Many times I don't post what I write. So many times. And this is good because sometimes my writing, at least to me, can feel like venting. And who, in this world needs one more person venting on them? It happens all the time, with many a scroll or click, I feel the weight of someone else's anger. Usually, it does nothing to help any given situation. Usually, it's all misunderstood and thus only pushes us farther apart. Only further and further apart.
After the shootings in Florida and some scrolling of my own via Facebook. I was ready to write. And so I did. But I didn't post. Y'all don't need me venting on you. My intention is to always encourage, even if it is through some tough words of truth. Venting isn't encouraging. It isn't uplifting. It isn't kind. It reeks of frustration, snark and anger. It doesn't build up or seek the good of others. There is a fine line between lamenting (which is good and right) and venting. Often times when the line blurs, I won't post. You're welcome.
My focus changed soon after those terrifying shootings because someone that I and so many others held dear, passed away into Glory. The Bible calls this "sleeping" because it isn't really death for those that are in Christ. And it's a weird reality not to feel the weightiness of death for someone who's words of encouragement still ring true in my heart. It's weird to have joy, hope and freedom when thinking about someone that I held so dear dying. Part of this happiness was because in this death my Nannie was finally released from the strangle hold that Dementia grasped onto her until her very last days. She is now fully who she was always meant to be. It's an amazing revelation to think about.
Death is a sensitive subject and certainly, I know that even when believers die, this is often met with great and worthy sadness. I would never pretend to know or tell someone else how they need to grieve. At this particular funeral, remembering whom we have lost was indeed extremely sad, but remembering what she gained was even of greater comfort.
And so, I'm not downplaying death. I want to always point you to the Author and finisher of our faith and in Him is where my Nannie found her strength. Often we think of strength in terms of physical strength. Or even emotional strength that some seem to easily possess. Nannie certainly did not possess physical strength in a way that would be admired greatly by others. I'm not sure she even weighed more than 100 pounds most of her life. Her strength was not physical, or emotional even, it was in the way that Christ enabled her to love people so well. It was love that made her a force to reckon with. It was her love that she extended to every person she met. Every person. And from the first time she met me, she loved me well, which is saying a lot.
This could not have been easy. Sure I was sweet most of the time, but looking at this (often scantily clad young lady hanging on her grandson) it would have been easy for her to snub her Christian nose downcast at me and make me feel unwanted. But she never did. Ever. She never asked me to be something that I wasn't. I did not have to pretend to be something I wasn't to get her to approve of me. Certainly, there were things she didn't approve of, but she didn't ask me to rid myself of them (or even make me feel like I should) before she could start loving me. She just did. Always.
Every person at her humble funeral said the same thing in so many words; "She loved me so well." Over and over again. It was like her life mantra. A drumbeat. No, a heartbeat. That theme of loving well and praying often easily flowed off the lips of those that came to celebrate her life. It was such a triumphant reminder of what really matters in a day in age where all the venting often leaves me feeling parched and at the same time like I'm drowning in the Deep Sea of Darkness. It was like catching a buoy of truth that I had forgotten. I cannot solve all the worlds problems. I cannot have all the answers and try to fix every single thing. I cannot get people to actually listen to each other and realize we have more in common than not especially via social media. But I can, by the grace of God, love those around me well.
As the world rightly celebrated and morned with the Graham family at the death of their beloved, my Nannie was in the same category it's just she didn't have crowds flocking to hear her speak. No, she didn't have one single microphone but what she did have was a faith that splashed onto every single person she met in a way that was winsome and wise. She had a tongue that always encouraged, but never flattered and spoke truth. She had ears that listened before she spoke and hands that hugged, served and loved. She could be silly and loved to laughed. She always said that when we left she wouldn't let our PawPaw wipe the kids' handprints off the sliding glass door. She would tell him, "Just one more day, PawPaw!"
You see, she always knew what really mattered.
After the shootings in Florida and some scrolling of my own via Facebook. I was ready to write. And so I did. But I didn't post. Y'all don't need me venting on you. My intention is to always encourage, even if it is through some tough words of truth. Venting isn't encouraging. It isn't uplifting. It isn't kind. It reeks of frustration, snark and anger. It doesn't build up or seek the good of others. There is a fine line between lamenting (which is good and right) and venting. Often times when the line blurs, I won't post. You're welcome.
My focus changed soon after those terrifying shootings because someone that I and so many others held dear, passed away into Glory. The Bible calls this "sleeping" because it isn't really death for those that are in Christ. And it's a weird reality not to feel the weightiness of death for someone who's words of encouragement still ring true in my heart. It's weird to have joy, hope and freedom when thinking about someone that I held so dear dying. Part of this happiness was because in this death my Nannie was finally released from the strangle hold that Dementia grasped onto her until her very last days. She is now fully who she was always meant to be. It's an amazing revelation to think about.
Death is a sensitive subject and certainly, I know that even when believers die, this is often met with great and worthy sadness. I would never pretend to know or tell someone else how they need to grieve. At this particular funeral, remembering whom we have lost was indeed extremely sad, but remembering what she gained was even of greater comfort.
And so, I'm not downplaying death. I want to always point you to the Author and finisher of our faith and in Him is where my Nannie found her strength. Often we think of strength in terms of physical strength. Or even emotional strength that some seem to easily possess. Nannie certainly did not possess physical strength in a way that would be admired greatly by others. I'm not sure she even weighed more than 100 pounds most of her life. Her strength was not physical, or emotional even, it was in the way that Christ enabled her to love people so well. It was love that made her a force to reckon with. It was her love that she extended to every person she met. Every person. And from the first time she met me, she loved me well, which is saying a lot.
This could not have been easy. Sure I was sweet most of the time, but looking at this (often scantily clad young lady hanging on her grandson) it would have been easy for her to snub her Christian nose downcast at me and make me feel unwanted. But she never did. Ever. She never asked me to be something that I wasn't. I did not have to pretend to be something I wasn't to get her to approve of me. Certainly, there were things she didn't approve of, but she didn't ask me to rid myself of them (or even make me feel like I should) before she could start loving me. She just did. Always.
Every person at her humble funeral said the same thing in so many words; "She loved me so well." Over and over again. It was like her life mantra. A drumbeat. No, a heartbeat. That theme of loving well and praying often easily flowed off the lips of those that came to celebrate her life. It was such a triumphant reminder of what really matters in a day in age where all the venting often leaves me feeling parched and at the same time like I'm drowning in the Deep Sea of Darkness. It was like catching a buoy of truth that I had forgotten. I cannot solve all the worlds problems. I cannot have all the answers and try to fix every single thing. I cannot get people to actually listen to each other and realize we have more in common than not especially via social media. But I can, by the grace of God, love those around me well.
As the world rightly celebrated and morned with the Graham family at the death of their beloved, my Nannie was in the same category it's just she didn't have crowds flocking to hear her speak. No, she didn't have one single microphone but what she did have was a faith that splashed onto every single person she met in a way that was winsome and wise. She had a tongue that always encouraged, but never flattered and spoke truth. She had ears that listened before she spoke and hands that hugged, served and loved. She could be silly and loved to laughed. She always said that when we left she wouldn't let our PawPaw wipe the kids' handprints off the sliding glass door. She would tell him, "Just one more day, PawPaw!"
You see, she always knew what really mattered.
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