The wondering

I grew up on a farm in upstate New York. We lived on a big hill–a little girl’s version of the top of the world. There were cows and chickens and windy meadows, an old rope swing that could lift your soul, and a daddy who laughed.

My mom loved to watch the sun as it dropped low behind the hill each evening. The sky with its vibrant colors at end of day brought quiet joy to her busy days, and she rested in the God who painted it. She smiled at the future through strength and weakness, sickness and sorrow, and blessings scattered all around.

She is smiling still, though frail and worn. She has seen a lot of sunsets. She has said good-bye to many joys and wished a few times for journey’s end. But she’s had ninety-five years of trusting the One who paints His landscapes and spins the world and shepherds His people.

Ninety-five years of changing skies.

She broke her arm recently, and I am here with her. There are so many similarities to Marissa–oxygen tank and wheelchair, weakness and pain. And there is also the beauty of a life well-lived and the expectation of a future home where all is well.

An enduring spirit and faith in a God who safely keeps.

I suppose it is natural to wonder why Marissa was given only 26 years while my mother has been given almost 96. It is natural to wonder about so many things, and I don’t think God is disappointed or surprised when we wonder.

He put in us the wondering.

It is the wondering that invites us to seek Him. It is the wondering that draws us to the ancient God-words of truth.

So let us wonder about the things we do not know while we rest in those we do. Let us wonder in the breath-taking moments, and let us wonder in the hard.

Let us wonder in the changing color of our skies.

But in our wondering, let us seek truth.  Let us rest in God who has always been and will always be. Though the earth shakes, He does not move. Through every darkened sky, He changes not. In the midst of every despair, He loves fiercely and loyally. He keeps us and He carries us. He knows all things and faithfully fulfills His promises. He causes all things to work for good.

In our wondering, let Him speak.

In our wondering, let us find Him.

Let Him open our eyes to the beauty found in changing skies.

The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him. Lamentations 3:25

Whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him. Hebrews 11:6
















He wept, too.

Grief comes in gently most days.

The mornings sing with newness. Blooms and air and birds all fresh with wonder. And the wonder is still there inside of me.

I read God’s words–alive and working in me. I’m always surprised by the treasures found in passages read many times before. There is this settling of the soul that happens–a grounding. There is a peace in aligning my thoughts with God’s.

But there are other days when grief is not as gentle. Days when I am agitated and restless. Days when I am sad. This merry-go-round of grieving–some days up and some days down and never the same as the person right next to you.

It keeps you dizzy enough to lose your balance.

I was reading in John 11 where Jesus wept after the death of Lazarus. Why was He weeping? He knew that He would soon raise him from the dead. He knew that Lazarus was safe for eternity. He knew all the days, all the details. He was not surprised.

Yet still He wept.

I’m certain He wept in compassion for Mary and Martha. And in sorrow for sin and its awful consequence. Maybe for the magnitude of death–its unnatural pain and unspeakable grief and the misery of this unintended process.

Perhaps He was weeping over the path He was on to conquer it.

He sorrowed even though He knew Lazarus was ultimately safe. Even though He knew the power of resurrection. Even though He knew God’s will was being done.

He wept.

And I weep some days. Over the enormity of this loss, over the empty place next to me and inside of me. Over the unnatural call of death and the weariness of dealing with it every day. Over the painful hurt that does not go away.

And even though I know she is safe, and I know the end of the story, and I know this is God’s will, I weep.

I weep because she is gone.

And my Savior knows. He understands each heartache and every longing. He is acquainted with this merry-go-round of grief.

Even here, He finds me.

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Hebrews 4:15









My teenagers are almost finished with spring soccer games. It’s been a hard season for them in many ways, but it’s been good for them to play. It’s been good to be outside, to work hard, to let grief energize.

Sometimes it’s just good to run fast.

There’s a rhythm to the game that is joyful to watch. At the beginning of the season, they were out of shape and out of sync with their teammates. But now they know each other and work well together. Some games are full of synchronized vitality, and the rhythm of the game is a thing of beauty.

Life hums along with its springtime rhythms. The sun is rising earlier and there is more light. More color. More beauty. The daily rhythm is a comfort, and some days I can slip into it without much effort.

But some days I cannot find this new rhythm. Some days I resist it.

I think about how God put rhythm in every part of creation–the tide, the moon, the seasons, the living. How every day is different and yet the same.

And how He made us to long for both.

In many ways, my days are the same as they always were. In many ways, I am the same. Yet all is different. All is changed. The empty chair and the lingering memory of death’s shadow changes everything.

But God is there. He provides a surrounding rhythm, and the pulse of life stays steady. He provides goodness in this land of living and a continual call to look upward.

I wonder about the rhythms of heaven. The Bible tells us that there is no night there, and so I wonder about the meter of days. I’m certain there is a pleasing hum to glory-living, a beautiful pattern of time-less being.

And no darkness. No pain. No sadness. A perfect balance of peaceful light.

The beauty of rhythm is the returning pattern. With every change, you work to find the new rhythm. The pattern sings to you like the breaking of day, reminding you of order and beauty and the goodness of God.

Eventually you do not resist the returning meter of the song.

Eventually the rhythm hums inside of you–a thing of beauty.

For His anger is but for a moment, His favor is for a lifetime; Weeping may last for the night, but a shout of joy comes in the morning. Psalm 30:5

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










It’s meant to be hard

I find myself reaching back for before-cancer memories. The joyful skipping on the easy path before sorrow hitched a ride like a too-heavy backpack.

I always thought I would write funny stories. I thought that maybe someday when life slowed down I would write about the hilarity of life with nine children. I thought I might capture some of the joyful beauty of chaotic, noisy days.

My story–I thought it would be different than this.

Marissa thought her story would be different, too. Even after her cancer diagnosis, she thought God would heal her and use her journey. She had plans to help people struggling with physical needs. She had a list of people she wanted to bless with gifts of encouragements. She wanted to go back to teaching her preschool children with new purpose. She was always pushing through until she could get a bit of good news, until she could move on with the rest of her story.

I remember the day we found out the cancer had spread to her liver, and she understood it would be the thing that took her life. She understood that hers would be a dramatic short story instead of a long and lovely novel.

She understood that she would not be walking out of the valley.

She wept with sorrow, and there was this grievous knowing. No going back to the easy path. No normal life events or length of days. No escape from the battle.

I think she would want you to know that she struggled. That in those last weeks when things just kept spiraling downward, she was sad. She was in pain. She was weary.

As it turns out, she was right then dying, and none of us really knew.

And it was hard. It was hard because it was meant to be hard.

The curse of sin and all of its leading-to-death ramifications–it is grievous to God and impossible for us. Without the sin-bearer, God’s Son, we would be crushed and destroyed.

Dying is hard. This grieving–it is harder than I thought. And sometimes living is just very hard.

Our hard is meant to be hard. It is meant to be a glorious, eternal work. It is meant to establish us and grow us and make us like the Son of God!

And how could that be easy?

We can do the hard thing He’s called us to do. We are right now doing it, and with His help we can finish it. Farther along we’ll know all about it. Someday soon we’ll look back and marvel at the grace and recount the blessings of the story.

Someday soon all the hard will be done. We’ll see His face.

Let the risen Savior lift your weary head. Don’t be discouraged with this dusty, treacherous path. Look to the One Who leads you on. The One Who will shepherd you and carry you when you stumble. The One Who knows the way.

It’s meant to be hard.

It’s meant to lead you on to glory. It’s meant to make you like the Son of God.

And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit. 2 Corinthians 3:18

And we know that God works all things together for the good of those who love Him, who are called according to His purpose. For those God foreknew, He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son. Romans 8:28,29 



A time to mourn

Sometimes in the dark stillness, I can feel my heart beating fast, remembering. And how can it be that the remembering hurts so much?

I am finding that memories can heal, but they also bruise. Some days I am drawn to remember like a moth to flame–no matter that my wings begin to wilt as I draw nearer. I look at pictures, and there are never enough of them or enough of her in them. I sort through her things–a note saved from her daddy, a pressed flower, a ticket stub. And they seem so inadequate. As useless as my words to describe her life.

Not enough. A constant ache that feels like there is not enough.

I suppose that is where grief takes us. To a place where there is not enough of her and the knowing that we will not get more. No more pictures, no more phone calls, no more sweet reunions. No more of her in this life where we thought she would walk beside us, where we thought there would always be more.

New layers of sorrow uncovered every day.

Severe storms are heading into our area this afternoon. You can smell rain and some fear in the air. There is no predicting them–who they will impact or what they will damage. There is just this waiting. And for those who have been touched before, fear.

I can feel this vulnerability now. As if my storms have taught me that I need to be afraid. But fear is not a good predictor of outcome. Fear only keeps you from moving forward, and it stifles the gift of joy.

Better, far, to remember safety. To remember all the times you have been spared. To remember the fiercest storm with the perspective of experience.

I am always surprised by the joy that reaches me.  A joy that springs up from the deepest place and catches me even here. And isn’t that the paradox of the Christian life? We are called to rest and a cross. Called to joy and to suffering. Called to healing and to pain, to peace and a battle.

And a season for all of it.

So I will mourn in this season of mourning. I will cry with the sadness of missing my girl, and I will always feel the ache of not enough.

But I will remember that He was there in the storm. I will remember His words and His promises. I will remember Him lifting my head and the deep joy untouched by sorrow. I will cling to eternity in my heart, the hope of it and the realization of it. I will not let fear cripple me.

I will remember the Creator of the storms.

I will remember that in this world of not enough, He is.

He is enough.

But You, O LORD, are a shield about me, My glory, and the One who lifts my head. Psalm 3:3

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance. Ecclesiastes 3:1, 2, 4














A thousand good-byes

Grief is a winding path. It is not just one good-bye but rather a thousand good-byes. That first crashing wave just keeps lapping against the sand.

It’s not just good-bye to breath, good-bye to warmth. It’s good-bye to all the would-have-beens. Good-bye to morning greetings and good-night hugs. Good-bye to shopping trips and coffee dates. Good-bye to wedding plans and babies and laughing together. Good-bye to birthdays and conversations and long walks. Good-bye to living and loving and sharing.

Good-bye to her smile, her zeal, her joy. Her friendship. Her love. Her presence.

Grief is a thousand good-byes.

I keep remembering the hellos. Oh, the joy of saying hello to her.

Hello, heartbeat. Hello, miracle. Hello, curly-headed sunshine.

Hello, exuberant child. Hello, funny and energetic teenager. Hello, beautiful and gifted woman.

Hello, warrior. Hello, lover of God. Hello, faith hero.

Grief is the ending of hellos. That is what takes your breath away, and that is what hurts your heart.

So many good-byes. No more hellos.

Our family is reading a book about heaven together. It is like a whole new realm that I have never really thought about. It is comforting in ways I cannot tell. There is a fullness added to life, and the circle comes together finally. The journey’s end–how I begin to long for it. How I begin to joyfully consider what is ours in Christ.

How I long to know the tender heart of the One who loves so well and prepares such a place. The One who gave His life so that we could go there and be with Him forever.

The One who is our eternal refuge. The One who holds Marissa safe.

Safe in the place where all our good-byes will someday be turned back to hello.

For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come. Hebrews 13:14

And He who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Revelation 21:5

Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Romans 5:1-2












Back to the little things

I went running this morning, and it has been awhile. Awhile since I could leave the house, awhile since I could justify the heavy breath of exertion when my sweet girl was struggling with her shallow breaths.

It has been awhile since normal.

My children are going back to work, back to school, and I am going back to laundry and meal plans and catching up. Catching up with this new normal that we never wanted and don’t want now.

I am completely amazed at the grace that has abounded. Grace for choosing burial clothes and a final resting place.  Grace for seeing pieces of Marissa’s life all around. Grace for getting up and moving through each day.

Grace for walking the path of last things.

And now grace for stepping into new.

I would be so lost if I were not already found. I would be so lost without Jesus.

Early in our journey, our pastor encouraged us to think of this road as our assignment from God. There were so many times I remembered that when I felt I could not do the new thing ahead.

If God gives me something to do, He does enable. If He sends me down a difficult path, He does strengthen.

He will most assuredly see me through.

Marissa finished her assignment well because He saw her through.

We are encouraging our children to be brave in this new assignment. To allow sadness and heartache to do its work, but to keep walking in this appointed path.

This appointed path of small things.

The walk of faith is mostly small steps. It’s mostly mundane. It’s getting up each day and choosing to walk the pilgrim way. We can’t see too far ahead, and we’re not supposed to.

Our steps would falter if we saw the miles ahead, the sometimes weary road. Our steps would falter if we saw the mountains we would climb or the valleys we would walk through.

We might shrink back from leaping over chasms deep.

But we can take the small steps of today. We can walk by faith today. We can do our assignment for today–the grieving, the loving, the every-day living.

All the little things that make up a life, that lead us on to glory.

We can be faithful to God in all the little things of today.

He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? Micah 6:8























The battle won

And so it was that at 9:55 p.m. on March 6, 2017, Marissa Alice Bundy, brave warrior princess, put down her sword and crossed over into glory to meet her Savior face to face.

I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget the battle or the bravery or the ending. I want to remember every part of the story–from first to final breath.

Marissa’s pain had increased day by day, and her knees began to buckle when she walked. We were supposed to head to Duke for scans on Tuesday and a visit with the oncologist on Wednesday. But when I explained her new symptoms, her doctor admitted her directly to the hospital to determine the cause of her loss of mobility. By the time we got there, she could barely walk even with assistance.

They thought perhaps a tumor was pressing on her spine, so they did a few tests. One painful test, a lumbar puncture, was done to test the fluid in the spine. On Wednesday she had been scheduled to see her doctor and begin a new immunotherapy drug. But instead we waited in the hospital for test results. Her pain increased and she lost more of her mobility while we waited.

On Thursday morning, her oncologist came into her room with the results. She’s brilliant and she’s tough, but she cried when she told us that the cancer was in her spinal fluid, the most difficult cancer to treat. Since Marissa’s cancer was in so many other places, we were out of options.

Marissa asked the doctor how long she would have and the answer was weeks at best. I watched her face. I expected sadness and even despair, but what I saw was relief. She told me later her first emotion was peace, and I could see a determination to finish her fight well. She spoke with joy of heaven. We talked about the most important things she wanted to do before she took that journey.

She wanted to marry Daniel. She wanted to see her Grandma. She wanted to sort through all of her things and give them away to people she loved. She wanted to say good-bye.

The rest of the day was spent trying to get her pain managed for going home. They contacted hospice to meet us there, and we headed out. By the time we got home, she was sleeping almost all the time. She could respond to some questions, but not really talk.

She was surrounded by love. I will never forget the tenderness of her brothers helping her into her hospital bed or her sisters giving her sips of water. Or of Daniel, faithful and sweet, continually encouraging her.

She rallied some for some family visitors on Sunday, but mostly she was fading away. On Sunday night, Daniel placed a beautiful ring on her left hand.

Through the night she had some agitation, and the nurse came early Monday morning to increase her pain pump. On the day of her home-going, we gathered around her. We sang to her. We prayed for her. We told stories. We read God’s words to her. Over and over, we called out: “We love you, Rissa! We are so proud of you! You have finished your race!” We talked of heaven and her Savior. We told her it was okay to stop fighting, to let go.

As her breathing became more labored, we increased our encouragements. We took turns expressing our love and thankfulness for her. We urged her on.

I felt the intensity of God’s reality and the secure hope of His salvation.

Eventually her breath became more shallow and we gathered closer. Daniel moved to the head of the bed and kissed her head. And finally she relaxed.

Finally, she was free.

And grief was there. It gripped us all. Father, mother, sister, brother, beloved one–we sobbed. We wept. We sorrowed deep.

Oh, the pain of missing her. Oh, the ache that fills our hearts.

But there is joy. There is goodness. There is light.

There is even beauty in this darkest night.

Because of the Lamb! The Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world! She is with Him now in glory, forever with her Lord. She fell asleep in pain and woke in glory!

Her battle is won!

She’s safely home in the arms of Jesus.






Gentle Shepherd

Dear Shepherd, lead us.

This is a path we do not know.

And we can feel ourselves falling, stumbling, reeling, letting go.

Walking over shards of glass that cut more deeply as we slow.

Dear Shepherd, lead us.

We cannot see the light.

And fear surrounds this secret place of dark. This blackest night.

Dear Shepherd, lead us.

This path is Yours. Don’t let us lose the way.

The storm is fierce and we are bowed so low beneath its battering sway.

And would you carry the little ones?

The weak ones and the ones who fall?

The saddest hearts and those whose pain has crippled them?

The weary, worn? The small?

Dear Shepherd, lead us.

Lead us on.

On to peace and the arms of God.

On to light and green pastures and forever rest.

Lead us to morning. Lead us to joy.

Heal our hearts and hold them fast.

Be our God. Be our Shepherd. Be our Savior.

Gently lead us. Lead us home.

He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young. Isaiah 40:11

He knows what is in the darkness, and the light dwells with him. Daniel 2:22






When the story gets sad

Marissa is sleeping across from me in the hospital bed. She has been running a low-grade fever in the evenings for a few days with increased shortness of breath, so her oncologist wanted her evaluated to rule out an infection or lung embolism. We spent 19 hours in the emergency room–they ran a bunch of tests and then we waited for a room upstairs so they could admit her overnight.

So it was in the middle of a darkened ER room when we were already so weary from waiting that we heard the numbing news. Marissa’s cancer has spread. More in her liver, and now in her lung and bones. Spine and sternum and ribs.

The trial drug has failed to halt the progression. There is no miracle today.

When the doctor left, I climbed up on the stretcher and we sat quietly. Still so numb. Numb, but aware that this is one of the saddest pages in the story.

When I was younger, I loved to read stories that made me cry. Age taught me that sadness is real, and now I hesitate. I protect myself from sadness.

And yet it has followed me. It has found me.

I would despair if I did not know the Storyteller.

I would  despair if I did not have the promise of His strong and sympathetic arms to carry us. The promise of His covenant love to sustain us. The knowledge of His almighty power. The assurance of His comforting presence.

I would despair if I did not know the end of the story.

Do not fear, for I am with you; Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you; surely I will help you; surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10

Your righteousness, O God, reaches the high heavens. You who have done great things, O God, who is like you? You who have made me see many troubles and calamities will revive me again; from the depths of the earth you will bring me up again. Psalm 71:19,20