February 19, 2021

Winter walks

February 19, 2021/ Elizabeth Foss

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It is my first winter in the Northeast. Here, snow falls upon fallen snow. Great mounds are piled in parking lots and driveway margins, and one wonders if they will melt before April. I’ve been outside quite a lot, actually. Though I have neglected to buy drapes or rugs for our new house, we are all fully outfitted in appropriate attire for comfortably spending hours outdoors even in February.

For this, I am very grateful. I am also sure it has saved my sanity.

The sky is nearly always gray. I’m not outdoors seeking sunshine. And clearly, I’m not seeking warmth. I think, instead, I’m seeking what is real. The outdoors is the place least touched by the pandemic. When I am there, all feels normal, save for a few people wearing masks to snowshoe. Even in those cases, a mask is just as often a winter face covering.

Indoors, our friendships are virtual and flat and take on the weird glow of screens. Very few people cross the threshold. With the exception of my son and daughter-in-law’s, I have not seen the inside of another person’s home since I got here seven months ago. We have — very carefully — invited people into our house. Mostly, they have accepted. But other people’s homes remain closed tightly.

Outside, when we see people, it’s fine to stop and say hello. Perhaps we’ll watch our dogs play together or stand at the top of the hill and compare notes on puppies. Fleeting encounters give way to promises to reconnect when life is normal again, and then I’m off to walk in silence. And there in the cold and the snow, the silence is welcome. Away from the flat, glow-y conversations inside screens, away from the artificial light that tries to be cozy and misses, away from the places where handshakes and hugs are anathema, the outdoors is crisp and alive and open and beautiful and just the same as it once was. It is also quiet.

There is no feeling in the outdoors that I am missing out, no sense that a vital piece of human living is missing. There is only the peace that comes with feeling fully alive. Heaven meets earth outside, and prayer unfurls across great expanses of snowy countryside. God takes my hand and together we trod clumsy, crunchy steps, shivering as the snow slips over the tops of boots, delighting in the puppy bounding ahead. In the quiet of the outdoors, I have the companionship of the Almighty. I don’t feel as if I’m missing out. I don’t feel small or unimportant or forgotten. I feel awake and awash in the wonder of his majestic artistry.

The puppy, now a leggy adolescent with abundant energy, requires a good walk at least three times a day, preferably four or five. And so we go — for 30 minutes or an hour at a time, we walk. And I pray. Like a good monk, I am called into his presence and I go. Our walks are brisk, but unhurried. My mind is awake and alert. I outline book chapters. I draft letters inside my head. I let ideas take root and flower. I examine my conscience and repent and resolve to do better.

Mostly, I give thanks.

For fresh air. For beautiful landscapes. For quiet conversations with the Creator.

For the chance to feel as if all is right with the world.

February 03, 2021

Rethinking rest

February 03, 2021/ Elizabeth Foss

What if we have it all backward? What if rest isn’t so much about what we do when we sink into bed exhausted at the end of a busy day as it is about a quiet moment in the hush of the morning? Often, we persuade ourselves that we are tired and we aren’t resting well because we’re so busy serving — working for our families, caring for our children, tending our gardens, keeping our homes. In truth, we are tired because we forget we are to work as unto the Lord, and instead, we work as if we think we’re the Lord.

We ignore the value of rest because we think we are the ones who keep the world spinning. We think we can’t rest, because if we do, the world (or at least the corner of it under our care) will fall apart. We’re tired. The whole country is tired. The whole world is tired. Let’s flip it on its end. Let’s stop thinking of rest as the rare reward at the end of a long day, and let’s think about it as the thing we do first. Think of rest in terms of surrender. Rest in Christ at the beginning of the day instead of crashing into exhaustion at the end of the day.

Relinquish the illusion that you are powerful to the reality that it is God who is truly powerful. So often, we work ourselves to the point of exhaustion because we are afraid. We might not recognize it in the moment, but we’re scared that if we stop striving, we and the people we love will stop thriving. But really? God loves them more than we do. If we surrender them to God, if we ask his help, if we consecrate the entire day to him, we don’t have to be afraid. Surrender recognizes that we do nothing well under our own power. Everything good that we do or say or accomplish, we do under his strength and by his grace. There is no other way.

When we surrender the day to God before it’s even begun, we can meet fear and stare it down. We don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to finish everything on the list. We don’t have to run ourselves ragged. The enemy keeps telling us we can be omnipotent as he’s urging us to run harder and faster. Rest comes when we recognize that we cannot. We’re not all-powerful. We won’t be perfect. The perfectionism that is the precursor to exhaustion is striving to be without fault in our own eyes and in the eyes of other people because we need to feel secure. It’s trying to control our children’s lives so that only good and nothing bad will happen (as if we could). It’s trying to maintain perfect order because we fear what will happen if we allow for human weakness. And it’s exhausting.

Perfectionism is the enemy of surrender. Perfect fear and the fear of being imperfect drive out love. Perfect fear depletes, frustrates, depresses and suffocates a life of grace. It is grace we want to live, not perfection.

It is surrender we need, not power.

There is true rest in the surrender.

January 18, 2021

A new calendar

January 18, 2021/ Elizabeth Foss

If ever there was a time the whole world was ready for a new year, this is it. Collectively, we replace the old calendar with a new one and exhale a sigh of relief. Just a small one. We inhale hope. But it’s a guarded breath. No one really believes that changing the date from 2020 to 2021 will right all that’s wrong. No one really believes that hope springs from the crisp page of a new year yet uncluttered with the jottings of our days. Everyone agrees we are a weary world in need of a fresh infusion of hope.

We hope to leave behind the anguish and the anxiety of the previous year. We hope to heal. We hope to be restored. We hope to repair the broken. We hope to renew the relationships. We hope to rest. And we can. But not by changing the date. I know this for sure.

I had a bad year in 1990. It wasn’t a whole-world experience — just my whole world. It started in March and "ended" just as the year did. Surgery, chemotherapy, radiation. Objectively speaking, it was a year of suffering. And even though the treatment ended just as the year did, suffering did not end when the date changed. So 1991 came and I met it, still without hair, still unable to swallow, still fearing the worst, forever changed and more than a little bit broken. There was no magical cure in breaking the shrink wrap on a new calendar.

But it sure was nice to close the covers on the old one for the final time. I learned a lot about that old calendar in the year that followed. I learned that I could drag it with me through the new year. I could pack it in every suitcase, take it to every follow-up appointment, revisit it in every uncertainty, ruminate, and lament unceasingly.

Or I could move on, transformed by every struggle logged in those pages.

The truth is, the last 30 years have been a journey of both kinds — lugging that old year with me and leaping without its weight. As time goes on, I know the value of leaping. I am beyond grateful for the lessons suffering taught me (though I’d prefer never to learn them that way again, please God). But the most precious lesson of all might have been the one that taught me not to hold it tightly. To let it go.

See the way it transformed you. Notice how the mystery unfolded in his faithfulness. Acknowledge the redemption. But don’t relive the suffering every time you remember it. Instead, take up the transformation and lean hard into living. Really living.

Open the new calendar and fill it with meaning. Truth be told, this month is just as much a mystery as last month was. And truly, 2019 was just as much a mystery as 2020. We never know what will happen when we open to a new page. We want to plan. We want to have mastery over the way the days will be filled. Instead we have mystery. Those who have suffered know mystery. And now we’ve all suffered. We know surrender is necessary to live well. Surrender is how we fully live in the mystery. Hopefully, in 2020, we all learned surrender’s lesson together.

We do not know — we cannot know — the ways we will be challenged, the ways we will grow. But if we are to bring the transformation to the new year that we hoped for in the old, we have to know the one who suffered with us. We have to see the ways he carried the crosses with us. We have to understand that transformation begins with compassion, and compassion literally means to suffer with. We are in the mystery together. We have to embrace cradle and cross, ruin and redemption. We have to surrender to mystery with trust and with awe. And we have to live with gratitude and with genuine hope, the way one lives when one knows exactly the treasure that is the gift of an ordinary, hope-filled, mystery of a day.

March 25, 2020

Safe at Home

March 25, 2020/ Elizabeth Foss

These are the strangest of days. All over the world the mantra is “stay at home.” It’s as if the entire population has adopted my life’s motto. I’m the stay at home girl. I’ve always been the stay at home girl. When I was little, we moved a lot. My dad was in the Navy and we made our way up and down the east coast. My mom was a super-mover. She could unpack a house and make it feel like home in three days flat. And she was proud of that.

I hated moving. My goal for grown-up life was to live in the same town, in the same house forever. It was a spoken goal. I articulated it all the time.

And so there came a time, nearly twenty years ago, when we found a house with room to grow and we moved six little kids into it, just a few days before Christmas. The move itself was stressful. (Aren’t all moves stressful?) We moved a mile from our previous house. My friends descended on the new house and we had everything moved in and ready for Christmas in three days. I did my mom proud.

We’ve lived in that house for two decades. We’ve welcomed three new babies here. We all slept here the night before our eldest son got married, and we all shared bathrooms and ironing boards and not a few tears as our family opened itself to a whole new season of life that day.

The tree in our front yard is in beautiful bloom. You can see it perfectly from my bedroom window. I remember how I watched that tree go from full leaf to gold to bare in the days I stayed in bed, waiting for my youngest child’s safe arrival.

Every day, this house has held the old familiar rhythm. Slip quietly from bed, down to the kitchen, cup of tea, prayers in the living room chair, welcome the children as they wake, breakfast, new beginning. Some days—many, many days—I did those steps with babies in my arms or toddlers on my hips. Some days, even now, there is a child or two who will fight sleep in the early hours just to be the one who gets to share the quiet with me as the sun awakens. These are the treasured patterns of our life.

As people have grown, we’ve thoughtfully considered this house. We’ve added bedrooms and shored up bathrooms. We’ve built bookshelves and then some more bookshelves. We eliminated the carpet long ago because hardwood made so much more sense. The big, flat backyard held two sets of soccer goals as boys grew from tiny to men, ever up for a game of “backyard soccer” with their best mates ever. There’s a triple bunk in the biggest corner room and a triple closet, too—a “late” addition for the three littlest girls, the ones who have lived their whole lives under this roof.

In one final crazy act of love, we finally re-did the kitchen and made it exactly what I ever wanted. I thought we were sealing the deal with my forever house. This spring, we were going to give it all a fresh coat of paint. Instead, we are here, gathered in, safe at home, and making plans to leave.

This is the house that has held my prayers—safe, snug, secure. This is the house that the little girl who moved all the time imagined in her dreams of someday.

And now, while the whole world is recognizing the value of home, I am packing up my household goods and preparing to move them to a shelter under a different roof. We are moving. Leaving. And after months of telling myself otherwise, I acknowledge in this space that has held so many memories of home, that I am grieving. As I work my way through years of things gathered here and I give myself a little time to marvel at how much we have lived and loved here, I find myself praying all the time for the woman who will make her home here next. I hope she knows how much care was put into creating home of this house. I hope it blesses her, too.

There will be time to embrace all the beautiful possibilities that await us. And there will be time to be giddy with the excitement of all things new. I look forward to sharing all of that in this space. But today, as the world tilts on its axis, I am wishing a little bit that I could just stay safe at home.