THE WORLD LOOKS A LITTLE BIT BRIGHTER

You know that scene in Lord of the Rings where Gandalf frees Theoden from Saurman's spell, and the years fall off of Theoden and his eyes become clear and bright again? (Don't remember? You can watch a clip HERE.)

That scene feels like a snapshot of my life over the past year.

This year - 2026 - has been a doozy. I have been sad...a lot. I cry easily. Life as I once knew it is over, and the future looks uncertain and scary.

But tears, heartache, grief, and fear are NOT the whole story.

I have slept better these past few months than I have slept in years.

I catch myself smiling for no particular reason.

I sing or hum when I cook or clean.

I laugh more.

I apologize less for simply being me and taking up space.

I have been tracking my blood pressure each day for the past several months: 126/70, 124/70, 116/70, 121/65, 117/68...Those are good numbers, y'all. CRAZY how much better my blood pressure is these days.

Earlier this year. Those are bad numbers, y'all...VERY bad.

I am deeply grateful for the many evidences of God's faithfulness to me during a dark season.

And on a good day - a reeeeally good day, like today - I find I am beginning to dream. To imagine, in teeny-tiny ways, what life might look like, after all the heartache, confusion, hurt, pain, and loss.

The world is beginning to look a little bit brighter, Dear Friends.

God is sovereign. God is good. And God loves me very, very much.

* * *

"But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light." - 1 Peter 2:9

LEARNING TO LAMENT

My oldest son once told me, years ago, in the wake of some now-forgotten trial, something to the effect of: "Mom, you run too quickly to joy...slow down, and give space for grief. Let joy come in its proper time."

He was right, of course.

This tendency to fast-sprint to joy was no doubt fueled by many factors.

My personality. Although I have been accused of being gray and melancholy, I prefer light and brightness. I have big naked windows - no curtains or blinds - so that as much sunlight (and moonlight) as possible can come inside. My favorite movies are ridiculously silly. I am wiggly. I would much rather live - and for many years have lived - in a world of imagined goodness painted by self-deception, willful ignorance, and Herculean denial, than confront hard truths or painful realities. I do not want to look in the face of evil, so I cover that face with a mask.

My culture. My faith tradition frequently and enthusiastically sang songs like "Count Your Many Blessings" and "I've Got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy," but it wasn't until I was well into adulthood that I encountered songs like "From the Depths of Woe." Christians are supposed to be happy, right? Dwell on the positive; hope for the best; quote Romans 8:28; be content.

Fear. Fear of dishonoring God. Fear of seeming ungrateful. Fear that exposing darkness and lies might unleash unimaginable evils. Fear that Almighty God just might not be big enough to handle the deep, heart-rending brokenness underneath the surface of so much that appears beautiful in this world.

Laziness. It is so much easier to carry a bucket filled with light than a bucket filled with muck.

EXPOSED!

THIS has been a year of incredible pain, loss, heartbreak...and tremendous growth.

I have become fluent in weeping and lament.

I was introduced to a lovely book in one of my classes this summer: Every Moment Holy, a collection of liturgies for everyday life. (HIGHLY recommend.)

I want to share with you an excerpt from "A Liturgy for the Death of a Dream":

"O Christ, in whom the final fulfillment

of all hope is held secure,

I bring to you now the weathered

fragments of my former dreams,

the broken pieces of my expectations,

the rent patches of hopes worn thin,

the shards of some shattered image of

life as I once thought it would be.

"...take this dream, this husk,

this chaff of my desire, and give it back

reformed and remade according to

your better vision,

or do not give it back at all.

Here in the ruins of my wrecked

expectation, let me make this best confession:

"Not my dreams, O Lord,

not my dreams,

but yours be done.

Amen."

(Douglas Kaine McKelvey, “The Death of a Dream,” in Every Moment Holy, vol. 1 (Nashville, TN: Rabbit Room Press, 2017), 232-235.)

"Your grace is my shelter. Your love is my home. Even in the valley, I am never alone." - Lauren Diagle

FEEDING THE CAT

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's gray fuzzball, Miss Kitty.

Two years ago, Grammy was with us, preparing Thanksgiving dinner. Grammy was so happy that Thanksgiving, her counters covered with food and her kitchen filled with family. So happy, so tired, so frail. She stumbled when she walked, leaned long against the counter, her skin deeply jaundiced, but smiling such a big smile the whole long, sweet, exhausting day.

Two years + a week ago, Grammy was gone.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat.

I've walked next door often over the past 20 years. To use Grammy's washer when my washer was broken, to pick up the leftovers Grammy cleaned out of her fridge but couldn't bear to throw away, to shell pecans or work a jigsaw puzzle together, to check the mail and feed the cat on the rare occasions when Grammy and Granddad went out of town.

During nursing school, I walked next door daily - to use the internet for online classes, to eat caramel corn and watch TV and pretend like some part of my life was "normal," to cry countless tears of frustration and exhaustion. Nursing school was traumatic. Grammy was a good listener.

The last year - the very last year - I walked next door multiple times a day. Granddad was declining. I would get the call: "Are you home? I need help." "Yes, I'll be right over." Dying and death are such peculiar things. Caring for Granddad that last year, Grammy and I cried and laughed and talked much of the ridiculousness of this life.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat. Grammy has been gone for two years, but the cat is still here and still needs to be fed.

I go an entire day now sometimes without missing Grammy. Other days, I feel her absence keenly, and my chest hurts and the tears start again.

Days like today.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat, but Grammy wasn't there.

LIFE IN THE VALLEY

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me..." - Psalm 23:4a

The Psalmist assures me that when I walk through "the valley of the shadow of death," God will be with me. But what if I don't just walk through this dark place? What if this is where I live, day after day?

Another dear soul left this life to be with Jesus today. I knew this was coming. I whispered to this sweet soul yesterday, "Soon...very soon."

And yet, even knowing this death was a release from pain and suffering to new life and vigor, the news broke my heart.

It always does.

It. Always. Does.

I am grieving today, weeping...again. Grief and weeping are "part of the job."

It never gets easier. 

It. Never. Does.

God says through the Psalmist that "in the valley," He is with me.

What a strange and difficult calling, to live daily with my hand upon the veil.

He is with me.

Such great comfort.

He is with me.

STANDING CLOSE TO THE VEIL

 The grand-dog is spending the weekend, and we're passing a lazy afternoon together on the porch. Lefty wants to play fetch right now, but it's hot out and I do not want him getting over-heated. I have promised Lefty we'll play fetch when the sun slips behind the trees.

I washed laundry this morning, changed Mom's sheets, and wrote a few letters.

Then I attended the visitation for a sweet and gentle giant who slipped quietly into eternity last week.

Came home and ate lunch, washed more laundry, talked with my son about his travel plans and about boating on Reelfoot, completed a French lesson. Now, I'm sitting on the porch, writing and enjoying a warm afternoon breeze with the grand-dog.

This is a strange life...standing daily close to the veil, tucking death between meetings and household chores and what's-for-dinner? Strange and sad and beautiful and sweet.

In my last post, I'm Not Who I Used To Be, I stated that I know fewer things absolutely now than I once did...but those few things, I know with greater certainty than ever before. One thing I have become increasingly confident of, especially during my short time working in hospice: This life is not all there is. The death of the physical body is not The End. We truly do have eternity written in our hearts.

Every time one of My People passes, I weep. But for those with whom I share faith in Jesus, I do not grieve as one who has no hope. I WILL see these dear brothers and sisters again, and they will be whole and well, full of life and joy.

Today, my heart is sore. A small piece of it left me, passed through the veil, is waiting for me now on the other side...waiting, I am confident, with bright eyes, a broad smile, and a tapping foot, eager to welcome me when I, too, am called home.

Until then, tucked between today's goodbye and some future Welcome Home!, I will fold the laundry, cook dinner, play fetch with the grand-dog...

And I will remember.

HEALING WATER

From wading in the creek to watching thunderstorms from the front porch swing with my mom as a child, to dancing in downpours as a teenager and swimming laps at the local Y as an adult,  I have always found water to be a source of both rest and renewed energy. Maybe this is why I like the beach so much.

Water soothes me.

In my new job, my heart gets broken almost every week. Last week was especially hard, as I said goodbye to two precious souls I had grown to love. As I stumbled exhausted and dazed into Friday, I messaged my son: "Want to go kayaking this weekend?"

Thank you, Tom and Carly, for an afternoon on the lake. It was balm to your mom's aching heart.

WHEN WEEPING GIVES WAY TO JOY

Weeping may endure for a night...

Thinking this week about grief, broken relationships, and disappointed expectations, and came across these quotes:

These words by Ann VosKamp, discovered by my daughter a couple of years ago during the throes of a broken heart; we were both grieving, and she shared this with me - I have often reread it since:

"Make us humble people who are never afraid of broken things...because Christ is always doing a new thing."

Rosaria Butterfield, posted on Facebook this week by a sweet friend:

"All affliction is meant to direct us to the fountain of life, Jesus Christ Himself."

This, from Tim Keller:

"God is confident we will look back and be lost in wonder at the spectacular love that planned even our darkest moments."

If you know anything about VosKamp, Butterfield, or Keller, you know that these individuals are intimately acquainted with deep grief and disappointment. And yet their words on the topic of suffering speak of Christ, satisfaction, and hope.

Psalm 56:8 tells us that God has "stored my tears in [his] bottle and counted each one of them."

2 Corinthians 4:17 tells us that our present afflictions "are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all."

In Matthew 5:4, our Savior tells us: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

Psalm 136:5 says that "those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy!"

I have been thinking about grief, heartache, and disappointment this week, because someone I love dearly was deeply, deeply hurt a couple of years ago; and she spent many months in tears and heaviness of heart; and yet she did not once blame God or accuse Him of abandoning her, although others did abandon her and did blaspheme God...

I have been thinking about those many past tears, because this week...

That dear, sweet someone is all smiles. And gratitude. And joy. And sunshine. (And a little bit of sunburn, too.)

She has testified, too many times to count: "God has been so incredibly good to me."

...but joy comes in the morning.

My heart overflows with gratitude and praise.

God is SO very good indeed.

GRIEVED

I don't know which grieves me most: outright rejection of the gospel by those openly hostile to Jesus, or subtle twisting of the gospel by those who boldly proclaim the good news of salvation in Christ and who "Praise Jesus!" liberally.

Both break my heart.

What do I do with this deep sorrow?

For the first, I pray that God will open the eyes of the unbeliever, that He will show her the beauty of the gospel, that He will grant her faith and true repentance and the joy that comes with full assurance of Christ's sufficient provision for sinners who put their confidence not in anything they are or do, but in him. I plead for the life-giving work of the Holy Spirit in the unbeliever's heart, because only God can raise the dead.

For the second, I pray that God will open the eyes of the unbeliever, that He will show her the beauty of the gospel, that He will grant her faith and true repentance and the joy that comes with full assurance of Christ's sufficient provision for sinners who put their confidence not in anything they are or do, but in him. I plead for the life-giving work of the Holy Spirit in the unbeliever's heart, because only God can raise the dead.

I do not see much difference between No Gospel and Vibrant, Enthusiastic False Gospel. Both are spiritual death.

And so I pray. "God, do what only you can do!"

And I worship. "Thank you, Father, for Jesus. Give me Christ, Christ, Christ ALONE."

WHAT DO I DO WITH THE HURT?

Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!

How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!

"For who has known the mind of the Lord,

or who has been his counselor?"

"Or who has given a gift to him that he might be repaid?"

For from him and through him and to him are all things.

To him be glory forever. Amen.

- Romans 11:33-36

* * *

At our Romans study this past Thursday, our large-group leader observed that "Right theology produces doxology. A high view of God produces heartfelt praise."

Kathy continued: "God's perfect wisdom and his plans are above our understanding. Thankfully, we do not need to understand everything in order to trust the God who does." Then, because she is good at challenging us to apply doctrine to everyday life, Kathy asked, "How do you respond to things that come into your life that you don't understand? Do you worship God (like Paul did in these verses)? Or, do you turn your prayers into opportunities to complain?"

(I don't think I've shouted it into the blog-o-sphere yet this week, so let me do it now: I LOVE THIS STUDY OF THE BOOK OF ROMANS! Now, back to this blog post...)

Am I a worshiper? or a complainer?

I've been through a rough season lately, fraught with much that I do not understand. I have not doubted God's sovereignty or goodness, but I have frequently wondered, "Lord, what on earth is going on here? What are you doing?!"

Sadly, many of my prayers have been complaining prayers:
"God, this is such an atrocious mess. Why don't you just fix everything?"
"Lord, convict ---- of sin and grant them true repentance!"
"God, plead my case on my behalf! Why do you remain silent?"
"Lord, what am I supposed to do with all this hurt?!"

And in response to my complaining prayers, God has brought to mind verses such as...

"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust" (Matthew 5:43-45).

"But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you...love your enemies, and do good...Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful" (Luke 6:29, 35a, 36).

"See that no one repays anyone evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to everyone. Rejoice always, pray without ceasing,  give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God is Christ Jesus for you" (1 Thessalonians 5:15-18).

Over the past several weeks, God, in his great mercy, has redirected my prayers from a preoccupation with my own wounds, to genuine concern and compassion for those who have wounded me. And, as is so often the case in God's upside-down economy, I find that while I have been praying for those who have hurt me, God has been quietly healing my heart.

I still do not understand God's plans in this particular situation - I am completely baffled - but the kindness and tenderness with which He has met me during this trial has transformed my prayers of complaining into prayers of heartfelt worship and praise. God faithfully speaks into the details of my life with such precision, and He continually draws me closer to him. God is SO GOOD.

This morning, a friend shared on Facebook an article by Jonathan Parnell - "When God Calls You Out" - posted over at Desiring God Ministries. Jonathan writes: "God brings trials into our lives to give us more of himself. Their purpose is that we might not rely on ourselves - not look to ourselves for salvation or hope or joy - but that we might rely on him. The purpose is that we would lean on God, that we'd fix our eyes on his glory, clinging to the truth that in Jesus he is always enough for us. Always." (Read Jonathan's entire article HERE.)

In place of the hurt, God has given me himself.

And He is enough.

Always.

AROUND EVERY CORNER

"Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life..." - John 6:68

* * *

I wrote a couple of days ago (Joy Comes in the Morning) about God's faithfulness in meeting me in a very broken place. But God did not meet me in that dark night of the soul, perform his "surgery" on my heart, and then step back to let me continue healing on my own.

This past week, I have met Him around every corner.

God has been EVERYWHERE, speaking with precision into the needs of my heart and my soul:

• In my daily Bible reading (Job, Matthew, Psalms, Romans...everywhere I look, I find God saying, "Camille! Here I am with you. I love you. Be strengthened. Take heart!")
• In the world and the weather outside my kitchen window
• In the BSF study notes for the book of Romans, and in Kathy's lecture on Thursday
• In the comments made by the other women in my BSF small group
• In the songs my daughter plays on the piano. (Thou lovely source of true delight, whom I unseen adore, unveil thy beauties to my sight that I might love Thee more, oh, that I might love Thee more!)
• In the compassion of the woman on the treadmill next to me
• In the book about prayer that a friend gave me almost two months ago, but that I just started reading a few weeks ago (I guess God knew this book needed to be saved until the moment when it would speak most effectively to my heart.)
• In a technical book about the craft of writing, of all the weird places!
• In the gracious words of the lady cutting my hair
• In an article shared by a friend on Facebook
• In the prayers of friends
• In the still, quiet darkness of wee-hours morning

Everywhere I have turned, God has met me.

I am amazed at how much pain and hurt has been soothed away over the past two days by my loving Father.

Three nights ago, heartbroken and sore, I lay awake weeping tears of sorrow.

Last night, overwhelmed by the goodness, faithfulness, tenderness, compassion, and love of God, I wept tears of gratitude and joy.

GOD IS SO GOOD.

In the night before this morning's dawn, a passage from one of the Psalms came to mind. When I was a small girl, the church my family attended sang Psalms - the words of the Psalms of the Bible, set to music - instead of hymns or praise music. One particular chorus, a rather bouncy call-&-response learned way back in my childhood, kept running through my head:

"Oh, taste and see - [oh, taste and see!] - that God is good - [that God is good!]; Who trusts in Him is blest. Fear God, His saints - [fear God his saints] - none that Him fear - [none that Him fear] - shall be with want oppressed."

I was having a private little praise fest, lying there in the darkness! My heart was so full!

Then the sun came up. I showered, dressed, brewed a pot of coffee, poured a cup, and sat down with my Bible. Today's reading: a couple of chapters in Exodus, a chapter in Matthew, a passage in Romans, and a Psalm.

You want to guess which Psalm was up for today?

Psalm 34.

How cool is that?!

Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good

Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!

Oh, fear the LORD, you his saints,
for those who fear him have no lack.

When the righteous cry for help, the LORD hears
and delivers them out of all their troubles.
The LORD is near to the brokenhearted 
and saves the crushed in spirit.
Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
but the LORD delivers him out of them all. - Psalm 34:8, 18-19

Have I mentioned yet...GOD IS SO GOOD?!

* * *

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. "The LORD is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him." - Lamentations 3:21-24

JOY COMES IN THE MORNING

God wastes no time in attending to my wounds.

I went to bed last night with this verse running through my head: "They have healed the wound of my people lightly, saying 'Peace, peace,' when there is no peace" (Jeremiah 6:14).

Last night was not a restful night.

When I pray, I often do so with mental images. In the past, when a great grief has weighed on my heart, I have prayed something like, "Father, this is too heavy for me. I cannot carry it. I am giving it to you. Do with it what you will." And as I prayed, I would visualize the grief, cupped in my upturned hands. I would lift that grief up to God, and as I prayed, I visualized myself handing it over to God, releasing it from my grasp.

But last night was different.

Last night, it was a different kind of grief. It was woven too deeply into the fibers of my heart. My mind probed this grief like a surgeon, searching for a way to extricate it, but every poke, every prod, every thought brought such great pain that my courage and my resolve failed.

Last night, I prayed a different prayer. "Father, this nettle is so deeply embedded and is so terribly painful that I cannot pull it out. You must remove it." In my mind, I did not picture uplifted hands. I lay flat on my back, chest open, braced against the pain, and I waited for God himself to reach his hand down into my heart to deal with my grief.

Last night was a long, painful night. But no surgery lasts forever.

As black faded to less black outside my bedroom window, I thought of the challenge my youngest so often gives me: "Mom, what do you know is true?" The answer, always: "God is sovereign. God is good. And, He loves me very much."

I have been camped out in Romans the past couple of months. As I lay weeping, verses from Romans 8 flooded my thoughts:

"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us."

"Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. And he who searches hearts [Ah! My great heart Surgeon!] knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose."

"What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God's elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died - more than that, who was raised - who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us."

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?...No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that...[NOTHING!] in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."

As the sky changed from less-black to almost-gray, my tears subsided. The night's surgery was complete. My heart was still sore, but the darkness was lifting. Exhausted, I prayed, "Thank you, Father."

The sun crawled up over the eastern horizon, and a soft cloud-filtered light crept across the frozen hayfield outside. A thousand-thousand ice crystals sparkled in the pale light of dawn. Right now, when I look up from my computer and gaze out the kitchen window, my eyes behold a world of fairy splendor - ice crystals, shimmering silver and white, blanketing the golden stubble of last summer's hay. The beauty takes my breath away.

But even more beautiful...

This morning, God had me reading in Job, and in Matthew. I opened to the last chapter of Job, and read one of my favorite passages:

"I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted...I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you; therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes."

Job had three friends who came to him in his grief to offer counsel. Their counsel was informed by and infused with what they understood and believed about God. Yet at the end of the book of Job, God brings this indictment against Job's friends: "You have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has."

I have friends like that. Their counsel compounds grief. While unwittingly wounding my already tender heart, these friends distress me even more by their misrepresentation of God. I am grieved for myself, and I am grieved for them. I am a drowning man, surrounded by drowning men. I want desperately to help those around me, but I cannot even save myself. Lord, what can I do?!

This morning, God answered that question, right there in the last chapter of Job: "My servant Job shall pray for you, for I will accept his prayer not to deal with you according to your folly." Yes! Yes, I can pray for these friends! Thank you, Lord!

And then, over in Matthew, chapter 5, God applied this powerful balm to my surgery-sore heart:

"And [Jesus] opened his mouth and taught them, saying:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
"Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you..."

This morning, I am compelled to testify: God is faithful. His steadfast love endures forever. His tender mercies are new every morning.

I am not so naive as to think that a deep heart-wound will heal instantly. I expect that recovering from this latest round of "surgery" will take time. If you see me out this week, I will probably be quieter than normal, and a little gray around the edges. I am very, very tired. I cry easily. But if you are one of those who loves me, I want you to know that underneath my sorrow, God has met me with a deep and satisfying joy: He has met me with Himself.

* * *

"Sing praises to the LORD, O you his saints, and give thanks to his holy name. For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning." Psalm 30:4-5

THANKFUL FOR THE TEARS

Granddaddy banged on the door early Friday afternoon. He'd found a dead cow and an orphaned newborn calf in the field by the pond. He needed Ben and Helen to help get the calf up to the barn.

We weren't sure how long the little fellow had been out in the cold and damp without food or care. A day? Two days? Last week was so bitterly cold. When one is very new to the world, every hour is the difference between life and death.

To me, the calf was an answer to prayer. My youngest has had a difficult couple of months. Too much hurt, too much sadness, too many tears. I was thankful for the tiny calf - something to captivate my daughter's heart, something to draw her thoughts from her own grief to the needs of another frail creature. You can see from the picture that although Friday began with a gray countenance, it ended with a smile.

Orphan calves often do not survive. Helen did not want to name the calf. "If he makes it past a couple of weeks, then I'll name him," she said. Granddaddy was not so reluctant. He named the calf Sam. (The name Sam Kendall is a bit of a joke inside the family, and it always makes us smile.)

So, Friday and Saturday and Sunday and Monday, Helen was often at the barn. Sometimes, she headed over toting a giant bottle of milk/calf formula. Sometimes, she headed over empty-handed, just to check on her charge and spend time with him.

Monday evening, my daughter and I walked to the barn together for Sam's 5:00 feeding. He had been lively and eager to see his adopted mama earlier in the day. Monday evening, he was dead.

And so Helen and I sat in the barn and cried.

"I am so sorry, Helen," I said through tears.

"It's okay," Helen sniffed.

"No, it's not," I replied. Death is never okay. Death screams at us that all is not as it should be, that something is badly wrong with the world. Death is a dark shadow that testifies to sin and its consequences. It reminds us how desperately all of creation needs a Savior.

Helen has grieved the deaths of other orphan calves before this week. She knew from the get-go that Sam might not make it, probably wouldn't make it...but still, she hoped. And I hoped with her, hoped this bright spot in the midst of a gray season would last. But it didn't.

There is something therapeutic about tears...something healing about embracing sorrow and crying freely, away from the callous comments of those who would press our hearts in its tenderest places. No need to explain, or justify, or give an answer.

Before we left the barn yesterday evening, Helen took off her coat and spread it over the little calf. She knew her warmth could not revive him. She covered him as a loving Amen.

I need to walk back over to the barn today to retrieve the coat. Granddaddy will dispose of the body.

I am thankful Helen had Sam for a short time. I am sorry that he did not live.

I am thankful for the privilege of tears shared in a dim, dusty barn.

I am thankful for a God who is sovereign over every detail of life and death - mine, Helen's and Sam's. I am thankful for a God who sees our tears and counts them as precious.

SHOOTING STARS

SHOOTING STARS
- originally posted December 27, 2011

You don't really look for shooting stars...
They just kind of catch you by surprise.
A white hot blaze against black velvet.
Your heart leaps, you catch your breath,
Transfixed.
Then...
It's gone, and you're left staring
Hungry-eyed into the night.

* * *

It's been six years since I learned I would not meet this precious little one this side of Glory. I am six years closer to the day when I will meet this child face-to-face!

* * *

A friend once told me that heartache is the price we pay for loving. Yes, and it is a price well worth the cost! But I think heartache is also a clarion reminding us that, although this world is so very lovely, all is not as it should be. Heartache clears our heads, wakes us from our sleepy stupor, reminds us that this world is not our home. Heartache calls us to Glory in a compelling way that ease and comfort cannot.

My heart is heavy today with a new sorrow, but this heaviness is a gift. Like a silver moon steadily pulling a turbulent sea into regular tidal rhythms, this sadness pulls my heart toward my Savior, in whose presence I find peace and rest and, yes, even in the midst of sorrow, joy.

SHARED SORROW, DOUBLE JOY

Speaking of the study in the book of Romans (see previous post HERE)...

When Paul was prevented from doing the thing he wanted earnestly to do - to visit believers in Rome - how did he respond? He applied himself diligently to the task before him - ministering to the church in Corinth - while he continued praying for and looking for opportunities to go to Rome.

I am so thankful God did not answer Paul's prayers with an immediate "Yes." Otherwise, we wouldn't have this amazing letter to the Romans!

It occurred to me this week that this great book gives us so many powerhouse verses of encouragement. It was in this season of deferred longing that Paul wrote:

"I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us" (Romans 8:18).

- AND -

"And we know that for those who love God, all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose" (Romans 8:28).

- AND -

"What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us?" (Romans 8:31)

These verses were penned while Paul's desires were being denied by God.

Oh, for such faith, a faith that rests in and readily testifies to the unwavering faithfulness and goodness of God, even in the face of disappointment and unanswered prayers!

Ephesians 2 tells us that this kind of confident, rock-solid, unflinching, joyful faith is the gift of God. We can not conjure it up within ourselves. So, like the father of the child possessed by an unclean spirit, I cry: "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!"

This has been a season of "not yet" answers to prayer at my house. It would be easy to grow discouraged, frustrated, melancholy. But God, in his great mercy, has surrounded me with a community of believers who are committed to praying alongside me. When my own faith flags, these sisters and brothers remind me - again and again - of the goodness and faithfulness of God.

One fruit of this "not yet" season: we have learned that when we share our disappointments and sorrows, they diminish. Even more astounding, we have seen our grief transformed into worship and praise. One dear sister wrote, "God is causing us to rejoice - not in a certain outcome - but in God himself."

A Swedish proverb states: "Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half sorrow."

It is one thing to begin with joy, share that joy, and then see it multiplied into greater joy; or to begin with grief, and see that grief, when shared, made smaller.

But God is so much bigger than that. Our sovereign, all-powerful Creator transforms shared sorrows into joyful praise.

* * *

I will turn their mourning into joy;

I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow.

Jeremiah 31:13b

SWEETER STILL

The song "I Keep Falling in Love with Him Over and Over Again" contains these words:

"When I first fell in love with Jesus,
I gave Him all my heart.
I thought I could not love him more
Than I did right at the start.
But now I look back over the mountains and the valleys where I've been...
It makes me know I love Him so much more than I did then.

"And I keep falling in love with him
Over and over, and over and over again..."

* * *

It's been a rough week. Heck, it's been a rough decade. But this past week, rougher than usual. By Sunday morning, my ship was dragging bottom.

Then...

Sunday morning during worship, a friend preached about the plagues God inflicted on the people in Egypt. A couple of points from James's message that really stood out for me:

- Through the plagues, God displayed his omnipotence, providence, mercy and judgment. God created and rules over all of creation: God is sovereign, even in the midst of terrible circumstances.

 - In the plagues, God had a purpose for the Egyptians (including hardhearted Pharoah), AND God had a purpose for his people. While the Hebrews were exempt from some of the plagues, they were not exempt from all of them: God's people suffered under the plagues, too. While God was displaying his power to the Egyptians, He was also transforming the faith of his chosen people. One group ended up broken, wanting the presence and power of God to depart far from them; the other group was moved to worship and was empowered to embark on an arduous journey that demanded they live out their faith in the terrifying but life-giving presence of God.

I felt like Sunday's sermon was written just for me, like God used James (who knew nothing of my heartache) as a mouthpiece to speak to me the very words I needed to hear. Life is hard, people. It is hard for all of us, whether we are redeemed or lost. The good news is: as a child of God, I can be confident that my heavenly Father rules my life and He uses everything - even terrible things, even painful consequences of another's sin and hardheartedness - for my good and for his glory.

Sunday evening, while I was still weary and my heart still sore, a young friend shared her own grief and broken-heartedness, and then she shared how encouraged she had been by the words of another song, "Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken." Together, I sang with sisters in Christ:

Man may trouble and distress me,

Twill but drive me to Thy breast.

Life with trials hard may press me;

Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.

Oh, tis not in grief to harm me,

While Thy love is left to me;

Oh, were not in joy to charm me,

Were that joy unmixed with Thee.

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure,

Come disaster, scorn and pain

In Thy service, pain is pleasure, 

With Thy favor loss is gain.

I have called Thee "Abba, Father;" 

I have stayed my heart on Thee;

Storms may howl, and clouds may gather;

All must work for good to me.

Soul, then know thy full salvation

Rise o'er sin and fear and care

Joy to find in every station, 

Something still to do or bear.

Think what Spirit dwells within thee;

Think what Father's smiles are thine;

Think that Jesus died to win thee;

Child of heaven, canst thou repine?

Could these words have been more timely balm for my sore heart?! I think not!

But THEN...

Yesterday - Monday - my brother David had a heart attack. I received the news yesterday evening...he and my sister-in-law Tracy were at the hospital...still awaiting test results...messages flying back and forth between family members eager for the latest update, fervent prayers, a restless night...

This morning, a phone call. It was David. Yes, he had had a heart attack, but all is well. From the hospital, David called this morning to tell me, "I have a policy that when I'm feeling down on my luck, when I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself or to think 'Woe is me,' I think of someone else and then I focus my attention and prayers on that other person. I just wanted to call you this morning and tell you that I love you and to let you know I was praying for you yesterday."

David knew nothing of my personal grief, yet - while he was waiting in the emergency room for test results and then undergoing treatment for a heart attack - while I was praying for him - he was praying for me. I wept and laughed at the same time as I told my brother that God knew how much I needed those prayers yesterday!

These past few days, God has been telling me over and over how very much He loves me. He is such an attentive and persistent lover of my soul!

I have written before about The Incredible Sweetness of God's Love. People, this love keeps growing sweeter and sweeter. God is so good. He meets me in my need. I cannot help falling in love with him, over and over, over and over again.

* * *

Are you weary? Is your heart sore today? Perhaps these words will encourage you as they encouraged me and my young friend:

ANOTHER KIND OF BIRTHDAY

The mother of a dear friend died recently, and I was blessed to attend this woman's funeral. Blessed, because it is always a blessing to be gathered with the saints, even in times of grief and mourning. Blessed, because even in the face of loss, it is so good to be reminded of the riches we possess eternally in Christ.

The young man who preached the service made this statement during his sermon: "The more glimpses we have of Christ in this life, the more we long to see Him face-to-face in Glory." I looked around at those gathered in the sanctuary and saw so very many "glimpses" of Christ, reflected in the faces of His precious sons and daughters. And yes, seeing those glimpses of Christ did make me long all the more to see my Saviour in Glory. The reflection of Christ radiating in believers is beautiful - how much more beautiful must be the true source and substance!

Steve has said before that I have a weird way of looking at funerals. They are sad times of tears and brokenness, certainly. But funerals are bittersweet for believers, because the sorrow is tinged with an inexpressible joy and a heart-rending longing. Death for Christians is the crossing over. The worm, on this side, has retreated into its cocoon. But, beyond earthly view, the butterfly emerges from its chrysalis into the radiant beauty of heaven, into the presence of Jesus. We call it death. I wonder if the angels in Glory call it a birthday.

At Saturday's funeral, I was reminded of a favorite poem by the 19th-century poet Christina Rossetti. Does this not make you long to see your Beloved in Glory?!

A BIRTHDAY

by Christina Rossetti

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

(I originally posted this on Wednesday, June 9, 2010...wanted to re-share today as I approach the anniversary of the "birthday" of a dear friend whom I miss greatly.)

THIEVES? OR WINDOWS TO DEEPER JOY?

A group of friends were discussing things in our lives that cause us anxiety:  health problems, relationship issues, misplaced hopes or expectations - in people, in circumstances - that cannot deliver the ultimate peace and happiness and security we desire. Joy thieves.

One friend commented something to the effect, "Don't you just wish life could be free from all these trials and difficulties? Wouldn't it be wonderful if we didn't have to deal with all these disappointments?"

Hmmm...

Well, on one hand, yes. Yes, it would be wonderful to be confident all my children love the Lord and walk daily in conscious dependence on him, to see strained relationships restored to the sweetness of full and honest fellowship, to climb the stairs without my knees hurting and popping.

But, on the other hand, no. No, because I am confident that God is using present trials to conform me to Christ, to tear out of my heart bits of idolatry, to work in me an ever-deepening knowledge of and delight in the beauty and sufficiency of my Savior.

No, because I have learned that trials and brokenness and disappointment, in addition to driving me closer to Jesus, are uniquely powerful opportunities to share the Gospel with others.

This morning, fresh on the heels of the above conversation, I read in the first chapter of Colossians:

Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church...to make the word of God fully known...to make known how great among the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of his mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. Him we proclaim...

My sufferings, such that they are, add nothing to Christ's atoning work on my behalf. My desire to honor God or to endeavor to live in the power of the Gospel in the midst of trials, these add nothing to my righteousness or my assurance.

But, in some mysterious way, they allow me to "fill up what is lacking in Christ's afflictions." What does this even mean?! Perhaps it means...

Jesus, when He walked among men, never experienced the heartbreak of losing a grandbaby. Maybe He had me walk through that heartbreak so that I could be learn the implications of the Gospel for this special kind of grief, so that I could be his representative to the grieving grandmother I met in the school parking lot.

The rush to the emergency room with the child whose body is broken, decades of energy-sapping chronic pain, business failure...how many unique ways can we "fill up the afflictions of Christ"? In how many ways can we learn and share with others what it looks like to walk in the power of Jesus and of the Gospel in the hard places of life?

Jesus redeems our brokenness. He redeems every tear, every disappointment, every grief, every hurt. He quiets our anxious thoughts and satisfies our deepest needs. Jesus showed us this when He walked on earth. He continues to show us this today as we - brothers and sisters in Christ - walk this earthly journey together.

Trials can be joy thieves - or they can be windows for letting in the sunlight.

MY ENTIRE LIFE

How many people do you interact with regularly whom have known you your entire life?

We live in an age characterized by multiple job changes and frequent relocations. In our almost thirty-two years of marriage, my husband and I have moved at least fifteen times. Sometimes, we moved just across town. Other times, we moved across the country.

Another relocation means unpacking boxes at a new apartment or house, but it also means finding a new church, a new grocery store, and a new hairstylist. Due to frequent moves, I've had over a dozen obstetrician/gynecologists. Folks, that is just wrong.

A relocation also means leaving behind old friends and beginning the often slow process of developing new friends.

So let me ask again:  How many people do you interact with regularly whom have known you your entire life? If you're like me, probably not very many.

When I was going through a personal crisis several years ago and I was struggling with defeatism and depression, a lifelong friend encouraged me tremendously by reminding me who I was before - not who I was at the time, all downcast and defeated, but who I was before that particular season of trial.

She had been there from the beginning - she knew me back in grade school, back in high school, back in college - and, when I became overwhelmed and disoriented, she reminded me who I was. Her "I know you better than this, Camille, because I remember you when..." was like sunlight breaking through thick clouds on a dark day.

I had lost a piece of myself, forgotten something important about myself - but she remembered and she reminded me who I was.

I lost a dear friend this week. Mr. Bill knew my parents and both sets of my grandparents before I was born. He knew me as a baby, as a young child, as a teenager, and as a college student. The recessional at Steve's and my wedding - "Oh, For a Thousand Tongues to Sing!" - was chosen especially because it was one of Mr. Bill's favorite hymns, and we knew he would be there celebrating with us.

After two decades of moving from coast to coast to coast, Steve and I moved back to Obion County. Mr. Bill was still here, and he was one of the reasons that - even though we moved into a new house, among new faces - it felt like moving home.

Mr. Bill was another one of those people who on occasion sat me down and said to me, "Camille, I know you better than this..." He knew me my entire life. When I forgot something important about myself, he remembered - he knew, because he had been there all along - and he reminded me who I was.

I lost a dear friend this week, an extraordinary man, a giant among men. He took with him a wealth of experience and wisdom and memories, and he took with him a unique knowledge of Camille that I don't even possess.

I lost a dear friend this week. He took a piece of me with him.

I suspect that, when I finish moving for good, Mr. Bill will be one of the reasons Heaven will feel like home.

GIANT

We can probably all recall someone who, when we were children, impressed us as being "larger than life" - a parent or grandparent, a teacher or a pastor, a hometown hero or celebrity - someone who stood out like a giant in our childhood world.

Over the years, as we grow older and wiser and physically larger ourselves, those giants tend to shrink, little by little, until we find that rather than looking up at these towering figures - the grandparent or teacher or star athlete - we are now, oddly enough, looking them in the eyes. We continue to respect and revere these people in a special way, but we also understand, as we enter the fellowship of Tall People, that, rather than giants, they are actually simply humans and not so very much unlike ourselves.

And then there are those extremely rare people who - when you have reached your full adult height, when you have learned to think and act like an adult instead of a child, when you realize that you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with so many who once loomed large on your childhood landscape - there are those few - maybe only one or two - who still tower like giants, who, instead of shrinking over time, grow even larger.

Those rare people who are giants...not because of their physical stature and might, but because of an inner strength evidenced even in physical brokenness, not because of their unwavering faith but because of childlike dependence on One they know is faithful, not because they feel no fear, but because they endeavor to walk through their fear clinging to the promises of Him who tells us to "Fear not."

I hear people around me talking about a highly-decorated WWII veteran, a war hero. I hear them talking about a successful farmer and businessman. I hear them talking about a passionate apologist and staunch Calvinist. I hear them talking about a man with strong opinions and an indomitable will - yes, I have felt the iron rod of that will!

But I keep thinking...

About a tiny girl, hugging a pants leg for comfort and support, and looking up...miles and miles and miles up...into the eyes of a giant...

Not the brown eyes of my own giant, Pap...oops! wrong leg! again!...but into the bright blue eyes of "my other Pap"...

...and for fifty-two years now, whenever I have looked into those blue eyes - whether he was smiling or frowning, whether we were laughing or butting heads (it is a very scary thing to butt heads with a giant) - for as long as I can remember, whenever I have looked into those eyes, they have assured me beyond a shadow of a doubt that...

I am loved.
God is faithful.
And there are Giants in the land.

THOUGHTS AFTER A FUNERAL

Another repost...I am so thankful for the great comfort that is wrapped up in the promises of Glory!

ANOTHER KIND OF BIRTHDAY
- originally posted Wednesday, June 9, 2010

The mother of a dear friend died recently, and I was blessed to attend this woman's funeral. Blessed, because it is always a blessing to be gathered with the saints, even in times of grief and mourning. Blessed, because even in the face of loss, it is so good to be reminded of the riches we possess eternally in Christ.

The young man who preached the service made this statement during his sermon: "The more glimpses we have of Christ in this life, the more we long to see Him face-to-face in Glory." I looked around at those gathered in the sanctuary and saw so very many "glimpses" of Christ, reflected in the faces of His precious sons and daughters. And yes, seeing those glimpses of Christ did make me long all the more to see my Saviour in Glory. The reflection of Christ radiating in believers is beautiful - how much more beautiful must be the true source and substance of that radiance!

Steve has said before that I have a weird way of looking at funerals. They are sad times of tears and brokenness, certainly. But funerals are bittersweet for believers, because the sorrow is tinged with an inexpressible joy and a heart-rending longing. Death for Christians is the crossing over. The worm, on this side, has retreated into its cocoon. But, beyond earthly view, the butterfly emerges from its chrysalis into the radiant beauty of heaven, into the presence of Jesus. We call it death. I wonder if the angels in Glory call it a birthday.

At Saturday's funeral, I was reminded of a favorite poem by the 19th-century poet Christina Rossetti. Does this not make you long to see your Beloved in Glory?!

A BIRTHDAY

by Christina Rossetti

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.