Declaration.

Asher accepted Christ about a week before a tornado changed our lives back in April. It was perfect timing, because when I had to tell him that we'd lost his best friend, I could assure him they'd be together again in heaven.

He started asking to be baptized soon after, but we wanted to make sure he REALLY understood. He was so devastated when he missed the last baptism, and I felt so sad to discourage him at all. But I had to know it was HIS decision, HIS declaration. I wasn't even sure today that we were going to let him. I wasn't sure if he was ready. But when I stepped in the water tonight thinking I'd just be photographing other peoples children declaring their love for Jesus, our children's pastor approached me and recounted the conversation they'd had this afternoon. He got it.

So last night, in the hands of his dad, his stepdad, and our beloved friend (his pastor), my precious Asher told the world that he has decided to follow Jesus. 

Thank you, God, for letting me keep him for eternity.

And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them and said, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

Matthew 18: 2-4

The first day: A dreadlock story.

Years ago, when I was growing my second son, I stopped brushing my hair.

It wasn't really an intentional thing. I was exhausted. I had barely transitioned into motherhood when I found out I was pregnant again. I spent my awake hours chasing a toddling one year old. I threw up every morning and every afternoon and occasionally in the night. My make-up collected dust and my hair went from the shower into a style reminiscent of a ratty ball on the back of my head.

It was a rough few months.

One afternoon, I was sitting in the play area of the mall in Knoxville, TN, a place I always felt distinctly young and plain and inadequate next to all of the other moms. And then she walked in. A mother with a baby in a wrap and dreadlocks down to her waist.

I was in shock. Up until that point, I had never met another mom in real life (meaning not on the internet) that was into wraps and cloth diapers. And this mom radiated confidence. She was like me, I thought, but she didn't brush her hair and it was cool.

When I was in high school, I loved dreadlocks. I talked about getting them but then I graduated, became a mother, started pursuing photography. It became, in my mind, a missed oppourtunity. Then I met the mom in the mall.
I have never been fancy. I always lean to the natural. And I really hate fooling with hair. It dawned on me that dreadlocks would actually be really awesome for me.  I started to research. All of the misconceptions I'd had were resolved. I stumbled upon Sara Janssen's blog, and began following her dreadlocks story. I was in love. This was the hair I was made for.
But then I started to talk about it. To friends and family. "Oh no," they said, "You don't want to do that to your hair."
I was worried about what people would think. Worried that their opinions might limit me.

So I didn't do it.

It's been nearly 8 years since my chat with the dreadie momma in the mall. I've forgotten her name but every time I meet a woman with dreads, I am alight with interest and I remember her. I've followed bloggers, and YouTubers and anyone with a public dread journey with a longing in my heart.

A hairstyle is only an unimportant detail of a person's life. This hair, dreadlocks, is just something I like. But it does not define me. Nothing that you see on the outside defines me.  My hair holds the same power to tell you who I am as my old van, or my favorite, worn-down shoes, or my goodwill jeans. I buy the things I like and clothe this temporary body with them. And you should do the same. None of it really matters in the end. My value lies in Christ, who has such affection for me and my unkempt hair that he pulled on skin, became a man and pursued me all the way to the grave.

It's because of Him that I don't really want to strive for this world's version of beautiful. See, when my eyes are on Him, I feel the boldness to be exactly who He made me to be. I have a purpose. I am custom made. When I go to the play area now, I no longer notice my differences as inadequacies. I am ok with being the only woman without a manicure. I don't see what I'm lacking. Because I am sure that God made me to be the sort of woman who grows things. Things like vegetables and flowers and beautiful children, but not nice fingernails.

I want to be the woman described in 1 Peter 3: a woman made beautiful by the unfading beauty of a gentle spirit, not by the work she puts into her external appearance. I want someone to know me and think I'm lovely. Not because what they see but because when they know me, they will see my God.
I like dreadlocks because they say to the world that I don't care to fit in it's box. Because my Jesus didn't. Because sometimes following Him makes people shake their head. Sometimes it makes them judge you. Sometimes they may even hate you even though they've never taken the time you see your lovely heart.

Today my friend Ari came and started the process of putting my hair into this crazy, wonderful, natural hairstyle. It's my kind of beautiful. I'm happy to be able to share this journey with you. Today is the first day of my dreadlocks, but it isn't the beginning of their story. Their story started years ago really.

(I'd just like to add my Ari is amazing at this. I am very tough headed but it really didn't hurt at all. She is very, very reasonable in her pricing and is totally passionate about helping chicks like me fulfill the dread dream. If you'd like her info to take the plunge yourself or to maintain dreads you already have, shoot me a message using the contact form in the sidebar and I'll get you in contact with her.)

Stop Asking The World To Put It's Boobs Up.

It is not within my nature to disagree.

I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. 

I choose the "ignore and let it blow over" method of handling things when I am upset. 

No, I don't think that's healthy, but we all have our shortcomings. 

So I'm already getting that stomach-in-knots feeling. 

Because I'm writing this post for the direct purpose of disagreeing. Outwardly. Publicly. 

I've been thinking on this for two days.

I've prayed about it. 

Questioned my motives. 

And now I'm just going to suck up my discomfort and write because I think at least one person can benefit from what I have to say. 

A few days ago, I started seeing a shared blog post pop up in my Facebook news feed called "My husband doesn't need to see your boobs". Yeah, the title caught my eye but I didn't immediately read it. I assumed it would be another wordy plea by a Christian woman for other women to cover up their bodies. But then it popped up in a private group I'm in, captioned with a sarcastically implied eye-roll, and my interest was piqued. I bit.

Lauren (the blogger) actually prefaces her feelings by saying that it is NOT another post asking girls to respect their bodies, because as she says, lots of people are already saying that. Instead, she appeals to the scantily clad in a woman-to-woman manner, explaining the effect of immodesty on marriages, the temptation for men and the insecurity in women like her, like me. 

Don't get me wrong, I get it.  What woman hasn't had feelings of inadequacy?  Our culture is not kind to real women. All it takes is a stroll past the window of Victoria's Secret to get a 14-foot-tall reminder of what I'm not. And that's just societal exposure. That doesn't even touch on the personal baggage, which everyone has.  When my husband and I first addressed the issue of porn and how it had no place in our marriage, I faced many nights like the one she described, wondering if he was picturing something better than me. I get it. Really.

But while reading this article, I had all kinds of red flags going up.
She is claiming to stand for God but has used her influence to call out the problem of immodesty, offering this simple fix.: "Keep your boobs out of my marriage. You can have your memories and we can have our sacred hearts."

This blogger's opinion is clear. As are the numerous concurring comments it has received. But I'm wondering how people are missing the most crucial part of having a Christian opinion. Christ. 

Where is Jesus in this?
I suppose He's with the blogger and her husband, since they are striving to keep their hearts pure and all. 
But what about the perky, tanned, coozie holding girls in the instagram photos? 
Doesn't Christ want them too?

The problem I have with this post is that this blogger is not standing apart from the world at all. She's just taking a different angle. Our worldly, sex-crazed culture tells women to take their clothes off because it makes men feel good. This blogger is telling women to put their clothes back on because their nakedness makes her feel self-conscious and serves as a stumbling block to her husband and other men striving for purity. While that may seem commendable, at the end of the day, it's still asking women to make choices because of what someone else needs rather than because of the sanctity Christ died for.
A long and wordy post explaining and guilting and shaming may serve the purpose of getting a woman to opt for the one-piece or put a t-shirt on. But if she doesn't know Jesus, does it matter?

What if you had a chance to speak into these women's lives and instead of telling them about how much God loves them, instead you chose to tell them to put their clothes on because their nice rack was distracting your spouse? Wouldn't that seem like a devastating waste?

Make no mistake, scripture is very clear about how to deal with immorality. Flee. Run. Don't waste any time. She's right to be concerned for her husband. In fact, I bet most people who take a stand against immodest dress have intentions rooted in concern for someone's purity (either their own or someone near to them). But even if every female on social media respected the Christians man's struggle for purity, even if everyone went swimming in dresses to their knees, what about the multi-billion dollar porn industry? What about the websites just selling the swimsuits? What about the Victorias Secret models in the window at the mall? The solution is never going to be altering the world. We cannot keep making pleas for people to change themselves so that we can have an easier time following Jesus. Because those pleas push people away from Him.  Our only solution is to anchor ourselves more tightly to Christ, so that we can face struggles with His strength and not our own. 

And let's not forget when faced with the argument of modesty, Jesus died for the seductress too.  If you look in the bible, you will see there is a definitive moment when the wayward woman is no longer just a trap that should be avoided. And that's when she meets Christ. We see it when He stops the mob from stoning the adulteress. We see it when He meets the Samaritan woman at the well. These women were the women this blog would have been written to. The good, godly wives said to these women "Put your boobs up." but Jesus said "I love you. And I'm enough."

And He is. 
He really is enough. 

He is enough for the husband, to strengthen him as he faces temptation (1 Cor. 10:13).  Once a man makes the decision to pursue Christ and strive to keep his heart pure, it doesn't really matter what temptations are presented. Really, a husband doesn't need his wife to warn him of the dangers lurking on Instagram. What he needs is a praying wife, because he absolutely will face overwhelming temptation. Every. Single. Day. He needs a loving wife, that doesn't lie I'm bed at night worrying about the imagery he may be holding into, but instead boldly takes her clothes off with the confidence that hers is the body God has given him to enjoy. He needs a forgiving wife, because there will always be stumbling blocks, and he won't always make it over them without falling. 

Thankfully, Jesus is enough for the wife, too. It's easy to get wrapped up in the mentality that women got the short end of the Christian stick. What with our society's disparaging tone towards woman, it's easy to forget how much God actually adores His daughters. But He does. He created the earth and everything in it and said that it was good. He created all the creatures on earth and in heaven, man included and said that it was good. But when he saw how lonely man was, for the first time he said it was "not good". And his solution? Woman. And when His fallen world needed a savior, He could have come in any fashion He wanted. He could have burst forth from a volcano riding a dinosaur. But instead, he came through a woman, to be nursed at her breast and raised to manhood by her hand. This is how much God loves us, how valuable he find us. Now are you really that concerned about your stretch marks? 

He is even enough for the immodest, for the girl who gets dressed in the morning, looking in the mirror and judging herself by a worldly standard. His affection is far greater than any admiration she could hope to gain by trying to appeal to men with her body. Her body was bought with a very high price, and has the potential to be a temple for the Holy Spirit. But she can't know that until she meets Him. And she can't meet Him until someone shows Him to her. And she won't make choices for Him until this happens. 

So, I wonder, what will you do? 

Will you argue against a broken world, begging it I show some discretion or will you set your eyes on Christ and be a light in the darkness, pointing to Jesus? 

He's really the only solution there is at all.

So, I choose the latter. 

My son is not a sissy.

I wonder sometimes what my kids will think when they get old enough to read the things I write.

They try to show interest now. Well, the older ones do. But at 7 & 8, even though they would like to be interested in my ramblings, they aren't. Their eyes glaze a bit when they realize the wordiness, and though I can see their brave attempt at pride, the same pride I show in the work they present to me, I can tell. It's over their head.
Of course, I don't expect anything else. I do wonder though if my writing will become as commonplace to them as my photography. Now, at their young ages, they don't seem to realize that not everyone's mom carts around a dSLR. They seem to find the thousands upon thousands of photos of their lives completely normal.

I like to think that the moment they come across my work will be something of a second meeting. After my grandmother passed away, I retreated to her attic for days, pouring over letters she had written to my great-grandfather. Boxes of boxes of letters from all stages of life. Clearly he had saved them all, treasures no doubt, and she had ended up with them after his life ended. Then at the end of hers, I found them. I met my grandmother after she died, in her dusty attic, and I felt like I really, really knew her for the first time.

The thing is, my words aren't hidden in a single place. I compose my words and then click the publish button, and then I can never really take them back.
I wonder then, when will they become curious. Will they be teenagers? Will they google my name and curiously weed through my writing for mentions of them? Or will the fact that their mother tells their stories to the world become as average to them as a lifetime of professional photos?

I don't know.

But you see….I wonder because there are things I want to say that I'm not sure I want them to read.
This post is one of those things. Because a mother wants to protect her child from hurtful things, namely the opinions of others.
So it may disappear before they learn to google.

Asher. His name means happiness, and I would say it suits him. Asher's personality is contagious. He has this unique viewpoint and his comments are somehow hilarious and thought-provoking while completely obvious.

When he was a baby, there was something about him. He would cling to strangers in the grocery store line and ignore certain family members every time they spoke to him. He chose his people, and no one else existed.

As he grew, his quirks became more distinguished. He would only wear comfy pants and rain boots and would melt into a puddle of tears if forced to do otherwise. So I let him. Because who did it hurt?
He carried a Lightning McQueen car in his hand for approximately 3 straight years. To bed, to bath, to the store, to daycare. Then one day he didn't want it anymore. Then came the Mario hat, which was used for Halloween after Halloween and most of the days between.
When the boys started soccer, Jackson took it as an opportunity to work hard and score, to win, to shine. Asher pretended to be Sonic the hedgehog on the field. And during the games, he was often spotted running in the exact opposite direction of the ball.

When he was little, people would say "He is so sweet". And as a toddler, "He is so funny." But then it became a question. They all adored him, found his quirks endearing, but sometimes they asked "He's kind of different, huh?"

And he is.

I can't place it. But Asher is kind of different.
Sometimes he seems so very far away from me. He hugs me. He looks at me from across the room and signs "I love you".  He connects in these fleeting moments, but other time is hard to reach. There are moments I feel like I barely know him, but then we will lay on the floor in fits of giggles making shadow puppets on the ceiling and I know I've known him all along.  He is just a puzzle.
For a long time I worried. I poured over information on autism and found so many of my Asher's eccentricities detailed in articles about Asperger's. I asked the doctors and got mixed answers. As long as he is doing well in school. As long as he is happy…

And he is.

But there is this lurking fear I fight, and it is a daily theme in my prayers. I beg God to use my son, and to protect him from the cruelty of a world that rejects what it doesn't relate to.
Because Asher isn't like the other boys. I've heard it already, said in a well-meaning way, that we will have to watch out for him. Because he is different. and soft. 

My son is different, so we will have to protect him.
He is soft, so he should be toughened up.
He is different, and it will be seen as weakness.
He is soft, so they will call him a sissy.

I will do my best to say this in calmness and love. I will do my best to explain this while I wrestle with the momma bear that rages in my heart at the idea of needing to protect my Asher.

But my son is not a sissy.

He doesn't like to get dirty. And when the breakfast he planned on eating is not available, he has been known to cry. He isn't fast. And he doesn't have the patience for sports. He disappears into video games, because he succeeds there, and when I tell him his daily screen time is over, he looks at me with the saddest eyes. He is immersed in his thoughts and exceptionally bright, but sometimes he is oblivious to what goes on around him. Yes, it's frustrating. But when he realizes that he has been insensitive to someone's feelings, it breaks his heart. He feels…so deeply.

But let me tell you. These things, his quirks, do not define him. He is defined by the God who made him. And my God says that Asher was worth pursuit, that he was worth dying for. The problem is not that I have a son who is soft and different. The problem is that our society sees such a boy and is blind to his value. The problem lies in a world that wants to call him names. Like sissy. This macho society, full of hardened men failing to lead their families, wants to point out the weakness and softness of a small boy.

He does not have a problem that needs to be fixed. When a child shows inherent athletic ability, we encourage parents to hone his skills. When a child shows an inclination to the arts, we put a paintbrush in his hand and praise even his most rudimentary work. But if a boy is soft, we think we have to remedy that. We have to toughen him up to the standard that is expected of him.

Why?
Why is is so difficult to believe that God made my Asher…to be soft? Why are these gentle children pushed and pushed to the brink of violence, broken to fit into a mold that they were not created to fit into?

When he started Pre-K, he befriended the boy with a cleft lip and the overweight girl that couldn't pronounce the letter S. He told me they were the coolest friends anyone ever had.
I thought he was such a kind boy, befriending the bullied, until I realized he was one of them. In first grade, when he came home and told me that a kid named Will kicked him in the lunch line and told him he sucked, I knew. But when we talked, he assured me that Will just needed someone to be nice to him.
So he was nice to him.
And Will told him he was his best friend.
But there will be more Wills. And they may not be so yielding.

He is passionate. The way he ignites when he talks about the things he knows about, the way he adores those he cares about, the way he follows that which his eyes are set on….these traits are no different than the rest of us. We just know how to pretend a little better. We know how to make our fixations more acceptable. But really, when it comes down to it, there is only right and wrong. We are either fixated on something useless or on Jesus.

My son is not a sissy.
And I beg you. If you have ever been the host of thoughts like this, challenge yourself to think differently. Challenge yourself to see a quirky, quiet child and think of what incredible things they could do with the overflow of these traits.

The way I see it, my son has a head start in his pursuit of Christ. Because when he is told to be gentle and humble and kind, he can say "Well, that's how God made me."
He is a creation of the King. He is a masterpiece. He was designed with perfect intention, to fulfill a perfect plan.  He is soft and he is different, made by a God who does not make mistakes.

What's new in May.

Many moons ago, I wrote the first post of The Hodgepodge Darling blog. I have been a pretty erratic blogger since that post was published, nothing like I'd hoped for in my original plan. But I do like to think of everyday as the perfect day to carry on with what you'd hoped you'd be.

So here we are. Carrying on.

This month has been a blur of busyness and setting up house. I think I'm more excited about the end of the school year than my kids are, not that the summer promises much in the way of a slow down.
So, to update you all, I will hit some highlights of the month of May and employ the help of my lens.



Some of what's new around here:

God did what He does and blessed us more than we could have asked or imagined. We got our own home. It came in the form of a vandalized foreclosure on four acres, after a three month limbo of financing and favor and help from more people than I could possibly name right now. 

It is perfect.  

This boy turned one.

And learned to walk.

This boy turned 7.

And this boy graduated high school.

This puppy grew quite a lot.

And we got our first chickens.

We started a journey of mourning after the tornado in April. 

(Upload your photo of the ASL Love Sign tagged #lovemovement. To donate to the Smith Family, go here. Please continue to cover them in prayers as they grieve their sons and rebuild their lives.)

And you see, April showers always bring in the May flowers….

The hope after the storm has reached far and wide.

And the life change as a result for it has sprung up as surely as the roadside wildflowers. 

I look forward to sharing with you all our new undertaking as we are given so many opportunities to pursue dreams. God is good, friends.

The verse on my heart for the last month is definitely Ephesians 3:20.

Now all glory to God, who is able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think.

Until next time, 

Jessica

The Cheerleader

I’ve never really been afraid of tornadoes. You see, I’m an Arkansas girl, born and raised. I remember the thrilling nights as a kid when my mother pulled us from our beds and we’d spend what seemed like all night giggling under a mattress in the hall with flashlights and teddy bears. It was fun. 

And I’ve seen the aftermath, the piles of rubble, the death counts on the news. But you see, I’m an optimist. And all these things I have seen from an emotional distance. So the prevailing theme to them all is the hope that humans are able to cling to, the stories of survival. So I’ve never really been afraid of tornadoes. 

So on Sunday, April 27, when the weather man said the forecast was a mix for disaster, we decided we’d go ahead with our move to Vilonia anyway. We already had the UHaul. The house was in boxes. The helping hands had signed up. Our new house has a concrete basement. We’ll be safe, we thought. 

We were. 

While 20 people ate hot dogs and potato salad in the basement, the wall cloud blew over our mountain to the valley beyond it. The TV showed the eye of the storm directly over Cody Ln. And I stood on the front porch and saw the sucking black sky twirl in the distance. And for the first time that day, a fear swelled up because I knew that street. Because I’d traveled over the mountain just days before to that street. I’d stood in a house with a red door with my precious friend April, while our sons played in the yard. I’d marveled at her garden patch and seedlings and thought how much I loved her when she’d showed me her Hobby Lobby project, letters that spelled “Smith” above the door jam. “I spaced them out,” she said, “because I didn’t want to copy you.” 

I couldn’t reach her. The storm had moved on but she wasn’t answering. We prayed for them as the minutes passed. Five, then ten, then the rain stopped and the sky stilled. But she didn’t answer my calls. “Call Daniel,” I told Miah. But he grabbed the keys instead. He and Jud got in the truck and left. I don’t know….I think he knew somehow. The way he was praying…it was different. He wasn’t asking for safety but for peace and I found it odd. I was afraid. 

Time passed. He should have been there but the phone kept reaching voicemail. She wasn’t answering and now he wasn’t either. The group of guys that had been unloading our Uhaul left to go help. My texts to him grew in desperation. 

Did it hit them? 

Are they ok? 

Honey, are they ok? 

Please tell me if it hit them. 

Please tell me they are ok. 

Are they hurt? 

Are they alive? 

Miah, please tell me they are alive. 

And then he responded.   I can't.  

A blur. Calls to our pastor’s wife. Praying. Crying. And then another message  

April and Daniel are alive right now but the boys are gone, honey. 

I don’t know what else happened for a while. My face was on the floor and my sister was there hugging me. Stephanie and I, both mothers, both friends of April, wailed. And only one prayer, a prayer more desperate than any I have ever prayed in my life, left my lips. “God, please, not this for her.” 

It’s been a long couple of days. Little sleep. Lots of calls and messages. A group of men from the church went to the site and gathered what they could of the Smiths’ belongings. The house is completely gone.

Back in the fall, April and Daniel were still living in Sherwood. They received a 30 day notice that they needed to move so the owner of their home could sell it. She started to worry but in true April-fashion, she said “I know God will provide”. Just a week or so later she told me about the house they had found in Vilonia, about how perfect it was. The owners wanted to work with them to get them in it. It was just. so. perfect. It even had the red front door she had always wanted. 

So, you see, I was angry. Because I knew God put them in that house. And it was no act of violence or human mistake that took their sons’ lives. It was an EF4 tornado, a mile wide, and it sucked everything that seemed so perfect off the foundation that God had given. I was SO angry. 

I’ve always called her the cheerleader. Because she was one once, in a pom poms and pyramids sense, but because she still is now, in a bible and faith sense. She is who I call when my faith is stretched. And every time I hang up the phone, I’ve been reminded of how big and how good and how strong my God is. 

I spent these angry couple of days questioning why God would take those boys and why he would take the best cheerleader he had. Because who could still cheer for their God after this? 

The thing is though, my faith is not April’s faith. It never has been. 

Last night, we walked in the hospital room to see her. While Jeremiah and I held her hands and kissed her face, she wept. She had questions about that night. She had heard that Jeremiah found the boys and she told him she was comforted it was him because she knew he would have prayed over them. We all cried. A wise, young friend of ours sent us a message of encouragement yesterday that we were able to share with April. 

  

She shared the following scriptures: 

  

Isaiah 55: 8-11 

8 “My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord. “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. 

9 For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts. 

10 “The rain and snow come down from the heavensand stay on the ground to water the earth. They cause the grain to grow, producing seed for the farmer and bread for the hungry. 

11 It is the same with my word. I send it out, and it always produces fruit. It will accomplish all I want it to, and it will prosper everywhere I send it.

Jeremiah shared with her what a comfort it was for him to think that everyone is here for a purpose, for God’s purpose not for our own fulfillment. And when their purpose is reached, they GET to go home. He repeated Taylor’s words to her, “How incredible it was that Tyler and Cameron were able to serve their purpose in such a short time, when it takes some people 100 years”. I told her how angry I had been, grappling with the truth that this was allowed, arranged even. 

And my beautiful friend, my cheerleader, laid in the hospital bed with her broken body and battered, beautiful face and held my hands and told me not to be angry because her God is good. She knew that her sons had fulfilled their purpose in life and that they were with the father now. 

Tyler has always talked about heaven. About how he can’t wait to get there. She said she thought it was because he heard them saying how wonderful it would be…some day. But he looked at her Sunday afternoon, before the storm, and told her he was ready to go to heaven. “Will you miss me?” he asked her. “Well yes,” she said, “but let’s not talk like that now.” “How long will you miss me?” he persisted. And she just smiled and said, “I guess until I see you again.” 

“I have peace,” she told me last night through her tears, “I know I have more pain to go through that I probably can understand. But I have supernatural peace. I don’t know what God has for me and my husband that our boys couldn’t be here for, but I do know that He is good. His plan is good.” 

I don’t understand this kind of faith. Because I think every parent who has heard this story since Sunday has wondered, “How do you live through that?” 

For those of you who have been worried about April and Daniel, worried that they would not be the same, that they could not carry on past this loss, please don’t worry any more. I have seen her hope. It is anchored in eternity. It is the kind of hope that saves people. And that’s not just the optimist in me talking. 

For those of you wondering how a mother could serve a God that might allow this, understand that Tyler and Cameron knew Jesus. Just a couple of weeks ago, they led a friend to Christ. They aren’t over. Their story hasn’t reached the end. They aren’t even really gone. They’ve just moved for now. 

We will miss them. Like April told Tyler on his last day on earth, we will miss them until we see them again, April and Daniel more than any of us. While none of us understand it, we must take up her lead and know that even still, God is good. And we must understand that while we may love these boys, God loves them infinitely more. He loves them perfectly. And with his knowledge of the lives and futures of the Smiths, God took them home. 

But he left their mom and dad. Somehow, though every bit of that house was ripped from the foundation, April and Daniel will live. They will tell this story and honor Tyler and Cameron’s lives. Masses of people will know Jesus because of this story. Because we cannot fathom this strength. 

When I left the hospital last night, I just cried and thought “She is so strong. She is so faithful. She is so selfless. She is so beautiful”. And it hit me. April is all of these things because she allows herself, even in the midst of this tragedy, to be a reflection of our strong, faithful, selfless, beautiful Savior. 

They are greatly broken. But they will mend. They haven’t fulfilled what God has for them yet. But they will. Because while she could be angry, and she may be at some point, she is holding tight to the only thing she has left: 

The truth that GOD IS GOOD. ALL THE TIME. 

  

I asked her if I could take her photo, so she could have it later when she told her story. 

She told me to show you all now. And to tell you… her God can overcome even this.  

My friend. Who remains the most beautiful woman I know. 

April, the cheerleader. 

About a year ago, our home church (Thatchurch.com) in Sherwood, AR, told April's life story. This post has gone absolutely viral. Millions have heard the testimony of April's faith. She is showing hundred's of thousands to Christ. Watch the video of her story, and you will understand a little of the plan she is so sure God has. 

Added May 9, 2014- Also, if you would like to watch the funeral services for Tyler and Cameron Smith, please go here. 

To donate to the Smith family, go here.