The M&M Story

We just returned from a great trip to sunny Southern California. M and B went on "ventures" with their Uncle Stephen and Aunt Nealy, played with friends on the beach, and drank "special milk" almost everyday from Starbucks. M climbed his first tree with his buddy Liam, and B and his buddy Noah enjoyed dried mango while visiting the Farmer's Market. I was most particularly struck with how amazing communities are. I had the privilege of visiting with a college friend who has faced similar struggles with cancer in his family. What an amazing testimony of support and love from his family and friends. People stopped by with gifts and love and encouragement. My friend's mother was such an example of grace. Here we were, visiting at a challenging time for *her* family, and she sat on the floor and played with *my* children. Never drawing attention to herself, the house always seemed in order and the children were happy. I witnessed a true servant and was humbl

I know this is a bit serious, and I should be writing about the witty things my children say, but I wrote this a couple nights ago and wanted to share it. I hope it is encouraging to you. My suffering seems so easy compared to my Savior’s. I remember repeatedly picturing Jesus in a manger, with itchy hay, and smelly animals breathing next to his sweet, newborn face. And then I see him watching his best friend deny him and another one betray him and then hanging on a cross for me and for Brian and for my boys and for all of you, His children. He suffered the dishonor of being born in a stable, with smelly animals, rather than a palace filled with gold, because He is God and is the only one with the power to save. He suffered the misunderstanding of family and friends, rather than support and encouragement and the faithfulness of a hometown, because He is God and is the only one with the power to save. He suffered the betrayal of a best friend, rather than loyalty and truthfulness,

Today was Brian's birthday. This morning I told Max we would make a cake. He asked if we were going to take it to heaven and give it to Daddy. Later, he "called" Daddy on the phone. "Daddy, are you in heaven? What are you doing? Are you sitting in Jesus's lap?"

This is a copy of a letter that I hope gets circulated to the masses. Thank you.... January 1, 2006 Dear Family and Friends, Happy New Year. A whole year of “new.” New friends, new experiences, new opportunities, new pains, new joys, and new moments to see God intimately a part of our lives. May I first begin by thanking you for the last nine months of support, love, care, encouragement, prayer, gifts (in all shapes and forms), and the walk alongside our family in the darkest valley we have faced thus far. It isn’t easy to watch a person you love suffer. But I can boldly say that in my limited, temporal mind, I think I get it now. Sort of. Suffering for the Kingdom is a blessed, beautiful, and humbling experience. And trusting, hoping, and believing in things unseen is the greatest investment ever made. As I approach this new era in my life, I’m overwhelmed by God’s love, grace, and provision for my family. As God unfolds His plan, though sometimes painful, I see His goodness, absolute

Sunday morning. Brunch, communion, the buzz of children. I don't remember details; maybe someday I will, but I know it was a beautiful day. I remember frittata, cheese grits, music, coffee, kids outside, a smoky kitchen (bacon frying), a quiet Brian, and an angry self. Max had spent the night at my mother's house, his Nana, so he didn't spend this morning with his father. But how blessed we were to have the Parkers, the Belzes, and Lillian and Grayson all milling around my house. I remember feeling a bit anxious. Or maybe, more appropriately, alone. I was surrounded by friends and family, loving and serving in a terrifying time, but still, I felt incredibly alone. I'm sure Brian, in his quietness, would say the same thing, even more so. How I wish I could go back and slow down and just sit by his side and soak up his presence. Instead, I found myself making sure everyone had coffee and food and comfort. Not that I could fulfill all their wishes, but somehow that was saf

I've thought many times over the last weeks about the privilege of saying good-bye to the man I love. Or more importantly, the opportunity to say, "Go Home. I'll see you soon." The last weekend of Brian's life compares to none. It was one of glorious beauty and precious grace. Our friends, Ben and Kim, were visiting from New York, and our house permeated of fabulous aromas (Ben is quite the cook) and buzzed of great insight and wisdom (Kim is, well, amazing). On Friday, the nurse came and was a bit alarmed that Brian had lost some weight, even though his TPN (IV nutrition) was pumping many calories into his system. After calls to doctors, she asked if we wanted Brian to go to the hospital. Argh! Hospitals. I looked at him, and I knew what the answer was. We both answered no, as weekends in hospitals are residents and often inept technicians (only from experience). Our thought was Monday. Ben had cooked all day, and a crowd of friends and family appeared by six tha

I don't have it yet, but Brian's memorial service was taped and, I hope, will be edited at some point soon. If you would like a copy, please let me know. I should be able to make copies for family and friends. I also have a copy of his testimony last spring and prayer walk pictures. Please respond to this blog entry if you are interested. Include your address...even though I may have it. I can't promise when it will come, but I hope before Max graduates from high school.