This memory popped up from March 2022, and it felt like a sweet little reminder of the journey

So... I did a thing while I’ve been home.

And for me, it was kind of a big thing.

It involved a whole lot of trust and a whole lot of letting go of fear.

I have worn this bracelet since shortly after Rachel passed away. It is not just a bracelet to me. It is one of the tangible things I have held close all these years, one of those treasures that somehow helps me feel near to her. What makes it even more special is that my sister Carrie gave this bracelet to Rachel when she was just a little girl. So this little piece of jewelry carries even more meaning than I can fully put into words. It is very precious to me, for obvious reasons, and because of that I have had the hardest time ever letting it out of my hands.

It has needed to be repaired for a while now, and I’ve wanted to add another charm to it, but I just could not make myself leave it anywhere. The only exception was once, years ago, when I let James Avery in Kerrville work on it. Other than that, I have been too afraid to let anyone around here send it off because I was always scared it might get lost.

The other day I was in the James Avery store in Sherman with Lorelai, and I could just feel that gentle nudge from the Holy Spirit telling me it was time. Time to trust. Time to let go of the fear. Time to place even this in His hands.

I stood there with tears in my eyes trying to explain what this bracelet means to me and why it is so sentimental. They were so kind and so reassuring, and they promised me they would take good care of it and that it would return safely.

Even so... it was still hard.

It was hard to walk out of that store without it.

Hard to leave behind something tied so closely to Rachel.

Hard to hush all the what-ifs that grief has taught me to hold onto.

Because if you know child loss, then you know. Grief changes you. It makes you hold tight to the things that matter. It makes you fearful of losing anything else connected to the one you love so deeply.

But I walked out anyway.

Not because it felt easy.

Not because I wasn’t afraid.

But because I knew the Lord was asking me to trust Him.

Truth be told, I’ve thought about this a lot since I left it. The hoops on the side were getting so thin that if it had broken while I was wearing it, I might truly never have found it. And I think that fear, in a way, is what finally pushed me to leave it in their very capable hands.

Still learning.

Still growing.

Still being stretched on this grief journey.

Even 18 years later, the Lord is still teaching me. Still showing me places where fear has taken root. Still gently reminding me that Rachel has always been in His hands, and so have I. There is something humbling about realizing that grief still has lessons to teach me all these years later, and that the Lord is still faithfully meeting me there.

I pray He never stops growing me.

Never stops refining me.

Never stops teaching me to trust Him more.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.” ~ Proverbs 3:5-6

Edit: Truth be told... I’ve thought about this a lot since I left it. The hoops on the side were getting so thin that if it broke, I might truly never find it. That fear is actually what prompted the trust to leave it in their very capable hands. As I said before, still learning and growing on this grief journey.

Edit: Chris picked up the bracelet on Wednesday, and from what I can tell, it looks brand new!

I took a little trip down memory lane today, and it all started because someone asked me if I had the HOH table hearts memorized. That would be a definite no.

I knew I had photos of them somewhere, but after searching my Mac without any luck, I still couldn’t find them. So I reached out to someone I knew would have them, and she kindly sent them right away. But by then, I was already on the hunt. That little search sent me straight down the rabbit hole looking for the ones I just knew I had tucked away somewhere.

And sure enough, I found them.

Hidden among more external jump drives than I care to admit were not only the table heart photos, but also photos I took that first summer I went back to work at the Heart. Pictures of camp. Pictures from the little road trip I took before heading out there. And sweet photos of Jane too, which somehow made it all feel even more tender. I had gone to 2nd term closing and had a few days in between, so I grabbed my camera and took off driving through the Hill Country.

And oh, the memories that came rushing back.

That summer was about so much more than going back to work at camp. It was a turning point the Lord used in such a tender and powerful way in my grief journey. It was the summer Jane entrusted those sweet Heart girls to my care, and in so many ways, the Lord was entrusting something to me too. He was reminding me that even after deep loss, He still had purpose for me. He still had beauty to uncover. He still had healing to do.

Looking back now, I can see His hand in all of it.

What felt like a road trip, a return to familiar ground, and a summer job was really the Lord gently leading me back to a place of belonging, purpose, and healing. He was taking the broken pieces and, little by little, making something beautiful out of them. That summer led to now... to returning to my camp roots in a different place, in a different season, but with the very same faithful God writing the story.

And seeing those photos of Jane again just stirred so much in me. What a gift she was. What a legacy she left. Even now, looking back, I can see how the Lord used her, her trust, and her love for camp and those girls as part of my own healing too.

Isn’t that just like Him?

We think we are just looking for old pictures, and He uses it to remind us where He has brought us from. He lets us see the breadcrumbs of grace we might have missed in the moment. He shows us that nothing is wasted. Not the grief. Not the waiting. Not the wandering. Not even the rabbit holes through old jump drives.

And the young woman I reached out to for the table hearts? Well... guess who else I found while I was down that rabbit hole searching for those hearts.

Sometimes the Lord hides little treasures fo

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that every parent who has lost a child learns to wear the mask.

I know I have.

It’s the mask I put on so the world can’t fully see what is really going on inside, because the truth is, unless you’ve walked this road, you just can’t fully understand it.

It’s the mask that hides the broken, bleeding heart.

It’s the mask that hides the fear that maybe I’m going a little crazy.

It’s the mask that holds back the tears that come at night when the house is quiet and the day is done.

It’s the mask that says, “I’m doing okay,” when deep down I’m crying out, Lord, help me. I do not know how to do this day without Rachel.

The mask is real.

And sometimes, if I’m being honest, I’m just too tired to take it off.

Too tired to explain.

Too tired to try to put grief into words.

Too tired to let people see just how deep the ache still runs.

Sometimes it feels easier just to pretend for a little while.

Not because I’m healed.

Not because I’ve moved on.

And certainly not because I’m over it.

But because grief is heavy.

And sometimes carrying it where everyone can see just feels like more than I can do.

What I have learned though, and what I have clung to in the darkest places, is this... God sees behind the mask.

He sees the tears nobody else sees.

He hears the cries I never say out loud.

He knows the thoughts that stay buried deep in my heart.

He sees the nights when the pain feels fresh all over again and the mornings when I have to ask Him for strength just to do the next thing.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

I cannot tell you how many times I have held onto that verse.

Not because faith takes away the pain.

Not because Scripture makes the loss hurt less.

But because it reminds me that I do not walk this road alone.

The Lord has been so faithful to meet me in the sorrow.

Not always by removing the pain, but by carrying me through it.

By giving me grace for that day.

Strength for that moment.

Breath for the next step.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Psalm 73:26

That verse has become so precious to me, because there have been plenty of days when my heart has failed me.

Days when I felt weak.

Days when I felt numb.

Days when I wondered how in the world I could keep going.

But God...

He has held me together more times than I can count.

I’ve often said this isn’t Rachel’s story.

It’s not even mine.

It is HIStory.

A story being written by the Lord, even through ashes I never would have chosen.

A story that does not deny the heartbreak, but reminds me that heartbreak is not the end.

A story where beauty can rise from ashes, not because the ashes weren’t real, but because God is still God in the middle of them.

“To grant to those who mourn in Zion... to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes...” Isaiah 61:3

It doesn’t erase the ashes.

But it reminds me they are not the end of the story.

So yes, sometimes I still wear the mask.

Sometimes I smile when my heart is aching.

Sometimes I say I’m okay because I just don’t have the energy to explain the truth of it all.

But even then, God knows.

I may hide behind the mask from people, but I do not have to hide from Him.

And that is where my hope lives.

Because this world is not the end of the story.

Because Jesus is still Lord.

Because the grave does not get the final word.

Because for those of us who belong to Him, there will be a reunion one day that grief cannot touch.

The journey is not over.

It will not be over until we meet again, until we are reunited in heaven.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore...” Revelation 21:4

That is the hope I carry.

Not that the sorrow is gone.

Not that the ache has disappeared.

But that sorrow will not have the final say.

So if you too wear the mask... if you’ve learned how to smile while carrying heartbreak... if you’ve whispered prayers through tears no one else knew were falling... please know you are not alone.

God sees behind the mask.

He is near to the brokenhearted.

And He is still holding us fast.

I was sitting in church this morning and a thought hit me out of nowhere…

In April, it will have been eighteen years.

Eighteen Aprils without her.

That felt so unreal I literally had to do the math in my notebook.

2026 - 2008 = 18.

Yep. It’s true. And whew… that one took my breath for a second.

It still catches me off guard sometimes… how the ache can feel so fresh, while the memories can feel so far away. Rachel left us years ago, and yet her presence, her gift, still feels as real as the day she came into our lives.

But if I’m being honest, over the years I’ve lost sight of that gift at times. Not just the gift of her life… even the gift of what God has done in and through her passing. I’ve let the ache take the front seat.

A couple of years ago, I was sitting at a conference and I felt the Holy Spirit whisper something so clearly to my heart…

“Embrace October.”

Her birth month. That sweet beginning. The month that holds her first breath, her first cry, her first little piece of our family story.

And now, I can already feel April coming. You know that feeling… that dread that starts creeping in before the calendar even turns.

Last April I wrote this:

“And now, I feel the Holy Spirit nudging me again… ‘Embrace April too.’”

Not because it’s easy.

But because it’s time.

Time to take it back.

Time to take back what Satan tried to steal.

Rachel was, and still is, a beautiful gift from Him. In 2008, our lives changed forever. And even in her absence, she continues to teach me… to shape me… to remind me what matters most.

So yes, I am choosing joy.

Not in spite of the pain… but right in the middle of it.

The other day we were porch sitting. (We do a lot of that around here. And you’d be surprised how much healing happens on a good country porch. ) Texas winter is a funny thing… cold in the morning, and then by afternoon you’re wondering why you didn’t wear shorts. The cows were bellowing, letting us know it was feeding time. The Zombie chicken was raising cain because she’s broody and mad at the world… especially me… because I dared to move her out of the nesting box when there wasn’t even an egg in there. Lester, bless his heart, was stalking “his” cats like he’s on a mission… and the cats were teasing him back like it’s some little game they all agreed on. The birds were singing. Henry was glued to my side like always. And I just sat there and felt it…

Hope.

Life.

My roses need pruning, but they’re still showing signs of life. The air was warm, the sun was shining, and I was even able to start working on my “Birk tan.” Winter is still here… but you can catch little glimpses of spring, even if they’re brief. And honestly… that’s how this journey has been since we lost Rachel.

There have been winters.

Long, dark, barren ones.

But there have been springs too.

Light. Color. Warmth. New life.

In the beginning, there were definitely more winters than springs. Grief is like that. But now… now I’m starting to see glimpses of spring again.

And this year, especially in April, I want to focus on the spring. The blooms. The laughter. The signs of life that remind me God is still doing a new thing.

I’m thankful for the journey with Him. It hasn’t always been easy, but it has been sweet. And yes… I’m even thankful for the gift of her passing. I know that’s hard to hear, and it’s even hard to write, but I mean it. God has been so good to us. He has held us close. He has never left.

I don’t want to dwell on her death.

I want to dwell on her life.

The joy she brought. The love she showed. The memories that still make me smile. I want her story to bring hope to others… to soften hearts… to point people to the only One who brings peace in the pain… Jesus.

It’s our prayer that His story, her story, our story continues to lead others to the love, the covering, and the joy that only He can offer. And I’ve often said… this isn’t Rachel’s story, and it’s not even mine. It’s HIStory. It’s the story of a faithful God who still redeems, still restores, and still brings beauty from ashes. Even in April… even on the hard days… He is still the One who makes something beautiful where it feels like nothing but loss.

“To provide for those who grieve in Zion… to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

~ Isaiah 61:3

It doesn’t erase the ashes… but it reminds me they’re not the end of the story. And that’s the hope I’m carrying into April.

And if your heart is aching too this winter… let me just whisper this truth to you:

Spring will come.

He will turn your mourning into dancing.

“You turned my wailing into dancing; You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, so that my heart may sing to You and not be silent. O LORD my God, I will give You thanks forever.”

~ Psalm 30:11–12

Forever thankful and choosing joy,

Georgia

This little button represents 37 years of Valentines together.

Back when we were brand new parents, we got a rare night out with our Sunday school group. There were couples of all ages, but we were the youngest and the most newlywed… so naturally… we won the Newlywed Game

And the big fancy prize?

This button.

Y’all, I love this button.

I met my Valentine in the fall of 1986, and our first date was on my 21st birthday. And somehow, all these years later, I still have this thing tucked away like it’s treasure.

And here’s the funny part… when I had to work on Valentine’s Day, I used to wear this button to work like a little badge of honor.

It used to irritate my love because he was convinced somebody might try to steal his kisses. (Bless it. Like I was out there handing them out at the nurses’ station)

She looks a little rough now… like she's seen some life. Because she has.

This button has been with us through highs and lows, through sweet seasons and yes… some years that felt a whole lot chillier than others. We’ve been through some stuff. Some REALLY hard stuff.

And yet… here we are. Still standing. Still choosing each other. Still holding on.

How?

Him.

We rely on the Lord daily. Not perfectly, but faithfully. And I’m convinced that’s the real love story.

“Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away.”

Song of Solomon 8:7

“Love is patient, love is kind… It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

1 Corinthians 13:4, 7

Happy Valentine’s Day from our little “seen-some-things” button… and two hearts that are still saying yes.

The last few weeks here in North Texas have been heavy. The loss of multiple children, the loss of a dear old friend… and grief has a way of circling back on itself. Those losses have had me revisiting the loss of Rachel and the precious memories that still live so close to the surface. Of all of them, this one keeps sticking out.

This memory floated back to me out of nowhere today while Chris and I were talking, and it made me laugh all over again.

Rachel and I were in the grocery store checkout line years ago. She was sitting in the cart seat right next to my purse and started digging through it like she was on a treasure hunt. Now my momma raised me with one firm rule… you do not dig in another lady’s purse. To this day if you ask me to grab something out of yours, I’m bringing the whole purse to you like a sacred offering.

So I very calmly told Rachel, “Don’t dig in my purse. You don’t dig in other ladies’ purses.” Without missing a beat she looked at me and said, “You not a wady. You my momma.”

The sweet older woman behind us in line absolutely lost it. I’m pretty sure she almost wet her pants laughing and managed to say “Good job momma” between breaths. I just stood there trying not to laugh, slid my purse out of reach, and let the moment soak in. Then slid my purse out of reach of those tiny hands and accepted that apparently motherhood outranks lady status.

Grief is strange like that. It brings tears, but it also hands you these tiny gifts of laughter when you least expect it. And I’m thankful for the memories that still find their way back to me.

Epic Slumber Party & Shenanigans

Brought to you by the January 2026 Freeze

What started as a simple trip to Austin to see an old friend turned into one for the books… but that’s a story for another day.

By midweek, the real planning began. Joellan and I were texting back and forth nonstop with our “must bring” lists. I kept saying, just add that to my pile. And oh, there was a pile. Chris helped me load the car Wednesday night and mercy… it was packed. Homemade biscuit fixings, pumpkin bread, chicken spaghetti, fresh eggs from my girls, snacks upon snacks, a case of wine, and enough food to feed a small army. Just in case we “starved,” you know. Joellan showed up just as prepared with soup makings, puzzles, and all the cozy extras.

Before the weather locked us in, Carole, Joellan and I made sure to sneak in a meal out Thursday evening. We figured it would be the one guaranteed eat out meal of the whole stretch and we were right. It felt like a calm before the storm moment and such a sweet little meal together.

Friday we kicked things off with a trip out to camp. All the nurses got a hiking tour and let me tell you, it was a hike. We saw where the cabins will be, Orenda the clinic, the dining hall, activity areas, and the beautiful waterfront. Construction is moving along and it is looking so good. We are excited in that deep, grateful, heart girl kind of way. We went over to the old HOH and measured the length of the war canoe path. Can you believe it's 150 yards? That's far, like really FAR!!! We shared lunch, wandered Hobby Lobby for a little crafting fun, and made a run to Ollie’s for a new pot and pan set for Carole plus a much needed soup pot for the weekend ahead.

Before long, everyone was home at Carole’s, bags unpacked, and comfy clothes or pj’s on. And they stayed on for days. That is my kind of dress code. We woke Saturday to a full winter wonderland. The kind that makes you slow down whether you planned to or not. The days blurred together in the best way. Homemade biscuits and jam, scrambled eggs, chicken spaghetti, minestrone soup, tamales, popcorn, endless snacks, and warm drinks. I crocheted THREE scarves... whew! And lots of laughter, lots of laughter! The boys, Charlie the beagle and Deets the bernadoodle, barked incessantly at the buck that showed up just outside Carole's window, and played hard but voted strongly against the frozen ground.

We worked puzzles, played games, stayed up too late, watched movies, binged a new show, read books, took naps, slept in, and did a little work depending on who you asked. We even added beauty face masks to the mix, because winter storm survival apparently includes snacks, puzzles, and glowing skin. And in a true act of bravery and trust, Carole let Joellan and I clean out the fridge and fully rearrange and organize her kitchen. That right there is real friendship. I’m not sure if that counts as a miracle or a service project.

I even made it into the hot tub during the big “warm up” to 31 degrees and it felt like a tropical vacation. It might have even counted as my bath for the day and made put on "real" clothes.

Joellan headed home Tuesday evening. Carole had to reluctantly head back to school Wednesday morning. Bailey treated Carole and me to dinner at the Lakehouse Tuesday evening, which was such a sweet thing to do. Bailey and I got out of the house on Wednesday and had lunch with Joeleigh! We had to get of our pj's, the real world was slowly sneaking in. Bailey left Wednesday evening, and just like that the house grew quiet again. Carole went to bed early and I packed…

I made it home Thursday with mostly clear roads until Howe, then a little slick and slow going. Our road and driveway were the worst part, but worth every careful mile.

Grateful for deep friendships, shared history, camp dreams in progress, full tables, warm kitchens, and the kind of weekends you cannot plan but will never forget.

Freeze all you want, January. In true Jane fashion girls are resourceful and know how to make it a party.