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

I’m tired of attending funerals. Tired of seeing tears. Weary of seeing broken hearts. It seems this is becoming the new normal around here.

We attended our fourth funeral in two months – one a week for three weeks and one the month prior. As we walked through the receiving line I said to my husband, “What will she do? They’re attached at the hip. I worry about her well-being now that he is gone.”

I felt the emotion rise in my throat. These funerals were getting to me, especially since my Prince is fighting cancer. The reality of what could be our future choked me.

Our friend was comforted because she knew the victory of the love of her life was safe in God’s arms, snuggled tight against His heart. She comforted us for the pathway she knew we were about to walk. I couldn’t utter a word. My tight lips held back a flood of tears.

I know where our Valentines Day will be spent. In a hospital room at Vanderbilt. I dread it. Between facing this path for Tim, not to mention all the funerals we’ve attended, my heart aches. The thoughts of celebrating a day for hearts and love, just seems . .wrong.

If ever anyone could cry out to God with such passion, it was David. Even at a young age, his writings prove His sensitivity and compassion toward the Lord of All. David was gifted with a gentle heart and the ability to verbalize it to God. In his trials, frustrations, and fear he trusted his heart to God, soaking in the strength to move ahead. God never failed him, and He never fails us. He promises He is our strength. Our fortress. Our refuge. David knew this and believed.  Honestly, I know this as well.

We know God is the strength of our hearts and that His love is unending. All we have to do is reach out and grasp hold. Imagine the healthy portion of His love that awaits us.

This Valentine’s Day be grateful for the love of your heart. Love your husband, your children, your parents but more so, love the strength and portion of God. His love is pure joy. It’s there for the taking, waiting for you. Partake.

*Photo courtesy of www.pixabay.com & danielkirsch

My new writer friend was in a writing pickle. She’d gotten her first rejection letter from a publisher and as hard as it is to put on a brave face, rejection hurts. Frustration sets in, a sense of unworthiness. Those roots of “failure” sink into fertile grounds of our minds. Perhaps I’m not as good as I thought. 

“Maybe I just need to skip the writing part and just be a speaker.”

“Uh, no! This is a stepping stone, so step.”

Rejection, whether as a writer or any other place marker in our lives, stills stings. I’ve had my share and it turns our lives and hearts inside out. I could hear the sense of loss and disappointment in her voice, and there was nothing I could do.

“Wait a minute.” I said. “You don’t stop working to improve. You don’t give up just because one company said no.”  

And you don’t.

Instead, let the words of rejection, be the fuel to success. Let those words be what spur you ahead to make the necessary changes, improve and be better.

That’s when I made the comparison of our work to that of making pickles.

I’ve stood over the kitchen counter slicing cucumbers. I’ve poked pint jars full of small rounded discs or long slices of juicy slices, then anticipated the sweet taste to come. Pickles aren’t pickles overnight. It’s a long process; just as life is a long process. There are steps to making nice, crunchy pickles and learning to hone the task, then waiting for the result takes time. If by chance, we miss a step or fudge (which by the way is something else that is a process), then our pickles fail.

I’ve watched my mother throw out cans of pickles because they spoiled instead of pickled. She would grow frustrated and wonder if she’d lost her skill – then out would come the recipe where she’d pour over each step, locating what she did wrong. The process, to be successful, required backtracking and evaluation, improvement, and determination. When the next batch was made, Mom followed the steps to the tee. The brine was poured over the cucumbers and the lids sealed. Jars were placed on a shelf  “to make.” All we had to do was wait for success.  And how sweet the taste of success is when the pickles are right.

 Life is like making pickles. So is writing. It sometimes requires a do over. It takes practice and honing. And when we pop the seal on the jar and pull out a nice crunchy pickle, it’s a moment to savor.

When rejection or failed attempts plague you, pull out the recipe and hone the work. The next batch may be the perfect pickle.

Photo courtesy of morguefile.com & Scarletina