Resolution

Tomorrow morning Dylan starts a new job. I thought our separation would be a month long. The month is over. I wrote pleading with him to come home and help. And then the answer came.

I’m relieved. I’m tired.

When Dylan left for Idaho, he didn’t realize how much work there was to do. I didn’t either. The things we ignored scrawled across five pages. With the help of friends, five pages have whittled away to one double-spaced sheet, but before the check marks are finished a new list begins: packing.

Our tentative moving date is Labor Day weekend, three weeks away. Three weeks to paint and hammer. Three weeks to pack. Three weeks until I embrace my beloved. Three weeks to say good-bye…

The merging of endings and beginnings is uncomfortable. Sometimes I can’t wait to start the next chapter. These pages are heavy though. Trying to shut them strains my determination and my persistence. I want to just sit here with words spread around and peruse the reminders of all that has happened and all that we have imagined.

The climax of our decade in Texas has already been written though. I’m living in the dénouement, the resolution. May I finish strong with arms lifted toward Heaven praising God for all he has done.

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I hesitated to publish my last post, but your prayers encouraged me and your stories touched me. Thank you.

The Light in the Shadows

My stomach gnaws on worry. My mind races trying to beat the fears down with truth. I know we aren’t supposed to be anxious. I shared Proverbs 16:9 with a friend just last night:

A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps.

So why does it seem harder to trust God to direct someone else’s steps?

It’s been a long two years. My husband lost his job in 2007. Everything he’s done since then has been fits and starts. Temporary work, part-time jobs, continuing education classes. We thought provision had finally come.

On our trip to Idaho, he heard about a job driving from Southern Idaho to Seattle once a week. He applied. He was told to keep in touch. Then confirmation came, “When can you start?” Two weeks later, Dylan left.

He’s been training. But were words misunderstood or enthusiasm misread? Whatever the reason, the door slammed shut.

Now we grope along the wall looking for another opening. I long to escape this dim gray fog. I want to see where these steps will take us. The path behind this door seemed so perfect. So comfortable. I could paint and pack knowing the bills would be paid.

Plodding past hope still swinging on hinges, I try not to look back.  I must trust God to lead my beloved.

There is light in the eyes of Providence. He beckons us to continue walking, searching. He will open a door we don’t even know exists yet. He will expose the beauty in the darkness. He will reveal the other side of the glass.

Until then, the mist reminds me to look to the one who radiates the full spectrum and scatters my path with glimmers of the rainbow.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. (1 Corinthians 13:12)

Begins and ends with books: a photo essay and announcement

When we left on our trip, someone asked me if we were coming back. I grinned, “Of course, our books are here.”

We returned to Texas after our three week trip exhausted and road weary from trying to accomplish a bit too much.

The first day back from camp, my husband drove the kids to Shoshone Falls. Bug took photo after photo. He even made videos of the water tumbling over the rocks. His exclamations barely heard over the roar.

My brother lives in the valley below Mt. Borah, the tallest peak in Idaho. I enjoyed the drive so much I didn’t take a single photo until we were coming back down the pass.

While visiting a farm, we picked a few cherries and ate every one.

Dylan learned about a full-time job “just down the road,” so he drove through the twisted canyon to meet a man who might have work for him.

I plopped down on a floral sofa and discussed possibilities with my best friend‘s mom. When a van drove up, I realized it was more friends. I was delighted they happened by while we were there. Words spilled out as we tried to catch up. It didn’t take long for more questions to begin. They are moving out of their house.

Driving from Southern Idaho to the Washington peninsula gave Dylan and I plenty of time to speculate about our future. Would he get the job? Is it time to move back? We gnashed and prayed and hoped.

Visiting family made us pine even more to be near them. Introducing the girls to mountains, canyons, and ocean made us crave more memorable moments. We want to take them to the places we traveled, the places we enjoyed as children.

Yes, we did come back, and I immediately started culling the bookshelves in anticipation of the call that came on Friday. Dylan got the job! We are moving back to Southern Idaho! It is happening so fast, but in some ways it is years in the making.

We are going home with a purpose and a vision and a copy of Heroes of the Alamo and Goliad.

We Didn’t Want to Leave Camp

Three weeks living out of a minivan traveling the western half of America sounded fun when we started. Our trip was good in so many ways, but we are still a bit numb from the whir of the tires carrying us mile after mile all the way from East Texas to the Washington peninsula and back again.

When we finally got to Southern Idaho, we hugged our family and traveled up to the South Hills to help the students of Aletheia Christian College (formally Albion Christian College) with a children’s camp. I helped Sunshine and Sweet Pea out of the van while Dylan and Bug ran into the lodge. Whoops and hollers echoed into the parking lot. A reunion of friends.

Tucked away for four days from stores, cell phone service, and electricity. Lights powered by a generator. Hiking down the hill to the bathroom. And hiking up mountains to find hidden snow banks among the pine trees. Glorious views and lovely people.

I haven’t had the role of camp counselor in over a decade, yet it was easy for me to love these beautiful girls. I played with them, washed dishes with them, talked with them, and prayed with them. What a blessing!

I can’t share all that happened, because it is not my story to tell, but God is working in the lives of these precious children. I am honored to have a small part in that work. One girl told me I had to be her counselor next year or she wasn’t coming. (No pressure on me or anything.)

We weren’t exactly sure what our role at the camp would be. We questioned our hasty decision to go. Now we know the seemingly endless hours on the road were worth every bump.

Revealing Road Trip

My to do list whirls in circles. I’m not as good at impromptu road trips as I used to be.

The Trip

Responsibilities multiply with each child. So many individuals to care for and pack for. The pets need someone to watch over them too. Fish and dog cannot exist without food.

The list grows:

• Plan the route
• Call relatives and friends
• Email
• Laundry
• Start the pack stack
• Go shopping
• Clean the van
• Talk to Mom again
• Clean the house
• Dig out the suitcases
• Wrap up the tent
• Sigh and pray

Thursday we decided to travel to Idaho to help with a children’s camp. Spontaneous and crazy. And so much like our life a decade ago.

Dylan and I traversed the Northwest in our Volkswagen van before we came to Texas to attend a missions training school. The van was abandoned after our son joined us, but the desire to explore never left.

For two years, we’ve stuck close to home. Road trips have only taken us an hour or two away. Our neighborhood is our forest. Our backyard is our exposure to creation. Bugs and birds, caterpillars and toads remind us of the marvelous works of God. There are neighbors to love. Children to teach.

But why does my voice vanish when my friend asks, “Your heart is in Idaho, isn’t it?”

I miss the physical beauty of the majestic peaks and winding canyon, but perhaps there is more than the lure of clear lakes and hiking trails.

I think of my family and how much I miss them. I think of friends struggling in the cold desert. I think of the ideas planted in my heart while growing up there. Ideas about revival and liberty and hope.

I think of the investment we made reaching out to the hurting. It felt like it was in vain. The fruit seemed withered and dry. No amount of tears could bring it to life. Part of me died on the canyon rim overlooking the snaking river, a part I wasn’t entirely ready to give, but prayers dropped into that green valley were seeds. I don’t know if they’ve been able to grow in the rocky soil, but I do realize something I didn’t fully understand then: love is never in vain.

This trip may be the beginning of a return home, or we may continue drinking sweet tea in East Texas. No matter what happens, I know there is work to do. And by the grace of God, I will keep my hand to the plow planting seeds, dying to myself, no matter where I go.