It is Pentecost now and the liturgical season is green - for new life, for growth, for Jesus. The season is green because Jesus is the seed God threw to the earth to be planted in death and raised in new life. And this - this throwing down, dying, and raising is my only comfort in life and in death. It seems so singular - so exclusive and definitive - to say my only comfort at all, ever, always is that I belong to Jesus. If that is so, I must belong in a way that isn't attached to postpartum or marriage or geography or accomplishment or feelings. I must belong to Jesus so deeply that I am not my own anymore (and that is a comfort?).Read More
I am wearing white for Eastertide. It started because we wanted to see and feel Easter - to shake off everything regular for our greatest festival celebration. So, we literally put on our party, looking like a wedding where everyone is the bride. And then somehow it stretched into the whole Easter season... my high kick to winter and death and the muted colors of typical Brooklyn fibers.
Yesterday, I folded into a wooden pew next to Patrick after I successfully passed Z Ru off to the nursery magicians. I followed the stitching on the white that hung just over my wrists as Vito talked about the deep sadness of joy - the weeping and the wearing and the working of it.
Jesus preached that there is blessing - there is joy - absolutely inside the worst things. Yes, absolutely. Because Jesus is inside the worst of things, just exactly where you think He is not. He is behind and in between and above the worst, saying, "Come, heal, breathe, hear, repent, believe, stay, rest..."
And that's hard. I disbelieve that for joy, I think.
I already confessed my light Lent, but I forgot to say that there is something else I feel - something other than regret. The world is brimming with weeping and wearing and working, in bad ways. The worst. I am not strong enough to even hear all of it. I don't know what to do with the headlines and the histories and personal hells typed out in simple texts. Because I am afraid I can do nothing, afraid what I can do is not enough.
My grief weight is heavy. Just the weight of my sorrow could sink a ship, I am sure of it. But there are entire cities, countries, and continents filled with people who bear the same weight.
The sheerness of my white sleeves put a fuzzy filter on my arms, a weird and welcome distraction from the message about sad joy. The points rolled out on Luke 6:20-26, just two about joy coming by way of discipling relationships and consolation.
And he lifted up his eyes on his disciples, and said: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. “Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you shall be satisfied. “Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.
“Blessed are you when people hate you and when they exclude you and revile you and spurn your name as evil, on account of the Son of Man! Rejoice in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in heaven; for so their fathers did to the prophets.
“But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. “Woe to you who are full now, for you shall be hungry. “Woe to you who laugh now, for you shall mourn and weep. “Woe to you, when all people speak well of you, for so their fathers did to the false prophets. (Luke 6:20-26 ESV)
I heard myself mmhmm. Jesus. I want to get in his sights. I want to be there when he lifts up his eyes because then I might feel sure about being in His presence. I know that is where joy reaches fullness, somehow.
But He pairs blessing with the absolute worst things: poverty, hunger, weeping and then being hated, excluded and reviled. How can joy get inside these things? Jesus.
Somehow, mysteriously- magically even, Christ is deeper than dark. Light came into the world and the darkness could not overcome it. I memorized that when I was nine, but I always thought it was a light like the break of day, chasing cold shadows to corners and covering like a warm blanket that keeps only good underneath. I've always imagined light versus dark as a cosmic battle of no contest, where the two rushed in from separate directions to make a messy collision in a long, deep valley. A crowded mess of thunderstorms and white robes and lightning and dark forces and probably Gandalf, but the sides stayed easily distinguishable - in my mind.
But this deeper-than-dark light is something new to me. If in Christ all things are held together - the aloe plant in my window, the rain drops dripping April, Zella's squishy little body, and the superlative worst - then He is there in all these things, too.
Inside poverty and hunger and sadness - the deepest of it - Jesus is deeper still. It seems wrong to flip the superlative like that. Find the absolute worst thing, and there find the absolute best thing hiding. It doesn't make any sense for Jesus to promise that. And then I think about the cross, the whole cruel journey of it, and the story looks different.
He was the light that couldn't be overcome, but he was crucified. He was so, so deep in the darkest of us. He is light in the deepest, darkest of us - holding all things together, overcoming death and claiming victory over evil. Definitively. Absolutely. Making joy the surest thing because He (Jesus) is the surest thing. Surer than death, even.
I ended up with a whole loaf of communion bread on the bus ride home from church. Zella wriggled under my chin, fighting sleep, and it felt deeply appropriate to rip off fistfuls of the sourdough and let it work my jaw. The body broken for me... the darkness lit for me... the joy assured for me.
It still doesn't make any sense. I think the light hiding deeper than dark scene is hard to choreograph behind my eyes. The light that doesn't come from darkness... the light that is somehow deeper than darkness and can reach all the sunken ships full of the world's grief weight.
And in that mixed up meeting of light and dark, there is our joy called Jesus. And we are happy with Him alone.
This was the offering song Sarah Gregory sung for church yesterday and it is still sweet honey to my disbelieve-for-joy soul. She learned of the song four hours before she sung it. God is so good and full of grace for us.
Looking back, I might have spent too much of the liturgy of that day wishing I had Lent-ed harder or planned better. But, somewhere inside that moment, I was learning from Senna and William and Ezra and Orion and Hannah and Zella - all the littles who knew just what to do with paper celebration. We got lost in it. I'm not sure how long I sat there in my white pants, letting gold and white confetti rain down from the sky from sweaty little fingers rushing to throw it up in the air. The moment, God, held me with a tender knowing.Read More
The advent wreath is uneven - dried eucalyptus folded and woven around a green foam ring with four purple candles sticking up like smooth royal towers in a bramble patch. My grandpa made the wooden base that holds the large, white pineapple candle in the center. And the bulky tradition sits unceremoniously on our table, on top of a feast-speckled fabric runner and underneath long eucalyptus branches leftover from a chandelier I couldn't throw away. The irreverent transformation of our antique gateleg table did not have all the feels of spiritual renewal. No mystery hid in the clinking of cider and whiskey glasses. A holy hush did not hover above our bowls of butternut squash soup.
We ladled out seconds and then reclined to read the liturgy for the first week of Advent. Tam struck the match that lit the first candle - the candle of Hope - and Grace read from Matthew 13,
35 Therefore stay awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or when the rooster crows,[c] or in the morning— 36 lest he come suddenly and find you asleep. 37 And what I say to you I say to all: Stay awake.”
I heard my soul saying the emotions are spent. We are dead broke on emotions so I don't try to wrestle more out. I just say, "Ok, soul." And then I heard the words from this passage and thought, but at least let's stay awake.
The neighbors must have opinions. Our windows were open, on the first day of the first week of Advent, to let the last cool breezes of autumn hug our shoulders. While the good folks next door were high-fiving touchdowns and shaking fists at referees, we were singing "Come Thou Long Expected Jesus" ... all the verses. And then we sang the first verse again to layer some harmonies under the skillful conductorship of our friend Jeremy. The prayer of confession sounded the most Monty Python - all nine of us confessing out loud, with the same words, how we have strayed and how badly we need to be rescued, forgiven, and restored.
It's the 14:39 mark in Bach's Cantata 140. After the soul pleads salvation's quicker coming for six minutes, Zion hears the watchmen calling... and I say to my soul, let's stay awake for this.
Wake up and don't sleep through this. Be awake to plead and to grieve and to joy and to see and to fail and to receive and to hear. Be awake to anticipate the song of a Savior.
Be awake for Advent, I say to my soul - all the irreverence of it... the leftover decorations and the mess of it. Be awake and at all costs stay awake. Invite enough shoulders around your table that elbows touch your side. And when you get sleepy, soul, light a candle. When your eyes droop, soul, read Scripture. When you have no ceremony, soul, raise a toast. Stay awake, soul, because there is a song after the song you are singing and you will want to hear.
God, please help me stay awake.
She picked up a tiny clementine from the bowl in the kitchen window, in mid-story and mid-sentence. But then, my new friend paused, "Oh my gosh I'm so sorry - I just grabbed this orange and I didn't even ask!" She peeled as I nodded of course with hands deep in dishes, and on with the story she went. The night was a mix of prayers and tears and talks and poops, all of it good. We had fallen into this Sunday spontaneously - kitchen clean-up after church, brunch after clean-up, ice cream after brunch, Life Aquatic after ice cream, van shuttle after Life Aquatic. The four of us, five counting Z Ru, claimed one pew earlier Sunday morning, under those brilliant painted glass windows where 5th and Rodney intersect in Williamsburg.
Daylight Savings meant warm, golden beams hugged our shoulders through the passing of the peace and the reading of Scripture and the singing of hymns. The city is good at blocking the light - good at crowding and casting shadows on cold concrete - so when there is light it is an especially important and good thing here. It feels that way to me, at least.
A handful of days before the Sunday light, I was bouncing Zella Ruth in our living room because she hadn't pooped in five days and she wasn't happy about it. Who would be, I guess. Her constipated cry sounds so much different, so helpless and confused. So, we bounced and I sang. Since Welcome Wagon has been the Kolts family jam lately, this was my song... And a funny thing happened as late afternoon sun made squares on our hardwood floor. The Lord searched me.
I was singing the song because that's what we do. It's a house rule I explain to Zella Ruth in serious tones, "As long as you are under our roof, there will be singing." We are pretty strict about it. She has songs for burps and hiccups and mornings, songs for driving and songs for park walking and songs for standing. There is a medley of hymns for those times she stretches out tall on our knees: "Stand up, stand up for Jesus" followed by "Standing on the Promises" and then it closes out with "Victory in Jesus." But the singing is for her - the training up work of hymn singing so her heart will be full of light when her world gets dark.
If deepest darkness cover me, the darkness hideth not from Thee To You both night and day are bright The darkness shineth as the light
I joined Zella Ruth in her tears, but she was crying about poop and I was crying about the brightness that makes darkness light. The singing was for me, too.
Reformation Day came and went last weekend and I made vague goals about how our house would handle the confusion of saints and costumes and theses nailed on doors. Constipation is far behind us, six poops in 24 hours and three destroyed outfits later. Now we are teething, so she presses her face into my neck to gnaw on my collarbone and wipe boogers on my shoulder. The baltic amber necklace around her neck makes us look like hippies and I am not convinced it works (for reducing teething discomfort). It's just incredibly hard to disprove and stays mostly hidden under her chins anyway.
I can't get enough of her fingers - soft like purity and innocence. She likes to use her new grip to grab my nose, but I love when her soft palm drifts up to tour my cheek and chin. And I love to sing into her neck. I love to choose song instead of stress, keeping tempo instead of tension in my bones when she screams upset in the middle of a living room full of Pancake Monday.
Sundays, city family, soft fingers, songs... and movement in the right direction - where the teachable moments are for me, too.
It was the smallest bent of the shoulder, the slightest tilt of the head - away from destruction and toward restoration. It took one calendar year and then some. I should be straight-facing the Lord by now, parallel to the Presence. Feet to feet and eye to eye, if God would stoop to look me in the blues He painted on my round face.
It’s October now, and for months I’ve been saying all the spiritual self-talk, “You’ve turned toward the Lord, now gaze on Him. Delight in Him. Love His presence. Feel His embrace. Taste His provision. Be with Him. Rest in Him. Listen to Him. Breathe the breath of Him.”
But foolishness can follow a person, like spider webs that play phantom strings on skin hairs long after being swept away. Foolishness doesn’t care about posture or position. Maybe that’s why I have trouble lifting my gaze or moving toward the One who redeemed my soul.
God is always on my mind like grief is always on my mind, but this year I didn’t have an appetite for Him. I didn’t crave Him like I craved a medium rare steak or Nonna D’s Oatmeal Lace ice cream (read: pregnant).
I guess I am waiting for that moment – you know the one, in all those Psalms? The moment in the stanzas that say, “and then they cried out... turned from their wicked ways...” Because in the next stanza, the Lord would come down.
He would come all the way down to listen and heal and deliver the wayward from the sure destruction of spoiled appetites. Stanza after stanza, story after story, He came down when they cried out. And then He fed them with rich, mysterious food – though I imagine they never knew they were starving until that first bite.
Taste and see that He is good. (Psalm 34:8)
This command is soaked in love, drowning in it. In this command I hear the heart of my Father saying, “Oh, child. Your foolishness has confused your appetite. You don’t even know what real food looks like anymore. What you put in your belly is spoiling you from the inside. But now that you have turned toward me, you can hear me when I say I am the best food. Eat your deliverance. Unleash your appetite on something that will satisfy.”
Eat and be satisfied. (Deuteronomy 8:10)
If I could relax my shoulders with palms face up like benediction, I might hear the Lord saying, “Oh, darling. Eat your deliverance.”
Is it fear that has my hands tied? Am I afraid that Joy will tip the scale and Grief will lose out? Maybe Pride is too good a friend, blinding me to the food my soul craves. Maybe I am suffocating because I covet the past and I covet the future.
The longer I let the spoil sit in my belly, the less I live.
It sounds strange. But it is death in my belly if it is not life. God did not come all the way down, in Jesus, for our bellies to rot and for our breath to die. Jesus came to give life and breath and food, the richest food, and this is my deliverance.
“Your words were found, and I ate them, and your words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart, for I am called by your name, O LORD, God of hosts.” Jeremiah 15:16
Praise comes like all the waves in all the oceans, because you cannot gulp down the glory of the Lord. It is a slow delight. His deliverance happens when desperation makes space for His glory and our praise happens because those who have been delivered say so.
"Let the redeemed of the Lord say so." Psalm 107:2
"Let" is the command to everyone in earshot of the redeemed: allow these people to praise rightly the God of their redemption. Listen to their praise because they can be trusted. Especially if they were foolish before - let them swoop ribbons and dance swirls and sing melodies and make a ceremony out of praise.
Let those with life in their bellies say so.
Someday soon I hope to make a ceremony of silly praise, a tribute to the God of my redemption, the God who satisfies with good food. I am waiting for that moment...
What is this low, deep darkness -where only apparitions play? My hands grasp and find nothing; my voice cries and the sound is soaked up. Here I am! Inside the furthest dark, and where are You?
O, be strong and steady – do not disappear when I reach out or go silent when I plea. Be ever with me in this dark- ever present in this death, Be with me.
Restore to me the hope of resurrection and the peace of a seated King.
You will not be shaken, and You are keeping me. There is no dark where your love is not light; There is no light that is not yours.
I am found in You, my light my home.
It's been a while, but here are some writings as my family lives out the grief and sorrow of losing William. I do not usually write poetry, but this was an assignment when I was in grief counseling last year. I dug it up to help as I sit with sadness today.
It sounds too easy, too light and defined.
If I was a better poet, I would make it messy. I would make it say things like "wring the numbness out of me / and never forget to feel the pain of death" and "break morning light on this dark day to vanish the chills of night" and "wrestle and make my mind submit to a glory bigger, better and outside this pain"... or something. I would make it tangled and I would make it have the harsh sound of typing keys. click click clackety CLACK clack CLACK. The meter would feel staccato with something like a long cello line running through it. And the edges - the space around the words - would move in close to hug the anger out.
And still it would read wrong.
I've been listening to this song by Young Oceans, called The Gates. It makes me uncomfortable because in the middle, if I sing all the words, I am a liar. The music sounds more confident than I feel, but the words betray a heart that feels so many other things. [bandcamp width=100% height=120 album=4178743084 size=large bgcol=ffffff linkcol=0687f5 tracklist=false artwork=small track=3637839339]
I wanna wake and feel Your glory I wanna speak in tongues of angels for You Lord I wanna sing a song eternal I wanna trample on the curses of the earth I wanna call upon Your healing I wanna see the sick and weary be made new I wanna swim inside the blessings I wanna swim inside the blessings of the Lord
It's all the things I want to want, but I'm too weak or frail or scared or lazy or tired or selfish. Or I am all those things.
The beauty of Christmas - Christ coming to earth - came wrapped inside wrapping inside wrapping inside wrapping this year. It came slow like the full nine months of labor pains, much deeper than I've ever anticipated this season before.
And when I shake with sobs in bed or pray for water hotter than my tears in the shower, I need Emmanuel. I need the truth of "God with us" on earth. When I wish I was 13 years old again or when I go to sleep to be hidden, I need Emmanuel.
I'm not proud of wanting to escape. But when life is hard, you just dream of it being easier I guess. Easier commute to work, easier free time, easier time management, easier professional life, easier marriage, easier living, easier. Not lazy, just better. I'm not proud of wanting easier.
Maybe that's why I love liturgy so much. It makes me say the words I do not feel. And that's why Scripture memory is a life vest these days. Even if those are the only words I repeat, the only ones I sing... even if I don't feel them completely, I know there is a gift wrapped inside a gift wrapped inside a gift that is more inside than any thief of joy.
God with us. He is here, even when I am not wanting Him. He is here, when I want to be elsewhere. God with us, pursuing us in love.
Did You say, 'seek, you will surely find'? I am searching, Lord turn Your eyes to mine But I’m weary, pacing at these gates Jesus come, come now, don’t delay
Like a child, ever faithful may I be This I ask, God of mercy hear my plea I have wandered with a soul impure For this scorn, Father, send a cure
Last week, I memorized from John 11:25-26, "I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die..."
It's one of those verses that's hard to say, but I stumble through. I speak and trust God will grant the belief I need to be moved by these words. He is good and true and He is holding me up in the midst of my escaping.
Find all the writings on grief at this link and join with us as we mourn in hope.
Today, the rain. The slanting, pounding, and unforgiving kind.
I'm only a little bit sad I can't go to the laundromat, again. Instead, I am nursing a tall glass of water, lighting my new creamy Anthropologie candle, and letting this Rain for Roots album preach to my heart.
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I could say I am singing these songs for my little one - so I will have all the words memorized when Baby K comes. But, the truth is, I need to hear this invitation. I need to remember that God is not rushed in His love for us. He invites us into a slow and steady love, full of peace and rest and strength.
My pastor mentioned a passage in Ezekiel several sermons ago that I had never heard. In Ezekiel 16, God is remembering the history of the people Israel and compares it to a baby being born. This baby was abhorred, thrown out into an open field without clothes and without care, without compassion. But when God passed by, He reached into all the naked, bloody mess and said, "Live!" Our pastor had us imagine a God who would tend to an infant child like a mother or a father would - with gentle hands and sweet assurances.
God deals with us in such a way, with kind and slow attention to the dryness on our elbows and the rain that seeps through our boots to our toes. God cares for us in such a way, but I forget.
Yesterday, I forgot.
It was a day like a backwards onion, an ugly one. Layers on layers of frustrations and emotions but I couldn't figure out how to get back to the root of it all so I could be "okay." I do not trust pregnancy hormones and I already had a bad relationship with woman emotions. I would rather swallow everything down with the eight glasses of prescribed pregnancy water I am drinking everyday.
It got messy in the middle. You would think that a girl who has morning sickness-ed (and stealthily recovered) at the Q train Canal stop, the reception desk, the conference room, and various bathrooms could swallow down an onion's worth of emotions. Nope, sure could not.
I met Patrick at Brooklyn Fellows class and we went through an ancient prayer exercise called The Examen where you use Scripture to move through these five meditations:
1. Become aware of God’s presence. 2. Review the day with gratitude. 3. Pay attention to your emotions. 4. Choose one feature of the day and pray from it. 5. Look toward tomorrow.
It was a bad day to have this kind of meditation. Review the day with gratitude? I had spent much of my day feeling faulted and failed. Pay attention to my emotions? They went haywire. I had a meltdown. I fell completely apart while saying, "I hate that I'm falling apart." There was a lot to pray about. Looking forward to tomorrow was hard.
When we got home, I jumped right into bed. Patrick came around to my side to tuck me in with encouragement, but I pulled the sheets over my head and said, "I can't talk to you right now." I don't know why I said that. I knew the tears would come and I didn't want him to have to deal with the onion I couldn't seem to swallow or peel, even with St. Ignatius and his ancient prayer exercise.
He didn't let me hide. He hugged me as I cried it out and listened as I sputtered, "I don't even know myself... I'm so frustrated that I am angry... and I am angry because I don't like who I am right now, because I don't know what to do about it."
I don't know how long he listened or how long I cried, but at one point he pulled back the covers and said, "Get up. We are going to pray." And we knelt by the bed and he prayed it out. When he got done with all his honest words I said, "Amen." He refused to let anger sleep in our bed. I think you should pray, he said.
I was still tense and slobbery, but I got some words out and relaxed into a simple conversation that has lately been God's one-sided, "Come." I confessed anger and asked for peace. I started to feel the slower pace of His rest and I started to believe He had compassion on my slobbery face.
Come to me, Walk with me Learn the rhythms of my grace
Come to me, I have all you need Learn to rest even while you are awake
Are you tired? Are you worried? Worn out from the day? Have you been in a hurry? I will slow the pace
My sister got some hard news this week. My mom had a hard day on Friday. Some might say these days feel the worst, but our family has respectfully redefined our use of superlatives. That is part of the onion layers, too - the figuring out emotions and frustrations in light of the great grief weight. I think we fall apart more than we stay together, but that's why there is this simple truth about the tender care of a Father who slows the pace.
In New York and Des Moines and little Lewis. In Michigan and California and Ames. In every place where there is hurting, every place where there is brokenness, and every place where God's creation lives, there is an invitation to slow the pace.
I am not prepared for this, for Advent. Last week we feasted and gave thanks and it was the starkest thanks I've ever offered, I think. It was rickety and raw, like the rusty farm gates on my childhood farm. It was a functional thankfulness that felt very different than singing "Count Your Many Blessings" with all my aunts and uncles and cousins in the basement of Grandpa's house. No less abundant (my head tells my heart) but very much different.
I think that's okay.
A special place had been prepared for each guest and our table boasted a capacity crowd. The whole day was arranging and baking and tasting, folding special printed napkins and finding/ironing the tablecloth we bought at Fat Albert's, the neighborhood "everything" store. Olive branches hung from string lights above us and the Feast of Thanks groove mix mingled between our shoulders.
I blinked it all in behind candlelight and treasured the rickety emotions for later sorting (ahem... still sorting). We represented a collection of states and histories and families and stories, memories and pains and wounds and griefs. But we were all present and belonging at this table set for us.
There's a little snapshot of the crowd gathered. We were present, each of us breathing and eating under a canopy of twinkle lights in a Brooklyn apartment in the middle of New York.
And now it is Advent - that season where we prepare to remember that God sent His Son to be born into this world. God sent His Son to breathe and cry and joy and struggle and feast and gather and mourn here, on this very earth.
My heart is sluggish and resistant to the idea of anticipation, but just today I realized how I have been very desperately looking for signs of life for a while now... looking for proof that life is good. Not family portrait good or campfire songs good, but a deep and bellowing good - the kind that carves the grooves my grief runs through. And here, in Advent, is God's affirmation.
Earth was not just a good enough place for the Son of the Creator of the Universe. God sent His Son to get bruised knees and dusty feet and a full belly in a place that He still loves, for a people He still loves.
Advent has always been good news of great joy because I remember God's provision in Christ - that God invited us in our sin to meet our Savior. But, this year I needed to feel God's deep and bellowing affirmation that life on earth is not a consolation prize. We are not in a waiting pattern for something better, later, next, sometime, future.
In the middle of strife and sick and thorns and death and my rickety thanks, God is affirming that His redemption has already started. He is still knitting life together in wombs. Today, I heard a heartbeat in mine. That static-y "wooga wooga" sound is nothing like pleasantries and everything like bellowing affirmation.
I signed up for counseling today and my scattered heart needs it, but this was a special kind of therapy in a doctor's office on 46th Street. I was squeezing Patrick's hand and we were both watching life wiggle around inside my belly. "Oh, so active!" they said. We giggled and marveled and asked silly questions. And God affirmed, deeper than all my efforts to be okay or move forward or understand.
And it's all very complicated, but I am holding on to that affirmation that God is making new life, because that somehow affirms all the lives that He is sustaining.
I can't believe I am awake past midnight. Pregnancy is beautiful, but pregnancy is also super weird. At least I had some good Christmas tunes to keep this late night company.
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I am glad for Psalm prayers I don't write and for Saturdays where silence can really stretch out. I didn't realize I was whispering at the bagel shop until the sweet red-haired girl leaned in closer and raised her eyebrows over tortoise shell Warby Parkers, "Sorry, hon, what did you say?" "Um, ehm.. I'd like an egg and avocado..."
"Oh, you want number 4 on 7 grain? Anything else?"
I felt like a child whose mom sent her out for eggs and this redhead knew I was breaking the rules. But I just bought a Dirt Devil and I'm hosting Thanksgiving, so I read the [free copy of the] New York Times like I belonged in the adult world. I picked up a few groceries on my way home. And when I got home, I stayed. I baked and pureed pumpkin, hand wrote a few cards, made brown sugar+cinnamon+chocolate chip cookies for tomorrow, put away dishes and drank tea. (Okay, I also ate four Oreos but I did not feel good about that). At some point in the middle of the candlelit silence, I read this:
By the word of the LORD the heavens were made, and by the breath of his mouth all their host. He gathers the waters of the sea as a heap; he puts the deeps in storehouses. (Psalm 33:6-7 ESV)
And I breathed prayers without any new words. All these Psalm words are prayers enough and my words can't get that big. My words can't make heavens and my breath can't make host to fill them. The waters ignore my commands and the deeps don't respond. Only God can do this. And only God would want to cause this kind of creation commotion when He needs no one and no thing.
I feel very created today, very in my place.
Our soul waits for the LORD; he is our help and our shield. For our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. Let your steadfast love, O LORD, be upon us, even as we hope in you. (Psalm 33:20-22 ESV)
Why is the One who gathers the waters in a heap also my help and shield? And how is He that?
The radiator is hissing in the corner, sputtering like antique apartment heaters do. It feels selfish to stay indoors, but I don't feel well and I can't remember the last day when I didn't have plans. I suppose that is an excuse. Scripture needs silent space and time. I came to no conclusions and wrote no prayers; I don't feel better or wiser. But I am remembering. I remember who the Lord says that He is. And I remember that I trust Him.
I trust that He is God and He has not given up on His redemption plan. He is very much in the middle of making all things new - old things and dead things and dry bones and this old, stubborn heart.
I've been a lot of inward lately. Last week, I was walking out of the subway after a frustrating stop-and-go "We are delayed because of train traffic ahead. We apologize for any inconvenience" situations. I was bundled and hunched and leaving sighs on the sidewalk when someone touched my arm and pulled me close. Patrick was leaving to go to work, but caught me just in time to say, "Hey, I love you." I hoped that he couldn't see all the self-pity in my face because the streetlight lit up his and it was full of the best husband love.
Unless the LORD builds the house, those who build it labor in vain. Unless the LORD watches over the city, the watchman stays awake in vain. (Psalm 127:1 ESV)
Sometimes living is labor. I don't mean working the 9-5. I mean just living. I let Psalm 127:1 sing over some of the silence today until it felt like my deeps started to listen.
And I remember. Unless the Lord builds the house (read: plans, days, vocation, prayer, family, community), I will labor in vain. My building efforts end up being for my own glory or my own preservation or my own pride. But, the Lord - He is a great builder and none of His plans go to waste. None.
It is still Saturday and there is a bit of it left to savor.
To read more from my grief journey, you can find those posts here.
I lost it in church yesterday. Classic, on-the-way-to-communion breakdown. It had something to do with Ephesians 2 and the sermon turning over soil I had let harden in my soul. It had something to do with Taryn singing "Although we are weeping, Lord help us keep sowing the seeds of Your kingdom..." It had something to do with remembering what it is to be human, I guess. Mostly that.
God has been pursuing me these weeks while I hide in crowded subway cars and underneath early winter layers. He has been pursuing me with a simple, pressing whisper, "I am still holding things together."
It is a hard whisper to hear with winter creeping in, painting everything in greys beyond the concrete that already colors this city. It is a hard whisper to hear in grief. But, God has been pursuing me in these weeks with this whisper to consider that He is still in the middle of making all things new.
Even if I close my eyes against it, God is still making beautiful things.
I keep coming back to Colossians 1, where it says of Christ,
"He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together." (Colossians 1:15-17 ESV)
All things were created through him and for him. Every new life and every mustard seed breaking the earth's surface and every wave crashing the coast, all these are confirmations that He is still creating and He still has good plans.
Sometimes, like now, I have to gulp that down with two word prayers for more belief. O, God. Are you? Is this? Please come. Be here. Show me. Still me. Show yourself.
But I can't blink it away.
He is actively holding all things together because His design is good. He persists in holding us together as we persist in breaking things apart or as we get broken apart. He persists and does not abandon His creation, but not for pity. He persists because He will always be about the work of restoring creation to its original dignity.
That's what our pastor talked about in church yesterday - that God persisted and pursued when we thought brokenness was the end of our story, the defining moment. But He doesn't rescue us out of our brokenness. He does the opposite. He holds us together inside of it.
Where are You? I am here, in the middle of things, blinking against black with heavy eyelids but the scenery stays the same. And, where are you?
You are always everywhere, but where is it that we intersect? I forget where I go to be with You - that place where You are with me.
I am here in the middle like an astronaut or an island.
Where are You? Because I am in the middle and everything is unfinished.
I am not ready to go, I am not ready to stay. Please, tell me where You are so we can intersect.
"Our task in the present ... is to live as resurrection people in between Easter and the final day, with our Christian life, corporate and individual, in both worship and mission, as a sign of the first and a foretaste of the second." N.T. Wright in Surprised by Hope
Then came the morning, today. Somewhere far away from city clouds, the rhythm God set in motion so long ago woke up like it was waiting for the rest of the sentence.
...then came the morning.
I started thinking on the phrase when Lone Bellow released a single by that name from their upcoming album. It's so weird that you can't resist the morning.
Like a light, like a stone rolled away... the morning.
Jesus's resurrection happened in the morning, after that third day. Seems like it was the most fitting way for him to conquer death, with the sunrise as a backdrop after night took over at noon the day before. And we are supposed to be resurrection people - baptized into the very resurrection of Jesus to live transformed lives - lives lit with the rhythm of the morning.
But that sounds way more glorious then sewing the seam of my shirt at work today, hunched in front of my computer monitor and trying to appear nonchalant about the rip that I can only blame on my hips. It sounds more triumphant than my sob session after church on Sunday with a dear friend who stood in front of me until I got all my sorrow out.
But I can't resist the morning. It is God's clock, the sunrise timepiece He throws over this little earth at the beginning of every day. Sometimes, I shut my eyes and shake my head and furrow my brow against it, like the valiant efforts of a stubborn child. And then sometimes, giggles get out and eyes open wide on a bike ride back from Williamsburg on Bedford Avenue - down the stretch of hills and green lights before Empire. I biked right into that little bit of resurrection sunrise at 11 pm and I said, "This is good."
It is good to name good.
Maybe it is another way to be image bearers, to be fully human - to name good without any qualifiers or reservations or conditional statements. Because, in the beginning everything was good. God created the heavens and the earth, the sea and the stars, the plants and creatures and oceans and lands, and then He said, "This is good." Then He made humans and said, "This is very good." There is power in his "good" declaration and we are invited into it as His image bearers. There are still good things here, on earth. All the "good" is not gone from God's declaration and we (resurrection people) are invited to name all the "good" things about God's design.
But, boy, is it hard.
I am praying to get more in the habit of naming "good," believing that God has not forgotten what He so carefully designed. I know because... then came the morning.
The trees lit up in shades like candles on a cake in the quiet of Maine. Quiet had a sound on those winding backroads and hiking trails and it was the perfect escape. After work last Friday, Patrick scooped me up into a North-bound surprise in a rented VW Jetta with 21 miles on it. I thought about putting pen to paper a few times, but I didn't. It was a weekend like a benediction, that deserved my palms face up and free of distraction. And I relented. I gave in. I let sunshine joy freckle my cheeks through the windshield and forest joy crunch under my feet and marriage joy come at me from all sides. It has been pressing in for a while now, but I have been resisting. I still am, I guess - resisting joy.
And that's strange because joy has never been this hard... joy is something I thought I really understood. And then I got married. And then my mom called to say my brother died. And now things are complicated. The reality is, things were complicated before, but it felt easier to regulate when I only had to explain things to myself. If I didn't feel joy, I believed it was there anyway and I pushed through with gritted teeth. I sometimes got silent or reflective and I sometimes hid away until the clouds cleared, but I was
almost proud that I knew my way around joy.
Now there is someone in my life whose joy is wrapped up in my joy. My sadness and silence and sour days can actually hurt him - that is how much my husband cares about my joy. There are, maybe, legitimate reasons to resist joy (or at least reasons for tension) - like grief. But then there are very selfish and very proud reasons to resist joy and I am ashamed to say I know all the reasons. To make things more complicated, I care about Patrick's joy too. I want him to be full of the most possible joy.
And being married feels like the craziest experiment in the human condition - both the condition of being image bearers of God and the condition of being broken by sin. It's like putting everything most precious to two people inside a clothes dryer and cranking to high heat. Maybe it's not like that. Maybe it's more like what Paul says in Romans, "I do not understand myself. I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate."
I can't tell you how badly I want to step into joy, because I know joy is strength and delight... but also because I know Patrick cares so much about my joy. And it doesn't make any sense to resist it. Not a bit of sense.
We were making our way back to the city on Sunday and the air in that little rental car was getting crowded. As buildings stretched up into skylines instead of trees, I squirmed under the weight of city living. In the last miles of colorful highway driving, I rocked deep to this song - as deep as one can rock in the passenger seat of a traffic jam. My favorite dusk colors were getting painted across the sky and my favorite human was all delight behind the wheel.
The "carried away" part is like the beats of my soul when I resist joy - carried away by questions and doubts and fears and failures. And I can feel my fingernails pressing into my palms. Carried away. The weekend was like a benediction, one I received with open hands and one that made me aware of my everyday posture - the regular way I hold my hands and keep my heart. Ahem... nails in palms and carried away. I swayed extra because I wanted that lesson of open palms and numbering days to get stuck in my soul. Almost a week later and I have bad news to report. Looks like this is a daily declaration, friends. And some days my declaration sounds more like a question.
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I am praying that the Lord would teach me to number my days - not to know how many, but to believe that He does. Praying, believing, trusting, living, believing, praying, hoping, waiting. All these things.
"So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom." Psalm 90:12
If God is on my side, who could be against me?
I'll tell you who - apathy and grief and sadness and confusion and depression and discontent, especially discontent. That's who. These are all "against me."
It's gonna get good and honest, friends. First, you should play this song by NEEDTOBREATHE that I danced to in my living room last week. I didn't even care that the curtains weren't all the way closed and our 5-feet-away neighbors could probably see me stretching out in homemade modern dance moves on slippery hardwood floors. It's okay, they clearly don't care that we can see them.
Well, this is officially the weirdest part of my grief story (does it keep getting weirder?) - the part where I am still living, where I still have appointments and things coming up on the weekends and plans for this summer. This is the weirdest part of grief and it wrings at my insides usually when I am least prepared. Like when we watched a beautiful, northern New York sun sink behind mountains on Sunday or every time I walk in the door after a full day of work and see the excitement in my husband's eyes because I am home.
People will find me after this post - perfectly lovely and well meaning folks - and they will say, "Give yourself time, Caroline. Give yourself grace to feel whatever you need to feel." I get that, or at least I think I am starting to. But, I also feel the Spirit telling me to preach Romans to my fickle heart. Grief isn't a trump card to "do whatever you want until you feel like doing something else." I don't get to sin that grace might increase.
And it isn't all grief. That is the worst part.
I think am afraid of being content. I am afraid, I guess, that being "ok" where I am professionally, creatively, and intellectually means I have given up on everything I haven't accomplished. I think I was/am afraid that this is it. I guess I want what everyone else wants: purpose, joy, fulfillment, significance. And grief makes me want all those things more while sapping my strength to chase like I could when I was less weary. So, I am afraid to be fully where I am if that place is too humble or too confused or even just too regular.
But there is a crack in the door filled with light.
I am learning about joy. There have been sweet times in my life where I think I felt the full freedom of joy and then there are times when I would rather slum it in the wasteland then turn my head towards the light. I would rather proudly declare the things that are dark than step into the light of the open doorway. Marriage is teaching me these things about joy and it is painful. I didn't think I would be so resistant to my own benefit.
Pat is so patient and encouraging as I sort out my grumbles. He reminds me often that joy is a choice because God is not different in dark times. God is not less light or less provision. God is the same and He is all we need to get by, really.
There is a beautiful story in the Old Testament, one of my favorites. It's actually in that long and tedious book of Numbers (21). The Israelites, all grumbles, are out in the desert. The whole freshly exodus-ed group was telling Moses they thought it would be better to be slaves in Egypt than to wander around in the wilderness (as free people with miracle food falling from heaven). Then they started to notice snakes at their ankles, snakes that bit people and bites that took their lives. The people came back to Moses and pleaded for him to do something - to speak on their behalf to God (who they knew they had offended). God instructed Moses to fashion a bronze serpent on a pole and to tell the people that whoever would look up at the pole would live. And that's what happened - some looked up and some didn't, but the snakes still swerved at their ankles.
I really relate to this grumble-heavy waywardness. After being saved from a tyrant and preserved in the wilderness, the Israelites doubt that God can/will provide for them, for their joy. To experience God's provision, the people had to obey His Word. The snakes stayed, but He saved those who believed His word because God is a promise keeper.
I wonder... I wonder how they talked about that snake-saving event - if later they said, "I am looking at the bronze serpent and I am not dying, but boy are there so many snakes around my ankles." Because, that's where I feel I am.
My pride keeps me from stepping into the light of joy because I really like to remember how hard it is with all these snakes. It's hard to fully step into the provision of marriage joy and work joy and friendship joy and creation joy... because half my heart wants to talk about snakes at my ankles.
The point of "God is on my side" is not that there is no one against me. The point is that God is sovereign over everything that is against me. There is not a single snake or emotion or creative brick wall that is more powerful or able to steal the joy God provides. If God is on my side, which snake can prevail?
I'd like to stand in that crack of the door filled with light - to make statements about joy that aren't quickly qualified by snakes at my ankles. I'd like to bring the grief and grumpiness of me into that shaft of light and believe that His light is enough to cast out all darkness forever.
Find all our grief notes at this link and join with my family as we mourn in hope.
I'm staring at a square box at the end of a grid of square boxes that says today we celebrate William being born. I've been staring at that box all day, in my mind. During all the lame office emergencies and in between the tip-tap typing of emails... Yes, I'll write those meeting notes for you, Ed. Sure, I'll create a new job number for that client. Ok, I'll have that little envelope sent by messenger. Everything is dust because I'm staring at a square box in my mind, a blank square box because William is not alive inside of it to be celebrated. And it feels wrong.
It is Tuesday and then it will be Wednesday and then Saturday will come and then more days after that. The days are drunk, blurring slurs with excuses about all the ways my body refuses to be productive.
I can't seem to make any progress on the list - that growing list of normal, important, useful things - because my body is all the meaning of the word "weight." And it is effort to pull it up, make it walk and talk and dance and think and smile. It is effort I don't have in me.
I am called to live.
It was the phrase repeating in my head to the question printed on the guide in my lap last week. We were meditating on Acts 3, on the way Peter and John fixed their gaze on the lame man and offered him something other than what he was begging for. The guide was asking us what we are to do with our eyes and hands and hearts in this city. I could only speak in my head, but it was just that phrase, "I am called to live."
I am not convinced I know what that means, but it feels important. And it mostly feels important by default. I still have breath. I'm here on the day my brother was born and I am breathing while he is not. So, it must be a calling. God formed me 29 years ago and has since not stopped breathing life into my bones. He is actively preserving me from death today, at least for right now. Maybe calling that a "calling" is wrong, but it is that phrase that keeps repeating.
Being back in Brooklyn reminds me how much breath there is here. So many humans and all with breath in their bones - so many folks with life happening to them because God is declaring it so. I don't know who is really living - it's hard to tell. I work with the moneymakers. They are happy sometimes and very unhappy other times, but they are always at the office. I live with my neighbors and my friends and all the subway riders. They have their good days and their bad days, but they (we, most of us) are always in a hurry. I wonder who is really living and who is confident to define "really living" anyway?
I want to be alive.
I don't mean I want to skydive and eat tarantulas. This calling that is happening to me and not happening to my brother feels bigger than extreme sport clichés. I don't want to feel alive with breath catching in my lungs like a bucket list.
I want the most core, purest essence, the singlest bottom line of all of it. I want to sidle up to the very breath of life - the slows and fasts and quiets and louds of it. I want every moment I am present to be as heavy as every moment he is absent. I want the same heaviness without any marketing or mottos or catchy repeating choruses.
We must be a wayward mess of our calling. I am, anyway. Because I can't catch the slows and fasts on the right beat. I can't seem to run to the right finish line. I can't pick up the right groceries for this calling. I've Amelia Bedelia-ed the whole thing - always flopping wild toward what I think is life in my apron with half-baked cookies. And we are a whole city of flopping, frenzied messes chasing life and breathing in just enough of it to flop and frenzy some more.
Life must be about getting close, like a nail under a hammer inside a board, to the One giving us all this breath. The steps are messier than chronology because days are like years and my brother is not here for his birthday. And if I was a beggar today by the entrance to the temple when Peter and John walked by, I would be asking for Will. I would have hands outstretched, asking for someone to bring him back to his wife and his family and his friends. And if Peter and John fixed their gaze on me, they'd probably say something like, "William I do not have, but what I do have I give to you..."
But Peter said, “I have no silver and gold, but what I do have I give to you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk!” And he took him by the right hand and raised him up, and immediately his feet and ankles were made strong. And leaping up he stood and began to walk, and entered the temple with them, walking and leaping and praising God. And all the people saw him walking and praising God, and recognized him as the one who sat at the Beautiful Gate of the temple, asking for alms. And they were filled with wonder and amazement at what had happened to him. (Acts 3:6-10 ESV)
I don't know what that means for my "calling," except that William will never come back. I'm not called to search for him. I know where he is, because he believed in eternity and he believed that Jesus prepared a place for him there by going to the cross. He is having the best birthday with the One who made him - all the mechanical brilliance and adventurous spunk of him. But, here, I am still breathing. I have a hole in my left, black sock and I haven't changed out of my Manhattan work clothes yet, but I am still breathing.
The closest I can think - the nail under the hammer in the board - is knowing that same Lord, the one who is deciding to give me breath. The rest of it is still suffering to make sense - the minutes in every day and the celebrations and the guilt when I get paralyzed. The rest, outside of knowing the God who gives me breath, still feels like a thousand faces staring at me on the subway.
I am called to live. And I'll start by trying to know the Life-Giver.
I have a place to start and that's something. As far as I know, I have a box inside a grid of boxes called October and I would like each one to prove that I am alive.
Find all our grief notes at this link and join with my family as we mourn in hope.
We are in a class called the Brooklyn Fellows and it meets on Mondays. Last winter, when we were applying to be a part of it, the whole "Mondays" thing was a big deal. It meant we could only host Pancake Mondays once/month. Cutting back on the "thing" that is making me love New York felt like a weird step forward, but we thought meeting with a group of folks who also voluntarily applied to something with a required reading list and syllabus was a good enough idea. This past weekend, we gathered with this group around a long table and before we started our discussion on a very thick Church History book (that neither Patrick nor I finished) we sang this song.
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This group of strangers and friends, this city, this body, this mountain, this sea, this grief, this joy, this song, this day, this sorrow, this job, this sunshine, and this.
This. All of this.
I know the sound of His sweet song of praise - the melody of rocks and trees and skies and seas. I can recognize the joyful tune that creation sings and I have often sung along. These are words believers sing - strong words that proclaim a funny paradox. None of this is mine. There is not a particle I can claim, of the beauty I see. Even my own body is not my own because it was bought with a price.
Still, I rush all my particles up against the gravity pushing me down to say, "Not my this. Please let this alone so I can hold it close!" That is when I feel the funny paradox the most. None of this is mine, not even the thoughts I hoard like jewels. But all of this He shares with me. That's a lot of this. And it just expanded more than the weight of the world in the last two and a half months.
... That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world, why should my heart be sad? The lord is King—let the heavens ring. God reigns—let the earth be glad.
This is my Father’s world. I walk a desert lone. In a bush ablaze to my wondering gaze God makes His glory known.
This is my Father’s world, a wanderer I may roam Whate’er my lot, it matters not, My heart is still at home.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done: Jesus who died shall be satisfied, And earth and Heav’n be one.
When this includes deserts and wrongs and sadness and battles on battles, the last lines of "My Father's World" become especially important. Jesus who died shall be satisfied, and earth and heav'n be one. The depth of this is infinitely deeper now because He includes us in His inheritance. Everything I can grasp and hold and hoard in this world pales to that union of earth and heaven becoming one.
But, what I am grappling with today is much more tangible, much more temporary and tactile. There is joy here, in all of this. God did not stop keeping promises when my world got full of grief. He did not stop being abundant life. God did not stop authoring laughter or dancing or sunshine or autumn breezes. He still authors all those things.
This world - all the beauty and all the ugly - is His and He will hear our groans until earth and Heav'n are one. Until then, I will sing, "God is the ruler yet."
Find all our grief notes at this link and join with my family as we mourn in hope.
fragile dust clouds, broken and crumbled parts floating, dancing, disappearing like dry mist into pale sky
out of it we came particles on top of particles, tiny pieces knit together when we got formed
I don't write much poetry anymore. Most poetry I do have reads like someone who wants to hear herself think in rhythms - seems so proud and silly now. But Patrick is encouraging me to weave words differently these days. He thinks it would help and he might be right - it might be the ambiguity that punctuated sentences cannot afford. I'll keep trying.
We felt the first breath of autumn Saturday and yesterday morning it swooped inside our open windows to wake us from Sunday slumber. I wish the seasons wouldn't change. I want this new absence to be as present as this moment - to always feel strange and wrong and deep. But the September sun is covering a new nook in the living room and I am reading with a cup of hot tea and a breeze around my neck. It's that push and pull again. All the wonderful things about September are now hard things, too.
That's my new favorite sun-bathing nook and the front of our new building and our bikes before we took them for a ride yesterday. We had no destination, but I knew we would be fools to not make one up. It's September, the month that ushers in the best season.
There are apple trees in upstate orchards and farmer's market Saturdays and favorite cardigans and pumpkin recipes for every meal. There are bike rides and football games and homemade versions of fancy hot drinks. There are these things in September and I don't want them as much as I do.
He was born in September, but just barely. September 30th.
Missing and remembering well is hard work, because it will never feel less wrong that he is gone. It will never get balanced out in a slow fade, especially never in September.
our bodies passing by like specks, caught by shafts of light at dusk, floating without consequence or weight.
I'll keep trying and writing and praying. September is a hard month, but it is also beautiful.
Find all our grief notes at this link and join with my family as we mourn in hope.
I press my cheeks into the clouds covering the Nebraska sky, “Come out, come out wherever You are! You promised You could be found!”
I keep coming back to Jeremiah 29. I memorized verse 11 in elementary and then rolled my eyes at the way it was thrown on calendars and desk organizers for high school graduation gifts, “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Plans for prospering and for hope and a future. Plans the Lord declares over us, even as He knows the number of our days. Plans and true words and nothing to roll my eyes about.
The next verses seem to me an encouragement toward belief when those plans don't make sense, “You will seek me and you will find me if you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you, declares the Lord.”
That means sometimes He will be hidden. And sometimes He will even be so hidden that we will only find Him if we seek Him with all our hearts, like finding Him is the most important thing.
And now I’m on my way to California, with my grief cheeks in the middle of Midwest clouds. And I need for that promise to be true. I need for Him to not stay hidden. I need for Him to be found and for me to be found in Him.
This is the flip side of "dying is gain," I guess. It's the "to live is Christ" part that is so hard to swallow. Heaven I can handle. I can look forward to eternity with the One who would stop at nothing to have me in His presence forever. I can picture days emptied of pain and full to overflowing with the Creator of everything good. Heaven I can handle. But I am not in heaven, I am here.
And God said there is abundant life, here.
When Jesus came to bring life and life abundant (John 10:10), it was with all the authority of heaven and it was not a hidden operation. Everyone who sought Him out was found by Him; everyone seeking abundance found more than they could carry.
Believing God made abundance available in these moments is the hardest game of hide and seek. But I have noticed that we are all seeking. We are all turning over rocks and looking in closets. We are looking for answers and knowing no answer will make sense.
So, I pray I would seek the right thing. I pray for belief that joy is here, that abundance is here, that life is here... because God has promised to not stay hidden from those who seek Him with all their hearts.
And He has promised to be the strength for me to seek when "all my heart" is a scattered mess that can't be made to wholly seek anything.
I wrote this on the plane to California yesterday. Less than 24 hours later and these thoughts feel so far away. But they are thoughts and I am typing them down because they are my grief notes and it might be helping. Find all our grief notes at this link and join with us as we mourn in hope.