Vision

The weather is beginning to change in Bamberg. The air is becoming cooler and crisp as Summer steps aside to make room for Autumn.

As we climbed into bed last night, Daniel acknowledged the appearance of the cooler days. Once we settled in, I slid my cold toes toward him and wedged them under the warmth of his skin and giggled as he recoiled from the surprise cold! I began to fall asleep with a peace as Daniel's hand rested on my arm.

Earlier in the day, I'd been forced to acknowledge grief over the loss of a friendship so many months ago. I wrestled through how to move forward and asked God as my head lay on my pillow what the right course of action should be. As I asked, I felt His peace wash over me. I knew what I needed to do.

He and I haven't been talking with the same frequency lately. I'm not angry with Him anymore, but instead thanking Him for the season of change and loss He walked us through. I've begun to reap the fruit of what was sown in the most recent season of life. It's as if we have an understanding now: the distance is ok between us for right now. We both know the love is there. For now, the season is of quiet. He still speaks occasionally, and I am listening when he does. I still seek Him, and He is there when I do.

One day during our cruise, I was working out in the gym that was built in the front of the ship, with floor to ceiling windows that overlook the open ocean. As I was sweating my way through my cardio, I said a quick thank you to my Father. For the obvious gift of being able to travel, but for the more serious gift of being forced to endure the most difficult season of my life. 

So as I brought to Him my challenging situation last night, I wasn't surprised when He responded. The peace of His answer was what I needed.

And then, as if He was icing the already sweet cake, He gave me an extra little gift.

Just as my consciousness began to shift into the dream world, I had a vision.

I was walking into a small but opulent hotel. The walls and floor were of cream and tan marble with gold inter lay, and a diamond pattern colored in a deep burgundy. On the wall opposite the concierge desk was a large mirror. Flanking either side of the concierge were a set of columns, also with the marble, gold, and burgundy.

I quickly walked past the desk and out of my periphery, noticed a figure in a hooded, brilliant blue and white cloak. As blue as the bluest sky you could imagine. I kept walking, but as I passed, I felt a beckoning to turn around. As I did, I noticed the reflection of the blue-cloaked figure in the mirror, and saw their face.

It was the beautiful, bright-eyed, smiling face of my Mama. 

She looked as I remembered her before she became so sick and frail, before the clarity left her blue eyes. And in the course of a second, I saw her smile and felt her love. I experienced peace and my heart leapt with joy to be able to see her face again. I wondered how I had walked by her and not noticed her presence.

In the split second after seeing her, I woke with a start. I began to weep with joy, and began to understand that I had seen her in her current being: peaceful, joy-filled, and whole. Wearing the brilliant color that enhanced her most beautiful features on Earth and makes her shine even brighter eternally. 

Furthermore, I realized that though I'm not always aware of her spiritual presence in my every day, she's there. She's watching over me, now a spiritual being assigned to my life. I don't always get to see her, but she sees me. She sees me and knows me not just in the purity of earthly knowing as a Mother does her child, but as an eternal being, with the knowledge of God. 

I realized after waking that I also saw a sense of pride in her expression. I knew: she is proud of me. Something I wasn't always sure of during our earthly relationship, I have been given access to understand in our eternal one.

All the grief of my current circumstance melted away. I fell asleep with the most pure peace enveloping my heart.

I thank God for the past season of loss. I thank Him now for the current season of simply being, and of quiet. I thank Him for the gift of opening the earthly-eternal barrier, even if only for a few seconds.

I thank Him for His love: enduring and steadfast and unmistakable.

I praise Him for the work he is doing.

Let Love In

I had a daydream this morning, out of nowhere. I was sitting on the couch, laptop open, researching sights to see while we are in Italy on our cruise next month. It was a fleeting picture, but my heart is still halfway there, hours later.

In the vision, Camden was patting my rounded belly, saying "Bebe."

I would have been nearly 19 weeks pregnant today. I would have been almost halfway finished. We would know the gender of our little love.

And then I was back on the couch. Kind of stuck. One foot in my reality, one foot in how I wish things could be.

Kind of how I've felt the past year.

If I'm honest, I'm pretty pissed. I'm pretty pissed at my God, whom I cried out to from the bench at the edge of our bed, begging Him not to take another baby. Willing my body to hold it in, not to fail me again, for the blood to stop flowing. I'm pretty pissed at my God who keeps giving only to take away. Why? Why give at all if I'm only allowed to hold it for what feels like a millisecond?

I haven't been talking to Him much lately other than to yell at Him. I haven't thought much of my faith other than to question if it's all a crock of shit. If the constant seeking truth really amounts to freedom. If the following Him to deserts is worth the dry heat searing my exposed flesh. 

But then I listen to these words:

Halleluhjah

You have won the victory

Hallelujah

You have won it all for me

Death could not hold you down

You are the risen King

Seated in majesty

You are the risen King

I watch the band as they sing, study the faces in the crowd of worshippers. What have they overcome? What hell on Earth have they endured, what path have they walked to end up here: choosing to praise and honor the name of Jesus, joyful expressions on faces upturned?

I suddenly realize I have a choice: Keep looking around me and what I've lost, at what's been taken. Keep living in my anger that is acting as a prison, chaining down my arms so that I can't lift them to praise. Leaving marks on my wrists, the wounds fresh and stinging and reminding me of my circumstance. Soul blackened by the poisoned thoughts. Keep living in the angry, bitter place.

Or I can look up.

I can look at Him. I can leave the questions behind, let the anger fall away. Because I know this place... where the light of His face is, darkness has no room. When I fix my eyes on Him, choosing to let everything else go, I'll be overcome by the glory of Him. The love that flows freely despite my selfish wandering, my choice to stay imprisoned for far too long. The grace that is new each time I look up after looking down for so long.

I realize I've known it all along, that I have this choice. That God won't force anything on me. That He gives me the freedom to be angry with Him, to question my circumstances. To fear taking another step, not knowing if it will lead to more loss. But I also know that He loves me all the same. 

I'm not without my burdens, my questions, or my anger. But despite that, in the deepest part of my soul, I know the truth: 

He HAS won it all. 

Our anger, our questions, our hurts are not too much for Him. They might be too much for our religion, our laws, even our church culture. But they are not too much for Him. When we push him away, His love moves toward us. We are never outside of His vision. We are never left alone, never forsaken.

So I sing along:

Our God is risen

He is alive

He won the victory

He reigns on High

Our God is risen

He is alive

He won the victory 

He reigns on high

Our God is risen

He is alive

He won the victory

He reigns on high

Hallelujah

You have won the victory

Hallelujah

You have won it all for me

Death could not hold you down

You are the risen King

Seated in majesty

You are the risen King

And as I sing, I let room in for Hope. I hope that my questions, my doubts, my fears, will be overcome by Him who beat even the finality of death. 

And in the meantime? I let love in. For the first time in months, I let His love wash over me. Let it run like a river down my arms in chains, healing my wounds. Let it flood my heart, taking over the darkness. 

Let love in. Let love in. 

Let His love in.

Peroxide God

"I mean, we can say no. We don't have to do this," I heard Daniel's voice say on the other end of the line.

"I don't want you to say no. I think... I think it will be an adventure."

Looking back, that was really what I focused on. In some ways, we were way too busy with preparing for the move and walking with Mama during the final months of her life that we rarely paused to let ourselves consider what moving to a foreign country might mean for us.

When I looked to our future living arrangements, I romanticized a lot of it. I saw rich history and a new culture. I saw mind expansion in seeing another side of the world. I saw cobblestones and bakeries with fresh bread and leisurely bike rides. I saw a new house to decorate and the possibility of my eyes taking in the sights of Europe.

While we have experienced all that and more, what I never expected was the loneliness. I never expected to feel isolated and confused most of the time. I didn't expect to grieve the life I knew, the life filled with the safety of community and the ease of the everyday tasks. I didn't expect to bury my Mama just 60 days after moving 4500 miles away. I didn't expect that a treasured friendship would end shortly after, and I didn't expect to say goodbye to yet another baby in early miscarriage.

But that's what happened.

I thought it would be an adventure. No, that's not exactly correct. I thought it would be a fun adventure. If I'm honest - no holding back, gut-wrenching, face-palm worthy honest: It has been mostly difficult and I've hated probably 75% of the past 10 months.

We said yes to the opportunity to come here, believing it would be good. Believing it would make us stronger and more sanctified. Believing it was a gift from God. It's felt more like a burden than a gift. More like "have to" instead of  "get to."

But the truth? No holding back, gut-wrenching truth?

Life's hellish circumstances don't dictate the character of God.

I fight daily to believe that. My emotions say that I've been led to the desert, wounded, thirsty, and alone. That I've been tossed around like a rag doll, given a promise that's been broken. That my life has been put on hold and I'm stuck out here. That faithful obedience brings me pain, loneliness, isolation. That grief will get the best of me and I won't survive this furnace that's getting hotter by the minute.

But my heart, the heart that's been loved by God screams louder that my emotions. His voice, speaking softly, reminds me of the truth.

My only fight is to believe that God is who He says He is: faithful, loving, steadfast, strong. Honest, perfect, holder of all things. He tells me that He's led me to a desert where I'll be thirsty so I can learn to drink from Him. He tells  me He is with me. He reminds me that promises are never more important than the One who gives them. He says that I am in motion, being shaped and molded by His hands that hold me. That the process is dirty and sometimes painful. That I must go into the refining fire, but that the flame will never overtake me. That faithful obedience will ultimately yield eternal perfection.

When I was six years old, I fell on our long gravel driveway and scraped my knee. My Mama pulled out the peroxide and ointment and went right to scrubbing my wound, taking care to remove the tiny bits of stone and dirt that were mixed into my exposed skin. It hurt. I screamed, cried, and tried my best to fight her. But she continued, speaking softly and calmly as she did, reminding me that it would only sting for a moment. It would begin to heal and before I knew it, the scrape would be gone and fresh skin would take it's place. My wound would be healed.

A life lived with Jesus is never perfect. Living out of obedience to Him doesn't always bring blessing and comfort and joy right away. It's quite the opposite. The process of sanctification is rarely without pain. The dirt must be cleaned and blemish stripped away.

The wound must be scrubbed in order for healing to take place.

Like peroxide on a fresh cut, bubbling and stinging, God cleanses our souls.

He cleanses my soul.


Thank you, Jesus, for the work You are doing. We praise You!

Precious Life

I hugged Camden a little tighter each time I picked her up that day.

I paid closer attention to her every move, soaking her being in just as I did on the day we brought her home from the hospital, so aware of the miracle she is.

We rocked a little longer before bed that night. I felt the rise and fall of her chest, her life breath. I felt the steady thump-thump of her heart, pumping her life force. "She's really here," I thought. "I can't believe she's here."

We still don't know how she's here. Well - we know, we took part in her creation - but we don't know exactly what circumstances allowed her once tiny, invisible-to-the-naked-eye life to progress. We don't know if it was the progesterone, or the endometrial biopsy, or the clomid. Or maybe just two of those things. Or maybe none of those things. Over two years later, we still don't know.

Three of her siblings couldn't hold on. We don't know why.

Three. 

I think of them, my first two, still. I think of our fourth now, reminded of the wounded heart that comes with this territory. I wonder of them. I wonder what their eternal forms look like. Will I recognize them when I step into eternity? Will I know they are my children? Will they know me?

Do they know how much they were wanted? I hope they know. Oh, how I hope they know.

Like all of them, we wanted this baby. 

We were so content in trying for you, so at peace with no worry or anxiety. I knew you existed before the test even told me so. I could feel the changes that your little life brought my body. I felt the holy work, the hands of the perfect One shaping you. I loved you, my fourth. In the few weeks of your existence on this Earth, you were loved and wanted every second.

We began telling people of you, the happiest news. We saw smiles and cheers and joyful tears. We weren't even given enough time to let everyone special to us know you were here. I wish there was more time.

I started planning for you. I knew how we would arrange your new room, and it didn't matter if you would be a boy or a girl. We just wanted you. We wanted to watch you grow inside, and then kiss your cheeks and forehead and hands and toes. We wanted to change your messy diapers, and lose sleep every night over you. We really wanted you.

I ordered Camden an outfit. The shirt read "Big Sister". It will arrive in a few weeks, now a harsh reminder that we'll never know you this side of eternity. She would have been the best big sister. You would have been so loved.

I know you are loved, even now. I know you are there, with your older siblings, and all those who lived numbered years on Earth but now reside eternally. I know you existed in God's heart first, and that existence is even more special than the days we had together. 

I'm really honored to be your Mother, holy being. I'm really humbled that I got you, even for such a short time. I will love you all my days, a piece of my heart continually aching for who you might have become. 

You are forever loved, forever wanted, forever cherished.

We will see you soon, precious life.

Worth the Wait

We both hear the crying, volume ascending. I'm in the bathroom finishing up getting ready for bed, and Daniel is likely already in bed. He goes in to soothe the unhappy babe.

I can hear his soft melody of grace amazing as I take the few steps into our bedroom, and I pick up the moniter. 

I'm struck, suddenly, at this miracle I'm watching through a tiny little moniter's screen. I see the chair rocking back and forth, two sets of eyes wide and bright in the camera's night vision. I see the little legs crossed, the hand resting on her cheek. I see all the things that make up the faithfulness of God and I'm dumbfounded.

Sometimes we get so caught up in life that we forget where we've come from. We get so trapped in what's happening in our small world that we miss the bigger picture. We lose sight of the important, precious, tender gifts that flow all around us like the melody of a song.

It wasn't all that long ago that I wondered - no, worried - if we'd ever have children. I feared I couldn't carry a baby full-term and felt so trapped in my desire. I hurt for my husband, this wonderful man who I knew in my soul would make the greatest Daddy, feeling as if I was letting him down somehow. As if my ability or inability to have children was the only gift I had to offer his life.

And now here we are. Soul-deep in poo poo diapers, bathtime, little feet learning to take steps, and a little heart whose care has been entrusted to us. Here we are, learning more and more every day what exactly this thing called love really is.

The season of doubt and fear and waiting - so, so much waiting - it took to get us here feels like a lifetime ago now. Like the page of a book that hasn't been read for some time. But it's there. The words are written, the story played out. Life goes on, but the memories remain. They remain now as a reminder of the unimaginable gift we've been given. They serve to tell us that God is good, God is faithful. They whisper of His love, how deep and wide it goes.

Waiting is hard. It's one of the hardest parts of living a life in love with Christ. But it's also an integral part of that relationship with Him. As we look to promises to be fulfilled, we also find ourselves waiting for some sense to be made. Waiting for a nod that we're moving in the right direction or a hand to pull us back if we're moving too fast. Waiting for the waiting itself to be over.

As much as we wait, much is also made of God. It is without fail that these seasons prove His love for us, His love of the Father who wants the very best for His children: Himself. We can't possibly know a life of freedom and joy and eyes to see gifts without seeing that HE is the best part about life. HE is the joy. HE is the freedom. He is the gift.

I look at my daughter and I see His hand. I see the details of her face and know He designed it. 

Gift.

I see the unbreakable bond that grows deeper every day between my husband and his cherished daughter.

Joy.

I see a reflection in the mirror of a woman who once felt helpless, useless even. Who wondered of her purpose. Who now knows she is daughter of the King, co-heir with Christ. Made in His image and loved without measure or conditions. Who knows that her identity isn't determined by what she does or who others say she is but what HE calls her: beloved.

Freedom.

I see the details that make up my life; our family, our home, our friends. Trips to the grocery store, dishes in the sink. Clothes to be folded. Strawberry Shortcake by day and Netflix by night. Toys on the floor and Dr. Seuss books galore. I see the details and I know that it all adds up to one thing: God's faithfulness.

 I look back only to remind myself of where I've come from, where I've been rescued. Where God gave a promise and carried me down the crooked path that lead straight to it. Straight to Him. Straight to His faithfulness.

Waiting is hard. Yea, no denying that. But the arrival? It is worth the wait.

It just is.

Hold on to your hope, even if what remains is just a shred. Look to the Father, your Father, who takes you down a road leading to His pure love. A road that leads to fulfilled promises. A road built with bricks of freedom and love and more gifts than you can count.

So just hold on. Your joy awaits. 

 

Capture

It's been ninety-five days.

Ninety-six sunrises and ninety-five sunsets since my Mama stepped into eternity with Jesus.

Ninety-two days have come and gone since we returned her body to the dust from which it once came.

Not a single day has passed where thoughts of her are absent.

At the beginning, so soon after her passing, the days were long. And a month in, the days seemed longer somehow. Weeks later, they also seemed darker.

But in the midst of those dark, long days: Grace.

God's perfect grace has carried me day after day, moment by moment. His perfect grace lead me to a place of wholeness again. A place of peace and surrender and deep knowing that this - this plan that included the loss of her life - was the better way. It was always the better way and there could have been no plan to compete. This way may have shrouded me in dark days, but this way lead her to eternal light.

A truth of life that none of us want to think about but know we will one day reckon with is the truth of loss. The truth that the physical beings we know to be our families and friends will one day become eternal. The truth that at some point, all we will have left are the remnants of the lives they built: Walls, doors, windows, and a roof. Pictures that speak a hundred words. Memories, both precious and bitter. Music that represents their essence. Movies they loved, books they read. Certain scents.

It may seem like a long list. But compared to having them here? Impossibly short.

Our lives go on after a loss. We feel the void their presence once filled, but life goes on.  Moments come and we wish they were here. Memories flood in that we wish could be changed. Others that we wish we could freeze and live in, just for a moment.

For me, a single photo by my bed serves as reminder of who my Mama was. It was taken on my sixteenth birthday and still sits in the original frame it was placed in ten years ago. The photo was snapped in our front yard. We both smile, the mother and daughter who share such similar features. The mother and daughter who started out the inseparable pair only to one day become strangers; the daughter filled with bitterness. The mother who loved in spite of the daughter's anger-masked-anxiety, who loved with no conditions. The mother-daughter duo who eventually landed in new territory: a place of few words but great forgiveness and surrender. A place trembling with God's redemption. A place where life came full circle: the daughter who was once dressed by the mother now did the dressing.

We look at this picture, Camden and I. Each morning she points to it, excited to hold it in her chubby little hands. She traces her fingers over the three-dimensional roses, taps on my face and then her Mimi's. We talk of her. I share stories. Sometimes I don't speak at all. Sometimes, her Daddy says Camden comes from a long line of strong women.

I can only hope that to be true of my life as it is true of my Mom's.

But while I wait, in what I hope are many, many years before my legacy is left, I live each day. I love my daughter, my husband. I try to memorize the twinkle in Camden's eyes, the way her belly rounds and the infectious and joyful sound of her laugh. I try to remember the way her little body feels in my arms. I watch as light pure fills their being when they lay eyes on each other every afternoon - Camden and her Daddy. I hear the deep, strong voice that prays over our meals, thanking God for breath in our lungs. I witness the strong hands, following the command of a selfless heart, that clean the kitchen after I've cooked dinner, no matter how messy the condition. I listen each night as he reads a story of Camden's choosing and then sings a song. I feel his warmth as he hugs my body close every single night before we drift off to sleep.

My life is good. My life is full. My life is joy.

I live. I live in that goodness, fullness, and joy from God every day. And I look at our picture, my Mama and I. A moment captured.

Loving can hurt

Loving can hurt sometimes

But it's the only thing that I know

When it gets hard

You know it can get hard sometimes

It is the only thing that makes us feel alive

We keep this love in a photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Hearts are never broken

Times forever frozen still

So you can keep me

Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

Holdin' me closer 'til our eyes meet

You won't ever be alone

Wait for me to come home

Loving can heal

Loving can mend your soul

And it's the only thing that I know, know

I swear it will get easier

Remember that with every piece of ya

And it's the only thing we take with us when we die

We keep this love in this photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Our hearts were never broken

Times forever frozen still

So you can keep me

Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet

You won't ever be alone

And if you hurt me

That's OK baby, only words bleed

Inside these pages you just hold me

And I won't ever let you go

Wait for me to come home

Wait for me to come home

Wait for me to come home

Wait for me to come home

Oh you can fit me

Inside the necklace you got when you were 16

Next to your heartbeat where I should be

Keep it deep within your soul

And if you hurt me

Well, that's OK baby, only words bleed

Inside these pages you just hold me

And I won't ever let you go

Wait for me to come home

-Ed Sheeran, Photograph

Truth in a Tantrum

We've officially entered Toddler-hood. We don't technically have a little one toddling about yet - Camden Virginia is taking her time on the walking front. But where steps lack, the large scale of her many emotions makes up for it!

She is a vivacious gal, I'm telling you. She will laugh as loudly as us and get so excited that her whole face will scrunch up and you can't see her eyeballs. She loves big and shows it through cuddling, hugging, and baby kisses. She'll make you feel like your heart might burst. She says "Hey!" to anyone and everyone, loves to eat just about anything we offer, and is the most magnificently ticklish tot!

She's also a gal that knows what she wants. She's smart as a whip and frequently uses the words "no" "yes" and "bite", sometimes followed by a sudden burst of emotion if your actions don't quickly follow her requests. (I use request mildly. They are really more of a demand.) She is quick to let you know when something isn't meeting her standards by crying out. And sometimes, she's crying over seemingly nothing at all.

Recently, we learned how exciting a cardboard box can be, so we put a playhouse together using a large leftover box from the moving company. As far as playhouses go, it's top notch. For reals. This sucker is complete with a swinging door - with a handle - and two windows. She can stand up inside of it. I have plans to cover the door with wrapping paper just to make it a little bit more fabulous! But I digress.

Sometimes, she crawls in and the door won't quite shut. I don't know why the laws of physics can't bend for the sake of a sixteen-month-old, but alas, a door just won't shut when there is a baby booty in front of it. None of that matters - it pisses her off every time. (I can see Mama rolling her eyes and saying "Piss piss piss!" in her disgruntled tone. She hated when we said that word!!) Truly though, it really does PISS Camden off. A full on YELL and/or cry of frustration follows every time this happens. I have no idea where she gets this from... (Insert sheepish shrug from me here.)

All this leads me to a story. Earlier today, I put Camden down in her crib for a nap, and left the room to her talking and happily squealing. I came downstairs, turned on the monitor, and watched as her energy lessened and her little eyelids became heavier. Soon, she was out!

Forty minutes later however, she is standing against the railing of her crib, screaming. And loudly. She usually sleeps for AT LEAST 1.5 hours, but usually it is more like 2.5 hours. I watched for a few minutes to see if it would pass, wondering if she might lay back down. Nope! So ten minutes later, we are downstairs with a clean diaper and dressed for the day, Mommy attempting to put Camden's hair up, all coupled with a Camden tantrum. And not just typical crying. I'm talking full-on crocodile tears and how-the-heck-can-you-hit-that-volume, baby-doesn't-want-to-be-touched kind of crying.

It's kind of one of those days that you look in the mirror and what's staring back at you is a Mombie. Have you heard of that word? It's a Zombie-Mom. A Mama of the half-dead variety. You know the one - greasy hair in a "messy" bun (And by messy I mean there are maybe three strands left in the bun and the rest is falling out and knotted), not a stitch of makeup on, with a wide-eyed, borderline I-might-go-crazy look in her eye. The look that says, "If one more thing goes wrong, I might just curl up in a ball and stay there."

So what did I do? I took a video of my kid completely losing it. Mainly because I'm a loving Mom who wants to capture every precious and special moment of her little one's childhood. But also maybe because I didn't know what else to do, so I pulled out my phone just to capture the craziness of the moment. And then, I sat my girl in her highchair, gave her a cookie as I heated up her lunch, and watched the video.

Ironically, Camden wanted to watch, too. So we sat at the table and watched the video of her losing her mind over nothing (or everything, depending on whose POV we are talking about). She stared at the video at first with a wide-eyed, mouth-agape expression, and then started to laugh. So I capitalized on the video magic and  we watched old footage of newborn baby Camden sleeping, baby Camden spitting up, Camden wiggling, Camden crying in the bathtub, and all the other wonders that come with the life of a newborn.

We made it all the way to the folder of videos taken during her eighth week of life, when I found the sweetest memory of my Camden cooing softly as I sang to her.

When I made this video, I had been practicing a worship song of healing that my sister and I planned to sing over Mama. We were praying boldly that God would heal Mama on Earth, that He would restore her to a place better than she'd been in years. I reached out to you, my readers, whomever you may be, that you would join with us in praying. We believed He would heal her, and in that faith, sang over her one evening in December 2014, claiming boldly what we believed God would do. And then on November 5, 2015, we listened to the words of that same song as it was played during her funeral service.

Sometimes, God's plans don't align with ours. And that can be a hard and bitter pill to swallow.

So naturally, life has been hard lately. Between being in a new country without the comfort of my family and friends and grieving the loss of my Mom, I've found some days to just to be too much. The air is too thick, the weight too heavy, the sky too dark. Sounds are too loud, touch too invasive. Hopelessness has slowly creeped in to the crevices of my soul like a black sludge, poisoning me with every space it fills.

As we watched the video, I began to cry. First, it was just a few tears making their way down my cheeks. But soon, I was weeping. Weeping from a place of deep hurt. From a place of anger. From a place of missing my Mama. But also, weeping from the knowing that God did answer our prayer, and He performed a miracle through Mama's physical death better than we could have ever seen in her life on Earth. Weeping because God is so good. As as I wept, my soul opened, letting out the hurt and pain.

I felt the slightest hint of something within. Where the darkness has been residing, light is moving in. The deep hurt feels slightly more shallow. The air feels thinner, the burden not quite as heavy. Outside, the sun shines, making this one of the few days of clear skies in months.

No, God's plans don't always align with ours. Often, His plans are accompanied with pain. The type of pain that might leave us questioning a lot about life and wondering where to go next, how to continue taking steps forward. But just as true as the pain that can come with His direction, so also is His presence. Moreover, living in His presence does not mean living without pain. No; in our deepest hurt, His presence is the sweetest.

Right now, my life is filled with hurt. I'm struggling, plain and simple. But if I know anything to be true, I know that this is a season that will pass. I can look back to my past and recall the seasons of deep hurt and depression, but also recall that God delivered me out of each one. Each day I will have to fight for my joy, and some days I won't be able to lift my sword very high. Some days I will trip and fall. But then those days will become fewer, and as they become fewer, good days will come. And before I know it, I'll realize I'm dancing again.

Psalm 30 verses 11-12 say, "You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent. Lord my God, I will praise you forever."

Sometimes, the purpose of pain is so that we can learn to praise.

Thank you, Jesus, for bringing me truth in the form of my toddler's temper tantrum. Thank you for promising to love me when I don't know how to love myself. Thank you for the day that you will deliver me from this season. And Jesus, thank you for my pain. Thank you for the work You continue to do in my life.

We praise You.