Beginning again... Again...

There's a word that I've used over and over again to describe "how I'm doing" with the whole job hunt thing. I've used it most often as a sort of response to the sideways, inquisitive and trying-my-best-to-mask-my-serious-concern-that-you're-not-really-looking-yet faces that accompany my initial verbal response: I haven't really gotten there yet...

It's the best word I can find to describe where I'm really at with things.

Daunting.

The prospect of putting in a resume: not so bad. The idea of taking an actual interview: bit more unnerving. The idea of beginning again (yet again) in a new place as the new kid in town: quite entirely daunting.

Over the last few years with all of the many things that have flipped over in our lives again and again and again, one constant that I often took for granted is the fact that I unlike most my age actually worked in the same place solid for going on seven years. At twenty five, that's quite a rarity. Whether positive or negative, the jury is still out, but a rarity nonetheless.

That's longer than I've spent in any school I've ever attended. Longer than the vast majority of friendships I've had (except the legendary loves). Longer by far than my very longest relationship. Longer even I think than the time I spent as a youth leader at our last church.

In short, without realizing it along the way, my job, the place where I was just killing time until I graduated and then dove head first into ministry, became something of a steadying force in my life. With all its stress, long hours, unpredictability - it still had the same calming, grounding pull that any place would given that much an investment of time. Familiar faces, familiar duties, familiar halls to walk. The sense of steadiness and belonging. The sense of having earned your place at the table. Even the crazy rhythym with which new staff cycled in and out came to be familiar. Bare halls each Christmas. Booming noise each fall. Predictable. Known.

I don't mean to write a sonnet to my old job. I learned much there. I grew much there. But all those who know the details know that it was far from perfect.

But somehow in spite of all of that, loosing a job, even one that I knew from the beginning I shouldn't keep forever, feels like just another way in which we have been uprooted and unhinged.

"I suppose I should be used to saying goodbye by now." Something like that was said in a movie we saw recently. I suppose I should be used to it. To loss. To sudden. To unexpected.

I suppose that I should be used to uprooted, used to unhinged. Used to beginning again. Again.

Should there being the operative word. I should. But I am not.

Perhaps it is that this is the first time in this grueling sequence that an uprooting has been just my own to face. Not belonging to myself and my comrades - my fellow exiles. Perhaps it is because this is the first time that I wander alone (although certainly not unsupported - everyone has been so great).

But I think in all likelihood it has more to do with being tired. I love an adventure. But I also love the familiar comfort of home. I love roots and I love wings. I need both to feel satisfied in life and lately it seems as though the scales have tipped toward the unknown and there is yet no climbing back up that slick surface to a place of balance between the two.

And so we dangle in the place where few things are sure. Where there are new trails to be blazed and new challenges to take on at every turn. Where there are new hearts to learn, new faces to explore, new lives to be had.

And while I am grateful that the Lord has brought refreshing newness in such wonderful ways to so many aspects of our lives; the stubborn, silly (and probably just plain tired) part of me looks upon a new venture in the professional realm and sees daunting rather than promising. Exhausting rather than exciting. Intimidating rather than inviting.

Silly self.

And so the old effort again. To remind my soul that He is the great constant. And that He truly does work all things together for the the good of those who love Him. No matter what those things may be.

Self: remember. He has done it. Time and time again. He is endlessly faithful and He has never failed us yet. So courage, dear heart.

And begin again.

Again.

On missing dreams...

Ten months ago today, we felt the world fall down. It was literally as though everything we had known shattered in a moment. A silent, searing moment that a heartbeat should have filled.

I never knew loss, real loss, until that day.

It changed everything. The way we see the world. The way a lyric falls on our ears. And the way that words fall from our lips. It was one of those searing, scarring, shaping things that leaves a mark forever.

Kingston, love, you're written in my heart. You have marked us forever. And so marked all the world. And I wish you were here.

But the tricky thing is that I'm not sure if I can say words like 'should.' To my mind when allowed to make its own decisions, should is a certainty. A heart that should have beat. Feet that should have touched the sand and the waves and spread dirt on our tile floors. A laugh that should have sounded. A life that should have shined. And up to me, should is certainly true.

You should have.

But it's not up to me. So few things are. And frankly, the world is better for it. It would be far too serious and too safe if all of life were mine to choose. And so how can I say 'should?'

A few months ago, He asked me to believe. To believe that He could write a better love story than this. And I'm finding that in all of life, I really believe He does it better. He writes it better than I do. My heart, my family, love, loss and hope. He writes life better than I do. He was the original Author of it.

But there are some moments when I wish that I could grab the pen. And cross out the lines that break my heart and run my makeup and confound my understanding. Like the day we lost you, love. I'd like a revision there.

I'd like you toddling around in the halls. I'd like to have cheered and hugged and celebrated your first stumbled steps. I'd like to see if you would be brave around our big dog or what you would look like when you were concentrating and trying hard. Your mommy used to stick her tongue out when she was little and trying hard - I'd like to have seen if you did that too.

And more than anything I wanted to see you see the world. I wanted to rediscover things through your eyes. And I really wanted to take you driving over the ocean. It's written in my soul and after all of the work morning drives you joined us on, I dreamed that it would be in yours too.

But I am not the Author. I don't hold the pen that writes the days and there are some things that I will never know. Like why we didn't get to keep you, sweet boy. You had the very best parents in the whole world just waiting for you. And today, it doesn't seem very fair. And today, I'd like to make some edits. And today, I wish you were here.

But I didn't write it and 'should' is not certain and in fact 'should' is not true. He knew all along, from the beginning of time that those 'shoulds' were not a part of the story. That there was a greater story. And He knew what your life would say. And though it hurts beyond words - all is as it should be.

But somehow, love, I miss doing all of those things with you. And my heart wonders at how you can miss - truly miss, like a certain childhood joy or like a friend moved away - something that never really was. How can you miss a dream? But I miss the dream of your life here with us on this earth. I miss the moments we thought that we would have. And my heart aches to know if ever we will look upon the sea together.

Today I wrestle with the idea of what should have been.

And I miss the dreams of you.

Time and purpose...

Thank You for the springtime,

for the flowers clothed in dew.

Thank You for the moments

when life comes bursting through.

Thank You for the new day

we hang our hope upon.

Thank You for the springtime.

Thank You, Lord.

Thank You for the summer,

the brilliant sun which warms our days.

Thank You for the moments

to enjoy; to slow our pace.

Thank You for the time of rest

which satisfies our souls.

Thank You for the summer.

Thank You, Lord.

Thank You for the autumn,

the leaves painted with fire.

Thank You for the moments

to reap the beauty of this life.

Thank You for the glory;

Your crown for days grown old.

Thank You for the autumn.

Thank You, Lord.

Thank You for the winter,

for the still and lonely snows.

Thank You for the moments

when we have to let things go.

Thank You for the secret:

that life in death can still live on.

Thank You for the winter.

Thank You, ever, Lord.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Yeah, I miss you...

There's a song I love by Lifehouse called "From Where You Are." A simple, poignant song about missing someone you've lost. The chorus of the song says:

'So far away from where you are

These miles have torn us worlds apart

And I miss you

And I wish you were here'

It captures the essence of loneliness so well. The distance. And a certain emptiness.

At one point in the song, instead of the standard "and I miss you" it takes a subtle turn that makes a big impact (on me at least).

'Yeah, I miss you.'

The rest of the chorus remains the same, except for that simple "yeah." And for some reason that catches my attention in a big way. The "yeah" is truly potent. It hits harder than the line does without it. But why?

I think the reason is that the "yeah" strikes at confession. It's an admission of something that you'd otherwise wish to keep hidden away.

Yes, it's true: I miss you.

Fine, I'll admit it: I miss you.

There's a certain extent to which missing someone feels like a weakness. Because it seems that whatever tangled, complicated reasons that you are no longer in relationship with whomever it is should be enough to negate your emotional ties to them.

But that simply isn't the case.

We've been in a season of great loss. So many ties divided in such a short period of time. So many who we assumed would be on the canvas of our lives forever suddenly absent from at least the day to day and some absent even from the new vision of our future.

And for once, let's just admit that there's something that feels strange about that absence. There's something in us that never quite settles with the fact of loss, however it comes.

Another verse in the same song says it well:

'I miss the years that were erased.

I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face.

I miss all the little things.

I never thought that they'd mean everything to me.

Yeah, I miss you.

And I wish you were here.'

"I miss the years that were erased." I think that hits the heart of it. There's something in our souls that recognizes just how dear an emotional tie is. And that same part of us just cannot accept that such a connection should just vanish into oblivion.

We are creatures of relationship, sustained by it. And I think that is one of the ways that we most reflect the image of God. He is love. And chooses commitment even unto the cross for such a ragtag bunch as we rather than turning His back on relationship. Because He must love. Because He is love.

So for once, let's not be ashamed of the same refusal to forsake relationship that makes separation so hard. Let's recognize it for what it is: one of the ways that we are like Him.

There are so many people who were in our lives last year who aren't now, who we assumed would be there forever. So many different relationships that have been severed or at least drastically changed in a thousand different ways.

And though I'm not sorry for a lot of the things that we've done to bring us to this place and though there are many cases in which I know that, at least for now, the separation we've found has been the healthiest thing and I think truly the Lord's will for this season...

Even with all of that considered, let me say it plainly and honestly:

I miss you.

I miss all of the good times that we had. The bright times that so often outweighed the shadows. The deep, bursting moments when it felt as though for an instant our hearts were singing the exact same anthem.

I miss the laughter. The inside jokes. The dependability that we at least thought we had in one another. It feels unnatural still that such things can be "erased."

I've made my peace with the season of separation that we're in and I'm finding Him here more and more. But I miss you.

And in a perfect world comprised of people far more whole than we, I wish that this separation never would have happened. I wish that we could have resolved every hurt, every issue and gone on in relationship, even if we had to take different paths. And I wish that we had some sort of real connection left now. We are not who we were. And we are sure that you aren't either.

And there is a very real part of me that misses you. And wishes you were here.

So to those of you who we've lost to miles, to misunderstandings, to changes in direction, to trials, to heartache and even to eternity. To all of you I'll say that my hope hangs on the fact that my God is a restorer. He is a redeemer. And He heals the deepest hurts. And I believe with all I am that when we join Him in glory, we will rejoice at one great table and celebrate, not just our reconciliation to our God, but also our reconciliation to one another. To a family that we know in our heart of hearts should never be broken. I anxiously await that day.

And in the meantime:

'Just know that wherever you are,

Yeah, I miss you.

And I wish you were here.'

Loud Enough...

Lately I divide music into two categories: loud enough to drown it out and loud enough to make it speak.

The first refers mostly to tempo and actual volume. And a little bit to pure, simple not-relatedness. Think "Raise Your Glass" by Pink, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by Zac Brown Band or "Forget You" by Cee Lo Green. These are the fun, simple songs that I can actually get lost in just enjoying. Blaring at an ear-piercing decibel as I race across the Howard Frankland with the windows down, these songs are an escape from the steady hum of mental unrest brought on by the events of the last few months. A brief, joyful respite.

Loud enough to drown it out. Bless these songs.

The second deals more with lyrics. Otherwise unrelated songs with one thing in common: words that hit straight to the heart of what we're walking through. I hide from these songs sometimes, in favor of the easier escape songs. But when I decide to bear one of these types of songs, one thing is sure to happen: I find the courage I need to turn and face the questions I've been running from. I have no other choice. The lyrics force me to. They lend clear expression to what I've been choosing not to say. They turn me toward it. They stop the hum by actually calling to the carpet the fears and hurts that have been rumbling about within, nameless.

Words like "we were the Kings and Queens of promise" or "I go back to December all the time" have the power to immediately change the conversation in my mind. I hear "Time After Time" or "The Valley Song" and my mind is flooded with the faces that we stand with through the storms. "If I Die Young" by The Band Perry used to be one of my favorites. I run from it now, because suddenly it's about something else entirely. It's hard to imagine now that the line "ain't even grey but she buries her baby" used to scarcely catch my attention.

These songs make up the soundtrack of this season.

They're loud enough to make the pain find a voice. Loud enough to make it speak, to make it say what it needs to. Poignant phrases that claim a moment of actual thought instead of all the rumbling. Lines that state without shyness what I can't say: how differently I see myself and my family and our future now, the things that I no longer feel so sure of in life, the questions I have for the Lord that I'm not sure He'll ever answer.

Loud enough to make it speak. Bless these songs too.

I've been surprised by how little patience I have lately for any music that's not one or the other of these. Lately, if it's not loud enough... I'm just not interested.