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My Husband, My Friend, My Brother

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Today is Chad’s 44th birthday. Sometimes it takes my breath away, how quickly that our life is flying past. I remember exactly how I felt about life back in 1995 when I first laid eyes on him. He was young and unsure and I was naive and cautious. We struck up an unlikely friendship that puzzled lots of people, and here we are, a couple of decades later, still friends.

There are times when I get sad, thinking about the fact that we only have one lifetime to live as husband and wife. Our life isn’t perfect, because we aren’t perfect. There is plenty of un-fun stuff to deal with when you’re all grown up, but we are happy, truly happy, to be side by side through the good and the bad of the human existence.

After twenty years I’m beginning to learn that one key to Christian marriage is realizing that your husband, your closest friend, is also your brother in Christ. He is yours to uphold and safeguard. To marvel at as He grows in faith. To encourage, to bring honor to, to love. And at the end of this marriage, when one us of slips from this life to the next, we can take comfort in knowing that he is my brother and I am his sister, both heirs of the King who brought us together in the first place. We will have eternity.

I once heard John Piper say that whatever the marriage relationship is on earth, it will be something infinitely better in Heaven. Chad may one day cease to be my husband, but he will never cease to be my brother. It’s one of the great gifts of Christian marriage–knowing that we will forever worship our Savior, side by side. We will see each other as we were always meant to be. And we will know that, through this too-short life, we helped each other prepare for the day we would stand before the Lord.

What an undeserved blessing. Happy birthday to my husband, my friend, my brother.

Where There is Faith

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I remember the way he used to react when I walked into a room. All the time I was growing up, through all the awkward phases, the big hair, the oversized glasses, the braces, the fashion disasters. My uncle never failed to tell me how beautiful he thought I was.

He could tell a story in a way that would make you laugh until you were begging him to stop, tears mercilessly flowing while you tried in vain to catch your breath. He would stand around in the kitchen at my parents’ house, drawing a crowd around him as he turned a recent colonoscopy into the most hilarious experience that anyone has ever heard of. And after he entertained everyone he could just as easily sit down with me and ask me question after question about my life, helping me decide what I should be, encouraging me to use the gifts that God had given me.

Today I stood next to his casket, looking on this man who has blessed me in so many ways, his body ravaged by the brain tumor that finally ended his life on this earth. I looked on the body that I love and I cried for his suffering, for his pain and his spiritual growth and his fierce loyalty to me and to my dad and to all those he loved. I cried because his life intersected with mine in a way that only God could orchestrate, an uncle with his own children and grandchildren, who had the heart and the goodness to gift his niece with his love and attention and genuine care.

Death hurts. It always hurts. It reminds us that our existence here is just like one snap of the fingers. It’s as if you breathe in and then suddenly eighty years have passed and you breathe out and life here is done. If it weren’t for the hope of Christ, how could any of us bear the sorrow of death? His goodness is never more real to me than on a day of mourning, when I can look at a war-torn body that I love and know that the battle is over forever, and all of that pain was instantly erased by an encounter with the Savior of the world. All sorrows are forgotten. All of the human struggles are silenced. And there is complete healing.

On those days, we who are left behind can remember once again why we are so desperate for a God who can make everything right again. Death is coming to each of us. We may get eighty years, or we may not last this day. But, every time we stand at the front of the church, looking one last time on a dear body that we will miss so much, we should be overwhelmed by the goodness of Jesus. We should get on our knees and thank Him for the hope, for the confidence, for the faith. For the fact that we can trust Him with the ones we love and, someday, when the light is fading and we are slipping into eternity, we can trust Him to make us new again, too. He is so good. Death is no match for this living God.

Nine year old Sawyer cried and cried after the funeral. He felt it so deeply–the sorrow of death. The pain of saying goodbye. The strife that comes with being human. We walked to the car, me crushing him to my side while I spoke the truth of the gospel over his sandy brown head. This is why we need Jesus, I said. He nodded while the tears flowed. We need our Jesus to make everything right again. We climbed into our minivan and wiped our tears, and I prayed that he will remember this day forever, the day we saw so clearly how good a death-conquering God can really be. The day we stopped to mark the truth that death hurts, but sorrow and suffering are only temporary. The day we realized, once again, how complete our need is for a Savior who stands between us and destruction. In Him, we place our hope.

At the cemetery, all of the adults were standing around talking while Sawyer sat alone in the funeral tent, obviously burning up in the jacket and tie he had insisted on wearing on a hot fall day in Texas. I could still see traces of tears on his freckled cheeks. He was already thinking about going to Granny’s house and playing with his cousins. My uncle would have liked Sawyer’s jacket and tie. He would’ve commented on how tall he is getting. He would’ve asked if Sawyer is playing football. He would’ve been standing in the middle of a circle of family members, telling some story that would make everyone roar with laughter. And, he would’ve told me that I am beautiful.

I’ll miss him. But, I mourn with great hope. With trust in my Savior. And with confidence in His goodness. Death has no power here, where there is faith in Jesus. And so, I can smile through the tears and I can tell my baby boy with all certainty that we don’t have to mourn the way the world does. And I can picture my uncle, perfectly healed, sitting at the feet of Jesus, the angels drawing near to hear his stories.

I can almost hear the laughter, ringing throughout eternity.

To “Lose” a Baby

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Mama, didn’t you lose a baby once?

The question caught me off guard. Somehow, it sounded funny dropping there into summer air from my eleven year old’s lips. “Losing” a baby. It feels like an accurate description, if losing means being so close to what you wanted, holding a child gently inside of you until he slips away while you lie under coarse emergency room blankets and cold fluorescent lights. If it means your idea of the person he would become, running through your fingers like sand. One minute a possibility, the next a sad impracticality.

I answered her with a smile. I turned to look at her and her little brother and little sister.

Yes, I have three babies who live in Heaven. That means one day, when you get there, you’ll have three more brothers and sisters to meet!

They were fascinated by the idea. What will they look like? Are they boys or girls? What will their names be?

All questions that I don’t have answers to.

I don’t think about them every day. I don’t even think about them every week. It feels sad to me sometimes, the fact that I have moved on with Adelade, Sawyer, and Emerald, busy life, wonderful life, and I don’t stop to think about the babies that disappeared almost before they had even started. I don’t keep track of the dates when I knew they were gone. I don’t try to imagine how they would be at this age or that age. They almost feel like a short, sweet dream.

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A few weeks ago, I sat in a large room filled with women, and Mandisa was on stage, being honest about struggles that she has had. She turned to one of her singers and asked her to talk about her miscarriage. As she told a little bit of her story, I could almost feel the collective empathy and understanding radiating from the women in the room. Then she sang a prayer to the One who gives and takes away: Lord, you know a mama’s pain…

And, all around the room, it was like a dam had broken, and so much sadness and grief and heartache poured out. But, something else, too. Acceptance. Faith. Hope.

In this room filled with God’s own daughters, the Holy Spirit was everywhere, bringing comfort. Gifting faith. Granting reassurance and peace.

I sat there with tears streaming down, a hand on the weeping friends that sat on either side of me, and I thanked God for the hope that comes through the gospel of Jesus Christ. The hope of eternal life. The hope of better things to come. The hope of a future where death doesn’t exist anymore.

I thought of my three absent babies. And, I was overwhelmed by the goodness of a God who made a way for me to meet them one day. The gospel is extra sweet for grieving mothers. Heaven holds our Savior and our babies, and many a great mystery will be revealed on that beautiful day.

I wonder what God named my kids?

One day I’ll know. Three babies slipped through my fingers here on earth, but they aren’t lost. Not even close.

Every once in awhile, Adelade, Sawyer, or Emerald will talk about my babies in Heaven. They watch my face, wondering, maybe, how I feel about it all. I shed many tears in past days. I grieved. I moved into a wild and busy life with my kids. And now when I’m reminded of those three little souls that touched this earth only by making an imprint on my mama’s heart, it gives me an even greater hope in the future that God promised.  He gives, and He takes away, and He gives and He gives and He gives. Forever. What a Savior.

You Only Live Once: A Search for Happiness

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A couple of weeks ago, Marie Claire magazine ran a story entitled, “Inside the Growing Movement of Women Who Wish They’d Never Had Kids.” The article is filled with testimonials from women who say that motherhood is really, really hard. They say that they are forced to put these little people first, to take care of them, to deal with the “mental clutter” of birthdates and weights and doctors’ appointments and allergies. One 60 year old woman even claimed that having her two children was the biggest regret of her life, adding, “I know my life would have been much happier and more fulfilled without children.”

Another woman describes how she wanted to abort her baby, but didn’t due to family pressure. After years of therapy, she still regrets having become a mother and sees her now 22 year old daughter “growing, exploring, taking off on a whim.” Still, she can’t find joy in seeing her daughter’s independence: “I can’t help but think she’s living my life.”

It all sounds like a scene right out of Mommie Dearest. 

Yet, I understand in some respect where these women are coming from. Because, let’s face it: motherhood IS really, really hard. It challenges us in ways that we have never been challenged before. It causes us to experience emotions on levels that we didn’t know existed. Motherhood is the ultimate exercise in dying to self, in laying your life down for a friend.

And, that’s not the kind of thing we’re good at anymore.

Everything about the human mentality changed when, as a whole, we stopped living with the next life in mind and started living for this one. Not so long ago, when the Christian faith was welcomed into most realms of our society, its influence was easily demonstrated in the way that people treated each other. In the value placed on sacrifice, honesty, kindness, forgiveness, mercy, and selflessness.

Eternal things have lost their significance in many hearts and minds, and people are forging ahead through the human experience with “you only live once” as their only mantra. Why do things that are difficult? That make you unhappy? they ask. Boring marriage? End it. Inconvenient pregnancy? End it. Want a girl? Take her. Want something someone else has? Take it. Children cramping your style? Resent them bitterly. Boss disrespecting you? Quit. Someone say something you don’t like? Humiliate them.

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The list could go on.  As a society we have completely forgotten what goodness looks like. What does it matter how we live here on earth if there’s nothing to hope for in the next life? Despair is what I see when I see abortion statistics. When I see yet another shooting. When I see mothers who can’t even find any joy in the incredible blessing of motherhood. In desperation, our world is grabbing for any tiny bit of happiness that it can find. And, being godless, hopeless sinners as we are, we tend to look for that happiness in the worst possible things. In selfish ambitions. In disgusting habits. In horrifying cruelty. Abortion. Pornography. Drugs. Sex. Bullying. Hate. Money. And so many other things that are guaranteed to leave us empty and cold and more desperate than ever.

Despair is so terrifyingly real when you are without Christ.

You don’t live just once. There will literally be hell to pay for so many.

All the more reason for those of us who have the hope of Christ to live that way. We should be the last people clinging to government as the great hope for mankind. We should be the last ones making cruel comments on social media. The last ones supporting sex trafficking and killing our own marriages by watching pornography. We should be the last ones enjoying entertainment that curses God. We should be the very last people on this earth to place happiness on a higher plane than Godliness.

In the face of such despair in our world, let us be the ones who consistently point to Christ, through our attitudes, through our self-sacrifice, through our acknowledgement that there is so much more than this one minuscule life. Are we truly set apart?

But you are the ones chosen by God,
chosen for the high calling of priestly work, chosen to be a holy people,
God’s instruments to do his work and speak out for him,
to tell others of the night-and-day difference he made for you—
from nothing to something, from rejected to accepted. 1 Peter 2:9-10 (MSG)

Mourning With Those Who Mourn

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I remember the day that I learned how much it hurts to lose someone you love. I was twelve years old, and it had been a week since my uncle passed away. The morning of his funeral, I was convinced that the adults needed to see things with spiritual eyes. In all my eighth-grade wisdom, I wondered why they didn’t understand that we should be happy because my uncle, a devoted Christ follower, was now in the presence of Jesus, free from pain and worry.

I remember getting in the car to ride to the funeral, my dad driving while brushing the constant stream of tears from his eyes. I seized the opportunity.

You’re probably wondering why I’m not sad, I piped up. I honestly don’t know how my parents put up with me. It’s because I know he’s in Heaven, and I think we should be happy about that.

I could see my dad’s teary eyes focused on me in the rearview mirror. I am happy for him, he said. But, I’m going to miss him.

When the funeral ended, I filed past the casket like everyone else, then I sat down in the chapel as was the custom, the family spending a last few moments there before going to the burial. I watched my dad and his oldest brother weep. I watched my uncle’s wife and children grieve and mourn and cry out, and as all this unfolded, I had this life lesson hit me like a freight train: death hurts. It leaves behind a trail of tears and heartache and loneliness and questioning and longing. I sat there, watching my family pour out their sorrows in that funeral home chapel, and suddenly the truth, the hard reality of being a human being fell all over me. I cried until I couldn’t breathe anymore.

Are you ok? my mother asked, and I could tell that she recognized that God was teaching me a weighty lesson.

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Since that day, I’ve attended many, many funerals. Lots of times I don’t even know the families, but am there to sing and try to minister to them in their sorrow. And, each time I see that familiar heartache, that great pain of letting go of someone you love.

If we turn to the Bible, there are so many verses of comfort and truth for Christians when it comes to death. I myself have sent these verses to grieving friends, as a way to encourage them. But, can I tell you the honest truth? Maybe we shouldn’t. Do you think it lessened my dad’s heartache on the day he buried his brother for me to remind him that we don’t grieve as the world grieves? Of course, he already knew that. But, he needed to grieve. To mourn deeply. To miss his brother. And, he still misses him to this day. The ache doesn’t disappear, even when you know the truth about the hope that you have. Because the reality is that my dad is here and his brother isn’t. And, that never stops hurting.

So, I write this a reminder to myself, and to all of us. Christians mourn, too. And, it’s okay. We don’t have to quote scripture at each other every time someone is grieving. Bad things happen in this life. Sadness is a hallmark of the fallen world we live in. Maybe the way that we can really mourn with those who mourn is just by sitting beside them, letting them be sad. Because even if we have the deepest understanding of the joy of the Lord as our strength, there are days when grieving Christians will need to cry. After all, the Bible doesn’t say we don’t grieve. It just says we grieve in a different way, because behind every tear is the hope of Jesus Christ and the place He has prepared for us.

My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. John 14:2-3

Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. 1 Thessalonians 4:13

When Things Happen That We Can’t Understand

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My grandfather died a hero.

He was 30 years old.

They say that he was funny and warm and lovable. A dark-haired, olive-skinned, impressively handsome small-town boy who lied about his age and signed up to fight in World War II when he was nothing more than a child. He fought that war and came home to marry a girl from the same small town, my grandmother, and together they built a life, nine years of marriage and four small children.

My mother was four years old when he died.

She has one memory of him. She was in the pen with some pigs, and they were scaring her. She remembers her daddy coming to her rescue, scooping her up and sitting her safely on the fence, out of reach of the wild little pigs. It’s almost like a hazy daydream, that kind of memory. But, it’s there, God’s gift to a girl whose daddy couldn’t stay.

On the day he died, he was riding a company bus, and it collided with a gasoline truck. Witnesses at the scene told and retold the stories of how he kept going back, again and again, pulling as many people to safety as he could before he collapsed, overcome by his own injuries. He died, but not before he saved others.

I wonder how they delivered that news to my grandmother, living so far from home in a foreign terrain, a Texas girl driven to New Mexico thanks to job opportunity and promise for her young family. Two days later she would return to the small town where they married, stair-step children clinging to her– eight, four, two, and one–to bury their father before he even had the chance to experience his third decade on the planet.

My grandparents

My grandparents

The story of my grandfather would be too sad to even think about, if it weren’t for Christ.

But, He wraps all the sad stories in true hope, and this one is no exception. George Henry Porter was born in 1925, and he died in 1955, and somewhere along the way, he met Jesus. He knew the Savior well long before he saw Him face to face on that August day. He was just a man, working hard to support a family he loved. He never experienced great position or even really got the chance to see where his potential might take him. But, in his short life he glorified God in untold ways.

This man with maybe an 8th grade education probably never imagined that words he wrote would live on to bring comfort to his family after his own death, and to speak a testimony of faith in God even when things happen that we simply cannot understand. But, his words still speak, thanks to a letter he wrote to his mother shortly after they learned that his brother Bowen had been killed in action. So much godly wisdom from a then twenty-year-old soldier. The letter was printed in his hometown newspaper, next to his obituary.

If you are going through an unimaginable situation today, I pray that the words of my grandfather, who was affectionately known as Ham, will speak God’s peace to you today. I’m looking forward to seeing my mother sit with him one day, hearing all the stories she ever wanted to hear about the daddy she never really knew. Heaven will be filled with so many sweet reunions.

Okinawa    July 25, 1945

Dear Mother,

     I hardly know how the begin this letter. I suppose you know by now that Bowen was killed by an artillery shell on June 19th. I don’t know when you found out, but me and Clyde have known it for some time. I just went to his C.I. and found out all about it. He never suffered a minute, and all the boys said he was a good soldier. Me and Clyde never did get to see him. But, it is for the best. I can send you a picture of the grave if you want one.

     Mom, I know how you feel. We don’t understand why God took him and left some of the others that take His name in vain, but it is just one of those things that wasn’t meant that we understand. We just have to trust in God and believe it is all for the best. You remember the story of Job, how Job was a man of God and yet God took nine of his sons. I am sure Job didn’t understand that either, but yet he trusted in God and he was blessed greatly for his faith.

     It’s not as if he is gone forever–he was a Christian, and the Holy Bible tells us that it is a better life after death for a man of God. We will see him again, and next time there will be no wars or sad partings. We know that because the Bible tells us so. Remember all things work together and to the good of those that love the Lord. And I am not the only one that has lost a brother, and you are not the only one that has lost a son. They are lined up for hundreds of yards on each side of him. There is only one difference in you and most of the other Mothers–he is in paradise, while the others have no room for such faith. For they don’t believe it their self, and you have two left that love you above all and always will. I’ll close for now and write again soon.

Your loving son,                                           

Ham                                                   

If I Died Tonight

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Adelade, Sawyer, and Emerald,
If I died tonight, here is what I would want you to know.

1. There is nothing in this world that matters more that Jesus Christ and knowing Him.
2. I love each of you in a way that is pure, deep, and born of the heart of God.
3. You have made me a better Christian and a better human being.
4. As you know, I’m not perfect. And, you aren’t either. We don’t have to be. God’s love covers everything.
5. To obey is greater than sacrifice. We aren’t perfect, but we are called to obey God and love Him with all we have. Love Him. Obey Him.
6. The church is filled with people who struggle just like we do. She will make mistakes. But, she is the bride of Christ. Stick with her and be blessed.
7. If I had the choice, I would be with you until you are old. But, I trust God to do what is good.
8. You will be afraid of lots of things in this life. It’s a scary world. But, don’t ever forget that God is in control, and no matter what happens, He will make things right.
9. I have whispered many prayers over you during your lives. May they carry you through.
10. You are exactly who I would choose if I could have chosen my children. You amaze me in every way.
11. Mothers live with all kinds of guilt and regrets. Thank you for the grace you have shown me–even when I didn’t deserve it.
12. You are all my favorites.
13. I have been in love with your daddy since I was nineteen years old. That love has never wavered.
14. I love hearing you laugh. I think your giggles may be playing on an eternal loop in Heaven.
15. It’s hard not to worry. But, don’t let worry rule your life. Jesus is writing your story, so trust that He knows what you need.
16. God’s glory is the most important thing.
17. Your daddy is an incredible man of God with a tender heart and a fun, creative spirit. He is truly special. Follow him.
18. It’s good to be happy. But, it’s better to have joy, even in hard times.
19. I adore everything about each of you. Especially your humor, your tender hearts, your freckles, your blue eyes, and your hugs.
20. Hope is real. Heaven exists. God is good. Jesus reigns forever. Hope is yours.
21. I will love you for the rest of my life and for all eternity. Count on it.
From your Mama.

Google Search of the Week: Will My Children Need a Mother in Heaven?

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WordPress and Google work together to show me which Google searches lead people to my blog.  I thought it would be fun to dig through some of the search terms that brought people here and explore some answers to their questions.

If the popularity of all of the Heaven books has taught us anything, it’s that people are hungry for knowledge of what Heaven will be like.  I doubt that any human being is more interested in Heaven than a parent who has a child there.  I’m not sure if the sweet mama who asked Google this question has lost a child, or if she’s just thinking about what would happen if she did lose one.  But, either way, I think her question is valid and worth looking into.

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First of all, we know that God loves children.  In His word, He calls them blessings and rewards, and Jesus welcomed children into His presence and even His arms during His ministry on Earth. (Psalm 127:3-5, Matthew 18:2-6) God shows a tenderness toward children throughout Scripture, and He even tells us that we should have faith like a child.  (Matthew 18:3)

Secondly, we know that Heaven is real and that it is a place that is specially prepared for us (and our children).  (John 14:2-3)  If He, in His wisdom, is preparing a place for our children, that place will not lack anything that they need.We can trust that things in Heaven are perfect in a way that they cannot be on Earth.  In Heaven, sin is no more, time is irrelevant, and there are no tears.  So, even though the Bible doesn’t specifically tell us, sweet mothers, if our children will need us in Heaven, we can know beyond any doubt that they most certainly will not need us.  God is sufficient for us, and He is sufficient for our children.

But, this knowledge is a real dilemma for us.  Because as much as we want our children to be okay without us, somehow it adds to our sadness to think that our children could forget about us in Heaven.  There is plenty of evidence in scripture that we will know each other in Heaven.  When Jesus appears to His disciples after His death, they recognized Him.  When He takes Peter, James, and John to the Mount of Transfiguration in Matthew 17, the men saw Elijah and Moses appear beside Jesus.  And, they knew who Elijah and Moses were, even though they had never seen them before.  So, it stands to reason that we will surely recognize our dearest loved ones in Heaven.

Our relationships will be different.  Our children won’t need us like they do on Earth.  But, I believe we will know them, and they will know us.  I like the way John Piper explains the change in the nature of our relationships in Heaven.  He was asked about marriage, and how we will relate to our spouses in Heaven.  He simply answered, “Whatever marriage is here on Earth, it will be infinitely better in Heaven.”

I think the same is true of our relationships with our children.  We can trust that they will be taken care of in our absence, and we can trust that when we are reunited, it will be infinitely better than we can imagine.  As the Bible tells us in 1 Corinthians 2:9:  “However, as it is written: ‘What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived’ — the things God has prepared for those who love him–“

We know His character.  We can trust His promises.  And, we can trust Him with our children, in this life and in the next.

In the Grip of Fear, In the Hand of God

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Tonight this world is spinning along its usual path in a universe so gigantic that we can’t even really conceive of its magnificence.  Earth is just one small dot on a grid of millions of heavenly bodies of different kinds.  Yet, here we are, special creation, made in the image of God, bent under the weight of incredible sin, grieving over wars that are raging as I write, powerless to control what cannot be controlled.  Worried.  Terrified.  Wondering how it all turns out okay in the end.

And, where is God?

We wonder what He is doing.  We question whether He is good.  The bad news just keeps coming.  And it seems like there’s a hole in our faith bucket.  We read the stories that seem to point to the end of the world as we know it, and we tremble inside.  We wish that we could see what God’s ultimate plan is.  We wish that we could understand what is really happening when it looks like everything is chaos and craziness.

But, we don’t have to know every aspect of God’s plans or His will or His interesting way of accomplishing things.  We don’t even have to like what we see Him doing.  We don’t have to approve of His methods or be happy about every twist and turn that He has built into our road ahead.

But, even when we are heartbroken, when we are discouraged to the point of despair, when we are crippled by the fear of what is to come, when we are angry at God, when we feel abandoned, when we feel anxiety coming over us in waves, when we don’t even know who we are anymore, the Truth is still true.

Our feelings about the Truth don’t change it.  They don’t weaken its power.  They don’t deny us access to it.  The Truth is always completely real, even when we are feeling around in the pitch black of our own fear just trying to lay hold of one tiny corner of it.  It is there.

The Truth is that everything is going to be okay.

If we are in Christ and He is in us, if God has us held tight in His hand, nothing can snatch us out of it, not even our fear. So, in the light of Truth we can imagine our worst fears, things we are too afraid to even give words to, images and terrors that reside in our minds that seek us out as we lie in bed at night.  Fears borne in irrational thinking or fears based on what we have already experienced–it doesn’t matter.  We can imagine that our very worst fear comes true, and we can face it because we have the hope of Jesus Christ.

A friend revealed that she had a crippling fear that someone would break into her house and murder her family.  The Truth came back to her in the echos of Scripture she had memorized as a child:  The Lord is good and His word endures forever. . .Trust in the Lord with all your heart and don’t lean on your own understanding. . .Fear not, for I am with you. . .I sought the Lord and He answered me and delivered me from my fears. . .If we are faithless, He remains faithful.  She agonized over this fear for quite some time before she finally embraced the Truth that even if her very worst fear came true, everything would still be okay.

Because God is in the business of making things right.  He is good and trustworthy, and His Truth remains, even when we are having a hard time remembering it.

Maybe you have already faced your worst fears.  Maybe you are angry with God.  Maybe you are so heartsick that you don’t believe you will ever recover.  And maybe you won’t, in this life.  But, God is working.  Please believe it.  His Truth stands, despite our circumstances.  We can trust Him.  And, at the end of it all, which is really only the beginning, everything really will be okay, if we know Him.  Rest in His hand, my sweet, tired friends.  He is good.

Way Better

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Today Chad and I were asked to sing at a funeral.  We had just gone to the nursing home to sing to this sweet lady a few weeks ago, and on Friday night she finally learned the mysteries of  a new existence in the presence of the Lord.

I was nervous.  Singing at funerals can be nerve-wracking because of the emotions and the quietness in the room.  On our way there, I asked Adelade to pray for me.  I don’t know that I have ever really done that before, asked one of my children to intercede for me.  But, she didn’t miss a beat.  She said, sure, and started praying.  She prayed that God would calm my nerves.  That He would help Chad and me to do a good job.  And then she prayed for the grieving family:  God, please help them not to cry too much, because we know that she went to Heaven and Heaven is way better than this place.

She said amen and continued the debate she was having with her brother in the backseat.  But, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had prayed.  …and Heaven is way better than this place.  This, coming from a child who lives an easier, more carefree, more pleasant life than the majority of the world’s population of children.  This, from a little girl who has everything she needs, a loving family, great friends, and plenty of laughter in her life.  This, from a nine year old who has never worked a day in her life, has never wondered where her next meal was coming from or if her parents were going to leave her.

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Basically, Adelade has an incredible life.  Her existence in “this place” is pretty phenomenal.  She is happy.  She loves her life.  Yet, here she is, baby in the faith, completely trusting in God’s promise that Heaven is so much better.

And, just like that, a nine year old’s prayer increased her mother’s faith.

The funeral was really beautiful, and when we sang, I could feel the effects of Adelade’s simple words.  The precious lady was honored well by those who love her.  And, I didn’t feel so nervous.  My eyes were fixed Heavenward, and my heart was replaying the memory of a child’s prayer in the backseat.

I saw two faiths on display today.  One, a faith that endured the loss of two children and a husband, a faith that sustained through grief and hard times and loneliness and  illness.  A faith that persevered until the very end of life on earth.  The other faith that I saw today, well, it is new and shiny and hasn’t endured much yet.  But, when Jesus told us to have childlike faith, maybe He was telling us that our faith, even at 87 years old, when we have seen and endured so much, should be just as shiny and new as the nine year old’s in the backseat on the fourth day of summer.

Today I’m grateful for both examples.  I saw His “way better” in a flower-filled funeral parlor and in the backseat of a kid-filled minivan.  He is good.

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