This month is a month of one-year anniversaries for us. One year since I felt like my world fell apart. One year since I started walking through this dark providence. One year since God rescued me. One year since we experienced our quick and traumatic move to America. One year since saying good-bye to dear friends. One year of being a single mom. I have cried more during this past year than I ever thought possible. But I was thinking recently, that rather than marking my days of sorrow, I should rather mark them under God's grace. Afterall, I have one year of seeing God's faithfulness. One year of the comfort of the Holy Spirit being poured out in ways I had never known were possible before. I have more than 365 mornings that God has literally lifted me out of bed and set me on my feet. He has pushed me through every day, seen every tear, provided for every single need, given me every ounce of strength needed. And not only that, he has given us a measure of healing. Restored some joy. We have seen, especially in the last month or so, the sun start to peek out again. He has allowed my trauma brain fog to be lifted and a measure of restored hope that I will indeed "look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." (Psalm 27) I've come to the conclusion that marking God's time is more beneficial than marking my own days of sorrow. It encourages me keep the eyes of faith which see God and say, "He is enough." This picture is from the Entebbe airport parking lot. The big kids and I were struggling with a broken suitcase and weighing the luggage. And in that moment, the littles were struggling with broken hearts and the weight of all that was happening. But when I looked over at them, I knew that one day they'd be okay because in their own personal desperation, they had dug out their Bibles from their backpacks and were soaking in the Psalms while they sat waiting for us to finish.
One year later, I can say that God has never failed us. No, not once. The pain has been intense, but so has his love. I have one more big day that is coming that I'm still struggling to see my way through: May 27 --what would have been my 20th wedding anniversary. I'm asking that you please pray for strength to walk through it, that I'll keep my eyes on Christ, and that God will wrap his arms around me on that day, just as he has done so many times this past year. I have also seen this past year how he has continually used the prayers and love of his people to minister to my heart and this upcoming day just feels like a big one right now that I need a lot of prayer for. So thank you! "The Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth. He fulfills the desire of those who fear him, he also hears their cry and saves him." Psalm 145:18-19.
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"You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will be turned to joy." John 16:20
Sorrow is a strange beast. There are days when it is larger than life and seeks to completely consume me. Then there are other days when it is content to remain as a small dark shadow in the corner. The changing of the seasons, the social isolation, Easter, and the anticipation of the shortly coming days where "one year ago today..." will be heard, all mixed with no end in sight for these trials of mine has turned my sorrow into a roaring beast. Last night I felt content to sit with Good Friday. All of its hurt, pain, and death seemed to feel appropriate. Jesus gave the sign of Jonah to the Pharisees, and the sinking and crying out and seaweed wrapped around him and the darkness of his strange tomb was the place where the eyes of my heart wanted to settle. I can feel Mary's pain as she wept at the tomb where Christ was laid. She thought Christ had left her. The pain of losing the one who Loved her was palpable. But graciously, Christ placed his hand on my shoulder, just like he did for my weeping sister, and reminded me of his presence. He doesn't want me to sit with good Friday forever. After all, He didn't. On that resurrection morning He made the greatest exchange so that one day, my sorrow will forever be traded for joy. "You will have sorrow," he said and today it feels like an understatement. But he knows. He knows that sin always causes hurt. He knows that before life can burst forth, the most unimaginable pain must first be experienced. He knows that before a baby's beautiful cry is heard, a mother's painful cry will pierce the ears of those around her. Christ suffered to pay for our sin so that joy could come. He didn't avoid the suffering. He didn't try to diminish the experience of the suffering. He accepted it fully and then paid the ultimate price so that he could exchange our suffering for joy. I wish that the beast of sorrow would shrivel up and die altogether. I know that I will never experience a complete exchange of sorrow for joy here on earth, but I hear people saying that time will help, and I feel frustrated that time doesn't pass more quickly. But the Holy Spirit soothes my heart by reminding me again that the bright hope of heaven and all its future glory will give me the needed strength for today as I face these trials. And graciously, He reminds me that Love hasn't left me. Instead, Love has bottled my tears and recorded my hard ugly cry in his book. He has diminished my beastly sorrow to a more manageable size and comforted me with truth. Easter truth. Resurrection truth. Truth that dries my good Friday tears and replaces them with a joy-filled glimmer of hope. Ellizabeth Elliot once said, "In acceptance lieth peace." I've been pondering that quote lately. Aren't we all on a constant quest for more peace? Trauma brings continual temptations to freeze-up, run away or fight. The quest for peace can feel nearly impossible at times. Because really, how does one begin to accept the unacceptable? The sin, the shame, the pain: no one of God's daughters should ever have to face that. But here I am. Whether I like it or not, the unacceptable came. As I've pondered what it means to accept, I've come across three truths. I need to accept the dark providence that God has brought. The unacceptable is a whole lot easier to accept when I acknowledge that it too, is from the hand of God. God's sovereignty runs deep. Everything is completely under his control...the good, the bad, and the ugly. If I say that this trial is not from God, then God has no power to stop it and if God has no power to stop it, then God ceases to be God. If I'm on a quest for peace, that would be a complete dead end. So, I trust the loving hand of my father God and accept what he has brought. I may not ever understand it on this side of eternity, but God's sovereignty, even in dark providences, remains a soft pillow to lay my weary head on. I need to accept the instability that continues. Trauma brings so much instability. Life becomes completely unpredictable. That instability can last a very long time. Instability piled on pain can feel like constant tectonic tremors that leave you expecting another big earthquake. And you constantly have in the back of your head the question of whether or not you'd actually survive the next big one. I'm a gal that really likes my day in and day out routine. But that is clearly not the kind of life God has called me to for this season. I continue to press in to the instability, accept it and try to roll with it, knowing I'm gripped by God's grace. I need to accept the time to rest in the particularly close shelter of the Most High. There were times in Uganda where I would take a boda (motorcycle taxi) to town, only to get caught out in a true African down pour. When it rains in Uganda, everyone immediately takes shelter and waits it out. The Ugandans are usually all chill under the shelters, laughing and talking and enjoying themselves, no thought given to the time. But inevitably my American self would be pacing on the inside: ready for the rain to stop so that I could go about and do what I wanted to get done. And as the rain slowed to a drizzle, I may or may not have, on more than one occassion, tried to convince a boda driver to get going: "oh Sebo, the rain is only small, small. Please, can we go?" (and I was usually responded to with, "oh mama, the rain is still falling" or a request for a higher fare. haha!) I was thankful for the shelter, but I was ready to get on with life. And so it is now. I am in a particularly close shelter. When a Christian goes through a deep trial, God pulls her in more than normal. As Christians, we always abide in God's shelter. But during such raging storms? The shelter becomes particular and full. This is God's grace to suffering believers. And I am so thankful to be in God's close shelter because I know I'm safe, cared for, and loved, but at the same time part of me still fights back: I don't want to be in this shelter because it means the rain is still falling and the war is still raging and hurt still comes. Acceptance means being content with the storms raging and letting God keep me in his close shelter for as long he wants. I'm learning to accept this season and the grace that it brings. So there it is. Three things to accept when the unacceptable comes: dark providences, instability and the continuing need to stay in God's close shelter. Rather than freezing, fleeing or fighting while experiencing trauma, we can focus on what we can accept. Then even the painful stories can become more fully a part of the one Great Story and we can find peace to rest in. These were Benaiah's ducklings in Uganda who reminded us, while we watched them grow, to rest deeply in God's care. Despite all the threats to their fluffy little lives from dogs, cats, snakes and rats, they waddled around without a care in the world.
We have been crazy busy this past week unpacking because our container came from Uganda! We are so so thankful to have all of our worldly belongings back. We only had about 24 hours after we realized that we would not be back to Uganda any time soon before we left Mbale. Since emotions were running high, we weren't even really thinking well. We moved a few things around, threw in our photo albums, but otherwise we took what we had in our suitcases and left. Nothing in the house was packed up and honestly, I wasn't even sure if we'd ever see our things again. This container has surely been God's grace to us: a sure sign that he cares for us tenderly and meets us in our weakness. This past week has been yet another week of being content to live in paradox. We are so thrilled to have our things, but grieving heavily again, as the Uganda chapter of our lives is officially at an end. We're left with memories in our heart and quite a bit of African dust on our books. I am so grateful to our team for doing the hard work of packing up someone else's belongings and organizing for and packing the container. I'm also thankful to the head office of the Orthodox Presbyterian Church for their kindness to us in shipping the container. We have been loved so well by so many people. Seven years ago, we got an empty container delivered to our house in Oregon, to pack up our lives and take them to Uganda. The kids were so excited about the adventure that awaited them. I thought they were so brave! Now we're back. Those same kids are facing a whole new adventure. Now, I know that they are incredibly brave. It takes so much courage to walk the path they've walked and hold on to joy and hope like they have. I'm more proud of them now than I ever have been before. Please keep praying for us as we continue to walk through so many adjustments. The latest adjustment is that I have moved from working part-time at our Christian school to full-time. I'm so very thankful for the work, and I'm thankful that God has eased us slowly from the "homeschool mom" life to the "working mom" life. The three littles are doing well in school. The four middle ones that are still homeschooling are able to come to school with us and do their schoolwork from there. It has been so wonderful to be able to connect multiple times during the day. The oldest ones that are doing dual enrollement have their own crazy typical college schedules that they are enjoying for the most part. God continues to guide us one step at a time. I have had to force myself not to think too much on the future as I get too overwhelmed, but when I see how God has taken such amazing care of us thus far, I know he will around the corner too.
Some mornings I still wake up angry. I never quite know how much is righteous and how much isn't, so I prefer to put it all to death through prayer. I continually pray for protection from bitterness settling in as a squatter. I don't want to wake up five years from now and have bitterness claiming squatters rights in my heart, so I aim to push him out every time I see him. This morning these unwelcomed guests came rolling in with full force.
"How can one man make choices knowing how profoundly they would detroy the one he claimed to love?" Bitterness tries to lay a rough blanket down. Anger sets his luggage in the corner. "Oh God, he's destroyed my life." "No," speaks the tender Father, as he picks up the blanket and luggage to push them back out. "Only I have that power. No man does." "But I don't like this story! It's awful!" "It's not a story, it's merely a chapter" He reminds me, as the soft, tender comfort of the Holy Spirit is spread out on the table with his beautiful china and soothing tea. "Your story isn't finished. This chapter is a dark and terrible one, but it won't define the book. I'm the one writing the book. I'm the one that writes the ending. I'm the one that decides what kind of story this is. Only I have that power. It's not his to take. Trust me." And so, in the light of His power, Bitterness gets up to leave and takes Anger with him. I am suddenly once more aware of another familiar guest at the table. It is Grief. But Grief will remain as a welcome guest at the Holy Spirit's table until she decides on her own to leave. I know that she won't claim squatters rights. While she will probably stay for a few more nights, one morning I'll wake up and at her place will be joy. The story maker has promised. "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." Psalm 30:5 |
Behold, I am doing a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19 Archives
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