Hey, friends. I’m still alive and I miss you all.
Some of you who started following my blog during the Write 31 Days challenge last month have probably been wondering, “uh…where’d she go?”
Honest–I didn’t plan to suddenly go silent. The past three weeks have been so filled with change and late nights and people and ALL THE FEELS that I have barely had a moment to pray, let alone blog. Each week has felt like an arctic tidal wave, sloshing down over me in rapid succession. I’m breathless. Sitting here, in Jordan’s new office, I feel myself inhaling shaky gulps of air as I sort through my thoughts.
The quiet bathes me, but my heart feels soggy.
For four days, we were crusty with paint layered four painstaking times on the same dark wood until every cabinet, every door, and every baseboard gleamed white.
In the middle of the paint fumes, our family temporarily expanded, and with the expansion has come more jokes and delicious meals than I would have thought possible.
Then, news from Paris, Syria, Beirut, Iraq and from New Orleans wrung my heart and I wept hot tears for families that would never be the same and a world where someone’s four-year-old has grown up into a man willing to shoot systematically into a concert crowd.
Only one week later, hubby and I drove out of town to run a 5K on a bright windy morning. We ran for kids waiting to be adopted, and we sweat happily in the sunshine and came home exhausted. Our friends will finally meet their girls on the other side of the world in less than a week, and we pray they will soon come home forever.
I am staggering from the contrast between joy and sadness. I’m reeling from change, paint fumes and too little time to simply BE.
I miss Jesus. Not that he has left me, but in the flurry of rushing out the door to an iced-over car, pulling off a Thanksgiving dinner with our student homegroup, getting papers notarized, having a melt-down just before kids arrive for Sunday School, navigating office drama, and crying into my pillow about the wounds of an aching world, I ache too.
This week, I remember that thankfulness is both weapon and armor.
It is a weapon because it shoots straight into the heart of fear with bullets of faith. My God has done this. And this. Look how good He is.
It is armor because it shields me from hopelessness.
There may be paint drips on the tile, but I’m thankful we have doorknobs again! And the world is going crazy, but Jesus is still in charge and He is good. I am exhausted to the bone, but I’m thankful for rest and grace for whatever I can’t get done.
I am choosing, moment by moment, to thank Him in my sogginess.
Photo cred: Eric Kilby, edits mine.