My son’s brain surgery is now officially an adult.
I didn’t realize at the time how much that day would shape the way I see the world, other people, and myself. But it did, and I still carry it with me.
We began a mid-December Friday morning in 2007 at Phoenix Children’s Hospital with my seven-year-old son having markers (ones that looked sort of like Froot Loops) placed on his head. As I understood it, these markers would appear on an MRI used during his surgery. While the medical team placed them, they rolled in a video game console to keep him occupied.
Once the markers were in place, it was time to move him into the MRI room, where they would put him to sleep and I would say goodbye. The medical team reassured my son that the video games would be available during his hospital stay. He was excited about waking up and playing once he felt up to it.
I stayed with him while the anesthesiologist placed a mask on his face to put him to sleep before starting any IVs or performing the MRI. As soon as he was asleep, I was sent to the surgery waiting room, where my family and I waited through the rest of the long day. Our second child was almost six months old and spent the day with us, too. At the time, the hospital had not yet closed to child visitors for RSV season—a small mercy that would disappear by the very next day.
About twelve or thirteen hours later, my husband and I were finally allowed into recovery. The goal of the surgery was to remove the entire right temporal lobe of his brain to treat his epilepsy and, we hoped, stop his pervasive seizures. Just before midnight, everyone in the room breathed an audible sigh of relief when he moved his left toe. It was the sign we needed to know that the left side of his body was not paralyzed.
The surgery successfully controlled his seizures—a life-changing, and very likely life-saving, outcome. But it wasn’t without effects. It took time for his brain to build new synapses, and his brain processes information differently from people who have a right temporal lobe. He’s also blind in the upper left quadrant of his vision, which primarily affects his peripheral sight and could have been much worse. There are other realities that come with brain surgery, too, but these are things you learn over time rather than all at once.
Even so, he is here. He is happy and healthy. And I am deeply grateful to have him in my life.
What’s also true is that, eighteen years later, this experience still shapes how I see the world.
Leading up to the surgery, I knew we would be in the hospital for at least a week. If everything went well, we might be discharged just a few days before Christmas. As a mom—and as the person who felt responsible for bringing the magic of the season to life in our family—I felt pressure to get everything done before the surgery.
The Saturday before the procedure, I went to Target to finish my Christmas shopping. As soon as I walked in, I became overwhelmed and started to cry. I turned around, walked back to my car, sat there, and pulled myself together before driving home. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I sat in the car.
At that moment, I couldn’t buy presents because I didn’t know what I would be coming home to later that month. My son was facing a major surgery that carried real risks: death, paralysis, or other outcomes that would permanently change his life, and ours. We hoped for seizure control, but hope didn’t erase uncertainty. I didn’t know who my son would be when the surgery was over, and that realization hit me all at once.
Anyone who saw me walk into Target that day would have seen a put-together young mom with an infant strapped to her in a Baby Björn. They wouldn’t have seen the fear, grief, or uncertainty underneath. My son’s life was the one at stake, but the experience shaped me, too, and it still does.
It affects how I see the world and how I see other people. I am constantly reminded that we don’t truly know what others are carrying. People show up, do their best, and move through the world while navigating circumstances we may never see. The same is true in the other direction, too. People may be experiencing incredible joy that remains invisible to us. That awareness has stayed with me and reminds me to lead with compassion.
During that season of my life, I was surrounded by people who loved me well—family, friends, and coworkers who knew what was happening and showed up for us. I was also deeply aware of God’s presence, especially through the prayers of those who interceded on our behalf. That support carried me through a season I couldn’t have navigated alone.
Eighteen years ago, I didn’t know who my son would be when the surgery was over.
Today, I know this: he is here. He is living his life. And I carry forward the lessons of that day quietly, daily, and intentionally.
That mid-December day still reminds me to lead with compassion, because we never truly know what others are carrying.
My family will tell you I have a sense of smell bordering on that of a bloodhound.
Smells—particularly foul ones—drive me crazy and often trigger migraines. It’s not uncommon to find me sniffing around, trying to identify the source of a mysterious odor (or maybe just one that’s offensive to me). Sometimes, I can tell what’s going on in another room just by the smell.
One night, not too long ago, I woke suddenly to the sharp scent of bleach. Groggy and disoriented, I actually wondered if I might be having a stroke, until I heard rustling in the kitchen.
I cracked open the door. The kitchen light was on. The smell was stronger. I tiptoed out and found my teenage daughter standing there holding a cleaning rag, the counters gleaming.
“Hey, sweet girl. What are you up to? The smell of bleach woke me up.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” she said. “So I cleaned the kitchen.”
After a hug and some kind words, I went back to bed smiling.
A few months later, that same daughter told me she needed some new lotion. “And I want it to be the one Nana always used,” she said. “Every time I smell it, it reminds me of her.”
That stopped me for a second. There are so many smells that remind me of my mom.
Today marks 10 years since she passed. And I thought: what better way to honor her than through scent and memory?
Here are 10 smells that bring her back to me. If you knew my mom, I’d love for you to share your own scent memories in the comments (or any memory of her). Or tell me how smell reminds you of your people. I’d love to hear it.
Lilacs were one of my mom’s favorite flowers—big, bold blooms with a scent you can’t ignore. We have a lilac tree in our yard now, and when it blooms in the spring, the fragrance takes over. You can smell it from the back of the house, through the open windows, even when you’re walking past on the dirt road. It’s impossible not to notice.
My mom would have loved this tree—not just because it’s beautiful, but because it makes a scene. It shows up with everything it has and says, “Look at me!” She would have appreciated that.
The weekend she passed away, my dad and I went for a walk around the hospital grounds. The lilacs were blooming in full force, so we picked a big handful and brought them to her room. Her eyes lit up the moment we placed them on the bedside table. Even when she didn’t have the strength to say much, she could still smile at flowers.
Now, every time I smell lilacs, it’s like a quiet wave of memory and presence. I stop what I’m doing, take a breath, and think about my mom
My mom was never afraid of dirt. She saw messiness as part of the magic of childhood. She encouraged me and my sister to go outside, get dirty, explore. Our mom never got upset about muddy shoes or grass-stained jeans. Rather, she knew that real adventure didn’t always happen in clean clothes.
Around age five, I decided I wanted to be an archaeologist. Not just in a passing way—I fully committed. My mom didn’t just smile and nod. She leaned in. She helped me create my own “dig sites” in the backyard and outfitted me with tools: a mini pickaxe, a child-sized shovel, a sieve, and goggles. I was ready for excavation, and she was ready to cheer me on.
There’s a very specific smell to kids who’ve been outside all day—a mix of dust, sweat, sunshine, and discovery. It’s hard to describe but instantly recognizable. When I catch that scent—on my kids or even on myself after a hike or spending any time outside—I’m transported back to those backyard digs and to a mom who never once hollered at me to come inside and clean up.
My mom didn’t just bake cookies—she baked with purpose. Our house always had the warm, buttery scent of something in the oven, and cookies were her signature. Chocolate chip. Peanut butter. Oatmeal raisin. Sugar cookies with sprinkles for every holiday.
If you stopped by unannounced, odds were good you’d leave with a cookie in hand and maybe a few more wrapped in foil.
When my dad left for Army National Guard training, she always baked for his entire unit. She’d take requests beforehand, then carefully box them up, labeling everything. She baked like she loved people—which she did—and cookies were how she said it.
She even shipped them across the country to her brothers. I remember one uncle laughing and saying he didn’t care if they arrived in crumbs—they were her cookie crumbs, and that was what mattered.
Every time I bake now, I think about her. Not just because she was a great baker, but because she baked out of love.
In our house, overripe bananas weren’t a problem—they were a promise. A promise of banana bread, warm from the oven, filling the kitchen with that unmistakable, sweet, cozy smell.
If we had extra zucchini from the garden—or a neighbor dropped some off “just in case we wanted it”—my mom would whip up a batch of zucchini bread before we’d even decided what to have for dinner. She never used a recipe card. Instead, my mom was able to bake a perfect loaf entirely from her memory.
She made enough to share, too. A loaf for the neighbors. A couple of slices wrapped in foil for my dad’s lunch. I think quick breads were her love language. Practical and warm. Fragrant and satisfying. They said, “I saw what we had, and I made something good out of it.”
To this day, I can’t smell banana or zucchini bread without thinking about my mom moving confidently around the kitchen, turning whatever was available into something golden and delicious. She certainly had the Midas touch when it came to baked goods.
I love making pies—especially the fillings—but I’ll be honest: I don’t enjoy making pie crust (store-bought is the way to go, in my view). My mom saw this differently. Not only did she love making pie crust, but hers was delicious. Every Thanksgiving when I hosted, we’d all pitch in: my sister and I would handle the filling. Our mom would happily make the crusts. We were like a well-oiled dessert assembly line.
I especially remember the year when my youngest daughter was two. We had the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on in the background, and were elbow-deep in flour and cinnamon. We’d just finished the last pie when we noticed things had gotten a little too quiet. Almost anyone who’s a parent knows that quiet is often a sign of trouble when kids are involved.
There was my toddler, standing on the dining table, hands fully submerged in the center of a fresh pumpkin pie. She looked up, eyes wide, face covered in orange goo. And we just lost it. Laughed until we cried. We didn’t even pretend to scold her.
Every time I smell pumpkin pie now, I think of that moment. And I think of my mom laughing with us. She would’ve said it was the best part of the whole day.
I still don’t make my own crust. I buy it premade, with zero guilt. Because in my mind, she’s still the one making it—pressing the dough into the pan, smiling as she goes.
Baking was my mom’s superpower. Cooking… was more of a gamble.
She was always multitasking—writing a note, starting laundry, organizing the closet in the other room. When she baked, that wasn’t usually a problem. The oven had a timer, and she was pretty good at checking in. But cooking on the stovetop? That was another story. Let’s just say she believed in the power of “high heat” and had an almost mystical faith that nothing bad would happen if she walked away for a bit.
One evening in the early 2000s, my husband and I temporarily lived with my parents between moves. We got home from work and immediately knew something was off. A thick, charred smell hung in the air.
My mom decided to make beans—and then promptly forgot about them. The pot was scorched. The kitchen smelled like a campfire. She greeted us at the door, laughing and waving a towel around like it might help.
We ended up getting takeout, of course. But she never got defensive or frustrated. Instead, she cracked a joke and turned it into a story. She had this way of turning mishaps into moments.
To this day, if I smell burnt beans, I smile and think of her.
Back in the 1980s, my mom’s go-to perfume was White Shoulders. I can still picture the soft pink bottle. It sat on her dresser like a little beacon of elegance, and when she wore it, the whole room felt a little more glamorous.
I thought it was the most sophisticated thing in the world. I remember begging to hold it and being thrilled when she finally handed me an empty bottle. I didn’t care that it was used up. I’d sneak away to my room, take off the lid, and close my eyes while I inhaled the lingering scent. I imagined I was grown-up, heading out to some important event, dressed to the nines, just like her.
That bottle lived in my dress-up drawer for years. It was a main character in every make-believe game I played. I loved it… mostly because of how much I loved and admired my mom.
Even now, if I catch even a hint of White Shoulders, I’m eight years old again, spinning in circles, pretending to be my mom.
The smell of nail polish has always hit me hard. It gives me a headache almost instantly—and the waiting-for-it-to-dry part? Um, no. That’s torture. I’m happier outsourcing the job to a professional or skipping it altogether.
My mom, though, loved it. She especially loved red nail polish. Bright, bold, classic red. She kept her nails neat and painted, making it look effortless. It was part of her rhythm, one of the ways she took care of herself.
When my daughters were little, I never wanted to sit and paint their nails. But Nana did. She’d lay towels on the table, open the little bottles, and let them choose their colors. Reds, pinks, purples, glittery shades that looked like fairy dust. She had endless patience and a steady hand. They loved those little nail salon days with her, and so did she.
Now, when I walk past a nail salon or open a bottle of polish and get that sharp, chemical whiff, it’s no longer unpleasant. Instead, it triggers memories of red nails, giggles, and a Nana who showed love in tiny, tender ways.
One of my mom’s favorite bits of nature trivia was this: if you smell the bark of a ponderosa pine tree, it smells like vanilla. Or butterscotch, depending on who you ask. She would proudly demonstrate this whenever we passed one on a hike or walk.
We’d be in the middle of a forest, and she’d suddenly stop, gesture to a tree, and say, “Okay, now smell this one.” Then she’d lean in, close her eyes, and take a long inhale. We followed her lead—slightly skeptical at first, but eventually fully bought in.
I live in northern Arizona now, home to the largest contiguous stand of ponderosa pines in the world. And yes—I still sniff trees. My kids roll their eyes, but I encourage them to do it, too. It’s a little strange, maybe, but it’s also a direct connection to her. To her love of the natural world. To her delight in small discoveries.
Every time I press my nose to that bark and catch the sweet, warm scent of vanilla, I think about my mom.
Nature was my mom’s sanctuary. She loved wild places and quiet moments. Whenever we arrived at a new spot—whether for camping, hiking, or just a scenic drive—she had a ritual. She’d step out of the car, stretch her arms wide, lift her face to the sky, close her eyes, and say with as much drama as she could muster, “Smell the air. Breathe it in.”
It didn’t matter where we were—the mountains, the desert, the lake. She believed that every place had its own scent, its own essence. And by breathing it in, you became part of it, just for a little while.
It was her way of anchoring herself in the present, of paying attention. She was practicing mindfulness.
And that’s my intention for the year ahead. To slow down. To notice. To take it in—scents, sights, memories, moments. To smell the air, breathe it in, and let it remind me that I’m alive and connected to something bigger. That she’s still with me in the breeze and the lilacs and the laughter.
Let’s keep telling stories. Let’s remember the people who shaped us. And let’s not forget to take a moment to smell the air and breathe it in. To enjoy this life and all the things it has in store for us.
And maybe that’s the real legacy of my bloodhound nose.
Sure, I might be the first one to notice when the milk goes bad—or when someone’s burning toast. But more than that, I inherited a way of noticing, of tuning in. My mom taught me that life is worth smelling: the lilacs, the cookies, the quick breads, the air.
So here I am, ten years later—still sniffing trees, still opening bottles just to catch a memory in the air. And every time I do, I think of her. I smile. And I breathe it in.
Phoenix Children’s Hospital was a familiar place to us, with its brightly colored exterior, cheerfully decorated interior, and friendly staff. We made a 95-plus mile drive from our home in northern Arizona a couple times a month to visit the place. At the end of our visit, we’d usually get lunch or visit our favorite outlet mall. It became routine. Normal, even.
On this particular day, I was describing how pleased I was with our son’s progress to the doctor. His visible seizures were much fewer than in the recent past — there were even some days when we didn’t see any seizures. They were still there, sure, but his epilepsy was more manageable. It felt like things were starting to get under control.
“I know you’re pleased with your son’s progress, and I am too,” the doctor began. “Even so, his seizures are not even close to under control. We’re going to need to take a different approach. I think it’s time to consider epilepsy surgery to remove the section of his brain that’s producing the seizures,” he said.
I sat there silently for a minute, hugging my little boy a little tighter. “But things are so much better,” I said.
“You’re right,” he said. “They are better, but let’s talk about his life. Things other kids his age can do, like riding a bicycle, climbing playground equipment, or taking a bath, pose a serious risk for your son. And think about when he’s older. If we can’t get his seizures truly under control, he might never be able to drive a car. Plus, we need to consider how the medication is affecting his quality of life.”
He was right, of course. I usually didn’t think about these things, because it wasn’t productive. Instead, I focused on the positive, as I knew his care was being directed by a talented group of medical professionals. This helped me cope with what was clearly a challenging situation.
“Okay, let’s talk it through,” I said, after another moment of silence.
Embarking on the Journey
This particular journey started in earnest about five years prior to that appointment. As I was driving, I’d glance at the baby car mirror to check on him once in a while. Every now and again, I’d see a grimace on his face, his head cocked strangely to one side with a bent arm and tightly clenched fist.
These early incidents lasted mere seconds, but my mama intuition told me something wasn’t right. Thus the search began to figure out what was causing these strange “tics” or “twitches” (as I thought of them at the time). Over the course of the next five years, we spent countless hours visiting medical professionals to first get a diagnosis and then figure out how to get his epilepsy under control.
We tried medicine after medicine, but it wasn’t until we were assigned a new doctor who had been hired to start an epilepsy monitoring unit that we started to see real progress. This doctor was collaborative and open and willing to try new things. I felt like we were partners in my son’s treatment plan.
As I saw progress and came to understand the why behind what the doctor was recommending, I grew to trust him. I saw his faithfulness in making sure our son was given the best possible care. He was open to answering questions, showing us time and again how much he cared. This gave me hope.
It turned out our son had medically intractable epilepsy, which really just meant medication had failed to bring his seizures under control. Seizure medication hadn’t worked well for our son, but the doctor believed epilepsy surgery might be a good treatment option for him. I wanted nothing more than healing for our son.
Coming to Grips
At the time, I was heavily pregnant with our would-be middle child and just finishing up the last class for my MBA. Life was a little crazy, and the thought of adding epilepsy surgery to the mix felt overwhelming. Although I wanted to try whatever treatment plan was right for our son, I wasn’t sure how I could handle caring for an epilepsy surgery patient, tending for a newborn baby, and recovering from a c-section at the same time.
I shared my concerns with the physician, who comforted me by saying it wasn’t going to happen right away. There was a lot of additional testing and preparation needed leading up to the epilepsy surgery. Plus, a team of medical professionals was assigned to the case who would provide ample support. We agreed to continue the discussion and begin the preparations after the baby arrived on the scene.
Over the course of the next several months, I graduated with my MBA and our healthy baby girl made her grand entrance. We settled into a new routine and began preparing for our son’s surgery. This included me going back to work sooner than originally planned, so I could take time off in the coming months to prepare for the surgery and later in the year to care for our son.
We were showered with love and support during this phase of our life. This included our parents, who were there for us every step of the way, and my sister, a talented RN who happened to work for Phoenix Children’s Hospital. It also included my coworkers, who listened to and prayed for us constantly. Not to mention the incredible support we received from the medical team at Phoenix Children’s Hospital assigned to our case.
Experiencing Peace
As the day of the surgery approached, my boss’s boss called the team into his office to pray for my son, my family, and the medical team. Although I was working for a secular business, God surrounded me with fellow believers in Christ. We had no church home at the time. This was for a myriad of reasons, many of which centered around the complexities of attending church services with a special needs child. Even so, God made a way for us to be cared for by His followers and put us on a path to eventually finding a church home.
The day of the surgery arrived. While there’s a lot that could be said about that day (and might be said in the future), what really stands out is how I felt. Peaceful. I knew right away that I was experiencing the peace of God, which truly surpasses all understanding (Philippians 4:7). I’m a fixer by nature, and I tend to feel uncomfortable when things aren’t in my control. This was certainly one of those situations, yet it didn’t matter.
Rather than driving myself crazy with all the possible what ifs, I chose to turn to prayer, focusing on God’s will and the good in the situation (Philippians 4:6). I was thankful for our medical team. I was thankful my sister worked at the hospital. I was thankful our son’s seizures originated in a section of his brain that made him a prime candidate for epilepsy surgery. I was thankful for a supportive work environment. I was thankful for my husband, our parents, our beautiful baby girl, and everyone else in our lives. I was thankful I was chosen to be our son’s mom.
When the day arrived, we were covered in prayer. I couldn’t understand the level of peace I felt, other than it had to have come from God. It was the only thing that made sense.
I’m happy to report the surgery was a success. Our son is now almost 19-years old and is completely seizure-free. When I look back on this time of my life, what I remember most is the feeling of peace I experienced on that day, along with the people who loved and supported us along the way.
Understanding God’s Love
God is faithful, no matter the trials we face (1 Corinthians 1:8-9). Even if the surgery hadn’t turned out the way it did, God’s love would have remained (1 John 4:16). He would have stood by my side and covered me in His love, as trust in Him provides for the hope that anchors the soul (Hebrews 6:19). He truly is our refuge and strength, a very present help in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1).
It’s because of Him we’re able to say, in the words of Horatio Spafford, “It is well with my soul,” even when we’re facing the most difficult trials. Even if fear would have us believe otherwise. Even if things don’t go our way. Even if … and for this, I am ever grateful.
On a cool evening in April, my sister gave me a call. “Would you be interested in helping me write a devotional study about hope for a women’s event?” she asked. The answer was a resounding YES! We all need hope. It’s what makes life worthwhile. Hope helps get us through the darkest of days. The world needs hope, I need hope, and what a great honor to share it with others.
As I thought about this, I realized I hadn’t spent all that much time thinking about hope. I mean really truly pondering hope at the deepest level. What is it? What does it mean? How do we get it? What is hope, really?
The simplest definition of hope provided by the Merriam-Webster dictionary — as a noun and a verb — is trust. Hope is the confident expectation that something will happen. It’s reliance on the thing — or person — on which our hope is centered. With hope, we can rest assured that the thing we desire is unequivocally certain to happen.
As I considered this definition, I had to take a step back. It occurred to me how frequently I misuse the word hope. I think the same is true for many of us. When we use the word hope in conversation, often what we really mean is we wish something will happen. We want a thing to happen, but we’re not confident it will occur. This is because what we’re wishing for isn’t certain and is potentially unattainable. We can’t rest assured on wishes.
I think we sometimes use the word hope because we want so badly for what we wish for to be true, it’s like we’re trying to will it into existence. Somehow if we wish hard enough, it will happen. There’s an undertone of sadness in wishing. Compare this to the joyfulness that accompanies hoping, which comes from the fact that hope is underpinned by trust and confident expectation.
When we choose to follow Jesus, we can rest in the certainty of God’s promises. We have hope in knowing that we are saved through faith in Jesus Christ. As we’re told in scripture:
If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God has raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.
~ Romans 10:9-10 (NIV)
We have the God of the universe on our side, who loved us so much that He sent His one and only Son to die for us. Knowing how much we’re loved by God is the best reason for hope. So is the understanding that nothing can separate us from the love of Christ. We can confidently trust in the hope of God’s love, as His love never fails (Psalm 136).
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
~ Romans 8:38-39 (NIV)
There are many examples of God’s hope-inducing love for us in scripture, and Hebrews 6:19 does a great job of creating a visual for us:
This hope is a strong and trustworthy anchor for our souls. It leads us through the curtain into God’s inner sanctuary.
~ Hebrews 6:19 (NLT)
Just as an anchor holds a ship fast in the midst of a storm, we can rest firmly assured in the hope of God’s promises no matter what might come our way. This hope is an anchor for our souls that enables us to endure whatever trials we’re bound to face. While we won’t be able to avoid the troubles of the world, we can take heart because Jesus has overcome the world (John 16:33).
There’s such freedom in understanding that God loves us despite our sins and failures (Hebrews 10:10-18). The weights of the world are lifted off our shoulders when we respond to the call of Jesus, and in His love we’ll find rest for our souls (Matthew 11:28-30). We can rest assured because God’s promises are eternal (Matthew 24:35).
Spending time studying the hope that comes from placing our trust in Jesus Christ was good for my soul. It resulted in a 16 part devotional study covering hope created with my sister, which we would love to share with you. If you’re interested in a free PDF download of our study on hope, simply share your email address via the following submission box and we’ll send a copy your way.
Also, if you know of others who would benefit from our study on hope — or you plan to go through the study as a group — please send them our way to request a free PDF download. If you have thoughts to share, feel free to post them in the comments section. We always enjoy engaging in conversations that are helpful and hopeful.
In late 2014, I met one of my best friends. We spent the early part of 2015 bonding over countless hours of road biking. We signed up for a ride scheduled for early May, which gave us just the level of motivation needed to complete regular training rides. But these rides were about so much more than building endurance. They were more about building a friendship that would last across the miles and years. It was about bonding in sisterhood and sharing the love of Christ.
This time of my life was pretty tough. In mid-2014, we were told my mom was in the final stages of her fight with metastatic breast cancer. This lady was a fighter, more than almost anyone I’ve ever met. She approached this battle with grace, and continued to shower us with love even as her health deteriorated.
As Terry and I biked, we talked about life, our families, the goodness of God, and so much more. It’s beyond my ability to express how these conversations enriched my life. I talked to my mom on the phone every day, and I couldn’t imagine not being able to share my musings about life with her. However, the deeper my relationship with Terry grew, the less of a concern this became.
I came to understand the importance of having friends like Terry in my life. While there’s nothing quite like a mom such as mine, this type of sisterhood is also important. This is because you can bolster each other up during the tough times and remind each other of who you are in Christ.
In the words of King Solomon from the book of Ecclesiastes:
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either one of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.
~ Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 (NIV)
Winter came and went, and with the newness of spring, my mom entered her new life in the heavenly realms. I was at peace knowing she was no longer in pain and was in the presence of Jesus. Over the prior months, the friendships I had developed with Terry and many others covered me and my family with the love of Christ.
I experienced the truth Jesus was conveying when he said:
A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.
~ John 13:34-35 (NIV)
Shortly after my mom’s passing, the day of the big ride arrived. We awoke early, shivering at the starting line while we waited for the announcers to release us. Though it’s said “April showers bring May flowers”, we spent the whole 40 degree day under May showers with no flowers in sight. Wet and cold, we nonetheless continued on our way.
At the 30 mile halfway mark, we enjoyed lunch with our friend and riding companion, Elisabeth, and tried to get warm. Before long a support van appeared, offering to take riders who didn’t want to continue to the finish line. The three of us shared a look, and our eyes said what our voices would not. Had any of us spoken the word, our ride would have been finished. Instead, as a cohesive unit, we trudged on.
When you’re cold and tired and at your wits end, the mind can be a terrible thing. Remember, I had said farewell to my mom shortly before this event, counted in mere days. As the miles dragged on, and the feeling in my feet diminished, my mind started to get the best of me. To get through it, I turned my mind to lovely things like the smell of the rain, the sound of the birds on spring mornings, and my favorite songs.
I think this is partly what the Apostle Paul meant when he said:
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me — put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.
~ Philippians 4:8-9 (NIV)
As I unclipped from my pedals and stepped onto the ground at the last rest stop, I quickly realized I could no longer feel my feet. A nice couple rushed over as they saw me stumble and ushered me to their van. Before I could say a word, they had wrapped me in a blanket, put me in front of a heater, and removed my socks and shoes. Once I was warm, they gave me new socks and sent me on my way.
I was enveloped in the kindness and love of these strangers for the rest of the ride. As I approached the finish line, they were there along with my friends, husband, and kids cheering me on. Suddenly, I didn’t miss my mom quite so badly. I realized I carried her love within me, and remembered that the love of Christ covers it all.
We can experience His love by taking time to appreciate the lovely smell of the rain, enjoying the company of friends and family, experiencing the kindness of strangers, and in so many other ways. As we’re told in 1 John 4, God is love and we’re able to love because God loved us first. We’ve been given a gift, and the most wonderful thing we can do is share it with others.
This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.
~ 1 John 4: 9-11 (NIV)
When we choose to follow Christ, we become part of His body and each have a role to play (1 Corinthians 12). By discovering our God-given gifts, we’re able to contribute in the way He’s uniquely equipped us. However, if we discover our gifts and fail to love, what have really done?
As the Apostle Paul explains so clearly:
If I speak in the tongues of men or angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always perseveres.
Love never fails.
~ 1 Corinthians 13:1-8 (NIV)
Friends, let us love one another. Let us remember we’re not alone. God is with us always. And because of the love He has shown us, we can love others. May love be our motivation, the driving force behind who we are and what we do. Let us love people well.
For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.
~ John 3:16 (NIV)
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
Meraki Endeavors 
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