{ Go East, Young Woman, Go East! }

 Before it becomes ancient history, I'd like to tell you about my road trip to Eastern Washington two weeks ago. It was my first week jobless, and I jumped at the chance to take a little more time than usual and visit my dear friend Anna, who lives 300 miles away. You can read Anna's blog here, but we've been friends since way before blogging. Like, our moms were pregnant with us together. Sometimes I call us fetal friends.

The first thing I did when I got to Anna's hometown was park in front of her house, run in and hug her, and head down the hill to meet my cousin Christy and my brother Joe for coffee. They both live nearby and this was the only time that worked out for us to see each other. {Aren't I a horrible houseguest, Ann?}

Joe, Christy and I had a great time catching up. There was a significant amount of girly talk, since Christy just got engaged, as well as a significant amount of mechanical talk, because Christy is taking some sort of let's-disassemble-and-reassemble-your-car's-engine-in-less-than-25-minutes college class that goes waaaaaaay over my head. She is clearly a very well-rounded young woman. ;-) It had been much too long since I'd last spent time with these folks, and it was so fun to chat!

I'll let you guess which is Christy and which is Joe in the photos below:

That wasn't too hard, was it?

It never feels like you get to spend enough time with friends who live far away, does it? Regardless, the time that we do have together is always so rich. I love just being able to do normal life with friends: grocery shopping, errand running, going to church and Bible study. Getting to know what their normal, everyday lives are like. Anna and I, and little Oliver, did all of those things during my time with them. Anna's husband Tim was present for a lot of it, too, but somehow I didn't get any photos of him. We cooked, we did laundry {oh did we ever do laundry...I'd like to take a moment to say that if you're ever about to shake up a bottle of oil and vinegar salad dressing, during Bible study potluck, in a complete stranger's house, in the presence of 20+ people you just met, please make sure the lid is securely attached to the bottle before shaking! Otherwise you may anoint yourself, the person standing next to you, and the kitchen with oil and vinegar salad dressing. THAT'S not awkward or anything. The silver lining is that I learned Anna's stain removal tricks and maybe she'll write a blog post about them someday.}, where was I? Oh yes, we did laundry, we watched girly movies, we ate delicious food...it was lovely.

 

Oliver's scrunchy faces kill me. He is such a little ham! The darlingest there ever was.

On Sunday afternoon we took a walk through a lovely neighborhood full of beautiful, stately old houses. I'm a sucker for old houses, so I thoroughly enjoyed myself!

Look at Oliver's feet go! He was happy to be out, too.

I'm so glad I was able to make this trip. In spite of missing Mike something fierce {4 1/2 days turned into a really long time, from that perspective!!}, it was a really special time spent with dear friends I don't see nearly often enough. Even the relationships where you feel like you're able to pick up right where you left off, no matter how long it's been, are worth the effort and investment of road trips and long weekends away from the comforts of home.

{ Tension }

I place so much value on productivity.

Like, soooooo much.

I am a person who thrives in structure and stability. As my friend Misha put it: "a system to create in and a process for enjoyment." That really captures the sort of structured freedom in which I work best. One of my preconceptions about becoming a stay-at-home-wife {SAHW} was that it would be an easy transition because I was homeschooled all my life 'til college. I'm familiar with being self-motivated and getting things done on my own and making priorities and accomplishing them. This'll be a piece of cake.

And yet, a couple nights ago, I literally had a fight with myself when Mike walked in the door after work. With every fiber of my being, I suddenly wanted to show him my to-do list for the day--what I'd accomplished, what I'd crossed off, how productive I'd been. I matter. I was alive today. I did XYZ and so it's okay that I don't work outside the home, look at all the important things I did! It was an abrupt and gut-wrenching desire for his validation and approval.

Do I matter, even when there is no paycheck attached to my activities, no nod of approval from a manager, no camaraderie with coworkers? When most people won't see or know what I do on a daily basis?

This morning I read an interview with Ann Voskamp in WORLD magazine. One sentence struck a deep chord in this feels-like-I'm-flailing heart of mine:

"A mother does eternal work in hidden, quiet places."

Hidden, quiet places.

Like home.

Hidden, quiet places are okay. Normal. Mike doesn't ask me to validate my day by producing a checklist of duties accomplished. He trusts that I will figure it out. I, in turn, trust that Jesus has it figured out and that by sticking close to Him, I am exactly where He wants me to be.

This word isn't just for mothers; it's for a young woman clinging to Jesus as her Rock in a world that has changed and shifted so much these past weeks.

There is a beautiful beach with a ferry dock about 10 minutes from our home. Yesterday was unusually sunny for November here in the Pacific Northwest, so after running errands I went down to the beach with a book to enjoy the beauty. Even before I went, I felt guilty. Why should I enjoy so much beauty while Mike is working in a cubicle? Shouldn't I go home and organize the storage closet while the weather's nice? This is a waste of time, really, and I'm afraid people already think I'm wasting my life now that I don't have a job, so I should really do something productive.

Ah, there it is. Fear of man, trying to rob me of gorgeous afternoon-gift from Jesus. I didn't listen. I bundled up and sat in the sunshine and read and laughed at the funny seagulls and soaked in the goodness of the moment. Today, as I look back on my rebellion against my old slavedriver, fear of man, I think of another quote from Ann Voskamp's interview:

"I preach the gospel to the person who needs to hear it the most: me. I need the truth of God's word, and to encounter afresh the grace of Jesus Christ...I will out-loud preach the gospel to myself. My children hear me quoting Scripture back to myself, giving thanks in situations, being very intentional about focusing on the Lord."

There it is. I need to preach the gospel--to myself. In these moments of uncertainty, when fear tries to grab the reins, I need to preach the gospel to myself. I need to nestle in closer to Jesus. I need to choose to believe what I know to be Truth, not what I am afraid of {or what I am afraid is truth}.

Some days, preaching the gospel to myself may just mean an afternoon at the beach, refusing to preach fear of man and pride and identity-in-works by instead saying "yes" to beauty, joy, peace, and a few hours of doing "nothing."

{ Promised Land }

What is your Promised Land?

The place you want to get to, no matter what? That tantalizing spot where you're sure life will be good?

My Promised Land is being a stay-at-home-wife. I have honestly never thought of this as being a problem--an idol--a false source of comfort, hope, security, and meaning {because I'm trying to find comfort, hope, security, and meaning outside of Jesus}. 'Til I reached my fantasy "Promised Land" and found it doesn't imbue my existence with meaning the way I thought it would.

I'm here: I'm a stay-at-home-wife. My job ended very unexpectedly on October 31st. I used to work for a company that had a contract for over 25 years with a local hospital. We were told, less than four weeks in advance, that the hospital chose not to renew their contract with my company. I won't go into the details, except to say that it was very abrupt and very short notice. My income isn't necessary for us to live, so we will be okay financially. I was going to start working three days a week in November anyway.

So now, twelve days into this grand stay-at-home-wife adventure, I'm knocking my head against the cold, hard wall of reality: This ain't no Promised Land. Don't get me wrong: I have an amazing, hardworking, understanding, supportive husband; a lovely home; life is good. The problem is that for years I've worshipfully looked forward to this season as my Promised Land: Flowing with milk and honey, free of a job and a pager and stress and worry. Plenty of time for homemaking and crafting and cooking and nesting and of course my health will be perfect and this season will be perfect. It will be my Promised Land. It is where I want to be, regardless of whether or not God is there. It will be completely satisfying and my life will be deeply meaningful in this season, regardless of whether or not Jesus is present, because the season is what matters. The season is my source of identity and hope and comfort and joy and meaning.

It sounds so yucky, so bloated with hollow pride, saying it that way. Yet that's what I've expected being a SAHW to be like. God, ever loving, knew that being a SAHW alone is not going to fulfill me. Only Jesus fulfills me. I am learning that, even through beautiful and unexpected gifts He's bestowed during the past two weeks:

a long trip to visit a dear friend on the other side of the state {photos coming soon!}

generous severance check from my employer, much more than we expected

sweet bonding time with Mr. Mike

a nasty stomach bug that has left me wiped out for 2+ days so far

Each day the truth is hitting a bit harder, a bit closer to my heart: Just being a SAHW isn't worth it. Isn't the culmination of my existence. Isn't the root of my fulfillment. Jesus' presence is the only source of joy, meaning, hope, and fulfillment in any season--including the stay-at-home-wife season. I've imagined that being a SAHW is the root from which all that is good in my life will flow. I see now that there is much good in this season--but the source of that good is Jesus. Jesus who was there with me when I worked full-time, Jesus who was there with me when I was a college student, Jesus who will be with me when I'm a stay-at-home-mom, Jesus who will be with me if I work outside the home in the future.

Jesus is my Promised Land.

That's God's whole point: to dwell with us! He created us for unbroken community with Him, but it was broken by Adam and Eve's sin. Jesus came to restore our community with God; but the full culmination waits for His second coming:

"Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be His people, and God Himself will be with them as their God." ~ Revelation 21:3

This is hard and I'm still just learning it, walking the edges of it, wide-eyed and grieved at my hardheartedness and pride. I'm hungry for Jesus' presence. I'm ashamed that I so easily wrote Him out of my picture of the ideal life, assumed that what really mattered was not having a job. I was eager to exchange His presence for stuff. In His great mercy, He hasn't let me get away with that.

Please dwell with me, Jesus. Every day. Amen.

{ Ugly-Beautiful }

Where to begin?

Deep breath. In. Out.

The sheer glory of autumn's splendor, the glad riot of changing leaves, is breathtaking. The majesty of the trees in their crimson, gold, and fire-orange garb never gets old, year after year.

On still nights, I can hear the nearby high school's marching band. I'd forgotten how much I love marching bands. I'd forgotten the time, years ago, that two friends and I went to a marching band contest/performance at Qwest Field, and how much I enjoyed it.

Crisp, clear autumn days, edged with fog, tinged with woodsmoke, call me to welcome the coming winter.

I am seriously tempted to buy a salted caramel latte every.single.day. Usually multiple times.

I give in to the above impulse more often than I should.

If you make P-Dub's mouthwatering chicken tortilla soup, please do not substitute flour tortillas for the corn tortillas the recipe requires. I did, because I was out of corn tortillas. In soup, pieces of flour tortilla transform into huge, slimy, nasty, disgusting squares of snot that taste like wet dough. Sooooo nasty. Do not do it.

Jesus is teaching me hard things. Mike and I are doing a sort of Bible study called Redemption Group. I am at a loss to put into words the work God is doing in my heart. Perhaps it's hard to describe because I'm still in the thick of it. He's opening my blind eyes to the truth--about Him and about me. I believe a lot of lies, about Him and about me. Here's a brief quote from my answer to one of this week's reflection questions: What false belief am I protecting?

I am not truly a sinner. I am not completely, 100% sinner to my core. I only sometimes (partially) need Jesus' forgiveness. I don't believe that my sins are truly SINFUL: I think they're excusable, understandable, ok, cute, funny; quirks, not evil. I don't understand myself to be evil.

I believe that I am good and I am worthy of glory and that my image is glorious. I not only think I'm on equal ground with God; I think I deserve to be on equal turf with Him. I believe God is in error when He says all (including me) have sinned and that my salvation is through Jesus alone. What?! Not through me?! I contribute! I contribute to my salvation! If God disagrees, it's because He refuses to look at my "evidence." Not only do I passively contribute (when I don't actively sin), I also actively contribute (when I do good things). Yes, I definitely help Jesus save me.

Oh God, how bitter this is! How full of bile and gall! Sick and twisted-ugly. I have built this shell for years: thick, hard, impervious (often) to conviction. So tight: suffocating, constricting, painful, death-causing. I don't want to face the truth that I am broken, bloody, bleeding, guts spilled, dying, filthy, wretched, covered in vomit and feces and urine, wallowing in the unspeakable horror of my self, NEEDING You to rescue me...so I spin myself a cocoon of lies, inoculate myself against the Holy Spirit with half-truths, spin tighter and harder and closer so I don't see, hear, feall the truth about me. And if I can blind myself to the truth about me--needy! broken! wretched! filthy! evil! NEEDY!!!--I can also blind myself to the truth about Your scandalous grace.

Disgusting? Yes. I'm sorry if that description is uncomfortable: Being confronted with my sin--that I am a sinner who daily offends a Holy God--is uncomfortable, to say the least. It's a new truth for me. Praise God for His pursuit of me, for the layers of sin and idol-worship and me-worship He's revealing and peeling off! It's like breathing deep when you didn't realize you were breathing shallow: In. Out. Relief.

I hope you are all enjoying autumn's splendor and that you can rest in Jesus' pursuit of you, leaning hard into His grace.

{ Weekending }

What are your plans for the weekend?

I have a scratchy throat, so I'm hoping for a sleep-in sort of Saturday morning.

"Sleeping in" is something I'm not very familiar with of late...at least not since last month when Sunday became a 5:00 AM alarm sort of day!

Next I'd like a few hours to read the next chapter in the Redemption Group book, browse Pinterest, and blog. It would be fabulous if someone could bring me a salted caramel latte, too.

via

My imaginary housekeeper would take care of the laundry {even folded and put away!}, clean the bathroom, vacuum, and do the dishes. This most beloved figment of my imagination would also fix a double batch of the Pioneer Woman's comfort meatballs so I wouldn't feel bad about eating so many in one sitting.

via

Then, in the afternoon, Mr. Husband and I would do something really fun and romantic and outside our little domestic workaday rut.

Like go on a tour of Theo Chocolate with our friends Luke and Joanna and taste delicious organic chocolates with unusual ingredients like coconut curry or bread or fig, fennel & almond and laugh till one of us girls threatens to pee our pants. And then maybe...maybe...we wouldn't have had enough fun together yet, so we'd go find other adventures in the urban jungle of Seattle and laugh some more and maybe find a brewpub and enjoy a pint.

Doesn't that sound like a good plan?!

And it's actually going to happen--the part from Theo Chocolates on, that is. The reality of my Saturday morning is probably going to involve a lot more laundry, cooking and cleaning than Pinterest and blogwalking, but that's really what we're going to do tomorrow afternoon! {I'm so proud of us! We're not old married folk all the time--though I give people plenty of reasons to think I'm an antique!}

For now, I'm enjoying a mug of hot spiced cider. And I think I'll get a head start on that laundry.

Happy Weekending!

{ In Which I Reveal My Antiquity }

My husband turned 25 last month. It was a rather momentous occasion for both of us. Twenty-five is a milestone birthday: Quarter of a century, halfway to 50, etc. It's how old I turned just three weeks after we started dating {yes, yes, I'm a cougar}. So now that the fresh-faced 22-year-old man I married is now 25, that means I'm really old. Like, 3.5 years older than he is. {I'm tired. I'll let you do the math.}

As in, so old that I lose birthday presents.

Or wait--did I??

I don't know if it's just me or maybe it's the men in my family, but I have the hardest time buying gifts for my dad, brothers, and now my husband. Usually I haven't the foggiest what they'd like. After much prodding, Mike gave me a list of gadgets he'd like for his birthday and I {of course} waited till it was almost too late to order them online. The package would probably arrive before his birthday, but might possibly get here late.

As long as we've been married, Mike has gotten the mail every night on his way home from work. It's what his dad did and it works for us. As his birthday neared, I started stopping at the mailbox on the way home in case his gift had arrived. Sometimes I'd remember to tell him. Sometimes he'd walk in the front door and, slightly exasperated, exclaim, "Did you get the mail today? Because I stopped and there was nothing!"

His birthday came and went. No package. Crestfallen, I still stopped at the mailbox most days...even if it was late, I wanted it to be a surprise. A surprise that he hadn't shaken for twenty minutes before bringing it in to the house.

Finally, about a week after Mike's birthday, I decided to see if my emailed receipt had a tracking number. Sure enough, it did. I looked up the package.....and according to the USPS, it had been delivered on September 20. Three days before Mike's birthday.

I. Flipped.

We live in a condo. Every unit in our complex has a locked mailbox at a central location. Adjacent to the regular mailboxes is a bank of larger locked boxes for packages. This is the only place the USPS delivers mail to our complex. I was now faced with these possibilities: (a) someone had stolen the package {or the key for a larger box} from our mailbox; (b) the package had been put in a larger box, but the key had been accidentally put in someone else's mailbox and they had decided to keep the package; or (c) the mailman had gone nuts, driven to our unit, placed the package on our stoop, and someone had stolen it.

Two of my childhood friends' fathers work for the USPS. I was not buying (c). But I was totally revved up to chew out some poor, unsuspecting postal worker. They had screwed up my husbands 25th birthday present!!!

I called the post office from which the package had been delivered, but of course the recorded message said they only answered the phone till 3:00pm. It was 3:02.

The next day, work was really busy and I didn't have a chance to call. But I sure wanted to!

The following day was again very busy and I wasn't able to call before 3:00. It was Friday, and as usual after work I went to the grocery store. Back at my car, I unlocked the trunk to put the groceries in and....

......drugstore mailers. Missing-children fliers. A bill. Junk mail. A bubble wrap package. Strewn across the trunk of my car like....like they'd been riding around back there for ten days.

Unbelieving, I picked up the package and ripped it open. Sure enough, the phone accessories I'd purchased for Mike! I don't know how long I stood in the parking lot, holding the package, a cart of groceries next to me. I have no memory of picking up the mail and there being a package. I have no memory of putting a day's worth of mail in the trunk. Why would I put it in the trunk?!! That makes no sense! I have no need to do that. I don't put anything in the trunk except groceries. Why do I not have even the tiniest remembrance of this occurrence?

When Mike got home from work that night, I sheepishly told him of my discovery. He grinned glee at my absentmindedness and embarrassment--I'd been quite vocal regarding the mysterious disappearance of this package. That the package had actually arrived three days before his birthday, I'd gotten it from the mailbox, put it in my trunk {again, why???}, and not only forgotten about it but thought it had never been delivered for the following ten days, is quite amusing. In a really disturbing, I'm-still-in-my-twenties-and-this-does-not-bode-well-for-my-mental-capacities-in-the-future sort of way.

If you see me wandering around the internet looking lost...please take my hand and show me the way back home!

{ Kaua'i ~ Part IX: North Shore Favorites }

At last: The last of our Kaua'i photos. Friends of ours are on the Big Island this week, enjoying their honeymoon, which reminded me that there are a few more pictures I want to post from our trip. Some of our favorite things from Kauai's north shore, our home-away-from-home for two lovely weeks this summer.

Favorite drinks: The martinis at Bouchons Hanalei, which they serve with the shaker--so you get a good 2+ drinks for the price of one! Note: Mike wants to make it clear that he only drinks girly drinks {such as martinis} when vacationing in the tropics. He wants everyone to know that this is the only circumstance under which it is ok for guys to drink girly drinks.

Favorite dessert: The caramelized banana deliciousness seen above, also served at Bouchons Hanalei.

Favorite stretch of road {for me, anyway}: The tiny one-lane bridges that dot Kauai's north coast.

Favorite beach: Kahalahala Beach, hands-down our favorite stretch of sand on the island. Big waves on one end if you want some excitement; a shallow pool for kids on the other end, and perfect waves for us in between. We loved every minute at this beach!

Looking back at Kahalahala beach from the lava outcropping you see in the photo above

Favorite evening walk on the beach: Dusk at Hanalei Bay, watching the sunset over the ocean as the clouds rolled in over the mountains.

Favorite lookout: This breathtaking vista of the Hanalei Valley was minutes from our condo. On a couple of occasions, the clouds lifted completely and we could see the tops of all the mountains rimming the valley. Stunning!

Favorite beach, take 2: Yes, we went back to Kahalahala. You would've, too.

Favorite beach boy: My husband. Notice how he mixed a mai tai and brought it to the beach in a water bottle. I love that man!

Nine posts, dozens of photos shared, hundreds more tucked away on my hard drive. Mike and I are so blessed that we were able to take this vacation, that we were able to have these adventures and make these memories together. I'm humbled by the Lord's immense grace in giving us the resources to make this amazing trip happen. It was better, I think, than either of us even imagined it would be.

Thank you, Jesus.