Last week, I mentioned the anxiety that plagued me during my early years as a newspaper reporter in Northwest Arkansas.
I often dreaded going to work for fear of discovering I had made a mistake in a story or missed something that had happened the day before.
I disliked covering live events. What if I didn’t take notes fast enough or get the quotes right? What if I completely overlooked the main point?
I enjoy hearing inspiring stories about how people chose their professions—how they knew, sometimes at a very young age, what they wanted to be when they grew up.
The teacher who used to line up her dolls and instruct them in her childhood bedroom comes to mind, along with the healthcare worker who went through a medical crisis as a teenager and got such wonderful care from her nurses that she decided to become one herself.
I wrote something last February about what it means to be a real writer. That piece— “The Road to Real is Paved with Brokenness”—garnered quite a discussion in these parts, and also uncorked something in me that has been bubbling just under the surface ever since.
I had every intention of using those words as a springboard to sharing more of my writing story in the coming months. I even stated as much in the post.
I’m a bit late with the Song of the Month for October.
Honestly, I’ve been wrestling with whether I should even be doing this anymore. Sure, I love music, and these songs I share with you every four weeks or so are ones that resonate deeply with me.
But I’ve been trying to simplify a few areas of my life, and as silly as it might sound, this little blog feature is one that keeps lingering on the chopping block.
What would life be like if we hadn’t moved to Kansas 10 years ago?
This isn’t a question I ponder much. I’m typically not overly sentimental or prone toward melancholy. I make plenty of mistakes, but I don’t second guess big decisions very often.
I like to move on, already.
Last week, though, when I was poking around on Twitter, I started seeing people we used to know when we lived in Arkansas. I might be able to chalk it up to my already cloudy mood, but seeing all those names and faces sent me down a trail I usually try to avoid.
When we adopted Lilly—14 years ago last week—she was 9 months old and weighed about 17 pounds.
That might not seem like much, but she was a chunk of a little girl—so much so that people we met in elevators and restaurants in China often mistook her for a 2-year-old.
I had worked on my cardiovascular fitness in the months leading up to our adoption trip, and my regular runs on the treadmill prepared me to traverse the Great Wall with relative ease. My upper body strength, however, was a different story entirely.
My arms and back were so weak that I could hold Lilly for only a few minutes at a time before passing her off to Randy. As a result, when we were out and about in China, she spent most of her time chewing on the strap of the Snugli that held her close to his chest.
Amid the excitement and stress of becoming parents halfway across the globe, I sometimes worried about my ability to care for her when we returned home.
What am I going to do when Randy goes back to work and I have to take Lilly somewhere, I asked myself. How am I going to carry her around when I can hardly hold her now?
What happened, of course, was that the more I carried her, the stronger I got. And as she grew, so did my strength.
Three years later, we returned to China to adopt Molly. Though older than Lilly had been by four months, she also weighed 17 pounds. But because we were used to picking up 4-year-old Lilly, who was small by American standards but made up of solid muscle, little Molly seemed as light as a feather.
I’ve been thinking about this lately as I navigate circumstances in my life that are requiring a bit more emotional and mental energy than usual. When I was a new mom, 17 pounds was almost more than I could manage, while carrying the same weight three years later—in the same unfamiliar setting, no less—was pretty easy.
In the same way, it occurs to me that different seasons of life weigh differently than others. Some are heavier, some are lighter. That’s just the way it is.
It might be that the difference lies in the actual weight, or burden, that we’re carrying. A 100-pound load is tougher to lug around than one that weighs 25 pounds, after all. It doesn’t matter if the burden is internal or caused by situations outside our control—heavy is heavy, regardless of the source.
Our preparedness or current state of mind also plays a role. When we adopted Molly, she seemed light to me, even though she weighed exactly the same as Lilly when we got her. But I was different. I was stronger, a bit more experienced and confident in my ability to be her mama. It was just easier.
Sometimes, it’s the gravity of the season we’re in that can make it seem like we are walking around with a ton of bricks on our chest. Certain phases in our live simply hold more significance than others—there’s more at stake and more rides on the outcome.
External circumstances affect the weight of a season too. A level path doesn’t require as much energy as a steep incline, and it’s much easier to carry that 100-pound burden when it’s 50 degrees outside than it is when the thermometer reaches 95 in the shade. In the same way, what’s going on around us can sometimes make what’s happening within us all the more difficult.
My reality right now, and probably yours too, is this: I’m dealing with different seasons of life simultaneously.
Some are heavy; others are light. When the weight of a heavy piece overwhelms me, I’m often at a loss for what to do. I want an answer, a solution, a three-step plan for how to make the burden lighter—or better yet, disappear.
But life doesn’t work like that. There are no bows, no pat answers, no quick fixes. As helpful as they can be, there are no Bible studies or books that can fast-forward us through the weightier times.
But there is truth. There are promises to cling to, if we chose to do so.
Scripture encourages us to cast our every care on the same sovereign God who hung the stars in the sky and orchestrates the four seasons. Nothing is too big or too small for His loving attention.
When we walk through the fire, the desert, the deep waters, the rocky mountains—He is with us.
No matter the season, He knows what we need. He knows what our loved ones need. And He will provide exactly that.
Wisdom for the wondering. Love for the lonely. Comfort for the grieving. Water for the thirsty. Boldness for the timid. Peace for the anxious. Rest for the weary.
And, yes, strength for the weak.
♥ Lois