A state of hope.

When I was at a worship night a couple years ago, one of the speakers came off the stage for spontaneous prayer, speaking and praying over me to be faithful in this season and reminded me that the Father is slow to anger- compassionate on the season with the littles and the limited time. And then she said in a slur of passion,

write it all down, write it all down, write it all down.

At the time I thought I knew what she was talking about, but maybe just didn’t understand fully. I was in the deep trenches of finishing up the writing process of a book I had written, the whole book being written in three months. So I thought, I like that you’re telling me to write it down, but I don’t like that you are telling me about there not being time- because the Lord met me in the time I had made for Him, blessed it, and accelerated a process that should have taken much, much longer.

So I clung to that one fine part she ended with, amazed that the Lord saw me, and pawned off the first part as rubbish. And through the past year of my life, the amount of times I’ve actually picked up that word or considered any more to it totaled a whopping zero times. And then yesterday afternoon, driving home debating coffee at home or treating myself to some Starbucks, the Lord reminded me of those words.

Thursdays are the days I can’t look to hard at or I’ll get sweaty at the thought of all there is to do. So much to do and just not a lot of wiggle room. It’s our earliest day of the week, struggling Wednesday night to prepare ourselves in hopes we won’t be late to our co-op (a more traditional school day for my homeschoolers), going straight into speech and occupational therapy for my five year old, and sometimes smooshing a meeting into the mix.

Pulling out of the church parking lot after a day of excitement with the three to four year olds, the room volunteer for the day, is exhausting. Thursdays are the day I feel the load that I carry. And there I was after struggling to keep my kiddos in one place while I tidied up what I needed to tidy, and finally getting my kids after a couple laps around the car doors into the car and buckled up. Sitting down to catch my breath and think about how badly I needed that Starbucks venti coffee with the apple brown sugar syrup and cream. Write it all down, write it all down, write it all down.

I knew it was an answer to a question I hadn’t asked. Because I had known it was time to write lately, feeling in my mind longing for it, and the guilt over not making the time for it. But I kept putting it off and shoving it down, not out of laziness, but because I have felt stumped, feeling nothing I really have to say is worthy. I don’t have any big revelations to pour out over people. I haven’t had any aha moments, and I haven’t made any crazy connections in the scriptures where I feel like a philosopher. I don’t know that I have any crazy knowledge to offer. There is nothing I can offer up that doesn’t feel like anything you couldn’t catch from a friend in a text or over a cup of coffee.

The question I wasn’t asking him was what to write, assuming if I kept digging in my Bible long enough he would give me the kind of revelation I’ve always used to drive my writings. But He had already answered me two years ago, if I would just tune my ears back to those words. What do I write when I have nothing big? Everything. Write it all.

So here is the reality of where I am at without the big Biblical words and pretty revelations that bring ooohhhs and aaaahhhs.

I texted my husband during work a couple days ago and told him that what we have been doing isn’t working and we needed to try something else. I’ve reached the end of my rope. I don’t have any more to give.

Parenting is a hard thing, but if you want to know the ugly truth step-parenting is more difficult than anything you will ever know. It can also be more beautiful and can hold more meaning in my heart than anything you’ll ever know. But the good comes through pressing and fire.

And so pertaining to one small part of the picture, but one that our lives seem to touch daily, I said: Hey, I love you and our family but this thing over here isn’t producing fruit and feels lifeless and I just need peace in our home again. Consistent peace. So we decided to ask a couple we admire mentor us as a family.

Donny and I sat down with them for the first time earlier this week. And after pouring out our hearts and catching them up to where we are now, the husband spoke something to us that hit me like a tracheostomy, flooding me with air where I didn’t know I had been holding my breath.

He told us we were like a roast.

“You’re just like that roast in the crock pot, though. Youre only 20% cooked. You and your family aren’t 100% done and you aren’t at the finish line.”

We’re in the middle. This is not the final result and we don’t have to have every step mastered and perfect. We are still being shaped, and that is okay. Permission to not be perfect, permission to change and switch up the way we do things, permission to grow.

In Philippians chapter 2, verses 12 and 13, the author encourages the church to ‘work out their salvation’, and this is what the Lord reminded me of when that 20% cooked roast was brought to light. We are not done. Every day we are being made new, every day we are growing, every day there is salvation to be taken hold of.

So where are we? Where do we live? In a state of hope.

Permission to grow.