Post #53: Grief, Tears, and Forsythia

When I brought out my laptop to start this post, the late evening sky was what I focused on as the computer booted up. We are into April now, so the sun was still in the sky, but it had the golden hue unique to late evening. I love that time. I love watching as everything becomes bathed in that light shortly before the sun disappears beneath the horizon.

We went for a walk this afternoon. I went for a walk or run every day this week, but didn't notice any of the little green buds on all the trees until today. We walked past one forsythia plant, and Jordan and I both just breathed in the beauty of those yellow blooms. I can't begin to describe what it did to see that new life.

This has been an interesting week. It has now been four weeks since I came into physical contact with anyone other than a delivery person or my husband in kids. That's four weeks of isolation. As an introvert who is on mat leave, my day-to-day life didn't change too much. But it changed enough that this last week was a hard one. Anson is 2.5 and is in a huge boundary-testing phase right now. Totally normal. But also totally exhausting. Gwen just cut another tooth, but it has been a month of very little sleep for me as we waited for that tooth to make its appearance. I found myself grieving my plans and dreams for the summer. No walking to the playground that is about 300m away from our house for after dinner play. No going to pick out flowers for planters. They are such simple things. But they were the things I have been dreaming about all winter and now spring.

We had some gorgeous days this week. And on those days, the kids and I just spent our time outside.

I thank God for a backyard, because I don't know what I would have done if we still lived in our old place.

But that doesn't change that this week was hard. That I felt like I had just enough strength to deal with the day-to-day, but not capacity to deal with anything else. I feel bad when I think of the number of times my children saw me break down and cry because I was so tired. Because I felt like a failure. Because I felt alone. Yesterday morning, as I sat playing with my kids, I had to fight wave after wave of loneliness. Of grief. Of sadness.

That isn't to say that there haven't been bright moments. Gwen has learned to wave and loves to mimic. When I put Anson to bed at night, he has started to rub my back and to sing to me the lullabies I have sung to him (only he swaps out the word "baby" for the word "Mama"). And God has still shown Himself so present. On March 30 I picked up my daily devotional (Tim Keller's The Songs of Jesus where he works through the book of Psalms over the course of a year). On that day I read Psalm 42:6-11:

6 My soul is downcast within me;
    therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
    the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
    in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
    have swept over me.

8 By day the Lord directs his love,
    at night his song is with me—
    a prayer to the God of my life.

9 I say to God my Rock,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I go about mourning,
    oppressed by the enemy?”
10 My bones suffer mortal agony
    as my foes taunt me,
saying to me all day long,
    “Where is your God?”

11 Why, my soul, are you downcast?
    Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
    for I will yet praise him,
    my Savior and my God.

When Keller does his comments on this, he talks about the phrase "I will yet praise him." About how this isn't "a mere prediction of change but an active exercise" (89). Then he went on to say, "When we are discouraged, we listen to the fearful speculations of our hearts. 'What if this happens?' 'Maybe it's because of that!' Here instead we see the psalmist not merely listening to his troubled heart but addressing it, taking his soul in hand, saying, 'Remember this, O soul!' He reminds his heart of the loving things God has done... [and] also tells tells his heart that God is working within the troubles" (89).

Two days later, my Facebook memories involved a quotation from George Macdonald:

"As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."

It was like God was preparing me for the week to come. Like He was reminding me that what is going on right now is awful. It sucks. Life is scary and uncertain, and we don't know how to deal with it. But that doesn't mean He is absent. As He reminded me of the connection between sorrow and joy and love, I realized that this weekend is Easter. Was ever there a better picture of true darkness and sorrow conquered by true Love?

Tomorrow we celebrate Jesus' resurrection, the fact that He didn't stay dead. We celebrate the hope of the Gospel.

Today, in the midst of my tears and despondency, God gave me forsythia. He reminded me of hope.

Post #52: Dark Towers and Twinkling Stars

“There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tower high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach" (J.R.R. Tolkein).

As I read this, my heart goes out to Sam. Frodo has been taken by orcs after Sam thought he was dead. He felt completely alone and like an utter failure. Nothing on their trip to Mordor had gone according to plan, and now he, Sam, the gardener, had to find a way to rescue Frodo. Everything felt hopeless until he saw that one, twinkling star. The start that reminded him light is always out of reach of the shadow.

If you had told me just over two weeks ago that not only would a pandemic be declared, but that my province would declare a state of emergency and that my only physical interactions would be with my husband, my 2.5 year old, and my 9 month old, I don't know that I would have believed you.

Initially, life didn't change all that much. I'm an introvert. Jordan is an introvert. We are fairly used to sticking close to home. Besides, socializing with two young kids doesn't look the way socializing used to look! But I have not gone to a store or out in my car for over two weeks now. My kids have only seen their parents for the last two weeks. And at the start that was okay. We kept to our routine (minus Jordan working from home for a bit), and life continued on. Then the routine fell away (thank you, eight month sleep regression combined with teething), Anson started really pushing boundaries to see what he could get away with, and sleep remained elusive for me. Yesterday, we returned to our routine. As we went for our morning walk, Anson pointed to every person he saw, remarking excitedly, "Mama, PEOPLE!" as if "people" was a mythological creature he had only read about in bedtime stories (#socialdistancingwin).

In the last two weeks, I have felt myself alternate between feeling like life is still pretty normal, to feeling overwhelmed with anxiety. I don't know how long this will last. I don't know what the implications of this are going to be on my family. I miss friends. I miss being able to hope in the stroller and walk to the store. I miss church. I'm frustrated that because of an unseen water problem in our basement we have to gut what was our finished basement, and my husband has to do it entirely on his own. And I'm scared. I'm scared because my sister is a nurse in a small community that already has a confirmed case of COVID-19. I'm scared because my parents and in-laws are in that age bracket that makes them more susceptible. I'm scared because my husband is out their working and potentially getting sick too.

At the peak of my anxiety, my Facebook memories brought up the above Tolkein quotations. And I was reminded that this is a dark time. The "Shadow" seems so strong right now. But there is a Light that the darkness and shadow can't touch. God has a way of using literature to get my attention and speak to me, whether it is Little Women or The Lord of the Rings.

On one of our walks I decided to introduce Anson to a bit more about God. We talked about God as Creator. He spent the rest of our walk pointing out everything he saw and telling me that God made it. When we got home, he sat Gwen down and explained to her that God made her, and him, and Nana and Opa, and Pake and Beppe.

This week Jordan had to return to work. On nights when he works late and I do bedtime alone, I will usually put Gwen to sleep first. Then Anson curls up in our bed and we read several books. After that I will put a movie on for us to watch part of (due to the aforementioned basement gut our TV is now in our bedroom). So tonight we were cuddled up watching Frozen 2. Instantly he picked up on the fact that the mother sings a song to the two princesses before they go to sleep. Anson connected that to the fact that Jordan and I sing to him before he goes to sleep every night too.

I suppose my point in writing this is to say that despite how hopeless things can see, God keeps revealing things to me that speak of hope. I've seen people come together to deliver meals to a couple having a new baby. I've seen people checking in with others to make sure they are all doing okay. I've witnessed people having to make hard choices in order to take care of those around them. And as Anson reminded me today at bedtime that "God is outside and in my heart, and Gwennie's heart, and mama and dada's heart," I was reminded that God is omnipresent. That He is everywhere. That He sees everything. And that even though I have no idea why He allows some of things that happen to happen, I know that He is still good.

And so, despite dark towers and shadows, I am reminded of that Twinkling Star, that Light, that cannot be reached by them.

Post #51: "Me here, Wennie. Me here"

Something interesting happened this mat leave. I rediscovered things that bring me joy. Things that help me express myself. Things that help me process. For example, I love to bake. I have baked more in the eight months since Gwen was born, than I had in the three or four years before her birth. It helps that Anson thinks baking is the greatest thing in the world.

The other thing I have started doing again is writing. I have written the odd blog post in the last few years, but that is it. I used to keep a regular blog, but I also wrote for fun. My computer always had a few novels that I was planning or working on (but of course never finishing... because where is the fun in that!). But in the last couple months I have found myself writing again. I have started blogging. I also started working on a story that I promised myself I would write over ten years ago.

Writing is one of those things that helps me feel whole. God often uses it to help me process emotions and experiences. It is also a way of being vulnerable. I'm the person who can count on one hand (and probably one finger), the times I would let someone read my essays in university. As much as I knew that feedback and constructive criticism were good for me and my development, my insecurity held me back. I often encourage my students to take feedback and use my life as a cautionary tale.

What is interesting is that I wasn't always insecure about my writing. When I was in high school I can remember using up all of my school paper to write stories. A friend would always come to find my at lunch or after school to see if I had written more. In elementary school I can remember writing a story about my classmates and reading it out to the class before the first bell rang.

Somewhere along the line I stopped sharing my writing. I became convinced it wasn't good enough. I stopped blogging regularly (partly because of a lack of time, and partly because every time I write a post I ask myself what the point is in sharing it. Why would anyone care what I have to say?)

When I first started writing this post, I had no intention of sharing what is written above. That wasn't my purpose. And then I felt like I should. And then the whole time I was writing I was asking God what the point is, because I couldn't see how it connected to what is written next. Bear with me, because I think God is using this to help give me some clarity (which is typically how He does things).

My favourite part when Gwen wakes up from her nap is the way Anson wants to be involved. Gwen will start crying for me, and the moment Anson hears her, he will look at me and say, "Wennie cries, Mama. Me help Wennie." So then we will head up to her room together, he will open her door, run to her crib, and say, "Me here, Wennie. Me here." In fact, any time Gwen is upset (including the times he causes her tears), he is quick to reassure her that he is there for her. His words are often accompanied by a back rub, a hug, or a kiss. I wish I could fully show you how much Anson loves his sister, and how much she loves him. Gwen's face lights up when Anson enters the room. The two of them love to giggle with each other. Anson loves to talk in a high pitched voice and pretend it is Gwen's voice. He loves to give her hugs and kisses good night. He is desperate for her to be able to play with him. Gwen watches him and you can tell she just wants to be able to do all the things that he does.

But it isn't just with Gwen that I see this side of Anson. This morning I was crying while getting ready for the day as I thought about the content of this post. I went to help Anson pull his pants up after he had gone to the washroom, and he looked at me and said, "What wrong, Mama? You cry?" So I told him I was sad but that it was okay. And then I watched as his face fell with sadness because I was sad. If I'm sad or hurt, Anson wants to kiss it better. He stops what he is doing because he wants to make sure I'm okay.

He is such a sweetheart, and my heart daily feels like it is going to burst with love for him and Gwen.

But Anson is obviously not perfect. He is a two year old who lacks impulse control (as most two year olds do). He is also a physical little boy. When Anson feels his big emotions, he deals with them physically. So when he is excited, angry, frustrated, happy, etc, he will hit/push/slap. He has been doing great with this at home or in small groups with people he is familiar with, but when he gets overwhelmed or overstimulated it is really hard to remind him of the strategies we are working on at home.

Again, this is pretty normal stuff. He is two.

But it is also really hard stuff to deal with. And sometimes it is really hard trying to figure out whether I put him into social situations that could lead to more hitting. On the one hand, I want him to get used to people, because the more comfortable he is, the less he hits. On the other hand, I don't want to set him up to fail.

Every time I get invited to something, I start to panic a bit. Because I love my sweet, sweet boy, and I see the way he brings toys to kids at daycare, or to his sister, when they are sad. I see how he stops everything to sing to Gwen when she cries, because he knows that being sung to makes him feel better. I see all this good in him. But I am so scared of sharing him with others and of them rejecting him or thinking he is "bad." And I know I shouldn't feel this way because I know none of my friends think that. I know my friends, especially those with kids, know how hard this parenting thing is, and they know that Anson is not "bad." But I'm still scared they will find fault with him. I'm scared he will have an off day (because he has had those before) and that all people will get to see is the lack of impulse control.

My writing and my kids are both gifts that God has given to me. And they are both pieces of my heart (to varying degrees). And I'm scared of sharing both with the world, because I'm horrified the world will think them "bad." Because if these reflections of my heart are bad, what does that say about me?

I don't have an answer.

The last time I kept a blog regularly was when I wrote "Annals of a Christian Single." It was my way of processing what it is like to be a Christian single. It led to me being incredibly vulnerable about where I was at in life, but it also was a time when God showed me who I am in Him. By sharing that journey with others, God connected me to other people around the world who had that shared experience, and we were able to encourage each other. To challenge each other. Maybe He is telling me it is time to be vulnerable about where I am at now.

But vulnerability is hard. I live in fear of me and my loved ones being rejected.

But I guess that is where I have to remember Who made me. Who is always present with me. And in those times of fear, rest in the knowledge that Jesus is saying (to quote Anson), "Me here, Jesse. Me here."

Post #50: Being Known

From the time I was eight my family fostered. My baby sister (who isn't really a baby since she is 25) was the first baby we brought into our home. Some children were in our home briefly, others have remained part of our lives. When I close my eyes I can still picture these kids who felt like my siblings. Who were part of our family, no matter how briefly they were in our lives. One baby stands out right now. She was a sweetheart, and my family wanted to adopt her, but she was placed in her home community instead. This happened my first year out of high school. My family was preparing to move from Prince George to Dawson Creek. I had one semester of university under my belt, but was taking a break to do a semester of Bible College during the transition time of my family's move. I had started at the Bible college and can remember standing in church one Sunday. We started to sing the song "Blessed Be Your Name" and I just started to cry. I had never really experience grief before, but that Sunday was the beginning of my grieving process as I learned to deal with the loss of this baby from our lives.

The reason I share this is because this last Sunday at church we sung "Blessed Be Your Name" again. It got me thinking about my most recent post and about my old wounds of rejection and insecurity. It was honestly like God looked at me and said, "I see you, Jessica." I have spent a chunk of my life feeling like I went unseen. I know this is untrue, but this was all part of that lie of rejection and of not being good enough. And as I was praying and bringing these old wounds to God, He let me know He saw me. He used the same song He used to comfort me in my grief fifteen years ago to remind me in the present that He sees me. To remind me that no matter my circumstances or thoughts or emotions, He is still God. He is still good. And He still sees me and knows me.

It is an amazing thing to be truly known. When someone understands what makes you tick. What excites you. What frustrates you. What makes you you.

I have found this period of my life a bit trying when it comes to regular devotions. Part of that is because it is hard to find a solid chunk of time where I can sit down, read my Bible coherently and without interruption, and then focus on it. But what has amazed me is that God hasn't given up on me. He knows me and has found other ways to speak to me. When I was on mat leave I started reading Little Women (great book... strongly recommend it). It wasn't long before I was underlining my fiction novel because vast chunks of it were speaking to me. Were challenging me. Were making me reevaluate my life and how I was living. Were drawing me closer to God. Other times it is through experiences with my kids. When Anson has a complete meltdown and I find my heart overwhelmed with compassion and love for him, it gives me the slightest indication of how God must feel during my own meltdowns. Other times it will be through an instance like this Sunday where the song selection was such that I was again reminded that God is present in the good, the bad, and the ugly.

And so I have spent this week resting (truly resting) in the knowledge that I am seen and I am known. That the God who created me knows my hopes and my struggles, and that He remains steady and constant and good through them all.

Post #49: Old Wounds and Fierce Friends

I'm not sure if I'm even going to publish this post. At this point I am writing as a way to process, and because God often provides me clarity and peace by having me write through experiences and emotions. And as much as I tried to throw myself into knitting, writing kept coming back to me. So here I am. Writing this post while Anson is at daycare, Gwen naps, and bacon fries for a Caesar salad I am taking to small group tonight.

A situation arose about a month ago that caught Jordan and I completely by surprise. It shocked us, hurt us, and left us a bit confused. While resolution was achieved, it wasn't a "happy" resolution, and it stirred up some feelings of rejection that I wasn't prepared for.

Rejection has always been a wound for me. When I look back on growing up, my teen years, and the years since, instances always arise that would remind me that I "wasn't enough" for people. I wasn't cool or popular enough. I wasn't pretty enough. I wasn't smart enough. I wasn't single enough. I wasn't in a relationship enough.

I just wasn't good enough.

Over the last few years, I haven't felt the effects of those wounds. Or at least haven't felt them often. So part of me forgot that this was an old wound for me.

As I drove Anson to daycare this morning, and was praying along the way, I found myself saying, "God, why can't I just be good enough?"

Later this morning I called one of my best friends. My fierce friend. This is the friend who showed up on my doorstep in a torrential downpour last June, ready to take over the rest of packing and moving for me so that I didn't go into labour moving weekend and so that I could focus on finishing off my school year. The friend who flew across the country to do this. The friend who saw me. She saw my pain, my fear, my worry, and my stress, and so she flew to Ontario to take up part of my fight for me. The same friend who, at Christmas, did the 12 Days of Christmas for me, giving me a little gift to open every day that reminded me that I was seen. That I was known. And that someone who saw and knew me also loved me.

*Friends like that don't come around every day. If you have one, never let them go.*

What is amazing about this friend, is that she didn't try to talk me out of my feelings, she didn't try to make me feel better, and she also didn't coddle me. She comforted me, but she also strengthened me. As someone who has known me for over 20 years, she knows me well. She knows my history with rejection. And so she took time out of her morning to walk with me through this. To go to the root of these feelings. To identify that the statement "I'm not enough" is actually a lie, and that when God formed me, He wasn't saying, "This is Jess. She isn't enough" (this friend also didn't accept my account that I am the platypus of humanity, and that God just threw a bunch of random parts together to see how they wound turn out and got a Jess).

As a parent, one of my biggest fears is that of watching my kids wrestle with the same wounds I do. I'm petrified that Anson and Gwendolyn will feel that they "aren't enough" for other people. That my creative, beautiful, hilarious children will feel like they aren't cool enough, pretty enough, popular enough... that they just aren't good enough. In the last week my prayers for them have developed to include a prayer for friends for them. That they will have friendships that will challenge, encourage, and strengthen them. That they will be able to do that for those friend. My hope is that God will give them fierce friends who will call them on their crap, but who will also fight for them. That they will have friends who will see them, know them, and love them. Who will strengthen them when they don't have the strength, and who will step in and fight for them when they are unable to carry on any longer. It is also my prayer that my kids will be fierce friends themselves. 

I keep pausing and trying to think of some kind of neat way to wrap this entry up. And I keep coming up empty. But maybe that's just God's way of reminding me that this is going to be a process for me. That acknowledging that this is a wound and where it's root is at is great, but that old wounds still flare up (trust me... I have an old elbow injury that I thought was better until I had kids and especially when that latter child turned into a co-sleeper... now even knitting can hurt!). Through this time, God has also really shown me that there are friends and people who love me for who I am. Who think I am enough. Who love my family and think they are enough too.

So here's to old wounds, fierce friends, and the road to healing.

Post #48: Pregnancy, Moving, and the Art of Being Humbled

My plan was to sit down at the end of the school year and write this post. I thought that would be that sweet spot in between no work responsibilities, but would also happen before Baby #2 made his/her appearance. Which obviously means that nothing happened according to plan!

Since it has been a while since I last wrote, allow me to update you. In September 2018 I went back to work after my mat leave, but only returned to work part time (I held a 2/3 position, so I taught two classes a semester instead of three). By the end of October we found out we were pregnant with Baby #2, which meant I entered into that world of working, raising a toddler (and one incredibly independent, energetic one at that), and experiencing pregnancy. By January 2019 we began to get the sense that our two bedroom unit wasn't going to work anymore for two kids plus housing any of my family that came to visit when the baby arrived. By the beginning of April our house had sold and thus began the stress of having just over two months to find a house. By the end of April we had found a house and I began the process of packing, knowing that the end of the school year would be incredibly busy as well as that moving at 37 weeks and 5 days would make packing close to impossible. Just over a week after the purchase of our house was finalized, we ended up in the hospital for a pre-term labour assessment as I started having some mild contractions (I was 31.5 weeks pregnant). Everything was fine, though the overall assessment came back that I was stressed. Somehow we made it through the next month and a half. In the two weeks leading up to our move, Jordan implemented a new system at work that took longer than anyone anticipated, and so he had to put in 12-16 hour days for those two weeks, as well as going in on Saturdays to work. I was in the throes of marking, final summatives, and report cards.

I honestly don't know when I have been as stressed as what I was. It got to the point where I found myself wishing for high blood pressure at each midwife appointment so they could tell me I had to go off work. I figured that would remove one stressor from my life, even though I really wanted to finish the year (I loved my classes. My grade nines challenged me in a way I had never been challenged, and my grade twelves were a class of introverts who loved to write... did it get any better?). At each appointment my blood pressure betrayed me and my midwives declared me perfectly healthy.

The Thursday before the move we met with the lawyer, met with the bank, I had a midwife appointment, and then I was late picking up Anson from daycare. I got home, fed Anson, bathed him, and dealt with "strictly-bath-related" meltdown #9 in that two week period. I had finally gotten Anson dressed when my father-in-law called. It was pouring rain and he told me Jordan had asked him to drop a package off and did I mind leaving the front door unlocked so he could just pop it in and not have to wait in the rain. Like I good daughter-in-law I said "Sure." Then I hung up, looked towards Heaven, and cried out to God, "I don't need another f***** box, Lord." And I cried.

A few moments later I heard the door open and shut. As I went downstairs, one of my best and oldest friends appeared. And I lost it. I wept.

*Thank-you, Ashley, for not posting the video you were recording of when I first saw you. I don't think the world is ready for that level of ugly crying.*

Which leads me to the point I really wanted to reflect on in this post. I have never been more humbled that I was throughout this move. I often struggle with feeling like I don't belong. Like I'm just on the outskirts of friend groups. Of wondering why anyone would want to help me or be my friend. And during this time, I had more people offer their help than I thought was possible. And not just in a "Let me know what I can do" kind of a way, but in a "I'm free this Thursday. Can I come clean and pack boxes for you while you sit and mark." I had meals made for us so we were eating something more nutritious than chicken fingers and french fries. I had people offer to watch Anson for me so I could get work done. On the weekend of the move, we had more people come to help load, unload, and clean on the Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, than I thought was possible. Once we were moved in, I had people come to watch Anson so I could get some unpacking done. Ashley and Jordan took over the logistics of moving weekend, and I was sent away on the Saturday to get marking done. Which meant that by the time our first weekend in our new house arrived, my marking and report cards were done.

I don't like asking for help. And I hate feeling like an inconvenience to people. But this experience brought me to a whole new level of realizing that I can't do things on my own. I was physically, emotionally, and mentally unable to do everything that needed to be done. But what humbled me far more than having to ask for help, was the vast amount of help that was offered. To those who helped watch Anson, cooked meals, helped me pack and clean, and helped us move, thank you. Thank you so much. You will never know how much your friendship and help means to me (I have cried so many thankful tears over this, it isn't funny!). To those who helped with Anson and food our first week in the house, thank you. To Ashley and Jordan, thank you for getting Ashley out here. It is amazing how after 20+ years of friendship, you are able to completely hand over the reigns of your own move to your friend and know that she will make sure everything gets done the way you need it done. To Donut Monster and Vintage Coffee, who kept us alive over that weekend, thank you.

What blows me away, is that God didn't stop humbling me with help at this point. We moved on June 17, and on June 22 I finished my report card comments and sent them to my proof reading partner. On June 23, while running errands in the morning, my water broke. That night I submitted report cards (finishing the last of my work responsibilities), and on the morning of June 24, we headed to the hospital to be induced. That night, at 10:57, Gwendolyn Margaret Anne Visser was born (she was 8lbs 13oz and 20.5in long).

*pictures included because I think my kid is adorable and couldn't resist*

As I had to ask for help with Anson, God continued to humble me with the help that came. When Gwen and I were released and I was told that I was supposed to do as little lifting and moving as possible for the first week, I was again overwhelmed with the people who showed up to help. Friends would come and spend a morning with me so they could keep Anson occupied so I could just feed my baby girl and rest. Friends who provided meals. Family who helped me clean and continue with the whole moving process (given that we had only had a week in our house before Gwen came, and there is only so much unpacking a very pregnant woman with a toddler can do).

And even now, with Gwen already being 6.5 weeks old, people continue to bring meals and offer help. God continues to provide. As I slowly start figuring out the steps that are involved in this dance of being a mom to two kids instead of one, God continues to provide.

As I look at the life I have here, as I realize that I'm not on the outskirts of a community but am instead immersed and a part of a community, I see God's provision. When I have to be vulnerable and ask for help, I see it as God's grace on me. He is stretching me and growing me, even though I am in a season where I don't feel like I have the capacity to offer Him as much as I know He deserves.

The moral of the story? If you want to feel humbled, time a move at the intersection of several major points in your life. And then be required to ask for help, lol!

Post #47: The Sunrise Festival

One of the things I love about my childhood is where I grew up.  While I was born in Ontario, at the age of 4 my family moved to Rankin Inlet, Nunavut. When I was 5 we moved to Yellowknife, NWT, and at age 7 we moved to Inuvik, NWT, where we stayed until I was 11 and we moved to British Columbia.  When asked where I would place my hometown, I say Inuvik.

Inuvik is a pretty neat community and I have so many fond memories of growing up there. I remember spending many weekends, or afternoons once school let out, sledding. I remember that instead of playing "house" I used to play "whaling camp." When I close my eyes I can still see myself biking with my friends during the long summer days.

And they were long summer days.

Inuvik was the "Land of the Midnight Sun." It was above the Arctic Circle and for a period of time every summer, the sun never actually dipped beneath the horizon. You had 24 hours of light. People would drop by to visit at midnight. My brothers could play basketball with their friends at two in the morning and it was the same as if it were two in the afternoon. I hated bedtime as a kid because it was still so light out and I felt like I should be allowed to stay up.

It was a pretty incredible experience.

But there was also a flip side to this.

That flip side was that for a month in the winter, you also didn't see the sun. I can remember walking home at lunch time and the sky would lighten, but the sun never rose above the horizon.  I still loved this time, though, because it meant that there were numerous mornings when I would walk to school and see the Northern Lights.

I would pick up one of my friends on our way to school, and the two of us would do our best to whistle at the Northern Lights (because legend has it that whistling to them will make them come closer).

I wish I could adequately describe for you the awe that filled me every time I saw the Northern Lights. Trails of green literally danced across the sky (I always said their dance looked like hundreds of knives chopping as fast as they could).

A friend on Facebook is currently living in Inuvik, and she posted pictures from the Sunrise Festival. You see, to celebrate the sun's "return," the people of the community throw a festival that culminates in a night of fireworks.

So what's the point of all this reminiscing?

On Tuesday morning I went to Coffee Break, a women's bible study at my church. In the opening session before we broke off into our groups, our leader talked about hope. About how none of us, when the sun sets at night, worry about whether it will rise again. He have faith and hope that we will see the sun again and it will be soon.

Which is true.

But I think for some of us the darkness lasts longer than just the night. And that is when we lose hope. Sometimes the sun disappears for longer than several hours. Sometimes it seems to be gone for days... weeks... months... years...

R.C. Sproul refers to what is known as the "Dark Night of the Soul."  He describes this as "no ordinary fit of depression, but a depression that is linked to a crisis of faith, a crisis that comes when one senses the absence of God or gives rise to a feeling of abandonment by Him."

In my daily devotional the other day I read Psalm 6.  Here it is:

1 Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger
    or discipline me in your wrath.
2 Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am faint;
    heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony.
3 My soul is in deep anguish.
    How long, Lord, how long?

4 Turn, Lord, and deliver me;
    save me because of your unfailing love.
5 Among the dead no one proclaims your name.
    Who praises you from the grave?

6 I am worn out from my groaning.

All night long I flood my bed with weeping
    and drench my couch with tears.
7 My eyes grow weak with sorrow;
    they fail because of all my foes.

8 Away from me, all you who do evil,
    for the Lord has heard my weeping.
9 The Lord has heard my cry for mercy;
    the Lord accepts my prayer.
10 All my enemies will be overwhelmed with shame and anguish;
    they will turn back and suddenly be put to shame.

In Keller's commentary on this Psalm, he talks about how verses 8 and 9 show that God has heard David's cry, that David gets "an assurance that God is listening even though he hasn't done anything about the circumstances--yet" (8).

I know a lot of people who are in the midst of waiting.  Who are experiencing dark nights of the soul. Who struggle to find hope and hold onto faith because it seems like God is doing nothing. They "flood their beds with weeping and drench their couches with tears." They are worn out from groaning. It seems like the sun just isn't going to rise. And with each passing, dark day, their home dwindles more.

I have been in that place on more than one occasion.

On the darkest of days in Inuvik, the Northern Lights appeared.  I see that as the picture of verses 6-9 in Psalm 6. Everything is dark and there is no light. No hope. But God still hears and is present. He doesn't always make the sun shine right away when we want it to. But He is with us in the darkness. In the sorrow and the pain. In the waiting.  That's what the Northern Lights remind me of.  God's presence even when all hope seems lost.

And eventually, the sun will shine again. That may not mean a change in circumstances, but in the same way that David's cries in Psalm 6 turn into praise in Psalm 150, our prayers and pleas will do the same.