Author: jessicaivaska

LOST AND FOUND

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We found the lid. Ok, I found it. And I can’t stop smiling. 

Do you think I’m crazy for rejoicing over a tiny piece of plastic that sits on the top of a traveling wine glass? That’s ok. I don’t mind. Because to me it is worth rejoicing over. And I pray that I never forget that the lid was found, even after we thought it was a lost cause. 

Here’s what happened. 

On Sunday we made cocktails in our double-walled metal wine glasses. Erik’s is black. Mine is rose. We slipped the lids right on top and they settled into their grooves, the silicone seals doing their work. Then we grabbed our chairs – the low ones that are worn and stained and rusty from countless beach days – and headed out the door to meet friends at the beach. 

It was wonderful. The wind was howling. The sand kept getting in our eyes. It was Hawaii-cold (75) and cloudy. It looked like it could rain and any minute. The surfers were shivering after they had left the waves in the ocean. But the love and community sitting there was a gift. The best kind of gift. The kind that we’re sad to be leaving behind. 

Erik took off his lid and tipped back his glass to swallow the last of his tequila sunrise with pomegranate molasses instead of grenadine. We stayed a while longer, talking about the cold, the week ahead, the lives that are waiting around the next corner for those of us leaving.

And then we gave in. The wind won and we packed up. Those of us who walked turned to go home, everyone else went to find their cars scattered in the neighborhood. 

Erik and I walked on the sand to the gate, then back to the house we’re renting. I put my cup down and then he did too, only to realize he’d lost his lid somewhere on the walk. 

He turned around to retrace his steps and search for this small plastic circle, clear plastic, almost invisible on a sea of wind-tossed sand. 

He didn’t find it. He asked the four friends who were still there to help him look. No one caught even a glimpse of the lid. 

I got out of the shower, hair still wet, and said let’s go look together. 

As we were walking and looking I prayed we’d find it. A small prayer. Meaningless to some. But they say God cares about the small things, too, right? 

We didn’t find it. Well we tried. 

On Monday we walked the beach. Two-and a half miles like we often do. Our toes digging into the sand, looking over at the expanse of churning turquoise. I don’t remember if I even thought about the lid that day. There were plenty of other things to think about.

Then this morning, we did what we’ve done countless times. Erik made coffee for him and tea for me. We took our mugs, our chairs and while it was still dark walked to the beach to watch the sun come up. 

It was a pretty lackluster sunrise. Hardly any color. Clouds thick on the horizon so that even after the sun rose you weren’t sure if you were still waiting for it. 

And then we stood up, ready to head home and get into another Tuesday. I looked down, and there right on top of the sand, like it was waiting for us, was the lid. 

I grabbed it in astonishment. With excitement and joy I showed it to Erik. He laughed and I just kept smiling. 

We found the lid. 

And here’s the thing. It isn’t even about the lid. But you knew that already, didn’t you? 

It’s about God and His goodness. He answered my prayer, He just did it in His timing. It would have been easy to miss the lid. Six people who were searching for it had already missed it once. But it was time for it to be found. 

And right now, with our life on shaky ground and a big question mark up ahead, I needed that reminder. I needed to see God answer my prayer on His time, in His way. I needed Him to let me hold that lid in my hand and see evidence of His working in a way that I didn’t expect. In His timing. I needed to not find the lid on Sunday so that He could show me that even when I feel like He’s silent, He hasn’t forgotten me. He’s still listening. He’s still working. He’s still got this. He’s still got me. He’s still got you. 

And if a stupid plastic lid can show me all that, it gives me hope. Hope that I desperately needed today. And maybe you did, too. 

I don’t know where your lid is. I don’t know where you lost it. But I believe God will help you find it. I just don’t know when. 

STOP

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STOP

2019 was the year I lost my best friend, my dog Jude.
I lost my father-in-law to complications of heart disease and cancer.
And I had a heart attack.

Those three things have been devastating. They’ve been heavy. They’ve been lingering. But those three things have also taught me. They’ve taught me that it’s ok to stop.

It’s ok to stop and cry.
It’s ok to stop and let go.
It’s ok to stop and grieve.
It’s ok to stop and ask for help.
It’s ok to stop and slow down.
It’s ok to stop doing it on your own and seek professional help.

And it’s ok to stop running.

That last one has some extra weight to it because running for me means a lot of different things. I run from my emotions. I run from my pain. I run from chaos. And I run, literally. Or at least, I have.

For the past 10 years, I’d say at least four days a week I’d lace up my running shoes and crank out miles. There were times I enjoyed it. There were times I used it to connect with God. There were times it was life-giving. But there were also times I did it just because I felt like I had to.

But then, on a run one day I started having crazy symptoms and ended up having a heart attack later that day. I literally had to stop running because I couldn’t continue. Then, after surgery, I had to give my body time to rest.

As of today, I haven’t run for three and a half months. While my emotions are mixed about it, the most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s ok. For years I was afraid to stop running. I was afraid I would lose the strength I had gained. I was afraid I’d gain weight. I was afraid I’d slide backwards.

So I kept pushing and pushing and pushing, until I couldn’t anymore. I was forced to stop and when I did I realized that, sometimes, stopping can be a good thing. In fact, it can be a great thing.

I needed to stop running to reconnect with my enjoyment of slowing down and just being outside.
I needed to stop running from my emotions and grief and cry as often and as long as necessary.
I needed to stop trying to fix the pain my husband and I were feeling and just accept it.
I needed to stop and reasses my life and what I wanted (and want) it to look like.
And so that’s what I’m doing. I’ve decided that I want 2020 to be a year marked by rest. Not sitting on the couch, scrolling through Instagram kind of rest, but true, deep rest.

I don’t know exactly what it will look like, but I think it will include more walks, more reading, more journaling, more praying, more slowing down, more yoga, more quiet time with God, more acceptance, and more discovering joy.

After last year, that sounds pretty darned amazing.

83

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Eighty-three days ago, I had a heart attack.

It’s hard to write about because it’s hard to believe, and even harder to process.

But facts are facts.

The sun rises every morning. It sets every evening. When it rains, things get wet. And almost three months ago I had a heart attack.

I didn’t realize what has happening at the time. It was nothing like they show in movies. I didn’t fall over clutching my chest. It hurt, but I could handle it. Afterall, it was the middle of the night. So I took some Tylenol and tried to sleep.

I didn’t even tell Erik until the next morning. Concern swept over his face. He wondered if I needed to go to the doctor. I waved off his question. The pain was better. I’d just wait and see.

But then I got to thinking.

I still didn’t feel right. Something had happened that morning while I was running. I almost blacked out. I got crazy nauseas. That’s not normal, but because I’ve run five marathons, I know that some runs are hard.

Plus, it was hot — in the 90s, with a humidity factor like a sauna. I told myself that I must have gotten over-heated. The chest pain later that night must have been from that. Yep. Heat exhaustion. Or maybe I was just anemic. The symptoms matched.

I had some routine blood work scheduled for a few weeks out, but I decided to do it early. I sent my doctor a message saying what had happened and asked him to check for anemia when the tests came back. The nurse called the next day.

No anemia. Everything looked great.

Then the Holy Spirit must have nudged me, because before she could hang up I told her what had happened. I said that I still had pain when I exerted myself, but that it was better. I figured I just needed more rest.

If she could have forced me to come in, she would have. But instead she pressed as hard as she could and then made me an appointment for a few hours later.

Fast forward through some more tests and that night I end up at the ER, being told I was going to be staying the night.

And then the next morning, the cardiologist walks in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said with a straight face. “You’re too young, too healthy. It doesn’t make sense.”

Great. Then, I’ll just go home.

“You had a heart attack.” Those words came out of his mouth and I would have lost any poker game I’d been trying to play.

“No one told you yet?” he asked.

Nope.

Rushed into more tests and then surgery to have a stent placed to open a blockage, another night in the hospital and the next evening I finally got to go home.

Two nights may not sound like much, but I felt those hours. I know Erik did, too, as he sat next to me in one of those squeaky, vinyl reclining chairs you only find in hospital rooms.

So there it is. I had a heart attack. A mild one, as the doctor told me, but still a heart attack.

What do you do with this type of news?

If you’re like me, you try to figure out whyit happened. But sometimes, there just aren’t answers.

Sometimes you can run 15-20 miles a week, eat healthy, not smoke, not drink much, never set foot in a fast food restaurant, be in your 30s and have a heart attack. And sometimes you just won’t be able to make sense of it except for genetics being at play.

But the thing is, as true as it is, the moving on is hard. My desire to want to control everything leaps to the surface as I figure out how to change my diet, dig into books about how to recover, think about stress management and try to start exercising again.

83 days in, I still don’t feel great. I still have some pain. I’m still tired. I had another test today, I was sure the news would be bad. But the doctor called to say the damage that had been done from the heart attack has reversed itself. My heart is healing.

It’s a strange thing when you brush against your mortality and I’m still not sure what to do with it.

But I’m learning to lean. I’m learning to lean on Jesus. I’m trying to trust that He’s in control. I’m choosing (ok, trying) to believe that He is good. I’m choosing to see my lack of control as something I can grow into, something that God-willing can be a good thing, can give me freedom. What that freedom looks like I don’t know. But I hope to taste it soon.

CLEAN SHEETS

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sheets

I washed sheets and blankets today. And don’t worry, it’s not the first time I’ve ever done my own laundry. But still, today was different.

As I pulled the blankets off of Jude’s favorite snoozing spot I cried. Hard.

I cried because I knew that once those blankets and sheets were fresh and clean, Jude would never again be able to make them dirty. That’s because after 16 years by my side, Jude is gone.

Even writing those words is hard. There’s a part of me that knows how true it is because I was with him when he died. And yet, there are large pockets of my mind and heart that keep expecting him to lick my feet when I come back from a run. I expect him to put his face at the edge of the couch and wag his tail as his puppy dog eyes look in mine.

I expect to hear his collar jingle when I open the front door. I expect to have to step carefully when I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I expect him to be here.

But he’s not. And while I know that death is a part of life, and a part of owning pets, it doesn’t make it any easier. I’m thankful he lived over 16 years – 121 in dog years – but I still wish he had had more in him.

A good long life is never long enough. At least that’s how it seems to me. Pets, people. When they are gone we always want more.

I’m trying to hope in the day that God sets all things right in this world. I’m trying to believe the truth that He will, because in every molecule of my being I know that death is not right. It’s not how we were created. It’s evidence of how broken this world is.

And yet, it’s hard to hope when you are grieving. It’s hard to wipe the tears as you put blankets into the washer. It’s hard to know what life will look like next. Of course, not everything has changed, but a lot has. It’s a blank slate – a clean sheet – because in some big ways my days will look different now. The friend I’ve had by my side for most of my adult life isn’t here. That hurts. So if that means I cry while I do laundry, I’m going to cry. If that means I have to take a deep breath when I realize I won’t see him sleeping on my couch again, I will.

So as the sheets and blankets spin in the dryer, I’m not entirely sure what’s next. All I know is that the next time I wash them they won’t have dog hair on them. And while I prefer them clean, that reality still makes me sad.

TRUE BLUE

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The newest thing at my house is blue. Midnight blue. It’s hard but smooth, and has angles I’d never want to try to measure without a protractor.

And it’s glorious.

So what is this thing? It’s my birthday present. And in fact, there’s not just one, but two.

Two midnight blue, sleek, wooden (that part is key) Adirondack chairs. They sit outside as you walk up to our house, and seeing them makes me smile. And it also makes me wonder why it took us so long to get them.

I’m a person who loves being outside. I always have. I love the mountains, the ocean, parks, sunshine, and sitting outside at coffee shops. The green and blues of nature remind me that God is there and that He is good.

So when we moved to a place with a patio, you’d think the first thing I’d do would be to set up an outdoor space. But it wasn’t. Why? Because I was afraid of spending the money. So, instead we bought some used plastic chairs. Within two weeks they had cracked. Within a month they had scratched. Still, they were what we had, so I didn’t think much of it.

Until my husband told me that for my birthday he was getting me real, wooden Adirondack chairs.

We picked them out, came home and put them together and we spent the next two hours siting outside, talking, sipping on a cocktail and then eating dinner.

In the last two weeks I’ve spent more time sitting outside my little house than I have the three years combined. Why? Because I have something real and solid to sit in.

Yes, they cost more than the generic plastic chairs. Yes, they might chip or fade over time. But every penny was worth it. It was worth it for the quality. It was worth it for the joy it brings to me when I walk out in the morning with my Bible and a steaming mug of jasmine tea.

And it was worth it for what they say.

Those chairs speak loudly. They remind me that my husband he sees me. He knows me and knows what makes me smile. He knows what feeds my soul and he’s willing to spend the money to give it to me, even when I won’t spend it on myself.

And that is love. Real, true blue, stable, won’t crack when you sit on it love. And it’s pretty magnificent.

A CHANCE

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There are people you meet who change the direction of your life. Today I found out one of those people passed away. And while there is sadness, it’s almost entirely eclipsed by gratitude.

I met Rob at an interview for a non-existent job. I had recently decided to try to make a go of it as a freelance writer (which I never would have done without the support of my husband, Erik). I spent hours on craigslist and job sites looking for writing gigs to build my resume. But Erik is more strategic than I am. He didn’t get distracted by one-off paychecks but has the gift of looking a bit further ahead. He’s the one who saw the posting.

A company was looking for a writer, a graphic designer and a proofreader – all in-house positions. Because I matched up with some of the criteria, Erik encouraged me to put together a proposal for them. I did, and sent it to the Creative Director, Rob. He graciously met with me and told me that he believed I had talent. (Those words were the first gift he gave me.) Then, he told me because I wasn’t interested in full-time work they didn’t need me at the moment, but would keep my information on file.

I left thinking I wouldn’t hear from him again. But a few weeks later, I did.

He said if I agreed to come in and train in-house for two weeks, they would try me freelance. I accepted, and the chance he gave me changed my career path.

Rob didn’t make me a writer, but in that moment he affirmed that I already was one. By taking a chance on me he told me that maybe my crazy dream wasn’t so crazy after all.

I worked with him for a just a few years before moving on to another organization doing similar work. I learned so much from him. His willingness to take a chance on me helped make me the person I am today.

He didn’t have to take a meeting with me.

He didn’t have to look at my clips.

He didn’t have to hire me.

But he did.

Because he was willing to take a chance on me, my life changed.

I don’t know who the “Robs” in your life are. But I know you have them. I hope as you picture them you smile and are inspired to keep an eye out for the people in your life who need what you can give them: a chance.

THE THIRD SPOON

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We have three wood spoons.

One we got as a wedding gift. It’s a good brand. It’s strong. It has a few scaly patches that may splinter your tongue, but it’s still in good shape. It’s the biggest of the bunch.

Another I’ve had for years. It’s rough and flaky. Not because it ended up in the dishwasher a few too many times, but because I probably bought it at the dollar store when I had just graduated from college.

And then there’s the third spoon. Its bowl is closer to a circle than an oval. Its handle not much bigger than a pencil. But when my fingers fall on this one, I smile.

The third spoon is smooth from decades of stirring. There’s no telling how many circles it has made around the pots and pans in my family. In spite of its age, there are no splinters, rough patches, or flakes. It looks like it could outlive us all.

It might.

I got this spoon as a hand-me-down. It was my grandmother’s. I don’t know how long she had it, but when I pick it up, I see her arthritic knuckles and neatly trimmed fingernails, her cream-softened hands and the love she had for making food for her family.

In the mornings, when I pick up the spoon to stir my steel cut oatmeal, I imagine her stirring her own version of the breakfast classic, which she called “mush.” I wonder how many times she made it? I wonder how many pounds of cracked oats she went through over the years? How many times did my grandfather sat down to a steaming bowl? My mother? Her siblings?

Those questions and the memories that flood back when I use the third spoon are what make it special.

It isn’t just a spoon. It’s an artifact.

The third spoon is teaching me how important it is to listen. It’s teaching me that new and flashy isn’t always best. It’s teaching me the importance of long lasting-quality, family, history and shared meals.

If anyone else picks up that spoon, they won’t hear the stories and lessons I do. They won’t picture my grandma’s grey, short, permed hair. They won’t taste her “Posner’s” chicken or spaghetti sauce with grated carrots.

But I will.

The third spoon connects me to her, even though she left this earth years ago.

For that I’m grateful. It makes me want to listen more carefully. It makes me want to sit down with my family. It makes me want to buy quality products that might last for generations.

But most of all, it makes me want to smile. And so, I do.

EIGHT

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Eight years ago I did something I didn’t know I could do.

I ran. A half marathon.

I had looked up to distance runners for a long time, admiring them for their strength and perseverance. But I didn’t ever think I’d be in that category.

Then, with two of my best friends by my side, I signed up. I had only ever done two road races:

  1. I had walked (yes, walked) a half marathon. (I’ve never been so sore!)
  2. I’d run a 5k

The half marathon had been in November. Four months earlier. And now I was setting out to run that same distance. I was nervous.

We got there early, not wanting to miss anything. The extra time added to our nerves, but it also gave us time to bow our heads and pray, reminding us of the bigger picture of racing and life in general.

And so, the gun went off, and so did I. As the wet miles of Mercer Island passed by, I realized I could do it. I was going to make it.

At the finish line I was flooded by mix of emotions. Pride, gratitude, excitement, accomplishment.

Then something else set in. The bug.

I knew I wanted to do it again.

Eight months later, with one of those same friends by my side, I ran the full Seattle Marathon.

I never would have guessed that I’d keep running all these years. I never would have guessed that that one race was the start of something big in my life. And that’s the thing, you never quite know when you’re at a turning point.

By God’s grace it just happens — sometimes when you least expect it.

I’m not fast, nor will I ever be, because in running — like in life — it’s not how fast you get to the end that matters. It’s what you learn along the way.

Running has given me a lot over the years: time with God, time with friends, time in creation. It’s helped me push myself, it’s broken me, it’s shown me how incredible the human body is. And so as hard as it is, I keep at it.

Today I had planned to go out for a four-mile run, but a friend wanted to go further, so we did.

Over eight miles. Today, in celebration, that feels like just the right distance.

DREAM HOME

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I’ve always been a dreamer. Imagining perfect scenarios, setting my sights high — often unattainably high. One could say I’ve long had champagne taste and a beer budget. And yet, it doesn’t stop me from dreaming — even when I know that the snapshots I create behind my eyes will likely never happen.

Some people could look at my life and say that I am already living the dream. I live in Honolulu, for goodness sake. The place people save their whole lives to visit once. Paradise. But living here as taught me that we all don’t dream the same dreams and that reality (no matter how close to our dreams it is) seems to leave us wanting.

Which puts me in good company with the (I assume) millions of other people dreaming of winning the 2018 HGTV Dream Home.

But I’m pretty sure my dreams are rooted in something different than anyone else’s.

The house is stunning. It’s the kind of place I’ve always wanted to live but knew I’d never be able to afford. The details are incredible. The renovation spot on. The décor, gorgeous. And those views. . .oh those views.

Those are the views of my childhood.

And that’s why I really, really, REALLY want to win.

As incredible as the Dream House is (and it’s incredible, see for yourself here), I want to live there not just because of what it is, but where it is. Specifically.

My parent’s home has a view of the beach that the house sits on. I remember walking that beach as a five-year-old, gathering oysters that my mother would bread and bake so we could sit on our deck eating their briney goodness.

My sister had one of her birthday parties out there, her friends and I balancing on the rocks, trying to avoiding slipping on barnacles. One of her friends found an actual pearl in the oyster she picked.

Then there were the summers where I’d jump in off the boat ramp, sometimes neglecting to close my mouth and swallowing a big gulp of seawater. No adult would dare get into that freezing Puget Sound water, but I relished it.

I’m not sure how many shoes I lost out there during low tide. My feet sinking into the mud as clams bubbled nearby.

Thinking back now, I realize how magical it all was.

Erik and I have lived in Hawaii for over six years, making annual trips back to Seattle for work and to see family. We love Hawaii for so many reasons. That’s why we’ve stayed.

But the chance to live so close to family, to get to attend my nephews’ football games and cross country meets, and to get to go to my nieces’ basketball games and ballet recitals, that’s what makes the 2018 HGTV Dream Home a true dream to me.

I know my odds are feather slim.

I know that it’s probably more likely it snows in Hawaii next week than it is that Erik and I would win that house. But I’m still going to dream about it. Because what’s the harm in dreaming? After all, I’m a northwest girl, and like the Seahawks said when they last went to the Super Bowl, “Why not us?”

BEDSIDE MANNER

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Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.