Day 22: The Sound of Rain (31 Days of Simple Truths)

Milada Vigerova/Unsplash

They said on the news something about it being 30 days or so since we’ve had rain. The dry, cracked ground and the browning grass bear witness to this.

So when the clouds started rolling in last night, it was hard to do anything beside peer up at the sky, waiting for the first drop. All through the day and into the evening, we waited.

And then it came, pouring down in a gentle cascade.

I realize then how my soul also bears witness to the dryness, to the immense thirst. I realize because of the relief that floods through my core as I stand at the window, now spattered with drops.

Sometimes I am so thirsty. I am waiting for heaven to pour out so I can open wide and drink deep. I want to gulp in the substance that will sustain life in me. I am staring at the sky.

The sound of rain is the whisper of hope that, just as the rains come in season, so my heart will be flooded with what it needs, at exactly the right time.

Now, the rain falls. Now, my heart waits. And hopes.

Day 18: Holding Hope (31 Days of Simple Truths)

Image: Autumn Mott/Unsplash

Tonight, my words are few.

I’m aching and weary in my body from sleeping in a tent all weekend. I’m aching and weary in my soul from allowing myself a little bit of space and time to feel the magnitude of loss and uncertainty stirred up by our recent transition.

But I’m also reminded that my word for this year is redemption. All things new. And sometimes in order for all things to be made new, some things have to die. Isn’t that the lesson the seasons teach us? Isn’t autumn about the beauty of releasing the dead things, to lay down the burden in preparation for deep rest and new life?

So tonight, I offer you the words I am whispering to myself: Choose hope. Even in the dark, even in the land of question marks, choose hope. And keep your eyes open for redemption.

Day 14: Dreams Matter (31 Days of Simple Truths)

Image Source: Unsplash

This morning, these words arrested my attention:

“May He grant the dreams of your heart and see your plans through to the end.” (Psalm 20:4)

It’s a beautiful prayer, and I sat with it awhile, breathing it in and out, letting it unfold in my heart.

And I realized that sometimes I’m not sure if my dreams matter if they don’t seem spiritual enough or selfless enough. Would God grant the quiet dreams, the ones tucked away for only me, or the ones that maybe wouldn’t change the whole world but might change my world? Do those dreams matter too? Or do all my dreams have to be big, kingdom dreams?

I’m not suggesting that God is some kind of wish-granting genie. But as I let the verse soak into my soul this morning, I felt wrapped in a whisper from the Spirit that said, “All your dreams matter, Adela. Big and small. Simple and profound. All of them.” 

And the thing is, if I know my dreams matter to Him and I know that I matter to Him, it becomes a lot easier to trust Him with the outcome for all of it. Because it all matters to Him.

So, friend—what dream have you been afraid might be too silly or too small to dream? Go on and dream it. It matters.

Day 5: Trusting (31 Days of Simple Truths)

It was one of those mornings where you stumble over your prayers a bit until God lovingly, but firmly, puts His finger right on the tender spot you were trying to avoid and then the dam bursts.

Of the many emotions coloring our family’s recent move, this one is intense—the concern for my children to find the place where they belong. For so many years, I worried about them every single Sunday when I took them to their classes at church, not a moment’s peace as I juggled my responsibilities at our church plant. It wasn’t anything that anyone did wrong, just the nature of something that is fledgling and continually changing as it tries to establish itself.

And then the worries intensified as I realized I had unwittingly done the one thing I most never wanted to do—sacrificed my children on the altar of ministry—and I suddenly saw it takes it toll on them. The guilt was enormous. Occasionally, it still is.

My son especially struggled. And when we landed in a new church, my heart broke over his anxiety. But something happened in that place, as the children’s workers so lovingly and patiently poured their hearts out into my babies. Over the course of a year, both of my children went through a transformation. They became sure of themselves, secure in their place, hearts unfolding before God. It was amazing.

So it broke my heart to take that away from them when we moved. And the weight is heavy. Where will we go where they will feel so loved, so safe, so secure again? They ask, and I don’t have an answer right now.

Thus the very raw, very tender spot God put His finger on today. I wept. But the thing is, over a year ago, when I didn’t know exactly what to do to help my children’s hearts, God knew, and He sent exactly what they needed. And He knows what they need now. He knows what we all need now.

Change can be terrifying.  I spoke with a friend today, and he said, “Even if you know it was a good move, it is still a transition, and it feels like a death.” Hope and grief can exist side by side. Some things die, so other ones can live. But there’s not a limit to how many answered prayers we get. We don’t even have to know exactly what to ask for in order to get exactly the answer we need.

I feel more tears coming, weighted with all the uncertainty, but I trust this—God came through before. He will come through again. Meanwhile, wait and hope.

Pausing for Gratitude

The final days of January are dwindling down—a month I went into with a lot of question marks and a strange cocktail of dread, anxiety and hope. But here I am on the other side, happy to report that I survived. We all survived. (I know most of you never doubted we would, but I did.)

In marked contrast to the swirl of emotions I carried into the month, I find myself with only one overpowering everything else now: overwhelming gratitude. Deep, deep wells of thanks.

My daughter had surgery the very first week of the year. Of course, there are so many emotions that come with something like this, but there was one I didn’t allow myself to voice in all the weeks leading up to it. I was really afraid of being alone. We were expecting to be in the hospital 2-3 days, but my husband was only going to be able to be off work one day. And every time I thought about sitting there alone, I cried. But I didn’t want to say anything because I knew we couldn’t afford for him to take any more days off work, and I didn’t feel like I had anyone else I could ask to come be with me.

On New Year’s Day, my dad mentioned to me that he was planning to be at the hospital the day of the surgery, to be there for his grand baby and in case we needed anything. And I finally had the courage to ask, to say that I was more worried about being alone the day after her surgery and if he could only come one day, could he come then? He didn’t hesitate, just said, “I’ll be there.” I could have sobbed with relief.

Truthfully, I didn’t know what to expect. Would he come for just a little bit? Would he only come one day? I didn’t know, but it was enough knowing he would come.

We ended up in the hospital a total of 3 days, and my dad was there for each one. He came in the morning, and he stayed until my husband came in the evening. One night, he stayed even longer because his granddaughter asked him to stay and watch a movie, and of course, his abuelo-heart couldn’t resist! He made sure I had coffee, and he made sure I ate. His mere presence was so indescribably calming to me. There were so many little things, little moments that might not have meant anything to anyone else, but they meant everything to me.

He was the first one to coax a smile out of my baby girl post-surgery when he showed up with this balloon whose picture bore an uncanny resemblance to our dog.

When she wouldn’t eat, he’s the one who thought to buy some strawberries from the frozen yogurt place, and she devoured them—practically the only solid food she ate for 3 days. He helped me get her to move and get around so we could actually be released from the hospital.

But more than anything else, he was the presence and nearness of God to me in a situation when I desperately needed my own heart to be seen. And because my Papa saw me, I knew God saw me. The intense comfort of this has lingered with me even to this moment when my eyes are blurring with tears yet again over the wonder and unconditional love of it all.

When we finally got home, I started to get overwhelmed with the thought of needing to not only take care of my recovering child, but also my son who would still be full of energy. And everyone would need to be fed. But when my mom showed up to bring my little man home, she came with bags of groceries—things to put together easy, healthy meals for a few days. She had already sent a container of soup with my dad one day, thinking ahead and making a double batch one night as she’d fixed dinner. And just like that, another burden was lifted off my shoulders.

My son can still be quite clingy to his mommy, and I was worried how the separation would affect him while we were in the hospital. But my mom and brother loved him on so much, so extravagantly, that he was more than fine—he was so secure and so seen. He came home bubbling over and amazingly prepared to be patient and gracious to his sister.

I am still in awe of the way my parents wrapped my little family in so much love. I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise; they’ve always been pretty wonderful, and my own mama-bear heart would do anything for my own kids. But still it humbled me and touched me in a way I don’t even really have words for.

I am reminded all over again of the sustaining power of love. My parents didn’t have any power to change what we had to walk through, but they loved us through it. They saw the needs, and they did what they could do. And it did more than keep me surviving; it challenged and inspired my heart to new depths of loving people.

If that wasn’t enough, women from my writing community—some of whom I’d never even met or interacted with much before—showered my daughter with art supplies so she could do what she loved while she went through her recovery. Daily, when she pulls these things out, she marvels that people who don’t even know her loved her enough to do this; she is also getting a glimpse of how far love can reach.

So here we are, on the other side of it all. And I am grateful that we were not alone, that love appeared in extravagant and unexpected ways. I thought I’d be trying to mostly block this month from my memory, but instead, I am tucking it away to treasure.

All Things New (#OneWord365)

Image by Chris Sardegna/Unsplash.com

Back in November, as I stared at the disappointing rubble of 2014 and felt mounting dread for what the final months might throw our way, everything in me wanted to disappear into a dark hole somewhere. My heart was weary and spent, my fight all used up.

But even as the taunting shadows seemed to inch ever closer, I heard the rumblings of an eternal Voice whispering to the deepest place in my spirit: Hope. Choose hope.

I raged against these words. Several years in a row, I have mustered hope for a new year. Several years in a row, I have watched that hope dashed. I did not think I had the energy for another round of that cruel game.

Still. Every time I turned around, the challenge seemed to be coming at me from all sides: Hope. Choose hope.

I grudgingly began to consider that “hope” just might be my one word for 2015. I didn’t really want it, but I know how it goes—you don’t really choose the word as much as it chooses you. Maybe hope was choosing me. And I began to try to lay down the lenses of disappointment that were tainting the image of everything I could see; I tried to see differently.

It was subtle at first, and then undeniable—a shift started taking place. First, my heart started softening. Then circumstances started changing. Surprises. New friendship. A raise. Unexpected bonuses. Clarity. Rest. I hadn’t even fully embraced hope, but it seemed as if maybe it wasn’t going to be quite as hard as I thought.

Until I heard God speak more clearly than I have heard anything in awhile: I want you to do more than hope, Adela. I want you to believe Me for redemption.

Redemption. This is a loaded word: rescue, deliverance, atoning for faults, buying back or receiving back something that was sold or lost. This is restoration. This is things that were meant for evil being turned around for good. This is all things new.

(And I thought choosing hope was going to be hard.)

As this settled in my spirit, I was equal parts thrilled and terrified. And hopeful. So, so hopeful.

Because in my bones, I do believe God can do this. (If I don’t, I’d best pick a different faith to profess.) I don’t know how He will do it, and like many other things, I imagine it won’t end up looking like I thought it would. But still, I believe He can do it.

Redeem and restore.

I am writing this post from my daughter’s hospital room as she recovers from surgery. The irony of this moment is not lost on me—believing for redemption even in the place where I’ve faced one of my biggest struggles with God. But I see His promises hovering over her, and I feel His whispers echoing around us. Here in this place, the word that has swirled around in my heart for the last few weeks finally settles and takes root.

Redemption. I choose to declare redemption over this year. I choose to hope for all things new.

The Tension of Advent

Image Source: CreationSwap

There is a soft, steady rain falling. It announced its arrival this afternoon with one dramatic rumble of thunder, I think just making sure it had my attention. And then it proceeded to carry on its melancholy serenade.

I look through the rivulets running down the window, the blurred sparkle of our Christmas lights giving the raindrops their own moment of brilliance up against the ever darkening shadows as daylight slowly takes its leave.

This is Advent for me. The gloom side by side with the glow. The heaviness mingled with the stillness. The momentary tension between breathing in and breathing out, letting go. The waiting and listening.

Sometimes the melancholy is stronger. The world breaks at the seams. Hateful words and hateful acts and how can we as humanity be so wretched to each other sometimes?

And sometimes hope is stronger. The world surprises with its wonders. Encouraging words and selfless acts and how can this wretched humanity be so beautiful sometimes?

I used to feel that I had to give in to one or the other, to choose. If I chose hope, was I ignoring the broken hearts? If I chose melancholy, was I discounting the power of redemption?

But I know better now. This is the tension we live with, so often experiencing beauty and pain in the same moments. This is the tension of waiting–the beautiful hope of a promise to be fulfilled and the despair of waiting for a promise that seems it will never be fulfilled.

I think this is why creation groans, bowing under the weight of all the glory and all the misery and all the unknown, waiting for light to dispel the darkness once and for all.

Meanwhile, I choose to see. I see the dreariness, but I also see the wonder. They sit together in the window. They sit together in me. So I light the candles and remind myself of His promise to come and make things right–in the world and in me.

The rain falls. The light dances. And I wait.

The Battle for Hope (And I’m Still Here)

Image Source: CreationSwap.com

Oh, dear blog readers, I’m still here.

I cannot believe my last post was September 15. This might be my longest stretch of silence since I started blogging, and I certainly did not plan it.

There’s this fine line as a writer–finding the balance between not over-sharing but still offering the vulnerability and raw honesty that makes stories powerful. I struggle to walk this line because I do not believe in spewing AllTheThings over the entire internet, but I do believe in transparency and not shrinking away from the hard things.

With trembling hands, can I hold out my messy heart for a moment?

A few weeks ago, I had one of those epiphanies that often comes in the ethereal seconds between waking and sleeping, when your defenses are down and your mind is drifting, so your heart and spirit get a chance to speak up a little louder than usual. I had been so busy surviving, trying to keep my family encouraged and hopeful and moving forward during a hard season, that I missed how deeply my heart was grieving. Space had not been allowed for the processing of some painful losses.

I am used to living with feisty emotions, but the depth of what I was carrying and stuffing deep inside caught me off guard. The processing has been rough. It still is.

2014–a year I held very high hopes and expectations for–has turned out to be marked by four heart-shaking circumstances that have all left their own variation of chaos or hurt in their wake

A prayer we’d been waiting to see answered for five years was seemingly realized for a few weeks, only to unravel into a nightmare. And nothing in my theology or experiences with God prepared me for this. Seasons when He seems silent or distant? Yes, I can navigate that. Seasons of waiting when you’re wondering when He will come through? We’ve gotten pretty good at those too. But when it seems a promise is fulfilled and then it’s not? Ok, technically I supposed stories like Abraham & Isaac & Job should’ve prepared me, but they didn’t. They just didn’t.

How do you navigate feeling utterly betrayed by God? At least there was a point when the prophet Jeremiah cried out, “Oh God, You deceived me and I was deceived.” It’s not really comforting, but at least someone else felt tricked by God and had the guts to say so. But I have walked with God for most of my life, and this has shaken that relationship to its core. In a lot of ways, God and I are beginning again.

During all of this, another decision we had been mulling for several months became clear, and we realized we needed to step away from the church plant we’d been part of for two and a half years. And while I still know in my bones this was the best choice for our family, it has been an enormous loss for me. I loved that church. I invested my heart deeply into that church. I had huge dreams for that church. I saw myself there for many more years. I had relationships I thought would last a lifetime, and instead they are broken or unravelling.

I have grieved this like a death in many ways. It still stings. Even though my children and husband are flourishing spiritually in a way they hadn’t been able to for a long time, even though this decision was made back in June, my heart aches. It is hard to trust that what was best for my family will also somehow be best for me. I don’t see it yet.

We had every intention of moving when our lease was up at the end of September. Our current apartment isn’t horrible, but we don’t love it and only saw it as very temporary. Our kids have been asking for their own rooms and a backyard, and we were really hoping to find a house to rent, somewhere we could settle for a little while.

But the closer it got to September, the more we realized it wasn’t the most practical choice yet. Financially, we would benefit more in the long run if we stayed put another year. Another hope dashed. We’re adjusting a little better to this one, but it’s still hard, especially the closer we get to Christmas. Last year, when we packed up our decorations, the kids and I actually prayed that when we put them up again, it would be in a new house with a fireplace. I’m really hoping they don’t remember that prayer. I’m not ready to deal with those questions.

And the thread running through all these things has been an ongoing health challenge with our little girl. I’ve shared here before about her surgery as a baby and why this is so hard for me. She has a kidney abnormality, and I’ve spent a huge chunk of time over the last month and a half sitting with her through tests and waiting rooms and visits to specialists. The good news is it doesn’t seem as serious as they initially thought; the bad news is there are still a lot of question marks, things we just don’t have answers for yet. So we wait and plan for a few more doctor visits and we wait some more. I don’t know how this story ends yet.

I don’t share all this for any pity or dramatics. I share it because someone else out there needs to know they’re not alone in the unravelling of hopes, in the quaking of faith. I share it because I’ve mastered the art of smiling and looking like we have it together, and I don’t want to be that person.

I share because last Saturday found me locked in the bathroom, sobbing on the floor, everything in me just wanting to give up because it’s too hard and the strain I’m experiencing on so many levels feels too intense. I found myself on the brink of throwing hope to the wind. Do you know what a terrifying brink that is? It almost seems cruel. Because what is life without hope, yet how do you hope when you’ve been met with disappointment again and again? You feel like you can’t win.

And I am telling you, I was completely and utterly at the end of my reserves to muster the ability to just keep going. I do not have it in me. But hope is a powerful force, and sometime it takes hold of you even when you can’t take hold of it. Say what you will, I know beyond the shadow of doubt it was God Himself that picked me up off that floor and gave me enough spark to finish that day. Then the next one, and the next one, and the next one . . .

I think of Jacob wrestling with God and saying “I will not let You go until You bless me.” That is pretty much my only prayer right now–to wrap myself around everything I have ever known and experienced about grace and hope and unfailing love (even if those things feel so hidden right now), to look through the tears and hang on tight and scream, “I will not let You go until You bless me. I will not!”

I realize in deeper ways than I have known before that so much of faith is truly not about feeling, but about choosing. I can choose to let go or I can choose to hold on. One day, I might choose for me. But right now, there are two precious faces that look at me every day with eyes full of wonder and hope, so for them, I choose wonder and hope too.

Can I whisper to you, friend also looking to get up from the bathroom floor and see beauty through your tears, choose hope with me? 

P.S.: I promise to not go so silent again. I have so many things I want to write and share. And later this month, I am celebrating seven years of marriage to the love of my life, and I am going to share both fun and serious things I’ve learned so far. Stick around?

P.P.S.: If you read all the way to the end of this, you deserve a prize. Have a piece of chocolate or glass of wine!

On Being and Breathing

Image Source: CreationSwap.com

Another Monday morning has arrived.

I sit with my coffee, savoring the last remaining moments of silence, mindful of the distant sounds of little ones stirring.

I have filled my morning pages–dumped all the thoughts spinning through my head onto paper. I have updated my planner, reviewed my to do list for the day.

And I become aware of the beast lurking in the shadows, the Anxiety that wants to sink his claws into my day before it really begins. This week is too full already, an abnormally demanding and irregular schedule, thrown off course by the unwanted presence of medical tests and doctor appointments that I wish I could forget or erase from the calendar. But they are there, and they need to be if we are to find answers as to what has been troubling my little girl’s health this summer.

I breathe.

There is a deliberate choice in this moment–to become overwhelmed or to simply be. This choice will face me many more times today, many more times this week. I hope I choose well.

To simply be: to acknowledge what is beyond my control and then release it, to be as faithful as I know how with what I can control, to set my gaze on the Beauty and not on the Anxiety, to remember to breathe and pause for moments of silence in order to discern the voice of Hope from among all the others.

This quote was shared with me by someone, somewhere, many months ago, and it has become a constant reminder to still my heart and refocus my gaze:

The whole world roars with subtle whispers of [you could be great if you would just hustle a little more.] And God simply breathes: [Let Me be great. You just go and be.]  -Lori Harris

This is my choice today, to pull back from the hustle and lean into the Being–His Being where in turn I find my own.

I do not know what your Monday holds, if you are refreshed or if you are weary, if you are hopeful or if you are heavy. But may I offer this suggestion? Pause and breathe. Not merely the mindless breaths you will take as you do every day to ensure your survival. A deliberate moment of silencing all the other voices. A choice to breathe in grace and exhale the burdens. Do it as many times throughout your day as it takes. The nagging voices telling you that you are not enough unless you strive and do better and perform? Those are not the voices of One who loves you. When He calls you higher, He does it with an affirmation of your worth and a reminder of His greatness.

Breathe. Be. And may your week be filled with the beauty of grace.

Restless Shifting

Photo by Jennifer Upton

There is change coming.  So close I can almost taste it, not close enough to touch it.  Bumps of uncertainty lie in the path – possibilities of the change being delayed or perhaps not as smooth as we’d hoped.  But it is coming.  And I am restless.

Strange how a seemingly insignificant act can seem to trigger a chain reaction.  Last Wednesday, I went to get my haircut.  This alone was monumental because I haven’t been taking good care of myself.  Well, I’ve been trying, but mostly unsuccessfully.  Discouragement is a beast, and he was keeping me paralyzed.

Somehow I mustered up the will and made the appointment and set aside the money.  And on the way there, I resolved one more thing – when she asked how I was, I was going to tell her the truth.  Now, before you feel sorry for the unsuspecting hairdresser I might have bombarded, let me just say, this one is my friend.  I’ve known her for a lot of years; she was a bridesmaid in my wedding.  We don’t live close to her anymore, so I don’t see her often.  But I knew the truth would be safe with her if I could lay down my pride long enough to speak it.

Call me crazy if you like, but something powerful happened in the process of voicing my truth, allowing my own beauty to be poured into and most of all, receiving my friend’s words when she said, “Things are going to change. Soon.”  They were not the trite words of someone who didn’t know what else to say; they were spoken with the weight of knowing.  And within the next three days the wheels of change were set in motion.

And now we wait.  Some more.  But this time with a very bright light on the horizon.

The restlessness broods.  New questions come to replace the tired ones.  I discover (again) I am not my best self in these in-between seasons.  But I want to go into the new season healthy, with momentum, so I am making deliberate choices to pursue discipline with new fervor and to take hold of Rest even when she tries to be elusive.  Because afternoon tea and messy art projects and snuggles with my kids and lingering in my husband’s arms – these are the constants I can carry into the new season, however we get there, whenever we get there.

Can I offer you this encouragement?  Whatever approaching transition or change you face (because, remember – life is constantly cycling through seasons), find your anchor.  It may not be obvious.  It may not be easy.  But there is something in you that you carry in your heart from season to season.  Even if it is as simple as the daily ritual of slowing down to sip Earl Grey.  Find it.  Savor it.  There are things ingrained in your heart because it is a gift of God to you – the constants in the middle of life’s endless changing.

The restlessness may not leave all together, but it does not have to own us.