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A Family Forged in Fire — A Short Story

~ Ashley ~ 2 Comments

The following short story was written for my writing group and is in response to this prompt: “A firefighter who saved a bunch of children from a skyscraper after many harrowing hours of trying, finding himself in the midst of the chaos of billowing smoke and crackling flames and then adopted two of them with his wife who couldn’t have children.”

Photo by Anna Kester on Pexels.com

The flames angrily surged in red and orange leaps as if they were trying to break the earthly bonds of gravity itself. Eric stood frozen, entranced by the frenzied dance being performed before him. The intense heat from the blaze aggressively enveloped his body. His brown eyes darkened as the fire reflected in his unwavering gaze. 

He came back to himself with a start as Maggie handed him the platter of steaks. She put a soothing hand on his shoulder and lightly kissed his cheek. “The grill looks ready. Are you sure you’re good?” She whispered. He nodded silently, absentmindedly touching the scars running up and down his arms as the meat sizzled over the fire.

A rowdy chorus of giggles erupted from the sandbox. The kids, at five and three years old, were having the most fun with the shiny new firetruck the guys brought over today. She took in the precious view of her boys’ curly blonde heads bent over the red engine. Her heart swelled almost to bursting with the love she had for them. As she circled the deck refilling perspiring solo cups, she marveled at the love Eric’s fellow firefighters had shown them all over the last few years. She looked around her cozy backyard filled with blooming hydrangeas and bordered by a white picket fence. It was hard to believe how much life had changed since that fateful night.

Just three years ago, Maggie and Eric’s suburban life was but a dream. They were living on the sixth floor of a rundown apartment building. Desperately wanting to start a family, Maggie felt the gut punch of disappointment month after month. Eric tried to support her in every way he knew how, but the long shifts at the fire station took him away for more nights than he liked. Maggie seemed to retreat into herself more with each passing day. When Eric came home from a 24-hour shift one sunny October morning, he found Maggie slouched on the floor in a corner of the room that should have been a nursery. She was holding onto a teddy bear as if it were the last thread of hope and rocking back and forth. 

The unfairness of it all was an ember of resentment in the pit of his stomach that had been smoldering for some time now. Here was his beautiful wife with empty arms and so much love to give. And yet, all around them in this dump of a building were apartments full of ignored or even unwanted kids. Just next door lived the most adorable towheaded toddler and a newborn whose raspy cries echoed through the living room walls and into the cracks of their hearts. That day in October, everything changed for Maggie and Eric.

Just hours later, thick gray smoke slid under doors and through the cracks of the dingy apartments. Day turned to night as the smoke choked out the last of the sunlight. Flames licked the ceilings with fiery tongues. The roar of the inferno masked the chaotic screams and shouts of the neighbors. It wasn’t until much later that the absence of alarms was even noticed. 

As the tragedy unfolded in the press, the media latched onto the harrowing story of the firefighter who risked his own life to save others. How lucky those kids were to have such a hero living right next door. How criminally negligent the building owner was to have dysfunctional safety measures. How heartwarming to hear the newly orphaned kids were adopted by the very man who saved them. 

Yes. It was incredible how life had changed since that fateful night three years ago when two desperate people decided to make their own fate with the strike of a match.

Vengeance is Served — A Short Story

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment

This is a big departure from my usual stories. This piece is dark and heavy and I offer a few trigger warnings: bullying, suicide, child loss. With that said, this was an excellent writing exercise that stretched me far outside my comfort zone. If you choose to read it, I would greatly appreciate any feedback. This fiction stuff is all so new to me, but I’m truly enjoying exploring this side of writing!

The original prompt: “A serial killer tries to justify his crimes.” The assignment was a 60-word story. I thought it might be a good chance to stretch a bit without too big of a commitment. Then–surprise–the next assignment was to expand the 60 words into 1,000. Oops! What did I get myself into? The first paragraph is a version of that original assignment. The remainder is the second. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Photo by Bas Masseus

I don’t kill because I enjoy it. No. Everyone would misunderstand if they knew me. But they don’t know anything, because I’m invisible. They don’t even see me anymore. For all they see, I’m just hands slinging sloppy joes day in and day out. But they’re not invisible. Not at all. I see every single cruelty the bullies dish out. And it may be the last thing they ever see, but eventually I’m not invisible anymore.

Not that I mind living my life unseen. I wear my invisibility like a favorite blanket, heavy and warm. It allows me to conduct my grave business with the utmost efficiency. That’s how I see it—this is my job, my duty. This isn’t some perverse hobby or a middle-aged onset of psychosis. This is my calling. It’s a calling I feel uniquely equipped to walk in.

You see, I’m not unfamiliar with the harassment and torture of bullies. I have had a front row seat to the utter destruction of this specific brand of torment. It’s the slowest death of all when the mind and heart are daily poisoned. The soul eventually succumbs to the inevitable pull of promised peace in release from this earthly life.

So really, the justice I serve is so much more merciful than they deserve. Mine is quick and relatively painless, except for the moment realization dawns in their eyes just as the life drains from them. That’s when I whisper two names. The first belongs to the child being avenged. The second one—well, I’m not quite ready to share just yet.

She looks up from her notebook where she has been writing these words. 

It’s a confession of sorts. The lined pages are blotched with tear stains. She didn’t realize she’d been crying. She was surprised there were any tears left after all this time. If she could have saved them, the kitchen shelves would be lined with them floor to ceiling. 

It wasn’t always like this. She wants everyone to know that, so she picks up the pen again.

When I first began working in the high school cafeteria, it was the best part of my life. I loved seeing the faces of the precious students every day. I found such joy in encouraging them with a smile and an extra helping of mashed potatoes if they seemed sad. I took special notice of students with unpaid lunch accounts, and I spent every spare cent in my meager paycheck to bring accounts back into black. I kept a backpack or two on hand to fill with bread, peanut butter, and granola bars to send home with those same students. No child goes hungry if I can help it.

It wasn’t until my own child was a student at the high school that I first learned how cruel those precious angels could be. My sweet boy came into these halls as a happy, hopeful honors student. He was an old soul who was kind to all, loved animals and history, and was a gifted artist. His only crime? His mother was the lunch lady.

For some unfathomable reason, being a lunch lady had been declared embarrassing and uncool. Therefore, my precious son was marked as the official target for any student looking to build themselves up by tearing others down.

My happy boy seemed to wither before my very eyes. Every day, he seemed smaller and grayer as if he were folding in on himself and fading from view. He never complained to me. Not once. Even as his own heart was slowly dying inside his body, he wanted to protect mine. And he did. Until the day he didn’t wake up for school and I found him next to an empty pill bottle.

A guttural, animal-like sob escapes her throat, and she throws the pen across the room as she stands to pace. 

This is too much, she thinks. No one could reasonably expect a human heart to survive this. 

She would tell you she did not survive. Not in her original form. Her heart shut down that dark day and she hasn’t been aware of a single beat since. Like a terrifying aberration of metamorphosis, she has emerged from her chrysalis not as a beautiful butterfly, but as a monster. Only a monster would wish death on children, she thinks. 

She grabs another pen from the table and continues her writing.

For Ryan.

This is the second name I whisper to the condemned as their sentences are carried out. Because for every child I observe being targeted by the bullies, I only see my Ryan. I can only think of saving another parent from this zombie-like existence as my body continues to walk the earth, but my heart and mind and soul are with my lost child.

Somewhere a timer begins to ding. She looks up from her writing, taking a second to orient herself to the cozy room filled with warm sunlight and cheerful houseplants.

“That’s time, Marta,” the therapist says. “How do you feel about this exercise? Were you able to purge the dark thoughts you mentioned last week? I just want to remind you that it’s perfectly normal to have dark fantasies after experiencing the kind of trauma you’ve been through.”

Marta walks to the window and looks out at the busy street below, filled with people continuing to walk and breathe and live as if the world hadn’t stopped turning on its axis. How could they not notice there was now a gaping chasm?She walks over to the tastefully decorated coffee table and hands the notebook to her therapist. Marta can tell the hopeful young woman wants so badly to help. She feels a twinge of compassion for her. But Marta knows no one can help her now. Yes, this was all just a therapeutic exercise to this earnest therapist. But to Marta? It feels a bit more like a recipe for revenge.

Barstool Angel – A Short Story

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment

This fictional short story was the result of combining two writing prompts. The first was for my writing group and the prompt came from Psalm 91:11 (“For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways”). The second came from a writing challenge for the Southern Christian Writers Conference asking for a fictional story centered around a birthday. Here’s what I came up with! I hope you enjoy it.

Photo by Andreea Simion

Kayla was so focused on the purple hyacinths withering next to her mimosa, she didn’t notice the imposing hulk of a figure suddenly appearing next to her at the bar. She was barely holding it together as it was, and she wasn’t eager to be caught in small talk with the burly, leather-clad biker who had just taken up residence two stools over in the otherwise empty airport lounge. She was usually outgoing and enjoyed hearing strangers’ stories, but the weight of her grief was strangling her spirit. 

Is it even fair to call it grief when she hasn’t died? Kayla wondered. She took a sip of her overpriced drink and pretended to read her book. March 19th sure looked different today than she had planned. 

“Business or pleasure?” The gravelly voice practically barked at her from two stools over. 

“Neither,” she replied without looking up from the sentence she had reread at least twenty times.

“Well now I got an even bigger hankerin’ to know what you’re up to,” the voice said in a drawl that sounded a lot like home.

Kayla turned on her stool in his direction, planning to politely shut this down before it got started but was taken aback by his eyes. They stood out, clear and blue, on his worn and whiskered face. His gray beard was wiry and impressively long. He could pass for Santa’s younger, more rebellious brother who preferred Harleys to reindeer.

“I’m going to visit my grandmother.” She found herself answering his question before she even realized she wasn’t shutting anything down. There was something about those eyes that made her want to open up. “Normally, it would be my favorite day of the year. This year is—” her voice trembled, and she took a breath to steady herself. “This year is different.”

“Aw, kid. Sounds like you’re having a bit of a rough go. We’ve got some time to kill, and I need a refill on my coffee. Will you do an old man a favor and tell me about it?”

She hesitated, saw the kindness in his eyes, and began to talk in spite of herself.

Kayla was born on Mamaw’s 50th birthday. As she held her tiny granddaughter, Mamaw declared this was the best gift of her whole life. A tradition began that day and every March 19th would find them celebrating their special day together. No matter how many miles separated them, this day would find them laughing, having tea, and buying each other bouquets of colorful hyacinths that always seemed to bloom just in time for their day. 

Last year, they rocked away the afternoon on the front porch of a South Georgia tea room. When they realized this year’s March 19th would not only find them celebrating their 25th and 75th birthdays but also the first day of Spring, they decided they must go all out and make it the best birthday adventure yet. But before any of their plans could be finalized, Mamaw was diagnosed with acute onset dementia. At first, she had good days and bad days. But now there were only bad days, and she didn’t remember even her closest friends and family.

Kayla felt like she had been in mourning for something she hadn’t officially lost yet. She was being torn apart in a devastating tug-of-war of the inevitable and the not quite yet. She had consumed books and research articles like the last morsels of food in front of a starving man. She was desperate to have one more special day before Mamaw was lost to her for good. In her research, she found that often a familiar object, song, or smell could trigger deeply buried memories and lead to precious moments of clarity. She knew it wasn’t a guarantee, but she had convinced herself that the sight and smell of Mamaw’s favorite hyacinths might be just the trigger she needed.

She would give anything in this world to have one last chance for Mamaw to know she was there. Kayla would hold her close, breathe in her Coco Mademoiselle perfume and commit it to memory. She would tell Mamaw how much she loved her and how this world was all the better for her presence in it. She desperately wanted Mamaw to know she was seen and loved. Maybe even more, she was desperate to feel seen and loved by Mamaw one last time.

Tears escaped Kayla’s eyes as she held up the limp flowers. “But see? They’re dead,” she told the man at the bar. “I tried wrapping the stems in wet paper towels. I tried refreshing them in cups of water. But the layover was just too long. They’re not going to make it. I’m not going to make it.”

All this while, the burly man had sat as still as a statue perched on a barstool and listened to Kayla’s story, his coffee untouched. He took a deep breath and looked at her with those blue eyes.

“Darlin’, I can almost hear your little heart breakin’ and I hate you’re going through this,” he said quietly, his bark long gone. “If every good memory were a brick, you could build a dang mansion. Life is just chock full of the pretty and the pain, ain’t it? No one escapes the one or the other. When we’re going through the ugly times, we gotta hang on to the beautiful. Even if it’s only by our fingernails.”

He shifted his weight and slid off the barstool. “Sweetheart, I wanna thank you for sharin’ your story with me. And I just want you to know somethin’ else. God sees you. He knows what you’re goin’ through. He loves you and you’re never alone. No matter how lonely you might feel, he’s always with you, Kayla.”

She took his hand and thanked him, suddenly feeling lighter. As she watched him slowly walk away, she wondered when she had told him her name. She didn’t remember doing any introductions. As she turned back to the bar, she froze. Her entire body erupted in goosebumps. There on the bar were her book, her drink, and a bouquet of perfectly fresh, gorgeous purple hyacinths.

Take the Leap of Faith

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment
Photo by Gerald Yambao on Pexels.com

With a blast of its whistle, the vintage locomotive shuddered to a stop along the tracks at the top of the bluff. The charming conductor tipped his hat and a grin spread beneath his handlebar mustache as he helped us down the stairs. We found ourselves in what felt like a scene straight out of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

Deep River Landing stood below us on the riverbank. A cheery white-and-blue riverboat was moored at the end of the dock. As we made our way down the gangplank, the ragtime music playing over the speakers put a little pep in our steps. We shielded our eyes against the bright sunlight glinting off the Connecticut River and found seats on the third level of the Becky Thatcher.

We shoved off, and the swift current of the river carried us away from the landing and out into the beautiful river valley. Osprey soared from green hillsides to bring fish back to their nests. The massive stone walls of Gillette Castle peeked out from behind a stand of trees on the very top of the highest hill. I wondered what it would be like to stand in a turret window and look down, watching the riverboat meander upstream.

A sudden whoop and holler, followed by a splash and cheers, caught my attention, and I made my way over to the rail. On the far side of the river, a group of twelve- or thirteen-year-old boys was clinging to the hillside. One by one, the boys grabbed hold of a thick braided rope, looked to the heavens, and with a cry to rival Tarzan, leapt from the hill. Out over the river they would fly, patiently waiting until that final moment of maximum pendulum swing before releasing the rope and letting gravity deliver them into the cool waters with a splash. As the riverboat passengers erupted again into delighted cheers, the boys on the hill took a cheeky bow.

I applauded their adventurous spirit. I didn’t think I would have had the courage to jump. That hillside perch must feel even higher once you’re standing on the edge. I seriously doubted I would trust the rope and the branch to hold me. That cold water must feel a million miles away when you’re in the empty space between land and river. And they did it all with an audience. I would be afraid I’d do a belly flop, embarrassing myself in front of a boatload of strangers.

I made my way back to my seat, still pondering these things when God nudged me. He whispered to my heart and reminded me I had recently taken a big leap of faith, too. Just several months before, God had asked us to leave our home and our family for  an unusual lifestyle that would take us far outside our comfort zone. We had sold our home and most of our belongings to join my husband on the road while he worked as a travel nurse.

Even though we didn’t yet understand how this new life would work, God had asked me to grab ahold of his hand and jump into the unknown. And even though I was more than a little afraid I’d do a belly flop in front of all our friends and family watching this journey unfold, I jumped…

I would love to invite you to click through to finish reading this post. We talk about what God shows us once we leave the solid ground of what’s familiar. When we find ourselves suspended in that space between what was and what’s to come. The “not yet” can stretch on indefinitely and can be more than a little scary. I hope you’ll join us at The Glorious Table here: https://theglorioustable.com/2021/10/devotional-take-the-leap-of-faith/

Keeper of the Light

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment

When we’d driven just about as far as the blacktop would take us, we found ourselves at what felt like the edge of the world. Surrounded by blue sky and dunes of waving beach grass, the beach stretched before us. The seemingly ancient lighthouse stood tall as gulls circled overhead, their sharp eyes watching for a chance to swoop in and grab the forgotten remnants of a sandwich.

We grabbed towels and blankets and coolers and shovels and buckets and kids and began the slow climb up the impressive dunes. We paused at the top to take in the scene that had been hidden from view just moments before. A wide expanse of sand sloped from dunes to sea. The waves of the ocean looked as if they were in the cooling-off period after an argument. We claimed our spot in the shadow of the lighthouse and throughout the day, I found myself wondering what it would have been like to be a lighthouse keeper…

I suddenly related to this anonymous lighthouse keeper. The early days of motherhood are filled with bottle washing and diaper changing and booboo kissing. The later days are filled with dinner cooking and clothes cleaning and homework helping.

We fall into bed at the end of a day full of repetitive tasks, completely exhausted and counting the minutes before we do it all over again. It can absolutely feel monotonous. It can definitely be isolating. And most often, it feels pretty thankless…

If you can relate at all to these feelings, I invite you to join me over at Atlanta Mom to be encouraged in the midst of this day-to-day, rinse-and-repeat season of motherhood. https://atlantamom.com/family-lifestyle/keeper-of-the-light/

His Word Gives Us Clear Directions

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment
For more photos of our travel journey, please join me on Instagram: @ashleydoylepooser.

When we’d driven just about as far as the blacktop would take us, we found ourselves at what felt like the edge of the world. Surrounded by blue sky and dunes of waving beach grass, the Cape Cod National Seashore stretched before us. The Race Point Lighthouse stood tall as gulls circled overhead, their sharp eyes watching for a chance to swoop in and grab the forgotten remnants of a sandwich.

We grabbed towels and blankets and coolers and shovels and buckets and kids, and began the slow climb up the impressive dunes. We paused at the top to take in the scene that had been hidden from view just moments before. A wide expanse of sand sloped down to the sea. The waves of the Atlantic Ocean looked as if they were in the cooling off period after an argument. Couples strolled hand in hand at water’s edge. Blankets dotted the shore like the patches of a quilt waiting to be sewn together. A family was stacking firewood in anticipation of a sunset celebration.

We trudged through the sand and staked our claim near the lifeguard’s tower. A bright purple flag flew high above a serious-looking young man decked out in whistle and binoculars. The kids dropped their towels, kicked off their shoes, and were racing toward the water when it dawned on me. There was just one thing missing from this iconic beach scene: swimmers. On this beautiful, warm, sunny day, there was not a single soul splashing or throwing a Frisbee or body surfing. No one was in the water.

At that moment, the purple flag on the lifeguard stand began to wave as the breeze picked up. And there, in sharp white contrast on the purple background, leaving no room for misunderstanding, was the outline of a shark. The kids recognized the heightened urgency in my “STOP!” and begrudgingly reversed course. After a quick Google search, we learned the flag meant Great White sharks had been spotted in the area.

As a Florida native, I am no stranger to the beach. But the New England coastline is not like home. The sand feels different, the surf has a bit more urgency, and the rules and guidelines are unfamiliar. This purple flag was new to me. I wasn’t sure what it meant. Thank goodness for Google.

That day on the beach made me think of Psalm 119:19. I like how it’s written in The Message: “I’m a stranger in these parts; give me clear directions.”

I invite you to click through to continue reading what God reminded me that day on the seashore. The full post can be read at The Glorious Table. Please join us in a conversation here: https://theglorioustable.com/2021/02/devotional-his-word-gives-us-clear-directions/

He Is Faithful to Restore

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment

The Spanish moss waved gently from the limbs of the hundred-year-old oak trees still standing tall and proud against the deep blue sky. The shade they generously provided my park bench was a blessed relief in the Georgia summer evening. The sweet smell of azaleas drifted by on the breeze. As we waited for our dinner reservation, I closed my eyes and listened to a lonesome melody sliding off the strings of a fiddle somewhere across the square. As the fireflies came out to dance, I thought to myself once again, There is just no place on earth quite like Savannah.

We climbed up the uneven front steps of the stately mansion. My jaw dropped as my eyes tried to take in every detail of that grand old home. I had never seen any place like it. We took our seats at a cozy table for two in front of a parlor fireplace. I felt like we had just stepped back in time.

It was easy to imagine the important business conducted over there at a desk by the window. I could almost see the stately men looking out over the square, smoking pipes and discussing the colonial politics of the day. I pictured the children who might’ve made the scuffs on the old plank floors as their elegantly dressed mothers sipped tea by the fire.

Every ornate detail of this 250-year-old home had been exquisitely preserved. Or, at least, that’s what I assumed. But I was wrong.

Savannah’s incredible historic district has been an inspiration to cities all over the world. But what we don’t always realize is that those beautiful, grand homes weren’t always so pristine. Back in the 1950s, those same homes were hollowed out, broken shells. They stood as just a wisp of a memory of their former selves with floors rotting, windows busted, ceilings leaking. One by one, the city began to raze the mansions to make room for parking garages…

I would love for you to click through to continue reading the remainder of this post at The Glorious Table. Come see how we are not much different than those hollowed out homes, but God is faithful to restore.
https://theglorioustable.com/2020/10/devotional-faithful-to-restore/

When We Don’t Have the Words, He Does

~ Ashley ~ 1 Comment

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I’m staring at the mountains rising up behind the screen of my laptop. The sky is impossibly blue, and the sun is shining. The breeze is cool on my face. It’s almost cold enough to grab my jacket. Birds are singing. Voices, music, and even some laughter are drifting over from neighboring campsites. This entire scene unfolding around me feels almost normal. Like any other day in any other time.

You could almost pretend there’s no global emergency going on. You could almost imagine it doesn’t feel like that impossibly blue sky might fall on our heads at any moment. You could almost forget the enormity of the grief and pain in the hearts of humanity this whole world over.

Almost.

I’ve agonized for days over what I should write for you. What words of encouragement could I offer to this hurting world? Every time I started, my words seemed to be painfully inadequate when held up against the light of statistics and headlines. Every sentence seemed sorely lacking. So I just stared at the mountains and the blinking cursor on my white screen while I whispered to the Lord.

The truth is, I don’t have the words our hearts need to hear. Contrary to what my Instagram feed might lead you to believe, I know I never have had the right words. But that’s not how I want the world to see me. I want to be seen as calm in the midst of chaos, stoic and courageous in the face of uncertainty and fear.

During quarantine, I’ve taken up cross-stitching. I worked for hours on a three-inch kit designed for kids. As a complete beginner, I painstakingly followed the pattern. When my colorful little llama was finished, I proudly held it up for my family to admire. My four-year-old was extremely impressed—until she turned it over and saw the back…

I’d love for you to click through to continue reading this post at The Glorious Table. Just click this link and join the conversation: https://theglorioustable.com/2020/06/when-we-dont-have-words-he-does/

There Is Life in the Desert

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment

Screen Shot 2020-02-07 at 9.04.12 PMThe truck eased off the highway and came to a stop in a cloud of dust. It was day five of our cross-country road trip, towing our new home behind us, and our tank was nearing empty—both literally and figuratively. Nevada stretched before us, reaching as far as our eyes could see. A narrow ribbon of road crossed an ocean of sand and scrubby sagebrush, eventually fading into the edge of a shimmering horizon. You could practically smell the heat on the dry breeze. It felt like trying to breathe with a hairdryer blowing in your face.

I herded kids and dog into the now-familiar routine of dog walking, gas pumping, coffee grabbing, snack choosing. Then, resigning ourselves to as many more hours on the road as we could take, we set sail once more across that ocean of desert. Darkness and exhaustion would soon force an overnight break, and we’d find a place to set up camp.

As we climbed back into the truck and out of the suffocating heat, I had an overwhelming wave of sympathy for the Israelites who wandered in the desert for forty years. I wasn’t sure I could take another forty minutes. This prompted a reflection of some of the metaphorical deserts I’d occasionally found myself wandering in the past.

The memory that stood out most was the night I found myself sobbing on the kitchen floor. My husband was in the throes of nursing school and was gone most of the time for classes, clinical shifts, and studying sessions. We were both working part-time jobs, but the bills were piling up and the money had run out. I had just been diagnosed with a couple of autoimmune disorders that made my normal daily activities physically exhausting. I was also obsessively researching and educating myself on our four-year-old’s recent autism diagnosis and all the therapies required. Oh, and potty-training a two-year-old.

I felt like I was drowning in a desert of quicksand. I cried out to God to show himself to me. I desperately wanted signs and wonders. But instead of rainbows or lightning strikes, I got a still, small voice.

That voice reminded me of Scripture long ago etched into my heart. Some were verses I didn’t even remember memorizing. They were just there, in the corners of my mind, waiting for such a time as this, a time when I needed them. He reminded me that I am never alone. He is always with me. He doesn’t fade away when my feelings do. When I couldn’t feel him by my side, I had to choose to cling to his promises, even if it was with my fingernails. He is true, and his promises are eternal…

I’d love for you to finish reading this post by clicking through to The Glorious Table. I invite you to join the conversation!

Who Am I Reflecting?

~ Ashley ~ Leave a comment

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Our footsteps echoed on the wooden planks as we left the riverbank and stepped out over the water. The old walking bridge had stretched across that expanse of dark river for as long as the townspeople could remember. Several generations had held hands and stood right there in the center of the bridge, watching the lazy flow of water gently meander under their feet and return to view on the other side.

When your feet have left one bank but haven’t quite reached the next, you can stop right there and find yourself in the middle of two worlds—caught in the between of heaven and earth. The above is reflected so perfectly in the water below that it can be difficult to tell which way is up.

Lately, I find myself often caught between two worlds. Our family recently sold our house and most of our belongings to commit to a season of full-time travel. My husband is working as a pediatric critical care travel nurse, and I’m homeschooling our three kids while we tag along. Every thirteen weeks, we find ourselves on the road again, heading to a new town.

To walk each path the Lord leads us down has been an incredible exercise in faith. I call it the “best worst thing” for my often-anxious heart—to learn to trust God in all the small details of this unusual way of living.

This has also been the most epic adventure of our lives. We’ve experienced life among the rocky coasts of New England, the rolling farmlands of North Carolina, and the breathtaking beauty of the Sierra Nevada mountain meadows and Lake Tahoe. We’ve grown to dearly love these little towns and big cities we’ve called “home” along the way.

But like all great adventures, this one does not come without sacrifice…

 

I would love for you to click through to The Glorious Table to continue reading this post and join the conversation in the comments. (Here is the link: https://wp.me/p6QH26-35j)