Category: Musings

It’s still difficult to adequately describe just what it was like living in Arizona for four years.  So many experiences and so much spiritual growth happened during that time in my desert.  An intense longing to go back  and re-live each day filled my heart for a long time, until I finally realized something important.  That was my training ground for now.  I can’t go back, only forward.

Arizona, for me, is a magical place. The topography is so different from anywhere else I’ve ever been. The desert and the mountains. Beautiful and treacherous all at the same time. Rocks and sand and scant shade. Life showing up where you least expect it. Cactus flowers blooming with grace and vibrant color in the intensely blinding sun and suffocating heat.

I would have to say for the majority of my time in Arizona my heart was at peace and calm and I was pretty much stress-free. Unrushed. My God-taught lessons were interspersed with periods of rest where I knew myself to be tenderly watched over and protected and provided for.

This particular post has been more difficult than usual to write because I don’t remember so many specific stories as much as I remember how it felt during my sojourn there. But I can go back in my mind and remember the days filled with rest.

However, I do remember several stories I’d like to share.

I had my morning routine. And because I have OCD tendencies, I always put my keys in the same place. On the side table near the front door. Because then I would know where they were.   All you other OCD readers will understand.

And, getting ready to walk out the door for work, I had four things I always, always, always, had with me – and in a specific hand. Like I said – routine.

On my right shoulder was my purse. In my right hand was the handle of my rolling bag. In my left hand was my cup of coffee, and my keys (well the key ring was on my finger). This was etched in stone. I never wavered or walked out the door until I had these four things.

This particular morning, I did everything the same. Or so I thought.

I checked to make sure the windows were locked. I checked to make sure the sliding glass door was locked. I walked out the front door and it locked behind me.

Suddenly I experienced that awful sinking feeling. You know the one I mean. I looked down at my left hand and discovered I didn’t have my keys.

I looked in the window of the sliding glass door and saw them right where I always placed them – on the small table.

Unreachable.

Of course, I instinctively turned the front door knob. Locked. I tried the sliding glass door. Locked. I looked at the windows. Locked.   I tried the doors again. Still locked.

What to do? “Ok, God”, I said. “I need some help here, please.”

I stood there, looking at my locked front door, my brain spinning around like a hamster on a wheel as the seconds ticked by and my stress level rose.

A voice whispered in my ear – “try the sliding glass door again”.

“But I’ve already tried it twice! It’s locked!”

“Try it anyway”.

So, I did. And it opened. Quite easily. I stood there on the threshold, rooted in place, uncomprehending, looking at the keys across the room on the table when the voice spoke again – “now, Victoria, we can’t be late for work. Go get your keys.”

That really happened – exactly the way I just described it, too.

Jesus and I had many conversations. About anything and everything. And He was as real to me as if He were physically standing next to me. There were many times I felt I could just about see Him. I know a lot of Christians believe we should pray more, but we sadly miss the point. It’s not ‘prayer’ like you’d normally think of it.   It’s talking. Chatting. Having a conversation with someone you care about, and who cares about you. It’s that sharing thing you do with friends and family and spouses.

It’s so easy. It’s not mysterious or hard at all. It’s just communicating.

I remember talking with Him about my finances. “You know”, I said, “if I could just earn twice as much as I do now, I’d be able to pay my bills more easily”.   A couple of months later, I got transferred to a different department at work where I not only got an increase in my hourly rate but started earning bonuses. And guess what? You got it – my income doubled! Really. I’m not making this up.

And another time, I still remember when I was given – yes given – a beautiful spinning wheel by a truly kind-hearted lady.  I had found it on craigslist for $250. I thought I could just about handle spending that amount of money, so I called her and she brought it over for me to take a look at. We discovered there was a small piece missing, so she said she’d take the wheel, get it repaired, and then call me back and I could let her know then if I still wanted the wheel. A couple of weeks went by. When she called, she said, “you know, I was telling my daughter about you, and I decided I don’t want to sell the wheel – I want to give it to you.” Really. I’m not making this up either.

The things we think are just too small for God to care about are the things He does care about. He is our Father and He delights in taking care of us. We should let Him do it more often.

Oftentimes, we are so convinced we’re not that important, or that we can do it ourselves, we end up missing out on so much our Father wants to do on our behalf. When you’ve had the awesome privilege of experiencing God so near and so intimate, you cannot ever be the same, which brings me to my next epiphany.

I have discovered something life-changing – Jesus is my happily ever after.

And because of the intense preparation I went through there, I don’t feel rooted here. My eyes see beyond this temporary existence. My entire being longs for more than what is here. I remember reading a line in a book many years ago. I don’t recall the author’s name, but he said our lives here on earth are an unfinished symphony. What a beautiful word picture.

God made me into a storyteller, and along with that, He gave me the ability to see others’ pain and absorb their hurt. Which means, since I’m just human, I can get emotionally overwhelmed and physically exhausted.

And because of that, sometimes I need to come away and rest. Get unrushed. My Heavenly Father knows what I need. Just as Jesus told His disciples when they returned from preaching and healing – come away by yourselves and rest.

And get healed by the only true Healer so we can then go out and serve again.

I penned this post a few years back when I was working through some painful changes.  Just like everyone, our pain can fill our entire world for a period of time until we realize it’s all part of our growth.  Once we reach that point, we’re ready to take the lessons learned and move forward.

The intense sunshine, so bright glaring off the sparkling emerald green water, made it almost impossible to see. The day was quite hot and humid, but the breeze ruffling my hair was refreshing, even though I continued to sweat. I took a deep, deep breath, closed my eyes, and tilted my face to the sky.   The glare from the ever moving water didn’t matter. I was deep inside my own head working on something, seeing only what was going on in my mind’s eye anyway. I do this a lot. I have a hard time staying out of my head, actually.

I’ve written stories and had conversations in my head all my life. I’ve rewritten the endings to books and movies countless times. I’ve had so much practice over the years I can be so deep inside my thoughts I won’t be aware of anything going on around me.

You’d probably characterize me as a loner. An introvert. I’m comfortable in my own company and I love solitude. Which also means I don’t have many close friends. So sometimes I get pretty lonely.

Which is why, I think, one of my most recent heartaches unfolded as it did.

I recently relocated from the Midwest. I grew up there never liking the winters because of the cold, and not liking the summers much because of my hay fever as a child. Although I did have the unparalleled opportunity of living in Arizona for a few years a short while back.   My last winter in Michigan, though, was so long and brutal I was not-so-secretly hoping to be somewhere warm for the next season. And here I am.

Digging my pink painted toes deep into the warm sand, I experience once again that familiar twinge in the pit of my stomach. The sadness that won’t let me be. I can see him. I can feel him. His strong embrace. How safe I had believed myself to be in his arms. I foolishly thought it would last forever. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the mental picture, but it insists on returning, along with the accompanying sorrow. And now here I sit on this beautiful beach of chamois-soft white sand with my chin on my knees and my arms around my legs and tears once more sliding down my cheeks. Crying shamelessly on a beach most people refer to as Paradise. This grieving has to end sometime. It just has to. The empty aching won’t leave me alone, and there are days I want to lie down and die just to make the hurting finally stop.

But I can’t lie down and die, because there is still work to be done. My job here isn’t finished yet.

“Suck it up, sweetie.” I speak these words out loud. “There’s lots of people hurting much more than you, so get over yourself and find someone to encourage.”

At that last voiced admonition, I’m on my feet and dusting myself off. I pick up my discarded flip flops, give them a good shake, and make my way back to my car, sinking into the sand with each footstep, leaving a visible trail of where I’ve been and where I’m going. I only live a few miles from the beach, so it’s a short drive.

I look in the car’s rearview mirror, dry my eyes, now puffy and red from my weeping, put my sunglasses on, then give my head a good shake and force a smile at myself in the mirror. Just breathe. One last nod of my head, and I’m heading back to my new home.

The gentle and mesmerizing sounds of the emerald water swooshing in and then retreating, over and over, is always soothing to my spirit so I come to the beach to sit for a while as often as I can. Or I stroll along the water’s edge with the white foam tickling my feet letting the sounds and the smells and the gently sinking sun whisper peace to my soul. I can feel myself healing down deep where it matters.

The good thing is, I’ve stopped losing weight, and have actually put a few pounds back on. Before I moved, my weight kept dropping and I had no appetite. My stress level had apparently reached its limit and I hit the wall – physically and emotionally. I couldn’t eat for days and then didn’t want to eat. No desire. No cravings. At least for food.   My desire and cravings were for him. I think they call that being heartsick.

Love has a scent. It is rain in the air. It is wildflowers in the field. It is
life pushing through the dirt.

The crack and pungent burning of a close lightning strike.

A screaming gale-force wind hurtling freshly broken branches into
the maelstrom.

It is beautiful and gentle and rough by degrees with passion and wanting
and satisfying.

A complete relinquishing and total possession mutually given, mutually
accepted.

My happily ever after, so far, isn’t so happy or ever after. And my memories in turn comfort and haunt me all at the same time until I fear I will go mad.

But enough of that. It’s a beautiful day here, and God has provided for me a place of refuge and a new beginning. So no more tears. No more feeling sorry for myself. Time is passing much too quickly to waste it on regrets and sadness.

I am truly looking forward to a new ministry with plenty of opportunities to use my gifts.

The most important thing I’ve learned recently, though, is this – I can only use my gifts in His strength, because it has been made abundantly clear to me that I have none of my own.

So, armed with my most recent lessons, and feeling my strength returning once again –

Onward and upward!

Writing about unpleasant situations is, well, unpleasant, but life is full of unpleasant situations and it’s important we stay authentic and honest with not just others, but ourselves as well.

The warmth from the sun reminded me I’d worn the wrong shirt for the weather. The air was cool when I quietly left the house very early this morning in the pre-dawn darkness. Dense fog the color of skim milk was hovering over the ground, muffling all sound.

For many years – most of my adult life – I was terrified of driving in fog. I think it’s because it always made me remember an episode from “The Twilight Zone” my mom used to watch. The show came on after I was in bed, but this particular night I had been sick, so mom let me stay up with her. Bad idea. Scary things give me nightmares.

But I finally grew up and now the fog doesn’t scare me. It just makes me more cautious and introspective.

Every Saturday my route is the same. Each turn and curve of the road is etched in my memory. My spirit looks forward to experiencing the beauty of the sunrise over the water of the Choctawhatchee Bay as I cross the bridge. This is the highlight of my drive. The pastels in the birthing sky are like a watercolor painting in blues and pinks and oranges all seeping together with the colored edges blurring into each other, and the water, sparkling and silvery in the wee hours, a softly rippled mirror.

Peace and serenity and calm. I breathe deeply as I drive into the painting as picturesque as a postcard from paradise, absorbing the sense of the place, letting it snuggle down into my psyche for the day.

Gently undulating back roads and countryside will forever be my favorite way to get from here to there if it’s possible.   The curving road, flanked by a pine tree forest lanky with age, follows me for miles as a welcome companion. At random places the fog softly stretches out from the dense cover of the trees, reaching across the road, dissipating into the foliage on the other side. Cotton fields soon appear filling the flat farm land, maturing just a little more each week until they’re harvested, leaving fluffy handfuls of cotton bolls scrunched up against the sides of the road that look a bit like snow.

I couldn’t help myself, and one day I pulled off on the side, got out of my car and filled my arms with some abandoned cotton leavings. They are soft and white, and I gently pull the fiber out and spin it in my fingers to make thread.

For me, Saturdays are Jeremy days. I have no other plans. I desire no other plans.

It’s a long drive each way, and when I arrive back home in late afternoon, I like to decompress.

The going toward and the leaving behind. Every Saturday.

Bittersweet and heart-wrenching. While I’m there, we fill the day with words of encouragement and banter and play card games. He makes his own special recipe of biscuits and gravy we enjoy together using the meager ingredients available. No shopping or movie watching. Just sitting in hard chairs, laughing across a long table, sharing the room with many others doing the same.

Sometimes we even get to go outside. But not often. We do what we can with what we have.

It’s all these things. And it’s all worth it.

But we both long for the day when there will be no more leaving behind.

Because home is where my son will be.