crying

It is perhaps the revelation every parent comes to at some point. I can’t take the pain away. But you try, the baby falls over and you swoop in to pick her up. The toddler runs too fast for new feet and smashes a knee, your kisses make it all better. Is there anything a regular parent wouldn’t do to take the pain away from their child?

Our kids have their own ways of processing our in-betweenness right now. One of them remarked the other day, Maybe we will never find a car or a house or a job. He wasn’t even talking to us, just sort of throwing the thought into the air. And we see their unsettledness in the night waking, the tantrum throwing. Tonight he asked me if we could go back to Stockholm and buy a house there. Every day I see evidence of their hurting hearts, and everything in me wants to rush in, say the words that sound good, do the thing that will make the tears stop, and take his pain away.

But I’ve done almost nothing. I’ve sat there, reflected his words back to him and rubbed his back. Not because I think it’s the best thing for me to do, but because I have no idea how to fix this, and authenticity is something I aim for as I love my kids. And I know that there is no real answer in the in between we are in right now. We are waiting, waiting and waiting some more. I don’t know when we will find a house, I don’t know that everything in our shipment will be as it was when it left Stockholm, I don’t know if my sons will be happier here than they were in Stockholm. I have no idea, so I do the only thing I can. I nod my head, and I listen. I pray he knows there is a safe space in me for all of his emotions.

Maybe I’m looking into the future to a time of broken hearts and girls, to jobs lost or exams failed or friendships betrayed, and I can see the truth: I won’t be able to do anything about it. There is a deception about these little years, the feeling that I can do something, I hold the keys to their health, happiness and security. But I do not. I am not their healer and provider. 

And there is yet another side to all of this. My boys have no idea if we will ever get a car or a house or find work because they have no memory of having to search for these things in the past. They got carried to car seats, they ran around a house they loved. The work involved in finding these things? They knew nothing of it. I know we will find a car and a house even though I have no idea how or when these things will materialise.

I’m doing some tantrum-throwing, too, not in public of course, but into my pillow, words poured out to God, Why? Why does it have to be so hard? Why does it have to take so long? When will my life get back to normal? When will my children stop waking us up at 6am? 

I wrote several weeks ago about wrestling with God, and I am still living in that place right now. One morning a few weeks ago, the boys were stirring and getting up around 5:30am, way too early for us and way too early for them. We lay in bed and prayed, and I don’t mean just prayed, Husband and I begged God to make the boys go back to sleep. They didn’t, they woke up, the morning was unpleasant. We were unpleasant, and there has been a lot of this. Many, many prayers thrown at God, without the answers we hope returning to us. And there is profound pain in this process, it shows me the things I long for, why I long for them, and why it hurts when things don’t go as I want them to. But there have always been answers, even if it is not the answer we hope for, God has spoken clearly in the middle of our questions, there is a light leading us on this path. It is a path that shows us daily a bit more about who God is and he is showing us who we are as well. 

This is what I am trying to say: I need to let my boys face the pain in their lives because this is teaching them something about life and about God, something that is necessary for a long-term life of health and wholeness. I could give them words and things and experiences that numb their pain, but that only trains them to turn away from pain and toward what they can consume to take the ache away. It is a set up in the direction of addiction and escape. They need to know that experiencing pain is a normal part of life, and that our God will be their companion in the middle of it. And while it is tempting to speak my promises to them – think something along the lines of We will find a house soon! It will be amazing! – turning their hearts toward God’s promises gives them tools for the futureJesus is with us, he will never leave us, he has good plans for us, he will take care of us, those who trust in the Lord are safe. These things are true.

Every day that I live this out with them, I am giving myself another gift. The daily reminder that I am God’s child, and he doesn’t come to take away my pain. He comes to redeem it. Redemption is not escape or numbness. It is an exchange, it requires a total and complete acknowledgement of what happens, it is never ignoring the bad. I have lived this year after year for over a decade now, and I see it in story after story in the Bible. Deep pain, profound human failures, and a God who sees it all. He didn’t make it go away, he hung on a cross in the middle of our pain and experienced it.  God knows the pain for the hurt that it causes, and in his time and in his way, he exchanges it for something beautiful, he turns it into something we cannot imagine. Only God can do this. 

Beauty for ashes. The oil of gladness instead of mourning. A garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. So that we may be oaks of righteousness, his planting, that we may stand forever in strength and beauty, smiling at the future because we know we are in safe hands. 

Now it’s your turn: What pain in your life do you need to face today? What do you need to believe about who God is to help you do this? 

I’m linking up with Jennifer and Holley today. 

air travel
It is hour I don’t even know what anymore on this flight that is too long, on a trip that seemed to never come. We are flying to Melbourne today. German countryside fades into specks in the foggy oval window, my last glimpses of Europe and the dreams I buried in hard earth.

How many cities have I watched disappear into that fog in my lifetime? I can buckle my seatbelt with my eyes closed.

/

When I was a little girl, we only listened to Christian music. I used to think in tiny boxes, a pile of black ones on one side and a pile of white ones on the other side. But airplanes were one of the few times I got a taste of the music that was out there. On a British Airways flight from Sri Lanka to London, I first heard those words, Got a picture of you beside me, got your lipstick marks still on your coffee cup. This was back in the day when each channel on an airplane radio station had a set one-hour or so play list and it played on a loop. It was a total delight to an uncool one like me, I would wait and wait for the song I wanted to hear and delight in the fact that I could hear it multiple times before the flight was over.

Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it. I just want you back for good. 

It was over a decade later when I found out it was Take That who sang those words, but wherever I am even today if I hear Gary Barlow’s mellow voice singing, I guess now it’s time for me to give up, I am 13 again, a geeky country Filipina girl with long frizzy hair sitting on an airplane, wondering where she belonged because when your life is in boxes but you aren’t a square, you get left out of your own story.

I scratched out the words in my journal. It was the best song I had ever heard.

//

It is 2001. Train releases Drops of Jupiter, and I listen to the radio now. I’ve wanted it that way, known the meaning of being lonely, and said bye, bye, bye to friends in Manila, Philippines and friends in Fayetteville, Arkansas. It’s another flight, United, I think, and I listen to Drops of Jupiter again and again and again.

Now that she’s back from her soul vacation, tracing her way through the constellation…

I am sailing tens of thousands of kilometers in the air, and I can pretend that this is my story, somewhere there is a nonexistent person – preferably he is tall and resembles George Clooney (grace please, I was 17) – and he’s waiting for me to land while I look for myself out there. Because I used to think an adventure was needed for change to come, it needed to be big, bold and radical for it to be real.

///

Those were the years when flying meant leisurely hours to watch movies, sleep, crochet and read books. Or to just stare out the window and think about nothing. But this is 2015. Not this flight, not with Little Bear clutching at my clothes as he tries to fall asleep. We cried our tears and said goodbye to Husband’s family, the boys run through security, and delightedly climb into their seats next to the oval windows. Big Boy gets his seat belt on without my help, he’s only interested to see if Cars is on the Emirates media program. It is. Little Bear sits in my lap and plays with my face, with his seat belt, with anything he can touch.

Wheels are off the ground, and I grab the headphones to find music. I’ve hardly listened to any music in the past five years. Beyonce has songs other than Crazy in Love? What? A song called Roar? Who is Katy Perry? I’m mid-30 and have two kids, is that a good excuse?

So this flight I go to the CD of the year, 1989 by Taylor Swift. I listened to it for most of the six hour flight to Dubai and again on the 13-hour flight to Melbourne. Apparently my old habits haven’t died.

Because here I am, wife, mother, woman, moving yet again. The world is a bed of clouds under this piece of machine, and I am taking flight. Higher, higher.

I used to think in boxes of black and white and stories that were big and bold, but now I am small, a speck of molecules and dust zooming through the clouds, living, loving, learning and it is time to meet the next change. There is no morality prize, no medal for pretend heroism, only the reward that comes from slow, painful growth. 

So here we go, a landscape I have forgotten, a life I do not have, a place waiting for us, a story waiting to be written. And I can hear the song in my head, I can feel the wanting for something more, searching for the song I’ve not heard before. The wide expanse of wild Australian earth stretches out its red-carpet welcome to Melbourne, and underneath are the everlasting arms carrying me home.

And it’s a new soundtrack. I could dance to this beat. Forevermore. 

This post is part of Sarah Bessey’s synchroblog for her #OutofSortsBook. I’ve been a huge fan of Sarah’s writing on faith, life and motherhood for the past years. I haven’t read this book, but I’m sure it is full of her beautiful insights and prose. Go check out the synchroblog for other blog posts about I used to think ______ but now I think ______.

photo (3)

It was November last year, I think Husband was away on a business trip, and it was the dark, cold and rainy end to a Swedish autumn. The clouds sometimes did not lift for days, the black faded around 8am and then 8:30 and then 9 by the time Christmas rolled around. Light disappeared in the afternoon at 4pm then 3:30 then 3. And before you know it, your day is spent in this little sandwich of light. Sometimes there is sunshine, the yellow ball inching its way to the top of trees before dropping back down again, but most days it is a weird grey lightness under a blanket of clouds. Even after one winter, getting out and about in the darkness was still intimidating.

One afternoon I piled my boys into the car and drove to my friends for an afternoon play date and dinner. I don’t remember the details, likely all of us were crying at some point or another, one child requiring a time out, the other a cuddle, Please share admonitions flowing freely, scowls about dinner and anything else you can imagine. But the chaos of a few hours with lots of kids is worth it for the soul-strength of being with a friend. I will probably say this as long as I live, there is nothing more necessary for the years with small kids than a friend who has small kids as well.

When it was time to go home, it was easily after 6pm, in other words the hours marching toward the worst time of the day for a one-and-three-and-a-half-year-olds. It was pitch black outside and raining, Husband was not at home and wouldn’t be there for another few days. I could feel the anxiety starting to clutch at my chest when I thought about getting home.

Getting the kids out of the car, where are my car keys? I can’t see to walk to the door, will the boys get wet and sick? What if I drop the keys between the stairs and can’t get in the house at all, what will I do then? I can’t give them both attention right away when I get home, how will I put them both to bed on my own? I have to drive in the dark and the rain.

A spiral of thoughts leading toward one destination, I cannot do this.

I walked across the large grassy field toward the parking lot to put the boys in the car for the drive home, and I started driving. The last song we listened to started back up again, Grace Abounds from Hillsong’s album, Cornerstone, and these were the words that came blasting through the speakers.

Your grace abounds to me. Your grace abounds to me. Jesus, in you I find all that I need. 

I could feel the prick of hot tears in my eyes, as strength started to rise up in my soul, and I find the faith to declare, to believe, that yes, grace abounds to me. I started singing the words as loud as I could, allowing the truth to wash out the self-doubt and the fear.

In this moment when I feel overwhelmed and weak, when I look at the minutes ahead of me and can imagine all the ways in which I cannot do it, God holds out an invitation to me to believe. Grace abounds to you, there is no lack, grace carries you, strengthens you, gives you everything you need, you have everything you need in Jesus.

That was last year. November 2015 in some ways is polar opposite. I’m in the southern hemisphere where the sun shines brightly almost every day, and we run around barefoot outside because it has been so warm. But my life feels even more overwhelming than last year. Our kids are more defiant, we’ve moved country and continent, we are in the process of setting up a life in a place that is mostly unfamiliar. Every day I have reason to be discouraged and overwhelmed, every day we have enough things facing us that make us feel like we cannot do this.

This is the lie of our time, the subtext under every product, self-help book or piece of advertising. Your life lacks something. You are lacking. In every difficult you and I face, these are the words that come back to us, it is the script out of which we live our lives. Lack. Not enough. 

I’ve been thinking about that moment in my car last year, and tonight as I type these words out before I turn in for the night, I am offering it to myself. Grace abounds to me, my life has no lack. 

I won’t pretend to know what faces you today, but I know life holds its share of pain, difficulty, confusion and discouragement. Can I offer you these simple words?

His grace abounds to you. His grace abounds to you. 

In this moment of weakness, he comes with his grace, and his grace is sufficient for you, he will make his power perfect in your weakness. He is everything you need. 

I’m linking up with Jennifer and Holley today. 

This post is day 31. New to the series? Start here. And if you want hundreds of other great 31 Days topics, you can find them here.

falling forward design logo

Here we are at the end of October. A friend of mine told me I forgot to blog yesterday, and I didn’t even realize it. My sister, Husband and I were watching the season finale of Masterchef Australia, which is officially the best TV show in the whole entire world. Apparently I completely forgot to write for day 30, or maybe I’m running out of things to say about transition? I don’t think so, but life in yet another new country, one where we have to work on a visa, and look for a place to live and a car to drive, is proving to be a handful and a mind-full.

I’m going to keep this conclusion short and sweet. Thank you so much for reading along this month. October for the past few years has been all about blogging daily, and it’s been a space for me to work out my process. I always appreciate anyone who listens along and adds their own thoughts, and you’ve done that for me.

I have a feeling I’ll be writing about transition for many more days to come in the next months, so I’m sure you will see more Falling Forward posts in the future.

In the mean time, I want to leave you with two 31 Days series that have blessed my heart immensely.

Leslie of Scraping Raisins has been writing 31 Days of Re-entry, it is the perfect companion series to the one I’ve been writing on transition. Reading Leslie’s words has been like reading my own mind as I’ve gone through re-entry in the past (and now).

Shelly Miller has been writing 31 Letters from London, it’s her unfiltered thoughts about living as a foreigner in London and the ways God has met her there. Day after day I read her words, and it was like God’s words to me. This series has been the perfect devotional companion for me during my own transition.

Hopefully I’ll be able to keep writing in the weeks to come. My plan is to blog on Monday and Friday every week, so that’s when you can expect posts in your mailbox if you are a subscriber, and if you aren’t, check in here on those days.

Have a lovely weekend, my friends. Wherever you are and whatever you are facing, may you experience the deep peace of knowing you are in the presence of Jesus.

This post is day 29. New to the series? Start here. Thanks to all of you who have shared these posts and commented, I so appreciate it. Do say hello if you’ve been reading or are new. It would be lovely to meet you. And if you want hundreds of other great 31 Days topics, you can find them here.

falling forward design logo

I wrote these words in my last week in Germany as I wrestled with our In Between-ness. The circumstances are different today, a week after we moved to Australia, but the sentiments are still the same.

I pause in the morning, and I write down what I know is true, I write down what I see.

We get to stay with Mama, she cooks for us, cleans for us and does our laundry. Thank you, God.

I get to spend more time with Husband’s friends whom I love, I get to have a community and family in Frankfurt, thank you God.

The sun has been shining, and it is so beautiful. Thank you, God.

Husband gets time with our boys that he’s never had before. They love it and adore him. Thank you, God.

They are speaking German more and more, and so am I, with increasing confidence and skill. Thank you, God.

We fly today to Australia, this day is finally here. Thank you, God. 

Open wider, oh eyes. Can you see his goodness here in the In Between? Can you feel the tender touch of grace that is always there even when pain says, it is only I here.

I can feel my spirit lighten.

Gratitude is my guide through the In Between, it is the gentle teacher that leads me truthfully in a pathway of peace. Worry, fear and doubt try to steal my attention and my joy, but thanksgiving is my bed of rest and beauty.

transition