Life is short. Ask ... anyone.

Yesterday our community, and our family personally, felt the horrific loss of Sharron Cantrell, the principal of Spring Hill Elementary School, Case's school. It was a shock to everyone.

Case's fave pic of "Cantrell."

I know that there are many, many people who feel the loss in a greater and more personal way than me, Case, or the rest of our family. Maybe they are more qualified to write about the impact she has had on them and the contribution she has made to her family, our school, and our community.

But I know this for certain. She will be greatly missed. She will be missed by a child who would yell "Cantrell!" when he'd run toward her office. And by a child who loved the picture of her dressed up as the Cat in the Hat in his yearbook. "Cantrell," he'd say "she's the Cat in the Hat!" And when we'd see an actual Cat in the Hat statue at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital, he would snicker to himself and say, "Cantrell, Cantrell, ha, ha, ha, Cat in the Hat...."

How do I explain a loss like this to a child who doesn't understand death? I tell him she is in heaven and he says, "Okay, Mommy. Why?" Oh, were it that simple to accept. Or to explain to him.

Case has attended SHES since 2010 when he was three years old. He started there for two years of inclusive preschool and then even though we weren't zoned for SHES, Mrs. Cantrell signed off on an out-of-zone request since the staff there knew his unique circumstances so well by then.

This was her picture in Case's communication app.

She met our family when we were still in the throes of learning about life being short. When we learned that Case's prognosis was maybe ten more years of life. But not ten years of happy-go-lucky. Ten years of watching your son lose everything he knows and can do and then be ushered to an early grave.

She bought into my plan to save Case's life from the first IEP meeting. Preserve as much as we could while he was declining until we get him into the clinical trial. And so we did. And four years later, he is doing far better than we ever thought possible.

The realization that she won't be around to see all that he'll become is heartbreaking.

Over the last five years, we've sat together in about twenty-five hours of IEP meetings. While we may not have always agreed, she was always kind, empathetic, and respectful. And she loved Case and cared about his future. Some private discussions with her involved great emotion, discussions of our faith, and a greater understanding of her passion for teaching and guiding children.

I've seen some capitalize on tragedies such as this one, Sandy Hook, and others as an opportunity to pronounce the evils of guns or something else.

But sadly, bad things happen more often than we like to admit. And even more sadly, they will continue to happen. Children die. People do terrible things. The world is full of heartache and loss at every turn. I shouldn't have to watch my friends' children slip away and die, but I do. And pray every night there is a way to stop it. But eventually, we will all die.

While that reality doesn't excuse us from acting responsibly (wearing seatbelts, eating healthy, etc.), it also shouldn't shroud us in the illusion that we can ultimately control our own lives. Rarely will any of us go to bed knowing that tomorrow we will die. Tomorrow we will be diagnosed with cancer. Tomorrow we will be in a car accident. Tomorrow that any of this will happen to our loved one. Our child. Our child's principal.

A singular day five years ago taught me that we are never promised tomorrow. For me. For you. For Case. For Sharron. For anyone.

The only assurance I have is in knowing who holds my future. Who knows my future. Who knew Sharron's future and who will now seek to comfort her friends and family.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place,

when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;

all the days ordained for me were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

Psalm 139:13-16.

We will miss Sharron, "Cantrell," "Cat in the Hat," every day that we walk into school. Every day we look at the yearbook. Every day I see Case look for her, not understanding that she's not coming back.

Proud resident of Chaos, Tennessee

A dirty shirt still 20 feet from the laundry basket. The matching pants 10 feet further, still inside out.

A toy that will pierce the bottom of your foot. Next to one that's broken because it already has.

A few crumbs on the floor... well, a lot of crumbs. 

Even more crumbs next to an uneven stain of old milk that didn't get cleaned up fast enough.

Crusty dishes.

Dirty carpet.

Piles of laundry.

Down the hallway is that bathroom that hasn't been cleaned in six months.

Boys.

Bugs.

Dirt.

Chaos.

That's where I live.

Chaos, Tennessee.

As a confessed ex-perfectionist who liked the toys put away and the carpet vacuumed just so (although I'll confess that I never was one for making my bed), you can imagine my inner struggle with the current state of affairs.

Ever since Case's diagnosis four years ago and especially after my arm injury a year later, things have slowly dissolved from order to chaos in my home.

Some might say that your surroundings reflect the perspective of your mind, suggesting that I might feel anxious or chaotic because my home exists as such.

But it is quite the opposite.

While I can't say I'm *in love* with home chaos, God has used it to slowly chip away at my need for earthly order at the expense of heavenly grace.

Earthly chaos, in fact, serves as a constant reminder of where my eternal peace, order, and rest can be found:

My soul finds rest in God alone. 

My salvation comes from Him. 

He alone is my rock and my salvation. 

He is my fortress; I will never be shaken.

Psalm 62:1-2.

So if you're living in chaos, let me encourage you that God cares more about order of your heart than the order of your house.

 

Are you living in chaos? Where do you look to find your peace?

Or are you living in order? Is that order at the expense of heavenly grace?

 

Every.Single.Soul.

I was sitting in a terminal of Chicago Midway airport, surrounded by throngs of people preparing to visit family, take a vacation, or travel for work, when I had an unremarkable epiphany.

God cares about every...single...soul...here. Every one.

Not only that, He cares about every thought, feeling, worry, prayer, experience, heartache, and fear of every...single...soul...here.

As I sat with my fellow passengers at gates 20-26, I thought about what it would be like to care about every person in this area. There are hundreds. And to know about and care about their heart, their life, their eternal soul. I was overwhelmed. Just following the phone conversations of the five people surrounding me was making my head swim.

And these throngs of people also know and interact with so many other people.

And then multiply those people, their thoughts, hopes, dreams, cares, and fears

by

the

WORLD.

Then add the animals, all the species, their natures, their feeding, their offspring.

Then add the physical happenings of the world. The weather, the dew, the tides, the rotations of the planets.

God is so vast. His understanding is so awesome. His power is so magnificent. His love is so great.

I cannot comprehend the nature of God. And I am totally fine with that. In fact, I'm in awe of that.

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the Lord. "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts." Isaiah 55:8-9

What makes you realize the vastness of God?

I'm No Angel

God never gives you more than you can handle. 

If I've heard that phrase once, I've heard it a thousand times. As if God created me with some extraordinary amount of patience, hope, perseverance, and strength. 

Sometimes people think that parents of children with special needs or terminal illnesses were hand selected by God because they were particularly worthy and able of enduring the hardship in such circumstances. That we're somehow more perfect, more faithful, or more "Christian."

That is so far from the truth. 

I am so incredibly flawed that it would probably shock most of you. I'm selfish. I'm prideful. I complain. I whine. I yell at my kids (shocking, I know).

I would love to be one of those moms written about in blogs shared to over a million readers, moms who have given up hurrying... or yelling... or let's throw it all in, given up all heartache.

But that's not so easy in our world. 

Sometimes I daydream that I could go to Hawaii on a whim and leave all these responsibilities and cares behind (at least for awhile!). Does that shock you?

God never gives you more than you can handle. 

Frankly, I think that line is really just a bunch of bull. That's just me being honest here. 

This life is more than I can handle. 

The truth is that often God gives us way more than we could ever possibly handle on our own. Enough that we feel buried six feet under in a pit so deep that we can't see the sun shining over the top.  And all the while, the dirt is crumbling down the walls every time you try to climb out or sometimes, even if you don't.

The risk of being buried alive creates an anxiety, a tightness in your chest that threatens to overwhelm you and even steal your ability to breathe before the pit itself overtakes you.

That sure feels like more than I can handle. 

I can describe it so well because I've been there. Have you? The pit is a dark place in which few have sat with me because you can't invite them. They have to have arrived in that pit of their own accord and only then, can you choose to sit together. And to possibly help each other out. 

But it is still more than one alone or two together can handle. God does give you more than you can handle.   

That's how you realize how much you need Him. 

If my life wasn't overwhelmingly more than I could possibly handle, physically, emotionally, logistically, every single day, would I go to him every morning for His strength, wisdom, comfort, and peace?

I'd like to think so. But He knows so much better than me, because He's made it my reality that I realize every single day how much I need Him.

And for that, I have to be thankful.   

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. 
Isaiah 40:29

•  
• My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.  
• Psalm 119:28
•  

What in your life has caused you to realize how much you need God every single day?

A Re-imagined Christmas List

I'm kind of at my wits' end with Christmas lists. Are there things we'd like? Sure. Are there things we need? Not so much. But still we go through the process every year of looking through catalogs, daydreaming, and scrolling to find just those additional things to fill our house to (over)capacity.

So why then do we make Christmas lists? Certainly we are honored by loved ones who choose things that they think we'd like or might need. And sometimes there are things that we wouldn't buy for ourselves but are still nice to receive.

But in light of that, how do I raise children who are not focused on material possessions when each year we get to make a list of what we want and give it to people to buy for us?

I've been challenged to start a new tradition. A new kind of Christmas list.

We plan to sit down with our kids and ask each of them to make a new list, a list of at least three things that they'd like for us to do for someone else, someone who is not part of our family. Something big.

We would do the same and we'd then compile all the lists into a "Family Christmas List," choose one item to do on Christmas Day, and complete the rest of the family list by the next Christmas. Now that's a Christmas list! 

Now of course, upon having this revelation, my first (fully and sinfully human) thought is, "What if my child wants to give a million dollars to a homeless man? I'm going to have to tell him that we don't have a million dollars to give. And maybe the man wouldn't spend it right. And maybe there are others who need it more."

But shouldn't I just be happy that my child would be so generous as to have that intention?

And shouldn't I realize that God could easily provide the means by which to give someone a million dollars? I mean, the recent Powerball was what? 550 million? And that surely wasn't even God....

I write, dear friends, so that this intention will not remain just that, an intention, but instead flourish into an action and then, a tradition.

So who will make a new Christmas list with us? Or who else has a tradition of particular acts of service around Christmas-time?

Who you are

I heard a song recently and one line particularly stuck with me. It said, "sometimes pain's the only way that we can learn."

Maybe that's true. I found my true self on April 6, 2009, lying flat on the floor sobbing for the life of my child.

But what if that hadn't happened? What if Hunter Syndrome were never part of our lives? Would I have continued on in my mediocre, "I'm a nice person and I know that God is there for me" life?

I hope not, but quite possibly.

If you, my dear and few readers, have not had a life-altering, what I call "Come to Jesus" event in your life, I hope it never takes that for you. And if you've had that event and it's not changed you, then I pray it will.

As the song notes, "You can never fall too hard, so fast, so far that you can't get back when you're lost. Where you are is never too late, so bad, so much that you can't change... who you are."

Thankful for that.