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Remember back in January when I chose the word LISTEN to focus on this year? Wow, I could have never foreseen the amount of opportunities I would be given to do just that. Maybe when you focus on something you notice it more? Maybe you become more open to the teaching experiences that are thrown at you? Who knows, but this past 8 months, and even more specifically this summer,  I have discovered that there are so many opportunities to hear the lesson when you really stop and listen.

After coming back from Lindsey’s funeral in OREGON, we spent a few days getting back into the groove of life. We finally celebrated two of our children’s birthdays, because nothing says “Happy Birthday!” like turning 10 and 6 while eating fruit snacks and getting punched by your sister in a car during a 17 hour road trip. We spent a weekend exploring the mountains and teaching my boy how to ride his dirt bike. Our older kids went to UNCLE LOGAN’S Fundamentals Basketball Camp {Yep, that’s our little brother. Yep, he is amazing…and yep, he’s totally taken. Sorry ladies, his wife is a babe.} After camp, we spent the day at the lake playing with cousins then I started helping my dad out with his big kitchen remodel project.

That’s when life hit again, hard.

My cousin’s 15 month old son drowned and the world suddenly stood still.

The next few days were a blur, but thanks to a loving and supportive husband, I found myself in the car on the way to California with my mother and aunts. I didn’t know what I was going to say or do, but something in me quietly said, “Go.” So, I listened.

When I got to Cali, I had no words. What do you say to a father who just lost his sunshine boy? How do you comfort a mother who’s arms are aching to hold her baby? So, I did the only thing I could think of, I hugged them tight and then took their kids out front to play so they could have some quiet time to make funeral arrangements. I prayed and prayed for the right words, but they never came. Instead came a quiet whisper to just be there. So, I listened.

My heart felt ripped in pieces as I watched my cousins place the body of their happy, sweet, exuberant youngest child in the ground. Every thud from the stems of the sunflowers hitting the casket was like a knife in me. Death was too real. I wanted to wrap my arms around their family and never let them go. I wanted to fix it. I longed to see little Devin smile and hear Lindsey sing. I wanted Christ to come right then and make everything that had happened over the past few weeks just magically go away. But, He didn’t.

I left without ever really saying or doing anything. I felt like a failure of a friend, like I should have done more. But, what?

When I arrived home I spent the day holding my children. As I watched them play, my mind was transported back, almost exactly a year earlier, to the funeral of another little one who left this life too soon, CARSON. I thought about the people who had served my friend…the EMT’s, the neighborhood children. And, then I thought about what I had seen the past several weeks, people bringing food, supporting, loving, praying, donating money, flowers, and their time to help in any way they could. And, again I was reminded of the good in this world.

No, our Savior didn’t come down and change the outcome. But, He was there. He was there in every act of service. He was there in every kind word. He was there in every embrace. And, He was the light in even the darkest of moments.

Sometimes the right words won’t come no matter how hard we pray for them. Sometimes we just have to listen even though we don’t understand what is being asked of us. Sometimes there is nothing that we are supposed to do other than just be there, and that’s ok. Because in those little quiet moments of vulnerability, we become teachable. We are softened and become moldable. Our ability to hear and our capacity to love increases. We become better.

What did I learn?

That I can’t fix everything.

That there is good in this world even though bad things happen.

But, most importantly, to BE STILL.

So, I’ll listen.