Reagan brings me her journal so I can check the sentence she just wrote, and some days this is how it goes:
I will be done the green Book with pretty soon.
She means her math book, the one I told you about months ago, the one she’s wanted to finish since forever so she can move on to the next book. And you probably see the same errors I did, so I remind her that the words need to be in the right order and that only the first letter of this sentence needs capitalized.
She returns with this:
I will be done with the grrrn Book pretty soon.
I’m not sure if this is on purpose or if she’s just being lazy. There’s no way to tell; sometimes she knows what she’s doing, and sometimes she doesn’t. But she does know how to spell “green” so I tell her to fix it, and she returns with this:
I will be done with the grenn Book pretty soon.
And then this:
I will be done with the green pook pretty soon.
You see it? I do, so I ask, “What does ‘book’ start with?”
“B,” she says, and I tell her to fix it.
I will be done with the green Book pretty soon.
Aaaand we’re back to uppercase. “How do you make a lowercase B?” I ask.
“I make…one…bump?” Her answers almost always sound like questions.
I will be done with the green Pook pretty soon.
At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose. Yes, it’s one bump but she knows which bump it’s supposed to be.
We could do this all day, fixing one thing while adding little errors elsewhere, refusing to get it right and never making progress.
“Do you want to do school today?” I finally ask.
“Yes!!” she says, urgently.
And that’s when she fixed the sentence and brought it back, written perfectly. What’s the saying? Seventh time is a charm. Something like that.
We all fight new levels and battles on many fronts, trying to get everything right, and the details can be overwhelming. For us, one of the big new levels in this season is that three of our kids turn 18 in the next five months (!) and we’re in the process of filing for guardianship for two of them. Afton is the other one, the biological one, who just has five months left at home with us because he wants to move out as soon as he can – sayonara, adios, I hope he misses us sometimes – but of the other two, Reagan will probably always be with us and Andrey needs at least a couple more years of help with daily responsibilities and care.
It’s what we signed up for, sorta. We just never really know what we’re signing up for until we’ve lived in it for a while, and that’s probably for the best.
So last week we had our second trip in as many months to the Palmer Courthouse – clerk’s office, to be exact – to submit paperwork for guardianship, and yes, it is as boring as it sounds.
We drove through town and stood in line and went to the counter and handed over documents. I raised my right hand under oath. This part is easy; I’ve done it twice now. It’s all the other paperwork, applications, deadlines, visits, and court hearings that I’m not sure about.
Then we drove back through town on the other side to go see Grandma, who turns 92 next week. We passed Afton on the road like ships in the night and waved; he was picking up a friend who lives in her neighborhood.
Grandma’s hair swoops to the left across her forehead, and she brushes it aside. My dad’s hair does the same thing, and mine does too unless I force it to submit to the attentions of a flat iron.
She sat in her rocker and I sat in the other, and she told us stories about her aunt and uncle who built barns, and how she lived right next door to her grandparents for the first ten years of her life, and how that was the best thing ever.
It makes sense to me that she adored those grandparents, because she grew up and became like them. She’s the grandparent I most adored, too.
She kept asking how the kids were doing, and I updated her on the guardianship and how we’ve also been trying to navigate Andrey’s health issues. I mentioned a couple months ago that he had a cyst that showed up again and needed oral surgery, but six appointments later we discovered that it’s not oral surgery but reconstructive plastic surgery that will be needed because of how the cyst has destroyed some of the bone structure in his face. And that’s a battle we never saw coming. In light of his 18th birthday and guardianship proceedings coming up, the surgeon recommended we hold off on that procedure until early next year when those are completed.
We all have our stuff in crazy overwhelming seasons. Yours is probably different from ours, but we overlap in the general mayhem of living on the brink of apocalypse.
It was a short visit and as we were leaving Grandma’s, a pickup stopped in the road and the guy inside waved as we passed. We reversed back and rolled down the window; he looked like Santa but with a short beard. Seeing us closer, he grinned and apologized.
“Oh gosh, I thought you were Thornsleys!”
I grinned back, leaning toward Vin’s window. “I am, I’m the oldest granddaughter.” It couldn’t have been my hair that gave it away; I’d wrestled the flat iron that morning.
“Well! I just know the boys,” he said. “I was comin’ to tell y’all about someone encroaching on your property –” and he went on about someone’s trailer that’s half on their own property but also half on “ours,” though I couldn’t tell which one of us he was talking about.
“Which of the boys is your dad, did you say?” he finally asked.
“I’m Greg’s daughter.”
“Oh, the fuel guy?” I nod. Small town. Most people know each other, and Grandma and Grandpa moved here when “the boys” were still in school, over fifty years ago.
We exchanged names and went on in our opposite directions, passing Afton again as he brought his friend back home. We wound along the old highway back toward town and I know these curves; I grew up on them, and there’s something so comforting and familiar about feeling them in the sunshine, gently swaying left and right as they follow the Matanuska River, while we navigate all these other curves we’re so new at.
It’s not easy to tell if you’re doing something right when you don’t have a template to follow. Pioneers know this, though I never saw myself as one of them until this year. But if you have followed a new or unusual calling without a map, role model, template, pattern, or any previous experience, you probably have wondered many times if you were going the right direction when it just felt like you were moving in circles. Homeschooling, adoption, self-employment, ministry, special needs parenting, whatever…transitional generations know this, the feeling of walking and wandering and weariness, looking for a signpost that confirms you’re on the right track.
Sometimes we know what we’re doing, and sometimes we don’t – and often, the answers we get sound more like questions.
Am I doing this right? has been the refrain of my life, and I am finally understanding that it’s the wrong question. For the last year or so He keeps asking me, “Do you want to be right, or righteous?” and now I understand why – because He’s teaching me to rest in the grace of His love for me, since He knows my heart wants to look like His.
So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.
– 1 John 4:16
When Reagan brings me her writing, I don’t expect her to have a perfect sentence every time. I expect her to do the things she knows, and to try with the rest. If she’s trying and fumbling but not doing it wrong on purpose, I have all the time in the world for her. It’s when she does things wrong on purpose – this is what we call transgressing – that I ask her if she really wants to make progress or if she’s deliberately self-sabotaging.
By this is love perfected with us, so that we may have confidence for the day of judgment, because as he is so also are we in this world.
– 1 John 4:17
So I am learning that as long as my heart wants to be like His, instead of being consumed with perfection, afraid of punishment, He has all the grace in the world for me. He just wants me to resemble Him.
When my heart is at rest because it’s focused on the perfect love that casts out fear, I can trust that He’s giving me wisdom and helping me get things right, whatever the circumstances look like at any given moment. I don’t have to fear punishment for not knowing what I’m doing and for making imperfect efforts without a template to follow, because He loves our trying and investing and taking risks, and He rewards those efforts – but He rebuked the cowardly steward who buried his talent in safety.
There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. We love because he first loved us.
– 1 John 4:18-19
I sat up late with a friend last night and confessed to her that I have often thought of every reason in the world why things were hard, or why they weren’t working out, or why I didn’t deserve this good thing, or why I did deserve that bad thing. I have spent years making excuses for the enemy, rather than resting in God’s love and agreeing with His will for me, because I felt like getting it right was my job.
But oh my gosh, it’s not.
Obedience and getting it right are not the same thing. As I’m typing this, it feels like a veil is tearing in the atmosphere. Sometimes we fear and worship all the details of obedience rather than fearing and worshiping God. Our performance goes up on a pedestal, and we climb right up there after it.
Breaking the lie is one thing, but renewing the mind is another. So the Lord pours us into this wide place with tight borders where it feels too overwhelming, like too much responsibility – and He tells us to claim the land. This is how He broadens our tent pegs, teaching us that we are bound by love, and therefore, free.
You gave a wide place for my steps under me,
and my feet did not slip.
– Psalm 18:36
A wide place for our steps seems like a great thing, but we tend to prefer more structure. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you had several good choices before you, and you hemmed and hawed about which one to take? That was a wide space.
Sometimes we’d rather have a small space and not carry the responsibility of choosing where our feet get planted. Sometimes we make ourselves small, so we feel safe, so we have less details to be responsible for, so we lower the risk of getting things wrong.
The steps of a man are established by the Lord, when he delights in his way; though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the Lord upholds his hand.
– Psalm 37:23-24
So there is grace that covers our imperfections and unknowing, grace that flies in the face of our fear, pride, insecurity, and perfectionism. Gratitude and grace go together, because if we’re still earning our way, then we’re still taking credit…maybe not overtly, but in the back of our mind we’re still thinking, I did this.
That grace – knowing we couldn’t earn it, it’s all His love – removes the fear of shame and punishment and the next shoe dropping. No, we don’t deserve it, we deserved other. And even though the enemy convinced us that shame and grief was our penance for imperfection because we don’t deserve to be free, now we walk in gratitude, astounded by His many gifts we could never earn, achieve, or merit on our own.
But now we have them, because He paid for it.
It’s this kind of freedom that led us to celebrate at the ice cream shop that day, after the courthouse, after Grandma’s, after the stranger who recognized someone else in me. We pulled out of the ice cream shop and back onto the highway, and that’s when Afton passed us for the third time that day. We grinned shamelessly, waving our ice cream cones at him through the window as he drove past, ahead of us on the way home. And over these last few weeks I’ve felt dread and jadedness lifting, and a lightness that’s new in the midst of all these hard unknowns, because I am finally at a new level of tasting and seeing that the Lord is good.
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