Maybe by midnight we’ll get home from girls’ night,
Shopping and snacking, a day of delight.
I’ll pamper and primp my little sweet,
My daughter, I love you from your head to your feet.
Maybe by midnight I’ll hear you open the door,
My teenager, my precious – you’ve been late before.
I pray you have listened to all I have said
I hope you remember I can be a good friend.
Maybe by midnight I’ll see your smile alight,
After walking up the aisle, dressed all in white.
You with your prince will toss the bouquet,
As you rush away on your happiest day.
Maybe by midnight your arms will be full
With a darling dear one, snuggly and all.
Your heart linked forever to this little child,
Your days instantly become happier and wild.
Maybe by midnight I’ll hold you fast,
My sweet baby girl, grown up at last,
Having babes of your own and watching them grow –
What a blessed content it will be to know
That the seeds I have sown have grown in your heart,
And in the oak that now stands, I have taken part
In the planting and feeding,
The waiting and weeding –
Maybe by midnight.
I didn’t make the post by midnight, Mom, but I’m grateful for you and love you dearly. Thank you for giving so much of yourself in loving me well. Happy Mother’s Day!
I had brief emotional moment at the kids’ annual physicals yesterday as the pediatrician declared them all healthy.
How incredible is that?!!!
I wanted to whoop, dance, and holler all at once but settled for a picture, one for which John was non-too-thrilled to pose. What an amazing thing to behold, this stark examination table lined with blue bath towel and three squirming miracles.
After all that we’ve been through, it’s incredible to me that some days pass without a thought to the gaping wounds we’d once experienced daily. The full impact of the miraculous-ness of their existence often takes my breath away, and I find myself in complete awe of the God Who has healed them. To think that each one of them nearly died but now lives, physically strong and running around the yard with smiles and sunshine.
O Father, thank You!
We celebrated the good report at IKEA with chicken meatball platters and chocolate cake. I bought two desks, one for myself, the other for Christian. I hope to sit at mine often, writing posts about these sweet gifts and the Awesome God Who’s allowed me the privilege to be their mother.
Please help me, Lord, to steward these three peas wisely and well. May I trust You to carry and keep them, both today – and beyond.
Never in a million years did I think I would make a music video.
Thanks to Bob Lockwood of Full Armour Studios and Indie Studio Space, the filming stands complete. My wonderful husband, Christian T. Morgan, is in the midst of the editing process, putting it all together in order to produce the best snapshot into the story behind the song.
Our story.
I finished the book manuscript at the end of August 2017, but something surprising happened a few days earlier. One night while attempting to capture a particularly difficult scene, I found – to my horror – that I couldn’t write.
Searing emotion poured out, disconnecting thoughts from pen, wreaking havoc on pretty paragraphs and pages. All I could do was bullet my fragments of thought, lashing them onto my rumpled legal pad, its yellow pages bearing black streaks and slashes. I tried to force myself into some kind of solid format, something usable with which I could finally complete the work. I was so close! I’d put off writing this scene long enough, and I knew I had to face it.
The hour had come, and here I was. Struggling.
After wrestling for thirty minutes, I tossed everything proper and poised aside, threw my inner thoroughbred the reigns and let it run wild and free, rushing across the page, leaping high and falling low, rolling and trotting, gaiting then halting. Panting.
Weeping.
The paper I then held in my hands no longer resembled a book chapter, structured and formed. It was a stand-alone piece, a tale of a perilous journey though unchartered waters, breathtaking yet ominous, heart-wrenching but beautiful.
It was a song.
I’d written only one other for my husband’s 30th birthday, and the process had proven quite different. God had been writing this new song on my heart for years, but I’d had no idea it was in there.
After the words were down on paper, I took them over to my keyboard and started messing around. Christian passed through the room and stared at me.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’m writing a song!”
His mouth fell open. “You are?”
“I think so,” I said, nodding, eyes wide. We stared at each other and then at the keyboard and then back to each other.
He smiled and said, “Keep going,” as he walked out of the room.
Within three days, it was finished. My first stab at songwriting also birthed an idea for a video portrayal of what some of the days were like for us over the past several years. Our hope and prayer is that families everywhere would be encouraged, helped, and drawn close to Him through our family’s story.
Please pray with me during these final days of revision that God would bless and protect our efforts to communicate with the world how well He has Carried & Kept us through our darkest times.
Have you ever procrastinated on something important?
That’s typically not me, but it was last week. My topic for this post hit close to home, and I had trouble with the “going there”.
I remember the first time I left Abby for an entire weekend. After all of the years with children in-and-out of the hospital, I’d been yearning to finally get away with “girl-friends” now that my family appeared medically stable.
As the date of the 2015 Living Word Community Church Women’s Retreat drew near, I hesitated, knowing that I would be leaving my toddler behind, one with half of a functioning heart. One from whom I’d rarely parted.
One who’d nearly died many times.
I admit to being nervous. Christian and I had spent countless hours over the course of several years fighting to keep our children alive. Their birth defects and challenging diagnoses had transfixed us into this perpetual state of crisis, torturing us to no end with the pain of possible outcomes . . . the not-knowing how things would turn out . . . and worse yet, the dark moments when we thought today was likely the last . . . nearly drove us mad.
Thankfully, it all drove me deeper into the arms of God and made me trust Him more.
I decided to go.
I’m glad I went. I met Joanna Beck on the very first night. Pretty and quiet with her hands tucked into the pockets of her sweatshirt, she’d offered a “hi” and a simple smile when a mutual friend introduced us.
While I discerned Joanna’s greeting to be sincere, I noticed that her countenance saddened immediately after our introduction. My instincts screamed that something unrelated to me was amiss, but I didn’t know until later that night the reason why.
Her little boy had drowned less than two months prior.
Beacon of joy and player of drums, Joanna’s precious Aiden had lost his life due to a negligent caregiver. With one horrible phone call, Joanna and her husband, Chris, found themselves thrust into the midst of a heart-wrenching tragedy, immersed in the darkest moments of their lives.
My worst nightmare of eight years had become their reality.
How moving the moment when I next gazed into the eyes of this mother, this beautiful woman who’d loved and lost, this wife who’d survived utter anguish of soul!
The results of such loss can be devastating. Shock melts into anger and despair. Depression soars. Addictions increase. Bitterness breeds. Marriages fail.
But not the Becks.
While they have endured an intense grieving process, and, truth be told, some days still prove difficult, this amazing couple has founded a non-profit organization, Aiden’s Light, Inc., with a mission to counter the negative effects of poverty on children.
Swimming lessons. Piano lessons. Scholarships for education majors. Mentoring and goal-setting, psychological counseling and emotional support, academic tutoring and additional programming.
That’s not all. Their long-term goal is to build community centers in underserved areas in order to provide further support and opportunities that empower local youth.
O Lord, I pray you would richly bless the efforts of this inspiring couple! Swing wide the door for them to help children find light in the darkness, to know that they belong and and that they matter in this world.
May Aiden’s Light shine brightly upon many children, that they may dance into their future, brimming with confidence and full of hope, living testaments to how You give beauty for ashes and trade joy for mourning (Isaiah 61:1-3).
Christian took it with his drone when the two of us snuck away last fall to Rockland Lake State Park in Rockland County, NY. He also made this movie:
When I caught sight of this amazing creature, it took my breath away. Bursts of autumn rusts and golds amid the greens served as the perfect backdrop for the lone marvel of the sky, its stately reflection dancing up towards the sunlight. The bird, majestic and graceful, its wings outstretched, its blue-gray feathers gently moving with deep, deliberate strokes above the water.
How effortlessly he seemed to fly, this great blue heron, his twiggy legs dangling, his long powerful wings carrying wherever he wished. So handsome was he, this “Lord of Rockland Lake”, clothed in sunlight and splendor.
I named him The Gentleman.
In homeschool this week, we are studying gentleness, which our family counselor, Dr. Wayne Schantzenbach, describes as, “strength under control.” The kids and I have enjoyed many conversations about this important character quality, one which Christian and I strive to not only instill in our children but also model for them.
We sometimes fail, sometimes miserably, but it remains a goal. And we’ve found that the “I’m sorry”s that follow the failing often serve to teach and grow us up together.
I’m thankful to have Someone to Whom I can turn for help in the midst of my struggles, the One whose gentleness surpasses all.
“Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light” (Matthew 11:29-30, NKJV).
Thank You, Lord, for this majestic bird, a breathtaking reminder of Your unsurpassed strength that can carry and keep us through every storm – and beyond.
Perhaps somewhere in the world, but never where I’ve been. And that’s okay with me. It matches my mood as I take more time than usual to remember the life of Christ.
My dad took part in an Easter musical years ago when we lived in Texas. Our church performed it in my high school (which was huge – 707 in my graduating class!) and put on a stunning recreation of Jesus’ story. It bore great significance in my life – I still sing many of the songs to this day at the top of my lungs when I shower.
But sadly, when I went to retrieve the DVD of his musical yesterday, I couldn’t find it. Grrr! I was not happy about not partaking in what has become one of my most precious Easter traditions.
As I watched it with my children, I found myself struck once again by the submission of Issac. My Pastor, Frank Bolella, had taught a few months ago about Abraham sacrificing his only son, the one he had waited for and yet been called to give back to God.
Believing God would somehow restore Isaac’s life, Abraham headed out with two servants and his son, finally stopping to do the deed atop Mount Moriah, the very place where hundreds of years later, Jesus would die on the cross for the sins of the world.
Isaac carried the wood on which he would lay, as Christ did His cross. And once Abraham readied the altar, Issac took his place, without struggle, without malice. He submitted fully to the will of his father and became what would have been a sacrifice.
If I had been Isaac, would I have tried to reason with my father? Would I have insisted a lamb would have proven good enough, a substitute God would surely accept? Would I have thought my father mad and launched a physical defense?
Would I have been so humble?
Had Isaac not yielded, he would never have known the miraculous outcome of his remarkable obedience. How his father heard the angel’s voice commanding him not to slay his son. How the testing of God brought about tremendous blessing for generation upon generation. How well Isaac modeled the actions of the One Who ultimately died for him.
For you. For me.
Abraham sacrificed a ram caught in the thicket that day as a substitute for Issac. Years later, there was no sheep in the thicket, no last-minute intervention by a just yet grieving Father. He provided the ultimate perfect sacrifice, His Son.
Jesus.
Rejected by friends. Declared insane by family. Tortured while innocent. Envied by leaders. Despised by brothers. Beaten without cause. Spit on by soldiers. Mocked by accusers. Denied by disciples. Scorned by thousands. Abandoned by followers.
Separated from His Father.
Unfathomable pain, a wounding only imagined by man. Neither the bleeding nor the beating, not the thorns or the nails, but the searing agony of feeling forsaken by the One He loved most ultimately cost Him the most.
All that He may utter, “It is finished.”
Jesus’ passionate pain of great price ushered in the most magnificent victory that ever was and will ever be. Crushing victory over the enemy and all his treasonous angels. Victory over sin and death, suffering and sorrow, pain and sickness.
Victory to be enjoyed and celebrated forever and ever, thanks to One with the humility of Isaac, a lowly Carpenter named Jesus, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the Savior of the World – Hallelujah!!!
I’ve chosen to repost (below) my blog entry from last year’s Holy Week today, believing Abby’s beautiful illustration perfectly captures the essence of Jesus’ great love for us all.
I asked my five-year-old Abby Mae this question one day. She responded by quietly smiling and hopping off her chair.
“I need my art box, Mommy.” With titled head and thoughtful gaze, she poured over a simple sheet. I expected something with hearts and flowers, maybe butterflies and family, but her final masterpiece took my breath away.
“Jesus on the cross.”
My eyes filled with tears as had hers. I took in her glowing countenance, her tender gaze. Her love for Him was beautiful.
“Sweetheart, this picture is wonderful! Please tell me all about it.”
“There’s Jesus on the cross,” she said, her small finger tracing his form, “and all of those circles are his boo-boos.”
The week prior, I’d searched online for Easter movie clips and briefly previewed a scene of The Passion of the Christ, which portrayed Jesus’ agony immediately after Roman soldiers scourged Him. Abby had passed through the room at that moment and froze when her eyes landed on the screen.
“Why is Jesus bleeding? He’s not on the cross yet.”
I explained to her that the beating was part of His punishment, the one He bore but never deserved, for her, for me.
It bothered her. To her core.
“I don’t want Him to bleed, Mommy.” She wept and wept.
It had obviously affected her in a profound way, for as I sat with her, gazing at the picture, something about it further struck me.
“Abby, I’ve never seen Jesus smiling while He’s on the cross.”
“He’s smiling because He loves me.”
I had the privilege of leading our children’s Sunday school class in their Palm Sunday song, The Salvation Poem, on Sunday. We’d practiced for several weeks, and even though Abby had always sung with a smile, the difference was marked after we’d seen the movie clip.
After she’d noticed Jesus bleeding.
Her every word flowed past thoughtful lips, her misty eyes closing at times. Her little hands moved fervently as we made a cross with our arms and hung our heads to die. Radiant joy spread across her face as we sang the news of Jesus rising to save the lost and forgiving our sins.
At only five years of age, this sweet girl loves her Savior and feels deeply loved by Him.
May we all bask in the precious love of the Savior.
“Hey Beth, Tony texted me.” Drawing near the kitchen table, my husband paused as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Frannie passed out, so he called 9-1-1. They’re at the hospital.”
I hate news like that.
We’ve borne far beyond our share of bad calls within our family over the years, but to receive one pertaining to my dear friend, Fran Lombardi, rattled my cage. In an instant, my Cheerios® and banana breakfast became pebbles in my mouth, the rest left behind in the bowl, morphing into a soggy, pasty mess.
It’s amazing how one phone call can jolt us out of the present, thrusting us into the reality of our own mortality.
Please, Lord! Not Frannie.
I’d met Frannie two years ago at a church retreat, and as we chatted over a cup of tea, I found her to be one of the most positive people I’d ever met. Over time, we became dear friends, as I gleaned much from her quiet, gentle spirit and loving ways.
I didn’t want to lose her.
Thoughts raced like Thoroughbreds through my mind as I fumbled for my phone.
Dehydration? Heart attack? Stroke? I gulped. Cancer?
I shook my head. Stop diagnosing, Beth, and call Tony!
I punched in his number.
Her husband didn’t answer, but Christian and I offered our prayers and support on voicemail. We rushed the kids through breakfast, and as I began getting them dressed to go to the hospital, we got word that Frannie was okay. Earlier in the week, she’d caught a cold, and the ER doctor believed that the OTC the medication she’d taken had caused her blood pressure to bottom out.
Thank God!
Frannie is a Stage IV lymphoma survivor. She’s enjoyed remission as long I’ve known her, but the what-if has reared its ugly head the few times something unusual has happened.
Like when she and I had planned to race the Demarest Triathlon together back in June of 2016. It was my first race, her third, and we were excited. We trained hard. Our amazing husbands supported us like crazy, and somewhere between homeschooling and writing, I squeezed in my workouts in preparation for the sprint distance event.
Roughly one month before race day, I got the call.
“Frannie’s in the ER.”
She’d been over-training, gotten dehydrated, and simply tanked, but the whole experience shook us all and left sweet Frannie completely wiped out. We all knew she shouldn’t race, but hats off to Tony for the way he handled it.
“It’s her decision.”
Frannie chose not to race, but selfless as usual, she encouraged me to compete. I hesitated, but when I saw how much it meant to her that I continue, my mind was made up.
Press on, I did.
The remaining training proved nothing short of grueling for me as I dealt with the “knowing” Frannie wouldn’t compete, but her episode at the hospital stirred something inside me, a growling, burning passion that compelled me to move forward, faster, father. Gratefulness that her cancer had not resurfaced surged within me, and when June 6th arrived, I stood ready at the start.
I raced alone. For Frannie.
For all of her seemingly wasted hours in the pool, on the bike, and on the road. For all the disappointment she’d surely felt for not being able to race the tri herself. For all of the recent fear she’d had to face and the questions her heart had undoubtedly asked.
For the fact that she was alive and cancer-free!
And there she was, on the sidelines, cheering me on every step of the way along with Tony, Christian, and the kids. She’d poured all of her disappointment into one big lump of encouragement, offering me strength in spite of her weakness, the epitome of a precious friend.
Thank you, sweet Frannie, for your millions of smiles and thoughtful words. Thank you for loving on my kids and calling them precious. Thank you for making the calls that count and being our family’s friend through every storm.
A friend [who] loves at all times. (Prov. 17:17)
Frannie went on to race the following year. I had to sit out due to injury, but I look forward to racing with her (Lord-willing) this summer.
What an honor it was to watch her run, bike, and swim (with our families and our good friend, Mark), to cheer her on from the sidelines, to witness these special moments of victory in her life! I don’t remember who had the best official time that day back in August, but I will forever remember the winner.
Iron Man Fran.
Please click the link below if you’d like to see Iron Man Fran in action:
Her smile says it all. I have zillions of pictures of her, but this one makes the top ten without question. Sheer joy encompassed her in the Chuckie Cheese ticket blaster as she frantically grabbed at colored scraps swirling all around, shrieking with delight.
And to think I almost didn’t get to write this.
Nothing short of miraculous is her life. Even her birthdate, 3-16, symbolizes the hand of God upon her soul. I tell the whole story in one of my favorite blog posts titled 3-16, linked below.
Do you enjoy personality/strength/weakness tests? I do.
A few years ago, I took one located in the book titled Now, Discover Your Strengths by Buckingham and Clifton. The questionnaire proved similar to most I’d previously taken, but the labels for the end results were uniquely termed. And I liked it because I felt that it not only gave an overall great assessment but it also pegged my number one strength to a T.
Strategic planning.
When I think of great strategic planners, two amazing women come to mind. My mother and my good friend, Wendi.
The kids and I had the pleasure of spending an entire six hours yesterday with my dear friend, Wendi Fulton Wetzel Pickel. There’s much wisdom to be had in this little 50-something package, who kindly delivered herself to my doorstep that damp February morning.
I’d met her seven years ago during one of my darkest seasons. She’d contacted me online regarding a book I’d written, and after chatting back-and-forth, we realized that we’d both planned to attend the same fundraiser for Kenyan orphans in Philadelphia and took the opportunity to ride together.
It was a Divine appointment.
John had been home from the hospital roughly six months when I popped into Wendi’s car. Even though medically he was doing great, my husband and I found ourselves in the midst of a marital mess, mopping up after our son’s crisis had passed.
I have no idea to this day what made me do it, but I dumped my bucket to this sweet, compassionate, total stranger.
I’m so thankful I did. She’d been through nearly the exact same thing.
God paired us up that night, as she became intimately acquainted not only with my family but also our troubles. Because of her incredibly challenging life experiences, she was uniquely qualified to walk beside me through mine.
She has listened for hours upon hours. She’s done my dishes and brought me ice packs, she’s met me in hospitals and made me oatmeal, she’s cared for my children and spent countless hours boldly loving, pouring herself unreservedly into my life. A fabulous sounding board, yet discerning and wise, unafraid to be a truth-teller, a blessed one who holds me accountable to biblical principles.
I thank God for her.
Wendi couldn’t stop smiling as she watched the kids play yesterday. “It’s amazing to watch them together,” she said as she shook her head. “They look so normal – so healthy, so happy.”
She saw them at their worst. The meltdowns, the feeding tubes and oxygen tanks, the downward spirals. I’ll never forget a bittersweet moment when Abby turned a corner after a difficult bout in the hospital and was unexpectedly discharged early. We were ecstatic . . . but I had no idea how we were getting home. The timing seemed terrible.
Until I called Wendi.
All she said was, “Great! What’s the exit?” as I heard keys jingling and feet walking . . . and then the car door closing.
She’s been through much – I have great respect for her and have found her amazingly gifted at helping others during crisis because she knows how best to survive them. Through much adversity , God has made her shine like the sun into the lives of many in their darkest times.
He’s even taking her international.
This brilliant retiree has met her unexpectedly challenging life-stage head-on as she and her wonderful husband, Tim Pickel, have channeled their energies wisely and well. They’ve partnered with a missions organization founded by Larry Roth and Marsha Roth called OneMillionChildren, which serves to bring clean water, medical care, and the Word of God to one million children in Africa.
Thank you, Wendi, for all you’ve done to lift me up and walk with me in this life. Thank you for your steadfast example and countless selfless acts. Thank you for your wise counsel and uncompromising quest to strategize what’s best for everyone.
Thank you for being an absolutely wonderful friend.
I praise the number one Strategic Planner for allowing our paths to cross in this life – I’ve already put in a request for a regular time-block with you in eternity.
May He continue to use you to bless many as He richly blesses you and Tim and the work of your hearts and hands both today – and beyond!
Drinking from the Well 