Oceans

"We did not select you to proceed to the next stages of the application process." 

I rushed through the rejection email, convincing myself that if I deleted the email quickly enough, I could pretend it hadn't happened. No one would have to know. 

The speedy actions of my fingers on the keyboard didn't tamp out the sting I still felt. 
It was a remote job I had applied to - sort of on a whim, sort of because I was curious about it. Once they saw my resume and application, I was certain that I would be the one interviewing them for the job. 

But here I was, literally staring rejection in the face. Again. 

My new reality has stirred up a lot about identity, value, worth. 
I'm in an ocean of unknown territory. It's a new ocean, but it brings about familiar memories from days long ago. 

The waves come and, as they hit, they cause me to feel unwanted or inadequate. There is reprieve as they settle, but I know looming in the distance more are on the horizon. Sometimes they will sweep me up, toss me around, and I struggle to find my way back to the top of the surface where I remember that I can breathe and that I'll have better perspective. In the cartwheel of no oxygen, I scrape the bottom and my eyes sting with saltwater. For a moment, I feel like I'm drowning. 

In these moments, I often have gut-wrenching conversations with the Lord as I realize how easily I continue to equate my worth to productivity. Somewhere in me, I continue to believe that if I prove myself, I'll be more satisfied. Do this and you'll be something. You'll matter in this world. You'll have proven that you're capable, qualified, reliable. You'll have "arrived". 

It's a silly lie. But it's a real one. 
One that my rational, mature, intellectual self can recognize and battle. But in my weaker moments, on my weaker days, I can slip into lapses of self-defeat, self-doubt, self-loathing. This is the collision where my stroke fails at the very instant the wave breaks and I find myself upside-down, gasping for air underwater, eyes burning, wondering if this time I'll make it out unscathed. 

Sometimes it makes me fear the ocean. 
Sometimes it causes me to want to stay on the shore. The satisfaction of the water doesn't always feel worth being violently tossed to and fro. Sometimes, in my most fragile state, I can't bear the thought of entering into the abyss of the unknown... not knowing where I will land at the end of it all. It feels easier to stay where I know I'm safe. Or, at least, safer. 

But here I am. 
Facing a new ocean. A new reality. New fears. New dreams. And while I can generally be strong and courageous, there are instances where I really do wonder if I have enough in me to start over, to begin again, to make new friends, to find a new team, to face the chorus of rejection that generally comes when you put yourself out there. To come back to the surface after I eat sand at the bottom. 

And these are the conversations with God that remind me that my worth cannot be found in doing. I have had a to take a good, hard look at the mirror the last several months as process through the events in my life and in the world around us lately. 

There have been sporadic minutes between the baby's naps that I have chosen to avoid the mirror because I haven't wanted to give myself an honest look. Minutes where it's easier to scroll through social media and judge the myriad of opinions, comments, and controversy. Minutes where it's easier to stay up with the news -- learning about the latest coronavirus numbers, devastation, and impacts. But there are other minutes when I hop on the mower and I cannot escape. Here I realize that there is still pain and fear....there are still wounds that take time to heal. There are other minutes where I open Scripture and am ever-aware of God's promises, of His faithfulness throughout the entirety of mankind. Here I realize that I will be okay... this will be okay. That He will fulfill His purpose for me (Psalm 138). 

All too often I can convince myself that I am capable... on my own. Able to achieve, conquer, do anything, be anything... 

And then I am brought back to my knees, assured that my most vulnerable dependence brings a strength I cannot produce on my own. That the humiliation of the mirror transpires into a fortitude of faith that necessitates willingness, discipline, and courage. 

I wish I could scream that I am strong, able, and resilient. 
But I must confess that I am weak, scared, and dependent. 

There are many more conversations to be had between God and I, as He gently reminds me about who I am and, more importantly, who He is. And as I stand on the shore, scared to jump back in again, waiting for the waves to calm down... I marvel that He is so patient with my fears, my wounds, my insecurities. I am in awe of how He takes care of me, no matter how big the waves have been, no matter how unsteady I have felt. 

What kindness. 
What mercy. 
What love. 

Of this I am sure: I am not alone. 
This ocean will not swallow me. 

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Gratitude

The overarching feeling over the last week is: gratitude.

It’s been a crazy but slow, surreal but real, terrifying but calm kind of week. And while there were moments of despair, there were many more moments of doing what is needed, despite the pit growing in your stomach as the hours slog on without word... there were still reasons to be thankful, still reasons to smile. Sometimes that feels insane to me.

Because life still goes on.
Babies still cry.
Kids still need to eat.
And sometimes, somehow, the most significant thing in front of you isn’t whether your brother will live or die, but the diffusing of a brotherly quarrel. Or being present enough to be goofy and ridiculous and in the moment. To be safe and steady, so those around you don’t fall apart.

And as the clock ticked, as the waiting brought fear and the dread of the worst news possible... we were surrounded by a cloud of support and prayer. A local community who dropped everything to bring food, toys, wine... a kind neighbor with a miraculous bag of soccer balls... money coming in from faces of the past (sometimes even unknown faces - friends of family or friends)... texts, messages, notes of encouragement and thoughtfulness. A time when the world can feel so divided, but we have had the beautiful privilege of seeing and experiencing how united humanity can be. Gratitude. 

I’ve been ever aware of the things I don’t deserve. The things I’m not entitled to. The things that are a gift, each and every day. Breath. Life. Family. Health. Grace. Mercy. People who love, people who give... and ask for nothing in return. Gratitude.

When I was first considering coming to Massachusetts, I was plagued by a lot of uncertainty. While I wanted to be here to help, it initially meant leaving behind our baby, it meant risking coronavirus and potentially bringing it to my brother. But Kel requested to join me, along with our baby - which brought a set of more challenges. While it meant we would be together, it meant we would have 5 kids: a 7-year-old, two 6-year-olds, two babies (9 months and 10 months). It meant Kel couldn’t begin real estate and that a reliable income for us would get delayed. It meant my mom and dad would have to keep our giant dogs, the cat, and the plants alive while we were gone. It meant more people potentially more exposed, which meant a higher risk of bringing coronavirus with us. It meant disrupting barely established rhythms for Baby K.

But Kel said, “It’s better when we’re together”. We’re a team. He supports me, I support him. I’ve never been more grateful for his persistence in joining me... and maybe never been more humbled by his love for me. When you say your vows on your wedding day, you can’t possibly anticipate the bumps you’ll encounter along the journey. Kel has effectively loved me by loving my family in some of the most beautiful ways.

One of my brother’s biggest concerns was that his boys were going to have a miserable summer... dad with open heart surgery on top of a pandemic. Any chance of fun had been thrown out the window. But, introduce Uncle Kel and suddenly we have a Pokémon playmate, a superhero guru, a soccer coach, and man who laughs easily while also establishing boundaries. This uncle is also a man who graciously does the dishes, helps the boys make pancakes, changes the poopy diapers, sweeps the floors, plays with the babies— and uses the spare moments to complete assignments for his online college and do some onboarding for his new real estate job. A man who lets me weep in his arms, without trying to fix it or explain away the mysteries of life. A man who stepped instantly into fatherhood with love and selflessness. Gratitude. 

We have a lot to be thankful for. A lot that hasn’t been promised to us.

And the most striking part of this entire experience has been the way people love. True reflections of of Jesus in this world. I’m inspired to look more like Him because of the people around me lately... to be an unlikely giver, a selfless lover, a go-out-of-my-way caretaker, a postpone-my-plans to be present liver, a shut-up-and-listen speaker. A person who is moved by the Spirit in action, word, and prayer.

I know we’re all sifting through a lot right now. Processing grief. Responding to change. Defending what we believe is right and good. Searching for courage in the face of fear and the unknown. Clinging to the glimpses of hope in this world.

Not all is lost.
In the midst of despair, there always remains a reason to be thankful. A reason to smile. A purpose to this life. At my brother’s house, there is a framed writing that I’ve spent a lot of time staring at. It simply reads, “If you gave your life to love them, so will I.”

It cost Him everything.
For this broken humanity, God gave up everything. Even while we were His enemies. The gospel is unbelievable, unimaginable, unfathomable good news. How we respond means everything...

Thanks for reflecting Jesus to me/my family. For reminding me of the sacrifice, the cost, the selflessness that comes with love and the many different ways love can look. But love always costs something. Time. Words. Safety. Money. Pride. Comfort. Something. 

Hold your people closer tonight.
Say the things you want to say, even if they sound too sappy or out of nowhere. Even if it means you might be left exposed and vulnerable. Forgive the people who have hurt you... in case you run out of time. Ask to be forgiven from those whom you have hurt... in case you run out of time. Give, when that little prompting tugs at your heart- maybe in words, maybe with your time, maybe with money. Listen to those that are different than you. Show up. Watch the dogs. Mow the lawn. Water the plants. Consider what love has cost you lately.

Matt came home today. A miracle. A gift. Gratitude.

We will be in MA one more week as Matt and Megan ease into a new normal for the foreseeable future. Pray for Matt’s recovery to be swift and for Megan, as she handles the rest of the houses’ needs - it’s a lot. The church and local community here has been incredible, and for that, I am once again grateful to leave them in good hands.

Thank you, friends and family.
There are no other words.... but gratitude.