56 Hours By Myself in My House

Last week while I was teaching the final week of my summer classes, most of my family was on vacation. Kramer Family Beach Week has been going on with my husband's side of the family forever, or at least it seems like forever because it started when our kids were babies. I've been to every one of these trips — if not for the whole week, then at least for a day or two — with the exception of this year. The semester's end simply didn't line up. Our middle child couldn't attend Beach Week, either, because she had a school choir trip overlapping later in the week, so being home also meant that I could send her off well. 

I hugged and dropped her off at the school early Thursday morning. The rest of the family would be returning from the beach on Saturday afternoon. In between, I had roughly 56 hours (minus the hours when I was on campus teaching) in my own house, by myself. 

Do I remember the last time when I had 56 hours by myself in my house? No, I do not. This is because I haven't had 56 hours at home by myself for 20 years. It felt perfectly natural and entirely unnatural all at once.

It was so quiet. It was so clean. I cannot overstate this last point: IT WAS SO CLEAN. For 56 hours everything was in its place, and nothing was out of place, and if something was out of place it's because I was the one who had been using it; therefore, everything's whereabouts still made perfect sense to me. 

Mealtimes were a breeze. I was in 100% agreement with myself at all times about what to eat and when to eat it. Did I cook? No, I foraged through the refrigerator and assembled meals: 7 baby carrots and hummus, a slice or two of chicken lunch meat, a piece of cheese, some blueberries, a pickle. (I've done this with kids home too, of course, but then I call it charcuterie to convince them it's something intentional.)

When I finished my grading each day — it was, frankly, a bit of a bummer to be actively employed while living out my Home Alone fantasies — I'd shower, get ready for bed, then watch TV. What did I watch? Doesn't matter. What matters is that I held the remote control. Apparently, I don't do this often, because I barely knew how to work the thing. Input HDMI 1? Sure, that sounds fine.

Sometimes I wandered room to room, looking over the house as if it were a vast empire. I played my music loudly. The computer chair remained pushed in when not in use. No shoes were piled at the garage door. No kids turned on the shower right was I was headed upstairs to take a shower. Space and time — two currencies that often seem in short supply — felt abundant.

On Saturday afternoon, I sat at the dining room table with my laptop, plugging in final grades for my two classes. It's the culmination of any semester to hit "submit" on final grades, especially during this expedited summer session that aggressively crams 15 weeks into 6 weeks, with those 6 weeks starting when you're still tired after the regular academic year. 

I saw the "grades submitted" popup flash in the upper right hand corner of my screen. It is finished, I thought, as I tapped my papers into a neat pile to file away. Mid-paper-organizing, a mere 30 seconds after hitting "submit" and before I could even take a deep breath, I heard a sound that I had grown unaccustomed to hearing in just 56 hours.

It was the garage door opener. The beachgoers were back from the beach.

So much came through the door at once: people, voices, bags, a suitcase, a Sam's Club-sized box of leftover individually packaged assorted Sun Chips, beach towels that somehow were still damp, leftover sunscreen sprays and bottles, a stack of napkins from a fast food joint from the ride home. I walked down the hallway and tripped over shoes that hadn't been there a minute ago. 

All back to normal.

He Meets Us in the Basement

I once had a particularly rough semester in college. A few close high school friends who attended different colleges up and down the East coast and Midwest were having particularly rough semesters, too. I can't recall the particulars of our struggles, whether they were over boys and breakups, or managing classes and part-time jobs, but I do remember one friend's comment in a group email:

Collectively it seems that we are not having a mountaintop experience right now.

Roger, that. 

This "currently not on a mountaintop" status happens to be true for myself and some friends right now. The particulars are weightier, though. There's a cancer diagnosis, kids who have gone off the rails, job struggles, a loved one battling an addiction. There's sleepless nights, heart palpitations, a bout of depression. We still do the things that need to be done — work, laundry, putting dinner on the table — but, in our own ways, we're all struggling.  

I told my dearest friend that I might be having a midlife crisis. She texted back, "Did you buy a Harley?"

I haven't. But I have contemplated quitting my job, buying a farm, and raising chickens, so there's that.

With this as the backdrop of my current mental state, let me dial you into a day last week when I was especially low, the kind of low when you vaguely discern in your mind's eye that you're not your best self, but not only do you lack the ability to pull yourself up, you can't discern which way is up, as if you were rolled by a wave in the ocean and, disoriented, you're sinking deeper underwater instead of rising to the surface. The kind of low when you're wounded and feel misunderstood, when your mistakes and flaws seem like the sum tally of who you are, when hope has turned to dust. 

That day I had cried myself dry while sitting in my parked car in the garage, away from family. After wiping my eyes and checking my face, I went inside and saw a small package addressed to me alongside the day's mail that my husband had set on the counter. It was from a sweet friend who lives hundreds of miles away, a friend I haven't talked to in months. Inside was an artwork print and a handwritten note.

Her note read:

This flower is an anemone. It grows on the banks on the Sea of Galilee. It was drawn by someone in our church and given to mothers on Mother's Day to remind us of El Roi, the God who sees me. Robin, may you feel God's presence and know El Roi sees you. He sees you in your ups and downs of daily life. He sees your faithfulness in the mundane. He sees the things weighing heavy on your heart. He sees the tears you cry behind closed doors. He sees your victories and defeats. He sees all of you. May you be reminded of His good deeds from the past so that you can continue to have hope in the future.

I'm surprised I had tears left, yet new ones formed in my eyes.

If you're not familiar with the reference, the name El Roi appears in Genesis 16 when a woman named Hagar encountered God at her lowest point. After being mistreated and running away, Hagar was found by God near a spring in the desert and given direction. We're told later in the chapter that Hagar gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: "You are the God who sees me. I have now seen the One who sees me."

When I think of the billions of people who have walked this earth, from antiquity to now, my mind can't fathom the weight of all our stories. How many tears have been shed on this earth? How many times has a person found themselves in a desert of the soul, mistreated and running away? How many have grappled with bitter disappointments when their lives have included chapters of unimaginable heartbreak? How many have looked over wreckage and wondered if it could ever be redeemed? This life is hard.

But El Roi. But God sees. But God sees me.

God saw it fit to prompt someone to mail a package two or three weeks after Mother's Day so it would arrive at the exact moment when her far-away friend, the friend who just had been hiding and crying in her car in the garage, needed a reminder that her life was not beyond the notice of God.

His arm is not too short to reach me. His hand is not too weak to steady me. His power is not too limited to save. His goodness has not dried up. I belong to a God who meets me in the basement. This is a God who walks me through the valley of the shadow of death. I type these truths not necessarily because I currently feel them, but because I need to remind myself of them.

If you are part of the collective group of people who currently are not living mountaintop experiences, you're not alone in the valley. The Lord will meet us in the basement. He sees us exactly where we are.

Artwork by Emily Morgan Brown

The Voices We Entertain

In late December, Joel and I traveled for his work — by ourselves, without our children — for four days, three nights. Before this, he and I only had been away together without kids for four days, so this singular trip doubled the amount of sans-kid travel we've had in the nearly 20 years we've been parents.

As you keep our entirely child-free status in mind, let me tell you the story of how he and I took an afternoon hike. The trail, which was steeper than either of us had anticipated, took three hours to ascend and descend. Given the perfect weather, the trail had a fair amount of activity, and during the descent we had two fellow hikers trailing us at a relatively close distance.

Close enough to hear their conversation, at least.

They must have been late teens or early twenties. It was unclear if they were brother and sister or boyfriend and girlfriend, but it was exceptionally clear that they were bickering.

Bicker. Bicker. Bicker.

Pick. Pick. Pick.

Snarky comment. Snarky response. 

I kept my eyes on the ground, scanning the terrain for my next good foothold, and noticed that I was growing more frustrated with each step. It was a beautiful day! We were supposed to be enjoying a hike! But these knuckleheads were filling our airwaves with argument, complaint, and irritation.

That's when I had an epiphany. These were somebody's kids, but they weren't my kids. I wasn't responsible for my own kids this day, much less someone else's. I didn't have to walk near them. I didn't have to stick with them. I didn't have to let their voices fill my ears. 

I looked at Joel and said, "I can't listen to their arguing anymore. We've got to let them pass." He nodded quick agreement.

I'm not sure if they heard me. It's possible. My epiphany had given me a bit of a rush, and I hadn't guarded that excitement by lowering my voice.  We stepped to the side, pausing until they passed, then waited a few more moments to create enough distance between us before we continued.

The remainder of the hike was much more pleasant. I don't know why we hadn't pulled off to the side to let them pass earlier. Nobody needs that much negativity filling their ears.

This week I remembered this lesson as I thought about the voices that I let myself listen to, the voices I let trail behind me as I move through life. For a portion of time during this hike, I hadn't even contemplate that I had a choice. The kids were behind me, they were complaining, and that seemed like the end of it. Suck it up, buttercup, I could have said to myself. It's a bad hand you were dealt, but these are the people following you down the mountain Just deal with it.

But that's not true at all. We had agency. We adjusted our journey. We better positioned ourselves. We chose to let the negative voices pass by rather than letting them trail us.

This past week, I've had several times where I needed to get intentional about the voices that I've listened to. The voices that were trailing me as I moved about my day, telling me that I had messed up. The voices, whispering accusations that I'm not good enough. The voices that do nothing but create irritation, cast doubt, and suck joy.

In the gospel of John, Jesus reminds us that sheep recognize the voice of their shepherd, and that he is our good shepherd. In contrast, we're we're told that Satan is the accuser. When the running commentary in my head is filled with accusation, it's time to separate myself from that voice. It's not from my shepherd. Metaphorically, I can step aside, let the accusations pass, and choose not to make them my traveling companions. I can choose to listen to what the the Lord is saying to me and about me.

We get to choose. We get to choose the voices we entertain. 

Let's Chat: Mid-February Musings

IT'S ALMOST HAPPENED. We've almost reached the halfway point of February. I can't tell if these first weeks of February have dragged or if they've gone quickly, but I just realized that I didn't write here once during the entire month of January, which is surprising because January lasted a decade. So, to make up for my silence, it's time for an official Let's Chat post.

LET'S GO! And by let's go, I mean, sit right there and get comfortable. Grab a nice warm beverage. Let's chat.

A new semester. The "spring" semester (which is inaccurately named) is already in its fifth week. We're past syllabus week, learning names, and first impressions. We're now in the thick of things — assigning assignments, submitting assignments, grading assignments — and we'll remain in the thick of things, rinsing and repeating, for the next ten weeks. 

I've taught so many semesters that this rhythm is second nature. Today I enjoyed a rare moment when I got to talk with not one, not two, but three colleagues at the same time in the hallway between classes, which was a gift of levity and connection.

New opportunities. I'm stepping out this semester in several ways. I'm leading an eight-week women's Bible study at my church, and I'm teaching a new class on campus. Both endeavors are exciting. I love prepping for classes and messages, and it's been good to flex my muscles, so to speak. I'm proud of myself.

The benefit of an outside opinion. Last weekend, I roped my good friend and neighbor into a closet-cleaning endeavor. She sat on the arm chair in my bedroom while I went into my closet, grabbed a pile of shirts, dumped them on my bed, and proceeded to hold them up one at a time so we could judge them. While I already sort through my closet each season, having an outside opinion was a game-changer. She had no connection to anything in my closet and could view each piece objectively, giving me that extra push to let go of pieces that no longer served me well. 

I did this for her at the end of summer, sitting on her bedroom floor as she tried on outfits, giving her a thumbs up or thumbs down like a Roman emperor with my approval or disapproval of fashion choices. It's much more fun to share this task with a friend. More effective, too!

Playtime. I miss working in my garage on projects during the winter. It's been ages since I've spray painted anything. In these cold months, I miss those creative outlets. Still, since I know I feel better mentally and emotionally when I can work with my hands and be crafty, I try to pick up small projects. My most recent was when I used paint and drywall compound (which is uncannily similar to icing a cake) to create textured hearts on an old canvas.

The hearts aren't perfect, but perfection wasn't the point. Playtime was the point. Soon enough, the weather will be warm enough that I can putz in my garage until my heart is content, spray painting anything that doesn't move. For now, these little projects scratch the itch.

Leaning into lingering cold. I'm eager for spring for a multitude of reasons. It'll be warm enough to spray paint. Obviously. And, generally, warmth is good. There will be more color. More daylight. Things will grow. Garage sale season will begin! There's much to look forward to with the approach of spring.

But we're not there yet. Winter still has us in its clutches, and February has some bite. So, for now, I lean into the lingering cold. I make myself a cup of mint tea each night. When I snuggle under a blanket to read, I have the best companion in Peanut, who takes this setup as an invitation to nap in my lap. All in all, when you have a cup of tea in your hand and a cat in your lap, life is pretty good.

February. Is it bad that I still have to carefully sound out this word in order to spell it? FEB-U-ARY? FEB-RU-ARY? What is happening with this word, people? Are we dumping in extra R's into this month merely for kicks, just like we dump in an extra day every four years?  February's tough. I imagine it standing there, taunting us, ready to take the hit. Go on. Give me what you've got. You want to add an extra letter R? Bring it. I can handle it. Just toss it wherever. It's not gonna bother me one bit, but none of you — I mean NONE of you — are gonna actually know how to spell me, so joke's on you.

* * * * * 

Friends, as always, thank you for sitting and chatting. You could spend your time anywhere, but you visited here. I'm grateful you stopped by.

Until next time (sometime later in FEB-RU-ARY), be well and stay warm.

Robin