Don’t They Remind You of How Feeble we are {the Stars}

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“The stars,” I muttered back, barely hearing him.

We were driving, cities only a memory as I sat there with a locked gaze on the sky above me.  I’d forgotten how bright they shine.  I was struck particularly by the two that shone especially bright, which I later discovered to be planets: Venus and Jupiter.  I saw Orion and remembered how Scorpio wasn’t far behind, wildly chasing the warrior.

I got lost- just for a moment.  In all the wonder above me, this brightness.  “Look at the stars, don’t they remind you of how feeble we are.”  It’s a line from a John Mayer song and it played over and over again in my mind.  I certainly felt feeble in that moment.

And suddenly my discouraged heart felt lifted.  There is Someone who formed the stars in his hands like play-doh; rolled them up and said, “You, shine there.”  He dreamed up planets and then they existed.

He holds the stars in his hands, surely he holds my future too.  Surely He’ll provide, surely He’ll have mercy, surely as the moon shines nightly.

Living Spartan-like

My sweet Granny passed away a week ago Sunday.  While it was peaceful and expected it has still been difficult.  She was fiercely loved by many people.

We all sit there in dark colors. We cry at her loss and laugh at her many wonderful idiosyncrasies.  This is hard.  But it’s beautiful: a life remembered, a life celebrated.  She did so much during her time here and touched many lives.  The list goes on and on as we recall all the ways she has served God, her church, the community, and her family.

Death has a way of making you think differently.

Later in the car, I think about the eulogy and I begin wondering what people will say about me when I die.  What will I be remembered for?  Will people say I did something that mattered?

A week later I sit with dear friends around a table.  We drink wine and laugh, we make crafts and messes and memories.  And again I remember how I’ll miss 30th birthdays and babies born, weddings and more nights like this.  And the snarky remarks come out of my mouth and I take my grief out on these loved sisters.

I drive home, somber, quiet.  And I ask Him the question I’ve asked a thousand times…  “Is it worth it?“

I remember Thoreau’s words: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived..  I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life…”

My grandmother lived deliberately, fully.  When she came to die all who knew her could attest to the fact that she truly lived.  She was a Spartan.  I want to be a soldier too; to cause that which isn’t life to retreat in defeat.

Thoreau took to the woods; I see the jungle before me.   It beckons me to live deeper, to suck all the marrow out of this life I’ve been given.  Sometimes that comes with sacrifice, but also joy, and I conclude once again that yes, it’s worth it.  I know I’ll still mourn the birthdays missed and the babies I won’t see until they’re toddlers, but I hope that when I come to the end of my life I can say I lived without regret, that I lived like a Spartan.  And so I pray to live without fear, to walk boldy into this destiny, to discover more of life and to live it.

When You Realize You’re Grieving

It’s late.  My husband is already in bed and I finally decide I should be too.  It’s Saturday night, the end of a long week.  I’ve been fighting feelings of sadness the last several days and can’t figure out why.  I brush my teeth, wash my face, and it hits me.  For whatever reason, right at that moment I understand.   I think this is what grieving feels like… I’m grieving.

With the exception of our dear glory baby, I have yet to experience hard loss in my life.  Now however, loss feels like the norm. I find myself in a season of saying goodbyes, and it’s not ending anytime soon. I’m losing life as I know it. And it is hard. I’ll be in the jungle and loved ones will keep on having babies, keep on laughing, keep on living their lives and making new memories. I’ve lost people’s good opinions, from both within and out of the church. I’ve lost possessions and the opportunity to create a beautiful home. It’s all slipping away, slowly.

And I’m sad.  Because the hardest farewells are still to come.

I lay there in bed with this new understanding and I can’t sleep.  I feel the Father beckoning me to come and read.  He leads me to Mary’s Song, The Magnificat.  I read the Mother’s words over and over again, really drinking them in.  This young girl was losing everything.  Her good name, her body, possibly her betrothed.  Yet she was grateful.  She understood her loss.  She carried within her the Salvation of the world and she rejoiced.

Paul wrote of finding gain in loss, of considering all he once knew to be worthless when compared to the knowledge of Christ. And I see that I’ve been offered a gift: an opportunity to know the riches of Jesus much more deeply. I carry within me salvation for forgotten ones on a distant island.  And for that, God deserves praise.

And I should be thankful for these losses. Because Jesus is Lord and because he is writing and has already written out all my days.

I don’t think I’m wrong in my grieving, but I see that it’s no place to stay in, that this can’t become my normal. I can still choose joy today.

My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior…

When You’re Trying to Crawl

She crawls toward me; seven months of baby perfection.  She’s clumsy, slow, but I don’t mind.

I watch in amazement as she’s growing, changing, and it’s right in front of me.

I hope what she sees as she comes toward me is a joyful mama’s face, always welcoming, always hopeful, full of grace.  Grace to grow, grace to change.  You see, I’m trying to crawl too; trying to get these knees moving.

My daughter has it right.  She looks toward Mama, motivated by love, hers and mine.  She trusts me.  How often my eyes stray from the Father, I get distracted, frustrated, tired.  I don’t trust his intentions toward me; I don’t rest in his love.

If only I would set my gaze on his ever-glowing countenance; the face of a joyful Father cheering me on.  He doesn’t mind when I get clumsy, doesn’t mind when I’m slow.  He just bids me, come.

“Let us [crawl]…fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.”

Searching for Eden

I am struck by how many people, when I describe the conditions in which we’ll be living in, respond, without sarcasm, “That sounds great.”  One friend even said, “That’s like, my dream house.”  Solar power, screens which will act as air conditioning, living off the land.

It’s interesting to me, this movement, the longing for simplicity.  I marvel at people who build 12 foot-square houses and live by firelight.  Returning to the natural, organic, living off the Earth and what she offers, tossing the TV; this returning to Eden.

We are an over-medicated, over-stimulated, too-many-choices-given generation.  And we’re not happy.  In fact, some might say that everything’s amazing, and nobody’s happy.

I think technology is a gift, truly.  You wouldn’t be here, reader, if it weren’t for technology. I love the fact that I’ll still “see” family and friends when living in the jungle.  These days you can click a button and get answers to just about anything.  It’s amazing.  But, there are still longings that go unanswered, leaving holes.  These God-shaped voids.  We try, we strain to fill them with things that simply cannot fit.

I think those crazy people living in the woods in their tiny house may be on to something, ridding their lives of unneeded distractions;  redefining the word “need.”  They’re trying to find Eden again, the paradise that God intended for us.

You see, Adam and Eve made a mess of God’s pure and perfect intentions for them.  They wanted more, unsatisfied in what He had to give, taking fruit which wasn’t theirs to have, but only God’s to give.  And here and now we find ourselves in the same situation, constantly wanting more.  We wait for the next latest and greatest thing to come out and we think, perhaps subconsciously, this surely will be the thing that keeps me happy.  And it doesn’t.  And it can’t; it isn’t meant to.  So we find a generation with more choices and possibilities than ever before and yet sadness still lingers.

Again, more and more I am seeing this movement of people wanting to rid their lives of unnecessary things.  I don’t think tossing your TV makes you holy; but I think the purifying pursuit of something deeper is freeing.  I have seen this freedom as we’ve said goodbye to furniture and cars.  And soon enough, whether we’re ready or not, the TV will go, along with air conditioning and regular electricity.  I am anxious to discover the secret Paul writes of.  Can I really do it?  In Christ alone.

So we wait for Eden’s restoration and in the meantime we keep searching for Him who fills all voids.

Hoping Against Hope

My eye is drawn to a certain verse on the list.  I don’t know why, but something beckons me to read it. As we finish up our 5 day fast I feel full of God.  Not because I fasted, but because a merciful God came near.  I pick up the Word and read.

“We call Abraham ‘father’ not because he got God’s attention by living like a saint, but because God made something out of Abraham when he was a nobody. Isn’t that what we’ve always read in Scripture, God saying to Abraham, ‘I set you up as father of many peoples’? Abraham was first named ‘father’ and then became a father because he dared to trust God to do what only God could do: raise the dead to life, with a word make something out of nothing. When everything was hopeless, Abraham believed anyway, deciding to live not on the basis of what he saw he couldn’t do but on what God said he would do. And so he was made father of a multitude of peoples.”

Abraham believed anyway, hoping against all hope.  The words grip me strong.  And something illuminates.  A holy moment.  It seems the answer to my unspoken question has come.  “Lord, what do you have to say about 2012?”  And so lovingly he speaks, knowing my heart longs to hear.  I share with my Dreamer Husband and smiling he says, “I told you earlier that this was a Year of Hope!”  So quickly I forgot, yet thankful that He had this revelation for me too.

God called Abraham “Father” long before Sarah’s womb ripened with child.  “This is who you are, son!  And daughter, you who laugh, you with the empty womb, you’re the Mother of Nations.”

And I see it like a challenge.  A big risk to hope against hope in 2012.  As if the Father, winking, with a crooked smile, says, “Go on, try it.  I dare you.  Defy your circumstances!  Believe anyway! Hope, daughter, HOPE!”  I see him, wild-eyed, joy in his voice, giddy like he can’t wait for me to open up a present.

I hang the banner in our kitchen; my reminder that things are not what they seem and that God’s not finished with me yet.  And I wonder, what he’s saying about me that I’m not believing?  I unwrap this thing called hope, this gift.  And the present becomes my present.

Co-habitating

“There’s only one address anyone lives at and it’s always a duplex: Joy and pain always co-habit every season of life.  Accept them both and keep company with the joy while the pain does it’s necessary renovations.”

~Ann Voskamp

Life in a duplex, I’ve been there.  We once shared a wall with a quiet Indonesian couple.  We never heard a sound except when she would play her piano. Beautiful melodies would seep through that dry wall, the words of a quiet woman.  Powerful hands commanding ivories.  How could she so small, so soft, play with such conviction?  Sometimes I would stand with ears pressed against the wall, straining to hear more.  I remember coming home at night, seeing the lamp on in that back room, and I’d know that she was playing again.

I’d like to think we had a unique way of being neighbors.  Musical conversations traveling back and forth, sending messages.  Neither of us ever complained.  I can say honestly that the piano never bothered me.  I hope they can say the same for my songs.

Joy and pain, the neighbors which dwell in my heart.  As I reflect on 2011, I see both.  The beautiful Life-giver baby girl who maybe-but-wound-up-not having down syndrome.  Moving from our beloved Fort Worth, the place where roots are deeply planted.  Making plans that lead to a jungle on an island, far from here.  Saying good-bye to beds, and sofas, and other things I wish I weren’t attached to.  Seeing Jesus provide in humbling abundance, filling our cup to overflowing.  Embracing the grieving of farewells now and yet to come.  Welcoming the niece we’d hoped and prayed for and thought may never come.  Becoming more thankful.  All the tears.  All the laughter.  The mountains climbed, the rivers waded.  The sunny days of delight.  Always grace, always tender Jesus.

How often I sat conversing with Pain, while Joy was standing on the other side of the wall.  Playing her tune with conviction.  Beckoning me.  How ashamed I am that I didn’t go more often!  That I didn’t sit down for a cup of tea to listen to what Joy had to say.  Oh how I wish I would have.  Pain is real, and can sting like the whole hive turned against you.  And we’re supposed to feel and acknowledge it; we’re supposed to grieve.  Yet, what did my Maker say about this world?  “Take heart, Erin!  Take heart!!”  I hear him yelling it loud.  Not in anger, but because he just so desperately wants me to.

Troubles in this world are guaranteed and unavoidable.  I pray this will be the year I finally get it, though.  The year I finally say yes to Joy rather than the numbing distractions the world offers me.

What if I devoted a room in my house to putting up pictures of painful memories, writing down hurtful comments like famous quotations and then displayed them on the wall.  That would be lunacy, right?  Yet how much time do I spend dwelling on those things in my heart?  The way I see it, I have two choices.  The scenario I just described being the first.  Or, I can hang curtains in the next room, cultivating a habit that will help me get through even my darkest days.  The joy of the Lord really is my strength.  No, really, it is!

Joy sings a song and I press my ears to the wall to hear more.  But this time I offer a harmony.  A song fills up this duplex and I hope it plays on.

As My Toddler Would Say: Mine!

Let’s be real. This is my blog. Kevin posted one thing. A year ago. So I made what I feel were necessary changes to show that this site is now mine, and mine alone.

I’ve kept the blog name the same: Until All Hear. I still like that and I think it reflects what I’m about. Writing, singing, speaking.. until all hear.

I have changed my username though. Junglemomma. Too soon? Maybe. But it’s the little changes along the way that help make the big transition, when it comes, a bit easier.

August is becoming more of a reality as more people are choosing to partner with us and our mission with Pioneer.  We speculate that we’ve raised about 30% of the yearly funds we need to survive in the jungle (we’ll know for sure when we make our overseas budget).  We have 6 months to raise the rest.  Totally doable with God.

And thus, my transformation into Jungle Mama has begun and, for certain, rantings about it are forthcoming.

So there you have it.  This is Erin’s blog.  Mine!

If I Were Stretched Any More, I’d be Silly Putty

The anxiety pulls at me, yanking me, wearing me down. The ugly step-sister of joy, she tries to lead me down a destructive path. And I am worn and tired, wondering was there any faith there to begin with? Who’s that woman that said “yes” to all this chaos? Where is she that welcomed the stretching, the loneliness? The girl that was convinced that it’s worth it- was that me?

Some days, the stretching feels unbearable. My arms cannot spread any wider. And I think of silly putty, a child’s toy. You pull it out of plastic egg and pull, stretch, roll it into a ball. And then you put it away, back where you found it. And forget about it. Is this what I’ve become? He pulls me out, stretches me, and then puts me back, weaker than I was before, alone.

Yet, I’ve come this far and He’s been good and I’ve been cared for. So I move past the silly putty thinking because I know that’s not His way.

And so I do the only thing I know left to do- I hit the deck. On my knees is where the anxiety ends and the only thing pulled is my heart toward heaven. And the Father whispers again, “I am near.” And I remember those that have gone before me, some of whom never saw what they were promised, and yet they persevered. They became like clay in the hands of the Father. Something familiar sounds. Wait, haven’t I prayed this before? “Lord, I am the clay, and you are the Potter. Mold me as you see fit.” Perhaps I am simply seeing a prayer answered.

Hope turns its face toward me. And I am surprised and humbled by this reminder. That He molds, smoothes, refines, breaks off, and adds onto.

And forms something beautiful.

And, ahh, I can breathe again. The jungle feels doable. The loneliness will pass. And yes, I was right the first time- it’s worth it. He is worth it. Beauty comes after the stretching and even in the waiting. And I submit myself to the Pot-Maker once again, putting myself under the mercy of His craftsmanship.

~Erin

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