When Did I Stop Moving Furniture?

Driving home from the hospital, from time with my mama, I think over the last moments with her that day and ask myself, When did you stop moving furniture?

I don’t know.

Time alone and I gathered together so often when I was a teen, time I’d spend in my room, alone, rearranging furniture and cleaning, keeping my space tidy and comfortable. If I moved it just right, I’d create a cozy nook just for me.

Mama would come home from work, eye my room over, and say, "You’re going to hurt your back."

Tidy and comfortable. Worth the risk.

A family member had an infection a year or so ago, and I didn’t go. I didn’t want to bring it home to a person with compromised health. Untidy; uncomfortable.

A family member went to the hospital, but I needed to stay home, because I couldn’t risk bringing COVID to dinner.

I hide away at home, in my safety. Stay home, I’m told.

And I ask myself on the way home: When did helping others become untidy and uncomfortable in your life, Shelli?

But somewhere along the way, things got out of sorts and I got really comfortable in the unforeseeable change. Somewhere … somewhere in the frightening news that my mama was terribly ill. She had MRSA, a staff infection of the blood, C.Diff, as well, which is very contagious. Pneumonia threw itself into the mix for good measure. So much untidy, uncomfortable.

Draped in the gown and gloves and mask, my body moves without thought to be with my mama. She’s so far gone that she can’t even say her name. The invitation slides out of my hands to anything, any disease that could harm me, bidding it to come alongside me, to bask in my tidy and comfortable, because all I care about is how can I keep from hurting her? What does it matter if I’m safe? How can I keep her safe?

On the night at the hospital when I’m told Mama can have no more visitors, after sharing that room when I can for a month with her, I draw near to her and hug her, tears pouring, and I tell her I love her and that I need her to keep fighting, that I need her to pull through this.

"I will," Mama promises.

Dread seeps into my soul through the wee morning hours … what if in hugging her, I drew too near, I hear … what if you’re carrying COVID, Shelli, and don't know it? What if you're sick and don't know it? What if you give her a virus that kills her in this weakened state? And worry deprives my weary body of sleep.

While each nurse stepped into Mama’s room with caution, when she initially moved to rehab, I wore no protective gear except my mask, and I sit there telling my mama why I won’t lower my mask. "The thought of getting you sick," I say, through tears, "is more than I can bear."

"Oh, honey," Mom says, in that tone that tells me her only concern is my worry.

And as the hour strikes for me to leave, visiting hours coming to a close, I search the flowers on the darkened shelves. Because finding the lovely in the unlovely is how one thrives in survival mode. Unlike the hospital room, the mourning windowsill at rehab is too narrow to hold them, too thin to shower them with light, so empty. My vision lands on the solitary bedside table, which has no remarkable use, only covered in chocolate Ensure. And I know what I need to do.

"I’ll move the table," I say, with a smile. "Do you think they’ll mind?"

"I don’t see why," says my mom.

From one side to the other, I move, tugging along the hunk of wood without rollers, inch by inch, over my toe, with barely a flinch from me, trying not to scrape the floor. Because I’ve never had a more brilliant idea. And there the bulk of the three-drawer chunk lands, between the chairs, centered in the window. The arrangements, incredibly still hanging on to life, line up perfectly in Mom’s view from the bed, the bright floral colors backed by her get-well cards.

There.

Mama’s smile overrides mine, as the flowers bask in the sun. "If we’re here long enough, we’ll rearrange the whole room," she says, and we laugh together. Her face tilts, her thoughts off in another place somewhere. "I wonder if I'll ever sing again," she finally shares with me.

"You could sing 'Jesus Loves Me.' "

Slowly, our voices lift, together, until "the Bible tells me so."

"Thank you," she says. "I couldn’t do this without you."

"I’d never want you to," I say.

And there, moving furniture, my heart glows like it’s been sprayed with everlasting Pledge—and still does as I retrieve Ibuprofen at midnight for my aching shoulder—because it’s there … where the messy and uncomfortable becomes tidy and comfortable.

Are you finding yourself willing to take a risk during difficult days? Love will do it. Love brings courage.

(By the way, that table does have a use. It's for holding the phone and nurse call button/TV controller when the patient gets out of bed. And we have laughed about this every day since. And Mama is improving daily. She stood up from the bed to the walker for the first time.)

Update: I initially wrote this post in July of 2020. I lost my mother to a stroke back in August 2020. 

Finding That Conversation Place

I trail the soft, cleansing cloth over each hill, every valley. So much dirt and stain. Why did I ever think I could wear white? What's wrong with me? The brown would have been a better fit, hiding impurities, all the unlovely, embarrassing yuck. He tried to tell you. Why didn't you listen?

O Soul Within, it's been years. You need to wear white. You need to own this. It's yours. It's yours for the taking. And it was costly. Don't let it go to waste.

I swipe my forehead, as the temperature soars to summer-unbearable that only our beloved Texas makes bearable. Every locust on site tunes in to my fuzzy channel. I head inside and grab a popsicle from the freezer. Walking back out, I stand there evaluating everything before me.

Just do it, Shelli.

I sit down in that stained rocking chair that used to be so white. I own it. I start rocking. And this feels so nice. I grab another popsicle and head back out.

Everyone must think I've lost my mind. Sitting in that dirty chair? It's one thing to plop down in what you can't see, but to take on the seen?
Little Bit, daughter #1, pops out the door. She couldn't stand it any longer. "Can I sit with you, Mama?"

"Of course. Grab popsicles."

It doesn't take long outside to realize why the chairs are so stained. June bugs, grasshoppers, things that sting (mosquitoes, wasps ...), spiders overhead. It's a jungle out there. Truly it is.

We rock. My hands freeze, as I push up the icy-blue sweetness. "I can't write," I say. "At a time in my life when I should feel the most encouraged, I have never been more discouraged. I can't even manage a blog post. A simple blog post. What's wrong with me?"

"You're a good writer, Mama," Little Bit says.

I release my empty popsicle package to the ground.
I push out of that chair, grab more popsicles,  and nudge the grasshopper off the seat when I return, while begging his pardon. We continue rocking.

Breaking the short silence, my girl says, "What's wrong with me, Mama?"

"Not a single thing. You're perfect just the way you are. You have to be patient, trust, and wait on God," I say.

Little Bit tosses her empty container to the ground.

Baby Girl, daughter #2, sticks her head out the door. It was only a matter of time. She has forever been my "I go where you go" daughter. "Want another popsicle?" she asks.
We two smile big and unanimously say, "Yes!"

Baby Girl hands everyone their cold treat and sits on the front porch step. I need one more rocking chair. And in her quietness, she sips on that pink ice until she releases her trash to the ground, along with all her heart's unspoken. We know.

I toss my hair over the chair's back, like the once perfectly white, stained wooden slat is a pony-tail holder. I don't care what my hair touches ... stain, tiny spiders. I don't look; I just use it. The stain doesn't bother me anymore, and come to think of it, that weathered look has always appealed to me anyway, the perfectly imperfect.

And would you look at that? Each baby girl has followed me, owning that white, distressed as it may be.

The cool air greets my flesh. I prop one bare foot up on the seat, while my other sways that chair and me back and forth. And somehow everything feels so clean and new. Just right.

I observe the pile of emptiness that's fallen to the ground. "I think we might need a trash can out here."

---

Do you have anything needing to be tossed away? What is threatening to trash your confidence? And do you have a place you love to gather with those who get you? How did you stumble across that conversation place?

I would crawl into bed with my girls when they were little, and we'd talk hours into the night. But somewhere in their growing up, we'd lost that cherished time. I'm so glad I sat down in that rocking chair at the onset of summer, that I found that conversation place, because every day I hear, "Let's go sit on the front porch."  I drop everything, because I know that means we'll gather popsicles and do some mother/daughter talking. I know their reasoning is partly because they get a break, and partly because they love me, but mostly because we always see God.

To All The Ruined Mothers

"I'm ruined, Shelli."

One petal falls.
I can't bear to hear her utter those words. I cover my ears and eyes. "La, la, la ..." I love her so.

When did this point arrive? When did the words "ostomy," "colostomy," "colectomy" think they could enter their little world? Her son is only 10. He's endured more over the last couple of months than most adults could bear. But he's past the stage of hugs, and high-fives have taken their place. Yet I know that little boy inside that big boy yearns to reach his arms up, be taken up, and rocked, swaying back and forth, until all things are made better. Until the pain is all gone. Until the bed of tears runs dry.

"I can't smile anymore, Shelli."

Another petal loosens.
I can't begin to imagine what it took, the struggle within her mother-heart, to give her consent ... her consent to release something so important to her son. To let go. To say goodbye.

What can I say? What can I do? How do we help when one petal after another seems to slip away? One thing after another. Nothing is easy. What else can go wrong? Mothers so want good for our kids--a pleasant, perfect, pain-free, prosperous life.

What are you thinking, Mother? That this is your fault? That you could have prevented this? That you did something to cause this? That you didn't do enough? Or that you simply want your child's life the way it used to be?

"We are having a very difficult time finding an ostomy bag that is a good fit ... and we've tried several," she wearily says.

One more petal breaks free and drifts to the ground.
What if ... you're not ruined? What if you were ruined before, and you just didn't realize it? Maybe what we thought was good was the ruination. Because the tissue was so damaged it was about to fall apart. "One more day, and it would have been a different story," reported the doctor. One more day, and instead of arranging ostomy bags, they could have been arranging ...

What do you know, Shelli? When have you felt ruined, Shelli? When you found out you couldn't have children, your heart's desire since childhood? When you found out you were doomed to be different. When all your hopes and dreams disintegrated. When your future didn't look bright and pretty anymore. When everything was stripped away, and all that remained was a barren stem. When all you could do was look up, reach up.

Mother scans over his irritated skin surrounding the leaky bag, tears surfacing in her eyes. Only God knows the amount of tears she's cried.

Another petal falls.
But what if when we love God so much, when we've given Him our hearts, we change? What if God is making a new thing? What if that's exactly what He intended? What if the goal is to have the only thing remaining of you be Him, the lifeblood, the foundation that keeps us standing. We hold so tightly to the color of "the way things should be."

If I could have given birth, I would have wanted to birth my daughters. My adopted daughters. My children. I wouldn't select any other. No one could take their places.

Because what if God knows exactly what He is doing?

"It breaks my heart when I look at your bag," Mother says to her son. 

The last petal breaks free. 
If we reach our arms up, do we think God would lift us up? Would He set us on new, different ground? Safe ground. Good ground. What if that new ground is our testimony? The testimony that makes us beautiful, colorful, whole. New. Healed.

"Well, it makes me happy every time I look at it," he says, "because it saved my life." 
And maybe that's it. Maybe the stripping away is salvation. Maybe the ruination is our salvation. Maybe it's God's method of rescue, His method to rescue others. The old tissue is so damaged, wilting, it cannot remain. It must fall away. Because the truth is ... that 10-year-old lifted his arms to his Savior over a year ago, and he's been rocking with Jesus ever since. He's waltzing in to his brand new testimony, and in his humorous and warrior-like attitude, he calls that bag "Frances."

Mothers, why shouldn't we see something new?

---

Happy Mother's Day, beautiful friends, especially to those who are hurting!

And prayers for a special Mother's Day for my loved one. She's so much stronger than she knows. She's my person and a wonderful mother. She's so loved. ♥

God Uses The Puddles

Would she really trade me for ice cream and candy? On the way home from my meeting, I stew--the warm, tasty kind. My girl ... she was just a little too excited for me to depart from home today. "When are you leaving, Mom?" she'd asked with a smile.

I pull into the garage. My girls step out of the house, waiting to hug me. My focus locks onto my youngest. "You are in so much trouble," I say. I head toward her. She laughs, crouching into the wall. "You wanted me to go." I tickle her. The veins on her neck pop out, like always, through her belly laugh.

Don't ever want me to go, baby girl. 

"Let's go jump in the puddle down the road," I say. The girls slip on their rain boots, I grab my camera, and we trek down the road. The marshy ground boasts hoof prints and foot prints. The sky recently released loads of rain on us. A once empty bucket under a tree now holds over ten inches of water. Such a novelty for dry, Texas land.

We pass our neighbor's home that burned completely to the ground two years ago. Rebuilt. Loss, but brand new. Oh, how we needed a downpour that night. Many of our neighbors' front yards resemble ponds now. Even lakes. Water threatens their doorsteps.

"Have you decided what you want to do for your birthday?" I ask the youngest. We pour over a few ideas as we reach our destination, still lacking vision.

"Let me go a little farther, so I'll capture the prettiest scenery behind you." As I turn around, the girls step out into the water that covers the road. They touch it, really feel it. They stand there across from each other, smiling.
Don't ever lose these moments, I want to say, reflecting over the past. Hold on. You've shared so many amazing years together. Don't trade them for anything. Always be there for each other, no matter how old you get. You're sisters, not by birth but by your worth. God loved you so much, that He had a plan for your lives. After He knit you together, He placed you together.

Oldest one is already soaring in the air. I watch that youngest one. She crouches.
My baby turns eighteen this month. Eighteen.

I bend to the ground, trying to capture their moment. My moment.

At 13 months old, I didn't know if my youngest would make it. Tears poured from my heart on her 2nd birthday, because she'd made it. Cancer crushes. Disease destroys. We've waded through so many puddles along the way. We've tripped and fallen into the puddles because chemo weakens the ankles of a small child. We've wandered in the puddle of how to stop holding hands, when attachment keeps you from falling but you've outgrown it now. We've muddled through the puddle of fear, fear that another puddle is looming up ahead, threatening. So much personal loss ...

But brand new. Stronger. Closer.

In that bent position, her once thinned hair is long and flowing, curly, healthy, bouncing in the breeze.

I don't want you to go, but I know you will. Oh, how blessed I've been.

She soars.
And when you soar, baby girl, you leave all those puddles behind. And I'll stay right here and watch you, for as long as I can. While you're still in sight. And when you land, because we always tend to land, we stomp them. We make a splash--on ourselves and others. The clean, pure kind--brand new--so welcoming to a land of drought. Because nothing is wasted, young one. Touch it, really feel it.

God uses the puddles.

Happy 18th birthday, Katelyn Grace Littleton

My Little Girls Are All Grown Up

It's going to happen. Everyone thinks it will finally come down, it'll finally snow.

Oh, I hope my #1 daughter's university cancels classes. Because at the end of her busy break, I just need a break. I need one more day with her. One more day to hold her close and never let go. One more day to put the phone down, put the TV remote down. One more day to focus on my true loves.

"Mommy ...!" she shouts, running to me.

Lo and behold, her university canceled classes. I jump for joy and clap my hands. I get one more day with her, with absolutely nothing demanding of us.
And after a little so-called dusting of snow, or ice, commences--beautiful, pure change over the horizon--#2 brings me her writing assignment, asking me to look at it. Taking the treasured pages in my hands, I read:

Ever since I was little, I always dreamed of becoming a veterinarian. I even wanted to be an animal myself for years, because I thought they were so cool.

I laugh out loud. She goes on to explain how she had wanted to be a vet, but seeing an animal surgery made her weak, nauseated, pale. A change of plans. She had to sit down, in another area. The vet's cat came over and loved on her. The doctor gave her a chance to rest, regain her composure, and she returned to the surgery room. But at the sight of surgery, she continues to say--

I started slumping down the wall I was leaning against.
I returned to the chair with the cat.

I laugh again. Yes, my daughter wrote those words. The words that would begin her very first college English paper.

Did you get that? Her first college paper. My baby. Because while I was wishing for one more day with my #1, I had no idea that two days later I'd step foot out without #2. Both my babies are in college. Both. #2 hasn't even seen the end of her senior year yet. I kick the ground. I know this isn't anything new for most, but as a home-school mom, I'd anticipated a few more months with my #2 before she started college. Like next fall. But the door flew wide open, and somehow we tumbled right in.

Hugs and "mmmmm ... smack." I watch them head out the garage door. They're weighed down with full backpacks. Their first day together without me. Because the first two days, I trailed along. I did. I had lunch with them and everything. It was glorious. But that's it. No more. I've got to grow up, too.

Shivering, I slump against my car, leaving my imprint in the dust and watching them get situated in the car.
Words from yesteryear peek over my shoulder--

"Why does she pucker her lips like that?" he asked. "Monkey kisses." He laughed.

"I don't know," I said.

I turned to my daughter. "Goodnight, baby. Give me kisses." I leaned in. I puckered. She puckered. Big puckers. "mmmmm ... smack!" 

Realization dawned and laughter tumbled out of me, causing me to collapse onto the bed beside her. It's me. All me. I taught her that. I taught her the big pucker. The cutest monkey kisses.

Oh my goodness. The things I've taught them. The things I haven't. Have I taught them enough? Have I left the right impressions on their lives, on their hearts? Will they be okay? Will I be okay?

The car inches forward, not waiting for the answer. All routine for #1. And now routine for #2. Could you just wait till I figure out the answer? Till I figure out this whole thing? The car stops, and they wave and blow kisses. The car can't proceed without kisses. The sweetest monkey kind. I return it all, with all my heart and some. Onto the hand and thrown across the air, like my grandmother taught me. To #1 and now #2. I catch mine and they catch theirs. We prolong the waves and kisses for just a little longer, ensuring we see each other. Not wanting to miss a single thing. Like we could.

The car accelerates down the driveway, leaves kicking up behind it, and proceeds down our Texas county road. When they are out of sight, I push the button and shut the garage--the full weight bearing down and crashing to the ground--as a chapter in our lives unexpectedly ends and another beautifully begins.

I go sit with the cats.

---

What chapters are ending or beginning in your life? May I pray for you? 

The Right And The Left Unite For A Merry Christmas

The phone rings. It's my girl.

"Hi, baby," I say, using my softest tone reserved for my girls.

"Mom, I don't know what to do. I'm scared. I'm shaking."

"What's up?" My legs begin to tremble, and the hair on my arms raises.
"I'm in government class, and we've broken up into groups," she whispers. "My group has decided to do a discussion about an issue that I can't support. They all support it. But Mom, I'm afraid to speak up. I don't know what to do." Her voice drifts off into a lonely place. Surrounded by people, yet lonely. I've been there.

My heart plunges into my gut and begins to jostle around for freedom, for peace, for strength. Freedom, peace, strength for my girl. "Baby, you have to speak up. If you don't, everyone will think that you believe it's okay. And you won't be okay with that."

"I know, Mom." Determination laces her voice. "But ... I'm so scared."

"You've got this. I'm praying for you." Because we can let some things slide, but some things have to be man-handled. Girl-handled.
The phone rings.

"Hi, baby." Hurry words ... assure me. God, let her be okay.

"I did it, Mom. I think several in the group were glad I spoke up. I think they believed like me, but they were afraid, too. The leader decided that half can discuss that topic, and the other half can discuss another topic. She didn't seem too happy about it, but ..." She pauses.

I exhale a sigh of relief, then laugh. "That's great, Baby. I'm so proud of you." Yes, you are discovering who you are, what you believe, and that it's okay to have a different opinion.

"One girl from the group kept glaring at me through class."
Weeks pass.

I step into Chick-fil-A and take a seat across the booth from my girl.

"Mom, government class discussion went so good today." She bounces on the bench. "Someone just had to bring up another controversial topic." She nearly slumps. "But, Mom, we had such a good talk." She straightens and smiles. "Those of us against it gave our side. We just told them that though we didn't agree, we don't dislike them for having a different opinion. We aren't mad at them. One guy said that he didn't understand why we felt the way we did, but he told me that he liked how kind I was about everything I had to say on the issue."

One hand extended and the other accepted. The aisle between disappeared, leaving only people. Beautiful feet. Good people. Kind people. Because difference doesn't always have to equal division. Surely, difference can be united with love.

"And Mom, he said he'd never met a Christian before."

"He's met one now." I nod.

"At the end of class, we all walked out of the room, smiling, high-fiving, and talking with each other. Happy. Friends, Mom. And when I glanced over at our teacher, he shook his head, smiling in amusement at us." She giggles. "He said, 'Y'all are the best class I've ever had.'"

I shake my head gently, my lips pressing into a smile. My girl is my hero. Oh, yes. Making friends with non-likeminded people. A beautiful concept. Because one might lean right and one might lean left, but we can all lean in with kindness.
I wrap myself in the warmth of my jacket. "Baby, that's so awesome. I'm so proud of you. I think people should be able to disagree, but love." We mingle together in this sorted world constantly. And why not?

"Yeah. God fought the battle for me, Mom. It was such a great day. Even the girl who had been glaring at me has been smiling at me instead." 

My heart glows--my girl is acknowledging her Savior. All those years of teaching, trying to help her see and understand ... yes. Thank you, Father.

Because when the soft strand of the right sweeps over the doubled over strand of the left, with a gentle reach and a little heart-tug, they come together to make the most gorgeous bow. If one tends to be right-handed. And when the soft strand of the left sweeps over the doubled over strand of the right, with another gentle reach and a little heart-tug, they come together to make the most gorgeous bow. If one tends to be left-handed. Because it's all in the reaching, the softness, the kindness--the sweetest Christmas present to this mama, for her girl. Love bestowed by and on her girl in the difference by the different. Yes, Lord, yes.

---

Do you have a story of kindness to share? Merry Christmas, Y'all.

Saying Thank You After 20 Years

The lady's picture of Michelle Ule's new book Mrs. Oswald Chambers caught my attention, and I "liked" it. The book's pages were marked with blue and orange tabs, and a pair of reading glasses sat off to the side.

The following day or so, as I scroll through my Instagram activity, I notice a new follower. Oh ... it's that lady. I click onto her gallery page and sense her familiarity. Yes, that's right. I had seen her picture from Michelle Ule's launch party. Because I had written a blog post on Michelle's book, I was led here, to this place.

As I glance over the lady's bio, words grab my attention--author of The Ache for a Child. My heart flutters. I know God is up to something incredible in my life. Anything God does for me, and I recognize it, is deemed incredible. Because it's usually the small things that bless my heart in the big ways.

I head into my closet and pull out the clothes hamper. And there against the wall is the bookshelf, the old bookshelf. The one that holds old things, heart things, book things that touched my hands and touched my heart. I can't part from them.
My eyes roam over the sections. I shift books around, looking for ... There ... there it is.
As I open the pages, my past reunites with my present. They hug. They cry in each others' arms. And after the weeping comes the rejoicing. What are you doing here, old friend? After this many years. Page after highlighted page explains away. I read over my scribbles in the margins, never doing justice to the words of comfort God scribbled over my heart. But how does a marginal human put into words something so vast, something that can't be contained in the tiny space of her heart?
I sit there on the closet floor, pondering God's goodness.

Because I did this ... because I walked through the door you opened, Lord ... you did this. I bow my head. I thank Him, oh, how I thank Him. I'm no stranger to tear-stained jeans.

I follow my old and new heart-friend back on Instagram and contact her. "Did you write this book?" I attach a picture of the book.

"Yes, a long time ago!" she says. "I'm in the middle of updating it. How did you come across it?"

How did I come across it? What a question. I picked it up from a Christian book store 20 years ago, as I stood there feeling alone in the aisle of  pain and misery. As I stood there wanting a family with all my heart and wondering if God would come through for me. After I took that book into my home and devoured it with my whole being, my pastor at that time, Dr. Robert Jeffress, asked me to start and lead an infertility support group for our church.

Holding that little book in my hands, I remember all the doors that God opened for me through the years.
Page after page turned in my life, and new words were written over my story ... my life came alive. God gave me two girls. God gave me a family. God came through with my heart's desire since childhood.
"I can't tell you what your book meant to me," I write. "Thank you. You were a light in a very scary time."

I bow my head again.

Father, thank you. I follow you, but you followed me first. You loved me first. Your love conquers all fear. You know exactly how to wrap up the chapters in my life. And tie it off with a gold and pink bow. I'm thankful The End of this life hasn't come. I'm thankful you let me say "thank you" after 20 years. I'm thankful that Deb made herself vulnerable and emptied her heart on those pages so that I could find courage. Thank you for leading me to her words that became marked on my heart so long ago.

I like it, God. I so ♥ it.

---

Have you had a chance to say thank you to someone who helped you so long ago? Maybe someone who didn't even know they'd helped you? I'd love to hear your story.

Pulling A Biddy: Michelle Ule--Author Of Mrs. Oswald Chambers--& A Giveaway

"I took a train from Edinburgh to Glasgow by myself on what happened to be my wedding anniversary, looking for a man at a train station carrying a copy of My Utmost for His Highest!" 

"You did?" I say aloud, smiling over my favorite line of Michelle Ule's author-interview notes to me and admiring her bravery. She was "pulling a Biddy," as she calls it--confident in God, no matter the circumstances.

Michelle asked the train-station stranger, a member of the Oswald Chambers Publications Association, "Have you thought about having a biography written about Biddy?" (Shortly after Oswald Chambers met Gertrude Annie Hobbs—later to be a Chambers—he nicknamed her "Beloved Disciple," which shortened to "B.D." And she was "Biddy" for the rest of her life.)
Sitting across the table from her now, steam rising off his Scottish meal, the stranger laughed. "Who knows? Maybe you're the one to write it."

Michelle shook her head. "I'm a novelist."

As time progressed, Michelle continued to pen her novel, which includes Oswald Chambers as a marquee character, but the stranger's words, regarding writing Biddy Chambers's biography, lodged deep into her heart. And while climbing through the pages of Oswald Chambers's history, she fell in love with his wife, Biddy.

Why, Michelle? Why did you fall in love with Biddy? What was it about her? My hand glides over the notes that I've read repeatedly, over Michelle's words that have wedged into my heart. I press God for direction on writing about Michelle seeking Biddy. In confusion, I hug my daughter and say into her golden hair, "I can't do this." Some things are too big for me. I google an image of the book cover of Oswald Chambers: Abandoned to God on the internet and ponder direction. My computer crashes--the blue screen of death--and I know in my heart that it's no accident because resistance signals importance. And I know in my heart that I must press forward. Because I want to pull a Biddy, like Michelle. I want to see what Michelle saw, with her heart, in Biddy's heart.

Because I knew that Oswald Chambers wrote My Utmost for His Highest, the best-selling devotional in print for over 90 years. But I didn't know that his wife did his bidding some 10 years after his death. He died at 43, you see. 

Turning the page of my interview notes and slipping further into pain, I long for time and distance to clear. Because I want to wrap Biddy and Michelle in a hug. You see, Biddy found herself a widow, a single mother, and penniless at 34. But like so many, Biddy knew hardship. She had suffered from acute bronchitis as a teen, and as her health declined, her parents pulled her out of school.

But desiring to help her family financially, Biddy became a spectacular stenographer, according to Michelle, producing 250 words per minute. And in her days with Oswald, she recorded by hand every lecture that he presented to the missionary trainees at their Bible Training College. After his death, instead of choosing security, somewhere hovering over that beloved grave-site, dressed in stark black and wearing a full veil, she placed both feet on the path of poverty and spent her life turning those notes into 30 books with Oswald's name on each cover.

Biddy published all of his books after he died.

Rolling every penny back into producing the next book, she didn't use the money for herself or her child.

Their daughter Kathleen shared: "If my mother hadn't had bronchitis, she probably wouldn't have had the opportunity of learning shorthand to that extent. My father always used to talk about God's order in the haphazard, and that was haphazard in a way. If she hadn't had the shorthand speed like that, there wouldn't have been any books at all. None whatever."

Those books. Biddy reserved the right to mail those books, free of charge, to missionaries around the world, and she would do that--encourage them with Oswald's words--for 30 years, because knowing Jesus and sharing the Gospel was of utmost importance to them.

I turn the page of my notes to find more devastation: the London Blitz of WWII destroyed all the books warehoused near St. Paul's Cathedral. Biddy hadn't insured them, and the loss threatened to end her publishing house. Biddy said, "If that's God will, we'll do something else."

But Biddy found books and publishing plates, and she resumed her self-publishing ministry.

"Biddy Chambers's life," shared Michelle, "is one of a woman devoted to God's greatest glory, despite obstacles and difficulties that would have challenged the best of us. She remained committed to God and the vision and calling He put on her life, despite countless heartaches. From her, we can learn a great deal about faith, commitment, and the ways God uses the unexpected, the haphazard as it were, to produce blessings to a lost world. My Utmost for His Highest would not have been written if Oswald Chambers had not died. Is a book worth a life?

"If you think over the last 90 years--from the encouragement My Utmost for His Highest gave people through financial depression, war (copies were smuggled into POW camps during WWII), political oppression, and general life--a deeper understanding of what it means to love God came through the work of one woman who gave her utmost for God's highest glory. Can we do any less?

"My personal faith has grown as a result of spending the last 4 years with Biddy and Oswald. It's been an honor to bring this story to light, and I'm grateful I could participate."

Why, Michelle? Why? Why did you give 4 years to Oswald and Biddy? I turn my notes over, as a smile inches over my face, and scribble over the page: Love. That's why. It all backtracks to love--the kind that sinks down and lodges deep into a heart.

And with much of her life paralleling Biddy's as she wrote and traveled through the Chamberses' history--rejoicing as they rejoiced, mourning as they mourned, suffering as they suffered--Michelle endured as they endured, regardless of the obstacles and setbacks along her writing journey of Mrs. Oswald Chambers.

You did.

Michelle Ule pulled a Biddy.

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Bestselling author Michelle Ule is the biographer of Mrs. Oswald Chambers: The Woman Behind the World’s Bestselling Devotional and seven other books. You can learn more about her and read further blog posts about Biddy and Oswald Chambers at her website: www.michelleule.com.

You can also find Michelle on Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter.

Michelle is giving away one paperback copy of Mrs. Oswald Chambers, which released October 17, 2017. Leave a comment below for a chance to win! (Winner randomly selected October 31, 2017 and must have Continental U. S. mailing address.) You can find the book at Amazon or Baker Publishing Group, as well.

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Among Christian devotional works, My Utmost for His Highest stands head and shoulders above the rest, with more than 13 million copies sold. But most readers have no idea that Oswald Chambers's most famous work was not published until ten years after his death. The remarkable person behind its compilation and publication was his wife, Biddy.

Bestselling novelist Michelle Ule brings Biddy's story to life as she traces her from her upbringing in Victorian England to her experiences in a WWI YMCA camp in Egypt to her return to post-war Britain, a destitute widow with a toddler in tow. Refusing personal payment, Biddy published thirty books with her husband's name on the covers, all while raising a child alone, providing hospitality to a never-ending stream of visitors and missionaries, and nearly losing everything in the London Blitz during WWII.

This inspiring story of a devoted woman ahead of her time will quickly become a favorite of anyone who loves true stories of overcoming incredible odds, making a life out of nothing, and serving God's kingdom.

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To Michelle: I'm so in awe of you for giving your utmost for God's highest glory. I hear you, all the way from California to Texas. You make me love God more. Love, Shelli ♥

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Have you "pulled a Biddy" like Michelle, confident in God, no matter the circumstances? Would you share? Leave a comment, and you'll be entered into the drawing for a chance to win a copy of Mrs. Oswald Chambers.

Shards Of Glass: Letting Go Of Fear In The Grip Of Pain

"Something pierces the inside of my cheek.

As I feel for the problem, piece after piece breaks apart. It’s not just one. More break apart, more crumble. Opening my mouth, I empty the multiplying fragments into my hands. Like shards of glass. With one sharp and shiny piece after another, my hands begin to fill. They never stop coming. So many. More than I can hold. I grasp for them."

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Sometimes hard times--nightmares--call for dancing. Because so much has happened to my family since January--health issues, loss, rejection. Instead of allowing the broken pieces to fall into the hands of my Savior, I always tend to initially internalize the pain. 

So I am honored to be a guest writer at Jerusha Agen's website, sharing about my struggles in dealing and not dealing with the pain and fear. I appreciate Jerusha for the invitation. Please click on the link to join me there for more of the story ... and a giveaway.

Love, Shelli

A Crown-Of-Thorns Moment

Trying to hold my heart and stomach in place where they belong, I take the long walk from the dining room to the stairwell. "Honey?"

"Yes, Mom."

My hand grips the stair rail, and I lean hard against the wall. "I waited too late to get the tickets. They're all sold out. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

"It's okay, Mom." That's all. She seemed genuine in her forgiveness. There's nothing more I can say or do. If I could have an outer body experience and get behind myself, I'd kick myself. My hands drop to my sides in the quiet, and I walk away. How could I have been so ...? She'd been asking for weeks about going to see her friend in the Fiddler on the Roof play, a high school play. She wanted to go for support. And she'd been in the same play a few years back. And I'd let her down.

I pull out a chair and sit down at the dining room table. Footsteps speed down the stairs. The garage door opens. "I'm going walking." Her voice ... something unpleasant in her voice.

"I thought you forgave me," I say. I'm sensing other feelings have begun to emerge. She'd had a few moments to think. The door shuts. I thought you forgave me.

I wait all I can. I walk out the door and see no sign of her. She's on the trail, I figure. The sheep aren't in the pen, so she must have let them out. I cut through the middle of the back property. The fabric of her white capris summons me through the forest of trees, the greenery. She's sitting on the swing.

I feel like a fallen tree, humbled to my knee.

The two sheep stand there, staring at me, accusing me, almost daring my approach. Like she'd poured out her very soul, her feelings, to the sheep ... and now, everyone knows.

Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen.

My stomach and heart plunge. I wipe off a spot on the swing and sit down. "I'm really sorry. I feel awful. I didn't want to go to the play without dad, and once I found out he was going with us, there were so many seats still available ... I got busy with work. And I just can't believe they sold out so fast. I can't believe I did that." I twist my hands. "Maybe it's dad's fault." We both laugh.

"It's really okay, Mom." She smiles at me. We talk it through. "Think we could do pizza and  a movie tonight? Something fun?"

"Sure."

We head back through the trail, toward the barn. "Look, Mom. This is a mesquite tree. We had these in San Angelo." She points across the path. "And another one."

"It sure is." I can't believe it. I'd never noticed them before. Two mesquite trees amongst all the oak and cedar. "We had these in Wichita Falls, too."

"Look at the long thorns," she says in cautious admiration. She feels over the leaves on top, the groups of tiny leaves covering the thorns all the way down the limb. "But the leaves are so soft. Like roses, something so soft and pretty needs protecting." One sheep stands tall, trying to eat the leaves, and fearful that she'll poke out her eye, we manage to maneuver her front legs back to the ground. "Do you think this is like Jesus' crown of thorns?"

"It probably is." I wind the long limb into a circle. "It's beautiful though, isn't it?" We stand there, imaging what it must have felt like to have those long thorns pierce through our foreheads, one by one, all the way around. Or maybe all at once. Gratitude fills my heart for the punishment He took for me.

"Be careful, Mom. Don't let that pop back on you."

"I will." I release it gently, moving back away and examining the events more closely.

We begin our journey toward the house, sheep following. Peace links our hands together, our hearts together. The capacity of love--nailed to a tree, to be given away, free. A love so soft and pretty, it needs protecting. And I realize that she could have driven the thorns into my head, but she placed the soft side on me instead. 

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Have you had a moment of forgiveness that you can share about?

Following The Star To Bethlehem

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.

See Him. 

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

Merry Christmas

I love you.
Shelli