I’d found myself there on that couch a couple hours prior. The two oldest were still at school, the barely-a-baby-anymore was napping. There was an hour, at best, before the noise would drown out the quiet again. So I plopped myself on the couch with my laptop. The screen was blank. Time stood still. I looked up, around, pondered many things. Deep questions about the meaning of life surfaced in those moments of quiet. What is the purpose of my life? How can I strip away the excess, the clutter, the unnecessary? How do I go about freeing space and time to make room for the filling of my soul? Why have I been given all this while others live in pieced-together mud, metal and sticks? My eyes were open as wide as they’d been, and I knew, it’s possible to live fully alive, receive without question every beautiful thing under the big, bright sun.

Two hours later, sunlight streamed in on that same spot. The 11-year-old tween played Minecraft to my left, the 8-year-old had gone to play with a friend, which left me and barely-a-baby-anymore with nothing to do but listen to her favorite song, “Mahna Mahna,” on my iPhone.

I sat her in my lap sideways so I could see her still-baby face. Sun came through the window behind her. Her hair glistened, glowed. Snot ran down her button nose and I could see every fuzzy baby hair on her face.

I looked down. Her baby feet were right at my hands. I grabbed them one at a time, one for each hand. She didn’t seem to notice, she didn’t seem to mind. I kissed those still-baby toes, breathed in the unforgettable fragrance of baby feet that’d been in socks all day. A tiny chip of pink nail polish on her big toe reminded me she’s not going to be this little for long. A mama of three knows truth the third time around.

I watched her push the buttons, she’d found a new song. Away went the phone, hidden forever behind my back.

I lifted her in one little swoop and laid her on my legs. Her whole baby body still fit comfortably between my knees and my waist. She bent at the hips, lifted her legs like an infant-baby, and there at my hands were her feet. I grabbed those feet, used them to cover my face, and peered through to the sliver of her baby face that remained. My eye met hers. I broke her feet open wide and we played peek-a-boo many times ’round. A mama of three knows peek-a-boo feet is for babies, babies alone.

We giggled and wiggled in joy and delight. I had triple my fair share of kissing baby toes in the sunlight.

I knew this game would only last so long. So I turned her again, cradled her tight like a baby, tickled up her belly, all the way to her neck. She giggled. I rocked her in tight. It was a beautiful dance, this tickling, giggling, rocking, tightening all close.

Before I released her baby body, I cradled her tight, rocked her like I did 12-15-18-24 months ago. And I saw the baby, the toddler, the big girl. I saw myself, my husband, I saw the woman she’ll be. I took it all in, this holding tight, cradling my barely-a-baby-anymore girl. Because a mama of three knows, it won’t be long before that baby body’ll turn big – the lifting, carrying, cradling will be all but a memory captured in the recesses of her heart.

Six hours later, I find myself on that same spot on the couch, alone. The questions, the ponderings about life remain. The light no longer shines in. The night is dark and the wind howls in the polar vortex of the outdoors. But this mama of three knows – kissing baby toes in the sunlight was a gift, a moment received by her soul, given to be shared, so ALL would know – life is fleeting, grab the moment, every moment, the purpose of your life is here, now.

Amy

For six or seven weeks, her husband had been working like a dog. Eat, sleep, work was his way of life. And it wasn’t going to end for another two weeks, at least.

She’d been watching the kids and working herself, and she hadn’t forgotten for a second – this was the month she was going to take care of herself.

So she needed to get out. She was desperate to get away, alone, by herself.  This was the day, the one night to treat herself to her favorite things.

Two dear ones had given her gift cards from her favorite store, White House Black Market, for Christmas. They knew her well enough to skip all the other stores and go straight to the one she loved.

But for her, this accepting of truth, this accepting of self hadn’t been so easy, so obvious. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she decided she’d deny her own identity, she’d try to be someone else. She’d scoured the malls in search of the perfect orange carpet dress, only to find herself back there, at home base. Still, she didn’t learn. Months later, she thought other stores would fit the bill for family pictures, well, let’s just say, better. She bought and returned handfuls of clothes from everywhere else but there, only to find herself back there, at the place she loves.

Gift cards to her one and only favorite store were the perfect opportunity. She was just becoming settled in this who she is and who she wants to be. She was ready to turn the page. For no longer did she want to pretend, no longer did she want to search and yearn to be something she wasn’t. She just wanted to go, move beyond the things that held her back, and just be who she was created to be.

So she walked right in to that White House Black Market store. She pulled everything and anything that spoke to her that night – dressy black tunics, gray and tan jeans embellished just right, a silky floral white blouse with long flowing sleeves, dresses and tanks, sweaters, and black and white patterned bustiers.

As she tried on the clothes, she thought for a moment it was all too much, it wasn’t going to work this time. She wanted to run, take it all off, leave empty handed. Because she felt a little fat. She was 5 pounds over her ideal weight, after all. And who did she think she was? A mom of three, works part-time and blogs? Why would she need any of these fancy clothes anyway? Adolescent memories flooded back in. “Why are you wearing tights with dress shorts in the middle of winter?” She wanted to leave.

But she stayed. Because she knew better.

She’d felt like an odd ball all the way through. She’s the one who wore dressy flats when everyone else wore tennis shoes. She’s the one who dressed up when everyone else came in jeans in sweatshirts. She’s the one who stayed in her “church clothes” and didn’t think twice until someone mentioned it to her, while everyone else changed the second they got home.

It took her years and years and years to realize – she wasn’t the elusive “everyone else.”

The messy, beautiful truth of it was that she always knew who she was. God placed that deep in her core. She wanted to deny it, deny the beautiful work he’d set in her from the beginning. Truth was, something in her wanted to deny just about everything He created her to be.

But the time had come. There, in that dressing room, she decided – I’m not running away from who I am. I’m breaking free from the lies I’ve believed so long. I’m good enough, I’m not too much. I’m settling in to who I am, once and for all.

So she gathered up all those black and white things that didn’t work, and hung them back up in that dressing room.

She looked at what was left after all the trying and denying.

She’d found one shirt that was right. In fact, it was just right.

The black jeans were right, too. She’d second guessed herself, had to come out of the closet, look in the mirror again, and stand before another’s affirmations to realize they were, truly, just right.

And the blue jeans, it was just a matter of size. 8 Regular, too long. 10 Short, too big. She just needed the one that would fit her like a glove, 8 Short. Only, they didn’t have 8 Short. She accepted the clerk’s offer to call, the perfect fit found at a nearby store.

So she bought the shirt and the black jeans, thanked the soul kindly and made her way to the second White House Black Market.

It seemed silly, this tending to self, this driving miles for the sake of a pair of blue jeans that fit just so. But she did it anyway, because she needed this tending for her soul.

The blue jeans were waiting. They fit just right.

She’d allowed herself to look once more when she came in. Why not, she thought? Money remained on the cards, and this was the only place it was going to be spent. She’d found a gem of a shirt, one she hadn’t seen at the other store. Black with a big white flower to one side. Medium was too big, Small was just right. The woman with the accent smiled and agreed boldly.

She bought the blue jeans that fit like a glove and the black shirt with the big white flower. $14 remained on the cards. Perfect for spring, when things are made new, she thought.

This place, this White House Black Market, where who she was, who she is, and who she wants to be all come together just so? It’s helped her realize – it’s okay to be you. It’s okay to step into your identity, the truth of who you are. It’s okay, it’s truly okay.

As she pulled the items out of the bags, she noticed it all – the attention to detail, the simple classic design, the sparkles, bold patterns and clean lines, the black and white and even the gray grace she needs more of in-between, the comfort, the familiarity, the way all the pieces go together and make perfect sense. It reminded her of who she was, who she is, and who she wants to be. The 11-year-old girl, the 15-year-old adolescent, the making her way 23-year-old, and the 37-year-old woman all came together. And she knew, it was good.

Amy

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.  Psalm 139:14

There comes a time when truth hits the road. How do you love like Jesus every day after Christmas?

Fill yourself with joy – for someone else.

Be present.

Recognize the miracle each human being is.

Offer a helping hand.

Be happy for others.

Capture the moment.

Be there, no matter what.

Know that a miracle is always possible.

Stand in for the Heavenly Father.

Quietly rest your hand on another’s shoulder in time of need.

Believe He makes all things new.

Love like a grandma, even when you’re not the grandma.

Reserve all judgement. You might find yourself in someone else’s shoes someday.

Love extravagantly.

Remember, we’re all really the same.

Give thoughtfully, generously, creatively.

Think of others who love from a distance.

See through the eyes of a child.

Forget what’s already happened. Smile, for today’s a new day.

Love, even if nobody notices.

Then rest in peace, knowing they’re in their Father’s hands.

Amy

On Saturday afternoon, I found my 8-year-old playing with my iPhone. I got a little irritated when I discovered she was fooling around with the alarms. She’d set one to ON, so I turned it OFF. I scrolled through the alarms and when I thought they were all turned off, I took the phone and put it back in my purse.

I woke up at 3:15 a.m. Sunday morning to the alarm going off on my phone.

I literally jumped out of bed. My heart was beating fast and hard. I couldn’t tell where the ring was coming from, so I stumbled in a racing sort of way around the room searching for the phone.

You see, in that moment waking from deep sleep, I didn’t remember my daughter had been fooling around with the alarms. I thought the phone was ringing, and I thought it was my sister calling to say she was in labor.

I finally found my phone and realized it wasn’t my sister calling, but one of those pesty alarms that got by me somehow.

And then I got to thinking, perhaps it was God that woke me this night.

In the middle of the night, woken by an alarm, the one thing that sat in my subconscious sleep-state was my sister. Her life has been the backdrop, the dramatic and always unfolding sub-plot to my life for the past 9 1/2 years. She’s pregnant with her second, due to deliver in five days. And I can’t help but think the story’s still being written.

In the pitch black room, in the dark of the night, in my barely awake state, my heart still racing, the reason I’d been woken was as clear as day.

It’s time to write, Amy. It’s time to write.

WRITE!

I’ve been thinking about those words I wrote about my sister’s journey in 2004-2010. 201 pages, single spaced. 94,271 words. 402,099 characters. And that’s not all. There’s more content in a separate document, more content I’ve published on this blog, a whole host of things that have gone undocumented since I last wrote in October 2010.

Looking back, it seems miraculous I was able to write all that. Surely a coping mechanism, surely the best way for me to process the traumatic events, surely therapeutic. Surely and only written by the grace of God.

I always knew those words were book worthy. But the “book” didn’t have an ending. And to be honest, the thought of reliving those events and getting them in any sort of manuscript form has been overwhelming on all fronts.

But God says….

It’s time to write. The story is still being written.

So I need to write. This week, whether I have time or not, whether it’s convenient or not, I need to open up the document and begin again, on page 202.

Because things have happened, because things are going to happen, because the end of the story has yet to be written.

The scary, the ugly, the completely unknown, the beautiful parts in-between are still unfolding. I’ve recently realized – what if this chapter is the turning point? Do I really want to miss His hand? Would I really want to let the details be forgotten, go untold? My answer has been a reluctant no – the writing of the story is a double living it out. It’s lived in real life, and then it’s lived again on the screen. Sometimes that’s painful and not so pretty. And let’s be real – it’s also a lot of work – and might ultimately serve no purpose except my own release.

But He woke me to say…

It’s time to write. The story is still being written.

Sometimes beautiful, definitely mysterious, and at times utterly confusing, this is just a tidbit of the chapter immediately prior to second baby’s arrival.

I sat at the table in TGI Friday’s, waiting. Tiffany and Stewart were about to arrive. We’d watched my niece, Raegan, for the past day so she’d have experienced sleeping away from her mom when the baby arrives. I looked out the window and there they were. I’d never met Stewart before. They just started dating and I knew very little about this man that came into the life of my 7 1/2-months-pregnant sister. But in an instant, my heart knew everything it needed to know when I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of him opening the door for her.

As the night progressed, my instincts told me – this man is good at his core. He has the potential to be an incredible Godly husband someday. And I felt a possible laying of God’s hands all over this set of circumstances. Because it was SO untimely, SO unlikely, SO seemingly impossible on all levels.

You see, Stewart has a significant history of his own.* His story, much like my sister’s. Stewart has overcome. He’s found healing, grace and forgiveness, yet still finds himself “failing forward” in battle with the enemy. But in my heart of hearts, I’m choosing to believe Stewart is fundamentally a good man who CAN overcome once and for all through the power and strength of Jesus, our Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. 

I’m choosing to let God lead. Because He’s writing the story. He’s writing every word.

Stewart brought a smile to my sister’s face that I don’t remember seeing since 1998.

And He smiled. Well done, good and faithful servant. 

Stewart got my sister laughing in a way I hadn’t heard for years. I didn’t even remember she could laugh like that until I heard it.

And He laughed. Well done, good and faithful servant.

There’s no making up smiles, and there’s no making up laughter either. It’s genuine, or it’s not. When you’ve come from the depths of hell on earth, you recognize real joy when you see it, real joy when you hear it. 

There’s no guarantee for any of us except the promise of heaven. It’s the living between now and then that’s packed-full of possibility.

Stewart’s come on the scene at the most unlikely of times. It doesn’t make sense. It’s hard to believe there could be anything good to come of this relationship. And truth be told, pain has already popped its ugly head.

But I’m believing that there’s something to this, there’s a reason and purpose for these developments. Because anyone who’s able to make my sister smile in a way I haven’t seen in years, and laugh in a way I didn’t even remember was possible – has done something very special in my book. They’ve given me a glimpse of hope.

Even if for one day. One day of hoping, one day of believing, one day of seeing the possible.

For ALL things are possible – in Him.

So I believe.

I believe God is working in my sister.

And I believe God’s working in Stewart as well.

As far as human hearts can tell, their lives lie in the unknown. But a God who’s bigger, greater, stronger – a God who sent his Son to save us from ourselves – is in control.

My planful, controlled, always analyzing spirit wants to know why. Why complicate an already complicated situation, God? Why bring them together when they clearly need to focus on themselves right now, God? Why not later, God, when they’re both healed and whole and wholly yours?

And He says in the quiet…

Don’t ask. You don’t need to know now. The story will unfold. It will take its course. I AM working. Lean not on your own understanding, but Mine. Keep your visions, your dreams, your hopes alive. Tuck them away for safe keeping. And trust in Me.

But in the meantime…

It’s time to write. The story is still being written.

Amy

*Stewart granted me permission to share his story in hopes that it will help even one, but for the protection of my sister and because I’d like to leave room for Stewart to share his testimony on this blog someday, I choose to keep the details private for now.

If you’d like to read more about my sister’s story, click here.

In the quiet of a Saturday morning, before the rest of the family was downstairs, I opened my email. Compassion International was at the top of the inbox. The message had just arrived. I might as well have struck gold. They were looking for volunteers to help obtain child sponsorships at the Michael W. Smith and Third Day concert in St. Paul the following Saturday – six to work the table and 30 to work the concert aisles.

In the quiet, I sent an email to my son’s basketball coach. Within the hour, I received notice that his tournament was miraculously moved from Saturday to Sunday, which freed me to attend as long as I had my husband’s blessing.

In the quiet, my husband said yes.

In the quiet, as concert goers arrived, volunteers took sponsorship packets out of boxes and placed them neatly on a table.

In the quiet, four of us stood next to the Compassion International banner, listening to comedian and Compassion child advocate share about his trips to visit his sponsored children in El Salvador and Africa. During his trip to El Salvador, he asked his sponsored child’s mother what her hopes and dreams were for her child. She didn’t have any hopes and dreams for her child other than having food to eat every day.

In the quiet, Zac, a young boy, 14, maybe 16, approached the table. His eyes were sparkling, his smile contagious. He held a sponsorship packet in his hand and wanted to know how he should proceed. Mom stood close behind, her eyes welling with tears. He came back later and handed me a completed sponsorship packet, his smile, big as ever.

In the quiet, a woman asked if we had a child whose birthdate was March 15th. I grabbed a stack of sponsorship packets and started down the pile. March 15th was 5th from the top. Of 365 possible dates, March 15th was 5th.

In the quiet, an older couple shared their sponsorship of 12 children. They’ve visited many of their sponsored children and refer to them as sons and daughters.

In the quiet, a gentleman approached the end of the table and handed me three completed sponsorship packets.

In the quiet, I couldn’t help but notice Blair. He spent an unusual amount of time looking through packets, and missed the first 15 minutes of Michael W. Smith’s performance because he was determined to find children from Ecuador. After a long search, he found two. He apologized out loud for not being able to sponsor additional children as he placed their packets back on the table.

In the quiet, a pregnant woman and her husband searched diligently for a child the same age as their own. They were inquisitive and had never done this sponsorship thing before, but they were excited, all in, together. When they found that special someone, mama-to-be glowed like she’d just birthed her own.

In the quiet, as he scanned the table of sponsorship packets, I uttered “let me know if there’s anything special you’re looking for.” He looked again, with astonishment and humility, at all of the children. “How incredible it is that every single one of these children are in need,” he noted.

And it was true.

In the quiet, after everyone returned to the concert, I stacked the childrens’ photographs in neat little piles. And as I did that, I couldn’t help but realize these were real live human beings, real children, God-breathed individuals with hearts and souls, a million times more precious than a photograph and sponsorship packet could ever convey.

In the quiet, I slipped open the black curtains and walked through to the concert.

In the quiet of a blue light, Michael W. Smith told the simplest and most beautiful story of Jesus’ life I’d ever heard.

In the quiet, hours later in the dark of the middle of the night, I woke at 3:03 a.m. after dreaming about Compassion. It was my own whispering out loud that woke me from a deep sleep – “These people are interested.”

In the quiet, I realized – maybe it never was about the hundreds or thousands or even the ten thousands of children living in extreme poverty – maybe it’s always been about one. One child in need. One beautiful heart who’s waiting. One child, chosen.