Touch The Sky

Lately, the weather has been… unpredictable.
One day, it’s 92 degrees, the sun is hot, and I’ve shed my jacket by mid-morning.  And the same day, the wind rushes in without warning, the temperature drops to 40, and everything shifts.

It feels chaotic; the weather can’t make up its mind.

And grief …  feels the same way.

After a deep loss, emotions don’t follow a schedule. They don’t ask permission. They don’t gently arrive.

They rush in like the gushing wind of the confused weather.

One moment, I’m steady, smiling, working, moving forward.
And the next… a memory, a song, a quiet pause, a picture I didn’t expect to see, and suddenly the winds of emotion pick up. A storm rolls through my heart without warning.

Up and down.  Hot and cold.  Happy and sad.  Joyful and mad. Windy and still.  Overwhelming and then… peace.

Even the fiercest storm doesn’t last forever. There is a calm that follows.

For years, I’ve loved “It is Well”. I hear it periodically, and sometimes in the quiet of my car while I drive longer distances for work, it would drop into my mind.  

I sang it on the way to the hospital when I visited both my mom and baby Tatum.   There was a level of comfort it brought me during both of those difficult times.

Other times, when life seems good, it would drop into my heart, and I would acknowledge the words, think of the author’s story, and the loss of his family.  Often, I would wonder how someone could lose so much and still stand strong in faith, and I admired his faith and his ability to trust God and allow His presence to bring wellness to his soul.

But the words ring truer now than ever and I had no idea that one day the meaning of the song, the grasping for faith that the author must have felt, would be a testimony to me and bring a deeper level of comfort.

It starts off with, “when peace like a river attends my way.”

That kind of peace doesn’t come from perfect circumstances. It comes from something deeper… something anchored.

Because even after the storm, even after the tears, even after the anger, peace comes.

Not all at once. Not always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Trickling, like a river that keeps flowing, steady and sure.

Today, my pastor’s message hit my heart in a way I didn’t expect. His title is “The Power of 24 Hours.”

He shared multiple scriptures that talk about God’s promise to be with us daily, to give us our daily bread, and to meet all our needs. He went on to share examples of how God has shown Himself true and faithful.

He encouraged us to live 24 hours at a time and to understand that our destiny is fulfilled by our daily decisions.  

Focus on today, this hour, this moment … just today.

The truth is, I can’t control the future. I can’t stop the storms from coming.

But I can choose what I do in the moment when the gushing wind of emotion surprises.

I choose to take a moment, to stop, breathe, and sit with God.  To intentionally remember not just the loss… but also the beauty.

The laughter.
The strength.
The love that was so real and that so powerfully changed us.

I can remind myself how BIG Tatum lived.
How strong she was. How deeply she loved through her sweet eyes and intentional snuggles. I touch her picture if it’s nearby, and whisper, “I love you, baby Tatum, give Jesus hugs for me!”

And then… I can move forward.

Not by forgetting, but by honoring. Honoring her life in the way I live mine.

Choosing to love people well.
Choosing to show up daily.
Choosing to make my life matter because hers mattered.

Because legacy doesn’t end when someone is gone. It continues in us.

In how we live.
In how we love.
In how we carry their story forward.

I did this this week without even thinking about it. I spoke at a ladies’ group on behalf of our non-profit, Children Matter, and I ask people, when I’m speaking, to imagine life without one of their loved ones and to think about how the children who have been removed from their families must feel.  And there was a wave of emotions that swept in, it was the first time I’ve spoken since Tatum has been in Heaven.  I stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, whispered “big and strong” and shared how my sweet grandbaby is in Heaven, but it deepens my understanding of how these children removed from their homes must feel, and they are who we have a passion to help.

On the quiet ride home, God said, Tatum doesn’t feel that way, she’s with ME…. and the wave of peace came.

A message the next day from one of the ladies was, ” Keep living big and strong, you’re helping all of the rest of us. Tatum must be a special baby.”  I responded, “She is, she’s an angel baby, and we were blessed to care for her while she was here.”  

My prayer… my purpose… my defiant hope… Is that my life becomes a testimony.

That others would see not perfection, but faith.

Not a life without storms, but a life anchored in God through them.

That even in grief… there is goodness. Even in loss… there is purpose.
Even in the unexpected storms… there is peace.

Peace like a river.

Today, I won’t try to control the forecast of my emotions. I’ll simply live each 24 hours intentionally with defiant hope and moving forward in confident trust, navigating through life storms that may come.

Because even here…

It is well with my soul.