The Waters of Grief
It is May 2023. The sixth anniversary of my family’s tragedy. On May 11, 2017, a semi truck landed on top of my parents’ car. The story of the collision and the facts involved have never been very clear to me. I didn’t want them to be. Early on I learned the most important part: my parents were killed along with my three-year-old niece. I made a choice to not ask anything more because knowing all the other details would not change the tragic outcome. Every year I dread the arrival of May 11, and can feel a knot in my stomach as it gets closer and closer. Ironically, the actual day of the anniversary is not as bad as the dread of it. As the years pass and anniversaries come and go, I have come to realize that my self talk contributes greatly to my ability to cope. Let’s be honest, we all send messages to ourselves. My self-talk in particular runs along the lines of self criticism. I battle the idea that I am not doing well, that I am failing. For instance, I should be further along in my healing process and completely “over” my grief. The notion of being stuck occurs to me from time to time. Unfortunately, the messages of failing seep through into the other parts of my life too; Mom, wife, homesteader, and employee. Like in all battles, sometimes I win and sometimes I lose. When I lose it’s painful but the end result means I have to put my two feet back on the ground and keep walking. Honestly, my ability to keep walking comes only from the strength that my faith provides me. In other words, God holds me up and places my steps. Combating negative internal messages is a personal choice. I can reinforce God’s truth over my life or stoke the fears that Satan is fueling.The truth is that God will never leave me, whether I fail or not.
It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.
Recently it occurred to me that my grief is fluid. So even when I experience moments of sorrow and sadness, it is moving. In the early stages of grief and shock, I had a raw conversation with a friend that I will not forget. The dust had settled from the funeral and the heaviness of grief had settled on my life. A sweet friend approached me and wasn’t afraid to have a difficult conversation. She wasn’t concerned about giving me the right words of advice, and she didn’t seem to be worried about my level of vulnerability. I can remember her leaning in and asking me, “How are you?”. There was a depth of sincerity that I was not expecting, and I began to cry. In one of the sweetest acts of compassion she could give, she allowed me to weep. Weeping is a needed release of pain. So often we avoid it and say things to ourselves like,“If I start crying, I might not stop” or “If I cry it will show all my weakness”. In reality the thing we need to do is cry. In my vulnerability my friend decided to confide in me, she told me of her deepest fear: losing her parents. Very gingerly, my friend asked what it was like to survive such a tragedy of losing both parents suddenly. I was in a stage of trying to survive the outcomes of the accident, so my answers were very revealing about where I was in the process. I can remember telling her that grieving was like trying to survive a tsunami. At that point in time, that was an accurate description of where I was in my grieving. I was treading water, not knowing when the next wave would hit and send me into the depths, water rushing over my head again. Sinking, struggling to breathe, and feeling like I was closer to the bottom than the top.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.
Thankfully, I was never alone. God was always with me, especially when I was sinking to the bottom and the waves were crashing above my head. I can remember falling asleep crying and waking myself up because my body was shaking in my sleep – I was even weeping in my dreams.During that time of overwhelming heaviness I could feel God’s presence with me. He was comforting me, holding me, and sustaining me. He sent scriptures, songs, beloved friends, and of course my little family to help me along the way. Enduring was difficult. There were lots of times I really just wanted to quit, and then I would realize I had no other option but to put in the hard work of telling my parents goodbye. The heaviness of the grief followed me everywhere, even in moments of joy, because I would suddenly feel the absence of my parents, and then the guilt of feeling joy in the face of such sorrow would hit me. Kind people would tell me, “It gets better” and I would think, “What does?” I couldn’t imagine a place in time when I didn’t miss my mom and dad and long to see them again. Life without grief seemed like an impossibility. The thought of not grieving actually made me feel guilty. Would that mean I didn’t love them anymore, or miss them? If you have suffered the loss of a person close to you, these thoughts are probably very familiar.
As the days passed and the world went on, I found that my life was changing too. Seasons were passing and my boys were continuing to grow up. Everything was continuing to change around me and slowly, so was I. It wasn’t a sudden change but similar to that of physical training, one day you just notice you are in better shape. My head was above water and sometimes my feet were even on solid ground. Recently, I came to realize my tsunami is now a river. There has yet to be a day that I have not thought of my parents. There are days and times that are more difficult than others. There are times when I can tell a story or recall a sweet memory and smile. Maybe the difference is that I know the tide will change and the waters will go down. The river keeps running and moving. It is not that the grief disappears and all things are perfect in my life, but it is an acknowledgement of progress. Life progresses and moves even when we want time to stop.
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; Great is your faithfulness.
God is faithful for every morning and in every part of my mourning, his mercies are made new for me and never ending. All parts of my life are affected by the river but it doesn’t overwhelm me. If the river gets high and the waters get out of control, I can make it though because it is moving and the water will go back down just as quickly as it rises. Some days I dread and I am angry and sad but the grief is moving. It will subside. There are moments I wish my parents didn’t miss, like graduations, sports games, awards, birthdays, and so much more. But my grief is in motion and there is joy still to be found in God’s never ending mercies. There is no changing their absence and the pain of missing their presence but even so there are good things in my life. So instead of treading water, where my feet feel like they will never touch solid ground again, I am rolling up my pants and wading through the river. My feet are once again on solid ground, as I walk through the waters I am not alone and through God’s great mercy I take the ultimate comfort in knowing that one day there will be no more pain.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High.
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Here’s The Dirt On Seeds
As I am writing this blog, I am surrounded by a very large mud pit. Everywhere I look there is mud and it is raining. Not my favorite kind of day. The clouds are gray and there is rain, rain, and more rain. There are hints of spring popping up on the homestead, but I am fearful the bits of spring I see may be prematurely confident. What is a homesteading girl supposed to do on a day like today?
Start dreaming ! I dream in the form of seeds. Seeds are so hopeful. I love the pretty pictures on all the seed packages that suggest you will grow an abundance of beautiful vegetation. It is true not every seed packet I purchase actually lives up to my expectations. Regardless, on a rainy day the cute little seed packets bring me a bit of joy over things to come. In my past pursuit of spring joy, I may have been guilty of collecting too many seed packets. Honestly, you can spend a lot of money before you even plant. Considering the current economic climate, I have been carefully weighing all my homesteading ventures. My husband is the numbers guy in our house. He will often ask me, “Will this really save us money?” “What is the start-up cost?” Sometimes his realistic perspective pops the bubble on my homesteading dreams. As a result I have learned some cost-saving tips over the years to save money when starting a productive garden. Here are a few suggestions, in case you are dreaming on a gloomy day, too.
- Don’t be afraid of cheap seeds. Frequently I will purchase seeds at discount stores like Dollar Tree or Dollar General Store. The seed packets at discount stores tend to be small and don’t usually contain that many seeds. When planning my garden space I try to be aware of how many seeds I need for each crop. For example, I need a much larger quantity of seeds for green beans than I do radishes. The seeds that I most commonly The seeds that I most commonly buy at discount store are lettuce, radishes, Marigolds, and Cosmos.
- Buy local and in bulk. Check your local hardware store or farm store for bulk seeds. The seeds are usually sold out of containers or buckets. At my local farm store, I can measure and scoop seeds into a packet, which I then label. The cost is much more reasonable even though you don’t get the pretty pictures. I usually purchase yellow squash, zucchini and green beans seeds at my local farm store. If you are planning on planting several rows of the same crop you are better served buying in bulk. You can break your garden budget trying to plant enough crops to preserve.
- Save your own seeds. This suggestion is the most cost-effective one on my list. Certain seeds are easier than others to save and plant the next year. Most seeds that you save require a period of time that you dry them, and then put them in a brown paper bag. Make sure they are dry and temperature controlled (not too hot and not too cold). The most success I have had in seed saving have been with Sunflowers, Zinnias, Popcorn, Peas, Pumpkins and Okra. Make sure you label your bags, or you might have a surprise garden if you can’t identify your seeds when it comes time to plant them.
- Limit your seed catalog purchases. I love getting seed catalogs. On cold, late winter nights, I sit by the crackling fire burning in my wood stove, and dog ear pages on the seed catalog. It reminds me of my childhood and circling what I wanted for Christmas in the JcPenney catalog. Of course, I never got what I wanted from the JcPenney Christmas listand the same can be said for my fancy seed catalog. I usually only order a few specialty seeds that I cannot find in local stores. For example, this year I ordered Pimento Pepper seeds. I hope to smoke my own peppers this year, and possibly make my own Paprika.
- The last suggestion on my list is possibly my favorite tip. Check the clearance bin. If you know me well, you know that I am a bargain shopper. Who doesn’t love a good clearance bin? At the end of the spring, you will see stores start marking the seed packets down. In our local area, it is usually mid-May that you start seeing seed sales. Check with local stores to see when they will either move seeds out or put them on sale. Buying seeds out of peak season saves a lot of money. If it is too late to plant the item, put it in a safe spot and save it for next year. Discount stores will usually mark seed packets down to less than a dollar each. I remember one year I bought seeds for ten cents a packet at my local Dollar Store! I felt like I won the seed lottery!
Planning your garden can be lots of fun. I usually try at least one new crop every year. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. If you have a gardening friend, think about sharing seeds that you have saved and swapping garden tips. Someday soon, I will happily look out on my growing garden that started out as just a bunch of hopeful little seeds.
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Orange Mamma Made
I will be honest, I struggled to get in the “Holiday Spirit” this year. I was lacking a lot of Jolly and a little bit of Holly too. Reviewing social media,I could tell I was not the only one struggling to be festive.The holidays can remind us of people lost, relationships that have soured, and things we don’t have. In mid-December when I should have been gearing up for Christmas, our little family was hit with the flu.I kind of wanted to cancel Christmas.Sitting at home with a sick kid, I started thinking about how there were going to be fewer gifts this year and less time to buy them.Inflation and the holidays were at war with each other.However, having a ten year old at home, I knew I could not get away with calling off Christmas.In the middle of these somber thoughts I suddenly heard a car door shut. I live in the country, so hearing a car door shut usually means I have company or UPS is dropping off a package.Looking out my front door, I could see a holiday tradition unfolding.For over 30 years my family has received a box of oranges every year as a gift from a dear friend of my parents.Even after their passing, my parents’ friend has faithfully delivered a box of oranges every year.This year I stopped him before he could make it to the porch, warning him of our flu-ridden house.So the oranges were placed on the porch steps at safe distance.Turns out oranges are great for the flu, and my little boy and I began right away slicing these beautiful juicy oranges.Curious, my son asked, “Why does he always bring us oranges?”And so I got to share the story of this sweet holiday tradition.My dad told me stories about getting an orange for Christmas as a young boy, and it being a treat.In today’s lifestyle for most of us, oranges are readily available and in all kinds of varieties and colors.The history of gifting oranges goes back to humble times and holidays that were not consumed by capitalism.There were far more gatherings than gifts in the days of the orange giver’s childhood.In fact, my parent’s friend started his tradition as a younger man, gifting his family, and co-workers with oranges. The orange-giving grew over the years, and expanded to more friends.Soon the orange giver was driving all over town, joyfully giving oranges while spreading a little holiday cheer.Our two families were very close, and so every year we received a friendly knock on the door and a big box of plump oranges.I can remember the years the oranges went into the Christmas Jello and my mom and I would creatively use the entire box of oranges. In my early married days, my mom would divide her large box of oranges up and gift some to my household.I learned to make Orange Marmalade and it quickly became a holiday favorite in our house.I have a sweet memory of my oldest son announcing to his grandfather, “Mom brought you some of her Orange Mamma-made!” This year the gift of the oranges was just a little sweeter. The box left on my steps said to me, “you have not been forgotten”. In Spite of the grips of the bad economy, the wars of the world and flu in my house, someone special thought of me and my family.Since my parents dear friend is aging, I know it is not easy to pick up boxes of oranges and drive around town and deliver them. The oranges probably cost more this year, and the weight of the boxes probably felt heavier. But even so, he thought of my little family and made sure we got our Christmas oranges.I would say this Christmas tradition has spanned over fourty years.There are not many people who can say they have kept a holiday gift-giving tradition for over fourty years.Much like the days of old and the history of the orange gifting, it is not about the lavish gifts but the gift of being remembered.
Here are my instructions for making, “Orange Mamma Made”. The recipe is an easy version of marmalade that tastes yummy with toast or gingerbread. I will warn you this is an overnight recipe.
- Rinse off four medium to large size oranges
- Dice up oranges and place them in a large saucepan
- Almost cover oranges with water and let sit overnight (the oranges will absorb most of the water overnight)
- Turn oranges on medium heat and stir
- After they warm up, mash the oranges helping them release juices and break down any large chunks
- Bring oranges to a slow boil
- Add sugar (most recipes add a cup of sugar per orange, but y’all I can’t bring myself to do that!) I usually add one cup of sugar and ¼ cup of honey for the entire batch of marmalade
- Stir sugar and oranges together return to slow boil
- After well blended, remove from heat and let cool
- Ladle into jars and refrigerate
You could preserve the marmalade by water-bathing the jars, I would recommend doubling the recipe and making a larger batch if you wish to water-bath. A couple of other ideas for using oranges are drying them out and using them on your Christmas tree, or using sliced oranges and fresh orange juice as a glaze on your Christmas ham. While I was recovering from the flu, my favorite way to eat these beautiful oranges was to simply slice and enjoy.
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Pick Me Up, God
Sometimes in life it can feel like God is absent. There have been seasons in my life when I questioned, “Is God real ?” and if he is real “Where is he? Why is he not helping me?” God is not a tangible being. Depending on my feelings about the mountains that I face, God can seem very distant. On other occasions, I have wondered what was wrong with me. Not when anything really bad was happening in my life, I just felt numb. Times when going through the motions of attending church and other spiritual activities have seemed void. Nothing offered comfort or brought joy. I know I am not the only one who struggles with discouragement, because these thoughts are even reflected in Psalm 42:5 which says, “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me?…”
During one such season of numbness and discouragement in my life, God sweetly spoke to my heart. My youngest son had been born prematurely, and in his first days of life he was struggling to breathe. My husband and I spent endless hours in a NICU unit, holding him. It was a scary time for us, not knowing what the long- term effects of this struggle for oxygen would be on our son’s development. Surprisingly, the time we spent in the NICU was a spiritual mountain top for me. Even though the NICU days were filled with struggle, I could feel God’s presence with me and almost see his healing hand on my new baby. The months that followed were a different story, however. We returned home full of excitement and blessings, but the months of day to day demands began to wear on me. Juggling schedules, preemie midnight feedings, my older sons’ activities (cross country, basketball, academic team…) , laundry, and my return to work became overwhelming. Soon our pediatrician began expressing concerns about the progress of our new baby. Even though our preemie had come a long way since the NICU, he was still not crawling. On any given day, I have a tendency to forget certain milestone moments. In other words, if things come easy we tend to forget unchallenging task. However, I clearly remember the baby of the family, our preemie crawling for the first time. He was ten months old, and the pediatrician told me that if he wasn’t crawling in two weeks’ time we would need to start physical therapy. I was discouraged by this, and the mom guilt began flooding in. Maybe I wasn’t helping him enough?Maybe I wasn’t the best mom for him? It was painful to watch him cry and struggle and I am sure it was also physically painful for him too. I knew what I had to do, push through the pain. My son needed me to let him experience the struggle and to deal with my own discomfort of watching the process. So on one particular day when I was standing a few feet away from him in the living room, and noticed he wanted me, I decided to stay where I was. I could see him struggling to get to me, and it took all the willpower I had not to just go pick him up. With a tear in my eye, I watched this tiny, determined fighter push himself into a crawling position and unsteadily crawl toward me. There were a few falls to his belly, and some tears of frustration on his part. Yet somehow he managed to muster all of his determination and make it to my feet. Crying, he sat himself up on his bottom and put both of his hands up. Without saying a word, he was saying, “Pick me up MOM !!” Elated I scooped him up, and hugged him tight, praised his efforts, and comforted him in his pain from the struggle. In my heart I could hear God whisper to me, “that is all you have to do, reach for me” Instantly, I could feel my heavenly father embracing my soul. There are so many spiritual lessons I took from this experience.
- We get so caught up in focusing on our struggles and problems that we lose focus on the comforter.
- When things are easily accomplished, we take success for granted. But when things are hard fought, even though there was pain in the progress, the victory is so much sweeter. True triumph comes after a struggle.
- We need to struggle to grow. If I had interfered and never let my baby struggle in the pain of learning to crawl it would have only delayed his progress.
- God is always there, much like me watching the struggle a few feet away. I may not feel like he is helping, it may not seem like he is not watching, but he is. In fact he is cheering on our progress, encouraging us when we try, and ready in an instant to pick us up. All we have to do is lift our hands up.
I sought the LORD, and he answered me and delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed. This poor man cried, and the LORD heard him and saved him out of all his troubles. The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them. Psalm 34:4-7
“Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him; I will protect him, because he knows my name. When he calls to me, I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” Psalm 91:14-16
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Am I a Mule ?
“Stubborn as a mule!” I have heard that saying several times in my life, sometimes in reference to me. The words are usually said in frustration, and a mule was not something I enjoyed being compared to. Several years ago I was listening to a sermon, and the preacher referred to himself as a mule. The illustration was used that God had to pull this person around to get him to do what God wanted him to do. The sermon struck a negative chord with me. I struggled thinking, “Wow, God must hate struggling with me.” Because I am a farm girl, it made me think of my own negative memories of dealing with animals that were out of control or obstinate. In the moments of struggle with them, I did not like those animals, and it was usually a very frustrating and stressful situation. The speaker’s analogy in the sermon left me feeling like, “How could God love me, a mule?” But because God is gracious and loving, he did not leave me with these thoughts. Instead, he gave me an image to replace the one that left me with such self-loathing. Having grown up on a horse farm, I have many memories of the way my dad handled horses. Our farm was for Thoroughbred broodmares, which means the horses were used for breeding not riding or racing. Usually in the springtime mares would begin to have babies and my dad would begin handling them soon after birth, in order to socialize and train the foals. A foal is not born ready to be led to the barn or have a halter on, or to have a saddle on its back. My dad loved his horses and genuinely enjoyed getting to know them, and he developed relationships with each horse.I watched from season to season as my dad taught these young frisky horses how to act. The memories are beautiful images in my head that have grown more precious with my dad’s passing, and the spiritual analogies that God has shown me. Dad would lean over the top of the foals and almost hug them while they were hooked to a halter and a shank. He would walk with the foals and put some pressure on them to walk with him. As the foals grew they would become more difficult to handle becoming what I would call teenage horses. With teenage horses dad would increase the pressure he placed on them, sometimes having to put his full body weight on the young horse’s back. Depending on the age and personality of the horse, some were easier to handle than others. In the evenings when it was time to enter the barn I would often look out and see my dad struggling with a young horse who was trying to buck him off its back. There are so many spiritual lessons in that for me. How often am I stubbornly trying to resist the pressure of the Holy Spirit that is leaning on me, for my own good? How many times have I tried to buck God, who is trying to mold me into an easily led servant ? The young horses don’t realize that breaking loose from the grasp of the trainer means that they could run out in the road (which is dangerous) or miss feeding time in the barn with their mom. As I reflect further, I think about the faithful, calm mares on our farm. As the horses would age, become accustomed to the routine, and become more familiar with the affections of their trainer you could see them change. The older mares on the farm trusted my dad.They trusted that they would be cared for and that at the end of the path to the barn, they would find a clean, warm stall and sweet horse feed. My dad could lead a mature mare in with one hand, matching her steps, with no tension on her shanks and no pressure on her back. It was like the mare was comfortably strolling with my dad and definitely not being pulled along. However, just like people, special circumstances could stir even a calm mare. We had mares that would flip out at the sight of a horse trailer, and it would take a team of people to load them. A stray dog, fireworks, loud noises, a loose foal, etc could make even the most gentle mare forget all of her training. How often am I like a spooked mare? A little trouble comes my way, an uncertain future, a change of my plans, or something doesn’t go right, and I forget the trust I have for my shepherd. I forget that he always has my best interest at heart and even though I have lost sight, he is guiding me to green pastures and right paths. What a beautiful thought that I am not a burden to God or an annoying, stubborn, out of control animal. I am like a well-loved Thoroughbred and my shepherd is lovingly willing to train me to become a faithful servant who trusts in him, and leans into his promises of provision. He delights in my training, and is patient with the process.
Psalms 32: 8-10
8) I will instruct you and teach you the way you should go;
I will give you counsel and watch over you.
9) Do not be like the horse or mule,
which have no understanding;
they must be controlled with bit and bridle
to make them come to you.
10) Many are the sorrows of the wicked,
but loving devotion surrounds him who trusts in the LORD.One-TimeMonthlyYearly
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Wordless Wednesday, Summer Bouquets
Wordless Wednesday, Sunflowers
I’m in a Drought
The homestead and the garden are currently a burnt, crunchy brown. We have had to fight for any garden production by replanting dead plants, watering, and mulching. It has been depressing. My husband frequently reminds me that in order to have good garden years, you have to have bad garden years, too. The goats have eaten their little pasture down to a nub and are now having to explore a little further for green grass. Recently, I took inventory of our home canned goods and realized that I have a dwindling supply of several staples, including green beans, homemade salsa, and spaghetti sauce. Honestly, I am not sure if we will have enough production from our garden to restock our root cellar shelves. I have been praying for rain, and not just a light sprinkle, but a substantial consistent rain. The last time it rained here was July 9th. It is now July 17th, and as I write it is finally raining. It has led me to reflect on droughts, rain, and prayer.
As a young girl, I can remember sitting in my little country church on hot July Sundays. My legs would stick to the hard,wooden pews, even in the air-conditioned building. The older women would usually be waving simple paper fans attached to what looked like large popsicle sticks. The older men (most of whom were farmers) would be requesting prayer for rain, and the congregation would agree in a chorus of amens. Growing up on a farm, I became accustomed to the sorrow of drought and joy of summer rain. We did not have the advantage or the access to local radars or fifteen-minute forecasts. The weather was usually provided while watching the evening news or reading the back of the daily paper. However, you could feel the rain coming. The sky would form dark clouds, the wind would pick up and the pressure could be felt. Rain was coming! Rain usually meant scurrying to put up important tools or gathering up harvest to be taken in doors. There was always excitement in the air, a thankfulness, and a sense of urgency to move inside. I learned later in life that those feelings were particular to farm life. The first rain while in college made me think, “Why am I so excited?” Meanwhile, everyone else on campus was simply getting their umbrellas out.
Thinking of all the lack of rain and the struggle to keep my squash, and cucumbers alive brings to mind one of my favorite Bible stories. In 1 Kings chapter 18, Elijah and Israel are suffering through a three-year drought. Three years of drought meant that the land was desperate. Because of a month of drought here, I have dead grass, peppers, and squash. Imagine three years with no rain !! The people of Israel had experienced lack of harvest, death of animals and dried up water sources. The conditions were dire. In 1 Kings chapter 18 verse 41 you find Elijah informing King Ahab that there will be rain. I find it fascinating that there was no rain yet, and actually Elijah had not even prayed for rain yet. Wow! What faith! Elijah was sure God would supply the rain, even after a three-year drought. This reminds me of my three year drought that I suffered through in my life. After three years of infertility and the loss of a baby, I was shaken to the core. Sadly, if you had asked me, “Are you going to be a mother?” Unlike Elijah I could not predict the rain in my life. My life was definitely in a drought and I saw no rain in sight. There were so many things out of my control, mostly the ability to create life. Three years of pain led me to acknowledge God’s sovereignty over life. The waiting left me dry and lonely, there was an absence of life/rain in my life. In verse 42 of 1 Kings 18, Elijah climbed to the top of Mt. Carmel humbling seeking God. The Bible says he “bowed himself down on the earth” putting his face down on the ground. Elijah was acknowledging that God was the only one who could make it rain. In 2001, in a small southern Indiana church, I was broken, hopeless and dried up. If you had encountered me then, you would have seen the drought of my life on my face. I don’t remember the song or the sermon or even the particular date, but I will never forget the spiritual encounter and the rain God sent to me on that day. Sometimes in life you can be so broken that when God comes to you the surroundings make no difference. The song didn’t matter, the worship team didn’t matter, the lighting of the building didn’t matter. My soul was dry and dying. The one thing I most desperately wanted was to be a mother, and it appeared God had ignored my heart’s desire. Yes, I was angry. But instead of expressing my anger to God, I had been running away. In hindsight, I was actually denying myself the true rain, the water, the life giving spiritual nourishment I needed. At that point, my church attendance had become sporadic, and I am pretty sure I was only there because a friend had asked if I was coming. Soon after the church service started, and while the congregation was singing either a hymn or a worship song, I found myself walking to the front of the church. There were a few steps leading up from the floor to the stage of the church building, and it was often referred to as the altar. I had never been to an altar before, in any church. During the three years of heartbreak for me, not once, not even in private, had I knelt in prayer. There had been times I had asked others to pray, called my mom and cried, or vented to a friend, but strangely, I did not personally seek God. I was disappointed in God. He knew what I wanted, but it seemed he was denying me. I felt my knees buckle when I reached the front of the church and I crumpled myself down on the carpeted steps. Strangely, I was not worried about the 150 people who were now looking at me. The sorrow of three years came rolling out of me, and it was raining. The rain this time came in the form of my tears and pain, which you would think would not produce life, but they did. It was such a release for me to finally be honest before God, to be broken. God was with me, and with every tear I cried he came closer. For the first time in a long time, I knew God had not left me alone. I left church that day feeling comforted, not because I was suddenly pregnant, not because God said, “You will have a baby”, and not because any of my problems were solved, but because I knew God had heard me. In verse 44 of 1 Kings 18, it says Elijah’s servant spots a little cloud, like a man’s hand. Soon it was raining, and in one of my favorite parts of the story, Elijah, who was an old man at the time, “gathers up his garments” and beats the King’s chariot to the entrance of Jezreel. In a matter of weeks after my Baptist church altar encounter I held my oldest son for the first time. The adoption agency told my husband and me that it was the fastest placement that they had ever done. The entire time I suffered through my drought, God knew when the rain would come for me. He knew the plan, because he formed the plan. And even though I spent most of the time doubting the plan, he was gracious and loving to me. There was purpose in my pain and a plan for my life.
I cry out to God Most High, to God who fulfills his purpose for me.
His plans were greater than mine. Now I am a mother of three boys, and my cup runs over. His purpose was for me to be a mom to my wonderful sons. Honestly, without the drought, I would not have chosen to be an adoptive mother. Sadly, I would have missed out on so many of the blessings that adoption had brought me. While the drought looked like it was killing me, it was actually making my roots reach deeper. My deeper roots showed up in my joy despite the pain, peace even in the unknown, and finally in his gracious gift of my three sons. It was painful to go through the three years of drought. However, God’s timing was perfect and so was his plan. During the drought, he was crafting my special family. Through my three adoptions I have learned so much about God’s love for me and his plans. I still have days when I get stuck looking at the drought but my faith tells me, God will send the rain.
The LORD Sends Rain 1 Kings 18:41-46
41)And Elijah said to Ahab, “Go up, eat and drink, for there is a sound of the rushing of rain.” 42)So Ahab went up to eat and to drink. And Elijah went up to the top of Mount Carmel. And he bowed himself down on the earth and put his face between his knees. 43)And he said to his servant, “Go up now, look toward the sea.” And he went up and looked and said, “There is nothing.” And he said, “Go again,” seven times. 44)And at the seventh time he said, “Behold, a little cloud like a man’s hand is rising from the sea.” And he said, “Go up, say to Ahab, ‘Prepare your chariot and go down, lest the rain stop you.’” 45)And in a little while the heavens grew black with clouds and wind, and there was a great rain. And Ahab rode and went to Jezreel. 46)And the hand of the LORD was on Elijah, and he gathered up his garment and ran before Ahab to the entrance of Jezreel.
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Wordless Wednesday: Zinnias