time and time again
You wrestle control from our hands
we have no power, no hope
apart from You
and You will not be rushed
You will not be changed

but our will
our will...
You will conform
You will change
You will move us

so we wait on You
time and time again.

Inspired by church last Sunday and how He gave Tamar twin sons, and how He gave a farmer patience, and how He gave Christina back to us all... a girl to laugh with and the perfect companion for my children on a Kansas Thanksgiving Day.





What did He give you last week? Or maybe you don't know... but I think, maybe, if you look closely...

On (not yet) moving, scraps and all

I'm smack dab in the middle of a bath fight. A wet and naked three year old sits on me, the laptop precariously balances in my left hand, and a screaming match is being had over two nearly identical yellow cars.

Just a typical Wednesday night with the wee three...

We appear to be in a season of non-movement. Things are happening, to be sure, but it feels like we're frozen here in time while the rest of the world chugs right on along without us. The leaves are changing, the sky darkens and threatens, people are moving house... and we reload the dishwasher, wash chubby bums, heave laundry from friend's house to friend's house, waiting.

I wrote before about the women's brunch, about Elizabeth and the impossible and being called to wait. I shared with them about the time of rest, of just being with God, not necessarily doing for God; about how He meets us here and speaks within the silence, filling the empty spaces with grace.

Great, life-affirming stuff there. The ladies loved it, sharing their own stories of waiting with me. [i pause to yell at the naked toddler.] We ate cinnamon rolls and we prayed. I thought, "Yes, Lord, I'm finally learning a thing or two."

But today, I want to move. Be moved. I don't really want to wait anymore. Two and a half years (or 4 years, wait - no - 8 years...) is too long. I'm ready now. We're ready. Can't we go, yet?!



He speaks to me in the silence again, waking me up before dawn, calling me. He lays me down beside Asher (in his new toddler bed, from which he can break free at any moment), giving me nothing to do but talk it out with Him, give it up to Him.

“You only need a tiny scrap of time to move toward God,” writes Lauren Winner in Still, via a fourteenth-century English monk.

Small scraps of time, of movement, of a long obedience in the same direction.

We are moving.

***

I'm finding that I have to relearn the same thing over and over (and over) again. Anybody else have that problem?

Yes, I see it all now (or will, eventually)

For a quick few minutes, before chaos reenters, I walk through an almost clean dining and living room (it won't stay this way for long). I'm thinking about a talk I'm to give this weekend. Worrying about it, actually.

I usually look forward to these things, sharing stories about our life, our children, our work and our future. And I have a somewhat general idea on what I am to share. A loose outline. A verse here, a deep thought there. But really, it's all jumbled in fuzzy pieces. The image is not yet clear.

For nothing is impossible with God.

The verse for the year. A grand thought.

What is it about this verse that stumps me? I feel uncomfortable with it, like I don't really believe it. I've heard of it and read others testify to it, but I don't think I've seen it. Or rather, maybe I have, but it's not been impossible enough for me. Maybe I've been ignoring it, unaccepting of it, afraid of it.

So I read it from the Message:

"Everyone called her barren, and here she is six months pregnant! Nothing, you see, is impossible with God." And Mary said, "Yes, I see it all now: I'm the Lord's maid, ready to serve. Let it be with me just as you say." Then the angel left her. Luke 1:36-38 MSG

I think it's not the impossible I'm to talk about. It's Elizabeth's story. It's the waiting.

When He calls us to wait
calls us to be still
calls us to be with Him
rest in Him
trust in Him
for the impossible.

What if the staying, the waiting
is what allows us to see, to receive
the impossible?

We have no idea what God is saving us from, saving us for.

Joyful, painful ancitipation. A hopeful longing.

Have you been here? A hopeful longing for the impossible? Or do you "see it all now?"

Diets, politics, and homeschooling (oh my!)

Found myself back to being a curious bystander to a lot of blogs and articles this week. Here's a round-up:

Simple Mom : Is your "healthy" diet making you sick, tired or fat?

Note: the girl and I suffer from eczema big time (and she seems to have several food intolerances). we're too cheap to do allergy testing, so I've recently started eliminating some suspicious foods, as Camille prescribes... but I'm afraid of cutting out dairy, cuz, you know, i need it!

Her.Meneutics : Why we can all opt out of the "war on women"

Frankly, I’m tired of both sides using violent imagery to describe the difficult decisions that I, and my sisters, make every day, and I’m tired of seeing those decisions reduced to bumper sticker ideologies that can be exploited for political gain.

This Is Our City (Christianity Today) : An Unexpected Choice: Why We Traded the Public School for Homeschooling

My initial reaction to the nudging I sensed in my heart—that God wanted us to give homeschooling a fair evaluation—was unequivocal: "No way, God." But the more I struggled against it, the more I sensed his answer: "Just look into it."

A Deeper Story : Stupid wait time

Tears began to stream down my face as the pastor continue to speak about how it takes only a momentfor God to speak His promise and it takes only a moment for the promise to be fulfilled, but the time that passes in between those two moments – the reversal time – is time immeasurable. It’s always the longest. Agonizing, hand-wringing, soul-stripping waiting.

Matthew Paul Turner : I'm tired of... God?

Tired of being pigeonholed or labeled or categorized or limited because my conversations about God aren’t the same as other people’s conversations about God…

These last two posts hit me deep in my uncomfortable heart. Anything do that for you this week?

A good 'ole smack upside the head

And this is how God smacked me upside the head:
I didn't plan past the new year. When well-organized teachers sent home well-prepared calendars at the start of September, I wrote down the pertinent information in my own well-meaning way, all the way till December 31, 2011.

Oh, we won't be here, I thought. There will be new schools and new calendars and if I don't acknowledge a 2012 that exists in Kansas City, God will see my sign of faith and reward me with fulfillment of the long-awaited return to Ireland.

My first clue that something was amiss should've been when my child informed me that Spring Break was less than a week away. (Stupid empty calendar.) We quick write it down, making plans and figuring out how this will all work - three kiddos all at home all week and a newly hectic and stressful work and ministry schedule, which it always tends to be right before St. Patrick's Day.

Which brings me to Wednesday.

We are on our way to a get-together with new friends that evening. We've rescheduled and rainchecked, waiting for schedules to align and illnesses to pass. We are packing some homemade bread and a bottle of wine, turning down the road, when an advert pops on the radio: Paddy's Day is coming and our city celebrates and we remember.

The Chieftains. Two tickets. That night. In ten minutes.

A generous Christmas present for two homesick former residents of the Emerald Isle, in the brand-new freaking unbelievably gorgeous opera house that adorns the KC skyline. When we received them, I looked at the date and thought, oh, this will be amazing... if we're still here. I kept the tickets in a safe place, not bothering to write it down or shop for an outfit or plan the romantic date night.

We look at one another in shock, having each been smacked upside the head by our loving Father.

It never even occurred to me that holding out for the future was disabling me from living in the present. (Still! Even after I spent my whole 31 days writing about and learning from it.) Life is happening and we are willfully ignoring it. So caught up in waiting and planning, we were missing the living. Too good to be here, where we are, for however long we are here. More than ready to stop, drop and roll right on out of here when He gives the signal. Forgetting about the little people who share this life, the friends who walk alongside us on the path, the beautiful gifts given to help us on the journey.



So we call the friends, "We are the worst!" I say, and she graciously understands. We u-turn and find the tickets and do a quick costume change. We arrive 30 minutes late and uproot a dozen Irish-American retirees from their seats to find our own. We watch and listen in wonder at the music that has followed us and beckoned us for our entire marriage.

We see them dance and we both cry. Because in the waiting to go, Ireland came to us and we feel alive. Without saying a word, we agree to put a little effort into the living, so as to not be 30 minutes late anymore.

Remembering to go

18 months ago today we came back to the States. My soul was sad and weary and I did not yet know where we were going or if we were staying.

15 months ago we had a better idea, a refined vision, a calmed heart as we knew where we didn't belong and were ready to tackle the steady climb back.

12 months ago we were embedded in a community, in fellowship with a new body of believers, thankful for a detour that allowed us time and training and companionship, yet still anxious to go and to give and to love, both here and there.

6 months ago the wheels hit the ground as we finally - finally - received our invitation back, and with it the go ahead to travel, to fundraise, to spread the word, and when finances allowed, to go back to our home and our life we had made for ourselves.

3 months ago we didn't leave as planned, but knew where we were going.

2 months ago a door closed. It wasn't the only door, but it was big enough and loud enough and strong enough to throw us off our game, to crush the spirit, to wonder outloud and inside what God was up to and how it would all turn out.

1 month ago we knew Him to still be good and we knew His voice had said and was still saying: "Go."

Today... oh today. I don't remember my life there. We've spent over 7 years working towards something, 2 years living in it, and today I don't remember what it felt like to be hugged by an Irish granny or to read aloud in book club or to laugh with the Thursday morning moms. All I can remember is that He told me to go.

So, ok, Lord. When do we go?

be still

31 days of LIVING in transition :: the lease {day 2}

On our desk sits a lease, expiration date two months from today. I look at it, fold it with my fingers, hold its weight and eye the highlighted terms. This lease, it weighs more in dreams and questions than it does in ounces. It is deep and fraught with decision. It is the beginning of the next, or the end of this current transition.

And I'm not sure which.

We are praying and planning. This much is obvious and has been stated more times on this blog and others, in prayer letters and small groups, at lunches and teas. There is no end to the praying and planning. And until a tangible number is reached or a ticket purchased, we continue this preparation circle. This dance with transition.



Transition is a terrible dancing partner, it should be said. Transition doesn't lead so well. And we don't follow transitions steps so swiftly. So instead we rely on the Choreographer. He places the steps, teaches us the moves, shows us where to put a foot, how to hold the head high. Shoulders back and eyes straight ahead.

We dance for Him.

And we keep the lease on the desk. Folded and unsigned.

On not freaking out... maybe

I'm finding myself in a not-so-unfamiliar place. The passage of time - the flipping of calendar pages towards a question mark date, destination and future - faster than I would like it to be. This is the place where I typically find myself freaking out.

But I'm not.

I'm not sure this is right. Is this peace? Is this trust? I don't know. I've never really been to this place, this not freaking out place, before. I don't recognize the peace part. I recognize all the other bits - the fluid plans, the what ifs, the ambiguity, the underlying tension of uncertainty - but I don't recognize the scenery, the slow-mo walk to the library, the prayers throughout the day that end in smiles instead of tears.

It's slightly unnerving. Shouldn't I be freaking out? Come June 1st our family of five will be without a vehicle. August 1st is the original deadline to move away again, which we prayerfully decided on over a year ago. In the fall our children will be starting school, but on which continent? And there's a substantial amount of financial support we need between now and the question mark then, that may or may not come later rather than sooner. Shouldn't I be a bit freaked wondering how it'll all come together? Shouldn't I be banging down God's door asking for the times and places and know-hows?

In a couple of months, my life will change substantially. Or maybe it won't. I might still sit and write at this dining room table we found on clearance three years ago and couldn't wait to sit at again. Still waiting some more and trusting some more. Or I might sit at someone else's table, in another country, in another rented house with someone else's furniture, having sold this table and that chair and those dishes we picked out for here but might not need for there. Still trusting and thankful and off on the next adventure.

But really, I don't know. I don't know at all. I have no idea where we'll be and when. If I think about it too much the anxiety does again start to raise, the pain in the chest becomes a little more acute. Or I can get up and fold the laundry, hug the kiddos and kiss the booboos. I can write the thank you notes and stamp the envelopes. I can order the prayer cards and meet the people.

I can pray the prayers, the prayers of "Yes, God. I know you, God. I trust that you've got this figured out, even when I don't have a clue. I'll wait on you, God." For the time and the place and the know-hows and the whys and the next thing and the next thing...

I'll wait on Him.

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.

On waiting for a miracle, in five

So by now you probably know the drill: Write for 5 minutes on a topic without editing, looking back, or stressing, and then moving on with life. So, for today's Five Minute Friday:

On waiting...

Well, as I sit down to write this little piece, I'm waiting for the husband to turn down his computer so I don't have to listen to polka music for the next five minutes while I try to pour my guts out.

No luck yet...

As fate (read: providence) would have it, we've all been waiting a lot around here: we've been waiting for March madness to start, waiting for spring to come, and most recently, waiting for a sweet family member to open her eyes and be healed.

She's a cousin, our cousin, the youngest of the bunch, having just turned 20. She's the youngest of three sisters, but everyone of us thinks she's ours. Over three weeks ago she was admitted to the ICU with severe pneumonia which was found out to be H1N1 and several infections and tubes and tears later, yesterday she was about to leave us. So we - my sister, my mom, my cousins and aunts and uncles, and several hundred other friends and strangers - waited yesterday for news, any news, and a miracle. It just did not seem possible that she could die.

So we waited, and prayed, and tried to trust, and cried... and when the wait was over and the machines switched and the lungs drained, the doctors and the sisters and the mom and dad waited and saw that she began to breathe easier and the numbers began to go up and she slowly, so slowly, began to turn a corner...

I've waited for a lot of things: babies, diplomas, support, signs, but never have I waited for something like this. Never before have I waited for - and then seen, even from afar - a miracle. And still, we wait and pray and see that she just might get better... but before that, there will be a lot more waiting.

So, what are you waiting for? Give it a try...