This story, written some years ago during a deeply challenging season, was originally published June 23, 2011 on marydemuth.com. God reminds me often that his word to me then is still true today.

“God! I really need a word from you!”

The wrenching groan from my spirit surprised even me.

Just four months earlier, we’d returned to Asia after a year’s home assignment only to find palpable tension simmering in our beloved community, close friends writhing in painful conflicts that had erupted while we were gone.

On top of that, another dear friend (a sister of my heart) had been tragically killed in a car accident. My grief, held “in solution” during the year away, now rose daily like bile to choke me — a bitter cup of loss now tangible, now fully tasted in this place where she had been, but was no more.

Then on top of these pains came news most unthinkable. The well-loved pastor of a home church—discipler of many, whose sermons had so recently pointed our own thirsty souls toward Christ — was mysteriously, horrifyingly missing. An agonizing week later, he was found. Dead. By his own hand.

Already soul-sapped, the weight of this sadness, this confusing wrongness, seemed too much to bear. Pray! I need to pray! But no words came except a single desperate soul cry to God for comfort, for explanation, for… something, some reason to go on!

“God! I really need some word from you!”

Broken hearts notwithstanding—suppers have to be made, homework supervised, children bathed (the normalcy of the familiar routines ringing an odd sort of counterpoint to the inner turmoil). Stories read, teeth brushed, children tucked in – then one last look into each room before retreating to my own thoughts.

“Mommy?” A familiar bedtime call from the four-year-old barely arrests my flight to solitude. Expecting a last-ditch request for water or a nightlight, I pause with sighing impatience just inside her room. “Yes?”

Her pensive look draws me nearer, as her vaguely troubled voice rises from shadowy bed.

“Mommy… Snow White doesn’t have Jesus in her story.”

Startled, I wait.

“Cinderella doesn’t have Jesus in her story, either.”

She’s silent, longer this time, thinking hard.

“But…” Bright eyes, lit by a further thought, suddenly sparkle triumphantly out at me.

“…But WE have Jesus in OUR story!”

Oh!

In that heart-stopping, oh-so-thin moment, I draw in stunned breath, can’t let it out. (If I stand frozen, will I actually see Him whispering in her precious ear?!)

In this gentlest of voices, these simplest of words, God is answering me back.

Speaking.

To me.

“God! I really need some word from you!”

“My child. You have Jesus in your story.”

Disclaimer: unless you are now — or have at some time been — an expatriate living overseas, you may or may not “get” this post. Then again, transition happens to all of us, doesn’t it? (Maybe just not in May. Every year in May.)

This morning, I took one last walk with a dear friend and walking partner. And remembered again why May is officially my least favorite month of the year.

It hasn’t always been this way. I used to love May! School winding down, summer (and camp season!) just around the corner, everything greening up. And to top it off, my birthday! Yep, May was pretty merry when I was growing up.

But as an expat living overseas, May went from the month of celebrations and anticipation to a month of… well, leavings and goodbyes. In May, the social landscape goes through tectonic upheaval that won’t settle down until August. And it’s like this every year.

What a strange lifestyle, these scheduled uprootings. Even my body knows the cycle now. May comes and I seem to have this continual knot in my stomach and dull headache of dread for all the goodbyes.

What can be done? (Well, besides taking some aspirin and just slogging through it…) As I felt the onset of “goodbye season” yet again this year, I decided to start making a list of potential stepping stones through the “not-so-merry month of May”. And I’m hoping you’ll help me add to it.

• Write a note. Taking time to celebrate relationships doesn’t make it hurt less… but it reminds me why the goodbyes hurt, and that that is actually a good thing. A friend’s words from years ago still ring in my ears: “Wouldn’t it be sad if it didn’t hurt at all?”
• Play the piano. (Or whatever instrument your equally stressed family is willing for you to play.) Bach is my composer of choice — very structured and calming, but complex enough that I can’t think about anything else while I play.
• Take a breath. Or two. Or three. Do you forget to breathe sometimes, or is it just me? I’m discovering that breathing is a good thing… and it helps to calm me down.
• Make a list. It’s awfully easy to myopically focus on what I’m losing. A list of thanksgivings helps me remember all I have been given.
• Cry. I’m not good at this (blame it on my Myers-Briggs type), but I’m getting better. Like the first point, it doesn’t make anything hurt less, but it’s great for clearing out the sinuses. (Which, unfortunately, have also developed a dislike of May.)
• Take a walk. Even if it’s just to the gate. Preferably at night, when I can look up and see the stars and remember the One who calls each one by name.

So, what would you add to this list of survival tactics?

A friend of mine who recently moved posted the following on Facebook: “Does anyone need boxes? We have many!”

The last pile of boxes waiting to move from our Bagabag house 2 years ago. Those same boxes have assisted in 2 moves since then. They now rest quietly in our upper cupboards. (Well, except for the one that got its big break as a Minecraft creeper head…)

What a wonderful status message! I actually can’t remember the last time we got rid of our moving boxes. To think of reaching a point where one doesn’t anticipate needing them in the foreseeable future… well, I think I’ll have to put that on my bucket list!

But (you may say), boxes are a fairly available commodity — why clutter up one’s home with them, no matter how soon the next move is? Well. I have two words for that. Pack. Rat. Yep, as much as I dream of having a boxless house someday (imagine actually being able to store linens in the upper cupboards!), the truth is we do get attached to our boxes!

We even kept a box once just because of the message on the outside. This was years ago. (25, to be exact.) We received a wedding present in the mail in a worn box subtly tatooed with the marks of a past life. Scrawled in ballpoint ink across one side were the words “ugly plastic wreath”. The backstory of that box — released at long last from years of unwanted-Christmas-deco bondage — so delighted us that we kept the poor thing long after the cheeses it conveyed were consumed.

Boxes. Such a part of our transient lifestyle. But someday I’m gonna ditch ’em all!

Q: What are your best “box” memories?

During our cross-cultural training, an oft-quoted rule-of-thumb was “Whatever is put in front of you!”

Ouch! The ultimate challenge for a picky eater! And all the more so when faced with unfamiliar — yea, bizarre-looking — local “delicacies”. (Take rambutans, for instance. I mean, who would have thought such a spiky, alien-looking fruit would be not only edible, but delicious!)

Whatever is put in front of you? Seriously?!

But Jesus apparently agreed. He was ready to “eat” whatever His Father put in front of him.

I just can’t stop thinking about that Jesus Diet: “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.” John 4:34

How do I — a picky eater in food and life — develop a taste for the same? Well, maybe I could start with an appetizer.

Appetizer: A food or drink served usually before a meal to stimulate the appetite.

When our son Jonathan was four, he had a standard prayer for mealtimes (honed to 5-second perfection!): “Thank-You-for-this-yummy-food. AY-men!”

Then one day, completely out of the blue, he amazed us with a spontaneous variation: “Thank you for this yummy food. We don’t want you to take it away! Whatever You give us, we’ll eat!”

Thank you for this yummy food. Whatever You give us, we’ll eat.

Out of the mouth of babes. That simple expression of thanksgiving for God’s gifts and faith in God’s goodness points the way for me.

When I, like Jesus and Jonathan, can turn from complaining to rest completely in God’s goodness … when I can begin every “meal” (of food or of life) with wholehearted thanksgiving … will my appetite grow for more? More of God. More of His will. More of the Jesus Diet.

With Jonathan, I say “AY-men!” Let it be so.