The Power of Words

From an early age, I recognized the power in words; the weight they can carry. I also understood how they could come together to create a story that could connect and impact those who read them. I knew it as a reader, and I also knew that I had an overwhelming desire to be a part of that. To write.

To this day, I still have my backpack full of short stories and poems typed on a typewriter throughout my teenage years. Short stories, both typed and handwritten, stuffed into folders and old spiral notebooks. 

I have journals of phrases penned, quotes jotted down, letters written, and lists of writing ideas. 

Times have changed and spiral notebooks and typewriters have been replaced with Google Docs and the Notes section of my iPhone, but my desire to write things down, to create, has not changed. 

The past several years have been the most challenging of my life. There were times I found myself awake in the night, my mind racing with words and ideas. Other times I have been numb, and at a loss for words. And so, the urge to write was buried, maybe even seemingly lost.  

But, I still longed for a place to share my writings. A place where others could visit and maybe even connect in some way. So, I created my website–Foundations of Sapphires. 

It is through this site that I could share my story and in turn ask others to share theirs. Interestingly enough, during the most quiet and darkest time in my life, the connection through my site has been the loudest. 

In the past few months, I have heard from several people who found their way to my site by longing to learn more about sapphires. Whether the presence of sapphires in scripture or their healing powers, the search led them here and they have shared their stories with me. 

One woman wrote:

I'd love to tell you my story. But, this note isn't about me.

I was looking for a verse about the foundation of sapphire stones to share with a special friend who had never heard it.

I stumbled upon your blog. I've looked up verses so many times and this [is] truly the first time I came across a blog. So, I read it. Then I read more. You are a gifted writer. Your blogs stopped with the Queen.

I can't begin to know why. But, I do pray that you start writing again. This world, at this time needs your words of encouragement. Needs your transparency. It needs the 'real'.

We all go through heartache, agonizing grief and pain so unbearable you wonder if your breath will fail you.

If that is the cause of you no longer writing, then I encourage you to pick up your pen and write again. Tell your story again.

Wow–power in her words.

And, there were others. The woman who had been a victim of incest; struggling to feel beautiful and to accept the love from her husband. 

The woman who has become the caretaker of her mother suffering from dementia. Grieving her mother while she is still here.

The woman, estranged from her father for most of her life and whose mother was killed tragically in a car wreck by a drunk driver, who spiraled into depression and grief. 

She wrote, “I don’t even know your name. But I love your stories. I was just telling my story to my brother-in-law today. How God had promised me before my Mom died (unexpectedly) that he would give me foundations of sapphires.”

Through my darkness, these strangers have been a light and an inspiration to find my voice again. To find the words. And, to move forward with hope.

Details of my life and my story have been updated to reflect where I am now–today. Honestly, I don’t know about tomorrow, what it will bring, or when I will want to write something to post. But, I do know that I have this place, this website where I can share. And, so can others. 

My story continues.
The foundation remains.
The connection is real.
And the words carry on.

When There Are No Words

It has been awhile. Life has just held so much. A significant health issue with my husband, followed by surgery. COVID. Difficult relationships. My son graduating from high school. His move to college. Empty nesting.

It has been a lot. 

I searched for the words, but they never came. Throughout my life, I have always been able to turn to words–in my darkest days as well as on my best days.  And yet, for months the words did not come. They were replaced by worry. 

What if my husband did not get better? What if my husband, who loves running and exercise, could never do those again? What if I had lasting effects from COVID? What if my son went away and never came back? What if my empty nesting left me and my husband, well, empty?  What would I do to fill the nights and weekends that once revolved around my son’s schedule? What if the broken relationships in my life really could not be repaired?

The what ifs had taken my words. 

As a Christian, I knew the Bible verses. I knew the Truth about how much God loved me. How I needed to have faith. And yet, the what ifs continued to swirl because in the quiet moments, they were all-consuming.

I stumbled upon Tera’s Online Christian Journey. She wrote, “Bible verses aren’t band-aids...Out of God’s great mercy and compassion and understanding...God gives us one another…”

And, I realized God gave me words. They weren’t my words–they were hers. And, they were good.

I thought about how God had used others and their words in my life. 

• The people who came to our home and prayed with me and my husband. 

• The friends who fed us during his healing.

• The ones who called, prayed and encouraged me during COVID. 

• The friends who understood the anxiety of sending my son away and prayed with me. 

• The people who celebrated small steps and continue to walk with me “one day at a time” in difficult seasons.

• The friends who remain non-judgmental and love unconditionally.

• The visits over coffee as like-minded parents shared the struggles of raising children and what it meant to love like Jesus.

Words had left me. And, they will leave me again. 

But now I see that perhaps at times when I had no words, He filled the gap with those who did.

What if that is enough? 

No One Planned for This

I received my crisp, freshly-bound Golden Coil planner in the mail recently.  It’s empty pages spanning from August to July, as my life revolves around the school year.  (There is nothing quite like getting a new planner.)

Plans–I love them. 

School events.  
Appointments.  
To-do lists.  
Date nights.  
Girls nights. 
Vacations.

I love the structure and the order of a good plan–a definite beginning and end. 

I love the joy of completing a task, of creating an experience. 

I love the sense of accomplishment of checking items off of my to-do list. (Sometimes, I even write things down I have already done just so I can check it off.)

And yet today, I look at my beautiful new planner–blank and inviting–and the excitement that typically comes with plans for a new school year fell flat.  

For the first time, there are no lists of school events.  No vacations planned.  No football schedule to write down.  No community event to get dressed up for.  

I look at my planner, afraid to write anything down in pen and hesitant to look past the week before me.

2020. No one planned for this.

Illness.  Death.  Financial hardship.  Civil and political unrest.
Quarantine.  Masks.  Social distancing.  Working from home.  

I feel anxious.  Sometimes sad.  Overwhelmed.  Ironically when we need hugs and smiles the most, they’re gone.

 I long for order, consistency, stability. 

And yet, as I contemplate my life and the years leading up to 2020, the unexpected has always managed to find its way in.  So, truth be told, there is a lot in my life I have not planned. Even in the midst of my planning, when I thought I was in control, I really wasn’t. 

As I look through the empty pages of my new planner, I think about the future.  

What do I know for sure? 

• I know that I am changed.  2020 and the few years leading up to it, have changed me.

• I have come to understand that life can be more than moving from one thing to the next. Between the beginning and the end, there can be joy too. 

• The unexpected will happen; and it can refine you. 

• An empty planner does not mean an empty life–it means stillness.  It means rest.  It means time.  It means one day at a time.  One week at a time.  Quiet.  In the silence, He is there.

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

– Jeremiah 29:11

I know the plans, He says. He knows the plans.  And that is enough. 

So, I open my blank and beautiful planner.  The quote I chose to be printed in the beginning of my planner is staring back at me.

“What would be the point of living if we didn’t let life change us?” – Carson, Downton Abbey

Indeed, Carson–sounds like a plan.

Christ Provides

I saw her for the first time seated on a bench outside of Perkins Rowe.  

As I was picking up a book curbside, she was sitting there.  Mismatched clothes.  Backpack.  Bags at her feet.  I knew she had to be homeless, perhaps just passing through.

It was only a few days later when I spotted her again.  

She was walking on the sidewalk–not too far from where I had seen her the first time.  I could see her from a distance, carrying her backpack and those same few bags, probably holding all of her possessions.

I wondered where she was going, where she had been. 

Just days later, I saw her on that same bench.  

This time, my son was with me. I said, “Oh my, there she is. I keep seeing this woman around this area.  I think she is homeless. I can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe I should talk to her.”  

But, I didn’t stop.  I didn’t talk to her. I kept driving.

I could not stop thinking about her.

I have had many sleepless nights recently.  As I have lain awake at night, I have thought of her.  And of what her life must be like. 

Today, as I pulled into Sonic for my usual–large Diet Coke–there she was, ordering food at the window next to me.  With her backpack and bags. 

I was compelled to speak.

“Ma’am,” I said to her.  And she turned to me.

I explained that I had seen her several times–sitting on the bench, walking.  I told her I had been thinking about her.  She smiled and said nothing.

“Do you have a place to sleep?”

She smiled and said, “Christ provides.”

I nodded in agreement and asked her the question again.  She responded the same. 

“Christ provides.”

I tried a different question.  I could see she had ordered food.

“Are you able to pay for your food?”  She held up a gift card and said it again.

“Christ provides.”

I asked her if she was alone.

Again, “Christ provides.”

Perhaps she could see that I was wishing for more. She went on, “That will always be my answer. Christ provides.”  And she smiled.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I told her.

As the Sonic employee handed me my Diet Coke, I paid for my order and for hers.  

I put my car in reverse and as I began to pull away, I said to her, “I want you to know that I think of you.  That I am praying for you. I will think of your smile. And, I will remember that Christ provides.”  

She smiled and said, “I appreciate that.”  And I drove away.  

Even now, I am still thinking about her.  And her words. 

I can see her sitting peacefully on the bench.  Casually walking down the road.  And then standing next to me.  And how our paths led us both to Sonic on this random morning. 

I am hoping to see her again. I will certainly be looking for her.  The homeless woman with the big smile, all of her possessions at her feet, who reminded me of Christ’s love and provision.  

And really, that is all we need to know–the only answer to life’s questions that really matters. 

As she said, it should always be our answer. 

Christ provides.

He does indeed.  And that is enough.

For her.
For all of us.

Her Name Was

I pulled into Sonic, my usual morning stop before work.  As I reached to push the button to place my order, I saw her. Standing in front of my car. 

With one hand, she was holding an old worn blanket around her shoulders.  With the other, she was holding her pants to keep them from falling. I could barely see her toes and her flip flops peeking beneath the bagginess of her jeans.  Her shirt, like her pants, hung on her. In a soft voice, she said, “Ma’am, can you buy me some food?”

I looked at her.  I looked in her eyes.  A few years ago, maybe I would have politely told her no and gone about my day.  Or, maybe I wouldn’t have even seen her.  But not now.  Life has a way of teaching us; humbling us; making us better.

“What would you like?”  I said. She seemed surprised by my response.  There was no smile. Just surprise.

I placed the order, and she turned away to sit down at the bistro table while we waited.  I saw a tattered pink duffle bag next to her. She sat quietly until our eyes met again.

As I leaned out to talk to her, she got up and came to the front of my car.  And she began to talk.   

I learned she is alone–no husband or children.  I learned she is out of work, but is looking for a job.  I learned there was a time when she had friends, but that time is no more.  

 “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have parents,” she replied.

“Are they deceased?”  I asked.

“No,” she said, “I had dummy parents.  They were not real parents.”  

Dummy parents.  With those words, the dirty and hungry stranger before me transformed into a wounded, broken person.  

It’s just a word.  But what heaviness it carries.  What sadness.  

Dummy–a model or replica of a human being; something designed to resemble and serve as a substitute for the real or usual thing; a counterfeit or sham.  

Heartbreaking. 

I found myself not knowing the right words to say; so I just said, “Oh, I am so sorry.”

She went on to talk about her mother.  She told me that her mother was always talking.  But, she said, “I could not hear her.” She shook her head as if exasperated, “I just could not hear her.”

I nodded at her and again repeated how sorry I was. 

As she talked, I listened.  I smiled at her. I watched her.  I thought about how different we are;  how the circumstances of our lives and the consequences of our life choices sent us in different directions.  And yet, I thought about how much we are the same. 

Our earthly parents are different, but we share the same Heavenly Father.  

And He calls us by name.  

Although she could not hear, and perhaps would not listen to her mother, she wanted to be heard that morning.  I heard her. I heard what she said, and I heard what she didn’t say. 

And I wanted to remember her.  Everyone has a story.

As they delivered the food, I told her I would pray for her.  I told her that I wish her all the best. She smiled and blew me a kiss. 

I asked her what her name was.  She did not ask me my name, and that was okay.  More than likely, she will never think of me again. 

I have looked for her during my daily Sonic visits. And the bistro tables remain empty.

But, I will remember her.   And I will call her by name.

Elizabeth.  Her name was Elizabeth.

A Basket

A basket.

A mother—Jochebed.

She was the mother of Moses.

I have thought about her many times throughout my motherhood journey. Knowing her son was in danger, Jochebed covered a basket in tar and pitch and placed it in the reeds of the Nile River. She placed her baby in the water.

And at the same time, she placed her faith in the Lord.

Faith over fear.

I imagine her love for her son as she covered the basket in tar and pitch—doing all she could to keep him safe. I think about her overwhelming love for him—loving him enough to let him go.

I wonder what she was thinking as she placed the basket holding her precious son in the water.

Maybe fear, maybe unbelievable sadness, maybe there were tears.

She had to put him in the water, and then she had to walk away. There had to be pain in the walking away. But there had to be hope. Hope for a future for her son. Hope for a journey that would ultimately lead him back to her. She had to let him go in order to save him.

I think about her. I think about her faith. And, I think about letting go.

Recently, a dear friend who has raised four children, shared with me her struggle with one of her children. She told me about her many dark days. She told me of the days when she would walk through her house saying, “Lord, take my basket.”

Take my basket.

Oh, she knows Jochebed. She understands Jochebed. I do, too.

As mothers, I think we all do at some point.

But my friend also shared how she is on the other side of pain. How her son was pulled from the reeds. Jochebed’s son was pulled from the reeds as well—Moses.

It was a mother’s love. A mother’s faith. It was tar and pitch placed by his mother’s hands. And it was a simple basket. God had a plan all along.

Yes, indeed. He is a good, good Father.

It's Not Supposed to Be This Way

This. So much truth.

I found myself in its pages and in its words. Although my struggle and my “I don’t know” is different, the pain is the same—the loss of what was supposed to be.

I have had to learn to let go of perfection and expectations and to trust in Him. Not just say I trust in Him, but to live trusting in Him. To give my faith walking legs.

I have also learned that I am not alone.

In some way, we are all turned “upside down” at some point in our lives. But it is from that new perspective, when real connection, authenticity and compassion happen.

It is the “breaking of us. The making of us. The building up of our faith.”

He is strengthening us for His purpose.

Our faith can offer a foundation of hope for others when they too are upside down.

When we “can’t find our footing with our own faith...we can go and stand on someone else’s for a while.”

Thank you Lysa for allowing me to stand on yours.

We all really are “beautiful souls held together by equal amounts of belly laughs and serious sorrow.”

That is life.

Laughter and Tears.
Joy and Pain.
Upside down.
Right side up.

I am messy. I am marvelous. I am so very alive.

There She Was

Today after church, Tensey pulled in to park at a restaurant for lunch. As I went to get out of the car, I was able to see into the parked car next to us.

There she was. A woman, sitting in the front seat of her car—sobbing.

She went on to drop her head into her hands in total despair.

She was alone.
She was broken.
And she was so lost in her own sadness that she did not even notice me looking at her.

I did not move, but watched her for several seconds.

I know that kind of pain.

I have no idea who she was or what her pain was. But my heart broke for her.

In today’s world of perfection and image, this reminded me again that everyone has a story; everyone has battles. Today it was her crying in the car alone, tomorrow it may be me, or it may be you.

Nothing changes people like pain. Nothing.

But, I am so thankful for a Savior who suffered and pressed into His pain, knowing ultimately that He would conquer pain and death.

So there is also joy.
And there is hope.
And there is love.