Ten Years Gone

Life lately has been weird. I’ve been sick for like six weeks and haven’t felt well. A doctor appointment a week ago led to antibiotics. A doctor apppintment this morning led to “give it more time.” Six weeks is apparently not long enough. So I’m tired. And drained. And achy. And whiny. Maybe this seems like a blog post you’ve read before by me. Haha!

But it’s New Years Eve and I’m also reflective. Thinking back on a whole decade and what has transpired in life is amazing and overwhelming and seemingly so cliche. But so important for my journey of growth and loss and healing and finding myself. 

The decade is coming to a close. Ten years has gone by. When I think back to December 31st, 2009 and think about the last ten years, I am shocked at the changes that have happened. The highs and the lows. The additions and the losses. My last decade seems like yesterday and 100 years ago all at the same time. 

Ten years ago this day I had a half-way there baby in my belly. Emerson was making her debut just four short months later. I was on bed rest with her. So sick. So wanting to make it to the date where she was ok to come out. Prayerfully waking each morning hoping God would keep her in until His handiwork was done. Worried about not working and paying bills and my babies at school too. So thankful for my people that helped me be a sick, pregnant mama with an almost three year old. Emerson and I made it to April 16th and then they induced me and said it was time. Brian and I were so happy to be a family of four. So happy to have a beautiful, healthy baby as a new addition to our family. 

Those first months of her life were a whirlwind. Trying to balance going back to work with a weeks-old little one and Amelia who was three. Amelia loved Emerson from before she was born and it showed in every fiber of her being. 

Then October hit and our world crashed down around us. Brian killed himself. Secrets were revealed. Heartache and anger and suicide and investigations, all while still trying to just be a new family. Emerson just six months old. Amelia three and a half. We were just learning to be a family of four. Now we had to quickly learn to be a family of three again. One parent. One reeling, struggling, grieving mom trying to make sure everything was ok. Stayed ok. Looked ok. 

Those early months of 2010 shook and molded and structured our decade. So many things happened these ten years past, good and bad, but those first few months set the stage for us for sure. 

I worked hard to not let it impact our family. I’m not a “wallow-er.” I didn’t want this to define me, define us. But to an extent my desperation for everything to go on as normal probably dragged it out longer. I’m still learning to heal. I’m still working through throes of anxiety and depression and PTSD. I still wake up some mornings and feel like I’m fighting just to survive the moment. 

Then other things happened and compounded the grief and the struggle. Tom died. Clay died. Friends got sick. People left our lives. Trauma. Grief. Heartache. When you get stuck in those moments, sometimes it’s hard to see the sunshine through the clouds. And you get lost and lonely and feel isolated. 

If I look back at my blog posts in the last ten years it’s quite a journey for me. Seeing the ups and down written out in blog form I get to relive the amazing moments where life was good and everything was ok. And see the days that things weren’t so great. So many people say “Don’t look back. Keep pushing forward.”

I completely understand the thinking behind that. Don’t wallow. Move on. Be happy. Don’t dwell on the bad. 

But for me? I don’t agree. Looking back shows me where I was. Where I started this decade. Ten years ago I was a timid new mom, widowed, reeling, surviving, fighting to be ok. In ten years I have grown and matured. I like to think I’m a good mom and when I see the little people that I have raised, I know somewhere I must have done something right. They are resilient and kind and amazing individuals who are strong in their faith and family values. They are wholesome and well-rounded. And then I look at me as a person, as a Christian, as a human being that has seen a lot of yuck in the last decade. And I can hold my head up and be proud of the things I’ve accomplished. 

So, as we enter a new decade, I am only making one statement for my future. Sure, I’ve made goals and plans and written things down. But, my eyes will be focused on one word. UP. Eyes up. Look up. Chin up. Grow up. Prayers up. Build up. Rise up. UP. 

When you’re in the trenches and in the depths of dispair, sometimes the only place you can look is up. You’ve hit bottom. There’s nothing else under you. So, as a Christian, I have the comfort of knowing that when I’m in stuck in the depths, I drop to my knees, and send those prayers up to the one who matters most. 

1 John 5:14-15 says “Now this is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. And if we know that He hears us, whatever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we have asked of Him.” Father is always there, listening, watching, waiting for us to turn to Him, to hand it all over to Him. He’s up there...waiting to carry you through the mess that you’re in. Waiting to send His angels to guide and protect you. Waiting to show you how to climb up and out of your depths of despair. 

So, as we enter a new decade, ten years gone, your path will be filled with highs and lows. I, for one, am thankful for the struggle; for it was in those moments that I realized how desperately I needed my Lord and Savior. And the constant reminder to look up...up to Him. Up to the future. Up to all that He has for us. 

Ten years gone. They go quickly. Don’t let another decade slip by without remembering your Creator and all He does for us. In the good and the bad. He’s up. Just reach for Him.

Oceans...

The ocean is my favorite place to be. It’s weird that I hardly ever go there, but just thinking about being there takes my breath away. I remember riding my bike through the Kalaloch campground with my sister, and we’d always stop at the top of the walkways down to the beach and just look. I remember closing my eyes and breathing deeply in, the salt water smells seeping into every pore of my body. I remember the goosebumps on my skin as I felt the wind and the warmth of the sun on my face. I remember tears sneaking down the corner of my eyes as I felt so so small in the presence of this magnificent, powerful scene. 

How ironic that in the moments that I’m struggling, I also picture the ocean, but it’s not like that in my mind. The moments when I’m having a hard time are the moments I’m drowning in the ocean. The waves swirling all around me. I kick hard with my feet and push through the black water with my hands. Trying desperately to reach the surface before I can no longer hold my breath and my lungs seer with the pain of sucking in salt water. The darkness envelops me and the panic sets in as I wonder if I can ever make it out of there alive. 

I. Keep. Going. Though. I love to swim. I’m a strong swimmer. I have always loved the water. In my darkest moments, when the water seems too much, I still drive to the beach and just sit and stare and think and breathe and listen. The water is calming. The water soothes my soul. And as turbulent as it can get when I’m fighting against it, I always return to the water. It’s cleansing. It’s calming. It is inviting and beckons me to forget the crazy that is going on around me. 

For a while after Brian died and so much came to the surface, I had this recurring dream. I was driving across this narrow road with water on both sides. I couldn’t slow down and the truck was barreling faster and faster. Eventually there was a corner and my truck would careen off the path and flip into the water. I would fly out of the truck, hit the water, and begin sinking down into the dark, murky water. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t ever. Every time I would have this dream, I would allow myself to float downward. Sink lower and lower into the water. Down in the depths I would find absolute peace and happiness. Joy. I would be able to see clearly and breathe deeply. And I always had this feeling that everything was going to be alright. 

Psalm 89:9 says “You rule over the surging sea; when its waves mount up, you still them.”

God is in control always. He’s there when I’m sitting in my car at the beach watching the glass-like surface of the water in the calm. He’s there when I can’t stop the waves from pulling me under and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my footing. He is present in the water. He is whispering to me to be still and keep pressing forward. He is there, in all seasons, in all weather, in all circumstances. He is guiding me through the peaceful memories of my childhood and using the turbulent nightmares that pull me into the depths. In all circumstances, I will trust. 

Water is powerful, majestic, a force to be reckoned with.  But so is our Father. Like water, He will fill up your empty spaces and guide you where He wants you to go. We need only have faith. 

I’m not certain where my next steps of life may lead. I don’t have all the answers or know the plans He has for me always. But I know that He is as constant as the sea. I will have faith that all I need to do is turn my eyes towards Him and have faith. Trust that He is in charge. And keep visiting the beach as a reminder of His grace and power and beauty. 

Just keep swimming...

There Goes My Life...

Kenny Chesney is one of my favorite country artists. And one of my favorite songs that he sings is “There Goes My Life.” If you’ve never heard the song, it starts off about a guy who just found out his girlfriend is pregnant and he’s having a baby. His life is over. Ruined. Destroyed. As the song goes on he realizes what a little miracle his daughter is to him. At the end she is leaving to pursue her life and context of the phrase changes from “there goes my life” like it is destroyed to “there goes my life” like that girl is his everything and his life is getting in to that car. 

My situation, my tragedy, is fairly similar. When Brian killed himself and everything unraveled I remember standing often in one spot, feeling like life was swirling all around me and I couldn’t get my bearings. I didn’t know what I was going to do. How I was going to survive. How could I ever go on as a single mom to a three-year-old and a six-month-old. Was this some kind of cruel joke? This wasn’t the happily ever after I had envisioned that you can see beaming from the wedding day photo I have shared. 

August 5th, 2006 was the day that the Duncan family story began. Our wedding day. Filled with joy and anticipation and friends and family. It was magical. And then it was over in October 2010. Or so I thought. 

My emotions surrounding this date vary year to year. Some years it’s just another day. Some years, like this one for some reason, the pain of what could have been sears through my heart, taking my breath away and leaving me reeling in the swirling whirlwind that I so often had experienced. 

A few years ago I came to the realization that August 5th was the beginning of the Duncan family. It didn’t have to be my wedding day alone. And even though we are missing a member, it is still the anniversary of the Duncan family. So my girls and I spent the afternoon today on the docks by the water at the Boat Shed celebrating our family’s day. 

When we got home I went back to my bedroom, pulled my box of treasures off of the shelf in my closet and opened it. The first thing to greet me was the overalls that my grandma gave me that belonged to my grandfather. His birthday was August 2nd so he’s been on my mind a lot lately. I held them close and could still smell the memories of that most important man. So many times I wish he was still here. 

Underneath his overalls, was my box of wedding pictures. I pulled a few out and immediately the tears flooded to the surface. These pictures, freezing these moments in time, showed how it all started. How it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be forever. Til death do us part, right? I had no idea that date would come much sooner than I had planned. We were supposed to be a family of four. The family Brian and I created and planned for. The family that began August 5th, 2006. Some days I still don’t understand it all. 

Romans 8 is probably my all-time favorite chapter. And Romans 8:28 says “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” It didn’t feel good when Brian died. And it doesn’t feel good right now in this second looking at old pictures and thinking about the pieces he has missed, is missing, and will continue to miss. But, I can see God at work in our lives. He has made His Duncan family strong. We are not a family of four. And that is ok! We are a family of three girls. Three women, who are strong and faithful. We love our lives and try and live it to the fullest. We have seen and gone through trauma and heartache and tears and pain, but we are stronger because of Him. 

People say that time heals all wounds. I don’t know if I agree with that. Time doesn’t heal the wounds. Time give us seconds and minutes to see God’s love and grace and faithfulness heal our wounds. I put my faith in our Heavenly Father. Time gets you further away from the point of pain, but God is the one that takes the moments in between and uses those moments for His glory. 

My song has changed. The context has shifted. Thirteen years ago it was a “There goes my life, it’s over” moment. Today? It’s a “There goes my life, it’s just beginning” moment. We are stronger, more faithful, and ready for the next part of our adventure as the Duncan family. Happy 13th anniversary to us! Here’s to many more!

I Hope You Dance...

This was a huge week in our house. Amelia got her Pointe shoes for dance. She has been dreaming of this day since she was little. The pink satin ribbons. The elastic. The feeling of rising up on to her toes for the first time. It was a momentous occasion for sure. When my not-so-baby girl slipped those shiny pink shoes on her feet, walked to the bar, and rose on to her toes, her whole face was beaming. Those of you who have watched her dance know of the million dollar smile I’m talking about. I cried as I watched her meet this milestone in her dance career and I was just so proud of her and all the work she has put into her passion. 

Skip forward a few days and I was reading a Facebook post from my friend Andrea. In it she shared a story she experienced at work. I asked her permission to share this with you here and she agreed that I could share. She posted a picture from her business of a pallet full of leaf blowers. In front of the pallet was a pile of orange cellophane that had been wrapped around the blowers. Instead of using a knife to cut the plastic wrap and free the machines, she chose to start unwinding the celephane, inch by inch. Layer by layer. A couple of trips around the package and she started feeling dizzy. She noticed that as long as she kept her eyes on the center and focused on the stack on the pallet, her focus was clear and the job was much easier. If her eyes strayed from the focal point, she quickly slipped back into dizziness and disorientation. So she quickly learned to keep her eyes focused on the stack. 

I shared with her that this is how dancers function. When they are practicing or performing turns, they focus on one spot somewhere in the room or somewhere on stage. And as they turn they whip their heads around and look at the exact same spot. An analogy that Amelia shared with me that was passed down to her is that you are a dancer, but when you are turning you are like the guard at a museum. The spot on the wall is a precious jewel. Many people are itching to steal that jewel, so it is your job to keep your eye on the jewel at all times. As you are turning, you crane your neck as far as you can and when you get to the point where you think you can’t crane your neck any more, you whip you head around and find the jewel again. Dancers call this “spotting.”

Andrea made a statement in her Facebook post that she believes our walk with Jesus is similar. I couldn’t agree more! Jesus is our spot. He is our jewel. And when we take our eyes off of Him, the thief comes to kill, steal, and destroy. We lose our balance. We become dizzy and disoriented. We fall and crash on stage, hurting ourselves or others. Losing sight of Jesus, our spot, makes us unsteady. And the disorientation can be frightening. We desperately search for other places to focus. Money. Sex. Alcohol. Food. And when that happens, when we lose the “spot” of Christ, we can quickly fall and lose our balance. 

The Message translation of Hebrews 12:2 says, “Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed - that exhilarating finish in and with God - he could put up with anything along the way: cross, shame, whatever. And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God.” 

Keep your eyes on Jesus. He keeps His sight on us. We are His “spot.” He never loses sight of us. He never lost sight of the plan His Father had for our salvation. He loves us and carries us in the palm of His hand. Even when we lose sight of Him. He’s right there beside us, catching us when we become dizzy and fall. Keep your eyes on the jewel, on Jesus. Don’t let the thief take the jewel. Don’t let Satan derail your faith. Life will get hard and messy. Just keep your eyes on Jesus. He’s the best and brightest “spot” you need. 

Be Prepared...

It happened super quick. One second I was walking just fine with Emerson down the steps of my terraced bank, heading home to run and get Amelia from dance. The next second I was laying in a crumpled heap somewhere between the bottom two steps of the terrace. My left ankle tingling and searing in pain. A rock jabbing into my ribs. Emerson’s panicked eyes filling with tears as she picked up the pieces of the mail that were strewn across the lawn. Awesome. Grace strikes once again. 

I sat up, wiggled my left foot, and choked back the tears that wanted to form around my eyes. Emerson was already terrified. I couldn’t cry in front of her. I pulled her close and said over and over again, “I’m ok! I’m ok!” This was more for my own benefit, but the words were soothing to her soul as well as the tears subsided and she walked the mail into the house, to then return and help her clumsy, aging mother up out of the mud and dirt. I walked gently into the house, brushing the leaves and muck off of my pants, and thinking hard about my ankle and the rest of the spots on my body that were starting to smart from my failure of gravity. 

Boy, these things happen quick. But there is some good that comes out of these moments. You are more careful, more prepared so it doesn’t happen again. I have never walked so carefully down those steps as I have in the days following my tumble. I choose different shoes to walk in that are more supportive. I’m more conscious of the steps that I take, looking for holes or toys or the slightest unevenness in the ground. I iced the joints and muscles that took the brunt of my topple. I checked the steps the next day and moved the rock that I most likely landed on. I’m more careful, more prepared, now that I know what could happen.

Why don’t I think to take the same precautions in all aspects of my life? The assaults that happen spiritually, or mentally, are just as painful, just as jolting, as the headlong tumble down the steps. I can feel the panic attacks coming from a mile away. So why do I wait until it’s too late to try and stop them? The attacks from Satan are the same. How many times do I need to walk down the same path before I might try a preventative strategy versus a reaction for when the onslaught hits? I don’t have the answer. But I should think smarter about all of this. 

I sometimes know what sends my spiraling into panic and despair. I know that I get caught inside my own head. I know I start to head the voice in my head that tells me I’m not good enough. That I don’t have anyone that cares for me. That people have their own troubles without worrying about me. That I wouldn’t even be missed if I just snuck way and left it all behind. I could prepare for those moments. Some say I should try medication. Some say prayer. I could start with positive self talk and all the strategies that I teach my social skills babies. I could pray or meditate or deep breathe.

And the spiritual attacks? Ephesians 6:11 says “Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” I could do that far in advance. Be ready. Be prepared. But I don’t. Why?

There are probably many reasons. I’m tired of fighting. I tired of preparing. Looking for how to make things better or easier or smarter. Sometimes I feel like life is so exhausting that there is just no point in fighting. Just let it happen. What is the difference?

But then something happens, like a fall down the stairs, and I’m spiritually and mentally under attack and feeling like I’m tumbling down the steps, breaking into pieces and feeling so much pain I’m not sure I can stand it. But, I find the strength that God provides me with and I stand up, dust myself off, clear away the rubble, and be prepared for the next attack. As a Christian it’s not if, it’s when the Devil tries to get to you. You just have to put on your armor, and be prepared. 

Physically, I’m ok. The bruises are fading, my ankle isn’t as tender, and joints seem back in place, and I am starting to be less cautious as I walk. Mentally, I’m ok. The waves come and go, I’ll practice the strategies that everyone suggests and I’ll be prepared. Spiritually, I’m ok. The fiery darts come at me, but I remember He gives me His armor and I already for battle. 

Be prepared. Walk cautiously. Know the fall is coming, but God will always be there to help you stand tall, wipe the dirt off, be cautious and take the next step. You might fall again, but oh the lessons you will learn!

One Step Closer...

Cabin fever had settled in. We were home for a bunch of days in a row. And now big sister is gone. Emerson and I hit up McDonalds for a treat and play time with some stranger’s kids. We’d been there a while and she was having a blast. Coordinating games. Leading charges against bad guys. Playing a rousing game of “The Floor is Lava.” I loved visiting with other moms. Watching my kid giggling and playing with other kids. Diagnosing kids with various communication or social disorders. It’s was fun for both of us. 

And then they came in. A family of five. A husband and wife with three darling little girls. The girls ran to the play structure and started playing with my kid. The couple sat at the table next to me on the same side together and started eating when their food came. 

Around the time they called their girls down to come and eat Emerson ran over to me for another quick sip of her drink and a nibble of chicken nugget before running off again to play. The little girls next to me ran off to play too and they all were fast friends. They exchanged introductions, hugged each other, asked how old they all were. The older of the three girls pointed down to her smiling parents and said “There’s my mommy and daddy.” They waved back and smiled. Emerson pointed to me sitting in the corner and said “That’s my mom.” I smiled and waved back. The couple turned and smiled at me. Then one of the other girls asked, “Where’s your daddy?” My heart skipped a beat and I held my breath. I never know how to respond myself so when my girls are confronted with this question my heart hurts for them. 

But Emerson handles it always with grace and her eight-year-old flair. She shrugged, declared “Oh, he died,” and announced her next plan at getting away from the boys in the play structure. I sighed with relief and picked up my soda for a sip. The man next to me scowled at me, leaned over, and sternly said “How dare you!” Wide-eyed I looked back at him and said, “Excuse me?” He slid closer to me and said, “How dare you teach your daughter to be so non-chalant about something like that. I don’t want MY daughters exposed to people like you. You need to teach your daughter to keep that sort of thing to herself. We don’t need our daughters exposed to that.” Then he packed up their food, called for his girls, and stormed out of McDonald’s as he cast a dirty look my direction. 

I choked back tears and sat in disbelief at what had just happened. What HAD just happened? Was I really just chastised for losing my husband? My daughter was judged for being honest about her father’s death. As the door closed behind them, I thought of five hundred things I could have said back to him. They’re lucky she didn’t tell them he killed himself. You’re judging a widow and a kid who lost her father? Emerson bounced back and forth between new-found friends and her food on the table, blissfully unaware of what had just transpired. Thank goodness! While I worked hard to just breathe and process what had happened and not burst into tears in the middle of McDoanlds. 

Psalm 147:3 says “He heals the broken-hearted, and bandages their wounds.” I am so thankful to Father for giving me this verse immediately after this happened. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. He knows that I have cracks in my heart. He knows the grief that I carry. He knows how I struggle some days to hold those pieces together. He knows that some days those pieces feel like they are going to crumble and I’ll never find how to arrange the pieces back. Tonight some pieces fell out.

Grief combined mental illness takes a toll. Anxiety. PTSD. Depression. These things all eat away at you over time. Sometimes things are going great and you feel fine. Normal even. But in the background is always ick. Voices that tell you you aren’t enough. Feelings that twist and turn your insides. Tears that just won’t fall. Nightmares that jerk you awake at night. Paranoid thoughts that make you think all of your friends will leave you just like everyone else has before you. And when things like tonight happen, it’s just one more thing that pushes you closer to a breaking point. Closer to the edge. 

Being a widow isn’t something I chose. Raising my children alone wasn’t my plan. And blaming me for those things is ridiculous. My brain knows that. But my already fragile heart starts to wonder. Being a survivor of suicide already brings thoughts and feelings of blame and shame. Plant a seed and my mind runs away with the idea. And then that pathway leads to other thoughts. I should have saved my husband. I should teach Emerson to answer differently. We shouldn’t be so open about our story. We should just shove it down and hide it. 

But let’s back up for one moment to the Psalm. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. God never promised life would be without trials. But He did promise to heal our broken hearts through the bad times. He did promise He would bandage our wounds. Tonight was a wound. Emerson has no idea anything happened even. And I thank God that He protected her from the truth. Her momma, however, was wounded. 

It is always shocking to me how cruel people can be sometimes. I try so hard to be kind to others always. To try and think about what their situation might be. Tonight caught me off guard. I found myself angry. Angry they would judge us. Angry that he blamed my daughter for sharing a piece of herself. Angry that he stormed out, making me feel like I was to blame for my husband’s death. Angry for cracking a piece of my lately-fragile heart. 

But I pause tonight and think about Psalm 147:3. I will give this broken heart to God again to mend. He will fix it. He will make it better. And then I pray. I pray for Emerson to always be brave enough to share her story. I pray that God protects that family from ever enduring what my girls and I have gone through. I pray that God heals the wounds on that man’s heart that caused him to lash out at me in the middle of a McDonald’s play place. And I pray that, no matter how many times my heart is broken, no matter how close to the edge I get, that Father God will cradle my heart in His hands, and paste the pieces of my heart together, to seal the cracks in my soul. 

God heals the broken hearted. My weary feet and my weary soul will continue to carry me through this life. One step at a time. One act of faith at a time. I often get closer to the edge, feeling like I’m about to break. But I just have faith that God will reel me back in and gently guide me onto the path towards healing again. Faith and hope and peace and love get us through. And even on the days that I feel like my heart doesn’t have any more pieces to crumble away, I will be bolstered up and know that He will set me on the path He plans for me. And my girls will be made stronger everyday, and I will too. He will bandage this wound from tonight, and all the other wounds too. 

My Name is Jonas...

I am the worst at remembering names. I run whole class social skills lessons at my school with kindergarteners and second graders. When I start my lessons in September, I tell the kids that I am terrible with names. I feel badly when I don’t remember their names. Their little faces scrunch up. Sometimes I feel like they might start crying. It’s important for us to be remembered. It’s important to be called by name. 

When we go through life so often it can feel like we are just another face in the crowd. There’s nothing special about us. Our name isn’t even important enough for someone to learn and remember. If they can’t take the effort to even learn our name, why would they want anything else to do with us?

Kids feel the same way. Amelia has an adult in her life that can never remember her name. This person hardly ever uses it and if she does call for her, it is often the wrong name. Amelia pretends it doesn’t hurt her feelings but I can tell it does. Amelia works hard for this particular adult. And Amelia takes pride in her work for this person, has interacted with her for years, so to not have this person be able to remember her name, I know it hurts Amelia. I try and explain to Amelia that it doesn’t have anything to do with how this person feels about Amelia. It’s not a reflection on Amelia’s performance. Some people just aren’t good with names.

Amelia got in the car yesterday and was just beaming. “Mommy! She remembered my name! She looked at me and thought hard and she remembered!” That small gesture was enough to make Amelia’s spirits soar for the rest of that day. She was thrilled 

It’s important for people to remember us. To at the very least remember our names. But that’s hard. We are human. Our brains are full of information that we use each and every day. And names can be so confusing. My kindergarten class has three or four girls who have names that start with the letter “E.” I get those confused often. Doesn’t make it any less terrible that I cannot remember their names. Amelia’s reaction is proof of that. 

Prayers of praise that we have someone who calls us by name each and every time. Someone who speaks our name often. Whispers it into our ear when we need encouragement. Even has our names written in His book. God knows our names. He never forgets. He always knows when we need to hear His voice. When we need that someone to come through and make us feel special. To make us feel important. He knows us and calls us by name. It says so in the Bible. Isaiah 43:1 says “But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” We are His. We belong to Him and he calls us by name. We are special and important and He loves us so. He will never leave us nor forsake us. He will always know our name. We are precious in His sight. We are His sons and daughters. Heirs to His throne in heaven. What an amazing feeling to be loved that much by someone!

So, pause and listen! Listen for His whisper in your ear, showing you that He loves you and calls you by name. He cares so very much for you! And He will never forget your name. 

In the meantime, I will sit with my babies at school and try to show them the same example of love and kindness that our Heavenly Father shows us. They are important to me. And I will learn their names. It might be May or June. But I’ll get it eventually.