On October 3, our world changed. In one moment our lives would never be the same. We became parents.

It was a season of celebration, of anticipation, of dreaming and planning. My sweet parents came in town. They bought Baby Collier’s first onesie, complete with a handwritten note that they “couldn’t wait to love on their California baby.”

The day they left, we took our first baby bump photo and headed out the door to go meet our child – to see him or her for the very first time.

It was that movie moment you wait for your entire life — the moment you see a life growing inside of you up on that sonogram screen. Clay stood at my side, holding my hand as we waited in anticipation to meet our baby. Instead we were met with devastating news.

“What’s concerning to me is that I’m not seeing what I should be seeing at six weeks,” the doctors words were a blur as my racing mind tried to process. My heart sank as we learned that it was likely either ectopic or unhealthy.

She informed us that I would need to have my blood drawn every three days to monitor my pregnancy hormone and that she would re-sonogram in about a week. She left the room to give us a moment.

The tears I’d been fighting broke through like the floodgates of a dam. I leaned forward over my medical gown and heaved sobbing. Clay rubbed my back from behind.

After a few moments I gathered myself enough to schedule my next three blood draw appointments and cross Santa Monica Blvd as the tears fell all over again.

We got into the car, and I asked Clay if we could pray before we drove home. I couldn’t believe this was our reality, but it was. And I knew I was going to need divine power to carry me through. He prayed first. I did my best to follow.

This is what would be the beginning of our journey of miscarriage. I always thought my first pregnancy-related post would read “our journey of pregnancy.” Instead, we have a different story. A different journey. A different path.

I’ll be writing more about it as I feel ready. But for now I wanted you all to know what we’ve been going through. I know there are others out there going through it, too. And I think there is such good that comes when we share our trials — so I’m bringing the hard stuff into the light.

. . . . . . .

a traumatic hospital visit

The next morning I woke up, eyes heavy. We returned to the doctor’s office to get my blood drawn a second time in two days. Clay did another magic trick with a coin to distract me so I wouldn’t pass out.

We then returned home and that afternoon we got a call — “Meredith, the doctor got your bloodwork back and you have an ectopic pregnancy. You need to get to UCLA Westwood Emergency Room immediately.” The nurse’s voice was quiet. I struggled to process her words.

“Okay…” I hung up the phone.

Not exactly sure what to do, I placed the rest of my smoothie in the kitchen sink. Did I need to throw up? What if I had to have surgery and they had to put me under? I tried for about two seconds then decided it was better just to get in the car. I packed a bag in a flurry and we were off to navigate Friday afternoon LA traffic.

Vitals taken, medical history given, cup peed in, blood taken {yet again}, IV stint left in, nurses and doctors, doctors and nurses. Finally they gave us a room. Extensive ultrasound done — hundreds of photos taken. Gurney ride back to our room. The most painful pelvic exam from a doctor-in-training was the final drop that brought the rush of grief and exhaustion and sadness and pain.

“We’ve been here five and a half hours, and we still don’t have any answers. I’ve been poked and prodded so much these last two days, and I just want to know if our baby is okay.” My tears spilled over my cheeks as my heart sat heavy in my chest.

The supervising doctor promised to get some answers soon. And soon we would hear her end of the conversation with my doctor who advised me to take the methotrexate shot to dissolve the ectopic pregnancy {but wouldn’t get on the phone to tell me herself}. “If I were you, I would take it,” the doctor said. “But I’m not an OB. And I know it’s a tough decision, so our resident OBGYN is coming down to answer any questions you have.”

“If it’s going to save my life of course I’ll take it,” I told Clay after she left the room. “But I don’t want to live in regret if there could be a possibility…”

Those fifteen minutes seemed like an eternity. And then he arrived. I’m pretty certain he was an angel from the Lord. “Do you all want this pregnancy?” I almost couldn’t believe he was asking it, but we replied in unison, “Yes.”

“Alright, well there’s nothing that leads me to believe it’s ectopic. So I would advise you come back in 2-3 days and we will re-draw your blood and re-sonogram to monitor any changes.”

I almost couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was our original plan after all. I felt a weight lift from my body, mind and soul. And then Clay’s voice broke through with that looming question… “So what are the chances it will be a normal, healthy pregnancy?”

Beat.

“Five percent.”

It both seemed like a devastating blow and a ray of hope — though I don’t believe I processed it at the time.

After six hours we packed up our things, got back into the car in the rare LA rain — seemingly appropriate. We picked up a large Fresh Brothers pizza on the way home. I showered the hospital away, had a good, deep cry, dried off and dried my tears, and then we ate every bite of that well-earned pizza.

I have never been so physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted as I was that night.

. . . . . . . .

tightrope.

I wrote this post on October 10th — the day before we went in to meet our baby for the first time, the day before that heart-wrenching appointment, the day before our hopes and dreams were replaced with doubt and heartache. It provides a little more backstory on our journey leading up to pregnancy.

“It’s all an adventure that comes with a breathtaking view, walking this tightrope with you.”

Finding out we are pregnant has been quite an adventure. It’s only been a week–to the day–and we have celebrated Clay’s birthday, been to a wedding, started looking at houses, my parents flew in to help us, and we put in an offer on a house!

With Clay’s potential future job being unpredictable, I wanted to get settled into a home as quickly as possible before this baby comes! I’m excited for the weeks and months ahead, but truthfully quite a bit overwhelmed. The thought of moving alone seems a bit daunting, not to mention preparing for a baby on top of it.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned it’s how little control I have and how very much in control God is.

In the months leading up to us getting pregnant, I went back and forth about trying. You see, in battling chronic pain daily I have doubted my ability to be a good mom, an able mom, the mom I would want my child to have. I feel like I have limitations other “normal” people don’t. I feel ill equipped to do life as is sometimes, much less with a baby.

And yet I felt God nudging me around July that it was time to start trying. And so, in obedience, we did.

July came and went. And yet we didn’t end up pregnant — though I had been certain I was. We tried again in August, and again we still weren’t pregnant. Those “two week waits” were no joke. Am I pregnant? Am I not? Should I eat this? Drink that? Is our whole world about to change any day now? To be honest, it was quite exhausting.

As soon as it was possible that I might be pregnant, I would sort of freak out and stress out and wonder how I would even do it all. And yet as much as I was nervous about being pregnant, I was even more devastated when I found out I wasn’t. The grief of loss over the possibility was heartbreaking. Hot tears flooded my eyes as my soul fell heavy to the floor.

On month three we decided to take a break. We stopped trying, and it felt nice–like a weight had been lifted. It was a month of rest much needed. And I felt we needed some time to get our lives in order before we got pregnant. But lo and behold God had other plans for us… because this was, in fact, the very month we somehow got pregnant.

As overjoyed as I am, my reservations and worries are still very real. I wonder if I will be able to handle the demands of motherhood with grace or if I will fall apart. And yet as soon as those words leave my mind, I know that my God will never allow me to truly fall apart. He is a good God with good plans, and I do believe He equips us for all we need each season.

And yet, oh how sometimes it feels as if we are walking a tightrope!

If I’m going to be walking a tightrope, I’m so glad God has gifted me with an amazing husband to help me keep my balance. These days I’m reminding myself that if we keep our eyes fixed on Him and don’t look down, well, then, surely we will make it to the other side safely–to the place of Jesus’ loving arms and scarred hands, where the Father will look us in the eye and say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

Thank you for this truth, our good and faithful God.

. . . . . . .

five percent.

Five percent. That was the chance we’d been given that we’d have a normal, healthy baby. As I pondered that reality as we left the hospital, as overwhelmingly sad as I was, I was simultaneously filled with hope.

I’ve always known God to perform little miracles in my life, to bring the unexpected, and to show up in ways I’ve never imagined. I fully believed He could do this — He could make 5% a reality.

As I passed by the lemon tree Clay gave me as a wedding gift Friday night as we finally made it back home, I wondered if those five ripe lemons signified this five percent chance. They’d been standing out to me for months now — not only because they were the only ripe cluster of lemons on our tree, but because of that number — 5.

A little backstory: God has been speaking to me through numbers ever since 10.23.

And a little sidenote: I feel the need to say that God speaks to everyone differently and uniquely. I believe He has as many different ways to communicate with His people as there are human beings on this earth — and beyond. This just happens to be one of the ways He speaks to me.

So I’d been seeing the number 5.55 everywhere. Each time I looked at the clock. It stuck out to me, this number. What did it mean?

Days, weeks, and months went by, and still I continued to notice it.

Three days after we found out we were pregnant, we attended a friend’s wedding where we were placed at table #5. I thought it so profound that I took a photo of the table number. And then at home the following day, I took multiple photos with the two “5” playing cards we’d received to direct us to that table — one of which was with our very pregnancy test.

At the time I wondered if God was saying we’d be a family of five. Though I always swore I’d only have two kids, I’ve learned to “never say never” when it comes to life and God and well, anything. And then I wondered if it signified our future family of four plus the possible early miscarriage I believe I had in July of last year {2017}. Though it was never confirmed we were pregnant, I truly believe I was. And in pondering and praying over it, God actually revealed to me a name for our child.

As I continued to pray for our child the following day, I remembered that we had been at the hospital for about 5.5 hours before we received this 5% chance news.

5.55.

I was hopeful despite my doubting.

I remember opening up a baby bump app out of habit only to be reminded that our baby wasn’t growing on track with these apps. I wanted to hope. But I also didn’t want to get my hopes up. The verse “I believe but help me with my unbelief” comes to mind.

My eyes were tired from so many tears, and my soul was tired from so much emotion. And yet there was this five percent chance, this tiny little ray of hope into our dark couple of days.

I wrote the following in my journal that day:

Hope.
And fear.
And doubt.
And faith.

So many emotions, thoughts, concerns, worries. I want to have bold faith it will be a healthy child.

5.55 – the number God’s been showing me.

After 5.5 hours in the ER we found out we have a 5% chance for a healthy baby.

That’s enough for us to keep praying, moving, one day at a time.

Five percent was enough for me. Five percent was enough for us.

… and I was certain five percent was enough for God.

We prayed that He would work this miracle to bring health and life to our child. “And if not, we still love you and trust you,” we lifted up our tired voices to our faithful God.

And even if You don’t, my hope is You alone. – MercyMe, Even If

. . . . . . .

a miracle.

Back in July when we began trying, I wanted to think of a fun and clever way to tell Clay. So I found a shirt on Etsy that read “Be nice to me; my wife is pregnant.”

When it arrived I packed it in our suitcase as we were headed to Texas to celebrate my mom’s 60th.

I went a little crazy with the pregnancy tests. I thought sure we were pregnant. I remember feeling nauseous–waking up in the middle of the night with it. I was sensitive to smells, emotional, and well, just felt off. Plus, there was that slight pain in my right side. Surely that was implantation pain.

It wasn’t.

Instead of getting pregnant, I had ended up getting my first ever cyst.

The irony.

We returned home to LA. I never showed Clay the shirt.

The following month, before I ever took a pregnancy test, I wrapped up the shirt in a box one day while Clay was at work — along with a small baby toy in the shape of an anchor I’d found on a walk one day {a story for another time}. I wrote him a note about how I knew we could do this whole “parent” thing because I knew God would be our anchor through it all.

And yet that month I faced yet another negative test…

Not pregnant.

My heart sank heavy in my chest. Why weren’t we pregnant? Why wasn’t this working? Why did I feel God so clearly nudge us to start trying in July if it wasn’t happening?

We prayed about it and felt a peace about taking the month of September off. And yet on the morning of October 3 I stared in disbelief as that second pink line appeared…

Pregnant.

Pregnant. I double checked the instructions on the box to be sure. Yep–two lines equals pregnant.

WHAT?!

Oh my gosh, I’m pregnant. Oh my gosh, I’m pregnant, kept replaying in my mind.

I washed my hands. My heart beat quickly. A smile spread wide across my face. I couldn’t wait to tell Clay.

What joy, I thought. What an amazing God who makes miracles happen.

I opened the bathroom door to find Clay stirring in bed. “You getting up?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can I give you an early birthday present?” I ask.

He smiles. “Sure.”

I reached down below the bed to pull out that gift I’d wrapped over a month ago now. I place it on the bed. He opens it. He takes out the shirt and reads the words and his face looks baffled. His eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

I smile and laugh and nod and say, “Yes! I have no idea how. But I just took a test and I am. We are.”

He pulls out the anchor and reads the note. We talk and dream and laugh and sit in wonder… We’re pregnant. We’re having a baby!

We talked about how God must have been laughing at us all along, thinking we had to plan out our future and our family in the midst of all the unknowns. We both felt a burden lifted and a truly one of the greatest joys wash over that we had ever known. Clearly God had wanted us to be pregnant that month! we both agreed.

I truly cannot describe the joy that filled our souls, the excitement that filled the air, and the wonder that filled our hearts.

During the day, we’d plan and dream. At night Clay would lie on my lap, talking to the baby — which was just about the sweetest thing ever.

The following morning I took a digital test just to confirm. We had some fun taking photos with the test.

And some fun joking around at the pumpkin patch…

This was our first baby bump photo we took before heading to that first appointment. I remember staring down at my belly in awe and wonder at the tiny miracle growing inside.

Little did we know what lie ahead for us in the pages of our story…

. . . . . . .

loss.

Sunday came. I mustered up the strength to shower, put on my best “happy face,” and walk through the doors of church to lead my eighth grade girls small group. A fellow youth leader hugged me and said, “We’re praying for you guys.” My first thought was, “How does she know?” before I realized she was referring to Clay’s job transition out of his role as interim youth director to… well, we aren’t quite sure yet.

Clay was leading one of his last Sundays with the kids. I knew I couldn’t go sit in church without him by my side — I’d be a complete mess. So I drove home. I stopped to drop off an Amazon return on my way. And at 11:43 I walked up the steps of our back patio where I took that photo with those lemons.

When Clay got home, we went on a walk down to look at the ocean. It felt nice to get some fresh air. When we turned back, though, things took an unexpected turn. I started having some bad cramping and low back pain. It became so intense that I would have to stop, doubled over in pain, until it passed.

It came on in waves, almost like… contractions.

I could barely walk. It felt like I was trudging through deep water just to take a step. Clay carried me on his back at one point, but it only made the pain worse.

By the time I made it home I was spotting.

And ten minutes later I was full-on bleeding.

I was losing the baby. Our baby.

My immediate next thought was — Do we go to the hospital? Is is it ectopic? Or am I just miscarrying? 

The doctor had told us to come back to the ER if I experienced intense cramping or bleeding — both of which I was. I called my mom and asked her what we should do. “Go to the ER,” she urged.

I began crying and told her I didn’t want to go back there. “I know, but, Mer, it could save your life.”

“I know,” I said as I hung up the phone, wiped my tears, and quickly packed another bag. Meanwhile Clay ended up on the phone with a gynecologist friend he’d been on a missions trip with. He had caught her up to speed on the last few days and motioned for me to come sit by him on the bed. He put the phone on speaker while she explained that she didn’t think it was ectopic, that she thought I was miscarrying but likely didn’t need to go to the hospital.

I said a quick prayer asking God to nudge me to go if it was ectopic. But I felt a peace about not going.

And so Clay hung up the phone, I took two Tylenol, he brought up my heating pad and we both lay there — me in the fetal position, him rubbing my low back.

The pain was intense. It came on in waves. Each wave of pain was another wave of grief that washed over as the reality of our loss sunk in. Hot tears poured down my face and onto the comforter of our bed. And soon the deep, deep sobs followed.

We lost our baby.

It was almost too much to bear.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully encapsulate, depict or describe the grief and the pain of those first few hours… But I’ll share with you what I wrote in my journal that night. As I passed by all that baby stuff — my pregnancy journal, that onesie my parents had bought, the positive test, the anchor — I had no idea what to do with it all. I wrote a short note to our child, and with tear-filled eyes crawled into bed to write:

October 14, 2018

This isn’t a chapter I would have chosen for us. This isn’t a page I would choose to write in our story. But here I am, and here it is, and it is both.
Today we lost a child.
It seems so trite writing it on paper. I stare at those words, brow furrowed, almost unable to believe they’re true.
The last few days have been a whirlwind of grief, sadness, anger, pain and confusion, but still I held out hope.
5%. That sweet little boy or girl had a 5% chance of making it. And I truly believed — with mustard-seed-sized faith — that God would do it; that He would perform this miracle, that He would reach out with His outstretched arm — His mighty and powerful hand — and bring life and health to our baby.
And yet… “and even if you don’t,” we prayed, “we love you and trust you.”
I opened my Bible tonight to the page where this verse was highlighted — 

Give me your hearts.
Come with fasting, weeping, and mourning.
– Joel 2:12

without even trying or asking God to — well, maybe I did sort of ask Him to speak.
But that’s the thing about our God — He goes before us on the journey, He knows just what we need before we ask for it.
And so tonight I am resting in the arms of the Father — my King, my Healer, the Great Physician, my Companion, my Guide, my Deliverer, my Strength, the One who removed my burdens and replaces them with a silk cape, the One who places a crown on  my head and a staff in my hand, the One who leads me to a seat just at His left side on the throne to show me the world from His point of view, and who commissions me back here for just a short time and assignment.
This is not my true home.
This is not all my hope.
These light and momentary troubles — that feel like gargantuan mountains of grief — are achieving for me an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.
And until then, He’s given me a true, deep blessing in this man who walks by my side, who cries with me, rubs my back and brings me my heating pad, and who runs all sorts of errands and brings me food. And so much more.
But most of all he stands with me in faith, lifts my eyes to Jesus, and speaks truth to my ears when my heart’s full of doubt.

I guess those 5 lemons on our tree signify our family of 5 — one being this sweet baby that we lost today.

Oh sweet love, my baby girl or boy Collier, your daddy and I cannot wait to meet you in Heaven when we get to live in the presence of Jesus — our God who created you.

. . . . . .

on grief and hope and finding out it was twins.

11.18.18

Grief.
Not the emotion you want to characterize your season, days, weeks, marriage.
But grief… it is the very marking of this season.
And yet it’s a season that’s to be filled with gratitude, thanksgiving, and soon anticipation and expectation.

I think of that empty room in our house that was supposed to be the nursery.
Our nursery, for our baby.
Only now we know it was babies.
Two children.
Two parts of us.
Two lives lost to grieve.

Tonight the grief came in a wave stronger than it has in the last few days. I lay in Clay’s arms. He said, “It’s okay if you just need to cry” — and so I did…

Clay and I are both navigating this loss — it just looks different for each of us. At times I’ve felt the Enemy try to tear us apart, pit us against each other, use this trial to separate us.
And yet we are stronger.
And yet God re-orients us…

This season has been messy. Grief is messy.

In no way have I walked this path gracefully. And yet this man is still by my side. And yet my God is still carrying me through.

 

Wave after wave.

That first night I hardly slept. The pain was almost unbearable. I alternated Tylenol and Advil. Clay prayed over me at 3am. I sweated through our sheets. Twice.

The grief came in waves right along with the pain. Wave after wave.

 

A house.

We opened escrow the morning after I began miscarrying. The irony.

Not wanting to be alone, I made the decision to go with Clay to the house to meet the inspector. The listing agent’s assistant greeted me with a big, “Congratulations!”

I stared at her blankly wondering, Why is someone saying that to me?

She clarified, “On the house… Congratulations!”

“Oh, right, thank you.” I did my best to muster a smile.

 

Depression.

I didn’t go through the “normal” stages of grief. I went straight to depression.

The physical pain was so bad that first week. Each time I saw more blood it was a cruel reminder of what was no longer…

I felt empty. A sinking feeling of emptiness. I remember just standing in the middle of our bedroom not knowing what to do. Tears welled in my eyes. Clay stood and I collapsed into his arms.

“I want to hold that baby,” I sobbed. “I feel like I’m missing a part of me…”

I wasn’t really sure how to feel, how to grieve. I prayed for strength to make it through each day. Daily bread. Lord, please just help me get through today.

Even in the midst of depression, I found encouragement–

Isaiah 25:8 “He will swallow up death forever.”

Isaiah 26:3 “You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you.”

Let me tell you — my mind felt anything but steadfast.

 

Brain fog.

I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t think. And yet I was thrust into the whirlwind of planning a move — into a house where we’d no longer be welcoming that baby.

I found myself in the middle of the Container Store where I had an appointment about our bare closet spaces, hot tears pouring down my face. What was I doing here? I was so not ready to be out in the world. I nearly exited and went straight home before they called my name.

At home I’d opened my laptop to try to read an email, and I’d just started crying.

I couldn’t focus.

It felt like my mind was drowning.

 

Anger.

And then there was my not-so-pretty fling with anger.

I once heard it said that God doesn’t mind if we beat on His chest so long as we do. And well, I did my share of beating on God’s chest.

I don’t think God caused our miscarriage or wanted it to happen. I fully believe He grieves with us and that it’s simply a result of us living in a fallen world… but still it’s difficult to understand why He chooses to do certain miracles and not others.

He met me in my grief. He met me in my depression. And He met me right there in my anger. even the weeks when I really didn’t talk much to God, somehow I still began each day with His Word. It was my best effort at the time. And oh, how He met me there.

Even though I never got to hold her, I miss her.
I want to comfort her.

I wrote those words in my journal before turned to find this–

“Sing about a fruitful vineyard
I, the Lord, watch over it,
I water it continually.
I guard it day and night
so that no one may harm it.”
– Isaiah 27:3

“In days to come Jacob will take root,
Israel will bud and blossom
and fill the world with fruit.”
– Isaiah 27:6

Despite the numbness I felt, He showed up. He spoke truth as a light into my darkness. He cracked my angry exterior. And He softened my heart once again… just in time to learn…

 

It was twins.

Over a month went by since the day I miscarried. Clay and I sat in the office of our new doctor as she read the words of our hospital report aloud —

“Two gestational sacs…”

Twins.

It was twins.

It was twins?

It didn’t fully sink in until the following day on a jog. The sobs heaved through me as I began to grieve the loss of a second child, our other baby. It was almost too much to bear — all over again.

Down at the ocean, I looked at those waves — wave after wave. They couldn’t be more appropriate — now more than ever.

I prayed to God for a sign to help me through the grief. Within seconds I looked up the find a small rainbow sitting in one of the whispy clouds just to the left of the sun.

It hadn’t rained. Not one minute later it was gone. I believe it was placed there by the hand of God as a sign for me that He was with me, that He saw me, and that He would carry me through.

 

Hope.

He opened my eyes to see that He has been with me all along, gone before me to pave the way for me to be carried through this horrifying loss.

320 – I remember taking note of the office suite number as I opened the door for our first prenatal appointment. I’d been going to that doctor for years and it had never rung a bell. 3.20 (March 20) was the day Clay took me on our first date. Whenever I see it I am reminded of Ephesians 3:20 — “God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams!” {MSG}.

4:12 – The time I signed in. I remember thinking about how that was the date I was officially Clay’s girlfriend. Another sign of God’s goodness to me.

10:23 – Back at home that night, my phone fell from the back of the couch down onto the cushion randomly. When I picked it up, the screen lit up to reveal… 10:23.

I felt God telling me He was with me from beginning to end. And then I remembered 310:

3.10 – I’d had a dream/vision about this number on April 4. At 3:07am I had awoken and written it down in the notes section of my phone. Over six months later, as we drove to the emergency room, I looked at the clock and noticed — it was 3:10pm. I got chills.

Of course there was 5.55. And then there was 4.14…

I’d been seeing that number for weeks. On October 7 I just so happened to pass buy a home under construction where I though the following so profound that I stopped to take a photo–

I had no idea what it meant.

But exactly one week later as we spoke with the gynecologist on Clay’s phone, the time practically jumped out at me–

4.14.

At 4.14pm, during one of the darkest moments of my life, I felt God’s comfort and presence wash over me.

Looking back now I see there’s no coincidence in the dark background with a ray of light shining through… There is hope in the darkness because God hems me in – both behind and before. He goes before me, He protects me from behind. He’s a good God who gives good gifts — always.

 

The lemon tree.

On July 16, I spotted a baby lemon that had fallen from our tree. I oddly thought of the word “miscarriage” before snapping a photo of it.

Three days later, on July 19, I spotted another.

Only now do I put this together. Only now do I realized the significance. Only now do I see it was a foreshadowing of my story.

It was yet another way God met me on this journey.

I think back to those words He showed me:

“Sing about a fruitful vineyard
I, the Lord, watch over it,
I water it continually.
I guard it day and night
so that no one may harm it.”
– Isaiah 27:3

And thus in the midst of pain and loss, I am called to sing.

 

Gratitude in the grief.

Thanksgiving came and went. I sat around that table and an unexpected wave of grief and sadness overtook. As each family member shared that which they were grateful for, a lump welled in my throat. There was no doubt I had an abundance to be thankful for… but my mind and heart were consumed by the one thing — or two tiny humans — we were no longer expecting.

And yet I am called to sing. To sing, to praise.

I sit before Him now in awe and wonder, in gratitude amidst the grief. For I am confident He’s got this. He’s got them. He’s got me.

I still am not certain what the actual significance of those 5 lemons is. Only time and God will tell. But regardless, I am confident it was an intentional sign from Him and a gift for which I am grateful. And I’ve come to a place in my life where I am trying less to guess and push for God to reveal what He is doing, and attempting more to surrender my life to Him and allow Him to reveal it all in His timing.

For I have seen this to be true — He will.

 

Wave after wave.

11.18.18

“Should you not fear me? declares the Lord.
“Should you not tremble in my presence?
I made the sand a boundary for the sea,
an everlasting barrier it cannot cross.
The waves may roll, but they cannot prevail;
they may roar, but they cannot cross it.”
– Jeremiah 5:22

Wave after wave of trial, of grief, of overwhelming grief, and of life’s burdens, conflict and chaos.

And yet… these words — this truth — shines as a light into my darkness as a beacon of hope into my stormy despair.

That though I face trial, wave after wave of seawater filling my lungs,
evil will not prevail,
death will not win
Satan will not have the final word with my life.

God has set boundaries. Yes, Satan has dominion, but God has won the war.

My God, my King, thank you for this truth.

I am in no way finished with the grieving process. I feel I am very much still in the midst of it. There is much processing to do, much praying to be done, much seeking God’s truth in the midst of doubts and fears and lies that creep in.

And yet I am confident this is only the beginning of the beauty He will bring from these ashes.

For I have seen Him to meet me in my wave after wave of grief with wave after wave of hope through His truth, presence and power.

. . .

Friend, are you going through a dark time? Are you hurting?

My prayer is that you would turn to God and not from Him. Because God never leaves us or abandons us when He brings us from something. He always, always, always carries us, points us and lifts our eyes to something else — to new hope, to new life, to new beauty, to new light.

No matter how dark your journey may look now, I promise that if you turn to God, He will show up, He will reveal Himself to you, and He will give you strength to stand, to step — one foot in front of the other, and to run once again toward His Kingdom purposes, toward His Kingdom come on this earth, one step closer each day to our true home where we will live in the fullness of the sliver of hope we see today.