He Never Leaves Us in the Valley

Warning: If you stopped by to see cute photos of my kids, get an adoption update, or read a funny story--this isn't one of those posts. But if you ever wondered about the title of my blog, this explains it.

Nine years ago. That's when it began. My love of the 23rd Psalm. My need to savor each verse and digest every word.

Nine years ago I was running errands in my comfy shoes and maternity attire. I stopped at Babies R Us to pick up some goodies for the nursery I was preparing for our third child. Finally some blue in our very pink world. We were over-the-moon excited about this baby boy due on Valentine's Day.

But I noticed that he wasn't kicking. Not uncommon when I was running around, but I went home to rest hoping to feel his mid-afternoon dancing.

Nothing.

I called my doctor in a panic. They said not to worry. He probably had shifted to a position where I couldn't feel him. They told me to drink something sweet and wait. The practice was moving to a new office, that day of all days, but they told me I could go to the hospital if there was no change and see the doctor on call. We dropped our girls off at grandparents and headed to Labor and Delivery. I wasn't interested in waiting for the orange juice to kick in.

Brad and I prayed as we waited to be admitted. I was certain I had watched too many medical dramas and everything was going to be fine and I would feel like a big ding-a-ling for running to the hospital for nothing. I was finally taken to a room for an ultrasound. I was so ready to hear that all was well and return home.

But only silence. The nurses, my husband, the ultrasound. There was none of the "woosh, woosh, woosh" of that heartbeat that I so loved to hear. A nurse ran to get my doctor, she walked in to look at the screen and started screaming, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!"  I knew what her profanity meant.

And then I whispered my own, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus." My Savior knew what I meant.

That was January 8, 2004. On the evening of January 9th, I held my first son. And then my mother who was at the end of a six-year battle with cancer came to meet her only grandson. She held him and sang to him and we cried until there were no tears left. (She joined her Creator and her grandson in heaven eight weeks later.)

When I was alone . . . I talked to God. 

You see, I'd known pain before that day. I had experienced loss. We had had 3 miscarriages, lost multiple beloved grandparents, weathered financial hardship, had moments of personal heartbreak. But this was different. It was too much. In my spiritual immaturity I had conjured up some kind of parameters of what could ever befall me in this fallen world. This exceeded them . . . by a lot. I stared at hospital ceiling tiles wondering if my Heavenly Father was listening and screamed, "But you said you would never give me more than I could handle!"

I had my grandmother's Bible in my hospital room (a story in itself), but no strength to pick it up. It didn't matter--the room was dark and my eyes were swollen shut from crying. My only comfort would come from Scripture I had memorized. 

And one of the passages was Psalm 23. Like any child raised in Sunday school, I knew it well. I got to "even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. . . . " The tears began to flow until I choked through to the end, "goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. . . "

Then I realized the 23rd Psalm didn't end in the valley, it always ends with His goodness and mercy! It was then I knew that the same was true for those who believed in Him. I knew He would carry me through this time because He promised joy would follow mourning, spring would follow winter, goodness would follow brokenness. And He promised He would never leave me.

And He hasn't. 

More of Luke's/Brady's story is here if you'd like to empty your box of Kleenex. So much happened in the days and months after our son's loss that never for a minute did I question the wisdom of His plan. So many beautiful things happened that year (and still do today) that I could not deny His presence or His love for me.

And so this morning I awoke knowing it was my son Luke's birthday. I won't lie--nine years later there are still tears. 

But I was hugged by my eight-year-old son Brady--our gift of goodness due exactly one year after our loss. Then greeted by Daniel--our gift of mercy through the miracle of adoption. I watched my oldest blessings help the younger ones and observed Miss Dimpled Cuteness navigate through the backpacks lined up at the door. I remember how my big girls gave me a reason to get out of bed during that very hard year and I see our bonus baby who makes me wake smiling now. I have a precious daughter who waits for us in China and know my cup runneth over. 

A chorus of kids calling me mom kept me from any moments of sadness. I dropped my big kids at school and Victoria and I returned home to take on the day.

One of my favorite songs came on the radio--Chris Tomlin's "Whom Shall I Fear." Victoria likes to "sing" along (think high-pitched Gregorian chant) and we both belted out "I know who goes before me, I know who stands behind. The God of angel armies, is always by my side." We must have been a sight at the red lights as we echoed the lyrics at the top of our lungs, "You are faithful, you are faithful, you are faithful."

I was grateful to have a very normal day in the life of an abnormal family. The kids are in bed and my eyelids are heavy, but I just couldn't let this day end without thanking God for His goodness and mercy. 

There are a lot of hurting people in this world. You might be one of them. I know many have loss so much greater than mine and pain that I can't imagine. But as a mom who once thought she was too broken to be whole again, I want you to know . . . 

HE NEVER LEAVES US IN THE VALLEY.

Much Love,

Kathie

Ready

Well, it looks like our tiny baby/anniversary gift is coming tonight!

I think I have two male readers (you are brave), so I'll try not to cross the line of too much information, but . . . read at your own risk.

I had my appointment with my high risk doc at 9:30 this morning fully expecting to be told to wait another week. He was thrilled to see that she was head down but there were still some concerns about her being small for her gestational age (which could indicate a problem with the cord or placenta) and wanted to move quickly to deliver since she was finally in the right position. He consulted with my regular docs and they were in agreement to induce as soon as possible.

So I went straight to Labor and Delivery at the hospital and they immediately started the drugs to induce. Well, a couple hours later my doc came to check on me and, after an external exam, seemed worried. They did another ultrasound and discovered she had turned again. She's now sideways and the cord is again over my cervix which can be fatal for the baby if my water breaks and makes it not possible to deliver her the old fashioned way. When he called my high risk doc and told him she had moved, it was funny. There was a very loud, "You've got to be kidding me" on the other end. Apparently she wins the prize for the most active baby they have seen.

He wanted to do a C-section immediately, but Brad had just brought me a romantic anniversary lunch from Chick-fil-a and they have to wait till the food is out of my system. So we have a scheduled C-section at 8:00 p.m. I have about 4 hours till I get to meet my baby girl! I'm sitting here in my hospital gown with a mix of nerves and excitement.

The most frequently asked question these past few week was, "Are you ready?" It's a simple question and since I haven't been able to cough, laugh, or sneeze without wetting my pants for some time now, my first response is always yes. But to be honest, I haven't been completely ready.

Yes, I'm so ready to hold her, to feed her, to study her sweet face and marvel at her tiny hands. I'm ready to bring her home and love on her and watch her siblings adore her. But as my pregnancy has progressed I've had to ask myself harder questions. Losing a child at 36 weeks
has changed the meaning of the question, "Are you ready?"

I've been asking myself, "Are you ready to deliver a baby who might not make it?" With recent concerns about possible birth defects, I've had to ask myself, "Are you ready to hold her and be told she has physical or developmental needs?"

My nurse just gave me the rundown on what would happen during the C-section and with it a whole new list of concerns. That I might not be able to hold her or see her after she is born. That she may have to spend some time in the NICU because she is 3 and a half weeks premature and may not even be 5 pounds. That this is major surgery and I might have complications of my own.

This kind of reminds me of how many were feeling a couple weeks ago when that man was predicting that the Rapture was going to happen. There were many reasons that kept me from believing it was true, and yet it made me ask myself "Are you ready?"

And again my first answer would be yes. Yes, I'm ready to see my Savior's face; ready to worship at His throne; ready to be reunited with my mother, my grandmother, my children who I will get to meet in heaven, and many other loved ones.

But then I felt conviction that I didn't do more. I spent much of my life surrounded by fellow believers and gave myself few opportunities to share my faith. I've had a lifelong passion to care for orphans, but only gave one a family. I have to admit when that Saturday came and went, I found myself with a renewed commitment to live radically for God.

So I sit here in a hospital room, waiting for the hours to play out with an ending that only my Heavenly Father knows. There's nothing but the sound of her heartbeat on the monitor as I give thanks for this precious little life and ask myself, "Are you ready?"

And you know what? I am.

Thanks for your continued love and prayers.

Surrendered to His Plan,
Kathie

The Goodness and Mercy of Motherhood

Forgive me for my unplanned bloggy sabbatical. All is well here. We've just been busy with life and my 40+ pregnant body has just enough energy to accomplish the basics . . . if even that. At the end of each day I have plans to write about what's going on in our lives, yet can't seem to keep my eyes open. But I have missed you all TREMENDOUSLY!

I have months of catching up to do--posting of birthday photos, Easter celebrations, poetry and ballet recitals, and everyday happenings in our crazy family. God has been so good to us these past few months. Not only is He weaving this new life inside me, He's weaving a beautiful story in our family. Perhaps the day I am the most grateful for His goodness and mercy in my life is Mother's Day.

I'll never forget 15 years ago sitting in church as they recognized the mothers in attendance. It had been a tough year. I had had three miscarriages, one after the other. A never-ending roller coaster of hope followed by grief.

The pastor asked all the mothers to stand and a round of applause followed. I remained seated--fighting back tears. Although I felt alone in my pain, I knew there were others who had a mother's heart but no children. Others who had lost children, those who were battling infertility, those who were still waiting to find a spouse so they could start a family.

I prayed for goodness and mercy to follow, in my life and in the lives of those who remained seated but ached to be standing. God answered my prayer and the following Mother's Day I held Olivia, just a few weeks old, in my arms.

Now 15 years later, I celebrate and marvel and laugh at how God has blessed us with biological and adopted children. I'm so grateful to have the gifts of my two daughters, my two sons, and this baby girl who will be born in a few weeks. I rejoice in knowing God isn't finished with us yet. And I pray for those who are still waiting for God's goodness and mercy.

This morning I sat in church, surrounded by my precious assortment of children in small, medium, and large with a fifth one doing a tap dance on my bladder during the praise and worship music. And I was grateful.

I was grateful for the children I have the privilege to parent on earth and grateful for the four blessings that I will some day meet in heaven. Grateful for the ridiculous number of handmade cards I received today and for the love that made them.

(This is my favorite because they worked on it together.)



I'm grateful for my amazing mother. Although she died 7 years ago, she still inspires and encourages me. I'm grateful for my grandmothers whose legacy of faith has been passed down from generation to generation. And I'm grateful for all the precious mothers in my life now--mothers by marriage and mothers through friendship. What a blessing you all are to me.

I hope you also had a very special Mother's Day. May you see His goodness and mercy in your life--today and every day.

Much Love,
Kathie

Grandmother's Gift

Okay. A quick heads up that you may need Kleenex for this one. I've kept things light the past few Memorial Box Monday posts, but today I want to share about the most special treasure in my possession that isn't breathing. (Memorial Box Mondays were started by Linny at A Place Called Simplicity. It's a way to remember God's goodness and provision in your life by collecting items that remind you of a need met or a prayer answered. Click the bloggy button below to read her precious stories and link to others.)



My dear grandmother (my mom's mother) was truly special. She endured a life of hardship and heartache by God's grace and through prayer. In fact, she prayed so much that everywhere she lived, she made indentations in the carpet where her knees had been. I share more about her and the impact she still has on my family's life here.

Well, many years ago she moved from her house to an assisted living community. As she was trying to streamline her worldly belongings she called to ask what I might want of her possessions someday when she went to be with the Lord. She mentioned her china, her silver, her jewelry, . . . all things that had monetary and sentimental value, yet the one thing I wanted wasn't offered. I figured she had already set it aside for one of her five children or many grandchildren and I felt selfish even asking about it. But . . . I mustered up the courage with, "Grandmother, if someone hasn't already asked, I'd love to have your Bible."

I heard crying on the other end. "Really, that's all you want?" she asked. I assured her that it would be one of the greatest treasures of my life and something that would be cherished for generations to come. She finished the phone call with, "Consider it yours."

Several years passed. I remember another special phone call. We live in Georgia and she lived in Alabama, although we visited as often as we could, we used the phone to keep in touch. It was Mother's Day 2003 and I called to wish her a happy one. This conversation was sweetly different though. She told me how much she loved me, how proud she was of me, what a blessing I had been in her life. Oh my, I'm crying just thinking about it.

We talked about my mom who was battling cancer. We reminisced about our recent trip to Disney World and looked forward to her coming to visit the next weekend. When we said our I love yous and good-byes, I had no idea that it would be the last time I'd ever speak to her this side of heaven. But I think somehow her spirit knew.

Days later we got a phone call from my dear uncle. My grandmother had missed an activity at the assisted living home. They got concerned and opened her apartment when she didn't answer. She was a very young 82 years and had never been sick a day in her life, so we were surprised to find out that she had gone to be with the Lord. But we weren't surprised by how they found her. She was kneeling in prayer by her bed with her Bible open.

We went to Birmingham for a beautiful celebration of her life. After the funeral, family gathered at her apartment to divvy up her belongings. My precious aunt pulled me aside and said, "Grandmother Little asked me to give this to you." Then she placed in my hands my Grandmother's treasured Bible. I couldn't believe after all those years, my grandmother had remembered my request. I couldn't believe that I had been given such a special gift. I wept all kinds of ugly tears.

This wasn't just any Bible that my grandmother had dusted off to take to church on Sundays.



This pink Bible was her "love letter" from God. She had read it so many times that the gold leafing had been rubbed off the edge of the pages. She had written so many notes in it that it is hard to find a page without her handwriting. She had cried so many times over these verses that sustained her, that on many pages the ink had smeared.

And then my aunt showed me the page the Bible was open to when she died. When Grandmother's spirit left her, her face hit the page and tore it over Revelation 4. The scripture passage has the subheading "Around God's Throne." This is the passage that the song I posted yesterday is based on. And in it you'll find the beautiful words of those who will worship around the throne of God:

"Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come. Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power: for that hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are and were created." (From verses 8 and 11.)




My grandmother wrote at the end of that chapter "How wonderful!"



I believe she was so overcome by the thought of worshipping around God's throne that she told her Creator she was ready to go. I also believe she wanted to be in heaven to welcome my mom when she joined her at the feet of Jesus nine months later.

What I didn't know when I asked my grandmother for her Bible years earlier was that this wasn't going to be just an item I would treasure, this Bible would be my companion through the darkest time in my life. The coming year was the deepest valley I've ever walked--my "valley of the shadow of death."

This wasn't just a gift from my grandmother--I believe it was God's gift to me. It was that Bible that I read for many months during my mom's steady decline as she battled cancer. It was that Bible that I read during my difficult pregnancy of our third child. It was that Bible that I read after the sudden death of a friend and the split of our church. It was that Bible that Brad brought to the hospital when we delivered a baby that would never cry. It was that Bible that I read at my mother's bedside in her last days. (The story of Baby Luke and my mom is here.)

It wasn't just her love letter from God. Because of all she had written in the margins and underlinings of all that fed her spirit, it was also her love letter to me.

I currently keep it in a place out of reach of little hands, but it will be the centerpiece of our Memorial Box. (For now I have a little pink child's Bible holding its place there.) It reminds me of the legacy of faith and prayer passed down from my grandmother. It reminds me of God's provision during the hardest time in my life--His Word was never more alive, scripture was never more comforting, His faithfulness never more evident.

But this Bible also convicts and inspires me. If I had died in 2003, the Bible I would have left behind looked in embarrassingly good condition. The spine wasn't broken, margins missing written notations, pages free of tears. I want to leave a legacy behind just like my grandmother. I want the Bible that I carry through my days to be evidence of a life that glorified God. I want my Bible to be worthy of being placed in the Memorial Box of one of my children or grandchildren.

And I want my life to be a living reply to His beautiful love letter to me.

Truly Blessed,
Kathie

Sorrow to Joy

One of my favorite bloggy friends is Linny from A Place Called Simplicity . She does something called Memorial Box Monday. It's a weekly feature where she remembers a prayer answered or evidence of God's hand in her life. She puts an item in her Memorial Box that represents the story so that she and her family always have these reminders of God's faithfulness. (She explains it much better on her blog so be sure to click the bloggy button below to read her precious stories.)



I shared my first Memorial Box Monday here, regarding our adoption. (For any new readers, at the time we were still calling him Danilo, but now he goes by Daniel.) Today I'm going to share one about my mom. She's been on my mind and heart a lot lately. Last week (Feb. 18) she would have celebrated her 67th birthday and in a couple of weeks it will be the six year anniversary of her going to be with the Lord.

This story takes place March of 2004. She was in her last days of a six year battle with cancer and we were savoring every minute we had left. We were already at such a place of brokenness because just weeks earlier, we lost a baby boy near the end of my pregnancy (that story can be found here .)

To understand the significance of this story, I must explain that my mom was one of a kind. She made every day seem like a party and could find humor even in the worst situations. For example, she did one more round of chemo with the hope that she would live long enough to meet her grandson (who is now with her for eternity). The treatment burned all of her soft tissues including tastebuds . . . except for one who she affectionately called Bud. She named her car, her piano, even her wheelchair. The term "detail-oriented" was certainly an understatement when describing her. Not only was she creative, she lived poetically. And she wanted her last breath to be on a day that had meaning.

Thus when the calendar flipped to March, she was bummed. There wasn't a day in March worthy of her obituary. She wished she could make it to a day like Palm Sunday or Good Friday or Easter. But she knew her days were few and I could just hear her talking to God under her breath, "March . . . really?"

While my mom was praying for a day of significance, I was praying for a sign of significance--a sign that our storm was almost over. During a nine month period we lost my grandmother, our son, and now my mom. In addition to those losses, we had also faced with some detours and other challenges in our life. I was thinking that God should just cover me with boils and call me Job. I was becoming fearful about what might be next.

The morning my mother died the sadness was overwhelming and I just kept praying for peace. Later that day, I glanced at my calendar and saw a little word typed in the box for that day . . . "Purim." Since I'm not Jewish, I wasn't sure what it was but quickly Googled it. I couldn't believe it when I read about the Feast of Purim, that this is the celebration where sorrow is turned to joy. Never has Wikipedia been so profound. I just wept reading the words "the days of mourning are over"!!!

Apparently the Feast of Purim is observed on a different day each year (according to the Jewish calendar)--anytime from late February to mid-March. But that year Purim just happen to fall on the same day my mother went to be with the Lord. God is amazing.

I picked up the phone to tell my mom about her perfect day--then realized this sweet revelation would be coming from her Father. I'm sure her mouth--with brand new tastebuds--let out a squeal when she found out how beautifully God had numbered her days.

And my prayer had been answered as well. I suddenly had such a peace and calm that this would be the end of our pain and our goodness and mercy would follow. And it has . . . in abundance.

I wish I had kept that page of my calendar to put in my Memorial Box. Instead I tucked a copy of the verse from the beautiful book of Esther that records the first observance of Purim.

Feast of Purim
"The time when the Jews got relief from their enemies, and as the month when their sorrow was turned into joy and their mourning into a day of celebration." Esther 9:22

The book of Esther is the only book in the Bible that doesn't mention God, yet His mighty hand is seen throughout the story. And as we celebrate the anniversary of my mother's passing, we don't remember that day with sadness, but stand in awe of a great God of great love who cares about every little detail. I'm so grateful that His mighty hand can be seen throughout the story of my life.

Humbly His,
Kathie

Sunrises and Sunsets

I bought milk the other day that expires on Dec. 25th. I think that's when it hit me how close Christmas is. Well, I've got 4 days to get everything ready for Christmas and Brad has 4 days to get Daniel home. I think we'll compare ulcers via Skype. (Perhaps this can be a new tradition.) I'm sad that we've lost so much of the Christmas season without Brad and Daniel, yet know we will forever be celebrating finally having our family under one roof as soon as they get home.

Please keep praying. What happens tomorrow determines if they will be home by Christmas. We have to get Daniel's passport and get our final documents to the US Embassy tomorrow because it is the USE's last day of work before the holiday. Fortunately the Visa is issued by the US State Department and they are open through Wednesday with a half day of work on Christmas Eve. Forget Santa and the elves. We're rejoicing that the State Department's workshop is still open. I just pray they have time to process one more Visa or you'll have to send me to the Island of Misfit Toys. (I'll be the misfit version of the Jack in the Box--you know, where you turn the crank till the crazy lady pops out.)

I'm trying to get everything ready for when Daniel does come home. Kind of that nesting thing expectant moms do. I'm giddy with excitement imagining him here. This is certainly a "sunrise" moment in our lives--a time of darkness is ending and rays of light are on the horizon. It's a beautiful thing to behold.

The Christmas letter I'm sharing today is from 2003. It's about celebrating sunsets. Little did I know when I wrote this that we would experience a darkness (just weeks following) like we had never known before. But we've also learned not to be afraid of night, for through our darkest times we are never alone and it is always followed by a blessed new day.

Thanks for walking with us and praying for us on this journey.

God Bless,
Kathie



Dear Family and Friends,

Before you read our 2003 Christmas letter, I must attach a disclaimer. I am, at present, hormonally challenged with a head cold. In my condition I should not operate heavy machinery or write holiday greetings. But unless you’re our pediatrician or a check-out clerk at Kroger, we’ve not seen you in a while. So this feeble attempt at staying in touch eases our guilt.

As I begin our latest edition of “It’s a Wonderfully Boring Life,” I want to remind you of a Christmas story that has particular significance to me this year--“The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry. It’s the one about a husband and wife who are distraught because in their poverty they weren’t able to buy a Christmas gift for their beloved. So the wife--who had long beautiful hair--cut and sold it to purchase a watch chain for her husband. And he sold his treasured watch--passed down from his father and grandfather--to buy beautiful tortoise shell hair combs that his wife had long admired. When they discovered what each had sacrificed for the other, they spent the evening in tears and laughter--because, although she had combs but no hair and he had a chain but no watch, they had a love without end.

O. Henry concludes by saying that the magi were wise men who brought gifts to the Baby Jesus. But wiser still were the husband and wife who sacrificed their greatest treasures for each other. They are worthy to be called magi.

Although we’re more likely to resemble the Three Stooges than the Three Wise Men, we’ve been blessed with many magi moments throughout the year. Here’s a bit of the love through sacrifice that we’ve been given.

*Gifts of New Life and Sustained Life*
Christmas came early for our family and we’ve enjoyed two precious gifts throughout this year. The first was the gift of new life. Last June, we found out on our eleventh wedding anniversary that we are expecting Baby #3. Although we would have been thrilled with any make or model, we were excited to find out that we’re having a boy! He is due Valentine’s Day--the day that celebrates love--but I’m hoping he’ll come a bit early on a day that celebrates an easier delivery.

The second gift was that of sustained life. September of 2002 my mom was told that she would not make it another year, but apparently her doctors didn’t factor in the power of prayer, her will to live, and the medicine that comes from hugging her grandchildren. She has endured 14 month of chemo and radiation to have more time with so many who love her. Every hair she’s lost has been replaced by a veil of courage . . . every day she’s granted is a testimony of her love and God’s grace.

Since her treatment has not been successful in slowing the growth of the bone cancer, she has decided to trust solely in the Great Physician for her treatment from here on. Although we hate the disease, we love the closeness it’s brought to our family. Thanks so much for your prayers for the magi who is my mother.

*Lessons from the Youngest*
Now I know the little girls in white dresses look completely harmless and until recently their mischief has been along the line of crayon on the wall and deodorant on the cat. Which is why on an afternoon last September I went to check on the girls playing quietly upstairs fully expecting to find them reading books and reciting Bible verses. But instead I was horrified to discover that Olivia had been playing beauty parlor with her child-sized scissors and her little sister had been the customer who now had grounds for a lawsuit. I felt as if I had walked in on a crime scene with the floor covered with golden curls that just minutes before had framed Ava’s little face. (It’s no exaggeration when I say that even the military doesn’t cut recruits hair this short--in many places I could see her scalp.)

Over the past few months we have learned that lessons can come from loss and bravery can be found wearing Strawberry Shortcake panties. Our three-year-old has shown pint-sized character as she faced a classroom of friends that she thought might laugh at her and a world of strangers who often stare and mistake her for a boy. She showed forgiveness when someone asked if she would like to cut her sister’s hair and she replied, “Oh, no, I love my sister and would never cut her beautiful hair.” She was a good sport at Halloween when she chose to dress up as Rapunzel and chuckled at the irony of the long blond wig. And she learned that there are people in her life who want to bear her burdens when I took her on a date to the salon and had them cut my hair short to match hers. (If you’re familiar with my hate/hate relationship with my Bride of Frankenstein hair, you’ll know this was less about sacrifice and more about solidarity.)

But her year hasn’t been all about hair, for she has shown us the delight in dancing through a sprinkler on a hot day, the joy of embarking on her first preschool adventure, the pride that comes from being able to write her own name. She amuses us with her non-stop commentary--we wonder how someone so small can have so many opinions. And she amazes us with her love for a baby brother she has yet to see--the mid-section of my clothes are covered in her sticky kisses and she spends much of her time talking to my tummy in her muppet-like voice: “Hey, little fella! I love you!”

Olivia, six this year, has learned about the redemption of true forgiveness. Our Edwarda Scissorhands carried out her punishment (and it was severe) without complaint. And after a month of doing chores to pay for a special doll she gave her sister as a peace offering, she asked if she could also pay for the hats and headbands Brad and I had given Ava.

She has shown empathy during the five months I had of morning, noon and night sickness. Many summer days on the way to the pool she would say, “Mom, we don’t have to go if you’re not up to it.” She has shown responsibility as a new first-grader, creativity in her crafting, and sensitivity to those needing a friend or a hug. She melts my heart with her compassion and lifts my spirits with her encouragement.

And Brad amazes me with the way he’s able to make a little girl without hair, another without teeth (Olivia is missing four), and a really big girl without a waistline feel beautiful. He should win a Noble Prize for all the tears he’s dried and broken hearts he’s mended. I know it’s been a challenge being the Lord of the Ding-a-lings in this all-female household. And for that, I would sell my hair to buy him a new battery for his watch (frizzy doesn’t fetch much).

*Lessons from the Oldest*
But one very wise magi this year was my 82 year old grandmother. Although she had many trials in her life, her faith never wavered. She’s been described as a kid with wrinkles--she lived her life with childlike wonder yet she possessed wisdom that few could match.

She was a spunky lady. Last January my extended family took her to Disney World and she even rode a rollercoaster for the first time. But what I loved the most about her is how she made every person she encountered feel special . . . how she would give the first of her time and the last dollar in her purse to anyone who needed it.

Last May, she went to be with Jesus. We were shocked by the news because she hadn’t been sick. She still had a full schedule of potluck suppers and Bible studies and even had her bags packed to visit us the coming weekend. But the way they found her was no surprise. The director of her assisted living community went to check on her when she missed a gathering. They found her kneeling by her bed in prayer with her Bible open. Apparently she was in the presence of the Almighty and was ready to be with Him for eternity.

She had logged a lot of miles on those knees praying for her husband, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and many more who called her friend. In every place she lived, you’d find indentations in the carpet from where her knees had been. In one house, the marks were left by a window that she’d open when she prayed because she thought that perhaps God could hear her better.

After the funeral, family gathered at her apartment to share memories and take any items that had sentimental value. No one seemed to want her old bed, except for me. For it wasn’t just her bed . . . it had been her altar.

*Kneeling at the Altar*
We brought it home, painted it white, and put it in Olivia’s room. She wanted so badly to have something that would make her feel close to her dear great-grandmother. I explained to her the significance of the bed. I told her the story of a spiritual giant disguised as a little old lady. I told her about the legacy of a prayer warrior and the marks she left on the carpet.

The first night the girls slept in that bed (Ava often sleeps in it, too) and we were going about our hurried routine of bathtime, putting on Pjs, and brushing teeth. Olivia’s little voice reminded us to stop and kneel by the bed with, “Mom, I want to make marks in the carpet, too.”

So at night we kneel, all four and a half of us, and say our prayers. Sometimes the girls’ prayers are funny, sometimes poignant, . . . always heartfelt. And on those nights that I can’t sleep, I tip-toe into that pink room and look at what has been laid on the altar (and this may be the only altar with a protective covering in case of bed-wetting). There lay security blankets, an assortment of dolls and stuffed animals, and two of my greatest blessings . . . those little girls.

How easy it is to unload my burdens onto this altar. Like on those days when my little one mourned the loss of her hair begging, “Mommy, can you put the curls back?” Or when we have gotten news that the cancer can’t be treated. Or when we’ve been told that our loved one has died. But how difficult it is to lay my security blankets, my most treasured possessions, and the ones I love on that altar. The sacrifice is too great . . . the gift too costly . . . that is until I remember a greater love of a Baby in a manger and a Savior on a cross.

As I looked through photos from the past year, I came across this one of the girls on the beach.



We were vacationing with my parents and sister and her family. Although my grandmother’s absence was difficult, we seemed to feel her presence. And as we saw a glorious sunset each night, we felt Grandmother Little must have had some input on this spectacular display.

The evening this photo was taken was our last at the beach--the moment clouded knowing that we might lose another member of our family by the next trip. But as my miniature magi danced in the waves, they seemed to know what I’m still trying to learn . . . that, in spite of the impending night, we should revel in the sunsets. Because just like the couple in “The Gift of the Magi,” it’s not about mourning what was lost, but celebrating the love that was found.

Our wish for you this year is that you would enjoy every sunset, make marks in your carpet, and experience the rare gift of sacrificial love. May you be worthy to be called magi, for you have certainly earned the title of friend.

With Much Love,
The Williams Family