In the Ceasing: Letting Go of All the Striving

“Cease from striving.” 

‘I’m not striving, I’m working.’ 

“Cease from striving.” 

‘These are good things!’ 

“Cease from striving.”

‘What does that even mean? How do I cease from striving when I have so much on my plate?’ 

“Cease from striving.” 

This has been my dialogue with God over the last two years. A simple whisper. Almost audible. Three words: Cease from striving. 

And I’ve fought it with every ounce of my being. I have held tightly to my plans in such a clinched-fist way that my spiritual muscles cramp and yet still I have refused to admit: this is the life that God has given me and it is His to plan, not my own.

Two years ago when we made the cross-country, cross cultural trek to where we are now, no one told me how to go from the high-energy, high-need, triage of life in the Amazon to homeschool mom in the aisles of Walmart. 

My proverbial tool bag was full of machetes and stitches and tourniquets for the many crises of life overseas and now I found those completely useless in the decision making tasks of grocery shopping and picking homeschool curriculum. 

And no one understood me. Including me. 

There, our home was full of people day in and day out, friends and strangers, like-minded and nearly hostile. But we sat and we talked and we shared and we lived and it was hard but good. A rich life of relationships. 

Here, we lived an entire six months at an apartment where I never once so much as saw my immediate neighbors. (Though I know they existed because we once received a noise complaint.)

It’s taken me two whole years to decide that maybe God was not telling me to cease from working (how I had been interpreting it) but to really cease from... striving.

(Imagine that. God meaning what He said.)

But still I am left with the resounding question of, “What DOES that look like?”

I’m learning it looks like this:

If that relationship is meant to be reconciled, He will reconcile it. 

If that goal is to be attained, He will bring it to pass. 

If I am to do anything at all, He will guide me... one painstaking step at a time. 

My role is that of obedience in the humdrum, not-a-soul-knocking-at-my-door day to day. 

My role is a step of faith across the street last night to my neighbor’s house. The one I’ve chatted with across the fence line a handful of times since moving to this house a year and a half ago but never truly engaged with because I was so unsure in this culture of closed doors and busyness of how I could relate to her. 

Imagine my surprise when she pulled up a chair for me and we sat for an hour and a half in the light of the flood lamp her husband used to diligently repair his truck. The fire ants bit my leg as I strained to hear her share her story over the sound of the train in the background and the airplanes overhead. Perhaps for the very first time it felt like a taste of home in this desert land. 

And my heart nearly skipped a beat when she said she’d lived on this street for many years and still didn’t know her neighbors because it seems as though here in this culture people simply come home and shut their doors. 

“And the saddest part,” she said with earnest, “is that no one seems the least bit bothered by what they’re missing.” 

It took great restraint not to leap up and hug her in that very instant. Instead I simply stated, “YES! I’ve been saying this, too!” 

She shared of her father leaving her when she was six along with her mother and younger siblings. How she took on a mothering role and worked hard, but relationships were always of utmost importance. When they moved here to the US hoping for a better future, she discovered that there was a lot of.... striving here. But little in the realm of genuine relationships among neighbors. 

Be still my soul. 

We talked and we laughed until 10pm. 

And this beautiful conversation came hot on the heels of a day of striving. Dear Jesus, I strove that day with every ounce of human effort I could muster. And to no avail. And I’m convinced that Jesus meant for exactly that to happen. For me to strive, fail.... and then find Him in the simple obedience of one foot in front of the other across the street. No expectations or goals. Just obedience. 

I had still been rummaging through this old tool bag, the one I had lugged back with me from a life overseas, convincing myself that these tools were indeed useful for this season of life.  How could they not be? But it turns out that a tourniquet for a scraped knee was a bit excessive. And this machete was of little value in this desert terrain. 

No, I would need to trade these more primitive (though once appropriate) tools in for more suitable ones. Like maybe a pencil and a notebook to process the journey thus far. Maybe band-aids and long walks behind my kids riding freely on their bicycles. Perhaps quiet moments with Jesus without the world falling in around us. All tools that were not readily available before, in the hostile and demanding terrain of jungle life. 

I can stop all the striving now and live here. I can be present and it doesn’t negate the past. My life can not look like I ever thought it would and yet I can find Jesus here, too, patiently speaking to me. 

Two years of Him whispering. 

Not long after we moved here, He gave me a verse

“I labor for this, striving with His strength that works powerfully in me.” (Colossians 1.29)

I didn’t pay much attention to it, honestly. I read it and read it and knew it meant something for me, but I wasn’t ready yet to cease my striving so I wrote it on a chalk board and put it above the kitchen sink. I think only now it’s sinking in: 

It’s by His strength in me that anything is ever accomplished through me. 

How basic is that? (And how hardheaded must I be for it to take this long?) 

Oh, He’s a patient God. And from here on I choose to imperfectly cease from striving. To “let it be” as the Beatles so wisely admonished us. To take a step when I should and wait when I shouldn’t. Because one day I’ll need to trade out these tools for new ones as well. And He'll equip me anew. 

But for now, these are just the ones I need. 

Behind the Picket Fence

She stood there, cautiously baring her heart to me. Her words said to me that she thought I had it together. She thinks I know what the heck I’m doing every day when I wake up and all the things from near and far are calling my name. 

Instantly my mind went back to a few days ago when I found myself weeping uncontrollably under the covers and pillows on my bed, my bedroom door locked to the demands of my kids, and my heart physically aching in my chest because I miss my jungle family so much and the loneliness is sometimes too much for me to stand under, so I cave. 

Turns out, I’m human like the rest of ‘em.

My house has a white picket fence. It’s quintessential irony calls to me every day when I check the mail or take out the trash or mow the lawn in the monotonous day to day. 

I gave this all up once, you know. Willingly. Joyfully. I turned it all in for a life overseas. All that I had been called to became my reality. 

And then Jesus said, suddenly and unexpectedly, it was time to sacrifice a different way. 

It was the harder to say yes that time. 

Now I find myself at Walmart and still, two years back on this side of the border, I fight another anxiety attack because the aisles seem so long and toilet paper options seem like a task of decision making prowess that I’m just not equipped for. 

But those are not the photos we put on social media are they? Of our struggle to reconcile broken dreams with the beautiful life given. Of not being able to relate or not being understood because suddenly you are thousands of miles from everyone who knows you best. 

I never post an instastory of me losing it with my daughter because the lies seem insurmountable and never ending and five years into this confusing and refining role of adoptive mom to a child with a hurtful past, I still feel as lost as ever many (most?) days. And there are harsh words and apologies and lies followed by truth revealed and lessons learned for both of us. Tears and hugs and another step forward after two steps back. 

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do to face myself in this mirror of adoption. And it’s a lonely road when others just don’t get it. 

And I have never snapped a selfie when I’m crying on the bathroom floor, shoulders slumped because I feel so inadequate and useless under the weight of raising awareness for the many tangible needs of our jungle family. I struggle to find the balance of here-meets-there, where kids are being abused on every corner and we need funds to reach them but also laundry is piling up and my own kids need me to teach them math and reading and how to tie their shoes.

These just scratch the surface of the social-media “non-worthy” items. 

All the while Jesus whispers to me every day, “Cease from striving.” I can almost hear it as though it were an audible voice calling to me. 

And I don’t know yet what it looks like to live that out. 

So I wake up early and lean in hard. I physically open my hands, achy heart and shaky knees, and ask Jesus to show me He is real here, too, in what feels like lonely loss. He wasn’t only real back when I thought I knew His plans for my life. My preconceived and naive ideas of who He is and what He has called me to isn’t enough. He is bigger and better and His ways are true and good. 

My calling is not to know all the things. It is to trust Him. To look to Him alone.

Even when I feel lost and inadequate. Even when I see another Facebook post that reminds me I’m here and not there or this way and not that. 

I shut out the voices that can't see my heart and I trust the One who can.

It still leaves me breathless in tears many days. It’s ok to grieve what was lost (or perhaps just reassigned). 

Most days, I choose to run back into hope and gratefulness. And you see it. 

Other days, I collapse in sadness, fear, doubt. And you don’t. 

So when I post a photo on Instagram and it appears that I’m living a perfect life, remember it’s my highlight reel. There is a behind the scenes, too.

But instead of focusing on all that feels taken, I focus on what is given. 

Rather than honing in on what makes my heart ache inside my chest, I hone in on what makes my soul glad. 

In place of what appears to have been lost, I look for what I know to be found. 

Because wouldn’t you know it, that adorable white picket fence doesn’t close properly. You have to lift it up and pull it ever so particularly for it to shut all the way. Life’s like that, too. No matter what it may look like on the outside, it’s always harder and more finicky than you think it should be. 

Don’t believe the lie that says anyone has it all together. They don’t. You don’t. I don’t. We are all just humans with struggles. 

And really, if you think about it, that’s good news... because it is precisely why we all need Jesus.

When Living the Dream Feels More Like a Nightmare

“These are our ‘good ole’ days’, you know?” I said to him as we precariously swerved through the potholes of the washing-away-street, us and our three kiddos all crammed up on our motorcycle going home after a dinner out because neither of us could decide who was less tired enough to cook.

One day, these are the days we will look back on, smile and say, “Remember when…”

But today, that’s hard to see.

A friend asked me the other day if we were exhausted. I kind of laughed a little because that word just doesn’t seem to cut it. Exhausted is how you feel after a long day… but what word is there for how you feel after a long year?

We hear a lot of things:

“You guys are heroes!”

“How I wish I had a calling so great!”

“I would love to do what you do!”

“You are so inspirational!”

I equate that with how we feel reading the Bible sometimes. The stories are inspirational, empowering. We read them with excitement because we can see the whole story and know that, in the end, there is this triumphant victory.

And because we’re on the outside looking in.

But how did Moses feel looking out over the Red Sea as the Egyptians approached and everyone was calling out to him to DO something?

How did Daniel feel when he went free-falling into the lions’ den, his enemies snickering as he fell?

How did Noah feel on day 2 of the rain, hearing the screams of everyone around him drowning?

How did Joseph feel when he was imprisoned for doing everything right?

That’s where we are in this inspirational story.

We’re in the part where we know we’re doing what God has said to do, but it sure as heck doesn’t look like we thought it would.

We’re in the middle of the desert, thirsting ourselves, but everyone is calling to us for water.

So, like Moses, sometimes we call out to God in anger, “What are you doing?!”

And like Moses, we hit the rock to bring forth the water, instead of speaking like God commanded us to.

There are times we doubt like Sarai and ask for a sign like Gideon.

We were scheduled to go back to the States on furlough in just four weeks. We’ve planned it since January. And, oh, were we ever excited to get a breather.

But God said, “Not now.”

So, we wait.

Not always patiently and not always with a good attitude, but we wait.

And we cling to His promise that:

“Those who WAIT upon the Lord will renew their strength; they will mount up with wings as eagles. They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint.”

-Isaiah 40.31

Now, like so many times before, we ask you to pray for us. Pray for endurance, patience, faith, peace, rest, strength.

A great friend recently wrote us:

“Jesus gives rest to those he loves and His burden is easy and His yoke is light.  I know, I know, try telling that to Moses when he's looking at the Red Sea, or Joseph as he's being hauled out of the well, but if it wasn't for the Red Sea, there would be no miraculous parting, and if it wasn't for the well, there would be no miraculous deliverance.”

Pray that we will endure as God carries out His plan, set out from before time began.

In the end, He gets the victory regardless. Pray we will be found faithful.

And feel free to send all the encouraging e-mails and messages that you can ;)

One Year Later

In some ways it seems like yesterday and in others it seems like decades, but it was in fact one year ago today that we left behind what we knew as “home” to begin a new journey, four years in the making.

Looking back, I feel like we were just babies, taking our first steps.

We are different people now. In a lot of ways.

I sit here on the couch in a wooden house, listening to the sounds of the Jungle outside, realizing that this very place that we now call home wasn’t even on our radar back then.

There is a young family of Jagua Indians living in our guest room with their baby girl who almost died in that same room just a couple months back. We didn’t know that she, along with her Mama and Daddy, would fill our hearts and home when Richard first met her back in January. They are now the focus of our discipleship as we pour into them so they can pour into their people one day.

There’s a six year old girl sleeping in a bed right next to Elliott’s who, Lord willing, will one day carry our last name. We didn’t know that when God closed the door for us to move into the village that he would plant us right down the road from our future daughter. Her little eyes haveseen things no child should see and she asks the same questions over and over every day, just longing for reassurance and security. And we begin to walk this journey of adoption together, realizing this picture of the Gospel.

There’s a three-year-old boy, our first born, who is sleeping in that same room. His neck is swollen with Mumps right now and over the last year he’s had his fair share of illness, but boy is he a trooper, bringing life and laughter everywhere he goes. When we started this journey his was a pacifier addict, strutting around in Pampers. Now he sports batman undies and Daddy taught him how to use a machete. He speaks two languages and is learning his third, often correcting me along the way. The kid’s a beast.

There’s a squishy little 9.5 month old Brazilian who might just be the happiest child that God every created sleeping in our bedroom. She came to this country in my belly and, though she has no idea, played a huge role in our ministry here just in her birth. She wakes up with a smile and, on those almost-to-much-to-handle kinda days, her sweet smile offers a mini-vacation from the stress.

There’s a man asleep in our bed that he built with his own hands who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders every day, yet still finds time to play with his kids, read them bedtime stories, brush their teeth, and pray with them. So many times I watch in awe as he works in so many roles, all with the one goal of glorifying Christ.

And then there’s me. I look back at the person I was when we got on that airplane and I think, “I don’t even know that person any more!”

We are changed.

And we are changing.

The days are hard sometimes. You don’t anticipate the loneliness of the mission field. The sun is hot and the needs are many.  Sickness is prevalent and sleep can be hard to come by. Some people will criticize and others will be ungrateful.

Some days you want to give up.

I find, though, that when I stop looking around and start looking up, I begin to see a little more clearly that we aren’t the ones writing this story anyway. It’s a story that started way back before creation. We were born into a story already in progress and one that will continue to be written long after we are gone.

We are just the hands and feet at the end of a dead end street in a tiny town in a small region of a big country on a big planet doing the day to day of what God has called us to in order to make His name famous to the ends of the earth.

This past year has been full of tears, laughter, heartache, joy, sickness, health, loneliness, new friends, opportunities, and redirection. There has been frustration and anger, laughter and relief.

And it’s through all of this that we learn, as Paul says, to be content in whatsoever state we are in… and to become more like our Savior.

Thanks to all of you who have joined us in the journey. Through prayer, encouragement, visiting, and giving, you have been an intricate part of this story, too.

Thanks for walking this journey with us.

It truly is a beautiful one. 

When Dreams Become Realities

I don't know how many times it happens in a lifetime, or even if it happens more than once or even once at all for everyone.

But, in the midst of the change and tears and fears and doubts and anger and stubbornness and discontentment and the hard over the last almost three months here, something happened.

Something beautiful.

For the longest I couldn't see it. I was too busy sulking in my selfish desire for what was and what will be that I didn't even realize that all the things I had prayed for were actually coming to pass here in the now.

I think part of the reason that this beautiful transformation escaped my sight was because it hasn't looked like I imagined it would when I prayed.

What I mean is, in my prayers it looked easy.

When I asked God to change me, to make me like Him, to bring me to the place where He wanted me, I pictured peace and ease. Isn't that what Jesus said, "My yoke is easy and my burden is light"?

I wanted the end product without the process. And in the process I have found that there is no such thing.

Today, I hold in my arms a tiny, big piece of that dream. Her name is Raegan Piper Grey and she is more perfect than I could ever have dreamed.

And I think back at the process of bringing her into this world with the nausea and the sleeplessness and the tired exhaustion and the aches and pains and emotions and fears and longing for family to walk this with me but knowing they were thousands of miles away.

I think back on those nine months now and remember that it seemed like an eternity. Days seemed like weeks sometimes when factored in with all of the other life changes going on.

At times it was hard.

But somehow now as I hold this baby girl, I see that without that long, difficult process, there is no beautiful end result. And I find myself thankful for process that leaves me with a scar to remind me of this journey that was necessary to bring this life into the world.

And I realize it's in the process that we find God is true to His promises.

The past three months have been a roller coaster of emotions as we walk this dream of a journey that God placed in our hearts over five years ago now.

Now as I look back at the process that brought us here, I bow my head and lift my hands in awe that the Creator God would count us worthy of this calling. Would take the time to work out in our lives a beautiful masterpiece of His will and, what's more, He would care enough to make it hard.

If it were easy, we would never see Him.

But just as gold is refined in the fire and diamonds are made by pressure, we are made more like Him as we engage in what is uncomfortable and trying and even downright painful at times. It's in that process that not only are dreams given, but they are made into reality as we walk by faith, trusting His pathway though we can't see the next step.

This time last year I remember sharing with so many the desire of our heart to have another baby, to be in Brazil, to begin the process of getting permanent residency so we could work freely with the beautiful people God has given us a burning passion for. Back then it seemed so distant if not an impossible goal.

I sit here now, in Brazil with our baby girl as Richard is driving to register her birth so that we can begin our permanent residency process and my heart rejoices for the journey that we have been on and I humbly ask Him to continue to make us more like Him.

Even when it isn't easy.

"Consider it a great joy, my brothers, whenever you experience various trials,  knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance.  But endurance must do its complete work, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing." James 1.2-4