book recommendations, grief, Kenwinks, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, spiritual
Have you ever had a moment when you experienced an event that felt too designed to be merely a coincidence? Or a time when you just knew that you had received a clear message to your heart’s longing through someone else’s words? Or maybe you have seen a sign that you desperately hoped for and felt a resulting peace that could not be explained? I have had so many Godwinks* that I would not be able to recount them all if I tried. Grief broke me open to seeing them in a way nothing else has. As my husband was living his last hours in a hospital ICU I had a private conversation with him telling him that I HAD to have a sign that his soul – that our souls – went on. I have always been a person of faith but his impending death rocked me to my very core. I had begged God to save him but it was clear that was not going to be the outcome; if my faith was to remain intact I needed confirmation that I could not miss. He was the skeptic so I felt that if he ensured I received a message I recognized then I could rest in that. The first came within four hours of his death. They continue to come regularly in the form of hearts, hawks and angels who walk right up and say just the thing I need to hear. Yes, I have gotten the message. No, I’m not ready for them to stop. If you have been following the Wordless Wednesday posts you know...
book recommendations, grace, grief, letting go, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, Pinterest, prayer
I have a confession. I’m a life-long Presbyterian who went to Catholic school (that’s not the confession but probably enough to make one crazy right there.) I am currently an elder in my church which would make my grandparents bust with pride. My grandfather was a stalwart Presbyterian church elder and my grandmother was the quintessential church lady and official silver communion plate polisher. Not a meal was taken in their house without grace spoken before it. Sandwich over the sink? Say grace. So here it is: I don’t know how to pray. My grandfather and father were the official family grace sayers and used a standard prayer. Check. In school we had the rote memorization of the rosary prayers. Done. None of those prayers felt like a personal conversation with God though. Don’t get me wrong, I have spoken to God quite a bit in the last five years but I’m not sure begging counts as prayer. My prayers sound a lot like wishes to my ears: that my husband would live, that my father would live and before that that my grandfather would live at least long enough to meet the great-grandchild I carried. He did not. My timing is off. The futility of when I pray has led me not to do it so much. It seems I’m always asking for the thing I so desperately desire after the conclusion has already been reached. “Please let this test be clean,” I pleaded. Too late, the cancer was growing. The test was just there to show the foregone conclusion. This was the case with my father. I...
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