Howdy. I'm Matt Todd. My wife and I have four kids and a dog,. I'm passionate about orphan care. I'm a die-hard fan of the Evansville Aces, the Indiana Hoosiers, and Star Wars. I'm trying to live life by the Todd family motto: "It behooves us to live!"

Songs of comfort

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I’m not going to lie. The last few months have been hard. Heartbreaking, really. I went through a similar experience while preaching south of Muncie. I think I wound up conducting something like four funerals over the span of three months. It takes its emotional toll.

Back in November, we lost David, his mother, and his daughter. My grandma died right before Christmas. And then Dr. Phil Gerhart, a man who impacted my life and the lives of so many others in ways I cannot even describe (but will try to at some point in the very near future), died. There are moments when I feel overwhelmed with wave after wave after wave of loss. It’s almost like I’m drowning.

And that hurts.

In these moments of hurt and loss and sadness, it is inevitable that a song pops into my head and I find my heart pouring out in worship. The songs that keep popping up in my head? They are songs I haven’t heard or sung in years.

The Old Rugged Cross

It is Well with my Soul

Are you familiar with Audrey Assad? You should be. There’s a haunting beauty in her voice. And her story as the daughter of a Syrian refugee is especially poignant today. I admit that this was not the version of this hymn that has been churning in my soul, but it could be. It could be…

How Great Thou Art*

The majority of the congregations where I’ve worshiped and served over the past 30 years have leaned toward the contemporary side of Sunday morning worship. I’ve sung countless worship songs during that time. Many are deeply moving and have strong connections to my own personal faith story. And songs from the likes of Andrew Peterson, Rich Mullins, and Steven Curtis Chapman are woven into my story, too.

It’s an interesting thing, however, that the songs that I have found my heart singing over and over again these past months are songs from my childhood. Don’t read too much into that if you’re looking for me to take some kind of stand in the decades-old “Worship Wars.” I just think it’s a fascinating thing that during times of sorrow and heartbreak, I have found myself turning to the classic hymns.

Of course, it’s not just the simple music of the hymns. It’s not the creativity of contemporary songs of worship. It’s the One to whom these songs point. That is where real comfort, hope, love, and strength is found.

I don’t really have anything profound to say about this. I just pray that you are able to find some comfort in these songs that I’ve shared. And I hope they impact you they way they have touched me throughout the years.

*Yes, I know this is sung by the BYU Singers. Yes, I know BYU is a Mormon school. No, I’m not getting into any theological discussions or debates about that. The history of the hymn is powerful. Challenging. Inspiring. I don’t care who is singing it. The message remains. 

Remembering Melissa (fireworks)

Melissa and I were teammates at work. We were paired together as a tw0-person team shortly after I started working at Slingshot. We worked pretty closely together. I think it is safe to say that we became pretty good friends.

I found this picture on my work computer today. It’s left over from our time as teammates.

One day while we were skyping each other, one of us lamented the fact that while Skype has all kinds of crazy emoticons, they don’t have a fireworks emoticon. We agreed that Skype needed a fireworks emoticon. So we created our own.


This became our go-to emoticon when something was going really well and we thought it was worth celebrating. You know how some teammates have special handshakes or high-fives or something like that? This was our special high-five.

When she left the company, the emoticon changed a little bit. Every once in a while, I’d send her a message. “(fireworks)” – that’s all it would say. It meant “Thinking of you. Hope you’re doing well.”

Then, I discovered this about a month ago:

Animal bobblehead

This was a big deal. Melissa had told me on several occasions that she wanted an Animal bobblehead. We honestly weren’t sure if they actually existed. But we did know that the very idea of an Animal bobblehead was a pretty cool idea. So I let her know about it right away.

animal bobbleheads

After my post about my Chewbacca bobblehead, I had decided that I was going to go buy an Animal bobblehead and give it to her. I was going to do that this weekend. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to give it to her.

I was saddened to discover this morning that Melissa had passed away today. I don’t really know any details. I think it’s safe to say that all who knew her are still in shock. I know I am.

Don’t wait until tomorrow to do what you can do today. Life’s too short to put things on pause. Let your friends know you care while there’s still time. Hug your loved ones a little bit tighter tonight. Tomorrow is not guaranteed to any of us. So let’s make the most of today while it’s still called today.

You will be missed, Melissa. Sorely missed.
Shoot, you already are.


The sun continues to rise

Philmont sunrise

I took this picture in July of 1994. It isn’t that great of a picture, but it’s one of the most special and most memorable pictures I have taken from any of my five treks at Philmont Scout Ranch.

I had just completed my final trek at Philmont. I thought this would be my last hurrah* at Philmont. Kevin and I had the amazing opportunity to hike down Time Ridge from the Tooth of Time together in a very cool moment of brotherly bonding. I was going to be heading away to college in a month and I knew that shared experiences like these were going to become few and far between. So I cherished that moment as much as a fresh-out-of-high-school kid could cherish.

Shortly after coming off the trail, our crew received all our mail that had been sent to us while we were in the backcountry. Kevin and I received an envelope that had been sent overnight to us, which seemed rather odd. No one had ever sent us an overnight package while we were at Philmont. It was a little too unpredictable (and expensive) to try to send something like that. So we opened the envelope, which contained a note from Dad: Grandmama was in the hospital.

We didn’t really have much time to dwell on this news because of all of the debriefing events that had to take place before we could head home. We knew we’d be calling home later that evening. It was Mom’s birthday and we had a plan.

After the Closing Ceremony, we grabbed as many people as we could and had them huddle around a payphone. As soon as mom picked up the phone, she was serenaded by a motley group of 15+ teenage boys singing “Happy birthday, dear Mom!” to her over the phone. As soon as the song was over, some of the adults from our crew led the impromptu Boy Band away as we continued our conversation with Mom and Dad.

“How’s Grandmama?” I asked, fully expecting to hear that she had already gone home.

I don’t remember what Dad said or how he said it because all I remember was knowing without him even finishing the first word that Grandmama had died earlier in the day – probably while Kevin and I were hiking down Trail Ridge together.

As I turned to try to tell Kevin what I had just heard, words totally escaped me. I hoped he could somehow read my mind because I could not find a way to make myself say the words, “Grandmama died.”

Then I felt it. It was caring and comforting and strong. It was a hand on my shoulder. Mr. G had stayed with us and was there for us. He had found out beforehand and was there to comfort us as we found out this heartbreaking news some one thousand miles away from home. I’m not sure how I would’ve gotten through that phone call without him being there for us.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I got up early and walked around through Base Camp. I remember seeing the vast sea of stars high above me and feeling extremely alone and sad. Then the sun began to rise. And I realized that even though things were dark and heartbreaking for me, there was still a glimmer of hope. The sun does still rise. The day does come. And the darkness is pushed away.

So I took this picture to remind me of that moment – to remind me that light is stronger than dark, even when I hurt deep deep down in my soul. When everything is falling apart and you’re completely isolated and alone….there’s still hope. Light still wins.

I thought of this picture yesterday as I was standing in a room with my colleagues, learning that our company was going through another reduction in force. This announcement was probably more difficult to hear than the one 10 months ago because I soon realized that many of the people I worked with very closely had become casualties of this “right-sizing.” And then I felt it again. It was the strangest thing. I felt this hand on my shoulder, much like I felt when Mr. G was putting his hand on my shoulder and telling me it was going to be OK. Of course, his hand wasn’t on my shoulder.

No one’s hand was on my shoulder.

But I felt it. And I wanted to go around the room and put my hand on everyone’s shoulder, telling them that things were going to be OK. We were going to get through this disappointing news. I wanted to find my colleagues who had just been let go, put my hand on their collective shoulders, and be there for them.

As I left the office after the announcement that day, I had decided that I was going to find this picture and post it with this story as an attempt to encourage my friends who lost their jobs that there is light at the end of this darkness and that I have confidence that all of them are going to go on to do some pretty amazing things in their careers. I have no doubt about that.

Then it became clear that Christy’s dad was not going to live very much longer. And I realized that this picture that I had been thinking of for the last 36 hours was really for me and my family.

There is light at the end of this darkness. There is hope at the end of this heartache. Life will continue to go on, even as we walk through the valley of death’s shadow.

Even in the midst of this devastating series of events, it behooves us to live, and live to the fullest.

*It turned out that this event was not my last hurrah at Philmont. I returned the next two Summers as a staff member. 

Beauty From Ashes – a guest post from @mommie_Jen

Although some of the memories have faded, and time has healed the wounds, it was a moment that will forever be with me. In bed, asleep, but tormented by grief and thoughts. Unable to think. To pray. To breathe, it seemed.

We were on our quest to have a baby. And I was newly pregnant. Or rather, I had been newly pregnant. And now, suddenly, I wasn’t. I was cried out, talked out, prayed out, and worn out. I remember praying without words, but rather with feelings. In my sleep, where the dreams expressed my heart, I could just be.

And I saw with new eyes. I saw Him. The one that had breathed life into creation, the one that had formed this tiny person who’s heartbeat of life was now gone. I saw where I was. And really, it’s something that can’t sufficiently be put into words. I was with Him, and so was the daughter I had.

And so began the healing process and the next nearly a decade of waiting. We decided against any more fertility treatments. There’s more to the story, but there would be 2 more losses and a clear nudging from the Holy Spirit that said to wait. We decided to adopt “someday” but were led into the wilderness of waiting.

The decade of my 20’s sped by quickly. I worked full time in a medical office and helped with the youth at church. Every so often, I would explore adoption, but the “wait” was still spoken to my heart. Difficult as it was, it was a season of trust. I didn’t know if we would ever have children and we started to think about life without the possibility. Somehow, though, just as clearly as I had heard the “wait”, I knew that I would be a parent in my 30’s. And so the decade trucked on.

We were out to dinner one night when it happened. And by it, I mean it was as if the skies opened, angels sang, and God once again spoke to my heart.

Now. Go. Go now. This is the time.

Before our dinner was over, the plan was set in place. We were scared out of our minds. It was daunting. Overwhelming.

50 weeks later, I somberly watched the Ethiopian ground below me disappear with my new son. The next year of adjustment would be a difficult one for all of us. And as we attached, it became clear to me. The waiting wasn’t for a baby, any baby. It was for him.

Playing in Lake Erie


Now I am a crazy busy first year homeschooling mom to two little boys that are 5 and 3, loving this slightly crazy season of raising little boys!

**Thanks, Jenny, for this amazing post!  Everyone’s welcome to follow Jenny on twitter at @mommie_Jen. – Matt**