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

call

 There is a question sitting stubbornly in our living room

and you know what?

sometimes it's hard to be married to a man who lets it stay there

who believes he is a servant of the Capital C- Church

and stays still long enough to ask 

God, what would you have me do with this question? 

who says things like
“God will take care of us no matter where we serve.”

and “I don’t like this either”

and “I don’t know what’s next.” 

who watches the kids get quiet and wide-eyed with their questions

and doesn’t smooth them over with platitudes

but invites them into prayer and tension

and waiting.

Please pray for us as we deliberate a call to St. Louis at CPH.

another launch

 I didn’t get a goodnight hug on the last night he slept at home

but I didn’t even notice

we dropped that ritual years ago

we traded it in for long walks through the neighborhood and talks about life

and the way he’d refill my coffee cup when he’d come to say hello in the morning

his car won’t be leaving oil stains on our street anymore

his boots are not on the stairs

he took his piano books

and I took his name off the chore list

his brothers are all upgrading their bedrooms

and everything is being cleaned, reimagined, rearranged.

it’s that familiar dance: 

releasing what was

embracing what has come

letting the world shift and expand

“thank you for your service” we say to the clothes we have outgrown

send them off- let them bless someone else.

“thank you for your service” to the season that is ending

send him off- let him bless someone else. 

i send him off with more tenderness

and an expectation of meeting up again. 

we will schedule time for walks through the neighborhood

and he will refill her coffee cup in the morning.

come see this

 Col 3: 2 Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. Yesterday I carried the question: what lasts? what will remain ‘above’ when there is no more ‘on earth?’

“Mom you have GOT to come outside right now” my17yr old insisted as he was about to drive his brother to a thing for me. GLORY- sunset- bright pink skies and a son who KNEW i would appreciate just staring at it. He makes a goofy face while I take the photo; I pray for their safety as they drive off and I keep staring at the clouds.

That sunset didn’t last. Fear in watching kids drive away, flashes of accidents and broken bodies? That won't last either- part of the dying earth and will someday be totally gone.

But God displaying beauty? Definitely part of eternal life together with him. There will be more sunsets. Enjoying beauty with others- telling each other “you have got to see this!” I expect that will be part of the praise and glory as well- likely with more singing, and maybe even some skipping or even dancing about it.

potholders

I scoffed at the raggedy old potholder you could see through, “Mom why in the world do you still use this?”

“It was my moms,” she said.

I teased her. “Does getting burned every time you use the oven help you honor grandma somehow? I’ll buy you a new potholder, for heaven’s sake.”

I didn’t get it, but I'm starting to. 

I feel small these days, with these blooming young adults around me,  all healthy and beautiful, eyes looking outside of this house where all the life is…

the anticipation of launching is just so loud, the futures are so bright

I don’t want to add even a little gray cloud with my unspoken question 

(what about me?)

so I cheer them and i smile

and I feel a little threadbare, 

like a used up old dish towel

(Am I still precious? in this state even?)

and l know in my teenage life

I’d walk past my mom like she was a potted plant 

with my eyes out towards the future

and one day as I’m folding socks and heavy with thoughts of change and shifting seasons of laundry I suddenly understand why the see-through potholder kept its place of honor in the drawer.

we love our people

and time gets used up

and we miss so much of it while we live our own lives

so we keep the potholder

and we hold it tenderly when we can’t hold them

because worn out, worn through 

any little thread of connection 

any tangible memory we can hold

is loved, 

precious, 

because they still are

and they always were

Lorraine has that silly picture I painted years ago hanging in her living room. And this year I hung up their old thanksgiving decorations in the hallway, construction paper crafts and finger paintings, remembering when they were bursting with pride over these offerings. They roll their eyes now, and that’s ok. 

Seth wanted to go to coffee with me and as he talked I couldn’t stop seeing the way his jacket brings out the green in his eyes full of hope, and the way he’s nervous and ready and asking “do I have what it takes?” and he let me see the fear and the weight for just a tiny beautiful second. I want to pause this whole thing before I have to see those eyes cry when he says goodbye to a grandparent (or to me.)

and today everything is lit up with glowing preciousness, 

every human around me

the new and the shiny ones with the future all ahead

and the quieter threadbare ones too

I saved the box with grandpa's handwriting for as long as i could, 

and I still have grandma’s tea set.

The teacup burns my hand when I use it 

but I use it anyway. 

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Will the potholders and the people be made new, reborn in the way of Jesus?
Is there hope down this way, down through the tunnel of stripping and letting go and getting smaller? 

Is there more life down here, down this way that feels like death?

Could it be that these joys, released with tears, are like seeds planted that will grow into more beautiful fruit than we can imagine?

I hold both memory and hope in my burning hands.

For now, we wait.