Today We See Jesus

Today we say goodbye.

It's weird. Why does a ceremony seem to hang over our heads as if that's the thing that's going to bring closure? Why does it feel so important? so reverent? so necessary? Why does Ecclesiastes 7:2 say, "It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart."?

Burying people dates back to the days of Abraham in the Bible when Abraham lovingly bought the first piece of the land God promised to him and his descendants to bury is beloved Sarah.  He buried her in a cave in the side of a mountain, and laid her to rest.  God records many a burial in the Bible, so it must be important.  He must know that it gives us something we need.

So as much as this past week has felt like the calm before the storm for me, as much as crawling out of bed this morning felt like a weight around my body and mind, I know today is needed.

It is good to mourn AND celebrate with the body of Christ.  Other believers.  Other people who loved Xander. It's kinda like the red blood cells of the body of Christ all merging together to cover the wound, clot together, stop the bleeding, and heal the wound.  Of course this started a week ago with text messages, Facebook pictures and condolences, hugs, prayers, and shared tears.  Today's services are kinda like taking the band-aid off, letting the wound breath and begin to harden, so healing can continue underneath the scab, and movement--albeit however stiff--can continue without pain.

And that's what will happen today.  We will all get to breathe not just the air of shared sorrow, but more importantly the air of shared joy.  Xander's joy.  We will celebrate his life together.  His sweet, joy-filled days here on earth.  And we will sing with tears in our eyes knowing that he is experiencing a joy we can only hope to try and understand, but never fully will. All the joys of this life we wonder he's missing out on PALE in comparison to where he is today and what he's enjoying. And there's not one suffering we endure in this lifetime that will ever touch him now.

And when the fresh air of that realization washes over us, the body of Christ, we will feel the weight lift, the wound uncovered.  We will feel a peace as we come together firm to support each other. Underneath in each of our hearts, the wound will still be tender, but healing will continue in time. But for today, as one unit breathing fresh air of a new life in God's Home, realizing that in Christ this is NOT the last time we will see him, praising our God for being good and claiming the truth that He will do right by His people.  Together, we will begin to move forward from this day.

And because we clot together, when we move forward it will be with less pain.  A little stiff maybe. A little tender underneath, but not as painful as the hole ripped open a week ago today.  No.  After today, Jesus will bind us all together in one hope, one joy, and one peace.  Unity in Christ will guard our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus, and we will have each other to remind each other that He holds us close that He is our Strength, our Help, our Refuge.

And when we lay Xander in the ground, we will be continuing the process of letting him go. Ceremonies are necessary to help us remember, to help us move on.  How many piles of stones marked significant blessings and words from God in the Old Testament?  How many ceremonies were meticulously described in the books of Moses to help people remember and continue their lives in covenant and celebration?

Today will be a good day.  As much as we may dread all the emotion we are about to experience one more time, today will be a good day.  We will see Jesus in Xander's life.  We will see Jesus in each other.  We will see Jesus in the music.  We will see Jesus in his remembrance.  We will see Jesus in the unity of our love for one another.

Today will be a good day people!  Look around and don't miss it!  Camp out and stay and watch! Today WE WILL SEE JESUS!  If you're looking, even through bleary eyes and weary souls, you will see Him.

And today will be a good day.

What It Looks Like to Process

It's been two days since his passing.

At this point, three years ago, in a similar situation, I was in a better place. I wrote words that I think I need to read again in about another week or so. If you're not angry still today, I'd recommend clicking on that link instead of reading this post.

Because after 48 hours of crying and inwardly seething, I woke up this morning still angry. Because this time, this death isn't necessarily closer to my heart (because it's equally close to my heart), but it is closer to my day to day life. My friend won't stop being my friend and part of my life because she lost her son.

But after venting with my mother this morning on the phone, she gently called a spade a spade. "Jennifer, is 48 hours enough pain? Do you need another 24? Aren't you glad God gives us that choice? that He doesn't demand us go to Him? Be obedient. Go sit down with God and let the healing begin." She said this in the most gently, most loving way possible. She wasn't giving advice or answers, she was meeting me right in the hard moment where I was treading water. She threw me a life preserver.

So, I went and sat down with God. I journal often. That's how God and I talk. I actually keep a journal written directly to my children, and I don't share excerpts from it often, but if my thought process can help anyone else drowning right now, then Jesus take the glory....

......

I'm so angry. I'm so angry for my friend. (I then proceed to list a long list of offenses on her behalf that she probably doesn't need to read right now.) 

I'm also selfishly, wrongly angry for myself. (I then list a long list of personal things that God and I need to hash out. Yes, I admit to the selfishness of this.) 

I'm angry at God--for all of this. I'm angry and silently, inwardly seething between clenched teeth, shaking metaphorical fists at God, borderline blasphemous in my thoughts and emotions, knowing the whole time that He sees and knows my heart, so I might as well be saying it all out loud. So here I am writing, because that's how I say all the things I think. I'm angry because I know all (ok, lots of) the truths of the Bible. I know God has His reasons. I know God is good. I know God was with my friend's son and is with him now and will continue to be with his family.

And therein is where the rubber meats the road and the inner war rages because I know God wants me to be right here, obediently coming to Him with my heart and my thoughts and all my feelings, but I. Don't. Want. To.

I want to sit in a corner and refuse to let Him touch me. I'm the strong-willed child or rebellious teen who thinks depriving God of my obedience will somehow hurt Him like He's hurt me. But there's no truth in that statement.

My anger, my desire to make God hurt, the idea that I can even hurt God--those are all wrong, sinful (borderline ridiculous) thoughts. It's ok to feel them, to have them, but eventually you have to call them what they are or you risk living in the middle of a lie to yourself. And as with all sin, I'm only choosing to hurt myself.

The idea that God allowed my friend's son to die to hurt me or even her, specifically, on purpose, is also absurd. I hope. To be brutally honest, I do believe that God does not intend to cause us pain, but I am also aware that because of a sinful and broken world full of pain, when God makes decisions for our lives, sometimes the only natural outcome will be pain.

Am I saying God killed her son? No. Not necessarily, but I do believe it didn't just happen without His knowledge. So that leaves me in a very uncomfortable gray space, and the answer in gray space always comes down to two paths--faith in God or disbelief in God.

God is not crystal clear to us. I don't think I ever want Him to be because then wouldn't He cease to be God? If I understood everything the way He does, wouldn't I be His equal, and therefore also bear the responsibility of the world and all its issues on my shoulders also? I definitely don't want that.

So if I'm okay with God being bigger and greater and mightier and more mysterious than me (which is good, because He is) then by default, I have to come to terms with not understanding how and why He chooses to work inside my life and the lives of those around me.

I have to choose faith or disbelief.

And when I choose faith, this rebellious child must also choose obedience. They kinda walk hand in hand. I must take the hand of my heavenly Father offering me His embrace and Presence and Comfort. I have to stop licking my own wounds and allow Jesus to be the Surgeon, the Painkiller, and the Bandage to my soul--all in one.

And I'm tired of crying and weeping. And part of me still doesn't want to collapse in His arms, giving Him the satisfaction of loving me, but then the truth is He's going to love me anyways, and really, loving Him is what fuels my life at this point, so without throwing an entire lifetime of experiences and relationship proofs out the window by choosing disbelief, I find I have to choose Jesus. Despite my rebellious anger, He is what my heart longs for. He is peace; therefore, He is where I will find my peace.

"Lord, forgive me for raging against You, for silently cursing how You choose to act in my life and the lives of others. Forgive me, Father, for wanting to hurt You, when all you desire is for me to draw near to You so You can minister to me. Father, forgive me for my anger, but thank you You allow me the choice to feel it and express it. Thank you that You are a Safe Harbor of understanding and grace and comfort. 

Lord, may Your Presence be tangible to my friend's family right now. And if they want to punch You too, I'm grateful You wrestle with us Lord. I'm also grateful You always win, but the freedom to process through to that conclusion as You wrestle with us is a gift. I love that you're never a spectator in our lives. I love you, Lord. Love on my friends for me."

.......

And there it is. In writing, a journey from anger to acceptance. I'm no fool. Small parts of me, I think, will still feel angry in moments. This is a heart-work in process, an on-going process. I have no idea where my friend is on this journey right now, and I do not expect everyone who reads this to process in the same way or in the same amount of time. This is only the beginning. Everything changes as each day passes. And Lord knows I'm going to stand by her side and cry and rage and sit silently for as many days, weeks, months, years as it takes. 

But her journey is not mine, and I would be foolish to overlap our two in any way. Hers is much more difficult.

In this moment, right now, I feel calm and tired and at peace for the first time in 48 hours. Her son is still gone. There are still tears to be shed. Life will be altered and forever changed in a new trajectory now, but maybe now, I can focus on truly loving her with God's love and stop imposing my self-righteous love on her. "Lord help, me."

Be the Life Preserver

Three years ago, I penned these words about a sister-daughter-friend.

Yesterday, my dearest friend lost her son. Her eight-year-old son. My eight-year-old daughter's friend. My son's buddy and playmate. And it's been three years since I felt this kind of grief. Three years since I've wept this hard for this long to the point where I'm this numb once again.

And this time it's different because I weep for my friend, my closest friend, the friend who's family I prayed so specifically for and who has taken us under their wing as our closest family here in California. I love her children like my own. I even had the thought yesterday that I would have gladly given my own life to spare her this pain. This pain.

This pain that today, for me, is fueled by a dangerous underbelly of anger. This anger is new. I've not weathered this emotion like this before. Anger on behalf of my friend who is one of the best mothers I know. Who's heart is so big and who teachers her sons to have big hearts as well. Anger because the loss of a child is senseless and cruel. Anger at God because we will never know why this side of heaven. It's a seething, torturous anger that doesn't let me sleep.

It's an anger that is taking up an offense for my friend bound to a hospital bed, recovering from the accident that took her son's life. She can't be on two feet stomping right now, screaming and throwing a tantrum, holding defiant fists up at God, so I want to do it for her.  When she's well, I'm sure she'll be doing it herself, but now....now, I just want to stand in the gap for her, and I can't.

Because her shoes are not mine, and no matter how close I am to the situation, her pain is not mine, no matter how much I wish it was.

And all the right, spiritual things to say are falling flat and hard and clanking like a lead pipe hitting the garage floor. Because truth doesn't feel loving or gracious or helpful when you're in the middle of the storm. 

God sees. God is good. Her son is in a better place. Her son is happier where he is now. God will get you through. God is enough. God is sufficient. God works all things for good. God has a plan. I don't care how true these statements may be, right now, today, the day after her son has been snatched from this earth, those words are alcohol on an open wound. Disagree with me all you like. One day you too might know the truth of this. 

These words are an anchor for our souls, an anchor, not a life-preserver.

There will be a day in the future when these words and truths about God Himself will reveal themselves as the bed rock, the foundation still standing after the storm. They are the anchor that will hold my heart and my friend's heart steadfast in the months and years to come, but to try and hold them now, to try and grasp them in this storm of grief? It's like trying to climb up a rock sea ledge in the middle of a raging storm. Those words of strength and fortitude are the exact same words that scrape you raw, leaving you bruised and bleeding and still looking for help.

The help comes from the soft, tender hands that hold. That reach into the storm and grab onto you. The hands and prayers of people that say, "I'm right here. I love you. Hold onto me." Those hands, those prayers, those are the people who are the life-preservers. Every person lifting a Spirit-led prayer, every long-held hug given, every tear shed among friends, every awkward, long, silent space filled with just each others' presence and no words--those are the life preservers. They are the balm, the salve, the things that keep you afloat in the middle of the wreckage.

We broke the news to our children last night, and while my son wept hard curled into the smallest ball in my lap, my daughter, tear-filled eyes brimming was a life preserver. She led our family of four in prayer, whispering such strong, sweet words for our friends, such deep, caring love for her friend lost. And then we all crawled into bed together, and I sang every song I knew of Jesus and His love, and it wasn't the words, but the act of the music being sung as we all huddled together to just be inside the grief together--that was the life preserver. Being together. Reaching for one another. Holding on to each other.

At church this morning, it was the shared tears, the short conversations and long hugs, the atmosphere of prayer that so many were entreating before the throne room of Almighty God to wrap my friend's family in His presence--those are the life preservers.  

The body of Christ, WE ARE THE LIFE PRESERVERS. So my lesson and my caution, be careful with your words that you are not handing a drowning person an anchor of truth, but that you are handing them yourself, your presence, your tender, loving hand. That's what the body of Christ does for each other because that's what the Holy Spirit does for us before God. We stand in the gap when our friends' have fallen and cannot stand. We breath life over them when they can barely take a breath for themselves. We become the physical hands and feet of Christ, not by doing things for them necessarily, but by visiting them in the deepest, hell-hole of a prison they've found themselves in.

It's time to sacrifice your ears and eyes to the pain of weeping with them. It's time to sacrifice your hands to the hurt and uncomfortableness of holding their tired hands and hugging their wracked bodies. It's time to get your knees dirty in prayer and petition for however the Spirit leads. If you want to be a life preserver and not an anchor, you have to be willing to get your life dirty and dive into the rough, hard, deep waters of pain along with them.

God's Word is the anchor. When the storm calms, there will be time and place and space for rebuilding on that foundation. Today, the day after the tragedy, the storm rages.

Be the life preserver. You hold onto God, so someone else can hold onto you.

Still Rippling

I've lost track of the years now.  It hasn't even been that long. Two? three? years today, I think? that she silently slipped away out of our lives.

I've lost track of the years, but I've kept track of every moment. Every moment when I thought, "She'd love this. She'd enjoy that. She'd be laughing her head off right now at this. She would have come and stayed for the summer.  She would have gone and done this with me, with us, with my kids. She's laughing right now at that. I would have invited her to come out for this. I would have bought her that." Those thoughts, those moments, never stop. They continue to catch me off guard.

I spent a whole day bawling my eyes out last month for what seemed like absolutely no reason at all. No reason other than I was just overcome with the thought of missing her. The day passed, the tears stopped, life moved on, but on this day, every year, the world slows down just a bit. The sun passes slower through the sky, and it only seems right to honor someone who changed your life.

She really did. She changed the way I viewed people. She changed the way I viewed how to love and interact with people different from me. She changed the way I viewed suffering and how to respond and live life in the midst of it. Her death left me marked for life. For the better.

Not sure I've ever mentioned this, but I've been reliving our last conversation together in my mind for some time now, maybe half a year. I remember her calling me Saturday afternoon before she had her asthma attack on the following Sunday. I remember hearing how tired she was in her voice. I always asked how she was. She always said fine. She asked me some details about the next week because she was going to start babysitting for us for the summer after her finals were over. I remember being distracted, needing to get off the phone for some reason, so the conversation was rushed. I remember wanting to tell her I loved her, but that was weird because I'd never said that to her before (we weren't technically family after all.) But I remember having the overwhelming urge to say it, and then not saying it. Simply saying goodbye, see you next week, and hanging up, worrying about her because she sounded so exhausted.  

And then she was gone. It was Tuesday before I held her hand in that hospital room, hooked up to all those machines, looking like she had long left this earth. And I must have stood by her bedside whispering over and over again how much I loved her, how much I appreciated her. How I knew she knew, but how I wished I had said it out loud more.

That last conversation has haunted me for too long. The truth is, she knew I loved her. I knew she loved me. We didn't have to say it, although it would have been nice. But that conversation was/ is a turning point, a milestone in my life. It's a reminder to me to never be too busy to listen and respond to the things the Holy Spirit speaks. His Voice is often so quiet, so gently prodding, that my busyness inside my own brain, my train of thought that is always pressing on to the next station instead of parking in the moment, often overwhelms and barrels over His always guiding Voice. 

His Voice that is always prompting me to say "I love you", to pour the glass of milk for my son that says "I love you", to lay for two minutes longer in bed at night with my daughter that relays the message "I love you", to scratch my husband's back for just a moment longer to say "I love you." 

Jesus just wants us to ooze "I love you" out of every pore in our body, every action, every thought, every word. (1 Corinthians 13:1-3) He wants to be the love that others feel and see and know that is true because HE is the only true Love in the world. (1 John 4:8) 

And while I refuse to live in condemnation of a moment lost to say "I love you" to one of the dearest people I've known in this life, I will never forget the lesson learned. Friends, we are NOT promised tomorrow with anyone, for anyone, by anyone. (Proverbs 27:1) The Holy Spirit knows. (1 Corinthians 2:10) He knows the moments we will regret and relive and yearn for do-overs. So the challenge is to learn to listen AND obey in the moment, exactly when He speaks. No questions, no hesitations, no over-thinking. Not quenching the Spirit with our busyness or sin or excuses. (1 Thessalonians 5:19-22)

You never have to second-guess or over-think an act that says "I love you" in the 1 Corinthians 13 kind of way. Never. Just do it.

My dear Savannah Veale, I love you. Always did. Always will. You will always be a part of who I was and the catalyst God used for who I am today. You are still a source of great joy for me, even in memory. The ripple effects of your life are still rippling. 

Still rippling.

Now to Him who is able (My God is ABLE!) to do immeasurably MORE than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

Ephesians 3:20-21 (emphasis mine)

Celebrating God's Way as the Best Way

Fifteen years today I've been married to the man of my dreams!

I could write a book about why Joey Durham is perfect for me, but rather, I'd like these fifteen years to stand in testimony to the power of God and His design for marriage.

Many moons ago, God created a longing and a desire in a little girl to see the world, to expand her horizons, to know God in all His glory.  In college, she thought she'd follow God to the mission field, but instead, she fell in love with a godly man.

At 21 and 23, they married young, and screwed up so many, many things. They were selfish and guarded and knew nothing about real intimacy. The safety of their covenant marriage before the Lord allowed them a secure, stable place to start to come out from hiding, to actually try to attempt to show another human being who they truly were. To trust that even if the other person inevitably screwed up, massively even, they both knew each others' heart was committed to the Lord first, and if Jesus could forgive them over and over again, they could learn how to forgive each other over and over again. Because no one was leaving. There's no flight option in a covenant with the Lord, only fight.

And the more they focused on Jesus, the closer Jesus drew them to each other. It didn't matter how ugly it got inside the space of their marriage, their commitment to Christ was as secure as their salvation. Jesus reminded them they made a covenant to Him, not themselves, to stay married, and there were some seasons that is all they really trusted or half-way believed. 

Jesus was/is always enough. He healed their hurts, their hearts, their home, time and time again, year after year. Each time knitting them closer and stronger together than before the rip had occurred.

After fifteen years of watching God alone hold our marriage together, I am convinced that a cord of three strands is not quickly broken (Ecclesiastes 4:12). I am convinced that marriage can't be truly fulfilling, successful, or meaningful without God at the center and in control of both spouse's lives. I am convinced it is harder to build and maintain a strong marriage than to parent your children, and it should be treated as such, given the time and attention it needs and deserves. Because I made a covenant before God to love, honor, respect, and cherish this one man for the rest of my life. I made no such covenant with God concerning my children. I am convinced that within the secure ramparts of a God-centered marriage, you eventually learn how to fight the devil rather than fight each other. I am convinced that prayer is a powerful weapon we wield in defense of others.

After fifteen years, we are just now, finally beginning to explore the tip of the iceberg of what is true intimacy, transparency, and vulnerability. So many walls in our lives and hearts have come down, so many more still in process of being demolished. Did I already say marriage is work? Never-ending, back-breaking, soul-submitting work, and I voluntarily signed on!

But when you stick with something for fifteen years, you get to honestly say, "I wouldn't change a thing, trade one moment for another, or do anything different. It has been and will continue to be worth every tear, every heartache, every struggle because the highs are so much sweeter and higher than the lows. It really is true that the harder you work for something, the more you appreciate it."

Only people who've worked--not just hung in there, kept the status quo, or settled for pretty good--but those who have blood, sweat, and tears WORKED for something for longer than ten years understand those truths.

And that little girl who God created with a longing and a desire to see the world, to expand her horizons, to know God in all His glory? God has used marriage as the conduit through which to fulfill all those deepest longings and desires. After watching God work for fifteen years, I can't wait to watch how He works for another fifty! And by choosing to stay married and to keep working toward maintaining the best marriage God has designed, I am guaranteed a front row seat to watching God work!

Joey Durham, you love me like Jesus, most days, to the best of your ability. You sacrifice yourself for me and our family. You submit your will to the Lord's for our betterment. You love me just the way I am, no strings attached. You see me for who I am, and you accept that only God can change me, so you just figure out how to love me exactly where I am. You lead our family toward Christ. You lead by word and example. Don't ever urge me to leave you or turn back from you. Where you go, I will go and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God will be my God. (Ruth 1:16) I made that promise fifteen years ago and engraved it on your wedding band because you're never getting rid of me. I love my Jesus, therefore, I love you. Happy anniversary my love.

And may God get all the glory!

Letting Them Go

I've watched them.  You know, the mothers who pour their entire life and energy and self and identity into being a mother, mothering, motherhood.  I've watched them for decades now, taking notes, swearing that I won't end up like them.  That I won't lose myself in my children. That I am and always will be more than just a mother in identity.

Then the day comes when both my children are in school full time for the first time ever. A kindergardener and a second grader. And now I'm a stay-at-home mom with no kids at home. That reality has been gnawing away at my insides for months. It's taken me a while to realize one season in my life quietly ended while another one began. In silent moments all to myself, that reality makes me weep. Hard.

If there's more to me than just my kids, why do I spend so many days feeling so completely lost? They're just going to school, you say.  No, I can feel the change in my bones. My soul is raging against the changes that must in turn happen also in me.

This is just the beginning of the letting go--the slow painful separation of mother and child. I dare say it's more precarious than separating conjoined twins. I'm grateful my life is in the hands of an Eternal Surgeon skilled at His craft.

And there will be those that say, "If you feel that way about it, then home school them." But that's not my calling at this point in the journey. And if I know my kids, in so many ways in this season of life, home schooling them is not the solution to this problem. The issue is with me needing to let them go.

Let them go make new friends. Let them go begin living their own stories. Let them go write chapters where I'm not a character in the plot. Let them go to discover new things without me. Let them go to experience new hurts without me. Let them go because their life isn't about me.

And that's a hard truth.  My kids' lives aren't about me.

They play a part in my story, and I play a part in theirs, but ultimately they are simply a small man and a small woman in need of my care for a short time on loan from a Father who has a much grander plan in mind for them than I could ever dream.  It's my gift from Him to be a part of their story.

And so letting them go becomes essential because if I hold on, they become my idols.

And in the night my mind wanders frantically to the Scriptures for truth, for examples from whom to glean wisdom, cautions even.

And the Lord reminds me first of Jesus.  He was twelve years old, a seventh grader, when his parents lost him for three days.  They didn't even know He was missing until the evening of the first! For that to have even have happened, his parents obviously trusted him to be away for an entire day, out of sight, out of mind, no text messages, no cell phone to check in. (Luke 2:41-50)

Then the Lord brought Hannah to mind. Sweet, precious Hannah. Who was barren and begged the Lord for a child, and when the Lord answered her prayer, she kept her promise to the Lord by handing her six year old little boy over to the care of the priests in the temple to grow up in service to the Lord. Her six year old. He went to live and grow up in the house of the priests, not his mother.  At six. My son is six. (1 Samuel 1)

Then the Lord brought to mind Moses. He was still only a baby when his mother, for his own protection, placed him in a basket on the River Nile not knowing he would be rescued by an Egyptian princess.  By God's grace, his mother would be allowed to continue to nurse him, but once he was weaned, she would leave for him to grow up in the house of Pharaoh.  How she must have treasured every nursing. (Exodus 2:1-10)

Our children were born to be let go into the care of God.  The age and circumstances vary for every child and mother, but in the end, this is God's design. My children were born to be let go into His care.

And I cannot hold onto them in stubborn rebellion without letting go of the hand of my God who still sees me as His child, who cares for me as His child, who still has parenting plans for me in the works as His child and He the loving Father.

I have a choice to make.

I can wallow in the pitiful, aching heart pain that is watching my children grow up and leave, or I can choose joy by choosing to focus on God's presence in my life while praying His presence increases in theirs.

I can become unhappy in wishful thinking, wishing for days past when my children were small and clingy and needy and the only thing they ever really wanted all the time was me, or I can choose gratefulness by praising God for providing a school where they are safe to grow in His presence, where their story in Christ will have fertile ground to take root. I can choose to be grateful that my schedule is now more at the Lord's disposal than ever before.  Every day can be filled with unexpected blessings that aren't currently on my radar, but I trust they are on His.

I can become lost and lonely as a part of my identity begins to change and morph into something new, or I can choose to be content right where I am at any moment, in any circumstance because the truth is I am a child of God, and my heavenly Father never leaves me alone. That part of my identity is as sure and as steadfast and unchangeable as my God Himself.

So the real truth is found in this: My identity has nothing to do with being a mother. That is just a hat I wear, a part I play, for a very short season, and then only in guest appearances as my children see fit the older I get. Do I want to play the part well, so they keep inviting me back? Absolutely!  But ultimately, I still have a story to live of my own where I am the lead, not them.  My children are beginning to play the lead in their own stories now, and that's a good thing for them.  It's not suppose to be a sad thing for me.

And so maybe this blog marks this season of letting go. I'm not a fool. I know there are many more to come. The Lord is showing me that as I let go of one thing, it is imperative I grab onto Him until He reveals what He wants me to grab onto next. He is the only Source, the only Life Preserver, the only Person who keeps me from sinking. Yeah, all those choices I listed above?  There are too many days I make the wrong choice to focus on me instead of Jesus.

I am still a work in progress. Pretty sure I always will be, and that's ok. The longer I live on this earth, the more I can accept that life is never going to get easier or happier, but holding the hand of Jesus it does get sweeter. And for that I'm grateful.

I pray my children see that. I pray they watch their mom turn to Jesus every time something in life changes. Every time the Lord asks me to let go of something, I pray my children see me grab onto Him. If that's all I can ever model for them, then that is enough.

Psalm 105:1

Tonight I sit overwhelmed and amazed and in perfect, exuberant peace. Tonight my daughter accepted Christ as her Savior.

In September, her younger six-year-old brother joined the family of God. He was beaming from ear to ear when we went to pick him up from his Sunday morning class, and he matter-of-factly announced that he had said the prayer to accept Jesus into his heart. Being six years old, Joey and I were hesitant and probably even doubtful this was a real decision, but boy, did God prove this doubting Mama's heart wrong.

My son was different. He was more open to spiritual conversations, more attentive, more willing to listen and attempt to apply Biblical truth to his life. He drew a precious picture of his heart with a stick-figure God inside, writing along the side that, "Yes. I did it. The God of Heaven" with arrows pointing to inside his heart. I didn't even know he had drawn this picture. I had simply mailed the envelope for him, but then my mother-in-love texted me a picture of the drawing when she received it. My heart jumped! Of his own accord, he had willingly told someone else about his decision. In the days to come, he would write messages in the sand on the beach, and my shy, little-man-of-few-words would volunteer to lead prayer time in his Sunday morning class, saying prayers that only come from the most pure of heart.  There's no doubt in my mind, the Holy Spirit filled my son this past September, and the conversations we have had since then have blessed me deeply.

But in the meantime, my eight-year-old daughter was hesitant, even resistant toward conversations we had with her about this decision. The Lord had to work on me. He told me I needed to shut my mouth, speak carefully and gently only when those small windows of opportunity arose, and not press. This was her decision, not mine. Her life choice. So I shut my mouth and prayed so fervently every night because I knew she knew. I knew she understood, but her open defiance was also clearly on display. She is queen of changing the subject, and Lord help us if we ever started to go deeper into anything than a puddle, she was always the first to come up for air, distracting herself with silliness and giggles and goofiness.

The Lord was faithful. He used a dear friend to point out Romans 2:4 to me, which basically states it is God's kindness that leads us to repentance. Kindness. That is not a character quality I would rank high on my list of attributes. We are a low mercy home in general. Practicing kindness seemed foreign. Good manors, respectfulness, obedience...yes, we do those, but kindness? Kindness relates closely to words like caring, heartfelt concern, mercy, compassion, empathy. Yeah, gut-check. I needed to work on those. My daughter needed to know my kindness, so she could understand in part the kindness of our heavenly Father.

So I stopped rolling my eyes at her dramatic flair; instead, at the Lord's prompting, I took more deep breaths and saw her for who she was right in her emotional moments. Hurt feelings, splinters, bruises, friend problems, school issues--these were all moments to put kindness into practice. Learning to love another person for who they are, right where they are in life, not getting frustrated at their unused potential, not seeing the person God is molding them to be, but seeing the person standing right in front of you, needy, hurting, responding to that person, that child--that has been embarrassingly difficult for me to do.

Lord, thank you for helping me to see my daughter through your eyes--valued, loved, wanted. Even in her rebellious heart, she was still wholly and completely desired as my child. Wow. Such a tender life lesson and peek through the looking glass at the heart of my heavenly Father. I don't think I really got it until I had to live it, to put it in to practice. Thank you, Jesus, for hard lessons.

Over the last few months, I've had to entrust my daughter over and over again back into the hands of her Heavenly Father who made her and knows her so much better than even I can hope to know. I've prayed often in tears. I've trusted the Lord's promise to me that before the age of 12, my children would choose to follow the Lord. I believed the encouraging words of wiser women who spoke truth that one day, my daughter would make that decision for herself. Somewhere in the past few months, I stopped focusing on my desires and my timeline and my daughter's attitude, and decided the only hopeful place to focus was on Jesus.

So I ordered the She Reads Truth Lent study. I've never observed Lent. I'm not even really sure what it stands for or what it is or how to rightly observe it. But I knew it was about my Jesus' journey toward the cross, and it was about intentionally focusing on Him and His sacrifice. So tonight, on Ash Wednesday, I sat my kids around our table. We lit the candle in our Lent Wreath and began the first of a 40 day journey toward the cross together.

Something about lighting that candle cast a spell on my children. They watched the flame and listened intently to the Scripture readings. They read some of the verses from their own Bibles. We talked and discussed and ate scripture together, and my heart was so full. And we talked about sin and repentance and confession and forgiveness and what it means to be a child of God. And in the tender closing moments, right before we prayed, my daughter tentatively announced that God was asking her to repent, that she believed in Jesus and what He had come to do, and that she wanted to follow Him and be a child of God.

And my heart overflowed! It burst open. Satan immediately tried to get in there with his voice of doubt, but I looked into my daughter's eyes, and I chose to believe God, just like she was doing. And she bowed her head and prayed, and I listened to her sweet words of repentance and confession and proclaimed belief in Jesus' death and resurrection. I didn't even have to say the words for her.  She spoke them all herself, and she spoke them perfectly. And then I knew she was my child because the tears of happiness began to flow and her eyes shone and glistened, and the joy of the Lord filled her countenance.

And in the quiet evening of Ash Wednesday our family of four was made complete in the Holy Spirit, sealed together in Christ for all eternity. My children choose Jesus. I can ask for nothing more.

At ages and six and eight, I know that they know. Their Spirit testifies to mine because it is the same.

I have no greater joy than to know that my children 

are walking in the truth. (3 John 1:4)

No. Greater. Joy.

May you also be encouraged. May you faithfully trust the Lord with the hearts and minds of those dearest to you. May the Lord hear your fervent prayers from heaven and look on you with favor. May you too know the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. (Psalm 27:13) Amen and Amen!

Oh give thanks to the Lord, call upon His name;

Make known His deeds among the peoples. (Psalm 105:1)