Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns
If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…
I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…
I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…
Sometimes, I wonder what God is up to. And why I can’t see it.
Last month, Phil and I took a few days apart from the world, in the woods of Cowans Gap State Park, to celebrate a bunch of milestones for our family. We drove up to this overlook, expecting a scenic view. Instead, we got fog.
Lots of fog. And the view we had hoped for was hidden from us.
We sat for a bit because we really had nowhere else to be. And as we waited, something happened.
Gradually, we could see green. The rolling mountains I’ve come to love in our region of the world.
We caught a glimpse of what the fog was hiding.
The longer we waited, the more we could see. We pointed to hills as they peeked through the clouds. We identified farms and roads and houses. And although we never saw the whole view clearly, without the cloud covering, we could imagine what we were missing. We saw evidence of what we could not fully see.
So it is when we live by faith. Phil and I are still clueless about where this journey is taking us. We climbed this metaphorical mountain hoping to see something extraordinary only to find the view cloudier than ever. Having an obstructed view of the future can be frustrating. Maddening, really. I have found myself mad at all sorts of people and institutions and God, Himself, for the current state of things in our life. Like Naomi, in the Bible’s book of Ruth, who returns to her homeland a widow and childless with little hope for the future, I want my name to be “bitter” not “pleasant.”
I want to see the view I was promised!
And God, ever gentle, ever patient, says, “Wait.”
“Don’t give up.”
“Don’t trust in only what you can see.”
“Wait for it. It’s coming.”
So, we’re waiting. Waiting for the clouds to clear. To give us a glimpse of what lies ahead.
Waiting so often feels like inaction to me. I want to DO something. I want to act. To fix. To restore. To rebuild. To forge ahead. (And sometimes run over anyone who stands in my way.) And when that doesn’t work I want to retreat. To withdraw. To escape. To close my eyes and hope that whatever trouble we’re facing will go away on its own without me.
And all the time, God is telling me to “wait.”
Waiting. Can you think of anyone who waits well? I’ve imagined what that looks like. I wrote a poem about it, and our local library picked it as one of the winners in its annual contest. Here it is.
Waiting I showed up on time, so I thought. He’s late. Or is he? Have a seat. Get comfortable. I’m told I’ll have to wait. How long? No answer. I watch the door. When will it open? Time passes slowly as I watch the clock, tap my foot, sigh loudly. How much longer? Again, no answer. Someone else comes along. She’s waiting, too. She doesn’t watch the clock. She crochets. How long do you think it will be? It doesn’t matter. Why? I’ve got crocheting to do. I’m making a blanket. And if he doesn’t come? She shrugs her shoulders. I’ll have made a blanket.Waiting might be sitting on a rock until the sun comes out and the clouds clear. Or it might be doing what you’re doing now until you’re led in a different direction. Wait for it, friends. I’m waiting, too.
Exhausted. Stressed. Overwhelmed. I feel all of these things today.
I have other feelings, yes. These are the ones that are stealing the show today.
I took a page out of Terri Gillespie‘s book and watched a disaster movie. She once revealed at a writer’s conference that disaster movies are how she deals with stress. I have to say, it worked! Even the cheesy dialogue in Volcano didn’t numb the effect. (I couldn’t resist a Tommy Lee Jones flick. And why is it that all the disaster movies available to us on instant Netflix were made in the late 1990s?) I don’t know why this works. Maybe a disaster movie gives my stress a place to focus, even temporarily. I don’t know.
This is what I know: I have reason to smile. Even when feelings fail.
The following conversation clips are courtesy of my kids. Yeah, they are a big part of my life. I can finally say that without feeling ashamed.
Neighbor girl to Isabelle while riding in a wagon being pulled by older neighbor girl: “Izzy, why is the grass so green?”
Izzy: “Well, because God made it that way.”
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While watching me make a root beer float pie, Isabelle says, “A beer pie does sound delicious.” Note to self: google “beer pie” and see if anyone has a recipe.
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On a walk around the block, while the kids rode their bikes, I greeted a neighbor who was working on his truck/trailer with “Howdy.” Corban stops his bike, looks over at the neighbor and says, “What’s Howdy doin’?”
And here are a couple of photos from our afternoon at the Discovery Center Museum in Rockford.
Trains were a big hit. As were tractors.
And Isabelle is never short on new friends at new places. Here, she’s talking to whoever picked up the other phone.
Even if your smiles are few today, rejoice!