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

Fragmented to Repurposed

It's broken. 

This beautiful mug. 

It came in a package. 

From Germany. 

With love. 

A college room mate. 

A friend. 

Packed a box full of love. 

It made me laugh and cry. 

A hug from so far away. 

But one mug was broken. 

And it made me sad. 

Until. . . 

I held the fragments in my hands. 

Fragments. 

Fragmented. 

The way I feel. 

Most of the time. 

In pieces. 

Broken. 

Useless. 

Worthless. 

Spent. 

Fragmented. 

The pieces sat on the farm house table. 

Moved from one place to another. 

Until. . . 

Our friend Harold was sitting at the table. 

The engineer in him needed to put the puzzle together. 

He needed to solve the problem. 

Fix it. 

He glued each of those pieces back. 

Painstakingly tedious. 

Restored. 
Useful.
With a different purpose.
By a master. 

And there it was. 

The broken cup. 

So beautiful. 

Genuine. 

The pieces placed together again. 

The broken places visible. 

Imperfect. 

Not able to hold that hot, steamy liquid I so love. 

As I turned the mug over in my hands. 

It struck me. 

Repurpose.

Changing. 

Even the fragments from a broken mug can have a purpose. 

It's use; forever changed. 

Yet, still. 

A purpose. 
Some still unknown. 
A reminder. 
God takes the broken. 

He repurposes. 

He restores. 
Oh how he loves us. 
He will take this broken vessel.
He will take all this hurt and ache. 
He will use it for His glory. 
To bring Honor and glory to His name. 

I will never be the same. 
I am broken. 
I am tired. 
I am weary. 
Our God though. . . 

Psalm 121:4
indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

He watches over all. 

It's been 27 months, 
on a journey I did not initiate. 
I trip I never planned.
A path I do not like. 
A way I must travel. 

With each breath I have left,
with each step I take. 
I will sing praise. 
I will keep my eyes turned heavenward. 

Psalm 121:1
 I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

Learning How To Celebrate

Today we celebrate. 

Though that term looks different these days. 

We are going to celebrate. 

Last year the celebration hard. 
The effects of chemo and radiation wreaking havoc.
The joy thief taking all. 
So, today we are going to celebrate my farmer. 
We will celebrate his last year in this decade. 
We will step into gratitude as we look back over the past year. 
A year with no chemo or radiation. 
Strength gained each day. 
The joy thief held at bay. 

James 1:2
Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,
 whenever you face trials of many kinds,

I am not able to consider these trials we have been faced with, "pure joy". . .yet.
I do know that there is a purpose and reason. 
I do know that my farmer is here. 

That this day is a gift to celebrate. 

I don't know what that will look like. 
We've all been fighting off colds. 
I've been traveling to be with my brothers
 and helping my dad.
The tyranny of the urgent staking claim. 

So, today, we will pause. 

In the middle of the busyness, we will breathe deep. 
We will celebrate life. 
I won't try to force my agenda. 
I will work with the flow of the day. 
Choosing to see the beauty in each moment, 
Thanking God for my farmer. 

The way he still makes my heart skip a beat. 

The way I marvel at his ability to work no matter what. 

His selfless approach to life. 

He really needs nothing. 
His capacity to love. 

It is never about him. 

He makes do with what he has. 
He sees potential where others see none. 
A forever optimist. 
His altar; all of creation. 

His knees bowed in submission to the Creator of the Universe. 
A man of principle. 
Humble. 
A desire to give out of all he has. 

This day we honor this man. 

My farmer. 

Happy Birthday!

Umm. . .Our Plans Are Not Going According to What We Thought. . . . Now What?

She's sad. 

Things are not working out how we expected. 

And it's hard. 

What do you do when you've prayed; 

done the right things. 

And the answer is no? 

What do you do when you think this is a plan. 

And the door. . . closes. 

Shut. 

Time is of the essence. 

Yet, what is time in Christ? 

We cry. 

I try to pray. 

I have no words. 

Because when your child hurts, often there is no room for words. 

I know this is more in the lessons of trust. 

I tell my first born girl this. 

I dig deep. 

God has a plan. 

God knows the future. 

We don't. 

So we can do only what we have been taught to do. 

Fall back to what we know. 

God is faithful. 

I Corinthians 1:0

God is faithful, who has called you into fellowship with his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord

God will never leave us nor forsake us. 

He actually goes before us. 

Deuteronomy 21:38

The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged."

He is working all things for good. 

Romans 8:29

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.

We are reminded there are still many lessons to learn on this journey. 

While my heart retracts from more hard lessons. 
I know it is for the good. 

We are being molded and shaped. 
Our purpose is for His glory. 
Our steps are to bring honor to His name and further His kingdom. 
We are light in a hurting world. 
Even in the struggle there is hope. 

I don't know what God has planned for this daughter of mine. 
I know I love her fiercely and God loves her more. 
I know that I can't step into fear. 
I know that God holds all this in the palm of his hand. 

So, I need to place this young lady in the palm of God's hand. 
The same God who holds my son. 

This is not easy. 
When plans do not go according to what you expect. 

But,

There is a plan. 

Jeremiah 29:11
For I know the plans I have for you. . .. 

God is in the plan. 

In time, he will reveal his plan. 

We just need to trust. 

Are you able to trust? 

Learning Not To Fear The Quiet

 The sun shines on the newly fallen snow. 

It has that sparkle. 

I sit in my bedroom, in the bay window. 

The warmth from the sun has been beckoning all morning. 

I have been so cold. 

It feels good to be warm. 

I hold the Ancient Word in my lap. 

I close my eyes. 

To be quiet in the presence of a Holy God. 

No requests. 

No words. 

Quiet. 

No lists. 

No worries. 

Quiet. 

I am still. 

Yet I fear. 

I fear what He will say. 

Since the accident. 

Since the cancer. 

It's hard to be quiet and still. 

I am quick with words. 

Thankful words. 

Words of request. 

Words of gratitude. 

But the quiet; that is harder. 

And so, today. 

I sit. 

With the sunshine pouring over me. 

 I am still. 

Quiet. 

Galatians 3:5 flutters into my thoughts. 

Not a verse I can quote.  

I open the word. 

Galatians 3:5

So again I ask, does God give you his Spirit and 

work miracles among you by the works of the law, 

or by your believing what you heard?

God is the one who works the miracles. 

He does the work. 

My job is to rest. 

Something I find hard to do. 

I do not need to fear my thoughts. 

Or the quiet. 

Thoughts of the accident and the ensuing months are hard to digest. 

In the quiet they come. 

Slowly, I hand each thought to God. 

He will carry me. 

God will accomplish His work. 

I lean into the quiet. 

I let the spirit pour over my weary soul. 

I do not have to do all the work. 

God wants us to rest. 

In Him. 

Are you resting in Him?

Matthew 11:28

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Whose Shoes Are You Walking In?

He has walked in ripped shoes. 

Off and on for 18 months. 

Until they have split along the sides. 

New ones bought; just not comfortable. 

So he keeps the old ones. 

Familiar. 

He's walked in his brothers shoes, too.  

On and off for 18 months. 

But they were too tight. 

Not his. 

Not the younger brother anymore. 

Yet not the oldest either. 

A hard place to be. 

A hard age to sort through such complex emotions. 

Matthew 28:20

and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. 

And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."

The youngest of these asks me in the car;

Where would he be now? 

It takes me a moment. 

A question she has asked before.

Trying to piece together the life this side of the veil. 

I tell her I am not sure. 

He would be off in a school somewhere. 

He might even be overseas.

So, he wouldn't even be here? 

So she would still be missing him? 

That is her real question. 

It gets really quiet in the car. 

Finally I say to her. 

He wouldn't be here. 

God has His plan. 

He called Elijah home. 

His work, here, on earth; finished. 

The words hurt coming out. 

I think we all want to picture Elijah somewhere; doing something. 

I tell her that God is mighty. 

He has promised to never leave us or forsake us. 

That he will uphold us with his righteous right hand. 

And here at 18 months. 

We have been held. 

God has sent his Spirit to intercede when words fail. 

He has used our family, friends and complete strangers to come alongside us. 

Though the missing is great and deep. 

We need to be open and ready for what is still yet to come. 

There is much to life that we have been called to do. 

Our story; not yet complete. 

I plan to take the farm boy shopping for new shoes. 

His own shoes. 

Shoes that only he can fill. 

Shoes that fit. 

Shoes that will carry him through the journey God has placed before him. 

But I won't throw those ripped shoes away. 

I will hold them close. 

They show the journey of the farm boy. 

Through 18 months. 

Torn; ripped. 

Yet still functional. 

Are you trying to fill someone else's shoes? 

Jeremiah 6:16

This is what the LORD says: "Stand at the crossroads and look; 

ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, 

and you will find rest for your souls. 

But you said, 'We will not walk in it.'

For 17 Months Our Hearts Have Been Held By; God, A Community and Family, We Are So Grateful

A silent, still night. 

The ache  remains. 

Even after 17 months. 

2 birthday's.

2 Christmases. 

And much in between. 

A loneliness along with the  ache. 

I have lost my  child. 
Our  family so changed. 
And sometimes I feel lonely.

I feel like I was part way through a really great book,

 one I have loved  to read. 

And now the rest of the book is gone. 

Never to be finished. 

Year One, you are numb when you decorate the Christmas Tree. 

The Ornaments, they leave you gasping for air. 

Year after year a legacy. 

An ornament for each child, each year; dated. 

Her handwriting a reminder. 
My mom giving memories each year in an ornament.
 A gift, I have come all too suddenly to understand. 

So beautiful.
Each first, resounds with hollow echoes of what life was like and now so different.
The ache, deep,  steps defaulting to the well worn path etched in our being.
A numbness permeates all  you do.
A daily bowing in humbleness before the father for grace enough to make it through the day.
An endless sea of warm hearts making dinners, meeting  basic needs.

Philippians 4:19
And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.


Somewhere, somehow you touch earth, delicately at first.
Testing to see if you can stand.
Looking at all around you as if for the first time.
Because what once was will never be again.

Your dear child lies in the cold, dark of the earth.
The child you carried and hoped for, now, gone.

And no matter how much you know you will see him again,
no matter how deep the faith and trust in the One true God,
the reality remains that this side of eternity that boy will never be.

There will be no graduation from the Marine Corps and watching as his career grows.
There will never be a wedding and I will never have the honor of dancing the mothers dance with my red headed boy.
There will be no mini hims carrying on the Davis name and silly antics.
The list will go on until you lose who you are and long for the guttural screams. 
It is not until the act of turning takes place that the journey can continue.
The act of the sacrifice of praise.

The 17 years we did have.
The treasured memory of an event spent together.
It is these moments that God reaches in and fills the shattered heart with the Holy Spirit.
It is a supernatural occurrence.
There is peace and a contentment in who this God of the Universe really is.
Because Year two the veil and fog that pulled you through year one has dissipated and you are left with raw, exposed emotions.
You take each one of those ornaments with the date and the year and you hold them to your heart. Longing to reach through the years and have time. 

And here your mind dwells on all the memories.

These seconds are hard. 

The fog has lifted and the raw grief is there. 

The walk continues through. 

There is no way around. 

Some days the heaviness weighs. 

I try so hard to rise above. 

I ask God for wisdom and strength.

Because it's too heavy to carry alone. 

Matthew 28:20
 And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."

17 months ago. I was wakened in the night. 

17 months ago this morning I stepped onto my porch. 

This is what I saw. 

The visitors had left. 

I had called our friends to come over. 
My heart had ceased beating for a time. 
My mind unsteady and unclear. 

When I look at this picture, I am reminded of the peace
 that descended to my soul that morning. 
The beauty of creation; a universal language. 
The praise uninhibited. 
Even in raw grief. 

The God of Universe, who called all things into being placed a heart in the sky. 

A broken heart. 

I don't read much into things. 

I don't pretend to say that makes it better. 

Because I'd take my son back in a heart beat in exchange for the image in the sky. 

(Though my farmer wouldn't)

But it's all connected. 

The ache. 

The heart

 The death. 

It's part of God's plan. 

Funny thing is, often we don't know what God's plan will be. 

We see glimpses and pieces. 

Snippets out of order. 

Rarely do we get to see the whole picture.

But He knows. 

He knows what He is doing. 

It is in trusting, where the grace and mercy touch down. 

And 17 months ago when Gary walked into church to share that Elijah met Jesus early that morning, God knew what He was doing. 

Grace walked through those church doors. 

And no matter how I hurt. 

No matter how much I miss that red headed boy of mine.

God is still in control. 

No matter how difficult every activity is. 

God is still there. 

The milk prices will drastically drop, My farmer and daughter will go on a missions trip. 
Cancer will loom. 

The world will still spin. 

And God will still be glorified on His throne. 
I had him for 17 years. 
He's been gone for 17 months. 

17 months feels so long. 

But it doesn't compare with all of eternity. 

Our gaze is to be to the cross. 

The symbol of suffering and shame; glorified to hope and salvation. 

We walk in uneasy times. 

Hope must be our quest. 
There is coming a day. 
And oh, how my spirit longs. 

Faith Hill
There Will Come A Day