I grew up watching my mom love the people we often don’t see, or when we do see them, we turn our eyes away, afraid that our eyes will meet and we’ll feel something deeper than we want to feel. My mom always sees them, though. She’s not afraid to look into their eyes. And she passed this beautiful gift onto my daughters. They have learned to see the ones that go unnoticed and they often dream of the ways to love these unseen people. 

That is how I found myself loading up my mini van with black string backpacks while my daughters climbed into the back seat. These backpacks only came to be because of my daughters’ obedience when the Lord told them to do something. They’ve never read their Bibles all the way through, they have only been following Jesus for a year or two, and yet all three of them are living out Jesus’ call to love others and the Lord’s desire for his people to “learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression; bring justice to the fatherless, plead the widow’s cause”. ​

Dear Liberty Christian Fellowship, 
​
I’ve called LCF home for three years now, but it came with some reluctance, a hesitancy that you could love me the way I’ve been loved before. My attachment to my previous church is welded because of the fire they've walked through with me. I would often say that the only way I could ever call another church home is if God made it abundantly clear that I was called somewhere else. God did just that when I married one of your pastors three years ago. And so my place of worship shifted and I found myself gathering with a new group of believers on Sunday morning. And while the focus of our worship is the same, the community looks different and the coffee is a little better. ​

The little white chapel peaked out between the autumn leaves, the doors gaping wide open, beckoning people to gather inside so we could partake in the sacred event we’ve come for. 

I breathed in and smiled, recognizing the peace that held me, the steadiness of my hands, the excitement that stirred in me for the evening’s events. 

Just moments before, it dawned on me that I’ve been to this chapel exactly three times now, each time in the autumn, but each time under completely different circumstances in my life. ​

“I’m here!” I typed out, then apprehensively made my way to the door, always nervous that somehow a mistake was made and a complete stranger was watching me from their window wondering why I was cautiously walking towards their home. 

The door opened before I reached it and on the other side was a smiling woman, probably in her fifties, with shoulder-length brown hair, and a broad smile. “Come on in!” she said. I looked back at the van with my husband and children in it, before taking one step inside. Her husband brought me the item I was purchasing. I paid them and told them thank you. He apologized profusely for taking over an hour to respond to my message this morning and I told him it was no big deal. I thanked them while turning to leave and started down their porch steps. 

And then I stopped. ​

If you’ve never seen Anne of Green Gables or read the books, it is about an orphaned girl being adopted by an elderly brother and sister who live with one another but have been single their entire lives. They request an orphan boy to help Matthew out around the house, but accidentally receive an 11 year old girl. Matthew is immediately smitten with this melodramatic girl who never stops talking and dreams of being a brunette instead of a redhead. But, sensible and stern Marilla is quite upset that they didn’t get the boy they were hoping for. The book goes on, but I’m not going to give more away because it really is most appreciated when read. ​

​Five years ago, April 17, 2019, was the last day I hugged my little sister. I sat in a rocking chair at my parents' house and she bent down to hug me then she ran out the door. I began writing this book over a year later. I didn't know if it would be published, I didn't really know what to do with it, I just knew I needed to write because when I write, I heal. So, I let the words pour out and I wrote. Most of what I've written has floated in the cloud of the internet for the last three years.

It turns out, most people don't like to read about grief, and many people who do grieve find great comfort in writing about it. The only way this book could ever be published, I was told by a publisher, is if I made it some sort of guide for dealing with grief. How do you turn something that isn't linear into a guide? How do I take my experience of loss and suffering and tell people how to apply it to their own grief? I can't. I have learned that we should never tell a grieving person "I know how you feel"...because we don't. Every loss, every relationship, every person is unique and different and we genuinely have no idea how people feel. But I want people who grieve to know they're not alone. That's why I'm sharing the completed chapters of this book with you. Because we'll all be grievers one day, if we haven't been already, and we need to know that we're not alone.

My Gamma found out she was pregnant with my uncle when she was 15, married my Papa when she was 16, and they went on to have six more children together, and they were married for 59 years.

We adopted my sister when I was eight. Her birth mama carried her in her womb for nine months before giving my family the most incredible gift.

My cousin had her baby when we were seniors in high school. I snuggled her new baby and kissed her precious cheeks after my cousin rushed through her senior year of high school to graduate a semester early. 

I knew the value of human life. I knew the miracles that are possible when a baby, even a baby who comes as an unexpected surprise, is given the chance at life. 

And yet, my teenage heart twisted and turned as I stared at that small white stick and wondered what many millions of women have wondered over the years… “What if I'm pregnant?” ​

I didn't really want to share that I lost a baby. I felt a shame I hadn't experienced before. I was very early in my pregnancy, "Does it even count?" the question burned deep in my heart, although I would've never voiced it out loud. I'm usually pretty transparent with the grief I walk through, and I know that I've been comforted by many others sharing their stories of loss, so I wanted to do the same. What I didn't expect were the many people encouraging me and asking how I'm doing, the women who opened up about their own stories or loss, or the box I found on my doorstep when I came home today. ​

I'm sitting in my favorite little coffee shop surrounded by some of my favorite things: a wall lined with book cases in front of me, a large plant off to the side of the cases, and my coffee right next to me. 

As I'm typing, my mom shows up with my littlest daughter - its my mom's favorite coffee shop, too. I pause typing for just a few minutes to set my computer aside and soak in a few snuggles from my favorite four year old. Her whispy, white-blonde hair tickles my face as she nuzzles into my neck and gives me the smallest fairy kiss while whispering, "I love you, mommy". 

These are the good days. ​

I pulled our dinner out of the oven and plated my girls' food before setting it down on the table. "Alexa, play classical music," I said as I lit the candle at our table then called the girls to dinner. We practiced our best table manners, even speaking in our fanciest voices, while I reminded them to put their napkins on their laps. We prayed. We giggled. We ate. Occasionally one of my girls would slip from her seat to twirl in the middle of the room before I reminded her to come back and finish eating. ​

First published in Phylicia Masonheimer's "Good Church Stories"

​One of my jobs is getting to interview different members of my church and hear how the Gospel has transformed their lives then write it out to share with the world. The Lord whispered to me that I would get to share these Simple Jesus Stories in a dream. I wasn’t sure how that would come to be, but when I interviewed for a different job, God actually provided me with this one. I cry every time I sit down to write the stories I’ve heard.

I often share some of the stories I’ve heard with others and sometimes I go back and reread their stories just because they’re so powerful. One story I’ve gone back to read time and time again is Dave’s. ​

If I can close my eyes and imagine I'm right there in the midst of what actually took place 2,000 years ago... if I can imagine the voices and paint the scene in my mind, it just leaps to life for me. I found myself doing that with the story when Bartimaeus met Jesus. I was speaking and sharing tidbits of my own story for a student ministry and in between each portion I shared, the story of Bartimaeus was read three times in three different translations of the Bible. Each time I found myself in awe as I thought, "He was so desperate for Jesus." ​