The Color Tied Through

I heard God in a picture. I felt His voice of truth speaking to my mind's eye as I watched the children playing in the snowy yard. I see stories in their faces. And I see a snapshot of myself, standing on the porch, looking out over it all - where we've been, where we are, and a sense of wonder and awe at where we might someday be. The feeling is strong, that I stand alongside Love. The Jesus who gave me himself watches them with me, and looks at me with affection. 

I've always known myself to be a collector of stories. From the time I was young and devouring novels while tucked under trees in the backyard, I have been swept away by the color woven with words in their pages. As I grow older, I sit in coffee shops and around tables, and gather these stories from the lips of friends. I can feel the color of God in their stories, too. It is warm-emerald, as they speak about their marriage. It is vibrant-indigo, when they describe their dreams. And sometimes, the color is scarlett, when they whisper of their devastation and loss. And the red means something so much different than we expect. 

I listened to the words of a woman whom I've come to deeply admire, Adriel McIntosh Booker, as she spoke of her own scarlett story. Scarlett, her daughter, whom she miscarried and grieved. She told of her own first feelings toward that name and what it brought to mind - red, blood. Her book, Grace like Scarlett, carries words vibrant with hope and truth and passion and love. 

I stand on this porch over and again, and feel surrounded. We all stand in this way: present and still, and yet also connected to a collection of stories. For so many of us, these stories hold ache and pain. Perhaps we struggle to put words to our wounds. But as Adriel writes, "naming our suffering does not mean becoming defined by it." I wonder what it would mean for us to stand vulnerable to the wind, vulnerable to ourselves, and to God. Could we speak the stories and name our suffering for the sake of declaring truth there. Life there. Even in death; life. 

He gave me a picture of a crimson, Scarlett, thread. Yes, scarlett, like blood. Like the blood of the son shed to bring us enteral hope. I can see it tied through all of my stories, those that grieved me so deeply that I didn't dare try to breathe, through those where I hardly knew my own name let alone my own truths, through those damp with tears and fear and confusion, through those beautiful and light and full of joy.

My children's faces beam with smiles, and their laughter dances across the lawn. God's cord of love is strung through all stories, undeniably declaring that He was here all along. He is authoring love, endlessly and with abundance. Can you feel it?

I read the Scarlett words of a women who has grieved three babies, and I recognize the color of pain-meets-love in her story. Her words aren't just for those who have journeyed through similar devastation. They are deeply learned truths, gentle and restorative to any of us who have lost or felt lost. They serve as a reminder that "our weakness releases his strength" and that "all it takes is our slightest desire, our faintest yes, and he draws us under" into his strong love. These are truths I hope we can all cling to, even right now, as we stand in a chapter that belongs to a collection of love stories. 

This is a book, that when you hold it, holds you in return. It is a part of my collection of treasured words, that fill me up whenever I return to them.

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This book would be beautiful for anyone, and especially so, for a friend or loved one who has grieved through miscarriage and loss. You can order your copy now, and learn more at

All quotes used in this post are from the above book.