The Assurance of Knowing

Often we are stretched. 

Beyond what we feel we can handle. 

We breathe deep. 

We long for relief. 

Yet, these circumstances are here to help us grow. 

To change us. 

It's been 35 months of being stretched. 
There are many more months to go. 
The missing deep. 

The walk each day a choice. 
 I am only responsible for the here and now. 
To live this moment in surrender. 
I will let the rest of the moments be dealt with in time. 

In the pew, on Sunday, the children sat between my farmer and I . 
4 of them. 

I breathed deep. 
I want to remember this moment. 
To not forget. 
These are beautiful glimpses. 
Snapshots really. 

Our Pastor displays a quote. 

For it is one thing to see the Land of Peace from a wooded ridge, and yet another to walk the road that leads to it.” -Augustine

Oh, how I know this journey. 
This road. This road. 
Yet, I know the peace that travels with me on the journey; 
and the peace that awaits at the end is far greater than all I could imagine. 

We here at the Davis Farm will continue to walk
 that road that leads to peace. 

We will stand firm in hope. 

We long for you to know that hope. 
The laying down. 
All. 
To surrender. 
All.
To the One who longs to pick you up. 
Who went to the Cross. 
For All. 
That assurance of knowing. 

Matthew 7:13-14
"Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.

Even in the Rush. . . We Can Slow it Down

The sun shone this weekend. 
For the whole weekend. 

There were no extra activities. 
Time seemed to slow.
No rushing. 
Dinner with friends. 
The farm boy playing music. 
Time with my farmer. 
There was hand holding. 
Time to talk. 
Slow. 

Last minute guests at the guest house. 
Sheets on the line. 
Book work. 
Time for listening and dreaming. 
A fire at my partner in crime's home. 
Coffee.
Slow.

Soaking in the sun. 
Compost delivery. 
A ride in the truck to visit neighbors. 
No rush. 
Connecting. 
Each step an act of Worship. 
Intentional. 
Slow. 

I wrote the words,

"I just need to hang on until May," 

Our transition date to Organic Farming. 
I wrote it as if it was the day that will change everything. 

As if a moment in time will take all suffering away. 

A moment can change everything. 
A moment when your son looks into your eyes and says, "Good bye, love you." 
He bounds out the door with excitement. 

And never returns.
Moments can define us. 
Change us. 
But this. 

Hanging on until May. 

Will everything really change? 

Have I put my hope in a transition date? 
The thought causes me to wonder. 
The slowness of the weekend has caused me to wonder. 

I am so weary and tired from the struggle. 
Ways to make ends meet. 
Cash flow projections until my head hurts. 
So afraid of making the slightest mistake. 
Driving kids to activities. 
Micro managing a schedule. 
Each moment filled. 
Tense. 
Irritable.
It's not until I say the words,
"I just need to hang on until May,"
That I realize what I've done. 

Somewhere faith has walked out the door. 
My trust in God in the details has all but walked away. 
I've been holding on so tightly. 
I didn't even know it. 
Fists clenched. 
Jaw tight. 
Pain in my joints when I wake. 
Tension. 
Rushing. 
Here and there. 
So distracted.
A tool used by the enemy. 

I'm missing the lessons in the struggle. 

I do not have eyes to see. 
I shifted the gaze. 
Not by much. 
But enough. 
I moved from the here and now. 
To what lies beyond. 
Skipping through the day. 
Hoping it to end. 
To step into another. 
Just to have it done. 
While along the way. 
Lessons unfold. 
Moments of grace missed. 
Because I didn't slow it down. 
A fast paced life can't be helped. 
Dashing and living may be the season. 

It is the intent with which we live in that season that is crucial. 

There is much to learn in this transition season. 
Much I have missed while racing to have it over; 
to be done with the struggle. 
There is a little over a month to go. 
The hardest stretch. 
The greatest distance. 
I am shaking off the tension today. 
Unclenching my fists. 
God knows about this transition. 
He's aware of every step. 
He is in the struggle. 
He will not let us fall.
The sun is shining again today. 
I'm heading to make crepes for a house full. 
It's vacation. 
A night of sleep overs. 
Blessings abound. 
Lots of giggles. 
I am continuing to slow it down and have eyes to see. 
God shows his love for us; 
not when we're perfect and all refined. 
But when we're at our worst. 
Grace.
He came to change us. 
To make us more like him. 


Romans 5:8
But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: 
While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

The struggle is real. 
Life is challenging. 
But there are lessons to learn.
God is doing the work. 
It is by his Grace that we will complete this Transition. 
I want Him to receive all the glory. 
This farm is His. 
All that we have is His. 
Yes. 
Even our children are His. 
He is doing something beautiful. 
Even in the pain. 

Lord.
I continue to hand over all my life to you. 
This farm is yours. 
Do as you will. 
Guide us. 

We give you all the Praise and Glory. 

When I Couldn't See

My dearest Elijah,

It is Sunday Morning. 

February 28th. 

It's been 31 months since you breathed your last. 

I sit here by the fire aching from within. 

Life continuing its ebb and flow all the while something so not right. 

It is the pain a parent walks with each moment after a child has been taken. 

No matter how strong my walk with God. 

No matter how much faith I have; the pain remains. 

You are gone. 

My life here altered forever. 

I think of the sunrise that Sunday morning. 

The incredible grace bestowed on our family as we began 

the journey of living with out you. 

A heart in the sky. 

I didn't have eyes to see. 

Another parted the way so I could see. 

This has happened often. 

The view of another; giving great in sight. 

You see grief can blind you. 

The piercing ache and emptiness bubbling beneath the surface. 

Holidays and birthdays reminders of deep loss. 

So, Elijah, it was pictures this week that helped me to see. 

A post from Jonathan. 

Reminding me others remember too.

A chance meeting with the college girl in a friends room. 

A friend of a friend is there. 

You know how that goes. 

He's from Vermont. 

He played Lacrosse. 

He knows the friends. 

And this picture just happens to be in his photos. 

2 photo's I have never seen. 

2 gifts in one week. 

While we wait for another test to see if Daddy's cancer is back.

These photo's surfaced. 

Both of you. 
Both I have never seen before. 

Parting the way, when I couldn't see. 

While the pictures take my breath away and bring me to my knees. 

They also remind me of the great, great joy you brought me. 

I had 17 wonderful years with you. 

Tumultuous at times. 

But full of wonder and joy. 

Your sister is getting ready to have her baby. 

This grieves me that those girls will never know their Uncle. 

But God knew all this. 

He has known since before you were born the number of days you would spend here on this earth. 

While  I don't like his plan. 

We will keep on keeping on. 

We will tell those little nieces of yours all about their Uncle Lijy. 

We will tell them about the God of the Universe that created you;

and them. 

I miss you so much. 

I long to hear your voice; see that crooked smile. 

 I miss arguing over everything with you. 

I hate the thought of the accident morning. 

I'm trying hard to let God work in me. 

To use these broken memories for His Glory. 

We will go to Worship this morning Elijah. 

I look to the balcony each Sunday. 

Not because I might see you there. 

But because it's a habit. 

Always looking to see if you were there; and paying attention. 

I needed this chat. 

There's so much going on. 

Sometimes I just need to rest.

To remember. 

Pictures to part the way when I couldn't see. 

I am trusting with all my heart in God's perfect plan. 

Until it Was Gone

Fear just up and left. 

I am not kidding. 

I have felt it living in my bones. 

Crippling me at times. 

Needing to grasp and hold on tightly. 

The moment one of the kids gets into the car. 

When they are gone for long periods of time. 

When they want to go to a friends. 

The constant need for a call; to be in touch. 

To hear their voice. 

Secretly wanting them all in the house. 

In their rooms. 

Going no where. 

It has paralyzed me. 

And I didn't even know it. 

Looking back, 

it began the morning of the accident. 

I remember the squeeze on my heart. 

My farmer and now only son, went to church. 

To share the news of what had happened. 

I could barely breathe while they were gone; 

waiting for their return. 

Would they? 

For two and a half years. 

This has plagued me. 

Fear had set up residence in the deepest 

part of my soul and I didn't even know it. 

Each time someone left. 

The undercurrent of fear. 

Living. 

In me. 

Tightly squeezing the life out of me. 

The phone call that the tumor was cancer. 

It is only now that I remember, the fear digging in deeper. 

The clutch on my heart. 

Deep. 

I didn't know it held this power. 

Until it was gone. 

Until the farm boy poked his head in the door and said, 

"I'm home. I had such a good time. "

At that moment I realized. 

I had gone to bed when a child was out. 

I had placed my head on the pillow and sweet sleep had the last word. 

My usual stance of sitting on the couch nurturing my anxious heart,

 until they returned, was not a part of the picture. 

When I opened my eyes in the early hours of the morning;

 the burden was gone. 

The weight I carried. 

Lifted. 

Fear had paralyzed me and I hadn't even known. 

What burdens do you carry needlessly? 

Search hard. 

You may never know until they're gone. 

Fear had gripped so tightly I was unaware. 

The tension in my soul: unable to identify. 

Until it was gone. 

The peace in my soul this morning is a gift. 

Isaiah 66:12

For this is what the LORD says: "I will extend peace to her like a river, and the wealth of nations like a flooding stream; you will nurse and be carried on her arm and dandled on her knees.

There is so much about this journey of living 

without your child that is hard to put into words. 

The constant ache and longing for which can never be. 

But fear. 

That is different. 

God is so clear on fear. 

1 John 4:18

There is no fear in love. 

But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. 

The one who fears is not made perfect in love.

It is just like the enemy to take our situations and throw them up in our faces. 

As I have been praying lately,

 I have asked God to expose those things that keep me from him. 

That keep me from sweet intimacy with my God. 

From experiencing all He has to offer 

This is the first,

 I am sure, of the many ways He is working in me. 

To use, Elijah's home going for HIS glory. 

The relief of this burden that I did not know I was carrying is a gift. 

Another measure of grace. 

Of mercy. 

Seek the sweetness of God's mercy. 

Lay down those burdens that weigh so heavily my friends. 

We sang this song at Elijah's funeral. 

We sang with strength. 

We raised our hands to Praise our living God. 

Because even in the midst of the deepest pain; 

even when the tempest rages, 

we can say, "It is well, with my soul."

Each time we sing it I am grateful fir the message it brings. 

Horatio Spafford lost much. 

Yet his soul was held in the hands of the One who can take all this brokeness and shape it into something beautiful. 

Selah

It is Well with My Soul

Two and half years of Missing, Two and a Half Years of Much Grace

Two and a half years. 

The beautiful words of remembrance, faded away. 

Time passing. 

Life moving forward. 

Memories; a gift. 

The Lord's sweet provision. 

A gift to be treasured. 

A legacy of photo's. 

God made sure there were pieces to hold on to. 

A heart full of memories. 

I still don't like this plan. 

My whole being longs for a different path. 

But that is not to be. 

So, with my whole heart I will praise the One who calls me by name. 

I am grateful for wonderful 17 years.

Healthy, fun, crazy, frustrating, chaotic, beautiful years. 

Two and a half years ago my life changed forever. 

The journey is difficult. 

Grace given for each day. 

A friend gave me Tim Keller's book , 

Walking with God Through Pain and Suffering. 

I have been plugging away at the book. 

It is only now that I am ready to hear what this wise man has to say. 

His message meant for me now. He writes,

 "If God is Infinitely powerful as you say-why doesn't he stop evil?" But a God who is infinitely more powerful than us would also be infinitely more knowledgeable than us. pg 98 

If you have a God infinite and powerful enough for you to be angry at for allowing evil. Then you must at the same time have a God infinite enough to have 

sufficient reasons for allowing that evil. pg 99

This is a powerful truth. 

God is allowing this pain. 

He has allowed all that has transpired to be. 

He also has reasons that are beyond my understanding. 

Today we remember, as we do each day. 

We walk into gratitude with purpose. 

God knows our pain and heartache. 

He is working all things for the good of those who love Him. 

Romans 8:28

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

While my heart aches; I am becoming all that God longs for me to be. 

I am choosing joy. 

I am choosing gratitude. 

My Name is Tammy and I Make my Bed Everyday

I haven't showered. 

Laundry is piled on the floor. 

Book work stacked on the table and in piles. 

It's tax time you know. 

And the beat of that clock is ticking. 

I can feel it. 

I make my bed. 

Yes. 

In the middle of all the chaos. 

There is one thing. 

Constant. 

I make my bed. 

What does that say about me? 

I am sure psycho therapists would have a field day. 

Of all the things that need to get done. 

I make my bed. 

Every day. 

With out fail. 

I wash my sheets too. 

Almost every week. 

I have curtains that are falling apart. 
Clutter everywhere. 

But sheets that are crispy clean. 

I don't know why I do these things. 

I do know they bring me great comfort. 

A routine. 

Get up. 

Plug in coffee. 

Use the bathroom. 

Make bed. 

Get dressed. 

I don't even have to think about it. 

Nothing else seems to be routine. 

It all seems jumbled and chaotic. 

A spinning, whirling mess. 

I come up for air at times. 

Only to plunge again into the rhythm of living. 

There are days that I don't feel. 

The day structured so I can move 
through methodically. 

Folding laundry. 

Correcting math. 

Driving to dance. 

Cooking dinner. 

All without a thread of feeling. 

It is those days I wonder. 

How can I do this until eternity beckons?

Because the long term hurts. 

Short term is easier. 

I can do anything for a short time. 

I can make it. 

Small goals. 

But long term? 

Seems too far out there. 

Too many unknowns. 

Too many risks. 

That is how I feel. 

I don't even know how to risk anymore. 

Or do I? 

Can I run this race? 

Hebrews 12:1
 Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us,

So, am I still a risk taker?
Can can I go the distance? 

When I think on my day. 

The risks far out weigh the safety of anything else. 

Each day I watch and navigate as I lead children
 in the way they should grow. 

Often on little sleep and a super tight budget. 

We mamas rise up. 

We balance meals and check books.

We negotiate and implement multiple strategic
 plans throughout each day. 

 Building an Army for the Lord. 

Raising children to serve Him. 

To be empathetic;
in a world hostile to the gospel.
 The clock is ticking. 
Ticking closer to eternity. 

There are precious moments left. 
What will you do with those moments? 
How will you spend the time until Eternity beckons?

I will still make my bed. 
I will enter the struggle of the pain and joy. 
Yielding to the Father. 
Rising up in His strength. 
And yes. 
I will still make my bed. 

Because hidden deep in that task is the decades
 old practice of bowing low.

Getting out of bed. 
Seeking first the kingdom of God. 
Pulling up the sheets.  
Praying for the day. 
Straightening the comforter
Pleading for a marriage bed to be pure. 
Arranging pillows. 
Seeking guidance. 
Admitting my inability to do this journey alone. 

That is how I will do the long term. 
By living in the short term. 
For Him. 
By His grace. 

Isaiah 40-29-31
He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.