on nostalgia, and enough

 It’s moving season. I asked Nostalgia what she wanted, and she had clear directions for me: get everyone together. Take one more springtime hike. Then, remember the pieces of Kentucky together: the rooms, the music, the people, the things we chose, the things we didn’t choose, the things we just barely survived.  Remember how plans changed, how we were only going to stay here two years. Name the events, the people, the unasked for gifts, the things we might be happy to leave behind. Then pull up some old pictures to tap even more memories. See how you’ve all grown. And laugh. 

I asked Lorraine to come home one more time, before this place is no longer “home,” so she did.  We had our weekend; my heart is full. It is enough. 

We still have a few weeks in this place. Closure and change are different this time. Better or worse, I can’t say. Just different. We are living our lives here while Josh is there; attention divided, together on weekends when there is work to be done. Most of the house is in storage already and I’m getting a taste of living like a minimalist. (I love it.)

We sold our house; we have a new one. The contracts are signed; we wait for closing dates. I sit on the new porch in my imagination, often, looking out at the field. I can’t wait to live in the country again. The Lord has more for us, there.

Meanwhile, we are here. 

And I wonder; 

What does “enough” feel like?

There is much we do not know. Where are we going to church? What are the school plans? Who are our new ‘people?’ How long will we have to wait? Will there be a season of quiet grief and desert life, or is this a move from abundance to abundance? 

As I watched the younger 2 with their volleyball team the other day; all the energy and laughs and inside jokes, my heart ached-- it is hard to leave such abundance. 

Will there be more? Is abundance now enough?

What does enough feel like?

All six of the kids were at home this weekend, plus Seth’s Ava. Abundance; and yet Andrew was missing- it wasn’t everybody. The definition of “complete” has expanded.  

Spring is coming to Kentucky and we all hiked through it. I learned later that the one who almost stayed home was convinced to come by older siblings. This time, it didn’t take bribery or threat; it was simply, “We’re doing this for mom.” 

So they all did it.

My, we have gotten big.

Here is love, family, and the presence of God.

Mutual love and affection.

Abundance.
It is enough.  

-- 

Eyes on the source, my soul, as you step forward into the next adventure. The God of abundance will not forsake you; or them, in all this rearranging. Hands open; eyes up.

in the chapel at Ft Wayne

During chapel at Ft Wayne this week,

I looked in the back pew and saw 2008 me,

on call night, all wide-eyed and nervous,

saying “please please God send us to Michigan, not far from my parents”

Sitting through a loooong service, with music and loud singing and anticipation

and my “please God please God please God” was louder in my ears than anything

And they finally called him up to the front with The Call:
“Joshua Cook… Columbus Indiana”
The Pew lurched and I grabbed hold of my friend “that’s Northern Indiana, right?”
She smiled a little and whispered “No.”

And my stomach sank to my feet and I tried not to cry

and there was so much I didn’t know.

I didn’t know some of our new forever-family had driven all the way here,

and was waiting to greet us after the service with warmth and details

I didn’t know that I’d love it there, be flattened by trials there, 

learn how to be “weak and loved” there, 

and experience what it meant to “be church,” there.

I didn’t know we wouldn’t get to stay there, 

that my rollercoaster car would turn and lurch a few more times in the decades to come.

The rollercoaster has circled back around to the campus of Ft Wayne for symposia week. The little car stayed still for a moment with just the 2 of us inside, and we joined the others in the pews, making time to breathe, sing, and pray.

and I realize i’m still that girl,

who just wants to be close to my parents, 

and all the comfortable things I know.

and God is still God, 

who is giving me a life that is harder and richer 

than I ever could have orchestrated for myself.

I’m learning to notice when I’m gripping too hard, a little sooner

and to laugh at myself a little more quickly

and to hear the music playing in the midst of everything.

I’m showing up for the remodeling project today,

trying to fight less,

to trust the grace I’ve seen in the face of Christ:

He is making room for more.

on preparation, and smirking

 If there’s a left turn coming, I want to be in the left lane as early as possible. 

Some of my kids mirror this- one teases me and purposely stresses me out when he drives. He coaches me like an amateur therapist, talks me through it like I have irrational anxiety, like it’s good for me to practice sitting in discomfort and learning that I’m still ok. (I do, and it is.)

My husband also has this certain face when he knows I’m spinning my wheels, and I saw it at the dinner table this week when we were talking about moving details. It’s like he knows when the drive to “get ahead of it” or “be prepared” doesn’t really matter and it’s not possible and yet I chase it anyways.  He just knows when I'm being driven by a fear motor, and he won’t get on the train with me. He stays steady on the ground with a slightly amused expression and lets me tire myself out.

(If I see him smirking at this stage I might cry, so he holds his face carefully.)

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This summer I shared a canoe with my daughter, one who also likes to be in the right lane ahead of time.  It was pretty stressful for us, especially because we didn’t know what turns were coming, and never once would the current let us “get ahead of it” or “be prepared” early.

And there was my husband, having a good ‘ol time, and smirking at the way the river kept harassing our desire to be in control.

We relaxed eventually. It helped me to put words to the fear, and then notice that the water really wasn’t very deep, and even if we were in the wrong “lane” it would probably be ok. We hit a few logs, terrified some wood ducks, and we watched a couple other people flip over, and everybody was still ok.

The river, whenever it did fork, never warned us. 

And yet it was usually just a gentle placement of the oar, at the right time,  that was needed for us to follow.

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Today, I am trying to just breathe, just live right here in the part of the river where I am. Up ahead are a thousand decisions to make, bends in the river to navigate, even forks where we must choose. But none of them can be navigated ahead of time. I can only breathe and show up for this one Friday. 

and look around while I’m here. 

first, He takes

 If you’re reading this, he’s said yes to the call.

(again!)

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How am I doing? 

Sometimes I’m confident, hopeful and settled;

Other times I feel like I’m being gutted like a fish.

I think this is our next right thing. And it is hard. 

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God takes what you give Him and multiplies it.
But first, He takes. 

And there is a waiting, an empty-handed uncertainty, in between.

Where you hold hope

and heartache, too. 

That’s where I am right now. 

I am, in some ways, reliving the story that God wrote in Feb 2018, when we came to this place.

It helps to remember both the pain and the outcome of being rearranged, last time. It helps to remember that the kid who fought the hardest had the biggest blessings in store for him after the move. It helps to remember the connections we still maintain with people in the other parts of the country we have called “home.” 

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2018: These are the days of big feelings.

That feeling when you realize it's all gift, and sometimes He takes gifts back, or exchanges them for others;

That feeling when you realize (again) that you have control over nothing, nothing that truly matters;

That feeling when your heart bursts with both grief and excitement, and they both just keep getting stronger;

That feeling when you unsettle the world of the children, and some shoot off fireworks of questions with excitement, while others curl up on the ground in a ball of sadness and fear;

That feeling when you trust and pray and commend yourself to God and you still just can't fall asleep;

That feeling when you realize your future is only as steadfast as the love of the Father for His children.

That feeling when God makes it clear: it’s time to move.

I walk in the kitchen; the lilly has bloomed. “It figures,” I think. The flower blooms right before we have to leave. Just like Seth’s friend -- the sixth grader who has never once spoken a word to his classmates (save one) his entire time at our school, last week he participated in the all school spelling bee! And his lips were unloosed and he spoke to Seth and to everyone, and we all got to taste a bit of the miracle that comes after years of loving loving-patience.  

We were blessed to see the first bloom… but we do not get to see the full coming of spring.

I am sad about the flower. I’ll have to give it to somebody. I wonder if the raspberries I planted will feed anybody but the birds. And the lilac bushes! It grieves me to leave them.

There are goodbye notes to write. I consider writing, “I feel like if we had more time together we would have been really good friends...”  But instead I try to be encouraging and thankful for the gifts that God did give.

“He was made for this.” This thought surfaced sometimes against my will as we deliberated. I think I knew it from the beginning, but it took longer to accept it.  People prayed for us as we went down to Kentucky to check things out. “Are we praying you stay?” somebody asked me. “Just pray for clarity.” “Did God make it clear last time?” someone else asked. “Yes he did.” I admitted that even as I doubted He would in this case. The unsettled waiting is so hard.

We drive down, deliberating all the way. The details make my head spin- things are moving too quickly.  The land begins to change. I’m not used to all these mountains. (“Hills,” he says. “They get much bigger.”)  I'm used to living where it's flat. When it's flat you can see where you are, you can get your bearings more easily. I find myself turned around, queasy, and always wondering what’s down that winding path.

There will be no steamrolling over nature here.

Here, I remember I am a creature, and my place in this world is small. What else can you do on a winding Kentucky road but consent to descend and ascend as the path unfolds?

And somehow, along the way, God works that consent in my heart.   I should have known He would.

He was made for this. God is making the way plain. Alright Lord, alright. I consent.

The truth of it is, I’m sad to go. I’m grieved to watch everything that makes up my “normal” be taken away by the hand of God- again! Didn’t we just do this!  Why don’t we get to have roots like so many other people do?  But we don't get to claim people forever, or places, or niches. None of us do. This seems to be a loud and constant lesson of our lives.

And yet, it helps that we have done this before. Because I know this God who takes things away a little better this time.  He takes, but He gives courage. He takes, but gives strength and clarity. He takes, but gives friends to comfort in grief and remind us of HIs goodness and promises.

And though I can’t see it now, I know that even as He is taking away from our lives with His right hand, He is also preparing good things for us with His left.

Our future is only as stable as the steadfast love of the Father for His children.
Steadily unsteady, we move ahead.

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Pastor Cook’s last day as Pastor of Our Savior  is Jan 31. Your prayers for us during this transition are much appreciated.

Please also pray for our Our Savior Church family who, against their will, are riding this rollercoaster with us.  May God provide abundantly in our absence for His dear people here, and surround them with reminders of His faithfulness.

the song's finish

 2/8/24

He’s wearing a suit and tie for the recital; he asked her to come, and her whole family. He started out sitting with us; in our normal pew, next to his younger brother.  It’s his turn to play, my heart is carried away by the music, the tender joy he spills into it. I am a little boat and his music is the river and I'm along for a glorious ride. I close my eyes to better feel the rhythm and the tears stream and I don't care. I feel like I could stay here forever, just listening, in awe of the beauty spilling out right here in this moment.  

I settle in deep-- for minutes or hours? I can’t say. 

But then my heart jolts- wait, the song is about to end, I can feel it coming but i’m not ready. I’m not done, keep playing, don't stop…
There is no sign that he hears my panic as I grope for an anchor for this moment.
He slows, gently, and glides into the harbor with a perfect finish.

When he’s done, he looks for her, he takes a seat by her, in the other pew, with her family. And I am watching his family double before my eyes.

It’s a sad and joyful resignation: The song has to finish for the next one to begin.

2025 attune

Will we get to see our stats in heaven?

If we do, I can imagine myself cringing, 

when the angel walks me to the giant pile of dusty papers

and I slowly realize what they are…

Lists, abandoned
Spreadsheets, forgotten

Plans to Tackle the Problem

Records of Motivation Bursts to meet the Goals

The commitment to, this time, for REAL, get it TOGETHER

I really like coming up with the plans
It gives me delight to stare at a problem and hypothetically dissect it, then plan the approach for dismantling it piece by piece in steady dedication. 

It’s the steady dedication part that trips me up.

My engine revs really high on New Year's Eve.

I like to imagine if I just sit for a minute, I will find the right direction to point that energy, and then I can spend the rest of the year zealously chasing down that shiney goal. One night of reflection, the rest of the year for steady progress.

Except that, so far, it has never worked that way. 

Life gets in the way, kids get in the way, I get in the way.. 

Honestly, God gets in the way, too.

If I had the map for the year, I’d feel a bit more in control.

But God and the universe seem to be conspiring to teach me that I’m not. 

What if I’m not supposed to feel in control? 

What if long-term-goals are not mine to define?
What if I don't get to know what God has on my syllabus for the year?

What if my revving engine needs daily direction and redirection?

This year I’m ditching the long-term list.

Instead, I’m looking at my little daily rhythms and asking my new favorite question:

What helps me stay attuned to God, myself, and others?

Instead of Big Plans,
I’m tweaking little habits, 

and trying to hold it all loosely

one day at a time. 

2025 my word for the year is Attune

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If you choose a word for the year, I’d love to hear about it!

 

Christmas in the house of the Lord

 I heard her voice in the choir on Christmas-

but that can’t be right, she lives in another state

And I could feel the giant tree hanging from the ceiling

but wait no, that tradition was in Michigan, not here

But sometimes in the sanctuary of God

it seems that time and space are bent, folded into one

How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts (Ps 84:1)

I think of all the places God has met me over the years-

so many places,

one in presence before God

one God uniting all of them

and the people in them, too.

As I sang on Christmas eve with my family, my daughter in Wisconsin and her church family seemed present to me, and St Peters with its giant tree, and my Indiana friends, too- I could almost feel their children crawling under pews (wait, are they grown now?)

The voices and faces of the saints who have gone before

moved in and out of my memory

present, too.

I am truly rich in mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, as I remember all the people I have known and loved in the churches where we have served.

Merry Christmas

to those near

and far

yet near in the Lord

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Blessed are those who dwell in your house,

ever singing your praise

Psalm 84:4