My Sand Castles

Much like an infant swaddled in its mothers arms, I'm comfortably slouched on my in-laws' faux suede couch sandwiched between pillows piled over with a giant, cotton-fleece blanket. Pretty kitties and butterflies--I didn't realize that was the linen design until just now. "Hmm," I think to myself, as I take a sip from my too-hot cup of jasmine green tea. "Who knew?"

I'm enjoying the stillness of my Saturday morning. Ken and his dad just left on a work errand so I have the house all to myself. As I reflect on the beauty of the fall colors outside, unfolding in bursts, as the morning sun rises above the tree tops, one of my favorite Switchfoot songs starts to play on the radio. The chorus softly beckons me in:

I wish I had what I needed
To be on my own
'Cause I feel so defeated
And I'm feeling alone

And it all seems so helpless
And I have no plans
I'm a plane in the sunset
With nowhere to land

And all I see
It could never make me happy
And all my sand castles
Spend their time collapsing

Let me know that you hear me.
Let me know your touch.
Let me know that you love me.
Let that be enough.

It's a song about a boy learning to grow up. And it's a painful process. I can understand how the singer must feel. It's been a few years now since he wrote this song and I wonder if things have changed--does he understand life better now? Or perhaps he's still searching for something--maybe elusive--that this side of Heaven will not fully be revealed to him.

In the past week, I've noticed that like the words of this song, many of my 'sand castles' are collapsing. I'm in a season of tremendous transition, filled with moments of intense grief, and conversely joy, along with the growing knowledge that while life events and circumstances are uncertain, there is a God who is not, and He is with me. Always.

Last Sunday night, Ken and I got word that one of his grandmas had passed away. It was bittersweet, as Grandma Alice was a big part of our decision to move to Alaska. Months back, God gave me a vision to pursue relationships with family by living closer and it was an honor to share in Grandma's last few days here. In retrospect, I didn't realize our time together would be so short.

I guess that summarizes much of how I'm feeling in our current stage of life. Ken and I are faced with many uncertainties. Without a steady income and no job prospects on the horizon, we are at the beginning stages of considering what that means for us. Realistically, can we stay in Alaska? Likewise, did God bring us to this place just for a season? If so, when is that season over--how will we know? As we review our budget based entirely on savings, we know at some point our money will run out. Our relative financial security that we've enjoyed by living frugally the past few years is not enough to postpone the inevitable. And so, in a spirit of faith, we are pursuing job opportunities together and I am placing my business endeavors on hold, while we seek God for what's next.

In many ways, I see dreams of mine being placed on hold, seemingly collapsing. The hope of starting a family, of living near family, and my desire to feel secure and have a place of our own. Right now, I have to release those things to God. I have to believe that in faith what He gives us is better than what I can take for myself. My prayers in the past few days have become much simpler. Lord, help me to know that you're with us. No matter what.

Let me know that you hear me.
Let me know your touch.
Let me know that you love me.
Let that be enough.

The Siren Song of the Marmoset & Other Adventures as of Late

“MREEAK!” A sound like that of fingernails grinding across a chalkboard deafens my hearing. “Mreeeeak-mreeak!” It comes again, this time with a howl like a child being tortured. My eyes dart across the valley, crazily scanning for the origin of the noise. Ken turns to me and we realize that the shrieking is coming from a marmoset off in the distance. He’s on a large granite boulder, perched roughly 75 feet away from us. And he’s calling to us.

Gracie, my in-laws’ black and white Border Collie, instantly leaps forward in the direction of the marmoset. She’s ready to charge the wild creature. After pouncing through the knee-high brush, she’s at its rock.

But then it’s gone.

A cacophony of screeches ensues, some 40 to 50 feet away, now from different boulders. Gracie runs after the marmoset, indifferent to their changing directions. She loves to hunt. Meanwhile, Ken and I follow, happily chasing after her in pursuit of the marmoset.

This was last Saturday, as the three of us hiked through Archangel Valley near the now nationally recognized town of Wasilla, Alaska. It was my first time venturing down the bumpy, two-mile dirt road leading to this trail, within Hatcher’s Pass. Ken excitedly planned this ‘maiden hike’ for us, in hopes of helping me train for the much more involved 8-hour hike to the crashed B-52 Bomber Plane perched atop a glacier farther along the trail. The hike was wonderful, and a great starting place for me. I enjoyed basking in the verdant mountain landscape while breathing in the crisp 50-degree weather. Likewise, the abandoned mining buildings scattered along our path intrigued me. So much history happened here, I thought to myself, as I walked through the rubble, alongside a rain-swelled creek. I imagined gold miners panning for gold in those waters and digging beneath the surface for the smallest glimmer. And then there were the marmoset, those cat-sized animals scattering across rocks and among shrubs. I felt like we were on an adventure, transported back in time, to a rugged place in history.

In pursuing the marmoset, we quickly lost sight of the main trail and eagerly climbed boulders in the direction Gracie ran. Exhausted from the chase, I sat down on a rock ledge overlooking the valley, where we unpacked our sandwiches and snacks and enjoyed a late lunch. We never made it to the first set of lakes on our journey, our original goal, because we followed the siren call of the marmoset. Although it was a delightful detour, hopefully next time we’ll evade their captivating cries.

Along with our hiking adventures, Ken and I are learning to appreciate the ‘simpler’ aspects of living in a more rural community. Ken’s parents boast a lovely vegetable and fruit garden right outside their front door where we can harvest fresh potatoes, kale, broccoli, and cauliflower for soups, stews, and side dishes. Also, their woodsy and windy street is perfect for wildlife sightings. A year ago, I spotted a moose right in their front yard. More recently, Ken and I came across a beautiful red fox perched along a bank near their property. The majestic creature held a regal stance, as she watched us pass by her early one evening. We endearingly nicknamed her, “The Guardian,” and from time to time, question where The Guardian might be as we weave up or down our road. We live in a marvelous place, ideal for imaginations such as mine.

It’s been a month now since we drove up the Alcan and settled just outside of Anchorage. I’m adjusting to the change in climate, and the heaviness I feel from missing my dear friends in Seattle and scattered throughout Washington, Oregon, and California, is slowly lifting. Honestly, it’s very difficult to now live so far from my closest friends and away from the amenities of city living, and yet, I’m finding glimpses of joy in ways that I’ve never known before. Alaska has a sort of savage splendor to it. A wildly untamed state bold in its assertion of natural beauty. A diamond in the rough, or if I may say so, a nugget of gold pulled from a rocky mountain stream.

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Here are some photos from our recent adventures!
Click on each to enlarge.

Frannie and Friday

Bursts of light. That’s how I described the clouded winter canopy, as I scribbled my thoughts on paper Friday morning. I woke up early to the soft tapping of rain and cozily sat beside our balcony door, gazing at the dark clouds dancing in the wind, sweeping gracefully along the skyline. While most Seattle mornings consist of a thick grey mass overhead, these fluffy and airy puffs of white moved along swiftly, hurrying to and fro. Pockets of light glittered in the dawn sky, as the clouds flew along freely. This morning was different, I could tell. Change was taking place—there was movement in the sky, and it was fantastic and beautiful to watch. 

In the days leading up to Friday last week, I felt overwhelmed, trapped and scared. Each of the weeks prior had brought news of immense hardship from family and friends. In shouldering this pain, along with our sense of security breached from recent theft, I was emotionally and physically raw. Then came the news about Ken’s biggest scholarship. We lost it—the money wouldn’t be coming, and evidently, that loss started a chain reaction of withheld funding. I didn’t understand what happened and neither did Ken. We were scared of what that meant for us. In haste, I restructured our entire budget and went into “survival mode” for a few days. No extra expenses. No extra giving. We had to buckle down and do it quickly. Last Monday, being in a place of fear and helplessness, I decided to start praying. Ken and I both did. Together. Separate. With others. I also started fasting. I gave up my need for comfort and security. Tangibly, I decided that I would fast desserts and sweets for the next month, until Christmas, so that every time I reached for physical comfort and satisfaction in dessert I would be reminded that instead, I needed to go to God in fulfilling my deeper longings. If you’re wondering what fasting has been like, it’s hard. Especially so, if you give up something that constantly vies for first place in your life. Food is like that for me. I go there first for comfort, and find immense pleasure in its constant companionship. That’s how I know it’s dangerous, and worth swapping out for more directed prayer time.

Besides our own attempts to meet with school advisers, counselors and administration officers, we asked our families, close friends and community group to pray for us. It was awesome. I felt genuinely supported and loved by the ladies in my Stephen Ministry group. They came alongside me, cried with me, and prayed for us. That God would give us hope, when it seemed so very distant.

We received our first ‘burst of light’ on Wednesday afternoon, when we met the sweetest, 60-year-old African-American lady, who works at the school office. She reminds me of my grandma—witty, sweet and fiercely persistent. I’ll call her “Frannie.” Frannie listened attentively to our story and how we were shocked that we didn't receive Ken’s engineering scholarship, especially when it was promised to us. She nodded often and focused on every word we shared. Frannie wanted to help us, it was obvious, and she told us that. She directed us to the next person we would need to talk to, a lady in the finance department who wouldn't be back in the office until the next day. We thanked her and said that we’d be back. Thursday, around 10 a.m., we returned to the finance department and were met with a big smile from Frannie. She welcomed us in and walked us to the financial lady who she thought would be able to help us. After 20 minutes, it was clear that the lady we were meeting with couldn't do anything. Something about how her hands were tied until the scholarship’s coding was changed. Without that electronic revision, no one could help us. She seemed quick to hurry us out of her office and directed us to yet another person.

At this point, Ken and I were disappointed and frustrated. Our time felt wasted. We started to wonder what the next person would say, and the next…How many times would we get the “run-around”, we wondered. But Frannie wouldn't let us despair. She saw our frowns, as we walked toward the door. She grabbed our attention by saying, “You don’t give up, you hear? You need to march into that department and believe that you are going to get that scholarship. You have to be optimistic.” And that was our ray of our hope. Frannie believed that change was possible and she was willing to rally for us. Ken and I turned to each other, encouraged, and ready for the next obstacle.

That Thursday afternoon, Ken knocked on doors and waited to meet with the department facilitators who would be able to help us. He made phone calls and was persistent in sharing his story. The next person he met with had to call another person, and then that person helped the first person change the computer coding. It’s a long, drawn-out process and I’ll spare you any more details. The praise is that Friday morning, the change was finalized. We would get our money. In just a few days, everything changed—for the better.

In reflecting over last week’s challenges, I am reminded of a story I’ve heard many times. It’s a story about a widow and a judge. The widow was a woman who by society’s views was quite helpless and perhaps fearful. She had an adversary and wanted justice for their wrongdoings. So she sought the help of the judge. The judge didn’t care about the widow and refused to help her day after day. But the widow, in persistence, would not give up. She kept seeking justice, with fierce determination. Finally, the judge granted her justice because he did not want her continual plea to wear him out. This story intrigues me. It speaks of a world that I am not entirely familiar with. A realm where persistence in prayer and bringing our requests before the Lord is honored. Faith, despite all odds, is commanded. On these words, I stand completely convicted and humbled. I want the faith and persistence of this widow. At the same time, I feel incredibly blessed with the series of events I’ve been privy to enter into lately. It is through these experiences, where I cannot make things happen on my own, that God is able to work. I’m giving him the space that’s rightfully His.

I treasure Frannie’s words to us last week. She reminded Ken and me of our call to be people of hope and faith. To never give up. Thank you, Frannie. This blog is dedicated to you, and the spark of hope that ignited our faith that God was working in our situation, even it when felt most bleak.


Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” John 11:40

The Unexpected Gift

The Uses of Sorrow 

by Mary Oliver

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand

that this, too, was a gift.

It's a bit past 7 a.m. this Friday morning and here I am, staring blankly at my brightly lit computer screen, hoping that the fluorescent panel will satiate my need for actual sunlight. Humidity trapped in my bedroom causes water droplets to arrange themselves playfully in a thin layer across my glass window. It's raining from the inside today. That must mean it's time to cue my dehumidifier--the large and fairly awkward, box-like contraption that draws water from the air. This apartment is my first experience in needing a dehumidifier. I guess some places are better at circulating the moisture, while this apartment likes to trap it and keep it inside.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I've been questioning what it is that I'm thankful for. The holiday itself elicits mixed emotions for me. I recall learning the "history" of how the Native Americans helped the Pilgrims by supplying them with corn and other food crops during the winter, when the Pilgrims had first arrived in America. The story gets fuzzy after that...perhaps the Native Americans invited the Pilgrims over to their place and had a really big turkey dinner, complete with mashed potatoes, candied yams, hot rolls and pumpkin pie. Or, was it just a simple meal of corn and vegetables with little meat involved? To take it even further, maybe the Native Americans weren't really given a choice in having to share their food with the Pilgrims. I digress. As I get older, the details are harder to grasp and understand in context. But the idea of Thanksgiving remains. And instead of focusing on what this "holiday" might mean to the average American, I'd like to instead contemplate words I've read somewhere about 'being a person of thanks' and 'sacrificing thank offerings'. Those words and ideas make sense--at least when things are going well.

I was given this poem by Mary Oliver from a friend Tuesday evening. She read it aloud to my group in our meeting, tears grazing her face. Her words struck a cord deep within me. It resonated with all the women in attendance. Each of the ladies had been transparent that night in sharing our struggles, or in carrying the burdens of others. As Oliver writes, "Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift." The timing of this poem was perfect. It coincides with my list of what I'm thankful for.

I'm thankful for the countless ways that God shows me that He's real. I'm thankful for my incredible husband, my family, my friends, my community group, my work in a field that I love, my quirky spirit, my love for all things creative, my baker's hands. I'm also thankful for my past, for the experiences that have allowed me to seek God from a place of desperation. I'm thankful for the gift of sorrow. I'm thankful because it reminds me that I am not crafted for a world where there is darkness and despair. I have hope for something Greater, which perhaps in feeling sorrow, I can better understand and cling to--because my heart is not rooted in this world. My story doesn't end in pain. 

It's ironic that during the holiday season, I feel a greater awareness of the desperation of others. Frenetic shopping, decadent meals, gifts that won't really satisfy. It's an odd reality, the world we live in. But as I re-read Mary Oliver's poem, I'm encouraged. Her words are paradoxical, because who would want to receive the gift of darkness? And who would think it fair to share that gift with someone else? How can pain be a blessing? I don't have the answer to that question for anyone else but me. It is a gift that I received long ago and sometimes find myself re-opening. It's a painful process, but one that becomes more hopeful as I share it with others.