Phone Calls from Jesus

It’s been a little over six months since we left California. Unlike our move to California, we landed in Georgia two days before school started, and life began in a whirlwind of action. Kids ready for school, finding sports, starting sports, house unpacked, all the things hung, all the things shopped and bought. My husband would tell you I was a force to be reckoned with, and I’m afraid for the first time in our marriage, I may have steam-rolled him in my busyness and grief.

The house came together quickly. I love it. Every day I wake up, I am reminded of the faithfulness of the Lord because of my beautiful home. The kids settled into school schedules, sports schedules, getting to know the neighbors, figuring out how to stay in touch with their California friends on a three-hour time difference. Joey’s new role requires him to work his old one as well, so essentially, for the moment, he’s attempting to manage two jobs well. Everyone was busy. Everyone is busy.

(Side note: “If Satan can’t make you bad, he will make your busy.”—Corrie Ten Boom)

With two kids in school, my days are spent doing laundry, shopping for a new house, preparing dinner, cleaning house, shopping for all the sports things and new layers of clothing we all require in Georgia. I joined BSF (Bible Study Fellowship) because it’s always a safe space for me to land when I don’t belong to a church. It holds me accountable to reading God’s Word.

But that’s all I’ve been doing for months. Reading God’s Word. Just reading and studying it. And He’s been faithful! His Word is alive and active even when my heart is not (Hebrews 4:12). I’ve heard Him beckoning me for months now, calling me to prayer, inviting me to silence and solitude with Him. To give Him just thirty minutes of space where I do nothing but listen.

I have excused myself and refused to engage with Him for months now. Too busy. Too tired. Self-care. The excuses go on and on and on.

Busy with what? Honestly? Seventy-five percent of my day is spent busy with necessary things. Errands, food, laundry, budget, household care, household organization, calendar managing, making appointments, shopping, keeping appointments, etc. The other twenty-five percent of my busyness is spent on things of my own conjuring. Empty thoughts and conversations with myself. Random projects not urgent, and as the week progresses, every day holds less of a percentage of necessary and more of a percentage of chosen randomness. The point being, I have margin on which to capitalize.

Too tired? Honestly? I know how to manage this. Yes, I work out. Yes, it makes me tired, but if I feed my body the food it needs (not wants), take my vitamins, and drink at least 64oz of water in a day, I can manage. What too tired usually means for me is I’m exhausted from the mental gymnastics inside my mind—the thinking, the spinning, the capturing of thoughts, and differentiating of voices. I am tired most often from over-thinking and over-analyzing. This also adds to my feelings of busyness and cuts into my margin.

Self-care? Honestly? When I am not in a mentally healthy place, I convince myself that self-care looks like internet scrolling and TV watching. All I’m really doing is choosing to drown out the inner voices with other voices. I’m choosing to temporarily numb my existence with someone else’s story. Doing anything without the accompaniment of music or television or for some, even a book, would mean embracing the silence of the moments of my margin. God might speak. I might hear His voice. (1 Kings 19:11-13)

Why have a been afraid to hear His voice? Why do I fill my life to the brim, edging out any possibility or space for silence?

I’ve had two new-to-my-story people in the last week question me, “Might you be angry with God?” One was even so bold to suggest, much like any close relationship, sometimes we give God the silent treatment because we’re so angry we don’t want to hear what He has to say.

I never wanted to leave California. How my life is now is not what I wanted.

That doesn’t mean it’s not a good, blessed life I’m grateful to have, and that doesn’t mean I’m still not angry. Both are true.

I think what’s hardest is admitting I’m angry with God. It seems like a dangerous statement, treacherous holy ground to throw a temper tantrum on. My God is All-Powerful, Sovereign, and Perfect in His ways. (Matthew 22:29, Colossians 1:16-17, 2 Samuel 22:31) Who am I to question Him? Who am I to doubt His methods? (Romans 9:19-23)

Yet therein lies the beauty and the wonder and the precious treasure of a relationship with the Father.

When I finally got quiet, when I finally took thirty minutes of silence and solitude to admit to Him I was angry with Him, He didn’t scold me or strike me or ignore me. He sat with me. He stayed. I could feel His very presence fill my mind and being, and He simply said, “I’ve got you. I always have. When have I not shown up for you? I’ve got this. I’ve got your future. I have My plans for you. You will know them when I need You to know them. Enjoy your children! Enjoy them. Enjoy the season of life you are in. Keep following me. Keep talking to me. Make some more time to listen to me.”

And just like that peace and hope flooded my soul. He never even addressed my anger because He knows better than anyone my anger is just a cover, a symptom, of deeper heart issues. Issues He spoke to directly with gentleness and authority.

He has been calling me to get quiet with Him FOR MONTHS to give me those words, those assurances. I robbed myself of peace and hope FOR MONTHS with my disobedience. I used busyness as an excuse to cover, hide, and not address my emotions. Yet when I laid my raw emotions at the feet of my Jesus, He accepted me as I am, right where I am, and spoke healing words to my soul.

It makes me wonder if all emotions are phone calls from Jesus. Calls placed beckoning us to come and have a conversation with Him about what we’re feeling. The emotions themselves He won’t condemn. Too often it’s the actions we take ignoring those emotions or reacting to those emotions that cause us to sin. What if we just took some time to answer His phone calls when we heard them? How much faster would we process our pain? How much less overall would we suffer? How much more peace and hope might we experience on a daily basis? How could that change our lives? How might that change our children’s lives? What would the ripple effect be for generations to come?

I’m just on the front of this revelation—emotions being phone calls from Jesus. Literally processing day one of this idea. I’m going to try living out the application of what it looks like to answer those phone calls. I have a feeling there’s a whole bunch of quality conversation in my future, and I’m looking forward to spending time with my Abba.

Questions People Ask

Do you miss California? Yes.

What do you miss most? Our entire way of life, but especially the people.

How do you like living in Georgia? We have a beautiful home that I love. Autumn is my favorite time of year, so it’s been a blessing to really experience it again.

How is Joey’s job? Good. He’s still adjusting to his new role, but it’s a blessing.

How are the kids? The kids are my heroes. We are full blown middle school years, and all the activity that encompasses. They are rockstars excelling at school and working hard at sports.

How are you doing?

….Uhhhhmmm. I’m fine. (Most days.) As good as can be expected. (What did I expect? What do you expect?) No complaints. (True statement, but I feel guilty for not being more convincing and excited about how God has provided for us.) I’m just here. Waiting.

I think if I was to be completely honest answering that last question, I need to say, “I don’t know.” But that brings an onslaught of conversation I don’t always welcome.

If I’m super introspective, I’m still grieving. And I know, grief is a dramatic word for a move. I get that. I’ve written about grief A LOT in the last decade. (Go click the "grief" label on my blog page!) It’s a deep chasm of emotion with so many nuances, and for some reason, I’ve experienced many facets of that chasm. But maybe because I have experienced so many sides to grief, I’ve learned to recognize it for what it is as well. It doesn’t surprise me like it use to. It doesn’t scare me either. It just is.

What does that look like? Sometimes I cry for no reason at all other than I just feel the presence of the grief. Sometimes I smile and make the best of my day knowing the grief is there, acknowledging it as my sidekick, but determined to be grateful and capture the joy-moments regardless. Sometimes it fades into the background for a breather, only to burst back on the scene like a rogue wave.

What I have learned is there’s no use ignoring it or shaming myself for feeling or experiencing the grief. I have learned to embrace it knowing it will subside. Hope lies on the other side of the chasm, and there is another side.

I do still struggle with the act of letting go. You see, all grief is a strange irony of wanting to hold on but needing to let go. To let go. It is a distasteful action in my mind. To let go of something you grieve, someone you grieve, feels like you are choosing to leave them behind. Depending on what it is you’re grieving releasing depends on how quickly and willingly it can be done. As with all things in life, some people move through the grief process quickly while others linger for a lifetime.

Here’s what I want others to say about me in my grieving:

She felt it all—deeply. She did not hide or run from the hard. She faced it all head on.

She loved Jesus well in the midst of her own struggles and those of others.

She shone with compassion and resiliency because on her good days she gave all the glory to God, and on her bad days, she stayed clinging to His feet. In either case, she loved Jesus well.

She was real. She was honest. She was true. With her Lord, with herself, and with others.

 

I don’t know if those statements reflect who I am today, but I know they reflect my heart’s desires.

In the letting go of what I grieve, I’m opening my hands wide to my Heavenly Father and trusting Him to fill them with good gifts. In holding on to what I grieve, I give Him less space in my life to pour His goodness.

In letting go, I’m trusting Him to fill me with the things and people He wants me to love today, now, presently. In holding on, I’m trusting myself more than Him to know what’s best for me.

In letting go, I am free to treasure the memory. In holding on, I am burdened by the weight of recreating what no longer exists, held captive by the past.

I long to be open, trusting, and free, not closed, disillusioned, and imprisoned.

So, I feel all the feels, but I stay close to my Jesus in it all because He came to set the captives free, to be light in the dark, and when I stay in the joy of His presence, I am protected from the darkness of despair, depression, and despondency.

If you asked me how I was doing, and I told you with a smile, “I’m still grieving, but my Jesus never leaves me,” what would you say? Would you pity me? Don’t. Would it make you uneasy, uncomfortable? Why? Would it make you want to walk big circles around me? Give me some space, instead of lean in closer? Those who grieve need the company of those who are willing to sit in the uncomfortable space and just be with them. There are no right words or actions. They just need to know they are not alone. They are seen. They are known.

My Jesus fulfills all these needs.   (My husband is pretty in tune as well after 20 years of studying me. He deserves a shout out for that.)

But it is my relationship with the Lord that must be enough. It must be the sustaining force. He must be my Source for all things first and foremost. I talk to Him as soon as the tears fall, and I thank Him as soon as I recognize a blessing. That’s the only way I’ve learned to navigate the chasm of grief.

I think I’ve said it before, but grief is more than an emotion. It is a thing. It has teeth and substance. It varies in degree of difficulty, but no matter the degree, it’s still a chasm to be navigated. In this day in age, it is my belief almost everyone is trying to navigate the crossing of a chasm of some size. The loss of a place, a thing, a job, of a dream, an opportunity, of a friend, a child, a spouse—anyone can be navigating more than one of these chasms at any point in time.

Jesus is the Bridge Who will help them cross; we can walk them to the Bridge. (1 Timothy 2:5)

Jesus is their Savior, only He can pull them out if they fall in the chasm; we can stand by with a rope and hold on while He pulls. (Hebrews 10:23-25)

Jesus will be their Light in the dark; we can shout encouragement into the night. (John 8:12)

Jesus will and has sacrificed Himself for their safety. He is their Protector; at the chasm’s edge, we can get our knees dirty in fervent prayers for a hedge of protection around them. (Romans 8:35-39, Job 1:10)

Jesus will never leave them; we can show up and be present, our physical presence a reminder they are not alone. (Deuteronomy 31:8)

Sometimes He sends us to be His hands and feet (Matthew 25:34-46). Sometimes we get to walk with them, hand in hand, for some of the crossing, but rarely for all. Grief must be crossed with Jesus. I’m not even sure you can ever make it to the other side of grief in a healthy way without Him.

So, who do you know that needs you to show up? How can you show support along their journey? Even in my own grief, I still ask these questions of myself because looking outside of myself is the best medicine for a downcast attitude.

I’m crossing this chasm with more determination and understanding than I have the last. More grace for myself and more grace for others. More focused on my Jesus instead of the waves. I want to acknowledge and celebrate that growth. I want to give God all the glory and credit for helping me learn, lean in, and grow despite the sadness. I’m grieving, but I’m okay, and that’s encouraging for me. Maybe it can be encouraging for you too. Jesus is willing, able, and fully capable to help you cross your chasms too. What step can you take today to trust Him a little more on that journey?

I’m learning to let go, and it’s a process and a journey, and I’m so very grateful I don’t traverse it alone in any way. 

Getting Comfortable with Uncomfortable

I can feel the rumblings of a new beginning. I’ve been here before. I am resistant. That’s the problem with getting comfortable in life.

Seven years ago, when I was alone and uncomfortable in life, I walked the California beaches alone and prayed desperately for God to meet me and to bring friends into my life. He answered far above and beyond what I could have hoped or imagined.

In time, life got good, comfortable. I stopped praying to meet new people. I stopped praying for God use to me because I was being used daily within the circle of people He had already given. In some ways, I stopped needing Him because He had provided all that I had trusted Him to provide.

That’s not a bad place to be! If I’ve learned anything, I want to recognize and enjoy the good gifts of the Lord—every day. I want to be grateful for His blessings and answered prayers while also always seeking Him for more. Not more things or people or experiences, but more of Himself, more of what He wants for my life. That’s what you stop doing as much when life gets comfortable or predictable even. You forget Jesus is always calling you to more of Himself.

Don’t you think God knows this? He knows that change is good for us. It feeds our souls. It stretches and strengthens us in ways we cannot orchestrate for ourselves. I truly believe if we ever get too comfortable and slow the pace of seeking His face, He will gift change to break the spell of comfort. We can seek change for ourselves willingly, or we will be given change unexpectedly. We can accept this is what is best, or we can fight tooth and nail against the changing tide. Change is inevitable in life, much like death. To refuse to acknowledge the presence of either in this life is foolishness.

And much like death, change must be grieved. Anger, denial, sadness, acceptance—these are all part of the process of change. Our culture doesn’t like the emotions of anger, denial, and sadness. It frowns upon their presence. We don’t know how to sit and just be with people who are angry, in denial, or sad, so we often leave them alone until they’ve reached acceptance. When they’ve had time to accept is when it’s safe to reach out. Until they’ve reached acceptance, investing in them means weathering hurt feelings, irrational outbursts, frustrating mindsets, and tears—so many tears.

Yet, those are the people I treasure! The ones who lean in and take nothing personally when “attacked” because they’re wise enough to know there’s more going on under the surface than themselves. They stay. They connect. They seek the ones who can’t seek for themselves right now.

Isn’t that what Jesus did? He went to the people hurting and seeking and always met them right where they were. He leaned in and got dirty and sat with them in their homes. He listened to their cries, spoke with them in the dark, and gently showed them truth. He gave them the gift of Himself—His presence, His attention, His truth, His time, His acceptance of their shortcomings. He spoke most harshly to those who would judge these in their anger, denial, and sadness.

My life just got flipped, turned upside down, and I’ve been taking a minute to process here in Georgia. I’m back to the lonely days of just me and Jesus. I’m back to seeking His company first. I probably should have never stopped. I’m soaking in my time with just Him because I’ve learned it’s during this hard season of quiet stillness and waiting, when Jesus sits with you that the enormity of His presence fills and stretches the heart slowly. For me, He uses this time to not just allow wounds to rest and heal but to strengthen the muscles of my heart I will need to move forward, to enlarge and make space in me for what He will provide to fill.

It’s uncomfortable to be stretched, sometimes even painful. But like I said, I’ve been here before. I trust the process a little bit more this time around. I know these quiet days won’t last. God will fill them in His time in ways He sees best; I need only wait and watch and be ready.

“So, Father, fill me with You. Fill all of me. Stretch me with Your great abiding presence. I will wait. I will wait for You to move first, and where You go, I will go because I know now, You’ve already walked the path ahead of me, and You know what I need today to be ready for tomorrow. So, I trust You bottle all my tears, Lord. Not one of them is shed in secret or in vain. Thank You for valuing and loving me enough to change me, to mold me into Your unique creation. Thank You that even in the pain of the grief of change, You are with me. I am never alone.”

He Uses It All

It's been eight years today since the Lord took her home. This year the sadness didn't build and crash like a tidal wave.  It is present and under the surface, but my walk with the Lord over the last eight years has grown an acceptance of her loss like moss on a stone. The acceptance helps take the edge off the sharp edges of grief. Instead of a tidal wave, this week is a strong surf week--manageable. 

Part of me doesn't appreciate this new found softness. It still feels wrong, like a betrayal, to not ache and hurt today the same as I did eight years ago. It feels like I love her less or have forgotten her more if the pain isn't as acute, but that's not true. If anything, I may love her more today than I did eight years ago.

Because the other thing I have a hard time admitting--I wouldn't be the person I am today had her death not turned my world upside down and inside out. 

I like the person I am today. Her death was the catalyst for a deeper relationship with the Lord I'm not sure I would have sought. The struggle through the darkness of the grief and the reality of depression's hold in my life have made me stronger and wiser. Carrying, feeling, and living through the pain, despite the pain, has taught me lessons about compassion and hope no other circumstances could have taught.

I HATE that eight years later her death has been the life event I attribute to molding me into a better human being. I would gladly give up all the growth I've experienced in the last eight years just to hug her neck again. 

But then, it's not about what I want. It never has been. It never will be. It's about the person God wants me to be. It's about the masterpiece my Jesus is creating with my life for His purposes, and only He knows the tools and life lessons and ways and methods needed to accomplish His end result. Only He can take the horrible and make it beautiful in time, in ways no one thought to look. Whether He caused her death or allowed her death really makes no difference. The truth is He has continued to make beauty from ashes, to work life for good for those of us who have called on His name in our hours of need.

And I'm only one witness to her life. One story. There are more. So many more.

Though our loved ones leave us, God still uses them to further His purposes through us, through our stories. We honor them with lives well-lived. We honor their lives by battling our grief instead of hiding from it. No, we live to tell the story of another day, to tell their story another day. Whether our story is one of personal defeat or victory, the power and redemption comes from having a story to tell, to share, to live. So both our deepest lows and highest highs have the same redemptive value when you own your story and share it.

Their deaths only lose meaning when the ones they leave behind stay stuck in the past and don't press forward into the future. Too many bitter, pitiful souls have gotten lost in the quagmire of unprocessed grief. When you're stuck in the muck, you lose sight of your purpose all together, and it takes work and support to escape.

"Thank you Jesus for orchestrating circumstances that made me work hard to move through the grief. Thank you for the support You Yourself provided in Yourself and through Your people who prayed, hugged me through tears, and just walked with me. Thank you that my life can be a testimony to the fact that her death wasn't a waste. Help me to continue to honor her story with my story by submitting to Your story for us both. In the same way Father, may my life be a testimony to the fact that Your death wasn't a waste either. May the good in my life always reflect Your glory and my sin testify to Your grace and forgiveness. Continue to use it all, Lord--the ugly deaths and beautiful births and everything in between. Use it all and use me too, Father."

Cause for a Jubilee

Jubilee. It’s the word that keeps coming to mind as seven years of reflecting on loss rolls around. At first, I thought I remembered the seventh year was the Year of Jubilee in the Old Testament. Turns out it’s seven years of seven, so the end of the 49^th year or the beginning of the 50^{th (}Leviticus 25:8-10). Nevertheless, jubilee is the odd word that keeps sticking when I reflect on seven years without Savannah Veale. Seven years of processing the grief of her untimely death and the hole in my life left behind. Seven years of feeling like a completely different person because she died. Seven years of difficult mind and soul work to understand what life means to me now.

And God gives me the word jubilee. Such an odd word. An uncommon word to associate with the anniversary of a death. Yet, it is a word that means the celebration of an anniversary. It is a word that represents the ideas of emancipation and restoration.

To say I feel emancipated and restored from the experience of her death feels wrong. Very wrong. It feels like I am betraying her memory. Afterall, part of grief is the inability to express felt love. Yet, here I sit this seventh year, not crying, not depressed. All God keeps whispering is, “Jubilee.”

Maybe it is through the years of processing, the swimming pools of tears cried, the angry words screamed and prayed, and all the unanswered questions that God works to bring emancipation and restoration.

Maybe every blog written in pain, every therapy session overflowing with snotty tissues, and every word penned in public or private was actually the treatment my heart needed all along. To express pain and be heard by someone, even if it was only God, was the very medicine my heart needed to finally feel free again, to feel more whole this year than last. It’s taken me seven years to get here and be at peace, to experience jubilee on this day instead of despair. It may take others seventy.

I wholeheartedly agree, time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it does offer the gift of perspective. A perspective I have now, seven years later with her gone, that I would not have had had she stayed.  This does not mean I don’t miss her or even that I’m grateful she died. I can’t hardly even swallow those words, much less type them.

But I am grateful that my Jesus has been gentle with me. He has been understanding and long suffering and never impatient. He has poured grace upon grace into my marriage, my friendships, my children, and all my life for seven years now. He has not forgotten her, and He’s allowed me to mourn her in my way in my time, all the while showing me His way in His time. He shifted my perspective over these seven years, not to see that He healed the wound, but to see what the wound has revealed about me and about Him.

Emancipated and restored people still walk around wounded, yet they also still experience the joy of jubilee. Grief does not cancel out joy. They are not mutually exclusive of each other. I think it’s taken seven years for me to accept this as truth. I am fully aware it may take others longer, and I may be in tears tomorrow. Both are ok. Jesus is gentle with you right where you are, always your best interest at the heart of His every intention.

So, on this jubilee, this seven-year anniversary, I am grateful for Jesus who never gave up on me even when I gave up on Him. I’m grateful He is the story I get to write. I don’t celebrate her death, but I will celebrate that I can testify a relationship with Jesus frees and restores. I have lived it for seven years. No one can take that knowledge and that experience from me. No one will ever convince me God isn’t good, and He doesn’t care. You just can’t.

My word of advice and encouragement for my brothers and sisters who still grieve, hard—Take it all to Jesus. All of it. All the anger, all the pain, all the questions, all the silence, all the waiting, all the panic, all the frantic—take all of it to Him. Wrestle with Him. Work out your salvation with fear and trembling (Philippians 2:12). He is mighty to save (Zephaniah 3:17). His ways are not our ways, but His intentions are nothing but for our good (Isaiah 55:8, Genesis 50:20). Will you make the choice to stay the course, to follow Jesus long enough and close enough in relationship to witness the good He intends?

Maybe that’s the celebration. Seven years today I can testify as a witness to the good He intended. I can stand as the oak tree in Isaiah 61:3 claiming all the promises to be found therein. If death and grief unearthed a reflection of God’s splendor hiding deep inside me, then His will be done, and all the glory is His. These seven years God has emancipated me unto Himself; He has restored me unto Himself in ways I did not know I needed to be freed, in ways I did not know I was lost. That is cause for a jubilee.

Seven years is a long time, forty-nine even longer. Christ has long suffered with and for His people since He first created us all and set time in motion. If He has not called it quits on us yet, can you not seek Him just one more hour of one more day? The jubilee is coming. I know this to be true.

Grateful to be His,

Jennifer Durham

Here's to 2020

In 2013 when she passed, my whole world stopped. To be fair, between becoming a new mother in 2007, blundering through postpartum depression, weathering a miscarriage in 2008, my world was already inwardly reeling well before her death. Looking back, I can see this clearly, but at the time it just seemed like the normal struggle of life.

But when she died, it's like the whole world just stopped, then it began to move in very slow motion in an opposite and different and new direction all together. Then, all of a sudden, like Dorothy in the tornado, I found my mind spinning out of control and transplanted to Oz, which quite literally ended up being from Georgia to California in 2014, and my family wasn't in Kansas anymore.

God knew exactly what He was doing every step of the way. 

To steal a quote from Lysa Terkearst, "the seeming permanence of some of the heartbreak ha(d) stolen some of (my) affection for life (It's Not Supposed to Be This Way, 2018)." Yes. Stolen my affection for life. I had slowly been losing my affection for life for some time if I look back and am honest. I was nursing wounds of seeming failure as a teacher. (This might be the first time I've ever even admitted I felt that way.) I was drowning in survival mode and seeming uselessness as a new mother. (Again, this was my inward world, I'm not sure even I knew at the time what was brewing in my mind.) I am not the mom who enjoyed those early years. Don't get me wrong. I treasured them, tried to appreciate them, and didn't wish them away, but when my youngest turned four, I breathed an inward sigh of relief that those early years were now treasured memories. I had survived.

I tried to thrive, but during the early years of my children, I weathered deep postpartum after my first, then silently grieved a miscarriage long after my second was born in 2009, somewhere in there my husband lost his brother (2010), and I buried a beloved grandfather (2012). It was life in my late twenties, early thirties. Everyone weathers crap, right? Everyone grieves sometimes about somethings. I was an adult. I could handle this. Right? 

I realize now how gentle and empathetic of a soul I have. Many have complimented me on my strength over the years, but the reality is my soft heart that feels deeply had a wall of emotional armor around it that grief was eating through like acid, and when it reached the soft underbelly of who I really was, I was in pain. You can only live life in pain for so long before it actually drives you crazy. When Savannah Veale died, my armor was destroyed, and I was left utterly exposed and frantic, my mind vulnerable to all the acid of the grief. In retrospect, it also left me completely vulnerable to the gentle working and molding of my Jesus. 

God sent the tornado that transplanted us to California. That was His doing. Except my yellow brick road was paved with sand and ocean waves. He even sent me my own Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Man to keep me company, and we've journeyed together toward Oz, back to the heart of the Wizard of Oz, except in this metaphor, the Wizard of Oz really is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. He was never a fake behind a curtain. Truth be told, He was with me on this journey the whole time, orchestrating every circumstance right there by my side.

So I sit here on the verge of 2020, looking ahead, and I am grateful for the journey. I've not reached a point where I can say I'm grateful for all the griefs. I am grateful for the freedom I've found in journeying back to the heart of my Jesus. I'm grateful for the relationships forged in fire along this journey, my husband being the closest and deepest. I'm grateful I am in a personal relationship with Jehovah Rapha, the God Who Heals. 

For many years now, I have believed that healing, deep healing from all the griefs of life, wasn't truly possible this side of heaven. If for the last decade I have been on a quest for joy and found it again in my Jesus, maybe the next decade is a quest for healing? or maybe victory? I don't know. I just know that Jesus healed so many during His time here on earth, and I believe His healing continues to this day, but I think maybe it looks so much different than what I think it should look or feel like.

My therapist said the other day, "Maybe part of healing is learning to accept what is instead of constantly dwelling on what could have been." This is a hard statement. One I keep rolling over in my mind, examining whether I believe there is truth there. I think there is.

Hebrews 12:1-3
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, 2fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before Him He endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. 3Consider Him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

I think it could also read....
Therefore, since we are not alone, let us throw off the idea of what could have been and the sins of the mind that idea can use to so easily entangle us. And let keep running the race that is here, now, in front of us, laser focused on Jesus, the One who went first and perfected our faith. He chose the suffering of the cross to claim the joy He knew was on the other side, redeeming what the world saw as shame into glory, He took His place at the right hand of God the Father. When we struggle with the griefs and pain of this life, remember Jesus, so that you will not grow so weary that you lose hope. 

He is our Hope. And I think maybe it is finding hope again that also aids in healing.

So here's to 2020, the beginning of another decade--quite literally for me since I'm a 1980 baby--the beginning of new quests, new dreams, new tomorrows. I don't know what lies ahead, but all that lies behind has taught me Jesus has me covered. Here's to taking next steps, wherever life takes me, with eyes laser focused on Him. I'm telling you, the greatest adventures in life are lived with and for and in Christ.

Truly, deeply, in Christ, I wish you the Happiest of New Years!
Grateful to be His,
Jennifer

There's A Tattoo On My Back

I know I write about grief a lot. After my last post, my husband gently questioned, "Is that really where you are all the time?" The truth is yes and no. Grief is funny that way. In this season of my life, it is also where the Lord continually shows up, proving Himself to me over and over again. 

But the truth lies in His presence being with me in the highs and the lows, a constant presence in the ordinary and the mundane as well.

The truth is I have experienced so much joy and beauty in the midst of my grief that it seems incongruent to be able to write about both. So, I put a tattoo on my back.

This piece of art was five years in the making. Veale's death had left me marked in such a way, it didn't seem honest to let that truth be only tattooed on my heart. But it took five years of prayer, Pinterest searching, Bible reading, and God bringing the right tattoo artist at the right place and time across my path to get it done.

You see, this is my daily reminder that joy and beauty are found all around me--in the midst of the pain and the hard and the sad, there is thrill, life abundant, adventure, and newness to be born and discovered every morning, around every corner. The common thread binding these two polar realities together? IN HIS PRESENCE.

In Jesus' presence, I experience peace, hope, comfort, joy, and a renewed love for His purpose for my life. This promise in psalms has been my anchor through the waves of grief and my reason for rejoicing at my highest highs......

Psalm 16:11 "You make known to me the path of life; 

                                       you will fill me with joy in your presence,

                                                                                                                            with eternal pleasures at your right hand." (NIV)

Savannah Veale had tattooed Job 33:4 across her rib cage as a reminder that regardless of her asthma and allergies and all the suffering they brought to her life, it was God who gave her the breath of life. It was for His glory and His purposes that she lived each day to the fullest. She was the literal, walking embodiment of joy in the midst of pain. Her tattoo was her reminder to herself that her life was not her own.....

Job 33:4 "The Spirit of God has made me;
                                                                                               the breath of the Almighty gives me life." (NIV)

And where have I found God's presence? Where have I not is a better question! My entire life I have seen Him in the artistry of His creation--every cell, every atom of matter, creature, weather movement, sunset, sunrise, mountain crag, ocean swell--in all of it, I see Jesus. I feel and experience His presence. I see God's brush strokes, His attention to detail, how the fires burn and life greens anew from the ashes, how the clouds roll in yet make for the most beautiful sunsets, how the climb is steep and jagged yet the view from the top is breathtaking. If you ever wonder why I love to travel, it's because I love to see the extent and glory of my Jesus in the world He created out of love for you and me. I can't get enough....

Psalm 19:1 "The heavens declare the glory of God,
                                                                                   and the sky above proclaims his handiwork." (ESV)

If you want to have your own personal worship experience with the Lord, find your favorite place to sit in His creation and meditate on the entirety of Psalm 19. See if He doesn't reveal Himself to you in a new way, a personal way.

And the last verse on the compass of my tattoo, well, this one was a personal call for me. I chose it because it's the verse in the Bible that comes to mind when you think of joy. The joy of the Lord is your strength, right? But when I went to look at the verse in its entirety, to make sure I wanted the context tattooed on me forever, this is what I found....

Nehemiah 8:10 "Nehemiah said, “Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared. This day is holy to our Lord. Do not grieve, for                              the joy of the Lord is your strength.”(NIV)

Now, the context of the story in Nehemiah was God's children grieving as the Word of God was being read. Whether because of the realization of just how much of the law they had broken, were unable to keep, or from an overwhelming sense of unworthiness, I'm not sure, but the text is clear that they were grieved and weeping when they heard the words of the law. (Nehemiah 8:9b) But grief is grief. Why you grieve doesn't diminish the emotion or weight of grief. 

What I read here, what I heard God say to me in this verse was, "Jennifer, Go! Live your life. Enjoy what I have given you--food, health, friendships, children, marriage, ministry--Enjoy them! Share these with those around you, the ones who aren't experiencing these things, the ones who don't have Me to enjoy. Jennifer, stop grieving, for your strength to move forward, to live life, to enjoy life is found in Me. I AM the joy you so desperately seek and want to be consumed by."

And in the fullness of this verse, of which we so often only quote the last line, the Lord gave me permission, a commission even, to stop grieving and enjoy Him and share Him and give Him all the glory and all the credit for any strength or joy anyone may think I have.

And so as an obedient child, I do my best to enjoy Him and all He has given. Every chance I get. I endeavor to laugh as hard as I cry, to smile as often as I may have cause for concern, to celebrate as much as I mourn, and to be grateful even in the midst of loss. 

The beauty is one emotion does not matter more or outweigh the other. One emotion does not cancel out or diminish the importance or reality of the other. In Jesus' presence I am free to experience both fully, without fear or condemnation for He is Lord of it all.

Which is why in His presence is exactly where I aim to live my life because there is where I find everything I ever need.

You're Not Alone

Can I be honest?

I don't know how people grieve without Jesus in their lives. I don't know how they process all the questions, how they find hope for something new, how they vent, grow stronger, move forward.

Because I was reminded the other day, that every grief is deeply personal. As much as people tell you you are not alone, no one else had the relationship with the one you lost that you had. 

My therapist asked me to tell her about my relationship with Savannah Veale the other day. I didn't want to do it. It was so deeply personal to me--all the memories I have, conversations shared, life experiences digested, laughter, suffering, tears, stories, adventures. All the things about her life that Savannah shared with me are unique to only her and me. Even shared events with others, like family vacations, even though my family was there with us, sharing those memories with her and with me, we will all remember different pieces of time, different moments, different conversations from the same experiences. Not my husband nor my children had the same relationship with her that I did, not because any of us loved her more or less but because every single relationship between two people is unique to those two people.

Therefore, when you grieve your loss, you ultimately grieve it alone because the only other person you shared that same relationship with is gone. It is this reality, the loneliness of grief, that can be so hard to understand and so impossible for those watching to step into.

But for God. Except for Jesus. He knew....knows her! He knows me. He knew....knows the meaningfulness of our relationship, the depth, the importance.

And He has never left my side. He has taken the brunt of my anger and tongue lashings. He has stood with me, never flinching, and let me beat on His chest and sob and ask why over and over and over again until I can't ask why anymore.

Not once has His presence left me. He rubs my back and rocks and holds me when I cry, catching all the tears in His bottles, never letting one go unseen. Even in my hardness of heart, when I turn to hide from hope, when I want to numb out of life and not feel anymore, even in those pits, He stays with me. He crawls inside and whispers He is there. I am not alone. He sees me. He sees my pain, and He knows why I hurt. so. much.

Only He heard all the prayers I prayed over Savannah's health and safety for years. Only He had sat in that room with  just the two of us every week for a year, trying to find joy in her circumstances. Only He saw me stand alone in the hallway at the hospital, not family, not friend, but somewhere in no man's land. Only He saw me break down, utterly and completely, mourn and weep outside the hospital, alone. He saw me gasp for breath through the tears. He saw my body shake and heave in the overwhelming tidal wave of her death. Only He knows how often I relive that day and that experience and my relationship with her over and over again in my mind.

And while I can share these things now, I can reveal details of my love and my pain to try and help you understand, to help me process, the truth is, no one actually ever will understand except my Jesus. Because He saw us both, and He saw it all.

Yes, He has been the one I've blamed the most. He has been the one I've wrestled for answers, but He has also been the One who is faithful to show up and be present and Who knows how I personally struggle with all of it. No matter how angry I have become at Him for taking her, He is ultimately the only one who knew why it hurt me so much to lose her. So in the end, when I need to talk to someone who knew her and knew me and knew our relationship, I end up talking to Him.

People, friends, can step into this arena of pain and understanding only from the perspective of a loving, sideline fan. The ones who have stepped into the pain with me, have tried to wade in the waters with me, they are life preservers that I appreciate and cling to and need, but Jesus is the breath that keeps me breathing. He is solid ground when grief quakes. 

Because He knows us both. He knows it all. Intimately. He was there when we said all the things and did all the things and made all the memories. He was there too.

So for those that grieve without Jesus, I pray for you. If you know someone who's grieving without Jesus in their life, go BE Jesus to them because they won't make it without Him. I'm convinced of this. People who are grieving feel deeply, personally alone in their grief at any given moment for reasons I've tried to explain above. 

Another person will never be able to meet anyone in their grief completely, and as a minister of compassion, I've learned to accept this hard truth. But Jesus! Jesus can meet them right where they are and understand every hard feeling, rough edge, and deep wound because He knows it all! Take your grieving person to Jesus in whatever way that looks like. Grab the corners of their mat, cut a hole in the ceiling, and lower them down right in front of Him. (Luke 5:17-39) This looks like a lot of prayer, a lot of silent sitting, encouraging notes, long hugs, smiles with lots of eye contact. This looks like any number of small things and big things. Make them laugh, let them cry, send that text, plan that coffee.

Jesus knows how to reach the hurting because He knows their hurts intimately, and He uses His children to be His hands and feet to a hurting world (Matthew 25:40-45), and we don't have to understand or have a personal stake in their loss to be a conduit for His love. 

If this journey of grief has taught me anything, it's taught me that I don't have to understand or relate to anything about someone's situation to bring Jesus to them in the middle of it. And Jesus rarely looks like the right words. Jesus is a presence in the dark. He simply let's you know you're not alone. That's a message I can whisper in the dark to someone too.

You're not alone. 

Who in your life needs to hear those words today? How can you whisper it today? Stop wanting someone to whisper it to you, and go whisper it to someone else because Jesus is always whispering it to your heart, all the time, if you'll stop long enough to listen.

Airing the Box Just a Little

A few weeks after we laid her precious self in the ground, our family received the news we'd be making the move to California in a year.

Fourteen months after that, we loaded our family of four onto a plane, and we didn't look back. That was almost six years ago.

This past weekend, I was visiting back east with a sweet, sweet friend from another lifetime ago. She asked me if I still blogged. I hesitated, and answered honestly, "Well, I kinda feel like I've lost my voice for a season, but I do every now and then."

Innocently, she replied, "Oh. Was it Savannah that made you lose your voice?"

I was instantly confused. "No. My Savannah is fine, I think....oh wait....you mean......Savannah Veale." And instantly my eyes welled with tears as the realization of what she was asking doused me like a bucket of ice-cold water. It had been almost six years since someone had spoken her name to me.

My friend was kind. Immediately she apologized, hugging my neck, as we awkwardly tried to change the subject, but I was done. It was all I could do from that moment to keep the tears inside my eyelids.

You see, when I moved to California, no one knew me here. No one knew my story. No one knew Savannah Veale. Her name was not mentioned or brought up in conversation. There were no knowing eyes and kind smiles. I only had to share pieces of that story with the ones closest to me who happened to ask at the right time on the right days, and even then, they didn't know. I don't let them see how much I still grieve.

But I miss her. I still do. I hadn't realized that somewhere along the way in the past six years, I had processed enough to put her in a box on the decorative shelf of my life. Anyone looking close enough would see it is a lovely box that is cherished because it's there, not hidden, but it's also not a focal point or a conversation piece. It obviously has great sentimental value, but it's not something anyone would recognize or care to ask about.

Yet she is right there on the shelf of my life, and when her box gets opened whether on purpose or by surprise, the pain and joy that flow from her memory are deeply overwhelming.

When my friend said her name, one part of me wanted to stay and keep talking, comforted by conversation of her with someone who knew her, yet there was an equal part of me that wanted to run away and avoid the inevitable tears and pain that would follow with the joy of remembering her.

And so it is with those who grieve. I'm not sure keeping Savannah Veale in an emotional box in my life is healthy, but I also will never throw it out. I'm not sure airing it is healthy all the time either. I'm not sure anything about grief makes any sense. Some friends I know post the state of their grieving mind every day on Facebook. You never have to wonder how they're feeling. Others never share anything. at all. ever. It's like that part of their lives died with the loved one that is gone. And then there are all of us somewhere in the middle of that spectrum, wondering if anyone knows, and if anyone really even cares.

So since I'm having a hard time putting her back in that box that got opened by surprise, this is me, airing it out a little. I miss her. I miss her long lanky arms and the hugs she would give, her mischievous smile and the way she always made you feel like she was up to something. I miss the Miss Savannah bag of candy that use to sit on top of our refrigerator, only to be given out by her when she came to babysit. I miss her popping into my home unexpectedly and making all of us smile, or when she'd come looking for advice in a very sideways don't-tell-me-what-to-do-but-I'm-asking-anyway kind of way. I miss her voice. I miss her.

I replay the day she died and our last conversation on the phone in my mind more times than anyone would ever know. The verse God gave me after she died is still the one I repeat like counting sheep on sleepless nights: Isaiah 26:3 "You will keep in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on You because they trust in You."

Which always brings me right back to my Jesus. Because He has kept that promise time and time and time again. My mind finds perfect peace when it focuses on Him and trusts His ways, trusts Him--completely, fully, and unquestioningly.

I will never know why she had to die. I will never understand.  But Jesus does. My Heavenly Father, HER Heavenly Father knows and understands, and the acceptance that this is enough--that God knowing and me NOT knowing is enough--this truth begins to settle her back into the box, and His promised peace helps close the lid once again as I choose to trust His heart for me and for her.

I hope one day that box becomes a conversation piece in my life because her story is now forever woven into mine, and while time does not heal all wounds it does allow for the acceptance to grow of those wounds, and with acceptance of the co-mingling of the joy and the pain comes a freedom to share it, remember it, pick it up and show it to others without fear or shame or guilt.

This box on my shelf is a testimony to the peace of God that passes all understanding. It is the catalyst to an empathy for others and their pain that I could never have manufactured on my own. It is a gift I never wanted, but will not waste or hide. My prayer is one day I won't have to keep the lid on that box shut so tight, that my emotions surrounding her will be able to ebb and flow more freely, safely, slowly, like the tinkling music of a gentle stream, not quite so violently like a rogue wave, pulling me back under and spinning me in the washing machine of grief. One day. Maybe.

Maybe if time doesn't heal all wounds, maybe it does slow the roller coaster of grief. I don't know. We will see. Time will tell.

In the meantime, open your eyes. Those who grieve are all around you. Be gentle with yourself and with others, friends. There are so many stories people just don't tell. Grateful my Jesus likes to hear them all, and when I don't want to tell them, he already knows my heart. Here's praying someone notices the sentimental boxes you keep on the shelf of your life and has the wisdom to gently ask to hear your story because telling it, airing that box just a little, really is a comfort and an agent to healing and freedom.

Dancing with Joy & Grief

Has it been five years? Five years without her laugh, her hugs, her infectiously funny, strange sense of humor? Every May. Without fail, I fall into a funk, and the grief over her loss catches me off guard. And I have to cry and write and process and remember one of the three most devastating days in my current lifetime. I remember our last conversation as clearly as if I had just hung up the phone. I remember the hospital, the soul-searing tears, the funeral, the grief that followed.

And to try to shake the sorrow, you then try to remember all the good things too—the family vacations, the funny videos with the kids, all the middle school sleepovers and camps and prank phone calls. But for me, all the good also just adds to the sad because it all stopped when she was gone.

And it always leaves me pondering the strange dichotomy of joy and grief every time.

Grief, I think, I understand better than I'd like. I've come to recognize it's not an emotion or a process, it's a thing, a noun, a substance. It has weight and mass. It can't be measured or compared, but it can be shared. Grief is the byproduct of death. Just like we breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide, anyone who breathes in some type of death breathes out grief, and depending on the type and quantity of what you inhaled will determine how long it takes to exhale the grief. But it must be exhaled. Grief contained is simply poison to the mind, body, and soul.

And so those who grieve, cry--A LOT. Sometimes when they least expect it because grief creeps out of the corners of life in places you didn't think to look or expect to find it.

Those who grieve become irrationally angry. We lash out in small and big ways because we have so many questions that will never be answered this side of eternity, and ultimately it never feels fair or right or just.

Those who grieve are tired--all the time. Grief is one of, if not the most, exhausting substances to exhale. It clings and wraps and sticks and stays. It hurts and aches--mind, body, and soul. It takes something powerful to shake it.

Enter Joy. Now, I'm going to struggle through this. Honestly, I'm still smack dab in the middle of processing it all myself. I might be chewing on this until Jesus comes back, but if the byproduct of death is grief, then the byproduct of life in Christ should be joy. Therein lies the predicament because a Christian, a true Christ follower, will grapple with the tension of both of these in the same space this side of heaven.

Joy and Grief will forever be dance partners in this lifetime. I'm learning that I get to decide who leads. They both need a turn because grief needs to stretch its legs. It needs to be exhaled, set free, given room to be expressed. Grief needs to be known and seen, so it needs a turn to lead the dance. After all, even Ecclesiastes 3:4 says there is "a time to weep and time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance." Grief is not a bad thing; it's not a sin. It is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign of humanity.

Just like joy is not a sign of strength, it is a sign of the presence of Christ, for "in His presence is fullness of joy. (Psalm 16:11)" Joy must be allowed to lead the dance because joy inhales Christ for it is the very essence of His presence. When you allow yourself to experience joy, you are allowing yourself to experience Christ. And yes, joy is a choice, just like following Christ is a choice, so is choosing joy.

What is joy? How do you find joy? Sigh. I don't know. Still working on those definitions for myself. But I know that when I blasted praise and worship music in my home the other day while cleaning my house, singing to Jesus--with Jesus--at the top of my lungs, I know that I felt invigorated, full of life, unafraid, and inwardly at peace the rest of that day. Joy led the dance.

Then the next day, two songs on the radio and a text message later, I was an emotional wreck. Grief needed a turn again. And so goes the dance.

Today I'm writing, maybe I'll take a walk by the ocean, maybe I'll fill my home with worship music once more, maybe I'll take a nap in my hammock or run around in the yard with my children. Joy comes and fills and takes the lead in so many different forms. It is not a replacement for the grief, it is a needed compliment to it. Grief without joy is depression, a very lonely wallflower.

One of the best ways to experience joy is to choose to be joy for someone else. My heart is never quite so heavy when I can bring joy to someone else in my life, even in the midst of my own dance with grief. That's Jesus, friends! That's the power of Jesus. Romans 12:15 says, "Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep." I take this verse quite literally. There's healing in both shared joy and shared grief. Jesus steps into both with us. Why are we so hesitant to step into both with those around us?

I have learned that true friends are the ones who can share both grief and joy with one another. Is it awkward and uncomfortable at times? Absolutely. Are there always words to express? Nope, but just being present, making an effort of some sort, usually means the whole world. It's also a two-way street. I have to exhale my grief to a friend in order to give them the opportunity to be joy, but ultimately, my only reliable source is Jesus. Where others will fail me, He always succeeds and fulfills and shows up. Who better to understand the byproduct of death than the Man who suffered under it here on earth, only to defeat it, allowing joy to be available for everyone through His presence in us?

Ah, the dance of joy and grief. It is one I have not learned gracefully, but my Jesus is a patient teacher. If I must dance this dance for the remainder of my days, I pray He teaches me how to make it beautiful.

To My Grieving Friend

Dear Friend,

I see you. I see your suffering. The weight of what you bear does not go unnoticed, unrecognized, or unappreciated.

And what might be hardest is there's nothing I can do to ease your pain. There's literally nothing to say that sounds right or appropriate or that doesn't need to be qualified in some way. So very often, I purposely choose to say nothing at all. I deliberately censor my conversations and catch myself correcting my phrasing as the words are coming out. And because I love you so deeply, part of me longs to not do this, to be care-freely honest as friends should be, but then I also love you so much I know that a gentle, tenderness and an understanding spirit are also needed. Honesty and discernment can still go hand in hand.

I never want to intentionally cause you more pain. So if I do, please forgive me and offer me the benefit of the doubt.

The truth is you're not the same person that you were before this grief consumed you. I don't expect you ever will be again. It will mark your story for the rest of your days. I know this, and yet, sometimes my heart skips a little when I see a glimmer of the old you, only to realize that's not fair and not true and not loving because the desire to see that person is completely selfish on my part. So every moment I spend with you now, I just choose to love you for who you are and how you are and where you are today. I expect nothing of you, and I'm grateful for the friendship you still offer.

So what to do? What to say? What to be? What to offer?

I've come to the conclusion all I have is my time and my presence. A listening ear on the other side of a text, an encouraging smile, a sympathetic touch, a supportive hug, a person to look into your eyes, see and acknowledge your pain and choose to stay. To stay for one more minute, one more hour, one more conversation, be one more distraction. 

I choose to believe for you when you can't. To believe you will one day find joy again. To dream of bright futures full of happy memories for you. To believe you still have great and mighty purposes to accomplish and fulfill on this earth. To believe that a future and a hope are still yours for the living. To petition the throne room of our Lord on your behalf, begging Him to hold you, comfort you, be Enough for you, for today, for this moment.

I offer you my presence in this hardest of battles to endure. I will stand beside you and hold up your arms when you're too weak to hold them up any longer. I will stand in the gap in prayer for you and your family, consistently, and persistently. I won't give up on you. I won't run or back down or grow weary in just being there.

I will cry for you. Tears in private I will not burden you with, but tears on your behalf nonetheless. And I like to believe that maybe every tear I've shed on your behalf is one less tear you've had to shed yourself. I'd like to think it works that way. That my highly emotional, overly sensitive self is being used in some way behind the veil in the kingdom of God to lighten your burden. That my ability to cry so easily is somehow a gift from God to relieve the burdens of others. I don't know, but maybe. I like to think so.

And this is all I have to offer. An unconditional presence with no strings attached, no expectations, just maybe a little grace on the days the sadness of your sadness weighs extra heavy. That's all. I wish it was more. I wish I could guarantee that would be enough. But you and I both know, Jesus is the only One who can be and will be Enough to carry you through. If my only purpose is to remind you of that every now and again, then I'm content.

This grief is not your whole story, my friend. It's not. I don't believe that. It may be the backdrop, the scenery, the background music to your story--all deeply meaningful, beautiful, and unforgettable--but not the whole story. I wish I could tell you when the joy will return. I wish I could shield you from the waves of grief that will continue to crash. Instead, I pray you let me swim in the storm with you because I will and be a small part to play in encouraging your story to continue because I can.

You are not defined by this grief. You are a child of God defined by Jesus Himself, His own dearly, preciously loved possession. Never forget that's who you truly are.

You are my friend. And I am blessed to know you, to journey with you. Given the choice, even knowing what was to come, I'd be your friend all over again. I can do nothing to remove your pain, to lessen your sorrow, but I can be someone who's here, who sees you right where you are, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and I can choose to be here and show up and pray up.

That's all have to offer. To God be the glory if it's enough.

In Christ,

Your Friend

A Good, Good Father

Oh, I've heard a thousand stories
Of what they think You're like
But I've heard the tender whisper
Of love in the dead of night
And You tell me that You're pleased
And that I'm never alone

They played this song at Xander's funeral. Just four months ago, this 8 year old boy's father raised his shaking hands in praise to our Heavenly Father--willing these words to be true.

You're a good good Father
It's who You are, it's who You are, it's who You are
And I'm loved by you
It's who I am, it's who I am, it's who I am

I've sat by his mother's side in services since then and watched her sing these words, tears pouring.

Every time I hear this song now, I cry.

Oh, and I've seen many searching
For answers far and wide
But I know we're all searching
For answers only You provide
‘Cause You know just what we need
Before we say a word

I cry for my friends and the deep pain they must bare. For the rest of their lives. 

I cry because how can they choose that song for their 8 year old son's funeral? What faith! What trust.

I cry because in my soul I have screamed at God, and I know there are still days I do not possess that faith and trust. Days I don't believe God to be good.

You're a good good Father
It's who You are, it's who you are, it's who you are
And I'm loved by you
It's who I am, it's who I am, it's who I am

I cry because even after all my temper tantrums on their behalf and my own, I still end up right back at my Daddy's feet, letting Him speak over me and into me.

Cause You are perfect in all of your ways
You are perfect in all of your ways
You are perfect in all of your ways to us

I cry because there's no better place to find Refuge and Comfort and Peace.

You are perfect in all of your ways
Oh, You are perfect in all of your ways
You are perfect in all of your ways to us

I cry because when the emotional cycle completes itself, I inevitably find myself with hands raised, singing the truth of this song. Believing it's truth once again.

Oh, it's love so undeniable
I, I can hardly speak
Peace so unexplainable
I, I can hardly think
As You call me deeper still
As You call me deeper still
As You call me deeper still
Into love, love, love

I can't explain completely in words how God always brings me back to this place, to this juncture, where I just know that I know that I know...my.God.is.Good.

You're a good good Father
It's who you are, it's who you are, it's who You are
And I'm loved by You
It's who I am, it's who I am, it's who I am

Despite all the compelling evidence that appears to prove otherwise in certain circumstances, I have a certainty in my spirit, as a child of God, that my Daddy knows what He's doing so much greater and better and more so than I can even imagine.

Cause You are perfect in all of your ways
You are perfect in all of your ways
You are perfect in all of your ways to us

If you're not a child of God, you think I'm talking crazy at this point. How does a "good" God allow evil, sin, death, war? There are many long answers to those questions. For me, what I keep coming back to is does a handful of terrible, nightmarish circumstances negate all the blessings of His Comfort, His Presence, His Help, His Encouragement over my entire lifetime? Once you've experienced, not simply tasted, what Jesus has to offer, how does anyone have a palette for any other option, god, or religion? It's like choosing to go with fast food when a Micheline 5-star chef is cooking dinner in your home every night for every meal.

You're a good good Father

So the Lord and I might continue to wrestle over this grief, these questions--and maybe you wrestle with Him too--but I was sealed by the Holy Spirit many years ago, marked for Christ when I made a choice to answer His call, take up His cross and follow. Follow hard at His heels. Follow without always understanding His ways. 

You are perfect in all of Your ways

And to choose to follow anyone or anything else always takes me down a dead end street where I sit lost until He comes and finds me again. 

Because, you see, I'm a child of THE King. I can question Him all I like. He may or may not answer--at all or in a way I like, but that does not change the fact that at the end of the day my place, my heart, my hope, my home is in His Presence, by His side, following hard.

So maybe you sit here grieving something of your own today. Because Lord knows, we grieve so. many. things. in this life. You're screaming at God. You're wrestling with Him. You're asking Him to answer you, to show Himself to you. You're crying in moments when you least expect it, and you're heart is heavy and hurting.

All I have to offer you is Jesus. Because that's all I can offer myself. Somehow, in some mysterious way, a relationship with Jesus is the only real answer--the paradox of finding complete comfort in the One you also place complete blame and responsibility. And it's statements like that that make Christ-followers sound completely crazy. I get it. I do.

But meditating on His promises, buried in His Word, singing praises to His name in the car, in my brain, praying for His tangible presence, needing Him to show up in small moments--that's where I am. And my friends, He shows up every. single. time.

You are perfect in all of Your ways

How? A text or phone call from a friend or family member at just the right moment. A song on the radio with just the right message. A time of prayer with the Lord where He just whispers back encouragement and assurance. Moments of mediation on scripture where I am filled with unexplainable peace, and I'm able to just breath deep His presence. I hear Him in the roar of the ocean, and see Him in the way a sunset plays across the mountains as it sinks. I see him in the caring words and hands of others, sometimes complete strangers. I see Him in all the GOOD.

Because the bottom line, He said it Himself, is that only God IS Good (Matthew 19:16-17). On top of Him actually being the manifestation of good itself, "every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows (James 1:17)." He is the definition and embodiment of Goodness, the Giver of all that is Good. Yet any worldly circumstances that cause us to grieve never feel good. I will spend the rest of my life trying to explain the conflicting emotions and ideas that I feel as a human with flesh and spirit, satan's worldly realm and God's spiritual Kingdom at war in my life! 

But my experiential truth is that God is good, and God always wins. Even in the terrible things that cause us grief, God wins--somehow, someway He always wins in His perfect time. But only for those of us that choose to follow hard at His heels, that make time for being rocked in God's rocking chair, that beg and weep for Him to answer. For those of us who persevere despite the set backs in our faith. For those who choose Jesus.

God is God. He knows what He's doing ALL the time. I only think I know what I'm doing SOME of the time. There are days I still think I'd rather do it my own way, that God doesn't understand or "get" me, that this hard act of Christ-following just isn't worth it anymore. But I never get very far down that path before I'm faced with a decision, an emotion, a circumstance that sends me running right back into the Arms of the One who I KNOW has held me before, safe and steadfast through the storm, the scary, and the hard. 

My life is a living testimony to the Lord. I can't even argue with myself when I want to choose differently, decide differently, or believe differently. He's just proven Himself too many times before.

You are perfect in all of Your ways (Good, Good Father, lyrics written by Chris Tomlin.)

I still persevere in a hard place these days. I still question in rebellious pride. I get it wrong and end up in bad mental places--A LOT. Maybe you do too. But eventually, I always come home to my Daddy, my Bridegroom, my Friend, my King because I can honestly say He's my truest, reliably safe place. He's where I belong.