He Meets Us in the Basement

I once had a particularly rough semester in college. A few close high school friends who attended different colleges up and down the East coast and Midwest were having particularly rough semesters, too. I can't recall the particulars of our struggles, whether they were over boys and breakups, or managing classes and part-time jobs, but I do remember one friend's comment in a group email:

Collectively it seems that we are not having a mountaintop experience right now.

Roger, that. 

This "currently not on a mountaintop" status happens to be true for myself and some friends right now. The particulars are weightier, though. There's a cancer diagnosis, kids who have gone off the rails, job struggles, a loved one battling an addiction. There's sleepless nights, heart palpitations, a bout of depression. We still do the things that need to be done — work, laundry, putting dinner on the table — but, in our own ways, we're all struggling.  

I told my dearest friend that I might be having a midlife crisis. She texted back, "Did you buy a Harley?"

I haven't. But I have contemplated quitting my job, buying a farm, and raising chickens, so there's that.

With this as the backdrop of my current mental state, let me dial you into a day last week when I was especially low, the kind of low when you vaguely discern in your mind's eye that you're not your best self, but not only do you lack the ability to pull yourself up, you can't discern which way is up, as if you were rolled by a wave in the ocean and, disoriented, you're sinking deeper underwater instead of rising to the surface. The kind of low when you're wounded and feel misunderstood, when your mistakes and flaws seem like the sum tally of who you are, when hope has turned to dust. 

That day I had cried myself dry while sitting in my parked car in the garage, away from family. After wiping my eyes and checking my face, I went inside and saw a small package addressed to me alongside the day's mail that my husband had set on the counter. It was from a sweet friend who lives hundreds of miles away, a friend I haven't talked to in months. Inside was an artwork print and a handwritten note.

Her note read:

This flower is an anemone. It grows on the banks on the Sea of Galilee. It was drawn by someone in our church and given to mothers on Mother's Day to remind us of El Roi, the God who sees me. Robin, may you feel God's presence and know El Roi sees you. He sees you in your ups and downs of daily life. He sees your faithfulness in the mundane. He sees the things weighing heavy on your heart. He sees the tears you cry behind closed doors. He sees your victories and defeats. He sees all of you. May you be reminded of His good deeds from the past so that you can continue to have hope in the future.

I'm surprised I had tears left, yet new ones formed in my eyes.

If you're not familiar with the reference, the name El Roi appears in Genesis 16 when a woman named Hagar encountered God at her lowest point. After being mistreated and running away, Hagar was found by God near a spring in the desert and given direction. We're told later in the chapter that Hagar gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: "You are the God who sees me. I have now seen the One who sees me."

When I think of the billions of people who have walked this earth, from antiquity to now, my mind can't fathom the weight of all our stories. How many tears have been shed on this earth? How many times has a person found themselves in a desert of the soul, mistreated and running away? How many have grappled with bitter disappointments when their lives have included chapters of unimaginable heartbreak? How many have looked over wreckage and wondered if it could ever be redeemed? This life is hard.

But El Roi. But God sees. But God sees me.

God saw it fit to prompt someone to mail a package two or three weeks after Mother's Day so it would arrive at the exact moment when her far-away friend, the friend who just had been hiding and crying in her car in the garage, needed a reminder that her life was not beyond the notice of God.

His arm is not too short to reach me. His hand is not too weak to steady me. His power is not too limited to save. His goodness has not dried up. I belong to a God who meets me in the basement. This is a God who walks me through the valley of the shadow of death. I type these truths not necessarily because I currently feel them, but because I need to remind myself of them.

If you are part of the collective group of people who currently are not living mountaintop experiences, you're not alone in the valley. The Lord will meet us in the basement. He sees us exactly where we are.

Artwork by Emily Morgan Brown

The Voices We Entertain

In late December, Joel and I traveled for his work — by ourselves, without our children — for four days, three nights. Before this, he and I only had been away together without kids for four days, so this singular trip doubled the amount of sans-kid travel we've had in the nearly 20 years we've been parents.

As you keep our entirely child-free status in mind, let me tell you the story of how he and I took an afternoon hike. The trail, which was steeper than either of us had anticipated, took three hours to ascend and descend. Given the perfect weather, the trail had a fair amount of activity, and during the descent we had two fellow hikers trailing us at a relatively close distance.

Close enough to hear their conversation, at least.

They must have been late teens or early twenties. It was unclear if they were brother and sister or boyfriend and girlfriend, but it was exceptionally clear that they were bickering.

Bicker. Bicker. Bicker.

Pick. Pick. Pick.

Snarky comment. Snarky response. 

I kept my eyes on the ground, scanning the terrain for my next good foothold, and noticed that I was growing more frustrated with each step. It was a beautiful day! We were supposed to be enjoying a hike! But these knuckleheads were filling our airwaves with argument, complaint, and irritation.

That's when I had an epiphany. These were somebody's kids, but they weren't my kids. I wasn't responsible for my own kids this day, much less someone else's. I didn't have to walk near them. I didn't have to stick with them. I didn't have to let their voices fill my ears. 

I looked at Joel and said, "I can't listen to their arguing anymore. We've got to let them pass." He nodded quick agreement.

I'm not sure if they heard me. It's possible. My epiphany had given me a bit of a rush, and I hadn't guarded that excitement by lowering my voice.  We stepped to the side, pausing until they passed, then waited a few more moments to create enough distance between us before we continued.

The remainder of the hike was much more pleasant. I don't know why we hadn't pulled off to the side to let them pass earlier. Nobody needs that much negativity filling their ears.

This week I remembered this lesson as I thought about the voices that I let myself listen to, the voices I let trail behind me as I move through life. For a portion of time during this hike, I hadn't even contemplate that I had a choice. The kids were behind me, they were complaining, and that seemed like the end of it. Suck it up, buttercup, I could have said to myself. It's a bad hand you were dealt, but these are the people following you down the mountain Just deal with it.

But that's not true at all. We had agency. We adjusted our journey. We better positioned ourselves. We chose to let the negative voices pass by rather than letting them trail us.

This past week, I've had several times where I needed to get intentional about the voices that I've listened to. The voices that were trailing me as I moved about my day, telling me that I had messed up. The voices, whispering accusations that I'm not good enough. The voices that do nothing but create irritation, cast doubt, and suck joy.

In the gospel of John, Jesus reminds us that sheep recognize the voice of their shepherd, and that he is our good shepherd. In contrast, we're we're told that Satan is the accuser. When the running commentary in my head is filled with accusation, it's time to separate myself from that voice. It's not from my shepherd. Metaphorically, I can step aside, let the accusations pass, and choose not to make them my traveling companions. I can choose to listen to what the the Lord is saying to me and about me.

We get to choose. We get to choose the voices we entertain. 

Let's Chat: Mid-February Musings

IT'S ALMOST HAPPENED. We've almost reached the halfway point of February. I can't tell if these first weeks of February have dragged or if they've gone quickly, but I just realized that I didn't write here once during the entire month of January, which is surprising because January lasted a decade. So, to make up for my silence, it's time for an official Let's Chat post.

LET'S GO! And by let's go, I mean, sit right there and get comfortable. Grab a nice warm beverage. Let's chat.

A new semester. The "spring" semester (which is inaccurately named) is already in its fifth week. We're past syllabus week, learning names, and first impressions. We're now in the thick of things — assigning assignments, submitting assignments, grading assignments — and we'll remain in the thick of things, rinsing and repeating, for the next ten weeks. 

I've taught so many semesters that this rhythm is second nature. Today I enjoyed a rare moment when I got to talk with not one, not two, but three colleagues at the same time in the hallway between classes, which was a gift of levity and connection.

New opportunities. I'm stepping out this semester in several ways. I'm leading an eight-week women's Bible study at my church, and I'm teaching a new class on campus. Both endeavors are exciting. I love prepping for classes and messages, and it's been good to flex my muscles, so to speak. I'm proud of myself.

The benefit of an outside opinion. Last weekend, I roped my good friend and neighbor into a closet-cleaning endeavor. She sat on the arm chair in my bedroom while I went into my closet, grabbed a pile of shirts, dumped them on my bed, and proceeded to hold them up one at a time so we could judge them. While I already sort through my closet each season, having an outside opinion was a game-changer. She had no connection to anything in my closet and could view each piece objectively, giving me that extra push to let go of pieces that no longer served me well. 

I did this for her at the end of summer, sitting on her bedroom floor as she tried on outfits, giving her a thumbs up or thumbs down like a Roman emperor with my approval or disapproval of fashion choices. It's much more fun to share this task with a friend. More effective, too!

Playtime. I miss working in my garage on projects during the winter. It's been ages since I've spray painted anything. In these cold months, I miss those creative outlets. Still, since I know I feel better mentally and emotionally when I can work with my hands and be crafty, I try to pick up small projects. My most recent was when I used paint and drywall compound (which is uncannily similar to icing a cake) to create textured hearts on an old canvas.

The hearts aren't perfect, but perfection wasn't the point. Playtime was the point. Soon enough, the weather will be warm enough that I can putz in my garage until my heart is content, spray painting anything that doesn't move. For now, these little projects scratch the itch.

Leaning into lingering cold. I'm eager for spring for a multitude of reasons. It'll be warm enough to spray paint. Obviously. And, generally, warmth is good. There will be more color. More daylight. Things will grow. Garage sale season will begin! There's much to look forward to with the approach of spring.

But we're not there yet. Winter still has us in its clutches, and February has some bite. So, for now, I lean into the lingering cold. I make myself a cup of mint tea each night. When I snuggle under a blanket to read, I have the best companion in Peanut, who takes this setup as an invitation to nap in my lap. All in all, when you have a cup of tea in your hand and a cat in your lap, life is pretty good.

February. Is it bad that I still have to carefully sound out this word in order to spell it? FEB-U-ARY? FEB-RU-ARY? What is happening with this word, people? Are we dumping in extra R's into this month merely for kicks, just like we dump in an extra day every four years?  February's tough. I imagine it standing there, taunting us, ready to take the hit. Go on. Give me what you've got. You want to add an extra letter R? Bring it. I can handle it. Just toss it wherever. It's not gonna bother me one bit, but none of you — I mean NONE of you — are gonna actually know how to spell me, so joke's on you.

* * * * * 

Friends, as always, thank you for sitting and chatting. You could spend your time anywhere, but you visited here. I'm grateful you stopped by.

Until next time (sometime later in FEB-RU-ARY), be well and stay warm.

Robin

Blursdays: What Fills the Gaps Between Christmas and New Years

I took an early morning walk, quite pleased with myself that by the time I turned the corner at the end of my street I had figured out that today was Thursday. Then, after a few more mental calculations, I corrected it to Friday. Close enough. 

Days between Christmas and New Years are amorphous. Is it a Monday? A Tuesday? A Saturday? Nobody knows. Days have no identity. There are no solidified mealtimes, just indiscriminate eating of leftover Christmas lasagna and cookies and the triple-layer coconut cake that our neighbor dropped off.  There are no distinct times, either, just earlier and later. I haven't worn anything other than sweats in 72 hours. Have I put in contacts? No way. Mascara? That's laughable. I'm in my most natural state, and it's a little slovenly and a little wonderful all at once.

Back to that morning walk: when there's nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, it's easy to carve out an hour and a half to wander. From my house, I took my most common walking loop: down the street, hang a right, then take an eventual left which leads me past the house with the wood stove.

Against the pale drab sky, bare tree branches loomed in stark contrast. I noticed leaves that haven't been raked and unlit strands of Christmas lights draped along fences in the wan December daylight. Deflated inflatables languished in their drooped states over dormant grass.

But when you look, when you really look, you find beauty. I stopped in my tracks to watch a flock of geese fly overhead in V-formation. I veered down side streets to the quin historic neighborhood, technically still classified as a village, that's nearby. There's something simple and beautiful about an unadorned natural grapevine wreath hung intentionally against barnwood.

I walked along a stretch of railroad tracks, which better positioned me to peek into the back yard of the house with stockpiled stacks of red bricks. What long-ago project were these bricks intended for, or what project might they eventually be used to complete? In the nearly twenty years I've lived here, they've just been there. It's a mystery.

The grain elevator and coal sheds still stand as a tribute to the past. When I drive by, I don't look at these sights closely, but as I walked I peered into the windows and somehow felt like I've stepped back in time. 

In the alleyway tucked behind the cafe, there's the blue fence with its arched gate that surrounds the house with all the pollinator plants. Like much of the town, the blue fence leans and sags. Odds are it'll either last forever, or it'll fall over tomorrow. Sheds and barns and fences seem to be eternally crooked here. Somehow, they manage to be equal measures sturdy yet run-down, upright yet ramshackle. 

I avoided roads on the way home and solely walked along the railroad tracks. You have to concentrate when walking this route. My steps never perfectly match the distance between wooden railroad ties, so I adjusted the length of my stride often. It made each step more deliberate, which felt okay, given that I was walking simply to enjoy walking, not to be anywhere for anything.

When I was a child, I think I would have loved walking these streets, wondering about the lives of people living in these houses. When I was a teenager, like my own kids are now, I'm not sure if I would have paid much attention. Perhaps yes, or perhaps I would have been immersed in my own life to the point that I wouldn't notice clusters of green moss growing along the rails.

I walked and I thought. I worried a bit, then prayed, then cycled back to a bit more worry when my prayers got tangled in my head. I know I can control very little in this life — my attitude, my reactions, my heart (and I'm still working on these things daily) — yet I kept thinking over the attitudes, reactions, and hearts of my own children, wondering if I've done anything, ever, right as a parent. Mentally, I know that my children are their own people, with their own inner thought lives, who ultimately control their own choices, attitudes, reactions, and hearts.

But, my oh my, some days. Some days it's hard.

It's a hard balance. I want to love them fully without solving their problems, which they need to solve on their own in order to grow. I want them to have experiences, yet have them understand — really understand — that experiences are privileges, not rights they're entitled to. I want them to have resilience and grit and fortitude. I want them to face challenges, not collapse under them. I want to be tender to their hurts, yet not enable. I want them to be grateful. I want them to take walks, even when the sky is gray. I want them to find happy distractions in an overhead flock of geese and beauty in a perfect tuft of moss nestled next to railways with their rusted patina.

Given that I didn't know what day of the week it was when I started this morning walk, you'd be right if you assumed that I didn't finish my walk with these thoughts figured out tidily. How to strike this balance as a parent, just like how to discern the form of these blursdays between Christmas and New Year, isn't instinctively clear to me.

So, I did the one thing I always do, the one thing I know is clear even when everything else is unclear. I turned back to prayer, aligning with God in this: I don't know. I lack wisdom, and I need it. Lord, would you please give me wisdom. I try so hard yet I'm a flawed person myself. Lord, you're perfect, so would you help me to faithfully point my kids to you through my actions, words, and attitudes. I'm tired yet I want to be strong. Lord, help me lean into you. Be my strong tower and refuge.

It's been hours since I returned home from my walk. (At least I think it's been hours. The day still has no discernable shape or structure to it.) There will be blurry days, blurry seasons, blurry times when nothing feels quite right, yet you make it through all the same. I'm banking on this, not just in regard to these loose days until our regularly scheduled lives begin again after the holidays, but in regard to all of life's phases. Like parenting teenagers. 

In the meanwhile, I'll take walks, during which I'll make middle-aged observations about the sights I see, and I'll pray. Oh, I'll pray, and I'll keep praying, and I'll pour out this heart of mine to the One who hears and understands, the One who knows me the best and loves me the most, the One who entrusted our children to us and us to them, the One who loves our children more than we can fathom, the One who actually knows it's Friday, the One who will remain faithful all the days of my life, even when those days feel blurry to me.