Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

moving

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.

Should we stay or should we go? (And is there a third option?)

It’s been two years since we signed the lease on this partial house that feels like home most days. How we got here is a story all in itself, and if you haven’t heard it, you can read the back story on this blog. (Search for the category “how we got here” in the drop down menu on the sidebar.)

And so we’re here. Still. A year ago, I was in awe of the work God was doing in our lives, the healing He was working just by us being here in this place. It was good, that first year, the kind of rest and recovery we needed after a hard season.

Now, at the end of our second year here, there’s a stirring in my soul and I’m still deciding if it’s holy or selfish or something in between.

See, part of me wants to stay. Here. Forever. Or at least until my kids are done with school. We love our district and the school our daughter attends, which will soon be the school of both of our children. I am making friends with moms at the school and we enjoy living in an area that is diverse and speaks to our love of both city and country. It is becoming home as much as any place can and I am reluctant to even consider leaving it.

Another part of me thinks that’s selfish, though. To be comfortable and happy in a place–is that okay? Doesn’t God want us to suffer a little when we’re following Him? Why would He allow us such joy?

And yet it’s there, in the Old Testament, spoken to a people who spent a hard season, generations really, in slavery in a foreign land. To them, God says, Enjoy the land I’m giving you. Settle down there. Raise your families. Feast on the harvest.

I know these are not direct promises to our family’s situations but these words show me a God who cares about His people, especially those who have suffered. We can rest in His goodness. We can enjoy good things. Not every season has to be a trial. It is okay to flourish in a place that may or may not be home.

—

Our church had a Skype call with some missionary friends recently. They have served in their country for five years without a lot of results, at least the kind you can see. Our friend expressed his family’s weariness, their wonderings if maybe it was time to move on and find a place that was more receptive to the Good News of Jesus.

Five years seems like a long time, but when Jesus spoke about the kingdom of God, He compared it to things that were small and slow and steady. A mustard seed that doesn’t look like much but grows into a giant tree. Yeast that is almost imperceptible but works through the whole dough. A wheat harvest. There were no timelines, no instant-growth guarantees. Just constancy and faithfulness.

That’s hard.

Sometimes I wish it were easier.

—

I am mildly obsessed with houses that are for sale. Anytime I see a for sale sign on one of our routes through town, I make a mental note to look it up when I get home, and then I google and scan real estate sites, looking to see how much and what the house is like on the inside.

A house, to me, would mean we were staying. At least for a while. And staying only makes sense if we’re certain. At least that’s what I think. A mortgage, a home that we’re not renting, those are commitments. And there is a bit too much uncertainty yet for me to feel comfortable with pursuing this dream of a house we can call our own.

But the kids are outgrowing their small shared room and though we are making this house ours as much as we can, it will soon be time for us to move on.

Other things have to happen for that to happen, so we’re calling on the God who moves mountains and parts seas to show us the way.  We cannot find it on our own.

—

Breno Machado | Creative Commons | via unsplash

Breno Machado | Creative Commons | via unsplash

I hate moving, but sometimes going and leaving seem easier than staying.

When I moved back home after college and I was interviewing for jobs, they all asked the same question: how long do you plan to stay? I don’t know if it was because I was 22 or had a restless look in my eyes or what, but my answer was always the same: I’m here until the fall when my best friend gets married. After that, I don’t know.

One job wanted a two-year commitment, which sounded to my 22-year-old self like a life sentence. The job I eventually took I stayed at for 7 years. Life is funny sometimes.

I wanted to go but I was forced to stay and in staying I found friends and a husband and a part of me I didn’t know existed.

Since then, the longest I’ve stayed anywhere was five years, our last home, the place where my husband was in seminary (I still want to write and say “cemetery.”  Freud would have a hey-day with that) and I was constantly looking for a way out.

It’s this way with me: if we’re not going to stay then I’m not going to invest and I know I missed out on relationships and experiences because I was always looking to “next.”

Now, staying has me scared. Because staying means committing. To a place. To a people. It means going deeper in friendships and relationships. It means caring enough to get hurt. It means being faithful even if we don’t see any results.

In some ways, staying feels like giving up. Even though staying is a good thing.

Because once upon a time, we dreamed of leading a church, and that dream could take us in one of many directions: Illinois, Ohio, or parts unknown in Pennsylvania. As long as we were still open to that dream, we could consider getting a call one day that could send us packing.

But the dream has changed. It’s changing still and we can’t really describe it or define it, which makes it difficult to explain. We know more what we don’t want than what we do, and so if we decide to stay here, does that mean we’ve given up on the old dream?

Maybe. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

—

Shannon Richards | Creative Commons | via unsplash

Shannon Richards | Creative Commons | via unsplash

I’m having a hard time hearing from God these days, but that’s my fault, not His. My life is full of distractions and busy-ness and me trying to figure out how to fix everything in my own power and strength, which is almost non-existent.

I am fidgety and restless, desperate for a sign that it’s time to change or move on. I’d even take a clear sign that it’s okay to stay, but so far God doesn’t work like that. If He’s anything, He’s subtle, not because He doesn’t want us to find Him but because He wants us to trust Him. He’s like a guide who has been this way before but carries no map, only the memories of past travels. He is confident in His leading, but to trust Him is an act of faith and takes time.

The more I walk with Him the more I trust Him, but I still get distracted on the path. Worried about bears and snakes and all kinds of trials. Concerned about our provisions for the journey. And like a whining child I ask too often if we’re there yet, even though I have no idea where “there” is.

I imagine His smile as He turns His face toward the sun, basking in another day of life, His steps sure and certain though I see no visible path. When I doubt, He takes my hand and leads. He never gets too far ahead but sets the pace that is best.

—

Should we stay? Should we go?

I think I’m asking the wrong questions. Because, really, it’s not about the where or the when but the who.

Who will I trust? Who is in charge? Who is leading the way?

If it is Jesus, as I say I believe, then the rest of it doesn’t matter. (Remind me of that when I’m ready to take back control.)

He is the way.

He says, “Follow me.”

He has proven himself trustworthy.

It is time for me to trust Him again.