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Octobers

The color was sweet. I felt it as much as I saw it—the way the amber notes wrapped around the light and painted a small vista of a sunrise. It reminded me of the leaves in October and the hours, days, and years of every October before it. The chrysanthemums are opening slowly, and they make me reminisce. They’re the color of life. The color of October.

This has always been my favorite time of year. Always. But today, I dread it. I walked through the store disappointed in the Halloween decorations, the lackluster decorative pumpkins, the fall foliage. Where the amber colors used to be a signal for a beautiful season, today it only reminds me of death. It only signals what I’m missing, what today means, how every October will never be the same. Especially today.

I’ve never wanted to skip ahead more than I do right now. I turn 35 this week, and I’ve never wanted to ignore a birthday more in my life. I’ve never wanted to pretend something isn’t happening more than right now. All I want is something that’s impossible—another day to hug my mom and tell her everything that has happened since she’s been gone. Her birthday is Wednesday and mine on Saturday. What I wouldn’t give for another minute. Just one more minute.

We’ve always shared this. I’ve always had her. Thirty-four years of shared moments and memories, and it feels like bone-deep sorrow to recognize that I won’t get another. All I want is one more.

I see how this grief is hard to look at. Losing someone we love is supposed to hurt, and this one hurts exponentially more everyday because the love was and is expansive. I say that to my kids all the time: we are so sad because we loved her so much. But it can be sharp, too. Like a glare from the sun that stings our eyes and makes us want to look away. It can be overwhelming and shocking, and it feels tortuous to face it. Other days it isn’t. Other days it looks like every other October.

I come back to writing because I don’t know what else to do with the pain. It just is. It’s an ache that dulls and heightens, rising and falling like the tides in the ocean. I write and I write with the hopes that something will return to normal, but it’s like everything has been broken apart. I’m picking up one piece at a time, trying to recognize it and put it back where it goes. But it won’t go back, because that’s what happens. The picture has changed. The puzzle pieces have been reconfigured, and I have to figure out a new place for each one to go. So I write and write, hoping to dull the edges and find what fits. Nothing fits. Nothing is normal because everything has changed. And I’m sitting surrounded by puzzle pieces I don’t recognize.

Years ago, I used to teach and remind people that we are meant to lament. The Bible is full of lamentations. David does this in Psalms. It is outrageously normal to grieve, question, and fall apart. It is biblical to feel sorrow. To weep.

And I hate that I understand David’s Psalms more than I ever have before. For three months, I’ve been reading his words. Again and again. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and the crushed in spirit. The Lord is a deliverer and redeemer. He hears me. He hears me. And at the same time I question Him. I ask Him why. I beg Him to comfort me. I weep and grasp for peace. I wrestle with what I don’t understand because grief does not follow any rules. It consumes and changes and exists, and it shatters so much of what I thought I knew. I hate that I understand the significance of grief. It is, dare I say, essential to the Christian faith. With it, I’ve uncovered my deepest need for God. Because of it, I will never be the same, and neither will my faith. It is like a thorn in my side, but now I understand—it is possible to live with the deepest ache, and it is possible for God to still be good.

So I look for the October colors anyway. Because I know I’ll find my mom there—in the chrysanthemums, the sunsets, the changing leaves. I know that life and joy will return as sure as a fall sunrise, and I know that even when I wish for the impossible, my deepest sadness is not ignored. I miss my mom today more than most days before. I miss the anticipation that used to come with her birthday and mine. I miss what was, and I miss who I was, too. So I look to God, who can miraculously bring radiance on dark days and nights. I look to God because I know I am not alone. In the warm, amber colors of October days, God is somehow deeply near and attentive.

I’m learning that God’s love is as persistent as grief. His love is consuming like heartache. His peace is a shelter with waves of sadness. Grief is familiar to Him like love because they are so similar. Grief is all the love bottled up that continues on after the ones we love are gone. It is ongoing love, and if my faith has taught me anything, it is that God’s love is just as ongoing.

And I am swimming in it, surrounded by love. It is the grief, changing and shifting with the seasons, developing into autumn hues and reminders of Octobers. This is the year I celebrate without you, Mom, and I don’t want to. I would rather skip ahead, but I know I don’t want that either. From here on out, I’ll see you in every October and every chrysanthemum and every fall. In every shade of amber. In every birthday.

And I’ll keep whispering to you, telling you about what you’ve missed, crying over memories I forgot existed. It’s just the ongoing love, and I’m so glad it keeps going. We miss you, more every day, often and persistently. But I’ll keep seeing you—in every October. In every sunrise and every sunset. Because October has always been ours, hasn’t it? It always will be.

It always will be.

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Enough Time

My alarm went off, and I wondered if I really needed to get up.

I love the morning, especially when it’s quiet, and no one is awake yet. Every year I love it more. Every year I get older and wake up earlier. Today it was 5:34 AM, just enough time to workout before my oldest needed to be on the bus. Enough time to breathe in the quiet before I heard the thunderous steps of my third born son (who will wake at 7 AM without fail). Enough time to write down the thoughts that plague me at 34, enough time to read a book, enough time to offer up a one-sentence prayer. I love the routine of it–this is what I’ve been doing for the last two years. Rising early so I have enough time.

I wondered this morning if I really needed to get up early, today of all days. It’s my 34th birthday, and I thought, if I should sleep in, today would be the day. I laid there thinking on it, pondering the different scenarios of how this morning could go if I stayed in bed. On mornings like this, when routine and discipline are not things I want to embrace, I know that I only have minutes before it will flee from my grasp. I will talk myself out of anything, and it will only take one thought in a matter of seconds for any resolve to crumble. Today I turn 34, and it would feel better to do something that helps me feel well. That’s the thought that made me drag myself from bed, change my clothes, venture to my basement workout area, and do a stupid workout. Something that helps me feel well.

Enough time.

I haven’t written a blog post in a long while. I forgot how much I loved this space, writing for the sake of art, and creating something out of nothing but words that make sense to me. I work in full-time ministry, love my family full-time, try to hug my husband at least once a day, have friends that remind me of the glory and love of God, not eat fast food every day, take a shower at regular intervals. You know, regular life things. Coming here is not top of mind nor has writing been something I’ve invested any time in for over two years. But I’m a sucker for sentimentality, and today I turn 34, so I would love nothing more than to write about it. Reflect on how enough time doesn’t seem to be a real thing anymore, especially when it falls through my fingers like sand and escapes my desperate grasp.

Time is so fickle.

I have these moments in my old age (I know, I’m not old, but I’ve never been this old before, you know what I mean?) when the moment I’m in draws me to a full stop. It feels like a secret is about to be released into the world, a knowing that the moment I’m in is one that I need to bookmark in my mind forever. The other night, my daughter was telling me about her day in school, and I felt the shift. I heard her and yet didn’t. I saw her face like I hadn’t seen it everyday for nearly seven years. Look at her. Look at how she has grown and changed and become. What a marvel that I get to witness it. And then it was over, like my fingers had snapped and my focus fell into place. It was a brief moment of wonder, a recognition that time will pass whether I’m paying attention or not. That my daughter is slowly but surely becoming.

The moment passed, our conversation (which was truly one-sided–she has so much to say sometimes that I never get a word in. I don’t mind.) continued, and my heart felt so full. Brimming to the top with the realization that this is a gift and a joy and a good, beautiful thing. This life of moments, realizations, and breaths is so quick and so slow, if I recognize it. It will continue passing like sand through my fingertips, but I’m realizing I don’t have to grasp it to love it, to enjoy it. The gift of this life is that so much can change in a short span of time. I can change. There was a time when I think my fingers were seeking purchase on every single grain of sand, aching for peace over every moment but failing to find it. My brow was often furrowed and my mind was reeling from trying incredibly hard to be enough at every moment because every moment didn’t seem like enough time.

Every moment counts, and I can’t grab every moment fast enough. Time is even more fickle when fear, worry, and anxiety are my closest friends.

But 34-year-old me has a little more wisdom. A stint of anxiety inked on her arm. A medal for making it through every worst day I’ve ever seen. I’m realizing what isn’t worth my time and celebrating the enough-ness of right now in this moment: I have enough time when I just let the grains fall.

And thank God.

When I’m not trying to cling to what I can’t hold onto, my arms don’t feel so heavy. When I’m not trying to grab every moment and make it enough, I realize I have what I need. I can let it flow through my hands and breathe with every moment, recognizing that I don’t hold everything together. It was like trying to build a sandcastle with dry sand, scurrying to push it all into place only to watch it fall. So silly, now that I look back. But she didn’t know. She was trying her best, and I’m wholly grateful that I am still learning that I don’t know it all.

There is and there isn’t enough time. I know that now, but I’m sure I’ll keep learning it each year around this time. As my kids grow, as I see them change day by day. As I grow and become, hopefully more like Jesus with every step and moment. As the numbers tick higher and my age keeps going up (that’s a funny thought). I have enough time because I am alive right now. That’s the gift of aging, existing, living. There’s enough because there’s still breath in my lungs. And when that recognition hits, the world freezes for a second. I see me, 34 and really, younger today than I ever will be again. Look at her. Look at how she has grown and changed and become. What a marvel that I get to live it. My focus snaps into place, and there is a brief moment of wonder.

It is all a gift. It is enough time. And I get to live it.

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Learning to Become

This morning, I was in line at a store waiting to purchase a cart full of supplies for my son’s tenth birthday. It doesn’t make sense that I have two kids with ages in the double digits, and I felt even more aware of this as I was surrounded by moms and their little kids. The toddlers and babies were noisy and a little chaotic, and I realized how quickly time slipped through my fingers. I got home, and I said to Evan, “There were so many babies and toddlers at the store.” And he said, “Do you remember when you used to do that? You used to take the kids to Target when they were little just for something to do.” How quickly the years passed when I didn’t quite notice it.

Yet I notice it. I notice it when I have an argument with one of my boys. The argument was about responsibilities and ended with a discussion on respect. It was messy, emotional, and frustrating. I walked away with my heart in knots because it all felt like a failure. My mind was buzzing, and I didn’t know what to do with this son that I love so deeply. How did we end up here when only a few years ago, we were taking weekly (daily) trips to Target and enjoying the simplicity (chaos) of toddlers and babies?

I sat on the edge of my son’s bed after some time had passed. The argument was fresh in my mind, and the feeling of defeat was fresh in my skin. But I looked at him, and I knew what it meant to love him. To want what is best for him. I remembered the squishy boy he was and the growing adolescent he is becoming, and the fury melted.

“This is hard, you know? It’s hard to be you today, at this moment, because every day you’re learning how to be you. And it’s hard for me, too. Because I’m learning how to be your mom every day. And I’m sorry that it’s hard sometimes and that we fight. I’m sorry that I couldn’t control my anger.”

In the last three years of living, I think the greatest thing I have allowed myself the grace to learn is that being a human is really hard. And raising humans who are learning how to be people is hard. I have allowed myself the grace to learn. This is not how I used to be. Something in my brain was wired in such a way that I believed that I should know. I should know how to do everything, how to be a mom, how to exist in love, how to forgive, how to face conflict, how to function as a human–but the truth is, I just don’t know. I don’t know everything. The pressure to live in perfection has deflated immensely as I have allowed myself the grace to be fully human, imperfect and filled with a lot of, “I don’t know how to do that yet, and I think that’s okay.”

I miss when my kids were babies. There are some days when they will specifically request to go through the pictures and videos on my phone of when they were little. It feels surreal in many ways. You don’t realize you are fighting to survive until you’ve literally made it to the other side, and that’s how I feel some days. Raising these kids has been so hard, was so hard, and has taken so much of me. I’m sure it will keep taking more, and my prayers have changed drastically. “Equip me for each of them, uniquely. Help me love them in the way they need. Show me how to be more like You. What am I doing? What should I do? How do I know if..?”

The years have slipped through my fingers, and I look down and wonder exactly at what moment things changed. The last time I picked them up. The last time we held hands to cross the street. The last time their fingers had dimples, and their cheeks held all my kisses. The change is bittersweet.

But then there are moments like yesterday, when my boy just needed to know he was loved. I hugged him, I told him how much I love to be his mom and to have him as my son. And the knots in my heart released. I remembered that we are learning so much together, so many hard things, so many new ways of being. That is precious, and I hope I am always awake to witness it.

It all slips through my fingers. May my prayers change from worries to surrender, from fear to praise. May these children become people who know a God who knew them first. May I continue to become. May there be oceans of grace for us to swim in, reminding us that it is okay to learn again and again.

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It’s Not All for Nothing

I was folding the laundry. It’s one of my favorite chores, unlike most people. I love how boring yet consistent it is: every week I will wash and fold the same clothes, and every week they will get dirty. If I can trust anything to be true it is this–my children will wear the same clothes, and I will have to wash them.

But as I was folding, I felt gratitude wash over me in a new way. Do you know what I mean? It was like seeing something beautiful for the first time. One of my favorite recent memories is when my husband and I took the train to the Grand Canyon. The anticipation of arriving and walking toward the outlook was palpable, and when we saw it, it felt like the breath in my lungs was renewed. Like before that moment, my eyes hadn’t quite seen real beauty before. Or the moment when I held my babies for the first time, and I looked at their sweet, tiny faces. It is like the world I knew split in two and a new horizon was created.

This time, however, it was laundry. I was sorting and folding and mindlessly doing, and it occurred to me that the air around me feels new. The days are changing. My mind is transformed into something else, and I am experiencing something new.

A little over a year ago, I walked into the dentist’s office with two of my boys and had a panic attack. Leading up to that moment, I was wracked with fear. I was absolutely certain that I was a fraud, that everything I wanted was impossible, and that I was destined to fail the life that God had given me. Maybe you know the same feeling of lying thoughts assaulting you in new ways. It was terrible. I was less than five miles from our home, and I couldn’t drive back. I couldn’t muster the courage or belief that I could be a good mom at that moment. So we parked in a parking lot while my husband came and picked us up, and I fell to pieces.

For most of this year, recalling that day has felt impossibly difficult. I don’t like the details of it. Admitting it happened felt like a failure in itself, but I began to learn that unspoken darkness has a firm grip and will not let go until you shine a light on it. Letting people in helped heal me. Our collective light exposed this dark thing that wasn’t so dark–it was just a painful version of myself that needed to be loved. She didn’t know how to love herself, so she panicked. Now I’m learning that she needed to know she was worthy of being here in the first place, surrounded by light and warmth. It’s work to stay in the light. It’s comfortable in the dark where no one sees any pain. But I am learning, daily, that discomfort is where life gets better.

Sorting through the clothes, folding them one by one, noticing the consistency of this one task that I do every week with surprising joy. Every day is a miracle, and I am realizing that believing in that miracle is one of the greatest gifts. Can I tell you the truth? I used to think needing a miracle meant you were weak, and weakness was not for women like me. Now? I am only better because I let myself be weak. I gave in to the miracle, and I found myself whole because a good God loves me. I am who I am because of Him. All of me, even the me that fell to pieces, is made whole and complete and loved because He miraculously brought me out of miry clay. Maybe you know what I mean.

The simplest things are the most joyful things because I am just not who I was. I am not how I was. And as I was doing my boring household chores, the weight of God’s grace felt heavy on me, like the pressure of being hugged deeply and knowingly. He knows all of me, and His love for me would fill every crack of the Grand Canyon to the top of those mountains, and it would still overflow. I am here and whole, and it is worth marking that, while I was folding laundry, I felt at peace.

I am currently counting down the days until I finish my Bachelor’s degree. I am counting the fruit of reading Scripture every day for the last year. I am seeing the transformation in my mind from terrified to cherished. I am witnessing God do absolute miracles for a weak girl like me and turn it all into strength. It’s not every day that while I’m folding laundry I drop the basket and run to my computer to testify to what God has done through a blog I’ve been writing on for six-ish years. But today? Today is that day.

Miracles on miracles. From grace to grace.

I’ll testify until the end of my life what God did in one year and believe that He is just getting started. What might seem like the end is just a beginning, believe me. What feels like terror and pain can become rescued and redeemed into a miraculous testament of God’s grace. I would know. I’m a walking miracle.

From weakness to strength, I find that the hardest moments are what we need to become who we are supposed to be. May you be made whole by what breaks you in half. May you find that what caused you to fall becomes the catalyst for everything you were destined for. It’s not all for nothing. It’s all for something. And for me, that means everything.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness

I know it doesn’t make much sense.

Someone reflected back to me last week that it is true–I have been holding onto the hem of Jesus’ cloak, following Him amicably, grumpily, begrudgingly for 18 years. The number doesn’t make sense. Over half of my life has been spent following a God I cannot see, believing in a Savior whose story is acknowledged by most people, believer or not. Eighteen years of life. It’s come to the point where the line between before and after has blurred, and I just don’t know that I really remember who I was without Him.

I know. It doesn’t make much sense.

It’s been eleven months since I’ve written a blog post, even more since I truly considered myself a “blogger”. The Internet and social media just keeps changing, and now I’m 75 minutes deep in Reels before I realize what has happened. It’s all a distraction, you know? It sucks me in like a good book but without any meat, without any nourishment for my soul. Instead I’m left wondering, “Why doesn’t my life look like that?”, and thus begins a down spiral of doubt. It shouldn’t leave you wondering why I don’t blog anymore, why I don’t share every photo I take of my kids, why I post less and less frequently. I would rather be sucked into the eyes of my four-, six-, eight-, or nine-year-old. I would rather laugh uncontrollably with my husband, who, daily, is the greatest joy of my life. There is too much rich joy to be had in life playing out before my eyes for me to share every second with you, whoever you are.

In these eleven months, I’ve been shattered and rebuilt. I still don’t want to talk about it, let alone write about it. It is true what the Word says about God pruning us, ridding us of that which does not produce fruit. It’s true. The removal and regrowth is just as painful as it sounds, and it changed everything for me. Everything. I found Jesus again and again, and finally, I let Him have me. To be restored from the pit, to be lifted from the miry clay, to be transformed more and more into His image is a painful gift that I didn’t want yet desperately needed.

Eighteen years is what it took.

Eighteen years, and I finally agreed that I couldn’t do it on my own. I couldn’t follow a God I couldn’t see in my own power. I couldn’t believe in Jesus without welcoming Him and all His people into my life. I couldn’t muster the strength to continue anymore without falling completely and totally at His mercy. So I did. Crumpled in a heap, a mess of pain, waiting to be gathered into His arms. So I was. It took a long time to find my way back to my feet again.

It doesn’t make much sense how God works. I write blog posts like these ones, interlaced with Scripture if you can catch it, and find ways to tell my story that are weaved with His heart in mine. It isn’t all beautiful and melodic like I can write it out to be. It is often filled with journals upon journals of anguish and lament, wondering why God would allow pain in my heart, why my brain cannot quite catch up with the truth. I crawled to Him daily before I could walk in any type of strength. Let me tell you–He will have you anyway you can get to Him. Whether you are cut off at the knees, crippled, unable to move. He will take you. He will gather you up. He will reach out to you if you can’t reach out to Him. He is kind like that. I know because He did it for me.

I asked God today to remind me. To tell me again how good He has been. Do you know how often I forget? Eighteen years have passed, and still I linger in my questioning instead of resting in His promise. I asked Him to show me again. To remind me of just yesterday when I was singing a song, and I saw Him hugging me like a daddy hugs his kid. To keep reminding me. How faithful You have always been! Even when I am not. Even when I am barely making it to You.

It doesn’t make sense, and I think that is a great gift.

The faithfulness of God does not need to make sense for it to be true. If it did, our faith would rely on what we can see, and that isn’t faith at all.

Eleven months. Eighteen years. Time passes, and He is faithful still. Thank You, Jesus.

10 Day Reflection: Better Than It Seems

Tiny footsteps thumped through the house the other morning when the first snowfall of the year arrived. “MOM! It’s SNOWING!” she yelled from the kitchen. Mind you, I was still in bed. But I couldn’t help but jump out to join her, standing at the back door watching the blanket fall to the ground.

I forgot how magical it is to have a three-year-old at Christmas. When my last boy was three, we were in the thick of a lot of things with toddlers and having three young boys so close in age. I don’t remember much from that time because I was really just trying to survive. Our girl is bringing it back to me: the magic and wonder of the changing seasons and the beauty of a time like this one.

So this morning, when the snow was falling, I peaked out my door to ask Rosie if she saw the snow. I think I might have been more excited than she was, only because I love to see the joy on her face. She loves every bit of this time, squeezing as much joy out of every moment until it’s dry. It’s how she goes about life: fully and completely experiencing what she loves with unhindered joy. Such freedom.

Oh to be a child again, right?

Mine have been teaching me that everything is better than it seems. Really.

They just aren’t worried at all, you know? I get worried so easily. I’ll toss and turn in bed at night while my mind spins thinking about all the things. Often it will spin until I write down everything I’m thinking. The things I worry about never come to pass most of the time. The result is less joy, less freedom. Being an adult seemed better when I was 14 and dreaming about the future.

Today I am grateful for time and the ridiculous amounts of it I have been able to spend with my kids this year. More than ever and more than planned. Some days I don’t feel that way. Some days they drive me mad, either angry or crazy. Just thankful and wouldn’t have it any other way.

The snow is falling today, and I am just so happy to see it.

10 Day Reflection: A Sorrowful View

My oldest loves the game Guess Who. Let’s be real: I love Guess Who. I used to go to a neighbor’s house as a kid, go down to her basement, and specifically request to play Guess Who. Back when commercials were still part of our daily TV viewing, I remember seeing the commercial for the game, thinking it looked out-of-this-world amazing.

Yet, whenever my oldest asks me to play Guess Who, it feels like it is always the worst time. The most inconvenient time. Or I’m exhausted and can’t imagine trying to play a game after a long day. He asks in expectation. More often than I want to admit, I say no. A game we both love.

The thing about being human is that disappointment is unavoidable. Whether we’re disappointed in others or disappointing others, we’re just not great at holding up our end of the bargain. It doesn’t mean we aren’t good. It means we aren’t perfect, and that’s okay. If we’re reaching to please everyone we know, we’ll be left burned out and frustrated that we failed (because we inevitably will).

The thing about God is that He is not like us. I think about the many criticisms laid against the Church, and it’s clear that they are criticisms of Its people. We have not done well to show the world what Jesus is like. Instead, we’ve shown them a washed down version of Him, a one-upping of ourselves that is based on a desire to please rather than a desire to love.

I laid in bed last night thinking about this. The disappointment. The sorrow of trusting humanity to fulfill our need and desire for purpose. We’ve seen pastors and leaders fall rapidly to their own disappointing faults, and we’ve seen all of us criticize each other. It’s what we’re best at. That, alongside criticizing the world, the government, our neighbors, ourselves, etc. In a world like this one, and often in a Church like the one we see now, disappointment and criticism go hand-in-hand.

While I never sought out to disappoint my oldest son because I didn’t want to play a board game, I did anyway. It doesn’t mean I’m a bad mom. Not in the slightest. It does mean I’m human, and falling short when it comes to the expectations of others is just part of the gig. I’ll make it up to my son because I love him.

This differs greatly from God. It is not possible for Him to disappoint us. It is not possible for Him to fail us or fall short when it comes to our expectations of Him. If He does, we’re not trusting, loving, relying on, or following God. We’re following our own idea of Him.

When we read the Bible, it’s full of stories of humanity interacting with a holy God. Never once does God fail. Humanity does. It’s our calling card. Even the most revered characters in the Bible are huge failures in multiple areas of their life. David is known for slaying a giant, but he also raped a woman and killed her husband (2 Samuel 11). Paul spread the Gospel far and wide, but he also persecuted and slaughtered Christians in the name of the Law (Acts 9).

You know who changes absolutely everything for us? Jesus. His work redeems us from our failings, our unavoidable disappointments. While following Him doesn’t mean we never make a mistake again, it does mean we have a higher standard to live up to.

God does not disappoint. People disappoint. It’s a remarkable difference.

The standard of our humility is on trial here. It is a sorrowful view when a person who leads us doesn’t have the wherewithal to recognize their inability to please each and every one of us. The sorrow snakes throughout the Church when we put our faith in people and not in an unfailing Creator. The sorrow leaks out and taints our witness. What should always be a reflection of Jesus quickly becomes a reflection of an ever-disappointing viewpoint of us.

Phew. It’s worth mentioning that we are not inherently bad. We were made to be good. It’s written in the first few words of the Word, and it’s written in the first few moments of our life. Our nature is a broken one, but at our core, we are good and worthy of being good. Disappointment doesn’t have to be our calling card or even our bloodline. Redemption can be. Humility should be. Love must be.

From beneath the surface, everything looks like sorrow. The view is coated in stains. But above the water, above the murky and suffocating nature, is real beauty. Real glory and freedom. We could rest in our disappointment, of ourselves and others. But I would rather now. We can’t forget the God who loved us first, loves us each second, loves us til the end.

He remembers his covenant forever, the promise he made, for a thousand generations…for great is the Lord and most worthy of praise; he is to be feared above all gods. For all the gods of the nations are idols, but the Lord made the heavens. Splendor and majesty are before him; strength and joy are in his dwelling place.

David, 1 Chronicles 16:15, 25-27