Blog
From and about women who love Jesus and want to share His message through Scripture, everyday inspirations, and relatable stories.
Some moments I’ll never forget. Seeing my published story after four years of writing it and twenty years of living it was one of those moments. Being falsely accused and shunned for it was another.
Early on in the pandemic, I got sick with what was likely a case of Covid. My symptoms were mild yet distinct from anything I’d ever been ill with before. Aside from just a day or two of shortness of breath and what seemed like never ending thirst, I thought I had recovered.
I concentrated on breathing slowly, trying to ignore my husband’s useless attempts to comfort me as we walked out of the doctor’s office. Alan dug his keys out of his pocket as we approached the car. “At least you weren’t that far along,” he said.
“Don’t play in the street.”
“Look both ways before you cross.”
“Don’t stand in the dog’s water bowl.”
When my children were young, I repeated myself—a lot.
We’d been away from home for three weeks.
Away from the comfort of the bed we fall into each night.
Away from the kitchen table worn smooth by a decade’s worth of daily meals.
Away from “the spot” in front of the fireplace where the carpet is matted from many days curled up in front of it.
Jenn, a friend of mine in our community, died of cancer not too long ago. One of Jenn’s best friends, Steph, shared with me how she held space with Jenn in the last couple of months of her life. Steph sat with her and read Scripture with her, and when Jenn grew too weak to read the words herself, Steph read to her while she rested. Steph described those days as holy, beautiful, and sweet. There, in the fullness of time, Jenn and Steph were achingly close to the Lord, swallowed in the tenderness of God’s embrace.
Having recently had some work done in our bathroom, we’re having to change decades-long habits. For nearly twenty years I’ve dried my hands on the left-hand side of the sink but now to reach a towel I have to turn to the right. After so many years, my action is pretty automatic—now going the wrong way.
My phone rang. I scowled and released an exasperated groan. Muscle spasms and headaches had kept me from enjoying quality sleep and hindered my work for days.
The too-loud-for-today ring squeezed my temples. Still, my curiosity insisted I know who beckoned for my attention.
Blinking hard, I asked God to quell my curiosity and calm my muscle spasms. I squinted to see the name, date, and time clearly on the small screen.
Blessed are Those who mourn, for they will be comforted —Matthew 5:4
Some of the darkest days I’ve experienced occurred after I had to say goodbye to my mother due to her death when she was sixty-three years old. No one wants to lose a loved one at any age, but sixty-three seemed really young to me. I knew so many vibrant and seemingly healthy people who were well beyond that age.