One night, when I was 8 years old, my younger brother and I snuck into our baby brother's room and hid under his crib. We were always finding new places to set up forts and secret hiding spots. What we found under the crib was a surprise to us both. There was a trap door... that led to another world. We fell through the door, finding ourselves in a magical wonderland. I became a princess. My brother was a knight. Our adventures included battling dragons, rescuing each other from dangerous villians, and of course, I fell in love with a prince. Life was always an exciting journey with my brother by my side.
My dad called our bedtime stories "The Adventures of Heather and Travis." Travis and I would crawl into his bed, snuggled up in our pj's, ready and excited for whatever tale my dad was going to narrate. My dad never disappointed us. Travis and I journeyed through a land of dinosaurs, and even experienced the crazy wild wild west. For years this tradition continued. It is one of my favorite childhood memories, and just recently it became something I started doing with my own boys.
We have an unfinished basement, and in that basement is a tiny little tent we leave up in the middle of a play area. I found myself crammed in there with Jack and Gabe (and a few dead spiders) not too long ago, and the idea washed over me like a tidal wave. This is where it would begin.
Jack and Gabe found themselves running through the field behind our house, coming across a huge sprawling Maple with a giant hidden door in its trunk. They entered into a magical world where they could ride Thomas the Train, race with Lightening McQueen, and fly through the air with Rocket and the rest of the Little Einsteins. The three of us laughed so hard in that little tent, and now it has become the place where we go to tell stories... and have adventures.
It's fun to recall fond memories from childhood. I treasure the memories I have of story time with my dad, and I am so blessed to be able to continue the legacy he began.
My mother grew up poor, in a family of seven. Her dad had purchased an old inn, with intentions of fixing it up for his family to live in. For three months, while waiting for the inn to become move-in-ready, my mom and her pregnant mother, father, and siblings, lived in a two-story cabin near a river. Both floors of the house were open - no separate rooms, and there was no running water or electricity. Fetching water from the river was a daily chore, and taking baths in the river was just a way of life. While their dad was tearing off the shake shingles from the roof and sides of the old inn, my mom and her siblings would go around collecting the nails as the shingles fell. Each child received a penny for every bucket full.
My mom laughed as she told me this story, which was fresh to my ears, until recently. My mother is the definition of excellent work ethic. I believe this story illustrates why. My mother's childhood contrasts my own in so many ways, which only yields more respect from me... because she never forgot her roots. Her stories of her upbringing were used in teaching my brothers and I how to appreciate the blessings the Lord had given us.
There are many different types of stories, and some are easier to tell than others. We can look back on our lives and decide what stories we feel comfortable sharing, what will be well received by others, and what will make us look good... strong even. Of course we can still appreciate and learn from these stories that are shared. However, seasons of brokeness and despair, moments of weakness, and personal struggles that locked us in the grip of sin, are typically not in our "go to" mental box for story sharing. It's much easier to stuff the unpleasant moments of our lives deep down into a place where the sun doesn't shine... we tell ourselves that what's in the past is in the past, and there it should stay.
Here's the thing - a legacy isn't just something we leave behind after we die, its a continuing impression we imprint on the lives of everyone we encounter. Isaiah 26:8 has been my personal mission statement - "Yes, Lord, walking in the way of your laws, I wait for you; your name and renown is the desire of my heart." By sharing our stories, we allow others to see Christ working in our lives - through the good times, and the bad. It blesses me when I hear a friend share about a personal struggle and how she is pushing and growing through it. Why? Because 9 times out of 10, I can relate.
This year has been a rough year for me. I can attribute it to some stressful situations, but if I am being honest, I feel like I am stuck in a period of waiting. Waiting for answers... results... resolution. Waiting for the stars to align and for my life to be perfect for just a moment so I can ditch the anxiety in the pit of my stomach and find joy - the purest kind. I am finding myself wanting to pull myself closer and closer to Jesus. I know he is the only One who can give me peace. But it is hard. It's really hard sometimes to do that.
It's not easy to say some things out loud. I recently had a conversation with a dear friend who challenged me to say my fears out loud. When we say them out loud, it makes them seem more real, and that is scary. But saying them out loud opens the door for real conversation to take place. I love my husband and my kids and my family. I am so blessed and I recognize that daily. But life is just hard sometimes. I suppose this is my story right now. I kind of wish I could find my way back into that bedroom with the crib and slip underneath it into a world where I create my own destiny. I have been in funks before, though not quite like this. I don't anticipate it lasting much longer, since I don't believe its where God wants me to stay.
I have been journaling for 15 years. I can look back through the pages of the story of my life and read about how God delivered me from this harmful situation and that devastating loss, and how He brought this amazing person into my life and brought me that incredible life-changing opportunity. Sometimes I laugh at how silly some of my thoughts were... but I see how much I've grown and how EVERY season of my life had a purpose with a lesson attached to it. As I was going through my old journals, I came across a poem I wrote back in the summer of 2001, which was during a time of difficult transition in my life. I can relate to it all over again, and I will end with it here.
Flames envelop my body and I gasp for air
My arms shoot up, reaching for a Savior
Smoke clouds my vision and I grope for that hand
Tears begin to stream down my charred face
And then I feel it.
Water.
So fresh and clean, it drowns me in purity
I still cannot open my eyes, for the pressure is too strong
My heart beats faster and faster, for the water is freezing
The weight of my drenched clothes pulls me down
I feel a current dragging me into a stream
A river.
A raging river that is tossing me about
I start to sink, the water encompassing my thrashing limbs
I cannot breathe
Again, I reach out
And feel a branch.
I cling to it and pull myself out onto a thorny shore
As I gasp for air - fresh, cool air, I am stung
Pierced.
By the brush on the sand and rocks around me
Vines begin to wrap around me, squeezing tighter and tighter
I am pulled to the ground, and cannot move
Snakes begin to slither around me, like the binding vines
I can't scream, for my lips are sealed by sticky, pricking leaves
Then I feel it.
Wind.
It rushes in so fast it feels like a blast of fire
The air is blowing so strong, it carries the snakes away
The vines unravel and I begin to tumble
I feel myself rolling down a hill
I cover my face, for the dirt and dust are stinging my eyes
Then it stops.
The wind stops.
I open my eyes.
There it is.
Towering over me as I rise to my knees
It stands there so beautifully
Casting a shadow of grace that covers me
I felt the water, the branch, the wind
The calming of every storm
From that wonderful, radiant cross standing before me
Freedom.
The hand that saved me.
And lifted me up.
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