“Don’t be afraid of your hard…”

The light above the stove glowed warm, and pots clanked as we cooked together, this sister and I.
“Is Kara still alive?” she asked quietly,
about a woman who neither of us have met, yet whose story has become very dear to us.
I nodded, “But it won’t be long…” My words trailed off.
We hate this thing of dying, all of humanity does.
We fight for life with all we have. Life is so, so, dear.
It is all we know. Or we think so…


She has been shaped by death, this little sister of mine.
Grew up with just flashes of memories of Daddy, the kind man in scrubs who would throw her high in the air, and alway be there to catch her. He would be there for us, making Sunday lunch when we returned from church, since he had been on call and couldn’t drive far from work to church.
He was there. Good, loving and kind.

Except then he wasn’t.
My childhood memories take a drastic turn to cancer treatments and beeping monitors and then kind hospice nurses training me how to flush his feeding line. I helped keep him alive a little longer, but he wasted away before my eyes. His strong arms that were always there to catch me shrunk to just bones and skin hanging.
His eyes got that distinct “deer in headlights” look that only the dying carry.

I was naughty, even at his bedside.
I remember I had been outside playing, but it was my turn to come in and give Mom a few minutes break.
It was just to sit by his side and read some verses of comfort, but I was in dress up clothes and the game outside went on without me. I pouted and read hurriedly.
He looked over at me and said something about reading cheerfully.
I tried, then.

I wish I had understood more fully what was really happening.
Does a child ever really understand death when it happens daily in front of their eyes, to their Daddy?

This morning Kara’s four beautiful children woke up for the first time knowing that Mommy was not there anymore.
Yesterday her long struggle with cancer ended, and she opened her eyes in heaven’s glory.
It is such a mixture of emotions, this joy for her, and the ache for her family…

The road ahead is not easy. I wish I could spare them the years of growing up with just memories. A child craves the physical presence of their biological parents. But my daddy didn’t choose to leave. And Kara wished to stay and watch these four grow into beautiful adults who would love God more than anything.

Last week I was at a family reunion and Daniel and I found ourselves in a conversation with a couple who lost their only son to cerebral malaria.
On the mission field. Far from family. It is shattering.
But in the same breath, we smile. Our eyes glitter with the reality of Heaven pressed deep into our core.
We dream. We wonder. “Do you think in Heaven they…” We are changed.
Eternity becomes the new reality. It is where God dwells with us.

“He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God.
He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more,
neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”
And he who was seated on the throne said,
“Behold, I am making all things new.”
-Revelation 22:3-5

Yes, we have lost. Death has changed forever who we are. And really, it is a priceless thing.
You see, when the dagger of death pierces our life, we never recover. In an instant, our lives are forever changed.
This rushed and crazy life down here slows and looses its importance as we see through new eyes.
Eternity is just as close as Kara was yesterday, here in our arms and hearts.
And suddenly, we realize that life is more than we knew.
That eternity is looking over our shoulder, and it is to be embraced.
That here, in our tears and shattering, God IS.

I stood there, in that room bustling with people, tears persistently sliding down my cheeks.
I felt a tad ashamed. After all, I hardly knew their son.
It seems strange to feel so passionately the loss of a stranger.
But really, in loss, none of us are strangers.
His mother and I both stood there, hot tears dripping off our chins, together.

We cringe from this place of our shattering, and long to be whole again.
But it is here, in our brokenness, we find we are not enough.
And it is only here that there is room for God to fill us, to truly carry us.
Our strength comes in being channels of His presence, not in being enough.
We are strongest when we learn how to weep with those who weep.
For here it is not our strength at all,
but His.

Today my sister and I, and you and each of us have questions bigger than our answers.
But here in the not knowing, in the missing and the journey, Kara’s words remind us of reality:

“Hard and suffering is not the absence of God’s goodness…
Don’t be afraid of your hard.
Let it encourage you to know God’s goodness even more in your life.
And look for it. ‘Cause it’s there.”
-Kara Tippets


Photos from Kara’s Facebook page, Mundane Faithfulness

You can read more about her story by purchasing her book, The Hardest Peace.

The best is yet to come…

It was late as we drove home last night. Again. We have been burning the late candle constantly this past while. Youth Bible School, a birthday party, a few other projects thrown in, and while it’s been really, really good,
it gets to you after a while.

I blinked into the darkness, and told Daniel, “I feel so… exhausted.”
“The kind that a night of sleep won’t fix?” he asked.
He knew the answer already. I nodded.

I want to hit these anniversaries with a special strength, and preparedness that will help carry me through.
But today hit me totally off guard.
Seven years ago today, Isaac slipped into the depths of the Lempa River and emerged on the shores of Heaven.
We want to think that as years pass, we will become more able to face the pain, the rawness, the ache.
And the edge does fade, some. But there are times when it is so raw and fresh,
it knocks the breath out of you and leaves you gasping.


This morning we taste tears again, and miss that laugh all his, and wish our kids could grow up crawling all over him… He loved kids so, so much. But through blurry eyes, I find true rest in looking to the Author of this story, the One who sees all, and does everything well. Looking here, at the pain and loss, it is confusing.

But when I look deep into the Creator, I find rest for my weariness, and peace for this aching heart…

2008-03-16 at 07-29-50

“Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord
We will wait upon the Lord, we will wait upon the Lord
Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord
We will wait upon the Lord, we will wait upon the Lord

Our God, You reign forever
Our hope, our Strong Deliverer

‘Cause You are, You are the everlasting God
The everlasting God
You do not faint
You won’t grow weary

You’re the defender of the weak
You comfort those in need
You lift us up on the wings
Like eagles

From everlasting to everlasting
God, You are everlasting”

-Chris Tomlin

2008-03-18 at 07-07-11

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” Romans 8:18

Through the tears, yet there is peace. We are only in the middle of this story. The best is yet to come.
And again, I am grateful.

How much do I love you? Let me count the ways…

My Weston Boy…


Seven years ago, you changed my life forever.


 I never dreamed how much a child would change me, day by day.
That my child would become my teacher.
To notice, to listen, to feel more deeply than I ever had before. IMG_2623.JPG

God knew that in my days of deepest grief, that your eyes would glitter the joy of heaven.
I always thought that babies were held to be comforted,
but I discovered that I was the one comforted when I cradled you…


I see flashes Isaac in your expressions, and it is such a gift and joy to me.
Heaven is a normal conversation around here,
and I wonder how God will use all the loss in your life to reach others…


Your fresh perspective, the moments you stop and notice the way the moss grows on the tree,
the sunlight floats down through the trees, reminds me to slow down and enjoy these little moments.


You make me laugh.
Again and again.


You stretch me, make me need new answers from God, find grace in new places, and let God grow me even when it hurts.
But mostly, you are my sunbeam and my Energizer Bunny, never, ever running out of steam.
You live life 100%, nothing held back.
And I love you.

The world is ahead of you, buddy. God has big plans, and they start today.
Even in the little things, He has a purpose.

It’s simple:

Do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with your God.
He will never ask you to do anything that He won’t be right there, just waiting to help you.

Happy birthday, my sweet Weston boy. I love you with all my heart,

Broken Pieces

We stood in a circle and paused.

The busyness of the day was past, and night hushed around us, here on the back porch.
Evenings in Honduras are beautiful, tropical, and mysteriously wild…
The bare bulb glowed warm above us, and the night sounds surrounded us.
I looked around at our circle; a small group of people all waiting expectantly.
For communion.
To take part in this moment of breaking bread. It’s something we do, together.

“Take, eat,” Jesus had said, after blessing the bread, “for this is my body.”
And then He gave thanks and handed them a cup of wine, saying
“Drink, all of you. For this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for the forgiveness of many…”
(Matthew 26:26-28)

I’ve often pondered this thing of communion. It makes me squirm.
Why did He say to take and eat His flesh, to drink His blood?
This crushing at our hands, this being poured out like wine, feels so cannibal like.
Why does He ask us to remember Him constantly in this way?
But He hands us the cup and asks, “Will you share in my sufferings, even unto the death?”

I’ve never viewed it in the same way since we lost Isaac.
This thing of death, of burying.
Even planting tulip bulbs is different now, the sound of the shovel reminds me of that long ago burial.
I place the bulbs deep in the cold earth, and take a deep breath.
We are so temporary. Just a breath. Like a flower, lasting a day or two.


Daniel asked Peter to lead a song, and the small little group pulled a little tighter.
Our voices blended in the cool night air, and it was beautiful.

“Would you be poured out like wine upon the altar for me?
Would you be broken, like bread, to feed the hungry?
Would you be so one with Me that you would do just as I will,
Would you be light, and life, and love My word fulfill?”

We sing words, breathtaking words of commitment, many times without even thinking.
But the plea was clear, and we answered it,

“Yes, I’ll be poured out like wine…
Broken like bread…
So one with Him that we will do whatever He asks…”
It’s a big thing, this commitment to do whatever He asks.
And it is a blind thing, for we cannot see what tomorrow holds.

None of us knew that in two days, Peter’s body would begin that process of being broken.
That in a week’s time he would be buried, dust returning to dust.
And not one of us dreamed that in less than 72 hours, Peter, in a new eternal body, would be standing in the presence of God, caught up in the heavenly song of praise.
Just knowing that would have knocked our breath away.

But God knew. He saw how fragile we are, and knew we could not bare to see what the next week held.
But He invited us into this, His suffering. His brokenness. His agony.
And we look and gasp.
We crumble.
The reality of death and separation shakes us to the core.

We forget. We get lost in the night. In the saltines of tears. And the empty bedroom, the untouched clothes.
We forget that we too, are just one breath away from heaven, and Peter just beat us too it…
We forget that joy comes in the morning, that God sees a bigger picture than we right now.

It’s a small thing, this taking a little piece of bread and breaking it.
But it’s a bitter thing to actually do it. To follow Jesus in His sufferings.
To say “yes” when our whole being screams “no.”

I remember another time Jesus fed people. He looked around at a ragged and tired crowd.
Mothers held fussy babies and men carried weary children. They needed food, but that is not what they were following Him for. He offered them something they had never experienced before.
They wanted His words of life.

Jesus looked at the crowd, and asked, “Where can we buy enough bread to feed them?”
It was a preposterous question, and He knew it. It was impossible.
Not only was there no store nearby, but passover was just around the corner, and everyone was purging their homes of leavened bread. And that is just what Jesus was looking for; bread.
He wants something we can’t provide.

Five small loaves were nothing in light of this crowd.
Nothing. Just crumbs.
But this is where our Jesus delights to be, in a place of impossibility.
He takes our brokenness, our neediness, our shattering, and makes it a platform of glory.
The impossible becomes the miracle. Our brokenness becomes an opportunity for Him to shine through.
For where we can’t, He can.

Jesus took those insufficient loaves, that meager offering, and thanked God.
He took them, blessed them, and broke them.
Again, we find ourselves catching crumbs, broken pieces, and fragments.
But the strange thing is that after Jesus broke them and they were distributed, the people were filled.
There was plenty, left over even.

And here, in our place of brokenness, we taste just the beginning of His fullness.
In tasting His shattering, we partake in His wholeness. This is what Peter saw, when he said, “Rejoice when you taste these sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when His glory is made plain…”

It is bitter, this communion, but it is also sweet.
For passover is coming. Death is just a moment, an evening before the dawn.
Today our tears sting, salty.
They burn down our cheeks and carve canyons in our hearts.
But soon those caverns will overflow with joy, and this shall be a place of breathtaking beauty.

Welcome to this place of loss, for here, in Him, you shall be found.

The morning I was THAT mom…

We settled into the booth and I slid the baby into the high chair.
Silently I felt eyes on me; the mom with three young kids.
The eyes were not disapproving, just watching.
The table of carefully manicured ladies behind me,
and the elderly couple to our left, quietly enjoying delectable looking pastries from the bakery.

It had been a harried morning; I don’t enjoy shopping with children.
Actually, I don’t really enjoy shopping period.
And I only make it to town for a formal shopping trip about once a month.
Otherwise, my amazing husband picks up what I need. But it had been a while, and this time, I came armed with and three beautiful kids, and a list of nine stops.
Yes, NINE.

It had been a bribe, this date at Panera. Or perhaps an “incentive.”
The lure of a fun meal to inspire them to expedite the shopping process. I hadn’t had the brain cells to pack a lunch, and if I do it right, we can get a really good “snack” at Panera for the price of cheap fast food.
And of course, I try to steer clear of that stuff if possible.

My kids are not bad. They are really, really sweet kids. Exceptional, in fact, this biased mom thinks. :)
But being stuck in, or close to, a shopping cart as it dives past all the tempting goodies we don’t normally buy is enough to stretch any four year old’s attitude. And honestly, what sane mom would even attempt nine stops in a morning prior to nap time?
I mean, seriously.

She squalled, this baby of mine, and arched her back, rebelling to the highchair. Refusing to meet the eyes of the quiet couple to my left, I pulled her out and sat her in my lap. The highchair sat there, sticking out into the aisle like the noise from my table into everyone else’s space.

And then it happened. The server brought us our plate.

One plate. Yep, it’s what I ordered. She set it down and left.
And we stared.
It was the kind of soup I’d asked for, but in a regular bowl, not the bread bowl like we normally split.
Weston’s eyes grew wide, “Mom!”
I fished out my receipt. There it was. I had ordered it wrong.
Now we had about half the food we’d anticipated.
His blue eyes stared into mine as if the world had ended.

We aren’t impoverished. We aren’t poor. We have several vehicles, a warm house we are making payments on, and a full pantry. We have a happy, vibrant family. But we watch our pennies, and try to be wise, and pay off the house as quickly as possible. It affects the way we spend even the little money. But here, I’d made a dumb mistake in my rushed moments at the register, holding a grouchy baby begging for a nap.


“It’s ok,” I told him.
So we dug in, I split the wedge of bread between the 3 kids and took turns spooning in the warm yummy soup. The baby squalled again, and I bounced and fed her, still not making eye contact with those around me.
It’s easier, sometimes, to be alone in a crowd.

They stood up, their pastry carefully eaten, and picked up their tray.
He paused, and smiled. “Don’t worry, it won’t last forever.”
Then they were gone.

Yes, it had been MY morning.
We all see moms have them, the kids loudly wailing in the store, the mom quickly giving them whatever will quiet them. We see the haggard look on the face, the hair telling the story of a rushed morning.
We see the crusty nosed kid, and think, “Poor child, his mother doesn’t notice.”

When really she has been noticing.

She noticed he needed some extra cuddle time this morning, and held him close. She made his cereal just the way he likes it. She lost sleep last night because his cold kept him from sleeping. And she wiped his nose just before they came into the store. But crusty noses happen in minutes, and mommies darting down store aisles to grab what they need can lose sight of snotty noses for those few desperate moments. And mommies sitting in Panera Bread, with three hungry children once the meal is gone and the baby fusses… They feel tired.

I almost cried as he walked away.
Embarrassed that today it was me. I was the mom everyone saw that didn’t have it together.
But I was honored. Honored that he took the time, and the risk, to reach across the ocean of my exhaustion, and offer a hand.
To throw me a lifeline.
To remind me that this crazy and exhausting season IS short.
To do it well.

We cleared our table.
Three precious children were put in their carseats and buckled in.
And we did run through a drive through and grab dollar burgers to fill that growing six year old boy’s stomach. And I think I scratched my last stop off the list.
It is too short, this season of childhood. Let’s do it well.

Do it too. Offer grace to that tired mother when you don’t know her story.
Just know she is real, and she needs a kind smile, a word of understanding.
He gave me hope when I needed it. You can give it too.


Photo credits to Gretta Coates


One year later…

It was not that long ago, that warm summer camping trip.
We all backpacked in, hauled our sleeping bags and food down that beautiful wooded trail.
Over the creek three times till at last we burst into our picture-perfect camp site,
there on the edge of the creek.


For my family, this is a very special place.
We camped here with Isaac, this man so much a part of our lives,
now exploring the mountaintops in heaven.
Here, beside the same pool where he dove and swam, it feels
that he is a touch closer.

He loved roughing it, sleeping in a hammock,cooking over an open fire.

We started the tradition of asking a few other friends to join us on our yearly campout,
in a way to help fill the gaping hole Isaac leaves.

But we all know that no one can fill someone else’s spot.
They just make their own. We asked Marco and Cheryl to join us that year.
It could have been awkward for them, this being there with us knowing we were all missing Isaac.
But it wasn’t. They just helped make new memories.


We played hard. We ate awesome food cooked over the smoky fire.
We swam and cannon balled all together into the icy cold swimming hole.
We talked late, watching the orange coals flicker and glow, the river splashing behind us.


We don’t take life for granted, ‘cause we know this life is short.
But sometimes we don’t expect it to be quite SO short.
It feels like just yesterday, Marco, that you were here.
Your footprint still fresh, your laugh still rings in our ears.


But one year ago today, that all changed.
We have shed so, so many tears in these 365 days,
as that gun shot shattered what seemed so perfect.

Since the “accident.”
Only with everything in God’s hand, was it really an “accident?”


I wonder what all you knew, heard, and understood in those days in the hospital.
I wonder if you really squeezed my hand as I held yours and talked to you.
How we watched those numbers on your monitor, how we prayed our hearts out.
How we knew, just KNEW, that God wanted to use your story,
and the impossibility of your healing, to defy the odds and bring glory to Him.

It’s been a year of tears.
A year of grasping to God’s hand when nothing seems as it should be.
We have hurt so deeply as we let you go.
And let Maryann and Landon go.


This pain is beyond words.
This letting go knocks the very breath out of us.
But under all the rawness, and facing the questions and pain,
we know God is good.


I know you see it all from a different perspective now.
I know you would be so proud to see Maryann still smiling, singing and loving God,
even through her shattered dreams.
I’m sure you would be the proudest dad in the world to Landon,
such an adorable ray of sunshine, and a miniature of his daddy.
I know you would see God in your parents and siblings
as they have walked this rugged path of shattering.
Of choosing to trust blindly.


I won’t lie. We get angry. We wish we could go back and change it.
We wish the story had a different ending.

But that is just the thing. The story isn’t over yet.
We see very little through this veil, this separation.
So with you on that side, and us on this, we choose to say,
“Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

We rest in the Master Author of this story, of our faith.
We lean hard into the One that will wipe all these tears from our eyes.
And we know you are really living that life you always longed to.
You are free.

We just can’t wait to join you.

Free to taste the beauty of today…

“Mommy, come play with us!”
His eyes pleaded with mine and I set my project down. The skies couldn’t be bluer. The leaves more golden.
The air was warm and perfect for running barefoot through the thick carpet of leaves.
At our old house, the pin oaks dropped dump truck loads of these fine little slivers, impossible to really get up even after days of raking. But here at our new place, maple leaves look festive and inviting as they dance their way to the ground.
They are big and fluffy, and rake up beautifully.

He grabbed one rake and I the other. We pulled and piled till the heap was as high as my waist.
Then we dropped the rakes, stepped back and let her rip.
Pell mell we tumbled squealing into the leaves.
I squeezed my eyes tight and lay quiet under that mount of crunchy goodness and felt five years old again.
Funny, cause just ten minutes before the pressures of life were heavy on my shoulders.
This thing of life is hard sometimes. Heavy. I forget to notice the golden sunlight splashed on the dying leaves.


I sat up, and he did too, this little boy of mine suddenly so grown up.
Leaves clung to our hair and we shrieked with laughter.
We stood up and danced and shrugged to get leaves from under our shirts.
Delightful in the trees, delightful in a pile, but no fun down your clothes.
Then we raked the pile high and ran again. And again.

Alannah stood a few feet away, and as I came up laughing again, her face was pure heaven.
She laughed and glowed. As far as she knew, she WAS in heaven.
Mommy was carefree. And she was too.

It’s hard sometimes to choose to let go of the grief, and allow your heart to shriek in childlike laughter.
But they need this, these delightful children of mine.
They need to see a mommy who values the joy of the moment.
Again and again I look into their faces and want to be what they need.
And I find, there in that place of becoming what they need, that I actually needed it too.

Memories of last year, and our long hard, cold winter. Of weeks in the hospital and a cold grave and long weeks of quiet asking God why. Of tears and a move and life marching onward when we weren’t ready. And now, fall is here again and it is stunningly beautiful. The colors of the fiery trees up against the green fields. The smell of woodsmoke in the air and warm mugs of coffee in our hands. Flames dancing in the fireplace, soft blankets for story time.
Must I let the cold of last winter steal the beauty of this one fall moment?

“Come to me,” He whispers, “yes, you, when you are so heavy. I will give you rest.”
Rest – freedom to see the beauty around us for what it really is. He is an artist, this God of ours.
And the night is dark, but even then the stars shine bright, if we will just take the time to notice them.
So let last year go.
The leaf shudders one last time and releases its grip on the branch and falls.
It joins the sea of others and gets lost on the confetti sprinkled ground. Today is beautiful. Breathtaking.
It is FREE.

Just like I was created to be. I look at the pile of leaves again.
And I let God carry all the sighs and tears, and I glance at my little boy again.

“On your mark, get set, GO!”
We run, the wind in our hair, and our bare feet pounding toward the pile. We jump. It is delightful.