Dancing in the Dark...

Isaiah 9:2 The people who walk in darkness will see a great light; Those who live in a dark land, the light will shine on them.

During our pastor’s sermon yesterday at church, he talked about the high of the highs and the low of the lows. He talked about how you can reach a peak of euphoria and excitement one day and in the next moment be bottoming out, exhausted and plunging into the darkness. He spoke of God’s plan to put us into these dark situations so that we may learn to rely and trust and turn only to Him. 

I don’t feel like I’m in the low of the lows right now, but there are signs that I might be heading there. It doesn’t take much for me to swing from a high to a low. I spent many times on my therapist’s couch asking her if she thought I was bipolar. She assured me that I was not, but the swings that I experience sometimes are so rapid that no one sees them coming. Not even me. PTSD can do that to you also.  Sometimes I just want to forget that I have that. And then the darkness gets to be too much to fight off and I’m painfully aware it’s there. 

This last weekend was filled with fun and family and faith. We had a great time lounging by the pool, eating together, enjoying the Whaling Days parade, going to church, celebrating the sunshine and having a great time. There was no reason there should have been a low coming. But I’m working on it. And putting it out there because maybe I can press on the brakes and turn this around. Or, maybe I can help someone else turn their rapid descent around. 

“What’s wrong?”

“You sound sad.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I do. But I also so desperately don’t. I don’t want to admit that I am weak, because that is how I feel. I shouldn’t even be sad. I have an amazing life with an amazing family and amazing friends. I have two little girls that are the best things ever. I just finished a great weekend filled with my favorite things. What could possibly be wrong?

I quickly answer “I’m fine.” Or “I don’t know.” And change the subject. The conversation ends and I am immediately filled with regret. Not for not sharing. For feeling like I’m making my people feel like they’ve done something wrong. That they are not important. That I don’t trust them. Which then just spirals into more. I’ve gained weight. Let’s look at old pictures that don’t seem that long ago and ponder how it can take a whole year to lose 30 pounds but less than six weeks to gain it all back. I got mad at Emerson and said things out loud that I didn’t mean, or shouldn’t have even said. I question my skills and my place as a mother. School is starting soon and I don’t want to go back to work. I’m not ready. So thoughts of walking away from everything cross my mind. The walls seem to be closing in and the darkness is settling all around and I’m not sure I can do this ride one more time. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and listen for the music, HIS music, playing to my soul. Shining light into my darkness. Praise songs. His voice comforting me. Pastor’s words. God’s arms holding me and carrying me through this dark valley. It’s a dance that I have learned over the years of being thrown into the darkest of valleys. Laying in a broken heap at rock bottom, the music of His love and grace and peace begins, and we begin dancing in the dark. Swaying back and forth to the music, finding the words of the Holy Gospel filling the empty spaces of my soul. And I rise. I rise out of the darkness, towards the light, towards the sound of His voice, towards the space where I am at the high of the highs. I remember that I’m a great mom. I remember that I’m more than a number on the scale. I remember that I am putting in work every day at the kickboxing studio and there is no shame in gaining. I am strong. I know what I need to do. I remember that I am a daughter of the Most High King. I remember...

Those remember moments play a huge part in the peaks and valleys. Memories play and I plummet to the bottom into the dark, but those same memories can also drag me back up to the place where I can breathe and sing and dance. This right now is a low. Darkness. But because of the care and compassion and love of my Heavenly Father, and the people that He has gifted me with, I am dancing in the dark, closing my eyes, listening for His voice and remembering the steps to rise back to a peak moment. I know that He makes good out of all things. And I know that I am on this journey for a purpose, for a reason. I need to remember. I need to remember His purpose for me. I need to remember that I am not weak, but strong in HIM. I need to remember that He is with me, and He is carrying me through these darkness moments. 

So, today, the dark memories are winning. I feel fat. I’m ashamed. I’m sad. I’m remembering things in the darkness. But, the undying beat from Holy Spirit begins. And suddenly, I’m dancing in the dark. And as all my of the negative messages pile up and push me down until I feel like I’m drowning, I hear His voice telling me that I am His daughter. I am His creation. And I am made perfect in Him. 

Dancing in the dark...until His light eventually breaks through again. 

One Step Closer...

Acts 1:7 And He said to them, "It is not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has put in His own authority.

I’m not exactly sure where I lost my motivation. I had done well with my plan until I think Spring Break. Easter Sunday I was weighing the lowest I had weighed in a long time. My exercise routine was on point. I was drinking my water. Everything was going just as I had planned. I looked and felt great. People were complementing me. It was all going so well. 

Then seeds of doubt were planted. I started hearing old tapes being played. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I needed to give in to the temptations that confront me day in and day out. People say that food is the only addiction where you have to face it to survive. You can’t just stop eating cold turkey. You can’t avoid food. We need food to live and yet my relationship with food is an addiction. Another play by Satan to try and control me. To try and convince me I’m not daughter of the King. To try and completely derail the progress I have made thus far. 

For a while, Satan’s schemes worked. In the last two months I have watched the scale climb up and down a twenty pound span. So frustrating. So disappointing. So many excuses. It’s just a few pounds. I can get those off. It’s only ten pounds. Well, I’ve gained fifteen pounds. Might as well binge eat tonight. Shame. Sadness. Disappointment. And then the attempt to control the tailspin. Not eating all day. Working out in abundance. Drinking water in huge quantities. Tiny portions. Until I snap and visit the bakery and shovel cookies into my face before I have to pick up my girls, throwing away the evidence before they come out of the dressing room. Pain in my stomach from stretching it way farther than it’s used to in the last few month span. Shame at what I have done, but out of control enough that I’m already planning my next fix, the drive thru at McDonalds for breakfast in the morning. It’s definitely a relationship controlled by Satan. And, as I read in my devotion book this week, an idol. What?! Me? An idol-worshipper? Yup! Food becomes my idol. I worship it. Savor it. Allow it to fill my heart and soul, attempting to fill the breaks and cracks that sometimes show themselves in this healing process and grief process. Rather than turning to my Almighty God, I turn to Bic Macs and frosted sugar cookies, cupcakes and French fries. 

It’s a vicious cycle I am stuck in, probably in every aspect of healing. One step forward, then two steps back. I have a good run, and then I lose my footing and slide over halfway back down the mountain. I steady myself and climb back up, only to trip and dangle from my climbing rope, terrified and panicked and just wanting nothing but to cut the rope and free fall back to the bottom. Except this time? I am closer to the top, closer to my goal, and I have no desire to fall back into rock bottom, the pit of despair where my emotions and my anxiety consume me and devour me until I no longer recognize the person that I am. 

One step closer. I am getting stronger everyday. I am growing stronger in my faith, learning to rely completely on Him, learning to steady myself against Him, learning to free fall into His arms where He holds me until I’m ready to take another step closer. 

One step closer. I am getting physically stronger everyday. Kickboxing and exercise and playing with my girls finds me muscle groups I didn’t know I owned. My hands are strong. My legs are strong. I have stamina and endurance and all those things you need to function, to be human, to not need to stay in bed all day waiting for the pain and the heaviness throughout my body go away. 

One step closer. My mind and my heart are getting stronger. The hills and the valleys on the grief roller coaster settle for the most part. I can pry my white knuckles off the bar of the car and open my eyes and slow my breathing. I know there’s probably another steep drop coming, but I’m starting to remember that God will be there for that part too. He’ll walk me through the terror and the panic and the heartache just as He always has and I will come out of the drop better and remembering He uses all things for good. Even anxiety and grief and death and suicide and assault. All things for good. 

One step closer. He guides my path. He guides my steps. He makes me to lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still water. (Psalm 23) He is in control and I am growing my faith to remember that He is in charge! I am His! He is mine! And together we will do great things! He is healing me one step at a time. Complete, beautiful healing is on my horizon. And each day, one step closer. 

Daddy’s Hands...

My dad is the BEST! I’m sure I’m biased just a little bit but I also know there are some of you that wouldn’t argue with me about that point. He is one of the most amazing men that I know. He is strong and faithful. he has worked hard his whole life for his family. He loves kids and loves to tease. His smile and his laugh can bring me to tears because it just fills a room. When I was little my favorite part of watching a movie was actually watching my dad. Hearing his laugh. Seeing his tears because he’s really just a big softie. He is the best. 

Growing up, he taught me all he knew about cars and motorcycles. He could talk for hours about his experiences growing up in Nazi Germany and immigrating to th United States when he was nine. He bought me my first tool box and filled it with his tools. I would lay under cars with him and pretend to fix things while he was really fixing things. He let me help him with lots of chores and was oh so patient with me. Most of the time. There was that one time (or maybe more) where is frustration or annoyance or whatever he looked at me and said, in exasperation, “Don’t you ever shut up?” So, apparently he also indirectly fostered my career in speech-language pathology because I remembering answering “Um, no” and carrying on with my conversation. 

My daddy has endured so much in his life. Surviving a Hitler Germany and seeing the atrocities of the holocaust.  Immigrating to a new country at nine not speaking English and not knowing the people they were taken in by. He had an abusive uncle. He joined the Navy and became a hard hat deep sea diver. Did you know he’s a three time prostate cancer survivor? No one really knew because he silently did his treatments and dragged himself to work exhausted and fighting cancer to be with his kids at work. He’s an amazing guy. 

He gave me great advice always. He always would pray with me before I had anything I was nervous about: final exams, track meets, piano recitals, spelling bees. You name it his first response was, “Do you want to say a little prayer?” And then he would grab my hands and pray for me and then pull me into the biggest hug. When I left for college he bought me this little stuffed green frog holding a tiny Bible. He handed it to me and said, “His name is Jeremiah. Get it? The bull frog? The Bible?” Eye rolls and fits of laughter are always present when me dad is around. 

The night Brian confessed what he did, my dad came down in the middle of the night and held me and cried with me. Then he changed my locks for me so the girls and I would be safe. He was angry. He is still angry. He is hurt he couldn’t protect his girls. He exudes love and affection for his family, and even those that are not his family. He is the best example of what a dad should be. 

So, my upbringing is in stark contrast to what I’m raising my daughters in right this second. No dad. A dad that hurt one of them. A dad that chose to leave them when the times got hard. And my heart breaks. 

The perfect example of this moment happened at the Waterfront Park this past week. There was a preschool graduation happening under the big gazebo. A baseball awards dinner was also happening at the tables. There were people everywhere. Emerson, who is always the life of the party anywhere we go and can orchestrate a playground of thirty kids into completely changing their game and doing what she wants instead was standing in the middle of the chaos just observing. And then it hit me. There were dad’s everywhere. Playing tag. Climbing on the rope dome. Laughing and running and teasing their kids. She stood there for probably ten minutes just looking all around her. It was like those moments on TV where one central point is frozen in time and the blurs of action are running all around.  Her little body stood their frozen, a look of pain on her face, as kids and their dads ruled the playground. And my heart shattered into a million pieces for her. 

We are grateful. We have had so many men step up and try and fill that hole for Emerson. My daddy is her favorite and she follows him all over whether it’s at home or at Peace. Uncle Ben plays the meanest game of tag and she counts the seconds in between their visits and talk smack in the time between. Mr. Carnahan was the best teacher because he has been playing tag and basketball and active in her life for a few years now, and his leaving is leaving a hole in her little heart. We are thankful that our amazing new pastor, Pastor Brynestad, has already shown that he can join in on a game of tag or two also. Amazing men that are showing my girls that they care and they love them. And my heart is so so grateful. 

But that moment on the playground is our most-of-the-time reality. No dad. And as hard as I try I cannot fill that role. Please don’t wish me a Happy Fathers Day as I do not fill that role. I am their mom. And they are missing their dad. 

This year seems to be harder for some reason. Perhaps the fact that both of them know what happened to Brian. Perhaps they are both old enough to realize what they are missing out on. Perhaps it just is what it is and there is no explanation. I don’t know. I do know this Father’s Day hurts for them. 

2 Corinthians 6:18 says, “and I will be a father to you, and you shall be sons and daughters to me, says the Lord Almighty.” God is our Father. We are His daughters. And my girls are faithful and know this! They know that He can fill the holes in their hearts. That He will scoop them up when they are sad or hurting and will bind all their wounds. That He is loving and faithful and the perfect example of what a father should be. It doesn’t quite take the still out of not having a daddy to play tag with for an 8-year-old, but the reassurance that Father God is there, and the knowledge that we do have so many amazing men stepping up for them is the perfect combination of being able to walk through the Father’s Day holiday with faith and hope and peace and love. 

So, for those of you that have dads this Father’s Day I pray that you love and cherish every moment with them. Tell them what they mean. Tell them how thankful you are the God chose them for you. And for those of you that are missing your dads this Father’s Day, take comfort in knowing that you Heavenly Father is there for you. He will carry you through and wipe every tear and cherish you as the daughter of the King that you are! And, if you see my girls, or think about my girls, send them a prayer this Father’s Day. Pray that they will grow in their faith and hope and peace and love and know that God is their ultimate father. 

Thank you, daddy! You set the bar so high! And I love you forever and always. 

Nobody Can Save Me...

Another post about suicide? Yes. This is another post about suicide. Why? Because that’s all I seem to hear about lately. And everyone is talking about suicide. And then there’s the awkward pauses and the stares and the silence and then the “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up in front of you.” Like I can’t handle the talk. Like I might burst into tears in front of them. Like I might snap and sink into a PTSD flashback. 

So, what if I did? What if I did start crying and make people uncomfortable? What if I froze and hyperventilated and dropped to my knees and screamed? What if images from the night Brian died flash in front of me? My mother-in-law wailing. My dad choking back tears. The words of the note he left me deafening me as I silently read them. What if I shared that with you when you talk about suicide? What would happen? You would probably be uncomfortable. Maybe shift your eyes or your feet. But you know what? We need to be uncomfortable. We need to have to stand there for a second not knowing what to do. You know why? Because THAT’S how we learn. That’s how we figure out what to say the next time this happens. We might gain some insight as to how to save the one person that kills themselves every 12 seconds in the United States. 

We don’t like emotion. We don’t like having emotion or dealing with other people’s’ emotion. So we suffer in silence. We stuff feelings and hide the hurt and suck it up. We see someone upset and we turn a blind eye, waiting for someone else to take care of it. Emotions are awkward and not many people know what to say or what to do. So we do nothing. We say nothing. And life moves on and the person who is suffering wanders through life, feeling like they are without a purpose. Feeling invisible. Feeling unloved. 

I posted a video to my Facebook page the other day. The video is an ad for online counseling. In the video a woman stands in front of the bathroom mirror, gasping for breath, obviously struggling to breathe and looking anxious and panicked. The top of a zipper is visible in her chest. After struggling a while she reaches up and pulls the zipper down. Words spill out of her chest and she begins to breathe easier. I shared the video along with a message that stated that this video was the best interpretation of PTSD and anxiety that I had ever seen. That is exactly how I feel many days! Unable to breathe. Feeling like I might burst with panic and anxiety. Flashbacks and feelings and emotions. Two people commented. One person agreed with me, commenting that she related to the video also.  One person, my sissy, commented love and support and empathy that I would ever feel that way. Four people “liked” the post, I’m assuming indicating some level of either support or understanding. Many people probably didn’t see the post. Some maybe did and felt uncomfortable thoughts and feelings. We don’t do well with emotion.  Six total interactions from a friends list of over three hundred and fifty. 

I’m fine. Most days I am fine. Some days I’m not. Some days are worse than others. Some days I’m completely falling apart. Think you could know the difference? I don’t think you would. My closest friends and family, perhaps. There are subtle differences between ok me and not ok me. The people that know me best would tell you my face changes. I’m a bit shorter with my interactions. My voice is different. I get quieter. I smile and say I’m fine. But in the typical passing glances and small conversations we might have in the hallways or on the sidewalk, would you even really know? 

Would anyone know that today is a day that I am not ok?  Did anyone notice me today? See me hanging out a little longer than usual? Passing through the office a few more times? Sitting playing with kids past their speech time? Did anyone notice me missing from kickboxing class? See me in different clothes this evening than I wore to work because I feel like I needed to protect myself in my fat clothes tonight and changed as soon as I got home?

Do we take the time to notice people? Did anyone notice Kate Spade feeling different? Anthony Bourdain? Did anyone see red flags for the 11-year-old belonging to a friend of a friend that chose to kill himself this week? Are we checking in on people? Are we taking a second to make eye contact? Look up from our devices and look at the people around us?

We talk openly of people who have been diagnosed with cancer. We love and support our friends through MS or fibromyalgia or diabetes. We openly post support and fundraisers for people with leukemia or people with fractures or people with head injuries. And we should! Absolutely! People need love and support. People need fundraisers and financial assistance to get through tough times. 

So, why do we not extend the same courtesy to the mentally ill? To people suffering from depression or anxiety. To people like me who have been diagnosed with PTSD? Why are people with those illnesses (and they are illnesses) shamed and made to feel like they are crazy or lazy or fat? Why are mental illnesses taboo? I may not have the physical implications of any of those other health maladies, but I suffer just the same. Yes, I suffer. You can’t see my scars. I don’t have a cast or a brace. I don’t have ports or get poked incessantly with needles. But I still suffer. 

My joints physically ache when I am in the throes of my PTSD and anxiety. I get headaches. I can’t breathe. It takes all of my focus to stay at work and not want to run far away from everything. I can’t focus or concentrate because my mind fills with thoughts of despair and destruction.  My stomach hurts. I begin to worry about my girls and my parents and my sister and her family. I start to think that I’m worthless and mean nothing. I get paranoid and wonder how long it’s going to be before I lose my friends. 

And then? I find that single ounce of courage to admit to myself that I am ok. That there is light after the dark. A calm once the storm passes. That there is a message in the mess. And then I pray. And I turn it all over to the One who loves me more than anyone. I fall wrecklessly into His arms and allow His peace and grace and love to wash over me again and again. And the feelings calm and I can move on until the next episode hits. 

Kate Spade? Anthony Bourdain? Chester Bennington? Robin Williams? They never found their single ounce of what they needed to see another day. They couldn’t pull themselves up out of the pit they were in enough to unzip even the tiniest part of their zipper. They didn’t have anyone that noticed. Or, if they did, they didn’t have anyone that reached out to them. 

Have I contemplated suicide? It’s crossed my mind. When the demons that I dance with get strong enough there are lots of thoughts about ending it. Being at peace. Finally getting rest. Being in a better place. Leaving the burden that I face my family with. Do I buy into those thoughts really? Not always. But I find the ounce that I need to push through and step forward into God’s marvelous presence. I look into the mirror and remind myself that I am a daughter of the Most High King! That there is a grand plan for me and that Father God never intended for me to choose when I exit His world. 

Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” All things work together for good. It doesn’t always feel that way, but I promise they do! I wouldn’t never have picked this life. I didn’t want to be assaulted. I didn’t want my husband to kill himself. I didn’t want seizures or PTSD or anxiety. Many days I wish it was all different. I wish I was different. But, that’s not how this works. Things happen. Evil happens. And the wind is knocked out of us. But, we need to fight to find that ounce of strength to pull us through. And if we can’t? We rely on the people around us to bolster us up and walk us through. We also need to realize that this world is becoming more and more egocentric. We can’t rely on anyone to save us. We can’t wait for someone to notice that something is wrong because chances are it won’t happen! We need to turn our hearts and our souls to the One who can save and guard and guide us through each and everyday. Turn our faith and our eyes to the One who understanding pain and suffering. The One who can walk us through. The One who sees us and noticed the subtle differences on the days that are not ok. 

In the meantime, notice people! Push through the awkward and help someone! The interactions you have with people, even strangers, could save a life! You saying hello and asking about someone could be the moment they needed to change their minds. 

And pray for the people of this world. We are all fighting battles. We all need love and support and compassion. We all need to be checked on. Make it a point to check on someone every day! You never know what their plan and their perception is. Be present. Be kind. Be compassionate. 

This is Me...

Amelia and I can hardly listen to the story that I’m reading. The amazing little voice rings out of the bathroom over the soft whoosh of the water from the shower. The tunes are typically “Never Enough” from The Greatest Showman or “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” or any other little song that she tends to make up. She finally jumps out of the shower while Amelia and I try and stifle giggles from the cuteness of it all. She bounds out of the bathroom, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around her little shoulders. She climbs up on the mattress of my bed, gentle bouncing up and down, the springs creaking with every little jump. “Mommy, did you hear me singing?” I smiled and sneak a glance at Amelia. “I did, sweetheart. You are wonderful!” Emerson kneels down in front of me, getting her face really close to mine. She smiles and whispers “I’m more than wonderful. I’d get the Golden Buzzer every time.”

This girl boils over with confidence. She bounces through life not ever knowing that anyone might think poorly of her. And if they do, she doesn’t care. There are no cracks in her self-esteem. She is who she is, and she doesn’t let anyone bother her or get to her. I would define her by her strength and her confidence and her “take no names” attitude. 

I wish I had an ounce of her courage and confidence. I have struggled this week. I have been tasked with “officiating” a funeral on Saturday. My little friend Tricia lost her grandmother and she asked if I would be the one to summarize Grammy Gail’s life and present it to the attendees. This is the second time I’ve been asked to prepare something for a funeral. Typically for me the words for writings like this just flow out. Funerals are hardest for me. Especially knowing that people I love are hurting. But I know that God will give me the words I need in time for Saturday. 

Who are we? I’m not asking this to get philosophical and deep. When deaths happen and people come together to celebrate the person, they are reduced to words on a paper. Tricia brought me a page of notes about Grandma Gail’s life. Events. Memories. Jobs. Hobbies. A timeline. A summary of who she was. 

It made me think of my own “Who am I?” question. Who am I? I’m the daughter of Rita and Art. Sister of Julie. Born in Bremerton, Washington. Attended Peace Lutheran, Fairview Junior High, Olympic High, University of Washington. I have my Bachelors of Science and my Masters of Science. I’m a Speech-Language Pathologist. I’m a mom to two daughters. I’m a hobby farmer that loves my chickens. I’m an assault survivor. I’m a widow. I’m a blogger. I kickbox. I tap dance. I love to read. I’m a friend to lots, best friend to a few. I’m a Christian, a Lutheran specifically. I love Jesus and I love to worship Him and put my faith in Him. 

Thinking through my life, what would I say? What is important? What defines me? Who am I? What would be on the paper that someone would put together about me? What are the things that matter to us enough that we want them read at our final goodbyes to our earthly friends and families?

I did a thing this week. I was interviewed for a podcast put together by a guy named Jay Casale in New York. He and I chatted for almost two hours, spilling out the details of my story, my journey. It was freeing and he shared the blog on a Facebook weight loss group I am a member of. People have responded so positively, so kindly. It was difficult and brought up a lot of thoughts and feelings and memories for me. But, I know that telling my story could be healing for myself; and could also help other people too. So I told the whole story of my journey after college. I shared my assault and my stuff about Brian and walked through all of that. People have reached out and shared their own versions of their journey. I have talked over Facebook with a lot of people. And it has been such a rewarding experience. 

So, what about that part of my journey? Are those things important to my story? Important to my journey? I’ve heard so many people tell me “don’t let those things define you!” But is that such a bad thing? They DO define me! They are a piece of my past that I needed to grow through, heal from, learn to absorb into my being. My assault defined who I was in that it was at that point I wasn’t going to be a pediatric oncologist anymore. Brian’s suicide defines who I was as I no longer was Brian’s wife and it made me into a suicide survivor. These moments define me. They ARE me. 

I have debated all week about posting the link to the podcast. There’s a piece of me that is anxious to share but I am going to share it here. This is me. And maybe these words will help someone else realize that these pieces are them too. So if you’d like to listen to the podcast, please do. (There is some swearing, just to warn you!) I’ll post the link in the comments. And if you want to talk or share or ask questions after listening, please do! We all carry things that are hard. We all need help being proud of who we are and confident. We all need help making sure our life lists define who we are. We all need to be kind and support each other through this crazy journey called life. 

This is me! These things define me! And I am certain that at the end of my life, Father God will give me the Golden Buzzer too. 

Never Grow Up...

April and May are birthday months in my house. Emerson turned 8 in April and Amelia just hit 11 in May. We celebrate the little beings that they are, eat cake, do presents, have family dinner and friend-family dinner and just our family dinner. We go on little outings or they get to pick something special. We hug and kiss and sing and celebrate heir milestones. 

This year I found myself maybe shedding some tears. Where exactly do all the minutes and hours go? I have flipped the calendar 11 times to get Amelia to this birthday. It seems like just yesterday I was holding her in my arms, kissing her baby nose and cradling her chubby little baby body against my chest. I was singing my best rendition of “Girl at the Rock Show” while I would change her diaper. She would stop what she was doing and run to the living room to sing Little Big Town or Kenny Chesney. She hated shoes and loved spicy salsa. She was wicked smart and said the best stuff. I often posted her Ameliaisms to Facebook several times a day. 

Suddenly she’s eleven. She is tall and slender. She has an athletic body with strong legs that I envy. She gets embarrassed when I sing to her, even in the privacy of our own home. Her phone is full of songs that I listen to carefully because I know what lyrics my music contained. She rarely asks me to help her with her hair in the morning and if she does it’s usually for recital or production or because she can’t control her amazing, beautiful curls. I look at the beautiful creature that walks through my house and feel a surge of pride, but also pangs of sadness. Five years and she’ll have her license. Seven years and she’ll be graduating from high school. Before I know it she’ll have an amazing job and be married and have babies. I know it’s my job to raise them I just wish I could stop time and freeze these moments forever. 

Emerson was born eight years ago. She came into the world born ready. She was feisty and fierce. She preferred to be held when she slept and didn’t want me to put her down. She was super picky with her eating. She had her own ideas and her own plans. She was strong and graceful and powerful all in one compact little body. Being that she is only eight, she still has most of these qualities. But I am starting to see glimpses of losing my baby to growing up too. She rarely asks me to do her hair anymore either, preferring it to be long down her back. She has picked out her own clothes forever. She likes to do things herself. She is growing up too and I see those little moments. Again, I know it’s my job to raise them. I just wish I could pause time. 

I’m in this weird place where people find themselves, stuck in the middle. My kids are growing up. My parents are aging. And I’m getting older too. I dyed my very gray hair just a few weeks ago. My joints get a little stiffer each day. I look in the mirror and see new wrinkles and new age spots and new pieces of me that look older. 

I often find myself reminiscing and thinking back to when I was little. Laying in the middle of the tall grass in the field and watching the clouds. Chasing butterflies in the garden at my grandpa’s. Riding my bike with my sister. Hours of playing Barbies. I couldn’t wait to grow up. I couldn’t wait to get older. And I like where I am right now. And my babies are talking of the future and getting older and I’m excited to see where their futures lead. But I also wish they’d never grow up. 

In the quiet of the night when I’m thinking about my precious girls growing up, Father God reminds me of Matthew 18:3 “Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.” We all get the chance to be little children again. Father God beckons us to His presence as little children. Trusting Him completely. Leaning into His presence. Relying on His plan and His path for our lives. Being weak in His presence so that He can make us strong. Coming to Him with wide-eyed innocence. Helpless and needing a Father to guard and guide and protect. 

God doesn’t want us to grow up either. Just as I yearn to stop time and hold my girls as little children, God also wants us to enter His presence as little children. We are to come to Him as children. Never grow up. 

So, as we all walk His journey for each of us, another day closer to the finish line to eternal victory, we should all close our eyes and picture our children when they were little. Picture ourselves as little children. And know that this is how our Heavenly Father sees us. Little children. He loves us as little children, holding us close to Him always. 

Never grow up. 

Don’t Fear the Reaper...

We talk a lot about death on our family. It’s not something I’m bragging about. I would like nothing more than to never talk about. To not have death be something that has touched our family. My little girls have known death and loss from they time they were little. And my heart hurts so badly that that is how it has to be. 

The topic of death lately has come around more often than I would hope. The one-year Angelversary of our Grandpa Clay last weekend brought up death. Why did he die? Why can’t he still be here? I miss him so much. Lots of tears and hugs and talking of death. 

All of those grief moments then tie back to losing Brian. Why did daddy kill himself? Why didn’t he choose us? I wish I had a daddy still. Lots of tears and hugs and talking of death.

Right now, Emerson is struggling. So if you’re looking for something specific to pray, pray for my littlest girl. That she would find peace and comfort in life where she’s at. That God would flood her heart with joy and love in being His daughter. That she would know that He is a Father to the fatherless. That He loves her so very much!

Emerson is struggling. She is quick to get angry at peers who talk about their dads. Yelling at a classmate for talking about the fun he had with his dad this weekend. Telling a friend in her dance class that her dad is dead. She’s grieving. Never knowing Brian, but still grieving him. Grieving not having a dad. We have had many conversations about how she can’t be angry because someone else has a dad. It isn’t their fault that her daddy died. But the hurt and the sadness and the pain is there. 

We were sitting on the couch together and I was looking at my Facebook. One of my friend’s 5-year-old daughters has been diagnosed with DIPG, a deadly brain tumor similar to glioblastoma. Things are looking grim for their family and my heart is so sad. Emerson looked at my phone and asked what was wrong with her. I was honest and told her that her name is Rebecca and she is dying. Tears flooded my eyes and she asked why I was sad. I told her that I couldn’t imagine my girls being sick and losing them. And that I was so sad for Rebecca’s family. 

She looked at me and said, “Mommy, if I get sick I want you to tell me if I’m going to die.” My heart sank and my stomach bottomed out. Tears fell faster and she asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to picture my life without her. She smiled at me, leaned against me and declared, “Well, I wouldn’t be sad or scared to know! I want to know that I can be exited because I’m on my way to meet Jesus!”

Faith as small as a mustard seed. Emerson, grieving loss, but also firmly rooted in her belief in Jesus Christ. She know who she belongs to. She knows where she is going when she dies. And I relax because all of our conversations about death lead to the truth that we are going to heaven. That Tom is in heaven. That Grandpa Clay is in heaven. That daddy is in heaven. And that we will be in heaven. 

One of the last verses that I shared with Clay was John 14:2  “In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” Jesus died for our sins and then ascended into heaven. Not to leave us behind and forget about us. No! He went to prepare a place for each and every one of us. There is a room specially picked for us in heaven, waiting for all to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and be saved!

Emerson is grieving. But Emerson gets it! There is joy in her heart, waiting for the day that she gets to run to the arms of Jesus. She assured me it wouldn’t be for a really long time. But whenever God picks for her to go to heaven, she’s ready. She can’t wait to run to her Savior’s open arms. 

We all should be so solid in our faith as Emerson. We grieve the ones we love, but there should also be joy. Joy in knowing that they are celebrating eternal life in heaven! Joy in knowing we will be reunited with the saints that have passed before us! Joy in knowing that we are saved and loved and cherished! Joy in knowing a place has been prepared! It is waiting for God’s timing. Waiting for the day our path and our plan has been fulfilled. Waiting for when God looks upon us and says “Well done, good and faithful servant!” and brings us home. 

Don’t fear death! Embrace the life that comes after our passing. My eight-year-old gets it! She can’t wait to meet Jesus. And I can’t wait for her to meet Jesus! And I can’t wait to meet Jesus. What a glorious day that will be!

Pray for Emerson! But also, pray that your faith can be more like Emerson’s. Faith as small as a mustard seed. And a child shall lead them...