False Comforts

I was going to try to write a whole post on various cliches we Christians like to throw about in times of trouble, things we like to say to offer comfort and hope to people when we can't figure out what really needs to be said, if anything.

But I'm going to just focus on one. It usually goes something like this:

"Wow, that's amazing that (so-and-so) survived (such-and-such)! God must really have a special plan for that person!"

I'm sure you've come across this at some point in your life (whether you were the one speaking it or receiving it.) But today, I want to just break this down for you, piece by piece. Let's look at what this is actually saying.

First, I'll give you the context behind this post. Somebody on facebook had posted something about a little girl who had survived the Sandy Hook shooting by playing dead. As I was scrolling down through the comments, the following two struck me:

"That child has purpose, a calling on her life."

"How sad is that, but God had a plan for that little girl!"

At first, these seem like deep, powerful statements that pay tribute to God's saving grace. But if we look at them more closely, really analyze what they are saying, we can see that they are actually saying that mankind has no free will and that God plays our lives like a giant chess game.

So, let us talk about what these are ACTUALLY saying. 

To say that a lone survivor of this horrible tragedy "has purpose," a "calling on her life," and that "God had a plan" for her, is inadvertently saying that those who did not survive did not have a calling on their lives, or that they were somehow not part of God's plan. This kind of statement basically tells the families of the other survivors, "Your family member wasn't important enough to God for Him to save."

This is a TERRIBLE thing to say. Mainly because it is absolutely not true.

God's "plans" for humans have never included death. In the beginning, when the world was perfect, the way God intended it, He walked in the garden with Adam and Eve. He was present, here, with his creation. That's how it was supposed to always be. And before the Fall (before sin entered the world), THERE WAS NO DEATH. Why would there be no death? Well, if we were all perfect, then there was no reason to die. Death came about as a result of human decision to defy God. In essence, we brought death upon ourselves. (Well, Adam and Eve did. I mean, I certainly wasn't around six or seven or however many thousand years ago. Maybe you were. But anyway. I digress.) That first act of human decision had two very distinct results: 

     1. We could no longer live forever. I mean, we were messed up.
     2. We now had the ability to always choose between right and wrong and understand our decisions.

This whole "free will" thing that Christians talk about all the time--it doesn't just affect the person making the decision. It affects other people as well. Possibly many people. There's that whole domino-effect idea, where one decision will turn into another and another and another. Or, you know, six degrees of Kevin Bacon, if you will. But with fewer movies and more real-life events.

So, a decision you make today, as inconsequential as it may seem, may affect some person you have never met--and may never meet--two years from now.

The whole point of that discussion is this: To say that God's plan was to save one person would mean that His plan was also that 26 other people would die. And not only that, but that His plan was for Adam Lanza to go into that school with guns and open fire on innocent little children. 

Let me make this clear: God did not want Adam Lanza to shoot anyone. Ever. God does not want bad things to happen. Ever. He does not sit at some judge's bench in the sky with a giant gavel commanding one person to die because someone else needs to learn a lesson, or deciding that some person has had a full enough life and so it's "their time to go."

God is the father standing next to the closed coffin, weeping with his fists clenched on the cold, hard wood, weeping because he doesn't understand why this happened to his child, why this happened to anyone's child. Weeping because he doesn't understand how someone can make the decision to take guns into a school and kill children, for God's sake.

God is the mother standing outside the school watching her blood-covered daughter run to her and thinking, "My God, she's alive! My baby is alive!" And then feeling a pain in her heart that will never quite leave her, because she has friends standing there with her who will never see their babies again.

God is the pastor, the friend, the counselor, trying to bring comfort and peace to those grieving their losses, holding them and weeping with them quietly, because there is nothing to say, nothing that can ever really answer the questions. 

But God is NOT the person on a message board, or in the church, or at work, saying that there must be a purpose for that lone survivor's life. 

Because the thing is, there is a purpose for every life.

Those twenty children, the six adults, and yes, even Adam Lanza--all of them had a purpose for their lives, whether that purpose had yet been realized or not. All of them were precious in God's eyes. Every single one of them. EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM.

So please don't go around talking about God's plan for this one and His purpose for that one, unless you are going to also talk about the beautiful, purposeful, important lives that were sadly cut short. Not by God's will. But by the decision of a human being. 

If you can't think before you speak, then just stay silent. It's okay to not have answers. And it's okay to not know what to say. I promise. 

La Pieta

La Pieta. The Pity. One of Michelangelo's most famous works. And why not? It's a beautiful, intricate sculpture. But beyond that, it captures something that is simultaneously so often glossed over and yet so difficult to really understand: the emotions of a parent upon the death of a child.

We tend to look at the Christmas story in light of our religious knowledge of the event: Jesus, son of God, was born of a virgin, blah blah blah. We know the story so well, I think that, oftentimes, the deeper meaning is lost to us. You can't talk about the birth of Jesus without talking about the death of Jesus. The one leads to the other.

But what did this mean for Mary, who was, first and foremost, not "the chosen one of God" or "the blessed virgin," but simply a mother?

I'm really not sure that, thirty-four-ish years earlier, when Mary told the angel, "May it be unto me as you say," this picture popped into her head as she thought of her future with this child of God. Sure, the angel mentioned something about Jesus being the savior of the world. But what did that really mean? And anyway, that was so far away. Right now, he would just be a baby. And babies are cute.

But of course, the pregnancy didn't come without its hitches. I mean, Joseph kind of wasn't sure at first if he could really trust Mary. God is the father of your child? Really? And then the looks people gave her... But Joseph had a visit from an angel also. And so then he was cool. He protected her, watched out for her and for this unborn baby who was supposed to somehow save the world.

I can't imagine that, on that night when Jesus was born, messy and covered in birth fluids and squirming and screaming and trying to find Mary's breast because he was a hungry newborn, Mary thought that one day she would hold her son, this son, God's son, in her arms, and that his body would be cold and lifeless. When you hold this beautiful, amazing, wriggling new life, you're not thinking about the end of it. You're thinking about all the possibilities. You're thinking about what he's going to be like as a toddler, bringing you sticks and mudpies and bugs with broken wings. You're thinking about what he's going to be like when he goes to school, the kinds of friends he'll have, what you'll say when he talks back to you, how he'll get good marks on his assignments and garner compliments from his teachers for being such a good student. You're thinking about what he's going to be like as a teenager, which girls he might like, how strong he will be, how he will learn good work ethic from his father and build good, sturdy tables and wagons and houses. You're thinking about all the things that he will do in his life. You're thinking about his life.

I wonder if, as she held the limp body of her son, Mary thought back on all those hopes for him, if she thought back on all of those moments that had seemed, at the time, to not really matter. Did she kiss his cold forehead and remember the first time she kissed his warm, tiny baby forehead? Did she weep silently and watch her tears fall on his pale cheeks that used to be so rosy and had pulled up just so in the corner when he smiled at her? Did she brush the rumpled, matted hair from his brow and think back to how he had run around as a child with his hair all disheveled and he didn't even care?

Did she think back to that rush as she pulled his freshly-born body up to her chest, think back and remember that in that moment she had vowed to protect him with her life, because that's what mothers do? And now, as she looked down at his unmoving eyes, did she remember that vow and regret that this was the one thing she couldn't protect him from?

As a mother who has also experienced the loss of a child (though under very different circumstances), I can identify with the look on Mary's face in this sculpture. Her eyes are puffy and swollen from having cried out all her tears. Her lips are taut, unsmiling and unfrowning, because there is not a facial expression that could possibly convey the emotions in her heart. Her left hand is uplifted as if in question, speaking for her the only word she could probably think coherently: Why?

Tonight, a lot of mothers and fathers are sitting in living rooms, hospital rooms, police stations, with this look on their faces, with their hands uplifted, asking the same question of "Why? Oh, dear God why?" They are thinking back over all those little moments they might have missed, but are now forever lodged in their memories. They are remembering all the hopes and dreams they had for their children that will now never happen, all the possibilities that, in one moment of terror, have been forever lost.

In the coming days, their eyes will be swollen and puffy, their faces blank, because how can you really express that kind of grief and suffering? They will try to pull the remaining pieces of their lives back together, try to make some semblance of normal. But it will never be the same.

On that night, when Mary held her son, her precious little boy all grown up, in her arms, the world changed. Mary's world changed. But so did ours.

Because on that night that the Son of God died a tragic, horrific and humiliating death, we gained the possibility of the most beautiful life imaginable, one that transcends the normalcy of the every day, that goes beyond our finite understanding of life and death, and gives us a glorious freedom that we will not fully taste on this side of the curtain.

So while we come alongside these parents and family members and friends who have suffered such terrible loss, let us not lose touch with that deep vibration of expectancy. Because in the coming days, we will celebrate the birth of the Hope of the World, the Deliverance of Mankind. The one who conquered the power of death and brings us hope of a life to come.

To the families, friends, and loved ones of the victims of the tragedy in Newtown, CT today, I offer you my deepest sympathies, and please know that my most heartfelt prayers are being lifted to the King of Heaven for you this day and in the coming days. May your hearts find peace and wholeness in the inexplicable Love who comes down to sit with you and weep.

Four

There are four of you now.

Four children whom I will not be with this side of heaven.

One. Genesis Aria. My sweet baby girl. I got to hold you for an hour and forty-three minutes. Such a short time. But I will always remember the way your tiny, fork-prong-sized fingers grasped my enormous index finger with all the might you could muster. In that moment, you called me mama.

Two. Dorian Isaac. A wisp of a thought, gone before I really could process the thought of you existing. But still, my son. My first son.

Three. Rowan Iona. Again, gone before I knew it. I suspected. I felt the stirrings of you in the innermost parts of my soul. But the logic of life told me otherwise. Your life was confirmed to me even as you slipped away.

Four. We have not named you yet. But you were here, no doubt. Despite not being "planned," you were still my child, even if for a tiny moment in the lengthy life of the universe. And I still love you.

My chest is heavy this evening, and yet, I cannot quite shed a tear. Oh, the tears are there. I feel them. It's just that they are more like the dew that slowly seeps into the ground, nourishing the soil drop by drop, rather than a heavy downpour.

Four of you on the other side. And two here with me.

I love the two here with all my heart.

But they will never replace the four I lost.

Jumping In

Today, our good friend Nate Pruitt preached the sermon at our church. He read from John 21, about Peter jumping from the boat and swimming to Jesus, because he was so excited to be with his Lord that the boat wasn't fast enough for him to get there.

               Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize
               that it was Jesus.
               He called out to them,“Friends, haven’t you any fish?”
              “No,” they answered.
               He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find
               some.” When they did, they were unable to haul the net in because of the
               large number of fish.
               Then the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” As soon as
               Simon Peter heard him say, “It is the Lord,” he wrapped his outer garment
               around him (for he had taken it off) and jumped into the water. The other
               disciples followed in the boat, towing the net
               full of fish, for they were not far from shore, about a hundred yards.
                                                                           (John 21:4-8)


I want to jump in the water, wholeheartedly and excitedly, with no concern for who's watching, and swim to my Lord.

But first, I need to become small and weak enough that I can't hold myself back when the Spirit moves me.

See, there was this moment during the sermon when, on hearing about Peter's enthusiasm for returning to Jesus' side, my body wanted to leap up and run into the next room and kneel down and pray. I could feel the excitement in me swell, that wholehearted, unabashed desire to be next to Jesus.

But apparently, I'm a little too strong for my own good.

Because instead of leaping up and running to His side, I sat in my chair.

Yep. I just sat there.

I could feel my blood pulsing through my veins with that adrenaline rush. But I contained myself. I gave no indication of what I was feeling. I controlled my body, rationalized away the impulse.

Somehow, I don't think this is the kind of "self-control" that Paul talks about as being good (Galatians 5:22-23).

Why do we do this to ourselves? I say we, because I'm fairly certain I'm not the only one. I think that it's part of our fallen nature, the self-preservation that we feel. Because we all at some point struggle with what other people think.

I struggled with it immensely growing up. I was always worrying about what other people would think of me - my friends, peers, teachers, leaders - even my own family. I remember having many a stunted worship experience because I was afraid to raise my hands or clap or shout for joy because I was afraid of what my family would think.

Family!

And these are people who should share the journey with us, be joyful when we are joyful, grieve when we grieve.

Like the other members of my church.

Like the disciples with Peter.

Peter didn't care what they thought when he jumped in the water. They weren't like, "Dude. We're like a hundred yards from shore. You could totally just stay dry and wait a minute. We'll be there in like two seconds."

Nope. They just brought the boat in, following Peter.

But by the time they got the boat anchored and got their dry selves off the boat and onto shore, Peter had already been with Jesus.

Even though it was probably only an extra minute or two, Peter had that extra time with Jesus. Just being with Him. Even if Peter spent it catching his breath, he was breathing with Jesus.

I want to be so excited about Jesus that I will go to any lengths - even if I have to look ridiculous doing it - just so I can breathe with Jesus for a few moments before the rest of the crowd catches up.

God, please make me weak enough to run after You before I think about what I'm doing.

Being Fruitful

The act of creating is supposed to be pleasurable. Overwhelmingly pleasurable.

Not work. I mean, sure, you can get worked up about it. Like, your heart beats faster, you're energized.

But it should be something enjoyable, invigorating, inspiring, and perhaps even a bit of a stress reliever.

No, I'm not talking about sex.

Well, not entirely.

Sex is the most primal act of creativity. It's been around, oh, pretty much since the beginning of human history. I mean, if not, we wouldn't all be here.

But, we create in other ways also.

We write. We paint. We draw. We make music. We design. We act. We imagine.

So, why do these things become so difficult? So mundane?

I am listening right now to Red, one of my favorite bands ever. Their music has what I would describe as an epic quality. Many of their songs have something in them that makes my stomach feel like I just went down the first hill of a roller coaster. It's not just the lyrics, either, though they are good. It's the music itself.

Have you ever listened to music, or read a piece of writing, or viewed a piece of artwork, that stirred something deep within you? Something that seemed arousing, but to your spirit rather than your senses?
You feel something rise within you, a response to what you're experiencing. But you can't quite describe it. It's like something in the piece of art you're experiencing has made a connection with your soul. And you don't want to leave. You want to just take it in, stay right here, listen one more time, hold the words in your heart and repeat them over and over again. Because this experience seems right. That connection we feel, that thing that cannot be described, is our soul getting a taste of God. Call it touching the hem of Jesus' robe if you will. It is small, but it is so huge.

And there is something so absolutely right in creating or experiencing creativity. Because it's what we were designed for. We were made to create. To imagine. To give of the deepest part of ourselves in ways to which other people can relate.

Any creative act is ultimately both an act of giving and of trust. And those two things are intrinsically intertwined.

Just as with sex, you cannot give of yourself fully unless you trust your partner completely. Same with creating and God. If we hold anything back, it is because of a lack of trust. And holding back in an act of creativity leaves us feeling disappointed, unsatisfied, unfulfilled, and even empty.

If you have something in your soul that is crying to take shape, you feel it, even when you ignore it. It's there. A small pulsing, a throbbing ache, an insatiable need that goes beyond desire. Maybe you try to ignore it by working longer hours. Or putting your energy into some other thing, like cleaning the garage. Or maybe you drown it, by watching movies or playing video games. Because there's something you're holding back. Or maybe you only pretend to be creative - maybe you should be writing, but instead of writing what you need to write, you throw all your energy into "research." (I'm totally preaching to myself here, if you haven't noticed...)

Why not open yourself up to God in unabashed trust?  He is the one that put that desire within you. And He is the one that can fulfill that desire.

God wants to create with you, in you, through you.

Don't hold back. It just hurts. If you are holding back, examine your heart. See what lies there. Are you afraid that what you'll create will make waves? People won't understand you, you'll be criticized - perhaps by those you love?

God is bigger than that. And maybe that thing you have to create is just what those people need to hear. Or read. Or see.

Trust God in this act of creativity. In trusting and giving of yourself, something beautiful can happen.

And it's exciting. And it feels good.

Because when you trust and give everything that's in you, that act of creativity fulfills you. And you might be surprised at the results.

With God working in you, it's guaranteed to turn out better than you expected. Certainly better than anything you could do on your own.

Holy, Holy, Holy

I was in the car yesterday on my way home from grocery shopping by myself. This is a rare occurrence, people. The only reason I was by myself was because earlier in the day, I had been at Publix and Megan lost one of her shoes, which I only realized as we were getting in the car to go pick up my husband. So I quickly asked a manager if she could keep an eye out for it and I'd be back later to pick it up. So, after calling later to make sure they had it, I returned to Publix to get said shoe, and to finish grocery shopping, since part of the reason we'd left was because Caleb was super sleepy.

Anyway.

On my way home, Phillips, Craig and Dean's "Revelation Song" came on the radio. Now, I typically actually criticize a lot of Christian music, because I feel that a lot of it - at least "mainstream" stuff that's heard on the radio - has become dry, redundant, and predictable. But there is something about this song that just gets me. Until yesterday, I couldn't explain what it was, though I'd tried.

At first, I thought maybe it was something about the chord progression, the instrumentation, the harmonies - all of which are amazing.

But no.

Yesterday, I realized it is because of the lyrics.

Worthy is the / Lamb who was slain
Holy, Holy is He
Sing a new song / to Him who sits on 
Heaven's mercy seat (x2)

Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty
Who was and is and is to come
With all creation I sing praise to the King of Kings
You are my everything,
And I will adore You.

What struck me as I listened and sang along yesterday (and progressively couldn't sing for crying in utter awe) was that these lyrics are timeless. They are both ancient and future. And they are made for the King of Kings and for Him alone.

In Isaiah 6, the prophet describes a heavenly encounter in which he gets the chance to see God, the Almighty. He says:

I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne; and the train of his robe filled the temple. ²Above him were seraphim, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. ³And they were calling to one another:

“Holy, holy , holy is the Lord Almighty; 
    the whole earth is full of his glory.”

⁴At the sound of their voices the doorposts and thresholds shook and the temple was filled with smoke.

And then, later - much much later - John describes the exact same scene in Revelation 4:

⁸ Each of the four living creatures had six wings and was covered with eyes all around, even under its wings. Day and night they never stop saying:

“‘Holy, holy, holy

is the Lord God Almighty,’

who was, and is, and is to come.”

It struck me that I was singing the same song that people and heavenly beings have been singing for thousands of years - since before the beginning of time. It filled me with utter joy and awe to be privileged enough - even if for a few moments - to join with the heavenly host in worshiping God Almighty in the same song. And I felt for a tiny bit like I was really a part of the whole hosts of saints throughout history, singing my awe and worship and honor to Jesus.

And I really think that this song will never cease to have that effect on me.

A bit of a rambler

So I took Megan to Genna's grave again today. It was only the third time ever. I sometimes wonder if I'm doing her a service or a detriment by trying to explain to her about her sister who died before she got a chance to live. Although Megan is pretty quick on the uptake with a lot of things, I sometimes don't know how much her two-and-a-half-year-old brain really understands. Today she was more interested in looking at the flowers. But when I burst into tears, she gently asked me if I was sad. Yes, I told her. I am sad. But I couldn't explain to her the depth of what I was feeling as I stood in almost the same spot I was sitting in a little more than four years ago as my first daughter's tiny casket was lowered into the ground.
I remember my husband asking me if I wanted to leave before they covered the casket with earth. But I said no, I need this closure. And so I watched as shovel-full by shovel-full dirt was tossed onto the casket. I needed to see it, needed to hear the thunk of dirt and stones cascading over the tiny box, sealing my daughter's body in the earth. I needed it because I felt that maybe then I would stop hoping that it was a mistake, that suddenly she'd start breathing again and we could rush her back to the hospital and the ventilators would work. I needed to experience the burial.
And now that dirt, that earth, is covered with a soft layer of grass. And there are other babies in the plots surrounding Genna, and I mourn for them as well. Some have only one date on their marker, some lived for just over a year, and I lose my breath as I think what it would be like if I suddenly lost my nine-month-old son, or my bright-eyed, curious, handful of a daughter. What then?

But I can't think like that. I have them here, now, with me. And I have now to love them, lead them, experience life with them. Because in all honesty, I don't know how long I have with them. And whatever amount of time I have, I want it to be beautiful. And just...full.

there lived a little plant that feared the sun -

there lived a little plant that feared the sun -
below the ground, the sun's light was not known;
in tales, its heat and brightness often grown
unbearable, to frighten little ones.

the plant, in fear, determined to forgo
the food that would its roots and branches feed
and cowered instead below, staying a seed
and trying desperately not to grow,

'til, shriveled, trembling, a tendril found
a way beyond the plant's weak consciousness
and, creeping, creeping toward the bright surface,
pushed through the soil, making not a sound.

and suddenly the plant awoke in fright
not knowing how, or why, or when, or who
had caused the creeping tendril to push through
and bare the plant's poor state before the light.

it searched for shade and, finding none, then tried
retreating back into its soil grave
but, failing, found instead the bright sun gave
vitality and life to what had died.

the tendril, reaching further toward the sun,
began to pull upon the deeper shoots
'til, stretching, seeking, furling out its roots,
the plant exulted in its freedom won.

"why did you fear me?" asked the sun the plant.
"i did not know you, and i was afraid
to leave the comfort of my home in shade.
i feared you would be painful to withstand."

"a plant that has not light can never grow -
it needs the light as creatures need the air.
but fear not - light is beautiful and fair
and seeks to fill your needs to make you whole."

"i now can see the earth in which i stand
determines much of who i will become.
also the food, as well as rains that come,
help me to be the best plant that i can.

but i cannot stay down there all my life,
or - as it happens - short my life will be.
and so i thank you for reviving me
and saving me from death, and pain, and strife."

and so, with nourishment from earth and rain
and sun together, tall and strong it grew,
until the small, limited life it knew
seemed but a memory of tiny pain.

the plant now greets the sun's bright morning rise
with jubilation, gratefulness, and love,
reaching its branches to the light above,
and adding to the beauty of the skies.

New Day

For the past several years, I have been feeling in the deepest parts of my spirit that some sort of change was coming for me, for my family. I've had no clue as to what kind of change that might be, though we felt the beginning stirrings of it almost 2 years ago when God moved us from one church home and planted us in another. But I feel that the change, whatever it is, may be nearing its culmination.

I have been dealing with a lot of stress lately. There are a number of things going on contributing to this stress, but the current that constantly runs beneath all of it is the fact that I still have not fully dealt with the death of my daughter over four years ago. And that has influenced how I handle things - big things as well as little things. Things like interactions with my husband, my outlook on life, and even how I am raising the two children I now have. I am very aware that this issue needs to be dealt with, and I am taking steps toward dealing with it. But in the meantime, my stress levels have been gradual building.

Today, I was driving around after dropping off my husband at work. The kids were asleep in their car seats in the back, and I was conversing in my head with God. We are on the cusp of so many possibilities - a possible house, possible school for my husband, possible preschool for my daughter - and for so long it has just felt like my life has been bound up in the unknown. I feel like I have been tossed about, jarred against one wall and then another, until I finally stopped fighting it and let myself be bruised and broken from the jarring. And all of a sudden, as I was silently talking with God, silently weeping as I drove, this phrase just stuck in my head - "New day." It was almost like a voice spoke it. And without forethought, my whole being suddenly began crying out to God, resonating with the phrase - "New day! New day! New day! New day! New day!" I didn't vocalize it, but I was crying, and if I had actually said it out loud, it would have been gut wrenching and without breaths between the words.

It was the first time I have had a prayer wrack my body to the core.

And I'm not even sure what the prayer meant. And by that I mean, I did not plan that prayer, didn't think it out. It just...poured out of me. I think that was literally the Spirit praying for me. It was an intense experience. For those several seconds, all that consumed my mind, my heart, my soul, and even my body, was "New day!"

I feel like we will begin to see answers within the next month. And while I am not sure exactly what this "new day" will entail, I am eager to find out. And with all my being, I will look for it.

Pieces

I don't really know who I am anymore. My life now is so different than it was three, four, five years ago, I almost don't recognize myself. It's like I've been broken, or lost. And I have been both of those things. And it's taking a long, long time to find myself again.

When I'm lucky enough to get a shower, it's usually so rushed that I barely get my clothes on (usually frumpy pj's or their equivalent), let alone getting my hair brushed. Which means that it ends up a knotted mass stuffed into a ponytail of sorts. Usually it stays that way for several days before I even get a chance to do my hair, and by then I have to dig out the ponytail holder from my matted mass of hair, slowly and painstakingly pulling single strands of hair from the dreaded knots as I go.

My house is a mess. I feel like I am constantly at war with it, trying to keep the floor clean. And forget about dishes! Any attempt at having the cupboards full is quickly foiled by the cries of my fussy children who are either having a meltdown or ready for a nap.

With the little bit of brain I find at the end of the day, the only functions it's good for are checking facebook and reading short, meaningless clips of writing. I used to read voraciously. I would devour books by Lewis and Tolkein. I wanted to study everything having anything to do with the Middle Ages and Renaissance. I even wanted to dress like a medieval fairy. For every day things.

I was fanciful, whimsical. Positive. I saw the good in people more than the bad. I enjoyed sitting by brooks and listening to the water fall over the stones. And I made time to do it.

Now, I am harried, forgetful, probably inconsiderate at times, but that's due mostly to being forgetful. I can't remember if I already told you a story. I'm often frustrated, negative. Sometimes so worn out I look around at the mess and just don't care, because I know it will just look like this again tomorrow if I clean it now.

Every once in a while, though, in the midst of the chaos of my life, I perceive a glimpse of God. It's like entering an abandoned house cluttered with old, dusty things, and as you take a step, your eyes are pierced by the blinding brightness of some glimmering object. Suddenly the wreck of a house takes on new meaning with the knowledge that there may be something deeper to the mess around you - somewhere in here is a story waiting to be excavated.

I know that there are stories waiting in the dark places of my chaos and clutter. I find pieces here and there, and as I find them - as God reveals them - I store them away in some file drawer in my brain. Eventually - perhaps not until the other side of life - my story will be excavated, and the Archaeologist will piece together this broken mess, carefully and painstakingly gluing together each shining, reflective piece of glass, until my story stands again, whole, complete.

I may not see how all my pieces come together. But I know that even the little things - these moments I'm living in, now, these broken, messy, chaotic moments - are part of something bigger than myself. I may not be able to make sense of them now. But one day, perhaps, I will look back on this time, and see a glimmering piece of something, reflecting a blinding Light into my eyes, and I will stop, and bend down, and pick up the piece.

And I will smile.