Reminder

Two years ago, we sold our home in the Virginia mountains. It was our first house as newlyweds. It’s where we brought our newborn son home from the hospital to his nursery we’d meticulously painted and decorated, full of hopes and dreams for his life ahead. We only lived there full-time for a handful of years, but after that it became a place of respite and refuge when we needed time away with fresh air, pristine views, and visits with family.

The final move from that house was more difficult than I anticipated. While there was relief from so many logistical hurdles we’d navigated through the years, I still felt a deep sense of self and connection with that mountaintop land and the A-frame house perched atop. Not only did I recognize my deep familial lines that run through those mountains like seams of coal, but that home and land is where I became a wife, a mother. It’s where I learned to leave behind a selfish life doing only the things I wanted and learned to share a life with others. It’s where I learned to love and to allow myself to be fully loved by another. It’s where I spent quiet time, away from daily distractions, facing difficult questions and situations. It’s where I’ve spent all night long tossing and turning, wrestling with questions about my faith, wrestling with God.

It's where I’ve felt most alone and unknown. It’s where I’ve felt most loved and known.

Yes, I grew up in those mountains as a child. But, I also grew up in those mountains as an adult.

One of the first things I did when we purchased the house was transplant 5 small flowering shrubs from my grandfather’s land. He’d planted them not long before he died, so they were still maturing. Not only were they decorative (and free!), but they also carried a deeper meaning for me. Each time I walked out the door and saw them, I was reminded of him. They were incredibly sentimental.

As we made the trip to complete our move, I mentioned to my husband how much I’d love to see them in bloom one last time. We arrived after dark, and I spent a restless night trying to prepare for the days ahead. Early the next morning I opened the door to step outside with my coffee, only to be greeted by 5 shrubs, overflowing with flowers. It was a sight worthy of a botanical garden.

In that moment, there was a deep peace that overflowed within me. I genuinely felt I experienced a moment of God’s intimate kindness. It was a reminder I was not alone, that God was close, with me. A reminder I was heard.  A reminder I was not forgotten. A deep, simple, yet profoundly large reminder I was loved.

Last fall we moved to a new home and are still becoming acquainted with the land. Saying we have “a hundred” trees is by no means an exaggeration. The move was a healthy one, but it has also ushered in a new season of life. That newborn is now a teenager, more independent by the day, exploring college options. My husband and I, recognizing this, find ourselves savoring every moment with him, but also daydreaming about things we’d like to do when it’s time for our next chapter.

I’ve now lived in our current town almost longer than I’ve lived anywhere else, but it doesn’t feel like my home. Some of the things that once brought a sense of community and security no longer do so. I’m unsure where or how or even if I belong. Although the reasons are different, I still find myself facing difficult questions and situations. I still find myself wrestling with questions about my faith, wrestling with God.

A couple of days ago this wrestling match was heavy. I felt deep in the wilderness, alone, vulnerable, forgotten, and my inner prayers/thoughts/arguments/complaints likely sounded like that of the Israelites in Exodus 14. “Why did you bring us out of Egypt?” “We told you this would happen!”.

Walking in my driveway, something caught my eye. Surely not, I thought.

And yet, there it was, at the far edge of our property. I’d never noticed it before.

The same kind of shrub my grandfather planted nearly two decades ago, 500 miles away.

The same kind of shrub I awoke to exactly two years ago, overflowing with reminders of the kindness, closeness, and love of a heavenly parent.

Shadowed under a canopy of large trees. There it was. I craned my neck to see it more clearly. One solitary flower at the top, fighting for a sliver of light, resilient, determined to grow.

One reminder.

Sometimes that’s all we need.