London, baby!

Confession: this particular leg of our journey is the one I, personally, was most excited about.

London, United Kingdom.

A city filled with history. Exactly my speed.

Speaking of speed, let me back up and share a few details about the Formula One Grand Prix in Abu Dhabi (Not to be confused with Abu the monkey.)(I HAD to get that in here somewhere.)

It was much more exhilarating than I thought it would be. The guys were, of course, totally stoked, and I was excited that they were excited...but I've never followed racing much, and only care about it in a "yeah, my husband and boys watch that on the weekends sometimes while I'm cleaning the kitchen and getting groceries" kind of way.

But it was a spectacular experience. Every time the cars, going over 200 miles an hour, raced toward us down the straightaway, then braked sharply to turn the 90 degree corner, jockeying for position and screeching their tires, I gasped and clenched my hands together, thoroughly enjoying the rush of adrenaline.

All in all, I'm glad I went. It was very cool.

After the race, we walked to the adjoining mall for supper, where we realized, for the second time during our visit to the United Arab Emirates, that their malls are the size of our cities. (I'm exaggerating, but only a little bit. I've never seen anything so gigantic. And we walked the entire dang length of the building, I swear.) In the food court, because we are clearly Americans, we ordered Burger King and Pizza Hut. (insert self deprecating, bemused eye-roll here.)

We rose before the sun and boarded a plane in Abu Dhabi. A fancy plane. A double decker, with a bar in first class and apartments available if you were willing to pay 60 THOUSAND dollars for it. We were NOT willing, (duh) but even economy class was swanky. (by the way, why do they have to call it economy, like that dresses it up? Just say cheap seats, people. That's what they are, and we all know it. No reason to try and make it better with flowery words.)(Tangent ended.)

And that brings us up to London. Where I turned into a total history geek, as expected. I read all the things I could find to read, and when there was no information available, I made Heath turn on his WiFi hotspot so I could use it to google information.

Our first cab driver of the day called our accents funny. And he regaled us with jokes, historical information, and boasts about his city. When he told us that London was the best city on earth because no one was allowed to carry a gun, I wanted to remind him: "Um, sir, we are Americans. You know, the home of the wild, wild west? We are a bunch of cowboys, according to the rest of the world. We have the 2nd amendment...we aren't really impressed by that last little tidbit. Move back to the jokes." Ah, the diversity of world culture.

I wish that we could've spent several more days in London. I am pretty sure I will always want more time in historically rich cities.

But what we saw...was magical. We hopped on a double decker tour bus outside our hotel, and away we went. Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Parliament, Westminster Abbey...and much more. We ate fish and chips and drank mulled cider at a local London Pub. We ordered lattes from a tiny, owner operated cafe. We rode the London Eye after dark. We walked around shivering because it was so flipping cold. We had the time of our lives.

It was a perfect way to celebrate Heath's 40th birthday, which, if I haven't said so already, was the main reason for the entire eight day adventure. We finished off the celebration of my favorite man in the world with supper at a nice restaurant, and another harrowing cab ride.

And now we are bound for home.

Customs in the London Heathrow airport was just shy of being strip searched, and all four of us find ourselves as excited to be on our way back to the land of the free and the home of the brave as we were to depart on our whirlwind, globe-trotting, birthday bash.

The United States of America is calling to our hearts, as everyone's homeland calls to them, I imagine. But mostly, we long for our sweet kids; for their kisses and hugs, and the way they smell, and how loud and rowdy they are. We cannot wait to hear their voices calling us "Mom and Dad."

We are ready to be home.

Where everyone is free to choose how to worship. And everyone can drink the water straight from the tap. And our phone chargers work in every outlet. And we have a WiFi package. And guns. And we drive on the correct side of the street.

London was fantastic, but there really is no place like home.

Abu Dhabi

I wanted to add, after the title "not to be confused with Abu the monkey" but I knew only my kids and a few others would understand the Aladdin reference...and so I didn't.

My second title idea was "more of the cultural phenomenon," except it doesn't have quite the same ring to it as my first idea. So I settled for terribly boring. Sigh. I feel like a titling failure.

Abu Dhabi is surprisingly different from Dubai. We had to drive through a legitimate desert to arrive here, and the haze of sand is present in the air...and in my eyes every time the wind blows.

The call to prayer rings out much louder, which either means they have better speakers at the mosques, or that there is a mosque much closer to our hotel here than in Dubai.

The breakfast buffet is another difference. In Dubai it was an international spread, featuring pizza and egg rolls and baked beans (yes, on the breakfast buffet...) but here, in the more traditional Abu Dhabi, I was interested and excited to see an entirely authentic assortment of foods. There was an olive bar, several bowls of dates, hummus (YUM), fruit, and platters of sandwiches and pastries and cheeses. Bacon and sausage are clearly labeled either "chicken" or "turkey" as there is no pork to be found or consumed in the UAE. I loved the breakfast experience here. I wished I could've discussed it with my kids, and shared the cultural differences with them.

The Grand Mosque we visited last night was one of the most beautiful architectural buildings I've ever seen. Breathtaking. Intricate. No expense spared. Magnificent and awe-inspiring. We took hundreds of pictures which won't do justice to any of it.

There were very strict dress code rules. We knew about them beforehand, but forgot to take a couple of things into account. Women had to be completely covered. Long pants, long sleeves, a scarf covering neck and hair. We knew that. But we didn't know that they had to be loose fitting (baggy) clothes...and so we had to adjust what we were wearing, or risk being asked to don a traditional robe and head covering. Many, many other women visiting the mosque either didn't take the time to research proper attire, or they didn't care, or they WANTED to wear the garb, because for every two women we saw in long sleeves and pants and scarves of their own, there were at least 5 women in abayas that they were instructed to put on over their clothes before entry was permitted. Also, we read that men could wear short-sleeved shirts, but didn't account for the fact that visible tattoos would not be allowed...and so our friend, Patrick, was able to experience the long white robe kindly forced on him by the guard.

The long, droning wail of the call to prayer rang out while we toured. We watched in awe as men began to run, desperate to arrive at the "Male prayer hall" in time for the evening prayers. The "Female prayer hall" was located on the opposite end of the mammoth building, and women headed that way with equal haste. I can't begin to describe the sadness that overtook me as I witnessed the haste. The people were devout and excited and committed to go into a room and pray...but, they had to go into a certain room, dressed a certain way, and be separated from their spouse in order to do so.

A lump rose in my throat, thinking of all the times my husband and I have grasped hands together, wherever we happened to be, and prayed to God, the Almighty, the ever-present Lord of Hosts...and He heard us where we were, however we were dressed. I won't spend time on this particular tangent, although I could. I did turn to Ashley and whisper, "I hear the call to prayer too. Aren't you glad we can stand right here and pray if we want to?" And she agreed. And then I said "I think the guys should go into the men's prayer hall and pray. They don't have to go in there to talk to God. But they can take the Holy Spirit and a few angels with them." And she smiled, indulging my Patty Bausum moment in the way all my true friends do.

Not being able to touch my husband while in the mosque was another thing I knew to expect, but found much more difficult than I had expected. I didn't realize how often I touched him out of habit. Interlocking fingers, occasional hand placed on shoulder or arm to make sure he was still close by and aware of me...I do that a lot, apparently. Finally, after barely catching myself several times, I crossed my arms tightly, and spent the remainder of our tour that way. I watched Patrick reach back, probably not even realizing he was doing it, holding his hand out for Ashley to take. And when she didn't, he turned, looking for her...and then remembered.

I left the mosque feeling amazed by the beauty of the structure and skill of the craftsmen, somber thinking of the inability to pray anywhere and with anyone I wanted, and supremely relieved to be able to uncover my head and wrap my arms around Heath.

We visited an old market, called a souk, this morning, and that was one of my favorite cultural experiences. Shops devoted to selling fresh spices, shops that sold every variety of dates, shops with silk scarves in every color combination you can imagine. I could've walked the corridors between shops all day long, and never grown tired of it.

Alas, though, there was a little thing called Formula One racing...the main reason we made this trip in the first place. And so we changed from our conservative, souk appropriate garb, into our racetrack attire, and headed there for the qualifying round.

At the gate, we were separated into male and female entrance lines. At first we thought it was because we had purses that needed to be scanned, until we noticed several men carrying backpacks in other lines. Ashley looked at me and spoke in hushed, vehement tones. "I do NOT like the way they treat us here." Indeed, there were 4 lines devoted to taking the tickets and credentials of the men, and only one for women.

There are too many things to document them all, too many wonderful experiences, too many moments of emotional upheaval, and even if I could somehow find all the words and had all the screen space to fill with them...I am just too exhausted.

And so I am posting this at midnight in Abu Dhabi, which is early afternoon in the USA, and bidding you all goodnight!

Tomorrow is race day. Stay tuned.

Dubai

I wonder if the shock of another culture ever becomes less dramatic.

Being that I am not what most would consider "well traveled," I find myself acutely aware of the differences between my own little "world" and the multi-cultural world outside the American South.

And, certainly, this particular trip boasts the most glaring differences of any place I have ever visited.

The United Arab Emirates is literally on the other side of the world from North Carolina.

While there will occasionally be a displaced Yankee gracing the streets and restaurants and grocery stores south of the Mason-Dixon line, saying "you guys" and forgetting to say "yes ma'am" and driving aggressively and staring blankly when someone offers grits as a meal...that cultural gap pales in comparison to the hotels and streets and beaches and airports of Dubai, UAE. (I giggle now at my own metaphorical turn of phrase, because it is ironically true in the most literal sense here. In the USA, I am a relatively olive-skinned person. In the United Arab Emirates...people probably want to blink and squint when they see me walking by. I am, quite accurately, pale in comparison.)

Because I am nothing if not a person who wants to be over-prepared and completely informed about a destination I will be visiting, I read as much as I could, and asked as many people as I knew, what to expect, and how to dress, and all the rest of the truly important things.

And still, the shock remains.

From the first moments of boarding the gigantic airplane, where the people pressed in on every side with no claustrophobia or thought of personal space, to the arrival in the airport and the stringent security enforced by Arabian garbed border patrol...I am feeling very much like a little bitty country girl with two left feet and an accent no one, not even the English speaking, can understand.

SO many languages present themselves to my ears. French, and Spanish, and several I can't recognize...and differently accented English from my own.

It's a sun-soaked melting pot, Dubai, much more so than anywhere I have been before.

After 13 hours on a plane, which included the most miserable night of sleep of my life,(and by sleep I mean dozing off long enough for my neck to get a crick or my arm to fall asleep or my forehead to smack onto someone else's shoulder or the people walking back and forth to the bathroom to smack into me on their way by) I was nearly too exhausted to mentally catalog all I was seeing for the first time...nearly.

But I made the effort, because I knew I would have a moment to reflect, and record, what it was like to visit a Muslim country.

We brought appropriate clothing, even if many of the other visitors to our hotel did not. (see above mentioned statement about being properly prepared) but I still feel under-dressed when walking by women with their heads covered, and entire families in religious garb, and men who stare at us strangely.

I wonder if they are as unused to my appearance as I m to theirs. Surely not. There are people from every part of the world here, and everyone looks and talks and dresses differently.

It's more than appearances I wonder about, though. I wonder, as I make eye-contact with, and smile at, every person I can, if they ponder the type of person I am the way I ponder them.

Are they angry that I made eye contact in the first place? I didn't read about that being taboo here...but I didn't read EVERYTHING.

Are they praying for my eternal soul when they see my in a knee length skirt and my hair uncovered? (And because I am nothing if not my mother's daughter, you can rest assured that I AM praying for the souls of everyone I see.)

Are they glad for the tourist business that I represent, or do they feel put out by the way their city has become so modern, losing some of its culture to the concrete and lights and peoples of the world?

It's Thanksgiving Day in America, at least it will be when the sun comes up there. Here, there is no turkey cooking, or football on television, or family arriving.

There is a crowded beach, and a cool Indian Ocean breeze, and every color and shape and language and bathing suit type you can imagine.

I love it all. I wish I could soak it into my pores the way I am soaking in the Arabian rays. I wish that some of who I am would seep out of me and onto others, so that a little of my culture becomes theirs, and a little of theirs becomes mine.

That is what a melting pot is all about, after all.

The days are jammed full ahead of us, and its exciting and overwhelming and EXPENSIVE, but for a few hours today, I am able to stop and think, and enjoy, and ponder, and pray.

I pray blessings on this country, and it's people...and I pray that the love of Jesus would seep out of me, and somehow, because He is powerful enough to do it, the Holy Spirit would begin to move here. It's a rather large prayer, and certainly more than I could ever begin to hope to see accomplished...but maybe my smile to the sweet lady who exchanged our money this morning will shine Jesus on her, the same way that I felt the kindness in the words of our waiter at breakfast. THAT isn't too much to pray for.

And even though I am an uncultured, little American southern girl, I know that my Lord sees me here the same as He sees me at home, and that He hears me...because I am His princess...even here.

Happy Thanksgiving to all our people back home. The world is wonderful, and filled with adventure and beauty and shock and all the rest...but YOU are home. And we love you.

Nothing is wasted

"What is it you want to say through my fingers, Lord?"

I whispered the question to the computer screen just now, and I sat...waiting for Him...

Four years ago, for many, many hours, I would ask that same question, and I would sit and wait...sometimes the peace and the words would come quickly. Sometimes they didn't come at all. Sometimes I waited for long, silent moments.

For an entire year, from start to finish, I asked the Lord what story He wanted to tell, and offered Him my hands to tell it.

And He used me, in spite of me.

And the story of the life, and death, and legacy of one little girl, who I loved desperately and lost too soon, became more than just words on a computer screen. They became a book.

"His Life For Mine."

My book. My sister's life. God's story.

I can't even begin to describe the agony of writing; the camaraderie I felt with Joy while I was walking, mentally, in her shoes, the heartbreak when I knew I was nearing the end of the story...

She was in heaven almost 3 years when the book was published, and its been just over 3 years since then.

And I miss her still.

And even though I would give back my childhood dream of becoming an author if it meant I could hear her laugh and see her smile and hug her bony little shoulders...it is still, frequently, an overwhelming blessing to hear that people read her story and were...

touched...changed...shaken...inspired...moved...amazed...humbled...

Every time someone approaches me with their thoughts, I always smile, and I always thank them, and after every conversation, a phrase rings inside me...

"Nothing is wasted."

It started in my heart as a whisper, and it grew slowly, over time, until its a sentence so meaningful that I am not sure I can really share it well enough.

My sister died, young and unexpectedly.
My heart was broken. My family was shattered. I felt as if every single day I was beaten up, bleeding and dying, even though it was only on the inside.

SO many tears. Carpet, pillows, walls, towels, my hands, were soaked with them.

Have you ever been there? Sobbing, gut wrenching cries in the silence? Trapped in what seemed an endless pit of pain?

You're never, ever the same once you've had your heart, your world, destroyed in an instant. It doesn't have to be the death of a loved one. You know what your pain is.

And scars eventually form. Angry, bruised, bloody wounds become angry, bruised, puckered evidence of healing.

The scars become less visible over time. And, if you'll let me be totally vulnerable for a moment...I HATED when my face stopped bearing the signs of my grief. I felt like I would always be a broken person, and so my face should always reflect that.

And I was angry. All my life I have known God, and I know He is good, and loving.

But my sister died.

And people lose children. And parents. And friends.

And innocence is stolen.

And we are betrayed. Abandoned. Forgotten.

HOW CAN IT BE THAT GOD IS STILL GOOD? How can He love me...and still have this in His plan?

And how can we ever accept the life we must now try to live? A life with pain, with scars as forever reminders of our broken hearts...How. Can. We. Bear. It?

Sometimes we can't. Sometimes its too much, and we sit down and sob into our hands again.

And sometimes we get to stand beside someone else who is sobbing...and we get to say "I know. I know."

And can I tell you, from personal experience, that nothing ministered to me more than someone who had felt my pain...sitting with me...just BEING there. It was like my wounds were soothed by the recognition of their scars. I don't know how else to explain it.

And so, for 6 years now, I have struggled with all that is inside me. And for the 3 years since the release of my book, I have wrestled with all the emotions.

God used, and is still using, the story of the life and death of my sister, to change people's lives.

"Nothing is wasted."

God allows me to walk beside people through great pain, and for my scars to soothe their angry, bleeding wounds.

"Nothing is wasted."

He accepts that I will always be mad at Him for choosing to do it this way. But He still uses me.

"Nothing is wasted."

And so today, I sat down at the computer, I asked the Lord what story He wanted to tell. Not Joy's story this time. Mine. My journey. My new place, years in the making, of understanding.

He is loving. And wise. And He revives me, every day. And He doesn't mind that "WHY?" will be part of our dialogue from time to time.

And the scars are still, always, there on the inside, but now...

Now I have the scars that are also words of hope on the outside too. Pain, etched into my skin, so I will always remember that God didn't forget me in my great sorrow.

Instead, in His wisdom that is too much for me to understand, He used my pain as part of my story.

And so...

Nothing. Is. Wasted.

Quiet reminders

The house is quiet and dark when I wake up.

It's my very favorite time of day.

It's so promising, the silence. No dirty dishes clutter the counter or fill the sink, (unless my husband had a late night snack and didn't remember to load his dishes...) no irritation-filled words fill the house, no one has cried, no one has burped or farted or been in desperate need of deodorant or breath mints. Nothing has gotten broken or dented or ruined or burnt or mangled.

And also, the silence that fills my pre-dawn house is FULL of words.

Words from the Lord.

Whispers for my heart.

Peace and mercy and strength for my day.

How often I forget to sit and soak in the silence that isn't quiet at all.

So many times I immediately busy myself with the cares of the day ahead, and the spiritual fullness is drowned out by the sounds of busyness.

Today I almost did it again...I almost went straight for the things awaiting me.

But. I didn't.

And I'm so glad.

Because the silence of my house was, as it always is, filled with the presence of God Almighty, and today I sat with Him, and His presence was a balm to my heart.

Thought after thought ran through my spirit as I paused and listened. As if the Lord were giving me a Bible story overview and then applying it to my life.

I thought of all the women I know, and love, whose hearts are tired and sad and lonely and hurting.

Tear filled eyes and pain soaked words seem to surround me, and seem to be inside me.

So I asked the Lord about it. My heart whispered into the darkness of my house, and the fullness of the spirit realm.

"Why is it, Lord? Always so much struggling. So much sadness. So much hurt. We don't understand. We don't know how to believe that You are good, and that You love us, when all we feel is sad and heart-sore and weary of all the HARD that life brings."

And then the Bible lesson started in my heart. I was reminded of Daniel, and then Noah, and Moses, and David, and Elijah, and the three guys in the fiery furnace whose names I can say but refuse to try and spell, and so many more...

They suffered pain.
They lived with loss.
They were disappointed and unsure and overwhelmed with what life sent their way.

There were floods, and lion's dens, and murder, and fiery furnaces, and dead children, and threats to their very lives.

And even though they are the heroes of the Bible, because they were also human, we can assume that they asked the same questions of God that we ask.

And they probably didn't have any more of the answers than we do.

How do we accept that God is good...and that heart-shattering pain will still come?

That seems to be the question of the ages.

Our understanding of God's love is so limited, though. We can only think as people.

I don't ever want my children and family and friends to feel hurt. Ever.

But God's love desires for us to be more like Him. For us to walk closer with Him. For us to grow in our understanding of Him.

Why?

Not just for our own sake, though that is an obvious result...no, His love sees ALL of the pain, and He walks beside us in it SO THAT WE CAN WALK BESIDE OTHERS.

Selfish love wants no pain or struggle or yearning for anything more. Human love desires to shelter and shield.

AGAPE love desires to mold us. His love, sitting here with me in my living room today, isn't soothing my anxious heart  for the sake of my heart alone. Rather, He's reminding me that His presence is enough, even in the storms, ESPECIALLY in the storms. The reminder has tears streaming down my face. Because it's not just for me, His love.

Its FOR YOU TOO!

He sits in the dark with me so that I can share with you...

He's with us in the fiery furnace.
He shuts the lion's mouths.
He forgives our greatest failings.
He redeems our mistakes.
He speaks to us in our moments of crisis.
He saves us when the flood rises.

For us, yes, but also for those around us who are drowning and burning up and being devoured. So that we can remind them.

His love...it's in the silence. It's in the pain. It's in every breath and heartbeat. It doesn't make sense that He would allow us to hurt so much...

Except that maybe, just maybe, He was thinking of YOU when He sat beside me in my darkest night.

Perhaps He is thinking of someone you haven't even met yet when He stands with you in the fire.

Maybe His love sees the person who will come into your life feeling destroyed by their failure, as He sits beside you in your failings.

He has not forsaken you, sweet hurting heart.

Even when you don't want Him there. He's there all the same.

Shhh...

Can you hear Him in the silence? Can you feel Him?

The quiet is filled with the voices of children now.

But I am clinging hard to the silence that is full of sound in my heart.

I pray the same for you.

Eternal Emotion

I have ALL of the feelings rolling around inside me this afternoon, and it has left me edgy, shaky, and unsettled.

Usually that means there is something the Lord is wanting to speak to me. Over the years I've become slightly better at recognizing the signs of the Holy Spirit whispers, and marginally quicker at responding to those signs.

As only a mom truly can, I decided to multi-task during my time with the Lord. (Don't judge me, people. God knows the busyness that is my weeks right now.)

I have been planning to paint a couple bookshelves in my guest bedroom, so I prepared all of that, turned on some worship music, and sat down in the floor.

2 hours later, I emerged. Bookshelves steadily drying in their lovely new color, hands still shaking, heart sore, and yet peaceful, face tear-streaked.

Yes, indeed, the Lord had words to speak to me.

Now I shake for fear that I won't be able to adequately write them down.

My family lost a friend this week, in a motorcycle accident, suddenly and with no warning. His wife was critically injured in the crash, and his daughters, who are the friends I've had my ENTIRE life, are, of course, devastated.

Their daddy is gone. They didn't get to say goodbye. Their children, his grandchildren, will grow up only remembering his laugh and his hugs and his love for them.

There is nothing more agonizing. Nothing more terrifying. Nothing that saps you of the strength quite as completely. Grief is an all consuming monster sometimes. It yawns wide in front of us and lasts forever and makes everyone who faces it cower.

I remember, in my grief journey, wanting to die. I know that sounds extreme, and I never contemplated suicide, but I can recall opening my eyes some mornings, and thinking to myself, "If I were just gone, I wouldn't have to face this. And not facing this...it would be easier."

My heart is broken for my friends. I send them songs, and scriptures, and words of love, because I KNOW what they are feeling. But nothing can really, truly, help.

It's HELL to walk, and breathe, and eat, and speak. To do anything, ANYTHING, feels like being set on fire. I don't know how else to describe it. You want to be numb one minute, but you can't stop feeling shattered. You want to feel your emotions the next minute, but all you are is cold, dead, and lifeless inside.

All of this has been going around inside me as I pray for my friends today, and it has also sparked some reflection in me. Some reminders. Some perspective.

Those are all words that really just mean the Lord has been whispering to me, and I have heard Him.

We aren't guaranteed tomorrow, not on this earth. We aren't promised an easy, pain free life. We are, in fact, assured of the opposite.

"Here on earth you will have trials and sorrows...but take heart because I have overcome the world." John 116:33b

I could be taken from my children at any moment, the way my friends lost their father...I could be here on earth one heartbeat, and standing before the throne of God the next...

Eternity is so close. Its a breath. It's the time it takes to blink.

Why, why, why in the world do I struggle and strive and worry and fear and fret and CARE about the things that don't matter?

Why do I fuss at my children for building a fort with every single blanket in the linen closet?
Why do I stress about how much sugar they eat or the amount of TV they watch?
Why do I get pissed at my husband for forgetting to take out the trash?
Why do I get cranky when he asks me to do something for him that I don't want to do?

If I got in the car today, and was in an accident and died, would I want my family to remember that I made them clean up their fort and take the trash to the road?

What am I focusing on? What words do I want them to hear me saying in their heads if I'm not here to say them aloud?

"Kids," I called to them as the Lord asked me these questions, "Come here for a second."

They did. And I swallowed. "If I die...if I never get to say anything else to you on this earth...I want you to remember these things. I love you. I think you're smart and funny and and such special people. I'm so proud to be your mom. THAT'S what I want you to remember."

All four of them began to cry, and I was weeping as I spoke, but I had more.

"And the most important thing I want you to remember is this: love Jesus. Serve Him with your whole heart for all of your lives. I will be in heaven waiting for you, and we will be together again someday. So you just hold onto the Lord, and to each other. And remind each other that I love you, and that I spent my whole life being glad that I was blessed to be your mom."

There weren't questions of why I was saying these words to them. They know. They lived through their own grief journey when I lived through mine. They cried. And they hugged me. And they promised to remember my words, and to serve the Lord.

And then they went to play, their hearts touched and then sent back to the bliss of childhood.

But I am shaken. Still. Because how can we ever say the important things enough times?

How will Nate know that I think he has the best sense of humor, if I'm not here to tell him?
How will Gabe remember that I think he's the toughest little boy around, if I'm not around to remind him?
How will Clay recall how kind I think he is, and how caring, if I don't tell him every day?
How will Faith know that I find her lovely and smart and sweet, if I can't tell her?

My heart hurts, wanting to spare them the loss of my love. But...my heart is literally SWELLING with love for them, and no matter how much I tell them, it can never be enough.

All I know is, I'm going to try to say, every day, the things I want them to know when I'm not here to tell them anymore.

Because our time with them could be brief.

But...if we teach them the ways of the Lord, and if we lead them to His arms...some day, we will be in His arms together. And THAT'S what Jesus meant when He said "Take heart because I have overcome the world."

This life is a moment. God has given us, through His Son, the gift of eternity, endless moments to tell our loved ones the things in our hearts.

Let's live today like eternity is at hand.
Because it is.

Take Heart

Why is it that knowing something to be true, logically, and really KNOWING it, deep down in the depths of heart and soul, are so very different?

Why can't we know truth, and accept truth, without having to live through the reality of its existence?

For example, why is it that my children know, in their brains, if they say inappropriate words I will punish them, but they don't really commit the knowledge to their hearts until AFTER they use a certain word and are promptly punished within an inch of their lives for it? Now they have the heart knowledge. Now they understand that what I said to them was true.

Why did it take that pain to truly bring them to acceptance of truth? 

Why do they begin remarking on how near they are to starving to DEATH an hour before meal time? They know, of course, that I plan to feed them, and that I have yet to allow them to die of starvation. They trust me, I think, to care for them...but still, 11 a.m. rolls around, and the "what's for lunch?" "do you know what time it is?" "are we going to have lunch today?" questions begin.

I want to respond, and sometimes I do, with; "Are you kidding me? I always feed you. I always take care of you. You can trust me. You know this. Now GO PLAY and I will call you when lunch is ready!"

I arrive at my wits end with my children on a regular basis. Because I know that they KNOW the things that are true and certain in their lives, but most of the time they act as if they don't really understand, and rely on, those truths. They need to have tangible proof.

But aren't we all that way? Don't we wonder, and question, and worry, and remind God of a need, or a hurt, or a fear, as if He doesn't know or has forgotten or has just decided to let us struggle through on our own for a while? 

We know who He is. We know what He has done in our lives in the past. And even if we don't know, He has given us a vivid, rich, thriving picture of Himself in His Word, so that we cannot possibly misunderstand.

"All the Lord's promises prove true. He is a shield for all who look to Him for protection." 

(Psalm 18:30) This is just one verse about His promises. There are so many more. 

He tells us He's faithful.

He tells us He's a strong right hand to save us.

He tells us He loves us,

He cares for our needs,

He calms our fears,

He catches our tears,

He sends angels to guard around us.

There are so many truths that the God of all creation says about Himself in His Word. We know them, if we are His followers and have devoted time to reading His words to us. And still...still we don't really, truly KNOW the truth until we have experienced it firsthand.

For example: I have been a follower of Christ for almost thirty years. Childhood faith has taken root into a walk that, while never perfect or anything glorious to speak of, has been true in my heart and life since the beginning of the "Lord, I believe in you and I thank you for washing away my sins" prayer on the night before my 7th birthday.

I have read the Bible, all the way through, at least three times.

I have studied the Word.

I believe what He says about Himself, and about me, and about everything on which He speaks. I know He is good, and faithful, and true, and holy, and loving. I know it.

And still, still there was a morning, not so many years ago, where I sat in the floor of my living room, having a panic attack, gasping for air, unable to calm down, and all I could say was "Don't leave me alone. I can't be alone."

My sister was dead. The reality had been true for 6 days. The numbness of memorial services and relatives coming in from out of town had faded. Time off work had come to an end, and suddenly, suddenly I was faced with the horrifying reality that my husband was leaving for his job, and I would be alone with my children, who, at the time, were 8, 6, 3, and 5 months old.

"You can't go," I gasped through my terror. "I can't do it alone. I'll die."

I've never felt such fear. I knew, I just knew, that if he left me and went to work, I wouldn't be able to breathe. How was I supposed to love my children well when I couldn't feel anything but agony? When all I wanted to do was sleep, because at least in sleep I could forget, for a while, that my sweet little sister had died, unexpectedly and tragically, a million miles away in a hospital bed on the mission field. 

What happened next must have been a God inspired move on my husband's part. If he had come to sit beside me, or called into work, or tried to calm me down...I might never have understood, really KNOWN, what I knew in the next few moments.

He walked into the room, holding my Bible in his hand, and he set it on the floor beside me. He kissed me, and he said "You're NOT alone."

And he went to work.

And for a few heartbeats I was shocked that he had gone, with my gasping, and begging, and the tears I didn't even know were running down my face. 

But then self preservation kicked in. I couldn't breathe. I was drowning. I had to find a way to survive...and in that moment I reached for the Anchor.

I opened to where I had been reading the week before, before my life, my family, my heart and soul and spirit changed forever, and when I began to read...

"Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land. The wind had risen and they were fighting heavy waves. At three o'clock in the morning, Jesus came to them, walking on the water...the disciples were terrified...but Jesus spoke to them at once. 

"Don't be afraid.

Take courage.

I am here." (Matthew 14:24-27)

And I swear to you, in that moment, I was the disciples. I knew I was going to drown under the weight of my storm. The wind robbed me of stability, the waves stole my breath, the blackness of the night had caused me to lose my way. 

But Jesus came. Walking on the water. WALKING INTO MY STORM. Unafraid of my panic, or my terror, or the angry words I would eventually hurl at Him. 

He came.

And He spoke.

"Don't be afraid."    And my panic began to ease.

"Take courage."      My tears flowed silently now, without the gasps.

"I. Am. Here."         I felt the words inside my chest like a bass drum, resounding in my heart.

And He climbed into the boat with me.

All the years of knowing that Jesus calms storms and walks on water, all the readings about the promises of God and the faithfulness of His word, all the songs sung about all of the truths I had known and understood and even spoken to others...

All of it paled in comparison to that moment. When Jesus climbed into my storm with me, and I truly, truly KNEW that I wasn't alone. That I had never, ever been alone.

Now, almost 6 years later, when I have the privilege of speaking to a person in great pain, I remember that day. Every time. And when they gasp and rail and panic and cry, and when they are afraid and angry and lost...

I tell them: "I know. I know." And then I tell them: "But He is with you." 

Knowledge has turned to understanding. The lesson I could only really learn in my moment of pain has settled so deeply into my heart that it has changed everything, EVERYTHING else.

I'll need to be taught again, I'm sure. I'll forget to remember that I know He is with me.

But He will remind me. He will climb into the boat and sit with me. He understands that we need the lessons over and over, and even if we know the truth, in our heads, we need to feel the truth in our hearts. 

And because He's so loving, 

and faithful, 

and merciful, 

and kind, 

and compassionate, 

and strong,

and mighty,

and all the rest...

He will be there. With me. With us.

"So take heart. Let His love lead us through the night. Hold onto hope. Take courage again."