Category Archives: fighting fear

landmark: when the finally-suddenly is just ahead

Posted on by January 7, 2026

“Right there, that one.” Still going highway speed, the road to Grandma’s house rapidly approached on the passenger side.

Vin hit the brakes to slow down in time, and flicked the blinker. “I was looking for the sign…it’s not there anymore,” he said, making the turn.

I never look for the street sign, so I didn’t even notice it was missing. Grinning, I pointed through the cracked windshield at the Butte looming in front of us.

“It’s right there. There’s your sign.”

landmark: when the finally-suddenly is just ahead

I don’t mean to brag. The man drives us everywhere and keeps a map in his head, while I almost took out an ornamental tree the last time I made a u-turn in the library parking lot.

But this road, I know. I’ve driven it so many times I could do it with my eyes shut…figuratively, of course.

I’ve been driving it more and more, too. The plan, for now, is to take it weekly because time is flying and Grandma is 94 and things that weren’t a concern a year ago are now quite different. A year adds miles to all of us.

Meanwhile, I’ve worked my way through Numbers but got hung up in chapter 33 because it is the end of the year and that chapter seems parallel to life right now. Because ready or not, change is here, and so many other markers we thought we’d never get to.

Promises fulfilled. Breakthroughs achieved. Milestones that were always in the distance, so far off we never really thought we’d see them up close – but here they are, rapidly looming larger and larger as the safe space between us shortens.

It’s finally, suddenly. And there are no brakes for slowing this down.

So let me tell you about Numbers 33, which summarizes the Israelites’ journey from Egypt to the Promised Land. They had been slaves, and went from bondage and captivity to freedom and fulfillment. You probably know this story almost as well as you know your own, so you know it wasn’t an easy-peasy, quick trip.

Just because you’re no longer a slave doesn’t mean you suddenly know how to live in freedom.

So the Israelites, like us, had a journey to make. And Numbers 33 gives us the landmarks:

They set out from Rameses in the first month, on the fifteenth day of the first month; on the day after the Passover the Israelites went out boldly in the sight of all the Egyptians…

– Numbers 33:3

During this journey, the Israelites wrestled with the same questions we do when we’re being honest: Is obedience worth it? Can we trust God? Are we who He really says we are, and can we really do what He tells us to?

Are we willing to go where He sends us?

Some of us have been promised something before, and it didn’t turn out the way we thought it would. It took too long, or maybe we confused the middle for the end. Maybe it was super messy, and came with trial or trauma. We feel like the promise burned us and we stopped trusting.

So now when we see a new landmark of promise and fulfillment looming ahead, we hit the brakes.

Dig in our heels.

Backpedal.

We do all the metaphors because we’ve (mis)learned that promises can also feel very much like threats.

You know the story of the twelve spies; this is exactly what ten of them did. The enemy wants us to see the worst case scenario and assume that all is lost.

We should, of course, be looking at Jesus, but problems (current or potential ones) are loud and flashy and demanding. They get in our face and try to become idols, because if they can command more of our attention than we give to Jesus…well, that’s what we’re worshiping, don’t you know.

But when we know the land, know the hand of God, and understand Romans 8:28 (and the rest of scripture), we know better: All is not lost. All is gain. There is nothing the enemy can do that, when surrendered to the Lord, cannot result in our gain.

When we understand that, it’s easier to stand our ground instead of shrinking back and looking for excuses to avoid what we’re called to do.

So, friend…in this season, what are you called to do?

We have to be free from fear. If we’re afraid of the landmark looming in the distance, we won’t confront it; we’ll be ruled by it, instead. But our wild exploits are rooted in our fearless movement forward.

Teach me your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my enemies.

Do not give me up to the will of my adversaries, for false witnesses have risen against me, and they are breathing out violence.

I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

– Psalm 27:11-13

Still though, so many things we thought were down the road are now right in front of us. We’re almost-finally-suddenly there, and so is the temptation to stall our engines or shrink back.

How many times have we sensed the “suddenly” coming, and we sabotaged it out of fear? Are we allowing God to be as big as He is – and trusting Him for all that He says – or are we making Him small and safe, in the terrain of our own choosing?

Maybe it will help to look back, and see how far we’ve come.

They set out from Pi-hahiroth, passed through the sea into the wilderness…

Look at what you’ve done: You faced the event you’d been dreading. You rose above fear and found a mantle of authority on the high ground. You confronted dishonor, you let go of betrayal, you forgave the one who repented, and you continued to love, even in new ways, the one who still doesn’t know how.

They set out from Marah and came to Elim…

You read this book and then that one, and you stumbled into a curriculum that was clearly the Lord’s design because it was not of your choosing. You learned so many lessons you never planned for, and you grew in deeper humility along with them.

They set out from Elim and camped by the Red Sea. They set out from the Red Sea and camped in the wilderness of Sin…

You had that hard conversation and made that brave confession, you learned that you could articulate those thoughts and feelings you’ve held onto for years, because you finally had a receptive audience. And you learned that the Lord is always receptive, too.

They set out from the wilderness of Sin and camped at Dophkah. They set out from Dophkah and camped at Alush.

You saved and invested, put the work in, milestone after milestone. Some of the markers are invisible to everyone but you – but you know how you carved out time to make way for a service that that no one else would see.

They set out from Alush and camped at Rephidim, where there was no water for the people to drink.

When you didn’t see the answer or the provision, you waited and it came. No, it didn’t look at all like you thought it would, but it came.

They set out from Rephidim and camped in the wilderness of Sinai.

You learned about balancing graciousness with firmness, and discerned between overlooking mistakes and confronting sin. Wisdom has taught you more about which concerns should be shared and which should stay private and prayed about. And you’ve gotten better at magnifying righteousness, instead of venting frustrations and giving the enemy the satisfaction of having volume added to his harassment.

Look at how you’ve grown, how far you’ve come. Look at what He’s done.

He reached down from on high; he took me;
he drew me out of mighty waters.
He delivered me from my strong enemy
and from those who hated me,
for they were too mighty for me.
They confronted me in the day of my calamity,
but the Lord was my support.
He brought me out into a broad place;
he delivered me because he delighted in me.

– Psalm 18:16-19

Can you believe it? Look back and see all the landmarks you’ve made it through, all the posts you held, all the places you stopped to build an altar and worship. A little wonder and amazement is called for.

He has been training us to take the land, drive out idolatry, expand the Kingdom, root out lies and deception, heal trauma, free the captives, and prepare the way of the Lord. We’ve learned that we have to start with the land in our own hearts first, because if we are still living as captives, we cannot free anyone else.

Toward the end of Numbers 33, there’s this little phrase in verse 54: “according to your ancestral tribes you shall inherit.” They, of course, were talking about boundaries of the land of each tribe, but there’s truth here for us, too.

According to your family culture (the way you hold your charge, the way you bear your calling, what you invest in, focus on, attend to, and cultivate)…you will inherit.

Our lives – and what our children will inherit from us – are wrapped up in these promises and how we follow Him into them.

We want each one of you to show the same diligence so as to realize the full assurance of hope to the very end, so that you may not become sluggish but imitators of those who through faith and patience inherit the promises.

– Hebrews 6:11-12

His goodness is the lay of the land – and you don’t need a sign if you’re familiar with the territory. You just need to know the landmarks.

He has been, and will continue to be, before and behind us.

He is leading, but He is also coming.

And He’s teaching us to prepare the way for it.

posture: how we hold our charge

Posted on by December 11, 2025

I have more words here than I need. The number at the bottom of the screen says 3748 and counting as I type this. Don’t panic, most of them won’t end up in this post.

But all the words have to go in the document so I can see what I’m dealing with, and to decide what to give you. Floating up in my head is the worst place for all the words because they just buzz around and stress me out until they’re pinned to the page or screen, safely confined, ready for examination.

That’s when I can see what all the noise has been about, and when patterns start to emerge.

Ohh, this theme. And that one keeps cropping up, too. I think I see what You’re doing.

posture: how we hold our charge ||Shannon Guerra @ Copperlight Wood

For the last few weeks, one of the main themes has been posture: how we are positioned to hold what we are charged to carry. Are we ready to receive, or to give? Are we attending, is our eye on the ball (hint: the ball is Jesus), or are we perpetually blindsided, looking the wrong way, focusing on the wrong things?

Or, also – and this is just as important – are we hearing the accusations of the enemy tell us we’re in the wrong place, at the wrong time, looking at the wrong things, when we’re actually right on target but he’s trying to distract and dissuade us before the moment arrives? Maybe we are holding our charge, but confusion comes in to waylay us.

Or maybe, more literally, we are to hold our charge – as in, don’t move yet, play it cool, keep watch rather than rushing ahead.

We can get this wrong any number of ways, and the enemy doesn’t care which ruse we fall for.

Sooo, we abide.

As I type this, we’re cleaning up after a four-day windstorm across the Valley. Not the kind where you move all your lawn furniture to a safe location, but the kind where the wind finds that safe location and then moves everything for you all over again as an extra service, generally leaving pieces upside down, or across the yard, and takes one of the table legs with it.

We knew the storm was coming, so we prepared: Stored fresh water, protected the coops, moved the lawn furniture (but I already told you how that went). We prepped some easy cold meals in case the power went out. And we kept the teapot and the crock pot filled and running.

What was supposed to be two days of wind extended to four, and I noticed some things. These observations were greatly made possible by the fact that we, unlike most of the Valley, never lost power, so I was at leisure to notice what I’m going to tell you, rather than dealing with the house getting cold or my phone battery draining or the toilets desperately needing flushed or how certain kids desperately needed to bathe.

Anyway, here: A windstorm at night is different from a windstorm during the day. And this, too, has to do with our posture and attention, and how we hold our charge.

In daylight, you can see the whipping of trees in response to the roaring gusts of wind, and you can look out the window when you hear a crash to see what fell.

You know what you’re dealing with, and what you’ll have to fix. And you know if that repair needs to be immediate, or if it can wait until the storm passes.

So that’s about six hours of the day for us in Southcentral Alaska.

During the other eighteen hours, the gusts come blindly. All is just noise amid the constant background of undulating wind. The volume rises and falls but you don’t see movement; you only hear it.

Relative calm settles briefly as the wind races to other neighborhoods, and then without warning it returns with frenzy, feeling its way across the angles of rooftops and through the fingers of tree limbs. Kitchen vents clap suddenly. Stove and vent pipes whistle across multiple notes in panicked harmony. Wood frames creak moodily, sometimes in timid hesitation and others in angry protest.

Unknown objects scud heavily across the ground. Probably, hopefully, they’re just large branches. More than once, something crashes. You vaguely guess the direction, and wonder what you’ll find in the morning.

I’m not only talking about windstorms, of course.

Some of us have been learning to posture ourselves in darkness so we can handle the noise we cannot see.

I don’t know if you’d call it the “mystic rites of our ancestral houses,” but each family has its own culture and traditions, some more ancient or life-giving than others.

In our house, it means Looney Tunes on birthday mornings, books and pajamas on Saturdays, and speed cleaning whenever there’s the slightest threat of a power outage, because a ) a little motivation goes a long way, and b) we want clean dishes and laundry for as long as possible, and also C) no one wants to go the ER during a windstorm because they slipped on a small Nerf gun that was left in a dark hallway.

Saturdays, though, are the one day of the week we don’t go anywhere, even when we don’t have hurricane force winds.

“You’re not allowed to have fun on Saturdays?” a younger extroverted friend asked me (she reads here, too – love you, darling). I explained that as an introvert with eight kids, two churches, and a dozen projects simultaneously, not going anywhere is fun. The bestest fun, the mostest fun. I’d do it all week and twice on Sundays if I could.

But we can’t, so we stick with Saturdays.

During the week we’re all over the place, and Saturdays are the lull for gathering ourselves back together. I often feel scattered and spread thin, investing in several directions and wondering if seeds are growing or if fruit will ever come. In some places, I can hear the noise but not see movement. Sometimes I wonder if I’m lacking vision and focus, and other times I wonder if my vision is just too big (Or, deep and wide, she thought) and needs time to flesh out.

For sure though, a big part of it is persisting in long, patient obedience even as the enemy hisses that doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result is the definition of insanity. But we know his schemes.

And also, there’s that pothos, bursting with more leaves every week.

We position our family with firm boundaries around Saturdays, and birthdays, and bedtimes, nurturing an atmosphere of peace so we can withstand the storm.

So I think we’re really talking about endurance in the midst of the overwhelm. We have to be postured to carry the charge if we are to endure.

…we also boast in our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.

– Romans 5:3b-5

It is just time, and patience, and obedience. It is like prayer, or like writing: We keep coming back again and again, hitting that same topic over and over, asking for words, seeking wisdom and perspective. If we give ourselves to it long enough, we see something happen. Eventually we make huge strides when we’re postured to do so for long enough.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.

Consider him who endured such hostility against himself from sinners, so that you may not grow weary in your souls or lose heart.

– Hebrews 12:1-4

It is the steady work of untangling knots, mending what’s broken and torn, doing the hard repair instead of the costly replacement. Yes, it takes so much time. But if we don’t use that time to fix this, we’re going to spend other time – and often, a lot more of it – on bigger, more expensive repairs later on.

So we choose our hard, and our vision directs that choice. Do we see worth, or waste? What do we carry, and what do we shrug off as extraneous?

This has been our work for years in our own family and marriage. And at the desk, it is still the work, only the knots look more like paragraphs that don’t flow perfectly together or thoughts that don’t fit on the same string. The untangling here looks more like rearranging, rewriting, deleting, and sitting and staring in prayer, asking for revelation. It looks like phone calls and meetings and deep conversations, asking questions and reframing statements, connecting dots and finding patterns, listening and waiting.

We do not have answers for all these knots. Sometimes the yarn has to be cut. But more often, with enough gentle persistence, you can work a knot blindly and still manage to get it untangled. Because it’s not always about seeing the answers, but persisting in giving the thread it’s proper space after it’s been pulled too tight.

None of us like being pulled too tight. Yesterday afternoon I was already running late, already feeling stressed, already lost an hour of time in other tasks and hadn’t even opened the document to write yet. The phone started dinging notifications and this was the moment Bingley chose to jump on the desk and knock a book to the floor and start his loud meow that sounds less like it comes from a domestic cat and more like it comes from something that lives in the jungle with paws the size of small frisbees.

Hold on, I have a meme for this.

This is the noise, the tangling, the wind gusting that threatens to bowl me over.

But God’s been speaking to me about posture, so I’m learning to brace myself to withstand the things out of my control.

Like this little document, now ballooning to 4935 words – far too many, but don’t fret, less than half will stay in this post.

It has taken forever to pull together and I wanted to publish it two weeks ago. This Monday came and I was determined to finish it. Tuesday came and I thought it was finally almost done. Wednesday came and I realized it still needed work because there was still so much more to say, but I had already spent so much time on it that the words were swimming everywhere, so familiar I couldn’t even really see them anymore.

We clocked out early to get to class, and at the red light I wondered if I could tap out some sentences on my phone to make up a little time. Because this is me, and maybe you: I like to check off boxes, finish the projects, do all the things, and if I get a green light, I want to put the pedal to the floor. Not sit at red lights in the passenger seat, feeling late to everything.

In that moment, I heard the Lord. Let it sit, He said. Sleep on it, Love. Work smarter, not harder. Give it time to cure, and temper, and you – you hold your charge, rather than draining your battery.

In class, before starting discussion or anything else, instrumental worship music played and we just sat, soaking, for…I don’t know how long. Thoughts tried to crowd in: How is Reagan handling her class? Is she testing like she did last week? I hope the boys are calm. I hoped this and that and a million things I can’t type here.

But the music kept playing, and the Lord is teaching us to hold our charge. There was no awkward silence to break, nothing to do but to be with Him.

We (and by “we” I mostly mean me, but I’m trying to include you here) tend to resist stillness and default to restlessness. But restlessness is not a posture; it’s noisy filler.

For years, I took a notebook with me to church partly because of this. Every week, at the top of the page, I wrote the date, the name of whoever was speaking, the sermon notes, verse references, and my thoughts. I did it religiously, in all senses of the word.

Then I got tired of religion and restlessness, and I also got jaded with church, and with writing down the glib soundbites of entertaining presentations instead hearing revelation from solid teaching and preaching. Long after we made a better switch, I still left my notebook at home. I mostly stopped taking notes, and if I really wanted to get something down, I’d tap it into my phone.

And if you know me, you know there’s something off about that. I’m a writer. Also, I don’t use my phone for birthdays, calendaring, planning, finances, reminders, or anything else…I use paper. This is why my office looks like a tornado ripped through a library, and why I probably forgot your birthday, too.

But then we started a new class a few months ago and I thought it would be a good idea to bring my old notebook, especially since I was not going to drop an extra $15 to purchase the class workbook. I’d just take notes, instead. Hello, old friend.

It is remarkable what happens when we position ourselves differently, to hear and respond more acutely. The first Sunday I took my notebook to church, the Lord said, Put the pen in your hand so you’re ready to write the revelation down. And then, notes and notes and notes.

The words have to be put on the paper. The pen has to be held, ready. We have to posture to receive, and steward, and bear the calling we’re charged with.

It reminded me of other wisdom I’ve read many times:

Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword-hilt.

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

Friend, what is your sword hilt? What do you need to be picking up again, holding onto, and letting go of?

Because our fruit is born from faithfulness. It is not born from having all the answers or getting all the experience (though this is how those come, too) and it is definitely not about finishing everything according to our own timelines.

Fruit comes from abiding, living, persisting, and maintaining a stance of holy stubbornness that expects a good outcome.

Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.

My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.

– John 5:4, 8

If we can soak in stillness, we can handle the overwhelm, the noise, and the dark chaos that we can’t see out there.

The post is almost done. The word count says 5244 but only 2750 or so are in this piece; still, so many more than I intended.

Once finished – we’re so close now – most of the paragraphs will still be unused. They’ll get pushed to the bottom of the document, ready to start the whole process all over again.

That’s for next week, though.

P.S. We have a ministry update for you here. Got questions, want more info and details? Let us know what you want to hear about. Our Give page is here – thank you so much for your support as we share wholeness and hope, deep and wide.

sing harmony: how we find our place amid change

Posted on by October 23, 2025

When you go to the library, your book selections will reveal a bit of who you are…but only a bit.

When Vin and I went last week (sans kids, because it was our anniversary and we’re nerds), I got one book on quilting and another on leadership. Vin got books on history and true crime. And we both got a book to share (he gets credit for finding it, though) about toxic teachings in church culture that aren’t actually Biblical.

It’s not a full picture of either of us, but it’s a glimpse of this season. Also, it’s influenced by what the library offered: They had only two books by Dickens, three copies of Jane Austen, and zero (!) books by Wodehouse.

But I know what I like, regardless of whether or not the library carries it.

sing harmony: how we find our place amid change || Shannon Guerra @Copperlight Wood

So in this sense, the place I’m in doesn’t really define (or reveal) who I am at the core of things. What this temporary space offers doesn’t define (or change) what I actually like.

At the core of things, I love British lit, and already own most of those books. I’m currently in a quilting phase but I am a yarn junkie at heart. I love the Church, and am usually much more focused on teaching what is true rather than debunking what is not.

So a snapshot can reflect parts of us but it doesn’t really show our full identity. In spite of the change of location and what is offered at the library, I still am who I am.

And this is true of our changing relationships and seasons in life, too.

Some seasons (and relationships) in our lives are like a library that only holds books on true crime or psychology. Other seasons (and relationships) are like libraries full of parenting books, picture books, and hacks on removing crayon masterpieces from walls. They’re snapshots that shift and influence us, but they skew the focus on certain directions that do not define us forever.

We age, and our circumstances change. Our abilities grow and diminish, and sometimes we do not know how to respond to those changes. The temporary space we’re in is so different, we’re not sure what our role is in it anymore.

My grandma is almost 94 and recently, her already not-so-great hearing is so much worse. Added to the loss of vision and memory over the last several years, much of her life has totally changed. She’s had to adjust, and so have those of us who love her.

We used to talk often, used to call back and forth. She was curious about our present, and she told me about her past. I told her about our days and asked her about hers. Now, though, there’s so much less to our conversations because this is the season we’re in.

A few months ago I had some questions about my birth (which she attended) and she couldn’t remember any details. Maybe six months earlier, she would have. And maybe next month, she will again. But for now there’s a gap in places she used to be able to fill with light, and lines, and color.

Nowadays I’m the only one who initiates our phone calls, and I don’t do it often enough. It’s hard to have a heartfelt conversation while yelling into the phone so the other person can hear you, yes? But I call her because I know at the core, she is still there, and she needs to know she’s loved and remembered. And also, I call because I need her voice, and she needs to remember mine even though the last few times she hasn’t recognized it and I’ve had to tell her it was me.

During our most recent chat she said she’s feeling well, no problems, that she has no reason to complain. Then she lowered her voice and said, “That doesn’t mean that I don’t, though” – and there she is, the woman I know, the sassy grandma who is never in trouble but likes people to think she could cause some if she wanted to.

She asks if anything is new here and I tell her I’ve been trying to learn Greek, but it takes a few tries before she understands. Then she asks if I’ll teach her a few words next time I come over, and I might, though currently the most creative thing I can say is “I need a ticket” (and by that, I mean one to the opera or something, not one for speeding, thanks). She asks how we’ve been staying busy these days but she can’t understand what I’m saying no matter how many times I repeat it. So she moves on to wisdom and advice.

“Stop and rest, that’ll give you more years. I used to go-go-go all the time, and now I go…go…and…go…”

She pauses, and then asks, “Do you have plans for the summer?” Hopefully this is a blip; she knows her birthday in early November is coming in a couple weeks.

But I don’t know how to answer. I’m having a hard time finding books I can read on these shelves; this is a song I don’t know how to sing.

These relationships change for all sorts of reasons: age, estrangement, boundaries, busyness, distance. We don’t always know how to relate in the new seasons. I don’t know where everything is anymore; so many things I love seem to be missing. The song has changed and I can’t just go along because I still don’t know this tune yet.

“Do you read at all?” Grandma asks. “Do you have time to read?” And this is a face full of cold water. Don’t you even know me anymore? I wonder. I know she knows. Knew. She was a reader, too, before macular degeneration became part of our vocabulary. What does she remember of me, of us, of our family? Deep down, hopefully everything. But on the surface, on the phone, very little.

It is just a season. It is not who she is, or who I am. Who she is, is the woman who led me to Jesus, who took me to church, who taught me that the Bible doesn’t always actually say the things we think it does.

She led worship when I was growing up. She taught all of the kids how to sing Jesus Loves Me and so many other songs. When I went to school in Anchorage, she and my dad would drive an hour to come to my choir concerts even though I never had solos and only sang harmony.

Do you know that the little girl in messy blond braids who you used to take to church every other weekend now teaches others about Jesus? Did you know that the seeds you planted over forty years ago bloomed into her full-time mission?

I can’t tell her that, yelling into the phone, her not hearing me.

But who taught me to sing Deep and Wide? She did.

There are so many songs we don’t know how to sing. Kids grow up and move out, and the tune changes. They learn new songs we’ve never heard and don’t know the lyrics to. They also learn songs they think we’re clueless about, even though we’ve been singing them for decades.

But in spite of changes, can we still remember who we are, and who they are? Regardless of how people treat us, or how they change, or how we change, or the ways the walls are different around us, can we still remember our core – who we are, who they are, Who we have surrendered to? Do we remember that we are the temple, and our hearts are the sacred place where worship is always occurring?

Because if we know that, then the temporary place we’re in doesn’t define (or redefine) us. When we know how music works, we don’t have to know the tune, or even the lyrics. We can sing harmony, instead.

I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry.
He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.

He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord.

Happy are those who make the Lord their trust.

– Psalm 40:1-4a

That person who distanced themselves and makes condescending judgments from their newly purchased high horse…can you see through their posturing? Can you recognize the voice that’s a touch louder than normal, and remember that it’s because they’re trying to convince themselves and others of things they don’t quite yet fully believe, and pray them toward integrity?

That one who needs healing, protection, wisdom, and maturity…can we love them through these changes, see past the braggadocio, and pray them through this season so they come out with fewer regrets on the other side of it?

That person who seems closed off and unreachable…can you see the heart that’s really there, the one that’s wounded and wary? The one that bottles up and then explodes because they still haven’t learned to recognize feelings and release pressure in healthy moderation? We can refuse to be cowed by the spiky exterior because the spikes aren’t about us, and we can press deeper than the shallow small talk, and risk baring a wound of our own that they might relate to.

What about that loved one who is singing away with everyone in their new crowd, seemingly reveling in how they’ve left you out? They’ve run hot and cold, and their song keeps changing mid-verse. You keep stumbling in, not sure what to do next. Should I hug them? Or will they bristle? Will they resent it if I don’t? I don’t know the words to this new song, they passed out the lyrics before I got here.

These are only glimpses of who they are. This temporary space they’re in does not define them, or us. We know who we are, whether or not we like the books on the shelves or the tune that others are singing.

sing harmony: how we find our place amid change || Shannon Guerra @Copperlight Wood
(In Galway with Grandma, March 2003)

And if you know music, you know what a rest is. You know that at certain times there’s an interval of silence when you’re not supposed to sing or play. Stopping and resting will give you more years, Grandma said.

So sometimes we need to stop for a while. You don’t have to share your song with someone who can’t stop criticizing your choice of music. We cannot have duets with people whose proximity is so corrosive you have to put a stop to it, but we can keep praying for their physical and emotional healing.

Beloved, do you know that we contend daily for your spiritual freedom, that you would encounter God and know His mighty love in every area of your life? Just because we stopped singing with someone doesn’t mean we lost our songs. They’re still there in the middle of you and me, wanting the best even for those who only seem to notice the worst.

But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession and through us spreads in every place the fragrance that comes from knowing him.

For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing: to the one group a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is qualified for these things? For we are not peddlers of God’s word like so many, but as persons of sincerity, as persons sent from God, we are speaking in Christ before God.

– 2 Corinthians 2:14-17

We know that the Lord does not change His tune. He doesn’t run hot and cold in affection and indifference, and pull the rug out from under us. We’re not His best friend one day, His punching bag the next, and then snubbed the following week.

He always wants our presence. He is always leading us in triumph, in wisdom, in joy, regardless of the people we’re around, the circumstances we’re dealing with, or the temporary spaces we’re in. This is how the music works.

But I trusted in your steadfast love;
my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord
because he has dealt bountifully with me.

– Psalm 13:5-6

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