Playing House

About six years ago, I made a promise in a blog entry that I would write a story about my grandmother.
Then a few months ago at a family gathering, I made a promise to my grandfather that I would write a story about my grandmother.

You guys, it is time for that story.
*****


I'm pretty sure I have the nicest grandmother in the entire world.

Now I know that everyone thinks, "Big deal. All grandmas are nice." But my grandmother's kindness is the stuff of legend.
I honestly have heard someone tell me a story about a time she gently talked an angry, knife-wielding man away from a vehicle with her friends inside. Now I have never asked my grandmother about the validity of such a tale--and neither did the teller--but that is, in fact, what makes it a legend. That we would believe such a thing could happen without the need to verify it is just a testament to her character.


I can remember exactly one time that I've ever heard the woman raise her voice, and it was in fear and not in anger.
I can remember maybe three whole times I've ever heard her complain.
I can remember a million times I've heard her laugh.

Gentleness, kindness, patience, peace, goodness...
My grandmother is dripping in all of those things.

And if that doesn't make her sound lovely enough, she also has the skin of someone like half her age.
(Unfortunately I'm not so sure that I've inherited such character traits.)

But there is one part of me that favors my grandmother very much so, and I'm reminded of it every time I move into a new house.

My grandmother is an Air Force wife turned preacher's wife, and she spent her entire adult life moving, moving, and moving some more. My grandparents never really had a lot of money, and my grandmother certainly wasn't materialistic by any stretch---
But she really loved her stuff.

My mother remembers how my grandfather would question if they were going to have to move *all* of her knick-knacks yet again
...and then my sweet, gentle grandma would look at him like he was wasting his breath.
Of course they were going to move *all* of the stuff...It was her stuff!!!

I loved my grandmother's stuff when I was little. There were certain things you could count on to be there no matter what. The teddy bears in the kitchen. The family photos lining the entertainment center. The recliner that was just right for watching the t.v. on upside down. The footstool that you're not supposed to jump off of unless you want Grandma to get scared and yell...

No matter where they ended up, no matter if I'd been there twenty times or never before in my life, my grandparents' house always felt like my grandparents' house.
And it gave me a sense of homecoming in a place that wasn't my home.

What I thought was an act of frugality when I was younger seems so intentional now, especially as an adult who is also trying to make a home out of a strange new place every few years.
The stuff was more than just stuff to her.
It was the evidence of stewardship. It was the means to hospitality. It was familiarity and stability in a brand new place. And it was the source of the memories that reminded everyone that they were cared for and loved, no matter where they went.

Honestly, I think that's why I went all crazy when it took so long to get my household goods here. I wasn't longing for the things themselves. I was longing for the sense of homecoming I knew they would bring me---that I was eager to bring to my family.

(...And perhaps the ease of some modern appliances. And the fluff of my sweet, sweet bed.)

Well, I'm happy to report that I don't have to miss my things anymore, because MY STUFF HAS FINALLY ARRIVED IN ALASKA!!!

These past few days we have been feverishly setting up rooms, hanging pictures, and settling in. And just like my grandma's house always did, it feels familiar even though it's not. With every item we unwrap, we exhale.
We are loved. We are cared for. We are home.

No matter where we go.

For every house is built by someone, but the builder of all things is God. (Hebrews 3:4)

(Thank you for the wonderful childhood memories you built for me, Grandma!)
xo

Spotting the Dirt

Last week on The Crazy Woman Driver, we watched as Liz struggled to provide a comfortable home for her family without any of thier personal belongings. On this week's entry, we'll finally see her excel in all areas of womanhood with the help of her household goo----
What? She still doesn't have any of her stuff yet? Are you sure? Oh...um...alright then.
On this week's entry, we'll see why Liz can't stop writing this crazy introduction.
***


It's been another long week without my stuff in the last frontier.
On the plus side, having no things has kept us busy exploring some fun sights around our new home. On the down side, well, is pretty much everything else. Turns out that "waiting for your ship to come in" isn't nearly as romantic as it sounds.


We were very fortunate to receive some borrowed furniture from the military installation so I can feign some form of normalcy around here.
Unfortunately, normal household behavior includes cleaning.

I've never liked mopping, but somehow in Alaska, mopping feels especially stupid.
Maybe it's because the floors in this place are the wrong color. Maybe it's because there are two large dogs in my house. Maybe it's because the empty floors are just making every piece of dirt and dog hair *that much more* visible. Maybe I'm using the wrong supplies, or I'm just an inadequate housekeeper.
Whatever the reason, I find myself sweeping up the same kind of mess all the live-long day.
It's exhausting. It's annoying. And it feels extremely frivolous.

As any good wife would do, I griped to my husband about it. (I believe I used the phrase "bane of my existence," so you know, I kept a really level head during the whole discussion.) My husband listened to my complaints, told me he agreed it was frustrating, and gave me a hug...

(Not really.)
He observed the situation, identified the source of the problem, and set out to help me fix it.

It turns out none of my "maybe's" were the problem. The problem was the actual dirt.
The lawn in our backyard either suffered a harsh winter or some harsh tenants, because there is no grass in any of it. We could see where someone had thrown some seeds on top of the dry dirt before we moved in as a last ditch effort, but understandably, nothing was growing. When we would let the dogs out into the yard, they would romp around in the dirt and then carry all the loose bits into the house with them, again and again.
It didn't matter how often or furiously I was cleaning.
My problem was never going to get any better if I didn't take care of the actual dirt.


It got me thinking about how that's true in so many other ways.
I've been working a lot on health and fitness lately, and during these past couple of months, I've hit a snag. I can chalk up my unwanted pounds to my aging body, the stress of this move, not having the right equipment, or the fact that I don't have any of my kitchen tools so I am eating out more than I'd like. But none of those are the real source of the problem. The problem is that I'm not waking up in time to do my workouts.
My morning routine is another thing I've let slip the last couple of months. Before I left Texas, I was setting an alarm, waking up early, doing a daily Bible study, planning out my day ahead, and doing my morning workout. Now I'm not setting an alarm, waking up whenever, working out sometimes, doing my Bible study when I get to it, and making absolutely no plans. I could blame all of this on the interruption brought on by the move, or the fact that it is impossible to go to bed at a decent hour because of the Alaskan midnight sun, or even that it's summa-summa-summer time, and by-golly, I deserve to sleep in! But none of those are the real source of the problem either. The problem is that I don't feel settled here, so it's keeping me up at night in worry.

I worry that our stuff is not going to fit in our house. I worry that our stuff is going to arrive broken. I worry that our stuff is not going to arrive at all. I worry that my husband isn't going to like his job. I worry that my kids aren't going to like their school. I worry that we're not going to know how to handle the dark and cold. I worry that we'll be lonely.---->What these really mean is that I worry that this place is not going to be a good home.

Unlike in my yard, it took some digging to get to the real dirt, but there it is.


Lucky for me, there's a lot of good potential in dirt.

Once my husband identified the source of the bane of my existence our tiny yard problem, he went to the store and got some seed. He mixed the seeds in the dirt, he covered it with landscaping fabric to protect it from dog paws, and he watered it regularly.

Now that I know where my dirt is, I can work to grow something good in there too.
Seed, cover, water, and wait.

Psalm 85:12
Yes, the Lord will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase.

I'm ready to do some growing here, y'all.
With or without my stuff.

(But hopefully with!) ;)

Prepping Makes Perfect

Hi friends. I have a new story for you, and it goes like this:

Once upon a time there was a lady who *still* didn’t have any stuff, and it drove her completely crazy.

For those of you who are keeping track, (or for those of you who are just catching up,) my family has recently moved to Alaska. Getting us here was surprisingly easy and wonderful. Getting our stuff here has been an entirely different story.

First of all, I want to say that I am not unaware of the logistical complication it must be to move 15,000+ lbs. 4,000+ miles. It is not an inconsequential feat, to be sure. I expect it to take some effort, coordination, experience---and yes, some time.

But it’s been 45 days...
And I got here in 12…
And even on the fringe of civilization, Amazon can still find me in 5…
and has already done so 5 times.

So yeah, I feel like “some time” is up.


I’ve mentioned before that it has been bothering me that I am so upset about not having my stuff yet. After all, it’s just stuff. But the more time that passes without it, I realize that it’s not necessarily the absence of my things that has been bothering me. It’s the fact that I jumped into this journey so unprepared to begin with.


I knew I was moving to a place that was significantly cooler. I only brought two pairs of pants.
I knew that I was going to be meeting new people. I brought no hair styling utensils. Not a single one. (Unless you count ball caps—which I do, because 45 days without a straightener makes you a little desperate.)
I knew my sweet husband was returning to work, and I was going to have to entertain the kids in a brand new place during summer vacation. I did no prior research for camps and activities.
I knew I was going to join a new church. Didn’t research any.
I knew I would need to register my kids for their new school. No report cards.
I knew my kids would want to join new sports clubs. Didn’t check registration dates.


(So basically, I planned for this giant move less than some people plan their week-long trips to Disney World.)


And as much as I want to say “But I didn’t know it would take this long!” the truth is, I should have been ready.

And that reminds me of another story:

“Then the kingdom of heaven will be comparable to ten virgins, who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were prudent. For when the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them, but the prudent took oil in flasks along with their lamps. Now while the bridegroom was delaying, they all got drowsy and began to sleep. But at midnight there was a shout, ‘Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.’ Then all those virgins rose and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the prudent, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ But the prudent answered, ‘No, there will not be enough for us and you too; go instead to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.’ And while they were going away to make the purchase, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the wedding feast; and the door was shut.” (Matthew 25:1-10)

Sometimes, we can know what is coming and not be prepared for it. Our lack of preparedness is always revealed with time, because it’s the one thing that none of us can fully anticipate.

Maybe there’s something you know you need to quit and won’t.
Maybe there’s something you know you need to start and haven’t.
Maybe there’s something you need to say and aren’t.

(Maybe there’s a straightener you’re supposed to pack and didn’t.)

And maybe you’re not supposed to do any of those things right now. Get ready anyway.

But in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect (1 Peter 3:15)

If you need oil, friend, go and get it.

Accentuate the Up

Right before my family left Texas for our 4,000 mile trek to Alaska, I decided to train for and run a half marathon on the local trail just behind my house. To get myself ready for the task, I dedicated three days a week to run training, three days a week to strength training, one day a week to flexibility training, and one glorious day a week to my favorite fitness component--REST. This is basically what my morning calendar looked like for about ten weeks prior to moving, and I was in some pretty solid shape when I left.

But then I sat my solidly-shaped glutes in a car for twelve straight days.
And then I perfected my "rest day" craft for an entire month after that.

(My glutes are still shaped like something, but I don't want to talk about it.)

After venting a little about our moving situation last week, I decided that one of the best things to make this place feel more like home was to establish a new morning fitness routine. Yesterday was the kick-off, because I figured a new week deserves a new start.
(But new starts don't necessarily mean fresh starts, y'all.)
As I struggled through my twenty minute workout, it was hard not to get discouraged. It was even harder not to take it easy. (I am pretty good at resting, after all.) But as I struggled to make my muscles relearn how to bear weight, I remembered something I had been coached on before:

When you are pushing for the top of the exercise, accentuate the up.
In other words, when you are getting ready to do something hard, put in extra effort on the way up to help carry you to the top.

In a workout, what this does is cue all of your muscles correctly so you don't strain yourself as you start to fatigue. Most injuries happen as people get sloppy and lose form. It also keeps you from growing discouraged, because you are focusing on the effort in the middle instead of the distance from the bottom to the top.
What I've come to find is that this extra effort in the middle of the exercise--in the climb--somehow makes getting to the top not seem quite as hard.

This doesn't have to be specific to single exercises, but is true in fitness as a whole.

Most people can't pinpoint the exact moment that they were able to become distance runners--it's a slow build. In my run training, I just started where I was at (a little shy of 3 miles) and tacked on one more mile, then another, and another, and another. Three days of running a week for eight weeks doesn't seem like it should have been enough to add on ten miles to my ability. But I pressed hard through the middle, and it carried me to my goal at the top.
Strength training isn't much different. It's amazing what can happen when you tell yourself to do just one more than last time. *Just one more.* Eventually you realize that adding one more rep isn't challenging enough and you have to add heavier weights. There's no one moment it happened and you were magically strong enough. The effort in the middle carries you to your gains at the top.

And crazier still, this doesn't have to be specific to fitness, but to your life as a whole.

Moving to a new place is always scary for me, because it challenges me to look at my life and see how I can grow. I always have to struggle with the questions of whether or not I will work, where I want to serve in the community and in my church, how I can foster opportunities for my children, how I can carve out quality time for my marriage, how I can build new friendships, how I can experience new things, learn new skills, and how I can make this place feel like my favorite place that we've ever lived. (Because I always want to be striving towards better!) It's a daunting task, to be sure. When I think about all of the things I'm hoping for at the end, it's easy to get discouraged and overwhelmed at how far I have to go.
(And as I unfortunately learned in my last home, being an expert-level rest-er makes it far too easy not to push and just to settle.)

If that mistake has taught me anything, it's this:
We're not supposed to strive. That doesn't mean we're not supposed to grow.

Newsflash, friends:
Growth takes effort.
And form.
And persistence.
And time.

The good news is, if you're working, you're probably growing.
(Unless you're my glutes, in which case the opposite is true. HA!)

And you don't have to do anything crazy to start, aside from *just one more thing.*
Accentuate the up, friends. Put in that extra effort.

We'll see each other at the top.

More than Enough

Well friends, it has now been thirty-one days since my all of my household goods were packed up into boxes, wrapped up like Christmas presents, and loaded into the back of some truck. We had reserved only a couple of boxes-worth of things for ourselves to help us make the move from Texas to Alaska: About six days of outfits, 3 shoes, 2 pajamas, and 2 swimsuits a piece. We brought some car activities to help entertain the kids on their 4,000 mile move, to include a few novels, a couple puzzle books, some journals and sketchpads, colored pencils, a handful of DVD's and pretty much every hand-held gaming device that we owned. (Because 4,000 miles, people.) Every self-care item that I brought for the four of us fit into two tiny kits.
The dogs have their food bowls and leashes.
We brought the family documents in a small safe.
I'm typing this on a laptop.

Our family stayed in hotels every night of our twelve-day journey, but we had packed some sleeping bags just in case.
We have now been using our "just in case" sleeping bags for one whole week.


The things that were so carefully boxed and wrapped and loaded away one month ago today are basically M.I.A. (We're hoping en route on a boat, but we don't really know for sure.) Those things in the couple boxes we brought are the things that I have to make a home. To dress our bodies. To work. To play.
I don't really consider myself a super-materialistic person, but I have cried about this. More than once.

I start to cry because I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated that it's taking so long. I'm frustrated because I don't know why our moving coordinator is not communicating with us. I'm frustrated because I want so badly for my children to be comfortable in their new home, and I want our family to start feeling settled here, and that's hard to do in those "just in case" sleeping bags.

But then I start to cry because I get mad at myself for feeling frustrated.
Of course we are fortunate enough to buy some new stuff, and we have. (Just don't ask me about the prices in Alaska, or I'll start crying again.) Having no things has made ample opportunities to explore our new surroundings. We have a house. We have some clothes. We have water and food and just-in-case sleeping bags.
And we have each other.

These should be the most important things, I know, but I am still sitting around crying about my stuff.
It's made me do a lot of questioning on my definition of "enough."

My family was so excited about moving to Alaska, we could hardly contain it. The promise of adventure, the unparalleled beauty, the wildness, the roughness, the super-cold, the super-dark, the super-sun---I wanted all of it. It never crossed my mind that it would start out so--I don't know--miserably. I reminded me of another rough start I had heard about before:

The whole Israelite community set out from Elim and came to the Desert of Sin, which is between Elim and Sinai, on the fifteenth day of the second month after they had come out of Egypt. In the desert the whole community grumbled against Moses and Aaron. The Israelites said to them, “If only we had died by the Lord’s hand in Egypt! There we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted, but you have brought us out into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death." (Exodus 16: 1-3)

But the very next verse spoke something into my soul that I can't shake.

Then the Lord said to Moses, “I will rain down bread from heaven for you. The people are to go out each day and gather enough for that day. In this way I will test them and see whether they will follow my instructions.

This is a lesson I'm still in the process of learning to be sure, but I think the main points of the story are coming together for me.

The people grumbled, but the Lord gave.
I am more uncomfortable than I wish I was, but I am not without. Complaining to my husband isn't the answer. Griping on social media isn't the answer. I've learned when I'm anxious about my stuff, just to pray about it. Psalm 38:9 says, You know what I long for, Lord; You hear my every sigh. The Lord has heard me sigh a lot, y'all.
And He's provided.
(Which brings me to the second point:)

He rained down blessings out of the sky, but the people had to pick it up.
For the first little while that we were here, we got to stay in a fully furnished townhouse with maid service. (Again, let me go cry about it, right?!) While we were staying there, the woman in the unit next door came out and told us about a program on post that lets you borrow furniture for free while you wait for your stuff. It's not flashy or fancy, but it's a bed, table and chairs, washer and dryer. It fills the need.
Now her information alone felt like manna raining down, but it wouldn't have done us any good if we didn't figure out where the building was and how to request it, (and then follow up with them after they missed our original delivery date.)
I guess what I'm trying to say is, the blessings are out there, but that doesn't mean we always just get to sit there and have them fall in our laps.

And that leads into the final point:

This is only a test.
Which I admit sounds a little scary, but we are taught not to fear the tests--for they refine us.
Particularly in this season, I am feeling pressed to evaluate things like:
What really gives my life richness?
What really makes a settled home? (Namely, why do I think I need stupid things like wall art to feel "settled?")
What do we really need?
What have I been taking for granted?
How do I take this frustration and turn it into contentment--gratitude, even?
The thing about the manna is, if the people didn't gather, they wouldn't get fed. But if they took too much, then it went rotten.
What are some good things that I might have taken too much of?
And the real kicker--Am I trusting God to provide for us? Every need? Every day?


I don't expect this to be a thing that I magically get better at overnight. (And I pray I don't need 40 years like the Israelites.) But tonight when I lay in my borrowed bed with my just-in-case sleeping bag, if my eyes start to well up with frustrated tears, then I will remember to reset with these words:
Pray; Gather; Believe.

(And if I need His words, and not mine:)

But my God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus. (Philippians: 4:19)

Whatever I need, He gives enough.
(Help me believe it better, Lord.)