For After the Turkey and Stuffing...What's Seeking to Fill You Right Up?

 I admit it. The fear crept in.

In between the moist brined turkey slathered with cranberry jelly, the gravy-drizzled stuffing and the mashed potato mounds, the fear slipped in.

Earlier, on our way out the door to relatives and Thanksgiving feasts, two letters had arrived. The letters mapped out the region around our home, drafting new roads, and moving forward the construction of a giant twenty-four-hour shopping center down the street from us. The twelve acres of woodlands and wetlands would be razed, sections of our yard would be converted into roads and turn lanes, and semi-trucks would soon rumble deliveries all night long on the road outside our bedroom.

On the road to our relatives' house, we passed wind turbines, calculated wingspans, and grieved the probable loss of our home and yard. The fear slid in then, and I voiced aloud my concerns.

• "It took us a year for our last house sell and to find this one." 
• "We bought this one when it was foreclosed and at a lower price than they are now available."
• "It's only a block from your work, and from our teens. What are the odds of finding another one like this again? And it's a perfect volleyball yard for youth group!" 
• "We landscaped, built raised garden beds, planted strawberries, rhubarb, raspberries, mint, tulips, daffodils, purple aliums, and more. Those bulbs and plants don't come up again until next year, and I don't want to lose them. We brought in garden dirt, started a compost, and planted trees." 

My husband voiced reason and hope, "God has always taken care of us, Jen. He will again." We talked for awhile of possible moves, of real estate issues, and I let myself grieve too.

"This is my dream home and yard," I whispered later at the table. Mark squeezed my hand, and the moment passed as five small children crashed underfoot, cousins rolling and playing around us, and my father-in-law ground beans in his wooden mill for the next batch of coffee. New family arrived and we tumbled into afternoons of coffee, pecan pie, moist fruit cake tarts, and hours of games and conversations.

Photo Credit to Becky Pratts

Late at night in a silent house, the fear and grief crept in again. Tucking my pillow under long damp hair, I reminded myself of the cure. This cure, I've found, is to remind myself of my God. Remembering again God's heart and his history fills me with hope and trust for the future.

Yes, it took eleven months for our last house to sell and to find this one -- but it's perfect. Look at his heart and extravagant gifts in that? He can do it again, Jennifer. You have savored this home and yard this last year and a half. 

That night, and this week, God brings to my mind memory after memory of where he has shown us his heart: anonymous checks of money in our early years of marriage written precisely in the amount we needed for rare unexpected bills; or tiny five year old Morgan with her cancer scare and His peace that came as a relief after our tight chest moments, even before a final diagnosis; donated vehicles weeks before its predecessor died; God's chasing heart in our own foolish wayward moments; and through it all, His tender re-threading of beauty from our raveled bits.

I pick up my pen each day now, and write line after line in my Gratitude (Gifts) Journal. My pen scratches both the easy-to-list good gifts (hot coffee, tumbling snowflakes, a family who knows You, safe travels, family laughter around the table) and the hard gifts -- the ones that cause anxiety to reach tall, grappling with my heart: (possibly losing our home = a chance to trust you, God; the need to sell and buy a new house = a chance to watch you, God). Thank you for this home, for these eighteen months here, and for each day.

At work today, I watch snowflakes fall and tuck my legs under me, picking up my Bible and this Gifts journal. I remember promises about Who this God is, and Who he says he is. Snippets from my Bible time catch my attention, and I write them quickly across the page. "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope." "The Lord directs our path, our steps." "The fear of the Lord is a fountain of life..." "...A patient man has great understanding." "A heart at peace gives life to the body... "...The prayer of the upright pleases him." "All the days of the oppressed are wretched, but the cheerful heart has a continual feast." 

And my fear? It dissipates. Not in a Pollyanna-denial way, but by stepping back and reminding myself of who this God is, of what his heart is like, and by looking back at his history. 

The house issues are still there, and we prepare for two City Hall Meetings. But the fear? It dissipates.

What about you? What fears, stresses, or anxieties stalk you? Financial worries? Children's issues? Marriage struggles? Grab a pen and God's word with me, friends, and start writing out his gifts, will you? "Don't be afraid, you are worth more than sparrows..." "...The very hairs on your head are counted..." and "The Lord works everything out for his own ends." Even the tiny sparrows that are sold for pennies, he is aware of -- "not one of them is forgotten by God," he promises. And you? "You are worth more than sparrows."

What verses or truths do you grab when fear or anxieties creep in? (Those reading this in email can click here to join the conversation.)

Walls, Writing,and What You were Made For

It's the original walls. This home, built thirteen years ago by Russian hands. This home in which we're the third owners, third occupants. (Photos above not of my home. See credits below)

Foreclosed and bank-owned when we found it, knee high in thistles and clover, we know very little about this house's past owners. Intriguing clues surface at unexpected moments: the splatter of dusty rice pellets in crevices behind the stove and a solitary chopstick (giving us instant kinship with them-- us with our curries and African sauces, and at-least-weekly rice meals); mail addressed to Vietnamese or Thai names; and rumors of Russian families with lots of young men who liked bonfires under the moated stone tree.

A year into living here now, the house feels like home; the yard is brimming with rhubarb, flowers and produce; and lawn mower patterns trace square mazes of olive green grass clippings. Several walls have original paintwork still, though--a concession to time limits and energy. Sitting in Daniel's room this evening, I stare at the walls, seeing old staples high up in the wall from holding another family's posters.

Who lived here, I wonder? What was on these walls? Where did they put their bed, their dresser? Was it a child like our Lego-tinkling boy beside me, or someone else? Relatively clean, the walls still boast the plaster I swiped on some months ago to flatten and hide chips and dents on the surface. Original paintwork looks back at me, as I stare silently at the walls, picturing the clamoring sounds, stories, relationships, and lives of the two families here before us.

It feels surreal yet intimate, and I fall quiet. Plastic Legos shuffle and clank beside me, and stories  fill my mind.

I've been reading books on writing this month, and just turned the last page on a book tonight that leaves me eager to buy my own copy so I can mark it up with pencil underlinings and notes. (Two books are making their way to me already through warehouses and book fulfillment lists.) The authors speak of hard work, and daily determination to sit down at a desk and simply write. It recharges and inspires me, so I request a turn at the family computer, brew a pot of decaf coffee, and wrestle my five year old to bed. An hour later, the keyboard is mine, the coffee is just slightly scalded, and silence descends on my dimly-lit dining room. Black computer keys clatter inside as semi trucks rev by outside, and a small boy drifts off to sleep.

I don't know about you. I don't know what passions and skills God has grown deep inside of you, but for me, words --both spoken and written-- are music to me. Others' words weave me in, pull me along, slip me away, and inspire me. And mine? They form, haltingly, awkwardly, but unceasingly and I desire to have them reflect truth, reflect Him, and be for his glory.

So, for you tonight, my friend? Be encouraged. God has placed skills, passions, and dreams inside you, on purpose. He crafted and created you. Don't doubt it. Don't give up, and DO "fan into flame" the gifts he put inside you. You were made to bring glory to him. Practice your art. Persist at and hone that skill. Then run to hang it on his huge, cosmic fridge. "Abba, Daddy, look what I made for you!" in childlike naivety and wonder.

Linking with Ann tonight whose writing and love for her Abba make me thankful too. 

What are your passions or art? How are you honing it this week? 

 Photo credit #1 and photo credit #2. "Finestre Sulla Valle" 1969 by Contini Emilio.