Jesus – She Speaks True Words

Joy comes in the morning.

Joy comes in the morning. Even after sorrow, even after the depths of mourning. We are promised that joy is there. God’s presence is there. Hope rises and is within us.

When you’ve been in the depths of grief and survival mode for so long, finding your way out feels unfamiliar. It feels like you can’t quite trust it, and you wonder if you will lose it at the drop of a hat. The thing I’ve come to realize about grief is that yes, even though I feel like I have come a long way, it is not linear. I don’t follow a straight path where I’m walking away from my grief. Where I simply can leave it behind. Grief follows a winding path; it takes you on twists and turns you don’t expect.

It’s been over two years since we’ve lost David, and I still experience him in my everyday life: his faith, his playfulness and his love ingrained in me and how I raise our girls. I see him in them every day, parts of his personality and who he was in their eyes and their smiles. The sadness and the ache and the grief still exist, they just change over time. You no longer feel it in the depths of your being and your bones, but your heart still misses what was and what could have been. I miss David and the life we could have shared together, but I also know that he is with me now even in the little things. I know that he wants a bright future for me and the girls and is watching over us.

Today, I feel hope for the future. Hope for what God has in store for me. There’s a sense of guilt in letting go and choosing joy, like I should stay in the depths of grief and mourning forever. But I know that’s not what Dave would have wanted and I know it’s not what God wants for me, either. He wants me to believe in His promises. He wants to hold me and guide me into his good and beautiful gifts. And I know Dave is watching over all his girls every step of the way.

Earlier this year, God brought someone into my life that allowed me to find hope for happiness again. I knew it was a risk putting myself out there, but it was a risk I was willing to take. I allowed myself to fall, to feel, to let myself be on a relationship journey again. And as hard as it was when things didn’t work out, I know that it needed to be that way. It allowed me to hope, to believe in a bright future, despite everything I’ve been through. God continues to show me that he wants what is good and best for me. And I know that I deserve his gifts, to enjoy this life that he has given me.

Today, I am grateful for so many things. I am grateful for counseling for helping me feel more like myself than I have in a really long time. My heart feels stronger and more secure. I feel a sense of peace in the present. I am grateful for the opportunities of new beginnings. Of the possibilities of what lies ahead. The future is uncertain, but it is also filled with so much love and support from those I care about.

Today, I am grateful for hope. For the gift of life. And the joy in what’s to come.

Image by Katharina N. from Pixabay

Two years: Finding hope.

Two years ago we said goodbye to our daddy and best friend. Our rock and our confidante. Our source of strength and so much laughter. You knew how to be silly and serious and everything in between. It’s true when they say that the first year is hard, but if I’m being honest, year two was even harder. I went through a lot of ups and downs and life changes that at times left me breathless.

I have been grieving not just the loss of you, but also the loss of normalcy as the pandemic hit and continued on longer than I ever imagined it would. I have gone through different stages of grief for in-person relationships, missing them immensely at the beginning of the pandemic and now realizing just how much work it is as a single parent to maintain them. I have grieved the home I left behind, the house full of memories with our children as I moved into a townhome. I have grieved the loss of community with our neighbors. I have grieved the many things our girls won’t get to experience with you. I have grieved so much that truthfully, some days it has felt too much to bear.

Grief, I have come to realize, is multidimensional. It’s not just about the loss of who you lose, it is the loss of everything else you could have shared together. It’s the loss of everything you imagined you thought your life would be. However, it is also about choosing joy in the midst of grief. It is holding onto hope, knowing that there are good and beautiful things in this life that I can enjoy both now and in the future. For me, grief isn’t just heaviness, it is choosing to find beauty, adapting and holding onto truths that guide me one day at a time.

I think one of the hardest parts of grief is that not many people understand it unless they’ve been through it themselves. One of the reasons I share my story and write about you is so that people will learn about those who are grieving and ways they can walk alongside them. I want others to know that they don’t have to fear talking about you, that I need it more than anything. Holding onto memories fills my heart with so much joy and is important for both me and the girls.

Another reason I share about you: for our girls. As I talk with them about you, it is my hope that the girls will hold onto their memories, but I know that in time these memories will fade. I am writing down stories about you—about us—so that someday the girls will know so much more about you. I am hoping that maybe eventually this will all come together in a book.

I also share about you for my own healing. I have been broken, yes, but I also feel myself being made new. I have recognized within myself a strength I never knew I had before. A strength that doesn’t just come from me, but that is a gift from God.

You taught me that strength from your example, holding on and trusting in the face of adversity. You showed me what true courage looks like: You trusted in whatever God brought your way, and you had the faith that He would see you through it. You believed in God’s promises and knew that you weren’t alone in your suffering.

In the same way, despite just how hard it has been grieving in the midst of a pandemic, I know that I am not alone. I felt like I lost my safety net when I lost you, but in reality my safety net has been there all along, I just haven’t seen it. I haven’t trusted in it fully. I have walked the tightrope, wobbling and fearing that I am going to fall into the vastness, into the unknown where I am asked to trust and surrender even when it’s hard.

In reality, yes, life is hard. But the truth is, this space I am in, where I am being asked to trust, is my safe place. I have left my old home, and my new home is a place to build. A place to grow. A place to believe, hope and dream.

Today I remember you, honor you and am so incredibly grateful for everything we shared together. I am thankful for everything you taught me and carry you forever in my heart.

Snow

Darkness crashes
Into white
Casting shadows
Into the night
Illuminating beauty
Radiating light.
I stand in awe
Taking it all in
Letting the purity
Wash away what’s within
Knowing the hope
That let’s me begin
Again
And again.
No longer bound
I am set free
To believe in love
Because of the victory.
Twinkling lights
Amidst the black
Tiny rays poking through
Giving strength where I lack.
The light is a veil
In the vastness of the sky
Providing a well
Where my soul runs dry.
My lungs breathe in
The crisp night air
Cleansing and waiting
Knowing what’s there
Beyond the veil
The victory’s won
I know tomorrow brings
The rising of the sun.

2022: New Year, New Hope.

Like just about everyone this time of year, I find myself reflecting on the past 12 months—everything I have been through, have learned and see myself hoping to work on in the new year.

I’ve never been big on New Year’s resolutions; I find them to be glorified versions of personal goals (or maybe that’s just me). The trend in more recent years has been finding a “word of the year” that sets an intention. This could be a word that helps you stay focused on the person you want to be, or a quality, truth or hope you wish to hold onto.

I’ve tried both resolutions and words of the year and while in theory they have been helpful, I find myself quickly getting back into the routines and busyness of everyday life and quickly forgetting any sort of intentions (or resolutions) I’ve set for myself.

If I’m honest, I know that goals are helpful for me to stay focused and give me a sense of purpose when I otherwise sometimes feel a lack of control. While I am not setting out to name resolutions for myself this coming year, there are a handful of things that I want to do more of, and some things that I am realizing I want to do less of. In shedding the things that do not serve me, I am hoping to make fewer excuses for not doing the things that give me a greater sense of joy and purpose. Let’s call them goals of what I want to do and not do.

2022 Goals

1. Less scrolling. I find myself doing way too much mindless scrolling on my phone, namely on social media, sinking into the rabbit hole that is the internet. When I am really up for wasting my energy, I click into the comments section of a news article. Most of this mindless scrolling leaves me feeling like I have wasted my time and energy on things that really serve me little purpose. I am considering removing social media apps from my phone temporarily to help me stay more focused on the present and less on things that don’t matter.

Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing updates on what my friends are up to, especially those I don’t see very often, but I know I need to be better at picking up the phone or texting when I’m thinking about someone, even if it requires more emotional energy than scrolling. (Side note: If I haven’t called or texted you…sometimes it requires more emotional bandwidth than I am up for…forgive me if it takes me a while to pick up the phone for a long conversation. I love talking, but at the end of the day I have little energy for more than reading a good book or writing a blog post. 😊)

2. Less justifying. Sometimes I feel the need to justify my reasons for saying no to something or overexplain myself for decisions I make. I am realizing that I am allowed to set boundaries and name what I need without feeling like I have to overshare. I am allowed to give myself grace and space.

3. Less guilt. Oof this is hard. Author Nedra Tawwab says you can’t set boundaries without feeling some sense of guilt, but ultimately you need to focus on not disappointing yourself and your needs. As selfish as I know this sounds, I know that I need to take care of myself. It’s like the whole oxygen mask on the airplane thing. To be the best mom, friend, employee, family member, etc. that I can be, I need to make sure that my needs are met and my tank is full without feeling guilty. I need to make the best decisions for me and my girls without feeling guilty. I need to create space for the things I love and enjoy without feeling guilty.

Somehow I make too many excuses or don’t make enough time for things I enjoy, which I hope to change in 2022. There are several things I want to do more of.

1. More yoga. I fell in love with yoga a few years ago, pre-pandemic before everyone became obsessed with at-home yoga sensation Yoga with Adriene. I have fallen out of the habit this past year, but yoga has been something that has kept me grounded, and it has allowed me to take care of my body when it carries so much stress. I’ve signed up for the next 30 day yoga journey, and while I don’t typically finish these in 30 days straight, I tend to stick with them. Yoga has helped me mind, body and soul.

2. More reading. I love to read, both fiction and nonfiction. During the 2020 year of Covid that felt like the longest year of my life, I probably read close to 50 books after a long hiatus of reading for fun. Since downloading the Libby app on my phone and having library books at my fingertips I have been reading so much more. I look to continue my reading habit next year but want to do more reading of physical books too, and not just on my phone.

3. More sleep. Ugh, this is probably my worst habit. Worse than biting my fingernails. I stay up way too late most nights. As a single parent of young kids, I definitely am lacking on time for myself. I try to make up for it by staying up far too late after the girls are in bed, crossing things off my to-do list and then trying to squeeze in plenty of wind down time prior to lights out. I know that I function at my best and am much more pleasant to be around when I have more sleep. I’m happier, less likely to say something stupid, and amazingly more patient with my children. Win, win, win. I know I need to make sleep a priority, it’s just a matter of following through and making it happen.

4. More writing. The lizard in my brain tells me that no one really wants to read what I have to say, that my writing doesn’t serve much purpose other than to get the thoughts out of my head and onto paper (or computer). I know deep down that this isn’t totally true, but I make excuses for not writing more. Confession time: A few months ago I started a book. I abandoned ship after one writing. I’ve gotten approximately two paragraphs written. I’m hoping to come back to it next year and dedicate a whole lot more of my time to writing it.

5. More time with friends IRL. For those who don’t know the lingo the kids are saying these days, IRL = In Real Life. The combination of being thrust into single parenthood in the midst of a global pandemic has put a huge damper on my personal life. I need to get over feeling guilty asking people to watch my kids so I can have one. There is no substitute for in person conversations, hugs, prayers and quality time.

I’ve set some what I feel to be attainable goals for myself next year that allow me to focus more on who I want to be. It’s been a year (ok let’s be honest, two years) and I’m hopeful that the next year will be one of challenges, growth and joy. I am grateful for my girls, my tribe, and a community that has supported me through this journey called life. God has given me more than I could ask for or imagine, even with all of the challenges and curveballs. It is by grace that I continue to find joy and hope in what’s to come.

Masterpiece.

“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.” Ephesians 2:10

I’m not very good at being present in the current moment. My mind tends to wander to my to-do list, future plans or anything my overthinking brain wants to ruminate in.

As a mom to two little girls I find myself resisting my natural instincts, longing to slow down, to be present. I love watching and being with them, whether dancing, playing at the park, doing puzzles, or snuggling up in my bed early in the morning. I wish that I could bottle the feeling of pausing, of being fully present in every moment of my day.

Leading up to moving has left me little time to slow down, and now I find myself somewhat settled into our new home. Attempting to pause and be present. The lazy days of summer lie ahead and I’m eager to fill them with activities and playdates and doing things to make our home feel complete. As I stare at our bare walls and shelves to be filled my mind wanders to the potential, to the things I could do to our home. It feels both overwhelming and exciting at the same time. And yet I also find myself looking back at where we came from, remembering the home we built together and longing for a different future. I know that I cannot change the past, I can only find hope in the present and in the promises God has to give me a hope and a future.

So here we are, looking at the vastness of our walls to be filled, to our potential, to our future—and to our present. The planner in me wants to do it all at once, to do all the things, to finish our home now. There’s so much I want to do, so much I see, and I’m not sure where to start.

So then I pause. Breathe. Slow down. The girls and I spent the morning doing a puzzle today, each of us taking a section, helping each other out, fitting the pieces together. We each had to start with one puzzle piece, finding the others that fit into place, then we connected them all where we found they came together.

I feel a bit like that puzzle. I know there is a vastness that lies ahead, a story that I’m writing, and I’m trying to write it all down now. I’m trying to make sense of it all, putting everything into its place, finding a way to control what I cannot see. I’m reminded that I cannot do it all at once. I cannot fill every bare spot on my walls, get everything I ever wanted for my home, and make everything feel complete.

Because my life is not complete.

My life is the puzzle. My pieces are fitting slowly together, intricately telling a story that I’m not going to see until the very end. Only God knows the plans, the hope and the future he has promised me. All I can do is be present, to find the pieces that fit the parts of the story that I am writing right now. I cannot change the present, the past or the ending to my story. All I can do is embrace it and find one piece at a time. I must connect the parts as they come together, coming alongside those who are walking with me in this journey. They are a part of my story, my puzzle, and they see my potential and encourage me along the path. They help me to see that I cannot complete it all at once but remind me to pause, to be fully present, to let God use me in this story that I am writing.

We all have a story we are writing, and it is up to us whether we embrace it, live in it, and are fully present to what God has for us. We must trust the process, take the pieces he has given us, and put them together to make something beautiful.

Because our puzzle, our story, our lives we are living are a masterpiece.

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

The Longest, Shortest Year

It’s hard to believe it’s been a year…it feels like just moments ago we said goodbye.

I still remember vividly the details of your last day. The yellow striped shirt you wore. The smell of your skin. Sitting with you and praying for you alongside a couple of dear friends who held me and you in their hearts.

I remember visiting you in hospice every day. Most days it was sunny but cold as I sat in the reclining chair next to your bed and gazed out into the sunshine and snow. The days were not nearly as cold as this winter has been.

Some days you would talk; most days you would try to rest. You were in a lot of pain, so the nurses did what they could to take care of you so you would be comfortable. (Side note: the nurses and staff were nothing short of amazing. I am beyond grateful for them.) Each day when I visited I mostly would just sit with you, share stories with you, and pray for you. I would then come back later after school and on the weekends with the girls. When we said goodbye each night I always wondered if it would be our last.

I remember the girls bouncing around your hospice room, sitting on your bed, receiving your hugs and love. I remember the girls loving the endless supply of snacks in the hospice kitchen. I remember the drive to and from hospice, the girls wondering if they would get to see a train that day. I remember getting the call from your nurse early that last morning after dropping the girls off at school and rushing to see you. I remember my heart being heavy and aching like it still does today and yet knowing you were going to a place far better, without pain.

I remember wondering how you felt and what you were thinking that day. When I prayed for you, I prayed for you to no longer be in pain, for God to take you into his arms, and for you to find comfort and peace and hope in him. I prayed that you would be reunited with your dad and with so many great and wonderful people whom we remember in our hearts.

I feel tightness in my gut as I remember the crying and heartache when I said goodbye. I remember how it felt to hold you in my arms after you were gone. I remember making phone calls, but they are kind of a blur. I remember just how much it hurt even though I knew it was coming. I didn’t want the truth to be real. I didn’t want it to be this way. I knew this story was already written but I still wanted to rewrite it. Most days I still wish I could rewrite the ending.

Grief is hard and messy. Covid has somehow suspended and extended my grief as I feel like I haven’t fully reentered life as normal. Some days the grief cuts deep. Some moments it comes out of nowhere. And some days I just put one foot in front of the other and keep going.

Some days I don’t feel like I’m doing a great job as a parent. When I said goodbye I told you I would do my best to love and protect our girls. And I am but I still wish you were here. Walking alongside me. My companion, my love, my partner. You were an amazing daddy to our girls. Husband to me. You loved us so well, and we love and miss you so much.

My heart can barely take what this life has thrown at me the past year. The longest, shortest year. The year that dragged on forever and yet somehow I blinked and our children have grown up way too fast, and here we are looking at the way life was a year ago before it turned upside down.

It’s been a year of unfathomable changes and anxiety and grief unlike I’ve ever known. It’s been a year of challenges. Of unknowns at every turn. It’s also been a year of hope. A year that, despite the deep ache within me, has brought me closer to God than I thought possible in a time such as this. A year that has taught me what it means to have courage. To put one put in front of the other even when it feels impossible. (Because that’s what courage is in my book.) A year that has shown me that I truly am, by the grace of God, stronger than I think. A year that has provided me deep friendships despite hardly seeing friends in person and instead meeting virtually or talking on the phone. A year that has shown me what grace and kindness look like – from others and toward others and also toward myself.

The longest, shortest year…it’s been a year that has changed me in so many ways that I have yet to know or understand. The ache in me that cries out for you is reminded that when I feel like I don’t have the courage or strength, I do have hope. A hope that doesn’t disappoint. A hope that always perseveres. A hope that holds tight to the truth. A hope that draws from the grace and love of God. From an unfailing love that endures forever.

And for that I am forever grateful.

Hope rises.

Hope rises
Steaks of burnt red and gold
Bursting forth its fire
From the blackness of the night
Shedding its light
Into the depths
Closing in on the darkness
From where it came
Bringing with it a sense of purpose
Of truth
Of faith
Of awareness
That beyond the darkness
There is no fear
Only belief
Only letting go
Only hope
Listening to the voice
That calls me out
Of the shadows
Illuminating
Bringing life
Light
Fire
A glow
From within
That can only be found
From surrender
To the very thing
The very one
That calls me
Into the chasm
The great unknown
The place of trust
Where I truly
Believe and find
A love that changes me
Refining me from within
A love that never fails
Now and forever.

When we face discomfort.

There’s an old Jillian Michaels workout DVD I used to enjoy doing regularly (because #momlife and I don’t have time for those things these days) where she said way too cheerfully into the camera, “Get comfortable with being uncomfortable!”

The two women in the background doing the exercises giggled but I found it hard to laugh with them as I huffed along, trying to catch up.

As I think about my own relationship with discomfort—that is, being comfortable with being uncomfortable—I realize that I do a pretty good job at acknowledging discomfort in my life, but not so great at sitting with it. Inviting it in and being comfortable with it. Letting its presence just be there and not trying to fix it.

Instead, I find myself doing everything I can to either: 1.) avoid discomfort or pain, 2.) make it go away as quickly as possible, 3.) pretend it isn’t really there and distract myself, or 4.) do everything in my power to fix everything. Whether that’s facing and trying to fix my own discomfort or trying to fix the discomfort of those around me because it hurts me to see their pain (namely, my children).

While I consider myself an empathetic person who sits with others in their own pain and discomfort, I also want to do everything in my power to make it better because I don’t like to see them hurt. And I do the same for myself: I want to make things better so that it doesn’t have to hurt. So I can regain a sense of security—and let’s admit it, control—in the midst of the trials.

As long as I can remember, I have felt the need to avoid discomfort, not wanting to rock the boat or hurt the feelings of others or myself. Life seems more stable when everyone is happy, including me. The older I get, and the farther along I am in my parenting journey, the more I realize just how important it is to not just acknowledge our feelings, but to invite them in, to sit with them, and to know that they are okay, even when they are hard and uncomfortable. I need to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

The same goes with our circumstances. Our struggles. Rather than trying to control or run away from them, we must recognize and face the truth that life is going to be uncomfortable and hard. It is always going to be messy no matter what we do or how much we try to avoid it.

By not truly facing our discomfort, we are simply creating a sense of security that doesn’t really exist. A security that isn’t stable, that depends on our own sense of control. I have to remind myself again and again to let things be as they are, to stop trying to take the reins but to trust God with everything. Dave’s presence is still with me, reminding me of this truth that he lived out.

Stability and security don’t come from perfect circumstances or our own happiness. Feeling safe, secure and stable comes from trust. Surrender. To God’s promises that he is with us in our discomfort, our pain, our struggles. In him we find rest, safety, love, hope. Today I choose surrender, facing the challenges and letting myself be strengthened, renewed and filled with love and hope.

Strength.

I suck in my breath, letting the air expand in my diaphragm and fill my lungs, pausing for just a few seconds before exhaling, feeling the breath pass through my lips and closing my eyes.

And repeat.

My brain continues to run 100 miles an hour, overturning thoughts until I feel the need to slow down again.

Repeat deep breathing. Refocus my thoughts on the breaths. In and out.

This exercise doesn’t happen every day, but it helps ground me on the days that I really need it. Focusing on my breath can bring a sense of calm in the midst of the chaos. A peace when I need it. I don’t always find immediate relief, and sometimes I just need to ride out the thoughts and turn my mind elsewhere when it gets exhausted and needs a break.

Because if I’m honest, life right now feels exhausting. And a little bit overwhelming.

When David was sick, I had multiple people (including Dave himself) say to me that I am stronger than I think. Truthfully, I didn’t really like it, or believe it for that matter. I didn’t like it because it made me feel like I couldn’t be vulnerable, that I needed to hide the parts of me that felt, dare I admit, afraid. That I had to be strong even when I felt far from it.

It has been a long nearly seven months since Dave passed away. Some days the words “you’re so strong” and “I admire your resilience” have kept me going and encouraged me, yet I feel guilty when I feel far from anything resembling resilient. While some days I do feel that I can manage the life that is single parenting and grieving in the midst of a pandemic, some days it is just really, really hard. I long for a sense of normalcy, a chance to connect with a friend over coffee and do things with groups of people again.

To me, being strong isn’t about having it all together in the middle of life’s storms. Most days I feel like I’m surviving, drawing on the grace of God to fill me up with hope, faith and love in the midst of the fears and unknowns. Rising up again and again, one day at a time.

Strength is depending on God’s hand and not my own. Strength is surrendering to the unknown, to faith and believing in the truth. Strength is being vulnerable about our fears and asking others to walk alongside us, even if it may be virtually or at a safe distance. Strength is asking for help even when it’s hard.

Strength is admitting we cannot do this on our own. Strength is not hiding who we are and what we need. Because let’s be honest, we’re all needing more hope in the midst of these times. We all need each other to carry on in our own grief. We aren’t made to do life alone. We are made for community. For love. To share life together and experience the love of God through our love for one another.

It is so hard to do this sharing of life thing right now, and I think that’s where I am having a hard time. I can’t let myself get stuck in feeling like I have to be strong all the time, because I know I can’t. I need to remind myself to let my thoughts and feelings pour out. I need the strength of others and of God through these storms. We all do. True resilience comes from this faith, this interconnected trust that allows us to stumble, rise up and be brave even when we feel far from it.

It’s time that we pause and take some deep breaths. We know we still have a long journey ahead of us, one with twists that go into places we have yet to know. We have to trust and endure, even when we can’t see what’s coming. Trust in the process, the path, the road marked out for us. Our safety and protection come not from a lack of hard things, but of promises of God with us.

Today, I pause. I look up and see a break in the several days of rain and the sunshine peeking through the clouds. God’s grace shining through, bringing me hope and strength for a new day.

Poured out.

I’ve always considered myself a sensitive person who wears her heart on her sleeve. I am more emotional than logical. I’m not afraid to be vulnerable and share what’s on my heart and mind. I am highly introspective and live in my thoughts and process them by writing and sharing my heart with others.

I’ve been thinking lately about emotions and how we store and experience them. Over the past several months, I have come to realize that I tend to store my emotions in a tall glass. I let myself become filled with and experience them, but I am not always good at releasing and pouring them out. Sometimes I think that because I am sharing my heart and being vulnerable that I am releasing my emotions, but really I’m still holding on. And by holding on to my emotions, to my thoughts, I feel as though I am keeping them contained and controlled.

While we do need to be mindful and keep our emotions in check, am I really letting myself feel the true depths of my emotions by trying to control them?

I have come to discover that I won’t be able to truly experience the depths of my emotions until I no longer let them be contained. There is a release, a surrender that comes from letting our emotions pass through us. To fully embrace and feel them, hold onto them and then release them. But this isn’t a catch-all for experiencing my feelings. Some emotions, like grief, will likely resurface again and again, and they aren’t meant to be released in one sitting.

Here’s the thing. Carrying our emotions around for a long time, letting our cup become more and more full until we overflow or reach our breaking point isn’t a healthy way to deal with them.

As hard has this year has been for me, it has taught me that I need to take care of myself beyond the surface – emotionally, spiritually, mentally. As I was praying recently about receiving more of God’s love, I pictured a sieve. And I thought about how it catches what you need, releases what you don’t.

I imagine how God intends for us to experience the depths our emotions – and receive his love – like that sieve. Knowing that we are going to experience both the beautiful and good emotions along with the painful and hard ones, we can’t let ourselves carry them around in our bodies until our cups become too full or cracked from the stress, losing control of ourselves in our effort to contain our emotions.

When we sift our emotions through the sieve, we allow ourselves to feel their depths. We let them into our bodies, but then we release them. We hold onto the good parts, letting them mold and shape us, turning us into something beautiful. We let go of and release what doesn’t serve us.

One thing I tell my girls frequently is that they are allowed to feel whatever emotion they may be experiencing. I sit with them through the hard ones and try to acknowledge how they are feeling without trying to fix or correct them, unless they are trying to hurt one another. In a sense, I am letting myself be a container for their emotions, a safe space. I help receive and filter out what is not serving them and show them how to process their emotions in healthy ways. I am far from perfect in doing this but what I am working toward is letting myself hold their feelings and helping the girls work through them. Even when it’s disappointment over what I’m making for dinner. 🙂

So when I got the picture of the sieve the other day, I felt it was God saying that He was my container, my safety, my filter of my emotions. He was helping me catch and hold onto the good, letting it mold and shape me. He was letting me feel the depths of the hard emotions, holding me in them and letting me work through them. And then I saw the sieve lifted to the sky and beams of light shone through, revealing His light shining through me, through the depths of who I am, showing the beauty and all that is good.