When You Stop Coasting Through Life and Feel the Pain of Shifting Gears

The weather has been gorgeous. Shorts weather, y'all. 

The girls get on their bikes. My bike is in need of repair, so much like me, so it's nestled in the storage building.

I take off at a brisk walk down that county road. The girls linger near, pedaling slowly, to stay near me. They'll speed up a bit, circle back around, in order to stay near me. Their gears are so loose that they remind me of the "wicked witch" riding her bike in The Wizard of Oz. I resist giggling.

We reach the gate, the turning point. And I start a tiny, very slow jog. I haven't jogged in .... And it is obvious .... My oldest sees my slight jog. A slow smile spreads like the warmth of the rising sun on a cool morning. I know she thinks I'm ridiculous. 

She confidently says, "I'm going to ride my bike like this every day from now until mid-summer because I want to get my legs in shape."

As I jog slowly, putting one foot in front of the other very carefully—careful not to put my foot in a hole on our road or in my mouth—I glance over to see her coasting. Trying to stay alongside me, at my slower pace, she only pedals every now and then, only to resume her coast.

My smile spreads. "I don't want to discourage you, but you won't build muscles coasting." 

She knows I love her with my whole being. 

She grins. She pedals fast and furious ... leaving me in her dust. "Is this better?" she hollers back. We laugh.

I keep my slow and steady jog. We pass our driveway and continue ... they want to go farther. I finally stop and begin to walk. She's reached the end, and she circles, heading back my way. I turn toward home. 

I hear her moaning and groaning. 

"Ow, ow, ow ... this stings." She laughs. "I changed gears." She's riding beside me now, barely able to turn those pedals. And the road is slightly inclined now. We've changed direction. And she's feeling the pressure.

"We won't be able to walk tomorrow," I say. "Nope"—I've reconsidered—"we won't feel it tomorrow. But two days from now, we'll feel it, and we'll have already forgotten what caused it. Why am I so sore?" 

We agree and giggle. 

"That's life," I say. 

Sometimes we coast through life ... all's good ... nothing hurts. Or at least it seems that way. Pedal fast and furious. But we're often uselessly weak. No muscle. But when the gears shift, and we feel the sting, that's when the real change comes. How tempting it is to break down and stop, shift to easy street, if only we could. But that's when we're building muscle. That's when we are gaining strength. 

When it's harder to pedal ... we slow down, we feel the incline, but we often see things along our path that we'd have never noticed before. Sometimes we're even able to stop and help others—use our stings to encourage others.

God knows where we need to change, what we need to change, why we need to change. He knows the growth we need—the painful growth.

Even when the slow down is painful, I want to remember ... and I want to trust.

Father, give me the strength to pedal hard and far in the slow down.

**

What motivates you to keep pushing through the pain? Can you share a painful moment in life where you grew more in love with God, grew in strength? I'd say my first real painful growth was when my father left our family. It hurt so much, but I reached out for my Heavenly Father. And I love using those stings every chance I get.

Failing Doesn't Make You a Failure

Sunday morning on the way to church, my oldest daughter said, "Mom, I'm reading through each Gospel, comparing the words spoken." And my heart soars that she cares.

"I have a question," she said. She read this to me:

" 'As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed.

" 'Don't be alarmed,' he said. 'You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter.' "—Mark 16:5-7

And Peter.

"Mom, why do you think the angel singled out Peter?" she asked. "He was a disciple." (my NIV study notes state that the 'young man' was an angel)

Why wasn't he lumped in with the team? she'd wondered.

And sometimes we wait for the answers ...

I certainly don't know all the answers, but I turned around from the front seat, peering into the back, and told her something like this—

"Baby, do you remember what Peter had just done to Jesus? He had just denied Him three times. Three times." And without my Bible in front of me, I said, "Do you remember how Peter tore his clothes? Peter was miserable. He may have even hated himself for what he'd done, what he'd done to Jesus, to himself, to his team. He'd done wrong, and he hurt the one he loved—Jesus.

"And you know, I imagine everyone had heard what Peter had done," I continued. "You know how word gets around. And I wouldn't be surprised if some considered Peter completely useless. A failure. And I'm sure Peter felt like a failure. Useless. Could the 'team' have even considered him useless? A failure?

"But what a sweet lesson ... the angel was telling them not to forget about Peter. He's still in this game. He's still use-able. And the angel singled him out, showing how important he still was in spite of his imperfections—God had great plans for Peter. Don't give up on Peter. Include Peter. Go ... tell Peter."

And what a joy to find the answers. My daughter's smile grew, her eyes enlarged with a glow. She had caught the excitement of exactly what God can do for us—

Peter had been caught and kept. He wasn't thrown back because he was too small, not worthy, didn't measure up.

Praise God for Peter's story, because that means there's hope for me. I've felt like Peter. I've let down others, let down myself. I've mourned yesterday.

And like Peter, something whispers to me, "Failure."

The tempter continues, "You should have been ..."

And with tears pooling, I'm hooked captive to failure.

But God singles me out. He frames my face with His hands and whispers into my heart, "Failing doesn't make you a failure."

Truth within my heart perseveres.

Failing is God's heavenly lure to keep one striving, loving, hoping, and serving.

We've been caught and kept. Praise God, we're still in this game. 

And ... (insert your name here).

Take hold of the lure and be encouraged. Let Jeremiah 29:11 ring your heavenly lure's bell today—" 'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,' declares the LORD, 'and will bring you back from captivity.' "

**

Have you felt like you've let down God? Let down others? Have you felt like a failure? Have you seen God turn your failures around? Do you have anything to add to my daughter's question? I'll tell her your input ... I promise!

The Day I Ran Away from Home

You take my hand. And one hand guides me. 

"Dear Jesus," I whisper ...

Do you remember that time I ran away from home? You do. I know you do. I was just an itty bitty thing, only in elementary school. I can't believe I still remember it. But I do.

You take one step forward, and I follow.

My sister and I decided to run away from home. We didn’t have a good reason. My older sister thought it was a brainy idea, to the best of my recollection, and I followed.

We collected our baby stroller, our baby dolls, a little food and drink, and walked out the door as the sky was dusking. Mama even helped us pack, gave us hugs, and watched as we headed down our quiet neighborhood street pushing our baby stroller—my sister's hands on one side of the handle, mine on the other. 

As we neared the end of our street, we realized we had nowhere to go. We found ourselves surrounded by darkness and loneliness. Would we turn the street corner and continue on or head straight into the forest facing us? Neither choice seemed like a good option. Desperate, we looked behind us to see Mama, with the porch light on, up on the hill, watching us, beckoning us to come home.

We immediately turned around, with all our baggage, and ran back as fast as our little legs could carry us. 

You twirl me away from you.

Thank you for Mama. Because she taught us a valuable lesson that day. Oh, she wouldn’t have let us go far. She was waiting for us to see that we had no place to run but to her arms, where we were loved and safe.

You twirl me back in to you.

Jesus, the same incomparably comparable thing happened to you. Didn't it? I've heard your stories. And I believe every one. 

You step to the side, and I follow.

Your Father let you go down the road for a while, as you carried your cross to the hill. And the light was turned off for three days. 

Three days.

I can't even begin to imagine.

Your Father watched. He never lost sight of you. 

And then something beautiful happened. Something miraculous. Your Father turned on the porch light. He beckoned you home. And you rose from the grave. Nothing could keep you from home, from your Father, from me.

You take a step back, and I follow.

That day I—a little fair-skinned, blond-headed girl—walked down the street, on 1524 Milam Drive in Tyler, Texas, I'm so glad my sister turned around to go home, so that I could follow. But one thing I've learned—there comes a time when we have to make our own decisions. Our own decision—to go home.

You step to the side, and I follow.

I haven't always followed you the way I should have. My bucket of regrets from my youth is deep. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. I followed after things and people I knew were wrong. They weren't you. It felt like I died a slow death, and some days it feels like I'm still trying to dig and scrape my way out of the dirt, out of the open grave.

You step forward, and I follow.

But you, Jesus. Thank you for being the Light, my light. Thank you for your outstretched arms. For being my safe place. For giving me a place called home, a place to call home, a place to run to. For braving the dark and lonely for me. For loving me. Thank you for your testimony and for giving me one. 

You dip me, and I laugh. Your grip on me is strong. You lift me back steady on my feet.

You place your face to mine, and I whisper, "Dear Jesus" ...

You are one decision I'll never forget, one I'll never regret.

Through the good and the hard, thank you for this beautiful dance.

Happy Easter. What are you most thankful for this Easter? Did you ever see the movie The Passion of the Christ? I remember the first time I saw it, I walked away thinking—what can I do for you, Jesus? Do you remember what played through your mind?

When You Need God's Peace

I plop myself down on the church pew. I pull out my Bible and my pen. I've never felt so needy in all my life. My daughter hands me a church bulletin.

I'm a people-pleaser. I've been that way all my life. That's why my mother's house was spotless when I lived there. When I cleaned the house, she'd praise me, and my soul must have soaked it in. Because I worked hard to keep our house clean. I liked my mom coming home from work to a clean house. And when she called me her white tornado, well, I gloried just a bit in that. 

While I sat there on the pew, my needy mind reflected back to earlier in the week, when I knew I'd let someone down—

I'd made my way to the dentist's office for my own repair work and had pondered the situation on the trip there. And as I sat there waiting for the dentist to arrive, I could see the assistant behind me, her back turned away from me. And I thought about the wrongs I'd done. The wrongs I'd been informed about earlier ... earlier in the week, earlier in my life. I hadn't really needed informing, I knew. Oh God, I knew. And my whole body ached to sob. To really sob. More than just a cry. My tummy started convulsing right before me, uncontrollably, as tears gathered in my eyes. This hand went up and wiped away the moisture. The other hand lifted to wipe away moisture. The dental assistant was still turned away from me. No one saw me. No one could see me. Please Lord, don't let anyone see me. They don't know my situation, my wrongs. They'll think I'm crazy. I cannot let them see me cry. 

I give myself a pep talk. "Pull it together, Shelli. Put your mind somewhere else." And I did. And I overcame ... for the time being. 

And all week, I'm thinking about peace. My Savior came that I could have peace. I know it's there. It's at my disposal. So why is my tummy hurting? Why is my mind focusing on the wrong and not the right? Jesus is the right. 

And I turn my church bulletin over to the notes section, where I'll be filling in the blanks. And there I read in bold letters, "JUST WHEN I NEED HIM MOST." And I wondered if my pastor had read my mind. Did he cater his sermon just for me?

And I prayed quietly, "Lord, I want your peace."

And it seemed like the Lord said to my heart, "When you need God's peace, reach for a piece of God ..."  I quickly scribbled that down. And then it seemed like He whispered to me, "When you need my peace, reach for a piece of me."

And I began to think about "a piece of God." What is a piece of God? His Word, His people. A hand. A hug. A listening ear.

And the pastor spoke Philippians 4:19 over the congregation, "And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus."

My God is the provider ... the provider of needs. The One who fills in my blanks.

It's His praise I need, and it's His praise I should long to receive. 

Please, Shelli, focus on pleasing the right One. That's what matters. Fill your heart and head with the right One—the One who cleans our insides, who rights our wrongs, who gave us The Word, who put amazing people in your life to encourage you, to love you .... He's the amazing tornado. Not you, not anyone else.

And as we bowed our heads to pray, I look over at my sweet daughter's hand. I reach out and take it. She clasps her hand around mine. 

Have you ever disappointed another? How did you overcome? Are you a people-pleaser, like me? How do you reach for God's peace?

God Loves You Enough to Frame You

There was nothing particularly special about this day except that ... I had to take my daughter to a dental appointment, to a periodontist, for an evaluation of tissue grafting. Her braces have shifted her teeth, which is a good thing, but the gum line for one front tooth has dropped down ... and it looks like the one next to it might end up with the same problem. 

For goodness sake—the problems.

We had to drive through the big city of Mesquite, Texas, and up to Richardson. I'm a small town girl, but glory hallelujah, we made it. By accident, of course. And by accident, we ended up walking into the back of the building, and the first door we came to was our needed door. Another accident and another glory hallelujah.

Sitting in that waiting room, all alone with my two girls, I looked up to the wall and saw this huge frame. I almost laughed out loud when I saw the display—a rug. A small rug. Not new or old ... just a little bold. Bright green and fuchsia pink. A little frayed around the edges. Maybe there was something special about it ... like maybe it belonged to his grandmother or his mother or someone the dentist loved.

I said to the lady behind the counter, "Ms. Kelly, what is the story behind that rug?" Did you really just ask that? Out loud? To someone you just met? Yes, I did.

"It's a funny thing," said Ms. Kelly. "There's nothing special about that rug. You'd think it had belonged to his grandmother or something. You'd think it had sentimental value."

"That's what I thought," I said, with my grandmother's kitchen rug placed in my mind.

"But it doesn't. The doctor and his wife, well, they like to antique shop. And well, they just found this rug, and they decided to frame it," Ms. Kelly added.

"Well, you know, that's really what makes it so special," I said. "There's nothing special about it at all. It's just an ordinary rug. But someone found it. Someone loved it enough to frame it."

And that's why I love God so much. Because I'm just ordinary. I'm not young or old. I'm not even bold. I'm a little frayed. There is not one special, unique thing about me. Not to my eyes. 

But not to God's eyes. He loved me enough to make me, to find me, to reach down to me ...

It's like He daily frames my face in His hands and says, "You are special to me. I love you. I want you. I love you, and I want you with all your problems. I know what you've done and what you haven't done." 

He straightens the frame just a little and eyes me. "Look at me. Look at me. I'm the door you need."

And just like that—our ordinary becomes extraordinary. How could it not?

And just like that, we become guilty of being special. Of being wanted. Of being loved.

~~~

"He sends from heaven and saves me, rebuking those who hotly pursue me—God sends forth his love and his faithfulness"—Psalm 57:3. 

Call me crazy, but I like to think of God's hands as "love and faithfulness" reaching down to save. Amen? Can you envision it?

And because sometimes I just need to talk to you face to face ... I love you ...

If you hear that hammering in the background ... that is our neighbor's home being rebuilt. Glory! It burned to the ground last September. 

**

Do ever feel ordinary? How has God shown you how extraordinary you are? Has He shown you in a unique way how special you are to Him? How much He loves you? I wish you'd share your stories with me.

To the Youngest Cancer Survivor

I slid my finger to open the envelope's seal, and as I pulled out the invitation, a rush of memories came spilling out—


My whole body trembled, while my heart peeked past the fingers sheltering it. I wanted to hide in the locker room. A crowd always makes me tremble. But I pressed forward, one step at a time, through the parking lot, through the grass, until the sky opened up.

Two little trusting bodies tagged along.

Tables had been placed everywhere, and people scattered here and there, passing out flyers of information. Some in a hurry, some sitting and talking, some eating.

"Let's get you all signed up," said the lady.

"Okay," squiggled out of my mouth. I would have been biting my nothingness of a fingernail had I not been holding my littlest.

I always held her, or at least held her hand, because I didn't want her falling. She'd been hurt enough. And the chemotherapy she'd taken—Vincristine—had damaged her ankle strength. Her tiny one-year-old ankle strength. Vincristine ... sounds like such a sweet name, doesn't it? I have a love/hate relationship with Vincristine. It helped kill any wandering cancer cells for which I'm so thankful, but I didn't like the big hook that went into my baby's chest for each treatment. And I didn't like the way it weakened her walk, in every aspect. Vincristine treated her good, and Vincristine treated her bad.

"Here are your T-shirts. Everybody put them on." The lady smiled.

I evaluated my Relay for Life T-shirt, wondering how I'd wear it over my overalls, while my oldest daughter put on hers. The littlest got the cutest T-shirt with a kid in a cowboy hat, riding a stick-horse, and it proudly displayed the most beautiful words: Kids Kickin' Cancer.

The lady stopped us. "Wait a minute. Do you know what? Katelyn is our youngest cancer survivor. She sure is."

At now three years old—the youngest cancer survivor.

I must have bit my lip. And then I might have scrunched my nose. Being the youngest cancer survivor is such an honor. Or is it? Good to be a survivor ... bad to have cancer ... What baby should ever have cancer? I was still making my way through the whirlwind. Trying to figure it all out. What have we just endured? Oh, God, what have we endured?

I'd been so tough until a year or so after it all. And the pictures of hair loss, paleness ... it just all came washing over me. I lost it. Working on that baby's photo album, I lost it.

"Follow me," the lady said. "You've won this prize for her being the youngest survivor." She handed me a sack of lotions and make-you-feel-better stuff. It was sweet. And her heart was so precious. "We'll do the survivor's lap first. You can walk with your daughter. And then you can walk the caregiver's lap. So be ready when we call for you." 

"Okay." We placed our belongings down on the stadium bleachers. The girls opened up their pink umbrellas to fight off the Texas April sun.

Look at those curls on one. And look at that proud sister smile on the other.

And just like that, we were up. We began walking the lap around the stadium track. I held my littlest's one hand, and her big sister held her other. She would not fall.

And my cautious expression eased to a smile at the love and friendliness that welcomed our baby. And then hands began to clap, as pictures were taken, and military men began performing what my heart could barely take—they fell down to their faces and began push-ups.

People we didn't even know. They fell to their faces.

Tears gathered in my eyes and air seemed scarce. 

As we made our way to the other side of the track, those people walked to the other side, clapping, and the men in uniform ran to the other side to fall to their faces again.

When the caregiver lap began, they did the same. And more tears. More clapping. More push-ups. 

My heart felt overwhelmed at the love shown to the youngest cancer survivor. But I especially couldn't believe the love shown for me. Because every ounce of effort I had made on my littlest one's behalf was out of love. I had only done what any parent would do ... to the youngest cancer survivor.

Planting my Boots & Hanging my Coat on Jesus

Moss is growing on our walking trail. It's just beautiful. Amidst all the brown dirt and leaves, there is this beautiful green trail, like God rolled out the green carpet just for me.

I ran out to take pictures the other day and ended up sick. Later, I heard that the pollen level was high. I missed hearing Becky Wade, one of my favorite Christian authors, speak in the Dallas area.

But I wondered what makes moss grow? I don't remember it growing here the past years, but it's amazing how much we can forget from year to year. 

Wikipedia wrote, "Mosses are small flowerless plants that typically grow in dense green clumps or mats, often in damp or shady locations." Wikipedia went on to say that it doesn't have seeds. I found that interesting. Something so soft and colorful and so plentiful could be seedless and flowerless. And soon, it will all be gone as though it were never there.

I love walking the mossy trail because my boots don't get so dirty. And I don't have to scrape them off as much when I walk back inside.

And it made me think about what is covering my life's ground. Am I allowing Jesus, my beautiful Savior, to cover my ground? Or am I resorting to damp and shady locations?

I've had a rough week. It sounds silly to say that because I'm healthy and so are the girls. But one needs dental surgery to help her receding gum line, probably from her braces causing her teeth to move too rapidly. The other needs two wisdom teeth removed. Thankfully, she only has two. One daughter's high school graduation is bearing down on me, and my mind wishes she could just stay little. And I've got more issues to add to the list, but I won't do that to you.

I'm afraid my path is being covered with anxiety and fear—damp and shady. And I don't want something temporary covering my ground. I certainly don't want anxiety and fear to take up permanent residence either. I don't want damp or shady.

Rolling things over and over in my mind can initially seem colorful and a soft place to step, because it's my secret. Only God knows. But soon it becomes plentiful, and worry crowds out all good and good sense.

So what do I do?

I run to God. I run to Him in prayer. He's my place of rest. And I plant my worn out boots on Him. He's permanent in my life, and I want to reflect that, reflect His calmness, assurance, trust. I want to cover my boots in Him and never scrape Him off.

Because He makes walking this life's path easier, more enjoyable, more peaceful.

Like the palm leaves placed down for Jesus, I want to place down my faith in Him. For Him to see, and for my heart to see. And I want to give Him a solid and dependable place to grow, and a solid place for me to trod. I want to welcome Him to my life, my problems, my heartaches, my joys.

I don't want to hang my coat on things that are seedless and flowerless. I don't want my relationship with Him to be seedless and flowerless—gone in time, poof, as though He were never there.

I want to hang my coat on Him.

The One strong and sturdy. The One standing. The One who will make me stand, when life feels like it's dragging me down. I want Him to take center stage, take my hand, allowing the seedless and flowerless to disappear.

For the rest of my days. Because He meets me in the damp and shady.

~~~

Has life been hard for you lately? What action do you take to make God center stage? How do you plant your boots and hang your coat on Jesus?

Looking Up in the Face of Fear

My great-uncle sat there, in his same ol' chair. Precious man. And every now and then, he'd reach over and flick open a section of blinds to quickly peek outside. 

My grandmother, his sister, could never understand. Was he afraid? What was the problem? Why not open the blinds fully ... see fully? The blinds weren't broken. The light would be so good for him. Open that window.

"He needs to get out and walk, get out in the sunshine, soak in that Vitamin D," my grandmother would say.

I don't know. But I think he was broken. He'd had bad health since he was a young man. Somehow he had managed to continue working up through a decent retirement age. He and his wife never had a family. Something was heart-breakingly broken inside, was the feeling I got ... maybe there was an area in his life that God hadn't been quite allowed to heal. And the sweet man could gather tears instantly in his eyes. 

He was a tender soul.

But one thing I learned—fear is contagious. As the years pressed by, as my grandmother's health began to decline and my grandfather had passed on to Glory, she became the one to peek out the blinds. Fearful. With the full light still warming and lighting the earth, come the touching threat of sundown, she began shutting up her home, shutting out fearful things. Imagining fearful things and voicing them.

The face of fear can be terrifying ... hair raising sharp fangs and sharp claws. Or closed doors, closed shutters, four walls. No visible steps upward.

When life is hard on us ... when we fear ... when we don't have the strength to open the shutters or doors ... when we aren't sure we can see God in the midst of it all ...

when we are certain the light is just beyond the enclosure ... when we can even feel its warmth ... but we feel crippled ...

It seems dark. We can't seem to get out from under the sheet that we pulled up over our head and shaking body in fear, and we are suffocating.

What can we do?

Go low ... to our knees, to our faces.

And look heavenward.

For The Light.

For just the glimpse.

The Light who is so good for us, who allows us to see fully.

And we can be mindful to pass that search for the Light on to others. 

Although we might be looking through our lives' dust and dirt and pain, our focus presses through. Our children and their children will understand that though we might not have an ounce of strength, though we might be broken, though we might not can understand our lot in life, we know where to look for internal strength and understanding. 

We know who to make our glorious crutch. Our crutch is not an enclosure ... our crutch is beautiful, peaceful ... our crutch is alive. 

~~~

How do you handle fear? Have you ever been crippled by fear or witnessed a family member crippled by fear? What advice can you give?

I Found Love at Disney World

After traveling the interstate from Texas to Florida, we approached the waiting line for one of our favorite rides at Disney World. 

My youngest daughter had injured her knee, so we'd rented a wheelchair. Thoroughly excited to help her little sister, my oldest daughter pushed the wheelchair to the wait line. And baby sister hobbled out to wait.

There.

Who is that? What's going on?

Our attention was totally captured.

Off to the left, a lady, cute as a button, sat in a wheelchair, her long brown hair hung down her shoulders, her legs clearly useless. And her husband busied himself around her. Then he gently and purposefully moved in front of her, bent, and proceeded to pick her up in his arms. As she dangled helplessly in his strong arms, he carried her ... he carried her to the ride. 

My heart broke into a thousand pieces. And those thousand pieces melted on the cold, heavily trampled ground. And then those pieces rose and pulled together to form two hands ... and those hands clapped. What love! I thought. My breath caught.

Love.

What love.

What a man! Oh, how I loved him instantly ... for his strength, his patience, his endurance, his love, his kindness, his mercy.

As the girls and I proceeded to the line, tears pricked my eyes. 

My oldest daughter touched my back gently. I turned. "Mom, you're crying," she said. 

I smiled. "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Mom, I love you."

"He carried her."

"Mom ... I love you."

That precious man's actions—something he'd probably done a million times—touched my heart. The beauty of it. And his touching of my heart dominoed, touching my daughter's with the gentlest of fingertips. 

There.

Who is that?

Our God. 

Love.

What love.

I'm so crippled, y'all. I have so much baggage from childhood, from things dropped on me and then from my own heart-breaking crippling choices. 

The dominoes fall, and fall, and fall. Blackened, spotted ivory piece after ivory piece.

But God loves me. He sticks by my side. He moves in front of me gently and purposefully. He takes me everywhere I need to go ... places I never dreamed I'd go. He takes me where He wants me to go. And as I wait on Him, He bends down, picks me up, and carries me on this amazing ride called Life.

I don't deserve the ride. I deserve to sit on the sidelines, only able to watch. And even that is more than I deserve. I deserve nothing.

But He is merciful, and beautiful, and kind.

And as I live with a reserve of grateful tears, overwhelmed by His love, my girls see. They witness it all. 

And when they say, "Mom, I love you" ... I know they love my whole package. They know my whole package. Me. All my rights, all my wrongs, all my attempts, all me. 

But more importantly, they love and admire He who carries me. They see Him. They see His every move. They see me dangling helplessly in His strong arms. And they believe He's the most attractive thing in the universe.

Love.

What love.

And they lift their sweet arms ...

They reach for their dream come true.


He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. --Psalm 18:16

~~~

Have you witnessed something so beautiful? Beautiful humanity. Something that took your breath? That brought instant tears? Would you care to share? What about your own experience? Do you have a sweet story of lifting your arms to Him?