Bitch fire with Jesus throwing dashes of grace and mercy

This title makes me smile because it resonates a song in my family life the past few months and yes it was necessary to use the "B" word. It humors me when people say " I'm jealous of your move" . Where we are is where God chose to plant us but being moved was like having a scab of wounds cleaned out daily , and yes it was that ugly. I remember a friend sharing as I broke down many times in my weakness "Jessica this is Gods will not yours" As a christian, this is extremely easy to digest when its something like a new baby, new whatever, ect; however, its a whole different level when you watch someone you love suffer and would take the bullet before it ever hit him . Another friend looked at me while trying to hold in tears said " Jessica this is going to be the best thing for you and you will be okay." As Hell continued to reach closer to my family , I could feel the heat roaring its way around everything I cared about and it was only when I would yell out " I cant do this anymore" a rush of mercy would blanket over what seemed like an unimaginable fire. Another friend told me "Jessica, its like childbirth , your family is in transition and you are birthing a new life" Screw this new life, it feels like 20 lb watermelon and so hell continued. Through this journey and numerous tantrums, I discovered a whole different level of Gods grace and how really sufficient it is for us. Looking back he chose certain people to enter my life and partake in the suffering, the transition and now healing. Sadly he also took away people. I still remember a friend placing her hand on mine crying with me and I am still in awe of her transparency and willingness to meet me where I felt stranded.Really I am humbled by these certain friendships that arose and walked with me , loved me , nurtured me , and created a circle of trust around my fire. A true glimpse of what Jesus does in the midst of nothing. I learned that I am strong in HIS weakness and to befriend it because fighting only makes the fire rage. In a fire, they ask what is important is what you will run back in to save. I suppose without choice I ran in and grabbed my best friend, my soul mate, the father of my children but unfortunately when I got to the door I heard a whisper with a striking rod blocking me"Jessica, I did not call you to save, be still and know that I am God." I have heard this before and learned it's wise for me to shut up and sit down. So there it was sitting still in puddles of water hoping the burn would not be long and like HIS mercy it wasn't , just enough. Just enough to make me drown and reach out asking for HIS help. Just enough to pause , look at my children and step away from the idea of having anymore. Just enough to see what kind of wife , friend, daughter I wanted to be but mostly what kind of child of God I haven't been. In the past months, I have been forced to let go of many areas of my life. Mothering children in the midst of uncertainty can be beautiful because it allowed me to reach within , surrender, be honest and tell my children everything will be okay because Jesus will never forsake his children. Months later I sit here in awe of the calming storm and witness how Jesus continues to raise the dead, wash the dirt with his own spit and will always have manna to share. In the calmness I now celebrate suffering and how truly transforming it has been and the residue of it continues to reshape my life, my selfishness, my overabundance of need and challenges me of a purpose that doesn't have walls.

The Gingher Scissor

The portrait is blurry yet I can feel it pressed upon my template of parenting. Sometimes I can remember vividly and others I sit and create stories of butterflies with legs wearing a business suit. Distancing myself through pain was my teacher and observing distraction was hers as I now see her with the scissors that have been passed from her mother and grandmother. The sound of cutting was gentle and precise,carefully measured "so we do not waste." Patterns of lily pads dance in my head while I hear the "putt" "putt" under the small lamp so she can be alone. Never watching the process only receiving the instruction to be happy and thankful as I would be the prettiest princess of them all. With no worry, no thought , no teaching and hopefully no scissor to be passed down. As I sit here years after the sewing has passed, the scissors have been replaced with generic ones that only rape my childhood memory, I am filled with the portrait of a mother who was sad and lost yet with a simple pattern and grandmother's scissors she could create a dream for her children. My pattern today is not pretty nor perfected by the diligence of distractions. It has holes that my children have punched through when they are angry, red marker dots when they are creative and small shreds when they are proud. I hold idle that I do not share those difficult patterns she stared at daily but wonder how much of the portrait they will see of me , of their grandmother , the scissors. She has left the generational scissors that has cut many beautiful, complicated patterns and displayed many wounds from working late. Today I see an old mother who no longer holds those same scissors because her hands ache and her memory is lost somewhere in the best fashion of 54 where she , her, and I were/are the "perfect "mother.