Sundays are Hard

Sundays, for as long as I can remember, have been hard long days.

With a Dad in the ministry, then attending a church 45 minutes away, Sundays were a long day. Dating a Pastor’s son didn’t shorten them. Sunday school, church, family lunch, then church again that night.

As a youth pastor’s wife, the same schedule exists. If there’s no Sunday night commitment, there’s usually a meeting, a lunch, or an event to prepare for. No wonder Mondays are for face plants on the couch.

Sundays got just a little bit harder this year.

Two things happen every Sunday.

I’m reminded of just how big God is.

I see hundreds of people who love my children.

Both of them are wonderful gifts I am given. I embrace them with all of my being. That means I usually just stand at my chair, coffee in hand, and cry through the worship.

I’ve become a complete mush over the past few years. I refuse to be ashamed of my tears.  I often think that if we truly understood the love God has for us we would be crying more often. In my case, everything relates to my kids.

This week wasted no time. Father to the fatherless, defender of the weak …

“Well, I’m done. I’m not even go to attempt to sing. There goes that.” I stood there and listened.

Our God is a STRONG GOD. There is NO ONE HIGHER. He is FAITHFUL to provide.

A thousand people surrounded me singing the lyrics,

Sing out                                                                                                                                                                         Lift your hands and shout out                                                                                                                      Awesome is our strong God                                                                                                                                          Mighty is our God.

I couldn’t sing, and there was no way I was going to be able to lift my hands. Not because I was sad, although I was, but because I was desperate. Desperate to cling to these promises. Desperate to have faith in this truth. Desperate to see God move again, here, in our lives, in our family, soon.

When I’m in this place of desperation and hope I often notice my little one’s friends. I see acquaintances who have written incredibly generous checks to help pay these enormous fees. Friends who have given so much time, love and support to us, I wonder how much more we can consume. Or how we will ever be able to repay them. I’m surrounded by people who love our kids. Who love us.

I am just so thankful, for all of it; the grief, the joy, the difficulty, the help, the opportunity to share; the ability to write this blog. This is so worth it. Any amount of hardship, amount of ache, any amount of long days. It’s all worth it.

I say that without any mental hesitation.

Not only because it’s allowed us to love our girls, but it’s broken us and grown us. We are wiser, kinder, gentler people. We are more dependent on The Father. We are more trusting. We are more content. We are more intentional. We are closer to Jesus because we have no other choice.

He IS a Strong God. There IS no one higher. He IS faithful to provide.

Living in these promises is a blessing beyond words.

Harder Sundays are better Sundays.

 

 

 

A Miscarriage

Several months ago a close friend told me she was pregnant. After years of difficulty trying to conceive, this news took me by surprised.  I was instantly filled with joy for her, and instantly filled with dread. I hated it, but I had a very real sense of fear. Her soon to be family seemed to be too good to be true. My first thought was,

“What?!!!? Are you sure?? Are you kidding??”

My second thought was, “Don’t. Move. A. Muscle.” 

This was a miracle. I wanted to see this little miracle be born at full term; pink, healthy and screaming. 

We have our own little miracle we’re working on. I don’t have a baby on the way; but I am tiptoeing on dangerous ground. I feel like I am coming to the end of a high risk pregnancy. I’ve been careful. I’ve followed Dr.’s orders. I’ve eaten plenty of leafy greens. I haven’t lifted over 5 pounds, and I’ve limited my coffee. (Now you know I’m joking here). All signs point to health. 

“Baby looks good.” as they say. If I can make it full term, I’ll have two boisterous girls lighting up my life with their laughter and love. 

I’m scared. I don’t want to be scared. I don’t like to be scared. I’d rather be strong and fearless. I’d rather have the valor of Jael, or the courage of Esther. But I’m just scared. I’m scared for me, for us, and for them. I’m scared of what may happen, what may NOT happen, and how long everything will take. I’m scared of things falling through, governments changing, or travel going awry. I’m scared because my family is hopelessly precious to me.

This winter hosting only deepened our love for our girls, and them for us. Summer hosting was superglue bonding. Winter hosting was the duct tape you wrap around for good measure. I’ve tasted this joy. I’ve felt the warmth of this goodness. I’ve embraced the tears as I’ve soaked up the laughter. I don’t want to see it fade. I don’t want it to slip out of my fingers into the darkness.

I’ve dreamed the dream and I’m aching for it to come true.

I have to choose to love instead of fear. I have to push onward instead of crumble to my knees. I need to breath deep, walk forward. I need to wait. I need to trust. I need to be strengthened. I need to grow.

I am choosing to be thankful for every moment I’ve been given. I am choosing to be thankful that my eyes were opened. I am choosing to be thankful that the world has needs I felt I should try to answer. I am hoping for good, but I know I have already been blessed beyond my worth.

As this fear and valor clash in my core; I have no choice but to run straight into the arms of my Daddy. He knows what we need. He is for my good. He is my comfort and calm. My only shelter from the chaos and source of contentment. He’s had this in his hands long before it was in my heart. He will see us through full term.