Vitamin Awkward Pause

We all know the feeling. Something strikes us funny during a serious discussion. We ask a suspiciously pudgy friend about her due date, and her silence grows pregnant with meaning. We chirp, "'Bye, sweetheart!" when concluding a phone conversation with our boss.

We also know the silence these blunders create: The silence of utter shock or pure shame. During these momentary conversational freezes, everyone scrambles for an appropriate response. Laughter? Denial? An apology? Instant flight? The responses we choose determine whether a situation becomes humorous or horrible, despicable or a delight.

Other awkward pauses exist, too. We struggle to find common ground with a stranger. We discuss a difficult diagnosis with a friend. We apologize for a years-old offense. At these times, pauses populate our conversations like puddles on a tree-lined trail. In order to proceed, we must wade right through, hazard the long jump across, or venture off the path to stay dry. Both situations present us with a selection of uncomfortable options. But how do we know which to choose?

During this past year, I've considered this question countless times. No, I haven't put my foot in my mouth every time I've gone out (at least I hope not), but I've become acutely aware of an extended "awkward pause" within my own life. A year ago, my husband and I encountered a colossal marital challenge. It involved enabling, deceit, and an element of unwanted surprise. It became public overnight, leaving us reeling and threatening to unravel the 17-year-old fabric of our knit-together lives. So we hit "Pause" in an effort to survive. 

We disbanded the small group that met in our home. We pared down our outside commitments. We conserved only the closest of friends. And we hunkered down with our kids. It took every ounce of our energy to discuss our situation with each other and with them, but in the roaring silence following the big reveal, we had only one choice: Step right in. 

A few people called. Our small group prayed, then slowly drifted away. Most people pretended everything was just fine. In reality, though, our hearts were broken, our lives turned on end, and everyone around us knew why. The year of silence - this long, awkward pause - that ensued has been one of the most difficult seasons of our lives. But by God's grace, we're still here, walking this path, side by side. We're not done with the hard work of healing, but from where we stand, knee-deep in this muddy mess, we've made a few observations.

1. Awkward pauses can connect us with reality.

God knew about the ugliness in our hearts long before we did. He saw our awkward pause before time began, and He planned to use it for our good. During the space that this silence has created, He has deepened our understanding of His sovereignty. He has revolutionized our experience of His grace. His Gospel, His love, and Himself - the ultimate realities worth embracing - shine brighter for us than they once did. Our awkward pause forced us to listen - and we've fallen deeper in love with the One whom we heard when we did..

2. Awkward pauses can clarify our values.

With little other distractions, my husband and I have grown more rooted in our core beliefs. We have weeded out non-essential pursuits, pruning our priorities until we feel unified and grounded in a much deeper way. Will this clarity remain when the busyness sets in? I don't know. But I feel confident that our new foundation will provide a baseline to which we can return if we grow confused. And we owe all this clarity to our year of silence.

3, Awkward pauses can deepen our relationships.

Sharing a socially-awkward moment with a friend forges a new kind of connection. Walking through life-silences does the same. Our children, our true friends, and our closest family now feel like members of an elite tribe. They've stepped into our deepest puddle with us. They've experienced the cold and the grime. We know each other on a deeper level, and it's all because of this extended and difficult time.  

4. Awkward pauses can bring us life.

Jesus once asked, "What good is it for a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?" (Mark 4) We may feel poised and socially stable. We may keep our marriage intact (on the surface), and our family in the latest styles. We may even shell out the dough to maintain the illusion of perpetually sun-kissed hair. But if these things keep us from an honest assessment of our poverty before Christ, they are our enemies. They are sin. Pride constantly seeks to replace God's truth with lies. I am sufficient. I am independent. I am wise. The humbling situation that caused our awkward pause helped us put these old, ugly selves to death. It brought us full, rich life in Christ. Has it been humbling? Yes? But it's the sweetest kind of humbling I've ever known, a humbling I wouldn't trade it for any polished public image, no matter how bright.

In my college newspaper, I ran a features column entitled "Puddlestompings." Here I curated articles that upheld one premise: Life should be approached with the abandon of a child playing in the rain. I have matured since then. Experience now tells me that every puddle wasn't meant for mindless stomping. But on the trail of my life, I know this. No puddle exists without God's permission. If it lies in my path, I will cross it - carefully, mindfully, and with the joy that comes from walking by faith, not by sight. I accept this path God provides, the puddles and the clear patches alike. Even if everyone else abandons me, He never will. And that transforms every pause, every puddle, into a thing filled with beauty and with light. 

Vitamin Learn

"All right, Summer. That was okay. Let's play this line again." I lean in to the piano, brushing my twelve-year-old's shoulder as I demonstrate the correct timing.

Summer sighs. I can practically feel her eye-roll from behind. Frustration oozes through her limp fingers, barely able to lift themselves to the height of the piano keys. She plunks through the specified line, woodenly and with no improvement, then stares at me, stoop-shouldered, blank-eyed. Are we done yet? every line of her posture implies.

Now it's my turn to sigh. "Well," I say carefully, "why don't you let me know when you're ready to learn? We'll come back to this later in the week, okay? For now, though, I think we're through."

I turn and begin moving my piano lesson chair back to its usual place in the living room, but not before I catch of glimpse of my girl. Her eyebrows shoot up. Her eyes widen into pools of shocked innocence. "What do you mean?' she asks, her voice high. "What did I do?"

I turn from re-situating the chair. "It's like this," I begin. "You can practice piano just because I ask you, or you can do it because you want to improve. You can value my input as your teacher. You can take my ideas to heart. That's called being a good student, a good learner And that comes from in here." I pat my chest. "You can't fake it."

Summer remains silent.

"Good lesson," I say after a short pause. "Go ahead and clean up your books before breakfast." Mechanically, I walk to the kitchen, already anticipating my own thought police. Was it really good ? My critical self demands. Summer hardly learned anything! 

No. I firm my jaw. She may not be learning piano, but there's far more than piano to absorb. Mentally, I remind myself of all the disciplines my children despise. Diagramming sentences. Checking in before making judgment calls about coursework. Performing "useless" tasks while they're at school. Family chores. None of these activities, from Algebra to push-ups in PE, are a waste.

I nod to myself as I carry loaded plates to the table. Sure, it'd be lovely if Minecraft supplied my boys with inner strength. It'd be fantastic if stringing beads provided Summer perseverance through unexpected pain. And maybe they could ... who's to say? Still, more often than not, God uses our least favorite tasks to teach us His ways. He builds our character, brick by brick, from the very things we most hate.

I glance at the colorful, nutritious meal spread out for my family. The scene makes me smile. After what feels like several lifetimes of loathing my own mundane tasks, I can testify to God's transforming power, firsthand. The things that once felt like shackles have become precious gifts -- avenues to give and receive boundless grace.

It'll be fine. I chuck my inner pessimist on the chin. You'll see. Joyfully, I envision my children as God sees them - both now, and in the future. Not as virtuoso pianists. Not as superior scholars or successful business-people or even well-known figures in their world. Bur rather, as well-known to Him. As His friends. That is why I am confident that piano lessons, Algebra, accountability, and evening household chores can be saved. They'll never be useless as long as they're tools for God's transforming grace.

Don't give up, I tell myself silently, sending it out like a prayer for my children, as well. Keep the faith. With a profound sense of gratitude, I call them to the meal I've actually enjoyed getting up early to prepare. If God can change this about me, then His canvas and abilities know no bounds. What will He use to grow each of us next? I am eager, now, to find out.

Vitamin Valley

"It's damp down here," I remark for the third time. 

A few family members grunt in assent, then return to their various duties as we settle in to our new campsite. One of the few unclaimed locations, it sits at the bottom of a tree-studded ravine. And while I feel grateful for the blessing of any campsite at all on a summer night in the Redwoods, I can't help feeling a little underwhelmed, too.

I survey our temporary home. Multiple varieties of moss meet my gaze, covering nearly every surface in sight. I can almost feel them grow, inching toward us whenever we look away. Shadows from the trees and the encroaching valley walls create an early, unnerving dusk, and I set out to forage for another warm sweater. 

As I don my next layer, I sigh. This sense of unease felt familiar. Each time I linger too long in a valley, the presence of so much immovable earth makes me squirm. 

Oh, I enjoy mountains as much as the next girl. I just start feeling edgy - and unnecessarily cold - when they shoulder right up to my tent. The shadows offend me. The incline makes me itch. Do I climb it? Ignore it? Why does it blot out the sun? 

Yes, low-lying locales upset me. They steal my sense of place, self, and security, creating a quiet desperation that only lifts when I'm safe, far away. 

But what if I just can't escape?

This question assailed me today. I've been meditating on 1 Corinthians 12:7-10 lately, especially the part that says, "I will boast about my weaknesses." The apostle Paul describes the glory Christ receives when His strength complements human frailty. It's a familiar concept, one my mind comprehends without question, but lately, God's been pressing it much deeper into my heart. 

You see, my own weaknesses have been leaning in extra hard these past weeks, crowding me like socially-awkward dinner guests. But I can't find the strength to escape! Closer and closer they press, looming higher than the encroaching terrain I so dread. And they're not surmountable weaknesses, either. They're the kind I fear I'll live with forever. They cast their long shadows, stealing my sense of place, self, and security day by day. 

I glance around, feeling small. The landscape closes in. I'm uneasy and cold, and I ache to run away. But since these mountains arise from my own soul, there's simply nowhere to go. I long, like Paul, to find the strength to accept these weaknesses as gateways to God's boundless grace. But will that mean a permanent stay in this place?

I picture myself now, surrounded by these towering peaks. Why would God allow these weaknesses to overwhelm me, anyway? Doesn't He want me to climb, to succeed, to scale new mountain heights?

Well, yes. And no. 

A closer reading of Paul's words in I Corinthians reveals that his weakness kept him humble. Resigning himself to looking up at those impossible heights prevented him from an inflated sense of pride. Paul's place and his security depended not on his own abilities but on Christ; a constant awareness of his weakness helped keep this truth fresh in mind. 

Suddenly, I really start to squirm. Why does my frailty bother me so much, anyway? Have I, like Paul, preferred to boast in my own strength, not in Christ? Do I resent a constant view of my weakness because it tarnishes this sinful pride?

Carefully, I revisit the spiritual landscape in my mind. The mountains still surround me - my struggle with depression, my physical limitations, the ugly attitude I just can't hide. Hesitantly, I ask for the strength to view them not as personal threats but as invitations to completeness in Christ. My sadness? It requires His joy. My frailty? His power. My sin? His forgiveness and grace. Without these mountains for perspective, how quickly I'd forget the One Whose strength makes me rise. 

"Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will mount up on wings as eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint." (Isaiah 40)

Day by day, I'm learning to accept this reality as another of God's wise, sovereign ways. He allows these mountains to remain. He promises stay close through the valleys. (Psalm 23) And He tells me I need not be afraid (John 6:20). With my eyes fixed on Him, He invites me, with Paul, to proclaim, "When I am weak, then I am strong." This is real faith, unashamed. This is a valley worth celebrating. This is somewhere I can stay.

Vitamin Sensitize

I inhaled deeply as I pulled the large, tan sheet off the clothesline. Thanks to a new home purchase, I'd been utilizing this outdoor energy-saver for several weeks. Each time I stepped outside to collect the laundry, I looked forward to the smell of fabric, freshly dried by the sun.

But today the aroma was missing. Why had the scent disappeared? I inhaled again and, with a jolt, the truth hit me: Familiarity had rendered it obsolete! Just as the undesirable mess of my own home often escapes me, this l desirable detail had grown invisible over time..

I heaved a sigh and tried sniffing the sun-soaked sheet again. I'd just have to work harder in order to enjoy that summertime smell. I didn't want to grow permanently immune, after all.

As I collected the last of the day's laundry, my mind hummed. To how many other beautiful details had I become unwittingly immune? Birdsong. Healthy children. Safety from war, persecution, and plague. A clean kitchen floor under my freshly-showered bare feet.

The list of my most precious treasures grew during the rest of that hot, cloudless day, and  by dinner I fairly bursted with good gifts. I gazed at the faces of my family as I shared my deep thought and saw their expressions soften as they, too, contemplated the kind of immunity they wanted to avoid. It will take careful work on all our parts. But I hope that together, throughout this busy ad blessing-filled summer, we can re-sensitize ourselves to all the goodness we've forgotten. It'll feel like a shot in the arm of good cheer, I am sure, one that will bolster us for times of unforeseen trial far ahead.