I came across a long-ago written post in my draft folder this morning. I had shared a condensed version on my friend, Amber Haines’, site four years ago, yet something about this longer version caught my eye today.
Maybe it has to do with this current season of global uncertainty we are in. The truth of the matter is that Jesus is right here with us. He is sitting alongside us as we wring our hands, watching the news and looking to projections and experts to tell us what will happen next. He is patiently waiting for us to turn our faces to Him and keep our eyes fixed on the only certainty we can ever hold tight to: His goodness. As my sweet girl taught me all those years ago, He will never leave us. He will carry us home.
Her context of home was this physical place here in NW Arkansas. Yet, I would argue there is greater wisdom behind her words. He will carry us all the way to our Heavenly Home. He will never leave us in this world of trouble and heartache and confusion. He will remain steadfast.
I’m sharing the full post below, written in January of 2016. Long before this pandemic and at the tail end of an intense season of uncertainty for our family. I hope it provides some encouragement.
The staircase conceals its brokenness. At first glance, you may miss how the fourth spindle from the left wobbles and turns.
Just last night, a friend casually mentioned her affinity toward that broken spindle. I hadn’t considered it before. I had only noted yet another repair. I hadn’t seen the way that spindle, in its brokenness, represented more. I hadn’t appreciated the way it continues to hold steadfast to its anchoring nail regardless of the tugging and twirling of little hands seeking amusement and levity, nor had I seen the way it serves as a reminder to guests in our one-hundred-year-old home that this is a place where we welcome imperfect people into an imperfect space. After all, true, authentic, Kingdom-seeking community can only be forged through the revealing of brokenness.
The last several years have been fraught with storms for our family. Many times, the pulling and tugging of my soul left me weary and depleted. The battle my family unknowingly entered into when we said yes to an abandoned little girl across the sea left us all bruised and battered. Yet, God’s promises remained steadfast. Even when we lost sight of hope and stumbled toward despair, He was there. Holding on.
Just like that nail at the bottom of the spindle.
Our brokenness remained anchored securely in Him. He faithfully remained regardless of the yanking and demanding of our own hands, begging to be released from the pain of the desert march.
***
Torn from every familiar thing and placed into our family, my daughter entered into persistent grief and debilitating fear on the day she landed in America and into my arms. That day, the one I had desperately waited for, for 602 seemingly endless days, was mistakenly seen as exclusively celebratory. I cringe at the headlines scarcely able to skim the surface of her tender, raw identity. An orphan no longer! A “rescued” child! A family reunited!
Although her circumstances were bleak in her home country, it was all she had known. The terror of new people, new sounds, new smells, new food, and a new language was vivid in those early days and months under our roof. We willingly stepped into her brokenness and committed to remain steadfast as we faced the darkness together.
God’s love poured through us and allowed us to hold on even when our home felt like a trauma ward. Even when the brokenness threatened to overwhelm, we could stand firm on His promises of redemption and restoration.
***
These days, as we lay side by side singing “Jesus loves me” before bedtime, my daughter often turns to me and shares profound truths in her soft, little raspy voice. She whispers in the dark, “God never left me, momma. He carried me home.”
Oh, baby girl. He will never leave. He will hold on, just like the persistent nail at the bottom of that broken spindle.
When all is quiet after the littles have gone to bed, I often stand in my kitchen and look around at the toys scattered, the dust bunnies in the corner, the chips in the paint left by flying Matchbox cars, or that broken old spindle, and breathe in immense gratitude. I’m ever grateful for the joy intermingled with sorrow, the laughter echoing in our four walls after an intense season of pain, and the strength of love forged through brokenness and refined by fire.