Scroll to the end for my 4 tips for last-minute Easter baskets.

And don’t miss my simple tips for a BIG Easter egg hunt on a TINY budget. 

What’s so special about Easter?

Easter is new life. Literally, Easter is about new life. Easter reminds me every year to begin again. Easter reminds me that no matter how many failures I was involved in this year, or how many deep pains I wallowed in on many dark nights… life is renewed. Spring has returned, chicks are hatching in the incubator, grass is again visible for the first time since our first December snow day, and Christ is alive!

(But, yes, it did sneak up on me. Scroll to the end for 4 simple tips for last-minute Easter baskets.)

What’s so special about this Easter?

This Easter is the first one I’ve celebrated since my daughter’s spinal fusion complications. Her surgery ushered in a set of fears and pains uglier than any I’ve had to hold hands with. I held hands with her ear-piercing pain for a month’s worth of dark evenings. I held hands with her tear-soaked pain when, at some moments, it was her and I fighting against a hospital full of “experts.”

We clung to Christ. We found a clinical trial. Her neurological pathways eventually calmed.

And now it is Easter again. A life worth living is renewed. A spring worth celebrating has returned, chicks who will offer us nutritious eggs when the summer begins to wane are in the incubator, grass that houses grub for our birds and grass that will grow tall and feed our cows is again visible for the first time since our first December snow day, and indeed, my friends, with every fiber of my being I am assured that Christ is alive!

If you would like to celebrate Easter by dyeing some eggs, you’ll love these all-natural egg dyes that my family enjoys.

If you’ve never made Resurrection Cookies on the eve of Easter, I highly recommend starting this tradition today!

 I just answered the phone.

But this Easter holds another significance for me. Two years ago on April 1st, around 1:00 on that Friday afternoon, I just answered the phone. I stood on the wide plank floors, in my sock feet, half way between my living room couch and my kitchen table, and listened to my mom’s voice.

The words she spoke ushered in a new era of my life. Standing there in my cable sweater and messy bun, surveying the lunch dishes I needed to clean up, I had no idea that the next words I heard would be a conversation I would never forget, one that would open a floodgate of tears, and one that, as hard as it was, I would wish two years later I could hold just one more time.

With each word she uttered after “cancer” my lungs continued to deflate and I found myself unsure if I could refill them.

I wrote about mom’s phone call, on that chilly Friday afternoon, and how God had prepared me.

And while I have yet to write about the heartbreaking summer I spent holding my daughter’s hand through Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, I did write a little when she began her battle against chronic pain and I shared the verses that I clung to for hope at that time. And I shared on this post on instagram.

It’s been two years after Mom’s call—the call that announced the unwanted intrusion of cancer into my life.

Just weeks after mom’s death, I found myself in an ambulance, on a dark icy New Years Eve, again having trouble forcing my lungs to work because my heart knew I was going to have to say goodbye to my Daddy too.

After two years of grief, sadness, confusion, and pain, it’s time to celebrate my favorite holiday again. And I, indeed, have much to celebrate.

Now it is Easter again. A life worth living is renewed. A spring worth celebrating has returned, chicks who will offer us nutritious eggs when the summer begins to wane are in the incubator, grass that houses grub for our birds and grass that will grow tall and feed our cows is again visible for the first time since our initial December snow day, and indeed, my friends, with every fiber of my being I am assured that Christ is alive!

I step into Easter with a new understanding this year. You see, not only is He alive, but He has declared me as “qualified.” He has declared me as a co-heir to all His father’s goodness.

What’s it mean to be “qualifed”?

I’ve been forced to think about estate things after Dad passed away, leaving me just 1 brief month… just 30 oh-so-short days after Mom spent her last moments with me… and there I was having to make so many calls. Yet not one lawyer or investor or insurance agent would talk to me. I was one of Charles and Irene’s children. I could tell you stories of their youth. I could describe their favorite flowers. And I could tell you where they bought their orange juice for the past 5 years. Yes, I knew them, and loved them, as much as anyone could. But I wasn’t “qualified” to talk about the sale of their home or even to purchase their tombstones without a legal piece of paper drawn up and signed in some cold, unfamiliar lawyer’s office. A piece of paper that said only one child was “qualified.”

I didn’t have that signed document that qualified me. I wasn’t the executor of their estate.

I’ve been drowning in “unqualifed”… with no answers and no resolution after so long… because I’m not “qualified”…

But all of my experiences with estates and insurance policies and tombstones sit in drastic opposition to the reality that Easter makes so clear. You see as a a child of God’s, I am qualified to receive a full inheritance. I can’t fathom the glory of my heavenly Father. I don’t understand how His sovereignty “works.” I can’t grasp the depth of the trinity or the virgin birth. I don’t understand the immensity of His grace. Or why He would lavish it on me. But yet, despite all that I don’t understand about Him, despite how little I actually know Him, I need no other justification, no paper, no signature, no official meeting, no court date. No, I am “qualified to share in the inheritance.”

Why? Because He has qualified me.

It’s that simple.

When I try to understand this reality in comparison to my earthly experiences of an estate and my inability to qualify for what is rightfully mine, I am shocked and even more grateful that I have been qualified, of no doing of my own, for so much that is not rightfully mine.

Now it is Easter again. And Christ has made my life worth living. He has gifted us with spring as a reminder that He not only is alive but has qualified us to join in His wonderful inheritance. The slight warmth in the sun’s rays? The chicks that are hatching? A well-fed, freckle-nosed calf? I just see them as a tiny downpayment of my inheritance.

Eternity as a child of God? Co-heir with Jesus? That’s an inheritance I can’t even get my head around. But it’s mine. Guaranteed. Without any legal paperwork to draw up or attorneys to call. The baby chicks and the new grass for Scout and Selah to dine on, they’re just sweet little reminders of the inheritance that is to come.

If you too are considering hatching chicks, make sure you never do this when hatching chicks. I learned that hard way last spring.

Another guarantee of Easter?

No matter how old my daughters are, they will always want to be greeted with an Easter basket on Easter morning. But as they’ve gotten older, I find I’m less prepared for Easter. This year was no exception. We increased our syrup production by quadrupling our number of taps this year, so I’m collecting sap and boiling and bottling syrup into the wee hours of the morning.

Needless to say, Easter snuck up on me and here I am, a day before, and realize I have to pull together some Easter baskets.

3 Simple Tips for Last-Minute Easter Baskets

If you too need to put together a few baskets quickly, here are some pointers to easy Easter basket assembly:

1. If you don’t have purchased grass for your baskets, it’s easy to make your own! Just run leftover gift wrap or colored paper scraps through your paper shredder. Crinkle the strips and fill your baskets!
2. If you’re short on candy, grab a disposable pastry bag–or just use a sandwich bag even–fill it with orange jelly beans, tie it closed with green ribbon, and you have an adorable jelly bean carrot.
3. And finally, think outside the box (or the basket). Consider something other than candy, such as a tickets to see a movie together, a gift card to their favorite ice cream shop, silly putty (I mean, really, who–at any age–doesn’t like silly putty?), bouncy balls, gardening supplies, trail mix, perfumes, lotions, sunglasses, socks, and card games.

My Simple Tips for Organizing an Easter egg hunt?

If possible, stock up on eggs and small prizes the year before, at the after-Easter clearance sales.

Always invest in the better-quality eggs, unless you enjoy repackaging the eggs that fall open pre-egg-hunt, again and again.

Be creative with lots of non-candy egg stuffing treasures. Consider these small items:

1. erasers,
2. mini bubbles,
3. small balloons,
4. rings (for girls),
5. small hair accessories (for girls),
6. stickers, tattoos, even nickels.

Consider having a prize table and stuffing many eggs with tickets, allowing the child to choose one item off the prize table for each ticket.

Watch here for my quick and simple tips on organizing a BIG Easter egg hunt on a TINY budget.–>

Other articles you’ll enjoy:

All-Natural Easter Egg Dyes

More Natural Egg Dyes

Resurrection Cookies Recipe

“Thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in light. He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.” Colossians 1: 12-14

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Find out why SoulyRested was considered to be one of the Top 20 Must-Read Homesteading Blogs of 2018 and then one of the Top Homesteading Blogs of 2019 as well.

Glance at my Resource Page if you’d like to get a glimpse of other supplies I use for maple syrup making (as well as gardening, homeschooling, homesteading topics, nature journaling, and more).

Many readers often ask what camera I use to take the images you find here on SoulyRested. I love my Nikon; you can read more about my camera and even purchase your own here.

I’d love to connect!

To find me in some other neck of the woods, just click any (or every!) icon below:

And please follow along!

Please take a second to follow along here on SoulyRested to catch up on a few of my memorable mishaps, discover fascinating things about my centuries-old farmhouse, glean a little parenting/homeschooling insight from this momma who’s been failing at the effort for almost 2 decades, or enjoy the inside scoop on the secrets other legit homesteaders might not tell you.

And have you tried my a-MAAHZ-ing Maple Sugar Cookie recipe that’s in my Resource Library? You won’t find this deliciousness anywhere else… until Sweet Maple is in print this fall.

The post Why I’m feeling very “qualified” this Easter, even though I’m not prepared first appeared on Souly Rested.

A daddy is so important to a girl… always… But a treasured father-in-law, I’m learning as I get older, is also indeed priceless. So this Father’s Day I’m writing an open letter to my father-in-law…

Thank you for your investment in my husband.

Thank you for all the treasured qualities you invested in my husband long ago. I cash in the dividends every day of my marriage.

Thank you for the hours you spent taking your son to a ball game, showing him that real men wash dishes, or encouraging him to take apart an old toaster so he could put it together again. Those collective hours made him into the loving father and exceedingly helpful husband that he is.

You may enjoy my Open Letter to my Mother-in-Law as well.

And I wrote about our marriage and how it survives the 3 Secrets Old-Farmhouse Owners Might Not Tell You here.

Those collective hours culminate into evenings like yesterday… evenings when my husband redefines “love” and makes it impossible for me to say what is more beautiful… the blue-sky New England evening or an industrious dad who gets home from a long day of work and goes right back out to help his daughters gather hay. Because their cow needs it.

Thank you for your investment in my daughters.

Thank you for the cherished hours you have spent over the decades with my daughters. One day they will start to seek out and choose husbands of their own. You and your son have given them a template. A measuring rod worth measuring up to.

My daughters will always judge a man against the litmus test of your examples, and thereby inspire in their husbands–and expect from their husbands–nothing less than respect.

My daughters will always expect the men in their lives to be fashioned from the same cloth as their granddad and daddy–strong, durable cloth that they can wrap themselves in, if they feel insecure; hang over them as a shield of protection, if they feel tattered and spent; or send before them, as a banner of love, when they feel like the warriors you’ve taught them to be as they face a day’s battle.

My daughters will accept nothing less than men who know how a guy needs to treat a girl. 

Thank you for your investment in me.

Thank you that you continue to assure me that you are there for me. That’s a premium that I never thought much about when I had my own daddy to count on. But now my dad, the gardener, has left me. He’s gone on to garden where there’s never a weed, a thorn, or too much sun, but where I can’t be by his side. At least not yet.

Knowing I still have a dad in you, well, I can’t put words to that value. That dividend sits deep in my core, grounds me, and gives me joy when I cash in a tear of loneliness now and again.

Because not only is a daddy important to a girl, but a supportive, compassionate husband–and daughters who know what qualities are estimable in a man–are priceless.

For all the parts you have played in this bounty that I am blessed with, “Thank you, Dad.”

If we’re just now meeting for the first time, you may not know that my father-in-law, my husband, and I are pretty much Maple Fanatics. Since we make our own maple syrup here on on little New England homestead, I of course put together a maple-infused gift-giving guide that might inspire you for a prefect Father’s Day gift.

Or give dad the gift of delicious maple syrup.

 Hear, my son, your father’s instruction, and forsake not your mother’s teaching, for they are a graceful garland for your head and pendants for your neck. Proverbs 1:8-9

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I’d love to connect!

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The post Some Things You May Want to Tell Your Father-in-Law on Father’s Day first appeared on Souly Rested.

DISCLOSURE: This post contains affiliate links.  See my full disclosure here.

I was up early. Which is very uncommon lately.

Recently, sleep alludes me until the wee hours of the day, then, once I can crash from exhaustion, I tend to sleep a few long, deep hours, with farm chores delayed. I’ll spare you the whys, maybe that’s for another post one day when the pain isn’t so raw and confusing. (EDIT: I never have written much about the raw pain of the days when I wrote this, but I did share, live, my memories as an encouragement in the midst of the pandemic of 2020. That video is at the end of this post.)

But this morning, as my husband’s truck turned toward work, rumbling down the curved drive, off of our rural New England farm, I was ambling down the slope to the back side of the barn, with a plate of stale crackers and ham scraps in hand.

Why we prefer hen-raised chicks to incubated ones.

Last night we decided to add a few incubated chicks to Eagle’s clutch. (With her beautiful white head, our broody hen was fittingly named “Eagle.”) She was proving to be a wonderful momma, and we’ve learned over the past two summers that we greatly prefer momma-raised chicks to ones that mature under the warm but uneducating light of the brooder. So after dark last night we took a few tiny chirping bundles down to the cage where Eagle’s nest is tucked away safely in a dog’s cage, in our hay overhang. (We lock her up there every evening to keep her and her chicks safe from predators until the babies are big enough to traverse the tall ramp that leads into the coop.)

Eagle has been a momma to only one sweet chick (whom I’ve dubbed “April”) since a disaster struck a few weeks ago. That disaster will also be a  subject for another day.

Then this week, chicks hatched in our incubator. So I started wondering if Eagle would like being a momma to more. Would she like keeping more babes safe and warm under her feathers? Would she like training more babes how to be wise with predators and crafty with food collection? Or would she see the new ones as a threat to her precious little April who has been the sole source of her adoration for almost a dozen days?

So I reached out to my readers, on my instagram page, to get a consensus of others who have tried such a thing. Because my followers are amazing, I had answers within minutes and knew I wanted to give it a cautious try. (You really are amazing–thank you all!)

Night is the best time to introduce new ones to a broody hen adopting chicks. She’ll most likely, if she’s a good broody hen, shuttle them right under her feathered belly. Or reject them immediately, in which case you can stand by ready to rescue them if needed.

We were on a mission.

So there we were, my comrades in wings and I, with flashlights and chirping chicks in hand, traipsing down to the back of the barn under cover of night, to rehome a few babes under Eagle’s care. We wore work gloves, because we knew Eagle might not take kindly to foster children and we might have to rescue them from her tenacious bites.

We knew our mission might fail.

At first, the babies had no idea what to do, out in the cold dark night, out from under the protected heat of the brooder. They stood unsure by the open door, shaking. (I should say, not atypical for New England, it was a cold May night outside our farmhouse, with a toasty fire going inside our farmhouse.) I immediately hesitated, wondering if the night temps might dip too cold for them to survive outside. But I decided to watch and wait.

Eagle was torn. She went toward them, then returned to sitting in the corner, over April, when April started to come out from her warm, safe bed under momma’s feathers. Eagle softly purred at the two new recruits. (It really did sound like a purr. Broody hens make unusual sounds as specific signals to their chicks; this one was a new one to me.) They just stood and shook.

The daughter who was still wearing gloves, the daughter who is the most take-charge homesteader, scooped up those babes and determinedly pushed them under Eagle. Content to be safe and warm, in comforting ways they had never known before, they stayed. All night.

When I awoke, they were in the forefront of my mind.

This morning brought new fears.

Armed with meat scraps and mushy crackers, I wasn’t sure what I would find this morning. Feeling it was possible Eagle would have rejected them, irritated at their squirminess. Or she would let them be in danger at their own devices, tired of their possible roaming that would jeopardize her first love, April, leaving her cold and exposed, if Eagle pursued wayward ones.

But instead, as I pulled the heavy, roughly hewn door open on its loud track, I was greeted with a happy chirping momma telling her three little ones that breakfast was here and guiding them off of their nest of hay.

Then this morning brought joy.

I almost cried at the beautiful sweetness, watching Eagle patiently, instructionally feed her newly adopted babes before eating any breakfast herself. I breathed a deep sigh of contentment as I watched Eagle quickly reprimand April when she meekly pecked at her foster brother over a scrap of ham fat.

When Eagle realized the two youngest proteges needed warmth, I couldn’t believe what she did. First, she led them up into the protection of the hay. Then she quickly ran and grabbed a piece of meat to lure April into the hay as well. She sat on the other two while April contentedly pecked away at the ham under her momma’s watchful sight. Once April had her fill, she hopped up on Eagle’s back, and, with the foster chicks under her wings and April on her shoulders, the momma hen was a beautiful sight for my tired eyes.

This morning brought a beautiful allegory to our farm.

There is a newly formed family unit in our barnyard today, and with it, God brought me peace, comfort, and assurance of His sovereignty and love.

Yet, as crazy as it may sound (well, to someone who isn’t a crazy chicken lady), this wasn’t the first time God brought me comfort through a hen. You see Eagle was one of two chicks who survived another devastation one year ago this month. In fact, if you glance back at that post from last summer, you’ll see sweet, pre-momma, pullet Eagle.

In fact, really, take a second to glance at that post. You’ll also see adorable, down-covered, baby Eagle peeking out from her own momma’s wings. She learned her mothering skills from her own wonderful momma. Eagle was one of only a few chicks raised by our farm’s first broody hen, Missy. Eagle survived and prospered, and now she is training new recruits for this sometimes hard life.

God impresses on my heart every time I witness the sweet chicks crawling in and out from under the hen’s wings that He has me under His care and protection.

No, it doesn’t always feel like it. Sometimes I feel I’ve been abandoned in the cold, dark night.

No, it doesn’t often look like it, by the world’s standards. The brooding light looked much better to the chicks than an unfamiliar, cold, plastic cage. Until they understood there was a momma there, ready to enfold them.

No, it doesn’t mean that life isn’t unbearably hard. Sleep sometimes alludes us, and days are sometimes overflowing with grief that seeps into every crevice until there’s no room for laughter.

All the “no”s don’t make sense to me.

But His promises are true.

But I know that I know that I know that He loves me and is caring for me, and my own brood, even in those deep, ugly moments when I see nothing that I would call evidence of His love.

But when I really allow myself to admit it… when I allow myself to think way outside of this minute of heartache… or this day of pain… or even my number of years that God has allotted for me on this earth (Psalm 90:10)… I know I can honestly say what has the earth that I desire besides Him? (Psalm 73:25)

And I can follow His lead. Blindly. With assurance. Even in the cold. And in the dark.

I have been welcomed into His family as a foster child, yet an heir. I was adopted as an incubated, clueless chick who causes Him anguish, yet I am His own, who can claim her place of honor under His wing. Sometimes that’s all I have to cling to, but even then, that is enough.

So I don’t have solutions to grief. I have no power to take away a child’s physical pain. I can’t rid today of hardship or tears. But God has given me a beautiful reminder as I traverse the fields and complete hard work that indeed I am under His wing.

I knew nothing about the subject of a broody hen adopting chicks. Until today. Until I needed to know.

Our days may come to seventy years,
    or eighty, if our strength endures;
yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow,
    for they quickly pass, and we fly away…
Teach us to number our days,
    that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:10-12

_________

He will cover you with his feathers,
    and under his wings you will find refuge;
    his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. Psalm 91:4

I explain the “rest of the story” or the back story to this post live right here:

Meet Eagle, and hear the story of how we almost lost this sweet momma–>

And see Eagle with her growing chicks (and a boisterous bathing duck, none-the-less) in a video here, in this post.

And check out our gardens and farm for just a few minutes.

But I should warn you, the new calf cuteness might be too much to handle.–>

I’d love to connect!

To find me in some other neck of the woods, just click any (or every!) icon below:

Click this image to pin this post.–>

Many readers often ask what camera I use to take the images you find here on SoulyRested. I love my Nikon; you can read more about my camera and even purchase your own here.

The post How to Successfully Encourage a Broody Hen to Adopt Chicks first appeared on Souly Rested.

This is the third in a four-part series about grieving the loss of a loved one. 

Since I can’t send mom and dad a valentine this year, I decided to send out some valentines to others whom I normally wouldn’t have. So after the joy of running some of our first maple sap lines last weekend (more on that in an upcoming post!), I got out some of my favorite letter-writing supplies and used a fun scratch-off technique to hide a message of love. I noticed I was appropriately wearing my “Love” sweatshirt that my daughter screen printed for me with my recent favorite verse–I John 4:18. It reminds me that if I focus on God’s perfect love I have nothing to fear, even on the hard days.

To see the scratch-off tutorial I used, hop on over to Ellan Rose. To see some letter-writing art supplies my daughters and I love to use, scroll the links  at the end of this post.

As I work through the 4 stages of grief, I’ve been cherishing memories.

Slowly, as someone who is addicted to the cathartic process of writing, I’ve allowed emotions to travel from my heart to my head, then from my fingertips to the keyboard, where they ultimately fill the screen, molding themselves into black symbols on a white screen.

Why I Write

So it was a natural thing to do on our trip down the East coast. With the love of my life, and our four daughters, and our two stinky beloved dogs, and a few suitcases, piled in a mini van, we were traveling on the truck side of the Jersey turnpike. We were driving to my Dad’s funeral service. We were driving to say one final “goodbye” to my daddy… So I wrote his story. I share it below, with a little wink and a nod to mom and dad on Valentine’s Day.

I encourage you to take a few minutes and write down what you know about your own parents and their love story.

It is, after all the prelude to your own story. So you should know it.

If you’re like me, you’ll realize there are many holes in your knowledge and gaps in your outline. What better thing to do than ask mom and dad on Valentine’s Day to help you fill in the blanks, while you’re still able to do so.

Questions to Ask Your Parents About Their Love Story

If you need some ideas, here are a few questions to ask mom and dad. Things I wish I knew about my parents. Things I can no longer ask.

• What was your first impression of each other?
• What did you do on dates?
• Tell me all about the marriage proposal.
• Where did you get the wedding rings and how did you save the money to buy them?
• Do you remember a way you celebrated a favorite anniversary in the early years?

While there are so many things I wish I could still ask mom and dad, I am very thankful for the story I do know.

His Best Story

They met near diminutive PawPaw, in beautiful West Virginia. She had been working at the Avon factory and had recently faced more heartbreak than a 21-year-old ever should. He had been working for Coca-cola and needing a purpose to life, besides playing the guitar and hanging at bar rooms with different girls on his arms and trouble on his lips.

So he took her to meet his mom.

When Rosa said, “I think that’s the girl to straighten Tom out,” he wasn’t too sure he wanted to be straightened out. He wasn’t too sure he didn’t wanna keep right on being crooked. But he seemed more calm, and he started hanging around home more and Benny Clark’s bar room less.

To Tom’s younger nieces, Tommy and Irene looked like flesh-and-blood Romeo and Juliet. He was wild and crazy; she had both feet on the floor. So he said,“We outta get married.”

He called her his “Queenie,” they started a family, and they moved to where they had Opportunities with a capital “O.”

A new life in Newark. A crisp-cornered, daily-tended vegetable garden and a deep, lush lawn of Delaware Blue Grass growing around Queenie’s castle.

Every Thanksgiving week would mean a 4-hr drive back to the dirt roads of their youth. The week was filled with deer hunting and old-fashioned, home-cooked meals on her family farm in West Virginia, with a hand pump to draw the water, a wood stove to supply heat and a cooking surface, and four walls to hold lots of family, stories, songs, cards, and more stories.

Years passed, 55 Thanksgivings in all, with lots to be thankful for amidst pain and arguments, difficulties and brokenness.

But he kept strumming his guitar for his granddaughters, albeit slower than he used to, telling stories to anyone who would sit and listen, and doing almost anything his children asked of him, if he could and it was legal.

He and his Queenie were devoted to their jobs, even on the hard days.

They were devoted to their marriage, even in the hard years.

They were devoted to their Lord, always. In everything. Even in their hardest, saddest hours.

One cold November night, they held hands, in a circle with their son and daughter who were their world, and Tommy said goodbye to his Queenie without words. 

But it was only a brief separation until he was again singing to her and telling her stories, now with an eternity of perfect opportunities.

I was surprised when I looked back to see how much I have written about my parents over the years… There was a a thank you to Mom; an ode to the joys of being raised on a farm, on Dad’s birthday; a few about gardening with dad–even before I ever thought he’d get to visit our homestead; a few about Mom’s diagnosis, good prognosis, and two (here and here) about verses that comforted me; and then there was last Christmas, and this Christmas’s gingerbread house that Dad loved building with us. And, my most read post so far this year… What My Parents Taught Me About Broken Heart Syndrome.

DISCLOSURE: This post contains affiliate links.

We love these products for journaling, which is a great way to start writing down your family’s story.

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Find out why SoulyRested was considered to be one of the Top 20 Must-Read Homesteading Blogs of 2018 and then one of the Top Homesteading Blogs of 2019 as well.

Many readers often ask what camera I use to take the images you find here on SoulyRested. I love my Nikon; you can read more about my camera and even purchase your own here.

I’d love to connect!

To find me in some other neck of the woods, just click any (or every!) icon below:

And please follow along!

The post Questions to Ask Mom and Dad on Valentine’s Day (& a fun craft) first appeared on Souly Rested.

{ This is the second in a four-part series about grieving the loss of a loved one. In the final post, I’ll be sharing very specific ways others helped me throughout these difficult months as I floundered through the heartbreak of loosing both of my parents in such a short time. My hope is to provide my own personal experiences with grief as an insight into what others in your life might be feeling, as well as a practical list of ways we can help others who are grieving. }

On the Homestead This Week

One daughter braided many new rows on her rug. The chicken have been enjoying increased hours of daylight and are back in the egg-laying business, at least part time. My husband excitedly spent many hours assembling his reverse osmosis system for our maple syrup making set up this year. (Much more about that in upcoming posts… we’re getting excited as syrup season nears.) And we baked. A lot. (I’ll also be sharing my daughter’s amazing Artisan bread recipe in a post soon.) While I enjoy the productivity, the beauty, and the deliciousness then sings my soul.

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Yet the loss of my parents is still a very fresh scar on my heart, and I spent many bittersweet hours again this week going through another box. As I flip through pages and hold well-worn memorabilia and memories from my youth (like Dad’s straight razor and Mom’s hair teasing comb), then sings my soul.

The Last Evening of November

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bear my innermost silent chambers of my heart today, but I realized that doing so will help my soul sing louder. And after rolling the thoughts over in the corners of my mind, I decided it’s just too beautiful not to share. Ultimately, out of respect to my immensely beautiful Mom, knowing she would want me to tell everyone that I can, because it would give honor to her Savior, I decided to share…

One chilly evening, the last one of November, my brother, parents, and I shared precious hours that will always be a part of who I am. Mom was happy to be home, out of the hospital where she had spent 17 days battling the difficult results of chemotherapy treatment.

She smiled as I read to her my aunt’s note that had come in the mail that week, and she spoke to her baby brother on the phone—appropriately discussing farm animal difficulties and details about our cow, chicken, and ducks (one of Mom’s favorite topics to discuss with her brother, who still runs the family farm on the broad, gradually sloping hillside in West Virginia).

She listened as a few of her life-long friends and I stood around her bed and sang one last hymn (one of my daughter’s favorite as a young girl: What a Friend we have in Jesus). I read (for the tenth time probably) a daughter’s note to Mom—about how she treasures Isaiah 41:10. With hands all joined around Mom’s bed, I prayed over her. I prayed for my oldest daughter too, that she would not feel too far away or lonely while she was studying in South Africa.

The Joy of Life

After company left, we dimmed the lights. I sat holding the hands of the two most important people in the world to me—Mom and Dad’s hands were clasped within mine.

My brother held mom’s other hand, and we sat quietly listening to hymns together.

Knowing mom would need medicine around the clock, my brother offered to take the wee hours of the morning shift if I wanted to take the late-night shift. Being the night owl that I am, I was glad to sit with mom, with quiet enveloping us, over the hushed hymns playing on my computer.

I had done this before many times in the prior 17 days, but that night there were no IV lines climbing up her arm, plastic hospital bracelets wrapped around her wrist, or buzzers and commotion intruding upon our time. It was just mom and I sitting together in the home where she had fixed countless meals for my family, baked Easter cakes and dyed eggs with my daughters, played cards and board games, and watched World Series games surrounded by the people who meant the world to her.

In the quiet minutes of the dark morning, with the men of our immediate foursome sound asleep, it was just her and I.

The two of us who had the joy of bringing life into this difficult-but-wonderful world were the two who were privileged to witness her moment of crossing out of this world. She left behind the current painful joys for eternal beautiful realms that I must only imagine for now.

She was sleeping deeply. Soundly.

I had just put in a new CD. With “How Great Thou Art” playing quietly and with me gently holding her head, she took her last breath and met Christ.

Then Sings My Soul

While I will forever miss her, in this life, I know with certainty I will spend a beautiful eternity with her, and she is experiencing a level of bliss right now that is beyond understanding on this side of eternity.

I am blessed, not only to have been born into the beautiful foursome that sat holding hands together that chilly November night, but also to have known sweet Irene as “Mommie.” I am blessed, not only to have gotten to spend almost every minute of her last weeks with her, but also to have a husband and daughters who joyfully let me lay aside all responsibilities to them and the homestead for an indefinite time so I could be with my mother when I longed to do so.

A Tremendous Blessing of Homeschooling

The last few long months have made me more thankful for homeschooling than any other life season ever has.

1-  I’m thankful my teen daughters could focus on the work they could complete independently, and simply set aside the other work until I returned. For the month I was absent, they focused heavily on certain subjects and since I’ve been home we’ve caught up on the others. If I had younger children when a major family event pulled me away from school work, they would have just traveled with me and we would have finished school later in the year, no biggie.

2- I’m thankful that my teen daughters could be home, in my absence, to keep the homestead running, make sure laundry and cleaning was done, and keep meals on the table, all between their school lessons. And of course they learned how to do all those things early on in their lives because they were home with me during the day to be part of meal planning and house chores. They were part of all of that, intricately, when they were young, when they still found it all fascinating. They were part of it when it was a privilege to be doing the “grown up” things, so when it was time that they were needed to support others, and truly do the “grown up” things, they were willing and prepared to do so.

3-  I’m thankful they could connect with me, in Mom’s hospital room, via FaceTime and messaging, whatever time of the day that I was available and mom was alert and could hear them, not having to coordinate around a typical school day timetable.

4-  But I am mostly thankful that my daughters were an intricate, daily part of a major family event as it played out, day by day. I had the joy of having my daughters there every day when Dad came to live with us for his last month. Dad got to spend long quality hours with them every day, as an integral part of their day. He sat with us as we worked through stoichiometry problems and read about ancient Egypt. He enjoyed leisurely breakfasts and long lunches with them. He joined in on afternoon farm chores with them. He even went sledding with them during their PE time. I appreciate now, more than ever before, that homeschooled children can be an intricate part of major family life events as they happen, right in the midst of their lessons.

5- And, finally, I’m thankful that major family events become a lesson–a writing lesson and a life lesson–as my daughter explains on her blog this week.

How Great Thou Art

But in the midst of so much heartache, I am most blessed by my assurance that I will indeed be with my Mommie and Daddy again. “When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation, and take me home, what joy shall fill my heart. Then I shall bow, in humble adoration, and then proclaim: “My God, how great Thou art!”

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“Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” II Corinthians 4:17

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I want to share with you a few resources that have given me great comfort over the past few weeks.

First, I pulled a Spurgeon devotional off the shelf (Morning and Evening) a few days after Dad died and it spoke volumes to me. It was extra special to me given that it was a copy from 1955, a second printing, from my grandmother’s bookshelf. But no matter when your version was printed or what the cover looks like, you absolutely can’t go wrong with this devotional. There’s one page for each morning… He wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen like one being instructed. Isaiah 50:4. And one page for each evening… On my bed I remember you; I think of you through the watches of the night. Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. Psalm 63:7. 

Then, at Dad’s funeral service, a friend handed me a devotional book that I can’t get enough of: The Songs of Jesus, by Timothy and Kathy Keller. I find I revisit most day’s teachings more than once. It’s that kind of book, and it’s been so good for my aching heart. As Keller explains, the Psalms are a “medicine chest for the heart and the best possible guide for practical living.”

Then there’s my daughter’s new journaling Bible that she purchased right after her PapPap passed away.

Time spent meditating over God’s word while she makes it look artfully pretty has been a soothing balm for her, as well as for me when I discover her latest design left open on the kitchen table.

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{ This is the first in a four-part series about grieving the loss of a loved one. }

– 1 –  Cherishing Memories

The day after Mom died I filled the hours by unfilling boxes. Sifting through memories. Organizing black and white images and Polaroid moments, hallmark sentiments and handwritten journals. I can’t think of anything at all I would have rather done. It was the only thing I could do to camouflage the gaping distance between mom and I that grew larger with each hour that passed.

One month later, when Dad’s heart couldn’t beat anymore without her to synchronize its rhythm, I had already organized all the still shots of their memories, so I pulled out Mom’s phone book and searched for oral memories. I reached out to Dad’s cousins, friends, and barroom buddies of his wayward youth. Everyone I called shared more beautiful memories that helped me fill in the frames of “Kasey and Irene” between the Brownie Camera images.

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

– 2 –  Acknowledging They’re in a Better Place

My sweet daddy, on New Year’s Eve, (exactly one month after Mom passed away) went to meet his Savior of whom he always spoke of highly and frequently. Yes, I imagine he’s been playing electric guitar for a few heavenly square dances; tending prolific, beautiful, weed-free gardens; growing some green beans, tomatoes, and squash the likes of which cannot be fathomed in this limited earthly realm; and perfectly painted some immaculate mansions. (Or maybe not that last one–I can’t imagine him doing that without his painting sidekick of more than a decade, my Uncle Thurman. But don’t worry, T.R., you know Dad’s never in a rush.)

I love the thought of Mom greeting him, in her young, cancer-free, joy-filled body saying, “What took you so long, Jim?” (Jim was my grandfather’s name–the name mom dubbed him whenever she wanted to emphasize his tortoise-like tempermant.) And I like thinking of all the people he has sat with, with his long slender legs crossed, his nodding head tipped down in concentration, and his voice in no rush at all, taking in all of their beautiful stories and sharing his own in slow and steady determination.

But the most beautiful thought is of him hugging his savior, singing praises to Him in his drawn-out, country-cracked-melodious voice, and hearing “well done, my good and faithful servant.”

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. Revelation 21:4

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Psalm 73:26

– 3 –  Completing One Last Special Task

But, oh, I miss my Daddy. And I was very happy to have one last little task I could do for him when I ordered a special bouquet, the one that would grace his casket. 

You see, my Daddy was a homesteader who loved to garden–flower gardening almost as much as vegetable gardening. As long as I can remember he had many lovingly tended flower gardens.

So when the funeral home assistant asked which of the handful of “standard” floral arrangements I would like to choose from for Dad’s service, I explained that my Daddy was no “standard” floral arrangement kinda guy.

I knew that the guests at Dad’s service would be encouraged to pick from that arrangement to adorn the casket at the grave site, as one final little “goodbye” to my Daddy. So I talked with the florist about including some of his favorites. I’d hoped that maybe it would make the goodbye a little easier.

I guess hollyhock and zinnea are hard to come by in florist circles in December, so they substituted delphinium and gerber daisies. But I was happy to see a generous supply of snapdragons in his arrangement; they’ve always been my favorite flower ever since my Daddy introduced me to the simple charm of a snapdragon a long time ago. They were my favorite part of my wedding bouquet, and now they’re part of my bittersweet memories of my Daddy, memories of one last special task I did for him.

For mom, her happy place was always her well-kept pretty home. Dad called her his Queen; their home was her castle; his manicured Kentucky Blue Grass lawn was their moat (that neither child nor beast could walk across without facing my father’s wrath for not using the sidewalk).

So making her castle regally prepared for sale was a chore I took on with joy. Cleaning her tile floors and pantry proved to be the perfect last task I could do for mom.

So when this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’ I Corinthians 15:54

– 4 – Conceding That You’ll Always Miss Them

YESTERDAY, a few days after Dad’s funeral service, our farm was coated in a beautiful but solemn cloak of grays and whites. Inside, I gathered the final few stems of brilliant color that I had brought home from Dad’s funeral. I separated and pressed the petals.

And I cried just a little.

Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. Psalm 30:5

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Matthew 5:4 

Everyone born of God overcomes the world. This is the victory that has overcome the world, even our faith. I John 5:4

TODAY the gray sky was striped with powder blue azul. And a neighboring couple knocked on our heavy, old red door with a gift: multiple bars of my favorite chocolate, along with a gift of growth and color and the promise of spring. A gift that made me momentarily consider sharing with Dad, knowing he’d love it. A gift that reminded me how much I miss my favorite gardener.

And I cried.

Just a little.

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I just knew that Dad, and my brother and I, had spent one month without her. Dad had spent 31 days “single,” after 55 years of “together.”

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These numbers were running through my head as I sat, tense, in the cold truck cab beside my husband on New Year’s Eve. The headlights cut through a deep velvety curtain of water-logged snowflakes. They fell in a widening circular pattern, with a growing circumference spreading away from the piercing beams.

I don’t want to type these words. I’m afraid to see their harshness on the screen. . .  My parents are both gone.

Missing his sly smile.

We were driving home from the hospital, and I was trying to string together words in my mind, words to tell my daughters that my father had died of cardiac arrest. Thirty-one days after Mom–his wife of 55 years–ended a brief battle with cancer.

Their PapPap, whom they adored, wasn’t going to be around to offer them a sly smile tomorrow.

Their PapPap, who was a healthy 80-year-old, would not be spending time in the garden with them this spring.

Their PapPap, who had just come to live on our homestead, after his wife had passed away, would make no more walks with them to tend the animals or give Scout a piece of bread.

Their PapPap’s sweetly gruff voice, which mingled with theirs, singing Silent Night, last week and told a story that made them giggle just hours earlier, would now be silent.

Facing a new year without him.

Their PapPap would not be a part of their new year, except in their memories and in his stories that will live on as long as we tell them.

Feeling absolutely alone.

Sitting in the truck cab, although I was beside my high school sweetheart–my backbone for the past 23 years, I felt indescribably, totally, absolutely, in-a-deep-black-hole-surrounded-by-a-circumference-of-wet-snow-drops alone.

Every minute of every day, up until that very hour, I’d had a parent. I had a mom and a dad, yet in the last 31 days, both had been stripped from my life, leaving me with dilapidated boxes to sift through and arduous questions I never even asked that would now have no answers.

Calculating a correlation.

I had a bizarre picture in my mind of a mathematical equation, one that filled a chalkboard with Pi and other Greek letters. Could there be an equation to correlate length of time spent with a loved one and length of time you can then live without them? Could there have been an equation to determine how long Dad’s heart would keep beating, one pump after another, and how long his lungs will keep filling, one breath after another, succeeding the vacancy in his life when Mom passed away? Maybe, I thought, rubbing my cold hands against the vinyl seat, maybe we can live without a loved one for a specific number of hours that correlates directly to the number of years we lived together, the number of meals we ate elbow-to-elbow, or the number of breaths we took side-by-side.

But then I wiped the board clean, obliterating the pointless Greek letters and silly mathematical equations that could never predict Broken Heart Syndrome or calculate a time of death.

Realizing our lack of control.

I sat by my mother’s hospital bed for twenty-four confusing, chaotic days. I held mom’s fragile hand and massaged her week feet for twenty-four dim, bittersweet evenings. I saw, first-hand, that we will never calculate death’s timetable. Not once in those two dozen difficult days did I see my mother have any control over the beating of her heart, or the flushing of her kidneys, or the workings of her central nervous system. There were times when I cried deep, silent tears for her, wishing she had the ability to let go of this life and avoid any more pain. It was intensely, visually real to me one morning as we watched, through her hospital window, while the morning sky awakened in color. She had no more control over the involuntary functions of her body–involuntary actions that were insisting she live another painful day–than she did over the color of the beautiful sunrise that ushered in that day. 

She had no more control over when and where she breathed her last breath than she did over the icy, forlorn weather that would coat the morning of her funeral in beautiful yet miserable ice.

He causes the clouds to ascend from the end of the earth; He makes lightning for the rain and brings out the wind from His storehouses. Jeremiah 10:13

Recognizing misguided condolences.

Of those who braved the icy weather, many people at Mom’s funeral offered kind, consoling comments that Mom held on those three weeks in the hospital to give me time to say goodbye to her. And, they went on, she chose to take her last breath once she was back in her own home (on hospice care), where she wanted to be, with me by her side.

They may sound like beautiful sentiments, but misguided condolences are simply an attempt to offer comfort over something we don’t understand. To romanticize something we fear. To soften the sharp, painful corners of something we’ve tried to contain in a box labeled “death.”

But if we recognize death for what it is, it has no sharp corners.

O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?… thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. I Corinthians 15:55

Being grateful.

I know, first-hand, that death does cause deep, yawning pain. I cried in the grocery store today, standing by the Gala apples. The last time I stood there, just days ago, Dad was telling me he would like to get a bag of oranges. And now I can no longer hear his voice. I will never again pick up some fruit for him, and we will be eating the rest of the bag of oranges without him. C.S. Lewis said it well. A loved one’s “absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”

Lewis knew grief. He wrestled honestly with God when his wife died three years before himself, and he finally concluded, “Can you not see death as the friend and deliverer? It means stripping off that body which is tormenting you. What are you afraid of?”

The steps of a man are established by the Lord. Psalm 37:23-4

Trusting death’s details are not in our hands.

The timing and details of our death are in the hands of the loving creator who formed us, determined our birthday, knew our name long before our mother did (Isaiah 49: 1), and has already numbered our days. Who better to joyfully entrust those details to? Because He is able to do “immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us.” (Ephesians 3:20)

As for my silly imaginary equation that correlated length of marriage to length of solitary survival time? Instead of the empty, failed equation, I thought of only two Greek letters. The Alpha and the Omega. The beginning and the end. God. The one who knit us together also tells our heart when to make its last effort, our nervous system when to feel its last burst of pain, our brain when to recognize its last earthly fear.

You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. … Before a word is on my tongue you, Lord, know it completely. You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. … My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139

Was my mom thankful to be at home, with me by her side and a favorite hymn playing when she took her last breath at 2:05 one cold November morning? I’m sure of it.

Was Dad missing his beautiful, faithful wife of 55 years so much that he longed to be with her and was envious of the time she had already had with the savior they both loved, free from pain, sadness, and worry? I’m sure of it.

Is there such a thing as a Broken Heart Syndrome? From what I’m told, the medical term is stress-induced cardiomyopathy. And yes, Dad’s central nervous system started shutting down from the weight of his loss. The medics who rushed him to the ER that night… the medics who performed CPR and made him prolong those few steps from this life to eternity by bringing him back multiple times in that ambulance on that blustery, snowy night… they definitely noted dramatic changes in the rhythm of his heart. From the description of his last few days, they later guessed his heart had been out of rhythm for quite some time. Surely his life had been out of rhythm since last April, when the oncologist told mom the news none of us wanted to hear.

Clinging to romantic notions.

So if Broken Heart Syndrome is a medical reality, is there accuracy in these romantic notions that Dad “decided it was time” to be with mom?

Was there any truth in this thought that mom “was holding on” until she was back in her home on the cul de sac on the hill, with family by her side, where she then decided to give up the good fight?

No. Those are the romantic notions we cling to, hoping to strip death of its power. But when we do that, we’ve forgotten that Christ has already defeated death, 2000 years ago on a different hill, far away.

Is God a kind and generous God who knew I would cherish moments at home with Mom before she passed away? I’m certain of it. Is God a gracious, loving God who knew Dad was missing his wife deeply and decided it was time for him to come home? Of course.

Admitting who is in control.

But He is also the one–the only one–who could stop a heart from beating or the nervous system from sending signals. If we ever think we as humans can orchestrate the natural workings of death, we are trying to smooth out the painfully sharp, jagged corners of something we have stuffed in a box labeled “death.”

Instead, I choose to recognize death for what it is. While it is a horrible, vile result of living in a sinful world, and while it causes great stress and heartache to those in its wake, death is oh-so weak. It lasts for but a minuscule moment, and then death, and all of our life before it, is but a vapor.

You do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. James 4: 14

When we step through the thin veil of death, we will finally see life–eternal life–for all that it was intended. No, death has no sharp corners. And when we step into eternity, death has no power.

Yet He who is the source of every power and the granter of every breath, He is worthy of all honor, all glory, and all praise. I am grateful that my mommie’s and daddy’s last moments on this earth were in His gracious, loving hands.

But. I. Sure. Do. Miss. Them.

The post What my parents taught me about Broken Heart Syndrome first appeared on Souly Rested.

The weather here on our New England farm mirrored my discouragement. After we enjoyed a few days of spring, stretching our legs around the property…

We planted some fence posts, the animals seemed to dance in the fields, and we all dreamed of summer. But then it hit. Snow, hail, and ice blew in from the west.

And last Friday afternoon, standing in my sock feet on the cold pine floor boards of my kitchen, I got the worst phone call I’ve ever received. Like the weather, I felt my life went from one of hope and promise to bitter cold remorse.

But the ducks and hens kept right on laying that day; giving us nourishment to collect in the midst of the storm.

There’s only one label that matters.

Last Thursday–the day before the call–God filled my day with promises. Those promises were pre-nourishment. They were something to cling to when I stood with cold feet and a sinking heart, holding the phone to my ear while my lungs deflated and felt unable to handle the effort of refilling.

My mom has cancer.

Describe us–grandparents, parents, and siblings– as Writer. Mechanic. Professional Storyteller. Bank manager. Church treasurer. Police officer.  One-room-school teacher. Farmer.

But I never wanted an immediate family member to have to wear the label “cancer patient.” Especially the sweet lady who bought me my first puppy and  taught me how to prevent soggy bread by slathering peanut butter on both slices of my PB&J .

Yet God prepared me for this new identity–“daughter of a cancer patient”–by strengthening my identity in Him the day before and reminding me that only one label matters. I’m “His.”

So I’m paraphrasing and claiming promises.

Yes, I’m a homeschool mom, new homesteader, poop scooper (yeah, synonymous really) writer, daily egg gatherer, editor, dinner planner, photographer, even a professional storyteller. But when I got that call; when the world narrowed in to a pinpoint; when a few simple words made me count the next minute as a blessing, I realized that only one label matters. I can take off all the other name tags: teacher, counselor, neighbor. I can rip all the other badges off my chest: negligent, procrastinating, hesitant. Those labels I wear on my sleeve in shame fall to the ground: neighbor who neglects to stop over at a shut-ins for months at a time; mom who yells in anger over meaningless things; friend who forgets to acknowledge a birthday. Because when my world stopped, my lungs felt they were failing me, and I was faced with the fragility of life, I realized I had truly only one label: I am “His.”

You see, not coincidentally, yet totally unknown to me, Thursday’s Bible study was equipping me for Friday’s phone call. My study was overflowing with promises of God. I even paraphrased them and wrote in my name. I highly recommend you find a quiet morning and take time to do this. Claim a promise as your own by paraphrasing it, filling in your name, and then tattoo it on your heart…

Okay, maybe just magnet it to your fridge. Or masking tape it to your bathroom mirror. Or sandwich it in a plastic sheet protector and hang it in your shower. (Hey, where else can a mom get 5 minutes of quiet?)

One place to start? Dance your eyes along the page in Zephaniah 3. I know, you don’t usually peruse the words of this minor prophet, but trust me on this one. Yes, it starts off a hard read but, oh, does it get better. When you get to the 17th verse, stop and try to imagine his voice, deep, perfect, pure, and true singing over you in quiet joy after he has pronounced you forgiven of all errors you’ve ever made. (And, let’s face it, there have been some doozies.) After he has fought for you, in heated battle, and been victorious, driving away your fearsome foes, he quiets you — with — his — love.

Or read Isaiah 40. Picture the king, his true glory revealed, riding on a white horse, victorious, after just fighting fervently and passionately for you. Victorious, He dismounts and picks you up in his massive, glorious arms as if you are a small tender lamb, and that warrior king speaks softly and gently to you like a shepherd speaking to his treasured sheep.

Or park yourself in John 15 for a few days. Meditate on what it would be like to see yourself as lucky to be a mere servant to a gracious, all-powerful King and then be told that you are not his servant, but his friend. His confidant. Then he reveals to you that you are there with him because he CHOSE you—before you even met him—to be his close friend and whatever you ask of His father, in his name, will be yours.

There are so many promises that we should paraphrase, and fill with our names, and claim as our own. Read Isaiah 43, 49, and 53; John 10; Philippians 1; and Hebrews 13. And that’s just a starting point. The Bible is riddled with God’s promises to us. Promises for our future, a future of hope. Not of fear. Never of fear. For what does the earth have that I desire besides God?  (Psalm 73:25)  And he, after all, gives us a spirit not of fear but of power. (2 Timothy 1:7)

What does perfect love look like?

Most importantly, remember that all of these promises are true and possible because his love for you is perfect.

John claimed it almost 2,000 years ago. John, with his failed vision and achy bones after a long life, riddled with persecution. John, who had known a lot of fear in his 90 or more years. But John had also known Christ as a friend, as one called “beloved.” And John knew “there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” (I John 4:18 )

Think about what a perfect love must look like. There are no strings of requirements winding around it to hold it together. There are no conditions shoved under its foundation to level it out. Our actions? Our thoughts? Our failures? All Irrelevant. His perfect love is unconditional on me but 100% conditional on him. On his perfect character. If we can even get a glimpse of this. If we can fathom just a few moments of this. His perfect love will cast a light in every dark corner, every impossible day, every unexpected phone call that shakes our day to rubble.

New vocabulary doesn’t change our identity.

His perfect love will cast its light in every corner of our lives and we will know that nothing happens to us outside of the realm of his perfect love. No new vocabulary that is forced on us and our loved ones overrides our identity as his child whom he loves perfectly.

Am I having trouble focusing this week, unsure of what the next month holds? Absolutely. Am I wishing life could just go back to its pre-cancerous state and this last week be erased? Of course. Am I trying to sort out so many details and “what if” scenarios that I can’t even itemize them? Unfortunately, I am.  Am I afraid? Horribly.

But I know that God’s perfect love casts out fear, so I’m trying to sink down in his perfect love. I’m trying to soak in his perfect love. I’m trying to have a vague insight into his perfect love.

I’m trying to view everything through its radiance as I let it shine into every corner of my day.

It’s unblemished, and I should meditate on it when I feel inadequate for any task.

It’s faultless, and I should claim it when I feel defeated.

It’s defectless, and I should soak in it when I feel riddled with shortcomings.

In the end, I’m just his child trying to express my love in whatever feeble way I’m able, whatever the next 24 hours hold. For today, I’m expressing my love to my heavenly father by clinging to his promises, repeating them often in my mind, and paraphrasing them to claim them for myself.

I’m trusting that his love for me, and his love for my earthly parents, is perfect, even–or maybe especially–in the midst of nefarious weather.

 “…perfect love casts out fear…”  I John 4: 18

UPDATE:

A few weeks after writing this first entry, I shared an update on this post.

Then eight months later I was able to share this, about The Last Evening of November.

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The post Repeat as needed, paraphrase often first appeared on Souly Rested.

 

 

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This was not the blog I intended to write. I thought I was simply going to offer a brief description of the beauty my family has been overwhelmed with and enveloped in, in our new home by the lake, where it empties into the river, in rural New England. But this was the blog that poured out of me. It has not been easy to pen, but I’m certain it’s what I was supposed to write all along. I just found out, right before publishing this, that today is “Remembering Our Babies Day,” so indeed it is what I was supposed to write.

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Do you follow along on SoulyRested.com? Just click “FollowThisBlog” in the right-hand column. Then you won’t miss one of my crazy caring-for-chicken tidbits, you’ll enjoy my occasional musings about our centurys’ old farmhouse, and maybe you’ll even gain a little insight from this momma who’s been failing at the effort for almost 2 decades. Or not. But in some small way I hope I help you Keep it Simple while being Souly Rested on Christ.

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The post An Iridescent Dance first appeared on Souly Rested.