awake: why we’re thankful in spite of the shaking

Like many nights, I was already awake in the dark, in the wee hours, nursing Kavanagh. So I probably heard it coming but thought it was just the cats making noise downstairs. But then the noise turned into slight shaking, and then unmistakable rattling.

My first instinct is always to glance at the clock: 3:23. It rumbled in layers, increasing in volume and shaking – long enough that I wondered three separate times if this one would be as bad or worse than the 7.2 we had a couple years ago – before it finally slowed down, stopped, and everything went still.

awake: why we're grateful in spite of the shaking

But this one was only a 5.1. Vin checked on the kids and reported that some were awake, and some slept through it.

And then another one hit. But it was smaller, just 4.0.

Hours went by, and I was awake for most of it. So around six when I heard the dull, distant noise, I wasn’t surprised when another one came, smaller than the first but bigger than the second – we learn to judge these things based on duration, intensity, and whether or not certain wall hangings rattle. The website said it was 4.5 and apparently there had also been another one just half an hour earlier, but it was little and I never noticed. I probably thought it was one of us shifting in the bed, or Knightley stretching at the foot of it.

That evening I heard the noise again and immediately stilled, looking at the clock, wondering if another was going to hit. But no, nothing that time, so it must’ve just been the heavy tread of someone walking downstairs.

And as I realized it was nothing, I had a picture of the Biden-Harris campaign, and their fraudulent claim to victory.

The Lord knows the days of the blameless,
    and their heritage will remain forever;
they are not put to shame in evil times;
    in the days of famine they have abundance.

– Psalm 37:18-19

The mainstream news, social media, and anyone who gets most of their information from those entities and actually believes it, almost immediately proclaimed their victory and have continued to do so.

They did it, and still do it, in spite of enormous and mounting evidence of fraud, changes from recounts, and active and upcoming court cases. The streamers thrown in celebration are actually giving them more rope to hang themselves with.

They did it while suppressing information, censoring articles about criminal behavior, and “fact checking” posts they didn’t like.

They’re doing it about the election and they’re doing it about the virus and the jab and they’ll keep doing it about whatever else they want, if they can get away with it.

Meanwhile, governors continue to lockdown states and mayors keep locking down cities. Churches keep closing their doors. And in a move that looks very much like unethical job security, doctors who know that mask wearing both creates and aggravates terrible health conditions (see also here, and here, and here, and here, for starters) keep requiring them anyway.

It’s like hearing the distant rumble, wondering if it’s going to be the big one.

Is this the end?

In the upper rooms there were little rows of hard beds, and on every wall there was a notice and a list of Rules. Pippin tore them down. There was no beer and very little food…and Pippin broke Rule 4 by putting most of the next day’s allowance of wood on the fire.

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

But no, I don’t believe it’s the end. I think it’s the tread of heavy feet, or at most, the relief of pressure in a small, harmless way that feels threatening at first but turns out to be nothing but the exhalation of pent-up gas.

The Lord laughs at the wicked, for he sees that his day is coming.

– Psalm 37:13

It’s causing us to stop for the moment and examine our surroundings, endure the brief threat, but overall it will bring alignment to that same environment, and prevent the big one from occurring.

The shaking exposes fault lines, weak places that require reinforcement.

“You’re arrested form Gate-breaking, and Tearing up of Rules, and Assaulting Gate-keepers, and Trespassing, and Sleeping in Shire-buildings without Leave, and Bribing Guards with Food.”

“And what else?” said Frodo.

“That’ll do to go on with,” said the Shirriff-leader.

“I can add some more, if you’d like it,” said Sam. “Calling your Chief Names, Wishing to punch his Pimply Face, and Thinking you Shirriffs look a lot of Tom-Fools.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

The excess shaking is teaching people to be alert at the slightest rumble. We’re awake, alert, alarmed at the threat, prayerful for safety, and the shaking results in justice as corruption is exposed and people decide which authority they’ll obey.

[The Chief] doesn’t hold with folk moving about; so if they will or they must, then they has to go to the Shirriff-house and explain their business.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself having anything to do with such nonsense….You can give it up, stop Shirriffing, if it has stopped being a respectable job,” said Sam.

“We’re not allowed to,” said Robin.

“If I hear not allowed much oftener,” said Sam, “I’m going to get angry.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

And there’s no doubt, the threat is real and dire. Many Christians shrug and say, Well, our hope was never in a president, persecution grows the church anyway, c’est la vie, what can you do – but if socialism came to any of our doors and completely removed our freedom of speech, our ability to purchase things we need, or force unwanted medical “care” upon our children, there would be no shrugging. These are not “oh, whatever” offenses. We’ve already begun to see them in social media censorship, threats from certain employers, and in the difficulty to get proper healthcare if you cannot wear a mask…ask me how I know.

“There’s hundreds of Shirriffs all told, and they want more, with all these new rules. Most of them are in it against their will, but not all. Even in the Shire there are some as like minding other folk’s business and talking big.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

And some people are happy to mind your business for you, shaming and blaming and accusing, wagging their fingers in all their self-righteous virtue signaling. Bless their hearts, they believe everything the mainstream media tells them.

But there are more people who don’t. They tend to have better manners and aren’t as loud about it. But make no mistake, they will get loud if pushed to do so.

“Raise the Shire!” said Merry. “Now! Wake all our people! They hate all this, you can see: all of them except perhaps one or two rascals, and a few fools who want to be important, but don’t at all understand what is really going on.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

This week, we are gathering.

Our neighbors are elderly missionaries, and they invited us to pray with them a few nights ago. They want to make it a regular thing. They’re not unwise, but they’re not afraid, either. Over tea and candlelight, we held hands and called on God to move in our country.

Last night we gathered with friends at church, studying forgiveness and honor and submission and authority. We honor the position, not the behavior. We obey unless we’re told to do something against God’s word. We shared homemade food and phone numbers, and talked about how, contrary to pop culture, silence should not be mistaken for betrayal, consent, or inactivity.

Tomorrow we gather with our oldest son and my dad and other family. There will be hugging. There will be political talk. There will probably be discussion of court hearings, more evidence of fraud, and likely – this is Alaska – a comparison of ammo inventory.

And I’m grateful for all those things, and more.

People are praying for us. Andrey is catching up in school and Reagan is reading five-letter words. Our neighbors are the cutest. People all over are dropping the bomb on election fraud. God is giving us wisdom and new ideas; our book sales are up and I’m excited about the next project already. And my African violet, which hasn’t bloomed since I bought it who knows how long ago, has flowers again.

I showed it to Vin this morning, and he said, “It’s the return of the King.”

And I think it is, or something like it. Thanksgiving is already here.

the story is in there

“I want to make that. And I want to make that.”

Finn is flipping pages in one of the Irish cookbooks Grandma gave me years ago, pointing to the pictures like it’s his favorite story: barm brack, shortbread, scones, seafood pie, game pie. He’s next to me on the crowded couch while I eat a late breakfast, sharing my fried banana cookie with Kav.

the story is in there: finding God in the midst of the overwhelm

He flips to the desserts and I’m glad I’m already having a sweet breakfast (sugar-free, thankyouverymuch) because now Finn’s saying I want to make that, and that, and that about blackberry crumble, autumn pudding, barley flummery, burnt cream, and carrageen pudding. I don’t know what some of those are but the language speaks to something deep within me, and the pictures are drool-worthy.

“I want to make that,” he says again, and whoops, he’s already made it to the drinks section and is pointing at a layered cocktail. The pictures look festive and innocent – sloe gin, blas meala, Gaelic coffee. But mulled cider and driver’s special notwithstanding, the main ingredient in several of them is whiskey. Slainté.

I’ve never made most of the recipes in this book – though I do love a wee splash of whiskey in a mug of decaf late at night on occasion – but maybe someday I will, if I have the right ingredients.

And also, maybe someday I will when there’s more time.

Or, when there’s different time. In a different season. Because this season is so full, I don’t have the time (or at least, the inclination) to scour the Matanuska Valley for a source of Irish moss – and while I’ve accidentally substituted daisy leaves for dill before (more about that in a sec), I don’t trust any Alaskan moss as a substitute for it in pudding.

Because this is often a season of overwhelm. Vin just ran most of the kids to a piano lesson and errands, and left me at home to get some undisturbed work in, because usually, work is disturbed. Or, not disturbed, because the kids are still and always the main work – but it is nice to be able to type my own thoughts in quiet every once in a while, without checking math problems and correcting behavior and spelling words like “celery” because someone wants to borrow my phone to look up whether or not the cats are allergic to it.

(They’re not, in case you were wondering.)

And sometimes, given enough of those moments to type in peace, a book comes out of them.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Which brings me back to the daisy-accidentally-substituted-as-dill. That story is in there.

Also, the story about when I almost drove into a snowy ditch because little Chamberlain was yelling at me from the backseat about that one time Wendy came over for all the beer. I have a good reason for that, and it’s in there.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Also, one or two stories about trying to complete purchases from the unmentionables department unscathed by physical injury, emotional remorse, or other trauma.

Also, the story of how Grandma taught me (but obviously not Vince) how to fold fitted sheets.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

And also, because dads also do the work that God sees, the story of Vince pickle-forking. (In his words, it’s not as fun as it sounds.)

But also, there are the stories of God teaching me to slow down.

Of God showing me how He sees me when it feels like no one notices the work I’ve done.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Of me learning to widen my circle after years of isolation, and learning to find light in dark places.

Of us learning to redraw new lines from old, unhealthy patterns, and find redemption in the process of starting over.

Of God teaching me to keep my eyes on Him so my kids will want to see Who I’m looking at.

Those are all in there, and they will speak to something deep within you.

And also, if you, like Finn, are in a phase of “wanting to make that,” there are knitting patterns, a crafty project or two, and several extremely quirky, non-technical recipes for you to try, including the fried banana cookie. (There’s no whiskey in any of them, I promise.)

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

If you are in this season of doing it all and still never feeling like enough is getting done, of wanting to do more but often feel a little (or a lot) hopeless about ever being able to it, and sometimes you wonder if there’s any purpose to the mundane repetition of all the work that is never finished, this book is for you.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

If you are trying to hear God in the middle of the mayhem, this book is for you.

If you want to know how seen and loved and strong you are in this season of meeting everyone else’s needs and just trying to find time to squeeze in a shower, this book is for you.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Our oldest just turned twenty, and our youngest turns two next month. Friends, I have been in this season for a long, loooong time. I know how dark and frustrating and ridiculous it can be.

But I also know how faithful He is to meet us right there, in the midst of the overwhelm.

And that story is in there, too.

_______

Work That God Sees: Complete Edition is available now on our site and in bookstores.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

all things new: how we go from wandering to promise

A new room, with new walls and new toys and new people. I sat there with little Kav and we both looked around, trying to get our bearings. And I’m terrible at introductions and hate small talk, but so far I was doing okay – there was only one other adult there, we didn’t have any pre-programmed questions we had to ask each other, and the only task at hand was keeping our small children happy.

all things new: how we go from wandering to promise

But I knew it was coming. She was going to ask any minute. We’d already exchanged names, a brief history of ourselves, and laughed over stories about our toddlers.

“So, is he your only child? Or do you have older kids, too?”

There it is, I thought. Here we go. Brace yourself.

“He’s actually our eighth,” I said.

That answer never fails to astonish people, including myself. The stunned look, the huge smile – it happens almost every time. It really is the best, most relatable response.

But it does change the atmosphere. We’re no longer “normal” people, with normal lives, and thus a lot of the “normal” conversation goes out the window – how can you be normal with that many kids? I hadn’t even mentioned adoption or special needs yet.

It’s the first time in 12 years I’ve been in a completely new environment, and feels a little like starting school in a new town. Everything is a blank slate that’s quickly stamped with first impressions. But now, 30 years of (cough) maturity later, I’ve learned to take those impressions with grace and many grains of salt. Preconceived notions usually last only a week or two before people and places take on more than one dimension, and you start to see depth that wasn’t evident at first glance.

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.

– Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Back when I was the new kid in school, newness and unfamiliarity seemed like threats to my frail security. But now I know the reverse is true – they are a stretching of my tent pegs and a broadening of my own reach as we let Him lead us in the unknown. And He says, This is how we grow the Kingdom, Love. This is how you keep growing deep and wide.

I’ve just started reading Joshua again and it’s one of my favorites; every time I’m in here it somehow reflects a transition in our lives from wandering to promise.

The only way we get from wandering to promise is through the all-in surrender of obedience, trusting Him in the unknown, scorning the fear that rides shotgun to risk.

It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.

– Deuteronomy 31:8, ESV

I’ve always focused on the do not fear part – I know all about do-not-fear, scorning fear, fighting fear, ignoring fear. I’ve never paid attention to the “or be dismayed” part.

“Dismayed” hasn’t even been in my vocabulary, so I looked it up.

Dismayed: struck with fear, dread, or consternation; being upset, worried, or agitated because of some unwelcome situation or occurrence.

Ohhh. So “dismayed” has been in my vocabulary, and I just didn’t know it.

I’ve been there many times before: the positive pregnancy test, the new diagnosis, the uncontrollable behavior of a broken child. The rug pulled out from under you, the other shoe that drops.

And now, it’s the new walls. The unfamiliar routines and the different ways of doing things. Wondering how long it will take to find our place. Wondering if we have a place. Wondering if we will fit in, or if we will be too weird or too much.

We must not worry about what other people say about us, but we should pay close attention to what we think about ourselves.

– Henry Cloud

Another woman came in shortly later and I successfully practiced social skills again – we exchanged names and an even briefer history, and then she mentioned the women were going to be making blankets next week for a missions project. Would I like to join them?

“Are they knitting?” I mean, it blurted right out before I could stop myself. A little too eager, maybe.

“They’re doing anything,” she said. “Just making blankets. But if you knit, someone donated a ton of yarn to use for that purpose.”

This time I barely restrained myself from asking about the fiber blend of the yarn, the thickness of the gauge, and if they had any good neutral colors…like some deep greys, which would be amazing. Don’t make it weird, I told myself.

So I said, “Oh,” instead. And that was probably weird, too.

In every important way we are such secrets from one another, and I do believe that there is a separate language in each of us, also a separate aesthetics and a separate jurisprudence.

Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variant notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable – which, I hasten to add, we generally do not satisfy and by which we struggle to live.

― Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

But newness is weird. Moving anywhere, whether physical or emotional, feels weird.

The last time we made a big move was to this house — we came here renting and ended up buying; the Lord told us to set some money aside instead of putting it all in our down payment, so we did; we took a month off without pay to practice living out our calling, and the following month He showed us how to use the money we’d set aside to obey that calling full time.

And this feels like that – driven to move, following the pillar of fire, not knowing where He’s going. But we know to watch for Him. And we’re seeing Him in the midst of these new walls.

So we are not holding God to the patterns of the past in our expectations. We’re using those memories of what He’s done in the past to remember that He is always and still doing more for our future. We go from glory to glory, from strength to strength, and we’re meant to live in great expectation of His work and goodness.