bumper prayers

I have been waiting for the phone call while trying not to wait for the phone call.

Lily is the best girl in all the world. And she drives WAY TOO CLOSE to the car in front of her.  Way. Always. No matter what.

I have said it 67 thousand times.

Not enough stopping distance.

Lily. 45 mph means 4.5 car lengths. 

Girl. The truck should be able to SEE you in his rear view.

STOPPING DISTANCE.

She don't care. In fact, I'm preeettty sure we're at that place of, the more I say it, the closer she is following.

(Mom. I know this was me. I'm sorry for all I put you through. I was a punk.)

I finally had to stop.  She gonna have a car accident. She gonna have to deal with it. Lord, protect her despite her.

Most of you know this...the prayers and challenges of the toddler years don't come CLOSE to the launching years. You're begging for lives, survival AND for sanity, nowadays. 

So Monday night, I'm driving home from church with Sofie, Kid's Volunteer dinner and training complete, and Matt calls me.

You almost home? Lily hit the car in front of her on the way home from work. I gotta go.

I pulled in, he pulled out, I head up to the littles to pray for Lily and to usher in sleep.  

And I'm MAD.

I've told her a million times. Her van is MY VAN. Her life, MY HEART.

And I'm scared.

What if she's not ok, or they're not ok?

And I'm emotional.

Lily called, Matt was coming. She has a good and present father, just like I did, and I miss him.

And I'm worried.

Insurance is already SO MUCH. We can't afford it going up!  She's gonna PAY for it, when it does.

And I'm fighting.

My littles don't need anything at bedtime but His peace. 

By the time they get home, the house is quiet and the Lord has helped me. She comes up to the little's room right away and hugs me for a long time, quiet. She looks whole. 

When I come downstairs, He reminds ME to be quiet and just listen. Let Him talk to her about the things she won't hear about. Let her talk to me without any hint of I told you so.

She tells me the story, rattling a thousand words a minute and me almost missing His thing in the middle.

...so while we're all standing there waiting for the police and it's dark and I'm so shook up and I can see that even though they're fifty or sixty, they're really shook up too, and so I ask them if I can pray for all of us, and they tell me I can. So on the side of the road I pray for all of us, and when I'm done, my hands had stopped shaking and they had stopped shaking and everything just shifted.  They started to be kind and calm and I felt a lot more calm, and then the police got there, and...

After it all, I pray over her and she goes to bed, and I'm left sitting with Him.

It is not normal that a 17 year old girl has her first car accident, and stands on the road in the dark praying boldly and openly for and with the stranger couple that she hit.

I would not have done that. Not today at 43, prayer my passion.

Oh, I would have been praying. But not with my hands on the shoulders of the strangers shook and angry. Not out loud. Not simple bold. Not like that. Quiet and urgent and inward.

Who does that?

I always tell young people to look for the thing inside of them that's weird, that feels normal but is NOT normal to anyone else...because that's how I found His calling on my life.

Terribly planned missions trip...sleeping on the floor, not enough food, not enough translators, overwhelming orphanage....everyone was miserable and wanted to go home...and I was alive like I had never been, hungry like I had never been, satisfied like I had never been. What was weird in me was what HE had placed there.

And here is my girl, debating the Muslim faith and pointing to Jesus with her nail tech the day of prom, getting in tiffs at school over what the Bible says vs. what everyone wants to believe culturally, getting in car accidents alone at night and praying boldly for all involved without even thinking about it. 

The Lord has a plan and a calling for Lily's life, and this girl might just be the Jim and Elisabeth Elliot I have always prayed she would be...bold, abandoned, ready to go, ready to obey, ready to preach.

And far more than her stubborn driving...I care about her heart. And in the moments when it matters most...hers is His.  

Teary days. 

Giving our people again and again and again to Him.  

Overlooking bumpers and fears and spilt sugar (another story for another day) and looking to Him.

Trusting Him, sight unseen. 

free indeed

This week Beth and Jeremy gave me an opportunity I've never had before...Beth by schooling and keeping the littles for a few hours, and Jeremy by being the Chaplain at the highest security prison in Mississippi. Since he joined our church, Jeremy has been talking about a long-awaited baptism at the prison...involving men from all three of the churches within the prison.  As soon as we heard there'd be THIRTY men getting baptized, many out of the Muslim faith, Matt was there.  And thanks to Gaga, I was too, and thanks to the Lord at work, almost 20 men and women from our church were too!  

I have been to prisons in Haiti, but never in the States...and I had no idea what to expect. Just knew there was no place in the world I'd rather be that day.  There are so many random things to share I'm not even sure how to frame it. 

Most of the men we worshipped with on Wednesday have maximum life sentences. Many are on 23 hour a day lock down. It took us a while to get in, and then we were blessed with a tour of the kitchen and education wing, a cell block and the gym where the churches meet. So many heavy doors. So much heavy dark block.   We learned what the different colored striped pants meant, learned about the three separate churches that cannot intermingle, walked through Jeremy's office where you can always come to get a cup of real coffee, if you sit down and drink it with Jeremy, and learned that our presence meant that the whole prison was on lock-down.  So the only prisoners we saw were in green and white, friendly and quick to visit, working at all the various stations.

As we headed down a long dark hall for the baptism, there was only one truly unsettling moment...a loud and steady echoing clinking of keys and chains, and a first prisoner in hand and ankle cuffs, high-level pants and led by an armed warden, heading somewhere. 

Stepping out into the sunshine for the baptism was SUCH a gift, and having it outside in the prison yard was life-giving. Sunshine. Fresh air.  A big tank of water, a drum set and podium.  Miranda, our lead singer at Wellspring, all kinds of bold and ready to go.

After we sat, there were a few family members around us, obvious mamas and sisters and girlfriends, waiting too.

Finally, all the chairs a few yards away arranged in squares started filling, first with men in green and white pants and t-shirts signifying they were the pastors of each church, then ten or so men in green and white pants, filling in the chairs. Next came about 20 men in red and white pants, the white stripes mostly washed pink. Then one man...the only from the third, solitary confinement, cell-to-cell church...the man from the hallway, the man in chains. 

I've never worshipped under the sky surrounded by barbed wire and chain link, sitting next to almost 40 prisoners, covered in every kind of story, scar and scary tattoo imaginable, surrounded by my church, lifting my voice with Miranda's. The sun on our faces was powerful enough, but pour it all it, the air was sweet and expectant. A first pastor, long ago saved, trained and seminary ordained all in prison, shared about his church, Battle Plan Church, and a few of his men shared brief their stories...I once was blind and now I see.

They called the first name, and a short man covered in tattoos up his neck and arms and legs, stood.  

A small old woman dressed to the nines bouncing on the edge of her front row seat jumped to her feet. She turned to all of us and pointed to the prisoner.  That's my SON! she yelled to us all, beaming.  That's MY son!

And first man in, that was it. 

We were done. 

Matt started crying instantly...all the shame of that man's past washed in the blood and made FREE. His mama was no longer ashamed.  She was PROUD, and that's what the cross does. 

One after another after another our eyes poured with hope and redemption as man after man went down in the water. Their faces, tattooed with tear drops and spider webs and gang symbols, took your breath away, full of peace and JOY, and their urgent and certain declarations, "I BELIEVE", one after another, was almost more than you could sit through.  

Sitting there, our testimony His blood, was one of the most powerful experiences of my life. 

Second pastor, powerful stories, twenty men in red and white, several powerful stories of utter brokenness from the very beginning, and Jesus found. 

They found Jesus in that prison. Many of them will still be there when their final days come, but again and again we heard of the freedom they have found that many on the outside still have yet to find. 

One after another, we all lifted puffy eyes to the One who makes us ALL clean and Who redeems the unredeemable. 

When I thought SURELY 30 men had been baptized, the final pastor stood. Solitary confinement block.  Bucket-pastor.  Sits on an upturned 5 gallon bucked and scoots from food flap to food flap, every day, every prisoner. Talking about anything. Introducing Jesus. Praying with those who can't yet. 

He only had one.  One He left the 99 for. The man in chains from the hallway, spending his one hour out of his cell in the sunshine, being washed clean. 

We had thought we were out of tears.

As we all sang our hearts out through Victory in Jesus...I'll never sing it again without my heart in that prison yard.  That's the victory I have, too. Hallelujah. 

As everyone filed out, we thought we were heading home, only to realize that the smell of frying catfish that had wafted through the whole service was for us.  ALL of us.

Those who had a family member or two headed inside to eat together, and we went through the line we were directed to, picking out fish and coleslaw and chocolate cake. When I saw a few new brothers eating with family, I wondered where everyone else was...and where the rest of the church was...and where Matt was? 

I found him...back out in the prison yard, his styrofoam box of catfish splayed out on the table between himself and Mr. Solitary Confiement, both of them diving in as Matt asked him questions about his family.

Mental picture I'll always have. 

I married a man who loves Jesus and has let it wreck him entirely. I'm thankful.

And the rest of our church, spread out in the now-blazing sun, filling in as family with every brother (of any color striped pants) who didn't have family, sharing chocolate cake.  We are part of a special church who thinks it IS the church instead of thinking it goes to one.  I'm thankful. 

One man had been introduced for baptism with the exact same name as one of our friends in Haiti, and I found him and settled in...careful to leave any talk of who he once was behind, anxious to learn who our brother is now.

Whether it's boxes of rice and beans or fried catfish, the Lord has showed me again and again that there is no place that He is not, and that there is NO PERSON who cannot be our true family.  When you sit down and eat with ANYONE, you can see Jesus. And eating lunch with him Wednesday in the places where HE IS was one of the privileges of my life.

The man I ate with to my left has been there since he was 17. Has never met his child. 

The man to my right, has been for almost 20 years, and hasn't seen his daughter in over seven years...now 25. On paper, he will be in prison for several more lifetimes...but his eyes shone knowing long before that, he'll be all eternity free with Jesus, with a whole bunch of brothers and sisters in that courtyard.

As I pray through my little yellow piece of paper, bulletin of the day, the names now have faces and stories...and that's how we're supposed to pray. Family for family, for He whom the Lord has set free is FREE indeed.

Before we had finished eating, Miranda and several prisoners took over the cajon box drum and were singing Trust in God top of their lungs, and heaven felt a whole lot closer than it has in a long time.

I'm thankful.

refinement

 Life lately has been giving a lot of refining opportunities.  

The teenage thing? That must be the most intense continual season of refinement possible. Like, the Lord must be trying to do MAJOR work in my life. Cause two teenage girls at once (and often four) means you are constantly having to guard your tongue...guard your heart...guard your mind...take it all to the Lord in prayer...look to Jesus...stay off the rollercoaster...refuse to worry...speak the truth in love...on, and on, and on. Most every reminder the Bible makes is for moms with teenage girls.  I'm SURE of it. 

I love them. whew.

The college visits thing. People who are truly hurting in our church.  Three non-teen kiddos. Filling in church gaps (NEVER thought I'd be doing church piano, and man has it been stretching and ultimately FUN!). Keeping ahold of upcoming summer meetings and conferences and revivals and VBSs and the 33 thousand things said teens want to do.  Whew baby. Trying to help one girlie decide what to do with her life...how to pay for it...how to prepare for it...how to pray for it.  Where is grandpa when we need him? He was good at a lotta this stuff.

Tomorrow we have five people being baptized, and Wednesday Matt and I and a slew of Wellspring family have the opportunity to go to a maximum security prison to be a part of another baptism, this time 29 brothers, many from the Muslim faith and many from none at all.  Gaga is making it possible for me to be a part of that mini-missions trip, and I am SO thankful.

Everytime I get frustrated or saddened by not having family, He reminds me we do. We do.  I can't wait to tell you all about Sunday and Wednesday's baptism. What a gift to witness! 

Meanwhile, the things that always get most neglected is time with the friends I care about the most...what is that? Friends are such a rare and precious gift....almost as rare as time with them.  The Lord has been GOOD to weave so many diverse friends into my life...even the ones I blow a kiss to while running opposite directions! This is the season, everyone tells me.

When your oldest is 17 and the baby is 3...it's a SEASON. 

If He weren't in the middle stretching me, I'da broken a long time ago. But the way He pours grace and help into every single moment...growing me...I'm thankful!  I know the kids always think I'm talking to myself in the van, in the laundry room, in the yard...but I'm not. I'm talking to Him, continually, and He sustains and satisfies.  What good work He has given us each in daily Kingdom work!

the richness

This was the busiest Easter this pastor and his family have ever experienced....but at the same time all the focus and services and passages and prayers and praise and preaching brought Easter home fragrant in a way I've never known. 

This was Good Friday, and it was powerful! I'll share Easter as soon as it's up....what a rich Word and rich story He is!

so it begins...

...the week that changed the world! 

I love Palm Sunday. 

This morning as the band played "Shout Hosannah", all the kids came down the aisle, waving and handing down palm branches. By the time we hit the chorus, 220 people were waving palms and singing, "Come and see what love has done! Shout Hosannah! Jesus He saves!" I was so overwhelmed by Jesus.

I was overwhelmed that instead of fleeing the place of agony and humiliation, He rode a donkey in. Instead of listening to the pounding of his heart and the fight or flight instinct in us all, He walked towards the sound of pain and suffering. They called Save Us! and He said I will. They called Crucify Him and He said Forgiven. 

He overcame Satan, overcame the world, and even stayed long enough and died dead enough to overcome our flesh...so we don't have to sit here hopeless in our sin.  Broke the chains. Freedom indeed. Made a totally different life possible.  Both NOW and not yet. 

It's a ridiculous love, Palm Sunday.  Walking RIGHT into it, for me. Preaching love and forgiveness and righteousness as He rode....time for a King, he rode into a city for the first time...but not with white horse and armor. Washing feet upon arrival. Bleeding prayers at midnight. Looking with love upon betrayers. Facing injustice straight on and silent. 

He knew what was coming, and He went there.

Praise the Lord. Hosannah. 

all together now

A few evenings ago Matt was teaching from Acts when he mentioned several experiences in Haiti that utterly lacked privacy or personal space, but were totally transformed and beautiful through vulnerability and community. 

Our things, our time, our gifts, our talents, he said, aren't ours, but His. We're only stewarding them for Him and His glory. Even our space and our privacy are not our own, but His to use.

As he spoke I was transported immediately to the sweltering night in July when Ben was born, truly one of the sweetest, most painful experiences of my life. 

I labored through the sticky night after putting the girls to sleep across the hall, and when morning light woke them, they found the baby they'd been praying for in bed with mom and dad. I emerged later that day to stretch, sunshine, and introduce our curious village of Saccanville to its newest Haitian creation. As I meandered to the front gate, I found Yves, tall and chiseled by sun and labor and age and life, and just as gentle as he was hardened. 

As soon as he saw Ben's fuzzy head, he broke into his signature grin, and I announced "Brother Yves! The baby has been born!" 

I know, he smiled. Just after 1 am.

A bit baffled, I continued giving the information culturally expected. It was a hard labor, but not long. A boy, as expected. All is well!

I know, he smiled again down at Ben.

Robbed, I started to walk towards the cafeteria to see the ladies.

Well, tell the village! I called back.

I already did! he beamed. At sunrise!

I turned right back around and confronted the mystery.

Turns out, while I was laboring and while the littles slept...screens in the huge open windows of our block home...Yves was walking the campus. Night watchman... bringing Psalm 130:6 to a whole new level since moving to Haiti ten years before. 

He lit the way at 11:30 pm for Matt when he ran next door to find the midwife. He watched the lights come on inside our home at midnight. He circled our house silently in watch care and in prayer, and asked the others to do the same, and sent one to alert the wives to be praying.  

He heard Ben's cries at 1, and watched our house grow dark by 2. 

Yves had circled and watched and prayed, all night...a sacred violation of privacy vs. an announcement of Facebook three days later. 

I have often shared with Ben that a village prayed over his birth, and how men and women joyfully participated in his coming, supernaturally giving me the peace and power needed to deliver a 9+ pound baby in the middle of such political unrest that the road to the hospital was cut by burning tires in three places. 

I'll never forget it. 

And I'll always stand for our circles, our times of agony, our private spaces being for one another to guard and hold and circle in prayer...not stand at a distance. 

What I wrote in 2018...

While I labored through the most agonizing night of my life, no question, God was there in the middle, watching over me.  Yves was walking around Emmaus, encircling me in his prayers, many of you have written or called or texted to tell me that throughout the nights, you have awoken again and again and deliberately turned your midnight prayers to us. 

In the middle of a stifling, mud-hut village with only three beside me, many, many were, and even moreso, the Great God of the highest heavens, Watchman of our Nights and Bringer of the Morning, He was H-E-R-E and waiting and watching and in the middle, and brought peace.

What can preach better than Yves, that we might wait upon the Lord and lift each other unceasingly upward, waiting upon the Light intensely? 

What can preach better than Ben, that in a country and a time so broken and dark, in a night so full of pain and despair, God brings the most intricate beauty and provision and peace, that He comes and comes and comes among us in unexpected ways and in painful nights, transforming them?

What can preach better than our lives, God in the middle? 

history

A few weeks ago, my dad's wife sold their home and moved into something better suited quite quickly, and my sister drove from PA to OH to grab any last of dad's things we hoped not to lose in the transition. Little by little Lisa's been going through boxes, and she texted me yesterday telling me that she had a box of binders of every single blog I ever wrote, printed every time I posted. 

In case the internet lost them one day, Dad had them. 

I wrote the blog very first for him. We had moved to Quebec for language and cultural training, then straight to Haiti, and phone was hard, emails were being copied and pasted to him, my sister, my aunt and few supporters and friends, and I finally began a small "MattStaceyHaiti" blog so the daily updates could be found in one place. 

There wasn't a time in Haiti when I finally hit "publish" that I didn't picture dad, glasses down his nose, reading it and answering his questions. I didn't know he first hit "print" and then read it and saved it and shared it. 

What I started for him quickly became apparent was actually for me. I am confident that many of our experiences in Haiti that could have been considered traumatic and perhaps a part of me still, were processed and released instead within days or weeks because of writing. 

How can I explain this to dad? I often wondered, and as I did, I found the Lord, I found hope, I found prayers, I found words. 

I often told people that by the time they read about it, I had, in many ways, worked it through and surrendered it. 

The other main question was always, What is the Lord trying to teach me? and how often writing has helped me find Him, again and again. 

It was my mom, when I came home from that first missions trip on fire for the Lord and cold over the idea of college, training, and preparation, who probably tearfully surrendered all my previous music performance dreams and convinced me I SHOULD get some further education first. As in, gave me no choice :) When bewildered over what to study if music was fading, she said, "I always thought you were good at writing?" Frustrated over the delay to be off to the mission field, I poured through the list of majors at Asbury, and checked "Journalism" because I figured if I had to get a degree, I could probably journal, and that was it.

And ever since, Dad was collecting and reading and praying, and even when I felt so far away I wasn't sure ANYONE was listening, or cared...I wrote for Dad, and in search of the Father. I know there were writings hard to read, and I know some seasons were incredibly busy and broken for him. But he always drew close, and never did we speak on the phone that I repeated anything I had written...he already knew. It's why he was calling or coming. 

In a box in an empty basement are binders and binders of my silly blogs. 

And when you lose your parents, you never stop missing having ridiculous fans like that.  

the painful places

 My sophomore year at Asbury my mama was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive form of leukemia. Every weekend I drove from Asbury University to the Cleveland Clinic and back again until I finally withdrew to fight her last months alongside. 

Came back the next semester and fell in love with Matt Ayars at the cereal bar. (He was so cute. And understood grieving with me vs. uncomfortable avoidance.)

So crippled and heavy by grief and brokenness, I withdrew again and spent 6 months in Port-au-Prince where the Lord absolutely met me with true healing and hope and a call for my life, not finished. 

Back to Asbury, eyes on the missionfield, poured into by many, on purpose….then One Mission Society….then married that good man…then graduated in Journalism and Foreign Missions and on to Haiti. 

And for 20 years I have avoided going back to Asbury—sweet and sacred though she carried me five years—because my mama moved me in and never came back. Because my dad’s eyes, in all the Asbury years, were dark and hollow and lost. Because I have always regretted I wasn’t there for my siblings that season. Because I was utterly broken down and painfully rebuilt those years. It was the hardest time in my life, and easiest to bless it, move on and put behind.

This week, with four teens, my dear friend and that same man from the cereal bar….it was time. Past time. Somehow in a blink my own babies are trying to decide where to do their launching and stretching and calling, and no way we weren’t visiting Asbury University.

We had lunch with the sincere and humble president and with the gracious and brilliant provost (who sent me a precious gift when my dad died, having never even met me). We worshiped in the senior section, all the memories of hymns and convictions and the opening of eyes just rushing in. 

We toured the buildings, old and new and remembered dozens of little stories I’d long forgotten. We toured the equine center and saw a baby calf born. We providentially reconnected with BOTH our RD’s and even in those rich conversations did He pour healing! We tucked all the kids into the OMS student center, dripping with photos and stories of mission fields waiting for beautiful feet to bring Good News. 

We stayed at the seminary where my parents always stayed, ate at the restaurant where Matt worked all four years, walked in the Shaker Village sunshine my mom loved so much, poked our heads in the classrooms that grew us, found our pictures in the basement of Hughes, and—the moment that flooded me most—toured the women’s dorms with giggling girls. 

For all the life-changing education and chapel services and cereal bar experiences, that dorm, that 2nd Glide hallway, that was where God walked with me. Became my daily bread. Became my constant companion. That was where I tested Him and found Him faithful. Room 215, four years, that was where He ceased being just my parents’ Lord and became mine. Standing in that hall yesterday, literally stepping over girls sitting on the floor talking and praying together, that was ME a minute ago. Who we REALLY are with Jesus is who we are HOME.  

God brought so much grace, growth, mercy, friendship and love to my life through Asbury University, and when I finally forced myself to face the painful place…it wasn’t. 

All I can see now is His gracious, steady and loving hand in my life. What peace trusting the slow work of God brings me for these beautiful teenagers, in His hands.

Betsy, breath and bones

Ah, my dear friend was finally freed from all her suffering today, once and for all and for always. But my heavens doesn't it ache. 

Praying for Betsy has become the Ayars family way. Every family devotion in the morning, every bedtime prayer. Every prayer list, every single day. Always. For almost 3 years. 

I've joked with her along the way that praying for her has gone from our lips and our dinner prayers down to our breath and our bones...praying for Betsy, a part of who we are. In and out prayers. Praying without ceasing. I'm so thankful for the way praying for Betsy has grown and shaped our family.

I'm most thankful for how Betsy has grown and shaped me. Many a time have I asked her what to do with these teenagers! She hosted my struggling-to-celebrate baby shower for Emma and poured in grace. More than once she has shown up unannounced with a crate of berries and mangoes for the Haitian kids and plopped down for an hour of laughter and tears. We'd go to breakfast and stay 'till lunch, she showed up several times at events she had NO interest in simply because we needed a person to show up for us, I sat in a gas station parking lot for an hour in the rain as she vulnerably poured out an intimate and very real encounter with the Lord, she brought me a bowl she was certain the Lord told her to bring me (which I will cherish always). 

She brought me blueberry bushes when Dad died, something beautiful and provisional to carry on, dinner when Nora was in the hospital, again when Emma was, always with fancy desserts...and we never had a conversation that wasn't meaningful. She made it meaningful. The point was meaningful. She never chatted to fill the space, but used her life to meet yours and pour in Jesus. 

Betsy was never afraid to face the pain, to share her pain, or to step into mine. She saw the places I was hurting, and brought light in. She never seemed to worry about saying the right thing...just pointing to Jesus in it, and sharing what He was sharing with her. Betsy wasn't worried about showing up the wrong way, just sitting with you. She also wasn't worried about sharing HER pain the right or comfortable way. Just allowing you the sacred space of carrying it with her. Never apologizing for pain or tears. 

The last time she came, her face was glowing. Visually. It's like the closer she came to Jesus and to leaving her failing body, the more she looked like she'd been with Him. I told her and tears sprang to her eyes. She knew.

He rejoices over her unabashed wholeheartedness in painful places few dared to go.

That's a rare dear friend. And sitting with her, carrying her burdens, praying in my bones, often without words, asking the Lord for and believing for the things she was asking and believing for...was such a sacred privilege. Betsy was really good at running to the sound of pain and pointing out Jesus was already there. 

ALL the healing Betsy was believing for is finally HERS, every ounce. The Lord never failed her and never will. 

Pray with me for her husband, parents, children and friends...in just a moment we'll be with her.

I'll carry her on, in my bones and I hope, in unabashed love. 

listen

It sure was easier back home in Haiti writing about what I was learning!  I was spanning cultures, languages, circles, experiences...making them easier to share.

Here, it all overlaps, and I just can't share as freely what I'm learning, what the challenges and gifts are, how I'm growing and how it's going. Writing's always been how I process, and I've just not been able to do it as openly these state-side seasons. 

But Greg Benson's words are always in my mind during hard seasons, with that annoying but gentle smile  on his face after giving me a few moments to vent or bawl:  So, what's He teaching you? 

He's teaching me to listen to Him. 

He is closer than we think...right down IN the nitty gritty. There is One who knows, One who really sees, One who understands and identifies, and it's His breath in our lungs.  In the times we can't explain, in the times we can't defend, in the times we can't fight, in the times we don't even have the words to pray...He is w-i-t-h us. Mighty God. Tender Father. Precious Friend.

And I'm realizing that He's always speaking. It's been such a heavy season that I've found myself talking to Him continually, asking Him question upon question...asking for help, for clarity, for eyes to see. And He has spoken. Again and again. My thoughts have been going down one road, and suddenly a vision of something entirely different fills my heart. With it comes a gentle flood of peace.  Not a million details. Not an answer to all the questions, but here, hold THIS.  

One by one, I have watched the peace He's given me materialize. Many times the last weeks I have told Matt, "I know this doesn't make sense, and I know it doesn't look like it, but I promise He was clear. He is doing such and such, and we've got to trust Him."

And He IS. He's speaking, still small voice, peace that passes understanding, and we SO often miss it because we are worrying / planning / depressed / distracted / self-medicating / panicking.  

And He has given us His Word to feed, sustain and help us...and we're not taking advantage of it. We can't cite it when we don't know it. We can't cling to it when we're not in it. We can't use it if we're not carrying it, and we can't be satisfied by it if we're not eating it.