I continue to learn about writing and how writing can be part of a healing journey. Healing starts with naming the wound. Writing can be a journey to awareness, a way to identify what needs to be called out.

 

Sharing our stories helps us heal and can inspire others to reflect on their own experiences.

 

The posts have shifted to vignettes from my childhood.

 

I pray, my reader friend, that God takes my words, illuminates truth and compels you to step courageously forward. Each step is trusting in His goodness that nourishes your soul and, on the journey, back to a place of shalom.

 

In the summer of 1979, I was 17 years old, working full time and going to college part time, living with my parents and siblings. I was finding my way, making money, had my own car, paying my own insurance and buying items for when I would move out after I turned 18. I switched jobs from a preschool teacher’s assistant to a cashier at JCPenney’s auto parts department in a nearby mall.

 

Despite everything, I still felt like I didn’t fit in or was accepted by my “friend” group. I did have a couple of good girlfriends but not a best friend and the girlfriends were still in school.

 

This larger friend group consisted of teenagers from my high school; some who graduated a year or two earlier and some were still in high school. We had one high school in our suburb outside of Chicago. The town was continuing to grow and expand the boundaries, with home builders buying up land from farmers.

 

On weekend nights in the spring, summer, and fall, kids would gather on back roads to hang out, play music, and socialize. We gathered on several back roads, some by corn fields, others by bridges or creeks, and some near wooded areas. You might imagine the movie Footloose without the really cool dancing.

 

I was on the fringe of the popular kids, so I did not always know which back road was the hangout. Occasionally it was at someone’s house whose parents were not home, but more often it was the back roads in the summer.

 

Earlier that year, I went through an emotional break up with my boyfriend, let’s call him B, and my best girlfriend, let’s call her M. They both betrayed me by cheating on me while I was working and going to school. Right before senior high school prom, he broke up with me and took her to prom. It’s kind of baffling that they thought they could keep it a secret when my older brother took his then girlfriend, now wife, to prom. Anyway, I will tell more of that story in vignette #9.

 

One Friday night, I dressed up in freshly creased jeans, sandals, a tank top, fresh makeup, curled hair like Farrah Fawcett. It was important to me to look as pretty as possible to show B and M I was fine, attractive and wanted; to show B he was missing out on a good thing.

 

I picked up my friend Pam in my Gold Chevy Montego to drive out to the back roads. I was proud of my car because I bought it with my own money from my older brother. My brother also taught me to drive this car and as soon as I turned 16, obtained my license, I bought the car.

 

Pam and I had been friends for a while, and she remained my friend through my heart ache. She was a year younger than me, and her family lived in a subdivision over from mine. Her parents were strict, and she did not have a car. I was the only one of my few friends who had their own car, so I usually drove.

 

We did find the party that Friday night; the one road between cornfields with cars lined up and down both sides of the road. Not a street, it was a dirt road. We parked, then walked up and down the road, stopping to talk when we felt comfortable. I am introverted on the quiet side until I really know the person while extroverted Pam was fun and outgoing. This is what I needed since both B and M would usually be there too, together, of course. It was awkward, and I felt unwanted and unaccepted.

 

Many of the older guys had beer in their cars and would offer it to us. I wonder today if it was simply to get girls relaxed so they would have sex with them. Some guys seemed genuine and Pam usually had a crush on one. I was still heartbroken and simply wanted to be liked and accepted as me, not the one who was foolish for trusting so easily.

 

Pam’s parents gave her a concrete curfew, so we headed back home around midnight. It was really pitch dark on the dirt back roads, no streetlights until we got closer to town, then there were some lights on the two-lane paved streets.

 

As I approached Pam’s subdivision on the main road, I noticed a car coming from the opposite direction, getting ready to turn left towards us instead of stopping. In a split second, I hit the brakes, knowing we would not stop in time, so I tried turning the wheel away, but knowing in my gut we were going to crash. This was before the seat belt law or airbags, and my next instinct was to duck. Pam was hysterical and on impact, our faces smashed into the dashboard knobs.

 

Even now, over 44 years later, I can still picture the car just before impact.

 

Pam was on the floor in the passenger seat screaming and I don’t even know how I got out or got her out before the ambulance came. The head on collision was on the corner with a gas station and a dry cleaner, no traffic light, just a stop sign. I remember that the other driver was not hurt, but I recognized his behavior as indicative of intoxication.

 

The next thing I knew, we were sitting in the back of the ambulance with the EMTs trying to stop the bleeding from our faces and I was trying to calm Pam down. We both had holes in our chins, scraps, bruises, and scratches. I realize now I was in shock, not crying, calm simply focusing on caring for Pam who would not stop crying.

 

In the ER, Pam and I were in beds separated by a curtain, and she still would not stop crying and yelling. Part of her fear was about her parents, what kind of punishment they would give her.

 

I did not really want anyone to call my parents. My mom worked second shift so she would just be getting off shift and I didn’t know about my dad. I never knew if they would be home, sober, drinking or fighting. This was before cell phones, so if they weren’t home, I did not know what to expect. I would rather have my brother come to pick me up, but I was a minor, so they had to reach my parents.

 

Both Pam and I received stitches on our chins, mine extending the crease in the chin below my mouth and hers more like a circle. I kept focusing on talking to Pam through the curtain, trying to calm her down. When the doctor was stitching me up, Pam panicked because I stopped talking. Her parents came, and they were more grateful she was not seriously injured and less mad.

 

My parents came. They were sober, kind, and caring. They hugged me, took me home, and tucked me into my twin bed. When I was alone in my room, laying there playing the crash over in my head, I started crying, the ugly cry, the kind with snot where you cannot catch your breath. I was trying to cry softly so my parents would not hear, but my mom came in and held me while I cried.

 

This was unexpected and welcome.

I continue to learn about writing and how writing can be part of a healing journey. Healing starts with naming the wound. Writing can be a journey to awareness, a way to identify what needs to be called out.

Sharing our stories helps us heal and can inspire others to reflect on their own experiences.

The posts have shifted to vignettes from my childhood.

I pray, my reader friend, that God takes my words, illuminates truth and compels you to step courageously forward. Each step is trusting in His goodness that nourishes your soul and, on the journey, back to a place of shalom.

I grew up the only girl out of four children, second oldest in the lineup. In two of the four houses we lived in, we had an aboveground, 4-foot swimming pool and a swing set.

Until I was in high school, my mom was a stay-at-home mom, which worked well for us kids to swim in the pool all summer long. You see, there were rules surrounding the swimming pool with the major rule an adult had to be near watching us swim. Don’t misunderstand, my mom did not just sit in the yard with her eyes glued to the pool; instead, she would sometimes be in the house and frequently would look out at us.

She would get annoyed if one of us kids screamed about what the others were doing, like making enormous waves or riding them high into the pool. This was fun except the sides of the pool would expand in and out so potentially we could break the pool.

The swimming pool survived multiple moves, kids, and late-night parties.

Summers in the Midwest were hot, and the humidity was often worse than the temperature. Every summer, all I wore was a two-piece swimsuit, no matter how old I was. When I became a teenager, I would swim less and suntan more.

Mom cautioned us about “fair-weather friends” – they were neighborhood kids who only wanted to be our friend in the summer so they could go swimming in the pool. Another pool rule was each of us kids could only invite one friend in the pool at a time and they had to have their parents’ permission, so FWF was a real consideration.

Like most families, summer included extracurricular activities. I was really interested in playing guitar after having guitar lessons in school music class. The summer between my 7th and 8th grade, my parents found a guitar teacher who would come to our home and give lessons. My parents bought me a guitar and a black plastic guitar case that was more like a sleeve than they found the teacher.

Each Saturday afternoon, he would come to our house. I can still picture him, looking like Peter Frampton, walking up the driveway to the back of the house since that’s where we always were swimming in the pool. After leaving the pool, I would dry off, put on jean shorts over my swimsuit, and head to my bedroom for the lesson.

Since I was the only girl, I had my own bedroom. I had the twin bed up against the wall in the corner, set up like it was a couch with all kinds of pillows. We would sit on my “couch”, I would unzip the sleeve of the guitar and set it on my legs. The teacher was next to me showing me chord finger positions on the neck of the guitar as I tapped my foot to the beat strumming the guitar. He would demonstrate where my fingers should be on the strings for the various notes.

One Saturday afternoon, a few lessons in, the teacher put his hand on my leg, the tapping leg and he started rubbing up and down. It made me very uncomfortable. There were no words, but I knew in my gut something about it was wrong.

After the lesson, I told my mom I did not want to play guitar; she did not question me, and I did not explain. I don’t believe I would have been able to put words to my feelings because my family did not express feelings. Money was always tight in our family, so I imagine she was relieved not to continue paying for the lessons.

Until I grew up, got married, and had my own daughter, I left the guitar in the plastic sleeve, letting it collect dust. The guitar moved with me four times, shoved in the back of several closets before I acknowledged what happened, then gave the guitar away.

I often wonder if I would have been any good at playing the guitar.

God will eventually redeem this for me, and I will pick up the guitar again.

 

I continue to learn about writing and how writing can be part of a healing journey. Healing starts with naming the wound. Writing can be a journey to awareness, a way to identify what needs to be called out.

 

Sharing our stories helps us heal and can inspire others to reflect on their own
experiences.

 

The posts have shifted to vignettes from my childhood.

 

I pray, my reader friend, that God takes my words, illuminates truth and compels you to step courageously forward. Each step is trusting in His goodness that nourishes your soul and, on the journey, back to a place of shalom.

 

When I was 11 years old, my family of six moved from the south side of Chicago to the southwest suburbs. My dad worked as a truck mechanic; my mom stayed at home to care for us four kids. I had one older brother and two younger brothers. We even had a black Labrador retriever dog named Tippy.

 

My parents chose to relocate because the Chicago schools were unsafe, and teachers couldn’t control their classrooms. When my older brother was in 8th grade, students were having sex in his classroom behind the piano and the white women teacher cowered in fear. Before we moved, I was in 6^th grade, and I had an African American male teacher who commanded our classroom. They housed the younger grades in a separate temporary building, so my younger brother was safe in 1st and 2nd grade. The youngest brother was a toddler at home.

 

In the suburbs, there was elementary school through 5th grade, then junior high and high school, so all of us kids would go to separate new schools. It was scary, and I was fearful to be alone.

 

This move would be the third move for my family. When I was 6, we moved from Chicago to California for first grade and then we moved back to Chicago when I was in second grade. New schools, new neighborhoods, new environments, and new friends were not new experiences, but still caused anxiety.

 

The house and neighborhood were new builds, with farms, cornfields, creeks, and young trees, which made moving exciting. The houses were a few different models, no grass or landscaping; all dirt, including the roads. I had my own room since I was the only girl.

 

Since my mom did not work outside the home, she made friends with the neighbor ladies that were all stay at home moms. She connected with the next-door neighbor who also had a preschooler and one mom from my younger brother’s t-ball league who lived a few blocks down the street. T-ball mom was more my mom’s age while next door was a younger mom, so mom spent more time with T-ball mom named Pat.

 

Pat taught my mom to bake fancy cakes, eclairs, and other bakery goods. While they baked, they smoked cigarettes, drank beer and played loud music. The treats all tasted great and as we kids were running in and out of the house, we had opportunities to sample or lick the bowls or spoons. As their time together would unfold, they would become drunk. This scenario was common between our house and Pat’s house.

 

I was a quiet, shy, and studious girl at school; observant and trying to find my place. For my 13th birthday, my parents allowed me to have a sleepover, so I invited 13 girls from school. None of them were good friends, and I thought this would be a way to make real friends.

 

Seventh grade in the suburbs had a different vibe than Chicago elementary. I had to become comfortable changing classes and taking the bus. Thankfully, I didn’t have to manage lunch because school was from 12 noon to 5 pm. Our town was in growth mode and did not have its own junior high or high school, so they bussed me and my older brother to the next town.

 

One of my classes was music, and I was learning to play the guitar. I enjoyed it so much my mom decided to make a birthday cake shaped like a guitar for my party.

 

The day of the sleepover finally came. It was a beautiful Saturday in April, and I was nervous, anxious, and fearful. My thoughts included “will they like me, will they have fun, will they like my bedroom, my house, my cake, will my mom be drunk and embarrass me?” My mom finished the cake, and it was picture perfect.

 

The weather on that April Saturday afternoon was mild, so mom had the patio door open. Our kitchen was just big enough for our table that fit the 6 of us with little room to navigate. You would either be at the stove, sink, counter next to the fridge, or sitting at the table. The patio door was right next to the fridge, then the laundry room was right off the kitchen in an alcove. Mom would sit at the table, drink her beer, and smoke her cigarettes after she finished cooking or baking. The patio door was next to her, facing the front door.

 

With the cake on the table and the patio door open, a breeze swirled through and brought all the ashes from mom’s ashtray into the air, landing all over the cake. I was unaware until mom suddenly added chocolate sprinkles to the guitar so the ashes would blend in like it was meant to be all over the cake.

 

Did we serve that cake? Of course. Did I eat any? Not a chance. Did any of the girls suspect something was up with the cake? No, the girls were being girls at a sleepover; playing music, dancing, talking about boys and if anyone was wearing a bra yet. Did I gain a BFF that night? Not really. Did I invite any of them over to my house again? No, I did not.

 

Instead, I became best friends with the young girl who lived across the street whose nickname is BZ. Her older brother was my age, her younger brother was in my younger brother’s grade, she had a younger sister, and I had an even younger brother. We all played together on the block, kickball, freeze tag, swam in our pool, rode bikes, spud, red-light green-light and other games at our end of the block. One of my favorites was playing music on our portable record player on the concrete step in front of BZ’s house.

 

My mom’s antics were no secret to BZ, so it was nice to have a place to escape across the street into singing and dancing.

I continue to learn about writing and how writing can be part of a healing journey. Healing starts with naming the wound. Writing can be a journey to awareness, a way to identify what needs to be called out.

Sharing our stories helps us heal and can inspire others to reflect on their own
experiences.

The posts have shifted to vignettes from my childhood.

I pray, my reader friend, that God takes my words, illuminates truth and compels you to step courageously forward. Each step is trusting in His goodness that nourishes your soul and, on the journey, back to a place of shalom.

I grew up in Chicago, as did my mom and dad. My parents lived like any typical American family. My dad was a truck mechanic, and my mom took care of the house, my older brother, and me. At that time, we did not have a dog which would have made the stereotypical family in the 50-60’s complete. We lived in a single-family home on a block where many neighbors were young families starting out with their first homes.

My mom and dad were close with my mom’s brothers and their families. My dad was friends with my mom’s younger brother Bill, which was how he met my mom, fell in love, then married her when they were young, 19 and 21.

As a child, I was all about movement; my body on a swing, a rocking chair, dancing or bouncing on the couch. What is bouncing on the couch you might be wondering? This involves sitting on the couch with your back against the backrest, leaning forward, and then slamming yourself back against the couch. It’s different from jumping on a bed.. Picture your body as a rocker, back and forth, back, and forth.

Movement was soothing to me, as if I needed to shake all the energy out of my body. I don’t know how old I was when I started bouncing on the couch, but clearly; we did not have a rocking chair. When I was swinging or bouncing on the couch, I would make up songs to sing. Bouncing was like breathing to me, and I would do this for hours.

Later in life, I learned this was a coping mechanism that was necessary to calm my nervous system. It is amazing how our bodies do what is necessary to take care of us.

One day when I was about 3 years old, I was singing and bouncing on the couch alone in the living room of the main floor. My brother was in school, and my mom was upstairs doing something, maybe cleaning. This felt normal to me except I had a bottle of baby aspirin, tiny pink pills that looked like dots. Of course, this was well before child safety locks. I sang, bounced, and ate all the tiny dots while my mom remained upstairs.

Since my mom was close to her brothers and couldn’t drive, my Uncle Bill would frequently stop by to give her rides to places like the grocery store.

On this day, Uncle Bill stopped over and saw how I ate all the tiny pink dots, and he immediately ran for my mom, who became frantic. It’s not every day you walk in on your toddler niece overdosing.

They quickly grabbed me up and he drove us to the emergency room. My mom was holding me on her lap since seat belts were not a thing in the early 60s. I remember it was scary, and I did not really understand what was happening.

The nurse took me from my mom. There was noise and people all around. I don’t recall if I was crying, but I know my mom was not with me. They held me down while the doctor put a tube down my throat to pump the pills out of my stomach. It was cold, antiseptic, unfriendly, loud, and I was alone, choking. I don’t know how long it took to pump my stomach, or what my mom was doing, feeling, or thinking. My mom and uncle took me home.

This is not a topic that was ever discussed later in life, and I wondered if she felt guilty or if she and my dad had a fight about what happened.

If it happened today, there would be questions to answer. However, with child safety locks, toddlers cannot access the tiny pink dots…

When I shifted to this blog in 2018, my intent was to share God stories in a devotional format from my life experiences. I created four posts about life stories that affected me and can relate to many people in different ways.

Abortion, suicide, dreams, grief and loss.

God heals, He never fails, He understands, He is generous with gifts and He delights in our dreams.

It’s been nearly a year since my last post and I have continued learning about writing as well as how writing can be part of a healing journey. Healing starts with naming the wound. Writing can be a journey to awareness, a way to identify what needs to be called out.

Sharing our stories helps us heal and can inspire others to reflect on their own experiences.

The posts will shift to vignettes from my childhood.

I pray, my friend, that God takes my words, illuminates truth and compels you to step courageously forward. Each step is trusting in His goodness that nourishes your soul and on the journey back to a place of shalom.

It was pitch dark as my husband, Eddie, and I drove in complete silence, each surrounded by our own penetrating thoughts. Just the sound of the road beneath our Subaru wheels, random streetlights, and infrequent headlights from cars on the other side of the highway. It was like sitting in a kiddie pool, water touching you yet not covering you.

Denial…

That’s what it was. Unwilling to fully acknowledge the swirling emotions. Driving for over 10 hours, simply focused on forward momentum, and only stopping when our bodies required relief.

Over the years, we developed a road trip rhythm where we would drink in the sights, sounds, and smells of the beauty uncovered along the way. This time, it was a completely different mindset.

Instead of road trip joy, it was sorrow, sadness, anxiety, and heartache rolling through like the tide threatening to overwhelm and drag me under.

Abruptly, my cell phone rang, startling me into military attention. Holding my breath as if I was going underwater, I answered the call.

Tiny shreds of hope rose as I heard my 87-year-old mom’s agitated, unsteady, and frantic voice asking me where I was because she thought I was missing. My emotions shifted from relief that she was still alive to concern upon hearing her delusional, fearful, confused state of mind. I reassured her we were nearly at the hospital and would see her soon.

Ending the call, I drowned in a sea of tears.

Unbeknownst to me, these were her final few days on earth.

Several weeks later, I sat at my kitchen counter remembering the feelings from that car ride; the emotions start small deep in my chest until I feel crushed by a tidal wave. I cannot stop the cries that bubble up, then burst forth.

I miss my mom.

Words of truth from Psalm 91 infiltrate my soul, enveloping me with comfort as I sit in my grief and loss, listening to the words of the Psalm sung to music.

I will dwell in the secret place of the Most High

I will abide under the shadow of the almighty

Surely you will deliver me, you will make a way

With your outstretched arms, Lord, you cover me

You will hold me close, never let me go

I will say of the Lord, you are my refuge and my fortress

My God, in you will I trust

I will not fear the terror by night nor the arrow that flies by day

When 1,000 fall and 10,000 more I’ll stand firm

You will give angels charge over me, keep me in all my ways

They will lift me up. God, you’ll hold me up.

You’re my shield and strength, I won’t be afraid

God’s peace washed over me, encouraging me with how He understands my thoughts and feelings.

He met me at that moment, reminding me how he met my mom in her anxiety and fear when I read Psalm 91 to her at her bedside during her last days. I reassured her she was safe; she was not alone, and God was holding her up.

This memory was like a life preserver amid emotional waves.

On that dark night, I reminded her there was nothing she needed to do. The story in Luke 23:39-43 when Jesus heard and delivered the thief on the cross; all the thief did was humbly call out to Him.

For the last 8 years, I walked every step beside my mom as she called out to Jesus during her battle with heart disease and multiple lung cancers. Each time she beat the odds, rallied, and kept fighting. This time, her body was tired, and she was battle weary.

Within 24 hours after hearing Psalm 91, my mom slipped peacefully away.

I miss my mom.

Grief never really goes away; it does not follow other people’s timelines. We learn to live with it as we maneuver the journey. Grieving is not linear; often misunderstood and lonely.

At random unanticipated moments, tears well up and I surrender to them. God continues meeting me in unexpected ways.

On one occasion, it was a bird song that caught my attention. Then suddenly there was a pair of birds just outside my window. My heart leaped, my breath caught, and tears came to the surface. As if a hurricane struck me, I realized God understood enough to send not just one bird, but two.

You might wonder how a bird could be a gift.

It’s rare to see a bird in a neighborhood of saplings. The backyard of my prior home had full-grown trees with birds making homes, feasting, and bathing. I often felt like Snow White.

I laughed out loud.

I missed birds.

I missed my mom.

When we are sitting in fear, anxiety, sorrow, grief, and loss, God empathizes and holds space with us, surrounds and delivers us.

God understood my mom’s fears, thoughts, and emotions. He held her close, never let her go, and He delivered her.

He held an umbrella over me during each torrential rain.

I don’t know what emotions you hold at bay or how you have learned to stifle your true feelings to make others more comfortable, but God understands. He wants you to know what you don’t deal with now will affect you later; it’s okay not to be okay. Sit in the uncomfortable as He covers you with His outstretched arms.

Face and feel your feelings. Move through them like a surfer experiencing the swell of a wave, ebbing, and flowing.

Lean in and breathe. He understands.

No way! I am not a fearful person! Or am I? Is it okay to step into my dream?

These were my journaling reflections as I sat alone at my kitchen table, allowing anxiety to rise like a volcano spewing its lethal contents. Doubts shadowing my thoughts, holding me captive as the rays of sunlight crept through the window.

The slivers of light illuminated the words on my iPad screen, causing me to hold my breath as I clicked the register link on the email. 

That click began a resurrection of a writing dream.

When I was six years old, my family moved from the Midwest to the West Coast. My first-grade teacher began reading Charlotte’s Web to the class. It was a balm to my spirit because Wilbur, the farm pig, became friends with Charlotte, the spider. Wilbur didn’t want food; he wanted a friend. That was the craving of my uncertain heart, and I found friendship in the words of books.

This teacher nurtured and cultivated the seed that she planted with Charlotte’s Web. She was the first-word gardener of my life.

As an introverted child, I escaped into numerous adventures through books. The words sprung out with spirit-fueled power, jolting me to grab a pen. I found myself writing my own words, yet my words were unknown, like the seed under the soil, experiencing drought, and refusing to surface.

Self-doubt creeped in, stunting the seed until a creative writing teacher became another word gardener, pouring nourishment on my parched seed. This time the seed busted through to become a bud, striving to grow, change, and show all the beauty that awaited inside the bud.

My dream was sprouting. 

As the seasons of life unfolded, the sprout became overcrowded with the weeds of unbelief. My budding writing dream remained buried by layers of fear and insecurity.

The internal beauty of the bud stayed hidden until I courageously stepped into the FlourishWriters garden with a click on the screen.

FlourishWriters, gardeners of words, tended to the bud with their tools. Slowly, the dirt shifted as the ground was tilled by spades of coaching, watered by teaching, and fertilized with words of encouragement from the garden community.

From the positive feedback, the constructive insight lifted my heart and provided the opportunity for my budding writing dream to develop once again. 

There was growth in my confidence as I attended the live video coaching calls. During one session, as I was sitting in my family room with my iPad connected to the TV, my words appeared on the screen. I did not realize I was holding my breath as a FlourishWriters coach acknowledged me by name. I braced myself as she reviewed my draft, using it as a teaching example.

Instantaneously, tears sprung to my eyes as the words of my story were spoken out loud. I was seen, no longer invisible with a buried dream. The minuscule sprout that was just peeking out of the ground developed and flourished.

Through the season of cultivation, FlourishWriters gardeners were instruments for the connection to the Master Gardener, who cuts, trims, and prunes to bring life. It was as if a kinked garden hose was straightened, and living water was soaking my dream into a plant.

How validating it was to hear my stories were meant to be God’s stories for speaking truth, encouragement, and a guide to healing.

How could I not believe when God, the Master Creator’s mere words resulted in astounding beauty in the universe? 

If I am to believe Him, that means I am worthy and capable of realizing my blossoming dream. That I was made to come alive, designed, and equipped to move into my heart’s desire.

I wrestled between hope and fear. 

God nurtured and led me to Isaiah 43:1, “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine” (ESV).

Exhaling, as if I was spitting out the anxiety and the lie that I am not worthy, I inhaled the truth that God is still in the resurrection business and is calling me to abundant life.

For we are God’s masterpiece. He created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago. Ephesians 2:10 (NLT)

As His masterpiece, you are beautiful and beloved; you are a living work of art displaying His creativity and grace. 

He holds your future. Even before you were born, God planned your destiny.  

You are His masterpiece, and He is already in your future.

Sit with that a moment.

Can you remember your dreams? Did you bury them, or are they seemingly out of reach? 

Maybe you poured more dirt on your speck of a seed, or you cannot find the nozzle to the garden hose, or the handles are broken on the gardening tools.

Is it because you feel they are not meant for you?

Mustering up a brave moment will not make you able. You can walk into your dreams because of who Jesus is, and what He has already done.

He sees you as His beloved, worthy of resurrected, unrealized dreams.

It’s time to bloom. 

The sound of the telephone jolted me awake. It made me mad and my mind screamed, “who could call so early? Make it stop.” All I wanted to do was nestle back in bed next to my husband, Eddie, instead of waking up already.

As soon as my eyes opened completely, dread overwhelmed me because anyone calling this early would have a serious reason. With my heart racing, I ran to answer the phone, attempting to focus my mind on the caller.

Eddie’s youngest brother John was speaking, his voice full of emotion. He was saying, “Nicole is dead. She killed herself.” My brain simply could not connect with his words.  I could not comprehend, was he really telling me my 28-year-old niece committed suicide? What could have happened to bring her to such a decision? To leave behind twin toddler daughters? I was in shock and disbelief at what I was hearing.

John pressed me so I quickly woke up Eddie, handing him the phone.  In a blur, I went through the motions of getting ready for work while Eddie gathered himself together.

When Nicole was a teenager, lies and insecurity tortured her in greater depth than the typical teen who craves love and acceptance. She strived to be productive, to make good choices, to practice better-coping methods and still life remained extraordinarily challenging.

There were glimpses of vulnerability when she was open to family and friend’s guidance and support. Yet the suffering would move in waves and become overpowering at moments in time.  She kept us all on the fringe, unable to be fully transparent.

Life appeared brighter for Nicole when she became a mom. She was so proud of her girls. It was like sunshine through the clouds. Once again, family and friends surrounded her with love and support. She wore a smile, posed for photos, spoke the right words, and posted her best self on social media, all the while remaining silent, keeping us at a distance and hiding the anguish that was building.

Unbeknownst to us, the internal battles continued until they were uncontrollable and in hopelessness, she made another choice.

Everyone is fighting their own battle; some are visible and others are not. Mental illness weaves into one’s life and so rarely lets go. It is a challenge to drive the road of life, full of construction and potholes. Without guidance for changing lanes, navigation can appear to be impossible.

Losing a loved one to suicide leaves so many unanswered questions.

As I made the hour drive to my office, my emotions went on a roller coaster ride, sitting in the seat of sadness and confusion. My tears would not stop. I was moving on automatic pilot when I arrived at my office. Upon hearing the news and seeing my puffy eyes, my teammates insisted I go be with my family.

Even as I walked in confusion, God remained faithful and completely understood that I needed to be rescued from feelings of guilt.

God is greater than our feelings, and He knows everything (1 John 3:20b).

He is unchanging, supreme, and our perfect creator. Our feelings shift, affected by external influences or faulty thinking. He remains, even when we are unaware.

After arrangements and details were made, there was an afternoon when I had the opportunity to sit in my rocking chair, journaling on our patio. Our backyard is my place for solitude and quiet; full of shade trees, bird feeders, and an array of colors bursting from flowers. A safe haven where I could be alone to unpack my thoughts, dialogue with the Lord and dive into His Word.

God met me in this space. He understood I needed to be comforted. He reminded me Nicole was not alone, not abandoned, and He did not fail her. He will not let me down or walk off and leave me either (Hebrews 13:5 MSG). As waves of emotions flooded my soul once again, I was overwhelmed with peace, visualizing God sitting with me.

Can you grasp the truth that you are never alone?

He further impressed upon my heart truths from Lamentations chapter 3:20-23 (NLT) and Psalm 30:5b (NLT):

I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss. Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: the faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is His faithfulness. His mercies begin afresh each morning.

Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning.

Each of us experiences grief in our own unique ways.  Jesus experienced this when his friend Lazarus died. The shortest verse in the Bible is John 11:35 Jesus wept. Yet it speaks volumes.  Even though He knew He would raise him from the dead, He responded with great emotion and deep sorrow.

Though Jesus knows and sees the joyful ending, He still gets down in the middle of our sorrow and holds us close, mingling His tears with ours.

Do you feel alone or confused? Are you grieving from loss or carrying a heavy burden?  Is life overwhelming?

Did you know the Bible says God is always thinking about you? (1 Peter 5:7 TLB) He watches everything that concerns you.

He already knows your heartache. 

He may not deliver you from the pain, but will you allow Him to be your Deliverer in the midst of it?

Even when all hope is gone, His promises remain.

He will be with you always.

He never fails.

Joy will come.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton