W H Y

Being a foster parent the last four years has been the hardest life experience I have ever chosen. This journey has caused me to cry more, sleep less, and experience more powerful emotions than I could have imagined. It has exposed me to such hideous ugliness and darkness in the world. In the beginning, I felt certain that despite the hardness, foster care would draw me closer and closer to my God. Yet, I have spent many nights in the last four years wide awake, panicked and screaming inside, wondering if there even is a God and where He is. I have continued to speak and live my faith, but there have many times when I could not be certain the faith was even there anymore. So…this begs the question…why? Why would I choose to live out a journey that has robbed me of sleep, a social life, or my twenties full of enjoying marriage and 2.5 non-traumatized or ailing children? Why would I continue to step into a gap where thanks are rare and people are quick to offer judgement and condemnation? Why would I continue to say yes to a mission which has shaken my self-image, physical health, and relationships with my husband, friends, extended family, and God to the core? Why would I say yes to an everyday (and every night) full of appointments, meltdowns, trauma triggers, therapies, meetings, emails, phone calls, court hearings, treatments, and more days in hospitals than I would have liked to see in my entire life? Why would I choose to allow this hard to be my story? Why do I find myself tonight, Friday night, unloading my heart while tears stream down my face when I could be watching Netflix or partying with friends? Why….?

Is it the kids?

These children are precious. Despite their many flaws, deep wounds, and immense difficulties, it is easy to become lost in their eyes, their smiles, and their victories. Even on days when the smiles and warmth and victory is buried beneath trauma and disability, it is still easy to cling to the knowledge of a child’s value and right to be wrapped in safety and love. So do I do it for the kids?

Yes…but that isn’t enough.

Is it the bigger circle?

Foster care doesn’t end with the children in care. No, it seeps far into the circle that surrounds them. There are biological parents who need to be told and shown for the first time that they are worthy of love. There are social workers who need to see good in the world once again through a positive and thankful foster parent. There are churches and neighbors and friends and extended family members who need to see the joy of living life outside the lines. So do I do it for the bigger circle?

Yes...but that isn’t enough.

It is the compensation or the accolades?

This one is easy: No.

That isn’t enough.

The truth is, even when my faith feels broken…even when I begin to doubt that the eyes of a loving God are on me and my home…even when I am barely, barely clinging to the tiniest thread of faith—that is the why. Without Jesus, without the hope of who He is and what He has done, none of this—None. Of. It.—could be enough to say yes. Somehow, after a night of tossing and turning, wondering if I have been abandoned or I am drowning in the ache of the stories of heartbreak that fill my home, it is that teeny tiny thread that lifts me to my feet the next morning. Actually, it isn’t even the thread because I am powerless. But on the other end of that thread—and every other side of it—is a great big God who sees, hears, and loves His daughter and every other person who fills my home. That God is too faithful to abandon me, too good to leave me undisciplined or without a good hand and heart slap every now and then. That God is so kind and gracious and forgiving that He hears my words of doubt, sees my confusion and pain, and tells me it’s time to rest in Him as I place one foot in front of the other and step bolding into the story He is writing. Without Him, these kids would just be kids who couldn’t possibly be worth the sacrifice. Without him, these circles would be full of people who there is no hope of redemption for.

It’s. All. Jesus.

He is the why.

Even when I forget that and find myself leaning on my own sorry excuse for wisdom or strength, it is still Him. He is the one who takes days full of insanity and pulls to the surface the moments of stillness, laughter, smiles, joy, growth, relationship, grace, and over-comings. He is the one who makes the hardest of hard days worthwhile when He plants tiny seeds. He is the one who is glorified even when there is not much earthly fruit to show.  He is the why, the reason, and the worth it.

And that…that why…makes the hard years, months, weeks, and days like today undoubtedly worth it. -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

July 2, 2015

Dearest Ben,
Can you believe you would be 30 today? If you were here, I definitely would be harassing you about being an old man. At least it's good to know that time would be powerless to make you any less funny, or obnoxious, or sweet, or my big brother. It's been 14 months that you've been gone. I miss you...a lot. I spent the last year unable to process and unable to release the burning tears that begged for release. For months after you died, I begged God to give me dreams of you so I could see you and hear your voice. When He finally did, I cursed the morning as it took you from me yet again. Now, I dream of you often. Sometimes I awake filled with joy and carry the sound of your laughter with me through the day--a priceless treasure no one can steal. Other days I awake in a panic...like the night I frantically woke Silas, claiming that you were having a seizure on the couch and we had to save you. Almost daily, I still find myself grabbing my phone to ask you a question or getting excited about fishing season with you before your absence crushes my reality once more. And then...there's July. The entire month has BEN written all over it, top to bottom: You and mom's shared birthday, which was also my due date--This year, I missed you singing "Party Pooper" to me for being born early instead of topping of a birthday threesome. There are fireworks everywhere. Every new firework tent I see ties a new knot in my aching heart. How I wish I could see you with that "July 4th is coming" bounce in your step, flitting around the house to prepare for your firework show. I wish I could design your firework donation buckets and put a touch too much glitter on your advertising posters just to see you roll your eyes. I wish I could sit through the city fireworks this year knowing the real magic would begin after the grand finale, when we would  rush to cheer on the show you waited all year to put on.  I wish you were here to tease me about my pregnancy chub or the funny way you think I say certain words. I wish you were here to give me a birthday present that is just a bit too obnoxiously pink, but perfectly thought through and heart-felt. I wish you were here to take me fishing and listen to my heartache about our baby boy's lung condition. I wish I could tell you that his name will carry your legacy. It's a strange sensation to hurt so deeply and yet remain so numb. They say time heals all wounds, but that's not true. Actually, I don't think I want it to be true. It the moments when the hurt is deep and hot tears roll that I find the sweetest rest. I find freedom in acknowledging the brokenness of a cursed world. I find peace in the presence of God. I find comfort in the arms of my husband and an unfailing God. I refuse to believe that your death was "right" or worth it or whatever else well-meaning people say...but I do believe that God is for you, for me, and that you are with Him. I believe that He IS bringing good from evil. I believe that though time will not heal, maybe healing isn't the goal....God's glory is. I don't think I will ever heal or process or move on as the world's grief therapy book says I should...but I do know that I am changed for having known you, for loving you, and for losing you. I know that I have gained, that I have lost, and that I have seen God. I love you so much, Ben. Thank you. Thank you for being my big brother and friend. Thank you for being so very memorable and missable and capable of leaving such a very big hole in our lives. Thank you for answering God's call to live for the eternal, that your death might not be the end. May God continue to be glorified!

Love,

Micah

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 

Enough is Enough

Life on earth is hard. You’d think that a 22 year old would know this by now. I guess I keep thinking that each new season is required to have some kind of deal attached, obligating this season to be a fraction easier than the last. That’s not the way it works….it’s not the way God works. I knew marriage wouldn’t be easy--I had read the books, listened to the radio programs, soaked in the advice. Marriage is a refining fire, a magnifying glass bringing to light flaws I worked for 22 years to keep off the radar. I was prepared for this to happen…but I wasn’t prepared to be broken by it. Don't get me wrong...I am married to the most faithful, loving, grace-giving man of God I could fathom...but marriage is a marathon. I knew teaching would be extremely hard.  I knew that entering a time in life when everything is new would not be a walk in the park, but I had no idea the heartache this new season would bring. I have been blessed with a faith in God that trusts through storm after storm. But I have always had the crutch of “strength” and identity. I have been surrounded for so long by situations that allow me to place my identity in them. I have poured out in any ministry I could get my hands and heart in. I have babysat any and every little person I can convince the parents to leave with me. I have poured my life into kids with special needs. I have pursued good grades, good relationships. I have been strong in these things…but was I really? Suddenly, I find myself at a time in life where I am involved in far fewer things than I ever have been. I am a wife…I am a teacher…and that’s about it.  The kicker is, both of these things are things that are new, hard, and areas I am far, FAR less than decent in. The “strong” Micah is suddenly a wife who struggles to be vulnerable, who fights to find a heart desiring to serve her husband at all times. The “strong” Micah is a teacher who doesn’t have a clue how to manage a classroom, meet the academic needs of students, or convey love and grace to 8 precious students when all she is trying to do is survive. The “strong” Micah is finally admitting that the death of her brother overwhelms her…that she dreams of him, cries over him, and misses him beyond measure. I am mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted. In the last 2 months, I have doubted the very existence of God and especially His attentiveness to my heart. I have tried to pray day after day only to find I still have no words. I have demanded He show up…and been left feeling very much alone. For a girl who desperately needs to feel needed and purposeful to have an identify, being content to be weak and simply trust God through a new season is extremely painful. One day last week, Silas prayed and thanked God for giving us enough to get through the day. “What does that even mean?” I spouted. “Every day we pray for God to give us just enough for the day…and every night we thank Him for giving us enough. But does He really? I am barely surviving! Is that enough? Is it enough as long as we don’t die?” I have been thinking about what “enough” means a lot since then. For me, enough used to mean my day was filled with giddy, joyful moments. It meant an overflow of peace…an abundance of earthly and spiritual blessing. It meant being needed and being strong. It meant a closeness with God that made my heart skip beats and prayers that flowed without too much effort. My enough no longer looks like that…at least right now, in this season. But I am realizing that enough is still enough. Enough has become the fact that I belong to a God who loves me too much to give me a season where my knees will not buckle before His throne beneath the weight of life’s pain. Enough is the distant truth that I am loved when I am unlovable. Enough is a husband who forgives me day after day after day. Enough is paras who are gracious and knowledgeable and support me through the school hours. My enough is not found in strength or an identity found in what I do…my enough is found in my weakness. Enough is the ashes of a shattered heart from which beauty WILL rise.  I am broken…that is enough. I am weaker than I have ever been…that is enough.  I am lonely…that is enough. I am grieving…He is holding me…that is enough. I will choose to praise God through this pain…praise Him that He has been gracious enough to provide me with a time in life when I am not the strong one. I will praise Him for a husband that I can learn alongside and be broken with. I will praise Him for a school year of learning. I will praise Him because He is still on the throne… He is still the King of My Heart…He is still...enough.

"But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, 

for my power is made perfect in weakness..."

-2 Corinthians 12: 9-

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.

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.)

Praying for Haiti

Over the past few days, my heart has been breaking for the people of Haiti. I look at Haiti, a country that suffered from poverty, malnutrition, etc. even before the horrible quakes. It seems so unfair that these people must endure this. My heart longs to reach out to them. I want to be there holding those people, praying over them, and sharing the love and word of God with them. Today, I found myself thinking, “Even if I could go, I would only be able to touch a few lives, never a nation. I just wish I could save them all!” Then, I had to remember who our God is! Is it not the great God and creator of these people, this universe and beyond that I am crying out to on behalf of those souls? Is our God not an awesome God of compassion and sovereignty? It can be easy to become discouraged and feel so small, yet all I have to do is try to fathom the greatness of our God and I am so comforted. The situation in Haiti is heartbreaking. Through it all, I am able to be so thankful that we serve an awesome God of grace who sees the smallest sparrow fall. How much greater is His love for His children whom He made in His own image? We can’t save Haiti, but God can do much more than that---more than our human minds can know. He is there, listening to every prayer we offer on behalf of Haiti. It is in our weakness that He is strong.
"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows."
—Matthew 10:29-31-