Her

Blue carpet lined the halls of Stringers. A stark contrast to the white washed walls. We walked past the parlors and up the steps, into a small kitchen area.  There he sat. His feet spread apart, elbows on his knees.  I didn't see my dad in a suit very often and saw tears in  his eyes even less.  But that day was unlike any before and any after.

She was gone. His mom, my Mamaw. And as a child, I didn't understand the depth of the pain he felt, still feels even now. My mom's dad carried me back out those big, glass doors. But in my mind and heart, I can replay that scene over and over, even though I was just a child.

Many years later, as I prepared for my wedding day, my mother offered a piece of advice that I wouldn't fully understand the impact of until years later.

Love his mother just like you love me.  It will mean more to him one day than you will ever know.

This woman loved her son, her family. Her brown eyes danced when she laughed.  And she hid years of hurt behind a silent smile. Her life held more than I could have even imagined. And as I came to know and love this woman over the years, my mother's words echoed in my heart.

Love her.

And I tried to love her, and I did love her. There is so much I see of her daily with us, like the looks I get from anyone of my three boys that have her facial expressions engraved in them.  Or the compassion she had for others.  I see it in the way my husband loves his family and thinks of others before himself.  It is manifest in our oldest son and in the way he longs to comfort and care for others.



Her love for Alabama football that was passed from mother to son.  And now has been passed from father to son. Oh the smile I can just see on her face if she could hear that little voice saying, "Roll Tide!"

She was driven.  Driven by the things and people she loved. Driven to love and give beyond herself. As I watch and converse with my sister-in-law, I see that determination as she strives to love her family and family of friends.  She's driven to succeed in school and make something of her life.



And this time three years ago, I saw a familiar scene in a whole new way. As that man in a suit, sitting in that kitchen grieving for his mother was my husband.  And I watched the way our boy loved his daddy so tenderly.  In my heart, I understand the words my mother spoke so many years before.

I love you, Glenda Stephens...and miss you more with each passing day.  Though you didn't give birth to me, you were my mom in so many ways. Thank you for loving me and for raising the wonderful man that is my husband.

Your grandsons are growing up so fast. We are doing our best to raise them to be godly young men. My hope is they turn out to be even half the man their dad is.  Til I see you again...Love you, Mom!

 

Peanut - A Gift

I'm not one of those girls who had their wedding planned before Mr. Right showed up and swept them off their feet.  I was a hopeless romantic who dreamed of the day I'd meet that man of my list.  List, you ask.  The one I made that included all things I wanted, and all things I didn't, in my husband.  I never dreamed of what I'd name my children or how many I had to have.  Of course, I wanted all this.  To marry Mr. Right and have children.

And in January of 2006, Mr. Right and I found out we were expecting our first bundle of joy.  The best two year anniversary present this girl could have asked for.  We scheduled our doctor visit, saw that sweet little life that was forming in my womb.  We nicknamed him/her Peanut.  The heartbeat...incredible.  In March, after having been on a business trip for several days, I returned home.  We went to our scheduled doctor visit only to find that there was no heartbeat.  After 3 days of blood tests and ultrasounds, my worst nightmare was confirmed.  We lost our little Peanut.

Devastated.

The gift was not only in the little life that stopped forming in my womb.  For days, weeks even, women surrounded me with cards, hugs and prayers.  They reached out to share their stories of loss and grief.  These were testimonies to the grace of God, who both gives life and takes life away.



 A gift.

I never thought I'd be able to handle something like that.  Losing an unborn child.  The greatest gift I received in it all was in drawing near to The Giver of life.  He taught me to trust Him even when it was difficult and I didn't understand. To lean in to His heart when all seemed to fall apart around me.   He has taught me how to turn every blessing He has given back to praise...even the hard ones.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giw2KfOZf0k

Never the Same

As dark night gives way to gray morning, my heart is heavy with grief. Each day lasts but a moment, fading like a flower. And to live in the shadow of yesterday robs from today and steals from tomorrow.





Yet one can't help but remember. Remembering a life young and bound. Tragedy and triumph sewn together in heartbreak and loss, leaving a community of friends and family to grieve. Remembering the depth in his eyes and fullness of his laughter. Hearing in memories the peace in his voice and the heaviness in his steps.

And what is now will always be and what was will never be again. The chains of bondage, addiction, need broken for all time and eternity. And the selflessness of the God-man choosing to be poured out, an offering, balm for the sin-sick. For me, for you, for him.

Remember.

Who He is removes what I am and offers healing. Healing here - once for all. The need is mine and yours and his. The answer is Him - Creator, Sustainer, Healer of all. Do you know Him?

The decision is mine and yours and his, and every other decision hinges on this one. For ALL time and eternity. Do you know Him?

The One who gives your tomorrow and takes your yesterday. He alone embodies love. Remember, he was not his own, no matter his choices, he was bought with a price, the precious life-giving blood of the God-man - Jesus. Do you know Him? You can. The decision is yours.

For When Your Heart Breaks

The house was dark this morning.  Six fifteen was earlier than I had wanted to rise but the baby whined and wanted his pacy.  So I rolled out of bed, turning the baby monitor down so that only the neon green light flashed but no sound was heard.  Silently walked to the kitchen as dawn was breaking.  Little by little light began to flood through the windows and I reached over to turn on the coffee pot.  As I looked up and out the window that's directly above the kitchen sink, to my early morning surprise was a momma cow and her newborn baby calf.  Not that it is unusual to see cows and calves in the pasture around our house.  But I haven't seen a newborn calf that close to the fence since we've lived here.  As I watched out the window, the newborn calf tried desperately to stand on its wobbly little legs.  Taking a step here and there, it plopped to the ground again.  And I was ecstatic to show the boys this precious sight as they each rose and came sleepy eyed into the kitchen.

I was no less excited when we returned home from church this afternoon to find another calf was being delivered.  But something wasn't right.  The momma cow had been in hard labor for hours, not unusual, but her water had not broke.  The farmer came over to check her and had to deliver the stillborn calf almost losing the momma in the process.  It was like a train wreck and I was heartbroken over a baby calf.  I could not move my bare feet off the lawn and back into the house for nothing.

Now, I've given birth three times.  Beautiful, healthy babies.  And I know, very well, the pain involved.  Unlike some, I decided I'd just rather not have an epidural.  With each child the pain was different but no less intense.  With each child I've had the joy and privilege of bringing them home from the hospital, spending sleepless nights catering to their very basic needs, enjoying their first words and first steps and watching their very different personalities come through.

But I can't help but think about Peanut.  I've been pregnant four times.  The first ending in a miscarriage.  I was devastated. The longing of my heart was for a child and I walked away crushed.  When we saw that little tiny heart beating on the monitor I was shocked and thrilled.  And we called that sweet little life that was forming Peanut.  Feeling the pain, disappointment, hurt and humiliation was far greater than I even dared to imagine when we realized we had lost what was precious to us.  It was a train wreck that I couldn't escape. 

Maybe you've felt that pain of heart break or maybe you're on the outside and can't turn away but have no idea what to do or say.  Let me say from experience, the outpouring of love and encouragement from those around me both in word and deed was wonderfully overwhelming.   More therapeutic than anything has been the opportunity to share my story.  While the wounds may still be fresh, it is increasingly difficult to share.  However, the power of a testimony can make a difference in the life of another.  Share hope where someone else may need it most.