The Necklace

It's been two months since my last blog entry.

I've had nothing of interest to report in more than 60 days.

Even now, as I sit facing the mostly blank screen in front of me, and force my creaking, under-used fingers to strike the keys of my laptop, I am struggling to find words.

And that is SOOO not like me. I've got words. LOTS of words. Ask anyone.

Except...I'm at a loss.

Let me see if I can come at this from another angle, and arrive at where I am trying to get, another way.

My 14 year old daughter (pause for a moment and totally flip out with me that I have a child who is FOURTEEN...thank you) and I have been listening to an audio book for a couple weeks now. We did the same thing last summer, and we decided to start this summer indulgence a little earlier this year.

Last summer, for 16 hours (broken up, obviously, because...life) we listened to my favorite book of ALL time, This Present Darkness, by Frank Peretti. 

I have read my copy of the book 12 times. No, that isn't a typo. Since the fall I turned 13 years old, I have read my favorite book 12 times, and after my daughter passed her 13th birthday, I suggested we listen to it together. 

This summer, we are embarking on it's sequel, Piercing The Darkness, a book I have also read 12 times. (Because logic dictates that if a book is good enough to read 12 times, and it possesses a sequel, that sequel MUST be read.)

We are only a few hours into this 18 hour project, and already, I am yearning for more.

Not because I don't know what happens next. (In fact, nearly every new section of text, the reader starts reading and I mutter "oh man" in anticipation of what he will read next...and then my daughter 'shushes' me.)

This afternoon as we concluded our listening time for the day, I found myself struck into silence by a thought that entered my spirit. It has been pinging around inside me for an hour...

(By the way, I just have to say; Isn't the Lord clever? I usually think I have all these great ideas and little brainstorms of exciting, bonding things to do with my kids...but usually I look back and chuckle as I realize the Lord totally directed me toward that thing for my own benefit, because He had something He was trying to get through my thick skull.)

I've been feeling the weight of life pretty heavily lately. We are working hard to wrap up another homeschooling year. I'm trying my best to feel the weight of my legs a good bit LESS, (translation, I've been working out a lot, including running sprints on the advice of a workout friend...and my legs hurt. All. The. Time.) and so I'm physically run down by the end of the day. And, you know, life...it just gets heavy sometimes.

I've had people, who I am sure are trying to give me a compliment, tell me that they can't believe I don't have the perfect life, or the perfect kids, or the perfect...whatever. 

But...my kids aren't perfect. Today, one of the boys "accidentally" urinated ON HIS BROTHER. (I can't say more about that...none of the words are acceptable.)

I'm not perfect either. If I were, I wouldn't be running sprints, you can BET on that. And, yesterday, I curled up into my favorite reading chair...and I cried silently into my hands for 20 minutes.

Because...life.

And then today, today the thought...the pinging around of it inside me, the considering, the marinating, the awareness of the sovereignty of God to lead me exactly where He wanted me to arrive, in such a way that I was caught off guard by it...

I am wearing a spiritual chain around my neck.

That's the thought that the Holy Spirit whispered.

On the chain, there's a chalkboard sign hanging.

It's heavy, this chain and sign.

There are words written on my chalkboard. They change periodically, depending on the day, or a particular circumstance, or my emotional state.

Today, as the thought from the Lord swirled around inside me, I instantly knew what this day's word is.

Failure.

That's what I'm carrying around with me. And, people, let me tell you, it's making me tired.

Like, sink into my bed wearing yoga pants and never get up again tired.

It doesn't matter why that's my word. It's totally irrelevant to the point I'm meandering around and trying to arrive at. The word hasn't been failure all week. Yesterday it was discouragement. Monday, it was sadness. Tuesday it was complacency. 

Today I'm a failure.

As I've been cleaning the kitchen and closing up the house because it's starting to rain, I've been fully, utterly aware of my neck chain, and the word on the chalkboard, and I've been pondering it.

Waiting.

Wondering what thought would come next from the Lord.

Because He never hits me with too much at once. He gives me time to recognize His voice, and accept what He has shown me, and then...then He waits until I have turned it all over and over and over and over, and arrive at a quiet place, where I'm waiting for Him.

I'm waiting for Him now.

What do I do with this heavy chain, Lord?

I didn't even know I was carrying it around.

What about the chalkboard? 

It taunts me. I swear it has speakers and a slimy, raspy, demonic voice that whispers the word of the day to me repeatedly until I become so used to the sound that I just accept the word as truth about myself.

I close my eyes and admit to the Lord that I have been believing this chalkboard chain, and I'm weary, and I feel beat up, and there is an ache inside me, because I don't want to be a failure. 

And He doesn't speak, not at first. But, I feel Him. He smiles, and He reaches out and wipes His hand across the word. 

Failure disappears. 

Now my chalkboard isn't smeared with a chalk word that has been wiped away.

Now...it's covered in red.

And the red, the blood, it doesn't spell out any new words...but I know them all the same.

Love. Sacrifice. Acceptance. Peace. Belonging. Healing.

Those are the words I see in the red.

And my chain...it's a lovely golden color now, and light and delicate against my skin.

All these 60+ days, I've been carrying around the wrong chain, and reading the wrong words.

And with one smile, and one touch of His hand...He made all things right in my heart.

And I'm not really sure if this blog makes any sense to you at all...but I am overwhelmed by His presence, and the tears are flowing, and despite the fact that no leg weight has disappeared...I feel lighter than I have in a while.

My kids may not ever pee on each other again (Please, God) but they will continue to be imperfect. I will continue to be a wreck.

But...I'm a wreck wearing a lovely necklace with a red colored chalkboard. 

And so are you.

Help Needed

Who has four kids, 2 cars, 1 cat, 1 house, negative hours leftover every day...and HATES asking for help?

This girl.

Seriously. I almost can't do it. Ever. 

Even if I am nearing the edge of cliff which I will undoubtedly fall off without assistance, I will probably grit my teeth and dig in my heels and believe all the way up to the moment I am hurling into the abyss below that I can stop the death fall without asking for help.

Once, during a time of serious emotional crisis in my life (basically a metaphorical cliff) I found myself sitting in the floor of my bedroom, leaning against a wall, experiencing a full-on panic attack. As I gulped in breaths and tried to slow my heart, I dialed my brother's phone number. He lived the closest to me at the time, and would be able to come to my aid the speediest.

He answered the phone, and without waiting for him to interrupt, I began to sob out how overwhelmed I was by the situation I was currently facing, and how I absolutely could NOT do it for one more second, ad how I was fairly certain I was going to have a nervous breakdown at any moment. He listened without interrupting, and when I had finished, he asked me a question.

"Are you asking for me to come help you?"

And do you know what I said? "No, it's okay. I'm calming down now. I just needed to freak out for a second. I'll be fine. Thanks."

I absolutely was NOT fine. After I hung up the phone, I don't even remember how long I continued to sit in the floor and tell myself not to pass out, or freak out, or throw up, or cry until I couldn't move...

But when it came right down to it...I didn't ask for help. I wanted to. I needed to. But I couldn't do it.

Now, don't get me wrong, I DO enlist help sometimes.

Today we cleaned house, and I definitly asked my kids to help with that.

By ASKED, I mean required.

By required, I mean I informed them, with raised voice and brows, that I was moving all their crap to a tent in the backyard if they didn't help clean it up. 

So, you see? I can ask for help when the Spirit moves me. 

In all seriousness, though, I know I can't be the only person who finds themselves completely inadequate to a task, but struggling to request the needed assistance in accomplishing it.

I am paralyzed by indecision. By fear. By doubt. By uncertainty. I am overwhelmed by how ill-equipped I am.

I have a path before me, and I can choose not to try and travel it at all, and then I won't have to seek help in navigating it successfully.

But, if I choose to try...I will FAIL without assistance. 

Maybe I will even fail WITH assistance.

(It's possible that it scares me to fail with people watching more than it frightens me to ask for help in the first place.)

What should I do? Should I try and do it on my own? Maybe I could.

Should I ask for help, knowing full well it might not be enough anyway?

Should I do nothing? Turn away from the path and never have to feel the angst of inadequacy, or the sting of failure?

The thoughts swirl round and round inside my head, and my own brutal self-honesty demands that I admit the truth: I don't want to need help. I don't want to rely on others. I want to be strong enough on my own. Smart enough. Capable enough.

In my heart, I admit this truth to the Lord.

"I want to be able to figure it out without needing help, God. I even have an idea..."

And my spiritual monologue is cut short before it even begins. The Lord speaks sternly. 

"Why would you want to try and accomplish My plans for you in your own strength? Do you, in your great self-sufficiency, really believe you are more able than I am to work out My will for your life?"

And I find myself breathless from the words, and how I feel like a reprimanded child.

Who am I kidding? I AM a reprimanded child.

I'm ashamed. Ashamed of the pride that would keep me from letting others see an area where I cannot do it on my own. Ashamed of my fear, my uncertainty, my worry, when I have witnessed time and again that God takes care of me better than I could ever take care of myself.

And so, here I sit, feeling almost like I have been spiritually dared to make a move...

I am wearing slippers because it's cold in my house.

I am eating jelly beans because they are leftover from Easter.

I have more hours of things to accomplish than hours remaining in this day.

I'm exhausted, physically and emotionally and spiritually.

I am unsure. I am afraid.

But...I'm asking for help.

I need help. I've been talking to a publishing agent about a potential second print run of my book, and she has informed me that she has contacts at big publishing houses...but that if I want any of them to take a serious look at me as author, I need an online presence. 

I need to blog more and tweet more, she said. Check. That I can do. (Not that anyone cares what I tweet or blog, but at least that's within my ability to accomplish.)

But, I also need people to follow me. On Twitter and on my blog. Not just read my tweets or blog posts. But actually take the time to follow me.

(Enter the internal rant about how I have nothing interesting to say or time to spend trying to THINK of anything interesting to say, and why do I want to ask my friends and family and the poor innocent population of the Internet to listen to how flipping boring it is to be me? I'm wearing slippers and eating jelly beans, for heaven's sake!)

That internal rant has led me to the place of indecision and fear and "well maybe it's not a big deal if we don't print anymore books" that has caused many a restless night and anxiety headache...

And all of that led me to today. To now. To the dare from the Holy Spirit to TRUST HIM, and to stop acting like I could do anything on my own, when we all know it's not true.

So, if you are asking me if I need help...

I am gulping in a breath.

I am shifting back and forth in discomfort. 

I am shoving a courage-fueled hand-full of jelly beans into my mouth. 

I am saying yes. Yes. I need your help.

Saturday morning ponderings

Saturday mornings are made for pondering, I am completely convinced.

Reflections back on the week that has passed, wonderings about the week looming in front, quiet, peaceful, philosophical pondering that can only be enjoyed on the one day a week when nothing, or almost nothing, is required of a person: THAT is why God gave us Saturday morning.

My pondering never takes the same route twice. Every Saturday morning is greeted with a different collection of thoughts and questions and decisions and quandaries. This is largely due to the fact that my weeks are never the same, and one must spend time reflecting on the week just past...or else one isn't appropriately using the Saturday morning...

Lest you have begun to worry that this will be a flowery, poetic, filled-with-too-many-large-words kind of Saturday morning blog post...fear not. The topic that has occupied most of my coffee sipping, fire-gazing moments this morning is simple.

It isn't only one topic, per-say, but a collection of topics with the very same starting point. Rather than tell you the punchline, however, I must take you on the journey, because otherwise I wouldn't be making appropriate use of my gift...(the gift of way too many words...yes, I consider this a gift. Please don't ask my husband whether or not he agrees with me. Or, if you do ask him, don't tell me his answer...never mind, I already know how he feels about it.) (You see what I just did there? I had a moment of pondering which resulted in a conclusion...ah,  the beauty of Saturday morning...)

Why does the cat insist on being fed the moment he sees the light going on in the kitchen? Honest to God...I don't get but five seconds to begin perking the coffee before he is freaking out about his breakfast. Irritation knows no bounds.

How in the world am I expected to survive the hormones of a teenage girl? I swear, the abundance of laundry that needs to be folded cannot possibly be a reason for a girl to lay down in the floor and burst into tears...right?

Laundry. There's a subject on which one must spend time pondering. How in the world can six people produce so much of it? Why does it seem so dangerous to reach, bare-handed, into the basket retrieved from the boy's bathroom? WHAT IS THAT SMELL? Where the heck are all the extra socks? It boggles the mind, the quandary of laundry. (I just giggled at my own corniness.)

This leads to the next topic: Boys, in general. No matter how much I search, I cannot discover what the odor is, or where it is coming from, in any of the boys' rooms. I have finally determined that it's in the walls. Somehow, the scent that is BOY is uniquely engineered to be absorbed into porous surfaces...and to never, ever, come out.

And further on the boy topic; WHY IN GOD'S NAME can't they aim? How is it that they possess the ability to pee standing up, but lack the genes to make that pee go where it's supposed to? Every single Friday I ask this question, as I am cleaning toilets...and every single Saturday, I arrive at the same conclusion: Boys were given the inability to aim...by God...in order to test and grow the patience of their mothers. I am completely convinced of it.

Does the sentence "Don't ask me again!" somehow get lost in translation as it passes from a mom's lips to a child's ears? When it reaches the brain of a child, do they, in fact, hear "If you add a whining tone and the word 'please' as you repeat the exact same question, your mother will change her answer." The evidence would suggest that is precisely what happens.

What is the law of the universe that insists a recently swept, vacuumed, and mopped surface is in need of crumbs and sticky drinks spilled on it?

How can the tiny humans never remember your instructions to...put on deodorant, change underwear, brush their teeth, flush the toilet, wash their hands, load their dishes in the dishwasher, FEED THE CAT, chew with their mouths closed, don't pick their noses and eat their boogers, never junk punch people, say 'yes ma'am' and 'yes sir' ...but when you slam your finger in a door, they remember exactly what you said, and how you said it, and they repeat it at every opportunity?

My children occupy my pondering this morning.

They make me laugh every day. AND they make my blood pressure skyrocket.

I receive an unexpected hug or kiss frequently...and also, I am crop-dusted on a regular basis.

Sometime they remember not to eat their boogers...but when that happens, my arm or leg is usually where they wipe their snotty finger.

After the hormones have gotten the best of my teenage daughter, she almost always comes back from her 'behind-closed-doors' meltdown with apologies and offers to help in any way she can. Until the next crisis-the ending of her favorite television show, for example.

There is simply no solving the great mystery of motherhood...

Which brings me to the end of my pondering. Not because I couldn't spend a great many more moments thinking on it, but because the boys have ceased their obligatory cartoon viewing, and are now clamoring for breakfast, and informing me that one punched another accidentally (how does that work, exactly?). There have been no hormone incidents yet this morning, because my teenage daughter won't awaken until at least 11 a.m., which is apparently the sole reason for Saturday mornings in the life of a 13 year-old-girl.

Happy pondering (and hopefully chuckling) Saturday to you.

Birthday Guest

As awesome as it would be to hear Charity’s birthday post about herself today (do bloggers do that?) I asked if she would give me the honor this time.  I must say she is brave since, being sisters, we know just about everything about each other, even things we wish we could forget (nothing like mooning each other via text or anything… we would never).   I guess she took for granted that I am usually nice to people and would never embarrass her on her birthday. (heheh)

When I was 10 and she was 16 (yes, she is six years older and has less wrinkles and cellulite than me, shut up) I completely idolized her. She was somewhat of a rebel behind my parents back and for some reason she trusted me not to rat her out and would tell me about her secret boy flings.  One time she was telling me about how to hold hands with a boy. She demonstrated to me the two different ways (interlocking fingers and not) and told me when you hold hands without interlocking fingers it just means you LIKE them, but if you interlock fingers it means you LOVE them.  I took this as absolute truth for many years (obviously we were home schooled). I wanted to know how she knew these important life rules,  “Duh, I read Seventeen.”  She said. (Like I knew what that was!)

When it came time for her to marry (at the ripe young age of 18!) I cried like it was her funeral. 

When it came time for me to marry, she told me things that even Seventeen won’t print and then laughed at my shocked face (what are sisters for?).

Most of you who know Charity (or even just read her blog) know that she is REAL, she doesn’t do FAKE very well. That is one of the things I love so much about her, because you always know where you stand with her. I would MUCH rather someone be honest with me than leave me wondering all the time (does everyone not feel this way?). However, only a few of us know the true depth of her scariness. We have a childhood friend who swears when we were young Charity RIPPED her dress off of her because she was mad.  I’m not sure that is true, given the source, but I know it COULD be true.  She has even compared herself to Old Yeller when he gets rabies and foams at the mouth and tries to kill his owners whom he loves. Her words, not mine. 

And while I have never actually seen the foaming (or I would have cast something out of her), I have legit younger sister fear.  If fact, this summer she and I took a day trip to the beach with our kids and during the car ride I had to pee so badly I may have permanently damaged my bladder, but I was too afraid to tell her.  Seriously. Afraid. I considered just peeing in the seat and blaming it on one of the kids. I know she will love me and love me and love me forever because that’s what she does so well, but the fear is still there (now that she knows this, I hope she won’t lord it over me). There is probably some childhood trauma associated with this fear, like her trying to drown me in the bathtub or something.  Oh wait, never mind, I’m the one who did that.  So for all of you who never knew…. She is scary. And she has my back, so don’t mess with me, or…. Old Yeller.

If you don’t have someone in your life that you can laugh with, I truly am sorry. There is such great treasure in laughter and I probably laugh harder when I am with this girl than when I am with anyone else in the world.  I have definitely seen judging eyes peer at us when we can’t stop laughing because they think we are drunk. But it’s the non-alcoholic kind of drunk. The kind that sets your heavy heart free and hurts your cheeks and wets your pants. She can put you in a good mood in 10 seconds flat. She gives the gift of laughter so freely and it is contagious. You seriously want to be her friend right now, don’t you? 

She seeks out the deep things of God and doesn’t stop seeking until she gets ahold of fresh bread from His Spirit.  And I’m just going to say, that is hard when you are 24/7 mother to 4 children who need you every single second.  It takes a lot of time and discipline, and she does it. She is the first to tell you when she needs some Jesus time, and she will actually take the initiative to GET IT, meet with her Maker and let him mold her to be more like Him. And then she takes that bread and shares it with others who are hungry for more. She leads and disciples women beyond just her church and community…. She will straight up get in the trenches with you. I’ve seen it.  While she teaches FOUR DIFFERENT GRADES every single day to educate her children. I am in awe of how gracefully she juggles everything on her plate.

She still walks with a “strut” to beat all (ask her kids to show you).

She can hold her own in the uptown, posh, civilized circles, and break out her work gloves and holey jeans to till and shovel and plant the roughest country ground.

She has swept a hundred miles around her kitchen and dining room. Seriously, the broom comes out after every meal. Who does that?

She is the hottest 35 year old I know.

 It’s her birthday.

Worldwide party!

Media confessions

This morning, after finishing 2 cups of coffee and my daily devotion, I grabbed my phone and browsed through a couple social media sites. And, because none of my kids are up for the day yet, I took a few moments I normally wouldn't, and read a few newsy things I ran across.

I blinked.

I gasped.

I clicked on additional info.

I grunted my disapproval.

I hummed my agreement.

I spent TWENTY minutes reading comments and replies to comments and replies to replies.

And by the end, I was resoundingly ticked off.

Then came the moment of reflection. (because all my kids are STILL blissfully snoozing, and moments of reflection are only possible during this time.)

Here's what the moment sounded like inside my head:

"Are you kidding me?"

"I cannot even."

"That's the biggest load of..."

"Why in the heck do people ACT like that?"

"Why in the world do people spend their time and energy on that?"

Seriously...I spent 20 minutes reading the tail end of a few news-worthy (and I use that term VERY loosely) updates, and I have nothing, NOT ONE THING, good to show for that 20 minutes of time.

Why do I even bother?

The right-wing will still be the same, whether I am educated on it's views or not.

The left wing will still express hostility for the right wing, regardless of me or ANYONE ELSE weighing in with opposing and/or enlightening info.

The right wing will return the hostility of the left wing with equal ferocity.

There will be name calling.

There will be cursing.

There will be lies and propaganda and misleading facts and half-truths.

NOTHING WILL CHANGE OR BE SETTLED.

And we are all a bunch of birds with our metaphorical wings clipped, because we cared more about destroying the wing on the other side than about anything else.

Dear God. What a waste.

What an absolute load of crap.

So, after a few moments to let the feathers on my metaphorical wings settle from their previously ruffled state, I have decided to confess, to the entire blogging community (well, the minuscule amount of it that will read this post, anyway) something that only a few people know about me. It is a multi-level confession, and will doubtless ruffle the feathers of some readers.

(And now I'm imagining everyone is awaiting my confession with baited breath...and now I'm laughing at myself for the delusional thoughts that creep in when the house is silent...)

Confession: I don't watch the news. EVER. Only the weather, and only if I can't get my weather app on my phone to work. 

I barely know who's running for president next year. I only know that because my husband told me about it. I definitely don't watch the debates between the candidates. I can't think of many things I would like LESS than spending my evening doing that.

Confession, part 2: Not only do I not watch the news...I DON'T CARE about most of the crap that is newsworthy.

Well, let me clarify: I would care about it, if I thought for one second that my caring would change anything in any way.

But I am profoundly aware of the fact that my life, my voice, my beliefs on matters that make it to the television, have absolutely ZERO impact on the issues being discussed and debated and lied about and fought over and flung about like grenades.

I CANNOT CHANGE THINGS. 

My indignity toward Obama-care doesn't keep that extra money from coming out of my husband's pay-check each week.

My irritation that models always look perfect in swimsuits and I know their photos are airbrushed and why do they have to lie ad make us all feel bad about ourselves...doesn't affect the swimsuit or modeling industry in any way.

My horror at late-term abortions doesn't stop them from happening.

My fury at racial atrocity doesn't cause bigots to rethink their slander.

The only thing that happens when I watch the news or read the news or hear about the news is that my metaphorical wing feathers get ruffled, and then I spend twenty precious minutes (quiet minutes, people...I spent twenty of my very few quiet minutes!!!) reading the angry viewpoints people are hurling at each other, and NO ONE IS CHANGING ANY ONE'S MIND.

Confessions, part 3: I don't care if you judge me for being politically and socially uninformed.

Seriously. I. Don't. Care.

You know what I DO care about?

I care about my daughter learning what it means to be a woman of character, and virtue, and kindness, and grace, and true beauty. I devote my passion to teaching her about modesty, and about sacrifice, and about courage, and about humility, and about honor, and about love.

I care about my sons growing up to be men of valor. Men who love deeply, who apologize readily, who listen compassionately, who protect their family fiercely, who serve the Lord faithfully.

I cannot do anything about the political or social climate. Trying to convince me otherwise is fruitless. I am aware of the arguments that every voice makes a difference. I just don't care.

I'm entirely filled up with caring about the climate of the four little hearts and spirits that are still, STILL, blissfully snoozing down the hall. 

THIS HOME is a climate I can affect change in. And someday each of them will have a home of their own, and they can weigh in on the issues of their home, and change can occur within those walls.

My parents shaped the climate of their home, and they shaped the lives of 5 children. The 5 of us have 14 lives we are actively weighing in on every day, which makes 19 lives my parents have affected. And when those 14 kids have kids...

You see where I'm going with this.

I don't care if you judge me for barely knowing anything about anything going on in the world. 

My world has challenges and debates and sins and hurts of its own, and that's where I'm focusing today. 

Let the rest of it go up in a ball of fire and feathers, for all I care.

Media rant adjourned.

Anniversary

Five years.

It's a milestone amount of time. We celebrate 5th wedding anniversaries, and 5th birthday, and a person is officially considered cancer free if they are healthy for 5 years.

My sister has been in heaven for 5 years today.

Its strange, the way this anniversary, and the preparation for it, has affected me. It's different than the past years. My heart seemed to know it was a milestone.

All the hard memories have still flooded back, as they do every year.

The sounds of my children weeping in the living room, and remembering that I couldn't even go comfort them because my own grief would've scared them, so I sat in the hall, in the floor, trying to silence my sobs with my hands...

The pain has become more bearable as the years have passed, and while I understand that is inevitable with the passage of time...it makes me sad too. Because somehow it feels like, if I don't ache with every breath, that I love her less...or something. I know that's ridiculous, but that's only one of many ridiculous truths about grieving.

My life has changed in the last 5 years. But there are many things that are still the same.

I was wandering through the house last night, turning off lights and picking up toys and locking doors, and I had a sudden thought.

If Joy were alive today, would she be able to see all that has changed? Besides the new paint in the dining room and the fact that my children are half grown?

Would she be able to look at my face, look at my life, and see how much different I am now, since she died?

Because I am. I'm changed forever.

Some ways I wish I could undo. Like how fast I freak out when someone I know goes to the hospital, for any reason. I immediately start shaking and wondering what might happen.

But there are good things too. Things that altered my faith, and my perspective on life, in the last 5 years.

I pray differently now. I still believe that God does miracles, and when someone is sick, I pray for their healing. BUT, mostly I pray for the presence of the Holy Spirit to be felt. Because that is what helped me to survive when the miracle I asked for turned out to be different than God's plan.

I view my time differently. I'm more careful and intentional about moments with my kids, and my brother and sisters, and everyone around me. Because time...it's so precious. Our every moment is ordained by God, and all our days are numbered. And who are we to say how many days and moments we will have on this earth? And I want to remember that I didn't waste my moments with the people I love most.

I encourage people differently. This week I was speaking with someone who is in a hard, scary emotional place. I reached out my hands, and grasped hers, and I said "He is with you." And I hope that she could see, in my eyes, that they weren't just words I was saying. I knew them to be truth.

I say I love you every time I say goodbye to my friends and family. Because what if its the last time I get to say it? You can never say, or hear, 'I love you' too many times.

I have lived through a storm, and I have found that He is still here with me, and it changes me, for the better, every day.

This morning I woke before 5 a.m. Which is ironic, since that's what time I woke on this day 5 years ago. Or...probably not ironic. Because I woke with another memory in my mind, and I fell certain it was the Lord.

Around 4 a.m. on this day, 5 years ago, God gave me a vision.

Of a hospital room on the other side of the world, and a girl in a bed.

But she, her spirit, her real self, wasn't in the bed.

She was standing up, in the empty room, smiling and looking around her.

Because in the room I could SEE the presence of the Lord. And I could hear every prayer being prayed by thousands of people all around the earth, and the room was filled with the voices of all who loved that girl...

And in my vision, she looked at me, her face beaming.

And I looked at her, and I smiled back.

And I said, "I love you, Joy."

Today is the 5th anniversary of the first vision I ever had.

Today is the 5th anniversary of the final time I told my sister I love her on this earth...because I know she heard me.

Yes, 5 years changes many, many things. But some things remain the same. We will miss her...always. We will ache on this day...always. But we will continue to let it change us into people who are more like the Lord...because that would be her challenge to us, if she could call us from heaven and give us pointers on living for the sake of the kingdom.

"Sing hosanna," she would tell us. "And don't blink. Until the whole world hears."

Happy 5 years in heaven, Joyful. I love you.

Promises

A phone call. Words you knew were coming, and sadness you can’t shake off.

Hastily prepared travel plans. Black clothes folded into suitcases.

Heartache that lingers. Tears that flow without warning.

Family making preparations, remembering happy times, sharing stories of laughter and love. Eyes lined with sorrow, taking comfort in the nearness of many eyes that bear the same grief.

A perfectly appointed kitchen, with all things in their place, but no one left to scurry about in it, no one to make biscuits and gravy or give lessons in the fine art of fried eggs and apple pie.

A pair of slippers in the bathroom, a housecoat hanging on the door, a bottle of perfume on the vanity…

Echoes, memories, fill every room. Nothing was untouched by her. Eighty-two years of a life, all within the confines of four walls. It seems even the guest room sheets carry her unique smell.

In my mind, I can hear her saying “Hello, sweet thing. There’s coffee in the pot.”

But there isn’t coffee in the pot. Because her voice is only an echo in my heart.

A funeral. Songs, words, memories shared.

Smiles and tears together. Flowers kept, words of comfort given and received.

Black clothing refolded into suitcases. Goodbyes. Sad smiles.

How can it be that the house will be empty now?

I will miss my early morning coffee with her. I will miss her kiss on my cheek. I will long for her hug and the sound of her laughter…

An airplane. Quiet moments staring out the window.

And then…high above the clouds, seeming out of place…

A rainbow.

A reminder.

Her Lord is laughing with her now, and she’s sharing coffee with her family that had gone before her, and she’s able to dance again, and she isn’t tired anymore.

And the rainbow…the rainbow reminds me…it reminds me that, although death DOES sting on this earth…it won’t sting forever.

And I can hear her saying to us all, “Now, look here, and don’t you forget this.”

The God of the universe can be trusted to keep His word. His promises are true.

We will be together again.

And that is God’s love for those of us left behind to miss her.

We won’t forget, Grandma.

We promise.