Personal // Like Challah Broken

Shabbat is like a whisper of calm, a gentle breeze of peace that floats in through the windows as the sky turns to fire. The music low, the candles lit, the glasses filled, the bread broken. And now, just me alone in the rocker with Mr. Kitten snuggled over my arm as I type. The house quiet. The boys asleep. Mom at the table with the lights dim, book open. 

After one crazy week, peace feels so good. 

My life is not your typical American stereotype. It's a lot of reaching out, a lot of giving, and least I sound like a selfless religious angel, it's often a lot of giving I don't like to do.

Giving my time during a busy week. Giving my family when I feel like I haven't had much time with them myself. Giving our food and money when we're not sure when the next paycheck is coming. Giving up my schedule. Giving when it doesn't feel like it's appreciated. 

This week was a long one (you know, typical stuff- neighbor got arrested, another friend had a texting fight that got sent to our phone, huge misunderstanding over e-mail, having one hour notice before picking up a young teenage girl from the inner city, having said girl's stay turn into a week and a half instead of the originally planned four days, and completely feeling overwhelmed at the ticking clock as we rush to get packed for Israel. yep, can't see how it could get more typical than that), and peace is what my heart has been longing for. 

I've been broken- broken like challah, then passed around. Passed around until I feel like there is no crumb left for myself. 

That's a place I never want to be. 

If I'm at that place, I turn bitter- self-focused instead of other-focused. Too consumed about my own comfort that I withhold that last morsel of nutrition for myself instead of giving it to another soul in desperate need. When I don't like to give- of my time, family, resources, of myself- it's because my eyes have strayed from the goal. 

I'm not asked to give only to those who appreciate. I'm asked to give it all, to all, as He has given to me. 

I have truly experienced that it is more blessed to give than to receive. The neighbor arrested? His mother was the first ones to call us for help. It's wonderful to feel needed. The e-mail mix-up? It was a self-check for us to respond with humility. We all need to stop and look in the mirror of Scripture. To examine. Scrutinize. Become holy as He is holy. The inner city girl? She taught me so much- from grace and unshakeable faith to what areas of the city to avoid (yikes), what weave is (total enlightenment), and how squatters turn on the water and electric (not that I needed that. just sayin'). Everyone is a teacher if our hearts are willing to become a student. 

And packing? It'll get done, even though we'll blink and time is up. What's needed will end up in the suitcases, even if one of us forgets something else. It'll get done, because this is what Yehovah God has called our family to- and He's asking we step out of the boat and onto the waves. Giving to His people. Giving to His Land. 

When you live with hands cracked open to grace, you will be broken and poured out and- even in the chaos and drama- you will be blessed sevenfold. 

Shabbat shalom...sabbath peace...it fills the rooms on our last weekend together, and I cannot begin to imagine the lessons and the blessings this new venture will bring. 

And being broken like bread, passed around? Isn't this what Yeshua has done for us? Do it- whatever sacrifice or giving you're asked to do- in remembrance of Him.

Life // Never the Same

The sun dawns brilliantly in ribbon strips of pink and blue. Orange rays hit the dark, cold pines, and the world begins to glow in flaming light. The ice slowly melts from inside the window. It's a normal winter morning. 

No, not normal. Every morning has become so precious. 

Because when you learn that cancer that has been staying in the chest possibly may now have moved to the brain? 

Your mornings are never the same after that. 

I thought this year would be a safe year, a year to heal and grow and blossom from all the pain that last year held. A time where we could laugh and make art and dance and never have the thought of cancer on our minds. On his mind. A year where grudges would be atoned for and everything would be back to the way it was before this battle ever came onto our radar years ago. 

Am I the only one who feels this way? The only one sounding the alarm?

Sometimes you just wish you could shake people, wake them up from a slumber so they can see life flying past. To stop holding grudges. To make amends. To love, because you may never have another day to love again.

Pass it by now, and you'll live with regret.

I just wish I knew my brother. I could count on one hand the memories I have of him from my childhood. And now that I'm older, our relationship has more to do with PET scans and chemo rounds and all the talking we ever do is done in a hospital room. I understand we're both busy. I totally get it. 

But I desperately want it differently. 

There's a large age gap between me and my older siblings, but I have treasured every word they have spoken. Some words, spoken carelessly, I shouldn't have hung on to- but what else is a girl to do? Aside from those few in childhood, I only have one other memory of my brother. He wrote me an e-mail for my 16th birthday and had my nephew sit on the counter with a Tupperware container on his head for a party hat, and sent me the picture. I believe that was around the time he was going through his first battle with AS. I treasured it- still do. I printed it off and pasted it in my journal, always to be remembered. 

This past summer, he told dad that any guy that came for my hand would have to be approved by him, too. I never felt so loved and protected by him before- and I cry every time I realize that he may never have a chance. That my husband may never know this brother of mine- to shake his hand, look him in the eye. He may never have the chance to draw from Ry's wealth of knowledge, to laugh with him, to know who he is. 

In the blink of an eye, life as you know it is suddenly drastically different. And your life? It will never, ever be the same. 

When Cancer Lurks Again

I sense that the nightmare is about to begin again. My brother's life flashes before my eyes. My past year plays over and over again in my memory- and I wonder if every year will feel this way. Will hold this pain. My body shuts down at the thought.

Three suspicious spots. 

I'm not ready for another battle. I'm not ready because I know this round will not grace us with hope. Options will soon be exhausted- and so will our souls.

Yehovah, fight this battle on our behalf- because we have no strength or wisdom to fight this on our own.

I cannot explain the feeling. How one moment you're laughing in the store with friends, and the phone vibrates. No matter how gently spoken, the words ruthlessly toss everything upside down and shake everything into insecurity. How your heart races- and won't stop racing- and your blood pressure throbs in your temples. How every muscle turns taught because it's entered into survival mode and you've been rendered mute because words won't come. You sit in silence- and silence mocks you.

You're filled with dread, because you are no stranger to this feeling You are filled with grief, because you are not ignorant of the grueling battle he will face. Your mind plays tricks on you, because any mention of the word "spot" thrusts your imagination into the scary places of the unknown.

So I pray, but I don't know what words to use. Abba, see our hearts and comfort our souls. We are weary and faint- renew your works as of old.

Personal // It Is Good

To be honest, I dreaded this birthday. Between turning another decade and memories from last year's birthday that still leave me in tears, how could I not? 

So when I'm standing at the sink doing a mountain of dishes alone, still in sweats and the afternoon is flying by, with coughing children on the couch and germs flying in the air- things weren't looking up for this year and I'll admit, depression was setting in. 

It's been one long year. 

Cancer. Betrayal. Death. A horrible family emergency that's still underway. World-traveling. Often being responsible for 6 children when I least expect it. Joy. Tears. 

I stand at the sink and tell mom I don't feel like celebrating. My heart feels as grey as the winter sky above, flakes falling swift and sure, smothering the world below. 

But if you have to do it, you might as well make the most of it. Do something and your heart will eventually follow. I pick out mismatched plates in bold colors (chevron and zebra stripes, anyone?), hang a pin-the-tail-on-Zevi-the-Zebra on the door, try to get in the spirit of joy. Phone rings, I answer, and the bestie's voice bubbles on the other end. She's excited about my birthday, can't wait to show me something....and slowly, joy rubs off on me. 

I hang some streamers to celebrate. Another friend sends me a text out of the blue, makes the sun start to peak around the clouds. 

Mom comes home and surprises me with a bouquet of daisies, dressed in bright bold blues and yellows and pinks and greens. I start arranging them in my favorite little vases I picked up at rummage sales, and the smile comes. 

Yes, this birthday is good. 

Good to leave the past behind. Good to walk through this season and heal. Good to walk life as an adult and take responsibility for my choices. 

I get tangled by a rowdy bunch of kidlets at the door, all clamoring for hugs and kisses. I take the oldest niece to pick up my gluten-free/dairy-free pizza, and we chatter in the car. I share a Virgil's with my grandpa and spin the kids dizzy for pin-the-tail-on-Zevi. 

Yes- it is good. 

And when my Energizer Bunny Boy comes down with a fever and his little body shakes cold, I head out to the store on a medicine run and spend the rest of the evening rubbing Vicks on little feet, coaxing down medicine and wiping tears. Yesterday it was cleaning up blood and rocking the youngest, keeping her calm after a major bloody nose. Two days before that it was doing math and spelling at the kitchen table with six voices asking questions and me trying to wrack my brain to remember the answers (why didn't anyone tell me that I really would need to remember the things I learned in school?). 

Yes- life is good. 

So hello new year- let me take you on with shoulders squared, boots on, and pack empty. Here's to dancing for the audience of One and living fully where He has me- bloody noses, drama, and all. 

Carving time to Breathe

Things have been silent on the screen, but much has been happening away from it. Another adventure to pack for, suitcases laying wide to be filled on the old honey-colored planks of floor, outfits spilling over the bed- a hodgepodge to be sorted, ordered, and made sense of. Evenings like this make my heartbeat quicken, makes it yearn for the things He's going to do. 

Yet it's a quiet evening, because in the midst of skirts and snacks and journals I carve out time for myself to simply breathe. 

This playing softly, in anticipation of a holy weekend of worship. Tea steaming in my old grad mug, perfect size for little hands like mine. Scripture scrawled on the wall, a reminder of His branding on my life, my very being, what He names me. Candles flickering on the table. 

I close my eyes and breathe. Breathe prayers of eucharisteo. Thanksgiving. Grace. Joy. Ponder the work He is doing, how He's weaving this story of mine. Taking frayed ends, tying them off, and weaving threads of gold through this tapestry instead.  

Who knew a story would be written like this? Not I.

So much higher. So much more beautiful. So much more meaningful. 

It's not just my story- it's yours, too. He's in the midst of your story, too- scripting and sculpting and burning away the dross. Bringing beauty from ashes. It's a promise- I've seen Him do it. 

So take a step back and pause. Close out the world. Take the time to breathe- when we stop rambling into the windy storm, shut our mouths and just listen, we will hear His still small voice in the whisper of the breeze. Enter in- and let Him show you the glory He's weaving, the ends He's snipping, and an awe-stirred realization of His faithfulness in your life. 

He's there in the quiet if you carve the time out to meet Him there. 

Grace-filled Simplicity

Growing up, summer was always my least favorite season. I hated the heat, the humidity, the sticky feeling when you go from AC to 90's. But this year, after a winter of darkness and cold, of chemo and pain, the sun's rays have seemed like soothing nectar to my soul. I've never experienced it before.

I can't stop drinking it up. 

Perhaps it's because after a taste of a muggy Southern summer I truly appreciate my balmy Northern one, or perhaps it's because my mighty Elohim is healing my soul- showing me how to sing again, to LIVE again. 

You only get one life to live- we have to embrace it. 

We have to get past the pain of chemo and the sting of relationships and the trama of death of loved ones. We have to learn to open our fists again and fully accept this crazy grace- HIS crazy grace. Choose to see these gifts He's given, to fully be alive and embrace every joy. 

I've found it in simplicity. Taking things slow. Recording these gifts, a living record of His faithfulness. 

I'm going to enjoy this summer to it's fading golden rays. Sometimes it's big things, like glorious weddings and traveling this beautiful country. Joy isn't materialistic things- it's dancing praise with all your might as your bare feet pound the plywood floor with a hundred other hearts, it's spending Shabbat by the lakeshore, it's mending relationships and building bridges. It's little things like sharing chips and pop in the shady grass with a fraction of the passel of nieces and nephews, it's coffee dates with mom, it's swinging on the hammock with my brother as the sun fades and we unburden our hearts to each other. These happy gifts are laughter, fresh produce, new friends and hearing from old ones. It's wrestling prayer, the breezes of fresh air, curly hair and long dresses that make me feel like a princess.

It's choosing to see everything with new eyes. Put the computer away, shut off my phone. Even if it's just for an hour or two- or maybe a whole week media free.

It's recording these moments of grace, these beautiful gifts He bestows on His unworthy bride...

Because love? It never stops giving. 

--
(care to share your list of grace gifts today? can we see if everyone can name at least 10- from sunlight flickering on the windowpane to cupping a hot mug of pumpkin spice latte? share yours in a comment below!) 

Finished

Cancer steals. Destroys. Devours. 

And I'm helpless to it all. 

I've told you about Kelly before. I met her high above the Texas skyline, and we caught the last glimpse of the sunset together. She was beautiful- wore a pretty hat to cover her head, hairless from what chemo stole from her. She smiled through the pain, her body attached by tubes and wires to a tree of life- or death?- with fluids and toxic materials pumping through her. Her quiet southern voice somehow illuminated the room, kept the shadows at bay. Sort of made the sun shine, even though it had slipped below the horizon. She told us of her two lovely girls back home, how God was still working, how she still prayed for the miracle. I gave her a hug before we left, told her we would be praying for her. Told her to keep trusting.

The elevator door closed, and it was the last I saw of her. Last time I ever will have seen her. Cancer claimed her body but five short months later. 

===

A father in our community discovered cancer was taking over his lungs soon after Ryan's tumors were removed from his. We've been praying, trusting, knowing that God is still working. I never knew this man well, but from the times I did spend with him I knew him to be a man of worship. Had a smile that somehow made you feel like you belonged. Quiet, but when he spoke they were words of life. Like David, he worshiped the Father will all of his might, with ever fiber of his being. 

Today I got the phone call everyone dreads, the one you pray against. The one you hope you never have to answer. The phone call that, as a cancer family, you pray you never have to make. 

It'll only be a few hours now. 

I hang up. Dad calls- I answer, and I weep. I grieve. I cry for the children, whose father is their world. I cry for the wife, so strong yet how can frail shoulders hold up the load of everything and watch as the love of her life suffers? I cry for the friends, the extended family, the community who is loosing a mighty warrior of Elohim. 

My soul longs to pour forth prayers but no sound comes from my throat. Dad prays for me instead. 

And Heaven weeps. 

The rain pours from the skies as my tears fall, as our prayers rise upward. Not long after, another phone call follows. 

It is finished. No more pain except the pain that is in our hearts, no more sorrow except for the tears we weep. No more questions, except for the ones we may shout in our frustration and grief. 

Finished. 
__

{please, be praying for this family and our community tonight and in the days/weeks/months to follow. thank you, from the bottom of our hurting hearts.}