You Have Something Beautiful

Global pandemic.

Nation-wide quarantine.

Indefinite isolation.

I started this blog almost a decade ago now as a way to work through things like motherhood, military life, deployments, faith, and honestly, just figuring out how in the world to be a grownup. I could have never guessed back then that I would also use it to help me process the crazy events of this past month.


This story is coming to you from interior Alaska--Day 29

Some fun facts before we begin: We just wrapped up the fourth coldest winter on record up here. We haven't seen the grass since October. There is still FEET of snow on the ground. And when I woke up yesterday morning, my weather app said it was -6 degrees, so who knows?!--Maybe we're also gunning for fourth coldest spring.
You would think that interior Alaska would be a fine and fair place to isolate, and I guess that could be true for people not living on military installations. But we have our difficulties up here, too. We have very limited access to medical facilities if we do get sick. Number of healthcare workers? Not wanting to worry my pretty, unwashed head about that. No matter how far apart we are, we all go to the same few stores to grab our essential items. (There is no Target here, adding insult to injury.) Grub Hub ain't coming to me. Amazon already didn't ship certain things to us before this craziness so it's a real crap-shoot right now. Oh, and we don't have any toilet paper either.
In -6 degrees...
And feet of snow...

Words cannot express the jealousy I feel over people who are lazing away in backyard hammocks. Or swimming in their pools. Or dining on their patios. Or tending to their gardens. Or running outdoor trails. Honestly, I feel a very strong urge to buy a $2 round-trip plane ticket so I can stand six feet away and yell at them whenever they complain.
I can't watch anything on HGTV right now without thinking to myself, "Ooooh! Bet it would be nice to be quarantined there..."

All this longing for warm weather and the great outdoors has left me daydreaming about our last home in central Texas. We had a beautiful acre and a half with a pond. Bluebonnets were all over it. There was a garden, and a hammock, and an outdoor dining area, and a covered patio with a chimenea, and a herd of whitetail deer that would probably be owning the joint right now, causing a real ruckus with the garden and the dogs. But as good as all those amenities were, the thing I miss the most about that place was the glorious running trail not a mile from the house. It was my favorite.
I've thought about that trail a lot over these last 29 days.

But this morning I remembered one encounter I had on the trail in particular.
It was a weekday afternoon a few years back, and all four of us were out riding bikes on the trail. There was a section of the trail with a steep grade over a bridge that asked bike riders to dismount, and so Nate led the pack while the kids and I followed behind him. There was a woman on the oncoming side of us just ahead on the trail, accompanied by an older woman and two younger children. They stood off to the side and greeted Nathan and the kids in the amicable Texan way as we walked our bikes past them. As my eyes met hers in expectation of a similar greeting, she looked right at me and instead declared,

"You have something beautiful."

I offered an awkward thank you as I mounted back on my bike to ride away after my family, both surprised and humbled by her directness. Her words hummed around in my brain right along with the sound of my bike spokes and the wind whirring past my face until they landed firmly in my heart. You see, she couldn't have known how sweet that bike ride was for me and my kids...or how my husband had just gotten home from his third deployment...or how he had turned down an opportunity at work so we could move into the house right next to that trail...or that we had been desperate to create more moments like these for our family. She couldn't have known all the hard things that helped make that beautiful moment happen.

Today, as I replayed that scene in my head yet another time, I realized something new: I didn't know what hard things made her say those precious words to me.
I didn't know if she had recently lost her husband...or if they were divorced...or if he was away on business...or if he was even in the picture at all. I don't know if she felt a jealous or sad. All I do know is she could have used our brief encounter to ponder privately, but instead she used it to edify me.
(Years later, awkward and humbled once again.)

We're all going through hard things right now, and I've been pondering it all privately. However, I think I'd like to take a cue from the lady on the trail and tell you what I see.

***

To the mamas making adorable theme nights in your home to celebrate with your family even though your vacation plans were cancelled; who are stringing birthday celebrations out of thin air...
You are making your family feel special and loved. You are making happy memories in a hard time. You are creating joy out of loss.
"You have something beautiful."

To the families that are learning how to sew together to donate goods; who are making it a point to drive past their friends houses to wave on a hard day; who have dropped off or mailed out meals or treats or goodies so people do not feel forgotten...
You are teaching your children how to serve others in spirit and in deed. You are teaching the rest of us how to stay truly connected, even in the midst of isolation.
"You have something beautiful."

To the teachers who are putting together learning opportunities for your students all hours of the day at home; who are making themselves available for email and video chat all the time; who are making worksheets and experiments that you are sharing for us parents outside your district via social media; who are out with the district delivering meals so no family is overlooked; to the homeschooling community who helped us navigate the waters of those first tricky days...
You are showing us the readiness and resiliency of the loving heart. Even remotely, you are still giving us a village to help raise our babies.
"You have something beautiful."

To the mamas/dads who are doing this solo...
You are your child's champion. You are their safe place. I promise you, you are their inspiration. You are going into every single one of their application essays from now until the end of time. You look like sacrificial, faithful, amazing love.
"You have something beautiful."

To the people who are navigating this all alone...
You are amazing and selfless. You are making art. You are making us laugh. You are making us cry. You are making us remember why we were given community...you are reminding us to be a better one.
"You have something beautiful."

To the essential workers who are going into work every single day into a work atmosphere that's just gone plumb crazy, then come home and help field the emotional burden of your family that has been stuck at home (direct shout-out to my husband)...
How are you doing it, selflessly giving yourself all day long? Coming home and stripping down and showering off, and then showing *all the way up for us.* Not taking any time to decompress. Not making me feel too needy. Giving me grace for my outbursts when you are under just as much stress, if not more so.
You have been doing this all along for us, and I didn't always see it.
"You have something beautiful." That lady on the trail was so right. I have something beautiful in you.

To the mamas who have new babies in this crazy time...
You are making love bigger than fear. You are helping us all remember the beauty of life right when it seems the most frail.
"You have something beautiful."

To my stay-at-home mamas...
You do not always feel valued. I want you to remember that in this moment, the world turned sideways and all your family had to do was go into the sanctuary of the space you had been creating for them all along. Home-cooked meals and family dinners were already commonplace. Home was ready and waiting for them. You were ready and waiting. Things were changing up left and right, but you offered stability. If you feel like that was not a contribution in this time, then you are wrong. You have created the haven of home for your loved ones.
"You have something beautiful."

***

There are so, so many more things to see, and I know I'm nowhere close to touching the scope of this.
There is beauty all in the hard things. That's part of what makes them so beautiful.
Just do me and the lady on the trail a favor. If you see something beautiful, then just say it.

Lessons from a Crock-Pot

Seven years ago, (which is approximately 127 blogging years ago,) I composed a post right around my birthday titled "Lessons from a Cheesecake." In it, I talked all about how I tried to make my traditional birthday cheesecake be worthy of a Better Homes & Gardens prize-winning recipe contest and it all went horribly, horribly wrong. A few years later, I wrote again about my birthday cheesecake--lamenting the fact that my long-loved tradition was approaching its last hurrah, because aging and lactose are dumb.

And that's how we got here, people. Birthdays, and cheesecakes, and lactose intolerance.
(And a dinosaur that has 127 blogging years under her belt.)
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Have I ever shared the story about the first time I cried because I lived in Alaska? It's a real doozie.
I wish I could tell you that it was a warranted cry--that I felt lonely, and far away, and stressed out, and missed my family and friends. But that wasn't the reason.

I cried over a ruined dinner.

Living in the interior of Alaska has presented so, so many different challenges for us. Because we knew going into it that it would be lonely, far away, and hard, we decided to live on a military installation. We thought it would be smart to have a built-in community in a place that is usually famous for being people-less. We thought it would be helpful to have stores and emergency supplies close at hand so I wouldn't have to drive an hour through the wilderness in the wintertime any time we needed anything. We thought it would be smart to have the children live close to their schools instead of having to be bussed who-knows-how-long to who-knows-where. And we especially thought it would be smart to try to keep the kids' routines as close to "normal" as we could get them.

I think every family has their own "crazy thing." Maybe you are the all-natural, everything-from-scratch family. Maybe you are the extra-extravagant, everything's-an-extra-special occasion family. We are the extra-busy, nine-hundred-extracurriculars family. My children have a lot of loves and I don't want to lock them into one thing too early---and so I cave and let them do allllll the things.
This is what that looks like in Alaska:
"Hey, super job trying to make your life easier by living on post, Liz, but you're still going to have to drive for hours all over interior Alaska on winter roads that are paved PRIMARILY in ICE AND SNOW PACK, mmkay? Also, enjoy crock-pot dinners several nights a week because, girlfriend, that's the only way y'all will ever eat hot food."

One night, after several hours of running my children hither and thither to their various activities, I came home to discover that the dinner I had prepared for us to eat had never actually been turned on. Yes, the slow cooker had pulled a fast one on me.
Refusing to be defeated so easily, I started doing a mental run through of my options. I could buy a rotisserie chicken from the Commissary (our grocery store.) Oh shoot. Nevermind. It's closed today... I could swing by the Burger King and grab some fast food. Check hours. Nope. Closes at 7p.m. That's lame... Grrr. Go out to eat? Negative. Nasty restaurant on post also closes at 7. Like, WHY EVEN BE A RESTAURANT,THEN?! Gas station? Gas station is still open...

That's when the tears came.
Moments later, my poor husband came in the door and saw me weeping, cursing Alaska and all of its 7 p.m. closing times, saying really weird things like "Don't they know that moms are humans?! Don't they know that sometimes we forget to turn on our Crock-Pots?! Do they expect us to never burn dinners?! Why does Alaska HATE ALL MOTHERS?!?"
We did eventually eat that September night...Inside a Wendy's with 25 Christmas trees in it. Only took us an hour of driving, round trip.
(Yes you read that right. One hour of driving for Wendy's. And yes, that really is our best option--unless you particularly love gas station food.)

(And yes, the Christmas lights in September were lovely.)


It's such a silly story, I know, but it does have a point.

It's been a lifelong habit of mine to make snap judgments. I did it in Missouri. I did it again in Austin. And I certainly did it here.
Shortly after that experience, I decided that I was ready to leave Alaska. It just wasn't for me. It just wasn't for us. It was too expensive. It was too far. It was too harsh of a climate. It was too "behind the times." (Plus, it didn't help that it hated all mothers.)

And y'all, I got my wish.
Exactly 6 months after our arrival here, we learned that the Army is needing my husband elsewhere. My household goods were unboxed in August, and will be put right back into boxes in May. (I'm already tired just thinking about it.)

It's probably what makes me judge places so quickly, this never having enough time. Needing everything to work *just so* on my crazy-tight schedule.

So many of us are living in pressure-cooker worlds where we expect everything to be done in minutes.
But a lot of things in life take a little bit more time to be ready.

Crock-Pots are marvelous because they're slow. It tenderizes things until they are so easy to handle that they fall right into place. It cooks things fully, but without drying them out. It takes raw things and makes them safe, without smoking everybody out of the place in the process. You just have to give it enough time. (And, you know, turn it on.)

Alaska may not have been every single thing that I was wishing for, but I look back at all of the stories that I wrote here and I realize that I have learned so much. And I truly am so very grateful that I was here for those lessons!

And seven years down the road from my very first documented kitchen mishap, I *still* may not be every single thing that I was wishing for yet--but another birthday and a little extra time has taught me this:
The longer it takes,
the more tender I am towards others.
the less likely I am to burnout as I reach it,
(or burn anyone else in the process.)
the more delicious it will be when it's finally ready.


So here's to all of us who are taking a bit longer to "find our finish." TURN IT ON, and then keep it going. It will be worth the wait.

"Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Philippians 1:6)

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Just as a TOTAL throwback, I thought it'd be fun to give you my favorite Crock-Pot recipe. :)

"Moose Drip Sammi's"

You need:
-2 1/2 lb chuck roast (or moose roast if you're in Alaska) ;)
-2 c beef broth
-1/2 c soy sauce
-1/4 c Worcestershire sauce
-3 T brown sugar

{-1 T garlic powder
-1 T onion powder
-1 T Italian seasoning
-salt
-pepper}

{these are all completely made up measurements. HA! just season to taste.}

Dump everything in a slow cooker. DEAR GOODNESS, DON'T FORGET TO TURN IT ON. Low is good. Cook beef for 4-5 hours. (Moose takes even longer!) Get out forks and shred meat in the crock. Put on top of toasted bun with provolone cheese. Add horseradish sauce to the bun if you love yourself. Ladle juices into ramekin for sandwich dunking if you really, really love yourself.

New Light

Before we moved here, this silly Texan thought the hardest part about living in Alaska would be the cold. But as it turns out, living in the cold has been surprising bearable. Ask any Alaskan and they'll tell you that there really is no bad weather, just bad gear.

No, the hardest part about living in Alaska has been dealing with the crazy darkness.

Around mid-October, daylight hours began growing noticeably shorter. The sun wouldn't rise until mid-morning, barely cresting above the horizon, and then it would completely vanish again by the middle of the afternoon. On the day of the winter solstice, I didn't see the sun until 11 AM. It barely warmed our -23 degree sky, and then it went back down again at 2:40 PM.
I'm absolutely certain that if twinkle lights would not have been popularized for Christmastime, Alaskans would have made them a thing anyway. The snow sparkles here out of pure necessity. We need all the light we can get.

Even now that the shortest day of the winter season is behind me, I still have quite a ways to go before things return to "normal." Today the sun rose at 10:30 and will set at 3:15. We will earn about five minutes of sunlight back every day, which feels painfully slow--even more so now that most of the Christmas-y twinkle lights are down.

The lack of sunshine has been a big player in my life lately. The darkness has taken a toll on my motivation, my energy, and my mood. It's actually quite hard to make your body work when the sun does not. And even though I make a deliberate effort to move and get out and about each day, I can feel the draining impact that the dark has on me.
We wake up to "natural light" alarm clocks so that our bodies are cued when it's time to rise. We take vitamin D supplements every morning. We sit in front of our light therapy boxes every day. But all of those things are lesser substitutes for the thing we are missing the most:
Sweet, sweet sunshine--and perhaps even a humid 90 degree day if you are a silly Texan.


Because of my pining, watching for the sunrise has become a bit of a daily ritual for me here. And fortunately for me, Alaskan sunrises never seem disappoint:

And these are just stinky camera phone pictures, y'all! It's truly like looking at massive watercolor paintings...

Even though I have been awake for hours before these sunrises happen---even though I have taken all of my fake-sun supplements, and gotten the kids to school, and squeezed in a workout, and knocked out some errands, *or sometimes have started making my lunch!!* (it really is so, so crazy)---my day suddenly starts over again once I see the light.
Living like this for the past several months has taught me a couple things.

Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, I've learned that there is no substitution for the true light.
There are lots of tips, tricks, and gadgets on the market for us up here in the arctic that claim to help combat the darkness, but they all pale in comparison to the real thing. There is no amount of exercise, no amount of vitamins, no amount of twinkle lights that do the work the sun was made to do. And friends, since Jesus is the Light (John 8:12), we'd do really well to remember that there is no substitution for Him. No amount of good works, no amount of followers, no amount of "likes." No powers, no professions, no self-help scenarios. Nothing on this earth can do the work that the Son was made to do.

Secondly, I've learned how important it is to relish the new starts that the light brings.
Before the sun rises here, I feel a bit like a zombie. I drink the coffee and I do the things, but I do them reeeeeaally slowly. (And probably without brains.) But I'm like a completely new woman when the sun comes out. A new day literally dawns for me, even though it's midday!
Light is rejuvenating. It wakes us up. It helps us see. It warms us. It powers us. Light makes things begin again.
Many of us get spun up around this time about a new year, but there really is something so lovely and important about each new day.
If you feel like your year is already off on the wrong foot, find comfort in this new day. And if you feel like you didn't start the day off right, take comfort in our gracious God who makes a sunrises in the middle of the day!!
And even then, He gives a new hour. He gives a new minute. He gives a new breath.
Notice it, and begin again.

"Those who live at the ends of the earth
stand in awe of your wonders.
From where the sun rises to where it sets,
you inspire shouts of joy." (Psalm 65:8)

Now if you will excuse me, I have a sunrise to catch ;)

Shaken

Well folks, today I experienced my very first earthquake.
And I have to admit, I’m still pretty shook up about it.

We are several hours north of Anchorage, but we experienced tremors from their 7.0 magnitude quake. My experience lasted about two minutes in real life---but it felt like 272 minutes in the moment. As most of you could probably guess, I handled it with exactly no chill.

I was sitting on a backless bar stool at my kitchen counter doing my daily Bible study. I suddenly felt really, really dizzy. I thought I was being struck with vertigo. I lifted the Bible from the counter and held it up in front of me so I wouldn’t have to look down to read. I was reading from Psalm 62:

“Truly my soul finds rest in God; my salvation comes from Him. Truly He is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken.”(v1-2)

All at once it dawned on me that I wasn’t dizzy. I was shaking.


Here’s how the whole thing went down in my brain:

-I put the Bible down and stood up. Y’all, I kid you not--after reading that verse, I could have sworn the LORD was returning right then and there!! I think I actually said the words “Help me, Jesus!” out loud.

-I kind of ran around my house from corner to corner. Apparently I should have listened better to what my children do during earthquake drills in school…

-My children!!! Oh my goodness! My children aren’t with me!!! *activate crazed, hyper-protective parent* Mentally talk myself out of running to/calling school during an active earthquake…

-Earthquake! I’m STILL shaking. Are things falling? Let me assess. No. Nothing falling, but blinds and hanging objects are swaying really heavily side to side. Ugh, so am I…

-I feel awful. I get motion sick just from riding on an elevator these days. I was not built for earthquakes…

-Earthquake! Oh my goodness! How is this still happening?! This never would have happened in Texas. Texas just has tornadoes. Tornadoes are way easier than earthquakes. They come with warnings and sirens and shelters. I miss Texas. And tornadoes. (Okay, maybe not tornadoes.)...

-My dog always hides in the bathroom in tornadoes. Am I supposed to hide somewhere? Yes! Under a table! (I knew I listened to my kids when they told me things!!!)…

-Oooh, I feel sick. I’m not going to be able to squeeze myself under a table right now. Maybe I’ll find the dogs and hide with them…

-Locate dogs. (They were napping on the rug.)

-Phone rings. It’s my husband. Immediately feel validated that I wanted to call school ;)

-Tremors settle while we’re on the phone. Assure each other we’re okay. Tell husband I thought Jesus was coming. Laugh-cry a little.

-Text my mom.

-Receive alert from weather app---hmmm. Not helpful.

-Look at the “Alaska Bucket List” that the school counselor gave to my children and lament to myself that she included an earthquake box to check off.

-Put the dang checkmark on the stupid box.



After I settled my heart and my brain a little bit, I climbed back onto the (newly inadequate) back-less bar stool and looked at the verse I was reading when my world started to rattle.

“Truly He is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken.”

Y’all, nothing on this earth is as secure as we think it is. We build skyscrapers up from the ground never stopping to think that they are only held up by a constantly shifting, thin layer of rock. I am certainly grateful for the roof over my head, but I was extra aware today that if the ground shook it hard enough, all of the walls around me would crumble. The feeling of the earth swaying side to side was so surreal, I recognized—maybe even for the first time—that the very ground we walk on can fail beneath our feet. The earth hangs on nothing, (Job 26) and one day it will all pass away (Matt. 24).

We have one sure, solid foundation.
One way to salvation.
One everlasting, never-failing, absolute hope.

One thing that holds us together when everything else is shaking.


I feel silly about how scattered I was in the midst of my first earthquake. But I also feel really settled.
God knew I needed that Bible in my hand when the tremors hit. He knew the verse I needed to see. He heard me call for His help. He knew I was going to be a fool and stand under a ceiling fan when I should have been under a table. And He held me together when everything around me felt unsteady.

That’s who He is. That’s what He does.
And that kind of revelation shakes everything up for me in a much better way.

“Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe.” (Hebrews 12:38)

Chasing Lights

When my husband first received orders to move to Alaska, we thought we were heading to Anchorage.
We weren't.

Just three weeks before the moving company loaded everything we owned into large shipping crates, we discovered that we were actually heading to a small installation a little ways outside of the northernmost "city" in the interior. I cried.
No mountains. No ski resorts. No whales. No coastal winds saving me from crazy arctic temperatures. There wasn't even a Target.

The one thing we did gain from moving a bit further north was an eight month access pass to one of the great natural phenomenons of our skies--the Aurora Borealis. Apparently the show has been going on since August, but I only caught my first glimpse of it a couple weeks ago.

I kept running into a couple hangups whenever I would try to see it. For one, the Aurora often peaks around these parts in the middle of the night, and I love my sleep too much to waken. The sky might be awake, but this girl ain't. Secondly--and I'm not sure if y'all have heard this--Aurora displays take place outside, and it happens to be really, *really* cold here.
Pair those two things with the fact that you need just the right amount of solar activity in conjunction with a cloudless sky, the right elevation to keep trees from blocking your view, no lights at all, and constant watch (sometimes the lights will be out for hours, but sometimes just a few minutes at a time)... then you start to understand why people will pay bookoos of their hard-earned dollars to sleep in a remote hotel room with a specialty wake-up call if the lights happen to be out.
I'm not that fancy.

One clear, cold Saturday night, my family piled into my husband's pickup truck, we drove to the top of a hill at midnight, and we waited...
And we watched...
And we waited some more...

Finally, we saw it! Clear as day, a rippling streak illuminated the sky and spiraled across it. I could see the line "light up" at one end, and then it rose in columns. It was beautiful. It was big. It was definitely the northern lights.

But it wasn't green.

I was so confused. Every photo I had ever seen of the lights was a bright, neon green light. What I was seeing looked a lot like an illuminated cloud. I kept thinking there was a pale green hue to it, but I couldn't tell if it was actually greenish or if I just really wanted it to be. My husband and I took our sleepy children out of the car and we "ooohed" and "aahed" together, then we hopped back into the truck and drove around to get different angles from other places we'd read were prime viewing spots. Everywhere we looked it was the same thing. Huge, dominating, bright white *with a hint of possibly imaginary pale green* lines of light across the sky.

What I was looking at was absolutely wondrous. It just wasn't the exact thing I was expecting, so it bothered me.

Later that next morning, my husband and I started doing some online research. Why weren't our lights green?
Friends, take a moment to do a quick Google image search:
Aurora Borealis eye vs picture

(Don't worry. I'll wait...)

Y'all! Do you see it? It's mostly a trick of the lens!!!
Not on purpose, of course. Something about the filters of the lens and the different exposures capture that vivid hue. It's accidental photo-shopping. Absolutely spectacular displays will show up with brighter colors, but more often than not, it appears to our naked eyes as a white or pale green light.

I was spinning! How this is not more common knowledge is crazy to me!!

But true to form, it all got me thinking...

Nothing about those pale green lights was anything other than stunningly beautiful. It was glorious, actually. That night the sky was so clear, I could see the Milky Way blending in with the brightest stars...and because apparently that wasn't pretty enough to knock me right over, these dancing swirls of light appeared. And what in the world did I do when immersed in such natural beauty??
I griped that they weren't green enough.

That is just plain discouraging. But if I'm honest with myself, I do that mess all the time--I'm doing it here and now!!

I photo-shopped up a beautiful picture of Alaska in my mind, and because the real deal is not the exact thing that I was expecting, I let it bother me.

I don't know if you're at all like me in this way, but maybe you are.

Maybe your degree didn't take you as far as you imagined it would. Maybe your job isn't as fulfilling as you dreamed it would be. Maybe your house isn't Pinterest-perfect. Parenthood isn't as constantly rewarding. Marriage is not as blissfully romantic. Maybe growing up just feels like getting old.

But does that mean none of these things are good? Are these things not still bright accomplishments, brilliant motivators, and spectacular blessings--just as they really are?

Friends, I believe that most of us are so busy chasing the brightest version of things that we forget to appreciate the raw, real beauty that is actually all around us. I'm sure if we took a moment to look through a truer lens, what we saw would be pretty enough to knock us right over.

Maybe all of those spectacular pictures we created of what things ought to look like are totally fake--hopes that we've filtered and exposed through the lenses of high expectations and time.

Let's set aside the images of what we hoped to see and focus instead on the lights that are right in front of us.
Because things don't have to be the very brightest for them to be beautiful just the same.

Taking Notice

When my family moved to Alaska, I just assumed that it would be nonstop adventures every day.
Chopping wood, scaling mountains, fighting off bears, hanging out with Jewel and her family on the homestead...you know, all completely reasonable expectations.

But if hopping around from place to place every two years has taught me anything, it's that "real life" looks pretty consistent no matter where in the world you are. The basic needs of our family stay pretty much the same: Food, house, school, church, clubs and activities.
(Sorry, Jewel. I'll catch you next time.)

So other than letting my dogs inside to keep them from barking at the occasional moose, (because Alaska does have its unique features after all,) my morning routine is the same here as it was everywhere. I wake up, pack lunches, help serve breakfast, get the kids out the door, and tidy up.
(It's all super glamorous, I know.)

However, this morning after the kids had left for school and I began my usual tidying, I felt an unusual amount of alertness in the mundane tasks I was doing. Cleaning morning dishes, wiping away breakfast crumbs, putting away items that were out of place, and remaking beds that needed a little extra attention aren't things that require a lot of deep thinking, but there I was--really concentrating--very aware of every item that was being brought back to order and every tick of the clock that I was spending to make it so.

My husband makes the kids their breakfasts most days, which is, believe me, a real treat for all of us. But he usually leaves a trail of ingredients out on the counter in the mad dash to get out of the door on time.
I put the forgotten food away and write down items we need restocked on the grocery list.

My kids eat their daddy's meal and put their dishes in the sink, but they always leave behind a pile of crumbs and smear of saucy fingerprints on the counter.
I load the dishes and clean the crumbs and wipe the fingerprints and sweep the floors.

My kids love to read and leave books everywhere: on the staircase, at the breakfast counter, in their beds, on the hallway floors. There is always a pile of shoes in the mudroom. The kids still aren't great with hangers, so there's a mountain of coats on the closet floor.
Television remotes are scattered. Laundry hampers were missed. Jewelry boxes were neglected and there are random earring pieces on the floor. A plastic toy dinosaur is lodged inside the heating vent. Nerf bullets hide out in every dark crevice of my house.
Piece by piece, I put everything back in its place.

The kids are supposed to make their beds each morning, but they have been struggling with the larger comforters. (And if I'm being completely honest, I'm just crazy particular about how bedding is supposed to look and everyone else in my family does it wrong.)
I tear apart their beds, smooth the sheets, draw the up covers, fluff the pillows--making sure it's smooth and lovely for everyone to climb into after a hard day.

As I stood there fluffing my son's pillow, I wondered to myself if my family even noticed all the things were being done for them on the sly.
Surely they had to see that the beds were better.
Surely they had to notice that their items were all lined perfectly back in their rightful places.
Surely they were aware that the counters were no longer sticky. Or dishes dirty. Or cabinets magically restocked.

And right about the time I wanted to get discouraged, I felt something whisper in my heart,
"But do you notice what's done for you, Liz?"
I thought about that question for a minute.
Was I not noticing the help I was also getting each and everyday? Did I not even see the things that I was undoing again and again that were being put back together for me each morning?

In the brief moment I took to pause and look around, it took me a hot mili-second to notice all the "tidying up" that was being done for me, too.

I have a hard time seeing that even though I am being helpful, I still need a supplier and some backup--like my husband does with his meals.
Sometimes I go about my business completely unaware that I'm making a sticky mess--like my children and their crumbs.
Sometimes I am putting forth a good effort, but could still be shown a better way--like I generously do with everyone's beds ;)
And other times I am just overwhelmed, or outright negligent, and grace puts things back where they belong for me.

In an effort to make tomorrow super glamorous...

I plan to wake up in the morning and pack lunches, help serve breakfast, get the kids out the door, and tidy up.

Only this time, I hope to do it with my newfound awareness, eyes that take notice, and a more grateful heart.

Great is Thy faithfulness; Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand has provided.
Great is Thy faithfulness,
Lord, unto me.

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!)

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)

The Caboose

One of the highlights of moving to Alaska in the summertime is that our little family gets to live outside. I honestly think we all prefer to be outdoors.

(And I know you've heard me complain a lot about how long it took us to get our household items from Texas, so maybe this seems like conflicting information. I don't know what to tell you. I guess I'm a girl who would rather be outside, and then if she's inside she wants all of her stuff.)

But liking outside isn't necessarily a new thing for us. We've always enjoyed being outside together. Camping, hiking, and bike riding are some of our best and favorite things. Honestly, since my kids could walk we've been taking them on hikes.

I remember my youngest being only two trekking up the rocky slopes of the Franklin Mountains.

And I remember my young daughter walking her dog through dirt paths in the Ozarks.

I remember them discovering the utility of a walking stick in the Texas Hill Country---

---and that Daddy's shoulders are better than your own feet on the granite trails of Enchanted Rock.

I remember them eagerly walking through the marshy Canadian wilderness towards the stinky smell of sulfur.

And just last week, they were curiously following the path of a glacial river in Alaska.

Now I'm sure at this point you've picked up on a theme.
You've likely noticed that ALL of my pictures of my kids in motion are from behind. There's a reason for that---and no, it's not because I'm slow. ;)

A long time ago when we started our family hikes, we came up with a walking order: Dad, sister, brother, and mom. Dad would be in front to lead the way, set the pace, and make sure everything was safe moving forward. Brother and sister followed closely behind Dad. And Mom brought in the rear with the purpose of making sure that no man wandered off the trail or was left behind. My children have long since lovingly called me "the caboose."

Now I don't mind being "the caboose" on our family hikes. It feels purposeful and essential.
But sometimes, I can feel like the caboose in our "everyday walk"--and that's always not so great.

The caboose is a position of humility. Always letting everyone else go in front. Always placing yourself at the tail end. Always watching everyone else push out in front while you trail behind.
I've found that when I've got a heavier load, it's always easiest to put my own stuff at the back.
Things that matter {kids' school, kids' activities, husband's work schedule, house chores, family errands} get put at the front of the line, while the "things that don't matter" {writing, crafting, reading, getting my hair cut, painting my nails, scheduling appointments for myself, going out to lunch with a friend, going back to school, starting a career, etc.} get pushed to the back burner.

And for a while, I'm okay with that.
After all, that's what a caboose is for. It's job is to provide a place for the crew to rest so they can operate full steam ahead. It serves as a lookout to make sure that everything stays on track, nothing breaks, and that everything is making it to the destination safely. And if things do happen to get really out of control, the caboose can help apply the brakes.


But that caboose is good for one more thing.
Sometimes it switches directions and takes the lead.
On a train, couplings are loosed and the caboose will pull one or two cars along with it to link up on a different track. And not to sound like a too much of a train nerd (because I really don't understand a whole lot,) but I'm pretty sure that cabooses would have been made altogether obsolete if not for this one feature. A good caboose requires the ability to switch.

That's the part I have trouble with--The part that puts me in the front and pulls everyone else behind me; the part that is able to switch gears and take a new path.
Whether it be from fear or complacency, if you've been the caboose long enough it's just easier just to ride in the back. You get really good at it, even.

But that's not all we're meant to do, friends. We were made for more!
Yes, we are to be servants. Yes, we are to be lookouts. Yes, we are to be shelters. Yes, we are to be a safety net.
Be we are also meant to be leaders.
We are meant to be guides. We are meant to be teachers. We are meant to be trailblazers and way-makers.

We can't do one part of our job and not the other.
It's time to be the "whole caboose." ;)

So if you're at all like me and you've been spending a little bit too much time in the back
Let's switch it up!

That little black dot in the front is yours truly leading her most precious freight.

Choice Words

Words have a pretty lasting effect on me.
(Go figure, huh?)


Not very long after my husband and I had started living together, we were watching t.v. and a commercial for a certain cleaning product came on.
The main character was a housewife, and after she kissed her family and sent them on their merry way, she spent the day reading a magazine, going shopping, and meeting her friends for lunch. Then she hurried home right before her family, sprayed some deodorizer in the air, and settled in to receive the compliments for the "good work" she had done.
My husband simply said,
"Yeah, that won't be a thing."

That's it--a passing comment about a silly commercial that he probably doesn't even remember he made. (A commercial that the producers of the cleaning product probably don't even remember that they made.)
It shouldn't have made any impression on me at all, but the whole thing has resonated with me for years and years. (Over a decade now, to be exact.) I have a fair amount of guilt if I do something leisurely while my family is out for the day. I have a fair amount of guilt if I don't get certain housekeeping chores done while my family is out for the day. *I even have a fair amount of guilt if I use that dumb cleaning product!!*
My husband's fleeting commentary about that one commercial has strongly dictated how I spend my day as a homemaker.



Then I moved into this house with these stupid floors that never seem to get clean.
They bothered me enough all on their own, but then our sweet neighbor girl came to visit. She stood in the entryway waiting for my daughter to tie her shoes so they could run off to play, and simply said,
"My mom won't let us have dogs that shed, because they make the floors too dirty."

That's it--a passing comment from a sweet little girl about dogs. It shouldn't have made an impression on me at all. But now whenever she comes over to ask my daughter to play, I find myself scanning the floors for dog fluff. (I maybe have even begun running a vacuum over the entry area after I sweep it, just to be sure I've gotten it all.)
A little girl's fleeting commentary about what her mama thinks has strongly dictated what I do in my own house.



Now I realize that these confessions make me look like I'm a crazy person who should get a grip. (And clearly, I should.)
But I felt the need to share these things with you anyway, because maybe for the first time ever, I see that
it might not be the words that have such a lasting effect on me, but the opinions that generate them.


I want my husband to think that what I do around the house all day is worthwhile.
I want my neighbors to think that my home is an acceptable place for their children to come and build Lego creations on the floor at whim.

(I want people to read this blog post and see an insightful, self-aware woman instead of an insecure person who let a little girl get in her head.)

I don't know if it's because I move around all the time and constantly need new sources of validation; or because I chose to be a stay-at-home-mom in the age of female empowerment; or because I moved back onto a military installation where everyone's houses are lined up right next to each other looking exactly the same, except for the dumb blank plot of soil that forces you to showcase your individuality and abilities solely via your gardening skills...
I just want to be accepted.

And it's dictating how I hear people.
And it's dictating what I think about.
And it's dictating how I live.

I've fallen into an easy trap, friends. (And perhaps I'm not alone in here.)
Fortunately, there is a way out.

We just need to trade one set of words for another.

Words that say it doesn't matter how you keep your home, but who you keep in it. (Luke 10:38-42)
Words that say it doesn't matter how you present yourself to your neighbor, but how you treat them. (Mark 12:30-31)
Words that say you don't have to seek approval, because you have already been accepted. (Romans 5:8)

And the thing is, these words will have the same effect as the others:
They will dictate how we hear people. (James 1:19)
And they will what we think about. (Phillipians 4:8)
And they will dictate how we live. (Romans 12:2)

(But I'm guessing it will be a lot less crazy-sounding when you try to tell people about it a decade later.)

Fear of man will prove to be a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is kept safe.
(Proverbs 29:25)

Let's choose our words wisely.

Minding the Gap

I completed a half marathon run on the first week of June.
Today, I ran for the very first time since moving to Alaska.

In other words, I ran 13.1 miles and then didn't run again--even a little, even at all--for TEN WEEKS.



Moving from Texas to Alaska this summer has kept me really busy. Between the 4,000+ mile relocation, the two entire months that our stuff was M.I.A., battling the normal summer-break-lack-of-schedule element in a brand new place, and trying to keep up with everyday, ordinary life has kept me from hitting the pavement.
Well, all of that, and the fear of getting stomped on by a moose.

As you can imagine, there is not a whole heck of a lot here in interior Alaska. In fact, that is kind of its whole charm. But this lack of infrastructure can cause quite a snag in the training schedule of a girl who is used to running the beautifully manicured, lighted, and well-marked trails of the Austin parks system. No matter how much I missed it, I just couldn't psych myself up to go for a run out here.
What if I get hurt in the middle of nowhere? (There's actually no emergency services where I live.)
What if I get lost?
What if I get too fatigued?
Seriously, THE MOOSE THING!!

Today was the first time I ran in ten weeks, yes. But because the questions above had me chickening out, it was also the first time I ran on a treadmill in five years. Five.

(I'll let you guess how it went...)


I don't know why I'm wired the way I am, but I have a really hard time remembering that we are allowed to have gaps.
Maybe I'm the only one, I don't know. But often I carry around this really unrealistic and unhealthy expectation that I should be able to tackle everything excellently, no matter if it's my first time or my fiftieth--but especially if it's my fiftieth. That's not how life works, though.
In a perfect world, we'd all be able to balance faith, fitness, marriage, parenthood, household, career, friendships, finances, self-care, and leisure. But life is always tipping the scales and changing the dynamics.
Sometimes extra attention is needed in a certain area for a certain amount of time, and this is going to create a gap in consistency AND performance for the other ones. Not everything in life can be like riding a bike--where you leave it for a season and then return to it just the same when you're ready.
(And if you could see how I struggle to climb onto my bike to ride with the kids these days, you'd understand why I question the validity of this statement even in the literal sense.)

Having a gap doesn't make you a failure. Having to start over doesn't make you a failure. Having to struggle back to a previous level of achievement doesn't make you a failure. Having things that you are not good at does not make you a failure.

Friends, we *have* to start giving ourselves grace in the gaps.
Change is normal.
Struggle is normal.
Imbalance is normal.
IMPERFECTION is normal.

It's why Jesus came: to fill ALL the gaps. (Ephesians 1:22-23)
You don't have to be perfect, because He already is.

Busy mama, His grace is sufficient to cover down for you when you're too tired to wake up for your morning Bible time.
Lovely woman, His grace is sufficient remind you of the most beautiful parts of you, even when the mirror lies.
Wife, He loves you.
Parent, He guides you.
Homemaker, He blesses you.
Professional, He establishes the work of your hands.
Friend, He is with you always.
Warrior, He is your strength.

(Crazy lady, He is your protection from the moose.)



So here's to your gaps. Today we celebrate them.

May we always seek to fill them with Grace.

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.)