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That Tall One

He's eighteen.

It was just a moment ago that he was my sweet, chubby, curly-crowned toddler.

Clutching tightly to the hem of my dress he followed my every step. All day. Every. Day. More times than I can count I've placed him in that sink to scrub away the dirt...reached out to grab hold of another love bouquet...glued together the bread necklace that kept losing pieces - I wore it proudly anytime I went out. I've cleaned up cheese and Oreos he left in the most unexpected places. Watched the thrill spread his face as he opened a box of tap lights...learned to ride a his license. I've grabbed on for dear life as he spun me around country roads in a yellow truck named Buttermilk...and I've listened to that singing Billy Bass until I knew I was going to be committed. He's always been the one who found joy in the peculiar. Always the one who got me - and made me roar with laughter. We're so much alike and yet very different.

Now we're here.
Recent posts

She Has A Name

I hear her dancing in the wind...beckoning me to come outside...feel the rain upon my face...but do I dare?

I've watched from the pane as she stood ablaze in autumns glory - slowly letting go of each brilliant hue. Watched while her limbs bent low through the long winter - burdened by the very thing that sustained. Watched while pops of green unfurled - life once again.

I've surveyed from the window, but to go and meet her?
The soil that she feeds upon cradles my child and I can't bring myself to go there.

It's been a year since my baby opened her eyes and looked into the face of Jesus...while I held her tiny frame here on earth.

Miriam Grace.

She has a name.
My name.
The name I was given while in Israel - what my grandparents and family always called me.
Miriam: Bitter, Sea of sorrow, Longed for or wished for child.
Grace: God's favor.

She was God's favor to me. Losing her has been bitter. My heart has been filled with sorrow and longing but God in his mercy ha…

In the Midst of a Storm

As the earth drank I sat silently on the other side of the pane, wrapped in the stiff cotton some soul before had taken their last breath in. All the while praying for that little one I soon would meet. On a stormy July eve, the time had finally come. Stretching out my hands I grabbed hold of our tiny gift. Malakai. I knew his name long before he was ever conceived. Given at the perfect time - he's my angel. Our answered prayer. From that first moment, he had my heart. No one could love him one but Jesus.

I remember the first time my belly gripped hard. Ages ago. Paralyzing pain. Lying down I had no strength. Yet I fought against each contraction from this posture. Stiffening and forgetting to breathe.

I've learned after all these babes what needs to be done. The nurse, puzzled when she came to check on me. "Why do you sit up like that? Would it not be easier to lay down?" She inquired. I smiled politely but I've learned. So I remained sitting upright w…

Soul Tired

When your baby is curled under the barren tree and your soul resembles that tree more than you would like to admit...too many needing...wanting...there's nothing left to give...It becomes easy to drown in the darkness.

When it's Christmas Eve and the house is a mess, there's still shopping left to do, Christmas dinner to prepare, and Gingerbread Men to bake with that chubby little boy who's growing too fast. It's easy to buzz right through the days - through Christmas - and miss everything.

But when I slow down I hear it: His love and blessings for me

Bedtime tickles
The way she pulls me close and smothers my face with tiny kisses
Fairies on pj's... and all the small ways He answered my prayers and brought her close this season
Glass birds
Hugs from that tall one
Knowing he is right behind me...always
The clanging of dishes late in the night - even though he worked all day he's doing the dishes for me at midnight
Truck rides and coffee I will mis…

Far From Perfect Blessings

Fresh powder, leaks quiet from the heavens, dressing the barren branches white. Moon's light spills across snowflakes...each one unique. Pure. Perfect. Beautiful. But soon humanity will make its mark and all that will be left is a muddied mess to gaze upon.

In a matter of days the hustle and bustle of the kitchen will commence. Each soul within these walls-unique; each one bringing to the table their own scrumptious creations, gifts, brokenness.

Ironstone will line the planks while hungry men in collar shirts jump into chairs and wide-eyed little ones wait for pie. We'll gobble Jell-o with cheese, argue about the correct way to smother potatoes with gravy. Votes will be cast for the annual pie contest. Laughter will ring as bellies and hearts fill. At the close of the day we may play a game of Monopoly that will last until the wee hours.

But the best part will be when each one sits in the middle of the circle and words of love, grace, and life are poured upon them.

We know eac…

Pumpkin Patch Lessons

He jumps from the wagon full of wonder and excitement. This is what he's come for. Tiny sneakers sink - slip in mud and my chunky toddler topples to the wet earth. He jumps up quick. His denim now a few shades darker. But I can see the eagerness burning through those cornflower blues. Hundreds line the hem of the field but they're not what he's seeking. Up a steep slippery slope he scales. I'm trailing behind thinking I should have guzzled another cup of coffee. His eyes searching the expansive field until finally he finds it. An orange sphere with a thin, long, rough handle.

The call is out. Time to head back. Quickly! We trudge our way through the never ending rows of orange but his legs only go so fast. With two bursting bags in hand, I'm unable to carry him and of course he insists on carrying his treasure which makes us all that much slower. They're yelling. Waiting just for us. We're close when he trips into the sticker vines. Wiry thorns impaling pal…

Honored Little Ones

This post is about when I lost Miriam but it's in honor of all the babies I have in Heaven.
Alexandria Joy - February 1995
Jeremiah Michael - September 2012
Hope Isabella - October 2014
Miriam Grace - July 2016

The flowers they brought sit on the counter. Untouched. They're beautiful, and I'm grateful, but they're not for pleasure they're for the dead. To touch them somehow means to accept that she's...dead.

For two days they sit. Finally, one by one the stems are arranged and into that corner of my darkness they bring the beauty I needed.

I know tomorrow is the day - so I curl into the cushion as if it's a mothers embrace. Lap heaped with a mess of cream and I weave a blanket for our baby to be wrapped in.

Buried in.

With each stitch my heart is torn right through. The loss of dreams. Nights I'll never have to hold her close. No tickles. No laughter. No kisses or prayers or bedtime stories. No unruly hair to brush in the morning. No tea parties or baby…