The storm your meteorologist isn't talking about.

It's March in the heartland.

That means it's time for Oklahomans to burrow into the ground with our water, flashlight, and battery-powered radio. Park our vehicles in a garage or under the awning at Sonic. Gather our family so everyone is ready to take the situation seriously when that fifth tornado siren goes off. Check into social media every ten minutes to write funny posts so it doesn't sound like we're scared. Charge our phone battery so we can record video when the floods come and hail falls.

And go one more round with Mother Nature to see who wins.

Of all our standard severe weather practices, the most important one is that we never let a tornado take us by surprise.

Which means we live in vigilant fear for one season and constant dread the other three.

Keep an Eye on the Forecast

We don't actually. We're just aware that bad weather does come. It always comes. We won't make it through this season without it so being shocked when it arrives would seem...well...stupid.

Spring comes every year. And bad weather comes with it. Every. Year.

You cannot separate the two, just like you cannot separate life from problems. The former doesn't come without versions of the latter. Believing we can get through life without facing disappointment, difficulty, challenges, or struggles would seem...well...stupid.

But I do it anyway.

You?

The only thing to fear is schizophrenia itself

I'm that person always warning others there are rumblings on the horizon. It's obnoxious. Trust me. But I can't seem to help myself. I see patterns in life my friends believe is a side effect from all those drugs I took in the 60s.

But I've been doing it forever.

My guess is it's leftover hypervigilance from a few traumatic experiences of my childhood. You don't get tossed off the roof of a burning house as a child and it not make an impression. Or get yanked out of a church building on an Easter morning while the floor is collapsing under your feet and not wonder if you're a marble and the planet is a Hungry, Hungry Hippo.

For years, my life was so exciting I didn't need an imagination.

Beware the Ides of the Other Shoe

Accepting that life can be an obstacle course has rarely been my challenge. For me, it's believing that life isn't only an obstacle course.

But if I can do it, anyone can.

Yes, we must face the harsh realities of life. When we don't, we become those people who sob on the front lawns of universities when we realize anything of value costs money.

Let's never be those people.

But acceptance doesn't mean obsession. Or fatalism. Even though the weather, our circumstances, life itself, often tries to convince us the struggle will never end. It does. It will. Just hold on.

Because, outside, the weather is going to do its best to convince us every day is nothing but another chance for the wind to draw blood. But that isn't the weather always and won't be the weather forever. As most Oklahomans know, not every breeze turns into a storm. Not every storm turns into a tornado. Not every tornado causes irreparable damage.

Eventually, the new norm changes into another new norm. The winds die down. The sky stops churning. The thunder rumbles off. And spring, each and every year, turns to summer.

So, while we wait for this tumultuous spring season to pass, whether that's the weather or our circumstances, I'll leave you with a blessing my grandfather often repeated that's been a comfort to me:

"May the Lord bless you and protect you. May the Lord smile on you and be gracious to you. May the Lord show you his favor and give you his peace." Numbers 6:24-26

And I'll add: May your storm shelter be fortified, roomy, and have wifi.

Dear God, thank you for all the hard times.

Originally posted at LightQuestMedia.com/blog

William Bradford had a job no one would want.  It paid little, as in nothing, and required much. The work environment was hazardous.  The people disorganized.  The supplies low.  Overtime came with the position but perks did not.

Who was William Bradford?  He was a pilgrim.  When you think of Thanksgiving, the buckled shoes, the big hat, you’re thinking specifically about William Bradford.  He cut the turkey, so to speak.
But a meal is not his story.

White or dark meat

 

Bradford led a life of danger, sacrifice, and experiment.  His journey hard.  His life a story not for the faint of heart but strong in spirit.  And it’s never been more relevant than at this very moment in your life.
Here’s why.
On August 1, 1620, the Mayflower set sail with Bradford on board.  And that’s where our story begins, too.  It was the beginning of a great experiment.  There were 102 souls on board, 40 of which were Pilgrims, led by Bradford, fleeing for a place to worship God without threat of imprisonment or death.
They were seeking freedom.  What they found was a wilderness.

Turkey with all the trimmings

 

Only half of the Pilgrims survived the first winter.  Bradford’s wife not among them.  They not only had to stay alive, they had to create a new civilization.  The elements weren’t in their favor.
The famous Thanksgiving meal did eventually happen.  And there may have even been a turkey. Probably fish.  Historians say no pie, since they didn’t have butter or an oven.  But pumpkin probably made a showing, the guts of it hallowed out and filled again with milk, honey and spices before roasting the gourdes to make custard.
It was a meal of thanks to God.  A meal of bounty shared with their new neighbors.  And it was a moment to reflect on the work God had done so far and all the work left to do.

Pass the Potatoes

Celebrating Thanksgiving is a tradition for most.  We know the story of the pilgrims and the Indians, the meal and a prayer.  We nod at the idea of two cultures eating harmoniously.  Then we turn on the football game or take a nap.
The most shocking aspect of the historic meal, however, isn’t the meal.  It isn’t even the English pilgrims and native Indians sitting down to feast.  Maybe the most shocking part of the whole story is the fact anyone gave thanks at all.  Anyone, including, or even especially, William Bradford.

An Extra Side of Gravy

 

Bradford had never had an easy life.  As a young child, he was orphaned.  His developmental years were spent being tossed from relative to relative.  Before he was old enough to vote, at least in this country, he was exiled from his own country.
In the Netherlands, he barely survived as a textile worker.  Even there, Separatists weren’t free from harassment, many of them attacked with rocks and their tracts destroyed.  By 30, he would be on a boat with his wife, forced to leave his four-year-old son behind, and set sail in hopes of living free to worship God.  His wife wouldn’t survive the year.  He would barely survive himself.
Yet, on that historic Thanksgiving day, Bradford would sit with his community and give a heartfelt thanks to God for all He had done.  He would thank God for his blessings.  Let’s repeat that: He would thank God.

Who Wants Pie?

 

Bradford is described by some historians as having incredible stamina and vision.  He was versatile, detail driven, and gifted in managing people.  These are the personality traits credited for the Mayflower Compact.  For helping him shift the failing collectivist form of governance into the free market commerce system.  For leading to the successful colony and the Great Puritan Migration.  For serving him well as he served the colony for 36 years as governor.
He wasn’t born with these attributes.  He developed them.
Most likely, his constantly shifting childhood taught him how to adapt to unstable environments.  Maybe always being the outsider in the house honed his people skills.  Being alone so early in life may have been what drew him so fervently to a more relational, more intimate fellowship with Jesus Christ.  And maybe all his struggles, all that he had survived already, taught him that the hard times are the necessary part of the journey.
They teach what is unknown.  They burn away what is idle.  They sharpen the soft spots.  They make us capable of sailing across the ocean, if that’s what life requires, to populate a nation not yet formed.
Struggles give us tools.  And then they give us the skills, the perseverance, and the wisdom to use those tools.
So this Thanksgiving, as you give thanks for all the visible blessings in your life, consider saying thanks for the more hidden treasures – the ones that only look like struggles.

When you're in the desert, don't drink the Kool-Aid.

The 4:55 pm flight to Anchorage didn't have me on it. And I wanted on it.

I wanted an aisle or window or middle seat. I wanted to be cramped and stuck sitting between two severely big-boned women. Or men. I wanted a little turbulence, a harrowing trip to the bathroom, a magazine selling gadgets to flip through, a child crying somewhere in the vicinity, a stewardess who smiled despite her furrowed brow, and a tiny plastic cup with exactly two ice cubes and slightly chilled water to keep me pacified for six to eight hours.

Around 10 am that morning, I had made the decision. Forget this life. Let's try another. So I checked that day's available flights, did a mental inventory of clean clothes, and started making plans. 

By sundown - Alaska. There, I'd start fresh with several hundred dollars less than when I woke up.

Freedom! Spontaneity! I'd chuck this writing gig and learn deep-sea fishing. Or pipelining. Or shopkeeping. Or lounge singing. Or selling souvenirs to people in the Lower 48 who came to God's country seeking an escape.

Stupid tourists.

I wanted on that flight. I wanted that life. I was even willing to pay a ridiculous price tag if it meant leaving before sunset. But, obviously, I didn't go. A friend talked me off the tarmac with a blunt observation, "You're in the desert," he said. "And, yes, it's hard."

Heck yeah it is. There's nothing in the desert but dried dirt. And a few cacti. Maybe a snake.

It's the place of lowlands and low expectations, when trials stop having an end and take up permanent residence. It's where you give up anything will ever change. You accept that life is simply a disappointment. This is how it turned out and there's nothing to be done about it.

A few days earlier, a friend and I had been talking about my circumstances, all of which I'll spare you. After a discussion on fried apples and leadership principles, the two have connections you know not of, he said something that must be truth because it resonated with me as if my mind had been replaced with a tuning fork and struck against a wall:

Your family, your friends, me...we all wish we could short-circuit this in some way.  To rescue you and to hand you a satchel with all of the answers.  But then, you would not become the person you are supposed to be, the writer who moves multitudes, a woman of destiny.

You mean, all of this pain has a purpose? You sure? I just thought everything kind of sucked right now and that's just life. I figured my path had simply bottomed out in some kind of sinkhole. I'd made a mistake somewhere, chose the wrong toothpaste brand, veered left when I should have pivoted right, signed a two-year contract with Sprint when I should have gone with prepaid Boost.

Whatever I'd done, it was irreversible.

And I bought it. The desert's whole elevator pitch. God, for whatever reason, had chosen to blot me out like a drop of water on Teflon-treated pants. And I don't even own a pair of Teflon-treated pants. Mostly, those are for men.

But God, as God so often does, told me to snap out of it. Lovingly. It went something like, "I'm lovingly telling you to snap out of it."

A few days later, while thinking about how much sun destiny requires, my friend threw the "desert" idea at me. Then he hammered it home. "When God uses someone for His purpose, He'll often take them to the desert first." Like Jesus. Or Moses. John got to know the nightlife on the Island of Patmos pretty well. Abraham became a card-carrying member of the God Relocation Program, too.

Being in a place of life, or even a physical place, where you are completely out of your element, isolated and overwhelmed, over your head and under pressure, is how God gets our attention. Here is where we hear Him best, even when we can’t hear Him at all. This is the moment we trust, when all around us is blistering sand. Now is when we stand still and believe, the most demanding physical strain we may ever endure.

I don’t have this desert living figured out. That Alaska idea was only a week ago. The fact I’ve made it nearly a full seven days without running for the border is progress. Tomorrow I may gaze into the north and sway in that direction. But, for now, today, I’m taking it one moment first. Then another after that. I’m ignoring the hopelessness shimmering on the horizon because hopelessness is a mirage. I’m waiting and trusting and hoping and taking lots of deep breaths.

If you’re there, wondering around the desert, too, let’s meet up when we get out of this place because we will get out. We’ll have a couple of those frozen fruity drinks with umbrellas and compare tan lines.