"More of Our Story... and a Few Birds to Feed"

When I woke up today I decided that I'd better find a way to start writing again, or bust. It's summer, and I am supposed to have more time in the summer to write than during the school year when we are busy homeschooling. Right? Well, I've been trying to take a few intentional days when summer life has allowed to catch up on deep rest, reading, a few landscaping projects etc. I have poked around with writing a little, but every time I would get my computer out and my coffee made, my kids would need something, laundry would need switched, or some other pressing thing hijacked my plans. BUT this morning, the moment my eyes opened, I knew. TODAY was the day to get back to writing. I'm not sure how other writers go about the process of writing, whether they are bloggers, or full-blown authors. Honestly, I am neither. I write when my heart feels stirred to share something and space allows. I feel FREE, because I'm not trying to be or do something. I just share my heart when I feel led to share. I don't have a particular plan or schedule. Ummm... my last blog post was four months ago. Enough said. But again, THIS MORNING, I knew my directive was to write. The best way for me to make sure that will happen without any interruptions is to leave the house. I know that's probably terrible, but if I don't prioritize carving out the space to do this, then it won't happen. So bless my heart, I get to sit in the Starbucks' air conditioning, listen to calm and soothing Lord of the Rings music in my ear buds and see where my prayers and heart lead me. I was working on another piece (that hopefully, I will get back to), when my husband texted me a picture. I scrapped the plans that I had for writing, and I am going to tell you the story about WHY I am now sitting here CRYING in Starbucks.

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First, I need to give you a little background.

I have only blogged in bits and pieces about our family's story. Maybe eventually, all the bits and pieces will come together into a completed jigsaw puzzle for you, but for now, I will share a few more puzzle pieces to fill in a tiny bit more of the picture. I started this blog in February 2011 to be a place of raw transparency where others could find the truth of grace and know they had a safe place to share or land, if needed. At the time I began my blog, IronMan was the senior pastor of a small church in Michigan. We were there for a decade, but we knew when we arrived after being at the church for just three days that it was going to be a very long haul. And THAT it was. After ten years (almost twenty years in full-time ministry at the time), we were just done.  

WE COULDN'T DO IT FOR ONE MORE DAY KIND OF DONE.

So we packed up our four kids ages 5-15 at the time, every humble earthly belonging we had, and the ONLY LIFE WE HAD EVER KNOWN, and moved to Colorado to live with my parents. We thought we had been fully stripped the decade we lived in Michigan, but let me tell you, there is nothing more humbling after being on your own for 20 years to have to move back in with parents. We were bankrupt in every sense of the word. Every sense. We walked away from a career, church, income (INCOME!), what little security we felt we had, INDEPENDENCE, and left for higher hopes in the Rocky Mountains. We thought, perhaps, we might live with my parents for one year or less just to get back on our feet, and that IronMan would be led to a great job. It was going to be the start of a brand new life for us. I know life isn't always hard for everyone, but many of you can relate in some manner. For us...

IF THERE WAS A DOOR TO OPEN AND WALK THROUGH, THERE WAS A BRICK WALL ON THE OTHER SIDE.

We half-jokingly say around our house that we are Sargents and nothing is ever easy for us. But after being on this journey with IronMan for 25 years, I can affirm that to be true. Sometimes, things are just hard for people for whatever reason, and we are those people. I am not being negative, or even down-in-the-dumps. I share from the reality that we have had a hard road, and it's not for lack of prayer, trusting, or trying. Our journey is scarred. Believe me when I tell you that it is. I am not just saying words, because they sound authentic to say. WE ARE SCARRED. In a thousand different ways. Nearly unrecognizably so. Before I get too far off point, I will get back to when we arrived in Colorado. Our humble savings and profit from our huge moving sale in Michigan dwindled faster than we could keep milk in the fridge and bread on the table for our children. IronMan applied for jobs everywhere. EVERYWHERE. We just assumed that God would provide SOMETHING, but He didn't. The very moment that we were released from Michigan and led to Colorado, the local job economy in Colorado took a nose-dive. It was the worst time since 2001 to find employment in the state. Common jobs like grocery baggers were 500 applications deep. I thank God for my parents' generosity to us, because without them, we would have been homeless, but we still had bills to pay. We were, literally, down to our last $35 with no job prospects in sight. Along with desperate financial concern, the emotional transition out of church was excruciating. We had to find a way to healing and we also had to help our children find a way to healing (tears come even thinking about it) after the deep damage that was done. We all lost our identity, and we had to keep ourselves from looking back to "Egypt" and painting it in a light that it surely wasn't.

WE LEFT DARKNESS HOPING (AGAINST ALL ODDS) FOR LIGHT, AND ALL WE ENCOUNTERED BY MOVING TO COLORADO WAS MORE DARKNESS.

Out of utter desperation for income of some kind, IronMan took our last $35 and went to an auction in Denver to try to multiply our less-than-meager funds. He bought an old cookie jar, a vintage coffee maker, and a box of pathetic junk. He listed those items on ebay, and made a $200 profit. It felt like a small miracle. He then went back to the auction, bought a few more items, and did the same. BY GRACE, we now had a small income. BY GRACE, for the next three years, IronMan (who is not a businessman) grew the ebay business. The hope that we would only have to live with my parents for a year turned into nearly four years. They were closing in on retirement, and naturally, they wanted to have their space back. They were so gracious to let six of us live freely in their Colorado home, and during this stretch of four years, those Rocky Mountains and Colorado blue skies did, indeed, bring a measure of healing to all of us, but it was time to transition again. We began to fervently seek God about where we should live in Colorado, and it became quickly, and absolutely clear that we were not supposed to be in Colorado at all, but we were supposed to return to our roots in Indiana. My generous parents, ONCE AGAIN, fully enabled us to follow God into the unknown He was calling us towards. We packed our belongings into one moving truck, ebay stock into another moving truck, shed lots of tears, and leaving a little bit more soul-healed than we had arrived, we left Colorado for the next leg of our journey.

Now before you think that this part of our journey has finally been smooth, please remember that we are Sargents, and nothing seems to be easy for us, ever. Truly. We have been here for almost 18 months, and last summer, ebay betrayed us and almost hook-line-and-sinker-crashed. Having been in the online retail business for nearly five years, we know that there is a summer lull and we expected it, but being independent again, our needs were greater, and the usual summer lull turned into us running the gauntlet. If we don't have ebay sales while all of our potential buyers are sitting ocean-side with their toes in the sand sipping fruit-filled umbrella drinks (who can blame them?), you can liken that to not getting a paycheck for the week. During the summer, we go without several paychecks. Not many regular people can sustain that, and we are definitely regular people. This summer, even with a few protective income precautions in place, we have found ourselves still running the gauntlet. Sigh. We survive from sale to sale, miracle to miracle, breath to breath and hope to hope. Don't think for a second that because I am able to write this that it doesn't rattle the cages of faith. Our faith has been shaken right down to the bones over and over again, and we have kicked, scratched, and clawed our way back to trusting through the years in things even far deeper than finances. But, somehow, some way, we are still here.

CURRENTLY, WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GAUNTLET, TRUSTING FOR PRACTICAL MIRACLES, BREATH, HOPE...

...AND BLESS OUR HEARTS, THAT IS DEFINITELY SOMETHING.

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So much life... light and darkness mingled together... has happened around and between these few puzzle pieces of our journey.

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Now, back to me crying in Starbucks.

A few months ago, IronMan bought this crazy milk can contraption at auction with what looked like a galvanized clothesline pole welded to it. He purchased it to resell the milk can, but when he put it in the car after the auction, he realized he couldn't remove the galvanized pole. He brought it home to me pretending it was some grand and thoughtful gift that he had purchased just for me, and he tried to talk me into how amazing it would be in our yard (read sarcasm in my tone). At first, I thought the thing was hideous, and I was sure we would get angry glares from our neighbors if we put it in the yard. On Sunday, IronMan randomly decided to paint the milk can portion barn-red to see if I would like it. If you know me, you know that red is my favorite color, and barn-red is my favorite-FAVORITE color. That man of mine is a sly one. {wink~wink} With the milk can portion being barn-red, I slowly warmed up to completely fell in love with the idea of this unique milk-can-pole-thingy. We have a lot of birds around us that we enjoy watching, so we thought it would be sweet to hang feeders from the galvanized pole. We, being as broke as we are right now (summer gauntlet), went to Hobby Lobby with sale information from a friend, and bought the last two Mason jar bird feeders they had at a 66% discount (basically, they were next to free). I decided where I wanted our new barn-red contraption to go and placed it, filled the feeders with a heart full of hope, hung my beloved birthday-gift wind chime, and placed a trailing geranium on the crossbar. I did a little bit of research, and I found out that even if you have several birds in your area, they still might not find the feeders you place. I was a bit discouraged, but we have a lot of birds. Surely, they would come, wouldn't they?

Two long, long days went by, and not a single feathered friend found our lovingly placed feeders. I was so discouraged, and thought for sure my hopes would be fully dashed. Today, when I came to Starbucks to write, I was originally writing a different story to share. My phone vibrated with a text message from IronMan. There were no words, just a single picture.

 


While I wasn't looking, the birds came.

WHEN I WASN'T PAYING ATTENTION, HOPE WAS FULFILLED.

This is the picture IronMan sent me which he took through the kitchen window screen. There are five birds, FIVE. When I spoke with him later, he told me there were at least FIFTEEN birds around the feeders at any given time. I know it probably seems a little silly, but tears flowed at the deeper truth that this spoke to me. When you have had a hard journey (even if you haven't), it can be hard to find your way back to hope of any kind.

WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN BRUISED AND BATTERED BY LIFE, HOPE IS AN OFFERING THAT YOU GIVE FROM DEEP WITHIN, BELIEVING FOR SOMETHING MORE.

Hope can be fragile. Deepened trust or full-out joy may or may not end up being the fruit of  your hope offering, but dear ones, it is a risk that we have to find the strength to take. Over and over again. If we don't have hope, then what have we? It's why the tears slipped from my eyes, right down my cheeks and fell in Starbucks.

EVEN THE SMALLEST BIT OF HOPE FULFILLED IS SOMETHING.

Last night, I was at a sweet little women's group, and the young hostess with a deep, beautiful heart confirmed this thing stirring in my soul. "We live miracle to miracle," she said. Yes. Yes. Yes. I have been using that phrase and living it for years, and I understand the tight rope you have to walk between faith and despair that stirs such a statement from the depths. Only those that really "get" that would utter such a phrase. And on this day that my tears fell in Starbucks, I am grateful for tiny sparrows that came floating with a message on their wings to bring fresh hope right to my heart. Hallelujah. The birds came. I am going to call my young friend and tell her, because even when it feels hopeless, even when we aren't looking, the birds will come. I don't have the answers, but I do believe that one way or another, if you fight your way to hope, it will all be okay...

MIRACLE TO MIRACLE...

BREATH TO BREATH...

HOPE TO HOPE...

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All is grace...always grace,

One Tiny Crocus

We moved into our home last winter at the end of an icy, cold February. Fifteen years prior to our arrival, our home was constructed for the sole purpose of becoming a rental property, so occupants put very little effort into the home, including the landscaping. When we bought our house, we had no idea what our snow-covered yard would look like. As the winter freeze began to thaw, it revealed that the landscaping needed some tender-loving care, to say the least. The long flower-bed between the sidewalk and house was covered in tufts of brown, dingy, spring grass. Our work was definitely cut out for us. We could hardly wait for spring to fully arrive, so we could get started on the transformation. One day, just as the days became balmy, my son came running to tell me there were yellow flowers that had poked through the ground.

I quickly followed him outside to find golden crocuses smiling through the gloomy backdrop. Those tiny flowers brightened our spirits after an emotional, and exhausting winter.

Pretty pink and purple hyacinths were the next to surprise us with spring's hope, followed by a rainbow of tulips. Despite being a rental property, someone through the years cared enough to take the time to plant bulbs that would eventually produce hope-filled blooms. Unfortunately, the bulbs weren't planted intentionally, and the entangled mess of spotty grass, weeds, and bulbs would have to be removed from the flower bed to make way for something new.

We weeded, dug, hoed, sweat, raked, planned, prepped, and worked. As we made our way through the soil, we came upon at least a hundred flower bulbs. We removed them all, but felt guilty throwing them away, so we salvaged as many of the larger bulbs as we could with the intention of replanting them in the fall. We stored them in a cardboard box in the garage where they would have to wait until the right time for planting.

Last autumn on a gorgeous Indian summer day, I took the box of bulbs from the garage, and got to work. I counted and separated according to variety.

I took a handful of bulbs in amazement that these homely little things held the hope of spring's beauty beneath their onion-like layers.

IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE THAT SOMETHING SO BRIGHT, COLORFUL, AND BEAUTIFUL COULD EVER COME FROM SOMETHING SO UGLY.

I surveyed our flower-beds and the landscaped areas we created last summer, and thought about where I wanted to see flowers bloom. I decided to plant the yellow daffodil bulbs underneath the curve of the one-leaf tree.

The spring-pink blossoms of the weeping cherry tree would be a pretty contrast to daffodil-yellow. I got down on my knees and moved the mulch aside with my hands. I cut a half-circle in the weed barrier and dug a trench with a hand trowel heaping earth on each side. I evenly lined up the bulbs around the half-circle. I held the first bulb in my hand, carefully pushed it down deep into the cool earth, and my soul hushed as I realized...

THE BULB WAS IN A TOMB.

The bulb had to be planted in an earthen tomb, or it could not bloom. Last October, I designedly planted spring-hope in little tombs all across our flower beds.

SOMETIMES...

THAT'S ALL WE CAN DO. 

PLANT.

TRUST.

WALK  AWAY.

WAIT.

KEEP  TRUSTING.

The winter-wait can be long and dark. As spring approaches without marked signs of life, it can be unbearable. It's definitely been a long, dark winter here. In truth, it's been a long, dark WEEK! 

The snowy, cold weather broke last week, and I've been keenly watching for any sign that the bulbs I transplanted survived. Would they burst through their little graves and flourish? Would they break FREE from their dark tombs? 

I've been vigilant in checking the curve under the (currently) no-leaf tree for signs of life that the daffodils persevered through the winter and lived through their big replant. So far, there have been no signs of life. I investigated the hope of tulip patches and hycinth row. Nothing.

Deep in my bones...

I NEED THESE FLOWERS TO BLOOM. 

I NEED THESE FLOWERS TO LIVE. 

I feel desperate that if they don't make it, maybe we won't either. I need a SIGN that life will make it, that we will make it, that...

SOMEHOW...

SOME WAY... 

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY!

I did my rounds yesterday checking for any evidence that my flowers lived, and I couldn't believe what I found.

I WAS SEARCHING FOR HOPE IN THE WRONG PLACE.

The flower-bed we ripped from end to end, the flower-bed where we pulled out every bulb, big and small, the flower-bed where I sifted the ground through my fingers and raked through the dirt with my hands yanking out every weed, flower, seed, sign of life, good or bad...

THE FLOWER-BED HAS A SURVIVOR!

As much as I want my other bulbs to break through their dark-ground graves and explode into rainbows of spring color, it matters little for this one tiny crocus. One tiny crocus hung on despite the odds that it shouldn't have survived. One tiny crocus burst forth with the first hope of spring. One tiny crocus, about the size of a nickel, changed EVERYTHING in my heart.

I'M GOING TO BE OKAY.

YOU'RE GOING TO BE OKAY.

KEEP TRUSTING.

WINTER WILL END.

SPRING WILL ARRIVE.

For today, I will hold on to the hope that one tiny crocus has brought, and I hope you will hold on, too.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.


"And now, God, do it again—
bring rains to our drought-stricken lives, so those who planted their crops in despair will shout hurrahs at the harvest, so those who went off with heavy hearts will come home laughing with armloads of blessing." (Psalm 125:4-6 MSG)


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All is grace,

October

OCTOBER.

Leaves change from lush green to fire brights and deep hues. Beauty fragile designed to fall away so roots and trunks and limbs can slip into bare sleep.

Orange, gold, red, copper, amber.

Color that assaults us with its royalty. Color that evokes emotion.

COLOR FLEETING. 

The cycle of things must continue on and submit...

TO STILL...

TO QUIET...

TO REST...

There is purpose in all things, dear ones.

AUTUMN REMINDS US THAT WE MUST PAUSE.

The freeze of winter is coming, but spring will come, too.

IT WON'T ALWAYS BE THIS WAY.

I PROMISE.

Soon the ice of winter will thaw and the trees will be bursting with life green and blossoms fragrant.

Right now.

October.

It may appear to be death as leaves fall away, but...

THINGS ARE RARELY AS THEY SEEM. 

OCTOBER TREES ARE FULLY ALIVE.

Make no mistake.

They are simply being prepared to bear fruit after their rest, and perhaps...

SO ARE YOU. 


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All is grace,

Kindness

A couple of weeks ago, I needed to make a few important phone calls while my children happened to be present. After I finished, all four of my kids, aged nineteen down to nine, wasted no time to tell me that I sounded like an entirely different person on the phone than I do at home. And by different I mean...kind, courteous, polite, gracious, chipper. UGH! They mocked me and ribbed me, all in good fun, but something stung in my soul trenches as I tried to laugh it off... THE TRUTH.

My kids were right. For a few days after the phone reprimand incident, I jokingly spoke to my children as if I were making professional phone calls to them. Honestly, it annoyed them, but the sting still lingered. I was more kind to strangers and acquaintances than I was to my own family, my children, my supposed-to-be-most-treasured possessions. Sigh.

Laying bare the ugly parts of my mothering (and beyond), I transparently confess that a few days later I was in a tizzy about something. I was carrying on like an angry dragon, and my nine-year-old son calmly said, "Mom, this is not a situation for yelling." UGH!!! Sting. Sting. Sting. 

SOMETHING NEEDS TO CHANGE, AND IT NEEDS TO CHANGE NOW!

ME.

I, SIMPLY, HAVE TO GET IT TOGETHER!

I could come up with a hundred legitimate excuses about why this is a struggle for me, but the fact of the matter is, it doesn't matter.

THERE ARE NO EXCUSES. 

THERE IS NO ONE TO BLAME. 

I, ALONE, AM RESPONSIBLE. 

I am responsible for managing the temperature, tone, and atmosphere in my home, and I am failing to do that in a way I feel confident, peace-filled, and proud. I have thoughtfully and prayerfully considered what I might do to change my disturbing habits, and one question kept coming to me over and over.

WERE YOU KIND TODAY?

Let it sink in.

Let it simmer.

WERE YOU KIND TODAY?

It didn't take long for me to dash to my chalkboard and write it out smack-dab-in-the-center of all of my comings and goings in our home.

WERE YOU KIND TODAY?

I printed off words and images from my computer and taped them in doorways, onto mirrors, onto windows, and even onto my coffee maker.

BE KIND.

KINDNESS MATTERS.

CHOOSE KINDNESS.

I want reminders EVERYWHERE. I don't want this soul-sting to be wasted. I don't want to have anymore regrets than I already do about my parenting, teaching, loving, and character-modeling in our home. This is too important to miss, and I sense a definite shift.

Am I going to fail? Absolutely. I failed as early as this morning when water went flying (accidentally) across the room and ruined a precious heirloom. It's important to know that we are human, and there is grace. ALWAYS GRACE. But at the end of the day, I want to know and be aware that I did my broken-best to be gentle, gracious, and kind. I want peace to fill my soul when I snap out the lights at the close of the day, wander past my chalkboard, and ask myself...

WERE YOU KIND TODAY?


"Be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you."  (Ephesians 4:32 NLT)


ALWAYS GRACE,
 

 









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Quick update:

It's been several weeks...errr months... since I've been able to blog. If you have found your way to my little corner of the internet apart from Facebook, I want to update you that the home we have been living in, that we waited nearly six months for the short sale to be approved, is our home!   

WE ARE HOME! 

WE ARE GRATEFUL! 

GRATEFUL! 

GRATEFUL!

One of the first things I bought was a welcome mat.

IT FEELS SO GOOD TO BE HOME! 

Nursing a Weed?

This past weekend, IronMan and I decided to do something about the weed infested flower bed in front of our house. I know it isn't officially our house yet (you can read that story HERE), but we are trusting and hoping and believing that it will be soon. Truth be told, no matter the outcome of the house, we couldn't live with those weeds staring at us for one more day. So we bought a shovel, hoe, and rake, fifteen bags of mulch, two rolls of weed barrier, and we got to work.

There were a few tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils planted by one of the previous residents, so we carefully dug up their bulbs and stored them to plant next fall.

THERE'S SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL ABOUT SAVING LIFE THAT IS ALREADY PRESENT.

IronMan and I started digging, ripping, hoeing, and pulling grass, dandelions, clover, nettle (OUCH!), and whatever else was growing green and tall and strong. This flower bed was a mess, but then I came across a plant that caused me to pause.

My gut told me to stop! I don't think this is a weed. I quickly snapped a picture and texted it to a friend that is far more plant savvy than me. "Is this a weed? I think it's a plant. What do you think?" I did some research on the internet (thank God for Google). My highest hope... could it be, might it be, will it be a Black-eyed Susan? I have this thing about BLACK-EYED SUSANS, and this plant looked familiar...like in a Black-eyed Susan sort of way. I emailed another friend. "Is there any chance this might be a Black-eyed Susan? What do you think it is? Maybe it's a weed?" With the expert advice from my two gracious horticulture friends, I decided to replant this life and see what happens. All three of us were in agreement that we didn't believe it was a weed, but it is impossible to know what it is until...

UNTIL IT BLOOMS.

The poor plant drooped for two days to the point of looking near death. I watered it, I worried over it, but it wasn't happy. Thankfully, the rains came and the sun warmed its leaves. It perked up!

I planted a pretty purple friend next to it. All I can do is wait and see what this mystery plant will be. I researched every kind of Black-eyed Susan variety to see if the leaves match. Some look the same and some look different. There is no way of knowing what it will be...  until it blooms.

SOMETIMES YOU DON'T KNOW HOW BEAUTIFUL SOMETHING WILL BE UNTIL YOU PATIENTLY AND LOVINGLY GIVE IT CARE, GIVE IT ITS BEST CHANCE, AND WAIT TO SEE IT BLOOM.

I got to thinking. This plant is a little bit like us, isn't it? We don't really know what we are or who we will be until we bloom, either. But all of our life experiences, tenderness and care from those around us...from God, rainy times, sunny times, droughts, and famine, they all make us who we are. Sometimes, I think we bloom over and over again, as I expect this plant will do, and each passing year, we will have stronger roots and more blossoms. Growing, progressing beauty.

I don't know for certain if this plant will be a Black-eyed Susan or not, but I'm attached to it now. I don't think my flower bed would be complete without it. Whatever it will reveal itself to be will be perfect.

THERE IS SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL ABOUT SAVING LIFE THAT IS PRESENT, INDEED.


All is grace,