Every year, at least once in October, we pack three kids and two dogs into the truck and head up into the mountains; above the clouds. We scour the internet for a cabin to stay in — something cozy and isolated. We argue over our priorities — the husband could care less about what the interior looks like, whereas I more than mind. Usually, we’re enthusiastic. But, this time felt different. We were weary. Exhausted. And, desperate for respite. So, we went heavy. Burdened by a circumstance that felt beyond our control — struggling to exercise our faith in the face of the unknown.
We had come to the end of ourselves.
And, for this one thing — there was simply nothing more we could do but wait.
In the almost 15 years that my husband and I have been together, we’ve waited a lot. For the job. For our babies. For the doctor to confirm we’d lost one. For our home.
We’ve waited on one another, too.
Each time, our capacity to handle these kinds of things only grew. Not because it all worked out, truth be told. But because, for the most part, the answer always seemed to come quickly. There were no loose ends. Only endings. Or, so we thought anyways.
But, inevitably — you come to a point in your life where you find that where you used to think you had a tight grip on what lies ahead, you can finally admit that you don’t.
It’s nothing much more than a short trip down an elevator. Everything feels completely normal until you start to plummet, and then, for a brief moment — even though your feet are firmly planted on the ground, you’re sure you’re floating.
Do you take hold of the nearest handrail or savor the descent?
We probably shouldn’t have gone on this trip. There were plenty of other things we could have put our hands to. Maybe we should have spent our time or money differently — better, even. We could have been more aware of the hunger that rumbled deep in our bellies — from desperation; threatening to crescendo into a torrent of hopelessness. We could have fed ourselves on the crumbs of angst and despair. Yet, we made another choice.
It felt counterintuitive to lean back when we could have pushed harder.
To surrender instead of fight.
To not only delight in our weightlessness but make a leap while untethered.
And as our overly packed truck climbed higher and higher into thin air, I was more than aware that where we were in place was where we had come to in soul and faith.
It’s harder to breathe up here.
I’m reminded of what the Psalmist1 beseeches himself to believe —
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD.
Like the air in my lungs, I inhale this truth. Let it be.
I can’t quite understand this kind of love. Or even this kind of certainty. I couldn’t even pretend to. We proclaim that the Lord goes before us, but I don’t always believe what it means. I still hope. However, it’s sometimes laced with cynicism and what I could only describe as dysfunction, leftover from the American dream.
Isn’t there more that I can do?
“Can you really place your future squarely on the shoulders of God’s character?”
Everything that I can see says I shouldn’t.
Everything I know and believe says there’s nothing better.
It’s Thanksgiving. Circumstances haven’t changed, but our hearts have.
I pulse the flour and salt in the food processor, sprinkling chunks of butter in. After drizzling just the smallest amount of water over the mix, I watch it come together to form a ball of dough. Wiping my hands on my apron, I pour another cup of coffee to sip on while I move on to the next task. For the holidays, I don’t usually skimp or cut corners. I’m happy to make everything from scratch — from the mashed potatoes to the green bean casserole and the crispy fried onions on top. I had planned only to make two pies and then, on a whim, added two more.2
Nothing is hurried. This is a feast, not a drive-thru.
Everything is made with love.
I can’t help but wonder, what does God set out at this table that’s prepared for us?
Does he lean toward an abundance of dishes, too?
What do God’s goodness and mercy taste like?
I could only hope for a snack in the presence of what feels insurmountable — adversaries like uncertainty aren’t easily defeated, if ever. And, there’s some kind of terror in knowing that many things don’t work out the way we want them to.3
I’d rather God whip up something quick. Order takeout or maybe reheat leftovers.
Then, I can take a defensive stance — as I prepare for the worst to come.4
Instead, God grabs His apron and, with care and precision, sets out to cook a hot meal. Our plates never empty. Our cups overflowing. Every pie dish unceasing in its filling. He prepares this banquet for us wherever we go — whatever depths of pain or suffering we drop into. He chases us with a whisk in hand, asking us to eat just one more bite — wanting us to please stay just a little longer.
Take a drink. Lick the spoon. This is for you. He’s not ignorant of what lurks behind the corner. He just knows that with Him, we don’t have to go hungry while we wait.
with gratitude that we get to sit together,
Psalm 23:5-6
Though I am always learning that this is not the same as God failing us.
Self-preservation will destroy us quicker than disappointment ever will.
I’m glad you are on substack now ☺️🫶🏼