{when Jesus weeps}

I remember the exact moment I heard the news. The hot tears pouring down my face and the

confused prayers to a God I couldn’t understand.

Sarah, Chad, Nathan, Christopher, little guys who fought cancer and won eternity, babies lost during pregnancy, a sweet faced little man who I had never even met. 

Mitch, my dad, Mary.  And now a man who fathered many, loved many, who lived a gentle life and praised the Lord for his many blessings.

Others taken what seemed like an eternity too soon. Friends who lost their anchor. Wives who had to plan the funeral of their loves instead of their retirement with them. Parents who had to walk through a valley no parent should ever have to walk through.

I remember falling at the feet of Jesus, as Mary and Martha had done after their brother died, and saying “Jesus, if only you had been here… Jesus, it didn’t have to end like this… Jesus, why didn’t you come sooner… Jesus, why didn’t you do something.”

I cry out to Him… You so could have been glorified in this! You could have raised him up off His sick bed and EVERYONE would have known it was only by YOU! It’s just so hard to understand. Such good people, gone so soon.

And just as He did with Mary, I can feel His gentle response to my questions, my confusion, my frustration, my grief…

Jesus wept.

Jesus doesn’t just understand our tears, He joins us in them.  There’s something about those words, “Jesus wept”, that have changed the way I grieve. Changed the way I have comforted others in their grief. I once mistakenly thought faith in Jesus meant that we could say things like “we will see them again someday” and that would make it alllll better. But it doesn’t. Because when you are standing at the casket of your child, someday feels like it’s a million years away. When you are sitting at a family dinner and there is an empty chair staring back at you, you want someday to be RIGHT NOW. When you have exciting news and the one who would rejoice the loudest is gone, someday just leaves you with silence.

Don’t get me wrong, someday gives us hope. Someday is something we can cling to in this world 

until we make it to the next.  Without someday I don't know how we would get through this day. But someday doesn’t make the pain go away.

I still pick up my phone and want to text Mary and share the news.  I still wish my dad could be there cheering Zach on as he runs the football down the field.  I wish I had the chance to tell him to stop screaming at the referees so loud.  I wish he were here to give Tali’s boyfriend a hard time. I wish… I wish I could get my mind around God’s plan that doesn’t always make sense.

But Jesus wept. When His friends Mary and Martha were grieving over Lazarus… He did too.  He knew that He had come to that place for the sole purpose of raising Lazarus up from the dead, not someday but THAT VERY DAY… and still He wept. He entered into their grief. He joined them there. He didn’t chastise them for not understanding, He didn’t turn around and leave because they questioned Him, He wasn’t let down by their accusing tone- Jesus, if only you had been here, our brother wouldn’t have died…

Instead He entered into their grief. And He cried with them. His heart was deeply moved by their mourning, and He wept. He didn’t tell Mary to get up and dust herself off. He joined her in the dirt.

For my friends who are grieving, I just want you to know that Jesus is too. Even though He knows the plans and the purposes… even though He is working all things to the good… even though He knows that Resurrection Day is COMING… He is still right there with you in the midst of your grief. He is sinking down in the dirt beside you and He will cry with you until you are ready, until you are able, to reach out and let Him help you up off your knees.  He can handle your questions.  He can handle you pounding on His chest and screaming “WHY?!” He can handle your tears. Because He loves you. And He understands.

Friends, Resurrection Day is coming. And the hope for those in Christ is that we will see our loved ones again. Until that day comes, it’s okay to miss them. It’s okay to wish they were here. It’s okay to wonder why. Even when I can't understand Him, I am comforted knowing He always understands ME. He understands you too. He grieves. He weeps. He sits in the dirt and He comforts you. 

Father,

Your Word tells us that you alone can turn our mourning into dancing. Your Word promises us that you are near to the broken hearted. Your Word assures us that those who mourn will be comforted. Your Word tells us that you will save those who are crushed in Spirit. Would you just make those words real for those who are grieving today? Jesus would you sit down in the dirt with them and just love them? Wrap your arms around them, let them FEEL your embrace in a most tangible way, Father. Whether the loss is a day old or a decade old, would you bring the comfort that only your Holy Spirit can bring. Fill them with the hope of someday, while you weep with them today. I love you Jesus, thank you for loving me. Jesus, I trust you. In your name we pray…

{the space in between}

I don’t know how to do this.

I don’t know how to parent a teenager. I don’t know how to move from helicopter mom to teaching my daughter how to fly. I don’t know how to navigate this space in between child and adult.

Those were the words left on my computer screen after I got the call from my husband that I needed to take Zach to football practice, and the message from our carpool that I also needed to pick Tali up from cheer. I have been thinking and praying about this topic for weeks, how to write about this place I find myself in with my daughter… this space in between. As I sat down to write yesterday morning, those were the only words I had. I don’t know how to navigate this. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to transition this relationship in a healthy way.

I typed them, and then went about my day, praying for a way to articulate all of the wrestling in my spirit. Parenting is hard. But now I'm seeing that parenting a teen is it's own special variety of hard. I'm not good at relinquishing control. I'm not good at watching people I love make less than ideal decisions. As I closed down programs in my computer before climbing in my big, silver taxi and hitting the road [again], they flashed across the screen at me.

I don’t know how to do this.

I don’t know how to parent with space. I don’t know how to give Tali the room she needs to stretch and grow and fall down and pick herself back up. Especially when I see so much of myself in her.  When I see the me that had everything in front of her and made such poor choices. When I see the me that is afraid to invest emotionally. When I see the me that can’t open up to people.  And I want to tell her the easy path. I want to pour into her the lessons I have learned and have her “get it”- ALL. Without the harsh learning curve I had.

When they are little, when we see them running faster than their little legs are equipped to keep up with we can stop them. We can yell ahead “Don’t run!!! You’ll skin your knees!!! Slow down!” We can keep them from so much hurt. But even when they are little… sometimes they still run. Sometimes the warning comes too late. Sometimes the knees still get skinned.

And here I am with this teenager… and I want to yell “DON’T RUN! Slow down!”… but the truth is, there are going to be bruises and wounds along this path.  And not only can I not keep her from all of them, but it wouldn’t be in her best interest if I did.

Sometimes we learn our best lessons from the skinned knees.

Sometimes that is the only way we figure out how fast our feet can carry us without toppling over.

The thing is, when it’s a six year old’s knee, we can kiss it and put a Band-Aid on it, and offer up a popsicle (because they make EVERYTHING better)… but when it’s a heart. Oh, it’s so much more difficult. And the mama bear desire to protect and guard is strong…

And that’s where I found myself standing in the shower, tears running down my face asking God… how far do I let her go? How closely do I guard?  Oh Lord, what decisions do I let her make, and which ones do I make the call?

And He answered… how far will I let you go, Becky?

And I know, He will let me go as far as necessary to learn to lean. He will guide and direct and steer with the power of His Holy Spirit, but in the end, the choice is mine. The path is laid out before me, His way and Mine… and I get to choose.

And so it is in this space in between with my teen… I can guide and direct, I can lay out the options and explain the consequences… but in the end she will decide. She will choose to be home by curfew or not. She will choose the way of honesty or not. She will save sacred spaces in her life or not. 

I recall my mom warning me when Tali was two years old and throwing a temper tantrum… “what seems cute and harmless at two isn’t so cute and harmless at thirteen, you are setting the stage now”.  She was so right. Oh, moms of littles, imagine that temper tantrum or talking back or ignoring the rules on a teenager and use that as a gauge as to how seriously you will take it now.  How far will you let them go, now? Because when they are teens those are the tools they will have in their tool belt to make their own decisions.  Be mindful of the pace you set for them now, because tomorrow, they will need to know how fast they can run.

My job as a parent is far from over, but it is definitely changing. My littles are now 11 and 13, and just aren’t so little anymore. It’s a season of transition and I don’t know exactly what it is supposed to look like or how to know if we are doing it well. I look back and hope and pray that we have laid a firm foundation. I pray that we have the courage to let our children fly, even when the nest seems so safe. In the end,  it's not even about her heeding my advice. But learning to hear the Father's voice. Following His call on her life. Letting Him pick her up when she stumbles.

I know that I can warn (and I will), I can call out “don’t run!”… but in the end, these years are about Tali learning how to set the pace. Learning how fast she can run without toppling over. Learning who she is and setting her sights on who she wants to be.  Learning how to navigate disappointment and words that hurt and relationships that are complicated and friends who aren’t.

And maybe, the best thing I can do is be there with a hug and a popsicle when the knees get skinned a little.   

But it’s hard. It’s hard to bite my tongue when I want to offer advice. It’s hard to navigate a space where words are easier spoken via text message than face to face and to know if that’s okay. It’s hard to see so much of me.  It’s hard not to guard and protect against every hurt.  It’s hard not to micromanage. It’s hard to honor the space she needs to grow.

And so that is where I was yesterday, as I typed those words on my computer screen.

I don’t know how to do this.

I don’t know how to navigate this thing. I don’t know how to parent a teenager because I’ve never done it before… and it’s too important to mess up. I feel inadequate and overprotective and scared and excited and sad all at the same time. This space in between… it’s hard.

Those words… I don’t know how to do this… danced in my head as we pulled out of the high school parking lot and the tears began to trickle down Tali’s cheeks. She poured out her hurt and her frustration and her disappointment, and I thanked God that she trusts me with these things, and asked Him to please help me have words that would encourage and build up and teach and challenge…

We talked. I told her that it did suck. I told her that it was okay to be upset and frustrated. I told her it was not okay to give up. I told her to remember she is good enough, and not to let anything change her smile.

And that’s when I opened the envelope with six one dollar bills in it. Money that someone had just given me unexpectedly. Money that I didn’t even realize I was “owed”.

Looking at the money I had a crazy idea…

“Steve and Kinzi are behind us… what do you think they would do if we threw this money at them?”

“What?!” Tali asked… and a smile began to spread across her face… “we could throw it out the sunroof!!”… so I gave her three dollars (because really, throwing money out the window IS crazy, and Dave Ramsey would NOT approve, and so we were only gonna toss half of it because apparently that makes it –OK–). And one at a time she tossed them out the sun roof.

Tali's Facebook Status last night. #worthit

Turns out, money is quite dramatic flying out a sunroof at 60mph.  

And it was hilarious.

We watched the shock on our friends’ faces as the money flew back toward them….

And we laughed til the tears changed.

Her friend called her, and we giggled even harder. She also threw one more dollar out just for good measure.

It wasn’t a Popsicle. It wasn’t a Band-Aid. But it was the best $4 I have ever spent.

When I got home, I opened my computer and I saw those words again…

I don’t know how to do this.

And the truth is, I don't. But in that moment I heard my Father speak loud and clear... but I do. 

Father, help us lean on you as we parent. Help us lean on you as we navigate new seasons. Help us lean on you to guide and direct our yes's and our no's. Be the Light to this path, Jesus. In Your Name we pray, AMEN.

{when i gave up on my marriage}

I remember the days when I was ready to give up. When it was hard to love you. When it was hard to love me. I remember loud, violent fights. I remember throwing things and screaming in your face. I remember slapping you trying to evoke a response.

Such a bitter wife you had, Jim. Such a broken, confused, bitter wife. Full of sin and sadness and hatred.

I remember words that tore you down. Cut to the quick. I remember betrayal. I remember hurt. I remember chasing anything that might make me feel whole... or that would numb the pain I knew inside.

I remember giving up. Knowing in my heart that we weren't going to make it. That there was no way. Imagining what it would be like to not have my children on the weekends.

And then, oh then… the unexpected.

Then I bumped into Jesus.

Looking back, He had been there all along, pursuing, wooing, calling… but this time I realized it was Him. This time I was ready to relent. This time I was ready to give up and give in and throw my heart into His hands…

And slowly He began to heal the hurt, the hate, the bitterness… the brokenness he found there.

You didn’t understand what was going on. You saw me going to church on Sunday and yet during the week I was still this mess of a wife sometimes. It was such a struggle between who I had become and who I was becoming. I walked out my fledgling faith so poorly before you at first.

But things were changing at the heart level.

And even that day when I stood in our empty house with tears streaming down my face saying  ”God, this is IMPOSSIBLE! He hates me now! I have ruined everything!!! Tell me God, how in the world can we NOT get divorced?” Even when everything in me said there was no way, we had gone too far, said too much, hurt too deeply… I wanted to turn that sinking ship around and find shore before we drowned.

It seemed impossible. Everyone could see it. Our family, our friends, our children.

And then, there are the prayers of a three year old. There are the prayers of a three year old girl in her bed that no one knew about until last year… there are prayers of a little girl saying “God, please don’t let mom and dad get divorced.”

And God was listening.

Slowly, I learned what it meant to really follow Jesus. How to love like Him, even when it was hard. How to bite my tongue when everything in me wanted to argue or nag or convince. How to walk as a Godly wife, in submission even to one who did not yet believe.

And then, I gave up for real. I  realized that I couldn't fix what I had broken, only God could do that. I couldn't undo the hurt I had caused, only God could do that. I couldn't make my husband fall in love with me again, only God could do that.  

It was not me, but Jesus in me… refining and teaching me through this marriage.  It was Jesus fanning the flame of my first love and giving me the want to to make it work. It was Jesus listening to a little girl’s pure and simple prayer to keep her family together. It was Jesus teaching me how to love my husband with His love.

Jim, it was hard. It was hard to know what a bitter wife I had been to you. It was hard to know that the words you spoke out of hurt, came from wounds I placed there. I am so sorry, babe… I am so sorry.

And then Jesus called this one with so many words to live a quiet life before her husband. To love you well, even when it was hard. To let you lead, even when I thought I knew a better plan. He told me to get so completely out of the way, that He would have direct access to your heart. I was learning how to love you like Jesus does.

And we began to fight again. Not with each other, but for our marriage.

We fought with the tools of compromise and apologies and patience and perseverance.

Ours is truly a love worth fighting for. When I’m driving down the road and I think about the way your smile explodes into your eyes… I still get butterflies. When you sneak behind me in the kitchen and kiss my neck… there is still electricity.  The love I have in my heart for you has never been this big or this pure or this full of admiration.

You amaze me, Jim Boyles. You amaze me with your quiet love. You amaze me with your quiet service. You amaze me with your gentle care of me. The way you flirt with me and make me feel pretty. Figuring out how to make all my favorite foods gluten free.  Giving me the space to chase hard after Jesus. The way you care for others: building bedrooms for dreamed-of-children, mowing lawns without ever being asked, rescuing from the side of the road, coaching little men in so many more things than baseball and football- but also character and integrity and sportsmanship.

Thank you for not giving up on me. On us. On our family.

Friends, if you are at the end of your rope… ready to throw in the towel and walk away. Know this… God is able. He is able to take something that is broken and hurting and make something beautiful. He is able to take a marriage that is coding and bring new life. He is able to take your bitterness and replace it with love, your anger and give you gentleness, your hopelessness and give you HOPE. He is able. If He was able to take the mess that was Jim and Becky Boyles and create the beauty that we now know, truly He is able to do anything. 

I won't sugar coat it and tell you that the journey was easy- it was not. There were few steps forward and many steps back. But when I look over at the man driving us to church on a Sunday morning, my heart explodes with praise to the God that restores. I thank God that He gave me a heart of surrender in my marriage! I thank God that He showed me how to love this man well... 

a daddy's love

I answered the phone knowing what he would say...

"I found Lily" and then, voice cracking, "she's gone."

Details, question- where, how, are you sure? How does she look? Can Tali see her? What should I do?

"I will have her on the back deck, Tali can see her."

The walk to Tali's room filled with prayer. And she knew the minute she saw my face. She had just been helping her daddy look for her Lily, he had just sent her inside...

"No Mommy, no..."

And then she ran outside... to her daddy... to her beloved pup... to a scene that broke this heart wide open.

Jim stood on the steps, cradling the ball of fluff that was our Lily girl in his arms... sobbing. The voice that had cracked on the phone, was overcome when his little girl came bursting through the back door in search of her "little ball of love" (as Tali once described Lily in a school paper).

We all loved Lily. but I knew standing their that Jim's grief came more from seeing his baby girl broken as anything else.

That's a daddy's heart.

It's a heart that seeks to protect and guide and care for... it's a heart that breaks when his children's breaks. It's a heart that will sit on the back deck, cradling the lifeless body of a dog, for as long as his little girl needs to say goodbye.

As I stood there in the cool of the night watching the scene unfold... my heart was wrecked. It was wrecked for my little girl, grieving. It was wrecked with love for my husband, such a good, good daddy. And it was wrecked with a vision of how our own Daddy God loves us.

Jim's construction green shirt showing the evidence of a long days work, hands stained from an evening repairing his truck... and his strong arms gently cradling the eight pound dog he just carried from the highway.

And I thought... This... this is how our Daddy God carries OUR grief.

Despite the big things going on in the world... our Daddy captures every one of our tears in a bottle. Each is precious to Him. He meets you in your grief. And He will sit with you, on the back deck, for as long as you need to work through it.

He will enter into your grief with you. Not a distant being gazing at you, watching from afar... a person, there, holding your grief in His strong arms. Present... in the moment. Grieving with you.

I think about Jesus as He made His way to Lazarus's tomb... when Mary threw herself at Jesus's feet, wracked by grief over the loss of her brother... Jesus wept.

Jesus joined her in her grief... even though He knew He would be bringing Lazarus back... Why? Why would Jesus cry? He wasn't grieving because He would never see Lazarus again. He didn't cry because He was late to the funeral. He grieved because the one He loved grieved. He hurt because she hurt.

He hurts when you hurt.

I saw such a beautiful, heart wrenching picture of this on Monday night.A daddy's tears shed one for one for the tears of his daughter. Strong arms carrying her affection and grief. Not rushing her to move through her emotions... but joining her in them. Processing with her. The utmost of respect given to a grave, a dignified spot in the yard, a stone to mark a little life full of love. And later, when sleep would not come, pulling his little girl onto his lap. Validating her brokenness and in doing so, beginning the fine work of putting her back together again.

Such a good, good daddy.

So much like another Daddy I know.

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! 1 John 3:1a

[You can read about the day we found Lily here]

Also- to update, Tali is processing her grief well. She still has tearful, "Lily is really gone" moments... and I certainly have never seen her grieve so deeply, but am proud of how she has leaned on us and her Daddy God to comfort. 

Finding normal.

Don is home. Susan cooked a delicious meal. Tali finally had her birthday dinner. The kids rode their little bikes through the house. We sat around the kitchen table and talked. Jim worked in the shop. The most normal things in the world... but none of it felt normal. Dynamics have change. Strong men are vulnerable. Wives are nurses. Emotion abounds. Baskets filled with gauze and tape instead of magazines and toys. Making a plate for Grandpa instead of the grandkids. Assistive devices on silverware. Lotion on grafts.

I thought we'd find normal at Grandma and Grandpa's today. Lives that have been turned upside down somehow steadied by the comforts of home. Instead I found the reality that we must seek out a new normal.

I don't intend to be dramatic, We are eternally blessed that Don was not injured further. We are amazed at the progress he has made already and have every hope that he will blaze the trail ahead of him and come out the victor in the end. But to see this man, who I've always known to be stoic, unemotional, strong... coming to the point of tears at the mere sight of his grandchildren... I know life has changed, and I'm left praying that God can make His way into that change.