The Gift of Story

She comes just when I need her, as she always does.

It is the middle of the morning, and already I feel the lonely day stretching ahead of me. My husband is in Romania on a mission trip, my friends are preoccupied with their own busy lives, and my children seem to perceive me as a heaven-sent robot here to meet their every demand. I tuck my heart away with a sigh, ready to dig in.

I pick up the mail and there it is, the square yellow envelope with her name in the corner. Just looking at that name makes me smile.

I tear open the envelope and out she comes, little bits of her heart overflowing with love. A treat for each of the kids and a silly card for me and this, this gift that has to be one of the best I have ever received.

A book for her friend who loves words, full of her words of gratitude…for me.

Page after page of her living love. As I read, I picture her in her house in Texas, taking the precious time to capture our friendship on these pages. Stories flow: the day we met, both of us lonely and in search of a friend. The bond that grew between us in that little Kansas town, a rare friendship that soon became the deepest I have known. Our shared love of the mountains and many outdoor adventures together. Grieving with one another over miscarriages, heartbreaks, disappointments, moving away.

Reading her memories is like holding a piece of her heart. Each page of this gift hands me the treasure we all long for: to know we are loved. Cherished. Valued. Remembered. The laughs bubble up and the tears flow as her words reach out and pull me into what I had forgotten was there.

I remember a recent conversation with my husband. We had just returned from the funeral of a friend where story after story had been told of his life, his love, those he touched with his gentle heart. Wouldn’t it be great to attend your own funeral and hear all those things said about you, we thought.

Or maybe we should say them beforehand?

That’s what Staci did for me today.

I often tell my students that there is nothing like the power of story. We all crave a good story. We are bound together by the stories we share. And isn’t it true that we always seek to know our part in the story, to find our place, to know we have an indispensible role?

Too many of us think we have no part in the story.

We feel forgotten.

But our story has already been written.

“You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed” (Ps. 139.16).

There is One who loves story. And His story includes each of us. We are an indispensible part of making the story happen. Each character is carefully planned.

“He determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us” (Acts 17:26-27).

He wants to be our story, and He wants us to live our stories together. I think the beauty of our entwined lives makes Him glad.

Today He used a friend to remind me that my story matters.

Whose stories matter in your life? Do they know? Have you told them?

Lessons from a Horse Trough

As I stood at the coral fence with my daughters, admiring the horses, I noticed the mud under the gate. And then I saw the water trickling out from the bottom of the trough in a tiny, steady stream. What a shame, I thought. Why would they waste water like that?

Then I noticed that the trough was full to the brim. A spout hanging above poured a continual flow of cool, fresh water into the trough at the exact same rate as the water exiting below. Aha. Fresh water.

A horse stuck its nuzzle in and drank deep.

Fresh water is so much more satisfying.

And if the water gushing so faithfully into the trough stopped, its flow interrupted by neglect or drought or diversion—the hole in the bottom would still be there, and the water would drain away, leaving emptiness.

The trough is designed to hold only fresh water.

But an empty vessel cannot give.

The life cannot flow out unless it is flowing in.

We come with holes, too.

We can let the life leak out, drain away, leaving emptiness. Or we can be filled with the only source of constant life—and we can become lifegivers ourselves, drawing the thirsty.

A constant stream of life pouring in, flowing out.

Reflections on Motherhood

In recent days I have shared in the grief of a young mother giving premature birth to twin boys, one already dead, the other breathing in her arms for a few precious hours before joining his brother. I have watched my friend’s devastation as the plans for adopting a little boy suddenly fell through at the last moment. Another friend with a similar adoption heartache received the doctor’s news that she is unlikely ever to conceive. And another mother with four grown children had to bury her only son after a tragic accident.

And isn’t it true that for all of us mothers—those with living children, those with children who have died, those with children they dream of one day holding, and those with children who will never know the mother who loves them—the love is always intertwined with heartache. The letting go begins the moment we begin to love.

And this, I think, is the picture of the God whose love and heartbreak tinge this world. The One who dreams of us, labors over us, loses us to rejection and selfishness and confused seeking after anything but Him—this God opens His heart and allows the love to break it, all for the joy of holding us again someday. In this hope He pursues and blesses, speaks and breathes over us day after day, pouring Himself out over and over in quest for us. He sacrificed all. He held nothing back.

And so I am learning that motherhood is sacrifice. It is opening my heart completely to those who may reject me, who will certainly wound me, and who may never know the depth of my love. It is choosing to believe that it is worth it to give all.

I think of those who long to be mothers and find encouragement in the words of Adriel Booker:

Will you remember that your children, your role, your name—Mama—is not something you’re entitled, but something released to you as a gift?

Why do we enter so willingly into certain heartbreak? For love, of course. And because, mothers or not, giving and nurturing life is the greatest gift. There is no joy like holding your baby for the first time, like those little arms around your neck, like hearing the first “I love you.” There is no greater joy than watching a child embrace faith and grow in wisdom and strength. We find fulfillment in emptying ourselves for another.

Unfortunately I fail my children. I wound them too. I often close my heart to them, turning away from the hard. It is hardest to forgive myself in these moments. But the God whose heart I have broken promises to “gently lead those who have young” (Is. 40:11) He is gentle with me. He understands.

I can only pour myself out when I am filled with Him. I can only let go when I trust He will step in where I fail. I have His promise regarding my children: “He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart” (Is 40:11).

We too are His lambs. The mothers who suffer the most are those He holds the closest. We can find comfort in knowing that what seems invisible here is written large in eternity.

What they say is true: we cannot understand what our own mothers sacrificed for us until we become mothers ourselves. Thank you, Mom, for daily pouring yourself out for me. For being willing to suffer on my behalf. For the thousands of meals and loads of laundry and wounds overlooked and hurts healed. For the days you chose me when you longed to be somewhere else. For the countless prayers you prayed. For knowing I would never understand what you daily gave and gave up, and loving me anyway. For living out a faith that has weathered many storms and still bears up under sadness. For choosing hope. For supporting me now that I am a mother, for always standing by me in love and not judgment. You could have spent your life in many ways, but you chose to be a mom. And being your daughter is truly a rich gift.