Tag Archives: Hope

Daily Devotional, Newsletter, Pictures, Quotes, Hope for Now, Hope Once Healed

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March 15, 2018

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A Timely Reminder

It’s finally done.

After years of living it, writing it, and praying over it, the manuscript and full proposal for my book, Carried & Kept Through the Hospital: A Provider, Patient, and Parent’s Perspective, stand complete and ready to head to the literary agent I at a conference who was interested in representing it years ago.

I pray she still is.

God’s timing is perfect.  While I sat in the River Edge Diner (locals have dubbed it the R.E.D.) on Monday night madly typing, a waitress approached me, peering at my screen.  She’d taken care of me before, and even though I had not been seated in her station, she’d wandered over to say hello.

“What ‘cha writin’?”

I told her briefly about my blog, Drinkingfromthewell.com, and its purpose, to help families during crisis and beyond.  Her face paled as her eyes clouded with tears.

“I sure could have used that.  My brother died in May of 2016 of ALS.”

She launched into a heart-wrenching account of her family’s struggles with his diagnosis,  their difficulties in acquiring resources for his care, and the toll it took on all of them.

Her story moved me.  Hers was the face of why I sat surrounded by piles of papers at a greasy spoon in the late evening hours, urgently refining pages crammed full of information that I believed would help families in their most desperate hour.

Families just like hers.

How timely the reminder.  As I finalize the proposal to send out tomorrow, please join me in praying that God would open doors far and wide for our family’s message of hope, help, and healing.  May many hear and be blessed.  May many be helped and find hope.  May all turn to Him, that He may carry and keep them.

Always.

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February 19, 2018

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Crazy Great Shirt

I’d thought we were out of the woods.

How quickly one seemingly small glitch nearly turned my son’s health down a disastrous spiral.

John was born with Gastroschisis, a birth defect in which the intestines are formed outside the baby’s body through a large hole in its belly.  Because John’s intestines were also blocked and required additional surgical intervention, the doctors initially gave him only a 15% chance of making it.

Praise God, he made it.

After four-and-a-half months in the hospital, John came home with an NG-feeding tube, which ran through his nose down to his belly.  He detested it and continually yanked it out.  The tube proved necessary because John threw up every time he ate.  The only reason the doctors had let him come home was because, in spite of the vomiting, he still gained weight.

Once we came home, our brilliant pediatrician, Dr. Scott Rice, started John on a motility agent, which solved the vomiting problem.  The tube came out, and we all rejoiced, thrilled to eliminate that source of irritation from his life.  Within the next two years, he dramatically improved and was eventually directed to stop all medication as he was discharged from the outpatient GI service, taking only probiotics for gut health and a standard children’s multivitamin.

So for the past five years, things had been going extremely well.  Until.

I’d lately detected an increasing resistance to his probiotic in the early fall.  His occasional vomiting episodes gradually increased, so much so that I began researching alternatives.  John is picky due to his sensitive gag reflex, and finding a new brand proved not only expensive but also fruitless.  Within a week, I realized how long I’d been out of the nutrition field and that I’d used up all of my dietitian know-how and tricks.

It shook me.

John needed help.  Before his gut stopped working.

It hasn’t happened since his discharge, and I was surprised by how intensely the thought of him regressing threatened to paralyze me with fear.  Even though many moons had passed since he’d had any problems, the nightmare of his hospitalization and ensuing medical crisis flashed back in an instant.  I fought the urge to panic.  As soon as I identified my “peace-snatcher”, I hit my knees.

“Lord, please help me find a permanent solution for John – and fast!”

Enter Aegis Boyer Stuart.

I’ve known Aegis a long time and have followed her from afar on Facebook, noticing her frequent posts about various nutrition products but letting them gloss right over me.

Until I needed something.  Desperately.

As a former Registered Dietitian, I had a bad taste in my mouth for alternative health products because I’d spent years dispelling myths to earnest weight-loss seekers and trying to spare my cancer patients from emptying their pocketbooks on bogus products designed to deceive, not heal.

But I knew I could trust Aegis.

I now considered for the first time what she had to say and clicked on her post about probiotics, now excited to learn about the available products and research how well-made they were.  I reached out to her, and she was extremely helpful, connecting us with a combination multi-vitamin/probiotic for John, praying it would work.

Thank God, it did.

He’s only vomited once since he started taking it, and I think that’s only because he ate candy on an empty stomach.  Amazing!  While I haven’t yet researched the rest of the product line, I’m proud to stand behind her Plexus XFactor Kids combined probiotic and multivitamin.  I ordered four additional bottles today.

As I typed a quick update/thank you message to Aegis this week, I realized that this wasn’t the first time God has used her to bring healing to my life.

I remember the first time I met her at church.

We were at one of the first gatherings of a new 20-30’s age group Bible study.  With eccentric flair, Aegis sported the grunge look and wore a T-shirt that declared, “Body piercing saved my life.”

Images of nose rings and ears laden with studs flooded my mind, and disdain rose within me.

Really?  How in the world could cosmetic body piercing and self-inflicted pain actually save?  

Looking back, I can see the upward turn of my top lip and sneering countenance, not understanding until she turned around and I saw the accompanying image that the pierced One her shirt referenced was her Savior.

My Savior.  God forgive me.

Years ago, I confess I had a profound aversion to non-traditional “church people”, not knowing what to do with them beyond exchanging polite formalities and general well-wishes.  They unnerved me.

I’d grown up in an ultra-conservative environment, one that strived to please God but was often tainted with cynicism and judgment, and when I traversed outside my whitewashed bubble, I found myself unprepared to handle and reconcile difference, somehow feeling like I was compromising if I allowed myself to consider things from a different angle.  I coped by displaying warmth and respect while inwardly harboring prideful contempt.

Hypocrite.

I ended up in her mom’s Bible study.  As I got to know Aegis and her family, I came to the painful realization that I had a serious heart issue, one I didn’t want to have, a poisonous cancer that if not lacerated and extracted would cause serious damage to my spiritual life.

Ouch.  But so worth the process.

Over time, as iron sharpens iron, God has used (and continues to use) people like Aegis to expose what He wants to change in my life.  Shortly after I was married, I asked my husband what he wanted for Christmas.  Totally in the dark about the past mess in my mind, he said, “I’d like one of those ‘Body piercing saved my life’ t-shirts that Aegis wears.”

Ha!

I think of her every time I launder it.  I owe much to this loving wife and homeschooling mother of two, this gifted entrepreneur and devoted follower of Christ.

Thank you, Aegis, for not only talking the talk but also walking the walk.  Thank you for spending much of yourself to help others find health and healing.  Thank you for wearing that crazy great shirt.

I rejoice with you for all the good God has wrought in your life and pray He continues to richly bless you and your precious family both today – and beyond.

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February 6, 2018

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Never Stop Singing

Have you ever had a dream crushed in an instant?

The aftermath can last long.  Like 25 years.

As a child, I loved to play outside.  My favorite was the swing.  I could swing for hours and hours, cherishing the rocking motion that moved my wiggly body high into the sky.  But better still was what I did while I swung.

Sing.

Oh, how I loved to sing!  I dreamt constantly of being a worship leader at church someday, writing my own songs, and leading others in praise to God.  Most of the time, I sang just for Him.  Songs I knew from church and school.  Songs I’d heard on the record player.  Even songs I made up as I went along, belting them out at the top of my lungs, arms extended and free, smiling and twirling all around, shining before my Best Friend.

Until one chilly winter day.

Sixth grade came with many changes in my life.  My aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer, so my family moved closer to help during her illness.  I switched schools (as I had the previous year), and within the first week of attending, I encountered a difficult situation in, of all things, music class.

The teacher, whom I happened to like very much, asked the class of about 20 to go around the room and sing two lines of a common song so that she could hear the sound of each voice.  Everyone complied as did I when my turn arrived around child 16 or so, but as I finished, something horrible happened.

Everyone laughed.  Even the teacher smothered a grin.

At first, I thought something silly had happened, like a poster falling off the wall and sticking to the bushy, well-plastered hairdo seated behind me.  But as I glanced around, reality struck hard and fast as tears filled my eyes.  I sunk lower in my seat.  The teacher held up her hands and motioned for the kids to settle down.

“Now, now,” she said with too big of a smile, “we are all different and have different sounds.  That’s why I want to hear all of you.  Next, please.”  And just like that, she moved onto number 17 but not before the damage was done.

Two short lines had broken my heart.

Interestingly enough, I hadn’t really given much thought to how I sounded.  Ever.  I had always sung for an audience of One, enjoying the sheer joy of the experience simply for “the doing” of it.  Comparison and competition weren’t on my radar.

Not until the moment when I thought others labeled me “horrible”.

In retrospect, I think I totally misread the reason for their laughter that day.  My father had affectionately and appropriately nicknamed me Little Mouse during my toddler years because my voice was high and squeaky.  When I’d sung the two lines, I now believe neither my teacher nor the other students expected such a high pitch to come out of me, hence their surprised response.

But for years, I’d thought they laughed at me and my singing, so, unfortunately, I believed “them”.  I bore my wound in silence until many years later.  I could’ve ended the pain that day, that miserable moment in sixth grade, by quitting.  Tossed my records and tapes, lyrics and chords, background vocal tracks and piano music into the trash, determining once and for all to never succumb to such ridicule again.

However, there was one ginormous complication to this would-be arrangement.

I couldn’t stop singing.

Tunes kept popping out when I least expected.  I sang while playing in my room, riding my bike, taking a shower, unloading the dishwasher, walking the dog, riding in the car.  So I adjusted to my perceived reality, hiding behind powerful voices in choirs and groups but never attempting a solo.  Over time, I sang more and more, joining various worship teams, deciding the risk was worth it.  More and more contemporary Christian worship music kept coming out, and as it did, I couldn’t keep my song in.

I’m grateful I didn’t.

Today, I’m the Children’s Ministry Worship Leader at my church.  I’ve written and directed a children’s Christmas musical, and I recorded my first song with Nat Jenkins Music last week.  Not to mention all of the FUN my family has singing in our home!

No bragging here.  God gets all the glory for everything good in my life.  I’m well aware that apart from a lot of heart-healing and by His grace, all of these things (and countless others) would never have happened.

I simply share my story to encourage you to never stop using and developing the gifts God’s given you.  No matter the criticism, no matter the struggle.  Hide in the choir for awhile if need be, that’s okay, but don’t give up.  Never, never give in and allow your wounds to define who you are.  He can give you the courage to face your fears, His love to heal your hurting heart, and the strength to rise and try once again.

And sing.

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October 17, 2017

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TG TruGlory

Haircuts for the homeless.  Pizza for the hungry.  Trendy clothing for those on a budget.

Who spends their Tuesday nights making this happen?

Tito Garcia.

Last week, my dear friend, Jackie, wore a cool black shirt bearing the letters TG.  I asked her about it, and she smiled wide as she explained it to be part of the TG TruGlory clothing line.

“You know,” she said, “TruGlory?”

I shook my head.  “Nope.”  Keeping pace with fashion has become a distant memory.  With three children under ten in my house, I feel I’ve accomplished a major feat if all the laundry is sorted, washed, and folded neatly in baskets before midnight on Mondays.

“Well, you know Tito, the drummer at church?”  I nodded.  “It all started with him.”

As Jackie shared with me about the ministry, my jaw hit the floor.  How had I not heard about this?  The more Jackie said, the more blessed I became by one man’s vision and how, in 2012, God grew his desire into a reality.

Today, TG TruGlory serves the homeless of Hoboken, NJ and impacts lives in immeasurable, important ways.  Grooming and haircuts to lift the spirit, pizza and sandwiches to satisfy and strengthen, attractive shoes and apparel to meet everyone’s budget.  TG TruGlory’s kindness and compassion shines clear and bright through its generous acts of love.

The story moved me deeply.

Last year, my husband and I celebrated out 15th Anniversary in NYC.  Even though we live ten minutes from Manhattan, we rarely go into the City but took the opportunity for this special occasion.  Our hotel stood near Times Square, and as we approached it, I couldn’t help but notice the sidewalk lined with the homeless.

Tears filled my eyes.

Throughout the course of the weekend, my eyes searched them out, laying on benches, huddled along alleyways, sleeping on church steps.  I couldn’t escape the wrenching-of-heart, the anguish of soul.  I felt their pain as my own and wanted to somehow ease theirs.  All of it.  Unrealistic, I know, but the “wanting to” never left me.

“You’ll get used to seeing them around,” some might say, “and then it won’t bother you so much.”

Get used to it?  I pray not.

I pray that the suffering of the wounded bothers me long into the night and drives me to my knees on their behalf.  I pray that the broken hearts of strangers compel me to deny myself a pleasurable evening and do something to impact the eternity of another human being.  I pray that concern for those who have no hope would fill my heart and embolden my prayers.

Every day.

Whenever I look into the eyes of the homeless, I see what could have been my future.  I have a heart condition, which for years was disabling, and without supportive family and friends to help me through that time . . .

I could have been homeless.

Perhaps that why I can’t look past and ignore.  I can’t walk by and not be moved.  Some don’t want help, but many do.

I want to always remember them.  I want to always stop and “see”.  I want to treat others the way I wish someone would’ve treated me had circumstances forced me to walk miles down their road.

Thank you, Tito, for proving an incredible example of a man who lives out his faith in humble, practical ways, transforming time and talent into an eternal investment.  Thank you for showing how simple it is to offer the gifts God has given back to Him by serving others.  Thank you for inspiring me to do more with everything breath that He gives.

I love what you’re doing, Tito, and am honored to call you my brother in Christ.  I appreciate the sacrifice your wonderful wife, Taina, and boys make every Tuesday night to be apart from you, making them partners with you in ministry.

May God richly bless this amazing family, TG TruGlory, and all those touched by their faithful service, both today – and beyond.

 

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March 16, 2017

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3-16

My little Abby Mae turns five today.

Tears blind me now, for I cannot recall her birth without remembering how close she came to death.  Many, many times.

We praise God for the gift of her life and love.  Although we celebrate today with butterflies and flowers, sparkly ribbons and bows, strawberries and sunshine, my heart trembles under the crushing weight of memory, ushering in mingled wonder and sorrow, hope and pain, joy and suffering.

And to think, the first specialist to diagnose Abby’s heart defect recommended I abort her.

I distinctly recall gasping at the mere mention.

“Mrs. Morgan, really!  Think of it.  The baby’s heart is a mess, her organs are positioned backwards . . . ”  The doctor shook her head and folded her arms with disgust.  “Why rush to CHOP (the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia) and make them go through all sorts of heroics to try and salvage this?”  She swallowed and softly said, “Besides, haven’t you been through enough already?”

She referred to my son, John, who’d received his diagnosis in the same office some two years earlier, a boy with intestines forming outside a large hole in his belly, intestines that were also blocked and likely damaged severely if not fatally.

The doctors had given him a 15% chance of making it.

I numbed out as the specialist built her case.  The inconvenience, the expense, the unknown outcomes.  As the doctor prattled on, I inhaled deeply.  I looked full into her fiery eyes and calmly said, “We’re going to CHOP.”

I will not lie.  Christian and I had both looked forward to a pregnancy without problems, a wondrous time we could spend with our children and heal from John’s traumatic birth and infancy experience.  What a crushing blow.  Thrust into the nightmare once again, same storyline, different details.

After extensive testing, CHOP informed us that our daughter did indeed have a severe heart defect, as well as Heterotaxy Syndrome (where the organs are abnormally placed within the body).  This five person team, although not nearly as blunt and insensitive as the first physician, waited for my decision about procuring further care.

I swallowed hard.  Then I smiled as tears rolled down my cheeks.

“We’re cheerleaders.  And besides, we already know where to park, the cafeteria menu cycle, and how to avoid the construction traffic.”  I cried a little, and then I said, “As long as there’s hope, we’re in.”

My father sat at the table in lieu of my husband’s presence, his tears saying it all.  I knew I needn’t call Christian, for I knew what he would have me do, what God would have us do, what the mother in me longed to do, and what the warrior in me was destined to do.

FIGHT!!!

On our knees, day and night, night and day, hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month, fight for this little life we did.  Born with little chance in this world, but oh, how her cries and the prayers of all those who loved her moved the Heart of heaven.

And today SHE TURNED FIVE!

My thoughts began to swirl a few weeks ago when my church sent out a general email announcing the annual fundraising banquet of Lighthouse Pregnancy Resource Center (LPRC).  In the past, our family had participated in various support opportunities, and since we continue to lay down roots here in NJ, I spoke and prayed with Christian at length about contributing.

We decided to attend the banquet, but I neglected to make the necessary connections until after the deadline had passed.  As I sat up late one evening reviewing past emails, I discovered my error and froze.  I hadn’t realized until that moment how important it was to me but couldn’t explain why.

I had no idea how personal the connection would become.

Believing that God would make a way if He wanted us to attend, I shot an email to the Lighthouse events team, expecting to be graciously turned away.  Then I clicked to Facebook to check my most recent blog post picture.  Somehow as I scrolled along, a man’s voice came over the speaker, startling the daylights out of me (I thought I’d muted it).

Our family friend, Eric Bugbee, had shared a link to Wildcard’s video of Tim Tebow’s recent interview about keeping his priorities straight, which greatly aided him in keeping his cool on the field.  He recounted picking up castaways in Haiti, not mincing words as he declared his desire to be known as one who emits faith, hope, and love rather than as a  successful ball player.  While thankful for the platform sports has given him, his obvious passion is serving others, namely those who have no voice.

I was highly impressed.

I continued scrolling over the next few days and found that another family friend, Aegis Boyer Stuart, had posted a link to a live event at none other than the Tim Tebow Foundation!  Riveted, I viewed her video.  Again, Tim spoke from his heart, sharing his vision to supporters and proclaiming undying devotion to “those needing a brighter day in their darkest hour of need.”

I’d heard Tim mentioned among our homeschool community and knew he played ball, but I didn’t know about his foundation nor the parties it served around the world.  Curiosity caused me to thoroughly investigate, and sure enough, what I discovered blew me away.

Hospitals and play rooms.  Proms for the mentally challenged.  Dreams fulfilled for the terminally and chronically ill.  Outreach to orphans.  Surgeries for the sick and disabled.  Rescue for victims of human trafficking.

All totally up our alley.

Everything I saw and viewed resonated loudly with the call God’s placed on my life, and witnessing others living it out in such amazing and far-reaching ways stirred me to the core of my being.  Not only Tim but also his parents and siblings have long been involved with these causes, in years past as missionaries in the Philippines and currently in different countries and capacities.

As I researched the amazing Tebow family, I grew more excited about the possibility of attending the Lighthouse banquet.  It seemed a wonderful way to take another step forward in the same direction as they, a way to serve families in crisis with no voice.

I checked my email one more time after my research binge and read the Lighthouse event flyer one more time.  Lo and behold, I’d glossed over the name of the banquet speaker earlier in the evening, but now, it jumped out at me as if arrayed in Broadway lights.

Pam Tebow.

By the grace of God, two seats opened up.  Christian and I headed to the Venetian awed and humbled, for I had shared with him all that had transpired that week.  We knew that He had something special in store.

Pam shared her testimony about how, when she was extremely ill in the Philippines and carrying her fifth child (Tim), her obstetrician recommended an abortion in order to try and save her life.  She obviously declined and gave birth to not only an incredible athlete but more importantly, an amazing servant.

She also told of how her son wore the reference John 3:16 on his eye black during the 2009 college football national championship, during which 94 million people googled John 3:16. Exactly three years later to the day, Tim led the Denver Broncos to a win in the playoffs against the Pittsburgh Steelers, and after the game, his rep informed Tim that all of his stats included the digits 3-1-6.

He threw for 316 yards.  Yards per rush: 3.16.  Yards per completion 31.6.  Ratings for the game: 31.6.  Time of possession: 31.6

No coincidence.

Thank you, Pam Tebow, for sharing your story around the world.  Thank you for all you are doing to encourage mothers to give their babies life and inspire them to bravely face the challenges ahead.  And thank you for the reminder that every life is precious.

Even the most delicate of hearts.

Thank you, Abby Mae, for lighting up every room with your smile and song.  For the way you curl up in the arms of grizzly bears and melt their hearts like butter.  For the way you paint away problems, encourage the pessimist, and dance into the loneliest of hearts.

Young in years, yet a wise old soul.  Mistress of joy, deep and unspoiled, lavishly given and freely enjoyed.  Forever may you blossom and grow, little girl, spreading your sunshine and adoring ways.

Thank you, God, for this precious life.

Born on 3-16.

 

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March 2, 2017

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Tornado

Have you ever been caught in a tornado?

We nearly drove through one on Saturday.  Literally.

I’d heard a storm was coming, but because I no longer live with my weather-forecasting-sister, Krissie, I did’t think much about it.  Until . . .

All five of us Morgans felt quite festive as we barreled along the highway to the Scranton area for Nani’s 92nd birthday party.  Christian and I bantered back-and-forth while the kids watched a movie, so none of us noticed the ominous sky surrounding us.

Sometime around 3:15 pm, my phone beeped as it received an official weather text alert stating that a Tornado Warning was in effect until 3:30 pm and that we should seek cover immediately.

I grew up in Illinois where tornadoes are a part of life, so much so that we had tornado drills at school, scrunching up into little balls in the interior corridors.  I can still remember my surprise at seeing my mother participating in a real tornado emergency while pregnant with my younger sister, Jenny, all huddled up, lining the inner staircase of Wild Rose Elementary School with the other PTA parents.

So when I got the text message on Saturday, I knew I wasn’t watching for a tornado.  One had actually been spotted.

My eyes instinctively searched the sky.  There it was, a dark billowy mass of cloud hovering out the left-front window.  It wasn’t as defined as I would have expected, but only later did I realize that we were too close to see it.

I peered over my shoulder.  The kids were oblivious, thankfully, and I turned back around.  We were potentially in big trouble because the next exit lay several miles down the road.

As we drew closer, dark whips of cloud seemed to be everywhere in the sky immediately above us, and uneasiness rushed over me like the first jump into a swimming pool.  I felt small in the face of this inverted mountain of wind, rushing and swirling all around, tugging at our SUV with a vigor that made Christian hold tight to the wheel.

“Christian, we’d better get off at the next exit.  I just got a tornado warning text.”

“Really?”  He craned his neck and peered through the windshield.  “Awesome!”  He whooped and hollered while reaching into the backseat for his GoPro camera.  I motioned for him to keep his voice down, but he paid me no heed.  “Kids, check out the tornado!”

“Where, Dad?”  Hannah paused the movie as they pressed their faces against the windows.  They located the darkest patch and collectively said, “Ohhhhh!”

John complained loudly that he couldn’t see the vortex.  Hannah thought it was extremely cool and handed Daddy the GoPro.  Little Abby burst into sobs.

“Are we going to die?”

In that moment, something flashed through my mind that I’d read years ago.  Author and speaker, Christine Caine, had once recounted a time when she, her husband, and a few other tourists were stranded on a jungle tour.  Something went terribly wrong, and for a couple of days, they’d had to fend for themselves.

At times, Christine found herself wondering if they would survive their ordeal.  She shared that once she returned to safety, God impressed upon her heart to never forget for one day from what she had been saved.

Her story made a huge impression on me.  How true it is that I, with so many comforts and conveniences at my fingertips, can easily distract myself from facing my own mortality.

Life is but a breath.

Saturday’s storm jolted me into remembering how important, how essential the daily contemplation of death truly is.  Doing so doesn’t fill me with fear.  Rather, remembering that my days are numbered infuses me with passion to more fully live.

I found myself thankful Abby had voiced the question.

“Mommy,” she said again, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks.  “Are we going to die?”

Christian seized the moment before I could speak.

“Who’s going to pray?”

Hannah volunteered and quietly offered up something sweet and simple.  Peace washed over our vehicle and stilled Abby’s soul.  As our eyes returned to the skies, Christian took my hand and smiled.

We were now less than seven minutes from our destination, so we decided to make a run for it.  Apparently, our family missed the heart of the storm by less than two minutes because cars still huddled under the overpass as we finally made our highway exit.

Residents started slowly emerging from their refuge as we drove through Dunmore and surveyed the damage.  Fences were down, branches strewn everywhere.  A trampoline stood awkwardly bent nearly in half, pressed up against a battered shop wall.

Christian whistled and murmured, “Something definitely came through here.”

We arrived at his grandmother’s house, grateful.  His family breathed a sigh of relief as we crunched across the hail-covered lawn and into the sturdy ranch-style house.

In the face of death, we celebrated life, the wonderful gift of Christian’s grandmother.  How ironic an afternoon, how fitting an ending, how blessed our family, getting to grow together through yet another of life’s storms.

May God continue to richly bless our family and yours, through storms and sunshine, both today – and beyond.

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February 23, 2017

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Finding the Good

Have you ever had lice?

I hadn’t.  Not until last year.  Christian’s former workplace had given us a generous gift certificate for Christmas a few years back, so I took Hannah for a haircut from the participating vendor (an upscale salon, which will remain nameless).

Lo and behold, she scratched her golden curls almost immediately afterward, prompting me to advise her to shower and wash off all the hair fragments lingering on her neck and hairline.  Nothing more was mentioned.

Two days later as I shampooed Abby, I yelped when I noticed tiny squiggles squirming around on her scalp.  Christian rushed to the doorway and grimaced at the sight.

“This means war!”

Off to CVS he dashed, soon to return with lice kits, extra combs, and lots of shampoo.  All five of us soon became victims of these persistent, itchy little creatures.  Christian dug out his electric razor and rid himself of the beasts entirely.  He also shaved John’s head while we girls watched, coveting, wishing it were as easy to rid our long manes of the uninvited guests.  We scrubbed and combed, scrubbed and combed, combed and scrubbed until our scalps turned red and raw.

I bagged up nearly all of our blankets and throw pillows, sheets and stuffed animals, clothes and towels – thirty garbage bags full – and headed to the laundromat.  Of all times for my dryer to be broken!  The kids fell in love with the laundromat and asked me if we could sell our washer and dryer.

I found myself thankful I’d gone to the laundromat because, as I placed contaminated laundry items into the washer, lice literally hopped from the sheets onto my arm – ICK!  I squealed and shoved the entire mass into the machine, and then I ran to the sink to thoroughly scrub my arms in hot water.

I went home and scrubbed the floors and carpets, curtains and blinds, sofas and beds.  We sanitized the entire house from top to bottom, leaving no stone unturned.

We did NOT want to go through that again.  Ever.

Needless to say, the word lice now has a new meaning in our home, but amazingly, that meaning has morphed yet again.  Last night as Christian and I trained for our upcoming spring triathlons after the kids went to bed (a very fun date night – he runs on the treadmill while I bike – or vice versa), we watched a fascinating documentary titled Corrie ten Boom: A Faith Undefeated on Pure Flix (http://pureflix.com) about a courageous Holocaust survivor.

I love her story.  I’d read The Hiding Place many years ago, and as I briefly searched for the movie, I came across this documentary that showed her real home, the watchmaker’s shop, etc.

Fascinating.

One thing that I’d forgotten and am thankful to have been reminded of as we watched was how Corrie and her sister, Betsie, learned to be thankful for everything.  During their imprisonment, they lived in a barracks that was infested with lice and fleas, so much so that the guards refused to enter it.  They left the prisoners’ food at the door and let them pretty much fend for themselves.

Horrible tales surfaced about what guards had done to prisoners in the other barracks, but thanks to lice and fleas, the happenings in Barracks 28 at Ravensbruck proved vastly different.  Twice daily, Corrie read from a small Bible that the enemy had miraculously not confiscated, and all 700 women prayed together in this small room built to hold only 200.  Thrust together by their dire circumstances and crammed into a filthy hole of a home, these brave prisoners held on, surviving one minute at a time.

As I snuggle up in my soft pillow-topped queen, complete with clean sheets, thermal blankets, and patchwork quilt, I feel spoiled, unworthy, and humbled as the legacy of these incredible saints thunders through my mind.  I loathe my comforts and detest my comparatively complacent spirituality as these women risked their lives for years, hiding and helping those hunted and cruelly sought out, those if caught would be tortured and possibly killed by the hands of an unyielding, voracious enemy.

How my heart breaks for them, these precious sisters, enduring such terrible suffering and horror day after day after day.  And yet, the recordings taken from Corrie’s speeches after her miraculous release reveal a radiant, joy-filled voice so powerful that goosebumps erupt down my arms every time I hear it.  Devotion to God permeated her words and defined her life as she acted without hesitation, reservation, or thought of self-preservation.

Both Corrie and Betsie sacrificed all to save those who would likely be lost had God not used them to intervene on behalf of His people.

I scarce can take it in.

May their example serve as a searing reminder to me that no matter how bad things get, no matter what circumstances I face tomorrow, God will help me find something for which to thank Him.  In the darkest nights, when I’m infested with the lice and fleas of my life, may I fight to find something good, something for which to praise Him, even when I don’t understand the “why” of it all.

Thank you, Corrie and Betsie, for reminding me to find the good and that the Ultimate Good can always be found anywhere.

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February 16, 2017

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Homeschool, Hope, Uncategorized

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The Best Lover

Of all the people (not God – I’m talking human beings) in your world, who loves you best?

My answer is easy.

You may be shocked that it’s not my husband.  It’s neither my kids nor my parents.

It’s my older sister, Krissie.

Those of you who know her are smiling now, for you, too, have been blessed by the beauty that she is.  Before she was born, God graced her with a most amazing spirit, one she would need to conquer the many mental and physical challenges thrust upon her the minute she left our mother’s womb.

Never to marry, never to give birth, and never to manage a home of her own, Krissie faces each day hungry.  All day.  Every day.  All night long.  It never goes away.

When I stop and consider this, even as I type, my eyes well with tears.  The sister in me wants to take it from her, and if need be, for her.  I detest this thorn in her side, this tool God has used to make her into such a wonderful human being.  Prader-Wili Syndrome is such a bitter pill to swallow, on top of losing an arm in an accident, yet sweet Krissie presses on one day at a time, looking forward to the next time she gets to see people.

People.  She loves them.  Every single one.

She feeds off her relationships.  They motivate her like nothing else, even food.  Without prejudice or pretense, she greets everyone around her affectionately, whether they be family or friend, waitress or cashier, doctor or janitor.

And it’s not just hello with her – she wants names.

She may be mentally challenged and not understand how four quarters equal a dollar, but her ability to remember names, addresses, phone numbers, pets’ names, birthdays, etc. astounds me.  I’ve seen somber retailers and downcast shoppers break into smiles when she calls their name from across South Mall (where she walks with my parents daily) and asks how Rosebud and Rex are doing.

You would think she’s the Mayor.

Not to say that she is never hurt, but she gets over it quickly, eager to forgive and move on to the next hug, the next smile, the next friend she can love.

One of the things I missed most when she lost her arm was the way she would greet people.  Whenever someone she knew would enter her field of vision, she would gasp, loudly call their name, clasp her hands together, and wiggle her fingers all around.  Then, oblivious to most social norms, she would rush to their side, continuing to call their name with a wide smile, outstretched arms, and booming voice.

Today, the effect is the same, even without all ten fingers.  Through the genuine, innocent, and wholehearted way that she loves, Krissie makes people feel important, valued, and treasured.  Having grown up in the same house, I didn’t realize until I no longer lived with her how rare and precious her gift truly is.  She has mastered something remarkable, something that many successful and intelligent people find themselves lacking the ability to muster let alone reciprocate.

Everyone loves her.

She was my secretary for about 18 months prior to Hannah’s birth.  Twice a week, she would come to my home office and help me maintain my writing files for a couple of hours at a time.  It was great.  I loved having her, sharing that time together, enjoying our green pepper breaks and watching her use a pink highlighter to put big “X”s on the used side of my manuscripts.

Even though I now live roughly 90 minutes away, I miss being able to have her over for a banana pancake breakfast (yes, the kids would typically through a few chocolate chips into the mix) and a game of Dutch Blitz (she beats me).  I miss scooping her up for an afternoon  homeschool adventure or a spontaneous seafood suppertime.  I miss my secretary.

I miss attending church with her, sitting beside her, giggling with her.  I miss nudging her when she doses off in the middle of the sermon.  I miss watching her clap her hands.  Always offbeat, typically swaying a little from side-to-side, she would radiantly worship faithfully every Sunday, belting out the songs slightly off-key and clapping.

We’ve adjusted to a new norm, visiting back-and-forth when we can.  The kids love going to visit Aunt KiKi and having her come visit us.  As she ages, she faces more challenges, as do we all.  I continue to pray for her, as well as my parents as they care for her.  Many days are not easy, truth be told, but one thing remains.

Her unbridled, ardent, beautiful love.

I love you, my sweet Krissie.  I look up to you, Big Sister, more than you know.  You have set the bar high, far beyond anything I could ever achieve.  You bear your cross well, so well that I sometimes forget you have it.

I look forward to spending eternity with you, my amazing sister, the best lover of all.

 

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February 7, 2017

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At Home, Hope, Uncategorized

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Looking at Me

My husband recently returned from a much-needed getaway to California with some friends, and while he was away, my little Abby Mae fantasized continually about his return.  She drew an adorable picture of the two of them.

“We’re looking at each other,” she said with a faraway look in her eye, head tilted slightly to one side.  She taped the picture to the front door and chatted endlessly about his return.  This went on for the entire four days.

“I can’t wait for him to sit next to me at supper!”

“Do you think he is thinking about me?”

“I just want to kiss him right now!”

Upon his return, Christian found his ardent admirer asleep in bed with visions of Daddy dancing through her head.  A smile graced her lips, and she wore the pajamas she thought he would most like.  He kissed her brow and set a souvenir t-shirt bedside the lavender butterfly lamp, taking a minute to watch her sleep, gurgling and snoring softly, unable to be roused.

When she woke in the morning, she wept when she realized he’d gone again until she saw the shirt.  This consoled her a bit, to know he’d been near, and in a few long hours, she would once again bask in his presence.  She donned the shirt with happy giggles and spun around all pink and pretty.

“I want him to see me in my new shirt that he picked out just for me when he gets home tonight.”  Her little brow furrowed.  “Mommy, what was Daddy wearing when he came home?”

Then at long last, the moment arrived.  She squealed and ran to his open arms, vying for her spot among the others, savoring every second of Daddy’s homecoming.  He took a moment to properly greet everyone, and then he swooped Abby into his arms again.  She stared at him, breathless, cupping his scratchy chin in her hand, smiling all the while.

“Oh, I missed you, Daddy!  You were gone forever!”  She rubbed her palm over his black wool coat, savoring the scratchy cool feeling under her skin.  He held her close, beaming as he spoke gently to her.  Her eyes shone as she quietly nodded and offered brief responses peppered with giggles.

The older two lumbered into the kitchen, heading straight for him, so he carefully set her down with a parting smile.  Knowing they needed him, she gladly stepped aside and could contain her joy no longer.

“Daddy’s home!  Daddy’s home!”  She twirled around the kitchen, arms outstretched, shrieking with delight, singing and soaring all at once.  He glanced over and smiled at her.  “My daddy’s home, and he’s looking at me!”

All was now right with the world.  Daddy was home.

I’m grateful that my husband has taken care to cultivate a loving, attentive relationship with her.  In the midst of all his pursuits and opportunities, he has made family a priority, and we are grateful.  He daily strives to show us the love of Christ in the way he leads our home, moment by moment, step by step.

The name Abigail means, “My Father is joy,” referring specifically to God.  I think the reciprocal way she and Christian adore each other is a beautiful picture of our relationship with God.  He delights in us because he sees us through the blood of Jesus, and in turn, we can freely let ourselves love Him with everything that we are.

Abby does.  She sings to Him all the time:

“God makes the trees so tall

He grows the grass so high

He makes the flowers grow

And puts the clouds in the sky.”

She thinks He’s GREAT and compares everything to Him.  “Is our house bigger than God?” “Was Samson stronger than God?”  “Is a tornado more powerful than God?”

In the same way she adores her daddy, Abby loves a God she has never seen but knows is real.  He made her and died for her and saved her . . . He’s her Superhero “forever and ever!”  She even made a special drawing (above) of she and God, saying, “we are looking at each other with love.”

Even though she’s only four, it’s evident to all who know her that little Abby feels deeply loved and forever cherished by her Heavenly Father.  May we all experience the same, knowing He delights in us, thrilling in His presence,  our hearts exclaiming, “He’s looking at me!”

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November 16, 2016

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Crisis, Heal, Help, Hope

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Through It All

I had the privilege of spending last weekend on a Ladies’ church Retreat in Long Beach Island, NJ.  What a wonderful time!

We stayed in a large retreat center right on the water.  Our back door opened to a sandy beach and long dock over the water.  The view took my breath away and gave quiet respite to my soul.

Since breaking my foot in June, my leg and foot muscles have not yet returned to their pre-injured state, so I probably should not have eagerly participated in a pickup volleyball game wherein I wrenched my right knee.  It’s slowly healing, but I’ve learned my lesson.  Strength training and toning for me throughout the remainder of the year.

The best part was the testimonies.  Women of all ages and life stages came forward to share how God had worked in their lives over the years and how He still moves hearts and minds today.  Friend after friend got up and spoke about various trials and heartaches, joys and sorrows, pain and loss.  Some had lost parents or children, others homes and husbands.  One woman had been raped at knife point.

Courage and strength shone through their countenances as each described how the Lord had carried them in the midst of suffering.  Some stood in the midst of fire even as their shared, believing their Lord would continue holding them up by His mighty right hand, challenging me to trust Him whatever storms come my way.

I spoke about my family and some of the trials we’ve faced.  Then, my friend Ivette and I sang Through It All, an oldie but goodie by Andrae Crouch.  I’m pasting the link below – may God bless you through its message.