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!

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. 

 

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.
 

Sacred Time

I've been looking through old pictures and found several of Mom in recent years. 

My heart is so fiercely being tugged in two different directions. I look at old photos of her and grieve time I didn't use to spend with her. I want things to change, I want her healthy and walking through life with me. I want to know what it's like to be best friends with my Mom, like so many friends I see get to experience. I want to hear her voice again. I want to check my voicemail and hear her rambling message about a sale at TJ Maxx. I want to feel her arms around me, knowing I am safe there. I want to hear her laugh, see her gorgeous smile that was so bright it reached her eyes. I can't breathe at the thought of living life without her here, and everything within me fights the idea of letting her go.

But then I look over at Mom as she lies in her Hospice bed. I listen for her breathing, which has now become shallow. I look at her face, so beautiful and so much my Mom. I think of her inability to wake and talk with us. She is alive, she is with us, but her life that has been a testament of strength and grace is beginning to wane. We see it happening, right in front of us. And with all of that, all of me also looks to the complete, perfect healing that God is preparing for her and I want nothing more than for her to be free.

Existing within the two worlds is tough business. One moment, my sister and I are laughing, singing, joyful and joking. We are reminiscing and sharing the sweetest memories from the gift of being daughters of Kathy Gibson Burdette. We feel special in the truest essence of the word knowing that we were her greatest gifts, her miracles that she wondered if she'd ever experience. We live in this protective bubble of knowing we have been cherished every single moment of our lives in the purest form of love that exists on this Earth.

But in other moments, we weep. Our bodies shake from the sobs that escape from a deep, deep wound in our souls. A place where we feel like we can't breathe. A place that feels like our hearts will never be put back together from this heartbreak. A place that doesn't feel real. Like a nightmare from which we cannot wake.

I don't know what the future holds. I don't know the moment that will be her last, the moment that God planned long before Mama was being formed in her mother's womb. I don't know how we will find a new normal. I don't know how to say goodbye. 

There are so many things I can't know.

But I do know these things to be true: Where we are right now is sacred. Where we sit is holy ground. The time we have is precious. Each breath she takes, each moment she has opened her eyes for us, and the slightest hint of a smile we've seen are gifts. Such irreplaceable, beautiful gifts. These are gifts that we will put in a special box, up on a shelf in our memory, to be taken down and opened with care when our hearts need it the most. Our broken hearts will be held by our Savior, and we will continue to live in His fullness of love. He is a good Father who gives good gifts in the form of precious time. This time will be what we hold dear until the moment comes that we see her again.

For now, I'll sit back and let each moment come. I'll be emptied with each cry, and filled again with each laugh. And when the time for goodbye comes, this is what we'll say:

See you soon.

On the day when I see

All that You have for me

When I see You face to face

There surrounded by Your grace

All my fears swept away

In the light of Your embrace

Where Your love is all I need

And forever I am free

Where the streets are made of gold

In Your presence healed and whole

Let the songs of Heaven rise to You alone

No weeping

No hurt or pain

No suffering

You hold me now, hold me now

No darkness

No sick or lame

No hiding

You hold me now

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

Saying Goodbye

You would think that saying goodbye wouldn't be hard when you know what follows goodbye is healing, perfection, love, warmth.

But there is this deal we as humans are created with that is both a blessing and a curse - emotion.

I sat with my Mama yesterday for the last time before we leave the States. We sat outside in the gorgeous 78 degree SC late summer weather. We watched tiny birds hop around on the ground, bright green lizards scurry. There was a gentle, cool breeze kissing our skin. I soaked it up, letting the presence of God hold me there as He has so many times before.

It was so peaceful, before I knew it Mom had fallen asleep. I reached for my phone and opened my Bible app, forgetting that I had last looked up a verse in Ecclesiastes instead of picking up where I last read in Exodus. When I hit the "Read" tab of Ecclesiastes 3, I stared in silence at the section header: "A Time for Everything."

Chapter 3, verses 1-11a read, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,  a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,  a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,  a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,  a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,  a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,  a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.  What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time."

He has made everything beautiful in its time.

I sat there, watching the rise and fall of my Mom's chest as she breathed, and simultaneously realized how much of a gift I was experiencing to watch her breathe, to sit with her alive on this Earth, yet found myself wondering how long He would tell her nostrils to pull in air, her lungs to expand and deflate with oxygen. How long?

I put my phone down, and reached for her hand. I held it there for a while as she slept, alternating between sobbing, silently begging her to forgive me for leaving. And praising. Praising God for being able to say goodbye.

I picked my phone back up and glanced at the time - 11:36. I had exactly 14 minutes left with her.

I waited a few more minutes, and did my best to soak her in. I studied her face, her beautiful face that still found ways to smile at me in the midst of her most debilitating of days. I looked at her arms, and imagined myself there, held by her too many times over the years to count. I willed my brain to take a snapshot, to take in every single detail and never forget.

I soon woke her gently,  and said, "Mama? I have something to tell you." Her head rose and she looked me right in the eyes.

Through tears while holding her hand, I said, "We're leaving for Germany tomorrow."

She nodded.

"And it's going to be a while before I see you again. I'm going to miss you so much, Mama."

With that, she looked away, staring at something in the distance.

I continued, "I want you to know how much I love you. I love you so much. I'm so proud of you."

"I'm so thankful God gave me you as my Mama. I hope I can be the kind of mother you have been."

"You have been such a good Mama."

I wiped my eyes and looked into hers, unsure if she heard anything I said. I quickly realized it didn't matter - I got to say goodbye, I got to share my heart with her.

I asked her then if she was ready to eat lunch, and she said she was. As we were making our way back to the dining room, I heard her softly say something. I asked her to repeat herself, but over the background noise I still missed it. I stopped the wheelchair and walked around in front of her, bent over, and asked, "I'm sorry Mama, I still didn't hear you. What did you say?"

As clear as day, she spoke words that will forever be burned on my heart:

"I will miss you."

I lost it. I embraced her and sobbed harder than I have in years. She held me there, and as I wept, she pat my back and said, "Don't cry. Don't cry."

We stayed there for what felt like forever and a split second.

There would never be enough time. There will never be enough of my Mama's love.

When I had calmed enough to speak, I gently touched her cheek, and told her that I wasn't sure what the next month's would hold for her, but if I couldn't make it back to say goodbye, that I would see her again. She nodded and smiled, and in that expression I saw her. I saw my Mama, and all the grace and peace her eyes have spoken for years. Not dementia. Not a brain tumor. I saw her, and I know she understood.

In some ways, I wish I could freeze that moment. I wish I could stay there, wonderfully aware of time and how limited it is. I wish I could stay in that awareness that is a balance of an ocean of grief yet the deepest of peace.

In other ways, I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could stay in her arms as a little girl, feeling safe and looking at her like she was superhuman. I wish I could go back to my teenage years, and see her for the incredibly strong, loving, supportive mother she's always been. I wish I could go to my earliest adult years and yell at myself to go see her, to accept her offers of dinners. To go shopping with her, talk with her. To open my eyes and see her, really see her heart and the great love she has for me.

But none of that is possible. There is only now. As much of her as we've been given, it would never be enough.

So I step forward. I'm not sure how my feet work, but I try to walk. I'm not sure how to breathe, but I take a breath. I'm terrified of the future, but I trust Him.

I'm not sure how to say goodbye, so I say "See you later."

I'm unsure of everything. I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, trusting that when I jump it is not into oblivion but my Father's arms who hold me. The same arms who hold my Mama's precious life.

He makes everything beautiful in its time.

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

Burning House

I had a dream about a burning house
You were stuck inside
I couldn't get you out
I laid beside you and I pulled you close
And the two of us went up in smoke

Love isn't all that it seems
I did you wrong
I'll stay here with you
'Til this dream is gone

I've been sleepwalkin'
I've been wandering all night
Tryin' to take what's lost and broke
And make it right
I've been sleepwalkin'
Too close to the fire
'Cuz it's the only place that I can hold you tight

In this burning house

-Burning House by Cam

I listen to the melody, dark but beautiful, that matches my mood. It resonates in my heavy heart. I'm stuck in a nightmare that I can't break out of. But in my nightmare, I'm not in a burning house. I'm in a small doctor's office, listening to a surgeon tell us that my Mama has a brain tumor.

She has a brain tumor, and it's incurable.

It's growing into her skull.

It's tripled in size in the past 17 months.

We can be aggressive and perform surgery to remove it, but it would likely grow back.

With her current limited functionality, surgery would likely do more harm than good.

It's about quality of life versus quantity of years.

It all plays in my head on repeat. Like a broken cd, the facts play over and over. Like a cruel game of darts, the facts are hurled at me and there is nothing I can do to stop them.

I'm angry. I'm so angry. I prayed for healing, God. I asked you to heal her. I believed you would. Hasn't she been through enough? You've called my family to leave the country, and we obeyed. We obeyed! Is this what obedience looks like?

I'm heavy with grief. So heavy. I don't want to imagine a life without my Mama. I don't want to think about a world where I have more babies and my Mama isn't here to see them born and grow. I can't consider a place where my sister gets married and Mama can't give her away. I don't want to think about all the things she'll miss, and all the times we will yearn for her presence.

It's too much. It's too much and not enough, all at once.

But when it's too much: God.

I can feel embittered with Him, not understanding His plan, but still know He's here. Because, He is. He just is.

A few weeks ago, my Mom had an MRI which lead to her follow-up appointment yesterday. The MRI showed progression of something, which we thought to be the dementia. When I received that news, I hadn't considered an alternative to God healing her - here - on Earth. It really didn't cross my mind that her tumor would grow back. I don't know why, but it didn't.

After I received that news, I dug into His word. In Exodus 6:2-8, I read this:

"God also said to Moses, "I am the Lord. I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob as God Almighty, but my name is the Lord. I did not make myself known to them. I also established my covenant with them to give them the land of Canaan, where they lived as aliens. Moreover, I have heard the groaning of the Israelites, whom the Egyptians are enslaving, and I have remembered my covenant. Therefore, say to the Israelites: "I am the Lord, and I will bring you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. I will free you from being slaves to them, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with mighty acts of judgment. I will take you as my own people, and I will be your God. Then you will know that I am the Lord your God, who brought you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. And I will bring you to the land I swore with uplifted hand to give to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob. I will give it to you as a possession. I am the Lord."

In other words, God established Himself in my grief-stricken brain first. Then, He reminded me of all that He has done already, all the ways He has been faithful. He reminded me of the promise He's given; to heal my Mom. Then, He said He will be freeing from slavery. This tumor, limited mobility, and the dying body all equal enslavement. He is going to free my Mom from the enslavement that has held her in chains for far too long. At the end of the passage, He reminded me that He will fulfill His promise.

In all the ways this world enslaves us, God's love exists to free us. In the ways that I feel bitter and angry that God may not allow Mom to stay with us longer, He reminds me that He has a better plan: complete healing. The kind of healing that gives her a perfect body, where she won't be limited by memory or physical disfunction. The kind of healing that grants her access to the physical presence and glory of Jesus. The kind of healing that means she will be praising Him alongside her mom, our Mema, and her grandmother, our Nanny Tucker. The kind of healing that means she will get to meet our babies. She will lay eyes on their faces and know who they are. The kind of healing that will have her celebrating with all the Heavenly host when souls on Earth cross from death to life.

His plan is clearly better than mine. His plan means I say goodbye to her on Earth, but it means I see her again in the blink of an eye. It means she will be free.

So I can't stay bitter at the thought of losing her, because that would be making it about me. I can't stay angry, because I realize that He is giving her the best gift. I know better that obedience doesn't always mean a perfect outcome, but that in the imperfection lies God's perfect love. It's enough. He's more than enough.

We've all heard the phrase "too little, too late" before. In our case, it is "so much, and just in time." When we were prepared to say goodbye last year, God granted us another year with her, where she was not only able to see the birth of her first grandchild, but hold her. She got to watch her grow. She was able to revel in the gift of Camden's life. We got to spend the most special of time, to say things we've been wanting to say. We've been able to see His healing in our own hearts the past months.

It's so much. So much of God's goodness.

So as our family steps forward, unsure of what the future holds and how much time she has, we can be sure that God is holding her life and will soon free her from the chains of this life.

And we can celebrate those things.

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