A Year of Freedom

Since 2013, I have asked the Lord to give me a word for each year. This year, I compiled those words in one place—and then sat in awe as I reflected on all the ways the Lord had brought that word to pass, some of which I couldn’t have seen until now.

2013 – brave: The year we moved to Plainview, and I learned how to make new friends. Again.

2014 – grace: The year of multiple failed fertility treatments, including two failed IVF rounds.

2015 – hope: The year I lost all hope in God’s plans for our family.

2016 – redeem: The year He began to heal me and rebuild my faith.

2017 – peace: The year of chaos and changes.

2018 – anticipation: The year He told us a baby was coming in 2019.

2019 – promises fulfilled: The year He brought our precious miracle.

2020 – joy: The year in which I experienced great loss and pain, and yet so much joy.

My word for 2021 is freedom.

Free from fear. Free from offense. Free from other people’s opinions.

Freedom in Christ comes after the good and hard work of healing.

This week, the Lord brought me back to an old blog post I wrote to remind me that He’s healing those places in me that were sad and broken and wounded in 2020.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” Ps. 147:3

Heals = râphâh – lit. to mend (by stitching); fig. to cure, heal, repair, make whole

Binds = châbash – to wrap firmly

I love the word pictures in this verse. The word for heal here literally means to stitch or to mend, so when it says God heals the brokenhearted, it means He takes our hearts, and He sews the pieces back together; He carefully, meticulously stitches the broken seams, the tattered and torn places of our hearts.

I don’t sew, but having watching my sister sew (she’s amazing at it!), I know it requires precision and accuracy—it cannot be rushed. And to stitch, to make repairs by hand, is an even slower process. So this work that God is doing when He is healing our broken hearts: it’s careful, it’s calculated—and it’s slow.

But the end result is beautiful because within this same word, râphâh, it means to make whole. So He doesn’t just start stitching and mending and then set us aside to work on someone else. No, He carefully holds our hearts in His hand, and with needle and thread, He sews, He stitches, He mends our brokenness—until we are whole, until we are healed.

The other verb here—to bind—is equally as tender. Literally, this means to wrap up, and the Lord gave me this beautiful picture of taping an ankle that’s been broken or sprained. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to practice wrapping someone’s ankle (or even harder—your own!), such as for an athletic event, but let me tell you, it’s not easy! Those who are skilled in taping ankles will tell you it takes a lot of practice. And what I’ve learned is that there is a definite pattern and technique. You can’t just wrap the tape like so—you have to follow an order, a pattern so that the ankle is tight and secure. Wrapping of this kind is an art.

And in the same way, the Lord takes our wounds, and again, He skillfully and knowingly wraps them; He binds them up in the perfect way, to keep the wound covered, secure, and in place. His binding of our wounds is His protection. He doesn’t leave our wounds gaping open. No, He tenderly wraps them as He knows how and allows our wounds to heal under His protective covering. This, too, takes time.

The beauty of râphâh and châbash is that He holds my heart—and because He mends the brokenhearted, because He binds up the wounded, I am safe and free. This is why the psalmists declare over and over that He is our safe place, our hiding place, our shelter, our protection, our covering.

He holds me and secures me and covers me and protects me—so that I can be free to fully live. Free to fully give. Free to fully believe Him, unrestricted, uninhibited. Because to really believe Him for the desires of our heart—whatever that desire may be—is always a risk, and it’s costly. But, really, it’s a safe bet—even if it doesn’t feel like it:

Because He is for me.

Because He is with me.

Because in Him, I am safe and covered.

In Him, I am free.

Miracle from Heaven

We have seen God perform miracle after miracle this year—from His provision to His yes to His word of comfort to me when Howell found me sprawled on the bathroom floor, in and out of consciousness. All I could say each time the pain subsided was our baby is going to be okay. God told me so.

But I need to start at the beginning…

Last December, the Lord told us we would have a baby in 2019. We felt both excited and a bit doubtful. After all, over the last eight years, God has given us a lot of words confirming that we will have children—and sometimes, we’ve even thought we heard him say a specific time frame, only to be disappointed with another “not yet,” “not this year.”

With the little faith we had, we bought a crib on December 27 and began to wonder whether we were supposed to try fertility again or pursue adoption again—all paths we’ve tried before. We made an appointment in January with our fertility specialist—a consultation—and we decided we’d let God tell us through her. She’d journeyed with us these long eight years, and if she thought there’s nothing left to try, then so be it.

To our surprise, she suggested IVF—one more time. It had been five years since we tried it the first time—and since then, God had healed so many parts of my body, miraculous changes that even she had witnessed.

God opened all the doors and provided us so much peace. Everything about the process was easy—even taking 4,592 shots. 😊 The appointments fell on perfect non-teaching days. My body was responding as it should. And the timing for the egg retrieval and transfer came at spring break, the ideal week for no stress. Then we waited, as we’ve waited so many times before.

IVF Transfer Day!

On March 20, I took yet another home test (impatient for the blood test we’d have later that morning). I can’t tell you how many hundreds of them I’ve taken over the years. All negative. Always “not pregnant” flashing on the screen. We held our breath in the bathroom, and then the words appeared, words I’d not once seen and have long desired: “pregnant.”

When I began to weep—really more like wail, I couldn’t even recognize the sound coming out of the depths of me. Howell had to check the test again—and then said, “it’s positive right?” and we had a good laugh despite the tears running down my face.

Our miracle had begun to form, to take shape, to grow and develop as he or she should.

Every day felt like a battle of fear. I would declare God’s word to us over and over, repeating every scripture I’d ever memorized. And the longer we stretched through the first trimester, the more confidence I gained. This was happening. Our baby was coming. He or she continued to grow and progress perfectly, which is why—when I found myself writhing in pain on the floor at almost ten weeks, when God told me our baby would live, I believed him. 

Howell wanted to go to the hospital right away, but I kept saying, it’s okay, the baby is ok—God said so. He began to pray over me in that bathroom, quoting scripture and declaring God’s word over us. After several minutes of intense pain, I gave in and told him to help me up because I didn’t want to pay for an ambulance (ha!). But I blacked out again in his arms, and despite my wishes, ended up being carried by two EMTs moments later.

Not fifteen minutes after we got to the ER, we had a sonogram and knew right away we still had a heartbeat. The tech got a different sonogram machine and did more searching—and less talking. Then the doctor gave us the news: I had a heterotopic pregnancy, which meant I had one embryo in utero and one ruptured embryo in my fallopian tube. They wanted to send us to Lubbock right away for the surgery, as already I had blood in my abdomen, which was the main source of my pain. Our fertility specialist stood by in Lubbock, ready to do the procedure with confidence that she could do the surgery and still save the one in utero.

I ended up being air lifted to Lubbock, where I was in surgery within minutes after landing. Afterwards, our doctor said the flight saved my life. I’d lost 1.7 liters of blood, which is a lot. They transfused me with blood during surgery—and for the next several days afterwards. While the ruptured ectopic pregnancy is dangerous, so is the bleeding disorder I've been diagnosed with for years—and together, they created the perfect storm.

But we know the One who walks on water, who calms the raging seas, who tells us, “do not be afraid.”

I’ve never felt so covered in prayer. So many were literally standing in the gap for us. One of our friends happened to be in the neighborhood and was praying over me as they wheeled me out of the house. Other friends were at the ER as soon as we got there and immediately started praying over us.  Even the precious care flight crew paused before loading me to pray with us. And I kept telling everyone who came—the baby is going to be okay. God said so. 

The Plainview and Lubbock waiting rooms were full of people who prayed and believed, not only for my life but for our baby’s life as well.

We grieve the one we did not know, will not get to meet. But we rejoice for the baby who is coming. He or she is a trooper, a fighter, a survivor. An answered prayer. A promise fulfilled. 

Our God is good and gracious and powerful. And He’s not done yet. These next two trimesters are going to be full of peace and joy and anticipation.

His word is true: with God, nothing is impossible. He has delivered on his promise to us. What He has done for me, He can do you for you. 

We give him thanks and praise and all the glory. 

P.S. I need a few more lines to say how incredible my husband has been during all of this. I knew I’d married a powerful man of God. I knew I loved him deeply. He has been my best friend and my partner in all things for the last almost eleven years. But my love for him has deepened in a way I can’t describe. His inability to leave my bedside. His patience and tenderness as he’s showered me, dressed me, and bandaged my incisions. His hard work to do every.single.thing around the house, from laundry to dishes, while I’ve been homebound. His persistence to pray over me, as he has these eight long years, and to believe with me that God has answered our prayers, that He will deliver on His word.

If you are single, my friend, never, ever, ever settle for less than a man who will love you when you are pale and weak and in need of his airplane noises while he spoon-feeds you Jell-O.

A Letter to the Not-Yet Mom

To the Not-Yet Mom from a Not-Yet Mom:

I’ve been on this not-yet journey for seven years, and I was thinking recently about how much pressure I have felt—and sometimes still feel—about all the things I could “do” to make this desire in my heart a reality. (As if I am sovereign, and He is not.)

Do you ever feel that way?

Well-intentioned people will have plenty of suggestions about what you could or should do, like stay away from plastic, gluten, dairy, sugar, diet drinks, and so on. Or they'll suggest a variety of products, vitamins, regimens, etc. because of someone they know who did X or Y, and SHE got pregnant.

That doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the fertility conversation—what doctor to go to, what hormones to take, what procedures to do.

Here’s the truth: People mean well—they really do. And for the most part, they don’t know what to say or how to help, so they fall back on what they know or have heard, especially if they haven’t actually walked through infertility.

But friends, can I be real with you?

It’s way too easy to get sucked into the “if I do this, then” trap.

Bottom line?

Women get pregnant every day—because God opens their womb and causes them to carry a baby.

The Bible is very clear that God creates and sustains life. No one else. Nothing else. Period.

Read your Sarah stories and Rachel stories and Hannah stories and Elizabeth stories. Want to know why they conceived? Because God opened their womb at the exact moment, at the exact time He said He would.

I’m not saying you can’t take the pills and eat the diet—or even that those things don’t help. (Trust me, I've done them—and am doing them.)

But what I want for you, and for me, is FREEDOM from the pressure that we have to do or be or say just the right things to MAKE this happen in our bodies.

Be prayerful about what you do or don’t do—but the only voice of wisdom you have to hear from is God’s. And fortunately for us, He’s promised to give us wisdom anytime we ask for it (James 1:5).

Rest, my friend, in God’s goodness and in His perfect plan. I know the LAST thing you want to hear right now is to wait on His timing. Believe me, I went through a season where I loathed the phrase. But it’s the truth—He knows what He’s doing.

I’m here if you need me. And I’m always praying—for you and for me.

~

Laura

He's in the Waiting

“Take courage, my heart. Stay steadfast, my soul. He’s in the waiting.”

What a powerful chorus. This song—"Take Courage" by Kristene Di Marco—stays on repeat in my house, in my car.

We’re in a season of waiting. Still.

Seven years and counting. That's how long we’ve been eagerly seeking Him for children, for the greatest desire of our heart. In almost ten years of marriage, 70% of that time has passed with hope deferred. 80 months of delayed answers, of no, not this time, not yet.

The Lord’s word to me this year is Anticipation.

Wait. Hope. Expect. Anticipate.

I’m reminded of the verse He gave me a long time ago: “Those who wait/hope/trust/expect in the Lord will not be disappointed.”

If ever I feel disappointed, my trust has moved to something else, a false hope, a wrong expectation.

“But those who wait on the Lord…”

“He is actively working on behalf of those who wait on Him.”

I feel like I’m in a holding pattern, suspended but on the brink of a new season. I can feel it. I anticipate it.

Holding my breath, as I wait…

For doors to open,

For dreams to happen,

For promises to be answered.

In the last seven years, what I’ve found is captured so well in this song. When I want to forget, when I doubt, when it feels too long, too impossible: He’s in the waiting.

The song says, “Take Courage,” the very words Jesus spoke to His disciples in Matthew 14 when the storm came, and they feared for their lives.

A little while earlier, Jesus had sent them ahead of himself. And now, maybe they feel abandoned. John 6 says, “It was near dark, and Jesus had not yet come.”

Ever feel that way?

But then, there He is. Walking on the water.

Take courage, He says.

Because He knew. He always knows the outcome.

In this moment, the disciples have the opportunity to witness a miracle, a glimpse of His power.

In this moment, Peter has the chance to go deeper in His faith.

All the events culminate to the here, the now.

Yes, there’s a storm. Yes, Jesus had not yet come, and now they feel abandoned.

But it’s like He says, Take courage. Here I am. And I’m giving you something rare and powerful, an experience, an encounter you won’t forget.

Though we face unknowns, though our hearts are full of anticipation, I sense it even now:

He’s here. He knows. He’s got a spectacular story for us. 

For you.

I don't know what your heart longs for, my friend. I don't know how long you've been waiting. But I do know this, our God is a good Father, our Jesus is never delayed, and our Holy Spirit is present, full of power and comfort and grace. 

“Take courage, my heart. Stay steadfast, my soul. He’s in the waiting.”

Swinging Pendulum

Sometimes I feel like my life can be described in two modes—dieting or not dieting.

Do y’all know what I mean?

I’ll start a diet and count all the numbers and say No to all the yummy things, and then I’ll get down to a weight—maybe not my goal weight, but I start to feel good about myself, and those jeans aren’t so tight now, and so what would it hurt to throw in a cookie with my salad. I was healthy. I deserve a little treat, right?

And then BAM. Let the backsliding begin.

A little treat becomes a lot of treats. They’re oh so good. And my jeans still fit, so what’s the harm?

But before I know it, I’m back to that weight, the number that’s like my attention-getter, and I hunker down into serious mode, and everyone around me knows—okay, folks, it’s time to diet again.

No, sorry, I can’t eat your delicious dessert. I’m dieting.

Sorry, I’m not eating bread. Thanks.

And I tell myself, when I start to get back to that “Yeah, this is good” weight I will keep eating like this. It’ll be a lifestyle. Because I feel so much better when I eat the good-for-me food. And so of course, I’m going to stick with it this time.

But then we get invited for Mexican food. And yeah, I should order the taco salad, but man, there’s queso and those enchiladas…..

And voilà. The cycle repeats. It’s like Dr.Eggerichs’ crazy cycle but instead of love and respect, it’s salad or lasagna.

So, can I be vulnerable, friends? (Yeah, more vulnerable than just confessing what my nutritional cycle looks like on an annual basis. Ha!)

This journey with infertility feels a little like my diet cycle.

Although instead of ‘dieting’ or ‘not dieting,’ it sometimes feels like faith or fear.

I’m full of faith, completely believing that God has good things for us, that we’ve heard His Word on this, that I’m healed and whole and completely capable of bearing children.

And then there’s one little slip up. Like that cookie I eat with my salad.

Maybe I really thought I’d be pregnant one month, but I wasn’t. And instead of running to my good Father with my heart, I protect it. Just a little.

Then a small lie creeps in, a quiet voice that tells me it’s my fault. If I’d had more faith. If I’d done this or that (or not eaten all. the. bread.), then maybe we would’ve gotten pregnant this month.

And then that little lie blossoms into more fear, more doubt.

Before I know it, I’m not just protecting my heart, I’m full-blown hiding it, avoiding the topic, the prayers, the declarations of faith altogether.

But it’s harvest season again. This time of year does something to my heart. I told you last fall how inspired I felt by the neighboring farm, ripe with cotton to harvest.

Our farmers plant seeds, in faith, and expect to see the fruits. They hope for what they cannot see. But they believe—

That God provides.

That God is good.

That God creates and sustains all things.

So here I am—driving by bolls of white cotton every day—and I’m reminded of the faith that He deposited in me, of the promise He’s given me, over and over and over again.

“He makes the barren woman to be the joyful mother of children.”

Dr. Eggerichs talks about how the crazy cycle in marriage is not something we ever stay off of completely, even in the best of marriages (can you tell we’re leading this marriage life group, and I’ve got Love and Respect on the brain?). He says the goal is how quickly you can recognize that you’re ON the crazy cycle and get off it.

Maybe that’s the application here, too. It’s probably unrealistic to think that I’ll be full of faith all the time. Never doubting. Never struggling to believe. Never weary.

But when I get in that place, I’ve got recognize it and get off the cycle quicker.

How about you, my friends?

Maybe it’s not about fertility for you, but is there something you’re believing God for? Is there a dream He’s placed in your heart? Do you battle with fear and doubt?

Let’s recognize when we’re headed down the path of lies and speak truth to our hearts once again.

Planting Seeds of Faith: Reminders This Harvest Season

It’s harvest season around here—a time of year when our farmers work long hours.

At 10:30, in full darkness, after the kids are all asleep, and you’re in your PJs, many of our farmers are still on the combine, their headlights like bright stars in an expansive darkness.

We don’t farm, but we live next to a field, and this year they planted cotton.

For weeks, I’ve been driving by and thinking, I’ve got to capture that field—a blanket across the land with bolls like big, fluffy snowflakes.

I’ve always admired fields of white cotton. I remember as a kid, after the farmers had harvested and taken their modules to the gin, their trucks left behind white sheets along the side of the highway.

As a five- or six-year-old kid, I remember thinking it had snowed.

Only it wasn’t flakes of frozen moisture.

For the last several weeks, I keep looking at white fields.

Every day passing them on my way to and from work.

And thinking of the fruit of one’s labor—the present reality of a promise delivered.

What was once only seed and hope is now birthed and fully grown, ready to be received.

When they planted and watered and waited, they were believing for, hoping for the evidence of things unseen.

Isn’t that what faith is?

Pastor Paul said last week that we exercise our faith by standing in the presence of the future.

A leap of faith is a leap only because one’s feet must leave what is present reality for what is unknown, uncertain, unseen—and one must stand, placing her foot on the other end of the gap, to say, “This is what I believe for my future.”

I shy away from that sometimes, from making bold declarations of faith because aren’t I then held to that expectation? Won’t I be judged for whether it comes to pass?

But to remain so means my feet are stuck, are glued only in reality.

No leaping. No daring. No believing. No planting.

That’s the picture I’ve had lately as I pass these fields.

I’d be like a farmer who didn’t put seed in the ground for fear that nothing would produce.

Yet our farmers live by faith ever year, season to season.

And now, it’s harvest time—the blessing of yesterday’s unknown becomes the present of what was once future.

So, I’m daring today, to plant a seed of faith—a word that’s out there that I’ve been too scared to say in this space.

I am healed.

Despite former diagnoses related to infertility, I believe God has fully healed my body, that my reproductive system is whole and restored.

He doesn’t call me Barren One.

He has opened my womb, and He’ll make me to be the joyful mother of children.

So why would I be scared to say so?

Well…this didn’t just happen. God has healed my body every month for about 18 months, and every month, I witness the evidence of my healing.

If I’m taking this leap of faith only to silence the doubt, then so be it.

Doubt says, why have we not conceived if I’m healed? After 18 months, why is my status unchanged?

I don’t have an answer for that.

But I submit my heart to His Lordship.

I submit my heart to the King.

He knows all things.

He knows what I need and when I need it.

He holds time in His hands.

But for a year and a half, Howell and I have been timidly holding this little seed of faith.

In secret, we water it; we shower it with prayer.

We expose it to the sunlight and comfort of only those closest to us.

But on the whole, it’s been hidden.

And now, I feel like the Lord keeps telling me, it’s harvest season!

It’s time.

I’m planting my stake, the word of my mouth and all that’s in my heart, in the Promised Land.

I’m standing today for my future reality.

I used to read Joseph’s story and think he was crazy for telling his brothers about his dream. Why didn't he just keep his mouth shut?

But I now know it took courage and boldness to share what he did. And to continue to believe.

It says in Psalm 105:19, “Until what He said came to pass, the Word of the Lord tested him [Joseph].”

God’s word over us—that He’ll make me to be a joyful mother of children—continues to test us, month after month when we see no result.

But we believe the words we’ve heard, and the dozens and dozens of prophetic words spoken over us, we receive them.

I pass fields of white cotton.

Promise upon promise of yields planted in faith.

And I declare, our harvest will come.

A Lesson from Two Tenacious Women

This week I have been drawn to two different places in the New Testament—one, a parable, and the other, a testimony of Jesus healing a woman.

The story of the woman with the issue of blood has always intrigued me—even as a child. When I was six, I was diagnosed with von Willebrand’s disease, and I spent much of first and second grade in the nurse's office for one or two hours with uncontrollable nosebleeds. It sure felt like an ‘issue of blood’!

The story resonates with me still—as a woman diagnosed with various infertility diseases and negative reports.

I know how it feels to “spend all my money on a physician” and “not be healed by anyone” (Luke 8:43).

And so I’m inspired by this woman who knows what she has to do—and she reaches out to touch Jesus.

She acts in accordance with her faith to receive her healing.

She doesn’t know if it will work, but she does it anyway: “If only I may touch the hem of his garment” (Matthew 9:21).

Source: YouVersion Bible App

Not only is she healed, but Jesus says her faith has made her well.

It seems like a crazy leap from here to the parable of the persistent widow in Luke 18—but both women are tenacious.

Persistent. Relentless. Determined.

When I was 16, a woman prophesied over me that I have a spirit of tenacity. I had to look up the word at the time, but today I hold onto that when my soul needs encouraging.

The persistent widow is tenacious. She, too, acts in accordance with what she believes.

As I was re-reading the parable this week, I was struck by Jesus’ last statement: “I tell you [God] will give justice to them speedily, but when the Son of Man returns will he find faith?” (v. 8).

What a question to end with!

When I don't see the outcome, will my faith remain? Will my belief persist? 

Bill Johnson once gave an illustration about faith that will forever stay with me. He said that when we go to a pizza place and ask for a large pepperoni, we get our receipt—that ticket with our number that proves we’ll get the pizza.

While we wait, we don’t actually have the pizza.

But we have the confidence that it’s been purchased, and we have the ticket, the words—that’s our faith, our assurance that the pizza will come.

Dear friends, what are you believing God for? What are His promises for you?

If you don’t see them delivered today, don’t lose heart.

Hold on to your ticket—your faith and assurance—that He will always deliver on His word.

You may need to act. Or you may need to wait and persistently ask.

Both require boldness and courage and faith.

The Lord’s heart is always good toward us—to heal, to restore, to defend, to redeem. 

He is rich in mercy.

Your answer may be immediate (Luke 8:44), or it may require night-and-day persistent prayer, but take heart because His word is truth, and He always keeps His word. 

Click to Tweet: When we don't see the outcome, will our belief persist? @Grace2Write shares a lesson from two persistent women. 

His Joy Comes in the Morning

The year comes to an end, and in some ways, I feel 2015 is closing as 2014 did. We end again with loss and grief and hope deferred.

My family was discussing this recently—and noting that these last four years have been some of our hardest, maybe ever. My parents lost parents—and I have no more blood grandparents (thank God for two grandmothers by marriage or a whole generation would be gone completely). 

We’ve been through breast cancer and heart surgery at the end of a year of chemo and radiation. We’ve watched hair fall out and heads shaved while hearing ‘negative’ 14 times from the fertility office. My parents have six grandbabies in Heaven. Six. Who can endure four years of that?

But as I sit here this morning, when my heart could be sick from hope deferred, I am reminded of the choice before me: I choose joy and peace and gratitude. I choose to be content and to see the blessings.

We’ve faced a lot as a family since 2011.

But we’ve conquered a lot, too. And we’ve laughed a lot. And we’ve witnessed all the good.

Two weddings and a precious baby boy.

New houses, new jobs.

Dreams come true, and new dreams to come.

A cancer-free report again, and again, and again.

At the end of 2015, we still have each other: wonderful parents, in-laws, and siblings; blessed marriages, houses, and cars; and an 18-month-old, who is our hope and joy and light in the midst of what sometimes feel dark and painful.

On January 1, 2015, Howell and I made the decision to do nothing this year but live life. No more fertility treatments. No more adoption classes. Nothing.

Because after four tough years, we needed 12 months of each other.

And I’m thankful on December 31, 2015 for the memories we made.

Three ski trips, a half-a-dozen lake trips, eight days in San Diego, weekends away—in Dallas, in Santa Fe, in any place that was within six driving hours and had a king-sized bed. 

We’ve logged thousands of miles in the car this year—just us or with our fur-babies—and with every click forward on the odometer, the grief in our hearts is wiped away.

When Brad Paisley’s voice fills the cab of Howell’s truck with questions of how the love for his spouse could be more today than way back then, I smile because I feel it too.

I wish at the close of this year, I could announce a pregnancy with something clever like a third stocking, an unopened present, or a new year’s surprise, but while I still carry my dreams, I keep them securely placed in my Father’s chest, and every time I want to take a quick peek, he reminds me that I can trust His heart.

If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that my Father loves me more than I can comprehend. It’s something fierce and powerful, and it cannot be undone.

He can’t un-love me; neither can He love me more.

His love is immeasurable and complete.

When I doubt His plans for me, I doubt how great His love is.

When I feel hopeless, I’ve misplaced His great love, trading it for my plans, which pale in comparison.

His love is no longer cliché to me. It’s my security and my peace, my comfort and my hope.

When I believe His love is enough, I know I’m enough.

And when I’m less concerned with whether I’m enough, I can see others who need to know they are enough too.

I can tell that struggling college student, I know what it’s like—and you can overcome. This too shall pass. 

I can tell my struggling mom-friend, I see you, and I’m sorry for the hard days. They are real, and it’s okay to feel it.

When I believe how much He loves me, I can trust His heart. And I am set free.

Free to be me. Free to run in my lane and live in my margin.

I don’t have to compare or contrast.

I can empathize from my lane without bitterness or jealousy. I can be thankful and grateful in my lane without losing compassion for those in another lane.

The desire to be a mom is no less today than last year, but an amazing thing happened over these last 12 months: I learned life in my lane is pretty great too.

I can play with my nephew—who has my heart and my love in a way I’ve never known. I can take the pictures and sing the silly songs and treasure those sweet moments of hugs and snuggles.

But I can also sleep 9 (ish :)) hours without the interruptions—the runny nose and fever, the 2 a.m. throw up. I can take trips when I want to or randomly plan a date night in Amarillo or drop everything to see a movie and eat popcorn for dinner.

Don’t get me wrong—I still long for the day when my margin is expanded and a new mom-column is added, but this lane has its own perks. And I can see them when I’m not trying to run in someone else’s lane.

I’ve also learned this year that it’s okay to feel all the feels, as my good friend Jen Hatmaker would say. And it’s okay to be vulnerable.

When I’m hurting, it’s okay to tell someone. Text those friends I trust the most. Ask for prayers. Let someone else speak truth when I cannot.

It’s okay to ask for help. This is sometimes the most courageous thing I can do—and it’s worth it every time.

This year—more than any other—I’ve not only been okay with me, I’ve been okay with letting others see the real me. (She’s pretty awesome.)

And finally, I’ve learned that while emotions lie, His word never does. I can tuck His word deep into my heart, and it stands. Forever. Eternally true.

Not that this post has to be advicey, but if there’s advice to be offered, it’s this:

Pain and suffering is inevitable in this life; even Jesus said so. But joy is our choice, and it’s worth it.

Hope deferred happens—for whatever reason—to everyone, but His love is never deferred. It is ever-present to comfort and secure.

Comparison is a trap (don’t we all know it?), but life is great when you live with gratitude in your own lane.

The end of 2015 really has been hard, but I feel like the Lord has asked me not to throw away all of 2015 because of that. 

I believe 2016 is going to be a great year. This year we will see prayers answered and dreams accomplished. God is going to pour out blessing on our family—so much that we cannot contain it. I can’t wait to see how He chooses to unfold these gifts before us. Already, today, my cup runs over.

When Hope Feels Lost...

I finished a whole cup of coffee this morning before getting ready. I love when that happens. The last gulp was still hot.

I have a million things on my plate. I feel slammed at work. Five classes. Four preps. And in the last seven days, I’ve graded hundreds of pages of documents ranging from reports to cover letters to instructions to topic proposals. I am presenting at an academic conference today, and I’m still making the final push to polish my manuscript and send it off to my first opportunity for a potential agent. 

I feel tired just typing that...

But this week, this morning, this verse keeps running through my head: “And now hope does not disappoint…” 

It’s actually a line that runs through my main character’s head as she struggles with the loss she faces and the emptiness she feels. A reminder—hope is not lost. 

I think God has it running through my head now. 

HOPE

Hope was His word for me on Jan 1, 2015. A Year of Hope. A dear friend bought me a necklace with those very letters inscribed on it. H. O. P. E. 

The necklace was my Christmas gift. A God gift. 

At the time, we had just lost our last two embryos—the two we hoped would become our children.

I didn’t feel very hopeful when I opened that gift.

Over the last ten months, God has shown me the power of hope—not in my circumstances, not in my desires, not in my outcome.

But in Him.

The rest of the verse says, “And now hope does not disappoint because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who given to us.”

I cling to verses like Psalm 25:3: “Those who wait/trust/hope in the Lord will not be disappointed/put to shame/kept waiting.”

There are several ways to translate that verse, but what a promise!

Where is our hope? In Jesus.

Why? Because of God’s great love for us.
How? Through the Holy Spirit.

I've blogged before those wise words from my pastor: "if you're disappointed in the gap, then your faith is not in God. God does not disappoint."

His hope does. not. disappoint. 

Friend, if you feel disappointed today, put your hope in Jesus again.

Remind yourself who you are in Christ.

Remind yourself that you have God’s Spirit inside of you.

Remind yourself how much your Heavenly Dad loves you.

He really does. And He won’t disappoint. He won’t put you to shame. He won’t keep you waiting.

It took me almost two months before I could wear my HOPE necklace. But I wear it every day. And every day I am reminded I have hope in Jesus.