Even There...

Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. --Psalm 139:10

It's 1am and I awake to the pain of contractions.

No, I think.  Not again.

I am 18 weeks pregnant and yesterday there was spotting.  Immediately I know I am losing this baby.  Experience tells me this, for 3 years ago, I had a similar loss.

I don't want to leave the warm comfort of my bed, confirming what I already know.  If I can just lay here a little longer, I can delay the pain I know is coming, even if only for a few minutes.

I'm no longer pregnant.  There was no kicking yesterday, along with the spotting.  The little life inside of me has already slipped away.

I know what I must face, so I will myself out of bed to the bathroom, preparing myself for the sight of blood.  My husband is at my side as the precious still-warm lifeless little body slips out.

My boy.

My perfectly formed, tiny soft boy who fits perfectly in my hand.  Eyes closed, mouth in the shape of an "o"-- like an angel singing God's praises.


He's up there now singing praises right along with the angels.


I grapple to understand how just the other day I felt the flutters, the gentle nudging of legs and arms squirming about.  I know that life is fleeting, I have lived sudden losses before.  Will it always be this way, I wonder?  Will loved ones just keep slipping away without warning, death like a thief in the night?

Even there...

We go to the hospital for there is lots of bleeding now and I bring my boy with me in the car.

How odd, I think, to be bringing my baby to the hospital and not the other way around.  In a daze I welcome the sympathetic care of nurses and doctors around me.  Here, in the ER, they know sadness like this.  They witness trauma, the faces of the bereaved and bewildered each and every day.  These kind faces know all too well the fragility of life and the faces of the grieved.

God knows this grief, too.  He watched His only Son suffer and die, a lamb to the slaughter.  He knows this pain, the pain of a lifeless child.  There is comfort in that.

Even there...

The priest comes to the hospital so we can baptize our little boy.  He's all wrapped up in a tiny blue hat now, a hat knit with love for newborns to wear home.

But my little boy won't be coming home.  

This sweet little hat serves another purpose today.  Fitting perfectly as a blanket, my wee one still wearing his "o" mouth, tucked snugly in all that baby blue.

We need to pick a name.  Brendan was a name we always liked, and Kevin reminds me of the story of St. Brendan the Voyager who sailed his way to the Isle of the Saints.  It's perfect.

Our little boy sailed his way to the saints, too.

The priest pours the water three times, only the smallest droplets needed for his tiny little head.  And still he goes right on singing, that perfect "o" mouth set in endless song.  We recite the familiar words, the words I've said all my life: the Our Father, the Baptismal Promises, though it's hard to get them all out because the tears are coming hard now.

Even there...

I recieve Jesus on my tongue and the words the bible run through my mind--the ones I've heard hundreds of times at funerals (I used to be a music director and have sung at many many funerals), the lyrics I've sung again and again, run through my mind like a melody of comfort: In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, their departure was thought to be an affliction...but they are at peace...may Christ who called you take you home, may angels lead you to our parents side...give eternal rest O Lord and may your light shine on Him forever...even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

I thank God for these words of truth.  I cling to them.

The words of eternity and Truth are branded into my heart, and I didn't even know I had memorized them all until now.  The feel the hope and peace wash over me, right here in this hospital bed of grief and pain and all that red that just keeps coming.  Lord help me get through this long and awful night.  Knowing my Brendan has sailed his way home makes this pain more bearable.

Even there...

After a long and sleepless night we are home.  

Home without him. 

I want an image of St. Brendan to view, so I search online.  And I find this:

photo source

The words--the words along the border are the very same words of comfort I had recited to myself just the night before:

Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

I read the entire psalm and of course it's all so perfect, so fitting:

You have searched me, Lord, 

 and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise;
  you perceive my thoughts from afar. 

 You discern my going out and my lying down;
  you are familiar with all my ways. 

 Before a word is on my tongue
  you, Lord, know it completely. 

 You hem me in behind and before,
  and you lay your hand upon me. 

 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
  too lofty for me to attain.

 Where can I go from your Spirit?
  Where can I flee from your presence? 

 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
  if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. 

 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
  if I settle on the far side of the sea,

 even there your hand will guide me,
  your right hand will hold me fast. 

 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
  and the light become night around me,” 

 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
  the night will shine like the day,
  for darkness is as light to you.

 For you created my inmost being;
  you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 

 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
  your works are wonderful,
  I know that full well. 

 My frame was not hidden from you
  when I was made in the secret place,
  when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;
  all the days ordained for me were written in your book
  before one of them came to be. 

 How precious to me are your thoughts, God!
  How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them,
  they would outnumber the grains of sand—
  when I awake, I am still with you.

 If only you, God, would slay the wicked!
  Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty! 

 They speak of you with evil intent;
  your adversaries misuse your name. 

 Do I not hate those who hate you, Lord,
  and abhor those who are in rebellion against you? 

 I have nothing but hatred for them;
  I count them my enemies. 

 Search me, God, and know my heart;
  test me and know my anxious thoughts. 

 See if there is any offensive way in me,
  and lead me in the way everlasting.

The Lord knows me, He knows this pain.  I am precious to Him and was knit in the secret place, just like my Brendan. He had a plan for my boy all along. I cannot outrun His love, for even the night is like the day.  He will keep right on pursuing me to offer His comfort, dispelling the darkness. He will carry me through. 


I know I have, once more, encountered a thin place.  I've known thin places before--the precious sacred spaces, the spaces between heaven and earth, where you feel God's loving touch so powerfully you can almost reach right out and touch heaven.  I thank God for this newest thin place, and know I will be ok. I will thrive, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.


Even there.

 

Lessons Learned from the Poolside

Over the summer my kids took swimming lessons.  One hour a day the littles tested their courage kicking and splashing, daring themselves to try harder each time, be a tad bolder, go a bit deeper.  And as they splashed and stretched and grappled and learned, I did some stretching and learning of my own, too.

We were a rag-tag bunch of moms, crowding around picnic tables watching our children through wet windows and sliding glass doors.   A motley crew from various towns, all ages and stages of motherhood.  At first glance, all we seemed to have in common was the shared goal that our children might conquer the waters below.  And yet, despite our apparent differences, over time a community began to form.

We'd greet each other day after day, towels in hand, polite smiles on our faces.  We'd greet one another with friendly hellos, inhaling the smell of chlorine wafting on summer breezes.  We'd discuss the weather and other "safe" topics, like toddler naptimes and eating preferences. Some moms were more chatty than others, one wearing the face of dogged exhaustion, a newborn sleeping obliviously upon her weary chest.  Another scribbling frantic scholastic notes, grad-school text book perched in her lap.  Others struggled corralling wiggly toddlers missing their naps while many just looked relieved to have a small break in their otherwise chaotic day of mom-challenges.

The vibe of the group felt a bit awkward and contrived, much like the first day of school, where everyone wants to blend and "fit in".  Some people escaped to the quiet safety of their cell phones, while others fled for the isolation of their cars.  But the rest of us hung in past the awkward, willing to be there, to give interaction a go.


And then one afternoon something changed.  One of the ladies, a more vocal mom of the group, took a risk.  She casually mentioned how she had "scored big" at the Good Will, buying back-to-school clothes at half price.  And in that moment, at those simple words uttered, an unheard sigh of relief spread across the group.  In the moments that followed women opened up about financial stresses and strains, one asking for the location of the nearest dollar store, another complaining of rising prices.  In a flurry of excitement moms opened up about cable bills, grocery store budgets, the insanity of gas prices.  And then they went even deeper.  One mom shared her guilt over working full time, another her feelings of failure in dealing with toddler tantrums.  Over the course of an hour, these moms shared their hearts, their worries, their struggles, their fears.  Community was born.  All because this one brave soul who was willing to take a leap of faith and try at being real.


Amazing things can happen when one is willing to take a risk. It's like this gift that gives the rest of us permission to struggle, to admit we don't have it all pulled together.  To share how life gets hard and how motherhood, work, family and obligations pull and tug at our hearts, muddling minds and threatening sanity.  Because of one brave soldier, willing to put her real right out there for all to see, hearts connected and friendships were born.


It's a beautiful thing to behold, this thing called community.  It's what we all crave, what we yearn for--a feeling of belonging and connection.  It's what we're supposed to have, how God made us to be.  And all it takes is just one brave soul, risking a little embarrassment to try and connect, setting fears and fakery aside.  Getting down to matters of the heart--the stuff of us all.

I wish I could say that one brave soul was me, but it wasn't.  But maybe next time it will be.  And maybe next time it will be you, too.  For when we are willing to show up and be real, to share our broken, scared, scarred up places we feel a little less alone.  We realize we're all in this struggle together, this thing called life where mountains of pressure loom large and expectations tug on our shoulders threatening to pull us right down.  But when we take the plunge, we help one another to grow, to learn, to listen and love.  Our hearts get a little bigger and softer in this simple act of exposure.


As the weeks of lessons came to a close, the kids wrapped them up with a jump off the diving board.  Each child needed to decide whether they'd jump right in, trusting someone would be there to catch them, or if they'd instead smile, wave and back away.  Some of the kids amazed us all as they jumped right off the diving board without a moment's hesitation, brave adventurous smiles stretching wide across wet cheeks. We clapped and admired their courage. Others took baby steps, knees knocking a bit while fighting the urge to run away.  We clapped just as hard for these sweet ones, knowing all too well about conquering fears and taking a risk.  And then it was time for my own scared-brave boy to stare down the edge of that board.  It took not one but two tries for him--not ready at first to take the leap.  A look of teary-eyed disappointment spread across his little face but then-- he tried again.  Determined  to conquer his fears my first born willed himself off that plank.  With a mix of fear and resolve in his eyes he jumped.  Hot tears sprung to my eyes at his victory as I realized we all need to practice diving right in.

I encourage you to take your knobbly-kneed jump, the one that holds you back and keeps you safe--and yet isolated.  There is such beauty and hope and love in the depths below.  Just do it. Take your leap.

Slow and Steady Wins the Race

 It was a Monday morning (Mondays. I know.) and I was feeling particularly unsteady, dashing around trying to catch up on things that had fallen behind.  Megan had wet her bed. There were party trays to put away two weeks after the party.  Mount laundry towered high yet again, despite my efforts to keep up.  Several reminders later, Adam continued forgetting his manners at the breakfast table.  While schooling the kids (late start, no less) Luke wrote backwards Ps, an old habit popping in like an unwelcome guest.  Yes, it was just one of those days.  So, I did what I often do in response to those days; I tried to fix it. In a tornado of manic energy, swirling round and round I tried to the fix the Ps, fix the manners, fix the bedding, the party platters, mount laundry...fix, fix, fix. Trying to make all clean and tidy, as if long-term projects could be fixed in mere minutes, and Rome could be built in a day.  But a tornado leaves just one thing in its wake--utter destruction.  I felt it in my heart and worse yet, could see it reflected in the eyes of the kids: I had failed.  Instead of restoring peace and order, my whirlwind of "fixing" had left me completely spent and barren...like a tree bearing no fruit.

Sitting down, wallowing in my own defeat,  I then remembered the prayer I had read earlier that morning:

Divine Teacher, I can be rather picky sometimes, setting up the circumstances and paramenters within which I think you must work.  I can be so self-obsessed, seeing myself as central to all, ignoring what you are doing, slowly and patiently, in this world of human hearts and lives.  The fruits of your spirit are: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.  Today I will live these in gratitude.  Help me be patient with myself and with others when we seem to bear no fruit.  I trust that you are with us and know how to bring about growth in each one.  Amen.  --Ordinary Grace

This.  This is what I had been doing all morning--ignoring God, relying on myself to try and DoItAllRightThisMoment, sprinting like a flailing fool toward the proverbial finish line. Like the classic story The Tortoise and the Hare, I had read to the kids a few weeks back.  The tale that leaves me feeling like a big fat hypocrite, knowing full well that I'm that hare.  But God cares nothing for the fruitless business of hustle and bustle, of hurry and worry and lack of endurance. In His infinite wisdom, He moves slowly, patiently, steadily plodding along in our hearts, working in mysterious ways.  Ever-present, never failing, God is the tortoise walking inside each of us.
 

And when I feel like that barren tree, picked clean with leaves all shriveled brown on the ground, I know that He is there, working within me, teaching in slow and steady whispers.

 Slow and steady wins the race.

Though I cannot see the finish line, nor when and how the race will end, I can rest in the knowledge that He is here, beating out a path of growth within.  Revealing in bits and pieces His wisdom, alleviating the need to sprint and scurry and spin.  We can rest in Him.  And on the days I feel all wrong, like a backwards P in child's scrawl,  I know that slowly, steadily, He is growing me.  Though the growth is often too slow to see, that Wise Tortoise goes right on walking, performing micro-miracles, day by day, within each of us. It's all just a matter of trust, my word for 2013.


I trust that you are with us, and know how to bring about growth in each one. Amen.


So maybe there's hope for this harried hare, after all?  I continue to trust He will keep on plodding along in my heart, encouraging me to, one day, reach victory.

 I am confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

Phil. 1:6 




shared with:

Imperfect Prose

The Space Between

I wake up, throat burning, eyes bleary from shedding big fat tears of mom-worry.  Today is the day my sweet little boy, just 3 months old with the mouth like mine and the eyes like his, is getting cut open.  He has a hernia which needs repairing.  I feel helpless, aware of how little control we have over what life brings.  The big life and death moments, these are the things we cannot rule, the things that matter most.

My sweet boy is hungry and I cannot feed him.  Belly needing to stay empty for surgery, my eyes plead apology as I gaze down at him.  He grins wide, not realizing what this day will bring.


Hand in hand, my husband and I bring our 4th born to the hospital, searching for courage but finding little.  We whisper frantic prayers, trying hard to stay calm.


It's standard procedure.  Should only take an hour.  Happens all the time.  They bounce right back.  These phrases bring little comfort, but we cling to them nonetheless, willing to try on anything that  cloaks the pain and worry.


Down the hall we march past other kids and parents.  United in our stress, we don't need to speak.  We exchange knowing glances finding comfort in fellow faces lined with anxiety.  And the children--waiting so brave. The little blond boy, pale faced, hugging a Garfield stuffed animal plays video games.  The sweet little girl with the pony-tail swinging and dress twirling about, prances across the waiting room while worried parents hover nearby, pained smiles across their faces.  They glance at our baby carrier and wince.  A baby.  We silently wonder what each one is here for--what little broken places need fixing.


We walk the corridor to the pre-op room and I lose it.  You never realize just how much you'd sacrifice for your child until you're confronted with their frailty.  I would give anything, do anything to avoid my sweet little boy being taken away--life in the hands of a surgeon we barely know.  And I know this kind of love comes from elsewhere.  From Love Itself.  From love on a cross.  And every painful brush with death I've had comes to mind--thoughts of eternity looming too close. I find myself dangling in the uncomfortable space between Earth and Heaven, where the separation feels thin, like moth's wings.  When your heart just might burst from the momentousness of it all, and you're broken open to life's bigger lessons, delivered in painful packaging.

The nurses try their best to console and pass boxes of tissue, because they know.  They see these looks every day.  They wear crazy happy shoes of tie-dye and zebra stripes, don teddy bear scrubs and name tags with shiny stickers.  Anything to make this place feel more like a warm happy place instead of this space between.  Despite their efforts to comfort, the clock on the wall looks cold, metering time much too slowly.  It cares not for solace, wears no face of pity.  It just keeps pace-- this rhythm of life and death.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.  My little one is taken from my arms, crying hysterically from hunger and confusion and now its time to wait.

We all deal with these moments differently.  The man eating crackers by the handful, tossing crinkly red wrappers in the bin nearby.  The brunette woman sipping hot chocolate, glancing nervously at her iphone, a welcome distraction.  There are muted chuckles across the room--and I understand the times when you just can't help but laugh instead of cry.  A man in the room next door faces Mecca, alternately bowing and clutching his chest, eyes closed, whispering reverent prayers.  I can't help but stare in awe at this private moment between a man and his faith. The space between brings us all to our knees and I stare at my empty baby carrier, waiting, wondering.


Surgeons come with reports for some--just a little longer now.  Things went very well.  The face of relief is universal and I want to reach out and celebrate right along with those whose wait is over.  They hug teddy bears tight and wipe tears of relief, unable to contain broad smiles of joy.  And though it's only an hour it feels like an eternity and finally our smiling face comes to greet us, too.  Everything's fine, the hernia was large, you can come and see him now.


Down the hall, sighs of relief rise in our throats.  We pass other children, some recovering, some entering their own space between.  There's a brave bald-headed little girl being wheeled away and mingled with my own relief is the pain of others right here in this place--the place where life and death come together.  My heart aches for this girl and the others like her, and I am faced with my sense of helplessness once more.  The pain of this world is too large, too real, too present.  The banged up, broken, ripped up places inside us all that need stitching back together and the knowledge that only He can truly repair it.

I hold my sweet groggy boy in my arms, a hazy fog taking over from exhaustion and emotional overload.  My mind is fuzzy but my heart swells big as I hold my little boy to my chest, wires and monitors still attached.  The computer screen throbs signs of life but I know the biggest signs of life are the throbs of love we feel here, in the space between.  Thankful for another life lesson of sacrificial love, the universal language, this bumpy road of motherhood brings, I prepare to take my little one home.  Though relieved my heart still aches for the others in this place--the ones still wearing their faces of bravery and worry.  I want to tell them it will all be ok, but I don't know that and who really does but our Maker?  The elevator doors open as the clock on the wall keeps metering out the moments--the big, the little, the ones that make you yearn to reach out and grasp the hand of the kneeling man and the girl sipping cocoa.  Here, in this sacred space between we are all swirling together like tie-dyed shoes, trying our best to love and to live.  In the space between, we are One Body.

 

"So in Christ we, though many, form one body, and we all belong to each other."

Rom. 12:5

Shared With:

 Imperfect Prose

He Speaks

Have you ever wrestled in life with a question, praying that God would give you an answer?  We pray, and we wait, hoping the answer will come quickly, but many times...it doesn't.    It's so hard to wait and wonder when we'll have our answer.  But sometimes, just once in awhile, God answers us right away.  And when this happens it's AMAZING.  I was blessed recently with the latter experience.  I am still in awe to have experienced God's voice so powerfully, so poetically.

 

As I've mentioned in recent posts, I've gone through some significant life changes over the past several months.  Between moving and having a newborn all at once, this past Fall and winter were really difficult.  And when things get tough for me, the hobbies and interests I love most fall by the wayside.  Things like art, cooking (the "fun" kind, I mean!), gardening, crafts, reading and yes--blogging.  These are the things that really keep growing and energized, and in their absence I started feeling really down.  Thankfully I'm feeling better now.  Life has settled down a bit, and I'm able to reinvest myself.  But as I delve back into creative pursuits, I've been assessing which things I should take up again and which I might pull back from, since my free time is so limited.


I started to question whether or not I have meaningful things to write, since most days I feel like my brain resembles a big pile of mush (newborns will do that to you!).  Some of the deeper things I love to write take time to flesh out--like deeper faith topics and life lessons.  I'm just not a "fast" writer when it comes to the deeper stuff.   The insights learned require stillness--something a homeschooling mom with a newborn does not get much of!  And there are so many truly gifted writers out there.  Writers who inspire, who write consistently, and probably with much greater speed and skill than I.  The internet is a pretty big place and I guess I wondered if what this oft-mush-minded mom has to say even matters in the grand scheme of things.

So, I prayed about it.  I asked God to illuminate my path--to show me the ways he wants me to invest myself.  Should I keep writing, even though it's hard to find the time?  Do I have anything meaningful to say? And HE ANSWERED .  He answered the very next day.  I sat down for my morning prayer and opened my meditation book--the one I've been reading for Easter.  This poem was there on the page:

When I Write

when I write

of the joy

of life with God

I think of you

being

for that moment

one with me

then I wonder

why that moment

ever ended

and I long

for when I don't

-Ralph Wright O.S.B.

Right away, I knew this was my answer.  It was one of those powerful moments where you truly feel the presence of God right there, swelling in your heart.  Those moments that knock you off your feet as your eyes well up.  Ok, God wants me to keep writing.

But sometimes God takes things one step further.  He kind of clobbers you over the head with His answer, just in case you weren't really listening.  (I can be a bit slow sometimes!)  So, God gave me an even clearer answer.  That very same evening at bedtime, I thought I'd do some reading.  I pulled a random book off  the shelf to thumb through--a book I've read before and thought would be good to read again.  I noticed I'd bookmarked a page several months prior and opening to the marked page,  I saw this:

Let It Be Written

Why write?

Why get out pen and pad,

chain oneself to a desk,

wait on the muses,

dwell in solitude

while the rest of the world

frolics to and fro?

Prestige?

Money?

To stem the tide of time?

Why, why write?

The psalmist had a motive:

"Let this be written for ages to come

that a people yet unborn may praise the Lord" (Ps 102:18)

Again the tears started flowing and I knew that, I need to keep writing.  Though time is limited and my thoughts a jumble, I will write.   I look back on this experience I am still in awe that I would receive such a powerfully crystal clear answer. Feeling completely unworthy of such a gift, I'm so thankful for this grace in my life. 

So, if you find yourself in a spiritual dry spell, questioning if God hears your prayers, know that HE IS THERE.  He hears every single word. Each struggle, each plea, each whisper and outcry for grace and mercy, He hears them all.   When the right time, He will guide you in His own wonderfully unique way.  He only asks that you place your trust in Him.

Trust just happens to be my word for 2013.  The word I chose to fully embrace, in the midst of change and transition.  Trusting in His guidance I continue on my path. writing along the way.

2013...a year of change and trust

It's been ages since I've last written in this little space.  So much has happened over the past few months which has left me with no time to tap away at the keyboard, though I've had lots I've wanted to share!  The biggest change that took up all of my time this past Fall was moving to a new house.  I know there are people out there who are able to sell their house, pack up their belongings, find a new house, unpack their stuff and not have it cause Complete Life Upheaval, and to those who fit in this category-- I am in complete awe of you!  I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite.  A creature of routine and habit and all things familiar & comfortable, moving has been a HUGE change, and rather difficult one at that.  Happily, we are just now starting to settle in as new routines develop.  As we begin to make this new house our home, another huge change is on the horizon--our newest bundle of joy is due in just 4 short weeks! 

All of these life changes are tremendous blessings--I hope I don't sound like I'm complaining, because I'm not.  We have been richly blessed with a larger space for our growing family and this little life kicking away inside of me reminds me of more good things that lie ahead.  But I just wanted to share how this past season has really s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d me, forcing me to rely more on God, trusting that He would lead the way through all of the changes and bumps in the road. 

Trust.

Trust is not something that comes easily to me.  I struggle with trying to control things, to rely on myself instead of trusting God to lead the way.  So, on the heels of big changes with more soon-to-come, I thought that TRUST would be the perfect word for me to work on in 2013.

This year I'm hoping to find more peace amidst the unknown, to trust that things will unfold as they ought, in their own time.  I want to embrace change, letting it grow and shape me into the person I'm meant to be.   And most of all I want to be optimistic about that big unknown that lies ahead, rather than overwhelmed and filled with trepidation.

Last year my theme word was courage.  Although I think I grew in that area (and hopefully continue to?) I have to say that a tough first trimester last summer combined with the moving craziness of the Fall overshadowed my focus considerably.  In all honesty I feel like the second half of last year I was pretty much in survival mode, and not really growing much at all (or perhaps the challenging busy seasons of life make us grow but we're just too busy to notice?).  Anyway, I finished out 2012 feeling very depleted. 

But now I am ready to renew my focus (as best I can with a newborn coming, anyway!).    I love the way the cold dark short winter days force us to slow down and turn inward. I'm looking forward to reading more, praying more, reflecting more and stopping to take in the little things that bring me joy...all the while growing in trust.

Happy (belated!) New Year to all of you, and I hope to blog a bit more regularly (as baby allows me to!) in the near future!

If you have a theme word for 2013 I'd love to hear about it.  Please feel free to share below!

Full of Grace

Embracing grace isn't always an easy thing to do. Grace--that free gift. A heavenly touch from the Almighty. The very thing we long for in this world as our sustenance. So how then, could this be so difficult to let in? To be enshrouded in grace is as euphoric a feeling we can ever experience on Earth and yet, too often we walk away from it. We turn our backs and say "no thank you."

But why?

We turn away in fear. We fear the heavenly touch that fills us up, that renews. Fear divides us as we are made vulnerable, hearts susceptible to hurt. We wonder, "Can I really trust in God?" "What if He lets me down?" "What if I trust and fall flat on my face?" Fear separates us but still the Lord beckons. We only need to take a leap of faith to make our way over the wall of fear. But making our way requires trust. Falling into grace. I'm not talking about cautiously peeking from the ledge to admire the view from afar. I'm talking about DIVING...like those trust falls you do when you're a kid--arms across your chest, falling backwards, trusting someone will be there to catch you. That's living grace.

There was a time not too long ago when I didn't fully embrace a life of grace. I treated the Lord the way we often treat a security blanket; spending some cuddle time when needing a bit of warmth and comfort, the rest of the time leaving it heaped in the corner unused, collecting dust. This is not an active, thriving faith. This is the rejection of grace.


It took a tragedy for me to fully embrace grace. My full body trust-fall came three years ago on a Tuesday in May when my mother, schizophrenic and desperate traded life for a rope, depression's end for last breath. My sister's words still echo in my ear--the phone call that changed my life forever, words blunt from shock and despair, "She's dead. She killed herself. She's gone."



These are the defining moments in our lives; the times when we are forced to confront what we truly believe. Moments like these strip away all that is trivial. The inane humdrum worries of the everyday scatter like ashes in the breeze. What's left is our core, our soul...soft and vulnerable. Open. Open to let God in. This is the gift of grace. Right there, in the midst of unbearable pain and the reality that feels more nightmarish than genuine we are given a chance to grow. Transform. Become more like God. It's a tall order, this invitation to a life of grace. There's no obligation to sign up. Only the gentle whisper in the ear that compels us to sojourn for a fuller life. Who will take the leap?


My grace path took time. Months of anguished tears sobbed silently into wet pillows, nights of wondering whether joy was forever lost. Eventually the pain gave way to moments of peace. The return of laughter. And something else began to stir in me. A feeling of empathy and compassion. Almost by accident I found myself doing things like giving money to the man on the side of the road. The man with the cardboard sign reading, "Will work for food." The man with face streaked, clothes crusted with dirt, who took my hand in his and uttered, "God bless you." The man whose hardship and pain I can't even imagine, who stood with nothing and enabled my heart to meet God. I yearned for more. Giving my heart away filled me up with more joy than I had ever imagined. God's grace, rushing into the gaps and pot holes of my weary soul.




I decided then and there that I wanted my life to matter. Not for me, but for others. By a force much greater than me I longed to touch others, help ease their burdens and pain. Nothing on earth was more important to me than doing God's work. It's hard. Emptying out the cobwebs of superficiality and pettiness takes time. Making each day count requires renewed effort and dedication. A life of grace is a choice we make again and again each day. Our daily trust fall.

"God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them... show this same diligence to the very end, so that what you hope for may be fully realized."
(Heb. 6:10-11)

Open your heart to the amazing gift of grace. Leave the dust of the desert walk behind. Take the leap.

Safe Keeping

She gives me things to hold. Precious treasures to watch over. Guardian of all that is ordinary and all that is dear. Safe keeping of things great and small. Placing her trust in me that I will hold them safe--store them for when she comes looking. Trusting with wreckless abandon--heart filled to the brim with love and security. I'm struck by how easily trust comes to her. I long to trust like this.

I hold these precious things for my daughter. Tiny treasures.

Dragon's wing.

Bauble.

Little doll.



I am my daughter's keeper. Palm outstretched--ready to hold, to keep safe.



She places her treasure in my hands and toddles off on another adventure-nary a doubtful glance cast behind. Such trust. Such love. Like Peter gliding across water, never faltering.

A mother is always extending her loving hand. Our Father extends His hand to us. His loving palm outstretched to hold our treasures dear. Always present. Ever trustworthy and ready to keep us safe.


We are His precious treasures.


Pour yourself into His trustworthy hands. Trust that he will keep you safe.


His hold is firm, never letting go.


My daughter, not yet two, teaching me how to love and to trust. Ordinary mother moment pregnant with wisdom. Salve to my hardened heart that fears. Such a simple lesson, yet so difficult to learn. Lesson that needs repeating over and over until we grasp it.


She brings me things to hold. I give my heart for Him to hold.

What do you give to His outstretched hand?



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Thought-Provoking Thursday