Waiting for the Christmas Cry

                       

It happens every year. I love Christmas. I love the Christ we’re celebrating. I love the decorating. I love buying the gifts. I love the baking. I love the traditions. And I love knowing I’ll share all of that with the people I love most.

And for the last 19 Christmas seasons, at a moment I least expect, I’ll have a big cry because I can’t share Christmas with my mom. 

Sometimes it comes when I’m putting out the little silver tree in our master bath that displays a sample of her pink ornaments.

Sometimes it comes when I hang the fancy handmade stockings she made for my children. Or when I hang the store-bought stockings for their spouses she never got to meet and her great grand babies she didn’t get to hold.

Some years it comes when I make her grandmother’s citrus fruitcake, which ages for six weeks and tastes nothing like the yucky ones everyone hates.

Sometimes it comes during a Christmas play or concert at church or while singing one of her favorite carols.

Sometimes it comes while wrapping my gifts in foil wrapping paper like she used, but never with bows as pretty as she made.

Sometimes it comes at the grocery store when I see the displays of chocolate chips and Eagle Brand sweetened condensed milk. Because if the recipe called for chocolate chips and Eagle Brand, she loved the recipe.

Sometimes the big cry waits until Christmas morning, when I’m putting her traditional Christmas morning rolls in the oven. I’ve now made them for twice as many Christmas mornings as she did, but it’s still HER tradition. 

I know that the Christmas season brings sadness to many people who miss loved ones or are lonely. My sadness is there, but it is the kind of sadness that doesn’t diminish my Christmas joy. Instead the memories recalled and the traditions continued only multiply my joy. And once I’ve had the big Christmas cry, I can submerge completely in the joy of His birth.

Still Hearing Dad’s Voice

If you have already lost a parent, then you totally get it when I say that their voices in your life are even louder after they are gone.

Sometimes it is the voice in your head that makes you feel guilty for not standing up straight enough.

Sometimes it is the advice you got the first time you drove the car alone after dark.

Sometimes it is the lecture when you messed up.

Sometimes it is the look of approval when you finished your degree or bought your first house.

Sometimes it is written word that you find going through their things.

Today I found some written words that my dad left behind. They weren’t in a letter or a notebook. Dad spoke few words and he wrote down even fewer.

To be exact, what I found today was only two written words. Well, really only one, because the same word was repeated. This word, together with a pair of arrows, gave me valuable guidance and direction. The word was “hinge” and it was written twice on the inside lid of a footstool. A pair of arrows around each word lined up with the holes where the hinge screws needed to go. Dad and Mom had reupholstered his footstool again and again over the years as she changed décor. So I’m sure he fought with those hinges more than once.

Today I reupholstered his footstool with scraps to match chairs I recently had recovered. And his notes told me exactly where to put the screws when it was time to put the lid back on its hinges. Thank you, Dad, for your wise instruction once again!

As precious as my dad’s voice is to me now, my heavenly Father, gives me words that are even more precious. In Psalm 119 [NLT], David declares these things about the Lord’s words:

v 3 - How sweet your words taste to me; they are sweeter than honey.

v 105 - Your word is a lamp to guide my feet and a light for my path.

v 114 - You are my refuge and my shield; your word is my source of hope.

v 130 - The teaching of your word gives light, so even the simple can understand.

v 133 - Guide my steps by your word, so I will not be overcome by evil.

v 160 - The very essence of your words is truth.

v 162 - I rejoice in your word like one who discovers a great treasure.

Thank you, Abba, for your words that are sweet, illuminating, hopeful, instructional, truthful, and such a great treasure. I’m grateful for Dad’s voice that I still hear, but I feel unspeakable gratitude for the words of our heavenly Father. May we hear His voice forever.

What’s So Terrific about Tuesdays?

I spent the better part of my life with a calendar so crammed that there was little margin to relish the life I was scheduling. I carried my burden like a badge of honor, belonging to the club that boasted of their busyness.

When my nest emptied, I thought my schedule would get lighter. But that didn’t happen. My days and evenings and weekends were as full as ever. Every week I would expect the next week to be lighter. To have a little more down time. But the hours of each day were consumed with events and obligations and e-mail. And my over-committed life was justified with the regular approval ratings that I received.

I was proud of myself when I began to schedule some rest and relaxation. An annual spa trip, disconnected vacations, and slowly taking my weekends back. But it wasn’t until Tuesdays became terrific that I made a difference in my sense of overcrowded calendars.

Tuesdays became terrific because I blocked them on my calendar with the label “Terrific Tuesday.” It was public on my corporate calendar, so no one would dare schedule an evening teleconference over it. My husband, who keeps his calendar only in his brain, kept me accountable when I tried to squeeze something in after work on Tuesdays.

Tuesdays became terrific because I said they were. What did I do to make them terrific? Kept them free. We might go out and eat but not feel rushed. We might cook at home together but enjoying the experience rather than hammering out efficient nutrition. We might play a card game. We might ride bicycles. We might go to bed at 7:30pm. It wasn’t an official date night because those come with expectations. It was a free night with low expectations. It was margin created in the middle of our weekly calendar. It was deliciously unscheduled. It was terrific.

My ‘Terrific Tuesdays’ made me realize a couple things. First, much of my busyness was made up of stuff to prove my worth. I was a doer because doing had always brought me kudos. From parents. From teachers. From bosses. When Solomon was in the middle of his philosophical rant about how meaningless life is, he said this:

                So go ahead. Eat your food with joy, and drink your wine with a happy heart, for God approves of this! [Ecc 9:7, NLT]

So on Tuesday nights I gave myself permission not to accomplish anything, but to just enjoy the quiet life. Apparently God approves of us enjoying His gifts.

The second thing I realized is you have to create margin.  Block time for it. But don’t just assume it will happen when you have more time. Few good things just happen. Bad things just happen. Good things usually require some effort. So go do it. Block time for your “Terrific Tuesday” now. Yours might be ‘Marvelous Monday” or “Wonderful Wednesday,” but block it, keep it, and enjoy it.

I See You, Mommy

Dear Mommy,

I saw you when we were both dropping our babies off that one morning. You were hurrying to your car before anyone could see the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. I knew it was your first day to leave your little one there and I remembered my first time. I wanted to tell you it would be alright. But I didn’t because I knew that it would and it wouldn’t.

There will be days that it feels normal as you rush through the busyness of a task that will be repeated more than a thousand times before he starts kindergarten.

There will be mornings that he sends you that melting smile at you as you lift the car seat carrier and you will want nothing more than to put him back in the car and go back home to spend the day together.

There will be cranky nights when you feel both relieved and guilty that you get to go to work and let someone else deal with his teething problems a few hours.

There will be evenings that you are confident he’s getting the best combination of nurturing and early education. And times when you worry incessantly if he’s getting enough attention.

There will be times when you are grateful that he loves his caregivers so much and times when you feel jealous of them.

There will be weeks when you enjoy your career and your parenting and feel like you’ve gotten them both right. And then there are most weeks when you are exhausted and feel like neither have gotten your best.

There will be judging looks from other moms who think you’ve made the wrong choices.  And there will be knowing looks from those who understand.

I see you, new mommy, and I understand because I’ve ridden the same roller coaster.

Know that there is someone else who sees you too. He sees you even when no one else is there.

Hagar, the mother of Abraham’s first son, found herself alone and discouraged more than once. During one of those times, she gave God a new name.

  Thereafter, Hagar used another name to refer to the LORD, who had spoken to her. She said, “You are the God who sees me.” [Gen 16:13, NLT]

This has become one of my favorite names of God.  The God who sees me. Because sometimes I just needed someone to understand and no one was there. Well, no one but Him. And then I saw that He saw me. That was worth a million glances from human eyes. His divine eyes saw me. 

His divine eyes will always see you too, Mommy, when it’s alright and when it is not.

Depending on Fried Pies and Donuts

My family moved a few times while I was growing up. Each time we found our familiar tribe in a small local church congregation. Today we would say we found community and “did life” together. But these ties were stronger than community. They were family. And we really did life together. I realize now that the women in those churches were not only my spiritual mammas, but my first role models of grit, hard work, and economic wonder. They kept our churches afloat.

My first church was in the Texas panhandle in a little town named Dumas. The ladies axillary augmented the church budget by selling fried pies every week. My mom joined maybe a dozen other women on Friday morning to make the famous fried pies of the Dumas Pentecostal Church. One group cooked up fruit filling, while another mixed and rolled out the pie dough in little circles. Another group spooned in the fruit filling and folded the dough over into half-moons. The last few women in the assembly line mashed a fork to crimp the edges before dropping each pie into vats of hot grease. 

Our church depended on those fried pies.

When I was almost four, we moved to south Texas and found family again in an even smaller congregation. The women in the Wharton church paid the utility bills by selling fresh glazed donuts.  There were four of them, so my mom made the fifth member of the donut team. Three of the five women worked outside the home which was a little unusual in the mid-sixties. It meant they had to make the donuts outside of work hours. So they met in the church annex early on Thursday mornings before work to mix the yeast dough in large galvanized metal tubs. To call the room a kitchen might be an overstatement. They had a stove and a sink and later my parents donated their old refrigerator. But the women ‘made do.’

They covered the dough with tea towels and left the yeast to do its work through the day. Thursday evenings after work they came back to fry and glaze the donuts. They threaded several donuts at a time on long wooden dowels and wiggled them into large pans of popping hot grease. They used the dowels for turning, retrieving and dunking the donuts into large bins of icing. At last they suspended the dowels while the excess icing dripped off. 

I can still smell the grease and the powdered sugar. On Friday mornings my mom would load me in the car with several white sacks of donuts and make her rounds to the businesses who were her regular customers. 

Sometimes I got to eat one, but only one, because our church depended on those glazed donuts.

The practice of women supporting the Lord’s work began with the earliest followers of Jesus Christ.

                Many women were there, watching from a distance. They had followed Jesus from Galilee to care for his needs. [Matthew 27:55, NIV]

As a result, many of them believed, as did also a number of prominent Greek women and many Greek men. [Acts 17:12, NIV]

Greet Tryphena and Tryphosa, those women who work hard in the Lord. Greet my dear friend Persis, another woman who has worked very hard in the Lord. [Romans 16:12, NIV]

Yes, and I ask you, my true companion, help these women since they have contended at my side in the cause of the gospel, … [Philippians 4:3, NIV]

I honor the New Testament women who followed Christ.

I honor the women who held up the churches of my childhood with fried pies and donuts.

I honor the women of the faith today who write and preach and serve and give with generosity.

Generations of women putting action behind their faith.

They follow. They believe. They work. They contend. For a gospel too precious to keep to themselves.

SomethingAbout Him

Sharing glimpses of God's presence

through the new normals of our pretty normal lives.

Bobbi Mooney 

When New Normals Don’t Stay

Have there been times in your life when changes came at you too fast? At the pace of spit wads fired from the fifth grader in the back of the class.

Many of life’s changes are good ones, not even resembling spit wads.  But both welcomed and unwelcomed changes create a period of adjustment until they are rated as the ‘new normal.’ I find a certain comfort when the latest new change isn’t new anymore and I feel settled again.

Sometimes the changes come so rapidly, there isn’t time to settle in. I was reminded of this the last few weeks watching my daughter and her newborn baby. With babies, just when you’ve found your rhythm, they hit a growth spurt and change up the schedule.  About the time their swaddles and mittens are normal, they free their arms and legs and then onesies become the new normal.

Change is often caused by growth. Things change because we change. Stagnation is not a normal we want to stay in.

Change. Grow. Find your new normal.

It is cyclic.

Change. Grow. Find your new normal.

The other thing I know about change is it is the only thing that stays the same. Change is constant. Once we accept that changes are going to keep knocking on our door, we can get ready to open the door.

First look through the peephole and determine if you need to call the police. Some changes are meant to destroy us, so they just need to be sent away. Some changes I don’t let in and my weapon of choice is prayer because the effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much. [James 5:16, NKJV]

If the change on the other side of your peephole is one you recognize as difficult but necessary, then gather your strength. I like to do that the same way King David did. But David found strength in the Lord. [1 Samuel 30:6, NIV] After you’ve gathered your strength, open the door and invite your change to sit down for supper and show it where you keep the guest towels.

If the change looks more like FTD delivering a fresh bouquet of flowers, put it in your prettiest vase and write a thank you note to the sender. Remember where your blessings come from and why you are blessed. And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need you will abound in every good work. [2 Cor 9:8, NIV]

Then there are seasons when the knocks on your door come in rapid succession like a stream of trick or treaters, a mix of cute and scary. In these seasons, we sometimes need to lighten our load to sustain our energy and reduce the momentum of the waves of change. We find Paul doing just that in a storm in Acts 27. And because we were exceedingly tempest-tossed, the next day they lightened the ship. On the third day we threw the ship’s tackle overboard with our own hands. [Acts 27:18-19, NKJV] That sounds like some serious load lightening! But wait, there’s more nine verses later on the 14^th day of the storm. So when they had eaten enough, they lightened the ship and threw out the wheat into the sea. [Acts 17:38, NKJV] Wow! Now that is difficult re-prioritization! We can’t keep everything on our schedule because we must focus on the changes at hand.

Are you living through a change cycle that is so fast it is messing with your sense of normalcy right now?

It might be a non-stop stretch of bad news that is taking you to the breaking point.

It might be a truckload of blessings that are almost too much to handle at once.

It might be a health problem that throws a new symptom at you every few days.

It might be a new pace that requires you to speed up life or to slow it down.

Just hang on and know that a new normal will come. And then another. And another. Because new normals don’t stay.

What does stay is the anchor of our soul. We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. [Heb 6:19, NIV]

Ask Him to go along with you the next time change knocks at your door.

Smelling Like my Daddy

I was shuffling a deck of worn playing cards the other day when I caught the scent of my dad.

It wasn’t his familiar cologne smell. It was the distinct smell of the oil in his skin. His smell was comforting to me. After he died, I had saved the washcloth that protected the upholstery of his chair, absorbing the oil from the back of his head. I saved this weird memento so I could still smell him. With my mother, it was a robe she had worn a few times since the last laundry. I’ve put the robe on  when I just wanted to sit alone and remember her.

The sense of smell is one of the most powerful senses.  Research supports the idea that smell is the best trigger for unlocking childhood memories. I believe it because every time I empty the dirt out of my vacuum cleaner, I still go straight back to a scene with my parents emptying a full bag after cleaning our church.

But the deck of cards had me stumped. Dad has been gone a few years and he had never used those cards. How did his scent get on them? After repeated rounds of gin rummy, shuffles, smells, and questions, my husband posed the theory that the oil on my hands may be like Dad’s. He’s probably right again.

So I guess I share my dad’s scent in the same way I share many other traits he gave me. To me, it’s a sweet smell because it’s his. To others, it may smell like musty old socks.

The same phenomenon occurs with my heavenly Father. Paul told the Corinthian church that when they spread the knowledge of Christ, it is like a fragrance that smells like Him.

But thank God! He has made us his captives and continues to lead us along in Christ’s triumphal procession. Now he uses us to spread the knowledge of Christ everywhere, like a sweet perfume. [2 Corinthians 2:14, NLT]

Yet this fragrance doesn’t smell the same to everyone. To some, it is the sweetest life-giving aroma. To others, it carries a stench.

Our lives are a Christ-like fragrance rising up to God. But this fragrance is perceived differently by those who are being saved and by those who are perishing. To those who are perishing, we are a dreadful smell of death and doom. But to those who are being saved, we are a life-giving perfume. And who is adequate for such a task as this?  [2 Corinthians 2:15-16, NLT]

I love that Paul acknowledges how inadequate we are for the task of sharing God’s story. Sometimes we get discouraged that we aren’t doing enough or aren’t effective at spreading the word about Jesus. Or that people think our testimony stinks a little. Next time that happens, take a pause to remember that you smell an awful lot like Him!

If it Weren't for the Kitchen Sink

I owe a debt to the kitchen sink.

At the kitchen sink I’ve washed away sadness or anger while clanging dishes to the tune of my misery.

At the kitchen sink I learned that an empty clean sink goes hand in hand with an organized day.

At the kitchen sink I taught little hands to do their first chores and start learning responsibility.

At the kitchen sink I’ve counted blessings, numbering more than I ever dreamed or deserved.

At the kitchen sink our marriage has been preserved for forty years.

Not because sex begins in the kitchen, although that was one of the greatest marriage books of the 90’s. Our kitchen sink became a symbol for calling a timeout on the game of marriage to remind us that we were on the same team.

It all began somewhere in the first few months of our marriage. I was 18. He was 20. Two immature kids trying to be adults. We were mad at each other about something. We sulked around our tiny home, holding out for who would go first to make amends. And then it happened. My young groom turned around at the kitchen sink, held out his arms, and said “Come here.” He hugged me without words for a long time.

We nicknamed this gesture “Sink Time” and repeated it often. Over the years, either one of us would call out “Sink Time” anytime we felt like we needed a pause. Maybe it was another disagreement. But often it was just hitting the pause button on busy-ness. Or daily stress. Or the blues. Or the million other negative emotions that can overtake our day. In this little ritual, the other person must respond, hug, love, regardless of feelings. “Sink Time” became a metaphor for living in the moment, for claiming that no problem was bigger than us, and for slowing our spinning treadmill down.

The nugget here is not the magic of our sink nor the wisdom of our marital advice. Because Journey was right, God knows we’ve had our share of saving grace. We know it is His grace alone that has preserved our marriage. The nugget is about hitting the pause button on life. Pausing to re-orient. Pausing to regain perspective. Pausing to remember. Pausing to hope. Pausing with self-compassion. I am grateful for the discovery of pausing at the sink.

There’s one thing even better than pausing life.  It’s pausing with Him. Jesus invited his disciples to pause with Him.

                Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me – watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly. [Matt 11:28-30, MSG]

I believe the spiritual symbolism of the kitchen sink timeout is an even greater discovery.  The best way to live with Jesus is to start every day with a long pause with Him. Put Him first and the rest will follow more easily. On your cluttered days when He seems distant, and your emotions are reeling, pause at your spiritual kitchen sink. Let Him wrap his arms around you and teach you the rhythms of His grace.

Feeling Like Home

Walking into our house one Sunday after church, I smelled the roast cooking in the oven, and thought to myself “ah, nothing like coming home!” As lightbulb moments go, it was a bright illumination over a simple thing. Our house – our first one to own – had become home.

When I was growing up, we moved several times. I remember the feeling of walking through the vacant rooms as boxes began to line the walls. It felt empty and unfamiliar. As our things got unpacked and put into place, at some point, someone would say “It’s starting to feel like home now.”

As my own little family grew, we turned houses into homes each time we moved too. I began to realize that what made it home were the feelings that home prompted, which boiled down to these three for me.

Safety – Home was always a safe place for me. Whether running in from the storm or a chasing dog or a brain breaking day at work, home was my safe shelter. My heart breaks for people who cannot associate home with safety.

Familiarity – Home gives me that familiar feeling. Home is set up in a way that supports our lives. It has beauty, but is functional and livable. It’s orderly, because order gives me a feeling of calm. It only takes a few things to give me this basic familiarity. When I traveled on frequent business, I had a routine for unpacking and setting up my hotel room to make it home for the week. I have also created the familiarity of home in our tiny motorhome with much less stuff.

Comfort – Home brings me comfort. My comfort begins with the thermostat set on the ‘right’ temperature. Sitting down in my recliner with my morning dark roast coffee starts my day in comfort.  My favorite music playing in the kitchen oozes comfort. The smell of a candle stacks up more in the comfort column. Ending the day in comfort, I curl up on a good mattress with my neck supported by an ergonomic pillow and clutching my little hug pillow.

I love the sense of home with its safety, familiarity and comfort. Yet my spirit yearns for another home. The one I will move to last. Jesus talked about it.

           

            There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am. [John 14:2-3]

I know my home here doesn’t compare to the safety, familiarity, and comfort that I will experience in my heavenly Father’s home. The safety record will be perfect. No more meanness or disasters on the nightly news. The familiarity will be immediate. Not because I’ve seen heaven before. But because His Spirit that lives in me now will permeate every corner. The comfort will be incomparable to anything we know here. No more pain or sorrow. And if we have coffee and pillows in heaven, I’m sure they will have 5-star reviews. I know it will feel like home!

Stop and Take the Picture

Have you ever wished you would have taken a picture of something, but hadn’t taken the time to stop and click?

Photographers tell us that half the success of a good picture is spotting something worth shooting. And a good bit of the rest is the composition and lighting.  But these are irrelevant if you don’t stop to capture it.

We’ve been road traveling a lot since we’ve retired. Early in our travels, a seasoned fellow RVer told my husband to go at a pace that allows stopping to take pictures.  So that was the deal we made.  I, the hesitant road tripper, would be a happy camper if we didn’t cram too many miles into each day. And we must stop when I yell ‘pull over’ to catch something that demanded photography. He’s gotten fantastic U-turning the RV. We’ve collected spectacular landscapes, sunsets, churches, flowers, and the world’s largest ball of string.

Taking time to click pictures of people is even more important. (please, not strangers…. that’s creepy!) Now we have these awesome little phones glued to our hand. That makes it inexcusable to miss the impromptu moments of our kids and pets and family and friends.

Here are a few practical suggestions to help you stop and preserve more memories:

1)      Become your grandparents, who always say “let me get your picture before you leave” of anyone who came to visit. You never know if that might be your last picture together and it could become a treasured combination of pixels.

2)      Take more pictures of the people closest to you doing every day things.  You don’t have to post it. But take it. Somebody’s going to appreciate having it later.

3)      Be the one who gathers everyone around for the mass selfie shot at a party or family gathering or work event.  Go order an extended selfie stick right now.

The time you spend to stop and take the pictures will yield memories later.  We don’t remember whole days, but we remember moments. And pictures make those moments return again and again, so we won’t forget.

The Old Testament prophet, Isaiah, recorded a time when God saved a visual reminder. Zion was afraid God had forgotten them. But God gave them strong reassurance when He said “I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” [Is 49:16, ESV]

We may preserve our pictures in books or store backup photos in the cloud, or frame them on our wall to remind us of special times and dear people. But we have a Father in heaven who has gone a step further.  He has tattooed our picture on His palm. I can imagine that He glanced at His palm today and thought of you! He may have remembered when He first formed you. He may have remembered when you first fell in love with Him. He may have remembered when you placed all of your past moments at His feet and entrusted your future moments into His big hands. He stopped and took all those pictures of you. He remembers.

Dear 29 Year Old Daughter

Dear 29 year old daughter,

Today you turn 29, the age when women often say they want to freeze time. The age that represents youth but not too young. Youth with maturity.  Life with enough past to be grounded.  Life with enough future to be hopeful.

Without me even saying so, you know that I don’t buy in to the ‘29 year old freeze’ myth and I know you don’t either.

Aging well is not about how we look with graying hair and wrinkles, but how we look at them. Aging well is embracing each decade for whatever it brings and finding corners of sweet contentment somewhere in it. So look at each era in life as the right time for right now. Every season can’t be the best time, but it can be the right one for that time.

When you were an infant, completely dependent on us for your nourishment and warmth and snuggles, that was the right time of your life.

When you were a first grader, discovering you could run the fastest, that was the right time of your life.

When you were new at your junior high, reaching out and making new friends, that was the right time of your life.

When you were in high school, birthing your passion for social justice, that was the right time of your life.

When you finished your master’s degree with high honors and serious adversity, that was the right time of your life.

When you found your soul mate, maker of best homemade chicken pot pie ever, that was the right time of your life.

When you established your career, combining social and administrative gifts, that was the right time of your life.

When you first heard his little heartbeat, feeling your own race with excitement, that was the right time of your life.

The truth is, intertwined with those good moments were some difficult ones too.

The truth is, you will remember much of the past more positively than it felt at the time.

The truth is, the future can be scary.

The truth is, your thirties are going to be downright exhausting.

The truth is, we can’t simply positive-think ourselves into looking at each season as right.

But you can do that, because you have put your life into His plans.

David said it lovelier than I can in this Psalm.

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.

How precious to me are your thoughts, God! 
How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand –

when I awake, I am still with you.

[Psalm 139:13-18, NIV]

So, my precious daughter, celebrate your 29^th birthday and then let it go into the memory bank. Know that He has each year of your future in His hands. And whatever that is, His work in you is wonderful. I know that full well.