Forever changed by a ten-year-old girl

by | Oct 1, 2015 | Devotionals, reflections, and encouragement

She sang it in her hospital room. As the pain increased, so did her praise. She sang, “Bound for Glory” by the Vertical Church Band and I will always, always, always, see her beautiful face every time I hear that song.

And suddenly, all that frustrated me, sapped my joy, or stole my patience, didn’t matter anymore. The time wasters that sucked away hours lost their appeal. She gave me perspective. Holy perspective.

Only God knows how many days are written in my book of life. Yet, how long have I lived as if tomorrow was certain? How many hours did I waste on things destined to burn?

I hug my kids a little bit tighter. I extend more grace. Much more grace. I unplug and pray. I pray long, hard, like I’ve never prayed before. I pray until I can sing along with that sweet little girl. This world is NOT my home. I am bound for GLORY. It’s time to live like it.

This world is not my home. I’m here for a moment. It’s all I’ve ever known, but this world is not my home. The fight is not my own. These burdens aren’t my future. The empty tomb has shown I am bound for glory.
I am free because I’m bound. I am bound for heavens gate. Where my feet will stand on holy ground I am bound for glory.
The saving work is done. Death is not my ending. My God has overcome. I am bound for glory.
All my pain, hurt and shame, gone when Jesus calls my name. Endless joy endless praise—All when Jesus calls my name.

And this sweet ten-year-old does what many four, five or six times her age cannot. She stares death in the face and smiles because her God has overcome. These burdens are NOT her future. She is bound for glory.

Thank you, precious girl, for loving your Jesus.

*printed with permission

Perspective

by | Jul 30, 2015 | Devotionals, reflections, and encouragement

Unbearable heat. Sparked anger. Flared tempers. Bickering over games, over toys, over every little thing that doesn’t go right. The longsuffering sigh of motherhood escapes as another insult is hurled between the children. I turn away.

How long, Lord? How long ‘till we feel some relief?

And it’s all normal, until it is not.

Eye’s wide. Tears formed. Arms failing. Horrifically quiet. Silently dying within arms reach.

I scream his name.

A deep finger scoop frees the airway and the most beautiful breath sounds fill the room. I pull him in. Skin against skin, cherishing the body heat that means he’s alive. “It’s okay now. I’ve got you. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.”

Cool tears bring relief and the embrace tightens, neither ready to let go. Neither ready to acknowledge how fast it all changes. Forced normalcy cannot stop the flood. What if I hadn’t turned back? What if the God who gives and takes away had called him home? What if—

—what if I simply give thanks? Thankful today is not that day. Not the day that requires that kind of strength. Thankful I can hold him a little bit longer.

And it dissipates.

Frustration. Anger. Heat. All ceasing to matter in the cool light of life.

Thank you, Jesus.