Stumbling Towards Perfect

I like the old timey farmers. They're not afraid to talk about death. They look me in the eye when they ask how I'm doing and they keep looking me in the eye until I've answered all the way through. It's easy to answer an old timey farmer honestly because they get it. They have dealt with the cycle of loss on so many levels. They know what it's like to have sore, bloodied fingers from griping too tight on to something you can't control, and they know what it's like to finally let go and realize it's all God's doing - whether the crops will be plentiful or if floods will wash them away. That it's up to God to give the blessings and it's up to God to decide when we need a challenge to make us stronger. They understand that the only thing we can do is wake early and work hard late until the night, remembering to thank God Almighty for the seemingly tiny moments of grace He gives us throughout the day... because when you add up enough of tho

I can feel each and every beat of my heart, each breath I take. It is as if my heart and my lungs are being held in place with barbed wire, so that each time they move, I am cut. With each deep breath I try to take, I taste the metallicness of blood dripping on rusted wire. Except that's not what is happening at all. It just feels that way. Firsts are usually celebrated. First time you found out you were pregnant. First time you heard the heartbeat. First time you found out if it was a little boy or a girl. First delivery. First cry. First feeding. First diaper. First time rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking. First time saying mama . First time riding a bike, going to school, putting the ponytail in all by herself. First dance recital, first sleepover. I find myself now navigating this precariously fragile world of Firsts Without. First spring day where she isn't going to ride her bike. Instead, the bike is just going to sit there. Waiting. Waiting for a girl who 

Worn by T enth Avenue North  I'm tired I'm worn My heart is heavy From the work it takes to keep on breathing I've made mistakes I've let my hope fail My soul feels crushed by the weight of this world   And I know that you can give me rest So I cry out with all that I have left Let me see redemption win Let me know the struggle ends That you can mend a heart that's frail and torn I want to know a song can rise from ashes of a broken life And all that's dead inside can be reborn Cause i'm worn I know I need to lift my eyes up But I'm too weak Life just won't let up And I know that you can give me rest So I cry out with all that I have left Oh, Let me see redemption win Let me know the struggle ends That you can mend a heart that's frail and torn I want to know a song can rise from the ashes of a broken life And all that's dead insi

I walk around the corner, glance to the right, flip the channel, check my newsfeed, and get stabbed in the heart. My eyes bleed tears that burn my cheeks. Throat clamped shut I cannot breathe, cannot speak, cannot understand how the gangly, awkward teen with the thick purple plastic framed glasses who just wanted to grow up able to walk tall through the day has morphed into a Mother Who Has Lost. It takes me by surprise each and every time. I feel like a fool. How can my hurt be so acute, so crippling, and yet I find myself checking through the doorway to see if her Sunday School class has let out. I stop myself short before reminding Matt that he should make sure her bike tires are pumped full of air. I foolishly suggest something I know she would love. And each time it hits me: she is not here . My soul is not mine. At least, it doesn't feel like mine, doesn't fit like mine. I once took a sweatshirt that wasn't mine home from a college party. I could never wear it b

"You know, Mom, I really am a God Girl." The last sentence I ever heard my 11-year old daughter speak to me. Nine simple words that spoke volumes about her soul. Nine words that I'd go back to over and over and over again: she was a God Girl. She loved God. Word spread quickly through our small community; tragedy tends to. But then something else was being spoken. Amongst the gossip and speculation was a declaration: this faith filled little girl was special. Really special. And then I got that email: "You are Avery's voice. Don't silence her." And I knew. I just knew. I was going to have a concert and Jamie Grace would play at it. Yes, Grammy Nominee, Contemporary Christian Singer, actress in the upcoming movie Grace Unplugged - yes, that Jamie Grace would play at this concert. Avery needed to share the message that was so important to her, that was taught to her through the songs written by and performed by Jamie Grace. I needed the woman w