In the Middle

Yesterday I spent the day remembering.
I have spent a lot of time over this past year remembering.
Yesterday marked one year since the car accident that ended the earthly life of my close friend's daughter.
I called and texted with my friend and with her kids throughout the day, remembering her life and reminding them that they are loved and not forgotten.

As early evening came on, I got a text from another dear friend telling me that her water had broken and asking if I would I please pray for a smooth labor and delivery.
Through the night, I texted her encouragement to keep pressing on, knowing that it could be hours and hours of hard work.
Today when her baby boy was born at home I was so happy, rejoicing with her.

I was in the middle--in the middle of this thing we call life...this thing we call life that also encompasses death.
This life wherein I change diapers and check math papers and hit my knees trying to ease the weight of a mother's sorrow because her little girl no longer lives on this earth.
This life I live that has me unbuckling carseat straps at Target while my phone beeps to tell me I have a new message.  I pause with my purse handle freshly tossed onto my shoulder to read the text--a 9 lb 10 oz baby boy.  I laughed out loud in the drizzling rain, so proud of what this mama accomplished.

And there I was in the middle.
In the middle of hurting for one mama and sharing the joy of another.
We also have been finding out some difficult things for us here that I will share over time.  I sat in the library parking lot, oh-so aware that life is really hard sometimes.
Sometimes hard is good and sometimes hard is, well, hard. 

I'm blessed to have friends with whom to share life, the mundane everyday as well as the fun things and the serious and the really hard things.
This may sound odd to some, but I'm thankful to have had my heart shattered because it has allowed me to hurt with those who hurt, rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.

Sometimes life gets a little too real, know what I mean?
But I'm trying hard to feel, because I know that

"...we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance;  perseverance, character; and character, hope." Romans 5:3-4

Pain and Beauty

It's been one week since my friend's youngest daughter died.
It's been two weeks and a day since the accident that has left this family grieving the loss of Claire.

I watched as her family kept vigil, praying for her and for one another.  I got to be part of the small group that gathered in this 11 year old's PICU room to sing and pray over her.

My heart was breaking for my friend, her mama.
My heart was breaking for her siblings.

I prayed for God to show mercy as Marla had asked--for God to have mercy, whatever that would look like...even if that meant death.

As I stood there, tears clogging my throat and streaming down my face, petitioning God on behalf of this family, I saw clearly that He had indeed granted mercy--in that room were friends to hold them, cry with them, share the hurt, and help them face the road ahead.  Knowing we were all born-again believers made it such a safe place to be real...to cry in our sorrow as we praised the Sovereign King.

The days passed in a blur of beeping monitors and vital numbers that were too high to maintain human hope, with doctors searching every corner of their minds for something they may have missed that might help this child recover.

The accident was on a Sunday morning and in the early hours of the following Monday, Claire met Jesus.

The cries of a mother who's child has died are some of the saddest you will ever hear.

That same afternoon, when the family arrived home from the hospital an hour-and-a-half away, Marla asked me to come over.

We sat in the living room and alternately stared at each other with nothing to say, intermittently thinking of things that needed to be done, ranging from the mundane to the pertinent.

The carpet needs to be vacuumed.
We need to choose an outfit for Claire.
The clothes (from having lived in a hospital for a week) need unpacking and washing.
We need to choose Scripture for the funeral.
Does the dog have fresh water?
We need to call the funeral director.
The floor needs to be swept.
We need to find the right picture so they will know how to do her hair...


Claire's sisters went to her closet to choose the dress she would be buried in.  Her oldest sister painstakingly ironed that for nearly an hour.  It was beautiful and so sad all at the same time.  She needed just a bit of a mom's input from me on a couple of hard spots, but I knew I should definitely not take over--this was something she wanted--needed--to do.

With such a front row seat to this, I've been doing a lot of thinking:

Death, not unlike birth, is horrifyingly painful and tenderly beautiful at the same time.

The pain of watching your child(ren) hurt.
The tender way a mama's presence can make it better--even if just a bit.
There is pain in loss.
There is beauty in watching a family hold one another up as they persevere.
There is pain in writing a little sister's obituary.
There is beauty in knowing it was lovingly written by her big sister and her mama.
There is pain in knowing they won't touch her face again this side of heaven.
There is beauty when a friend brings a gorgeous framed picture, taken just months earlier.  Because how can one not smile when you see her face?
There is pain in remembering again that though it feels like she's just away at camp, she's never coming home.
There is a tender beauty in knowing she really is home.

I sang for her funeral and it went really well--thank you for those who prayed for me.  It was really such a "God thing."  I made it through, and then I was absolutely spent.  Literally, as I put the microphone back in it's stand, I started to cry.

I keep thinking about this pain and beauty...at this funeral you could hear the sobs of grief from those gathered.  Many, many, many tears were shed.
Yet I am confident that even though people came to show their love and support to this family, a vast majority left that day feeling blessed--that they had been ministered to by this family, their friends, and the pastors who preached the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
It was painful and beautiful at the same time.

Today when I left her house, all I could do was look at my friend as tears welled in my eyes because I had no words to say.
She looked at me and we both just knew--nothing needed to be said.
'Cause this just plain hurts.
And so we said, "See ya." and "Bye."

It was enough.

In the Morning...

In the morning, I'm singing for the funeral of the little girl I mentioned in my earlier post.
Her mama asked me to sing the same song that I sang for her daddy's funeral nearly eleven years ago, "We Shall Behold Him."

If you are so inclined, I would covet your prayers for tomorrow.  I've sung for literally hundreds of funerals, but some are harder than others and this would definitely fall into that category.

Most importantly, I would ask you to please cover the Turner family with prayer--not just for tomorrow (an especially physically and emotionally taxing day) but in the weeks ahead, as well.