What to do with all this longing? All of us are longing for something. We’re longing for a husband, we’re aching to have children, we’re aching for the ones we lost, we’re longing to be seen and known by our friends, to feel successful, we’re longing to feel like we’ve finally “made it.” (Whatever that means.) We’re longing for justice. There’s a man in Syria in an IDP camp who is longing to feed his family, who is longing for his homeland. When I think about him, my problems pale in comparison. He convicts me with his hope. But still. Pain
Surrender. It seems too delicate a word for me to understand, the syllables lilting off my tongue like failure, like giving up. Surrender seems cowardly, a tiny white flag of acquiescence. The signal that a battle is done. I’ve never been one to release control lightly. I’ve always been a fighter. I’ve always fought for what’s important to me: justice, love, friendships, forgiveness, even for my peace. But on this June day the tufts of dandelion’s wings floating on the breeze in my backyard, their fluffed fairy dance, looking for a place to land, I am trying to remember how. Actually,
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been obsessed with “doing the right thing.” I wanted black and white, straight lines to divide the world because I wanted to be perfect and having rules meant knowing I was on the correct path. When it came to infertility and the subject of IVF, I wanted someone to tell me what to do, but all I found in my research was half baked answers, guilt, and confusion. In this area, we have little guidance, other than God’s spirit and our own intuition. That can be frustrating. But more and more in my
I want to stay in bed in the Bible black pre dawn. I want to slip under the grey sheets in waves of dreams and forget that I know the news. Even before I wake, I know the sadness is coming, chasing me like a shadow. “This world will try and break you,” she says. “But I’m determined not to let it.” Three years ago, I thought losing our baby was a fluke. I thought it was a single tragedy, a tsunami, one wake to its wreckage. I thought, God doesn’t let these things happen to good girls twice. When it
I was standing in the shower, my head pressed cool against the smooth fiberglass, the hot water pounding my back, when I heard the words spiral up inside me….. I’m sharing over at InCourage blog for women today about why I stopped “trying” to have a baby. Join me over there.
To believe, even though shredded, even though crazy and impossible, this is where faith goes to live or to die. To put it all on the line. To bear hope. To look into a mother’s eyes and tell her you believe her dead little girl can live….It is one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. It is still hard. A baby died last night. Something I will never get used to. Even though this is the fourth human being in my community of women to die this month. Aids. Starvation. All just another word for stealing. But this
I wrote this poem several weeks ago in a dark time, when everything seemed to be going wrong. Two babies had died and our prayers and faith had failed to bring them back to life. I had been through betrayal of a staff member. We had to give some of our children back. The injustice of a corrupt judicial system. But I post this now because of the post following this one. Because after darkness, there is light. But I think its important to grieve the things we don’t always understand. Dark there is a hole in my heart that
Sometimes we wonder why we do what we do. Things get tough. Doing it on your own with little to affirm you. Life is not perfect in a family of eighteen where fights can start over who left the bicycle out or who drank the last of the water. Sometimes it seems the problems outweigh the solutions, the failures outnumber the successes and the thought of losing even one of these lives you’ve poured the last six months into…seems crushing. Times like this you need a talisman. You need a reason. A reason to stay and keep fighting against the
(me with our latest addition to the family After 15 hours of labor in a hospital that supplied little more than a table for giving birth… here we are. Florence was living in a camp before we found her, abandoned and pregnant. She had no family support. Now she lives with me and had a hand to hold when she gave birth to this little man.
Very rarely do dreams actually come true. So when they happen we have to be careful to stop for a moment, breathe in, and give thanks for the miracle of our lives aligning with our purpose. This has been a journey of deep hope and deep disappointments. A journey of love. One that is unending and unrepentant in what it asks of us. But today, the dream became a reality, the thing that I hoped for, became a part of my life. Today we danced to a drumbeat. In our home, we danced
Writer. Missionary Coach. Recovering perfectionist. I want you to know that you are loved and already good enough. I am about helping people move from brokenness into wholeness. Together, we'll make a more beautiful world.
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