autumnal hope
Hands down, autumn is my favorite season. And I'm fairly certain October is the most perfect month. I love the rich, bold, warm colors of fall. The landscape comes alive like a wildfire, and my heart catches some of the sparks. Bright blue chilly skies contrast the golden hues. The temperature is just right... Sweater-weather.
Cinnamon and cloves and all things pumpkin dance through the crisp air. Autumn just smells warm and inviting. Like homebaked apple pie. Gingerbread latte. Chai tea. Chicken tortilla soup.
But mostly, I love autumn for its symbolism. The vibrant colors come alive in the process of dying. Leaves fall. Days grow shorter. The dark, overcast, cold days of winter are slowly creeping upon us. But the trees don't surrender without a statement.
Even in the dying—of dreams, of hopes, of relationships, of seasons—there is still beauty. There is beauty in the brokenness. In the transition. In the change.
The new life of spring actually begins with the dying leaves of autumn.
And the leaves' final shout of stunning color helps me to never forget.
What's your favorite season? Why?
commitment precedes clarity
One of the biggest myths of our generation is that we need clarity in order to commit. Before we pull the trigger, we first want answers to all our questions. We want a complete road map. We want to read the fine print before we sign our lives away. We want confident periods not uncertain question marks. We want to fully know what we're getting ourselves into. We want surety before we take a step. And until we get all that, we wait...
We blame our lack of commitment on a lack of clarity.
But it's a myth that knowing more would make it easier to say yes. It's a lie we tell ourselves so that we feel better about doing nothing.
If I knew when I boarded the plane for Africa at 19, all that awaited me there, I never would have gone. If I could've seen the roadmap of hills and deep, dark valleys, I would have stayed Stateside.If I could have imagined all the heartaches and challenges that I would have to endure in order to embrace the victories and successes, I would have cowered in the corner crying.
Details paralyze more than uncertainty does.
If we wait until we have it all spelled out, that's no longer faith-driven commitment -- that's just executing a plan. Commitment must be laced with doubt and hesitation and mystery.
Commitment, in its truest form, requires ambiguity.
Think of Abraham. "Leave your country, your family, and your father's home," God said, "for a land that I will show you."
Without even knowing where he was going or how he would get there, Abraham left. Courageous commitment lined every footstep he left in the rugged soil, stepping away from the known into the land of the unknown.
What's that thing scratching on the corner of your heart? What is that quiet nudge you continue to feel? What's the passion that keeps rising to the surface? Whatever it is... Stop waiting for all the answers, for certainty, for assurances.
Commitment precedes clarity every single time.
So pull the trigger. Say yes. Jump off the cliff. Send that email. Start the conversation. Take the step.
The courage lies in doing it afraid.
beautiful feet
"How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!" As a missionary, I heard that verse often. People spoke it to me, wrote it in cards, sent it in framed pictures. It was a promise, to me, of beauty in messy places.
My feet walked the dusty dirt roads of Qwa Qwa, South Africa.
They stepped into dirt-floor homes, made of one room and filled with families of 12. Or more. My feet sat me down, cross-legged, to hold precious HIV-infected little ones, too weak to lift their heads, too numb to smile. My feet carried me to my desk (because, you see, I was {mostly} an office missionary), up the hill to my class (to teach a room filled with young beautiful feet), to the shops in my tiny town (where people knew me as that "Yankee girl").
My feet held me as our property raged with a wildfire, as a twister ripped the roof off my house, as the floods broke through the dam wall and filled the landscape. My feet held me as I held others, going through storms of their own, mostly of the invisible kind. My feet took me to Africa, and my feet took me back to the States.
And here I sit, nestled comfortably on the couch, and I wonder where the beauty has gone...
I wonder if an ex-missionary's feet are only beautiful in past tense, or if there could be some glimmer of redemptive beauty that still remains.
What do beautiful feet look like after failure, after shattered dreams, after hope dried up? What does it mean to bring good news in my everyday ordinary life when there are no babies to rock, classes to teach, people asking about Jesus?
I throw back the last sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, and the dam wall breaks...
Maybe the good news is simply a kind word, a generous smile, a lingering hug. Maybe the good news is an honest conversation about my struggles and the grace that clings to me even when I can't cling to it. Maybe the good news is offering the gift of going second, letting others know they aren't alone. Maybe the good news is found in "I don't know"s rather than fabricated answers, in "You are loved"s because it just needs to be said, in humble "I'm sorry, please forgive me"s from a sincere broken heart, in honestly grateful "Thank you"s that honor the gift and the giver.
Maybe the good news that He sees, cares, and loves is really found in someone feeling seen, cared for, and loved... by me.
And maybe, just maybe, beautiful feet are whatever vehicle used to deliver that good news. A spoken word. A thumbed-out text. A hand-hold. An understanding tear. A joyful laugh. A handwritten letter. A blog post. A not-letting-go hug.
Perhaps this ex-missionary still brings good news, and perhaps my feet are found by Him to be beautiful still.
And maybe that verse still stands as a promise of beauty in messy places.
God is good
My friend and fellow Deeper Story writer, Seth Haines, wrote a post recently that really resonated with me. He wrote about the unintended double-edged sword of proclaiming God's favor. "I’ve heard the creeping theology of prosperity in the averted tragedies of others. They spill wonder-filled, mystical stories, recounting God’s graciousness in piecing together the impossible jig-saw puzzles of life."
You need to read his entire post to really get it. The comment I left there ended up being long enough for a post of its own, so I figured I'd share it here as well.
... ... ...
I have found myself in the wrestling ground of this very issue for the past few years. I haven’t even been able to find words for what I’m grappling with, and I certainly haven’t come to any answers or conclusions.
But having walked through infidelity and then divorce, while surrounded by countless others whose infidelity journey (thankfully) ended in restoration/reconciliation, I am left with a pit-in-my-stomach feeling over my former position on the favor and goodness of God. Because as much as I’ve heard the seemingly careless remarks, I know I’ve made them in my lifetime as well.
“God is so good, and our marriage is better today than it ever was before.” “By God’s grace, we caught it in time and they got all the cancer.” “God is so faithful, and provision was there right when we needed it.”
Sometimes the provision doesn’t show up—sometimes the bills don’t get paid and the ministry God had clearly started is forced to close its doors. Sometimes the healing doesn’t come—like my beautiful, faith-filled friend who passed away last year or the chronic pain I live with daily. Sometimes the marriage doesn’t get restored—sometimes he really leaves to begin a new “happily ever after” with the other woman.
So do those outcomes mean that God isn’t good or faithful? Do they negate His grace or His love or His kindness? I know that they don’t. Because I know I can’t trust the God who gives without also trusting the God who takes away. He is one and the same, and His goodness is in anything His hand extends (and even in what it withholds). I know that He is both good and sovereign. The challenge lies in believing He is both of those at the same time.
I know that my gut-level cringing reaction to those seemingly flippant remarks about God being good when His favor is evident says more about me than the one who says them. Because I know they don’t mean them flippantly and I know they are right that God’s goodness is evident there.
The gritty sandpaper grating I feel inside is because I’m left wondering if I could say the same thing had the outcome been opposite. Or really, it’s because I’m left fully aware that I haven’t always done so. Even now, can I honestly and truly say I believe God’s grace, goodness, and faithfulness is evident in the way things turned out in my marriage? Maybe evident isn’t the right word. If “faith is the evidence of things not seen”, then I need to believe His goodness is there even if it isn’t evident.
And so I wrestle.
He is good. And He is sovereign. And both are displayed when the protection, provision, healing, and restoration shows up. And both are displayed when it doesn’t.
Lord, I believe. Help me overcome my unbelief.