So Much Sorrow, but With Hope

My Nanny is dying. I call my mother's mother "Nanny". I was twelve before I knew that a full time, paid childcare employee was called the same thing.

My oldest daughter is named after her. Margaret Sarah. Nanny's name is Sarah Lou. She had red hair most of my life and was the most competent woman who ever lived.

My grandfather made a habit of starting businesses, getting them stable, then moving on to the next thing. Nanny would run them and do the books until they sold the business. In this manner my grandfather made plenty of money, but he couldn't have done it without Nanny.

At one point when I was a kid, Nanny had my sister and I for the summer, took care of her elderly mother, taught Sunday School, grew a garden and ran a used car lot, a gas station and an electrical supply company.  She graduated from Samford when I was ten.

When they decided to plant a church,  before it was fashionable, Nanny kept the nursery every Sunday for years. Paw Paw would preach the sermon to her on the way.

Nanny always had a kiss for us, even if they were the wettest kisses on the planet. She always licked her lips first. She always kissed Paw paw the most though. She adored him until the Alzheimers stole him from her. They did everything together. Their rv saw almost every state in the continental United States. I can still picture her scratching his head and kissing his cheek. Or making him a sandwich that was half wrapped in a paper towel.

Nanny taught me how to be a wife. Never did a husband have a better, more dedicated help mate. He valued her opinion and sought it out. He recognized that his ministry to the poor was possible because of the dedication and servant's heart of his bride. He knew how to tease her to laughter when she took things too seriously.

I remember a million things about her. The way she would wash my feet before I went to sleep on clean sheets. The way she would keep calling my name until I remembered to say, "ma'am?" The crunch of her homemade pickles and the gag factor of her sweet n low tea. The funny noise her nose made when she sniffed and the sound of her voice singing while she worked. The smile on her face when she saw me. Her favorite flowers planted in the front garden.

I will miss my Nanny. I'm sad that my children never experienced her the way I did. But I know that she's ready. She is ready for heaven and to see her Savior. She's ready to see her husband and her daughter and her parents. She's ready, but I am not.

I will miss her terribly.

Sainsbury's

There's something very different about seeing a place in pictures and going to that place in person. The first time I went to Culcheth, England I wanted to see everything, memorize everything. I paid attention to street names and businesses. I looked at maps and absorbed all I could. ... I did this because one of my best friends was moving there. I wanted to have a picture in my mind when she told me about her day.

"We went to the Cherry Tree for Sunday roast." - I can picture it in my mind. I know where the bathrooms are and what the paintings look like.

"I met a lady in the check out lane at the grocery store." I know where the cereal aisle is and where to find the cheese section. I remember the smell of it.

I can navigate in my mind's eye from the pitch to where the new Quench Cafe sits. I know where my friend Sue's guest toilet is located in her house and what her banafe pie tastes like and where she keeps the plates in her kitchen.

All of these things make England a real place to me. When I think of England, I have memories, not knowledge.

So many preach brokenness and for a long long time I really, truly thought I understood them. I KNEW that I was broken and couldn't save myself. I KNEW I needed a savior. I KNEW God was ever present. I'd seen the photos, read the verses. I knew and trusted to the best of my ability.

Then God showed me himself and all my gift packages and strengths and strategies melted before him. My heart trembled out of terror at my inability. I couldn't pray, only plead. I couldn't minister, only show up. I looked at all my hard work and realized it didn't matter a bit; it wasn't sufficient. It couldn't save anyone, myself included. I felt desperation. A desperation for God, for his presence, for his breath on my face.

When I hear someone speak of brokenness now, it is a memory, a present reality that I plead never goes away.

My complete lack of ability takes me so close to the very throne of God that I can feel his whisper in my ear. He doesn't need my strengths, his are better and stronger and infinite. He doesn't need me to plant a church; it's his bride and he pursues her with a zeal I cannot imagine. He doesn't expect me to be him. He is enough in himself.

I pray that when I feel pretty good about myself, when I think I have something great to offer that is not HIM, I pray that I will remember the smell, the images, the street signs of that blessed brokenness when I had nothing but him and he was more than enough.

"But my grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in your weakness."

February

"This is February, month of Valentine's Day and the beginning of spring in Ireland. It's supposed to be a month of love and new beginnings, but I've been struggling- especially in the last few days- with how small and cold my heart can be, and how little change seems to be happening in my life. Looking inward, there's not a lot of hope I can see. But God has made me a crazy promise that I am "competent to minister" (2 Corinthians 3:6) through a Spirit that breathes life into the most unlikely places.  When He lifts my eyes to that promise, I see how His Kingdom moves inexorably forward in my most flawed and clumsy efforts. The hope in that is inexhaustible."   -Laura Carmel Palmer

After a day of utter failure at every thing I've touched, this short devotional really resonates with me. It's been a day of failing at motherhood, friendship, homemaking, work ... You name it, I've failed at it.

In addition to these failures is the stark pain and suffering. There is death on every side. Cancer. Alzheimer's. Abortion. The suffering of racism and hatred. The pains of addiction. The destruction of marriages. Atheism expressed in overt anger... All of these things in one single,  exhausting, miserable day.

Like the writer above, I look inside and don't see much hope. I am woefully, horrifyingly incompetent. Nothing I seem to do works. Like the writer, I lift my eyes up to the promise, desperate for some kind of reassurance, and find the countenance of a loving Father who is making all things right, in spite of my clumsy efforts. His Kingdom knows no end.

There is an overflowing abundance of hope in the smiling face of the God who loves me.

HE CAME!

As I sit here in my bed at 6am, after a completely inadequate 6 hours of sleep, my mind is working hard. I just dosed Maggie within an inch of her life. She has a terrible cold. As I was gathering her medicine, Gracie came strolling in, followed by my Dad. When I peeked in Maggie's door, she was awake and watching a movie.

I'm not sure where to start this post. I have so much in my mind. Christmas, depression, grief, death, parenting...

Bill died just one short month ago. His loss is terribly fresh. So fresh, in fact, that it still seems a little unreal. I wonder if other people feel exactly as I do this morning. There is a fierce desire for Christmas to be uninterrupted, for it to continue on exactly as it has been. But that is impossible. One of us is not here. His loss is a tear in the very fabric of our existence. It has changed us.

I have four children. One is experiencing depression for the first time. One, who is normally stoic, is weepy and emotional. One is feeling bouts of protectiveness that give rise to sleepless nights and restlessness. One is fixated and terrified of every other person they love dying.

Merry Christmas to us.

Well, we can find comfort in our traditions, right? No, those aren't happening. I won't go into it, but the change puts a spotlight directly on the loss. Every one of my kids has felt a fresh wave of loss in the last twelve hours. My gut reaction to the ones causing the change is hurt, layered with anger. But everyone grieves differently and I am called to forgive and blah blah blah.

...

On the other side of my heart, it feels like, is the realization that Christmas has never really captured my heart. Sure, I've always said the right thing. I've read Luke 2 on the morning of, always with a little impatience if I'm going to be completely honest. Why has it never captured me? Why is my heart hard? I have prayed for God to reveal this to me.

...

I woke up to the Holy Spirit at work. It feels like he's taken a big whisk and begun stirring my heart with hard, beating strokes. Or like when I had second and third degree burns on my legs and the treatment required scrubbing them with a rough cloth and peeling the damaged skin away. The skin underneath is raw and inflamed and longs to scab over and be left alone. But for them to heal, they had to be disturbed and then soothed with the cooling antibiotic ointment.

The Gospel is my ointment this morning.

For me, the beauty of Christmas has always been in the comfort, smiles and joy, but this year, God brought me death. I want the ease and comfort, but God brought me the uncomfortable Truth of the Incarnation. Christ came, in the form of man, to accomplish salvation for a needy, fearful, weepy, depressed, depraved people... my family.

That sweet, innocent baby.. who I always pictured as in a nativity scene, maybe sucking on his fist and looking wide-eyed up at the shepherds... came to be tortured, tested, beaten and bruised, for me. He came. HE CAME. He was God, he was perfectly content, but he came. For me. For Bill. For my family. He came.

My heart aches for a different reason. Tears roll down my cheeks for a different reason.

HE CAME. He showed up. He entered in.

Death and sin abounded. But he came. He would go on to conquer death and pay for sin.

Christmas is not about this tiny baby who looked so cute in his feeding trough. The shepherds got it. The wise men understood.

There is no hope apart from Him. There is no comfort. There is no beauty. There is no eternal smile. There is no joy. This baby was The WORD. He was God. He was very God of very God. He was... the sacrifice.

My heart is captured. Dazzled. Devastated in a totally new and blinding way. I weep in gratitude. I weep in sorrow for my loss. I long for heaven and for my faith to be sight.

I have seen a glimpse of His glory this morning.

"The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin..."

At this moment, I don't even care about all the pretty gifts under the tree or the food in the crock pot. I want to sit and bask in the transcendent beauty that is my merciful and loving God... He came. For me. For you.

He came.

I pray that this truth, this hope, this cataclysmic event with capture your heart as it has mine. If it never has, ask him to show you His glory as Moses did, as I did last night. Beg for it until He does.

My Grief Letter

Well, he's gone. We were there with him at the end of all things, but that doesn't change the fact that he's gone.

My heart is broken. Simply aching with grief.

I know, I KNOW that he is heaven with Jesus. I know that he is healed. I know that he is whole and happy. I know God has a plan. I KNOW!

But what people don't seem to comprehend is that he. is. gone. He's not here anymore. He can't read his paper every morning and do his Sudoku. He's not here to cut out interesting and well-timed articles and the leave them on the corner of the kitchen table for me. He's not here to share a tidbit of wisdom about vikings or the civil rights movement or the scripture that says not to get tattoos. He's not here. He can't argue with me or turn his cheek up for me to kiss or tell me that I'm doing a good job. He's not here. And my heart is broken.

So, when someone tries to comfort me by telling me about Bill's present reality, they miss the point. I'm not grieving on Bill's behalf; I grieve for me. For my husband and my children and my wonderful mom-in-law and my brother-in-law. I grieve for all the people who knew him and will feel his loss.

I don't know how to accept the absence of his presence.

So...

Tell me you love me. Or that you loved him (if you knew him). Tell me you're sad for me or that you wish you could make it better. Or just hug me.

But don't tell me things that mistake my grief for unbelief. Don't tell me that he wouldn't want me to cry or that he's in a better place. Don't tell me how happy he is... in this moment, my heart is too tender and too raw.

 



I love you guys. I know people love with cakes, pies, meat trays and croissants. I eat them and am grateful. I know you hurt with us. I feel your prayers. And I am so, so, so thankful.

This season will pass. God will bring healing and my heart will not be so raw. God is very good that way. His mercy is new every morning.

Come, Lord Jesus

Ten Things on My Mind Today:

1. Just when my faith is low, God sends His love to me in a tangible way through His people.

2. Grief makes me feel like no one really understands how important Bill is to me. He has been a true second father to me. He has raised my husband with such love and faithfulness. He has always been so solidly present, foundational. How can my heart accept his absence? I cannot force my mind to imagine it.

3. Joy and sorrow can co-exist. My life is living proof.

4. Proverbs 27:6 says, "Faithful are the wounds of a friend..." This is how I think of my friend Amber. God always gives her the words to say. She says them even though they cut me to the quick, but they come from such a loving place inside her that I can't be offended. I could give so many examples of this, but I'll just give one. I was mad about something one time, a long time ago. I was mouthing off about it and she finally looked at me and said, "Are you listening to yourself? Wow." In that moment, the Holy Spirit showed me my sin and boom, I was humbled unto repentance. I am thankful for her friendship.

5. Living in the house with someone who is waiting to die is a horrible and humbling thing. Every noise, every interaction, every smile is profound. Every moment is significant.

6. Comforting my husband is something only I can truly do. Others can hug him or speak the same words, but when I do it, he sorta melts into it.  And vice versa.

7. I am not good at sharing the gospel with selfish people when I am in the depths of grief. At all. I think I need to apologize to someone.

8. I am so thankful for my sister. She's got my kids and I know that they're being loved and taken care of the way I would do it. She's homeschooling them and feeding them and making sure all the rest is done. I am thankful she lives so close and loves so well.

9. I am thankful for my Christian family. All of them. Our home church in Moody and our congregation in Springville, plus my believing friends who don't go to my church. They are loving us well, bringing meals and sending prayers up to the Father. They are sending me verses of encouragement. They are feeding my cat and dog and cleaning out my nasty fridge to make room for the food that is coming. They are comforting my children. They are setting up my booth at By Hand Boutique and selling all the things the girls and I have worked so hard to make. I am blessed in a thousand ways.

10. I talked to Brad tonight. He reminded me of eternity. Ecclesiastes 3:10 says, "He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end." God has put eternity into our hearts but that doesn't mean he explains everything to us fully. I am reminded that this life I live is not all there is. There is more, a much bigger "more" that is unending. This eternity is WHY I lay down my life. It is why I follow Christ. It is why I do everything I do. There is more... it is a "more" with no tears, no pain, no goodbyes, no sorrow, no death. It is where Christ will be the very light by which we walk. It is where we will hold hands with our favorite person for ten thousand years and sing in harmony, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come."

Come, Lord Jesus.

My Sin Is Ever Before Me

Sometimes my sin overwhelms me. As King David lamented, "My sin is ever before me!" so I lament over my sin. As the Apostle Paul, cried out in frustration "The things I don't want to do I keep on doing and the things I want to do, these I don't do..." so I cry out.

Sometimes my sin is like a sleeping dragon. I tiptoe around it, manage it, assuage it and it seems to stay under control. I smell it's stench, but if I hold my breath...

Sometimes my sin is like a stalker, peeping in my windows and pursuing me relentlessly, turning all my vegetable cans the same direction to freak me out. (that's a Sleeping with the Enemy reference, btw)

Sometimes my sin takes the form of a beautiful, helpful, shiny new toy. It will fix things. It will help me. It will be my precious.

Sometimes it's like a dead body tied to my back. Think on that image presented at the end of Romans 7 for a second. The older, "more holy" I become, the more real that dead body becomes to me.

Sometimes my sin is like a freaking ninja that whips out a dagger and a samurai sword and fights me until I'm bone-tired and frustrated. And so I cry out.

I cry out, "Who will rescue me from this body of death?!?!?" I am sickened by my sin. By my lack of faith. By the nagging sense of hopelessness. By my frustration with myself for not being God. I am sickened and exhausted by my fear and my desire for my idols.

I used to despise the Israelites for their weakness. How could they see the fire by night and the smoke by day and still doubt? How, oh HOW, could they look to the top of the mountain, see the lightning, hear the thunder, feel the earthquakes and build a golden calf? How could they be so stupid? So blind? So... like me?

The closer I get to God, the more unmanagable I realize He is. His holiness bewilders me and my flesh cries out for something easier. Something more comfortable, more on my level. I do stupid things that accomplish nothing except to take my eyes of God. He overwhelms me and terrifies me and I forget...

"Do not be afraid."

"I will be their God and they will be my people."

"Fear not, O Zion; let not your hands grow weak. The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing."

"I am yours; save me."

Sometimes repentance is hard and grace feels cheap. Sometimes it feels like to repent AGAIN is to cheapen the Cross, when in reality, it proves the vastness of Christ's provision. How can He forgive me again?

How? Because He is beautiful
...and merciful
...and gracious
...and faithful
...and forgiving
...and loving
...and good

He is God and He is mine and I am His.

Then, finally, I cry out for fogiveness and mercy. I throw myself in His lap and weep.

And I find relief and rescue.

I Lead a Small Life

"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, dear void."

That is a a quote from one of my most favorite writers, Nora Ephron. It's a line from You've Got Mail. I love that quote. I identify with that quote.

I grew up wanting to live this enormous existence. I wanted my furniture to one day be in a museum. I remember having that thought when I was about ten years old. Instead, I lead a small life. Valuable but small. I have made no global impact. I haven't revolutionized the way people live. I haven't opened a continent for the gospel.

My life is small. I live in a tiny little town in the countryside of Alabama. My children walk to the park when I'm working. Our only mall is a small antique store. Little league football is the major sport in town. I attend a church with right at fifty attendees. I plant flowers in my yard and visit my in-laws weekly. I use a crock-pot with religious fervor. I write stories that hardly anyone reads. My life is small.

Valuable, but small. I may not impact many people but I do have an impact. What I do is of worth. I teach my children. I serve my small community. I worship God and speak the gospel. I attempt to truly love people for God's sake. I make myself available to his kingdom work. Valuable.

In times past, I thought my life was insignificant. That's just not so. Small is not the same as insignificant. My life has meaning and it's meaning surpasses anything I could have dreamt up on my own. As a child, I wanted a life that would bring me glory. Now I see the vanity and shallowness in that. How much better a life that brings glory to an eternal Creator Sustainer God?

The last part of the Nora Ephron quote is not true of my life like the first part is. I almost didn't include it in this post but I think it's worth noting.

Bravery is doing something even though it may or may not turn out the way you hope it will. I think it takes bravery and enormous faith to live your small life and live it well. Maybe things won't turn out like you want them to. Maybe no one will ever notice the sacrifices you've made, the sleepless nights, the hobbies put on hold, the grace extended over and over and over again. Maybe you will never see the impact of your small life. Maybe your life only ever touches a handful of people.

But isn't that enough? Can't God take that contact, small though it may be, and use it for eternity? Sometimes being brave is putting your Self to death and walking the humble path laid before you.

There are those painfully beautiful moments of Shalom. Moments when I catch a glimpse of the working out of a much bigger plan. When I realize that my smallness is part of a vast hugeness that brings everything to completion and perfection. Then peace comes flooding in and guards my heart against the feelings of insignificance and doubt.

I lead a small life- well, valuable, but small - ... and I live it with all the heart and energy and deliberation that I can. No life lived in Christ is truly small.

Naps, Writing and Remembering

I'm trying to get acclimated to my new school schedule. Instead of going to the gym at 7:30, I go at 6:30. This gets me home in time to wake the kids up at 8, take a shower while they're eating and dressing and then start school by 8:30. But man! I'm having a hard time adjusting.

Yesterday morning, the Davis fam came for breakfast. We skipped school for the day. We homeschool; we can do that. We had a great visit with them, as usual. They are really some of our favorite people. They're just starting their support raising journey. It's very daunting. I cannot imagine. Wow. If you're reading this, you should send them some money. Or start supporting them. I'm serious. You won't be sorry.

When they left, Tilly and I hung out for a while. I cleaned the kitchen, started my grocery list, then almost fell asleep sitting at the table. Chris suggested a nap, since we were driving to Oneonta to eat with our new friends, the Clarks.

I stumbled into bed, covered up and forced my mind to shush. Then Chris sat on the foot of the bed and played the guitar. He played me to sleep. Death Cab for Cutie's Follow You was playing when I finally drifted off. Can you imagine anything lovelier? I can't.

I slept for an hour and woke up with a scene from a new story fresh and vivid in my mind. I was a complete grump until I could get it written. I had to apologize to my family.

Sometimes writing makes my inner life difficult. I love it and the scenes, many times, just paint themselves on the front of my mind and will not be stored until a more convenient time. But store them I do. I cannot sit for hours and hours, whenever I feel the urge, and write. I have too many demands on my time.

But when I do get the chance, it is... magical. What is being written is not all that great, but the feeling of doing it, of imagining it, then twisting it, molding it, questioning it, THAT is magical. I just have to remember to hold all things loosely. To not let it get in the way of loving my children and husband, or laying down my life for the kingdom. It is a beautiful thing, but it is not a first thing.

Today I taught my children. I cleaned my kitchen. I cooked supper. I took another nap. I cleaned my room. I planned my menu for the next two weeks. I worked on lesson plans. I answered emails. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get to write. But someone's calling me, so it won't be right now...

Aloneness

I've been by myself for two days. Well, mostly by myself. Maggie has been in and out. (I should clarify that "by myself" in this instance does not include Chris, although he has been sleeping.) This was not a planned aloneness like last week's school-planning-marathon. Nope, this was a people-like-my-kids-and-want-to-have-them-over kinda thing. I had no grand plans to accomplish great things. I was taken off guard actually. And I may have just squandered my time.

I'm taking myself off sugar with a primary focus on NO high fructose corn syrup. Needless to say, I'm a little sleepy.

My kids are home now. They've had showers and supper and they're in their rooms watching movies on their devices. I missed them when they were gone. John asked me a couple of weeks ago what I was going to do with myself when my kids were all grown up. If this week is any indication, I'll wander aimlessly around my house...

Part of Marriage is...

Part of married life is reassurance. It's reassuring one another that it will all be okay in the end. The money will work out. The opportunities will show up. The hard work will one day be worth it. The kids will understand. The yard will eventually get cut. The dreams will either fade away or God will provide a way.

Part of married life is not taking it personally. It's not taking the other's insecurities as lack of faith in you. It's remembering that they really do love you as much as you love them. It's being patient when they need a little more of you right now. It's kissing them fifteen extra times just to stay connected.

Part of married life is being laid low. It's giving your dreams time to simmer while the other pursues their own. It's repeating yourself for the third time when you hate repetition. It's smiling and remembering how much they need you. It's patience.

Part of marriage is comforting each other when you both feel forgotten. It's letting your own faith be the kick-stand that keeps the other from falling over when their faith is weak. It's holding hands and pressing on.

My great grandmother told me that marriage is never 50/50, could never be. Marriage is when each person gives one hundred percent. Only then can marriage be beautiful. Part of marriage is giving when you don't want to, when you don't have it in you. It's holding tighter and fighting harder when you want to give up.

Marriage is whispering in the dead of night. It's hugs in the pantry. It's holding hands at the grocery store. It's pivotal conversations spoken through shower curtains while he's getting ready for work. It's reassurance that the kids know the really important things that we hope we've taught them. It's kisses that hold long enough to exchange a breath. It's optimism taken in turns.

Marriage is a marathon. It's a long, breath-stealing, muscle-burning race. It's being part of something more that yourself. It's sharing oneness with this other person who wants to be your favorite person, who is your favorite person.

Marriage is nothing like I thought it would be. It's much harder, much more interesting. What started out as an adrenaline rush has turned into a cathartic rhythm of life. It's continually morphing into this friendship that cannot be explained. There is no need for explanation. The only person who needs to understand is walking, sometimes limping, it with me.

Attempting to Discern My Own Heart or We Love Company

Be forewarned, this might be a bit of a ramble. My thoughts are disorganized and yet concrete. I know what I mean, what I feel, but can't seem to put it all in order. Several spiritual strings have ends that almost touch and connect in my mind, but I can't tell what goes with what.

I know that people do not understand (or is it comprehend?) the way my family lives. We love being together but we don't crave alone time. We speak openly with each other, argue, laugh, make inside jokes, confess sins... but we don't require those things to be done in the privacy of our immediate family.

Our house, especially in summer, is rarely filled with only Sharps. We have kids coming in and out, most of them staying multiple nights, even weeks, at a time. Our grocery budget is ridiculous.

When our beloved friend, Jevon, stayed with us for 6 weeks this summer, I had no less than 5 people comment that we must be looking forward to getting our house back to normal. They assumed it had been a hard adjustment and that we had somehow changed our lifestyle while he was here. And while to a small degree, that is true, (we ate out a lot more) our home life stayed basically the same. They had no way of knowing the heartbreak that we felt to have to say goodbye. We would have gladly let him stay as long as he wanted.

This week we have had... let me count... Abby, Kaylin, John, Frankie, and Steven... so, 5 kids staying with us off and on. We have had silly talks, deep introspection, and angsty conversations. Last night as I was sitting in bed reading, I ended up with 4 girls piled on my bed talking about what God is teaching them. That's pretty stinkin' awesome. There are limits though. My house is small so I draw the line at 8 extra. Twelve kids is too many for a house this size.

I don't know why Chris and I love it so much. I just know we do. When Chris walks in the kitchen and sees an extra kid, his face lights up. Right this minute, as I type this, Ty and John are laid out on the sofas talking to me. I love it.

I'm trying to figure out why we are the way we are. I didn't grow up this way. Chris didn't either. We learned hospitality and transparency from a family who invested in us. They invited us over, took us on vacation, put us to work and just lived before us. It was life changing.

So, after writing all this down, I think there are three strings here. One, hospitality. Two, we are the same whether we're around people or not. Three, absolute gratitude for the house God provided.

Hmmm... I still feel that I've not fully fleshed out what I feel. That may be because I have 6 kids who keep coming in and out, talking to me. I can't keep a train of thought.

But, the point is, if I invite you or your child to come stay with us, I mean it. We love company.

A Week in the Life...

This week has been a bit crazy. My emotions are all over the place.

On the bad side of the scales:
1. A sweet 6yo local boy died this week after a long battle with brain cancer. We sat on Highway 11 yesterday and watched his funeral procession pass. This morning on Facebook, I reviewed all the pictures from the family's long journey and wept. Little Thomas J's casket was transported to the cemetery on a fire truck.

2. Yesterday my Dad's first cousin died. Alan was injured at his birth and spent the rest of his life with the mental capacity of a one year old. His mother, my great aunt Doris, died a few months ago. I remember when I was a teenager and Alan was in his thirties, I would sit and play "This Little Piggie" with his toes. He laughed every time. Alan was being transported from his group home to a routine doctor's appointment when, for some reason, the transport van left the roadway and hit a tree head-on. Alan died instantly.

3. I haven't seen my Dad-in-law in a week. He's been in a lot of pain and hasn't wanted visitors. I miss him. I hate knowing he's hurting.

4. I've gotten emails and calls this week from several friends asking for prayer for their children. Everything from drug use to school problems to rebellion. Some of the kids I know and some I don't, but their parents' heartbreak is real and profound and easily felt. I hurt for them, for their children and then fear for my own children's hearts.

These things are from the past week; in the past month I've held a friend whose son committed suicide. I've cried with a friend whose husband is struggling at work. I've listened to my own child struggle to understand why a supposed friend would try so hard to be hurtful. This kind of pain lingers in my heart, making me tender and raw.

But...

On the beautiful side of things...
1. Gracie got to go on her first Youth trip, a truly momentous occasion. She agonized over each and every outfit, folding and unfolding, repacking and rethinking. We bought her first floppy beach hat. We discussed boys and difficult friendships, doctrine and fear. I adore seeing my kids grow up and taking their first real steps to adulthood.

2. Jevon is here. We met him in England back in 2009 when he was just sixteen. He was our unofficial tour guide and sidekick. We kept in touch a bit, then on our second trip in 2011, a full-blown family connection bloomed. We have Skyped (the best use of technology ever!) and Facebooked and kept in touch. He is currently sitting at my dining room table watching tennis on his Mac and chatting with me.

3. Our friends took us to an Atlanta Braves game after we picked Jev up from the airport. It was really, really fun. Or as Jevon says, "proper fun". He had his first corn dog and enjoyed it. We took lots of pictures and laughed a lot!

4. We've gotten to eat out several times, which if you know us is kind of a big deal. Chick-fil-a, Charlie's, Wal-Mart deli, Del Sol. Yeah, that's a big deal.

5. Chris was off this week. I got to hold his hand and sit beside him and talk to him all week. *le sigh

6. Emma has come over and that always makes me happy. She is so open about her feelings, struggles, sins, victories, etc. It can hurt to see her hurt, but she is a gift.

7. John Ponder spent most of the week with us. I love that boy.

8.Gracie came home from the beach. Oh how I missed her!!!


As you can see, this week was full of ups and downs. I have wept and laughed, cheered and grumbled, struggled and exulted. When I said that to Jevon, he said, "Well that's real life now, isn't it?" So true. God has been good this week.

The Lord gives. The Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

My Current Thoughts on Motherhood

I woke up this morning thinking about Mother's Day, no specifics, just an awareness. I got on Facebook and post after post after post of people telling their mothers how wonderful they are and how they learned everything they know from their wonderful mothers.

I love my mother and sometimes I miss her dreadfully. When I miss her, it is always with the disclaimer: *but not the person she was when she died, but who she was when I was young*. My mother died of mental illness. Reader's Digest asked people to submit a 6 word tribute to their mother. Mine?

Good intentions. Mental illness. Mercy. Missed.

She did the best she could. There is grace for the rest.

It took me a few minutes of reflection to be able to put my mother to rest again. I remembered something a faithful friend said to me a few years ago. He listened to my mother-fears and pointed out that my children have a very different childhood than my own. This is so beautifully true. The poverty, mental illnesses, divorce, anger, etc are far removed from my children. I, on the other hand, am still close enough to smell it and hear it. This leads to my fear.

I sat on the side of my bed this morning and thought of my kids still sleeping soundly in their beds. I thought about their lives and their growing knowledge of the Cross. They see sin and sorrow, death and pain, but they have a different filter than I did.

When I entered high school, it had become childish and a "waste of my potential" to want to be a wife and mother. In 11th grade, my school offered a job fair and we had to declare "what we wanted to be when we grew up". Motherhood and marriage wasn't on the list. I had to choose something else. I chose physical therapy or teaching, but deep in my heart, I just wanted to be a homemaker. I kept it quiet though, on the down low. I'm a people pleaser.

I have a friend I knew when I was in high school. She knew everything about me. Recently, after a divorce and a death, we stood in the cemetery and cried together. She had many regrets. As we stood weeping together, she looked at me and said, "Please tell me you don't take your life for granted. You have everything you ever wanted. That is so rare, Crissy. Be thankful and don't take it for granted. Promise me." I promised.

This morning, I stood in my hallway and listened to my kids' silence and kept that promise. Mother's Day is not about celebrating my mother but forgiving her and knowing that she tried. Mother's Day is remembering to savor the fact that I have everything I ever wanted and more. I should get my husband and children gifts on this day, not the other way around.




I asked my kids to complete the six word tribute. Here are their results.

Wise. Loving. Strong. Excited. Funny. Ridiculous.

She's a loving but annoying mother. (haha Ty.)

Loving. Sarcastic. Smart. Pretty. Crazy. Creative.

There aren't words to describe her.

She's got a really great personality. (yes, Maggie was being funny)


Then I asked them, "What is the one sentence that I say the most?"

I love you.

Be quiet! Your dad is sleeping.

TY!!!!!!

Jeremiah 1:7

We had the most amazing prayer time tonight at church. Every other week, we meet in the evening to eat together and pray. We pray first. Tonight Rick asked Ty to open. I could tell it made him a little uncomfortable but I think he's used to it. Rick, and all the other men at the church, don't treat him as if he's just a kid or a "youth". They treat him like a fellow member, a peer of sorts. They involve him in conversations and let him have input. Most of the time he sits and listens. He plays with the other boys, the ones closer to his age. He plays with the little ones. Jack (age 4) especially adores him.

Two years ago, Ty prayed every night for God to bring a boy his age to Springville church. We prayed with him. I saw how much he missed his friends from Moody. I saw him grow more and more disheartened. Then I saw him give up. One year ago, Ty hated Springville. He was angry with God.

I saw something amazing happen though. I saw my son become part of a church. Not part of a youth group or part of a Bible study for people his age, but part of a church - as a whole. It took some time, a detox in a way. He was so accustomed to being consigned to his peers that he didn't realize he was part of a bigger body.

Tonight, Ty prayed not just the one time to open, but a total of three times. Maggie prayed. Gracie prayed. Three of the other kids prayed as well. Ty's prayer was not for people his own age, as he used to pray, but for "other Christians" who didn't have what he has. Who didn't have a church family... those were his words, a "church family that will love them."

I can recount a similar series of events for Maggie.

A couple of months ago my teenagers sat at the kitchen table and tearfully expressed gratitude. They love being part of a whole. There is something to be said for not having a traditional youth group. There is such a benefit in my teenaged daughter sitting in women's Bible study and learning, from watching and listening, how to be a godly woman. There is such benefit in my teenaged son working side by side with godly men who teach him, not just how to install siding, but how to live out the gospel.

I see so many youth who depend solely on their peers for spiritual support, who go to churches with sketchy theology just because they have good programs for kids their age. I promise, I am not anti-youth group. I think Stokes does a great job. But I think sometimes we, as communing adults, take it too far. We allow the presence of a paid youth worker to relieve us of the privilege of coming along side younger believers and investing in their lives.

Maybe I'm just expressing my own experiences. Maybe God has just been particularly gracious to my church planting children. Maybe we can have it both ways, I don't know. What I do know is that my children are growing and flourishing and really happy. Happier than I've ever seen them. They're not more comfortable. In fact, they feel more pain in the form of compassion and sorrow. They are, however, content and more aware of their place in a whole, as opposed to seeking their own pleasure.

Teaching our youth to have a kingdom mindset and heart for the lost requires them to know their place in the Kingdom. It requires them to know the rest of the body. What good is it to teach them how to resist peer pressure if they're not given a greater affection? What benefit is it to teach them how to relate to others if they're never around people who are different than themselves (in age, experience and struggle)? My children are part of the Body of Christ. They needed to know that. They need their covenant aunts, uncles, grandparents, and yes, peers. They need time together with people their own age, but they also need all of us.

Calm the Heck Down!

School is almost over for the year and I find myself evaluating and assessing. I've posted two posts today on the homeschool blog. In thinking back over my adult life, I realized I'm a lot more settled and patient about things than I used to be. I remember when the thoughts of a schedule made me feel hopeless.

I don't know why I was in such a hurry. I couldn't be bothered to let the kids agonize over a project; I wanted to take over and help them. Meaning, I would do it for them. Why?!? I look back now and wonder at myself. Why couldn't I let them spend an hour writing out a letter? What was the big deal? It offended my sense of efficiency, I think. I'm all about doing things in the least amount of time with the least amount of effort. I still am, I suppose. Now, I realize that there's just NO rush. So the task takes me extra time, big deal. I'm not headed off to something better.

When I was younger, I was all about things having meaning and significance. Maggie stacking all her blocks just so before bedtime interfered. That was meaningless. Purposeless. Without point. She should be rushing through that and getting on with things. I yelled at my kids when they were little because they took way to long to get things done. They walked when they should run. They stopped to organize bugs when we were LATE! Hurry up! My children didn't conform.

I see myself still doing those things, but I am much more mindful of them now. I've learned to let go of the things that really, really don't matter. If they want to spend three hours cleaning a room that should only take ten minutes, why get mad about it? If I give them a time frame (you have to be done with showers by 8:30) and they don't follow the time frame, they just don't get to do it. I don't have to take it as a personal attack; they just aren't allowed to shower. If they want to sleep late, they won't make me late, they'll just have to get in the van without breakfast.

One big thing I've noticed about myself also, I manage my time much better than I used to. I remember thinking it shouldn't take me that long to get FOUR kids out the door and into the van. Really?!? What was I thinking? It takes twice as long. ... but that's inefficient, my idol cried! Whatever. Give up. Quit fighting it. It takes twice as long. And laundry is twice (or four to the fifth power) as much. And sleep is interrupted. And dinner happens every. single. night.

Why did I rage against reality? Why did my life, the life I had chosen, offend me so much? Why was I so selfish? I wish I could have known then what I know now: the life God gave me has significance, eternal significance. The green beans, dirty toilets, graded papers, power bills, and vacations have eternal significance and meaning. They do because God says they do. My life, my small little life, has eternal meaning. That makes me smile and take a breath.

The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

Oh, the lengths my children will go to in order to not wash a dish.

They will:
A.) Go hungry.
B.) Eat soup/ice cream with a fork
C.) Use a serving utensil that will not fit into their mouths
D.)Plead and give me puppy eyes, wanting me to wash something for them
E.) Eat something they don't like, instead of what they do like

When I say, "Wash the dish/spoon/fork!" They usually just respond with "nevermind" or "this is fine, really" or *heavy sigh*.

Good grief. They know how to do the dishes; it's part of their chores. Lazy, lazy, lazy children.

Random Thoughts for April

Random thoughts of the day:

1. I abhor cold sores. Pure, unadulterated hatred. My face hurts! My teeth hurt! My head hurts. I have a low grade fever and want to crawl into bed. Blech.

2. I like cooking with Gracie. I like just being around Gracie. She's cool.

3. Our little church is such a blessing to me. Home really is where the Gospel is.

4. Socks are stupid. Folding socks is even stupid-er. Maybe even the stupidest thing ever.

5. My tears are inextricably entwined with my husband's tears. When he weeps, I weep. When his heart breaks, my heart breaks. Oh, how I love that man.

6. I don't like this whole "sorry mom, I have a job and friends and I'm gone all the time now 'cause I'm almost grown up" thing that Maggie has going on. I miss her.

7. Bright blue nail polish on my fingernails distracts me when I'm talking with my hands. I have to remove it.

8. In 3 days, I will turn 40. That's all I have to say about that, at this time. *hmmph*

Beauty and Sorrow

How can one life contain so much joy and pain simultaneously?

I published my first book to Kindle this weekend. Imagine! Put it out there for anyone to see. Something that is specifically mine, from my one imagination and thoughts, available for purchase. My mother would be bursting with excitement and pride. My heart is happy with unexpected contentment.

My mom-in-law called this afternoon. The biopsy results for my dad-in-law came back today. His tumors are malignant. He has multiple tumors on his pancreas and liver. His life expectancy is so short. One day, in the near future, this wonderful, amazing, stubborn man will be gone from us. I can literally feel my heart breaking.

How can these two feelings be co-existing within me? How can I bear up under them?

I think about my writing and I feel a sense of belonging and purpose. I feel joy and excitement.

I think about my father-in-law and I also feel a sense of belonging. He has always loved me like his own child and I, in turn, love him right back. He doesn't hold back. If he's mad, he yells. If he's happy, he claps and laughs. If he's amazed, his eyebrows are high and his smile is huge. If he disagrees, he argues, usually now in the form of buzzing his servox in your face until you give up.

He is the very heartbeat  of the Sharp family. He may not participate in all the activites like he used to do, but he is there, behind it all, thumping steadily along. He has a steadiness, a faithfulness to him. He kisses me on the cheek everytime I see him. He is just the loveliest man. Every day, my husband (his oldest son) becomes a little more like him: stubborn, persistant, strong, wise. I could definitely do worse.

Happiness and sadness are together in my heart. I am grateful and terrified. Eager for more and scared of what I will lose. I want to live in the moment and never look back.

November 1995

November 1995, one year almost to the day after my first pregnancy ended in a heartbreaking miscarraige, I tried to get comfortable on the hard table at the doctor's office. My bladder was filled to capacity; my back was aching a little bit and my heart was full of anxiety. The untrasound tech smiled when she re-entered the room.

"Ready?" she asked happily.

I took Chris's hand and nodded. "I think so."

I lay in the dark and made small talk, chatter really, to cover my nerves as she moved the goo around on my belly with the wand. Finally, she turned the monitor around and used the cursor to point to a fluttering movement on the screen.

"That's the baby's heart," she said.

"The kidney's look good," she said.

"The head circumferance is just right," she said.

"That little string of pearls is the spine," she said.

"Do you want to know the sex?" she said

We affirmed we did want to know.

"See that little equal sign there? That means it's a girl!" she said.

I watched in wonder and laughter as my little tiny daughter used my full bladder for a trampoline. It took a minute for the terror to set in.

A girl. A daughter. A baby daughter who would turn into a teenaged daughter. She was going to hate me one day.

For the next two days I agonized. I rubbed my distended belly and talked to my still unnamed daughter, begging her not to hate me.

I remember staring at my hand-sewn striped curtains next to my bed and praying. Then the Holy Spirit prompted a thought. Enjoy her. Enjoy her today, right now. And tomorrow, just enjoy her. Every day, enjoy her. Then by the time she's a teenager, you'll be so used to enjoying her, it will be second nature.

I really, truly tried to do that. Every single day of Maggie's life, the good and the bad; the easy and the terrifying... I have enjoyed her.

And she doesn't hate me.

And I don't hate her.

We are friends and she listens and respects me and I try to take that seriously and never be flippant with her feelings.

Today she is seventeen. Seventeen! I get to keep her for one more year, then she will follow the Spirit into her own grown up life. She is a constant joy, an amazing life and a beautiful soul. Her enthusiasm shines from her in waves and her heart.... oh, her heart. Her heart is turned toward the Father and toward the lost. God has grown her into such a beautiful, sensitive, articulate young woman.

I am so thankful. So very, very, very thankful.

I love you, my little pearl princess.