The Paradox Paper #26

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Oh hey, remember me?

I know SO MANY of you (none of you) wait by your inbox on the last Friday of every month so you can read this letter as soon as humanly possible, and you probably (definitely did not) notice that it never arrived last Friday. There’s a very good reason.

I forgot.

BECAUSE WE WERE MOVING INTO OUR HOUSE.

A brief list of things I love about it:

• THERE IS A YARD.

• Each kid had their own room, and when I send them there to play I CANNOT HEAR THEM YELLING ABOUT MAGNATILES.

• There are THREE PORCHES.

• Last night Trevor rolled out of bed with groan and said “I’ve gotta walk to the kitchen to get some water. It’s like a mile.” SO MUCH SPACE.

• In the 48 hours we’ve been using the kitchen there have been exactly zero injuries because IT WAS MADE TO ACCOMMODATE MORE THAN ONE HUMAN.

It would be great if I had lots of beautiful photos to show you, but since we’ve only been here two days it’s mostly just open cardboard boxes and furniture sitting in the middle of empty rooms. And cobwebs. And just writing this letter has me on thin ice with our sensitive internet.

Honestly, despite the excessive use of caps lock, I feel a bit awkward sharing this news with you. When we lost my brother I felt so helpless. I thought God had forgotten me—or worse, that He knew exactly where I was and didn’t care enough to get me out.

At the time we were living in one of the wealthiest and most expensive counties in the United States. One afternoon a couple from our church kindly invited us over for lunch. When we arrived the host showed us all around their house. Their massive, (they had an elevator yall) gorgeous, custom house. With every marble shower and heated floor we saw I felt my hope thin. To finish our tour, with the same casual tone one might use to say, “Don’t worry, it’s supposed to be great weather next week,” our friend said “Eh, this place is pretty modest really. Y’all will have something like this in a couple of years I’m sure.” He might as well have hit me in the gut with one of his marble busts. We were living in a 300 sq. feet studio, having weekly fights about who bought what groceries at full price instead of shopping clearance, crushed by grief. And here was this man with possessions too wonderful for me to even dream of, so cavalier. I know some of you are feeling helpless and forgotten. I don’t want to be the marble bust in your gut.

I do want to tell you there is hope, and that hope is not that loved ones live forever, money grows on trees, and beautiful houses fall from the sky if you just have enough faith. It’s that right now, in doubt and desperation, Jesus is close. He is not repelled by our bitterness. The pain and awkwardness of grief never drives Him away. When you are as sure as sure can be that there is nothing left and no way out, He is at work bringing life out of death.

In writing about her own miracle house, Bri McKoy recently said, “Sometimes God’s provision comes in quiet and steady. Sometimes His provision comes in wild and loud and sparkly. I’m grateful for both.”

Moving into this house and working toward making it a home is a sparkly provision moment. We are too grateful for words. But even when the sparkle fades, as is its nature, the quiet and steady closeness of Jesus will keep on. This house is a monument to the nearness of a God who never tires turning our ashes into beauty, our darkness to joy.

In service to the many unpacked boxes and general disarray surrounding me, I’ll roll play, pondering, and prayer all into one: try out The Chosen. It’s free to stream on Peacock and it is refreshing my soul.

Love you. See you in January.

-Steph

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