House on the Rock

Another fall break has come and gone. While driving west on 32, I noticed the  most resplendent displays of golden-orange foliage that fell like confetti in the autumn breeze. It led me to reflect on last year's fall break, when Joe and I ventured south to Brown County, Indiana. Our trip was marked by bitter snowfall that halted our hikes, overpriced chili dogs, and closed restaurant after closed restaurant. I journaled this one morning: "Our early morning search for an open restaurant was fruitless, and biscuitless, and coffeeless, and literally-everything-else-less. Not only did the shops and restaurants close at 5, 3 of them didn't open until 11 and the rest were closed on Tuesdays. We slugged sleepily back to the Inn and settled for two granola bars which I had thrown into my duffel. I think we both feel a bit discouraged." And here we are one year later. I would do just about anything to have unopened restaurants be the primary trial of our lives. We spent the br...

 We're on month five of trying to conceive. Trapped in a vicious cycle: one negative pregnancy test after another. What seems to be symptoms of pregnancy are again interrupted by the punch of my period starting.  Every month of no baby seems to bring a heavier weight, the more grim and crushing reality that my amazing, deeply treasured mother will not be in the delivery room with me like I always imagined she'd be. I will not likely get to see her hold my baby. She will not be around to marvel at the milestones, to answer my desperate calls pleading "what do I do with this child?!" Barring a miracle, my children won't get to hug their maternal grandma.  This devastating truth can rob me of my joy and consume me, if I let it. And for a couple days lately, I have. I have been floored by the fact that life is not going how I planned it. Things are not like I hoped they would be. This valley is darker, harder, and lasting longer than I ever imagined. And there is a lo...

  You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;      you have loosed my sackcloth      and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.      O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!     - Psalm 31:11-12 I’ve always thought that this Psalm about God turning mourning to dancing meant that mourning and dancing cannot (or at least do not) coexist. I presumed that God basically strips away our mourning so that it is completely removed, and then the dancing comes in later, down the road, once every drop of mourning is gone. The past seven weeks have made me realize how deeply untrue that is. So much of our dancing is because we are mourning, and yet God’s promise and presence and peace intermingles with our sorrow, making the dancing even sweeter than it would be without mourning. It’s complex, but I think it’s right: we won’t truly know how to dance if we haven’t ...