What a new year needs

I may have had a sort of smallish epiphany, if epiphanies can be smallish. It was like something which had been stirring and foggy somehow became clear and still.

I'm a teacher. And I hear stories every day. Stories about girls and stories about boys. Stories about moms and stories about dads. Stories about friends and stories about drama. A lot of stories. But there's something different when I hear the story behind the kid who sits in that seat right there. Or the story which makes that kids's hoodie and earbuds and sunglasses all of a sudden make sense. Or the story that gives meaning to the sad, bloodshot, weary eyes. These are different stories altogether. 

And these are the ones which break my heart.

It started when I was part of a school workshop with 12 other staff members and 120 students. It started when I heard their stories. Or pieces of their stories. And when we talked about how we are as a whole disconnected. It started when I sat knee to knee with a boy I had never met and we had to talk to each other, maintain eye contact, and maintain our fist bump--a physical connection.

In an era of facebook and twitter and instagram and snapchat and pinterest, do we ever really have a face to face conversation with anyone anymore? Or are our conversations and meaningful interactions reduced to pinning and tweeting and liking without ever really seeing? Without ever really hearing?

And what if at the heart of all that's hard, it's this: We are disconnected. From each other. From our friends. From our kids. From our spouses. From our God. What if we have replaced the act of actually talking with virtually talking? The act of actually connecting with virtual smiley faces? And let's think about all that's missing from that. There's no eye contact, no hand holding,

 no hugging, no smiling, no connection.

We were created by a loving God to be connected to others. We were created to be in community. We were never meant to go life alone. To Adam, He gave Eve because He saw a need for a partner, for community, for connection.

God saw such a need for community and connection, that He sent Jesus. Jesus as a baby. A weak and vulnerable and helpless baby, who needed Mary to care for Him and nurture Him and love Him. But Jesus lived a life of intimate community. He created the ultimate community. He walked hundreds of miles with His closest friends. He spent His time, all of it, connecting--purposefully--with others. Why? Because we need that. 

And Jesus showed us how.

And really, don't we all want that. To be known. To be loved despite what you might know about me. To be loved regardless of my fears and my insecurities. To know that you'll still be right here tomorrow. To hold my hand. To give me a hug. To look in my eyes and tell me it'll be okay. To sit and watch a silly movie. To go to coffee with me. To just be. And that I'll be the same for you.

And if I'm completely honest, I think it's sometimes terrifying to really be connected, to authentically connect. To really have people know me. It's daunting to take off my masks of "Okay" and "Fine" and "Capable" and "Strong" and in so doing, announce that perhaps I am none of these things. What if you don't like the real me? What if you judge the real me? What if you reject the real me? And so we keep the masks, we keep tweeting, we keep posting status updates, we keep feeding the technological disconnect which feeds a physical disconnect so we can avoid true community.

We lean away when we should be leaning in.

I know this flies in the face of what's comfortable and what's safe and what's easy. Community is never easy. Community means we take the very real reality of being deeply hurt, because people are broken and messy, embrace it, expect it, and love hard anyway. True friendships take time. And empathy. Empathy takes commitment to walk that hard road with someone. Even if it's inconvenient or uncomfortable or painful. 

Jesus did this. Every day. He stayed with his closest friends. He walked the hard road with them, metaphorically and literally. He didn't walk away when life got hard. No, he leaned in more. He loved deeper. He gave more. He met them where they were and then loved them right there. Why should we be any different? Why should we live any differently?

The littlest people in my family show me community every day. In fact, I think they live and breathe community. K and A have never known loneliness because they know each other.  It's fascinating to watch them live out one of the deepest kinds of relationships as it's different than just siblings. And it's not like they are two pieces of the same person, because they clearly have their own unique ideas about life. They have never not known each other. They go to sleep hearing the other's breath. 

They know what comforts each other and what pushes buttons. 

And what they know about each other comes from being together.

They unconditionally accept the foibles and faults and vices in each other. A will tell me frankly, but never meanly, that K will cry to get her way. K will tell me honestly and kindly that A's hand smells because she sucks her thumb. They hug and hold hands and skip together.They love generously and fight loudly and forgive selflessly. They play alone and then together. They have community built in the warp and weft of their being.  

And sometimes I envy that built in connection. 

The rest of us have to work at what comes so naturally to these two.

Perhaps many of our society's problems stem from this lack of connection, physically, emotionally, spiritually. One only has to read the latest headlines to see pain and suffering. And those stories tell a sad tale of people desperately and tragically hurting others because there's an enormous deficit in their own hearts. 

It's like the classmates we had in school who misbehaved because they wanted attention and any kind of attention would do, even the bad kind. I think as the age of technology and disconnect and discontent has grown so have the incidents of people hurting others, as though the only way to wage that war inside is to focus all the hurt and anger and loneliness upon someone else.

What if there was a cure? An antidote. A new beginning. A new start. A new way. 

A leaning in instead of leaning away.

I was brokenhearted to meet a young lady who admitted she would often cut herself, inflict physical pain, in order to release endorphins that would then mask her internal pain. A young man admitted that he masks what's going on inside with sarcasm or anger. 

And as he shared more of his story, it's apparent he has much to be angry about and much to be hurt about, but he has no one to share that with.  

The common denominator: 

lack of community, lack of true connections with other people.

I'll be honest. This is scary. There are broken, busted people walking everywhere and they've got no one and nothing. I'm somewhat convinced that kids are doing drugs or drinking alcohol or having sex or bullying others or bringing weapons to school or engaging in otherwise unhealthy behaviors because they have unspeakable pain and they've got no community, or the community they have is engaging in the same because they've got pain too and misery loves company. So they cover it up. They break others so they don't break. They hurt others to ease that terrible pressure and pain inside. 

They hurt themselves so they don't splinter into fragments.

I think we can change this culture. I think we can change this. It's a new year. 

And sure it's probably gonna bring some hard. 

But perhaps it can also hold a new season of intentional connection. 

It's not gonna be easy. But it is simple.

We make an effort to engage in face to face conversations. Even if it's hard. Even if it's uncomfortable. Even if it feels crazy. We lean in more.

We make an effort to reach out and offer empathy. We walk with someone on their hard road, not pass them by and wave as they muddle on. We step into the mud and mire with them. We love them there and hold their hands and love them through.

We make an effort to be real. I'm not good at creating community. It's not my forte. I can do empathy. I can do conversations. But it's harder for me to be real. To be authentic and vulnerable and real. But I'm realizing that I need community. And it's hard with kids and commitments and work and making dinner and folding laundry. But perhaps intentionally developing deeper relationships will make all that other stuff less stressful because I'll have a well to draw from.

This commitment will have to extend beyond just me though. Because there's kids who need to know Jesus loves them. And they might not get another opportunity. I might not get another opportunity. As I humbly work to cultivate deeper community in my own life it will become easier to reach out and offer that same grace to others.

There are young people everywhere. They're bagging your groceries. They're taking your order at McDonald's. They're ringing you up at Target. They're behind you getting gas. They're walking down the street in your neighborhood. They're hanging out at Starbucks. 

They're slouched deep in the row in front of you at church. 

And they all have a story.

They are thirsty for someone who cares about who they are and what's going on. They are hungry for someone to invest in them. They are desperate for someone to think that they matter. To care if they hurt. To ask them how they are. To walk the hard road with them. To simply care.

Remember a few years back the WWJD rage? What would Jesus do? Maybe it's not such a cliche after all. Maybe it's a good reminder when I'm trying to load my three kids in my car as the young teen helps me with my groceries to look her in they eye and take an extra 30 seconds to have a conversation with her because I'm probably gonna see her again, like next week when I come back to refill the pantry, and over time maybe our 30 seconds will grow into 2 minutes or 5 minutes and maybe she'll tell me her story and I'll encourage her and offer her love and grace and maybe Jesus will use that to plant a seed somewhere deep that will grow into a beautiful life where she loves Jesus. 

Our culture is shifting away from physical connection and I don't believe that's what Jesus would do. I don't believe that's how He made us. He made us for relational living. I think technology is awesome, don't get me wrong. But it can't replace a relationship, a community, a conversation, a hug, a smile, a hand shake, a hand held, a road walked, a story heard, a heart healed. 

Connection matters.

Community heals.

Love redeems.

Grace covers.

Jesus saves.

Grace always Rises,

Jamie

What Giving Thanks in the Midst of a Mess Means

I must have gone wrong somewhere--taken a left when maybe I should have gone right.

I keep taking deep, gasping breaths because I'm running right out of my skin with all these kids fighting and grumbling and spiting each other.

I've lost count of all my mind spinning and mind losing because simply keeping count is enough to send me over the moon. 

I've lost count of all my empty threats because I miss the enforcement window when the carrying them out matters...or because the child in question presents herself for her punishment because she knows she's busted. Or I'm just too afraid that I might regret the consequences I dole out in the flare of all my mind losing.

I mean I can't really lock them outside or lock me inside when all I really want to do is find a quiet, peaceful spot to catch a bit, a piece really, of my mind, my heart, my fortitude, that's whirling straight to oblivion.

I missed that turn somewhere. 

And now I might be lost.

And the only good news--the best good news--
is the Good News:
Jesus who came to save.

I might very well be lost. I've probably been lost before, though there's different kinds of "lost" aren't there. The lost I find myself in now is the one where I feel like very important pieces of me are chipping off in great big chunks leaving a crumbled, worn out, out of ideas mama behind.

It's the kind of lost that screams for a girl to retreat, yet there's no time to retreat and no place to retreat to and the kids still need a mama who follows through and shows up and loves till it hurts.

But Jesus knows right where I am right down to the smallest pinprick on the largest map.

I might feel like I'm losing a piece of me trying to keep all the pieces of me--my family, my kids, my classroom--in a messy free-fall of togetherness. But Jesus knows, and when I'm at the end of my very short rope, He throws me another--longer, stronger, better.

I might feel overwhelmed by a season that's steamrolling me right over,
and then I hear Him:

Quiet. Gentle. Still.

And I know it's Him because in this moment, I am none of those things.

And He says, it's what He always says when I feel this way:
"Be still."

And when I'm still I remember.
I remember what Thanksgiving means. What giving thanks means.
What it heralds. What, even in my frazzled turmoil, I can't deny.

He's coming.

I might be lost and overwhelmed and tired and worn straight to next week.
But He's coming. 

And He's coming for all of us who feel broken and bruised and trampled.

He's coming and He wants me just how I am.

 However I come. And there's so much grace and so much to be thankful for.

The father never asked his prodigal son to take a bath, to get it all together, before he wrapped his son up in all his love. That father was just so joyful that his son had come home, 
and everything else that came before
--the heartache, the betrayal, the despair--
was washed away in an ocean of grace.

The prodigal son was a mess. 

And it didn't matter one bit.

And so He doesn't hold me off because of my mess.
He doesn't ask that I get it all together before I can come and be with Him.
He takes me just how I am. Frazzled bits and all.
And it doesn't faze Him.

Not even a teeny tiny bit.

So yeah,
He's coming.

And I'm waiting.

For His Advent.

Sure, my kids are gonna test me tomorrow and my head will pound like a thousand drums from all that is my kids and sure, my patience will be worn straight to thin and I'll wonder if I'll ever find my mind,
and it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna be okay. We're gonna be okay.

Because He's still coming.

And there's always a hidden grace, a small thing to be thankful for.
And the act of finding that one thing in the middle of all the noise to be thankful for makes the finding easier and the grace flows down.
The quiet hug.
The small giggle
The kind help.
The silly grin.

There's always grace.
There's always thanks.
And thanks and grace always go hand in hand.
And He's coming.
The greatest Grace.

I've just got to keep putting one step in front of the other, taking one deep breath after another, loving one kid hard right after the other because I know that Truth and Hope and Love are more powerful, more mighty, more potent than all that is messy and unkempt and crazy in my world.

And the world desperately needs some Truth and Hope and Love this Season. 

Someone to bind us together, to heal all that's scabbed and scarred and bleeding.

He's coming.

And He knows right where we are.

And He's coming to meet us right here--in our lost, in our broken, in our hard, in our mess, in our overwhelmed, in our anger, in our despair.

He's coming.

Jesus is coming.

And I so don't want to miss Him.

Grace Always Rises,

Jamie

Because 8 is Great!

I heard her before I saw her.
Her not so little feet tripping up the stairs and into my bathroom where I was brushing my teeth.
Her big, wide, infectious grin came first through my door.

"Did you have a good sleep, Bug?"
"Yes. Except I didn't sleep. I was SO excited!"
"Happy Birthday Addie"
"Thanks Mom. I'm so excited to be 8."

Photos by Sam Ferrand

She's 8 today and I remember each of her birthdays like mile markers on my winding, grace living road. Not that I'm anxious to get to the end, but every year adds to the bounty, the beauty, that weaves its strands into fabric of my life. And I'm so grateful for each of these years, each of these markers of victories and joys and heartaches because what's a life without something to mark it by? Without tales to tell and memories to hold fast? Without grace to sink into and joy to relive? It might not be a life at all.

Today I celebrate that my oldest is 8.
And I admit, there's also the faintest ripple of bittersweet in my celebration.
With every year, every birthday, I can only go forward. I can't ever go back to when she was 1 or 3 or 6. Those years now live in my heart and in my scrapbooks and sometimes I'm just a bit nostalgic about that.

I remember how she was so big when I was pregnant and how she was so late in joining us.

I remember how scared I was when they had to keep her for 7 days in the hospital and how our first pediatrician had no bedside manner and scared this poor, new mama straight out of her wits and I had to lean hard into Jesus because I was afraid. That week is seared in my memory and I know now I wouldn't trade it for a happier, less difficult one.

I remember how she was when she met her sisters in the hospital for the first time. How she held them so carefully. How she would help me feed them and fetch me diapers or burp rags or blankets. How she would throw magnificent temper tantrums in her big sister adjustment.

I remember when she accepted Jesus into her heart at the kitchen counter and my cup ran right over with such grace. 

I remember her first day of school. Her first report card. Her first soccer game. Her first dance recital.

I love how for the past 72 hours she hasn't been able to utter a thought without referencing her birthday. As if we might forget it somehow--not that she would let us. And sure it might be a little obnoxious, this constant bombardment and reminder of a cake to make and cupcakes to decorate and a party to plan and presents to wrap, but I appreciate her wonderment and enthusiasm for all things birthday and I'm happy to give that to her because you only turn 8 once. And as a friend just told me, 8 is great.

I appreciate her passion and her zeal. Her shamelessness in making sure we are ready for her big day.

Sure there are hard things and difficult challenges and parenting issues. She's the Eldest. I feel like we have cut our teeth, so to speak, learning how to parent with her. Not that those lessons will translate at all to her sisters, but having tactical and strategic maneuvers in a parenting arsenal can only be helpful.

Sure she frustrates me endlessly with her refusal to put her clothes away in the right spot or her inability to remember simple chores or her supernatural ability to micromanage the twins when they don't wish to be micromanaged. But on her birthday, those things seem somehow less important and insignificant.

Her joy over this day has caused me to think (which is sometimes a dangerous undertaking) about birthdays, especially the ones that indicate decades passing.

When was the last time I was so excited for my birthday that I didn't that I couldn't sleep?

When did birthdays become an accumulation of numbers instead of an accumulation of joy? 

In a culture where growing old, or older, is the foundation for an entire cosmetics industry to battle hard against, why don't we mamas stand gracefully and dignified in the gap for our daughters?

Perhaps instead of counting our numbers we start to count our graces. Perhaps we begin this next year teaching our daughters that numbers and years are simply measures, they don't define a mama, a woman, a daughter, a sister; they don't determine worth or value as though somehow we lose our worth by getting older, by racking up the years. Perhaps our ability to really practice gratitude and grace grows exponentially every year as we live deeper and wiser because we know the true measure of a life; we know the true value of a moment, a day, a year.  And that measure isn't a number.

I want my daughters to see their mama turn 40 or 50 or 90 and feel the exuberance I feel from my 8 year old turning 8. I want them to see a mama who's not afraid of a number but who's filled with gratitude and grace for a life; who's filled with bravery and courage to stand grace-filled in a culture that says growing old is unfortunate.

I want them to see a mama who lets Jesus be the true, defining measure of her worth. 

And all this thinking, leads me back to her.

Happy 8th Birthday My Lovely Girl

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie

When We Dare to Get Out of the Boat

I'm not sure I know where to start.

I'll start with Peter.
Peter who confessed Jesus as Lord.
Peter who always had questions.
Peter who said "no" to his Lord. Three times.

Yeah. That Peter.

Because there's a little bit of Peter in all of us, I think.

Jesus comes to the disciples in a great storm. He walks on water and scares them shocked silly.
But that Peter says, "Lord, if it's You, tell me to come to you on the water."
"Come," He says (Matthew 14:28-29).

(I love this part)

Then Peter got out of the boat.

Now I know in the next sentence Peter falls to fear and sinks a bit. He takes his eyes off the One who holds his heart and loses faith.

Peter gets a bad rap sometimes because he's a little edgy, a little blunt. A little too real for those of us who want a better ending. He reminds us too clearly of our own humanity--our own weaknesses-- when we come face to face with Jesus.

But Peter was the one who dared to get out of the boat. The only one.

Peter was the one who believed and took the first step.

Peter was the one who, despite the storm and the fear, Got. Out. Of. The. Boat.

I wonder how often the Lord waits for me to ask Him the question: "Will you catch me when I get out? Will you be right here?" Because He's just waiting to show me what He could do if I just got out of the boat.

I wonder if I make His heart sad when He has somewhere beautiful He wants to take me and I cling so desperately to my small, little boat, to my familiar, that I can't open my hand to latch on to something more. Something His.

There can be no hanging on to old boats when Jesus asks us to get out. There can be no looking back. There can be no vacillating. There can only be faith. And faith requires that we believe in what we can't see. It sounds so simple. And simple is sometimes so hard.

We will never know what could happen, what miracles God could do, what storms He would still, what gifts He has to give if we never take that first step in reckless, abandoned trust.

And it's that first step that's always the hardest, isn't it? And the scariest. Because I don't know what will happen when I take that first step. And if I just took that step, my eyes would be opened to the glory and greatness of Jesus. And so often I don't because I'm afraid. Paralyzingly so.

And yes, I'll be honest. Sometimes my fear feels bigger than my faith in Jesus. And I know if I just stepped out, it would be okay. I would be okay. But I don't. I make excuses. I rationalize. I justify. I play the what if game because I seem to excel at that particular game. I stay in the boat because it's comfortable. And comfortable is easy. And comfortable isn't scary. And comfortable will always be, well, less than what God has intended.

All three of my girls walked early and often. But I remember those sketchy beginnings. The weebling and wobbling, the top heavy waddling. I remember that first brave step where she had to let go of one thing and had to believe that I would be right there.

No mama is gonna let her baby take that first step and fall. But she's gonna wait hard until her baby takes one faith-filled step and then she'll swoop baby up in proud mama kisses. So our Father does with us.

But He can't swoop us up in proud papa kisses if we haven't gone anywhere.

When did we start believing that our Father would be any different with us? When did we learn doubt as a way of living because that's not living at all.

I often find myself having a Peter-heart and not the Peter-walk. I want to get out of the boat, but like Peter's friends, I'm cringing against the crashing waves and the voices of reason and rationality. Mostly, though, I'm afraid.

What God asks of us is often not reasonable or rational because it has to be bigger than us. What God asks is God-sized so that what I can't do, God can.  Why would God ask me to do the ordinary? God wants a Peter-heart who's willing to be a vessel for the extraordinary. He wants reckless abandon and dangerous faith.

And to Peter's credit, he didn't ask the ordinary of God. Peter asked to walk on water.

Talk is cheap though, isn't it? It's easy and doesn't require anything of me. Faith, much like love, is a verb and requires movement. When push comes to shove and the rubber meets the road, putting my faith in action is scary when there's a mortgage and kids and bills. Faith living is courage living. It's never a small thing to step off a ledge into the unknown grandeur of God's plan. It takes a relentless faith to do it and not just talk about it.

When we live obediently, when we surrender our illusion of security and instead reach for God's greatness, He never fails us. He's never gonna let us sink. He takes us to the edge of us and then takes over.

Even when Peter started to doubt, Jesus "reached out His hand and caught [Peter]" (v. 31).

The first step is always the hardest. There's so much uncertain ground in the terribly short distance between our comfortable and the Hand of God.

God desires for His children to believe in the extraordinary, unconditional love a Father has for us. Because when we know way down deep in all those shadowy hidey-holes where doubt sometimes dwells how extravagantly we are loved, then maybe we will start to live like we are loved that much. When we get how unfathomable God's love is for us, and we start walking that out, living that out, believing that, perhaps the Peter-walk of faith will be less scary.

Let's be brave together and get out of the boat. Let's fix our eyes on Jesus and believe that the Lord of Lords will settle the waves, calm the storm, and hold our hands. Let's believe that He loves us to the deepest depths and to the grandest heights. Let's walk the road of relentless, courageous faith-living together. And maybe when I get afraid, because I'm sure to get afraid, you might gently remind me that He's got me and I don't need to run back to my old boat. I only need to keep my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of my courageous faith, and take the next faith-filled step. And we can keep taking those small faith-filled steps together.

And of course, God will swoop us up in proud papa kisses.

What dad wouldn't?

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie

When my kids live out my words...

Today I heard them. Early. Too early.

So I stumble down the stairs, push my glasses up my nose so it's stumbling I do instead of tripping, and shove my wild mane out of my face as I navigate stairs, corners, hallway. Hopefully in that order.

Into their room I go.

"Girls," I whisper, "It's too early to get up. You need to close your eyes and go back to sleep for a little while."

This is not met with agreement from Rye. She is not happy. As in not at all. I sigh. And in my head, I think to myself, Really? It's 6 am. Go. Back. To. Sleep. And it isn't said in my head in a nice way either.

K moans and says, "Mama, my eyes are still tired."
I love her.
I say, "Well, sweet girl, go back to sleep."
Rye is still not happy with my decree. So I give her a kiss. And she pouts.
I love her, too.

And then K sort of sits up and gestures, quite grandly for being half asleep, toward the window with her palm face up and her fingers squeezed tightly together and says oh so matter of factly, "Wyleigh, just because the sky is awake doesn't mean we get to be awake."

Hmmm...
How can one argue with that logic?
I, in fact, completely concur.
That's the best news I've heard in the 15 minutes I've been out of bed.

And Rye looks at her, nods her head, raises her arms up for a hug and squishes her lips together for a kiss and closes her eyes.

I close the door behind me, stumble back up the stairs to get ready for work and think how grand it is that sometimes your kids do the mama-job for you.  These are the best mama moments when the little people listen to each other, teach each other, exhibit that 'Golden Rule' we mamas like to instill in our little people. And when the words I have said for eons have sunk down into somewhere deep and true, and I hear them repeated, I admit, my heart does a happy dance.

(Unless of course those words are the not-so-nice-words with that not-so-nice attitude that I hate to admit they heard from me, learned from me, because those moments where those words are flung furiously at me are not proud mama moments and they do not make my heart skip a beat in glee. And my heart sighs sad for all the words that sometimes spill forth from the brokenness of my own life onto the sweetness of theirs.)

But on those momentous and triumphant occasions when my children live out, act out, speak out the good that they've seen or heard from my own heart, I admit there is a moment of pride that swells up from some deep heart nook or cranny when my children help each other do the thing they are supposed to do, without me. 

You know, like I have arrived at this unknown mommy-marker of accomplishment-dom. 
Because isn't that our goal as mamas? To teach our little people in such a way that the truth sinks into a true and honest place so that they can live that out one day without us? Isn't that the measure of all teachers--when our students can complete the task without our input, without our guidance? And we can clap and cheer because what better reason for celebration could there ever be than watching your child, into whom you have spent years planting the seeds of love and honesty and forgiveness and faith, live. that. out. 

These rare and precious moments puff my mama heart up a little and I marvel, briefly, at the lessons I've learned, and the layers I've grown, in my own life, in my own heart. Because the fruit of all those lessons and that learning are embodied, magnified, reflected in three little souls entrusted to me. 

Sure, this particular moment didn't change the course of history, or even alter the course of our family. In fact, this particular moment could have easily been lost in a multitude of other seemingly insignificant moments, but there was something special and eternal about this transaction between two sisters.

And this transaction, albeit small, reminded me that it's the small stuff, the small victories, that lead to the mightier celebrations and the deeper lessons. Rome wasn't built in a day, and the ocean is full of millions of tiny drops and this is one of those tiny drops. This drop matters. This drop is important. Because without it, the ocean would be less. I have hope. 

Still, in those darker moments where I've floundered and failed again, I need to remind myself that the dark moments are not the sum of all the mama love I've poured endless over my little hearts. That those dark, fragile, sometimes ugly moments lead me back, over and over again, to the feet of Jesus. Because He redeems those moments and makes beauty from those ashes which become the swelling crescendos in a symphony that ebbs and flows, just like any ocean, just like any life, just like any heart. And to Him it's all beauty.

And His mercies are new every morning.

Even if it starts at six a.m.

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie