I found myself here at the cemetery, my first out-of-the-car field trip since the mandate to stay at home. 

I figured I couldn’t expose or be exposed here of all places. To my surprise, our section was overly populated with a sweet family clad in matching orange t-shirts, celebrating what would have been their child’s fourth birthday on this Saturday before Easter. Another life cut incredibly short. 

As the last car drove off, I left my own to go about my task of spring cleaning Rob’s grave. I usually reserve this for this quiet Saturday. It reminds me of the helpers, the women, anxiously waiting to tend to their final preparation of their Master’s body. 

Our cemetery is a beautiful place to rest and wait.  Wait for the grief to soften, wait for the glimmer of hope to return.

The whole world awaits hope this year. With bated breath, we watch for the death count to retreat, for a glimpse of normalcy. We remain in our homes, our waiting places. 

How long, Lord? How long shall we wait?

 I wonder what the women asked on that still Saturday? Did any of them hold out for hope? Did they even remember the things Jesus had told them?

Saturday hope is a lot harder than Sunday Hope. 

There’s no doubt found at this resting place, not on December 4th, today, or in the hard weeks to come. This is a temporary place to remember and honor a beautiful life, but make no mistake, Sunday Hope is written all over this grave. 

Bones may rest, but this man knew where his hope was found...and so does his woman. 

Rob’s name may be etched here, but his heart will not be found in any grave because of Sunday Resurrection Hope. 

Five years later

This December has been different; my grief is softening.  Five years have passed since ugly cancer changed everything. The chaos of the last 15 months is settling and I love being back in my own home that’s decorated with two trees and a lot of red! Last night,  I walked into a party and for the first time didn’t feel awkward; I was comfortable being plain old solo me, surrounded by a lot of friends.  And boy did I have fun!
But let me be honest, every December is rough. There’s the day Rob died, the day he was buried, his birthday and then Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Every December day, I have to choose to get up and get through it.  For five years I’ve asked God to use me and for most of that time I’ve waited. Much of that time I’ve wondered if I make most folks uncomfortable; am I a big, glaring reminder of their biggest fear?  Where in the world do I belong?  Will I ever feel normal? But He’s beginning to reveal His plan for my next chapter; I’m being used.
Recently I’ve embraced a new joy, the acceptance that my Rob is more alive than ever before. I had head knowledge of this truth, but it wasn’t buried in my heart until now.  It’s bringing great peace.  I’ve also accepted aloneness as a beautiful gift; I’ve drawn closer to my Heavenly Father than ever before.
So to my dear friends who are numb, hurting, lonely this December, I so get it! I’ve lived it! May I encourage you to watch the joy that spills from me this season for it’s a reminder that yours will come... And when it does, the music will be sweeter, the friendships warmer and the Light much brighter.  Keep taking baby steps. Let those a bit further down the road into your pain. Know that you’re stronger than you think; God is carrying you.  Joy is coming!

I remember it well. My friend and former pastor sat amid piles of wrapping paper on a beautiful Christmas morning. Christmas fell on Sunday that year and we postponed our normal routine to gather at Westbury Baptist Church. 
I paraphrase Dick's question to the congregation that morning—so what do we have left when all of the presents have been opened? 
Fast forward to this December...
There are no trappings; there are no walls. Hurricane Harvey swept away the likeliness of a familiar Christmas for many of us.  Other storms have cast a shadow over our celebrations; illness, death, brokenness shatter our Hallmark holiday.
We miss our mantels filled with shiny balls and evergreen, our stockings hung in a tidy row. Our trees no longer stand in the corner, decked with ornaments collected over a lifetime. There sits an empty seat at the table.

The premise of Dick's question still stands regardless of the circumstances.

What remains?

What cradles our souls when all seems lost?

What kindles joy when dreams never become reality?

What remains?

An infant king...a guiding star...hope found in a feeding trough and so many more gifts that lay ready to be unwrapped.  

Come to Bethlehem and see

 Replace the mountains of gift wrap for simple swaddling cloth

Like Simeon of old, let's embrace promise fulfilled

You may have your merry little Christmas, but the manger offers so much more...lasting hope and healing.

Oh, won't you come and see?

Abandon the lists and rest in His presence. This little Babe who journeyed to the Cross will not rob your joy or leave you exhausted. He promises to carry you through the loss and loneliness of this season. 

Oh, won't you come and see?

Come to Bethlehem and see...

My favorite photo was damaged in the flood.

It's my only copy. 

I loved everything about this picture; it represented our college years and it has been on my bulletin board for as long as I can remember.

Unfortunately, it fell into contaminated waters like so many things, but 

I managed to at least snap a picture in the chaos.

Now this photo captures my life so well.

So many sweet things are now blurred and scarred, but if I look hard enough I am able to see beauty. Rob is still visible, although not as clear as once before. 

Life is messy, I can't see all the details, but I know what once felt whole will be again.

By Him all things hold together. Colossians 1:17

I can't sleep; hope's been on my mind. We had a beautiful night of worship at my church tonight: Joel and a choir of women, a young mother still in the throes of grief and one of our home-grown favorites sharing the real reason for hope in a crazy, mixed-up, broken world.
I saw it on the faces of women, young and old looking for some hope to keep them afloat.  
Pancreatic cancer has been on my mind as well; our 5k/walk to fund research is this Saturday, the 21st. I looked back at my journal to see the details of that date 2 years ago. Seldom do I do that; maybe I needed to revisit to remind me why I continue this fight for a cure. Funny how memories can point us forward. 
We were in the palliative care unit at MD Anderson, Rob's last in-patient stay there.  It was a difficult two weeks of both emotional and physical pain.  Rob's body was shutting down, we were not going to be present at Matthew's birth, our Galveston visit was but one more unmet wish.  We were grieving hard and staring at despair. I began listing one gratitude after another. 
One of the entries read: Sounds of Dave Ray singing Hope in the middle of the night. Hope, Jesus, a flicker of light in our nightmare.  I remember it well, a song written in honor of a beautiful newborn girl. Raw, honest music carried me through the dark that night and many more to follow.

So hold me through the hurting, Jesus

Walk me through the fire, Savior

When everything is lost and broken

I'll be holding on to hope.

Hope revisited. Hope found. Hope still holding on to me.

To hear Dave and Jess Ray's music, go to youtube or facebook

Yesterday, in the pew, I almost missed this ray of hope, reminding me the big screens by the altar only compliment the living Truth laid open on my lap.

Those who sow with tears

will reap with songs of joy.

Those who go out weeping, 

carrying seed to sow, 

Will return with songs of joy, 

carrying sheaves with them.  Psalm 126:5-6

Less than 24 hours, God gently reminds me that He always produces harvest for the faithful waiters. 

Sheaves...proof of new dreams, new plans, new purpose.

Seed...there's still something to carry, to sow. 

Tears precede joy.

It happens often; I spill Saturday's honesty and God swiftly plants truth way down in the cavernous places of my weary, broken soul.

Cemetery Song

My soul cries out

My soul cries out for you

These bones cry out

These dry bones cry for you

To live and move

Only You 

Can raise the dead

Lift my head

Jesus, You're the one who saves us

Constantly creates us into something new

Jesus, surely you will find us

Surely our Messiah will make all things new

Gungor

Amid this valley of deep grief, these bones cry out.  Can these bones live again?  Oh Sovereign LORD, only You know! I AM, lifter of my head, breathe life back into me again.

Don't let me decay; I must learn to live without Rob! 

This lonely Sunday afternoon, I sit on land reserved for dry bones, feeling a gentle breeze waft over me, staring at inscribed names and plastic flowers, wondering, Will I ever dance again, sing again, love again? Only You know...

Nine months erased from the calendar of my heart; isn't it time for me to rise again? Maybe just some fleeting wish or am I turning the corner?  Though, life looms hard, even still...my soul cries out...help me to see Your goodness in the land of the living...

I shouldn't have to put scissors to cotton...

Themed XL's should fill a duffle bag, ready for 

 camp adventure, not pieced together like my broken heart.

Parents shouldn't have to release balloons to the heavens along with their broken dreams. Baby flesh should fill their empty arms.

Salt of the earth shouldn't have to sift through the rubble after the storm.  Memories should hide in leather clad books and curio cabinets.

dreams to despair...hope to heartache

Oh where do we run when should turns to should not?

There is one King who weeps when we weep.
There is one Throne where we find rest.
There is one Voice that calls us home.

One
to whom we can raise our fist...spill our tears...ask our why's...
One
who promises to turn our 
despair to dreams...heartache to hope
One 
who supplies courage to make that first cut, let go of heartstrings, and retrieve treasures for our hearts
One
who creates new and whole out of shards
and leads the broken to praise Him in the storm


  

Waiting for Sunday

Last nail thrust, final breath drawn.

Women waiting with spices,

Waiting for the Sabbath to end, to anoint his body.

Disciples waited behind locked doors, afraid of Jewish leaders.

Did any of them wait with hope? 

Were there any Simeons or Annas?

Were there any waiting for something greater than death?

For what are we waiting this 
Holy Saturday?

A restored relationship, healing, answers to long-standing prayers
Or simply for the return of 
the One and Only?

Are we a people who wait with hope?

Surely, a people who know the end of the Jesus Story...

May the God of hope fill you will all joy and peace as you trust [wait] in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Romans 15:13

My friend Ann spills these life-giving words at just the right time.
"You can lose everything but nothing can steal Jesus and He is enough and you have got. to. live."