The Launch

Change.

It's a part of life. And generally I welcome change. I'm usually up for a new adventure, eager to explore the unexplored. I know God's grace stretches out into my future, and I trust that he'll meet me in every transition. So I look to the next year with hopefulness. I choose an attitude of delightful anticipation. Yet I acknowledge that my joy is mingled with grief. Because honestly, I've only been home 24 hours, and I already miss Graham.

Oh, I rejoice in who he is and I'm excited for where God is leading him. He is exactly where he should be, doing as he ought. It is holy, right, and good for the boy to grow up and leave home. I want him to go. Still, I grieve him being gone.

It's the path of parenthood. We pour our lives into theirs, love them with all we've got, only to prepare them to take flight. We nudge them out of the nest, trusting that the elation we feel from seeing them soar will eclipse the pain of their depart.

And parents--we know that this is the deal going in. Our children don't belong to us, they are simply entrusted to us for a season. Which is why we must figure out how to give ourselves to them without finding our identities in them. It's a fine balance.

For many years, older parents would look longingly at my little boys and tell me, "Cherish this time, it passes quickly." Some days I would smile grimly, thinking, "Quickly? Today alone has felt like a week!" But other times I would heed their warning. On those days I'd let the boys dawdle at mud puddles, climb over dirt piles, and gaze in wonder at grasshoppers. We'd read an extra book at bedtime, splash in the bath until their tiny hands looked like prunes, and tolerate endless questions in the car. As they got older, we'd linger over dinner conversations long after we'd finished eating, quote our favorite lines from movies (ad nauseum), and spend more time in guitar and video game stores than we thought possible.

I didn't miss their childhoods, and I look forward to sharing their adulthoods. Because all that stuff--the lingering when a hug lasts longer than needed, the listening when the words make your ears feel tired, the watching of stunts, the running of races, the kissing of boo-boos--all that stuff is building relationships that will last long after the child becomes independent. That's what we hope, anyway.

So while I mourn the absence of Graham, I celebrate his launch into adulthood. I'm cheering him on, wishing him well, and faithfully praying for the days and weeks ahead. I'm entering the next phase of parenting, which I expect to be every bit as engaging as the first phase--with fewer messes. I will be learning a new role, making new mistakes, and trying to figure out how the cherish THIS time, as well.

Meanwhile, Chandler might find his mother a bit clingy. Because he's still here. For one more blessed year....

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Perplexed

Perplexed, but not in despair.

This is how I feel about our third flood in eight years. Perplexed, but not in despair.

Its a hassle, a financial hardship, to be sure. The ground floor of our home has to be reconstructed while we are living halfway around the world! Our renters are displaced and there is nothing we can do to help them. I am not pleased with this situation, I do not like it a bit. I can't begin to understand what God plans to do in and through this mess. I am most certainly perplexed.

But not in despair.

It's not that I have some Pollyanna-ish, pie-in-the-sky, grin-and-bear-it faith. It's not just a matter of perspective (and believe me, I know there are much worse things than a flood!). It's not even due to the fact that I know my troubles are "light and momentary" in the grand scheme of things. No, I am not in despair because I know my Dad.

I have a Father that makes sure sparrows are fed, and then reminds me that he loves me more than he loves the birds. Because he loves me, I know that he will do the most loving thing. His wisdom is unsearchable, his actions can be inscrutable, but his character is unchanging. He is Faithful and True. His promises are sure.

Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
    I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.

Fear not--a command.

     For I have redeemed you--it's already done!

          I have called you by name--it's personal.

               You are mine--it's relational.

                    When you pass through the waters--WHEN not IF.

                         I will be with you--he always shows up.

So I weep, and I pray, and I shake my head, and I say, "Dad, I just don't get it!"

And he gathers my tears in a bottle, smiles and says, "Trust me. I've got this." And then he shows up. 

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Friends

As the youngest of five girls, I grew up in a home of estrogen. My big sisters were my very first friends and to this day they are special to me. Maybe it is because of my family of origin that I have always cultivated deep and meaningful friendships with girlfriends. I am not one who needs a lot of friends, but I am one who cherishes intimate friendships with a handful of dear souls.

During my recent trip to the States, I had lunch with a few of my very favorite friends. Though we've barely talked over the past year, we picked up as if we had just seen each other last week. It was a beautiful moment; and yet, it left me strangely sad. I miss my friends.

I have made new friends in France, and I love and appreciate each one. But it takes a loooooong time to build depth and intimacy. And in this crazy-move-around-the-globe-transient missionary life that I live, I will not stay in one place for the duration. Which means that the friendships I invest in today will soon become a part of my growing list of left-behind loved-ones.

So as I sat with my friends in the States--talking too much about me and longing to hear more of them--I realized that I have a friendship void in my life. A void that may be with me until we are all gathered into eternity. And that is sad.

Because those girlfriends are the type that will tell me when it's time to color my hair. They mock my "preach-i-ness" in a way that appropriately humbles me and makes me feel deeply loved, all at once. They cheer over cute new boots, they know how I like my latte, and they talk me back to sanity when I confess that I am considering a neck chain for my reading glasses. ("No way! That adds ten years right off. We love you too much to let you go there!")

They are the sort that really want to know about my son's love life, my husband's diet, and my new favorite conditioner (Happy Happy Joy Joy by Lush). They've seen me through tough parenting decisions, bad fashion choices, major career changes, and amputated fingers. (okay, it was one finger, and it was David's, not mine. Still. They were there!) They love me where I'm at (grammatical error intended).

I delight in knowing that when we get together, nothing has changed. But those moments are so few and far between.

So to those of you who have the luxury of living in one place for a long period of time--appreciate your friends! Hug them often! Cheer them onward! Pray with them. Play with them. And while you do, whisper a word of thanks to the author of friendship Himself.

And to those of you who ARE my far-away friends, know that you are very near to my heart! I count your friendship among my greatest treasures and I cherish the memories we made together. I look forward to every moment we will share in the future, no matter how brief or infrequent. I thank God for you and the rich investments that you make in my life. And I love you bunches.

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Memory Lane

This is an oldie but a goodie--something I wrote long before I started blogging, but a piece that may end up in the book. Hope you enjoy it.

In 2001, when my husband and I were in our early thirties and had two young sons, we took a major risk, fully believing that we were following God’s lead. When I say “a major risk,” I don’t mean we changed laundry detergents or got a dog.  No, we quit our stable jobs, sold our house, and cashed in all of our savings, including our retirement account, so that my husband could follow his dream and go to flight school to become a pilot.

At the completion of his flight training, David took a job as a flight instructor in Spokane. He did not want to be a flight instructor forever—this was just a way to build the 1,500 hours of flight time that were required in order to be hired by an airline. Flight instructors don’t make enough to feed and house a family, so I took on some part-time grant-writing work. As we gritted our teeth to endure the financial stress, we told ourselves it was just a season. We figured we would be in Spokane for a-year-and-a-half and then back to Portland with a job with Alaska Airlines, living on easy street. That’s what we figured. 

But September 11, 2001 changed the path of our lives. Following that day of terror, airline companies suffered major organizational setbacks, massive pilot lay-offs, and even bankruptcy. Still today, few have recovered. David realized that his prospects for a career as an airline pilot diminished significantly in the wake of 9-11. We felt like the Israelites who thought that God had forgotten them after they followed Him into the desert on their way to the Promised Land. We had been willing to take a big risk to go where we felt like God was leading, but when we saw where He had taken us, we wondered if He even cared at all. 

David heroically hid his frustration and confusion as he watched his big dream turn into a nightmare. He never spoke a discouraging word, but sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t looking, I saw the shadow of discouragement darken his brave demeanor. Though he was praised as a great flight instructor and worked every chance he got, his income went from bad to worse as winter weather set in and limited his ability to fly with students. By December we were drowning in bills. 

“David” I said, knowing we had to have the conversation we were both avoiding, “between rent, the car payment, and the electric bill, we need about $1,200 to get through this month. And that doesn’t count groceries. Did you get paid today?”

Slowly he took his paycheck from his pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the table to me: $187. There were no more words, only silent prayers. I was disheartened. David was defeated. God was silent. 

Finances were strained through the rest of the winter and into the spring.  I took more grant-writing work, and David moonlighted on the nightshift for UPS. Each month we barely made it. I, who had been raised to shop at Nordstrom, learned to shop at Goodwill. David learned to cut the kids’ hair himself. We ate whatever was on sale that week at the grocery store and discovered that a fun family outing could be had for free: a trip to the library followed by an afternoon at the park. And still, God was silent. 

Spring turned to summer, the weather cleared, and David was able to fly more hours as a flight instructor. We were finally getting close to breaking even financially, but our hearts were so weary that we hardly felt like celebrating. I longed for a day when money was plentiful and fantasized often about what it would be like to have a million dollars. Then, I told myself, I would finally be happy.  Then I could take life easy and do whatever I wanted. Then my husband would not be stressed. Then I could give my children their heart’s delight.  Then I could believe once again in the goodness of God.

There was no way we could afford a real vacation that summer, but we did find a few days to visit David’s parents, who live on a lake nestled in the Swan Range of the Rocky Mountains in northwestern Montana. One sunny afternoon, after I had been water-skiing (which is one of my favorite things to do in the whole wide world), I lay on the beach reading a book. David was out on his windsurfer, letting the physical activity wash away the tension that had been soiling his soul. My children were playing happily in the sparkling lake water. For an instant, I forgot the distress of the past few months, and I let myself take pleasure in the perfection of the day.

I realized, in that instant, that I had everything I could ever want.  I knew then that even if I had a million dollars sitting in a bank account, this moment could not be any more precious. I was keenly aware on that summer afternoon, with hardly a dime to my name, that there was nowhere in the world I would rather be and nothing I would rather be doing. My husband was relaxed. My children were delighted. And my God, though still silent, was as He had always been—good. It was then that I stopped focusing on what we didn’t have and started appreciating all that God had given us free of charge.

From a financial perspective, the next year wasn't much different—but I had changed.  I started to see “million dollar moments” in each day. You see, I don’t think teaching your son to ride a bike without training wheels is more rewarding if you have a million dollars. I bet reading The Chronicles of Narnia as a family is not more thrilling if you have a million dollars. Snuggling with your husband is not more satisfying if you have a million dollars. God’s voice is not louder, His love is not surer, and His grace is not bigger if you have a million dollars. The funny thing is, if God had given me a million dollars, I might never have known how unnecessary it really was.

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Jump

On Fridays I have been linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday, where bloggers are given one word as a prompt, and then encouraged to just write for five minutes straight with no editing, tweaking, or self-critiquing. To quote Lisa-Jo, we are to “Write like you used to run. For the pure joy of it.” 

Today's prompt is: Jump

Go!

Back before iPods, when music came mostly through the radio, there was song called, "Jump" by a band known as vanHalen. When I was in 7th grade I loved that song!

All of my friends knew that I loved that song and whenever it came on the radio, they would call me and tell me, so that I could turn my radio on and listen to it. Or the last half of it anyway.

Hey, it's not like I could have bought the song on iTunes! Heck, I didn't even have a cassette player. All I had was a ladybug record player, which was practically worn out from repeatedly playing my Grease album. And so whenever someone called to tell me, "Jenn, 'Jump' is being played on KQXT!" I would drop whatever I was doing, turn on the radio, and sing along!

A few years ago, while in an office building, I heard the song, "Jump" come over the sound system in the form of muzak--you know, wordless, soft, and synthesized. It was so bad! What's worse is this: Nothing ages a person like hearing a favorite song from youth turned into elevator music.

I'm wracking my brains to find some great spiritual lesson in this whole silly trip down memory lane, and I wonder if it's this: Wouldn't it be great if someone could call to tell us when we need to tune in to the Lord to hear what he has to say? Wouldn't it be great if we were so eager to hear from him that we would stop whatever we were doing just for the thrill of hearing his voice? Instead, I wonder if we tune him out like the muzak in the elevator.

Stop!

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