Last week I was talking with one of the kids about church. He, like so many, has issues with the Church because he sees so many Christians as hypocrites. Sigh.

We had some good discussion about how we’re all flawed and what that looks like for people of faith. Ultimately, we came to the shared conclusion that what distinguishes a hypocrite from a person who genuinely wants to be holy but struggles is humility. The hypocrite never admits he is wrong. He’s holier than you because he doesn’t admit his struggles. On the rare occasion that he does, it’s never his fault. There’s always an excuse and rarely an admission of guilt or an apology.

On the other hand, we both agreed that we respect and even admire Christians who appear to be genuinely pursuing holiness but also readily admit when they fall short. They don’t shout their faults on social media but they also don’t scream about their own perfection there.

In a word, the difference is humility.

Humble saints who stumble, admit it, ask forgiveness, and keep trying to be more like Jesus are the ones who inspire us to do the same.

In recent years, my life has been very publicly messy. My husband died. Our house caught on fire (twice!). My son caught on fire, too. Our whole town knew those things.

But there are other things we’ve dealt with more quietly. Health issues. Heart issues. Work. School. Family. Guilt. Fatigue.

I recently discovered Anne Wilson’s music and her song Sinner’s Prayer has a line that gets me every time. She asks, “Can broken still be holy?” and tears come every time. Because, friends, through all of this, that which I’ve shared and that which I’ve held close, I have repeatedly felt so broken. My life has shattered more than once and putting the pieces together is exhausting.

I so desperately want to be holy. I want to face the giant with confidence knowing that my God is big enough to be victorious. Some days I do. I tell myself and my kids that God’s got us and I believe it with everything I am.

Others days, though, the giant brings his friends and I stand in front of them with shaking knees and a weak heart. I don’t see the end. All I see is how small we are. How broken. How much we hurt. And on those days, I feel like a fraud; a hypocrite who says one thing and lives another.

I know it’s a lie. I know the enemy isn’t flesh and blood but man, I sure seem to find enmity with humans. Sometimes with the humans I love the most.

Can broken still be holy?

God, I hope so. Right now I don’t seem to have a lot of choice about the broken but I am trying for the holy. Some days are better than others.

How is it humility to write so publicly about trying to be humble? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the opposite.

I know this though. As I have shared my heart over the past few years, I have had countless people tell me that although they aren’t in my exact circumstances, they can relate to what I’m saying here. So as I struggle to walk the line between broken and holy, I’m going to strive to be authentic with you.

Not so you can give me accolades or pat me on the back, but hopefully, so that when you find yourself here in this hardest of places, you can know that you’re not alone. That you can be assured that God is bigger than the giants, even when all you seem to have is one little bitty slingshot and a handful of stones. The one who gave you that slingshot also taught you how to sling it and hit that giant square between the eyes.

In sharing with you, maybe I’m not even talking to you, but reminding myself instead. Yes, Anne. Yes, Kelsy.. Broken can still be holy.

The Promised Land was so close they could taste it. But because of their sinfulness and disobedience, God didn’t allow them to just walk in and have it. He’d wanted that, but the people, disbelieving the God who had just taken them out of Egypt (10 plagues, anyone?) and across the Red Sea (on dry ground, mind you), grumbled and within a few days of their leader being out of sight, chose to create their own god, discarding the One who had already taken them so far.

Oh, how they would come to regret that golden calf. 40 years of rerouting in the desert. 40 years of fighting for every inch.

But even then, God did not leave his people. When they needed water, God had Moses strike a rock and what do you know? Water flowed.

When Amalek attacked, God was with Joshua and the Israelites in battle. So long as Moses held up his staff, the same one that had struck the rock and turned the Nile to blood, the army held the battle. But as soon as his arms began to fall, all Heavenly advantage was lost.

Thankfully, God did not send Moses to stand holding his staff alone. Hur and Aaron were with him. “Moses’ arms soon became so tired he could no longer hold them up. So Aaron and Hur found a stone for him to sit on. Then they stood on each side of Moses, holding up his hands. So his hands held steady until sunset. As a result, Joshua overwhelmed the army of Amalek in battle.” (Exodus 17:12-13)

As we are in this new fight, I am exhausted. I feel like we are fighting for every inch. In some ways, this is harder than anything we have ever faced before, and that’s saying something.

Honestly though, I’m not as exhausted as I should be. I sat with a dear friend today and shared this story of Moses. I told him that right now, I’m not spending a ton of time in prayer or the Bible. I’m just trying to make it through the next thing, be it a surgery, holding my boy’s hand, talking to another doctor, grabbing something to eat, or checking on my other kids. Just one step at a time. The next right thing after the next right thing.

I told him that right now, I am taking my cues from Moses. I’m counting on my dear family and friends (and even strangers) to hold my arms up. He encouraged me to imitate Moses and sit and rest while those who love me hold up my arms.

This is where I’m living now. In a place where my arms are tired, but I am finding strength in each day by holding tightly to Jesus and counting on my friends to hold me up when my arms are just too tired.

I do not take this lightly. I am well aware of just how blessed we are in this. Typing that seems inadequate or a little trite, but I don’t know how else to say it. I am overwhelmed and humbled by the outpouring of support we are being gifted right now.

So thank you. Thank you for holding up this tired mom’s arms when all I want to do is collapse into a puddle. Collapse isn’t an option right now, so I humbly ask you to continue to pray for us. We are seeing the small and the big God Sightings, even here. Much love to you all.

I didn’t see this one coming but here it is.

I’ve started a new count of days; this time we are on Day 23. Twenty-three days ago, my middle son was in a bonfire accident. Almost fifty percent of his body was covered in burns, some of them very deep.

As this site has always been about my story and no one else’s, I’m not going to go into the details of the accident, his injuries, or his recovery here. That is his story to tell, not mine.

These past three plus weeks have been excruciating. My poor body doesn’t know what to do. Some nights I sleep in this hospital chair that more closely resembles a medieval torture device than a bed. Other nights I sleep in a hotel bed. Others, I don’t sleep at all, just sit and watch my boy sleep (or not). After a few nights at the bedside, I may sleep for several hours during the day. Or, like today, I might try to sleep only to find that my mind won’t shut off enough to let me do so.

In those sleepless hours of the first days in this hospital, I found myself asking God, “Why us? Why us, again?” I know that I wasn’t the only one, either, because more than one of the people closest to me expressed the same. I don’t have an answer for that beyond this: Why not us?

I mean, we’re humans just like everyone else. Other families have losses and pain, too. Why should we be exempt, just because we aren’t novices to grief?

Tonight, I was able to spend a little time talking with one of the young nurses on the floor. She’s been with us many nights over the time we’ve been here. She’s sweet and kind and good at her job. Tonight, she told me she believes that all things happen for a reason and that good will come out of this. I told her that I don’t know about that, but I do know that God is able to take all things and use them for good and for his glory.

And that’s where I am tonight. I’ve felt all the feelings.

Anger.

Frustration.

Woe is me.

Guilt.

Disbelief.

But tonight, I’m listening to my Grace in the Grief playlist and choosing to remember that God is good. That in my son’s recovery, and he is recovering miraculously well, we can choose to curse or bless the one who knit this boy together in my womb.

Besides, what good would cursing God even do?

Did Job curse God when even his wife said he should?

Did Daniel when he was thrown in with hungry lions?

Did Mary when she was suddenly an unwed mother in a culture that could have stoned her for it?

Did Paul when he was shipwrecked, snake bitten, or jailed unfairly?

No. In the darkest, hardest parts of their lives, these saints who went before us chose to bless and not curse. If they could do it, so can I.

We’re getting close to the three year mark. It’s a mere nine days away.

Anniversaries are always there in the back of your mind after you lose someone. Sometimes they loom large and other times they simply lurk in the corners, but they are always there somewhere, waiting to be recognized.

This year has been a whirlwind one. Three kids in high school, including a senior, and one in middle school kept me busy. Add in my new job and just the everyday things of life, and it’s been a very full year. To be honest, I barely had time to grieve at all once school started. There was just too much to do.

The exception was Tuesday nights, January through March. On those nights, a wister (widow + sister) and I trekked it to the nearest town with a Taco Bell and attended Grief Share meetings. Think group therapy but specifically for those dealing with loss. On any given Tuesday night there would be 10-15 of us around some tables in a room off a church gym, watching videos and talking through our grief journeys. Not all of us were widows, but some where. Others had lost parents, children or other loved ones. As different as our experiences were, we found common ground in our loss and in our faith.

The meetings were meaningful and helpful in processing my feelings. I recommend it if you’re going through a loss. But for me, the most important and meaningful part of those Tuesday nights was the time on the road with my wister. She’s a little younger than me and her loss is a little more recent, but we “get” each other on a level that’s just not there with other people. I like to think that I was able to be there for her in ways I needed someone to be there for me when my widowhood journey was just beginning.

There have been other wisters to reach out to this year as well. Some older than me, some younger. Some I see on a daily basis and some strangers with only mutual acquaintances to introduce us. But each time, I have met a newly widowed woman, I try to pass on what I’ve learned. I’ve tried to bring beauty from ashes and glorify God in the process.

We’re moving forward in all the big ways. My oldest graduated high school in May and his sister will follow next year. The little boys aren’t so little anymore, either. The middle son is hitting the weight room most every day and they’re both looking forward to football in the fall. The youngest will officially be old enough for school sports.

We traveled very little this year, with only a few of us making it to St Louis for Spring Break. This picture is me there, after losing a second fingernail to a Bird scooter. Let’s just say there’s a story there, but it’s one best told in person, so you’ll just have to ask me about it next time you see me.

For now, just know that we’re making it. Moving forward. Sometimes in great leaps and others one inch at a time. There are still sleepless nights where I sob into my pillow, days and events where we feel Vance’s absence more than others, and times when things catch us off guard and the tears just come. Those are fewer than they used to be and we are navigating normal as best we can.

So, a little less than a year ago I really thought that I wanted to date. That it had been long enough, and it was time. I mean it had been over a year. A full year. That’s the time when everything is supposed to magically get better after a death, right?

Except well, no one asked me out. Go figure. The overweight, middle aged, unemployed, still missing her dead husband, mother-of-four wasn’t a hot commodity. Who knew? 

Also, as one friend put it, the dating pool around here is zero-depth-entry. Looking around my town I didn’t exactly find a plethora of eligible bachelors in my age bracket. Dating websites are scary when you’re old and haven’t been single for over two decades, so, I wasn’t about to do that either.

I finally got the nerve to ask one guy out and he said no. At first, I was kinda devastated but now? Now I’m good with it. I’m actually more than good with it. I’m really, really glad he said no. Super nice guy that he is, he’s not the one for me. Like, that’s blatantly obvious if I think about it with my right mind, but at the time, I just really wanted someone to like me. I was really lonely and I didn’t know how to combat that. I’d pretty much been in and out of serious-ish dating relationships since I was about 14 years old. This was for sure the longest time I had gone without a man in my life since I first started noticing boys. Such a weird feeling.

As time went on, I got over that. I’m still partnerless, but right now, I have zero desire whatsoever to date anyone. Relationships take a lot of work. They also take a lot of time. My life is crazy and busy and messy. Adding someone else to that crazy, busy mess would just make it crazier, busier, and messier. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Especially not me. Not right now.

Plus, I kind of like having the whole bed to myself. I like getting to decide things on my own. I’ve always liked to be in charge and well, now I am. I want to do all the things. I want to visit places I’ve never been and experience things I’ve never done. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe I’ll buy an RV and travel the country. Or spend a year in Europe. Or six months on a Caribbean beach writing the next Great American novel. Maybe I’ll move to wherever my grown kids live and be a full-time grandma. Maybe they won’t want me, and I’ll just come every few months. I don’t really know. But I do know that I have choices and I’m the one who will get to make them.

One of these days, when the kids are gone, and I’m the only one living here, I may change my mind. The idea of growing old alone is still a little bit scary- but not like it was. I’m learning to trust that God will take care of me. That even when I’m afraid, when I don’t understand, when I’m lonely, that I’m not outside of his plan. For right now, that plan does not include a man. A year ago, I didn’t think I could be okay with that but today? Today I am content with single me. 

I’m currently sitting alone in the church, soaking up the silence after a phenomenal night of ministry.

If you don’t know, VBS is my jam. I’ve been doing it for, well, what seems like forever. At least 15 years. Probably more but who’s counting?

I love VBS. It’s the highlight of my summer. My year, actually. I am in my element there. I get to teach kids (and honestly, teens and grown folks, too) about Jesus. We sing, dance, and act silly. We pray, learn and sometimes cry. It’s hard work but totally worth it.

And then, two years ago, Vance died five days before VBS. We had his funeral in a safari decorated church and for the first time in over a decade, our family missed a night of VBS.

This year I have struggled to find the passion and excitement that normally comes with this time of year. There are other reasons, like parenting and trying to get my classroom ready for the fall, but mostly, I think my heart has been associating VBS with death. With Vance being gone. And, that my friends has made things hard.

Tonight our Bible point was “Jesus’ power helps us do hard things.” Moving forward with VBS this year, and well, with life after loss, that was hard. Really hard. On the daily.

Hard.

But not impossible.

We’re here. We’re surviving. And after a VERY successful first night of VBS, where I got my groove back, I can say with certainty that in at least some areas, we are thriving.

To my RLC family of VBSers, you guys are the best. Thanks for working along side me in this. Thanks for leading. Thanks for your flexibility, your dedication and your love. I have no doubt that God uses weeks like this to shape us, to heal us, to break us so he can remake us more in his image.

VBS is my jam. Let’s dance!

You know that really annoying chirp smoke detectors make when they’re not working? Well, the one in my boys’ room has been doing it for a couple days. Replacing the battery didn’t help.

So tonight, when we got home from baseball, I got a small stool and a screwdriver and I replaced that stupid thing all by myself.

It’s not that it was hard. It was literally two screws and installing batteries.

It’s just that, well, I’d never done that before. It’s one of those things I would have asked Vance to do. A “man job,” if you will. Those are always a little triggering for me because they reinforce the loss. They highlight it.

Tonight instead of waiting for someone else to do it, my dad, one of my sons, a friend…I just did it. It wasn’t a big deal.

But it was a very big deal.

In a conversation with an acquaintance who had also lost a spouse way to early, it was mentioned that widows often remember very little, if anything, from the first year. I’ve found that to be both true and false. Some things I remember with laser focus. The ER. Crying when I went the first time to try to pick out a headstone. Watching my son at his father’s grave. Those are burned into my memory and my soul.

But other things, well…I don’t remember at all. Mother’s Day is one of them. Did I buy gifts or cards for the moms in my life? Did my kids try to make the day amazing for me? Probably, but sadly, that whole time is forgotten for me. Grief does that sometimes. Just one more way death steals from us.

Vance always bought sappy cards for holidays. After he died, I found a pile of Mother’s Day cards that he’d bought but never sent. That was typical Vance. Follow through was sometimes hard, but he always had great intentions and a whole lot of love.

I’m more a humorous card kinda gal myself. There were a lot of things like that with us, where we were complete opposites. Sometimes that meant we complimented each other well, others meant that we butted heads. But I regress.

This year I went to buy a Mother’s Day card for Vance’s mom, who lives in a different state. There were all kinds of cards. Mom. Mother. Grandma. Even sister. But I couldn’t find a single one made for a mother-in-law. Much less one that was for a mother-in-law that no longer has her son.

I picked up card after card, but none of them were right. I love her but she’s not my mom. She’s Vance’s. Thinking about that brought up all kinds of emotions and thoughts. Sadness. There are other people struggling with this loss. Big days are hard, not just for me. Guilt. I haven’t done enough to help others with this. Fear. My kids only have a mom now. Is that enough? How can I ever be enough to compensate for that?

As I stood there, I almost collapsed in that card aisle. Again. I just felt so weak and wanted to curl into a fetal position on the floor and wail until the hurt went away. Honestly, you would be surprised at how often that happens. There’s something about shopping that is just ridiculously hard when you’re grieving. Maybe it’s the plethora of products. Surround yourself with enough things and eventually one of them triggers a memory. Who knew?

I finally found a card that wasn’t perfect but would do. I wrote a private note that I hope conveyed my feelings better than the actual card. Hopefully next year will be easier and Hallmark will make a more inclusive line of cards.