The King in the Stable

It’s Christmas day, and all seven members of my family are packed into the minivan. We’re driving to my grandparents’ house.

Our drive takes us along the Mississippi River. Crowded trees obscure my view, but I can still see patches of dark water through bare branches.

Then the tree line ends, and the river is laid bare.

“Boys, look at the water,” my mom says. “Still as glass.”

She’s right. The river looks like a lake. The small town across the river is perfectly reflected in the water at the shoreline.

I grew up on the Mississippi, so I know how to read the river’s mood from its color and texture. I’ve seen peaceful ripples and angry whitecaps. There are days when the water is gray and days when the water churns until it’s a rich brown. I’ve learned to respect the river, because even when it looks subdued, it is powerful.

“How peaceful that even the water is still on Christmas,” my mom says.

The stillness of the water reminds me of the child born in Bethlehem. I think of the peaceful baby who slept in a stable--the subject of songs like “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Silent Night.”

But there’s another aspect of the Christ Child that I don’t often think about this time of year. Mary’s tiny baby had all the power and awesomeness of the omnipotent God. The infant in the manger was the One who spoke the world into existence. And He is the warrior who would later defeat death through His sacrifice on the cross.  

When I isolate Christ’s humble birth from the rest of His story, I miss the depth of Christmas. I lose sight of God's humility in taking the form of a helpless baby.

The glassy surface of the Mississippi doesn’t trick me into forgetting the power that the river wields. Neither should Christ’s birth as a helpless child lull me into forgetting His mightiness.

The road diverges from the river. We’re nearing our destination, but I take this moment to say a prayer.

“Jesus, thank you for choosing to descend from everything to nothing. And thank you for doing that for me.”

Disposable Days

I’m on the phone with my friend David. When we were roommates in college, I used to see him every day. Now we mostly keep in touch over the phone. But the great thing about David is that he can make me laugh, even when he’s five hours away.

“Do you remember when we built that miniature snowman in Derek’s dorm room?” David asks.

“Yes!” I say. “And by the time Derek got back, it had melted. All that was left was a baby carrot and a wet spot.”

“We never explained it to him. He had no clue.” David says.

We laugh.

“Remember when you dumped a whole tube of glitter onto my bed sheets? I ask.

“You couldn’t wash it out. That glitter stuck around for weeks.” David says.

“Every time I thought it was finally gone, I’d wake up with glitter stuck all over my face,” I say

The memories make me smile.

“I miss those times,” I say. “Back when we had more freedom and fewer obligations. I miss having disposable days.”

David pauses on the other end of the line.

“We had a lot of fun,” he says. “But maybe it’s a good thing that our days aren’t disposable anymore. It gives us an incentive to make the most of them. We have to be intentional about how we use our time.”

I think about what David said. He’s right. When my time seems endless, it’s easy for me to slip into complacency. It’s easy for me to procrastinate. But when my time is limited, I treat it like a valuable commodity.

Every day that God has given me is a gift. It’s a day I can use to pour into others. A day I can use to grow closer to God. A day I can use to help build His kingdom.

Or it’s a day that can slip through my hands. I don’t want that to be the case.

“When did you get so wise?” I ask David. “Weren’t you the kid who dumped glitter all over my bedsheets?”

David chuckles. “Yeah. I’m just trying to use my time more constructively these days.”

A Tree and Trust

I just received a package in the mail. The bright eBay logo on the side tells me it’s the one I’ve been waiting for.

Last week, I won an auction for a retro aluminum Christmas tree. They’re hard to find because companies stopped making them in the sixties.

I set the box on my counter and slice it open with my pocket knife. Inside the box is a stand, a trunk, and bundles of branches. The stand and the trunk fit together easily enough. But I pause when I start unwrapping the branches.

They’re all exactly the same length. Every branch.

If I put these on the trunk, this is not going to look like a tree. It’s going to look like an aluminum can.

I’m frustrated. Somebody ripped me off. The seller must have cobbled together this tree from a bunch of different ones. I probably have the bottom branches of about five aluminum trees. 

Great, now I’m going to have to email the seller and try to return this thing. That also means a trip to the post office during December.

I decide I should take a picture just in case the seller disputes the return. The best way for me to do that is to actually put the “tree” together, so I begin to place the bottom circle of branches into the trunk. Tiny strips of aluminum shake as I slip each branch into its spot.

I start the second row. Oddly, each branch is at a slightly higher angle than the branches on the bottom row were.

By the time I reach the third row, I’ve figured out this pattern. Because the angles of the holes increase with each rung up the tree, the branches look shorter the higher they go.

This is going to look like a tree after all.

As I insert the rest of the branches, I think about how I often struggle to understand God’s plans for me. I see all the pieces of my life, and I wonder how things will work out.

What job will I have in five years? Where will I live? Will I be married?

But instead of wondering—instead of worrying—I need to trust God. Trust that he can see the patterns that I can’t yet. Trust that he is in control and that he is shaping my life in minute but definite ways.

I’m done with the branches now. I stand back and stare at what most definitely looks like a tree.

It’s everything I hoped. And now, it will remind me to trust the One who is guiding my life step by step.

Holding On to Hope

I’m playing old-school Christmas music in my apartment. Frank Sinatra. Bing Crosby. Judy Garland. Some of the songs are bouncy and light. Others have a heaviness to them.

The Holidays are weird like that. Full of emotional juxtaposition. Celebration and sadness commingled.

I’ve been reflecting on this past year. I’ve accomplished a lot. I graduated law school and passed the bar exam. I’ve had new experiences. I’ve made new friends.  

But I’ve also lost old friends. I’ve had struggles. I’ve made mistakes.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve grown over the last year. If I’ve stepped forward or backward. I want to be wiser and stronger. Closer to God and closer to others. But life has hills and valleys. Sometimes, I’m afraid my valleys outnumber my hills.

I reach out to turn up my music. I’m hoping to drown out some of these thoughts. As I crank up the volume, my hand brushes against the plant next to the stereo.

My Christmas cactus.

It’s been a hard year for that guy. Back in June, I left him outside for a few days. I thought he’d appreciate the summer sun.

He didn’t. He baked to a crisp.

Parts of him turned shriveled and brown. Then segments dropped. Dense branches became sparse and spindly. I’ve been nursing him back to health since.

But something is different about him today. He still looks like he’s limping back to health. But each arm now holds something. Some arms hold tightly bound buds. Others hold unfurled red flowers.

They all hold hope.

Hope that there are victories amidst the struggles. Hope for redemption and new life. Hope that the hills outnumber the valleys.

So, instead of letting my doubts weigh me down, I hold on to hope.

The kind of hope that can only come from a baby who was born in a stable.

A Heart That Is Grateful

I’m browsing the internet during my lunch break. I’m trying to decide whether to take advantage of a Cyber Monday sale. The hammock I’ve been eying for a year is thirty percent off.

I’m not a possession-oriented person. My life doesn’t revolve around what I own.  But there are some things I’d like to have. I’d like to trade in my 2005 Neon for a new Jeep. I wish I had a nice set of headphones. And right now, I want to buy that hammock. But before I put it into my online cart, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I pick up.

“Logan, this is Keith. I manage your apartment building.”

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Well, there’s a leak in your apartment. Water is coming out of your wall and into the hallway.”

My stomach balks.

I rush to my office, slip on my coat, and take off down the hallway. My mind is running even faster than I am. What if there’s water damage? A box of books from my childhood is on my closet floor. I left my laptop propped against my nightstand.  Water can create all sorts of mold problems. What if I have to leave my apartment until everything is cleaned up?

I make it to my building and enter the elevator. I jam the button to my floor. There’s an eternity between the staccato beeps that mark my journey upward.

“Lord,” I pray. Please protect my home. Please preserve my belongings.”

When the elevator opens, I see a trickle of water snaking from my apartment’s wall into the hallway. I open the door to my apartment. Part of me expects to unleash a tidal wave.

But for the most part, everything looks normal. The most unusual thing is that a man is inspecting the kitchen sink.

“I’ve got things under control,” he says. “I don’t see any damage a mop can’t fix.”

I exhale, long and deep. I feel relieved.

I also feel thankful. Grateful that I have a warm, dry place to live. Thankful for the things that fill my apartment. I look around, and I see what I usually take for granted. A bed. A recliner. A television. Things that I feel entitled to.

But I’m not entitled to any of them. And there are people without them.

"Father," I pray. "You've given me so much, but I'm asking for two more things. Give me eyes that see all you have given me. And give me a heart that is grateful."

Eyes for Others

It’s Friday night. I’m at my parents’ house. I have a three-day weekend, and I’m glad to spend it here. The evening with my family has been restorative. But I’m also tired from my full week and long drive.

“I think I’m ready to go to bed,” I say.

That’s actually a problem, because I don’t have a bed here. My parents’ new house is smaller than the rambling Victorian home I grew up in. There’s no guest room in this house, so I’ll probably have to crash on the couch. It most likely won’t be a restful night.

“Are there spare blankets for me to throw on the sofa?” I ask my mom.

Before she answers, my brother Isaiah interjects. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.

“That’s all right, Isaiah,” I say. “I don’t mind it.” I begin grabbing pillows off the sofa.

“No, take my bed,” Isaiah says. “I already washed my sheets for you.”

I set an armload of pillows onto the floor and look at him. His eyes are lit up, and he’s smiling.

Isaiah is happy to give up his bed. He’s joyful to put himself last and to put me first. Before I had even come home, Isaiah had anticipated what I would need, and he took care of me. He has eyes for others.

What a stunning example of love.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Isaiah,” I say. “You’re a good guy.”

I help create a makeshift bed for Isaiah on the sofa. Then I head for his bedroom. I pull back crisp sheets and lay down. As I stare at the ceiling, I pray.

“Lord, give me a heart like Isaiah’s. Help me to see others’ needs even before they do. And help me to find joy in putting their needs before my own.”

*    *    *

Sunlight sprays through the gap in the curtains. I stretch, my feet extending past the end of the twin bed. I slept the whole night through, and I feel rested.

Thanks to someone who knows how to care for others.

Into the Light

My car slices through the night. The darkness is heavy, and I struggle to see as I drive through town.

My friend Matt is on speaker phone.

 “It’s so dark out,” I say. “I can’t believe it’s only six o’clock.”

“Yeah, I’m not a fan of daylight savings time,” Matt says.

It’s good to catch up with him. We haven’t talked in a while.

“How are you doing?” Matt asks.

“It’s been a long week,” I say. “I’m behind on stuff at work. I’m still getting over this cold. I’m just feeling out of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt says.

I peer out my windshield. I’m not sure if I need to take the upcoming turn.

“I wish it weren’t so dark out,” I say. “I can’t read this street sign.”

“It can’t be that dark,” Matt says. “Unless you’re doing that thing with your headlights again.”

“What?” I ask.

“You know. You used to always forget to use your headlights in college. I had to remind you.”

He’s right. I have a bad habit of not using my headlights in town. The streetlights make me forget my lights are off.

I flip on my lights. My low beams push back the darkness, and I can read the signs ahead.

“Ok, you got me,” I say.

“Thought so,” he says. “Well, I’ve got to go. But I’ll be praying for the rest of your week.”

Prayer. My chest sinks. I haven’t been consistent about praying this week. Instead of relying on God, I’ve been going it alone.

God is light, and His light pierces through the darkness. No wonder I’ve felt gloomy. I’ve been driving without spiritual headlights.

Without God, I’ve been struggling to focus on the positive. I’ve lost my sense of direction.

I say goodbye to Matt, and I spend the rest of my drive talking to my Father. And as I do, I begin to feel better. 

Because I'm moving forward, into the light.

A Lesson on Blessings

I’m sick today. I woke up with a raspy cough and the kind of sinus headache where even my teeth hurt.  I made it to work this morning, but I probably should have taken the day off.

I’m glad there are only five minutes until the end of the work day. All I want to do is collapse into my recliner back home. I’m hungry, but the thought of making something to eat sounds like more work than I can handle. I hope there’s a can of Campbell’s in the back of my cupboard.

My phone buzzes.  I check the screen and find a text from a family friend, Stephanie.

“Hi, Logan. Your mom told me you aren’t feeling well. Can I bring you some dinner this evening?”

The timing is perfect. Dinner would be such a blessing.

But I’m uneasy about responding. I know Stephanie lives half an hour away, and I feel guilty having her drive that far. I also know that she has family in town this weekend. I don’t want her to waste her time making food for me.

These kind of feelings aren’t unusual ones for me. It’s hard for me to accept help. It makes me feel undeserving. Burdensome. Like a taker instead of a giver.

As a shut down my computer for the day, I struggle with how to respond to the text. Uncertainty gnaws at me as I walk to my car.

But halfway across the parking lot, I stop.

Somebody wants to bless me. To help me feel better.  And I’ve turned it into something stressful.

That’s the opposite of what Stephanie would want.

I need to learn how to let other people take care of me. I need to learn how to accept blessings. God has put somebody in my life to help me on a day when I need it. All I need to do is say thank you.

I pull out my phone and text Stephanie.

“I would appreciate that so much. Thank you for taking care of me.”

A little while later, I sit at my kitchen table eating a bowl of homemade soup. My stomach is warm and full. And the gnawing feeling is gone. 

I am so glad that today, I decided to accept a blessing.

Among the Leaves

My younger brothers are huddled near the window. There’s something new on the windowsill: a terrarium. It’s mostly made of fragile glass, but each pane is framed with strong copper. The rectangular base and triangular lid make it look like a small, transparent house.

               But it’s not the terrarium my brothers are looking at. It’s the Venus flytrap inside. Long spindles of green spill out of a pot of sphagnum moss.  At the end of each spindle is an open mouth lined with jagged teeth.

               “Can I touch it?” Gabriel asks.

               “No, it’ll hurt,” Isaiah says. He looks at me for confirmation.

               “You can’t touch it because that would drain the plant’s energy,” I say. “But it can’t hurt people. Just flies.”

               “Why would a fly ever land on that?” Gabriel asks. “Look at all of those teeth.”

               “The flies don’t land on the teeth,” I say. “Look at the mouth.” I point at the smooth center of one of the traps. It looks soft, almost padded, and it’s just the slightest shade of pink. “Each of those little mouths smells very sweet to flies. They think there’s food nearby, so they land on the trap. When the fly touches the mouth, the jaws close. By the time the fly figures out the smell was a trick, it’s too late.  Those teeth are locked tight, and the fly is trapped.”

               “That’s sneaky,” Isaiah says. “I kind of feel bad for the fly.”

               “I do too,” I say. And I really mean that. On some level, I can identify with the fly.

               Because the flytrap reminds me of sin.

               Sin is dangerous. But it’s also attractive. It draws us in by looking appealing and enjoyable. But the sweet aroma it gives off is only an imitation of goodness. And once we’ve opened ourselves to sin, it grabs hold. The jaws close. And getting free is no easy task.

               I’ve been there before. I’ve also been saved and set free by Christ. I’ve seen the power he has over sin.

               But I don’t want to wait until I’m trapped to recognize sin. I want to see it for what it is from the start.

               “Can we water the plant?” Isaiah’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

               “Sure. Let’s go get the watering can,” I say.

               As we leave the room, I look back at the terrarium. The plant inside is draped in an almost lazy fashion.

But I know that there is danger hidden among the leaves.

Toward the Goal

I’m on my Saturday morning run. The air is October cool, and the sun glints through the yellow canopy above me. I started my run in the city, but the buildings are behind me. Now I’m running alongside a lake.

Being out here helps me cope with the emptiness inside of my chest.

I’ve gone through a lot of goodbyes lately.  My parents are selling the home I grew up in. I moved across the state to a city I’m unfamiliar with. My friends from law school are now spread around the country.

That’s why I’m running. Because when I run, for just a moment, I feel like I’m okay.

My phone buzzes. It’s a notification from the running app on my phone. My friend David commented on the warm up I logged a few minutes ago.

David: Why are you running this early?  And on a Saturday? Some wild animal must be chasing you. What are you running from?

He’s joking. But there is truth hidden in that final question.

I am running from something. I’m trying to outrun the emptiness. I’m trying to distance myself from the loneliness that follows me like a shadow.

I’m running because, when my muscles hurt, my heart doesn’t.

I start to slow down. Even here, sadness has found me. And as it overtakes me, so does fatigue. I’ve only made it to the tip of the lake, which means I’m only halfway home.

I round the tip, my head hanging low.

But after I turn the bend, I look up. Off in the distance, I can see my apartment building. Its stacked floors rise far above the tree line. 

I feel a surge of energy. Seeing my goal makes it feel attainable. It gives me hope.

I run toward that goal.

There’s power in running toward something. Running away has reprieves but no end. Whatever is giving chase can always catch up.

But running toward something is different. There is no fear. No looking over shoulders. Only moving in the direction of something good and real and tangible.   

I don’t want to run away from my loneliness anymore. I want to run toward something.

I want to run toward Christ.

I want to trust Him to restore me. To take away the loneliness. I want Him to fill the empty places of my life in the way that only He can.

That goal gives me hope. And that hope gives me the strength to press on.

Thoughts from a Rest Stop

I’m driving home to see my family for the weekend. I left about an hour ago—right after I got off work. It’s been a long week, and I’m feeling it. Each time I blink, it takes me a little longer to open my eyes.

I pass a blue sign. “Rest Area. One Mile.”

I’m torn as to whether I should stop to get a soda from a vending machine. I probably need to get some caffeine pumping through my veins. But I’ve been moving along at a steady clip, and I’d hate to slow myself down with a stop. I can probably make it without stopping if I crank up the radio and . . .

A loud reverberating noise pulls me from my thoughts. Rumble strips. I must have been drifting. The rest stop is just ahead, so I exit the interstate.

I get out of my car and head toward to the welcome center. The automatic doors are almost too slow for my approach. They just barely slide open before I pass through. Once inside, I see a vending machine. I feed it two dollars and punch a faded button. Then I fish out the bottle that drops to the bottom.

This has been a fast stop. I can’t have lost more than five minutes.

When I get back to the parking lot, I set my soda on my car’s roof. I lean down, unlock my door, then stand up to grab the soda.

When I do, I am stunned by what I see beyond the bottle. Past the parking lot, there’s a green and gold field. It gently slopes down and back up again. A tree line frames the field. Some of the trees are verdant green. Others are just barely touched with autumn red. But they are all drenched in the soft light of evening.

Behind me, I can hear the drone of the interstate. But in front of me, the world is quiet and still. And as I gaze out over this scene, the pressure to rush back to the road subsides. This image pulls everything inside of me toward the artist who made it. This sight gives me peace.

I almost drove past this majesty. Traded pastures for the passing lanes. Missed out on the rest that my Father provided for me.

I’m grateful for this moment. I close my car door and twist open my soda. I lean against the car and take a sip.

In a few minutes, I’ll resume my journey. But for a moment, I want to take advantage of this opportunity to rest.

For a moment, I want to be completely surrounded by the peace that only the Lord can provide.

Held Fast

I’m going through family photos, looking for one to fill a new frame for my desk. There are a lot of memories here: Christmases. Birthdays. Everyday life. I pull a stack of pictures out of the box. A stray photo slips out of my hand and drifts to the hardwood floor. It’s upside down, so all I can see is the word “Kodak” printed in light grey. But when I flip it over, I recognize the image immediately. 

My youngest brother, Isaiah, and I are together on a ski lift. I’m grinning, my arm around Isaiah. But Isaiah’s face is pure alarm. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is a perfect O. It was his first ride on a ski lift, and I remember how scared he was. His fingers had gripped my arm. He had huddled close to me as the lift rose and the empty space underneath us grew from inches to yards. I wrapped my arms around him and told him that he was safe.

Looking at this picture, I’m struck by how much I can identify with the way Isaiah felt. There are so many things in my life that I can’t control. And it scares me. There are days where I feel like my feet will never be on solid ground again.

But this photo also reminds me that even when I feel helpless, God is holding me. And I can lean into Him. Grip Him tightly. Ask Him for reassurance.

And He will never let me go.

I set the photo aside and place the rest back in the box.  I found what I’m looking for. This picture will be a reminder on the days I feel helpless: I am secure in the arms of my Heavenly Father.

A Checkout Lane Heart Check

I’m in the checkout lane at the grocery store. My cart is full with a week’s worth of food. The cashier scans items belonging to the customer in front of me, and the conveyer belt creeps forward. Soon there will be enough room for me to start unloading my own groceries. 

I grab a bag of apples out of my cart just as a woman walks up behind me.  I turn, and I see she’s carrying only a box of cereal and a roll of paper towels.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Would you like to go ahead of me?”

The woman immediately places her items on the belt, then moves in front of me. She doesn’t thank me. She doesn’t even look at me.

And now I’m mad.

Mad that she would behave so rudely. Mad that I let her cut ahead of me. I want to repo my generosity. I blessed her, and she didn’t deserve it.

The cashier’s scanner blips as he scans the woman’s groceries. He reads off the woman’s total, and she fumbles through her purse.

And for the first time, I look closely at her. Her makeup is smeared at the corner of her eye, like she has been crying. She pulls a credit card out of her purse. She swipes her card, then wipes at her eye with the palm of her hand.

I have no idea what is going on in this woman’s life, but something is obviously wrong.

And this clearer view of this woman has given me a clearer view of my own heart.

I had assumed that I am the one who should decide who does and doesn’t deserve to be blessed.

I’m ashamed. I judged this woman unworthy of going ahead of me in line. But I myself am an unworthy and ungrateful recipient of the greatest gift of all. And the salvation that Christ has given me isn’t contingent on anything I do. In fact, it’s in spite of everything I do.

The woman grabs her bag and leaves. I’ll never know what she is going through today. But I’ll remember the lesson that she taught me.

From now on, I’ll focus on blessing others. And I’ll let God be the one to decide who deserves to be blessed.

Crossing the Bar

My family and I are sitting on the back patio of one of my favorite restaurants. This is the halfway point between home and my new apartment. The hour-and-a-half drive was a long one on a weeknight, but we had to celebrate.

“Passing the bar exam is a big deal,” my dad says. His voice is serious, but he’s also smiling. “Remind me,” he says. “Why do they call it the bar?”

“There’s an actual bar in most courtrooms,” I say. “It divides the attorneys from the people watching the trial. You can’t pass that physical bar without passing the exam.”

My dad nods. “I’m so proud of you,” he says. “This is an accomplishment that sets you apart.”

I mull over his words. I don’t feel set apart. In fact, all day I’ve been reflecting on the people who God has placed alongside me. The people who helped me get to this point and who helped make me into the man I am.

My mom, who taught me to love learning. Who read me books until their bindings fell apart. Who taped those books back together and read them another hundred times.

My dad, who showed me that the most fulfilling thing you can do with your life is to fill other people up.

A boss who taught me the pride of working until my hands were raw.

A firefighter who held me when I was fading.

A girl who taught me how to laugh, how to love, then how to let go.

A friend who was brave enough to call out my fault when I was ignorant to it.

I still interact with some of these people daily. Others I haven’t talked to in years. Still, each was a part of my life when I needed them. So when I finally enter the courtroom as an attorney, I’ll remember those people and the One who brought us together. Without them, I’d never be able to cross that bar.

A Change of Perspective

I’m at my parents’ house for the weekend. My eleven-year-old brother Isaiah and I are on the back porch. Isaiah is trying out an old spyglass I picked up in an antique shop yesterday. I’m on my phone checking the site where bar exam results will be posted.

No results yet. I refresh the screen.

Still no results. I refresh the screen.

“This thing is broken,” Isaiah says. “I can’t see anything.” His hands clutch the spyglass. Its tripod sits on the deck railing. Isaiah has adjusted the spyglass so it’s aimed at an oak leaf a few inches down the railing.

“You have to look farther,” I say. “You’re too close to that leaf.”

I return to my phone, refreshing it again. I know it’s highly unlikely that results would be posted on a weekend. But I’m afraid. I spent three months studying for this test. I spent three years in law school before that. I need to know that I passed.

“Still broken,” Isaiah says.

I look up from my phone. The oak leaf is now about a yard farther down the railing. Isaiah is peering into the spyglass with one eye. The other is squinted shut, the eyebrow above wrinkled with concern.

“You’re still way too close.” I set my phone down, then I turn the spyglass away from the railing and toward the tree line. I look through the spyglass and twist it so it telescopes out. A tree comes into focus. I scan around until I find a bird’s nest, then I carefully let go of the spyglass.

“Look through it now,” I say.

Isaiah eases his face toward the lens. Then he smiles. “This is cool,” he says. “It’s so much better than just looking at that blurry leaf.”

He’s right. And even though I want to pick up my phone and check it again, I restrain myself.

I don’t want to be so distracted by my fears that I miss the good things God has given me. I could check for bar results another dozen times, but the test results will post whether or not I constantly refresh my screen. And my time with Isaiah is limited.

So instead of dwelling on my fear, I spend the morning with Isaiah. We use the spyglass to spot birds and plants and our yellow lab roaming the yard. I’ll check for test results later this afternoon.

But for now, I'm focused on the bigger picture. 

Trail of Faithfulness

I sit on the bank of the lake, legs dangling in the water. My family vacations here at the end of each summer, and it’s evident why. The lake is stunning. The water begins clear and colorless but deepens to opaque navy as the lake bed drops. The entire lake is ringed with sturdy pines, making the air smell sharp and fresh.

I kick at the water. The sunlight glances off the lake’s surface, then dances in condensed ripples around my ankles. Everything out here is so peaceful.

Everything inside of me is in turmoil.

Next week I’ll start my first grown-up job. I’ll move across the state. I’ll pack up the last of my belongings from my childhood room. Anxiety and excitement and loss are muddled together in my chest, and I don’t know how to sort through them.

I often feel closer to God when I’m surrounded by nature. The power of his creation -- wind and green growth -- reminds me of his omnipotence. The minute details of his creatures, even the smallest mosquito, reminds me that I matter. But I can’t feel him today. Instead, I feel alone and lost.

Lord, where are you? How can I trust that you’ll lead me forward into this next stage of life?

I feel a tug deep down inside of me. And I realize that in looking forward, I’m forgetting to look back. This isn’t the first time I’ve stared at this lake with an unsettled spirit. Over the years, our family vacations had been shadowed by other changes in my life.

Three years ago, I was preparing to begin law school.

Five years ago, I had decided to take a hiatus from college.

Seven years ago, I was leaving home for the first time.

And each time, God had led me to new, good things. He had introduced me to incredible people and created joy in unexpected places. If I look backward, I can trace the trail of His faithfulness to this very moment. I’d wondered where I could find Him, but He’s been here all along.

So instead of sorting through the feelings I can’t make sense of, I’ll submit them to Him. He has a way of sorting things out.