Grief comes in waves of emotion. Even with the comfort of truth there are many tears and much fear. When people ask what they can do, we are not repeating trite words when we ask for prayer. We are counting on you to hold the ropes. We are counting on you to pray.

When I wake in the early morning darkness and feel calmness instead of rising panic, I will know you are praying.

When my family gathers around the table and there is soft laughter and easy conversation instead of more tears, we will know you are praying.

When my teenagers ask hard questions and we can answer with calm assurance, we will know you are praying.

When the heavy cloak of sadness is lifted enough for us to enjoy the moments we are given, we will know you are praying.

When our steps are weary and yet we do not stumble, do not falter, do not doubt–we will know you are praying.

When there are pieces of mercy–bits of good news, financial provision, acts of kindness shown–we will know you are praying.

If spiritual eyes are opened and the blind are made to see, we will know you are praying.

If my children move toward God instead of pulling away in confusion or bitter sadness, we will know you are praying.

When pain and darkness come and we are able to kiss the hand that brings them, we will know you are praying.

If Marissa is strengthened and enabled to walk this pilgrim journey with eyes of faith;

if she runs sure and strong down this appointed path to the finish line;

if she doesn’t doubt, walks without fear, leans hard on everlasting arms;

if joy sustains her and grace surrounds her;

if she walks by faith and not by sight–

then we will know.

We will know you are praying.

Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. Galatians 6:2

 

 

I am sitting in the waiting room while Marissa has her scans and I am wiping away the tears that just keep falling down my face.

Because she was so close, or at least it felt that way. Her skin was so much better and she was just starting to get her strength back. This morning I was so thankful that her step was firmer and quicker than it had been for awhile.

Last night while I was helping her with her dressings, I noticed a spot. Really, it is the smallest nodule. It hardly seems possible that it could be dangerous–that it could mean the spread of this snarly, aggressive disease. When we showed it to the doctor, she was immediately concerned. Within an hour, we had a positive biopsy result, a consultation with her oncologist, and now she is having her CT scan with a bone scan to follow.

Because this crazy cancer is still hanging around and still trying to spread. This race is not over. Ready or not, it’s time for another lap.

I’m not ready. Marissa’s not ready. Nobody feels ready to fight this enemy.

Christmas songs are playing and there are decorations in the waiting room. People are sitting all around me, waiting for news. It is so hard to wait.

But this waiting reminds me. It helps me know. Truth curls around me like the mist on a foggy morning, surrounding me and covering me.

Immanuel. God is here.

Someone once told me that it is hard to feel God’s presence in a doctor’s office, but I have learned Him well in these cold, hard places. He is always there.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5

I have confessed Jesus to be God and He dwells in me. His light shines. The darkness of sin cannot overcome it. This journey of cancer cannot dim it. No diagnosis, no pain, no suffering can remove us from His presence. Even death cannot sever the tie that binds us to His heart. We are safe. We are not forsaken. We are never alone.

And that is Christmas. That is hope that does not disappoint.

He came. He saves. He is near. I am letting the joy of it settle into the saddest places of my heart.

Immanuel. God is with us.

O come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They have hit her as hard as they can.

I can see the flash of something in their eyes–amazement and relief, I think, that she is still standing. They love her spunk and she is only 26 and every doctor realizes this is a battle for her life. So when they tell her they are giving her six weeks without treatment, her first response is panic. Her first response is no.

She is a fighter, my girl. I think about her childhood filled with dolls and books and singing, and I wonder where she learned these warrior skills. I wonder when God put courage and strength and endurance in her heart. Was it when she was formed or did He grow it inside of her or is He pouring it out on her now?

And it must be yes. Yes, to all three. They are gifts from her Father’s hand, and she wears them well.

She has had a couple of hard weeks. Fevers and blood transfusions and layers of skin falling off. Pain and weariness and tears. But radiation is done; that battle fought. Now it is time to recover, to rest. Now it is time to regain strength for battles ahead.

The timing of this rest keeps filling my heart. We will be home for Christmas, and Marissa will have her first real break in 14 months. Time to savor family and celebrate truth. Time to observe the light.

I long to associate Christmas with rest. I feel pulled by a thousand strings as I am jumping back into my life after being away for seven weeks. So much to be done, to catch up on. I am pushing away a feeling of panic. I am refusing to be frantic in my doing. I am determined not to be overwhelmed by to-do lists but to be overwhelmed by grace.

I know about Christmas–it’s in my heart. I know why He came, and I am grateful for the knowing. He came to rescue us from the overwhelming, frantic doing. It is never enough. We can never do enough or be enough to satisfy our own expectations or to satisfy God.

There is rest in that.

There is rest in a baby being a burden-bearer. There is rest in the satisfaction of God’s wrath when His Son died on a tree for our sin. There is rest in embracing truth and confessing truth and relying on truth.

There is rest in being rescued.

Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. Luke 2:10,11

Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved. Acts 16:31

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For all those who sing in the dark

Some days the words aren’t there. Days when it’s a struggle to mesh thoughts with truth. Days when the light shines dimly.

Fear can clutch at the heart and disappointment can rise and it becomes hard to push back the sadness. Our dusty frame is tired. Oh, the trembling weariness of our frame some days.

But we are held by the One who remembers.

A friend is recovering from brain surgery and his speech and movement have been slow to come back. When I wake in the night I pray for the frustrating ache of this weakness, for the fear and the dread that I know can sometimes come in the night. I pray for his inner man to be strong and to remember.

His wife told a beautiful story of a time after surgery when the words wouldn’t come. The therapist explained that sometimes you can sing before you can speak. So they sang “Amazing Grace” and the music brought his words along with flowing tears.

That song was full of grace, amazing grace, and the sound was sweet. Grace helped him find lost words. Grace taught him his night song.

A friend shared with me a lesson about birds. About how when a bird is in captive darkness, he sings his own song. The ability to sing is inside him and he must sing, but he sings uniquely. He sings differently than he would if he were in the light. He sings differently than the birds safe at home.

Our song in the night is not the same as the one we sing when all is well. It is different than the one we sing when we gather with our brothers and sisters for praise. Our darkness song is ours alone. It is unique and it is given by a faithful God and it is beautiful. It tells of a strong fortress, and it is full of truth.

Only we can sing this song. Only we can praise in this way. My song is different than yours. Marissa’s is different than each of ours.

We can sing when the darkness comes and the words won’t. We remember that the heart knows praise before it can speak of it. We remember that God is near and that He is doing a new thing. He is giving a beautiful praise song.

We are worshipping with this song. We are praising the God of darkness and light, the One who gives us breath. We are singing the beautiful night song that is ours alone to sing.

We are singing even before the words will come.

By day the LORD commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.  Psalm 42:8

I will remember my song in the night. Psalm 77:6

But I will sing of your strength. I will sing aloud of your steadfast love in the morning. For you have been to me a fortress and a refuge in the day of my distress. Psalm 59:16

 

 

 

 

 

I hardly remember rain.

These autumn days have been beautiful and bright and almost always sunny. The sound of gently falling rain exists but only in far away memory. We’ve been living and moving on and enjoying the bright without realizing how dry it really is, how much we need rain.

This weekend there are fires raging in the mountains near us. Fires devouring miles of beauty and threatening more. Fires that started with a spark but quickly grew because of dry and thirsty ground. Ground that is thirsty for rain.

Sometimes my soul is dry.

Some days I am just living and moving on until a spark of doubt, a flash of anger, or a moment of fear reminds me that I am thirsty. I am thirsty for a drink of cool water. I am thirsty for a drink from the well that never runs dry.

Dryness of soul is different than anger or sadness or fear. It is different than unbelief. It happens slowly over time and can easily go unnoticed. We can be so busy and so distracted that we don’t notice how thirsty we really are.

I love God’s words. I love to come thirsty and drink the sweet water. I love the picture of Christ as living water. I love the promise that we will be fruitful even in the desert, that we will find water in the wilderness.

I love the abundant, always available, thirst-quenching stream.

He split rocks in the wilderness and gave them drink abundantly as from the deep. He made streams come out of the rock and caused water to flow down like rivers. Psalm 78:15-16

Whoever drinks of the water that I give him shall never thirst; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life. John 4:14

He turns deserts into a pool of water, a parched land into springs of water. Psalm 107:35

For I will pour water upon him who is thirsty. Isaiah 44:3

 

 

There is a mist hovering over the little lake each morning when I walk beside it. A long, winding driveway takes me past a rolling pasture where the Clydesdale horses roam and into a shady wooded area where the gray mare comes to the fence each morning to watch me. It is the kind of woods with scattered trees so that there is both shade and sun, a perfection of balance. Across the lake there are kind grandfather trees that whisper in the wind and a lone heron that gingerly steps along the edge of the water.

It is quiet here in a way that life mostly isn’t. It is beautiful in a way that settles the heart.

This place is a gift.

If you ask me how I found it, I can’t even remember. But I can tell you Who the giver 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

So many gifts along the way have lightened our load and lifted our burden. Your words of encouragement and faithful praying have ministered sweetly to our souls. Many of you have given sacrificially so that we could pay bills and pursue treatment. While we’re away in Durham, you have been loving my family by feeding them delicious meals. I can’t count the number of times we have received a text or a card or a message exactly when it was needed.

You all are precious gifts to us.

I don’t take things for granted these days. My children hug me a little harder and I hold them tight a little longer. I listen even when I am tired and I focus on what their hearts are saying. I go to soccer games on Saturday when I have a thousand things to catch up on. I go to Home Depot with my husband and he goes grocery shopping with me. We are grateful in a new way, and I hope I am getting better at giving and loving.

Because to love, to have people to love, is a gift.

I am spending every day with Marissa. On Mondays we are at Duke all day long, but on the other days we are only there an hour or two. When she feels well enough, we are exploring Durham. It’s a college town and there are lots of neat shops and interesting restaurants. The Eno River runs through and there are beautiful spots to sit by the river or go on short hikes. We bought some craft supplies, and we are working on a different craft each week. We bake goodies to take to her team at Duke. We walk on the farm and feed carrots to the horses. We read and we talk and sometimes we are just quiet.

Because every moment is a gift.

I remember when I first thought of writing things down during our journey and I woke early with the name on my heart: Tracing His goodness. It felt like the only way to get through was to look for His hand and recount His kindness along the way. I knew that some days it would be hard to feel Him near, but I could trace His goodness like a golden thread, unbroken and beautiful.

So I trace the bountiful thread of grace. I cling to the precious gift of faith. I follow His hand, and I see His glory.

He has been the best gift. He is the quiet beauty that settles the heart.

Your eyes will behold the king in his beauty. They will see a land that stretches afar.  Isaiah 33:17

For the LORD God is a sun and shield; the LORD gives grace and glory; no good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly. Psalm 84:11

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve started running again. Not too much and not too far, but I’m doing the motions. My ankle protests and my body isn’t sure, but my heart remembers.

I started running when I was 42 years old. After my last two challenging pregnancies, I was heavy and tired and determined to feel like me again. I went back to my aerobics class and I started running. And I unexpectedly fell in love with early morning runs. I love the quiet and the time to think and pray. I love the energizing work and the discipline. I love being outside with the stars and the rising sun.

If you know me well, you know that not much keeps me from my class or stops me from walking out that door in the morning. But a broken ankle did.

Did you wonder when you heard I broke my ankle? Did you wonder what God was doing? I could hardly believe the fall–it wasn’t a stumble or even just a slip but like having a rug ripped out from under me. Sudden and hard and fast. Then our van quit in Charlotte and has needed several repairs since then. My son broke his hand and needed surgery. My husband’s job is hanging by a thread with four lay-offs in the last year and another announcement that one is coming in November. Marissa’s surgery (the one they told us was her chance of cure) was cancelled at the last minute.

Are you wondering? Does it sometimes feel like God is not answering our prayers?

Please don’t be discouraged. And don’t you worry about us. This is our assignment, our story.  We don’t understand all of the plot. None of us knows what God is doing. We just don’t and we might not ever. We need to be ok with that.

Because we know Him, don’t we?

We are getting to know Him and His faithful heart. We are learning to trust in His eternal purpose whether or not we can see it. We are learning to trust in His providence whether or not it measures up to our idea of good. We are learning to rest in His love that never lets go.

Don’t stop praying. Pray that God will accomplish every single thing He intends. Go ahead and pray for miracles and good news and relief. Pray for His mighty healing power to be shown. But pray deeper, friends. Pray for submission and peace and joy in the trial. Pray that our faith will not fail.

Maybe part of faith is just getting back up each day and living out your story. Maybe it’s just putting one foot in front of the other even when you’re stiff and tired and hurting. Maybe it’s limping along until the heart remembers.

Maybe some days faith means just standing up and starting to run again.

I was pushed hard so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me. Psalm 118:13

Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us. Hebrews 12:1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are moments we never forget. Moments of struggle and moments of surrender and moments of sweet peace. Pain and beauty and joy.

I remember the sunny July day I wore a white dress and said yes to a lifetime promise. I remember driving in the rusted car away from all that was known to something distant and unsure, heart beating fast as the miles rolled by. I remember our first home and the hand-made curtains and the growing up. So much growing up in that little place. There were years without children and fear that they would never come. But then they came and I remember.

I remember the miracles.

I remember life then. Sweet and simple. Babies and toddlers and small ones. Tripping over toys and never getting enough sleep and holding hands. Laughter and spilled milk and Good-night Moon.

And we were blessed.

There was heart-ache, too. I remember my Daddy’s last breath and twin babies who fell asleep before they saw the sun and a prodigal boy. And all the normal hard, all the daily hard of living and loving.

I remember a curly-headed young woman, just waking up to a beautiful life, sitting on a table and being told she had cancer. I remember falling hard into this valley we’re still walking in.

I remember pain and wet tears and struggling to stand.

But what I remember most is God’s faithfulness. The miracle of a changed and growing heart. The forgiveness of my deepest sin. The guiding hand to lead our way. The assurance of His covenant love. Learning His heart and opening mine to Him. Being held in the palm of His hand.

His faithfulness in all of it.

I remember. I will never forget. For all my days and in every moment, I remember.

I remember the days of old; I meditate on all that you have done; I ponder the work of your hands. Psalm 143:5

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God. But only he who sees takes off his shoes.”  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Fall is here and beginning to change our corner of the world. The color is creeping in and will soon explode into joyous masterpiece. We wait for it expectantly. Even in our frantic living, we are waiting.

There is something about autumn that reaches the heart. What is it about dying leaves infused with color? About living plants preparing to sleep awhile? About crisp air driving us inside to home and hearth?

Autumn is a gift from One who knows all about living and dying and our need for beauty and warmth. We see Him in all the details. Every bush is burning.

Don’t you see Him?

We ran away for a few days to the mountains. (We were supposed to go the ocean before Marissa’s surgery, but October seems to be a good month for hurricanes.) It is so peaceful here and we are soaking up togetherness, soaking up family. Soaking up the earth afire with God.

We see Him, and our shoes are off.

We are still a little stunned at the change of plans for Marissa. Our goal was to finish chemotherapy and get through the surgery. Radiation was only to finish off the plan, and now it is the only plan. We are grateful for the clear bone scan and thankful Marissa doesn’t have to go through an unnecessary surgery. But her body is tired of chemo, and it seems she will need to deal with it for a good while yet. This cancer is so aggressive, and we know there is only One who can heal her.

The One who sets the earth afire.

My son broke his thumb this week, and my ankle is slowly healing. The approaching hurricane kept us from the ocean, and our family will be separated for most of the next six weeks. This world is sick and confusing and so often sad. Marissa’s cancer just refuses to retreat.

But the earth is afire with God. We see Him all around. We trust the Creator of storms and color and beauty. We have seen His redemptive work, and we believe in His promises. We have felt the cold and dark, sick places in our hearts come alive in Him. We have seen the broken healed and the blind made to see. We are witnesses to His majesty and power. We know Him, and we are known by Him.

This is His world. His beauty.  We are His people, and this is His storm. We see Him, and we are waiting expectantly. The whole earth is groaning.

Every bush is burning.

Do I not fill heaven and earth? declares the LORD.  Jeremiah 23:24

Know therefore today, and lay it to your heart, that the LORD is God in heaven above and on the earth beneath; there is no other. Deuteronomy 4:39

For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be glory forever. Amen. Romans 11:36

 

 

 

 

 

For Rissa on her 26th birthday

Remember last year? (And how could you forget?) We were reeling with shock and sadness and it was raining, constantly raining, and we were filling the days with doctor appointments and tests and scans and worry. And it just kept raining.

A soft and gentle God-is-crying-with-you kind of rain.

And your birthday was coming. You weren’t sick and it was hard to believe something so evil was lurking. It was so hard to believe. There was a heaviness that I can’t explain. Even now I can feel that first-week heaviness and the helplessness of sinking down.

But it was your birthday. So we celebrated. Remember the hurricane and the cancelled party at the park and the Howells opening up their home so that we wouldn’t all be washed away? Do you remember all the people who came to say “Happy birthday?” And the sad looks not quite hidden behind the birthday hugs?

Because you are loved.

Loved by your people and loved by your God. And it matters, because it means you are never alone.

And now it is time to celebrate again, to celebrate the day of your birth. The day you first opened your eyes to light. Alive in a secret moment and loved before time began, but now awakened to light.

Beautiful light.

And it is beautiful, isn’t it, sweet girl? The sun rising and then setting again at end of day? The sparkling night skies? The light along the path that guides you? The light of God shining in your heart? The light you bear as you testify to the truth of Him?

Beautiful Light.

And you have seen the light in a new way this year. You have felt its slow and steady warmth, and you have seen the rays peak through on the rainiest of days. You have known the Light of the world and His presence spreading peace and guiding your steps. You have been cheered by a thousand lights of kindness along the way. You have been a light to those who watch you travel this hard road.

We are born into startling light and born again when we see the Light. But we adjust to it and eventually take it for granted. Cling to the Light, Rissa. Soak up the warmth of the Light. Be grateful for the Light.

And shine on, dear girl. In this new year, no matter what it holds, shine on. On the darkest days, open your eyes and your heart to the light.

It is a gift from your heavenly Father, and it will never fail you. Reflect His light.

Let it shine.

I love you, Rissa. Happy birthday.

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)

Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven. (Matthew 5:16)