The value of one.

Recently I started a new job working with domestic violence survivors. I have done quite a bit of advocacy over the last five years, so this field isn't new to me, but I still have the same emotional reaction that I did as an intern in college - an overwhelming sense of the impossible. There are so many, many victims that it begins to feel like there is no way to make a dent, to make a difference. The average career of individuals working in advocacy is two years, and its no wonder. With odds so insurmountable, why keep trying? 

This week as I drove an addict who had been brutally assaulted to a safe place for the night, I couldn't help but think, "will this moment, this small mercy make a difference to someone who will very likely end up back on the streets tomorrow morning?"

It seemed like my assistance was a mere match in a stadium of darkness, a light that would do very little and burn out very fast. 

Sunday night found my husband and I watching the movie "Hacksaw Ridge", a blockbuster based on the true story of Seventh Day Adventist, Desmond Doss, a medic in WWII that refused to carry a weapon into battle because he wanted to save lives, not take them. Placed in one of the most dangerous battlefront locations in Japan, Doss single handedly saved 75 soldiers who had been left for dead on an escarpment under heavy oppositional fire without a defensive weapon. During the 12 hours he was rescuing wounded men and lowering them by rope down a cliff to safety he reportedly prayed, "Lord help me save just one more". 

What a beautiful prayer. Lord help me save just one more. 

With hundreds of casualties it would have been easy for Doss to think, "what difference can I make" and follow the rest of his division down the ropes to safety. Instead he recognized the value of a single life. 

Talk about conviction.

In a world that seems to be going to hell in a hand basket, I have to ask myself: am I retreating down the rope to a comfortable life or pushing forward with everything I have because that one other life matters? 

The addict I drove earlier in the week may not even remember that she had a warm place to sleep after a hellish night but what if she did? Do I believe that she is worth the risk? Do I believe that she is valuable, deserving of this small act of mercy? 

“What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? ”

— Matthew 18: 12-13

God leaves the many and goes back for the one. He has bestowed the ultimate mercy on the most hopeless cases.

Whether you find yourself as the single sheep who doesn't believe you are worth saving or as the overwhelmed medic who doesn't know if you are making a difference, remember this - there is immeasurable value in one life. In your life. In that addict's life. In your neighbor's life. In your enemy's life. In a stranger's life. 

We, who were ourselves eternally saved by the sacrifice of another's life, should not doubt the significance of an act of love to a singular soul. 

“But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

— Romans 5:8

I challenge you to accept the love of God towards you, to embrace His unimaginable care for YOUR life, His offer to call you 'my child'. 

I challenge you to pray, "Lord help me save just one more", to recalibrate your heart to recognize the value of loving even one more person.  

New year reservations.

Last New Years Eve, I found myself sitting at the kitchen table next to an unopened bottle of champagne I had planned to bring to a friend's house; in my hands was a pregnancy test with two pink lines in the viewing window. 

At the time, my husband was in a work rotation that included night shifts, so even though it was 3pm he was sound asleep in our bedroom. I gently shook him awake (Im fairly sure my hands were shaking so hard, I probably only had to touch his arm for the effect), and said, "good morning hun, guess what?" and handed him the test. 

It was a new year, a new life, a new start - everything was full of promise. My resolutions included informing our parent's of their newly minted "grandparent status", creating a birth plan, learning how to change diapers, and decorating a nursery.

But like most new years resolutions... it didn't quite happen how I planned. 

Tomorrow it will be New Years Eve again, and I can't help but look at the last year and wonder, what the hell happened? 

My parent's house burned down, my dad died, I miscarried our baby and had emergency surgery, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with brain cancer, I quit my job to become a caregiver, had a complete mental break down, frequented the doctor for various health concerns, my niece and my uncle had open heart surgeries and seven months after her diagnosis, my mother-in-law also died. 

That is SO not how I thought 2017 would go. 

Call me crazy, but here at the turn of another year, instead of resolutions I keep having reservations. 

How do I believe that God has good plans in store for my life when so much bad has happened? How do I trust in the promise of an abundant life when so much has been taken away? How do I start to dream again, to open my heart again, to love again? 

And maybe, just maybe, you find yourself asking the same questions this year. 

“My heart’s been torn wide open, just like I feared it would be, and I have no willpower to close it back up.”

— Marie Lu, Champion

To be honest with you, I don't really have the answers. I wish I didn't fear the phone ringing, the fireplace crackling, or the possibility of becoming a mom again. I wish I knew how to expect good news instead of waiting for the other shoe to fall. These fears are real and I don't deny the uncertainty of life. 

But this I do know: living in anxiety instead of anticipation becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you constantly worry, even the wondrous becomes wistful and opportunities become wasted.

To live in fear is to suppress a fruitful life. 

This year has broken me time and time again and it sure as heck wasn't what I dreamed of at the table last New Years Eve. Perhaps you know the feeling.

- But - 

Hopefully I have been formed into a better shape, pruned into a more fruitful person - and my gosh, I pray the same for you friend. 

“I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape. ”

— Emily Dickinson

Whatever questions you bring to the table here at the turn of the year, whatever baggage is weighing you down, I propose this resolution: 

To be open to love and in turn, to cast out fear. For "There is no fear in love. But perfect love casts out fear." (John 4:18) 

“There are two basic motivating forces: fear and love. When we are afraid, we pull back from life. When we are in love, we open up to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement, and acceptance. ”

— John Lennon

Be still and know that I am God.

Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Be present in this moment, clear your mind of all the things you need to do today. Deep breath in, deep breath out. 

Four friends challenged me to 30 days of yoga; initially we agreed to do it as a form of exercise, a dedication to increasing strength and decreasing stress. An accountability group for getting back into the practice of self-care. But somewhere along the way it became spiritual-care. 

It is unnatural in this age of constant entertainment, continual commotion, to sit for long periods of time with nothing but the sound of our own breath. You see, we have lost the art of stillness. 

As I finish up my daily practice, my phone buzzes next to me. An update on my niece's heart surgery flashes across the screen. 

Instantly I can feel the anxiety rise up in my chest like a tiger clawing at the bars of a cage. Fear of more loss, fear of the unknown, fear of the what ifs. Please God, I can't endure any more. 

The surgery feels like a hurricane ripping through my life, shattering the peace. My first instinct is to try and distract myself from the fear, drown out the anxiety with a million chores and television episodes. It is always easier to seek diversion rather than the divine. 

But dear heart - there will be no answer, no comfort, no assurance in the clamorous voices of the age. They may address the mind but they will never address the spirit. 

I think about Elijah on the side of the mountain, looking for answers from God in a hurricane, an earthquake, a fire. Hoping to hear a thunderous response from heaven. Hoping it will be unmissable, unmistakable. But all too often I find, as Elijah did, that God is not in the habit of yelling, of fighting to be heard over the raucous of our lives. 

“A hurricane wind ripped through the mountains and shattered the rocks before God, but God wasn’t to be found in the wind; after the wind an earthquake, but God wasn’t in the earthquake; and after the earthquake fire, but God wasn’t in the fire; and after the fire a gentle and quiet whisper.”

— 1 Kings 19:11-12 (Message translation)

So the question begs to be asked: How can we hear the gentle whisper of God when the roar of life is so loud?  When there are literal hurricanes, earthquakes and fires; when there are mass shootings, cancer and baby's who don't get the chance to grow up; when there is an epidemic of pornography, sex trafficking, and abuse; when social media, cell phones, and the internet keep us always occupied. Tell me, how then do we hear the whisper of God?

In scripture it says that Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed (Luke 5:16). That he made an intentional choice to be alone, to be silent, to listen to his Father. And maybe thats the part of prayer that we often forget: its a two-way conversation. And this is what He asks of us - "to be still and know that I am God" (Psalm 46:10)

Do you find yourself in my position, in Elijah's position, today? Desperate for an answer from God, for comfort, for freedom from anxiety and fear? Are you in the midst of a chaotic life storm that feels like it is drowning out everything else, including the voice of God? Does your path forward feel unclear and unsure? 

For what its worth, here are words from my heart to yours: 

Stop seeking distraction. Seek stillness. 

Stop breathing in diversion. Breathe in the divine presence of God. 

Stop exhaling worries. Exhale the truth. 

Stop talking. Start listening. 

“The Spirit of God has made me, And the breath of the Almighty gives me life.”

— Job 33:4

Giving thanks in the midst of loss.

People always say that the first year after a loved one's death is the hardest because its full of just that - firsts. From the first morning coffee after they're gone to the first church service, the first dinner with friends, the first day back at work, the first day coming home to no one, and of course, the first holidays.

 All month I have been cringing as time marches toward a menacing display of cheer.

In anticipation of the happiest time of the year (a truly barbaric phrase to anyone who is grieving), I found myself building an internal wall of sorts, a layer of impassiveness around my heart. Frankly it seemed safer than being blindsided by the pain of the holiday's without my dad, without my husband's mom, without a home to go back to. 

Because it is always easier to hide. But here's the thing, hiding prevents the wounds from airing out, from scabbing, from healing.

So I made a promise to myself the week before Thanksgiving - that I wouldn't close off my heart from the healing. 

My mom arrives at my house and the table looks empty. Just my husband and I, my mom, and a glaring void. Its funny how sometimes the absence of a person is more palpable than their physical body ever was. I think, 'If loss were liquid, our cup has overflown.'

I resist the urge to run. The instinctual impulse to rebuild the wall around my heart - to stop feeling, stop missing, stop remembering, stop aching. 

How do I sit here looking at where my dad sat last year and give thanks?  How do I praise when I still have nightmares about watching my mother-in-law drown in her own lungs? How can I be grateful when my arms are empty? How do I count blessings when there seem to be so many griefs? 

I come upon this truth, spoken perhaps from an unknown angel; it sprawls across my computer screen:

“A sacrifice of thanksgiving means grieving what could have been while remaining grateful for what is.”

— Unknown

Thanksgiving is not an ultimatum. It does not mean that you have to be thankful that there is an empty spot at the table where your loved one should be, or that you lost a job, or a home, or a dream. Rather, Thanksgiving is about acknowledging what could have been and giving thanks for what still is. 

I may not have my dad at the table this year, but I do have my mom and my husband. I may not have been able to go home to my parent's for the holidays, but I have a home to welcome others into. I may have empty arms, but I have eight beautiful nieces and nephews to hold close. 

And although this year has had an unbearable amount of loss I have also been reminded what amazing families my husband and I each have. I have been humbled by the underserved grace I have received, the promise of eternity and of the communion of saints. 

In the midst of the ache for what could have been, what should have been  - I am choosing to look at what is.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

— Philippians 4: 6-7

How to live a contented life.

Nine months ago my life exploded into chaos and ever since I've been in survivalist mode. My favorite daydream for months-on-end was the one where I got to be at home for more than several days in a row and my calendar was filled with mundane tasks instead of funerals and doctor appointments. My greatest craving was normalcy. 

But here's the kicker: now that I'm home and the dust has settled, I'm not sure that I like this new normal. You know, the one where I have the time to really feel the gaping hole left in my life by tragedy. In every familiar chore I feel the weight of loss, the knowledge that I can't call my dad for help on my car or ask my mother-in-law to grab coffee with me on a Sunday afternoon. What I thought would bring me a semblance of peace feels instead like a dead end. 

After the death of my dad, my mom once said, "I feel like the woman whose life stopped." 

Take that in for a moment, because I think reflected in her raw statement is a reality we each face: when life trips us with a vicious kick to the shins we often fear that we will never be able to reengage in the race, especially when when we see other runners flying past with ease. 

All I craved for so long was stability and monotony but when I got what I wanted it wasn't enough; I still felt the sharp sting of discontent. I looked at my friends who had healthy babies, who had both their parents still, who had successful careers... and I mourned that my life didn't look like theirs. 

You see, when you find yourself in a new, unwanted normal, when your life feels like its stopped, its so easy to look at other people's lives and think that God gypped you.

“There’s always somebody who’s got something better than you’ve got, and it creates discontent. Your peace and your hope and your contentment should never be in that stuff, and if it is, if thats what your depending on, you will always look at that and say ‘I’m not sure if I have enough’. ”

— Dad

When I was a kid my family did a lot of hiking. I used to HATE hiking because I tripped about every five steps trying to keep up with my brothers instead of paying attention to my surroundings. My focus wasn't on the path and as a result I never enjoyed myself. 

Here's the reality folks: if you are busy looking at the other runners or trying to keep up with them, you're going to stumble. 

Contentment is never found in comparison. Contentment is never found in competition. Contentment is never found in ungrounded claims to an effortless life. 

“The secret to a content life, to living in all the circumstances, is to recognize that I can live my life in one way and one way only: through my dependence on the power of God. So here is the question: do you really believe that God will not leave you, no matter what? ”

— Dad

As I sat this morning looking at the regimented week ahead and feeling so lost and uncontented in my bizarre new normal, so angry and abondanded by God, my daddy's voice preached to me from a past sermon on my computer. Do you really believe that God will not leave you, no matter what? 

Do I, Hannah, believe that God has not left me in the last nine months? Do I believe that He is just as present in my tripped up life as He is in the lives of those around me? Do I believe that he is using my life just as it is, just where I am? Do I believe that He is enough? 

When the answer to these questions becomes 'YES', the secret of a content life is revealed. 

Our lives become plenty, our paths becomes smooth, when we recognize that they are bound up in the gracious, loving, perfect will of God. 

“I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”

— Phil 4: 12-13

City on a hill: when you're too tired to engage.

“I’m so exhausted and yet I feel like I’ll never sleep again. ”

— Maya Banks

I'm home again. Greeted by the same smell of my favorite candle, the same view of the park across the street, the same tumble weeds of pet hair that I left three weeks ago on the way to my mother-in-law's deathbed. Its all the same.

Except for me. 

I find myself pacing the house in discontent, at once so completely desperate for rest and anxious for movement. Nothing feels right. Nothing IS right. 

I can't help but wonder if something essential in the DNA of my life has mutated, as if the very chemical makeup of "me" has changed over the last year.

And perhaps it has - Death takes a heavy toll. 

Here at the end of so many things - childhood, parenthood - I'm not sure how to begin again. Too old to go back and too young to go forward, I stand in the in-between. 

My mom's voice crackles on the other end of the phone, "I am too tired to engage Hannah, I don't know how God can use me anymore." 

I sigh, because I feel the same way. Bone weary. Soul weary. The kind of exhausted that comes after every resource has been depleted, the whole of your life poured out in tears. 

"How can God use an empty, cracked vessel like me?"

The question hangs thick over the phone line. 

And I think about funerals. About the day my dad died, the day my mother-in-law died. I think about the lines of well-wishers and mourners. The tears and the hugs and the never-quite-enough-words. I think about the blur of faces and the church pews and the sopping wet handkerchief in my hand. About the pictures and stories and songs. And I try to remember what meant the most to me, what brought me comfort in that darkest of moments. 

The answer comes to me slowly, decisively. 

It wasn't the cards, the sympathy, the flowers, the funeral itself. What brought me solace, what spoke to my fragmented soul, was solidarity. It was the people who showed up, who held my hand, who cried with me. It was their very presence, more than anything that they did or said, that acted as the hands and feet of Jesus. 

I talk into the receiver, whisper truth into the heart of my mama and myself, push back against the fears and doubts of a broken down life. 

"Sometimes engagement in the Kingdom of God looks like just showing up." 

This is freedom my friends - to recognize that God's presence is present in those who just show up. 

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others...”

— Matthew 5:14-16

Once a candle is lit, it doesn't have to work to push back the darkness. Once the Spirit of God is within you, you carry His light wherever you go. You are the light of the world and no fatigue, loss, brokenness or exhaustion can stifle the flame. 

So when you feel as though you have nothing left to give, like your life is a wash, like you don't know what to do or how to engage with the world, remember this: 

Your presence has power because it is consumed by the flame of God. Like a scented candle, you give off the light of heaven and the fragrance of salvation.

“In the Messiah, in Christ, God leads us from place to place in one perpetual victory parade. Through us, he brings knowledge of Christ. Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance. Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation—an aroma redolent with life. ”

— 2 Corinthians 2:14-16, The Message Translation

Everywhere you go, every time you show up, you bring with you the aroma, the light, of life. 

Dear Heart - he is not finished with you yet. 

When grief feels like fear: waiting for eternity.

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning.”

— C.S. Lewis

Outside its storming. The trees are unsettled by the wind, the lake is shifting, the sky is groaning and rolling. And there is a change in the light; the colors seem washed out somehow, like the rain has actually caused the vibrancy to seep into the soil below. 

Inside its storming. My mother-in-law is bedridden. She is unsettled, constantly shifting in the twisted up sheets, she groans as she tries to roll over. There is a noticeable change in her inner light, like someone has stepped inside and dimmed her. Her vibrancy has slipped away a little bit each day. 

And as I read out loud to her in the middle of a storm grey room, that quote from Lewis kept rattling around in my head: grief like fear. 

I am no stranger to grief but each time he visits he's different. In the past he has come to the door of my heart quite suddenly, quite traumatically. In these visits I have felt the fear that inevitably accompanies shock. The fear that comes with losing something in a terrible instant and knowing that you could lose everything else you hold dear just as abruptly. 

But this time grief has shown a different face. He crept up to the door, snuck in, and then he began to settle down for a lengthy initial visit. This time, I felt the fear that accompanies waiting for the inevitable. The fear that comes with knowing someone you love is slipping away and there is nothing you can do to stop it. 

And in that most detestable, inevitable waiting that accompanies a terminal cancer diagnosis is the restlessness, the open wide yawning of the soul as it prepares for the transition from this world to the next. 

The book I was reading out loud was  "Heaven: your real home" by Joni Eareckson Tada. Joni compares heaven and earth to a child in the womb. If you were to tell a fetus that just inches away is an enormous world filled with rivers, and oceans, and stars, and the moon, and mountains, a world they were being created for... the fetus would laugh and tell you that the only world is the dark womb they are in. 

Friends, we are in the womb. This earth is a just a small dark pocket that is preparing us for somewhere that is so much bigger and better than anything we can possibly imagine. We are being created for the heavens, and the heavens are only inches away. As we pass out of this current world, we are birthed into the spiritual world. 

And all the restlessness, the stirring, the groaning and shifting are the beginning of the birth pains.

My mother-in-law is experiencing the contractions of heaven. She is being delivered straight into the arms of Jesus... straight into the world that she has been fashioned for, a world so far beyond our comprehension.

Even though I found myself crying as I held her clutched hand, I choked out these words of truth, these promises of paradise just inches away. 

“And Jesus said to him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.””

— Luke 23:42

The communion of suffering.

My mom and I whispered across the thick blanket of darkness about the loss, the ache, the missing, the break downs and the tiny triumphs. We stood - hypothetically, since we were actually laying down - in solidarity with each other; we mourned and rejoiced shoulder-to-shoulder. In the end, we stayed up well past 1AM and the next morning found me downing coffee like it was going out of style.

But my soul was well watered. 

There was something about that night - the sharing together in an emotion, an experience - that was life-giving. We had participated in true communion. 

Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines communion as: 'intimate fellowship or rapport.'

Read that again, 'intimate fellowship or rapport'. Doesn't that make your soul ache? We were created for community, for connection, for deep relationship. We were made in the image of the triune God, who at His very essence is relational even within His own being. And again we see relationship built into our very design, for when God formed Adam from dust He said, 'it is not good for man to be alone'. 

But the reality is that sometimes we feel alone. Sometimes we find ourselves physically alone. 

I have spent countless hours crying in my car, in my closet, under my covers (shoutout to my emotional-stage-fright buddies) lamenting that no one else could really understand the pain in my heart. Lamenting the isolation, the alienation, born of loss.  

Yet here's the thing. We all share in the human experience, which is to say we all suffer. In that commonality the seed of empathy is planted. And where there is empathy, there is the potential for communion to grow. In every relationship, every association, there is latent communion.  

There is this phrase used in the Christian Church, 'the communion of the saints'. There are two meanings here: communion in holy things (sancta) and communion among holy persons (sancti).  Taken in its sancti interpretation, communion of the saints describes the spiritual connection among christians both on earth and in heaven. On earth, that makes sense... but in heaven? Are we really connected to those who have died?    

I never gave much thought to the communion of the saints until my dad passed away and there developed this burning hunger in my soul to still be linked to him somehow. The Bible speaks about a 'great cloud of witnesses' that observe the lives of the faithful still on earth. I truly believe that my dad and I are still in communion, that we are still intimately connected in this eternal web of souls. That in my struggles, in my sorrows, my dad is presently rooting for me from the perspective of one who has known adversity and also known the secession of it. He and I are in a communion built through the shared experience of suffering and grace.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us”

— Hebrews 12:1

This communion with the saints, temporal or ethereal, is made possible because of another communion of suffering -  that of Jesus Christ. 

Jesus' life on earth was filled with trials and tribulations, griefs and injustices - he was described in scripture as a 'man of many sorrows'. Besides wrongful prosecution, torture and subsequent crucifixion, Jesus also experienced the death of his cousin John, the death of his friend Lazarus, the betrayal of one of his close disciples and the denial of another. He was well acquainted with the sting of suffering. 

“He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows... But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed.”

— Isaiah 53:3-5

Think about that for a moment. God chose to suffer so that we might come into communion with him. It is through Christ's suffering on the cross that we are reconciled to God. It is through Christ's humanity that we are able to come before a God who understands, who empathizes. 

If you find yourself feeling alone today, struck down and without hope - remember this - you are invited to be a part of the most intimate fellowship of all: the communion of saints, the communion of Christ. 

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s suffering.”

— 1 Peter 4: 12-13

Building on a vision.

It is my absolute pleasure to welcome to Rubble and Rescue my hero, my mentor, my best friend, my mom - Michele. You will never meet a woman with more resilience, wisdom, and grace than this lady. Soak in her words today and let them feed your soul as they did mine. 

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“If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up people to collect wood and don’t assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.
”

— Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The best fries (skin on, served with sour cream), the best burger (piled high with fixings) the best chocolate shake (chocolatey, creamy, need a spoon) and the best guy (blonde mullet, very blue eyes, square jaw, yummy mouth).

Jeff Sorvik had asked me out! Walked right into my dorm - of course he didn’t know it was girls only - with his blue 80’s suit on, fresh from his management job at a computer software company.

I was a freshman; he was a junior. I asked myself what in the world he saw in me? The answer: he saw not something…but someone. Someone he wanted to know better.

After he asked me out for the aforementioned dinner, we started to build.

We built a friendship that turned into wobbly love. Jeff told me he loved me first and I couldn’t say it back... at least not yet. He graciously said, “that’s ok,” and drove out of my sight, where he proceeded to bang his head on the steering wheel of his grey Nissan Sentra.

You see I was struggling with the whole concept of love as it actually is and not some trumped up, Hollywood-ized version of it. Jeff said he loved me first and he meant it. He patiently waited until I understood love for myself to see if it applied to him. And when I finally landed on love and applied it’s real definition to Jeff, I meant it with all my heart.

For over thirty years we built a life together. We could see the immensity of God’s love for us, like a giant fathomless ocean, so much better then we could see it alone. We bent toward one another, lifting each other up when life struck us down - and believe me, it did - while learning to trust Jesus again and again and then suddenly...

It all ended.

Jeff, dearest husband and very best friend, taken in a fire in February of this year.

Now what? It’s just me. Me, alone after building a life and ministering with him for so many, many years.

When I first met Jeff, almost from day one, I knew the man had vision. He could see far out there and paint a picture of it. That first date I mentioned earlier? After we had finished eating, we took a walk where we began talking about our desires for the future. Jeff said with hope in his voice that he wanted to have a family and live in the country. “Wow,” I said, thinking that got serious fast... “It’s time for me to get back to my dorm.” But lo and behold, many years later that dear, sweet, gentle, tough man who loved Jesus and me, built our family a house on 20 acres that we were graced to live on for many years.

Vision. Jeff had it and God enabled him to build on it.

And he didn’t just have vision for his own life, but for other people. He saw the good that could be and began building toward it. It’s how he preached as a minister and how he treated others. He painted a better picture of life based on God’s love in the Bible and because he lived it himself, he made you long for it too.

That was Jeff. Always going forward. Always sprinting toward the next bend in the road. And now he’s Home and I’m here, wondering how to build a life without him. It’s an incredibly painful prospect.

So, this past Sunday I’m getting ready alone (my new unwanted ‘normal’) and I see that the shirt I’m wearing is a bit large on me. I worry it may make me appear larger than I am – lets be honest, we all have these thoughts, am I right?

As I’m thinking and wondering if I should find a belt, I sense God’s voice telling me He has just the right belt for me. “Hmmm,” I think to myself. “After the fire, I now own two new belts and that’s it. Not sure either of them will work with what I’m wearing.” Yet His quiet voice insists and I turn into my closet. “Up there,” I sense Him say to me. And ‘up there’ is Jeff’s leather tool belt that he used when he built that beautiful home in the country for our family 15 years ago.

I take it down off the shelf. It has large leather pouches hanging off of it to be filled with nails and screws and all manner of homebuilding necessities. I slide off the pouches and place the worn Craftsmen belt around my waist…and it fits. Perfectly.

Instantly, I know what God is saying to me. “I will build your life, Michele. It’s Me, Myself. You will not build your life alone. Remember? ‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.’ I did that out of nothing. I will do so again. I am the Craftsman.”

And I have tears in my eyes, just like that.

God’s voice of Vision, speaking to me of the future I cannot see and have no way to get to on my own. He reminded me in those moments that He builds for a larger future than I can comprehend or lay my hands upon. A future my dearest husband is now living in.

Not only has God built Heaven as our real Home for us but He is also the Craftsman of the here and now, building a life of purpose for me that I can’t see yet but long for.

Jeff’s gift of vision was always an echo of God’s particular visions for our marriage, our family, our church while he was still here. Now that he is gone from the earth, I’m learning in new, albeit currently hard, ways to trust the larger vision that God has for me though I cannot see with my earthly eyes. God has a vision for me and for you. It does not end when life changes or ceases here. Today is not a day of endless, pointless tasks. Today is not merely a day to survive, even if it feels like it. More is going on than we realize. A larger vision built small grace by small grace into a very relevant picture of God’s love for us happens in each of our daily lives.

And so for me, my hurting heart chooses to remember Jesus, who gave Jeff to me as a gift and that He, as my true Carpenter, will establish His good work in my life today and for whatever ‘building projects’ lie ahead.

I’ll be wearing that belt a lot in the days to come.

“I am confident that the Creator, who has begun such a great work among you, will not stop in mid-design but will keep perfecting you until the day Jesus the Anointed, our Liberating King, returns to redeem the world.”

— Phil 1: 6

When you don't feel inspirational.

She said I was an inspiration, said I was strong. 

But really all I felt like was a fraud. 

Because every morning I get out of bed and it is an act of supernatural will to do so. These simple things - brushing my teeth, putting on socks, making coffee - are impossibly taxing. Each day stretches out before me like a marathon of mundane tasks, each one just as hard as it was in the beginning of this so called "grief process".

It doesn't feel like it is getting any easier, this living after death. 

“For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.”

— C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

I have found myself astonished by the vast emptiness over and over; though the expectation is to spiral upwards, I often fear it is the opposite. 

How do I learn to walk when "the same leg is cut off time after time"? When the wound is always fresh and bleeding, the amputation always shocking, the loss continually startling?

To function in such a state is not a matter of strength or of will, but a matter of faith. I am not strong, I am not inspirational - I am desperate.

I am desperate to believe that there is more to life than this crippling pain. I am desperate to believe that there is a reason God left me behind here in this forsaken world; that there is a purpose still for me even though I find the simple act of breathing hard. I am desperate to believe that someday I will meet my family again on the shore that never ends. 

My brother once said to me, "If Satan is trying to shake my faith by taking dad, he chose the wrong tactic. All he has done is made clear to me that if there is no heaven, no world beyond this one, than there is no point - and I refuse to believe that." 

And so do I. 

If you have made the mistake of looking at me over the last six months and thinking, "she is so strong". I tell you the truth, it is not so. No strength is in me outside of the God given tenacity to believe that this can't be all there is.

Dear friend, it is in the desperate clinging of bloody, torn up fingers onto the cross that one is able to pull themselves up each day. It is here, embracing the very image of suffering, that we gain access to the aid of a Savior. And it is in His spread-wide arms that we find the faith, the will, to go on. 

“we suffer with him [Jesus] in order that we may also be glorified with him. For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us... And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. ”

— Romans 8: 17b-18, 28