Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Thursday, May 4, 2017
Sweet, familiar faces greet me at the glass screen door. Through tender hugs and peering over beloved shoulders, I begin my search for her. It's hard to believe this day is here. I'm amazed. Her kids weren't sure she'd live to see this day. It's been a rough road lately, I hear. But she's entered into the hour of her 80th birthday.
The last time I was here, she conversed with me. She won't be able to today.
I see her. I take in her sweet details from a distance.
She's so loved. Disease can take so much from a person. People can give up on you, and one can choose to give up on themselves and others, but from where I stand, Alzheimer's can't take away your loves. She is curled up on her side, on the couch, cuddled into her pillow and blanket. So much princess pink. Her loyal Maltese blends in to the white cotton pillowcase, taking up more pillow space than my aunt's precious face is. The beloved caregiver beckons the help of my cousin, the daughter, and they ease her to standing at the walker. The caregiver cups my aunt's face in her hands and kisses her forehead.
She's so strong, even in her weakness. Because she's all heart--all heart that fought for grandkids, that survived cancer, that survived the loss of two beloved children, that survived the loss of a husband, that fought and survived so much more than I'll ever be privy to. Her fragile fingers grip the walker rails. Because Alzheimer's can't take away a fighting spirit. Time after time, her kids wonder if she's being escorted away into the arms of God, but to everyone's surprise, He wonderfully escorts her wandering mind and body inch by inch to the table through the hands and feet of Christ. She takes a seat at the queen's chair, the candles are lit, and everyone gathers around her with love, in love.
Please join me for more of the story at my new website ...
Friday, March 31, 2017
It’s never easy. Letting go is never easy. Especially when you’ve had a needy kid. Life has always been a balancing act for me. One I fear I’ll never perfect. One kid is this way, and another is that way. One kid can eat anything; the other needs to proceed with caution. One has perfect balance; the other needs a hand. It’s just the way of it. But it’s also the life you carve out for yourself and your child when you’ve dealt with the big C. One kid is independent, but enduring surgery and chemotherapy takes a toll on the other … simple things can cause panic, weakness takes hold of the ankles.
Click on the link to my new website to read more ...
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
I fuss in the car. "No one can check to see if they have $7 to loan me?" I huff and puff. The girls remain quiet. "I'm going to have to stop for money. Where can I stop? Time is short. I should've done this earlier today ..." I pull into the gas station, use the ATM machine, and hit the road again.
Arriving at the church, I’m greeted and hugged by my cousin, and I hand over the ticket money.
And I just feel ...
I’m trying to make peace.
All 7 of us girls pile into a row of chairs.
And the Lord waylays me.
Anthony Evans … front and center. "Come, Lord, like a rushing wind. We are desperate for your presence. Revive us by your Spirit within. We want to see you again … We remember all the great things you have done. We believe that greater things are yet to come. We remember all the great things you have done. We believe that greater things are yet to come."
My hand lifts into the air. I remember, Lord.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
My girl reclines in the dental chair. Her x-rays hang enlightened on the wall behind her.
"You need to wear this retainer," the man says.
Hard to believe two years had already passed, wearing braces. I didn't really want to get braces for this daughter because her teeth were straight, her bite was just off a bit. She had the cutest crooked smile. But the doctor insisted that her teeth wouldn't wear correctly, and she'd have trouble in her later years. But she had a gap in her front teeth for years, and I was told she needed this simple surgery to cut the gums between her teeth to allow her teeth to grow together. I didn't buy it. And sure enough, her two front teeth grew together over time without surgery. Why did she really need braces? We don't need perfection. My other daughter's braces came off months ago, and she constantly jokes that it looks like she's wearing dentures because her teeth are just too perfect. Too straight.
The dental assistant jumps up and runs toward me. "Did you hear there's been a mountain lion spotted in your area?" She shows me a picture on her phone. "The dog at Tiger Mart got killed" (this is where we refuel our vehicles, and the sad irony ...?).
I want to buckle over with grief.
Friday, February 17, 2017
When someone gives to me, I yearn to give in return. My heart is still melting into a little pool of mama love over my youngest daughter leaving a letter for me several weeks ago out in the mailbox that borders our property walking trail.
The fragrance of chocolate wafts through the Valentine aisle as I select the perfect little heart box. And what are these? Tiny ceramic type decorations to stake into a potted plant. Mushrooms, squirrels, gnomes. Bright and colorful, except for the squirrel. I know ... I'll place these along the trail. Daughter's been out walking every day. I'll surprise her.
The girls are gone. Finally. I race outside, insert the little heart box into the mailbox, sprinkle the ceramic decorations along the trail. It's time to wait.
I'm not a good waiter. Do you remember that my daughter waited 6 weeks for me to notice her letter? Whatever she has, I don't.
We return home from church. "You going walking today, daughter?" I try to hide my smile.
"Why?" She sees right through me. Blast.
The door closes, and I can't wait to hear from her. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"Did you see anything?" I text her.
She texts back an attachment picture of her hand, holding a broken piece of glass. Oh, my word. Am I going to have to show her?
She texts me back. She found the heart box. "Is this for me?" Yep. She's walking the trail, but she's still not opened her eyes to what I've left her.
Sometimes one has to search a little deeper for treasure.
I race out, uniting with younger daughter. Our steps join in the same direction. "Keep your eyes open," I say. I'm mentally trying to identify just exactly what makes the heart worthy and open to receive from others, to uncover buried treasure.
Find Someone To Love
We come across the little gnome. She smiles while giving me that mom-you-are-ridiculous look.
I laugh, a proud-mama moment.
My oldest 18-year-old daughter's words surface in my memory. "Do you remember Evan, Mom?""No.""I used to buy Evan a Dr. Pepper on Wednesday nights at church."
The Conditions Need To Be Just Right
Proceeding, the younger and I stumble across the mushrooms that I'd inserted into the soft soil. Both of them. One red. One blue.
"I touched it earlier. I thought it was real. It felt real."
We laugh. Another proud-mama moment.
Older daughter's voice floods my heart again—"I've worked with Evan at church since he was in kindergarten."
Don't Miss The Blessing
We reach the final one .... She searches all around, but she still can't see it. I bend down and brush my fingertips over the tiny squirrel holding a treasured acorn.
I recall older daughter's final words. "Mom, Evan's in 4th grade now, and every Wednesday, he now buys me a Dr. Pepper. He uses his allowance." I envision her smile, my smile.
"This one's a bit camaflouged," I say to younger. Brown squirrel against brown dirt and nearby leaves. "You have to really be looking to see it."
Sometimes it seems we have to wait, and sometimes it seems we have to search.
But we are loved.
Love doesn't always come in a heart-shaped box.
We love because He first loved us—1 John 4:19♥
What tips do you have for giving and receiving? How have you been loved recently in a not-so-heart-shaped-box way?
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
I inch the door open. Two teeners are playing. I'm so happy to see them playing, taking life by the reins. Like they used to. When did life get so serious?
One's perched on the other's back, having turned into some type of cowgirl. The other's on all fours, and somehow I'm waiting for a "neigh" to bellow out of her mouth. Instead, all contagious laughs, giggles, smiles.
"What?" I nearly fall over laughing.
They jump up, place sweet hands in mine.
"Do y'all want to start reading together through the New-Testament-in-a-year?" I ask the girls, switching gears and interrupting their Lone Ranger and Silver moment. But it's been weighing heavily on my heart.
Both nod so eagerly.
Whew! Because I'm going on fumes right now.
And I need to get at least one weight off my heart. Taking something off my shoulders would be nice, too.
We always did pretty good at family devotions when the girls were small. But things shifted somehow. I tried to get them started on Bible Gateway, helping them establish their own routine. No more "we" but God in thee. That went good for a while, but like with all things, discipline tiptoes out the door, and we're left crumpled on the floor. And that's a complete disservice to my girls.
I need jumper cables. Um, okay ... spurs kicking into my sides.
Because when serious sickness enters your home, even teens can only go on fumes for so long. Anxiety hugs the heart, pinching in the night, demanding conversation.
And one daughter wraps her arms around me. My teetertotter emotions .... "I understand, Mama. Shh. It's okay." I adore her motherly way. What gave it away? Hands that I used to hold everywhere—once so tiny with tiny nails that I used to clip with the baby clippers—soothed over my face, wiping away the moisture. Tight hugs. My other daughter gifts me with one, too.
Life has been so busy. Where has my time with them gone?
Is it okay for a mama to admit she's scared? She's scared of the present, the past, the future. She's scared of every day she tried to make it on her own and failed miserably. She's terrified of the scars etched into her heart from days without holding her Savior's hand. She's scared of every reminder, every memory. She wishes for white-out, do-overs, the delete key for her heart.
What does she yearn for more than anything for her girls? A clean piece of paper, a clean heart. One prepped and ready to type God's beautiful future, beautiful present on their hearts, to accompany their beautiful pasts.
But we can't pour out our heart's desire on that blank page what we aren't pouring in. The page will be written on, but it won't be desirous, the Godly way. It'll never sell.
And when I'm too tired, I'm reminded I'm too tired not to. I'm loading dirty dishes in the dishwaser, and I don't think I have the stamina to finish, but I will. That's my disciplined, determined self talking. And I'll collapse into that bed.
And a brush of wind swirls past me, sweet arms envelope me. "You ready to read our devotion?"
"We better do it now, while I can." Anxiety only falls away when we fall into the arms of God.
We plop down onto the floor, circle around, maybe hit the couch, maybe climb into my bed .... She takes my phone, hits the Bible Gateway App.
"The verse of the day," she says, "is Ephesians 4:2—'Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.'" She clicks on "Begin A Reading Plan" and continues right where we left off. "Matthew 20:1-16," she says.
Verse 16 ends with, "So the last will be first, and the first will be last."
We all chuckle. "I used to say that to you when you were small all the time," I say. "I wanted you to be giving. It feels good to give." And I didn't want them to fight. But my version usually came out like—"If you want to be first, you have to be last." And that's where I might blow a raspberry, if I were that kind of mama.
|fishing in the swimming pool ... caught a plastic fish each and every time|
|floaties in the shallow end|
"I remember, Mama. I say that to all my Sunday school kids," one daughter admits.
Yes. They haven't forgotten. Full circle. God is writing on their hearts. The giving has been received. Because when we give, we always receive. An honest servant is always rewarded in time. It might seem like a rough draft, but it's the real, published deal, where purchases are final. It's sitting on the heart-shelf, waiting to be taken, to be given to their friends, anyone blessed enough to receive from their hands, maybe their future kids.
We take the limited time in this life together by the reins.
A return to family devotion.
Do you have a family devotion? Have you had to take life by the reins recently?
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
"I wish he would quiet down," said someone ... I can't remember who. "Boy, that's annoying."
Ever since we let Azzie, our cat, out of the house for a few moments while we hung up the Christmas lights, he's been completely discontent. We never let the cats out much because ... this right here. The cat balks louder and louder, over and over. And not to mention the summer fleas, the many critters excluding the fleas that would eat him alive. And boy, what if he ran under the deck?
And right now, it's cold. It's snowing. It's actually snowing (it snowed one day, a week ago ... you get the idea). A novelty in these parts of Texas. And the wind is whipping around something fierce.
|My snow-girl. Her New Year's resolutions are to become well-rounded and to get in shape.|
My daughter goes to her room and places on her winter gear. She puts the collar and leash on Azzie. He's really balking now.
My daughter. I'm not surprised. She'll go the extra mile for anyone, especially those she loves. Every Sunday, during "shake-a-hand" moment, she walks all the way across the church to hug and talk to our realtor, the first person we met when we moved here and the very one to invite us to her church, our church. Yes, she ventures all the way there because she loves Ms. Frances. I love her, too, but I'm not so great at going the extra mile. I wave across the way.
But that's my daughter. She'll walk the extra mile. She'll brave the new ice cream flavor, while I stick to the safe mint chocolate chip. But she lets me try the new. She'd give her last dime. Her last bite. Her coat. She loves the lovely and unlovely. She doesn't meet a stranger these days. My shy, quiet daughter is coming into her own God-given gifts. A friend to all. A giver.
The wind rattles the house, along with the windows.
My daughter picks up the cat, opens the front door, steps her new boots out into the snow.
I throw on my winter gear, grab my camera because when it's all said and done, I guess I'd follow her anywhere. And I want to love like she loves. And I want to capture her love on camera.
She sets Azzie down into the snow. He leaves a trail of paw prints.
And in no time, we're all outside.
And almost lying prostrate for a good photo, I think about the prints I'm leaving on this world, on my girls, on my friends ...
I want to leave the kind of heart-prints my daughter has left on me. I want to throw open the door, brave the wind and cold, the unknown, and step out in love ... to love. And I know if I ever step out, I'll never be content to stay inside.
What moves you to action? Others' words or actions?
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
"Do you want to walk the trail with me?" I asked my dear friend.
I wanted to hold her hand and skip down the lane. Could my heart contain the happiness inside? Or would it burst from joy? I hadn't seen my dear friend in over 20 years. We'd moved to Spokane, Washington, in my mid 20s with the air force. We bought a home in the country and immediately formed a tight bond with a farming community. My friend, a farmer's wife, welcomed me into her home, church, heart. We loved each other like sisters from the start and only had a short time together before we returned to Texas.
She and her family came to Texas to vacation last week (I want to think I influenced her a bit), and they spent New Year's Eve with us.
"Is that a mailbox?" my friend asked. "What's that doing out here?"
It's an acceptable question that I find myself explaining to everyone. We didn't want to leave it behind, so we brought it with us when we moved. It was a truck, but it began to deteriorate over time, so we took off parts here and there, keeping the bare necessity. Now, it looks like a set of bulging yellow eyes staring at you. It's planted right across from the swing.
"We write letters to each other ... or at least, we used to. Like love notes. Now, it mostly holds used popsicle sticks, spider webs."
The red flag stood tall. My husband pulled the handle down, revealing mail. Mail? Mail!
Three letters. One was addressed to: Mom (that's me)
I opened it ... from my Katelyn.
I teared up a tiny bit. I read it out loud to my friend, unable to share it fast enough. It was just one of those proud mama moments ... raw, tender ... for someone else to see the love your child really does have for you as a parent. Three paragraphs, three points, that pave the way for my 2017. And I'll be glad to loan them to you, too.
I love you, Mom. Sorry for acting horrible when you guys want to watch something. I don't know what's got me agitated recently ...
Mom, you need to keep writing. You are great at that (and everything else. You are the best mother someone could ask for). I love all the books you write.
You are the best thing anyone could ask for. Keep doing what you're doing. I love you so, so much.
That's my Katelyn. She doesn't like watching TV much, she reads everything I write, and when she loves, she really loves.
I gave her a big hug when I got inside. "Katelyn, I loved my letter. When did you write it?"
"Six weeks ago." She chuckled. "I thought you'd never find it."
It took me six weeks to discover her love, her voice, her heart ...
That's not acceptable. But what beautiful timing. God-timing.
Father, take me down your path ... the path ... for me ... for this 2017. Let me apologize more, encourage more, and love more. Keep my eyes open. Don't let me miss opportunities. Don't let me deteriorate. Father ...
I want to go where you go.
|Karalee (kid lover), me (Word lover), and Katelyn (animal lover) from earlier in the year|
And y'all, life has been so crazy that I wasn't sure I'd get a blog post written. I'd cherish your continued prayers for a close family member. And ... Katelyn gave me her permission to use the letter. *Grin*
What other ingredients can you add for a happy new year?
Monday, December 19, 2016
I love this time of year. The glow of the Christmas tree radiating throughout the darkened living room brightens and lightens my heart, especially in the early mornings.
And my heart's been heavy.
I sit crisscross-applesauce by the tree and remove the star ornament. I lay it at my feet. The cat walks over and touches his nose to it, investigating this new thing. The amateur photographer in me snaps a quick picture.
Maybe I'll post this picture on Instagram, I think to myself. I travel back to my closet and retrieve my Bible from my church bag.
I'll quote Scripture of the star that led the wise men to Jesus, I decide. Sitting down on the floor, all alone, I flip through my elderly Bible's pages, turning straight to Luke. I search and search for the star. I read all of Luke 2. Everyone knows Luke 2 is the nativity scene. Where's the star? Not in Luke?
Matthew? I flip to Matthew.
There. There's the star. The star's in Matthew.
I smile and release my held breath.
My finger follows the wise men over the beautiful pages for every mention of the star.
And I wonder ... why isn't the star mentioned in Luke? Hmm.
"Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, "Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star in the east and have come to worship him." —Matthew 2:2
As I followed the star to Bethlehem, I thought—O Soul Within, maybe, just maybe God left the star out of Luke, placed the star in another location, so that one might search for it. On this day. 2016. So that one might search a little harder, a little farther, for The One, the Christ-child, the God-man. And come to worship Him.
Who else is searching for the star in this moment?
I tuck my knees under my chin and hug my legs.
Shelli, when's the last time you searched for the star?
The star will always lead to Jesus. It will always bring one out of the east.
"After [the Magi] had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen in the east went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed." —Matthew 2: 9-10
Oh, Lord, I never want to stop looking for the star ... looking for you. I never want to stop placing you in my daily life, with purpose. I never want to bog down with anxiety and deny the joy and peace that is my birthright as your child.
I've been bogged down, Lord.
Thank you for going ahead of me. I want a Jeremiah 29 moment with you, Lord. For always. "'You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,' declares the LORD."
Thank you for giving me a reason to search for the star. To knock on the door.
Make me wise. Make me search. Remind me to sit at your feet. Make me desire you. Help me to follow you.
This new thing, new every morning. Don't miss it.
O Soul Within, see the glow. Feel it. The wonder of it all. Open your heart, your treasure, and lay those burdens down. But not just anywhere or to anyone ... to The One—the right one providing the right place. And receive the joy and peace.
"On coming to the house, [the Magi] saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their teasures and presented him with gifts ..." —Matthew 2:11-12
I love you.
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
"My friend invited us to go with their family to work with Operation Christmas Child." My daughter thumbed through her text. "The day after Thanksgiving. May we go?"
Come Black Friday, we drove the hour trip into the Dallas area, met the family, and walked into a huge warehouse filled with plain brown shipping boxes, showcasing "Samaritan's Purse."
The warmth flooded the room, the smiles, the greetings from strangers. We ushered into a holding room and watched a film over our volunteer work. I placed my "chaperone" sticker and my name tag on my shirt. The kids received the "student" stickers.We followed a lady through the huge warehouse full of tables and workers.
Shouts rang out.
"When a shipping box is completely packed with shoe-boxes, everyone shouts, competing to see who can shout the loudest," the lady explained.
She led us to our very own worktable—#13—and opened one huge brown shipping box. We peeked over the edge to see it packed to the brim with green-and-red shoeboxes.
Everyone received their assigned job for the day. I took on the job of sorting through shoeboxes—in other words, each packed box had to be unpacked—ensuring each individual shoebox was full and that there was nothing harmful in it—no liquids, no weapons. My youngest daughter stood at my side sorting through boxes with me, with her older sister next to her, who helped tape the boxes we passed along.
I glanced up between boxes to see smiles on faces. I reached for a new box, and my daughter beat me to it. We laughed.
My feet stood right where they needed to be.
My fingers felt over my "chaperone" tag on my jacket. Me? Chaperone? No. Me? Student? Yes.
I yearned to exchange tags with my daughter, letting her wear the "chaperone" and letting me take on the "student."
Without my girls, without the invitation, my feet would not be planted on the Operation Christmas Child's warehouse floor. My heart had not been invested in the past. Oh, I'd assembled boxes, but never with my whole heart. I would never have driven that hour in Dallas traffic, the day after Thanksgiving, on my own. Never.
My heart needed nudging, prompting. My hand needed holding, guiding, leading, encouraging.
We placed hands on the boxes before us and prayed over them.
Something strange happened. The brown turned to green-and-red. My heart began to feel invested, invested in the children whom I couldn't even see, whom I'd never even meet.
I stumbled across a shoebox that wasn't packed properly. And I found myself getting defensive over each one I checked and packed. I felt slight aggravation at the unknown persons who'd assembled them poorly.
But who was I to grumble in my heart? I thought of all the shoeboxes I had thrown away that year. I reprimanded myself secretly. I hadn't packed a shoebox in a few years, since the girls have gotten older, since they hadn't prompted me to help make one. Since they hadn't held my hand and led me there.
Since my eyes weren't fully seeing.
I reached into the bins full of toys before me, selected a few things, like a stuffed animal or a children's Bible, and filled the shoebox. It only lacked one thing—candy. I wished for a bucket of candy so that I could add sweetness to the boxes that were lacking.
My heart is invested.
I ran across a shoebox that clearly had been packed with an over-abundance of love—dolls, stuffed animals, candy. Someone did it right, and some child will be blessed by their hands. My heart clapped for those unknown persons.
I passed the finished shoebox along, and my daughter taped it shut. Friends packed the beautiful Christmas color into the plain ol' shipping box, bringing it to life there in the warehouse, there in my heart. Shouts rang out, starting a contagion of shouts down the line. We'd filled another shipping box, ready to go overseas.
"Do you want to go to lunch?" the lady asked.
I turned to the girls. "Are y'all hungry? Do you want to take a lunch break?"
"No, let's keep working," they agreed.
I smiled. "Yes, let's keep working. Our time's too short. We can eat after." We can eat anytime.
We took a peek inside, and now our hearts are fully invested.
We took a peek inside,
our stubborn hearts were tested,
and now we see in color,
our hearts fully invested.
Thank you, Peek Family
Are you volunteering anywhere special this year? What is God teaching you?
and now we see in color,
our hearts fully invested.
Thank you, Peek Family
Are you volunteering anywhere special this year? What is God teaching you?
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
From my heart to yours this Thanksgiving—
My daughter's normal morning 3-day-a-week school routine begins.
"You awake?" I text to her from downstairs, under the covers, snug as a bug in a rug.
"Yup," she texts back.
One foot slips out from under the covers, then the other. Un-snug as a bug out of a rug. Leaning over the bathroom counter, I get partially ready for the day, make-up and hair, then I'm off to scan the living room and kitchen to see if my daughter has left any school work there that she might need for the day. I grab a bottled water out of the garage fridge and a granola bar from the pantry for her.
My heart yearns for her success.
The door to her stairs/bedroom billows open and the rush begins. I open the garage door, hug and kiss her goodbye, shoving the water and granola bar into her backpack. She backs the car out, careful not to hit a tree. I wave goodbye and blow kisses to her ... she stalls the car to wave and return my kisses. We realize it's our last gaze at each other.
That little black car zooms off down our driveway, kicking up leaves, beginning that 35-minute commute by busy, 18-wheeler interstate.
And I pray, like every day—Lord, watch over her, protect her, get her home to me.
My heart yearns for her safety.
But this particular day, after some 5 minutes have passed, my phone buzzes with a call. It's her.
"Hey, Mom." Her tone is urgent. "I left my driver's license in your car. I'll be home in two minutes. Will you get it for me?"
I run out to the car. There it is. I open the garage again.
My mind starts going wild. Will she be late for school now? Will she drive too fast to get there on time? She's almost home ... she said 2 minutes. I'll save her time.
My heart yearns for every good and perfect thing for her.
With barely a moment's thought, I take off down my long, wet driveway, barefoot, in my pajamas. I'll meet here there at the end of the road. Lord, please don't let me step on a stick or an acorn. As I near the end, I see her car between trees.
She pulls into the driveway. She sees me running. Her expression? Priceless.
My heart yearns to make her smile.
"I can't back out, Mom."
"Yes, you can. I'll help you." I walk out into the middle of our county road in my pajamas, guiding her, motioning to her which way to turn her wheels. She does it. I knew she could do it.
My heart yearns for her to be confident.
She zooms off again. My prayer goes up once again.
At the end of the day, she barrels through the door, crying. Wrapping her arms around me, she spills her precious heart. She barely missed being in an auto accident. I sink in despair over the details her precious eyes witnessed. My fractured heart looks heavenward, and my prayer shoots up—thank you, Lord, for bringing her home to me.
My heart yearns for peace.
For her. For me.
Every week, I hear her near misses or what she's witnessed on the road. My heart can barely take it.
My right eyelid's been flickering like a fluorescent light for days now.
It's all worry, y'all.
My daughter's first semester of college has been the hardest change for me. If there is one downside to homeschooling that I've discovered, it's that a mama's heart is too sheltered. It's the mama's heart that's cause for concern. And the heart stays invested regardless of your child's age.
But she loves it. She loves every single thing about it—the school, her classes, the commute, time in her car, lunch out with friends—which is all that matters. And I'm so thankful.
But this mama thought she knew how to lean on God. This mama's heart is learning to lean, lean on my Savior, more and more.
After Thanksgiving, my daughter will only have about two weeks left of school, before she has a month break. I'm so grateful because—
My broken heart yearns for a break.
What has you concerned lately? And can you imagine our Father's love over us?
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. And many thanks to all who entered the magazine subscription giveaway from the last post. Thank you for playing. I'm blowing kisses your way. I cherish you.
And the winners are ...
Cindy Hasko and Norma Brumbaugh Wieland
Woohoo! I pray you are blessed by the magazine all year long.