He will provide

It was the first anniversary of her death. 

She would keep vigil at her graveside for the day. 

We gathered at a friend's house to keep each other company. We would take turns going to sit with her while our kids played together at the house.

It was a subdued day.

I watched another friend, her head bent over her adoption paperwork. 

That was a familiar ache, but there was no time for my aches today. Today was about her. 

Another friend took the first turn. I saw the sadness in her eyes, but there was a tiny bit of fear too. To watch someone you love grieve is one of the most helpless and horrible feelings ever. 

She brushed that aside and said, "I'm going to take her some food. She'll be hungry. Maybe."

I agreed. 

She headed out and I set out to clean her kitchen. I needed to stay busy and my love of cleaning her kitchen always made us laugh.

 Well, other days it did. I didn't feel much like laughing today.

I busied myself with the cleaning and taking care for the kids. The house full of voices and laughter was comforting. I texted her to check on things.

She's okay. 

I was thankful for that. I scrubbed and prayed. More.

Soon she texted, "I'm on the way home. Your turn."

I prayed more.

As the van approached the cemetery, the tears spilled. The memories of the week a year ago flashed like a slide show. I flicked away the tears in frustration. I didn't need to be weepy. That wouldn't help.

My phone sounded and I looked down at the text.

Take an umbrella. She's getting sunburned. 

I laughed with tears still on my cheeks. An umbrella? That sounded funny on this cloudless day. But I smiled at the consideration. 

So sweet. 

I climbed out of the van bumping the umbrella on the door frame. The sight of her sitting by the grave made me catch my breath. No mother should ever ever have to sit by her child's grave. The anger welled in me. Sin. Death. 

I raged at it all as I walked towards her. 

I sat down and looked at her. Her smile was sweet and sad. 

I looked at the new head stone. It was beautiful. There were balloons that said "Happy Birthday" dancing in the wind. She was two years old for only a couple of days. We celebrated her third birthday without her. 

I breathed deep and turned back.

"Did you eat?"

She nodded yes. 

We sat for a bit, not talking. It's easy to do that with her and I love it. 

I looked up and her mom was walking across the grass. She sat and we allowed her some quiet time to soak it all in. Soon another friend came. We all sat.

I thought of Job and his friends. Before they started talking and ruined everything, they sat with him for seven days in complete silence. That had to feel good. Comforting. 

Is that an umbrella? 

A giggle escaped me before I could stop it. 

"Well, she told me to bring it. She said you would get sunburned sitting out here."

I opened it over my friend, and she said, "That does feel better." 

We talked and conversation flowed. We actually laughed and talked. The knot of fear loosened in me. She was comforted. Hurting, sad and forever missing her girl, but comforted.

As laughter floated across the wind, I turned to look across all the head stones. 

You comforted her. You took her through it all. And You will carry her more. You did it. You were faithful. You provided. You were sovereign over every step of the way. You never let her falter. She's still here-a testimony to Your grace. Your sustaining power...

I didn't want to say the words aloud. Not right then. But the praise soared in me. I saw her a year ago. I saw the horror and fear and panic.

Today I saw longing mixed with comfort. 

I think his bright blonde hair caught my attention first. It was bright in the sunshine. I had seen him out of the corner of my eye on the lawn mower as he tended to the grass. Now he was purposefully walking towards us. He shyly but intentionally walked up to us. It was only as he got to us that I saw four bottles of water in his hands. They were cold and the water from the condensation dripped onto the grass.

"I thought you might need these," he said with the same shyness he had approached us with. 

They said thank you but I only choked back tears. The sweetness of the gesture caught my words in my throat. This sweet young man spent his day with death, yet the sight of grief still moved him to kind action. He wasn't hardened by it. 

I still think of him and hope he's still not hardened, if he's still there.

The icy water was refreshing and comforting. I rubbed my finger along the bottle watching the drips running along my finger. 

You are tangible. You care for us this way. With these gestures. Let me always see them as being from You...

We laughed more. Talked about her. And other things. Silly things. Some theology, as per our usual. We sat quietly. We took turns holding the umbrella. 

I went, got my kids and came back. Her kids came. We sat more. My kids paused by the grave. The girl kid longer than the boys. They took off again, as kids do. They played hide and seek among the head stones. Part of me wanted to tell them not to. To be respectful. 

But then I thought how beautiful. How normal. Death, as much a part of life as birth. To see it as a normal part of life. To know that one day it will be conquered. Until then to see it as something to live with. They ran and chased and rolled down the hill and laughed, their cheeks flushed red by the sun and their movement. As their voices bounced off the hard stone monuments to lives lived and monuments to memories of cherished loved ones, I resolved to love them more. Treasure them more. 

To take nothing for granted. 

Her husband arrived after work. I gave them some time as I wandered through the head stones, reading and praying. 

Then it was time to go. 

The van drove toward home. We were all quiet, the kids tired from a day with friends, me reflecting on the events of the day. It was much easier than I had anticipated. 

Oh, You were here. You came before us. It was all You...

I couldn't stop thanking Him for is provision. I couldn't stop thanking Him for taking care of her. For caring for all of them. 

Later. It occurred to me that He was tangible in so many ways that day.

I called her. I didn't usually. Neither of us like to talk on the phone.

"Did you notice how He cared for you?" I asked. "You got there with nothing. He brought everything you needed. A blanket. Food. Water. Friends. Laughter. And even a stinking umbrella to keep off the sun..."

Her laugh. She agreed.

Me? I prepare for everything. I pack an arsenal. Prepared for every circumstance. Water, snacks, a change of clothes...

Had it been me that day, I would have had a cooler filled with snacks and water and anything else I would have needed for the day.

She stepped out with nothing. 

And He provided.

It was little. Small details. Not a big deal. But to me, it spoke volumes. 

I so prepare for any situation that I sometimes rob myself of the value of seeing Him provide.

She agreed. She said she used to be that way, but the five kids had removed some of that ability to over prepare for everything. You have to go with the flow more with five kids, she said. 

I think of that day often. As I seek to trust Him more to provide for me and those I love, He calls me to remember all the ways I've seen Him provide in the past. I think of the umbrella. I think of the sweet man with water. I think of the food and blanket and laughter.

He will provide. And maybe He provides most when we step outside of trying to provide for ourselves - when we step out stripped of anything we could do for ourselves and ask Him to provide. Perhaps He's waiting for us to stop trying to provide for ourselves and waiting on us to collapse at His feet and say through muffled tears, 

You do it. You care for me. 

And He will. I've seen it. More times than I could ever recount. He will.