Sunday, May 15, 2016


There is a lie that masks itself as truth, putting on church clothes and behaving nicely in the row in front of us. It sounds like wisdom, this lie, penetrating deep into our hearts.  

It was a battle, a feat to get out the door to church that morning. Everything in you screamed to stay home, to stay where it was safe under the covers, but you went anyway. Late, of course, you snuck in the back hoping no one notices the mess you know you are. 
Your heart is longing for the acceptance, for the peace that comes with security. 

You are not as good as you should be, a quiet whisper brushes past you. 

Our clothes may be neat, our homes may be tidy, but our minds hold a mess of doubts and questions. Am I accepted? Am I safe? Is there something I still have to do, what can I do?? 

You are not as good as you should be reverberates inside your head until it makes its way to your heart, taking hold of you. 

But we must not believe it. We must fight against it... This lie. 

But fighting does not look like working. There is no good work you can do to gain the security and acceptance we long to have. There is no work you must do before you can rest. That is not our fight to win. 

Fighting looks a whole lot like resting. 

Because it is. 
Fighting... faith... It is a resting. 

We rest in the unchanging, never stopping, always and forever love. We rest, lavishly soaking up the security and love of our Father. 

And in our resting, we gather up our friends to come with us. 
Come and rest, we confidently say. You are more loved than you ever dared to dream. 

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Hope, 7 years later

It started the day we found out Owen had died. It came from friends, a few family members and my doctor. 

It will be better in time. You'll have more babies. It gets easier. You're still young, you can have more. Time heals all wounds. 

What those words offered me was hopeless. Time does not heal. Grief's burden does not get easier to carry. Having a child that lives will in no way replace Owen or take my grief away. Maybe I will never deliver a living child and being young certainly does not guarantee a body that is able to carry a child to term.

I found no hope in their words, all except one.

Jesus loves you. He loves you... my pastor boldly proclaimed to me at Owen's funeral.

16 months later by God's grace, I am able to say, boldly and without shame... 
Yes. Yes, He does. And in these three beautiful words we have great hope.

I cannot hope in time, for in time more suffering may come. I cannot place my hope in having living children. I cannot hope for a reprieve from suffering on this earth, because I will always be disappointed. If I place my hope in something that is passing, something easily shaken, then when it fails- where will I turn?

But if we place our hope in the Lord, we will never be disappointed because He is unchanging.

And we will have great hope.
Hope that we will never be abandoned. Hope that when everything else is gone, He will never forsake us. Hope that when I leave this earthly home, I have a Heavenly home waiting for me.

Hope that one day, all things will be made right. 

It has been 7 years since I wrote these painful, beautiful words. At this point in my life, I had no idea if I would ever know what it was like to hold my living children, to raise them and watch them grow up. I had no idea I would be given three babies to hold in my arms. I had no idea. 

But I knew hope. I knew hope, because I knew Jesus. I clung to him like he was a lifeline amidst waves that threatened to drown me. 

Do you want to know the truth? 

I have days that feel scary, and hopelessness presses in. Waves push against me, threatening to overwhelm me. I still struggle with questions of why, Lord? and prayers that sound more like bargaining... please Lord, no, please help...

But even in struggling.... my hope is still unchanging, unshakeable. My hope is Jesus, who is secure. 

In a world full of insecurity and brokenness, in a body that struggles and fights within itself, I cling to my Jesus, to be nearer and nearer to Him, to know Him better. 
He is still my hope. And oh, how beautiful, how precious it is.