Almost every day, Titus will come find me and ask if we can “cuddle in the dark.” He likes to sit in my lap in the chair in the quiet area of my room after dark. It’s kind of interesting, considering the kid hates the dark. I constantly go around the house turning off all the lights he just HAS to turn on. He won’t go to the bathroom by himself if the light is off even though he is perfectly capable of reaching the light switch by himself (though I have learned that if I make myself scarce and he REALLY needs to go, he somehow stirs up enough courage to do it himself!).

Why are we afraid of the dark? For children it is dark rooms or shadows on their walls at bedtime. But for adults, it’s another kind of darkness that terrifies us. We are afraid of pain—physical and emotional. We are afraid of grief and loss. We are afraid of struggle. We avoid them at all cost. I surely do.

In the past five years, several of my biggest fears have been realized. One of my children died. A relationship I thought would last forever ended. Someone I love dearly all but disappeared from my life. At some points, the darkness felt like too much, but God always reached into those darkest moments and His light would dissipate it. Sometimes it was a word He would give me. Sometimes a song. Sometimes a person. Sometimes His very presence. But He always came—eventually.

During one of the lowest points of that season, I was in the checkout line at Barnes and Noble when I saw a magnet that read: “Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.” I had never heard that saying before and was deeply struck by it. It became my mantra. I started seeing butterflies everywhere, looking for them, wearing them, decorating with them. They represented hope and light and new life that can only come from darkness. I promised myself that my story would end that way too.

But still I dread the dark days, the struggle, the pain, the grief. Even though I know that I know that I know that He is working on me within them and that they will be followed by growth and goodness, how do I live within them? How do I stop fearing them?

Yesterday my Advent devotional led me to a familiar passage in Isaiah 40. It contains the words that John the Baptist proclaimed as he prepared the people for Jesus’s ministry: “A voice cries: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain shall be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.’” (Isaiah 40:1-5, ESV)

This time as I read those familiar words, I saw something I had never seen before—an answer to my struggle to embrace dark days. It’s so simple and obvious. Isaiah tells us exactly what to do in the wilderness and desert days of our lives—“prepare the way of the Lord” and “make a highway for our God.” I just need to make a space for Him. That means that all I really need to do in my darkest days is seek Him—cry out to Him, sing to Him, praise Him, say His name, read His word, think about Him. Once He has the space—the highway He needs to reach me—then He will do the rest. He will lift the valleys and lower the mountains and level the ground and smooth the rough places. His glory will be revealed, and I will see His hand.

We once had a chrysalis in a butterfly habitat that just would not open. The kids didn’t want to throw it away “just in case,” so it eventually made its way into our dark, damp basement. Saylor was the youngest child at the time and a fervent prayer warrior. Even with the habitat out of sight, every morning in our “morning meeting,” she prayed for that “chrysalis to become a beautiful butterfly.” Many months later, I was utterly shocked to go into our basement one day to find a small, but very much alive, butterfly fluttering around that habitat.

Out of the very longest and darkest darkness we can imagine, He can—and does—bring life.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.” (Isaiah 9:2, ESV)

(Butterfly created by Maya Barnes.)

“Put Jesus back in your backpack, so you don’t lose Him.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how absurd they sounded. Lydia does weekly presentations as part of our homeschool community group. This week she had selected a favorite PJ Masks book to read to the class. We put it in her backpack the night before, but just as we were headed out the door on Wednesday morning, Lydia ran to our child-proof Nativity, plucked Jesus from His warm, cozy manger, and declared, “I’m going to tell my friends about Jesus!”

“That’s great!” I told her. “We can save your PJ Masks book for next time.”

“Both!” she retorted, zipped Jesus into her backpack, and marched out the door.

What’s a mom to say to that?!?

I missed her presentation because my dear friend and Lydia’s tutor, Ms. Jenny’s son got his finger stuck in his tin whistle, and I was honored to serve as part of his rescue team. (Yes, that actually happened.) So I don’t know exactly how Lydia juxtaposed Jesus with the PJ Masks, but the more I thought about it, the more the connections became obvious. After all, Jesus knew when it was “Time to be a hero!” and He most certainly went “Into the night to save the day!”

I also kept thinking about the words I had spoken to Lydia at the end of her class’s presentation time. In a weird sort of way, they reminded me of a conviction I experienced a few weeks ago. I had been struggling intensely with my thought life. I knew I was expending far too much emotional energy thinking about people whose decisions had hurt me, and I knew it was pointless, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Until I sensed the Lord asking me what would happen if I devoted that much thought and analysis to Him? I started intentionally replacing thoughts of these people with thoughts of Jesus—a story about Him, a name, a Scripture verse, a prayer. The effects were powerful. Not only did it become very unappealing to expend energy on people and things totally out of my influence, but the “detox” period developed a habit of directing my thoughts toward the One who IS worthy of them, and that made a difference in many unexpected aspects of my life.

So I think that as absurd as it sounded when I uttered those words to Lydia yesterday, they are actually filled with an element of truth. We should put Jesus back in our backpacks–and our purses, backpockets, iPhones, conversations, marriages, friendships, social lives, decisions, habits, and thoughts–not so that we don’t lose Him, but so that we don’t lose SIGHT of Him…because He isn’t the one who gets lost.  We are.

“Abide in me, and I in you.  As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.” (John 15:4, ESV)

I have the most perfect sitting area in my new bedroom. Picture a comfortable reading chair facing a picture window overlooking a wooded creek complete with weeping willow trees, a duck family, and a resident blue heron. I steal moments there whenever I can, especially in the morning before the children wake up or in the evenings at sunset. Sometimes I watch the wildlife or the movement of the water; other times, I just stare at the intricacy of the tree branches. If it is raining, I love to watch the drops as they are methodically absorbed into the creekwater.

This morning, the little people woke up before I made it to my quiet area, so I snuck a few minutes there while they ate their breakfast. From my chair, I heard the escalating sounds of Titus and Lydia’s voices: “Apple!” “Cherry!” “Apple!” “Cherry!” alternated across the kitchen table with increasing intensity. When the crescendo finally reached a pitch I could not ignore, I reluctantly left my quiet spot to settle the dispute. Turns out they were arguing over what fruit was pictured on Titus’s yogurt container. This one was easy to settle: “You’re both wrong. It’s a peach!” I declared. Our three-way laughter restored the peace, and I returned to my room to finish getting ready for the day.

Until this past year, I never thought deeply about peace. I perceived it as a global issue that we all wanted among nations and races and other man-made factions of society. Or I thought of peace as that feeling I have when I know something is the right decision—I would say that I “have peace about it.” Both of those connotations are certainly true and important, but on a personal level, peace has become so much more important to me.  It is something I seek to maintain at all times and in all circumstances–especially those that are out of my control.

This morning, my Advent devotional directed me to read Psalm 122, which ends with the following lines: “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem! ‘May they be secure who love you! Peace be within your walls and security within your towers!’ For my brothers and companions’ sake I will say, ‘Peace be within you!’ For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek your good.” (Psalm 122:6-9, ESV)

At first glance the prayer seems to be focused on that global understanding of peace within and between nations that we all desire when we say “Peace on Earth” during the Christmas season. The psalmist speaks of peace “within your walls” and “security within your towers,” but then he gets personal. “Peace be within you!” he declares, “for my brothers and companions’ sake.”

When I moved into my new home, my primary focus was to create a peaceful space for myself and the kids. I had looked at several houses, including one that I was sure was the perfect place for us. But in His typical fashion, God closed that door without telling me He had a far better one around the corner. When I saw the backyard of this house, I knew it was home. Even though I am not an outdoorsy girl, I have always felt God’s presence in creation and love to look at it. Out of every back window of this house, I could see nature and knew that His presence would be easy to seek and find in this home—and that that was exactly what I needed most.

Even in my peaceful new home, it amazes me how easily circumstances and people can rob my peace. A phone call, an email, or a post on social media can send my heart racing or my mind spinning. Kids fight, dogs bark, messes are made, cars don’t start—and there goes my peace. Even without external intervention, I find that my own thoughts can steal my peace. I start entertaining the “what ifs” or “if onlys,” and peace soon gives way to worry or regret. I take steps to prevent these things—turn off notifications on my phone so I can decide when I want to risk receiving bad news or dealing with difficult people. Play worship music constantly. Read Scripture aloud to myself. Ask friends to pray when I feel myself getting spun up or sinking into despair. And I return again and again to my picture windows—seeking the presence of the only true Peacegiver. Because peace is not actually a feeling but a confidence that transcends feelings and situations and circumstances. It is a certainty, an assurance, an absolute trust in the promises and person of God–no matter what is going on around me.

As the psalmist declared, peace is WITHIN us. Paul tells us that it is a fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22). And notice the first line of the verses I quoted earlier: “May they be secure who love you!” (Psalm 122:6b) Peace is within me because His Spirit is within me and because there is no more war to be won. It was secured on Calvary when Christ said, “It is finished.” (John 19:30) He didn’t mean it is almost finished, or it will be finished one day, or it is finished until someone or something upsets you. He meant IT IS FINISHED. End of story. Yes, there are more chapters to be written—more life to be lived and that life is not easy. There are more battles to be fought even though the war is won. Broken people and broken circumstances and broken cars and even yogurt containers with unidentifiable fruit on them will try to steal our peace! But if our eyes are fixed on Him, it CAN be impossible to allow them that privilege. Jesus says, “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33, ESV)

Now to live like it…

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” (John 14:27, ESV)

One of the problems with writing again is the inevitable loss of sleep. It is 4am. I should not be awake at 4am. The little people in my house are sleeping peacefully—gaining energy that will far surpass mine if I do not swiftly pen the thoughts that awakened me!

First things first…yesterday’s journal ended with a cliffhanger…did she or did she not defeat the toilet?!? I am pleased to report that after many more repetitions with the plunger and a few prayers that may or may not have ended with, “Come on, God! You say you care about the littlest things in my life—surely that includes this stupid toilet!?!” I did achieve victory over the clogged toilet before the clock struck midnight. No lost glass slipper for this princess!

All of that plunging left me thinking about Mary. Seems like a stretch. I know. Bear with me. This past year I have done a lot of things I never knew I could do—moved a small houseful of belongings, whitewashed a fireplace, wielded electric hedgetrimmers and other outdoor power tools for the first time, installed a new toilet handle and a doorknob, bought and learned to use a drill, started a generator (with help), built a dome climber and a picnic table, added antifreeze to my car, binge-watched seven seasons of Gilmore Girls… I know. A lot of these are everyday occurrences for most people. But for me they were unexpected and more than a little scary and once accomplished, incredibly empowering.

Moving forced me to downsize my life in many ways. When I came upon the Willow Tree Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus Nativity set I love so much that I always kept them out year-round, I was dismayed to find Joseph’s hands broken off. Just snapped right there at the wrists, poor guy! I looked around for the missing members, but they were nowhere to be found, so I reluctantly chucked poor Joseph into the trash bag. (The minimalist book I had read for inspiration said to be merciless.)

I picked up Mary next, unsure what to do with her. She was completely intact and quite beautiful, but she seemed incomplete without Joseph somehow. The symbolism did not escape me, so I moved her to the Keep box. After all, she was holding baby Jesus, and that alone made her worth keeping even if she was suddenly single. When I unpacked Mary a few weeks later, the obvious place for her was my newly, self-painted mantle—mostly because she was wearing blue and matched the room nicely.

I think about Mary a lot actually. She inspires me. Mary, the young teenage girl betrothed to Joseph, whose life plan did not include an angelic visitation, a supernatural incarnation in her womb, a scandalous out-of-wedlock pregnancy, a bumpy donkey ride in her ninth month, childbirth in a stable, or a crucified son.

Mary didn’t shirk in the face of the unexpected. Quite the contrary. Oh sure, she had her questions—“How will this be?” (Luke 1:34). But when the angel replied, “For nothing will be impossible with God” (verse 37), her response was, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word” (verse 38).

Whether my unexpected circumstances are divinely orchestrated or self-inflicted messes, I want to look at Mary on my mantle and remember her response…questioning is acceptable as long as I look for the answer from the One who truly knows—and then trust the truth of His response.

“And Mary said, ‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever.” (Luke 1:46-55, ESV)

Day 2 of Advent, and I spent a large portion of it trying to unclog a toilet. I’m still trying. In fact, I am writing this because my arms need a break from plunging and because I am determined to defeat the toilet before the night ends, which may mean missing my midnight deadline on the second day of my journal-writing commitment, which is just not happening.

Last night as I read to Titus and Lydia from Ann Voskamp’s family devotional Unwrapping the Gift, I had the should-have-been-obvious revelation that this would be their first year to experience Advent. Lydia had been too young to understand the last few years of devotionals shared with “the originals” (as I fondly call the oldest four children), and we didn’t do any Advent devotionals that I can recall since the twins were born.

This realization came to me as I watched Titus play with the childproof nativity scene I had just unboxed. I saw him stacking the angels into a Babel-like tower and realized that he was fresh meat when it comes to Christmas—both an exciting and terrifying prospect.

Already, the dynamic duo had posed the Santa question unexpectedly a few days ago. I am not anti-Santa, though the originals still talk about the year we “killed Santa,” which actually just involved downsizing him to stocking-filler status so that the kids would actually know who took the time to select, buy, and wrap the gifts they received on Christmas Day.

I hadn’t really given much thought to what I wanted to teach Tess, Titus, and Lydia about Santa until they began their musings about our chimney and whether the reindeer could fit down it (another part of Christmas that needs a little clarification for them). Just as I told the originals that someone “secretly filled their stockings in honor of the generosity of Saint Nicholas,” I do want T² and Lydia to experience the fun of anticipating Santa on Christmas Eve—complete with the cookies and milk, stockings, sleigh tracking, sleeplessness and of course, peeking!

But more than that, I really want to teach them that Santa is not just a rotund, jolly fellow who lives in the North Pole and accomplishes impossible feats once a year but that he is present every day—all year. Santa is Mr. Bob who gives of his time, resources, and talent to be our “fixer.” Santa is Ms. Mary who teaches them to swim and plans fun adventures. Santa is our Starbucks barista-friends who serve their tall, iced, Decaf waters and add a little joy and sunshine to our day. Santa is every Bible study leader, children’s ministry volunteer, Special Olympics coach, and Trail Life leader who donates his or her time week after week after week. Santa is all of our care attendants and babysitters who serve the “least of these” with so much faithfulness and love. And Santa is Pastor Steve and Ms. Beth and Ms. Laura and Ms. Kelly and Ms. J.J. and Becky and Paul and Ruthie and Frank and Granma and Papa and Leia and Uncle Robert and many, many others who devoted countless hours of their time helping their mom put back the pieces of what she thought was a shattered life but is turning out to be a beautiful masterpiece–the kind of simple but glorious art God makes out of our mess-ups. Santa is all those people and more—the hands and feet of Christ loving His broken people through other broken people.

That’s what I really want them to know.

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever, you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'” (Matthew 25:40, ESV)

Every morning when I wake up, I reach for my cell phone.  I look for text messages first to see if my grown children (whose lives continue far later into the night than mine) had anything to share.  Then I check my email in case any of my students in different time zones had questions about their work.  I scroll through Instagram for no reason whatsoever and land on the weather so I know what to wear that day.  This ritual happens daily regardless of early-rising children or other unexpected interruptions.

Four years ago, I kept an Advent Journal in an attempt to discipline myself to focus on the season daily instead of scrambling to do the “work” of Christmas and then breathlessly stopping on Christmas Eve to think about the meaning—too little, too late.  That Advent season was by far the best of my life, and I have been wanting to do it again.  So this year, instead of reaching for my cell phone habitually each morning, I am committing to reach for Him.

My class is reading a book called The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg.  It argues that to change an old habit into a new habit, the cue and reward that precede and follow the habit need to remain, but the routine or action of the habit needs to change.  So for Advent, I am literally placing a small devotional on top of my cell phone each night.  When I wake in the morning and instinctively reach for my phone, my hand will find the devotional instead, and I will commit to reading it before reading anything on my phone.  A small gesture, yes.  But I know what God does with small things—like mustard seeds and coins and fish and nails and babies in mangers.  And I’m pretty sure whatever He does with the gesture will be of far more value than anything my iPhone has to offer.

At some point in the day—and it may very well be near midnight—I am going to write in this journal, partially for the accountability, but mostly because I love to write, and I know God is calling me to write again.  A lot has changed in my life since that Advent four years ago, and it is tempting to think that I can no longer do something like this.  But God is all about stretching us, and I am pretty confident that if I do the reaching, He will do the rest.

“Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known.” (Jeremiah 33:3)

I love my country. I first realized the depth of that love in the days and weeks following 9/11. In the face of tragedy, I saw the people of this country unite in a way I had never before witnessed or imagined. No longer were we defined or divided by race, gender, religion, class, ethnicity, education, sexual orientation, political affiliation, ability, socioeconomic status, or age. United we stood. We were all red, white, and blue. American.

As I watched the footage on TV, the devastation smothered me, but as I drove through the flag-laden streets of Jacksonville, Florida, the outpouring of unity and patriotism brought strength and hope.

I remember sitting in the carpool line at my daughter’s elementary school, crying out to God for His perspective on this national tragedy that defied reason and purpose. In the margin of my most beloved Bible, I wrote September 11, 2001 beside the Word He gave me:

“For the word of the Lord is upright,

and all his work is done in faithfulness.

He loves righteousness and justice;

the earth is full of the steadfast love of the Lord.

By the word of the Lord the heavens were made,

and by the breath of his mouth all their host.

He gathers the waters of the sea as a heap;

he puts the deeps in storehouses.

Let all the earth fear the Lord;

let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him!

For he spoke, and it came to be;

he commanded, and it stood firm.

The Lord brings the counsel of the nations to nothing;

he frustrates the plans of the peoples.

The counsel of the Lord stands forever,

the plans of his heart to all generations.

Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord,

the people whom he has chosen as his heritage!

The Lord looks down from heaven;

he sees all the children of man;

from where he sits enthroned he looks out

on all the inhabitants of the earth,

he who fashions the hearts of them all

and observes all their deeds.

The king is not saved by his great army;

a warrior is not delivered by his great strength.

The war horse is a false hope for salvation,

and by its great might it cannot rescue.

 Behold, the eye of the Lord is on those who fear him,

on those who hope in his steadfast love,

 that he may deliver their soul from death

and keep them alive in famine.

 Our soul waits for the Lord;

he is our help and our shield.

For our heart is glad in him,

because we trust in his holy name.

Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us,

even as we hope in you.

(Psalm 33:4-22, ESV)

I still love my country, but I see her people forgetting in whom they trust. The election season bred so much divisiveness and bitterness. I longed for it to be over, but the outcome has prompted more of the same. My American sisters and brothers are lashing out at one another in horrific ways for how they voted or didn’t vote on Tuesday. Name-calling, accusations, and stereotyping. Threats and assumptions. I have even seen people questioning one another’s faith. Others are burning the American flag. Meanwhile, our leaders—our President, our President-elect, and the defeated Democratic nominee—are modeling graciousness, calling for unity, and pledging support.

Why the disconnect? I think we have forgotten what God asks of us. We stand in judgment of one another, but He tells us not to judge lest we be judged (Matthew 7:1). We tear each other down, but He tells us to encourage one another and build one another up (1 Thessalonians 5:11). We reject the outcome of a fair and free election, yet He tells us to “be submissive to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready for every good work, to speak evil of no one, to avoid quarreling, to be gentle, and to show perfect courtesy toward all people. For we ourselves were once foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another. But when the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to his own mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit, whom he poured out on us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that being justified by his grace we might become heirs according to the hope of eternal life.” (Titus 3:1-7, ESV)

I know people are disappointed. Some feel marginalized. Others are afraid. But God is as sovereign today as He was on November 7. The next four years may bring pain and hardship. They may bring unity and prosperity. Our country may fall as many great nations before her have. Or she may heal and thrive and emerge stronger than ever. The President-elect may be the candidate you backed or may be the last person you would have ever wanted in the Oval Office. Regardless, God can use him just as he used many unlikely individuals throughout Scripture—Rahab the prostitute, David the adulterer, Moses the murderer, Mary the teenage girl. He promises that His power is made perfect in our weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9), and that promise is not limited by anyone’s particular weaknesses. To believe otherwise is to doubt the Lord’s sovereignty and His power to redeem an individual’s life.

Even if you cannot bring yourself to hope or believe that God can use our President-elect for good, at least re-read the Psalm above and meditate on what God promises:

*All his work is done in faithfulness.

*The earth is full of his steadfast love.

*His counsel stands forever, the plans of his heart to all generations.

*He looks down from heaven and sees all the children of man.

*He fashions all of our hearts and observes all of our deeds.

*His eye is on those who fear him and on those who hope in his steadfast love.

*He will deliver our soul from death and keep us alive in famine.

We need not despair or judge or attack or slander or accuse or label or riot or cower in fear. We need only heed his greatest commandments: to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” and “to love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37-38)

I still love my country. And I long for those too young to remember 9/11 to see the America I saw that day and in the weeks that followed: One nation, under God, indivisible. Until then, “Our soul waits for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. For our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.” (Psalm 33:20-22, ESV)

“When the tears fall it becomes a guessing game. When we miss the mark of the needs the tears become screams. The frustration that mounts for everyone is intense. That screaming can last for what feels like an eternity. What ends it? Her resignation. She has no choice but to quit. Nobody is answering her need. Because we don’t even know what it is.”

I read these words in a blog post that a friend shared today. It was titled “Loving a child who cannot speak.”

The author’s words are spot on. Every trip to the ER with Tess means hours of this. This week I had two of them—seven hours, not bad really for two ER visits. But in the midst of one of them, a doctor asked me two questions that I just can’t stop thinking about. “Why did you do this? Isn’t it hard for you?” How do I even answer that? Those are questions that shouldn’t even be asked. Those are questions that breed self-pity and discontent–even fear.

Why did I do this? Should I not have done it? Could someone else do it better? How does he want me to respond? “Oops! What was I thinking?” “Hard? Oh wow, is it not supposed to be?”

If something is hard, am I to avoid it? I think not. Can’t find that in my Bible. Most weeks it is “easy” to walk the call. One day at a time. One task at a time. A lot of prayer. A few good friends. An excessive number of therapeutic beverages from Starbucks.

But some weeks it is just downright hard. And people ask questions that should never be asked. And they make me think of how much simpler life could be. Of all the “important” things I could be doing with my days. Of all the freedom I’ll never have. And there’s just nothing good that can come from that.

So I choke back the tears and answer him honestly. Because God told us to. Because He gave us one child that turned life and expectations and the future upside down, so we might as well share that upside-down life with more. Because if not us, then who? Because don’t all children deserve a home and the love of a family?

No, isn’t easy. But I’m pretty sure life isn’t supposed to be. That’s an enemy lie. If we all live to avoid hard, then our world is in a heap of trouble. We are deceived into thinking the goal is ease and comfort. We work for vacations or toward retirement. But some lives have neither. And they are good lives too.

And some children have very few words with which to communicate. Others have none at all. And I have found that it is those children who have the most powerful things to say. We just have to stop pursuing and be willing to quiet the noise enough to listen.

Sounds strangely familiar doesn’t it? Like someone else I know—someone who revealed Himself not in the great and strong wind or the earthquake or the fire but in the “sound of a low whisper.” (1 Kings 19:11-12). But then, He did choose “what is foolish in the world to shame the wise” and “what is weak in the world to shame the strong.” (1 Corinthians 1:27) And He promised a freedom unlike any this world offers and a retirement plan that I’m pretty sure can’t be topped.

And if that isn’t enough, He walks with me through this life too. Right past the embarrassing stares as she screams in utter frustration because she has no control over her world. Through all the unnecessary testing she has to endure because she can’t tell us exactly what hurts and every single doctor we see is afraid of being sued. And back home to the mundane and familiar, the safe place with the safe people He’s surrounded her with—her family and her might-as-well-be family.

And we keep living the “hard” life. With the beautiful, brown-eyed, curly-haired girl who has few words but has an awful lot to say.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

Timothy José,

I’ve thought of you so much the past few days. I always think of you. But these were THE days. The gut-wrenching, life-changing days. On Mother’s Day I thought of you because I remember sending Daddy and Jonah to see you on Mother’s Day in 2013. We had gone to church and out to lunch and then to the garden store. And we spent the entire afternoon planting our seeds and seedlings, and I was tired. I didn’t know. If I had known, I would have gone myself. I would have had us all go one last time. But I didn’t know.

And yesterday I thought of you because that was the evening two years ago that I went to see you during Marina’s rehearsal. And you were feverish and lethargic. And you snuggled up to me and fell asleep, which was unusual, only because you were typically so active. But you often had fevers for no apparent reason, so I just enjoyed the snuggles. I will always cherish those snuggles, but I will always regret not wondering about the fever. Not questioning it. Not staying. I will always wonder if it would have made a difference.

And today I thought of you because this was the day two years ago that we got the call. The call that every parent secretly dreads. The one that says something is badly wrong with our child and that we need to please come quickly. And I went. And sang “Hope’s Anthem” all the way there. And watched the day turn into a nightmare. But then they said you were out of the woods. That you would live. And I rejoiced and celebrated yet another escape. You were the master of escaping close calls.

But as the night went on, it still looked very much like woods—deep, dark woods. And I was scared. But you were stable, so I went home to see your sisters and brother and to catch a little sleep while Daddy sat with you. And Marina and Maya and I sat up late discussing how sick you were. And Marina really wanted you to be baptized, so we talked about making that happen. And I tried to go to bed, but I couldn’t really sleep. And then the call came—again.

And I drove back to the hospital at 2am and stayed up the rest of the night, making decisions with Daddy that no mother ever wants to make. But God reassured me that even though the doctors were asking us to make decisions, He was in control and could intervene in whatever ways He chose. That He could see the whole picture and knew what was best. There were no wrong or right decisions. And we had peace.

And the peace stayed all day when you didn’t wake up and got sicker and sicker. And when the chaplain baptized you with our friends by our side. And God just carried us right through that day. When doctors and nurses stopped by to see you because they just couldn’t believe this could happen so suddenly and so aggressively. And when the PICU attending called us in for a conference—to say that things didn’t look good. But we already knew. Because He also gave me courage, so I could kiss your cheek and tell you it was okay to die. That I understood. That you had overcome a lot of pain in your life, but this was just too much.

That was two years ago tomorrow. May 15, 2013.

Tomorrow will be May 15, 2015. Two years since the day I held life and death in the same moment. Two years since Daddy and Maya and Marina and I sang and prayed you into heaven. Two years since I saw Jesus Himself, closer than I had ever seen Him before.

I think of you everyday—sometimes I am acutely aware of it; sometimes it is just a faint impression of you. But I am different because of your life and death. Jesus is more real to me. I trust God completely. And I have realized that I am not, nor do I want to be, in control of situations He allows in my life. I am in some now—different from the ones you brought but challenging in their own ways—and I don’t know the answers, but I know the One who has them.  And I am just going to keep my eyes on Him.

You taught me that, Timothy José. To keep my eyes on Him. To know that He controls all situations and that He is love. Pure love. And that He is good. Always good. And that there is nothing that can separate us from His love and goodness. Nothing. Ever.

I don’t know why you had to endure so much hardship. I don’t know why you had to die. But I couldn’t begin to count the reasons you lived. They are beyond measure. World changer. Sunshine. Sonshine. Son, SHINE.

Love Forever,

Mommy

“No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:37-39, NIV)

Dear Friends of Marina,

I need your help.

When Marina was 11-months old, she was diagnosed with a peanut allergy. I read books, attended a conference, watched DVD’s and basically learned all I could about her life-threatening allergy. I diligently studied food labels, shared my DVD’s and books, and educated every babysitter, teacher, friend, or family member who cared for Marina in my absence. Thankfully, she remained safe.

When she was four, Marina’s allergist, a renowned specialist at Johns Hopkins, who also happens to be peanut allergic, did a peanut challenge on her. He thought her bloodwork indicated that it was possible she could have outgrown her allergy. She failed the challenge after 1/33 of a dose, and we were told to expect her to have her allergy for life unless a cure was found. We continued to diligently protect her for the next ten years or so, and thankfully she continued to remain safe.

As Marina grew up, she took over more and more responsibility for her allergy. She read her own labels, asked questions in restaurants or at people’s houses, and learned how to administer her Epipen. I thanked God that of all my children, she was the one with the allergy because she was so conscientious about protecting herself and was never afraid to speak up and refuse a food or ask a question. And thankfully, she remained safe.

Until Monday night.

Marina attended an orchestra banquet and baked a peanut-free dessert for the potluck dessert bar. Accustomed to taking her own desserts to functions and selecting “safe” baked goods from a buffet line, she enjoyed the banquet and headed off to her rehearsal, unaware that the stomach pains she was beginning to feel were not caused by too much sugar and that the itching in the back of her throat was not seasonal allergies.

Within 2 hours, Marina was suffering a full-blown anaphylactic reaction, which left her struggling to breathe and ultimately on an ambulance headed to the emergency room. After receiving IV Benadryl, steroids, and Epinephrine and spending a night for observation, she was released and is recovering at home—a little weak, a little shaken, but very grateful.

We have both replayed the events in our minds over and over ever since—thinking of what we did wrong and what we did right and how God protected her. We are grateful for the lessons and the protection, but we also realize that to stay safe in the future—especially now with an increased risk of a more severe reaction to any future exposure—we really need help.

Even though 16-year-old Marina is extremely responsible and conscientious compared to 4-year-old Marina, none of that will matter if she has lost consciousness or if her throat is swollen shut, and she can’t tell anyone what to do to help her. Even an adult with life-threatening food allergies needs to be surrounded by people who are aware of her allergy and knowledgeable enough to help if needed.

I would be very grateful if you would take a few minutes to read this document that describes the symptoms of an allergic reaction and the steps to take to help someone suffering from one: http://www.foodallergy.org/document.doc?id=294 To put this in perspective, Marina’s reaction on Monday night included 5 out of 7 of the Severe Symptoms and all of the Mild Symptoms listed in that document. Marina carries a medication kit with her at all times, and it contains two Epipens and liquid Benadryl as well as a treatment plan. She also has Epipen trainers that she or I can use to show friends how to administer epinephrine in an emergency. It is really easy to do and could be the difference between life and death for her. If you want more detail about food allergies or anaphylaxis, there are other great resources at www.foodallergy.org .

Last year, Marina gave a speech about the importance of food allergy awareness and how awareness of symptoms and treatments can be the difference between life and death for someone with a life threatening food allergy. Monday night, she experienced the reality of that speech after 16 years of living “safely” with her allergy. In her speech, she shared stories of people who weren’t as fortunate as she was that night. Things could have turned out so differently than they did. That has made us acutely aware of the need to inform the people who attend orchestra rehearsal, youth group, debate tournaments, music lessons, and summer camp with Marina just as we did when she was young—not because she is not responsible or capable—but because despite all of the precautions she takes, she could easily end up unable to be either.

Thanks for taking the time to read this. And thanks for being aware and alert on Marina’s behalf. Hopefully you will never need to use this information, but if you do—whether for Marina or a complete stranger—you truly could save a life.

With gratitude,

Marina’s Mom