What do we do with the images of our loved one's last moments? And just like that , news of political corruption, or some other headline, has taken over the airwaves. I live in San Antonio, Tx, less than an hour from the horrendous floods that, only a few short weeks ago, gripped the Nation's attention. While the Nation is moving on, those in central Texas who lost so much may be only beginning to experience the depth of their pain. Some are grieving multiple family members taken all at once, others, their only child, and still others, the center of their lives -  their home. There is so much about what these families are experiencing that is bringing back not only memories of my own loss, but lessons I took away from it. My first husband was a fisherman lost at sea when I was 24 years old.  A month went by before his body was recovered. His Captain's body was never found. The sound of Coast Guard helicopters, the front page news updates of the search, the drowning...there ...

Over the years I have often found myself repeating these same words: We are in a tough spot again... Christians so often reference the 11th hour, when our last-minute God seems to miraculously show up, not in our timing, but in  his,  so the saying goes. But what happens when he doesn't show up? What about those times when the thing we were sure he would not allow to happen actually DOES?  I recently received the following text from a close friend: And this is only one of several difficult things happening in their lives.  Last night I sat in a sermon, where my Pastor, Ed Newton, was talking about the 11:59 mark - but have hope, he said, because 12:01 is coming!  We are in a tough spot again...  He asked, who in the crowd are in an 11:59 moment? Raise your hands. Of course, I did. We are there! He spoke a word over the crowd, a prophetic word I believe, that 12:01 is coming. The dark night of the soul is almost over and a new day is about to dawn...

70 Days. 70 days that feel like 70 years. 70 days a fisherman’s Widow, a title unbefitting a 24 year-old. 70 days of   gut-wrenching tears, unwanted change, rage, and depression.   Seeking a few hours away, a few hours to forget, I step out of the building on Table Bluff.   Across the small field of grass, I see a stand of trees clumped together, like a group of gossiping church ladies after Sunday service.    Behind me I hear the hum of fifty chattering voices bustling about, preparing to share a common meal. The crisp ocean breeze stings my cheek and wisps my hair. The salty smell simultaneously consoles and depresses me, binding me to this sacred place.    The bright sun high overhead invites me from the shadow of the doorway. The distant lapping of ocean waves calls me to traverse the short jaunt from the cold, protective building to the mystery beyond the trees. Like a teenager hesitant to break into a new crowd, anxiety rises within me a...