Today you are thirty-five.

We went to the ocean last week and listened to the waves. Walked on sand with the laughter of children our music. Picked up shells and watched the rain and breathed long and deep.

I love getting up early and waiting for the sun. A million stars and black sky slowly turning to color and then light. The first morning was a glorious display of color and clouds, a breathtaking invitation to worship our Creator.

I feel so close to you there. Sky and sea and salty air humming your name.

You were always my sunrise girl, drawn to the sky’s magnificent wonder.

I remember.

This old world goes on, Rissa. Filled with the groans of waiting, the ache of loss. Friends bearing a breaking sorrow even now. And all the world confused and angry, uncertain and sad, it seems.

But God is the same. He keeps us, holds us safe amid the storms. Our Rock and our Anchor, our Friend. And all His promises are yes and amen in Christ. We trust Him. We cling to Him in precious hope.

The skies help me. Turn my gaze upward, to Creator God and Beautiful Savior. To eternity, the joy of rest. The wonder of being safely home, tears wiped away by God’s own hand.

Creation casting the faint light of another kingdom far more glorious than this.

And you, my child, are there. I think of it in grateful wonder.

Today we celebrate you here. We remember all the days of you, all the ways of you. We love you always.

Happy birthday, Rissa.

For all the promises of God find their Yes in him. That is why it is through him that we utter our Amen to God for his glory. 2 Corinthians 1:20

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

He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. Ecclesiastes 3:11

Marissa Alice Bundy, October 2, 1990 – March 6, 2017

The buds are waking up.

Though I love the silhouette of winter trees against a moody sky, I am always glad for the first hushed signs of spring. Its sure coming is a balm–living things renewed and fresh, the hope of life after a frosty, dormant season.

It is also the season she left us.

That winter was a cold and barren struggle, the battle of a lifetime. Pain and weariness and sorrow. Holding on to truth while letting go of her.

Ultimately, all struggle is spiritual. All suffering is a reckoning with our sinfulness and God’s sovereignty. It’s all a wrestling with God.

A yielding to the Potter’s hands, while pressing the truth of His goodness into our souls.

Marissa’s struggle is over, every sorrow stilled.

I’ve been remembering. Looking at pictures and reliving her story with open hands but aching heart. I miss her every day.

Death is an enemy. I won’t ever forget its merciless grip. But neither will I forget God’s glorious redemption, His mercy-filled plan to rescue believers from its hold.

I won’t forget my beautiful Savior.

The pages of the story turn, and I am given this broken tenderness. The grace to consider eternity every day. A longing for a place I’ve never been. Courage to keep running my own race with perseverance and hope.

I’m learning the heart of the One who holds the world in His hands, the One who holds my Marissa.

The One who is making all things new.

Yesterday was one of those days.

The cherry pie filling didn’t thicken, the pumpkin filling spilled as I was putting it in the oven, the streusel on top of the apple pie burned. And my heart was anxious and heavy.

Though I’ve had over 60 years of happy memories, somehow thoughts of Marissa’s last Thanksgiving are what came and sat with me. I cannot explain this visitor, and I cannot wish her away. But I can invite other thoughts in. I can speak truth to myself.

I welcome God’s words and promises. He surrounds me with lovingkindness. His Spirit testifies that He is good and reminds me of a thousand works of blessing. A thousand graces.

He lifts my heart to praise.

So if on this Thanksgiving day, you find grief sitting with you, invite truth to sit alongside her. Settle in with remembering all He is, all He has given. All He has done, all He will do.

Sing a song of deliverance!

Psalm 32:7 You are my hiding place; You keep me from trouble; You surround me with songs of deliverance. Selah

Happy Thanksgiving–I’m off to make some pies!

Marissa Alice Bundy – October 2, 1990 – March 6, 2017

Winter is leaving us.

I’m always glad for spring. The return of green and warmth, dormant things surging back to life. But for the first time in several years, I was content with winter. I was able to embrace the cold without memories overwhelming me. To enjoy brisk morning walks with the moonlight on one side of the sky and the rising sun on the other.

Strands of color, marbled gray, and a lifting of darkness.

Time has been a friend, moving me from trauma and grief and dulling its memory.

But I don’t forget.

Seven years ago on March 6, we said goodbye to Marissa. After a winter filled with the cold darkness of struggle, she was released from her suffering.

In honor of this day, I went back and reread my posts about her final months. Honestly, I had forgotten the intensity of those waves. I had forgotten how deep the water was, how often it seemed to sweep right over us.

On Sunday in church, we read Psalm 88 together. A chapter where there is just a continual crying out to God with no real answer. The sixth and seventh verses jumped out at me. “You have put me in the lowest pit, in dark places, in the depths. Your wrath has rested upon me, and You have afflicted me with all your waves.”

I never doubted that God was the sender of the waves.

Amy Carmicheal said, “But God is the God of the waves and the billows, and they are still His when they come over us.” Every wave that washed over us was His appointment, His divine plan. The deliverance was His as well–Marissa to eternal healing and us to carry on as the waves calmed.

We finished reading Pilgrim’s Progress this week, where Christian and Hopeful cross the great river of death, not without wrestling. Not without struggle.

“Christian began to sink, and crying out to his good friend, Hopeful, he said, I sink in deep waters; the billows go over my head, all the waves go over me.

Then said the other, Be of good cheer, my Brother, I feel the bottom, and it is good.”

Marissa felt the bottom, and it was good. The river did not overwhelm her. She was safely kept.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you. Isaiah 43:2

She crossed into Paradise that day, the river forgotten, the journey a faded remembrance.

But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God, the judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel. Hebrews 12:22-24

To Jesus, her mediator.

Who stills the wind and the waves.

Who whispers peace in all of life’s storms.

Who gives rest to weary ones.

Who delivers us from all our sorrows at last.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. Revelation 21:4

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Matthew 5:4

Thankful.

For home. Not just a roof overhead, but walls that have heard singing and laughing and yes, crying. A place to come into out of the world. A thousand little comforts. Warmth and light and rest.

For people. My people. Imperfect, but loved. Each one a cherished joy, filling my life with the welcome noise of conversation and companionship. A steady pulse of life to watch and wonder.

(And the grandchildren. My loves. Full of liveliness and questions. Imagination and wonder without the hindrance of experience. The boldness to think they can catch a butterfly and the courage to try.)

For spiritual blessing. Amazed wonder at being chosen. Lifted out of a horrible pit, and rescued from the despair of trying again and again and yet failing to please God. For Christ and His willing death for me on a cross. For peace with God through Him.

For hope. In this life and for all eternity. The knowledge that He lovingly guides each step. No fear of the future but trust in His sovereign purpose. A forward gaze toward heaven and those already there.

For the work that He is doing. In me, in those around me, in this world, for His kingdom. Confident in His promise to finish every work.

Thankful for the weaving of His kindness into every strand of my life.

Your birthday.

You loved that it was at the beginning of fall when colors and winds were changing. Cooler mornings and shorter days, night creeping in a bit sooner every day. Fresh apples and candles and pumpkin bread. Sweaters and breezes and leaves turning. Soccer and long walks and trips to the mountains.

You loved it all.

I struggle for a while each year before I can embrace it. Fall brings you close, pain and joy walking side by side. On your birthday, I’m choosing to hold hands with joy.

And it’s not hard, because of you.

You were a bright light in this dark world. Sunshine and warmth. Laughter and fun. A motivator. Loyal and kind. An adventurer. A doer, a helper. An encourager. A lover of children, of family, of life. A cherished friend. Determined and brave. A faithful servant, a follower of Christ.

Not perfect, but beautiful. I miss you every day.

And it’s hard to balance the missing you with the loving you.

We’re heading to the mountains this afternoon, and we will be holding close all our memories of you there. In one of your favorite places, doing some of your favorite things.

Grabbing joy by the hand, just like you would do.

Our garden is scraggly and mostly brown, but a few tomatoes still ripen, red and sweet. Determinedly they hold on, ignoring the calendar. Just doing what they are made to do, as long as they can, as well as they can.

The sweet juiciness, an unexpected October pleasure.

Like every thought of you.

I’m reaching through the gnarly branches to pick the sweetest fruit. And thanking God for His full redemption of what is dying, what is broken. For His sure and precious promises to all who love Him.

I’m thanking Him for you and for life that lasts forever.

And cherishing this thought: the same hand that is holding you is holding me.

Happy birthday, Rissa. I love you.

Marissa Alice Bundy, October 2, 1990 – March 6, 2017

Winter will always be a season of goodbye to me.

Gray skies carry me back to six years ago, memories pelting like icy snow.

Some days it’s easy to get turned around in the wind, and I can never forget that storm.

Watching my sweet girl go away.

Here in the Carolinas spring has been pushing its way in for weeks, with buds on trees and grass already green. A stubborn, welcome friend.

Turning me to the Creator of days and beauty and all that lasts.

The dormant and silent coming to life, whispering hope. A stark contrast to goodbyes and dying.

How my spirit reaches for all of God’s renewing grace.

On this day of remembering, the tears come easily. Memories burn within me, coals hot and red.

Sadness for the suffering road she traveled.

And this love so strong with no place to go. An empty place in my heart.

I miss my Rissa Bean.

But God extends His grace to me. He turns my head to look at His beloved Son, who gave His life freely with such compassionate love.

His blood shed in order to cover my sin, and Marissa’s, and all who come to Him in faith.

Astonishing grace.

Providing a steadfast, beautiful hope. An eternal refuge from all the storms of this fallen world. And a future where I will see His face, be welcomed into His arms and enjoy Him forever.

Marissa’s reality today. And forevermore.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His great mercy has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to obtain an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you. 1 Peter 1:3-4

Fall came to us lovely and slow, color wandering in like an old friend, gentle and golden.

We went to the mountains and tried to take it in, God whispering to our souls through the glories of His handiwork. The world a blanket of beauty, all the layers a delight. The sun reaching us through dappled trees, leaving us awed and humbled and joy-filled.

And I love how God made the dying of leaves such a wonder.

Now they are falling, hushed color floating down through graying skies.

The days have turned cold and the color is fading. This annual shift is still an effort for me–warm to cold, long days to short, outside to in. Sitting in front of a fire instead of watching fireflies on the deck.

My heart stays hungry for familiar and safe and quiet, searching for joy in change. Clinging to peace in the gritty weariness of this world we live in. I’m thankful that God renews and comforts and is faithful through all life’s changes, large and small. Through seasons and times, shifts and directions, He is the same.

No matter the tossing or the tearing, He is who He has been and always will be.

And on this Thanksgiving week, I gather all the traces of gratefulness. I try to verbally praise him for the thousands of blessings that are mine. I try to name all of the good gifts, those in my hand and those yet to come. Those I no longer hold. Every beauty, every delight, every comfort. Every cherished one.

But even as I begin, I know that I cannot begin to capture it all. So much of what I have is not seen or even known. My past, my present, my future–all lovingly planned and certain. All wrapped up in God’s eternal, never-changing character.

My best blessings all wrapped up in the graces of who He is.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. James 1:17

Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God. Psalm 90:2

Of old you laid the foundation of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands. They will perish, but you will remain; they will all wear out like a garment. You will change them like a robe, and they will pass away, but you are the same, and your years have no end. Psalm 102:25-27

Happy birthday, Rissa.

For weeks I have been remembering. At first, just this unsettledness. Fall breezes, fall colors, fall smells. A favorite time of year filled with so many lovely memories–why this agitation in my heart?

But you were diagnosed in September. And now, your birthday is here.

The flavor of fall has changed a bit.

I could easily focus on the bitter parts of it, the tears and pain and sorrow. I could easily wallow in all the ways I’m missing you.

But instead, I am remembering your heart. I remember your joy in living, always the first one to suggest a fun outing or a family gathering. Your love for others, your longing to help. Your willingness to get involved with people. Your passion, your calling, your pursuit of God. Your friendship and the delight of having you near.

I remember all the layers of you.

I happily gather all the memories, cherishing your life and all the days of having you here.

Even the hard days. The sick days. The dying days. Part of your story, but just a small part. Your life continues, beautiful and eternal and orchestrated by a gracious, sovereign God.

The valley of tears is ended for you, and you sit at the feet of the One who redeems and restores and rights it all.

I love you forever, Rissa. Happy birthday!

Like a mountain stream, the days move on–sometimes trickling and sometimes gushing, but always flowing. How is it five years since we said goodbye to Marissa?

They say that grief is love with no place to go, and it is exactly that. A full heart with no release. Like always carrying a brimming cup of water and knowing you can never put it down.

God has taught me how to carry it, and it spills out less frequently now. It is filled with many things–doubt and tears and sorrow. But He has faithfully added His mercies. Acceptance and peace and hope. Joy in knowing Him and His ways.

Grace upon grace. And an understanding.

I am meant to bear this cup. It is mine. I am equipped to carry it. This is my story, written for me. This is my work, my purpose, a way to glorify God.

I can imagine a scene where Marissa gives her cup to Jesus–all bitter pain and sorrow at once removed and its contents only good. She is not sorry that she has carried it. She is grateful for His sweetening of every drop.

On this day when we remember her leaving, the sorrow presses in. I look at pictures and recall her journey. I miss her spunk and her laughter and all her ways. I miss knowing her and having her near.

I let the mourning rise.

It doesn’t surprise or disappoint God that we still grieve. He meant for us to love her deeply, and He meant for her going to change us.

And I know she would tell me to keep walking and trusting and hoping.

That every drop added to my cup is purposeful and kind.

I know she would tell me to carry it with joy.

For momentary, light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison, while we look not at the things which are seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:18

Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Romans 5:2