The Ordinary Unknown Miracle

Psalm 37:25

"I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread."

Learning important lessons is not usually an easy thing. In fact, sometimes it can be downright painful. Sometimes it can scare you so badly, it makes you want to curl up into a ball and wait for the storm to pass. Sometimes the lesson itself is a simple concept, simple enough that we don't give it much thought, and it takes a great, heart-stopping bolt of lightning to make us really see it, make us really understand. 

Learning lessons is often not fun at all. 

The lesson I learned recently is one that I was taught from infancy. It was something that I had always just understood to be true, almost like one of the laws of the universe. It is a lesson I should not have needed to re-learn, but I did. A lesson that any preschooler in a church nursery could tell you with innocent conviction. 

God provides. 

So simple, so true. If anybody had asked me a few days ago if God provides, I would've said yes in a heartbeat and, if asked, I could've provided examples and testimonials and Bible references. It is something I've always known to be true, always known with absolute certainty. Yes, God provides. Obviously. 

But sometimes, it is not so obvious. Sometimes circumstances scare you enough that it clouds your vision, and everything you know to be true is suddenly hazy and uncertain. Sometimes fear can act like a parasite, eating away at you from the inside, filling your mind with confusing questions until absolutes turn into hesitant maybes and black and white almost look like the same color. And suddenly, everything is not as clear-cut as it once was and the lines that at one time were clearly defined now seem strangely blurred. 

I recently had such an experience. A scary situation where I was unable to access any money from my bank account, had no idea in the world how to fix the problem, was a million miles away from my family, and was sitting on less than a quarter tank of fuel in my gas-guzzling Murano. I was beside myself. 

Fear was my biggest opponent as I frantically tried to fix the problem. It clouded my judgement, made me question what I knew to be true, twisted what I believed and confused my convictions, until I wasn't sure if God was going to provide for me. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it to where I needed to go to get the problem fixed on the gas I had left, or if that place could even fix my problem!

I was trying not to break down in front of strangers, doing my best to hold it together just long enough to get the issue resolved, watching my gas gauge like a hawk as I drove all over the city from one dead-end to another and then back again, so stressed and emotionally unstable that I'm pretty sure I came across to the people I talked to like a recovering drug addict. I was a wreck. I missed my family so much it made me sick. I had had enough of this new city and I just wanted to go home.

Fear said things like, "Sure, God usually provides, but will he provide this time?" and, "It sure doesn't look like God is providing for you" and, "If God wanted to provide for you, he would've done it by now". And many other things that I can't even remember. One arrow of doubt and deceit after another after another, right into the most vulnerable areas of my frightened heart…until the bombardment did its work and I wasn't too sure of anything anymore. Ask me then if God provides, and I might've hesitated, just a little. But that hesitation would've told the story. I wasn't absolutely sure.

Does God provide? Well? Does he?!

During this whole situation, I kept waiting for the miracle to happen…for the reason for the whole mess to be made clear to me, for God's reasoning to be made known in a glorious spectacle like a giant blinking sign that says, "THIS IS THE REASON I PUT YOU THROUGH THIS!!". I was waiting for some magnificent demonstration that I could look back on and say, "Look what God did here!"

It never came. 

Or, rather, it came, but I didn't really notice at first. It didn't come as a knight in shining armor, or ride to my aid like a glorious cavalry under a mighty banner of victory. It came like…well, like a long-lost friend. I ended up getting the cash I needed before I run out of gas, but it happened quietly, peacefully, after a day full of chaos and fear and noise. It was anticlimactic.

But it was no less amazing than if it had been a night in shining armor, swooping in to save the day right in the nick of time.

God provided. 

No, you don't understand. GOD...PROVIDED!! Even in the midst of the chaos and the crushing weight of doubt and uncertainty, he showed me that he does provide, he absolutely does, every time, and that he will always--ALWAYS--provide. Even if I doubt him. He provided me with what I needed, not with loud trumpets sounding and a caravan of heralds, but quietly, simply, peacefully, because it's not a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence requiring pomp and parade. It's something that happens a thousand times a day when we are not paying attention. It's quiet and it's calm, like a mother's gentle lullaby.

And as I drove home with a full tank of gas and money in my pocket, I felt ashamed. Yes, I had been pelted with doubt and fear and my emotions had been put through the ringer, but that's no excuse to question the goodness of God, or forget the many, many times he's provided for me in my lifetime. It's not okay for me to doubt like I did.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, God provides without me even knowing there was a need in the first place. The times when I do notice the need, it's not okay to forget he's provided the other ninety-nine. God is good. He promises to provide, and he has never broken a single promise ever, and he never will.

So. After the storm had passed and my ship emerged on the other side of the ocean still afloat, albeit slightly weather-worn, after I had collapsed onto my bed with zero energy leftover, after the noise and commotion had passed and all that was left was me and that gentle, persistent voice inside, I learned the lesson.

Even in the midst of chaos and fear and circumstances that are beyond our control, we wait for that still small voice, and watch for the miraculous, everyday miracle to occur. Because we know it will. And when it does, we must fall to our knees in gratitude, and then shout from the rooftops that God is good, that God is in control every minute of every day, and that he always, always, always, provides.

Numbers 11:21-23

But Moses said, "Here I am among six hundred thousand men on foot, and you say, 'I will give them meat to eat for a whole month!' Would they have enough if flocks and herds were slaughtered for them? Would they have enough if all the fish in the sea were caught for them?"

The Lord answered Moses, "Is the Lord's arm too short? Now you will see whether or not what I say will come true for you."

--

The Anatomy Of A Roadtrip

In the past, family roadtrips were truly a masterpiece, a glorious spectacle that would make Kevin McCallister's family proud. The rushing, the hubbub, the packing, the crankiness, the trying to imagine what you will wish you would have packed once you're two hours into the trip, my dad trying to cram every bag we could squeeze junk into in the back of whatever vehicle we had that was big enough to accommodate the size of our family while grumbling about how much stuff we thought we couldn't live without, while we adamantly insisted that everything in those bags was absolutely, without a doubt, life and death necessary. And half that stuff was never seen again until we unpacked after we got back home. Sorry, Dad.

And then, once the vehicle of choice was bursting at the seams, so much so that the unlucky driver's visibility was shot to pieces, Dad would holler for everybody to go the bathroom and get to the car. Go the bathroom first. Have you gone to the bathroom? No? Before you even take one more breath, before your heart makes another single life-saving contraction, get to the bathroom and try. Oh, you went fifteen minutes ago? Not good enough, go try again, and don't come out until you've made some progress. 

I'm unable to pinpoint a specific time on a family road trip when my father became nervous about his children completing this activity. I know my parents were always anxious to make the trip as short as possible and make the fewest amount of stops that they possibly could, but I feel like the urgency with which my dad demanded that we use the facilities before beginning our journey--and at every stop along the way--stems from some sort of monumental catastrophe which occurred at some point during an innocent family road trip gone horribly wrong. But for the life of me, I can't recall such a catastrophe, so maybe it was the fear of disaster that kept my dad constantly on our backs about it. 

Once everybody had tried to go to the bathroom, and everybody was squished into the car in whatever room was leftover after the luggage had eaten its fill, Dad would get in, and we would wait for Mom. And wait. And wait. 

And wait.

And wait. 

Good grief, what is she doing in there?!

And finally, after what felt like an eternity of elbows being "accidentally" jammed into ribs and "get your feet out of my footspace" and "we don't have enough room!" and Dad probably already wanted to pull his hair out, Mom would come rushing out of the house with even more bags. Filled with lunchmeat and bread and carrot sticks and some sort of beverages. And all the kids would groan a little, because we were all secretly hoping that the travel lunch would be forgotten, enabling us to stop for lunch on the way. No luck this time. Curses. 

And after Mom got in and got settled, and we were all finally fitted into the car like sardines in a can, Dad would ask again if we had all gone to the bathroom, and would inevitably receive a chorus of children groaning "yeeeeees!" in response. Then Dad would tell us to bow our heads, and he would say a prayer for a safe journey. And then we would be off. 

And usually we got about three miles before somebody remembered another life and death necessity that was still sitting on the kitchen table, and Dad would be forced to turn around and go back to retrieve the neglected item. 

And finally--finally!--roughly two or three hours after the time we promised ourselves we were going to "be driving away", we would, actually, in fact, drive away. And the switch from frantic, chaotic flurry to peaceful, quiet relaxation was uncanny, to say the least. One moment, squirming and squabbling and kicking each others' feet out of our designated footspace, and the next moment, quiet, and slight snoring, and soft music drifting from the car speakers. 

And me? I would try to stay awake as long as possible, especially if we were leaving early in the morning, because everybody knows that sunrises from the interstate during a road trip while you are squished into a space too small for you is about the most beautiful thing ever in the whole world. But eventually, the steady hum of the car motor and the gentle rocking motion would be too tempting, and I would be lured into a sweet state of oblivion, drifting away into dreams under the watchful eye of the sunrise. 

That's what I remember about road trips when I was younger. 

But the dynamic of road trips is very different nowadays than it used to be back then. We are all mostly adults now and road trip veterans, able to get up and get going much faster and pack much smarter...even though I still pack too much most of the time. The whole family no longer travels in one vehicle (what a relief), and the childish bickering...well, it's still there, but we have a better sense of humor about it nowadays. And Dad's illogical fear of catastrophic accidents during a trip is considerably less than it used to be. He only asks us if we've used the bathroom two times before we leave now. Three times, tops. 

There is a lot of democracy involved during road trips. Oh, not everything is brought to a vote, but if somebody is not satisfied with something, you can bet your buttons that they are going to complain loudly and make everybody else miserable until whatever it is is fixed. But people are different, and sometimes it's hard to be democratic. Somebody wants to listen to rock music, but somebody else has a headache, somebody else has a new CD that they love that everybody else hates. Somebody is always too hot while somebody else is too cold. Roll the windows down, it's too windy, roll them up. Somebody is hungry for Subway, somebody else wants hamburgers, somebody else wants steak. Let's stop to stretch our legs, no, we should press on.

Recently, however, I did something I've never done before. Something that changed the way I view roadtripping. I went on a trip...by myself.

First of all, you've got to understand that I wasn't just like, "I'M SICK OF YOU ALL! I'M LEAVING! PEACE OUT, LOSERS!" I didn't ditch my family because I couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. I got time off from my work, made plans, and the rest of the family couldn't go. So I went alone, not at all sure what I was doing or what I should expect. I was flying (driving) by the seat of my pants.

I would be lying if I said I didn't find it liberating.

All of a sudden, there was no democracy, because there was only me. I was my own dictator. The big kahuna. The top dog. I wanted to listen to oldies? I listened to oldies. I wanted to listen to one song twenty-two times in a row? By dog, I did just that. I wanted to stop to take a picture of the sunset? I stopped. I wanted all the windows open at once, making everything fly around in a simulated hurricane inside the car? That is exactly what happened. I didn't have anybody saying "roll up the windows" or "turn down the music" or "I'm going to throw the ipod out the window if I hear that song one more time" or "stop talking to the other cars on the road, it's freaking me out" or "slow down, you're going too fast, you're going to kill us all, you fool". The power of the road was mine, and I wielded it like the weapon it was.

But with great power comes great responsibility, dang it.

I left early in the morning (because, obviously, the sunrise is one of the most essential parts of any road trip). And just like old times, the sunrise tried to gently lull me into sweet oblivion. Only this time, I was responsible, the driver, the navigator, the one in charge. Sleep? That's cute. It was stay awake, stay aware, STAY ALIVE! Suddenly, road trips had just become much more serious than before. No more fun and games, one wrong move and you're dead or stranded or lost or worse.

So I had to tell the sunrise to take a hike. Get lost, man, I'm trying to not die over here. Coffee was my wingman and helped me make it through the 12 hour trip in one piece...or...what was supposed to be a 12 hour trip. I think I might've made it in 9. And don't judge me, I was trying to make it before dark because I was afraid of driving through the mountain passes at night. (that's my story, and I'm sticking to it).

But I made it to Colorado, oh beautiful Colorado, and back again in one piece. And actually, the fact that I made it back surprised even me. Not that I made it back alive, but the fact that I decided to come back at all. Colorado is unique. If you've ever been there, you know that it has perfected the art of hypnosis. It makes you want to stay, and stay forever. It makes you hate everywhere but there. And I'm pretty sure the only reason I came home at all was because the cloud of smog from the pot-smoking hippies was interfering with the hypnosis that is usually more than one can resist.

The worst part about road trips is when they're over. When you pull back into the driveway and look at the house and realize that it's all just a memory now, and you have to shift gears and try to remember how to go to work and have appointments and schedules and responsibilities again. When all that stuff that you so gladly threw to the wind when you raced out of town suddenly slams back into your face, you remember instantly why you love road trips so much. And you start planning your next one, before the car's even had a chance to cool off. And that planning, that anticipation, it's enough to live on, enough to sustain you until you can throw off the bindings and take to the road once more.

Road trips. There are many different kinds, many different brands. Go in a group, go with one other person, go by yourself. They all have things in common, they all have pros, and they all have cons. The good news is, no matter which one you choose, you can't really go wrong. Because if you're like me, the road is always beckoning, always calling, always summoning, gently yet earnestly. A fleeting glance at an open road is nearly enough to make you lose your mind with longing. And when your day finally arrives, when you finally answer the call and throw yourself headfirst into the journey, none of that extra stuff matters. The music, the food, the sleep or lack thereof, the windows, the temperature...that's all fluff. The open road is in front of you and the world is at your back. The rest fades to gray.

That, friends, is where freedom and joy become one and the same.


--

Beautiful Nebraska Land

"We're moving to Nebraska."

"I don't want to go. There isn't anything there and it's boring and flat and stupid."

"You'll learn to like it."

"No I won't."

This was my reaction to being told we were moving to Nebraska after my father's retirement from the Air Force. I was about 12. I had no basis for my claims that Nebraska was boring and that there wasn't anything to do there. I was still feeling bitter about moving away from Texas a year before, where I had had some of the best times of my life and made some very special friends. My parents could have said we were moving to Disneyland and I still would've complained. Unless we were moving back to Texas to our lovely stone house with the black widow spiders and the scorpions and tarantulas and snakes and giant blue wasps and fire ants and 110 degree weather and cactus and tumbleweeds and blowing dust and dirt, I wanted no part of it. I was stubbornly holding on to that life with clenched fists...Texas was my home, and just as soon as I was old enough, I was going back to reclaim the life that had been so unjustly torn away from me.

I'm now 25 years old, and I've been living in Nebraska ever since. I've graduated from high school and college here, learned what it means to be a Husker fan, learned how to detassle (my computer doesn't even recognize the word), and lived in the land of The Good Life long enough to see what Nebraska truly consists of, the beauty it contains, the jewels that it offers that cannot be found elsewhere.

Before I moved here, and even for the first few years in the state, I didn't get why anybody would want to live in Nebraska. There's corn and cows, and that's it. It's boring. It's flat. It's lame.

Many people from outside the state reciprocated my resentment. People told me it was a "nothing state". People told me it was a wasteland. People told me it was ugly. Somebody even told me once, "Johanna, I don't know why we even claim that state".

If somebody makes such a comment in front of me these days, even if it is offhand and they aren't really too serious, they better sit down and buckle up, because they are going to get a passionate lecture about the merits of this state and the reasons why it is just as good as all the other states from a person who now considers herself a Nebraskan. And once their education is complete, they are going to be instructed to not insult the state again if they know what's good for them, because if they think Nebraska is ugly or lame or a wasteland without purpose, then they obviously either haven't been there or haven't been paying attention. Nebraska is my adopted home state. I will not let you insult it.

One of the wonderful things about this country of ours is how different all the states are. You can find mountains, beaches, rivers, cities, valleys, tundras (I'm looking at YOU, Minnesota!), deserts, fields, hills, farms, swamps, forests, and pretty much every terrain you can imagine. Our country is amazing and beautiful. It feeds us, shelters us, gives us rain and sunshine and crops in abundance, and is full of beauty and splendor.

There is no piece of America that is expendable, understand? Not California, not Alaska, not New York, not Kansas, Not Hawaii, not Rhode Island, and sure as heck not Nebraska.

Nebraska is the heart of the midwest, the very center of the country. We have farms that help to feed the rest of the nation. Blood is shipped from the midwest to all over the country, because the people here generally think a lot about others and are faithful to donate. We have beautiful seasons, rolling hills, streams and rivers. Our sunsets are to die for. The people here are laid-back and friendly, they are generous and enjoy the simple things. There is a sense of community and family felt here that I've never felt anywhere else. Nebraska truly does welcome you.

As I think about my move up north to Minnesota in just a few short weeks, it's hard to think about leaving my family. It's hard to think about leaving the church I've become a part of and grown to love. It's so very hard to think of leaving my niece and nephew...of not being close by when more babies are born. And it's also hard to think about leaving the state itself; the state that has been my home for far longer than any other place ever has.

However, I refuse to make the same mistake twice. I held tightly to my Texas life, and to everything I had there, and for that reason, when we moved away I felt like I was being torn in two. That could've been prevented if I had not held so tightly; if I had understood that my life is not my own.

So now, as this chapter of my life draws to a close and a new one is about to begin, I am simply trying to focus on being thankful to God for everything that I've had for the past 13+ years. For the family that I've had close for all this time. For the school I've had and the start I've been given in a career. For the privilege to live in my parents' house and enjoy my family, especially in the light of knowing now that I am moving away. For the friends that I've made. For the good times and adventures.

And I am also thankful to the great state of Nebraska, for welcoming a girl who had nowhere to call home, for teaching her the value of honest hard work, for giving her the opportunity to go to college and earn a wage, for giving her roots, and then wings, for showing her some of the most beautiful things she has ever seen in her life, from sunsets to flowers to microscopic wonders that boggle the mind.

And as I begin to pack my life into boxes and realize that moving away is real and happening soon, I try to hold loosely my Nebraska life, difficult though it may be.

Goodbye, sweet Nebraska. Thank you for all the adventures. You are beautiful and full of splendor, and don't ever let anybody tell you different! GO BIG RED!

Nebraska State Song:

Beautiful Nebraska, peaceful prairieland,
Laced with many rivers, and the hills of sand;
Dark green valleys cradled in the earth,
Rain and sunshine bring abundant birth.

Beautiful Nebraska, as you look around,
You will find a rainbow reaching to the ground;
All these wonders by the Master's hand;
Beautiful Nebraska land.

We are so proud of this state where we live,
There is no place that has so much to give.

Beautiful Nebraska, as you look around,
You will find a rainbow reaching to the ground;
All these wonders by the Master's hand,
Beautiful Nebraska Land.

You Never Know What You Have Until The Night Before It's Gone

I sit here in the silence, fingers hovering above the computer keys, trying to find the words to communicate all the thoughts and emotions tumbling around inside me.

Change happens, I know that. I don't like it, but it happens whether I like it or not, so I accept it. So if in this post you hear two different voices, that's just because part of me is trying to hold fast to something that I love which is going away, and part of me is trying to be an adult and come to terms with the fact that it's going away whether I'm happy about it or not.

The past few years have been a whirlwind for everybody in my immediate family. My dad graduated with his PhD, I graduated with my Associates, my younger sister graduated from high school, my older brother graduated as a Doctor of Dental Surgery, and those who haven't graduated from things are still living busy lives. A lot has happened, but we are a tight-knit bunch and our support group is strong.

The younger of the kids don't remember too well all the moving around throughout the years, but the older of us do. We remember the insecurity of a new home in a new state, the uncertainties associated with new. We remember very well the novelty of living in one home for longer than a year or two after my dad retired from his military life. We recognize what a tremendous blessing it is to have a home, to have roots, because for a long time, our only real home, only real consistency, and the only certainty we had in this life, was each other.

For this reason, as I've said previously, my family is tight-knit.

And that is why it is so hard to accept that one of us is leaving. My brother who just recently graduated as a dentist has found a job an hour and a half away, joining another dentist in his practice. An hour and a half, you ask? That's not very far. That's true; it's not. It could've been three hours, or twelve. It could've been China. An hour and a half isn't much to complain about. I understand that. But a downside of the tight bond my family shares is that distance is felt more acutely. An hour and a half is a painful distance to accept.

Today was moving day.

Last night my brother and his family stayed at our house. Even though it was late and we all had to be up early in the morning, my two brothers and I sat on the couch for a while and watched funny videos on YouTube. We laughed until we cried watching baseball bloopers and Jimmy Fallon lip-syncing with Emma Stone. And at one point, I sat back and took in the moment. The sound of the laughter, the lateness of the hour, the three of us, comfortable in the closeness of brushing shoulders and bumping knees. It was a scene that had happened many times throughout the years. Laughing over videos late at night, Jim and I chugging coffee against our better judgement while Josh would politely decline. But suddenly I realized that, quite possibly, I would never have a moment like this again. Just me and my brothers, laughing over stupid videos late at night. This might be the last one.

Our lives are changing; slow but sure. My brother was the first to move away, but he won't be the last. Eventually, the siblings will be scattered around. We will find spouses and build families and move to where the jobs are. Life will change and be different, and it will happen so slowly that we sometimes won't even realize that it's changing. One day we just wake up and realize that it's been years since we've gone to coffee with our sister, or heard our mom play piano, or played a rowdy game of cards around the kitchen table. Or worse...maybe we won't even realize.

Last night, when I was relishing the brief moment with my brothers and trying so hard to commit it to memory, I got a little bit mad at myself. Why had I never done this before? Why had I never basked in the joy of a moment, until it was possibly my last? Why does it have to be the last one before I see it as precious and so very special? Wouldn't it have been better to have an entire arsenal of memories to call upon when my brothers are far away and I miss them?

Time is short. Lives are here and gone. Nothing is for certain and life is chock-full of surprises, good and bad. I don't want to have to search and hunt the dark recesses of my mind to find vague, hazy memories of my family and the good times we've shared. Unfortunately, I can't go back and re-remember the past. What I can do is enjoy the heck out of the time I have left, committing to memory all the good times that I can with the ones I love. Then, perhaps, if the Lord wills that I should live to see old age, I will be able to hear a song or smell a scent or see a sight that will open the memory vault, and I will be flooded with glorious, vivid memories that have stood the test of time. And I will travel back and live the good times all over again.

And again.

And again.

Sometimes No Rest Is Just What The Weary Need

Blogging at 4:30 AM is never a good idea. It's harder to write late at night because it takes like, five tries to spell things correctly...even things that I totally know how to spell...either my brain can't spell, or my fingers can't type, or both. It almost always also results in run-on, rambling sentences. I know that. I still do it. I feel inspired more often late at night, and that's just the way it is. So if this post stinks or makes little sense, the early hour is an easy scapegoat. And if it sounds like the random, fragmented ramblings of a sleep-deprived coffee junkie who is young enough to not really know what she's talking about anyways, well, that's just par for the course. 

Disclaimer presented and fair warning given, let's get down to business.

Something has become a nasty habit of mine. It's been a habit for a long while, but I didn't realize it until just tonight. Or, if I did realize it earlier, it was only by my subconscious mind, which the rest of my mind pretty much ignores, so it doesn't really count.

When I do something wrong, when I sin against a person, I don't find it all that difficult to apologize to them and tell them that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did, will you forgive me? Thanks. Friends again? Sweet. And then all is right with the world. Except it's not. Something is still pending; business is not finished. 

I haven't apologized to God.

I really don't know why, but I have a hard time approaching the throne of grace and asking for forgiveness from my Father, even though I know that I will be forgiven, that God does not hold grudges. I know He wants me to come to Him, to acknowledge my wrong and let Him wipe the slate clean.

But I don't, much too often. I'm nervous to talk to God when I feel unclean, sinful. I know He feels my sin more acutely than I ever could, that it grieves Him more deeply than I could ever know or understand. And for that reason, many times I'm too ashamed to broach the subject with Him. Instead, I just keep my distance, and hope it goes away on its own.

But leaving that business pending, leaving it unfinished like that, doesn't help anything. It makes everything worse, as a matter of fact. It eats at me, slowly, like an internal leprosy, slowly devouring everything that brings me joy.

The longer I go with un-dealt-with sin in my life, the more I drift from where I should be, and the more miserable my life becomes. And then I become calloused; even as I continue sinning, I hardly even feel it anymore, like the frog in the hot water, it gets warmer and warmer until I'm boiling alive and I don't even realize. The leprosy inside me is raging unchecked, and I can feel the despondency, but no longer understand the source.

I avoid my Bible like the plague, praying doesn't happen, or if it does, it's not sincere, and I even avoid my Christian music, opting instead for something that I hope will lift my spirits, but never really does. Something is missing, something big, and in the back of my mind I know what it is, but something is still keeping me from returning, from believing myself to be the prodigal son, coming home after so long a drought of love and joy. Pride has so many faces, so many manifestations. 

But our Father is nothing if not merciful, and He does not leave us to ourselves! He finds us wherever we are, whatever predicament in which we found ourselves, He comes to us, makes us realize where we are, how far we've strayed. And after that realization has set in, and we cry out for help, He delights in pulling us out of our self-dug pit, making us look beautiful again, and returning us to the fold. Starting fresh, like it never

happened. Forgiveness, true and pure.

Sometimes he does this late at night, say, 4:30 AM. Sometimes he makes it so we can't sleep...can't sleep...can't sleep...for hours and hours. Until we realize that sleep isn't going to happen and we get up and make coffee. And then we get the idea that maybe, just maybe, since it's so late at night, nobody will notice if we read our Bible, just a little. Maybe now, it'll be okay, nobody will see the sinful soul inside that becomes hideously apparent in the undefiled light of those sacred pages.

And so, the redemptive process begins, and it doesn't take long before the soul has been convicted and is crying out to its Creator, as it should've done long ago. And, as you knew would be the case way back in the beginning, the Father stands close by, ready, oh so ready, to forgive and forget. Not only removing the ugly, sinful waste that has been collecting like a slimy residue on your soul, but also restoring all the wonderful gifts that you had all but forgotten, like peace and rest for the weary soul, and oh, the joy that you'd forgotten about! All restored, fully, without reservation.

The transformation, sudden and complete, almost makes you sob with relief, almost makes you physically fold in half at the reprieve from the weight gone, the water once boiling, now fresh and cool and clean, the leprosy vanished and the damage repaired from one moment to the next. It feels too good to be true, too clean to be real, too fresh for the mileage that you know lies behind you.

But that's our Father; that's who He is, what He loves to do for us. It's amazing, it's something that nobody deserves, but everybody is invited to partake. Wherever you are, whatever desert you are walking through, however long it's been, your Creator stands ready and willing to relieve you of your burden and let you experience life beautifully, abundantly, full and free.

And now it's 6:00 AM… when I was supposed to wake up. But somewhere along the way whatever fatigue I felt dissolved away, and even though I feel awake and fresh right now, I suppose I'm actually just riding an adrenaline rush and it probably won't be long before the hours catch up with me. But after the night I've had, I don't suppose sleep was on the menu anyway. Not that I mind… I feel better than I have in far too long, and it has nothing to do with sleep. :)

Red Rover, Red Rover, Send Childhood Right Over

When I look back to my childhood years, I have very fond memories. I know there are many people who cannot say the same, and for that reason I try to remind myself often to be thankful for what I had. Thankful that peering back into the past and reminiscing about years gone by automatically brings a wistful smile to my face. Looking back and seeing happy times, laughter, love and innocence is nothing less than a luxury. I didn't always know that, couldn't fully appreciate what I'd had until I was able to look back in retrospect. And, I'm ashamed to say, sometimes I still forget.

When I hear about childhoods that have not been like mine, childhoods where sadness was commonplace and innocence was short-lived or nonexistent, it makes me so very sad. Of all times, of all stages of life, childhood should be happy and innocent, a place of adventure and discovery and safety and peace.

By American standards, I was not raised in wealth. I shared a room with at least one sibling (sometimes three) until I was 16 or so. All during my growing up years, we never had cable TV or fancy cars, going out to eat was rare and felt very luxurious, we never went to Disneyland, money was always tight, and my dad supported his ever-growing family on an enlisted man's salary, which, let's be honest, should be much more than it is.

But wealth, real wealth, isn't measured that way. I don't look back and remember all of that. I remember things like, allowance day finding a pile of shiny new pennies carefully poured into my pillow, slowly counting and admiring each and every one. My mom patiently teaching me to fold towels, my small hands trying so very hard to mimic her fluid movements. Getting breakfast in bed on my birthday. Losing a tooth and finding two quarters and a note from the Tooth Fairy under my pillow the next morning. My mom sitting on the couch teaching me how to sound out words from a phonics book. My dad giving my siblings and I under-doggies on the swings as we squealed with delight. The mix of exhilaration and terror when Dad let go of the back of my bike as I tried to ride my first two-wheeler. Making pilgrim outfits while Mom taught us about the first Thanksgiving. Mom's hand folded around my tiny one gripping a pencil as she helped me write my name. All of us kids relaxing in various positions while Dad read aloud from the Book of Virtues before bed.

I could go on forever, and I know my siblings could too. I look back, and I know I was truly wealthy, and so very blessed. God in his goodness gave me so much, things that I am still realizing, and things that I'm sure I will never realize. My childhood was a rich one, and often I wish to be that little girl again.

I used to think of childhood me and "grownup" me as two separate individuals, two different entities. I pictured the little girl trapped inside the adult body, the two parts locked in an endless battle for control of the mind that they shared. The girl, though, she would always lose, because she was smaller and weaker. She was shackled to a body that she could not control, bound to a mind that couldn't appreciate the simple things in life or notice the magic in the ordinary.

But I don't think of it that way anymore. I think of it as my adult self, who has a small, wonder-filled voice inside that loves to point out the splendor of the sunset, that encourages the adult to roll down the windows and let the wind play with her hair, that gives "grownup" me permission to stop thinking so much and just enjoy and appreciate and stand rapt in awe.

The older I get, the more I treasure that childlike voice. That little girl knows what's important, what really matters. Money, jobs, schedules, budgets, appointments, future plans...these are what matters to adult me. And, to be fair, all of these have a degree of importance. I'm not saying that the adult priorities do not have their place. Adulthood is necessary, and with it comes responsibility and obligation.

But we must not grow up without the child. We must not leave behind the simple pleasures that were so very important once upon a time. We must not rush into the future at the expense of that tiny voice.

Because without the child, without the ability to see a cell under a microscope and take a moment to simply marvel at the intricacies of it, or see a bird weaving a nest in spring time and stand amazed at the craftsmanship, if we can't see the sunset for the traffic in front of us, or a tiny, perfect snowflake without  a hint of reverence, if we can know anything at all about the human body and not be humbled and astounded at the miracle of it, then I fear we are well and truly lost.

There is, however, a bit of good news. The inner child, true to form, is stubborn, tenacious, and quite unyielding. Holding on to consciousness in a veritable death-grip, it takes a lot of time and effort to get them to go to sleep, and considerably less to rouse them. So if you fear your inner child has fallen asleep, give them a prod by turning your eyes heavenward, and I believe you'll find that they return, rested, rejuvenated, and ready for magic and play.

One Straw Too Many On That Poor Camel

Ask anybody who knows me at all, and they can attest to the fact that I am not a big fan of change, and that is putting it mildly. I dislike unknowns and uncertainty. I don't like variables. I like analysis and facts. I like black and white and planning and feeling secure. I studied my brains out for every test, because I hated not being certain whether or not I would pass. I left early for every clinical to account for the variables involved with traffic. I guess that's why I love my job. If school taught me anything at all, it is being absolutely 100 percent sure of each and every result that I report, and somehow that attribute has wheedled its way into my life outside of work and school. 

But life isn't about planning and lists. Life doesn't involve knowing what's around the next corner. Life is a giant ball of uncertainty, covered in a mask of "what if", swinging on a pendulum of "who knows?". Mysterious, uncertain, and at times, quite frightening, life is a series of Jack-In-The-Box moments that leave our hearts racing and our thoughts wandering long after we've turned out the light for the night.

We cannot plan life.

We try, oh yes, we try very hard. We give it our all. We go to school to get a good education to earn money to serve as a trampoline during financial difficulties. We stockpile our resources to give us an edge should our lives take an unexpected turn for the worse. We don our masks every morning to hide our imperfections. Look strong, smile, hold the world at bay. No coming near. Because if somebody sees a chink in your armor, sees where you are vulnerable, then they own a piece of you, and they can use it however they choose. And that is scary. No, better to keep the mask in place. Safety is key.

Lately, within the last few weeks, God has been gently chinking my armor. Peeling back the mask. Teaching me to let go of my need for earthly securities. Lovingly, but forcefully, prying my fingers loose of my intense desire for control. Throwing me into a giant pile of maybes and what-ifs and decisions that are too complicated for me to think about. 

Ultimately, I broke. The strain was too great, the burden too heavy. My mind was tired, my body was tired, every fiber of my being was tired. And I learned the lesson. 

I can't. 

That's the lesson. I can't. I can try for a million years and I won't be able to turn my life into what I want it to be, not by myself. I just can't. Life is a mess. A tangled mass of angel hair pasta sitting in a blob like a ball of yarn. A vase broken into a thousand pieces. I can't make sense of my life. I can't make the decisions. I can't be responsible for getting myself where I need to go, assuming I even knew where that was. I can't untangle the pasta. I can't fix the vase.

But my God can do all things. He puts those vases back together so beautifully. He makes us realize that the tangles in our lives aren't tangles at all, but an intricate, perfect, complex weave that ultimately turns into a beautiful pattern that only the craftsman could picture before the process was complete. 

I don't have to fret that I don't know how to make the weave. He doesn't want me to make the weave. He wants me to have faith that He knows what is best. Faith that He is working all the while. Faith that, even though I don't understand, even though I don't know which path of stones will lead me to the other side of the river, even though I'm up to my eyeballs in variables and unknowns and uncertainty, He is moving, He is working, and He is weaving a glorious pattern that I cannot fathom. 

Perhaps, someday, I'll see the pattern. Perhaps, someday, this will all make sense. Perhaps, someday, I'll have that "light bulb" moment when I realize what all those crazy paths were leading me towards. Perhaps, someday, I'll see the mosaic that never made any sense until the last piece was in place and the beautiful picture was revealed. 

I hope someday I do see it, but even if I don't, even if I live every minute of every day confused and unsure and drowning in a sea of variables, I still trust that my God, the Potter and skilled Craftsman, is working and shaping my life into something that He finds beautiful. 

And so, I have no choice but to hand over my concerns and cares and decisions to the One who knows infinitely better than I. And when I let go of the illusion of control and choose instead to have faith in the Potter, I am relieved of a burden that I didn't even know that I so foolishly and unnecessarily carried. 

I am free. 

Sometimes Grandmas Are Better Than Aunties

My nephew, Silas, is almost a year old. He is pretty much the most adorable little boy I know. It doesn't seem possible that he is a year old already. It seems like not too long ago that my family was downstairs during a february snowstorm, praying for safety for my sister and the little life that she was laboring to bring into the world. I remember like yesterday how we were watching the Avengers, but nobody seemed to be paying much attention. Nobody was laughing at the funny parts and there was no idle chatter during the quiet moments. Our thoughts were elsewhere. 

My mom, however, didn't even pretend to watch the movie. Instead, she was ironing. Ironing, ironing, ironing. Not talking to anybody, not looking up from the ironing board. But everybody knew she was praying, and praying hard. I'm sure she was thinking back on the seven times she had also given birth, and the empathy and concern for her firstborn radiating from her was almost palpable. 

The commotion and joy and relief that followed several hours later when we received a message to our phones giving us the first glimpse of the nephew/grandson that had been so longed for was almost enough to make us forget our worry and pretend we hadn't spent the last few hours fretting. 

But I hope I never forget. I never want to forget how my mother ironed her heart out for hours while praying and waiting for news. While he was having the first big experience of his little life, his Grandma was praying him through it. Someday I'll tell him.

They still have a special bond, Silas and his Grandma. Even before he could do little more than eat and cry, his Grandma could hold him tight and bounce him slightly, and he would fall asleep. As he has gotten older and has begun to figure out that he can actually go places, getting the little guy to stop moving long enough to take a nap has been quite a chore, especially when his mother isn't around. When he is tired, cranky, and impossible to please with peek-a-boo or flying around like an airplane, somehow his Grandma still knows how to calm him, to lull him, to hold him and sing to him, until finally, he releases his stubborn grip on consciousness and slips into a peaceful sleep, safe in his Grandma's arms. 

But the bond they share doesn't just stop at naptime. Silas is always slightly overwhelmed when he comes to our house. There are always lots of people greeting him at the door, exclaiming about whatever outfit he is wearing and clamoring for his attention. Understandably, it's a tad overwhelming for a child with less than a year of world experience. So he is sometimes unsure how to deal with all the attention, but his anxiety fades when he sees his Grandma. For her, he always has a big, knowing grin, like if he has to be in this big crazy house, he's glad she'll be here, too. 

All his aunties have tried to duplicate Grandma's stellar baby moves, without much success. And it would be a lie if I said I didn't envy her uncanny ability to put the boy at ease. Not that Silas dislikes his aunties, but when push comes to shove, we all know who he will choose. 

The other day, we were trying to get the house clean. Nikki had dropped off Silas for the afternoon. Mom had been holding him, but needed to move a large chair and asked me to hold him for a minute. I took him in my arms and did my best to replicate the slight, comforting bounce that my mother has down to an art. Almost immediately he was squirming around, and soon I had no choice but to put him down. As soon as his little feet hit the floor he was padding over to his Grandma, holding up his arms in the universal "pick me up" toddler gesture. Had I just been essentially told to hit bricks? Yes. Yes I had. Was I aggravated that my nephew wanted his Grandma and not his Auntie Jo? Not in the slightest. First of all, you can't be aggravated at Silas. He is too darn cute. Second, and more important, I understood very well why he felt that way. 

My mother is a special person. She has a special way with babies and children, and everybody, actually. Mom's hands are more comforting than anybody else's. Mom's voice is more calming than anybody else's. Her soft demeanor is relaxing and her voice can lull a baby to sleep like nobody else's that I've ever seen. Even now, as a write this, tears come to my eyes as I think back to the many many times I've been on the receiving end of these gestures of kindness and love. The songs sung to me at bedtime. The hand moving, soft and gentle, over my face as I drifted to sleep. 

 

My mom is a soft, loving person, but she is also a strong, capable person. And somehow she can communicate this without words, and babies and children can sense it, too. I know, because I was one once. With Mom, I always felt very cherished and also very safe. She is a mama bear, and cubs--and grandcubs--can tell. Babies are intuitive, and can sense these things. 

Could I be upset that Silas would rather be with my mom than with me? Oh, to the contrary. I just looked fondly at the little boy as he waited patiently at his Grandma's leg, gave him a knowing smile, and thought to myself, "I know, dude. Believe me, I know". I was glad that he understood the gem that is his Grandma. I was glad he knew the security of her essence. I was glad he knew, at least a little bit, how special of a person she is. And someday, I suspect, he'll understand how lucky of a person he is to be blessed with such a Grandma. 

And if he doesn't, his Auntie Jo will tell him.