Momma in the Valley

  Grief is a fickle thing. Sometimes, it is just a little prod, reminding you it’s there. Other times, though, it is like a punch in the gut while you have a stomach bug. Either way, it’s always there, lurking around every corner. At times, it is a small sting that feels like a bee. At others, it feels like a ton of bricks has settled on your chest and you have no escape. The grief can look different day to day, week to week, month to month. It can be a simple ping of sadness at a song or a name that reminds you of who or what you have lost. It can also be an overwhelming wave of sorrow as you remember a birthday, a shared joke, or think to call the person you are missing. It hurts. It is an endless ache, a bottomless, empty pit, a sea of despair. Grief is something that is typically experienced silently. It is an experience unique to you, and unique to each loss you have. It can feel lonely. In short, laymen’s terms: grief sucks. The Devil likes to use this pain and despair and lo...

Dear Rose of White, You give me comfort when I feel locked in despair. You remind me to think of joy, when all I think is of darkness. At times, it is easier. Easier to think, easier to eat, easier to walk and breathe. But at other times, I feel I am in a drought, gasping for water and air simultaneously, hoping all pain would be lost. It feels as though my anguish should be gone, that my joys should be the forefront, but my heart still aches for my Rose of White. Praise God for His unfailing grace and love. Without such, I would be blessed with the confidence of your purity. Because of Him, I know you are dancing in the cloud of Saints. Because of Him, I know I can continue to dream and look forward, when all I want to do is cry and look back. He said, “Let the little children come to Me,” and I know there you are, blessed as can be. Here’s to loving you, trusting Him, and moving forward one foot at a time. All the while dreaming of you, my Rose of White, and knowing whe...

When I worked the overnight shift at a children’s home in Texas, kids would at times ask me to sit in their doorways if they woke from a nightmare; that way, they knew someone was protecting them from the monsters they were afraid of. During those times, I prayed the chorus of the song “Holy Spirit”  sung by Francesca Battistelli. This song still brings up those children for me and reminds me to pray for them, so I often do as I sing along. “Holy Spirit, You are welcome here Come flood this place and fill the atmosphere Your glory, God, is what our hearts long for To be overcome by Your presence, Lord.” Through the past few weeks, I have struggled finding my voice, finding words, finding the ability to sing along. Outside of the hymns at Church, I haven’t been singing. My heart and mind have been downcast, and I’m not sure I was even recognizing when music was playing; everything was under a thick veil of gray. This past week, I heard this song. Not only did I...

I am frustrated. Frustrated with my mind, frustrated with my body. When everything happened and we learned we lost our baby, I cried all the way home. I held it together for a time, having shed what I thought was all the tears my body produced. Then, I cried more. I cried when my husband came home, and although I was the most thankful woman in the world to have a husband I could run to who would embrace me in the biggest hug in the world, I still cried. We cried together. Our family shed our tears together, and our Church family joined in the following day. We have been surrounded with so much love and support, so much encouragement--I cannot describe the blessing we have in the village that surrounds us and will one day surround our children. Within the coverage of all of this love, I made a foolish assumption and expectation of myself; I told myself I could have that following week to grieve. Not the following month or year, but that WEEK. I assumed that by sharing with the world, ...

This is a scary and confusing time. It’s a time when I know it is okay and warranted to be sad, but it is difficult to explain to many people what the sadness feels like or just how deep it is. It isn’t quite a depression yet, though I fear it could morph into one. It isn’t a feeling that the words pain, sorrow, anguish, or suffering can fully describe. It feels like there is a hole in my heart, an ache in my soul. It feels like an emptiness that slowly yet steadily grows into a black hole, sucking away all joy, energy, and feeling within me. Sometimes, the hurt dissipates for a while, then creeps back in during a tv show, a conversation, or even a moment. It creeps back into the crevices of my heart and mind, showing itself on my face and in my voice. I have a history of depression, which creates a fear of the darkness coming back. I fear the evil depression holds, and I can at times see the Enemy working to bring the rain. All the sadness gets turned into blaming fingers pointin...