Do Your Worst

A couple weeks ago I tweeted (yup, tweeted), "Sometimes I wonder what in the world God thinks I'm made of.  Today is one of those days."  "Today is one of those days..." because for the past four months there has been helping after helping of grief, fear, loss, recovery; hope, more grief, more fear, more loss; less hope, confusion, surprises (the not awesome kind) - all simply wrapped up in the not so simple word, heartache.  

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick..."

With blow after blow, I find myself asking God pretty frequently these days, "Seriously, what do You think I'm made of?!"  Whether He's incited it or allowed it, this season has unleashed the perfect storm of familial, spiritual and personal struggles that have shaken the core of my strength.  I want to be mad at Him for all of this, but deep down I know He is not the culprit.   I know that my frustration is misplaced; that I'm confused, I'm afraid, I don't have answers, I don't know what the future or even the next few days will look like, and for the girl who always believes redemption is possible, I've been living through days that feel way more hopeless than hopeful.  Days that are just... deflating.  If hope were a balloon, it would be as a if someone poked the tiniest hole in an unsearchable place so that slowly, squeakishly, out would leak the substance from within.  So, honestly?  Yeah - sometimes hope fades, life feels meaningless, and I feel empty - deflated.  The citadel of my life is attacked at it's most secure posts, and I'm left wondering what will become of me without their strength.  

My name, "Tara," means tower of strength, or strength of character.  But some days, I'm not feeling so strong, and I certainly don't feel like I'm showing much character.  On the inside I'm just broken - "dashed to pieces," as Job would say, and I don't understand the good of taking an incredibly melancholy, introverted girl and crushing the small shred of positivity within her.  In a word, I feel defeated.  

Done.  

Undone.  

I want to be courageous.  I want to honor Jesus.  I want to make Him look good - really good - through all of this.  But there are days when everything within me is weak, so so weak, and I am failing.  I feel like the worst of me has been exposed.  Like I'm just a cowarding little girl who needs her mom to be stronger than her, who needs people to stay and not go, who's been kidding herself all along to believe that good really can come of all this mess.

Then today, after blow number "I stopped counting a long time ago," I asked God again, "Seriously!?  What do You think I'm made of?"

His response?


"My Tara, I thought you should know by now.  

You are made of ME."

Is it possible?


With every shattering heartache of a blow, could God be cracking away at His own image, wrapped up in this flesh and bones?  

Could He love me so much?

That much?

I know that all of the things my family is going through are not about me.  I'm selfish sometimes, but not that selfish - I get it, it's not all about me.  But in the meantime of it all, could God really - still - be so concerned with me, His little Tara, that He would keep throwing punches to let me find out what I am made of?  And that what I'm made of... is Him?

If I am made of Him, and if each blow cracks away the layers of me that are hiding Him, then the most terrifying, sincere prayer I can pray tonight is this: Do Your worst, Lord.  Do Your worst.  Somehow in all of this mess, let the pieces of me become pieces of You.  Let this tower of strength be crumbled to find You still remain amidst the rubble.  

God, this season is dark and ugly.  But You, You are lovely - and I love You.

Now, merciful Savior, do Your worst, and make me lovely too.

Lovely... like You.

Something to Cry About

A week and a half ago, my grandpa died.  For some girls, the grandfather / granddaughter relationship is, sadly, not one to be greatly missed, but in this case - in our case - my brother, sister and I have a lot to cry over.  Our grandfather was a quiet man, simple and hard-working.  He was rarely affectionate physically or verbally, yet looking back through old pictures, I keep finding photo after photo of him holding us, laughing with us - being with us.  Growing up in Michigan, my sister Sonya and I would beg Mom and Dad to take us to Granny and Grandpa's house every weekend.  We would watch old movies, horse races and football games, eat Grandpa's homemade popcorn, fall asleep on the couch while Grandma scratched our back, go to the mall together, take walks, play in the backyard, eat a lot, talk a lot and laugh a lot.  At the end of the weekend, Grandpa would drive us home to the tune of the Detroit Tigers baseball games on the car radio.  

That will forever be one of my favorite, most comforting sounds - fuzzy, baseball radio.

Grandpa grew up in deep south Tennessee in a family that rarely, if ever, spoke the words, "I love you."  I was eleven years old the first time he replied with anything other than "Ok..." when I told him I loved him.  We had made our first move away from Michigan, now living in New Jersey, and missing one another terribly.  I was 11, so I cried about it - a lot.  Standing in the kitchen of our New Jersey home, talking to grandpa on the phone, I ended the call as usual saying, "I love you, Grandpa."  In a speedy, humbling, unforgettable moment, Grandpa snuck out those sweet words as fast as possible: "I love you, too, bye."  

It was fast, but it was beautiful.

As we grew and moved back to Michigan, then to Florida, then to Indiana, our time together fluctuated, but our family always remained close.  Though Grandpa was often quiet and inexpressive, over the years those speedy replies slowed down and sweetened up into a tender, southern, heart-wrenching, "I love you, too, honey... Goodbye."

All of our relationships with Grandpa were unique.  As the only grandson on Mom's side, Grandpa took great pride in my brother, Todd - a Denver police officer and all-around, ridiculously fit athlete.  After Grandpa passed away, we found an old photo in Grandpa's wallet.  It was of an 11 year old Todd sitting on Grandma's lap.  For over 30something years, he carried that photo and treasured it.  Sonya was Grandpa's partner in crime.  She shared housing with my grandparents for many years, and with her infectious laugh and joyful demeanor, she had a special way of getting Grandpa talking and laughing like no one else could.  Grandpa was proud of her, too, and loved hearing stories about her spunky little Jaden... the spitting image of his spunky mother :)

Grandpa was quiet, and I am quiet, so put the two of us together and you had, well, a lot of quiet.  Somehow I always felt shy with him, but endeared to him, and it didn't matter that we were just a teeny less chatty when others weren't around - we enjoyed each other, words or no words.  I will forever cherish every memory of watching football, basketball and baseball with him on TV, in silence, back as a child in Michigan, as a teen in Florida, and as an adult here in Indiana.  I will never, ever forget that he was there - ever so present in our lives - for vacations, weekends, dinners, lunch, breakfast, outings, walks, graduations, weddings, birthdays, holidays, special days, ordinary days - he was there.  

He was present, and now he's not, and I miss him.

Today, I had to stop back by grandpa's apartment to drop off his keys.  I thought I had cried all I could last week, but handing those keys over, I lost it, again - in front of 4 random strangers at a front desk.  The words, "I'm Cam Medley's granddaughter" were apparently just too much, still too fresh, but they rang true.  Present or not, I am Cam Medley's granddaughter, and I am so proud to be his.  As I walked back to my car, I whispered through my tears a frustrated, "Dang it!" because, honestly, I don't want to cry anymore.  But you know...

Good daddies make their daughters cry.  

If I had a "no good grandfather," I would have no reason to cry over losing him.  Today, and all throughout my life, Cam Medley gave me something to cry about: 

I loved him.  

I still do.  

I always will. 

I'm thankful today that my precious grandfather is in the joyful presence of Jesus, and I can't wait to share our forever together.  I'm thankful that we do not grieve as those who have no hope.  More than anything, I am thankful that just as Grandpa's silence did not mean his absence, so the quietness of God in seasons of suffering do not mean that He has abandoned us.  After all:

He loved us.

He still loves us.

He always will.

"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