Swing

I was flying. No really. My arms raised to the side, my feet below, I was soaring around and around through the vast blue sky.

I hadn't been on these things in years, partly due to my weak stomach since having kids. The chairs would lift me up and swing me around and around, and to a person who could hardly stomach a regular swing on a regular swing set, the prospect sounded rather unpleasant. But it had been a good day, and maybe because of being nearly three years postpartum or because of some other reason, I had gone on a number of rides that day and felt only slightly dizzy with no hint of nausea at all.

And so I walked out onto the platform when they opened the gates and selected a chair on the outside, knowing that the outside chairs would fly higher. I buckled myself in, clicking the little chain between my legs to the waist bar that hung in front of my belly. I looked up and inspected the chains that would hold me. Was I too heavy for these? Maybe I should reconsider. They looked strong, but I wasn't exactly a lightweight, and certainly weighed more than the many kids that surrounded me. A closer scan of my ride-mates showed a good number of adults as well, however, some of which were larger than me and so I told myself I'd have to trust.

Trust. I would have to trust.

What is this trust thing all about anyway? What is this thing that I'm being pushed to learn about, that causes all sorts of questioning, doubting, complaining and whining, and yet that leads me to a deeper understanding of myself and God, and the intricate nuances of our relationship? Did I really willingly sign up for it? Would I have, had I known how long this house sale would take? Would I have, had I known the directions Ryan and I would be nudged? Would I have, had I had an idea of the level of patience that would be required of me?

It has been months. The house has had a few bites, but the biters have fallen off the radar and disappeared. We have had, to this day, fifty-four showings.

Think about that for a moment. Fifty-four. Fifty-four times that we scrubbed and cleaned and tidied and diffused aromas and vacuumed and tucked junk into random drawers and hurried out of the house, often not treating the girls with the respect and kindness they should be treated with. Fifty-four times we have waited to hear how they liked the house, only to get the same message, which strangely reminds me of my high school report cards.

"Laura is such a bright, smart girl. If she would just try a little harder, spend a little extra time on her homework, concentrate a little harder, she would do SO WELL."

"The house is beautiful!  The lot is just great! If there was an ensuite, or the kitchen cabinets were newer, or the basement was finished a little better, it would be perfect!"

That feedback, just like those report cards, gets old really, really quickly. In school, I felt that I wasn't "school smart" and that was the bottom line. In the housing market, I feel worse and worse about how our house looks and feels. I ask Ryan whether we shouldn't think of painting, or replacing the bathroom tile, or re-facing the kitchen cabinets. But all these things are acts of desperation, and we are not desperate.

I mean, we're not desperate in that way. We have a bigger job to do than simply sell the house. We have this job of learning, stretching ourselves and obeying the command we both feel so deeply within us:

Don't control this one. Let ME take care of it. Have patience. Trust me.

Trust.

I inhaled and exhaled deeply. The safety instructions were spoken over a speaker system and then the bell sounded. The music began and the chairs were lifted up into the air. Then the whole thing started turning. Higher and higher I flew as it raised me higher into the air. In the first moments I was taken aback by the heights I reached, and the stark realization that if this chain did indeed snap under my weight, I'd be flung either into the shallow water on the one side of the ride or the concrete buildings and walkways on the other side. And then there came a point at which I realized that I had a choice to make. I could choose to ride in fear of disaster, of the catastrophic event in which I would be flung out to my death, or I could choose to trust that the ride was safe, that the men and women who maintained it had done their job well, that the chains were indeed strong and sure.

I chose to trust. I threw caution and fear to the wind and opened my arms wide, soaring through the sky, letting my feet go limp beneath me, and I threw my head back and laughed, cheered, hooted and hollered. It was a moment of complete trust and complete freedom.

I sit in that feeling now, back home where there is no chain threatening to break, where there is no high flying chair. There is only a small computer chair sitting at a desk, with me in the safety of it, planted on the floor. And yet I sit in that feeling, as I was led to by a wise friend yesterday, and I live in the moment of being held by arms that can hold, and being allowed to feel true freedom, fearless and wild.

I trust, then, in this same wild way, that He who has called Ryan and I to NOT control this, to have PATIENCE, to TRUST, will do as He says and fill us with a deep sense of knowing his care, his arms that can hold us and lead us and direct us. It is in the midst of this knowledge, and only here, that I feel at peace.