I Got Up

You needed to go to the bathroom. Something you believe, only I, the great and all powerful queen of potty time, am able to help you with. So I got up.

I helped with your pants. I put your special Paw Patrol chair on the toilet. I lifted you on. And I sat down.

I heard you grunting. I asked if you were pooping. You said, “no, I went pee”. Then I heard you stumble off the toilet, as you do every time. There was fumbling. Dad tried to help and you slammed the door in his face, while saying, “leave me alone!” He is not the great and all powerful queen of potty time, so he can’t help.

Within seconds you yelled, “mommy help me”. So I got up.

You insisted you needed a bath because you pooped. (Even though you told me 15 seconds earlier that you didn’t.) I told you no (dude it’s 9:45pm) and wiped your butt. You cried when I asked you to put your clothes on. A task you then insisted on doing yourself. So I sat down.

Seconds later you cried for me. So I got up.

You were sitting on the bathroom floor, a hot mess now. (I am also the queen of hot messes.) I asked how you got shit on the rug, for the 3rd time this week. I swear it wasn’t there 10 seconds ago. I rolled up the rug, checked your underwear that you also had poop on, and I threw them down the laundry shoot in your room. While there, I grabbed you more underwear. I asked you to put on jammies. You said no and insisted on your clothes again. Refusing my help. I left you to it. And I sat down.

Shortly after, I heard you bang your head on the floor as you got upset. I got up.

You couldn’t get your underwear on. I slid them on you. One tiny leg at a time. And I sat down.

You came from the bathroom now, clothes in hand. They were inside out and backwards. You were frustrated. You handed them to me and now you admitted you needed my help. I am also the great and all powerful mommy queen of getting dressed. So I got up.

I arranged your clothes and I put them on you. Even though I still felt you should put on your jammies. I choose my battles, and that wasn’t one I wanted to fight. I save most of my fighting battles for our night time rendezvous at 1, 2, 3, and well all the a.m. times. Because I am also the nocturnal mommy queen. And then I sat down.

Much past your bed time now, whatever time that might actually be. Lord knows you don’t have a real one. You asked for a snack. I said no. (Dude it’s after 10pm.) And you cried.

But this time, you got up. You crawled your tiny, little body of tears, onto my lap. And you sat down. Folding warmly into my body, like only my child could. You gave me soft, gentle kisses. Over and over kisses. And within seconds you fell asleep. Heavily breathing on my chest. In and out. Comfortable and safe. In the securest of places. I am most importantly, Mommy Queen of whatever the opposite of separation anxiety is. I am your go to, I am your safe place. I am Mommy.

And that, is why I got up. That is why, I will always get up.

I hate running…

I hate running. I can’t catch my breath, my asthma kicks in, and I have to use my inhaler a lot. My knees usually hurt for a solid week following a 5k. And not that simple, cramping pain- full, debilitating, I look like a 90 year old, pain (even my grandma walks better). Which usually kicks in about half way through every 5k.

To be honest, I was that kid in school that had the doctor’s note to get out of running. It irritated the cartilage in my chest. And I struggled to breathe the whole time. So I didn’t run the mile. Because I had convinced myself it hurt too much and I couldn’t do it.

I went for a run today. Actually, I set a personal record tonight for my mile, by 31 seconds. A mile that for years, I told myself I couldn’t do. I told myself was too hard. Was too painful. Was impossible.

Two years ago, I started running. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t fast, 95% of the time it wasn’t even running. I do it pushing two kids in a stroller, a seemingly impossible task for me, a non runner. To this day it still isn’t very pretty.

So why the hell do I put myself through that? Why do I do something that’s painful, that takes strenuous effort? Effort I once refused to give.

When Charlie was diagnosed, I was beside myself. I asked questions, but didn’t always understand. I was in shock. I didn’t know how we could ever get through this. I didn’t know how we would deal with this. How we would move on. I thought of what we were giving up. We were losing a “normal” child, and getting one we weren’t prepared for. Or one we thought we weren’t prepared for. I thought that was painful for me.

And then I proceeded to watch HIM go through three unscheduled open heart surgeries. I watched HIM vomit around a breathing tube. I watched HIM learn how to breathe on his own again. I watched HIM withdraw from narcotics and swim like Nemo, levitating off of his hospital bed in agony. I watched HIM get poked and cut and irritated. I watched HIM get infections. I watched HIM in congestive heart failure. I watched HIM as his lungs filled with blood. I watched HIM as he fought to live. There was no doctor’s note to get him out of it.

I watched HIM gather his strength. I watched HIM fight. I watched HIM learn to persevere. I watch HIM win.

I started running for something bigger than me. I started running to raise awareness. I started running for a little boy (and way too many like him) that has done everything that seemed impossible. That has faced everything that was too hard. That has run marathons day after day while lying in a hospital bed. For a little boy whose chest truly has been irritated to the largest extent. A little boy who spends several of his days and nights unable to breathe and truly can’t catch his breath. A little boy who runs anyways, with no signs of slowing down.

Running has become something so much more than just running.

I hate running.

I love Charlie.

Perspective. Patience. Perseverance.

Well, here it is. The tail end of 4 months. The 4 months that changed the course of my life forever. Those 4 months bring repeat and new feelings, every year, for the same 4 month span. And every year, I struggle with how to acknowledge them, how to deal with them, how to embrace them.

What am I suppose to feel? How do I respond? Here’s the thing, I DO NOT do feelings. They make me feel awkward and it’s often easier not to acknowledge them at all.

What’s healthy coping? What’s not? I may never figure out the right answer for this, as each time presents itself differently.

Most often as I try to figure out what I’m suppose to be feeling or how I’m suppose to respond, I feel judgement. For a long while I worried about the outside world and their response to how I “cope”. Now my response to that is, “go ahead, judge me.” If you can figure out how to battle a day in my life and stay on your feet, walk the line straight, and be everyone’s everything, while trying to be your own everything, be my guest. I’m pretty damn exhausted.

But don’t you ever think I’m not happy. What I have learned through the last 4 months of feeling battling is that I need to be happy. I need to do things for myself. Things that reach towards my goals (these are ever changing and big things are coming). I need to be everyone’s everything, but to do that, I need to be my own everything first. How to balance is the tricky part. And I’ve never been very graceful.

Two years ago, I sent my baby with his surgeon for the third time, in under 4 months, for open heart surgery. A surgery that his surgeon had never done. A surgery that they hadn’t seen in his hospital. I told the surgeon “I trust you.” Knowing that I had put the pressure on him, as he went off to do something new, INSIDE OF MY CHILD!

I shut off my feelings for the day, I wasn’t sure how else to survive, so numb felt appropriate. I waited seven and a half hours that day. I endured negative reports. I was told it was tense. His surgeon was frustrated. They had to make three separate attempts. All of these putting him more at risk. All of these making his odds worse, then and for his future. All of it less than reassuring. How did I feel? I asked for them to take a picture of his heart so I could see it. (This may be one of those unhealthy coping things.)

I sat in a room with my parents and my husband. People that I should’ve felt comfortable to talk to. However, knowing that the feelings I had over the past 4 months could not be understood. I could say them, but no one could feel them like I did. I lived them, every day, every hour, every minute, every second, of those 4 months. I didn’t realize at the time, that I’d continue to live them every day, in different forms, for the rest of my life. I didn’t realize what post traumatic stress really felt like. I didn’t realize the tiny, ridiculous things, that would trigger emotions. Emotions I’m often not prepared to have, at the moment they decide I need to have them.

There were a couple strangers in the waiting room that day. I was annoyed at the new waiting room set up, it left very little privacy, during a very difficult time. Particularly annoyed at the lady who felt the need to eat her burger in the chair, directly under the TV, and engage us in conversation, while she could’ve at least sat on the other side of the divider. Later that afternoon, on the other side of the divider (where she was suppose to be), sat another stranger.

I wish, that that day, I would’ve known I could talk to her. That of all the people in that tense room, with the awkward feelings, she understood. That she would always understand. She wouldn’t judge how I deal with the feelings I don’t admit I have. She wouldn’t judge my ever changing coping mechanisms, healthy or not. She would embrace me, all of the good and bad parts, because she understood. I wish that day that I would’ve known, she’d become my person. And I’d love her just the same, because I understand.

Two years ago today, we sat in a waiting room as strangers. Today we average 20 minutes worth of Voxer messages, 10 gifs, 15 emojis, and unknown amounts of texts on the daily. Today we acknowledge this 2 year anniversary together. A day neither of us will ever forget, but a day that we can now go through together.

I would never expect anyone to understand. You can’t. Heck, some days I can’t. But please, keep your judgment. We’re trying. I’m trying. It’s a process, it’s a life change. The struggle is real. With every season comes new battles, with every step forward, there seems to be more steps backwards. My unacknowledged feelings have come a long way. Most days you best believe I’m moving that mountain. But some days, I’m just trying to keep my son above water, even if I’m drowning. Most and some use to be flipped in those sentences.




A Ticking Time Bomb

There’s really no good way to explain the feelings surrounding today. Maybe something like your heart being squished and blown back up. Trying to grasp at air. A hard painful brick sitting right on your chest as you painfully fight to get it off.

Vivid memories of your child helpless in a hospital bed. Sending him with a surgeon for a way to close to the last time, second time. Knowing the risks of surgeries so close together. Unsure of what would come back to you. If he’d come back to you. Unsure of the outcomes. Just unsure. Leaving every bit of trust in God because there’s no way you could go this alone.

Open Heart Surgery Two, a painful, trying stay. A stay that ended with a piece of metal where a heart valve is suppose to be. A clicking sound coming from an infant’s chest. My infant’s chest.

And at the time a promise of two to seven years before another valve. A valve that would end up with a rare external leak and cause a third surgery. But at the time two to seven years felt good. Well today as we have eliminated those first two years, it feels terrifying. Two years went so quickly in the chaos that we have grown accustomed to. How quickly will the next five or less go?

Two years left in the blink of an eye. Leaving us at zero. Zero to five. A ticking time bomb. Not that at any point in time a heart warrior can’t change the game plan. We know Charlie did with that third go. But to feel zero. To say zero. There’s not even a day between now and zero. It’s just ZERO.

Every day is closer and closer to that click needing to be replaced. Every next appointment could be the bomb dropping appointment.

That next surgery could go fantastic. Or it could go like the first three and be painful and long. Bringing more issues for Charlie. Breaking apart our family. Throwing our current batch of chaos into a hurricane.

The location of his valve puts him at risk of needing a pacemaker every time it’s touched. We already know this is a viable possibility in his future. Just another wrench to throw in the plan. His heart tissue is scarred. His fibers were weak before. What if they haven’t improved? What if a new valve won’t attach well? What if… The what ifs of a future surgery are lingering thoughts, always. And today those thoughts are intensified. Zero.

A day that brings feelings I try so hard to guard myself from. I block them with knowledge and sarcasm. I’ve learned this about myself. They hurt, so I stop them. But I can’t. Today, I just can’t.

Zero. Zero. Zero.

A ticking time bomb.

“But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” Mark 13:32

Some Traditions are Made to be Broken

“Hurt my butt.” “Oh, I tooted.” “Mommy f***, Daddy f***, owwww.” “There’s Jesus!”

All of these are phrases you would have heard Charlie throwing out there had you been in our Thanksgiving church service tonight. In his defense he was trying to say “fox”, but it’s just a word he can’t get out yet, and it’s a wolf book he was talking about. (Insert hand palm here.)

He ran the pew back and forth. He used a Kleenex to clean off every Bible and Hymnal. He cleaned the “table” (pew). He even cleaned the nice lady at the end of the pews purse and shoe. (Again hand palm.)

The nice lady continuously smiled through out the service and engaged him as he offered her pretend food that he pretended to grab from her purse. (You guys this kid!)

I sat laughing hysterically like an immature child. I’d frequently make eye contact with my cousin four pews ahead of us who could hear Charlie and not stop laughing. I felt the thoughts of those around me burning into me. “Great parenting there.” “Make him be quiet.” Are things I imagined them saying. And the eyes of my former principle staring at me. The judgements I imagined them having for us. (And maybe, truly they weren’t. But the mind gets to you quickly.)

In my head I was replying to them all, “I’m not even sorry. Not one little bit. I’m just so damn happy he’s in this pew making the loudest noises and dropping one liners like nobodies business. Two years ago he was in a hospital bed fighting for his life, as he was in heart failure and his lungs filled with blood. I almost lost him and he was intubated for his first Thanksgiving. And last year at this time we were in an ambulance on our way to the hospital again, because he was lethargic. And again, we spent Thanksgiving in the hospital. So forgive me as I allow my child to yell in the pew, run back and forth, and feed people imaginary food he stole from them. Because you know what, God clearly has a fantastic sense of humor. And I wouldn’t trade this highly embarrassing church service for 5 million dollars right now.”

I may not have gotten much directly from that church service. I was completely distracted by my highly amusing child. But part of the Thanksgiving prayer did resonate with me, “For the ability to be thankful for the hardship in our lives: We ask strength that only you can give, O Holy Spirit.”

Two years ago at 2 a.m., as many of you know, I was in a room crying as I waited to find out if my child was going to survive the night. Last year I was in an ambulance as I typed out my words and held my limp baby. Both of these days occurring from the 22 to 23 of November. That’s just our day. So today I waited in anxiety. I waited for that moment. When he got a cough on Sunday night I had instant panic. The thoughts of going to the hospital for a third year in a row consumed me. The tightness in my chest grew. So as I approach 2 a.m. on the 23rd and I’m no where near anything medically related, I am Thankful.

Thanksgiving happens to fall directly on our dates this year, ironic. And while we love our hospital family dearly. I am thankful that some traditions are made to be broken.

Happy Thanksgiving from #iwearredforcharlie.

And now, it’s 2 a.m.

Charlie-1, CHD-0

Two years ago I walked into a room, unaware of what I would see. Not sure what I would feel. And completely blindsided by it all. I stood shocked by my tiny, two month old baby lying on a bed, hooked up to double digit IVs, with tubes and wires coming out everywhere. 
We were told surgery went well, but when I walked into this, I wasn’t sure how. He lay motionless, under a heat lamp, and if you removed those cute little pumpkins, his eyes looked sickly. Those tubes would drain blood from around his heart for a day or two. The IVs would remain for most of our stay, slowly being weaned down. The large line going into his arm, the arterial line, would stay in a few days to monitor his blood pressure and help for easy access to blood. And he would breathe through a tube for a day or two. Unable to cry, unable to make sounds, however managing to throw up around the tube. 

He would wake up the next day slowly starting to move, but remaining quite sedated so he couldn’t pull tubes and wires out himself. We would read to him and rub his head. He would just stare back at us sadly, sometimes angrily. 

We would battle feeding tubes in his nose and strong willed doctors who really needed to know his intake. Doctors who weren’t prepared for an even stronger willed mom who said “no, he only nurses.” After long discussions, forced failed bottle attempts, and much frustration. Guess who won?

Charlie won this round and 9 days post surgery we would be discharged. Excited to take home our little boy. Terrified of what the future would hold. Feeling as if we were taking home a foreign object. Ready to embrace these new challenges, so we thought. 

Two years ago, I did not post this photo on social media or caring bridge, and I shared it with only a couple close friends. Today, I share it all of the time. Most recently, with the local news channel. Not this one, but one from another post-surgery was aired. 

I didn’t want to share it, I didn’t want to frighten people. I didn’t want anyone to feel the pain I felt. I didn’t want to make people squeamish (I am certainly not). I still don’t want to do those things. But I do want to raise awareness. 

So, I will continue to share this photo and photos like it. I hope you can view it and see hope. See children that need to be acknowledged and research that needs to be done. This was the first time I would see this sight, it was not the last. In two years, I have seen it three times. And I will see it, at minimum, two more. 

Two years ago today, this is what I saw. I don’t need the photo, it’s permanently burned into my brain, along with its smells, sounds, and feelings. I can’t share those with you as easily. But I can share this photo and I hope that you will help me to raise awareness, by sharing it too. 

With Love,

Charlie’s Mom

I brought you a zucchini.

I was on my way to see you. Just before the hill a rainbow shown before us under a single cloud, the darkest of clouds, in a sky of sunshine and big fluffy white clouds. img_3075 Just then, out of nowhere came a quick flash of lightening. I pointed out the rainbow to the kids. And I stopped before going up the hill. I knew that you were saying hi. You have a good habit of dropping signs from time to time when they’re most needed.

Just as quickly as the rainbow appeared it began to fade.

I dropped the kids off with Mom before coming to visit. Mya talks about you often. She misses Great Papa. But today I needed to be alone with you. And I believe Mom needed them more.

There’s a chill here, a gentle breeze with quick blasts of cold. Enough to make the evergreen branches tremble and the blades of grass wiggle back and forth. The sun sitting warmly on my back. I can hear the bugs around us, and one cricket who’s looking for way too much attention.

You’ve already been graced today with some fresh clippings from my Mom’s gorgeous flower gardens. Large off-white hydrangeas, a few wild flowers, and complete with a small yellow rose. img_3079There’s also an artificial bunch of red, white, and blue carnations with white daisies that weren’t here a couples days ago.

I brought you a zucchini.

It only seemed fitting. Grandma grew it, or you did. It’s hard to know. I’m rather certain you sprinkled magic zucchini seeds all over the farm and they just pop up at random. There’s never a short supply, even without you physically present to reap the rewards. Maybe it’s your funny way of reminding Grandma (and me) that you are never far away. This particular zucchini is huge, but I’m sure you knew that.

I imagine Heaven is filled with zucchini patches behind every shed as well. Endless carrots that don’t need to be cleaned off in cow tubs. And kohlrabi that peel right quick even with a dull pocket knife. I picture apple trees that don’t shake off apples. So you can eat fresh picked ones instead of the bruisers off the ground.

There’s pastures of cows and horses, fed by endless bales of hay that you didn’t have to bale. Or maybe you did just for fun, with a baler that doesn’t need constant adjusting and a wagon that doesn’t have holes in the boards. And there’s a classic John Deere for you to drive at your leisure.

The skies are always sunny. The river is just the right height and the fish bite year round. And maybe once in a while you mow the lawn, not because it needs it, but just for fun. And there’s countless sloughs and ditches you can check out with your four wheeler. I’d imagine you spend hours creating flawless wooden items, perfectly pieced together.

But you know what I most picture? What brings me the most joy to picture? Breakfast with Jesus. Oddly enough I picture you sitting at your kitchen table on the farm, as I’ve seen so many times in my life. You’re having toast and jelly and a half cup of coffee. You’re dressed in your plaid shirt and blue dickies. Instead of getting ready for chores though, you chat with Jesus about us. You talk about how to look out for us and what we need. You discuss when the right moments are to send signs so we know you’re watching. Jesus gives you direction on when to let Charlie fight on his own and when it’s time to help him. Jesus always giving you the instructions you need to be our angel. What an amazing job, to have God as your boss!

Truly, whatever Heaven is like for you, I find comfort in knowing you are happy. Even if I don’t enjoy sitting on hard clumps of grass to talk to you. Not that I always come here to talk. Ironically, you can hear me better now then before, so I can talk to you anywhere.

I’m not sure how one year can already have passed. I remember the message I wrote the day of your funeral. I remember all of the tears, the sobbing, the hyperventilating at the very thought of what was happening- I had a full blown anxiety attack right there in the front pew of church. I’ve never felt so unprepared for something in my life. Goodbyes are never easy, but the pain I felt to lose you felt unbearable. Dad had to pry me from the cemetery ground. It’s one of those moments that you can picture detail by detail and it doesn’t seem to fade. At least not yet.

I left the hospital with Charlie the day prior, only to come home long enough to say goodbye. And that was it. You were gone. And later that day we were back to the hospital. You always did wait for me.


The clouds have started to cover the last rays of sunshine that were keeping me warm. And that cricket hasn’t died.

I should go soon. It’s probably much past your dinner time (it’s already an hour past five). I trust you have endless supplies of meat and potatoes.

One last thing before I go- thank you for being My Papa. For making me stubborn-it’s my best and my worst feature. But I’m learning better how to navigate it. For loving me without saying. And for continuing to show up when I need you.

Enjoy your zucchini.

And as always, Me too, Papa. Me too.






What a 4-Year Old Shouldn’t Know

A couple of months ago a fellow heart mom friend of mine’s heart warrior was admitted into the hospital unexpectedly. We are close friends and our children are friends (well actually the oldest have arranged to be married) so I offered to take her older son over night. 

This little man, is absolutely sweet as punch and so respectful. He has the most curious of minds and he pairs wonderfully with my inquisitive daughter, Mya. He also includes and plays gently with Charlie. We were most happy to have him spend the night. 

The night went great as the kids played well and they all slept soundly. All awakening by 6 a.m.!

While the kids were eating breakfast, I gave Charlie his meds and inhaler. This was a new device to our friend, so he asked what it was for. To which Mya replied quickly, “It helps him breathe so he doesn’t die.” I stopped about dead in my motions. 

What was even more painful was his nonchalant response, “I don’t want my brother to die.” 

And more gut wrenching to me was Mya’s equally nonchalant response, “I don’t want my brother to die either.” 

They proceeded to converse about their siblings and being sick. And they didn’t flinch. They spoke about hospitals and medications and recited anatomy like it was common language. A normal part of everyday life and they knew nothing else. 

They are 4 (well Mya turned 5 that day)! It was painful, troubling, astonishing, and enlightening. They grasped so much, so quickly. They’ve lived with it daily. They feel it always. They understand the real and raw reality of Congenital Heart Disease. 

A 4-year old should not know that. They should not face those fears. 

Too often a sibling gets pushed aside to care for the “sick” child , to attend his appointments, to get his meds, to you name it. Too often their lives are turned upside down and sideways while spinning in circles off of a cliff. And yet they love. They love through never ending appointments. They love through fear of heartbreak. They love through the disappointments. They just love. 

They grow without judgement. They understand differences. They are kind, caring, and unique. 

They are brave beyond their years. They hold Jesus close to their hearts. Their prayers are developed and often involve their siblings and their siblings heart warrior friends. They breathe compassion and hope. They live by Faith, better than most adults. 

That day I was blown away by their conversation. It took me a couple of months to process it. I can now appreciate it for what it truly is. These two innocent children are connected. They are not connected by common interest, common friends, sports, church, or age. They are connected because they know what a 4-year old shouldn’t know!

They are connected by heart. They are connected because they understand each other. They don’t have to explain their brothers. They don’t have to hide their feelings. They don’t have to put on their brave faces. They can be themselves.

They can just be. 


You, you are not what I planned on. You were an unexpected, never thought it would happen, blessing. And ever since that day I cried on the bathroom floor with joy that you were coming, you have done nothing less than surprise me. 

I’ve watched your eyes twitch under your eye lids for hours, in fear that if I lay you down you’ll wake. 

I’ve held you, counting your respirations. Guessing and second guessing myself over and over if I could’ve possibly counted that right. 

I’ve watched your saturations go up and down, and down again and hang there as I pray that they will increase and you can feel relief. 

I’ve questioned myself on the depth of your retractions and if they are worse than usually or not. Mostly trying to convince myself they are not because I so badly want to keep you healthy. 

I’ve drawn up med after med after med for you. I’ve given them to you in numerous creative ways to get you to take them. And I’ve made sure that you never run out of what you need. And that all of your desperate situation meds are on hand. 

I’ve driven you to numerous appointments, scheduled and unscheduled. We’ve spent numerous hours together in doctors offices, hospitals, labs, and emergency rooms. 

I pray to God in desperation that you will be ok. That you will always be ok. I don’t need perfect, you are that for me just the way you are. I just need ok. 

I have watched you bounce back, over and over and over. I have watched you complete tasks you never should have gotten to. I have watched you be a boy. I have watched you be you. 

I have shared in every triumph. Every first. Every second first, we were blessed to have these a few times. I am and always will be your biggest fan and your hardest cheerleader. 

I will watch you struggle and I will struggle with you. I will watch you fall and I will fall with you. I will watch you get back up more times then you fall, and each and every time, I will get back up with you. I will watch you persevere, and I will persevere right along side. We will fail and we will succeed together. 

I will let you fail, you must fail to succeed, but I refuse to let you quit. I am stubborn, you are that and more. You will refuse to let yourself quit. From a miracle you were created and a miracle you will remain. 

You are so much more than blonde hair, long eye lashes, and smirks. You are a force to be reckoned with. You are motivation. You are strength. You are life. You are Charlie. 

You, you are not what I planned on, you are better. 

With Humble Gratitude

Matthew 25:40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

I received a call from my husband yesterday which started out with “the door”, “I heard Beasley”, “went outside”.  The thoughts in my head were “please don’t finish with he got hit by a car.” 

Then he said “there was an envelope”. And he proceeded to read the contents as I could hear him holding back tears (this is a rare occasion). As I on the other end held them back myself. Inside the envelope was a kind message and a gracious gesture. And no signature. 

I was truly awestruck and completely befuddled for several obvious minutes and at random points throughout the rest of the day. Never discovering who left the mysterious envelope that completely changed our vibe for the day and filled us with appreciation. 

How easily we forget the light that God has given us in today’s dark world. A few weeks ago Pastor Scharf gave a sermon on Lazarus death and the expectations that we have from prayer. “We pray, He pays, right?” And this hit me. 

Charles struggles often lead me to prayer. I use to pray that he could just be healthy. Now I pray that he could just have two weeks of good health. My current prayer is for 28 days. The problem is too often we pray, and then we doubt and after we pray we stop! We must address him in worship, in thanksgiving, in praises, in kindness to others and prayers. Not expecting to receive every time we decide to do so. Pastor Scharf spoke, “Trust Him. Live for Him.” 

To the kind person or persons that showed us God is listening all of those times we pray and worship him, may He bless you. May you continue to truly live for him. We have no way to thank you personally but I hope in some way, from somewhere, you see this and you know how grateful we are. 

May God Bless You.