Faith 401

One day this summer Jenna and I went out to pick berries. 

We picked Loganberries, Marionberries, and blueberries that day.

The farm was beautiful.

As we picked and picked I thought about how grateful I was that if we had to move, Heavenly Father had sent us to such a beautiful spot filled with such bounty. 

I picked along, thinking these grateful thoughts, and the awareness of a serious irony crept into my mind.  Here I was, being so thankful for this place that Heavenly Father had chosen for us.  And yet I knew that right in that same moment I was fearful of Heavenly Father and the part of his plan that hadn’t been unveiled yet—specifically the house part. 

You see, I’ve had and seen many different house buying experiences.  I’ve bought a house that I liked and felt like I got to make my own decision and that whatever I decided was fine with Heavenly Father.  I’ve bought a house that had a lot of things about it that I didn’t like because I knew it was what I was supposed to do, and happily I changed a lot of things about the house and grew to love it dearly.  But I’ve also had a friend buy a house (and live there 7 years) that she disliked intensely, and that she disliked the entire time she lived there—because she felt so strongly it was what she was supposed to do. 

How was I to know which scenario was going to play out in my life?  It was clear that Heavenly Father meant for us to be in Oregon, but was there an exact place we were meant to be?  Or were we going to be able to choose something we liked?  Would there be anything we liked??  Would we be able to afford anything we liked???

I feel like I’ve spent much of the last few months hyperventilating about where we were going to end up living in Oregon.  I’ve made a short list in my mind, explaining to Heavenly Father over and over which things were really important to me and why.  “Windows, big windows, please.  I’m so afraid of being depressed all winter.”  “Could I please have a bathtub for me, you know how much I love baths.”  (This after seeing several houses in a row with only a shower in the master bathroom.)  “Our family needs a kitchen big enough for several people to be in it at once, that is important.”  “A place for my sewing machine please, I need somewhere to be able to sew.”  “The kids really want a backyard that is at least big enough for the trampoline, and can’t there please be a place for a little garden?” And then the best (as in most shallow) plea of all, “Oh Heavenly Father, I really don’t want to live in an ugly house…” 

It’s been educational when I look at the situation in an abstract way—take out all of my emotions and anxiety and just look at how little I trust God & His plan for me.  A couple of years ago I had an experience that showed me how afraid I was of God’s plan.  That understanding with the experiences that came after seemed to change my heart.  I felt like I had “arrived” at faith.

This whole experience—Russ’s job loss, finding a new job, fixing and selling the house, leaving our friends, waiting to see where we will live here—has been a experience in needing to have faith on a whole new level.  It turns out that I am much more able to leave things like broken cars and air conditioners in God’s hands, but trusting Him when He’s moving me across the country and then wondering which one of us gets to choose the new house—for me that’s like getting a PhD in faith. 

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I write all of this now with a house in sight.  We’re still waiting for some things to be finalized so I don’t want to make any public announcements yet.  But there is the possibility of a home that’s not ugly, a home with big windows and a nice kitchen and a bathtub and even a place for the sewing machine.  I am humbled as I mentally go through my list and see that while the house doesn’t have all of the things we would have liked, it does have every thing on my little list.  And a bridge too.

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I know that I’m still not in the right place emotionally and spiritually.  I think maybe I’m still grieving too much for the place and the people that I’ve left behind—I’m not sure if I can be reconciled enough to the new while I’m still missing the old so badly.  And I know that there’s a big prideful chunk of me that’s resisting letting Heavenly Father’s plan be right for me.  (Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds and that’s why I went ahead and typed it out.)

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I keep coming back in my mind to the parable of the prodigal son.  I once listened to a book by a Bible scholar who talked about some of the cultural implications of the scriptural account.  He said that in the middle-Eastern culture of the time, the father would never have run because it would have been so undignified and so inappropriate.  But he did.  He watched for his son and then he ran to him.

In this moment when I realize that I am emotionally “away” from the Father, the story takes on new and deeper meaning.  The father didn’t set a deadline for the son’s return.  He didn’t pace the porch.  He didn’t send critical emails suggesting that the son wasn’t learning his lesson fast enough or telling him how inadequate he was.  Instead he watched and waited.  And then he ran.

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I think right now I’m most grateful for the feeling that I have that Heavenly Father is allowing me the space to work this all out in my mind and heart.  He surrounds me with  reminders of the wisdom of His plan, yet I have no sense that He is angry or impatient. And from time to time I feel his lovingkindness in gentle and unmistakable ways, like gifts from a patiently watching father.