Sometimes a change of scenery is less about the roadtrip, less about the milkshakes, less about the sprinklers and the playgrounds and the beaches. Sometimes a change of scenery is about just that: a change of scenery. A chance to see how things look from up here. A few days to gather one's breath and view things from a different perspective.

From up here, I'm not sitting in front of my computer waiting for good news. I'm not looking at our books or photo albums or Matt's toolchest, wondering what goes and what stays. I'm not clicking refresh on our support account three, four, five times a day. And I'm not hiding behind curtains, afraid of the sun, or standing in the kitchen wondering exactly how many cookies I ate that day [answer: eight].

Instead, I'm listening to "the grannies" talk about retirement, realizing we all have something that weighs on our minds and our pocketbooks, hard questions for the future. I'm watching my children play with aunts and uncles and puppies, under the shelter of towering oaks, grateful for families that drop everything for a chance to play catch or build forts at dusk. Instead, I'm awake in the night not from crying babes, but for a sweet glimpse of sleeping boys, head to head, legs and arms filling every inch of their shared bed.

Instead, I'm digging toes in sand, closing my eyes and praying peace... the kind of prayer one can pray from a safe distance, out of the fray. I'm convalescing this worried heart, rehabbing my tired mind, praying peace and still saying yes and listening for His voice in the quiet of a Wisconin pine tree.

While I rest these sandy toes, my man stays behind and works. He's still saying yes, too. And in these five short days, a slight shift. A change of scenery... even if only a step or two.

*** 

I wrote this earlier in the day, before seeing Sarah Bessey's invitation to share what it is that's saving our lives right now. But I knew this was it. I wrote it knowing that these five days, this gift from Matt, this time away, is saving my life right now. Because tonight I watched the wee lad dance in the rain. And I shared an oh-so-rare bottle of wine with my sister-in-law. And I heard thunder and felt wind and closed my eyes on the shores of Lake Michigan. 

This, this moment - here today, gone tomorrow - is saving my life right now. What is saving yours?

Words tread water

Five Minute Friday with GypsyMama today, on the word that eludes me today...

Connected...

We tried to use words to connect with someone today, but sometimes words aren't heard. Apparently there are times only screams or groans or cries are heard. But we didn't do that. We used words. And they went unheard. I'm screaming for someone to fight for us, to advocate for us, to help us find our way in a maze of flaming hoops, hoops we've already fearfully jumped through only to find another one waiting. And when the miracle happens, and someone does advocate, does go out on a line, does use words and actions to invest in us and fight for us, that too goes unheard.

So, here we are, waiting and wishing we'd used different words to communicate our need, our calling, our heart-wrenching burden that hovers over everything. But the fear remains that we won't connect, we won't be heard, our words will drown in the ears of others, and we will lose the mission, miss the boat, and tread water in the sea that carries us back to chasing the American dream.

On distance, in five

It's been good to get time to write this week and here I am on Friday and on time with Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Fridays. Go, write, be cleansed, and don't look back.

On Distance... 

When I think of distance, I usually think of being far from home. First in Ireland, being far from the Midwest and the Kansas tornado season and the smells of warm and humid springs; and now here, back in the Midwest (Missouri, this time), being far from the daily rainbows and the new home we built and reveled in for 25 short months. I count the distance in monthly support and expectations, even though I try to deny it and think that the distance is merely only miles, not in dollars and cents. My heart knows the distance between me and home is really only measured in patience and fruits of the spirit, both of which I wish to plant and grow in.

But I also remember a time, more than a decade ago now, where the distance between me and the Creator seemed too wide, too vast to even recognize His hand or what His peace looked like. There was a crash in the internal systems of my mind and I felt like David cowering in the cave. There was no way to build a bridge over this infernal distance, apart from the waiting and the meds and the daily desire for Spring to once again arrive in my soul. Spring came at last, months later, and the distance disappeared in a matter of seconds.

I wonder now if the One who created my mind and all the brain chemicals of every one who ever lived allowed that distance to show me that no distance is too great for Him. He’ll still be found on the other side.