Hey Becky Bee,

Read this blog post from a Momma of 2 (soon to be 3) in Oklahoma and couldn't help but think of you. I pray every day that you will one day have a Daddy that is an earthly example of how much God loves you. But either way, earthly example or not, remember this Momma's words from her story:

"My daughter doesn't talk about how big the waves were. She doesn't talk about how they came one after another. She talks about how her Daddy held her hand, how she clung to his neck, and how they danced holding onto one another."

Love you, little one--Hope you're laughing lots today.


http://www.scissortailsilk.com/2014/05/15/you-call-me-out-upon-the-water/

My high school boyfriend and I had to be the most frequent visitors of the Cartersville Sonic. I mean seriously, we probably paid for most of the building with how many late-night slushies we bought. Don’t ask me why we picked Sonic, but probably 2 or 3 nights of every week we would end up sitting in our cars at Sonic laughing and asking for extra ketchup. Starbucks was where we went to break up; Sonic was for smooth sailing. Needless to say, white chocolate mochas don’t taste nearly as good to me anymore—but I can always put down a good lemon-berry slush.

We were pulling out of Sonic on one of our routine nights and saw a man sitting by himself on the side of the curb. The sign in his hand read, “Hungry—could use any help.” The guy that I was dating was the kind of guy that wouldn’t pass him without helping—so we stopped. And that’s when we met Billy. Now, if you consider “meeting” a homeless person as putting twenty dollars in their hand, I had “met” a homeless person. But this was different. We sat and talked to Billy for probably thirty minutes, hearing his story—how he was looking for work here and was therefore forced to be separated from his wife and kids for the time being. How he felt like he had failed them. How he loved them so much and dreamed of the day that he could provide for them.

See, Billy was the first homeless person I had ever really seen.  Of course I had seen homeless people prior to our encounter at Sonic, but by “seen,” what I really mean is that I passed someone driving in a car, or handed someone a few dollars while rushing out of the Walmart parking lot. I had seen homeless people, but I hadn’t really seen them. I hadn’t heard their stories; I hadn’t prayed with them; I hadn’t carried their burdens or sat down on the side of the road and shared a meal with them. They were homeless people to me. They weren’t my brother or sister. They weren’t my mother or father. But Billy—I saw Billy. And for the first time in my life, I realized that the Billy’s of the world have something that the Haley’s won’t ever have.

I sat in my bed this very morning and prayed. I have a really hard time setting aside time to pray—I can go days and not even take a breath to notice. But this morning, I just started praying and I was amazed at what came out. “God, lead me to someone homeless or hungry or needy; please make our paths cross.” All of the sudden, something that hadn’t even really been on my heart blurted out of my mouth. I wish I could say that I pray this every day and that I pray it so that God would lead me to needy people to help. But that wasn’t really the case. I was praying this selfishly—I wanted to meet another Billy because Billy brought something out of my heart that no one else in the world had. He sat on the cold cement, having faith that someone, anyone, would bring him food. He was alone and away from everyone he loved. He hadn’t showered and he had no future plans. But he smiled and he looked at me with bright eyes and said, “God loves me. He’s taking care of me and there is nothing like having Him on your side.” And Billy believed that with all of his heart. Billy might look different to the world, but Billy was pure. He was hopeful and sure and he wasn’t defined by career or money or status. He didn’t own a home and he wasn’t a CEO and he didn’t make three figures. But he knew who his Dad was and that was enough for him. And this morning, all I wanted was to hug a Billy. To be so close to someone that knew my Father so well.

The Bible is full of commandments about taking care of the poor. And yes, I think that Jesus was telling us that, in part, because they need us. They need their brothers and sisters to step up and feed and clothe them. They need shelter and jobs and family. But honestly, more importantly, I think that Jesus said that because He knew that we needed them. We need their faith; we need their trust; we need their perspectives and their stories. Jesus points us to these brothers and sisters because I am convinced that they are some of His favorites. They know something that we don’t know. And by “we” I mean me—the girl that hasn’t ever been hungry a day in her life. The girl that never questioned if college was an option. The girl whose parents wouldn’t stop loving her if she slapped them in the face and ran the other way. I need Billy. We need Billy.

And we won’t ever know Billy if we don’t share meals and stories and houses and churches. We don’t see people when we crumple dollar bills into their hand or pretend to look past them when they’re standing at the stop sign. Take time. See them.

Because I have a feeling we’re really, really going to miss out if we don’t get to know the Billy’s.

All I can think about is Mary.

When I close my eyes on this rainy, seemingly hopeless, somehow perfect night, all I can see is her sweet face.

Can you imagine watching your baby boy be nailed to a cross? Your baby boy. You aren’t watching someone kill a stranger. You are watching soldiers take your son and spit in His face. The same little boy that you fell in love with the first moment you laid eyes on Him in that stable thirty-three years ago. Oh, and to watch that whip. Every time that whip hits your little boy you cringe. You want to yell, “don’t do it again!” and right then you catch a glimpse of the scar on his leg. And you remember how he got that scar when He was playing with His Daddy outside twenty-five years ago. How you wish that was the only scar on His body. And then you watch them take a hammer and hit the nails into your perfect little boy. Your stomach sinks and your heart is torn in half because you love those hands. You had those tiny warm hands touch your cheeks and lean in close for a bedtime kiss. You’ve watched those hands hug and hold and heal as your baby has turned into a sinless, selfless, perfect man. And now, those perfect, sweet little hands that you have grown to love are being crushed in front of your eyes. And all you can do is just fall to your face and cry. And every once in a while, only when you have the strength, you raise up on your knees and kiss your precious little boys feet. You press your lips up to those feet and you squeeze your eyes shut and you pray for God to take this pain away quickly. You pray that it happens fast and you can take your precious one down from that rugged cross and hold Him in your arms where He should be. And just as you ask for that, you watch Him breathe in one last time, and you hear the words, “It is finished,” and you let out one more sob as you press His still-warm feet to your cheek.

And there is no understanding in that moment. There are no cliché comments made like “You’ll get through it,” or “It all happens for a reason,” because for heaven’s sake, this woman just watched her little boy die. Die on a public, humiliating, disgraceful cross at that.  And she knows, deep down, that this was supposed to happen…that it was His will. But it still hurts. She knows there is purpose but she just can’t think of that right now. It just still hurts. It’s her little boy.

Tonight, when I close my eyes and think about that night thousands of years ago when my Savior hung on a cross, I can’t help but wonder who was at His feet. I try to imagine myself 2,000 years ago and wonder where I would have been. Would I have been shouting with the crowds to “Crucify Him?” Would I have been at home cleaning the house because I didn’t believe that He was the One? Would I have been sitting right next to Mary? Would I have put my chin on her shoulder and my arms around her and held her as she watched her little boy die? Would I have stayed the whole day, right at His feet? Would I have cried until there were just no more tears? Would I have run up and hugged his feet and tried to wipe the blood stains off of my blameless Savior whose feet were not worthy of blood?

God, I hope so.

God, let me have a heart like your Momma’s. Let my heart break like hers.

What I would have given to see her smile on Sunday morning when she got to see her little boy. Her perfect little boy, restored. What I would given to have seen that hug—that joyful, thankful, heart-wrenching hug that her son was alive, and even more so, that her God was faithful.

Oh, God, help me love you like your Momma did.