Scarred

It was circa 1992.

I was just a wee little munchkin of 4 or 5, and it was an evening where my family was due to be at church.

I whined and fussed that I didn't want to go because I didn't feel very good.  Instead of going to the nursery that evening, my parents brought me along with them to their class.

I kicked and squirmed on my mom's lap.  And by golly, why did this little area on the right side of my stomach itch so badly?

When my older sister rejoined us in the car for our ride home, she announced that she, too, felt horrible and couldn't stop scratching.

Thus began our two-week adventure with--what else?--chickenpox.

We have pictures of how our bodies were covered from head to toe in itchy red dots.  We played Old Maid and took at least one oatmeal bath a day.

As I got older and ventured into the realm of nursing school, I had to have documentation that I had either had or been immunized against various childhood diseases--mumps, measles, rubella...and of course, chickenpox.

Chickenpox was the only thing I had actually been infected with, not immunized against, and it took much effort and digging through old medical records to find when I had actually had them.

As I waited for the paperwork to come back from my pediatrician's office, I sat in my dorm one evening and inspected the area on the right side of my stomach where my itchy pox had begun.

You know what?

It's the only place on my entire body where there's still a mark.  From my very first chickenpox that appeared.

Hah, I thought.  Why do I need paperwork anyway?  I had the chickenpox.  I have the scar to prove it.

There's a much larger mark that appears on my right cheek--at least an inch or so long.  It caves in like a little ravine and rebels slightly when I try to cover it with powder.

It's a mark from the large cyst that adorned my face when I was 14 years old.  I suffered with it for eight months, enduring whispers, snickers, corticosteroid injections, and a long round of Accutane.

It was a painful time in my life, when everything around me told me that beauty consisted of perfect looks and popularity.

I had a cyst.  I have the scar to prove it.

Last year, our two painful losses left indelible marks on my heart.  These hurts on our hearts are the most difficult kinds of scars, aren't they?  No one else can see them, but they often mark a wound that ran much deeper than an everyday abrasion.

Just as the sight of my tangible scars on my stomach and my cheek remind me that I'm not invincible, that I'm not perfect, that I'm capable of experiencing pain, the marks left on my heart remind me daily through this pregnancy that something could happen.  Something did happen.  Twice.

I had two miscarriages.  I have the scars to prove it.

As the Lord laid this topic on my heart, I decided to do a little research to refresh my memory on the physiology of wound healing.

I looked at many sites, and although I know that Wikipedia tends to be lower on the totem pole for gathering information, I found that some of its phrases were worded perfectly enough to get my neurons surging.

Of scars, the site reads:

"A scar results from the biological process of wound repair in the skin and other tissues of the body.  Thus, scarring is a natural part of the healing process.  With the exception of very minor lesions, every wound results in some degree of scarring (para. 1)."

The site goes on to say that scar tissue is comprised of the same material as normal skin, but it forms in a different manner, one that is of lesser quality than regular skin (para. 2).  [Info taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scar]

Scars are often deemed ugly.  They refuse to blend in with the rest of the skin, standing proudly to remind you--and perhaps everyone else--of the pain that has occurred.  And according to the information above, it doesn't even function as well as it used to!

How could it?  It's damaged.

But scars are necessary to heal.

A long, long time ago, a man by the name of Jesus was battered, beaten, and pierced for the wounds we inflict on ourselves, on others, on the Lord Himself.

He was the ultimate sacrifice for everything we do wrong.  Sweet friend, he died for you.

And when he rose on the third day, his body was so beautiful, so glowing, that many assumed he was an angel sent by God.

Death could not hold him!  He had risen!  He was healed!

But as beautiful and perfect as his body now was, his scars on his hands, feet, and sides remained.

Isn't it interesting?

God is perfect and all powerful.  He could have erased any sign of pain and affliction from the risen body of His Son.  But He didn't.

Oh, friends, whatever scars mar your body or your heart, know that they aren't kept around to keep you down.  They aren't meant to remind you of the pain.

They are meant to remind you that you are healed.

Praise God, I am.  Are you?

He knew that scars were necessary for healing.  He did the hard part.  He did the suffering.  All you have to do is run to Him.  And you, too, can experience what it's like to have a heart that is whole, that is surrendered, that is healed.

He paid the price.

He loves you.

He has the scars to prove it.

"From now on, don't let anyone trouble me with these things.  For I bear on my body the scars that show I belong to Jesus." ~Galatians 6:17

Like the Fragrance After the Rain

It's raining today.

There's nothing I love quite as much as a rainy day.  I haven't even gotten out of the bed, the dogs are snuggled quietly at my side, the lights are out, and I'm listening intently to the pitter-patter of the raindrops as they beat sweetly against my windows.

The only thing that could make this morning more enjoyable would be a rumble of thunder in the distance.

When I was a little girl, rain seemed to be a recurring theme in my naptime rituals.

My favorite naptime story that my mother would tell me was called "Moo-Moo the Mouse."  Moo-Moo was a little boy playing outside in the brilliant summertime weather, when his mother called him in for lunch, which often consisted of a peanut butter sandwich cut in the shape of a butterfly.  (I know, Moo-Moo wasn't too macho.  The butterfly shape was for my enjoyment, I'm sure.)  After lunch, Moo-Moo went down for a nap.  And as he laid his furry head to rest, the rain began to fall.

Slowly and quietly at first.

Pitter...patter.  Pitter...patter.

And then gaining with speed and intensity.

Pitter..patter..pitter..patter..pitter-patter, pitter-patter...

The sound effects my mom made here were my favorite part of the story.  The rain continued, lightening toward the end of his nap, until it was time for him to get up and go play outside again.

Naptime also often brought the sweet lullaby of one of my favorite hymns, "There's Just Something About That Name."  The lyrics are as follows:

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,
There's just something about that name.
Master, Savior, Jesus,
Like the fragrance after the rain.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,
Let all heaven and earth proclaim!
Kings and kingdoms will all pass away,
But there's just something about that name.
(William and Gloria Gaither, "There's Just Something About That Name")

I loved these rainy naptime rituals because the imagined rainfall proved comforting, in a way.

But outside of Moo-Moo's story and my favorite lullaby, rain was hardly something I truly enjoyed as a child.

It kept me from playing hide-and-seek.  From swimming in the neighborhood pool.  From swinging on the swing set.

It kept me cooped up inside, nose pressed against the window, wondering when the ugly gray clouds would give way to the warm sunshine.

And truth be told, I couldn't tell how the sweet name of Jesus could be compared to the "fragrance after the rain."  Have you ever gone outside after a rain shower?  It smells less than desirable.  A little like the dogs after they've rolled around in the mud.  Woof.

Even today, there are times when I resent the rain.  It keeps me from tanning by the pool.  Makes the drive to work messy.  And dirties up my car.

But, sweet friends, where are we without rain?

The grass dies.  The earth dries up.  Crops can't grow.  Having grown up in hot, humid Tennessee summers my entire life, I know that a drought turns things ugly.

And of course, when we spurn the spiritual rain that the Lord allows to water our souls, what happens?

We shrivel.  We become ugly.  We stop growing.

In May 2010, my hometown experienced a horrible flood.  It destroyed houses.  Trapped people.  Drowned people on the interstate.  Necessitated an insane amount of money for reconstructing businesses and homes.

Looking at it through our short-sighted human eyes, it ruined everything.

To raise money to help those who had lost everything, my church choir threw a benefit concert.

The title of the program came from one of the focus songs: "Bring the Rain."

When my dad (who is the minister of music at my church) first sent out the email to the choir about the "Bring the Rain" concept, he was met with avid responses, such as, "Oh, I wouldn't be asking Him for anymore rain.  That's what got us into this mess in the first place!"

My dad, who is so wise (perhaps I'm biased? I think not.), replied gently for the choristers to truly look at the lyrics to the song.  Here are the words to the chorus:

Bring me joy, bring me peace,
Bring the chance to be free,
Bring me anything that brings You glory.
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain,
But if that's what it takes to praise You,
Jesus, bring the rain.
(MercyMe, "Bring the Rain)

What a hard thing to pray.  Not only to pray for God's will, but to truly welcome seemingly destructive storms and floods.

It's taken me a long time to get to a place where this seems doable.  That doesn't mean it's become easy, by any means.  But I finally have an acute understanding of what it means to invite hardship into my comfy life.

Yes, it may keep me from the "plans" I've so diligently made for myself.  It may appear to ruin my dreams, the things I've built and the things on which I've wrongfully set my hopes.

But when you learn to relish the fragrance after the rain--not one of wet dog-- but that of an awakening of the earth and the scent of new growth, of hope and rebirth, boy, spending comfy time in the perpetual sunshine begins to seem less important.

The rain is beginning to settle outside, just as it is in this difficult chapter of my life.  But oh, how thankful I am for the rain that He sent to revive my soul; that He's trying to grow me, not destroy me. 

The sun will come out tomorrow (I know, I know, hokey, but couldn't resist), but you know what?  I'm not afraid of the forecast, of the rain that I know will come again.

Please, friends.  Try learning to embrace the rain for the growth it will bring.  Learn to love it, to cherish it.

You won't regret it.

If that's what it takes to praise you, Jesus, bring the rain.

From East to West

Distance from east to west across the state of Tennessee: 440 miles.

Distance from east to west across the continental United States: approximately 3,148 miles.

Distance from east to west across Earth (diameter): approximately 8,000 miles.

Distance from east to west from the sun to Pluto (yes, I still count Pluto as part of the solar system): 5,906,376,272 kilometers.

Distance from east to west across the Milky Way: approximately 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 kilometers.

Distance from east to west across the visible universe: approximately 28 billion light years (one light year = 9,500,000,000,000 kilometers).

****

Temptation is hard to resist, isn't it?

Think back to a time (perhaps it was recently, perhaps not) when you did something you weren't supposed to.  Maybe you took something that wasn't yours.  Said something ugly.  Looked at something you shouldn't have.

Think of how you felt just before you did it.  The appeal was so lovely, wasn't it?  It drew you in like a magnet, grabbed onto your thoughts and wouldn't let go.  If only......if only I could......

The force was just too much, and even though you knew, you knew it wasn't right, you did it anyway.

As a kid, I had an overly sensitive conscience.  I rarely got into trouble, but I had a habit of dwelling on situations and feeling guilty about them.

What if I didn't deserve the good grade I got?

What if I unintentionally hurt that person by what I said?

One time I even told a teacher to mark down a good grade I had gotten on a test because I told her I had accidentally looked at someone else's paper.  I hadn't seen any answers, but it made me feel like I had cheated, and I couldn't live with not having some sort of punishment for it.

Each week, there was something new that I obsessed about in my thought life.  Feeling guilty.  Feeling like I ought to be punished.  Feeling like I didn't deserve to be forgiven.

My mother noticed how preoccupied I had gotten with these sorts of things, and she pulled me out of my room one sunny afternoon to watch a Beth Moore video with her.  The video accompanied a Bible study my mom was doing at the time about the life of David.  I was quickly enamored with Beth's vivacious personality and engaging speaking style. 

She began to talk about David's sin of lusting after Bathsheba.  Which led to adultery.  Which led to lies.  Which led to murder.

David was looking pretty bad.  And yet, Beth said, when he finally repented--truly repented--God forgave him.  He forgave him.  Yes, his actions still had consequences (the baby he conceived with Bathsheba died), but the beautiful thing is that once God forgave him, that was it.  He didn't hold it against him.

And you know what else?  God even called David a man after His own heart! 

Really?  A liar?  An adulterer?  A murderer?  You've got to be kidding!

But it's true!  If we're ready to come back to Him, He's ready to take us back.  And He loves us no less.

Looking back, I really don't think I had done anything truly wrong in those instances that I mulled over as a kid (I know that those thoughts weren't healthy, and I no longer have those).  But there have certainly been times in my life where I have committed a sin...and even though I knew it was wrong, I did it anyway.  And I kept doing it. 

Gossip.  Destructive speech.  Arrogance.  Judging others.

And time and time again, the Holy Spirit will prick my heart and remind me that I really shouldn't be doing it.  And when I fall to my knees in repentance, I don't have to fear that He'll cross His arms and turn a cold shoulder to me.

Quite the opposite!

Listen to the glorious words of Psalm 103: 8-10, 12:

The Lord is compassionate and gracious,
slow to anger and full of faithful love.
He will not always accuse us
or be angry forever.
He has not dealt with us as our sins deserve
or repaid us according to our offenses.

As far as the east is from the west,
so far has He removed our transgressions from us.

Is there something you've done that you feel terrible about?  Stop waiting for your punishment and start looking for His grace.

He isn't waiting to tell you that He told you so.  He isn't waiting to make you feel like the lowest of the low.  He died for you so that you wouldn't have to feel that way.

He loves you.  And He misses you when you're gone.

And all this brings me back to one more distance...

****

Distance east to west from you and your forgiven sin: "one scarred hand to the other."
(Casting Crowns, "East to West")

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."  ~ 1 John 1:9

When I Am Weak

There are many things I can't do.

I can't whistle.

I can't sing a solo.

I can't play the violin.

As a kid in elementary school, it became quickly evident that I can't do anything athletic.  Well, I can't do it well.

I was always a good student, save for PE class.  It wasn't that I didn't try--I had tried and failed miserably in the past, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I was no good at sports.  I brought up the rear when running the mile.  If I was placed on the chin-up bar, I would dangle there sheepishly until the coach yelled at me and told me to get down.  It was especially embarrassing if we had to announce to the teacher in front of the whole grade how many push-ups we had done in a one-minute time span.

It would go something like this...

****
"Jones?"

"27!"

"Awesome.  McDonald?"

"30!"

"Fantastic!  Smith?"

Silence.

"[Clears throat.] Smith?"

"[Quietly] Um, 3."

****

Every year in PE class, we did a series of athletic activities--push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups, sit-and-reach, races--and if our results were within certain ranges, we got a patch representing which level we had reached.  The blue was the best patch, red second best.  I always qualified for the ugly banana yellow patch (which, basically, I could have done zero of everything and gotten that).  I never bothered to pay money to have a stitched reminder that I was only good enough for last place.

I coveted the red and blue patches.  It wasn't that they were prettier or more expensive.  But it meant that the owner was capable.  Better.  Strong.

One of my last years in PE, I decided I wasn't going to let anything stop me from getting a red patch (let's face it: the blue was out of the question).  With every event, I put my heart and soul into it.  I reached farther; got stronger; ran faster.

I was on the cusp of a red patch when I came to my final event--the relay race.  I was placed on a team with three of my classmates.  We were spaced evenly around the track and instructed to run with a baton and hand it off once we got to the next runner.

As luck would have it, I was the last runner, and it was up to me to get across the finish line within a certain time.

My red patch depended on it.

Thankfully, my teammates were all fast runners.  I watched in awe as they rocketed lickety-split around the corners of the track.  Their legs were moving so fast that my eyes couldn't keep up.

And then it was time.  It was my turn.

As the stopwatch continued to count the seconds, the cold metal of the baton was placed deliberately in my nervous hand.  My feet left their starting spot as fast as they could, but my opponents began to pull ahead, despite my head start.

My teacher, who knew how desperately I wanted that red patch, yelled cheers of encouragement my way as I began to look winded.

The seconds ticked.  My feet were slowing down.

The red patch was slipping through my fingers.

Suddenly, I saw my teacher running toward me.  Soon, she was next to me, running with me.

"You've got to move faster," she shouted.  "You're so close.  You're so close!"

I shook my head and hung it in disappointment.  I just couldn't do it.  I just wasn't fast enough.

It was at that moment that my teacher grabbed my hand.  She ran ahead of me, and the force of her grip and speed caused my feet to accelerate.  The breeze picked up in my ponytail, and for the first time, my sluggish feet finally felt what it was like to run fast.  She pulled me the rest of the way, and I crossed the finish line at the last second.

Because of my teacher, I could do it.  Because of her, I got my first and only red patch.

It's hard to admit when I'm weak, when I can't do something on my own.  I don't enjoy asking people for help because I feel like I should be able to do it myself.  Being independent means I'm capable.  Dependence on others makes me feel like I'm incapable, lousy, and a failure.

But you know what?  The Bible doesn't just tell us to accept our weaknesses.  It tells us to boast in them!  That sounds strange, doesn't it?  Can you imagine some skinny, pale guy high-fiving his way through a gym as he shouts, "Guess what!  I'm a weakling!  Isn't that awesome?!"

It sounds ridiculous, but our weaknesses are important.  They're vital.

There's a beautiful thread throughout the Bible of God using the weak.  Think about it...

Moses was a horrible public speaker and even suffered from a speech problem...
   Yet God used his lips to tell Pharaoh to let his people go...

David was several feet shorter than Goliath and too small for a decent suit of armor...
   Yet God used David's hand and a single stone to fell a mighty warrior...

Sarah's womb was barren...
   Yet God used her and Abraham to parent a multitude of nations, even after the age of 100...

It doesn't matter what you can and can't do--don't tell God that He can't use you!

The most beautiful part of our weaknesses is that the holes in our abilities let His strength shine through.  When we aren't able to do it alone, the story stops being about us and becomes magnificently about Him.  It becomes about how He can conquer, how He can overcome, how He can effect change.

If you were strong and great at everything, you wouldn't look to Him.  If we were all perfect, it would eliminate the need for a Savior.

You can't, but He can.

If you will only be willing to be a part of His plan, of His great story, He can use you.

Your speech may not be the most eloquent...but He can speak through you.

Your strength may be dwindling...but He can direct the aim and the force of the stone.

Your feet may be slowing, and as the timer ticks, the finish line may seem a million miles away...but He can pull you through.

Quit shaking your head in discouragement.  He's got your hand.  He's got this.

Take His hand, and run like the wind.

"That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties.  For when I am weak, then I am strong."  ~ 2 Corinthians 12:10

Another Brick in the Wall

Because my grandfather was a magician (yes, you read that correctly), my sister and I used to be major fans of David Copperfield when we were growing up.  We still have a number of VHS tapes (remember those?!) with recorded specials on them, and to identify which is which, each has a strip of tape with a written description of each special's most memorable trick.  Among some of my favorites...

1.  "Niagra Falls."  David is strapped inside a buoyant container that is sent adrift toward (what else?) Niagra Falls.  Mysteriously, he emerges from a flying helicopter soaking wet seconds after the container--which we all believed still had him in it--has tumbled mercilessly over the edge.

2.  "The Dozen-Piece Trick."  David cuts one of his dancers into a dozen pieces and puts her back together, all while rocking out to some awesome 80s tunes in his tapered, acid-washed jeans.

3.  "Fires of Passion."  David hangs upside down in a straightjacket in an amphitheatre in Caesar's Palace, dangling over flaming twelve-inch spikes.  Magically, you watch as he unbinds himself and swings to safety minutes before the rope he's attached to falls into the flames.

For some reason, as a kid, my favorite trick and oft requested special to watch was what I had dubbed "The Exploding 'X.'"  In this trick, David is trapped in a safe inside an abadoned building; he must escape and reemerge under a tarp marked with an "X" just yards away, all while the building explodes.

I think what was most fascinating to me was the way the building went down.  No wrecking ball.  No flames.  All they used was one button--one measley little button--and with the touch of it, the building--solid and massive as it was--literally crumbled into dust.

I think of how much effort must have gone into the construction of the building that was frivolously brought to its knees.  I can remember last year, as we watched the builders fashion together our tiny home, how intricate the work could be--packing the foundation into a solid sheet of rock; steadying the wood to create the frame; carefully laying brick after brick to help the structure stand, to keep it strong, to make it work.

It took effort.  It took time.  It took some mighty dedicated builders.

It's the same with the Christian walk, isn't it?  Before a sound and useful structure (i.e. Christian) can exist, it must start with a solid Rock-like foundation (the Lord) and a supporting framework (a basic knowledge and understanding of the Word, what God has done for us, and the concept of salvation).  Bells and whistles like paint color, furniture, and fancy fixtures (fruit of the Spirit, characteristics reflective of Christ) follow as the spiritual walk matures and gains depth.

But the bricks. The first line of defense.  A support and protection of the inner workings of the structure. 

Where do they come from?

I like to think of the bricks as encouragement and support from other believers.  There's nothing quite like community and solid fellowship.  They can help build one another up, and they can help provide strength against stromy attacks of the Enemy.

The more we encourage each other, the more bricks we have laid.  The more bricks we have laid, the stronger we get.

But what happens when our motives, our words, and our choices far from build others up?

Years ago, when I was merely a teenager, I developed an enormous cyst on my right cheek (I have the scar to prove it).  What started as a fairly small bump grew and grew until it took over half my cheek.  It was purple.  Ugly.  And very hard to cover up.

My dermatologist told me it was the biggest one she had ever seen at the time.  Score.

It made me insanely insecure.  We tried treatment after treatment, ointment after ointment, shot after shot, and there it continued to sit, plaguing my face.  One boy even asked if "that mark on my face" was because somebody was beating me up at home (no, but thanks for asking).  Really, I did my absolute best to put it out of my head and not let it get to me.

My sweet friends at the time assured me often that "it wasn't a big deal," "it wasn't as noticeable as you think," and "it doesn't really matter."  I believed them and drew a sense of strength and confidence from their steadfast encouragement.

But I'll never forget the day someone decided to hurl a wrecking ball.

A boy who had shown interest in me at the time was talking to me before Sunday School one morning, and in the midst of our conversation, he looked intensely at my right cheek.  I had completely forgotten about it until I felt his disgusted stare burning a hole through my face.

Snidely, he remarked, "You know, you don't have enough makeup on your face to cover that thing up."

Growing hot with humiliation, I turned my flushed countenance from his view and attempted to blink away the tears that now clouded my vision.  I walked away immediately, feeling ugly and horrible to look at, and I vowed from that moment on to make sure I always had enough makeup on to cover my flaws.

I can't recall a specific person or a specific bit of encouragement during that time; but I can recall the time, place, person, and words that involved an acute crumbling of my self-esteem.

No matter the multitude of positive things people may say, the few negative things tend to leech onto the soul.

You see, it takes a great deal of effort, time, and builders to make a structure strong; but all it takes is one button to detonate it--and all the bricks, the encouragement, and the strength can come crumbling to their knees.

So, ask yourself: what kind of person are you?

Do you seek to bring encouragement to others, to build them up?  Are you a bricklayer?

Or are you a detonator?

Putting all of my feelings out there in the open for a number of people to see (and I'm perfectly aware that I am doing this) has certainly left me vulnerable to some detonation; some comments have really gotten me down.

But thankfully, the Lord has blessed me with a number of bricklayers.  Just when I so very needed it, a sweet co-worker of mine approached me the other day and, completely unsolicited, told me, "I just wanted to let you know that I can tell you're getting better.  I can really tell.  I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem...lighter.  Anyway, I just thought you should know."

She couldn't possibly have known how much my soul needed to hear those words.  I lavished her with a million thanks and told her how much it meant to me to have that encouragement.

Though some of my structure had crumbled, she chose to start laying new bricks.  And for that, sweet lady, I offer you my sincere, heartfelt gratitude.  Bless you.

I'm not asking for you to be my bricklayers by any means; and I'm just as guilty of being a detonator as the next person.  But please, friends, be mindful that even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant words can bring a person to her knees.  The things you say have power.

It's up to you how you will use them.

I know, it takes time and effort and a great deal of dedication, but help the Architect complete His designs.  You don't have to do it all yourself, but do one.  Just one.

Lay a brick.

"Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing."  ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:11

The Suspense Is Killing Me....

I used to love the show Full House.  I've for certain seen every episode at least three times. Every afternoon at 3:00 pm, my rear end was parked on a sofa cushion and ready to listen to the theme song...

"Whatever happened to predictability
The milk man, the paper boy, the evening TV,
You miss your old familiar friends, but
Waiting just around the bend...

Everywhere you look,
Everywhere there's a heart (there's a heart)
A hand to hold onto
Everywhere you look
Everywhere there's a face
Of somebody who needs you

When you're lost out there and you're all alone
A light is waiting to carry you home
Everywhere you look."

Ahhh.  The good ol' days. 

I remember there was an episode where Uncle Jesse was preparing to go to a cocktail party with his fiance Becky, and he was intimidated by all of the "smart people" who were sure to be attending.  To give his intelligence (and ego) a boost, he gathers a multitude of literature and begins to "read."

In order to get through all of them in the short amount of time he has, he vows to read the first and last sentence of each book.

Picking up A Tale of Two Cities, he reads aloud, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."  Flipping to the last page, he recites, "It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done."

He chuckles and remarks flatly, "Wow.  Surprise ending."  The laughtrack is cued and they go about solving their problems in the half hour allotted.

It wasn't until I got to my senior English class and actually read the book that I realized how ironic this part of the show was because it is, in fact, a surprise ending (and a tearjerker, I might add).

But of course he didn't get that from reading two sentences in the book.  How could he understand?  He had completely bypassed the story.

My family is awful about trying to guess endings to movies and television shows.  As soon as we hear that there's a "surprise" or a "twist," my mom especially picks through her brain and announces her guesses to the rest of the viewing party before the opening credits have begun to roll...

"She's gonna get together with him."

"He's gonna die."

"He's already dead."

My dad will groan and moan and tell her to quit guessing because it ruins the suspense.  When, inevitably, one of her theories proves true, she sits back in her chair with a satisfied grin and says, "I knew it."

Isn't it that way when we try to guess what the future will hold?

People visit fortune-tellers, read tarot cards, shake a magic 8-ball because the suspense is killing them.  They want to be prepared for what's coming.  They want to know what's coming.

But...what if you could know the future?  What if you could read the last sentence of the book that is your life?  Would you be content?  Would it ruin the surprise?

Or, like Uncle Jesse, would you even understand it?

For almost a year now, I've been stuck in a chapter of my life that I've been praying will end.  Now.  Now.  Now.  Page turn after page turn, and the main character continues to be deeply flawed and stuck at a fork in the road between bitterness and acceptance.

Frankly, I would love nothing more than to flip to the end of the chapter to see what happens.  Where will I go?  What will I do?  Who will I become?

How will all of this resolve?

And wouldn't you know it?  After patiently waiting to find some redeeming quality to the story, well, by golly, here comes a twist...

I've written at length about how difficult it has been to watch the pregnant women in my life as they grow and plan for their upcoming ventures as new moms.  One in particular was extremely hard for me to accept.  It was horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing, and it left me with an unfortunate bitterness that persisted for most of her pregnancy.  I'm not proud of it.  But there was so much anger, so much resentment, so much yuck that went into it that my heart could barely handle the sting.

Only my mother and my husband truly know the depth of pain that I felt throughout her pregnancy.

It wasn't until a week or two before her due date that we actually opened up to this couple, aired our dirty laundry, and came together with empathy, understanding, and true fellowship.  The meeting that we shared was divine in nature and just what I needed.

And wouldn't you know it...

As the Lord would have it, I got to be there with them the day their baby was born.  I got to watch them become parents, the excitement and anticipation scribbled all across their faces, their inexplicable joy when they finally saw the lovely face they had waited months for.

And I was the first to hold.

There's so much I wish I could share but won't for certain reasons, but I just kept thinking, Wow.  I could never have dreamt up this part of the story.  I could never have imagined it.

You know why?

Because He's such a good storyteller.  And if we will be patient enough to sit and listen, instead of interrupting him constantly to try and figure out the ending, we can revel in, marvel at, and truly appreciate the incredible stories He weaves.

I wouldn't have understood if I had looked ahead for a peek at what was to come.  But because I haven't bypassed the story, I do.  I get it.  I get it.  What seemed like horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing turned out, remarkably, to be perfect timing.

So gather in a circle, sit cross-legged, and listen closely.  I can tell, this story's going to be a good one.

And remember, no peeking...


"Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails."  ~Proverbs 19:21

Roots

I definitely don't have a green thumb.  In fact, I think my thumb shoots out poison that kills any plants within a ten-mile radius.

It's sad, really.

When we moved into our house in November, the developer was kind enough to start us out with some landscaping.  Nothing fancy, just a few shrubs, bushes, and one tree.  And they covered it in that awful Georgia pine.  If you've ever tried to plant or pull weeds in Georgia pine, you know that it's like sticking your palms in a knife drawer.  Because I'm so smart (read: ditzy), it took me a couple of times to figure out that you need to wear strong gloves when you're messing with it.

Once the weather got warmer, we decided to improve our curb appeal.  We ditched the Georgia pine for some luscious midnight black mulch, and I picked out a couple of Gerber daisies to plant along the front of the house.

A few days later, one of the Gerber daisies was missing.  Dru told me he thinks a deer ate it. (P.S., I haven't seen one deer since we moved out here.  I think he just didn't want to tell me that my poisonous non-green thumb killed it.)

Because pulling weeds became too tedious, he bought weed-killer spray, and unfortunately, he missed and sprayed all of our ground cover.  They shriveled and turned brown.  Desperate to keep something alive, I sat there on a humid Saturday afternoon and pruned every last one of those plants down to the nub, which was the only green part of them left.  The plants didn't just subsequently die, I'm pretty sure the earth opened up and swallowed them, because there were no traces of them to be found.

We really stink at gardening.

As the brutal summer heat wore on, we vowed to somewhat give up on our gardening until the fall, when things were more likely to survive.  But poor Dru couldn't stand the sight of our naked, shriveled lawn any longer, spending an afternoon at Home Depot shopping for new ground cover.

But a curious thing happened as he started planting that afternoon...

One of our little plants had decided it wasn't over yet.  Not yet.

After realizing it wasn't a weed, Dru let me know that one of our little plants had come back.  I asked him if any of the others had shown signs of returning, and he told me no.  That was the only one.

Wow.  That little plant must have some strong roots.

He thought about digging it up and planting a brand new one, but we decided that no.  It's come this far; why don't we see what it can do?

Maybe you feel like one of our plants today.  Maybe you feel like you've been sprayed to death; the heat's too much; there's no way, no reason you should keep growing.

You see others around you, just like you, and they've quit.  They gave up.

But no.  Not you.  You've got some roots.  Strong roots.  No matter how much the world tries to make sure you're stunted, well I'll be if you don't continue to stick around.

Not even just stick around.  My goodness, look how you've grown.

You may not feel it.  Maybe you aren't as grown and pretty as everyone else, but you certainly stand out.  Come on.  Keep going.  Don't give up.

Let's see what you can do.  Let's see what He can do.

"The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, He shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon.  Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God.  They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing."  ~Psalm 92:12-14

Hear Me Out...

Okay.  Deep breath.

Let's get back to basics.

This past week, it was made known to me that people have been..."talking about my blog."  Okay.  Great, I think.

No.  Not great.

Despite the excitement I had developed over the birth of this blog and how it has helped me to cope, I was told that several posts had people...concerned.

I want all of you out there who have expressed this sentiment to know this:

I.  Am.  Okay.

Really.  Really.

But I guess that some things need to be clarified before anymore posts get written.  I want those of you who read and care to hear me out and hear my heart.

Okay, here goes...

1.  Contrary to popular belief, I do not--I repeat, DO NOT--hate pregnant women.  Have you picked your jaw up off the floor yet?  I know that it seems hard to believe, but I really don't.  I love pregnancy; I think it's a beautiful God-given experience, and it's a big reason why I chose to enter the field of nursing that I did.  Because of the sheer volume of pregnant women in my life at the moment (and given my circumstances), it's tough because I so envy this beautiful God-given experience.  Gosh, it's wonderful, and I'd love to be able to join in.  But just because I write tongue-in-cheek statements or posts (see "Top Ten Reasons," if you dare), I hope that you will take them with a grain of salt.  I use humor to cope with tough things. 

And if you read a post and wonder if it's about you, there's a really good chance it isn't.  I had heard that a new mom was truly upset at a post that I had written because she felt it was about her, and it wasn't.  Sometimes, they aren't about anyone in particular at all.  There's a reason I don't use names.  Remember...there are more than twenty women in my life who are expecting.  There's a good chance you're nowhere in here. 

But really, I don't hate you.  I care about this special time in your life, even though I'm often inept at showing that.  When your baby comes, I will probably ooh and aah and coo and giggle and marvel at what a great job you did.  Be excited for yourself and don't pay my pregnancy statements any mind.

2.  Hard and heavy posts don't indicate a perpetual mindset.  When I started writing about my experience with pregnancy loss, I wasn't drawn to journal when I was having one of my better days.  I was and am still often drawn to journal when I'm having one of my hard days.  Note that "intense" posts (see "Big Boys Don't Cry" and "Crash and Burn") aren't posted every day.  I imagine that posts like these are what provoke the "concern," but I hope it comes across that even the darkest and hardest entries end with some sort of hopeful or positive note. 

I do not live in a state that calls to mind the mood of "Crash and Burn;" those feelings have actually become fewer and farther between.  There are days--can you believe it?--where I laugh my head off, dance across our bonus room, sing at the top of my lungs, smile until my cheeks hurt.  I am able to fully grieve some days and fully rejoice in my newlywed life other days.  So because I choose to share about a hard day with you does not mean that all day I have been sitting in a corner in my bedroom in the fetal position with the lights out singing Kumbaya as I cry myself to sleep.  I mean, come on.  I've only done that twice...

3.  I'm willing to be open and honest if it can help someone.  In the days after our second miscarriage, I was directed to Angie Smith's blog "Bring the Rain."  And oh my gosh, her writing was so precious to me.  I clung to her words.  I clung to her lessons, to her pain, to her hurts, to her frustration.  She got it.  She understood.  The feelings I felt no longer seemed abnormal or out of place.  And as I began to write about my own experiences, that feedback within the first day was so affirming.  I got thank you messages for writing and attempting to help others to become more aware of the pain that accompanies a struggle to have kids. 

I'm not naive enough to think that I'm everyone's cup of tea or that everyone processes or grieves the way I do.  But I hope you won't be naive enough to think that these feelings are rare.  Women have talked to me who miscarried decades ago, and they tell me how they still think of the ones they lost.  It sticks with you.  So, I will keep being open and honest about my feelings, not to please you or even to give you something juicy to read.  I'm doing it just in case there's a girl just like me out there searching for someone who gets it.  Who understands.  Who isn't afraid to talk about the hard stuff.  And I hope that somehow, some way, maybe it will be of comfort to her.

4.  I don't want to be a "fair-weather Christian."  It drives me nuts when people get what they want in life, and then they're able to talk about how wonderful the Lord is, to praise Him, to spread the news of His goodness.  It's easy to praise Him when things are easy. It's harder to praise Him when things are hard.  I want this difficult time to be a season of spiritual growth for me, and I want to learn to praise Him, even when the clouds haven't passed.  Even when it's still dark.  Even when it's pouring.  You can still praise Him when things are hard, it's just harder to do it.  I'm trying so hard to learn how to do that, and I want for you to come along the journey with me and to learn from my mistakes. 

I don't relate well to people who haven't experienced "hard stuff."  Maybe some people do, but I don't.  Growing up in church, the testimonies that stuck with me, the ones that were hard-hitting and powerful, were ones where a huge life change had occurred.  It was amazing to see someone like a former alcoholic, drug user, atheist had come to know the Lord.  The parable was called "The Prodigal Son" for a reason; no one would have cared if it was called "The Prodigal Son's Brother Who Stayed At Home And Never Did Anything Wrong Ever."  I hope that sharing this experience will help you relate to me in some way because I get it.  I get what it's like to have things not go the way you want.

But it's okay.  We're going to make it.  I can feel it.  We're going to make it out of here alive.

This is a lot, I know.  But I wanted to be able to speak from my heart and let you know that I don't want this experience to get the better of me.  My writing is how I cope, how I process, and I'm watching God use it to mold me into whatever He wants me to be.  There will probably still be days where you'll see an intense post or two, but know that I'm still okay.

Really.  Really.

And I'm hoping that now the only thing anybody's concerned about is if I actually ever sang Kumbaya in the fetal position...

2 Big Reasons To Smile

I dumped a lot of tough feelings and thoughts on you the other night, and I want to thank those of you who sent me messages of encouragement, telling me you are praying for me.  I'm so grateful for those who continue to visit the blog--it brings more encouragement than you could know when people tell me they've been reading.

Thanks to your prayers, I am feeling much better today and choosing not to dwell on the negative aspects of the moment.  All things considered, my life is pretty wonderful, and I'm thankful the Lord has blessed us as He has.

Today, I am looking at the precious things I have, two of which were snuggled next to me this morning...

They are so stinking silly and so stinking cute, and I just can't help but smile when I look at them.  So, in the spirit of choosing to smile today, I've selected some of my favorite pictures of my silly stinkers.  I hope that they will bring a smile to your face, too.

Yes, that's her tongue...we call this her "doober face."

3 reasons to smile :)

There are more pictures of Zoey because she is such a ham!

Hope everyone has a wonderful rest of the day.

Crash and Burn

Crinkling sand beneath my warm toes, I listened to the waves as they smashed against the beach.  Breathing a deep inspiration of therapeutic, salty air, I exhaled the troubles that had wound my nerves so intricately for the past several months.

Ahh.  This is the life, I thought.  Miles from frustration; ages from pain; far from worry.

It was sweltering hot, and with perspiration dripping heavily from my chlorine-soaked ponytail, I stepped lightly to refresh my feet in the ocean water.  The tide bathed and tickled my toes, and because of the brutal heat, my body begged me to venture further out for a cool dip.

The waves, which had originally lapped sweetly against my ankles, began to vigorously charge against me as I waded deeper and deeper.  As long as I could see the waves coming, I could brace myself for their strength.  But when I turned my back to the approaching tide, the force felt stronger.  Harder.

I couldn't tell where or when they'd be coming.  The deeper I got, the faster they hit.  The harder they got, the weaker I realized I was.  Some were so strong that they knocked me over.  Some knocked me under.

One.  After the other.  After the other.  Until I briefly questioned, "Will I ever regain my footing?  Will I drown here?"

I think it's only fair for those of you who have accompanied me on this journey to hear the "real stuff" that I go through in this grief.  Yes, I've been trying desperately to make lemonade from this sour season, but you know what?  It would be wrong of me to lead you to believe that every time I have a setback, my first thought is, "Well, golly gee whiz.  What valuable lesson can I learn today?"

This isn't Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.

Sometimes, I find that I can move to a place like this quickly.  But, folks, it isn't always that simple.

Exhibit A?  Let's journey to yesterday morning...

Sunday morning.  The alarm sings to let us know that it's time to get up for Sunday School.  To be honest, it's a struggle every week over whether or not we'll go.  Not because we don't love the class.

Our class roster has quickly become a list of nothing but parents and parents-to-be.  It's a fairly small, intimate class, so it's impossible to hide in the crowd, and I often find myself wedged between a rock and a hard place...or a pregnant belly and an even bigger pregnant belly.  Two of my classmates are set to deliver in the next month or so.  A third pregnancy was announced two Sundays ago.  We were one of three couples left who weren't expecting.

So let's drop a bomb, shall we?

All morning, Dru kept telling me that he had a funny feeling; like we shouldn't go that morning.  It had been a bit of a tough weekend (Saturday was my second due date, and of course we paused with grief), but I pish-poshed his concerns. For some reason, my stomach was in knots the whole ride there.

As usual, we were running a few minutes late but made it just in time for prayer requests.  My last shining hope of a non-mom-to-be eagerly raised her hand.

"I have a prayer request...and a praise..." she began.

My heart fluttered.  My fine-tuned, bitter, infertile eye scanned her for a tell-tale bump.

"We have a doctor's appointment this week..."

No, please, dear Lord, no...I feel a wave coming, but I can't see it...it's a big one...

"Because we're thirteen-and-a-half weeks expecting!"

She looked right at me when she said it.  Right.  At.  Me.  My face was numb.  I heard nothing after.  But as I looked around at my classmates, I realized I was the only wife who wasn't pregnant.

With a stupid look on my face, I sat there.  Frozen.  My ears bleeding from the news.  I carefully faced Dru and whispered, "We need to leave.  Now."  We stayed through the prayer, but as Dru gripped my hand as our leader prayed "...and bless this new life, Lord...," my body started to shake, violently rejecting the news.

We hauled tail at the sigh of an "Amen."  As quickly as we had arrived, we were out of there.  Dru started the car angrily, and we began to weave in and out of nearby neighborhoods.  He talked incessantly of shrubs and landscaping (it's become his "safe place"), and me?

I yelled.

One by one, I named them--those who had announced a pregnancy or had a baby in the last nine months.  The girls at work...our sister-in-law...our Sunday School classmates...this girl from Facebook...that girl from Facebook...those six neighbors of ours...

It added up to more than twenty.  Twenty. 

When I think about that number, I think my head will explode.  Really.  If you're scratching your head incredulously at my undying frustration, that's okay.  I'm thankful you don't understand.  But if you've been where we are--even a little bit--I'll bet you get it.

And as much as I want to be a "good Christian girl" and respond how I know I should, this sucks.

It's overwhelming, and it sucks.  And you know what?  As we drove around yesterday, I did something I haven't done in a very long time.  I questioned everything I believe in.

It is possible that even as a follower of Christ, even though you're searching for His promises, His grace, His mercy, His goodness...you may not feel it.  You can find it, but you may not feel it.

I spouted off vile things.  That God doesn't see me.  That He has forgotten about us.  That He must not want us to have a baby.  That He just flat out doesn't care because if He did, then it wouldn't hurt this much.  I cursed the fact that He was asking this much of me.  While so many others have it so easy, He's making it hard for us.  Everytime a wave comes, He doesn't let me get my breath before another sends me crashing to the bottom.

Stop it, God.  Stop!!  Give me a break already.  I need a break.  If He is so great and good and wonderful, why won't He come save me from this pain?  Enough already!

I just couldn't feel Him.  And because I couldn't feel Him, because He was letting me drown, I doubted that this whole experience was nothing more than a reason to put us down. 

In my heart of hearts, I know this isn't the truth.  I know that.  But what you feel can make what you know seem like a farce.  When they don't seem to match up, emotions can override what you know to be true.

But as I picture how I must have looked to my Father--pitching a fit, screaming at Him, attempting to claw free from His steadfast grip--I imagine that, just like a Daddy does when His daughter falls and hurts herself, He has me sitting on a kitchen counter examining my wounds.

Kindly, He takes my hand.  Yeah.  They're pretty deep.  They're ugly.

And while I wipe my teary eyes, hoping that it will take nothing but a kiss to soothe the pain, He pulls out a cleanser to wash over my wounds.

But it burns.  It hurts.  It feels awful.  Because it hurts, I doubt what He's doing.  It must not be working right.

"My child," He says lovingly, "this will help.  I know it hurts, but this is going to make you better."

Instead of trusting that He knows what's right, that He knows what I need, I kick and scream and doubt that He who created my inmost being isn't giving me what I need.

He is.  It just isn't the way that I want.  I want the kiss.  I don't want the burn.

Friends, I'm sitting on the counter getting my wounds cleansed tonight.  It's terribly unpleasant.  I'm kicking, screaming, and crying.  And I don't want it to have to be this way.  But I ask, I beg, that you pray for me and my ugly, wounded body, and that I'll surrender it to the Healer--the One Who gives me what I need and not what I want.

Yeah, the Doctor is in, and even though He's working on me tonight, He's open to new patients.

Need an appointment?  I'm sure He'll see you next...

It Could Have Ended Here

It could have been the most memorable day of our lives.

Perhaps I would have woken in the middle of the night, much like they do in the movies, to the discomfort of ever-increasing contractions, perhaps my water having broken.

Maybe I would have shaken Dru to wake him, telling him anxiously, "I think it's time."

I'm sure he would have stumbled around nervously for the car keys, our overnight bags, maybe a quick bite of breakfast before loading my very pregnant self into the car.  We probably would have run red lights, sped consciously, woven through traffic.  He would have asked me constantly how I was feeling, rubbed my belly, told me how much he loved me.  That he couldn't wait to be a father.

I could have been settled in a spacious room surrounded by excited family, eager grandparents.  Staff might have asked repeatedly, "Is this your first?" followed by congratulatory sentiments and well wishes.

And then, when they would have told me it was time to push, butterflies would have sprung in my gut.

The moment I have been waiting for could have been within reach.

And when they would have told me that she was here--a girl--I would have looked at Dru and wept with an overwhelming sense of joy.

She could have been here.

I could have seen her face.  I could have held her.  Touched her fingers.  Kissed her cheeks.

I like to think that maybe she had her daddy's blonde hair and big, sparkling eyes.

Sarah.  It could have fit her.  Maybe she would have looked like a Sarah.

My second pregnancy could have ended here.  In an overjoyed hospital room.  In a healthy newborn.  In a happy ending.

But it didn't.  It ended months ago in a cold hospital room.  In a lost dream.  In tears.

Saturday was my second due date, and we are mourning the fact that our sweet Sarah isn't with us.  Our memories of her will only ever be limited to a positive pregnancy test and a couple of doctor's visits.

Our arms feel extra empty this week.  But praise Jesus, His arms are extra full.

Sweet Sarah, we loved you from the moment we knew you were with us.

Oh, how we loved you.  How we love you still.

We miss you, but we trust that there will be a day...oh, that sweet day...when we can see your face.  Hold you.  Touch your fingers.  Kiss your cheeks.

Until then, we'll be waiting...

Love,
Mama and Daddy

Top Ten Reasons It's Okay Not To Be Knocked Up

Yeah.  I pretty much need this list this week.  Hope you can find a laugh or two and a reminder that, you know what?  It's perfectly okay not to be knocked up... you know, for now.

1.  Date night can be any night of the week.  Monday night dinner and a movie?  Why, of course.  Tuesday night sushi and bowling?  You betcha!  No babysitters, no hassle, no "Ohhhh my gosh I'm so sickkkk and so tired I just wanna go to bed nowwwwwwww" sentiment; just you, your handsome beau, and a whole lot of L-O-V-E.  *wink, wink*

2.  Hello, forbidden foods.  Got a hankering for a glass of wine, a spicy tuna handroll, or some decadent soft cheeses?  Eat up, girlfriend.  Unless, of course, you're allergic to seafood.  Or you're an alcoholic.

3.  Rolling in the Benjamins.  It's easier to justify a wardrobe splurge (Anthropologie, I love you) when you're not spending every last dime on booties, onesies, and doctor's appointments.  Get your hair done.  Get your nails done.  Go have a spa day.  Treat yourself to something fabulous that reminds you just how fabulous you are.

4.  The numbers on the scale don't have to go up.  They can go down.  Or stay the same.  And you don't have to worry about looking like you're smuggling a watermelon under your sweater in a matter of months (unless, of course, you go overboard with the soft cheeses).

5.  There's no chance of terms like "mucus plug" or "birthing ball" entering your conversations.  Frankly, your friends will just like you better because of this.

6.  Strangers won't have compulsive urges to rub your belly.  At least,  I hope not.

7.  "I'm going to DisneyWorld!"  Live it up at a theme park, waterpark, or some other physically adventurous activity.  You won't have to worry about harming an unborn baby.  Or you know, exploding an inner tube on the Lazy River.

8.  No worry of involuntary flatulence.  A girl told me that she could literally propel herself across the room when she was pregnant.  Hmmm.  Okay.  Yeah.  I...I don't really know what to say to that.

9.  People won't avoid you on account of your, ahem, "hormonal rages."  No walking on eggshells around you, missy.  You're free to be the life of the party without fear that you'll burst into tears over your swollen ankles or mismatched socks.  And, you know, your husband won't be scared of you.

10.  You can still see your feet.  Yeah.  'Nuff said.

Got a good reason it's okay not to be knocked up?  I'd love to hear it!

Surely

It was a Friday unlike any other.

I had begun my duties for the morning, and as I toiled in the brutal heat, my ear caught the triumphant jeers of a crowd nearby.  Dusting my knees, I dirtied my clumsy two left feet as I ventured to explore the commotion.

Elbows were flying in my face.  Their taunts deafening my ears.  Pushing and prodding my way through the relieved sweat of a multitude feeling justified, I finally caught sight of the crowd's genesis.

A crucifixion, I muttered.

It had been a while since our quiet streets had had one, and the throng shouted with a vengeance to make up for lost time.

I had never seen one, and my eyes perked with curiosity.

I watched as a group of armored guards stood mockingly over the criminal, who lay draped and handcuffed to a post in the center of their circle.  He was dripping with perspiration and bloodied from a good beating.  He hung his head low, letting his chestnut locks fall freely across his brow.

The guards smiled cruelly at their cat-o-nine tails, waiting for the fun to commence.   As the criminal took quick, anticipatory breaths, the first guard slashed his whip across the man's bare back.  The man gave an unearthly wail as his fresh wounds began to seep.  Before he could catch another breath, the second guard followed suit to the first.  Their whipping accelerated with each turn.  It became a game of sorts.

I began to count the lashes.

Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...

They knew they had to stop at thirty-nine.  By the time they had reached thirty, I choked with empathy.

I don't know if he's going to make it to thirty-nine.

As the last lash scraped fervently across his back, he collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.  I gasped at the sight.

There's no skin left on his back, I thought.  How can he stand that?

Nonetheless, as my mother had always taught me, I reminded myself that these people are criminals.  They get what they deserve.  He must have done something terrible to deserve this.

As the man arched his back to let out a desperate cry, I finally caught a glimpse of his face.  He almost didn't look human.  His cheeks were bruised, his eyes bloodshot.  Dirt speckled his forehead.  Inadvertant wounds from the flogging had stained his face.  And as he wept, I caught his eye.

He looks familiar, I thought.  Yes, he's the one.  The one they call this "Messiah."  But this didn't make any sense.  Just days earlier, I was here for the parade that welcomed him to town.  I had waved a palm branch to celebrate his arrival.  I looked around me.  So had these other people.

My eyes welled.

I nudged the woman next to me who was screaming obscenities at this poor man.

"Isn't he the one they call 'Messiah?'  Isn't his name Jesus?" I asked her pensively.

She pushed me out of her way and further back into the crowd.  Suddenly afraid of the scene around me, I watched as those who had stood singing his praises just a week earlier spat vulgarities in his blood-tinged face.

As I looked hopelessly at him, the guards drew near with a thorny bush cradled horribly in their hands.

It looks like a crown, I thought.  Please don't put that on his head.

But it was too late.  The guards adorned his bloodied brow with their crass creation.  They shoved it harder, harder onto his head, as if to make some petty point.  The man opened his mouth and screamed at the pain that was inflicted anew.

Before a tear could fall from my wide eyes, they began to push him, urging him toward the hill where he would be crucified.  They paused briefly to saddle his scarred shoulders with an enormous wooden beam.

That must be it.  That must be the cross.

He trudged achingly along the stony path, all while insults and spit stung his saddened frame.  I moved quickly to keep up with the crowd as we followed the procession.

His steps became heavy and burdened until he fell flat on his face.  This stole the breath from my body, and I felt my heart telling my feet to move near to his side.  Before my feet could get the message to run to him, a young gentleman had helped the man back to his feet and lovingly carried the beam the rest of the way.

We reached the top of the hill they call Calvary, and the guards shoved the man angrily to the ground, roping his arms to the rough wooden beam.  A nearby guard brought over a handful of rusty spikes.

What is he going to do with those nails?  I thought.  He's had enough.  Please don't hurt him anymore.

But my wistful thoughts were in vain.  My eyes couldn't tear themselves away as the guard centered the spike on the man's palm.  Raising a mallet to the sky, he cracked forcefully upon the nail, sending it shooting into his hand.

I turned and looked away while he finished.  But the sound of the mallet hitting the metal is forever engraved in my memory.

Once he had been sufficiently fastened to the beam, they began to raise the cross until he hung high above the crowds that continued to hurl hatred at him.

And as he bore insult after insult, I finally heard his voice, sweet like honey, emerge from his raw and bloodied lips.

"Father, forgive them.  They don't know what they're doing."

I erupted into sobs.  I looked incredulously at the seemingly clueless onlookers who surrounded me.

But he couldn't have done anything!  He's innocent!  I know he is!  He doesn't deserve this!

His breathing became labored and uneven.  I prayed, hoping for a miracle that somehow he would come down, free himself and save us all.

Exhausted, he spoke once more.

"It is finished."

His head dropped.  His body lifeless, save for his dirtied locks that rustled in the breeze.

I fell to my face wondering why it had to be him.  Why him.  Thunderous clouds began to ominously loom overhead, and as the first raindrop landed painfully against my cheek, I knew.

Surely, this was the Son of God.

**********

I wish this was a made-up story; a fictional tale that was limited only to the imagination.

But it isn't.

That guard didn't nail Jesus to the cross.  I did.

The thorns didn't pierce his brow.  I did.

The whips didn't tear across his back.  I did.

No, he didn't deserve it.  I did.

But because He loved me and because He loved you, He did.

Every lie, every bit of hate, every obscenity, every sin was taken to the cross that day.  And it was settled.  It was forgiven.  It was finished.

But praise Jesus, because He didn't remain in the grave, neither do we.  Neither do we.

Believe, friends.  Believe He wasn't a criminal.  Believe He wasn't just a prophet.  Believe He wasn't just a good man.

Believe.

Surely, this was the Son of God.

"But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed."  ~Isaiah 53:5

The Cup

An age-old question is often used to determine our attitude toward life:

Is the glass half empty or half full?

Now, I don't know about you, but my answer often depends on the day (and the beverage involved), but generally if you see it as half empty, you're a pessimist, and if you see it as half full, you're an optimist.

Admittedly, I've been having a "glass-half-empty" time lately.  Yeah, I'm down, a little discouraged.  And because this weekend brought a great deal of joy for a number of others in my life, I emptied my glass to help fill theirs.

And now, I'm frustrated.

Why isn't anyone filling my cup?

I'm not asking for a full glass, here.  Just a swig.  A sip.  A sampling of the good stuff.

Their cups are overflowing, I think to myself.  Can't they spare a little?

Because our human nature is to be selfish and to think that when we give something, we're due something in return, we often find ourselves feeling a bit bankrupt.

Yes, it's good to encourage one another.  To fill each others' cups with love and celebration.

But the stuff we pass out to each other runs dry.

It's not an all-you-can-drink buffet of sorts.  We can't give of ourselves when our own glasses are empty.

So, you ask, where can I get an endless supply so I never run out?

In the book of John, Jesus meets with a Samaritan woman at a well.  She's minding her own business, drawing her own water, when Jesus asks her for a drink.

Because Samaritans didn't associate with Jews, she responds with something such as, "You talking to me?"

His fervent reply, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.  Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life" (John 4: 1-26).

It's easy to let our joy and our satisfaction stem from what others give us.  But when they inevitably stop giving, we're left pining.  Yearning.

Thirsty.

For years, whenever I would begin to feel empty like this, my mother would always ask me if I had been in the Word lately.  No, of course I hadn't.

"Then fill your tank," she'd say.

I would often resist, at first.  Because I was too "busy" or what not.  But as soon as I recharged my life with His Word, I began to care less about what I could scrape up from others.  I don't need their water.

I have Living Water.  Water that never runs dry.

Are you thirsty?  Parched?  Waiting for a trickle of someone's happiness to spill into your life?

Don't settle for sips of the good stuff.  Fill your tank.  Dig deep into His Word and let His marvelous grace pour into your life.  Your glass won't just be full.

It'll downright overflow.

The Down Comforter

Our itty bitty (yet somehow hefty) pup Zoey is quite the character. A troublemaker, really. She may come off as sweet and quiet (and she is most of the time), but too often she poops under the bed, makes off with my socks and underwear, and somehow becomes deaf whenever we go outside.

She's such a stinker. And, I'll admit, spoiled rotten.

Lately, she's developed this interesting new habit. Normally, she likes to snuggle against my back when I'm sleeping at night, but when I woke up one morning and couldn't find her, I began to panic that she had fallen off the bed.

Strangely, I noticed that our down comforter felt extra heavy.

Our little peanut had not just crawled under the covers...

She had buried herself inside the duvet at the foot of the bed. I'm not sure how she managed to get in there in the first place, but I had to unbutton it and literally drag her out of there.

Ever since, when it's time for bed, she dives head first under the covers. It seems to be the only way she can sleep. Of course, I'm afraid she's going to smother and frequently try to coax her back out so she can breathe.

But my efforts are in vain. There she is. Every morning. Still breathing. Buried in the comforter.

Days later, I had called my mother to talk to her on my way home from work, and I laughingly told her about Zoey's new favorite place to sleep (read: snore). She chuckled and then paused.

"That reminds me," she said. "I came across this verse today and I thought of you. It's a psalm that talks about 'singing under the shadow of his wings.'" She went on to explain that as I go through this difficult time in my life, He protects me like a baby bird under His wings. "Just like Zoey feels safe by hiding under the covers," she said, "you can hide yourself in Him."

I thought about that as I got home. And I laughed out loud as I truly made the connection. It makes perfect sense.

Zoey feels safe in the comforter.

Why do we seek comfort on a daily basis? We use medicine to comfort our aches. Comfort food to satisfy our hunger. Hugs to comfort our hurts.

We seek comfort to free ourselves from pain.

The Bible speaks often of the Lord being our Comforter. He can bring us comfort. He can free us from our pain.

And what's more, He can turn that pain into something beautiful.

In the time of David, a horrible plague swept through Israel as a punishment for his wrongdoing. As He saw how Israel hurt, the Lord had mercy on David and his people and removed their pain.

It is believed that Psalm 30 was written by David in response to the Lord's comfort:

1 I will exalt you, LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 LORD my God, I called to you for help,
and you healed me.
3 You, LORD, brought me up from the realm of the dead;
you spared me from going down to the pit.

4 Sing the praises of the LORD, you his faithful people;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may stay for the night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."

7 LORD, when you favored me,
you made my royal mountain stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What is gained if I am silenced,
if I go down to the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, LORD, and be merciful to me;
LORD, be my help."

11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
LORD my God, I will praise you forever.

Praise God, we don't have to hurt forever. He is good. He is faithful. Not only will He comfort your pain, He will redeem it.

Let Him fashion beauty from your ashes. Let Him turn your mourning into dancing. Your sorrow into joy.

It's been a long trip, my friend. You must be exhausted.

Come and rest.

Like Zoey, hide yourself in The Comforter.

Tin Foil, Peanut Butter, and Really Long Words

Xanthophobia: fear of the color yellow or the word yellow
Lachanophobia: fear of vegetables
Kathisophobia: fear of sitting down
Psellismophobia: fear of stuttering (I think this one is downright mean)
Ablutophobia: fear of washing or bathing
Bromidrosiphobia: fear of body smells (I'm guessing these guys can't be friends with the ablutophobics...)
Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia: fear of the number 666
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia: fear of long words (my, my, someone has a sense of humor)
Phobophobia: fear of phobias

I can't make this stuff up. Really.

When I was younger, I was watching an episode of Maury Povich (pretend you didn't hear that), and a woman was being interviewed about her fear of tin foil. Halfway through her talk with Maury, a stagehand ran onstage with a sheet of tin foil and chased her up into the audience. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.

Sure, we can laugh about "silly" fears like those. I'm sure these phobias all stem from some sort of past harrowing situation, but when you take it at face value, you think, "People are really afraid of getting peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths? That's. Messed. Up."

When I was a kid, I was afraid of the normal stuff. Thunderstorms. Snakes. Spiders. The dark. My rocking chair.

What? You mean you weren't scared of your rocking chair?

Okay, okay. I had a nightmare one time that my rocking chair came to life and tried to come and get me. After that, I kept a close eye on it. I was sure it was moving closer and closer every evening.

I swear I was a very normal child.

But let's throw out some other fears here, shall we?

Eremophobia: fear of loneliness.
Carcinophobia: fear of cancer.
Algophobia: fear of pain.
Necrophobia: fear of death.

Not so funny, now. These are pretty common. And you know what? I'll bet most of the phobias out there boil down to a fear of pain or death (although I'm not sure what the color yellow could ever do to you. But I digress...).

We don't see these fears as being abnormal. We should be afraid of these things. They're truly scary.

Right?

I'll admit, right now I'm developing a phobia of the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet. They're there, waiting for me to start taking them again. To provide a daily reminder that it hasn't happened yet. And that there's a chance it never will.

I fear it because I know that another miscarriage is a real possibility for me. And another loss means pain.

And death.

Everybody keeps asking us when we're going to start trying again. Dru and I have decided that we will keep it to ourselves when we do. But frankly, I have no earthly idea because I'm scared out of my mind.

Just like little girls fantasize about their dream weddings, as they get older, they start to think about having the perfect pregnancy: no real "trying," carry to term, cute little baby bump, and a healthy baby to take home.

Sigh. It just doesn't work that way sometimes. And I'll admit that I feel extra discouraged lately because I've had some friends confide in me about their recent struggles to get and/or stay pregnant. Misfortune feels rampant at the moment, just as I was starting to get the slightest spark of excitement at the thought of trying again.

I feel cheated. If we are blessed with another positive pregnancy test, it won't be as happy an experience as it could be. We don't think about saving for cribs or private schools or college. We think about saving for D&Cs, should I need one or two in the future.

I wish I could be ignorant; I wish I could think that two pink lines mean I'm getting a baby.

But as I sit here and put these thoughts into print, I see doubt woven in each sentence. I doubt that we'll get pregnant. I doubt that we'll stay pregnant. I doubt that we'll be parents.

Dare I say, perhaps these doubts reflect a doubt in...God?

Think about it. As I said earlier, most of our fears boil down to a fear of pain or death. If you are a believer, you simply can't fear these things.

Because your God is greater.

He is greater than any pain that can be inflicted on your body. He is greater than the loneliness you feel after a divorce. He is greater than any sickness.

He is greater than death.

He conquered death. It's over. It's finished. We don't have to fear it anymore.

So ask yourself: why do you still fear it?

Do you doubt Him? Do you doubt what He did for you on the cross? Do you doubt that He is King? That He is in control?

Only you can answer that.

Truthfully, friends, the only thing we should be absolutely terrified of is permanent separation from God. If you've given your life to Him, then your fears have no place here.

No place here.

In fact, they're just as ridiculous as being afraid of tin foil or peanut butter.

Suddenly, the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet seem a little less menacing. There may be more losses in store for me. Maybe not. But I can't be afraid to try. I can't be afraid to try.

I can't be afraid.

I won't be afraid.

Sigh.

Bottoms up.

"When I am afraid, I will trust in you." ~Psalm 56:3