outcome and I have found Him completely worthy to trust with how things are "supposed to be."

By placing each of "my" people in outstretched, open palms, offering them to the only One who loves them more than I do - I can let them go. My faith isn't in them - their physical presence with me, or how much they need me, or any other validation I could find in them. My faith is in the One who placed them in my life.

He has plans for them. He hears my prayers for them.  He knows what is best for them. He sustains and keeps them.

He knows what is best for me too. He is using them to make me more like Jesus. He beckons me to trust Him even more with them. He sustains and keeps me too.

I'd like to say that that I have figured out this balancing act between holding on and letting go, but the way my fear washed over me Saturday and how I saddened at the sight of open door on Sunday - I know the struggle is real. I can only imagine how I will feel as the first day of school dawns and I watch my two youngest children shuffle up the stairs into the building - one her first day and the other her last first day of elementary school.

I want to believe. I say I trust Him. But my fears and insecurities betray me. Like the solider who sought Jesus to heal his daughter, I come to Him saying I believe but begging Him to help my unbelief all at the same time.

I don't know what He might ask of me in this process of sanctification. But I do know that He is good and is working good - for me and for those I love most.

Redeeming Valentine's Day

It was the first time we had hired a babysitter. It was about that time of the afternoon when we needed to start to get ready to go out. But, we knew something wasn't right. Our oldest was three months shy of her first birthday and she wasn't quite herself. The baby thermometer confirmed our suspicions. She had a fever and our Valentine's Day plans were now kaput.

Wally could tell I was disappointed. He knows my thing with expectations. He also knew I couldn't leave my baby. I don't remember if there were tears involved, but he jumped into action, calling my favorite Italian restaurant and ordering our "go-to" dishes for carry out instead.

While he was gone to pick up our dinner, I caught his enthusiasm for our plan B and set about to surprise him with a beautifully set table. The seldom, if-ever-before-used china and crystal were set on the good cloth tablecloth awaiting his return. We plated the steak, chicken and pasta from the styrofoam take-out containers and sat down to candlelight and soft music.

Riley rested contentedly in her bouncy seat and we had our Valentine's date. No, it wasn't what we had planned or anticipated, but it was wonderful. We celebrated that God had given us each other and the sweet, little one who cooed from the floor. We talked about how nice it was to be home and not fighting the crowded restaurant with long lines and chaotic atmosphere.

I believe it was that Valentine's Day we decided to redeem the holiday.

The fourteenth of February can be so polarizing and stressful. It makes some feel lonely and others feel let down. Card and chocolate manufacturers compete for our money. While jewelers, florists and perfume companies do the same. If you aren't "with" somebody, you wonder what is wrong with you. If you are "with" someone, you wonder if your gift is sending the "right" message or is the "right" size. In our over-sexed culture, romance has taken on new meanings. Without a biblical worldview,  people will be let down believing that this distorted definition of love is all there is. It is easy to become cynical and skeptical. Honestly, I can't blame anyone for discarding the whole holiday if this is what they are celebrating.

On the Valentine's Day described above, we had no idea that God would bless us with two more daughters to steward their hearts. We encourage Disney princess movies and Jane Austin novels. They witness kisses and embraces between their parents and know we have date nights and anniversary get-a-ways. They know we pray for their future spouses and that we long for God to bless them with strong biblical marriages to strong Christian men.  But . . . we pray for much more than that for them . . .

. . . We pray for them to intimately know the God who intimately knows them AND loves them with an amazing love beyond their comprehension.

We decided on that Valentine's night sixteen years ago to incorporate our kids into our Valentine's Day plans. We would eat a GOOD meal full of our favorites, either gathered from various restaurants or prepared in our own kitchen. We would break out the china and use the silver-plate. We would use this over-commercialized holiday to intentionally teach our girls about the love that is described in 1 Corinthians 13.

Boys will only let girls down. God did not design anyone person to complete any other person. That longing and desire that my daughters will one day have can ONLY be fulfilled completely in the love that God provides. Any other way will only lead to stressful relationships and disappointment. ONLY God can love them they way He created them to be loved. I want them to know this love.

Romance is not dead. Sure, chivalry might be, but true self-sacrificing, promise-keeping, faithful devotion, always-being-there commitment can ONLY be found in the love that God loves us with. No matter how wonderful he is, he will one day, somehow disappoint them and let them down. God alone will always be there for them. I want them to know this love.

No one can blame the spouse that bails on the marriage when their partner has broken their vows and been unfaithful. But, God forgives our indiscretions and paid the debt of our continued unfaithfulness. He knows our worst thoughts, wrong motivations and our out-right willful sins yet continues to be lovingly faithful to us. He doesn't overlook our short-comings but ONLY He can transform our offenses into His righteousness through the death of His Son. I want them to know this love.

This love that never fails will never let us down. This love is worth celebrating with the good china and rich food. This love should be remembered and talked about and given recognition. Our family chooses to do this on Valentine's Day.

My girls know I am crazy "in" love with their father. They know how handsome I find him and how devoted he is to me as well. We would all agree that one of our greatest blessings is the love that he and I share. I will not diminish it, but I will say that as great and as special as it is - our romantic love pales in comparison to the love that God has lavishly, continually, bestowed upon us.

We will exchange small gifts and cards. As their first Valentine, Wally will get the girls modest presents too, showing them his love for them in a tiny tangible way. He models for them something far greater than how they should expect a man to treat them someday. He is modeling for them everyday how their Heavenly Father loves them.

This intentionality has led me to use the seemingly endless stream of diamond, perfume and edible arrangement commercials to cultivate prayers of thanksgiving. By His grace alone, I am the recipient of the most amazing love. This is the love that I am choosing to celebrate this week.

I posted this tonight, so you might be challenged to do the same - redeem Valentine's Day. Use this secular holiday to commemorate and celebrate the sacred love that God has, is and will continue to give us.

Life and Death and Christmas

Three days after Christmas I sat in a sanctuary still beautifully decorated for the Christmas season. Greenery and candles with white lights were intermingled along the stage in an elegant way. To the left hand side, surrounded by the decorations was a simple feeding trough, manger with a doll wrapped in swaddling cloths, Baby Jesus.

Just a few feet from this joyous, beautiful scene sat my grandmother's open casket.

Life and Death and Christmas.

Yes, Jesus was the baby born to die and, by doing so, give life.

Yes, because Jesus lived and died and lived again, my grandmother had been dead in her sin, but by the gift of faith God gave her, she now, physically dead, lives eternally.

Yes, because Jesus lived and died and lived again, I have hope. Hope that my sins and old nature have been put to death. Hope that I will one day be reunited with my Grandmother in an eternal life after my physical death. Hope that I can live this day the way God created me live it - alive in Christ.

I would not have chosen this week to have been the week when my grandmother died and her earthly life remembered. There will not be a Christmas that passes that I will not stop and reflect on her passing. It could be an incredibly sad thing to lose such a close loved one to death during this season the is supposed to be so festive.

But instead of just commemorating these days associated with her death with sadness, and loss - I will forever remember the Baby Jesus beside my grandmother's coffin. I celebrate the reality of Christ's incarnation and advent with a greater, deeper joy than I could not have otherwise celebrated.

Just take a few minutes to reflect on this Christmas carol below. The tune and words are basic enough to teach preschoolers, but the words will forever be so much deeper and more meaningful to me. . .

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.

The stars in the sky looked down where he lay,
The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay.

The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.


I love Thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky
And stay by my cradle 'til morning is nigh.

Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.

Bless all the dear children in thy tender care,
And take us to heaven, to live with Thee there.

Tangled Raw

The tangle of conflicting intertwined emotions weighs heavy on my sternum. Some angles are sharp and literally, physically hurt when they rub against my inside. Mostly the mass just seems to ache until I can find some sort of distraction to numb the damaged spot.

Christmas is usually filled with mostly happy thoughts and memories. Yes, there's been hard years especially the first holiday season after my dad left and the one after my brother-in-law passed, but this one is different.

I know God's timing is perfect and I can think back over the last couple of weeks and clearly see His hand preparing my heart and the circumstances for the day He would take my grandmother home to be with Him. He didn't leave any detail untaken care of.

My heart was already where it needed to be in adoration of the Savior's birth. My shopping done, my preparations completed, my groceries brought home and all put away - when I got the phone call I had been expecting.

Mom was understandably emotional as she described the last moments Grandma spent on this side of eternity and how she slipped into the other.

In the roughly 48 hours since then, the tangle of emotions has swelled. Like a tide, it has come in waves and gone in waves too.

The thought of my grandmother's reunion with my grandfather literally brought tears of joy to my eyes. The sound of exhaustion and pain in my mother's voice brought feelings of helplessness. What could I do to lesson her burden? The ending of the candlelight service on Christmas Eve led to hugs from good friends that brought me to sobs on Wally's shoulder right there in the front of the sanctuary. Perhaps I would have stayed there longer, if it weren't for one my daughters asking loudly, "What's wrong with Mom?!"

This morning, we gathered around the advent wreath and, as a family, discussed the Light of Life that has come into the world and worshipped by singing "Angels We Have Heard on High." Then the girls unwrapped gifts and toys we had bought and I had wrapped. I did delight in the joy on their faces and was thankful for the happy moments we could share.

This afternoon, Wally found me back in bed. My feelings were more than the physical exhaustion caused by the late-night-Santa-visit playing and the early-morning-Santa-visit discovering. I told him I was just sad. He encouraged me to embrace it and not try to fight it, so I allowed myself to cry

My own words from my Sunday school lesson the morning of her passing are still ringing in my ear - how Jesus' birth was God's guarantee to keep all His other promises to His people. Because He kept His word to send Jesus, I can trust that He has kept His word to my grandmother and she is in His presence even now.

I can sleep tonight knowing He will keep His word to me too. That tangle of emotions weighing on my chest includes this hope. Not only that she is truly in a better place, but that one day I will be too. In the meantime, I am not carrying this emotional mess on my own. He knows what I am feeling. I am not alone. He is with me.

I get why people drink to forget, to numb the pain, to escape. I like just having the television on for the background noise it provides. The distraction from the heaviness of these emotions is welcome. I cannot judge anyone for succumbing to the temptations of anything that will dull the distress or ease the burden for just a little while.

Pain, hope, peace, longing, helplessness, gratefulness, sadness, loneliness, joy, happiness, frustration, anger, comfort, appreciation, fear, anticipation . . .

I would describe my feelings as an emotional rollercoaster, but today, Christmas Day, that just doesn't seem accurate. Yes, there have been high highs - good things have happened today and there have been low lows - like when I debated skipping the family gathering with my husband's side of the family. But all through the highs I was still feeling lows and even at my lowest today, the highs seemed to be mingled in as well.

If emotions are defined as colors, tonight, mine would be a muddy, brown, mess.

My bags are pretty much packed and so are the rest of my crew's. We will leave first thing in the morning to be with family and prepare for the services to lay my sweet grandma to rest. We are also taking more Christmas presents with the promise of continued celebrations of the season.  

As a result, the tangled weight of emotions will continue. I didn't have to pack them for the ache  remains inside me. The sting of unexpected tears will overflow onto my hot cheeks without warning as they remain ready just beneath the thin surface of my failing attempt to hold it all together all the time.

It is all pretty raw . . .

Yet, in my head and heart I know that because of Christmas, Jesus relates to my suffering and heartache for He experienced them too. In fact, His whole life must have been one where He carried a similar burden as well. Hope with hurt, pain coupled with peace, frustration tempered with love.

This is what I will chose to focus on as I pray for sleep to come tonight.

 The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup;
    you hold my lot.
The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
    indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

I bless the Lord who gives me counsel;

    in the night also my heart instructs me.

I have set the Lord always before me;

    because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.

Therefore my heart is glad, and my whole being rejoices;

  my flesh also dwells secure.

For you will not abandon my soul to Sheol,

    or let your holy one see corruption. 

You make known to me the path of life;

in your presence there is fullness of joy;

at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.

Psalm 16:5-11

"Keeps Me Singing As I Go"

I read somewhere recently that when you lose a grandparent to death, part of your childhood dies with them.

I lost part of my childhood this afternoon. 

My last living grandparent, my mother's mother, died this afternoon. 

Her breathing labored, her heart tired and her mind weary, with her eyes closed as if already in sleep she breathed her last holding my mother's hand on one side and my aunt's on the other. 

Those hands were special hands. Here she is holding my cousin hand just last week - 

From a young age she used them to work, to play and to love. 

Whether in a shirt factory during the war in East Tennessee or on her family's farm caring for her 11 younger siblings, she knew the definition of hard work from a young age. She held various jobs over the years, but even during those times when she wasn't paid for her effort, her hands were never idle. 

Small palms and nimble, thin fingers with neatly filed nails could thread a needle, bait a hook and snap endless bushels of green beans. Only in her later years would the knots of arthritis and the effects of age leave their mark on her graceful hands. 

When articulating a point, she would point her narrow index finger, slightly bent at the knuckle with a cock of her wrist, to let her listeners know that she meant what she was saying. This was dubbed "The Mother Finger" and all of her daughters, granddaughters and even great-granddaughters have been known to use it on occasion. 

My grandmother loved games. Some of my earliest memories of visiting her house involved countless hours of playing Uno and Aggravation. Even through this fall, her hands could be found holding cards, game pieces and Scrabble tiles. 

Her pension for math was always keen. Her vocabulary was always growing. Her willingness to learn new things never wavered. She may have never earned a high school diploma and always resented having to drop out of school after the 8th grade, but no one playing her in any game of strategy or skill would have ever known her lack of formal education. 

As far as I was concerned, my grandmother was the best, most accomplished  seamstress ever. There was no thing that she could not sew or mend. When expecting my first daughter, I could not find any crib bedding that I liked. I described to her what I wanted and she produced the most beautiful set of red and white gingham with chenille accented bumpers, quilt and slip-cover ever done. Her handiwork even at 80 was amazing. 

Her quilts will be family heirlooms for generations to come. Many hand-pieced and hand-quilted, but all labors of love with meticulously picked out fabrics and designs are priceless treasures to any of us who have been blessed to be given these works of art. This hand-worked hobby was so much more than a way for my grandmother to pass the time. It was a tangible way she could pass her love from her own hands into the hands of the quilt's recipients. 

Even before I received my first quilt from her at 16 I knew it was special. I received another when Wally and I married. I keep each of the quilts she gifted to my daughters, her great-granddaughters, until the time they set up homes of their own. 

She did many more things with her hands demonstrating her love for me and those she loved. 

This time of year, she chose to show her love by busying her hands making candy. Peanut brittle, peanut fudge, chocolate fudge (with and without walnuts). Her confections were always a true sign of the Christmas season. Her go-to sweet to make for any gathering or occasion in my daughters' memories will forever be her lemon cake. 

Her great-granddaughters have been left a legacy from their Gee-gee that extends much further and much deeper than beautiful quilts and delicious cakes. 

For instance, they may not have memories of her caring for my grandfather in his last years or fishing by his side on the red pontoon at Lake Lockengren, but I do. I remember them building their dream house there at the lake together. Mingling their sweat, tears and sometimes blood to see their dream home become a reality. They worked their garden together and she canned endless jars of the best green beans ever. They would clean the smallest of blue gill and perch to allow my brother and I to eat the fruit of our couple of hours of fishing off the docks. I don't know how they removed all of those little, translucent bones! But with the meticulous detail, her nimble fingers would find the smallest of bones, then patiently fry up the little fish for us to eat. 

My childhood is filled with memories of playing at her house, eating her sweets, listening to her stories of growing up, and growing myself under her guidance. Staying up late, watching more television and being doted on were all perks of being her granddaughter. I liked teasing her, telling her because I was the first grandchild, I was the most favored, but she loved all of us the same yet uniquely. SO proud of each of us . . . We are her legacy, and in-turn, so are our kids. 

Yes, my childhood chapters are closed. Here at 42, some would say they've been over a long time now, years before her death this afternoon. However, who my grandmother was will live on through the generations for a long time after the works of her physical hands have faded. 

I will pass down the quilts and continue to make her cornbread to pair with my soups. But even if the quilts become lost and the recipes forgotten - who my grandmother was -her loyalty, pride and work ethic is ingrained in all of us she considered family - by blood, by name or by friendship. 

Who she was, she will always be in all of us. 

Tonight, she is finally reunited with my grandfather. Today, she is uttering the "sweetest name she knows" to her Jesus. He has "filled her every longing and keeps her singing as she goes."

In my pain missing her, I will sing with her and He will keep me singing as I go too.