Water is everywhere in Miami: canals, rivers, lakes, the ocean, the rainstorms. This summer we moved into a home that sits on a little lake, like many homes here do. The first few weeks in our new home, I looked at the water first thing when I got up and last thing before I went to bed. I marveled at the light on the water, the way the surface rippled when a storm was moving in, the deep colors it took in when the sun was setting. I watched the wildlife: flocks of ducks making clean trails through the water and dragonflies dancing around the edges and a family of five turtles with long flat bodies and long, freaky necks that poked up from beneath the surface. I sat and daydreamed at my desk, out a large, sunny window that faces my backyard. The water was mesmerizing, and I loved the beauty it brought my view. I said to my husband at least once a day, “I can’t believe we get to live here.”

I was working in my backyard tonight, pulling at a jungle of weeds. I straightened up and took in my first real view of the water for days. It’s funny how we get used to things, isn’t it?

I’ve gotten used to the beautiful view. I’ve gotten used to my beautiful babies and husband. I’ve gotten used to my health and my able body and my supportive church and my pack of wonderful friends. I’m used to my bank account and my dental care and my freedom to worship my God without any fear. I’m used to my faith and forgiveness and the miraculous hope of heaven and the gift of grace.

I’m so sadly prone to discontent. I have so very much. I could make a list that went on for days. I could type out all my blessings and probably never be finished, because eventually I’d name every person in my life, every cell in my body, every fish in the sea. Instead of spending my days being overwhelmed by gratefulness, my hours are spent listing worries and wants and everything on my Christmas list.

I’m realizing how tricky of a creature discontentment is. Discontent crawls in when we already have everything we need to be content. Discontent makes itself comfortable, because it’s not a shocking sin. It’s quiet at first, just whispering ideas into our ears. But discontent makes itself at home, just like a parasite, sucking away all our gratefulness. Discontent takes a perfectly peaceful, perfectly still person and convinces her that the answer is out there in the world. Discontent sends us chasing, churning up all these feelings of scarcity and envy and jealousy and fear.

Discontent disturbs the water.

But our Savior is good, so very good. Don’t worry, don’t chase, don’t fear, He says.  He shows us again and again, calmly and quietly in His Word, that thankfulness and giving are better ways. He reminds us that compared to what is ours through Him, everything else is just plain rubbish. What we have is enough. More than enough. He satisfies every longing, he quenches every thirst, like only water can.

Some things about blogging are really weird, like the fact I’m letting people inside my head. People I know, people I don’t know at all, people who knew me when. I say things and admit things to everyone out there, no matter who they happen to be.

But when I write something, I try not to think about it. If I’m doing it right, I’m not obsessing about who is reading my posts or what they are going think of me or how many “likes” they will give me. I try to put the thought of publication far, far, far from my mind. I’ve learned that the more I think about all the possible repercussions of writing, the less I like my writing. It gets to feel contrived, or I’m just too freaked out to write anything. So I pretend that no one at all is going to read these posts.

Buuuuuuut.

I write on a blog so that I have the needed pressure to write regularly. I’ve found that when it comes to writing, it’s hard to stick with it. It’s hard to sit down and come up with something just barely coherent at times. And some days are funky, meaning funky things happen or I am just randomly in a funk. On these days, I need that outside pressure and my own desire to save-face to drag me to my laptop.

Today is one of those days. Bear with me. I’m tired. Cranky. Restless. Overwhelmed by the griminess of my house. Bored. Achy. Ill-tempered. Funky. Nothing bad or out-of-the-ordinary happened today. It’s beastly hot and humid here in Miami, so maybe I’m just mad at all the people who are pinning apple baking recipes to their Pinterest boards and getting to wear riding boots and cute chunky knit sweaters. I don’t know.

I know there’s nothing that’s going to redeem the remaining hours of this day: no glass of wine strong enough, no hot bath long enough, no sitcom funny enough. This day just needs to be in the books. So I’m going to do something Biblical and wait for morning to come. I’m going to bed.

I’m so happy that God creates regular opportunities for us to start over. I like to think He created sleep to ease the burdens of the day, recharge our physical and mental batteries, and clear the slate. Every night, he brings in the darkness like a cleaning crew. When we get up, yesterday’s sins are behind us, hope is present, opportunity abounds. Anything can happen. I’ve always wholeheartedly agreed with the passage that declares, “Your mercies are new every morning.” Thank you, Jesus. After about 16 hours in any given day, I’m so ready for a chance to start over.

It brings me an enormous amount of peace to know that no matter the funk of today, tomorrow is full of another chance.

Good night.

I have to admit, my devotional life is haphazard, at best. I got my One Year Bible in 2002ish, and it’s never been read cover to cover, just in fits and spurts. I read Christian nonfiction, self-helpish books a few times a year. Usually swallow them whole, in fact. After an intense few days with a book, I usually finish and then resume my on-again-off-again relationship with routine devotions.

The same can be said for my prayer life. Although I talk to God whenever I need to: in the shower, in the car, in those moments of mommy-craziness (pot on stove boiling over, loud making of “music” on the piano by my accomplished pianist after her second lesson, four-year-old melting down about the Avengers packaging I threw away because “IT. IS. NOT. GARBAGE.” he says ), I don’t really talk to him every day. I say my dinner prayers faithfully and pray with my children every night, but I don’t carve out a few minutes to lay everything before him, whether that be praise or petitions.

Do you know what excuses I give myself? I’m busy. Life is crazy. I’d be telling the truth, kind of. I am busy. Life is crazy. I don’t think anyone would argue with me about those two facts. Every day is different with children. Some nights are restful, others are muddled dreams of half-consciousness. Sometimes everyone is happy and healthy, sometimes everyone is sick and downright ornery.

It’s hard to nab a quiet moment. It’s hard to put down all the necessary tasks around me and think that reading God’s word is going to help the child that’s throwing a tantrum or remedy that fact that I didn’t sleep last night.

Everyone can substitute in their version of busy. If you don’t have kids, you have a crazy job or are a full-time caregiver or the only church volunteer or a grad student on the run. There is always something for everyone to be doing. Everyone’s plate is full.

The thing is I’ve never, ever regretted sitting down and reading the Bible. Ever. I’ve never thought back on my day and wished that I hadn’t spent all that time reading God’s Word. I’ve never been like, “(sound of disgust)! If only I hadn’t spent that 15 minutes in prayer I would be so much further ahead.” I don’t ever flop into bed at night thinking about how I shouldn’t have written a blog post about God-stuff.

I can use the words never ever and mean them literally in this context. And I can do that because time spent listening and talking to God is truly necessary to me and my faith. That’s why God tells me in the Bible to read his Word and pray. He says that because it is just the best thing for human beings. We were programmed for a relationship with God. When we avoid these necessary things, it isn’t good for us and our faith shrinks up like the plants on my porch that need watering.

Reading God’s Word and praying are necessary things. End of story. There’s nothing fancy about it. There’s no need to try to figure anything else out. There’s no real next-big-thing in devotional life. It’s just about reading and talking with a heart of faith, bringing our praise and our troubles, our thanks and our worries, our confessions and our awe. It’s about being reminded again and again of God’s grace through Jesus, the answer to our haphazard lives.

In my quest “to figure it out,” I’ve been saying it a lot:

I just need to get into a routine…

I just need to figure out how to deal with this…

I just need to let it go…

I just need to relax…

I just need to say no…

I just need a hot bath…

I have my little life in my inept little hands, like some Rubik’s Cube. I twist it one way and then another, adjusting this only to mess up that. I keep trying to figure out what I need to make everything feel “right.” And when I figure that out, let me tell you, I will have earned some peace. I will achieve that stillness if it’s the last thing I do.

I get to do a really cool thing every Friday. Since I work at a Christian school, I get to attend chapel with the kids every Friday morning. Most often, I go to the elementary grades chapel, because that’s where my kids are, but sometimes I go to the middle/high school chapel.

Middle and high school chapel has a great band that leads the music for the service. This morning I got to hear them sing, and they sang I song that I haven’t heard before, and it almost physically brought me to my knees. I managed not to cry in a room full of teenagers, but just barely. Here is a link to the song on YouTube, click over and listen to it:

For the last eight or nine years, I’ve worked from home. My cubicle has been my couch and the little desk in the corner of my kitchen, every bed in the house and finally a large, proper desk that my husband built for me last summer. For the most part, I’ve set my own hours and worked in my yoga pants. Only recently did I become un-self-employed and acquired pants with buttons. I work for “the man” again.

It’s been exhilarating. I love having coworkers to chat with, real adult human beings who tell me about their kids and their weekend plans. After years of piecing consulting work together, I now have a real, regular paycheck and the solidarity of a salary. I work for the school where my husband teaches and my kids go to second grade and preschool, so our life is wrapped up into a neat little package there, just five minutes away. This convenience is life-changing for a working mother. Most of all, I love the fact that every odd job I’ve done since graduating from college now makes sense. They’ve all twisted together to miraculously make me qualified for this new job.

But it’s been a bumpy ride. Any change, no matter how great, is a transition. I think about my blissful, horrible first year of marriage. My husband and I never loved or hated each other quite that way in the nine years since, as we adjusted together to the idea of marriage, started brand new jobs, and made a cross country move in one extraordinary month.

And here I stand again, this September, still struggling with a job that I started in June. I like the work. I am excited for my new projects. I am exhilarated by the hours I now have to get things done since my youngest is now in school. But…it’s the drama-rama that has me reeling. All those years working at home didn’t prepare me for working with people again. I’m used to working alone.

Now I have to depend on other people. I have my hands on their work; they have their hands on mine. When I mess up, people know about it. When other people mess up, it affects me. I work with a bunch of lovely, caring, fun, committed, passionate people. But we’re all people nonetheless. It’s in our very nature to screw up. Regularly. Like clockwork.

So for a person that’s used to the safe, mostly people-free zone of consulting work, this has been quite a shock to the system. I’m ashamed of it. I feel like I should be able to deal with it. I feel like it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. And it’s stressed me out and ruffled my feathers and made me very, very frustrated with myself and my coworkers. I need to take a chill pill.

But the thing is, as I stand here trying to figure it out…how to relate, how to let go, how to play nice…I know, I know it’s the best thing for me. It’s just hard, that’s all.

When I was a baby, my mom tells me I used to line up my bath toys on the side of the bathtub. Organized. Tidy. Controlled. Not much has changed for me. That’s who I am. I like things that way. I don’t like messes. They make me nervous, like something is wrong or things are out of control.

But people are messy. Life is messy. And I can sit there in my neat little one-person bathtub or I can put on some work clothes and go outside and play with people. One is neat and lonely. One is out of control, but much, much more fun…and hard…and lovely…and terrifying…and drama-filled…and just plain awesome.

Yesterday I found myself in Struggle City. That’s what my blogging sister calls it when you are having a rough day (or month or year). Today, I’m exiting Struggle City, but I didn’t get a post written. I thought I’d give myself the day off. Instead, I’ll share my sister’s most recent post. She wrote it on Monday, and I loved what she had to say about struggling. Follow this link for a good read, especially if you find yourself in Struggle City, too:

http://strugglecityblog.com/2014/09/08/mini-struggles/

My daughter has the prized job of being her classroom’s “Shark of the Week” this week. She gets to bring a “show and tell” every day (or as teachers like to call it, “a drag and brag”). Her show and tell for today is a collage of pictures of her family and friends, so last night she and I sat down with our boxes of photos and searched for pictures of grandmas and grandpas, uncles and aunts, cousins and close friends. This kind of project always makes a mother want to cry.

Bringing out the photo albums is kind of like opening pandora’s box me: all kinds of emotions come pouring out behind my brave face. Nostalgia for the past. Joy over all the good times. Laughter over chubby, goofy two-year-olds. Grief over how short you get with your newborns before they are crawling then running then jumping over the furniture. There was also fear, for how short everything is, how fast it all goes, how temporary we and our children are.

I tell my daughter regularly, “That’s it. No more. You are not allowed to get any bigger.” I’m perfectly serious. She thinks it’s hilarious. I want to simultaneously cry and laugh, and it comes out like an awkward belch of emotion.

Time is never on my side. I wholeheartedly agree with what James wrote: “Why you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” (James 4:14). Yep. Sounds about right.

At the start of another September, I feel time heavy on my mind. These hours and days that run through my fingers, somersaulting into months and years, bring a constant current of change. Nothing staying the same for very long, and I suppose with this fact comes the two things that I’m bringing for show and tell today:

1. If things are bad, take heart. Nothing lasts forever. Practice patience.

2. If things are good, rejoice and drink it in. Nothing lasts forever. Practice gratitude.

I wish I didn’t have to get any bigger, either. I wish I could just stop things here for awhile and drink them in without the constant tick-tock of time in the back of my mind. But rebelling against the truth won’t get me anywhere, in fact, it only wastes the precious time that I do have. There is absolutely no stillness in longing for the past or fearing the future. Stillness can only be found right here, in this present moment, with a heart of trust on an eternal God. 

Since I’m starting lots of new things this time of year, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want this new school year to look like. To put it another way (one that doesn’t sound so narcissistic), I’ve been thinking about how I want to react to life. 

As a human, I have free will. God gave that to me and every human being. For the most part, I have a great deal of freedom to go and do as I please. I get to make hundreds of decisions every day. Plus, I live in the bountiful country of America, the land of so much opportunity. 

So I have a free will, which I am thankful for, but the fly in the ointment for me is this: I don’t have control. Free will without control. Desires without the promise of fulfillment. Goals with no guarantees. For as much free will as I have, God is the one in control. And this is a very good thing…except that I don’t usually love this fact. If I had my way, I would have my cake (desires) and eat it, too (fulfillment of said desires).

Sometimes things go our way. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, later on down the road, God lets us in on his secret. He gives us a peek at his plan, and we understand in retrospect how he worked everything out, even when things were pretty touch-and-go for us. But we don’t always get that privilege. I think one of the most fun things about heaven is going to be seeing how the intricacies of my life and everyone else’s were woven together into God’s beautiful story. I’m really hoping that’s what Paul was talking about in 1 Corinthians when he wrote, “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

But for now, here on this earth, as a humble, regular-old human, I have to reconcile within myself this free will-no control thing. It scares me to death, really, how much I want and yet how much it is all out of my hands: my life, my husbands’s life, my children’s lives. I can’t make myself well or succeed or live or breathe, for that matter. I can’t do that for any of the people I love either. All of the big, important things in life are completely out of my control. 

But I can do the best with what I have. I can take care of myself and those I love. I can read God’s word and teach my children about Jesus. I can spread a little love. I can make healthy decisions. AND I can control one other thing: how I react to whatever God allows in my life. 

Choosing faith over fear, choosing contentment over greed, choosing prayer over complaining, choosing stillness over worry. This is the realm of my control, and even though it seems like a consolation prize, it is within this tiny realm that we display love, faithfulness, self-control, patience…all those good fruits. God has his hands in helping us along the way, of course, but when we work with what we’ve been given, it’s God-pleasing and good things tend to happen. It is here, in these sixty or seventy years worth of free will decisions, that we get to recognize God for who He is: the wonderful, loving, powerful, all-seeing One in control. When I take the leap and trust Him, stillness comes. 

And that, I realize, is exactly what I want my life to look like.

One of my favorite books is called Bird by Bird, and it’s by Anne Lamott. It’s a book of writing advice, but most of it is life advice, too.

The book got its name from one of Anne’s childhood memories. Her brother had procrastinated on a school project, some report about birds. He sat at the kitchen table surrounded by books, completely overwhelmed and not knowing where to begin.

I’ve had many such moments, at the kitchen table and otherwise. Sometimes I sit down with my life and systematically pick it apart, frustrated by the mountains of things that I have procrastinated over or just plain haven’t done. My family photographs, lingering on my computer. My writing, always pushed off to a magical “later date.” My devotional life, haphazard at best. I look at me, and I see so much that needs fixing, doing, accomplishing.

As Anne Lamott’s brother sat there overwelmed by the piles of books about birds, the research, and the looming deadline, he asked desperately,”How will I do this?” His father simply replied, “Bird by bird, son.”

Bird by bird. Word by word. One thing at a time.

I’ve come back to these words again and again when life overwhelms me. Last week I was reading a book by Glennon Doyle Melton that expressed a similar sentiment. Glennon struggled with addiction and bulimia for over a decade of her young life, and her path out of that darkness was simply to do the next right thing. She said in her book that she just kept doing the next right thing, just one thing at a time, until she was clean and sober and healthy.

It can be done. At the beginning of big scary changes or when we’re just getting up the gumption, it’s always just one thing at a time, always just bird by bird. It’s sometimes hard to believe that one little thing can lead to life-changing big things, but that’s how it’s done. It’s how masterpieces are painted, books are written, health is restored. One stroke, one word, one good decision at a time.

It’s also how our faith grows. One silent Bible reading, one turn away from temptation, one step away from worry, one simple prayer, one church service at a time. These simple steps are how it’s done. It’s how spiritually strong people become spiritually strong. They are strengthened through the simply magnificent words of Scripture, one word at a time.

I think that’s what it means when God says He won’t give us more than we can handle. He gives us the simple things to do, one thing at a time, while he moves heaven and earth and our cold hearts to make it all work out for our good.

Some funny things have been happening lately on this blog. 31 Feet seemingly has a mind of its own.

I was going about my business this month (new full-time job, four-year-old starting school, seven-year-old back to her activities, new routine, new freak-outs), when I got a random comment from my aunt on a blog post that I didn’t post. I haven’t written on 31 Feet for ages, over a year to be exact. I investigated a little and saw that it was a random draft of a post that I never published, but saved for a later date.

Then today, two weeks later, I got a few more comments in my inbox, a random message on Facebook. I thought it was funny, so I logged in to this dusty blog to investigate. (I can’t believe I actually remembered my login information).

After reading what I wrote, the light came on. I had totally forgotten that two summers ago I started writing another monthly series and had planned to release it in September 2013. Um. Obviously I never got around to it, except for three posts I wrote and then abandoned in the drafts section of 31 Feet. Well, I guess these posts wanted out, because come September 1st, 2nd, and 3rd of 2014, they published without my knowing.

The thing is, other people noticed. And encouraged. And commented. And here I am, writing again, and Lord knows, I needed it this September.

You see, I’ve been praying about what I want to be when I grow up. I’ve been praying about writing and mothering and my new job. I’ve been praying about being the person God wants me to be and doing the right thing and following Jesus instead of all the distractions of this world. I’ve been reading about all of this, too. About being honest and truthful and brave.

It’s just plain hard to write, even though it’s something I want so badly. It’s hard to not think it’s a waste of time, when I’m not getting paid to do it or when no one else reads my chicken scratchings. Plus, “I’m a mother…hence, I’ve done enough” is a really, really good excuse not to get up the gumption to write.

But it always bothers me when I’m not writing, because writing feels honest, and it feels like me. Sometimes the version of me that I present to the world and the version of me here on the page don’t match up. And that bothers me.

Even with these really good reasons, even when I feel so much better when I’m writing regularly, it requires a lot of work and a lot of patience and a lot of courage. I don’t want to fail. Sometimes I’d rather not be honest. And getting paid for the hours I put in at my “real job” is rewarding. To be real, I’m tired most of the time. Instead of trying to dig deep and write something meaningful, I’d rather just pour a glass of wine, watch Mad Men, and call it a night around 10pm.

And then these three little blog posts appear out of nowhere. Bing. Bing. Bing. From 365-odd days ago, little encouragements from my past. And this coincidence is the tipping point to pull my laptop out, take a hiatus from Jon Hamm, and start typing again.

It’s really a funny thing that happened.