I read the post with a lump in my throat. This writer shared about how amazing her sons have turned out. Oh, not that there weren’t struggles, and pulling out of hair, but as they grew from boys into men, they have become good men.
And images of our own sons came to mind.
It’s so easy to see the character traits that seem like weaknesses rather than the potential that is still taking root in their hearts.
Intro: I had no idea, on the day I met her, the gifts God had in store for me. My friend and award-winning author, Lisa Jordan, has been a confidante, an encourager, and a speaker of deep wisdom. She’s helped me on my writing journey, been a support and a listening ear when my kids have me pulling my hair out, and most of all, she points me to Jesus when I begin to think everything is up to me. I’m thrilled to begin sharing her quiet wisdom and encouraging words with you all on the last Tuesday of each month. Please help me welcome Lisa Jordan.
At the end of March, I spent two days with friends, who lived ninety minutes from my house. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a social visit but one of necessity—at least to this aching mama.
Earlier that day, I had taken my youngest son to the walk-in clinic in our community and then the emergency department at our local hospital. His jaw and neck were swelling quickly despite the prescribed antibiotics his doctor had given him the day before. After waiting nearly three hours, the ER physicians decided my son needed to be taken by ambulance to a hospital in a larger city to treat the infection more aggressively so it wouldn’t affect his breathing by closing off his windpipe.
Thanksgiving is a couple of days behind me, and I determine I’m going to make this year the Christmas season where I’m truly resting in the midst of the busy-ness of it all. I decide to cut back on activities and things I feel obligated to complete.
Each year I promise myself I’m going to come upon Christmas Day rested and worshiping my Savior, grateful for all that the Day represents.
And almost every year Christmas Day arrives and I am weary. I forget to give myself grace.
Have you ever lain in bed at night and found yourself praying for your children or another loved one in your life?
After a day filled with teen ‘tude from one boy and some extreme emotion that morphed into choices that left the other boy regretting how he’d handled himself, I felt unsettled. Part of me questioned when we would move beyond this stage of angst and grappling to our sons being at peace with who they are.
I suspect many of us wrestle with being at peace with who we are. Even in my fifties, I have days . . . But God.
Oh sure, I tell people to pray for their children, their husbands, and the heart needs they each have. I tell them God hears, and He answers each and every prayer. Sometimes, it’s with a “Yes.” Other times, the answer is, “No.” And then there’s the “Not yet,” answer.
I believe these truths with all my heart. I know that I know I am a daughter of the King . . . that He loves me completely, passionately, and perfectly. I know we must choose faith.
In May, I participated in a twelve-day Instagram writer’s challenge. It was both stretching and fun. We were given a different word each day and created posts about those words relating to our writer’s life.
As I contemplated each word, I discovered correlations between writing life and real-life. I’ve expanded on the original posts, and I’d love to read your thoughts on these words as they relate to your life as well.
Stories of the heart are built by adding word count. I belong to an online group for writing 1000 words in one hour. Not everyone does this, and not everyone who’s part of the group is adding word count to their manuscripts. But it’s a great community where we hold each other accountable to work on our projects. For any book to come to a place of completion, words must be added in the creating of said book.
As important as it is to build word count in a book, it’s even more essential that we make our real-life words count.
I was having “a day” with one of the boys. The other one was at baseball tryouts at his school.
You never know when something unexpected will alter your perspective.
The call interrupted me as I spoke with a pharmacist. I didn’t recognize the number, so I ignored it. After my conversation with the pharmacist ended, I listened to the message the other caller had left.
And my stomach tightened.
“Mom, I got hit in the face with a baseball…teeth came down. Possible broken jaw.”
A couple of weeks ago, Mary Geisen shared some thoughts about legacy in relation to a post about creating I wrote. Her words have begun to ruminate in me. This offering is my initial attempt to really consider what it means to leave a legacy.
Have you ever thought about different aspects of legacy?
My father, whom I am beyond blessed to call Dad, was left a legacy of brokenness. His father was an alcoholic who abandoned his family when my father was three. His mother worked hard and traveled for nursing jobs to keep my father and his sister fed and clothed. But she loved him well and instilled in him a character that nurtured a loyal, hardworking man, even into his eighties. I wonder, though, if there are still scars that never completely healed because of his father’s choices.