In the dark, early hours of Christmas Eve 2017, I grabbed my laptop and the largest mug of coffee I could cram in a cupholder and drove some lonely country back roads to Children’s Lake in Boiling Springs, Pennsylvania. More than just a pretty spot to feed the ducks or catch a rainbow trout, this piece of land holds a deeper meaning to the Richey family. It was there, on a wooden bench near the Appalachian Trail Conservancy building, that I knew after our 2nd date that I would marry the guy sitting next to me. It’s where we took our kids with a bag of stale bread to feed the Mallard ducks, only to be chased down by the invasive Canada geese. And it was on that Christmas Eve morning when I felt God’s presence fill my Ford Explorer no less than He could in a church sanctuary. From my opened laptop, words appeared on my screen like the mist rising from the lake.
After a 25-year hiatus, I was writing again.
Like glamorized boot camp, 2018 was a year of working my writing muscles in cozy coffee shops and isolated spots to catch the sunrise. As the year made its way into the history books, I finally built up enough confidence to believe I could write that book, or at the very least, submit my pieces to periodicals where people would actually read them. 2019 held such promise, but God had other plans.
It was as though someone rearranged the furniture.
In January 2019, my dad had a stroke two weeks after his 84th birthday. Over the next four months, in steady, agonizing increments, we watched him become the worst of who he could be, regressing to the behavior of a child. It’s hard to decide if it was more difficult to watch the carnage unfold from our own eyes or observe our mom see it through hers. Planning his funeral opened up old wounds that I thought healed years ago and compelled me to see myself in a completely different light. I was no longer Martin Lewis’s daughter, which held its own loss because it was part of a tightly-held identity that I was born with. Further, the depression was too deep and the anger too intense for me to place my hands on a keyboard. I stopped writing, and a little piece of me died with him.
On Father’s Day of that year, a month after my dad passed, I was sitting in the new addition of the church lobby when a pastor, who I’d never spoken to, inexplicably came over, made conversation, and prayed with me. Two and a half years later, a third of the room of my mom’s funeral was taken over by folks at Living Water. That’s the kind of people we worship with.
From August until December 2019, while God collected my tears and put them into a bottle (Psalms 56:8), I poured them into my writing. As I went back to my coffee shops and favorite parking spots, I felt God unlocking doors, allowing me the freedom to write about growing up with deaf parents, still careful to honor them with my words. It was an exhilarating time of self-discovery, and I was more hopeful than ever. 2020 would be my year. But we all know what happened…
COVID-19 rearranged the furniture.
In the early days of quarantine, I swapped my laptop for my sewing machine and furiously made cloth facemasks until they were obsolete. Finally, in April of 2021, I blew the dust off my waiting laptop, went to church in the pre-dawn Sunday hours, and sat in the relative comfort of my Explorer, writing while I watched people file into the parking lot. As autumn submitted to winter, I reluctantly went inside the church and gravitated to that familiar seating arrangement where our pastor prayed for me. But then something crazy happened...
Curious and friendly people approached and engaged me in conversation, occasionally offering wild speculations about what I was doing with that purple laptop. Sabotaging the live stream and reporting questionable behavior to church staff like a spy were among my favorites. Alternating between playful conversation and thought-provoking topics, this awkward soul made friends across the spectrum in a way that only God could do. It was also in that arena where I got to know a fella who gave me a chance to write for the church blog. Oh, for the love of God’s perfect timing.
And just when I thought this cozy Sunday morning routine was eternal, they literally rearranged the furniture.
Unlike the sneak attacks of my dad’s passing and COVID-19, we were told of this change several weeks prior, assuring us it was for the good of the congregation and the flow of traffic in the lobby. Skeptical, I felt like a homeowner along the I-83 corridor being evicted under the authority of eminent domain. Concerned about tarnishing my Christian testimony, I plastered a smile while inwardly thinking things would not be the same.
It turns out I was right.
That Sunday morning, like a brat, I decided to hate it before even rounding the corner to take it all in. But it was undeniably inviting, and as I tested out each seat and vantage point like I was picking the perfect seat for a Hershey Bears hockey game, I saw that things would not only be different, but they would be better. The past several weeks have proven this true. If you don’t believe me, go check it out!
You can pick your parallel to my cheesy euphemism, but I see God rearranging the furniture as testing our faith and allowing us to jam our tender toes in wooden corners when we walk in darkness. It’s a harsh lesson to embrace, but James, the brother of Jesus who (fun fact) didn’t believe until after the resurrection, spells this out pretty clearly in chapter 1:2-4.
And since I’ve already blown up my self-imposed word count, you can’t deny Proverbs 16:9.
This far-fetched dream of being a writer, which began in middle school, hasn’t worked out the way I planned, yet God, in his unfathomable love, has kept the dream alive by rearranging the furniture a staggering number of times. Perhaps he’s doing it to shape the goal to honor him completely, or perhaps he’s shaping me into a better writer. Either way, I have seen God’s faithfulness in my life and can trust His plan.
If you’re a devoted follower of Jesus, you can too.
Wonderful lesson to remember! Thanks for sharing your God given gift
I love your wit.
Thank you Janet