The Restart

There are several things that I was not mentally prepared for before moving to Alaska.

I didn't think about how difficult it was going to be to get all of my stuff here from Texas.
I didn't think about (or refused to believe) how much more everything cost up here. (It's scary.)
I didn't think about how frequently I was going to have to drive 47 minutes into town--each way, on a highway through Alaskan wilderness--just to get basic household supplies.
I didn't think about how often I would drive those 94 minutes just to discover that the two whole stores in town would not have what I needed.
I didn't think about how all of the fun outdoor tourist-y things would close in September. And then not open again until May.
I didn't think about how I might move from a single family home on an acre and a half with a fishing pond into a townhouse with a teeny backyard on a military installation.
I could have never fathomed in a million years that my children would be attending a school that does not have a cafeteria. (A cafeteria, y'all!!!)

I didn't even think about little things--like how much more it would rain here.
Or how slow my Internet would be.
Or what I'd do for dinner if I forgot to turn on the crockpot and everything around me closed at 7 pm.

And I most definitely didn't think about how the place I had dreamed about going for so long would be such an instantaneous struggle.

I didn't have any reservations when we first learned we were moving here about how I would like it. I knew it would be beautiful. I never for one moment thought it would be hard. Cold, but not hard.
I was excited. My family was excited. My friends were excited. My church was excited. I'm pretty sure that complete strangers were excited.
Alaska is a dream destination, and people really seemed to rally around it.

I moved with a bunch of enthusiasm and good vibes. I explored new things with fresh eyes. People were responsive and supportive. Everything felt full of promise.
Sure, there were some hard bits when we first arrived here, but I was being powered by the newness of it all. I could endure the first hiccups, power through the first challenges, and make the first hard choices because I was running on the momentum from the launch.

But eventually, as it always does, the newness wore off and the rallying went away. The hiccups kept coming. The challenges kept stacking up. Hard choices started to look an awful lot like bad options.
And I still had to live here.


Last week is the first time that I cried about living in Alaska--not about my stuff, or because I was feeling lonely, or because I was mad that my kids don't have a cafeteria in their school and I can't remember how to plug in a crockpot. I cried about having to live in my dream destination after it stopped being dreamy.

I realized I had two options here:
1. Be miserable
2. Start over

(Guess which one I choose.)

One thing that I have come to expect in this particular lifestyle is that--even with the really good things--there will always be a need to restart.
Military homecomings are followed by reintegration periods.
Promotions often come with a relocation.
Block leave leads to another training cycle.
"Dwell time" is followed by another deployment.

Newness is the thing that's often celebrated in our culture. But hardly anything lasting is accomplished during the initial launch.
Almost all of life's successes are achieved in the long game.
You win because you keep choosing to restart.

Persistence, man. That's the less-shiny stuff.
That's the stuff that's done in secret, without the excitement or rallying or momentum.

It's the stuff that's hard to recruit cheerleaders for because it looks like driving for 94 minutes for a toilet bowl cleaner, or completing your morning run in the rain (again), or figuring out how to feed your family after 7 pm if you accidentally ruin dinner.
It's the stuff that keeps you doing the workouts even after you skip a day. Or five.
It's the stuff that keeps you attending the new church even though you feel invisible in it.
It's the stuff that keeps you looking for your people even though you feel lonely.
It's the stuff that keeps you looking for your place even though you feel lost.

It's the stuff that keeps you fighting to love something even after it stops looking dreamy.

(Bonus points for Alaska. It is really good at looking dreamy.)

(Just remember, schools don't even have cafeterias here.)

I don't know what it is, friend.
Job? Fitness? Education? Faith? Service? Relationship?
You started out shiny and full of momentum, and then everything just kind of...stalls. The shine wears off. The people rallying for you seem to have gone silent.

Restart anyway.
It probably won't look glamorous, and that's okay.
You know what things look like after they're done looking dreamy?
They look real.

And that real world--that's where we get out of our head space and get the good stuff done.

We want each of you to show this same diligence to the very end, so that what you hope for may be fully realized.
(Hebrews 6:11)

(Here's to all the restarts. May everything you hope for be fully realized!)

The Dumping Ground

For the past several weeks I have been watching a friend’s young daughter after school. Each day I pick her up from school, drive her to the house, open the door,
…and watch her dump out the rocks from her shoes all over the front porch.

Then she’ll stack her shoes in the entryway next to her backpack and start working on a craft I have set out for her to do while I sweep up the mounds of pebbles.
Every.single.day.

At first I didn’t think too much of it. She was just a little girl starting a new routine in a new place. We’d figure out a better way soon enough. But after the third straight week of sweeping up those rocks, I felt myself start to get a little frustrated.

She had walked around the majority of the day with those rocks in her shoes. Why didn’t she empty them on the playground? Why not in her classroom trashcan? What was it about stepping foot on my front porch that gave her the instantaneous desire to empty them? Right in the doorway! Why was she waiting to empty the rocks at my house?

As soon as I thought those last words to myself, I felt a small voice whisper in my heart:
“Liz, a six-year-old girl walked around all day with rocks in her shoes. This home is the first place that gives her a chance to dump those rocks out. Let your home be a place where people are able to dump out all of their rocks.”

I continued sweeping up all the pebbles on the stoop and thought about how uncomfortable they must have been for her to walk on all day. I thought about how heavy they must have made her little footsteps. I thought about how the moment she walked inside my door she would slip around on her little socks down my hallway like she was on ice skates—happy and free.

In a matter of moments, the pile of rocks in my dustpan made the switch from minor annoyance to major calling card.
I don't want my house to be a rigid place where people feel they have to act presentable and perfect all the time.
My house is the place where you come to dump your rocks out.



About a half hour later, I watched my own children come through the door and greet their young house guest. As I went through their daily folders they complained about the amount of homework that they had, how they miss their old teachers, how they are still having some issues acclimating to their new school…and I listened to them as they “dumped their rocks out.”
I served them a snack and reset their backpacks for the next day and helped them with their homework—sweeping up whatever piles I could.

A few hours later my friend came to pick up her daughter and, exasperated, told me about the hard day she’d just had at work. I listened as she “dumped her rocks” right there inside the entryway, and I gathered up her daughter’s belongings, organized the loose pieces scattered around the floor into neat piles, and helped them carry some of the load to the car.

My husband and I sat around the fire later that evening, leaving our own little piles of rocks at each other’s feet; letting ourselves feel a little lighter than we were before; entering our home again happy and free.



The next morning, I placed an order for something with my little house guest in mind. When it arrived, I eagerly situated it out front and left to pick up the little girl from school. Then I drove her to my house, opened up the front door, and watched her take off her shoes to dump the rocks out.

She looked up at me from the new door mat and commented, “Oooh! This feels really soft on my feet!”
Then she skated down the hallway on her socks towards her craft while I grabbed the broom and swept her little pile of rocks away.

And it made my heart so glad.

p.s.
Texas Forever ;)

Wasting Sunshine

When we first moved to Alaska and were waiting for all of our stuff to arrive, our family decided to begin each Saturday morning scoping out and visiting yard sales--something that we had never done a single time before in our ten years together.

The yard sales were beneficial for many reasons. They helped us find great deals on "real winter gear--(because apparently Texas only sells "fake gear" for that weird white stuff that falls out of the sky.) They helped us familiarize ourselves with the roads, neighborhoods, parks, and other surroundings near our new home. They helped us find a $2 game of Boggle, circa 1968 and a $15 electric keyboard to keep my kiddos occupied and myself a little more sane.
And very importantly, they gave us an excuse to get out of an empty house.

But perhaps the best thing I scored at any of those yard sales was an unexpected conversation with one of the locals in her yard.
She was so informative, telling us about all of the youth leagues in the area, and the restaurants, the weather, the road conditions, and the schools. I honestly think I talked to that stranger for a solid thirty minutes. When we got ready to move on to the next yard, she said something that really stuck:

"Just wait 'til winter. You'll love it! Everyone stops going so crazy trying to capitalize on the sunshine--worrying that if we sit still, then we're wasting the day. "

The only thing was, the piece of her parting words that stuck with me was probably not the part she intended, and that just made everything...sticky.
Instead of hearing"You'll love it! Just wait." I only heard the words
"You're wasting the sunshine."


Immediately I became restless. What in the world was I doing in ALASKA wasting my fleeting sun and summer days on YARD SALES?! Surely, this activity wasn't big and adventuresome enough!
Why didn't I research a hike?
Why didn't I reserve a boat?
Why didn't I schedule a cruise?
Seriously, Liz? A Saturday morning yard sale?! When did I get so boring and old?! GAH!


During the next several weeks, I went full-on crazy person.


If it was inside, I didn't want to do it. My kids would start making requests for specific activities and I would tell them "No, let's save that for the winter." I don't want to waste my sunshine on being inside, thank you.
If it was at all related to anything that I could get/do in the lower 48, I didn't want to do it. I don't want to waste my sunshine on anything that is not uber-Alaskan, thank you.
I started scheduling us activities that had us up and out the door at 7:00 on the weekends. Even if everyone looked exhausted, I didn't want to stop. I don't want to waste my sunshine sleeping in, thank you.
When my family finally did get all of our stuff, I had a hard time letting them play with it. Why do you want to build that puzzle and read that book when there are only so many more sunny days outside? Don't waste them!!
My poor husband would come home after a full day of work and I would shoo us right out the door again --just staring at him until he figured out that meant we were going on a family bike ride or to a restaurant on the river. I don't want to waste my sunshine on family time at home, thank you.

(See? That chick is whack.)


Then, the most glorious thing ever happened.
My kids went back to school.
Something about this beautifully obligatory, ordinary routine brought me back from the brink.

We didn't have time for constant adventures. We had homework and early bedtimes and morning chores and breakfasts at the counter at 7:15...
And family suppers... Man, I love family suppers around our table. Probably even more than picnics.
That library that I didn't really want to go to for the past month sure was a fun treat on a Thursday evening... Just as fun on a Saturday, too.
That 1,000 piece puzzle? She finished it in three afternoons!
...And I just love watching her swim. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it.
And that boy had begged and begged for a karate class. His sweet face when he saw that I finally signed him up was as thrilling for my heart as any outdoor hike.
Evenings on the couch with my husband have been just as restful as any of our weekend getaways.
Boggle, circa 1968? Still fun.

Finally, my yard sale stranger's words resonated with me as they should have all along.


I may have come to Alaska looking for adventure, but it turns out the sun can shine as brightly through the windows in my house as it can outside. I don't have to chase new things to light me up. I just need to remember to linger in the things that already do.
Because where there is sunshine, there is warmth--and warmth is never wasted.

Falling Behind

Well friends, another week has come and gone in interior Alaska.
---and apparently it took about half of our fall season with it.

This week's forecast has both rain in it and a 30 degree low. Now it's been a while since I've been in school, so I may be a bit rusty--- but I'm pretty sure that 30 degrees makes water no longer be "rain."

I've hardly had a chance to break out my fall scarves and it's almost time for coats. My summer wreath is still on the front door. I haven't bought pumpkin-flavored anything.
I sent my poor son to school in a short sleeve shirt!!!

In the span of seven short days, I've watched the leaves in my backyard take on a slight yellow hue, then turn to bright gold, and now they've started dropping with every slight movement of the breeze. I'm starting to feel like the Beast watching his magical rose petals fall one by one under the glass.
I'm running out of time.

I waited all summer to get moving again in the fall. Now fall is ending before I could even start anything.
It's only the first week of fall and I'm already falling further behind.
See what I did there? Fall...Falling...? (These are the jokes, guys.)


I know that I'm probably freaking out about this more than is required---and I partially blame this on being a misplaced Texan who is used to Septembers being "Summertime, the Sequel."
But I also think it has me spinning, because lately I've been feeling behind in more ways than one.

The magic of social media has kept me connected with so many of my friends from all around the country, and some in Europe. We may be the first ones to jump into the fall season, but do you know where Alaska is in the time zone map? Dead last.
In the mornings I'll start my day with a Bible study and a cup of coffee. I get children ready and shoo everyone off to school in thirty-degree weather wearing short sleeve t-shirts. Then I clean up the kiddo's breakfast dishes, serve myself some scraps from the table, and I take a short break while I'm eating to check in and see how everyone's doing.
And guess what you've already done? EVERYTHING! You're crushing it, friends!!!

Here I am in my pajamas, still eating the leftover bits of my kids' cereal and counting it as breakfast, looking at images of your healthy lunch. Or your stats from your awesome workout. Or your images from chaperoning your kid's field trip. Or the cute outfit you picked out for date night with your husband.
(Or your sweet fall decor, because you are just so on top of things!)


And while my brain rationally knows that I shouldn't have been able to do all of those things already, I start every day feeling tremendously behind.

I know! I'm completely crazy!

There is something about looking at everyone else's life that makes you think you are supposed to be keeping the pace somehow. But that's just not true.

We are all given work, but we're not all given the same job. We are all given gifts, but with different amounts of resources. We might have similar assignments, but we are not in similar environments.
And we are all given 24 hours, but we are certainly not all given the same timing.

We are each responsible for working well in the season that we've been given--- and this looks different ALL THE TIME.
Sometimes your work looks like studying. Sometimes it looks like spending your day in an office and earning a paycheck.
Sometimes it looks like waking up at night and nursing a baby. Sometimes it looks like rocking a sick child at home when people were counting on you to be somewhere else. Sometimes it looks like skipping an after-school activity to help mend a broken heart.
Sometimes it looks like doing some laundry and mopping the floors. Sometimes it looks like updating the weekly family calendar... and driving everyone to all the places... and volunteering to bring too many cupcakes to school.
Sometimes it looks like putting on some lipstick, and cooking a favorite meal, and chatting in the living room with your spouse.

None of these jobs is more important than the others.
You do not have to be doing them at the same time as other people.
*Or on as grand of a scale.
*Or in the same order.
*Or even for as long. (Or as quickly...)


You just have to do them purposefully and gratefully when it's your time.

So here's to being more intentional with our own seasons and less crazy trying to keep up!
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go change a wreath real quick ;)

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9)