glitter & grief

This time last year I had no idea that in just a few short days my life was about to unravel.  The very best way I know how to sum up the past 358 days?

“what. the. hell.”

I didn’t know then how to deal with grief.  The kind of grief that leaves you sleepless and makes your bones ache and your jaw involuntarily clench.  I didn’t have any desire to learn how to grieve, but the Lord knows what we need and so I did.  I learned.  I failed.  I resisted.  I screamed and cried and have functioned with less sleep than I thought humanly possible for months.  I have begged and pleaded and worried and felt the ache of regret more deeply than I have ever known.

Although time moves on, grief remains.
It feels a lot like cleaning up glitter.

I love glitter.  Really, really love glitter.
But cleaning it up?  No thank you.

The funny thing about glitter is that you work so hard to confine it, yet somehow it ends up everywhere.  You find traces of it for days.  Maybe even weeks.  The slightest breeze has blown it all over your house and even when you’re doing something silly like dancing in your kitchen {judge me.} you see it reflecting in the light on your stove and it hits you.  The glitter is still there.  In places you didn’t put it.  In places you didn’t want it.  In places you didn’t expect it.

So it is with grief.
In the unexpected moments of picking up your phone to text something funny then realizing you can’t.  In the drive through Georgia that all but rips your heart out while the tears sting your eyes at the sight of the Atlanta skyline.  In the quiet mornings with the Lord when the silence is deafening because everything is so, so different.  It’s there when you rearrange your bookshelves and come across that book that’s not supposed to be yours yet remains on your shelf.  In the phone numbers you pass by in your contact list that you can’t bring yourself to delete.  So many places and moments you don’t expect tears to show up.  Yet somehow the breeze has blown those people, those memories, those thoughts into these places and there it is.  Undeniable, breathtaking, heart racing grief.

Just like glitter, grief remains.
Also like glitter?
Grief shines.

It shines a light on “the idolatry of self reliance.” {Jesus Calling, May 10}
Each of these glitter-like reminders that sparkle grief in the most unlikely places remind me that I need Jesus. They remind me that there is a plan at work that is far greater than what I thought I deserved.  They remind me of His faithfulness.  They remind me of the fact that I feel deep grief because for a season of my life I had really great things that were hard to lose.  He is both the giver and the One who takes away.  And both are good.

but God.

Last weekend I moved into a sweet two bedroom condo.  I have enough space to spread out and breathe, yet it’s small enough to be cozy and feel like home.

As I sit at my desk and look around I finally see, after a three year hiatus, all my earthly possessions in one place.  It is simultaneously comfortable and unsettling.  Strange and overwhelming.  So normal to move and live and rest among the things I enjoy.  So strange to be here, in this place, at this stage of life, so far from where I thought I’d be.

It’s easy to focus on the latter.  How I’d rather be there than here.  How I’d rather go back than forward.  How I’d rather be doing that than this.  All those days spent working toward something that disappeared in an instant have resulted in this – an adorable apartment with the coziest couch, an endless supply of hot coffee, friends to fill these spaces, the presence of Jesus in each and every breath – yet in the midst of all that is there is a steady ache that reminds me of all that isn’t.

And so I sit, holding this pretty pink mug full of decaf, reminding my heart that there is much, much more to this story.  Right here, in the midst of a painful chapter, the Lord interjects “Yes, this is painful.  But…“

“My heart & my flesh may fail, but God is the strength of my heart & my portion forever.”  Psalm 73:26

My heart?  Failing.
My flesh?  Failing.

But God? Strength for my heart.  Enough for me.   Forever.

four.

“He shows up” and other thoughts from the first month of 2012.

A few days ago I sat next to a dear friend at a dinner party who listened patiently as I explained the details of a painful situation currently going on in my life.  In her incredibly kind, yet matter-of-fact way she reminded me firmly – “You have a Biblical responsibility to do ______, and when you do you absolutely must remember that He shows up.  He always, always shows up.”

a glimpse of one of the many ways He has "showed up" lately

A couple weeks ago I snuggled up against a pile of pillows with a cup of decaf coffee next to another sweet friend in a ginormous bed.  This fairly new friend (who feels like an old friend) has an uncanny way of reading between the lines and seeing through to the depths of the heart.  While tears overflowed from my aching heart she said “I would not wish one thousand of ______ in place of what the Lord has for you.  You are worth so much more than that!  I believe for you {because she knew that in that moment, I couldn’t believe it for myself} that HE has something so much better.”

Earlier in the month I stood in my kitchen across from my boss after a planning meeting telling him of all the frustrations and aches that come along with this life of full time ministry.  The uncertainty that can so easily overwhelm had taken a toll on my already fragile heart.  With the sensitivity & wisdom that He offers so freely (and for which I am so very ,very grateful) he shared his own struggle with the question “What does it look like to trust the Lord in the midst of all this?”  That question continues to direct my heart back to the only One who makes sense of all the chaos that surrounds me these days.

This morning after church I stood in a small circle of a few sweet friends who again listened to my heart while one of them remarked about a certain situation “I knew you were on the verge of tears because I know what you do with your mouth before you cry!”

Recalling that moment along with many others, I see it — I am known.  It is both a terrifying and absolutely beautiful realization.   In this season of the greatest pain I have ever known I have lost all energy to hide or pretend.  As a result this pain has acted as a catalyst for sweet, encouraging, honest relationships.

Truly, He has been faithful to show up.

He shows up through decaf coffee and tears, He shows up at a dinner party with precious women, He shows up after church on a Sunday when you compliment a friend’s earrings and she takes them out of her ears and gives them to you (then brings you the matching necklace a few days later),  He shows up in long conversations over margaritas with a dear friend, He shows up in the friend who gives the best hugs, He shows up in Sunday morning snuggles with Gracie,  He shows up in a text message from a friend sharing the specific scripture she is praying over you, He shows up in laughter with coworkers, He shows up in teary conversations over red wine, He shows up in emails traded back and forth throughout the work day with my best friend, He shows up in early mornings in His Word…

Life continues to be chaotic & uncertain, but He continues to show up.
He always, always shows up. 

2011.

I can’t remember another year out of the 27 and a half that I’ve lived thus far that held nearly the amount of pain I experienced in 2011.  Pain that was unexpected, foreshadowed only by the too good to be true beauty of early morning text messages that read like the sweetest whispers telling of the Lord’s character.  Precious reminders each morning that He is good & faithful & worthy of my time, attention and affection.

When I think of memories I will forever hold dear from the days that made up 2011, I immediately go back to those mornings early in the year.  Sipping the best coffee.  Flipping through page after page of God’s word, wiping tears, shivering from the morning chill, heart leaping as my phone notified me of those texts.  I remember in those months that I had typed the word “grateful” so often into my phone that my predictive text assumed I was about to type “grateful” each time I started a new message.  I loved opening my phone and seeing that word shining back at me:  “grateful“.

And I was.  More grateful than I ever thought I could be.  Grateful for Jesus and the way He was making me new.  Grateful for quiet mornings & great coffee.  Grateful for Scripture that breathed life & hope into places desperate for both.  Grateful for purposeful truth & faithful prayers being spoken to me & over me.  Even now as I remember that season I could create an endless list of all there was to be grateful for in those days.

I remember one morning that spring reading this verse:
“Every morning I lay out the pieces of my life on Your alter
and watch for fire to descend.”

For several days the Lord continued bringing that verse to mind and almost subconsciously it became part of my prayer each morning.  I remember specifically telling the Lord:  “_______ & ______ & _______ & _______ (etc.) are beautiful, valued pieces of my life that bring me so much joy, but I trust you with them and if you need to burn them up, I’m placing them on your alter.”

I prayed that prayer nearly every morning for a few months as spring gave way to summer.

On May 25th my Grandma died unexpectedly.  I cannot explain the how or why tremendous grief postpones it’s arrival in one situation then hits immediately like a ton of bricks in another, but on that day I remember screaming into my phone at my Dad begging him to tell me it wasn’t true.  I went through the motions of picking out flowers & accepting condolences & standing near a casket while people hugged me & told me my Grandma was in a better place.  I remember lying on my bed in my bedroom at my Grandparents house breaking down.  It was too much.  The cleaning out of all my Grandparent’s possessions in this house that I called home for 27 years of my life, emptying most of it into a dumpster that was pulled into their front yard.  In that moment, I wasn’t sure anything could ever feel more wrong than watching strangers come pick up my Grandparents furniture to be donated to needy families, or pictures that had hung on the walls my entire life be taken down and tossed into boxes.  I sat in my Grandparents empty basement for the last time with my sister & cousin for 10 hours scanning picture after picture after picture so that no memories would be lost & all family members could have copies.  I remember making stacks of who would get what original copy and thinking of how grateful I am that my Grandma always kept them so neat & organized in all her cute little albums.  I wondered what she would think to see all those albums tossed aside with various snapshots once held neatly in their pages now scattered across folding tables in her empty house.  That week was the hardest of my life up to that point and upon the encouragement of my sweet M, I loaded up my car and headed to GA for a weekend full of rest & an attempt to begin making sense of my crazy emotions before jumping back into a crazy summer of student ministry.

I arrived in GA a frazzled mess 11 days after my Grandma died.  That night I received another unexpected, life changing blow.  There would be no more early morning texts sharing the Lord’s goodness.  No more excited plans, no more treasured music telling stories of our learning how to love, no more late night silliness, online shopping or house hunting/dreaming.  No more countdowns, no more tears of joy or tears of missing someone so much you can barely breathe.  No more opportunity to mourn my Grandma’s death fully, without distraction.  Instead my mind was trying to conceive what it means to mourn the death of someone still very much alive.

Can I tell you honestly that it has been brutal?  There have been so many tears & an ever present lump in my throat.  There have been sleepless nights and long, painful days full of analyzing everything I wish I had done differently.  There have been haunting bad dreams that startle me awake over and over again throughout many nights.  There is the aching jaw that is evidence of the unintentional clenched teeth habit that has become my unwelcome friend.

My heart was wrecked this year.
I miss my Grandma every day.
I miss M every moment.

Yet on the 3rd day of 2012, when I was struggling deeply with how to put a period on 2011 and enter into 2012 while every area of my life seems to be unsettled at best, the Lord reminded me of this truth:

“For His sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.”

I placed the pieces of my life before the Lord, yet naively did not prepare my heart for the possibility that fire might descend.  I spent the last 6 months of 2011 sifting through the ashes trying to salvage something, anything, that would make sense of such a painful season.  He is the only thing that makes sense.  I have truly suffered the loss of all things and will continue to fight for counting them as rubbish compared to gaining Christ.

He is the same today as He was on those beautiful spring mornings full of blissful joy.
He is God over the good & the brutally difficult.
He is worth the struggle & the source of joy in the midst of the wreckage.
He makes sense of chaos as He makes all things new.
He was enough in the midst of a painful 2011.
He will be enough for whatever 2012 brings.
He is enough.

_______________

I feel the need to write a disclaimer for this post. I realize when we get down to the nitty gritty brutal honesty type stuff, we run the risk of sounding whiney or ungrateful.  I assure you, I fully recognize that I have much to be grateful for.  This season has held tremendous pain, yet it has also held the most beautiful deepening of friendships that the Lord provided to sustain me through some of the darkest days I have lived thus far.  There have been late nights, early mornings and ugly cries alongside two of the most beautiful, patient, Jesus loving friends I didn’t know to ask for, yet the Lord graciously gave.  There have been ministry moments (many made possible because of this painful season) that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world because I saw Jesus in them more clearly than ever before.  I have laughed so hard I literally peed my pants (full disclosure here on this blog, y’all) and consumed so much coffee, most notably across from sweet friends.  There has been pain, but oh there has been joy.  I needed to tell this story boldly, the one of the aches & pains that often accompany loving with our whole hearts, but I pray that as you read these words you also read the ones that are invisibly in between the lines.  They are the ones that tell of joy & lessons learned & steps taken & truth revealed.

They are the stories of growth,
& while the growing pains can’t be ignored,
they are also an undeniable sign that we are still alive.

m, if you ever read this -
it was worth it. id do it all again.
thank you for everything.

Grace.

Gracie,

A few minutes ago you came running through the office screaming “B!!  B!! B!!” with a huge grin on your face, jumped into my lap and wrapped your little arms around my neck.  After a quick hug you twisted around, pointed to the computer and said “B, peen-cess, peen-cess”.  And so we pulled up your favorite Disney princess videos & I couldn’t help but watch your eyes sparkle with joy as your smile grow bigger every time a new video began. When it was time for you to go you gave me a big squeeze complete with a baby grunt emphasizing just how much effort you were putting into that hug.

This moment was not abnormal for us.  In fact, nearly each weekday we have identical moments just like this one.  Yet especially today, my heart is overwhelmed with grateful joy that I get to be a small part of your story.  You, sweet Gracie, are so very special.  You have a personality that brings joy to every person you come in contact with.  You are naturally girly, yet just a couple days ago I watched you jump right in to a wrestling match with your big brothers.  You love to be silly and make me laugh often.  I love that I have memories of you reaching for me before you could walk, toddling to me as you learned to walk and running to me as you have grown from baby to little girl.  I love that your favorite movie is Cinderella & that you have learned to love shoes at an early age.  I love your curls & I love that you love to watch videos on my phone.  I love the way you laugh when something is really funny and the way anyone within earshot can’t help but laugh right along with you.

Most of all, I love the way you undeniably belong here.  The way you look like & trust your Mommy.  The way you adore your Daddy.  The way your big brothers have bonded with you & take care of you.  The excitement you have about your new baby sister.  The way you belong in our church family so deeply that I cannot imagine what it would be like without you dancing through worship or running through the office each afternoon.  The way you belong with our friends as I see each family loving you as one of their own.  You are so special!

Thank you for teaching me about the way my Heavenly Father loves me and chose me to be His daughter.  Thank you for teaching me about the importance of living with joy & sharing it with everyone I encounter.  Thank you for the sweet hugs, the silly laughter, the cuddles while watching Cinderella, the nicknames & the many, many princess videos on youtube and cell phone videos.

I know at two years old you can’t comprehend how much you are loved, how much you teach each one of us, or how blessed we are to have you as part of our lives, but I hope this letter serves as a reminder to you someday when you need it.  I am so enjoying this stage of your life, yet also look forward to watching you grow in maturity & intimacy with the Lord.  I am cheering you on, sweet Gracie girl.  No matter how near or far I am to you as you grow up, I will be rooting for you & praying for you.  You are so very, very special to me.

Love you so much,
B

seven.

Dear Kayson,

I’m late writing your birthday post this year.  I could give you lots of excuses, but instead I’ll just tell you the real reason.  Every time I sit down to write to you, my mind wanders to your future, and it scares the hell out of me.  Truth be told, if I could have kept you 4 years old forever, I probably would have.  The older you get, the less the grown ups who love you can control whether you are safe & healthy & innocent.  It’s hard to trust the Lord with you, but I know it is good.

This year I can’t help but wonder who you’ll be in the coming years that I know will fly by as quickly (if not more so) than the past seven.  I wonder if you’ll grow up to be a professional football player like you always say you will.  Then I wonder if you’ll get to high school and decide that maybe playing tuba in the band is a better fit for you.  Or maybe you’ll love reading and writing and write your first novel in junior high.  You have changed so much, so quickly thus far in your life that nothing would surprise me. I hope you know that whether you are the best football player ever or the squeakiest tuba in the marching band, you have an Aunt who could not be more proud of who you are.

I wonder if you’ll be safe.  I wonder if you’ll  break a bone or get a concussion playing football.  I wonder if you’ll always wear your seat belt when you start driving.  (you better, or else..)  I wonder if you’ll go through a rebellious phase and if you’ll let your Aunt love you through it when you do.  I hope you know that even if you do things I wish you wouldn’t or make mistakes you’ll wish you could take back, I will always be here to remind you to keep going.  That it’s never to late to push through and start over.  I hope you’ll trust me with the good things, but especially with the ugly things.  I hope you’ll know you have someone who isn’t Mom & Dad who will love you unconditionally and remind you how adorable and sweet and smart and talented and adored you are, no matter where life takes you.  I hope you’ll treat girls with respect and be the kind of loyal, honest friend everyone wants to have.  I hope you keep being the very best big brother.  Trust me, Aunt Bran wouldn’t be who she is if not for your Mommy.  Big siblings make a big difference, and you’re off to a great start!

I hope you take risks and succeed, but when you take risks and fail I hope it doesn’t scare you out of trying again.  I hope you learn to be grateful for each breath, for each new day & the opportunities it brings.  I hope your life is as messy as it is beautiful, and someday I hope you realize that the mess really is the beauty.

Most of all, sweet boy, I hope you really, truly love Jesus.  I pray this over your precious life every single day and I believe with my whole heart that He has great plans for you.

You make me so proud, Kayson William.  Being your Aunt is the best gift I have ever received.  Thank you for seven of the best years ever.

Love you to the moon & back,

Aunt Bran