Somehow, I’m just realizing, the summer has passed by in a whirl of packing, unpacking, traveling hither and thither, and cleaning cleaning cleaning. I feel a pause in the frenetic activity that has swallowed me up these past months. And I glimpse fall waiting quietly in the wings.
I’m glad for it. Fall is my very favorite season, so rich in color and spicy smells and good hearty recipes and family get-togethers. I also rejoice in the tangible proof that seasons do change – especially when one has felt caught in a souped-up version of the movie Groundhog Day.
Yes, many things – blogging included – drifted to the wayside during my summer months of packing, travel, and cleaning. Oh sure, I began several blog posts, but somehow pushing the “publish” button was simply beyond me. Heck, at one point, I even re-designed my blog layout for the summer months, but alas, nary a post. Ah well.
The seasons are changing, and though change brings both loss and gain, I believe my family is ready for them. There are new plans in the works, new ideas being discussed, and an anticipation we haven’t felt for quite some time. Sometimes in order to gain the new things, the old things – the comfortable, safe, known things – must be put aside.
So welcome, fall. I can’t wait to see the changes you bring.
Showing posts with label Waiting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Waiting. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
And Then Your House Springs a Leak.
Sometimes life feels overwhelming. If I let my mind go back over the past year and a half of life’s events I can suddenly be immersed in tears: two miscarriages, father-in-law passing away, house on the market becoming house-on-the-market-for-almost-a-year, a household move imminent yet never arriving, husband and daddy away during the work weeks, and now suddenly my home being invaded by water due to faulty siding.
Yes, life can be weighty. It can feel overwhelming to the point of little things like a random stain on the carpet sending you over the edge when in the world of sane thinking all it merits is a strong “dang it!” and a rush to get the carpet cleaner.
As I type, almost a third of my living room carpet is actually up on end, ripped up and off the damp floorboards which are (as of now) blessedly free of moving puddles seeping in from below the baseboards. At this point, stains are the least of my worries, although I’m pretty willing to bet that, should I see one, I might break down into messy tears and unintelligible oaths. Life can be weighty.
And I’ll admit, I have wondered if, with this seemingly unfortunate series of events, I’m not unwittingly starring in some dark comedy like Will Ferrell in Stranger than Fiction. But since life is so far devoid of an English accented narrator dictating my fate, I’ve been able to rule that theory out.
When I first felt the damp spots on the carpet and moved on to discover the insidious source, I stood for a moment in the living room considering my options. The dizziness coming in waves told me I could very well break out into some sort of overload of nerves, complete with tears and snot. The absurd straw-and-camel's-back-ness of the situation and previous life events definitely warranted some incredulous laughter, although I knew if I attempted that one at that very moment it might come out sounding a little scarier to my poor mother – who was nearby, watching me carefully and making sure her cell phone was close at hand. Then there was what I knew should happen: I could figure out practical moves to save my home and do my very best to keep it together and try to praise God through it all.
See, I don’t think God made my house leak. I think it was the result of sloppy, hurried work done by someone who just didn’t know or care enough to do a good job. I do think, however, that God expects me to believe that He will care for me through this crisis – because He’s saved me before, so many times. Sometimes saving came in little ways, like providing a new friend or a job just in time, sometimes it came in big ways, like protecting me and caring for me through a bus wreck when I was in high school, or in a tiny foreign plane skimming the trees of the Guatemalan jungle which housed armed guerillas and still landing safely and without incident. Big event or small occurrence, I have enough evidence from my life alone which proves that, even in the face of a series of unfortunate events, God concerns Himself with me and will work actively on my behalf – even when it doesn’t feel like it. Even with no evidence at the moment. And the way that I handle the moment – to praise God for His faithfulness and eventual rescue and restoration – is the way that I will enter the next chapter of life. In defeat or in victory. In sadness or in rejoicing. How I choose to handle these moments in the face of no evidence of care or concern is how I will enter the next season of life.
Seasons do change - it's the nature of life. Some seasons will be easier and happier, some harder and maybe sadder. But they will end eventually, and the next one will begin. What the storybooks fail to tell us is that Happily Ever After is a moving target. Even when you finally get that to that one point you've really wanted: a marriage, a baby, a house, a new job - life keeps going. It's how we choose to make it through as life keeps going that really matters. It's what we choose to do when our house springs a leak.
Yes, life can be weighty. It can feel overwhelming to the point of little things like a random stain on the carpet sending you over the edge when in the world of sane thinking all it merits is a strong “dang it!” and a rush to get the carpet cleaner.
As I type, almost a third of my living room carpet is actually up on end, ripped up and off the damp floorboards which are (as of now) blessedly free of moving puddles seeping in from below the baseboards. At this point, stains are the least of my worries, although I’m pretty willing to bet that, should I see one, I might break down into messy tears and unintelligible oaths. Life can be weighty.
And I’ll admit, I have wondered if, with this seemingly unfortunate series of events, I’m not unwittingly starring in some dark comedy like Will Ferrell in Stranger than Fiction. But since life is so far devoid of an English accented narrator dictating my fate, I’ve been able to rule that theory out.
When I first felt the damp spots on the carpet and moved on to discover the insidious source, I stood for a moment in the living room considering my options. The dizziness coming in waves told me I could very well break out into some sort of overload of nerves, complete with tears and snot. The absurd straw-and-camel's-back-ness of the situation and previous life events definitely warranted some incredulous laughter, although I knew if I attempted that one at that very moment it might come out sounding a little scarier to my poor mother – who was nearby, watching me carefully and making sure her cell phone was close at hand. Then there was what I knew should happen: I could figure out practical moves to save my home and do my very best to keep it together and try to praise God through it all.
See, I don’t think God made my house leak. I think it was the result of sloppy, hurried work done by someone who just didn’t know or care enough to do a good job. I do think, however, that God expects me to believe that He will care for me through this crisis – because He’s saved me before, so many times. Sometimes saving came in little ways, like providing a new friend or a job just in time, sometimes it came in big ways, like protecting me and caring for me through a bus wreck when I was in high school, or in a tiny foreign plane skimming the trees of the Guatemalan jungle which housed armed guerillas and still landing safely and without incident. Big event or small occurrence, I have enough evidence from my life alone which proves that, even in the face of a series of unfortunate events, God concerns Himself with me and will work actively on my behalf – even when it doesn’t feel like it. Even with no evidence at the moment. And the way that I handle the moment – to praise God for His faithfulness and eventual rescue and restoration – is the way that I will enter the next chapter of life. In defeat or in victory. In sadness or in rejoicing. How I choose to handle these moments in the face of no evidence of care or concern is how I will enter the next season of life.
Seasons do change - it's the nature of life. Some seasons will be easier and happier, some harder and maybe sadder. But they will end eventually, and the next one will begin. What the storybooks fail to tell us is that Happily Ever After is a moving target. Even when you finally get that to that one point you've really wanted: a marriage, a baby, a house, a new job - life keeps going. It's how we choose to make it through as life keeps going that really matters. It's what we choose to do when our house springs a leak.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Neither Wind nor Rain.
I planted seeds today. It was sort of a devil-may-care, fate-be-damned kind of act on my part, mostly because a woman in my situation shouldn’t be sowing into ground that might be someone else’s at any moment. But today I didn’t care.
You see, I’m tired of waiting. And I’m tired of loss.
So during a coldly sunny moment this afternoon, while Siennalee napped sweetly, I ran outside armed with last year’s leftover seeds, my still winter-stiff purple gardening gloves, a trowel and my trusty organic fertilizer.
I’d already scoped out my raised bed when I weeded it this last weekend and knew right where I needed to plant. I scratched the fertilizer into the dirt, carefully added the seeds (lettuces and peas), buried them, and ignored the spills due to my shivering and the blasts of icy wind that blew down unexpectedly. By the time I got the remaining snow peas tucked into their little semi-circle, I was feeling pretty good.
Chilly, but good.
I was doing it.
I was making something happen.
Even though the ground may not even be mine by the time the little sleeping seeds awake and grow and produce, by golly, something’s going to happen. Standing there, quaking slightly in the cold light, I felt like I was standing up to fate. For all this endless waiting and loss we’ve endured, something good is going to happen.
That’s when something did happen. Standing there, shivering and gazing contentedly down at the quiet little rows of upturned earth, I suddenly felt whispers of chill drift down on me; I scrutinized the dirt incredulously and then looked up at the sky.
It was snowing.
But come winds or rains or weird March snows, my seeds are planted.
You see, I’m tired of waiting. And I’m tired of loss.
So during a coldly sunny moment this afternoon, while Siennalee napped sweetly, I ran outside armed with last year’s leftover seeds, my still winter-stiff purple gardening gloves, a trowel and my trusty organic fertilizer.
I’d already scoped out my raised bed when I weeded it this last weekend and knew right where I needed to plant. I scratched the fertilizer into the dirt, carefully added the seeds (lettuces and peas), buried them, and ignored the spills due to my shivering and the blasts of icy wind that blew down unexpectedly. By the time I got the remaining snow peas tucked into their little semi-circle, I was feeling pretty good.
Chilly, but good.
I was doing it.
I was making something happen.
Even though the ground may not even be mine by the time the little sleeping seeds awake and grow and produce, by golly, something’s going to happen. Standing there, quaking slightly in the cold light, I felt like I was standing up to fate. For all this endless waiting and loss we’ve endured, something good is going to happen.
That’s when something did happen. Standing there, shivering and gazing contentedly down at the quiet little rows of upturned earth, I suddenly felt whispers of chill drift down on me; I scrutinized the dirt incredulously and then looked up at the sky.
It was snowing.
But come winds or rains or weird March snows, my seeds are planted.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Meet Me at the Pole
It’s been one of those melancholy, slightly-off days. Odd little things happened, which by themselves weren’t a big deal, but together they grew to kinda be a cloud in my sunny sky. Days like today make me think about running.
I’m not a runner. I never have been. Three out of four years of high school found me going out for track (mostly for social reasons. Okay, purely for social reasons) and although I “specialized” in field (honestly, “specialized” is so wrong, it should’ve been I “sub-par’d”), I still had to run in practice. And I was not a runner.
My track coach was a monster. A real live monster. And a runner. He was a running monster. He’d run and run and run until we found him puking his guts out in the bushes alongside whatever country road he had dragged us out to to run. He was not empathetic to my non-runner plight.
So I did what any good non-running girl would do in my position. I cried. I cried and cried and cried. (Bonus fact: he was also my Algebra teacher and I cried for every Algebra test he gave me. What can I say; I preferred not to do numbers. Or to run.) But I still ran. I ran and cried. I got pretty good at it. But still not good enough to place at any meet, of course. Even if they had an event that incorporated running and crying, I’d still not have placed. I’m just not a runner. I do, however, seem to be an excellent crier.
My track coach, aside from being a running monster, was a brilliant youth pastor (yes, he was all-purpose. We went to a small school, okay?) and he used to incorporate life lessons into everything we did. Ignoring my tears and choking sobs, he’d run alongside me and say, “See that telephone pole? Just up there? All you have to do is make it to that pole.” Then the pole would come, and just before we reached it he’d say, “Now see that green mailbox? Right there? Now just make it to that green mailbox.” He’d continue this until we reached our goal, which was usually like a block. (He was no dummy; he knew what he was working with.)
But he did succeed in part; he imparted to me an important life lesson. A running life lesson which I’ve incorporated into many a season of life: if I can’t see the end, or I can’t see ever even making it to the end, or I can’t see what the end even is, I can at least make it to the next telephone pole. Then the next green mailbox.
I used that running lesson to make it through the rest of high school. I used that running lesson to make it after I quit college, broke up with a long-time boyfriend, and entered the workforce world. I used that running lesson when Jason was activated with his Navy Reserve Unit and sent to Kuwait for the first year of our daughter’s life. I picked a “telephone pole” – a holiday, an event, a visit, an appointment and told myself just to make it to that one. Then, just before that one arrived, I’d find another landmark to reach.
I’m incorporating that running life lesson now. My next “telephone pole”: I’m big on holidays. You can bet I know just what I’m going to make for Jason for Valentine’s Day. Once I’m within shouting distance of the Happy Hearts Day, you can bet I’ll have picked another landmark to head toward. I don’t know when this particular leg of the race I’m in will end, or how. I just know that I’ll be making sure to have that next telephone pole in sight.
And after that, the next green mailbox. Some seasons of life are just a marathon. I may not be a runner, but I know how to run. Even if I have to cry a little along the way.
I’m not a runner. I never have been. Three out of four years of high school found me going out for track (mostly for social reasons. Okay, purely for social reasons) and although I “specialized” in field (honestly, “specialized” is so wrong, it should’ve been I “sub-par’d”), I still had to run in practice. And I was not a runner.
My track coach was a monster. A real live monster. And a runner. He was a running monster. He’d run and run and run until we found him puking his guts out in the bushes alongside whatever country road he had dragged us out to to run. He was not empathetic to my non-runner plight.
So I did what any good non-running girl would do in my position. I cried. I cried and cried and cried. (Bonus fact: he was also my Algebra teacher and I cried for every Algebra test he gave me. What can I say; I preferred not to do numbers. Or to run.) But I still ran. I ran and cried. I got pretty good at it. But still not good enough to place at any meet, of course. Even if they had an event that incorporated running and crying, I’d still not have placed. I’m just not a runner. I do, however, seem to be an excellent crier.
My track coach, aside from being a running monster, was a brilliant youth pastor (yes, he was all-purpose. We went to a small school, okay?) and he used to incorporate life lessons into everything we did. Ignoring my tears and choking sobs, he’d run alongside me and say, “See that telephone pole? Just up there? All you have to do is make it to that pole.” Then the pole would come, and just before we reached it he’d say, “Now see that green mailbox? Right there? Now just make it to that green mailbox.” He’d continue this until we reached our goal, which was usually like a block. (He was no dummy; he knew what he was working with.)
But he did succeed in part; he imparted to me an important life lesson. A running life lesson which I’ve incorporated into many a season of life: if I can’t see the end, or I can’t see ever even making it to the end, or I can’t see what the end even is, I can at least make it to the next telephone pole. Then the next green mailbox.
I used that running lesson to make it through the rest of high school. I used that running lesson to make it after I quit college, broke up with a long-time boyfriend, and entered the workforce world. I used that running lesson when Jason was activated with his Navy Reserve Unit and sent to Kuwait for the first year of our daughter’s life. I picked a “telephone pole” – a holiday, an event, a visit, an appointment and told myself just to make it to that one. Then, just before that one arrived, I’d find another landmark to reach.
I’m incorporating that running life lesson now. My next “telephone pole”: I’m big on holidays. You can bet I know just what I’m going to make for Jason for Valentine’s Day. Once I’m within shouting distance of the Happy Hearts Day, you can bet I’ll have picked another landmark to head toward. I don’t know when this particular leg of the race I’m in will end, or how. I just know that I’ll be making sure to have that next telephone pole in sight.
And after that, the next green mailbox. Some seasons of life are just a marathon. I may not be a runner, but I know how to run. Even if I have to cry a little along the way.
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