Monday, runners ran and bombs exploded, atoms split, three died, and we cried.

Tuesday, more explosions, more people gone, up in flames, up in smoke.

Then there’s the doctor, a monster, a maniac, who ran a house of horrors, stitched and sketched from the lining of nightmares.

My husband, my God-fearing husband who is always bent, bent in prayer, on his knees, with his hands all over the word, asked me, “What next?”

And, I wonder…

I wonder will sister sorrow visit our house next?

Will she walk right through our front door?

Will her bare feet pound up and down our hardwood floors?

Will she sit at our supper table, break bread, and dine with us?

Will she crawl in our beds, sleep under our ćovers, and steal our dreams?

Will she?

We weep and we wonder.

Why do good men die and bad men thrive?

We turn to the book of Job, we sing Psalms, and write lines and lines of Lamentations.

We seek peace and comfort.

We find them both in the foundation of our faith.

We were taught and we believe, when sister sorrow enters in,

the Father and his Son will be there too.

The father who gave us life, formed us from the dirt of the earth, and the breath of his lungs.

The Son of Man who hung on tree, so that someday we can see

a day without tears,

a life without fears,

a place to rest at the end of life’s journey,

Heaven.

Oh, What a Day that will be!

I knew I needed a son, because I felt I could not raise a daughter right.

Raising a son would be simple, easy at it’s best. See I thought men were born knowing their worth, their value mapped and wrapped in their DNA. Men who enter this world through the loins of a woman, clothed in valor, marked by dominance, know the world belongs to them, laid open wide at their feet.

If God gave me a daughter, rearing her would be difficult, hard at it’s best. A girl searches the mirror not for her reflection, but for her appraisal. She takes every label, every hate-filled word spoken by tongues of the wicked, the lustful, the spiteful, and she swallows them whole. They cling to her insides, eating away at the very core of her being. The lies, the labels, the looks, and gropes can break a girl down. They can make her something new, something ugly from the inside out.

To raise a daughter right, I would first have to know my worth. I would have to believe that I am more than the size of my waist and bust. I am worth more than what my body can offer. I am more than the lies I ate, with a mouth open wide, and I would know my true value, so she would know hers.

As the universe would have it, God gave me a daughter first, and then a son. Now, my children need to know that their mother had it all wrong, so wrong. Raising a child, any child, boy or girl, is hard. It takes work. It takes perseverance, and more than anything, it takes sacrifice. As parent’s we are given 18 years, 216 months, 6.570 days to give this parenting gig our very best. It seems like a lifetime to a child, but not to a parent.

The clock is always ticking, her hands are always moving, and we know there are lessons we should be teaching, and words we need to be speaking, but they all get lost. Lost in the laundry, dirty dishes in the sink, food on the stove, in their mouths, on the floor, and we are wiping , cleaning, and screaming, but not teaching, at least not right.

I know I am going to get a lot of things wrong. I am going to make mistakes and mishaps, but I am not alone. Watch the nightly news, the daily papers, search the web and you will see, we are all faltering, tripping, and stumbling.

Marathon runners run their last race on two legs, horror movies become real in theaters, and God help us, children lose their lives by attending school, and we all ask why?

We all know life begins with a mother. A mother to conceive and carry an unborn life. A mother, to labor and deliver a child. A mother to nurse and nourish a child, and a mother to nurture and teach a child.

Today, more than ever, mothers and fathers alike need to teach their children the value of human life. From the unborn fetus to the aging man with one foot planted on Earth and the other in heaven, from the feeble daughter to the strong son, from the man whose pockets are always full to the widowed woman who has none. They all count. They all matter. They all deserve to be loved and held and cherished and treasured. A message we need to keep teaching and repeating…

Somedays I see it, pieces of stone, split and fall.

I am the clay and he is the potter.

He hums as he works, “You were fearfully and wonderfully made, my child.”

The hammer hits the chisel again and again.

I bend and bow.

I crack at the seams.

Blood and water flow,

Covering me, washing me clean.

He doesn’t stop, let up, or slow down.

He keeps working.

He keeps molding,

sanding the rough spots, smoothing the edges,

and he keeps humming, “Be still, my child. Let me labour, for my works are marvelous.”

Twelve months ago, my baby sister’s life changed, for the better. My sister met her daughter for the very, first time. Twelve months ago, my baby sister became a mother. This past weekend we celebrated the birth of her baby girl, and rejoiced for all the love and joy she has brought to our family this past year.

Happy Birthday, Miss Kynlee! Here’s to many, many more!

I have not slept a full night in weeks. My stomach has become a volcano, erupting with throat-burning lava at every ingestion. My back hurts, my legs hurts, and I cry so easy like a woman whose lost her levies, her dam broke-down, the flood waters rushing, the banks retreating. Please, feel free to stop reading now, because pregnancy turns me into something I hate; a complainer, a wretched complainer.

On the way home from work today, I daydreamed about my due date. My blessed due date! Oh, how far away, May feels, almost like a foreign country I will never visit, or a sweet dream locked away in my heart that will never come true. I wanted to cry again and again and again.

Then I picked my sweet little boy up, and his mam-maw said he’s missed me all day. He has missed me, the whiny and complaining, mother that I am. She told me has something he’s been waiting to give me. He’s held them in his hands all day, only putting them down to potty.

They may be just weeds to you, but they are so much more to me.

He picked these for me. He carried them all day for me, because he loves me. To him, my sweet son, I am worth the inconvenience. I am worth so much more than the cost to him, and I am ashamed, guilt-stricken to the core. I am so very regretful for every grievance my lips have sung, and I am left with nothing more than pure gratitude. My blessings cover my complaints, they wipe the slate clean, and love resides at the end of every stroke.

Thank you, Jesus for my aches, and my pains, and most of all, for my three beautiful blessings. They are worth it all!

Hand to hand, stainless steel trays our passed holding the fruit of the vine and flat bread.

We take the bread, give thanks, and eat. We eat the bread, his body, love and life everlasting, broken, bruised and bleeding for us. We eat the bread, remember the stripes, the nail scarred hands, his death mounted on a tree. We do it in remembrance of him, of his sacrifice.

We take the juice of grapes and drink. We remember his bloodshed, the blood of Jesus, flowing from our sins and transgressions, not his own, never his own. Our guilt, thick and hot, covered the ground of Golgotha. We raise our cups and drink in remembrance of him, the New Testament in his blood.

This Thursday, before this Good Friday, and every day after, every day, remember his broken body, remember his blood, the blood of Jesus. Because his blood washed away your sin. Because his blood can make you whole again. Because his blood is hope and peace, and the only way home. The only way…

I, myself, am a common person, leading a common life. I have never touched ground on foreign soil. My eyes have not witnessed the pomp and circumstance of a royal procession. My feet have never trod the corridors of a massive castle, and my fingertips have never brushed the robes of royalty, but I worship a King, a mighty redeemer.

The king I kneel to, I have never seen, only felt. A king, part flesh and bone, and part God, born of a virgin birth in a lowly manager. His name whispered on the tongues of angels, his destiny inscribed in ancient prophecy. This King, my king, was not sent to rule, he was sent to serve. He spoke in parables, commanding his people to love and to forgive, spreading messages of hope in a world that had none. He performed miracles in his father’s name. He healed the sick, made the blind see, the deaf hear, and the lame walk. He breathed life into the dead and conquered the grave with a cross. My King, My Savior, loved. He loved….He loved you and me so much, he gave up his life…He died for you and me…so that we may live.

“I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never die.” -Jesus (John 11: 25-26)

My king still loves and he still lives and his message remains the same. As we go through this holy week, many of us will buy plastic eggs and candy, search for the perfect dress with a matching hat, buy baby chicks and little ducks, and eat lots of peeps, but we NEED to do only two things. One, remember, always remember his sacrifice, brand it on your heart and believe it with every single fiber of your being. Second, walk in his message…live his words…LOVE. Sweet sisters and brothers, love!

“The most important commandment is this: ‘Listen, O Israel! The Lord our God is the one and only Lord. And you must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength.’ The Second is equally important: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ No other commandment is greater than these.” -Jesus (Mark 12:29-31)

May you and yours have a blessed Holy week and a passion filled Easter!

Filed under: Faith Tagged: Easter, God, Holy Week, Jesus, Resurrection morning, serve, Worship ]]>