Today marks one month, one month since we moved into this house, leaving behind a 1200 square foot apartment that God gave us for the exact season we needed small. He has always given us what we need when we need it. We have only begun to understand that. This growing realization settles my heart more everyday.
One month in; today is the first day I have sat on our back porch long enough to enjoy the serenity here. The leaves have seemed to fall constantly, only a few at a time, but every second one or two are flip-floating to the ground—until just now. Just now, the air has gone completely still. The only sound is the crackle of the fireplace. Somewhere behind me the sun is setting on the other side of the house, but the overcast skies make it feel less like dimming sunlight and more like a deepening of gray, falling almost purple as twilight nears. The water of the oxbow ripples just enough to remind me that around the corner, the Red River flows south.
He sits with me here this fading afternoon; in the quiet, I feel Him near. He has run with me in the chaos; He has fought for me in the struggles; He has strengthened me when I faltered. I know that He is present, omin-present Yet, here in the quiet, I can take a moment to know He is here, to focus on His presence. Be still and know that I am God. Why is it so hard to do that? Why do we do it so seldom?
This is the season of big. I can feel it coming, see evidence of it around me in this house, but we so needed small for the last three years, even though we didn’t know it. He did. When we prayed that He would lead us, that either the house would sell or we would settle in to living there until retirement, He brought two offers in less than two days. When we prayed He would help us find a decent place to rent (just for a year or less we believed), He moved us just a couple of doors down from Colten and Lydia and gave us the sweetest year with them as neighbors before they moved to Nashville. There He gave us more time. No yard to mow. No pool to clean. Way fewer bedrooms and bathrooms to clean We had fewer rooms to be separate, working on our own. We had too little space to have people over or host showers and parties.
In the too little, in the season of small, we discovered the power of reading the Bible aloud together every day. We discovered the impact of praying together every morning—longer than just a blessing over a meal—sharing with one another and with God our concerns and dreams and praise. We didn’t know what was coming; we didn’t realize what He was preparing us to face. We just thought we were waiting to find a house.
When the diagnosis came back malignant, aggressive cancer, we did not think, “God has been preparing us for this.” We did not think, “This is why.” We couldn’t think of much at all; but I remember that in the moment that this first doctor said, “We found a mass,” that our eyes met and I said, “God’s got us.” After the first few days of chemo, when the poison we use as medicine, shredded the artery into Mike’s heart, I didn’t think, “Thank God we don’t have to worry about mowing.” In fact, I don’t remember thinking about the apartment at all or the house we were hunting or work or any of the thinks on which we spend most of days focused. We focused on what really matters—the people we love—one another, our family, and on the God who would heal him or take him home. He had thought of the other things. Not having to worry about the lawn or the house or the mortgage that exceeded our rent—that made the year of treatment and surgery and recovery easier.
Our season of small wasn’t just about the apartment. During that time, two of the biggest small things I can imagine came into our world—a first grandson and a pregnancy that became a second grandson. What bright spots those two small babies become during an overcast year, bookending Mike’s diagnosis and his healing.
I have spent the afternoon pondering that season of small and knowing that the One who sits with me in the quiet, gave us that season because He knew what we needed; He knows what we need. Now, the darkness has become as pervasive as the quiet was earlier—the fire now the only light. The quiet has given way to movement. The breeze has picked up; leaves rustle and twigs snap. The neighbors dogs bark and howl likely at a possum; Mike has returned. I hear him clanking dishes in the kitchen. Even though the quiet has left, He is still here with me; He is always near. In the darkness, He is near. In the quiet, He is near. In the small, He is near. In the waiting room when a doctor tells you that your husband likely won’t make it, He is near. A year later, sitting on the back porch of a house that was only a dream, He is near. In every moment, He is near. In every season, tHis moment is His moment
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