Be Strong and Courageous

Naturally, my 3 little warriors are a bit obsessed with the ideas of bravery and strength.  They are necessary characteristics of any warrior.  Jed has told me, “Being brave means you aren’t afraid of anything.”

“No,” I replied, “Being brave means even when you’re afraid, you still do what you are supposed to do.  Courage is moving forward when we are afraid to.”  He has reminded me of that conversation often, repeating my words as if they were his own idea.  Really, I guess all ‘new’ ideas have come from somewhere or someone . . .  Before I get lost down that philosophical track, let me continue.

My little Abe talks about how strong he is.  Really, he’s pretty shrimpy.  He’s always moved so fast, he has always been thin.  And he expends his energy and enthusiasm without much planning, so his strength is often misplaced.  We often encourage him, though, to remember that he is strong because of his God.  He loves this and he and Jed often talk about how God fights for them.  That’s right, boys!

Lucy is catching on to all of this and I see her little wheels turning as she runs after her brothers into any and every battle.  Our friends just lent us a trampoline (not a little one for your house, but a full-sized one.)  Lucy loves it!  She jumps right in there with the big kids.  After she’s taken a pounding for a bit, she runs over to where I’m leaning against the edge, watching them and cheering them on.  She’ll gasp, “I’m okay, Mom, I’m okay!” and then grab me in a quick hug and pat my back.  Then, right back to the action she goes.

These days have been exceptionally challenging.  First the flood and involuntary separation from my family.  Then, the news that we had to move from my dream home.  I feel like I’ve been hanging on to little.  I’m afraid to move forward, setting up another home.  There’s no guarantee that we will be able to move back into our old one after a few months.  There’s no guarantee that we will be able to stay in this one.  How do you pick back up and reorganize the same boxes again?  And fix the same electrical and plumbing problems again?  And find the right place for everything again?  And push yourself to find a new normal again?

Courage.  People sometimes hear of our lifestyle out here and our decisions to live in a new and difficult place and they call us ‘brave.’  I hope they don’t think, like Jed used to, that this means we don’t fear doing this life.  I hope they don’t think we find this easy or that we run to it with open arms.  Quite the contrary, I’m scared sometimes.  I’m frustrated sometimes.  I don’t want to do it many times.  But, I guess I can agree that we’re brave in that, even though we’re afraid, we’re seeking to do what we’re supposed to do.  We feel like God wants us here, to make a difference in a difficult place, even if we don’t understand or see the results.  To keep going, I guess, takes bravery.  So, I’ll own it just like my kids do.

A few days ago, I agreed to host a woman (not someone I’ve met before) who was coming to check up on some people affected by the flood.  I wanted to do this.  It was a small thing I could do to help others out.  I thought she was coming in 3-4 days and staying for 3-4 days.  I just found out she’s coming tomorrow and staying for 10 days.  I’m not ready!  When I heard the news, I deflated.  I felt like all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and emerge in 2 weeks.    We still have boxes and piles of unorganized things everywhere from our recent move.  It’s better than it was, but still not good.  We don’t have curtains and we have inquisitive neighbors.  I just spent the morning cutting fabric for the curtains, but don’t have a sewing machine and the tailors won’t open until tomorrow because of a festival.  We don’t have rugs in some rooms and still need to clean many floors.  I’m not ready.  Also, I need to figure out how to feed her and maybe a few others besides.  Did I mention I’m not ready?  I need so much more than me to get this right.  I need:

Strength.  But not the kind that would come from me.  My ego that might have thought I was strong and could manage things has been stomped on sufficiently in the last few years.  I’m not dumb enough to think I’ll be able to handle these next few weeks by myself.  Thankfully, the strength doesn’t have to come from me.  It comes from my Savior.  I’m forgiven, loved, accepted, and fought for.  I don’t have to fear if this woman disapproves of my housekeeping, cooking, lack of curtains, etc.  I’m not here to please her, but to serve her as my Savior serves me.  If I can get that right, I’ll be happy to have her and bless her as I can, not as I cannot.  And, from what I understand, my Savior is her Savior, too.  I have even less to worry about.  She knows not to judge as the world sees.  So, I can own being strong because God’s strength is made perfect in weakness, in my weakness.

This up and down, feeling excited, feeling exhausted, looking ahead, looking behind, planning, rearranging, moving, falling, succeeding, failing is surprisingly like a trampoline ride.  The one where I’m the smallest kid on there and I’m just trying to keep my balance while I get bounced around.  Luckily, I, too, know where to go when I’m disoriented.  I, too, have someone who loves me and is looking out for me, making sure I don’t land on my head or get bounced right off.  I, too, have someone I can crawl to, gasping, “I’m okay, Father, I’m okay!”  And He hugs me and sends me right back out there.