Momma in the Valley

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” ‭‭1 Peter 1:3-7 We live in a sinful, broken world. A world where evil is all around us, and we fight to see through the dark shadows that plague our hearts and minds. We are imperfectly living in an imperfect world, and this effects us physically and mentally each day. However, thank the Lord...

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, ...