House on the Rock

Prior to my past two weeks of writing, it had been over a month since I posted last. Part of that was due to the ever-chaotic start of school coupled with swim lessons and doctor’s appointments and sleeping more than ever. But part of my reason for not writing is that this blog was designed for the valley-walkers, and to be quite frank, I’m not so deeply entrenched in a valley anymore.

We were recently out to dinner when Dad was telling us about an interaction he had while out and about. Someone he knew from childhood introduced him to a friend of theirs: “Hey, I want you to meet my buddy Brian. His wife just died!” Dad reached out his hand to meet the friend of a friend. “Hi, uh, yep, she did,” he stammered.

We chuckled at the odd introduction, but it stirred a deeper realization in us: We can’t let the suffering of the past year become our core identity. Though people may (for a season) know us as the kids who just lost their mom or the man who lost his wife, we can’t walk around with a long face, ready to pour out past sorrows as soon as someone asks how we’re doing.

It’s a tricky and delicate balance — honoring our beautiful mom and desiring to talk about her often, remembering her legacy, mourning the void so canyon-like I sometimes think I’ll never get across, but at the same time, not staying stuck in suffering or expecting the world to stay stopped for our valley walk.

Because the reality is that we are not unique. Suffering is everywhere — in many cases far worse than our own. Two friends from my childhood just lost their moms to cancer on the same day. It seems like for every pregnancy announcement there’s another child lost. Step outside our small circle and consider the grief of broken families, generational poverty, marital betrayal, war. Some people will never know a day without grueling physical pain ever again. The hard year we endured was no joke, but it’s no anomaly either.

And while I deeply believe in creating a community of sufferers, it feels a bit inauthentic to write as though I’m still in the valley. God in His kindness has turned much of our mourning to dancing. Sure, I still cry about fifteen times a week, but He has pulled us from the pit of gut-wrenching bad news, of funeral plans and hospice care, of baby-shaped shattered dreams on a cold bathroom floor.

There’s a good chance we’ll be there again one day, but thanks be to God, it isn’t today. I almost feel guilty typing that out — especially if you came here for solace in suffering and you find me in a season of blessing. What kind of sick brag is that? Ecclesiastes 3:4 feels relevant: There’s a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.

I think I’m struggling with how to remember the valley without refusing to get out of the valley. To dance even though the mourning still lingers. Even though I could probably write about my mom forever, the Lord has provided abundantly blissful moments since then. Absolutely for her, but for us too. And I want to acknowledge the hurt of fellow sufferers while genuinely recounting my ascent from the pit — an ascent that has been marked by belly laughs, baby kicks, blooming flowers and blessings. It’s time to flip the script a bit, to take in all God’s goodness and gifts rather than boast a blogging identity of trials and tears.

Neither one is wrong; neither one is permanent. But in the spirit of authenticity, I can’t in good conscious write about a valley I’m no longer in. Life will still be hard, but His blessings are abundant. I’m going to try writing about those for a while — a new writing style, if you will. I’ll probably always weave in memories of my mama, but I want to write about motherhood wins and woes and corporate worship and Pinterest fails and faithfulness journals. And it might be messy, but I’m setting it in motion: Reflecting on the valley while recording the ascent. Hopefully wherever you are, you’ll be able to connect in some way. And if not, I pray you’ll look to our Savior, who suffered mightily and ascended to glory so that we might one day be there too.

It’s a new era of blogging, baby — I hope you’ll join me there.