I read an article some years ago about the physical connection between mothers and their babies. Beyond the obvious, it presented the details of a scientific study that proved a lasting bond at the cellular level. It’s called fetal microchimerism, which is a science-y way of saying you gave part of yourself to me before you were born. Cells that even now, decades later, help make up my skin, my blood, and the marrow in my bones.
Those little cells mean more to me today than any other time of year. Maybe because this is the day when I remember the entirety of your life happened inside me. You were alive, heartbeat strong, until my body couldn’t hold you anymore. Then you were gone.
Except for those persistent little cells.
When I think about this, I realize how much has changed in the last twenty-three years. How much I’ve changed. Back then I pushed to keep you present, your name spoken aloud regularly. Worried if people forgot, you might somehow disappear from having ever existed. Like I would be forced to let you go in a deeper way than I already had.
These days, I feel a strange comfort in the quiet knowledge that part of me isn’t me at all, it’s you. I carry those little cells with me like a wonderful secret, one that I choose to share from time to time. But mostly I just hold it close, thankful it’s mine. That you’re mine.
That’s enough for me today, on your twenty-third birthday. Your little cells, and your brother’s weekly visits are just about the only things that make sense to me. I don’t have to look far to find chaos and confusion in this world, but the part of you still alive in me helps quiet the noise.
Happy Birthday Elena, my shining light. You are, and always will be, my favorite girl.
Dedicated to my son on this, the fifth anniversary of his water baptism
“I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord.” ~ Psalm 118:17
I made a declaration, one that I believed I would stand firmly by for the rest of my days. In fact, at the time there was little I believed with as much assurance. My daughter had died without the opportunity to fully live. Afterward, I came home to a house and a life where she would never exist in a tangible way. She had been with me, within me, briefly in my arms and then she was gone. The pain was too great to imagine a day when it would be absent, as she was. So I didn’t just say it under my breath or in a hushed voice. I declared it boldly – I was never going to have another child. My heart couldn’t bear the risk of getting that close, then breaking all over again. It was a declaration born of fear.
Thankfully, fear did not guide the rest of my story. However, it was still there two years later on the day that I came home from work and collapsed in a heap of tears, admitting to myself that I did want to have another baby. Fear raised its ugly head through all the consultations and questions, the three months on bed rest, the wheelchairs and shower seats, and the routine visit to my obstetrician that suddenly became emergency surgery. And it was still there when my son boldly made his entrance into the world two months early, as I willed him to cry just so that I could hear his voice and know he was real. Fear was often present, but this time I refused to declare it.
It’s one thing to say something, quite another to declare. Declaration is clear, emphatic, and explicit. When you declare you know, and you want others to know as well. Which is why thoughts about this day overwhelm me in the very best way. Five years ago tonight, on our favorite stretch of hometown beach, the child I was convinced I would never have was baptized surrounded by those who have loved, prayed for, and discipled him. He died to self and rose with Christ to declare Him the head of his life. It was a declaration born of faith, not fear.
As I reflect on the beautiful sunset that painted the sky and the cheers filling the salty air that evening, I thank God for humbling my own declaration to make way for Isaiah’s to shine.
I don’t ever picture the things I used to. Thoughts of baby toes and toddler giggles are long gone from my mind.
But how I wish I had you here for tacos and laughter and sunsets and exploring new places. For stories that make me look at things differently. For book borrowing and long drives with no destination. For us to witness in each other the women we are becoming.
Happy 20th birthday to my favorite girl. You made me a mom for the first time. Missing you teaches me how to be a better mom to your brother now.
I love you Elena Rebekah. You’re my shining light forever.
Growing up, I knew these two people only as parents. I watched them work, struggle, argue, forgive, build, provide, and love in the ways that I assumed were true for all parents.
I knew they had run away to the Little White Chapel in Vegas in their early twenties to marry, the champagne toast done with Styrofoam cups. Barely adults, they had a limited perspective on what life could be or what they wanted it to be.
I knew they had divorced when I was two years old, but found their way back to each other again and again with pure motives over the next ten or so years. They had nothing in common outside of one little curly-haired girl and the desire to do right by her. But that wasn’t enough to make a healthy relationship work.
They didn’t know what they didn’t know.
Yesterday God afforded us a day together, the first since I literally can’t remember when. We sat in a diner for over four hours and laughed more than I’ve laughed in a long time. Among the laughter were tears and the most beautiful, humble honesty as we trudged together through remembering some really hard stuff. We shared things we never had. Each of us learned things we never knew about the others. During the conversation, that table in a mostly empty restaurant became the safest place my heart has known.
Today I’m honored to know these two people as humans. Having done my own share of working, struggling, arguing, forgiving, building, providing, and loving in the ways I thought were best, I understand them at a deeper level. I relate to the experience of limited perspective and living the consequences of my choices.
I still don’t know what I don’t know. But I consider myself very fortunate to have never doubted how loved I am.
Mom and Dad, you have my heart for always. Thank you for holding it with care.
Following are the words I shared at our homeschool academy senior class graduation on June 4th, 2022.
When I was asked to speak at the graduation for our 2022 senior class, the question came up as to whether I preferred to wait until next year when my son will be sitting up here in one of these seats (Lord willing). I immediately accepted the invitation to share some thoughts with you today instead because I am positive that next year it’s going to be all I can do to hold it together, to keep from ugly crying my way through the entire ceremony. I feel it a bit even now as I look at those of you graduating today, some of whom I’ve witnessed grow and mature over the last eight years since we first enrolled here. There is a weight and a deep meaning to this moment for all of us.
In the past few weeks, as I attempted to come up with words to adequately express what today represents, I began to get curious about the origin of that deep, weighty feeling. I looked up the dictionary definition of the verb “to graduate” which was not very helpful. It said,
“To receive a degree or diploma on completing a course of study.”
This definition does not even come close to capturing what’s happening here today. The truth is that you are sitting in the epitome of what I like to call a “both/and” moment. The ink is drying on the closing sentence to the chapter of your childhood while you are busily jotting down an attention-grabbing hook for the next part of your story. You’re standing firmly on a foundation lovingly built by the hands and hearts of your family and community, about to take your first steps down an unfamiliar road among strangers. You’ve arrived, and yet at the same time, you are just getting started. It’s the type of moment that doesn’t come along often in a lifetime and therefore calls for us to take notice and treat it with honor. You owe it to yourselves to let this moment breathe.
God speaks to just such a moment in the book of Ecclesiastes. Chapter 3 verse 11 tells us that “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” Everyone in this room is here to stand alongside you in this end as it becomes a beginning. We are here to encourage you to grasp tightly onto the God who created you and promises to remain close. We stand in awe of all He has done and is actively doing within your hearts. We recognize that though your path will include its fair share of challenges, difficult choices, and consequences, our God has promised to weave those dark strands into the beautiful tapestry of your life, pointing straight back to His goodness.
Taking the time to breathe is one of those things that I continue to be notoriously bad about as I travel the road of my own story. Obviously, I’m not referring to the kind of thoughtless breathing that happens automatically in the background of our bodies all day every day without our noticing. I’m talking about intentional breaths taken slowly and deeply without thought for time or to-do lists or fears and anxieties about what comes next. The kind of breathing that happens when you slow down, close your eyes, and focus your heart on what it means to be alive. I mention this because I believe God designed every part of us specifically and with intention. The simple act of breathing is a reminder of the “both/and” moment we are experiencing right now. Every exhale is an ending, every inhale a new beginning. And when you leave this place today headed to parties with the people you love, or to plan the next phase of your future, you will carry this reminder with you.
If you were to read the next few verses in that same chapter of Ecclesiastes, you would find this powerful truth in verse 14:
“I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it.”
That’s a big statement. Everything about who God designed you to be will endure forever. Just thinking about that makes me a little nervous. I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that I don’t always like everything about myself. In fact, there are things about me, words I’ve spoken, choices I’ve made that I sometimes wish would disappear as if they never existed. But I would not want to give up my identity as a daughter of the King. The thing is, the two go hand-in-hand. We are all “both/and” people. Both compassionate and selfish. Both motivated and disinterested. Both Kingdom seeking and self-serving. All those parts of myself that I wish I could hide from God? He loves those too. Nothing can be added nor taken away from the person He created me to be and His plan for my life. And the same is true for you.
So, as we celebrate this milestone in your journey, a culmination of how you’ve grown, where you’ve been, all that you’ve learned, and those who have nurtured you along the way, I hope that you will embrace the endings and beginnings that make up who you are. May you recognize the “both/and” nature of being human and allow the same grace to others that you ask for yourself. I pray that you seek to do what is right over being right. And most importantly, I pray that you cling tightly to the One whose gaze is ever in your direction, no matter where in the world your story takes you.
When I wrote this for Mother’s Day a few years ago, I didn’t know that the words would continually ring truer for me as time passed.
This day hits each of us a little differently. Whether you are celebrating, grieving, or longing for your own moms or children, know that your heart matters and you are loved. ********************** The complexity of a mother’s heart can never be captured by the expression she wears on her face. As a child you don’t realize how cavernous and powerful her love is for you. You don’t understand that your pain hurts her twice as deeply, or that your joy breathes new life into her lungs. Her bright smile or thoughtful gaze may seem to simply say that she feels happy, but underneath and throughout her being, her love for you is breaking, mending, and stretching her heart in a thousand different directions.
She gives all that she has and goes to bed each night praying for an even greater capacity. She clings to your now while grieving the loss of your yesterday and anticipating your tomorrow with hope.
I couldn’t see it until I became a mother myself but I recognize it now in each of these faces. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, my mother, and me. We all wrestle with this love that overtakes us and teaches us over and again about ourselves.
To all the women who have loved me, my mother, and her mother before her – to all who mother the children that they hold and those that they long for or have had to let go – thank you. You are beautiful, courageous, and stronger than you give yourself credit for.
Today and every day is yours.
Happy Mother’s Day
“Her children rise up and call her blessed.” ~ Proverbs 31:28
I consider myself a night owl. The past eight years of working full-time while homeschooling have somewhat solidified that label, as the late-night hours when the house is quiet are some of my most productive times.
But there’s just something about mornings.
When the blue of night begins to brighten and the sky comes alive in golden hues, everything you see is washed in rays of hopefulness. The past is passed, and what lies ahead is newness and opportunity. Morning is the introduction to the day ahead, and a reminder that we’ve got life to live.
All the more on Easter morning, the very day that defines new life.
Morning does not bring about the promise that things will go the way we want them to. After all, there was a morning on Good Friday too. Sometimes morning gives way to dark clouds and frightening storms – to loss and grief that cause our hearts to cry out for God to rewind it all back to yesterday. Instead, we feel Him faithfully beside us, leading gently forward.
Though there will be mourning, there will also be morning.
Every Easter Sunday I watch the sunrise from my daughter’s grave, up high on a hill overlooking the harbor. When I’m there I remember the mornings of the hardest days – the day that hello was followed too quickly by goodbye, the day I had to go home without her. But I also rejoice in God’s presence, manifested in the beautiful display of morning. And I thank Him for the opportunity to celebrate that miraculous morning at His Son’s grave when the world was forever changed.
Morning is coming.
The inevitability of morning points us to the promise of Jesus – that He is who He is. That He lives. That His love holds us through the darkest night, carries us into the next morning, and stays.
May our hearts find hope in the morning, the resurrection of the sun, and the returning of the Son.
Right about now you may be enthusiastically experiencing the “newness” of 2022. You might be thinking about the goals and commitments you purposed for yourself this year. Perhaps you’ve chosen a word or a phrase to guide you or purchased a bright new day planner with the perfect vibrant print to help keep you motivated and organized in reaching your objectives. Or maybe you’re like me and while looking at the calendar this morning you wondered how it is that the first half of January passed you by while you’ve been digging out from under the chaos that was December. The good news is whether you’re excitedly charging ahead or exhaustedly crawling out from under the covers, God has much more to offer you than a new year.
I’ve never been one to set specific intentions for myself when the calendar rolls over each year. Probably because I know that when it comes to resolutions, I’m a way better breaker than a maker. It’s not that I don’t want to better my health or habits. But my tendency toward feeling overwhelmed when things don’t go according to plan does not reconcile well with the concept of resolutions. Admittedly I’ve too often allowed a stumble on the path to lead me entirely off course. And it’s uncomfortable to face the part of myself that’s a little too quick to throw her hands up and the towel in.
That’s the truth of my humanity, and it ain’t pretty. In fact, Isaiah 64 says that in and of myself the most righteous things about me are filthy rags. Fortunately for me, truth is what God seeks from me. He isn’t looking for me to become new every 365 days. His profoundly loving sacrifice made me new in one miraculous moment, and every day since that one is meant to be my continual pursuit of His truth. He calls me to keep moving forward in His direction, promising to be by my side in every confident stride as well as every shaky, stumbling step.
Reading the first chapter of Isaiah recently prompted me to look more closely at common attitudes and practices surrounding the new year. When God speaks to a people whose priorities are upside down – who value ritual over relationship with their Heavenly Father – I am compelled to examine my own intentions. Am I looking to better myself so that I can step more fully into becoming the person God created me to be, or to meet the standards of those around me? Is my desire to convince God how much I love Him or is it simply to love Him more? When faced with discomfort and difficulty, are my responses meant to glorify God or control outcomes?
The right answers to these and all the questions I ask myself are the true ones. And that’s the beauty of God’s grace. Instead of demanding perfection He asks for honest hearts. Instead of requiring that we become self-sufficient He invites us to lean into His care. Psalm 31:5 tells us exactly who He is, that we should put our trust in Him – “…thou hast redeemed me, Oh Lord God of truth.” So, as I look at what lies ahead for each of us, I pray that our thoughts and aspirations for the new year are rooted in hearts focused on a true year.
2021, I’m for you. I gotta give you a break. Come in, sit down, take a load off. Right about now there are a lot of folks out there giving you some serious side-eye, but you won’t get that from me. I’m not sure why years get held accountable for the tragic, heartbreaking, and overwhelming things that happened in the past 364 days. Seems a little unfair to make you responsible for the challenges faced by all of humanity.
It’s not your fault, 2021. Suffering is a part of the human experience. Jesus himself foretold that we would have tribulation in this world (John 16:33). In fact, in 2 Corinthians 6 the Apostle Paul makes a list of what we are to expect – afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labors, sleepless nights, hunger, slander…Sounds familiar, right?
The truth is God promises His presence, not prevention. He knows we will be well acquainted with pain. But He also knows what beauty He will create from the ashes of that pain. What many will refer to as good or bad years are really a collection of moments. We can’t be sure of what those moments will hold for us, but we can decide how to spend them and what meaning we will assign them in our lives.
I can’t say that I’ve ever had a bad year. I’ve traveled through loss, grief, betrayal, disappointment, and a host of other challenges, just as I have through joys and celebrations, learning, growth, and healing. Truth be told 2021, you were there for a little of everything on this list and more, so you know what I’m talking about.
What I really want to say is thank you 2021. Thanks for giving me the framework for another both/and year. I’m grateful to you for putting up with me in my moments of confusion, doubt, impatience, and selfishness. And thank you for holding space for the triumphant moments of connection and peace in between.
Take a rest 2021, you deserve it. I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go unlock the door for 2022.
Carrie Joy(ful) 