When Snow Doesn't Fall: Six Ways to Deal with the Disappointment of Unmet Expectations

Last night, the local TV station reported a winter weather advisory with a band of  snow approaching Northeast Mississippi. My home is sandwiched between the areas expected to get 1/2 - 2 inches of snow and 1-3 inches. It would start, the forecast said, around 2 am. Snow would hamper our morning travel.

I, along with snow-loving children of all ages, went to bed expecting a scene of fluffy white this morning. I awakened before 5 am and thought, "SNOW!!!" What a disappointment it was to look outside and see the usual brown winterscape and patchy remnants of ice.

My dogs were both miserable during the recent ice storm. They hated walking on the cold, slick layer. Mamie stopped after only a few steps and refused to go even an inch further.

Snow, however, is a different story. Maggie's experienced a big snowfall before. She loved bounding through soft, powdery snow. I think Mamie would love it, too. 

There isn't any snow, though, and I'm surprisingly disappointed. It's moving slower than expected, the morning forecaster said, and it'll be here in a couple of hours. 

Snow's coming, or so they say.

I've been disappointed about snowfall before. I don't know whether to hope or not, so I'm proceeding with my morning routine, doubtful it will be disrupted.

Expectations bring excitement and energy. They're fun, until they're not. Unmet expectations break our heart, fuel anger, and breed bitterness, don't they? We've all had them: 

- the job offer we expected but didn't receive

- the cancer that wasn't cured

- the raise we hoped for that wasn't given

- the child who strayed

- the pregnancy that never happened

- the spouse who wouldn't go the distance

- the death that came too soon

- the health that didn't last

What we expect isn't always what we receive. When the unexpected and unwanted arrives, we can greet it one of two ways. Accept its arrival with anticipation that God will use it in a positive way in our lives or allow anger and disappointment to direct our responses. It's all too easy to become bitter and push away those who would comfort us and help us through.

How, then, can we deal with disappointment in a more productive way?

1. Start by giving thanks for the positive blessings we've already received: A roof over our heads, warmth in cold weather, food on our tables, friends or family who love us, a God who never leaves us nor forsakes us. (1 Thessalonians 5:18)

2. Release anger quickly. According to an article cited by Webmd.com, people with unresolved anger issues are 19% more likely to have a heart attack. Seething anger is accompanied by a cascade of consequences that can be worse than the disappointment we've experienced. Choose to let go of anger and replace it with peace. (Ephesians 4:26) 

3. Look for the lesson in the disappointment. Is our health issue due to poor choices? What can we learn? How can we make better choices going forward? Was our raise denied? Is there something different that might make it a possibility later? (James 1:2-5)

4. Embrace change. It's easy for suddenly-widowed women to be overwhelmed by the increase in responsibilities and physical work that must be done. Choose to learn new skills. Missing a promotion may be an opportunity to start a side-business of your own. Try a new health skill. Walk a little further every day. Maybe God's doing a new thing. It'd be a shame to miss it. (Isaiah 43:19) 

5. Grieve well. If the unmet expectation is a result of loss or death, take time to grieve. Give yourself extra grace. Tears will come at the most unexpected times. Let them fall. Navigating through grief takes time. Don't get in a hurry. (Lamentations 3:31-33) 

6. Choose hope. As believers, our hope is in Christ alone. We look to a future in heaven when we'll be reunited with all those we love. Healing will come. Joy will return. Hang on to hope. (1 Thessalonians 4:13) 

We all experience the disappointment of unmet expectations. How we respond to the hard times determines, in large measure, how life will look on the other side of hurt, sorrow, or loss. We can allow our faith to sustain us. We can demonstrate the power of the light of Christ to a dark and lonely world. We can, if we will. 

"Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert." Isaiah 43:19 esv

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In case you missed it, here's the link to yesterday's post: MLK Day: On Making a Difference By Taking a Stand

Advent 2017 #14: When Decorating the Tree Was Almost Too Hard to Do

Ryan and I intended to decorate the tree after Thanksgiving, but got sidetracked and never placed the first ornament. We had the tree up and in the stand before he left for Atlanta, but that was the best we could do. I don't think either of us had the heart for it.

It was, after all, our first Christmas without Sam.

Before he left, Ryan gazed at the empty tree, standing, a little forlorn-looking, in front of the bookshelves. "I'm sorry we didn't get to the tree. Are you okay doing this by yourself?" 

"Sure. I've decorated trees before," I assured him, with less confidence than I felt.

It was true. I'd decorated dozens of trees in my lifetime, but I'd never put up a Christmas tree by myself before. This year was the first time in 28 years that I'd done the Christmas tree without Sam. 

It was, in a way, a double-whammy of firsts. 

I dreaded the task, so I delayed for a week or more. "You're a big girl. This is no big deal. You can do this," I assured myself a dozen times. Still, it seemed like a enormous job, and I wasn't sure why having a Christmas tree mattered. 

I considered skipping the tree all together this year, but it was already in the stand. To take it down without decorating it seemed a little too much like defeat. 

Finally, I fixed a cup of hot chocolate, stirred it with a peppermint stick, turned on the Christmas music, and opened the first box. I found my mama's handmade ornaments, treasures Ryan had made as a child, gifts from friends, and mementoes of speaking engagements in the boxes. 

Each ornament was wrapped in memories, and I treasured every one. In less time than I'd expected, the tree was covered with evidence of a lifetime of love and sweetness. 

There were sad memories, too, of course. The first Christmas after my marriage, Marshall's children gave me a bell ornament that looked a little like my golden retriever. I shed a few tears as I held it and pondered the pain, shattered dreams, and broken hearts the little dog represented. There'd been healing, too, I reminded myself, and thanked God for how He brought us through before I hung the ornament on a branch. 

After the tree was finished, I opened a box of greenery, berries, and garland. I stared down at it for a few minutes and put the top back on. 

It was too hard.

The plastic boxes sat for another two weeks before I finally rummaged through and found an unexpected treasure: three rolls of wide ribbon with the letters LED on the packages. The ribbon rolls each had a strand of tiny LED lights running through them. 

Could ribbon really be lighted? The concept was completely new to me. I didn't remember buying it, but it was clearly my ribbon. It was in my box, stored in my storage house. I decided to give it a try. 

I put greenery on the mantel, wove the ribbon through it, and plugged it in. Tiny red lights popped on and meandered above the fireplace.  I laughed out loud. It was the most unexpected (and frankly unusual) decoration I've ever placed on the mantle. 

Sam would've loved it.

The lighted ribbon brought with it a tidal wave of Christmas cheer and confidence. "I can do this after all," I decided, and joy filled my heart. 

The act of placing ornaments wasn't hard. The work of touching precious memories so soon after Sam's death was the difficult part. I miss him, especially at Christmas.

I'm not the only one who misses loved ones this time of year, and Sam's not the only loved one I miss. He's just the most recent. 

Grief will not be denied and it shouldn't be. It's okay to cry over ornaments and delay doing hard tasks. It's all part of the healing process. Every step matters, because the temporary pain of memory brings us to the lasting joy of healing. 

If you're in the place of sorrow this Christmas, take heart. Grief may linger a lifetime, but it won't always give a gut-punch every time it surfaces. When we allow God to touch our hurt places, He softens them with His gentle compassion, love, and peace. He surrounds our hurt with the promise of eternity and returns our hope. 

Delay, cry, struggle if you must, but don't stop walking through the valley of the shadow of death. A sweeter place of healing awaits on the other side of grief. 

"And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died." 1 Thessalonians 4:13,14 esv

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Please like and share this post. When you do, it expands our ability to reach more people. It makes a bigger difference than you can imagine! Thanks for helping!

In case you missed yesterday's post, here's the link: When Christmas Changes for the Better

Here are the links to the other posts in this series:#12 The Snuggling Savior,
#11 The Heavenly Rejoicing Party,  #10 When Peace is Fleeting but Jesus is Still Our Joy, #9: God's Love Language, #8: The Love that Saves Us from the Maggot Bed, #7: Finding the Safe Place in a Crazy World, #6: The Preparation of God's Love, #5: When Joy Flowed Forth and Splashed Into My Heart , #4 The King Who Will Not Let Us Down., #3 Preparing for Transformation, #2 Preparing for the King with an Humble Heart, and #1 Getting Ready for Jesus.

#advent2017

Caregiver Chronicles: When Sam Couldn't Stay and I Had to Say Goodbye

A lot can change in three weeks, and it did. Sam could stand with assistance, take a few steps with his walker over to his recliner, enjoy Wheel of Fortune, and go to church when I left. He could still dress himself with a little help, and boss me around like an expert. He could eat three meals a day and enjoy a morning cup of coffee.

The day I left him at Sanctuary Hospice House for respite, we rolled him to his room. He was too tired to sit up, he told us, and wanted to lie down. In that moment, I knew I'd never take him home. 

"You better eat while I'm gone. If you don't, you're gonna be too weak to go home," I told him. "I'm gonna be upset with you if you go on a hunger strike." 

Sam gave me a tired smile. "I'll do the best I can," he promised.

The hospice personnel kept me informed with updates that steadily broke my heart. He wasn't eating. He was losing weight. Less responsive. Not swallowing water.

The hardest thing I ever did was stay in place 6,000 miles away while Sam drifted toward eternity. I sure hope the three week long sacrifice was worth it. 

Ryan, my son, loved Sam with all his heart. He drove from Atlanta and spent several days with him, hoping to help him hang on. Sam rallied remarkably, and they had one good day out of the four he was here. Ryan dressed him, drank coffee with him, and spent time with him. 

It was the last time Ryan would ever see Sam alive. I'm so grateful for the few "awake" hours they had together. 

My friends and church family visited Sam often, and tried to prepare me. "Sam looks terrible," they told me. "He's at death's door." 

When I arrived, the nurses tried to prepare me, too. "He hasn't eaten more than a bite or two since Ryan left. He won't drink at all. He looks bad."

I've seen a lot of sick people in my almost thirty-year career as a physician, but I couldn't have anticipated the reality of seeing someone I love so very near death. Mere hours after my return home, I stood at his bedside, choked back tears, and turned to the nurses. "I'm not gonna be able to take him home, am I?" I asked. They shook their heads and I saw tears glisten in their eyes, too.

A part of me thought I could will Sam to come back from the valley of the shadow of death, but it was a false hope born of desperation. Over the weekend, I read most of the New Testament, Isaiah, and the Psalms to Sam. I sang hymns. I prayed. I begged. 

Sam's relentless trek toward heaven would not be slowed. In the depths of my heart, I didn't want him to be delayed, but I didn't want to let go, either. By Sunday afternoon, I reeled from lack of sleep, and finally went home to rest for a while. I needed those few hours to make it through the next two days.

Yesterday afternoon, I had just returned to his room when his breathing changed. I sat at his bedside, my two dogs curled up at his feet, and thanked him for all the good he'd done. For loving my son, being willing to try all the crazy schemes I cooked up, for protecting me, teaching me so much about gardening, livestock, and the land. For teaching me to shoot a gun, set a trot line, and how to catch two fish with a single cast. . .

His periods of apnea steadily increased until his breathing finally stopped. At 4:55 pm, Sam stepped from this world into the wonder and beauty of eternity. He shed the frail body that had encased his soul for eighty-seven years as he did. He has a new body now, and white robes, and crowns he's probably already left at the feet of Jesus. He's seen our Lord, which was what he most wanted, and his baby daughter that died, and his beloved Jamie. 

I'm sure gonna miss him, but I'm comforted with the assurance that I'll see him again, as well as by the Bible passage Sam loved best:

"Let not your heart be troubled. . . In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you until myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. . . I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me." John 14:1-3, 6 kjv

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Visitation is Friday, November 10th 12:30 to 2 pm with memorial service to follow in the choir room at Hope Church, Tupelo.

Sam always thought cut flowers were a waste of money, so we arranged for a special "Sam's Fund" at Global Outreach at his request. Marla Nunnelee (daughter of his long-time friend and coffee-drinking buddy, David Coleman) will administer it and use the funds where most needed. We thought about giving it a fancy name, but Sam always wanted to be "just plain Sam," so that's how we named his fund. 

In lieu of flowers, memorials can be made to "Sam Wiley Memorial Fund" by mailing your check or money order to: Global Outreach/ PO Box 1, Tupelo MS 38802. Be sure to put "Sam's Fund #5136" in the "for" line. 

Moving the Heart of God With the Prayer of No Words

A strange thought occurred to me this morning. Are there examples of praying without words in the Bible? As it turns out, there are. I read the gospel of Luke this morning, and it's full of examples of women who moved the heart of Jesus without saying a word. 

The widow of Nain is one example. The story's found in Luke 7:11-17. Here's the Leanna paraphrase: 

A widow's only son had died. In her culture, there was no social security or widow benefits. No nursing homes existed. No medicare or medicaid. Her entire future provision depended upon anything her husband had saved and her son's care for her. 

When her son died, she was grief-stricken for more than one reason. Of course, first of all, she loved her son like any mother loves. There was also the question of her future. What would happen to her now?

You may not have experienced this depth of grief before, but sometimes, it's so enormous, there are no words to say. Only tears. 

That's where the widow of Nain found herself. Weeping was the only response she could make. 

Then Jesus arrived.

News about Jesus had traveled throughout the region, so it's likely this woman had heard of His fame, His miracles, His power. A few days earlier, when her son was sick, she might have knelt before Jesus and asked for a miracle, like everyone else did.

This day, however, all she could do was cry.

Jesus and His disciples walked through the gate just as her son's funeral procession was heading out. She saw Jesus and couldn't say a word, but her tears spoke volumes, and they moved the heart of God.

Jesus saw her tears, entered into her grief, and revived her son. He "gave him back to his mother."

In His presence, she communicated with Jesus through her tears, and it was enough. 

I've been in the place of such profound grief that my only response was tears. I've been the one on my face before God, praying without words. In His presence, my tears were a prayer without words, because I gave those tears to the One who is our Comforter, and He comforted. He responded. He moved.

Do all tears serve as a prayer? I don't know. What I do know is that the widow's tears, in the presence of Jesus, were enough to communicate her need to Him and move His heart.

Whatever our situation, we can take it to Him, and He will understand. Whether we have words to describe our situation or express our need or not. Today, let's give our concerns to the Lord, and let our hearts speak for us. Use words only if we need them. 

How do I know this is possible? Because God sees our hearts.

"...for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart." 1 Samuel 16:7 nasb

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The picture above is of my little bedroom here in this beautiful place. In case you can't read the artwork, the lettering above the beds says "Be Still" and "and know that I am God." Exactly what I needed to hear.

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In case you missed the most recent post, here's the link: When Telling Our Story Reminds Us of the Miraculous

If you feel led to partner with this ministry, here's the link to give your tax-deductible donations: Global Outreach Acct 4841 

You can also mail your check or money order to: Global Outreach/ PO Box 1, Tupelo MS 38802. Be sure to put Account 4841 in the "for" line.

Living after

Tuesday afternoon, not quite 24 hours after Jamie took her last breath in this world, the minister finished his beautiful, love-filled sermon, said a prayer, and pronounced us "dismissed". We were free to go. 

Of course, we didn't go. We milled around, chatting, hugging Sam, and whispering behind his back. Every whisper was some variation of "Is he going to be alright?" I wanted to say, "Of course, he's going to be alright. I'll take care of him. I won't let him be anything but alright." I know that's a ridiculous answer.

It may sound like pride talking, but it's not. It's fear. 

I fear the living after, for sometimes spouses who remain find that the living after is too hard. They can't muster the will to press on and, before you know it, the one left behind gives up and dies, as well. 

I fear Sam will be one of those too-quickly-gone surviving spouses.

In the midst of my occasionally messy life, I've learned a little about loss. It's always hard, and losing someone we love is especially hard. It hurts a long time. When you least expect it, the pain of loss will jab you in the heart and nearly knock you off your feet. A few times, that sneaky pain-jab has not just knocked me off my feet. It laid me flat on my face, and it was a good thing. 

Face to the floor, I poured the pain in my broken heart before God and He took it. He adjusted it. He made something new. He brought me through.

I cannot bear, not even for one second, the thought that Sam might give up and die. That he might not find the will to press through his loss is unthinkable. I know it happens, so don't tell me. I don't want to consider it, not even for a minute. 

The truth, though, is that we will all die, including Sam. One day, the loss I'm grieving will be the man I love the most. Sam's been my daddy, my granddaddy, my dearest friend, my wisest counselor. He has taught me truth I didn't know I needed. He's gently molded me into the woman I have become. 

He's filled some mighty big shoes, and he's done it with more grace than I deserve. 

I love this good man and, as I escorted him into the home that has been filled with so much love, the home that now seems like an empty shell, I choked back tears. Other than Ryan, I love Sam more than anyone else on this earth. His joys are my joys. His sorrows are my sorrows, and this week, his sorrow is overwhelming. 

Most of the people at the funeral knew that I was leaving town the next day. Most people asked, "How can I help?" To every person who asked, I said the same thing. "Go check on him." 

When we are grieving, the thing we need the most is not platitudes. The thing we need the most is for those we love to surround us. To be quiet with us. To weep with us. To be present with us. To help us find our way from grief to life again. 

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." Matthew 5:4

Comfort. That's what Sam will need, and I left town knowing that I can trust those who also love him. The good people of Blue Springs will stop by his house, spend a few minutes at the store talking with him, take him some supper. They will comfort him with their presence and surround him with their love.

The blessing of community is invaluable, but there is even greater help available. I'm counting on the God who has sustained Sam through every other loss he's endured to carry him through this loss, as well. 

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Psalm 147:3

There is no wound we have that God cannot heal, no sorrow He cannot comfort. Sam knows the truth of that promise and so do I. We're counting on it to carry him through. 

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Here are the links to previous posts in this series:  The eternal destination, The Vigil, A Little Help from My Friends, Keeping My Word, Deathbed Priorities, Deathbed Priorities, part 2, Death is Not The End., and Shifting Our Sorrow. 

#grief #griefrecovery #comfortthosewhomourn #Jesus #community

Thanks for traveling this journey with us. There's more to come, and tomorrow, we'll have something other than sorrow to celebrate. I don't know what yet, but I'm sure we will. See you then.

Shifting Our Sorrow

(Note: I leave for an early flight today, so this was written last night.)

Monday, Sam sat at the bedside of his beloved wife, Jamie, as she breathed her last breath and entered eternity. Today, he sat by her casket as friends and family members came to share his grief, offer their love and condolences, and participate in the funeral service that followed. 

The "living after" we feared has begun.  

This afternoon, Sam returned to the home that has been filled with love for more years than he can remember. Now, it seems an empty shell. Tonight, he'll crawl into an empty bed and try to sleep without the consolation of his friend and companion of the last sixty years. I hate this emptiness for him. I'd fill it for him if I could, but sometimes, we have to experience the empty to understand the fullness that will, eventually, come.

It's been a hard week, and we're only two days into it.

Sam's learned about loss in his eighty-five years and there's one thing he knows for sure. 

Only God can bring him through. 

Many of us would be tossing and turning at night, but not Sam. He slept well last night. In his own words, "I went to bed, prayed for a while, and went right to sleep." The night his wife of sixty years died, he handed his sorrow, his fear, and his pain to His Lord and went to sleep. Tonight, he'll do the same thing again. 

Sam understands two very important truths that made his restful night possible, and we would do well to embrace them ourselves. 

We do not grieve as those who are without hope.

Sam is confident Jamie is with God and equally as confident that he will see her again. This is an agonizingly difficult separation, but it's only a temporary one. 

As surely as the sun will rise tomorrow, joy will follow even our deepest sorrow. 

God is in the healing business, and He loves to heal broken hearts. Sam can't see what it will look like, nor when it will come, but He knows, without a shred of doubt, that his God will bring him through. On the other side of this sorrow, there will be joy again. It may not be the joy he expected, but it will be joy, and more than enough.

Tonight, my heart breaks for Sam. This is too much pain for one frail, dearly loved man to bear. As I pondered how in the world I could possibly help ease his suffering, I prayed, "Lord, I'd take his pain if I could." As soon as those words left my mouth, I remembered, Someone already did. Just as Isaiah promised, Jesus came and bore our griefs, carried our sorrows, accepted our sin as if it were His own, and justified us by His precious blood. (If you haven't read Isaiah 53 lately, you should. It's a beautiful passage, and full of hope.) 

Jesus has already carried Sam's sorrow and it did not defeat Him.

I'm holding to that truth tonight. Sam's sorrow is not too big for Jesus, and neither is mine. When I finally crawl into my bed this evening, I'll do the same thing Sam will do. I'll pray until I have peace, then go to sleep.

Tomorrow, the sun will rise. 

There will be grief to hand over, sorrow to shift to Jesus. We'll start the process all over again. When we do, it will be with the same confidence we've had today.

Jesus has carried our sorrow (and yours) before, and He's more than willing to do it again. 
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Here are the links to the others stories in this series: The eternal destination, The Vigil, A Little Help from My Friends, Keeping My Word, Deathbed Priorities, Deathbed Priorities, part 2, and Death is Not The End.   


Thank you so much for walking this journey with us. Your prayers and encouragement have meant so much to us. Don't leave yet. There's more to come, and it won't all be hard or sorrowful. You've changed us, and we are grateful.
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#livingafter #grief #overcominggrief #Jesus #hecarriedmypain

Death is Not the End

Yesterday, on one of the most beautiful fall afternoons we've had this season, Jamie Wiley took one more breath in this world and stepped away. Her very next breath was taken in eternity. She went so quietly that Sam, sitting at her bedside, already grieving his loss, didn't realize she was gone.

In the short span of eleven days, Sam's world (and mine) spun out of control and, it seems, took on an orbit of its own. From the moment she slid to the ground because "my knees wouldn't hold me" to the moment when, instead of returning to the hospital to drive her home, I returned to help Sam decide about life-support, it's been a whirlwind of devastating surprise and tragedy. Even when we left her at Hospice House for the first time, we flirted with the idea that she might recover and come home again. Little more than twelve hours ago, we left her at Hospice House for the last time. 

This has been hard. 

It's not that we didn't know, at 85 years old, that her time was short. It's not that we feared death. We knew. We understood. What we feared was the surprise. What we feared was the living after.

Yesterday, I took Sam back to the home they've shared for decades and gathered her best clothes (her new blue jeans and favorite red gingham sleeveless shirt) to dress her one last time. As I sorted through her closet and rummaged through her drawers, Sam sat quietly on the end of the bed they'd shared, a stunned expression on his face. 

The grieving has begun, and life will never be the same again.

He knows it, and I do, too. Somehow, Sam will carry on, because that's the kind of man he is. His God has sustained him through the loss of a tiny baby daughter, through the tragic death of his brother, through struggles common to us all. Now, His God will sustain him through this greatest loss imaginable. The One who said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you" has neither left him nor forsaken him even once. 

Death seems so final.

It seems so final, and it is, in a way. Jamie will never again laugh with us or make the best biscuits in the world or bake her famous chocolate cake. Not in this world. Instead, she is in a place so rich that gold is used for gravel. The leaves on the trees have the power to heal the nations. There is no sorrow in that glorious place. No tears. No darkness. God, Himself, is all the light anyone will ever need. 

The description of heaven given in Revelation 21-22 is so beautiful, you should read it for yourself. It's a glorious place, and I am certain Jamie is there, because she turned her life over to the only Savior she ever needed, Jesus Christ, and trusted Him to do with her life as He saw fit. When he chose to take her home, she didn't argue a bit. She went. I imagine she's glad she did.

One day, maybe when we least expect it, our appointed time will come and we, too, will step into eternity. We, too, will meet the Lamb of God who has taken the sins of the world on Himself. We, too, will reach our eternal destination. 

We have a choice to make and it's the most important choice of all.

We can choose darkness or light. Forgiveness or not. Cleansing or not. Jesus or not.

The eternal destination of an "or not" decision is not one I want to consider, and you shouldn't either. Cleansing and restoration of all the sin and hurt in your life is one bent knee away. It's easier than it should be and hard only because we make it so. A loving heavenly Father longs for His children to come to Him. 

Just as Jamie chose the freedom of Christ, so, too, you can choose all He offers. Reach out to Him, admit your sin, and embrace His cleansing. It makes all the difference, in this world and in the next.

The loss Sam sustained yesterday is not the end of the journey. Today, from 1-3 pm, friends and loved ones will gather for visitation and the funeral that follows. We will celebrate the good times and laugh, then cry for our loss. We'll go home to try to live without her. In the midst of our sorrow, we'll celebrate the joy we knew and the reunion of which we are certain.

Your kindness in participating with us through this difficult time has been a surprise to me. I didn't understood it, at least not at first. What I've tried to do is what God does best, make beauty from ashes. (Isaiah 61:3) I'm taking your response as an affirmation of that effort. 

I invited you into our journey and you came. Thank you for joining us. Don't leave us now. There's more to come, and it won't all be hard. After sorrow, joy comes. I plan to share that with you, too. 
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Here at the links to the others stories in this series: The eternal destination, The Vigil, A Little Help from My Friends, Keeping My Word, Deathbed Priorities, and Deathbed Priorities, part 2.  

#thisisnottheend #eternity #griefshared #JesusChrist

Bahamian Blogging #7: The Smiling Student

He was funny and cute and full of energy. When the opportunity to perform for us was announced, he was the first one to our makeshift stage (really just a clearing in the front of the room).  He had a beautiful, enormous smile as he began to sing one of my favorite show tunes. "Summertime, and the living is easy..." Indeed, after this very difficult winter we've had, summer does promise a much easier time, and I'm longing to see the new season that will bring a little lighter work load on my farm. My thoughts were all about my own upcoming summertime in rural Mississippi.

I loved his music, enjoyed all the memories associated with the song, and anticipated that new season as he sang. Much as I hate to admit it, I had not one thought about that sweet young man's upcoming summertime. If there was even a hint of trouble or personal concern in his musical delivery, I completely missed it.  His enthusiasm never wavered. 

I had no way of knowing, but that smiling student's father was gravely ill. In less than twenty-four hours, his father would be dead. The summertime he faces is not likely to bring easy living, and is dramatically different than the one I anticipate. 

I wish I'd known, and offered hope and comfort in the same measure he offered smiles and songs. I'm left wondering how many of the big smiles that greet me every day are hiding enormous burdens and overwhelming grief. How much pain do I overlook because I fail to see past the enthusiasm and the toothy grins? How much pain do you overlook?

As you anticipate the coming week, join me in praying for this smiling student and his family during their time of grief and loss. Join me, too, in making an effort to look past the smiles for the hurt and pain hidden deep inside. Perhaps, by seeing a little more clearly, we can offer the Balm of Gilead to those who need it most and show it the least. 

Worthy Words

Words. Where are they when you need them?  "I can't think of anything to blog about," I moaned. Ryan had a pretty simple solution. "Maybe you shouldn't blog about anything then." The whole idea of needing words I couldn't find  started me thinking about all the words I use during the day, and how some words are absolutely worth saying, and some are a total waste of time. 

It's the words worth saying that I want. Words that affirm, encourage, comfort, support, and inform are all words that are likely worth saying. Of course, I think all the words I use telling patients what to do and why are worth saying, but sometimes I wonder if I'd be more effective with a few less worlds.  Maybe what I need is one of those short phrases that can clatter around in your head for ages. Some years ago, I was standing outside a conference room with Brad Beck when he asked me,"Where is your margin?" (Margin = the space around the edges of your scheduled life where God has room to work) It was like a word straight from God. I didn't have any margin. Every minute of my life was jam packed. It was one of those phrases that stuck in my head until I made some much-needed changes. Not long ago, I was looking at my schedule, trying to squeeze one more thing into a too-full week, when Brad's words came back to me again. "Where is your margin?" Lost again. That's where it is. (Thanks, Brad. You are still in my head after more than a decade, and I appreciate the help!)

When it became apparent that I needed to be gluten-free, the thought of such a disruption in my life was unimaginable. One short phrase changed the task into something totally possible. My boss said, "if you will do it, I'll do it with you."  It was a hard transition and the learning curve was steep, but knowing I was not alone made a huge difference. 

Words spoken out loud are tremendously important, but words spoken with actions are also vital. When my mother died, my friends Rosemary and Mike Marecle showed up at my house with supper and shared the meal with me. Their actions told me that they shared my grief, that I am loved, and not alone. Of all the events surrounding my mother 's death, that dinner around my breakfast table stands out as a beacon of hope and the assurance that I would survive my loss and be fine again. 

Slow Down

Lighten up! 

 You are not alone. 

 I will help. 

You are loved. 

Wonderful words, spoken at just the right time, can make a difference for years to come. What about your words? Are they uplifting and encouraging? Do they help others be more like Christ?  Do they draw people to God or push them away?

This week, consider every word as a seed and plant them in fertile soil. Sow words that will grow a harvest that will change lives and impact the Kingdom of God forever.  Words. Use them well. 

The Christmas Lights by Dean C. Lamb

I’ve always loved Christmas lights. Almost always…

When I was a child, living in a rural home where my daddy worked long hours on his farm and in his general store, we had a humble – but beautiful to me --Christmas tree. My dad liked simple candles, though, for our other lighting. I loved going to a neighboring town and seeing the varied, colorful lights. 

I also savored traveling to Memphis, at least some Christmases, to see my Irish-American grandmother. The lights of the big city, even when it was not the holiday season, fascinated me, as we drive up old Highway 78 and it turned into neon-lit Lamar Avenue in Memphis. Daddy later told me I called those luminaries “jumping lights.” Even as an adult, more than one lady I squired asked for me to take her for a drive in our more affluent suburbs to see the Christmas lights. I gave out a masculine grunt or two, but in my heart of hearts, I liked the lights.

Then, the lights went out.

I lost both of my parents at a relatively early age, and my Christmas spirit dimmed a bit. Then two years ago, my wife died, just before Thanksgiving, and the lights went out. It was not a perfect marriage, and much of the problem lay with me – but she was a soulmate, a beautiful lady inside as well as on the surface. We talked of retirement together, perhaps in the mountains we both cherished – Smokiest, Ozarks, or the majestic Rockies where we had vacationed together. 

Grief is sometimes defined as the loss of dreams. And I felt that. I went through depressed, lonely periods and tried to be an agnostic. But God wouldn’t give up on me. As Christ told of leaving the 99 sheep in the fold to find the lost lamb, the Holy Spirit kept sneaking up on me, almost like a stray puppy hoping you’ll acknowledgeand feed him. I don’t like comparing our Lord of Lords to a stray pup; it was I who was the one who was astray, wandering for a tidbit of faith.

I would like to tie this story up like a neat Christmas package by saying I found my way back that yuletide…but that’s not true. Some great theologian said that true Faith is like a candle’s light – the flame may die, but the ember is not extinguished if one has embraced God’s sweet salvation. That winter I had but the tiniest of embers – as I’ve experienced in other times in my life. But, in time, the Gospel of John had avoice shouting in my ear – not the small, still voice God most often uses on us – but a loud Word I needed.John 1:5 has perhaps become my favorite verse: “The light shines in darkness and the darkness has not overcome it…”

As scripture tells us, even the tiniest light means that there is not total darkness. So it has been with me. The small ember has gradually become a bright burning light, again. I have come to realize, my God has more plans for me…great plans. Through the winters of grief, I am seeing the Light once again. It’s not always easy or clear – I’ll be bluntly honest – but the Light is there. Praise God for the Light.

My daddy was right all along. Amid the darkness, a candle can shine more brightly than any choreographed, fancy lights. God’s candle never goes out, and I am so grateful to be saved by it.