Missing the Littler and Simpler

So this week we find ourselves with a new teenager, which brings the total to two teenagers in the house, whom I'm pretty sure I just birthed last week.

 

I'm happy and sad.  I'm so proud of our crew and so encouraged by how I see God working in their hearts and growing them into the men He has planned for them to be.

But I'm sad, too, because though I love their big-ness, I surely miss their little-ness.  It doesn't help that we no longer have a diaper-wearer in the house.  This too is a big "Praise Jesus" intermingled with tears.  There's no hiding it.  Our family is evolving. Growing.  Things in this life simply don't stay the same for long.

I remember so clearly that evening ten years ago, sitting with a small group of women listening to a dear and wise mentor share words of encouragement.  Lynda looked us square in the eyes (how did she look at every. one. of us at the same time?) and she said in essence, "You girls think life is always gonna be like this.  You married the guy.  You had the babies.  You're living that dream.  It's hard and all-consuming, but I'm telling you: it's not always going to be like this.  In no time, it will be over.  This is only the smallest snippet of time."  Her point, was to live it fully.  To appreciate all the details.  To know that it is a gift.  To know that it will soon change.  To know we can't get it back.

How wise and true her words were.  I knew it on that evening, and I know it now.  Only now I'm seeing it happen with my own eyes.  Time slipping through my fingers, hour after day after week after month after year.  Measured in five small sons who aren't so small anymore.
                                                 
                                         
With Monday's celebration of thirteen years of dearly-loved Noah, I find myself thinking back to the "little years."  The years when they all basically enjoyed the same things.  I could be a super-hero simply by carving out a few extra minutes to drop by the playground on the way home from running errands with them.  They would actually all still enjoy that now, too, but it's…different.

It's different in the same way they will all lay on the floor building a matchbox car track with their four-year-old brother…and though they're all having fun, they are having different sorts of fun.

 The same way I can still feed them good foods and fill them, but it takes A LOT more food, which means the foods need to be simple and must be bought in BULK.  
                                                  
Different, in that we can all read the Jesus Bible Storybook at breakfast together and enjoy it, but I still need to be sure my older ones are being fed spiritually in deeper ways.

Different.  Deeper.  Fuller.  Yes.

but sometimes I miss the littler.  simpler.

There's no stopping it.  So what's this mama to do when it makes me happy and sad and desperate and proud all at once?  Lift my chin to the sky and whisper "thanks" continually.  Pray unceasingly for these little men to grow in grace and wisdom and love of truth.  Enjoy each and every moment.  Let some not-so-important stuff slide.  Let lots of stuff go, in order to look deeply into bright blue eyes as they tell me for the six-hundredth time  about what's happening in the latest Axis & Allies board game, realizing that this is holy work being done.  It's telling an eternal soul that they are loved and important.  That they can come to me later with the bigger things, because I bothered to care about the small things.

So I guess, there still is  littler.  simpler.  stuff going on here.  It's just that those things take a different form than five small bodies eagerly gathered around a Thomas the Train track.  This smaller stuff is giving way to the deeper, fuller, big stuff.  The stuff that will continue to come in bulk amounts (along with food orders) as we blessedly walk through the coming count-down of summers left before we must begin to let them fly.
                                                   

Good-Bye, Friend

The first rays of sunlight filtered through sheer curtains into our room, and I opened my eyes.  Immediately feeling the hollow inside, I remembered today I must make the call.  This impending task to do made it so difficult to rise.  I'd been up with him in the night...he had stood panting, panicked, in pain.  His eyes had that wild "help me" look which all pet owners who have seen their beloveds to the end would recognize.  Nothing I could do would bring comfort any longer; it was just....time.

Still feeling somewhat foreign in this Southern town, I wondered who to call.  This isn't the type of veterinary appointment in which you want to "try out" a new place.  It's the type of heart-wrenching appointment that you don't want to make at all, but if it needs to be made, you want it to be with friends. 

 

Hoping for the best, I called one of two nearest places.  It had seemed quaint and simple as I drove by on other days.  However, my experience on the phone with them was anything but what I was hoping for, to put it kindly.  Hanging up, I called the next-nearest place...a place I'd also seen numerous times.  It had seemed a little too flashy from the outside, considering our needs at the moment, but I called anyway.  The receptionist was kind, and they could see us at 2:30.  Not much time to make last memories, but what would be enough?

 

 

As the appointed time approached, Tony's strong arms scooped up our Chuggie Chugiak, our "Sits With a Purpose", the dog who had been so present and faithful to us for the last nearly 17 years.  He was a musher's cast-away, an unwanted pup, which I found along with his sister under rickety, wooden, rural post office steps, just a few weeks after moving to Alaska.  We wanted him, and we moved across town in order to keep him.  

 

Chuggie was an awkward, peaceful, and comical creature.  He seemed to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and in the way.  He would have the entire run of the house, yet step in the dirt pile I just swept up.  He was the type of dog that brought a smile or even a chuckle on the worst of days.  He taught us that we shouldn't take ourselves too seriously.  Even now I smile as I think of how I could make it through feeding time during the muddiest day of break-up season, and just before I left the kennel, he would be the one out of five dogs to affectionately plop the muddiest paw directly on my clothes.  He taught us that things don't have to be perfect, and it's pointless to try to make them that way.  He taught us to live and love freely, even if it gets you a bit dirty.

Chuggie lived for even a glimpse of us, all day long, every day.  At any given time, he was pining away for us at his "post", staring at the house window, or down the driveway.  In the dog yard, he tripped us up trying to be as close as possible to us at all times.  If I were to stand still, he would immediately sit down, directly in front of me, staring up at me.  The moment eye contact was made, he dramatically threw himself down, exposing his belly, waiting for a nice rub.

One by one, all of his dog buddies passed away.  He grieved every death by moping and barking incessantly, day and night, for days and nights on end.  He would not eat nor sleep.  With the passing of his litter mate sister a year and a half ago, Chuggie was the last remaining member of the pack.  He has been a constant in our family life, and part of what makes home, "home", whether it be a house  we own, or rent, or a camper driven across two countries.  

In Tony's arms, on this bright, warm, spring Tuesday, Chuggie did not struggle.  Hind legs, which had once been so strong and pulled us miles and miles on dogsled and skis, hung limply down his master's side.  He trusted those arms to hold him tight, to have his best interest at heart, to do what was best.  Observing his trust, I realized that even on this day, there were lessons still to be learned from this dog.  You see, there are  Strong Arms that hold me also and have held me continuously for forty years, yet I still fight against them at times.  For half my lifetime, I didn't realize those Arms were there, holding.  For the other half of my lifetime, I have known it, received it, and rejoiced in it.  Even still, I sometimes struggle and flail around, not always trusting.

Our drive to the new and unknown veterinary clinic was a nearly silent one.  It was also much too short of a drive.

Outdoors in the sunshine, with the help of compassionate and skilled hands, we loved our dog the last way that we could.  And at a time when we desperately needed a piece of home, we were unbelievably blessed with it.

Our vet was from Anchorage. 

Yeah, of all the clinics in Maryville, Tennessee, the one we chose was owned by an Alaskan. Upon arrival, we felt the ambiance of "home," that familiar, laid-back, pay-us-later, Pacific Northwest feel.  Still, we never would have guessed that our vet would tell us she was from Anchorage. 

Let me tell you, friends:  the One Whose Arms Hold Me?  He cares about the things we care about about.  As I looked upon the huge Alaska map displayed in the waiting area, I realized once again, that this God who placed the capacity to love in our hearts, even to crazy-love furry creatures, passionately loves us and cares about our details.

Hope, Harbored in Quiet Spaces

Unexpectedly, tears filled my eyes as I looked upon that old, weathered, presidential chair.  Worn, stiff, faded, it was just an inanimate object, but as I stood in that 200-year-old study, window overlooking the Potomac, I could sense the life that once sat there.

World on shoulders.  Heavy weight.  There were so many depending on him to fulfill his appointed task, and there was also the One, who watched to see if he would choose to say yes.  It was the hard thing, but the right thing, and so he stepped forward and filled the space that had been carved out for him to fill before the foundation of the Earth. 

He did not walk on water, no, but he did trust in the One Who does.  He was not perfect, but he stood for goodness and exemplified meekness...extreme power....controlled.  Where are our General George Washingtons today?

Where are those who aspire for greatness not for themselves, but for those who will come behind them?  Where are those who would give up absolute power, should it be offered to them, even twice, choosing instead to live a quiet and peaceful life as a fellow servant?

 

When pondering such questions, in the face of current events and heartbreaking news around every bend, such modern-day leaders seem absent.  They are here, though, but many times not where we expect them.  We want to see them in prominent places, and depending upon times and seasons, they indeed may be.  Other times, they are not the ones holding office and powerful positions.  In such times, let us be encouraged and remember that leaders are born at home, and raised by regular mothers and fathers.  Regular, except that the mothers and fathers are brave, and have vision, have hope to release the leaders they are raising when the proper time comes.

Regular people.  Servants' hearts. Doing the extraordinary in quiet and private spaces.  My heart wells up with thankfulness for you mothers and fathers who are doing just this, right now. 

When Irritation Leads to Peace

The vibrant colors have given way to muted shades of gold, copper, and brown.  It's still autumn, but winter is knocking gently on our door. 

It's a completely new experience for us.  For the last sixteen years, we saw golden leaves beginning in August, which waxed quickly before waning just as fast with a sucker-punch from winter.  That is fall in Alaska, and we would have been "punched" several weeks ago.  Instead, we're in the throes of fall in Tennessee.  Both are so different; both are so beautiful.  Seasons of change.

We have seasons in life as well.  Some come softly and linger, while some of them hit us with the full-force of a Northwest gale and refuse to quit.  But unlike the cycle of seasons, life seasons are often not so easily predicted. 

It's nice when we can expect what to expect, but to have everything wrapped up so neatly doesn't leave much room for unexpected blessings, does it?  I love such surprises, so living life unwrapped, so to speak, is appealing to me for that reason.  However, what about the "unwrapped" seasons that go on with no apparent answers, with no obvious surprise? 

Our family has been through a season of tremendous change during this past year.  It's been a crazy combination of exhilaration, heartbreak, joy, hope, and dashed expectations.  And though we are settled, we remain in limbo. 

I feel time ticking, and I am full of questions.  Where do we go from here?  Will these healings be complete?  What about other journeys you've called us on?  Adoption process at a stand-still...what about that?  God whispers to me in the midst of all my questions.  He gives an answer which at first seems so irritating.  "Be still and know that I am God." 

Be still?  Are you serious?  "Yes," he whispers again.  And then I am reminded of all the knowns in the midst of the unknowns.  The knowns are the things that have happened already.  They are also the things that are true.  So many of them are things to be thankful for. 

Where do we go from here?  We continue to listen to His voice to lead us, and we thank Him for bringing us to where we are.  We live well, and enjoy all the fullness and beauty that the days hold--right here.

Will the healings be complete?  We don't know, but we thank Him for taking the seizures away from a son, and for providing a diagnosis and plan that has evaded me for the last two years, and for giving us access to the best eye doctor in the U.S. for another son.

What about the adoption process we began in 2010 that has gone seemingly nowhere?  I have no answer for that either, whether it is meant to come to fruition or was a test of obedience.  But we thank Him for increasing our faith and for the miracles He has worked along the way.

What additional questions would you add here?  What are the answers that evade you in this season you are in?  I most likely wouldn't have your answers, but I can point you to the One that has them.  I can almost guarantee that if you listen closely, you'll hear Him whispering, "Be still..."  It's irritating at first, but that's ok.  God is not threatened by our irritation.  What's even more awesome than that, is that when we choose to be still even though we don't like it, suddenly, there is room for us to give thanks.  We give thanks in the midst of our questions, for the knowns and you know what?  An unexpected blessing occurs afterall.  We realize it's ok to not have the answers.  We are filled with joy as we focus on the giving thanks.  There's so much to give thanks for, and we are filled with peace.

Thanks.  Peace.  Joy.  Those are good things to be had in any season.  

What I've Learned: day 31

This post marks the end of this series.  In reflection upon all the hours spent thinking and writing and photographing and uploading, and uploading and uploading, what have I learned?  For one thing, I've learned this is a pretty awesome place to live.

There are ample opportunities for adventure and travel.  There is beauty, so much beauty, in the form of rolling hills and mountain landscapes, flowing rivers and wildflowers, giant, ancient trees and meandering country roads and of land being worked by the plow.  It is land teeming with life in all forms.  It is rich in history, and so much is accessible in terms of bringing that history to life.  We have access to rich culture in cities, while peaceably living country life, and can easily trek to the seashores.

We are living this, and we're so thankful, yet truth be told, I still desperately miss Alaska.  It is home to me, to my family, in all it's grandeur and quirkiness and freezingness.  Is that even a word?

I chose the subject for this 31 day blogging challenge, based on the homesickness I am experiencing.  Driving home one day from a swim at Maryville College, I marveled at the fact it was mid-September, and I was driving home while windows down and sunshine streaming in dried my hair.  For me, that was incredible, and I began to think about all the other things we could experience because we are here.  As thankfulness began to well up in my heart, the homesickness lessened.  It's difficult to feel wistful or sad when you concentrate on just giving thanks for the now.  It's been good for me, as I truly have grown to better appreciate the now.  Still I find my mind wandering to the "what next?" and I do not know the answer to that.  You know what?  It's ok that I don't know the answer to that.  I know the One who does know the answer to that.  He knows what brought us here.  He knows what He's accomplishing in us here.  In short, He knows our path, and somehow that needs to be, and in fact is, enough.

Just knowing that He knows is enough.

This month of writing has been good for me, as it's caused me to dwell upon this every day: there's so much to love here.  As much richness as we enjoy, however, nothing replaces the fact that the things dearest to us, our family, our deep friendships, those things are thousands and thousands of miles away.  Familiarity.  Friendships which have weathered over a decade.  The babies that were born and have been raised up alongside our own babies.  All so far away.  It takes years and years to put down those sort of roots, and we've felt the necessity of leaving it all behind, for now anyway.  How can I reconcile these truths?

Sometimes what you love is not what is good for you in a certain season.  Sometimes what we need is to be uncomfortable.  Sometimes, God calls us out of the familiarity of Ur, so to speak, and we are called to venture out of our comfort zones.

"Now the LORD said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you." Genesis 12:1

To ignore the call would be torment to our hearts.  There would always be the wondering.  "What if?"

So we chose to answer  by stepping out.  We won't need to wonder "What if?" and there is much peace in that.  We'll continue to enjoy all that is here, right now.  We'll continue to grow, work on healing that needs to take place, make new friendships, maintain old friendships, minister to those He puts in our path, and chart this new course.  And all the while, we'll do our best to keep hearts focused on the Captain, and keep ears open for His call for what's next.  Who knows?  Maybe I'll be writing about that next October.

 For a complete listing of posts in this series, click here.

Odds & Ends, aka The Longest, Most Rambling Post Ever: day 30

Tonight, the 30th day of this series, I admit to be scraping the bottom of the barrel a bit.  I've kept a tattered old notebook handy this past month, on which I scribble my ideas for posts and then strike off when I use them.  Some things I thought were undeserving of their own post; other ideas lack the photos to go with, simply because I haven't had the time.  So tonight, I'll highlight these humble things to love about the South.

Southern Magnolia trees.  To this northern girl, they look like fauna from another world, with their thick, leathery leaves.  Check out the fruit they produce!  This one is about the size of a softball, and it's soft and velvety to the touch.  Sorry, to my knowledge you can't eat it.  Just lately, the individual pods in this fruit burst open, revealing black bean-sized, crimson, rubbery seeds.  Dazzling.  I'm on the edge of my seat to see it bloom next spring.  That will probably earn a post of its own.

 Tropical-looking flowers.  These beauties in our back yard remind me of Hawaii.  All sorts of lovely associations there.

Stunning wildflowers. Most are unfamiliar to me, blooming at their appointed times, but I smile each time I see one of my young men running across the field with a fistful and a smile on their face.  I know I'm about to be introduced to more of the beauty growing around and about.  I'm so familiar with the Dandelion-Bluebell-Wild Rose-Lupine-Fireweed cycle in Alaska.  We know just what time of year it is, based upon when each of them are blooming.  I expect it's the same for the locals here in East Tennessee, when they see these,

Or when these amazing, towering, royal purple lovelies enter the stage.

And speaking of flowers, how about roses still blooming in October?

They're planted everywhere, it seems, and in the tenth month of the year, they're still showing off.  If that isn't astounding enough to me, imagine my surprise when I noticed landscaping companies busily re-planting the flower beds around town with Pansies, in October.

Now let's talk food for a moment.  I absolutely love being able to buy fresh peaches.  Baskets of "South Carolina peaches" are sold in markets and on corners.  They are absolutely delectable.  Many still have fresh green leaves on.  

Are you still with me?

Produce markets.  Seriously love the variety of fresh, local food here.  Remember my plug for heirloom tomatoes?  Heirloom Peppers are just as noteworthy.  They're gorgeous, in all mottled shades of green, red, brown, and purple.  I never knew peppers could taste like an heirloom pepper tastes. 

I absolutely love to see roadside produce, especially with hand-painted signs, being offered on the honor-system.

 Black Walnuts.  These are yours for the harvesting.  Just listen for the tell-tale sound of the fruits falling from the trees, or if you are very unlucky, discover them by having one fall square on your head, like I did.  It took us awhile to figure out what these lime-like things were.  They actually look and smell like limes.  You gather them up when they fall, rather than pick them from the tree.  Then you save them in a cool, dry place while you wait for them to season.  That's what I call the process of letting them turn from their lovely yellow-lime color to dark brown.  Here's our personal stash.  Getting the nutmeats out of these guys is quite difficult, we've heard, not to mention the process stains your hands.  That ought to make a fun, future post as well.

Yet another thing to love?  Butterflies.  Butterflies everywhere, in all sizes and colors.  They flit from flower to flower, reminding me of my childhood days spent catching and collecting and releasing.

Cumberland Mountain State Park.  Some dear friends introduced us to this, and surely it is deserving of its own post...but shoot, I'm just running out of days.  So here you go.

 In addition to a lovely campground, they offer use of canoes, kayaks, paddle boats, fishing boats, and paddle boards, all at no additional charge.  The beautiful, man-made lake is just a short & crazy ride across the park from the campground.  We highly recommend riding in the back of a pick-up, to get full-effect.

 One of us went out on the water for the very first time ever.

 Neighbor horses.  I grew up next door to an Amish family.  I always loved seeing their horses at work or rest or play.  It's an absolute joy to have horsey neighbors again, and we visit with them often.

There are other things, too, friends.  So many things to love.  I haven't even mentioned extended sandal-wearing into October, or wild Morning Glories twirling and twisting up roadside signage and fences.  Nor have I yet mentioned how Papa Murphy's $5 Faves are all. week. long. rather than just Monday through Wednesday.

I also have not mentioned the joy of finding (with the help of our car salesman, 1 1/2 hours away--true story) our new church family here in the South.  Missing our beloved Alaska church tremendously, we now have part of our hearts here at Church of the Cove, too.  After all, every time we go somewhere new, we have a chance to meet more of the family.  As He so tenderly reminded me as I grieved leaving Wasilla Bible Church, "My people are everywhere, Jessica."

I'm so thankful for a bright and familiar place in the midst of feeling like strangers in a strange land.  And with that, a scraping-of-the-barrel, hodgepodge of things to love, I will close for tonight.

For a complete listing of (much less rambling) post than this in the series, click here.

Andrews Bald and Clingmans Dome: day 26

Today was a day we were utterly saturated with natural beauty.  Driving down narrow, winding roads canopied by trees in colors of the rainbow, leaves cascading down in front and all around us, it felt like we were in a postcard.  Perhaps the autumn version of a snowglobe would be a more accurate description, if there was such a thing.  We'll call it a leafglobe.

The color was astounding. 

 

 

Rivers ran cool and crystal clear as we drove through the wonderland that is The Great Smoky Mountain National Park up to Clingmans Dome.  As we gained elevation, the trees became leafless.  They had already had their turn to shine, and their garments had become a forest floor carpeting.  More Firs appeared, the temperature dropped, and we suddenly felt a whole lot more at home.

 

The plan was to hike Andrews Bald.  We became parents of a 12-year-old again today, and this young man usually requests some sort of adventure for his celebration.  He aches for our beloved mountain hiking, as we all do, so we thought this may be a bit of a cure.  I must say, it delivered.

We walked through rocky, wooded terrain for 1.7 miles,

 when suddenly,

we stepped out into grandeur, the wide-open space that we know and love so well.  Sure it wasn't exactly the same.  But there was a certain familiarity in the quality and temperature of air at 5900 ft. which felt like home to us.  Breezes wafted and blew.  The sun warmed the soft grasses where we reclined for our afternoon meal.

We ate and relaxed, and told fun stories.

My how I love these people I'm so blessed to call my family.  There was just nowhere I would rather have been than right there, right then, with those people.  The Creator gifted us with Andrews Bald today.

After a long and leisurely while, we packed it up to head the 1.7 miles back.

There was one more hike we wanted to get in today, before they close Clingmans Road for the winter, and that was its namesake, Clingmans Dome.

This one, being paved and all, seemed quite a bit more tame than what we're used to.  However, after nearly four miles already under our belts, the steep incline of this one had us worn out.  Admittedly, I didn't really know what we were getting ourselves into once we got up there.  When I realized we were going to go up a concrete fibonacci spiral,

Clingmans sort of freaked me out. 

 

But I tell you, the spectacular, 360-degree view of the Smokies and beyond was totally worth it.  I have only one, very non-impressive picture of part of the southern view.  I took it because we could see Andrews Bald in between the Firs.

It's always frustrating to experience something and then not be able to explain it properly.  Sometimes the awe is in the span and the depth and the scale of things.

In any case, it was an amazing day to be thankful for, as we celebrated 12 years of an amazing boy.  What a gift all around.

I'm counting other things to be thankful for in the South here.