faith

Sorrow and Joy

Saturday was a good day.

The sun sparkled in the July blue sky. So bright and so strong that you almost staggered under its light.

The grass and the trees were as green as they would be all year. The tomatoes in the garden were ripe. The roses were blooming and the birds were singing their ode to summer.

And my family was home. After being away at a camp in Kentucky all week, they had pulled in Saturday afternoon, exhausted and delirious.

After a supper of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh tomatoes, and homemade chocolate chip cookies, we all snuggled on the couch to listen to stories from camp and look at pictures on all the phones.

The candles were lit, the washing machine hummed softly from the first load of camp clothes being washed, the dogs were curled on our laps. As the summer sun dipped low and the cicadas started to sing, we laughed and talked. All was well. My family was home.

And yet . . .

And yet, there was a painful silent acknowledgement that only a few hours away from us some parents had no children to snuggle with. No stories from camp. No yummy meal and no laps for dogs to curl up in. A devastating flood in our neighboring state of Texas ensured that there would be no happy reunions from camp for so many.

It almost seemed cruel. To celebrate when I knew others were mourning. To laugh when I knew others were weeping. To smile when I knew others were screaming in pain.

Sometimes the veil is so thin between happiness and sorrow.

I held these thoughts in my head all night. The unfairness of it all. And I wondered how I could hold the heaviness while also holding the joy.

Is it ok to do both?

Is it ok to have the beauty of life in one hand and the sting of death in the other?

Can I possibly manage the weight of sorrow and joy?

Later that night I looked down at my hands. Maybe, I thought, that’s why God gave me two – so that I can hold the beautiful and the broken.

Maybe that’s why I have two eyes – so I can see the hurting and the hopeful.

Maybe that’s why I have two ears – to hear the wounded and the joyful.

Maybe that’s why I have two feet – to walk to those in need and dance with those in celebration.

And maybe that’s why I have a head and a heart. To ask the hard questions and doubt the God I know and to cling to my faith when I do not understand.

Today I woke up early. I sipped coffee on the back porch and watched the dogs chase squirrels in the early morning light. I breathed a prayer for the families who were still searching for their girls from camp. I pictured their sweet faces and asked God to give them all the peace and love and assurance that they would need.

And then I woke up my family. I kissed their foreheads and I whispered how much I loved them. I soaked in the goodness of kids growing up.

That’s all I can do, I guess – love and pray, weep and rejoice, sing and mourn. Move forward while always reaching behind to pull those along who need help.

Hold the beautiful and the broken each by the hand, and walk this path with both.

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Don’t Forget That It’s Hard

Don’t forget that it’s hard. 

These words have been on repeat in my head for several months now. 

Don’t forget that it’s hard. 

Honestly, I thought that diabetes would be easier by now. And to be fair – it is in a lot of ways. New technology has given me the gift of sleep, something I realized I hadn’t had in 10 years. And it’s given Hugh independence and freedom – more than I thought possible when he was first diagnosed. 

And yes, diabetic issues are now second nature to us. We don’t even blink when there are low blood sugars or site changes or supply order problems. We live a life with diabetes in the background most days, kind of like that annoying pain in your back or rattle in your car. You simply learn to live with it. 

But just because we have learned to live with Type 1 diabetes doesn’t mean it’s not hard. 

I have to remind myself of that often.

Don’t forget that it’s hard. 

Especially when you are a 15 year old boy who is navigating the choppy waters of high school, where all you want to do is fit in and not have to worry about things like blood sugar and boluses and alarms ringing out throughout the school day. 

Don’t forget that it’s hard. 

New issues have popped up, like going on overnight trips, learning to drive (What do I do if my sugar drops low and I’m driving, Mom???), the inevitable feeling of invincibility that naturally floods a teenagers brain, and yes, the occasional rebellion from it all. 

Don’t forget that it’s hard. 

When I get upset with him, when he lashes out at me, when I just don’t understand why he would ignore his alarms, I whisper these words to myself. Of course he’s going to lash out. Of course he will have times when he burns out with alarms. Of course he’s sick of diabetes. It’s so utterly and unfairly and miserably hard. 

So what should I do? When I open my eyes to recognize the hard he is living? 

The only thing I know how to do. Give him lots of grace. More grace than what I think he deserves sometimes. Pour heaping amounts of love on top of him. Squeeze him tight on those really tough days and whisper to him that he can do hard things and that we will always help him. Tell him that he’s never alone. 

Maybe the hard is a gift – something I don’t like to admit, but that I’m slowly coming to terms with. Maybe the hard is not just something my family has to go through. Maybe everyone has their own hard thing in their own lives. 

Maybe that’s the gift. Recognizing that hard is hard and we all have to live with it. The divorce. The lost child. The cancer. The betrayal. The bankruptcy. The drug addiction. The loneliness. The job loss. 

I look around a crowded room and I realize the hard is all around me. Maybe the gift of my family’s hard is that now I can see it in others. 

So what should I do? When I open my eyes to recognize the hard others are living? 

The only thing I know how to do. Give them lots of grace. More grace than what I think they deserve sometimes. Pour heaping amounts of love on top of them. Squeeze them tight on those really tough days and whisper to them that they can do hard things and that I will help them. Tell them they are never alone. 

Don’t forget that it’s hard. 

On my really bad days, when I get so angry that my son is living with this, when I lash out at my family and curse the D word all over again, I try to remind myself of these words too. 

Don’t forget that it’s hard, Mama. 

Then somehow, in some beautiful way, I am given grace. More grace than what I deserve. Love is poured on top of me and I can feel arms squeezing me tight – arms that I can’t see, but I know are there. I hear a whisper in my heart  that I can do hard things and that He is right there to help me. And I am reminded once again, that  I am never alone – even when it’s hard. 

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A Beginning of School Letter to My Kids

Dear Kids, 

Well here we are again. Another beginning of school. Another stressful few weeks of trying to figure out new schedules, new routines, new friends. Another season of firsts. 

It seems like these beginnings come faster and faster each year – one day when you have children of your own, you will understand. 

And because I can’t slow down time – no matter how hard I try – the next best thing I can give you is this – a letter reminding you to look for the fingerprints. 

You see, as you enter into this new phase of junior high and high school, those fingerprints become harder to find. I’m not sure why, but it probably has something to do with the world telling you to be the best, to never slow down, to roar and fight and conquer all. And because the world seems so loud and chaotic and consuming these days, we start to forget to look for the fingerprints. 

I know that as you go into this year, there will be so many wonderful things that happen. You will make some great friends. You will have fantastic teachers. You will climb mountains. 

But I also know that sometimes not so great things will happen too. You might get hurt by a friend. You may have a teacher who you don’t get along with. You will find yourself in valleys, I’m afraid. 

And that is when you must look for the fingerprints – On the days when you are walking through the valley. 

I promise you the fingerprints will still be there – they are everywhere really. But as we get older we quit looking for them. 

So kids, this letter is to remind you to never stop looking for them. Not when you’re 14 or 44 or 84. 

Seeing the fingerprints is what will save you. 

Where can you find them? And how do you see them? Well I’m not exactly sure how to explain it, but I can tell you that when you see them, you will know. 

When you sit next to a new kid at lunch because he’s eating all alone, and you don’t say much, but you give him a smile – there’s a fingerprint. 

When you see your teacher is having a bad day and you decide to not go along with the class joke of making fun of her, but instead you help her pick up papers – there’s a fingerprint. 

When you give up your seat on the bus for a kid who is struggling to walk – there’s a fingerprint. 

You see, we all have these fingerprints on our lives – we are covered in them. And they are fingerprints from something so GOOD and KIND that we never can get rid of them. And believe me, some people will try. Some people do some pretty awful things to erase the fingerprints, but they never can. 

Because those fingerprints are so full of LOVE that we will never be able to wipe them away.

And those fingerprints come from hands that will never lose us or let us go. 

Everyone has the fingerprints on them  – that’s what I want you to remember. Yes, even that kid who’s so mean to you he makes you cry. Even that homeless man you pass by every day on the street on your way to school. Even that teacher who gave you the worst grade you’ve ever made. They are covered in the fingerprints too.

Do you see them? 

I hope so. Because as long as you see them, you will be just fine. 

Have a great year. 

Love, Mom

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