Being a sporadic and inconsistent writer means I run the risk of unsubscribes every time I have a burst of creative energy. Which doesn’t matter to me in an ultimate sense, but is always slightly humiliating. People wanted to read me once, but I have not kept up my end of the bargain…and now I am cringing inside as I do when I accidentally bump into someone and cause a mess. Imsorry! Sosorry! Ididntmeantoinconvenienceyou!
And yet — I’m willing to risk it, because I’m curious about what will happen if I tell the story of this tubthumping1 sort of summer.
Hi, hello.
I don’t know if anyone who grew up in the States ever truly outgrows the sense that summer should be bike rides and popsicles, beach trips and fruity drinks, and so on and so forth. I myself can’t help “flying up on the wings of anticipation”2 as the end of our own homeschool year approaches, as we tidy up spaces (lol), make lists of what we hope to do, and attempt to create new rhythms for a new season.
(If there is a way to do this and hold loosely to the hoped-for-outcomes, I haven’t found it yet. Please advise.)
Just when we neared the end of May and had our homeschool year-end projects in sight, we woke up one morning to the urgent voice of my daughter asking, “Does anyone know why my whole bedroom is wet?”
It was not tween hyperbole.
The 8x10’ area rug was soaked, water was standing and seeping into furniture bases, and baseboards were bulging with moisture. What’s more, the same thing was present in our dining nook in the kitchen: standing puddles, a soaked rug, swelling baseboards and floor boards squishing with water from what (we would come to find out) was a busted sprinkler line that came in through windows and floors during the entire irrigation cycle that night.
We have kind friends, helpful trade connections, and generous family nearby — within two days, the majority of the mess was clean and dry; within the week the irrigation line was repaired and baseboards were replaced; after two weeks, the bedroom was purged and refreshed with new paint. It was not the end of the world, but it sure disrupted mine.
I won’t bore you with the details of further summer disruption, without and within — but I would not fault you for not believing me when I say that there was a second flood a few weeks later, when an appliance broke and the same child’s voice was heard echoing across standing water in the hallway, “Why is there so much water in the house again?”
I mentally close ranks when unexpected things happen.
My capacity shrinks, I become veryvery focused on the one or two things I can still hold a semblance of control over, and I offload anything I can. Discouragement creeps in, I feel silly for having hoped for lovely things, and if I am not alert, I find I am keeping company with resentment and bitterness.
This is not what I imagined and planned for. And yet….
And yet….there are glimpses of things as I dream they ought to be.
There are “patches of Godlight”, as C.S. Lewis wrote3.
There are little bits of wonderful, colorful, joyful, peaceful, hopeful real light and life that are mine to savor. They remind me of the ancient Celtic idea of “thin places” — sites (or, in my case, moments + experiences) where the reality of God’s presence and kindness seem nearer; where the reality of His pervasive goodness seems like something I am holding in my hands, tasting, and smelling.
For a moment or an afternoon, a day or two?, I am not grappling with the onslaught of discouragement and doubt, those fretful companions. I am instead stretching out hands to hold a holy gift of Presence and joy. Instead of a shrinking-capacity mindset, something in my inner world reaches out wide, as if I am “Home at last, and breathing the wild winds of my native land”4. In short: my insides go full Maria VonTrapp, twirling on the hills which are (surprise!) alive with the sound of music.5
I do not hold these moments as I ought to.
But there is now therefore no condemnation6.
This season may trudge on with various other “floods” — literal and figurative. Discouragement and doubt may be sticky, like that last piece of double-sided tape you can’t.get.off.your.hands.
But “I call these things to mind, and therefore I have hope: because of the Lord’s great love for us we are not consumed!” One version says, “Because of the Lord’s faithful love we do not perish, for his mercies never end.” 7
We don’t not-perish because we are excellent remember-ers and perfect truth-tellers. We do not perish —we are not consumed— because God Himself is excellent and perfect and faithful.
I may fail — at hope, at perspective, at holding out gifts of joy as a talisman against the shadow of bitterness haunting the edges of my thoughts — but He won’t.
He won’t fail.
Wait — two things —
My son is notorious for saying, “Hey, mom! One thing! No, wait — two things!” and it is not usually literally two things, it’s as many as are in his head at that time. I am borrowing this from him for my post script.
Two things making my summer less flood-y (figuratively): brewing my own cold coffee and icing my FACE. I’m sure there are scientific reasons these feel supportive, but really I just like it.
This book from
is buoying me.I can’tstopwon’tstop with this delightful word game.
I’m glad you read this (presuming you did). Questions, comments, smart remarks wildly affirmative words of hope and peace welcome.
warmly,
Don’t you remember that song by Chumbawamba? Nineties classic. “I get knocked down, but I get up again…”
Anne Shirley, anyone?
This is the full quote. This is the book it is from.
Exhibit A:
