In the event that things don't "get better," let's not give up.

The school year has started. We have three weeks under our belt, and though the first days were rough and everyone came home overwhelmed, overwhelming me in the process, we have settled into the reality of it. We are doing okay. By okay, I mean that the kids are bringing their lunches fifty percent of the time and they are turning in their homework. I have made breakfast every morning and most of their sandwiches to pack away into lunch boxes that I bought several days too late.

But this little newsletter has been taking a break. A break that came somewhat prematurely, as it had barely gotten itself off the ground. It seems that in a flurry of creative energy and pre-baby optimism, I miscalculated some things.

I thought my baby would sleep, and I would have a margin of time to write.

I thought we had been through the worst of COVID’s wringer and the world would start opening up again.

I thought the challenges of the past year and a half had not been “that bad” for us and that I still had enough faith and stamina to fuel me through whatever 2021 held.

Lo and behold, none of those things proved to be true. And so, to my surprise, I have found myself crawling through the last several months, depleted and unsure if things will get better, if we’re doing it right, if I have what it takes. The newsletter, among many things, suffered.

No one promised this year would be better than the last. How could we promise-- as if we were seers and prophets, or scientists so sure with our knowledge we could predict how the biology of the world would behave? And yet somehow, we all believed it would be so. Maybe because we are used to seeing problems dealt with somewhat swiftly. We send in our troops, or our best scientists, and we get things done.

My son recently challenged me-- as he heard me complaining about the continued restrictions we face on travel and so many other areas, restrictions I’m sick to death of and ready to move on from— to remember James. James, in his letter to Christians facing all kind of difficulties, doesn’t pander to our frustrations with the hard stuff of life.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of various kinds. Because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance, and perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. “

In this season we find ourselves in, which to be honest feels like a severe “lacking” in many areas—resources, confidence, margin, energy, skills, joy, gratefulness, perspective—I am reminded that this test of faith is developing those very things I am missing.

We are being made whole, even as we are being stretched.

The words James uses here mean something akin to the end of a story reaching its satisfying end or a person coming to full maturity (Τέλειος) as well as a sense of wholeness, completeness, or satisfying unity (ὁλόκληρος). Rather than being frustrated at the futility of our pain or the sorrows and difficulties of life, trials start to reframe our narrative of who we are and how we see things. They can come alongside us and like the friend we never knew we needed, force us to become the selves God intended us to be.

When Jesus fed the thousands on the hillside with a miraculous act of bread multiplication, he followed it up with a strong word against those who are always seeking a sign. Blessed are those who believe in Him, love Him, trust Him, without signs and miracles. I think about this often now, in the middle years of my life, when things are bleak and I long for provisions that are felt, instead of resting in and adoring God for who He is.

The danger of being fed on a life of miracles and bread loaves, is that we always need more to keep us satisfied. How will we grow into maturity-- being content and satisfied with God’s love for us, remaining confident in it come what may? We grow into maturity when we are stripped of easy assurances.

I want to walk into the days ahead with a heartiness of soul that can survive when things don’t go well. And yet, as the school year started and the newest onslaught of difficulties came charging our way—from living in this particular foreign country, to dealing with growing pains in our teen children—I found myself feeling unprepared. My spirit was languishing, depleted and fed up with the challenges on every side.

At first this scared me. I felt weak and spiritually unfit to face the days ahead and what might be required of me. I could feel the cracks showing—shortness with everyone around me, impatience, emotional lack of perspective when difficulties arose. It worried me.

But the Lord slowly began to show me that this humble reminder of my not-togetherness was the very thing to keep me coming to Him. Granted, it looks different these days. A little more desperate. A little less surrounded by books and coffee and pleasant morning chats. A little more unsure of  myself and my trust in Him. Yet perhaps a little more strong at the roots, at the core of things. Perhaps there is more of the strength that comes from work done in the dark night of the soul, when one begins to reach out for the Rock that can’t be seen or felt.

And so a question I am walking with in the days ahead is, how am I resting in who God is, regardless of what he does for me? Do I love feeling strong, or the one who is Strong for me? Do I trust the gifts as evidence of love, or the One who is love, regardless if He gives me evidence or not?

When we are tired of the dark days, and the days seem to get darker still—those are the days we must refuse to quit. So I’m moving ahead—with my wakeful baby, my challenging teens, my lackluster surroundings, this trying political climate, and even this newsletter—trusting that work done in the dark will grow.