He’ll force your hand. Just as He is forcing mine back to the keyboard. Believe me, I’ve resisted.

But, believe me, resistance is futile.

The tune pours through the speakers while the washer churns the familiar whoosh of a Mama trying to wash it all away. Though we try, it’s just not quite that simple.

The washer churns, the melody whispers, and the rat-tat-tating of the keyboard remind me You are in charge.

It’s been a few days now. A few days since that Caring Bridge post. And, truth? I’m sick of Caring Bridge posts. No. I’m sick of cancer. I hate cancer. There, that should be the place I start.

She asked me, well, I suppose it’s been about twenty months now…

She asked me to write a little something for her. Something about the co-op. The place our friendship began a decade ago. The place homeschool moms gather to make the Swiss cheese of homeschooling work just a little better. A place we pray God will fill those holes we are sure we have left. We are quite good at being terribly hard on ourselves.

It was the tenth anniversary of this little place we called home. This place we now ache to re-create. But how could we have known? How could we have known some things just can’t be remade.

She emailed me and asked if I would put together some words about what the co-op meant to us. How the homeschool away from home had helped us – before we moved away.

Of course I would. Sure. No problem. Anything for you, my friend. I’ll get right to it…

And for the life of me, I can’t find that email. I always delete the wrong things.

And for the life of me, I can’t recall what I was so busy doing that I never did write that little post.

You’re such a great writer. I’d really appreciate it.

A smile, wink, and a little xo. That’s all she asked.

And for the life of me, I don’t know why we don’t remember time passes, life changes, and friends die.

Well, my sweet homeschooling soul sister, I haven’t forgotten my promise. I know this world-wide web runs deep and wide, but I pray the veil is thin enough for you to see I’m keeping my promise.

How can I adequately describe what a place means? How a place of gathering mothers can lift you out of your deepest pits and darkest moments. How this place can bring joy and relief. How this same place can cause aggravation and frustration.

How can I explain people we hardly know become our best friends, and when we leave them, we suddenly realize they are the very roots of us?

How can I show you the women with whom we carry children, in our bellies and on our hips, are the women who really show us how to live this thing we call motherhood?

How can I make clear – the women with whom we share the loss of a baby are the women who help us to be the very weakest, and the very strongest?

I can’t remember much about the lesson plans. I don’t recall the details of heated debates about dress codes, curriculum, and what God really intends for us to accomplish every single school year. I just don’t remember that. I’m sure you didn’t either. Shows us how much that matters, doesn’t it, sister?

I do remember the worn weary mamas pushing strollers, clutching tiny hands, and chasing pre-teens through the four seasons of this little East Coast town.

I do remember the scuttle and scurry of kids, pressed and wind-blown at the same time, rushing for seats in a chapel. We couldn’t be late, you know. I giggle now at the thought of these bleary-eyed moms grasping coffee cups like their very existence might be hinged to the sweet liquid in those porcelain vessels.

I do remember the settled silence after kids were quietly gathered with tutors, whose hearts poured beauty into the souls of our precious young.

I do remember the sparkling eyes, knowing looks, and mom high-fives as we finished one more good day.

There are so many questions, and one short life.

I could go on about a place, but, you know, it’s not about a place at all. It is always, always about the people.

I suppose you knew this deep in your spirit as your body failed.

You, ever the one to hold it together.

Ever the one to keep us moving forward. Ever the one picking up my boy for a play date when I. could. just. not. do. one. more. thing. You, ever the one to bring that spaghetti casserole when my warrior was deployed yet again – the casserole that became our favorite and saved us from frozen pizza. How many times did you save me?

You, ever the one who offered not just to sit with me a while, but to stay overnight, when a new baby – number six this time – and another deployment threatened to leave me chasing sleep like that elusive carrot.

You, always the one to serve. Always.

That’s it. That’s what I remember about that place. You, and them. The people who watched you serve, and in turn, served.

I do remember the Sonic milkshakes, and the Panera lunches. I do remember the endless conversations about politics, the state of the country, and where in the world should we go? Someplace safe.

Well, I made it there. The place we always talked about going.

And, you know what? It’s not safe. No safer than any other. Maybe we aren’t meant to be safe. Maybe, instead, we are meant to step into the holy wilderness that is God’s plan. The Holy Wild that is God. This place where control evades us, and true peace falls upon us.

You, the one seeking to love Him first. To love Him more.

I suppose – though I’d love nothing more than one more hug with a chocolate milkshake – the reward for that kind of seeking is seeing Him face-to-face. And maybe, because of you, we will all seek with that same fervent spirit that leads us beyond our fears – and our fiercest earthly nightmare.

You fought this good fight, and, God knows, you fought to live. And in His most radical love, He brought you into the Place we dread and long for… all at the same time. The Place we truly live.

May our trust truly be without borders.

I smile now, knowing I saw your face. Friday night. Behind my closed eyes, in the silence where His voice whispers the truth we are dying to hear…

I saw your face, you smiled, and your eyes whispered,

Heaven is beautiful.

My friend, here is my promise fulfilled. May the words find you whole and healed, in the arms of our Savior.

The clouds surround me now, while I lift tear-soaked hands in gratitude for our ever-growing cloud of witnesses…

And, there, I see your face.

Hebrews 12:1-3

Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who endured such hostility from sinners against Himself, lest you become weary and discouraged in your souls.

The post When You Have A Promise To Keep appeared first on karin madden.

The not knowing is the one thing that keeps us going. The one thing that keeps us following the only One who knows…

Please join me at More to Be today to continue reading – especially if you find yourself in the shadows…

Psalm 91:1

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

The post When You Are In The Secret Place appeared first on karin madden.

One piece at a time.

Please stick with the puzzle.

Here’s where the jigsaw began many months ago…

I keep looking across the room at them.

Most of the time they don’t see me looking.

Tomorrow is my birthday. The thought that I am sliding into middle age doesn’t sit long. Mostly I think of her. Forty-five years ago tonight she was on the verge of meeting her first and only girl child. The baby of the family. She was younger than I am now, but not by much. I think of the time I lay beneath her beating heart – waiting to enter this wild world. Eyes fully open.

She’s been gone from here for six months, but I see her face every day. Sometimes in the faces of my children. Sometimes behind my closed eyes. And sometimes, more often with each passing year, in the mirror.

I watch the headlines flashing across the screen and I’m almost grateful she isn’t here to see it.

The terror of it all.

She saw enough of it.

I see the faces of the refugees. Tear-stained mothers. Wide-eyed children with vacuous gazes. All swallowed by masses.

Mingled into the masses slithers the terror. The cowards hiding and sliding through the crowds. The very beasts we’ve been fighting for so very long now. The terror that has taken my babies’ daddy from them time and time again – until the absence becomes normal.

The terror didn’t just begin, you know. It began a very long time ago. The truth is the terror began when the enemy fell to earth and his hatred fueled a thousand generations of vulnerable souls. Our battle is with powers and principalities after all.

But let’s make no mistake. These powers entice and utilize the willing souls of terrorists who swarm in very real human flesh.

Then I think of her again. Terror is nothing new. I suppose my parents must have thought the end was near when they were just teenagers. Bombs rained and bullets flew through the formative years of their youth. The age I learned to drive down southern country roads, they learned to navigate a war-torn country. All lost to smoke and fire.

She told me the story over and over again. A story heard a thousand times becomes a sort of lullaby. The thrumming of a heartbeat quietly ticking – not knowing when the jolt will come.

The jolt keeps coming. Again and again. Wringing hands and clenched fists. Explosions. Chaos. Tears upon tears…

Spewing anger leaking through media madness we call “social.” I read the scrolling upon scrolling. More venom than baby pictures these days. I showed up in this social place for those baby pictures. Now the baby pictures of innocent faces are clouded by anger and hatred and fear. Isn’t this why He tells us again and again,

Do not be afraid.

Yea, but that’s easier said than done.

I wish I could tell you my opinion. But the truth is I have too many, and not one solution. Not yet.

I keep thinking of them. The war that surrounded them when they were the age of these faces watching me from across the room.

We have all these glorious, well-meaning, sometimes educated, sometimes fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants thoughts. We throw them into the wild, wild world. Mostly hoping something will right this madness. Hoping something will change. Praying Someone is listening.

And for the love of God and all things good, we are tired. And sick of it all.

But that sounds too much like complaining. Or quitting. And, friends, we just can. not. quit. The stories don’t get any prettier and our babies grow up. And sometimes we forget what the point of all this is.

I’ve wrestled with even spilling thoughts in this place. It’s personal here. Something I want to leave with my kids. And this year has left me numb and tired and wondering what do I actually want to leave with my kids?

Through the spinning and reeling and frustration of the seasons we face – and I thought things would get easier as we age – I wonder what on this gloriously beautiful and chaotically ugly earth do I want to leave here? Because, you know, we can’t leave here without leaving a mark. We all leave a mark.

The moving and upheaval and changes have about done me in this time. It’s what military wives do. It seems we can take the madness on ourselves, but we can’t stomach it for our babies. It all becomes too much sometimes. And we think we might just have reached the limit.

Like a desperate sparrow clamoring for reassurance from fresh air and skies –  because I hate to admit the Heavenly answers just don’t come fast enough sometimes – I flew into a wild-eyed soliloquy. The target – my unsuspecting warrior. Sometimes they just don’t know when the sparrow has encountered the hurricane.

I’m done! I just can’t take it anymore! I’m so sick of it all going wrong.

Well, and sometimes the answers from Heaven are just waiting for you to get real.

You know… we just need to go to 30,000 feet.

Pause. Wait a minute. There’s a profound truth here. Let me just. breathe. for. one. minute. He continued,

We’re being sucked into the details. The messed up and mostly distracting details of this world.

We just need to get to 30,000 feet and look down for a few minutes.

Oh God, why can’t we just get it? We need to see from YOUR eyes. The big picture. The view from a distance that reminds us we are all crawling around here like ants on a computer screen. We just don’t know. We don’t know how this story will unfold. BUT. How many times do You have to tell us…

Do not be afraid.

My warrior called me. Another trip away from the souls he loves most. Because the earthly battles will not wane – not any time soon.

Do you know what He tells us again and again? Do you know? 

Do not be afraid.

I grinned from behind sleepy eyes,

Yea, it’s like He knows, huh?

It’s not easy, my friend. I know. It’s excruciating sometimes. Like madness might finally take hold, and the mask just has to cover it all. Because, you know, appearances and all.

But, it is real. He is real. The countless ways are almost too much for the simple words etched here. He keeps showing up. He keeps answering. He keeps promising. And He does not lie. He has no need for our approval or belief. He IS anyway.

His plan IS.

His story IS.

His love IS.

No matter what or who we are.

Sometimes the sparrow has to spin through the hurricane again and again until it sees the Light is still there. No matter the darkness it encounters. The Light breaks through the storm and reminds us,

Do not be afraid.

Matthew 10:27-33

“Whatever I tell you in the dark, speak in the light; and what you hear in the ear, preach on the housetops. And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.
“Therefore whoever confesses Me before men, him I will also confess before My Father who is in heaven. But whoever denies Me before men, him I will also deny before My Father who is in heaven.

The post When You Need To Hear – Do Not Be Afraid appeared first on karin madden.

I probably started the week after we lost who would have been number seven. It took me eleven months to even utter that event to a few of our six. Sometimes it just takes time.

Yes, I think it must have been right about this time. I started that list. You know the one.

The list that spells out all the things you will do better next year. All the areas that need improvement. You know the ones.

Be a more understanding wife. Be a better mom. Be a fun mom. Be a better friend – the kind that stays in touch… regularly. Be more giving. Be more loving. Be a more organized house keeper. Be more patient. Yes, that one. Be more patient. Be a better teacher. Be slower to spend and quicker to save. Be light-hearted. Be a P90X queen. Be in the moment – while looking carefully to the future. Be grateful… more grateful. Be sure to call Mom and Dad regularly. Yea, all those things. Just be… better.

I carefully penned the list. On paper. It was a first. You know when we write down our goals we are 40% more likely to accomplish them. And goals are good.

We rolled into the new year and, well, it takes about a week to get into the flow of that new list. The good-goal-be-better list.

Then, January. It started. Slowly at first. One swipe from the side. One unexpected change. We have to support the ones we love. Even when we don’t like the change. Sometimes we just aren’t ready. Sometimes it just takes time.

And, February. It’s funny, but we think we outgrow the pain of friendship’s betrayal when we are young. But, not so funny, we don’t. That sucker punch on the jaw can come no matter how far we’ve gone down this road. One more for the list. Tell the kids to pick good ones. Good friends.

By the time March and April rolled around, the list was buried under ER bills, grocery lists, credit card statements, and various other items determined to crush the good-goal-be-better plan.

We plan and dream and hope and wonder, but one day the last call comes. I remember the last day she called. It was my warrior’s 50th birthday. Not a birthday went by without the sweet song laced in her German tongue. I didn’t stay on long, after all she was calling to sing. We don’t like to mess with routine and traditions, do we.

The next day, that’s when the blur began. A laundry list of a different kind. The sequence of events that lead to the end of a life. Flights, visits, suitcases, worries, ticking clocks, nurses, doctors, confusion, and more tears than I dreamed could fall from one soul.

I didn’t know what was heading my direction. I didn’t know what it would be like. I knew grief. Most of us know grief. I didn’t know the marriage of grief and change could pull you under.

I couldn’t have known the ways the waves would toss.

I couldn’t have known I’d kiss her still face one last time – on Mother’s Day.

I couldn’t have known I’d pack his last suitcase and whisk him away from the home he had known for forty-six years.

I couldn’t have known the destruction of a bulldozing claw, and the careless crushing of our childhood home would haunt my thoughts for months upon months.

Grief itself feels much like walking under water. Trudging along against this unseen force, and just when a brief rest during your journey slows your march, the current ruthlessly drags you back.

Back to the dining room chair stored in the garage. That one with the lingering smell of everything you ever knew before you knew grief. It pulls you back through glimpses in the mirror. That reflection once so familiar suddenly takes on lines and forms of another face you knew so well.

It pulls you back through rooms in your memory. Rooms you could walk through blind. The ones that held every memory of every year until you waltzed into adulthood.

The memories take over your dreams and you wonder if you’ll ever find the peace you once took for granted. The simple joys untouched by the scent of what once was.

Just today, the photograph popped into my messages. It took my breath. This message from a lifelong sister. We get to have those sometimes. The ones who remember with us. And they are a gift. Every one of them. The people. No surprise – they are the ones who make a life.

The photo was of a grinning seventeen-year-old girl. I didn’t realize how much her hair looked like that of my little summer warrior. I didn’t realize how youth hangs effortlessly on a soul and when it’s gone, you could kick yourself for ever wishing it away. Time, like that underwater current, has its way with us.

I wanted to look that girl in the face and hold her chin and tell her,

You don’t have to try so hard.

You don’t have to worry so much.

You don’t have to be better.

Oh, please, just breathe and enjoy the ride.

The shoulder she peeked over was that of one of her teenage besties. And I don’t even know where he is anymore. The face behind the camera is a grinning soul, who thankfully is only a text away. It’s no guarantee. These friendships. We don’t know which ones we’ll keep and which ones will drift to grinning memories in a deep fallen snow.

I do know the touch of each passing soul leaves an indelible mark. Some of us are just meant to share a moment and pass on to the next current.

It’s been a full year now, and the underwater walking has me moving more slowly. The aches and creaks in my back remind me that P90X is a worthy pursuit. I’d like to be a better house keeper, but feel most unmotivated in a house that is not our own with furnishings that are foreign to me. I suppose understanding wife receives a check mark. We’ve eaten dinner without him again and I know – he’d rather be here.

I don’t know about the fun mom part. Just last week I laughed from the bottom of my gut, and my pack of six eyed me with a stunned wonder. I could do better. Laughter was once my third language, behind German. Yes, I could do better.

Ah, forget the rest of the list. I can’t recall it and I’m sure it was lost in the move anyway.

My warrior has devised the list for this new year. And maybe this is how we pick each other up out of the current. Maybe the list isn’t the answer at all. Maybe the hands holding the lists are the real goals. Maybe I’ll just let the whole thing go and float with the current.

Just months ago, which now seems like several soul transformations ago, I whispered to my warrior over fresh, raw tears,

All the worrying I did. All the worrying over her. Over him. Over what we would do… over how this whole thing would play out. Over how the end would come. It was all a waste of time. None of it happened like I thought it would. None of it was in my control. None of it was part of the story I wrote in my mind. 

But, somehow, it was better. Gut wrenching, ruthless, heartbreaking. And somehow better than I could have written it.

Maybe that’s the list we should write.

The list of every single worry that grabs us by the throat at 3 am. The list of every pain and I-don’t-know-what-to-do. The list of every lingering thought in which we doubt God. That’s the list.

The list of all the things God does not, or will not, or can not control. We laugh at this nonsense, but the laughter subsides when we see the list is actually growing line upon line.

That list would likely be long. Longer than we would like. We hope our gratitude list will be longer, but it probably isn’t.

The illusive wisdom we request without ceasing comes at a price. In the piercing words of Aeschylus,

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart
until, in our own despair, against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

The awful grace of God.

This grace arrives in the current. The only way to receive it is to allow the current to take us.

The list. This time it will bleed onto paper through the clenched fists holding all the worries that don’t belong to me, or any of us.

This list will spew every last snarling thought of fear that clings to my weary mind. Every last piece standing in the way of peace.

This list. I’ll take every bullet point, one at a time, and tear it from the list. I’ll look at it long and slow. I’ll run my fingers across the familiar letters etched in my worrying mind.  I’ll tear those letters while whispering to the part of my soul that longs for control,

This isn’t yours anymore. It never was. You just didn’t know it. That awful grace of God has opened your eyes…

And I’ll throw the list away. Every last scribbled worry.

One line, one lie, at a time.

Proverbs 16:9

A man’s heart plans his way, But the Lord directs his steps.

The post The One List We Need To Write appeared first on karin madden.

An entire generation – on both sides of my family. I could look for miles and miles – across an ocean – and I was the only one.

I suppose that’s one thing that brought me right up against my mother’s hip most of my childhood.

I could hang with the boys and I never felt a lack for anything girlish. My time with dolls and tea sets was just a little time all to myself. And I’ve always liked a little time to myself.

The only girl.

And then He gave me four daughters. How funny He works things in His own time.

But before I had daughters, I had the sisters my brothers brought into my life.

And then the babies. My nieces. One by one – I wasn’t the only one anymore. The scale seemed to settle while my heart filled. We women need each other.

My mother. She went home to Him just 21 days ago. And I’ve counted every one. I can see the minutes etched into my dad’s sorrow-filled eyes.

But there will be time for those words later. Sometimes thoughts need time to simmer. The words floating around find each other and make sense eventually. But, not yet. I’ll etch those words a little bit later.

This is about the women. The ones who trickled into my life one-by-one. One generation at a time.

And this day is about the next generation. The ones my mom is smiling on this very moment. She is beaming. Every time she looked into the faces of her grandchildren, she was beaming.

This is the season of change. Graduation time.

Nieces and nephews, these delights of our hearts, are walking the stage one-by-one. Diploma in hand – beaming.

More overwhelming than the pride I take in these souls is the gratitude. The gratitude for the gift of daughters and nieces who saw the woman I saw when I looked into my mother’s eyes.

There is nothing in this world more binding than sharing this love with my daughters, and my nieces.

These are the words penned by my beautiful niece Caroline. Our Mutti is smiling on her and her sweet sister, and all the rest of us – from Heaven. This I know.

Dancing With Großmutti

            Drop. Kick. Smile. Every time the yo-yo drops to the floor she attempts to kick the string. Each attempt brings a smile to her face. Drop. Kick. Smile. Drop. Kick. Smile. When her foot actually makes contact with the string, the yo-yo clatters to the floor, and she begins to laugh. I squeeze my eyes shut, hiding the salty tears that threaten to spill onto my cheeks, and I laugh with my eighty-four-year-old grandmother, cherishing this simple moment.

Großmutti suffers from senile dementia. My moments with her are rarely simple. In one moment, she will be regaling me with tales of her childhood, her eyes devilish as she remembers young mischief. In the next moment, she will not know if she’s speaking to me or my mother. My heart breaks when I see a new wave of confusion cross her face, crushing her train of thought. The flow of conversation halts in its tracks, and soon Großmutti begins jabbering at me in German despite my insistence that she must speak English. English. Was? English. Was? English. Was? The German jargon continues as do my pleas for English, but, then, as suddenly as the wave of confusion came, coherence returns, and Großmutti laughs at herself, exclaiming that she merely forgot for a moment that I do not speak German. This pattern continues. Conversation. Confusion. German. Gespräch. Verwirrung. Mehr Deutsch. Großmutti’s moments of confusion are increasing in number, but, unfortunately, I am not becoming any more fluent in German.

Interspersed with Großmutti’s instances of bewilderment are instances of sheer genius. Not even the most difficult of Sudoku puzzles stands a chance against a spectacled Großmutti and a freshly sharpened pencil. Not even the most keen, most clever, most determined challenger can dethrone Großmutti, the queen of chess. Großmutti may not be able to recall the names of the neighbors, but she can certainly name their birthdays, their children’s birthdays, and their children’s children’s birthdays. Großmutti’s true genius, though, lies in dance.

Großmutti and dancing. Dancing and Großmutti. They are truly one in the same. A visit to Großmutti’s house would not be complete without a twirl around the living room, gliding through the steps of a Viennese Waltz. She can teach me the steps to every tango she has ever tangoed and every Foxtrot she has ever trotted. Her heart pumps to the beat of a lively German polka, and her eyes shine bright with the excitement of watching her grandchildren jig the jitterbug. No medicine can make Großmutti feel the way that a good waltz can. No pesky clouds of confusion can interrupt Großmutti in her recollections of dance darling-hood.

The joy of dancing with Großmutti is infectious. No one can escape Großmutti and her polka music. If the cheery beat of an accordion does not draw you to the dance floor, then Großmutti certainly will. Whether you are marching to the music of a polka band or jiving to the music of laughter, you will be dancing.

Großmutti’s polka music has led my happy feet to a happy place – a local senior retirement home. There, I play the piano for the residents. As my fingers dance across the keys, I imagine Großmutti dancing in the audience. The same upbeat tunes that tickle the ears of my audience guide the quick steps of the dancing queen. As the familiar melodies swirl about the room, bringing happiness to my little audience, Großmutti twirls across the shiny, wooden floor, finding her own inner peace. Her white orthopedic sneakers are replaced by a pair of shimmering high heels, and her bulky wool sweater transforms into a long, flowing gown. In the soft glow of a spotlight, Großmutti glitters, dazzles, she enchants. Long after the final note of the piano rings through the air, long after the audience has vanished, Großmutti continues to dance. Step. Spin. Dance.

Caroline

Yes, sweet Caroline. Step. Spin. Dance. No longer a captive to her confusion. No longer confused about who does and does not speak German in this crowd. She is dancing. She is applauding – as you dance and spin across that stage and onto the next dance floor of your life.

She is beaming. And I can almost hear her whisper,

Remember to dance…

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die; A time to plant, And a time to pluck what is planted; A time to kill, And a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance…

The post The Dance appeared first on karin madden.

This slow motion spinning; each blade defined as it slices through the thin air. The sun glints off the steely metal. The beating heart of these blades – a steady thump-thump-thump. My warrior laughs,

5000 moving parts – all trying to fly away from each other.

We are that sometimes. Flying and moving and spinning – flying away from each other, but held by an invisible force. Then a blink, and again they slice the sky with clear-cut precision. A million whirls a second.

And I look down into her eyes, blue as the azure sky; she blinks and this innocent gaze slices right to my mother heart. The whirling, when we stop for a moment to focus, seems to slow to a steady thrumming in the air. It’s when we lose our locked gaze that suddenly the moments spin to a dizzying speed.

During the brief, the commander warned us,

Walk in at 90 degrees. Keep your head straight and your arms down. And walk in at 90 degrees.

Just a few steps to the front and the blades could slice. Too far to the back and the heat will incinerate. And I wonder how many times we skim past the slicing blades before we listen. How close to the inferno will we step before we heed the warning. Walk in at a 90 degree angle. Straight in. There is safety straight ahead.

And I climbed into my seat.

In the belly of gray steel I anticipated the moment this bird would hover above the earth by only a small measure. The familiar fear of heights strangely lost its hold as we slowly lifted into the air. This sudden levitation – exhilarating. And a relief. A moment to do nothing but sit, and float, and gaze.

The forward motion like surfing on the wind. I peered over at the city – stiff and glitzy in the distance. The rat-tat-tat of chopping atmosphere leaving the false promises of glittering domes behind. Beneath us, I watched desert turn to rock and a fire-red rose from the distance. This valley of fire mesmerizing from the safe hover above.

I closed my eyes and imagined the men with legs hanging from the side. Poised with battle armor and pounding hearts. My eyes followed the winding scratches of road below and I wondered what it must look like to them. To see roads covered in debris and desperation and despair – all the while praying to God they might see the gentle hills of home again.

The lost city passed below us. Just remnants of flooded homes and washed memories. This city drowned to make way for the body of water. The parched land and receding water revealing what once was. And I just read they think they may have found Jesus’ childhood home. Buried deep beneath a convent – in the middle of a war-torn world.

Just the foundation remained below our hovering eyes. All the rest had washed to days gone by. And I smiled. Because there can always be something new if the foundation remains. The stones pointing to the sky like arms raised in solidarity. They had weathered a storm and remained to whisper the tale of days drifted to memory.

The dip and turn took my breath. Leaned toward the earth I marveled at how we can float in this space and hang just above the earth. We can hover for a moment feeling like we may fall from the sky, but keep our shoes 500 feet from the ground. Safe. And I wonder if we really shouldn’t get our feet a little bit dirtier.

The glistening water the color of jade wrapped along the angled shore. I peered straight down to the bottom of the rippling water and heard that familiar whisper,

All this. By My hand. It leaves no room for doubt – does it?

And I don’t. Doubt, that is. Just sometimes we must transcend the situations. We have to hover above to really see. Only then can we inhale, rest, and know. The beauty in the design points to the beauty in the purpose. Sometimes we have to go through the valleys of fire to get there.

Then the looming city appeared again in the distance. This sort of oasis of false promises. This adult Disney World. Where what happens here stays here. But, see, nothing really does. It doesn’t stay. It spreads and I suppose we have to decide what we want to spread. And if we don’t – it will be spread for us. Whether we like it or not.

The thump-thump-thump of the blades a steady reminder that all these 5000 moving parts trying to fly away from each other – all these wandering souls – are really trying to touch something closer to heaven.

I stopped writing here, just for a few days. Then I heard the news. This very machine that gently brushed me past mountain peaks, dangled me above a lost city, and through a valley of fire – a hawk just like this whirling workhorse – went down.

And my heart sank. Eleven lost they say. The numbers run across the screen and our heavy hearts pray for families we don’t know by name or face, but whose lives are different chapters of the same story. This small fraction of a nation who knows more than what sacrifice looks like. This fraction who knows the thrumming of aching hearts as rotors, or jet engines roar in our ears – and fade out of sight. These who know the lingering smell of jet fuel and grease-stained hands. The ones who know the faces of questioning children when we scramble for coherent answers – but don’t really know ourselves.

And I remember the weightlessness and peace in floating above this earth – this feeling a warrior wife only tastes for a sweet moment.

All these 5000 moving parts trying to fly away from each other. And these eleven souls – trying to touch something closer to heaven – flung straight into the arms of God. May their families find comfort in those same arms that hold us all.

Psalm 144:3-8

Lord, what is man, that You take knowledge of him? Or the son of man, that You are mindful of him? Man is like a breath; His days are like a passing shadow. Bow down Your heavens, O Lord, and come down; Touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Flash forth lightning and scatter them; Shoot out Your arrows and destroy them. Stretch out Your hand from above; Rescue me and deliver me out of great waters,
From the hand of foreigners, Whose mouth speaks lying words, And whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood.

The post To Touch Something Closer To Heaven appeared first on karin madden.

Countless days, weeks, and months of separation brought by deployments lingered in our memories as we relished this taste of freedom on a regular old weekday.

We spotted our destination in the distance and the kids bubbled with glee. The Adventure Dome – this red-roofed capsule of childhood memories. Don’t we all pray for these memories for our little ones? Don’t we look into their newborn faces and hope for endless fulfilled dreams? We fall to thankful knees and pray blessings over our young broods. Deep down we know He has unimaginable good in store for these young ones who walk this earth carrying pieces of our hearts.

That’s when we saw him… {please join me over here at my dear friend Elisa Pulliam’s place today for the rest of the story}

Philippians 4:13

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

The post A Mother’s Prayer appeared first on karin madden.

I can’t believe it’s here.

The day we talked about from the first time we met you.
It’s your birthday. And you are thirteen!

Thirteen. And I can’t quite wrap my mind around that truth. You are a teenager. I feel like it wasn’t so long ago for me. But it was.
And I know I keep talking about it, but why does it go by so fast?

I sit here and watch your baby sisters take a bath and I try to remember you all covered in suds and squealing. And now you’ve grown and you wouldn’t dare let me catch you like that. It just comes upon us – this growing up thing. 

You know what one of our favorites said,

Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different… (CS Lewis)

I had a little meltdown today and once upon a time you were the cause of those. And I have to say, years of practice does improve us. Not perfect, but I’ve learned to reign in those Mama meltdowns.

Not today. I dropped the reigns today. Then a moment I could not imagine thirteen years ago – you walked over to comfort me.

Mom, I don’t like it when you get upset.

You murmured as you wrapped your arms around me and nuzzled into my neck. And I thank God He gave you a heart like yours. Because, Son, you’ll never be too old to snuggle up to your Mom.

I do want to tell you something. Something I’ve been thinking about. And, man, so much has changed since I was thirteen. I remember my thirteenth birthday. I got a sweet pair of purple triangle earrings. They were the perfect match for my oversized sweatshirt. I remember my parents took me to see the Biltmore House with my aunt. I only saw her a few times in my life. She lived in Germany, and family is a whole other story.

I remember grinning into the camera with my braces-lined teeth and my not-so-great hair. Mom snapped the picture and tucked it into that baby book. It was a good day. I remember it well when I gaze at that innocent freckled face. This young girl who had no idea what the world would bring to her children. My photo is tucked away safely and today I’ll probably post your smiling face for many to see.

Our world is smaller today and these random postings let us see the people we miss. We watch little ones grow up on screens the size of our palms. And I can’t say I’m sorry. I missed seeing most of my family for most of my life. I’m grateful for the smiling posts of children’s birthdays.

But here’s the thing I want you to know. Numbers don’t matter. Now don’t get the idea this will get you out of doing math, but really, they don’t count for much.

These days we count the likes, the shares, the pins, the tweets, the retweets, the mentions, the comments, the subscribers, the friends, the unfriends, the followers, the unfollowers, and on and on. We count and keep counting.

There are a few numbers running through my mind right now.

We are 10 miles from the hospital where you were born, and 5 miles from your baby home. That’s pretty unusual for a military kid – to be so close to where you took your first breath of life.

This was the 1st place I ever nursed a baby and built a crib. It’s also the last place I nursed my 6th baby and will take the last crib down.

There are 7 people who will have your back forever and they live under your roof right now.

Your 2 parents think you hung the moon – even when we’ve considered sending you all there for just a minute or ten.

Your 1st tooth popped in 12 years ago in that first house, and you lost your last baby tooth just 3 days ago in your 5th house. The $10 from the tooth fairy may have been overkill, but, you see, those things linger in a mother’s heart forever.

365 nights a year I kiss your head while you sleep and the thought of not being able to do that someday breaks my 1 heart.

You are just 6 inches shorter than I am, though your hands and feet are as big as mine. You will grow right past me, but my 2 hands will never be too small to hold you or mess your hair. And every morning and night these 2 hands fold in prayer for every one of you.

I’ve asked God 1 million times to never take you too far from me; but, please, if He does – don’t keep my boy gone too long.

I wish you countless blessings in your life. I pray you follow the right path, and only the right ones follow you. But the 1 thing I wish most for you is to follow the only One who truly matters.

I could go on and give you the stats that bury deep in a Mama’s heart. The number of boo-boos I’ve kissed and the hours of sleep I’ve missed. The number of questions I’ve answered and answers I’ve questioned. The number of miles we’ve gone through this life until now and how many more we have yet to travel. But truly the numbers just don’t matter all that much.

You look into my eyes and ask me,

What does matter, Mom?

Words.

Son, I’m telling you words matter the very most. The words you say, and the ones you hold back. The ones you spew in anger, and the ones you offer in humble apology. The words you laugh, and the ones you cry. The words you wish you could take back, and the ones you wish you had just one more chance to say again.

Words.

You see, Son, in the beginning was the Word. In the beginning, and in the end, that is the only one thing that matters.

Use your words well, sweet boy. They give life. Believe it.
Finally, the ones I want to brand on your heart are these,

You are one of a kind.
I count myself blessed to be your Mom.
I love you… to infinity.

And, yes, you still have to do your math.

John 1:1 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

The post What Really Matters – A Letter To My Teenage Son appeared first on karin madden.

I can remember his baby face like it was yesterday. Only two years old.

He sat on my neighbor’s lap as she sighed,

His Daddy just passed away. A brain tumor.

I stared into his gentle face as he gazed up at the wind-blown trees. There was a serious look for such a young child. As if he knew his whole life had changed in this last breath of his father. And it had.

What I didn’t know is I would see his face again four years later.

He ran past me in the gym to join his team in basketball practice. My warrior was the coach. Our oldest son’s team.

I looked at the long six-year-old legs as they flew past me and noticed the glimmer in his eyes as he raced to the court. There was a lightness in his step.

That’s when I noticed her. She brushed past me with eyes focused on her boy. I watched her as I wondered,

How have you made it all on your own? 

A few more years passed by until I found that tall boy grinning on the front step as he beckoned,

Can he come out to play?

My boy ran through the door and off they went. These friends like brothers. He came around almost every day. His eyes smiled as he told me,

My Mom had to go back to work full-time.

I smiled as I squeezed his shoulders,

We’d love to have you around here.

He spent his after-school days with my neighbor, but really he found his home-away-from-home in our home. And our hearts grew. This boy who became another one of our pack.

One afternoon he swung his shag hair from his eyes as he mused,

You don’t know my mom, do you?

I grinned into his sweet face,

No, not yet.

His eyes glimmered as he replied,

You should. You two would really like each other.

And he was right. What we didn’t know is she would become my soul sister. She, her daughter, and son would become family to us.

It didn’t take long. You know how it is when you meet your people. It just fits. No planning, or thinking, or long drawn out get-to-know-you. Family. Just like that. As though we’d been a part of the picture since the day their lives changed from four to three.

But we hadn’t. And I wondered,

How have you done this alone all these years?

And I’d like to say she’s a rock star because she looks like one. I’d like to say she’s a rock star because I don’t know if I’ve ever met kids quite like hers. I’d like to say she’s a rock star because she has mothered and fathered those kids for ten years – and has blown the single mom story out of the water.

And she would shake her head at all this and tell me she’s no rock star. Her eyes would fill as she tells me,

It’s been hard.

And ten years is a long time to do this parenting thing all on your own.

She has been my cheerleader during endless deployments and has asked me,

How do you do it?

All I can do is shake my head and whisper,

Because you do it.

But she’s no rock star. Because rock stars have an entourage. They have staff, assistants, planners, organizers, managers, and more go-to people than I can wrap my mind around. I like some rock stars. But my friend is no rock star.

Then, a few days ago, she sends me this message,

makes it all worth it… love this kid. xo

I scrolled down and wondered what made all these ten years of holding sick babies, cooking meal after meal, balancing tight budgets, carpooling, tears, stress, strain, loneliness, and every other day-in-day-out task of parenthood worth it – all alone.

Then this. A letter from her daughter. She was six-years-old when her mother held her next to her father and whispered,

Tell him goodbye.

I read the words from her daughter,

so we had to do a survey for this recommendation letter thing and one of the questions was like who’s the most influential person in your life in a positive way, and how has it made you different and I wanted to share my answer-

The person who has had the most impact on my life in a positive way is of course my mom. I wouldn’t be here without her…literally. But she has shown me what it means to be independent, hardworking, caring, and successful all at the same time. She has been a single parent since my brother and I were young and I can’t admire her more for it. She’s a rock star plain and simple. She has done everything for me in life and helped me grow into the young woman I am. She showed me how to care for myself and be independent. She taught me how to think for myself and taught me to always do my best no matter what, which I am sure everyone says, but it really stuck with me in my teenage years. She has never had to tell me to do my homework or schoolwork and it’s because of her example that I did everything on my own. She is always hard at work to make our lives better and it inspires me to do the same. She taught me that hard work pays off and not to take crap from anyone. She showed me that being caring and loving is just as important as being hardworking. She has made me who I am today and I can never thank her enough for it.

Being caring and loving is just as important as being hardworking. This from a sixteen-year-old girl. She made me who I am today…

This. This is what every mother wants to hear. And she did it by herself. This daughter of hers who is like a daughter to me just made every minute of these ten years worth it.

But she’s no rock star.

A rock star couldn’t hold a candle to her.

Proverbs 31:27-28

She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children arise and call her blessed…

The post Why You Are Not A Rock Star appeared first on karin madden.

I can see it like it was yesterday.

The scene in the back seat of my truck. A screeching baby and a fidgety toddler.

It was dark and after a long drive to I-don’t-even-remember-where, we were nearing our home. Our home for the moment anyway.

The wails from the backseat can grate on the very last nerve you have left when you are sleep deprived and trying to relish all the parent-of-little-kids moments. And our nerves were shot.

I tried every trick up the mommy sleeve, but baby girl wasn’t going to fall for it anymore. She was plain mad, plain tired, plain done. Just like her parents.

The kicking legs of toddler boy against our seats was the only rhythm we could seem to find. Ker-chunk, Ker-chunk. Little legs kicking to remind us the journey wasn’t over yet. We faced the joys of bath and bedtime after the long trip. Our night wasn’t over yet.

My warrior and I stared into the distance, worn weary by our little charges. And who would have guessed such small packages can fill your heart and drain your body all at the same time? Onward we drove. Ker-chunk, Ker-chunk. And the wailing resumed.

I don’t remember where we were when I noticed. I don’t recall what pulled me from my mama trance. But suddenly it was quiet.

Oh, maybe they fell asleep!

I whispered to warrior Daddy.

I craned my neck trying to avoid eye contact. You know, eye contact is just asking for more,

Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…

That’s when I saw it. The snap shot burned to memory.

My toddler boy had taken his baby sister’s hand to calm her. Sucking away at his binky, he grinned from beneath the round blue plastic pacifier. His dimpled fingers clutched baby sister’s small hand as he turned his gaze to the window. And baby stopped crying.

I wish I had a photo of this moment, but it was long before iPhones were a glimmer in our moment capturing minds. I stared long at the small hands clutched together in comfort. And I think the best memories are the ones burned on our hearts. I rotated to the front and smiled in the peaceful silence. I was sure it would always be a little like this.

But time passes and babies grow. Big brothers find joy in tormenting little sisters, and siblings spar. Giggles and jabs turn to tears and anger before we can get to the kitchen. We watch as they grow and know that part of growing up is learning to battle, and find peace – under one roof. Part of growing up is standing our ground and finding new paths all at the same time. Part of growing up is growing close, then growing apart, and praying to God we find each other again. I have big brothers, too.

Through the sparing and battles with the ones who share our blood we find a new branch on this rapidly growing tree. A place to sit together a while. And sometimes Mom gets to watch.

It’s been ten years since that ride in the car and the paths have been winding. The sibling peace has intertwined with sibling feuds, and sometimes I’ve wondered if my boy would ever reach for his little sister’s hand again.

And then he did.

She had been crying. It’s not easy sometimes – this military life. Just when we feel at home, just when we fall in love, just when we find that perfect friend – it’s time to go again. And my girl misses her home. The one that feels more like home than this one. More than that, she misses her bestie. The one who lives states away. I suppose we all miss at least one good someone in our lives. Sometimes more. So, she cried.

And it doesn’t matter how many times Mama’s arms wrap around her neck, or how many times I whisper,

It will be ok. It will get better. I understand…

Sometimes it takes more than Mom. Or Dad.

She hunched her shoulders and drew her knees to cover her eyes. The shaking shoulders gave way to wracking sobs. And this is when a mother’s heart breaks. Because there is nothing I can do about it.

Baby sister, only sixteen months younger slipped over and touched her leg,

I know, sister. It’s hard sometimes.

Funny to hear those words from a ten-year-old. And I watched the scene unfold.

That’s when I saw his face. His eyes softened as he slid next to his not-so-baby-anymore sister,

It’s ok.

Not another word came from his lips as he pulled my girl into his arms and squeezed.

And just like all those ten years ago. She stopped crying.

Because here is the thing. There is a bond between siblings that is stronger and deeper than we can put into words. These branches from the same roots – spreading to the skies before our very eyes.

When we look closely, we can see – the branches reaching for their freedom find each other and touch. Blown by the same winds of change.

Even when decades pass and we wonder if any roots remain; we dig our hands into the common soil and find our roots have only grown deeper and stronger with the trials. 

1 Peter 3:8-9

Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing. 

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