House on the Rock

 I know that Scripture is laden with comfort for sufferers -- take the entire book of Job, over half the Psalms, Philippians, James, and Lamentations, to name a few. Such chapters of the Bible have been my go-to guides for mourning, hope, joy in trials, and peace in storms, and they don't even begin to crack the surface of all God's Word has to offer. During a tough season in college, I hunkered down in James. My brutal job search brought me heart-to-heart with Philippians. A troubling student situation had us holing up in 2 Corinthians 1.  Then Mom was diagnosed with cancer and my world was rocked. I thought, where in the world do I go for this? This feels like the hardest thing I could ever imagine. I know all Scripture is God-breathed and fully sufficient, but what passage will bring peace in a storm this size? Where do I turn? I know what you're thinking. Numbers. Surely, that's the place, right? Everyone's coffee-mug-calligraphied go-to for comfort in crisis? ...

 The plan was to drive to Crawfordsville to tell our grandparents. We wanted to do it in person; we needed to do it together. The drive was quiet, heavy, slow. We pulled into Nana and Papaw's and prepared to rock their world in the same way ours had been. Grammy met us in the driveway. I couldn't be more thankful for a family so close-knit. I couldn't be more thankful that the town of Crawfordsville is small.  That conversation was brutal. Nana and I gripped each other's hands, willing this to be a nightmare we would wake up from. We prayed, parted ways, and prepared to wake up the next day with this new reality. Shockingly, that morning was wonderful. Heartbreaking, certainly. But so peaceful. I woke up to breakfast, made of course, by Dad. Went on a walk by myself, praying and singing. I sat outside on the porch and read Leviticus -- not my first choice in times of trouble, but it's where my Bible plan had me. It's where I stayed. We sipped coffee together, re...

 I did exactly what I planned to do. Almost. I walked to the park. I basked in the sun. I read a book. I planned how I was going to surprise Joe with pizza. Mom was in the hospital, but surely not for long. Surely with nothing serious. That wouldn't happen to her.  We got a text from dad, delivered to me, Cam, and Christen: "Hey guys! Mom would love if you would come down here to hang. I'll buy dinner." Seemed harmless enough, but my gut turned to a rock. I began shaking. For a reason I'll never fully understand, I just knew we were heading toward bad news. I called Christen, who also wasn't planning on visiting that night. "I think we need to go," I said. "I think it's bad." At a traffic light on the way to meet Christen, I called Cam. I told him the same thing. "Really?" he asked. "I just talked to Dad and I didn't get that vibe."  Despite my siblings' best efforts of encouragement, I couldn't shake the...

 It seems quite unlikely that I'd forget the timeline of events which seemed to endlessly crescendo worse and worse throughout the past week. But I believe firmly in the power of journaling, so I'll make sure that timeline is secured here too. These are soul-shaping moments, it is certain. God-revealing. It's a bit like driving to work on humid August mornings, not realizing the windshield was foggy until the air conditioning kicks in and alas, we can see. We thought we knew who God was as a comforter. How clear we can finally see! It was Tuesday, August 8th. School started in two days. It had been a busy two days, so I sat in my room in the dark, racing scissors across college-themed pennants for my bulletin board. Freshmen on campus tours peered through my window while I tried to remain unseen, tried to ignore the text from my dad saying they were taking Mom to the ER. Peace triumphed over fear for much of that evening, mostly because I was oblivious to the gravity of the...

Early this summer, I was pretty gung ho about gardening. We live on the second story of our apartment complex, so that eliminated the prospect of a super fruitful harvest, but I thought I could most certainly try to keep some potted plants alive on our balcony. I evenly dispersed pots of spider plants, radiator plants, ivy, basil, and morning glories. I repotted when needed. I bought fertilizer. I looked forward to watering every morning. At one point, perhaps at the height of my plant-based enthusiasm, I started making a list: Things I've Learned about God Through the Plant-Raising Process.  Point 1 was the importance of being well-watered. God refers to Himself as the fountain of living waters, and if we stray from that source, we will not grow.  And that was pretty much where my list stopped. Because frankly, not a lot was going on. July hit and the plants were kind of growing, kind of not. Some still green, some turning yellowy-brown with a disappointing crunch. It became ...

During my senior year of college, I was taking a class called Contemporary Christian Belief. This class addressed five critical questions that might hold people back from believing in God. It prepared us for "street sweeping conversations," otherwise known as apologetics-driven answers to the roadblocks that keep people from faith.  My favorite question we addressed, by far, was number 3 of 5: How can a good God allow suffering? We looked at the story of Job, a man in Scripture who lost everything he owned in a matter of moments. Pretty much the only thing he gained was boils and a literal dung heap. We also read the stories of many people who have suffered tremendously for a multitude of reasons: a father whose entire family was killed in a car crash. A young girl in Indonesia raped and beaten for professing Christ. A woman diagnosed with cancer.  Suffering is an inevitable part of the fall. When Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, the perfect life as God ordained it came to...

When Christen was four or five, she would oftentimes perform elaborate acrobatic gymnastics from the ottoman to the floor to the rocking chair and back. If, for any reason, she would mess up her routine, she would exclaim in the cutest little pipsqueaky baby voice, "Das' not how I planned it!" We've coined this phrase in our family, using it as a default for rained-out picnics, lost tournaments, car troubles, and now, cancer. There seems to be no more accurate banner. After all, at this time of year, our family is usually gearing up for the return to school. Likely making a state fair run (or two), meeting at a nice restaurant to celebrate August birthdays, anticipating the return of football. This year, we're figuring out who will drive who to the hospital, when and how to prepare for potential chemo, and navigating a life entirely different than what we imagined even a week ago. In short, das' not how we planned it! Mom's diagnosis has brought us to our ...

I've always thought it's a beautiful thing, the way you can sense a storm on the horizon. The air has a mysterious chill against the backdrop of a yellow-grey sky and leaves turn their bellies heavenward in a display of silvery-green glory. It's a providential warning, time to batten down the hatches and prepare for the downpour.  It was late April when The Gates of Splendor was left on my doorstep by an Amazon delivery man. I was enamored by the story of five young missionaries and their wives who so desperately wanted people to hear the gospel that they were willing to die for its cause. I remember reading this quote by Elisabeth Elliot, reflecting on the week where her husband was murdered in the jungles of Ecuador:  " The other wives and I talked together one night about the possibility of becoming widows. What would we do? God gave us peace of heart, and confidence that whatever might happen, His Word would hold. We knew that 'when He Putteth forth His sheep, ...