Something is coming. I don't know what and I don't know when.
Let me back up. I go to work every day acutely aware of how blessed I am to have a job that I love. Only a few times in my career have I wished to be doing something else. I am content and challenged (in a good way) by my work and I have so much gratitude every morning that I get to unlock the door to my classroom. I begin with this because it is critical to understand this is not a post about discontentment. I am not discontent, but I am not content because I feel something is coming. A change. The unknown makes me feel hurried and antsy-- I am prone to look forward, searching for the answer of what is to come. Today I came to work early, hoping to have some time alone to reflect in my classroom. To sort out the questions I was turning over in my mind. Of course, that didn't happen and there was no solitude because divine appointments had been planned for me. Within five minutes of unlocking my door, two people entered, needing to talk about weightier issues than English. I saw my time for reflective solitude slip away, yet I had to ask myself— why was I reflecting on the future when a present need was so clearly in front of me? Yes, maybe some big change is coming but how can I expect to address it if I am not being faithful with the task in front of me? Wherever I am going in the future, I am not there yet— because I am not meant to be. For today, I am meant to be here. So often we want to rush ahead to what is next. The next big thing. The next challenge. The next phase. The next adventure. But we forget that one step we need towards whatever happens next is what is going to happen today. The needs and challenges we face today. The interactions we have with people in front of us today. Engaging in the task we have today is the most faithful way to actively wait for what is to come; we are faithful with what is given to us, knowing it is preparation as we fully anticipate what's to come. This doesn't mean I will stop actively looking for the next step. Just that first, I'll remember to be fully present and thankful for the step I'm currently on.
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Last night, Tom and I had the privilege to attend Night of Hope, an event showcasing the ministries of Engage Hope. While short term missions can be a controversial subject in ministry circles, one of my favorite things about this particular organization is that they have long term partnerships in each of the three focused parts of the world in which they work.
Whenever I attend these types of events or whenever I am presented with an opportunity to give or serve in some way, I try to keep an open mind and an open heart. My heart has always quickened when a door has opened to a particular part of the world, but who is to say that I'm not supposed to serve or go somewhere new? So I sat there and listened to a touching presentation about the work Engage Hope is doing in Africa. Listened to the testimonies of people who live in Africa and who have worked in Africa. Heard about the tremendous need. Saw the faces of the children in poverty. Tried to listen and discern-- was this another mission opportunity for me? I felt gratitude for the work Engage Hope was doing in Africa. But ultimately, I felt no pull, no desire to go. "What is wrong with me?" I could have thought, "Am I made of stone?" Similarly, a presentation about the tremendous opportunities in India followed. I would love to visit India. Tom has had work relationships with several people from India and as we have gotten to know them, I have grown to love the culture and love the people. I have loved learning about the different parts of India, the distinct aspects of various cities, the types of cuisine, dishes that are localized to each part of the country. India would be a cool place to visit, maybe even to go on a mission trip there, but once again, I felt no pull towards that country. An adventurous desire to travel and learn about the culture, yes. But a compulsion to serve there? And then, there was the presentation on Mexico. That was when my pulse quickened. My thoughts shifted to Spanish and I quickly realized how rusty my translating skills were. But as I watched the video on the work in Mexico and heard the testimony of a Guatemalan man who had worked in the same place I had worked, I felt a sense of home. Not home as a physical place, but home as a concept in which a piece of the puzzle of my identity was fulfilled. A sense of belonging. It was the contrasted feeling of my inclination (or lack thereof) toward Africa and my inclination toward Mexico that clarified for me, once again, where my focus should be. This isn't to say that I shouldn't give to other causes or that other options aren't to be, but I think there is validity in realizing a lack of compulsion towards one option can help us clarify which path of service is intended for us. This past spring, I took a trip to Mexico with a group of students. One student had been on several mission trips to Honduras before this trip. Since the Honduras trip wasn't an option for her this year, she had decided to go to Mexico. And after a week in Mexico, she had not fallen in love with the country. She had not come to the realization that she loved missions, regardless of the country or that she had fallen in love with Honduras simply because it was the first place she had ever been. She used the trip to confirm what she had already suspected-- her passion to be a missionary in Honduras was not because she hadn't been anywhere else-- now she had been elsewhere and had the perspective to realize her passion was tied to a very specific desire and very specific people group. Her lack of compulsion toward Mexico clarified her compulsion to go to Honduras. We can't go everywhere and we can't do everything. Saying no to some things so we can say yes to other things is hard, but critical in fulfilling our purpose. Furthermore, when we learn what we can easily say no to, it clarifies what we desire to say yes to. In a time of change, choices, chaos, and indecision, I'm thankful for little things like testimonies from Africa to help me see where I'm really supposed to be. Autumn usually turns out to be the antithesis of the imaginary quintessential autumn in my head. In my mind, autumn is slower, cozy, bundled in plaid, filled with extra blankets, time around a fireplace, and afternoons of leisured reading that lull into naps. Why do I have this disillusioned idea?
I have yet to have a day like this ever. Much less in autumn. I have never used my fireplace, and while I own way too much plaid, it is still hot as hell here in Texas. My October days have become a frenzy of papers to grade, meetings to attend, social obligations, and haphazardly planned meals (or lack of meals). Our anticipation of the metaphorical warm and fuzzy season quickly dissolves under the obligations and rush of the quickly approaching holidays. And yet, this morning on my walk, the air had snapped and more leaves had fallen across my usual path. In spite of the chaos I cannot push back, I can't help but question why do I feel like I instinctively yearn for autumn to be a time of rest? It is not a calm, tranquil time. Our circumstances don't lead us to a slower pace. Yet, I realize, do I need my circumstances to construct a pace for me to be tranquil? This past month has been crazy, yes, but I have also had moments of paused, encapsulated authentic conversations with people. I have (in my rush) seen glimpses of ways to show patience towards people. I've started to plan for the holidays and instead of anxiety over details, I feel gratitude, not for the activities, but for the people I know I will get to see in the next few months. As I hunch over stacks of essays, I feel a bittersweet pride in my students, thankful to teach them another year but saddened by the fact that 1/4th of my time with them has passed. What is truly more reviving-- my concept of a fireplace and flannel blankets or the gratitude I can choose to have for the people in my life during this season? We might be increasingly busy in the next few months and we might not get that afternoon nap by a warm, cozy fireplace. But can we still rest and be grateful? I think I can. Whew. It's been a long time since I posted anything. Any updates or any adoption news.
And this isn't because I haven't wanted to or because things haven't been happening. They have. When decisions like this are held in the balance by life, writing about the turmoil and unknown in the midst of turmoil and unknown can prove challenging. Even impossible. I kept delaying a post because I kept waiting for a definitive answer. Finally, I came to a point where I accepted that for now, the unknown is not yet ready to be unknown. Should I share that? Should I share that I am really ok with the fact that I am at peace with no answer? To summarize the past five months: Tom and I reached the home study phase of adoption. As we delved into studying what would happen in that stage, we realized that if at any point during the adoption process we moved homes, we would have to repay a portion of our adoption fee (read: thousands of dollars). Currently, we live in a cozy townhome with two bedrooms-- perfect for us. But what if we are matched with a family of three siblings? Or two older children of opposite gender? We would have to move. For the past five months we have wrestled with this question: "What will happen next? What is the next step?" Are we going to move? If so, should we wait on adoption? Should we move now (and by default, use money that could have been put towards adoption)? Do we even want to move now? This morning, I ran through a plethora of possibilities for what the next year of my and Tom's life might look like. When I was about to graduate from college, I remember thinking that the exhilarating unknown of possibilities was likely a temporary circumstance of my specific time in life; eventually, I would get married, settle down, and have children. The unknowns of the current time were embraced because I assumed eventually possibilities would be replaced by certainties. But here I am almost a decade later, enthralled with the fact that I don't know what is going to happen. There's is nothing settled about the Novcove life. Nothing settled or settled down. While we wait for the next step, the next answer, we have peace in the unknown circumstances because we rest in a known Creator. When I think of summer, I don't think of beaches and sunshine.
I think of the deeps of the forest and the hush of padded pine paths trailing onward. And in those early mornings surrounded by creation, I am finally able to have the stillness to hear the restorative whispers of our Creator. I have been fortunate to always have a summer with the exception of the brief time I worked in the corporate world. For teachers, summer is a time of rest-- a time to catch their breath in between the insane demands of a teaching schedule. For the past few summers, I've been in grad school so there was no break, no rest for me. I definitely felt it as I went straight from my own classroom to the grad classroom back to my own classroom. I feel like I haven't taken a breath in about two years. My spiritual life and my physical health have suffered. My friendships have suffered. The summer mornings to come stretch out before me and I consider what I must take from them-- restoration. Quiet, solace, rest. These things must be guarded and fought for. As I pray about what is to come this next year, I realize that rest and restoration are not a cop out--- it is not a false justification to be lazy-- the need to rest and find restoration is actually a necessary component to stewarding our gifts well. How can we use our gifts, how can we pour ourselves out when the time comes if we have not tended our own souls? If we have not sought wisdom and peace to dispense to those in need? Therefore, we must be intentional in our efforts, intentional in equipping ourselves to return to the fray. I feel anxiety rise within me as I consider the days ahead-- physical and spiritual health, so many unknowns with adoption, teaching new classes and a new school year. Fear, panic, and uncertainty creep in and threaten to drown me. But I must fight to remember: the deeps of the forest and the hush of padded pine paths trailing onward. This is not a time for work, but of rest. So I will be intentional with my early mornings and listen for the restorative whispers that sustain my soul. Lately, I have been crying a lot. But this isn't a bad thing.
Last night as we sat down to schedule our next round of payments and processing with the adoption, Tom and I had a very hard conversation: We are scared and frustrated to move forward because we don't know what is going to happen. We are about to make a huge payment. It is hard to invest all of your time, emotion, and money (lots of it) when you don't have any control or clue over the end result. Tom said it might be easier if we knew who our kids are and had the faces and names to hold onto and an idea of what our family would look like on the other side of all these difficult things. It became very clear as our fears were discussed that we live in a world that has minimized the risk and cost of having faith. We are called to stake everything on uncertain end circumstances-- all because we are trusting in a certain God. We pretend like we are in control of most areas of our lives. Now that we are faced with this risk that is so costly, our faith is really put into action. Do we really believe this is what God has called us to? And if so, do we trust Him with the end result that we cannot see? Even if it turns out differently than we ever thought? Every time we have one of these hard talks, I cry-- not out of sadness or fear, but because the love God has given me for our kids breaks my heart. My heart breaks because I am not with them-- because perhaps they are wondering where we are and what is taking so long. Because I cannot be there to protect them and provide for them. And because I cannot yet tell them that they belong and have a purpose. All of these pains in turn, teach me how God's heart breaks for us. In the midst of all of this, I am learning how costly it is for God to love us unconditionally. How much it hurts, but how beautifully and joyfully sacrificial it is. How much He wants us to know we belong, we have a purpose, and we are loved. Nothing about adoption is comfortable. Nothing.
It is tedious, detailed, painstakingly slow. It is costly in so many ways-- literally, emotionally, consuming time and energy. All of this surrounds us now-- not to mention that at the end of this process, we get to begin an even more complicated process-- the adventure of raising children. While I haven't experienced this yet, I can only imagine that the costs we are currently feeling will be exponentially increased. At the end of these days, I get to have a full night's sleep and an hour of silently curling up with whatever book I happen to be reading. I know this is a luxury that will disappear when when we bring children home. When our kids finally come home, it won't be just me and Tom (two somewhat well-adjusted adults in our own culture) trying to navigate the newness of a our family and all the emotional entanglements and changes that will come. We will also have our children who will be dealing with far, far weightier adjustments of culture shock, new authority figures, and a family (and at a developmentally critical time). I have no disillusionments about how much comfort I am choosing to forgo. The world tells us to seek our own comfort, but that isn't why we are here. We are here to be poured out-- not to get to the end of the race and say, "Well, God, I made myself as comfortable as possible." As a runner, I have finished too many distance races where I looked back and wondered if I could have pushed myself harder. Where I examined each leg of my race, each mile, and saw times where I pulled back-- rested. Costly seconds wasted. Time that cannot be regained or rewritten. Limited and urgent. Our lives-- each phase, each season, a leg of a race. I don't want to look back at any part of it and see that I withheld any effort or strength or giving because I was preserving myself. Preserving my time, my energy, my emotions, my comfort. This is one reason that I gladly and joyfully walk this path with Tom-- adoption (and really, all parenthood) is a pouring out of absolutely everything that we have. It is a laying down of our lives for others. In our first year of marriage, we started supporting International Justice Mission. IJM fights sex trafficking, forced labor, and corruption across the globe, all with the perspective that if God is a God of justice, then as His people we need to work towards justice.
We also started supporting four children with Compassion International. We picked four countries, four children. And we tithe. I don't say these things to appear good or right or even generous--- really this post just illustrates my distrusting heart. When Tom and I looked at the cost of adoption, the thought crossed my mind that since we were using our money towards a good cause, maybe we were justified in stopping all our other giving--- IJM, Compassion, and tithing-- in order to completely cover the cost of adoption. We would save a lot of money if we just stopped giving. AND, I further justified, our motive and purpose for halting our outflow was actually "right" and "noble" as well. If we did that, no one would blame us. I entertained that thought for about 30 seconds before I realized what was at the heart of my thought process: control and a lack of trust. Just because something appears "good" or "justified" does not mean that it is acceptable. We are very good at dressing up the white-washed parts of hearts to make them look presentable. Here's the problem with my thinking: first, I assumed the money we were giving away ever BELONGED to me to make a decision with. That money, in fact all of my possessions, are not mine-- they are just passing through my hands as the Lord entrusts them to me. So for me to direct those funds for my own preferences--EVEN GOOD PREFERENCES-- was prideful. Second, using that money to have more assurance in our own ability to pay for this adoption shows a lack of trust in God's promise to accomplish in us what He has called us to do. By keeping that money, I was trying to cover my doubts. I was trying to eliminate the unknowns and uncertainties of fundraising and also, to eliminate any pain of lifestyle cuts. Of course, He could at any time direct us to use that money for adoption-- that isn't the point. The point was the sneakiness of my heart, the subtlety of distrust, and my hesitation to sacrifice. In our two income, middle-class suburban world where risk is minimized, sacrifice is minimal, and security is a coveted illusion, how often does our faith suffer because we never lack any material provision? We never NEED because we never extend ourselves to the point of dependency on Him. Seeing God's faithfulness to us in this adoption process has challenged me to give generously and to sacrifice until it should hurt. The beautiful thing about sacrifice is that when it is done in love, it doesn't hurt. Losing your life doesn't hurt. You think it will, but that is just fear. Losing your life because of love-- that is partaking of Divinity. "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose." Jim Elliot Here are links to the charities Tom and I support, in case you are interested too: International Justice Mission Compassion One of the easiest parts of our adoption process for me has been a lengthy, essay-question packet that asks me in depth questions about my life, my personality, my views on parenting, my extended family, my marriage, and my faith.
For Tom, this has been the most difficult part. I finished my packet in four hours. He could take four months. To be fair, they are very difficult, introspective questions, but what is more-- several of these questions are nearly impossible to answer if you haven't already had parenting experience (which of course, we have not). This brings up fears and doubts for him, and in turn, fears and doubts for me. One question asks "What will your discipline strategy be? How will you establish boundaries and consequences for your children?" Tom asked, jokingly, "Can I just put 'I don't know, I've never been a parent before? I'll just wing it and make it up as I go along?'" "No," I said. "I don't think that will fly with the adoption agency." I reminded Tom that when we first got married, he didn't know how to be a husband, but he is a great husband (the best, in my opinion). How did he suddenly learn how to be an amazing husband when he had no prior experience? It wasn't his wisdom or strength he relied on. It was Christ working in him. Without reliance on Christ to step in for our inadequacies and weaknesses, I have no doubt our marriage would be a wreck. For example, take our disagreements. I grew up in a house with three brothers. So in a disagreement, in order to have your voice heard or win a "battle," you have to dig your heels in, raise your voice, and refuse to give an inch. Compromise equates to losing. In early disagreements, I tried this strategy with Tom and took up a firm stance of defiance. But one thing Tom quickly did in our early disagreements was he reminded me he was on my side, he was for my good, and all of his decisions were made thinking of my best interest in front of his own. I didn't need to fight him because he was already fighting for me. Whew. That shut me up and humbled me pretty quickly. How could I dig my heels in against someone who so humbly showed me love? It didn't take me long to realize this was an example of Christ's love for me and my relationship with Him. I don't have to spend my quiet times making my case to God. I don't have to dig in my heels against Him. I don't have to have a stance of defiance. Because even more so than my husband, God is for my good. He has plans to prosper me, not to harm me. I don't have to fight my own battles. I don't have to raise my voice and state my case because He sees me and furthermore, He can see the path before. God used Tom to reveal an aspect of Himself. This example of Christ in our marriage serves as a very real promise to me: in my moments of weakness as a parent, He can use me to reveal Himself to my children. Furthermore, in this specific example I see the powerful ability of love to disarm our built up defenses and erase the harm of our past. I no longer try to defend an individual position in a disagreement because I've learned from Tom's example. My past bad habits have been disarmed by love. My children will most definitely arrive with harm, with a past, and with a wall of defenses. Playing tug of war or a battle of the wills is not the solution; disarming them with love--- showing them we are for their good--- is what we need to do. While I have thought of the power of disarming children's defenses with love, I have found myself thinking about how this applies to people I come across every day. Isn't every gruff response, every insult, every hurtful action a defense to protect one's self, an act of self-preservation? We are all walking around trying to save ourselves, trying to look out for our best interests. But what if we were freed from that burden because we have someone who is already fighting for us? Freed because our life here is temporary. Freed because our inheritance cannot be taken. Freed because our identities are clearly defined and valued. Freed to love because we are loved. I really like to judge the Israelites from the Old Testament. They are idiots. How could you worship a golden calf when God is clearly working among you and has shown you His rescue and redemption? How could you make demands and feel insecure when He has worked miracles in your midst?
And yet if I were to analyze the timeline of my life and then examine my own heart, I am an Israelite. I have seen God's hand move in my life and I have seen His provision, rescue, and redemption over and over and over. Why, then, do I wrestle and negotiate to hold on to my idols? My idols are NOT inherently evil and thus, easily extracted from my life. They are actually good things meant to be blessings, but I continually allow them to dethrone Christ in my heart and become all-encompassing and consuming with my thoughts and time. To rid myself of these idols, I would have to physically lose my life; therefore, I must wrestle each day to place my idols in their proper place-- there is no easy fix of avoidance or extraction. And there is no one time "placement" of my idols-- it must be a daily choice. I have learned I will fail if I try to stay away from my idols-- that will only fixate me more on holding onto them with a tight fist-- how stupid my heart is. I know these idols are fleeting, temporary representations of the Creator-- nothing worthy of being worshipped. And yet stiff-necked sinner that I am, I often give them all of my time, energy, thoughts, and affections. Willingly and gladly. Time and again. Like the idiot Israelites. Rather than trying to loosen my grip on my idols on my own, the solution is this: Stand at the foot of the cross with my tight-fisted claim on my idols. Just spend time at the foot of the cross. Forget about trying to put those idols down-- just go spend time with Christ. Just worship Him. Remember all His provision and promises. Be in awe. It has never failed-- when I stand in awe, I cannot resist opening my hands to worship Him. I cannot resist putting down those idols-- it is suddenly not even a choice, but an overwhelming compulsion that stems from my awe and gratitude. Those idols are still there, but they are in their proper place-- below me and below Christ--not between us. Thus, they are no longer idols. And I am no longer exhausted and spent from wrestling over futile things. Today I am thankful that His greatness overwhelms any frivolity of this temporal life that would seek to gain our affections. Just like the stiff-necked Israelites, we have the grandness of God in our presence. We can choose to focus on it or continue wandering in our futile efforts. |
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