A Chapter of Our Story - Part 1

God's life-writing is my favorite. His sense of humor woven throughout His stories is overpowering. His descriptions are beautifully painted in sunsets and hands being held and deeps breaths and fireflies and long nights lying awake. His verbs aren't always what we would choose. Wait. Stay. Trust me. His pen travels places we didn't expect. It works in ways we didn't see. In ways we didn't see for years and years. In ways we still don't see and perhaps never will. His patience. Oh His patience! He develops us characters in ways we don't always like. We fight battles. Some we win. Some we lose. He so often writes "Christ's blood covers you" over us when the battle is lost and we lay in a gross heap of sins. He grabs us by the hand, pulls us to our feet, holds us in His arms. He forgives. He walks with us into the next battle we face. We are never alone in our battles. He's the author who never leaves our side.

The following is one of His stories. And it also happens to be mine. Christian and mine.

I've struggled with writing our story out, because parts of it are hard to explain. Parts of it I regret. Parts of it I love so much I'd rather keep to myself. So I may not write it all. But what I do share, I hope touches your heart and encourages you. God doesn't require perfect people to fulfill His perfect plan. His grace is unending. His forgiveness is free. His love is abounding.

This is not a typical love story. But is there such a thing? It's not the cookie-cutter example of what the perfect relationship should look like. But somehow, I wouldn't want that.

So this. This is our story.

***

We met when I was born. At least, I’m told we did. Not the exact day I was born, of course. But most likely a few days or weeks later.

I don’t remember it at all. Being a squawky, sleepy baby when I first saw him, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. I probably closed my eyes throughout the whole meeting. And being two, he probably glanced at me for half a second and then toddled away.

At the baby shower our church had held for my mom, his baby brother, Calvin, stole the spotlight and got a ton of pictures taken with MY clothes being held up to him. Whenever I look through those pictures now, I shake my head. I guess Calvin and my teasing rivalry started before I was even out of the womb. Sixteen years later, it would be Calvin and I betting who would get their license first. I won, for the record. But to be fair, he won our long standing practical joke contest by dumping vinegar into my coke and causing me to spit it out all over the table in front of the adults.

I’m not sure where Christian was while Calvin was stealing the show at my baby shower. Probably at home with his dad. I’m told they used to eat dinner in front of the tv and watch Wheel of Fortune together when Mrs. Higgins was out. (basically the cutest thing ever.)

Sometimes I’m sad that I don’t remember meeting him. And my first memory of him doesn’t even come for a while. I remember vague details about our early years and play-dates, but most of them come from pictures and I can’t tell if I’m remembering or just imagining I’m remembering. I feel bad for not remembering him more. But that’s just how it happened.

Our lives were already intertwined, but not significantly enough for me to have noticed.

He was homeschooled from the very start. But I was sent off to public school. While he was learning at home & roofing houses with his dad & going on field-trips with friends, I was at school begging not to be at school.

For awhile, our lives were very different. And they would have only grown further apart if things hadn’t changed.

But they did change. All because I would cry about going to school.

Even in third grade, I would cry. It was embarrassing. None of the other students cried. But I couldn’t help it. And my parents didn’t know what to do.

Looking back, I don’t even know why I didn’t like school so much. I didn’t struggle with the schoolwork. My teachers all liked me. (One of my teachers even kept a picture of me up in her classroom for years and years afterwards.) I had friends. (And they were the best too. One of my friends was a boy from Denmark and we could barely communicate with each other when we first became friends. We spent a lot of time playing basketball together and slowly he learned more English. My other friend was a tall, hilarious, red-headed girl I thought looked like a Barbie doll. Her, the Danish boy, and I made the funniest three friends you ever saw.) I didn’t get picked on. But I wasn’t super popular either. I just sort of existed and tried to keep peace with all.

Due to my good grades and peace-keeping skills, I often got seated between the “bad-behavior kids.” Because I was supposed to rub off on them somehow.

Instead, they made it even harder for me to go to school. My third grade teacher would get so angry at them, and because I was seated between them, it often felt like I was getting yelled at too. The two boys I sat between would say all sorts of nasty things, and I would often go home and ask my mom what such and such a thing they had said meant.

Besides having a rough time with those boys though, I didn’t have any reason to hate school. And yet I begged and begged to be homeschooled. I see now that it was God all along. Because finally, at the end of third grade, God changed both of my parents hearts on the matter, and they pulled me out of school.

I still barely knew Christian. But now we were both homeschoolers going to the same church. Our parents had known each other since high-school, and our grandparents had known each other since they were new parents themselves. It would seem like our paths were bound to cross soon.

But then the Higgins had to up and go to Mexico to do missions work there. And I honestly forgot all about them.

Until one day they were back and we were having them over for dinner.

“How old are their kids, mama?”

That was a super important question as a child. The fun-ness level of the whole visit depended on the answer.

“They have three boys that are close to your age and two little girls,” mom had answered.

Boys? Oh boys. What was I supposed to do with a bunch of boys?

I had neighbor boys that I was super close with. But that’s because we had spent years playing basketball & getting muddy & imagining we had a time machine together. I knew them. I felt comfortable with them.

I didn’t know these boys. What if they liked legos or something equally frustrating? What if they were quiet and awkward and weird?

I didn’t want them to come. I dreaded them coming. I thought about how awkward it was going to be. And I wondered what on earth we would do.

But they came. And it was awkward. Because I was right… they were quiet, awkward, weird boys. What could we possibly have in common?

The adults wanted to eat outside and told us young ones to eat inside at the big dining room table. So we ate. And didn’t say anything. And avoided looking up from our plates lest we accidentally make eye contact and be turned to stone or break out in warts or something.

Mom came in to get something and commented on how quiet we all were, then left again.

Now Lauren is cursed with the desire to giggle during quiet situations. Especially when someone points out that it's quiet.

So she started to giggle.

And when she starts to giggle, I start to giggle.

And Caleb, well, he giggled too.

Suddenly we were all laughing. Hard. We were looking each other in the eyes now, and laughing at the other's awkwardness. Every time the laughter would start to die, and things would begin to get quiet again, someone would let out another giggle. And then we were all laughing all over again.

And that’s how true friendship is born. When you can laugh about absolutely nothing with someone for an entire meal.

I’m pretty sure we played a game that night. Because I remember Calvin helping me clean it up, and saying “Don’t you hate how your parents make you clean the house before guests come, and then the guests get everything dirty?” I couldn’t have agreed more.

By the end of the day, they weren’t just boys. They were friends.

Christian, however, was kind of old (I mean, he was like thirteen! A teenager! Practically in his grave!) & I didn’t know exactly what to make of him because he was pretty quiet and didn’t really notice me. Calvin was good-friend material. He was only a couple months older. He was snoopy like me & had all sorts of cool equipment we could use to make movies or spy on people. Caleb was three years younger. So he was slightly annoying and easy to fight with. But he was also hilarious. Him and I could (and did) laugh until we cried over the stupidest things. Once, we made up a story about a buck-toothed woman from Walmart and we still laugh about it to this day.

I didn’t realize how close we would all become. I didn’t realize how our friendships would grow. I didn’t realize that the oldest, mysterious Higgins boy would notice me one day, and that I would notice him back.

***

Flash forward a year or two.

We’re at a campground. Their uncle’s campground. Our little pop-up campers are set up & the parents are working on dinner.

One of the most important things about camping, is building a fire. It’s not important because you need to build a fire. It’s important because you want to build a fire. As a kid, it’s a contest and a way to show off.

I literally used to wake up as early as possible while camping, just so I could rush outside and be the first to build a fire.

That way (in my head anyways) everyone else would eventually wake up, come out of their lazy beds, see my roaring fire, and praise my super crazy impressive woods-woman skills. Quite possibly they would build me a throne made of oak and moss and bring me a crown of flowers and a cape of fur and all the little woodland creatures would rest on my lap and everyone would know that I was the best at building fires in all the land!!!!!

Christian, Calvin, and Caleb always beat me to it though. Joy killers.

They went fishing at unearthly hours.

The only time I actually remember succeeding at being *the one* to make a fire, was the time I built one in a neighboring fire-pit, forgot about it, went to the lake, and almost burnt the campground down.

Fortunately, someone saw it as the grass was catching on fire, and they put it out. Unfortunately, no one praised my fire making skills or built me a throne.

This particular camping trip stands out in my head though because of our hunt for firewood.

The five of us older ones went out on a firewood search-party. It was the best when people left free stacks of wood they hadn’t used behind. We would gather them up and proudly carry them back to our own fire-pit. Any large sticks & small dry twigs or leaves were added bonuses.

We searched for quite awhile, and finally found the jackpot. A whole pile of potential s’more-making wood stood stacked in a lonely, empty spot.

We didn't have a wagon with us, so carrying it by the armload was how things were going to have to go.

Christian began hauling his share away, while the rest of us gathered ours.

This next part gets a little confusing. It happened quickly, and being a child, I’m sure it was a lot worse in my memory than it would be if it happened to me today…

There was a man approaching us from across the campground lane. I remember him looking dirty. And dangerous. Dangerous in the sense that he looked like he wanted our treasure. And duh… there was no way we were gonna let that happen.

“Is this your wood?” he asked with a greedy smile mysteriously similar to Captain Hook’s. (or so I remember it seeming that way…)

“We found it!” we said challengingly. I'm surprised I didn't add an "aaarg!" It felt like we were dueling pirates now.

“Well I hope you don’t mind if I take some for myself.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

He picked Caleb right off the ground and moved him out of the way. Then started taking OUR wood!

Somewhat disappointingly, not much of a commotion followed. I was horrified. Some of us complained. But we were only a couple kids. So we gathered up as much wood as we could and ran back to our campsite.

We were angry at what he had done. I was angry that he had even DARED to touch Caleb! We were fuming that he had taken our precious find!

But obviously, It really wasn’t that big of a deal, and you may wonder why I even brought it up.

That was the first time I remember really feeling protective over my Higgins boys. Over us. We were a team. And we had all stuck together. I remember feeling SO CLOSE to them on that camping trip. The kind of closeness that has zero motives or reasons. I didn’t have crushes on any of them. I knew that they could be annoying. They knew that I could be annoying. But we were like brothers and sisters.

My desire for brothers suddenly felt appeased. I had the Higgins boys. They had us Smock girls. It was good.

The more years that went by, the closer we all grew.

We saw each other so frequently that occasionally we ran out of things to talk about because not much had happened since we last saw each other. In those instances, we would all gather round and watch movies together.

One of the most memorable movie nights was when we watched Fiddler on the Roof. Lauren and I hadn’t seen it before, but they all had.

We squished on and around the couch. I remember Christian singing “If I Were a Rich Man” in his deepest voice. I hadn’t seen him be so funny before, and I laughed my head off. We all laughed and talked through the movie. We passed around pillows and fought over blankets. And once again, I felt so close to them.

One evening we showed up and found Calvin and Caleb working in the backyard. They had built a miniature log cabin out of firewood. Complete with a fireplace and an actual fire and a roof and a door. It was close to dusk and the little cabin looked beautiful in the fading light. I remember being so impressed I could hardly keep my mouth shut. We played with the fire until Calvin became concerned that the whole cabin would burn down. He told me to grab a nearby bucket of water so he could put it out, and the magic of it all was just too much.

During this time, Christian was still that old, semi-mysterious person who didn’t really pay much attention to me. Sometimes, I spied on him with Calvin. because Christian often talked with the adults, and the adults usually had interesting things to say.

One afternoon, I sat at the kitchen table with Aunty Beth (as I called Mrs. Higgins) and told her that Christian wasn’t ever going to get married. She looked shocked but laughed and asked why. I explained that he didn’t notice girls and liked hunting too much.

“He would sooner notice a deer than a girl,” I said.

Mom joined in that the girl who caught Christian’s fancy would have to be wearing antlers.

We all laughed, but I really did believe what I had said.

Funny how it wasn’t long after that that our whole friendship suddenly bloomed. Funny how one afternoon at their lake house could launch us into becoming best friends. Funny how one summer of talking could propel us towards now. Towards forever.

to be continued….




　

A Little Faith & Trust & New-house-dust

I’m sitting on a night-stand in our house. Christian and my house. not my old house or his old house which we accidentally keep referring to as home. as if this is just a hotel our parents are allowing us to live in together for a while. one day they’re probably going to show up and tell us that they’ve had enough and it’s time for us to say goodbye and go back with them. but it hasn’t happened yet. so we practice calling this home instead. and we practice calling each other husband and wife. and we think it’s great. and sort of like an inside joke.

I sit on the night stand and face our closet. eleven shelves and one place to hang church clothes & “can’t get wrinkly” clothes. our recently unpacked wardrobes find themselves in new places. and they think it’s funny to lose themselves in these new places. this morning, before he went to work, we went on a half-asleep search party for his long underwear and sweatshirts. it was a legitimate search party because we used flashlights for some reason. finally, we found them sitting peacefully on their shelves. quietly laughing at us & saying, “hey! don’t look at us like that! you put us here!”

our clothes are shoved together- his and mine. they don’t exactly coordinate with each other. his dark-colored, messy work clothes & my bright, flimsy sweaters stacked perilously near to each other. a loosely hung pair of his pants hangs down & finds the hem of my skirt. his work boots sit under the folds of one of my Sunday dresses. Carhartt & Vera Bradley rest side by side. his greens & greys against my pinks & aqua blues.

they show our differences. but they show something else too. they show that God is in the details.

our personalities. if they were stacked on shelves alongside our clothes, I imagine that the contrast would be almost as great. he is down to earth & laid back. I am flying with my head up in the clouds. and flying at full-speed-ahead.

my sister once jokingly came up with what middle names Mom should have given us girls to best describe who we’re NOT. for instance, my five year old sister’s name would be Megan Silence. because she hasn’t been silent since first poking her head into the world. I would’ve been Renee Patience. because patience is my most in-need-of-practice virtue. but the thing about practicing, is that it takes patience. and well… point made.

he does have patience though. and he generously gives it to me. especially since he is on earth most of the time, and I’m usually on a space ship circling Mars where he has to gently radio me and tell me to come back down to common sense.

but spaceships circling Mars aren’t all that bad. up there, I often get a better perspective on things than he does. you can see more from up there. you can be more optimistic way up there. and I definitely am the optimistic one on our “shelf of virtues.” he tends to be more pessimistic. and so by the time we have a conversation about something, I’ve usually convinced him that the world isn’t about to burn up in flames, and he’s usually convinced me that unicorns and rainbows aren’t going to spring up out of the snow and turn everything into green grass and flowers.

it’s called balance. and once again, God is in the details.

our differences also come through in how we communicate. I am usually able to say exactly what I want to say how I want to say it in the fastest, clearest way possible with lots of extra analogies and anecdotes and examples if necessary. and if it happens to be unclear the first time, I can say it again five different ways on the spot with historical or poetic references & possibly in Spanish as well.

he is quieter. and gets his point across more slowly. which would be perfectly fine if I had more… yeah, patience. it would probably be easier for him to answer the question “how are you?” if I didn’t ask “are you okay? are you hungry? are you cold? how was work? are you tired? are you upset? are we okay? did I do something wrong? can I get you a drink? do you think I should make banana chocolate chip muffins or just chocolate chip muffins? why aren’t you answering? would you rather I leave you alone?” a second after asking the first question.

but the times that God grants me the ability to shut-up, I am always impressed by his wisdom. he thinks things through & considers all possibilities. he doesn’t tend to freak out or over-react. he cares about people and he thinks through his answers carefully.

sometimes I try to pretend like he’s wrong, but most of the time he ends up being right about things. (shh. don’t tell him I said that.)

but even our varying ways of communicating to each other are good. he’ll ask me to talk to him, and normally I’m pretty good at that. it’s when he asks me to stop, that I struggle. (just kidding. he actually never tells me to stop.) but I also love love love when he talks and I can just listen. I soak in those times when he opens up and I fall in deeper in love with his heart.

we both understand the other’s sarcasm, and we somehow manage to never push the sarcasm too far for the other person. we joke & burst into the same corny songs at the same time.

God is in the details.

I took a “five love languages” test today, because a friend-worker from Chick-fil-a sent me a link to it. I pretty much scored equally on all five love languages. in other words, I’m equally needy? maybe I’m just well-rounded. let’s go with that.

it’s funny when you’re living with someone who needs love in different ways than you. for me, I like getting small gifts - even if it’s just a note, it means a whole, whole lot to me. but I also like being encouraged. and I like holding his hand or when he puts his arm around me. I guess I just like being liked and any way that he puts in extra effort to show it makes me feel amazing.

for him though, I think he feels loved when I get things done and help him take care of his own “to-do” lists too. making dinner & having a clean house seem to be important to him. I’m sure he appreciates me telling him I love him five million times a day, but I can see him feel loved when there is something he asks me to do, and I get it done and even go the extra mile to make life easier for him. when I thank him for working so hard and offer to rub his sore neck, I know he feels loved. when I ask his opinion or tell him I think he is wise, I know he feels loved. I think he needs me to need him and appreciate him. so me scoring equally on the five-love-languages test is probably good because I really do need him. but on the same note, I also need him to need me. and I know that he does.

sometimes of course, there are stand-stills. where you both sort of feel like aliens for a moment. trying to read the other one’s language and figure out why on earth they aren’t loving you the exactly right way you want to be loved. “they are so selfish. don’t they know how much I give and give? it’s my turn to feel loved.”

as soon as I even start to feel that way, it’s good for me to stop and realize I am being selfish. the Bible doesn’t say love is about what makes YOU personally feel good. the Bible says love is patient & kind & doesn’t envy & doesn’t boast. it bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. it never ends.

love is giving. love is action. love is a choice. love is not about you. it’s about them.

sometimes it would be easier to be a hermit with a few goats than to truly love. but they don’t usually teach that in Disney princess movies, do they?

what they also don’t teach about love is that, even though it is work, even though it is meshing two very different people into one, even though it is constantly pouring yourself out for that other person, it is also the most rewarding thing in the world. not rewarding in the sense that you will get a castle and always feel wonderful and live happily ever after. but it is rewarding because you have a partner to trip down Life Road with. a companion to hold your hand and pick you up when you fall or to pray with you on the dusty ground when you both fall. a person who may occasionally drive you crazy, but who has also seen you at your worst and chooses to love you just as you choose to love them.

even this, however, wouldn’t be enough to make it in marriage though. because some moments you may not choose to love the other person. and some moments they may not choose to love you. but if you have Christ as a foundation, you also have Christ to fall back on. He constantly chooses to love you. and He is constantly showing you what real love is. if you’re both falling back on Him, then you will both be falling back towards each other. your eyes and hearts and feet will be pointed in the right direction, in the same direction.

“love is not blind; love is the holy vision.” (one thousand gifts)

he can see my faults. I can see his. we can both see our differences. but we also see beyond that. we want to see the goal. He is showing us that this is the day that the Lord has made and this is where He has us. He wants our focus on Him and His kingdom. our focus on loving Him. our focus on loving each other and becoming one unit striving towards Him.

we are so young. we are so in love. we have so much to learn. God is so gracious. God is in the details.

don’t look for someone perfect. don’t look for someone who is the exact same. look for someone with God as their foundation. look for someone with the same holy vision.

and love like crazy.


　

A Season

Dad tells us it’s going to be funny. “Father of the Bride is hilarious! Steve Martin is so awesome. Let’s have a family movie night!”

We gather in the family room all together. Except for Christian. He is at home sleeping. Oh, and Chelsea. She is sleeping too.

Megan cozies up next to me. Dad stretches out on the carpet. Mom and Lauren take the small couch. The family room is mostly dark except for the odd tea-kettle lamp in the corner throwing light and creating shadows on our faces. Blankets are passed around. Pillows are tossed to the less-fortunate. The movie is started.

The first half of the movie is super hilarious. Dad is rolling on the floor laughing at times (yeah, literally) and that makes the rest of us laugh even harder.

The scene where Steve Martin is so stressed out from paying for the wedding that he is arrested for getting into a fight with a store worker over the price and packaging of hot-dog buns has us dying.

The part he is snooping around his in-laws house and gets attacked by their HUGE dog causes my dad to do the “laughing-so-hard-your-laugh-goes-silent” laugh.

When the in-laws tell Steve Martin and his wife that they are relieved they look “so normal” and his wife answers, “Well, I am anyways,” makes us all turn to look at Mom and grin because it’s something she would say. And then it makes us turn and look at Dad because it would be true.

But towards the end of the movie, things started to change. We aren’t laughing anymore. Because the bride is walking down the aisle and her family is saying goodbye.

Megan scoots closer to me. I feel something wet on my arm. I look down and tears are cascading over her still-baby-like cheeks. “I don’t want you to go, Nay Nay…I’m going to miss you too much.”

I look over to see mom’s eyes all wet too.

And seriously. How am I not supposed to lose it?

I hold Megan close in my arms and keep watching. Steve Martin’s character has changed from the crazy, overwhelmed, hilarious father, to a father who suddenly realizes his daughter is grown-up and starting a new life of her own.

“Do you give this woman….?” the preacher asks. But all Steve Martin hears is “this woman…

this woman.”

When did she grow up? When did she become a woman? I can read the question in my father’s face as he glances over at me. His own usually humorous eyes looking so serious.

“Look, Renee. I sent your dad a picture of you in your wedding dress… this is what he wrote back:

‘Who is that beautiful woman?’”

I can see my parents’ confusion. I can almost read my mom’s mind. “Dad and I only got married yesterday. How can we have a child old enough to get married herself?”

And I sit there clutching my five-year-old-twin-child-sister feeling at a loss for words. Fortunately no one is asking me to say anything. So I just stroke Megan’s hair and wipe her tears with my sleeve and avoid looking at my mom’s face.

Is it right to feel sad? Part of me feels like I’m betraying Christian if I let myself cry. Is it okay to be so happy to marry him but so sad to leave this place? How can I love him so dearly, and yet sit here and hold back sobs?

He is truly an answered prayer, exactly what God knows I need. He’s the patience that I never learned. He’s the steadiness that I never possessed myself. He’s the kind heart I never imagined I would get to call my own. He’s the light-hearted tease I love. He’s the serious conversation that I crave.

But change can still be so scary. Even when it’s the best change you could imagine or ask for.

Is it okay to feel sad and happy all at once? Is it okay for me to grow up and move on? Do I have permission? Do I need it? Am I ready? I know I am…

I remember a verse.

“There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace…

He has made everything beautiful in its time.”

He has made everything beautiful in its time…

I’m hardly watching the movie. I’m thinking. Right now I’m in between times. I’m laughing while I cry. I’m dancing while I mourn. I’m being planted while I’m being uprooted.

And that’s okay. In fact, it’s normal.

So when the movie ends and Dad says something to Megan about not letting me go, I let myself cry. I sob even as my heart is happy. I tell them how much I love them and how much I care, even as I know I wouldn’t change a thing. And Mom hugs me and gets my shoulder wet. And Dad plots a way for me to stay or a way for him to come with. But I know that they wouldn’t change a thing.

Life is change.

But life is a beautiful state of change.

That night Megan tearfully asks me to sleep with her. I crawl into bed and tell her a story.

“In a land far away, Neverland to be exact, which anyone can get to if they fly towards the second star to the right straight on til morning… there lived a little boy who always wore green and who never grew up. No matter how many years passed. And his name was Peter Pan.”

She breathes steady beside me in the dark and listens close.

“Peter Pan didn’t like change. He wanted everything to stay the same forever. He didn’t realize that sometimes, change means better things, new friends, more to love, happy memories, and big adventures…”

I finish the story and she whisper-prays. It’s not actually meant for my ears to hear, but her whispers are louder than she thinks. So God and I listen together.

“Dear Jesus, please help me to have good dreams…”

I smile because I used to pray that every night as a child.

“… and please help Renee to have good, happy times being married.”

my heart…

“amen.”

There is a time for everything… so be grateful for every moment of the time you are given. And hold on to the moments that have passed. And look forward to the moments that are yet to come. 
 

A Reminder

(while I was sick the last two or so weeks, I "doodled" my heart down on paper from time to time. this was the end collage of those thoughts...)

I’ve been told that as Christians, we are to long for heaven and the day that we see our Savior face to face. But most days, I don’t long for it like I should. Most days, I am quite happy here.

Today, however, is one of those days where I am tired. A pilgrim with a heavy pack and a long face. Out of breath. Sick.

I so want to be over me.

I’m always getting in my way.

I want to love God, but I want to love myself first. I want to do what’s right, but I want to do what’s convenient first. I want to think I’m not prideful, but oh… that sort of shows I am.

I tell myself that I am wise. But then my own folly strikes me in the face. I tell myself that I know all the answers. But then I trip and look around and realize I am lost.

The only comfort today is that He is still holding my hand. why is He still holding my hand?

The sun is flaring through my bedroom window. I’ve been sick the past few days. The biggest problem with being sick is that I have plenty of time to think. And the more I think, the more I remember that I am running a race. More like crawling a race. And the more I remember I am running a race, the more I realize how little I try. How often I fail. How quickly I forget, I’m Yours.

I think I can take matters into my own hands and fix them. I’ve spent my whole life thinking that. And God has spent my whole life showing me that I can’t. That I am completely in His hands.

When will I learn that His ways are better? When will I be rid of my silliness?

This journey seems so long. Mostly because it isn’t measured by days. But by minutes. Seconds. I can’t just make the daily choice to sacrifice myself to God. I have to make the minutely choice. And in the moment, it’s so much easier to cave into myself.

Especially in the shadows of the week. When I'm in the light and everyone can see me, it's easier to choose to be good. But when it's just me, I don't try as hard. When it's just my family, I don't want to be as nice. And I know it to be wrong. But I am in the shadows at that moment, and I don't seem to mind disappointing God as much as I mind disappointing others. And yet I do. I constantly shake off the dark and ask God, why do You put up with me? Don't give up on me.

Thankfully, God is patient. Thankfully, God is still holding my hand.

He doesn’t tell me I have to walk alone. And when I feel the most pain over myself, it is because He is slowly peeling the old me away.

Today I am not strong enough. Today I am not wise enough. Today I am not good enough. But God is.

Today I am limping down the track. But God is walking beside me, and not even noticing my slow pace.

I read this verse for the millionth time recently. And it came to life. He who is strong, gives me strength.

“Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
His understanding is unsearchable.
He gives power to the faint,
and to him who has no might He increases strength.
Even youths shall faint and be weary,
and young men shall fall exhausted;
but they who wait for the Lord
shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.”
(Isaiah 40:28-31)

***

A friend reminded me of something amazing... God loves me with an everlasting, promised love.

Sounds crazy to have to be reminded, but yet, isn’t it easy to forget? Those times when you sit there staring at your reflection thinking about all your failures. Or the times you find yourself repenting yet again and wondering if it’s even possible to be forgiven anymore. Or even when you’re just sad… deeply sad. Or scared. Or lonely. Or confused. And you start to wonder if you’re loved. Or you start to worry that you’ve lost His love somehow.

Stop yourself at that moment. Just stop. Because thinking that your little self could keep the God of the Universe (the God who formed you in your mother’s womb and knows every hair on your head) from loving you… is silly. It’s actually ridiculous. Prideful almost. As if we could hinder God in any way.

Those who are His children, God sees through His Son. He sees us as His sons and daughters. And He promises that NOTHING will separate us from His love. In fact, He promises that NOBODY (not even ourselves) will separate us from His love.

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?
Shall tribulation,
or distress,
or persecution,
or famine,
or nakedness,
or danger,
or sword?
…
No,
in all these things
we are more than conquerors
through Him who loved us.
For I am sure that
neither death nor life,
nor angels nor rulers,
nor things present
nor things to come,
nor powers,
nor height nor depth,
nor anything else
IN ALL CREATION,
will be able to separate us
from the love of God
in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
(Romans 8:35, 37-39)

God’s love is bigger than my failures. God’s love casts my sin “as far as the east is from the west.” God’s love doesn’t keep telling me that I’m worthless… it keeps telling me that my worth is in Christ. That my purpose is in Him. That my song is His Gospel. And my life is His worship. That my thoughts are to be turned to the goal. And my feet as well. That my heart is for loving Him. For loving my neighbor. My hands are for building His Kingdom. My eyes are to be set on Him.

God’s love is everlasting. God’s love will see me through this life, and into the next. It doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t quiver. It doesn't give up on me. It doesn’t end.

My prayer today: “Make me more like You, Father. Let my reflection be Your love.”

A Ring

You were absolutely perfect when you asked me to marry you.

We sat up high in the trees, so you couldn’t exactly kneel, but you softened your voice, cocked your head a little, and let the secret you had been keeping for the past few weeks shine through your eyes even as you asked with your mouth.

Would I marry you?

You were perfect, but I was sadly disappointed in myself. Being that I am somewhat of a romantic at heart, I was expecting myself to burst out crying. But I didn’t. I didn’t even shed a tear. I sat there completely stunned. Surprised into silence. Looking at the ring that had magically appeared in your hand.

And then I giggled. And looked up at your face. And giggled again. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t think of what to say.

Was this really happening?

“Where did you get that?” was the first thing I managed to say.

Why I asked that, I have absolutely no idea. My brain must have turned to scrambled eggs. You laughed, but sat there patiently.

“Oh! I forgot to say yes! YES!”

Then it was your turn to giggle.

“Aren’t you supposed to put it on?” I asked.

“Oh right!"

You carefully slipped it over my finger and we both stared at it. It was the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. And you were giving it to me. As a way to remind me that I was going to be your wife.

I was going to marry my best friend.
You wrapped your arm around me.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect. So perfect.”

“Will you marry me?"

“I think you already asked that."

"Oh yeah. But will you?"

"Yes! Are you sure this is for real?”

“Yes. You’re going to be Renee Higgins."

I don’t know how long we sat there and talked. But by “talked” I mean that we mostly giggled and kept asking the same questions over and over again. I agreed to marry you a couple more times. And you kept telling me that yes, this was for real.

The sun was setting through the woods before us. I kept wondering if it would set and I would wake up. But I didn’t wake up. The dream was real life.

It was the sweetest moment of my life. You explained where we will live. We talked about what needs to be done. What needs to be planned. We stared at the diamond on my finger. We stared at the sky. We stared at each other and giggled. We practiced saying fiancé and laughed at each other for it. We were corny. We were serious. We were little kids. We were suddenly old.

"I'll be eighty-seven, you'll be eighty-nine... I'll still look at you like the stars that shine..."

We laughed a lot. And smiled a lot.

I silently thanked God for His goodness. Then, I thanked Him out loud, and you hugged me tight.

You had this boyish pleasure in hearing me admit how surprised I was.

So I admitted it over and over again.

You driving up to my grandparents' cabin to see me had seemed normal.

Asking to go for a walk after dinner was simply routine. And you loved walks in the country as much as I did.

Even when you asked if I wanted to talk up in the tree stand, I followed without any suspicion.

You asked me to talk to you, so I did. And even though I could tell you weren’t paying attention, I thought maybe it was because you were tired.

So when you suddenly turned to face me and asked when we were going to get married, I just smiled. You had talked to me about it before. In fact, I think I had refused you eight times in the past two weeks. And countless times in the last eleven months. It had turned into a game we played. You would ask, and I would ask where the ring was. I thought this was just another game.

“Why don’t you tell me?” I teased.

“Well I keep waiting for you to ask,” you teased back.

“That’s your job, silly."

“But you keep saying no to me.”

“You never have a ring,” I reminded you.

“Will you marry me now?”

“Where’s the ring?” I asked and laughed. Because I expected your hands to come up sheepishly empty-handed as usual. Because I didn’t expect you to take your hand out of your pocket and open it to show a sparkling diamond.

But you did.

“Will you marry me, Renee?”

****

I can’t wait for our life together. And I’m thankful for how much of life we’ve already been able to share.

Are we really the same little kids who used to play in the sandbox together?

Are you the same wiry, quiet boy I used to follow down to the fishing bridge and make faces at from across church? The boy I begged to jump off the pontoon with me?

Am I the same wild-haired, curious thirteen-year-old you noticed sitting by the campfire with a pile of little kids on my lap? As you thought to yourself that you wanted to marry someone like that one day, could you have any idea that it would be that exact someone?

For all the camping trips, the Sunday afternoon shenanigans at each others’ houses, the church get-togethers, the field trips, the homeschool co-ops, the days when we became best friends… I am thankful.

For the eleven months we have had going on sunset walks, watching Psych and Downtown Abbey, driving out for icecream dates, singing country songs on the radio to each other in corny voices, adventuring around the forest preserve, pretending like we know how to dance, sitting quietly together, dreaming together, texting until we are asleep, trying new things and going new places together, and wanting to do old things and go old places with the other one for the first time… I am thankful.

For everything that lies ahead… I am thankful.

God has truly been good to us. In the hard times, and in the best times. I’m grateful we can trust Him with our future. I know it won't always be easy. But I'd rather face life with you than anyone else.

Thanks for asking me to marry you a hundred times. And thanks for having a ring on the hundred and first. ;)

I love you.

A Beginning

Stories. They’re absolutely everywhere.

Look out your window. You’ll see them. Walking. Talking. Breathing. Shaking hands. Sipping tea. Smiling. Driving. Surviving. Weeping. Living. Taking every day as it comes. Never knowing what the next day will bring. But always knowing what the last day has brought.

Some stories are quiet. The little woman sitting on the park bench over to your right. Do you know what her chapters are? Of course not. But you can observe her. She’s quiet. Sitting with perfect posture. Pale and perhaps a little delicate. Nibbling on a ham sandwich. Staring at the pigeons sharing her crumbs. Humming a lullaby to herself.

Who is she?

"Oh yeah, I know her! ... She's uhhh that face from the park."

But what if you actually knew her? Would it shock you to know that she was abandoned by her husband? Would you care if you discovered she had gotten her sandwich from a nearby homeless shelter? What would you say if you knew she hummed to the pigeons while thinking about the children she never got to have?

There are loud stories too. The girl with cropped bright purple hair, black lipstick, dressed entirely in skin-tight leather clothes. She’s standing outside a dark, smoky pub, laughing loudly while cussing up a storm.

“Poor girl must’ve had a rough life for her to end up in such a joint,” we may find ourselves saying. “It’s a good reminder that so many parents these days just aren’t qualified to be raising kids.”

But what if we asked purple-haired girl about those irresponsible parents she must have?

“Oh them?” she let’s out her breath and smoke from her cigarette fills your face. “Mom and Pops are one of those goody-two-shoes church going folks. Can’t stand them. Always asked me to recite Bible verses and prayers and such nonsense before bed. Sure they meant well, but dang. They were close-minded folks when it came to having fun. I got out of there the moment I could.”

Meanwhile, she can’t see her mom crying in the kitchen over her baby gone astray. She can’t see the bruises on her father’s knees that he got as a result of kneeling in hours of prayer for her, asking God that she would just come home. They didn’t ever suspect she felt the way she did. They didn’t know they were going to lose something they treasured above any other earthly thing.

But as you’re driving home, do you really have time to care about the woman in the car next to you who has mascara running down her face marking the recent tears of a broken heart? Or do you even notice the man and wife sitting on their front porch crying tears of joy because at last they are expecting the baby they’ve been hoping would come for years?

Is life just a rush of passing stories filled with heartbreaks and tears and first words and giggles and progress and singing and challenges and waiting and grief and joy and promises? Does it give you a headache? Does it overwhelm you? Do you even notice it? Does it make you excited? Or does it make you want to crawl in a dark hole and pretend you don’t even notice? Maybe you decide that it would just be easier to focus on your own story?

You see, the problem with noticing that other people are more than just extras in a movie featuring yourself, is that you usually feel compelled to DO something about that observation.

Noticing that life is beautiful because of the One who made it beautiful can be uncomfortable. If He cares about each living, breathing story…. shouldn’t you?

Suddenly you’ll find yourself putting others first.

Or maybe you won’t. And then you’ll feel awkward. Because honestly, who REALLY believes the entire world revolves around them alone? I mean really.

Or maybe you'll suddenly find yourself in a chapter of your own story that makes you feel miserable or happy or angry or worried or desperate. And you’ll realize you aren’t the only one who has ever hurt or lived or loved or lost. You aren’t the first one or the only one who feels the way you do. And well, selfishly, that’s kind of disappointing sometimes. Don’t I deserve to be the happiest person in the history of the world? Don’t try to tell me other people have been just as happy.

Or maybe you are at complete rock bottom, sitting on the floor, rocking in shame and misery, and drowning in your own tears and fears. Surely NO ONE could possibly understand how you are feeling. Because you are the only one who has ever hurt that bad. Other people’s pain is obviously nothing compared to what you are feeling. And you sit there praying solely for yourself hours upon hours. “Please God! If only You would heal this pain I am feeling.”

Meanwhile there is an entire world that is hurting and in need of prayer.

***

Have you ever stood in an icy cold stream in the middle of the Rocky Mountains? Without a human in sight? Surrounded by endless miles of evergreens? With only the sky and mountain peaks separating you from God? In that moment you will feel small. In fact, you may feel so small that you forget to even think about yourself. For a moment, you are just a pebble in the stream. Maybe not even that. You are a speck of dust. Smaller than a speck of dust. The dust molecules around you are actually boulder sized compared to you.

Steady now. Feeling this small can make it hard to breathe. Because suddenly you realize it: you’re nobody. Absolutely nobody. That stupid fight you had with your little sister yesterday over who was taking up more room in the car… did that happen on a different planet? Was I thinking straight? Why would I fight over something as stupid as that.

Would you look at the size of that dust?

And then God looks you in the face. Yes, you. He speaks your name. Your name! He knows it. And He cares. And He loves you. And He forgives you. Because you aren’t really a nobody. You are a somebody. A somebody that the God of the Universe died for. But that doesn’t mean you should think you are a somebody. That doesn’t mean you need to walk out of the stream, jump back in the car, and demand to be worshipped. I mean, if God became a nobody and died for you, then maybe you should consider giving up your life as a somebody to live for God and others too. Maybe you should choose to be a nobody.

Is it getting hard to breathe again, or is it just me?

***

This is your life. Are you who you want to be?

I know I’m not. And that’s why I’m sitting here typing feverishly. It’s because I’m sick of myself. I’m ready for a new chapter. A chapter with a big, fat, bolded, Caps-locked title called “Make Me Like Christ” and the first paragraph beginning with “I’m done with the old me.”

Because to the rest of you, I’m just a story many of you don’t know the half of. I’m that blonde girl who comes to church every Sunday with a smile on her face and a funny remark up her sleeve. But would you believe me if I said I was terribly shy? Would you ever guess that the shower is where I so often cry uncontrollably? Can you see me kneeling on my bed after everyone in my family is asleep asking God once again to forgive my stupid self? Have you seen my past and can you know my secrets and can you guess my dreams?

How could you know?

You can’t.

And how could I guess what it is you might be dealing with?

I can’t.

I guess this is also why I find myself sitting here writing. I want to use this space and my thoughts and my typing fingers to tell you a long story. It’s a story about life. Not just about my life. But about yours. And about that stranger down the street. And about that perfect man who died for us two thousand years ago.

Not everything I write will be deep. Because sometimes, things are absolutely perfect without having to over-think them. I like simple stories with simple people and simple messages.

But sometimes I may get carried away with my thoughts, and I hope that you won’t mind.

Every day we are surrounded by stories. We meet one at the grocery store. See one on the news. Get annoyed by the one driving too slow in front of us. Read about one in the Bible. And all the while, we are learning what our own stories are.

It’s overwhelming. But yet it’s not.

Because each of our stories is written by an Author. The same Author who built a universe using His words alone.

So let's trust our stories to Him, shall we?