Mom Musings – 50+ Musings

On Being A Daughter

Published on May 9, 2022 by Hope Webster1 Comment

It took every spec of courage I had plus several hits on the snooze button to get out of bed and face this day. Don’t get me wrong. I had a sincerely good mom and I have incredibly awesome kids. It’s just that Mother’s Day can be loaded on both sides of the equation once you get past the stage where your kids plaster your refrigerator in homemade love notes with dyslexic letters and you all begin to see each other more three dimensionally.

That foundational connection between mom and daughter, the one where a child learns what it means to be human, before realizing they’re in the classroom of life, it leaves an indelible tattoo on the persons we become and that tattoo is always some kind of ugly-beautiful.

My mom wasn’t a perfect mother and I was not a perfect daughter.
I’m not a perfect mama and I don’t have perfect kids.
And, according to everything I understand about christian doctrine, the same holds true beyond the borders of my family tree.

Our lives, amalgamated together resemble the categories of Shakespearean theater. There’s a whole lot of history with a unique blend of comedy and tragedy. Plot lines from generations of stories all being lived out on the stage of our family relationships.

I wish life was like my daughter’s math curriculum. When she gets a failing grade on a lesson, I can delete it online and she can give it another try.
I wish we got second chances to work through the rough patches in our parent-child relationships.
I wish we could tap into that innate curiosity to understand our parent’s stories before it’s too late to ask.
I wish we could lean into the paradox of both the beauty and the broken in our family bonds emulating something of the grace we have ourselves received.
I wish we could know what we know after we lose a parent beforehand.

Last year, leading up to that second Sunday in May, I was in a puddle of tears. There’d been so much transition in the annum prior, a reconfiguring of my daily rhythms and a new quietness I was still learning to appreciate. In the hush, I found myself barraged by shame and grief over my failures and missteps as a daughter and a mother. One day, I ugly cried to my spiritual director, unloading the burdens I carried on my aching back. She encouraged me to write a letter to my mom, drive myself to the cemetery and read it to her. So I did.
Here’s what I told her:

Dear Mom,
You were born 101 years ago today. I’m glad you were. You brought much good to my world by being you. I want you to know that I noticed how hard you tried, how resourcefully and creatively you problem solved, how perseveringly you navigated a disappointing marriage, how hard you worked and how generously you shared. It was from you I learned hospitality. You taught me to be intentional about pursuing friendships. Thank you for putting feet to vision and determination, for teaching me by example that I can do a great many things if I don’t give up. I’m grateful that it was your priority that I grow in the wisdom and knowledge of Jesus Christ. Thank you for making sure we attended church, for my Christian education, for praying with and for me every night. I value music because you did and it has enriched my life. I shop thriftily because you taught me how. I’ve walked a million miles because you walked the first 10,000 with me.

Ours has been a difficult relational journey. While individuating is a natural part of growing up, the process was deeply disruptive for us. I imagine it must have been confusing to you to see our relationship dismantle and I couldn’t understand or explain what was happening inside of me but I assure you it was also extremely painful. Now, I understand better why I put up barriers, why I viscerally needed space. I’m just so sad that I got stuck there– that I wasn’t able to proactively contribute to relational repair. Now, I know experientially as a mother what it’s like to love profoundly and to cause great hurt simultaneously. We’ve lived a messy love. All of us. From one generation to the next.

I’m sorry that injustice, betrayal, abuse, poverty, alcoholism and marital friction were written into your childhood story and though that’s all long before my time, I’m sad that trauma remained an unwelcome and toxic companion all your lifelong journey. If I never put it into words before, I want to acknowledge that you experienced things no child should endure, that you were not to blame for and the consequent burdens you carried the best you knew how. Well done!

I’m sorry for the times I shut you out, unable to receive your sincere care and concern.
I’m sorry for my lack of compassion regarding worries you felt for me. I know what that’s like from the other side now.
I’m sorry for the times I ignored your wisdom when you spoke into life altering choices I was making.
I’m sorry that I was so focused on myself that I failed to see you, know you and love you one adult to another.
I’m sorry that I chose a favorite parent and it wasn’t you. That had to be excruciatingly painful, especially when your investment in me growing up was so much more intentional.
I’m sorry for all of the opportunities squandered, the shared laughter quieted, the healing words and touch not expressed.
I’m sorry for my prideful disregard when your health failed and you needed to leave your beloved home.
I’m sorry that I ended up moving 1000 miles away when you and dad needed the most care.
I’m sorry I wasn’t holding your hand when you when you transitioned from this world to eternal life.

God made you my mom, through a series of surprise mercies. You loved me sincerely and served me lavishly. You journeyed alongside me faithfully on this hard and often pretty one-sided calling. I’m grateful for you! I know you were the right mom– the best mom- for me. If I got a do-over, I’d speak these word humbly face to face. There’d be tears and a long hug.

I’m looking forward to meeting you in heaven, to seeing who you are now that you’ve been healed from shame and fear and have experienced protective, unconditional, holy love. I’m looking forward to how God will heal me too, and how we will reunite then and there. I’m looking forward to that hug.
I love you, Dolly

It was not easy to drag myself out from under the covers this morning. But I did. And I put one foot in front of the other and walked straight to that little college, where my husband and I shared life with our daughters in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment for eleven summers. We owned that campus, and there, we lived life to the full. I circled the road that runs around its periphery several times pedestrian style, pulling up memories to match every square inch of space and offered them up with gratitude to God. Then, I went back with the kids for a picnic on the big hill later that day. We immortalized the moment with a picture in the tree, that tree, the one we always took a picture in.

Then we went dumpster diving because my son loves to do that. He climbed right into a gigantic trash container at another college campus down the road, one where the students had disposed of their throw aways from the year and gone home for summer vacation. Some of the trash was absolutely rancid, but in that dumpster was brand new stuff too, good stuff, even great stuff. “SCORE!”, he said with a broad smile across his face when he climbed out and eyed his loot scattered on the grass nearby.

Life is like that… To be a mom and to be a daughter, you’ve got to be willing to climb into the dumpster and sort through the garbage to find the treasure. It’s there! You’ll get kinda dirty in the process but you’ll find fresh, new mercies in the mix. And for today, they’ll be enough.

What’s so great about Kindermusik?

Published on January 10, 2022January 11, 2022 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

At the dawn of the new year, I’m reflecting back and hoping forward. January is an invitation to rehearse the past and I find myself musing about the experiences that I’d repeat if I got a do-over and the ones I’d drive by and wave at second time around. It also invites me to imagine the potential of an even more generative future.

I’ve hit the bullseye of my fifties now and in the seasons of a life story, the chlorophyll is breaking down and I’m starting to blush. Some call the fifties a decade of depth because you’ve lived enough of your story to see a plot line, to recognize what you love and how you tick, to know what makes you feel most alive. The last quarter century of my story has been primarily invested in answering to “Mama”, with all of its rights, privileges and responsibilities, but another title I’ve cherished is “Miss Hope”. That’s the name all of my Kindermusik families call me.

I first connected with Kindermusik about 25 years back. I sat in a circle with my baby girl on my lap. We shook our bells together way up high, then way down low, really, really fast and then oh, so slow. I was a first time mom, and in love. Determined to do my best for my own little Angel. Kindermusik reeled me in from the first 45 minute class— the music, the instruments, the rituals, the cuddles, the vocal and imaginary play- the whole shared experience was absolutely delightful!

It wasn’t long until I trained to be a licensed instructor and that’s when I began to fully appreciate the method behind the masterfully written curriculums. Kindermusik uses a Montessori play based developmental educational model that supports maximum freedom in a prepared environment. Music is the medium by which young children learn to flex their brain muscles, building auditory processing skills, promoting memory, strengthening the executive function of the brain and increasing neural connections. Every Kindermusik class features a fun theme that integrates developmentally appropriate musical skills, fine and whole body movement, sensory awareness activities as well as language and literacy components. It sounds like work but it feels like magic!

As a mom and as an instructor, I’ve taken countless spectacular imaginary adventures inside the walls of a Kindermusik studio to exciting destinations like the park, the sea and the farm. We’ve travelled in pretend boats, cars, airplanes and taken leisurely walks splashing in mud puddles only to come back home for our make-believe bath. And it all happens while we sing and play with simple rhythm instruments and props. We practice in class what families can take-home and integrate it into their daily routines.

These days, I’m in a new classroom, working toward an advanced degree in psychology. I’m learning that the most compelling research on relational flourishing unequivocally points the direction of the formative experiences in the the earliest months and years of child’s story, even before they possess explicit memory or verbal language capabilities. Attunement from primary caregivers to their babies and toddlers lays the foundation for healthy attachment patterns over a lifetime.

Attunement occurs when we parents are emotionally available to our children and responsive to their needs, not perfectly but reliably. When we learn to read and understand their cues, to react with engagement to their expressions, to repair relational ruptures when they occur and to touch them affectionately. Then, they feel safe, seen and soothed, which wires their brains to recognize emotionally healthy bonds.

And that’s what I love best about Kindermusik. By design, the entire class focuses on attunement between young children and the ones they love best. Big and little people drop their coats, purses, shoes and most importantly phones at the door. We sit in a circle and sing hello to every single friend in the room. Then, mommies looking lovingly into their babies eyes, massage their arms and bicycle their legs. Tiny kiddos giggle as their daddies give them a playful tickle. Nannies imitate their little buddies playing sticks or bells or egg shakers. Grandmas find the most comforting way to rock or cuddle as their grandchild snuggles in close. Grandpas make silly sounds in a mirror as their grandkids look on with fascination. Favoritest big people clap, rub, pat, hug, bounce, jump and run playfully with their toddlers. And sometimes babies cry, so mommies soothe them or toddlers get upset because it’s time to put instruments away and daddies distract them. During class, there are moments of holding our children close and times designated to let go. Just like life, kids go exploring but they need to know you’re there to run back to for a hug, an ear, a smile or a secure place to land.

In a world where feeling safe, soothed and seen mostly seems out of reach, Kindermusik connects people. Regardless of our age or stage, in Kindermusik we look at each other affectionately, we touch one another gently, and in those moments, we know we are safe together.

The sparkly, white, swollen snowflakes are dancing around outside my Michigan window reminding me that the new year is bursting with possibilities yet to be discovered, but I have a good history too, years and decades of partnering with hundreds of families like mine, who live a better, more bonded story because of Kindermusik. And for that privilege, I just feel really, really grateful.

Past posts I’ve written about music, brain development and bonding:

Mom’s Voice Is Best

Living TV Free

Sending a shout out to the fantastic Maestro Kindermusik programs I’ve been privileged to be a part: Kindermusik of Rockford with Carol Hillman, Miss Lisa’s Music with Lisa Muratore and Kindermusik by Purple Nest with Molly Pieroni.

Learning To Let You Go

Published on June 28, 2021June 28, 2021 by Hope Webster1 Comment

June 22^nd2021 my email box dinged with an official letter from Governor Gretchen Whittmer declaring it Mask Emancipation Day in Michigan. “Today is a day that we have all been waiting for, as we can safely get back to normal day-to-day activities and move forward together,” she said.

I have absolutely no idea to what extent wearing masks was effective for containing the germ or necessary for reducing the spread of COVID, but this I do know. My Lily, she donned her Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) hundreds, probably thousands of times, before entering COVID positive patients rooms to treat their illness. But even with her most vigilant care, she watched helplessly as one after another of her patients died. So, I wore my mask for Lily– to recognize her care, to acknowledge her trauma and to honor the value of the lives that were cut short by this superbug.

This coming out of sorts– returning to some kind of normal- on the other side of the COVID crisis- begs the question, “What is normal anymore?“

Is it normal to dispute whether or not violence is taking place when we watch one human being use his body to apply pressure to the windpipe of another, at the very least, contributing to death?

Is it normal for people to take out their communal frustrations by setting police cars on fire? Vandalizing and looting private businesses? Or storming the nation’s capital building?

Is it normal for neighbors and friends to put up relational fences between each other because they didn’t choose the same political candidate or agree about social distancing?

Is it normal for Christians to claim they’d be willing to die for the love of Jesus but refuse to wear a mask for the love of their neighbor?

Will it be normal, going forward, for the government to randomly pay its citizens hard, cold cash to bolster the economy and if so, where will that money come from?

Will standard practice for car purchases require preorders due to manufacturing shortages? And will binge buying toilet paper for fear of future scarcity continue to be a thing?

Will bidding wars and multiple offers for tens of thousand of dollars over the asking price be the new norm for the real estate market? And will it really continue to cost at least 200K for a 2 bedroom fixer upper in Hometown, USA?

Will restaurants operate with reduced seating and limited menus due to staff shortages for the foreseeable future? And will Chick Fil A provide only carry out dining forever?

Will the new normal include livestreaming church on Sunday morning in your cozy jammies?

And mass online education?

Will weddings trend toward small, simple celebrations?

Will social anxiety become status quo for children turning adults because of the trauma they’ve experienced connected to COVID isolation?

And, the most pressing question of all just might be, what’s normal about 3 people at a dinner table that’s designed to seat at least 6?

I miss what isn’t anymore…and I don’t want this normal!

And I definitely don’t want the normal of a table set for 3 turning into 2, which is what I have to anticipate.

For sure, the family wedding and condo purchase in 2020 were significant events in my story but the struggle is less about where the girls now sleep at night or how many open beds I’ve got at my house and more about the morphing roles and relationships connected with the messy middle of their individuating and my letting go.

Mamas experience this process differently than their kids do. My kids are mostly focused on beginnings and all of the options that their card carrying adult status offers them, but for me, something I value is ending or at the very least changing significantly and transition comes hard. My default is always to fret and forecast the worst. Relational clouds with heavy rains– forever. That’s the superhighway my neural connections self-drive. But here’s an idea. What if as soon as I recognize the road I’m on, I interrupt the automatic GPS guidance system in my brain with self-regulating deep breaths, I apply the brakes, flip on the turn signal and exit onto scenic highway M22 where the extended forecast reads mostly sunny and 75?

What if rather than fixating on our relational barriers, misunderstandings and disagreements, my attention pivots toward creating artifacts of beauty between us, one adult to another? And what if I lived into that vision with courage and confidence and hope? That’s a relationally life giving paradigm shift! What if I can learn to receive their hurts about the ways I have harmed them without being sucked into a vortex of self-abasement? What if I humbly listen to their perceptions of where I got things wrong without grasping for immediate repair? What if I just own my sin and mistakes as their mom and rest in the confidence that God can and will companion them in their process? What if I entrust their present and future to Him and release all claims on how He will write their story and what kind of role I will play in it? And what if I embrace the beautiful moments of common and profound connection between us as a gift without the greedy expectation that they all should be beautiful?

This past year everybody’s been travelling on a pioneer path shaped by a worldwide pandemic and I’ve been on a steep personal learning curve of my own.

In grad school, I’ve been learning about theology and counseling and the beautifully complex interconnections between the spirit, the brain and the body.

At my job at the hospital I’m learning about the resiliency and fragility we hold in our bodies and how to contribute to a care giving team.

But the journey of discovery that been most compelling to me, is watching my girls increasingly grow into their own unique identities and supporting them on those journeys. And in that process, I’m learning to let them go….

How Do You Know When You’re Who You Are Becoming?

Published on August 11, 2020August 11, 2020 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

“Every daughter needs to see how life can wrinkle you and this is what makes you beautiful….We are connected to one another—mothers who have quietly grown the bones of their daughters’ spine so she can walk honest and brave, mothers whose own blood runs like a river through their daughter, so she can live open, fluid and willing…..What kind of lives would our daughters live because they did life with us?”
–Ann Voskamp

Last weekend, we drove across the Mackinac bridge, windows down, happy songs blaring over Spotify.
On our way to our second annual camping vacation in the UP.
I’m not a camper! Never did it growing up and didn’t like it as a twenty-something.
So much dirt.
The ground’s a terrible mattress.
Yicky bathrooms.
A bunch of junk food.
Besides, once I loaded up all those Rubbermaid bins down south, and carted them back up north for 13 summers switching it back again in August on the return trip to Texas, I felt like our little 2 bedroom apartment on a small college campus with the big hill and the apple orchard next door was camp-like enough.

But times change and I’ve learned some things..
Like how to scope out and secure a premium campsite on the DNR website thanks to my friend Lesley.
And a bunch of my camping veteran buddies, they’ve got the goods and are generous to share.
Then I discovered hiking. Sleeping Bear Dunes was my inaugural expedition and since then, I’ve climbed the wee hills of Scotland, the red rocks of Arizona, the Colorado Rockies, the Grand Canyon, the California coast, Algonquin Park in Canada and last weekend, Pictured Rocks.

We took a kind-of-hike at Tahquamenon Falls too.
I’ve been there before.
25 years ago, I carried my first little sweetheart on my hip. She was almost ready to take her first step. Now, look at her…

Since then, God’s written lots of other little people into my story. Big people too.
My wrinkles, they’re evidence I’ve put on the miles. While I’ve resisted their beauty, they prove that I’ve smiled wide, worried hard and cried all squinchy-faced. I guess I’ve lived and loved a pretty typical life.
My gig hasn’t been glamorous. There’s been a lot of peanut butter toast, after dinner dishes, bathroom cleaning, tidying up messes and read alouds.
Living open, fluid and willing, that’s part of the official “mom” job description.
The blood, sweat and tears, they’re mostly over this cluster of people that I’ve held in my arms and close to my heart.

I look at my tribe and see them walk brave in their stories.
I watch them try to step forward as honestly as they can on their journey of self-discovery.
I ask myself, what kind of lives will my kids, my husband, my tribe, my circle of influence live because God wrote me into their stories.

Honestly, on this birthday, I’m feeling pretty lost. I resonate with the melancholy ballad I hear playing softly on my Bluetooth speaker,
“Fast and slow we’re circling the sun,
And how do you know when you’re who you’ve been becoming?”
(Purple Horizons, Canyon City)
But this gift of life, the years, the experiences, the growth, it’s been bought and paid for, the price tag exponentially beyond my capacity to reimburse. The “debt-free” receipt serves as my compass to guide me through the forest when all I can see is trees.
So much feels uncertain on my expedition, but not this– That the mercies of God past, present and future are fresh and new every morning. Somehow, always enough.

And so, as I blow out the 9 candles on my Ryke’s cake, 5 for the tens and 4 for the ones,
I turn the page to chapter 54 resolved to journey well through its pages.
My compass is in hand. I’m travelling due north.

Sandy Pony, Mama Robin and the Velveteen Rabbit

Published on July 27, 2020July 27, 2020 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

“Due to a national coin shortage, self-check out aisles are limited to credit and debit card transactions only.” That’s what the orange signs posted near the registers said. “You’ve got to be kidding!” I mumbled under my breath. Sigh. Frown. At least nobody can see my pouty expression under the mask. I begrudgingly made my way to aisle 16, the shortest line in the store. Still, a couple of customers with overflowing carts stood in front of me.

Call me a grazer. I go to Meijer almost daily for my supply of items to sustain us through the next 24+ hours and I almost always pay with cash right out of my envelope marked “Living Expenses”.

I love Meijer! I grew up walking a mile each way with my mama for groceries. Coming home was the workout, a bag in each hand. And when the weather was cold or rainy, we’d take the bus. When I turned into a mama, we drove to Meijer instead. I buckled my littles in the cart seat and we made a bee line directly for the donuts. They munched and chattered while I shopped. Right in front of our favorite cashier, Selma’s lane, Sandy the pony was plugged into the electrical outlet waiting to be fed a penny and give little boys and girls a bouncy ride. We were religious about riding on Sandy. No Meijer trip was legit without Sandy’s bumpy blessing. let them be little 112 copy

As I impatiently waited for my turn to buy groceries, I spotted another sign, straight ahead of my lane. “Sandy is resting in her stable. She can’t wait until she can see you again.”
“Wait, not Sandy too. If you have to take away self check, fine, but don’t take away Sandy!” I conversed silently with myself. And, at that moment, I wished my mask covered my eyes too because they both started swelling like a dam about to break. You see, Sandy isn’t just a mechanical penny eater, when I walk past Sandy, somehow, for just a split second, my girls become little again. I hear their carefree giggles and watch their innocent delight. Sandy represents a time when “I Love you Mommy” cards with wobbly handwriting and stick figure artistry were as regular as the daily mail. When long cuddles in an oversized chair reading a pile of picture books together was routine. When a “bed-night” drink of cold water was always set on my night stand to make sure I didn’t ever get thirsty. When love was simply given and received without barriers.
And now, Sandy is gone.
_______________________

Just before my very own Robyn donned her white dress and spoke her forever vows, I noticed mama Robin noisily hovering near the deck as I watered my baby annuals. I walked down the hill to the porch swing to peer up into the underside of the rafters looking for a nest. Every year, she’s built one. And sure enough, like me, she’d been busy about her work. I peeked through the deck boards right near the pot of zinnias and saw 3 blue eggs safely tucked inside mama’s carefully crafted home. After that, I kind of forgot about mama Robin until I spotted her nest, lying disheveled in a pile of stones, dislodged from its shelter after a blustery storm. There were no blue eggs and I hoped, by some miracle, her babies had hatched and fledged prematurely. Then, I found one of those eggs lying a few hundred yards away in my sunflower garden.
My sad-o-meter registered high. That mama, she did her best to provide a safe, healthy environment for her babies to thrive but failed. I’ve been there and done that too.

Thankfully, both robin and human mamas possess resiliency by design. And a few weeks later when I peeked up into her nesting corner, I saw a brand-spanking-new nest. And when I squinted down through the deck boards, I saw 3 new blue eggs. Inspired by her determination, I’ve followed the progress of her nurturing every day since. A little over a week ago, I saw 2 baby robins, their tiny featherless chests rapidly rising and falling like they’d just run a marathon. Most of the time, though, they sleep peacefully, laying belly up, in the most vulnerable position possible, beaks wide open waiting for mama to provide everything they need to survive, trusting her to take care of them. And she does.

They’re getting close to fledging now, their swelling bodies squeezing over the edges of the nest. So I googled what’s to be expected next in their rite of passage. Apparently, when a young robin first jumps out of its family home, it can’t actually fly so it tumbles to the ground where mama hovers close for a few more weeks helping it to stay out of harm’s way, teaching it about the dangers of life outside the nest and showing it how to forage for itself. But even with a nurturing mother, only about 25% of hatched robins make it through their first November. And once they fly off on their own, mama can’t watch over them anymore. Not that one or this one either.
They might break a wing, mastering their technique.
Fly to close to a car or a cat or straight into a closed window.
They could inadvertently ingest pesticides or chemical pollution.
Or just end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But if the young bird survives, she might be next year’s nest builder, next year’s resilient caregiver. Next year, she might even come back to the very same deck to make a home for her babies, just like her mama.
__________________________

DSCN2797 DSCN0118 Our family stuffed animal collection numbers in the hundreds. All the second tier friends live in the gigantic bean bag chair I sewed for them at least a decade ago, but the girls besties are Choco and Oreo, Ethan, the blue owl, and Mr. Bear and Mrs. Bear. When our biggest little girl was three, she left Mr. Bear in the dugouts at a park one summer evening while we were taking a family walk. That night, bedtime felt like a life altering catastrophe on par with COVID 19. Daddy drove back to the park with a flashlight and retrieved Mr. Bear, brought him home, and tucked him under his baby girl’s tear soaked pajama arm. Mr. Bear’s been through it all. He’s known every place she’s called home. Heard each of her bedtime stories, songs and conversations. He’s watched her smile and felt her tears. His clothes are thread bare so we dressed him in a new outfit to keep the stuffing inside, but honestly, he’s a lot like the Rabbit in Margery William’s famous children’s story. Worn down by love. And so am I.

Maybe that’s why I resonate with Christa Wells song, Velveteen. It tells my story too.
Love spoke my name and I felt life run through me.
Reborn in the flame. Nothing can undo me.
Shadow and light, I learned to let them find me.
Coming alive, feels a lot like dying.

So if my beauty starts to fade, well, I’ve been held in a thousand ways.
And if my heart looks broken in, then I’ve been brave enough to live.
If perfect turns to perfect mess and all Your love is all that’s left.
I’m as real as real can be.
Call me Velveteen.
________________________

Chapter 53’s had a lot of plot twists.
Transition. It’s hard.
And confusing. I don’t know if I fit or where I fit or how I fit. Into anything.
And I’m grieving what isn’t anymore. And disillusioned by what is.
It’s been a quarter of a century that the primary work experience on my resume reads mothering. I’m not even sure what else I’m good at and depending on the day, my kids’ gold star rating would rank pretty low for that.

Going into Chapter 54, feels like a plot hole. I can’t see the path to what’s next. Not yet. I don’t know if I’ve already lived through the climax of my story but I do know that where I’m at now feels a lot more like a reversal than resolution.

I read through an old journal the other night, and glimpsed another time when self-doubt derailed me. In it, I confessed to my mentor, “I don’t feel like I have what it takes.” And she responded matter-a-factly, “You don’t.”
Then she paused, placed her hand over mine, looked at me with incredible compassion and continued, “But God does and He will help you.”
And that timeless blessing applies to every chapter.
Including each page written in 53, all of the ones still blank for 54 and right straight through to the end of my story. DSCF4955

PS: Tonight, when I got down on all fours, peered through the deck boards, derriere pointed toward heaven, mama robin’s nest was empty. The young birds are one step closer to their own great adventure and mama’s “cheerio”-ing them on.

Mama’s Brag Book

Published on June 21, 2020 by Hope Webster2 Comments

I don’t think it’s a thing anymore but when I was a baby, my mom had a brag book. The words were engraved right on the hard cover with square slots for pictures with white borders around them tucked inside plastic sleeves.

A brag book might sound kind of arrogant these days, but it’s not. From the moment the 2 lines on a pregnancy test turn pink until the birthday celebrating your kid’s legal emancipation and beyond, both of you, separately and together are living a seismic adventure. And if you survive with your sanity reasonably intact and a digital album of the golden-most moments to scroll through on your iphone, call it a big win.

I’m super proud of my kids. I admit it. The ones I birthed and the one God added through the bond of love. They’re in-process, for sure, but then, so am I. And, there’s lots to affirm, especially about these two. So I’m celebrating Robyn and Brennan and their May wedding–2020’s greatest adventure so far.

How did that sweet little freckle faced kid grow up to be so stunningly beautiful?
And his eyes…they’re amazing!

Robyn, she came wired a compelling communicator–speaking, writing, drawing, creating music at the keyboard. It’s all in her head, like a gift ready to be shared at any given moment.
And Brennan, he’s creative, quality minded and resourceful. Those rings they exchanged— he crafted them out of gold he unearthed metal detecting. Then he found a small town craftsman and participated in the process of melting down, casting the gold and setting the stone.

All those candles, the centerpieces on our dinner party table, the kids melted down 100 pounds of soy wax in empty Pringles cans on our kitchen counter one cylinder at a time. The orbs illumined our smiling faces as we recounted the goodness of God in their stories and toasted to their shared future.

And I just gotta say, the bridal bouquet Brennan arranged was pretty sweet too!

That son I love, she’s safe with him. He’s loyal. He’s committed. And he’s been intentional about building a foundation of care and trust, one solid brick at a time.
And the daughter I love, she swims out in the deep end where you can’t touch bottom but you touch the depths of God. And she caught a vision of God’s heart for her man and invited him to join her. Now, she’s his biggest cheerleader.

Their relationship, it hasn’t been a linear path but they are learning that Plan B, C or D isn’t necessarily less than Plan A, it’s just different.

They’re content with the simple gift of everyday companionship.

They’re taking care of their bodies with life giving routines–Eating home cooked meals. Exercising. Resting.
Before the birds sing their dawn chorus, my kids, both frontline workers, drag themselves out of bed, pour a cup of coffee into their thermal mugs labelled “Mr.” and “Mrs.” and head out to the hospital to offer skilled, compassionate care to sick people.
They’ve checked all the boxes that apply on Dave Ramsey’s baby steps to Financial Peace and are off to a great start with their budget.
Their cozy apartment is becoming a welcoming place of hospitality.
And most importantly, they want their lives to image Jesus so they’re establishing regular rhythms to pursue that goal together.

COVID-19 hi-jacked their original wedding plan but God’s mercies were extravagant on May 13 and by the time our two families stood together on the dunes of Lake Michigan witnessing their vows, we all felt pretty overwhelmed with gratitude for a day that just couldn’t have been any more amazing!

So, here’s to my kids. ……..
I’m proud to be their mama.

COVID Quarantine Mercies

Published on May 29, 2020 by Hope Webster1 Comment

Sometimes mercies arrive in the most unlikely packages.
Usually they come like the mail, every day around 1:00, the familiar squeak of a white truck’s brakes in front of the box,
Or transported by the trademark all-in-brown UPS guy.
Occasionally they appear as a delivery from the florist’s refrigerated van, a pretty bouquet with a card saying “Just Because”.
And then, there’s the guy who pulls up your driveway with no identifiable credentials and drops off something you weren’t expecting and didn’t order and you’re not sure if you want it, especially from a stranger.

Mercies are like that. Unpredictably lavish, everyday reliable and unexpectedly severe.

I’m reclining under the shade of a tree this start of summer afternoon, songbirds substituting for Spotify, breeze gently dancing through the branches keeping me cool, comfy chair too. Everthing’s picture perfect except that I’m swatting at unrelenting bloodsucking mosquitoes who are making a meal out of mine.

And that’s life.

I’ve always told my girls:
People are a mixed bag—beautiful but broken image bearers of their Designer.
Nature is majestic—full of grandeur- and at the same time all creation groans.
Our bodies are miraculously resilient while also incredibly fragile.

So, too the conundrum with mercies. At times, they’re profoundly better than we hoped. Gifts greater than what we dared to ask for. But sometimes, they weren’t on our list and we’d prefer to return them but we can’t. So much of the angst in life is set to rest when we learn to trust the whole spectrum of God’s mysterious graces and this season of COVID-19 pandemonium offers us unprecedented opportunities to practice.
Here’s what that’s looked like in our story the last 14 days of this year of Coronavirus.

I’ve got 3 kids who work in health care, reporting to the hospital day after day. We figured we’d all eventually get infected through them but so far we’ve just gotten free donuts for healthcare workers instead. Thanks God and Krispie Kreme too.

Robyn’s wedding took a direct hit from COVID-19. Plan A turned into Play Y by May 13. And I won’t lie, the lead up was rough—for all of us. But the day unfolded all sunshine. And one of the bestest fresh mercies of the morning was the family friend who rescued us from our hair emergency. One by one, right there in our living room, she spent hours curling and pinning and braiding and clipping. And just like an assembly line, we stepped out of her chair all beautiful. We rode to the beach in our borrowed Ford RV chariot. The Lake glistening all diamond-like calm and the dunes warm on our bare shoulders and toes as covenant promises were exchanged. Then we celebrated together around a cozy candlelit outdoor table for 13 with pasta and cookie cake, finishing out the festivities with sparklers, confetti poppers and long hugs.

Two mornings later, my phone went ding while I was shopping at the grocery store.
That same sweet friend, texted saying, “My sister got tested for COVID last night and the results came back positive. I’m getting her symptoms and the CDC says it’s likely our family has it. I’ll be tested today. I’m so sorry but I wanted you to know.”

So, I messaged my family with the news.
“Oh wonderful!”
“I wanted to go home this weekend!”
“You mean I can’t volunteer to serve at drive-in church on Sunday?”
“Oh dear!” came the replies.

It wasn’t long until her follow up text confirmed, “I’m positive too.”

The ones who planned on a secluded honeymoon in the mountains went anyway.
Our nurse tested negative then went back to work.
The aspiring author just cleaned her room to make her creative studio more comfortable to write in during the quarantine rest.
And the one who wanted to go home to Chicago, but couldn’t on account of her conscience, got slightly cranky—only very temporarily though. Family time is great, but in moderation. At least that’s her perspective.

We formulated a plan, the four of us sleeping under this roof anyway.
We’ve all been exposed so we’re in this together, baby! 2 whole weeks of self-quarantine.
No Meijer. No Target. No Aldi. No Flowerland.
But, Yes to the trails. Yes to the beach. And yes to the sunshine.
And the Chicago-girl and I, we made a pact.
Let’s not squander the time together, we agreed. Let’s redeem it. And we have.

May 15:
Caring friends start texting.
Ding. “Take plenty of Vitamin C and D and sit in the sunshine. Also, drink a glass of red wine everyday.” “Why?” I ask. “There’s something in the grape, and the alcohol is like hand sanitizer for your stomach.” OK….
Ding. “Drink a lot of hot and orange juice.”
Another Ding. “Gargle and hot tea.”
Is there a pattern here?….

May 16:
Today’s best quotables:
“If I breathe on Teddy maybe he’ll get COVID and then I can get back at him for biting me last week.” (Lily)
“Life is really wow!” (Hope)

May 17:
Lily tested negative. We don’t know whether to laugh or cry. If we’re going to be stuck here for 2 weeks, we’d kind of like to get it over with and come out the other side with antibodies.

May 18: Got up at 10:30 today. That’s a 30 minute gain from yesterday. I’ve decided I’m going to give myself 1 full week to be entirely useless after the wedding and if I’m symptom free after that, I’m going to kick myself in the butt and get productive again.

May 19:
Daily fruit smoothie blended in the trusty Vitamix and doused in whip cream for everybody in the fam. Check.
2 mile jog. Check.
Switch out winter and summer clothes. Check.
I went to bed before midnight. Shocker.

May 20:
Second shower I’ve taken since the wedding.
Played Harry Potter Clue. Love is the only explanation.
Practiced a dance tutorial on YouTube for exercise.
Stayed up too late binge watching Netflix, heard a funny noise coming from the basement. I discovered a broken water line flooding the storage room. Caught it fast and an hour later, we’d cleaned up the mess and gone to bed. Murphy’s law mixed with fresh mercy. Isn’t that how life goes?

May 21:
My decks looks like a tulip festival. And when I peek through its floorboards I see a robin’s nest carefully constructed, strategically tucked under the wooden supports and housing 4 little blue eggs. Mama robin hovers nearby to protect her babies, hoping they’ll grow into healthy, autonomous birds. I get that.

May 22:
Watering and weeding. Every single day.
I cleaned out the room of the one who’s not coming back to it. Can’t go under it. Can’t go over it. Gotta go through it. And it’s hard….
Ruminating on the words of a new book I’m reading: “Your child has caused you pain as well, but as the parent, you do not get the freedom to bleed all over your child. You have real grief but your child is not the recipient of your grief.” Ouch, that hurts! I’ve hemorrhaged all over my kids.

May 23:
Taking on the paperwork pile.
Started making my next T-shirt quilt.
Cancellations, refunds. No vacation to Prince Edward Island and the Lake of Shining Waters or Green Gables. Have I said it before? This year ranks low on my favorites list.
But, the kids buy me a 2 week subscription of Hello Fresh for dinner. Oh happy day!

May 24:
A quick trip to the lakeshore with Ang. First stop, the cemetery. Time for my annual meet and greet with mom and dad. Not a day goes by where I don’t wish I didn’t have to talk to a tombstone. Next stop, the beach. The lapping waves lullaby me and I nap in the sunshine. It’s fun to be together.
Tailgating picnic for 5 at Kuyper College on the big hill. Peace. Joy.
Then, the honeymooners return with stories of their adventures.

May 25:
Church in our oversized chair. Angela and I share her consecrated bread.
Sorting through memories–purging, organizing, saving. This time she relinquished her dowry—a seashell collection- the brunt of our family joke about the junk she’ll bring into a marriage someday.
Hot day. Maranatha at sunset—climbed to the prayer tower. Plenty to pray about. Not a prettier place to meet with Jesus.

The tear ducts overflowing tonight. Can’t seem to turn the faucet off. So much transition.

May 26:
Not a morning person. Tried to jog first thing. Another hot day. Fail. 1.2 miles and I quit. Well, actually I collapsed.
More sorting. This time it’s school books. 2 categories: 1) Save for the grandkids. 2) Don’t save for the grandkids.

Holiday dinner. All the kids around the table. Dragged up an old family joke from the archives. “What do we call a fairy who doesn’t take a bath?” –“A stinkerbell.” I really, really miss those days!
Watched Emma (2020) though I never could stay focused on a Jane Austen flick. Their lives are so boring.

May 27:
Tomorrow we get out of jail.
I’m starting to think about life post-quarantine.
Finding our new normal, just the 3 of us.
Dumping a colossal donation off at Goodwill.
Crossing the border into Indiana to go to Kohl’s later this week.
And now, because it’s time, Angela, she’ll load up her car, wave out the sunroof and go “Zoooom”….

These days, the ones God sovereignly surprised me with, they’ve actually been a treasure.
He protected our bodies from illness.
He provided a temporary diversion, a few weeks to rest and recharge before I face off the reality of yet another empty bedroom with all of its nostalgia.
And, He posited Angela and I in a training plan to strengthening our relational muscles through repetitions of love, respect and understanding and it turned out to be a great workout.
We stewarded our time responsibly.
We took a lot of walks.
We practiced being kind.
We gave each other space.
We listened to music. Arabic. Gaelic. German. Pop. Even CCM.
We Facetimed friends across the ocean and across town.
We watched movies– though my suggestions are always too sad, she says.
We talked about things that matter in the great big cosmos and in each of our own little worlds.
We cooked curry and baked scones and ate lots of homemade ice cream. She drank about a half dozen gallons of milk but neither of us imbibed any wine.
We went to the beach and watched the sunset together there too.
Lots of great memories to carry into a fresh, new summer. So many mercies.

And so, quarantine life turned into one of my favorite parts of this otherwise not-favorite year. God’s Plan B for the weeks post-wedding, turned out to be better than my plan A.
And I just feel really, really grateful.

On Sandwiches, Paper Cranes and Floatation Devices

Published on April 30, 2020 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

Always start and end with gratitude.
That’s the bread in life’s best sandwich.

So, I’m grateful because
None of my kids live overseas this spring, stuck halfway around the world with second rate medical care.
Six weeks ago, I was double dosing on Naproxen to manage shoulder pain and now I’m raking my yard.
Most of my tribe is still getting their paychecks.
An early spring’s given me some elbow room outdoors during Michigan’s extended stay-at-home orders.
There’s an abundance of left over Russell Stover Easter candy available at Walgreens 50% off.
And, we have plenty of toilet paper!

But, truth is, I’m not loving this sandwich.
The stuff in the middle, it doesn’t taste very good!
And so far, this year gets a failing grade on my favorites list.
Not because of a single catastrophic event.
It’s aches and pains,
Conflict,
Disappointments,
Transitions,
And so many losses…

Which brings me to this very moment.
She’s stripped most of the decorations off the wall—the pressed leaves and calligraphy quotes, the string of Christmas lights that drapes around her window, the banner with her name on the door. The bed’s moving over to her new home tomorrow.
This space, it’s been a safe haven for my girl.
A sanctuary.

I was the one who told her, “You’re ready to fly.” And she is.
But her room feels naked with just the paper cranes, wing spans spread, hanging off fishing line from her ceiling.
And my grief’s exposed.
I’m crouched in the corner ugly-crying, wondering what happened to all that Kleenex my husband stockpiled for the pandemic.

2014 was my first launch.
And nothing prepared me for that kind of hard!
I dropped my kid off at college and drove 900 miles due South.
It felt like death though somehow, I survived.
We figured out how to live as 5 instead of 6.
And now, we’re transitioning to 4.
And in a couple of weeks, we’ll be 3.

For almost 22 years I’ve called this one to dinner every single night.
And I’m wearing at least 15 pounds worth of her famous chocolate chip cookies on my derriere.
Over these two plus decades, I’ve been a student of her expressions and moods.
I know all her favorite treats and what’s likely to bring a smile on a bad day.
I’ve prayed with her over every test.
I’ve watched her performances, applauded her accomplishments.
We’ve worked alongside each other and we’ve played together too.
I’ve hugged her and disciplined her.
Lectured and challenged her.
It’s been a long time since I laid next to her telling bedtime stories and singing lullabies as she drifted off to dreamland but it’s been comforting to know we’re sleeping under the safe roof anyway.

So, I told her today, “Try to remember the beautiful stuff most.”
I wish it was all beautiful!
Every moment of these approximately 8000 days.
But, it’s not.

I’m not a perfect parent. And her dad isn’t either.
She’s not a perfect kid. And neither are her sisters.

That reality tends to spiral me into would-a, should-a, could-a…real fast.
To give myself a few hard swats with a 5 gallon paint stick.
And that’s the messy middle of my unappetizing sandwich.

But the bread of gratitude sustains me.
And so I intentionally recount the faithfulness of God in this kid’s story.
Last year about now, she had 50 bucks in the bank and her trusty Honda CRV named Winston. She graduated with her BSN a year early.
Then, she passed her NCLEX on her first try and God provided a full-time hospital nursing position.
She continued to live at home opting for free room and board, bedtime hugs included, so she could stockpile her savings.
And now, she bought her first home—a condo- just 11 minutes from the mama who’s crying on her bedroom floor tonight. fullsizeoutput_baab

The same loving Heavenly Father who’s written this chapter of her story, can He not be entrusted with the next one too?
And how about mine?

It sounds cliché but it’s not.
In this sink or swim world, the rhythm of gratitude, rehearsing His fresh mercies, acknowledging His faithfulness, that’s the floatation device that keeps me from drowning.

I pick up my hardcover copy of the Book, the one my Mama and Daddy gave me before I packed up my things and left an empty pink upstairs bedroom behind.
Here’s what it says:
He’s counting my tears and putting them in his bottle.
And my bottle, it matters to him.
He considers it tenderly.
It represents the love and investment I’ve made in my daughter’s life and He delights in the broken beautiful mama I’ve been to her.
He chose me for the task and celebrates that I’ve been faithful.
And he sympathizes with the loss I feel as she leaves our humble abode.
Those tears, He’ll use them to water the seeds of change and growth that are yet to be written into both of our stories.

Right outside the window where the paper cranes hang off the fishing wire, I planted a bunch of lily bulbs last Indian summer when mama’s intuition whispered the secret.
In time, they’ll bloom into an intoxicating mixture of fragrance and beauty.
I can’t see them yet.
They’re buried under the weight of the dirt. But what I have sown, He will make grow.
And with that confidence, I hope and wait with anticipation.

On Being Brave

Published on February 29, 2020 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

We had so much fun apartment shopping together.
Fueled for our search with a piece of coconut cream pie from Sweetilicious, what could go wrong? Version 2

It was just like an episode out of house hunters.
First we looked at the one under budget. It was a quick 7 minute drive from work and less from her favorite library but farthest from our house and no laundry machines in the apartment.
Next came the one that felt super safe, right on budget with a garage but no pets allowed.
The last one was an old church renovated into apartments. Stained glass windows reflected prismatic rainbows onto the bedroom walls. The place was pristine but the price was steep.

First, she eliminated the church. It was perfect, but not financially realistic.
Then she applied to the other two. Thirty minutes later, her email inbox dinged and she had a lease ready to be signed for apartment number 1. At 25 Mbps, we were both shocked into reality.

This is really gonna happen!
Lily’s moving out.

I’m the one who spoke it first. “You’re ready for your own place.”
I don’t want it to be true but it is.
Thing is, I’m already losing one in May. Well, actually two, because Brennan’s been family for a long time now. I’ve been gearing up for that transition for months but, Lily, too? 439BB329-7D8B-4CE7-9352-2492B796D7C7

After the email arrived, my tear ducts went leaky.
It’s all normal.
It’s healthy.
It’s even good.
But it’s just so dang hard.

It feels like I’m living that picture book, Let Me Hold You a Little Longer. Image 2-29-20 at 3.09 AM

“Long ago you came to me;
a miracle of firsts;
First smiles and teeth and baby steps,
a sunbeam on the burst.
But one day you will move away
and leave to me your past,
And I will be left thinking of
a lifetime of your lasts.”

Some things, I didn’t realize were “lasts” when I was living them.
Others have been easier to anticipate.

I miss those coffee dates at Starbucks,
Weekly beach trips,
Lying sandwiched in a twin bed between 2 little princesses telling stories, singing lullabies and saying bedtime prayers together.
The smell of their freshly baked chocolate chip cookies,
The sound of Little House on the Prairie audiobooks,
And errand buddies riding shotgun.

Times are a-changin’
We’re like the family going on a bear hunt.
We can’t go over it .
Can’t go under it.
Just gotta go through it. (We’re Going On A Bear Hunt, Rosen/Oxbury)
I want us all to end up snuggled together in an enormous bed protected from all the bears like they do in the story, but that’s not how our adventure is going to end.
And so, I’m trying to be brave.
And so are they.

They’ll both be homesick when they leave, even if they don’t admit it; but in time, they’ll make their new place a home.
And they’ll establish fresh daily rhythms– just like their big sister did.

I’m wondering, will I?
Will home feel like home with 2 more empty bedrooms?
Will I ever adjust to dinner for 3?

I’m reminding myself that I’ve done this gig before and survived… so that makes me one for one statistically.
I’m excited for some intentional mama-daughter time with my baby and it’s long overdue.
And I’ve got to admit, I’m looking forward to finally having a clean bathroom. Just saying…

There it is, a jumpstart on my gratitude list.
Ecclesiastes says there’s a season for everything and God makes everything beautiful in its time.

It won’t be long till the ground thaws and 600+ tulip, daffodil and hyancith bulbs peek out of the garden to say hello. If the deer don’t eat them for dinner, they’ll bloom beautiful as a backdrop on the bride and groom at our celebratory feast in the yard.

Fifty three winters, springs, summers and autumns… and fresh, new mercies in every single season of my story.
This one will be no exception.
Thanks be to God.

Mid-Winter Blues and Grays

Published on February 17, 2020February 17, 2020 by Hope Webster1 Comment

Here’s what I know this wind whipping, snow dancing winter night. When pain stops you in your tracks and takes away your productivity, it can make you feel panicky.
I felt the nagging ache in my left shoulder a few months ago and ignored it. It amped up its annoyance the more I worked out, but what’s a girl to do when her daughter’s wedding is 4 months away and some of that flab around the midsection, it’s just gotta go.
Then, I woke up one morning and thought I was delivering a baby in my left shoulder. Seriously.
Try as I might with wedges and pain killers and ice packs and physical therapy, I just can’t make it stop.

I find myself threat forecasting again….
What if I can’t get on top of this before Spring?
How will I pull off all the preparations for Robyn’s dream wedding reception in our back yard?

And honestly, I don’t have until spring to be derailed.
More pressing questions include, how am I going to fix dinner tonight?
And do dishes?
And laundry?
And vacuum my floors?
Who’s going to drive my kid everywhere?
And how exactly do I wash my hair?

Usually, pain slinks around illusively and you wonder if it’ll be like the house guest who never leaves. But then again, here I am at 53 years old and every single physical issue I’ve struggled with eventually righted itself, so the odds are in my favor as is God’s supreme human anatomical design.

My counselor told me how he got the flu over New Years and was flat in bed for 10 days. He’d made other plans, a long to-do list with some days off work. He said he was grateful for his sickness. God knew he needed to rest and his Father chose what that rest should look like.
I needed to hear that story because it helps me to center in the storm of my own malaise.
What if this infirmity is my invitation to just walk with God more open handedly?
To rely on others to help me because I need to even if I don’t want to.
Maybe, it’s time to be reminded of how dependent I actually am on my Father’s help and presence to get me through each day.
To reconnect with Him in new ways.
Maybe I don’t get to know anything about anything.
Maybe I just need a reset—physically and spiritually.

It’s 6 weeks into a new year.
Mine started with a vacation. Sunshine. Hiking. Some drama-free moments I desperately needed but honestly, my daughter and I, we rubbed. It’s mostly growing pains but it still a bummer.

Then I came home and started a diet and exercise program because those mother of the bride photos, they go in the archives and that’s a lot of pressure.

One of my best buds flew up to visit me. She lives down south so I told her, “No need to bring boots or gloves or a coat or hats. You can wear mine. And for that matter, if you really want to travel light, you can borrow my bras and underwear too.” She’s that kind of friend. We spent almost 4 days together talking fast because there are more words than there is time. After we finished our Leslie Sansone total body fitness walking workout, she said she needed to send a picture of a snow angel to her baby girl and we were hot and sweaty so we opted for a pretty creative cool down routine. I kid you not. Two fifty- something women, mothers of 13 to be exact, crafted a couple of pretty sweet snow angels in our workout shorts and all I can say is, if you can, find yourself that kind of friend.

Wedding planning is down to double digits and even though the guest list is small, you still have to tick off the same checklist and work through the same negotiations to get the job done. And that’s been– an adventure…..

I started a new volunteer job for a ministry I believe in and it’s exciting to be actively supporting its purposes. I love my relationships with refugees and consider it a privilege to support them through their immigration process. I’m inspired by the young adult women in our church that I get to mentor. And, I even help out in my baby’s homeschool co-op. My husband, he’s always resourced me to serve generously and I’m super grateful.

So, here I am staring down Valentine’s Day convalescing between my bed and my chair. In “the good old days”, we did this holiday big, with super fun family traditions we called Family Love Days. We’d pick names out of a hat for secret admirers and lavish each other with love on the sly until our big reveal on Valentine’s Day. We’d celebrate God’s lavish affection for us with friends parties and heart shaped cookies and cupcakes.

I miss all that.
So very much.
Love notes days are long gone.
Most days, I’m not even sure if my family likes me.
It’s an ache, the emotional equivalent of that uncomfortable rub in my shoulder except for when it flares to a frowny face with tears on the pain scale and you wonder if it’s going to improve or how you’ll make it through.
But somehow you will and you do. Image 2-16-20 at 11.12 PM

There’ve been a lot of gray days this winter. I can hear it in these words.
Need me some Vitamin D, big time!
And the Truth.
That heavy, old, hard cover, Thompson Chain Reference Bible my mom and dad gave me when I was a teenager,
and my Bible apps,
and daily prayer liturgies,
the sermons,
my hymns and anthems playlist on Spotify,
prayer walks
and a faithful friend or two who listen to all my junk.
All of it reminds me of the Truth.
Everything God says and does is loving and good and everything He allows in my life holds redemptive potential.
Yeah, I’m feeling the burn of a Michigan winter—physically, emotionally and spiritually.
But it’s a good burn. Nowhere else I’d rather be.
And, Punxsutawney Phil predicts an early spring so that’s a mercy to anticipate.
You know, just being my Daddy’s kid, resting in His strong and tender arms, that’s todays fresh mercy.
And it’s enough. 20160128_165151