hope

CONSIDER THE SQUIRRELS

/ jessicaivaska / 3 Comments

Photo by Jacob Amson on Unsplash

One of the first things we bought when we moved into our current house was a matching pair of padded chairs. We hadn’t been looking but stumbled upon them at Costco with the tell-tale “closeout” asterisks on the price tag and a price that was hard to beat. 

Erik called my brother-in-law, who had a truck, and later that afternoon, the chairs were dropped off at our new home. 

Without even unwrapping them I knew where they would go. We have a large bay window that desperately needed seats and this value-priced set was perfect. We threw away the boxes, screwed on the feet, and set them side by side in their new home with a small table settled in between. 

Very quickly, the chair on the left became my morning chair. Each morning, cup of jasmine tea in hand, I’d settle in with a blanket and stare out the window. More often than not, within ten minutes I’d be giggling. 

“You sitting in those chairs and giggling is one of my favorite things about this house,” Erik said.

What was I giggling at? 

Squirrels. 

The cluster of tall trees that the bay window looks out on is  home to at least one colony of squirrels. Most mornings, they scamper their way over the branches and down the trunks to our front yard patch of lawn. What they do then is rather extraordinary, and I can’t witness it without giggling. 

The squirrels play as if nothing else in the world matters. 

Sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, their furry grey bodies tumble in summersaults as they zoom from one tree to the other, one stick to the next, pausing only long enough to juggle a pinecone with their feet before scurrying on with their joy-filled movement. 

They have no worries. 

They have no worries. 
They aren’t trying to collect food for the day. 
They are simply being. Playing. Delighting at being alive. 

As I watch them, I think of the birds and the flowers Jesus describes in Matthew 6:25-28. 

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? 

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” 

In those morning moments, it’s as if Jesus is saying, “Be like the squirrels, Jess. Live. Delight. Play. I’m taking care of everything else. Trust me. Just enjoy.” 

While I’m thankful for those moments, and the lightness those long-tailed rodents bring to my heart, I must admit I don’t carry that feeling far past my morning chair. 

All it takes is two steps into the rest of the day and I’m back to worrying, striving, trying to earn my right to live, breathe, and take up space in this world. 

But most mornings, the squirrels are there, reminding me that I have another day to try again. 

In the TV series Ted Lasso, Jason Sudeikis’ character, becomes known for telling the players on his team to be like a goldfish. Why? Because according to him, goldish have the shortest memory of any animal. They can’t remember what happened five minutes ago, and therefore they can’t be mad about it. They can’t seek revenge. All they can do is be fully in the moment, giving that brief time in history their all. 

There’s some good truth to that idea, but I think I’d rather be like a squirrel. I don’t know how long their memory is, but after watching them every morning for the last several years, they always make time to play. 

I think we could all stand to do that a little more, and I’m not the only one. David Bently Hart, in a recent essay in Plough Quarterly, titled “Running in Circles,” wraps up a compelling argument about the value of baseball by saying, “Only in play… can we really understand the true nature, the original peacefulness, and the final purpose of creation.”

We were created only to play? I don’t think so. But I do believe that play can unlock the true purpose of life, which, as the Westminster Shorter Catechism says, is “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” 

“SOMEDAY” IS TODAY 

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Everyone has a corner of their fridge where things seem to disappear. You look and look and don’t see them until they are growing something white and fuzzy or emitting a putrid smell. I’ve been there, too. No judgment here. But, I also have some things hidden in the back of my fridge that I know are there. In fact, I have carefully placed them where they aren’t easily seen because I’m saving them. 

Now, there is a time and place for saving things. But I’m learning that most of the time, it’s better to enjoy them than try to tuck them away for “someday.”

Case in point: a half-full jar of macadamia nut butter that’s in our fridge. We bought the giant jar when we knew we would be leaving Hawaii and moving back to the mainland. We tucked it, unopened, into a box that would be shipped with the furniture, dishes, and books we couldn’t carry on the plane. 

Seems wise, right? Well, we thought so. But if you’re doing the math, you may have realized that that “special” jar of macadamia nut butter is over four years old.

I was so determined to save it for when I really needed it (which is code for when I thought the occasion was special enough) that it has gone rancid and become inedible. 

By attempting to save it for “someday” I have wasted it. And that’s got me thinking about the scarcity mindset that I far too often live in. The scarcity mindset tells us that there’s not enough to go around so we have to hold tight to what we have. It tells us that God’s love and provision isn’t enough so we have to grab whatever we can and horde it away so we don’t have to trust Him, or anyone else. 

The scarcity mindset tells us it’s protecting us, but really it’s robbing us. Grace Leuenberger, on her Substack, wrote about it this way: “I have had a scarcity mindset that has, at times, led to deep skepticism and distrust, and robbed me of gratitude and honestly, joy.”

She goes even deeper, tying that scarcity mindset to her faith, and how at times she hasn’t believed that God’s grace is enough. 

Ouch. That stings.

How long have I treated God’s grace like my jar of macadamia nut butter? How often have I tucked it away, trying to save it for when I really need it, rather than enjoying it — and sharing it — here and now? 

As I throw away my rancid jar, I’m realizing that this isn’t how God wants me to live. Instead, He wants me to live by faith. He wants me to trust Him enough to enjoy the goodness He has given me today, without fear that it will run out. And I’m realizing I want to live that way, too. 

I’ve been so busy living for “someday” that I missed the fact that “someday” is actually today. 

Erik and I are going to visit Hawaii in a couple of months and we’re planning to bring back another jar of macadamia nut butter. But this time, I’m going to enjoy it. 

I’m going to lick if off the spoon.

Drizzle it on pancakes. 

Smear it on homemade bread. 

And I will thank God for every bite, knowing that if I run out tomorrow, it doesn’t matter, because today it was more than enough. After all, today is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Psalm 118:24. 

THE SUDS OF GRACE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

Our kitchen sink has a built-in soap dispenser. While I’m sure you could fill it with hand soap, we use dish soap. That way we have easy access for all the things we handwash, like sharp knives, pots, pans, and our favorite mugs. 

The dispenser works great, except when it comes time to refill it, which I did today. I often ask Erik to do this little task — having studied biology and chemistry in college, he knows how to pour slowly, with steady hands. But he was busy and I figured if I was careful, I’d be fine. 

Within seconds of starting to squeeze the soap out of the bottle and into the dispenser I decided it was taking too long. So, to speed things along I unscrewed the flip-top cap and set it aside. Now we were talking! Soap steadily streamed from the bottle into the neck of the dispenser. Not one drip escaped. Feeling smug, I tipped the bottle a little more, ignoring the fact that because the sink was solid chrome, I couldn’t see how full the reservoir was getting. 

Convincing myself that there would be some sort of miraculous sign from heaven when it was time for me to stop pouring, I gently squeezed the side of the bottle and kept watching. 

But there was no sign. 
Not even a tiny bubble telling me the dispenser was almost full.
Then it was too late. 

The blue soap started oozing over the neck of the dispenser and within seconds had puddled on the top of the sink and started running down the sides. 

Dang it. And here I thought I was doing such a great job. Oh well, it’s just dish soap. It should be easy to clean up, right? 

Do you see where this is going? 

Water + liquid soap = suds. And because we buy the concentrated soap, a little goes a long way. Within a few seconds of turning on the faucet, my soap volcano erupted into a mass of suds. The more I rinsed, the more it grew. 

Looking down at the mountain of tiny bubbles, I was transported back to middle school on a night when it was my turn to do the dishes. I was alone in the kitchen. My parents had gone out for a few hours. My older sister was probably watching TV or hiding in her room. 

As I slid the last plate the dishwasher, I thought of a commercial I’d seen recently. It was for a brand-new (at the time) product: gel dishwasher detergent. The commercial made this new innovation seem cleaner and simpler to use than the powdered stuff in the green box my family always bought. So, thinking I was being clever, I reached under the kitchen sink, grabbed the liquid dish soap, filled the triangle dispenser, closed the door, hit start, and left the kitchen. 

About five minutes later I wanted something to drink, so went back in and found a river of tiny bubbles pouring out of the dishwasher. I hollered for my sister, who came in and said something equivalent to, “You’re gonna be in big trouble.” 
I grabbed the nearest dish towel and started to frantically wipe at the explosion of bubbles escaping through the sides of the dishwasher door. It was no use. A waterfall of suds kept pouring out. 

My pulse pounded in my ears. 
What had I done? 
Could I get it cleaned up in time?

Nope. Mid-clean up, my parents came back home. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said and explained that I thought I could use liquid soap in the dishwasher because of the commercials.
My mom grabbed some rags and larger towels, got onto her knees, and started mopping up the mess. She was silent as she cleaned. My heart pounded as I braced for my punishment.

Then my mom spoke. 

“This is a lesson everyone has to learn once. Now you know and you won’t make the same mistake again.” 

Today, as I looked at the mound of suds in my sink, I smiled remembering the sweet relief I felt in that moment. Even though it was totally my fault, even though I had deviated from what I’d been taught, and even though I had made a huge mess, my mom didn’t scold me, yell at me, or punish me.

Instead, she got on her knees and cleaned up my mess. 

I haven’t thought about that day for years. But today, the suds lining the bottom of my sink led me right back to that moment. I think this is the first time I’m seeing my mom’s response for what it really was. 

A lesson in the grace of God.

When we’ve made a mistake, He doesn’t yell at us and storm away. 
He doesn’t dole out a list of punishments — even if we deserve them. 
He doesn’t abandon us to our consequences. 

Instead, He gets on His knees and cleans up our mess. 

That is grace. 
That is love. 
That is Jesus. 

LOVE AND A LAPTOP

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

Erik bought me a new laptop. It’s still in the box, sitting on top of the armoire in my office. 

I haven’t even taken it out of the cardboard yet.

Part of that is practical. Erik will help me set it up and he’s been busy with work all week. I’m telling myself I want to keep it pristine until I actually start using it. But that’s not the whole story. 

Hiding behind that practicality is the fact that I don’t think I deserve a new computer. If I keep it in the box, I don’t have to face some of the realities of life right now. One of the biggest ones is the loss of my job. 

I loved the writing job I had, but it ended a little over six months ago. My computer has been a reminder of the 15 years I did that work, and now, the new laptop is sitting here, ready to be opened, reminding me that the season is over. 

I want to open it. 

I want to use it. 

I want this computer to mark a new season of my life. 

But I don’t know what that will look like yet, and because I don’t know, I don’t feel ready to step into it. Especially because right now, I can’t “pay back” the cost of the laptop with my next paycheck because I don’t know when my next paycheck will come. 

Never mind the money was already in the account. 

Never mind that I’m the one who earned it at my last job. 

Never mind that my current laptop is six years old — ancient in technology terms. 

I still feel the pressure to make the cost worthwhile. To somehow prove that I’m worth it. 

And that gets to the heart of it, doesn’t it? The reality is, I’m afraid I’m not worth it. Not only of the new laptop, but of the love Erik has for me. So I keep trying to do things that prove my worth. 

See? I can earn the money back. 

See? I can grow a garden so we have food. 

See? I can cook a good meal.

See? You made a good choice marrying me. 

It’s not that I don’t like gifts. I do. But I accept them much more easily when they are small and don’t cost too much. 

A surprise matcha late? Sure!

Extra vegetable seedings? Absolutely! 

Clothes you don’t want anymore? Yes, please! 

But a laptop? That wasn’t cheap. That was a sacrifice. I’m not sure I’m worth it. 

As I thought about it, I began to wonder, how often do I say the same thing to God? 

How often do I try to pay back the gift of salvation? 

How often do I attempt to earn the love I’m already given? 

Why do I feel like when I’m given a gift I need to figure out a payment plan? 

I think it comes down to a quote from the late author and spiritual director, Judy Cannato, that I’ve been pondering for weeks. Here it is:

“Everywhere the Holy One is shouting and whispering, ‘Let me love you.’ And all that is asked of us is to receive. In reality, that is our life’s work. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

I could have easily missed those four sentences. They were in a forward from my uncle, sandwiched between morning spam emails all wanting something from me. 

Money. 

Time. 

Attention. 

But my uncle’s email didn’t want anything from me — it was offering me something. So, I read it. Then I read it again. And again. Now, this idea of simply accepting love has lodged itself in my brain, like a worm in an apple. I can’t get it out, and even if I do, there will be a trail left that can never be erased. 

I have spent so much of my life trying to be worthy of the gifts other people give me. Of their time. Attention. Love. 

But what if, instead of trying to make myself worthy, I let myself be loved? What if I open the new laptop, ask Erik to set it up, and focus on being grateful that God loves me enough to have given me a man who encourages me at every turn? 

Oh what grace! Make no mistake, it is grace. I’ve attended churches that have talked about grace my entire life, but it’s still a struggle for me. Not only when it comes to things like laptops, but ultimately, to the love of God. 

Just like letting yourself be loved, at its core, grace sounds simple. The most common definition I’ve heard is that grace is unmerited favor. It’s goodness and generosity given to you even though you didn’t “earn” it and can’t pay it back, and that gets to the heart of it. Erik doesn’t expect me to pay back the cost of my new computer. He’d laugh at me if I even tried. He knows that it will be a blessing for me and he wants me to have it. He wants me to delight in it. He knows it’s a tool that will help me to do whatever job I get next. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

The grace of God isn’t something He expects us to pay back. There’s no way we ever can. He knows that, but He gives it to us anyway. In His mercy, kindness, and love He wants to bless us. He delights in it. And He wants to equip us to do the work He is calling us to do. 

 But how often do I — do you — leave the grace of God in a box on the shelf thinking that if I work hard enough, then I can enjoy it? 

What would it look like to live in the fullness of the gifts I’ve already received? 

To live in the love that has already been poured out? 

To live as a chosen, ransomed daughter of the God of the universe?

To live in freedom from the chains of death?  

To live fully forgiven, fully loved, fully redeemed? 

Maybe this new laptop is just the start. Not of a new “work” life, but of my life’s work. Letting myself be loved. 

If Judy Cannato was right, and I think she was, it’s your work, too. 

SUMMER IS COMING

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

Monday the rain was back. Yes, it’s only May. Yes, summer isn’t officially here yet, but we all know I’m impatient and my impatience has grown over the last several weeks. Why? Teaser days. 

You know what I’m talking about, right?

Those days in spring when the sky is bright blue, the sun is out, and it stretches into the upper 70s. Those are the teaser days and we’ve had a few of them in this last month. But today, as I zipped up a winter coat to brave the 40-something morning air for a walk, I had to face the facts. No matter how much I want it to be, It’s just not quite time for my Birkenstock sandals yet. I wore them this weekend, and it was wonderful. My toes happily stretched, feeling the fresh air and sunbeams as I walked though a patch of grass.  

At the time, I was grateful for the summer-like weather. I still am. But I’ll also admit, at the time, all I wanted was more. 

I wanted the days of 70+ weather to arrive and settle in. 

I wanted to pack away my sweaters, vests, and coats. 

I wanted to be done with winter. 

But yesterday, as drizzle continued to fall and I was forced to zip up before stepping outside, God whispered to me. 

“Those days were just a taste, Jess. It’s coming. But it’s not here yet.” 

That’s when I realized that in many ways, every day of this life is a taste of what’s to come. 

A taste of heaven. 

Of eternity. 

Of the goodness and beauty of God.

Of things yet to come.

Is it a perfect analogy? No, but God still used it to remind me that when I feel trapped in the slog of winter, summer – His summer, the summer He bled and died for – is coming. 

He sends us glimpses of it. Tastes of it. Teaser days, if you will, to give us glimpses of the day when things will be reconciled and fully redeemed in Christ. 

We’re not there yet. But He promises it’s coming. And those sunbeams breaking through the clouds remind me of that. 

May they remind you, too. 

LIFE CYCLE LESSONS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

The garden is in. 

The  tomato plants I started tenderly in January are in their permanent homes. 

The kale, broccoli, and lettuce have been transplanted, too. 

Much to my surprise, almost everything I started from seed has survived. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s producing yet. For that, I’ve got to wait longer. As I wait, I can’t help but tuck a few more seeds into the open spaces. And because Erik and I would love to grow even more of our own food, I’ve started another round of carrots. 

And those carrots take their sweet, sweet time. For me, that means it takes about 2 weeks of consistent watering before the first hint of growth even begins to pop through the starter mix. The glimpse of green is so small I do a double take. I get onto my hands and knees, my face inches away from the soil. 

Did they? Did they? 

Yes!

A sprout, thin as a blade of grass, has started stretching towards the light. A few days later, the sprout is taller and no longer alone. It’s brothers and sisters joined it. Now there are 11 sprouts . . . no . . .13!

As I’m counting, I notice something. 

A few of the starts are wearing a hat. 

What is that? I peer closer. 

Oh, of course! 

Some of the seed casings are still hanging on. The stems are stretching taller, but the cotyledons are trapped in the husk. Its job is done, but it can’t seem to let go. 

I start to reach forward, then stop. I want to help. If I ever so carefully remove the “hat,” I’ll free the leaves from their straight jacket. They’ll have full access to the light. That’s what they need to grow! 

But because I’ve been trying to slow down more, I sit back and take a few breaths and think. A half-second later I remember a conversation I had with a friend on Sunday. Her family home schools, and this spring they’ve been learning about life cycles. They’ve watched butterflies emerge from silk cocoons and baby chickens break though the shell of eggs. 

“When we saw the first crack in the shell, we cancelled the whole day,” she says. “We all just sat there, watching this tiny beak break its way through. We wanted to help it. Just pull back a tiny piece of the shell, but we didn’t. We had just learned that butterflies need the entire process of breaking out of the cocoon to strengthen their wings. If you slice the cocoon open, or tug it off, attempting to help, the butterfly will always have weaker wings. It might never fly.  . . It’s like God had a plan or something,” she finishes with a glorious flare of sarcasm. 

As I stare at my burdened carrots, I think through the implication of her story. 

If God has purpose in the struggle for butterflies and chickens, He probably has purpose in it for plants, too. 

The next thing you know, I’m picturing an anemic zucchini plant from last year. I’d started it from seed and thought I was helping when I gently pulled the expired seed casing off its brand-new leaves. It never really recovered. The left leaf – the one where the casing had been stuck, stayed misshapen and weirdly yellow, even though it had been freed! The plant eventually grew, but it didn’t flourish the way it should have. At the time, I chalked it up to not being good at growing zucchini. Now I’m realizing it suffered because it didn’t go through its intended struggle. 

It needs the struggle to survive. 

Resistance makes it stronger. 

The right amount of pressure allows it to fully grow into what it was meant to be. 

If it’s true for plants, butterflies, and chickens, it’s probably true for me, too. I guess I need to wrestle through things to become stronger and to be who God intends for me to be. 

Right now, I feel a little like my carrot seedling. Something is weighing me down and I just can’t shake it. 

I want someone to reach down and pull me out of the sadness I feel. 

I want to know that it will all be ok. 

I want to rush to the other side. 

But today, I’m reminded that there is purpose in the process. So, once again, I pull my hands away from my seedling tray. My carrots will undoubtably be stronger from wrestling. I hope I will, too. 

THE GIFT OF LOSS

/ jessicaivaska / 5 Comments

 “Six years ago today…” Facebook reminded me, as an old photo of Ala Moana and Waikiki popped up. Curious, I clicked on the memory to see that I’d posted this caption: “Haven’t gotten back into running. Not sure if I will. I’m not mad about all the walks I’ve been taking with Erik.”

Six years ago would have been about five months after having had a heart attack. Running, something that I used to build my days around, was off the table. 

At the time I didn’t know it would stay off the table. But even then, God allowed me to see a glimpse of what could be. 

A peek at a life lived differently. 

Slower. 

With the love of my life by my side.

Before I had a heart attack, I had run four full marathons and several half marathons. 

I was a runner and proud to be one. 

I wasn’t fast, but I knew how to push. I knew how to keep going. Just one more mile. 

Sweat, pain, dehydration. All that could be taken care of later. I needed to finish first. 

There was a lot that I loved about running. I loved talking with God, thinking, praying, and processing as my feet hit pavement. Running gave me a place to leave my frustrations and work though my anxiety. A time to be quiet. 

But even more, I loved the feeling of accomplishment. I loved knowing I had run 3, 5, 10, 15, 26.2 miles. 

I’d build up so much distance that I was afraid to stop or even slow down. I was afraid of what a break would do. I was afraid to lose my stamina. My fitness. The identity I had created. 

And so, I kept running. On vacations, every time we moved. Running was a constant part of my life, until my arteries – and my doctor – forced me to stop. At the time, I believed it was temporary. I thought that my heart just needed some time to recovery and I’d get back to my usual routine. To build up my strength Erik and I walked together. We started slow, with short distances that grew longer as I got better. 

When I felt strong enough, I called a friend to ask her to try going on a run with me. We went and I did fine, but afterwards I had chest pain for days. 

I figured I just needed more time to get stronger, so I kept trying. I tried going even slower, taking walk breaks. Even powerwalking. But the pain kept coming back. 

It took me a few years to finally admit I had lost running. 

There was grief. Frustration. Anger. A deep feeling of weakness. 

But through all that, Erik and I kept walking. 

Slowly. 

Steadily.

Together. 

Now, six years later, we’re still walking. 

I lost running, but I gained hours with my husband. Conversations we may never have had. Experiences and discoveries in nature that we’ve gotten to share. 

A spouting whale. 

A scurrying gecko. 

A chirping chipmunk. 

The day we counted 17 rabbits. 

So today, I’m thinking about the gift of loss. The reality that if I hadn’t lost running, I wouldn’t have gained so many other gifts. 

That gives me hope.

In a season of another loss, I think I’m turning the corner from mourning what was and wondering what gift could be next. 

BEDSIDE MANNER

/ jessicaivaska / Leave a comment

nine-kopfer-313606_crop

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.

TIGHT PANTS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

nQZcA7PRTyuduZPSZQ88_wanderlust

Several years ago, I met one of my closest friends for coffee. As we sat outside to take advantage of the rare Seattle spring sun, she looked at me with eyes that said she knew I was hiding something.

“What’s wrong?” She asked gently.

“My pants are tight.” I replied.

I’m not going to debate whether or not I should have let my pants fitting too tightly have such an impact on my day. I’m just going to tell you that’s where I was at.

I allowed the pants that used to slip on smoothly and be a little loose ruin my day because now, they were tight.

Then she said it. Words I was shocked by.

“I’m going to pray they never fit again.”

“What?” I had to be hearing things. What kind of friend would say that? I wanted to scream out “NO! Don’t pray for that!” Like it was the worst possible prayer in the world.

But then, she told explained herself. She knew my heart. She knew that if I kept putting my hope in my pants, and my pants suddenly fit again, I’d have less need for Jesus. It was a control thing for me and she knew it. In that moment she could see that I was distracted and my hope was grounded not in Him, but in myself and who I could make myself become.

I’ll admit, I still wanted my pants to fit better, but I realized she was onto something.

If I keep putting my hope in other things, I won’t fully give my heart and my life to Jesus. This works for just about everything in life. Jobs. Marriage. Friendships. A new house. Even your church. If we put our hope in anything other than Jesus, we’re going to be disappointed.

To this day, my friend’s words are some of the most unexpected and loving words I’ve heard. I still struggle with that twinge of despair when I pull on a pair or jeans that fits a little too tight, but I have friends and an amazing husband to remind me that my hope isn’t in a pile of denim. It’s in the God of the universe.

LOOSE ENDS

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

eDLHCtzRR0yfFtU0BQar_sylwiabartyzel_themap

One of my aunts is a tapestry artist. Another aunt is a seamstress. My mom sews, quilts, knits and crochets.

These women have all influenced my life in deep and lasting ways. One of the things I learned about from them has to do with loose ends.

If you’ve ever looked at the back of a weaving, you know there are no loose ends. Every thread—every piece of yarn—is neatly tucked into another. It looks like chaos, but it’s controlled. Those loose ends are necessary to create the perfect image on the other side.

But there’s more to it.

In knitting and crocheting one loose end undoes the entire project.

A hanging string downgrades an elegant dress.

During this season of uncertainty, I’ve been thinking about loose ends. I’m finding comfort in the idea that God doesn’t leave loose ends. He has a plan. He won’t let one loose string, one lost job, one overseas move unravel a whole life. That’s not who He is.

I was reminded of that this last week while I was on vacation on another island with my parents. You see, as a little girl we came to Hawaii regularly. It was our sun-filled escape and vitamin D fix to get us through the grey Seattle winter and tide us over until summer.

I’ve always loved Hawaii. Loved. Loved. LOVED. It felt like my home away from home. I loved the beaches, the water, the fish.

So when Erik surprised me on a family vacation and proposed in Hawaii, it was fitting. The place I had come to love collided with the man that God had given me. It all tied up so beautifully.

And then, years later, when Erik found a job here, even though I never imagined living here, I was ok with him applying. The seed God has planted in my heart as a little girl was growing.

So we moved. We plugged our sun-deprived selves into the sands of this little island and have loved it. But now that we feel unplugged, I’m trying to cling to the truth that this is not a loose end. God doesn’t do those. This will lead somewhere. It’s all part of His plan. I’ve seen it over and over again in my life.

When you are dangling, it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to believe. But I’m going to chose to.

I’m going to choose to believe this is part of the tapestry of our lives. This will get woven back in and it will be beautiful. It has to be. Doesn’t it?