Surviving New Life

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about birth lately, given that my very first grand baby is on the way. And I’ve been thinking about the miracle and design of the process, how a baby passes from one world to the next. From womb to earth. Water to air. And how those painful minutes in between are the most vital of all. Because as that baby passes through the birth canal, squeezed and pressed through, physiological changes are happening within him, water is forced from his lungs, and he has a compulsion to take his first breath. Without this very process—the squeezing and pressing—he would struggle in this new world. He would find himself ill-equipped. Unprepared. And chances are he would not survive.

Yet, we question the design. Why did God make it so hard? We ask for ease and comfort.

Every farmer knows this truth even in the animals. For if you help a struggling chick out of an egg, you’ve debilitated him for life. He may not survive. Because there is a process, beyond ourselves, that we cannot see. A process designed by our Father to give us the best chance in this new world. There is a greater purpose to the pain. A triumph at the end of the struggle.

I have some new friends. A young couple breaking out of the throes of addiction, trying hard to get on their feet again. He’s been clean for a good 90 days. She has a couple weeks maybe. No more. It’s new for her, this world, and hard. She is overwhelmed by the pressures around her. She has been thrown out of her home. She has nowhere to go. No footing. No grounding. She feels lost and alone and afraid not knowing how to breathe in this new place. All the while her old life and the comforts there call her back. The ease to escape the trial. To return to the place she knows.

The struggle is real.

But there is a new spark in her eyes—a reflection of the love she is finding on this side. A place she truly belongs. And she is holding on. She is pressing through.

And since God has been teaching me about these things—lovingly giving me these truths you and I are talking about now—I had words in this precious moment in time when He allowed me to be a conduit of His love for His child. I shared with her just this—how the growing pains and the pressure and the squeezing—even that—are vital. How the process prepares us, strengthens us, and helps us to not only survive, but thrive in this new world.

That each thing she is experiencing is not in vain.

It will allow her to breathe.

To be fully alive.

And His little lamb asks why does it need to be so hard?

I don’t know all the answers. I didn’t know what I did wrong when I broke a chick out of an egg one day on the ranch and held its last breath in my hands. When I cried for its life because I had done everything I thought was right to help it survive. But in the very act of bringing it ease, I had lost it.

I don’t have all the answers, but He does. And if we’re in His hands, we trust the process because we can’t always see how it makes us strong. How the very fight equips us to survive.

This beautiful young girl looked at me then, with all the weight bearing down on her shoulders, and the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. She whispered, “Thank you. I’m going to think about that the rest of the day.”

And the breath of the universe caught between us. I felt it.

He was right there. Right there to help her forge into new life.

And, yes, little one, we all need to think about that.

A Stripping Away

Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash

I’ve been off for a while. The pandemic and all. I just didn’t know how to speak into it. So much pain and heartache and loss. Isolation. A re-routing on life, I guess. Maybe a stripping away.

I sat around the table last night with my kids. We talked and laughed, not about the things today, but stories of yesterday. My youngest son shared one of his earliest memories. He was two, and we were packing up for Mexico. Such a vivid memory for a little one. He remembers looking out the window at our garage sale one week before we left. All of our belongings scattered across the lawn. When he saw another kid pick up his race track to buy, he ran outside and tried to hand him something else—a different toy, so he wouldn’t have to part with his favorite track, his favorite matchbox cars. But I stopped my little guy because we just couldn’t take it along, and I let the sale go through. He had to let go. He was young for such a grand lesson.

Sometimes life doesn’t feel like “letting go” but “stripping away.” It sometimes feels as if we have no say in it. The decision doesn’t seem to be ours.

That day at the garage sale, we got rid of everything that wouldn’t fit in our van and travel trailer. With a family of seven, trust me, it didn’t feel like much came with us. And each of my children remembers something they lost that day. But we packed in everything we could—everything we thought we needed—waved to our best friends down the driveway, and drove 2000 miles to our language school in Texas.

I remember too the day we left Texas one year later with as much Spanish under our belts as we could grab hold of and the whole world open to what lay ahead for our family in Mexico. Our last stop before pulling out of the school was the bodega where our things had been in storage. For a good two hours, we worked in the sweltering heat to shove our belongings back in the places they should have fit. Believe me, my husband is the best packer around. If he can’t puzzle it in, it can’t be puzzled.

Yet, at the end, there were still six plastic bins on the sidewalk.

“We can’t take these,” he said.

“We have to.” There was no bending in my mind. No compromise. Not now. We had already given away so much. This was the bare minimum.  

“We can’t,” he said. Period.

I sat down on one of those bins and cried. It poured out from some untapped reservoir inside of me. The anger first. I already had nothing. Why more? God, will you take everything from me? I cried, not for the “things”—children’s clothing and pots and pans—but for the hope. The dreams. All that those bins somehow represented inside of me. My family’s chance to start again. To have a home. A new life together.

We took those bins to the school’s thrift shop. One by one the woman lifted the lid and explored the items inside. Oh, I had needed that … I had a place for those, I thought. Like my two-year-old trying to hold onto his race track that day, I had to let go. The woman smiled at all the items she could re-home, and we left.

I think I might have cried to the border.

And we entered a land so foreign to us. People we didn’t know. A language we could barely speak. Unspoken rules we kept breaking. When our first team came down from our home church—our friends, faces we knew and loved—I remember the sheer panic I felt as they boarded the plane to leave. Please, take me with you. Don’t leave me behind. When our friends left, I experienced a whole new level of stripping. Not things, but people I loved. And I felt very alone.

One day, a man came from the states. I don’t even remember his name or why he was there. But I remember him. I stood with him at the ranch while activity whirled around us. A team was digging a trench. They were laughing despite the dirt and grime and heat. The man told me about a ministry he was involved in back home. He said the old-timers would sit around the fire and talk about the good ole times. The inception. The beginning. The glory days. The days that were rough and hard and took everything from you. He said how he wished he could have been a part of the stories, of the life when it all began.

Then the man turned and looked at me and said, “Someday, you’ll be sitting around a fire talking about the ranch. Because, right now, right here … these are the glory days.”

You know what? He was right.

But sometimes we can’t see it in the moment. Sometimes, we just feel the loss. We feel like we don’t have a choice. That things are happening around us we have no control of. And every day something else is taken from us. But often we can’t see from where we’re standing. We don’t know what’s just around the corner.

And what we think is a stripping away … is actually a new beginning.

Photo by Danielle Macinne (Unsplash)

Saturated

photo by Nathan Cowley

The beaches in Mexico are out of this world. White sand, clear water. And empty as far as the eye can see. For eight years we lived sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez, our lifeline to survive the desert heat.

Every few days, when the work had devoured our energy, and the stress had cluttered our minds, we would pack a cooler and head to the beach. The kids would snorkel for Sergeant Majors and search the rocks for hermit crabs. I would stretch out in my chair under the umbrella and read my next novel. My husband, Peter, would get in the water and never leave.

You think, Imagine that. How awesome it would be. Only a short drive from one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. I would love that. And you would be right … at least in the beginning.

Somewhere, along the line, the beach began to meld into routine. It lost its glimmer and took on the form of a task. Another thing to be done. It became effort and boredom. A burden in the end. And no one wanted to go, except Peter. He hung on until he found himself going alone.

A beautiful thing became saturated in our world. We lost the eyes to see it.

I am amazed at how well our senses become dulled from overuse. This is a good thing, in some instances, to avoid sensory overload.

The cold water becomes tolerable.

The unpleasant odor dissipates.

The yelling becomes background noise.

But it’s not always good.

Our favorite song becomes obnoxious.

The food we loved, tasteless.

 We no longer recognize the beauty in our hands.

The day forgets its joy.

And life loses its contentment.

All from saturation.

Did you see that sunset? Yeah, I’ve seen it a thousand times.

 Again, I am no theologian. But, I wonder if that’s what Jesus meant when he said, “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?” (Matthew 5:13)

This is a challenge, especially for the one who’s been a Christian a long time. The stories get old and lose their spark. And time spent in scripture becomes a chore. A task. A burden.

 We stop hearing God’s voice.

 But, one day, we went to the beach. My husband had found a new cove where the kids could jump off the rocks into the water. Same beach. New discovery. For hours they jumped, and laughed, and played. Before we were home, they asked if we could go again the next day. They had found the treasure. It was always there. They just hadn’t seen it.

Today, I opened my Bible and read, “I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” (Isaiah 49:16). I’ve been a Christian my whole life. I never read that. The idea that I am engraved on the palm of God’s hand is beyond comprehension. And suddenly, I am swept away into the magnificent reality of God’s love for me. It’s life changing. And I want more. I want to go back and discover the treasures hidden there.

Why did my husband never tire of the beach? Because he never lost sight of its glory.

May you find the beauty of the new hiding in the normal of today.