faith

Tossing and Turning

/ stephanienicole / 1 Comment

One night last week, I tossed and turned for hours. I’m usually down for good within moments of my head hitting the pillow, so this felt like a strange new world.

Could have been the impossible heat; could have been the looming what-ifs pressing down on me. Thoughts darted across my mind, the kind that don’t make a whole lot of sense by the light of day but seem highly plausible at 3am. 

Why am I awake? I wondered. Was I feeling okay? My arms ached immensely from the Saskatoon berry harvest the day before, but other than that I felt fine. I refused to look at the clock, a little trick I learned to help keep myself relaxed, but when the early birds began their song I became concerned. How long has it been? I wondered. My heartbeat quickened. Felt like forever.

I’ve learned over the years of raising my babies that counting the hours until rising time isn’t helpful, so I laid still in the dim, early morning light with eyes closed, hoping sleep might settle over me before I was out of time. What a lovely Sunday afternoon nap on the beach, I told myself, using my imagination to lull myself into a state of relaxation, hoping the remaining moments of sleep would materialize quickly.

I must have finally dozed off eventually, because the next thing I remember is the guitar strum of “Carolina in My Mind” by James Taylor, pulling me into a new day with all its demands. The day was marked a general sense of tiredness, but considering the night I had, it wasn’t too bad. When bedtime came back around, though, I was gripped with a sense of dread. What if I can’t sleep again? I thought. Lord, help me sleep! 

I slept soundly and awoke with a profoundly grateful heart and an effervescent outlook in the morning.

These days it’s not tiny babies keeping me awake, but tiny fears of what might be, or worse, what might not be. My daily burdens become too heavy for me, waking me up in the dead of night, growing in the silence of the house, tapping on my heart in the darkness.

I’m learning that I wasn’t meant to carry these. In fact, it’s essential to learn how to roll my burdens onto Jesus each day. So every morning I open my eyes and learn how to let go all over again. 

A couple of mornings ago, my feet hit the floor with a temptation to carry my own burdens once again. Then, a verse I memorized as a child floated into my mind, softly, gently and with great timing:

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” – Philippians 4:6-7 (NIV)

Thank you Lord for daily bearing my burdens. Thank you for your loving care. Thank you for your peace, guarding my heart and my mind today.

Image: Stocksnap

Sweet Summer

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This week marks the first anniversary of the sudden and unexpected loss of my father-in-law.

Twelve months of firsts. Twelve months that haven’t gone exactly as planned. Twelve months of shuffling, adjusting, making space for a new reality. Twelve months that have brought moments of pure grief, pure joy and everything in between.

And a new awareness: twelve months of the faithfulness of God in dark, unfamiliar places.

For the Lord is good
And His love endures forever
His faithfulness continues to all generations.
(Psalm 100:5)

Yes, Lord, You are faithful. 

As our family moves into the fullness of the sweet summer months, we are experiencing the goodness of the Lord in a thousand little ways, in a thousand little places. And while we intentionally remember what He has done, we recognize there are many things we don’t understand. Living in the tension between the two, our hearts are tuned to His love and care.

Even in the gift of a fresh, late June morning, thick with humidity, at least as much this arid city will allow. More than we’re used to, anyway. Lilacs and roses soak the air with heavy, sweet fragrance as bees bumble from bloom to bloom.

Summer is fleeting in this part of the world, so we tend to make the most of the warmth and sunshine while we have it. Responsibilities give way to relaxation, but we’re learning from the story of the Grasshopper and the Ants! Committing to completing the tasks on the to-do list feels like a sacrifice when we know that before long, autumn will appear for a big colorful show, ushering in our regular tasks and routines.

The weaving together of work and play is an art! Striking that beautiful balance of completing some big jobs and kicking up our heels for some fun seems to be the challenge of these short summer months. I am praying for the strength to do the hard things and the wisdom to make space for the best things. 

I watch my friends and family as their birds leave the nest, knowing that our time is coming. We’re not quite there but we know that soon we’ll be into the “everyone doing their own thing” season of life. We’re catching glimpses of it. The inevitable shift is in motion, and it’s all brand new. I feel like a first-time mom all over again – but this time instead of bouncing a sweet babe on my hip, I’m juggling social plans and big emotions. I’m relearning many things as my role moves from teacher and trainer to coach and cheerleader.

Amid the shifts in family dynamics, the gravity of the passing of time grounds me. I am fully aware that we have just a few years left before our own birds start spreading their wings and heading out.

Lord, stamp eternity into my eyes. Help me not to waste the difficult moments. Help me to trust that You know all things, and in Your time You make all things beautiful.

These past twelve months have driven me even deeper into the perfect love of God. I have discovered that no matter where the road leads, no matter what season we are in, He is good. He is a refuge in times of trouble. He cares for those who trust in Him! (Nahum 1:7). It is only by His grace that I wake each morning, ready for what the new day holds. And by His grace, I can confidently say: Praise be to the Lord, to God our Saviour, who daily bears our burdens (Psalm 68:19).

Image: mine

All is Not Lost

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My favourite tree across the street is finally leafing out.

This one has grown up with my babies. Years ago it barely peeked over the fence. Now it reaches tall and broad, filling out the space between the others in the yard with outstretched branches. For the first time ever, it eclipses the 40 foot evergreens that tower in the distance, its leaves unfurling and glistening in the spotty spring sunlight, the same favourite leaves I know will glow brilliant gold come autumn.

“My, how you’ve grown,” I thought to myself this week. Like a cheek-pinching auntie, I marvelled from a distance at its stature. “So much bigger than last spring!”

The neighbourhood is slowly changing. It’s one of the gifts of living in the same place for many spring seasons: you begin to notice time and trends making their indelible mark.

Several mature trees have been removed in the past 12 months from the familiar little block we call home. Some may have come to the end of their life or met with disease, others removed for utility work and infrastructure upgrades, and still others were cut down for more curb appeal as the real estate market burns bright.

I am sad to see them go, although others have been planted nearby, as if to replace the ones we have lost. These will take years to grow into maturity, if they make it at all, and it will be decades before they bring the same shade, colour and beauty of their predecessors.

Trees for my grandchildren, if the Lord is gracious.

As I shake my head and return to tending my own yard, inspecting the well-established rose bushes in the front bed, wrestling out the quack grass and removing last season’s rose hips and dead leaves, I realize that I may have very well become the neighbour who greeted us somewhat begrudgingly when we first moved in years ago as the only young couple on the block.

“We need a Welcome-to-the-Neighbourhood Barbecue so we can teach you how we do things around here,” she warned. I picked up on her strong desire for things to stay the same forever, although to this day, I am still waiting for the promised lesson. 

I laugh at myself as I dig down into the dirt next to the rose bushes once again to get something, anything, to grow in the south-facing desert under my front picture windows — the place plants go to die. The perennials I chose last year weren’t hearty enough to survive, so this year it’s sunflowers and hollyhocks with their promise of big blooms, heat tolerance and nostalgia.

Every year I try something new, hoping that it will take. I haven’t given up yet! Between the repeated attempts to bring life from a barren patch in my flower bed and the beautiful growth of my favourite tree across the street, I realize that all is not lost. In spite of the unavoidable changes in my life, the promise of the next generation, deeply rooted and reaching ever higher, reminds me that there is beauty for ashes, gladness for mourning, peace for despair (Isaiah 61:3).

Jesus, help me not to become bitter with the changes life brings. There are so many places marked by circumstances beyond my control but I know You can be trusted to bring streams in the desert, to breathe new life into what seems lost. You are before all things, and in You all things hold together. (Colossians 1:17).

Image: Mine

Ready or Not

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You don’t have to be ready for Jesus
for Jesus to be ready for you.

A whisper in my heart today, with so many things left undone before we begin our Good Friday observance and Easter Sunday celebrations. Let’s just say that the fresh cut flowers, dyed hard-boiled eggs, treats for the baskets and bread and juice for family communion are not exactly ready to roll.

I’m sure the disciples weren’t ready for the events that unfolded before them, wide-eyed and wondering how Jesus’ betrayal and death could possibly be happening. 

Completely unexpected. And then something even more unexpected. Unimaginable, really. Although they had seen Jesus raise others from the dead, they never considered that He Himself would rise again.

This story from John 20 is resonating today:

Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.

They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” 

At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.

He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”

Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”

Jesus said to her, “Mary.”

She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means “Teacher”).

Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them that he had said these things to her.

Mary, wrapped in her grief, eyes red and puffy from crying for days, mistaking Jesus for the gardener, begging to be told where His body has been taken.

Then He says her name.

Everything changes. Mary instantly knows who He is and she wants to hold on and never let go, but Jesus has other plans. Instead of embracing her and settling into a visit like old friends, He sends her out to tell the others what is about to happen. The unexpected, once again, disrupting her grief and bringing hope to an otherwise devastating situation.

“I have seen the Lord!”

Have you seen the Lord? He knows you by name, and He is always ready for you.

“Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.”
John 1:12 (NIV)

Image: Stocksnap

Joy in the Morning

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“Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

When I was a girl we went to a little country church where our aging pastor stood behind a huge walnut-coloured wooden pulpit and reminded us of these words from Psalm 30. He would say it once with as much passion as he could muster without raising too many eyebrows, pause, and then repeat it in quiet confidence. It may have been the only phrase that brought murmurs of “Amen” out of a tight-lipped group of unflappable farming families steeped in tradition.

Out of all the forty-five minute sermons he preached, this sentence took root my heart like no other.

Weeping may last for the night.

The holiday season has come to an end and we’ve moved into a new year with all of the old sorrows and struggles. Grief ebbs and flows, new challenges arise as old ones fade, and as we navigate the changes and make space in our life for the unexpected, we weep for the losses we’ve experienced in the past 12 months.

Joy comes in the morning.

Struggles never resolve at the same time, do they? The night may be fading away and morning joy is dawning in many places we once waged war with the darkness, and yet there are other places in the thick of inky blackness with terror on either side, awaiting first light.

And the peaceful places under a rose-gold dawn remind us that one day every bit of dark will have the full light of the sun blazing on it, bringing beauty from ashes and life from desert wastelands.

Isn’t this the good news of Jesus?

As I tread softly into this new year with all of its unknowns, these words bring me comfort:

The desert and the parched land will be glad;
    the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom;
    it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.
The glory of Lebanon will be given to it,
    the splendor of Carmel and Sharon;
they will see the glory of the Lord,
    the splendor of our God.

Strengthen the feeble hands,
    steady the knees that give way;

say to those with fearful hearts,
    “Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
    he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
    he will come to save you.”

Then will the eyes of the blind be opened
    and the ears of the deaf unstopped.

Then will the lame leap like a deer,
    and the mute tongue shout for joy.
Water will gush forth in the wilderness
    and streams in the desert.

The burning sand will become a pool,
    the thirsty ground bubbling springs.
In the haunts where jackals once lay,
    grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.

And a highway will be there;
    it will be called the Way of Holiness;
    it will be for those who walk on that Way.
The unclean will not journey on it;
    wicked fools will not go about on it.

No lion will be there,
    nor any ravenous beast;
    they will not be found there.
But only the redeemed will walk there,

    and those the Lord has rescued will return.
They will enter Zion with singing;
    everlasting joy will crown their heads.
Gladness and joy will overtake them,
    and sorrow and sighing will flee away.

(Isaiah 35 NIV)

What a promise! Strengthen my hands, steady my knees, Lord. Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

Sunrise Beauty (image: mine)

Light and Life

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Everything feels upside down this year. 

A green Christmas may be the norm for our neighbours to the south, but up here it’s strange to be able to walk barefoot on my front lawn five days before Christmas.

The other day as we were driving I observed the lack of snow. 

“It doesn’t feel like Christmas,” I sighed.

“Mom!” My oldest daughter began, “Don’t you know? It’s in the singing of the street corner choir! It’s going home and getting warm by the fire! It’s true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas!” 

I laughed as she quoted the lyrics of a song from one of our favourite holiday movies and for a moment, I forgot that December 25th will likely not be a scene from Currier and Ives this year.

This morning I heard the distinctive weathered-gate-hinge squeak of a blue jay from somewhere nearby. My eight year old and I instantly flew to the window, searching all around for a glimpse of the brilliant blue bird. The rusty-pump-handle sounded again, and suddenly he bolted out from the neighbour’s yard to take refuge in the tall evergreens across the street.

“There he is!” She shouted. “Wow!”

A fleeting glimpse to be sure, but a glimpse nonetheless. My heart warmed.

Like the surprise blue jay, Christmas cheer seems to come on unexpectedly this year and only lasts a moment before it disappears into the wind. Death has upended our family celebrations, and the grief is palpable as we prepare to gather together, fully aware that things will never be the same again. It’s one thing to objectively state that death is not the end and that we have hope in the Lord Jesus, and another thing entirely to sit with so large a gap in the room that once was filled with a beloved person and their unique personality, gifts and talents, and all the shifting dynamics that come along with loss.

The light has gone too quickly.

And yet…

In just a few short hours, daylight will fade into the longest night of the year, and the soft glow of candles and Christmas lights will fill our home as we once again witness the remarkable truth that darkness will not last forever. The words from an old hymn I haven’t thought of in years float through my head.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning
And the dawning to noonday bright
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth
The kingdom of love and light.
-H. Ernest Nichol

For the Christian, Christmas is the moment when the Light of the World broke through the darkest night, bringing the hope of resurrection and the promise of new life. It is the moment when we no longer need to crawl around alone in the pitch black feeling our way through briars and thistles. It is the moment when our eyes are opened to the wondrous truth of Emmanuel, God with us, whether on mountaintops of jubilation or in deep valleys of grief.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
(John 1:5 NIV)

Lord Jesus, as we enter into this year’s Christmas celebrations, may we know Your healing presence in ways we never imagined possible. May we discover Your peace that passes all understanding, guarding our hearts and minds and reminding us of who You are and why You’ve come.

Light and life to all He brings
risen with healing in His wings.
-Charles Wesley

Merry Christmas, friends.

(image: mine)

The Real Harvest Moon

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We watched with bated breath. 

To our complete amazement, round and glowing orange, it quickly ascended from behind the blue clouds of dusk to reveal its fullness.

“It’s the REAL Harvest Moon!” A small voice shouted with glee. “Just like in the books!”

I lifted my youngest up so he could see over the fence. Next year, he’ll be tall enough to see it without my help.

His face lit up with complete astonishment. “It’s like a pumpkin! An actual pumpkin!”

We’ve been talking about this moment all week long, watching the waxing gibbous moon with images of a cantaloupe moon above a field full of ripe wheat dancing in our minds.

This year’s Harvest Moon did not disappoint. The size was impressive, the colour was just right, the brightness was astounding. After a few more oohs and ahhs, my small crowd dispersed and darkness brought an end to our day.

We’ve seen that old moon year after year, haven’t we? And as the decades roll by the wonder is lost on us. Other things capture our attention, like to-do lists, projects and responsibilities. Oh look there’s the moon, we might think to ourselves, if our minds aren’t already chock-full as we drive from one end of the city to another to accomplish our task list of programs, plans and errands.

And then we encounter the world through the eyes of a child and their gift of noticing. At around 12 months, they begin to point, drawing our eyes to things we otherwise would have overlooked. Then words form, and as they grow up they begin to notice more of the world around them. With eyes to the dusky sky, mouths agape with amazement, they declare, “Oh LOOK! There’s the MOON!”, as if they’ve only ever seen it in books. It’s a celebrity of sorts.

They marvel at the zinnias in bloom, the sunflower finally opening its petals, a bumblebee lazily humming about the yard, a small grey bunny hopping in the dim morning light, a dark chocolate-coloured moose standing on the edge of a small wood with its golden trees reflecting in the still pond below.

The wonder of creation is not lost on them. I pray it remains long into their adult years, remembering their mom sharing glimpses of flowers and bugs, trees and skies, drawing hearts and eyes up toward the One who made it all.

In years past, we’ve spent the three weeks before Thanksgiving intentionally making time to count our blessings in some tangible way with handprint leaves on the wall and a thanksgiving tree of sorts. I often felt as if Thanksgiving was a drive-by turkey dinner and a slice of pie sandwiched in the middle of a busy school season and the onset of the inevitable illnesses of colder months, so I intentionally made a way for our family to participate in activities that would orient us toward gratitude and in praise of the One who gave us everything. Three Weeks of Thanks has been a wonderful way to make sure that our Thanksgiving meal isn’t just a blip on the calendar on the way to a candy-saturated holiday.

As our stage of life shifts, I’m finding new ways of intentionally creating space for gratitude and thanks in our home. Every Thursday for over a year, we’ve taken time at the breakfast table to share something we’re feeling thankful for that morning and I’ve noticed a pattern even in this practice. Most of the things are tangible blessings like home, food, family and friends, but from time to time they’ll venture into the intangible and hit on something that stirs me.

“Thank you for that hard thing we had to go through as a family because it brought us closer together”.

It brought 2 Corinthians to my mind:

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.

2 Corinthians 4:7-10 (NIV)

Are we listening to our children? Are we discovering what makes them who they are? Are we delighting in them? Granted, alongside the listening, discovering and delight there may be an equal or greater amount of difficulty or discipline, but we cover all in prayer, confident that the Lord is at work in our homes. 

As we prepare for Thanksgiving in the next week, may we continue the good, hard work of learning to love our kids well and point them to the One whose goodness knows no bounds.

(image: Stocksnap)

Shades of Autumn

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Golden shades of autumn kiss green treetops as we sail down the open road. 

A last-minute weekend away took us through the hot, dry prairies and up into craggy mountains and lush valleys, along turquoise lakes, bubbling creeks and shady, tree-lined highways.

At night, the frogs and crickets sang with the sound of the river running far down below. In the morning, the bees began their busy work flitting from flower to flower and squirrels chattered in branches high above.

So much beauty in such a short time.

Isn’t summer just like that? Maybe life is too, in some ways. Raising four littles, I’ve often heard the saying, “The days are long but the years are short”. No kidding. Heading into a new school year with these four, I can see that we’re well into the next season of life. Cute sayings and silly happenings, spills and fights, laughter and tears — they happen differently now than they used to, and that’s okay.

We find ourselves entering the dance with big kids and young teenagers. I’m learning as I go, and sometimes it feels like I’m flying blind. More often than I’d like to admit, I’m clumsy and don’t always get the steps right but praise the Lord for His grace in each moment as I learn the lifelong lesson of letting go.

Shades of autumn will give way to the silvery touch of winter. I can see the edges of it in my eyes and in my hair. What will become of the home we once had? What will become of the relationships forged in the fires of this family? Will they grow together or apart? Will they remain deeply rooted and established in the love of Christ? Or will they forget their first love after all?

As we begin a new school year, my prayers are going far beyond friends and schoolwork to the growing-up of these young people God has placed within our care. So many things in life are beyond my control, but I know the One who holds it all together, so I turn to Him with my heart’s cry:

Lord, in Your mercy, hear my prayer. 

Tend to my sweet children today. Protect them in every way. Remind them of Your deep love for them. Draw them in to take hold of life’s true treasure, and cover them with Your grace. Give them courage and wisdom as they learn from their own mistakes and the mistakes of others. Open their ears to good counsel, and help them discern the lies that entangle. May they find their strength in You. Jesus, be near each one today. Bless them and keep them, make Your face shine upon them and be gracious to them. Lord, give them peace. Help me to love them well, the way You have loved me. And when suffering comes, remind them of who You are, and who they are because of You.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Autumn in view (image: mine)

Lament

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I’ve written these posts for years with the hope that one day my children will be grown and interested enough to read them. So this, my dear children, is for you.

When a whirlwind of grief descends upon you, upending the life you once knew, put your hope in the Lord. His love never fails, even when suffering surprises you with its coldness.

I remember my affliction and my wandering,
    the bitterness and the gall.

I well remember them,
    and my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind
    and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
    for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
    therefore I will wait for him.”

The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him,
    to the one who seeks him;

it is good to wait quietly
    for the salvation of the Lord.

It is good for a man to bear the yoke
    while he is young.

Let him sit alone in silence,
    for the Lord has laid it on him.

Let him bury his face in the dust—
    there may yet be hope.

Let him offer his cheek to one who would strike him,
    and let him be filled with disgrace.

For no one is cast off
    by the Lord forever.

Though he brings grief, he will show compassion,
    so great is his unfailing love.

For he does not willingly bring affliction
    or grief to anyone.

(Lamentations 3:19-33 NIV)

Image: Stocksnap/NASA

Roots

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Long have we waited.

The frozen fingers of a cold spring have finally released, and early summer heat has breathed new life into the neighbourhood.

We’ve witnessed the return of nearly all the winged migrants in the past few weeks, flying back and forth over our backyard as they build their nests and prepare for another season of fledglings. The unseasonable temperatures have coaxed the leaves from the trees and the early-blooming flowers up out of the ground to bob their heads in the warm wind.

My irises stand tall in full bloom, two weeks early. The strawberries are coming up, the Saskatoons and apples are full of blossoms and the hollyhocks I sowed last year are returning with great enthusiasm.

My life feels tied to the rhythm of the seasons. Maybe it’s because I spent the first part of my life in an agricultural community centred around seeding and harvest. You can take the girl out of the country… 

I don’t mind. In fact, I welcome the week in May where we prepare the ground and plant the garden. As I was turning soil and pulling weeds in the front bed last night, a sense of calm came over me. The job felt insurmountable, but with my two helpers, we made quick work of the quack grass and mixed the soil for some new perennials. I’ve often joked that after fifteen years of trial and error, I should just read a book about gardening and learn how to do it right, but trial and error seems to be my gardening style and I’m making peace with it.

My arms bear the marks of weeding under the rose bushes that I planted one year just to see if they’d take. They’re my favourite addition to our yard. They bloom from June to the first snowfall without fail, and their ruby red rose hips bring a cheerful pop of colour in the late days of fall. Our Saskatoons have barely ever given us enough berries to make a pie, but we enjoy daily handfuls in late July. The apple tree is a saga in itself, and after eight years we’re seeing enough fruit to have a taste. It’s more of a hobby garden than anything else, but it’s lovely. I battle critters all season long, so I guess we can consider it a pretty good year if we get anything out of it at all!

So many times I’ve wondered if I’m wasting my time and energy trying to grow things in less-than-ideal conditions on a shoestring budget, but I’m amazed at the beauty I’ve witnessed in this humble hobby garden. I’m even more amazed at the things the Lord is teaching me through this simple summer pastime, and at how good it is for my soul. Every year is different, and every year I’m changed by it.

I wonder if there are other areas of life that I am pouring into, areas that feel like they are a waste of time, areas of costly investment that one day will reveal fruit I cannot even imagine!

“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”

Colossians 2:6-7 NIV

Every gardening year I’m reminded that sending my roots down deeper into Christ is the only way to truly thrive.

“No family will always be there. No talent will always be there. Your looks will certainly not always be there. Whatever it is you put your anchor down into, if it’s a circumstance, it’s like putting it into the water. Everything but the promise of God is water.” – Tim Keller

My roses. (Image: mine)