Well, I have broken the cardinal rule of writing which is: “Never stop writing.” We have been so unsettled this past year that I haven’t created enough margin to write meaningful or even sensible words. No blogging, article writing, or journaling. Isn’t it ironic that the first disciplines we tend to abandon when we’re feeling stressed are the very ones that keep us grounded?
This week we are at the beach, a place where I breathe a little deeper and grab a few minutes of quiet between bike rides and ice cream runs. And here I finally feel just enough wind in my sails to open the iPad and cautiously, wearily write words again.
Last June we went dream-chasing and it didn’t go quite as planned. In summary, we moved from Tennessee to Alabama and back to Tennessee in the span of 12 months. After many years of being home with our kids, I re-entered the workforce and started a full-time marketing job in March. Kendrick has worked three hours away from us for the past 7 months, and we miss him during the week. Candidly, I miss his help with the girls—as a dad, a driver, and a diffuser of our drama—the most. We are still reeling from all the shuffling and trying to figure out the details of our next steps.
I strive to be honest in this space, even when it’s embarrassing to do so. And so I should admit that when life is frustrating or difficult or demands any sort of patience or stamina from me, I tend toward bitterness and envy and discouragement, if not hopelessness.
I crave comfort and ease. I like plans and productivity. And this past year has been lacking in those categories. It has felt more like a backwards or downward slide than a journey forward and upward. We prayerfully and carefully tried something new and it didn’t work out. It feels like defeat, and I’m not quite sure what to do with that or how to write about it.
Earlier this week I read a powerful line from Scott Sauls’ new book, Beautiful People Don’t Just Happen:
“Sometimes the deepest, truest faith feels more like defeat than it does victory.”
That resonates loudly with me in this season. And I think it’s true even if it’s an uncomfortable truth. Our society has so conditioned us to equate victory with success and happiness with ease. This is glamorous, but I’m not sure it’s biblical.
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A few weeks ago when I was taking a shower, long after I had put my youngest one to sleep, she came into the bathroom and through tears said, “I was just laying in bed thinking about how much I still miss my brown bear that we lost last summer.”
I had forgotten about that loss since we have a back-up brown bear she has used ever since we misplaced the original in an AirBnB last June. But apparently, she has not forgotten.
When I consoled her by reminding her that she still has a brown bear, who at first glance appears identical to the other one, she said: “But he doesn’t have that scar where I accidentally set him on a lamp and he got burned.”
No, he does not.
Her longing for her original bear reminds me of Margery Williams great lines in The Velveteen Rabbit:
“You become. It takes a long time… Generally by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are real you can’t be ugly. Except to people who don’t understand.”
Isn’t it interesting that many of our favorite things and maybe even our favorite people are “real.” They carry a few scars and might even be considered shabby. A velveteen rabbit. A brown bear with a burn. For some reason, I find this to be an especially comforting thought right now.
We can be ragged and still not be rubbish. We can fail and still not be failures. We can be defeated and still not be despairing.
And so here we are. Back home. Weary and more worn than one short year ago. But also more thankful for family and friends who don’t judge us by our victories or our gains, but who love us for who we are, as we are, wherever we are.
What a gift it is to be real.
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