Beauty.

Gnashing.

Gnawing.

Love.

Truth.

Justice.

Know.

Know justice.

No justice.

The story is mine, He declares. The story is mine.

She’s yearning to break free. Yearning to break loose.

Justice is on her side. Justice.

Weep no more, I declare. Weep no more.

For the day is coming.

I will prevail.

Fear not, dear ones. Fear not.

Come to me all who are weary. Come.

My burden is light.

My yoke is easy.

Fear not.

I am tried and true.

True.

Truth.

It will set you free. Indeed.

The light, the truth, the way. I am.

Seek justice. Justice.

On earth as it is in heaven.

Surrender your lives.

For the sake of others.

Your yearning is hers.

Her pain is yours.

Her breath is yours.

Her pain. Your pain.

Hear her.

Hide no more.

Hide no more.

In loving memory of Olivia and Steve. In honor of their families.

Music’s pulled me through the two weeks between Africa and Christmas. It’s fitting that the only post I visioned for Christmas is inspired by song.

Michael W. Smith and Amy Grant’s rendition of “Almost There” caught me off guard this week. I’d almost forgotten I’d heard it and loved it before. This time it was fresh, inspired, divinely grand – more than before.

I’ve been thinking about you…and me.

We’re almost there.

You’re almost there.

Christmas.

It’s a promise of love. A promise of light, life and better days ahead. A promise of a Savior, Jesus. A promise of eternal hope that exceeds all earthly hopes. A promise that our pain is temporary, absolutely incomparable to the glory yet to be revealed. A promise that we can surrender and receive the gift of grace, no strings attached.

I could’ve mustered a light-hearted post, a Christmas giveaway post or a “Christmas Wishes for You” post. I could’ve skipped a Christmas post, just forgotten about it this year. I could’ve counted my sister’s words as my Christmas post and left it at that. I could’ve decided or written just about anything, really. But my heart of heart’s telling me a whole lot of people are hurting, hopeless, lonely, overwhelmed, and seeking something more this Christmas.

Sure, not everyone.

But many.

We’re hiding in the woodwork, aren’t we?

Hiding.

Waiting.

For someone to acknowledge. For someone to tell us…you’re almost there. You’ve got this, friend. You’re going to make it.

And your life? It’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You’re here for a reason, a purpose. You’re part of a grand design, an epic story you can’t even begin to wrap your mind around.

Keep pressing on, friend.

You’re almost there.

It’s Christmas.

Your promise.

Your hope.

Your firm foundation.

The place and peace you’ve been waiting for.

You’re almost there, friend. You’re almost there.

To the ones who lost their spouse this year, I see you. Whether your spouse’s death came tragically and senselessly, or you knew it was coming for years and years, it hurts all the same. Who knows WHY, HOW, or NOW? Only God, dear ones. Only God. Surround yourself with loved ones. Rest. Believe. Seek peace. Absolutely, without a doubt, cry when you need to. Know you were and are loved. Deeply. Wholeheartedly. Unconditionally. You are a fighter. You are a lover, a believer. Keep pressing on, friend. Life’s waiting for you. We’re here for you.

To the ones who felt lonely this year, I see you. Life’s demanding. Fast paced. Achievement oriented. Life leaves little time for relationship. Friend, if you’ve been lonely, take heart. Believe you’re worthy of pursuit, friendship and love. Reach out. Let someone know you’re not doing this alone, you can’t do this alone. Let your heart come undone. Be vulnerable. Take a risk. If someone strikes your fancy, make sure they know. “Hey, can we chat?” Or “Hey, you wanna go get coffee?” Let that guard down. Be a little vulnerable next year. Show your colors, friend. Start a friendship and relationship revolution. And when all else fails, turn to God. Tell him you’re lonely, trust Him to fill the void with Himself, with others.

To the ones who lost a child this year, I see you. Why was her life taken so soon, God? Why? We don’t understand. We don’t know why. Why show us the glimmer, the hope of a life filled with promise, then take her sweet soul home well before the timeline we deem satisfactory? To you, oh you, I see you. I don’t even begin to fathom your pain this Christmas, your love and your loss. Nobody will ever fill your sweet baby’s spot at the Christmas table. You don’t ever need to take down that stocking. That special spot, that special place she held in your heart and your life, it’s reserved for her and her alone. You move on, yes. Life goes on, yes. But your precious baby’s spirit lives on, too. Through your living. Through your being brave. Through your fragility, your vulnerability. Through your strength. Through your living example of what it means to trust and believe you’ll meet again, you’ll embrace again, you’ll be together again. And in the meantime, love like your heart’s on fire. Together or separated for now, LOVE.

To the ones sick and in forever limbo this year, I see you. If one thing’s for sure, you’ve been through a lot. While you’ve frequented clinics, hospitals and ERs, the world’s gone on. Sometimes it seems nobody sees, nobody knows the full extent of your pain, your half-living, half-dying life. Nobody knows the steps you’ve taken, the places you’ve limped, the ground you’ve wheeled. Only you, my friend, know what it’s like to live and know this life is truly temporary. I’ve not been sick, my friend, but I see you. I honor you. Lift your head high. Conquer that illness. Live fearlessly. Live each day like it’s your last. Be loved. Love. Trust that better days are ahead. Teach us how to fight the good fight.

To the ones wandering blankly through life, I see you. I saw you in Target yesterday, friend. Your eyes were empty. You barely saw me. You’re empty, friend. Life’s taken it out of you. You’re literally wandering, wondering, lost. I’m not sure if you even know, friend. I’m not sure you’re aware. I want to enter your world, stop you in your tracks. Stop moving, friend. Stop going. Stop trying all the things to fill the void. Stop believing you’re a robot. Friend, you’re so much more than this. So much more. You’re so much more than productivity, accomplishment and achievement. You’re so much more than your actions, your decisions, your duties and daily delights. Stop, friend. See. Be. Live. Connect. Look into someone’s eyes. Feel something, anything. Cry. Release it all. Sit down, friend. You are MORE THAN THIS. Take in the beauty. See the sights. Rest. You are not a machine. Life is better than it’s been. Take heart, friend. Take ahold of your heart. Open your eyes. I want to see your eyes. I want to see your soul. Wipe our eyes, God, so we can see. And be. All you want us to be.

We’re almost there, friends.

You’re almost there.

Christmas.

The promise of Jesus, a Savior.

The promise of love and peace and joy that passes all understanding.

To Mary, I see you. You’re carrying Him, baby Jesus. He who has…“shattered the yoke that burdens them, the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor. Every warrior’s boot used in battle and every garment rolled in blood will be destined for burning, will be fuel for the fire. For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end.”  (Isaiah 9:4-7) Thank you for pondering these things in your heart. Thank you.

You’re almost there.

We’re almost there.

To God, our Heavenly Father, I see you. Thank you. For sending Jesus. For creating us. For releasing us from death, sin, loneliness, fear and pain. For giving us hope. For extending grace when we least deserve it and most need it. For living in us so we might see truth and life. For living in us so we can shine and be a light unto the world. For bringing and being beauty amidst our earthly existence. For everything, yes, everything. Thank you.

You’re almost here.

You’re here.

 

This is a guest post written by my younger sister, Tiffany, who has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type. Once a month, Tiffany documents a single day in her life. The purpose of these posts is to raise awareness of what it’s like to live with a mental illness. I’m also hoping the posts will help readers recognize that we all have hopes, dreams, challenges and mountains to climb regardless of our mental health status. If you’d like to read all the posts I’ve written about Tiffany’s journey and all the guest posts she’s shared on this blog, check out the mental health page. Without further ado, here’s Tiffany.

My life is not all glorious and sucks sometimes! The night before, I told my mom I was going to write about this day. Little did I know, chances to grow were in the making. Here goes a day.

Positive attitude.

Tired.

Coffee. Pills. Smoke.

Brush teeth.

Kids awake. Feed them.

Psychologist appointment in an hour.

Get kids ready. Drop kids off at mom and dad’s place.

Off to appointment.

My psychologist asked me what emotions I was experiencing. We are working on emotion. I feel lonely, sad and get kind of angry at times. My psychologist recommended a book on loneliness for me to read. I am also in the grieving process. The stages of grief can last for years. Reality is that my dad is probably going to die in the next couple years. He included us in helping plan his funeral. The process has caused growth, and I’d almost say it has been beautiful. I selected a blue urn with butterflies on it for his ashes. When he dies, I am going to sprinkle them at special places. I also selected a pendant for his ashes. I am having a hemp necklace made to go with it. My dad is still around, and we enjoy each moment we can. We cannot always control the situation or outcome. Only God can. One day at a time. I am also grieving the loss of a boyfriend I was with for a year and a half. We are both addicts, and are attempting to live one day at a time. We realize that we cannot plan the future. I wish him the best, whatever direction his life goes.

Leave psychologist.

Coffee.

Pick-up kids from mom and dad’s place.

I drove home and found a book on the table outside my door. The book is called Women Who Love Too Much. Yes, I have always loved too much. This book calls for change, which is in process for me. My mental health worker arrived at my house. I was looking through the book and thinking. My mental health worker asked, “What’s that book telling you?” I told her I need to think about it and read it through. The rest of the time, we talked about what else was happening in life.

Pills.

WIC shopping. I think WIC stands for Women, Infants and Children? Those are coupons for food that qualifying families get. The food really helps us. We also get help with food from my mom.

That same day I decided to give away my pregnancy clothing to my adorable neighbor who is having a baby. I am done having children. This decision was hard for me, but I realize I have enough work with two children.

My mom wanted to bring all of us out for dinner. I just wanted to feed the kids at home. We came to a consensus for my mom to bring my daughter, Raegan, out for dinner. They also went shopping. This day, just live.

When Raegan and my mom got home, we went outside and played.

Pills.

Night time.

Kids asleep.

Planned time for myself, but I fell asleep because I was so tired.

Tiffany

It’s a pleasure to introduce you to Mariah who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Yesterday marked two years since Mariah’s husband passed away from cancer. At 34 years of age, Mariah was a widowed mother of two daughters, ages two and four. Today, Mariah’s not just sharing her story; she’s letting us in on the ups and downs, the emotions, the challenges, and the newfound life perspectives she’s gained since her husband’s passing. Please extend a warm welcome to Mariah. It’s a true honor to host her story of loss, grief and loving life on this special anniversary.

My husband, Greg, died of cancer on May 26, 2013, at age 46. He took his last labored breath as I drifted off to sleep next to him, still holding his hand. I was 34 and we had two young daughters, ages two and four. His diagnosis, treatment and last days of life began and ended in three short months. It was so quick and intense that we had a hard time keeping up. Many times over the last two years I’ve shocked myself with the realization that he’s gone. As a 36-year-old mother who still feels like a child myself sometimes, I’m terrified that the responsibility of parenting falls directly on me. Just me. A few days after the funeral, the girls and I were swinging out in our big backyard when a wave of deep grief washed over me. I felt so small, alone and abandoned and had started sobbing. I looked up at them. They had both stopped what they were doing and looked at me as if to say, “You’re all we’ve got, Mama. What do we do now?” I remember smiling and reaching out to them. I had no clue what to do next, but for some reason I trusted myself, I trusted them and I trusted that Greg would always be with us and anything we did would be okay. Succeeding would be okay. Failing would be okay. And something in between would be just right. And the first thing to do was to make dinner so I took their hands and led them inside.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” – C.S. Lewis

I met Greg in 2001 while working at an advertising agency in Minneapolis. We became friends, playing basketball with co-workers on our lunch breaks.

A couple years (and lots of love and life) later, we bought a house in Wisconsin, got married in our front yard and started a family. Squirmy was born in 2008 and Squeaky in 2011. As Greg used to tell each of the girls, Squirmy made us a family and Squeaky made our family complete.

We had a happy and relaxed life together. I was lucky enough to stay home and Greg worked second shift so our days never felt rushed. We didn’t take anything for granted when Greg was healthy and talked a lot about how lucky we were. I remember leaving holidays or get-togethers being so thankful that out of all of the people in this world, I got to go home with the three of them. There were a lot of morning cuddles in our bed, singing and dancing in the kitchen and sending Daddy to work with little girl kisses spilling out of his pockets.

“Grief, after all, is the price we pay for love.” – David Malham

Shortly after Squeaky turned two, Greg developed a stomach ache that never went away. All the tests pointed to lung cancer…stage 4. It took a month of intense and unsuccessful radiation and chemotherapy before Greg was put on hospice. Most of May 2013 was spent at home, making the most of our last days with him.

We were very open and honest with our children about what was happening and what was ultimately going to happen. It was more than heartbreaking to tell them that their Daddy was going to die soon. “You know…like that bird we saw in the grass at the park or that tree lying on the forest floor. Everything that is living eventually dies, it’s called a life cycle. And it happens to people as well. You understand what dead means, right?” It was bewildering to be saying these words and explaining this concept to my babies.

One night when Greg was rapidly worsening, I told Squirmy that he would be dying soon. He had just given her and her sister each a butterfly box full of his kisses that would last their entire lives. As I was tucking her in, she asked me, “Mama, is Daddy going to die tonight?” I told her, “I don’t know. But yes, baby, he might.” She nodded and snuggled in while I rubbed her back, tears streaming down my face.

He did die that night and I woke the girls early the next morning to say goodbye. Squirmy sat next to me with her head buried in my lap. Squeaky focused on all the adult tears, taking it all in. One final kiss and Greg was wheeled out our front door. The girls played with their cousins and I crawled into our bed with the covers over my head. Now what?

I loved every wonderful and horrible minute of my life with Greg. I like to think the love we shared was so strong that it was only meant to last seven years. I loved to be the one holding his hand as he took his last breath because he was still there and he was still mine. The day he left us, things got a little tough. We had lost our most important person and now he wasn’t even here to help us through the grief. And so we learned to lean on each other. My girls are so supportive of each other. I try to take credit for how caring they are, but deep down I think they came that way and the life they’ve experienced so far has given them a wisdom surpassing my own.

“The sad thing is, nobody ever really knows how much anyone else is hurting. We could be standing next to somebody who is completely broken and we wouldn’t even know it.” – Unknown

Right after Greg died, I took every opportunity to tell people that my husband had died. Two years since he’s been gone and I still do this. I feel like I was stabbed in the heart the moment we heard the word cancer. But none of my scars are visible to the outside world. And because of this, I need to tell people. I need to tell people so they will be gentle with me and my kids. Because I’ve been on this side of a partially hidden pain, I feel a lot more empathetic to the quiet struggles of others. People I do not know, and even people I do know, are facing much more than I could ever hope to understand. So I try to treat everyone with as much kindness as I can. And by doing this and expecting kindness in return from others, I haven’t been let down.

There’s a lot about being a young, widowed mother that’s hard to explain. Some is obvious because I just can’t be two places at one time. If we have to go somewhere, we all go. My sweet Squirmy hasn’t been carried into the house after a family night out since she was four. If Mama is having a bad day, there’s nobody to take over. Sometimes I don’t want to explain these things because I don’t want to complain. After all that has happened, I know we have a great life and I have two beautiful children inside and out. They’re a daily reminder of their amazing father who took every opportunity to tell them, “You are wonderful. And I love you just for being you.”

“If we all threw our problems into a pile and saw everyone else’s, we’d grab ours back.” – Regina Brett

I’m also coming to terms that it’s not all about me anymore. I have lived the last two years looking deeply inward on our family because it’s what we needed. But now I’m ready to shift the focus to others. I see friends and family going through their own struggles. I see horrible tragedies and injustice in the world and I know that I have no more or less pain than anyone else. Just different. I will always be thankful for Greg and the life we had with him.

All of this life experience is making me who I am and I’m enjoying my growth. I used to be a lot more doubtful of myself and decisions I made. But now, I trust in myself. I trust in others. I trust in my children. I include them in making decisions that will affect them so that they can give input and have the time to adjust to change. I try not to shelter them from the world. When they ask questions, I answer as truthfully as I can.

I took the girls to England this spring to spread some of Greg’s ashes. I was terrified to take this trip because the world is scary, isn’t it? I booked the tickets, had a little panic attack and then I did a lot of planning, keeping only wonderful thoughts in my head. The day we spread Greg’s ashes was cold and sunny and the wind was wild, but it swept him up the hill like he belonged there. I knew our Greg would have absolutely loved the adventure. This wide-open world that he left for us has opened the door, allowing us to become the people we are meant to be.

“In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.” – Buddha

I never imagined that this would be my life. I’m learning that I love the comfort in relinquishing control of what happens in life. I feel as if I’m driving a car on perpetual cruise. All I can do is steer us to the best view possible, rolling down the windows to feel the sun and the wind and point out the beauty to my girls along the way. I try to show courage and empathy and a feeling of excitement about the adventures life has to offer.

Even now, I’m building us a new house and I’m welcoming a new relationship. It’s all terrifying and thrilling and overwhelming, but it feels so right. I know that my children are doing great because sometimes they are sassy and happy and sad and brilliant and moody and wise and they don’t listen to me and I have to remind them one million times to put on their shoes. I think we’re right where we’re supposed to be.

I still sometimes feel the gaze of my daughters, a little older now, asking with their eyes, “What do we do now, Mama?” I’m sure it will change as the years go by, but right now I think I know what I want to say to them: “Take my hand and follow my lead. You already know that life isn’t fair. It can be beautiful and horrible and we will constantly have to adjust. You ARE wonderful, just by being you. And if you can continue to be brave and kind, trust yourself and not blame anyone else for what happens, your life will be magnificent.”

Mariah

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

Today, it’s an honor to introduce you to Jessica who’s sharing her unique journey to and through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Jessica has been grieving the death of her mom for nearly two decades. She’s a wife and mama of little ones now, but her mama-less heart still aches for the everyday presence only a mom can fill. I had the great privilege of meeting Jessica at a writing conference last fall, and have since made it very clear to her that I hope our paths keep on crossing for many years to come. Jessica is a beautiful writer with a beautiful story and a huge heart. Please extend a warm welcome to my writing sister, Jessica. 

It frightened me how the grief choked me to my core – 38 weeks pregnant, lying on my bed fending off a cold and all the questions rolling around in my brain. Sobs rocked my body and threatened to crack me down the middle.

My husband tenderly asked me what was the matter and after what felt like a short eternity of tear filled gasps I managed to lisp out, “I just miss my mom so much. I want her to be here to take care of me.”

My mom didn’t die last year. No, she died when I was twelve. I’ll be thirty-one in two weeks.

We never stop needing our moms. We just don’t. I’ve ridden the waves of grief for nearly two decades now and I can promise you that nearly every day I have found a reason to need my mama.

Now to be fair there are a dozen women who have come alongside my motherless heart and loved me well. My mother-in-love is one of these dear women and I never want her to think otherwise. She is kind and dear and medicine for my mama-less heart.

The tangible loss of a biological mother? It’s like having the umbilical cord cut all over again, but this time you feel it and it drains you hollow in all the mother needy places.

The grief isn’t always so heavy. No, grief finds you in weakness. It finds you when insecurity hits and it makes you feel like half a person, less than a woman, a mother with a limp. It makes you doubt your ability to mother well.

Lisa-Jo Baker writes often about children walking around “like so much eternity with skin on” and that is true to be sure. But mamas, we love like eternity with skin on and when we leave it can feel as if the very presence of love leaves along with us. Our work, the mundane of it all, is eternal in the richest most important sort of way.

I see this clear on a Tuesday afternoon. My three year old daughter calls for me from her room as she wipes sleep from her post-nap eyes. I walk into the room and scoot her over to make room for myself and a few quick snuggles before the day moves on.

Out of the blue she asks me if I miss my mom. I’ve talked to her about my mama and explained things in the best way I know how to her little heart and mind, but this question blindsides me. Tears well immediately. She brushes her tiny hand across my cheek and I exhale deep as they fall.

She looks at me with her brown eyes wide with the questioning and tells me words that hitch my breath in my chest, “Don’t worry mama. We’ll find her.” I guess in all my explaining I never realized how confusing the phrase “I lost my mama” could be to a three year old.

The truth is I do find her.

I find her in the strangest places. I find her up around my daughter’s eyes when she laughs. I discover her in myself when I deliver a meal to a friend in need and recognize all the good stuff about my mama replicating itself in me. I glimpse her in the mirror when I put my makeup on and I wrestle the thought of “Am I becoming my mom?”

The mama I lost has become the mother I’ve found by becoming a mother. The doe-eyed daughter with the questions has been my mama come full circle in the sweetest of ways.

What I once thought disqualified me from motherhood, the not having a mama, has become the fire in the furnace of my daily calling. Motherless mothers embrace their calling in a uniquely passionate way. We know the power of motherhood.

In all the mundane places of my day there are pieces of my mother. Her life with Jesus stretching out into eternity and my scraping to find Jesus, or rather allow myself to be found by Jesus, collide in the daily. I wonder how I’ve lived so long without her, but the truth is I have never been without her or Jesus. My knowledge of the two so closely mingled because she knew the power of loving well and giving me heaps of Jesus along the way.

There is a fear that comes with motherhood. It is the fear we will have to leave our loves early. The most frightening part is we have no control over whether or not this happens. We have to love into the darkness, the unknown, the unexpected breaking of living in a fallen world.

We have to do this because someday, most likely, we will leave our children behind. The most important question we can ask ourselves is, “What are we leaving behind for our children?” On those days when your shirt is soaked from the sink full of dishes or the van is full of fast food bags and sweaty jerseys, lean into your calling.

It matters.

Motherhood is not a momentary calling. It is a work of eternal value.

Believe me, I know.

Jessica

Jessica Leigh Hoover is a wife, mama, writer and grace lover. She lives in the hills of North Carolina but has the red dirt of West Africa in her soul. She blogs about her belief that grace is the biggest kind of brave and how life is messy and beautiful in the living, losing and loving. Her favorites are Jesus, family, chocolate, vintage anything and British accents. You can find her on her blog, facebook, twitter, pinterest, and instagram for more.

Jessica & Baby Photo Credit: Sarah Siak Photography

 

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!