Spirit, fall fresh on me

I think this might be my dream future:

A cute house, small but airy and inviting, with lots of light and green lawns. Two kids that Phil and I had together, and possibly one or two kids we've adopted and brought into our family. Vegetable gardens, raspberry bushes, maybe a peach tree so that we can preserve peaches and make jam. A special corner of the house where I can sit and write, because I'm working on my next book. Music filling every room, because our kids are learning to play the piano and the violin. Phil coming home from work and giving me a sweet kiss and then all of sitting down to a healthy, summery pasta made with vegetables from our own backyard. 

Sometimes, I feel like this is what I want. And at first glance, it seems okay--the stability, the comfort, the beauty of it all. And (my mind argues) it's not like I'm seeking a big, expensive house or a high-paying job. I don't want those things; my heart doesn't seek after them.

But lately I'm learning that God doesn't compare us to other people. My little vegetable garden could become as much of an idol as my friend's impressive salary or two-car garage.

So I wrote out another scenario--but this time, it wasn't my fairy-tale future. It was my challenging future. The sort of future that might actually give me a purpose, a sense of joy. And I wrote it not in objects and images, but in actions.

Being kind to the people who hurt me or judge me or make me feel foolish. Fostering kids, even if there is no guarantee of adoption, even if that love and beauty comes with a whole mess of complications. Honoring God in the way we love and sacrifice for each other. Tithing to the church. Blessing others financially and giving with a glad heart. Never giving up on my passion for writing, even if there's no obvious return for my labors, even if no one is listening. Being vulnerable and honest about my faith--about how I believe in grace and resurrection, in spiritual warfare, in heaven and hell, in I'm-a-broken-sinful-person-saved-by-grace, in Jesus Christ the only son of God--even when it's not easy or politically correct. Letting God lead us from one day to the next.

I stumbled upon this quote once:

"Comfort sells easier than happiness. Comfort is easy. It requires no effort and no work. Happiness takes effort. It requires being proactive, confronting fears, facing difficult situations, and having unpleasant conversations."

Looking at these two pictures side-by-side has made one thing painfully clear to me:

We really do mistake comfort for happiness.

Maybe some day, Phil and I will have our own house. Maybe we'll have a garden, and I'll slice cucumbers that my kids harvested from the backyard. Obviously, there is a way to do those things in a way that is beautiful and right. But those things won't make me happy. And I'm not just saying that to be corny or moralistic. When I imagine myself in that place--that pretty, wholesome, American dream scenario--there's truly something wrong. Some weird emptiness.

When I'm filled with joy and purpose, it wouldn't feel any more or less beautiful if I was in a pretty four-bedroom house or a shabby little apartment.

When I'm frustrated or confused, those feelings wouldn't be any easier if I was pacing back and forth in my lovely fenced-in backyard instead of walking up and down Paterson Street.

Spirit, come be my joy.

Provision

I'm just chilling in the living room at 1 A.M., unable to sleep thanks to the (amazing) dirty chai I drank too late in the afternoon. Will I never learn?

As I sit here, surrounded by blessings and comfort and, yes, a whole lot of "stuff" that I did nothing to deserve, I'm so overwhelmed by how God has provided my physical and financial needs. Since moving into our apartment, I think the only piece of furniture my husband and I have actually bought has been our couch. Our whole apartment is basically a patchwork quilt of all the people who love us.

Let's see. Right now . . .

I'm resting my feet on the wooden chest/coffee table that my parents gave us for Christmas.

I'm looking across the living room at the comfy armchairs, side table, gorgeous lamp, and old-fashioned sewing machine that my sweet, eternally-selfless grandma donated to us when she moved to a smaller place.

There's the beautiful dresser and flower-painted cabinet that Phil's amazing parents gifted to us as a wedding present.

There's the dining table and chairs that Phil's landlady let us take (for free!!!) from his old house when he and his roommates moved out.

There's the jewelry armoire that my mom found at a garage sale for $10.

There's the pretty ceramic owl that sweet Heidi gave me for my birthday, and the Ikea bookcase that my sister passed on to me when she didn't want it anymore.

There's the super awesome desk that Erik gave us. The conversation literally went:
Me: Ooh, I love your desk.
Erik: Do you want it?!?!?!?!

I mean, for heaven's sake. How do things like that even happen? And about half an hour ago, I was chatting with my mom about how the hubby and I plan to go to St. Vinnie's this week, to look for cheap dining room chairs--we only have 3, which isn't quite enough for having people over. And my mom responds:

"Oh . . . there are 4 chairs in our basement! The neighbor was putting them out. We took them, just in case. Davy was going to use them, but I think they're too big for his apartment."

;aoiewjf;oiawe;oiru;ioajuiofijo

Whew. Now that I've gotten that out of my system--and aside from the fact that an apartment would have to be pretty cozy (read: teeny) to not be able to fit a few chairs--God's provision has just been astonishing. He has blessed us with so much, even at those moments when we wished we had more or worried about making ends meet . . . furniture is just the tip of a very large, very beautiful iceberg.

At first, when I realized where all these items around me came from, I felt almost guilty. But it would be an act of foolish pride to try and downplay these crazy blessings. The more I think about it, the more I realize how stunningly beautiful it all is. Instead of simply saying we went out and bought things to furnish our house, we can be thankful and deeply humbled to know that nearly everything around us is a tangible testament to how God has blessed us, and how our family and friends give with such glad hearts.

Plus, it pushes us to be better--to spend our money thoughtfully, to give generously wherever we're called to give, and to fight the temptation of materialism. Nothing we own is ever really ours. When we tithe at church, we're not really giving 10% of what's ours--it's more like God is letting us keep 90% of what doesn't even belong to us.

(Squishy armchairs, cute mom, and cuddly pup!!!)

"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."
-Matthew 6: 28-29