Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

faith & spirituality

Puzzled

I have high unrealistic expectations for putting together a jigsaw puzzle with my family. I announce the plan on a Friday or Saturday, let the children choose which one we’re going to do, and fantasize about all the family bonding we’ll be doing as we puzzle over the pieces and find the right home for each one.

Inevitably, though, my expectations crash and burn.

“I hate puzzles,” my 9-year-old daughter screams. (She doesn’t.)

“I’m too tired,” my husband declares. (He is. I get it.)

Meanwhile, my 7-year-old son is turning the calm, peaceful idea of completing a puzzle into a game complete with scoring. He gives himself points for all the pieces that are ALREADY TOGETHER in the bag, then counts as his the pieces that I put together, as long as he agrees that they all go where they are supposed to. <—WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?

Then the kids get bored and decide to go play the card game “War” with my husband who has enough energy to flip cards and mediate arguments, while I sit alone at the dining room table, staring at the pieces, willing them to move to the right spots without much effort on my part.

It doesn’t help that our current puzzle is a mosaic–you know, a picture made up of pictures.

In my best moments, I relish being left alone for a few minutes while my mind focuses on this task. It’s a distraction but it’s also work for my brain, and I’m approaching an age where I’m beginning to worry about how sharp my mind will be in the years ahead.

In my worst moments, I am silently cursing my family for abandoning me to this project that was my idea but I’ve now come to dread. I wail in my mind about how unfair it is that nobody is helping me, and then when they do lean over to help, I bark about them being in my light.

Maybe none of it would bother me so much if I wasn’t feeling so puzzled about life.

Months ago, Phil and I felt like God was giving us a clear picture of what the next steps would be for us: Buy a house. Move to the city. See what I’m up to there. We thought it was a good idea, so we started putting the pieces together. Asking for help. Telling people the plan.

Then my husband lost his job. And got a job in the city. Our van broke down. And family helped us fix it.

We are still on track, we thought. We signed up for classes for first-time homebuyers. We called a real estate agent recommended by a friend. We gave our information to the bank. Yes, we thought. The puzzle is coming together.

But the bank had bad news, or at least not good news. We couldn’t get approval for the amount we needed, even though our credit was good. On paper, we don’t have enough income to cover our debts, even though we can pay all our bills and on time. It was discouraging. A blow. Maybe we would have to postpone this next step.

We called the real estate agent back and she encouraged us to try another route. Call a mortgage broker, she said. She gave us the number of someone she recommends. The embers stirred to life. Maybe it wasn’t all hopeless.

Then came the letter from unemployment. When my husband was out of work for three weeks at the start of the year, we applied for benefits because we didn’t know how long it would be. We had no back-up plan. The little bit that we got for a few weeks ensured that our bills were paid. It was just enough. Now, the unemployment office says they overpaid us and they want the money back. It’s money we don’t have tucked away. We still just get by on what we have.

This is the part where if life was a puzzle on my dining room table, I would have flipped the table. (I have repressed anger issues. See also: Nine on the Enneagram.)

I am currently having a silent curse-fest with God, though He can hear me, so it’s not exactly silent. It goes something like this:

What gives, God? We are following the picture. We are trying to put the pieces together and YOU ARE NOT HELPING. I thought we were in this together. I thought this was going to be fun! Why is it so hard? I can’t do this anymore. I quit. Except I don’t really quit because I have to have the satisfaction of seeing this to the end. Leaving a puzzle unfinished is not in my repertoire, so You win. I’m going to see this through. But, c’mon. A little help here?

I don’t actually believe God has left me to solve this puzzle all by myself. And yes, I do sometimes shrug off the help He provides. I am a classic case of help-me-never-mind-I-can-do-it-myself.

The key to this mosaic puzzle, I’m finding, is to focus on the small pictures. As I find the pieces of the small pictures that fit together, the big picture starts to become clearer.

Maybe there’s something to that. (Okay, there’s definitely something to that.)

Most days I don’t want to participate in the small-picture puzzle of following God on this journey. Let’s just get to the big picture, God! I want to be living in the city in a house that is ours (and the bank’s!), looking for how He is working in the city.

But there are things that have to be put in place between now and then.

So, I’m putting this mosaic puzzle together piece by piece, day by day, with or without my family’s help, and the same is almost true for the life mosaic. It is piece by piece. Day by day. But I am not on my own.

We are in this together, and God is not absent, even if it feels like He is no help at all.

The part where the dream looks dead

Spring was just a week away. And we got slammed with a blizzard.

The days are getting longer. But the darkness feels like it’s all-encompassing.

This is the part of the story where things don’t look good for the hero. Where you hang on to the tiniest thread of hope that somehow, he’s going to come through this. But you really aren’t sure.

This is the part where the dream seems as good as dead.

Photo by Dikaseva via Splash

—

Months ago now, or maybe it’s been longer, we felt like God was nudging us to consider a move into the city. We currently live in the suburban-like developed-yet-rural area outside the city limits. And we are being pulled into the heart of the city.

We wanted to buy a house. Move this summer. Live happily ever after.

This is the part where the dream seems like it could die.

The part where the bank calls back and they sound like they wish they could do more but they just can’t offer you much in the way of a loan. And it’s not because your credit is bad (it’s near perfect) or you have sketchy job history (it’s stable in the same industry). It’s because of technicalities. Debt on your record that you currently don’t have to pay because of income requirements and weekly bonuses that don’t count because you haven’t been at your job long enough.

This is the part where you manage to end the call before you burst into tears. Where you stand in the kitchen and stir the pots on the stovetop for dinner and let the tears fall.

The part where you start listening to the voices, the mean ones in your head that tell you things you shouldn’t believe. They sound like your chiropractor, a working mom, who when you complain about the schedule changes this week because of the snow, says, “But you work from home, so it doesn’t matter, right?” She doesn’t meant it to be mean, but you hear her words as criticism. Combined with the call from the bank, you think, “Maybe I should give up this whole writing thing and get a real job. One that actually pays the bills. What kind of fool sits at home writing all day, dreaming of the day when her words will be in the world and maybe just maybe bring a little bit of money with them?” It doesn’t help that you might be on the verge of losing a project you’ve spent 18 months working on.

This is the part of the story where you were just starting to feel good about life again. Hopeful, even. And now the demons are back. The old feelings of anger, bitterness and despair are rising, and you’re questioning all the events from the past you can’t change. Why did they have to happen the way they did?

The voices also say this is the part of the story you shouldn’t tell. You should wait till there’s resolution, one way or another, because OMG, Lisa, dramatic much? You are Chicken Little and the sky is falling and you are telling everyone before you can think it through.

And yet this is the part of the story that makes the story.

Think about it: In your favorite movie or book, there’s probably a moment when the dream looks dead. The goal, unreachable.

Tara is ruined. Westley is dead. The ring is in the wrong hands. Hogwarts has fallen. (Forgive my oversimplifications.)

What would a good story be without a moment of doubt?

—

That these feelings should occur during Lent is no coincidence. Our family decided to cut out TV for this span, not because we think it will make us more holy, but because we often find ourselves turning to it as a distraction. And I’ve never wanted a distraction so much as I have this week. I want to zone out, live someone else’s life through the screen, and forget about my own problems.

But the TV isn’t an option. So I’m forced to feel. And deal.

Lent feels like a slow march to death sometimes. Even though Easter is coming, we have to go through Good Friday to get there and Good Friday is the darkest point of the story. The dream, the hope, the promise is dead. And there’s nothing anyone can do but mourn.

Until two days later, when we see that death is not where the story ends. The story ends with life. Rebirth. Resurrection.

Photo by John Silliman via Unsplash

I’ve read enough stories to know that it’s true. This part where things are all wrong and it seems devoid of hope is not the end. (But it’s still hard to believe that in the day-to-day.) The seed in the ground, buried under dirt, is not the end. It’s the beginning. The only way to life.

This is the part where the dream seems dead. It’s just a part of the story, and however long it lasts, I will try to see it as such. An end to this story is coming and I will remember this part of it.

Because what kind of story would it be without the part where all seems lost?