Face Toward the Son

One of the magical aspects of sunflowers is how they move through the day to always face the sun.

Like other plants, they depend on light to make their food but unlike others, they seem intent on thanking the source.

I am always encouraged when I pass a patch of sunflowers standing stalwart, saluting in unison the life-giving rays. They remind me that I am just as dependent as they are.

I can’t draw breath without the light and life of Christ in me.

Praise: The Secret to Living Above Circumstances - FaithGateway

But I forget that sometimes.

Clouds of sadness and despair obscure my vision and I’m tempted to turn away. Life gets hard and I wonder why it has to be like that. Responsibility grows heavy and I can’t lift my head.

So I lose sight of the Son-who He is, what He’s done and how He continues to sustain me even when I can neither see it or feel it.

It’s just then I need to turn toward Him.

It’s that very moment I require extra grace to look up (which He supplies) and extra faith (which He endows) to see clearly.

When I do, He always renews my strength.

“Don’t you know? Haven’t you been listening?
    Yahweh is the one and only everlasting God,
    the Creator of all you can see and imagine!
    He never gets weary or worn out.
    His intelligence is unlimited;
    he is never puzzled over what to do!
 He empowers the feeble
    and infuses the powerless with increasing strength.
 Even young people faint and get exhausted;
    athletic ones may stumble and fall.
But those who wait for Yahweh’s grace
    will experience divine strength.
    They will rise up on soaring wings and fly like eagles,
    run their race without growing weary,
    and walk through life without giving up.”

Isaiah 40: 28-41 TPT

Why I Talk About My Son

I know it makes some people uncomfortable when I speak of Dominic.

They aren’t sure whether to join in or ignore my comment and hope I change the subject.

I get it-they are wondering whether my continued interest in my missing child is a sign of mental illness (she’s “stuck” in grief) or a delusion or wishful thinking.

Read the rest here: Why I Still Speak About My Son

Through The Fog And Dark

Through the fog and dark and limits of my sight

I hear birds singing

as they welcome the day

I still can’t see.

Are they better than me at knowing the edges of inky night?

Or do they simply have more faith?

Either way their hearts are boldly trusting in the sun they can’t yet prove is real.

Oh, that my own heart would always rest!

Assured.

Unmoved.

Confident.

Certain.

Even in the dark,

even in the fog,

even under the smothering blanket of sorrow,

in the Son.

The One who burst forth from the grave to prove He IS the One.

The One who promises night has limits,

that death is not the end,

that resurrection is sure.

Then I could sing for those still in the fog

and in the dark,

those whose sight is dimmed by tears.

And remind them that

morning is coming!

As sure as the sunrise.

As sure as the Son rose.

Repost: Why I Say, “My Son Died.”

Died.  

It is a harsh word.

I understand completely that some parents don’t want to use it to describe their child and I respect that.

I have chosen to use it often (not always-sometimes I say “left” or “ran ahead to heaven”) because what happened IS harsh. I don’t want to soften it because there was nothing soft about it for me or my family.

It is heartbreaking, lonely, heavy, hard and utterly devastating. 

Read the rest here:  Why I Say, “My Son Died.”

Why I Still Speak About My Son

 

I know it makes some people uncomfortable when I speak of Dominic.

They aren’t sure whether to join in or ignore my comment and hope I change the subject.

I get it-they are wondering whether my continued interest in my missing child is a sign of mental illness (she’s “stuck” in grief) or a delusion or wishful thinking.  They have no frame of reference other than an elderly relative whose passing into eternity was a more orderly and expected event.

But out of order death is wrenching and traumatic and not the way things are supposed to be.  A parent doesn’t stop thinking about or talking about or loving his or her child simply because they have been robbed of their physical presence.

I speak of my son because he is STILL MY SON.

 

 

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