The First Month

We've covered a lot of ground

It has been nearly a month since that last night in China. A month full of traveling on planes and highways, across oceans and continents and state lines. It has also been a month full of traversing what feels like thousands of miles of emotional landscape. Weighty goodbyes and cautious hellos. Anxious first meetings, tearful conversations, relief at some points and dismay at others. Discovering people and place for the first time and all the anxiety that comes with it. Discovering people and place for the first time and all the surprising beauty and joy in it. Trying to keep ourselves on an even keel; seeing the good and being continuously thankful for it, recognizing the hard and being thankful for it too— because who are we to determine what in the end is a blessing or a curse?

And so here we are, finding ourselves somehow in this new place, which still seems a bit unreal.

The roads here are lovely. I keep noticing all the trees. How much I love the trees. My eyes feel starved for the beauty of trees, and rolling hills. I have lived for years in places that held very little physical beauty to me, and in many ways it was difficult. But I know that even in this little thing, God used it to refine me.

Surrounded by all these trees and rolling hills now, I am reminded again even as I was during the years of bleak surroundings, of what God is doing. I remember reading years ago from Romans 5 in the Message translation about what happens when we surrender our lives to Jesus— and the description of it was a phrase that had such a visceral effect on me, I think of it now any time I encounter the beauty of wide open spaces.

“By entering through faith into what God has always wanted to do for us—set us right with him, make us fit for him—we have it all together with God because of our Master Jesus. And that’s not all: We throw open our doors to God and discover at the same moment that he has already thrown open his door to us. We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand—out in the wide open spaces of God’s grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise.”

(Romans 5:1-2 MSG)

I’m not spiritualizing this move, or in any way implying that this new place is some sort of metaphor of what God is doing in our lives. Simply, that these physical and spiritual realities call back and forth to one another, like an echo across the canyon. Each reminding me of the other.

I remember too, during one of our more challenging years in China, reading Psalm 107 and being struck by the way it contrasts God being able to make a desert place into springs of water, but also a fruitful land into a waste. How humbling and yet hopeful to realize that in want or in plenty, we look to Him.

We have taken the words from Psalm 90 as our beacon call during these transition days: “Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.” Our hope and our home and our rest and our trust is in You, not in a beautiful house, or a successful career, or a family to be proud of. So teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom.

And I need that heart of wisdom. I need that gracious call of Christ back to what needs caring for, what needs attention. Because we know that no matter where we are in the world, God is at work there. And we want to see it, we want to join him.

For now, we are spending a lot of our time settling in. The days are full of more driving and errands and details about paint and furniture and color schemes than I have spent in many years. It can be a little disorienting, but also— fun! And so I’m trying to navigate the both/and of it all. The kids are also finding their way. A last minute sign up for VBS, an unexpected job offer (that involved buying work pants and boots), a soccer camp around the corner, a hangout with some friendly new girls, and more time in a car seat than Zoë ever bargained for.

We are also missing our boy. We’ve sent him letters, and received one precious phone call. He is doing well— challenged and tired, but growing already in ways we can hear in his voice. Still, there’s a hole here and we all feel it. But I wear my Navy sweatshirt and think of him when Ari makes quesadillas for lunch, and try not to worry that the new dining table probably won’t fit 8 people.

Nearly a month gone by and so much ground covered. We are held, through it all. And I’m looking forward to sharing more of the beauty in the days ahead.