Fearless

What does it mean to be fearless, to LIVE fearless?  Fear has been my sidekick since that day I lay on a mattress on the floor of an empty room in a house full of boxes waiting to be unpacked.  Sleep wouldn't come that night as my mind wondered at a God who was so big and how I mattered when I was so small.  Some days I'm not so far from that little girl.

She still lives in me, hiding in the shadows of broken hearts and traumatic memories.  I try to ignore her, to pretend she is long gone, but then she returns in vivid nightmares that leave me tormented and weary.

There I am, desperate for sleep, falling and fading, waiting for a deep slumber to take over and wash away all the days woes.  But instead of a deep rest, she appears in a memory exaggerated, making me feel every emotion all over again.

Who am I?  I am trapped and cornered, my whole being crying out for rescue.  The others in my dream laugh and mock, angry at how I feel it all so deep and wide.  They want me to fit in their little box of how I should act and respond and FEEL.  But I can't.  I just can't.

In memories, I was huddled in a corner, hiding and waiting for the panic to settle, hoping no one discovered me.  It's my secret still, no matter how many times I write here or voice there.  Anxiety lurks in every day.  Most days now are okay, but still some are a battlefield.

In my nightmares, I am screaming and falling apart in front of everyone.  Words spill like poison from my hurting and defensive heart.  I want them to hear me and to really see me, but sometimes anger is all I can manage.

My husband can attest to that.  He sees what I hide so well from the rest of the world.  He's the one who sits with me, holding my hand and drying my tears as the anguish spills out.  He becomes the object of all my frustration when I've kept it bottled for so long and it pours out without warning.  He sees the worst in me, but he never seems to forget the best.  When the storm settles, he waits as I process and find the words to really expose my heart.

But that little girl in me?  She wonders if her words really matter.  She fears so many unknowns and she cowers in the face of both imagined and real danger.

Sometimes, I'm learning, the only way to quiet her turmoil in me is to let her be heard.  I have traveled back to the hardest moments, even when everything in me wants to run away and lock the door on those memories forever.  But I watch them unfold, standing from a distance as a bystander to my own past, and I cry again for the way she ached and broke.

I don't stay there though.  I listen to that little girl in me remind me of the past and I hold her close the way she wanted to be held before but couldn't seem to find a way out of her solitary storm.  And then I hold her chin high and show her the rest of the story.  Because the worst of times were not the end of times.  And they weren't all bad.

There was good woven into those desperate places.  In the middle of it, when I was walking through the actual days, I couldn't see past the hurt and pain.  It takes seeing from the other side looking in to realize there is beauty that comes from ashes.

Days later, I listened to that little girl in me again, just for a moment, and then I spilled ink on paper and gave voice to her anguish in my words.  I purposed to see the good in the middle of my jumble of words and I listened for another voice, the One who calls me even when I don't want to hear.

He says I can be fearless but not on my own.  More words fall on the page, a gradient painting of bad turned good.  And then I see: beauty from ashes.  He makes all things beautiful in His time...and that includes me and all my mess.

I watch the page burn, words melting as the flame absorbs every piece of brokenness I don't need to hold onto.  I let it go with every flicker of the flame and I breathe in peace.

The blank canvas before me is spiritual whitespace for my creative soul.  Stroke by stroke, I watch an image form and catch me by surprise.  The moon in all its blue fullness shines in the dark like the One who has been the light in all my dark places.  The One who hung the moon and stars also wrote my story, piece by piece, and He's not finished yet.

The woman takes shape and her hair - all that hair - was not what I intended.  She took shape as if she was meant to be there before my brush even took its first stroke.  I remember the way my kids have laughed at my big, wild bedhead after a restless night and the way my husband sees me when I am completely undone.  And no matter how messy I am, they love me.  Oh, how I am loved.

The woman in my painting is me, an unruly and unkempt mess.  And yet there is beauty: the curves of her body and the gentle stroke of her arms, the wind blowing her hair into the night.  She holds out her hands, the ashes of all her hurts and fears painted right into her wild hair...and she blows them away.

Gone are the ashes of all her tears as wishes and dreams fall from her lips.  The night wind carries them towards the stars that He hung in place and the moon shines, illuminating the beauty of another day waiting with fresh hope and new mercies.

As she watches the stars shining, she knows her wishes are being found and heard by the One who sees.  The night sky twinkles with more than wishes upon stars.

A small bird takes shape in the shadow of the tree forming a canopy of branches spread out over her like a blanket.  It begins to sing, a gentle melody carried by the night wind and she listens, her thoughts stilled as the words behind the song fill her soul.

"His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me..."

In this world there will be struggles, but she can take heart knowing He sees, He knows, and He overcomes.  Fearless does not mean without fear.  It means knowing there is less to fear in the shadow of His wings and that all her fears are meaningless in the face of a mighty God.  The fear of the Lord is the beginning of understanding and maybe, just maybe, everything little thing is going to be alright.


 

Throwback Thursday: Hold Hands

I took a break from this the past few weeks, but today I'm sharing another old blog post from the archives.  Sometimes I need to be reminded of my own words and I hope they will be an encouragement to others too.
  

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Hold Hands

(blog post from  September 2013 originally shared here)

 


It was one of those mornings.

I heard the alarm go off far too early and, as my brain tried to come out of the fog of another sleepless night, I hit snooze, not once, but three times.  

The little one stirred next to me and, before I could force my sleep-heavy eyes open, he was full on wailing. 

I nursed him back to sleep and let the steaming waters of the shower wash me over with fresh strength for the day, but all I wanted to do was sleep.

I grumbled and worried as I struggled to wake the rest of the weary bodies in our home.  They mumbled their own pleas for more rest and then whined and complained their ways through a hurried breakfast. 

We made it out the door, by some miracle, with only ten minutes to spare before school started...only to remember half way there that it was PICTURE DAY.

We turned back for home and, with the boys still buckled in their car seats, I quickly pulled out the messy ponytail in my daughter's hair and rushed to curl it enough to be presentable for pictures.

I started to breath again, until my daughter started screaming when the curling iron brushed against her neck.

Horrified, I grabbed an ice pack and held her close, telling her over and over how sorry I was, wishing right then and there I could rewind time.

After finally dropping her off at school late and feeling my heart break when she refused to hug me goodbye, I cried all the way home and sent my husband a distressed text message.

"Sorry babe. Pretty sure you're not a bad mom," he reminded me, but I still wasn't convinced, so I wrote a distressed facebook post, wondering if there were any other moms out there who had been in my shoes.

Because the hard days always feel lonely until you reach out for help.  

This time, help came in the form of comment after comment from other moms and friends who know me well.  Their comments were like virtual hands reaching out to hold mine and remind me to breathe in grace.  

Even on the days when I make a mess of mothering, grace and love really do cover a multitude of messes. 

My husband was right.  I may not be perfect, but the hard days don't make me a bad mom.

No, it's a good mom who picks up the broken pieces, holds out her hand to wipe away the tears on her child's face, and covers every mistake in an all consuming, never ending love that takes her breath away.

It's a good mom who doesn't give up, but stands firm even in the storms, holding onto the One whose grace and love is more than enough.

It's a good mom who knows that she isn't enough without Him whose strength is everything she needs.

And, most importantly, it's a good mom who remembers how His mercies are new moment by moment and, instead of looking back, she continues to move forward...

...one step at a time. 


 

There Is A Season...

photo credit

I wrote these words just over a year ago and I've been thinking on them often lately:

I love everything about autumn: the vibrant colors of leaves losing their summer green, the gentle, cool breeze sweeping through the windows, the smell of pumpkin spice lattes and a steaming bowl of soup...but I know that all too soon winter will come and with it the gloom of darkness. So, today, I am putting on my "armor" and remembering that there is a season for everything and that God has a purpose and plan already mapped our for me. And I'm holding onto this peace, HIS peace, that surpasses understanding. 

"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid." (John 14:27)

Our family has been going through a season of sifting lately and it's been hard, so very hard to hold onto hope when I can't see much past today.  I asked a friend the other day if maybe God was wrong in giving me the word HOPE this year, because it just doesn't make sense.  She gently but firmly reminded me that hope isn't defined by our circumstances, but by the God who is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  He knows what He's doing and He is not surprised by the things that knock us clear off our feet. 

I've gone back and forth with the idea of doing a 31 series for October, but I have felt Him urging me in a different direction.  First, because there is so much sifting going on, there are days I simply need to take a step back from everything and find quiet rest in the stillness of just being here.  I knew if I committed to writing every single day, it would become a chore and I would obsess over it, neglecting my quiet time with Him and my responsibilities here as a wife and mom. 

Second, I don't think just one topic would be enough to write out everything He is doing in my heart in the midst of it all.  When I sit down to write, often I have no idea where my fingers are going to take me as the words spill out.  I always feel refreshed when I simply write, without an agenda or deadline.  Sometimes I need structure to motivate me to write when it's hard, but too much structure can suffocate my writing. 

Third, I don't want to just write for the month of October.  I want to write and write and write, whenever the words come and I find myself here staring at a blank screen.  But, I also want to write more than just a few blog posts.  I still have a dream to put my words into a book and if I ever want to finish the one I already began, I need to give that writing priority over writing here.  So, some days I will write here and some days I will write there, but always I want to simply write. 

With all that said, I do have a few plans for my writing here for the next few months, but it will be much less structured than a 31 day series.  I have a few mini series I want to either start or continue and I look forward to sharing them with whoever comes to read my words. 

Living Gluten Free - I wrote an introduction of this topic with promises of continuing writing about my journey of gluten free living, but I have yet to follow through.  I'm going to continue this mini series once a week on Thursdays with no specific end date in mind.  I will simply write until I feel like the series is complete. 

Holding Onto Hope {Truth Reminders} - It may only be fall here, but the way our lives have been rocked by some really hard stuff, it feels like we're almost in the middle of another winter already.  I know that the only way to wade through the storm without drowning is to hold onto the only anchor that is firm and secure and that is HOPE.  I will share this mini-series on Mondays, focusing on what it means to hold onto hope, but it won't begin until October 14.  I have a fun book launch to share with all of you next Monday (October 7) written by a blogging friend who has become dear to me on a topic that echoes my own heart's desires. 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} - I participated in several of Creative Soul's daily writing prompts for the month of September, but there are some I never got a chance to write.  I'm going to continue sharing some of these on Fridays. 

{Back to Basics} A Walk Through Ephesians - I mentioned on facebook the idea of writing a series on the book of Ephesians, because it's the first book of the bible that I really studied in depth and it has been integral to my walk with Him.  I'm going to share this series on Tuesdays starting sometime later in the month.  I want to take some time to really dig through these truths again before sharing my thoughts and some challenges from His words here. 

And, of course, occasionally there will be stand alone posts that simply speak my heart whenever I need to just write. So, that's the plan, but it's only tentative.  I look forward to sharing more of my heart with each of you here.

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} Dear Diary

 photo source

Dear Diary,

Hello? Is this thing on?

I know, it's been a while. I see you there, sitting in a closed drawer, covered in forgotten papers and days upon days worth of dust, but I always seem to forget until it's hard.

I open your pages, only half filled and over seven years old.  Why do I always forget you are there? 

The words are grumbling and moaning and waiting to be let out, a cacophony of chaotic thoughts and emotions swirling in my mind.  I talk and I type and I cry, but still the noise builds...

...until I remember you, sitting there alone, empty pages waiting just for me. 

But where do I start?  How do I put into words every thought, every tear, every fear? 

I put pen to page and before I talk myself out of it, I write, words unfiltered, pure and raw...and I write...and I write...and I write.

As I write, the storm quiets, words spilling out like waves upon a forgotten shore. 

The words surprise me and the words scare me.  The storms can only be ignored for so long.  Putting pen to page makes it all more real...and sometimes all the more frightening. 

I pause from the frenzy of words poured out and listen.  In the silence of words set free and storms calmed, I hear the whispers.  

Be still and know, He says.  I am here and I hear.  I've never forgotten and never forsaken.  

Before the doubts and questions even find their way onto the page, He whispers again. 

I know, my child.  Every tear and every fear falls not in vain.  I carry them all, one by one, drop by drop, and I know.  I really know.  

I wonder how hope is found in all this sifting.  How do I make sense of it all? 

Hope not in the things of this world, He reminds me.  Hope in me.  Because hope never disappoints.

But it hurts, I whisper, as the tears begin to fall again. 

And He whispers again, His words like arms surrounding me with a peace I don't understand. 

Joy is found in hope, for hope makes your weary heart glad.  My love is poured out on you through my Son and that love never fails.  

Set your hope on me and let that hope be your anchor in the storm.  Because I will find you, even in the storms.  

I look down at the pages before me and, through a veil of tears, I smile and remember why I came here in the first place. 

Every time I spill out words on your pages, dear diary, I let go of every thought and emotion that kept me from hearing His still, small voice.  

I close the pages, but not before breathing my thanks filled prayer to the One who knows me and finds me, right where I am. 

I still don't understand and the sifting still hurts, but my hope is anchored once again, secure and steadfast, found again in the One who is a quiet place in the middle of the storms.

I close the drawer where your pages are hidden, safe and secure and waiting.  Maybe one day I'll open your pages to write in the sunshine filled days, but, more often, I need you most when the storms shake and threaten. 

So, until we meet again, dear diary, until we meet again.

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} Confession

 photo source

I've written about not being perfect and what it is to be broken, but sometimes, if I'm not careful, my story can become an idol.

Just writing those words sends a gut punch to my soul, because conviction is hard.  It's much easier to just ignore the whispers and continue on my merry way.

Except the way is not really merry when I place anything or anyone on a pedestal and forget the One who wrote my story from the beginning. 

I focus so much on brokenness and imperfections, but forget how He calls me to lay them all down at His feet and walk instead in His righteousness. 

And in the forgetting, I let pride get in the way of loving on others and being His light. 

My struggles become magnified when they are all I can see and I fail to see the ones walking alongside me with their own hurts and pains. 

I grumble and I mutter and I am shocked at the selfish, condemning words that pour out of my sin filled heart.  This isn't who I am...and yet it is. 

Every day I have to make a choice - to speak hurt...or speak love.  And the only way to choose the better is to keep pressing into Him, allowing His words to write over the sins that tempt and attack at my soul.

When I look beyond myself and stop to listen to the story hidden behind a plastered smile and "I'm fine" replies, I remember how every one of us is facing our own pain filled, tear stained battle. 

I can't ignore the conviction for long, because I know how much I need Him...how much we all need Him.  So I stop and listen, laying down my selfish pride at His feet to let Him sift and change and use me. 

Then, instead of the criticism and judgement creeping into my heart, I begin to listen for the hidden words and wonder at the secrets behind weary eyes. 

I have a story to tell, but so does she...and sometimes she just wants me to listen to her story to know she is loved and understood. 

She needs someone to tell her she's not alone and that there is always One who knows every one of her tears and waits with open arms. 

She longs for a friend who will hold her as she cries and cry with her. 

She wants to know she matters and that her story isn't finished yet. 

So, I listen, really listen, whispering Truth and speaking the love she needs and the love He freely gives. 

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.

***

Are you one of those women stuck in the hard part of your story wishing you had a community to love on and encourage you?  (in)courager community groups are back for another session and I'm blessed to be a part of this beautiful ministry. 

I'm returning as a leader for the group Broken & Mended which is a safe place for women struggling with postpartum depression to find hope and encouragement and love to fight this often lonely and difficult battle.  If you, or someone you know, are struggling with postpartum depression, sign up here or email me. 

Or, if you have a different story to tell, find the group that is right for you, because there's a bench waiting for YOU. 

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} Hold Hands

photo source

It was one of those mornings.

I heard the alarm go off far too early and, as my brain tried to come out of the fog of another sleepless night, I hit snooze, not once, but three times.  

The little one stirred next to me and, before I could force my sleep-heavy eyes open, he was full on wailing. 

I nursed him back to sleep and let the steaming waters of the shower wash me over with fresh strength for the day, but all I wanted to do was sleep.

I grumbled and worried as I struggled to wake the rest of the weary bodies in our home.  They mumbled their own pleas for more rest and then whined and complained their ways through a hurried breakfast. 

We made it out the door, by some miracle, with only ten minutes to spare before school started...only to remember half way there that it was PICTURE DAY.

We turned back for home and, with the boys still buckled in their car seats, I quickly pulled out the messy ponytail in my daughter's hair and rushed to curl it enough to be presentable for pictures.

I started to breath again, until my daughter started screaming when the curling iron brushed against her neck.

Horrified, I grabbed an ice pack and held her close, telling her over and over how sorry I was, wishing right then and there I could rewind time.

After finally dropping her off at school late and feeling my heart break when she refused to hug me goodbye, I cried all the way home and sent my husband a distressed text message.

"Sorry babe. Pretty sure you're not a bad mom," he reminded me, but I still wasn't convinced, so I wrote a distressed facebook post, wondering if there were any other moms out there who had been in my shoes.

Because the hard days always feel lonely until you reach out for help.  

This time, help came in the form of comment after comment from other moms and friends who know me well.  Their comments were like virtual hands reaching out to hold mine and remind me to breathe in grace.  

Even on the days when I make a mess of mothering, grace and love really do cover a multitude of messes. 

My husband was right.  I may not be perfect, but the hard days don't make me a bad mom.

No, it's a good mom who picks up the broken pieces, holds out her hand to wipe away the tears on her child's face, and covers every mistake in an all consuming, never ending love that takes her breath away.

It's a good mom who doesn't give up, but stands firm even in the storms, holding onto the One whose grace and love is more than enough.

It's a good mom who knows that she isn't enough without Him whose strength is everything she needs.

And, most importantly, it's a good mom who remembers how His mercies are new moment by moment and, instead of looking back, she continues to move forward...

...one step at a time. 

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} It Was A Gift

I buckled him in for the ride to school and he smiled, "We goin' to get Va-wee!"

We arrived in minutes and walked through the doors waiting for the bell to ring.  He marched down the hallway, peeking around corners, searching for his favorite playmate. 

The bell rang and students spilled out of their classrooms...and still he waited.  "Where is Va-wee?" he said his brow furrowed and his feet bouncing to and fro. 

She walked out of her classroom, the same smile on her face and hurried over to him, chattering away about her day as he watched her pack her bag. 

She hands him one of her school projects to carry and he excitedly waves them in my face.  "Look, mommy!  Va-wee let me carry this!"  

Her bag packed and draped over her shoulders, we walk out and pile into the van. 

I buckle their littlest brother in and before they've even climbed into their own seats, the fighting begins. 

They yell and cry and push and shove...and, in the chaos that ensues, I find myself yelling and sighing right along with them. 

I try to reason, but the only thing that calms the storm is when the doors are closed, the key is turned, and the music plays.  

The tears are replaced with smiles again as we pull in the driveway, but still they continue, arguing and agreeing in almost the same breath. 

Then, in one simple little moment, the house still and the lights dim, I turn and pause at the sight of them: curled up on the couch, his head on her shoulder and her arm around him pulling him close.  

This is the gift, the moments I remember and grasp when the fighting returns, because I know at the end of the day theirs is a bond that can't be broken and a friendship that won't be undone.  

Day after day and long after I am gone, they will still and always have each other. 

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} He Held the Keys

photo source: martinak15

The day has been long and I am weary.  I count down the minutes until he arrives home, hoping and praying it is sooner rather than later.

I need my other half to carry me through to bed time, because I can't do this alone anymore.

The whining and fighting continues while I sigh and wonder who switched my sweet, innocent babies for these sin-cursed children. 

I glance at the clock again as I fight the urge to run and hide away from it all...until a glimpse of his car catches the light of the tears burning in my eyes and I breathe again at the sight of him.

He walks in with a smile and more energy than I remember knowing in days.  I fall into his arms and the tears spill relentlessly.

He hushes my tears and holds me close, whispering truth and hope and love.  And when the storm calms, I glance into his eyes and remember the days when it was just the two of us.

We vowed for better or for worse, but all we could see then was the bliss of a life together that was new and exciting.

He looks deep into my eyes and listens as I pour out the words that follow the tears.

Then, instead of simply playing the knight in shining armor who sweeps me off my feet, he lifts my eyes up and reminds me I am never alone.

He holds the key to my heart, but there's One greater who holds the key to my soul.  

Together, with his hands in mine, we move forward, tears wiped away and a new found peace swallowing up the heaviness that had been our home all day long.

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} Street Light

photo credit

I'm driving along, little ones competing to see who can sing the loudest, and all the while I'm wishing for just one moment of silence. 

The light turns red and I stop, the anxious thoughts and worried fears rushing through my mind.  I'm standing still in traffic, but my mind can't seem to stand still on one good thought.

The light turns green and I continue our journey, the war of my thoughts picking up speed as I press on the gas and hurry through our day. 

I grumble and mutter as the singing in the back seat grows louder.  And then, the storm in my mind too strong to contain any longer, I yell and hush them all with words I never intended to say. 

The singing stills, but I see their sad faces in the rear view mirror, tears brimming from the words that hurt more than sticks or stones. 

The light turns red again and now, instead of letting the storm take over, I whisper a prayer, steady my breathing, and lift my eyes to the One who calms stormy seas and steadies stumbling feet. 

I turn my eyes to the little ones in the back seat, still wondering why their mommy doesn't like their silly songs and playful banter. 

"I'm so sorry, kids," I say both in words and in the gentle tone of my voice and the soft look in my eyes. 

The light turns back to green and now, instead of worry and hurry, I choose to sing along to the silly songs in the back row.  We laugh as we continue on the road, hearts calmer and steps surer that the road ahead will be better.

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} By The Dashboard Light

Little feet and chubby hands squirm and stretch in my arms.  With eyes still closed, I softly, gently rub his back and hush him back to sleep. 

It's far too early to wake. 

The room is still dark and the house is still quiet, until the distant sound of alarm tones sounds its morning cry.  I grumble to my husband who has mastered the art of sleeping through anything and everything, including his morning alarm. 

He sends the almost four year old, still curled up in his arms, on a mission to find the source of the early morning wake up. 

He comes back empty handed.  "I can't find it, daddy," he whispers, far too loudly, because almost four year olds don't really know how to whisper. 

The little one in my arms squirms more and his head pops up with a grin and more energy than I can muster at such an early hour.  The bed shakes with his morning bouncing and giggles and I grumble once more, my eyes still holding onto the smallest hope of more sleep. 

My attempts fail, so I carry my little morning wake up call into the living room and drag my weary feet into the kitchen, fumbling with eyes still half asleep, for my favorite morning brew. 

The little one fusses when I walk out of sight and I grumble something about how he wouldn't be whining if he was still sleeping.  Even as the words reach my lips, I realize how foolish it is to try to reason with a ten month old, so I force a smile and give him a morning snack to quiet his fussing and carry my coffee mug to the dim lights of the computer. 

The almost four year old wakes to the fusses of his little brother and begs for his own morning snack, so I oblige his pleas and settle in for morning devotions, no matter how early and how weary. 

I switch on the screen and, with pen in one hand and coffee in the other, I read these words by the dashboard lights. 

"For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery."

(Galatians 5:1)

I wonder at how His words can speak to me, right where I am, no matter how early and how weary.  He knows exactly what my heart needs to hear and His words awaken my heart and soul in a way no one else can.

My perspective shifts as quickly as my littlest one leaps from fast asleep to wide awake and I'm suddenly grateful for the early morning wake up.  

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.

 

{Back to School, Back to Writing} The Beginning

She links her arms into the straps of her backpack, too big for her five year old frame, and confidently walks through the doors.  She walks straight to the hooks on the wall with her name plastered above and stands on tip-toes to hang it up. Without even looking back, she continues into her classroom and, as I watch, I wonder how we got from newborn diapers and late night feedings to this. 

My mind wanders back to snapshots of memories and I fight the tears as I try to hold onto those moments before she slips away from the shadow of this mother's wings into her own.  I remember all the times I've made a mess of motherhood and I wish I could speak words of hope and encouragement from today into that weary mom's heart of yesterday. 

What will she remember of these days when she is the mom of littles who steal her sleep but fill her heart?  Will she know how love covers all the tears and fears?  Will she understand how His mercies are new every morning?  Will she believe how He casts her mistakes as far as the east is from the west? 

I see her again, talking with her friends and waiting at her desk for the day to begin.  I want to run to her, scoop her into my arms, and breathe in every drop of her before today becomes tomorrow and this new beginning is long forgotten.  Instead, I smile and wave as she looks over with her own smile and "Bye, mommy!" before she turns back her attention to her today. 

As I walk away, my heart aches for the days when all she needed was her mommy.  I feel the pain of heart strings stretched and I wonder how it can possibly be stretched more. 

But mixed in with the tears, there is joy.  I know she is ready by the wonder she displays at each new piece of knowledge learned and her excitement each day as she walks through those school doors.  My teacher's heart relishes this new beginning as I watch her eyes light up as she shows me each day's school work. 

I listen to her play pretend with her brother and laugh at the way she teaches him the very things she is learning.  He soaks it up and her confidence grows even more.  I remember the school room in my childhood home where I would assign homework and instruct my own brothers and sisters.  She is so like me, but she is also so like her. 

It's so easy for my thoughts to leap back to the beginning of her story or jump straight to the end, feeding on the anxiety I already struggle with until I am once again held prisoner.    And while the thoughts may be true, they are not always lovely or excellent or commendable. 

Life is filled with new beginnings and it's easy to get so stuck on the past or the future that I forget about today.  I am not promised tomorrow and the past can't be relived.  If all I have is today, I need to live with abandon and rejoice in these new beginnings, no matter how painful they might be. 

I'm joining the Creative Soul community this month for Back to School, Back to Writing.