New Keys

Dedicated to the lovely Lily Chi, who always encourages me to keep writing.

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No man, no land, no task for my hand ever soothes
I stay restless for you
All I am was made for you and no other will do
So I stay restless for you. 
-My Epic

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I’m typing from an almost empty room in the home where I grew up, staring out into our backyard as the family dog, who we all believe is practically human, chomps away at a bone.  He’s in his happy place and I am glad.  That backyard has been his paradise and the only existence he’s known-- he’s been the king of its white fenced borders, making sure in his sweet Golden Retriever way that all who enter know who is in charge.  

This is one of his last nights to roam this particular plot of land.  It’s my whole family’s last night to walk through the halls and up and down the steps that lead to the rooms that we’ve all grown to know so well-- the weird light switches whose quirks we know without even thinking, the layout that we could walk through with eyes closed, the secret hiding spots we carved out as kids playing hide and seek.  We moved in on my 10th birthday, all six of us curled up in sleeping bags and warmed by the fireplace, settling into a beautiful new part of the story. My mom loved the gas stoves that worked even in the worst storm.  My dad loved the pool.  I loved all the trees I could climb, where I could make believe and read and dream.  It was this home that I returned to after my first trip to Nicaragua.  It was where I journaled about all the love I felt for the people I met and this country that somehow felt like home, even after just one visit.  It was in my room in this house where I first started experiencing the presence of God and where my heart started to feel a deep desire to be of some use in the world, bringing at least a little light and laughter into darkness.  

I didn’t know that my own heart would first have to experience darkness and a sense of homelessness--losing the things I'd grown to know so well over the years. 

I moved away for the first time at 17, but it was still home--still the place where my friends could come to play and the church family my parents pastored could come to connect and fellowship.  These walls hold so many memories.  They contributed to the making of so many friendships...and sheltered the tears of sadness over those that didn’t last.

I didn’t know as a young child that my parents would both lose their jobs on the same day, causing the house to go into foreclosure.  I didn’t know that something in their hearts wouldn’t stick together like they planned when they started out thirty-one years ago.  I didn’t know then how addiction could change brain chemistry and personality, impacting everyone. I didn’t know how ministry, however noble, could create unhealthy and oppressive burn-out.  I didn’t know that church would become a traumatic place instead of a healing place in my heart for a time. I didn’t anticipate not being able to one day bring grandchildren to their grandparents’ home,  where I would show them all the secret spaces in the place where I grew up while telling them about all the grand adventures of my childhood. 

My reality is so different than what I imagined at 10, yet I believe that in the midst of the loss, the unnecessary is slowly getting stripped away.  One thing I don’t want to lose is my child-like wonder.  Depression has a way of grinding away at awe. I don’t want to lose the hope that the earth is just waiting for majesty to be discovered and unearthed, like a treasure hunter out on the beach with a metal detector, knowing that somewhere on the endless miles of sand there is something incredibly special and worth the search.  

I’m now 29 and a little more aware of loss and grief and struggle, but also of unexpected new starts with nothing left to lose. There’s a lot of courage available in that particular set of circumstances.  There’s a lot more comfort to be found now in all of my questions not always having answers and sometimes just leading to more questions, and hopefully, ultimately, a sense of peace and surrender.  

Soon the last of the items will be cleared out and the door will be closed and the locks changed.  Our keys will no longer work. Our dog will get used to a new home that has no yard, forcing his family members to explore the surrounding area. And we will embrace the new and live in awe once again, basking in the incredible faithfulness of a Father who catches every tear and is present in every hard thing, cheering us on into a new place of abundance and joy unspeakable. 

Cheers and onward march to this new chapter-- to infinite grace and kindness and deep wells that sustain.  There are hard and sad things I am still processing and that need to find their way onto paper, but I trust that the future is one of freedom.