The Valley

Mountain silhouettes beckon.
Rush of wind, adrenaline,
crunch of snow,
blast of sunset;
a moment of isolated wonder,
even revelation.
Mountain is mystery,
rush of feeling;
it is not a life.

Come down.

Sweet peas and roses twine
up from valley soil.
Mallards rest in winter safety,
babes toddle and walk.
In steady seasons,
patient ebb and flow,
waiting, watching, tending;
ancient roots mother still.

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It has been a hard season, dear Reader. A season of single parenting, of sleepless nights with littles, of loneliness. A season of many miles, physically and emotionally -- and I hope spiritually. I have been drained beyond my ability to bear, and sustained by God's grace beyond my ability to express.

A growing season.

I had the pleasure of a small visit with my beautiful friend and mentor Beth. She sat and snuggled my baby girl and I watched my wiggly boy. After a time, she smiled and said, "It sounds to me like you have a good life."

A good life.

Not to boast or claim that I am or have anything special -- but realizing that I have been given an overflowing cup by my loving King, my Jesus who delights to turn water to wine and give sweet daily bread.

You, too, Reader. Our God gives good gifts. He gave us Himself -- all else is bonus. Beauty upon beauty. The extraordinary and the ordinary.

I live in a valley, a lush place in the shadow between two lines of mountain. And it's very true, Reader: the valley is the more mundane, perhaps, but it is also a haven, a safe and rich place. Life happens here in a way it cannot on the windy slopes of adventure.

It is good to climb, but it is also good to come down, to rest in the daily joys of a simple life. Because He has given it and daily sustains it: a good life. Let us give thanks and live.

Empty Pockets

It's been one of those mornings. One of those weeks ... months. I could complain, give you specific reasons why why, but Reader, I think you know enough about life to understand.

Just believe that it's ugly, and the ugly is me.

It has been a hard, hard season, these past few months.

I keep finding myself falling into prayer, a desperate, dry pleading, but no words come, no Scripture, no articulated heart-pleas. All my brain can bring forth the past month have been Psalm 23 and a mis-remembered line of that old Gadsby hymn: "Jesus the Lord my Shepherd is..." For weeks, this has been the only weapon in my spiritual tool belt.

I have dozens of other verses committed to memory, a horde of hymns and poems that serve as my support base and reminders of truth in dry seasons. Romans, Galatians, Hopkins, even Andrew Peterson -- but now, in this empty, lonely time, the only thing that comes when I reach is Psalm 23. Every single time, midnight or sunny afternoon.

Surely, if I were a better Christian, more mature, more fully immersed in the truths of the gospel and the Words of life, I would have more in my pockets than this. Right? Even pagans know this one. 

It feels weak, akin to saying I love hiking, but showing up for the Appalachian Trail in flip flops.

But... no Scripture is weak. There are no Words of Truth that fail to shine light into darkness. If Psalm 23 is what the Holy Spirit put in my pocket, then I must cling to it. And how beautiful that the Spirit has brought His own poetry to minister to this weary heart.

I'm tired. Tired of being touched, of being pulled, of being needed and yelled at and not listened to. Tired of whining voices and repeated conversations and no space to breathe, let alone care for my head or heart or body. Tired of giving more than I have, tired of dying, of wanting.

Deep breath.

The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.

I shall not want.

Green pastures, quiet waters, the dark valley, the presence of enemies -- all at the Shepherd's leading. He isn't surprised or put off by that cup of coffee all over the floor, or by me when I burst into frustrated tears.

He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

This means sanctification. It means growth and change. It sounds lovely and serene, but I think the image here is not so much a gentle, meandering trail through the meadow, but more like the one horrible time I went mountain biking: a free-fall-slide down a steep gravel trail into a rocky, muddy creek at the bottom of the hill. Scrapes and bruises and holy terror because I'm being dragged through the mud of my own sinful rebellion, all the brutally ugly that I am inside being exposed and felt and fought, and then, hopefully, scraped away. For His name's sake.

Days like today make me question whether I actually believe what I say I believe, when no matter how many times I remind myself of the truth, my patience still snaps, my tongue still tastes like poison. This does not look like goodness and mercy, or a table in the presence of my enemies. This feels like hunkering down in the Enemy's own barracks and supping his slop.

If this season, this struggle against daily darkness is just that, a struggle against the Enemy himself, then God has promised a table, a feast for me here. He says He will feed and supply and care, so I must believe that, and fear no evil. Even here, perhaps especially so, my cup overflows. If this struggle is against the sin in my own heart, then it is the comfort of His staff and His rod, then I must believe that this season is goodness and mercy.

All I've got in my pocket today is a promise: The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.

It feels like I'm hopelessly wanting; but He is not. I must believe that.

And ... I'm not wanting, Reader. Suddenly, this tiny mustard seed, this moment of grace-given faith to believe this promise shows me this.

Courage and Dragon-Slaying

But Adam said, "Why don't you talk to my brother? Charles will be going. He'll be good at it, much better than I am."

"Charles won't be going," Cyrus said. "There'd be no point in it."

"But he'd be a better soldier."

"Only outside on his skin," said Cyrus. "Not inside. Charles is not afraid so he could never learn anything about courage. He does not know anything outside himself so he could never gain the things I've tried to explain to you."

-John Steinbeck, East of Eden.

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Looking at my life now, I see a vastly different existence from anything I pictured. Of course. This is nothing new, nothing I haven't articulated before. Gardening on a farm in rural Oregon, married to a surgical resident, staying home with an incredibly busy and interactive little boy, feeling a little girl grow and wiggle inside of me. There is not a glimpse anywhere of the person I once wanted to be; no place for ambition or career or recognition. Not now, not anywhere on the horizon. There will be years and years of this, of tending the garden and making gallons of tomato sauce to can, of reading the same books over and over, of teaching little hands to measure and stir and wipe up messes, of splashy bathtime and sighs of relief when it's finally time to sit and be still. Years and years of loving this little one, and those who will be his siblings.

I come back to this idea over and over because this is the biggest, deepest struggle of my life. I do not want to serve. I do not want to die to myself, to put down this cup of coffee for the tenth time and play with Legos or puzzles or trains. Consistently, daily, I fight this fight. And though I know it is not unique to my own experience, this culture and the pretty picture-lives of social media sure make it seem like I'm the only mother who's struggling to mother selflessly, as though I'm the only one who's fighting myself still, the only one left on the other side who doesn't just love this job every single day.

It isn't this job that is the problem, of course. There is truly nothing I'd rather do; I've never been the sort of person who's always wanted to work at one special job, and it suits my personality to stay home to cook and read and play. It would wrench my heart to take Jude to daycare every day. I'm so thankful--beyond thankful--to be home. It's not the job itself that makes my sinful dragons roar: it's the constancy, the complete and utter lack of space for me, for what I want to do.

Doing this life, this residency-wife-and-mother life means many, many things, but it means mostly that I'm utterly aware that there are much bigger things than my wants, or my needs. My life is not my own these days. I'm responsible for maintaining a home in the absence of my hard-working husband, for doing many tasks single-handedly that are shared in most households. There's not much room in this life for books to read, for long, hot showers, or hours to wander around Target just because. There's not much fresh air for the Millie that I thought I would be at this point in my life, the one I think I should be.

And, in light of that, I'm finally realizing that that seems to be exactly the point. All my life, I've been aiming at this person, idea of my future self. And that person is certainly not this person, the one writing this. This unsightly person is unshowered, still in yoga pants (because those $*@$%!! maternity pants make me mutter things Jude shouldn't hear), with dirty dishes in the sink and toys on the floor. I'm not really sure of the last time I mopped the kitchen floor, or put the laundry away the same day I washed it. Andrew's working late, so I'm planning to make blueberry waffles for supper. This person cannot possibly be doing it right, be a good mother, a good wife. She cannot possibly be doing what she's supposed to do, cannot be living up to her potential.

Can she?

Ah. Here, reader, is the daily struggle.

I have a college degree that came with high honors, awards from my academic department. I am, technically speaking, a published poet. I was voted "most likely to succeed" by my high school graduating class. And, as I hold those things in one hand, I look into the other hand, this hand that is so full of this life, this mess, and I cannot see how the two are compatible. Should I be ashamed of who I am becoming?

No. Whoever that person was, that person who raced after admiration and honor, that person who wanted nothing more than to write well that others might praise her words, that person is now being slowly drowned in a sink of dirty dishwater. That person, I'm slowly seeing, is not me, not anyone that I will ever be. But it is, I'm realizing, who I think that I still want to be. My selfish, sinful heart yells this to me every day, almost every moment of every day. And so I have this same conversation, this same struggle, every day, every moment of the day.

Because, reader, I know, beyond any doubt, that this life I live is a life that was given to me. God molded it for me, continues to fashion it for me, and gives me no choice but to walk in the way He sets before me. And, looking at this life, I realize that nothing will change, not for a long time. Andrew will work long, hard hours for many years. Jude will be Jude, and our little girl will grow, be born, and she, and other children, will add yet more busyness and stress and responsibilities to my life. There will always be meals to cook and clothes to wash, for I am responsible for feeding and clothing. My circumstances are what they are, for many, many years. As they should be.

The only thing that is changeable in this entire situation is me.

I am the only malleable factor here, the only thing that is capable of changing, adjusting, bending, becoming. And as long as I continue to cling to an idea of who I think I should be (or worse, who I think that others think I should be), I won't bend. I'll break, and important things and relationships will break with me. And that, reader, is not an option. So, I must bend, must be unmade to be remade.

Like Adam Trask in Steinbeck's East of Eden,  I may learn courage, because I am so very afraid. My fear is a fear of losing myself. What if I utterly change, become someone new? What will become of my old self? What if I look like a doormat, a '50s housewife, someone without a brain or personality or ambition or ideas? How despicable, unrecognizable! This terrifies me. I don't want to suffocate.

Reader! This, this is the beautiful question! What if I do utterly die? Then, I will have finally been given what is best: I will, I pray, look like Jesus instead of a distorted, twisted version of myself. The Millie who looks even a tiny bit more like Jesus after years of this death is truly who I'd rather be, the mother and wife I'd rather have my family see and know, even if I am unrecognizable from my former self. And I should be unrecognizable, shouldn't I? A new creation. The former things have passed away. Behold, I am making all things new!

God is in the business of making all things new, for in this newness, this Jesus-reflecting, I will be who I should be, even if that means living a life and being someone I never thought I would be. Even if certain gifts for a certain season, like my desire to write, are for a past season, and never for my future self -- gulp -- then, all will still be well. If all things that used to be my own are gone in five years, all will still be well, for God is the one stripping them away. Like Eustace, I'm wincing in anticipation of the claws of the Lion who peels away the deep dragon-flesh. All will be well. Better than well...

... And just like that, I'm tested, pushed, bent: Jude is up unusually early from his nap, asking for a snack and a playmate. And the dragon is clawing, roaring, spitting fire. Just give me five more minutes! Let me breathe!

But no. The Spirit tugs my conscious-strings, speaks truth; this is exactly what I'm called to, more than this writing and thinking and sharing -- and I'm up and off, reader, to attend my own funeral. Smell my burning, hear my roaring, pray for my selfish heart, and praise the Father who loves us too much to leave us in our own filth and sin and stench. May I be beautiful, as He is beautiful.

Spring: Here, Now, Ever

As the surprising burst of sunshine burns through the clouds and makes the green grass even greener, turning the abundant drops of rain left behind to glistening points of light, the yearning for spring is almost overwhelming.

The Oregon winter has been much more bearable -- even enjoyable -- than I could have anticipated. Waking almost every morning to a fog-shrouded world, the peripheral fields of green rye cloaked in a thick, damp blanket of earth-cloud, even the faded old barn just across the driveway a thing of misty mystery. And the birds! From every direction, out of the fog, the sounds of abundant life, reader! The honks of late-flying geese, twitterings of small sparrows, distant echoing quacks from the duck pond down the driveway, great hoarse cries of herons from the hidden beaver pond, sweet, lilting okalalee of the nearby red-winged blackbirds. Here, in the green valley, in the midst of winter, I have been daily surprised by the life that thrives. Winter here seems no winter at all, but a haven against the harsh cold that touches the rest of the country. Here, the grass is green, the soil moist and rich, the wind, though chilly, is full of the sounds of living things, enough so to cause a sudden solemn stillness in my own heart almost every time I experience it.

And yet, reader, for all this surprising and daily joy, the sun breaking through the rain clouds makes me remember that there is yet more. Spring! I haven't seen a spring yet on our Oregon farm. I haven't seen the robins built their nests in our sweet gum trees, haven't watched the apple and plum trees blossom pink and fill with bees, haven't seen the calla lilies bloom behind the garage or planted seed potatoes with my own hands. But I will! And the desire for these beautiful actions and signs of life make my heart ache -- when? soon?

Even Jude asks almost every day if it's time to plant seeds.

Oh, Jude. And here is where I realize that, perhaps, I'm yearning for the wrong things. Because, reader, while I'm standing at the window, trying to find the right words to tell you how much I'm falling in love with this beautiful place, Jude is asking me to play pretend with him, to bake pretend bread with him, to build a pretend fire with him, to do a puzzle and name the different animals with him, sing a song or read a book with him. With him. I'm longing for a bigger life, a bigger idea, something intangible and important. And Jude is just asking for me. He wants me to do life with him, laugh with him, pretend to mix in the flour and cinnamon and sugar with him.

I'm looking beyond, outside, to the green horizon and the future, when the garden in my own home is growing rapidly and beautifully and asking for me to cultivate it, now. It is always spring in my home. There are always seeds to sow and nurture, weeds to wrestle out, flowers and fruit to smile upon.

The outside work is good, too; very good, even. The world is in desperate need of working and loving, of planting and sowing, of all the different gifts God has given us to use -- teaching, wisdom, leading, art, words, giving, serving -- to a big or small part of the world. And now, God has given me a very small part of the world to love and serve and give to. My longing for a bigger bit is born of foolishness, the idea that I have anything to offer, but without this small garden and what I will learn here, how can I hope to speak wisdom? I am not yet who I will be, and if I am unwilling to be here, to give myself here, to this small part of the world, how can I possibly think I will be able to ever give myself to a bigger part of it, if that is ever what I am asked to do?

Jude is valuable and wonderful, because God made him. He is a deep, desperate sinner, because he is a son of Adam, a son of Eve, a son of Andrew, a son of Millie. And he, and our other children, are the work given to me now, in this season. Regardless of what other gifts I might (or might not) possess, or how more important they might seem to my selfish heart, or to the world, this where I am, for many many years. And it is good. This garden of our home is for Jude to grow, and for me to grow. We are both planted and rooted here in this soil. We tend and love and teach and grow one another, here in our small part of the world.

Here, in this garden. How beautiful is the Spring!

Top Ten Things I Miss About the South (So Far)

I love Oregon. I do. But, y'all ... I miss the South. Today, I feel homesick. Homesick for people and friends and familiarity. So, to help me grieve this loss, I'm compiling a list of everything I miss about the South (culture-wise, not people. I miss you all.). 

In no particular order (except the order I thought of them), here are the top ten so far:

1. Duke's Mayonnaise. 

Kraft just doesn't cut it, and don't even talk to me about Miracle Whip. You can't buy Duke's west of Kansas or Texas. My tomato sandwiches are suffering these days.

2. Real Barbecue.

As in, barbecue is specifically defined as pork, slow-roasted over a fire pit, pulled, and slathered in sauce. It's something you eat, not something you do to your food, or a type of gathering. Here, people have a barbecue, and cook burgers. I want to eat some barbecue. Real barbecue. Get me a bun, some slow-cooked pulled pork, mustard sauce, and a Cheerwine. Please.

3. Sweet Tea.

Of course we make our own at home. but this goes without saying: It just ain't here. But this was no surprise. 

4. Fireflies.

Nope. Not here.

5. Sir and Ma'am.

This is one of my favorite things about Southern culture. I appreciate the respect given to elders by these titles, and I'm never sure if I'm insulting people when I say this outside the South. I'm always afraid they'll take it ironically, not respectfully.

6. Friendly Strangers

People here are nice, of course. It's just not a thing to talk to people you don't know. At least, it doesn't seem to be. How people make friends, I have no idea. Maybe I'm just not in the right places with the right people to start stranger conversations.

7. Big Open Yards.

Privacy fences are depressing to me, and a little creepy. I don't want to hide in my own yard. But I think it goes along with the not-talking-to-strangers thing. Neighbors here aren't necessarily friends like they would be in the South. 

8. Cost of Living.

According to Zillow, many (if not most) houses in our town are $150+ per square foot. And usually for not very many square feet. That, ladies and gentleman, is ridiculous. Especially compared to the South. Also, don't get me started on groceries. Or gas.

9. Poison Ivy.

I mean, instead of poison oak. Apparently, I am severely allergic to poison oak. I'll spare you the graphic details.

10. The Village Grill.

Go to South Carolina. Eat there. Tell me I'm right. 

What about you? What do you love about where you live now, and what do you miss about your hometown? 

Snapshots

It's Sunday morning, and instead of sitting at church, Jude and I are home. He's sitting on the floor with a coloring book, giving me commentary ("That is a sea star! That is a owl! It was a sticker. Uh-oh! Put it in the trash can! Coloring! You may coloring. You may have one sticker.") and I'm blasting Gustav Holst's The Planets. Andrew is at work -- of course. He has two days off this whole month. Well, four, but two of them he has to go to Portland for a class. 

When you go to a tiny church plant and your pastor and music leader (and almost half of the congregation) are both out of town, you have to cancel services. And when your husband is a surgical resident, you see him when you see him.

So, I thought I would take a little time and tell you some about our new home. 

The first week, I was given several warnings about Oregon. The most pressing warning (other than the mountain lions and the wilderness...) was to watch out for poison oak. Where I grew up, I knew about poison ivy, but poison oak wasn't a big deal, so I promptly forgot. And today, I am covered, pretty much from my face down to my knees, in calamine lotion. The next time I wonder Why is there an oak sapling growing in my rose bush? I'll think twice before grabbing it bare-handed. Lesson learned. 

But, other than the hazards in the flower garden, our new home is so lovely. 

This is the view from our front door: across the cow pasture to Mary's Peak. 

This beautiful garden is overflowing with produce -- way more than we can eat! I feel like I've gone back in time; I spend my mornings watering and weeding, and a lot of my evenings putting vegetables away for the winter.  Last night, Andrew crashed as soon as he got home, and I sat on the floor,  watching "Parenthood" and snapping beans.

Wishing the tomatoes would turn red already.

We have over a dozen fruit trees: plums, peaches, apples, pears... 

Lots of dirt and yard for a little boy -- such a nice change from our Virginia house.

And some really really big trees!

I am embarrassed every time I think about how frustrated we were in house-searching, and how many times we cried, "Okay, God! It better be good!" Because ... of course it is good. It is everything we wanted, and more. We could not have thought to ask for such bounty, for such a sweet place out in the country, so perfect for our little family. I believe God is good. Why do I doubt this every single day? 

A few weeks ago, we got Jude out of bed to see the biggest rainbow ever.

It went end to end across the field behind our house. Breathtaking.

It is folly to use material blessings to judge how much God loves us or takes care of us. He would be taking care of us if we lived in a cramped apartment with no space -- but this time, He gave us physically over and above what we needed. We have a smaller salary than average residencies, and He proved us with gardens and fruit trees. We have a busy little boy, and He gave us a yard and ample house space. I'm home without Andrew a lot of the time, and He gave us a home in the country, where I feel comfortable and relaxed. All of these things we did not even think to ask for. Once again (and again and again), I am humbled by how foolish and thoughtless I am, and how sweet and gentle and giving my Father is. 

So -- when are you coming to visit?

Home

Reader, I wrote this over a month ago, full of the sadness of a dear one diagnosed with cancer, full of the loneliness of being homeless and yet bitterly homesick. I am in my new home now, but still, the truth is there, I think.

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The land that I will show you. A good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Streets of gold, gates of pearl, lit by the lamp of the Lamb. 

All throughout Scripture is a theme of homecoming -- or home-going, and the undercurrent of longing for that place of rest and plenty, a place of peace. Abraham was led by a God to a place he knew nothing about. Moses and the Israelites had forty years to ponder the sweetness of a rich land, a land all their own, as they journeyed from slavery to freedom through the desert of their grumblings. And we who are given the sign and seal of the blood of the Lamb are eagerly awaiting a New Heaven, a New Earth.

We feel the ache in our hearts that all is not right, that this world is not well, is not as it should be. When we blister and burn in the scorching sun, peel away ticks with horror and disgust, see relentless streams of impassive news anchors retelling stories of failing institutions and kidnapped children and bodies found in ditches, when our minds are set spinning by white-coated doctors, breaking to us diagnoses of our mortality, with words like Alzheimer's and autism and old age and most terrifying of all -- cancer.

All is not well! we cry. This is not right! We are sick, the world is sick! But we can fix it! And we sprint away to read self-help books and go to the gym with rigor and swear off meat and eggs and anything resembling a chemical. We visit Lifeway, go to yoga class, quote C. S. Lewis and forget to pray -- at least, I do.

These actions are driven by the desperation of fear -- and dear reader, they are in vain.

You and I, we are dying.

That dearly beloved one lodged deep in your aching heart, the one with the terrifying diagnosis, and you -- you both are dying, just the same. There is no difference on your medical record, nothing dissimilar about your heart or mind or cells: all of your charts read the same as mine: MORTAL. FLEETING. VAPOR. Maybe even you first. Maybe even me. And yet, as I type those words and look out the big picture window at the pecan tree gleaming and swaying with life in the Tennessee heat, my mortal, foolish heart does not believe it. Neither does yours.

But that dancing pecan tree, green with the promise of spring, makes my heart swell with life because we long for life, and life abundant. We long to live, to call a place home, to dig ourselves deeply into a place and a life, into people and things and the beauty of laughter and good food and fellowship -- to be at rest, to be truly at peace. And this longing is good, and right, because in Christ, we do not hope in vain. There is such a place. We ache for it, because without it, we are not whole. But because of Christ, we can be whole.

There is another tree, much much older and bigger than this southern pecan, in my new yard in Oregon. I have not seen it yet, but I have heard all about it. I've been told its trunk is over eight feet in diameter. I have heard the joy in my husband's voice as he described to me the green grass, the wide, wide yard, the fresh, rich garden soil he filled with seeds, the grape arbor, the rhubarb bush, the apple trees, the wood-burning stove, the wide den and the big windows full of light.

This is my new home, the home I am longing for and have not yet seen with my own eyes. I have heard of it, but I have not been there. And yet, how I long for it! How excited I am to see it, to root myself into it, to live and grow and love there!

I have had days, months, to long for this home, and even now, I still have weeks before I will see it myself, this green oasis of our little home on an Oregon farm, our own little promised land, prepared and given by the patient and gracious hand of our Father who loves and loves.

And this other home? The one in a new city, prepared in heaven with walls of gold so pure they are clear as glass? The one without any temple or church or even a moon, because all of those needs are filled in the presence of the Lamb, who will live there, too? This home is waiting, too, and I am longing. Oh, how I am longing! A city without fear or separation or anxiety or cancer or sorrow -- how I am longing! A home of such beauty, of such fullness of life that I could not comprehend it now -- how I am longing! A home where the dwelling place of God is with man and Eden not only restored, but perfected by the love of God in the sacrifice of His Son. Are you longing, dear reader? We have not seen it, yet we are longing for it, having heard of its glory and fullness and peace.

Red Mountain took an old hymn by Horatius Bonar and altered it, calling "All Things New." It pleads, "Come, for creation groans, / Impatient of Thy stay, / Worn out with all these long years of ill, / These ages of delay. / Come, and bring Thy reign / Of everlasting peace; / Come, take the kingdom to Thyself, / Great King of Righteousness."

We battle against death and hurt and aches and sorrows, against cancer and family disputes and child abuse and human trafficking -- and these are evils to be fought, worthy of our energy. We live in a world of brokenness and sin, powers of darkness that must be daily battled and struggled against by the grace and power of Jesus Christ. And we who bear the name of Jesus are called to bring the gospel of Light into this world of darkness.

But please, please, do not forget that these things shall pass. In some ways, in so many ways, they matter. Take care of yourself, of course, dear reader. Take care of others. Live a life of love, John says, because Jesus says. But. But. But this house, this town, this America, this church program, this idea or fad, this whole earth -- all these human institutions and ideas will fade. And only the gospel will remain. So let us cry that Word first and always, as other hurts and cultural issues come and go.

Your time here, the span of your days, is not contingent on what you eat or where you live or how well you follow all the rules or do your research properly. You have no idea the twists and plunges awaiting on this journey God is leading you on, so all we can do is hold out our hands to receive with the trust of a child, trusting in a good God who only gives good things. The stone you may see before you is no such thing. Jesus says so, more than once. A good God gives bread and water and wine, and life, and not only for your sake, but for the sake of all the world, of those you love and for His whole kingdom. It may crunch harshly on your teeth, it may burn like fire going down, it may even kill you -- but if it is given by His nail-scarred hands, if it comes from Him in love, then reader, it is good, because it is for good, true good, ultimate and lasting good.

So, rise, dear reader. Rise and go forth in hope. And think of home! Home is calling, Home is waiting, with such joys as are unfathomable -- because such joys are only present in the perfect, untainted presence of the Holy God. Live a life of love, of service, of thanksgiving. Live today, but long for tomorrow, for the green grass and sweet fruits and the Light of the Lamb awaiting you. No matter what lies before you.

Hope does not put us to shame, Paul says in Romans. Hope. I am hoping for a new home, a green home in Oregon and even more, a true home for ever and ever with my Lord.  No crying, no sorrow, no hunger or thirst or darkness or death -- all shall be satisfied by my Jesus, who is Love and Bread and Water and Wine, who is the Sabbath, who is Light, who is Life, and the Only Wise God.

Further up, and further in!

On Nostalgia

As we gear up to leave Virginia, I find myself becoming more and more nostalgic. I am not sentimental, really, except when I begin to think about all the symbols and remembrances in life, and how some things are like other things -- I guess that's the poet in me. 

I was telling Lindsay and Emily the other day, as I was thinking about moving, that as John Green says in The Fault in Our Stars, "Nostalgia is a side effect of dying." And I think this is true. We become nostalgic about things and places and people and memories because we realize in these moments of change that we are so very mortal, and these moments of change remind us that our lives are short and these changes are little deaths. Our leaving Blacksburg is a little death. We may not come back here, may not see these dear ones again on this Earth, in this life. And so we become nostalgic, because we are dying, all of us, and we want to remember and hold this places and memories and people dear. 

And the same with our little ones. Parents can err on the side of being too nostalgic, of course, and not enjoy each stage for mourning the others -- but it is true in some ways. Jude will never be this naive, this young, this trusting and excited about life as he is today. 

So, what, then? Where is gospel in our living, in our dying? 

Everywhere, reader. We live today in the joy of the gospel, and take the joys and sorrows in the knowledge that Christ is risen, that the reason the Son of God came was to destroy the devil's work (1 John 3:8), and that He is making all things new. 

And here are some of our daily joys. 

 

Blessings to you, dear reader.

Leeks and Onions

Bear with me here, reader.

Thus the Lord saved Israel that day from the hand of the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore. Israel saw the great power that the Lord used against the Egyptians, so the people feared the Lord, and they believed in the Lord and in his servant Moses. (Exodus 14:30-31)

Three days later: 

And the people grumbled against Moses, saying, “What shall we drink?” (Ex 15:24)

Two months later:

 And the whole congregation of the people of Israel grumbled against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness, and the people of Israel said to them, “Would that we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the meat pots and ate bread to the full, for you have brought us out to this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.” (Ex 16:2-3)

And again, still later: 

But the people thirsted for water, and the people grumbled against Moses and said, “Why did you bring us up out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our livestock with thirst?” (Ex 17:3)

Andrew, Jude, and I are moving to Oregon next month. We currently live in Virginia, 2700 miles away from our future home, future friends, Andrew’s future job at the hospital there. We are busy with all the things that come with moving, plus moving with a toddler running amok in the house, moving almost literally coast to coast. Andrew’s brain is awash in details about moving trucks and plane tickets, and we have piles and boxes all over the house of things we desperately hope to sell at a yard sale this Saturday. Our house is in a constant state of chaos; clutter is just state of being right now, as much as it stresses me out. There’s just not much point organizing a desk drawer I will dump out and pack in a matter of weeks. We are ruthlessly purging, sentimentality thrown aside as we would rather have a little extra cash in our pockets than keep this or that and find place for it in the moving van.

But wait. Let me back up a bit – a whole year, really. To understand this journey, reader, you need to know how and why Oregon. Andrew, my husband, is graduating medical school in four weeks! Wow. He will be a doctor, and we are moving for his residency. A common condition. Except that our original plan, reader, was the absolute opposite of what we are doing now. Just like Jude was a huge God-imposed edit in our ten-year plan, so is Oregon. Andrew wanted to be an internist, do hospital medicine Scrubs-style, and we did not plan to move anywhere except closer to family. We had our eyes on western North Carolina, firmly sure that we would not be leaving the Appalachians we know and love.

But then.

Through a series of events we’ve almost forgotten already, but clearly God’s leading, in March of last year, with much prayer and trepidation, we decided to pursue Andrew becoming a surgeon. Since he will be a D.O. instead of an M.D. (explanation here if you aren't married to one), his options were limited to … anywhere in America except the Southeast. We looked to Ohio, Pennsylvania, anywhere we could be conceivably close-ish to family.

He applied to a program in Corvallis, Oregon for two ridiculous reasons: because he felt like he needed to apply to more programs (so it was purely padding a list) and because the people on the website looked happy.

But then there was an invitation to interview, which he took because it would be good practice for the programs he cared about. Except – he loved it.

So three days after Christmas found all three of us on an airplane, loaded down with Goldfish and books for Jude, making the trek from East Coast to West. We spent two and a half weeks in Oregon; Andrew got his hands (well, his gloves) dirty at the hospital, Jude and I wandered around town in the rain.

We didn’t fall in love with the town the way we wanted to. There wasn’t a magical moment, or any sort of clear epiphany from God, but we did fall in love with the church we found there, and with the people we met. And we saw that everything about the town and the community was so much more what we wanted than any other place we were considering. So, in a slow, tentative, undramatic way, we thought it would be best.

And now, one stressful Match Day later, we are preparing to move there. Three things that we never could have foreseen: We are moving to Oregon with our kid, for Andrew to become a surgeon. My twenty-year-old self is laughing hysterically.

Well, move… somewhere.

We have been looking for a place to live since February, and have yet to show anything for it except a long list of un-returned phone calls, unanswered emails, dead end after dead end. It feels like a Celestial Someone is screening our calls, cutting our phone wires, sabotaging all our efforts to Be Responsible. We have done everything that we can at this point.

And now, I, Israelite that I am, with fresh memories of rivers parting and the taste of manna still on my lips, am grumbling in the wilderness: “Lord, have you brought us here to be homeless?”

I believe; help my unbelief!

I know we will have a place to live, and that it will be right where God wants us to be, for the purposes of our friendships or our own growth, et cetera. But now, everything in me is fighting against my Inner Israelite. I have seen Him change my heart and my life, have seen Him provide over and over for us, showing us that this crazy new plan is what He has in mind for our family -- and I just want to eat leeks and onions. 

I want to say, “God, if you’ll give us a house, then...” – but that’s not faith, is it? It’s superstition. God is not conditionally good based on the state of my health or my son’s behavior or the walls I sleep in at night. God is good, no matter what. If we all three have to sleep in a one-bedroom apartment by the railroad depot, God is good and will take care of us. If we have four bedrooms and a fenced yard, God is good and will take care of us. If God lets the Babylons come, He is still good. If He lets His own Son be murdered, He is still good. He knows what He's doing, and He has much greater purposes than my comfort or materialistic ideals.

I’m so scared to learn this. I want to know God is good when my circumstances are good. I’m terrified to learn that God is good when I don’t see those external things as good, despite all the ways I have done so in the past.

But, come what may, God will be good. Remind me of that. No matter what. No matter what.

The Cup

Some after-Communion scribbles:

The Cup

tide pounding, surf splashing,
brook racing, pulse throbbing,
juice dripping, blood spilling,
rain coming, sea rising,
milk-nursing, sweat sticking,
river parting, honey flowing,
oil running, blood burning,
water rinsing, ink scratching,

hush.

blood leaking, milk coming,
water washing, myrrh scenting,
wine brimming, well-drawing,
mud cleansing, sea calming,
perfume soaking, water purging,
wine sharing, sweat dropping,
blood pooling, blood clogging,
water washing, vinegar stinging,
tears sliding, water falling,
oil covering, rain crashing,

hush.

pulse beating, water springing,
wine gushing, honey flowing,

come.

What this mess on my floor is really teaching me

Watching the newest season of “Parenthood,” and seeing Crosby and Jasmine deal with their cranky newborn, I was reminded of our own days of learning how to be parents, how to be Jude’s parents. It was rough then, and it’s still hard. But not why you think.

Parenthood is hard. Being a stay-at-home mom (or dad) is hard. And sure, you can “know” that it will be hard before you enter the position yourself, and you can even do some babysitting and counseling at summer camp and perhaps teaching – but you still don’t know. Not really. Not like you will.

Because, reader, you can deal with boogers on your shoulder, with poopy diapers and leaky sippy cups, with Cheerios in every crevice and surface of your apartment, with little or no sleep for months (or years), with car seats and tiny laundry and bedtime routines and taking five times as long to go grocery shopping, and that still isn’t really what makes parenting hard. Yes, these things are exhausting, physically and emotionally, and they wear you down. These things are hard, much harder than you know until you are the one in the trenches.

The real reason parenthood is hard, especially if you are home with your child all day, is because it is a constant, inescapable, persistent reminder that your life is not about you.

Those Cheerios and boogers and Legos all over your living room mean that your desire for order is not as important as a busy, learning little toddler.

That stack of books you’ve read fifteen times in a row means that your kid’s thirst for knowledge and your company is more important than your need to fold the laundry or check your email.

That sleep you haven’t gotten since you-don’t-know-when means that your baby’s need for milk and comfort and the warmth of your arms is more important than your own comfort and rest.

Those marks on your belly, that scar here or there, mean that your little one’s need for growth inside of you, and for being born from you, for being alive, were more important than your bathing suit.

Repeating the same words, songs, questions and answers all day long until your mind is numb means that his or her need to learn and understand is more important than your need to feel intellectually stimulated. 

That dinner party you missed, those dates you paid double for (since you had to pay a sitter, too) mean that your child’s need to be taken care of is more important than your freedom.

And that’s it. Your son, your daughter, is more important than you are. And that’s why parenting is hard. Because we are sinners, and we cling with every muscle and shred of fingernail to our autonomy, to our need to feel free and in control of our own lives, and so we struggle fiercely and angrily with this new life, this new person who makes us confront the fact that life is not about us--not even our own lives are about us.

Perhaps this is why America turns up its nose at parenthood and the crazy choice of being a stay-at-home parent: because we value our freedom and autonomy above all else, and the idea that someone would choose to give that up is laughable.

I’m not saying that your baby is the most important thing in the world, or that you shouldn't take care of yourself. In fact, I don't believe anyone is the most important thing in the world, except the Lord Jesus Christ, and that even your marriage should have priority over your children, when you get to a point past the newborn craziness where that is possible. Teaching our children that they are the center of the universe is perpetuating the issue.

I am saying that parenting is hard because it doesn’t allow an escape from the truth: other people are more important than we are, and their needs and desires are more important than or needs and desires. If we believe that the gospel is real, we cannot ignore this. Without kids, we can pretend like the world exists for our pleasure, but when there are children in the equation, it’s just not possible. So we are forced to die to ourselves, every moment of every day.

On a basic level, because our kids need us physically. They cannot feed or clothe themselves, and so they must be taken care of. And when they get older, they need our wisdom and unconditional love and guidance. But on a much deeper level, this is true because Jesus says so. Many times.

We fail, daily. But we also learn and grow, and begin to be able to choose others over ourselves, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and by the gospel’s work in our hearts.

Your life is not about you, whether you have a kid to make you face this fact or not. We are not our own, but we are serving a King who also died, to give life to others. Jesus died, so that we are also able to die – but in order to live! There is joy in sacrifice, in learning how to love others well, in realizing that the gospel really does change everything about our lives and perspectives. And that’s a much sweeter freedom. 

September Third

From this

To this.

Happy Birthday, Jude!

Intermission

Dear Reader,

I've been gone. You might have noticed, or maybe not. It’s okay if you didn't.

There are a few different reasons why, such as a little boy, but I want to talk about one in particular. I've almost written this post a dozen times, and then decided not to, because it seemed contradictory. But it seems like the time is right. It’s been almost six months.

I decided to stop blogging because it was (and still is) unhealthy for me and my relationships.

I became more concerned with taking a good enough picture of Jude than in enjoying Jude himself. I cared too much about how many people read or commented or liked what I had to say, and was crushed if it wasn't enough. And worst of all, I was reading other people’s blogs, and finding ten thousand reasons why my life, myself, and my son weren't good enough as everyone else’s.  I was even pushing Jude towards milestones he wasn't ready for because of reading about a friend’s child who is Jude’s age and who hit a few milestones before he did.

What the hell.

It had to stop.

So, I stopped it. I left. Mine, and everyone else’s.

I think I stopped myself from explaining why those other times because my explanations always came out angrily, pointing fingers at the world, at the internet and the blogosphere, explaining why everyone should stop blogging because it is selfish and unhealthy. And it is. To me. But not to everyone. Like most good things, it can be used for our good or our detriment, depending on ourselves. And I, I must admit, am the far, far weaker brother in this story. Paul was talking about me.

A friend recently shared this post about how our culture is obsessed with a false idea of adventure, and how we must go and do in order to achieve and live a “full life.” That’s why I stopped blogging – because I was far more interested in creating a perception of adventure, and convincing everyone else that my life was an adventure that I wasn't really engaging the real adventure of my son and my family.

I may be back. I may not. We’ll see.

So, reader, pray for me. Pray for my weak heart that longs for the more, the not yet, and that will never ever find that here on a silly, silly blog. The real more is the daily, the mundane, the things that aren't worth writing about, and you don’t even realize until they've piled up a thousand tiny small ones into one really big beautiful thing called real life.

Bonhoeffer said, “I'm still discovering, right up to this moment, that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. I mean living unreservedly in life's duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing, we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God.”

I hope that’s what I’m learning, too, by living in the world that doesn't include the blogosphere. I am learning peace and contentment, and the presence of the Lord.

My son turns a year old in a week and a half. My husband is almost done with medical school. I am struggling to discern if writing is at all a part of this season of my life.

And God is with us. That is the real more. Let’s cling to that truth, together.

Until next time, dear reader. 

Six months!

I haven't been blogging for a myriad of reasons, but:

 

Our sweet Jude turned six months old yesterday!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He continues to impress us with his determination (or stubbornness...) and to make us smile with his antics and giggles. And he was so patient with me stumbling through taking these pictures.

 

We're so very glad that we're past the newborn stage. So glad.

We can't wait to see what the next six months will bring for all three of us!

 

My New Christmas

When I was a little girl, I used to make little things into special things in my mind. I would get all sentimental and romantic in an Anne of Green Gables kind of way, and somehow, through my imagination, little things like arranging the nativity set became a magical and ceremonial happening.

 

Few things really are that magical, of course, even celebrating Christmas. Except, it is. This year, even though today is only the second day of December, Christmas is already magical.

 

And this is why.

 

 

Have you even experienced the birth of a child, reader?

 

I don't mean the awful video from high school sex ed that made you swear never ever to have a child. I mean really. Have you given birth yourself, or seen your wife give birth? A best friend or sister, perhaps? Or as a medical student, on your first delivery?

 

If you haven't, stick with me anyway. But if you have, you know what I mean. Because I now have, Christmas is a much fuller and more beautiful celebration to me.

 

The real miracle of Christmas reader, is not that a virgin had a child. The real miracle is that the child was God. The Almighty, the Highest of all High Kings, the Maker of heaven and earth, the eternal, unchanging and perfect God shrunk himself, condescended not only to being a human, but being born a baby human.

 

The miracle is that He loved us enough, while we were still His enemies, to humble Himself, limit Himself to the lowest form of earth-bound man. He would experience physical pain, physical hunger, emotional heartbreak, hormonal changes, puberty, disappointment ... but first, He had to learn how to nurse. He had to learn how to lift His head, to roll over, to use His hands. He had to learn to crawl and stand and walk and speak.

 

God. God had to learn all those things. Because He came to earth as a baby.

 

Singing Christmas hymns in church this morning and holding my crowing, smiling boy, I was suddenly overwhelmed.

 

The birth of any baby is a miracle. The rush of emotion that steals your breath and brings unexpected tears to your eyes, because even though you knew in your head that that round lump of belly hid a human child, actually seeing and holding that child somehow still is incredibly amazing. It's almost a surprise.

 

But Jesus -- He was not only a miracle because He was a baby human with tiny, wrinkled toes and a rooting reflex. He was a miracle because He was a baby human and God with tiny, wrinkled toes and a rooting reflex.

 

And because He was God, because He was sinless, because He loves us more than we understand, because He died as a human and now is raised in a new body that we will one day experience, because all these beautiful, complicated and simple gospel truths, Christmas is magical.

 

Look at the next baby you see. Imagine knowing that tiny human is God, and would redeem your soul from sin and death.

 

That truly is a miracle, and worth celebrating.

 

 

Joy to those who long to see thee,
Dayspring from on high appear
Come thou promised rod of Jesse,
Of thy birth we long to hear
O'er the hills the angels singing,
News, glad tidings of a birth
Go to him, your praises ringing,
Christ the Lord has come to earth

Come to earth to taste our sadness,
He whose glories knew no end
By his life he brings us gladness,
Our Redeemer, Shepherd, Friend
Leaving riches without number,
Born within a cattle stall
This the everlasting wonder,
Christ was born the Lord of all 

 

Tuesdays with Jude

I should be editing essays to earn some money, or packing in preparation for driving down to Chattanooga tomorrow ... but I'd much rather hang out with Jude.

 

Almost three months old!

 

 

 

We practiced sitting up in the Bumbo this morning, which, with a little help from a pillow, went over really well.

 

Then, he got a tired from all that work holding his head up, and was ready for a nap. But first, a little cuddle-and-pacifier time.

 

 

 

 

He's figuring out his hands, so he loves holding our fingers (or my sweater/scarf/necklace...).

 

It's been a good morning.

I even got to drink my coffee.

 

 



My First Pinterest Craft

I don't claim to be amazingly crafty like the many talented bloggers out here.

 

But, Andrew went hiking on Saturday, and Jude napped all afternoon, so I got my crafty hat on and made a pretty.

 

This was my inspiration:

 

Image from Style Me Pretty

 

And this is my front door now!

 

 

Joy

We're doing this thing, this parenting thing. Andrew and I look at each other in wonder every now and then and realize that, day by day, we're making it. By God's wonderful grace, we are making it; and we are growing and seeing the joys more each day.

 

It was hard, especially at first, to see much (or any) of the so-called "joys of parenting" that you hear about. We felt cheated, lied to. There are no joys in inconsolable screams or removing a diaper just as he decides to pee, or waking up every hour to feed a baby who refuses to wake up to eat. Doctor's orders.

 

But, mercifully, time passes.

 

And there are joys. And these joys will multiply as Jude grows, and as we grow as parents. Joys are coming in his infectious smiles, sweet conversations of coos and gurgles, in those eyes that gaze with such trust when we give him a bottle or a bath. Joys are coming in a little hand curled up as he sleeps, and as his newborn onesies are almost too small already, we realize he's growing and healthy.

 

He's already changed so much. From this:

 

 

(This was literally when they first handed him to me. I still had that wretched oxygen tube up my nose...)

 

To this:

 

 

Five weeks old!

 

I keep being reminded that parenting, like marriage, was created for our joy, yes, but much deeper, for our sanctification.

 

I'm so glad God knows what He's doing.