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/

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/

The 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!

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)

The blue of the sky was two shades deeper than it had been any of the other days that week. The salt air carried the weight of winter on its breeze, but the warmth of the sun held the promise of spring. Laughter, slightly muted by the rhythmic surf, carried across the sunbaked sand.

My three-year-old daughter came running over to where I leaned against a giant piece of driftwood, her blond curls bouncing with each excited step. She proudly announced she had found the fanciest rock in the whole wide world and held out her dimpled hand to reveal her discovery.

What she clenched in her toddler grip wasn’t a rock at all, and its smooth surface shimmered in the sunlight like a gemstone. The translucent shade of turquoise reminded me of crystal-clear waters captured in images on postcards from paradise.

It was sea glass, and it was love at first sight.

We spent the rest of our afternoon pacing the water’s edge, heads down and eyes straining. By the time the sun was dipping below the horizon, we had collected a handful of treasure in glittering shades of blue, white, green, and purple. When we got home, we placed our treasure in a small glass bowl on our kitchen windowsill and pulled out the computer for an impromptu science lesson.

Sea glass originates from pieces of ordinary glass jars, bottles, windows, or containers—items we might consider trash. They somehow end up in the ocean where the salty waves and the pull of the tides tumble them around and around. Over the course of years—even decades—the shards of glass take on a frosted appearance. The sharp edges are worn away until each piece of glass becomes a smooth, soft, colorful work of art…

To read more about how God used sea glass to show me more of Him, please click through to The Glorious Table: https://theglorioustable.com/2019/06/oceans-of-grace-womens-devotional/