A few days ago, a friend and I set off in a little white car from Lynchburg, Virginia, to make the nearly 20-hour trek to Wausau, Wisconsin for Christmas break. It was exhilarating, to be sure. But more than that, the numerous quiet hours stuck behind the wheel of a car, listening to the steady hum of the engine and bemusedly watching my weary travel companion attempt to sleep in the seat beside me, provided a much-appreciated opportunity to think.

It has often seemed to me that the human existence is somewhat cyclical with regard to the emotional states an individual passes through. There are seasons in life when it feels like the heavens are silent, like God has hidden Himself, like the answers which we so desperately seek are nowhere to be found, and furthermore, like no one particularly cares--that we are abandoned to struggle absolutely alone through the moments of our greatest necessity and despair. (Granted, this sensation is just a feeling, but for the vast majority of humanity, feelings are, in that particular moment, their reality).

There are also seasons when one feels that the sun, the moon, and the stars have all propitiously aligned, that the world is only beautiful, and never horrifying, that God is particularly close, that His love is exceptionally real, that the answers to life’s deepest and most critical questions are within reach, that humanity beams upon us with affection and approbation…in short, that all is right with the world.

I have come to realize, over the course of several years and many conversations, that this sequential ebb and flow of the emotional tides is not unique to me—rather, it seems to characterize the vast majority of human kind to a greater or lesser degree, especially in our spiritual walks. And I begin to suspect that this is by design.

After all, the facts—the foundational truths upon which our worldview and our lives are constructed—don’t change. Our circumstances might, and our feelings definitely will, but if we act based upon the Biblical truth that we know, and allow what we know to rule our feelings, this creates an emotional maturity and stability that creates a solid foundation for the building of a robust character…

These were the thoughts that were spinning around behind my eyeballs as I drove through the long hours of a frigid winter night…and somewhere around hour twelve of the trip, I was reminded of a passage from The Screwtape Letters in which Lewis offered some characteristically perspicacious insight into the matter. This captures the perspective of a demon writing to his nephew, Screwtape, with some words of advice regarding the best ways in which to destroy the human soul:

“You must have often wondered why the Enemy does not make more use of His power to be sensibly present to human souls in any degree He chooses and at any moment. But you now see that the Irresistible and the Indisputable are the two weapons which the very nature of His scheme forbids Him to use. Merely to override a human will (as His felt presence in any but the faintest and most mitigated degree would certainly do) would be for Him useless. He cannot ravish. He can only woo. For His ignoble idea is to eat the cake and have it; the creatures are to be one with Him, but yet themselves; merely to cancel them, or assimilate them, will not serve. He is prepared to do a little overriding at the beginning. He will set them off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs—to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish.

It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best…He cannot “tempt” to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there, He is pleased even with their stumbles.

Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks around upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken…and still obeys.” –Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis (p. 39)

It is commonly hypothesized that before setting out on a long and arduous journey to the nether regions of the world, one ought to look over his or her vehicle in order to ensure that all of the parts of aforementioned vehicles are functioning properly and in order.

It was on account of this hypothesis that I found myself at Walmart this morning, hunting up and down the automotive aisle to find windshield wipers to replace the rather dilapidated set which had come with my car.

Now this whole process of thinking about cars and doing things with them required a somewhat different kind of brain power than I am accustomed to using in my little library world, and perhaps this is why I began to feel a bit overheated at some point prior to the beginning of the wiper shopping process, but however that may be, I had decided before entering the store that I no longer needed my coat, so I was traipsing around in my shirtsleeves, bemusedly watching these poor Virginians shiver in the sunny, slushy, sloppy weather.

I found the automotive aisle in Walmart, (this was a somewhat momentous event), and with a great deal of much-appreciated and much-needed phone coaching from my awesome dad, I was eventually successful in selecting two black rather rubbery things which looked wiperesque in nature and were apparently of the appropriate size for my car. Step one complete. Check.

Purchase wiper blades. Check.

Find car in parking lot (why on earth does EVERYONE drive white cars?! Makes this step so confusing!). Check.

I decided to put the new wipers on right there in the parking lot, since the sun was out, and the world was happy, and I…was also happy, mostly because I’d found my car.

I managed to get the old wiper blade off of my vehicle, but the instructions on the back of the new wiper blades were somewhat incomprehensible to me. I’d been standing there for several minutes, fiddling with the new wiper, feeling very blonde and very female, and looking inquisitively at certain aspects of the old one with my head cocked thoughtfully to one side, when a friendly middle-aged black dude strolled up with a confident smile.

“Darlin’, are you havin’ some issues?” he laughed, not even waiting for an answer as he took the wiper blade out of my hand. Apparently he’d been watching me struggle for longer than I knew.
I grinned a little sheepishly, and admitted that I was apparently lacking in many of the basic car skills that every competent woman ought to possess (silently vowing to myself to spend a number of hours in the garage with my dad over Christmas break to remedy these grievous deficiencies). He laughed again, and looked at me sideways as he effortlessly snapped the wiper blade onto my car.

“Are you a college girl?”

I nodded.

“Waell, then, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. In college, all most girls know is gas and go.”
“I, uh, know how to check the oil…?” I mumbled, distracted by his apparent proficiency in changing wiper blades.

“Are you a mechanic?” I asked finally, a wee bit envious of his skill.

“Naw, I’ve just been around, lived some life, you know? You’ll get there.” He laughed again, finishing his installation of the second wiper blade. He grabbed an alcohol wipe from his car then, and carefully explained to me that after installing a new set of blades, one should “wipe the rubber coating” off so the windshield won’t streak the first time you use them. I watched in silent admiration, and listened to everything he said, and nodded appreciatively, and thanked him for his time, and marveled to myself at how nice some people will be to a complete stranger.

“Now honey, you just take these old blades, and you throw ‘em away…and for the love of heaven, put a coat on yourself! And you have a nice day.” He gave me an enthusiastic high five, and with that, he was off, smiling, whistling a little under his breath…leaving me behind with a rather broad smile on my face as well…and an armful of trashed windshield wiper blades.

I love my life.

This morning I found a box outside my front door…with my name on it. I love it when that happens. It always feels like the beginning of a big mystery to me. Although, the mystery usually ends as soon as I open the box. Whatever.

Using my clever deductive reasoning skills, I gathered—from the return address—that this particular box came from my beloved family. Now, which family members, I still didn’t know. But at least, it was a start, because knowing the home of origin eliminated some billions of other possibilities—as well as decreasing the probability that the box contained explosive devices designed to help me meet my Maker sooner.

Inside the box, there was a letter, well, actually two of them…and a bunch of other stuff. The first letter, which was from my dad, opened as follows:

“Dear Darling Thea,
Mom says I can’t send candy, as you are more practical now and we need to send more practical stuff—don’t know what that has to do with it…”

I laughed. My dad has been sending me massive boxes of candy since I first left for college some three or four years ago. And not just space-filler candy—my dad is one of the best candy shoppers out there, and if he sends you something, it’s gonna be good. In fact, he was the one who single-handedly kept my entire hall supplied with Snickers candy bars during finals week of my first semester freshman year.

I could tell that he was somewhat disappointed that Mom felt I had outgrown the need for candy…I strongly suspect that he used to kind of get excited about the candy shopping thing more than he wants to admit. (I’ll admit that I was always pretty excited to be on the receiving end…it’s like…Christmas. Only you don’t know it coming. Awesome!)

So, partly to be funny, and partly to prove a point, and partly just because he’s random like that, my dad had put together a box of practical things for me. Made. My. Day.

The first thing I pulled out of the box was an MRE…which, I have to admit, is going to be highly practical at some point. Very, very practical. Plus, I’ve never actually HAD an MRE, so I’m pretty pumped about this opportunity to create a new life experience. (Score two for dad!)

The second thing that tumbled out onto my covers was a number of little boxes. Three of them were tea, and two of them were the same KIND of tea (I think this may be his way of telling me that I’m supposed to acquire an addiction for Sweet & Spicy Good Earth tea), and then, just for good measure, there was a box of hot cocoa mix. Whoa. Again, very, very practical. Not gonna lie, I was feeling pretty impressed by this point about my dad’s ability to pick out practical things. The third thing that fell out (and landed on my foot and tried to murder one of my toes) was a little jar of hand cream that I strongly suspect was my mom’s idea. Totally useful. I’m deeply grateful. And again, definitely practical. Good going, guys.

And the fourth and final thing was a little Ziploc bag on which my dad had written “Practical Stuff.” It was packed with gum, and a pen, and GermEx, and toothpaste, and Emergen-C packets, and cough drops, and…dried cranberries? I really laughed then, because I KNOW that that one was assembled just to prove a point to my mom.

And then it was time to go back and do second inspection...after all, what's actually in an MRE? And do I really want to know?

Yeah, you're right. I really don't want to know.

After all, anything that's wrapped in brown plastic and labeled "vegetarian" is sure to be healthy AND tasty, right? Of course right.

Thanks guys. You never cease to amaze me.

A couple of days ago, a bunch of spontaneous college boys and a couple of their naïve female friends packed into four cars and drove to Devil’s Marble Yard to engage in the age-old pastime of mountain climbing, a somewhat mind-numbing sport that pits man against the unforgiving incline of an apparently never-ending upward slope of earth and rock.

It was a Thursday afternoon of finals week, and I wasn’t sure that I could afford the time—but I reminded myself of the fact that time is a gift which we must invest in memory-making as well as studying, and then came to the conclusion that I couldn’t afford NOT to invest the time wandering around the mountain with this lively group of young people, because who knew when or if the next opportunity would come?

To be honest, this past Thursday, I needed the mountains. There are periods in our lives when we need to climb—to feel our strength draining away into the remorseless stones of a stolid and silent mass of rocky barrenness… to grit our teeth and work until physically we have nothing left to give, and we’re forced to stop and wipe the sweat out of our eyes and listen to the silence and the eerie moaning of the wind, and let the vastness of our surroundings sink in deep and permeate to the very depths of our being…

As I stood alone on the side of the mountain, surrounded by boulders the size of young elephants, there was no one within sight or earshot, and I was reminded of something that Elizabeth Elliot wrote in her book, Passion and Purity. She explained that “waiting silently is the hardest thing of all…the things that we feel most deeply, we ought to learn to be silent about, at least until we have talked them over thoroughly with God.” She’s right…but sometimes holding everything inside requires so much effort that the thoughts you attempt to hold back threaten to strangle you the minute your guard is relaxed even the slightest shade.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been wrestling—almost subconsciously—with an ever-increasing sense of loss. I realized it that day on the mountain…and again today, when it finally got the best of me, and I spent a few bittersweet moments sobbing over a philosophy assignment at my desk.

Why? Because I’m going home in a week. Going home because my little sister’s getting married. And I’m gonna miss her. A lot. Maybe even more than a lot.

All semester, ever since last summer, I’ve been running from the fact that this change was going to become a permanent reality…that eventually, she was going to leave—for good—and start a new life somewhere else. Subconsciously, maybe I thought that if I just kept busy with school, with ministry opportunities, with whatever or whoever would keep me from having time to think, the change would never become permanent. But now that break is less than one week away, the illusion of permanence and stability and changelessness is crumbling rapidly.

I know that when I go home, on some level, it’ll be to say goodbye to her…I know that after this, we won’t see each other nearly as much, won’t talk as often or as long, won’t be close in the same ways that we were…and I know that that’s ok—good, even…probably great, beautiful, and wonderful. But as with most major transitions in life (at least, the ones that I can remember), there’s a keen sense of loss, a dull aching emptiness that you feel in the moment…until it subsides with time, or until something else takes its place.

There will be something that will come to fill the void. I know that, because there always is. It’s the nature of our God to take us, and comfort us, and show us a new aspect of His character and His compassionate heart for mankind in the moments when we are most vulnerable and most needy and most alone... and then He gives us a new task, fills our lives with different people to pour into, and transplants us to give us more room to grow.

He will do all of those things in the next few years, both for Michelle, and for me. There’s a part of me that wishes I could know what that process will look like, but I’ve come to understand that often it’s the process of waiting without knowing that prepares us to better appreciate the gifts that God gives to us in His own perfect timing.

And so I wait. And I promise myself that I will learn to love the waiting, and the uncertainty, and even the pain…because I know that I know, in the deepest, most private corner of my heart, that our God is one who makes all things beautiful in His time…

Had a conversation in the library with a friend named Darryl who…frequently sees things from a different perspective than I do.

We were talking about dating relationships, because Darryl has a rather pessimistic outlook on life and relationships and many things happy. (He has just a bit of an argumentative streak, too…meaning most of our conversations would look like arguments to the average observer).

I don’t remember how it came up, but I told him at one point in the conversation that I hoped he married someone who was super sweet and would never argue with him. His face registered shock, and then deep dismay.

“Who’d wanna marry someone they couldn’t fight with?!” he protested. “That would be BORING.”

“I think it’d be good for your character,” I said absent-mindedly, not really watching his face.

“Fine!” he fumed, "I hope that you marry someone who will never fight with YOU either, then!”

“I hope so too!” I said, laughing.

Darryl was seriously put out by this point.

“Gosh!” he spluttered, “that’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard IN. MY. LIFE.” And with that he picked up his book bag and stormed out of the library…

I was laughing too hard to really notice where he went…