blessing

Sing To Me

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

I think, in past blogs, we’ve sufficiently established my lack of singing ability and that it seems to be a long inherited familial deficit. As a young Christian, this often kept me from participating too vocally in corporate worship. As I grew in faith, so did my volume. Mind you, I’m still sensitive to the ears of my faith family around me, but I now recognize that in worship, I’m singing for an audience of One. And, well, He IS responsible for the voice He gave me….

But, since I’m not musically gifted, I will admit that much of my worship is done differently. In my time in the Word, in service, and in prayer. Oftentimes, in words on paper. So today I’ll combine them all.

I learned something differently this week so I’ll share it all with you, and then thank you.

I sat in the back of the sanctuary. It’s been my habit in years past to sit in the front so I’m less distracted by the people around me. So I can focus more fully on the message. Though I don’t have ADD or ADHD, I have found, in my love for all of you, I tend to look for you. To look to see how you’re doing; if you’re okay, and if you’re present. I especially love watching your kids. There’s just something about a little one with their family on a Sunday morning listening to the Word of God that makes me go all soft and fuzzy inside.

But I digress. This Sunday, I sat in the back. And it wasn’t just a mental attendance and temperature of the room I was taking. I think it’s the first time I’ve watched everyone sing in worship. And now I’m a little jealous (for probably the first and last time) of our worship team. Because it is a beautiful thing to see a church packed full of brothers and sisters praising our Lord. Want to know what’s even better? Hearing a church full of brothers and sisters praising our Lord! For a first service gathering, everyone was surprisingly awake this Sunday. And it was absolutely breathtaking!

Our pastor must have felt it too. Yes, I know how much time goes into sermon prep. But I like to think that the Spirit went before this sermon prep and then prepped the hearts and voices gathered on Sunday so that our pastor could speak accurately and passionately about the worship we’d just experienced. Referencing Colossians 3:16 he said:

Our first audience when we sing is God Himself. We perform for an audience of One. But there is another function to our worship. We’re ministering to one another. We’re teaching and admonishing one another. So when you sing…’it is well with my soul’, you’re singing for the woman that just received that cancer diagnosis…and what you’re telling her in that moment is, ‘Christ has not forgotten you. He has you. There is a firm foundation underneath your feet’. You’re singing for the man that just received the papers of divorce from his wife of fifteen years…and you’re saying, ‘no matter where you’re at, He will walk with you. This is not the end. There is hope in Jesus.’ – Patrick Mostek

Colossians 3:16 16  Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.

And then I thought of all the times you’ve sung to me. For me.

All of the times my mouth formed the words, but my heart was far behind. All of the times I knew it to be true, but needed to hear it from you.

The time I’d been the one to receive the diagnosis, but for Baby Girl. When I wept ugly tears and not a small amount of snot on your shirt. When you sang:

“Your love is, like radiant diamonds
Bursting inside us, we cannot contain
Your love will, surely come find us
Like blazing wild fires, singing Your name

God of mercy, sweet love of mine
I have surrendered, to Your design
May this offering, stretch across the skies
And these Hallelujahs, be multiplied”

And as I struggled, through sleepless, hurting, desperate tears, to even sing the words, you sang them for God and to me.

Because at that moment, His love did not feel like radiant diamonds. I couldn’t feel it at all. But you told me it was true.

You told me His love would come find me. And I wasn’t sure it would. Worse, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.

Because at that moment, His love didn’t feel merciful. At all. But you told me, reminded me, that He is. And hugged me, through the song and your own tears, knowing it didn’t seem merciful at the time.

And at that moment, I couldn’t surrender to His design. But I looked around, and saw you, with the afflicted child, who also had every logical reason to feel the same. But who had repeatedly shown me not only that it was possible, but modeled how it was done. And if you could do it, I thought, just maybe, I could do it too.

It would be weeks yet before I felt anything like radiant diamonds. It would be weeks before I, like Job, was certain I even wanted Him to find me. And even more weeks before I could sing a heartfelt hallelujah.

And it would be years before I could hear this song again without feeling the angst that had come with it. But He who is love and mercy has brought such healing to my heart, has enabled me to sing along with you again as we sing, our hallelujahs multiplied.

So, thank you for singing. And please, continue to sing to me. Because as you sing for our audience of One, you bless me and others around you.

Lord, let me never underestimate the ways you work in corporate worship. Let me never take the incredible gift of gathering for granted. Please, continue to use me to teach, admonish, and minister to those you place around me. In spite of my lack of musical ability. For Your glory, and our good.

Hidden Treasure

/ bobbiblanchard / 1 Comment

When I was little, my dad bought a full dining room suite of furniture brand new. Solid oak, I can still remember the smell when it was first delivered to our apartment in Massachusetts. Consisting of a table, chairs, and hutch, I now wonder as an adult how exactly they managed to get it up the stairs! I think we had the table a full week before my little sister stabbed her fork into it in a fit of Italian temper and a cover for the top was ordered that would remain in place the rest of my childhood. But the hutch! That’s where the treasures are, right?

Having fallen out of fashion somewhat, perhaps this will not be as relatable to a younger generation so I’ll elaborate. The hutch, or the china cabinet if you’d like, is where all the THINGS were stored. Newly married, Hubby and I bought our first (and turns out only, because who wants to spend money on furniture?!) dining room set. We have since parted ways with our bulky hutch, but I remember loving to have somewhere to display the beautiful, impractical, matching china and somewhere to hide all of the less aesthetically pleasing, practical, pieces.

Yes, I’m going somewhere beyond memory lane here, hold tight. I also remember having a discussion once about the top shelf things in life; the things we strive for and display for all the world to see. And that conversation came flooding back to me this Sunday as I wrestled with some things. Hubby has a new job, with new days and new hours that are making family time a challenge. So in order to carve out more time, we met him at the Mall of America after work on Saturday. It’s been many years since we’ve dined and shopped at that mall and I truly wasn’t prepared for it to be an emotional experience. It’s a mall.

But as we walked out of the parking ramp and into the walkway, the changes in our life started to manifest in tangible ways. Starting with Baby Girl’s service dog. Who I realized had yet to experience an escalator. This was a fun experiment which started with carrying a thirty pound dog up the escalator and ended with waiting for a lull in foot traffic to give her a chance to examine the frightening contraption in her own time before putting her paws at risk a second time. I think we made it almost to the restaurant before I realized that Baby Girl was struggling. I knew this would be a challenge for her. Most don’t know that she had been unable to leave the house without a panic attack for almost the last two years. The dog has been a gift, and one I didn’t know we needed, until it was the thing that would set her free of home. But this was a lot of lights, a lot of sound, a lot of…. people. And it became evident pretty fast that we had pushed the envelope a little too far. We got through dinner, with the help of some medication, and did what we’ve come to do. Persevere. Make the most. Adapt. Find the good. And when we exited the restaurant, we were inundated with “good”. Have you ever taken a moment to appreciate the sheer vastness of THINGS in a mall? It doesn’t have to be the Mall of America to realize this is where all the top shelf things are. And this is where we used to get our things! I remember bringing the kids when they were little and finding the shoes with the swoosh to adorn our pride and the store with every imaginable accessory to cover and distract from any perceived imperfection, the favorite store with the actual sizes of their tiny clothes in the name to feed my vanity and the kiosks with the latest and greatest of “needed” electronics that would promise to fulfill and distract us for seconds…. all the beautiful, shiny, new, “quality”, top shelf things. And I’d like to say that I no longer found them beautiful. I’d like to say that the desire to obtain them and display them was completely gone. Burned like dross in the fire of affliction and refined to holiness that is no longer attracted to, or deceived by, excess. But alas, my flesh still wanted to reach for a few of the top shelf things.

Baby Girl, now medicated and at least able to walk with us, had no desire to enter a store. With her sensory problems, she had no desire for fun clothes or shoes. The mother/daughter shopping I had once so looked forward to will never happen. And it hurt. Oldest Son, not walking with the Lord, but at least walking with his father, was there too. And Mini Hubby brought up the rear. Literally. Often overlooked in the rest of the drama, my stellar parenting was revealed when he tried on shoes to discover the ones he’d been wearing were two and a half sizes too small. And that hurt too.

The mall closed and we left and I was happy to leave. I’d had enough of out of reach top shelf things.

Sunday was another story. Or perhaps, another shelf.

Because, praise God, our lives do not consist of top shelf things. Or at least they shouldn’t. And that was the reminder it turns out I needed.

Because the bottom shelf things are the useful things. The things hidden behind the cabinet doors are the ones we use and need the most. In our actual hutches, they’re the colanders and small appliances and hand me down kitchen tools or the big puke bowls. The things we don’t display but would miss far more than the matching gravy boat, creamer and butter dish brought out for holidays. The things that make and shape and daily form the ordinary and necessary parts of our lives. The essentials.

Sunday morning found me rummaging in that cabinet. And Pastor Mike shone a light in a back corner. Leukodystrophy is always the elephant in that cabinet of ours. The biggest, bulkiest, ugliest tool. The one we never seem able to put away for long because it’s used the most to do all that refining and shaping and molding us into Christ likeness. But back behind it in the cabinet was fear. It’s not there because it’s used less, but back there because I want it the least. It’s a pain to use. Literally. It’s ugly and heavy and I’d honestly prefer to toss it. In fact, my second greatest desire in heaven (after finally coming face to face with Jesus) is being parted with fear.

But Sunday I sat with Baby Girl’s hand in mine while her little body shook and big, fat, tears ran down both of our faces and Pastor shed light on the fear and we both picked it up and let it do its work. Because, according to him, it’s a useful thing. “Fear is an invitation…to demonstrate who I am and where I am with God. And where my trust really lies.”

And when I pulled that fear out I took a closer look. I’m afraid I’m not enough. Because I know I’m not enough. I can’t make Baby Girl comfortable. I can’t make her independent. I can’t make her life what I wanted it to be. I can’t save Oldest Son. I can’t undo damage done. I can’t even keep track of shoe sizes for the easy one. I fear falling short. I know all of us fall short of the glory of God, but I fear falling short of the finish line. Not running the race well. Not ever hearing those blessed words, “Well done, good and faithful servant”.

So where does the fear demonstrate I am? In utter and total dependence on my God. The kind of dependence that keeps me on my knees, far out of reach of the top shelf things. The kind of dependence that means I need Him not just for my daily bread, my sustenance, but for every breath I breathe. The kind of dependence that means I’m painfully and blessedly aware that I can’t finish well without Him. The kind of dependence that absolutely requires that I think about and praise Him, moment by moment, for the ways He has blessed us in and through the bottom shelf things.

And so I discovered, the hidden treasure, buried in the back on the bottom shelf, is a very useful tool…. this ugly fear.

Then, Baby Girl and I held hands and cried and prayed some more and I looked up…to find a different kind of hidden treasure. And with that, a sweet reminder to put the fear away once it’s done its work, thank God for His countless blessings and sustaining grace…and laugh.

Honestly, hidden treasure is often the last place one would expect…

No End in Sight

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

I stepped outside the other day to let the puppy out and smelled it. As Nessie raced around the yard, nose to the ground, finding the perfect place to pee, I lifted mine and made out the musty smell of flowers in last bloom, decaying plants that have offered up their final harvest, the unique blend of weeds that make their appearance during the second week of August and the hot, final push of summer.

And it made me nauseous.

Instantly, I became aware of the cicadas and their call for fall. And it made my heart race and my palms sweat. The sun hung low and heavy in the sky and I realized…it’s the end. The end of long days, flip flops, warm sweaty kids, dirt between toes, skipped lunches, water clogged ears, sun burns and no schedules. But for me, it’s not just the end of summer.

For as long as I can remember, fall has meant the end. As a little, the end of summer meant the end of a visit with my mom. For another year. At its worst, when I was youngest, it was a traumatic forced removal. At its best, when I was older, an unhealthy reinforcement that fall was to be avoided at all costs.

I made some headway while the kids were little. Some new memories of fall. What’s not to love about a toddler picking a pumpkin or going on a hayride? A kindergartener finding their hero’s costume to wear or learning how to make applesauce and apple pie?

Now, the second week of August has become Baby Girl’s first diagnosis day. Which I was convinced would be the end of me. Or at the very least, the end of my sanity. It was neither. However, it did become the end of life as we knew it. And eight years later the very smell in the air has the power to transport my body to that same day, answering the phone. The nausea, the racing heart, the sweaty palms. Sometimes even the blacking of the corners of my eyes and the roaring in my ears. Not to mention the inability to sleep.

But here’s the thing. I know it’s not the end. Not really. It may have been the end of what we knew, but it was the beginning of something better. Something bigger and richer. Though my body might not have gotten the memo, my heart knows there is great joy. Fall means the beginning of a life I didn’t know existed. Where every day is cherished, both good and bad. Where our very definitions of priority and blessing, faithfulness and love, were turned on their heads. Where there is deep, deep gratitude and preciously simple joy. Where we have found a lifelong dependence on the Lord and the joy of watching Him faithfully provide.

It also now means the beginning of a homeschool year. The beginning of learning both about the world around us, and the God surrounding us and within us…together.

And this year, it marked the beginning of new life for Mini Hubby. An incredible gift of which the timing is not lost on me.

In short, this is a season I haven’t and won’t likely ever choose. I may never run racing for the first pumpkin latte or stock up on the spice candles. I may never decorate for fall and long for hoodies. But, it’s a season my heart is beginning to love as God continues to use it to bind me up and restore that joy within me. And I suspect I’ll have to continue to fight for that as my body catches up with our current circumstances. And, as I was reminded this week, there is still an enemy that would steal my love and gratitude. There is a thief that still, on occasion, sneaks in during the night and tries to rob my peace and silence the profession of my joy to the glory of God.

I’ll keep fighting because though this season continues to be a roller coaster of ends and beginnings for me, I know there is really never an end. Not really. Not for those in Christ. He is all new life and new beginnings for those who put their faith in Him.

There is no end in sight.

NOT an orphan

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

I have spent the last couple of months processing and praying about how to share this with you all. Because it’s an amazing thing. But in order to truly appreciate the provision, you need to fully appreciate the need. And though much of the need was of a financial nature, the emotional need was just as, if not more, important.

A few months ago, I was invited to participate in a podcast with an organization called Hunter’s Hope, to share how God has been, and continues to be, a very present help and Hope in our family’s lives as we navigate Leukodystrophy. Upon completion of those recordings, they invited all of those that participated to a retreat during which we would have opportunity for fellowship and community with those similarly afflicted and walking with Christ. It was a gift the enemy would try to steal. In several ways.

Shortly after recording, I was approached about an opportunity to speak at a local women’s conference on Romans 5:3-5. Considering the timing of the invitation and the subject matter, I was certain this was something the Lord was asking me to do.

So, I was simultaneously proofing the transcript from the podcast, writing for the conference and writing a mini message for the retreat. I should add that none of these things are within my comfort zone. In fact, if I was to make a list of things I dislike, public speaking would take a top slot. I have a great story about a public speaking class in high school that involves hives and a “D”, by the skin of my teeth, that I would love to share with you sometime.

But I was also struggling with audience and subject matter. You see, whenever I share our family’s story with people I start to feel this “separateness”. Even with fellow Christians, I am usually reminded that our life is not “normal”, it just doesn’t look the same. Even with those that love Christ, there are many that will avoid us because they don’t know how to respond or relate to our family. Leukodystrophy often sets us apart. As I prepared, I knew I needed to prepare for these feelings as well. Yet, I am absolutely convinced of the need to share the incredible ways God has loved and provided for us. How we have had the opportunity to know Him, trust Him and love Him more intimately through trial.

Then there was the retreat. I am a homebody. I don’t like travel. I prefer routine and the familiar. So, I was preparing to step out of my box. Because it was a gift. But as I prepared for that retreat, I knew I had to prepare for another kind of “separateness”. Within the world of Leukodystrophy, Hubby and I often struggle with survivor’s guilt. Because our kids have a treatment and have received that treatment in time to positively impact their quality of life. In those circles we are acutely aware that we are the minority and that the quality of our children’s lives has come at the great cost and contribution of so many beautiful children that came before and paved the way for things to speed diagnosis and treatment. And my heart breaks for those families. I grieve with them and wonder why our children were spared, while theirs were not. Survivor’s guilt.

So, there I was feeling stuck in the middle. Acutely aware of our “separateness”. Simultaneously feeling sorry for us and feeling intense gratitude. When Oldest Son borrowed my car….and it blew up. Okay, now you’re likely picturing a fantastic fiery explosion. But it wasn’t that dramatic. It turned out to be the engine that blew up. Which is much less impressive than one would think. It just quit. And sprayed liquid all over the highway. Done. Kaput. Dead. Or, as the sympathetic mechanic explained, “catastrophic failure”.

Now, this would likely be stressful for almost anyone. But, when your credit was completely destroyed by a diagnostic journey and you had saved and saved to buy that vehicle outright…. For it to barely last a year, it’s a little more than stressful. It’s downright frustrating. And when you have absolutely no savings to replace it and no way to borrow money to replace it, it becomes a bit of a crisis.

So now I’m feeling the “separateness” on a whole different level. Because now I’m aware of another way in which I often feel alone. And this is one part I wasn’t sure how to share. So, in order to honor my mother and father, and to love you well and protect your hearts, I will simply say that due to the fall, we don’t have much family to give us a hand. Or a co-sign. Or a down payment. Or maybe just a hug.

This is when I MAY have indulged in a small(ish) self pity party. In my mind’s eye, I always picture Baby Girl at about two years old, laying on the floor of the kitchen at my feet, face down, with her hands covering her eyes. And that was my inner self. Channeling my inner two year old, still sitting at my Father’s feet, but in silent tantrum mode because I didn’t like what was happening. Although, if I’m honest, it wasn’t completely silent. There may have been a little dialogue along the lines of….

I’m doing all the things! I don’t like to speak, but I’m gonna speak. I don’t like to travel, but I’m gonna travel. I’m going to feel all the feels I don’t wanna feel and step out of my box and I’m gonna shine my light and I’m gonna tell of Your goodness, even if it might kill me (okay, there was a little bit of drama) and we could sure use just a LITTLE bit of protection while we do it! A hedge. Even a speed bump for the enemy to slow him down would be helpful. Heck, could You blow up HIS engine instead??

So I took the gift card from a sister in Christ for travel expenses, packed my bags and stepped out in faith. With no plan but His because we had no way to fix it.

And surprise, surprise, He had a plan. And it was SO much better than I could have asked for or imagined.

It started with a borrowed vehicle and the gift of time so we could try to save enough money for a down payment. Hopefully enough of one to qualify for a loan. We hadn’t used credit in seven years, I was inwardly preparing for the best case scenario of a ridiculous interest rate on another “lemon” from a shady dealership. But we’d have a vehicle, and that was the important part.

Then, it really got good.

We were down to one more week with our borrowed wheels and I’d just put on my list to cancel the next couple of weeks of Baby Girl’s occupational therapy before I started dinner. Mini Hubby was climbing walls and getting on stressed nerves so I sent him to take out the garbage and get the mail while I got making chili.

My kitchen is still holy ground.

I’m chopping onions and garlic and singing Shane and Shane’s Psalm 46 (One of my “fight songs” because it reminds me how big my God is) and my heart is softening with sautéing onions and the stress drains off with the juice of diced tomatoes and the door bangs open with an oblivious boot from an oblivious boy and both boy and blur of puppy race by with a stack of mail and a lot of noise and I laugh because…holy ground. While my chili simmers, I open this.

And it all goes quiet. Even the boy and the puppy. And while the chili burns and my ears ring and my eyes and nose fill, the Lord leans down and grabs my face in His hands and tenderly tells me,

“You are NOT an orphan. Stop acting like one.”

And now I’m laughing and crying and the “separateness” is gone because the Love envelopes me and crowds it all out. And I don’t even care that my holy ground smells suspiciously like scorched dinner and I run into Hubby who can’t quite wrap his head around what I’m holding.

Because that kind of outrageous generosity takes awhile to process. And when you know that the generosity came from an outpouring of love for a little girl lost to Leukodystrophy, it gets even more complex.

I spent the next several days “God Crying”. This happens quite a bit in our house. When the kids have caught me at it, I used to have to reassure them that it was a “good cry”. While texting with someone one day auto correct redeemed itself and changed my “good cry” to “God cry” and I realized it was far more accurate. They’re tears of awe, gratitude, joy and love. I think, a form of worship. And if you’ve ever heard me sing, you know it’s a form of worship that is far more beautiful, even if it’s an ugly cry.

Now I’m gonna feel a little like Billy Mays, because, “That’s not all!”. While we were still processing a week later and narrowing down our car search, we got an envelope. With another $1,100. Which brought the total to almost EXACTLY what we paid, with tax, for the lawn ornament with the blown engine. And this generosity came from the other side we sometimes feel “separate” from.

When that car engine blew up, I could not have imagined a scenario in which we would have our needs filled so completely. But even better, in a way that reminded me of my perfect Father’s love and care for me….through people that so thoroughly removed those feelings of separateness. Through our Leukodystrophy family and our church family. So much more than I could have even thought of or imagined, never mind asked for.

Ephesians 3:20

Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us

Rock of Ages

/ bobbiblanchard / 1 Comment

Maybe it’s because we’ve just experienced the longest stretch of sub zero temperatures in almost a century, or maybe it’s because of all of the Facebook posts of people’s warm climate escapes, but I dreamed of an ocean last night.

Knee deep in calm, blue waters the ebb and flow gave little relief from the glaring sun. At that depth, the water was more like bath water. It was a new to me beach though and I’d spent a considerable amount of time trying to decide if there were any dangers below the surface. Behind me, there were a group of children using drift wood to examine a washed up jelly fish and I was keeping an eye out for any of it’s more fortunate mates. I had no idea where along this coast we were. Could it be shark season here? There were many people, far less cautious than I, that had entered these waters at the same time as I had and were now enjoying their relief from the heat, dipping below the surface and swimming in cooler water further out.

But there I stood, searching for unknown dangers, studying the water and what lay below the surface and looking longingly at the playful couples splashing in the distance. Distracted by all of the noise behind me, I glanced back to see a boardwalk full of people and a beach packed with blankets, umbrellas and countless families. There was volleyball playing, sand castle making, sun bathing and shell hunting. Shops crammed full of souvenirs destined for the landfill were teeming with customers in tiny bikinis and giant jewelry. The smell of fried food from several food booths mixed with the salt in the air and my own sun screen. Every time I looked longingly back out across the ocean, uncomfortable in the heat, my attention was drawn back to the commotion on the shore. So I stood in the in between. Not quite in, and not quite out.

That’s when I heard it. You’ve probably heard it before too. The “Oceans” song. If I closed my eyes I could hear it more clearly…

“You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep my faith will stand”

And there I stood, worried that venturing further, my feet would fail. Certain that my faith would. But drawn none the less. So I stood still and sang along.


“I will call upon Your Name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine”

That’s when it happened. Looking down, I watched as the water pulled back as if Someone had pulled out a giant plug somewhere out in the great unknown. Suddenly, all people and their accompanying sound disappeared with the water and I was left with a foreboding empty silence. The sand beneath my feet had been drawn along with the water and I watched the ground hollow beneath me. My heart raced as my gaze lengthened to the sea bed in front of me. A myriad of things revealed in the stripping of the sea. Some beautiful, some ugly. I stood exposed, alone, in the quiet open. Waiting. And then I heard it. A roar of rushing water. Louder than anything I’d ever heard. I looked up in time to be enveloped by the wall of returning sea. The wave that slammed me into the Rock of Ages.


“Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You’ve never failed and You won’t start now”

And there was incredible fear. Floundering, there was no place for my feet. No up or down, no left or right. No air in my lungs. No solid ground. No foothold.


“Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior”

I vaguely remembered hearing and singing along to the song. If only I’d known what it might look like when I’d asked to be taken deeper! Would I have sung along? Would I have asked for faith without borders?


“I will call upon Your Name
Keep my eyes above the waves
My soul will rest in Your embrace
I am Yours and You are mine”

Then there was a letting go. Not a giving up, but a giving in. I once again closed my eyes and heard You call. But this time, I called back.

Wherever You call me, Lord.

Then I woke up. To the quiet peace around me and in me. Grateful to keep my eyes above the waves, I was reminded of my favorite Charles Spurgeon quote:

“I have learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.”

I don’t know that I’ve learned to “kiss” the wave of special needs children. I still pray earnestly for healing. But I’ve certainly learned to be grateful for it, and what it has accomplished. I am far less distracted by the people and the commotion on the shore. Lord knows it has never been more ridiculous and frivolous than it is now. The things of the world still appeal, but don’t pull like they used to. I’ve seen them fade in comparison to the eternal. I am no longer terrified of the unknown. I’ve seen what lies beneath the surface and experienced the grace hidden there. I am no longer standing in the in between and there are others that are “all in” beside me. Now we collectively beckon to those stuck in the in between. We help each other on the long days when the persevering is hard and celebrate all the victories in between. On the hard days I’m content to wade in the deep waters surrounded by these brothers and sisters and on good days… I’m walking upon the water with my Savior and there is no earthly joy that can compare.

Who needs a warm weather destination anyway? This morning, I just spent a little longer snuggled into blankets and basking in the warmth of God’s promises. I will, however, still need a coat today.

Good Gifts

/ bobbiblanchard / 1 Comment

There is something special about being seven that makes my kids believe in magical things. Each one at that age has sprung a last minute Santa list on us that has included the impossible. Mixed in with Oldest son’s requests for a myriad of Pokemon and pasta was a request for his baby sister not to cry. Baby Girl, in the throws of her only girl-like obsession, handed over a one item list on Christmas Eve for Pixie Dust. This year, Mini Hubby asked for a turtle, knowing full well that mom does not allow any critters in the house that don’t have fur. There must be something about being seven that makes one willing to ask for the impossible.

The funny thing is, even though none of my seven year olds got what they wanted, they all loved everything they ended up getting. Watching Mini Hubby open his Lego gifts and spend an entire day putting together several Super Mario courses with a joy only surpassed by his focus made me think about the many things I’ve asked for, and not received. And how good it has been.

I don’t know about you, but somewhere along the way my Heavenly Father not only took my entire list of requests but also much of what I’d thanked Him for, and gave me something drastically different. I handled it with far less resilience than my seven year old children. I had this beautiful picture in my head and heart in which we were a successful, healthy, family of six. You know, comfortable home, sizeable savings account, honor roll students, good life insurance, new cars, weekend sports tournaments, warm destination vacations, promotions, the occasional cold and basically, nothing we couldn’t handle. On our own.

There was the problem, wasn’t it? My Father only gives good gifts. And a good gift does not include one that leaves me unaware of my daily, moment by moment need for Him. So, He mercifully gave me what I needed. Only, at the time, it didn’t feel like mercy. Children with a genetic disorder and the financial devastation that comes with a medical crisis felt more like crushing disappointment and pain than grace. Less like a gift and more like punishment.

A good gift includes something that makes me more into the image of my good Savior and less into the image of what the world defines as good.

So, sitting and watching my family open Christmas gifts this year I was overwhelmed with the good gifts I’ve been given. Some days, I still don’t want them, but by His grace, most days I am at least grateful for them. Grateful for the way Hubby and I are learning to plan for the future, but live in the grace for today. Grateful for the need to wake every day and surrender my family to the One who loves them more than I do. Grateful that He has not only used every one of our hard gifts to show us how loving and faithful and kind He is, but also to show us how everything else we’ve desired in this world pales in comparison to Him.

Today I’m thinking about you all. I’m thinking about how so many of you have gotten hard gifts this year. I’m praying that someday soon you will be able to stop grieving the gift you wanted, but didn’t get. I’m praying that you will be able to see, although dimly, how the gift you have is being used (If you are Christ’s) for your ultimate good and God’s glory. I’m praying for your perseverance in the hard things, but I’m also praying that you will find joy in the gift you didn’t ask for. Though 2020, for many, has been much more like walking on Legos than getting the coveted pet turtle, I’m praying 2021 will find everyone picking up all the sharp pieces and discovering what our Lord intends us to make with them with the same intense focus and joy as a seven year old that believes in the impossible.

Merry Christmas!!

James 1:17 Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.

Matthew 7:11

If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!

Hand In Hand

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

Twenty years ago our paths intersected somewhere the other side of Early Adulthood and there was something attractive in the easy, confident, way you walked. Even if I left a safe, observable distance between us for a bit. Eventually though, your persistence closed the gap and we stepped out together hand in hand for the first time. Hearts and fingers tentatively entwined and overlapping. Questioning, sideways glances through lowered lashes revealed a contrast of broad, safe shoulders, thick, strong forearms, but genuine, kind blue eyes and gentle smile. Always smiling. How does a girl resist a combination like that? A girl whose road up until that point had been a little dangerous and lonely?

We continued into a new territory, Together, me and you. Though I’ll admit my focus was most often on you, I was quite amazed at all the new things I could see. With you beside me. Shadows weren’t so long or menacing and you taught me to jump over puddles and sidestep hazards, smiling all the way. Before I knew it, I had almost stopped looking back over my shoulder and was learning to live facing forward.

This next leg of our journey, though, brought us into Commitment and required a quick jump over a broom. Youth shiny new and dressed in finery we glowed and holding hands, made the leap and the promise to stay the course together, forever.

Then, holding our forever hands with new joy and confidence we continued on. The whole world seemed to open up, spacious, in front of us. Oh, how beautiful those days were! The way the sun shone on Possibility in the distance and all sorts of lovely trails appeared as we checked the map. We spent hours wandering along the way, discussing and deciding which one to choose. There were a couple of rough patches (much easier to navigate together) in the beginning then, but nothing that slowed our progress.

Feeling like we could conquer, together, any path we chose, we went for what appeared the most challenging. We took a deep breath and passed the sign welcoming us to Parenthood. Things sure speed up a lot then. Sometimes I wondered why there wasn’t a better description on the map, or more warning signs at the entrance, for it sometimes felt like we’d picked the diamond run as amateurs. But for the most part, we navigated all of the obstacles “Dirty Diaper Ditch”, “Pacifier Pass”, “Sleepless Slide” and several “Trust Falls” together. The going was tough, but the rewards were great and we emerged on the other end with three precious people we’d been entrusted with for the rest of our journey. They’re loud, expensive and exhausting but we found they definitely make the trip more beautiful.

Checking our map again, we realized our choice to visit Parenthood limited our next steps briefly and the terrain looked slightly more winding and definitely slower going (as we’d come out with more baggage than we’d thought). Given our three extra hands to hold, we decided to stay awhile next to Family Forge and focused on raising up and providing for our pack of five. We settled in and made plans for “after”. For when they finished school, chose paths of their own and found someone to travel with. We worked, saved, spent, planned and enjoyed the time and things we amassed here.

Looking out across the hills one day we watched storms gather menacing in the distance. We’d been relatively protected from extreme conditions in that forge but as soon as I saw that horizon turn purple, the little hairs on my arms stood up and I glanced at you scared, waiting.

Giving my hand a quick squeeze, you didn’t smile, but turned away and set to work. This time though, the broad shoulders and work rough hands were no match for the approaching storm. We sold what we could, searched high and low for shelter, to no avail. As the forge flooded and filled we held on to each other for dear life and even though we still had each other, we were tossed so violently to and fro we could barely keep our heads above water. Terrified, my foot brushed up soft against an Anchor. I’d picked it up a few years before, had moved it into our home and had been studying it when time allowed as it seemed to lend a constant, quiet comfort. That moment though, it seemed to come alive and hold me fast. The storm didn’t cease it’s battering, but held firm by the Anchor I was able to once again grab your hand and those of the children.

The waters receded, we caught our breath, but we’d be forever changed. You kept on moving, working, fixing, taking on anything you could to restore what we’d had, to forget about the change of the landscape as if by sheer force of will you could move the mountains that had shifted directly onto our path. We often held hands in the quiet, without words. You with the weight of us on your shoulders and me with my gaze on those mountains. Exhausted, we had no idea what to do or which way to go next. Gone seemed our confidence and definitely our joy.

But during the clean up. Sifting through the debris, I kept resting on the Anchor. The workload for the days seemed unchanged, the mountains remained immovable, the horizon still tinged grey, but there was always the promises of the Anchor to hold me fast. In those promises I found the joy I thought carried away. And it remained, regardless of circumstances.

I’ll never forget the day you tripped on that Anchor. The way you wrestled with it for days.

You didn’t need the Anchor.

It was enough that it was in our house…right?

But that load you were carrying left you too worn out to fight it for any longer. Led to the Word to study the Anchor of our souls, the Creator of our mountains immovable and the love of our Savior, you invited Him in. Into your heart, into our home and into our marriage.

We’re working our way now, hand in hand, following Christ, around our mountains. Sometimes hand in hand is through tears. Sometimes it’s through laughter. But still together. Always thankful. Because now we both know our final destination (even if we don’t know what will happen in between), that we’re never alone, and our God is bigger than any mountain we come up against.

A couple weeks ago you insisted we jump over that broom hand in hand again. Renewing former promises and making a few more that are meant to last the rest of our journey together and acknowledging the source of the love that has, and will continue, to sustain us along the way.

Blessed to make this journey hand in hand, with you, Hubby.

Blessed by Less

/ bobbiblanchard / Leave a comment

This 4th of July morning bloomed sticky hot in the Midwest. One thing I’ve learned in the 20 plus years of living here is that when the humidity hovers anywhere near summertime Fahrenheit in these parts, folks run for water, ice cream and air conditioning. You see, that long, hard, winter freeze gets right into our blood while we’re hibernating up here and thickens it right up. As a result, our inner thermostats consistently read approximately 20 degrees above the rest of the country. You laugh, but wait till you see us in shorts and flip flops in 50°. (How else will they get a full month’s use?)

So, this morning everyone is running to family cabins, lakes, boats, and barbeques. We’ll celebrate our Independence Day with loads of red, white and blue, fireworks and food. If we have a veteran, we’ll bring him or her an extra hot dog and thank them for their service. Later, at a more reasonable temperature, we’ll break out the Smores and probably some apple pie and sparklers. Off and on today I’ll think about the privilege of living in the land of the free. And because of God’s grace, I’ll also think of the responsibility that implies.

Just a few years ago I bought the kids their “Fourth of July Outfits” that they’d never wear again. Hubby spent a ridiculous amount of money on things that would literally go up in smoke and we had just gotten back from a rather expensive, but fun filled week long family vacation. Things were good. I called myself blessed. I was thankful. I’m even more so now. But a lot has changed since then. The things I considered myself blessed with are quite different. These last few years we’ve been richly blessed with LESS.

I realize this is a very anti American sentiment on a very American holiday, but let me explain. I have this thing about comfort. Sometimes it gets all confused in my head with security and love. And it wasn’t until God removed many of my comforts that I realized the depth of this confusion of mine. If you’d asked me if I believed in a prosperity gospel I’d have told you, “No!”. But, I did on some level, believe that if God loved me he would provide for me the way I wanted. Turns out, since He loves me very much, he allowed me to learn that my security and love comes from Him alone, and not my circumstances. Since I’m a rather slow learner, and I really do desire comfort far more than I should, this is a process that will likely continue until He calls me home.

Here’s the crazy thing. Our lives will never look the same as they did a few years ago. Our bank accounts will never be so full, our credit will likely never recover and all those future plans we had will look completely different. Yet, I feel so richly blessed by less.

Today, I can say “no” to my children and know that it’s okay. That just because I CAN give them something, doesn’t mean I should. I know that even without a penny to my name I’ll still know my Father loves me because I’ve felt that love when I didn’t even have that penny. I’ll watch the town fireworks somewhere and be unafraid. Seriously, this is a big deal for those of you that know me. (Whoever thought explosives were FUN and decided to incorporate them into a celebration for a country that earned it’s freedom through deadly explosions…. well, you see the irony, don’t you??) And I’ll celebrate more than just my freedom of speech, right to assemble and bear arms. I’ll celebrate my freedom from a few idols and fears that held me captive for a long time. A little rain might adjust my plans for the day, but not by any means ruin it. There are far worse things than getting wet.

Yup, I’ll be celebrating my anemic checking account with a day at home, sparklers (hazardous sticks of flaming metal I’ll let Mini Hubby hold) and hopefully a good barbeque and quality family time. Thank you, Lord, for functioning air conditioning and a roof that doesn’t yet leak!

Friends in low places….

/ bobbiblanchard / 2 Comments

There’s this thing that happens when your world gets a lot shaken up. When the ground beneath your feet shakes, gives way, and everything kind of starts to fall down around your ears. Some people are going to run. These same people may have been there from the beginning. May have helped you build all those crumbling things. But when things really got scary, they headed for safer ground. They may have glanced back over their shoulder, hearts in their eyes, but they half jogged away. Now, I’m not blaming them. Really. I’ll explain why later, but first I want to tell you about the others.

Then, there are the other people. The ones on the outskirts that happen to hear the roar, that even as the ground is giving it’s last rattle, are already calling out to you in the rubble. The ones that rush forward, roll up their sleeves, and start digging through the debris. When the dust settles a bit and the Son starts to break through in rays of light shot through darkness and you start to stumble your way out of the mess, they meet you with open arms. They brush off some of that dirt to clear your eyes and start feeding you living water. You start to catch your breath.

And these people, they stick like glue. Even as remnants of the past are raining down on your head, they drape an arm across your aching shoulders and walk beside you through it. As the aftershocks rumble through what’s left of your life and you’re standing shocked and overwhelmed, they start picking through what’s salvageable, identifying what’s not, and arranging for what’s needed. They work tirelessly to meet your needs, physical, emotional and spiritual. The labor of their hands surpassed only by the labor of their hearts.

They don’t stop there. Remember, like glue. They stand ready to help you rebuild. They point out the defects of the previous structure, and make sure, this time, you’re building on solid Rock. A firm foundation.

We’re rebuilding, from the ground up. It’s quite a process. One, I’ve heard, that takes a lifetime. We’re learning that these people are part of the process. Strategically placed, by a loving Father, to bless us in ways we’d never imagined. We thank God for them daily. For their encouragement, support, prayer and almost constant help.

And here’s why I don’t blame the ones that ran. We can make terrible friends. If you don’t know and follow Jesus, there’s really no worldly reason to stick by us.

What’s happened to us is likely one of people’s biggest fears and something they’d rather not come in contact with. Not that we’re contagious, but we’re a reminder that hard things happen. Could happen to them. Something they’d rather not think about. People who love Jesus tend to have less fear of the unknown and more trust in a loving God to get them through whatever He allows for them.

Also, we often give little back. Put plainly, we’re needy. We have seasons when all of our energy, both physical and emotional, necessitates our total focus on the kids. That leaves little time to invest in others and begs people to invest in us. Unless you are giving of your resources, time and energy to follow Jesus, you will quickly tire of these things not being reciprocated. Frankly, there’s not always much to be gained by caring for us.

And recently, it’s come to my attention, that it’s just plain hard to do life with us sometimes. So, if you ran the other way. I understand. You’re forgiven. Completely. Because I’ve been forgiven. And because I can’t say with all certainty, that I wouldn’t have done the very same thing before I’d been saved by grace myself.

Now, just one more thing….

Dear friends that stick with the power and love of Christ,

Thank you. And stop it. No, not the sticking. We sincerely appreciate that. But the “survivors guilt”. When the ground isn’t actively shaking beneath our feet, allow us to love and care for you in any way we can. This is the truth in love right here. It is a kindness to help us not only keep our gaze up, but out. When our entire focus isn’t absolutely required for some major thing we might have going on, it’s not healthy for us to be focused on ourselves. We welcome those seasons! And we welcome the opportunity to talk about the “normal” difficulties we all encounter in a fallen world. Please don’t let our different circumstances separate us. We are, after all, headed in the same direction. None of our journeys are easy. And we might not be able to help at that moment. But what a blessing for us if we are! And if we can’t help in a tangible way, we’re privileged to pray! One of the greatest gifts God has given us is a community of people who not only grieve and rejoice with us, but the ability to come alongside and grieve and rejoice with them. We want to be part of both. Even if our grief and joy may look a little different. Allow us to be your friend in your low places (and the high ones too). We’re eternally grateful to have you in ours.

Love,

The Blanchards