A Refuge

Moving to a new town in a new state a thousand miles from home is not easy. Admittedly, it does not rank up there with serving in Iraq or becoming a missionary in Bulgaria or giving up sugar for Lent, but it's difficult nonetheless.

There have been many things that have made this transition easier than it could have been. Lots of family. A loving church. A great house with plenty of room for the kids to play inside or out. Good neighbor kids that provided my children with fast friends.

These things are all good. (Except when the neighbor kid teaches your seven year-old son how to do a supermodel walk . . . that's never good.) But, I realized recently that they cannot be what sustains me. While I'm thankful for these pieces of respite that God has mercifully provided, I must assess them accurately, not giving them a place of more importance than they deserve.

Yesterday in church we were singing a song that I love even if I have been singing it since I was four. It's taken directly from Psalm 91:

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. And I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge, and my fortress; my God in Him will I trust." (Ps 91:1-2, emphasis mine)

As I was singing those words, I felt the Lord speak to my spirit. The conversation went something like this.

"Am I?" He asked.
"Are you what?" I replied.
"Your refuge."
"Yes. Thank you, God, that you are my refuge."
"Am I?"
"Of course. Your word says you are."
"An umbrella keeps you dry but only if you use it. Am I your refuge?"
"Well . . . I guess so."
"I think you've been finding refuge elsewhere. In friends. In activities. In busy-ness. In projects. In entertainment. Am I your refuge?"

Lest you think I've completely lost it, this conversation took place entirely in my head. I did not hear God speak audibly about an umbrella any more than I took off on one like Mary Poppins, but I do believe He impresses these thoughts into my spirit and that they come from Him.

The good thing about God's voice is that it does not lead to condemnation but to conviction. The difference is that one leaves you feeling guilty and hopeless; the other leaves you feeling briefly saddened at your mistake but blissfully hopeful in the God of grace who showed you your mistake and wants to help you correct it.

There's nothing wrong with all the other things that I've been finding solace in, but it's important to be conscious of what I'm doing. God promises that He is my refuge and my strength, an ever-present help in trouble, a strong tower and a shield over my head. But that does not mean I can't find solace elsewhere. He is not the only refuge game in town, but the others will all prove a shabby substitute in the end.

Lord, help me to continually find my refuge in You and You alone.

This thing called love

Last night, like every night, I was giving the boys some hugs and kisses as I tucked them in. Sometimes, the need to tuck frustrates me when it's late or I'm busy or don't feel well, and I know they are perfectly capable of pulling their own covers up. They do it one or twelve times a night when they get up to go potty, but at bedtime they MUST have me to put their covers on. In fact, Ethan has been known to be fully under the covers (because, you know, it gets cold here, and they insist on sleeping in boxers), but as soon as I walk in the room he throws them off and says, "Mommy, I need you to tuck me!"

But, in my heart of hearts I know better than to wish it away. I know that all too soon, they won't want my hugs and kisses at night, and they will think they are too big to be tucked. I remind myself that these few short years of them wanting, needing, my affection will be memories before I know it.

So, last night I was tucking in Ethan, and I said, "I love you so much you don't even know." He replied, "I do, too, know how much you love me!"

As happy as it makes me that he feels so confident of my love, I know that it is untrue. He does not know because he cannot know. He has never been a parent. He has no idea what it is to love someone so much it hurts, to be willing to trade your own life in a heartbeat for another's, to feel not only his own hurts and fears and disappointments, but another's - three others' - as well. Though he loves, he can't yet comprehend the full measure of a parent's capacity for love.

As I thought about this, it occurred to me that I know as little about God's love for me as Ethan knows of my love for him. I know God loves me. I even thought when I became a parent that I understood His love completely now. "Aah," thought I, "I get it now. This is what truly, completely unconditional love feels like. Now I understand God's love." And, while I do understand it more than I did before, I suspect I am still as clueless as Ethan. What can I possibly understand of the love of the creator and framer of the world, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, He who is without beginning and without end? I know only of the human's - the created's - capacity for love and nothing truly of Almighty God's.

I know what He tells me, which is this: "The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing" (Zephaniah 3:17, emphasis mine.) And this: "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins" (I John 4:10, emphasis mine.)

I would do well to remind myself that it is a love beyond my ability to comprehend. And I'm okay with that.

It's good to be the beloved.

To know and be known

We had open house at the boys' school last week. This, of course, involved visiting their classrooms, checking out samples of their school work, and basically seeing what it is they do all day.

Ethan's class had colored pictures of scarecrows, and they were hanging on the wall outside his classroom. The pictures did not have names on the front, but after perusing them for a minute or two, I bet Ethan that I could guess which one was his. I pointed to the one I knew had to be it, and he was so impressed that I could pick his picture out of all the ones hanging on the wall.

I know Ethan. I know his skill level and that he is a perfectionist, so he would not have scribbled or gone outside the lines. I know that he does not press down so hard that the color looks waxy like some of them did. I know that he likes things to be the correct color, so he would have colored the straw hat brown or yellow not green or blue. I know him.

There are a lot of difficult things about being a stay-at-home mom. The hours are tough, the job unpredictable, and the sick leave non-existent. I've missed being in the courtroom and wearing suits and having conversations with other adults on a regular basis. I've grown weary of the whining and the fighting and the crying.

But, you know what? I LOVE how well I know my kids. Having sent neither son to preschool, I have spent virtually all of my time with them for the past five years. There are very few milestones that I haven't witnessed, not many skills they possess that I haven't taught them, few questions they've asked that I have not answered, and a limited number of funny (or brilliant) things they've said that I have not heard.

I have been here.

Now that my boys are in school all day, I am recognizing what a precious gift that has been. I won't lie - I'm relishing the freedom that comes with two kids in school. But, I do miss them. I hate that someone else is the eyewitness to their days now, and I'm relegated to hearing what few things they can remember at the end of the day. (Even Lauren, after three hours of preschool, when asked what she did there, most often responds, "I don't remember." Is it that their joy over seeing me overwhelms all of their other mental faculties so that they are unable to remember anything they did in school except eat lunch?)

Like Ethan when I spotted his picture, Joshua was equally impressed on Saturday when I told him I could tell which player he was even from several soccer fields away. I unexpectedly was the assistant coach for Ethan's game Saturday morning, so I did not get to go watch Josh's since it was at the same time. But, I told him that even from so far away, I could tell from the way he stands which player was him. "No you couldn't," he said, "How do I stand?" So, I showed him. And, I was exactly right.

It made me think of how well my Heavenly Father must know me if I, an imperfect human parent, can know my kids so intimately, can pick up on the most intricate details of who they are.

It feels good to know, and it may feel even better to be known.

God is my GPS

I shared last week about how much I loved using a GPS when I traveled to Washington, D.C. I'm telling you, this thing was great. It was like I was playing a video game, and my only goal was to keep the arrow (my car) on the red line (my route). Remember that old arcade game Pole Position? It felt a lot like that . . . just use the steering wheel to keep the car in the right place.

What occurred to me at some point during my drive was how utterly dependent I became on this device. I had printed out directions from Mapquest the night before, but about an hour into my drive, I could tell that the GPS was not sending me the same way Mapquest did. Who to trust? Since the GPS could actually steer me back on course were I to go wrong, I went with that.

Which, of course, meant that I had absolutely no idea where I was going. I was completely blindly following this red-lined route and taking the next turn whenever the device told me to. In fact, I told my dad, I became so pitifully dependent that I didn't even look at speed limit signs anymore because the device told me what the speed limit was and how fast I was going and even beeped at me when I was driving too fast.

So, basically, I knew my final destination was D.C., but I had no clue what roads I should choose to get me there.

I think I had more faith in the GPS device than I have in God sometimes. He sees the whole map, knows every road and trail and exactly where each will lead. He loves me, and that love for me drives His every direction, yet still I don't always trust. I pray that I will learn to surrender my will to the One who knows the way. If it be His good pleasure to send me on an easy, beautiful road or a difficult, painful road, so be it. My life is in His most trustworthy and sovereign hands, and it would be in my best interest to stop trying to navigate my own road.

If only He would beep at my when I'm not listening well enough.

Never say never

I've had many people express amazement - shock, even - that I consented to letting David purchase a house I had never seen. "I would never let my husband by a house without me!" (or "My wife would never let me") is the chorus sung in unison by pretty much everyone we encounter.

There are a few factors that no doubt contributed to my willingness to acquiesce on this. First,in a town of 3,000 people, there is a limited number of homes for sale. Absent a mass exodus, the pickins are slim. Second, after a decade and countless homes looked at together, David and I very much know what the other likes and dislikes. He truly wanted me to be happy here and to love our new home, so I was able to trust that he considered my preferences (which are usually pretty in line with his) when selecting a house for me. What a blessing to be able to trust someone's love that way.

Neither of those factors, however, was the predominant reason for my being able to let David make this choice for us. Here's what did it: God gave me the grace I needed when I needed it.

If you had asked me a year ago whether I would ever let David buy a house I had never seen, I would have agreed with the masses and declared a resounding no. Of course, three years ago that was also the answer to whether I would ever live in small-town-in-the-mountains, Pennsylvania. No way, no how. It wasn't just that I was unwilling; I was completely unable. I could not even talk about Pennsylvania without crying and sometimes even hyperventilating. There was no. way. I could leave my family and all the comforts of a city and follow my husband into the mountains. Sorry, God, you'll have to think of something else.

Of course, God wasn't calling me to come here then.

What I've learned is that there is never a reason to fear what God may ask us to do. When God told me to come to Pennsylvania, He also changed my heart so that I wanted to come. He took away my fear. When God wanted me to let David buy a house without me, He gave me the peace I needed to say yes.

I am learning that what my dad told me when I was a kid is true: The will of God will never lead you where the Grace of God cannot sustain you.

With His calling comes His grace.

Paul spoke of this several times in his letters: "Faithful is He that called you who also will do it." (I Thes. 5:24) "He who began a good work in you will be faithful to carry it to completion . . ." (Phil. 1:6)

The One who calls me to do something WILL equip me to do it. We need not spend our lives worrying that God may call us to some unimagineable service, be it moving to Africa, letting go of our possessions, losing our health, losing a child . . . whatever that thing is that we fear most and pray "God, please, ask of me anything but that."

If God asks it of you, He will do it in you. Maybe not a moment sooner than He asks it, but rest assured, He will complete His work in you. And it will be good.

Be careful what you wish for

Nine days. That's how long it's been since I had my eagerly-anticipated, bank-breaking surgery. I've been hopeful that once the swelling goes down and the tenderness subsides, it will be better. Or at least not worse than it started.

But, I'm starting to have my doubts. I fear I have traded one painful deformity for a different, highly expensive, painful deformity. True, the knot I started with is gone . . . but, now there is another, even more obvious knot. A protrusion of cartilage that, for reasons unbeknownst to me, cannot seem to be fixed. It seems simple enough to me: it sticks out; cut it off.

I was thinking about this tonight while in the midst of a torrent of pain brought on by a sneeze. (Seriously, I have a freakin' cold, and I am on the verge of tears just thinking about sneezing again. Benadryl, take me away.) It occurred to me that my physical state is not unlike my spiritual one.

When I yield myself to my Creator's perfect will, I surrender all control over the means He utilizes to accomplish His purposes. I may ask for a burden - a thorn in my flesh, a painful protuberance, if you will- to be removed, but I do not know what He has in mind for its removal. It may be, and I suspect usually is, painful. The result may not look like what I had planned. It may be something completely unexpected. It may be quite costly. It may - to the world - seem ugly and jagged and wrong. But in my Master's hands, I can trust that His purposes will be not only be accomplished, they will work for my good.

But, still, it'd be nice if it didn't hurt.

Deserts

I'm in one right now.  No, not a physical desert, an emotional one.  Despite all my so-called insights and revelations, I am not immune to the dry and arid places of the soul. 

I won't go into a lot of detail about it on this, the world wide web, but neither will I be inauthentic.  I would never want someone to read my blog and think, "Wow, she's got it all together.  I wish I could be that spiritual."  

One of the good things about the Christian life is that the longer we live it, the more opportunities God has to mercifully bring us out of these deserts, and the more likely we are to finally, reluctantly even, trust that He will bring us out indeed.

I learned something interesting about the word desert.  There are several different Hebrew words that translate to "desert," and one of those words is "midbar," which comes from the root "dabar," which means "to lead."  I like that.  

We all face deserts at one point or another, and there is plenty of Biblical precedent for them: Moses, David, Elijah, John the Baptist, Jesus.

God led each of them to a desert, but he did not abandon them there.  My former pastor once said, "Remember that God's diverting of you to this place is not God's denying to you in this place."

So, in the spirit of giving thanks in all things . . . Thank you, God, for the desert I am in right now.  Thank you that I am not alone here because You are always with me and have promised never to forsake me.  Thank you for the faithfulness You have shown to me in the past and for how Your Spirit ever so gently, ever so patiently, reminds me of those times.  

Remembrance can be a lifeline for a Believer.  That's why God told His people to build memorials and to tell of His deeds from generation to generation.  So, trust me, when you find yourself in a desert - and you will - say a prayer of thanks.  Once God has brought you out - and He will - it will be another link in your lifeline of remembrance. 

Ruined

Here's the update David had for me recently:  The new firm he's formed in Pennsylvania is, well, not really producing any income.  To say none at all would be an exaggeration, but only a very slight one.  The house we have been planning to buy? Not  so fast.  Given the lack of income, the house is up in the air now.  

Combine that with a few other things going on in my life  right now, and I have been in a pretty downward-directed spiral of emotions the past couple of days.  I'm not a panicky person by nature, but when I do panic, it gets me in quite a funk.  Fear grips hold of my heart, and it's hard for me to think about anything else.  

Such was my state of mind and heart as we left our small group last night.  I had a hard time concentrating on what  was being said - and an even harder time participating - because I felt as though I was fighting off a full fledged anxiety attack, and if I opened my mouth or began to talk about it, it would all be over but the crying.  Literally.

So, I gathered up my kids as quickly as I could, intending to get out the door and to my van before any well-intentioned people, whom I dearly love, could ask me how I'm doing.  

"Come on, guys.  Hurry up.  It's a school night," I was saying as I rushed them toward the van.  Great, we're almost outta here.

And then Lauren fell and scraped her hand.  It was not a deep or a large scrape  by any stretch of the imagination, but you'd never know that from the way she shrieked hysterically.  In my attempt to convince her that hers was not a life-threatening injury, I showed her the scrape.  

"Look at your hand," I said, "It's fine."  

"MOMMY, IT'S RUINED!!!"

At that point I couldn't help but  laugh as I carried her inside to get that most magical of all healing remedies for children - a bandaid.  It  helped, but she still wailed the entire way back to the van and most of the way home, saying at one point, "Mommy, it will NEVER go away!!"

I told this story to some friends at Bible Study this morning despite the funk of anxiety I still have not been able to shake from my gut.  Later, as I was on the way home, I thought of it again.

It seems God gets a kick out of teaching me lessons through my children.  

Is what I'm doing any different from what Lauren did?  God has given me sign after sign, peace upon peace, that He is leading us to Pennsylvania.  He has provided and shown His presence every step of the way.  But, give me some bad news, and just like Lauren, I cry in my heart, "I'm ruined!"  

God, help me to trust.  Forgive my childish tantrums and pity-parties.  Release me from my fear, and remind me that You are my good and gracious and loving Father and  that You withhold no good thing . . . even if some of the things you send don't seem good to me right now.

Thank you that your plans - and your children - can never be ruined.

Unchanging Love

One afternoon several months ago I went out to shop for some new jeans all by myself. David kept the kids for hours while I shopped without my usual extra appendages that like to crawl underneath dressing room doors and hide in clothes racks. (And sometimes put on bracelets or scarves without my noticing until we are three stores away.) Of course, I enjoyed this solo shopping time immensely.

When I arrived home, I found myself stepping over and under and around countless strings of yarn that had been wrapped around everything in my living room. "It's a spider web!" the boys told me excitedly. I laughed and headed toward the bedroom to put away the fruits of my shopping excursion. David, meanwhile, heard what the boys said and hurried in from the garage to tell me that he had told the boys to take the spider web down. (Apparently, there was a misunderstanding wherein David told them to take it down so mommy wouldn't trip over it, but the boys thought that moving it away from the front door would accomplish the stated purpose.)

I assured David that I didn't mind the new spider web decor, and he replied, "Oh. I wasn't sure whether it would be Dr. Jekyll or Mrs. Hyde who came home, and I was worried you'd be upset about the mess."

Wow. Talk about being slapped in face by your own reality. Was I really that bad?

Sadly, yes. Reflecting back, it was far too common for me to come home from my alone time and fuss and nag about what the house looked like when I came home rather than just being thankful for the break I'd just received and the fun my children and their father (clearly) had while I was gone.

I found myself thinking of that incident in church this morning when we sang a song that referred to God as unchanging. Of course, I already knew that about God. But thinking about it this morning in light of my own utter unpredictability was a comfort to my soul.

My children do not always know which mommy they're going to get . . . the laid-back version who patiently helps them clean up spilled oatmeal or the tightly wound coil version who springs loose in all her fury about how many times they've spilled their oatmeal this week.

I'm unpredictable. I do not always respond in the same way. Sometimes I freak out over a spider-web living room; other times I laugh and enjoy the creativity of my kids.

Imagine how much nicer it would be if they knew my response would ALWAYS be the same. If they knew that no matter what, my tone, expression, and words would convey total love and acceptance (and forgiveness when necessary).

I don't have to imagine what it's like to have a God like that. He is unchanging, and I am beyond thankful that I can at least point my children to a Heavenly Father who offers trait this even though I fall so utterly short.

Consider Jesus

I had the precious opportunity to go on a retreat with women from my church this weekend, and while there I found myself reflecting on some things I have felt God impressing upon me over the past couple of months.

Things like how He sees the big picture of my life, and I do not.

Things like how everything that happens in my life is good because it has been ordained by my loving and sovereign God.

It would be easy to read (or type) that sentence and then rush on, but don't. Stop and ponder it for a moment. It's really quite challenging to believe. Seriously. Everything? EVERYthing?

Suffering is an inevitable part of the human experience. Some seem to have more than their "fair share," but really, we all experience it. I don't know what my future holds, but I feel like I can say with a strong degree of certainty that it will contain some joy and some pain. Life always does.

So, why? Why does God allow us to suffer? The short answer is so that He can be glorified in us. Our speaker this weekend (Ann) told us the story of how she had endured several trials in her own life, including her father being murdered many years ago. She said that during a sort of "crisis of faith" (haven't we all had them at some level?), someone used this illustration: he said to picture God going before you in your life with a giant shield. Sometimes he moves it aside and lets things pass because He knows they will be good for us. "This will make Ann more like Me, I'll let that one through." "This will draw Ann closer to me." "I'll use this to reveal myself to Ann."

I like that image of God's giant shield over my life.

Of course, I have no idea of all the things God has shielded me from, the things He has not allowed to pass through, but I'm keenly aware of the things He has let pass. The sufferings. The challenges. The painful experiences. The frightening circumstances. What to make of those? Why does He let those pass?

During some quiet time this weekend, I sat down to read four scripture verses that Ann had referenced. The first was Hebrews 1:3, and I told her later that I never made it to the other three, because I couldn't get out of Hebrews.

This is what Hebrews 2:10 says (emphasis and parenthetical content mine): "It was fitting for Him (God) . . . to perfect the author of their salvation (Christ) through sufferings."

Wow. If God found it fitting to perfect Christ through suffering, who am I that I should be shielded from it? Who am I to question its purpose in my life?

I kept reading into chapter three. "Therefore, holy brethren, partakers of a heavenly calling, consider Jesus, the Apostle and High Priest of our confession." (Heb. 3:1)

Did you notice those two crucial words? "Consider Jesus."

In how many circumstances can those words apply?

As I try to reach the other side of my desert of doubt . . . consider Jesus.

When pain and suffering are my companions . . . consider Jesus.

When I am tempted to stumble . . . consider Jesus.

When I am filled with grief and despair . . . consider Jesus.

As I live in a fallen world among people I sometimes find difficult to love . . . consider Jesus.

When I struggle to forgive . . . consider Jesus.

What a precious gift of Grace that God gave us a Savior who "was made like His brethren in all things." (Heb. 1:17, emphasis mine) He has walked in my shoes. He has felt what I feel. He has rejoiced and mourned and yearned and even questioned.

Consider Jesus.

As David and I embark on this next leg of our journey - moving to PA and becoming self-employed - we do not know what the future will hold for us. Right now it does not look as if it will involve an immediate resounding success. As I was talking with a friend this weekend and explaining how, despite the the doubt-inducing circumstances around us, neither of us truly questions whether this is the right thing to do - how David and I both have strong peace that this is where the Lord is leading us - I found myself saying this: "I know that God is not leading us to Pennsylvania to starve to death."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized they were wrong. I do not know that at all.

Of course, realistically I don't think there's much chance that we will literally starve (or freeze!) to death, but the fact remains; I do not know. But, this much I do know: God is sovereign, and He has a purpose for everything that He allows in my life. If through some unlikely turn of events, we were to starve to death, God would be glorified. His purposes will not be thwarted, and all that He ordains for me is good.

If I do suffer and die, I'm in good company. Consider Jesus.

It Doesn't Seem Like You're Coming

Lauren has said this to me several times recently. For example, a few days ago:

Lauren: Mommy, come see what I made.
Me: Okay, just a sec.
Lauren: Mommy, come seeeeeee.
Me: I'm coming.
[Long pause as I do not stop what I am doing and head toward her room]
Lauren: It doesn't seem like you're coming.

Given that she's three, I found it pretty cute. She's three-going-on-twenty, so I am often surprised by the phrases she uses.

The more I think about this one, though, the more I realize how much I can relate.

David and I, as you've heard ad nauseum, are in the process of moving to Pennsylvania. Or trying to, anyway. First David had to find a job. Check. Then we had to sell our house. Took awhile, but check. Now we have to find a place to live. No check yet.

I believe very strongly that God has directed our hearts toward this small town in the Allegheny Mountains. I have felt His Spirit stirring in me a sense of hope and excitement that I never dreamed possible. Six years ago the thought of moving there caused only fear and trepidation and more than one bout of hyperventilation.

But, God proved faithful. He kept us here just long enough for doctors to save my life. He provided a job for David just when it became clear that he needed to get out of the job he was in. He brought a buyer for our house at exactly the right moment.

And, now here we sit; Ready to close on the sale of this house in less than four weeks, but with no home to which to move. I find myself thinking like Lauren. "God, it doesn't seem like You're coming."

I am continually amazed by how my spiritual perception shifted when I became a parent. It's like God took my own spirit out of me, put skin on it, and called it my child. So many of the things my kids say and do are exact expressions of my inward spirit.

They whine. They're ungrateful. They worry. They forget the good and dwell interminably on the bad. They have no idea how big the world they live in really is. They are self-centered. They want it their way, and they want it now.

Sounds just like me. When will I learn? God is not only coming; He's been here all along.

Labeling puzzle pieces

Last month I wrote a post about how difficult it is to put together a puzzle without knowing what the finished picture is supposed to look like. Seeing the spiritual application, I pontificated about how we often try to put together the puzzle pieces of our own lives instead of trusting God, Who sees the finished picture.

As insightful as I thought that was, I hadn't yet realized the depths of my benightedness.

The last couple of weeks have been a bit of a roller coaster in our lives. Quit job. Go to Pa. Find buyers for house in Ga. Lose buyers for house. Find new buyers for house. Find house to buy in Pa. Can't afford it; find different house to buy. Not available yet . . .

These are all pieces of our puzzle right now, and I'm trusting that God will put each piece in its proper place. I realized something else this past week, though.

Not only do I have no idea how to assemble the pieces of my own puzzle, but I also realized I have this absurd habit of trying to label the pieces I'm handed as "good" or "bad."

Got a buyer . . . good piece.
Lost the buyer . . . bad piece.
Got an offer . . . good piece.

You get the idea.

It reminded me of a story I once read in a Max Lucado book. It's sort of long, so I'll try to paraphrase:

Once there was a man in a tiny village. Although poor, he owned a beautiful white horse. Many people offered to buy the horse, but he would not sell it. One morning the horse was gone, and the villagers scoffed. "You old fool, we told you that someone would steal your horse. It would have been better to have sold him. Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”


The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable.
That is all we know; the rest is judgment.”
The people of the village laughed and thought that the man was crazy.


After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into the forest.
Not only had he returned, he had brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke. “Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”


The man responded, “Once again, you go too far. Say only that the horse is back. State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I am content with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”



The old man had a son, an only son, who began to break the wild horses. After a few
days, he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs. Once again the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments. “You were right,” they said. “You proved you were right. The dozen horses were not a blessing. They were a curse." Of course, the old man tried again to set them straight.



A few weeks later the country went to war. All the young men of the village were required to join the army except the son of the old man because he was injured. Once again the people gathered around the old man, crying and screaming because their sons had been taken.


“You were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it. Yours son’s
accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he is with you. Our sons are gone forever.”


I think you get the point.

Well, maybe. I first thought the point was this: How silly we are to think that we can label the pieces of our lives as "good" or "bad."

But, God takes it farther than that. We can label the pieces, He says. "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose." Romans 8:28 (emphasis mine) Every piece is good because it is placed by the One Who created our picture in the first place.

Some pieces will be painful, no doubt, but we can trust that God has a purpose for those pieces even if we can't see what it is. "Rejoice always; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." I Thes. 5:16-18

It may not sound as Biblical, but you know what they say . . . it's all good.

Encouragement

Don't you love how sometimes the songs or sermon in church seem as though God had hand-picked them for you? That's how church has been for the past two weeks for me.

Last year before my surgery, I found great comfort in listening to they hymn "Be Still My Soul," which was written by Katharina von Schlegel in 1752. At that point, fearing that I may have a stroke before my surgery or have a heart attack on the operating table, my greatest comfort came from the second verse of the song:

Be still, my soul: your God will undertake
to guide the future, as He has the past.
Your hope, your confidence let nothing shake;
all now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.

As pertinent as that is to the circumstances our family is facing right now, those of you who know the uncertainty of our current situation will understand even more how much this, the third verse, meant to me this morning:

Be still, my soul when dearest friends depart,
And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

I spent a great deal of the singing portion of church this morning fighting tears, but it occurred to me as I was singing - sometimes out loud, sometimes only in my heart as I was trying not to cry - that I was in that very moment preaching the Gospel to myself as our pastor likes to say.

How encouraged I was as the Holy Spirit reminded me of His love and His sovereignty through these lyrics.

But, it got even better. Once we'd finished singing about how God would soothe our sorrow in separation and how he would calm my fears, we then sang "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty," originally written by Joachim Neander in 1680! (Both of these hymns were written in German and later translated into English during the 19th century.) Sometimes it's easy to think that the fears and struggles we face today are somehow unique to us, so I love singing lyrics that were written literally hundreds of years ago.

Where my greatest source of fear and anxiety right now centers on our family's separation and the sorrow of leaving the places and people that I love, David's anxiety has more to do with leaving his secure job and launching out on his own, albeit with a partner. Many times in the past few weeks we've questioned whether we are doing the right thing, especially David as he lets go of a secure job, dependable paychecks, the security of health insurance, etc. When we sang these verses of "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty," I again couldn't help but savor in the comfort that comes from reminding ourselves of the power of the Gospel (bolded emphasis mine):

Praise to the Lord, who o'er all things so wondrously reigneth,
Shelters thee under His wings, yea, so gently sustaineth!
Hast thou not seen how thy desires ere have been
Granted in what He ordaineth?

Praise to the Lord, who doth prosper thy work and defend thee;
Surely His goodness and mercy here daily attend thee.
Ponder anew what the Almighty can do,
If with His love He befriend thee.

After we sang, our pastor taught this morning from Luke 12, and his message was a timely reminder. The Gospel, Bill said, always speaks first of who we are and only then of what we are to do. What is paramount is who (or Whose) we are, and when we remember that, our grip on the things of this world - be it our home, our wealth, our family, even our lives - can be loosened as we trust God to provide for our true needs.

Thank you, Lord, for your faithfulness in encouraging us even in the midst of our doubt and fear.

The Puzzle of Life

Ethan loves to do jigsaw puzzles, so today we took one for the two of us to put together during Lauren's gymnastics class.

We have a lot of puzzles, and unless they're made by Ravensburger, I've learned that the boxes fall apart pretty quickly. So, my usual technique is to put the pieces in a ziploc bag along with the picture from the front of the box. This works well until one of the kids does the puzzle and cleans it up without putting the picture back into the bag.

That's what happened with the Pirates of the Caribbean puzzle Ethan and I were putting together today at gym.

As we began putting edge pieces together, Ethan commented that it sure was a lot harder without the picture. We managed to get the sides made, but without the box or any of the "picture part" of the puzzle, we didn't know which side was which . . . top, bottom, side . . . we had no idea. It's much easier to put together a puzzle when you know what the final outcome is supposed to look like.

The spiritual application of this did not escape me. I thought of how much like my own life this puzzle was. Me, always trying to make things fit and plan things out the way I want them even though I have no idea what the big picture of my life looks like. Why is it so hard to trust God when we know that He's the only One who can actually "see the picture?"

As God often does, He reinforced this truth to me in the book I had taken along to read during Lauren's class. The women's Bible study I attend just started studying the book of Esther last week, and we are reading Chuck Swindoll's book. The first chapter (which I was reading today) is all about how God sovereignly orchestrates the events of our lives - as He did Esther's - to work out His plan and purpose. This is what I read immediately after finishing Ethan's puzzle: "God is working behind the scenes. He is moving and pushing and rearranging events and changing minds until He . . . [sets] His perfect plan in place."

I find such encouragment in remembering that I don't know what the puzzle of my life is supposed to end up like. I see only bits and pieces, but God promises that He knows the plans He has for me. And, unlike yours truly, He never loses the boxtop. He knows what the picture is supposed to end up like, and He knows exactly how every piece will fit into place.

Now, if I could just stop trying to squeeze them in where I want them . . .

Dog poop and Gaza

I know, right? Just stay with me. Although, I should warn you up front that this post will contain a lot of references to poop. If you have an aversion to that type of thing, or if you're about to eat meat loaf for dinner, perhaps you should go find another corner of the world wide web to explore and try my blog another day.

If, however, you're a mom like me, or someone else who for whatever reason deals with crap on a regular basis, read on because I do have a point. It just may take a while to get there.

If I were to make a list of reasons today was a really crappy day, the list would begin something like this:

1. Found out at 8 am (while the boys were eating breakfast, I was not dressed, and Lauren was still sleeping) that David needed me to follow him to the auto shop and then take him to work. And pronto.

2. Spent hours this morning taking Hearsay (the dog) outside in an effort to somehow bribe, cajole, beg, or otherwise convince him that outside, not the hall outside the guest bathroom as apropos as that may seem, is the appropriate place to poop . . . and that he should do this before he had to be kenneled for three hours while I would be gone later. No luck.

3. Took the boys to Chik-fil-A to kill time between school and piano lesson. During the 50 minutes I was there, I took a child to the bathroom on three separate (long) occasions. I'm pretty sure I spent a total of 11 minutes actually sitting at the table.

(Of course, one of these bathroom trips was Ethan, which is an ordeal all unto itself. Given his inability to sit still (yes, he was sitting . . . after all this post is mostly about poop, remember), he constantly triggers the automatic flusher. I didn't put anything over it because I told him if he would just SIT STILL, it would stop flushing, but . . . this is Ethan we're talking about. It flushed three times while he was sitting on it.)

4. Here's my favorite: Upon arriving home from piano, it became instantly apparent that Hearsay did what we were told a dog would not do. He pooped in his kennel.

To make things worse, we don't know exactly what breeds he's a mix of, but if there was one called Goes Into a Super-Frenzy and Acts Like He's Being Drawn and Quartered Every Time His Owner Leaves the House, I believe that would be his dominant breed.

You know how kennels have those plastic slide out trays at the bottom? He manages to get so worked up that he slides the tray out of the kennel almost every time we leave. Fortunately, said tray is usually not covered in crap. Today it was, and consequently, said poop was not only on the plastic tray but also the floor, the baseboard, and somehow the wall. Apparently, he can fingerpaint.

5. While I was online griping to a friend about what Hearsay did, my completely potty trained 3 year-old came up to me and said, "Mommy, I got stinky on my hand." No, it was not the dog's; it was hers. Pooped in her pants and tried to "fix it" herself.

Seriously, did I somehow seem crap-deprived when I woke up this morning??!!

The list could go on, but I think you get the idea. I was having, from my perspective at the time, a really annoying, crappy (pun intended) day.

Then I had a perspective shift.

I found myself unexpectedly at home alone eating dinner at 6:30. (The kids had spur-of-the-minutely gone to Renae's for a bit.) I rarely watch the news, but since I was sitting there alone with no little ones to observe my vice, I decided to turn the television on while I ate.

That's when I saw Gaza.

Now, I'm no foreign policy analyst. I won't express an opinion about what's going on in the Middle East right now and who's right or wrong. But, I do know one look at Gaza was all it took.

Four minutes of a story on the world news, and suddenly I knew I would gladly relive this crap-filled day every day for the rest of my life. Watching a father weeping that his wife had been killed and that he couldn't find his two young daughters.

Rockets and bombs and smoke and fire.

I'll take dog poop over that any day. Suddenly, I feel like I had a very good day. Very, very good indeed.

Look, mom!

If I had a dollar for every time I heard those words, I'd be a millionaire. This morning, it was Ethan excitedly running into my room to share with me the groundbreaking news that he had found both of his Spiderman crocs. For some reason - maybe because it was only the first time I'd heard "look, mom" today - the significance of those words struck me in a way it ordinarily does not. Plenty are the times those same words have elicited annoyance and irritation after having heard them at least 3 dozen times already in a day. But, today my heart was soft, and the Lord reminded me what a treasure those two words are.

Look, mom.

It's amazing all that's communicated in those two little words. Not only is my son telling me that this thing he's sharing is important to to him, but that I am the person he wants to share it with. Sure, this morning it was a Spiderman croc, but just as often it's a treasured find - a rock or lizard needing care only a mother can give. Frequently, it's a newly developed skill - reading, adding, or doing double somersaults off the sofa. Sometimes it's mundane (Lauren poured out the Rice Krispies again); other times it's momentous (my tooth came out!).

If only I could find a way to maintain my perspective and treasure each "Look, mom" for what it really is - an invitation for me to share in the thoughts and feelings of a person more precious to me than life itself. An offer to come along side and experience what he is experiencing, see what he is seeing, love what he is loving. How long will that invitation stand? I know that at some point, that enthusiasm and openness will inevitably wane, and I will be left looking for a window into the heart and mind of my child. How thankful I am to have it effortlessly right now.

Lord, help me to cherish the "Look, mom's" even when they interrupt my thoughts and tasks for the thousandth time. Show me how to keep this most priceless invitation open for as long as I can, and let me never quench my child's enthusiasm or crush his spirit as he shares his thoughts, skills, discoveries, and treasures with me. Even if sometimes it is just a Spiderman croc.

A worthwhile investment

Disclaimer: I've hesitated in hitting "post" on this one because I don't want anyone to think I may be referring to them in the following self-pity wallow. Chances are good that if you're reading my blog, I'm not talking about you at all. Please know that.

I love to invest in people. Time, finances, skills (the few I have) . . . it is one of my greatest pleasures in life to spend those things on other people, often without their knowing. I take joy in it. If I were guessing at my love languages (having not read the book in more than a decade, though apparently I can take a 30 second quiz), I'd say my primary two are acts of service and gifts. In doing things for other people - be it babysitting, cooking, writing a note, running an errand - I hope I am communicating to them that a.) they are important to me and b.) I have time in my life for them. (I could write a whole other post on the tension that arises between my desire to serve other people and the need to be present for my own family and serve them first and foremost. I'll save that post for another day.)

I have long been frustrated . . . no, that's not the right word . . . saddened is better, by what I perceive as a lack of return on my investment. Don't get me wrong; I realize how selfish that sentence sounds. I don't perform acts of service for others so that they will be reciprocated . . . that would be just the opposite of the motive I truly have. But, I am wired in such a way that longs for deep and meaningful friendships. (For the record, I am aware that I have 6 of the best and closest friends a person could ever dream of, but sadly 5 of them live far, far away, which doesn't help me much today, does it?)

The human, self-pitying part of me longs to know what more I can do. What is the point of caring so much and getting what feels like so little in return? This morning I feel like God revealed at least part of the answer to me. Of course, I've always known the textbook answers . . . Do everything as unto the Lord, seek not the applause of men, your reward is in heaven, etc, etc. But, this morning as I was talking to my kids about why we were putting together shoe boxes for Samaritan's Purse, it hit me . . . even if no one else ever knows (and I hope they don't) about all the time and effort I've put into the people around me . . . not only does God know, but so do my children. They see me day in and day out investing in the lives of the people around me. They know that I care and that the tangible evidence of that is in doing, giving, loving . . . often without obvious return. How valuable a lesson this is for them, I cannot even guess. It is my hope that they will grow up doing for others, serving, as naturally as breathing.

And, if that is the return I get on my investment, I will be a blessed woman indeed.

Unrest and arrogant pride

We sang one of my favorite hymns in church this morning. Our hymnal lists it as "Out of my Bondage, Sorrow, and Night," but you can find it on itunes as "Jesus, I Come." As we sang, I was struck by the lyrics in the first line of the third verse. (Here's the entire song.)

Out of my bondage sorrow and night,
Jesus, I come, Jesus I come.
Into Thy freedom, gladness and light
Jesus, I come to Thee.
Out of my sickness into Thy health,
Out of my want and into Thy wealth,
Out of my sin and into Thy-self
Jesus I come to Thee.

Out of my shameful failure and loss,
Jesus I come, Jesus I come;
Into the glorious gain of Thy cross
Jesus, I come to Thee;
Out of earth's sorrows into Thy balm,
Out of life's storms and into Thy calm,
Out of distress to jubilant psalm,
Jesus, I come to Thee.

Out of unrest and arrogant pride,
Jesus, I come, Jesus I come;
Into Thy blessed will to abide,
Jesus, I come to Thee;
Out of myself to dwell in Thy love
Out of despair into raptures above,
Upward for aye on the wings like a dove,
Jesus, I come to Thee.

Out of the fear and dread of the tomb,
Jesus, I come, Jesus I come;
Into the joy and light of Thy home,
Jesus, I come to Thee;
Out of the depths of ruin untold,
Into the peace of Thy sheltering fold,
Ever Thy glorious face to behold,
Jesus, I come to Thee.

You'll notice a pattern in which the conditions listed in the first line of each stanza have a logical connection to one another. Verse one: sorrow, bondage, and night. Verse two: shameful failure and loss. Verse four: fear and dread of the tomb. It's easy to see how the things in each stanza relate to one another. But, in verse three, the writer juxtaposes unrest and arrogant pride.

And so today I found myself pondering the connection was between unrest and pride. We have, of course, all experienced unrest in our lives to some degree or another: worry about finances, dissatisfaction in a job, wishing for more (or fewer, lol) children, the longing for a bigger house, a better car, better health . . . different circumstances. These can all be summed up in one thought: "There is something I'm missing." Isn't that what unrest is? The feeling that there is something else out there to have, to do, to be . . . a discontentment with what we have or where we are or who we are right now. I think the writer of this hymn got it right. Consider these feelings of discontentment and unrest in light of what what we read in scripture:

• Return to your rest, O my soul, For the LORD has dealt bountifully with you. Ps 116:7
• Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and YOU WILL FIND REST FOR YOUR SOULS.. Matt 11:29
• Not that I speak from want, for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am. Philippians 4:11
• Behold, now is "THE ACCEPTABLE TIME;" behold, now is "THE DAY OF SALVATION." 2 Cor. 6:2.
• Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ's sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong. 2 Cor. 12:10
  

Clearly, God desires for us to find contentment and rest in Him. To try doing otherwise is, indeed, a reflection of arrogant pride. Think about it: if God says that He is enough, but I feel like I need something more . . . be it something more tangible or more visible or more immediate (or more obvious or more spiritual, the list could go on) . . am I not purporting to know better what I need than He?

So, yes, out of unrest and arrogant pride is right. Pride that would lead me to think I could possibly comprehend and fathom what would be best for me. I, who know not what tomorrow holds. I who know not the boundaries of the lands and the seas. I who know not the number of hairs on my head. I who know not when this fleeting, mortal life shall cease to be. Arrogant pride, indeed.

Gentleness

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxoius about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. Philippians 4:4-6

Like most of you, I have read/heard the above passage of scripture a thousand times. As I was reading it today, however, it struck me that I could have quoted the "Rejoice" segment and the "anxious about nothing" segment pretty much verbatim, but I'm quite certain that I would not have included the "gentleness" part. I'm not sure I ever really even noticed that part, so quick am I usually to jump ahead to the part I like, the part where God comforts me and gives me direction for my prayers. But, the part about making my gentleness known? Nope, I'm pretty sure I missed that.

In fact, if I were making a list of qualities I possess, gentleness would almost certainly not appear. But, it strikes me that the scripture doesn't say, "If you possess gentleness . . ." or "those of you who are gentle . . .." No, it's a direct command to all of us. "Let your gentleness be evident."

This is a command I will do well to remember in dealing with my children. My tone does not always convey gentleness (how's that for understatement of the year?), nor are my actions always gentle. I get irritated and grumpy, and the people who bear the brunt of it the most are unquestionably the three little people I should take the most care to treat with kindness and gentleness.

Lord, you are bigger than my tone of voice, my mood, and even my heart. Help me to convey gentleness to all, and let it begin in my home with the three precious children you have, for now, entrusted to me.

How We Ended up in Georgia (And Why We’re Leaving)

The year was 2000. The setting was a snow-covered mountain in northern Pennsylvania; the prop, a diamond ring.

David chose to ask me to marry him on this mountain for a very specific reason: he felt I deserved to see his hometown, the town to which we would move when we finished law school the next year, before I agreed to marry him. So, he took me there over a weekend in January when the temperature was a balmy 4 degrees so that I could see the town in all its glory. After meeting several relatives, traveling every street in town (seriously - there are 6 of them), and spending the day sledding on a beautiful pristine hillside, he popped the question. I don't know if it was the effect of the bitter cold on my brain cells, the blinding glare of the diamond ring/snow, or if it was just a momentary delusion in which I saw myself as a brave, adventurous person, but for whatever reason, I said, "Yes, I can live here!"

Now lest you misunderstand me, let me be clear: I agreed to marry David because I love him - a decision I have not regretted in at least the past 48 hours. (I jest, I jest!) It was not my answer to the "Will you marry me?" part that would come to haunt me; it was the "Can you live here?" part.

I should give you a little background about myself at this point. I tried to go away on a summer-long mission trip to Hungary when I was 16. I lasted 5 days. I started college at Auburn but transferred home after a semester. (In reality, my intent was to transfer to a Christian school, but it never happened. I finished my degree at CSU, which does not stand for Colorado State.) I finally succeeded at the summer missions thing the summer after I graduated from college, during which I lived for an entire summer in a warehouse/church in inner-city Chicago. I lasted the whole summer and loved it. However, the complete story is that I flew home for a weekend after one week so that I could walk in my college graduation, returned home 3 weeks after that because I needed semi-emergency surgery, and traveled to California to be my cousin's maid of honor during a few weeks after that. So, assuming there are about 10 weeks in the summer, I still managed to spend a total of almost 2 weeks with my family during that time. A few days before I was to leave for law school in Virginia Beach, my family and some friends got together to pray for me and bless me before I left. My big brother seemed skeptical that I would really go. I said, "Ben, I'm going. I'm packed! I have an apartment!" He said, "Yeah, but you haven't left yet." That statement held more meaning than he intended.

I did, indeed, leave that week and spent three fabulous years living in Virginia Beach. I made the closest friends of my entire life (all you have to do is call my name, and I'll be there . . . on the next train . . .) and never for a minute wished I wasn't there.

It was halfway through our second year that David proposed. I was still doing great then. We got married the summer before our final year of law school. The first few months, still great. And, then . . . downhill fast. I was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming, paralyzing fear of moving to Pennsylvania. I sunk into a depression, cried at the mere thought, much less mention, of moving there and being away from my family for even longer than I had already been. I just could not do it, and I was falling apart. Those of you who are married can imagine what a joyful first year of marriage this made for David and me. Let's just say we have great empathy for couples who struggle.

So, I was a wee bit apprehensive about moving to PA after graduation. You know, in the sense that the Sahara desert is a wee bit warm. As I said, the mere thought or mention of it would reduce me to tears, and since it was our final year of law school, there was of course, a LOT of talk about it. We had to apply to take the bar exam in whatever state we would be moving to, so I spent our last semester getting together the materials needed to apply to the PA state bar (which consists of your birth certificate, your driving record, your criminal record, your blood samples, your firstborn, etc.). I had talked David into agreeing to take the GA bar, too, but we could not take them at the same time because the days overlapped. (Most bar exams are 2-day affairs, given at approximately the same time.) The exams are offered only twice a year - in July and February - so we agreed we would take the PA bar in July and the GA bar in Feb.

Here's where things got a little better (ie, I got my way): because studying for the bar exam is theoretically full-time work and we had to move out of our university apartment when we graduated in May, we had no place to live. So, my parents agreed that we could live with them for the summer while we studied for the bar exam. We flew to PA in July to take the exam . . . but exam results are not issued until October. So, now what do to? Getting a job as a lawyer is tough when you don't have a law license yet, so that left us from late July to late October with little employment opportunities. We weren't in PA to look for jobs there, and we hadn't even taken the GA bar exam yet, so looking for legal jobs here was pretty impossible, too. By August we realized we needed to do something to put bread on the table and move out of my parents' house. Seeing as how David had gotten an oh-so-marketable political science degree, the job-hunting was pretty much left to me since I had a teaching degree and certificate and a yaer of teaching experience pre-law school to boot. So, I got a job teaching 7th grade grammar. (Grammar I love; 7th graders, not so much. No offense, Mal and Grant!)

Boy this story is getting long, huh? So, the teaching job committed us to GA for the year. By then end of that year, we had obtained law licenses in both PA and GA, David had gotten a job with a firm here, and I was pregnant! During this time, David was still knocking on doors (figuratively) in PA from time to time, but nothing was opening. So, he ended up in the DA's office, I had a baby and then went to work part-time for a law firm. Over the next three years, we would have three children, I would become a stay-at-home mom, and David would leave the DA's office to work for the firm he is still with today. (Our time there, sadly, overlapped by only a couple of months before I left to stay at home.)

During all this time, up until Fall of 2006, I would hear him on the phone with his dad in the other room talking about plans for living and working in PA, and I would fall apart all over again. (David's dad graduated from law school with us. He and David went to law school together with the intent to open their own firm afterward; call me the monkey-wrench.) I spent the first six years of our marriage living, quite literally, in abject fear of moving to PA. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to live near my family, have my mom to help with my kids, be here to watch my nieces and nephew grow up, have all the comforts and familiarites of my hometown at my fingertips, and last but not least, live within 1/2 hr of actual stores and restaurants! Any talk of PA left me shaken, afraid, and quite honestly bitter and angry. It made much more sense to me that we stay here since I have siblings and David does not. His parents needed to just move to GA to be close to their grandchildren since ours are the only ones they have. Makes sense, doesn't it? Meanwhile, David and his parents kept playing the "God card" - they felt like God wanted them to live there and that we were "supposed to" move there at some point. Thanks a lot - how can you argue with the God card, right?

So, after six years of marriage here I was resenting David for wanting to put me through the pain of leaving my family, resenting his parents for expecting us to do that, and pretty much creating a mile-wide chasm between myself and my husband. It would have made sense during this time for me to have prayed for God to change my heart about the whole thing . . . to help me desire the things my husband desired, to give me peace about following my husband and supporting him in his goals and plans. Plans, he wouldn't hesitate to remind me, that he fully disclosed when he took me to that mountain and proposed all those years before. He had wanted to make sure I would be able to live in that tiny frozen speck in the mountains, and I had said I could. How frustrating this must have been for him, I cannot imagine.

Despite my fear and resentment, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I suggested in the Fall of 06 that we take a family trip to David's hometown. We had not been there since we got engaged, and none of his family had seen any of our children. (Except his parents, but they have been living in Harrisburg - about 4 hrs from the hometown - since after law school, so that was where we always visited.) We drove to Harrisburg first and spent a couple of days at his parents' house. Then we headed up into the mountains.

I was prepared for battle. I fully expected David to hail the virtues of the town the entire time we were there and to try to convince me that it was where we should live. I was ready with my defense. My guard was up, and I would not let him penetrate it. Bring it on, honey, I know this is what you're going to do.

Nope. Silence. We were there for three days, and in a display of probably the wisest self-restraint anyone has ever shown, David said not one word about moving there. Not one word. I was stunned.

But, Someone else spoke to me instead. David's arguments I could resist. His mom and dad's arguments I could thwart. But, there is One whose words cannot be resisted no matter how hard we try. Over the course of the three days we were there, God and God alone, totally and miraculously changed my heart. I saw the town and his family with new eyes. I would be okay. God would go with me, and I would be fine. He gave me a peace that is truly beyond understanding.

God was steadily working in my heart the entire time we were there, but I didn't say anything to David until our final day. On the morning we were packing to leave, we were standing outside (in the bitter October cold and snow!), and I said to him, "If you really feel like this is where we need to be, I'm okay with that." You could have knocked him over with a feather! What??!! After six years of crying and hyperventilating when he even mentioned PA, suddenly I was fine with it? We were both utterly amazed. I knew that this peace had come from God and that He had given it to me mercifully. I had not asked for it. I had only ever prayed that God would change David's heart and that we would not have to go. Never had I asked for my heart to be changed. But, doesn't God always give us what we need even if we're too foolish to ask for it or to recognize it?

That was two years ago next month. Yet, here we are in GA. Over the course of the past year I would wonder why God didn't open doors for us to move right after He gave me peace about it, but we would discover the answer to that. If we had moved to his tiny hometown prior to this year, I probably would have died because my life-threatening health condition would almost certainly not have been found in time. Turns out God had us here for a reason, and now that I've had surgery and my health is good, doors are opening and signs are appearing at every turn that let us know the time to go is soon. I could not ask for a sweeter blessing from God than this peace and like-mindedness with my husband. How terrible putting up the for-sale sign would have been if I were still in the state I was in two years ago. How miserable it is to live life full of fear and resentment, and how great and gracious and merciful God is to give us what we need despite our protestations.

So, I was right all along that we ought to be in Georgia, wasn't I? In the end, though, does that really make me right? No. I read a verse during that final semester of law school which convicted me: I Peter 3:5-6, which says, "For in this way in former times the holy women also, who hoped in God, used to adorn themselves, being submissive to their own husbands; just as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord, and you have become her children if you do what is right without being frightened by any fear." (emphasis mine) That pierced my heart, and I knew then that the right thing to do was to support my husband and to ask God to help us want the same things and to give me courage and peace. But, I didn't. I stubbornly resisted. God did not need me to be bitter and resentful for us to live where He wanted us. He did not need me to stubbornly refuse to submit to my husband and to do everything I could to manipulate circumstances to keep us here. He could have kept us in Georgia without any help from me. I was wrong even if the place was right. Thank God for his mercies that are new every morning.