Believe,  Change,  Goodness,  Stories

how to craft an artisan healing


I may decide not to eat that last bite.   I can let myself be done.  Even though this is a perfect crispy duck egg, and it’s my first time trying duck eggs.  I’m a fan.

Tiny intentional acts matter inside us at times when we feel as if our season has been handed to us like a deli number.

duck eggs. have mercy.

And while I’m going Yoda, let’s agree to never underestimate the spiritual value of a stellar sensory experience to touch a place nobody can reach.

Wendy sells duck eggs down the street at The Blue Bowl, a country store we just discovered.  We are in the new house now, the answer to everyone’s prayers (thank you), and even though we picked out most of what surrounds us and supports us, it’s still a vast world we’re exploring — little by little and bite by bite.

Although we’ve left the vessel that was our wilderness and the world has stopped bobbing on water, I still need a new issue of freedom from the expectation that life has returned to normal.

It’s safe to say we’re all still a stone’s throw from “fine” but I can see it from here.

We Sort-of Dissaparated

In Harry Potter’s world, characters dissaparate  or teleport, but the rest of us muggles get some process of migration when we relocate.   For us, it has felt like the house fire crowbarred us out of the where we lived and catapulted us to some temporary dwellings, and then seven weeks later, with the help of a small but motivated army of builders, lenders, realtors, and insurance angels/agents, we landed here.

The problem is I have gaps.

We did extraordinary things to choose and buy a new house that was nearly finished, and thankfully we were free to do that as renters who’d been house-hunting.  From the fire, we walked away with what we could, and got to work on making fast essential decisions and begging God for strength and favor.

He delivered those things tenderly in time-release doses.

Just the same, in our middle world, we often felt volleyed between grief and celebration.  Even nearly a month after moving to our home, I am jet lagged from the force of all this change.  My body wakes up in our bed with sunrise calling to me from the back yard, but part of me is still walking from Manchester to Deerfield, carrying a suitcase of random articles I alone can identify.


Fresh Liberties

If you ask me what I need, I might just smile.  I’ve been keeping things on social light and airy.  I’m candidly relieved, but look again and I’m raising a timid hand, as if I need a hall pass to breathe.

You might recognize the distant weariness from the times you’ve seen it on your face.  We are so good at talking about kick-starts and destinations, but the places in between those preferable states are unmoored in language.

Oh, friend, I’m fighting to keep pouring out together.  It’s a hell of a lot easier for me to stay quiet until the full beam of my smile returns.  To hide the glory under a veil as it fades.   Letting my story out to preach feels vain most days –  but, I surrender that.

I believe there is a sterling reason to be open about what these complex seasons can win for us, we who hope past what we see.  If I ask you to bear me over this threshold on the way to full joy, I gift you permission, as well, I hope.  Take your own time and rest when it’s heavy.

It starts very small.

Oh, I know.  We want our solutions in one svelte Amazon Prime delivery.  But healing is granular, isn’t it?   It begins in the environment of the mind.

Moving to a new place has given me a beautiful change of scenery.  I’m taking advantage of each small grace, so, while I pray and work and write and bake and text (these are things I’m doing a lot of), I’m practicing fresh liberties by reminding myself that:

  • It’s okay to be soul-level happy, even though it feels out of control.
  • I can leave most of what I write in drafts.
  • I may drink too much coffee and drive too far to get it for a while.
  • It’s my turn to say “yes” when good people overflow with kindness. The in-and-out breath of love requires this.
  • No one will hate me if the thank-you-note is late.
  • It’s all right to post pictures of my new kitchen knowing someone will be jealous instead of generous.
  • I have permission to be misunderstood and refuse to rush over to sweep up your side of that.

These liberties catch the door frames of my thoughts on the way through sometimes, sticky and unsure if they’re welcome.  It takes patience.  I have not been so kind to myself before.

You too?  Oh, I wish you were here.  I’d bake you something sweet at which you would balk, saying, “Oh no, I shouldn’t.”  and I would stuff your pockets.  Can you receive your own kindness instead?  Borrow some of mine.  A little self-serve mercy, goes such a long way.

Take some for the road. Together we can craft an artisan healing.  The very one we need; handmade, not hand-me-down.

One Comment

  • Lori Chartier

    Hand made… not hand me down!!! Wow, this is so beautiful. Have been so encouraged these days by your honesty, your faith and the way God has created you to express it. Love ❤️ Thank you!

Don't be shy...add your thoughts here.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: