The fields are bare now, ready to sleep for the long winter. We cook more soups as temperatures drop, watch more tv as the nights take up more hours of the earth’s rotation. I knit stitches on a sweater here, a hat there; pick up my phone to tap out thoughts to copy into a draft later. The work of life continues, but indoors and inwardly. It is a soft work, in which repentance and rest will be our salvation; in quietness and trust will be our strength (Isa. 30:15).
Tag: new seasons
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crackle of november
November has rolled around, which means (for those of us in the Northern hemispheric latitudes who experience these distinct seasons) digging tubs of winter clothing out of storage and remembering where the heck you put the ice scraper. In Indiana this year, the frost has come in before the corn has come down; the beans made it but the wind will need to rattle through the tall brown stalks just a little longer before harvest. Rural driving requires reducing oneself from summertime fast-cars-and-freedom speeds to a slow and watchful winding around grain trucks parked on road edges and tractors ambling along as far to the right of the double yellow lines as they can. And when the crops come down and the clouds of dust and chaff stir up, the deer more hastily pick that moment of all possible moments to dart in front of your car — you simply can’t be in a hurry. There are no “New York minutes” out here, and sometimes people are eager to tell me as much.
I do appreciate the slower pace to my days — not just from being in a different state and subculture, but the stage of life I’m in and the work I do to live fully into it. Though I sometimes feel a twinge of “survivor’s guilt” for stepping out of the whitewater rapids of a traditional 9-to-5, I wouldn’t trade this weird and wonderful cobbled-together life for it. Often at the end of an 8-hour office day I would come home with most everything scratched off my to-do list — a mental boost for an Achiever; a tangible set of accomplishments feeding into the feeling of having “earned” the evening’s rest. But these days as I spend a few hours here and a few hours there, a morning in the woodshop or an afternoon typing away at a cafe, a day in the garden with mom or a minute bringing in heavy groceries for dad, I find that my “accomplishments” appear slowly; the cumulative effect of a thousand little things, rather than bullet points that would look impressive on a resume. There are no Key Performance Indices here, and my brain struggles to accept as much.
But again, I would not trade it for all the accolades in the world. I mean…I might try, considering how hard-wired I am to want the win, the triumph, the recognition, the success. Which is why I am seeing in a thousand small ways the reasons God has me here at this place, in this time, for these purposes…I have for so long found my worth and identity in accomplishing things. Sometimes Christians like to point out that “God breaks us down so he can build us back up!” and maybe that’s true, sometimes. But surely not all the time; not as some universal regulation by which He is always confined to operate. I think more often than not, He is far more patient and tender with us than that. At least, He has been with me — even at my most rebellious. A bruised reed he does not break. He declared his own Name to be “gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love and faithfulness.” There is no harsh breaking down here, and God is gently showing me as much.
It is, rather, a slow and gentle dying, like the shifting of autumn into winter — when the days wrap us up in a long, cozy darkness and the fallen leaves crackle underfoot as we walk.
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making hay while the sun shines
Around this time last year, I was leaving behind notes for the next program director at the college I worked at. No one had been hired yet by the time I left — a symptom of a larger issue I was relieved to step away from. Regardless, I had been itching to move on from the higher ed world for a while; longer than I had even realized myself at the time. I loved my students, even loved much of the work I did. But when my position changed during COVID, it was no longer a good fit for me. So, I gave my notice and set my sights on other pastures.
The plan was to strike out on my own. To freelance as a database designer (something I was skilled at and enjoyed as one piece of my multi-faceted job), travel around in my newly-purchased camper van, and live the digital nomad life. I would relocate to Indiana as a “home base” so I could help my parents out as needed, but be able to visit friends and see parts of my own country I hadn’t yet seen. Oh, and between all those things, I would also begin building something off the thesis I had written as the culmination of my master’s degree–ministry, resources, workshops. I was set to get started on all kinds of Very Important Things.
Reader, only one of those things has happened.
I’m here. In Indiana.
Home base.
Learning to shift my perspectives, plans, and ambitions.Plans always change, especially when we make a big move. We find that the needs and responsibilities in our new location are different than we envisioned. We find out certain skills don’t translate as well as we hoped. We lose momentum on things we were passionate about, because there are other needs to be met right in front of us.
A year later now, and part of me (well, much of me, to be honest) feels like I’ve lost the plot. Snide, inaudible comments hiss their way through my brain and if I am not careful, into my heart. Things like You have to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps. God helps those who help themselves — you’ll never prosper or get God’s favor and blessing if you just wait for things to be handed to you. He’ll only bless you if you’re doing His will, so you must be doing something wrong, or not doing enough. If you don’t have enough faith, God can’t work in your life. No one says these things directly (although they might repost a low-quality jpeg of it on facebook), and they are a poor and disappointing interpretation of Scripture. But it feels like this “must” be what people secretly think when they look at me. Like I’m supposed to be making something of myself, doing all those Very Important Things, and having some kind of outsized impact for the kingdom.
But good grief. What a lot of pressure, and from no one in particular; it’s just a nagging sense of dread, a fear of being exposed as some kind of fraud. Like a spiritual impostor syndrome.
I mean, maybe someone will “find me out” someday. They’ll find that instead of building databases, I’m building compost bins and plowing dirt so we can grow our own food. They’ll find my parents are grateful for me to be back. They’ll discover that instead of making money for someone else, I’m stumbling my way through writing books and crafting things to sell on Etsy so I can support myself by doing things I love. They’ll find that yeah, maybe I’ve lost momentum on the #MeToo project for now, but they’ll also find that I refuse to let it fizzle out because I believe it’s too important for the Church to ignore.
Ultimately though, as hard as it is for me to believe sometimes, those poisonous lies of God must be so disappointed in you are arrows from behind enemy lines. And what anyone glimpses on the outside is not the full picture of what God sees. People are only casual observers–He does the work in me, far beyond what even I’m aware of. It’s not their opinion that matters–it’s His. There’s only one throne before which I will stand on the Last Day, and it doesn’t belong to anyone who is in just as much need of grace as I am. Nor does it belong to that devil who was crushed forever beneath the heel of King Jesus.
So, I do the best I can with what I have. For now, I’ll lead a quiet life, mind my own business, and work with my hands. Just make hay while the sun shines.
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solidly spring
today’s Coffee Drinking Spot The northern hemisphere has finally shifted into warmer days. In the Midwest, it means hearing the constant rumble of tractors from every corner of the compass, plowing and planting and spraying the fields for this year’s round of crops. City and suburban gardeners also venture out to local nurseries and big box stores to pick up seedlings and fresh bags of potting soil for their own vegetable patches and flower beds.
It is only mid-morning, but the sun is already well into the sky when I step out the door with my first cup of coffee. European starlings, exiled from their native range 160 years ago, chatter noisily in the maple tree above my head. It’s not their fault they’re here, so I hate to evict them…but if I let them stay, they will bully away the native birds that have also chosen this plot of land to call home–so the nest must go. After, of course, another cup of coffee.
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this pilgrim’s progress
It’s nearly midnight on a Sunday night. I’m surrounded by cardboard boxes and crumpled newspapers and packing tape, once again putting my life into temporary containers in preparation for another move. (Indeed, this will be my seventh official change-of-address within the past 10 years.)
As I’ve been saying to friends lately, this move doesn’t feel real–yet it doesn’t feel surreal, if that makes any sense. I’ve moved plenty, both within my own country and outside of it; I am no stranger to the barrage of feelings that can come with uprooting yourself and settling into a new place. But this move just feels different. I suspect it’s because I’m not moving to somewhere new, but rather somewhere old. Back to the place where I began. Back to the place where “home” means the town grew up in, rather than the place I currently abide.
But although I’m going back to a familiar land, I know there will also be new things to experience. New people to meet. New opportunities to explore. New journeys to take with God. Hence, the new blog.
If you’ve known me long, you might know I’m a writer–although it’s also likely you might not know, because truth be told, I haven’t written much the last several years. At least, not in this format. I took the plunge into seminary, so four years of my free time was spent writing academic papers and a Master’s thesis. I’ve filled personal prayer journals, scribbled a rogue poem or two, and even had a blog with like, six posts on it. This style of wordsmithing has either lay dormant by necessity or fallow by choice all this time.
However, much like going back to old places for new reasons, I’m entering a season of life that leaves me space to write in a way my heart loves again. This coming week will be filled with more packing, errands, and shoving boxes into my van. But 450 miles from now, there’s new ground to rediscover. You’re welcome to come along for the journey.
Angela At-Large 