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Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

bitterness

It felt like grace

October 19, 2017

“Are you ready to be recognized by people you might not remember?”

My husband posed the question to our kids as we climbed the concrete stairs in front of the church just before he opened the heavy door. In all our years of attendance, we never entered the church this way. We would always walk in through the back door and wind our way through the first floor rooms to the stairs leading to the second-floor sanctuary.

We were–and still are–back door kind of people. I’ve always thought of the back door of a house as a place where family and close friends enter. The front door is for people who don’t know your ways, who have never been inside, or maybe for strangers trying to sell something.

Photo by Daniel von Appen on Unsplash

Also, visitors. That’s what we were that day at our former church. It had been more than four years since we last set foot in that building. When the door swung open in my husband’s hand, we were greeted with a big smile from the woman we considered our kids’ surrogate grandmother in our days at this church. Our daughter went right to her for a hug. Our son was more reluctant, but who could blame him? He was 3 when we moved. My husband and I also went in for hugs, then we all climbed the stairs as we had done once a week for five years.

“Do you remember this place?” I asked my son. His memory is good but has its limits. He pouted and shook his head “no” as he clutched my hand. The sanctuary looked and felt the same, and there were some familiar faces at the top greeting us. Although it was Sunday, this was not a typical gathering of the church that meets in this building but a special service for a friend of ours. Many of the faces were familiar from other seasons of our life. The pastor who married us was there with his wife. People my husband knew from his job at the retirement village. Pastors from neighboring counties whom we counted as friends. Our current pastor was there, but the setting was so unusual for our son that at first he didn’t recognize him.

Photo by Kathy Hillacre on Unsplash

We settled in for the service, which featured a good chunk of music and singing. I loved that. I stood, my hands resting lightly on the back of the wooden pew in front of us as I sang and watched my kids from the corner of my eye. I had done this so many times in this church. My spiritual life in the days of parenting young children was distracted devotion. Some days, it still is, but not always because of the children.

I closed my eyes and I could see her–the tired mom of two little ones, trying to hold everything together. The days I spent in these pews were days of demanding needs of babies and toddlers, family crises, adjusting to life 800 miles from where I was raised, giving up a career to stay home with kids, nurturing my husband’s dreams. They were days of picking up the pieces of a crumbled marriage and trying to put it back together. I cried a lot in these pews. I could feel it all again years later as I occupied the same space.

But I wasn’t sad, and that surprised me.

As the songs continued, I felt something different.

The woman who stood between those pews now was something else. She was less tired because the demands of the children have changed. She has survived crises and found her place in this home-away-from-home. She has pursued her career and creativity again. She nurtures her own dreams alongside her husband. She no longer tries to hold everything together because she has seen how God can pick up the pieces of a shattered life. She knows that sometimes a broken life is a gift.

I had spent a lot of Sundays full of bitterness in these pews, wondering why life wasn’t better, feeling sorry for our circumstances. I carried that bitterness for months after we left, and sometimes when I have gone back to a place of sorrow and hurt, those feelings have returned.

Photo by Harpal Singh on Unsplash

Not this time.

I was grateful. And even that is not a strong enough word to describe it. In my heart and soul I was deeply thankful for all of it because without it, I would not be the same person I am right now. It has been a journey full of speed bumps and pot holes and breakdowns and what feels like a whole lot of endings.

But it also has been a journey full of grace, and if grace had a feeling, I felt it on Sunday.

The tired and worn-out woman from before and the becoming-more-brave-and-whole woman from right now–it felt like grace to have both of them be me.

I didn’t have enough time to consider all of this in the moment, though I acknowledged that it was there, but when my friend stepped up to the front of the church to sing for her husband a song of his choosing on his special day–when I heard her voice fill the sanctuary, watched her use her gift of song knowing some of what it has taken for her to stand there and sing–I cried tears I couldn’t stop, and if we had not been in such a public place, I think I would have sobbed loudly at the beauty of it all.

I used to want to erase the ugly parts of my life, to forget they happened and concentrate only on the good stuff. I have wanted to dwell on the victories, the redemptions, the successes. I want to hold those things close, but I want to hold the hard things alongside them. Because without the losses, the deaths, the failures, the good things wouldn’t mean as much.

Days later I am still looking for the words to express my gratitude for the years that felt like a wasteland. They were dry and my heart was brittle and sometimes it felt like we had fallen into a valley so deep we couldn’t climb out, but the climate of our souls changed and my heart began healing and we could see the sun again.

I don’t want to forget the dark days because they are testimony of what God can do in a life. They are proof that He transforms hearts and circumstances, that what feels like the end is sometimes the beginning.

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Filed Under: faith & spirituality Tagged With: bitterness, broken lives, church, redemption, returning, spirituality

When you can't go back and you can't stay here

May 12, 2014

A year ago, if you asked me how I was doing and I told you “good,” I was probably lying. I’ve gotten pretty good at giving a standard answer in case the person asking doesn’t really care or we don’t have time to really get deep. “Good” is the safest answer. “Okay” is the word I use when things are not really okay, and I just can’t bring myself to say “good.”

If you asked me today how I’m doing, I would tell you “good,” and I would mean it.

We’re soon celebrating a year in our new community, and though we had high hopes for what this change would mean for our family, the reality is, I think, better than we even expected. When for years we were merely surviving, we now find ourselves thriving.

And that, my friends, is a really big deal.

If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you know some of what I’m referring to. If you’re new here, might I suggest the following posts to catch you up on why saying “Life is good” is so monumental:

  • The Story I Never Thought I’d Tell
  • How We Got Here, Part 1 (It’s a six-part story.)

Let me be clear: Life is good. It is not perfect. Do not confuse the two.

And because life is good, I’m starting to think more permanently about our location. This is almost unheard of for me. When we moved here, my husband was more certain than me that we could be here for a while. I, on the other hand, was sure it would be temporary. Let me give you some background.

I lived in one town my whole life until I went to college, and college showed me, literally, how big the world was. I never thought I’d go back to my hometown after college, and when that became the only option, I was sure I wouldn’t stay long. I ended up working for my hometown newspaper for 7 years. That’s no lifetime commitment but for a 20-something who thought she’d move on, it was a long time.

Our next stop, after we were married, we knew was temporary. We thought it would be 18 months to two years, but it turned out to be closer to one year. Then it was a move 800 miles across the country for seminary, which we planned to be a three-year commitment at the school, maybe less than that in the community if we were placed in a church. We ended up staying five years in that town before moving here last summer.

The idea that we might stay put for a long time is new to me. I don’t plan for that to happen, even when it does.

But now things are different. We love this community. Our daughter is in a great school. Our church family is wonderful. This has been a good year for us. (And let me say this now: we have no plans to move on right now. This is not a good-bye/major announcement kind of post!)

And because of those things, I let myself dream a little last week. I shopped for houses online. There’s one for sale practically next door to our pastor’s family, so out of curiosity, I stalked it and other houses in the school district “just to see what’s out there.” (Not to worry, friends. We are not planning to move into the neighborhood at this time.)

Then I read something in the Bible that has had me thinking for days. You can find it in Exodus 15 and 16, about the Israelite and their journey out of captivity. This part of the story begins when they’ve been three days without water in the wilderness. (You’ve been there, right? I have.)

And then they find water and it’s bitter. Been there, too. Then Moses throws a stick in the water and it becomes sweet. It’s like a foretaste of what God has planned. Finally they come to Elim. It’s like an oasis. There are 12 springs of water and 70 date palms and they camped there.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Photo by Colin Stobbart/freeimages.com

This describes our family’s journey thus far. We were dry as sand, then we were bitter, there was a tiny bit of sweet and then what seemed like paradise! I’d call our current situation Elim right now. It is refreshing and overflowing with good things. I want to camp here and settle and put down roots and enjoy this time forever and ever, amen.

But it’s possible, likely even, that this is not our final destination.

Because the Israelites had to leave Elim and head into another wilderness where God continued to provide (manna and quail, anyone?) and show his glory. They were bound for the Promised Land, and Elim was not it.

Part of me wishes that we’ll be able to somehow stay here in our current position for a very long time. It’s healthy and stable and refreshing and we are thriving in ways we’ve never known. But I don’t think that’s what God has for us. At least not in the sense that life will never be hard or dry or difficult or uncertain again.

Let me say this, too: I don’t believe God toys with us. I don’t think He leads us to good places and then out of those good places for no reason. He is not cruel. The Israelites could have stayed in Elim but it was meant as a place of rest, not the place He prepared for them.

I have no earthly idea what this looks like for our family. I just know that this may be God’s way of preparing me for what’s to come. It might be tomorrow or next year or five years from now. It might mean we leave this city, this county, this state. Or it might mean that we stay but we face challenges. I don’t know. But I’m going to try not to worry or fear tomorrow.

Today, life is good. And I’m going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts and trust that it’s the refreshment we need for the journey to come.

I don’t know where you’re at in your journey. We’re all in different places. If you’re like us and are in what seems like a good place, will you consider that at some point, God may lead you out of that toward an even better place? And if you’re in a dry place, I speak from experience, even if it’s hard for you to believe it now: He is leading you to water.

Not long after Elim, the Israelites are grumbling again about how much better life was when they were slaves in Egypt. We shake our heads at their foolishness sometimes but I remember how there have been times in my life when, like the Israelites, I wanted to go back to Egypt and captivity and slavery because the leaving was too hard.

This song helped me through that.

[youtube=http://youtu.be/dbikUG_go7M]

And when we got married, we played this song at our wedding, never imagining how much we’d go through before even getting to the Jordan. (That happens much later in the Israelites’ story. We thought we were there already when we left our hometown.

[youtube=http://youtu.be/rZdlI3E-xos]

We’re on a journey, and it’s harder than we thought but it’s not all bad. And I think that’s what I forget about the Israelites’ wanderings. There were good times, too.

Wherever we’re at right now, whether life is good or not at all good, let’s keep moving and trust that by following God we’re heading in the right direction.

Filed Under: faith & spirituality, Marriage Tagged With: bitterness, elim, exodus, Jars of Clay, journey, life is good, moving, oasis, Sara Groves, settling down, springs of refreshing, wandering, wilderness

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Hi. I’m Lisa, and I’m glad you’re here. If we were meeting in real life, I’d offer you something to eat or drink while we sat on the porch letting the conversation wander as it does. That’s a little bit what this space is like. We talk about books and family and travel and food and running, whatever I might encounter in world. I’m looking for the beauty in the midst of it all, even the tough stuff. (You’ll find a lot of that here, too.) Thanks for stopping by. Stay as long as you like.

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