Light

Something can appear beautiful or ugly entirely based on the light that is put on it.

- Elizabeth Craft, "Happier," episode 109

What light am I putting on our current heart-breaking situation?

It gets ugly fast when I shine the light of politics on it.  Or compare my quarantine to others' quarantine.

It's ugly when I strain to see into the crystal ball and know what the near or distant future holds.

It's ugly when the only light is fear:  fear that I'll get it, fear that my family will get it, fear that my loved ones will get it, fear that my community will be decimated, fear of a decade-long economic depression, fear that I'll be involved in a super-spreading event, fear that I'll give it to someone vulnerable, fear that I can't get groceries, fear that my friendships will wither to death by neglect, fear of being left behind and forgotten about, fear that life will always forever be like this.

The fear light is bright.

Just like Caleb and Joshua, the two faithful spies in Israel, faith tells a different narrative.  

The light of faith says God is doing something unseen.  Something good, trustworthy, and worthwhile.  Faith is satisfied by knowing that present pain is not worth comparing to future glory.

Faith remembers that God hears me--God sees me--God knows my name and will not forget me or move on to more interesting things.

The light of faith shows that God wasn't surprised by Covid, that it is all part of the tapestry of grace He is weaving with my life.

Faith sees that this life is a blink, and eternity is full of light, joy, and sweet fellowship beyond compare--and this trial is preparing me for it.

Faith knows that my Good Shepherd walks through the dark valley, here, now, with me.  His rod and His staff, they comfort me.  He Himself doesn't shy from my dark path, but takes me down it with His own hand.

Switch to the light of faith, and even quarantine starts to look beautiful.

Be still, my soul:

the Lord is on your side;

Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;

Leave to Your God to order and provide;

In ev'ry change,

He faithful will remain.

Be still my soul:

your best, your heav'nly Friend

Through thorny ways

leads to a joyful end.

Be still my soul:

your God will undertake

To guide the future as He has the past.

Your hope, your confidence

let nothing shake;

All now mysterious

shall be bright at last.

Be still my soul:

the waves and winds still know

His voice Who ruled them

while He dwelt below.

Be still my soul:

when dearest friends depart,

And all is darkened in the vale of tears,

Then shall you better

know His love, His heart,

Who comes to soothe

your sorrow and your fears.

Be still my soul:

your Jesus can repay

From His own fullness

all He takes away.

Be still my soul:

the hour is hast'ning on

When we shall be

forever with the Lord,

When disappointment,

grief and fear are gone,

Sorrow forgot,

love's purest joys restored.

Be still my soul:

when change and tears are past,

All safe and blessed

we shall meet at last.

Jason's birthday present--an outdoor daybed for the balcony.

This mouse wins the rodent courage award.  A few weeks ago I stopped at Grandma and Grandpa's house to chat with them from my car, when this cute little guy ran out from under the hood, up the windshield, and huddled under the front of the roof rack.

Not being able to get to him, or shoo him off, I had little choice but to apologize to him and drive off.  Eleven miles later, I reached home and checked the roof.

Windblown and traumatized, but still clinging on!  He had slid to the back of the roof rack; I'm sure there are tiny desperate claw marks all down the roof.  I would love to have footage of his little round ears flapping in the 50mph wind and his tail sailing out behind him as he clung for dear life.

Oh fearful saints, new courage take:

The clouds that you now dread

Are big with mercy and will break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust Him for His grace.

Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

God's purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding ev'ry hour.

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flow'r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err

And scan His work in vain.

God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.

When tears are great and comforts few,

We hope in mercies ever new.

We trust in You.

Katharina von Schlegel, "Be Still, My Soul"

William Cowper and Bob Kauflin, "God Moves"

Importance

Jo:  Who will be interested in a story of domestic struggles and joys?  It doesn't have any real importance, does it?

Amy:  Maybe it doesn't seem important because people don't write about them.

Jo:  No.  Writing doesn't confer importance; it reflects it.

Amy:  I don't think so.  Writing them will make them more important.

~Little Women, 2019

We have about three weeks left of school.

Caleb misread this word as "cactapus," which is a good name for what I am when I'm grumpy with my kids, which is to say, pretty much all the time.

I have spring fever, and cabin fever.  Possibly disco fever.  Probably not boogie fever.  Thankfully, not a medical-grade fever.

Caleb set up a school seat for Ears, and for, inexplicably, a set of snowman-themed Christmas gift boxes.

Thankfully May is the month I traditionally do all the next year's school planning, which is great fun and a lot of work, so I have something to keep me busy at the moment-- or "off the streets and out of the bars," as a woman once put it when I was in the grocery store with a bunch of little kids.  

Which is more beneficial now than ever.

We were reading about the story of David and Bathsheba one morning when Caleb asked, "What's adultery?"  Jeddy drew this helpful diagram to explain.

Quarantine drags wearily on.  We desperately miss hugging Grandma and babies and real church and easy grocery shopping.  I'm sure I've gained the quarantine 15, between endless comfort food and no-consequence drinking every day of the week.  And every time I think, "I should eat better," I soon sigh and think but why?

Caleb with his newly-potted volunteer maple tree--that he named Ears, after Ears.

My weekly routine has boiled down to:   Monday, reserve a grocery pickup time.  Tuesday, receive my food delivery box.  Wednesday, place a farmer's market order.  Thursday, place a food delivery box order.  Friday, place a grocery order.  Saturday, farmer's market and grocery pickup.  And Sunday, assemble ourselves on the couch to play pretend church, with a mixture of joy and depression that this is possible but this is how it is.

This is how we keep track of the calendar now.

I try to stay at least a step above pajamas most days.  Back in January, I bought what I had no idea would become my quarantine pants--fuzzy fleece drawstrings.  Some days I step it up a bit and wear leggings instead.  And sometimes I can't take it anymore and I get fully dressed in skinny jeans and boots and a big necklace.  

Usually it's back to the trusty quarantine pants the next day.

I actually had to start wearing real shoes more often because I was starting to get foot cramps from wearing slippers so much.

So which March sister was right?  Does writing reflect importance of our domestic struggles and joys, or confer it?  

I'm not sure.  

Maybe writing helps us see that things we thought were trivial are important after all.  Maybe the God who knows the number of hairs on my head cares about my fuzzy pants and foot cramps and grocery list.  Maybe He notices my cabin fever and guides my school planning, and in fact, is working out every detail of this miserable world event--for my good, as He promised.