Hand Over My Mouth

 

Twice this summer we’ve narrowly escaped breaking a bone.

First time was Ken, about a week ago, stepping backwards on the dock at the marina as we were tying up the boat.  His foot dropped into the space between two sections, and he fell with a mighty thud right on his back.

I saw it happen.  In slow-mo.  And there was no doubt in my mind that he’d broken his leg.  But when there was no screaming, and he quickly caught his breath, put his hat back on and got up, we were both surprised.  And so grateful.  Thank you, Lord for Your protection, today.  Both of us said it several times over the next hours.  And he’s told the story to a few other people, with the same expression of gratitude at the end.

Then yesterday it was my turn.  I finally got out to the south side of our cottage where there’s a wooden platform that leads to the pump.  So much growth had crowded into that space that we could hardly get around to turn on the hose, and it was completely covering some important pipes that need to stay clear in case of any plumbing problems. 

Out there with the shears I started hacking away with great enthusiasm.  It was quite satisfying, I have to say.  But one step over and – crackthud! – my leg dropped through a rotting board right to the ground.  It went straight down.  And I didn’t lose my balance or fall in any direction.  So, other than the startle of it, there wasn’t as much of a threat of a broken bone.  But there were nails sticking out, and I had to gingerly lift my pant leg to see if anything nasty had happened in the lacerations department.  Nothing.  Not a break, not a sprain, not a scratch.

And I said it almost immediately.  Thank you, Lord!! 

Wow!  We’re two for two this summer.

And of course we see the hand of God lovingly protecting us, and mightily blessing us in these and countless other ways.  And of course, our faithful response is one of gratitude, reverence and awe. 

So much goodness in this summer for us.  Lots of thank yous here.

And.

Today is the anniversary of the tragic death in a motorcycle accident of Bee, 20-year-old son of Suradet and Yupa, brother to Bell.  It was seven years ago.  He was not at fault.  He was wearing a helmet.  A large truck was backing in illegally on the other side of a blind corner.  A five-minute difference would have spared his life. 

And.

On the same day five years later Yupa would lose her father to leukemia.

The same day.

Grief upon grief.

And I don’t know what to say to all of that. 

Sometimes it feels like I should know what to say to all that.

But I don’t.

I am a theologian of sorts.  I preach and write and live out a faith in a God I believe is good.  I’ve studied the Bible for my entire life, still plumbing its depths, re-reading it in cadence with cultural shifts, anchored to its power to cut to the marrow.  But I still don’t have a tidy answer.  I don’t really have any answer at all.

I refuse to engage the useless question “Why?”  Although it does press my mind and tempt me to pull apart in senseless speculation.  Instead, I turn to what I do know.

I do know that I am called to gratitude for the blessings of God on my life and that He does love me.

“Oh give thanks to the LORD for He is good;  For His steadfast love endures forever.” 1 Chronicles 16:34

 I do know that much of what we experience in life, good or bad, is simply part of living on this planet in this time between promise and fulfillment.

“He lets rain fall on them whether they are just or unjust…on both evil and good people, and He lets rain fall on the righteous and the unrighteous.”  Matthew 5:45

 I do know that Jesus never promised we’d live without pain, only that He’d win.

 “In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

 And I do believe in His promise that one day…

 “He will wipe every tear from their eyes.  There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”  Revelation 21:4

It should be noted that for all their sorrow, Suradet and Yupa have known great blessings as well, for which they readily and frequently give praise.

 And Ken and I, for all the incredible blessings of our lives, have known sorrow too.  Deeply.

 There’s a lot to talk about here.

 Job had a lot to discuss with God.

Nothing seemed right or fair in the midst of all his unspeakable losses.  But unspeakable was what it came down to in the end.

When confronted with the vastness of Yahweh, far beyond the matters of his one life, all Job could do was say nothing.

 “Then the LORD said to Job, ‘Do you still want to argue with the Almighty?  You are God’s critic, but do have the answers?’  Then Job replied to the LORD,  ‘I am nothing – how could I ever find the answers?  I will cover my mouth with my hand.’”  Job 40:3-7

So today, I am over the top grateful for God’s protection for both Ken and I this summer.

Today I grieve with my Thai family in this excruciating loss.

“The LORD gives and the LORD takes away.  Blessed be the name of the LORD.”  Job 1:21

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Still Waters and Still Learning

 

A rainy morning keeps me from heading out on paddle number 30.  Oh so close to surpassing my all time high of 33!  I did not get there last year.  But I’m holding out hope that over the next few days while I’m here, the wind and water will cooperate and I’ll get to that elusive 34 (or maybe better, who knows).

Meanwhile, here are some of my favourite kayak shots.

And a story.

This will explain why I’ve adopted a perhaps more cautious approach to getting myself out there, and why I only put this out as a ‘friendly competition’ with myself about how many times I get around the island. 

It is nearing the end of the season last year.  That means I am experiencing the same kind of tension, even a little bit of self-inflicted pressure, to make it past 33.  My hands-down preferred condition for a paddle is when the water is like glass, not a whisper of a breeze, mist hanging in perfectly still suspension, looking for all the world like floating cotton candy, pink in the subtle slant of sunrise.

This particular morning is not like that.  It is breezy.  Even in our protected channel the water is rippled.  Not stormy, or there wouldn’t be a story because I’d have stayed home in that.  Of course.  Like sensible people do.  But…yes…there is a stiff breeze.

I decide to head out and then make a decision about how far I’ll go once I get to the end of The Shadow.  For those not familiar with Cognashene or the Freddy Channel specifically, The Shadow is a particularly narrow and also very shallow part of a side channel that leads out into a wider part of the bay that then leads out into the open water. 

It’s in coming out of the shelter of The Shadow that I often encounter waters just a bit rougher.  Not always.  Early in the morning it’s not unknown to have even the wide space of water at that tip of Portage Island be calm.  I always take a picture because I just love it when that happens. 

But usually, yes, at the end of The Shadow, I can tell.  Should I turn back because it’s just too rough?  Or can I press on through?

I’m a confident enough kayaker that I can handle some waves without freaking out.  Not white-water rafting or anything like that.  But something that makes me work for it?  Well, that’s not entirely a bad thing.  In fact, it can be exhilarating.  Puts air in your lungs.  Gets the blood pumping.

So on this particular morning, it’s more like that.  And since I have a point to prove and a number to achieve, I start out. 

You know when you get to the point in any endeavor where you realize you’re probably out of your depth but you’re committed and there’s nothing for it but to keep on?  Took a bigger bite than you can really handle, but you just have to chew anyways?  Picked up too many grocery bags at once, but you have to get up the stairs with them anyways?  Yeah.  It’s like that.

I really have to pump the paddle!  And I’m convinced that the wind comes up even more as I head around the point that marks half way.  It’s the roughest bit.  And now I am actually getting a little nervous, because the waves are strong enough that I have to really work it to keep from being banged up against the rocks.

Into this increasingly anxious scenario comes the sound of a large boat behind and beside me.  It seems to be rounding the point too.  I guess this from the sound only, since I don’t dare look up and try to stretch around to see for sure, lest I catch a wave broadside and be capsized. 

Two thoughts happen simultaneously when I realize there are people on the boat watching me struggle in the waves.  One is that I must look quite the fool.  A 65-year-old woman thinking she could tackle this wind?  How embarrassing!

The other is relief.  Well, at least if I do capsize, there’ll be someone to fish me out.

It gets worse.

The people in the boat recognize me.  It’s Ruth Anne!  Yes, Pastor Ruth Anne who leads us in our opening service at our Church up here on the rocks every year.  The one who often uses illustrations from kayaking to talk about serenity and wisdom.  Yes, I do believe that’s her out here in this bluster.  How odd.

All of this they say in my head.  But what they do say out loud is, “Are you okay?”

By now I’ve rounded the worst of it and am heading into another sheltered inlet.  Knowing the contours of Portage Island as I do, I know that the rest of the trip is going to be very doable, no question.  I try not to sound as winded as I am when I shout, “I’ll be fine from here on in.  But thanks!”

I only made 33 last year.  That’s why.

And this morning it’s raining and a tad breezy so I’m staying put.  For now.

Will I get out this afternoon?  Will I reach 34 this summer?  Will unsuspecting cottagers have to rescue me from my own folly?  Stay tuned for another exciting episode of “Ruth Anne’s Krazy Kayak Adventures.” 

But really, I’ll just keep you posted once I make 34.

And I hope whatever comes your way this Wednesday, you’ll be granted the serenity to accept the waters as they are, the courage to head out when you can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Holding Space in the Countdown

 

Just took this picture this minute.

This is the view from my "office" this morning.

Being perfectly honest here?

I think I'm resisting the end of this summer more than usual.

I'm a summer girl and I am always loathe to leave behind the long days and glorious skies and all this time by the water.

But this year feels different. I've loved working from here this summer, and got so much done in the quieter way of being. But until now everyone else has been on a slower summer schedule too. Now it's time to ramp things up.

I'm excited, really I am, for all that's coming this fall. Sending out the emails and carrying out the many tasks at hand.

And even though in the past I've been the one to cheer everyone on into the new season, and even though advance planning is sort of a strength of mine, and even though all that sort of describes my job at the moment, I find myself holding back a little.

Holding space for right now.

I just want to look out at this view while I work today. Let the Spirit linger in it. Let Him inspire me, fill me, continue to heal me in all the ways He does. Every. Single. Summer.

So today.

Tuesday.

Holding space for the right now of these last days of summer.

Teachers on a countdown.

Students and their parents on a countdown.

Church leaders and planners on a countdown.

Campers and cottagers and backyard bbq-ers.

We're in a good space.

I hope your summer has been wonderful enough to make you want to hold on to these last days with reverence and gratitude.

My Girl

 

Because she asked me to, I am gently waking Abby to tell her the morning is perfect for a paddle, so she'd best get out of bed. It's already 6:30, but by this time in the year that's sunrise. The sweet spot of the morning, before any breeze even wisps in.

Mist is on the water. Everything's flat and quiet. Just a few spiders to chase out of her kayak, and we're off.

Monday morning magic.

And I'm not sure what fills me most; the silent sacredness of the morning, or the fact that she actually wants to do this with me.

I don't know if all Grammas are insecure in this way, but personally, I'm amazed that my teenagers still want to hang out with me. Mind you, the cottage itself has a pretty strong draw on its own, so there's that.

Even so. That your 17 year old granddaughter thinks it's a good idea to come up for the weekend when only the old fogies are here is, well, pretty groovy.

We teamed up on Grandad and kicked his butt in Scrabble. Well, the second time. The first time we got demolished, but never mind. She went swimming while I took the pictures. We fed chipmunks and blue jays. We set up cozy, loungy nests on the deck, and we both read, and I wrote stuff, and she sketched. And we lay kitty-corner on Gramma's bed propped up with so many pillows, solving all the problems of the world.

Daughter of my daughter.
How is it possible that this amazing human soul and I belong to one another?

Honestly? I'm not really sure how it gets any better than this.

Written and pictures shared with permission, because that's a real thing.  

Risky Prudence and Prudent Risks

I'm not a forest forager, so we're not in danger here.

Just couldn't help noticing the rather large mushrooms that sprung up overnight right beside our kayak stand off to the side of the deck. The second picture has my sandal in it for size reference.

Oy!

Mushrooms have been in abundance this season, at least around here. And, come to think of it, in our backyard in the city, as I've noticed when we've been there for a bit.

Some folks are mushroom-smart and know which are okay and which are not. Like, very not. There's a whole list on line of poisonous mushrooms in Ontario. There's even one with the name "destroying angel", and just in case anyone was wondering, don't eat that one.

I don't know what this one is. That's why I'm not even going to touch it. And if anyone is tempted to tell me it's okay to eat by looking at this photo, just know that even the poison control center, and other reputable sources refuse to identify mushrooms based on a picture.

So, I stay away.

I am by nature more on the cautious side anyways. I say that, then realize that my life's story actually includes a lot of times when I said a risky "Yes." And it makes me realize that there has to be a both/and tension here, like living abundantly requires.

So no mushrooms thank you very much.
But I will step out in faith when it's called for.
I will walk a tightrope when it's the only way forward.
I will take a chance and pass the baton,
or make an investment,
or let trust bridge a gap when I can't see the whole way ahead.

And to be honest, I think there's a fair bit of that ahead for the fall. It's time to put some planning into action, to take some bold steps, and see where God is leading.

To the best of my ability to understand these things, all of it has been at His behest in the first place. We might say it's some specifics and timing being laid on the obvious call to shelter the poor and feed the hungry that has been right there in Isaiah 58 and Matthew 25 for centuries.

So, no to the mushrooms, yes to the adventure.
And may God grant us the wisdom to know the difference.

Making Friends, Keeping Friends: An Introvert's Musings on Being Away This Long

 

"Above all, keep loving one another earnestly,
since love covers a multitude of sins."
1 Peter 4:8

Another coolish grey day keeps me indoors to work at our eating table, instead of my 'work station' on the deck. That's okay. The view is still pretty, being right on the water like we are, and there being so many friends to keep me company.

Just one example. There are about a dozen blue jays who have discovered I have peanuts and now want to be friends with me. I don't mind, even if I can't quite trust their relational motivation. Especially since the noisy bunch includes two very young ones. I can tell because they don't even have a crest yet, and their heads are still rather downy.

I was not able to capture a picture of the youngsters. They are far too skittish, and even with me being on the other side of the window, any movement for the camera sends them off.

No matter. When I'm inside it's still fun because all I have to do is line up some peanuts on the deck railing and I get no end of visits.

Pause for a moment to do a introvert's calculation.

Last night I recorded in my journal that this is day 51 here, but that's counting cottage opening and the week we were here in May. By June 18 when we really parked ourselves here, I was already at day 8.

Time in Thailand, including travel was a full 14 days. So, since June 18 I've been away from the city for 55 of 67 days this summer so far.

I'm going somewhere with all of this, at least I hope I am, so bear with me.

That's a fair bit of time to be away from friends.
My family has been here a lot, so we're leaning toward the right balance there.
And there was needful time spent with our Thai family. No worries about that.
But I have to admit, as a I make friends with the blue jays, I can't help but consider the effects of times away on my other relationships.

Good thing for Zoom and Facebook and phone calls, and the interludes when we've been back in Waterloo when there's been time for lunches and porch visits and such. Good thing for August 13 when I was with my peeps at Highview and I got a good fill of hugs.

But still.
Even as an introvert.
It feels like a long time away.

I am coming to believe that much of life is lived in the tension between equal but opposite true things. This is one of them.

Both.

I very truly and even desperately need this time away every year. The odd seasons when this hasn't been possible have proven to me the spiritual necessity of retreat. It feeds me and heals me in ways I can hardly explain. Except if you're an introvert, then you might get it.

And.

I consider myself rich beyond imagination because of the scope and depth and breadth of my relational world. I can't believe I get to love and know, and be loved and known by such a vivid and varied slice of humanity. Every single person in my life is a treasure to my soul, worthy of good and mindful attention and love. In person, even, but in every way possible.

I consider this relational overflow part of the abundant life Jesus promised (John 10:10), and a huge part of what makes this era of my life in particular so robust.

As I write, we're not done here. There are still some parts of the building and property reclamation project that need to be completed before winter sets in.

But more than that. There's still at least seven more times around the island in the kayak to do if I want to surpass my record of 33 and go for 34. There's still a weekend with a granddaughter, and possibly ending the summer here with some friends to try out the new bunkie as a guest house.

And there's blue jays to befriend,.
And still waters to be led to.
And some restoring of soul left to do.

I'm not done.

And yet I can start to feel the pull back into my relational orbits. All the things that are in the works for the fall, and all the spectacular people I get to do them with.

Thank you.

Likely, if you're reading this, especially all the way to the end, you are one of the treasures of my heart, and I am so glad you're in my life. And hopefully I've told you that privately too. I miss you.

So there it is for a slow Thursday morning.
Sending love.

Obviously Invisible

 

"God is not unjust; He will not forget your work and the love you have shown Him as you have helped His people and continue to help them."
Hebrews 6:10

A gentle rain will keep us indoors today, I think. And that's okay.

We've had several days in a row of strenuous physical labour tearing down one of the outbuildings on our property. Then yesterday we took a big load of shingles and insulation and pressure treated wood to the dump.

Heavy stuff, 236 kg to be exact. We know how much it was, since in order to pay the fee, we get weighed in and weighed out. And we schlepped all that down the steep hill to the boathouse, onto the boat, off the boat and into the van, and then off the van into the bins at the dump.

We're all tuckered out.

So a day to stay indoors and turn to less physical work is welcome. There's lots on my list that needs my attention now if "all the fall things" are to unfold in any sort of orderly manner. Lots in the works, and it's all very exciting, with so many little/big tasks and important details to make it happen. So today will be all about that, I think.

And maybe baking cookies.

And it strikes me that no matter what we're doing, there's always the bits that are absolutely necessary but get completely overlooked. Everything I just described, even baking the cookies, has obscure elements that, if left undone would render the task undoable, or incomplete. Components so obvious they can become invisible, yet, if not in place, would leave the whole thing unworkable.

Like the hinge on the front screen door of the cottage.

And I'm thinking this morning about the countless folks who serve in so many capacities to make the world a sweeter, kinder, more equitable place. People who understand what they do to be deeply connected to seeing God's will done on earth as it is in heaven. Vocationally or as volunteers.

People who take temperatures, hand out sandwiches, stand by bedsides as folks are dying. Those who drive others to appointments, preach sermons, change adult diapers. People who sit with confused teenagers just to listen, or clean up after a neighbourhood event, or rehearse on a beautiful Saturday afternoon to be ready for a worship service on Sunday. People who answer the phone in the wee hours of the morning. Or patiently explain something yet again to an adult having a tantrum. Or whatever it is that has just come to your mind that you do that's essential but no one seems to notice or appreciate.

And all of it is heavy, but there's no weighing in and weighing out so you can prove how much you've done. And there's no cool black and white close up of it to prove that you're even there just doing your job.

There's just the doing of it, and the very real potential that it gets tedious, and you feel forgotten.

So, on this rainy Wednesday morning, can I just say,
God sees you.
And thank you.
Thank you for being faithful in the invisible tedium of what you do to make the world a sweeter, kinder, more equitable place, moving us ever closer to where God's will is being done on earth as it is in heaven.

Now. I'd better go take the butter out of the fridge to soften, or there won't be any cookies.

I hear Ken making a fire. How cozy!

Let's see what else this day brings.

Messy Healing

 

If you've been following along, you likely already know that we are several seasons now into a property reclamation passion project that is all about restoration, legacy and family.

And it's a mess.

As well as posting pictures of the new buildings, the bunkie and the boathouse, I thought it might be more honest to let you in on some of the not-so-pretty parts of the progress.

This week it was an outbuilding we've always called "The Boys' Annex" that had to come down. It was caving in anyways, and was required by the building permit from the township to be removed before inspection next month.

Maybe it sounds easy to tear down a building, but it's not. There are so many piles you have to sort the wreckage into; asphalt shingles, fiberglass insulation, old paint cans and other hazardous materials.

Then there's the fact that despite our mocking of 'old building standards' when these structures were first erected, the silly thing just won't come down! All the disassembling, knocking out supporting beams, and cranking on the winch is only barely eventually enough to get three walls to collapse. And for that one wall, I'm convinced, due to timing, that it was a mighty sneeze from Ken that brought it down. (If you don't think this is possible, you haven't heard my husband sneeze!)

So we've done all the grunt work and sweat equity, and most of it is down. And now we have a mighty mess to clean up.

All towards the vision of having a tranquil place for the next generation of family and friends to retreat to.

If not for the vision, it would be ridiculous. And overwhelming. Moving towards reclamation is a crazy, disorganized, sometimes even dangerous process.

Maybe you know this.

And now, oh so many Scriptures come to mind about growing and how messy it can be. But I'll just touch on two.

"And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast."
1 Peter 5:10

After you have suffered. In the midst of the mess.

"I am confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."
Philippians 1:6

And in both these texts it's notable that it's Jesus doing all the reclamation work, not us by our own efforts. Yes, I think there is hard work involved in any kind of healing or restoration. But it's more on Him than it is on us. Good thing, because to be honest, in my own healing stories, it would never have happened if it was up to me.

So if you are in the middle of a mess right now, hang in. It's almost always like that on the way to something grand.

The water is ridiculously calm this morning, which is a lovely contrast to the messy job we will tackle again today.

 

Hope your Tuesday is spectacular in all the ways you need it to be

The Search for Self

 

I have a somewhat embarrassing confession to make.

Every year at the cottage I try for the perfect selfie.

At no other time of the year and in no other place on the planet do I point the camera at myself and do a rapid fire succession of facial expressions, head tilts and camera angles. I don't even do this in front of Ken, it feels that silly and self-obsessed. Even the name we've given this - selfie - is telling.

And yet here I am, apparently vain enough to share this year's results with all of you. 'Cuz, well, I kinda like this one. (What's the emoji for sheepish grin?)

Like most people, I'm guessing, I don't consider myself to be particularly photogenic. Never have. So if I can grab a capture I don't hate, that's worth keeping.

Comes in handy since I'm surprisingly at a stage of my work life where I can be asked for a CV and a headshot. Oh, see what I did there? I just made my search for the perfect selfie into something that sounds practical, justifiable even.

I'm not sure if it seems like this to you, but to me I sure feels like we live in a culture obsessed with self. Or maybe it's just one of the foibles of being human. Our default is set inward. Identity and expression and being true to ourselves is everything. And capturing the "perfect" image to present to the world is everything.

The perfect "selfie" might also be made up of titles or achievements or anything else that we think will impress others or elevate our status. Making sure to remind everyone that we are smartest person in the room. Always having to have the last word. Casting criticisms on others so as to deflect attention from our own deficits. The list of the insidious ways we do this is endless.

Here's another thing about being at the cottage. Every year I feel it. The absence of this very pressure to perform, look good, be someone. And in that space, with the company of my journal, and a tender Shepherd Whose rod and staff nudge me in better directions, I find a better way to be my 'self'.

"I have called you by name," God says in Isaiah 43:1.
"And you are mine."

Yes, I know this whole identity thing is complex.
Letting go of all the expectations is almost a daily discipline.
But for me it's so freeing just to rest in understanding myself not obsessed with self, but aligned with this Love.

And come to think of it,
the people I find most beautiful
are those who radiate Him. 

Today is Forty-Five

 

“We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.”

― Robert Fulghum, True Love

To mark this day with this guy is nothing short of God's goodness and grace on our lives. That He would take two utterly insecure, rather quirky teenagers, and work with us patiently, providing endless opportunities to become what He has in mind to do through us, boggles the mind.

God knew. Infinite patience, infinite grace, carrying us through some mighty messes, pouring out some unbelievable blessings.

Gifting us with a family that now includes 10, in spite of our blunders, and allowing us the joy of them.

God knew. Seeing us through the dark times of tedium and neglect when we wanted to walk away from each other. Still working on us as we mutually submit our stumbling selves to His greater purposes for our marriage.

So My Love.

I am glad we get to be weird together on this journey.

There's no one I'd rather grow old with than you.

Forty-five sure looks good on us!!!!!!!!!

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The Dreaded Car-Ride Question

 

"Gramma, how much longer?"

It's an understandable thing, when you're six and full of energy, and perpetual motion is basically you're superpower, to feel somewhat constrained and perhaps distressed by being in a car seat for any length of time.

Gramma's best efforts to pack snacks, and books, and count the cows can't compensate. Even when we 'cheat' and set up a device to watch a movie in the van, interest wanes and the inevitable question is asked.

Many times.

It would probably interest some psychologist somewhere how my answers change throughout the duration of the drive home.

It starts with a very sympathetic realism, kindly explaining time in constructs a six year old might be able to grasp, about 'after lunch' and 'before supper', with suggestions for how we might pleasantly pass the time together.

In the middle (after the question has only been asked 4,502 times) I try the imaginative 'what if we could fly?', or 'let's invent a teleporter' game where we end up not just home in record time, but on the moon or other ridiculous places.

But in the end (where I've lost count), I confess, I resort to all-out sarcasm where it will take us three months to get home. Because by now it's starting to feel a bit like that for everyone.

Except Timothy. Timothy is quite happy to occupy himself by singing the alphabet song complete with grandiose, crescendo'd endings, until suddenly he stops singing and I turn to see he's fallen asleep. Way to go Timmers. Sorry to his Mom for the later bedtime tonight.

And I should mention that there are two very reasonable teenagers in the very back happily occupying themselves in conversation about the characters in the book series they are concurrently reading. Now that's a bonus!

Jayden, however.

Poor kid.

It was a long ride home.

And.

Sarcasm aside, I get it. Because I can be like that. Impatient on the journey. How many times have I asked God the very same question? "How much longer?"

I'm not alone.

Psalm 13:1

How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever?

How long will you hide your face from me?

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts

and every day have sorrow in my heart?

Sometimes life seems like an excruciatingly drawn out car ride.

And I wonder if God, knowing that this is the only way home, just wants us to settle in and cease striving and count the cows for a while until we get where we're going.

2 Peter 3:8-9

The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not willing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance.

In no way do I want to diminish the way pain and suffering draws out time. It does. And I think Jesus, hanging on the cross for all those hours, knows this. He does.

And.

We will get there.

Maybe singing is a good thing here.

Or taking a nap.

Trusting that the journey is exactly what gets us home.

The first thing that happened for Jayden upon arriving at his house was to be greeted by his playmates who basically swarmed him. And they ran around like crazy on the grass for a bit.

I think it will be like that.