Guest Post with Tiffany Wyers Guin: One Day

One day. We all have that single day which sticks out to us as life changing. Perhaps the day you became a Christian, the day you got married, the day your kid(s) were born or the day someone special passed away. June 27, 2010, was that day for me. On this day, my life changed forever. It was a Sunday night before worship, and I was holding my 8-month-old daughter, waiting for my husband to get home. I was sure that Afton Kate just had a seizure. The truth is I had a feeling in my gut for about a week that something was not right. As I sat there holding her, I tried to talk myself out of thinking it was a seizure. I tried to think of anything that it could have been besides this.

When Justin walked through the door, I began to tell him what I thought had just happened. It did not take long into this conversation for her to have a second one. We called our good friend who is an ER doctor and asked what we needed to do. At this point the seizures were very short and a few hours in between so his advice was to watch her through the night and take her straight to our pediatrician first thing in the morning. She slept all night with no seizures, but the next morning she started a cycle that lasted several days. She would seize for about 2 minutes, sleep for a few hours, woke up and seized again. I lost count of how many grand mal seizures she had . Within the week she started on seizure medication, had multiple doctor visits, and the only information I got was that we would have to "wait and see."

Wait and see we did…. for six years. In this journey God led us to many different doctors and programs to help her catch up in her development. At 10 months old, we started her in the state Early Intervention program. There my classmate and friend, Jennifer Hendrix, began working with Afton and still works with her today. In addition to this program, we put her in a private Early Intervention preschool called the Bell Center in Birmingham, AL. This program did wonders for our daughter. Our family and church family were supportive in this decision. We made over 300 trips to Birmingham, raised almost $15,000 for the Bell Center, and even ran a marathon and half marathon. When she graduated from the Bell Center in 2013, she still had benchmarks to achieve, namely walking.  We started hippotherapy in Jasper, AL, with the EASI program. Within six months, she was walking. Prayers answered! This was the first major hurdle she overcame.

The early intervention program provided other benefits that helped Afton including occupational therapy, physical therapy, and speech pathology. We did anything the doctors recommended to find out what was going on with our daughter and how to help her develop. We went to ophthalmologists and had eye muscle surgery. We went to ear specialists, neurologists, and geneticists. Our neurologist Dr. Martina Bebin got her in the Sparks Clinic at UAB but this, like so many other things, gave us no answers. We were grasping at straws to try and get answers. The whole time it felt like I was drowning in grief.

During all of this time I did everything I was supposed to do. I smiled and was outwardly positive. I was supportive of my daughter, but on the inside I was a disaster. I went into full mourning. I felt guilty about mourning my living, breathing child, so I tried to hide it, but that only made things worse.  Every time someone would offer words of encouragement, I would smile and say thank you, but inside I would just scream. I heard a myriad of encouraging words that were not actually so encouraging. Some of which included "God only gives special kids to special people..." or "God made her special for a reason..." and my personal favorite " Modern medicine is amazing, I’m sure they will be able to fix her."  OHHHH! I just wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, "She is not broken and my God did not do this to her!"

As heartfelt as it was, it only made me feel worse. I would try to tell myself that I should be content and count it all joy, but I was angry. I was angry at God. I was angry at myself. I was even at one point angry at Afton Kate. I couldn’t pray or worship. I needed help and was pushing away the only One who could help me. I continued on this way until the birth of my second child. Afton Kate was a little less than 18 months old when Blake was born. I am sure everyone thought we were crazy for having a second child so close in age given our current situation. (A few well meaning people did express this to us as if it was any of their business) Honestly, so did we at first. He was a God send. At Blake’s six week appointment our pediatrician said, "Blake will be better for Afton than any therapy you might put her in." He was right! Our son is the most patient, caring little boy. I could tell you a list of things a mile long he does for Afton. He and Afton have a special bond. Even though she is non-verbal, they can communicate together on a level no one else can. He accepts Afton for who she is. He is her best friend. In addition, he helped Justin and I take our mind off all the unknowns we were facing. He helped me to know that I was not a failure as a mother. He was developmentally ahead so as time progressed, Afton became competitive and started trying to keep up with him. Slowly I began to move into acceptance.

After 6 long years of waiting and testing we were able to find out that Afton Kate’s condition was genetic and that the genetic abnormality was new to her. Justin and I did not carry it nor could it be passed on. At 8 years old she was put on the Autism spectrum. On that fateful day back in 2010 all I wanted was answers. I kept thinking if we could only get a diagnosis, we could help her so much more. We started therapies as a placeholder, so to speak. We would do this or that to keep the momentum going until we found out what we were dealing with. Then, we could start a real program. Turns out those "place holders", were the real program. In those 6 years Afton learned to walk, started communicating, and now that we have a diagnosis, we are just doing more of the same. We take one day at a time, celebrate the small stuff, and try not to sweat the big stuff.

 Nine years later I like to think that I have finally reached full acceptance. I finally have been able to appreciate the journey that I have come through and look forward to the rest of my journey. Sure, there are things that I will not experience with my daughter and when what should be a milestone passes it hurts. I try not to dwell on it. I shed a few tears of self pity and roll on. Afton doesn’t know she missed something. She is just as happy and life goes on just like before. I have a happy healthy and beautiful young lady that unconditionally loves mommy, daddy, and her two brothers. Her smile is contagious, and her laughter brightens the gloomiest of days. She loves to sing, be silly, and is always by my side.  I will never lack for companionship as long as she lives, and when the our journey comes to a close we’ll be singing together again with the angels in Heaven. There will be no more therapies, missed milestones, and discouraging days. We will live in the direct, perfect presence of our Father who will meet our needs in perfection (Rev. 21:3-4).  

I said that June 27, 2010, changed my life forever, but what I should have said is that it changed what I thought my life should be. Truth is, no one’s life turns out like they think it should. We all have things happen that we don’t expect. We all have that one day, but if we dwell on what might have been, we’ll never enjoy what is happening now right before us.

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Guest Post with Tiffany Wyers Guin: One Day

This Is Thirty-Two

This week after reading an online article, I read the author's biography and marveled at her photo in admiration.

I hope I age like that. She looks great! I hope my writing grows in maturity so mine can somewhat resemble hers one day. She’s incredible!

After a quick Google search, I sat blinking at the screen.

1986.

This woman was my age. 

This has been happening more often now. I see more and more amazing women at the height of their careers, heading up motherhood ministries, writing books, reaching people through their testimonies, owning their seasons of motherhood with grace. They give me so much inspiration until I realize these women are my age or younger. 

That's when it hits. 

I feel so behind. So messy. So unprepared for the life ahead of me. Everyone else seems so poised for this thing called adulthood...even those younger than I am. 

Sometimes I feel like a baby foal, clumsily grappling around trying to find my way, trying to finally become who I'm supposed to be, finally growing into my full height.

A couple of weeks ago when my son had surgery to remove his tonsils and adenoids, I was a wreck. He also had tubes placed inside his ears. I felt like a child watching my son cry as he woke up, powerless and temporarily out of his senses.

I was powerless and out of my senses.

Even though I could feel the prayers of my family, friends, church, and community, the following days were some of the darkest times in my life. It was hard before, and now the world had turned upside down. 

At one point during his recovery, he was waking up six times a night. Administering pain medicine every three hours to a little boy who doesn't want to swallow was hard. Trying to explain to him why his throat hurts so badly was hard. Going on little to no sleep for two weeks was hard. Telling an already picky kid he can't have his favorite foods was hard.

And at one time I thought it was going to get the best of me.

I am too old for this. I should know what to do. Why am I still so lost at 32 years of age?

I scrolled past the mom blogs. I didn't open the emails. I didn't have the time or energy to read any of the books stacked on my bedside table. 

For two weeks I sulked.

It hurts to be on the other side. It felt like my light had been turned off from within. I was officially tired of being strong. I was tired of everyone else having it together. I was tired of feeling so clueless, so fragile. 

Ladies, two-thousand and nineteen tells us that we're supposed to know who we really are...like REALLY know. 

My thirties were "supposed" to be my glory years, going to practices, volunteering at school, making adorable little peanut-butter-jelly sandwiches in assorted shapes. I had a certain idea of what being a good mother looked like, and I basically never benchmark now that I think about it. In fact, I probably don’t even qualify at my best. Almost six years in, and my life is basically a 180 of what I expected.

For the past two years, the pressure of this world keeps me aware of my limitations and how they consistently stifle my confidence, my creativity, my faith. It doesn't take a self-help book to tell me to set goals, achieve my dreams, "make it happen"...to ultimately put myself first. Goodness. I was born that way. I was wired that way. I'm human. It's natural to want "self" to be happy.

But God's grace gives me the strength to listen closely to distinguish between what I'm meant to do and what I think I'm meant to do...what the world says I should do and what God says I should do...who I am and who God says I am.

But I can't hear him if I'm listening to myself. 

I can't find him if I'm constantly feeding into the lie that I deserve more, that my life is so flawed that I deserve to be dissatisfied and discontented. 

No matter what I happen upon in this life, no matter how guilty I feel, no matter how behind I feel, God is still God, and he designed me to live my life and my life only. He created me to share my story, not someone else’s. He made my plans so that I could glorify him through it all. He has arranged my life so that I can find myself through him at age 32, 15, or 95. 

"But I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do." Galatians 5:24

Walking through the Spirit doesn't always mean we will be comfortable or completely "self-actualized." Being a child of God won't always mean I get what I want. It might mean that I don't ever materialize in this world the way I imagined. Sometimes it's going to feel like a sacrifice, but what better way to feel more connected to Jesus than when we are humbly and willingly discipling those He has entrusted in our care...when we are disconnected from this earth and pulled away into a peculiar place to wait for him to call us home? With joy?!

Well, the weeks finally turned to days, and the days turned to hours. Isaac eventually healed up, and he was back to himself, finally breathing regularly and sleeping peacefully. I eventually got a good night's sleep. He eventually ate his favorite chips. I eventually got to read again.

We survived.

Honestly, aside from Isaac's surgery, there have been many times since becoming a mother that I haven't felt shiny. And there will be more.

But this doesn't mean we can't glow. When all is dark, that's when our lights shine the brightest. 

True, I'm about to have another birthday; my hair is still graying at a rapid rate; I'm still disorganized; I still start things I’m not sure I can even accomplish; I still fumble around in the darkness of reality wondering where I fit inside this plan of God's; I still tumble into my valleys wondering who I am; and I'll probably always feel inadequately equipped to carry out my role in whatever season I'm in.

However, these seasons of being uncomfortable with our earthly identities are packed with purpose. They remind me that I’m not made for this world...that the perfection I long for can’t be found here but another place where God gives the light. (Rev. 22:5)

Maybe those weeks of no sleep and frustration were meant for me to increase my prayer life. Maybe my moments of powerlessness were meant to humble me. Maybe all my guilt keeps my heart softened and my hands folded in prayer. Maybe my dreams keep my heart childlike and hopeful. Maybe God simply wants me to get through all this to be a light for someone else.

And we can be a light even when we don't feel very shiny. 

We can thankfully rest in these truths: No matter how I might interpret the Word, the Gospel will not change. When I fail him, He will be right where I left him. If he chooses to heal us on earth or in eternity, he saves his children. No matter how much better another woman is at cooking, decorating, or styling her hair, no matter how many she has in her following or in her good graces, I am enough. I am who I am supposed to be and where I'm supposed to be. 

I am created for God to chisel away at the parts of me that I need to shed, revealing only what can be used to glorify him: the parts that reflect His light.

Nothing more, Nothing Less.

"The night is far gone; the day is at hand. So then let us cast off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light. Let us walk properly as in the daytime [...] put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires." Romans 13:12-14

The same God that allows us to find our soulmates is the same God who will usher us through a painful diagnosis with no cure. The same God that gives us our children is the same God who takes us through the death of a child. The same God who forgives my sin is the same God who forgives yours.

Through joy and pain, the best and the worst moments, God is there.

I can't ignore the things that have broken me, the parts I had rather leave in the darkness, the parts I had rather not remember, the unspoken things that make me question my worth, my path, His will. I can't hold them against God because they're just as important in fueling the lamp of my heart.

I pray my light always burns brighter because I'm hiding behind his will.

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" Psalms 27:1

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This Is Thirty-Two

The Ride of Your Life

You know the thrill of going down a roller coaster?


You’re incredibly terrified, gripping the sides, white knuckles and all. You can’t even seem to breathe.

You’re dizzy, and everything is a blur. It’s so loud you can’t hear a thing. You just know you’re about to be sick.

Your hair is in your face and your stomach is in your throat.

"What am I going to do?" you ask.

You feel completely out of control. 

Wherever this things takes me, that’s where I’m going.

You just have to believe you’ll get there in one piece.

And for a split second, you’re wishing you hadn’t gotten on. Everybody else makes it look so fun, so easy. 

On this ride, one minute you want to laugh, and one minute you want to cry. You're not so sure how you should feel. 

Your emotions are all over the place. 

You feel rattled, exhausted, jarred from screaming...inwardly, outwardly...it all starts to mesh together.

Each second lasts an hour.

But then you let go and let God. You turn a corner, peel open your eyes, and raise up your hands.

You follow the course until you finally come to a stop. You get off and look back at your seat and say, "Did I really just do that?" You look at the person who rode beside you. "Did we really just do that?"

And you laugh...you catch your breath. You check all your limbs and realize you’re alive.

You had truly lived. You had let go, reinquished control, and had the time of your life.

Then you come to the conclusion that sometimes being vulnerable is okay. Sometimes losing control and screaming at the top of your lungs is okay. Sometimes losing your senses is okay. Sometimes getting out of your cushy comfort zone is okay. Sometimes asking someone to ride with you and hold your hand is okay.

Sometimes you just to have faith and trust that you’re going to make it to the other side. 

And before you know it, you realize life is one big paradox. You feel brave in your vulnerability and strong in your weakness. 

Before you know it, you're not so scared anymore. 

Before you know it, you want to ride again.

That’s what being your mama is like, little boy.

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The Ride of Your Life

Fly Far, Little Bird

Here we are, Little Man. We did it. We made it all this way.

Three years ago, kindergarten represented something so painful to me. I had to fix you beforehand. I had to get you ready. You had to be alright.

Now here we are, standing on the threshold of your future, and as I look at you, sweet boy, I don't want you to change. It's you that I love. It's not some other Isaac that I want to succeed. It's you. You are the one I want to see thriving. I want you to have those victories, not some other "normal" kid I conjured up in my imagination of supposed-to-be's and should-have's.

I would miss you, little one, if you were different. I would mourn the loss of you. I might sometimes grieve over the life I thought we would all have, the struggles, frustrations, and obstacles we face, but son, I've never stopped loving you. I love you more than I did yesterday, and I am so proud of how far you've come and how deeply you love.

When it feels like the rest of your peers are flying past you on the interstate of life, remember it's the country roads that have the best scenery and the best people to meet and make relationships with. It's those slow paths where God has time to plant seeds of purpose in the fields of our hearts. It's those paths where we can actually watch the sunrise and sunset day in and day out, truly witnessing God's work in action.

The Bible says that God will finish the good works that he has begun within us (Phil 1:6), and son, you are proof of that. He's still working on you. Goodness knows, He's still working on me!

It's like the baby bird you caught one day this summer.

"Please put that down, son. Its mama won't love it anymore if you touch it."

I can remember saying those words to you, and only until later that evening did I realize what the Lord was telling me.

After some digging, I discovered that sometimes mama birds push their babies out of the nest on purpose. They're not abandoning them; they're teaching them how to fly.

The Lord hasn't abandoned us, son, and the Lord's touch on your life doesn't mean he doesn't love us.

Psalms 34:19 says, "Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivereth him out of them all." 

The Lord might be leading us out of our realm of reasoning, our comfort zones, our little boxes, but He will always pick us up and catch us when we fall. He hasn't forgotten us. 

He might be simply teaching us how to fly.

I love you,

Mama

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Fly Far, Little Bird

The Road Less Traveled

Wow! What a vacation. I wish I could say everything went as planned and that everyone was happy and cheerful the whole time, but that wouldn’t be the truth. At one point, I think every member of the family had shed some tears and was ready to pack up and head home! Between refereeing sibling war, to eating supper in a hail storm, the first couple of days didn’t go as planned.
But sometimes in our family, what you plan for isn’t always what you’ll get.

Here’s a little background story. It’s a story about a girl, a life she envisioned, and the detour God gave her instead.

For the longest, I dreamed of a son who would play ball, run to me after school and share stories about what happened that day, take drum lessons from his Daddy, sing in the choir, go to space camp, take a girl to prom, and be the top of his class. I dreamed of a little boy who would eventually grow into a husband and a father. I dreamed of a man who would lead in church. I dreamed of seeing my son in the paper and feeling all puffed up and proud. I dreamed of graduations and crying over an empty room. I dreamed of watching my son get married and going to the hospital to see my first grand babies.

I wanted to hope for the amazing things that would come. I wanted to believe bad things didn’t happen to good people. I wanted to coast along on the road of life.

However, instead of coasting along, God gave me a detour and I had to become a different person with different goals with different expectations who feels different feelings.

I have cringed when the lady in line at Dollar General yelled at her son to be quiet when I ached to hear Isaac’s first words. I have cried over Facebook posts. I have been jealous over my own daughter for the sake of my son at the ease in which she adapts to this world we live in. I have lain awake at night wondering if my son will ever go on a date, know what it’s like to be loved, live on his own, get married, or ever have a family. I have questioned God and doubted Him. I have died over and over again with each developmental checklist and evaluation packet an inch deep. With mascara-stained cheeks, I’ve driven away from IEP meetings after discussing "the child" and all that he can’t do and should do. I have suffered through every vaccination debate. I have researched and put my hopes in books and cures and diets and supplements and articles until I was lost in a foggy maze of letters and numbers. I have pulled my son out of the Chick-Fil-A playground while he kicked and screamed only to have the eyes of all the mothers glaring at me with disgust. I have heard the words that no parent ever wishes to hear. I have felt cheated and betrayed, exhausted and denied, jealous and angry, lost and confused, sad and defeated, inadequate, and heart broken, guilty and sorry.



But I’ve also felt real, tangible prayers, grace, and compassion. I’ve felt victory after a storm. I’ve felt real, true healing from birdsong on a sunny day. I’ve met some amazing people who genuinely care about my son. I’ve witnessed a relationship blossom between a brother and sister that exists purely out of love. I’ve watched a village of people come together to help us care for and love our son. I more readily hear the Holy Spirit whisper comfort. I notice tastes, smells, textures, and sounds differently than before. I notice the wind, the leaves, laughter, dirt, flowers, grass, bugs...the brevity of time itself...I notice it all, and I soak it all in. I appreciate and value my relationships more. Each day with my family, each small victory...I’ve learned to cherish the mundane, marginal moments most people don’t even recognize as monumental. These moments make up my life, and for that I’m thankful because I’m better than I was before.

Judging by these pictures, you would’ve never guessed things had gone sour on the first full day of being there. Things aren’t always what they seem, though. This vacation could’ve ended terribly. We can’t always do things in a "normal" way when we are all together. Sometimes we have to make changes, and that’s not always easy. It hurts sometimes. Big. Life sometimes feels like we’re tiptoeing around on egg shells. But y’all, at the end of the day, I have to know I tried. I have to know I did my best. I can’t give up. I can’t give in. I have to leave on a good note.
My pictures aren’t here to make you believe we are a perfect family or that we have it all together or that everyone always gets along. My pictures are proof that if you try hard enough, God can intervene and give you joy. He can help you find the good in the worst kind of day. He can change your fretful, angry, heavy heart into a weightless feather. I like to think joy stands for "just one you." We have one life! One life to love and live. One time around to make it count. One chance to reach out and change someone’s day. It can also mean that no one can take your place. You are unique. Loved.
My pictures are proof that we choose memories, and that has made all the difference.
I don’t talk about our story much because for a long time, this world was too big and scary to express with words, and the love for my son was too heavy and strong to reduce to mere social media likes. Fear kept me quiet. In all ways, I had to protect my son, and I felt it was my duty to carry on, keep the faith, and stand firm in the normal parts of life I could cling to. But what’s normal anyway? Seeking "normal" can become a huge burden. A friend told me the other day, "Normal is a dryer setting." This made me laugh because she’s right.
Our story doesn’t have a fancy title written in gold lettering. It isn’t the grand, epic tale on the page. It’s the scribbles in the margin. The half told tale of a subplot not yet unfolded. The corrections. The edits. The revisions. The crossed out places that God isn’t finished with yet. We are a story in the making. A story of a boy, the future God has planned for him, and the unique road God has him on.
I might not ever find out all the why’s, when’s, and how’s while I’m on this road of life, but I’m certain of one thing: It won’t matter once I get there.
We’re all wanting to get to the same destination; some of us just have to use a different map. And that’s okay.
Until then, we are located on Autism Avenue, and you are welcome to come over any time. Please pull up a chair and get to know my sweet, silly, sensitive little boy. Things look a little different around here because it’s not what you’re used to. Sometimes we laugh because we’re crying, and sometimes we cry because we’re laughing. It’s never easy, but if you bring some sour straws, M&M’s, or a tractor or two, I know a little boy who will love you forever.

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The Road Less Traveled

Guest Post with Kayla Coley: Purple Flowers and Buttercups

Purple Flowers and Buttercups

My childhood was a country girl’s version of unicorns and rainbows; I call it purple flowers and buttercups. Granny says Haley and I picked every pretty flower on the hillside, including the ones in her flowerbed. My childhood was filled with days spent in the woods building club houses, playing a good game of backyard ball, or sledding on the fresh-cut hayfield (no snow required). Life was easy and times were good; Momma made sure of it. She was not just my momma but was a mother to our step-siblings, Tonia and Lacie, and a mother to all seven of her nieces and nephews. Just ask them and they will tell you: Aunt Glida was their biggest fan.

Her children rise up, and call her blessed… Proverbs 31:28

Another Buttercup Picker

Some children are not as fortunate as others, and they have to deal with unfair situations. That’s how Jonna came into our lives. Jonna was the great niece of my step-dad, Phillip.  Phillip had learned that Jonna was having to deal with a bad situation, so she came to live with us at age five. Jonna was full of life, a stinker, and a buttercup picker. Long after my days of flower-picking, Jonna came along to carry on the tradition of keeping the flowers on our hillside off the ground and in vases.  Jonna’s dad came around and she spent a lot of time with him, but for the most part, Jonna was with us. After two years of staying with us quite a bit, Jonna asked for her own room. Because Momma was in the business of making all kids happy, she gave Jonna my old room and fixed it up just for her.

Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for such is the kingdom of God. Mark 10:14

Purple Flowers Don’t Last Forever

April 5, 2008

5:00 p.m. Lacie left for prom, and I suggested that Jonna call her neighbor friend and ask if she could sleep over.

9:00 p.m.  I was feeling a little afraid so I chose to go get in Kyle’s bed and just wait on him to come home.

11:00 p.m. Kyle came home from Lindsey’s and went upstairs to check on the girls who were still playing in Jonna’s new room.

12:30 a.m. Lacie returns from prom and goes up to see the girls who are playing but are very tired and ready for bed.

4:00 a.m. Kyle and Jesse leave for a turkey hunting trip down south.

5:30 a.m. Phillip leaves for work.

6:00 a.m. Hell comes to life.

“Girls get up the house is on fire!” Momma screamed as she turned the corner to run up the stairs where Jonna and her friend were sleeping. Lacie and I met in the hall panicking as we ran outside. As we exited the patio door, we turned to confirm that our worst day was taking place. Flames had engulfed our home. To say we were panicked would be an understatement. I asked Lacie to get in her car and go to Granny’s to call 911. Although I promised Lacie I wouldn’t, I went back in the house to look for my momma. I ran to the stairs, which were completely gone, and screamed for my momma. I begged God to please give me my momma. All of a sudden I heard the most beautiful sound; it was a crash onto the front porch. Momma always told me that if I was ever upstairs and the house caught on fire, I should kick out a little spot in the attic, and I would land on the front porch. I raced outside and as I turned the corner, I realized I had not heard Momma and the girls fall onto the front porch; I had heard the porch swing fall. Uncle Jeff came running up with the local cop and asked where Momma was. I told them she went upstairs to get the girls. They both tried to get into the house.

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Mark 15:13

Momma Taught Me to Pray

Momma didn’t have all the right answers; she often became frustrated with the perils of life. She was not a good cook, keeping the laundry up was a nightmare with four kids, and you can forget keeping the house clean with four to eight ballgames a week. When things were good, Momma prayed. When things were bad, Momma prayed. She also taught us to pray. So as I crumbled in our yard on April 5th, I prayed just like Momma taught me. I prayed God please give me a miracle. I repeated it over and over until Coach Scott physically picked me up and carried me away from my burning home.

The days that followed April 5th are hard to remember, though I do remember praying. I prayed Lord please let me die, I can’t handle the pain, please let me die. One night as I was praying this, The Lord spoke to my heart and said “Kayla you prayed for a miracle that day in the yard. I gave you a miracle. I spared you. Now go and do something about it."

The Lord is my refuge and my strength, a very present help in trouble. Be still and know that I am God.

Psalms 46:1 & 10

The Flowers Still Bloom

No matter how my heart breaks, the world keeps turning, people keep living, and those little purple flowers still bloom every spring. Most people would call those purple flowers weeds, but I love them. They are the first sign of spring after many long dark winter days. On my day of hell, my yard was filled with loving people as I begged for miracles, and mercy bowed down on my knees in a bed of purple flowers. Those flowers remind me of my momma who taught me to love, forgive, and to pray. She taught me that Jesus is the answer and that He alone is my refuge. She warned me that life would not be easy, and she was right.

Flowers started blooming in my personal life when I met my husband Jason. He is my own personal purple weed after a lot of dark days.  He makes me happy, and he loves and takes care of me. He also made me a momma.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. Psalms 30:5

Make Me a Momma

Almost a year ago, I became a momma. It was tough the day I found out I was pregnant. I wanted to call my momma and tell her. Lord knows she would have been thrilled to have another grandbaby. I cried myself to sleep several nights as my hormones raged and I longed to talk to Momma. I was spending the night with Kyle and Lindsey just after I had told them I was pregnant, and I dreamed that Momma and I were talking at a volleyball game. After some conversation, I asked Momma if she had met Klaire, my niece. Momma laughed and told me she picked her out. I woke up knowing and believing I was going to have a girl that Momma had picked out, and I knew I would name her after Momma.

I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and my soul knoweth right well. Psalms 139:14

We Will Call Her Kollins Gail

Kollins was born May 26, 2016. She looks at me and my heart melts. Days can be tough when you are a momma and have no clue what to do. When I find myself in these situations, I want to call my momma.  I have found that God gives mommas special instincts to raise children. With those instincts, I give Kollins the promise of a better tomorrow. I do not have all the answers and I don’t pretend to have them, so when I mess up or make a parenting error, I wipe our tears and promise to do better the next time. To be honest, I am a lot like my own momma. I can’t cook well, laundry is the bane of my existence, and a clean house is out of the question (especially when we are in softball season). I feed Kollins chocolate biscuits, let her drink coke from a straw, and sometimes we have ice cream for supper. I am not a good Pinterest mom, and my home doesn’t have the latest Leap Frog or Baby Einstein gadgets; we have 150 pie pans and wooden spoons that Aunt Rachel sent for Christmas, and Kollins plays with them for hours at a time.

For me there is beauty in simplicity. Kollins may not have free range chicken with asparagus for dinner, but I am certain, she knows that I love her. She will not remember if our house was clean or if her clothes were dry cleaned or what brand shoes she wore, but she will remember that her momma played with her, that we got in the floor and made pies, rocked on the back porch, and sang song after song. She will remember that we read stories and made up some, too. She will know that her momma kisses her goodnight and prays for happy days to continue. She will know my momma’s love because I will love her like my momma loved me.

For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of Him. 1 Samuel 1:28

Sometimes I Still Smell Ashes

Broken hearts can beat on forever, and on days like graduation, my wedding day, the day I found out I was pregnant, and when I gave birth, I smelled ashes. I smell ashes every time our softball team takes the field and at every State Volleyball Tournament. In the still of the night, when I am all alone, I smell ashes. I smell ashes when my heart aches and my mind can’t function because of the pain I hide behind a smile. I smell ashes when a woman rocks my baby to sleep and I long for it to be my momma rocking her. Most of the time when I smell ashes, I look for family. I text my husband to ask about his day, I call my brother just to say I love you, I visit Granny, or I call up Lindsey and meet her and Klaire.

I still take Kollins over to the hillside where I grew up. I sit her at the edge of the hayfield and let tears roll down my face. I think of all the times we jumped hay bales, rode four-wheelers, battled ghost runners, and I think of all the lessons Momma taught us. I long for Kollins to know that life and her grandmother. Because I know it isn’t possible for Kollins to know my momma, I work hard to make sure I am a good momma and that Kollins is taken care of and loved. Now I understand the way Momma loved me, and I pray Kollins will be able to see how much I love her.

Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Psalms 37: 4

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Guest Post with Kayla Coley: Purple Flowers and Buttercups