accidentally on purpose

i landed here 8 months ago for a 10 day trip that will have turned into 10 months.  this was accidentally on purpose.

what does that mean? it means exactly that.

it was by mistake that i ended up experiencing 're-entry' from the mission field, but it was completely God's plan. it was by mistake that i was present for the longest, coldest, snowiest winter in new england, but it was all known by God.  it was by mistake that i was able to sit beside my friend and second father jud carlberg in his last few weeks of life, but it was God's gift to me- on purpose.

that is the way so much of my life has been.  an 'oops' followed by a 'thank you'.

my mess ups, God's beautiful clean ups. a 'help!' followed by a 'wow!'

maybe it's because the snow finally melted and then there were buds, and birds and green, and i am outside in my skin again- that i am able to step out and see.  that i am able to look at the 'on purpose' part of this season of seasons, in my life.  and what i see when i turn around- is God. everywhere. 

God called me home from a place of lostness. a place of brokenness. a place where i had forgotten what whole looked like. i had lost my vision. lost my mission. lost my words. i had really lost my true self. i had become my worst self. but even though i was barely listening, off in the distance i could hear a familiar and very safe voice.  a voice that has never disappointed me. a voice that said- you are still loved.  you are still my child. return to me. from where i was, i didn't believe it, and i couldn't do it.  so it kept on.  relentlessly pursuing. and it got louder, and i began to accept the child part, but not the loved part, and i didn't return. so it kept on. faithfully calling. and it got even louder, or more frequent, or maybe i started to listen. and finally i surrendered.  that was all i could do from where i was. i sat down. it was the first step in returning, and that happened before i could believe the still loved part.

there were things i thought i knew that i really didn't know. there were things i believed that i believed, that i really didn't fully believe. i see life differently now having gone through the fall and winter. having come into the spring.

growing up with a dependably changing physical environment, forms you. the patterns and rhythms of the outside become a part of your internal patterns and rhythms. but i have been away from the extremeness of the north east for over 20 years. it seems appropriate to be here now, to have been here for these months of metamorphosis. because just as the outside called to me as a child, the air and trees and the color of the ground called to me over these months.  

wait. put on your coat. dormancy is necessary for growth. there is a time of rest. of quiet. of stillness. of death. things necessary for life.

so i did because what else could i do? i made tea and wore a wool poncho and waited for things to melt and bloom. again. because things always do- i've seen it many times. and it was long, and it was dark (because winter is), and i was cold and i cried a lot (because i needed to). i needed to let things die, so i could be free, untethered and from that place, i could begin. again.

whole. new. held. invited. alive. welcomed. watched over. full. guided.

breathing.

the air is warm, the sun is hot, i feel my skin again, my boundaries- where i end and the world begins.

in two months, i will get on a plane and return to my home of dry and rainy, gold and green.  the days will start and end at the same time, and there will be no physically long, dark times. there will be no completely barren, colorless seasons. four will become two, loud and wet or hot and dusty, alternating like day and night. and i will need to be in my skin and learn to hold on to things differently, and to release, and gather, with internal seasons in mind. to know when to wait. to prune. to plant. to trust. to trust the maker of all of it. to trust Him with all of me.

learning to abide

i'm sitting at our makeshift desk, surrounded by windows, in the morning, as it finally becomes spring. i'm drinking a cup of tea, because it is a season for tea, and abiding. tea instead of coffee, and abiding instead of bearing.

i've spent most of my adult life drinking coffee and bearing things. attempting to bear fruit (isn't that what we're called to do)? to produce things- an educated self, a married self. to bear babies that we will bear into children, to bear good things from our work, to be busy, to do, to do more, and if we can, to do even more. we become these things, our products and achievements, we measure ourselves and each other by them- the amount and the type of fruit we bear. even the good fruit that Jesus talks about- the fruit of the spirit- i tend to measure it, and to make it into something to do, not something to be. my 'doing' looks like 'trying'.  i expend effort- thinking about it, reviewing the day before to evaluate my fruit, beating myself up for failing- again, and again- to bear good fruit.  i have learned that i'm really good at bearing the fruits of frustration and anger and impulsivity and impatience.

that is because i. can't. DO. it. i'm not supposed to. if i stuck a branch outside and expected it to grow grapes it wouldn't. it needs to be attached to the vine and the ground and the earth and when it is, the grapes just come. when the system is intact- the fruit just comes.

Jesus says bear the delicious fruit of love and kindness and gentleness. fruits of patience and self-control. fruits of peace and joy and faithfulness. but He also says abide in me. and if you do, you will bear these things- you will have them and give them. and all of these fruits make me happy, and help me to make other people happy.

i spend a lot of time forgetting the abiding part! i spend time gathering the resources i think i will need as a branch, standing alone, to grow my own grapes. and it doesn't work. instead it makes me exhausted and often the opposite happens, i don't become barren, i make ugly fruit. fruit that makes me unhappy and helps me make other people unhappy too.

so this has been a season of learning to abide. a long cold winter, the longest and coldest i've known- but necessary- as i have learned to stay- to remain- to live in- to dwell- to abide in God. to feel the everlasting arms around me. to be hemmed in, behind and before. to know that i am known. and loved. held and sheltered. protected and fed. watched over and waited for.  called to and invited back. forgiven. safe. allowed to just be. and to grow.

it has been a time of being quiet. of listening more than talking. reading more than writing. being filled up again and tended to. and i'm finding that abiding itself is delicious. and it's not just allowed, it's required. contemplation- prayer- learning the words of God- are the soil and water and sun.

this is a season of drinking tea and abiding. the spring is coming- there are buds on the trees, and buds of peace and joy and faithfulness. there are some leaves on the low bushes, and some leaves of patience and self-control. there are orchid blooms and forsythia, and blooms of love and kindness and gentleness. and in time, there will be a season of bearing fruit.