The holidays can serve as a chance to celebrate and make memories with loved ones we don’t otherwise see often. And yet, when the holiday season coincides with a season of grief, they suddenly serve as a potent reminder of the loved ones with who are no longer with us. Particularly if this is the first Thanksgiving or Christmas following a significant loss, the absence looms even larger.

If you are preparing for the holiday season, while also grieving, you may be feeling anxious and wrestling with some difficult questions. “How do I engage with family and friends when I’m socially and emotionally exhausted? How do I express genuine gratitude at the Thanksgiving table? How do I experience the hope and joy of Christmas when my heart is so heavy?”

This post doesn’t promise to resolve these internal wrestles, nor does it purpose to reduce the complexity of these feelings. However, we do want to provide you with some simple ways to navigate this difficult season.

Here are 10 ways to proactively and purposefully prepare for the holidays, if you are in a season of grief.

1. JOURNAL. Set aside some time to honestly and authentically sift through your fears and expectations surrounding this holiday season. Putting pen to paper and putting specific words on your thoughts and feelings often makes them feel less daunting.

2. DON’T COMPARE. As we know, “comparison is often the thief of joy.” So, rather than comparing this year to previous years, try to view the coming holidays as a unique event — one that will most likely be different from past (and future) celebrations. Just as we’d encourage you to take things one day at a time while grieving, take things one holiday season at a time as well.

3. COMMUNICATE CLEARLY. Do your best to share what you’ve processed with those close to you. Without a doubt, they will want to be helpful — they just might not always know how. Sharing your hopes and expectations up front will serve you well, and it will serve your loved ones well as they long to be a comforting presence in a difficult time.

4. CHECK IN. If married, it can’t be overstated how important this is. Consider setting a “weekly meeting” throughout this season to process thoughts and feelings as they arise. On the actual holidays, establish times throughout the day to simply touch base and see how each of you are doing. This is especially key if you are visiting or staying with others.

5. HOLD PLANS LOOSELY. On that note, you may also want to consider telling loved ones that you are holding your commitments loosely in this season. Therefore, it is possible (and acceptable) for you to make decisions and changes to your plans at the last minute. Bottom line: You are free to do everything, but not obligated to do anything!

6. GET OUT. It can still be helpful to carve out time and space to take our minds off of things for an hour. You could post up at a coffee shop with your nose in a book, grab breakfast or lunch with a friend, choose to serve somewhere in your community one afternoon, and so on. Take a shower, put on some chapstick, grab a coat, and get out of the house.

7. REMEMBER THE CROSS. While much attention is rightfully given to celebrating the birth of Christ this time of year, in an odd way, we may actually be more comforted and connected to Jesus by reflecting upon the cross while we “share in his sufferings” in an unprecedented way (Philippians 3:10).

8. READ TRUTH. With that in mind, consider reading John 13-17 where Jesus shares his final words of counsel, comfort and candor with his closest friends prior to being crucified. You can do this in one long sitting, or perhaps even read one chapter per day for five consecutive days.

9. GRAB OUR WORKBOOK. For a more extended devotional, we recently developed a resource called A Parent’s Guide to Sorrow and Suffering that walks through wrestling with God, myths and truths, relational roadblocks, and redemptive purposes in our pain.

10. TALK TO GOD. Prayer may feel like a lifeline to you right now, or it may feel almost impossible to get the words out. God has not left you to carry this weight on your own. Christ himself endured unfathomable suffering in this world, and can be our ever-present source of comfort and hope in the midst of our hardship. He listens and He sees. He cares and He understands. He loves you and He is with you.

Again, while we can’t pretend that any of the actions above will completely alleviate the tension or resolve the restlessness you may be feeling, we do hope you’ll walk away with a few ideas that will help you walk through this holiday season.

Sincerely, Daniel & Kelly Crawford

The holidays can be the most joyous time of the year. But for some of us, the holidays can bring so much heartache. Celebrating and remembering together can be a beautiful thing, but it can also be the source of so much pain. 

If you’re reading this and you’ve lost a baby – I’m so sorry. My heart breaks with you and for you. Getting through the holidays will look different for every grieving person. But I hope after you read this post you will be reminded that there is no right or wrong way to do this.

The holidays can bring up so many great memories, but with a baby in Heaven – all I can think about is who is missing. It can be hard to look at a table full of kids and feel so grateful and so heartbroken all at the same time. And that’s what our lives are like after loss – grief and joy consistently walking alongside each other.

The question is – what do we do when the grief takes over and the joy cannot be found? I’d love to walk you through some things that really helped us during our first holidays after we lost our son.

Kaleb went to be with Jesus in September, so the holidays were not far off. The Lord was carrying us through that time, but there was just so much sadness and sorrow filling our days. The thought of celebrating anything at all almost felt wrong.

I’m one of those people that has always loved the holidays, especially Christmas. But the thought of getting in our Christmas jammies, baking cookies, and making gingerbread houses without our boy would bring me to my knees in sorrow.

But by God’s grace, we did get through those first few holidays. Here are some things that may help as you navigate the heartache of the holidays:

1. Find a way to remember your baby. This will look different for every family, but bringing Kaleb into our holidays brought me so much joy. For Christmas, we got a stocking with his name on it. That helped us (and others) remember that he is still a part of our family even though he’s no longer with us. And while it’s hard to hang a stocking we won’t get to fill, it’s also keeping his memory alive – and that is what we all long for.
2. Christmas card ideas. If sending a Christmas card this year doesn’t feel right, that is okay. There is no pressure at all to do so. But if you decide you want to, here are some ways to include your baby. You could take his photo to your Christmas photo shoot and have him/her be a part of the family photo. Another option is to include his/her name on the card signature. You can put their name with yours, or add it on a separate line and say something like: “Always remembering Kaleb,” or “Remembering baby brother Jack.” Again no right or wrong way to do this, what’s best for your family is what’s best.
3. Start a new tradition that includes your baby. Traditions can be a source of comfort, even in the midst of heartache. For our first Christmas without Kaleb, we all wrote a letter to him in Heaven and put it in his stocking. It was so hard and heartbreaking to write that letter. But I am so incredibly glad we started that tradition. Another idea could be to light a special candle every Thanksgiving to remember your baby. This year we will be with a lot of family on Thanksgiving, and we are going to have a little notepad out if anyone would like to write a letter to Kaleb. While our grief is so heavy, I know when we bring others into it – they are able to also express their grief (as a grandma, uncle, cousin, etc).
4. Embrace whatever feeling may come. Grief is such a rollercoaster, and you never know what the day ahead is going to look like. This is the same for the holidays. We cannot predict how we will feel until that day comes. Whatever you feel throughout the holidays, embrace it. Try not to fight the feelings that come, whether they be sorrow or joy. You are not wrong to feel one or the other or both.
   
5. Find your person. While we can’t predict how we will feel, we can plan for what we will do if the sting of grief becomes too much. I would suggest asking someone that you trust wholeheartedly to be your go-to person for that day. Let them know ahead of time what your plan is. If your grief becomes overwhelmind and you just need to disappear for a bit, definitely do that. But let them know where you will be so that they can help others give you some space. You could also tell them if you would like to be checked on, or if you just want to be alone. So find someone to be your person, and have a place (room, spot outside, etc.) that you can have as a haven during the holiday gatherings. You can also ask your person to check in with you if you are in a long conversation. Maybe have a code word or motion you can do when you need out or it’s getting to be too much. If your person can be aware of this, they could help give you a break if you need one.
6. Talk about your baby. One of our biggest fears as bereaved parents is that our baby will not be remembered or talked about. Those that haven’t experienced loss sometimes don’t know how to bring up your baby. They don’t want to upset you or make your day any harder than it already is. So they may avoid saying your baby’s name or even asking how you’re doing. If this is the case, and I know this is hard – bring up your baby if you can. Sometimes others need a nudge to know it’s okay.
7. Be kind to yourself. We can often put this added pressure on ourselves to feel or not feel a certain way when we are grieving. We may feel the need to show up for events even when we know we are not up for it. If you are sorrowful and you’d rather be home than at a gathering – that is okay. If you feel like getting out the house would be helpful – that is okay too. There’s no playbook for navigating the holidays after grief. Whatever may come, be kind to yourself and know that you are not alone in this.
   
8. Know your limits. If you are one that is usually doing a lot of the cooking and preparing for holiday meals – know that it’s okay if you are not up for that. Delegate what you can and communicate to others that you are not able to do the things you would usually do. On the other hand, if you think staying busy with cooking and preparing would be good for you – then go for it! Just like there’s no right or wrong way to grieve, there’s no right or wrong way to be on the holidays. It can also be helpful to tell your friends and family that you want to be invited to gatherings, but you’re unsure of what that day will bring and cannot commit ahead of time. There will be times when you want to go, and times when you don’t.
9. Be aware of what makes your grief worse. For me, mornings were always the hardest time of day for my grief. And seeing newborn baby boys would bring the sting of deep, deep grief. If you can pinpoint what makes your grief worse – let your person know so that he/she is aware. If a family member has had a new baby and you know that will be really hard for you, ask your person to help distract you if possible. If the morning is the worst time for your grief, try not to make plans till later in the day. The holidays can bring up so much for a grieving parent. Do what’s best for you, and people will be understanding.
10. Journal + Pray. Sometimes we aren’t aware of what we’re fearful of or anxious about until we write it down. Take some time to journal and express how you feel – this can help you understand your own grief and prepare for what’s to come. Then, take all those fears and anxieties and offer them up to the Lord in surrender. He has gone before you, and He is with you in your suffering.

One of the hardest parts of the holidays is being in a room that is so full, yet feeling so empty. A part of you is missing, and you are so exhausted from this road you’ve had to walk. It’s a time when it is okay to prioritize yourself and your needs. And know that if you are a mom or dad with a baby in Heaven – you are not alone in this pain. I wish this wasn’t your story, and I wish this wasn’t my story. But the gratitude on Thanksgiving comes when I remember that this is not how the story ends. The joy on Christmas comes when I think of how that season with my son is so much better than never having him at all. 

Loss parents live in the tension of the both/and. Both joy and sorrow. Both hurting and healing.  Both grief and gratitude. You’re not alone in your grief this holiday season, and you’re not alone in this tension. This Thanksgiving, you don’t have to choose grief or gratitude – there is room for both. On Christmas, it’s okay to feel weary and still rejoice. Whatever your grief looks like this holiday season – I hope you’re surrounded by loved ones that say your baby’s name, support you, bring comfort, and love you well.

To quote Jane Austen, “I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.” If I had to pinpoint one reason, one person, that moved the needle permanently for me, it would be Abel Paul Crawford. And yet, it may surprise you to know that I never actually met Abel in person—I knew of his story while he lived, but before he was born.

Daniel and Kelly Crawford hosted a Bible study at SMU, my alma mater in Dallas. My friends invited me to attend the study when I was a freshman drowning in chemistry midterms. The music was soulful, the message was timely, but what really stuck with me was Daniel’s reminder to set our alarms for 1:29 pm to “pray for Abel.”

I left the study asking my friends what he had meant and learned that the Crawford’s unborn son had a genetic condition called Trisomy 18. The doctors had counseled Daniel and Kelly to terminate the pregnancy. Instead, they had rallied people to pray from them and for Abel each day at 1:29 pm, symbolizing his projected due date of January 29th.

My friends dropped me off at my dorm, and I suddenly found myself researching Trisomy 18. Terms like “life-limiting” swam in front of my eyes. Many babies with Trisomy 18 do not make it full-term. Many do not live more than hours after their birth. My blood pressure was in the 200s simply googling, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “How were they still experiencing joy in the midst of this diagnosis?” My world was rocked.

I knew all the statistics, the rhetoric, the pertinent philosophy. This was different. I was watching two people–young, first-time parents–navigate a devastating diagnosis for a third person, their unborn child.

Daniel and Kelly spoke candidly about Abel’s diagnosis. More importantly, they spoke Abel’s name. They treated his presence in their lives as valuable and important, viewing and treating Abel’s life as a gift. This approach was unprecedented to me. So, I did what any Millennial would do. I followed Daniel and Kelly on Instagram and watched Abel’s life unfold…

I watched Abel be born a week shy of his due date, on “National Sanctity of Life Day”, alive and adorable.

I watched him breath his first breath and cry his first cry.

I watched Daniel and Kelly walk through the earliest hours of caring for a newborn.

I watched as Kelly and Daniel announced that Abel had passed into the next life fifteen days after his birthday.

I watched Daniel and Kelly begin the long and lonely journey that grief can be – compounded by the reality that they were first-time parents mourning the loss of their first child.

I watched them celebrate answered prayers, a joyous birthday, and a heart-wrenching loss all within one month’s time.

Their honesty and vulnerability changed me. I cried in my car the day I saw the news of Abel’s death on Instagram. This small boy’s life was changing the landscape of my heart. See, Abel’s life showed how desperately human this entire discussion must be. To this day, when I am asked why I believe what I do about the sanctity of life, my immediate response is Abel’s name.

I am forever grateful to Daniel and Kelly for giving Abel a voice. Their faithful stewardship of his life inspired me to empathize and to stand with those who find themselves facing unprecedented and scary circumstances, especially these tender pregnancies.

I want to first say: I am so sorry. I cannot imagine all that is going through your mind. You are likely wrestling with many different things: the loss of getting to live lifetime milestones with your child, the unsolicited advice of family and friends, the potentially unhelpful medical advice from medical professionals, and more. This is probably unexpected news, and it is heartbreaking. Again, I am so sorry.

However, I want to also say this: never underestimate the impact your child’s life can have; not only in your own lives, but in the lives of those around you. I can only imagine how difficult it would be to open up in this way, but I do hope you will share your story and share your baby’s story. Because I am living proof that your child just might change hearts, change perspectives, and change lives.

Daniel and Kelly rallied together a (literal) global network of support that truly astounded me. Thankfully, they have shared this wealth by founding Abel Speaks, which is now here to help other families in their situation. I pray that you will find people that will walk with you in this.

Know that I am praying for you, for your family, and for your child. You are strong. We believe in you and may God bless you as you carry this cross.

-Mackenzie Young

NOTE: This is a guest post from Anne Ungarean. Her contribution here is significant to us, not simply because of her faithful story and her gift of writing, but because she and Nate were the first parents of loss we sat across from following Abel’s diagnosis in 2015. That interaction and the relationship that followed was so impactful that one of the first foundational services we sought to provide through Abel Speaks was that of a “mentor couple.” With that context and with no further adieu, here is a beautiful, personal piece from Anne in memory of Ava Elizabeth Ungarean.

Ever since I was little, my greatest desire has always been to become a mama. For as long as I can remember, I have been quietly enthralled with the nature of nurturing. When Nate and I were married back in 2012, I can now see so much naiveté in my false assumptions about pregnancy; namely, that a baby either made it to twelve weeks and then entered the “safe zone” or simply ended in a first-trimester miscarriage. It was in this manacled desire to achieve that safety and security that we walked into the hospital for our 12-week sonogram on November 15, 2013.

As we saw our big-bellied, active baby flittering to-and-fro on the screen, I was ecstatic and overcome with relief — already chiding myself for having let my misgivings have such a hold on my heart. I distinctly remember our quiet but kind sonographer, who subtly asked us several times if we were going to perform any standard genetic testing as she showed us what we assumed was our healthy, happy baby moving all over the screen. I smiled and dismissed the suggestion quickly, explaining that Nate and I felt no need to do any sort of genetic testing because we would love our baby regardless of his or her condition. Nate and I walked out of that sonogram room overjoyed and immediately sent the exciting update to our family and few friends who knew we were pregnant… We had no inkling that something was wrong with the tiny life inside of me.

Over the course of the next few hours, Nate and I would be told the sonographer saw several ‘markers’ signaling serious, life-threatening complications in our baby’s development. Moments after receiving this devastating news, we were sent to see a specialist who informed us that our baby had Trisomy 13 — a chromosomal disorder that was too severe to offer any hope, short of a divine miracle, of a sustainable life outside of the womb.

I remember feeling like someone had physically ripped my heart right out from inside of my chest as I tried to wrap my brain around the words that were suddenly being thrown my way. The specialist’s subsequent recommendation to terminate felt like a screaming cymbal reverberating in the most haunting of ways. Numb with grief and entranced in a heartbreaking narrative that I kept hoping would end, Nate and I unequivocally told the doctors that we were going to carry this little life for the remainder of his or her days. Still, I remember the reality of that decision, even in the fog of such shocking news, already felt full of consequences too heavy for my broken heart.

Nate and I spent the next six months walking an incredibly delicate balance of holding such immense pain and deep, deep joy as we simultaneously grieved and fell in love with our baby girl. We were loved and supported in ways I could never put into words — and yet the slow, painful soul work was something only Nate and I were fully experiencing as we held such heartbreaking hope and despair in the very same breath.

Ava Elizabeth Ungarean was born at 38 weeks on May 13, 2014. After almost nine hours of labor, when I finally saw that precious face appear, and heard Nate whisper, “Anne, she’s alive. Our little miracle is ALIVE,” the tidal wave of emotion came crashing down as all of the tears that had accompanied almost our entire journey together melted away into a cacophony of pure, unabated joy. Those six and a half hours with our Ava girl often feel like the closest I will ever be to peeking behind the veil as Heaven literally felt like it came down and kissed this broken place in those hours with our little love.

She cooed, opened her eyes, and snuggled her five pound, seven ounce, curly-haired self deep into our arms and our hearts. She was so loved and celebrated by our families, our friends, and by so many faithful ones we did not even know who had prayed over her precious life for so many months. And yet, exactly six and a half hours after welcoming her into the world, Ava’s life on earth ended and a whole new journey of grief began for Nate and for me.

It feels far too other-worldly to be able to put into words what it is like to watch your very flesh leave this world and enter the presence of Jesus before your eyes. Nate and I often say that being the ones who were able to hold Ava and be the arms that passed her to the very arms of the Father will forever be one of the greatest privileges of our lives. The peaceful nature of Ava’s entrance into heaven felt like the most beautiful answer to so many of our prayers. There was no struggle, no angst, but simply incredibly broken, yet beautiful, surrender.

In those quiet weeks that turned into months after Ava died, I often vacillated between a mind that was too numb to think and a mind that began to be driven crazy by questions that would come flooding in and seemingly wreak havoc in the hazy fog of my grief. One of those questions that plagued me in those first months and even years after Ava’s death is one that I believe every breaking heart eventually asks: “Where was God in this? Where IS God in this?”

In order to grieve in any sort of genuine God-glorifying way, I think one must go to those depths and field those dark questions that our human hearts simply cannot avoid in those severest moments of crisis. For in that deepest, darkest place we may sit for a time — even a long time — and even sometimes still revisit — but God, in His inexhaustible pursuit, displays perhaps His most brilliant glory, when He plunges into the darkness alongside us and creates life even there. As part of God’s continuing story of grace in my life, He has begun to allow me to see some of the beauty that has sprung forth from the story He decided, in advance, to weave specifically for me.

Through my journey, He has given me a platform I never would have chosen of my own accord, but one that has allowed me to connect with other hurting mamas who have likewise been thrust into those deep, dark places of saying goodbye to their babies. What a privilege this painful platform has become. In fact, I would say that one of the greatest joys that has come out of Ava’s life and death has been the way the Lord has brought other grief-stricken women into my life who are walking a path similar to my own. The ache of hearing their despair and literally feeling the weight of their broken hearts can feel overwhelming in moments, and yet I know the Lord has very much used this sort of ministry to help heal my own heart.

I am beginning to see that I will carry so many aspects of Ava in my heart and life until she’s wrapped in my arms again, because I would have nothing to offer in those darkest of moments, had the Lord not walked me through my own desert of grief and isolation. And in that vein, Nate and I marvel often that as we continue to walk further and further away from Ava’s birth, it feels like the Lord’s work in our lives is bearing fruit exponentially.

As we continue to walk through more and more of life, we are learning that pain is a universal human experience that transcends our specific circumstances. Whether or not you’ve ever lost a child, we have all experienced deep hurt and anguish, and we all know that life can be unspeakably hard. I’m finding that the specific place of our very deepest pain and despair from our journey with Ava has become the well from which we can draw the purest waters of compassion, empathy, and love for those around us, regardless of whether our particular griefs look incredibly different from one another. And in that, I have begun to treasure the Lord’s kindness to give Nate and I such intimate access to a terribly broken and hurting world.

Our point of pain has become the place from which we can enter into another’s brokenness. We are well-acquainted with sorrow, but we are well-acquainted with the richness that is found there, reminding us of God’s paradoxical, radical love. And because of that, I can sit with the hurting, as well — simply offering my presence as a tiny yet tangible picture of our Father’s promise to be near to the brokenhearted. What a beautiful privilege.

When I take my eyes off of the cross, the broken and hurting part of my heart rears up and begs me to wonder how the Lord would ever again be able to provide life for me in the darkest valley. When I run down that spiraling path of anxiety, I once again fear the terrors of the night. But then I think about the unchanging character of our God. I spend a little bit of time at the foot of the cross. I am reminded that if He was willing to die for me, then He is certainly willing to carry me through another heartbreak. After all, knowing and trusting what God is like frames the relationship, and allows me to trust who He is more than what I feel.

Ava still speaks because she’s transformed our family’s perspective into one measured in the eternal. She speaks as we offer comfort to the broken and sit with the grieved, offering simply our presence and the living hope that keeps us walking day by day. She speaks every time her three younger siblings speak her name and include her in everything we do, constantly asking for us to tell them about their big sister.

Ava’s absence is one that will forever leave me wanting all of my babies, and painfully aware that my family will never be whole this side of heaven. And yet, because of this pain, I am equally aware that living a life marked by profound loss has given me the severe mercy of being terribly needy and dependent upon Him. But I must choose daily — sometimes hourly — whether or not I will embrace the pain and lean into the hard moments. Will I remember that my sufferings can keep me both humble and aware of the hurting hearts around me, or will I stuff them away and let the bitterness eat at my soul? Will I trust that God is for me and that His nearness is my good, or will I seek to make sense of it all by numbing myself through futile and terribly vain distractions?

As Ava’s three younger siblings get older, these are just a few of the conversations I long to have with them one day. I find myself praying at night for their future. I wish I could spare them from the unknown griefs that I know will be inevitable in their lives. And yet in the same breath, I find myself asking the Lord to mold their hearts in a way that will give them access to love a broken and hurting world. More than anything, though, I pray that they will come to believe that under the Shadow of the Almighty, no storm will be too violent. No fear too paralyzing. And no grief too great. I pray that their big sister’s life will be a testimony to the intimate, life-giving love of Our Heavenly Father.

Honestly, I pray those things for all of us.

– Anne Ungarean

Note: These words were written back in December 2015 while we were pregnant with Abel. For more of their posts from that season, you can visit www.abelpaulcrawford.wordpress.com

“Every year as the Christmas season approaches, we think about God the Son (which makes sense, since it’s Jesus’ birth that we are celebrating). However, as our calendars turned from November to December this year, we find our heart’s gaze drawn to God the Father even more than God the Son…

How come?

Don’t get me wrong, we resonate with God the Son this year in a new way too. We can both tell you that we would happily and willingly lay down our lives to save Abel, much in the same way that Jesus was willing to lay down his life for ours. If I could know that my own death could preserve the earthly + eternal life of Abel Paul, while easier said than done, I would sign up for that tomorrow.

Where we are more confounded than ever this Christmas season is when we think about God the Father. As the parents of Abel, we daily pray (and ask your help in praying) for an eternal perspective; that we would fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen (2 Cor 4:16-18). We pray that the Lord would use Abel’s life to glorify Himself, and maybe even help bring someone to a greater understanding of Christ and even a saving faith in Christ.

But truthfully, if given the chance to write the story ourselves, there’s no scenario in which we ourselves would willingly CHOOSE for Abel to die. Even if we could somehow know that by hearing our family’s story, the gospel would ‘click’ for hundreds of people who would be reconciled to the Lord through Jesus’s sacrificial death on our behalf, Abel’s death still wouldn’t feel “worth it” to us. And that’s a confession to you all, and a reminder that we still possess a woefully short-sighted view of eternity… that we’re humans who imperfectly struggle to gain & maintain the eternal perspective that we pray for. But it’s honestly how we feel.

And so that’s when it hit us: God the Father KNEW that this little boy born 2000 years ago had a very specific mission in his earthly life. A daunting Roman cross was in His sovereign view when He sent Jesus to dwell amongst us that one December. The depth of this sacrifice fills us with a greater sense of awe than ever before at just how deep The Father’s love is for us… how the love He feels for His redeemed sons & daughters in Christ is SO GREAT that there’s nothing He wouldn’t do to be with us, forever… even the voluntary death of God the Son.

He knew that Jesus was born to die, so that we might truly live. He knew it, and He sent him anyway.

And therein lies a new meaning to Christmas this year for Abel’s parents: when Jesus came in the flesh, fully God and fully man, you & I were all declared “WORTH IT.” The Father considered you WORTH sending His only Son to save, and the Son considered you WORTH being crucified for. Acts of unfathomable love toward people who have proven to be FAR from lovable, and through Jesus we are now freely offered eternal salvation instead of eternal separation. Both life after death, and life to the full here and now in a reconciled relationship with our Maker. That’s the gospel, friends.

“How deep the Father’s love for us… How vast beyond all measure

That He should give His only Son to make a wretch His treasure.

How great the pain of searing loss… The Father turns His face away

As wounds which mar the Chosen One bring many sons to glory.”

We already told you that we wouldn’t have made that trade… but God the Father did. That fact brings me relief that we’re not God (even when we try and act like it) as well as comfort that He is the One writing Abel’s story, not us.”

-D&K

These words were written back in December 2015 while our co-founders Daniel & Kelly Crawford were pregnant with Abel. For more of their posts from that season, you can click here.