For Those Who Are Alive.

I see you mourn for those
Who are dead,
And yet I wonder:
How is it you do not see those
Who are still alive?

How do you not make a bed
Share a basement
Offer a lake cottage
Or pay for a flight?

You mourn those who are dead
And yet give no time,
No schedule
No resources,
To those who are still alive.

You mourn those who are dead
You would give anything, you say,
To have them back.

Yet you give 
Nothing
To those who are alive.

Alive and willing, able,
Trying.
To have relationship,
To be enjoyed, wanted, and loved.

And yet you choose not to make space
In your home, heart, resources, or life
For those who are still alive.

So you mourn those who are dead
But do not live
Loving those who are
Alive.

Letter of Appeal: Intracept Procedure.

 My letter to Appeal BCBS for my Intercept Procedure.  I post it here, because it chronologs my life the past two years, with a quick scan of emotions and family details.  I want to remember it, even though I want to forget it.  I want my kids to know my heart for them, and my desire for living fully with them.  I want to remember the kindness of my husband, his persistence for me, his courage when I had none, and his stamina when I was weak.  Still praying for this procedure, and that it helps, but posting this as part of the legacy of these two years, when the highs were very high and the lows were very low.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  

June 4, 2022

To Whom It May Concern:

I sit to write to you on a special cushion, that I have been using for almost two years. While writing this, I will rotate to my knees, stand at the counter, try a different chair, lay in bed, and then rotate back to the cushion again.  All for one letter.  I’m already in pain after waking up in the night in pain and its only six am.  I went to bed with Gabapentin, trying to relax the nerves but need to be moving today to be the mom I need to be for my two children.  The weight of our hope for a full future depends on you, the reviewer of my case.

I am a dedicated wife, loving mom, and friend to many.  Ask anyone in my circles and they will tell you the hinderance that my back pain is to everyone around me.  I have canceled plans, winced through dinners in pain, propped myself up with cushions in church, and avoided most social events because of my pain.  I have missed out on children’s birthday parties, trips to the zoo, and dinner dates.

The life I was living two years ago, and the life I’m living now are so different because of my back pain.  I am not the woman I want to be, and the emotional toll of that on myself and my whole family is massive.  The mental health aspect of my pain is a constant fight for joy and against depression, fight for hope and against despair, and fight for pretending I’m okay when I am not.  My husband sees some of this and see the tears and hears the hurt in my voice.  He knows the quiet sobs from my room when I look at photos of who I was before the back pain, while lying in bed feeling crippled by flaming nerves now instead.  My children have cried countless times at the dinner table, the top of the stairs, and next to me on my bed because they see my pain and feel so helpless to help.

And yet, you as the reviewer of my case, have the ability to help.  You have the ability to give my children back their Mama in my full, capable self.  You have the ability to shift my time with husband from us being always contingent on my back pain, to being able to out to dinner and movies or shows or activities, and infuse our marriage again with joy and life.  You have the ability to broaden my social life again and change my relationships with my extended family and friends and church.

Last June (2021) we were supposed to see my family in Michigan, a 12-hour drive.  I was in tears the week before because of excruciating spinal pain.  We had to cancel that trip.  Which means, we had already had to cancel the Christmas trip (2020), and now another trip, and then because of my inability to be in the car for any distance, we did not make plans for this past year’s holidays or this coming year.  That means, because of my pain, my whole family has not seen their family in two years!  That is keeping children from their grandpa, kids from their cousins, and me from friends and family that were once home.  The physical toll of this is so painful, but I am sure you can understand the emotional and mental toll of this, all falling on me, because of my spine.

And yet, you have the ability to change this: reuniting family, by approving my Intracept Procedure.

If this isn’t enough evidence, then let me continue.

My five-year-old son played basketball and T-ball this year.  The cutest thing ever.  And yet my memories of these seasons instead are haunted by my pain.  I tried walking around the field, laying on blankets wet from rain, standing on one leg, taking piles of medicines, leaning on my walker, and yet found myself laying in back of the truck from pain, or not being able to attend at all for weeks at a time because of the excruciating nerve sensations.  The pain stole my memories with my son and my family.

Another memory that should be sweet but instead leaves me typing in tears was from last summer (2021).  We had rented a cottage close by and thought it would be relaxing and beautiful for our family.  Instead, I remember laying on the bed, crying and tears running down my faces, while my husband and our children were fishing off the dock.  Not only was I missing out on this cherished time, but I was in such pain that I couldn’t even walk down the grass to get to them.  So much for our bonding, there I lay writhing alone.

Things that are simple for most people are painful for me.  Or if they seem simple at the time, it agitates my nerves and the next three days I will have to cancel any plans and call my in-laws to do everything for me.  Here are a few examples – my son’s birthday was special celebration with just our family.  I got my on the floor to help him open presents, avoided the chair, and went from standing to the floor , rotating repeatedly… And yet, in sharing his joy by helping him open gifts, it triggered the nerves so much the next day I was clenching my teeth and rolling in bed in different positions, trying to relieve the intensity of the pain, simply from wanting to help my son have a wonderful birthday at home.

This same situation happened at Christmas, simply opening gifts as a family turns into an ordeal for me – where to sit, how long to try to stay in that position, how to cover my pain so my kids don’t see… You can’t even imagine how tainted my experiences are because of my nerves.

And yet, once again, I remind you that you have the ability to change that by approving the Intracept Procedure.

If all this seems dramatic, trust me, these are only a few examples.  I can highlight a whole bunch more.  We literally canceled our family’s Disney trip because I couldn’t stand in lines, or make the commute down there.  We tried to drive three hours to the beach instead, but I laid under my kids feel on 3 cushions and 2 pillows in order to get there, then found I can’t sit up comfortably next to them or build castles because I can’t bend over or be in one position more than a few minutes.

I was a teacher at my children’s school until this winter.  I have a Masters in Education, and I was working one-on-one with middle school students in a tutoring type setting, helping these children with reading, writing, organization, etc.  And yet, I had to resign from this position because I couldn’t sit long enough to get through a teaching session.  This not only hurt me, but it also spun the school into the problem of finding a new qualified teacher mid-year, and really interrupted those students and families who had grown to trust me with their children and education.  Heart-breaking.  Because of my spinal pain.

My son just had his Kindergarten graduation, and I was an embarrassment to myself.   I wanted to be there for him but it was so hard to not draw attention to my pain, while letting the students themselves shine.  So I stood, sat, crouched, stood on one leg, leaned on my husband, everything to get through it.  Parents around us were offering other chairs or positions to see if it could help.  This is horrible, and I wish it could have been different. There are other school functions like this that I have either missed out on altogether or winced to make it through and left early – Field Day, Kindergarten Fairy Tale Ball, Second Grade Easter Party, and the list could go on….  I wish the shadow of my pain wasn’t cast over this precious time with my son, my daughter, and my memory of these events.

These are the joys of life, but even the mundane is impossible.  The carrying and bending and twisting to do laundry leaves me incapacitated.  We had to hire a house cleaner because I can’t do any of that anymore.  My children’s school doesn’t have buses but sitting in carpool has me shifting and grimacing, not the way I want to greet my children, so my in-laws are often called upon to help with that.  Interrupting all our family’s lives.  People bring us meals because I can’t stand in the kitchen long enough to cook, or even simply making it out to the grocery store for days.  I struggle if I try to unload the dishwasher, carry groceries, or sweep the kitchen.  I have given up gardening all together, the weeds over grow what could be flowers.

I walk out of church weekly because I can’t be in the sitting position long enough to make it through a sermon. I leave lunch times with friends because I can’t bear it anymore.  And I haven’t sat for a whole cup of coffee in almost 2 years.  I’ve finished shopping at the grocery store, leaning over the cart for support in the check outline, and having my husband carry me, crying, out of the car back into our home as the pinching nerve sensation overtakes all my limbs.  Gestures of life that are necessary, important, and pertinent to the functioning of my family, leave me tense, weeping, and in despair, therefore physically upending my family, as well as emotionally and mentally.

I have not sat on the couch with my children to read them in book in 18 months!  I can’t sit to watch a family show, or a movie with my husband.  I can’t sit to read a book and must rotate sitting and standing and leaning awkwardly to get through meals.  This is ridiculous and honestly, embarrassing.

I’m 39 years old and I own a walker.  Two years ago I water skied.  All because of my spinal nerves.  I want to get back to who I was, not who this pain has crippled me to be.  And yet, you have the ability to give me my life back, my family back, my friends back.

If this seems extreme, let me tell you, it’s not. And my desire to fully invest and be part of my family is so strong that I have tried everything to get better and “fix” it.

I went to a chiropractor twice a week for six months straight.  Only a portion of this was covered by insurance.  Then I went to Charlotte Neurosurgery and Spine and had an MRI and PT through them, plus had injections in my back two different times.  When none of this worked, the doctor literally said: “You have a life of pain ahead of you.”

And yet, the Intracept Procedure is the hope against that.  You get to choose my life of pain, or life of hope.

I then went for seven months to a Soft Tissue Specialist, who does not take insurance, Mike Dannenberg at Performance Therapy.  I saw him twice a week as well as a Personal Trainer/Physical Therapist to work through my pain.  And yet still, the rollercoaster of the nerves persisted.

I take Cymbalta; I’ve tried a round of Amoxicillin for modic changes, done 800mg Ibuprofen with 1000mg Tylenol together, 3 times a day.  I’ve tried a million other meds from muscle relaxers to nerve blockers to intense pain management meds.  I’ve been incoherent to my children at times and forgotten things friends have said simply because I’m dosed on meds trying to survive.  And yet, none of them have helped.  I know where the alcohol is in my house and fear it becoming a crutch to use to relax the nerves, help me sleep, or calm down my whole tense system, all fighting the nerve pain.

We went so far as to buy a new mattress, and an entirely new car!  Not exaggerating.  It hurt so bad in my Explorer; it was the worst.  We literally tried new vehicles only based on back support and bought one with 8 different lumbar setting, simply to see if I can sit in the car long enough to pick up my children from carpool.  It helps a little but doesn’t fix it.  And its brand new, and yet I still can’t get through the carpool line most days.

I have tried swimming laps to strengthen the muscles, and water therapy.  I have done multiple rounds of physical therapy, with the most renown of physical therapist!  My last PT was Chris Doctor, who is so good that he has 40 years experiences and trained other PTs and spends half his time researching spinal therapy.  Yet, even he sent me back to the surgeon to get more help.

I’ve tried laying flat for days, tried walking miles, tried sitting more, sitting less.  Tried hiking, tried floating.  A new cushion style, a new chair position, new tennis shoes, and not wearing shoes.  Literally, I have tried everything.  Everything! 

Except the Intracept Procedure.

As you can tell from my words, reading my heart and my story, my spinal pain has hindered my pain and cast gloom on my future.  And I live in the current tension of waiting on you, the one who holds the ability to give me hope, or leave me squandered and homebound, writhing in pain and canceling another event or saying no to another book with my children.

This is who I am, and where I am in this journey.  I want the hope of sitting on the floor building Legos with my son, reading next to my daughter, and going on a date with my husband.  I need the hope of volunteering again in school, using my gifts in the community, and someday being able to pick up and hold my grandchildren.  

You hold the ability to ensure this hope, to bring back dead dreams, to shine a rainbow on my future. 

You hold the ability to approve this Intracept Procedure, dulling the excruciating spinal nerve pain that flows over into my grimacing face and spilling tears… or release me to be on the beach with my family, cuddle on the couch with my children, and be part of our extending family and friends again.

Please choose this hope for me.  Please choose this hope for my husband, my daughter, my son, my in-laws, our school, our extended family, and our friends.  Please choose hope.

Please approve the Intracept Procedure for me.

Sincerely with all my heart,

Christina Stone

 

Rush.

 He asked me "What's the rush?" 

And I couldn't help but spill over with answer:

"My mom died years ago, and my younger brother just died last spring.  I get one change, one shot with my kids.  That's the rush."

He didn't seem to understand.  Muttered something about God's promises for my kids through his obvious shock.

"I know that's more than you expected from a PT appointment.  Sorry."  

I could feel his awkwardness so I quickly laughed and switched subjects.

What's the rush?  To getting better?  To ending a year and a half of pain and canceled plans and forced smiles?  What's the rush to living life as fully as possible?

The rush is death.  

The rush is knowing life without a mom.

The rush is knowing children without a father.

The rush is wanting to do it well.

The rush is the dream of motherhood and marraige, always fragil and knowing it can be swiftly sifted away at any moment.

Because the rush is death; ending.  And knowing too well the pain of those living on earth on this side of the ending, the death.  Though heaven awaits the dead, earth stems out like a bumbling road for those left behind.

Saved My Life.

 We've been proclaiming a song in church the last few weeks.  Its an anthem, meant to be pulled from the shadows of the heart into the reverberations of the walls, the air, the soul.

And it grabs me in a unique way.

Thank you Jesus for the blood applied.

Thank you Jesus, it has washed me white.

Thank you Jesus, You have saved my life:

Brought me from the darkness into glorious light!

Each time these lines bellow from my soul, the richness of their words soften like molten chocolate, rich and thick.  A new license of my soul for honesty, truth, and whole.

When I sing these songs, I sing not of my first salvation, of original sinful life cleansed by his sacrifice.  But of the salvation that brings me forward each day.  Of the thankfulness for the continuing saving of my life, for the Glorious Light.

This song comes to our church during the Season of Lent.  Where we dwell on the cross, of the one moment of atonement for all sins behind and forward to come.  It's a beautiful chorus, with whispers and wails throughout the sanctuary, remembering that Day.  Good Friday.  Resurrections Sunday.

But for me, it comes at a time of reflection.  Of thinking of the deaths of April.  Of last April.  Of watching the truly sacred unravel at and around my brother's bedside.  Watching him go from life to death, to death to life, eternal again. Of watching "the Church" of family, of children, of cousins, of aunts, walk through that front door.  Each with their own sadness, mingling with tears.  Each with years of that trampled over their souls before.  And yet, each clinging to hope.

The difference at Jesus, of faith in a resurrected Christ, is a God who lives in death, and eternity is secure in heaven.

So to each person who gathered around Blake's bedside ~ my grandma holding back tears, asking why its him at 34 rather than her at 90... Mike shaking his hand, eye contact so personal and real, speaking no words but the soul that last day, the Friday... Melissa snuggled close in a quiet afternoon nap, living the hell and moment of heaven bedside and spooned between... ~  For each person, there was a hopeful hurt.  A sadness of earth, of death, of finality.  Yet each came because death is not the final grave.

Because Jesus brought each out of the darkness before, he would during those days/weeks, and he will for forever.  Because of HOPE.  Because the cross only a slice of the story, the death of Blake was punch in the gut, but the God of the sunset has, will, and forevermore, burst through to prevail.

I sing this song in church, thinking of the days and weeks and months following the death of my mom, and really the distancing of my dad and the jarring jousting of his choices.

And I think of the depths of the weeping of those first months and year.  The screams, the wails, the anger, the tearing.  The bitterness of salty tears over my savaged soul, sweeping downward with the desperate loss of my mentor, my best friend, my mom.

And I sing this song now: 

Thank you Jesus, you have saved my life

For those moments.  For those days and years where Jesus literally saved my life in the minutes of praying my unfiltered heart, the car drives where alone was all I knew, the court steps was where I was left, the times I just needed her wisdom on the phone, and the airport rides I needed on the other end.

And I think of the Jesus who saved my life there.  Through the hope of his plan, through the clinging to his promises, to the NEED for HIM to be FAITHFUL.  

I think of Jesus for saving my life through the Church he gave me.  People who did not forget, who did not forsake.  For His people, like Linda Roersma, Sandy Lawson, Kelsey Holloway, Sheree Hasty, Kate Vasey, Heidi Kuperus, and the Church he gave me to live with (Angela, Jenelle, & Marilyn).  Those who accepted my tears, sat with my longings, and wrestled with me in the angst and anger and desertion.  They are those who pushed forward for me with hope, steeled for for purpose and trust in God's plan, and sang welcome over my tired and beaten soul.

They are who God put in to help save my life those days and years.  Who he gave me to keep leaning forward, to keep learning to forgive, to unravel and dissect and create boundaries, and to Trust in Him.

For in those years, Jesus also saved my soul.

From despair.  From wallow.  From stuck.  From death.

He saved my soul, for Him, with his promise of hope.

So yes, thank you Jesus for the blood of that one day, that Friday moment and that Sunday sunrise morning.

But oh, dear Jesus, thank you moreso still, for saving my soul.  From death, despair, and dwelling in bitterness or emptiness.  For you save my soul from me, from the dark void, and from death in hell itself.

Thank you Jesus, you have saved my soul:
Brought my out of darkness in to glorious light!

Hope.

Rain Shelter.

 Being a camp counselor was probably my favorite job ever.  I would give everything that I had six days a week - singing with motions, speaking Truth at the campfire, lifeguarding by the blob.  It was full-on joy, ministry, adventure, and emotion.  All for the glory of God.

But one specific night remains deep in my heart, swallowed by my soul like a sip of rose tea, sweet and warm, cozy and life-giving all at the same time.

It was a Thursday night, the night of one-on-ones.  When the kids could ask or share anything with their counselor , in private and alone, on a blanket outside the cabin.  Just the camper and counselor, a special time to unveil worries, voice home struggles, work out theology, and share in the Gospel.  And pray.

The moon always hung low, darkness soothed the day away, crickets chirped in the crisp woods behind, the crackle of the fire turning to ashes popcorned in the sky.  Campers cozied in the nightgowns and old T-shirts, snuggled in sleeping bags and strew across sixteen bunks of beds.  One at a time, we'd whisper names and call them out to the blanket outside, their personal emporium with wise counselor and a safe space.

This particular night, clouds shadowed the sky, and rain rippled near by.  

I sat cross-legged, nestled under the starry night sky, sharing stories and listening to teenage sagas, praying for wisdom and strength of soul.

The pitter patter of rain drew closure, as I drew near to listen.  I started to pray. For God's sacred covering, for His shelter.  For his protection.  This blanket, this time, this one-on-one was sacred space in the week of a camper.

 Rain turned from sprinkles to droplets, from quiet mist to gentle thunder.  We watched the night sky, I willed it to stop raining while simultaneously fidgeting for a back-up plan. The camper kept talking.

Rain drizzled and leaked from the sky, quiet thunder rumbled alongside. The glow of cabin lights were our only flicker in the sedated storm.

The camper kept chatting, conversation and cares of the heart spilled from her lips.

I listened in, her heart spread wide.

Then I looked around.

The blanket was dry.

I was dry.

Anne (my counselor-in training) was dry.

The camper was dry. 

Rain dotted every leaf around us, prickled every cabin roof, and sifted in the sand on the dirt.

But not in the circle of our blanket.

A heavenly umbrella, God's presence. drew a circle around us, protecting us from the rain.

Wet and rainy all around us, but dry on our blanket, only my camper and I.

I'll never forget this story, this night.  Because God did the impossible, for the remembrance to me of his Glory.  That he could, that he can, stop the rain from the cloud in the sky.  And, that he Did.  For me, just this camper and I.

When Strivings Cease.

 I have been home now, basically on bedrest, for 5 1/2 weeks.  And the Lord has been good to my soul.  I lay here without movement, none at all or I am excruciating pain from the herniated disc.  But my bedroom has become my solace, a quiet respite when usually I rush and worry and run.  

Yet he prepared me.  May I remember that he prepared me.  

This fall, Catherine Nations regarded our Growing Together group to read "When Strivings Cease" by Ruth Chou Simons.  Frankly the book wasn't great.  But it was used!  God prepared me for a time like this when truly in all ways, my striving has ceased.  

The premise of this book comes from Psalm 46:10.  

"Cease Striving and know that I am God."

or, as I learned as a child in the NIV84 "Be Still and Know that I Am God."

I think the literary emphasis is changed when I read the two verses, and the meaning of them impacts me so differently in these translations.  Perhaps because one I have memorized for years, have on mugs, and championed and different times.  But for me - the command to be still simply can cause anxiety these last few years of parenting, so it hasn't reverberated in the same ways.

However, "Cease Striving" hits me like a fork in the middle of head.  Light a knight losing a fencing battle.  Cease Striving!  When now that lets me drop it all, all my efforts, work, frantic fears and poof, let it fall at the floor.

Reading this book in the fall, I mostly skimmed what seemed obvious, truths I had already learned.  But I gifted it to my sister and thought even the quotes were scrolled pretty.

However, I had no idea what was coming.

What he prepared me for:

Cease Striving.

Here I lay, I do not move for carpool, groceries, volunteering, or meal prep.  I can't.  None.

My striving has ceased.

And oh, how it is good for my soul.

The pressure, because I literally can't, relaxes in my chest, and I dwell in it.

Trish calls it a Forced Sabbatical.

And I agree.  And I call it good.  

A few weeks of permanent rest, when strivings cease.

It has been a cocoon for my soul.  And He prepared me.  So I rest.

Courage, Mama, Courage.

We have an often repeated line in our home: "Courage, Mama, Courage!"  

Because sometime, you just need someone to encourage you in the fight, to lift up your arms, to tell you to keep going, to believe you can do it.

Now in our home, this line is used for Costco runs, for making dinner, for getting out the vacuum.  The seemingly little nuisances that plague the moment and overwhelm the mind.  But in truth, the line is also a trademark I want to give my kids.

They think they are enabling me with strength, which they are, but I am also gifting them with words and character influence for life.  In chanting "Courage, Mama, Courage" the usher me to keep trying, to lift up my chin, to do the hard things.  Their little voices chant this line and I take a deep breath and get out of the car or sit straighter to sign up for a new endeavor to will myself to meet a new friend, once again.  But in this, they see my fumbling and they breathe life and strength into my mundane or mountainous.  They learn the ways of living, and the inner conversation to motivate 

I want them to hear "Courage, Camilla, Courage!" when a school assignment feels big, when waving at a friend across a parking lot feels uncomfortable, when applying for college.  I want them to hear "Courage, Judah, Courage!" when walking into Preschool feels insurmountable, when trying out for soccer feels insecure, when asking a girl on a date feels massive.

I want them to know its okay to need courage.  It's okay to feel insecure or weak or overwhelmed.  But then have language and examples on how to live in that and walk through it.  

** Never Finished, wrote August 5, 2020.

Grace Upon Grace: Goldfish for a Year.

_ _ _ _ _ 

Original post started in July 2018

My neighbor and I were standing at the counter, both shaking our heads, half complaining, half encouraging, about the craziness of this season of life and the pressures with it.  Its shocking to me how many pressures I feel, how quickly and often I feel the weight and intensity of comparison, and how much of my day is influenced by discouragement or despair.  Satan has grabbed every stronghold possible, and tugged me down and down, and pummeled me on the ground over and over again.

I try to stand up, laugh it off, and shake my head.  But then he comes at me from another angle and I'm struck and saddened and fallen.  Not on my knees, not in prayer as I should, but in despondency and defeat.

I was rattling over all this to a friend, about a million of frustration with my kids and my inability to make them happy, to get them fed and slept.  To pretty much do anything.  And there screamed Judah, wanting more goldfish, the only thing he'd eat for the last few hours.

That's when she quipped the grandest truth of the day:  "It's not like when you get to heaven, God's going to care if your kid ate goldfish for a year.  He's not going to ask you that."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So this slogan, from this passing conversation years ago, has become my filter, my mantra for years.  When things feel big, when decisions feel weighty, when I am out of grace, I remember this grace: Goldfish for a year.  God's grace is bigger than it all.  The filter relaxes my angst, releases my self-righteousness, and softens the comparison.  In the end, God isn't concerned about all these other things, nor will he judges us about all the other choices, or how we lived them.  He wants our hearts.  Solely set on him, loving him.  That's all that matters in the end, at the pearly gates.  Not if we ate: goldfish for a year.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Ranted below on November 2018)

*** No time to edit, rewrite, etc....  Just starting to put it out there...  ***
** Probably going to offend just in the reading... 
because we all live in the offense and defense...
But read and clarify, down to the importance - the end"

Motherhood has become one of the most divisive roles of my life.    It's shocking, hurtful, interesting, and surprising how incredibly much it slices and splices, yet yearns for grace and empathy.  

Motherhood is a constant sizing up of what one says, how one does it, and added (unsolicited) snips towards how it should be... better, best.  Even if tempered, with effort is to filter, it's still so incredibly apparent sensitive, how we raise kids or love our children or live in our homes, that I duck back in my shell, lock my door, cut out friends, and fear most conversations about children or motherhood or family.

The divisive lines fall in every conversation.  Quit frankly, on her side and mine.  Our stones in hand, though we pretend their down.  Defensive, offensive, quiet and outspoken.  We stand behind our battle lines, tuck back inside our home.  Queen of our castles, my mother-in-law would say.  Feeling threatened by others, and proving we know the best way.  For ours and yours and mines and hers.

The topics are intense, and vary along every single line.  

She breast-fed for three years, you bottled. She's serving organic while you're stuffing Oreo. She cuts peppers, you open a lunchable.  Every mother's margin in different, her children's demeanors are different.  Every mothers own home growing up was different, so her knowledge or training or accessibility to help or wisdom or food is different.

((As my mother in-law-says: fed.  Go for fed.  And as I say: keep them alive.  Sometimes that's all you can do: keep them alive.)). [Insert your judging here.]

Then there's books and school.  Homeschooling, public, private, or tutors...  Pretty spaces, new desks, or piles of papers and scattered pens.  Experiential learning or reading books, books, and more books...  ((To clarify: Jesus' mother had no books, read no books, could not read books!  And Jesus was God-man, so this was perfectly okay!))

That child likes the inside, this child lives outdoors.  That child dresses in Batman, this one lives in pink twirls.  That mom does crafts, play dough, and games in the home.  That mom does adventures and aquariums and zoos.  That child feels loved, and that one does too.

When we ALL get to heaven, Jesus will not ask us if we homeschooled or private schooled or Christian schooled or public schooled.  He won't ask if we breastfed or bottle fed, or lived schedules or spanked.  At heaven's gates it won't matter if its Whole Foods or sweet tea or candy or McDonalds.  He won't measure your heart on family programs or adventures or traditions or holidays.  He'll never ask about diapers styles, dance programs, or holes in the knees.

When we ALL get to heaven, what Jesus will do is see faces, hearts, eyes, and years.  His grace, his blood, covers all those choices, all those divisions, and blots them all away.   

He will ask instead if you love Him.  His Grace.  

Not if your kid ate goldfish for a year.

Grace Upon Grace.

Adorn the Dark.

Adorning the Dark

There once was a girl who used to create.

She’d write stories

And letters

And songs

And create.

Beauty

And Flow;

With Thoughts 

And Purpose.

Unearth her emotions,

Her captive thoughts.

Her strength

Released in form,

Of Words

Of Lines

Of Life.

She’d dance 

In the creating.

Her finished work

Glanced over

Reviewed and reprised;

Cheerleaded.

By Teachers,

By Mom.

She dreamed of

Creating:

Creating Good

And Truth.

Story,

Stirring Narrative.

Words

Worth their Truth.

Then that girl became woman.

Then another’s words 

caused hesitancy,

Fear,

Pause.

Stripped her of uniqueness:

Of value to say.

...Just another haphazard word

Tossed on a blog,

Or another book

Of boastful phrases

On the store 

Shelf...

Dusty.

Not worth their words.

Not worth her.

So she stopped:

Creating.

She stopped: 

Reflecting.

She hid,  

Swarmed over,

In fear of being “just another”

Now squandered

By others: 

Disbelief.

Without cheerleader,

One to 

Believe in 

The unique.

She shrunk

She’d stopped:

Creating.

Reflecting.

Stopped being:

Unique.

Needing one

To holding up the hands

In the fight:

To Create.

Then she sat with a friend

At brunch

At a table

Who asked

How she,

Now woman,

Became A Writer.

Remarked about her writing.

Sparkle in her eye,

Belief spoke forth,

Of the woman she once knew~

How she knew 

Words

Sentences

Story

Belief:

Writing.

And was good!

And they sat there 

Talked

Stirred:

Reminded

And the Spirit moved.

{The years too,

Dissuaded:

Squandered by children

Sacrificed at home,

Lost in the battle,

And loosing her gift.}

{The years,

They ate at her spirit,

They darkened her soul,

The cynisized her heart,

They corroded

Her gift.}

Then:

The battle to write

Began again.

Because of that friend

Because of the Spirit

And so she sits

Tentative

Not expectant

But willing.

To show up

To create

To reflect her Creator

To write.