Monday, May 16, 2016

The Anchor

     I stopped dreaming when we found out that Jeff had cancer.  Before cancer I dreamed every night.  Part of my favorite sleepy eyed moments of each morning was when I would turn over and ask Jeff if he had any dreams.  He would reply, "No, but I bet you did."  I would then recount the fragmented scenes that played in my head moments before.  We would laugh and tumble out of bed to boys already clambering to get cereal bowls down for breakfast.  The day the nurse stood hugging a clipboard to her chest and spoke the words cancer, terminal, palliative care, and less than a year the dreaming stopped.  It was as if those words sucked out all ability to dream or muse in one fell swoop.
     Jeff passed away eight weeks after landing in America.  Just nine months after diagnosis.  We were still adjusting to the reality that the efforts made to hold the cancer back were like lightly blowing on a raging fire.  The first months that followed I felt desperate to go back to Scotland.  Back to where he might be waiting for me.  Where he would help pick up the pieces we left behind in such haste.  Scotland had changed us as a family, as a couple, as individuals.  Scotland became home.  Such a short time to be changed so deeply, we were sure we would return as a family of five.  The nights after he passed I tucked the boys in bed and I would read, weep, and hope for a way to go back in time, back to Scotland, back to Jeff.

     Three months after Jeff passed I had my first dream.  I was treading water in the ocean.  The water in front of me was vast, stretching far into the horizon.  I spun around in the water to see land behind me.  It was within swimming distance and I remember relief washing over me.  It was green and full of life and somehow as I looked at the land, I knew Jeff was there.  I immediately began to try to swim back but couldn't.  It was if there was a huge span of glass stretching from sky to ocean floor.  Frustrated, I turned back around and noticed for the first time a small island far in the distance.  It was not close enough to swim to and was a muted brown.  I tried to problem solve, how to survive, where to go, how to live without having to swim ahead to the island and how I can to get to Jeff and the land behind me.  I was tired.  I remember thinking I would rather drown then swim forward.  And then, just like I knew that Jeff was on the land behind me, I knew the boys were somehow with me and would go where I would go.  I couldn't drown, I couldn't go back, I didn't want to swim forward.  I was still treading water when I woke, tasting the saltwater on my face.
     I often describe grief as trying to swim an ocean in a day.  An impossible task you would rather not attempt.  But in the beginning stages of grief there is very little choice, you are thrown in the ocean, and the waves crash down on you without warning.  You swim because the other choice is to drown.  This is held in the knowledge that Jeff is where he was created to be.  He is walking in fullness and without boundaries on his heart, soul, or mind.  He is with the God who created him and the God who called him home.  I really do believe this with my whole heart.  But this knowledge does not buffer the waves or take away the ocean I am to swim.  It will sustain me in the waters.  It has given me hope for what is to come for the boys and I.  It has comforted me on long nights and early mornings.  But it cannot take the grief of walking here without Jeff.  There have been many days in the last five months when I have pleaded with God to make a way.  I would choke out the words "You make a way.  I cannot.  You are God.  I am not."  I still read the verse in Hebrews 6 before bed; "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.  It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain."  I picture an anchor holding safe and secure as the waves hit and the storm rages.

      I am starting to remember Jeff healthy.  I keep going back to this memory of us in Bermuda.  He had completely surprised me with a tenth anniversary trip there.  He had the help of the Young Life staff and a wonderful couple who opened their home to us.  During the week Jeff rented a little boat with a small motor and we took it out into the waves and just past the reef.  There was an old boat wreck he wanted to see and we had borrowed snorkel gear to see it up close.  I opted to stay in the boat and finish a chapter of the book I was reading before hoping in.  Jeff shut off the motor, lowered the anchor, and jumped in teasing me about bringing a book on a boat trip.  I finished my chapter, closed my eyes for a few minutes, and breathed in the salt air.  I opened my eyes to Jeff, who was now a small dot in the water waving his arms frantically.  Somehow over the wind I hadn't heard him yelling that the anchor had not caught and the boat was drifting.  I frantically tried remembering what the boat rental guy had said about starting the motor without flooding it.  I wished I hadn't been reading my book then as Jeff listened and signed papers stating he would captain of the small boat.  I said a prayer and flipped a switch and pulled a cord and the motor sputtered to life.  I steered towards Jeff who was exhausted but happy I didn't begin a new chapter before looking up.  "I thought the anchor had caught and held" he kept repeating on the trip back.  "I was terrified you wouldn't be able to get back to me." he would whisper later that night.  "I would have jumped and swam to you" I answered, "we could have met in the middle."  He chuckled and said, "Man, I am glad you didn't do that, we would have met in the middle and both drowned!"
     These days, I fall asleep thinking of all the ways the anchor has held in this season.  The paychecks and health insurance, a grandma who opened her home to a tangle of boys and dog, a Grandpa who stops in for a fire building lesson or ice cream treat.  Aunts and uncles who pour joy and love into tender hearts and cousins who are built in best friends and are only a drive away.  A church family who have gently made a place for us.  Rekindled friendships and new ones formed, receiving us in the middle of our messy story and not being afraid to love us through it.  Friendships now an ocean away that write, check in, and encourage us.  A mom who speaks truth wrapped in grace, who knows what it is to grieve a love so deep.  Men who were willing to become knights and help lead the boys into what is next.  A new school that each of the boys have begun so late in the year.  A safe harbor where teachers know their story and care for their hearts while teaching them.  A home to rent in a small town that has possibly the only Scottish person living in it only two doors down.  A chance to go back to Scotland this July, to hug the people we didn't know we were leaving yet.  To collect, and gather, and remember all that God did on that soil and in our hearts.  "The Anchor has held".  I whisper  to Jeff, in the dark.  "I didn't have to know how to start the engine this time, or find my way back or forward, I don't even have to tread water, because the anchor has held and will continue to hold until I see you again."

I will be sending out an email to fully update those who have supported us through so much and explain better where we believe God is leading us in the next year as a family of four.  Thank you for all the continued prayers as we walk through what it is to live the life we have been given.

Thursday, April 7, 2016

Dear Levi

Eleven years ago I held you, bundled and pink skinned, a mere six pounds.  Your dad and I could tell right away you had blond hair and blue eyes.  We knew you would be named Levi Connor Stables.  Your Dad did a road trip with a friend in High School and met a Levi on the road.  There is still a sketch of that Levi in one of his notebooks. A long haired man hunched over a guitar.  Your dad described him as a kind soul, a man with a big heart and a love for others.  Your dad told me about his road trip and this man while we were dating.  That if he had sons he would name one Levi.

When we found out we would have another boy dad physically jumped up and down with joy.  You know his broad smile, the one he gave you when he was so very proud of you?  Riding your bike for the first time, showing compassion to a friend, or showing him your ninja moves as a little guy?  Well, that is the grin he gave.  We already had a Luke.  He was a quiet and determined toddler at that point.  we prayed that a little brother would unlock his world and draw him out.  We prayed that you would be a joy bringer, and that you would always know the God that knit you together in my womb.  You showed up five days early and small just like your big brother.  The first six weeks were bliss.  We would hold you and you would look straight into our eyes, your big blue ones peering in to our brown.  On the seventh week at four o'clock you started howling.  You didn't stop until 11 pm that night as dad rocked and bounced and sang and prayed.  This continued every night for seventy-eight days.  I know because I counted them.  And while you wailed and lurched and were inconsolable, you also grew, and grew, and grew.  Your small, pink, six pound body quickly grew and lengthened each week.  The nurse was amazed as she measured and I sat weary in the green chair watching her weigh and measure you. The doctor came in declaring
you were as healthy as an ox even if you wailed all afternoon and late into each evening.  Dad standing beside me smiled big and said "That's my boy."  When you would finally drift to sleep at 11:30 each night I would stand over your crib and pray the same prayer every night.  "Lord, help him be a joy bringer, a hope giver, to point towards you and life and all that is good.  Help make him a bridge maker and peace bringer.  Give him wisdom."  And honestly, I prayed this in faith because I was enduring seventy eight days of hard.

     I don't remember if it happened all at once or in small steps, but I do know I stopped counting the wailing days at seventy eight. Something must have turned in me or you, or both of us.  And my sweet Levi, you
kept growing, but you also started belly laughing and smiling, and cooing at anyone who would lock eyes with you.  You made us laugh and pulled Luke out of his quiet world of block building and track laying.  The
minute you could walk you were tottering over to your dad to give him hugs and kisses.  Your first words were dada and moon.  He often told you he loved you to the moon and back.  And we continued to pray the crib prayer over you as you grew.  You almost filled the length of the crib at two.  Even as you slept you smiled, pink cheeked and happy.
     Your name means "to be joined, attached', or in other translations "to live in harmony with".  Your middle name means wise.
      And Levi, you live out the meaning of your name so easily.  You fumble forward loving others without thought of yourself.  There were so many, many nights when after dad went into pray with you he would pause and say "I am so grateful for Levi, he is such an encouragement to me, he knows how to love so well at such a young age...I cannot wait to see what God will do with a heart like that."  Your dad saw you as a world changer, a pink cheeked boy who's everyday was the "best day ever" that would grow into a man that was not afraid of the hard ones ahead.  You are a lover of love, a face turned towards the Sun, who is learning to not be afraid of the shadows.  My sweet Levi, your heart has taken a beating this year.  We are still in the wailing days and the shadows still fall long upon us.
For 119 days you have had your earthly father joined with your heavenly one.  But son, you will have the Sun shine fully on your face again.  You will attach and join together and bring harmony to where ever our good Father takes you.  You will love deeply and receive so much love in return.  I am so grateful that I get to call you son.  You are walking the walk of your dad and literally wearing his shoes at age eleven.  I agree with dad, I can't wait to see what God is going to do with the years ahead!  Happy Birthday Levi!

Monday, March 7, 2016

Humble hope

Three months have passed without my hand in Jeff's.  Three months of hilltops and valleys.  Three months of learning how to move forward without our gentle leader.  Three months of feeble prayers, the bold ones got left up on the hill in Scotland.  Three months of breathing, living, hoping for what is next for us.  These are messy days of finding our way forward.  It often can feel like treading water, staying in place.  Some days we are grateful to just to keep our heads above water.  I don't know this walk of grief very well yet.  The deep valleys still terrify me.  The unknowns can swallow up joy just as it leaves my lips.  And when I climb a hill and see the terrain a little better, I am amazed at His goodness, and His provision.  I am grateful for fresh eyes that can see hope rising on the distant horizon.

The trip back to Scotland overwhelmed my heart in so many sweet and hard ways.  To see and touch the ones that walked us through our darkest days.  The days of finding out and then slowly accepting that this indeed was the path we would walk.  To weep with them and hug them and know that there are more good byes ahead, but that they will stay nestled in this heart of mine forever.  To remind them and myself that prayers are never wasted.  Even the ones that are not answered in the way we long for them to be.  I will forever be grateful for the five days of soaking in the realities of what was, what is, and what is to come.  

While in Scotland one of our leaders, Euan, handed me a small brown envelope to carry back to Luke.  He gently suggested that I might want to read it first.  Luke had written the letter to himself.  In a time of reflection, Euan had asked all his campers to write a letter to themselves to read six months later.  He was concerned that Luke's own words might hurt him.  Back then we were all so hopeful that the treatments would continue to work.   Holding  the letter on the plane ride home I remembered the days leading up to the camp trip.

It was Euan first time leading an overnight trip and Luke's first time going.  Jeff was to go the first few days to show Euan the ropes and support him in his brave steps of leadership.  He was also thrilled to see Luke as a camper and not just a son of an area director.  While the aggressive chemo treatments seemed to be working, Jeff  was starting to struggle to breath deeply, climb stairs, and keep any food down.  We didn't know at the time that he had a major pulmonary embolism and that the stent holding his throat open had fallen into his stomach.  The day Euan showed up at our house with a bag and pillow in hand, Jeff had to tell him he was to go alone.  Jeff just couldn't manage.  We sat sullen in the living room and prayed for God to provide in ways we could not.  Euan rallied and Luke hugged us good bye.  There were other guys to pick up, a cabin to be filled.  I waved as they drove off until I could not see Luke 's face looking back at me anymore.   Camp ended up  being incredible for Euan and the guys he took, including Luke.

When Euan passed me the letter seven months later, he worried Luke had written about Jeff.  He worried the letter was filled with hope of healing or the suffering he had already seen.  Seven months ago none of us would have expected to be standing here, without Jeff.  I nervously held the small brown envelope, unopened the whole flight back.

Luke smiled broadly when I laid the envelope in front of him.  "Ah, I forgot about that!" I asked if he remembered what he had written and he replied he hadn't a clue.  I held my breath as he slid the white, folded paper out.  His eyes scanned the paper and his smile softened.  I thought of Euan's suggestion of me reading it first and I silently wished that I had.  Luke finally looked up and his eyes met mine.  It just says thank you.  "That is it?  Thank you?"  I took the paper and looked at the small words written in pencil in the center of the page.  Surrounding it was a drawing of the Scottish countryside, our village church in Wormit, and three crosses on the horizon.  "Why did you write that?"  I asked, slightly confused.  "I suppose I wrote it more to God than myself.  I just remember being so grateful for camp, and Scotland, and all that had already happened.  And being excited for what could happen next."  My heart stilled.  He smiled again and left me holding the picture of thanks.  I sat in my desk chair and tears slid down.  Humble hope.  A heart of thanks.  Hope  doesn't always have to hurt.  It can be the prelude to a thankful heart.

These two small words washed over me.  You see, I had been holding onto the guilt and fear that somehow my hope had hurt more than helped.  That my hope had prepared Jeff and the boys for healing instead of suffering.    And maybe if I hadn't hoped and instead prepared for the worst, the worst wouldn't have hurt so much.  I stared at two simple words written by Luke's hands.  It was written in a season where he knew how much could be taken, and how much was uncertain.

And now we see with different eyes, eyes that have seen suffering and loss. But it is hope that still anchors us.  Our hope presses us into the truth that this world we see is not the one we were created for.  That beyond the pain and suffering we are all to endure, there is more.  There is more to come.  The story does not end with our final breath.  The boys and I will choose to live homeward bound.  And in humble hope, look forward to the day when Jeff's strong arms will draw us in again.  We will fall asleep with thanks on our lips because our hope is in His goodness and His love.  Our hope is in the fact that this is not a game, we are not chess pieces to be placed and scattered.  We are His beloved and our future is rooted in that love.  
   My heart aches for Jeff, and my heart still longs for Scotland.  My hands still feel emptied.  But there is hope, small and fluttering, deep in this heart of mine.  And it is a hope refined that will in turn bring thanksgiving to our lips.  

"And hope does not put us to shame, Because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given us."  Romans 5:5

Thursday, February 11, 2016

A Soft Heart

   Ian often uses the same expression when his heart is hurting.  "Mom, the stone is back."  It is usually whispered into my ear.  "It feels like it is getting bigger, and it will squash my heart."  A heavy stone is on his heart.  He told me that is how he felt the morning after Jeff passed.  He whispered it then with worried eyes.  He physically hurt.  My eyes filled and spilled as I explained that I have that same heavy stone.  It is sitting on my heart also.  He was shocked and then saddened.  "Does everyone have one?  Because I don't think I had this stone before."  I thought about all of the people that loved Jeff so much.  I remembered all the notes, hugs, and words of love and hurt and confusion.  I answered carefully; "yes everyone who loved daddy has a heavy stone on their heart also."  He looked at me long and hard, "but their stone is not as heavy as mine."  Sweet Ian, I wondered how heavy this stone must feel to a five year old heart.
     Ian doesn't know how to push grief aside.  He doesn't know how to push down the lump in the throat and try to have a normal conversation.  He doesn't know how to not include "My daddy is in heaven now" in his introductions or goodbyes on playgrounds.  Luke, Levi, and I are learning from this little lion heart.  This week when Ian said the stone was back, and heavier.  He spoke loudly and with confidence.  And these past two weeks have emptied me.  Joy and hope seemed to become hidden in sorrow.  Good news, old
memories, and photographs pierced and hurt instead of comforting.  I am told all this is normal terrain for the boys and I.  To not be surprised.  But as much as I was surprised by joy the weeks before, I am caught off guard by these hard days.  So, when Ian spoke of a heavy stone with a louder voice, demanding I take it more seriously than offering that I have it also I ached for a better answer.
     Earlier that morning I had gone down to the cedar grove to pray.  In a full house, and when God and grief are so intermingled, it is best to find a quiet spot outside to spill out my heart.  I had been praying of how I needed Jeff.  How I wasn't sure I could mold and lead the boys without him.  How I am a bit lost at sea without my sweet Jeff.  I prayed out my concerns and asked for help to a God who comes near.  I pleaded for a crack of hope, a glimmer of joy to creep back in.  I asked for God to keep my heart soft and I picked up a heavy stone and carried backup the hill to the house.

     When Ian spoke of the stone again I knew it was time to share a truth I was still learning.  We climbed the wooden steps hand in hand and I sat him at my small bedroom desk.  The desk that faces the drive and side woods.  I handed him a bright red mound of clay.  "Can you make me your heart?"  He smiled and nodded, rolling the clay between his small
hands until a perfect Ian sized heart had been formed.  "How does it feel?"  I asked.  "Small and soft and smooth."  He answered, adding that technically it didn't really look like that.  I lifted the heavy stone from beside my desk where I had set it earlier.  "Is this how heavy the stone on your heart feels?"  His small hands received the heavy stone and lowered it to his lap.  "Definitely, mom, definitely."  I asked him to place the heavy stone on his clay heart.  He lifted it again and set it on the heart.  We lifted the stone together and set it aside.  "That is why it hurts so much, see?  My heart is so squashed."  I understood, and begin to explain why a squashed heart isn't the end of the story.  It was squashed indeed.  The shape, texture had changed.  It would not look the same now.  But, something else had happened.  "What else changed Ian?"  He looked harder.  "It is bigger!"  We both smiled now.  The clay heart was bigger.  We spoke about how soft hearts get squashed and misshaped.  How heavy stones come that we cannot lift off that change us forever.  But we also spoke of how hardened hearts break.  They don't stretch bigger when heavy stones fall.  They shatter into a million angry pieces.  We spoke through the last months and how we knew our hearts were bigger.  How much love was poured into our small family.  We remembered Christmas and being surprised by packages and trips.  We remembered how the stars seem so much brighter, and the sky bluer.  Our gray was starting to fade back and the colors fill in again.  Babies made us cry, and kind words from strangers made us cry harder.  We are squashed, but not shattered.  And in this squashing we are trusting that our hearts will be stretched wider.  That the capacity to love and be loved will become greater.  And that we will stay soft as the heavy stones come.  Tears wiped, hugs, heavy stone still there.
     Ian ran to Levi and then Luke's room explaining why squashed hearts are blessed hearts.  I even saw him whispering to Zoe outside.  Explaining the reason we need to keep our hearts soft even though they hurt.  On my hardest days, I have the gift of my boys.  Speaking truth, in turn, helps me to remember.  It helps me to see the good and not just the hard.  But most of all, it keeps this mama's heart soft.
   I will be going to Scotland at the end of this month.  Saying I was surprised by joy is an understatement.  I can barely think of it without dissolving into a puddle of grateful tears.  I will get to see leaders, friends, and YL staff from the UK.  All are dear to my heart and proper good byes were never said.  I will be in Scotland for a very small part of the five day trip.  The rest will be spent learning, worshiping, and praying with staff and leaders at a Young Life UK weekend conference in England.  The boys are thrilled for me and will stay here with grandmas and cousins.  We will all four return this summer to allow them to see friends, and camp.  But this trip needs to be just me as I reconcile more of my heart to the God I love.
 I have started my two classes online and am trying to be a good student as I continue to teach the boys.  We will stay at this place of wait a little longer.  Once housing is found and we are more settled I will place them back in public school.  For now I am
grateful to have my fingers on their pulse throughout the days.  Conversations and tears still spring up in hidden parts of the day and I want to make sure they are not hiding from those very things.  I am continuing to be paid by Young Life and our health insurance is covered.  There is much to be grateful for.  Thank you for all the continued prayers and love.  You all have had a part in filling up these stretched out hearts.

 Much love, Becca and the boys

"The Lord is close to the broken hearted; He rescues those who spirits are crushed."  -Psalm 34:18

Thursday, January 14, 2016


When Jeff breathed his last breath I was holding his hand and my head was resting on his chest.  His mom was sitting close by.  The boys were playing legos upstairs.  My mom was taking Zoe outside to chew on something other than legos.  And in those minutes of breathing stilled and his heart beating slowing to a stop it all came into focus.  Jeff was free.  He had suffered greatly.  But he had suffered with a dignity and grace few have experienced.  It was all real, all worth it, there were no regrets on how poured out his life was for God and others.  There was such a peace in knowing his race was finished.  He was created for Heaven and he was home.  And then the understanding slowly unfolded that I was still here.  My feet were still planted on the broken world he just left.  While he was standing unhindered before the God who made him I climbed the stairs to face the boys with a heavy heart.  I was left.  In those first minutes I experienced the full depth of peace and hope that all was well and all will be made right.  I also experienced a soul wrenching separation.  And ending of what I knew to be good.  I was overjoyed for Jeff and heartsick for us.

This is the very thing that is the hardest to hold and to explain to others.  The boys and I experience such amazing moments of clarity each day.  Where we talk about Jeff and who he was.  What he gave us.  How he is where he was created to be and there is still so much more for us.  But these very moments of pure joy and hope are nestled beside such tremendous heartache.  And grief feels a lot like a deep, deep homesickness that will not leave us.  We are homesick for a home that no longer is here on Earth.  We left everything to go to Scotland, we left Scotland to come back here.  And the truth is, home was where Jeff was with us.  Home changed a lot in the last few years, but it never left us.  So we are here now, traveling light.  That sounds so much nicer than saying we are empty handed.  I tell the boys that the only good thing about having empty hands, traveling light, is that God can choose what to place in them next.  Full hands cannot be filled.

So much has been taken it is hard not to notice that what is left standing.  My boys, family, friendships that survive an ocean apart, and friendships that are still here.  God can rebuild and provide the rest.  He has already started to.  I drive the van we sold to go to Scotland.  It was given back for me to drive again.  Given.  The games, puzzles, legos, and toys that were left in Scotland were replaced in one week.  The week of Christmas.  Margaret and I were excited and then became concerned as the pile of brown packages grew into a mountain.  More gifts were delivered from a school I taught at in Culpeper.  I had talked to the boys of how we were rich in the things money could not buy.  And they smiled broadly and said now we are rich in both.  The presents did not give the boys their father back, or me a husband.  The presents did however, remind us that we were not alone.  That the fear of not being provided for was unfounded.  We live in a beautiful house on beautiful land with a very gracious grandma.  A grandma who has gone from one quiet grey cat to three loud boys, their mama, and a cheeky puppy.  We will stay here for the next few months as we grieve, receive, and prepare for what is next.

And this place we find ourselves is terrifying and wonderful all mixed together.  The grieving is not just crying, and missing, and wondering why.  The grieving is a deep homesickness for Jeff and a learning to live in the next chapters being written.  We have heartbreaking moments of wanting Jeff here.  I still grab my cell phone to call him.  I still roll over reaching out to scratch his back.  I still pour out my heart every single morning to a God I trust but don't understand.   But we are not walking in and out of rooms and days sad. We are honoring Jeff by living.  And not taking our breath, strong legs, and changed eyesight for granted.  We are adventuring, laughing, and making lasting memories every single day.  Grieving right now is all encompassing.  It is as if we get to climb glorious mountains and trudge through perilous valleys all in one day.  Every day.  It is exhausting, but it lets us see God's fingerprints on so many things, including our hearts.

We do not know what is next for Team Stables.  We have picked a family verse for the year.  All three boys agreed on it.  That alone made it worthy of repeating all year.  It is Romans 5:3-5.  Our favorite version of it is The Message.  "There is more to come:  We continue to shout our praise even when we are hemmed in with troubles, because we know how troubles can develop passionate patience in us, and how that patience in turn forges the tempered steel of virtue, keeping us alert for whatever God will do next.  In alert expectancy such as this, we are never left feeling shortchanged.  Quite the contrary-we can't round up enough containers to hold everything God generously pours into our lives through the Holy Spirit!"

I will continued to be paid as a part time Young Life International staff.  We will also continue to be covered by our medical insurance.  This will continue into the following months as we figure out what is next.  I am so grateful for the support of amazing staff in Young Life that are standing with us in the transition.  We will continue to pray about the possibility of returning to Scotland in the future.  I know for now God has placed us here and we are starting to plug into a church and community around us.  Please continue to pray for us.  The hardest moments seems to be at night, as the sun sinks and the stars come out.  We miss him most then.  Pray that we will not feel shortchanged, but see the ridiculous amount of blessing surrounding us.  The boys had more in Jeff as a father than most men will have in a lifetime.  I will not write as often but hope to continue to update you all as we take steps into what is next.  Much love, Becca and the boys

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

The Final Update

"Faith is not some weak and pitiful emotion, 
but is a strong and vigorous confidence built on the fact that 
God is holy love."

-Oswald Chambers

        Jeff is home.  He is standing before holy love and is free from the heavy hearts we carry.  Thank you for walking through this journey with us.  I know we are not alone. 

   Jeff's scripture for the year of 2015 was "But when anything is exposed by the light, it becomes visible, for anything that becomes visible is light.  Therefore it says, "Awake O sleeper, and arise from the dead.  And Christ will shine on you."  Ephesians 5:13&14

So grateful he is basking in the light of God's holy love.

We are currently making arrangements for a celebration of Jeff's life and will let you all know the details.  Much love, Becca