Author: Janessa Cypher

Originally from Canada, Janessa is a mom of three who serves alongside her husband with Cultivate Discipleship Ministries in Northern Uganda. She has a passion to write of the beauty found in brokenness and loves to create using whatever materials she can find. She is often found sipping an iced coffee while homeschooling, creating art with her kiddos, or enjoying the nature surrounding their home in the African bush. You can find Janessa online at WildernessWriting.blogspot.com.

Embracing New Chapters, Trusting the Same Author

Hidden under a canopy of outstretched branches, I pause for a moment to take in the view before me. Layers of green intermingle as they nestle the banks of a gurgling creek. The rhythm is steady and reassuring as the cool water rushes over smooth stones on its way downstream. This is the first moment I have felt a sense of calm flood my thoughts and body in a while.

This week, my husband is the missions speaker at a summer camp he attended as a child and worked at as a teenager. He’s taken us for a walk to see the wooden bridge he helped his grandfather build when he was a boy and has shared many memories of his time growing up here. Our own boys are attending as junior high campers, and it’s been a stark reminder that a lot has changed in our lives.

It’s been over five years since I’ve been able to travel back to Pennsylvania and the first time our family has traveled back together. Spending the majority of the past decade ministering in Northern Uganda and journeying through a lengthy adoption process is where most of our story has been lived. And now that we are back “home” on our first furlough, embracing this space of unsettledness has been very overwhelming at times.

I have known the Lord and experienced His faithfulness in the wilderness of waiting, but in this season of transition I’m learning to trust Him in new ways. So, while enjoying an unexpected moment of quiet, a quote by Aljean Anthony dances around my mind as the water ripples along its merry way: “He’s carried you this far, hasn’t He? Don’t you think He could carry you even further? Trust in Him.”

It’s as if it has been bookmarked in my thoughts, a reminder for moments when I feel the unsteadiness of this land in between. I wasn’t expecting such a chaotic re-entry after spending so many challenging years abroad. My bucket list did not include three unexpected trips to the emergency room or a mad search for medication to treat a tropical parasite that’s not available in the USA. Then there were two weeks of sickness that hit our whole family, travel plans derailed, and the celebration of homecoming delayed.

After all I’ve experienced living a life overseas, I should be more accustomed to life not going according to my plan, but here I am again, wondering why.

I can list every time the Lord faithfully provided and carried us in our waiting season just as the Lord provided for the Israelites in theirs. He led them through the wilderness with manna, quail, sandals that didn’t wear out, water spilling from rocks, a pillar of fire, and the covering of a cloud. Yet, the story of the Israelites crossing the Jordan River in Joshua 3:15-17 offers encouragement to me right now.

The crossing of the Jordan River represented the transition from wilderness into the Promised Land. I’ve watched the Lord dry up the rising floodwaters in our life and allow us to walk through to the other side. But that doesn’t mean the next season will be perfect to make up for the former one.

For the Israelites there would be more battles to overcome, with plenty of challenges awaiting and numerous adjustments made for a new lifestyle — for their dependence on the Lord still needed to deepen. Yet even though the manna stopped falling as the Israelites entered a new land, the Lord’s presence, guidance, comfort, provision, and love never did. It just looked different.

The Lord promises to continue the journey with us, just as He declared to the Israelites in Isaiah 43:2, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze” (ESV).

Maybe you are walking through your own Jordan River or standing at the edge of your “Promised Land” — whether it’s preparing move to a new country, transitioning back “home,” experiencing a big life change, celebrating ministry goals met, overcoming obstacles, or straddling a new wilderness of uncertainty. God’s presence is steadfast even when we waver in the challenges that come our way.

On the fourth morning of summer camp, we awake to a thick layer of smoke hiding everything, the blue skies overcome with heavy haze from fires burning elsewhere. It’s another reminder that while we may not know what’s coming or can’t see through the unknown, the Lord remains the unchanged, and the story He is writing is a good one. I can have peace as I enter this new chapter because I know the author.

Recently, I’ve been leafing through the stack of journals I’ve lugged back across the ocean. These journals hold the struggle, the worries, the laments, the prayers, the joys, and the praises over the past number of years. But mostly they declare the Lord’s faithfulness in my life. They serve as a reminder of how the Lord has provided in seasons of hardship and struggle.

How He restores what has been lost.

How He revives what is hopeless.

How He redeems what is broken.

How He rewrites our pain into His promise of an abundant life.

God’s glory is in the gold lettering of our story, chapter by chapter. And oh, how He has written and woven such a testimony of His goodness and grace into our lives. His purpose was penned long before I was born, and when I don’t understand or when all seems lost, still I believe that the Author of Life is at work redeeming my story and yours.

In each and every delay.

In each and every disappointment.

In each and every heartache.

The battle may be great, but God is far greater. All these years of wild words planted, hopes deferred, dreams surrendered, and in the promises restored, the Lord is faithful. I’m slowly beginning to make peace with the understanding that I may not feel as rooted during the next few months as I had hoped.

But in acknowledging that, I know that I am rooting deeper in the One who steadies my heart when everything seems unsteady. I am tethered to an anchor far more secure than any house, or person, or thing that brings comfort. He has indeed carried me this far, and He will surely carry me further.

Ready or Not, Here We Come: Our First Furlough After 10 Years

Black bins with yellow lids are beginning to fill the empty spaces in our house and a six-week countdown of little airplanes is now displayed on the fridge. I’ve got a stack of homeschooling books piled on the floor and a notebook full of lists started (an attempt to organize my brain a little more).

Some of our better-looking clothes have already been packed away, along with a few of our favorite games and a candle labeled Home, Sweet Home. Memory books with dust engrained over the years, favorite stuffed animals from earlier days, and my collection of words — poetry and prayers penned in the longest and hardest season of my life — are all carefully placed beside the bins, nestled against the wall.

We are currently planning our very first furlough back to North America. I have spent a total of nine weeks in North America over the past seven years. It’s recently dawned on me that we will arrive on the exact day we first arrived in Uganda back in 2016. We will celebrate ten years abroad by being welcomed back home to North America. A whole lot of life has been lived in the past decade, most of it in a very uncertain season for our family — with no end date, no return trips planned, or any idea of how the Lord would make a way.

It’s been a life lived dependent on the Lord in every area.

When circumstances crashed wildly and obliterated our expectations of serving abroad years ago, we were left with hands open in full surrender. But I can testify that the Lord has met me in this waiting place and even now as I’m trying to walk in a new space — transition.

It will be the first time we pack up the house to keep all the living things and dust from descending while we are away for nine months. It will be the first time to meet family members in person, the first time to experience playing with cousins, the first time to travel across the ocean with every member of our family, the first time to fully feel the relief of a challenging adoption journey, and the first break from an extended time serving abroad.

So, imagine what a gift it was to feel so understood in this new season of uncertainty. I couldn’t believe the timing of the conversation with a friend back home last week. It had been years since we had spoken in real time, and it was as if I was looking at a reflection of my own weary and joy-filled heart. Like we had been traveling parallel journeys unknowingly.

We chatted early into the morning my time (thank you eight-hour time difference!), but it was such a gift of God’s goodness to me and a reminder that He has gone before us even now.

For so long I have sought to discover the goodness found even in the hard, uncertain, and lengthy waiting place. Honestly, it has all caught me by surprise, with desperate prayers answered in recent months, absolute miracles paving the way, and a new season of celebration drawing us in.

I am so incredibly grateful, and I’m feeling the weight of what this life has been.

I feel as if I’m limping out of a war zone and shots are still being fired even now with the end in sight. I’ve never experienced being in transition like this before. My emotions are spilling over in tears of grief and joy and relief. My arms feel too weak to hold all this goodness and joy bubbling, and I could shout it from the mountain top of how faithful the Lord has been.

Even when things became really hard.
Even when chaos threatened to destroy our very hearts.
Even when saying no to corruption, knowing it would cost us time.
Even when choosing His way meant dying to what we wanted.

How gracious the Lord is to remind me that I have been securely held this entire time. By the hands who have helped us to take hold of our children, by financially covering us to keep serving others across the ocean, by cultivating a ministry that’s thriving, by the persistent prayers of those far away, and in all the ways the Lord has written His provision and His faithfulness into our testimony.

Even now, as I’m caught in the middle of feeling a whole lot of emotions.

The loss and the joy.
The celebration and the sorrow.
The overwhelm and the excitement.
The gratitude and the utter exhaustion.

Oh, the tears that have been falling as I struggle to find my footing in a new season of living in the AND.

Perhaps it’s the relief I am bound to feel as I’m embraced in a long-awaited hug, or meeting nieces and nephews for the first time, or the joy of seeing my children experience everything (and I mean everything) in North America for the first time. Maybe it’s the walks in parks with leaves changing colors, or knowing there are friends walking similar journeys back home, just traveling down different roads.

I’m learning to hold space for the whole story, because it’s not all glory and it’s not all pain. I have discovered there is a great deal of peace to be found in the wilderness seasons, but what about the grief I’m feeling in a season filled with so much joy? It’s a tender place of straddling the unknown of the “not yet” and the joyful celebration of “look what’s coming.”

In recent days, new immigration changes in our home country are implicating our already complicated life and we’ve just experienced the Lord move in an impossible situation that loomed before us. And He has made things even better than we could have imagined.

If you find yourself in at the threshold of a new season or you are feeling the tension of grief and joy, I pray this place of transition leads you to root even deeper in the Lord. Though the waves of uncertainty are trying to overturn us, though we may be tossed about by circumstances out of our control, He is in the boat with us saying, “Peace, be still.”

The words of Psalm 40:1-3 have been resounding in my heart lately:

I waited patiently for the Lord, and he turned to me and heard my cry for help. He brought me up from a desolate pit, out of the muddy clay, and set my feet on a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God.

Many will see and fear, and they will trust in the Lord.

God is at work in even the smallest details, even as I celebrate with tears flowing like little rivers of healing, embrace gratitude and the grieving, and live in the in-between places of this incredibly complicated life. I have known Him in the wilderness of waiting and persistent aching. And with a grief that lingers while praises pour from my lips, my heart is incredibly overwhelmed with the goodness of God. I can testify to His faithfulness as He continues to gently lead me in the uncertainty and the celebrating.

Lord, Is This Enough?

Her baby was nestled up to her, sleeping soundly despite the drumming coming from the church. I smiled as I approached her, reminiscing of days when my children were that small and snuggly. We chatted for a few minutes, and she shared that she felt bad arriving late, but was adjusting to a new sleep schedule with her baby.

I reassured her that taking care of her little one was more than enough in her new season of motherhood and being relatively new to the country herself. Of course, I find it’s always easier to encourage others, when after nearly a decade on the field, I still struggle sometimes.

From within the brick and cement, the thatched roof, and the wooden walls of a home made from scratch, ministry abroad looks quite different. It’s found in changing diapers, in preparing meals from limited ingredients, and in the slow days of teaching children to read. It’s there in the adapting, the trying, the recreating, the struggling, the failing, and the persevering. It’s filled with young mothers and those who are years deep into motherhood, who may be asking themselves, like me, “Lord, is this enough?”

In my mid-twenties, I spent a year serving abroad in Northern Uganda. I had the freedom to leave early or come home late, and I filled up my time with as many things as I could. I helped in a seventh-grade class and taught art at a primary school a few days a week. Then there was the discipleship group I led in the late afternoons, weekly gatherings with a small group of girls I mentored, the children’s home I volunteered in, and a lively Bible study with a group of tailors in the market.

“Lord, is this enough?”

Now, after nearly a decade on the field, this question still hovers like an overcast sky in the back of my mind. Honestly, every now and again, I find myself wondering if I’m doing enough. Sure, I took the big leap and answered the Lord’s call. I sold off many things, packed up my previous life, said many tear-filled goodbyes, and ventured out across the seas to form new roots and serve in a culture different from the one I was born in. However, the second time around I was no longer single, and I did it as a wife and a new mom.

Those first weeks after arriving with our twelve-month-old were completely overwhelming, despite my having lived in Uganda before. I found myself desperately trying to keep him away from snacking on cockroaches and cautiously anticipating his falls as he learned to toddle across the slick tile floors. I shooed away the neighbor’s chickens when they wandered into the living room and was overly anxious about making sure the mosquito net was tucked in around his crib.

I feared malaria, desperately fought off homesickness, and felt the loneliness of our new life far from the comfort of support. I was in cultural overload, adapting to serving abroad in a new role and struggling to create a new home abroad.

And yet, even in the sleepless nights with a toddler teething, I was asking, “Lord, is this enough?”

My mission hasn’t changed all that much over the years. It’s to collect leftover crumbs from peanut butter and jelly sandwiches off our speckled cement countertop. It’s to stay on top of laundry, anticipating whether or not the rain will hold off as we hang our clothes on the line. It’s to teach my own children while surrounded by the wild bush, and to create a home away from home where we can all grow roots deep and flourish well.

But is it enough?

Ultimately, we are all called to love the Lord and love others. God’s heart is for those who need to know Him and grow in deeper in Him — and His heart is also for our children. Isaiah 40:11 serves as such a wonderful reminder of what a treasure and absolute gift it is to serve my family as we serve abroad. It’s also a beautiful picture of how He cares for me.

He tends his flock like a shepherd;
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
He gently leads those that have young. (Isaiah 40:11)

Even now, I can hear the a cappella worship drifting in through the screened windows of our red brick house. A new group of students has arrived for this year’s discipleship course, and they’ve gathered together to begin their first week of class. While my husband serves our local community through teaching, discipleship, and leading a ministry less than a hundred feet away, I need reminders that the ministry the Lord has placed in my hands is no less important.

The following reflection questions have helped me as I learn to embrace the ministry of home, and perhaps they will bring encouragement to you too.

How is the Lord using motherhood to root me deeper in Him?

How am I using my gifts and skills to serve the Lord in this season of motherhood?

How can I use my home as a place to minister to others?

What new areas of ministry may the Lord be opening my heart to in this season?

Surprisingly, the Lord is bringing new opportunities right to our doorstep this year. Not only for a way to serve our community outside the walls of our home, but to do it alongside our three growing children. This is a new season for us. And while serving overseas does look very different for me as a mom compared to my early days serving in Uganda, there is an impactful ministry the Lord is calling forth, right here in the everyday mission of motherhood and home.

May He encourage our hearts when we struggle. May He be our comfort when we feel unsettled. May He continue to carry our children close to His heart. May He be our shepherd, leading us in every way.

May the Lord continue to guide us in this ministry of motherhood and home as we serve abroad, and may we continue to grow deeper in Him as we disciple and love those in our care. May we discover that not only is it enough, but that we are right where He has transplanted us to be.

Gathering His Goodness

Under a canopy of leafy green, two of my children sprawled out on top of a plaid picnic blanket. It was a cozy place to embrace a slow start to our morning. My youngest son was already focused on sketching tiny details from the leaf he’d plucked from a nearby tree. Across the blanket, my eldest carefully copied down the bark patterns of an unruly trunk, auburn with little canyons carved in the wood — a pathway for an army of ants to march steadily along.

While the boys were deep into their nature observations, my daughter slowly gathered flowers from around our yard. First, two zinnias of fuchsia and tangerine, their twisting and untamed stems held together tightly in hand. A morning glory of brilliant blue was added as she carefully took it off the vine, then a gardenia with its glorious fragrance, and lastly a marigold as yellow as the sunshine. She delicately laid down her bouquet on the blanket, dipped her paintbrush onto a palette of watercolors, and attempted to capture the homegrown beauty before her.

We’ve accrued quite a collection of nature observations from over the past few years. Most have been documented through rough pencil sketches and painted landscapes, while some have been crafted through poetry and written words. We have been learning to keep our eyes wide open to the detail waiting to be discovered in the wild land we’ve been transplanted into. Situated in rural Uganda, our very backyard is an observatory unlike anything I’ve ever known, and nature journaling has become a foundational teaching tool throughout our homeschooling journey and life abroad.

It’s also provided fertile soil for so many memories to be made. As we’ve explored the world outside our front door, we have found so much goodness. Whether documenting together under an umbrella of a dancing green, or counting tadpoles in a murky puddle of water, or in the unexpected discovery of seventeen colorful spiders tucked within a mud dabbers home — we try to embrace it all with an attitude of curiosity.

Yet, it’s become more than a science or language arts lesson; it’s an invitation to forage for God’s good gifts as we slow down long enough to appreciate His beauty, both hidden and on display. It’s become a guiding path enabling us to root ourselves in wonder of God’s creation and actively search for His fingerprints all around us.

The more I observe the Lord’s handiwork alongside my children, the deeper the words of Psalm 77:12 have engraved themselves into my heart, “I will ponder all your work and meditate on your mighty deeds.” Yet this verse is not only applicable when we pause in the busy pace of life and stoop to notice a new flower budding on a ruddy branch, but there in the middle of the unknowns, hardships, struggles in this ever-changing life abroad. There is a need to become a forager of His goodness, even when we can’t seem to make headway in our circumstance.

There is such visual beauty capturing this and exuding from the words of the Shepherd in Hannah Hurnard’s beloved book, Hinds Feet on High Places: “[But] always their greatest victories are like the wild flowers, those which one knows about. Learn this lesson now down here in the valley, Much Afraid, and when you get to steep places of the mountains it will comfort you.”

I have been wandering through the wilderness of waiting.

I have been discouraged in the desert of deferred hope and delays.

I have been in the valley, so low in the trenches of uncertainty.

Maybe you have too.

It could be a challenging situation with teammates, struggling with a bout of homesickness as we approach the upcoming holidays, dealing with constant illness, overwhelmed with ministry demands, struggling to raise the needed funds to remain on the field, missing the closeness of dear friends who’ve moved away, or perhaps entering into yet another season of transition yourself.

There’s been a thick fog wrapping itself around me as I’ve pressed on through the paths leading through the murkiness of wondering. I think I’ve always been searching for a glimpse of light beckoning me to follow, one unsteady footstep at a time. When you walk where there is no knowing, you must lean heavy into the only One who does know.

Recently coming out of a long six-year waiting season, I feel a prompting to gather up all the wild words I’ve sown into my multitude of weary-looking notebooks along the way. It’s not to say I’m completely in the clear, for there still is a long road ahead of me, but I’m finding a moment to catch my breath.

My heart is stirred as I still myself beside quiet waters of relief and allow space to flip through page after page of desperate prayers, laments, and poems I don’t even remember having written. Nestled within a stack of well used journals, I reflect on my own scattering of tear-filled entries — planted in faith and right there in the middle of my very own valley of waiting and wondering.

Yet, this gathering of words sown in barren places is already birthing so much new life in me. Like a meadow of abundance, these offerings now sprout up like little fierce green petitions — there deep in the mud and in all the uncultivated places where they were whispered in weariness, cried out in grief, and surrendered in promises buried deep. These plantings are a melody of deliberate praise, a hymn laced together with His faithfulness and having blossomed into a testimony of a trust that will continue to be made perfect in Him.

Whether you also find yourself cautiously walking through a valley of unknowns or clinging to a steep mountainside, know that your Shepherd is with you. Both in the low place or the one that brings us up high, we can proactively look for all the good things He has surrounded us with. When we pause to look deeper within, we can fully embrace the abundance of His goodness waiting to be discovered in times of reflection.

Peace in the Rumbling

Deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have gone over me. (Psalm 42:7)

A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting on a calico rock nestled alongside a little cascading stream. It was tucked away, a crevice of rushing water concealed by leaves of emerald and mossy branches. Its steady downward flow was so soothing to my weary soul.

Despite there being larger waterfalls in the area, this little series of rapids provided a steadiness my heart couldn’t help but fall into rhythm with. And though the water was murky from gathering soil particles, rocks, and mountain debris in this current rainy season, the coolness of those shallow waters was still very inviting. I stepped in up to my ankles and enjoyed the crisp cool as it seemed to flood all the parched places in me.

But can I be honest for a minute?

This year is proving itself to be exhausting in so many ways, and it’s been difficult for me to come to terms with that. I’m not sure if it’s because I long to appear strong, or wise, or graciously patient, or to avoid feeling like I’m failing. But it feels rather discouraging to still be standing in the same uncertain place where our family situation has lingered, for so many years with no end date. It’s also one of the reasons my husband and I decided to retreat for a few days — with the hope of finding solitude, time with the Lord, and space for rest and rejuvenation.

Overlooking the rolling hills and lush valley landscape, we could hear the rumbling of the main waterfalls from our grass-thatched cabin. From the weathered wooden balcony I could see white water peeking out, hidden within the intermingling of olive, sage, and forest green foliage that covered the expansive hillside.

Unfortunately, upon arriving the first night I was blindsided by a mounting headache which was then followed by chills. The following day I discovered my body was fighting against a not so old friend – malaria.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was supposed to be a break from the overwhelm and exhaustion we had been feeling for months. Yet, as I sat journaling alongside the murmuring of the Abairo Falls outflow, tears welled up and frustration slowly started to pour out. I struggled to release what had already begun to seep haphazardly from the cracks etched on my heart.

My pen echoed the lament bubbling up and spilled out onto the lined paper —

How long? How long can we thrive or even survive in this unknown season? We feel the weight and weariness from what seems a never-ending uphill battle. It’s like you are leading us to continually swim upstream without an end in sight. And I’m so exhausted, Lord.

During our few days away, I didn’t really get the answer to my question or receive the structured timeline I always seem to be searching for. However, in the days that followed, words began to press themselves gently onto my heart like a healing balm laid upon wounds still fresh. Then like a cascade of strung-together phrases, they began to tumble over as I leaned in to catch the whispering of reminders I needed to hear. Maybe these reminders are for you too.

Rest in the Lord

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matthew 11:28-29 NIV)

There is such an incredible need to turn to the Lord daily for His renewing of our hearts and our minds. Finding rest in the Lord means trusting Him with our worry, our wondering, our waiting, our weariness, and our weakness.

We can easily run dry from daily tasks, ministry responsibilities, uncertainties, unmet expectations, and a life in continual transition. He is waiting for us to be enveloped in the embrace of His overwhelming and steadfast love. As we abide in the Lord, we can find peace in middle of the swirling currents and rushing rivers.

What is keeping you from drawing close to the Lord? Is there something distracting you from turning to the One who offers abundance even in the wilderness seasons?

Reflect and Be Still

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” (Psalm 46:10 NIV)

In seasons of fatigue and burnout, it’s difficult not to expect yourself to function at the same pace you’ve been going. But it’s okay to admit you are weary and in need of support.

Give yourself grace and create space to invite life-giving activities and solitude into your weekly rhythm. Inviting a rhythm of pause into your day can allow space to process the good and the hard in your life and give you an opportunity to slow down long enough to notice things you may not have otherwise.

Sometimes your situation won’t allow for a sabbatical or longer break, so how can you create space to pause? Where can you make an intentional effort to carve out a few minutes or hour of reprieve or stillness in your day?

Release and Lament

“For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish.” (Jeremiah 31:25 ESV)

Allowing ourselves to be honest and release our deepest thoughts or fears is where the unraveling begins. As we wrestle through our feelings, our situations, our struggling, we allow space for healing to trickle in through the gift of lament.

Lamenting allows us to surrender what we can’t control, release our expectations, receive comfort from the Lord, reground ourselves in the His truth, and discover countless reasons to praise God right where we are.

Is there something you know needs to be laid down? How has the process of lamenting provided space to express yourself, rediscover gratitude, or gain a new perspective?

Our testimony isn’t about the weakness and struggle we feel on a daily basis, but about His strength that will continue to carry us along. While we may be lingering in uncertain places longer than we like, I pray we keep our eyes looking up. May we dig deeper and continually reflect on the ways He is teaching us, comforting us, and lavishing his extraordinary love upon us.

Even in the chaos of the unknown, he invites us to cling tighter to him. Even though the noise is deafening, we can know His perfect peace. Even when we are weary from the torrential currents, we can find rest.

And even when we feel empty, weathered, or worn, we can choose to dwell in the truth that He promises to give us rest, to replenish, and to sustain us with His river of life that will never, ever run dry.

———————–

While searching for my own rest and reflection, I created a playlist. I pray it helps you find peace in the rumbling as well.

Tethering Tightly

With a steaming mug of coffee warming my hands and the cool morning breeze washing over me, I cozied up in the oversized wooden chair on the front veranda of the cabin. The open porch belonging to our favorite in-country getaway spot allowed for the best view of the myriad of green and overarching branches.

I glanced in the direction of my children’s voices and giggles to find them sprawled out across the trampoline, already deep into a game of Dutch Blitz. Grateful for the reprieve this trip was providing, I sighed heavily in the moment of solitude as I gazed over the beauty before me.

A group of vervet and red-tailed monkeys were scampering up and down the trees, tall and stretching their leafy limbs towards the cerulean sky. Chasing one another and chattering alongside the trills and crescendos of countless birdsongs, they seemed carefree as they leapt from tree to tree — completely comfortable in the habitat they were created to thrive in.

While the monkeys scampered playfully above, my eyes were drawn to the olive vines running up weather-worn russet trunks as they ascended higher and higher. With the strength of their ruddy roots, they stabilized their upward growth with tightly-latching tendrils as they climbed towards the blue peeking through.

There, tucked under the shade of the speckled and flourishing canopy situated along the Nile River, my heart finally had a little more space to breathe, and a passage of scripture fluttered to mind.

I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, and I in them, will bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. (John 15:5)

I pondered the verse in light of the countless reasons I had been feeling so worn thin lately, a slow weathering away of sorts — another round of malaria for both my husband and me, more goodbyes to dear friends, still unable to take a much needed furlough, an expanding ministry with new problems to be solved, and the recent progress made in our lengthy adoption process, meaning more paperwork to follow up with and gather. There were positive things interlaced with the draining ones, but they all seemed to be piling up as high as these sturdy trees.

Over the years, living abroad in a perpetual lingering has indeed taken its toll at times. I find myself sorting through the layers of grief, intertwined with the hope for the promises still to come again. I struggle with desiring to find some solution — get more sleep, make space to process, carve out a rhythm of rest, adjust my schedule in a season of exhaustion, and attempt to persevere through the trials.

And yet, deep down I know I’m not called to change my circumstances or to find relief from my struggles or weaknesses in this life. I’m called to remain steadfast in Him.

To dwell and make my home in Him.
To endure all things in Him.
To wait patiently in Him.
To continue on while clinging to Him.

He calls me to be tethered tightly to Him. Like a branch is to the life-giving vine, to find my source of strength in the roots of my true foundation.

When I think I have nothing left to give and my cup has all but dried up, He says otherwise. Glancing around, I see visual reminders of His goodness and guidance etched into the nature He birthed into existence at the beginning of time. Reminders that can encourage me to go back to the truth found in His Word.

He is the vine.

By shifting our focus to the true stability in this ever-changing life overseas — those overwhelming circumstances and weariness come with the territory — we can gaze into the heart of the one who first moved us to share His love in the world. He is the only one who can truly satisfy our souls as we grieve, give thanks, and sit in His presence. He is our source of strength.

You are the branch.

We don’t have all the answers, or the solutions to life’s challenges. We are welcomed to take part in building His kingdom but are not expected to do everything. We are branches extending from a source greater than our own limitations. There is a learning and growing in how to walk His way as we invite Him to guide us in our day to day.

If you remain in Him and He remains in you.

Remaining in Him is a daily choice, and some days we are more prone to wander. We can find ourselves searching for comfort in other areas, when His arms are waiting outstretched for us to be embraced in His all-consuming love. We know the Lord will never leave us, but do we dwell and find our rest in Him? He is our comfort, our peace, our joy, our provider, and our security.

You will bear much fruit.

Regardless of our weakness or weariness, struggles or moments of victory, in Him, we can and will bear fruit. If we stay connected to Him, in time we will see His fruitfulness in our lives. He can redeem all broken things, shape our hearts and minds to be more like His, tend to us in the trials, and bring us deeper in relationship with Him. The Lord is faithful to produce good fruit in our lives when we remain attached to Him.

Apart from Him, you can do nothing.

It’s not about us. It’s not about all the ways we serve others, our attempts to be productive and flexible, handle all that life demands, write uplifting newsletters, or fundraise for our ministry. If we function and minister from any place that’s not from His continual supply, we will inevitably come up empty. It’s a reminder that our first priority is to spend time with the Lord, and only then will we find the strength needed to persevere in the way He has laid out for us.

He is the firm foundation when all else is trembling, unsteady, and ever changing. Whether He guides us to remain or to go, in finding our security and hope in Him, we will continue to grow as He tends to us in the quiet, unspoken places of our weary souls. As we seek to stay tethered to Him, our lives can rest in the truth that He is more than able to do in us and through us all the things we can’t. He is the life-giving and sustaining vine, and we are the branches that He will continue to supply.

Joyfully Flexible

The evening sunlight sends its glowing streaks across our freshly mowed yard. The smell of earthy green seeps in from the mosquito screens and intermingles with dinner simmering on the stove. From my kitchen window, I gaze out beyond the vine-laced chain-link fence and into our ministry’s prayer garden.

I watch my children play soccer with friends, taking in the coolness of the day drawing to an end. They chase a well-worn ball, weaving in and out of the wild grass that covers the ground with a fierce determination. It’s a little messy and overgrown, but they don’t seem to mind. Their squeals of delight and high fives bring so much joy to my heart and I can’t help but smile. I pause from scrubbing a stack of dishes and step outside to soak up this moment.

The warm rays of the sun glitter through the dancing leaves of a towering tree before me. What used to be a shrub of a tree when we moved to this bushland years ago has now sprouted, firm and tall, and has continued to spread out its ever-reaching canopy. Through the unrelenting winds of each rainy season, it has been able to withstand the heavy downpours. It survives the heat of dry season, refusing to surrender all its growth and green.

The same tree provides a shady covering for homeschool mornings with three littles stretched out across a fraying red woven mat. It’s a gathering place for treasures of nature to be collected and recorded in our journals. A place to find solitude in the middle of the day. With nimble feet climbing its tallest limbs, it makes for a great hiding spot when playing hide and seek. Nestled within its feathery branches, children find a cozy corner to read far-off adventures and a place where mysteries can be solved. It holds them up as they swing on its branches, slide down its trunk, and watch for birds perched up high.

Its branches may move and bend depending on what it needs to adapt to, but it does not give up or break. It is rooted deeply into the nutrient-rich soil.

When we decided to build a home on our once uncultivated ministry site, I had no idea what that would entail. For so many reasons, we were encouraged to make the move into our newly constructed home that was still very unfinished in its making.

No toilets.
No top floor.
No electricity.
No counter tops.
No sinks.
No running water.

When we transitioned into the handmade red-bricked shell of the house, it felt a lot more like camping in the wild bush than setting up a cozy home. This—along with intense Covid restrictions to navigate, recently entering into an arduous adoption process, and saying goodbyes to dear friends in town—left me feeling rather unrooted.

It was a struggle to adapt to a life a little more isolated, a little more chaotic, a little more unknown, and a little more under construction than I would have liked. Yet, as I have moved through one season to the next, there is a phrase that’s continually brought to my mind.

Be joyfully flexible.

When I was filling out an application form to serve in Uganda years ago, I came across that reminder on the final page. Over fourteen years later, I never would have imagined that those two words would ring in my ears daily. Or how they would challenge me in so many ways.

For me, joyful flexibility looks like making the most of where I am and with what I have been given. Though I’ve been bent in ways I didn’t enjoy, I haven’t been left broken, and I know that ultimately, the Lord is sovereign over all of it.

Jeremiah 17:7-8 (NIV) provides a beautiful and encouraging reminder to trust in the Lord: “But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.”

Trusting in the Lord brings confidence, not stress.
Trusting in the Lord brings provision, not panic.
Trusting in the Lord brings peace, not fear.
Trusting in the Lord brings joy, not anxiety.
Trusting in the Lord brings resiliency, not brokenness.
And His care for us is constant, consistent, and complete.

Like our thriving tree in the backyard, when we grow deeper in Him, we will remain evergreen. As I slowly understand what it means to be joyfully flexible, I know it first comes from having confidence in the Lord, not in myself. It’s not a one-time thing. We are continually being molded and shaped into who the Lord is creating us to be.

However, as I’ve tangibly been flexing those resiliency muscles, I’ve noticed it’s taking less time to find that confidence in the Lord when life gets stormy. Incorporating a rhythm of choosing gratitude, searching for the good, and growing in creativity has kept my focus on the joy found in the Lord, rather than the overwhelm of my circumstance.

Choose to be Grateful

Thank Him in all things and thank Him for all things. When I hold the joys up alongside the hardships, I see the Lord’s hand and provision in my life where I struggled to see it before. As I focus on blessings of the seasons, it helps redirect my heart and mind towards Christ. Finding endless reasons to be thankful and allowing myself to surrender all I have yet to understand stirs up a more positive attitude.

Search for the Good

Be on the lookout for the little glimmers of beauty around you. They are there, hidden even in the most disheartening of times. Sometimes you may have to dig a little, but they are waiting to be discovered. Find a way to laugh at the mishaps, search for humor in the delays, and try to make the best of the situation. It can lighten a heavy load and redirect your gaze off the problem to other blessings in your life.

Grow in Creativity

Get creative when it comes to problems. Adapt to the situation and see if there is anything you can do bring a little change, a little laughter, or a little fun as you navigate the turbulent waves and wind. Find resiliency and growth as you are challenged to move forward with the resources, talents, or skills that you have. Unearth old or discover new ways to create with your hands and create beauty right there in the middle of the chaos.

With every setback and delay, there is always a reason to be thankful, hopeful, and to trust that He is making a way. Like the sturdy tree we’ve watched grow stronger over time, so we grow with more joy deposited in our hearts as we are challenged, shaken, but remain unmoved in trying times. I long to bend freely like the auburn branches that sway in the swirling cadence of the harsh winds. To smile as the thunder rolls and skies downpour, looking for the life and beauty it leaves trailing behind.

To have a hopeful heart that continues to bear good fruit. To stand firm with a joyful posture, continually bent towards Him. To thrive in the steadfast confidence of the Lord. And with rustling leaves, to remain evergreen in both the dry times and the storm.

It’s Beginning to Look Somewhat Like Christmas

A familiar scent wafts from the “Tropical Pine” candle, glowing brightly from the center of our dining table. I was ecstatic when I found it in a local craft shop a few years ago. It holds the memories and mingling of Christmases in different countries — the wind chill and thick blanket of snow from growing up on the prairies of Canada, helping my husband’s family Christmas tree farm in Pennsylvania, and sipping iced hot chocolate in the dry season heat as we decorate our Christmas tree here in Northern Uganda.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and the 88-degree heat has my head spinning as I remove the yellow lid from its black bin. The slightly peeling masking tape labeled “Christmas” is nestled under a thick covering of dust and cobwebs, a well-known mark of the expat life.

I begin to remove these festive contents from their quiet hideaway. Memory after memory comes flooding back. My hands reach for the red and green rag banners, a beaded tree, a nativity set (or two), a burlap banner declaring “Merry Christmas,” various Hobby Lobby holiday items, and our box of treasured, mismatched, and handmade ornaments.

Dust dances in the warm rays of sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. It’s almost the beginning of December, and there will obviously be no snow around here. There are no lights strung along rooftops or inflatable snowmen waving “hello” in front yards. There is no Santa to visit at the mall (there is no mall).

There is no basket of warm hats and mittens kept by the front door. There are no festive decorations attached to streetlights lining cute small-town streets. There are no chocolate calendars to open. There is no need or desire for an ugly Christmas sweater competition.

Yet, it’s beginning to look somewhat like Christmas.

This will be our sixth Christmas spent in Northern Uganda and our fifth celebrated in the village of Koch Goma. Surrounded by its wild grasses, goats, and gardens waiting to be burned, we have learned to adopt new traditions as we’ve released a few of the old. We have found new ways to celebrate the transition into the Christmas season as we shift our hearts and minds to the joy found in Christ rather than all the things that used to make us feel at home for the holidays.

As I reflect a little more, I realize it’s beginning to look more like Christmas than I’ve ever felt before. The longing, the waiting, the prayers and lamenting as we’ve pursued a lengthy adoption process over these past five years which has yet to finalize. The desire to spend Christmas with family across the world. All of it, wrapped up and tied together like a gift — a gift that looks rather worn. A daily surrender to the hope, promise and unfolding still to come.

Though there has been pain in the unknown, there has also been much beauty to be found. As I gently pull out our banana leaf nativity set to place high up on our kitchen shelf, I can imagine that beautiful but messy scene on that starry night.

There in the middle of the dirt and straw.

There in the messiness of a stable.

There in the homesickness.

There in the lack of comfort.

There in the instability.

There in the unknown.

There in the longing.

There in the waiting.

The long-awaited and prayed-for Messiah was born.

The words of Gabriel rang true as Mary labored and our Savior entered the dark cold world. “’Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us)” (Matthew 1:23 ESV).

My attempt at a handcrafted kitenge Advent calendar now hangs on our red brick wall. It’s twenty-four pockets filled with printable Jesse Tree cards — each symbolic of scripture pointing us to the coming King. We meander our way through story after story displaying God’s power, grace, sufficiency, and redemption.

It’s a new tradition we added a few years ago and a reminder that the Lord is with us, wherever we are. Just like those men and women found within the pages of the Bible, longing for a Messiah to come, so, too, do we find ourselves in this place. Waiting for our Savior, and trying to live out His love to the world around us.

There is purpose in our waiting even when we don’t understand or when it seems to be taking too long. Whether waiting for a visa to come through, a furlough after a difficult season, the homesickness to lessen, the unanswered prayers, for progress in ministry, for much-needed healing, or for a long adoption process to finalize — there is growing deep within us that can still happen here. In that messy, middle place of lingering, we become dependent on the only One who can truly sustain us.

The yellow star from our wooden nativity set will move around the house daily, getting closer to the nativity scene as the December days progress. Every morning my three children will gather up their chosen wise man and join the search for the star. As my children search high up on disorganized bookshelves, amongst the clean unfolded laundry still in the basket, or under the cluttered countertop of dishes, the reminder is there.

The anticipation for all that’s to come.

I carefully sort through the white letters to update my felt letter board. The time has come to replace my fall sign, “Give me the African breeze and pumpkin spice please,” to the words that have been sitting on my chest, “It’s beginning to look somewhat like Christmas.” I place it on the entryway table and smile as I turn to hang a wreath given to me from a dear friend, its circular shape made from gathered twigs, pinecones, and a red burlap bow. It’s different than what I’m used to, but it holds its own rustic Christmas charm.

As we find ways to cherish past traditions, we can make room to embrace all the new ways to celebrate Christ’s birth as we wait, minister, and live this beautiful and challenging overseas life under the covering of His love.

In the middle of transition.

In the middle of the uncertainty.

In the middle of the chaos.

In the middle of the mess.

In the middle of the waiting.

He came for us.

He is here with us.

Immanuel.