Hello, and welcome to Mundane Faithfulness. We’ve had a surge of new followers lately, and I wanted to take a moment to introduce myself and share a little about this sacred place. My name is Blythe, and I have been the steward of Mundane Faithfulness since Kara Tippetts went to be with Jesus in March of 2015.

Kara started this blog as a simple mommy blog, but after her breast cancer diagnosis in 2012, it became a place where she processed her journey and worked out her faith. It became a place where folks came to find a kindred spirit and a soul who fought to find God’s grace in every mundane wrinkle of life. It became a place where Kara shared the joys of walking with Jesus—even walking cancer with Jesus. And it eventually became a place where Kara processed her dying with her readers—her “friends she hadn’t met yet.” She came here to share updates but to also share her life and her faith. Mundane Faithfulness wasn’t a typical mommy blog, and Kara was certainly not a typical mommy.

I remember when Kara first mentioned my taking over the blog. It was in those last months when it seemed all we did together was talk and process and wonder. We would talk about our community, the church plant we were a part of, our marriages, our children. We would process her prognoses together and what it meant to live well and seek grace in the midst of tragedy. And we would wonder about Heaven, about Jesus, about love and joy and hope. Not a day passed that we didn’t have plenty to talk about; yet, many days passed when we didn’t feel a need to talk and were content to just sit quietly.

But on this particular day, Kara was planning. We had already planned her memorial service so that Jason, her husband, wouldn’t feel that burden. Those conversations had been difficult enough; I thought we were done with the hard talks. Then she mentioned her amazing Mundane Faithfulness, how precious it was to her, and how she wanted it to continue after she was gone. She asked me if I would be willing to take over.

Friends, I admit that I tried to gloss over this conversation. Somehow, I was able to dream about Heaven with her and plan her memorial service without sobbing (in front of her…), but receiving the gift of her treasured blog acknowledged her eventual death in a way I wasn’t ready to face. In God’s grace, I agreed, thanked her, and promised that I would care for Mundane Faithfulness in whatever ways she wished. And then I changed the subject.  

Several weeks later, I received a late-night text from Kara. This wasn’t unusual; we had experienced So Much Life with each other in our few years as friends—cancer, surgeries, births, deaths, and planting a church in which our husbands were the only staff. We had a constant text conversation going at all hours with a ridiculous range of topics from dirty jokes to prayer requests to worries about our children to wise words our husbands had spoken to words for our Gross Word List. I mean, she was my son’s godmother—she knew everything about me and had access to my phone—and my heart—24/7. She texted me once about meeting a prospective wife for Jason and wanted me to know who this woman was. Uhhhh…Awkward. But that was Kara—she never hesitated to speak her mind or her heart. Which is why Mundane Faithfulness is such a sacred, special place. (By the way, I never did find out that woman’s name—I assured Kara that if Jason could pick her out for his wife, then I had no doubt he would be able to pick another spectacular wife without my help!)

Anyway, I received this text late one night. Kara was in hospice care at this point, and in an attempt to gain better control over her symptoms, she was in the hospital for several days. She asked if I could come over so she could talk. It was urgent.

As any of Kara’s girlfriends would tell you, nothing could keep us away from her in those months leading to her death. She could text and have any one of us (or, as frequently happened, all of us!) over at her house in a jiffy. Nothing was different about this night. I kissed my babies in their cribs, kissed my husband on the couch, and raced to the hospital.

The hospice ward was a beautiful place. I know that seems like a strange thing to say, but it’s true. The staff at Pikes Peak Hospice had worked very carefully to create an environment that was soothing, peaceful, and safe. I always gasped when I stepped off the elevator onto that floor, the tranquility rushing over me. I could hear nothing but the gurgle of the fish tank, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the soft lighting. I took a deep breath and walked toward Kara’s room. She was lying there, fighting for every second she could keep her eyes open under the influence of the strong medications she had been given. Her dear mentor (who had become the community mama of all our hearts) Mickey was there, resting. I sat on Kara’s bed with her. Our conversation was swift and urgent. Kara was thinking about Mundane Faithfulness and wanted the peace of mind knowing everything was sorted out.

She told me what she wanted for it once she was gone: repost all of her original blog posts, give Jason a place to share his heart, and make it my own. She had a team of encouragers and helpers chosen so I wouldn’t be alone in this (you can find them in the About section). I listened to her every word, asked clarifying questions, and watched as she fell to sleep, content knowing that her beloved blog would be taken care of.

I went home and wept. That conversation made her death and dying more of a reality than anything else. I didn’t want Mundane Faithfulness because I didn’t want Kara to die. But I had accepted Mundane Faithfulness, and Jesus was asking me to accept Kara’s death.

Kara did soon die, and Mundane Faithfulness passed to me. The first thing we did was post the obituary I had written weeks before with Kara’s input. And soon thereafter, we started reposting Kara’s blogs.

Even though I had read all of her posts, there was something different about reading them after she was gone from this world. Her original blog had crashed irreparably a few months before, so I was having to use rough drafts from which to draw the posts. I had to read each entry carefully and make corrections and edits and make sure Kara’s voice shone through. I had to ignore and fight through my grief to get the work done. Eventually, I realized that I didn’t need to shove my grief under the rug—it was okay to engage it. In fact, it was good to engage it! Being so involved with her words and reliving her last few years became how I grieved. I felt Kara’s presence so closely and understood her journey differently. The hope of her faith struck me in new ways, and I discovered places of my heart that hurt in ways I hadn’t noticed before. And I found new places of joy that threatened to overwhelm me. (I pray the same for all of you who are discovering Kara’s words for the first time, or who are perhaps rediscovering them!)

Our little Mundane Faithfulness team came together and brainstormed ways to enjoy the blog while hopefully blessing Kara’s dear readers. We posted our friends’ stories of friendship with Kara, we wrote book reviews and random posts on things like manners, we reflected A LOT on grief, we did a series on community. We even had a short-lived podcast, which brought us together in grief and joy and celebration of Kara and grace. It was a precious season. All the while, I reposted Kara’s blog posts one at a time. It took years. And lots of tears. And plenty of smiles.

Once we finished posting Kara’s blogs, we felt like the season had ended; we were content to simply let the blog stay active as long as we had the funds to support it so that Kara’s readers could still have access to her wonderful, life-giving writing and the miraculous story of Kara’s faith. However, with the release of the documentary, The Long Goodbye, we are making new friends—folks who are being introduced to Kara for the first time. We want to welcome all of you and tell you how thrilled we are that you have found this stunning, one-of-a-kind story. And we want to share a bit about this place you have found in Mundane Faithfulness.

We have been receiving a lot of emails, so I would like to try to answer questions in one place; I apologize that we are not able to respond to all of your emails. Please be assured that we are grateful for each and every one of you and your interest in Kara, Mundane Faithfulness, and this community. And for those of you who have shared your own hard stories with us, please know that you are prayed over and honored for your vulnerability and tenderness.

Now, we should make clear that Mundane Faithfulness is not associated in any way with the documentary. If you have questions or thoughts or observations about the film, you will want to contact the filmmakers directly—while we here at Mundane Faithfulness enjoy your reflections, we are sure that the filmmakers will enjoy them even more! They are active on social media and have a Facebook page specifically for the movie.

Many of you have expressed a desire to donate money or items to be a blessing to others. We have good news for you: Kara’s brother Dennis has formed the Kara Tippetts Foundation to help other families experiencing terminal illness. I know he would love to hear from you and help you brainstorm ways you can bless others going through hard stories.

Lots of folks who have seen the movie are now interested in reading Kara’s blog and her books! This is awesome news—we love to share Kara’s wisdom and love. You can find her books simply by clicking on the Book tab at the top of the page—it will take you to a page that lists her books. And It was Beautiful is a compilation of her blog posts if you’d like to read them all together. Also, check your library—I know that ours has Kara’s books, so you might be able to find them there! Side note: Kara’s books are not available in hardback and Big Love is only available as an ebook.

Finally, the question we get the most is, How are Jason and the kids? Oh, how I love this question, for it reflects such compassion and tenderness. It would make Kara smile if she knew how many thousands (yes, thousands) of times I’ve received this question. In a word, they are well. The kids are almost 5 years bigger than what you see in the movie and on the blog. As Mickey observed days after Kara’s death, they have chosen joy, and they have continued to do so through their grief and as they have navigated their new normal. In fact, I would easily venture to say that not only are they choosing joy, but they are thriving. Just as Kara hoped and prayed for, Jason remarried (a most lovely woman, as I predicted!), and the family has moved away from Colorado Springs to start a new church. And, in the happiest of news, they are expecting a baby! The children are thrilled, as is our community. We see so much redemption and healing in this story, even as we continue to miss our Kara.

We have learned that grief—that ugly, sob-inducing, blinding grief—and joy—that overwhelming, laugh-inducing, beautiful joy—can co-exist. We have learned that we can mourn Kara while living a new normal with new friends and new stories. We have learned that missing our dearest friend teaches us to yearn for Heaven, and that in yearning for Heaven, we learn what it means to live in the Hope of Christ.

So here I sit, reflecting on the last several years. I was reminded the other day how Kara and I had set our phone alarms for 3pm every day to pray for our church, the staff (our husbands), and the leadership. I had heart pangs remembering the intimacy we shared, the grace that abounded, and the intensity of life in that season. And I realize that none of that is gone—it abides deep in my soul, and some day my longing for Kara will be fulfilled when I see her again. But bigger than that, my longing for complete peace will be fulfilled when I see the face of Jesus. He will wipe away my very last tear, he will swoop me in his arms, and he will rejoice in our reunion. That is what my heart longs for most deeply, beyond missing Kara. And we can all experience that if we simply say yes to the call of Jesus to join him in his love and grace, just as Kara showed us.

Thank you for visiting this place. Thank you for joining us on this journey.

Mundane Faithfulness is not associated with The Kara Tippetts Foundation. The views and opinions expressed in The Long Goodbye: The Kara Tippetts Story do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of Mundane Faithfulness.

You see, from the first time I picked up Ramona the Pest as a 7 year old, I have loved reading. Loved. Reading for me is fun, meaningful, opening doors to places and people I’d otherwise never encounter. My bookclub is more than a place for me to read interesting books—it’s a place where I gather with women I’ve been doing life with for years, listening to their perspectives on books we’ve dug into together. To me, books bring people together, comfort hurting hearts, encourage the downtrodden, educate the curious, entertain the bored. Books are nothing but joy to me!

This year was a good year for reading in my house—I have read over 100 books! This is unusual, and I admit some of those were books I read to my children, but what a gift to my heart that God provided the time and space for making so many new friends in these books. Anyway, the reason I mentioned that is because, knowing that I love to read, I am frequently asked for book recommendations. This year, I thought that since I had devoured so many pages, maybe I’d share some of my favorites from 2018! I’ve picked a handful to share about that I think would be great Christmas gifts or wonderful for personal reading (and I’ve organized them into categories that I hope are helpful).

Devotionals

The Soul in Paraphrase: A Treasure of Classic Devotional Poems by Leland Ryken

This is every poetry lover’s dream devotional! Ryken has collected close to 100 poems with spiritual themes and ideas, written notes on each one, and offers a short commentary to direct the reader toward the poet’s purpose. This book took me back to my undergrad days, discovering Pope and Donne and Spenser, falling under their spells and losing myself in their words. But Ryken takes me further by drawing out the spiritual and focusing on the spiritual beauty of each poem.

God Is: A Devotional Guide to the Attributes of God by Mark Jones

For fans of J.I.Packer’s Knowing God, God Is spends five or ten pages each day on one characteristic of God’s. In-depth but accessible, God Is digs into scripture to articulate the truths of who God is, explaining layer by layer with tons of scripture references. This book is fantastic for those who love to study the Word, opening the door for deep personal study through its content, references, and application section at the end of each chapter.

Sing a New Song: A Woman’s Guide to the Psalms by Lydia Brownback

When this book came in the mail, I may have teared up a bit—it is gorgeous, and for those of us who love the Psalms, this is the perfect friend for walking us through and helping us dig deeper, breaking each Psalm down in brief explanation. Gift idea: when you gift this book to a special woman in your life, gift her also with a journal to accompany this lovely book—each chapter has suggestions for reflection, and they are worth pondering. A gorgeous, uplifting book for women of any age and life experience.

Books for personal growth

Missional Motherhood by Gloria Furman

Friends, this is an important book encouraging and instructing mothers on their calling to nurture and love the children in their lives. This is a cerebral, dense book that takes us through the Bible to understand the biblical history and importance of mothering. Potential readers: be ready to be convicted, challenged, and grown. Missional Motherhood is affirming in its premise of the sacredness of motherhood, and what I love most about this book is that it doesn’t limit the reader to biological motherhood, but expands the definition of the term so that we understand the spiritual nature of that precious calling as women, not just women who have given birth.

Even Better Than Eden: Nine Ways the Bible’s Story Changes Everything about Your Story by Nancy Guthrie

Friends, I admit—I love every. single. book by Nancy Guthrie. I have read several of her books on suffering, and she knows how to encourage like none other! I wasn’t sure what to expect from this book, but I was not disappointed; Even Better Than Eden contextualizes our life according to God’s story, examining several biblical themes that are important to God and that He uses to communicate His purposes to His people. The overarching theme, though, is hope. Reading this book helped me to understand my life in the greater story of God’s, which is grounded in hope. This is a helpful, eye-opening, encouraging study.

In His Image: 10 Ways God Calls Us to Reflect His Character by Jen Wilkin

This is another book that takes the reader through attributes of God, but this book limits the study to 10 and helps the reader easily make the connections from who God is to who we are as His children. At the end of each chapter are a few questions and a directive for prayer. My only regret reading this book is that I didn’t read it with other women—this is the perfect book for a small group (of men and/or women) to read and discuss together. A great book for enlightenment and reflection.

Books for children

Loved: The Lord’s Prayer and Found: Psalm 23 by Sally Lloyd-Jones and Jago

For fans of The Jesus Storybook Bible, The Lord’s Prayer and Found are extracts published as their own books. Both are beautiful and helpful in instructing children. Our favorite is Found. Both of my children have it memorized, and they love the illustrations of the little lamb and shepherd. They easily and quickly identified as the little lamb, and when we pray in the morning, they pray that God will help them remember that He is their shepherd who is always holding them. These are perfect gift books for infant to age 8.

Special God by Julie Melilli

I was just thumbing through this book trying to decide what age group would most appreciate it, but I can’t help thinking that while it’s probably intended for 8 to 12 year olds, the language and illustrations make it appropriate for kids and adults past 12 as well! The language is straight forward and simple without being patronizing, and the pages are colorful and engaging. Special God was written for the author’s daughter, who was adopted and had special circumstances that precluded her from relating to other children’s books attempting to explain who God is. The result is a book that explains a variety of biblical terms relating to our relationship with God such as salvation, consequences, grace and faith, forgiveness.

Equipping books

Caring for One Another: 8 Ways to Cultivate Meaningful Relationships by Ed Welch

Friends, any book by Ed Welch is going to stretch and grow me. I approach his books with both excitement and dread, knowing that the growth process is going to ultimately be wonderful but might hurt a bit as I’m confronted with my own brokenness. But with this book, I kind of dodged a bullet, as I didn’t realize it is meant to be read in a small group! The most important element of this book are the questions for discussion and response at the end, clearly written to encourage growth and maturity in your small group. This book is a great jumping point if you’re looking for a tool to cultivate intimacy in your group.

The Gospel Comes with a House Key: Practicing Radically Ordinary Hospitality in Our Post-Christian World by Rosaria Butterfield

Disclaimer: I don’t always see eye to eye on certain issues with Butterfield, and I actually disagree with her on several points in this book; however, her humility and desire to serve the Lord and love others well are unmatched in my mind, and I appreciate deeply her passion for hospitality. I think the title of this book is a bit misleading—I thought it would be more of a handbook on biblical hospitality and how to do it, but it’s really more of a memoir and how Butterfield has grown in her understanding and practicing of hospitality over the years. This is a must-read for those who value hospitality and are wanting to explore their own hearts for inviting others into their homes. A challenging, thought-provoking, God-honoring book.

Practicing Affirmation by Sam Crabtree

So, all of the other books are books have been new to me this year, but this book is a re-read. I’ve read this book at least three times, and each time I eat it up as I pray to become more of an affirming sister to those around me. Crabtree says, I am suggesting that we rob God of praise by not pointing out his reflection in the people he has knit together in his image, and then he goes on to explain how to do this and why it’s important. This book has changed me, and I pray it continues to do so each time I read it.

Books on suffering

Kiss the Wave: Embracing God in Your Trials by Dave Furman

This is the first time I’ve read a book on suffering by someone who suffers from a chronic physical condition. And let me tell you, it was so helpful for me to understand a bit more of what it means to suffer with no known end. Furman has also suffered from debilitating depression, and when I read this, I recognized the voice of one who knows darkness. Furman makes no qualms about how he has wrestled and fought to see glimpses of God’s grace in his suffering, and this book feels like he is preaching the gospel to himself maybe even more than trying to encourage his reader. This book not only teaches the importance of perspective, but how to persevere when you are in the midst of pain.

Therefore I Have Hope: 12 Truths that Comfort, Sustain, & Redeem in Tragedy by Cameron Cole

Friends, I have read a LOT of books on suffering over the years, and this is now in my top 3, easy. Wow. This was like engaging suffering with a close friend and watching firsthand how God carried him through the worst kind of loss and drew him close in love and tenderness. Cole understands suffering, and he understands that God is in process of redeeming all of our pain and loss. This is the first book I’ve encountered that I would actually consider giving to someone in the midst of their grief—it’s that gentle and compassionate and kind. I can’t recommend this book enough. It put words to suffering I’ve experienced that I didn’t know how to put words to before, and reading it even while I wasn’t intensely grieving was a healing, restorative experience. If you pick up a copy of this, you better pick up two or three extra copies to give away.

Suffering: Gospel Hope When Life Doesn’t Make Sense by Paul David Tripp

This is one of those rare books that I could have read in a single sitting but forced myself to read chapter by chapter (sometimes section by section) because it is so incredibly meaty and helpful. And it ignited so much reflection that I wanted to honor myself and God by taking the time to think. This isn’t just a theology of suffering, but an explanation of why suffering hurts so much. This is an exposition that guides the reader to understand their personal responses to pain and how to respond to God’s gentle, persistent pursuit in the context of a redemption story. I personally think this is a must-read for any Christian. Powerful and important.

For the Family

Big Picture Bible Crafts: 101 Simple and Amazing Crafts to Help Teach Children the Bible by Gail Schoonmaker

Okay, I have to confess that I don’t homeschool or teach Sunday school, nor am I a crafty Pinterest-type mama. But over the summer, I was really wanting to dig into Scripture with my babies a bit deeper, and this was the perfect resource for doing so. Organized by Bible story, each craft is given a complexity rating and falls into the category of making it simple (ideal for preschoolers) or making it amazing (ideal for older kids). My darlings and I have had so much fun with this resource, and I even imagined myself teaching a classroom of littles—surely with the help of this book, I could do that, right?! This has been an invaluable resource for our family, and if you teach children in any capacity, I’m sure it would be an encouraging help.

Story of Redemption Bible: A Journey through the Unfolding Promises of God

I should have asked my husband to write this blurb because he absolutely loves this Bible! It is gorgeous and the notes are from the perspective of telling God’s story as part of the overarching storyline of Scripture. A lovely, rich, unique edition of the Bible (ESV) that is now our family Bible. This would make a meaningful, lasting gift.

Fiction

Most of what I read is fiction, but I feel like taste in fiction is so subjective, it’s near impossible to make blanket recommendations. Still, there are a few books I can’t help but recommend and it’s because of their redemptive, life-giving nature. Have you guessed what books I’m talking about yet? If you’ve read Kara and Jill’s book Just Show Up, you are already familiar with the author; did you know that Jill is a successful, talented fiction writer?! If you didn’t already know, run to the nearest bookstore (or your Amazon app) and grab her books for both you and your friends. You will laugh, you will cry, you will fall in love with characters you swear are real. Relatable storylines with lovable characters, Jill’s books will make you giggle and cheer and just feel good! These are perfect gift books, but you’ll want to grab copies for yourself, too. (If this were summer, I’d say these are perfect beach reads! Now I’m saying they’re perfect books for Christmas break. Ahhhh.) Jill’s latest is The Rancher’s Surprise Daughter, the first in a new series. How irresistible is the cover?! Aack! #allthefeels

At the same time, Sunday community gives us the opportunity to remind each other of God’s love for us; we get to be the hands and feet of Jesus, noticing hurting people, meeting newbies, edifying those who are weary. As I get older, I’m learning what a sacred place church really is—not because of the crosses or fancy music, but because it is a place where, regardless of how my week went and the lies I was fed and the lies I believed, I can encounter voices that speak the truth of the whole gospel:

            God loves you.

            God is on your side.

            He is coming after you.

            He is relentless. (Eugene Peterson)

I wonder where else we can experience this kind of Truth telling? How can we create these places for others? One of my sacred places of Truth telling is my yoga studio, where the gospel of God’s relentless love is shared regularly. My yoga mentor recently held a special evening called, “Honoring the Feminine.” This time provided a place of safety where women were invited to share their stories and be assured of their value in God’s eyes. The evening was meaningful to me—my PTSD had been triggered in the midst of the Kavanaugh hearings, and I had many moments of suffocation during those weeks, many minutes of reliving my own trauma and wondering how to draw near to a God who promises rest and restoration.

I arrived at this sacred place, safe and encouraged to share. I didn’t share much; I simply said, “In a culture that doesn’t often honor the feminine, and after experiencing assault that occurred because of the feminine, I need a place where the feminine is honored.” As a community, we worked our bodies as we worked our minds and hearts through the story of Jesus and the bleeding woman. I slowly came to remember the gospel as it relates to those of us who have been hurt and abused and thrown out—we matter to Jesus. He notices us even when the rest of our society has decided we aren’t worth knowing. Through his love, Jesus thinks we are worth healing; that healing won’t be complete until we are in his presence, but he has given us hope that it will happen. And in that hope, we can find joy. We can choose joy.

I left that evening simultaneously feeling relieved and unburdened but full—I was finally able to express my heart and experience, and in doing so, engage the gospel in ways that I wouldn’t have been able to without the support and encouragement of my yoga community. Tears came, breathing was practiced, hope was restored, joy was found.

Has church been a safe place of Truth telling for you? Where have you encountered the gospel in a community setting? How can you encourage your church or community to be a place that people encounter the gospel and God’s relentless love?

Now the question is, What’s next?! Some of you have asked if we will start reposting Kara’s blogs again from the beginning. The answer is no—now that all of them are up, we don’t see the need for asking our technologist to take the time to do that. Speaking of our technologist, I just want to thank him here and now for his mundane faithfulness over the last few years in giving of his time, effort, and energy to this sacred place. He does so much behind the scenes, y’all would be shocked. This hasn’t been an easy three and a half years, but he has served with generosity, gentleness, kindness, selflessness, and creativity; God has used him to make an eternal impact on all of our lives through his important work. Thank you, Jacob!

I know we will all miss getting that email with Kara’s words in it. If you are interested in rereading all of Kara’s posts, you can do a search on MF for “Kara’s Collection,” and all of her posts will generate (or click on the “Kara’s Collection” hyperlink in any of those posts). Or, you can purchase a copy of her book And It Was Beautiful, which is a compilation of her blog posts published by her editor shortly after her death.

We will continue posting occasional blog posts here, just to stay in touch with everyone, to share our hearts and any news, if there is any.

In conclusion, I just want to thank God for his love and faithfulness to all of us—for how he has used Kara and her words to bring us together and learn how to faithfully look for grace in the midst of suffering and the mundane.

A few days ago, Mickey wrote this in a message to a few of us gals as we wrote back and forth, struggling with the impossible task of saying goodbye to our Kara. I thought it would encourage your hearts, too, as we all process this awful but hope-filled goodbye.

I know how hard it is for your young hearts to understand what you are being asked to do. To love in friendship so deeply and then to hand her back to Jesus. To give her up when your journey has just begun. How does one do that? You have had her about as long as the disciples sat at Jesus' feet. How they must have felt their journey had just begun. How desperate they were at losing their closest friend!

But they learned, as you will learn, that He never asks us to do it alone. His Spirit of Grace, His face in your friends, His voice in your heart will comfort you. There will be tears. But there will never be a loss of hope or joy. I think this week you lovelies should prepare your hearts. The placing of you in this wonderful, sweet momma’s life is coming to bloom. You have no regrets for how you have loved her, you have no regrets for how you have served her. Each in a season of this time. Each with a special purpose.

She is a heart of peace right now. She grieves her loss of her loves, but Jesus' face will instantly heal that. Remember—she longs also to see in that moment how He will look at her. Oh, what a day that will be! She's leaving this party early, but for a grander, wondrous party.

Kara would want a dance party; she would want you to continue what she modeled of loving in kindness, to look for ways to continue what you have learned in her suffering—how to show up, how to love those hurting hearts around you. She always saw her story as a one small piece of God’s earthly kingdom. There are many, many more stories of hearts hurting that need friendship and encouragement and a pointing to Jesus.

Your story is not ending here; it is just beginning. Now go and continue to love with kindness, with thankfulness that you were given this gift. If sadness overcomes you, put on the dance music and dance!! I love you all so much. Some live a lifetime and never experience a day of friendship that you have been given.

Mickey, thank you for speaking love, truth, and comfort into our hearts. May we all strive to love big with kindness and encourage those hurting hearts around us.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, Westside was brand new. My little family and I would get there super early on Sundays so my husband could get the music stuff set up and do the sound check before the congregants started arriving. Those were challenging mornings for me, and Kara started asking if I would like to come have coffee at her house after dropping Aaron and Von off at church. That was wonderful for my pregnant self! Lounging in her comfy living room, watching Story model her latest fashion ensemble, hearing Lake laugh as he played in the other room. I loved that time with Kara.

Anyway, one day Kara mentioned her book on kindness, on loving big. As Kara chatted about her passion for parenting with kindness, I was intrigued—the fall before, I was part of a women’s group and one of the lessons was on kindness. I can’t even tell you about any of the other lessons—it was the one on kindness that spoke to me.

You see, I had always equated kindness with niceness. If you held the door open for the person behind you just to be nice, I thought you were being kind. If you paid for the coffee of the soldier in line at the coffee shop, I thought you were being nice. If you spent your morning shoveling the snowy walks for your neighbors, I thought you were being ridiculously nice in a way that I would never be nice. What I learned is that kindness is different—it’s a part of our new identity as Christians, a Fruit of the Spirit. Kindness involves sacrifice, putting someone else above yourself. Gary Chapman explains: “Kindness means noticing someone else and recognizing his/her needs. It means seeing the value in every person we meet. And, like every trait of a loving person, kindness can be much simpler and more powerful than we realize."

As I reflected on these truths that were new to my heart, I realized, first of all, that I never read anything in the Bible about being nice—it was all about kindness. And there is a lot in there about being kind! And then I realized that acts of kindness can make a huge difference. And the absence of kindness can make a huge difference, too. In December, Von had pneumonia. We didn’t know it yet, and I had him and the baby out shopping when Von had a horrible coughing fit. He coughed so much he threw up everywhere. His face was drained of color and he was weak, and I was terrified. The store owner came over and chided me. She did not express concern about my sick child but shamed me into getting out of her store as quickly as possible. Oh, how a word or act of kindness would have comforted and helped me in that moment! (Obviously I have no idea what was going on with that woman and I don’t hold a grudge—I simply share the story to point out how kindness could have made a big difference in the heat of the moment.)

On the flip side, I was sick recently, confined to bed. A friend found out. A friend who was 7 months pregnant, had 3 kids under 5, and lived 30 minutes away. She made a delicious dinner for us, enough for two meals, sacrificing her time and precious energy to cook and deliver. What a big deal that was for me and my family!

So when Kara started talking about kindness, my ears perked up. It made sense to me—why I never heard her yell at her children, why she had an open-door policy in their home, how she loved to reach out to people in her neighborhood. The list goes on for ways I immediately recognized kindness in her life. I became her secret student watching her interactions with others, taking note on how she was kind. If I had written everything down, I could have filled books!

The hardest part about all of this for me is the practical side, specifically, parenting with kindness. Which is why Kara’s book has been perfect for me. It’s led me to study Scripture about kindness and seek out women to encourage me in this journey. I wrestle with questions like, How do I respond to a disobedient child without an angry tone so they know they have done something wrong? And How do I explain how serious it is when one of my children does something potentially harmful with kindness instead of ugly anger? What do those kinds of things look like in real life?

I am still learning. I feel like I’m in the baby stages of understanding kindness, but I have learned some things: Anger does not beget heart change; it begets shame. Yelling does not beget understanding; it begets hurt. Harsh words do not beget love; they beget humiliation. Intimidation does not beget kindness; it begets fear. Only kindness begets kindness; kindness begets love.

I’ve already seen a return on my investment; as I trust God to help me respond to my rebellious children in kindness and love instead of fear and anger, these young hearts are learning that kindness is always right and they treat each other with kindness. What a joy for my mama’s heart!

When has kindness made a difference in your life? Do you struggle to show kindness to others? To your children and loved ones? Who around you could use a few words of kindness or maybe a big act of kindness? Do you trust God to help you respond to others in kindness instead of defensiveness, anger, etc.? What would it look like for you to be kind to someone who might feel overlooked and unseen? How have you seen God’s kindness in your own life?

Kara and I have spent a lot of time dreaming about Heaven together, and we always have, even before Kara’s current diagnosis. It’s something I’ve thought a lot about, knowing so many people who have gone there, and now more than ever I think about it. As I’ve shared before, having to prepare a 2-year old for what will happen with Kara is forcing me to really evaluate what I believe and what Scripture says is true about Heaven. 

Since that post, I’ve had a lot of people tell me their own struggles in thinking about Heaven; this makes me sad. We will be spending eternity there! Heaven is where our Hope lies, it is the relief from the brokenness of this world, it is where the incarnation of Hope—Jesus—dwells. That is our true home—doesn’t it make sense that we should think about it? And not only think about it, but dream about it!

But why do we struggle? Is it the discomfort of acknowledging our own inevitable death? Is it not understanding much about Heaven and what it will be like? Is it the embarrassment over entertaining the thought that Heaven might be boring or gaudy? Is it that no one we know can give us first-hand information about what Heaven will be like? Is it the fear of being overwhelmed by how much we don’t and can’t know?

I’m not sure what our glitch is; yet, this I can tell you: if I did not dream about Heaven and believe that it is a real place that will satisfy and overwhelm my heart with joy and healing, then I would despair. I can’t say goodbye to Kara without a vision of seeing her again in radiance, health, perfection. 

My favorite writing on Heaven is Randy Alcorn’s book, Heaven, and I haven’t even finished it. (Don’t judge—it’s really big!) But reading this book and reading what the Bible says about Heaven has given me such an image. Heaven is free from pain, free from tears, free from illness. There will be no zits, no warts, no ingrown hairs, no hemorrhoids, no mosquito bites, no hang nails, no canker sores, no cavities, no sunburns, no razor cuts, no bruises, no heartburn.

Those who can’t walk on this earth will run in Heaven. Bodies that are riddled with cancer will be perfect and strong in Heaven. Mental illness will be wiped away, minds broken by Alzheimer’s will be restored, and no one will be tormented by hormones or headaches. We will have no fears, nothing bad can reach us. We will never slip going down stairs or trip over our shoelaces. We won’t step in dog doo or become nauseated by a passing skunk. We won’t see animal carcasses on the side of the road or ever have to see a loved one in a hospital attached to machines. We will be healed from abuse of all kinds without a single scar. 

We will never argue with each other, we will never hurt each other’s feelings, we will never be shamed. No one will call us names or make us feel small or embarrass us again. Humiliation will be nonexistent. We won’t be at a loss for words. We will be able to express our thoughts perfectly and we will enjoy the conversation of one another, never getting bored. Relationships will not just be restored but redeemed. Bitterness will disappear, as will grudges and anger and resentment. Forgiveness will abound and past sins will fade in the presence of God. We will be freed from the bondage of selfishness and seeking our own gain. We will have perfect perspectives and will not hold onto hurts from this world; in fact, we will see purpose in those hurts as we will see purpose in everything that happened in our lives. 

We will finally have the opportunity to understand God’s purposes in all things (Romans 8). We won’t wearily wonder why bad things happened, but will understand that ultimately all things were for God’s glory, even those things that hurt so much at the time. We will rejoice in God’s plans and will understand even better the sacrifice Jesus made on the cross. 

We will be reunited with loved ones and will get to meet new friends. We will enjoy each other perfectly in the presence of God, and we will have perfect relationships that satisfy and bring joy to all around us. 

The gifts God has given us to worship him—art, literature, music, math, science, etc.—will be redeemed and expressed in their intended state. Oh, think of the music! Imagine the prettiest song you’ve ever heard, the joy and depth of emotion you experienced when you heard it, and multiply that by a million! Not only that, but we will be able to join in that music. And it will be glorious and a sweet sound to God’s ears. 

I will be redeemed. I will be a perfect version of myself, the me God intended. I won’t struggle with bitterness or shame. My giftings will come to fruition. I will be freed from bondage of sin and selfishness and seeking my own comfort. How much of my day is about being comfortable? How much of my day is governed by what would make me happy and feel the best possible? How many decisions of mine are warped because they went through a weird filter of my needing to weigh the benefit to myself? Friends, I will be freed from all of that. I won’t think unkind things anymore or feel a need to compensate for my shortcomings. I won’t fear rejection. In the presence of God, I will be me. And I will understand God’s love for me. And I will love him and understand who He is.

When you think of Heaven, please don’t be sad! Let’s look forward to that day when God will wipe away our tears forever (Revelation 21).

When you think of Heaven, what comes to mind? Why/why not do you think of Heaven often? What fears or reservations do you have? After reading this post, is anything sparked in your heart about the amazingness of Heaven? Can you pray for a seed of faith to start believing Heaven is wonderful and better than you can ever imagine? Who can you dream with about Heaven? Do you know for sure you are going there when you die? As Randy Alcorn says, You are made for a person and a place. Jesus is the person, and Heaven is the place. They are a package—they come together. You cannot get Heaven without Jesus, or Jesus without Heaven. “Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near” (Isaiah 55:6). If you have any doubts, pray that God will show you the Truth as you read His Word.

We have recently had a new nurse in our hospice care. Our regular nurse needed a break, and she took some needed time off to refresh and restore her heart. I’m thankful for both of these nurses.

Our new nurse figured out the puzzle of my pain in my leg beautifully. We have changed medication and my pain is much less. I’m tickled. But what has surfaced is an extreme exhaustion and a haziness that wasn’t there before. 

Today the nurse spoke to us about the stages of dying. This is part of that. Jason and I sat as she explained what is coming and we quietly wept. We didn’t/ did want to know. She was gentle in telling us what is coming, but it was a very hard pill to swallow. We don’t want this new hazy to be death’s closing in, we want a new pill to combat the new symptoms. We want to live in our happy land of denial. 

Afterward, Mickey and Carl came to my bedside and we all cried together. We all faced this little bit of reality as best as we could. We want to avoid my fading and rejoice in the proper pain medication being found.

And after all that was over, I asked for my favorite snack- life cereal. I asked for a bowl of cereal and I cried into my favorite snack. I cried and knew what was said was true. I cried and knew I have turned yet another corner and around that corner I will be met with new grace, new abiding, new joy, and new surrender. I will have a more tender love to share, a more sincere story to tell, a more immediate desire for those I love to know the true love of my heart. The loves that are many, but especially the loves- the big Jesus love that makes all this peace possible. 

There will be more tears in my cereal, and that’s okay. Those tears are captured and known. All this brokenness is known. I’m broken into a million tiny shards- and each piece is known…

I recently read an article about Gazan artist Nidaa Badwan who retreated to her bedroom after being assaulted by Hamas officers. For a couple of months, she barely lived, contemplating suicide and fearing leaving her family’s home because of the religiosity and conflict in the Gaza Strip. Eventually, she started enjoying her isolation and beautifying her 100 sq. ft. bedroom. It is now the subject of an art project and she has left her home only a handful of times over the last year. She says of her space, Everything is beautiful, but only in my room, not in Gaza. I’m ready to die in this room unless I find a better place.

In a way, this reminds me of Kara. She spends a lot of time her in own bedroom these days, and as she recently blogged, she has her favorite corner—her corner of intention—where she keeps her Bible and journal and meds and treasures. Her bedroom is beautiful, her taste is feminine and exquisite and welcoming, but this little nook is especially sweet. Here she can write, pray, read, dream.

As I type, I am reminded of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, but Kara’s room is so different from Ms. Woolf’s or Ms. Badwan’s. You see, while Kara’s space is perfectly her and she is its custodian, she also means for it to be a safe and inviting place for others. How many hours have I spent next to her in bed listening to her whispered thoughts? How many cuddles has she shared with Von there? How many lovely pictures have been photographed in that space? And how many thousands of hours of snuggles with her beautiful children have happened in this room? The walls absorb the sounds of sad sobs and expectant laughter and murmured dreams. 

Like Ms. Badwan anticipates for herself, Kara will likely die in her room. Yet it is not a place of gloom or fear or despair. No, it is a place of hope, joy, peace. It is a place where you feel the warmth of Kara’s heart and the warmth of Jesus’s love for her. It is a sacred place where Heaven will open up to summon Kara from this world to her new Home. It is a place that I will remember fondly. A place of meaning and purpose. Of beauty and a nearness to God. Of crafting her space Kara explained, Having that special nook creates charm and warmth and a desire to land someplace beautiful to take in the beauty of Jesus.

She has done exactly that, and I wonder what corner of my home I can do the same. A place for quiet contemplation where I can meditate on the truth of Jesus—Immanuel, God with us. 

Do you have a special place of beauty in your home? If so, how did you create this space? If not, is this a space you would like to create? What can you do to whittle out a nook for the purpose of being quiet before the Lord and inviting others to do the same? If you are married, would your spouse benefit from a space like this?

It felt like a huge blow when my oncologist said it was time for me to enter hospice care. It felt like quitting. I felt like my body had failed and I was being pulled from the team and being benched. Benched in an awful permanent way.

I was wrong. Hospice care has been truly amazing. It’s still hard, as a stubborn fighter, to not be in the fight anymore. Now I’m focused on my comfort. Comfort to my last moment. 

The nurses and doctor come to my bedside and do their business in my home. They speak in gentle tones and are always trying to figure the puzzle out that is me. They listen to me and try to find the best comfort for the pain I’m dealing with each day.

The hardest thing for me is that we are no longer testing. We have no measure on my cancer. No more PET scans, MRI’s or blood tests to measure tumor markers. We don’t know where it is growing, where it is fading. We don’t know which organs are involved or how my bones are doing.

From my pain, I suspect the cancer has been having a heyday in my bone system. That is what we spend most of our time trying to manage the pain from day to day. The team are champs and know what they are doing. It’s just different to be focused on my end not my staying. 

Jason and I both have found ourselves content and pleased with hospice care. It’s just an adjustment. A hard adjustment to go from treatment, tests, and fighting to not knowing and comfort.

There is part of me that still wants the front row fighting seats. It’s how I’m made. I will always want to be trying to beat this disease somehow. Now my fight is a passive one, now I’m fighting for good moments. My fight is for time and tenderness with my loves. My fight is to embrace the good moments hospice is giving me and loving my people well. It’s important~ these moments. All our moments are precious gifts.

How are you embracing the strong moments you have been given? How are you spending your health today? How are you loving your people with the strength you have been gifted with today? 

Sunday was a glorious day! After a good weekend of venturing outside, entertaining visitors, and lots of smiles, Kara made it to church for the first time in what I think has been months. She had told me that she was going to try to make it, yet nothing prepared my heart for the joy of seeing her come up the aisle to her seat next to Jason, right where she belongs.

It was fun watching the communion line and seeing people’s happy expressions as they tried to catch Kara’s eye, some even walking over to hug her. And then after the service! As one might expect, she was blissfully mobbed by friends who were so glad to see her and wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to hug her and chat. It was beautiful to watch, and my heart overflowed with gratefulness.

I am proud of our little church family, proud of how well they have loved the Tippetts, thankful for how well they have loved me and my family. But I am not naïve—I know there are surely people who feel left out and like they are unnoticed. And if there are people who go unnoticed within the safe walls of our church, how many more are there outside church who feel unseen, unknown, and unloved?

One of my favorite stories in the Bible is the woman in Mark 5 who had suffered for 12 years. She had heard about Jesus but instead of pushing through the crowd to meet him and plead her case, she simply reached out far enough to touch Jesus’ garment. She was healed immediately, but Jesus didn’t let it end there—he looked for her. He looked for this sick woman whom people surely overlooked every day. This woman who was a second-rate citizen at best in her culture and had an illness that made her unclean. Jesus noticed her. He healed her. He saw her. He knew her heart. He loved her.

Kara is an amazing example of someone who sees the unseen. I have heard so many stories of how she reached out to people who were in a new place or felt out of place somewhere and she approached them to reach out and befriend them. She did the same for me, and I am faced with the question, How can I spread the love that has freely been bestowed on me? Who is waiting to be noticed? Who is in the shadows hoping for a kind hand of friendship to be extended?

The truth is the unseen are all around me, from the woman who uses our front yard to sleep off a rough night to the shy mom I shyly smile at while we’re picking up our babies at the church nursery. Who can you think of who would appreciate your reaching out? Who in your life could use a friend? What would it mean for you to look for and notice someone who might otherwise feel unnoticed? If you feel unnoticed, what would it look like for you to reach out to someone else who might feel unseen? 

Read these verses and simply pause. Pause. Pause.

Oh- to have this on the forefront of my heart at all times. Can you imagine life? Can you imagine the beauty? Can you imagine the love that would pour forth from each day if these verses were put on as you put on your clothes in the morning?

Shoes-check. meekness-check. forgiveness, and over all of it pull it all together with love.

We have been wrestling a rough stomach bug in our house,  and I’m not sure we have had all these thoughts at the forefront of our thinking, but we have been working to love one another well. I read these verses in my illness and I’m undone. I want this to mark how I live, even when I’m feeling poorly.

How can you put on this kind of love today? Where are you struggling: kindness, humility, patience? How can you press into Jesus and ask him to help you grow deeper in an area you are struggling? Jesus, would you grow my heart in every direction that is bound together in love.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

After volunteering at the school library the other day (and living out my life-long fantasy of being a school librarian…), I still had 30 minutes before school was out, so I popped over to our neighborhood coffee shop across the street to drink tea and read for a bit. When I came outside with my drink, I noticed a mom from the school also sitting on the porch, hard at work. I had a pang of guilt—what am I doing here drinking $4 tea that we really can’t afford and reading my just-for-fun book while mamas like this are doing actual work-work? She is contributing to her family in important financial ways, but she is also contributing to something bigger through her workplace. Every morning when she wakes up, she gets to put on fancy clothes, sleek high heels, lovely makeup, kiss her children goodbye, and then go do something productive—something bigger than feeding two silly chickens mealworms.

I often think about what it would contribute to our family if I got even a part-time job. And I also think about what it would mean to me to have that kind of productive purpose—more productive than finishing whatever book I’m reading. I think about the example that would be to my children to see their papa AND mama heading off to work each day to do Important Things.

I quickly remember that this was Aaron’s and my dream for our family—for me to stay home with our babies while they were little. I am home to our children, the safe place for them to land every day. But is that enough? Would I be a better mama if I were working? So many mamas do amazing things—they have businesses they run out of their homes; they go to work doing important jobs pushing back the effects of The Fall in their workplaces; they create pieces of beauty for this broken world, bringing healing through their art; they homeschool their children and help others teach their kids, too. They are powerful, beautiful examples to their children.

I often think of the mamas who work at our elementary school. These are truly amazing women!! They come to school, love and nurture tough kids with wisdom and grace all day, then go home and lavish their own families in love. I admit that I am jealous of their ginormous capacities. I seem only capable of staying in my own little corner of the world, putting one foot in front of the other, and living a simple, mundane life—the biggest excitement in my life lately was last month when, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a mouse run by in the house. We bought at least 10 traps but haven’t caught anything! And there are no smells of a mouse that got trapped somewhere and died. So either the mouse found its way out or it was all in my imagination. Pretty riveting, right?

Is it okay that I live in the mundane? That my existence is quiet and unremarkable? That I spend my mornings enjoying two silly hens? Is it enough that I don’t have big career goals or that I’m not dreaming of ways to change the world? Is it okay that I push back the effects of The Fall through simple things like baking apple pie and helping in the school library? Will my children be impacted by how tight our budget is? Will they be disappointed in the half-written book on hospitality saved on my computer? Will they be scarred by our lack of vacations in their childhood?

Oh, friends, how many of us get trapped in this way of thinking? How many of us compare ourselves to others to see if we measure up? How tempting it is to question our calling or to be dissatisfied with where God has placed us?

God brings to my mind Jesus’ life on earth. Apparently he lived a pretty mundane life until his ministry started, because the Bible skips more than 15 years of his life during that period! And then, even once his ministry started, he moved and worked within the mundane. He didn’t go to Rome and preach the gospel there, getting attention from fancy people. No—he moved in and out of the banality of everyday life. His closest friends were ordinary men who wrestled with their faith and marveled at God’s love, just like me. Jesus didn’t enter into ministry with a band of angels or a gold crown. He lived simply, owning nothing more than the clothes on his back. He enjoyed the company of others, loved those around him, and healed hearts (and bodies!) along the way. His life, though complex in its purpose, was not full of glory.

In light of Jesus’ ministry in the mundane, how can I put expectations on myself that are outside of God’s calling on my life? I think it must be enough to find joy in that $4 cup of tea, learn from that book I’m reading, appreciate those super moms who are gifted with the talents and visions to do extraordinary things, help out at school, and love on my family. I think it’s enough to spend vacations driving to visit Aaron’s grandmother and aunt in Iowa, never finish a book I’ve been writing (or finish it—either way!), drive cars that are 10+ years old, and believe that God has purpose in my life, as plain as it may be.

My life may be simple, but it’s not without purpose or joy. And it’s certainly not without love.

How do you struggle with God’s calling on your life? Do you struggle with dissatisfaction? How do you fight that? What scriptures do you cling to to remind you of God’s sovereignty and love?

I seriously cannot stop raving about Mickey. Or Nanny Mickey, as she is affectionately known. Mannymickey to my toddler. She is a woman who knows how to love and love instantly. The first time I met her, she made me feel like we were old friends. She noticed me, made me feel seen, and pursued me so I could be known. Oh, my stars; her love is a balm to my motherless heart.

I recently said to one of my sisters, “I wish Mickey were my mother.”

Erin jokingly replied, “I just wish I had a mother!”

I chuckled, but her words made me think.

Kara and Mickey love big. Love well. Love in ways that matter to the recipient. They are unique in that instead of loving in ways in which they are gifted, their gift is loving! Does that make sense? They love according to what their recipients need. A selfless, beautiful, healing love.

This kind of love is transformative. I am not tempted to hoard it or keep it to myself. After time with Kara or Mickey, I want to turn around and love someone else, embrace them and remind them of how special they are, just like Kara and Mickey do for me.

So when Erin pointed out the obvious—that we are motherless—my mind started thinking about how blessed we’ve been with women who have filled that role in our lives. No one can replace a mother, but we can still love well and effectively. And because we have received this kind of love, we can love others, too.

How many motherless women are around me?! How many women (or people in general) don’t have mothers or have mothers who have been cruel or absent or lacking in love? Each friend who has this brokenness in her life is a friend who could benefit from the gift of love. And how easy it is to send a text or a card, engaging people and reminding them ultimately that Jesus loves them and finds them irresistible? What a gift it is to share a cup of coffee with a friend and listen to her heart. What a joy to help carry her burdens and take them to the cross together.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I want to be Mickey when I grow up but I am called to be her now. How can I move toward the hurting people around me like Mickey does? How can I use my words to encourage someone even if our conversation is brief? How can I pursue others and make them feel noticed and valued?

This love, it comes from Jesus. And the more I understand it through the big love of women like Kara and Mickey and my sister Erin, the more I can translate it to other people—my husband, children, friends, neighbors.

The ugly truth is that we are all hurting. Despite her brave face and unquenchable courage and strength, Mickey’s heart is breaking for Kara. Kara’s heart breaks for Jason and her children. The list goes on. But the more-than-good news is that we don’t have to hurt alone. We can put an arm around each other, cry on each other’s shoulders, remind each other of the gentle love of Jesus and the promise of the joy to come.

I’m learning this kind of community is rare. But community is not found—it is built, one brick of love at a time. So how can we move toward each other? How can we reach out to someone who is hurting? How can we remind someone that they are seen and cherished? How can we notice someone who feels unseen?

I spend most of my day in a sweet little corner in my bedroom. I organize and reorganize this small space to my daily likings and needs. It’s my corner of intention. On the shelf beside my bed you will find my Bible, different journals, and books I’m currently reading. 

In this space, I have set up a mini art journaling box. Just last week I started to write the kids birthday cards. I had hesitated to write these cards, but I decided two nights ago to plunge in and simply see how far I can get. My heart is for the kids to hear a simple love from me on their day. So these are not long letters, just simple messages of love. 

This nook also has my all important medications. The balancing of these medicines is what makes everything else possible. It’s such a dance. 

But this place of intention is not new to me. Before I was ill, Jason and I had special chairs we pushed together to read scripture and pray together. Having that special nook creates charm and warmth and a desire to land someplace beautiful to take in the beauty of Jesus. 

Do you have a special place you like to work? I have to constantly tinker through my space. I use it, so it can get easily muddled and I have to intention to keep it tidy. I want it to be a place I want to come all throughout the day. It takes just a smidge of time to keep it tidy, but it’s worth it.

Typically my journalling Bible is in my bed with me. I enjoy this new format very much. I like the space right in the Bible to write my thoughts. I have especially liked it as Carl and I have read through Psalm 119 together. I can take notes and listen along as we read through the beautiful Psalm slowly. 

This year, my baby started kindergarten. In our district, kinder is all day, so all of a sudden, I found myself with 6 ½ hours alone every day for the first time since having my babies. At summer’s end, I was overwhelmed by how much time that seemed to be. Now I know that by the time I get home from dropoff, exercise, shower, read my Bible, and do household tasks before needing to leave for pickup, 6 ½ hours isn’t very long at all! Plus, I volunteer at the school three afternoons a week, which takes up a big chunk of time. And as you can imagine, those hours at home get taken up with babysitting, coffee dates, errands, Bible study, making meals for others, making dinner for us, reading, etc. [Side note: I’ve done a LOT of reading lately, and some of the books have rocked my world! I plan to share them with you soon.]

All that to say, as I pondered the responsibility of several hours to myself a week, I wondered what it would look like to steward that time well and use it to love my family even though they weren’t home. One of the things the Lord brought to my mind was continuing my pursuit of rest. I have come to understand that if my heart and mind are rested, I am: kinder, more patient, gentler, calmer, quicker to smile, more self-controlled. And then some! I knew that my babies would come home from school tired and needing to process their experiences. How could I be ready for them?

Self-admittedly, I’m not one of those mamas who has unending patience and who is always a soft place for others to land. I fight abrasiveness and selfishness, and I have to actually tell myself to be kind to my children. While motherhood has been my life’s biggest joy, it’s also been my life’s biggest source of sanctification! But learning how to rest has helped with all of that. Seeking Sabbath for myself enables me to extend it to my family, to experience it together in joy and gratitude.

So I decided that I would get my chores done while the kids are at school so that I wouldn’t be distracted when they come home. I decided to pursue rest and Jesus so I could extend rest and Jesus’ love to my littles when their own hearts are tired. The Lord has been so gracious in leading me in this little journey, and one way He’s done it has been so ridiculous, I have to laugh even as I thank Him.

You see, this summer, some friends of ours were going on vacation and needed someone to take care of their chickens while they were gone for a couple of weeks. I volunteered, and they brought these silly birds over to a temporary pen I set up. I can’t tell you the delight we found in these hens! They are full of personality, and we would sit outside for hours watching them do their chicken thing.

I dreaded the day our friends were set to return. Unexpectedly, I had fallen in love with these chickens and was so sad thinking about their departure. Finally, the day came, and my friend and I were texting to make arrangements for them to pick up the hens. In a fun twist, our friend told me she had been offered a full-time job, didn’t feel like she had the capacity to care for the chickens like she wanted to, and would we be interested in keeping them?

Keeping them?! Holy guacamole, I said yes before even talking to Aaron. We built a coop and settled the hens in permanently. While I had been surprised at how much I loved them, I was even more surprised at how much I’ve appreciated their company now that my babies are in school all day! When I get home from dropoff, the chickens starting clucking and talking to me as I walk across the yard from the garage. I get a treat for them (mealworms, anyone?!), grab my Bible, and sit down in the shade next to their pen.

There I sit for at least an hour a day, enjoying God’s creation, His Word, and His gift of hens to my mama’s heart. How can I not be full of gratitude to see how God has provided for my loneliness this fall?

So I continue in this pursuit of rest, remembering that it is an active pursuit, that rest has to be intentional, that it requires sacrifice, and that it is totally worth it.

How has God blessed you this fall? What gifts of provision have you noticed? Has this fall been busy or restful? How are you intentionally pursuing rest in your life and in your heart? What is your biggest struggle with pursuing rest?

I always tell people that Kara and my son have a very special friendship. Which kind of makes me laugh, because I think Kara has very special friendships with everyone. You can’t be her friend and not feel extra special for it. But Von and Kara do love each other richly and speak each other’s language.

When we first met Kara, Von was just weeks old. He had been a NICU baby, and this was the first time I had taken him out. I was feeling super vulnerable and protective, wearing him wrapped tightly against me. Kara asked to hold him—she said it was so I could eat dessert, but I could see from the twinkle in her eye that she was a lover of babies. So I carefully unwrapped him and handed my treasured boy to this stranger.

Magic.

I don’t know how else to describe the bond between them. Well, I do—it was God, not magic, yet sometimes it feels that way. Kara has been a sister to me, but more important to my heart is how she has loved my children, especially my boy. She has her own spectacular boy so she automatically knew how to love Von well in a way that makes an impact on his heart.

And boy, does Von love Kara. He talks about her every single day. He prays for her every night. He talks about the times they’ve shared and how fun her house is and how fun her kids are. He has never been bothered by her illness or hair loss, and the first time he visited her in the hospital, he braved wires and tubes and nurses to climb up in that hospital bed to snuggle with her and receive the squeaky kisses only Kara is allowed to give him.

It is because of this unusual and powerful love that my husband and I have felt prompted to start talking to Von about Heaven. About how we are all going to go there someday. And about how Kara will likely go first if God doesn’t heal her this side of Heaven. We tell him that someday, Jesus will tell Kara it’s time for her to go live with him, and when she does, Jesus will heal Kara and make her all better. Kara will never be sick again and she won’t have to be in bed and she can run and jump and play. Von always gets a big smile on his face and sometimes yells out in happy anticipation.

Talking to a not-quite-three-year-old about Heaven has challenged me. We’ve always tried to have an eternal perspective in our home, dreaming about Heaven together on a daily basis. But explaining it to my small child so that he has some kind of context for what is happening to his favorite person causes me to confront my own beliefs: Do I really, truly believe that Jesus will heal us? Do I believe that Heaven will be fun and full of laughter, free from broken relationships and tears, full of adventures and sweet reunions, healed of scars and bitterness, filled with beauty and banquets?

I think I do. Or am starting to. The more we talk, the more real it becomes to me. Von has started dreaming on his own: “When we wive wif Jesus, we will pway moosis [music] together. Me pway dwums, Papa pway guitar, Mama sing, Jesus pway bass, and Kara pway keyboard.” In his own little brain, he has caught a vision of perfection and joy. His excitement is contagious and I find myself dreaming my own dreams of Heaven—seeing Kara and catching up, introducing my parents to my children, scheduling a coffee date with Ruth Graham, meeting our nephew and my friend’s twins whom we never met on earth. And crawling up into my Heavenly Father’s lap so he can once and for all wipe away my tears.

This dreaming is bittersweet and the instruction I try to give Von is imperfect, like today when we were headed to Kara’s; reminding Von that Kara might not feel up to a visit, he said, “That’s okay, Mama. Me always hoo [here] for Kara.”

I was tearfully reminded that Jesus is the one who is always here for us. That he is walking this hard road with us. That the harder life gets, the more grace Jesus gives and the tighter he holds us. As we suffer and struggle and wrestle, and as we find ourselves in dark and scary places, we also find the beauty of God’s tender love for us. He is not absent and he is not silent. He calms the raging oceans of fear in our hearts with the promise of his arms wrapped around us, hope incarnate. Suffering is an invitation to be enveloped in God’s embrace and comforted by his love.

My heart is calmed by God’s promise from Isaiah 43:

Do you believe in the promise of God’s presence and of Heaven? What do you look forward to the most about going there? Who can you encourage today with the ultimate promise of restoration in Christ?

There is so much to me of presence. I have been struggling and thinking through my limitations lately- the places I am not, and struggle to see where I am. I imagine this will be a battle for the rest of my days- the embracing or fighting of my limits- coming and fading. 

Each moment affords me life to live and choices in that living to make. Mostly I’m kept. I’m a woman cared for and kept by my family and Mickey, I am no longer the heavy lifter and keeper of my family. A team of people help provide meals, and we have help with the house. I have found I can do laundry- some of the laundry that is. I can read books, I can listen and I can be present. My presence being what I have to offer feels often inadequate to having the ability to drive to an appointment or make a meal or shop for needed clothes. 

This is what is. This is where I am. But for those struggling with limitations, life can be daunting in trying to find meaning. 

Then I read scripture and I’m reminded that I am seen, I am known, I will be kept, and I’m okay. It’s hard to understand the kept-ness of my walk with God, but it’s sure. A prayer of David in Psalm 119: Incline my heart to perform your statutes forever, to the end. 

It’s a prayer of asking for God to keep his heart inclined. I cried sweet tears when I first read those verses. Jesus that is exactly what I want- an INCLINED heart. A heart bent on being towards Jesus. What more could I want in my limitations? An inclined heart causes every part of me to be softer, gentler, more accepting, content. But a contented heart is a fight for us all, isn’t it? 

When my heart is discontent I struggle through the details of life and look closely upon my control for comfort. When my heart is inclined toward God, I’m more willing to open my hands to my story and look for the present grace of God to show up. 

I was able to make it to the tea party of  my youngest. It felt huge to be there. I felt so thankful to be present. Story drew a beautiful picture of me in Norman, my wheelchair. The teacher asked questions of the children such as what does your mama do when you are at school. Story sweetly answered, my mama goes to doctors to fight her cancer. I cried hot tears and almost never recovered. She also spoke of how I love and snuggle her. I felt so thankful to be present. Her life is so important, and I’m still here present in it. 

Where are you today? Are you living present in your day? Are you there witnessing and inclining your heart toward God in your going, doing loving? 

I’m back. Kara has many, many friends, but since I’m one of the ones who writes, y’all tend to get stuck with me a lot.

I recently did an interview regarding Kara and friendships, and one of the questions the interviewer asked me was, what’s one thing people might not know about Kara?

It didn’t take me long to answer. She’s funny, I said.

Kara writes these lovely, heart wrenching, life-changing blogs. (And of course she wrote the book The Hardest Peace. If you haven’t read it yet, what are you waiting for? It’s the perfect love story to curl up with on Valentine’s weekend. It’s about a girl and her savior and their love for one another. It’s about choosing to believe in the midst of life’s hard. I can’t speak highly enough of it. All OF THE PEOPLE EVERYWHERE SHOULD READ IT. Now, back to the story…)

In the midst of all of these lovely, serious, life-changing things Kara talks about, she’s super funny and witty and sarcastic. All things I love.

So I thought I’d share some funny bits… another glimpse into Kara for those of you out there who aren’t privy to this side of her.

About a year ago, Kara and I went on a writer’s weekend together. She was under contract for The Hardest Peace, and I was still writing fiction without a contract. Little did I know that a few weeks later I’d be offered my first publishing contract for Falling for Texas. (Yay!)

Anyway, we stopped at a coffee shop on our way to Denver. I slaved over my words, and Kara wrote a ton all while playing on Facebook and writing a blog post. She’s a fast writer and it comes out sounding beautiful right away. She’s totally annoying that way.

After we slept at the hotel, I woke up feeling… not so well. Let’s just say I was in the bathroom. A lot. It was an introvert’s nightmare. We were stuck in this hotel room together—I certainly couldn’t leave—and the bathroom did not have a fan.

I can’t even believe I’m sharing this story. Anyway, as I’m hanging out in the bathroom, I hear Kara yelling from the room.

I have my headphones on. I can’t hear a thing! My music’s really loud! Don’t worry about me!

I started laughing and thinking, I love this girl. She makes the most uncomfortable comfortable. And while it still goes down as one of my embarrassing moments with a friend, it’s also one of my favorite stories.

Kara has also been known to steal clothing from people. Remember the grace dress a friend gave her early on in her cancer journey? If you’re wearing something she likes, she’ll tell you that you should give it to her because she has cancer.

She’s done this to her sister. She’s done it to me. Who knows how many countless friends are missing clothing items because of this girl? If you see pictures of her in a cute green coat, know that it once was mine.

What are we supposed to do?

When your friend says she wants your coat and then reminds you she has cancer, you just laugh, shake your head and fork it over.

I got a new jacket recently, and when I see Kara eyeing it, I can admit I clutch it to my chest. She’s not getting this one.

Kara and Jason still laugh. A lot. Cancer has robbed from them, but not their sense of humor.

I’m thankful for these two, and I’m especially thankful for the laughter we’ve shared—and will continue to share.

Thanks for loving our funny girl, as I know you all do. 

 Jill Lynn Buteyn is a wife, friend, and disorganized mom who writes fiction as Jill Lynn. If you want some more snark in your life, you can find her here:

www.Jill-Lynn.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JillLynnAuthor
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JillLynnAuthor
Instagram: http://instagram.com/jilllynnauthor/
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/JillLynnAuthor/
 

From Kara:

Blythe has agreed to become a regular contributor here on Mundane Faithfulness. Her grasp of grace and our need of Jesus is so beautiful, I feel humbled and tickled that she has agreed to partner with me on Mundane Faithfulness. Her writings will be featured weekly, and she will be the steward of this site after I'm gone. I pray you would lend her your heart. I have given her mine, and her care of my love has been breathtaking.

A new friend and I were having coffee when I referenced my sisters, how sad I am that they live far away and how close we are. She admitted to a twinge in her heart—she wishes she and her sister could be closer, that her sister were kinder, that they knew how to connect better. I smiled sadly—I wish every woman could have sisters like mine!

The truth is we can all relate to that twinge, right? None of us has perfect relationships with everyone or people to fill certain roles in our lives. We all have brokenness that reveals itself in how we relate to others and how we interact with them. We all have baggage and hearts that ache at reminders of past hurts.

I think of friends who had abusive fathers, friends who never heard their parents say “I love you,” friends who were outcasts in school, whose siblings bullied and beat up on them. I have friends who have no relationships with their siblings and who are more prone to ending friendships rather than go through conflict because conflict equals danger in their minds. Friends who are not emotionally safe with their husbands. The list goes on and on and on. We all have our sad stories of broken relationships or nonexistent relationships. 

What do we do with all this brokenness? What do we do when there is no restoration in site?

Hope.

We hope!

This friend and I went on to talk about having an eternal perspective, which is one of my favorite topics—my family and I dream of heaven on a daily basis. And one of my favorite things to dream about is redeemed relationships. In Heaven, we will have no brokenness, no conflict, no bitterness, no ulterior motives, no hurt. Every relationship we have will be loving, selfless, and joyful! Imagine the laughter! What will it be like to interact with each other free from sin?!

Here is what really bewilders me and excites me about relationships in heaven: Because of Jesus, we will be completely relationally satisfied. We will be free from longing to be in the popular crowd, free from avoiding those who have hurt us, free from our own prejudices, free from hiding our real selves, free from seeking approval. Our hearts will be full. If there were high school in heaven, we’d all be sitting at the cool-kid table in the cafeteria.

And here is my conviction that comes from this truth: Hope does not release me from responsibility. I should still be praying for restoration in broken relationships and reaching out to those who are alone.

Oh, how I struggle! I want relationships to be all about me. But I know that is not true relationship. And someday in heaven, I’ll be really good at relationships; I’ll be the bestest friend you could ever imagine and love others so well! Until then, as I clumsily navigate friendships and family relationships, I fix my eyes on Jesus and hope in what is to come.

Is there someone in your life who could use a friend? Who can you reach out to in love and selflessness? What would it look like for you to pray for restoration for a broken relationship in your life?

“So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline. Be even-tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense. Forgive as quickly and completely as the Master forgave you. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.”

One of my favorite sounds from my childhood is the whirr of Mamma’s sewing machine. It’s a sound that travels gently through the house, an undertone of life, a sound of safety and surety. Mamma loved to sew; she frequently made dresses for me and my sisters or Halloween costumes, costumes for plays we were in, drapes, napkins, tablecloths, doll clothes. You name it, she made it. And no matter where we lived (we moved around a lot!), she brought her sewing machine; the first time in a new house that I heard the whirr, I felt like I was home, and a contentment filled my heart.

As I got older, I loved the clothes Mamma sewed a little less…With five children and moving so often, she started sewing more out of necessity than fun. I can remember the summer I was 12 in a new town, eager to make a cool impression on my peers. Mamma made me three pair of knee-length shorts with elastic waistbands in blue, pink, and yellow. Yikes. I can still feel the way the straight legs pulled on my changing body, restricting me from playing or pedaling or doing anything fun. Yet I knew that those horrid shorts were sewn in love, and deep down I was proud of them.

In high school, I used Mamma’s sewing machine without asking; I had never sewn before, and I didn’t know to put the foot down before stitching. I broke the machine, thankfully not beyond repair, and felt deep disappointment in harming something that was so precious to Mamma. She was devastated to have to take it to the repair shop and be without it for several weeks, and I learned my lesson never to touch her sewing machine without asking.

When senior prom came along, I begged Mamma to sew my dress; I knew she would be able to make something that fit me perfectly—a dress no other girl would have. We picked out a gold-ish fabric with a gold lace to go over it. She spent weeks getting it just right, sewing after she got home from work and sometimes late into the night. On prom night, I felt like a princess! The dress fit like a glove; I felt glamorous and loved.

Mamma learned to sew from her mother, Marmee. Marmee used to love to tell me about the outfits she made Mamma when Mamma was a little girl. Like me, Marmee had one boy and one girl a year apart. She adored Mamma and doted on her. Sixty years later, she could describe, in detail, dresses she painstakingly sewed for her beloved girl. Marmee worked full time, which was rare for a woman in the 1950s; this was before women’s lib, so she did all the housework and cooking on her own. I can’t imagine all the ironing she had to do for the family and the joy she must have felt when polyester made its debut in the world! I asked one time if sewing all of Mamma’s clothes was a burden on top of all of Marmee’s other responsibilities. No, she answered. I loved it!

Marmee loved to sew for me, too. I was not shaped like a typical little girl—I had broad shoulders and a long torso, so I think Marmee delighted in making dresses that fit me well, and I bet she also enjoyed the challenge. One time, she sent a brown dress with ivory polkadots. I was 10 years old, and I thought it was the ugliest thing I had ever seen. Oh, no, Mamma replied. This is beautiful! Look at the silky fabric—this is hard to sew! And the pearl buttons and wide sash. Look at this lace collar! I’ve never seen anything so delicate. And the brown will look beautiful—brown is perfect for blondes. I looked at the dress with new eyes: I imagined Marmee in her sewing room in her basement, painstakingly sewing this slippery fabric, piecing on the lace collar, making sure the shoulders were wide enough for me. Mamma helped me slip it over my head. I looked in the mirror and spun around, the dress lifting in princess swirls. Mamma was right—it was stunning.

I wish I still had that dress. Every favorite dress in my adolescence was made by Marmee. She and Mamma even made my sister’s formal bridesmaids’ dresses in lush green velvet.

I also wish I could tell you that Mamma or Marmee taught me to sew. How I longed to sew as a girl! But Mamma died before teaching me, and Marmee’s sewing days were just about over by the time I was serious about sitting down and learning. Instead, a friend taught me, diligently and patiently and kindly sitting with me week after week as I first sewed a pincushion, then a bathrobe, a skirt, and then a beautiful dress.

I didn’t sew again until I became a mother. I hand-stitched many things, crocheted a ton, knit a few things, but no sewing on the machine until my babies were born. The first night I set up my machine and started sewing curtains for the nursery, my husband said, I love that sound—it reminds me of my childhood.

Last summer, I started a few projects but put them aside when Marmee died. I didn’t do that intentionally—it was a necessity of having to clean up the dining room when family came into town for her funeral. But the longer my projects sat, the less desire I had to finish them. I couldn’t bring myself to drag out my machine; I didn’t have the heart capacity to try to make that emotional connection to Marmee by sewing. And somehow, it felt like the time of her death—and when she was alive—was closer if I just left my project sitting on my dresser instead of finishing it. It represented her last days when I would look at the blue flowered print every day. And those last days are precious and priceless to me.

But finally, out of fear the dress wouldn’t fit my little darling by the time I got around to finishing it, I picked it up and started in again, reading and re-reading the pattern, trying to remember where I was. As I timidly made those first stitches, I looked down and saw my mamma’s hands. I heard her sewing machine. I felt her love. And I felt Marmee’s love. My mind filled with memories of these women, loving through their art, and the tears poured out of my eyes.

How could I ever think that by finishing this project, my connection with Marmee’s life would dissipate? Instead, I found that with each stitch, my connection with Marmee was strengthened. I remembered her love more clearly. I connected with Mamma in ways I never had, simply because she died before I was a woman. I understood her quiet, servant’s love more deeply. I couldn’t stop sewing. I finished that dress and then made another one and another one. I made a shirt and then sewed 24 napkins for a garden party. And then I bought more fabric for more projects.

And as I cut and iron and pin and sew, my own machine whirring 10 feet away from my babies in their beds, I pray that they will fall asleep to this sound of love, that they will never doubt my love for them, and that they will remember the safety of their own mama’s presence. More than that, I pray that they will understand my love is a reflection of God’s love, this God whose heart is for the widow and the orphan and the refugee. This God who loves so gently and tenderly. What a gift that my mamma and Marmee knew Jesus and spilled his love out onto their daughters. I pray I will do the same.

What sounds, tastes, sights represent love to you? Who is someone who has shown you God’s gentle love? What kind of impact has it made on your life? Who is someone you can lavish with God’s tenderness and love?

I love the title of Kara’s recent post, “Grieve and Get on with It”. Before reading it, I admit to being a little shocked—is she going to tell us that when we’re grieving, it’s fine to cry for a while but then we need to get over it?

My first semester of college, my BFF/roommate and I went ice skating with a group of new friends. It was great on several levels—ice skating is fun, friends are fun, and feeling like we were finally connecting was more than fun. But then Jen took a spill. Hard. She fell forward and landed on her elbows. She put on a brave face, yet once we were back in our room, I could tell she was not okay—while our friends gathered in our living room to hang out, she was lying face-up on her bed, arms crossed over her torso, tears streaming down her cheeks. An ER trip was clearly necessary.

I asked our new friend, Sam, to go with us and help navigate the situation; he kindly said yes and was a stalwart help through the entire ordeal. While Jen was readying herself to come home, after both her arms had been painstakingly put into awkward splints, I commented to Sam how awful it had been to see Jen in such pain. He said, “Meh. I kept wanting to tell her to just get over it.”

Almost 20 years later, Jen and our friends and I still joke about that, often telling each other to “just get over it”. It’s ridiculous because we know we can’t just get over it. We can’t just get over excruciating pain, we can’t just get over cancer, we can’t just get over loss. There is no switch. Sometimes we can push through, like Kara talks about, but at some point, we will meet our end. The question is, what will we find there?

When I think about Jen’s accident so long ago, I wonder what kind of friend I was. She was a generous, gracious patient. I know I tried to love her well, helping her get dressed and put on makeup and carry her books to class. She was nothing but grace to my clumsy efforts. How did I respond? Was I kind? Did I create a safe place for her to be broken and hurt? Did I encourage her through those weeks of pain and frustration? Or did I serve her with an attitude that said, “I wish you would just get over it!”?

Here Kara talks about the end of her “grieve-and-go” attitude, and what has she found? She has found the love, comfort, and grace of Mickey. Of many people, but what an example Mickey is of unconditional love holding onto hope and joy when hope and joy seem far off.

I often say I want to be just like Mickey when I grow up. But the truth is, I need to be like Mickey now—I need to love well, safeguard hope, extend grace, clean, cook, cuddle, play games, run errands, shuttle kids, pray, massage feet. The list goes on for how I can meet someone in their hurt, like the disabled lady next door or the family behind us wrestling with a recent terminal diagnosis.

Who can you meet at the end of their grieve-and-go attitude? How can you gladly serve someone in your circle who is hurting? How can you provide relief and hope to someone who is struggling to find it? 

In the daily battle with cancer, one can imagine the countless direction discouragement can come from in one simple day. I am blessed with people who remind me of grace, goodness, what is to come. My reminderers: I have many. Carl comes nearly every day and points me to Jesus. He is reading through Psalm 119 with me. Some days the encouragement is easily found while other days leave us looking for the deeper story of redemption in anguish.

Here is what we read today:

Oh friends, read it over and over. Let this truth sink deeply. God is not absent from your affliction. Pray for His sweet mercy to dwell deeply in the broken edges of your life. Then wonder, wonder over such goodness and mercy that long to meet you in your coming in and going out. Delight in following Jesus as He certainly delights in having you as His own. The price for you was costly--His son...And he looks upon you and would sacrifice Himself all over again. 

So do not begrudge the affliction that may come. Press deeply into Jesus. Allow those broken edges to show you how desperate you are for Jesus. 

Today for some reason Shellie, Mickey, and I were talking about food. I turned to each of them and asked how they wondered the table is set in Heaven. The banquet, the feast. We all simply shared our differing perspectives. It was amazing. I love wondering over heaven with my loves. It causes the affliction to fade for but a moment. But there is a day soon approaching us all that our affliction will be gone. I will one day be standing with the dancing King and praising Jesus together.

I’ve been rolling memories around in my mind a lot. There is the memory of when she asked me to take over Mundane Faithfulness after she died, and I almost scoffed—that seemed so far off, and while I was never one to deny the terminal nature of her cancer, it felt to me that she wasn’t actually going to leave us, not really. We were both sitting in her bed that morning, my daughter toddling around, holding onto the furniture as she took each tiny, delicate step, her red eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The sun was bright, the conversation swift, and our hearts dancing in a strange rhythm with one another’s, attempting to have hard conversation without being depressing.

Then there was the second conversation, which occurred in the hospice wing of the hospital. It was late at night; she had called me to come over, so I dropped everything and made the 7-minute drive, leaving my babies home with Aaron. Mickey was there, readying the small couch in the room for herself to sleep over. Kara was eager to have this conversation about the blog; there was an urgency in her voice, but she was also in a lot of pain that night. Usually, the nurses could ease her pain and having guests was a helpful distraction, but not that night. Once we had the conversation, I left, wishing I could stay overnight, too. I was angry—angry at cancer, angry that I couldn’t make the pain go away, angry that the reality of death was finally making an appearance in my mind. I went home and wept in Aaron’s arms.

It didn’t take me long to realize that Kara’s giving me her blog was a priceless gift—it gave me a piece of her that I could hold onto long after she was gone.

When I was in college, my dad started sharing books with me. He’d read a book and then pass it along to me; once I read it, we’d discuss it. As I was growing up and changing, it was his way of relating to me, of having something in common with me—no matter what was going on around us, we could always talk books. Right before he died, he gave me a murder mystery. To that point, he had always shared nonfiction books, so this was new. He told me he had really enjoyed it, though, and wanted to hear my thoughts. He died before I could open it. I still haven’t opened it 20 years later. Somehow it feels like if I read it, that will be the last piece of him, like I’m closing the distance between when we did life together and now. I don’t want to close that distance. It hurts too much.

Last summer when Marmee died, I never wanted to leave her bedside. And then, once she was gone, I soaked in every second of the impossible grief that followed—the agonizing sobs, the beautiful prayers, the family time with my siblings and nephew, even the funeral. I’d been through grief enough times to know how precious those moments were—that once everyone left town after the funeral, I would be expected to pull myself out of bed and get back to normal life. Except that for me, life would never be normal again. Those days that went by in a blur would be what I held onto—Marmee’s last minutes, the intensity of family, the big emotions. They were the culmination of grief expressed in a short amount of time that I could grasp and remember and ponder. They were what would bring me comfort when everyone around me expected me to move on.

Move on.

And here we are at Mundane Faithfulness doing our version of that. Except that as I reflect on how painful it is to move away from doing life with someone you loved so deeply, I have been thinking about how we are also moving toward doing life with them. Only it’s Life with a big L. I don’t only mean the obvious—that every day gets me closer to Daddy, to Kara, and to Marmee. But that every day is an opportunity for me to believe the Gospel a little bit more, to trust the hope of the resurrected Christ a little bit more. Every day is a chance for me to have a perspective of redemption instead of loss—instead of suffocating in the pain of grief, each day that I choose to hope in the coming restoration of Jesus, that hope leaks in a little bit. Hope starts to dissolve the suffering a tiny bit.

I’m not one who believes that time heals the pain of grief. I believe that we just learn to live with the pain. When God designed us, he never designed us to die, so as long as we are on this earth and have to say goodbye to our loved ones, we will hurt. Hurt big time. But I do believe that the hope we have in Jesus can overpower our pain. I believe that hope can creep in and show death who’s boss. I believe that hope can lift our chins to see a glimpse of the restoration that is to come so that instead of walking hunched over like we’ve been punched in the gut by death, we can walk upright in the promise of our pain and suffering coming undone.

Yet it wasn’t until Kara died that I started to believe that doing this upright walking is a choice—that we can choose to live in the despair of grief or we can choose to live in the hope that grief points to.

Typing that makes it sound so easy. I think we all know that it’s not—that it’s horrible and hurtful to look up from mourning. It’s as though we’re looking right into the sun and while we know theoretically about the beauty and warmth of the sun, it does us no good to look directly at it. Grief feels that way—looking up from our pain to the face of Jesus can feel like it’s not doing any good. And yet, there is no other way to experience his love and comfort.

One thing I’m really good at is wallowing—I love to wallow. I love to wallow in hurt, in joy, in love. I hosted a party last weekend, and I wallowed for days afterward in the love that was showered on the mama-to-be. It’s just that sometimes I don’t realize that my wallowing is hurting me more than it’s helping. I think I justify it sometimes—I need to experience the full depth of pain so I can experience the depth of redemption. I also think that I often cross the line between allowing myself to experience brokenness and allowing myself to indulge in pain to the point that choosing joy doesn’t even seem like an option.

But it is an option, and it’s always an option. There has not been a grief in my life so far when God hasn’t been by my side. Every morning when I take my children to school, I pray, Lord, whatever they experience today and whatever feelings they are having, may your love for them be their biggest reality, and may they remember that even though they can’t see you or feel you, you are always holding them in your arms because they are your little sheep and you are their trusted shepherd.

And then I silently pray this for myself as well.

Home: the land of my people. Home: the place my story rests. Home: where all my favorite kisses are awaiting me. Home: the glorious place I am safe.

Today: home. It is exhilarating. And it is scary. I know my head may need to come to rest in this new hospital place once again. These hospice rooms in the hospital are beyond lovely, and the care is supreme, but home, well, it's just home.

This hospital trip has quieted my beach longings, and caused me to realize what a gift home is. Home... My exhale. A beach sounds nice, but coming home today...well, that beats any beachy trip we could imagine. Big floppy hats can wait; I'm headed home.

What is home to you? Where is your exhale? What dreams sometimes steal your contentment of what you have?

A few days ago, I arrived at the hospital to see Kara and then realized I hadn’t asked her room number. I got on the elevator, thought I remembered what floor she was on the last time, and then pushed that number.

The doors opened and I stepped off. Everything looked different.

This isn’t oncology, is it?

No. The nurse at the desk replied. It’s hospice.

Shoot, I thought. I am on the right floor. I’d forgotten Kara would be on a different floor. One where it’s about comfort instead of fighting. Those moments, those realization always steal my breath for a second and remind me that this thing we’re dealing with is real.

Most of the time it feels surreal. People ask me how Kara is, or how her family and friends are doing, and I think… Kara can’t be dying. It’s impossible. This isn’t real. But no one is listening to me. Her body isn’t listening to her.

Many days, I live in denial. Other days there are tears. Other days, crabbiness. My family can attest to that last one and to the apologies that follow.

At the hospital, Kara and I discussed the book we’re writing together about how to show up in each other’s lives and walk through suffering together. We talked about some friend things, and then we’re simply there, in quiet. And I have to remind myself that I don’t need to fill the silence. That Kara isn’t expecting me to, and in fact, probably appreciates that I don’t.

A show is on T.V., and the person says eating a certain dessert is on her bucket list, her must do list before she dies. Kara and I don’t say anything about the words, but I’m sure she notices. Anger flashes through me. How can people use that phrase so lightly? How can they say before I die so flippantly? And then I remember what it is to not be here, dealing with cancer and Kara dying, and I know I’ve said those same words before. And so I work to forgive the person on the T.V. for not knowing what we’re going through in another world far from hers.

I always fight this tendency when I’m with Kara to make sure she knows that I’m not okay with her cancer, with her dying. I don’t know what that’s about. I’m pretty sure she knows I’m not okay with it. I’m pretty sure she knows I’m going to miss her like crazy with a slew of other people when she’s gone. I think she understands that I ache for her, for her suffering and for her knowing. That I ache for her kids and for Jason.

But for some reason, I always have to say something.

I don’t understand all of this. I won’t pretend to be okay when I see corners slipping away from Kara and more reality setting in. Why should we pretend? God’s okay with us coming to him broken. He’s okay with broken hearts that can’t see through the fog.

He’s okay with us exactly as we are. In our mess. In our hurt. In our pride. He’s just waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for us to figure out he’s waiting for us.

We do know how this story is going to end. There will be victory. There will be grace. There is always grace. There will be moments we will see glimpses of our great God. And there will be hard. Tears. Pain.

I believe, even when I don’t understand. And it’s taken me a long time to get there—here. There have been many tears. Some anger. There have been moments I couldn’t believe and I’ve had to ask him to help me believe.

He’s okay with that too.

The edges of friendship slip away slowly right now. I think we all feel it. It’s another corner being taken. Another thing that is stolen from Kara and each of us around her.

I fight this feeling of panic I when I feel the normal of friendship start to fade away.

Does she know how we feel about her? Does she know we love her? Some days these thoughts consume me. Other days I rest in the knowledge that she knows.

We’re losing her a little at a time, and we’re all grasping, stumbling through how to do this together. We’re thankful for each other. And we’re thankful for Kara. Every moment we have is a gift.

I’m thankful Kara believes tired, painful, vomit-filled days are still worth living. I’m thankful she still lets us in, even on the dark days. That she lets us sit in hospital rooms with her when she could survive without us. Sometimes I think those moments are more for us than they are for her.

I’m thankful she continues to let us enter in with her even when we don’t have a clue what we’re doing.

I’ve been struggling with this post for days, and I think it’s because this is the moment things should get wrapped up in a bow. Solve it. Bring it all together nicely with some message of hope.

And while there is hope, this can’t be wrapped up easily in a pretty ribbon. It just can’t. God is still with us. He hasn’t left us. But maybe he’s okay when we say it’s hard and we don’t know what we’re doing. Maybe that’s exactly how he wants us to come to him.

What’s your hard? Are you waiting to have it together before taking it to God? He’s okay with our mess. He’ll take us while we’re still in it, while we’re still nursing our doubts and fears. If you’re waiting to have it all together… you don’t need to wait any longer.

I used to function from this place: grieve and go. When I would meet a new limitation in myself I would wince at the loss of a strength, but then I would simply fight to move on with living as best as I could.

Now I’m weakening to such a greater degree, this passive attitude is becoming more difficult. I simply have little to call strength anymore. I’m seeing the quickening of my fading and I’m left frayed. I want to pretend at strength, but I simply have none left to pretend with to the outside world. I’m a gifted napper and pill taker: my remaining strengths.

I look at my dearest Mickey, who is doing the heavy lifting of our home and wonder what would we all do without her gentle strength that is carrying us all. I panic at the thought of her absence. We haven’t deserved a single hour and she has given us months. Months. I was puttering around in my room trying to tidy as best as I could with only one leg cooperating, and she gently came up and helped me in the edges I couldn’t reach.

She is helping me in all the edges of life I cannot reach. She hears my crazy ramblings in the night when I think I’ve turned blind (funny story) and she sweetly gathers in my fears and gently puts me to rest. She tells me it’s going to be okay.

This morning was a particularly hard one trying to find the shoes and the hair brushes, and getting everyone going. Jason was at his end, and Mickey came upstairs and spoke of the vision of all the kids being Ella’s age and able to manage without so much help. It was this beautiful hope for Jason. Because I have faded from being able to run about in the morning, I’m often left feeling so guilty after such mornings. Fading is painful and hard on many fronts.

I just heard a bowl crash downstairs, and in a sing song, beautiful reassuring tone Mickey exclaims, “it’s simply a little bowl, nothing to worry about.” Oh Mickey, you help lift so much of what I worry about. How could we ever repay you such beauty you have offered us with your life? You are helping dying become bearable on every front. I have never deserved you, but you are such a grace to my heart. You are the grace that keeps me looking for grace. I love you is inadequate. But I do.

So my grieve and go attitude is gone, I cannot be so glib about my weakening state, but I have the support I need to meet my fading with grace. It’s this beautiful community, and it’s specifically Mickey. She speaks grace over all of us. She paints the picture of the beautiful story I some days cannot see. She helps me to breathe when my breath has been taken away by cancer. Fading is hard, without question, but I have a champion in my fading in Mickey. She won’t let me let go too easily, but she also has great hope for what is to come with my people. Let’s hope they can at least find their shoes and get their teeth brushed in the near future. Small goals…

Today Spring slipped out of our Winter wanderlust and made us want to cut and paste things. We dusted off the hammock for a ride and pushed the wheelchair around the neighborhood. Neighbors outside enjoyed the winter break. Balls were being passed, garage floors were swept, and the breeze refreshed the hearts of anyone willing to breath deeply. The sun is too delicious not to enjoy. It was an infectious kind of day.

I opened new stationery and wrote a Valentine for a young man who likes to build with blocks at my house. I hope he will return for more building. The needed springtime could not be more welcome. The stationery, small and delicate, has room for my simple terms of love and joy. It's delicate and feminine, and has room for just a few tokens of love to be shared--just enough.  And stickers! Stationery with simple stickers. It's hard to believe last weekend had me in the hospital. The ups and downs of this journey can be wearing, but with patience there is sunshine. So much sunshine. This weekend I'm writing on notecards: love notes.

I want to wear dresses and dance to slow music and forget my pain. Sunday came and the sun kept showing off, though wind brought a chill to remind us winter isn't completely gone. I woke late, and nearly missed church. I rallied, I dressed, and we pushed my wheelchair into the room full of love. The room full of the same weak brokenness I sense every frail moment. Our church community is mastering the art of embracing the weak, knowing they are also the weak, even if they are not pushed in a chair. 

During communion, I couldn't help but notice the crumbs that kept falling from the bread basket. The spent body cracking and breaking onto the floor. I felt a sense of awe at the extravagance of the plenty, enough to spill over. And we all are taking our morsel and longing for nourishment beyond what we see and feel of this place. It's a mysterious meal. Something feels extravagant that the broken bread has an overflow of crumbs, and overflow of brokenness it doesn't try and hide. It feels like we may all be okay. The enough-ness of the meal in all of its simple frugality is hard to understand. Jesus is enough. He must be enough. He will sustain us through bottoms, tops, victories, and failures. The place to be broken, the place to rejoice, the landing place to meet the worst of ourself and be met.... 

A weekend full of wonder. The normal moments made bright from the dark places from where we have come from. It's hard to believe last week we were in the hospital, and now we are writing in journals and enjoying Spring’s tickle on our lives. The joy of cut and pasting made new, and the joy of being together in simplicity that nourishes our souls. Napping because we are able, eating at our leisure, and enjoying the fruit provided to make living large--living simple. This weekend was a gift of grace our tired and dry bones needed. As we walk into this week, we take a piece of that grace with us.

Did you find grace this weekend? Were you nourished by goodness from your community? Did you see the heart of grace in Jesus pursuing you specifically? 

“Deal bountifully with your servant,
that I may live and keep your word.”

from an article originally posted January 30, 2015...

Carl comes regularly and encourages our entire household. He has been reading through Psalm 119 with me. I want to constantly make him stop and re-read the abundant beauty found in this robust Psalm. It’s simply packed full of the grace I need. If you are struggling, I highly suggest spending a season in this Psalm, one small section at a time.

I have been struggling to see the grace, struggling to feel the bounty, but I know, I know, I know it’s there. My feelings aren’t all that trustworthy, especially when I can’t stop vomiting. I’m not sure there is anything I hate more than vomit.

But my job is to keep looking, keep believing, keep faith that goodness awaits me in this moment and the next, ending at the life everlasting. All bounty. All glorious bounty. You all help me see, you help me remember. Thank you. 

Today my first born is home doing school next to me. She helped situate my pillows, helped find my books and Bible, and she also handed me my vomit bag. I asked her to leave eventually, not wanting her to see my endless heaving…l hate for her to see me so low. But her care, her love, her support of me is the growth in her own story. She is not asked to do the heavy lifting of my illness, but she is not kept at too far a distance either. It’s a tough balance. 

Where are you finding encouragement in scripture? Where do you keep people at a distance, afraid to let them see your suffering? What part is protection and what part is self-preservation. Who do you let really see you?

Some days are for getting through. I never liked those days, but they happen and they are a reality. Today, I met my hospice doctor for the first time. He was lovely, and I vomited in front of him for good measure and over-sharing through bodily function. It was lovely. But he was truly helpful, and I feel he’s going to take a real interest in helping keep me comfortable. Jason and I were both comforted by his visit, his care, his demeanor. Along with our nurse and CNA, we have a great team of support. I know many of you have prayed for my team. Thank you--we have exactly the right people working with us.

Today we also visited the neurosurgeon to up my pain pump. This man is so tender and loving, I wonder why I fight so hard to not get his help sooner. I’m frustrated at myself just writing honestly my struggle at receiving the medical help I need.

So I confess, I tough it out too much, which leaves me with days to get through instead of days that could be great or normal even. It’s frustrating and it’s exhausting. Faking strength leaves us all weaker in the end. I’m a practical picture of that, but I think it’s true in so many areas of life.

I have a home full of love, of help, of support, and I’m still fighting to be strong. My Mickey, my brother, and my guy are all available to help me in my weakness; and yet, and yet, I fake strength. It’s exhausting. How they keep putting up with me…It’s grace, it’s such grace. 

How are you faking strength today? What makes you afraid of help? Why is weakness something we fear so strongly? I have been left with a day to get through, but I don’t want to come back here. I want to limp along and let another carry me. I want to let another love me well in my low state. I want to seek and listen to the help that is offered. Will you pray for me? I’m as stubborn as they come.

Two and a half years ago, my younger sister called me and told me she and been diagnosed with breast cancer.  I cried, I cried, I cried. 

She softly said, "Jonna, I am sorry."

I said, "Why are you telling me you are sorry?"  

She responded, "Because it made you sad". She then went on to tell me that she was not afraid to go home to Jesus.

I have walked closely by my sister's side.  We have shared so much.  We have shared a bedroom, clothes, late night giggles, heartbreak. We were each other's maid and matron of honor. Babies, tears, successes, and now terminal cancer.

At the beginning of this journey with my sister, I decided not to be the one to tell her it was going to be ok.  I decided I was going to listen.  I heard my sister tell me her fears, her knowledge of her disease, how it was affecting her.  She told me scary things. I listened. I let her tell me what she needed to say. I cried with her. I prayed, prayed, prayed!

I have flown to be by her side as they cut off her beautiful long hair. I was there when they shaved her head. How breathtakingly beautiful my sister is.  I cared for her while she was in the hospital. I listened to her as she talked about her funeral plans, the role she would like me to take after she is gone.  I am so thankful for this time and especially this direction.  I feel Kara and I have left no words unsaid.

So how do I say goodbye to my sister?  Kara and I share so much but the most important thing that we share is faith.  We have both accepted the Lord as our savior.  We are both granted salvation.  So I will not say goodbye to my sweet baby sister... I will say, I will see you again, my love. And that is a promise!

So many of you big-hearted loves have been trying to love me a beach experience. In a flippant way, a few weeks ago I said on Instagram that I wanted to go to the beach, which I do.

I’m here to say, I’m going to keep dreaming large. I’m working with my hospice team to do exactly that--get to the beach with my people. It may be a far-off goal, it may never happen, but it’s good for my heart to hope for it. So, if you have packed up some sand, don’t worry; I’m going to find the beach, too. I’ll get there. And if I happen to go Home before, please don’t feel sorry for me. Let’s not forget that I have seen some of the most beautiful beaches in my time.

In light of dreaming large, I must also tell you my exciting news. I have signed two book contracts. Two contracts for two books that I cannot wait to share with ya’ll. The first is a partnership with my friend Jill. Together we are writing about walking in friendship through suffering. And I will also be writing another book that digs deep into the heart and continues to ask questions, big questions. 

Maybe I’m wildly crazy, but today I’m still here. Today I’m alive, and in the state of being I find myself, I want to continue to write. It’s my privilege to write. Writing keeps me looking for the grace in my day. Writing holds me accountable to the hopes I long to meet. Writing allows me the outlet in my heartache. I’m not on a unique journey of dying from cancer, but I’m on my journey. Well, perhaps it’s unique in every way. Would you please pray for the words to come, the energy to write, and a clear message to develop?

So, friends, I’m dying yes. But I’m still living. I’m still here. Today. I have today. I get to hold my babies close, I get to hear their giggles come up the stairs and reach me in my bedroom. I get to laugh with girlfriends, and enjoy my people. I get to continue to write and love through writing. And, God willing, the doors will continue to open to get me to the beach. We are looking to fly away to a beach in February. It’s good to have goals. It’s good to hope. It’s good to put your feet in the sand, if only for a moment.

How are you living today? Do you see yourself pulling back from life or pressing into it? What is threatening your joy? What has stolen your hope? And to be sure I’m clear, my hope is not in beaches and book contracts; my hope is in Jesus alone. But in my love of Jesus--He has grown in me a desire to live well, to write, to share joy with my loves. I pray I could do that well, until the end approaches.

If you were one of the kindhearted people that sent us shells and sand, the kids have enjoyed playing with them in the craft room. We are ready to set out on our own adventure to find sea shells.  

I thought I would take a minute to read to ya’ll. I hope it isn’t upsetting seeing me so skinny. I thought it would be good for you to see me. The me that now looks me in the mirror. 

So I simply read a bit of my book, The Hardest Peace. You all have been such a champion of my book. You have shared my story, read my book, and sent countless prayers into the world unending into eternity on our behalf. We are grateful. 

I also put a little plug in for my dear friend's new book Falling for Texas by Jill Lynn. Please take a look. It’s from the book line Love Inspired, which is the Christian Romance fiction line of Harlequin. If you enjoy a love story that leaves you hopeful for love, and thankful to be reminded of all the quirky little moments that made your own love story special.,Jill writes with the wit and charm that she lives her life with that I know. It’s a sweet story you won’t mind spending your time reading. 

You know, as authors I’m learning so much. So much. You spend weeks, days, months, hours pouring out your heart in writing. You write and rewrite section after section. You pray you have captured the heart of what you meant to say well. Then at some point you have to begin to open your hands to the story you have spent so much of your life on writing. You have to trust Jesus with the ink on the paper, and be ready to repent where your words faltered. It’s a painful business, but it is so exciting. Then you watch different places that sell your book to see if anyone cares. You read reviews to listen and wonder if your heart was correctly heard. You want your publisher not to regret taking a bet on you. You want to be able to leave something. For me, that I had 10 books to hand to my family feels like something important.

But God has used this book. He has used it in the lives of children that lost their mamas young--they write and say, That’s the love story to me my mama would have written. It has been read by the widow that never felt the liberty to move on in their own life. I have heard from the mama at home, slowly realizing the treasure of each moment big and small. I have been blessed by you readers. You have been generous in sharing your hearts with me. To an author, I’m not sure much else matters. My heart has connected with yours, I have been able to raise high the Gospel and tell the greatest story ever told. I have left a legacy to my family of our story, and also, the sale of my book will benefit my family after I’m gone. I never expected such a gift. David C Cook was very good to take a risk on me as a freshman author, and I’m so incredibly thankful.

So support your favorite authors out there. It matters! Love them by buying their books and inviting others to do the same. Love your authors by heading over to Goodreads, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble and posting your review. Those reviews matter. Jill and I get giddy when we talk about writing. Sometimes we are tied in knots with anxiety, fear, and self-loathing. But mostly, we feel honored that we get to write our stories. Thank you for partnering with us in this.

Each day I’m astounded and humbled by love. Not a day passes that I don’t look upon love with a certain kind of awe that leaves me speechless--well almost speechless. Speechless is a rare event for me.

I love how love will never end, and how each day brings moments to meet another in love. Today, I made a new friend. As they were leaving, after I had captured a bit of their heart and given a bit of my own, I could genuinely say, I love you, and you have my prayers.  And the love was genuine. So, though I’m languishing, I still see purpose in my weakened moments to love and receive love. As my body is faltering, I’m more on the end of receiving love, but I’m not counted out--I still have love to give. Love to overflow. It’s my great and high calling from the little strength I enjoy: to love. Love my family, my littles, my community. And that love will never end. It will extend long beyond my last breath.

Last weekend, two of my treasured friends from my life in North Carolina flew to be by my side. The miles between us have been long, but they have been hard. We have missed the close living that we all enjoyed for a long season together. We all long to be near to one another, and that desire has only grown as I have been struggling with cancer. So this weekend, someone treated us to our hearts desire--someone flew my ladies to my side. It is a gift I could never repay. 

It was a hard weekend, as my body was struggling through a lot of pain. But we had moments, minutes, time that will be forever treasured. The last day I knew more comfort and we spent that day in heart sharing, tears, loving, and open-handed conversation about the days to come. It was beautiful, and it was heartbreaking. We shared endless tears. Moments trying to get the words out past the tears that wouldn’t stop. But it was a time that we will all forever cherish.

I lifted my head and wept that I couldn’t understand that I would likely only see my dear ladies again in eternity. Because though I’m dying, I’m still here. It feels like the reality is refusing to take hold. But, I knew it to be true. I would likely not see my dear loves again. But that I would one day be meeting them as they come to meet their dear Jesus. I will be there beaming, greeting my loves. And even if I can understand it all, embrace it, believe it, it’s a truth that should bring heaving sobs. Because death hurts like that. But it isn’t the death that brings the sobs--it’s the beauty and love and pain in departing that brings the shoulder-shaking weeping...

Over and over I wept, I am so rich in love and friendship! How can I open my hands? I want to close my fist so tightly on these loves of mine. And through those tears, I pray pained prayers begging for more time to love. And the prayer is answered Yes--as today another entered my home, and love went out. I’m still here. I get to love one more day.

Today when I talked to my new friend, I explained this beautiful brokenness. That these tears are evidence of knowing love. And is there anything more important than knowing love? So weep, count your tears, look at your swollen face and know it is the fruit of love. It hurts like hell, but that pain from love--well it may be beauty at it’s purest.

Today, another dear friend brought me a new flower to bloom beside my bed. As she entered the room, her tears came. Oh, love. Oh love streaming down from her face. I tried to encourage her tears. She was sheepish. I told her this story of love. I told her I cherished her tears, that they were the evidence of our love for one another. I watch so many fight to stifle their tears as they see me. I get it--tears can be so exhausting. But this dear tender heart could hold back. She eventually flew down the stairs to the safety of my Mickey’s love. Mickey let her tears come, and loved her in her heartache. Around this house, we get tears….. It’s what we do.

Are you keeping distance from another in fear of the pain of losing them? Do you let your heart grow close, so close that it can hurt? Hurt from love? Do you cherish the tears you have known from the love of another that has flown away? In your shattered state, do you see how Jesus sees every broken shard? Do you see how your relationships--first with Jesus, then beyond--are the riches of your life? God has used friendship in my life to remind me of his great love, to confront me on my lack of love, to point me to Jesus when I couldn’t see Him, and to walk with me through the shadow of death. I’m so rich. I’m so unbelievably rich in friendship. 

Dear hearts, if you hold back from love, move. If you withdrawal when your heart is asked of you, stop hiding. If you are fearful of being hurt so much that you keep yourself away from the love of another, trust me--you will regret it. Open wide your hands to your story. Look closely at us all--we are ALL broken. Stop hiding and thinking you are the only one. We all are needy. Needy for a community that will share the burden of today with us. People to point us to Jesus. You see, I could never cure my friends, cure their heartache or loneliness, but I can point them to Jesus. They can point me to Jesus… That is what community and friendship is meant for in its sweetest definition. People to help us laugh when all we’ve done for a week is cry. Oh, my loves, don’t be afraid of love. The riches of our relationships is all that matters. 

It is all that matters. Be brave. Invite someone to coffee, and share your heart, and ask another about their heart. Be known, and let yourself love and be loved in return. These North Carolina girls came and loved me, and in my small way, they let me love them in return. I hurt to see them go--it still hurts. But these tears are kept in Heaven, and they matter. The love we have shared and continue to share matters.

love never ends

Kara and I drove to the doctor the other day, really the only outing that is possible these past weeks. As we left our house, some of Kara’s girlfriends were talking by the fireplace. They were talking about Kara and the impact she has on them. Kara caught one saying "Kara always asks about my marriage." As we left the house, I could see Kara sinking into sadness. She mentioned the conversation we just overheard which caused her to remember who she used to be. She felt sad that she didn't have the energy to engage those conversations. I think she felt separate from her past investment in people; that her new normal had been ripped out of her old comforts and joy. That there was no congruency between the two.

As we drove, I reminded her of the heritage that she is leaving. All of our moments are linked together, all of our time with people, all of our love. Our investment is never wasted. It may seem inconvenient at the time but to see how God uses our past conversations to shape a future and in that we are each leaving a heritage. All of you readers have been shaped by God using Kara somehow in your life. This shaping will continue….past her last breath.

How can you see your ordinary time today as something that will shape someone's future? How has God used other people to shape who you are? Do you intentionally think on the legacy you are leaving behind. What would people say about you as they sit by a fire?

Norman was delivered to my home yesterday. There were a few mix-ups and it took us a bit to get him here, but now he is settled into his new home. As y'all can imagine, for my littlest ones a chair with wheels is an exciting addition, until they hear they don't get to take joy rides through the house--then they became indifferent to Norman.

Yesterday, we had our first outing. It felt a lot like the first time we took our new baby somewhere. Breaking Norman down and making sure we had all the pieces took us some time. I know over time we will get more comfortable. But we loaded up and headed to an appointment to get a handle on new pain. 

It felt glorious to get out of the house for even a moment. These past weeks have changed me, and the landscape of the land in what I see as we drive down the road has changed. I catch sight of a bird and I can't look away. Peaks Pike has never seemed so majestic. Then, on the other hand, many sights seem so shabby, broken, as if they don't fit. And I realize that one day, one glorious day when everything is restored to the new heavens and new earth--so much of the squalor we have added will be gone. I love the wonder of it all, but I haven't always let myself wonder over such things.

So Norman. Norman is my new ride. Yesterday I asked for name suggestions, and so many delightful names came through. Then I tried to think of a name that would help me not hate having a wheelchair. I then pictured a kind-faced, strong, and weathered old grandpa that wanted to carry me for a bit. A sweet old man that said, Tired one, let me carry you for a bit, you look like you could benefit from my strength.

You can imagine I don't love having a wheelchair. In some ways, it admits defeat. I'm learning a new corner of my own vanity. A dear woman I loved was falling a lot. She refused a walker and we were all frustrated, but now, now I get why she didn't want it. It's hard to admit weakness. 

Norman and I get to figure this out. We get to learn this new hard corner of life. We get to admit we need help, and strength of another and gentle care. Is their weakness in your life you are afraid to admit? How could the strength of another love you well today? Where is vanity keeping you hiding?

Now, it's time I actually went somewhere with Norman other than the doctor. What plans do y'all have this weekend? Any new places to eat I need to try out to celebrate my seester getting much older than me? (Hee,hee)

It is often the first or the second question: how are the kids?  Here is what I know of my children. My kids are loved. They are loved by me, their daddy, and a steady stream of lovers that meet and know them with a genuineness and love that is stunning. I’m daily looking at the love that is meeting my children, and I’m looking for the love that is meeting my children. It is often that specific, knowing, intentional, directed love to each of my children that shows me what a covenantal God I serve. Meaning, a God that keeps His promises to his people. It is this breathtaking love that is growing my peace in flying away. I’m not there yet, did you hear me, but the peace is growing in real and profound ways.

This is hard, unbelievably hard. We are stumbling along with our children. It was the hardest moments of my life- telling my children that treatment is over. I have no words to express about those sacred broken moments where we simply wept. Those are private corners of grief we shared separately with each child. It was awful and it was beautiful.

So, how are we? Broken. And broken is okay. How is that brokenness showing itself? In more ways than we can understand. We are fighting for our gentleness in the face of the kids brokenness. We expect anger, sadness, pain. Because as adults, we are struggling with our brokenness and we even have all these fancy words and means of expression. As children, they don’t have all the words, understanding, places to safely let go of pain. But we have a lot to learn from them. Some days it’s deep laughter and kind playing. Some days it’s tears and yelling and moments of great need for justice over a small sibling violation. With kids, brokenness is different, and we are fighting for gentle hearts to capture their pain. We need your prayers.

Our entire community is hurting. We are stumbling through this. For me, I’m fighting to live my moments well, manage my strength as well as my pain. To use my time well, but to let myself rest from my pain and struggle. The kids are kept and loved by so many, but they are each processing this differently as they are all different souls facing different pain. 

My girlfriends are hurting, our school community is hurting, our Westside community is hurting, but they are showing up. It’s not simple. Together, we stumble through this; our brokenness meeting us new each morning. There is no easy way to walk through a muddy valley. You get nasty, you need help, you fall, you laugh, you cry, and you get angry for all your effort with little movement. 

For many, theirs is a sadness when joy enters corners of their own lives knowing I’m struggling across town. For some, it’s a great fear of my absence, unable to imagine that community. And some are tangled in fear of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. So we get up, dust off our knees, and keep moving. We don’t know how to do this, but do this we must. So my friends show up for me, my people, and they show up for each other.

Some of this brokenness is new and we want to avoid it. Hospice is a scary to understand for a thirty something year old friend. I always knew what an amazing organization it is; I just never expected to need it so soon. But we are growing, fighting for our kindness, and living to express our love to our people little and big. This new normal is just so new to us all. We need your prayers.

How is your brokenness meeting you? Are you avoiding it? Can you see how it can be made beautiful? Can you see how the pain in your story could be redeemed to something beautiful? It’s a fight to see the grace through the fog of the pain, but it’s there. It’s there. Are you looking for it?

My dearest Carl came for a visit yesterday and shared this verse with me yesterday about how precious to God is the death of His saints. It was beautiful. I sat quieted, we prayed, and I returned to the Psalm today. 

Look after that verse--the response to the beautiful salvation provided being plucked up by the love of God: a sacrifice of thanksgiving. What is that? What does it look like to sacrifice thanksgiving? It seems to involve intention. For David, he had a heart bent on loving and thanking God. The dancing king. Oh David, how did you do it? How do I do it well? 

I love Ann Voskamp for many, many reasons- but I think she gets this better than most. That the naming, the identifying, the seeking and proclaiming thanks is what this sacrifice of thanksgiving is for us. When we live in thanks, our hearts are light. When we live in thanks we reflect the goodness we know, the bounty, the provision. When we live in thanks, we receive the love given knowing we are undeserving vessels, but thanks shouts, I SEE THE GRACE BEING POURED OUT!  Thank you, thank you, thank you! 

Today, I whisper thanks for so many things from the corner of my bed. I hear my mom and friend baking with my littles. Thank you. I know my second born is enjoying the giggles of girlfriends that are safe and delightful. Thank you. I sit now next to my oldest who named the ways that I love her that encourage her heart. Thank you. A kind woman from hospice came and prayed with me today. Thank you. Jason is returning to a bit of a normal schedule at work. Thank you.

Very specifically, today is the day my seester Jonna Anne came into this world. The one that knows the depth and breadth of my story. My matron of honor, my safe place, the one that finds my giggles in the middle of endless hours of vomit. The one that will shower my tired body after days in a hospital bed. My sister, my partner in life, my first girlfriend, the keeper of all my secrets, the tender carrier of my story past my last moment. The one that will make sure the true story is told to my littles. I cannot know what it is to watch a sister die, but I know what it is to be treasured by a sister while dying, and today it is my loudest, most sincere THANK YOU, JESUS. What a gift Jonna is in the life of so many, but I’m the only one that gets to know her as sister. Thank you, Jesus, for that gift. Thank you. Now Jonna, won't you please find a jet plane that will bring you to my side so I can properly love you and celebrate you? (heee, heee--she’s actually coming soon--I know I have to say this because one of you sweet souls would find a plane to bring her here; that’s how big y'all love).

For so many moments, big and small. Thank you. Yesterday- you provided strength for me to take special pictures. Thank you. Jen Lints, thank you. 

What is your sacrifice of thanksgiving today? What would be a sacrifice in thanks look like to you? I love thinking on it, sacrifice of thanks. I think it means effort. I want to spend my last days in the sweet effort of gratitude. What better way could I spend my last breaths than in thanksgiving? Carl, thank you for bringing this Psalm to my attention. 

Friends, please forgive my quiet. We have been stumbling along saying some hard goodbyes to a medical team we have worked with for years and moving into a new realm of life. Dying. Gulp--it’s hard to write, harder to believe. 

But as I’m dying, I’m still living. Today I’m here. So we are living to enjoy these moments even as we know they are fading.  Cancer is growing in my hip and weakening my leg. So I’m learning new weakness, finding other strength to compensate for the lack of strength. I am able to walk only short distances. Soon a wheelchair, and with each admitting weakness, a new corner fades. 

I am still recovering from surgery, and I have to say this pain pump is miraculous. I have very little pain, and for that Jason and I are so grateful. Before, I was so medicated, and it still didn’t touch my pain. We are so unbelievably thankful for this pump that has restored me in so many ways. 

Mostly, we are savoring our moments. I’m resting a lot and letting people take care of me. My Corrie is here as is my mom. Tonight Jen is coming to capture my presence, my living today. I’m still here. 

I know I have been a little quiet, but I’m fighting to understand this new normal. I’m trying to understand what my living looks like even as I’m fading, fading. I am praying to spend my strength well, my time in love, and my moments cherishing those around me. 

Who are you cherishing today? How are you spending the love that was given to you to give today? What does it mean to be hidden in Christ?

I woke slowly this morning. From my vantage point in bed, I was able to see the sunrise. My baby was curled in the stretch of my back and I could hear the crackle the fire downstairs. There is a constant pulse of an IV the doctor sent me home with Friday. The horizon outside my window was mostly gray, soft—a snow promised in the days forecast. Then for a moment, a beautiful pink filled the horizon, then it suddenly faded back to gray. It felt like a gift to watch and see this simple moment. No fanfare—simple beauty—then the return of ordinary gray. As I grieved the passing beauty, I realized there is something astounding of the soft tones that aren’t showy as well.

I am thinking a lot about the living we do lately. We live by degrees and now I’m learning how we also die by degrees, and in it all, there is beauty. I have spent so much time thinking on big love and wondering how we press past our own limitations we place on ourselves and love beyond our limits. How do we move beyond our comfort and into a realm greater than our understanding? We find a comfort near to Jesus, knowing His love, and begin to overflow from the bounty he has provided in our lives. It takes courage. It causes heartache at times, but there is always a return. Loving big in new corners always grows a spirit in strength—perhaps not tangible strength, but a strength that would cause the spirit to continue to try. Continue to wonder over love, wonder over extending boundaries.

And now, now I’m learning what it is to die by degrees. Parts of my body failing, parts of my abilities vanishing, and what then? Yesterday, I kept thinking, I drove for the last time and didn’t realize it was the last time. I don’t remember the last time in the driver’s seat or the music we played. I just realized I will likely never again drive. It’s this weird event that marks the fading of a life, and I have no feeling other than wonder over the fact that it’s over. That chapter. All the driving my body can no longer do will now be captured by my community, my loves, my people. And there will be other strengths that will languish, and my people will press into love and provide us the needed strength and support to manage that new edge.

I listened to my husband make the impossible phone call this morning. He called hospice. He told him that his young wife was dying, but they already knew. My kind-faced oncologist had called and told them. They were gentle and gave us a time they would be here to meet with us. The call you never expect when you are still getting your footing on living and loving and confidence in faith and who you are. But our hands have been pulled wide of our story, and peace enters. Jason walked into the room and said, I did one thing I needed to today. Needed to but never wanted to—he called hospice because I am dying.

So, there it is. My little body has grown tired of battle and treatment is no longer helping. But what I see, what I know, what I have is Jesus. He has still given me breath, and with it I pray I would live well and fade well. By degrees doing both, living and dying, as I have moments left to live. I get to draw my people close, kiss them, and tenderly speak love over their lives. I get to pray into eternity my hopes and fears for the moments of my loves. I get to laugh and cry and wonder over Heaven. I do not feel like I have the courage for this journey, but I have Jesus, and He will provide it. He has given me so much to be grateful for, and that gratitude, that wondering over His love will cover us all. And it will carry us—carry us in ways we cannot comprehend. It will be a new living and trusting for many in my community. Loving with a great big open hand to my story being the good story, even when it feels so broken.

Will you trust Jesus with us? Love us today by imagining how you can press deeper into love in the place you live. Give away what was never yours to keep. Love us by extending yourself in the corners of your world in a way that shines bright the light on the strength of Jesus and His unwavering love and grace. Love us by not meeting our story in pity, but pray that Jesus would tenderly meet us as we walk these new hard steps together as a community. Will you walk in grace with us to my last breath? Will you commit us to prayer? Will you trust Jesus that He knows the moments, He holds the moments, and He will take me away to the land of no more tears at exactly the right moment, and He will also shepherd and love my people after that last breath.

Forgive me for being so absent recently. I have been in the hospital longer than I can remember. So many have given so much to protect, enjoy, and embrace my family. I have this one story about Eleanor, full of Grace, I want to share before I let myself sleep again and the story fades with all the medications I’m taking to get through each painful moment well. It is a story I will never forget, but I want it to be documented here to let her know how stunning the love in her life is to so many—especially this mama of hers.

After my last chemo and radiation on my hip, food would not stay down, my pain would not ease. An MRI showed that cancer had spread in my pelvic area, exposing a pain that could not be helped with conventional medicines; I was in rough shape. We tried very hard to deal with the side effects at home, but we were failing miserably. Failing. To say I was discouraged would be an understatement. We complied and entered new treatment to battle my cancer. Now we are awaiting surgery to help us manage pain.

My kids were invited to spend the day playing with the Atkins—our family ages match up really well. Except for one of my littles. Justine does not have a 13-year child. We asked Ella if she would please go spend the day to be helpful and support Ms. Justine as she was watching a gaggle of children, and maybe, just maybe, she would also find some fun of her own. Ella agreed, as she knew that she could offer help to Ms. Justine, as well as enjoy herself at the same time.

Ella came home proudly telling me about her time with Justine. She told me how open-hearted Ms. Justine is with her and let her cook with her. Oh love, oh love. Justine will continue to create a safe place to fall, as so many of my girlfriends are, that one day, one day big and open-hearted will be you as well. It wouldn’t look like Justine and me, but come close, I have a secret.... I think you already live this way. Big giant-hearted, open-hearted and full of such grace. You, my dear, well, it’s written all over you. You are treasured daughter of the King, of our home, and in the lives of countless others. Oh, my kids, my kids, my kids have been shown such generous love from many. So, so, so many!

That evening Jason brought dinner to my hospital room with all the kids. It was tight, but we were so glad to be together; we dog-piled each bed—kids, mamma’s bed, or the kids would snuggle in tight with my sister on her fold out bed. It proved to be a delightful. I spend my days resting so these brief visits can grow confidence in my children that I’m still here... I know I’m not fooling anyone. But it feels like my job to ready myself for the arrival of my loves. It’s not as though I pretend to be strong where I am not. I simply want to be present when they are present.

Goodness, will I ever, ever, ever get to this story? Relaying back to the top, Ella enjoyed her day with our giant-hearted friend Justine. She came in proudly to my hospital room carrying beautiful ceramic loaf pan filled with banana chocolate chip bread, still warm from the oven. She asked me to have some, I kindly declined—food wasn’t working for me, and especially sweets. Then I saw her face drop a bit. I turned to her and said, Goodness, please forgive me, I would love to have some of your beautiful creation. Soon, little brother came up and asked for a slice. She kindly handed over the slice to her beloved brother, Lake.

As they were all leaving that night, we gave hugs, and loves all around. When it came to Ella, I thanked her for her hard work and her yummy gift. It wasn’t until night as I was literally eating every bit of the bread that Ella had made me when it finally dawned on me, smacked me in the face, brought me too a lucid place of understanding the BIG LOVE of my daughter. I cry now thinking of her wanting to bring me something special. Special for me, her sick mama.

I get what Ella was doing because I’m doing it too. I’m fighting to love those in my life with great intention from my little abilities. I struggle with having so little love to return to my people as they continue to lavish, lavish, lavish BIG LOVE on me. I simply feel so inadequate. clicking a few buttons to purchase gifts on the computer feels like an unrealistic way to show my love, but this hospital bed feels so limiting.

Then, all at once, it hits me. This little loaf of bread meant just for me, was intended to show me specific love from my daughter to lift my weary heart. Goodness, how blessed I truly am. I later called Ella and apologized for not immediately seeing her big love. I told her through the course of the evening I devoured each bite of her bread. And with each bite I knew she loved me. Her love was the very best ingredient. And even sweeter than all the yummy bread, I believe my Justine was teaching my little girl the ways of loving another with intention. And guess what? Ella was listening. And though I want to be that teacher—the hard peace is coming—my children are and will continue to be kept long past my last breath. Now that’s a stunner.

We are all stumbling through this dance trying our best to cherish one another with intention. All the stuff, the stuff will one day land in a goodwill box, but the memory of my girl bringing me a hot loaf of bread will forever remain with me. Seeing my children grow in grace and the BIG overflowing love of Jesus—well, that’s my favorite gift given this year, one that I didn’t even ask for but was deeply loved out of the intentional love of another.

How is this holiday reminding you of the big GIANT love of Jesus? Has it been hard for you to see the warm loaves of bread that show grace, or has your warm love gone unnoticed today? All this amazing effort you put into your love—how do you give it with an open hand? Or is all the going, shopping, stress, leaving you frayed and daunted by Christmas? I have been stopped by a long hospital visit, and I simply cannot go, I have little attention for the internet.

Jesus, dearest Jesus, would you hear the heavy cries of our hearts. Will you accept our feeble attempts at worship and holding high the name of Jesus through this season? Jesus, would you tenderly keep us and love us well. This is to be a time where we remember the humility it took for you to enter this place. But you did come, and you left behind the biggest love there is—you left yourself behind. You overcame death, and in the power of that resurrection and that suffering, you showed us all grace. Yet still, we are dumb sheep, ever forgetting the true meaning of this season. Thank you for growing your beauty, your specific beauty into my children. In their eyes I see many things: fear, worry, uncertainty, but I always, always, always see love. Love has a way of rising to the surface if you let it. Lastly Jesus, would you let me go home for a bit to be wrapped in the love of my people?

If you wouldn’t mind today, my sister is flying home to her people today—would you please pray for her? She has given so much of herself this weekend. She stayed right by my side. She makes me laugh, helps me walk, shower, eat. I’m her first baby—the real kind. And she very much mothers me every chance she gets. Leaving is hard for her, but staying is even harder. She has her life going on several states over. Pray she would be able to leave here and embrace there without worry over her little sister. Would you pray that she knows great peace. Help her BIG love show up for her three daughters and her husband. Jesus, thank you for how you made my sister. What a gift she is to us all.

Oh, my heart. Oh, my sad and covetous and jealous heart. I have recently been in so many interviews, and I am often asked if I struggle feeling angry over the path we find ourselves walking. My answer is typically the same: I have fought to be broken instead of bitter and angry. It’s not a simple journey.

No one has ever asked me if I’m jealous. Now that would be a different question altogether. Last night, I was screaming in pain, weeping, and so unbelievably frustrated that our plans aren’t going like I want them to go. Like I have planned them to go: my WAY! This new treatment was supposed to work. This new plan was supposed to make it all better. And all of the sudden, pain unimaginable has quickly snuck in and left me ragged and weary, to say the least.

My doc and I are trying new ways to treat my pain, but nothing is touching it. I want an answer for the pain, he wants an answer for the growing cancer. I’m not ready to admit that it the problem of this pain, because I like this new chemo. Well, no one likes chemo, but this treatment isn’t so debilitating as the others. I have felt a new quality of life restored to me, and I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want another treatment option to not be working—that is inching me closer to the moment of No More Options.

So, last night, the new pain plan didn’t work. I was in agony. I was weeping hot and angry tears over the pain. And all I kept saying over and over is, I’m so jealous of normal people. I just want to be kissing my kids goodnight and sitting down for a glass of something and adult conversation, not calling the hospital and debating if I need to go there to spare the kids from hearing my agony. I want a bad hair day, to worry over a spelling test, or upcoming lines in a play coming out smoothly for my brave young lady who has taken on drama with a stutter. I’m so proud. So proud of her. I want to go to a thrift store and buy old wool sweaters and make ugly stuffed animals with my kids and bake over Christmas break. I do not want to be back in radiation battling to kill what is killing me... or hurting me. I want to be decorating my house for Christmas. I want to buy a house where we can have chickens and goats, and outdoor-ness. I still want my farm, but I know I will never be the woman I dreamed that could handle a farm. I’m not angry; I’m simply jealous this morning of normal people that get to do normal things.

I don’t even want to say out loud what is really bothering me, because then I would be held accountable to what was said. Though it has always been my own practice not to drive while taking any big medication, yesterday my doctor said I can’t drive until we get this pain figured out. So, I get it, I never drive on these big meds anyway, but I was told out loud by a person of authority (my kind-faced oncologist). And I’m just really sad about losing that corner of normal. I hate it. I find myself needy again in a new bitter edge in this battle. I was invited to coffee this morning, and I couldn’t go after the devastating night battling pain, but I also couldn’t go because I can’t drive. And I just am so discouraged. I simply want to be ordinary, normal, just me. My friends would gladly drive me without question. I just don’t want to ask.

Last night as pain wouldn’t let go and let me sleep I went to the HGTV website and watched a new show online called Fixer Upper. My sister told me about it, and said the couple reminded her of us. Oh, my soul, I want to get cable just so we can watch that show. The couple that flips the homes are so sweet and gentle with each other, and they create amazing spaces together. In stressful moments, they speak kindly to one another and support one another. And I just cried, because I would love to do that. I would love to be searching out a farm to remodel, a cabin the create memories in, a new project on this home just because we are normal and have mind space and energy for that. But that normal isn’t my today. And today I’m repenting my jealousy, and hunting down peace that seems to be evading me. Seriously—HGTV, Fixer Upper, they have two episodes online for those of you, like me, without cable.

So, I’m going to turn off this screen. I’m going to open my Bible, and I’m going to hunt down the grace, the peace, the source of what living—true living really is. It’s not the absence of this pain, it’s not the presence of normal. It’s the ability and strength that I covet so desperately. It’s Jesus. He is who I need. But I also know He’s not disappointed in my wrestling, weary heart this morning. He will show me, once again, that he is enough. Maybe I can’t run to the store and Christmas shop or decorate, but after I search out peace, I have this little devise right before me, and I plan to find a few treats for my people for Christmas. That feels almost normal. And tonight as a family, we can read scripture, and as a family we are going to curl up in my bed and pick a Compassion Child to support together. There is a link on the side of my blog if you are interested in loving another this Christmas with the gift of sponsorship. I will post later about how tonight goes. It’s an amazing ministry that partners with the local church to love in big beautiful ways all around the world. Oh, I feel the peace coming just making this plan. A moment not focused on me. Glory! I feel a contented face coming right now; thank you, Jesus.

I love you, friends. Thanks for braving my broken heart this morning. Please pray as I head back in for a consult with radiation this afternoon. Something needs to give. I think we have put off dealing with this pain too long. Pray we would know which is the right direction to take. Looks also that I may have a new chemo regime coming at me. But I don’t even want to think about that right now. Breathe, just breathe, look for Jesus, rest, and repeat. And remember all the past moments where you were kept, known, blessed, comforted, and normal, and give thanks for those sweet moments. Feast on the small great moments and know they have not come to an end at this small corner of pain we are battling. Gonna just add a ton of pictures that remind me.... I need reminding today.

My heart is already lighter after hunting down and adding all these pictures. I could add a thousand more. God has been very good to this broken-hearted mama. He was good a thousand yesterdays, He is good today, and He will be good tomorrow. My moody does not move Him—praise be! Thank you for kindly meeting me here through the heights and the depths of this journey. Today I feel a little whiny, but that’s where I am. But I’m still on the hunt to see grace. It’s here; I need to keep looking. The Hardest Peace—to keep searching for it—even when your heart is desperately weary and struggling to remember.

Where are you struggling for peace this morning? What corners of life make you jealous and struggle with covetousness?

I am a rock star at packing the basket. I fill my basket with comforts: blanket, magazine, essential oil to help avoid the awful of my port being flushed, music, lotions. My nurse and I know this dance, we have danced this dance for a long time. She and I banter, we do what we have to do, and I’m callous about it all. Then as I turn to put my head down I see Jen is crying. She hates to see this dance. She hates to see me suffer. It’s good to be reminded of heart in the midst of doing the next thing. It’s good to see tenderness, brokenness when my own heart is callused to these ugly dance moves that I’m dancing to live. I simply do them. I have forgotten how sad they are. It was good to be reminded by the cherished and kept tears of my friend Jen.

So here are a few moments captured by my dear Jen. Here’s what this journey looks like from the prospective of one watching from the outside. One watching and breaking as the reality of my cancer is thrust in her face. But in the swallowing of my pain, my tears, we limp along to find grace. And it was present. Tell me where you see it?

We show up, we expect Jesus to meet us, and He does. We fight despair with truth, and we move into the next thing. We do this with a beautiful community that walks with us. Even when it’s hard. My pain has been growing, and pain has a motivating factor in chemo for me. It helps me want to show up and press on in treatment. Praying each day, as the fog clears, that I embrace each moment in grace. Jen, thank you for braving that room with me today.

Presence over presents. I heard a beautiful mama speaking about the difference between these two while home in Indiana last week. Today is the beginning of Advent and I want so much for this holiday season to be meaningful. I want to love my people well, not through the purchasing of the right stuff, but the gentle loving of the hearts in my home. Stuff—well, that will fade, but love—that never ends. So how do we love well and fight the ugly heart of comparison over the holiday season? Don’t get me wrong; I love gift giving, but I think there is so much more for us over Christmas than searching out and finding the perfect gifts...

The questions circle my mind: is this my last Thanksgiving? Is this my last Christmas? Oh, how these thoughts can simply rob me of my peace today. I wondered it last Christmas, and here I am another year older. Praise be. These circling questions create an intensity around each moment that simply isn’t sustainable. I long for us to have a meaningful Christmas without focusing too directly on ourselves. The balance feels impossible sometimes.

I have been thinking a lot about what it is that nurtures peace in our home, fights fear, and multiplies joy. Stuff will never do any of those things. Never. But our presence in life with one another—our intention in loving, our living in love—that lasts. More than all of that, our nearness to Jesus and His grace will bring abiding peace, true peace, lasting comfort. Our living within the moment together, screens down, snuggle love, reflecting on the goodness of God, question asking—living together. That’s what I long for with my people.

I look at all the lovely crafting happening out there, and I long to have baking days together like y’all are enjoying. I see all the holiday going, and I think that’s what I want as well. But when I really look at the heart of today, the feast will always be the relationships not the recipes, the time spent over the craft more than the craft itself.

Presence—how do I celebrate the presence of the relationships in my life today? How do I embrace this moment spent next to my loves well? I struggle with jealousy when I think of those that don’t live with the intensity of wondering if this is their last holiday. Jealousy is such a blasted robber of joy. I think it’s the struggle of so many over the holidays. Perhaps you are jealous that you aren’t able to purchase the presents you wanted, or you look at another and covet the relationships they have. Jealousy—it’s an awful stealer of this moment you have before you.

Presence—living in this moment, looking in gratitude towards the next moment, and fighting against the lies of comparison. How do we look upon the relationships and the moments we do have and embrace the gift of today? Our children will likely not remember the gifts, but they will remember the love. Repent if you spend all your energy comparing yourself to another. Ask forgiveness and begin to enjoy what is before you. If it’s a huge battle, I double dog dare you to take social media off your phone that causes you heartache. You may be watching the holidays of anther and fighting comparison or feeling left out. Take that mess off your phone for the holidays and begin looking at all that is in front of you. All that does promote peace, and love. Yes, that was a double dog dare. I used to sit on Facebook and look at all the parties I was not invited to and forget to enjoy all that was in front of me to embrace.

Live present today with the BIG LOVE that is given to you to give. Stop trying to be another or keep up with another. Be you. The beautiful you that Jesus created to live and love your people today! Let the big overflowing love of Jesus run right through you and onto the people in your life. Live so LOVED that you are able to fight the temptation at jealousy and live present in the life you have today. This moment. This minute. Comparison is a liar. Jealousy is a robber of joy. 

Time to break out the movie Elf, time to make popcorn and snuggle in close. Time to sing loud and off key together. It’s time to put down our screens and feast on the relationships before us. I have a lot of face-down days in front of me, but praise be, I have a lot of days where I won’t be face down. Maybe I can’t make the perfect ginger bread house, or perfectly decorate my home for the holidays in pinteresting ways, but I do have moments to share, laughter to embrace, and relationships to nurture.

We have this moment. We are not promised the next; how can we be excellent stewards of today? How can we love the hearts around us well? How can we let God lavishly love us so we can then, in turn, love another? Loving from the overflow, living in this moment. Fighting to create a holiday around what is most meaningful.... Goodness, it’s a battle, isn’t it? How do we put away expectations and embrace Jesus? How do we promote Jesus, and stop living in the pain of what isn’t and begin to embrace what is?

These are questions I’m asking myself today. So many can do so much that I cannot. But that doesn’t count me out. There is value in my limited going. There is joy to be found. But I must fight trying to be like someone else for my joy. Jesus—He’s simply enough. But golly, it’s hard not to compare, isn’t it?

You know that scene in the old Alice in Wonderland movie when she’s falling down the rabbit hole? She falls slowly, seeing random objects like mirrors and rocking chairs, talking to herself, floating through psychedelic colors. When the words came to me, they sent me into a dizzying spiral. I kind of felt like Alice, except the floating was four times faster and the talking, incomprehensible.

One of the earliest times I dealt with grief was hearing my sister tell me about my parents’ car crash as a young teenager. All at once I felt like Alice, trying to grasp onto things, not quite able to make out my surroundings. The world around me didn’t feel real, I couldn’t make out the conversations around me. I couldn’t understand. I don’t remember well but soon thereafter, I crash landed into sleep. I slept for what felt like years, but must have been a few hours. My oldest sister flew in from Virginia and joined me in the sleep that first night so I wouldn’t be alone. I slept so much, never feeling rested for years to come.

As Alice grasped out for something, so did I. I just needed something that felt secure and okay and safe. I did not even know myself what I needed. How did I function afterwards? How did I shower the next day? I don’t remember.

Mostly, I longed to see my parents again. I felt this urge to want to be in Heaven with them and feel safe again. I couldn’t believe that 24 hours earlier, 48 hours earlier, a week ago, they had been alive. I wanted to be with them, but I also wanted to live. The pull tore at me. The longings were misplaced. I knew even then as a young teenager that I couldn’t put my hope in death.

I’ve shared before how my sisters told me time and time again that God was in control and God was sovereign. How precious those words were for me at that time and now I see, those words have kept me afloat in deep waters through the subsequent years. It was something that I could grasp, something that kept my faith and hope alive.

As thankful as I am for those truthful words, in the end they weren’t enough. They gave me hope, but not enough. I was an angry teenager for years and had an insatiable hunger that could only be filled with an eternal God. I needed more than to know God was in control and that He’s good and kind. I wanted to see my parents now and have my old life back. I wanted them there at my milestones and to be able to call when I was sad. I wanted it all restored.

Even now 20 years later, I want to be healed and want my relationships restored. I need a hope that says I don’t have to live like this forever because I don’t want to live like this forever.

If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied.

Paul is right. God didn’t make us machines that just have to blindly trust Him and go about our business, knowing He’s sovereign and that’s it. Our hope is not just for the here and now. What do we really hold onto when we hear those devastating words that suddenly become part of our story?

But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead…for as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ all will be made alive…the last enemy to be destroyed is death. For God has put all things in subjection under his feet.

The hope is not just in a kind and powerful God, although that is pretty amazing. Our hope is that one day, things will be restored. We will be resurrected together with new and beautiful bodies that will suffer no more. No more tears, no more sickness, no more death. No more grief.

Can you see it? Can you feel it? Do you see the healing and the cleansing and the kindness of our God?

I have this story, I have this one story to live and to share. It’s my great privilege to share the grace I know. It is my honor to share who Jesus is with anyone who will listen. But I’m no hero. I’m simply one fighting to live well in the midst of pain—and oh, my goodness, I can blow it so big.

Yesterday was a day full of joy, heart sharing, grace, and love. I shared my story at Grace Church and I heard the stories of so many broken hearts. I felt so privileged to hear from everyone, to capture stories, and to see old friends. It was such a privilege to be in the place my story of faith was born.

Then the event ended and I hadn’t realized how tired I was. Adrenaline is amazing and hard. It will keep you going and when it’s done with you it will throw you down hard on the ground. I looked at my kind sister and told her I couldn’t speak. I jumped in the car and asked for silence and FOOD—GET ME FOOD QUICKLY. I announced that I had the grumpy hungries and I needed everyone to be gentle with me...I’m just like you, fighting to see grace, live gently, walk in integrity. It’s a daily battle to look for Jesus and live in His grace. And when I fail, when I fall short, when I blow it...there’s sweet repentance and admitting fault. Yesterday, my wearied grumpy heart got to repent harsh words and be restored in forgiveness. Oh, the bliss of forgiveness.

You see, I’m no hero. I’m just one broken woman looking for grace. I’m one needy heart in need of forgiveness. I’m simply me. And that me—that me—can be harsh, tired, short, and wearied by small things.

But this story, this one story, is mine to share. And if I somehow create a dependence on me, I have failed you in the telling of my story. My story is linked to the bigger, greater, awesome story found in Jesus. His love has made me beautiful. His love sees me through the grumpy. His life redeemed me in a way another cannot.

I’m no hero; I’m simply one broken woman trying to shine light in dark corners and search for goodness and grace. I get to share my faith and my failures. I get to proclaim that the broken story could be a beautiful story. All this competing and winning we fight for in life is not the goal. It will never bring peace, real peace. That is found in the empty tomb. Jesus is the overcoming king that is the answer to our hearts longings. It’s not me. Look today at Jesus. How is the answer of his life death and resurrection the only answer to the problem of your pain?

How do you see your need for Jesus today?

Yesterday was my first day going to chemo with Kara. The day started out rough—the trouble sliding over from the day before. Kara posted this update on her personal Facebook page: Life is hard.

She deserves to post that update a million times a day.

But I can admit it’s hard to hear. I know that truth for her, but I don’t want to know that truth for her. Our Kara works hard to protect us. I don’t want her to. I want her to be able to say the truth. I just wish I had a better answer for that. Because there isn’t really an answer. That status stands alone as a truth.

Kara was dreading chemo, and cancer is a raging beast, and I didn’t know what to do with that hard. I began to pray... God, will you have grace show up today? We need grace. We need you. Please show up.

After I found the right building and pushed the elevator button, I found myself riding up with a sweet, older couple. When I said what floor I needed, she looked at me, because she knew what that floor meant. “I hope you’re not here for treatment.”

“No, I’m not. But my friend is.”

Her face fell. Too young. I could hear the thought, though she didn’t say it. And it’s another truth that stands alone. Kara is too young. Although, is any age right for cancer to come in and steal the moments? Of course not. My elevator-mate continued. “I’ve fought two different cancers and I’m doing well. I’m not here for treatment today.”

We’ll take some of that, I thought. I hear all of these stories of miracles and people overcoming odds, and my soul whisper is always the same. We’ll take some of that.

I must have looked wide-eyed, walking into that chemotherapy room. I’d never seen anything like it.

An ocean of recliner chairs organized into rows and small spaces. Each chair had its own medical equipment, I.V.’s hooked up, dripping into veins and ports and bloodstreams.

And everywhere, the nurses were buzzing about the business of cancer.

I can admit my stomach turned when I walked into the space and met the sea of fighting people.

This is not okay, I thought. This is yucky. And even though Kara calls it the healing poison, I didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

I didn’t want her anywhere near it.

And then the swing of treatment began. Shellie, Kara, and I giggled over something, I can’t remember what, and I saw the woman in the next chair laughing and smiling with us. She had such a light about her. Kara immediately started talking to her. I don’t know if it was a survival tactic, because it was as the nurse was beginning to mess with Kara’s port. The flushing of the port makes her sick, and Kara turned and started speaking to the woman next to us. Kate was her name. Or Cate. I’m not sure which it is. Hopefully it’s okay I’m using her real name.

We found out we have all kinds of people in common with Kate. And that she’s a Christian. And that her children went to the school our children currently attend.

She told us her hard story, but she was beaming the whole time. She was a good recliner-mate.

Cancer people have a culture. “What are you in for?” The question was asked and laughed over, as if the two of them were in a prison of sorts.

Everyone has a story, and everyone matters.

And Kara, seeing her there... she takes the big love theory with her wherever she goes. Even into a chemo room where she doesn’t want to go. She loved on the people around her. Gave away a book.

Add in a few naps, some conversation, a visit from Kara’s Carl, and then it was over and Kara went home to rest.

I hugged a crying Shellie, this dear friend of Kara’s, who is so strong. But she’s not okay with the cancer stealing and torturing her friend. None of us are okay.

I get into my car and the words because I’m happy burst from my radio. I leave it on, not because it fits, but because of the irony.

Did God show up? I think later, as my eyes are filling and my heart’s going about the business of dealing, really dealing with this beastly cancer and what it’s doing to our friend.

I think through the day.

I saw an old friend of the family whom I haven’t seen in years and years, and we were able to catch up. Kara gave away love.

We met a lovely couple.

Was there anything huge, though? Where was the big sign? The thing to knock us over and show us He was there with us. Where was the grace?

And then He just whispers to me: I was there. He was there in every moment. Some days, there’s not a huge sign. There are a few small things, like sprinkles of salt that add just enough flavor, and those things add up to a meal. Those things add up to grace.

And even when I can’t see it as blatantly as I’d like to—even when God refrains from knocking me off a sidewalk and hiring a band to march in my path, there’s a small sprout of faith growing in me. A faith that says suffering is not the absence of goodness, and that He is with us.

Immanuel.

How is God with you in the small ways today?

Today’s post was written by my dear friend and author Jill Buteyn. My (Kara) response to my dear Jill—I saw Jesus there very clearly. I saw him there when I met your smile as I came off the elevator. I saw Jesus when I woke from the nap chemo brings and saw you and Shellie right by my side in a place neither of you really wants to be, but chose to be. I saw him there when you both rubbed my feet and met my chemo neighbor who was sitting alone, and helped her feel less alone. Oh friend, I saw Him—he was beaming through you dear heart. I knew He would be, but I also knew it wasn’t easy for Him or you to watch, but you SHOWED UP—the both of you and it was stunning.

"The sweetest reunion in Texas…

When Rachel Maddox returns to her hometown of Fredericksburg, Texas, avoiding her ex is much easier said than done. Still nursing the broken heart Rachel caused years earlier, rancher next door Hunter McDermott figures he can be cordial for the brief time she’s in town—maybe they can even be friends. But how do you forge just a friendship with someone you’ve always pictured as your bride?"

This book was the first thing I wrote after Just Show Up, and man, oh, man, did I struggle. There was a period after Just Show Up and all of the interviews for that book that I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to write again. Like maybe something was broken in me. I wasn’t sure what to do next. And eventually, I started writing this story. I sent it in a proposal, but it came back needing major changes. It was like this book wanted to chew me up and spit me out.

I kept trying to power through on my own.

It didn’t work very well. But eventually, God provided, the words came, and I handed the book in. I never wanted to see it again. (That usually happens near the end. I’m just done.)

Some scheduling changes happened with my publisher, and suddenly this book was pushed a ways into the future. I couldn’t believe it. It would be two years between my last release and this one. I won’t lie. I kicked and screamed a little.

Because this wasn’t my plan.

God sure wasn’t listening to me.

Wow, even reading that statement stings a little because I sound like such a spoiled brat. But then, I’ve never hid from you all that I’m a hot mess. You know me, so I might as well say it like it is.

I definitely wanted it all to go my way, and it just…wasn’t. I finally accepted that truth. And then I had a nice little gift.

Time.

Time I didn’t want. I didn’t ask for. But in that space, I healed a little.

I had the time to learn to relax. (Yes, some of us have to actually learn this.)

I crafted a proposal for a new series and had ample room to write that book as it came to me.

I wrote a novella just for fun. I found the joy of writing again in that little book. It was a gift I didn’t know I needed.

And if I hadn’t had that time I didn’t want…I wouldn’t have received the unexpected gifts of that year.

I’m catching up now…I’ll have two novels out this year and two next year, if all goes according to plan. (And we all know how those can go.) But I can see, looking back, that God was doing some things I couldn’t understand. Maybe I still don’t have all of the specifics, and that’s okay. Because the piece that matters the most is the trust in the midst of the not knowing and the not understanding. Oh, I’m still working on that. I suspect that will be a life-long journey for me.

But thankfully I have a gracious, patient Father.

Jill Lynn Buteyn is a co-author of Just Show Up with Kara Tippetts, and an author of inspirational romance novels as Jill Lynn. Her new release, Her Texas Cowboy, is in stores now. Connect with her on social media or at Jill-Lynn.com.

I have a short list of friends, these are the friends I feel I never for one second deserved. Friends that are so utterly given to grace and love I cannot feel anything but blessed by their love and friendship. If I’m honest my list isn’t actually all that short. It’s this long, endless list of people that choose grace, meet and extend love to others, and live from a place of tenderness. I am humbled to know so many. God must know my weak faith and constant need of reminding. God is gathering more and more of these people to my heart daily. These lovers of truth point me towards hope, remind me of goodness, and remember we all need to laugh. Yesterday I received two poems. One was written by my friend John, and another came from Emily Dickinson. Both,  well, you’ll see. Both reminded me of goodness.

This Is What We Do
by John Blase - The Beautiful Due

His sole brother will be another year older this week.
So my father will drive headlong into the north Texas
wind to sit across from him and honor his face.

No doubt they will speak of pickups and children
until those topics grow quiet. Then their talk will seep
into the porous ground of memory both recent and past.

Two older men talking fondly of older things,
the essence of why they want to be together.
Before my father leaves that booming town he’ll

wind beyond its frantic highway to the still cemetery where
his parents sleep. He will go there as all mourners do,
repeating Easter’s mistake, seeking the living among the dead.

My father knows this but still he’ll go. To kneel and
to place fresh flowers, an assertion in favor
of the rising and against the fallenness of time.

The Jubilee: Poems by John D. Blase

I read this and was undone. Easter’s mistake—seeking the living among the dead. Oh, my soul. It was a reminder to my heart that this, this today is not my only living. It may be the only living I have any imagination for, but it will not be the only living I experience. And yet, like John’s daddy, we fight the fallenness of time. We brace ourselves for that next life, and have such a scratch of imagination for it.

I sent this poem to my dear Amy who is braving broken after her husband died. I don’t know how to say that properly. I don’t like to say she lost him. Because, frankly, he’s not lost—he’s kept. Passed away? I’m not comfortable with that either. It’s like when people say, make love, instead of have sex. Some phrases just don’t sit well with me. Not that they are a bit wrong. But I have never found the right words for death or sex, for that matter. Both are sacred, and words fail in meeting and describing both well. Amy is someone I can share my rumblings for the right words with honestly. She is not afraid of my awkward advances in love towards her. She sees the advance is the love more than the stumbling. We show up for one another, and in the showing up we meet grace new. So Amy…her husband recently died and is with Jesus. It’s awful. It’s painful, but Amy is clinging, fighting, struggling for truth. We send each other impertinent jokes that only a widow and one dying can send, in the safety that we will never quit each other. It’s such grace. She sent me this from Emily. Amy is much like my Blythe in the meeting of such brokenness together, there is such safety in friendship and grace.

Who has not found the heaven below
    Will fail of it above.
God’s residence is next to mine,
    His furniture is Love.

The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson

Oh, my soul: His furniture is love. Oh this place, this temporal fading place. It’s hard to imagine anything else, but when we think on the greater story, the Resurrection, we will stop looking for the living among the dead. Or maybe we won’t, and that’s okay too. We will together rest more deeply into the peace present to walk, stumble, ache in today. And the furniture—it will be love.

Some days I’m content to know the answers in the hereafter; some days I am not. But praise be, I have a long list of heart lovers and livers that help me not forget. Love; today, there’s love. Today there’s visiting Whole Foods and filling our fridge for the coming cold and the never-ending fire. Today there is a new game to enjoy with the kids when they come home and a birthday of one special boy to plan—we are thinking laser tag mixed with boys and food. Today we will dream of a ball for the girls that’s coming, and a party for my boy. Today, with my Mickey next to me and the dear mamas that came to clean, I will be able to do more than I ever imagined. Chemo is coming shortly to take me out, but not today. Today, we cook. Today, we dance. Today, we rest. Because tomorrow we will forget. But beauty will meet us. We need just to look.

How is beauty meeting you today, dear heart? How are you, like me, struggling to see it? Who reminds you of grace and points you to beauty? Who is unafraid to show up for you when you forger? How are you showing up for another to be a blessed reminder? And grace, do you see it? It’s there; I’m praying you will see it through the fog of this place—this temporal, fading place.

“We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”

The lamenting of Lent feels like it has stretched past Easter for me this year. I spent a large part of Easter in tears, praying for my friend who miscarried another precious baby this past year, my friend whose brother gave his life in courageous service to our country just weeks ago, and my friend who delivered her beautiful stillborn daughter and cradled her perfect little body to say goodbye just days before. And I processed more of my own grief over my beloved Marmee, imagining her spending Easter with Jesus and Kara and Grandpa and my Mamma, her daughter. As time passes since Marmee’s death 9 months ago, I’m learning more about lamenting—grieving with hope—and it’s freed me to explore our relationship.

It was complicated and messy. It was beautiful and redemptive. And because I’m learning to lament, I’ve discovered that I don’t need to be afraid of looking back 20 or 30 years to examine who I am because of Marmee’s love and influence and role in my life. Good and hard. I cry a lot and laugh a lot and find joy in new things. Then I cry because she’s not here to share what I’m learning; I realize that it’s her very absence that allows me to have this new perspective, and then I grieve and cry over the brokenness of relationships in this world. Finally, Grace meets me and God lifts my chin, and I find hope in the Restoration to come. This is my new lamenting cycle.

My wise and gracious mentor Amy once painted a beautiful word picture that affected me deeply; I think about it every day, and God is using it to welcome me into his embrace and eradicate shame in my heart. Amy talks about how when God invites me [us] to his table, he invites all of me—he doesn’t just invite the current me or the best version of me. He doesn’t just invite me when I’m working hard or when I’m reading my Bible every day or when I’m living well the Truth of his Word. He doesn’t just invite the versions of me from my life when I’ve been obedient or good or put together. He invites all of me.

When Amy first painted this picture, I imagined a big farm table with warm, rustic loaves of bread and jars of homemade strawberry jam sitting on the tabletop in a delicious welcome. I saw a bouquet of wildflowers stretching toward an unseen window, linen napkins pressed and folded next to empty pottery tumblers that awaited pours of wine or water from nearby pitchers. Dust danced in sunbeams casting a delirious, carefree effect across part of the table. And in the middle of the bench on one side of the table was a kind-faced Jesus with eyes that communicated nothing but delight—there was no apprehension that any version of myself would show up that was not welcome. I watched different versions enter the room and takes seats, eliciting cries of joy from Jesus, cries of welcome and happiness that they were there.

At first, the versions of myself that entered the room were the versions I like the most and approve of most and think would impress the most—the polished and pretty. But as I’ve worked through this vision in my mind over the months, different versions of myself have tentatively made their entrances—the toddler who was shamed and humiliated by someone who should have been a safe place; the teenager who lost sight of who she was and fell into the mire of that confusion and rejection; the 20-something woman who was assaulted and told no one out of fear of judgment. Etcetera.

There was one version of myself, one Blythe-in-time, who lingered in the doorway, afraid to enter, afraid that God’s invitation didn’t apply to her. Or maybe she didn’t know how it applied.

I saw her lingering there and silently observed her in the doorway for months until Amy started talking about infusing our suffering with Love until the suffering is dissolved by Love. Maybe this dissolution will happen right away or it will take months or years. Or maybe it won’t happen this side of Heaven. But by accepting God’s grace into our pain, regardless of what that pain is or what the source of that pain is, by acknowledging that he loves us—every version of us—we invite transformative compassion. Our perspectives change. We view these versions of ourselves with Grace instead of judgement, disappointment, disgust. We can reach out our arms and say what needs to be said, Because of Jesus’ love and work on the Cross, you are safe, you are loved, you are protected, you are welcome, you are forgiven, or you are accepted.

The Blythe-in-time that I can see hanging out in the doorway is a 20-year-old version of myself. She is alone, grief-stricken, angry, desperate for answers. Her parents have died and she is heart broken for herself and her siblings. She is about to spiral down a well of depression, and though she knows her parents are with Jesus, she lacks any kind of theology to put their deaths into context; no one has explained Redemption to her or that God is working toward ultimate restoration to make all pain and death undone. She is growing bitter and only knows grief, which has swallowed up her joy, and though she can see the pain she is causing the people around her, she doesn’t know how to snap out of it or how to smile again. In her bitterness and anger, she feels increasing shame over the hurt she causes her family and her lack of a godly response to her parents’ deaths. She is an inadequate Christian, an inadequate sister and granddaughter and friend. She is an Inadequate.

That Blythe-in-time existed for several years, but once God’s never-ending, never-stopped, redeeming love truly took hold of her heart, a new Blythe emerged and walked away from that Blythe-in-time, putting as much space between them as possible.

Yet that Blythe-in-time remains a part of my story, my dna. She is important and she requires—demands—God’s healing, not neglect. I realize now that Blythe-in-time simply didn’t know how to lament. She was a Good Friday Blythe, not an Easter Blythe. She was one of the women crying at Jesus’ grave, never expecting or imagining resurrection. She was fragile, devastated, void of hope. And honestly so.

Twenty years later, grounded in God’s grace, can I revisit that Good Friday girl? Can I gather her in my arms, just as God has gathered me, and shower her with compassion, comfort her, forgive her, whisper to her the beautiful truths about God’s redemptive love and his restoration to come? Can I lead her to the table where Jesus so patiently and eagerly awaits to welcome her home?

What version of yourself is hanging out in the doorway, longing to come to the table where Jesus awaits eagerly? What version is hesitant, convinced that Jesus won’t welcome them? How can you compassionately visit that version of yourself and approach her with words of grace? What is a passage of Scripture that would minister to that hurting version of yourself?

Courtesy of Crossway

Each day is a battle to see, a struggle to learn, a fight against the lies of hopelessness. Each day I wake, I remember my story, then I want to go back to sleep. But through each day, I see so much truth, hope, life, joy that I simply cannot check out of living and fighting for my moments. I enjoy the giggles of my littles, the pleadings for a sleepover, a new toy, a favorite dinner and I’m reminded of the giant little moments in each day. The kids each enter the room with their questions: Mama, did you see this Lego; Daddy what clothes should I wear for today’s weather? Lil bit just slides in next to my warmth until hunger carries her downstairs where Nanny Mickey will capture her with toast. Slowly, I will drink my coffee and read my Bible, and find the strength to get moving beyond my despair. Some days I begin the day faking it for the benefit of my children, and some days I move from my bed with genuine strength and hope for the day. Each day has some mercy to make the moving possible.

Today, I will drive to a local elementary that is turned into our place of worship for a few hours. I will be gently reminded of Jesus and why his birth, death, and resurrection make all the difference in today. Jesus is the heart of all my going, all my strength, all my breaths, but the little gems of life: the coffee, the snuggles, the friend preparing the toast all remind me of Jesus. And especially my Westside community that seeks Jesus in the mist of brokenness.

Tim Timmons and his amazing music always remind me of Truth. Truth in Jesus. He and I lock arms in this battle and drag one another to the beauty of the cross. So thankful to be on this journey with you Tim and Hillary.

I have been reading through Ephesians. It’s stunning, overwhelming, full of great insight, and a lot of confronting—beautiful confronting of speech and living honestly... My mouth is often my weakness. My words can be sharp, my words can portray false strength, my words can simply hurt. Words, words, words are my struggle when I’m feeling badly. My words are a struggle when I’m feeling weak and sick. Ephesians shines such beautiful light on my struggle with speech. And this morning, this verse showed me my struggle to honestly share, in words, my struggle with cancer. I want to pretend my results are different. I want to fake at strength so everyone else can stop feeling anxious.

My dear Mickey is in town to help carry our family. She is a calming, safe presence in our home. My brother left and he was a joyful, fun visit. I cherish the time my brother and I shared. There is a special place in my heart reserved specifically for my brother, and I know there is a unique place in his heart that holds me. The kids played hard and enjoyed my brother. Mickey comes to nurture and care. It’s perfect timing as I will be moving back into treatment, and likely new treatment, which brings with it a lot of unknowns in how my body will react.

The results of my scan came in yesterday. I honestly want to live in falsehood, tell lies of the results, and pretend we aren’t meeting a new edge with cancer. Yesterday, in our small group, someone told me how well I looked. The saying looks are deceptive immediately came to mind. I’m a champ at faking that I’m not in pain, I’m gifted and faking strength. I look upon this Ephesians verse, and I’m corrected. So, I get to open wide my hands to my story, receive the hard, and look for the grace. But I’m not meant to do it alone. Living in community means living honestly. Sharing burdens. Not fixing one another, but walking with one another through pain.

The cancer has retreated in areas of my body and grown in others. Nothing was surprising to me, as I have felt pain increased in areas and decreased in other places. Mickey and I were sitting over coffee this morning delighting over the joys and grieving the sorrows. We talked over The Hardest Peace and began to wonder over what writing may come next.

There was a man trying to justify himself to Jesus.... Isn’t that all of us? Justify. Jesus justify us. And that is exactly what the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus has done. It has justified our living, given value to our hurting, and walked with us through our suffering. But a gentleman was struggling with how he should love, what love looked like. The man in Luke 10 came to Jesus, but I love what it says—he came trying to justify himself. I see so much of that in my own response to Brittany, in the response from our culture. We want to reconcile, to understand, to wrap our minds around all that is broken. And we simply can’t. We feel the brokenness of loss, the devastation of disease, and we long to understand all that is circling our minds. We want simple answers, simple harsh responses to those who might disagree with us—no matter where we sit on this issue. We are all hurting. We are all wrestling with the meaning of our breaths, our moments, our suffering, our living.

I’m in a unique position—my inbox is filled with story after story of people taking an opposite path of Brittany. I get to hear the beautiful broken stories of those who are meeting their suffering and not choosing to hasten death. And please know, it is not a simple journey they are facing. I hear the broken hearts of mamas and daddies holding wide their hands to the remaining breaths of treasured children. It hurts to look, but it’s beautiful. Their stories are not broadcast on national television, but lived quietly in their communities, seeking the grace to live through pain. There is a beautiful medical practice called palliative care that is creatively and lovingly extending their expertise to love the broken through their important and high calling of comforting and walking beside the dying.

So I look to Jesus for insight into how should we rightly respond to a culture that doesn’t understand the beauty of brokenness. Specifically, let’s look at the parable of the Good Samaritan found in Luke 10.

So, how should we respond to this pain, this hurt, this brokenness? Well, Jesus was not vague. He gave us an example. He did not say to enter into hot debates over ethical issues. Jesus did not tell us to speak unkindly to one another. He simply exhorts us to go, go and bind up the wounds of the broken, love the devastated, live His BIG LOVE to the hurting world around us.

I don’t have the right words in response to Brittany. I simply have prayers as I stumble through today. I fold clothes and cry and pray for her mama. I sit with my young daughter and my mind wanders to the broken heart of Brittany’s husband. I pray as people ask me to respond that my words would be a comfort and not an insult to their deep pain. But when I hear the words of Jesus telling me to, Go and do likewise, I simply wonder who the broken will be who will come in my path. I ponder how I might bind up a wound, love the hurting, extend compassion and mercy, meet the sick and give them Jesus. How am I given this breath today to extend the great love that I know to another? Will I look at the Good Samaritan and go and do likewise, as Jesus said? And He lived a perfect life, died the death I deserved, and overcame death so that I might not feel the sting of death. 1 Corinthians 15:54 says, Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?

Who is God bringing across path today to love? What wounds are you being called to bind up in love? How will you respond to this high calling of going and doing likewise? Unkind and bitter words will do little to affect change in our culture, but our love, our love will make all the difference.

Last night I had the honor of being recognized at the Bishop’s Respect Life Dinner. My dear friend Caia Hoskins has been my champion in life, in my writing, in my sharing of the story that suffering is not a mistake. She loves the unborn babies in our community and is a passionate advocate for life. I have the great privilege of doing life with this passionate woman. Her beautiful daughters provided a wonderful start to the evening with their gift of music. Bishop Michael J. Sheridan was the host of the evening. I met his lovely assistant Esperanza—she is the first Esperanza I have known, and her beauty matches her name, and her lovely husband Mark is a deacon in the Catholic church and helped me to appreciate and understand what I do not know. I asked crazy impertinent questions all through dinner like, Do people kiss his ring? He giggled at some of my questions but never made me feel foolish. You all know me well enough to know I am gifted at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Mark and Esperanza put me at ease, and the night was simply a delight.

Last night I was able to share a bit of my story with a room full of people committed to life from the preborn to last breath. The room was full of individuals committed to life. My brother was my escort evening, and we simply had a delightful time together. We met new friends, and laughed and learned so much from each speaker. It was humbling to be invited to share in such an important event. Father Bill Carmody was tendered to my story as he watched his own mother fight for each breath as she also battled cancer when he was a young man of 16. He takes very personally my fight for each moment, and was such a beautiful champion last night. I loved meeting him and his joyful and passionate love for life. I feel like I’m laughing in every picture from the evening—the love in the room was obvious.

I left the evening tired with a full heart. I enjoyed the company of my table and met many of you. It is a great gift to meet those of you in our community committed to life. Not simply at a dinner, but in the arduous daily living. People who enter the lives of others, giving value to their living and partnering in our community to care for the brokenhearted and lonely. It was a night of celebrating life, supporting love, and raising high the calling of Jesus and place value on all of His creation. It was a beautiful evening.

The final speaker spoke of Life Network here in town that is committed to educating students, not simply on abstinence, but also on their personal value and boundaries in dating. The work of David Galvan and Life Network and their tireless commitment to teaching value to our community is stunning. It was such a great honor to meet him and hear about Life Network.

I left the evening so encouraged. Encouraged and challenged. How do I support life—not simply live my days? How do I love the suffering in our community? How can I better share the value of today? How can I help another understand their value? Certainly I have this place, but my life and story overlaps with others in many contexts. It’s my great and high calling to look in the face of each of you and thank you for your life, for the beautiful creation that is YOU. To tell you how much YOU matter. Your life, your love, your story matters. I will always treasure last night. It was a gift. But I’m not simply going to place the gift I gained from last night in a closet; I have been given the bright light of Jesus that I GET to share each moment, each breath I’m given to breathe? Won’t you join me?

Waiting, waiting, I have been waiting to feel better. I keep looking around the corner of this disease to find the sunrise of normal to rise. Yesterday, I turned to Jason and asked him what it felt like to feel normal. I asked him what if felt like to not feel weak. I feel like I’m starting to forget. Instead of embracing the moment of feeling a bit better, I’m beginning to panic over the coming treatment. But I remember enough of normal living and loving to long, long, long for a day of normal. I plan normal days, dream of events where we are all present and strong. Not huge strong, but sweet walk-on-a-fall-day strong, sit-by-a-fire-with-a-book strong, laughter-through-tears strong. He turned to me and said, I forget normal too; I have a wife with cancer.

This morning I woke tangled with my baby girl. She came in while I was awake. She has refused pajamas lately. Rather, she will start in them and then takes them off. I think it’s her quiet conspiracy to be wakened by cold to wake her enough to come find my warmth. And it is such a sweet grace, when I’m in bed trying to find breath to breathe to escape my weary, then my little love comes to find me. I lend what I have. I still have warmth. I still have a pulse that spreads through my body, and I am able to give my little love warmth another day. And I’m restored to gratitude. Not just for breath and warmth, but for love to extend when I was lying awake feeling I had nothing to give.

I have a week spread out before me. I hope to exit my bed and walk into it naming the graces ever present in my walking with Jesus. Today, this day, I heard something true. Something so true that it changed my heart. Utterly changed my thinking. I heard a story of a man suffering greatly with ALS. He made a beautiful distinction today that has freed my heart, and maybe it will meet you the same. First, I will share a verse, then I will share how my heart was helped:

This gentleman shared this verse and made a distinction my heart needed so much to hear. He said he was not thankful FOR his ALS, but God had grown in him gratitude IN his ALS. He also went on to talk about how he had always been so in love with the resurrected Jesus, but through his disease he was beginning to fall in love with the suffering Jesus. The suffering Jesus who is not unaware of our pains. His truth freed my heart in a way I cannot describe adequately in words. It freed me to say, I grieve my cancer, my heart aches for it and the pain it is causing, as my heart can ache and grieve for the endless stories of pain and heartbreak that enter my inbox. But I also get to be grateful in my pains and sorrow, because I am seeing Jesus new. I get to hear the beauty of Jesus through the pains of so many of you who write me. It isn’t simple. It isn’t without pain and great sorrow, but it is also not without beauty and present grace. For IN our suffering we are kept, and it gives us the ability to find gratitude not of this place. It is no simple journey to travel.

So today, I grieve for the countless friends who show up in this place facing great pains. I hurt FOR the heartache, the broken dreams, the pain that sometimes won’t let up. Yesterday, I was able to witness a most stunning love story in action. My dear friend is walking her love to his last breath. Our dear friend can no longer swallow, he is fading, and we meet each Sunday knowing we will soon be together in the land of no more tears. Each week his hip bones jut our farther and my eyes grow more darkened. Each week we take the bread and wine, and know we are kept. The beautiful wife of this sweet man tells me of her love for him. And he stands quietly beside me—he can no longer speak, but he can hug me and quietly smile. Yesterday I put my arm around his once large frame and felt his edges. As I hugged him, his beautiful wife lovingly wiped the drool that escaped his mouth with such tender love; I felt honored to witness such beauty. We both were sad that the communion was choking him, but we knew the living bread was the great nourishment of our fading friend. We grieve for his pain, but we are grateful that we know he is IN Christ. And that beautiful union will never be broken, even as his body is breaking.

But I also am able to pray, Thank you dear Jesus, that IN my pain, I am kept. IN my sorrow, I am heard. IN my disease, I am kept near to a Jesus that is WITH ME. I know there will be a day I will understand all of this new in your kingdom. There will be a day I will see what it was all FOR, but today, I grieve with open hands. I grieve for the pain of cancer and the heartache of losing those to this awful disease, but I also thank you that IN our broken state, we are not abandoned. My dear friend that I hugged yesterday and I are intimately and lovingly known and kept.

Dearest Jesus, today I have this warmth that pulses through my bones. I have this breath that fills my lungs. I have the strength to write these words and name your presence in my life. I pray I will be a faithful servant in my low state, an honest follower of you in my sorrow, a loving mama in my pain, an extending wife in my heartache. And when normal feels like the idol I want to build giant, ornate alters to and worship, I pray you would remind me of the suffering Jesus who did not walk away from His own suffering. Would you show me how to walk this road that feels impossible? Will you create in me a dependence on your goodness and grace that sees your beauty in each given moment in gratitude? Help me not to grumble and complain (Philippians 2:14) in my pains. Help my heart not to complain or covet the living of another. Help me to see your purpose in my cancer and for my cancer. But help me not to fear the tears that come as the impossibility of each new treatment takes my breath away.

Since the birth of my first daughter, I have written my journals in light of them one day being read. They are simply a family history. The small, silly moments captured, the hard journey in life we have traveled. The honest assessment of each day. So I have journal after journal capturing the essence of our life. One day soon I will reread them to remember those exhausted, amazing days of life with my littles. It was important writing, because in the midst of sleep deprivation, it’s hard to remember. I look forward to revisiting those most precious years I captured in my journals. One day my children may want to read that journey. Maybe not, but it will be there for them. I was always careful to journal with freedom. Some weeks I would write and write, some months the entire month would pass before I would write. But I gave myself freedom.

I started to wonder what I wanted to leave behind for my children on their important days to come where I may not be present. I have been challenged to write letters for each big event. But there was part of me that thought those moments could be hard if my kids were asked at each exciting moment to read a letter from me that made them sad. I may still write those letters, but I have taken a fun and new path. Since I have many who follow this blog now that are also seeing the endless of the horizon of days vanish, I thought I would share what I’m doing. I have started to interview my children in a causal setting: my bed. I sit with my children and ask them simple questions about their future. It’s delightful. And more than that, it’s simple to do with my computer. More than that, you don’t have to have a story like mine to capture such living. It’s amazing.

So pick a moment in life you desire to ask your children questions about. I have started with their weddings. It has been such fun. Keep it light hearted. Delight in your children and their answers. For instance, Ella said she wanted a petting zoo at her wedding. I sat beside her and told her it was a great idea. I know when the day comes, she will likely not want a petting zoo at her wedding, but how fun will it be to hear from her 13-year-old self with a mama beside her saying, Go for it. And when the actual day comes, I pray she will hear my heart asking her to go for it. To enjoy her day. To delight in the day and not get bogged down in the details. To capture the love of the day and to move into her marriage with joy.

Would you consider making a video for your loves to watch in the future? Do you journal for your family to one day read your heart? How do you plan for future moments for your family? How do you want your love to be left to those who live beyond you?

I have today, and I’m spending it beside my loves. I’m tasting and knowing the goodness of family. I am fighting to enjoy the moments shared with loves. But each day, as I wake to new mercies, I also wake to new pain, new places that feel to be hardening. The daily fight to find the grace when the story of me is fading. I can lose my peace when I think too far into the future. I can suffocate if I wonder how many more days I’ll be granted. I can shatter into a puddle if I begin to wonder over the coming holidays.

But today, blessed today is here. I’m battling to live in the present within the confines of this moment. I must fight not to grow anxious over the coming hard moments. After I wrote to Brittany, I received the gift of y’all sharing the stories of home-going of your loves—the stunning last moments of life each of you have cherished as you have gently walked beside the tender, vulnerable, and dying in your lives.

Before, I struggled when people would say, This person I loved died of what you have. I often felt hopeless, wondering over the living of those stories. Did they live well, did they enjoy life until that last moment? I only got the final verdict. Cancer had taken someone they have loved. But in sharing my heart with Brittany, so many have shared the whole final chapter of the story with me. The beauty that was captured in the last moment with a loved one. The stunning final breath and the peace that met them in that final moment. I have cried wonderful tears over the hard and long goodbye so many of you have experienced. Not one story was easy, simple, but every one was flavored with beautiful grace.

So now, I don’t mind hearing the story of another dying of cancer. Because now, so many are sharing the whole beautiful picture with me. The last struggle in this place and the entering the next place. It isn’t easy, but it is beautiful.

So I wake with new corners of cancer finding its way around my weakened body, but I also wake with new peace as I gather and cherish the stories you share with me. I have moments where I panic that I’m not leaving enough of myself behind for my loves, but then—but then—they come and get tangled into my life today. Today—this day—we get to live beside one another and seek the present grace in today. In the looking for that great goodness, my loves will learn the art of looking after I have breathed my last.

They see me wincing in pain, but they also see me almost wetting my pants I’m laughing so hard. And both will help them look honestly at each moment. Sure, I long to write more letters, leave more videos, share more stories... But that last moment is perfectly planned. My high calling is to be faithful to today.

How are you called today? How can you live more present in today without fear and anxiety over tomorrow? It’s a great high calling, but it’s a worthy one.

How do you love when you are at the bottom of yourself? The last gulp of a drink you feel tentative to swallow? How do you swallow that last gulp of life and fight to live it well? I’m struggling today, and I knew it would be a hard one. Chemo brings a low that I struggle with words to describe. And on top of the yucks, pain seems to be growing. And with the growing pain is the growing knowledge that my cancer is likely growing. To say it’s discouraging, well, that word feels simple.

A while ago I wrote an eBook called Big Love: The Practice of Loving Beyond Your Limits.

I never expected my limits, but the message is still the same. In the presence of pain, the deep discouragement chemo and cancer brings, there is still love. I still enjoy good moments on bad days.

Yesterday, I woke from a nap deeply discouraged. I woke in tears of pain and discouragement. I asked y’all to pray, and you prayed. My oldest came in and noticed my heavy heart and refused to leave. Okay, she might have been avoiding cleaning, but she spooned up to me and refused to move. Another friend came and rubbed my feet. I soon felt the weight of my pain lifting. Not the pain, but the discouragement the pain brought. Then, all the kids piled in my bed and we finished the first Harry Potter movie. Lake with his wide boy hands held my hand and never let go. My heart filled, and the pain became less. Less for the greatness of love. Love is powerful like that.

I want to say, I want to believe, I want to hope that treatment is doing all that treatment is supposed to do. It will take another scary snort, another looking under my skin, another scan to let us know what progress we have made. I’m fighting not to despair this pain. But it’s a tough fight. I’m struggling to keep comfortable.

But if what I say is true, and I believe it is, there is love to carry me. Enough love that I can even spill out onto my people. Love large enough to keep me from unkindness. Love deep, and wide, and high, and overflowing to give me gentle words even when I want to scream out in the anguish of the pain in my spine. The cancer pain shooting up and out in every direction. There is love, and that love matters. But I must be willing to look for it. I must be humble enough to ask for help when it gets too much. I must be willing to slow down to a pace that is practical, not at all my strength.

But this chemo has slowed me. This chemo has brought me low. Your prayers, your constant prayers have matters much to my weary heart. You remind me of the goodness of the gospel when pain causes me to forget.

How are you struggling to believe the gospel today? How are you struggling to see through the fog of your burdens and see the goodness of God? How can we help remind you? How can we encourage you to look for big Grace meeting you today?

Last night I served my community group grilled cheese and tomato soup. But the feast was the heart sharing, the safe place, the time together. Time spent being a safe place for each other. Sharing the strength and weakness of our lives. We spoke in simple terms. Asked simple heart questions, and laughed and pondered how might we love one another better.

I made caramel apples for the kids, and all through the house we giggled over complete apples left bare of their yummy caramel coating nibbled off cleanly. The kids created a game in the darkness and played with familiar friends. Our shared living is becoming routine, safe, familiar for us all. Familiar enough that I could share tomato soup and grilled cheese without any fear of rejection. The meal isn’t the point. It never has been.

My baby girl just came into my bed. She is in a season of refusing pajamas. She begins in them, but often I find her only in her unders. And with the chill coming, she often has thrown off the blankets and finds herself cold. I think it’s a conspiracy of wanting to wake in the night to come find her warm mama. I don’t mind. I secretly think she’s agreed to a quiet conspiracy to try and capture as many kisses and snuggles from me as her big sisters and brother before I fly away. It’s a love conspiracy we have both silently agreed to together. She sneaks beside my bed, chilled, and tangles herself up with me. I lend my warmth to her shiver, and she drifts back to sleep. But not before she’s smothered in my kisses and prayers.

But here I am awake. Her chill woke me and reminded me of today. Awake with only hours before I enter big chemo again. Just moments until I fade into a haze of chemo, drugs, bad tastes, and quiet. A robust talker quieted by chemicals. Last night my spine was hurting, Jason tried to gently help. I looked at him and said, How did we get here? He slumped his shoulders and said, I don’t know.

So I kiss and kiss the little love beside me in hopes that the love will last. And I open my computer to share the heartbreak of it all and the beauty of this moment. Knowing one day Story Jane will know she was a daughter captured and cherished. Just like my three bigs.

My son created a most wonderful Lego project yesterday. Intricate and amazing. I asked him if he needed more Legos; he said, I have enough, Mama. What? Humble accepting of what he has instead of what he has not. It quieted me. I couldn’t enjoy that answer as I was feeling my own keen need for wanting more. I turned back to Lake.

Well, certainly you could use some more tires since the dog likes to eat yours, right?

Well, Mama, I suppose a few new tires would be great.

I pressed my discontent onto my son. I’m grasping to make it right somehow, in corners I cannot make right. I’m living this beautifully constructed Lego life full of love, and I’m searching for the answer that will make it all better. But tires won’t be enough for me.

Yesterday, in chapel my friend Jim Ross talked to the kids about Liberia. He loves Liberia and struggled when he could not return because of the Ebola outbreak. He came to share Jesus and compassion for a hurting people with the students. He started to touch on Ebola, and my little love raised her hand. I can picture kind Jim calling on her sweet raised hand. Jim, Ebola is like my mommy’s cancer; people die of it. Jim braved forward with his talk, but many teachers were left in a puddle.

That afternoon, I was walking from the playground to the bathroom with Lake and Story. I asked Story to recount the event with me. She told me what she said, and Lake interjected: Ya, but Mama, you are going to get old and die of that, right?

I looked at him soberly and said, Lake, I doubt it, I will probably die of cancer. He was quiet, and looked at my face. It wasn’t sadness so much that I saw, but, in that moment, he became a little bit older. Older than I would like him to be. We walked in silence for a short bit and like I talked to Harper in the book, I talked to my two littlest. I asked them, through choking down my weeping, Will Jesus meet you in His goodness even if I fly away to heaven? Like their big sister Harper, they both said he would. Will that feel often impossible? Yes, but is it true—absolutely.

So, in three hours, I wake to one last interview before chemo. I will breakfast carefully with a few girlfriends. I will choose the food I don’t love in case it’s lost in treatment, making me never again to want it. Then I will meet Pastor Carl. He will pray and Shellie will sit by me as I tell her she’s wearing ugly shoes. It’s the truth serum’s fault. She will sit there and mostly watch me sleep. My guy will be quieted by the needle sticking out of my heart. He will need a break for a coffee, and Shellie understands and remains. He has to come home to so much gravity, that the weight of the room becomes a heavy reminder of the coming awful days of recovery.

But we show up, we limp along, we look for the goodness in the tangled-up legs. We breathe each moment, even the awful ones, because we know they are momentary. We swallow the pills to manage the side effects. Because, when I lift from the fog in a few days, there are Lego wheels to be purchased. There are kitchen counters to wipe, there are books to be read and snuggles to be had. And I certainly hope a brisk chill comes that will give me time to be quieted beside a fire.

There are bad days—today will be one of them, but it won’t be without important and good moments. This breath, it matters. So does yours. How are you living the breath you have today well? How are you extending love beyond your comfortable borders? Brave something, not big, not extraordinary, but something good today. Something that lets your beautiful story into the story of another. Do it; your story, in all its brokenness, is beautiful. You have something important to share today. What is it? I can’t wait to hear. Listen to the Holy Spirit and wonder how He would have you love today—BIG giant Jesus love to another, and sometimes it’s something simple. A coffee, a kindness, a hand held. In my case, a foot rub when the nausea is overwhelming. That’s big, fat, beautiful grace love. Tell me—what big and little ways are you called to love today?

Meet me in looking for something tender and beautiful in today? Tell us about it. Did you brave the mountain of laundry? Did you avoid the laundry for a trip to the park? Did ice cream drip down your arm before you could capture it with your tongue? Did a child move towards you in love? Did you drive and play the music loud and joined the chorus in awful, joyful singing? How did love meet you today? How did you extend big love—the overflowing-from-Jesus kind? Not the Kara-said-to-do-it kind. I’ll be in chemo—I would delight to hear your loves big and small. Jason says I can’t reply—the meds they give me… well... You heard… I straight up told Shellie her shoes were ugly. Though in my memory of it, I just thought they looked uncomfortable. But I take their word for it, I remember so little. Yet they love me anyway, mean shoe hatred and all. I don’t deserve such kindness.

I struggled to find sleep last night. I was quietly in my bed praying heavy hearted prayers. Yesterday two mama friends who unexpectedly lost their husbands emailed with me. They honestly shared their burdens. I heard heartbroken text from Marion, NC, of a beloved young man who died in a car crash. These friends braved their broken with me. And we wondered a little over Heaven together. The land of no more tears. The land our finite minds struggle to grasp the infinite—but one day, one day soon we will know it.

This morning I woke to a new video of Brittany and her family. My heart broke for them. I hate cancer. I hurt so for their struggle. Her mama, oh her mama, loves as mamas love. I simply cried as she spoke with a willing heart to love, love, love her treasured daughter—love her however she can love her. Then Brittany broke over the place her life has not been what she expected. She cried hot tears for the children she will not have. She cried for the place her story is not the story she expected. Oh, the pain of the life dreamed compared to the life that is. I cried with her.

Then I rejoiced. People have been over and over saying November 1, November 1. And I rejoiced that she said that day may come and go and she may still be with us. Certainly, her mind is unchanged, and she speaks in the video to being the mouthpiece of a larger campaign. At the end of the video, it was shared that over 50 % of people don’t take the drug. My prayer remains the same: that she would not hasten her death.

Brittany, you are so beautiful, articulate, stunning. Your people love you with a huge love. I regret a sentence I wrote where I said choosing your death would rob those you love of caring for you to that last moment. In those words, I was harsh and not gentle. Will you please forgive me? You are rich in love, it is evident. I always say tears are the evidence of love in our lives. Seeing the tears of your mama, there is so much love for you today.

I woke today in new pain, with new treatment coming Thursday. Big life-altering hard. I will walk into that room thinking of you, Brittany. I will walk out of it thinking of you. I will chop vegetables for my family thinking and praying for you. I will speak to media outlets today thinking and praying for you. You matter. There are countless people praying for you Brittany. Countless. You are heavy on our hearts. I pray you have great good moments in days that are still hard. I pray you can enjoy the simple amazing moments in the small corners of our life. The hand held, the girlfriend giggle, the tears shared. I pray in the frenzy of all that surrounds you, that you would enjoy great beauty and love today.

I woke this morning and felt I needed to read and reread Psalm 139. A psalm that says we were beautifully made. I needed it, because I forget. When I feel awful, meet pain, struggle with discouragement, I need to know I’m seen. I need to hear I’m not hidden from God, but known and loved. And I need my heart to be searched. I need to ask for forgiveness where I have not loved, have not been gentle.

Yesterday, my son painted green paint on my carpet. Permanent green paint. He was making his Halloween costume. I fussed, and sent him to sit on his bed. Then it hit me all at once: who cares about my stained on, messy carpet? I walked to my son’s room and bent down beside his bed and asked him two questions: What is more important? You and I loving each other or my ugly carpet? He said, Our love, Mama. Then I bent my head low and in a quiet voice asked if he would forgive me. He said yes. Then he so humbly apologized for getting paint on the carpet. And all at once new love grew in us. Love that says. You are important, I see you. But this living, this embracing grace, and walking near to Jesus is hard. And when we blow it, there is sweet repentance and endless kisses from my treasured son. So read these words and know you are seen today. Ask God to search you, and be ready to see where you need to ask forgiveness... Then run to it. Embrace broken, humble, low. And be restored, forgiven, redeemed.

I am learning so much in this journey. I know so many of you have mixed feelings over this new conversation about end of life issues. This is an important conversation. But as I was sitting with a girlfriend, I told her what I have learned. Anger accomplishes very little, and being reactionary is painful and often ugly. Our social media world allows us to scream and think our rants aren’t hurting or painful. I have started to privately message those I have felt called to enter this conversation with on my blog. It’s become a beautiful conversation. Life, if anything, is personal. So let’s get personal, friends; let’s not only share our social media selves, but our real selves. There’s a difference you know. Come from behind the screen and meet someone for coffee. Yesterday, my friend was tearful that someone called me creepy. I asked her to privately message that woman and tell her it hurt her heart. And to begin to speak in gentle tones to one another. It matters. It’s an important conversation. Why does this breath I have matter? Why does your breath matter? Let’s talk about it. But please, let’s do it in love.

I read this most beautiful Psalm today. How does it meet you today? How does being intimately known cause you to rejoice today? How are you hiding from that intimate knowing?

I need your prayers today, friends. Please, please pray for me as I enter several interviews. Pray love would be spoken, truth spoken in love, and over all of it—gentleness that comes from Jesus. Pray for my energy. I’m hurting. But I’m here, this breath—it matters.

I spent a lot of last week dreading Friday. When someone would ask me about radiation, I would get a hard knot in my stomach. The previous week as I was speaking, I broke down asking for prayer for the time I would be pinned down in a mask as the stink eye attempted to rid my brain of cancer.

I had entered this room before. I knew what to expect. But this time, the spots were bigger and we were dealing with two places, not one. My first introduction to this machine I had 89 shots of directed radiation, but this time I would be facing nearly 200. And to say this week has been overwhelming would be a gross understatement.

When I arrived for my treatment, the office was buzzing. My letter had been read, heard by these kind workers. I was ushered to the room with my neurosurgeon as well as my radiologist. We spoke of what was happening, our heartbreak. I told the doctors about my letter and they simply joined the conversation. My neurosurgeon had contacted the news agencies. He sat arm and arm with me, committed to my living and my dying in comfort.

Then I was gently ushered to the team that would place me on the machine. Tony took charge, and with great care placed me in the proper position—but not before placing my phone on a loud speaker where I could hear the songs I had chosen for my treatments. We placed my phone, turned on my brain radiation playlist, then Tony pinned my head to the table with great care. He had even cut out the eyes so I wouldn’t feel so confined. He had carefully placed tape over the sharp edges so my face would not be rubbed in any way that was uncomfortable. His intentional care met me; it mattered. His job is important. Then I was left alone in the room with my songs blaring. The kind voice of Tony came over the speaker telling me were getting started just as young Michael came on the speaker singing Beat It. I almost giggled. But I knew my job was to remain still. The cyber knife hits my tumor within a tenth of a centimeter and my motion would halt its important work. I did tap my toe. Here is my brain radiation playlist friends.

I tell you friends, music matters. All week I dreaded entering this room. I simply felt sick over it. But I was met by such kindness from the staff, such care. Then these songs—they simply made the unbearable bearable. Peace was so present. Your prayers met me. Your love and tenderness in prayer met me in what felt impossible. Peace. Peace I never expected. I thought I would scream mercy, I need a break. But I was peaceful for each treatment. I sat peaceful fighting the temptation to sing along with The Beatles, Gungor, Ellie, Rend, Bright Eyes. With each song, I thought of someone to pray for and quietly prayed. Most of my loves will look at a song and know which reminds me of them. Music is such a beautiful gift. The time was spent watching the stink eye surround my head from every angle shooting healing beams, and my silent prayers were heard in that place.

Your care met me. Your prayers mattered. Thank you. I never expected to be walking through what I’m walking through, but I’m not alone. There are a cloud of witnesses looking at me, my heart, this story I’ve been asked to receive. Your love shows up. It meets me in the lonely room where this fight has landed me.

Next week is chemo week. I’m just beginning to feel normal, and I’m about to be knocked down again. But I know you will pray for me. I met with my oncologist last week, and for the first time in months, my tumor markers are moving down. Praise be. They had been climbing and climbing—that is why he called in the big guns of chemo. My numbers are still high, but we high-fived over the numbers coming down. Every little thing is a victory.

You see, in this battle, in this hard battle, I’m partnering with my doctors. It’s an important partnership. So important. Together we lock arms, fight, and one day we will partner in my gentle goodbye. They will comfort me. Walk with me. I have a friend who is a passionate palliative care doctor nearby. He will help us find the right people to walk me toward my last breath. But what they will not do—what they have committed to with the Hippocratic oath—is to hasten my death. And in that commitment, there is much trust. Much.

People are so angry about my letter, unbelievably angry. But very few are unwilling to look at the trust I enjoy with my kind-hearted and committed doctor’s care. Suicide will always be with us. But doctors prescribing it? Well, people don’t want to look honestly about how that will deteriorate the medical community. They simply want to be angry at me for kindly asking Brittany not to take her life. There is a reason 45 states do not allow for assisted suicide. But from the place of healthy people can proclaim that I’m an unkind religious nut. But one day, one day they will want a community committed to their living. I long for these people so bent on calling me names to go to their doctors and have an honest conversation. A gentle conversation.

This is an important conversation, very important. Yesterday, I found someone so angry about my letter, especially people using my letter to express their hearts. I found him on Facebook and asked him to have a kind conversation with me. He agreed and we entered into a kind conversation about my letter. We gently debated. We challenged the presuppositions we both carried in our debate. We spoke in kind tones, and guess what? We became friends. I long for that to be how this conversation moves forward. I long for us to speak in kindness and gently disagree with one another. I do not expect everyone to agree with me—that would be arrogant and prideful to expect. But I do challenge everyone that enters this place to meet one another with kindness. Until this letter conversation, this blog has been a safe place of support of our story. This entire firestorm has invited in people who care little about my journey. But as I entered this conversation, I invited them. So let’s also warmly welcome those that disagree with us.

And I’m here, I’m up for this conversation. I will continue to share the story that brokenness and suffering are not a mistake. My book is a picture of that journey. It’s the story that death and brokenness are meant to be walked with—not avoided.

As a community, we grow in depth and richness as we gently care for the least of these. Death is not simple, not easy, not comfortable, but it matters. Last night I could not join my friends for a birthday dinner of my dear Shellie—as I was anxious about a seizure in public. So guess what? They came and got in bed with me. All of them came and brought me laughter. Their meeting me here mattered. One day they will come snuggle in my bed to a much depleted Kara. They will rub my feet. They will cry prayerful and ugly tears over me. They will quietly and painfully usher me into my next life; and that story, that hard story, will become a beautiful part of their story.

It takes humble courage to look at a hard story and fight to find the beauty.

Are you struggling to find your kind and gentle voice as this debate rages and moves from directions we never expected? How can you enter this important conversation with love today? Pray for me as I continue to share my heart in this hard edge of living.

I love you Shellie—Happy birthday, dear heart. It was a great good day the day you crossed my path. Your love is stunning, your life amazing, your story important. You are a gift. A beautiful gift.

Until this point, I have only shared my journey and the journey of our family. David C Cook granted me the amazing privilege of sharing my journey on a larger scale. It has been an unbelievable journey of seeking grace and living near to Jesus.

When I was asked to write to Brittany, my heart was heavy. My dear friend and I sat on the bed of my daughter quieted by the task before me. We sat and quietly prayed that my words would reflect my heart. My faith. My hope for Brittany. Words have a way of not working when they aren’t expressed with the feelings a face, a touch, a gentle tone can bring. Some of you could hear my heart, sadly some could not. So many have been with me on my journey for so long- you know my heart without a word spoken. But yesterday was the first introduction of so many to my story.

Here is my hope, here is my heart. There are certainly people who vehemently disagree with my stance on this. Can we speak kindly to one another in our disagreement? We are talking about possibly the most tender moment in the life of another; let’s care for one another as we disagree with gentleness.

So many of you are hurting on my behalf for the ugly words that are being spoken. Many of you know I’m sensitive and, frankly, weakened by cancer. Please do not take on an offense on my behalf. If you feel called to confront an unkindness, please do it gently and in love. This is an important conversation. Unbelievably important. It is a conversation that is much bigger than I am, but I feel called to enter it. Yesterday, I sat in the office of my kind-faced oncologist. We were broken over what is happening. He longs to bring healing and comfort. He talked how there is a deep trust in our partnership. As I was leaving, he encouraged me to step out on this topic and be bold. Well, my knees are wobbly, but I’m bringing as much love to this topic as I am able.

And, of course, my faith is intertwined. If I believe something, wouldn’t it be an unkindness for me not to want to share it with another? I believe each breath of Brittany matters, is important, is seen. I want her to know I love her, my faith asks me to share my love. My big love matters. And I pray it will meet her—not the endless unkindness that surround her. This is not a Kara vs. Brittany issue. This is one broken and sick woman looking upon another and saying she matters.

Friends, I must confess. It has always been my practice to read each and every comment. I have to confess I have not been reading them all after my post. There was too much ugly. Too much meanness. So, I have been waiting to feel stronger to read. I’m sorry to all of you that sent love and prayers. They are felt.

One person in their comments meant to be unkind and called me a T-Total evangelist. I smiled a bit at that assessment. I would say before cancer I was a shy evangelist. But now, now that I know there is a limit to my days, I’m giving what was never mine to keep. Why would I hold tightly to this Jesus that asks me to open my hands and pour out His big love. Why? No; I delight that I get this opportunity to share the love I know. If I were in this bed, and you knew unbelievable, overwhelming, overflowing, unbelievable love and you didn’t share it with me… Well friends, I simply can’t be quieted. I have love to share.

Yesterday a friend shared my story and one person replied, Being a suicide interventionist I have held the belief that people have a right to their own death to avoid suffering. This letter may have just changed my mind. Our suffering on earth matters. We are made in His image and are called to be like Christ, does that mean we are called to suffer as Christ suffered? He never avoided his own suffering and death although he too had the power to do so. Oh my soul—a heart tendered. I’m not sure there is anything I have seen more stunning than that. The heart of this one gentleman matters. I’m so thankful I didn’t stop reading comments before I saw his.

Friends, and you are my friends, I know it has been hard to watch people say hurtful things about me. But God is the keeper and protector of my reputation. This a conversation that is important. The grace will be present for us to walk into this hard conversation. We do covet your prayers. How are you being met today in the hard edges of life? How are you being tenderly kept?

Note: friends, in reposting this link, I assume that you are familiar with Brittany's story and know that she is no longer with us. As you read Kara's letter to her, please take some time to pray for Brittany's family as they continue this life without her.

Today I shared a letter to Brittany Maynard on Ann Voskamp’s blog - A Holy Experience.
(Link updated to the Internet Archive as the letter appears to have been removed from Ann Voskamp's blog.)

When I was newly engaged, my fiancé sent me a gorgeous bouquet of red roses to my office. All my female coworkers oohed and aahed over them, but then the tone turned cynical as they warned me to enjoy the romance while it lasted. Every single one of them told me that they couldn’t remember the last time their husband sent them flowers and that the romance in their marriages had long ago died.

As my relationship with Aaron moved forward into marriage, I remembered the women’s advice and couldn’t imagine I’d end up in the same boat. After all, Aaron was SUCH a romantic!! This was the man who surprised me in the middle of our wedding with a song he had written just for the occasion! It was so beautiful I heard sobs during his serenade—from a groomsman! He even secretly recorded it onto CDs beforehand to give the guests as favors, and we danced to it at our reception. I couldn’t imagine a day when Aaron wouldn’t surprise me with flowers or a fun date night or even a dreamy getaway!

But you know what? Those women were right—here I am many years later, and I can’t remember the last time Aaron sent me flowers.

I think about those expectations of romance I had as a young bride. I thought that roses or a poem or a fancy date were evidence of true love. And perhaps they were at that point in our relationship. What I didn’t understand was that as love deepens and life changes, love reveals itself in different, more meaningful ways. Maybe I don’t remember when Aaron last sent flowers, but for the last 5 years, Aaron has worked two jobs so that I could stay home with our children. He has worked 6 days a week, never complaining, always praising God for his provision even though I know he is weary much of the time. And despite that weariness, he insists on putting our babies to bed every. single. night. He brushes their teeth and gives them their asthma medicine. He puts their pajamas on and makes sure they’ve gone potty. He tells them the gospel story and prays with them, and then he cuddles them and smooches them and tucks them in. And that to me is worth more than all the flowers in the world. When Aaron comes out of the nursery, a tired smile on his face, chuckling over something one of our babies said—that is worth more than all the roses in the world. I could go on about all of the ways he selflessly loves me. The beauty of Aaron’s love overwhelms even the most exquisite rose.

I laugh that I once thought red roses were so important, the pinnacle of love. I didn’t understand what love really is—sacrifice and selflessness, compassion and kindness, forgiveness and commitment. Roses fit in there somewhere, I’m sure, but they’re at the bottom of my list these days.

Oh, how expectations can damage relationships! Just this past Christmas, I had asked for a new FitBit; my old one was on its way out, and I was eager to upgrade. So I was surprised when Aaron didn’t ask me what kind I wanted or anything. On Christmas morning, none of my gifts matched the description of a FitBit box. Hmmm. I opened a gift from Aaron—a cordless phone charger, which was very cool—but then all that was left to open was my gift from my sweet little boy. Every Christmas and birthday, Von wants to shop for me at my favorite downtown shop, Terra Verde. This Christmas was no different, and it turned out that when Aaron took him, Von picked out such a sweet and perfect gift that Aaron couldn’t say no, and he allowed our 5-year old to spend the rest of his Christmas budget!

I looked at this necklace, such an extravagant gift, and I looked at my little boy’s happy face, so eager to please his mama, and I looked at my husband, grinning at the entire situation. Part of me wanted to hold onto my expectations, but by God’s grace I realized that Aaron saw a bigger picture: an opportunity to enable his son to love his mama lavishly, an opportunity to give his wife a gift of beauty that overshadowed a silly FitBit, an opportunity to be an example to his son of generosity. My petty expectations paled and my heart filled with gratitude. I will have this necklace long after any FitBit, and I will treasure it all my days as I cherish the love of my boy and my husband.

In a similar way, I carry expectations of God that are not only unfair but that do his love for me a serious injustice. It reminds me of the story of Lazarus in the Gospel of John, chapter 11. Lazarus, Jesus’ dear friend, has fallen ill, but when Jesus hears the news, he doesn’t go to him; he instead stays out of town. He eventually returns, but only after Lazarus has been in the tomb for 4 days. Four days! And when he gets there, Lazarus’ sister, Martha, says to Jesus, Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. Later on, Lazarus’ other sister, Mary, says the same thing: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

I can’t even imagine their disappointment. They knew that if Jesus had been there, he could have healed their brother. I picture them holding space for Lazarus in his last days, praying for Jesus to come, assuring their brother that Jesus will show up, imagining him arriving and touching Lazarus ever so gently, anticipating laughing with joy as Lazarus sits up in full health. I picture the feast Martha imagines preparing in celebration, her smiling eyes forgiving Mary’s lack of assistance in the kitchen as she tends to their brother instead. But none of those dreams—those expectations—were fulfilled. They must have been shocked that Jesus didn’t come. Devastated. They had sent word to him, surely he would come! When he finally does show up and weep with his friends, members of the community say, Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man also have kept this man from dying?

Oh, how we all have expectations of God and what we think he should do for us!

Jesus does in fact have plans to heal Lazarus, but in a bigger way—by raising him from the dead! As he explains to his disciples, it is an occasion to show God’s glory by glorifying God’s Son (v 4). We can only speculate the crowd’s response, except as Jesus is raising Lazarus, he prays that they will believe that God has indeed sent Jesus. Surely many believed that day, and those who already believed had deepened faith that day. Faith that was deepened in incredible, profound ways!

I imagine Mary, Martha, and Lazarus sitting around the fire telling and retelling this story into their old age, Mary and Martha laughing as they remember what they said to Jesus: Remember when I said to him, If only you had been here?! I was so mad at him! If only I had known his glorious plans! The big ways he was going to love us, how he was going to draw so many to him! I held him to my expectations, and yet my expectations were so small!

I find myself holding God to my expectations so often. I make demands and hold onto what I think is the best gift God could give me without considering that he could have something so much sweeter, lavisher, glorious in mind. And then when I don’t get what I think I want, I get angry. Ugh. When has God ever let me down? When has he ever failed me or any of his children? When has he ever done anything that was outside of beauty, faithfulness, or compassion? Never. My faith is so small.

The verse I’ve chosen to meditate on this year is Psalm 37:3:

I love this idea of befriending faithfulness, but I love that before that are the instructions to trust and dwell. In fact, this Psalm is full of similar commands: delight, commit, trust, be still, fret not, wait, behold, and of course, befriend. Nowhere does it say to cling to expectations or make demands. Instead, they’re all quiet acts of the heart that move toward believing that God loves me, that God has something bigger in mind—bigger than my petty expectations. Bigger than Mary and Martha’s hopes, too! Just as Jesus blew their expectations out of the water, I can trust that he will blow mine out of the water, too. Maybe not right now, but the time will come, and it will be perfect. He won’t just put a bandaid on my brokenness and heal me in the limited ways I can comprehend—he will restore me fully, redeeming my pain and making it come undone. Will I trust his love? Will I walk in his grace? Will you join me in this journey of faith?

This weekend was a gift. God was gracious to give me the strength to speak in three different sessions. I’m so unbelievably thankful. For me, I felt so blessed to hear three beautiful testimonies from dear sisters. I asked my amazing Blythe if she would speak on our call as followers of Jesus to build community. I asked her to speak from the heart of an introvert. I knew it would be silly, as an extrovert, to ask everyone in the room to join me in community building. And somewhere in our culture, we have decided introverts get a pass on building community. So I asked my dear introverted community builder to partner with me in asking women to build meaningful community together. Blythe is a gift. A gift to our community, and a gift straight to my heart. She has spent the day loving me through texts. She has spent the day capturing my weary heart in texts today. I love you, Blythe. I asked her if I could have her transcript to share; she graciously obliged. Read and be blessed.

From Blythe

Like many of my stories, the story of my introversion begins with my mother. Just as she birthed me into this world, my stories are birthed from this woman whose constant presence gives my young childhood context.Mamma was an extreme extrovert—a Kara extrovert. The kind that exhausts you just from watching her approach people, engage people, make them smile and laugh. Mamma made BFFs with the lady next to her in line at the grocery store, learned our waitresses’ life stories over the course of dinner, won hearts over at PTA meetings with her quick wit, charmed Daddy’s bosses and coworkers with her poise. But more than the obvious social implications of being an extrovert, she used it to create an entire ministry of safety for other women.

My understanding of womanhood begins with Mother and how her behavior modeled grownupness to me. I thought being a woman meant hosting lots of parties and events, welcoming ladies into your home where there was always a pot of hot coffee waiting, and making sure everyone in your home felt safe and valued.

In truth, she was modeling Christianity. Not that Christians have to throw lots of parties, but she showed me the essence of being winsome, inviting, engaging, safe. Mother took the biblical calling of pursuing others seriously, and she used her extroversion to further that pursuit.

Have you ever taken one of those personality quizzes to find out if you are an extrovert or an introvert (as if you didn’t already know!)? There is always a question about how you enter a party—do you instantly become the life of the party, talking to everyone? Do you seek out a few people you know to hang out with? Or, like me, do you retreat to a dark corner, counting the minutes until you can leave?

I was so shy as a child some of my earliest memories are very dark. They are dark because I spent a great deal of time with my head up Mamma’s skirt or blouse. I don’t remember her wearing shirts—I think she exclusively wore blouses; it was the early 80s, after all.

At some point I stopped hiding in Mother’s blouse, but she remained my safe place. Mamma never shamed me for being shy. She never told me I was wrong to want to hide from people; she seemed to understand the physicality of the fear that gripped me when faced with an unsafe social situation, how I froze in trepidation in certain settings. And although she never shamed me, I felt less-than because I was shy. An introvert. Mother had an entire ministry based on her extroversion and her ability to reach out to others. I saw her create a safe place both literally and figuratively for hundreds of women throughout my childhood. She always knew what to say, how to say it. And she spoke with confidence and boldness—a certainty that reaching out to someone in love was always the right thing to do. She was my primary role model; I knew from a young age I wanted to be a safe place for others, but how could I embrace other women if I could barely make small talk with the checker at Target?

If you are a friend of Kara’s or a reader of her blog, I’m pretty sure you’ve had a thought like this at some point over the last couple of years: If I got sick, who would care for me like Kara’s friends have cared for her? In my case, I probably have four or five friends I could count on. Kara seems to have four or five hundred. It’s wonderful! She knows how to create community by reaching out in honesty.

I know how to sit in my house alone with my book, eating pumpkin bread.

I’m just kidding. I know how to create community, too! I may hide when the doorbell rings, struggle to make eye contact with you at church, and choke down fear if you actually talk to me, but one thing I have in common with my mother and with Kara—I know and understand the importance of community, of friendship, of safety, of love. Those things don’t happen in isolation. I have learned—the hard way—that I can’t sit with my pumpkin bread in my cozy bungalow and expect community to happen. I can’t blame others for not reaching out when I have cowered from attempts in the past and am unwilling to move toward people. I can’t expect others to do all the work of relationship until I somehow magically feel safe enough to reach out.

What I have learned is that community doesn’t happen on its own. Extroverts aren’t exclusively called to reach out to others. Shyness is never mentioned in the Bible, nor is introversion a spiritual gift. Extroversion is not a spiritual gift, either.

If you are a Christian, you are called, through Scripture, to reach out to others, to love them, pursue them, befriend them, care for them. This is not an easy calling; it is risky and involves being vulnerable, sharing your heart before you’re certain it’s safe to do so, facing the possibility of rejection. As Kara can tell you, being an extrovert does not make taking these risks any easier, and as I can tell you, being an introvert does not give me an excuse to not take these risks.

What being an introvert does do is give me special insight into a certain kind of person—I understand the child who can’t bear to make eye contact, the man at church who breaks out in a sweat during the greeting time, the woman at lunch at the retreat who is painfully awkward at chatting with the other women at her table.

This, my friends, is God redeeming my introversion. He has shown me that this quality has purpose in the insights it has given me into others, the compassion and empathy I have for certain people, the courage I muster from understanding the unbearable shyness some people deal with. Introversion doesn’t let me off the hook; it calls me to whisper into the quiet places of quiet women’s hearts. What a gift and a joy. This privilege of safe-keeping women’s hearts trumps my fear of engaging.

Watching my mother taught me something very important—how to love others. I probably won’t learn my waitress’s life story, but when I go to a party, I will always notice the person hiding in the corner.

Yesterday was hard. Harder than I remember. But I made it through. I had remembered the man that made the mask was kind. Brent helped me stay calm, and spoke of Jesus and kindness to get me through. The mask is tough, tight, and it’s clipped onto the table. The second time around felt harder. I was talking myself off a steep cliff yesterday. But I just whispered quiet prayers and prayed the time would quickly pass. Oh time, I want it so much to slow, but it’s screaming by me. Then I get in a mask, pinned down, and time moves like molasses.

Oh, the snorts of my life. The endless snorts. They are awful and they are a gift of modern medicine.

This is the face of this battle. These are the hard moments on good days.

But then it was done. And Brent and I were talking about Jesus. It mattered. We found laughter on a hard day. But it is hard. Next week I will be pinned to a table and the shooting rays will work to kill the cancer in my brain. It’s crazy, it’s amazing, it’s scary, and it will give me more breaths. So I walk through and not around the hard. Through and not around—around is sometimes so tempting. Around sometimes looks so appealing.

Friends, would you please pray for me. I am speaking at a retreat on Saturday. It’s my version of a marathon. There are a team of ladies to help shepherd me through the day. I have felt called to this retreat for almost a year. With each new diagnosis, one of my first thoughts was always, I still think I’m called to do this retreat. My dear Terra and I would text. She would hear the new news, and I would simply text, I may not be here, but I feel I’m supposed to do the retreat. She would text and respond that she felt the same. I love her for her diligent work on this weekend. I love her for her confidence in this broken lady. I simply just love Terra Fisk because of how beautifully Jesus made her. But please do pray for me Saturday, pray for the ladies in attendance, pray we would all see Jesus. It will be a long and wonderful day.

Daddy was a man of few words, so I was filling the silence in the car (where were we going? I don’t remember and it didn’t seem to matter!) with my 10-year-old ramblings. Finally, after having run out of stories for him, I sighed happily, leaning back into the bench seat of the old station wagon. I looked over at him, his eyes focused on the road, his mind singularly focused on his task as always. The sun was shining brightly, matching my mood, and I remember never wanting it to set, never wanting the moment or the day to end. I was overwhelmed with admiration for this man I loved so much. I wanted to tell him, but I wasn’t sure how, so I complimented him with the first thing that came to mind.

Daddy, I like how your eyes wrinkle at the corners when you smile!

Daddy’s head snapped out of its steady posture and he uncharacteristically looked into the rearview mirror, moving it with his right hand to get a better look. He forced a smile so he could see these wrinkles. He didn’t say a word, but I sensed that my well-meaning compliment wasn’t taken as intended. That maybe those wrinkles I admired so much, those wrinkles that represented happiness and joy to me, represented something unhappy to him.

I started noticing similar things with Mamma, too, like how mad she was when her friends threw her a surprise over-the-hill party for her 40th birthday. She pretended to like it, but I could see the flash in her eyes, and she had a lot of sharp retorts for the jokes that the party guests made.

My parents couldn’t have known then that they only had 10 more years to live. I sometimes wonder if their perspectives about eye wrinkles and turning 40 would have been different if they had known.

I remember sitting on a grassy lawn with Kara at a baptism party shortly after her diagnosis had become terminal. She was fighting for joy, fighting for time. Some women wandered over and we chatted for a bit. One lady’s appearance was complimented and she responded with a self-deprecating remark about the fine lines around her eyes. After she walked away, Kara turned to me with tears falling. I pray I will live long enough to have laugh lines. I will never complain about wrinkles. I would love to have wrinkles.

We talked that day about her turning 40. Oh, how she wanted to live to be 40! That conversation was agonizing. She seemed so well that afternoon, and I couldn’t imagine her not living that long—it was only a few short years away. I prayed with all my heart that God would grant her this one small thing. I laughed to myself about the party she would throw herself and the hundreds of people who would attend. How loud and raucous she would be, praising God for sparing her to 40.

Of course, that party never happened, that day never arrived. We did have a celebration for her last birthday, and we celebrated with great joy, but my heart had an underlying sadness, knowing it was likely her last birthday on earth.

This morning I did a double take after washing my hands and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I have to admit I’m not one to analyze my face much—I’m lucky to get my teeth brushed and my hair pulled back before running to get my son to kindergarten in the mornings. Then I’m back to ready my daughter for preschool and once she’s gone, I have just enough time for yoga, time in the Word, and some housework before my babies come home. And, again, if I’m lucky I can shower or at least change out of my yoga pants before Aaron gets home from work.

But this morning…that double take…You know what prompted it? The sight of laugh lines when I wasn’t laughing. They stopped me in my tracks and I curiously stepped back to the mirror to take a better look. I smiled and then relaxed my face. Smile, relax. Yes, those were for sure laugh lines. I thought back to my conversation with Daddy. I am the same age he was when I pointed out those crinkles I admired so much, the same age as Mamma when her friends celebrated her milestone, much to her chagrin, the age that Kara desperately wanted to achieve.

What’s in an age? Not much except the opportunity to experience God’s grace each day he’s blessed us to live. I’m 40 years old, and I’ve got those laugh lines Kara wanted. And you know, they aren’t all from laughing, because I’m pretty sure I earned many of them from crying, too. But that’s the thing—I earned those lines. Every day I’ve been on this earth, laughing or crying, fighting to trust God and to believe his love for me, seeking grace in my grief and in the mundane, those lines have crept onto my human face made of clay, proving the great effort and tender frailty of being a mere mortal.

And I wouldn’t trade that fragility or those battles of fighting for grace for anything because they have just brought me that much closer to God’s lavish love. And those wrinkles? Well, friends, they are my proof, my battle scars in this war for accepting his grace for my broken heart. Won’t you join me in this bittersweet battle, crinkles and all?

I’m fighting to get out of bed this morning. Today, today my head is fitted for a mask to battle my brain cancer. We have to re-look under my skull to see if my cancer has grown in the 2 weeks I opted for chemo first. Every pain, every headache, the fear of larger brain tumors fills me with dread. But, the grace, the big and little grace in each moment keeps me looking for hope. A daughter of a dear friend wrote a paper for school about me. My friend shot a picture of it and sent it to me last night. That a young woman would see my story and see my fight for hope—well, that’s just goodness prompting me to get my behind out of bed this morning.

Hope is always there, but sometimes I have to dig deeper to find it. Sometimes I need your help to point me the right direction. Cancer in your brain, well, that can deflate the most light of spirits. Each morning I’m waking to an inbox full of love, reviews of The Hardest Peace that take my breath away, and countless prayers for my heart. I’m blessed, but this journey is hard. So hard.

Today, I see about my brain. Today, I meet with a doc interested in helping me manage my pain. Then tonight, tonight, tonight!!!!! I get to go to one of the last Red Rocks shows of the year. A dear friend and reader bought me tickets to take my people to a concert. I was feeling anxious about how I would manage it, and then an old high school friend decided to jump in a car and drive to my side. I asked her if she would mind driving the bigs and me to a concert at Red Rocks. So tonight, I get to end this hard day at my happy place listening to Christian bands proclaim the words in song I need to hear. Shhh…the girls don’t know yet. But I will have a sweet old friend by my side, my girls near, and music I love in the greatest venue that ever was.... Now let’s hope I can climb the endless stairs. I bet I can. Because some things are just worth the effort beyond how you feel. Red Rocks is that place for me.

My friend posted this picture of our goodnight kisses and snuggles. I simply love this picture. Love it. Here is the essence of the very best of life still met at the bottom of me. In this photo, I’m desperately sick, but love is still present. This moment matters. The echoes of this moment will be sounded into the entire life of my children. My children know they are wanted, longed for, prayed for, loved. In these enormous little moments, the best of our life is lived. Not when the vacation finally rolls around, not when the job improves, the diagnosis gets better.... No—this small moment captured is linked with a thousand other small moments. These small moments will grow my children tall in knowing love, experiencing love, and knowing how treasured they are. These moments will not protect them from the hard in their own stories, but it will grow in them a depth of love that will help them walk through and not around the hard in their stories.

In a moment of tickles and joy, a child feels they are treasured. So often we are fighting for moments alone, but pressing toward moving near our little loves in grace and joy is our great high calling. I get it—I know the desire for the quiet moment alone doing nothing...But when God grants the grace to move past ourselves and into the simple moments of love—well, that’s stunning. Beautiful. Worthy of the fight.

How are you being called to big love today? I cannot stop thinking how Paul, in Philippians, asks the church to abound more and more in love. What is more to you? More love that only God can grow in the stagnant crevices of your living and loving? Is it preparing the meal, kissing the man, snuggling the baby, playing the awful Candyland one more time? How is God calling you beyond your felt comfort and into the strength of His big love in little moments? I still feel so small today, but God is capable of growing big GIANT love into my story. I can listen to the hearts of my loves and pray for the grace to love them well beyond how I feel. Join me. I get it—alone feels so good, quiet delicious, but what if we move beyond our own longings and meet a neighbor that’s hurting? Embracing these small moments is no simple journey. We love our comfort. But wouldn’t it be amazing if we all stepped outside of our comfort to love another today? It would make tomorrow a bit more bearable.... I double, triple-dog dare you! Tell us: how are you being called to bigger love in a little moment today?

It is with the humblest of hearts that the entire Mundane Faithfulness team thanks you for your gracious, lavish donations you have generously contributed since our post explaining our financial situation. We weren’t prepared for the overwhelming emotions we would experience seeing the emails coming in one after another from PayPal notifying us of your gifts. Friends, we not only have enough funds to sustain this sacred space until we can finish posting Kara’s original blogs, we have enough funds to host the blog for quite a while after that! Reading the beautiful notes accompanying your donations was precious—thank you for your kind, life-giving words.

Some of you have asked about specific numbers regarding what it costs to run the blog. We aren’t necessarily opposed to sharing those numbers, but after prayerful consideration, we decided as a team not to post the info so you wouldn’t feel that we were asking you to give out of any sense of obligation. We trust and pray that you have given out of joy for how Kara’s story has touched your hearts.

Finally, while we are working diligently to honor Kara’s wish to post her original blog posts, we want to remind you that shortly after she died, her talented editor compiled a collection of her blog posts in book form called And It Was Beautiful. It doesn’t include all of her articles, but it is a lovely compilation that tells Kara’s story well in completion.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. For your generosity, for your prayers, for your kindness, and most of all for joining us on this journey of looking for grace in the mundane. How well Kara is being honored in this beautiful place.

While on a date at a Dubai mall years ago, Gloria and I lost our car. We thought it was stolen as we searched the mall parking garage for over an hour. Only later did we realize we were simply on the wrong level. But that was nothing compared to the time we lost our car in Spain. We were with a short-term outreach team and had parked our car in downtown Málaga. After eating dinner with the team, we walked out to the car, but it wasn’t where we thought it should be. We looked around and asked everyone we could. Each person sent us to another person and then another. Eventually we visited a police department who then sent us to another police office. We were so sure that the city was playing a practical joke on us!

Eventually the police sent us on what felt like a scavenger car hunt to the other side of the city. And there we found our car— clear across town in a portion of a parking garage that looked like car prison. Our vehicle was literally in a car jail cell. Apparently we had parked somewhere we shouldn’t have, and the car had been towed away. We were expecting a huge fine, but we simply paid a few euros and purchased a normal parking ticket. We rescued our vehicle and arrived at our hotel safe and sound just after 3 a.m. Apparently losing cars is not too hard to do (at least for my wife and me).

You probably have similar stories about losing valuable things. Hurting friend, I want to focus on a truth that has held me tight in the dark nights of my soul: God never loses us.

The Inheritance

In 1 Peter 1 the apostle directs our hearts and minds to this diamond of a truth. Peter writes:

God will never lose you. He will never, ever, ever lose you. This a breathtaking truth.

Peter is not speaking of an earthly inheritance that parents pass down to children. He is not talking about an estate or a fancy gold necklace. These inheritances often get lost or damaged. Peter doesn’t tell us exactly what the inheritance will be, but he describes it as imperishable. It’s unable to decay. It’s indestructible. It’s also undefiled, unable to be stained or ruined. And it’s unfading. This inheritance can’t lose its value like an earthly estate might. It’s not subject to the volatile ups and downs of the stock market or the shrewdness of our investing strategies. It will never lose its value because God himself is keeping it for us in heaven.

The Bible also shows us specifically how God keeps this inheritance for us:

The Spirit does at least two things after we believe in Christ. First, we are sealed with the Holy Spirit. This is the image of a king sealing a royal document by pressing his signet ring into wax, leaving his impression of royal authority. In a way, the Spirit is the signet ring of our triune God. He makes a mark on our souls, showing God’s ownership of us. A seal can describe protection against outsiders. You seal your house and lock it up before leaving for vacation. You seal your envelope before putting it in the mail. Christians are sealed by God against the Devil and his schemes. We are protected by the King.[1]

Second, the Spirit is the guarantee of our inheritance. The term guarantee comes from commercial and business language. It’s similar to the idea of a deposit. You might pay a deposit when you purchase a home. You sign the contract and leave a guarantee to show your intention to pay everything you owe for the home. It’s a pledge or a promise. But while there are times when we may fail on our promises, the Holy Spirit never reneges on his promises. God is unable to go back on his word. He promises to finish what he has begun. This heavenly inheritance is guaranteed.[2]

The Perseverance of the Savior

If you’re a child of God, you can be sure that he will keep you to the end because he will do it through his strength, not yours. The very next verse in 1 Peter 1 tells us that we “by God’s power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time” (1 Pet. 1:5).

Even as you endure the most horrible pain imaginable, you are being held together through God’s power and guarded by him. The word guarded can be translated “protected.” It is the word used to describe the construction of garrisons in a city to protect it from its enemies.[3] This is what God is doing for all believers. He has put a wall of defense around each of our lives and is guarding our salvation. He is protecting our faith with the best defense system in the universe. It has a perfect success rate. He has never lost one of his heirs.

It is incredibly encouraging that we persevere because of God. You might feel utterly powerless in your affliction. You may think you don’t have the strength to hold on to your faith. You can hardly make it through a day keeping yourself together. The crushing power of the waves of trial leave you without stamina to keep fighting. You are depressed and lonely. You are broken and sense that you’re losing your grip on life and there is no way you can endure any longer. But friend, God won’t lose you! Some theologians call this doctrine “the perseverance of the saints,” but R. C. Sproul explains that this doctrine could better be called the “preservation of the saints.”[4] Sproul is saying that we don’t persevere in our own strength, but God preserves us in his strength. It’s really the perseverance of the Savior. God won’t stop short of bringing his children home.

We are being guarded through faith, by God’s power. Even our faith is from God. It is a gift. Some of you are struggling through tough times and thinking, “I don’t know if I can hold on to God.” In the midst of your trials don’t miss that he’s holding on to you. The same God who keeps our inheritance also keeps us for our inheritance. Our church’s statement of faith says this about believers: “A special providence watches over their welfare and they are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation.” In a special providence of God we are protected until the fullness of our salvation is revealed at the end. He will have this salvation ready. We can do nothing to prepare it. There is no need for us to come alongside God as consultants in designing it. Disease and depression don’t render us disqualified. Persecution and even martyrdom won’t separate us from God. No sickness, no evil, no injustice, and no pain can keep us from God.

Nothing can separate us from the love of Christ. Nothing. Our hope is grounded in the past (Christ’s death and resurrection) and assured in the future (our undefiled inheritance), which gives us hope in the present.

Content taken from Kiss the Wave: Embracing God in Your Trials by David Furman, ©2018. Used by permission of Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers, Wheaton, Il 60187, www.crossway.org.

[1] R. C. Sproul, What Is Reformed Theology? (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 1997), 202.

[2] Ibid, 201.

[3] T. R Schreiner, 1, 2 Peter, Jude in The New American Commentary, vol. 37 (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 2003), 64.

[4] Sproul, What Is Reformed Theology?, 210.

Dave Furman (ThM, Dallas Theological Seminary) serves as senior pastor of Redeemer Church of Dubai in the United Arab Emirates, which he helped plant in 2010. He previously served in various churches in the United States. More than ten years ago, Dave developed a nerve disease and struggles with disability in both arms. He is the author of Kiss the Wave: Embracing God in Your Trials and Being There: How to Love Those Who Are Hurting.

Friday was a night I will carry with me forever. Forever. I entered a room full of so much love I could not take it in. I struggled to look into the audience, because I could not understand this room filled with people coming to hear my feeble words trying to express love unending. Honestly, it is not mine to take in—the words are not mine. I’m simply the one that has the pleasure of sharing them. I entered, I tried to look up, but I could not. So I let my gaze fall on the front row. The row I know well. My loves. My family, and dear friends to my family. I could look there. But the room, oh my soul, there was so much love in the room Friday night. It was unbelievably humbling.

Before we started, my dear Carl and his lovely Marti came and prayed for my frayed nerves. They prayed gentle words of longing for Jesus to be seen, known, felt in this place. They gently shepherded me in prayer onto the stage.

First my dear friend Lisa Anderson came and loved the room with her joy and gift in speaking and untying all the knots everyone came carrying. Lisa is a gift of joy and honesty in living. I am thankful to know her.

She photographed the audience, and brought sweet laughter to the evening. She welcomed me with grace, and I entered the room ready to share my heart.

This book, this book, this book is such a dream I never let myself dream. When I was approached to write this book, the publisher asked me who else had contacted me to write; my drink almost came out my nose when they asked me that. Seriously? Jason and I giggled after over how I almost choked to death as I was talking about writing a book. But what a gift, what a gift to get to share my heart in a book. To write about the edges of life that have met me, and the amazing ways Jesus has redeemed this broken woman. I cannot express the gift it has been to write this book.

I had a dear friend write me to prepare me for my book to not do well. It was a grace, a kindness, a love to let me hear that my story shared matters—even if a single copy doesn’t sell. He’s right. I did not write for hope of great sales, but I wrote to leave something behind. Something that matters. My heart. My heart in words, and if only my loves get a copy, I’m pleased.

But you dear gifts, you dear amazing gifts. You bought my books, piles of these books. Books to read, books to share with the broken, books to remind you of Jesus and His great goodness...I could not take in the gifts of your love meeting me at the table. Over and over telling me how you are living in the big love of Jesus and extending that love in your life. Though I would like to, I cannot take a bit of credit. God has done the stunning work in your lives. I cannot believe I get to witness it. It’s simply breathtaking. I’m simply a steward of words. God, through His Spirit, is the one affecting change in your beautiful hearts. As I was praying about what to share, a very clear thought came to me. In that room full of love, in that room filled with support of our story, our family, our community, I wanted four little people to hear from their mama. I wanted, in that moment, for the four little people in their life hear their mama cherish and treasure them. So I decided to brave the letter I wrote to them on the stage. Trust me, I practiced and practiced. I thought I could do it. And I suppose I did, but I wept through the reading. And when I finished, my dear Story Jane brought me a tissue. Jason said all the children cried. And I treasure those tears. Tears of sadness that their mama is sick, but also tears of knowing they are fiercely loved. But the fierce love comes from the greater love that will meet them after my last breath. The big, full, true, faithful, merciful, gracious, pursuing love of Jesus that will draw them in to grace long past my last breath.

Then I sat and heard truth in song. I listened to the words and sang as tears fell down my face. I am known, I am kept, and it is well. It truly is well with me.

Then I had the pleasure of meeting so many of you dear friends. Friends I know, friends from years past, friends I have never met. What a gift Friday was to my heart. What a gift. I could not believe every book was sold. I’m sorry for you dear friends that didn’t get a copy. Mardel is planning another book signing at their store. I would love to meet you if I didn’t get a chance to meet you Friday. I will be sharing that event once it’s planned. So many of you were so kind and patient to wait. I loved the tears so many of you shared with me and the stories I could capture. What an evening. What an amazing evening. Thank you, friends.

Jen Lints, thank you for capturing the evening so well. Mary, thank you for your gentle care of me. Jennifer Allison and the entire DCC team, thank you. You will never know. What a night. What a night.

When my chemo dates changed, I was so anxious I would not be able to make it through Friday. Jason assured me that Friday I would still be strong from the IV steroids they gave me with my chemo. He was right. I not only felt strong, I felt present. Then Saturday and Sunday came like a wrecking ball. But in the bottom, I thought of the joy that I captured Friday. It was a low weekend, but it was less low because of ya’ll. Thank you. You cannot know. Mary simply snuggled me in bed and loved us at the bottom. What a gift she is to my heart. Such love, such amazing love I know on this journey. Grace, love unearned, but love that is simply lavished upon us in our bottom. Thank you, friends. Thank you for sharing this story, these words, my very heart. I cherish you.

As the MF team has struggled to get into the 2018 groove (thank you, tummy bug, post-Christmas-letdown, and general anxiety from not measuring up to the self-imposed expectations I experience every time I get a letter from my kid’s preschool), we have come face to face with what we knew was inevitable: Mundane Faithfulness has run out of money (I originally typed fun out of money, which I wish were the case instead!).

In the past, we have relied on the generosity of businesses to purchase ad space to sustain us, but after we were swindled by our third-party ad company, we stopped offering ad space and prayed that the Google/Amazon sidebar ads would be enough; they help a little, but don’t cover the cost of maintaining Mundane Faithfulness.

Some of you are probably surprised to hear that running a blog costs money! We have three basic expenses:

1.     Domain name renewal--the right to use mundanefaithfulness.com.

2.     Hosting of website--rent, basically, to host the blog online.

3.     MadMimi--a subscription service that sends the emails out each time we post.

If you are reading this post because you received an email, this will be the last email you receive until we can afford to continue the subscription; we will continue posting (HUGE guest blog coming next week!!), but you just won’t get the email notices.

Kara’s hope for Mundane Faithfulness was twofold: that it would be a platform for her friends and family to write, and that we would be able to finish posting all of her blog entries. Some of you remember when her original blog crashed, losing all its content back in 2015!! That was devastating, and we’ve been working to get all of her original work back up, one post at a time as we edit them and locate the original pictures that correspond to them.

Anyway, we’d like to humbly invite you all to share in Kara’s Mundane Faithfulness legacy. We extend this invitation with prayer and hope, knowing that the Lord is sovereign and the ultimate owner of this sweet, safe place where we have all found Grace.

We are embedding a Paypal button in the next several blog posts so that if you feel led by the Lord, you can donate to help keep us going (this will not be tax deductible, as we are a simple blog, not a 501c3). Thank you for your prayerful consideration; we would love your prayers even if you are not able to give. We always, always love your prayers.

Thank you so much for being on this journey of grace with us—we love seeking grace with you.

We crowded our table with families that are partnering with us in life, in brokenness, in limping together to the gospel and looking to our dear Jesus together. Last night we all braved hard, shared burdens, admitted to the struggles we have faced and by God’s amazing grace come through. We shared the edges and the fog within which we all still struggle. We ended in prayer, and by the end my spine and my hip were screaming in such pain I had to leave the room. Tears were coming on their own as the pain was so great.

Then the kids ran upstairs and quickly readied for bed and came eagerly to my room to hear the end of Harry Potter. I was grumpy and struggling with angry edges from the great pain. I looked desperately at my kids and said I couldn’t. I saw a deep disappointment in their faces. But all at once, the pain lessened. I called the kids to return, and I repented my unkindness. Then we all snuggled close and listened to the end of our book. There is a stunning part I have to share. Harry could not understand why he was not destroyed. Destroyed as a baby, and destroyed as he faced Voldemort. And the answer Albus Dumbledore gives him is stunning. I could hardly choke out the words. Because the words are also my words, my hope, my love.

Harry asks: Why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?

Dumbledore sweetly answers, Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign.... to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marred by something so good.

Isn’t that beautiful? Though this is obviously a fantasy story, it rings of truth. Love changes us, it changes those we extent our love to, it is amazing the power it has to change a hardened heart. Love, simple love matters. But we must allow ourselves to first be loved well by Jesus, and from that knowing, receiving, accepting the generous, undeserved love of God, we can brave loving the hardest of hearts. Love—I don’t think I’ll ever come to an end of talking about it. Love and repentance. What a gift they both are. Jesus showed up last night. He helped back off the pain, helped me repent my snappy attitude, and move in love. It’s a fight. It’s not simple. No, hard things never are. But worthy, how worthy is a life fighting for love.

Trust me, friends, I write a lot about love and kindness. I write so often because I need reminding. I can get lost in my own sorrow, my own fears and shame. I can become consumed with my own story and forget to look for moments to meet another in their story. I may write about these lovely moments, but I struggle just like you to fight my own desires, my own selfishness, my own pain to meet another in love. I love comfort just like you. I love ease just like you. I love quiet and peace. I love it. Some days forget to fight for kindness so I come here to be reminded to look for love to fight for kindness to remember my great calling to love BIG as a mama is able to love. To press past my own strength in loving and my own limitations in loving and move into God’s big abundant love. That’s the love that will last, that will sustain my loves. Passing on the love of God—it’s bigger than my limp and selfish love. That BIG love will go on forever and ever, amen. I blow it often, but in that place there is repentance and forgiveness. May you meet them both today.

Today my oldest was on fall break, and we ran all over town trying to tighten up all the loose ends before chemo has me down for the count. We stopped by the office of my publisher David C Cook, and their foyer is breathtaking. She stood right in front of me our eyes meeting. Her height has been shocking to me lately. She’s about to be taller than me. She’s a beauty. Beautiful in the way love has made her beautiful.

She hugged me as we stood waiting. Hugged me without embarrassment that she was loving her mama in front of strangers. I looked at her squarely and asked her if she could feel my love. She answered in the affirmative. I told her that my love would always be with her, even in the places I may not be with her. That the Bible says, Love never ends. And this love, this amazing love I feel towards my people, towards you, in this breath, it will not end. It’s bathed in the love Jesus has for me. His overflowing love that extends itself through my broken body will last forever. And ever.

Then our friends at David C Cook that have loved us so well came and spoke to us about the book. We all stood awed by what God is doing through our brokenness. We are all humbled. Then my dear publicist, Lisa Beech, asked if we could pray together. As she started to pray, my daughter grabbed my hand. As Lisa was praying, my dear Ella tapped once, then she tapped four times on my hand, and after a pause tapped my hand three times. Our secret code for I love you (1.4.3). So much goodness and grace. So much. It’s beautiful really.

These moments, these little moments, quietly loving another matter. No one is watching, no one needs to. Teach your loves the 1-4-3 tap. And in a quiet, sacred moment, tap your heart to the one beside you. Love matters. It never ends. A lot of what I have given my life to will end at my last breath, but love, it won’t. Nor will my prayers. My guy has set up the hammock for me. I plan to go pray, quiet whispering prayers into the future of my loves. It matters. I love you today dear hearts. Move, move, move in love tonight. Extending love is something you will never regret. Never.

My dear Thea and John bought us a hammock. She had mentioned the idea of this treat to me, and she told me what time in the hammock meant to her, but I had no idea what a treasure it would be to my heart. I can sit and watch my children wonder and play in the back yard.

And today, this beautiful day I took my book, pillow, and sweet new afghan made with love and prayers by our Hannah, and headed out back. Soon I was met by my littlest love. She came and hunkered close and rested next to me. She always comments on my warmth. She says her favorite place is beside my warmth. When we both woke from our brief rest we started to talk about heaven. I’m not exactly sure where the conversation started, but we started to imagine the place of no more tears. I told her I was going there. She told me she would meet me there. I told her that time would feel long, but that it really wasn’t. It was a tender moment. A quiet moment. One I will not forget. The hammock became this sweet cocoon of tenderness and wonder. When the conversation ended I prayed it would always stay with Story. I prayed she would always remember dreaming of our next home together. So I write these words, I share this picture in the hopes that one day she will return here and the memory will come to life for the health and love of her heart. Lately I have been ending these precious moments with my children with one simple phrase: Do you know you are a child cherished? Do you know I treasure you, and God delights in you? And some smile a knowing smile, some answer, but they always listen to these words. Because I will say them to my dying day, we can never hear enough about love. Never. Oh, what a beautiful and high calling we have as parents to treasure the hearts of our children.

This week to come isn’t going to be an easy one. More treatment, more hard, but I feel hopeful. You see, I feel pain growing in new corners. So I don’t go into treatment wearied. I go into treatment knowing this is what I need to fight this battle. I need these medicines, I need this hard, I need to meet my bottom so I can fight this cancer. And when the day comes that the options for treatment run out, then I get to snuggle my loves and wonder over the next place. There is a growing peace in me enjoying the long goodbye. Embracing the little moments for the huge moments they are. Snapping a quick picture in hopes that something is captured that will help sustain my loves through hard days.

The hardest peace is to walk through and not around what is hard. But peace is present. It is so painfully present; I am able to imagine heaven with my baby with wonder and not bitterness. It’s beautiful really. I go to sleep thankful.

Today Jason and I have a series of appointments. There is a debate among my doctors who is the most important in my life. My doc dealing with my brain cancer wants to be first, and my doc dealing with the growing cancer in my body wants his turn first. They both have the very best intentions of wanting to see my cancer halted, but we cannot decide who gets their turn with my wimpy body first. So, we go to the appointments today and we ask all the questions. As they debate who gets to go first, we ask them to do that together and just inform us after.

Personally, each appointment feels harder and harder to show up for. Psychologically, with each new appointment, I know what’s coming. And it’s tough. Not a little tough. Tough where my body fights even when my brain agrees to the treatment. Some days simply entering the treatment room makes me want to vomit.

But the kind workers know my anxiety and support me—the whole me.

I have had the opportunity to share my story on so many different platforms. October is around the corner and everything will burst into glorious shades of pink. Every business will have some form of pink to promote the awareness and research of breast cancer. I have struggled at moments with all the pink. But not this year. This year I get to lend my story to the cause. I get to give the disease a face. In sharing my story, and the facing of suffering and hard, I get to give the disease a real face, family, story. But my book is not simply a story of breast cancer. No, it’s a journey of finding Jesus in the midst of hard. And that includes us all. Hard is hard. I’m not trying to win the hardest story. I want us all to look at our hard and invite Jesus into it to walk near to us in the midst of it. Hard things are asked of us all, but as we walk through hard we are kept. Beautifully kept. And more than just inviting Jesus into our hard—He can teach us to live a beautiful life, even when the story isn’t what we had planned for ourselves. We can thrive in the face of awful. We can hold our heads high knowing we serve a God that is not uninvolved in our story.

But I’m limping along looking for the grace. And it’s there. It’s so stunningly there. My friends are carrying us, loving us, overflowing our home with giant love. It’s unreal. I whisper a need and it’s cared for beautifully. It’s so humbling to be so amazingly kept.

Today, tell me, what is the hard you are facing? How are you trusting God with your shattered pieces? How is the trusting hard today? I love you reader. Thank you for showing up today. Thank you for your prayers and your giant love. I head off to have a mask made today; I will be returning to the snort I call the stink eye. The targeted radiation on my brain. Ugh. My brain. My poor brain. But would you please share your heart?

As the year draws to a close, we find ourselves reflecting on what it held for us and for our world. Or, if you’re like me, you’ve been thinking a lot over the last few months about the state of your community and the state of your heart. I can’t turn on the tv, log onto social media, or stand in line at the grocery store without pictures of tragedy and anger and death screaming in my face. On a personal level, the year brought a broken friendship, conflict with someone I love, and my beloved grandmother’s quick decline. My friends experienced physical suffering, hurting marriages, and death. Our communities and country are divided in ways that feel irreparable. Innocent people around the world are being killed in horrendous acts of terror.

I am learning to walk the line of engaging suffering, fighting for my convictions, moving toward the hurting, but not becoming consumed by the hurt and pain that seems to be lurking behind every corner. So when I hear suggestions that we hold back on the merriment of Christmas, it kind of makes sense. How can we gorge ourselves with holiday ham, spend thousands of dollars on gifts, and settle back on our first-world couches to watch football when there is so much pain and sadness around us? Isn’t it a gross turning-of-the-head, an intentional ignoring of our suffering brothers and sisters? Maybe instead of focusing on joy, we can focus on peace?

But as I mull that option around in my head, I can’t help but think that maybe we are called to something more. Let’s simply consider the implications of this being God’s story, and of the fact that he has been working redemption in his story since The Fall when he promised salvation in Genesis 3:

If we believe—truly believe—that God has a good plan, even when we don’t understand, then we will believe that despite our pain and the incomprehensible suffering around us, this story is ultimately one of restoration. This is not a story of devastation or pain or suffering or evil, though it holds those elements; this is a story of redemption. This is God’s story!

Yet that’s exactly where things get sticky, right? Choosing to trust God’s goodness when the world sometimes seems like God has abandoned us. Will we have faith that he hasn’t? That he is indeed near to the brokenhearted?

Maybe that’s why we celebrate—to remind ourselves of the truth of the gospel. That God loves us. That God has promised that all of our hurt will someday become undone. That God’s own Son chose to suffer on this earth, even to the point of death, to save us from eternal death. That we have the hope of life in God’s presence forever and ever.

And I think that’s why, as we celebrate, we don’t forget the suffering of others’. In fact, our hearts only know how to celebrate well because of how deeply we have suffered. My children will be happy Christmas Day. They will sing carols and be grateful for friends and family and new toys. But their celebrating is shallow because they have not yet encountered the disparity between pain and hope; they haven’t tasted deliverance or the desperate need for it. Those of us who live in the night and long for deliverance will dance with the sweetest joy once redemption comes; so for now, we can celebrate with sadness but grieve with hope.

Furthermore, celebrating the birth of Christ counters the effects of the Fall and the pain, brokenness, and sadness that we encounter every day. Celebrating communicates that we have hope in something bigger than the deepest of sorrows. The deeper our sorrow now, the greater our celebrating will be!

We don’t celebrate because the year has gone our way or because we got a promotion and raise or because our candidate was elected or because the rate of violence and disease in our world is down. Our celebrations can’t be based on our station, class, or belongings—we celebrate based on our gifts from God: our identity as God’s children and his promises to us that can never be broken. We celebrate in anticipation of brokenness becoming untrue—the promise of ultimate redemption. And what could be merrier than that celebration?

So let us be merry, and let us pray that the reason for our merriment instills hope and joy in others. And let us pray that Jesus comes soon.

Merry Christmas!

Every year around Thanksgiving, my Facebook feed fills up with reasons why you shouldn’t do the Elf on the Shelf, why you should do Elf on the Shelf, why we should give our kids only 4 presents, why we shouldn’t have a Christmas tree, why we should believe in Santa, why we shouldn’t believe in Santa, and on and on the articles go. If you know me personally, you know I have strong opinions and probably an opinion on all of the above, but I often keep those to myself (or share with my poor husband!); they’re beside the point.

So what’s right? How should we celebrate Christmas this year?

After Jesus ascended into heaven and the church was being grounded and established, the early apostles dealt with a similar question: how would they move forward in their faith, celebrating with others who did not come from a Jewish background and feasted differently? Peter was a devout Jew who followed all the laws his entire life, including the ceremonial laws of what they would and would not eat. The laws considered certain foods unclean. He had probably never put anything unclean even near his mouth.

Now as the church started growing and people were coming to Christ, the disciples were faced with a dilemma: people who had different backgrounds invited them to their house to feast and celebrate and the food was unclean. Their consciences couldn’t allow this and it was against the law. The idea that Jesus came as a fulfillment of the law and they were not under the law anymore was still forming in their hearts.

In the supernatural way God often used in the early church, He sent Peter a dream. …he (Peter) fell into a trance and saw heaven opened and an object like a great sheet bound at the four corners, descending to him and let down to the earth. In it were all kinds of four-footed animals of the earth, wild beasts, creeping things, and birds of the air (unclean foods). and a voice came to him, ‘Rise, Peter; kill and eat.’

But Peter said, ‘Not so, Lord! For I have never eaten anything common or unclean.’
And a voice spoke to him again the second time, ‘What God has cleansed you must not call common.’ This was done three times.

Although we don’t face this exact thing at Christmastime, it’s something that can help us think through how we celebrate and how we treat others who celebrate differently. Some, if not most of us, will probably stay home or go somewhere where they won’t celebrate in a way that offends you or makes you struggle with your personal convictions. Or maybe you will and it will have to be something you think and pray about.

We may not often use the phrase “unclean”, yet we feel that way about certain elements of Christmas. Are too many presents unclean in our eyes? Is Santa unclean? Is Elf on the Shelf unclean?

God’s Word says to us, But why do you judge your brother? Or why do you show contempt for your brother?...So then each of us shall give account of himself to God. Therefore let us not judge one another. Let’s not judge those who believe or celebrate in a way we cannot, but remember we will have to give an account for our own convictions and how we lived them out. We must not go against our conscience but may not judge others who have different convictions.

Therefore, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. My mentor often says to me, If you’ve done it to the glory of the Lord, then it’s considered holy. Meaning, whatever I do or however I celebrate (in this case), if I can do it before the Lord with a clear conscience, that’s right and good.

Knowing man is not justified by the works of the law but by faith in Jesus Christ. No matter how we celebrate, we are saved and loved because we trust Jesus, not because we don’t believe in Santa.

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus. We are one family in Christ, no matter our backgrounds and traditions. Let us take up arms and be for each other and not try to convince each other that we are right.

However you feel about these things, I challenge you to celebrate in a way that gives peace to your conscience and that anticipates the glory of Christ coming into the world! Whether it’s Santa or not, Christmas tree or not, we have a great reason to celebrate.  Let us not judge or condemn one another! Let’s instead focus on making Christmas fun, purposeful, and celebratory!

It’s 4:30 in the morning and I cannot sleep. I woke with my daughter snuggled close, and all at once my mind was awake. I realized I have hours before my big treatment and I have days of work to get done. There is something each treatment that makes showing up more and more difficult. It’s simple—I know what is going to be happening. I know how low I will be brought when the healing poison is administered. I know how low I already feel. I know the fight for my normal will begin the minute the slow drip of poison begins. So in that place anxiety grows. But this morning my mind started to wonder over the power of love. And even in my low state, I am still able to live in love, extend love, and rest in love.

Well, I woke thinking over my last weekend when I asked a group of women to take the call of abounding in love seriously. The verse asks for more and more love from each of us that know Jesus... In my weakened state abounding love is still possible. In your healthy state more and more love is your high calling. Love not for acknowledgement, but love simply because it’s our calling in Jesus. Love that shares that love.

1. The Holy Spirit has you exactly where you are today. Either you are a young mama struggling for a moment alone, or you are an empty nester not sure what to do with the new space and freedom in your life. The calling is the same—abound. Where is God asking you to abound in the more and more of His love. His love is the key—the love must be an overflow from the Giant love God is pouring into you. Or you will simply be functioning in your own strength and love in your own strength is often meant for your own gain. That love is exhausting, but loving where you are prayerfully called to love, well it’s exhausting too, but different exhausting.
    
2. Where are you holding tightly to your comfort? Is it in connecting to new people? Have you chosen a position of stubbornness with a dear love in your life? Are you waiting for someone to abound in love to you until begin to move? Repent; God has offered you the feast of knowing His great goodness. Move; move in love. Even if it feels terrifying. Sometimes writing a simple love note feels overwhelming. Ask for the grace of God to meet you where you fear moving in love. He will be there. He will even provide the love to give. He’s unreal like that.
    
3. Behind closed doors, we can often think we are living on a private island. We can believe that the privacy of our home is a silent place to pull quietly away from love, that no one will notice. I would challenge you today, if you spend your love mostly outside your home it may be time to evaluate your heart. Look at the loves in your home, your nearest neighbors, and start there. Ask Jesus where love is needed, and ask Him to let you be an instrument of His giant love.
    
4. If you are like me and struggling for energy and strength, please do not count yourself out. You have this breath—feel it? You can make a difference. Your big love matters. My big love doesn’t look like it once did, but it’s still love. And when I move into that abounding love, the more and more love. Well, in that place, I often find beautiful strength that is not my own. When my heart desire is to love another, often the strength is granted for me to move in that love. I want to crawl into the fetal position and forget my high calling at love, but I would be missing so, so, so much beauty. No, I still have love to share.
    
5. Trust me, please trust me, in the act of sharing Giant Jesus love with another there is joy. More than that the fruit is often the enjoyment of love yourself. To give love is to receive love. Maybe not from the person you are choosing to love, but in the faithfulness of loving another—God will pour and pour and pour His love into you. It may feel terrifying to step out in big love today but I promise it’s terrifying like a roller coaster you can’t wait to ride again! Love changes everyone involved—the person loving, the person receiving love. Don’t believe me? Try it! I double dog dare you!

What if we could touch it and understand it? The real hope of Christmas. Peace like we'll know in heaven. What if Christmas wishes like in the movies really did come true?

And people got along.

And reached for peace and grace and faith.

What if the hope of heaven could come down and touch us like the woman at the well who reached for our Lord's cloak? She knew. She knew the answers that resided in the folds of that garment, and she wanted it.

We're like her during this Christmas season. We're waiting for our Lord to touch us and heal us and show us what we can't see. The ultimate hope. The eraser of fear. Love and life everlasting.

Darkness clouds our vision. We can't see past the dingy to the clear and perfect. But we hold on to that wish. The dream of what is to come. Of the beautiful new.

I want that kind of hope and faith. I want that kind of peace. I think it's in the future. That I can't have it now. But then I remember...he already came.

He's here. Right here in this mess. In the dirty, trash ridden gutter of my life. He's not in the castle up high on the hill. He doesn't do the royalty role like he could. He chooses us. Right where we are.

We think we're alone, but he doesn't understand why we can't see him right next to us. He wants that burden weighing you down. Yes, the one you think no one knows about. The one that steals your breath and brings tears to your eyes. The one you're not sure you're going to survive. Even that. He's waiting for us to hand it over.

He's with us, and Christmas is our reminder. We celebrate the birth of a savior, and in it, we are the ones given the gift of a new life.

Immanuel. God with us.

My mother did a great job at Advent and creating traditions. We had candles we lit every night, Bible verses we recited every evening, an advent calendar, and many other things that created a wonder land of excitement leading up to Christmas day! Her children, in turn, have all created our own advent traditions including calendars, wreathes, activities, and so on.

Some of us (ahem...Blythe…) put their Christmas tree up before December and start preparations for Christmas even before Thanksgiving. Some of us (ahem…me!) need to get through one holiday at a time for sanity’s sake. But celebrating Christmas can totally mesh into Thanksgiving (although I’m glad my kids don’t yet know the amazing possibilities of starting Christmas in November! Ha!).

As I’ve reflected on Advent, which really crept up on me this year, I have been thinking about how Advent is kind of a picture of the entire Old Testament. Just as we wait each December day for the day to celebrate the King’s birth, the Old Testament waited for the Promised One for thousands of years! The Old Testament is filled with foreshadows of the One to come, Jesus!

Did you know that Jesus was promised in Genesis? After Adam and Eve sinned, God told the serpent in Genesis 3, I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her Seed; He shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise His heel. Satan could only bruise the Promised One’s heel while the Promised One would crush him completely on the cross and ultimately, when He comes again. This prophecy was just the beginning of thousands of years of spiritual battles where Satan would try to wipe out the promised Messiah, never succeeding.

God promised Abraham a son and yet years went by, making it seem impossible. Sarah and Abraham were getting very old. Sarah took matters into her own hands and hired her maidservant to be the mother of the Promised One. But that’s not what God intended. He superseded Sarah’s intentions and still gave her the Promised One. He surpassed normal human biology and Sarah became pregnant. The Seed would continue although so many things seemed in the way.

The story of Joseph isn’t just about his colorful coat! If Joseph had not gone through all he went through, he would never have saved his brothers, thus preserving the Seed of the Promised One. He was the one who ultimately helped his father and brothers not starve to death. One of his brothers was Judah. Judah, the Seed, was the great, great, great-grandfather of Jesus.

David’s life was spared time and time again. David prophesied about being the Seed that Jesus would come through, He shall build a house for My name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever (II Samuel7). David was pursued by many people, including the Philistines, Saul, and his own son, and yet God kept him and preserved the Seed.

Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the minor prophets are filled with lamentations and prophecies of the pain the Israelites went through. They suffered turmoil, pain, and being moved in and out of their land for hundreds of years under excruciating circumstances.

Yet throughout history, God preserved a remnant of His people through which the True Seed—the Head-Crusher—would come and fulfill all that was said of Him. God didn’t keep His promise because these men or women were better than others. It was simply because of His character and His love and the promise that started in the Garden of Eden.

All of these pictures are the Bible’s own Advent. They all point to the Messiah—the Savior whom we celebrate at the end of our December Advent. Much of the Old Testament points to the reason we celebrate at Christmas, similarly to our nativity sets and Advent calendars. Our lights and decorations and presents are only a weak mirror of the joy we have as we await to celebrate the first coming of the King!  So while we prepare and enjoy each day, remember that this has been long, long in coming. The Bible spent thousands of years getting ready for this baby in a manger. This only shows the gravity of the meaning of the Messiah.

Let us take our Advent days slowly this year, soaking up the majesty and greatness of the King, and let us rejoice! He has come!

I have known Kara for 10 years. My name is Autumn, but I am blessed to be called her Diana and to call her my Anne of Green Gables. (If you have no clue why, be sure you read L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables; it’s a great book). God gave us one another because He knew we needed each other, and I am ever so thankful!

This weekend Kara and her two oldest girls flew to NC. This was Kara’s first women’s retreat. Kara has warned me not to just brag on her here, but I must say that is going to be really hard. The retreat was amazing.

God used Kara this weekend to challenge an entire audience, myself included, to love Jesus. She challenged the women to love their husbands, families, and communities. She asked us to be intentional in how we love and to use our health while we have it. She asked us to truly live in community, that each of us has a unique story and to tell it.

I had the privilege of knowing Kara before she had cancer. We were stay-at-home moms with young children and spent lots and lots of time together. The thing I know best about Kara is that even back then, even before a great illness came upon her, God used Kara to grow people. We used to sit on my couch or hers, small kids running in and out of the room and she would challenge me. She asked me hard questions, made me think about the way I lived. She and Jason mentored my husband and me without it being called mentoring. She knew my weak spots and sin struggles and I knew hers. This weekend she stood on the stage and challenged each of us that we can be doing this, too. We can get into people’s lives. That your neighbor’s story is important. That loving your children well is important. That life isn’t easy, but being intentional about love is important.

God is using Kara to speak into the heart of so many. He is using her blog and her book to speak to people in a way we need to be spoken to. I left the retreat emotional and sad, tired and excited, thankful and blessed. I am but one of many that love Kara.

I had the unique opportunity to sit next to Kara while she signed some of her books. It was so encouraging to see women from all walks of life come to her, honored to meet her, thankful for her words and how she encourages them to love better and love bigger.

Kara, I have done my best not to simply brag on you. I love you so much, though. You spent years loving me even though I was a mess. You guided and directed me into disciplining my kids with kindness. You were my everyday friend. We talked, texted, and grew together. I love you, I love our shared time together. You were amazing this weekend.

Love,
Autumn

Christmas is supposed to be white twinkle lights and homemade ornaments with perfect family members and wishes come true. But that's not how life works. Some people are going through really hard things, and the timing happens to coincide with the most festive time of the year.

Some will be braving memories of a lost loved one for the first time. For others, it's been years but the pain remains fresh. Sickness. Chronic illness. Pain. The list of hardships is long, and most of us know someone who’s suffering—or perhaps it’s even us.

So how do we get through the holidays? How do we couple suffering and hardship with the most wonderful time of the year?

1. Arm yourself with loads of grace. (You may need to ask for help from above on this one. I know I do.) The holidays can become unbearable when everyone wants their own way. A lot of demands are placed on people—from gifts and cooking to travel. Operate from a place of grace for yourself and others.
   
   If someone’s late, that’s okay.
   
   Perhaps grief won’t allow them to stay the whole time. That’s okay.
   
   Maybe the suffering person can’t eat anything you’ve made. That’s okay. Don’t reach for the defensive. Reach for grace.
   
   What if someone doesn’t love the gift you slaved over? That’s okay. Because our confidence doesn’t come from the perfect gift, it comes from our Father above.
   
   Talking about giving and receiving grace is one thing, but really believing and doing it is another. Bestowing grace on yourself and others—allowing peace to permeate your Christmas—doesn’t it sound so much better than berating yourself or others when things don’t go according to plan?
    
2. Dance. It's hard to know what to say and what not to say. Especially in the midst of someone's suffering. It can be a dance to figure out what’s helpful and what’s not. Here’s the deal: we’re people—we ARE going to mess things up. But our hearts are often in the right place. This dance goes both ways. That grace we just talked about can be extended to the person who says the wrong thing. Don’t give up the dance of family and relationships because you’ve stepped on someone’s toes in the past or they’ve injured yours. Dancing is worth it, even when it’s hard.
    
3. Give Thanks. When something or someone gets you down, stop and make a list of things you're grateful for. The holidays can be so busy it's hard to remain peaceful. But if we can reach for gratefulness in our hearts it smooths out so many other things.
    
4. Recognize each other. I don't mean knowing who is who at a family or friend gathering. I mean recognizing what is going on in someone's life or heart that could make the holidays really hard. Reach out to them. Tell them you care. Tell them you are going to spend 5 minutes of that morning praying for them. Or that you're going to put a reminder in your phone to pray for them in the middle of what will be a hard day.
   
   And if you’re struggling…maybe you need to be the one to reach out and say, this is going to be tough. Will you pray for me? Because I believe someone longs to pray for you and love you through the holidays. Recognizing each other matters.
    
5. Focus elsewhere. It's not about you. This is the first line in The Purpose Driven Life and it’s a good one to remember as we enter the Christmas season, because, goodness, things can get overwhelming. Even shopping and getting the house ready or planning dinner. If you have suffering going on in your life or the life of a loved one, things are even more heightened and hard. What might usually be a small thing can feel astronomically huge. So let's point our eyes to Jesus. Because it's really not about us. Christmas is about a child who came down to earth and was born because of our sinfulness. We cannot erase our sinful nature, but he can and did. So when you're wondering how you're going to get through this holiday season, look to Jesus. Immanuel. He has already come. He wants to save us. He wants to be asked. He is waiting for us to look to him so he can rescue us once again.

God, as we move toward Christmas, give us the grace to love each other well, right where each of us is at. Give us the strength to love big, even when it hurts. Help us to keep our focus on you and to cling to peace and grace and gratefulness. Please meet us in navigating suffering and hard, just as we know you will.

It felt like an impossible day to get through. But we made it. We cried hot tears. My girlfriends stood by and watched through tears, but they showed up. They were there. And a thousand more would have come if I had asked. Just to smile at me through my tears. And in the smiling, letting me know it’s going to be okay. Somehow, it will be okay.

Shaving my head felt devastating this go around. I know what this is. I know what this means. So hot tears ran down my face as my kind friend Evan shaved my head. It hurt. Not the bald, but what the bald represents. That I will likely never again enjoy hair. It hurts. It feels so ugly. And you all are so kind to lift my spirits and tell me I’m not ugly, but today. I feel it. And it’s not a feeling I often carry. Grace will meet me. I will learn to live with this again. But today, it’s hard. Having the kids watch gave me courage. Then in the impossibility of life, the weird order of events, we all moved from this moment of sad and tears into celebrating a special Harper Joy. It was loud, joyful, full of life living that I love. The knot in my throat passed as we sang and celebrated my second born who is cherished. We prayed for her heart, her future days, her relationship with Jesus, and we blew out the candles and enjoyed an unbelievable birthday cake from Whole Foods as well as a fruit tart someone brought us from Marigolds. Dessert, good dessert that is, does help the tears to stop. Girlfriends, loving husbands, cherished children all running around really helps.

Lake came to me after we became twins and said his neighbor buddy wanted to see me. Lake wanted to share that his mama matched him. But this boy is older than Lake and I wasn’t sure I trusted him to be kind. But I went outside to a new friend we have met this summer named Nikko. I walked out and greeted our young friend. I said, Nikko, I’m sick so I had to do this. But now I match Lake. And wonder upon wonders, he looked at me so gently and said, Ms. Kara, I’m so sorry you had to do that, I’m just real sorry. I thanked him kindly and walked inside for fear of utterly breaking at his tender kindness. I think I told that story twice to Jason last night. There is something so special when you meet tenderness where you don’t expect it. He will be gentle with my son and not tease him. He will be kind to me, and I simply love him for what he said.

So, yesterday was hard. We are facing more f-ing cancer in my brain. We shaved my head, we wept together. But then we toasted one another, we toasted today, we danced while making dinner and cleaning up the house, and we celebrated my Harper full of Joy. Today we fly away. The big girls and I fly away to a land we love. I cannot pretend I will get a lot of these trips. So I get to savor my loves in North Carolina. I get to spend the energy I have in love with my people in the land of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Then I come home to make a mask for my brain radiation, face more chemo, and then face brain radiation again.

I do get a lot of questions as I talk about pursuing rest. Mainly, What IS rest, anyway? What does that mean? What does that look like?! And I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that almost every single person I’ve told that I’m pursuing rest right now has asked me those questions. It’s caused me to face the reality that rest is not valued or taught in our culture, but our souls are curious and needy for it. The ridiculous thing is that 8 months in, I still can’t answer those questions well; however, I have gotten to the point where I can articulate what rest is not.

1.     Rest is not accidental. Rest doesn’t happen by chance. It doesn’t just happen by accident as I’m going about my day. I have to not just be intentional about planning rest, but super intentional. Plus, it’s not just a matter of planning time for rest, but planning exactly what I’m going to do during that time; if I just set aside a block of time for rest but don’t plan what I will do during the time, I will fill it other ways. I’ll end up on social media or planning the week’s meals or reading my book—anything except resting. And this might mean that I have to sacrifice something else in order to protect that time. If I’ve scheduled rest time while Ann is at preschool Thursday morning, and then a friend asks me for coffee during that block of time, I have to be willing to tell my friend that I’m sorry, I have other plans and can we schedule for another time. I have to be willing to make rest a priority.

2.     Rest is not the opposite of busyness. This was one of the first lessons I learned. When I first was having health issues, my doctor and PT told me I needed to cut back on my schedule as much as possible. But when I looked at my calendar, it wasn’t really that full—definitely not any fuller than any other mama. I did it anyway, even closing my piano studio, which near broke my heart. Suddenly having a bunch of free time to think revealed something important to me: it doesn’t matter how much or how little free time I have to rest. What matters is that I am using the rest time effectively! If I have a full schedule and only have 30 minutes every Monday to rest, am I using that time productively or am I squandering it? Before I started on this journey, I can honestly say that I not only had sufficient time to rest, but that I was definitely squandering it. 

3.     Rest is not escape. This is how I was squandering my rest time: instead of using my rest time to actually rest, I was using it to escape. Rest requires engagement of the soul, even if the physical body is inactive—resting acknowledges the state of the heart and the need for its decompression. Perhaps for some people this will be a more active physical practice than for others; this is where the definition of rest differs for everyone. I have learned that for me, I find rest in yoga, tapping, meditation, taking walks, sewing, and crying.

[Yes, crying, and this is how I do it, if you’re interested: I ask the Lord to give me a 2-3 word prayer, often Lord, have mercy. I then sit quietly before the Lord in a dark space, take deep breaths, and pray the prayer in tandem with my breathing. I allow myself to feel the implications of my prayer—why is this a prayer of my heart? Why do I need God’s mercy? What are the areas of my soul that are desperate for his mercy? And as I search my heart and draw near to God in this simple prayer, the tears inevitably come. I allow them to fall until I feel finished, cleansing my soul as it pours out its groans to Jesus. When I’m done, I feel like a child who has had a good cry. When I first started this, I would feel tired, but as I grow in the discipline of rest, I don’t feel as tired anymore—simply refreshed and restored, at peace and grateful for God’s care. I do this weekly.]

I know some people find rest in being very physical—running or mountain biking or hiking, for example. Maybe some people find rest in watching tv or reading or listening to podcasts, but for me, these things are distractions that lead me to escapism. I’ve learned this about myself, so during my scheduled rest time, I avoid my phone, computer, tv, books, or anything I know that will invite me to escape instead of invite my heart to calm down.

4.     Rest is not sleep. As I type that, it seems silly to say, but what I mean is that while sleep is certainly necessary, sleep doesn’t provide the spiritual rest our hearts need. Soul care is so much more than a good night’s sleep. That said, I’ve learned that in order to offer my heart rest, I do need a good night’s sleep. If I am getting good sleep on a regular basis, I am more mentally focused and present and able to make good decisions. I am also able to be more emotionally available to my husband and children. But if you feel weary and are getting plenty of sleep, this is probably why—your soul needs rest. That rest is found in Christ, and he provides countless beautiful ways to experience it according to your design.

5.     Rest is not easy. This season has been one of the most challenging spiritual seasons of my Christian walk. Americans don’t like to rest—we like to work hard and play hard. I feel like a weirdo telling people I’m looking for rest, and I feel like even more of a weirdo trying to do it. My faith is weak, and trying to trust the Lord in this has been so hard. Yet God is gracious, ever the kind shepherd, leading me to still waters, never letting me go, always meeting me where I am. As I clumsily take these tiny steps toward Jesus, I cling to Matthew 11:28-30 (Msg): Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.

The news today wasn’t great. It was devastating, but we are not without options. I will give details when we are ready. But today, we have today. So I walk into it seeking goodness.... And guess what? It’s there. Today, I could move. I could spend my energy cooking for my loves, my friends, my people. I could cry a big ugly cry, and my deepest grief was heard. I could cry out my brokenness, and I could cook.

Then I was gifted with the opportunity to capture my children. I frankly told them my news. It’s going to be hard, but we know hard. Then we played our music impossibly loud and danced. Boys to Men Motownphilly came on and we laughed and danced. We belted out the words and enjoyed a moment.

Now we are home, the loud music has come inside, the lasagna is bubbling and my ladies are coming over to be there as I meet bald again. We will sing gratitude for Harper turning 10 tomorrow. We will eat, laugh, cry, and toast to today. It’s here. Cancer will not rob me of this moment. I get today.

Don’t think it has been all dancing. No there was a small fit, f-bombing, and sad phone calls and texts. There was despair. But when I pick up my faces, my blessed faces, well…I have this moment with them. So it’s time to dance an impossible dance. We don’t know the steps, but we will eventually gain the footing of this new hard.

Will you join me in a dance tonight? Will you toast today, and see the gift that it is? Dance with your lady or man slow, snuggle your babies, meet them softly. Today matters. Something impossibly joyful. Let’s dance friends. Dance while stirring dinner, dance while working out the Math homework, and remember that Jesus is not unaware of our pain.

I can’t sleep. Tomorrow is feeling impossible on so many levels. First, I get to take my boy to the dentist. It will prove to be the highlight of my day. I love our new dentist. Dr. Branon Johnson. He’s the bee’s knees (okay, I’ve been watching A River Runs Through It again). But then I walk into my day, a day where my phone will likely ring from one of my many doctors that have read the scan from today. I will know immediately by the tone if it’s my kind-faced oncologist.

Today’s scan went all right. I was sedated so I wouldn’t vomit like last time. But it wore off before the end. I woke to the screaming MRI machine thinking a fire alarm was going off and I was pinned to a table. I must have jolted, because quickly, in my headphones, came a voice telling me I was almost done. Then I remembered, Oh right, looking for cancer in brain. I guess that’s better than a freaking fire. But barely.

I looked back at the scan as I was leaving, and the nurse quickly said, It’s probably not your scan. Not reassuring. Who’s would it be? I may not be with it completely, but I’m pretty darn sure that exiting a brain MRI, my brain will likely be the one on the screen. But I’m no radiologist. I would only imagine things full of awful in my looking. Trust me, I’ve already gone there. But tomorrow, we wait. We wait, we shave my head, and I pack to run away with the big girls to North Carolina. If I find the strength, lasagna for Lake before we leave.

I’m up late working on those talks tonight. I’m feeling every bit of vulnerability in stepping in front of 200 beautiful faces and braving the broken beautiful of my story. Tonight my daughter looked me squarely in the face and said, Mama, I want to go. I asked why. She said, It’s you. Please let her be a normal girl in the crowd with her friends. I have struggled to let her come, but I know it’s the right decision. I would be the same. I told her what I was going to be sharing, that I’ll likely be crying, and that it was okay if she decided to join me in sharing tears.

So tomorrow is going to be hard on many levels. So if you love me, don’t ask about my brain. I’ll tell you when I know. Am I afraid? Yes. Brains are a big deal. Brains, well, they are brains. I want mine to not have any more cancer.

Tomorrow I lose my hair. I lose it likely FOREVER. That stings. It hurts my heart. I know what I’ll be facing, and I’ll be facing it without an end in sight like I had last time. My heart hurts. I don’t want to be bald again. I simply don’t. But grace will meet me. I will learn to live in this new pain seeking grace. My kids will pet my head and kiss the soft top of my head again. They know how to do this. I just wish they didn’t. But it’s the broken beautiful in their story as well. Lake asked to shave his head with me. So tomorrow, we will do this thing. I even invited a local TV station to join me. It no longer is my story. My story is one to be shared. I get to tell the story how Jesus showed up for this broken mama. He continues to show up. And tomorrow, when I’m losing my hair once again, goodness will be there. Goodness through tears. It will be there.

Don’t ask—you know me well enough to know I tell. I live this story I’ve been given as honestly as I know how. These edges are pressing in on us, which means we must press deeper into Jesus. We know this. Won’t you pray we have the strength to see grace and live in the peace Jesus gives of Himself. Peace unmistakable. Peace words cannot adequately describe.

Tomorrow my hair flies away, but it does not take with it my hope. That is sure.

What impossible places are you being asked to trust Jesus? Hard is hard. I’m not trying to win the hardest story. Tell us, we are a safe community of love. Some days are just so hard, we need to remind each other that goodness awaits. I need reminding today. It’s going to be a tough one. Now I will attempt sleep. Maybe a little love will sneak into bed tonight needing extra loves and snuggles.... Shoot maybe I’m the one needing them tonight. I should go crawl in their beds. No, Jesus is not unaware of my heavy heart. I’ll go talk to him. Goodnight friends. New mercies await the morning, even if the news isn’t good.

No condemnation. None. Never. In Christ means nothing can condemn me today, this day or any day. That is a freeing truth. The IN CHRIST I enjoy frees me for freedom. I then, in turn, get to spend my freedom well. I get to spend my freedom telling of this freedom. I get to face the dreaded snort today with no condemnation. Maybe a little trepidation, but no condemnation.

And if you long to understand living in Christ, take a long look at John 15. Living near to the one that died for your freedom. Living in Christ is the joy of walking near to love, seeking faith, living loved, abundantly loved. But what it doesn’t mean—what it doesn’t mean—is that life will be easy. Those that would tell you that it would be a simple life are mistaken.

No, nearness to Jesus means we are also asked to do hard things.

No, living free does not mean living an easy life. Living without condemnation of the freedom we are granted to walk into our hards, each of us is the greatest gift of faith. But it does not mean that we will be free from suffering. NO, we get to partner with Jesus in hard, and walk into that hard without condemnation.

You see, I have grown to HATE all snorts. HATE. But today, there is a lady that will do my endless injections; I’m not going to pour that hate onto her. No, by God’s grace, I might even have an opportunity to love her today. I may hate the snort of today, but it has no power to condemn me. No matter what the snort has to say, no matter what cancer makes itself known on the screen, I am a kept woman. That—no condemnation—lifts my face. It secures my destination, and in the strength of my brokenness I can walk into today with a freedom and strength not my own.

Think on this verse today, ponder it, wonder upon this verse. From the overflow of the strength of such a truth, how will you live differently today? Courage grows from this kind of truth. Beautiful courage to do hard things, to love big, to move beyond the boundaries of yourself today and into the grace of Jesus. Meet a stranger, love someone who’s hurting, surprise your husband with giant affection, tenderly and faithfully love your littles today. From the overflow of the grace in your life, you can live without the condemnation that whispers lies in your going. You can live secure, a security that has nothing to do with comfort in this place, but assurance in the next. Brave and courageous—that’s how I want to walk into my scary snort today—but maybe I will shoot for not condemned. That is a courage all its own.

I had my first big chemo, we took pictures, then ran away for a week. It was a hard pill to swallow seeing me meet that bottom again. But we know how to manage it. But who really wants to be managing awful? We want to be living! On the day my big chemo started, they started my 2-week cycle of oral chemo. I had learned to live through the haze of their yuck, but on top of the giant chemo, well, I met my bottom. Jason and I know this dance. I fight for good moments on bad days. Often, I don’t remember the good moments and need reminding of them. And my people are gracious to remind me.

We ran away to simplicity. We watched television more than we ever do and the kids spent hours upon blissful hours in the pool. As I was able, I joined my people. As I found strength, I met my loves in living. We ate meals, read books, and went on short walks. It felt good to be on a slow schedule trying to figure out my new treatment.

I asked Jason if we could come home a bit early. My heart was feeling so heavy yesterday, I simply wanted to be home. We drove home in a familiar silence. There is always something painful about leaving a beautiful time away. There is always a measure of grief and fear saying goodbye to a beautiful season. In the silence, we both knew what are heavy hearts were feeling—would we have another opportunity like this one, another summer, another September?

These feelings are too big for us to manage. Almost too big to discuss, but we try our best to navigate our heavy feelings. We cry and share our heavy hearts and fears. Then we fight for gratitude. Gratitude in what a gift we were given by a friend and reader we have never met, but love—to run away to beauty of the mountains and return to our home that is filled with new beauty. But it all feels hard. The bearing beauty in the midst of having to hold life with an open hand. Some days we grasp too tightly. We want to stop time, and forget the grace awaiting over the next corner. We so quickly forget.

My dear Jen had our pictures ready for us upon our return. I barely remember this day, but these pictures bring back moments of goodness on a hard day. My poor Jen—as soon as I opened my pictures I noticed my cock eyes. I started texting her like she’s my doctor: Do you think it’s a brain tumor? Do you see my eyes, have they always been like this? My poor friends that must carry the random ramblings and fears of my heart. I don’t always express them out loud. But I couldn’t help it when picture after picture showed my crooked eyes. My friends have been asked to carry such strange burdens with me. But they do, I keep waiting for them to run, but they remain. They beautifully and faithfully remain. Grace.

Jen sweetly captured my fears and answered me kindly. She reminded me how medicated I was in these captured moments. In many of them, you can see my bed head. I barely remember this day. I think I asked all the kids to brush their hair and put on solid colors. I told Story she could wear patterns. But I simply wanted solid colors; I didn’t care which colors and brushed teeth and hair. My standards have changed. I used to stress photo shoots for days. Now I tell the kids to brush their hair and forgot to brush my own.

Something about coming home has lightened our hearts. We love, we treasure, we embrace our time away and love our intentional time spent in love together. Each moment feels like a gift. But coming home, returning to our known life, we feel comforted by our life we know. Going away grows gratitude for coming home. Vacation is beautiful like that. It’s as though we walked in our home, and remember how to remember grace. Home is where I’m next to my people, so on vacation or home... Next to my people is my favorite. But something about home, well, it’s good to be away to come home rich in gratitude.

In the quiet of the car ride home, Jason and I knew we are returning to a scary snort, bald, and more chemo. We know this. It sometimes feels impossible. Impossible when we forget that we are kept, loved, walked with in our hard. When we sit and imagine future hard without the grace that is provided to walk in it, then we are walking away from the very air that helps us breathe. We sin when we imagine our futures. We are lonely in that future place, because we are too finite to understand how Jesus will meet us in those impossible moments. But we do, we spend moments wondering over those future fears.

But we do forget. Returning home, we are keenly reminded we are not alone in this struggle. We walk into freshly painted rooms and know we are loved. I enter my bed to new, beautiful sheets, and I know God cares about the small details that help me feel loved. I read cards of readers asking me to press on, telling me they are praying. Praying for all the honest hard we are facing. And finally, a dear reader, someone I have never met, but love, found a puppy for my son. And when that sweet love entered our home, we all knew she was going to be a special member of our family. I could even see it on Jason’s face. I saw that he knew this gift was a good gift for our family.

We may be wildly crazy to invite a new dog into our family in this season of life. But my goodness, the love of a dog is a beautiful thing. This new pup has already delighted our hearts in one evening. She’s a bit of a ditzy blonde (our favorite). She runs into glass doors and has little spatial understanding. But what she loves most is to be loved. I will share pictures of her here soon. Today is my day to share love from our favorite Jen.

I never want to sound as though I’m complaining. I’m a woman sitting in the midst of blessing upon blessing. I am loved in big and small ways through each day. I have a community I do not deserve. A community that absolutely extends themselves in giant love towards our people. I see such love and I’m reminded of the big love of Jesus. His love is big and careful. It is giant and intentional. He loves me in big ways, and small gentle ways. Just like our community. He cares about my heavy heart and deep fears. He wants me to hand them to him to carry. Some days I forget. Some days I live in my own strength.

I’m sure you can tell, we are a kissing family. Lots of kisses remind me a lot of goodness. Kisses and bed head delight my heart. My people, my people, my people, well they are such a reminder of goodness. Goodness in grace. The gift of love I did not earn. The moving in love that came from love unearned. I could never earn all this beautiful love. When I look upon love, I’m able to turn over the heavy burden of the scary snort, the future bald, the cancer that devastates.

Jen, every photo shoot, I think, This is my most favorite. Then you top it. You are such a gift, Jen. Capturing our today in a brief click of your shutter. It matters. I look upon these pictures and remember there was goodness on an awful day. There will always be goodness and grace. I simply need to keep looking. And if the snort reveals something in my brain making my eyes caddywhompus? Well, we will face that edge, and I know ya’ll will be there to remind me of grace and Jesus, and my kept life in heaven. You will remind me that the story for my children and Jason is good. And there will always be puppy breath. Sweet puppy love that reminds us of the unconditional.

I cannot ever spend my words in thankfulness to my community well enough. Laundry love, painting love, sweet flowers, cards, delicious oils and candles. Knowing my kids love. Knowing me love. It feels too much to take in. But we are grateful. We came home yesterday with heavy hearts. But we were met in such love, we simply could not remain there. You have reminded us to look for grace. It’s always there.

I’m heading to worship to be further reminded of God’s love for my family, our story, our going. I’m heading in to have my cup filled to overflowing so in my limited way I can overflow onto another. But I suppose it’s not limited, is it? It’s only limited when I’m living, loving in my own strength. But what I have learned on this journey—my strength is a farce. Living in the strength of the truly strong One is all I have for this breath.

Who in your life needs reminding of goodness today? Who in your home needs your specific big love today? Who is God asking you to overflow upon today? I have a friend that is hurting today, I’m praying how God would have me love her today.

Thank you dearest Jen. Thank you. All of these images were captured by the gift of my dear Jen. If you are local, you will not regret time spent with this gift. She has a gentle way of capturing your now. She’s tender, she’s soft, and she knows how to encourage the best pictures from my people.

For 2 months a year (when did the Christmas season become so long?!), we live in this bizarre crossroads of celebration and acknowledgment of our total depravity, for without our depraved conditions, we would not be in need of a Messiah, and without our need for a Messiah, we wouldn’t have Christmas, and without Christmas, we wouldn’t have the fun and joy and merriment that accompanies it each year. But I find, every single year, that focusing on the merriment is too easy. Christmas Day arrives, and upon examining my heart, I realize that another year has passed that I’ve allowed my heart to breeze through Advent without truly engaging in the spiritual aspect of the season; I’ve ignored the calling on my soul to ponder and reflect not only the meaning of Christmas, but all its implications and glory.

In the days of Christmas Letdown that follow, as I put away the tree and say goodbye to the decorations, as we toss out the last of the leftovers and write our thank-you notes, I evaluate the success of the holiday in my own mind and how I can improve it the next year. Oh, sure, maybe I can try making a different pie or spend less time watching Christmas movies and more time reading Christmas books with the children, but what really niggles at me is how I can change the ways my heart has engaged with the Advent season. Every year I wrestle with this and ask friends what they do. I think, Next year I’ll figure something out—I’ll pray about it and start planning sooner and Christmas won’t creep up on me.

I realize there is no magic potion for engaging your heart and having a particularly spiritually meaningful Christmas, but I think the first step is realizing that I have to be intentional and I have to carve out the time to make the effort to come before the Lord regularly to spend time with him. My biggest issue, and the one that intimidates me from making this time in the first place, is how to focus my time with Jesus. For years I’ve been on the search for something to help me in this—I’ve read numerous books and tried several devotionals, but not until this year have I found something that answers the call of my heart in Advent: Paul David Tripp’s new Advent devotional, Come, Let Us Adore Him.

If you’re familiar with Tripp’s devotional New Morning Mercies, then you might already be a fan of how he draws the reader in with his use of simple but profound language; Come, Let Us Adore Him is no different. Each reading is 3-4 pages long, and Tripp uses personal stories and conversational language to discuss each day’s scripture—it feels less like a pastor or counselor talking to me and more like a coffee date with a friend. Tripp actually references the readings as “meditations” in the introduction, and I’d have to agree. A master of catching the attention of his readers, he gently engages my heart and gifts me with things to ponder throughout the day.

Each reading is based on 3 tweets that Tripp tweeted one year that he dedicated his December tweets to the Christmas story (if you don’t follow him on Twitter, you’re missing out!). They start with a brief Scripture passage, Tripp’s reflections, scripture for further study, and then a section for parents to use to engage their children in the day’s reading: a central theme and prompts for discussion. This last part is extra exciting to me because it enables the entire family to meditate on the same truths each day. And to be honest, it also helps me focus my own thoughts. My children are 4 and 5, and I can easily adapt the discussion to their age level.

In Tripp’s own words in the introduction he says, …I wrote this devotional with the prayer that God would use it to recapture your attention. I wrote it with hope that this amazing story would reactivate your awe… If you’re like me, this is exactly what you need. What a gift this devotional is—I highly recommend it for your weary hearts this Advent.

Each day presents each of us living with a choice. It is often hard to choose well. We are so regularly caught in the flow of our going, we fail to see the choices presented to each of us in our living. Most of our choices consist of attitude choices, living choices, choices to live in a hardened, bitter state or a grateful, soft state. If we are honest the battle for these attitudes is fierce.

As a mama of many ages, I see the growth in my children in this area. It takes maturity to move beyond your felt disappointments in each day. I see a beloved child hear no, and watch as their heart makes the difficult journey facing disappointment. I keenly realize my job is not to be the supplier of the happiness of my children. Contentment, joy, happiness—they are not fruits of getting what we want, they are choices governed by our hearts attitudes.

Some days I watch the fit, the struggle, the disappointment spent on my children. I watch the flying words, the grumpy faces, the angry behavior, and I get it. I simply get it. I have days I would love to give full vent to all the disappointments I astutely feel in this life.

I remember hearing a sermon from Timothy Keller about Job. He simply pointed out the heart of Job, and there was something so beautiful that he highlighted. He highlighted that in the pain, agony, disappointment of life, Job continued his conversation with God. The dialog of his heart continued in a vertical direction. I loved that. So when I look upon the disappointments of my children, I get it. I can patiently love them when they choose poorly with their attitude. It’s a beautiful moment for me to show them the gospel. I get to show them a pursuing love that is not dependent on their behavior. Jesus loves us, loves us, loves us, loves us—bad manners, poor attitudes, tantrums and all. Not only does He love us, He longs for us. He pursues us.

When Jesus was facing his horrible end, which proved only to be his beginning, He asked God to remove the cup from him. He asked for a different story. But he was talking to God, he was not spending his strength complaining to those around him. Like Jesus and Job, I can pour out my anguish, my pain, my disappointment with my story to Jesus. He understands. But then, then with a lifted face I get to walk into my day kept. Beautifully heard and kept. And in that keeping, I get to walk in faith, hard faith, towards the strength of my brokenness. It is not a mistake.

In being heard by an involved God, I am able to face each hard breath with kindness I don’t feel. I am able to extend love I don’t have energy to spend, I can meet my life with a strength that simply is not my own. I press deeply into Jesus and get to live when my story feels opposite of living. I get to enjoy good moments on bad days. I get to look for the grace of God’s kindness to my family that is flooding, flooding, absolutely unbelievably flooding into my family. It’s stunning. I sit quietly and receive, receive graces I never expected, certainly didn’t earn, and I get to embrace love abundant. And this broken, weak vessel is then able to overflow grace, love, joy in ways unimaginable even to me.

Last night my dear Anna came up from the pool where I could hear the loud and joyful noises of my people playing with every inch of energy they have. Energy I do not possess. I was sitting quietly in my nest enjoying a cooking show. Waiting for the moment they all found their way to my bed and I could then love them with reading. Anna came and asked how my heart struggled through those moments seeing strength I no longer have. I don’t remember my exact answer, but truly, those are the places I get to choose. Do I grow bitter that I haven’t the strength for boisterous strength, or do I listen gratefully that my guy has beautiful strength to spend? And when he’s done, I get to capture my loves in my quiet strength, reading and loving them cuddled in my bed nest. I choose gratitude.

After the guys came up, Anna’s husband Andrew asked me what my limitations felt like. I simply said, sure I have sick moments, nauseous moments that are awful, but mostly I’m a mama with a very little tank. My energy tank runs empty often. I just don’t have much go. So I must carefully protect the strength I do have. Rest well, so I can go a bit. Plan my big energy events for the end of my chemo cycles. And when I can go, to go with all I have. It’s mine to spend- why would I reserve it for a better day?

But we all do that, don’t we? We reserve our strength, hold back our big love, wait for a better day to spend what is ours to spend. Why? Why do we withhold all the love that has been given to us to give? Why do we choose to live in unforgiveness, angry heart, bitterness? It took cancer to cause me to look, to question, to wonder why I don’t extend myself in love, in grace, mercy, forgiveness all lavishly bestowed on me in Jesus? I have had to look honestly at my poorly spent health within the confines of sickness. But you there, you healthy one reading, why do you withhold love? Why don’t you live in the overflow of today? Are you testing those around you? Is that fair? Love has been given you to give—you will not regret the giving away of what was never yours to keep.

Today, my tribe is on a long, beautiful bike ride. I’m quietly beside the computer spending what I have asking you to spend what you have. Look for the grace, live loved by Jesus, and know that today has beauty for you to capture. I will get to capture the adventure my kids have had today. I get to delight in their strong bones, and willing hearts to ride in the beautiful mountains. I get today. I may not have tomorrow. So goodness, I’m going to capture what is mine to enjoy. Won’t you join me?

Tuesday is fast approaching where this will happen again.

I’m praying desperate prayers into this moment. Prayers for grace, gratitude, joy even. Certainly I will meet my broken heart Tuesday, I will weep. It simply is going to be awful.

The pain will be present certainly, but so will the grace to choose a soft broken heart instead of an angry bitter heart will be there as well.

I want to leave again from a quote from Albus Dumbledore (J.K. Rowling) in last night’s reading: It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.

I wept reading and rereading this quote last night. My dreams have changed, my living has certainly changed in this beautiful awful journey. But we have learned to capture life while it’s still before us to live. In small beautiful moments, we have learned to capture life. It should not have taken cancer, and I’ll go further and said it doesn’t have to. There is beauty for you to capture today, even if you are walking unthinkable hard, and I know many of you are. Tuesday has grace appointed for it. It’s there waiting to capture us. Jesus is there, He’s tenderly ready to meet me at that new bottom. There will be beauty in my tears, and I promise there will also be laughter. Impossible laughter in the midst of the pain.

Pictures beautifully captured by my dearest Jen Lints—she has a gift for honestly capturing a moment well.

“Prove me, O Lord, and try me;
test my heart and my mind.
For your steadfast love is before my eyes,
and I walk in your faithfulness.”

A wise friend and I were sharing hearts over coffee the other day, and I asked how she was navigating a difficult situation so gracefully; she said, I just try to trust Jesus and be faithful in my little corner. Such simple words, but they challenged me deeply. You see, I’m in a similar situation that I have prayed and prayed to be released from, but God has answered with a firm, No.

As I’ve pondered God’s no over the last several months, I’ve considered how strange it is to receive this definitive no and to live in a state of permanent discomfort and disappointment. As Americans in a consumerist culture, we are used to taking charge, voicing our opinions, and changing our circumstances if we don’t like something—we change jobs, change homes, change relationships, change churches, change schools. If we pause to consider how we can be contributing to something outside ourselves, the sacrifice only lasts as long as we are getting something out of it—once things get tough, we tend to look for an out.

Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m just used to moving on when things get hard/sad/ugly. To be clear, I’m not in a dangerous situation, just a painful one. Thank goodness I’m not in a position in which I’m praying for deliverance, just a way out. I’m tired and feel alone and my heart hurts and I cry a lot and…Shucks, when I type it out like that, it seems so clear—it’s just the kind of situation that God uses to draw his children close to him and to mature our understanding of his character and his love for us. I know in my head that hard things are the ways God does this. Happy situations do not bring lasting change in our hearts. Without revealing our need for God, we will never call out to him.

In fact, I regularly pray that God would draw me closer to him; here he is doing just that, and instead, I’m grumbling and wishing that life weren’t so hard. What would it look like to turn to God in trust? To ask to be faithful rather than just muddling along? Is this situation an answer to my prayers?

When I take my son to kindergarten, I pray for him on the way to school each morning, and our prayer starts, Thank you for this new day, that your mercies are new every morning, and that your faithfulness is great. Part of my prayer is that God’s love will be the most real thing to him, that no matter how he feels that day—anxious, shy, scared, angry, whatever!—that God’s love will overwhelm all of that and be the most real thing to his heart. How easy it is to pray these things for my 5 year old, and how difficult it is to pray them for myself and believe that God’s mercies are new for me and that God’s love for me could be the most real thing in my mind throughout the day.

What would it mean to believe God’s love for me, to believe that his purposes are always redemptive, and to believe that he has purpose for me where I am? What would it mean to lean into him as he draws near to me? What would it look like to find reasons for gratitude and thank God in this situation, choosing joy instead of resentment? What would it mean to thrive and not just survive? What would it look like to put bitterness aside in favor of being life-giving and faithful?

I don’t know what God is doing in this situation. I am hurting, uncomfortable, and frustrated. The one thing I do know is that Jesus loves me. My 4 year old can tell me that. Jesus loves me! And because Jesus loves me, I can trust him. If I can trust him, perhaps I can take steps to be faithful to him, knowing that I am wrapped in his love, which is never-ending, never-fading, bigger than I can imagine. Which means, friend, that his love for you is never-ending, never-fading, and bigger than you can imagine.

What situation do you find yourself feeling trapped in? In what ways do you think God is asking you to be faithful in your own little corner? Do you believe that his love for you is bigger than you can imagine? If you are struggling to trust God’s love for you, I encourage you to find a Bible verse to cling to and meditate over and pray every day, asking God to convince you of his deep love. Friend, he delights to love you.

When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty, I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up. ~C.S. Lewis

When I was in college, my dearest friend Amy babysat a dear professor’s family that had an evening ritual called “tiger time.” Amy came home to our room and told me of the delights of this family. Each evening the children pretended to be baby tigers as they jumped in bed with their mother, the mama tiger, and they would snuggle and read each night. As a babysitter, my dear friend was asked to step in for the mama tiger and perform the honorary task of tiger time—it delighted my dear Amy.

I remember feeling awed by this intentional love, amazed, and hopeful that I would one day love with such intention with my littles. I have to confess I started strong. I enjoyed tiger time with my two oldest children, but somewhere along the way, I lost my way. In the struggle of cancer, the struggle of busy, we forgot to be quiet together in my bed nest. We forgot the wonder of reading together. We filled our time with nonsense and forgot to wonder, imagine, delight in a story together. Sure we still cuddled, yes, books were read, but we lost the wonder of fiction. The age range of my children felt too impossible to find a middle ground in story. I was wrong. I was woefully and regretfully wrong.

Then I heard that my dearest Matt Morginsky read the entire Harry Potter series to his little loves. I chewed on the thought. I wondered if I could manage it. Then in the battle for my every breath, I turned to Jason and said one evening, I think at the end of my days I will be sad I didn’t read more to the children. There is something about giving voice to your greatest fears, your deepest sadness, your possible regrets. speaking them aloud motivated me to move from lazy to action. I am still here, I still have breath to breathe, why wouldn’t I simply begin? So I did. I started at the beginning: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I read it when I was a new teacher 15 years ago, but I am enjoying it utterly new with my littles.

I was not sure how your book would meet my large age range, but it meets us in such wonderful ways. Mostly, my loves are lost in the cadence of my reading. Many nights my guy is left to carry our sweet loves to bed after a particularly long chapter. My baby rarely makes it through two pages. She simply snuggles in for the warmth beside me, falling gently to sleep as I read and share your amazing gift of imagination and wonder with my tigers. She isn’t following the story, she simply knows this is the time she hears my loving voice and sits near to my love. My oldest swore you off when I would tempt her with your books—she is now the first to find the right place in my bed to hear the coming adventure in your words. She is eager, so eager for more of your story. My second born listens and takes in the details of your story. She and I talked over the particular rules of quidditch tonight at dinner. My son is captured, but like my baby is enjoying the lull of my voice in the night. Bedtime has become something beautiful where it has felt so strained for so many years. It’s this beautiful meeting of love. You have brought this joy to us. Thank you.

Last night I finished the chapter that ended in tenderness and felt so thankful for your writing. It was the moment Harry and Ron accepted Hermione as their friend. But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became their friend. There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them. I loved this—the connection doing something hard together brings. We get that. We get hard. All of us. Hard done in community matters, it brings us all closer.

J.K., you have brought us together in a hard season. Cancer has limited what I am able to do with each day, but I fight each day to reserve the energy for one chapter with you and my loves. And it is energy well spent. Snuggled together, next to the warmth of one another, I share your words as I love my children. My heart is thankful for the wonder you have brought, the amazing imagination and understanding you bring to your characters. I am lost in your story, enjoying your humor, and loving creating voices for each character. Hagrid is my favorite voice to read aloud. Oh, he’s such a love. I can imagine him plunked down on my bed with my littles enjoying hearing a mama read aloud. He would be welcome with all his tenderness and wriggling pockets. He would fit right into my small tribe.

Miss Rowling, I once thought I would regret not having read a lot at the end of my days. You have helped me put that regret aside. You have brought together a wide range of children under my soft blanket at night. I brought your book on vacation, and my kids found the next book in the basket. They have all passed it around with wonder, excited to hear what is to come. We listen for your story, we pray together when reading is over, we kiss and love and calmly enjoy our sleep, a little lost in your story.

Reading aloud together is such a gift of love. We snuggle close, we listen for the plot, and we fall desperately in love with your characters. You have brought together a weary family, and I thank you. You have lifted the imaginations of some hurting children to wonder on a place utterly unlike the place they reside. Your words quiet us in the evening after all of our going. You have worked a special moment in wonder beside one another. Thank you. You give us a break from our story each night even for just a moment.

You and I who still enjoy fairy tales have less reason to wish actual childhood back. We have kept its pleasures and added some grown-up ones as well. ~C.S. Lewis

J.K. Rowling, thank you. You cannot know what a gift of connection you have brought to our family. We understand that the little moments in each day are the big moments in life. Dinner together, bath time, the slow work of learning to read, and quiet beside one another. We know the play world of our backyard and the wonder of our imaginations. We know the beauty of a hike, and the gift of running away together. Cancer has taught us to take each bite and enjoy it carefully, as meals quickly end, and the next thing is upon us. Our next things have been often difficult. There is this one slice among many wonderful slices in my day I savor. I particularly savor my time with you and my loves. It has become a delightful part of the meal of my day. Thank you.

We have run away to capture beauty, to sleep, to recover from our hard, and to sit beside one another. We are a family that functions only upon the use of an antenna. So we have a few fancy channels, but not really. PBS and another network is about all we have. We are happy that way. But on vacation, on blessed vacation, the offerings grow as do the number of televisions. Currently our abode has four, yes four, televisions. Holy cow.

The kids have been swimming, working on a little school, watching TV, and resting. We have eaten well and read a book together. I am still recovering from my big chemo, my surgery, and I’m still taking 2 weeks of tough chemo. So I’m slow, endlessly slow, going this week. I have enjoyed life from the comfort of the king bed in our room. It’s a beautiful nest of fluffy duvets and endless white. It is a lovely nest from which I capture each of my children. I have napped, read, sat poolside, and enjoyed quiet.

Vacation, for me, also means cooking shows. Goodness, I love cooking shows. My kids could probably push me into cable simply for cooking shows. Food is not really appealing, but cooking for my loves will always be near to my heart. I speak love, tell the story of love, through cooking for my people. I cut the veggies and place the dips in a language of love. When I tackle a difficult recipe, it’s for love. Cooking with care is the joy of creating connection to my people. I cook, I pray, I dream of the food meeting my loves and nourishing them. I have made elaborate meals that flopped, simple meals that were a great win. But in all the effort—love. Getting to watch cooking is getting to watch that love story.

Cooking may be the greatest loss I feel when I’m sick. So many have loved us with such grace in cooking for my people. But as I sit limp upon my bed, I grieve missing that language of love towards my family. Chemo robs strength, energy, and the ability to share a room with many smells. It’s a jerk like that.As I slowly recover, I dream of building hearty meals for my people. Pasta, vegetables, warm bread, kindness through my cooking. The moment I get to return to the helm of my kitchen is always a joyful moment for everyone. Jason is able to cook, he is willing, but it is not where he communicates love like me.

Where are you uniquely made to communicate love to your family? Is it through your cleaning, your organizing, or do you love your people with food like me? How do you uniquely enjoy a task in your home that makes you feel as though you were specially and specifically made to love? I will always fight for my way back into the kitchen. I will always long for the moment of meeting my loves over loud music and clanging pots. I will always enjoy the lap around Whole Foods where I envision the lovely meals I will create for my children and love. So excuse me while I go watch a little cooking love on TV this morning. I’m coming out of the fog, I’m dreaming of cooking something amazing by the end of the week for my people.

I’m back to the face-down days I knew 2 years ago. It hurts to lose moments, memories, sweet tender times in the haze of drugs. My dear neighbor came over and reminded me of our conversation, which had vanished from my mind. Blaaaaaa

I quietly rested my head beside my guy last night and whispered my fears to him, What if all this hard isn’t working? His face mirrored my fears. This battle is so painful. We long, long, long to know all this hard is working.

These faces, these blessed faces, make it all worth it. All the tears, all the hard, all the weary worth the moments to pour love into their amazing lives. And when the perfect moment is appointed for me to fly away, I think we will all know. But now, this day, we fight. Fight for good moments in the blur of the bad.

I never miss church. Hardly ever. I love our Westside community. But today my white blood count is tanked, so I’m home, home fighting to feel better. I’m home trying to protect my family from having to take care of me more than they already do. I can’t help myself with hugs and loves. My little body just has no fight. So I’m quietly in my bed listening to worship songs and writing my favorite readers.

These pictures are the extent of what I could do yesterday. I came home and slept for 2 hours—that’s all the steam my body has after the killing poison. Jason and I were tucked into this beautiful arbor and I simply wept. I wept sorry to him. I wept sadness that it’s so hard for him. I wept for us, for the story we dreamed, and the story that is. I’m grateful for this life, but I grieve what I thought it would be. It’s not cancer that brings the bottom, it’s my hopes and dreams colliding with reality. And in that edge, grace. Gentle grace to receive the story. I woke from my sleep to see these beautiful images from Jen Lints Photography—they show me there is love. Abiding love. Love beyond each of us. Impossible, incomprehensible love. Love even when my family is asked to carry my impossibly heavy burden. There is love. Such tender love.

This is not a topic many of us wish to think on with any regularity. But honestly, I think of it all the time. How does one die well? How does one glorify God in death? How does one simply die well? All thoughts that pass through my moments, my limited moments.

Here is what I have come up with: I’m sure as days pass I will have a new list of thoughts to share with you lovely readers. But today, this low drug filled day, here are my thoughts.

1. Live with deep forgiveness to share and honest repentance with those you love. Keep short accounts and don’t find offenses that aren’t there. Live in love. Enjoy grace. Extend that forgiveness, grace and love. For years, I have shared with my children the story of my elementary school years. I share often about a young boy in my class named Steven. I don’t know the story Steven lived, but it didn’t look like an easy story or simple upbringing. I don’t remember specifics of my behavior towards Steven, but I remember a heart of unkindness I carried towards him. I offered him no friendship, no gentleness, no real kindness. I grieve how I treated this young man. I have often shared my sadness that I didn’t know Jesus at a young age to extend him love he most certainly longed for—love we all long for daily. And wonder of wonders—this dying, this cancer, this hard caused me to find Steven. Too search him out and ask his forgiveness for my unkindness. He gently extended mercy. He forgave my ugly. He offered me kindness I did not deserve. It’s beautiful really how death can bring life, restoration, redemption. It should not have taken dying to find this man I was unkind to... But it did.

2. When the limit of the horizon of my days feels like it’s closing in, I feel compelled to live what I have well. Sure I still fail, spend unintentional moments each day, I know lazy still. But my days are spent looking deeply into the eyes of my loves, trying to let my people see the love I have for them beyond these endless words I write. There is something in a look, a look full of love. I stare, I smile, I tangle my fingers with my children and my love and fight to remember to laugh. We meet the wonder of each other in small moments, and those small moments have become the giant moments of each day. They always were, but dying has taught us to embrace and enjoy the simple moments. To cherish each moment as the gift that it is.

3. The learning and leaning on God I did before I was sick matters today. When the limitations of my disease come, often in a struggle to read, I think on a feast on the moments of learning, discipleship, and scripture I have memorized before this sickness hit me. The time spent drinking deeply from that season of health was time well spent. Energy worth my time. Efforts that have kept me, reminded me of goodness and grace in the struggle today. The time spent nurturing my heart in the season of health was important. Don’t neglect your heart and faith in your season of health.

4. Dying has taught me not to squander a moment. I do not fear directing a question right to the heart of another. I have little time left for small talk. So I don’t waste my words with it often. I long to hear and know the real story, the story of the heart in another. Flattery and small talk are lost on me these days. I want to hear, really hear from the heart of another as I have energy to hear. The real story, not the pretended together story. I love hearing how Jesus uniquely meets the brokenness of another.

5. Today matters, this breath, this moment to write. It matters. When I was well, I squandered moments thinking I had endless days to capture life. But none of us do. So why do we live in the comfortable confines of our lives? Why don’t we extend ourselves in love to the hurting community around us? God has lavished, lavished, lavished his extending dying love on us in Christ; why don’t we extend ourselves to our hurting neighbors? I regret the comfort I kept myself isolated for so many years. A few weeks ago a new young woman came to our church. I simply met her and told her about Jesus. I didn’t know if I would get another chance. I came home and told Jason I was able to share Jesus with a young woman. He said he did too. We shared the name. Yup—we both told this young woman about the love of Jesus. You see, we know something of the limit of our days with cancer. We know these moments matter. So if I meet you, I’m telling you the greatest story that was ever lived. And it happened. Jesus really did live a breathtaking life extending, extending, extending himself in love. For you. And that story is really the only story that matters. His life, death, and resurrection—overcoming death to prove himself God—it happened, it matters. It matters today. So with these last breaths I’m given. That’s how I’m going to spend them. Telling my kids, my loves, my neighbors, my friends. Those that know Jesus, and those that don’t. His love has made all the difference in my dying. He died well. He lived well. He is enough. And if He calls me to Himself sooner than I had hoped? Well, it is for my gain.

I believe that my death will be gain. I don’t long for it, and I do pray for longer days with my loves. Days blissfully extending myself in all the love I’m given to give. I get to be nourished by the love my community is extending to me, and the grace that is provided for each moment. I know, I know, I know dying will not be easy. I know the journey across the veil from this place into the next will not be a simple lovely journey. But it will be my journey. And I am in Christ, and Jason and I often wonder over the in-Christness that we enjoy. That moving from this life into the next will not change that. I will be connected to Jesus as I walk through that veil into the land of no more tears. Where are you today friend? Do you know what it is to be in Christ? To know that heaven is secure. Ask me! Like I said, it’s the story I love to tell. How Jesus took me, young and wretched, full of bitterness and ugly, and made me his daughter. His beloved daughter. Forever in this life and the next. Do you see me dancing? I’m dancing and rejoicing in that truth here, and I will be dancing and rejoicing in Him there. Won’t you join me?