Look up, my darling, look up.

When I hear Him, this space I’m in, at this plain wooden table, this window with the cobwebs at the corner of the metal screen, this soft rumble of washing machine, this smell of wet dog near my feet, I study the room, looking for clues for what is different.

All is different? No, all is the same.

As we age, do we grow more resilient—and then appreciative of life with all of its goodness and strife? Or do we grow more exhausted, the longing for heaven intensifying each day? Aging messes with one’s identity, for sure.

Who am I now? Who was I then? Given the truth of who I am, I can only explore through my distorted self; how do my age, life experiences, and wisdom affect my interpretation of my worth?

The three of us are up in the mountains, cedars and redwoods reaching toward warm October sky. The path we walk is wide enough for Mugsy, who, on her leash, finds every rustle in the shrubs an irresistible invitation to explore. We make our way to the lake, a wide expanse of deep blue and teal sparkling with ripples across its otherwise smooth surface, and walk out onto the dock, intent on getting as close as we can to the cold water without plunging in.

It was a delicious four-hour drive to our friend’s cabin, talking about family and makeup and wallpaper and God. I love her dearly, the friend who loves me and moved away and still comes to visit often. Each time we are together, people ask if we are sisters and we love it—leaning in close, hip to hip, head to head, and smiling ear to ear. I am most myself—the child He draws out and the woman He loves—with her…

You don’t have to justify your life.

I am in my bedroom, about to lay my head on the pillow, thinking about how this was just one more day that felt like so little had gotten accomplished. Or, perhaps, my expectations were warped in the first place? What did I really believe I could get done?

You don’t have to justify your life.

When I hear the Father’s words in my heart, I am disorientated, desperate for recalibration: Productivity. Expectation. Accomplishment. Time.

Father, yes, for most of my life, I have been sacrificing the miracle of the present for the future’s ever-elusive false promise of achievement. The gift of a moment lost when, for the sake of the future, time is something to conquer, manipulate, and control. The cost I’ve paid? Peace. Contentment. Love. To engage with God, I need, of course, to be where He is. I need to be right here….

The heat wave that has smotherd California for more than a week is less intense today. As I write this, I am sitting outside, the air cool in the morning shade. An Anna’s Hummingbird is singing in the olive tree behind me—and then zooms up from a fuchsia bush to the highest point of the magnolia tree. Huge black bees the size of a jack ball fly heavily, slowly from the tips of lavender blooms to the garnet gladiolas, heavy and swaying in the breeze.

This stillness is good for my heart. And then the upstairs window opens, and a paper airline tumbles out of it to the ground near my feet. I look up and hear Justin’s laugh, then see His smile as he leans out the window, cracking up. He intended the plane to sail gracefully to my lap, not tumble awkwardly like a drunken acrobat committing suicide. We are catching our breath, about fully moved into our home. It feels good to be here. I am less overwhelmed than I’ve been in a while. Less rushing around, things feel closer to peace.

It also has been helping me to dream.

In the chaos of the last 10 months—full of physical and emotional transitions—the rhythms of relaxing in the arms of my Father, seeking His strength, voice, and wisdom wanned significantly. I tried to squeeze in time with Him around all the other things I had going on—layering prayer and worship while doing something else simultaneously. Seldom did He have my full attention. Seldom did my heart receive His peace.

And then, in the throes of moving in, exhausted from carrying furniture and unpacking boxes, I felt desperate for Him. I missed Him terribly. His presence, His whispers to my heart. I was eager to be with Him, to pursue Him earnestly…(Click the link in the title to read more.)

You aren’t weak.

You aren’t incapable.

You aren’t unable to do hard things.

Come now. Listen for His voice with me. The one who calls you His treasure. The one who made you for amazing, beautiful-beyond-your-dreams things.

You can, you know.

But not alone. We can’t do these amazing things alone—all these acts of love. The thing He has in front of you to do? Yes, do that. But also let Him show you that other thing—the thing He’s dreamed up just for you but you haven’t realized fully yet. Know that you can do that thing too.

You see, God delights in equipping you to do hard things. He delights in the two of you doing all things (maybe especially the hard ones) together.

And when the doubt comes—because it comes like a charging bull, doesn’t it, intimating and thundering and fierce, crushing our confidence, making us convinced that we can’t do much more than simply get through a day—we have a few choices. We can buckle under. Or we can stay overwhelmed. Or, we can fight.

We still haven’t moved in. In February we sold our bungalow and moved in with my father-in-law as the house we are moving to, less than a mile away from our old house, needed repairs. The renovations started in January, and, after many ups and downs—with two failed inspections in a row and then another inspection not scheduled so we were delayed another week—it is getting finally close to be done. We are actually supposed to move in soon.

Exciting.

Then.

Abby, our sixteen year old, got Covid. And then, a few days later, I tested positive, as well. So the two of us scuttled over to a motel in an attempt to protect Justin’s dad from getting sick too.

Abby got better. And then this morning Justin tested positive.

Abby moved out of the motel room, and Justin moved in.

This displacement—from home over these months—has had an effect on me that I struggle to fully recognize. My emotions are both raw and numb. Sometimes, these last months, I could be crying and then at other times I am too frazzled to face how I feel.

I used to listen for Holy Spirit in the quiet hours in still darkness, morning cracking open her eyes with slow blinks. Offering slowness, a gentle beginning to the world’s rush of day. My heart was awake, I had no doubt. Tender, open, expectant, brave. It had energy to enter into a space tucked deep within me, a bit holy—timeless and real.

I would not look at my phone, or read anything, or talk to anyone. I would try not to think, to form ideas—even words to pray. All helped me enter this wide-open sacred space. But what I loved most was that my mind had not yet grabbed hold of plans, ideas, opinions about the day. Could mental fog be a good thing, perhaps? I think so, if the reward is a heart that feels like it has no competition; it has room enough to speak.

In this space, imagination is the boss. It leads. It directs. It invites, instructs, inspires, and sings. Spirit breaks open barriers in me that would otherwise struggle to receive what He has to give. I surrender understanding, and ask Wisdom to paint visual pictures, in my imagination, of love, of hope, of peace, of possibility. And in this space I move with Her, eager to experience where love lives, what hope sounds like, what it looks like to be seen as a bride, a beloved, a child. Here, I exist, in love, love, love.

I thought I had been upended, that all that was familiar was gone. I thought I would be left with mere glimpses of her—the self that guided me through identity, who taught me who I am, what I believed, what it takes to survive. But she hasn’t left. She is still here, a stubborn wraith who believes she knows what is best. I don’t know how to love her. Oh, how she has hurt me.

I am turned inward, my new self and my old engaging in a battle tireless and unending. The old rising up to bully the new: Who are you? How can you be relied upon to get us through? You don’t look at all strong. What, even is your name?

I am mute. (The old self does this to me every time.) And the new self, young and tender and vulnerable, has already forgotten she is beautiful, she is strong, she is perfectly, so perfectly, brand new.

So, here, with words, I try to find her. (I must do what I know.) And I vow to love her, as she deserves. Only because He loves her. Only because He loves.