"Do the next thing." ~Elisabeth Elliott

My phone rang today. For the second time this month, I heard the voice of a social worker say, “I wish I had good news, but I don’t. I have some pretty bad news.”

I laid on my bed while tiny hands knocked and called for me. All I could think was: I want to be done. I am weary. I am weary of advocating my heart out and it not yielding the results I felt we needed. I am weary of those who do not know me and do not know my children choosing power and policy over common sense and compassion, making life-changing decisions for us and then stepping back, leaving us to pick up the handfuls of shattered pieces that may never be fully mended. I am weary—broken really—as I watch the children in and out my home—children who are priceless masterpieces of humanity—become numbers to be added or subtracted and boxes to be checked. A large piece of me wants to run. I want to hide from the weight of what God has called me to. I want to step into the safety of predictably and naivety. I want to turn my back to the inhumanity of some of the policies that are in place and give myself permission to throw my hands up and declare there is nothing that can be done. 

Fast forward a couple hours: My husband and I were silently sitting on the living room floor. We both felt the weight of a rough week and the brokenness of the world on our shoulders as we went through the motions of giving meds, feeding our tubies, and changing diapers. In the room with us was one freshly bathed sweetie, dressed in her very favorite cupcake nightgown. She was wearing construction goggles (upside down) hammering the walls proudly declaring she was a worker girl. Through a nearby doorway, another darling spun circles in the kitchen, her nightgown billowing as she stared her favorite stuffed dinosaur in the eyes and giggled hysterically. In almost the same moment, Silas and I caught each other’s eyes soaking in the girls and said, “It’s so simple, isn’t it?” 

These girls have not been spared from the world’s brokenness. Not in the least. Trauma has certainly left marks on them in so many ways. But at the same time, they break away from that burden, picking up nothing but the simplicity of being a child and doing the next thing before them. They know the world isn’t safe, and yet they carry on in precious love, joy, and trust. When they meet a crisis, they lean into it. They cry, they regress, they ache because it is so wrong and it hurt. But they rise again. When joy comes, they are all in, claiming the peace and delight that is theirs. So much of the time, it isn’t a clear-cut line, but a clumsy and beautiful dance within brokenness and beauty. 

It really is so simple. God isn’t asking me (or YOU) to fix the world, the system, or even one child. He doesn’t even ask us to fix ourselves. He simply asks us to do the next thing. Today, I will be sad for the brokenness around me. It is where I am. But come tomorrow, I will do the next thing. I will seek God’s guidance and step big when he tells me to go and rest when he tells me to be still. I will roar when He leads me into battle and I will sit on the sidelines when He asks me to trust what I can’t see. How thankful I am to trust in such a mighty, wise, loving God. How thankful I am I can trust Him to be all those things and more while He calls me to a simplicity that changes the world. He is so good. 

I know the chaos and heartache of foster care can seem like too much to take on. I know it must be so easy to say, “I could never do that!” and carry on. But please do not let the brokenness of the world and the system drive you away. Do not fear the pain and the loss. Instead, be afraid of sitting still and not doing the next thing God has called you to. You don’t have to be enough. You don’t have to be fearless or free from pain or flaw. Just simply ask…seek His will and do the next thing, whether that be in foster care of a different area completely. 

Four Years Later

I am not okay.

Grief is such a strange thing. After so many years of broken humanity existing, one might think we would have some kind of grip on grief by now…that it would be predictable and routine, easily plugged into a formula which takes away the sting and restores normalcy—whatever normalcy may be. And yet, here I sit, four years after my brother’s death, still avoiding thoughts that relentlessly beg for me to give into their processing. Four years ago, one of my greatest hopes was looking ahead and believing that beauty was to come. While I do see traces of newly born hope, this journey has not looked how I wanted it to. Grief refuses to conform to our rules and expectations. While I knew I wouldn’t be healed, I clung to the belief that four years from then, I would be standing in the wonder of all that God had done, bellowing His providence and abundant life from the rooftops.

 Is it even ok to say that I don’t feel that I am there....? Or really even close….

You see, I still feel broken in a million pieces. I still feel that I’m limping--barely even that at times.

Grief has changed me.

I want to be strong, saturated in a faith that carries me. But I’m wrestling so much doubt.

I want to be soft, unjaded, and open. But I carry the weight of a hardened heart.

I want to stand tall, pushed onward by the  growth only heartbreak can bring. But I feel like I’m still reeling, incapacitated, and struggling to rise.

I never wanted to be angry at the God who carries me.

I never wanted to resent those who left me in my brokenness.

I never wanted my marriage to struggle because of my heartache.

I never wanted to be slow to trust, fearful of losing another dear one.

This isn’t where I want to be and certainly not where I saw myself being four years later.

I am broken. I am sinful. I often times feel alone and unseen.

But one thing hasn’t changed: I believe that my God is good.

He isn’t finished yet. Even when I scream at Him, distrust Him, and run from His comfort, He sees me and He sees beyond me. In spite of my own broken self and my anger toward a story I never wanted written, His faithfulness endures and His mercies are new every morning. There is much beauty that I am blind to right now as I still struggle to catch my breath and learn to allow myself to feel such hurt. I lost my brother. I lost one of my very best friends. I lost one of the few people who knew my heart. And it hurts.

I am not okay.

Perhaps what it all comes down to is that it was never about me. The point of this story was never to glorify Micah or to make sure Micah is a superhero who knows how to grieve. Maybe, Jesus’ love for me is so great that He is willing to usher me into a story that opens my heart to my own inability to be anything apart from Him. And that, His wholeness in place of my brokenness, is beautiful.

-Micah

The War Within

We live in a world where happiness tends to be the goal we naturally strive and long for. A parent’s life-long wish for their child is almost always: “I just want you to be happy.” The problem is, this world we live in is deeply and terribly broken. Even with as much happiness as floods my small world, I find that the brokenness never fails to leak into my happiness--not distracting from the beauty of what I am experiencing, but adding an opposing tsumani of feeling and passion. I snuggle my daughter and as my heart overflows, it also weeps for the mother who walked out of the hospital without her little girl. I delight in the healing of my foster daughter, but I ache for the children we saw who will never know that miracle. I lean into a season of slower paces and less new foster care placements, but my heart screams for the children who have no home. I take in the warmth of my bed and a piece of me cries out for the refugees sleeping on the ground alone, far from the home they’ve never known. I thank God for a new friend and hurt for the friendless. I delight in the truth of my salvation and purpose and yet cry thousands of tears for those who will never know hope. I can’t escape it. I’ve always been this way, from the time I remember having conscious thoughts. I am filled with joy, but I am so brokenhearted. Year after year has gone by and I have waited for the time when I am only filled with joy…when all I know is hope…when I can shake this endless nagging in my soul that screams, “It’s not fair!” I’ve been labeled over the years as discontent, overly emotionally, or in need of treatment for depression. For so long, I viewed this war within as my greatest flaw. Recently, I have begun to see my inability to disconnect from the world’s pain as my greatest gift—as ALL of our greatest gifts. While it is probably far more comfortable to seek only contentment and happiness, not only is it unrealistic (we will all experience heartache) but it cripples our passion and drive to be the difference—to be love, to be compassion, to be change, to be like Jesus. What a different world we would live in if we could feel what our neighbor feels and DO something about it.

So today, I will snuggle my babies, hold them tight, laugh, and cherish them. I will also cry and ache so deep for the family who lost their three-year-old last night. I will be thankful for our yummy meals and I will also teach my children that not all people are lucky enough to have the food they do. I will rest in my husband’s arms, soaking up the safety and I will hurt for every person who has had every ounce of their safety and trust shredded. I will be thankful for routine and I will pray for God to mix that routine up by allowing us to bring another child into our home and opening doors for us to advocate and raise up more foster parents. I will sleep in a warm bed and research ways to support refugees. I will exercise and play on the floor with my children and feel sorrow for those whose bodies are too broken to rise from bed. I won’t try to make sense of it because I know that I can’t. It’s ok to acknowledge that it really is unfair. Most of all, I will keep learning to cling to Jesus and trust Him in this incomprehensibly beautiful joy and crushing, overwhelming heartache. He, more than any, knows the war within.

-Micah

Letting Go

To my little boy,

I remember the day I met you. We picked you up at the office and you were playing with the door opening button. When we took you, you screamed and screamed. Then suddenly, you said, “Ok guys. I’m ready for my vacation.” We stopped at McDonalds and you had a chicken nugget happy meal. You were terrified. But we were more terrified. You were our first and we had no idea what we were getting into. We had a 5 month old with health issues and a very much struggling marriage. But somehow, we knew. We knew you were ours and we were yours…at least for a time. I remember those first few days home alone with you and Eli. I had no idea what to do with you. I didn’t know you. All I knew was every morning while I showered, you would steal my coffee. It drove me nuts. Until one day when I made you your own cup. So began our daily routine of starting the day with coffee and prayer. You and I became a little team creating adventures during the day to pass the time before Daddy came home. We made forts and dragons, raced cars and did ab work outs. When we were grumpy, we would dance like goofballs until we collapsed into giggling piles. I would tickle out your grumpies. You would remind me to get the grumblies out of my heart and to have “self con-trow!”

 I remember how you used to scream and scream at bedtime. I remember the day at naptime when we made up our little routine of: Hug, kiss, noggin, high five, pound it, blow a kiss, sign l love you. It didn’t fix things all at once, but over time you fell asleep faster as long as we completed the list. I remember when I got a broken light up disco ball at a garage sale and you couldn’t sleep without it after that. I remember Daddy reading Curious George to you every night. I remember you screaming “I’M LONELY! I NEED YOU!” night after night. I remember how every morning you would make sure every door was locked and you would stash our keys so we couldn’t leave you.

I remember the day when you started saying, “You can keep me if you want.” It broke my heart a million times over because I knew it wasn’t up to us…or to you. I remember when you started telling me how much you loved me. I remember when you started crawling into bed with me in the wee hours of the morning. I remember the times you told me I was pretty. I remember how every morning you would ask to watch me get ready. You would always tell me when I needed more makeup or forgot to floss. Every morning, you would ask if I spent time with God yet and then you’d remind me to do my “egg-so-size” because I wasn’t strong like Daddy yet. You were my tiniest accountability partner.

I remember the days when pieces of your story came out and part of me broke to imagine what you had been through. I remember all the days I’ve wondered how much we don’t know. I remember day after day of the fury and the hurt of your broken heart raging war. I remember holding you in the middle of the storm and whispering, “You are safe and you are loved” into your ear. I remember the shameful days that I returned your rage with a fierce lack of grace. We have seen the best and most certainly the worst of one another. I remember that you are the one I’ve had to apologize to more than anyone in the last six months. I remember days when I didn’t think I could do it. I knew I couldn’t. But then you would wrap your chubby arms about me and say, “I wuv you Mr. Micah (because you forget I’m Miss). I love you all much” and I knew I could never ever give up on you. I knew because God never gave up on me. 

I remember the absolute awe of watching you be transformed before our very eyes. You so quickly learned what it means to obey, what it means to be polite, and what it means to be safe and loved. I remember hearing you share the gospel with another little boy who shared your room one night. I remember watching you crawl under your bed to comfort your teddy bear and hearing you whisper, “you are safe and you are loved.” I remember my pride in you as you memorized Bible verses, did your own chores, and conquered life’s difficulties such as putting your undies on the right way. I remember laughing till I cried at the ridiculous stuff you would say.

I remember the irreplaceable relationship you and Eli had. I remember the comfort you offered him and how no one else could make him laugh as easy and as hard as you could.  I remember nights when you should have been sleeping and were instead sitting on top of the dresser with Eli standing in his crib, making him laugh and babble and singing him Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I remember the mornings you would sqeaul when you heard Eli wake up, throw the door open and yell, “Gooooood morning, Honey! You had a good sleep?!”

For six months, you have been my little boy. I have held you, taught you, ached over you, obsessed over you, and cheered for you. I have spent the wee hours brainstorming ideas to help you overcome the battles you fight. I have wiped your tears, walked your hard, and shared your victories. I’ve held you as you’ve thrown up and rocked you as you cried. I’ve been grown and challenged and forever changed because of who you are. Tonight, I tucked you in one last time. For a reason unknown to you, Daddy and I dragged out bedtime rituals until the very last second. We read tonight’s book twice. We let Eli cuddle you in bed. We all piled together and talked about why we are proud of you. We held you. We prayed over you. And we broke inside.

The paradox of foster care is devastating. For whatever amount of time it may be, we give a child our absolute all. We love them as our own and nothing less. Their life and our own become intertwined in a sensitive, complicated, heart-wrenching, beautiful, messy web that is not easily undone. And then one day…they aren’t ours. In an instant, this child we feel desperately called to guard and fight for is sent away into a situation that may be for the better or it may very much not be. A mother and father are asked to deny every parental instinct they know…they are asked to let go.

So tonight my precious boy, I let go. With gritted teeth, a shattered heart, and tear bathed cheeks I pry open my clenching, white knuckled fists. I let go knowing that you are being held fast. I let go knowing that I am truly unworthy of fighting for you. It is He, the almighty Creator who created you and loves you and knows your every beauty and brokenness who will carry you. We surrender because you never were ours. We are a piece of your story and you a piece of ours. Somehow, in the midst of this broken world and warped system, God saw fit for our paths to cross for a time. I know without a doubt that I am better for it and I know you are too. God will be glorified in your life, dear one. You are set apart. No matter the brokenness you are yet to face, you are safe and you are dearly, dearly loved.

With deepest love,

Your Mommy for a Time

Purposeful Pain

Today, I went to the health food store for the first time after being diagnosed with Celiac Disease. As I scanned shelves aisle after aisle searching for gluten free snacks that wouldn't leave us broke, I felt an unexpected flood of tears well up inside of me. I plopped a few items in my cart and hurried through check-out as Eli screamed. I couldn't make eye contact with the cashier, as I knew some dam within me was about to splinter. I barely had the car loaded and my seat belt buckled when it came....a full-out shoulder-shaking, face contorting, breath robbing boo-hoo. I cried as I backed out. I cried as the man in the pick-up truck glanced uncomfortably at me at the stop light. I cried as the motorcyclist gawked in his rear view mirror through the construction zone. I sobbed in the front while Eli wailed in the back. I didn't stop until I was safely parked in our garage. I sat in my own silence, listening to Eli's sleepy breathing behind me and wondering where such a breakdown had come from. As I questioned my own heart, I not only discovered the recent frustration of this new diagnosis and lifestyle, but an enormous heap of hurt mistakenly labeled as "This Doesn't Matter Because Other People Have it Worse."Events from the last year and beyond swirled to the surface of my mind. Just as swiftly, I generated an excuse for each one of why it shouldn't bother me because it could be so much worse. I'm quick to become angry with myself when I feel worn by life's circumstances, believing it makes me selfish. But today, I felt a whisper asking me to look again...to look beneath the excuses...to acknowledge the hard and the hurt. So one by one, I did. I even said them out loud: It's hard that my brother died. Oh, how I miss him! It was hard to be depressed and suicidal for months last year and to be fearful of it returning. It was hard to not know where we would live. It was hard to move to a house I didn't see the potential in. It was hard to become parents before we thought we were "ready." It's hard to have my son's surgery looming. It's hard to feel called to so much, yet feel as if I am doing so little. It's hard to have a disease that makes me feel so sick. It's hard to have that disease so far along that my body isn't absorbing nutrients. It's hard that I am fighting with everything I have to make enough milk to feed my son. It's hard to learn to be married to someone. It's hard to feel so alone and isolated in a new city. It's hard to be entering the unknowns of foster care. It's hard to have felt so far from God. It's hard to watch my nation and world crumble. It's hard to be out of control of Grant and Reed's care. It was so hard to teach. It's hard to not know why I got a teaching degree. It's hard to have our income cut more than in half. It's hard to learn to be home everyday. It's hard to try to get involved in a new church. At 23 years old, it's still crazy hard to be a child of divorce. If I'm honest, there's a lot of hard and a lot of hurt. I'm realizing that Satan would love for me to believe that there's not...that I'm ok...that it's selfish to hurt. You see, one of Satan's greatest lies in my life is that my pain, my brokenness, my circumstances...they don't matter because there are so many others whose trials are much greater and deeper. While this is valid fact and always will be, it can also become a devastating roadblock between us and the healing God wants to bring. If Satan can convince us that our hurt shouldn't exist, he can keep us from experiencing the embrace and comfort of the Healer. Although we may not be struggling in the same way or capacity that others are, our pain is real, whether it's total persecution or a friendship falling apart. God knows our story, our pain, our circumstances. He is not wringing His hands, wishing he would've given us a life where we could know REAL suffering. He doesn't ask us to always compare our story to those of others....instead, He asks us to be faithful in our own aching. He desires to lead us, love us, and be glorified through the story He has given us in His goodness. The Bible declares that God is near to the broken-hearted (Psalm 34:18). In fact, He has an abundance of blessing to heap on the hurting (Matthew 5:3-11). Jesus Himself hurt...deeply. Instead of denying the pain, He cried out to His Father. Shouldn't we do the same? I don't believe  hurt should be wallowed in, used to define us, or that we shouldn't look to the pain of others for our own reality check. But hurt has a purpose and we mustn't let Satan brush away the beauty of our brokenness. May we be faithful and passionate to pray for and reach out to the pain of others while still allowing our hearts to be softened and exposed to the refining fire of our own lives.

-Micah

Gifts

I. Love. December.
Love it.
I love cold. I love lights. I love Christmas music. I love presents. I love snow. I love giving. I love family. I love break. I love food. I love celebrating Jesus. I love it all!
I always have and always will.
However, this year looks different....it feels different. Life is hard. So much change...so many decisions, pain, burdens, stresses, heartaches.
And this year, my brother is missing.
It didn't really hit me until today. Today, we were driving through my hometown and drove past his house. It looks so...different. Ben loved the Christmas season too. If he were still here, I would have seen him up on the roof today, moaning and groaning and wrestling Christmas lights while trying to conceal his own excitement. He would have teased me about my love for presents and pretended he wasn't going to get me anything this year. In my huge family, we draw names and buy a gift for one sibling...but Ben always got me a gift whether he drew my name or not. Something that was without-a-doubt----pink. And if it was pink AND glittery, he would be that much more likely to get it for me. Even when I really didn't need anything else pink, fluffy, and covered in glitter, Ben's gifts have always meant so much to me. He was one who gave from his heart. I knew that whatever gifts he gave, he thought long and hard about what would be most fitting. One of my very, very favorite things about December the last 4 years was the alone time I had with Ben. Because he worked for a college and I went to college, our breaks aligned. While everyone else was still working away, Ben and I would have a week or so each year just for us. We would shop...go out for ice cream...attempt to decorate....cook...and watch Christmas movies. I would watch him (NO JOKE) chug at least a half-gallon of egg nog a day. If it snowed, I would peek out the window as he stayed out all night in ridiculous temperatures to shovel the driveways of every house he could get to. Those special times with Ben were, and continue to be, such a treasure. There won't be any time with Ben this year. That's hard. It hurts. When I think about it, my stomach twists and my heart drops. I so badly want to make it stop, to somehow return Ben to us. I want to give into bitterness and anger. I want to scream, or break something, or pretend that Christmas...that LIFE...isn't really happening.
But is that what God wants for me? Does he really want me to allow my heart to harden? Is His desire for me to rob the joy of those around me, to close my eyes to beauty that could be?
Perhaps God wants to give me a gift this year which is different from any that I can fathom...the gift of giving..TRULY giving...of myself.  I desperately want to bring an offering, but what do I have to give? I cannot bring a flawless heart...I cannot bring wholeness or understanding or strength. Maybe what He wants is my brokenness...my sin, my weakness, my very need for all that He is. Perhaps instead of holding back, I can give. Perhaps the brokenness of my heart holds the wholeness of His grace. I will give from the beauty of these ashes, the treasure of these tears, the gift of this pain.
Beyond my flood of emotions, past my broken heart and rattled mind, a loving, understanding, all-knowing God is holding the pieces. Despite the aches, the hurts, and all that is, God is being glorified.
So this year...I will choose joy. I will choose celebration, openness, and love. I will choose to steal the glory from satan and lay it at the feet of the One who loved me enough to be born in a manger.

In the midst of darkness

         I despise the ever-changing calendar, marking time that has come and passed.With each fleeting day, I am expected to be healed. I am expected to be whole… I am expected to sing the song of beauty that has risen from my ashes. But I am not healed. I am not whole. I have yet to see the beauty. Rather, I am more broken than before. The gaping whole in my heart is ever-widening, shredded open by the loss of you lived anew day after day. I am so tired of pushing forward. I am so weary of thrusting memories aside and allowing the necessity of carrying on to be the salve expected to bring relief to my searing pain. I wait for a time when your life and the loss of it will leave a beautiful melody whispered throughout each chapter remaining. But eight months later, I am still consumed. I am suffocating, I am hurting, I am wrestling. The beauty I crave is hidden beneath layers of weariness, loneliness, and the throbbing ache of an inability to understand.

           Yet, somehow, in the midst of my darkness, I am held. In the middle of my heartache, my anger, my sorrow, I know that He is for me and not against me. I know that His heart is breaking, His tears are flowing, and His arms are clenched around me. At a time when I cannot always feel, I know. May the truth of HIS promises, HIS victory, and HIS glorious story be lifted high. If I never see, if I never understand, may the beauty of Christ Himself be reflected in my heart, my life, my story. Throughout the pain that has been and the pain that is yet to come, may I choose to praise Him and cling to Him. He is good.

 “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 

Beneath the Surface

I went to my brother's grave alone for the first time.

I was surprised that in over two months, it hadn't changed much.

My heart surrendered to a surge of anger as my eyes glared at the dry, cracked mound in front of me. 

 Is this all there is to mark a life so beautiful?

Death is so cruel, so final, so hideous.

I sank to my knees and watered the dry and weary land of my heart with tears I have long awaited.

Father, where are you?

Will I ever be whole again?

Where is the beauty my heart longs for?

“Lift the dirt.” He whispered.

So I did.

Beneath a surface so hideous and lifeless, new life abounded!

All I can see are broken pieces...a parched, worn, and weary land.

But my God is fulfilling His purpose.

Beneath the brokenness, He is breathing new life.

Within the pain, He is nurturing growth.

Throughout this desert drought, His love is quenching.

I will yet praise Him.

Iron

Around my heart, an iron fist clenches

Imprisoning raw, emotional wrenches

Beneath the metal my flesh throbs defeat

Swelling and writhing with each booming beat.

The cold fingers tighten with each wave of pain;

Jeering of strength, aloneness, and shame.

I'm imprisoned within a heart that's my own,

I cannot grieve, I feel all alone.

It won't last much longer, devastation is near.

The pain is too much, the pressure severe.

A wave of tears flow from far down deep

Begging for freedom, release from this keep.

But each glistening drop is slammed back from liberation

By a wall of destruction in the name of protection.

I'm dying inside, awaiting disaster;

I can't seem to grasp my freedom, My Master.

Father, shatter the dam that holds my tears in

Let my grief be released as peace fills again.

Pry open the fingers of iron inside me;

God, let me be broken for then I will see thee .

You promise You're near to each one brokenhearted;

Break me O God, may my strength be discarded.

Let the tears of my heart be the tears on my cheek;

May my grief mix with yours as Your heart I seek.

I miss my brother.

The Dance

The beat is slow, painful, and deep

Bellowing tragedy, grief, defeat.

The rhythm is quick, light, and full

It chirps of victory, and life beautiful.

The words are scrambled, confusing and dark

Sobbing of loss and death's ugly mark.

The lyrics are joy-filled, a sweet jubilee

Singing the peace of grace over me.

My feet are stumbling, unbearably sore

I can't keep up, the tears sting and pour.

My toes feel free as I twirl and spin

I jump and leap and praise through a grin.

My partner is missing, I'm deserted, alone

I stumble and trip with no way to be shown.

My lover is close, I feel the beat of His heart

He leads me and teaches me each step of my part.

This dance is unbearable, I can't find my way

My heart is destroyed by this cavity each day.

This waltz is life-giving, teaching me to sing

Showing me beauty and glimpses of my King.

Darkness and light, beauty and pain.

Heartache and joy, they mingle the same.

For grief is the dance partner of hope.

Was.

My brother was.

He was an EMT. He was gentle. He was funny. He was kind. He was...here.

Was. Never has a three letter word had so much repulsive power.

These three tiny letters blend together to solidify the horror of a reality where Ben's physicality no longer is...just...was.

I hate having to tell you not who my brother is, but who he was.

I hate to feel my mouth go dry and my face burn hot as you ask how many siblings I have;

I don't know if it is politically correct to count the one who was.

I hate that what so recently was my family's is has become our was.

Was.

In unending ways, my brother was.

He was goofy, he was burdened, he was lonely, he was friendly, he was full of dreams.

He was hardworking, he was persistent, he was sensitive, he was handsome, he was faithful.

He was.

But in so many more ways...he is.

He is alive. He is free. He is surrounded. He is fulfilled. He is healed. He is happy. He is content.

He is my brother. He is an overcomer. He is the son of the King of Kings.

Was can no longer win.

Death was the victor...grief was the destroyer...bitterness was the destiny...was.

No longer is....was.

Instead, Grace is. Comfort is. Redemption is. Beauty is. Strength is. Love is. Forever is. Ben is.

Because God...My God......is.

Enough

Life's gone on. I get up in the morning. I greet my students with a smile. I laugh at jokes, grin at strangers, and work through the checklist of my day. When a thought of you slips into my mind, I shove it away so those around me don't have to endure the discomfort of my grief-stricken reality.

Another day has come and gone...I made it. But the day is not done yet. My head hits the pillow and I dread what I know is coming. Maybe tonight I can fall asleep fast enough....but I can't. Instead, I remember you. The thoughts of you I have pushed back all day gush into my mind like a wave that steals my breath in both pain and beauty. I know you died...I've known it all day. But now I remember.

I remember that I will never embrace you again. I remember that I will never again hear your laugh, tease you back, or share my heart with you. I remember that there will be an empty seat at my wedding where my big brother should be. I remember that my children will never know their Uncle Ben. I remember the pain that takes my breath away, twists my stomach, and gives me an instant throbbing headache.

I pray...I plead with God to give me strength. I ask Him to give me one person the next day who will mention you and acknowledge the storm ravaging my heart. I ask Him for joy, for peace, and for perspective. I thank Him for you. I tell Him all I need for tomorrow is enough. Just enough.

I am empty. I am short-tempered, sad, and lonely. I am tired, weary, and worn. I am weak, wounded, and devastated. But my Father...He is hope. He is healing, blessing, and grace. He is love, compassion and beauty. I am loved...I am redeemed...I am held. I am His...and He is enough.

From One Who Grieves

My big brother's death has brought a pain and emptiness I had never known before. The last 8 days have been unbearably hard for my family and me. I know this journey is just beginning, but I have some thoughts from the perspective of one who is grieving.

1) Although it seems silly, don't be afraid to ask how I am. Even if I don't have an answer, it lets me know you care.

2) Don't stop sharing your own heart with me because you are afraid I already have too big of a burden to bear. If you feel you can't share with me, I don't feel as free to share with you.

3) Please, please don't shy away from mentioning my brother or his death. Thoughts of him are all I can think about right now, so you bringing them up is not a shock or surprise, but a relief that I am not alone with the elephant in the room.

4) I know grieving people often gripe about cliches and such that are said...but please don't be afraid to offend me with your encouragement (unless it is REALLY dumb! ;)). Scripture is especially important. At a time where lies are flying from every side, truth is all we can cling to. Once the numbness wears off, I will be able to look back and see the truth and promises that carry us.

5) At the same time, be willing to be silent. More than anything, I long for someone who would just sit...sit and listen when I want to laugh about Ben's funny stories, sit while I cry a really ugly cry, or sit while I too sit in silence, lost in my own thoughts.

6) Be gracious. I'm learning that grief not only crushes the heart, it incapacitates the brain. I am dropping balls right and left...I can't remember what day it is, what commitments I've made, or where I put my coffee cup. Please extend grace as I fight to keep my head above water.

Like I said, this journey is just beginning. I praise God for those who are willing to walk alongside my family every step of the way. God is our rock, and He uses each of you to remind us of that. Thank you!

Picture: kendallchurch.org

Shattered

O death, where is your sting?

It is here...a million shards of glass gouging my heart's fragile flesh.

It is boulder in my stomach, a crushing vise in my mind.

It is a revolting throb pulsing through my every vein.

I want to throw up.

I want to break a thousand windows.

I want to scream until I WAKE UP.

My mind flashes a thousand pictures.

My brother, my friend...

His laugh, his hugs, his protection.

His dreams, his heartaches, his seizures.

His grin, his compassion, his quirks.

Our memories make my lips slip into a smile.

I think, “I need to ask Ben about---”

SLAM. There it is again.

My soul is parched, thirsting for the relief of a second chance.

But it will never come.

He's gone.

Gone.

My brother is---he...died.

I hate those words.

They taste wretched forced through my closing throat.

Death your sting is here, sitting upon my chest like a ten ton weight.

I will not... I cannot deny this pain.

My heart knows it too well.

But beneath the crushing weight, hope flickers.

Do you hear? Do you hear the whisper of God's glory?

Like a cleansing flood His grace pours over my raw and aching soul.

I know death...I know pain....I know the famine of a devastated heart.

I don't know how to heal. I don't know how to live this life. I don't know why my brother is gone.

But I know that God is good.

And I praise Him.

Maybe

Dear Ellie,

Today you would have been 18-months old. Maybe you would have been walking, maybe not. Maybe you would have words to share with us, letting us know what was happening in your little mind. Maybe not.  Maybe you would have tantrums, showing the world just how much not getting your way displeased you! Or maybe you would have been the girl who would have gone off in a corner to pout and cry silently. Maybe your daddy would scoop you up and throw you on the couch as you giggled and squealed. Maybe your Mama would have your toes painted cheerful colors. Maybe you would be able to say my name. Maybe you would babble to me on the phone. Maybe your Mama would be sending me stories of the silly things you did each day. Maybe you would have bright pink braces on your legs or physical therapy five days a week. Maybe I would talk to your Mama about the things I learned in my experiences with special needs that could help you. Maybe we would finally be getting an idea of what your future would look like. But despite all the maybes…you are not doing any of those things. Your earthly body is still in the ground, where we placed it a little over a year ago. Your things are still placed neatly in a box, showing no signs of being used. The world has moved on…even I have. I cannot remember the last time I became teary at the thought your absence…until today. I feel guilty about that. My escape has been numbness…until today. Today, I held a little girl and felt what would have been your weight in my arms. Today, I sang of God’s goodness in church and remembered how it was His goodness that held me when I could not stand because you were gone. You are still gone. Today, I let my mind wander to the day you were born, the day you died, and the day I’ll hold you once more. I let my heart ache as I envisioned the task of explaining who you are to my own future babies. Today, I let myself remember that my Sister and Brother-in-law are living life on earth without you…without your laughs, your needs, and your future. Their arms are empty…still. They are still thinking of you daily, they are still facing a cruel world who forces them to move on. Today, I hurt. I’m empty. I’m angry. I’m lonely. Just for today, I refuse to be ok and I refuse to move on. I refuse to pretend that your life and death are far from me. Today, I want to sit and be quiet. I want to rest in the arms of Jesus…where you are. Today, I’m choosing to hold you and be held. And maybe, just for today, that’s ok.

Love you always,

Aunt Mimi

The Littlest Butterfly

I see a butterfly before me. She is small and delicate. The curves of her wings are gentle and smooth, as if carved by the gentlest hands of deepest love. The design upon them is bold yet, easily overlooked. Her inner treasure may not be noticed at first glance, but each moment spent gazing upon her unearths depths of the purest beauty. The movement of her wings is slow and graceful, as if each gentle pump is focused and life-giving. Like breath they move in perfect synchrony, a reminder that life must be lived one moment at a time. She perches upon her place on this earth, her existence silent, yet deafening to all blessed enough to receive the miracle of beholding her. Around her, danger swirls and those who love her long to protect her. Her delicate body is no match for the darkness of a fallen world. Yet still she rests upon her flower, fighting the wind and rain, radiating beauty and moving through each day in the rhythm of life. As time goes on, her body becomes worn; her gentle wings are frazzled and worn. Her tiny antenna are bent up and kinked, yet her beauty increases the longer she fights. And then one day, her wings move more slowly and come to a stop. For an instant, the world holds tight its breath, praying that this precious butterfly will remain near. But suddenly, with such little warning, she takes off into flight, flitting through the darkened sky. I cry out and reach for her, grabbing to bring her close. But I am not big enough, nor strong enough to combat that which is taking place. Higher she goes until almost out of sight. I sink to my knees, defeat weighing heavy. I realize I've lost her and all that is beauty. I raise my head slowly, begging for one final glimpse. Instead of the darkness I believe I will see, I see something much greater than all I hoped could be. My breath stops suddenly at the sight I behold. A presence of love, of grace precious as gold, is holding this butterfly and carrying her upward. I watch and I watch until she's finally out of sight. I let the tears come, I let my heart break. But as I gaze up to the place where she finally flew, my heart finds its hope and joy anew. The same hands that hold this tiniest butterfly, are wrapped around me, promising comfort and love. She's out of my reach, but so close to my heart. For my Father, Beloved, True Love, and King, is holding us both and His is the glory.

Happy 1st birthday, sweet Ellianna. One year ago today I saw you for the first time in your very first photo. No tube or wire could mask your beauty, for in your precious face I saw the signature of the Artist with an immaculate style. One year later, I look back on a journey with many miles yet to travel--a journey of defeat and triumph, sorrow and joy. I miss you so very much. Each and every day I walk not in a shadow of your death, but in the light of your life and all it is teaching me. I thank God for you and I love you so very much. See you soon.

Love, Aunt Mimi

The Art of Grieving

Grief is a curious thing. It can come both as a dangerous hurricane and a silent whisper. It can come suddenly, like a slap in the face, or it can come slowly, like a fist tightening around one's heart over a long period of time until the tightness finally steals away so much breath that its victim is forced to face reality. Grief can be lonely and dark, or sweet and laced with comfort. Grief can kill...but it also can bring life. The last 6 months have been a journey of encountering so many aspects of grief. I have smiled at it's sweetness when I trace my niece's precious face in a picture. But I have also cried out in pain, despising the bitter taste grief has left in my heart. I have delighted in speaking of Ellie and sharing her beauty with my friends. I have also spent hours in my room, feeling alone and overcome with the burden I silently bear. I have praised God for how He is using Ellie in my life, and I have told him I cannot understand why she is no longer in our arms. I have rejoiced in the hope and peace found in suffering in Christ, and I have wept because sorrow overwhelms me and despite so much light, I am left staring into the darkness of loss. I show pictures, I tell stories, I share the lessons learned from the life and death of this precious little girl. And yet I know that I will never be able to paint a picture of just how much Ellianna has shaped me and will continue to shape me. I can show a picture of her tiny face, but I cannot explain how I can still feel what it felt like when my lips brushed that tiny cheek and the smell of her sweet hair and plastic oxygen tubing made a smile dance on my lips. I can show a photo of her curled up on my chest, but I cannot describe the emptiness I feel when I remember that I will never feel the weight of her tiny body again. I can give updates on how my sister and her family are doing, but I cannot convey the pain of watching my sister and her husband live the loss of a child, or the heartbreak of watching my nieces and nephew try to make sense of such pain. I ask God why...but at the same time, I tell Him I don't need to know. My heart aches, but yet balloons with joy because of the chance I have to be the aunt of an incredible little life who has changed me and shaped me in a way that undeniably proclaims the hand of God. I don't know how to grieve. If there is an art to it, I certainly have not mastered it. Most days, I feel like such a sloppy griever. One day I may be joyfully telling one of Ellie's silly stories, and the next I may be alone in my room, sobbing over her absence. But as I grieve day to day, in whatever way it happens to be, I am discovering true beauty. God isn't asking me to be a "pretty griever." He isn't asking me to feel guilty for my grief or pretend it isn't there. He does not require me to grieve perfectly. He is asking me to trust His heart. He is inviting me to rest in His arms, turn my ear to His promises, believe in His goodness, and rejoice in the beauty He is raising from such choking ashes. He is asking that when I do fail, I ask for and accept his forgiveness. And more than ever, He is holding me. He is reminding me that He holds my heart and collects every tear. He is being my perfect Beloved, as His quiet love beckons me back to His safety every time my unpredictable emotions lash out. When I weep over the empty arms of my family, He reminds me that His arms are full as he cradles each of His children, including our precious Ellianna Grace, as we wait to hold her once more.

Arms of Comfort

Life is hard. I don't know how people who have no hope in Christ live it. The "small things" are hard enough, but when tragedy strikes, I truly don't know how those who don't know our King continue to function. So many people have experienced pain far, far worse than my own and have nothing to fall back on, no arms to rest in, no hope to behold. We who belong to the King have so much comfort, we have life--abundant life. But still, we hurt. Our hurt is no less than those around us--but it is bound in hope. So often, I have the blessing of being able to be strong--not because I myself am strong, but because I have a steady flow of strength flowing through me from the Holy Spirit. Plus, I have the incredible opportunity to lay my burdens at the foot of the cross. I can lay my own burdens down that I might take up the burdens of other's. I believe greatly in the value of this concept, but sometimes it's as if I feel guilty for my pain or the desire to share that pain. What I am beginning to discover though is that I am perhaps robbing brothers and sisters in Christ when I don't share. I am so very blessed when others share with me...why would I rob the family of God by not allowing them to be blessed in the same way? Quite frankly, I don't have to always be strong. I am so so thankful that the promises of God are true. But that doesn't mean I don't hurt. And it means that sometimes, it is ok just to share because it feels good or helps me be comforted. It's ok to say the questions and frustrations that are in my heart and mind. Even if I know I have hope and I know God is good, it is ok to say that knowing the truth and promises doesn't make the pain and questions go away. With that said, I can say that the pain of my niece's death has penetrated my heart so deeply. Yes, it has been several weeks. Yes, the services are over and the family and friends are back home. Yes, I am only the aunt and my sister and brother-in-law's pain is far greater and deeper than my own. But my heart still held and holds this baby. I would have given my life for her. Her preciousness overwhelms me. She changed me and continues to change me. The world is sad when a baby dies...the tragedy is recognized. But the world doesn't remember what it was like to be unable to look away from that tiny face, believing that nothing could be more beautiful or full of hope. The world doesn't know how to miss the loud squeaks she made as she sucked on her pacifier so hard, I wondered how such a tiny person could possibly make such loud noises. The world doesn't miss the weight of her on my chest. The world doesn't miss what it felt like to press my nose in the top of her head and take in the smell of her. The world doesn't know the feeling of realizing that instead of returning to college, I had the great privilege of devoting a year to loving and helping this little girl. The world doesn't know what it is like to suddenly be going back to college, having to answer the questions as people wonder why my plans changed. The world doesn't know the knot my heart forms as I try to answer the question, "How is your sister doing?" The world doesn't know what it is like to spend a week alongside my sister and her husband, planning the details of their daughter's funeral and burial. The world doesn't know the overwhelming pain of how helpless I feel, knowing that my sister's heart is hanging in shreds in another state. The world doesn't know what it is like to wake up after having yet another dream about Ellie night after night, trying to reach reality once more but caught up in the feeling of having her again for that short instant. As my heart is torn open at the thought of that tiny body being underground, the world can say it is just a shell. But what they don't know is that it is the most beautiful shell in the world. I share all this not because I am hopeless...but because I am hopeful. This hurts...so much. I won't deny the pain. I won't deny the questions, frustrations, and sometimes....anger. I won't say that each and every day of my life is not deeply affected by the hollow ache of loss. And I won't say that I can always be strong. But I will say that I don't always have to be strong. I am held so securely in the arms of the Great Comforter and I rejoice in that! However, that doesn't mean I don't really desire to feel those arms in an earthly form sometimes. Knowing this pain is what allows me to know the comfort that accompanies it. Maybe, as I am willing to be weak and receive comfort, I can be equipped to be the earthly arms of comfort for another person whose heart is aching.

(Picture from: www.crestock.com)

The Holiness of Pain

Some of you have known about the journey of my little niece, Ellianna Grace. There is something so special about this baby--she has held my heart since the very beginning of her little life. She was born on March 2nd, 11 weeks before her due date. She has battled hydrocephalus since birth, along with many other medical issues, one after another. Several weeks ago, she underwent her 3rd brain surgery, during which a permanent shunt was placed in her brain to drain the extra fluid. Days after, she was home from the hospital and had finally seemed to turn the corner. She was showing signs of Cerebral Palsy, and with guidance from God, I had made the decision to take a year off from school to move to Colorado and help my sister with Ellianna's care. As plans were finalized, I was so at peace about this decision and excited to see what God would do in me through this baby. But then the most drastic corner was turned. On Wednesday, July 13th, my sister told me that Ellie had been weak and overall not well that day and was admitted to the hospital. After some surgeries during the night and more tests, everything seemed to be falling apart. By Thursday afternoon, my sister was calling me at work to tell me that Ellie had the worst kind of infection in her brain, spine, and blood. 50-60% of her brain tissue had already died and doctors were preparing us for her departure from this earth. As I passed the information on to my family, the words I was saying sounded so hopeless, so surreal. I left work, packed in about 5 minutes, and took off for my mom's. The next morning I headed to Colorado to be with my sister and her family. My main purpose was to offer them support and comfort, but I felt like I needed their presence as much as or maybe more than they needed mine. I made the trip to Colorado alone, and although that didn't seem ideal, it ended up being a blessing in disguise. The 7 hours I had alone with God while driving are something I will always treasure. My confusion and anger melted away to the assurance of His love for me. Since Ellie's death, all I had been able to pray was "God help me!" During that car ride, all I could say over and over again through my tears was, "You are so good!" As my perspective changed, I wrote a letter to Ellie that I read at her funeral. Here it is:

Dearest Ellie-

I am so blessed to have been a part of your miraculous life. You are so tiny, yet you touched such a huge amount of people. There is something so very special about you. Like I used to tell your mommy, you have held a special part of me since the day you were born. I don’t think anyone has ever made me pray or plead for a miracle harder. And no one’s death has ever hurt so deeply as yours. At first, when you went to meet Jesus, I thought God had chosen not to give us a miracle. I told people we had lost you. But what I am not realizing is that God did give us a miracle. Every second of your life was and is a miracle, whether here on earth or in your glorious true home. Rather than being lost, you have been found. There will never be another uncertain day in your life. We don’t have to wonder what pain you are feeling, what milestones you may miss, or how you will live day-to-day life. We know where you are and though we can’t understand why, we know that God is good. Perhaps faith isn’t believing the worst won’t happen, but knowing that when it does, God is still victorious. And when God’s will is done, it isn’t the worst after all. The ache of your earthly absence is all but unbearable. But I am so happy for you. You were able to claim your royalty after such a short time in this fallen world. You are a Princess who will forever dwell in the presence of her King. You are so beautiful, cherished, and loved. I just know that your laughter is contagious, your smile is breath-taking, and your dance is flawless. I will always be your proud aunt.

All my love,

Aunt Mimi

I remember holding my sister when I arrived. All I could hear were our sobs and the voice in my head begging God to hold us. I remember cradling my nieces, ages 6 and 3 and wanting to save them from this nightmare. It is definitely one of the most painful experiences I have ever had. Yet, despite the agony, one word kept coming to mind as that nightmarish week wore on: Holy. In the midst of such darkness, God brought miracle after brilliant miracle. Here are a few of them:

Jacob's Salvation:

Ellie's older brother, Jacob (9), was away at camp when she died. My sister and her husband decided to let him finish out camp and then meet him there on the last day to share the news. On Saturday, they headed to the camp for breakfast, and then took Jacob to the chapel. They shared the sad news and as it turned out, Jacob had some news of his own: He had given his life to Christ during the week! I have been praying for this boy for years. In fact, many people have been. When he heard of Ellie's death, he flipped to 2 Corinthians 1:3-6 and asked to read it at Ellie's funeral. When he arrived home, more tears of mine came. But this time, they were tears of joy for this boy who was so very changed! God's timing is beautiful.

The Butterfly:

Ellie's older sister, Baylie, LOVES butterflies. When Ellie was taking her last breathes, her mom and dad told her to always send lots of butterflies for Baylie from heaven. Every afternoon after that, there was a huge yellow and black swallowtail butterfly that swooped into the backyard just for a moment. Every day. Without fail. On the day of the funeral, we were out front watching for the limo. The butterfly came early that day, and swooped around the front yard rather than the back.

More Butterflies:

Baylie has a butterfly garden. Every now and then, she receives a shipment of caterpillars and over 4 weeks, gets to watch them progress to butterflies. She got a shipment in the days before Ellie died, but was sad because the caterpillars were further along than usual. Sure enough, they formed their Chrysalis' within days. It normally takes 10 days for them to hatch into beautiful butterflies. However, on the painful morning of the viewing, we heard shouts from Baylie about her butterflies! Turns out they had hatched early! God gave this special little girl such a beautiful gift on one of the hardest days of her young life. Not to mention that Ellie's online obituary just happened to have butterflies (purple ones in fact--Ellie's color!) as a background, there were several butterflies dancing about during the grave-side service, and the Pastor said that an incredible amount of Monarchs had been flying past his office window all week.

The Rainbow:

The viewing was by far the hardest day for me and many others. When I walked in with my sister and her family to see that tiny body, we all just crumbled. I have never heard such heart-wrenching sobs. Later in the evening, some people were talking about a rainbow outside. I went outside to check it out and I could not believe my eyes. Over the city of Colorado Springs was the most vibrant, bright, vivid rainbow I had ever seen! The purple part, which is rarely seen, was just a tad brighter than the rest. I think I know why: Whenever Ellie was out in public in purple, people commented on how great she looked in it. Always. So purple became Ellie's color, her theme, a beautiful reminder of her. It's no coincidence that the purple stood out.

Ellianna's death hurts--deeper and different than any hurt I have felt before. I don't know why we had Ellie for such a short time. I don't know why God took her so suddenly, when months ago we may have been expecting it a little more. I don't understand why He had me change my plans, only to change them even more drastically. I don't understand it, but I don't have to. All I need to understand is that our God is good. So good. He is good when He gives life, and when He takes it. I know that the Bible is sprinkled full of verses about the blessing of trials, but there is nothing like living that blessing. The pain is still there--real, suffocating, almost unbearable at times. But God is still so present, whether in the beauty of a special rainbow, or simply His presence as I cry before Him. During the week, I felt an urge to wash my sister's feet. I didn't know why I wanted to, but I went ahead and did it. I guess I just wanted to be humbled before her. Pain is holy, and God has given her much of it. When God's people hurt, God is there. It's as if we are standing on holy ground. She obviously has been set aside as one of God's beautiful plans and pictures of comforting grace. And I as too feel the deep tug of sorrow and grief, I know that God has also set me aside for His purpose. I am broken-hearted. But God promises that He is near to the broken-hearted, and more than ever, I know that this promise is true. Sometimes the hurt of life takes my breath away. But even when I catch my breath, it is pulled away by the wonder and awe of what it means to suffer as a child of the King. How great is this God who pours out His love on His children!

Ellie's Rainbow

My niece, Baylie, and me taking in Ellie's rainbow

(Photos by: Tressa Stubbs. Used with permission.)