waiting

December 16, 2019

When Your Belief Breaks

Sometimes people assume that faith is a crutch, a sign of weakness. But I would venture to say that believing in something you can’t see is actually an act of strength, courage, heroism even. Cynicism comes cheap and easy. It doesn’t require vulnerability. It doesn’t leave your heart tender and exposed. Cynicism is the easy road.

But faith? That’s another matter altogether.

When I was waiting and hoping for God to bring a baby into our family three years ago, I chose believe as my word for the year. A friend gave me a bracelet with the word etched into it, and I wore it all year. I’m not sure I ever arrived at whole-hearted belief, but wearing it felt like a promise, a down payment, something I was trying to live my way into.

After Graham was born, I passed the bracelet along to a friend who was trying to cling to belief herself. She wore it too, and God did a miracle in her life—both the internal kind and the big-answer-to-prayer kind. Then one day recently as we were praying together, she said, “I think it’s time for you to have this back.”

I blinked away tears as I fastened the familiar clasp. I’d been trying to believe again—for another miracle, another baby. But my belief felt fragile at best, and at times, nonexistent. It seemed too dangerous to put my heart out there to be hurt again. What if God said no? Could our relationship sustain that kind of disappointment? Wouldn’t it be safer not to hope, not to ask?

I found myself choking on the prayers, swallowing the words before they could make their way out. But every morning I fastened the bracelet, and that act itself felt like prayer.

Until one day when I was washing my hands, and without warning, the bracelet broke, clattering onto the cold tile floor. I’m sure there’s a rational, scientific explanation for what happened. But heaven help me, I’m a former English major, so instead my mind swirled with literary terms. Surely this was symbolism. Or foreshadowing. Or metaphor.

My belief is too flimsy.
My belief is broken.
My belief is damaged beyond repair.

But as I read the Christmas story through the lens of someone who is trying to believe, I find I’m in good company.

Zechariah said, “How can I be sure?”
Mary said, “How can this be?”
Joseph decided to divorce her quietly.
The shepherds were terrified.

It appears that God doesn’t choose those with the most rock-solid faith. He doesn’t pick the ones who are sturdy, immovable, fearless.

He chooses ordinary people—ordinary people who serve an extraordinary God. Because our faith doesn’t depend on how hard we hope or how firmly we believe; our faith is built on the One we believe in, the object of our belief. The ground doesn’t become less solid if we doubt it will hold us.

And so as we find ourselves in the season of miracles, the season of the impossible, I want to choose the vulnerable road of belief. Will you join me?

A waiting person is someone who is present to the moment, who believes that this moment is the moment.
Henri Nouwen

If there’s something you are daring to entrust to God in the year ahead, please let me know—I would be honored to believe on your behalf.

***

Postscript: Between the writing and posting of this blog, my servant-hearted husband fixed my bracelet. I have a hunch there’s a metaphor somewhere in there too . . . something about how belief is not a solo activity but a communal venture. Thank you, Daniel, and thanks to all the people who believe alongside us.

August 24, 2017

Waiting like a Mother

It seems to me that waiting well is like walking on a train trellis. (Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you, but the visual seems apt.)

Step too far in one direction, and you’re liable to fall into the ditch of obsessing over what you’re waiting for. You become so enmeshed in that one thing that you lose sight of the people around you and essentially stop living your life.

But step too far in the other direction, and you’re bound to step into the pit of a calloused heart. You end up stuffing down that thing you so desperately desire. You numb yourself, all but forgetting that you made to long for more.

It’s just so hard to keep our feet planted in the sweet spot in the middle.

I’m waiting right now. Waiting for contractions, waiting for labor to start, waiting for go-time. I have been in seasons of waiting before, but in the past these seasons have felt less defined. I didn’t have any way of knowing when I was getting near the end of the waiting—or if I would get the thing I was waiting for at all.

But now, as I’m 11 days past my due date, I find myself in the surreal place of hitting the day I was counting down to and not knowing where to go from here. (That said, I’ve never met a permanently pregnant woman, so I’m confident this will end at some point.)

I don’t know how long I have left for this particular brand of waiting, but I don’t want to waste it. I want to enjoy the anticipation of wondering what’s ahead while also savoring the right-now.

The truth is, we’re all waiting for something. No matter what we’re waiting for in this life, we’re ultimately waiting for something we long for more deeply than anything else: to be united with Christ. We aren’t alone in this—in fact, “all creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.”

We are waiting for a different world, a better world . . . a world where there’s no sorrow and no sin and no suffering. A world where we’ll be united with the one we’re waiting for.

What if I could wait for Jesus the same way I’m waiting for this baby? What if I could be ready at any moment, with my bags packed and my phone numbers ready, but at the same time living my life fully? What if I could watch for the signs of go-time with as much anticipation, knowing that although there will be pain, the joy will be so worth it in the end?

One thing I do know about both kinds of waiting: we’re one day closer than we were yesterday.

Hope can feel unbearable; when we passionately long for what we do not have and it is taking too long to come, we are restless as a farmer waiting for rain after an August without a drop. . . . Any hope, no matter how thin it gets, is better than no hope at all. . . . Still, even if having hope is one hundred percent better than not having it, living by hope can get awfully wearying.
Lewis Smedes

June 16, 2017

A Father’s Tender Love

Mama Robin has been building a nest in the pine tree beside our driveway again. For weeks, Daniel and I watched as she tirelessly collected twigs and string and who-knows-what-else to line her nest. One warm evening in April, as Daniel played his guitar on the front stoop, I was delighted to see her flitting away in search of the juiciest worms to feed to the little heads peering over the edge.

It felt like spring. Like hope. Like new life.

Then one windy May afternoon, not long after another doctor’s appointment where they poked and prodded and scanned me and the little life inside me, I pulled into the driveway to a horrifying sight. One of those tiny baby robins lay on the driveway, motionless. The wind had tossed it out of the nest before it was ready to fly.

Even on a good day, a sight like this would be enough to make me teary. But in this agonizing season of waiting to find out what will happen to our own precious baby, it was almost enough to undo me. I pulled into the garage as quickly as I could and tried desperately to think of something else—anything else.

This, I might add, is the real danger of being an English major. It’s not the common warning people gave me when I was in college: that I’d never get a real job and would end up perpetually waiting tables or otherwise underemployed. As it turns out, the more pressing problem is that I see everything in my life through the lens of literary analysis. Case in point: Surely this is foreshadowing! Or at the very least, symbolism! Something dreadful is going to happen in the next chapter, and this is how I’m being prepared for it! My life might as well be a suspense novel, for all the clues and meaning I infuse into the smallest scenarios.

The next morning I went outside, dreading the prospect of seeing the tiny bird again. But to my surprise, the driveway was clear.

“Daniel . . . was that you?” I asked.

Sure enough, he knew the sight would break me into a thousand pieces, so when I was otherwise occupied, he quietly removed all traces of the little bird. I hugged him tight, grateful for his tenderness.

“This wasn’t the first time,” he admitted.

Apparently he’d found a similar scene on several other occasions and had removed the evidence so I wouldn’t have to register the trauma.

The English major in me swooned. Because in that moment I realized I wasn’t living in a suspense novel; I was living in a love story. Sure, it’s not what you’d expect in a typical romantic comedy, and it’s not always what I imagined love would look like when we said our fresh-eyed vows almost six years ago. But it’s real. Because sometimes love means scraping away a bird carcass to protect the one you love.

In that moment, I felt double love for this man—for the husband he is and the dad he’s going to be. Our child hasn’t been born yet, but already he has the tenderness of a father. And in his eyes I see a reflection of the tenderhearted love of the Father himself.

Not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.
Matthew 10:19-31

We don’t know what life holds for this baby of ours. But I know for certain that this child is loved and protected by the love of two fathers: an earthly father and a heavenly one. And when the winds of life blow, this child will not fall without those fatherly arms stretched wide to catch him.

May 25, 2017

The Scene of a Miracle

Have you ever been up close to a miracle before?

Maybe you’ve been on the receiving end of a miraculous healing that only could have come as the result of divine intervention. Maybe you’ve experienced a reconciliation that would have been impossible on human terms. Or maybe you’ve witnessed something that simply couldn’t be explained by a natural phenomenon.

I’ve seen miracles before—some of them on a smaller scale, and others that played out in grand fashion. I’ve seen sunsets and majestic mountain scenes that had to have been crafted by a divine hand. I’ve seen hardened hearts transformed. I’ve seen trapped people set free. I’ve seen sick people made well.

And I’ve heard of miracles too—stories from friends and family members and strangers who have had God step in and intervene in some powerful way. I’ve heard their tales of miraculous transformation, and their faith has made mine stronger.

As intangible as faith usually is, miracles bring faith to life through our senses—God breaks through the door of heaven and allows us to see or hear him in a more concrete way than we usually do. (That said, I’m not sure I’ve smelled or tasted a miracle before, although my grandmother’s cinnamon rolls come close.)

I may have seen and heard miracles before, but I can say this for sure: I’ve never felt a miracle.

Until now.

Now, for the first time, I’m experiencing a miracle from a whole new perspective. I find that my body is the very scene of a miracle.

Somehow, some way, there is a miracle growing inside of me—moving inside of me, kicking inside of me (maybe even doing pirouettes inside of me, the best I can tell). I didn’t create this life; I’ve merely been chosen as the setting for this child to grow.

As much as I do my best to create a safe, healthy place for my baby—curbing my coffee addiction, scrupulously skipping the blue cheese, making sure I don’t lift anything heavy—ultimately I play a small role in this miracle.

God is knitting this tiny person together, and I have the privilege of not only seeing it or hearing about it but actually feeling the miracle inside my body.

This pregnancy has had its share of bumps and scares, but regardless of the outcome, I don’t want to forget that this is a miracle—a nine-months-in-the-making miracle that is getting bigger and more miraculous by the day.

And here’s something I’ve learned about miracles along the way: like the fluttering kicks of a baby, they aren’t always obvious right away. They don’t always announce themselves with dramatic fanfare. Sometimes they start small and bashful, just waiting for us to quiet our hearts to notice them. And be grateful for them.

Maybe you are looking for a miracle right now. Maybe you’ve been waiting and longing and praying for so long that you are weary, almost scared to keep hoping.

If this is you, please don’t give up. You may very well be the scene of a miracle yourself. And that miracle may be starting even now, with the smallest of flutterings within your own heart.

I have always imagined miracles to be like loud shouts. Like trumpet blasts. But they are secretive. They are more like deeply buried seeds. . . . Always, God is tugging us toward resurrection, tugging us and this whole weary, winter world toward new life. But the way is dark. The road is long. The path is quiet. It is paved with hunger.

Christie Purifoy, Roots and Sky

December 16, 2016

Waiting with Joy

One year ago, exactly, I was waiting for a phone call. I was ready, bursting with anticipation, my phone glued to my hip all day and all through the night. My sister was expecting her second baby, and the plan was for Mom and me to jump in the car as soon as we got the call. We’d make the two-and-a-half hour drive so we could watch big sister Addie while her mom and dad were in the hospital.

It was an Advent like no other, waiting for this baby son to come into the world.

Oh come, Oh come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear

The call came at 2:00 a.m. in the dark quiet of a snowy morning. I leaped out of bed before the second ring. “It’s time,” my sister said. “We’re headed to the hospital.”

After all the waiting, all the expectation, all the hope, it was time. This long-awaited baby was coming.

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

The arrival came with pain, to be sure. But when Baby Grant came into the world, there was indeed much rejoicing.

This Advent I found myself waiting again. But this time, instead of waiting for a birth, I was waiting for a death.

Once again I kept the phone beside me night and day, waking and sleeping. But this time my heart weighed three hundred pounds each time the phone rang.

My grandfather had lived a good life. He was a man of the greatest generation—a hard worker and a man of quiet but deep faith. He never would have abided my saying so, but he was a hero: first as a B-17 pilot over Europe during World War II and then as the faithful father to twelve children. He had been married to my grandma for almost 71 years—a lifetime in itself. His was quite a legacy: a legacy of faithfulness and wit and wisdom and love and dozens upon dozens of people who share his name.

And now he was ready to go home. I kissed his cheek last Sunday, aware that it would likely be the last time on this side of heaven.

I knew it was time—we all did. And yet somehow 94 still seemed too young. God has planted eternity in our hearts, which means that death always comes too soon. We are made for life, not death.

Oh come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Thy people with Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death’s dark shadows put to flight

The call came one evening after dinner, and somehow I missed it. I must have been in the basement, throwing a load in the wash. My dad’s voice was on the message: “I have good news and bad news,” he said. “It’s bad news for us, because we’ll miss him. But it’s all good news for him.”

At Advent we celebrate the gift of Emmanuel. God with us, to comfort those who mourn in lonely exile. God with us, to disperse the gloomy clouds of night. God with us, to put death’s dark shadows to flight.

As we inhabit this weary world, we grieve and we wait and we ache. But we also rejoice, because death isn’t the end of the story. The pangs of death make way for new life—the kind of life that never ends.

Until then, we wait. And we wait with joy.

God with us. Us with God. Emmanuel.

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

November 15, 2016

Backdoor Blessings

autumn Sometimes God shows off when he’s answering your prayers. He comes straight through the front door—bold, undeniable, in your face.

You knock, and the door opens.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.
Matthew 7:7

Other times you pound on the door of heaven—asking, begging, pleading for a miracle. You plant yourself on his doorstep, vowing not to budget until you get the answer you came for. You stay the night, alternating between shouting loud enough to wake the neighborhood and whispering your desperation through the keyhole.

He told you to knock, so you knock.

He told you to ask, so you ask.

For healing.
For a job.
For love.
For a child.
For a way out of the darkness.

And sometimes you get the storybook ending. The front door flings wide open. Prayers are answered. Miracles happen. Dreams are fulfilled. Hopes are quenched.

But there are other times when the front door remains firmly shut. Day after day passes, followed by night after silent night. Your knocking seems to go unheard—or unheeded. Before long your voice is hoarse and your arms lack the strength to even reach the door knocker.

Spent and prayerless, you slump on the front porch.

***

My friend Mary moved from the Midwest to Florida several years ago to become a full-time caregiver for her mother, who was suffering from dementia and could no longer live alone. She was glad to be able to help her mom after her mom had done the same for her, but she missed her job and her friends back home. The homesickness for the Midwest struck particularly in the fall. I wish I could see some fall colors, she thought wistfully one October day.

That evening, at the end of a long day of caring for her mother, their role reversal becoming more evident with each passing day, Mary took a rare moment to stand on the balcony. Before her eyes the sunset sky was filled with the colors of home—sugar-maple red, poplar yellow, feisty orange.

It wasn’t the beauty she’d been looking for, but it was beautiful. It was enough.

Sometimes God’s answers come through the back door.

He heals a soul instead of a body. He doesn’t remove the darkness; he reminds you he’s in it with you. He says no, but he says it in love. He sends a fall scene in the unexpected from of a sunset.

Whatever it is you are knocking about today, know that the blessing will come. The answer will come. But don’t forget to check the back door too.

July 22, 2016

Friday Favorites for July

friday_favorites_header1

Happy Friday, everyone! Here are a few of my recent favorites, from boss lady friends to Sharpie art to the power of love. Enjoy!

For anyone aspiring to write a book (even if it’s just in your head) . . .

If you wrote a book about your life, who should record the audio version? Take this quiz to find out. Who Should Voice Your Bio’s Audiobook

For anyone who is facing a big decision . . .

Emily Freeman tells you how to find (and become) a good sounding board: “If you’ve ever felt stuck with a big decision you have to make, it helps to have people in your life to help you process that stuff. You need a boss lady friend.” How to Find a Boss Lady Friend

For anyone who loves to doodle . . .

This video shows you how to make perfect serif fonts with a simple Sharpie. 1 Sharpie, 26 Letters

For anyone who wonders if love can last when things are hard . . .

Alia Joy writes beautifully about the hospitality of love: “We’ve made a life here, and love doesn’t get easier but it gets closer.” Loving Like It’s New

For anyone who wonders where God is in the midst of suffering and waiting . . .

This post by Tessa Afshar is a lovely reflection on the heartache and beauty of waiting: “The suffering of the human soul is grave and brutal enough to break even the hardest stone.” How Words Have the Power to Transform Our Histories

May 4, 2016

10 True Things for Those Who Wait

My niece, waiting for her daddy to come home

As I look around lately, I see so many people I love waiting for something close to their heart. Waiting for a house to sell, waiting for medical results to come back, waiting for a dark cloud to lift, waiting for a long-desired prayer to be answered.

And as Mother’s Day approaches, it seems to me that the holiday can trigger the ache of waiting in particularly poignant ways, especially for those who are waiting for a child to join their family, or for those who are waiting for a child to return home, or for those who long to see their moms again in heaven.

If you find yourself in a waiting season right now, here are 10 true things you should know.

1. Waiting is an act of courage. If you are waiting, believe me: you are brave!

Wait patiently for the Lord. Be brave and courageous. Yes, wait patiently for the Lord.
—Psalm 27:14

2. Waiting can make a person weary. But you are stronger than you know.

Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.
—Isaiah 40:31

3. God is not oblivious to your waiting.

As for me, I look to the Lord for help. I wait confidently for God to save me, and my God will certainly hear me.
—Micah 7:7

4. When you feel like you can’t wait any longer, there is hope.

I am worn out waiting for your rescue, but I have put my hope in your word.
—Psalm 119:81

5. There are special blessings for those who wait.

The Lord is a faithful God. Blessed are those who wait for his help.
—Isaiah 30:18

6. Your waiting doesn’t mean God has forgotten you.

The Lord is good to those who depend on him, to those who search for him. So it is good to wait quietly for salvation from the Lord.
—Lamentations 3:25-26

7. Even in your waiting, you’re not alone.

Lord, be merciful to us, for we have waited for you. Be our strong arm each day and our salvation in times of trouble.
—Isaiah 33:2

8. Talk to God about your waiting. He delights in listening.

Listen to my voice in the morning, Lord. Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.
—Psalm 5:3

9. It is possible to wait well.

I will climb up to my watchtower and stand at my guardpost. There I will wait to see what the Lord says and how he will answer my complaint.
—Habakkuk 2:1

10. Your waiting is making you beautiful.

If we look forward to something we don’t yet have, we must wait patiently and confidently.
—Romans 8:25

***

What are you waiting for right now? I’d be honored to pray for you as you wait. To find out more about my story of waiting, you can read my book, I Was Blind (Dating), but Now I See.

I am giving away a flower delivery with this post! If you share this post, you’ll be eligible to win a flower arrangement . . . delivered to you or someone you love!

April 27, 2016

The Blooms You Didn’t Plant

daffs One dreary Sunday afternoon last month, when I found myself in an unaccountable funk, Daniel motioned for me to join him at the kitchen window. “I want to show you something,” he said. “You seem grumpy, and I think this will help.”

Grudgingly, I shuffled over to the window, not convinced that anything in the bleak backyard would shake me from my Eeyore-like state. My eyes followed where his finger was pointing, but I didn’t see anything un-grumpifying.

Then I looked harder. Was that a shoot of green amid the brown leaves and post-winter detritus?

I gasped. Could it be . . . ?

Daniel just grinned. Sometimes he knows me better than I know myself.

“Daffodils!” I squealed, loud enough for the entire zip code to hear.

Daniel and I moved into our new home last summer, which means this is our first spring here. I haven’t planted a thing, and the other surprises we’ve come across in the house so far haven’t exactly been pleasant ones, so it didn’t occur to me that there might be some mystery perennials in the garden out back.

But when I saw those brave little shoots sticking their heads out of the cold Midwest soil . . . well, it felt like hope you can see with your own two eyes.

***

Long before I met Daniel, when I lived alone in my townhouse, I planted daffodils one November with no shovel, only a dull kitchen knife for assistance. The ground was stubborn, but I was even more so.

I was in a funk that day too. I had prayed about one thing for so long, and I could see no sprouts of hope, no signs that spring would come. I wanted—needed—a tangible symbol of hope.

So I went outside and forced those dead-looking bulbs six inches under the ground.

And then I waited.

Sure enough, spring did come. And that thing I’d been praying for came true too, although in a different way and on a different timeline than I ever could have predicted.

And perhaps most shocking of all was the transformation that happened along the way. Over the course of the long winter, the bulbs transformed from shriveled-up turnipy-looking things into bursts of sunshine outside my window. And somewhere along the way, new life bloomed in my heart, too.

***

Now it’s April, and I marvel at the scene outside my kitchen window—at those clusters of golden, those blooms I didn’t plant myself. And it occurs to me that so often in my life I have benefitted from the perennials other people have planted. They dug deep and packed hope firmly into the soil, and now I bask in the fruits of their labor . . . sometimes long after they’re gone.

There are the parents who planted laughter and love and joy and perseverance.

There are the grandparents who planted faith and loyalty and hard work.

There are the teachers who planted books and words.There are the mentors who planted hospitality and grace.

And I wonder, what are we planting today for the people who come behind us?

They may never fully appreciate the sacrifice.

They may never say thank you.

You may never even meet them face to face.

But somewhere, on some April morning, the bulbs you planted will spring up, like shoots of hope, and those who come behind you will rejoice over the blooms they didn’t plant.

No winter lasts forever. No spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep. And we know it.
—Hal Borland

January 26, 2016

What’s Your Story?

books I have a secret to tell you about stories. Please don’t tell my publisher, though, because this could really wreak havoc on the publishing world. Here it is: We all have the same story.

Yes, the details are different in every person’s story. And we all have our own setting and characters and timeline. But the truth is, our basic plot is the same: We all flub up this thing we call life. And we all find ourselves in desperate need of God’s grace.

The backdrop of my book is that treacherous pastime we call dating. For me, the thing that broke me and brought me flat on my face was a season of singleness that stretched on much longer than I anticipated. That’s where God showed up and revealed his grace and love to me in ways beyond my wildest imaginings.

But as I’ve listened to your stories, I’ve noticed something. Although the specifics of your story may be different from mine, our gracious God is still the same. And he tends to reveal himself in similar ways, even if the details are different.

Maybe you’re not waiting for a husband, but you’re waiting for something else that is breaking your heart. Maybe you’re waiting for a job or a baby or a prodigal or healing. And God seems silent.
Maybe you, too, have one prayer that keeps tripping you up.
Maybe you, too, have had moments when it feels too dangerous to keep hoping.
Maybe you, too, have a desire for something that doesn’t seem any closer to happening than it was a year ago.
Maybe you, too, feel stuck when everyone around you seems to be moving on with their life.
Maybe you, too, know what it’s like to be lonely, afraid, or invisible.
Maybe you, too, have wondered where God is in the midst of your pain.

My book isn’t just about blind dates or being single; it’s about being knocked over by the love and grace of God. And that love and grace are available no matter what circumstance you’re facing.

So I’d like to hear from you. When has God shown up in an unexpected way for you? When have you been amazed by his grace, hemmed in by his love? I would be honored to hear your story.