I have a voice mail and about 3 emails that I listen to and read about once a week. Words of encouragement. Words of validation. Words of love poured over our fresh wounds. Words that soothe and balm and help me remember that we did not give up.

Instead, we obeyed. We knew having children meant offering up our own wants, needs and often our dreams and goals so that we could shepherd these precious lives to the foot of the cross on a regular basis. And that is what we have done.

We have chosen to forgo our dreams and instead love our children well and help them heal, help us heal.

But I'm going to be honest.

I feels a lot like we just gave up.

Lately, for some reason I cannot pinpoint, Lucas has melted into a puddle of tears on numerous occasions and just keeps saying things like:

"Mom, I want Paige. I want her to be RIGHT HERE."

"I really wish Paige was here eating dinner with us."

"I wish Paige was going with us to the dentist."

"I miss her. I can barely remember what her voice sounds like, Mom."

Each of those things make my heart break into a million pieces.

I don't want this blog to become the "We miss Paige blog" but truly, I'm not sure what else to write about. The days stretch on between blog posts, they turn into weeks and often I think, "Oh I should blog about that funny thing the kids did" but when I sit to write, deep emotion pours from my fingers.

Writing is my release. And when I sit, emotions surface and spill over. Often emotions I've been trying my best to suppress.

I went to her grave yesterday. It was mostly unintentional. Elizabeth has started piano again and though we live only a few minutes from her lessons, it seems like a lot of work to bring the other 6 kids home, unload them and then load them up again 45 minutes later.

So after driving around in frigid temperatures, I decided that one of the playgrounds at the church might be in the sun. It's also the playground nearest the cemetery. I pulled up and saw that it was not in the sun but the kids insisted on getting out anyway, despite my warnings that it was painfully cold.

We all climbed out, I bundled everyone up and they sprinted for the slide. The slide that's maybe 100 feet from Paige's grave. I've avoided it for the last six months because, well, sometimes it's easier to deny that she's really there in the ground.

But as the kids sprang onto the playground, my feet carried me causally over to the spot I'd stood six months ago as I watched my husband heave with sobs into the chests of his closest friends. The spot where I watched her casket lay above a giant hole that would swallow her up. The spot where I sat next to Grace, clutching her hand, so consumed with worry for her that bile rose in the back of my throat.

I couldn't stop myself. My mind told me at least a dozen times to turn around but I couldn't. I just kept walking until finally there I stood. Looking at the tiny little marker with her name written on it.

My heart recoiled. The grass. Oh God the grass. How in the hell is there grass!? No dirt. No pile of muddy grass and seed, still swollen with the newest offering into the hard, cold ground.

Just normal looking grass. Weathered by the cold winter, grey and brown and looking just like the rest of the grass in the cemetery that covered the plots of people who had been buried for years.

How is it that a 10 foot by 5 foot hole has already completely healed and my heart has only begun?

Today, I took Ashlee out on a lunch date. My sweet girl is always begging for special time alone with me or Luke. We sat in a booth of the Japanese restaurant, noodles slapped the sides of her cheeks as she slurped, my heart swelled with love for her.

"Ash, you know I think you're pretty awesome, right?"

And as casually as she could, she responded with, "Yeah, I know. But not as awesome as Paige."

She's in our thoughts everyday, never far away from intersecting reality and memory. Which is exactly how it was when she was alive. We called or texted her often. Skyped her regularly. The kids wrote letters to her, drew her pictures and asked when she was coming over next. We missed her when she was at school and now, we miss her even more.

Six months tomorrow. It makes me angry that time has dared to move on so quickly. Yet here we sit, life altered, plans changed, hearts sad, new plans on the horizon.

It feels a lot like we just gave up on our old life. But I know that's not true.

I got an email on Monday. It was from our sending organization. A simple email with a lone attachment.

New support goals for 2013.

It felt like a slap across the face. I know it was just routine for whomever updates and sends records. But once again our support needs had gone up. It's not like we are planning to leave the country in 2013 but seeing the dollars we would need continuing to mount seemed like a heartless joke.

I know this is a ramble. And it's sad. And it's not what this blog was ever designed to be. But I really don't know what to write about anymore. I have pages saved on my computer of emotions and thoughts poured out from me, hoping that if I just let them out then I could begin to move on like nearly everyone else I know.

Somedays I feel fine. I rejoice in the testimony of her life, of our life, and what God has done already. And then there are days like yesterday, and the day I know tomorrow will be, and I turn my eyes onto my own broken heart rather than the One who could provide true healing.

It feels like we gave up. It feels like our identity has been stripped from us. Our feet should be firmly standing on African soil right now. Instead, our feet pace around a beautiful property that will soon be ours but I can't genuinely say I'm joyous about owning. We are buying a house out of sad circumstances that we didn't ask for.

It's funny really. I look out our window right now and it's a sunny, clear day. Mildly overcast, with mostly sunny skies. It looks like a nice, warm spring day.

But if you crack open the door, the cold rushes in and the reality of the freezing temperatures outside rush in and send a chill up your back. The hair on the back of your neck prickles and you realize, things aren't what they seem.

And that's exactly the state of my heart. Life is moving at normal pace. I attend Bible study and church, go to the grocery store and run into people I know. All appears okay, like a nice, normal day. And then reality slices in, the bitter cold reminding me that this is not where I want to be and the hairs on my neck prickle, my stomach lurches and tears fill my eyes.

I found this scripture this morning while searching for some encouragement for a friend. I want this to be true for me. I need this to be true for me.

Sing aloud, O daughter of Zion;

shout, O Israel!

Rejoice and exult with all your heart,

O daughter of Jerusalem!

The LORD has taken away the judgments against you;

he has cleared away your enemies.

The King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst;

you shall never again fear evil.

On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem:

“Fear not, O Zion;

let not your hands grow weak.

The LORD your God is in your midst,

a mighty one who will save;

he will rejoice over you with gladness;

he will quiet you by his love;

he will exult over you with loud singing.

I will gather those of you who mourn for the festival,

so that you will no longer suffer reproach.

Behold, at that time I will deal

with all your oppressors.

And I will save the lame

and gather the outcast,

and I will change their shame into praise

and renown in all the earth.

At that time I will bring you in,

at the time when I gather you together;

for I will make you renowned and praised

among all the peoples of the earth,

when I restore your fortunes

before your eyes,” says the LORD.

(Zephaniah 3:14-20 ESV - emphasis added by me)

Joy amid sorrow

We sat in the sanctuary, the same one where her casket laid almost 5 months ago exactly, and the grief washed over me once more.

I hid my face behind Abigail’s head as tears flowed freely down my cheeks. I contained my sobs only barely until finally, a familiar chord struck the piano and I could handle it no more. With Abigail wrapped tightly to my chest, I squeezed her close and made a quick exit out of the back of the room and slipped into a darkened classroom down the hall. Muffled sobs filled the small space as Abigail nursed quietly and her chubby little hand grabbed for my mouth, like always.

It was more than I could bear sitting in that room and trying to worship. Especially given why we were there. Our dear friends, a woman I would consider within my inner circle, leaving the country, being commissioned, going to unreached people. Gosh how I love these people. How a part of my heart rejoices in the work the Lord is doing in and through their precious family!

But the rest of me....

To the rest of me that commissioning service felt as much like a funeral as the one I’d sat through just five months before. The funeral that changed so much for us. The funeral that changed our lives forever, that took our dreams, our world, and flipped it upside down.

We were suppose to be departing for Kenya this month. I clinch my fist at God and ask Him why He even called us if He knew this would happen. I lay in the bed most nights and cry silent tears, mourning the loss of our dreams, our hopes, our future and all that I had imagined it to be.

I know this probably won’t make sense to many of you, but my heart was already gone. I fell in love with a people group I’d never met. Faces lacking detail slipped into my dreams, into my prayers and danced across my imagination as I pictured us living with them, earning their trust - and they ours - living along side them sharing with them the greatest, most certain love I’ve ever known. Sharing Him.

I gathered myself and Abigail, who by this time had finished nursing and had begun crawling all over the room looking for tiny objects to pincer grasp and put into her mouth. I wrapped her back onto my chest and snuck back into the sanctuary just as our pastor began speaking. I stared straight ahead, careful to not look around, in fear that I’d make eye contact with someone and they’d be privy to the depths of my pain.

And I sat there in that service feeling like we were burying yet another thing so precious to us.

Yes, this last 5 months have been hard. Hard because we lost our friend. Hard because our children still have weekly meltdown sessions where they collapse into our arms and tell us how much they miss their Paige. Hard because all we know to do, as parents, is simply sit and cry with them. No words will act as a healer. No perfect scripture will make the pain less real. Only tears and cuddles and rocking and the hope that one day we can remember her and it not crush us with grief and sadness.

But it’s been hard on so many other levels. Hard because WE were the family headed to Africa. WE were the ones who were excited to go and see. Hard because this life isn’t the one we’ve spent the last 3+ years preparing for.

“Mom, why aren’t we going to Africa? I want to go to Africa.”

Me too, baby. Me too.

This isn’t our plan A. Plan A was Africa.

We are buying a house. The house we are in now is a rental. It’s served us well over the last nearly 3 years but we are cramped. It’s seen us bring two babies home and our children grow from little kids into school aged children. We moved here with the knowledge that God was calling us somewhere else. It was temporary. We knew that from the get-go.

But now, we aren’t sure how temporary our new life is. There is no way we’d be effective missionaries right now. We’re too busy trying to hold ourselves together to minister to anyone else.

We looked at renting something bigger but it would nearly triple our monthly expenses, which was not an option we could afford or desired. Plus, I don’t know many landlords eager to rent to a family with 7 kids and a dog. The one that I did find in our budget never emailed me back when I told them how many kids we have.

So we found a foreclosure on a nice, large piece of land. It needs work. Lots of work. We’ll have to finish an entire basement, create bedrooms and bathrooms. But it’s doable and it won’t change the face of our budget too much, which is always a good thing.

But it’s bittersweet. This isn’t our plan A. This wasn’t even our plan B. This plan falls somewhere on the list of things we never really thought was in our immediate or 5 or 10 year plan. If you’d have asked me a year ago if we’d ever be homeowners again I’d have probably laughed at you. I saw us as nomads. Living life in rented spaces for as long as we possibly could.

But here we sit. Hoping to close sometime in the next month. Beginning renovations and moving in sometime this spring.

There will be no memories of Paige in this house. No late nights of eating peanut M&Ms as we sit on opposite ends of the couch and we tell each other our fears and dreams and plans. No memories of sitting across the kitchen table from potential supporters, pouring our hearts out to them and wondering if we are able to express to them just how much we love a people we’ve never met.

Part of that brings sweet relief. But another part of that bring such pain and sorrow. As we walked around the house yesterday with a contractor, explaining to him all that we have imagined for this new house, we didn’t have to talk about our old dreams. We didn’t feel the need to fill him in on the reasons why this house isn’t our plan A. He probably couldn’t even fathom that this wouldn’t be plan A.

And somewhere amid talking about flooring and where to put a laundry room and where to put the 5th bedroom and a play room, I found a speck of joy. Joy amid the sorrow. Joy creeping in that this is a fresh start. A new dream. A new hope. Something new to hold onto in the face of so much loss.

As I texted my friend Kate tonight, she reminded me that there must be ashes before they can be made beautiful. As I sit in Job’s ash heap, scraping my wounds, I look forward to the beauty. I pray it comes quickly. And I wonder how many more times we will find joy amid the sorrow. A sorrow often so deep that I cannot understand how the joy seeps in. But He allows it. He ordains it. And He provides it. This joy amid my sorrow. Proof once more that He is the giver all gifts. Even the ones we never, ever thought we’d ever ask for.

Beauty in death

Leaves flutter to the ground, their flecks of amber and gold whirring around on the wind, carelessly landing on the tops of sidewalks, cars and piles of other leaves. Our children dance and play beneath them, taking special joy when a hard breeze comes through our yard and they cascade down as if being painted across the landscape with the swooping of The Artist's hand.

(source)

Golds, yellows, greens, reds, browns. When poised among the same branches, the beauty nearly takes my breath away. As we drive down the road I find my eyes looking to the landscape, the beauty of what is around me takes my mind off of the radio, the children behind me, my current life.

Fall has been my favorite time of year for as long as I can remember.

(source)

The crunch of the leaves below the soles of my shoes, the need for bulky sweaters and the changing of warmer temperatures to cooler ones, no doubt this time of year brings me joy that no other season can.

Yet the irony of the beauty of the season this year is almost crushing. Because, the truth is heartbreakingly simple.

(source)

There can be beauty in death.

Fall proves this yearly. As leaves wither and die, taking on new colors, shapes and textures they paint a beautiful portrait that can only be seen on the landscape of death.

As much as it pains me to admit that. As much as my current life season doesn't want to admit that truth. There can be beauty in death.

When death is hidden within the promises of Christ a breathtaking picture is revealed. Make no mistake, death apart from Christ is anything but beautiful.

Some dear friends reminded me of this truth last night as we talked with them on the phone across hundreds of miles. And, in the early days following Paige's death, I thought about it often and it would make me smile.

She's there. Seeing Him face to face. Worshipping wholly. Really living. Not this trite, vapor of a life that we have here. Real life. Lived right before the King.

There's beauty in that aspect of her death.

It's selfish to wish she was still here so that I could text her at night or skype with her during the week or ask her to sit and edit photos with me.

It's selfish to wish she could be here for birthdays, drives through the parkway in the mountains and to watch our kids while we go on a date.

It's selfish because I know that she doesn't desire to be here anymore.

I think about Mary and how she must have felt to watch her son hang on a cross. To watch his lifeless body be taken down and put inside a tomb. The grief must have been unbearable. Did she know she'd see Him alive again in a few short days? When she saw Him, did she embrace him as if it had been months since their last encounter?

Did she see the beauty in His death? Or was that only revealed to her once His death was abolished?

How her heart must have grieved while He laid in the tomb.

I know Paige is full of life, joyful and beautiful in the presence of her Savior. But I'd give anything to embrace her just one more time. To see her car ease into our driveway and watch her bounce up the walk. To sit with her over hot coffee or see her dance with our kids. For Ashlee to have the special time that was promised but never delivered.

The leaves spin down, dancing on the wind as our littlest girls squeal and dance along side them. Their delight is unmatched. The beauty of the season slowing falling all around them.

Beauty. Death.

Those two seem like an odd marriage. But in the shadow of the cross they make perfect sense. The beauty in Christ's death is redemption. Only by death is the richness of salvation possible.

I miss her so much. And yet I cling to the promise that one day, I will see the beauty in her death as well.

Recent thoughts about life, love and God

On Friday night, I surprised my husband by showing up at his work (alone) and had planned a "date night." Awww.....I know, the tenderness makes your heart flutter, doesn't it? Anyway, we had an awesome time eating dinner, talking about "grown-up" stuff (or at least as grown-up as we get), not being interrupted by kids. We ate slowly, then had some time to kill before the movie started (which, by the way, National Treasure 2 is SUPER!). We walked around the mall, just being together and goofing off. It was nice.

On the way home, I was listening to some country music. I usually listen to contemporary Christian, but couldn't find anything good on and changed the station. I came across a song that I really like and have listened to many times. It was "Don't Blink" by Kenny Chesney. In the song, for those of you who hate country music, he sees an old man being interviewed on t.v. for turning 102 years old. The reporter asks the old man what's the secret to life and the old man tells him "don't blink" because life goes by faster than you'd think. During the chorus of the song, he tells about growing from 6 to 25 to parenthood to grand-parenthood to lying in bed with your spouse of 50+ years and praying that God takes you instead of her/him.

The whole song is very sweet. However, being a believer in Jesus Christ, I have some personal opinions about the last sentences in the chorus, where he references asking God to let you die rather than your spouse.

From the outside looking in, this is meant as some sort of sacrifice that is being made for you most beloved. Asking God to allow you to die, rather than taking your loved one's life. I understand the concept, but I see these sentences in a different light.

When Jesus died on the cross and then rose from the dead, He paid the price for my sins by conquering death. Therefore, death is no longer permanent, but merely temporary for those who believe in Him. Believers in Jesus do not have to "worry" about dying. Earthly death isn't the end, it's simply the beginning of an eternity much more amazing than my human brain can understand. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to die. I want to live as long as God desires. However, the last sentences in this song make me reflect on what I know to be true about the God I love and worship.

When my husband and I have experienced life. When we have watched our kids grow into adults, witnessed their graduations and weddings, seen the eyes of our newborn grandchildren and been married 50+ years, I will hope that we both have grown tremendously in our faith. I pray that we will understand our God more deeply. Therefore, if we are both old and our Earthly bodies are beginning to fail and, as the song says, "the next thing ya know, you're better half is there in bed and you're praying God takes you instead" I pray my prayer won't be for God to "take me instead."

My reasoning in not wishing to die in my husband's place is simple. I know that my husband would be in a place where there is no pain, and joy is abundant. He would be in heaven with Our Savior, and praising the God of creation. All the while, I would be the one to endure the pain of loss and any and all suffering here on Earth.

Again, do not misunderstand, I do not wish for my husband to die. But, if given the chance to let him die or me, I'd chose him. I know that he believes in a powerful Savior. I know he loves the Lord with all his heart and desperately wants to please Him. I know, that when he's gone, he'll be in a better place. I would will that for anyone I love and care about. I think that this song's intended purpose is based on the same emotion I am feeling, but the difference is vantage point. The guy in the song wants the best for his spouse. So do I. The contrast is your outlook on eternity. I believe, whole-heartedly, that if my husband were to die tonight, that he would open his eyes in heaven. To spend his days in a place of perfection is the ultimate blessing. If I had the chance to trade places with my husband, and let him die and allow me to stay behind and suffer, I'd swap in a heartbeat. I think that is meaning of love and the truest sacrifice I could make for the one that I love dearest.