Albatross or Ebenezer

Some kids like to sleep with stuffed animals, but for months, my daughter chose to sleep with a large chunk of concrete. Because that makes perfect logical sense. It's soft and fuzzy and feels good if you roll over on it in the night. Occasionally, her twin would borrow it for bedtime (nothing like shared twin insanity), which meant that you never quite knew, when you were stripping sheets, which bed was going to dislodge a projectile capable of breaking your big toe.

Then, this year, the twins lovingly gifted me with this "rock" for my birthday. Knowing how much it meant to them, naturally, I was pretty psyched. Also, I was happy to have it out of their room and relegated to a place on my nightstand where I would no longer accidentally trip over it in the dark.

I see it multiple times a day, and mostly, it makes me smile a little and shake my head at how weird my children are. But lately, I've noticed that it's been a prayer trigger for me. I've been thinking of it as an Ebenezer. No, I'm not talking about Scrooge.

The idea of an Ebenezer, though you may already know this, comes from 1 Samuel 7, where, following an Israelite victory against the Philistines, the prophet Samuel sets up a large stone, calling it a "stone of help" or an "Ebenezer," not because the stone had helped them or because it was a way to force God's hand in the future, but as a sign to the Israelites to remember how God had already helped, that helping the Israelites was a part of who God was. The Philistines would be back. The battle had been won, but Samuel knew this was a short term victory, and he wanted his people to see that huge hunk of rock and remember, "Till now the Lord has helped us."

So these last few weeks, I've been looking at the rock chunk on my nightstand (that just screams "an interior decorator lives here!") and remembering. Maybe it's been a crap day of homeschooling or parenting--but till now the Lord has helped us. So I can trust that he will keep doing so. Maybe my heart is breaking over our broken world so desperately in need of fixing--but till now the Lord has helped us. So I can look forward with hope. Maybe I'm remembering the hundreds of prayers that seem to be left unanswered--but till now the Lord has helped us. So I can wait in faith that this is not forever.

The funny thing is that our RV has at times been an Ebenezer for me. When I looked at it, for the year and a half we lived there, I remembered how good God had been to us that we were together, that we had been able to save anything from our home, that we had such an amazing community around us, that God had provided a living situation that didn't involve cracked windows from a Cat 5 or a forty five minute commute to work for the Man. But somehow, over the last few months of waiting for it to sell, I have allowed it to become not an Ebenezer but an albatross around my neck, weighing me down. Not every day, but more often than I care to admit. But I don't have to keep that mindset.

Instead, I can choose, as I look at the rock on my nightstand...and then look out the window to where our old home sits solidly in the driveway of our new home...I can choose to remember: this far the Lord has helped us. And I can believe that he is a creative God with imaginative solutions for the things I view as problems, a creative God whose character does not change: he is helper, he is provider, he knows my own needs better than I do. In light of that, I can choose to remember the truth: it's not an albatross; it's an Ebenezer. It's not a snake; it's a fish. It's not a rock on which to break my teeth; it's bread to feed my soul.

Except, of course, for when it is a rock, a rock to help me remember. Till now the Lord has helped us.

End of Year Reflection

December is my favorite month of the year. Most people assume that's because it contains my birthday (true) and that I'm self-absorbed and greedy (also true), but it's also because, at the end of the year and beginning of a new one, we find time for introspection and assessment--at least we should, if we're not too busy celebrating. 

Trees

Carving out space for contemplation can be a challenge, though, at this time of year and easily pushed to the side if I'm not careful. This month included two sets of house guests, a cross country trip, wrapping up a semester of school, and all the excitement of birthdays and Christmas and anniversaries and a new year. If I'm not careful, the time slips away before I know it, and it's mid-January and I have no idea how the last year really went (not the cliches of a 2020 dumpster fire, but the real struggle and progress) and no idea what I hope for from the next.

Yesterday I read this quick thought from Piper about thinking through what we want to accomplish in a day before we roll out of bed in the morning and not being leaves blowing aimlessly in the wind without really going anywhere. It reminded me of how I ask my weekly Bible study kids to set their intention for the week before we sign off on Zoom. I set mine too and write it down in my journal and try not to forget about it over the next six days. 

Some weeks I forget about it.

Our last meeting before Christmas, I actually told the kids what my intention was because it was an area where I needed prayer. Guess what I haven't forgotten about since then? That's right. The intention. And even though I can't quite say I've gotten a check mark in that area, it has been worked on and struggled with since that afternoon meeting.

It's made me wonder how much power there was just in telling someone.

Sun

So here's my challenge for you as the year draws to a close: talk about it. Sit down with someone you trust and love (or a handful of someones) and share what went well this year, what good books you read, where you really failed, what hard things you tackled... then leave space to talk about what you'd like to continue or tweak or do completely differently in the coming year. 

I'm not saying make a resolution. I am saying come up with an idea of what direction you want to head.

As a military spouse, I get to pick up and start over again every time we move. Things that weren't working are a lot easier to leave behind when you are physically in a different place. New habits that I may want to pick up are easier to build in when you're restarting your life from the ground up. Not all of us have this opportunity. But we all have the hard stop of the old year ending to act as a catalyst. Let's not waste this opportunity.

While we are still gathered with family or tucked away at home in the quiet space of winter, now that the Christmas preparation and partying is done, let's take the time to think through what has come before and what will come next--and verbalize our thoughts on what we see in hindsight and foresight. Let's do this not only for ourselves but also for someone else who may need to speak their own hopes into the void and hear them echo back into their ears.

As we end the Christmas season where we ponder the miracle of Emmanuel, God with us, may we take the time to be with ourselves and with others, allowing for the margin that we really need to think and grow and breathe and progress forward into the new space of the year ahead.

Mountain

{Helpful photo captions provided by The Man who thought I wouldn't notice. I noticed.}

Provision in the Unpredictable

It's my twenty thousandth time reading the Christmas story (give or take a few), but this year it becomes about control...and provision.

This year I see Mary and Joseph, told where to go and what to do, unable to provide the basic things we things we need (shelter, medical care, community), forced to leave their home and travel elsewhere because a king in a foreign land decided it was so. They have no power, no say, no control.

We resonate with that this year. We have been told not to leave our homes, not to meet in our churches, not to go anywhere without a mask on. Some of us have lost our jobs, our homes, our health, our friends and family. We feel like our control has been wrenched from our hands and given to the powers-that-be in Washington, and we have no other choice but to comply.

Then I see God's provision, not the provision that Mary and Joseph might have wanted (the census cancelled so they could stay home, perhaps, or even a room at the inn, which seems little enough to ask), but the provision that they were given--a stable with animals in which the Lamb of God was to be born. This was a provision that was just enough (though at the time it might've seemed far less than enough), and prepared the way for the greatest provision of all--a sacrifice that could take away the sins of the world, a provision far more than we deserve.

I wonder: what are the ways that God has provided for us this year, ways that are just enough (though perhaps they seem far less than enough at the time), provisions that years from now may point the way back to Christ, to grace, to wholeness, though we don't realize that now? 

For me, in a year with less control than usual, perhaps, He provided a long distance Zoom Bible study for my ten year old; He provided neighbors willing to welcome us into a new neighborhood; He provided a church and a homeschool community willing to take creative measures to keep meeting in person; He provided a yard where my children can play outdoors; He provided plane tickets and clean bills of health and masks so that we could fly to see my in-law's for Christmas (even with my husband's Achilles tendon partially torn). He provided a library with curbside pickup and groceries delivered to the trunk of my car and flexible children ready to roll with the punches.  

As I count the provisions, they begin to snowball, letting me see one after another after another, opening my eyes to God's goodness even as I acknowledge that I am not the one running the show...and neither is COVID-19. God prepared every detail of his son's coming, down to Caesar Augustus demanding a census so that a prophecy given 600 years before could be fulfilled with Jesus' birth in Bethlehem, a birth with the least of these for whom he came to die, a birth befitting a perfect sacrifice.

And as I count the provisions, I hear my heart quietly remembering: all this and Christ too. I may not have control of much, but I do have all this...and Christ too. And as I sit beside my husband, our youngest daughter cuddled between us and the lights of the Christmas tree mingling with firelight and the glow of computer screens as we work, I think to myself: that's worth celebrating. 

Christ's provision may not look as we imagine, but it always turns out to be just enough, enough to help us see God more fully, enough to bring joy (if we look for it), enough to be worth treasuring up in our hearts.

Friendship Curry

When we left Florida, I made a list of things I was going to miss...and things I was not going to miss. Because sometimes, it really helps to write things out so that later when you are romanticizing the last base, you have tangible evidence that, yes, you really did live in an RV where you thought the floor was going to give way at any moment and the cat litter had to hang out under the girls' bed, but also so that if you look back and start to think that everything must've been terrible (you lived in an RV with five kids and three pets!), you have written proof that you also had a sunrise over the water to enjoy every morning and dolphins who would drop by for breakfast (okay, that part didn't actually happen).

I'm so glad I took this picture back in FL,
so I can remember how wonderful that food was.

One of the things that I didn't expect to miss as much as I have, though, was quality Thai food. I'll admit, I knew our Thai place was good. I mean, it was my comfort food: five minutes down the road from us, it was the Man's best "My wife has had a long day, let me fix this" option. But we were moving to DC...ish. Obviously, there would be good Thai food in DC.

WRONG.

We've tried five different Thai places in our neighborhood now, and with the exception of the curry puffs (which is really kind of a DC specific Thai option, and I do love them), they have all been a disappointment. Every time, I get my hopes up. Every time, my curried dreams are crushed.

So today I manned up and made Thai red curry myself. And it was...okay. At least a little better than the bland, veggie-less sauces we've been getting from the nearby restaurants. The kids liked it (well, all except for Tiny who would survive on a diet of pizza, baby carrots, and donuts if given the choice), but the Man and I agreed it needed some tweaking.

The Man took this fancy photo of dinner in the works.
My wok can cook enough for a small country.
Which means, sometimes we have leftovers.

Part of the problem is that curry done well is a many layered thing. Or at least that's how it seems to me as I've been digging through recipes in search of one that can give me the quality I want for about 10% of the effort that should be required. The recipe I tried was merely okay because if you don't put in about thirty different ingredients and then let it simmer until the flavors meld, you just don't get the rich depth of a good curry. It's fine to feed a six year old, whose tastebuds are still in the developmental stage, but for a woman who comfort-ate her way through a swimming pool of curry last year: standards were not met.

I was thinking about these things while stirring the curry and simultaneously batting texts back and forth across the country to friends in TX, FL, VA, etc., people that we've met and maintained relationships with from our varied bases (and from life before that too). Much like my Thai place, we don't get to physically take the people with us, though--thanks to modern communication--many more of my friendships do get to travel with me, at least to a certain extent. With each move, the people I meet add a depth and richness to my life that I couldn't have anticipated. There was no gap in my friend circle, necessarily, but once I get to know these new souls, I wonder how I couldn't have missed them earlier.

This is the picture the Man sent me
while I was on an out of town trip to prove 
that, if I die, he can probably keep the kids alive.

For instance, our homeschool community in FL was incredible--they held me up during a season when we were all weary and worn, and let me do the same for them. It was hard to imagine that I could luck out enough to land in another great community when we got here, but we did! True, the relationships are not the same (who could expect them to be?), but the joy of getting to learn from the women I'm with now, enriches even further what I was able to gain from friends in FL, who had already added another layer to friends we'd left behind in TX, and so on.

This month, we got news about where we will be heading next. Yes, we just got here. That's how it works sometimes. We still have over half of a year left, but I am so grateful already to see the quality of the relationships that we have been able to build here. I hope I have been a blessing to those around me, but I know I have been blessed by them. They are secret ingredients in my life, helping give flavor and depth that I didn't even know I was missing. And that helps me look forward to the people I'll get to know at the next base too...no matter how exhausting building new community always is. Because when it comes to comfort: curry and community are really the best ways to go. Even if sometimes you really have to work for them.

This kids don't really care about curry
and are pretty sure they should satisfy all
community needs ever. Just saying.

Seeds and Surprises

A little over two months ago, we were in the middle of our move. One of the things we couldn't bring with us was our little pallet garden (though I did manage to bring our potted lemon tree, which rode shotgun from Florida to Virginia, scraping its spiky arms against the dashboard through four states). We are only here for eleven months (ish) unless the Powers That Be decide to keep us. One of the casualties of being somewhere less than a year is that I'm not trying for another garden. I did, however, buy some indoor plants and a handful of herbs (that I'm already killing).

The lemon tree has really liked VA.

So, I've been missing playing in the dirt a little. Also, gardening is like outside the house decorating, and if you like that kind of thing (which I do), it's kind of fun. Also x2, it's more fun to eat something you grow yourself. And then my sister sent me a picture of her wall of morning glories that she planted this summer which are now a riot of blooms and leaves. I'm not saying I was jealous but I definitely wondered how it would feel to be able to plant seeds and then actually see them grow and thrive. That doesn't often happen for us simply because we move too quickly. Our pallet garden was primarily starter plants.

With those thoughts in my mind, I was astounded to look outside early one day and see a vine tapping its way onto our back deck. We haven't purchased a weed eater yet, so I went out to investigate, wondering what I would need to pull up by hand, only to find that it wasn't a weed--it was morning glories! Someone must have planted them at the house before we even rented it, and here we get to enjoy the blooms for which we didn't even work.

I benefit from someone else's planting.

This felt incredibly significant to me in light of all plants that couldn't come with us. Their roots were too deep. They stayed behind to be enjoyed by someone else. The strawberries and lavender and bell peppers we left behind are hopefully being harvested and enjoyed by someone else in the RV park we called home for the last 18 months. And that is good, but seeing bare garden patches at our new home (bare patches that I am resisting the urge to fill in) can be disheartening. But I am realizing that, while it feels like we move and have to start all the way over each time, I see more and more that this is not completely true. Though certainly the seeds I may have planted can't necessarily come with us, there are some left behind by others that we can then tend into full growth. 

Happy surprises

Naturally, this applies to more than just gardening. I see this in our homeschool community, where I benefit from a community that is already set up and structured, which allows them to let in our transient family and enjoy us while we are here. I see this in our church, where we can be blessed by people who are already growing in the Lord and seeking to support and encourage other believers. I see this in our neighborhood where we can benefit from programs that are already in place, using the library, going to stores, picking up food at restaurants. These are things that someone else has worked for, and we get to step in and be a part of them for a little while. Just like I get to enjoy the morning glories I haven't planted. 

Photo credit for this one goes to my sister.
Genetic credit goes to my mother-in-law.

So as I watch morning glory blooms opening their trumpets to soak in the early morning sunlight, I find myself praying:

May I be brave enough to keep planting (whether flower seeds or seeds of truth and encouragement) what I may not see bloom, knowing that someone else might be blessed weeks, months, or years later because of it. May I keep my eyes open to see beautiful surprises for which I can take no credit. And may I not be afraid to let my roots sink deep, even knowing that some may not come up the next time we move, knowing that there is the possibility of a painful uprooting or a severing of one part of myself from the other, because what I leave behind may be just what someone else needs. And may you be encouraged to keep planting the seeds God has called you to plant, not knowing how they may benefit someone else along the way.

Pier Pilings

The beach has been such a wonderful haven for us this year as we have occasionally needed to escape the confines of the RV to find beauty and breathing room, and never more so than these last few weeks of social isolation. I have always loved the ocean--really, any form of water, even when it's falling out of the sky--and it has always helped me keep my sanity and perspective. Well, as much as that's possible.

This last week, we've been parking ourselves down along the shoreline where an old pier juts out. I used to take the kids to this pier before the hurricane. It was about half a mile from our neighborhood beach, so we'd walk along the shore and then out along its creaking beams until the kids could sit at the end with their legs hanging free over the water while I tried not to have a heart attack that one of them was going to fall off or be eaten by a shark that decided to unexpectedly lunge out of the water. Sometimes while we were there (in between the heart palpitations and panic), I would read out loud to them from whatever book we were enjoying at the time, mostly Prince Caspian and The Just So Stories, if I'm remembering right.

Now, there is no way to walk out on the pier as all the boards were torn loose and flung to kingdom come in a Cat 5 storm. But the bones of the structure still stand and have turned a beautiful sea green that I'm noticing for the first time, now that I'm not so busy walking on it (and trying to keep the kids from falling off of it). The pilings weathered the storm, and it softened and strengthened and stained them a deep and vibrant hue. And they are beautiful, if I can slow down long enough to look at them, and the truth of what they show me is beautiful.

We go to the sea because it is bigger than us. It reminds us that we are small and insignificant and a good storm sweeping down off its surface can do away with us in a moment. And we go to the sea because it is beautiful, and we need the beauty to give us hope and perspective and joy when the struggle threatens to hold us below the surface until we drown. And we go to the sea for air, for deep breaths that fill our lungs and rush out of them full of the tang of salt and water and life.

But now I also ask myself, are my pilings sunk deep into what is solid so that, no matter the storms that come, I can be softened and strengthened and stained with vivid shades of light and water? I want my foundation to be sturdy enough that I'm not blown off by the slightest breeze or even by a category five hurricane, by a cough and a cold or by a global pandemic, by a change in my schedule or a cross country move. And only then do I have the opportunity to be changed for the better by the wind and the waves that wash over me.

Easter Meditation

Easter morning I went for a prayer walk/jog, just trying to catch the sunrise. The half moon held court, fully visible high above my head, but the sun persistently hid behind a thick fleece of clouds that hovered low on the horizon. I pointed my face resolutely towards the east and waited, taking in the slow splash of the surf on the shore, thinking and praying.

Many times we go through life feeling as if the face of Jesus is shrouded in clouds. He feels distant and obscured, and sometimes we despair of seeing his face and begin to doubt his presence. So as I waited for the sunrise, I thought about the obvious similarities, especially with the significance of the day.

As I waited on the sun to rise into my line of sight, I was reminded that the Son has risen even though sometimes it seems the clouds are hiding his face from me. In those moments, what do I choose? To give up and go home? I hope not. I want to choose to wait, pointing my face in the right direction even when all I see are smudges of light that filter through thick clouds. I want to wait and not give up.

And when, while in the fog, I feel discouragement, I look at those of you who, much like the moon, are still reflecting his light. That encourages me. It helps me to keep going. You are a reminder that though my present circumstantial atmosphere may block my view of Christ, his reality is no more dependent on my blue skies than the sun's. And while I wait for the clouds to clear, I can see his presence in your faces. I can hear his truth in your words. I can sense his warmth in your actions. This is one of the reasons we need the church, because while Jesus never leaves or forsakes, there are seasons when it is harder to see his face than others, and if we surround ourselves with others who are looking to him, often we get glimpses of his radiance reflected in their lives, glimpses that we so desperately need.

Easter morning, the clouds cleared for a moment and the sun peaked through. I said thank you for the clouds that made the sun's rays even more brilliant and breath taking, but I also tried to remind myself that, while sometimes the clouds seem to last forever, they will always--eventually--be burned away by the heat of the sun. And while we wait for that day, we point ourselves in the right direction, remind ourselves of what is true, look around at the lovely moons that reflect his radiance, and wait for a break in the clouds.

On a Pufferfish

Deep beneath the surface of the ocean, a small Japanese pufferfish toils away creating a temporal piece of art that, to our eyes, looks like an underwater alien crop circle. It's actually a masterpiece of love. This five inch long fish works relentlessly to create a circle seven feet across in order to attract its mate with a breathtaking display of precision and beauty. As I read about the pufferfish this week (after being introduced to it by one of Littles' classmates), I resonated with this insignificant creature. I saw in the pufferfish lessons about life and lessons about art that I didn't anticipate.

First, the pufferfish reminds me that we affect more than we realize. With its persistent work, the pufferfish creates a work of art 16 times as big as it is. Sixteen times. Sometimes we don't believe that we matter. But if the pufferfish's circle is over a dozen times bigger than itself, who knows how many people we are affecting by just continuing to do our own small jobs. The ripples that bounce off our obedience may be the blessing someone else needs--and we don't even realize it.

Sometimes the art we create is a clean dog...

Second, the pufferfish's work of art doesn't last, but that doesn't mean it's lacking in worth. It takes seven to nine days for the pufferfish to disrupt enough sediment to create the pattern. But how long do you think it would take for the ocean to wash it all away? And yet the pufferfish continues with its purpose. Sometimes we want to give up because the beauty we create in the world (whether a cleaned off counter or a smile on someone else's face) seems so transient. But imagine how much bleaker the sea floor would be without the pufferfish's creation? Surely it is worth it, at least to the female pufferfish, no matter how long it lasts.

Sometimes it's letting your eight year old paint your toenails...

Third, we see that in order to create art, the pufferfish has to be willing to sift through disrupted sediment until it has unearthed the soft sand beneath. Similarly, for the artist, there is no art without first sifting through the grit that has hidden our souls. We must be willing to face the things that are hard, jarring, painful. This is not fun, but it is necessary, or the art we produce only ever occurs at a surface level which ultimately keeps it from being effective.

Sometimes it's making alligator cupcakes
for your now three year old...
that smile is a work of art too...

Interestingly enough, it is while sifting through the gritty sand that the pufferfish excavates shells which he saves to add to his design. We often think that filtering through the uncomfortable stuff is needlessly hard or only something that we ever do because we have to. We forget that it is when we choose to make those difficult choices that we discover incredible beauty that's been hidden all this time just below the surface.

Sometime's it's a big pot of vegetable curry...

Or a row of hot cocoa mugs on a cold morning...

Fourth, once the pufferfish begins, he can't stop or the ocean will immediately begin dispersing the sand back to its usual smooth, shifting flatness, at which point the pufferfish either has to give up or start all over again from scratch. I remember this as an encouragement for myself...to keep going, to persevere, to not make my own work harder by giving up. It's also a reminder to me that if a 5 inch long fish can swim for seven to nine days in a row without a break, then I can get out of bed and do the work God has called me to do.

Sometimes it is the first bloom on your strawberry plants
that you faithfully tended to for the long barren months...

Finally, once the pufferfish is done, he shows it off to his hopeful partner. If she accepts his work of art and they mate, she then uses this labor of love as a nest for their eggs. The disrupted sand patterns protect the eggs by decreasing the speed of water flow to the center of the nest where they nestle in safety. The pufferfish's hard work is not only beautiful but also useful, not only attractive but also a resting place. How many of us can say this about the art we create (whether we create on a small scale with a smile or a large scale with a completed projected)? Are we looking long term to how the beauty that we create can nourish and nurture?

Sometimes it's creative gift wrapping
and making the cat look up at just the right moment...

All around us God's creation points us towards him and shows us who we are more fully...if we are willing to open our souls and look and listen and learn. The pufferfish is one example of how God speaks to us in the small things. No detail is too insignificant--He has written us messages of hope and courage even on the sea floor.

And often it is the choice to keep going,
day in and day out,
with spelling lists and dishes and hugging your small children.

Sunday Sunrise

This morning when I left for my run, it was still dark out with just a hint of sunrise pulling itself up by the fingers along the eastern horizon. I run an out and back these days, so as I ran I looked forward to the moment when I would turn around and be able to see the sunrise for the return run. Still, the beauty when I turned surprised me into a verbal, "Oh, wow!" as a puff of frosted air bloomed up around my face (yes, it even gets cold in Florida). I had seen hints of the sunrise in my peripheral vision as I'd run, but nothing could've prepared me for how beautiful it actually was with its pink and gold streaks and gilded clouds.

Isn't this how God works in our lives? We are running along in our day to day darkness with only the occasional glimpse into what God is doing. Sometimes we even convince ourselves that the glimmers of light we have seen out of the corner of our eyes are little more than our imagination. Sometimes the weight of running through life alone in the dark seems to be more than we can bear. But some day, we are going to turn and get to see the artistic rendering of beauty that God has created while our backs were turned and all we could see was darkness.

If right now you find yourself looking out into the remnants of a dark night wondering if sunrise will ever come, this is your reminder.

Light is coming. Hold on. Keep running the course.

We can't anticipate the beauty of what we will see once it is revealed to us what God has been doing all along...even while our backs were turned.

"Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet...." 1 Corinthians 15:51-52a

Not today's sunrise because I was too busy running to take a picture.

What Is True

I have yet to update the blog for the new year, and it is quite simply because we have been busy and we have been sick (collective coughing and nose blowing). I've discovered that when I have mucus pouring out of all my facial orifices, all I really want to do is read novels and disappear for a while from my own snottiness. Unfortunately, life goes on even while you're sick. Trips are made, children are taught, meals are cooked, errands are run, and you use up the box of tissues you'd bought for yourself and start toting around a roll of toilet paper in your purse because--let's be honest--you already live in a trailer by the bayou so standards have lowered dramatically. But in between life, I get to read novels and check out for a bit before I tackle the next thing.

Still, it's a good year already, snot and all. There are a lot of reasons that I say this, but the main one is that this year (with all that will come with it) is the year that God is giving, and because I choose to believe that he is a good father who gives me bread and not a rock, I can keep my eyes open to look for the good gifts that he's giving me even when hard things come. It also happens to be a year when I can choose to remember the incredible gift of the gospel (that Jesus came to save us--and he has done it) day in and day out, and allow myself to be encouraged by this truth and to encourage others as well.

I love this picture because it looks like
the cloud is eating the rainbow.

It's a good year because it's the year the Man and I hit a full decade of parenting (though sometimes it seems impossible that it's already been that long and other times it seems impossible that it's only been that long). It's a good year because it's a year when we will meet new goals, enjoy old friendships, forge new ones. For us personally, it will include a move with all the challenges and joys that entails, but before that will be a few more months to really revel in the incredible community that God has given us here and to squeeze out every bit of joy that we can before we go. It's a good year because we have no idea what impossible miracles God can do over the next twelve months, and no idea what impossible circumstances he will allow so that we can draw closer to him and find out just how satisfying he can still be--even in the midst of pain and heartache and loss.

This morning, I'm writing to remind myself of the truth more than to share these truths with you. Because sometimes, even when we know the truth of things, our human emotions and our limited perspectives make it hard to remember: and so we wake up in the morning and we thank God for the cat barf that motivated us to get out of bed and we make ourselves a cup of coffee and we choose to tell ourselves the truth, over and over again, instead of getting back in bed or hiding from ourselves in the pages of a novel. Even when it's cold outside or our noses are runny or we feel that the very fabric of our personal selves has been worn to bare threads by what is only the very, very beginning of what could turn out to be a very, very long year. Even then, we tell ourselves the truth because we know that the truth will set us free.

But I have an invitation for you today, if your cat didn't barf all over the floor and a pair of tennis shoes that your second son left out last night: if you are having trouble telling yourself the truth today (or tomorrow or the next day), call a friend or text or email or grab them by the hand (it can be me if you need it to be), and just say these words: I'm struggling right now; can you help me remember what is true? And then remind each other. Make a list. Even if it's short. Even if it's small things like: today I got out of bed, today God is still God (which means he is in control and I am not), today I am still fearfully and wonderfully made (no matter how I feel), today I am a sinner in need of a savior--and Christ has already come to fulfill that need. Some of those may not actually be small once you start thinking about them.

Tell yourself the truth today. And maybe invite a friend to help you if your own small voice is getting lost in the space between your ears and your heart. As for me: this is a good day (in a good year) because God is good--and the rest of the fears and concerns vying for preeminence in my mind don't matter quite so much. Today I choose to let this truth permeate my reality of math lessons and used tissues and messy beds and constant coughing. I choose to let it change me, even if it doesn't necessarily change the way I feel yet.

Remembering Hope

This morning, I ran three miles. This doesn't seem terribly impressive when laid side by side with the fact that I ran a half marathon only a little over a year ago. But I've been dealing with a running injury since this summer that has left me limping after the kids like a one legged duck. So the fact that I was running at all (even if my foot still doesn't feel like it should) was kind of a huge deal for me, even if I end up paying for it tomorrow (as is typically the case).

Here's the thing about this injury: I actually went to a doctor for it. I avoid the doctor like the plague. He stuck a needle in the bottom my foot. That did not feel nice. He made me change my shoes. The new shoes were expensive. He gave me stretches that I do religiously. That was the nicest thing he told me to do. He made me take off weeks that turned into months from running. Somehow I didn't go insane. But I did it all. It didn't work. I was still limping around pathetically.

So I spent a lot of time praying for healing. And I borrowed the Man's Hoka running shoes (the benefit of having large feet is borrowing shoes from your husband). And I read books about changing my running form. And I only ran tiny increments. And I changed my yoga class. And I took a spin class. And it still hurt. But maybe a little less. So I kept going.

All of which to mean that this morning, as I ran and the sun rose in its shimmering splendor of flame, I prayed and thought and listened to my foot. And I pondered the question that I've been asking for years, even though I know it's not necessarily the right question: why is there healing and then there is not?

I was asking it about my foot, true, but mostly I was asking about it for the brokenness I see around me. For the shattered relationships, for those battling depression and anxiety, for those caught in alcoholism and escapism, for the ones trying to get control of their anger or rise above their own jealousy or not be controlled by self pity. Why is there healing and then there is not for the ones of us who know where we are struggling, are striving to seek healing in whatever way we can, and are praying with every ounce of faith and fight that we have in us?

And then I asked myself this: are we just plot devices in God's cosmic book? Does He play with us as characters the way I do mine when I write? Hmm, it might be fun to pit her against ten thousand assailants, or maybe I'll let him encounter his deepest fears just to see what will happen, or this character is losing my attention, I think I'll ramp up the conflict a little or possibly kill her off.

I watched the sun rise and thought about how God not only set our tiny solar system in motion (ensuring that earth rotates at just the right angle and speed, providing us with the perfect distance from the sun so that we don't burn with heat or freeze with ice, placing us in our insignificance out on one stretching arm of the Milky Way), but keeps it moving and stable, in spite of all the odds. I thought about how insignificant an ant is to me, how thoughtlessly I crush it to keep from getting bitten. And I wondered: is that all we are to Him? Ants to be crushed?

But then I remembered the truth, I remembered what I can hold on to: that our God is infinitely huge, and that in comparison with Him, I am insignificant, but that somehow, for no reason that I, who crush the ant without a second thought, can even understand, somehow He cares for me. Not as a supporting character who could get killed off so that the audience places emotional import on the hero's victory, but as me. And He cared enough about me to be the one who died to save me so that He could ensure that I would spend forever with Him.

So when there is not healing, do I remember this? Do I remember that I still matter? Do I remember that the suffering have significance in God's economy? Do I remember that His purpose is always for my good and that just as I appear to be only an ant compared to God's glory, so this suffering is only a second compared to eternity--and still God chooses to use it to draw me nearer to Him, still he refuses to waste it because He cares for me? Do I remember?

Do I remember that the God who set the stars in place has not forgotten me in my suffering, whether it is a hurt foot or a broken heart, a damaged soul or a marriage in distress, an insurmountable obstacle or a terminal diagnosis? Do I remember that I am remembered? And that I am not alone? Do I remember that He is in control and not callously laughing in the heavens as I suffer but using this for purposes I cannot imagine at this time?

I want to remember. Because sometimes there is not healing, but that doesn't mean there is only despair.

And this is hope.

I thought this was a better option
than a sweaty post-run selfie.

End Goals

Three months ago, I had the honor of getting to watch my brother-in-law graduate from high school. My in-laws have molded and taught him, shepherded him and sacrificed for him, and now, as he heads off to college, they can do so knowing that--while they may wish they had more time--they have prepared him well.

As he walked across the stage to receive his diploma, I thought nine years ahead to my own son, eight if he keeps going at the rate he's attempting these days (but don't worry, I can intentionally fail him in a few classes to keep him home longer--joys of homeschooling). And suddenly I got the blessing of a bird's eye view of what's coming next, like I was using binoculars to view the finish line.

Photo cred to other amazing brother-in-law

It's so easy to get for all of us to get bogged down by the day to day. To make the next easy choice because we're tired or distracted or overwhelmed by other things. We've all been there. We all get that. But the truth is that in our relationships (whether that be with God, our spouse, our children, or our friends... or even ourselves), we have to keep the long term goals in mind. In an argument between spouses, perhaps the question shouldn't be who is right or what is fair but whether or not we want our marriages to succeed. In our friendship with the neighbor next door, perhaps we need to worry less about being inconvenienced and more about how we can be community. In our parenting, perhaps we need to focus our energies not on perfect behavior but rather on modeling for them the heart attitudes that we hope to see in them as adults.

I think often the problem is that I want my days to be easy. I want school to finish up quickly. I want my kids to behave appropriately. I want my neighbor to like me, my husband and I never to fight, my mother to still think I'm the apple of her eye (except she ruins it by persistently not playing favorites--thanks for nothing, Mom). And none of those things are bad. But they don't keep the end goals in sight.

To put it another way, if I want to be a fast runner, I don't just run sprints. I run distance as well. I do tempo runs, I do intervals, I do yoga, I stretch. I take days off to rest. I take weeks off when I'm injured. And I get up on the mornings that I have to and get those runs in even when I don't want to. Because I have a long term end goal in sight. My goals change my actions but most importantly, they change my attitude.

Still, sometimes we forget what this looks like for our relationships. We begin to trick ourselves into thinking that self care is all bubble baths and eating chocolate, and forget that it is the hard work of putting ourselves to bed on time and prioritizing healthy eating and making space for the things that help us to breathe. We think that if our marriage is happy, we no longer have to put the time in to grow and learn together. We change diapers and run through spelling lists and throw food towards the gaping mouths of our hungry children without keeping at the forefront of our mind that these are not just future adults but also eternal souls.

May I just ask you to pause for a few minutes and look at your relationships and ask yourselves: what is the end goal?

The relationships that define your life matter.  So fight for your marriage. Prioritize your children. Make time for your friendships. Remind yourself over and over again what matters and why you are doing what you are doing (and if what you're doing isn't helping you meet those relational goals, change what you're doing). When you catch yourself just going through the motions (or slacking off completely), stop yourself and remember that you have a purpose--not just for yourself but for your relationships.

You want to not just celebrate that anniversary, but do so knowing that you love your spouse more in that moment than you did when you married them, and vice versa. You want to not just watch your child graduate and achieve big things, but to do so knowing that he or she is someone you can trust and be proud of. You don't want to just small talk across the fence with your neighbor, neatly avoiding stepping on each other's toes, but be true community for each other.

You want to not just get a spiritual check mark, eternal fire insurance, or moral superiority--you want to know God intimately, if such a thing is even possible. You don't want to just skate through each day, surviving by doing the bare minimum. Remember who you are. Remember what your end goal is. And work towards it so that one day you can walk away knowing that, no matter what happened, you gave your best. Not because you had to, but because you wanted to.

Delight and Desire

Last night the kids and I were reading a Max Lucado devotional on Psalm 37:4. The translation the devotional book used read, "Enjoy serving the Lord. And he will give you what you want." I made the kids stop and talk about it with me (being such a fun mommy to little people), and I told them why I preferred the wording that says, "Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart."

That translation hits closer to the heart of the matter which tells us that any time we love someone other than ourselves--really love them--then our desires change to reflect that. When we are delighting in Christ, we no longer want the things that we used to want. We see this with our spouses and our kids and, really, any friendship. Because I love the Man, suddenly I want to live in an RV with five kids and three pets--ha!--than endure another separation. Because I love my kids, I'd rather spend money on things they need than things I want, I try to choose their best even if that makes things more complicated for me. Because I love my friends, I rearrange my schedule to accommodate them, ensuring that we see each other, or spend time making phone calls and sending emails.

It made me think of Anne Shirley, honestly, the part at the end of Anne of the Island when Gilbert is proposing to her (again) and he apologizes for the long road ahead of them and that he can't offer her any of the things that she had once dreamed of. She responds, "I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU." This is how we know what love is: when our love for the other person shifts our desires permanently.

We've all seen that trope in movies about the woman falls in love with the man and completely cedes everything about who she is (or has children and loses everything about her personality). This is not what I'm talking about. This is not losing all sense of self or becoming automatons or trying to cram ourselves into spaces we were never intended to fill. This is acknowledging that suddenly someone else's joy matters in new ways, someone else's happiness, someone else's health.

So my questions for myself today have been this: do I still want the same things I wanted before I had children, fell in love, chose Jesus? What has changed? Why? Do my desires reflect what I claim to love? Not every desire is going to change. I love to write. I love to read. I love the ocean and rainy days and coffee. None of those things are bad--in fact, all of those things are ways God made me for his glory.

But if I have to choose between finishing my book and listening to my husband tell me about his rough day at work, which will I choose? If I haven't had my coffee yet and my kids have all tumbled out of bed at an obscenely early hour, how do I respond? If God gives me sunshiny suburbia and a schedule that makes writing a challenge, am I bitter?

I want to make sure that my desires are directly related to the people and things in which I claim to find delight.

{Pictures from our recent family vacation to St Augustine.}

If You Try Hard Enough

Just a quick reminder for your Monday morning that anything can be a bookshelf if you try hard enough (and potentially think outside the box). Even a very large command hook that is supposed to be used to hold your mom's bag.

And if anything can be a bookshelf, then really, your possibilities are endless. Go forth and Monday like a boss.

Not the Same

Last week, I drove by what used to be a car wash and saw a man calmly vacuuming out his pristine black sedan in the half of the car wash that's still standing.

Today, I drove to a UPS store that hasn't reopened since the hurricane. I missed the memo that it wasn't anywhere close to reopening. Six months later.

Last week, I heard a kid say that his favorite thing to do in the world was to ride his bike in his driveway. Then he asked his mom when he is going to get to go home.

A week before that, I heard a different kid say that the one place she wants to go in the world is back to her own bedroom. She hasn't spent the night in her room since the first week of October.

Every week I pass the crumbled building that used to house the Hurricane Preparedness team for Panama City. Out front they have a large sign which still reads, "Are you ready for hurricane season?" The irony is not lost on me. They were not ready for hurricane season.

None of us were.

Already we are gearing up for another season of hurricanes, but we still have not recovered from the last one. There are so many things that I could write in response to this, about how we can go from one crisis to the next, trying to catch our breath between them. About how it is hard to keep our heads above the water, when salt-heavy waves continue to pound us below the surf, filling our mouths and our lungs. About how some days we begin to remember the rhythms of normal life, but are worried we're being lulled into a false sense of security. About how we work to rebuild our routines and try hard to start dreaming again (instead of just surviving).

But for tonight, if you are one of those who are waiting to go home or waiting for normal or waiting just to be able to return to the place you left something once and hoping to find it still there...I want to tell you this: sometimes, really beautiful things happen in that gap time.

Sometimes you learn to cross the monkey bars on a broken down playground.

Sometimes in between swallowing sea water, we realize that we're doing more than just treading water. Sometimes while rebuilding our routines, we discover that we don't quite fit back in the old places because we've grown. Sometimes in between the dreaming and the worry, we discover that our worries are not the same and neither are our dreams (because we are not the same), and we are far closer to achieving some of those dreams than we ever imagined.

Yes, we are not home. And yes, we may not be ready for what's coming next. But we are also stronger and wiser (or possibly leaner and meaner) than we were before, and that's okay too. There is nothing for it but to keep taking small steps towards rebuilding and small steps towards preparing for what's next and small steps towards actually living real life, and trust God that's he's got the rest in hand. No matter what.

Oh, and celebrate the victories, no matter how small. Because we may not be ready for another round of hurricanes, but we also aren't the same people we were last time around. And that's nothing to spit at.

May As Well Enjoy (Part Deux)

I'm coming back to apply an add-on to Sunday's post...mostly because honesty is important to me and balance is a necessary ingredient when we talk about perspective (which is a theme that keeps cropping up for me here). I realized that my original post just needed a little more fleshing out, so bear with me.

This afternoon, I took the kids back to base housing to let the twins and Twinkle play on that little playground I mentioned Sunday and let the big boys enjoy the basketball court next door. We'd been there about fifteen minutes before I noticed: the sand where the playground sat was covered in broken glass shards leftover from the hurricane. I am not talking, "There were a few broken beer bottles that I easily picked up and threw away." I'm also not talking, "The sun glistened on the broken glass, its rays reflecting to create a beautiful rainbow blah blah blah fantastic life lesson blah blah." I'm talking, "I am letting my five year olds and two year old slide into a sand pit full of broken glass, and someone is going to die or at the very least get sent the the ER, at which point, protective services is going to take my children away from me forever...and I'll probably deserve it."

It felt like a slap in the face.

And I'm not going to lie, it especially felt like a slap in the face because I had literally just written a super positive post about embracing where you are. So let me caveat: if where you are is covered in broken glass, embrace with caution. At the very least, maybe keep scouting for another playground.

But I also want to say this: I had someone tell me this week about how they could never do what I do (RV living with five homeschooled kids in a disaster zone, I guess) and how they are amazed at how positive I am. If this thought has ever crossed your mind or some version of this thought in relation to some other person, let me say this: God calls us to different kinds of hard. And this is a hard season that God has clearly called me to. He has something else for you.

Just like I don't need to embrace a playground covered in broken glass, so you don't need to force yourself into hard situations that are not intended for you.

With that said, I am not always positive (far from it), and this is not always easy. Just this morning, I was making pancakes (nothing so hard about that), and looking around our RV and had a complete panic moment about being there for another year. Another year without accessing any of the things we threw into a storage unit (that are hopefully not covered in mold), things that most of our friends lost outright in the hurricane (so, note that I'm aware how petty this is). Another year of emptying out black tanks and gray tanks. Another year of the washer/dryer cheerfully shrinking our clothes and leaving them nice and wrinkly. Another year of hoping we don't run out of gas before I've made my coffee in the morning. Another year of wanting to hide in the RV because I don't want to see the destruction around me.

And then, very quietly, I heard in my heart, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Even this. I can do small things like fry a batch of pancakes. I can do hard things like fight back tears day in and day out so that I can be emotionally available to my kids. I can do impossible things like choosing joy when the world around looks incredibly bleak. All things through Christ. Who strengthens me. Whether or not I deserve it. Whether or not I remember to ask for it. Whether or not I make the wisest choices with my time and energy. He is always there (Emmanuel--Christ with us) offering to strengthen me, offering to revive me, offering to hold me up in his everlasting arms.

So yes, embrace where you are and who you are with and enjoy, but know that you are not doing it because you are some positive, effervescent embodiment of spirituality--you are doing it because Christ strengthens you. But that doesn't mean you should let your kids go play in broken glass.

May As Well Enjoy

There is a tendency, for many of us, to go into survival mode when things get rough. We concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and find ourselves with hardly any energy left for anything else. Survival begins to feel like all we are capable of. If you are there: this is not me judging. 90% of the time, I am there too.

But the last couple of weeks, there has been a little voice in my head saying, "You live here. You may as well enjoy it." So we've started occasionally walking the dog on the beach near where the RV is parked. We have to drive, but it's still a beach. There's a lot of debris around, but the water is beautiful. And we took a picnic down there last week and played on a playground that is miraculously still standing.

Today, I drove the kids back into base housing. They aren't mowing any more, of course, and so the fields between houses have been taken over by wildflowers. We picked a vaseful and found another playground that was (miraculously!) also stable. And this afternoon, I broke my own rule about not going to the beach unless it's at least 75 degrees, and we drove back to the old neighborhood and snuck down to our old beach. I say snuck, but there's no one there to notice.

It was fascinating walking on the sand and seeing the tracks of bear, raccoon, heron, and deer, but not a single footprint other than the ones we were leaving behind. Someone had abandoned a couple older kayaks, and the kids had a great time paddling them around in the shallow water, using their hands for oars. They're hoping the Man will buy them a real paddle next time. Or two.

But today, as I've been thinking about enjoying where I live (to the best of my ability--broken windows and half torn off roofs aren't terribly picturesque), I realized that this applies to so much more than just setting. It's looking at my kids and asking myself: do I enjoy them or am I just enduring until they move out of the house at 18? It's looking at my husband and asking myself: have I forgotten how much fun he is? When was the last time we went on a date together? Are we just co-parents and roommates or am I remembering he was my best friend first? It's even asking about my relationship with Christ: was my quiet time just a check mark for the day? Am I fully reveling in his joy? Do I truly treasure him?

And sometimes, it's in small ways. I poured that cup of coffee. Let me sit down and enjoy it, instead of racing around washing dishes and starting the laundry and sweeping the floor while it gets cold. I picked up that book from the library. Let me really savor it, instead of forgetting that it's there while instead mindlessly surfing the internet. I washed those sheets. Let me take a quick shower and put on clean pajamas so I can really enjoy the one night this week when I will be sleeping without an extra blanket of pet fur.

Enjoyment doesn't take very long. And it takes hardly any energy at all. But it is sometimes so easy to miss out on when we've been in survival mode for too long.

I guess this is just a little reminder to myself for later down the road (and possibly for you too, if you need it), you live here: you may as well enjoy it. You have those kids: you may as well enjoy them. You married that man: you may as well enjoy him. Slow down (even if not for very long). Really look around you. Savor. Enjoy. Don't miss the good gifts God is giving even in the midst of the struggle.

But maybe don't enjoy it quite this much.