It's Time to Make a Move

I love the stillness of winter. There is peace to be found in its consuming silence. The barrenness, the ground preparing for the new, the soil recovering and refueling for the season to come. Spring and summer offer a different feeling - always moving, buzzing about with the hope of growth and beauty. But winter, winter offers a respite from all the movement, all the buzz, to embrace the quiet place of the soul and restore what has been spent. 

Winter is as much a gift as it is necessary, just as the winter of our souls can be so if we grant it permission. Permission to still us, to quiet us, to teach us. At the same time, winter can also feel dark and cruel. 

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A few years ago I found myself at the culmination of a dark season. It felt like punishment as if somehow I was being left behind in the dust of what could have been. This season reminded me of The Doldrums, the stretch of sea near the equator where ships sometimes get caught in windless waters, unable to continue their journey until the wind returns. It was as if my own ship had found herself stuck in these Doldrums without wind to fill her sails and carry her where she needed to go.

I had spent years before thinking my life would look a certain way, that I would be a certain thing, and that I was ready for whatever that would be. When it all faded away, I was left wondering if I was a fool to believe any of it. To have spent so much of myself running in that direction only to come face-to-face with a wall I could no longer scale. It felt harsh and unfair. The dreams that burned so deeply within me had since vanished like fog on a cool, fall morning. 

Even so, I haphazardly agreed to this season of waiting - to the lengthy process of refinement. This mess of mine became my saving grace and I learned so much about who I am and why I operate the way I do while gaining tools to deal with the struggles I face. Though it was painful, I am deeply grateful for that season of my life. 

But what do you do when you’ve overstayed your welcome in the waiting? When you’ve shacked up with the pause button and further delayed your exit in the name of wisdom and patience -maturity, even. I have spent so many years disqualifying myself because of the way I perceived me. I thought - “I’m not smart enough. My personality isn’t big enough. I don’t have the right skill set. I am not the right kind of person to lead. Who would listen to me? Everyone is going to find out what a fraud I am.” I feel most secure when I am following from a distance, hiding behind the scenes and only leaving that safety net when I’m asked. Playing it safe is my jam, or at least it was. 

In the fall of 2018, I traveled with a small group from my church to work with a missionary in El Salvador. Leading up to the trip, I grew increasingly leary of our departure, certain that the plane would crash, I’d develop some awful disease (spoiler alert, I actually did come back with ringworm), or be kidnapped by some crazy people never to return. My husband would subsequently starve and I would be who knows where doing who knows what. I was ready to go home the moment we stepped onto that plane, which was inconvenient because I still had the entire week ahead of me with little opportunity to hide since we’d be living and working closely together the entire trip. That quickly changed. 

The missionary we worked with went to El Salvador over 10 years ago after leaving her life as a medical researcher and chasing after a wild dream God placed in her heart. She has since built an organization and teams of people that provide shelter and education for orphans, medical resources for impoverished neighborhoods in dangerous gang territory, after-school programs for kids in those areas, and programs that feed the elderly in others. I watched as she took a group of blissfully unaware Americans into places locals refused to enter. Her “yes” all those years ago has impacted an entire region of the world for good. 

Long story short, the trip was incredible. You can get a glimpse into our week here. As we sat beside a campfire the night before we flew home, each person shared what their experience was like and what stood out the most. Personally, I am not a fan of speaking in groups and waited until everyone else had their turn leaving me no other option. I wasn’t sure what to say but realized the answer was there. The week, the people, the food, the scenery, the fact that we were bravely working in dangerous areas, watching a woman fully live out the calling on her life step by step - it all showed me one thing: It’s time to make a move. If her "yes" could accomplish all of that, what can my "yes" do?

It’s so easy to believe there is purpose and innate value in others, but also so easy to forsake my own. So here I am. Taking one step. A step I’ve contemplated and danced around for years. (Like so many years that I wrote the first draft of this very blog five years ago.) A step that’s just a single step. But isn’t that how we discover the path? By simply going for it? By placing one uncertain foot forward? I don’t have all the answers and I suppose I don’t really care.

The thing about the doldrums is that the wind does come again. The still waters don’t last forever and our sails are filled once more with everything they need to move ahead. 

I am saying yes, now, to a new journey and I invite you to come along. Where are we going? I’m not sure, but that’s the fun of adventure, right? Maybe it’s the coffee-buzz or maybe it’s just time.

Today I’m saying see ya later to this metaphorical pause button, “It’s not you, it’s me. Thanks for the memories and lessons you’ve taught me, now I’ve got things to do.” 

Here - in my little corner of the internet - I’ll be sharing stories of the adventures I have the privilege of taking, the questions or topics I’m pondering, and the absolute goodness of God. If that sounds fun to you, join my email list at the bottom of the page. 

One of my favorite songs by Chris Renzema says it best: 

We will sing a new song, ‘cause death is dead and gone with the winter. We will sing a new song, let hallelujahs flow like a river.

Welcome to my new song. Welcome to my next yes.