A Burden of Thanks

My dear ones have been giving me flowers from their gardens, or cutting them from my own yard. Beauty matters, friends.

Dear Friends,

In purely musical terms, a burden is a good thing: a continual refrain rounding up and affirming the essence of a song.

And if the song embedded in this season of life is a bit difficult for me to make out at times, the burden is unmistakable: thank you.

In the nearly eight weeks since our house fire, Philip and I have been overwhelmed in the holiest way by the love of the people in our life—including those on the other side of this computer screen. Each of your heartfelt messages, texts, phone calls, emails, and comments has been like a cup of cold water in a weary land. While it pains me that I’ve lacked both the time and the mental resources to respond to them as I would wish, I want you to know that I’ve read, digested, been nourished by them as doses of true comfort. Comfort, as Madeleine L’Engle reminds us in her preface to Lewis’ agonizingly honest A Grief Observed, means, quite literally, with strength. Your words, your condolences, even your laments, have imparted strength to both of us in ways I’m simply unable to articulate. You have told us, again and again, in unique and beautiful ways, that we are not alone. As a dear friend reminded me early on in this trial, in the faithful presence of the Body of Christ, we are ‘held when we cannot hold.’

If you’re reading this, you have been a part of that holding, and my heart extends to each of you a metaphorical bouquet of flowers. I long to make you understand what your compassion has meant; to clothe my gratitude in speech that will make you see it, hear it, and feel it.

Trouble is, the words have been sucked right out of me.

(Case in point: it’s taken me five days and counting to compose the preceding 300 words.)

Cleanup underway
I still can’t believe this is my house. Thank God, we’ve got some incredible people on the restoration team.

Trauma affects each of us differently, but always, I think, at our most significant (and therefore most vulnerable) place. It’s for that reason that my language vacuum has been one of the most disorienting aspects of this ordeal. I’ve (temporarily) lost my home—but I’ve likewise lost my refuge, the small but dearly loved sanctuary of my writing life. This also is temporary; both my own experience and the counsel of the wise assure me that time and self-care will soothe the shattered nerves; that a reasonable run of unbroken slumbers will shut off the sirens in my head.

That a gentle-yet-deliberate return to ritual and rhythm will anchor me once more in all that’s most meaningful to me.

Afternoon tea: the first ritual to return. And there’s a beautiful story behind that china, let me tell you.

I know this is true. But it’s difficult for me to compose a grocery list right now, much less a blog post (or even an email). I lose my train of thought in the middle of sentences; I’ve been signing my maiden name on forms, for crying out loud. (And, oh, the forms. There have been hundreds, it seems.)

When we were in Maui a couple of years ago, I waded gleefully into the Pacific Ocean for the first time in my life—only to be scooped head-over-heels with a force that yanked the ponytail holder out of my hair and brought me upright once more with a scalp-full of sand.

“Ah, you’ve been sand-dunked,” a native chuckled when I described it later.

And that’s very much how this experience feels. It seemed like I was just getting back on my feet again after Daddy’s death, and now I’ve been knocked down worse than ever.

(It occurs to me, of course, that maybe God doesn’t want me “back on my feet” so much as leaning on His arm.)

At any rate, it’s going to take some time to get my bearings again, to train my heart and mind out of emergency mode.  

But I’m longing to find my sanctuary once more, to begin the long work of heaping and shaping all of these whirling fragments into something meaningful, even redemptive.  

I don’t mean to be presumptuous—in this context, human agents are more like midwives, assisting in the birth of something they did not create, while meaning and redemption flow from God alone. Even in my worst moments I believe that. But I also believe that something beautiful is going to emerge from these ashes, something infinitely more abiding than mere human fortitude or endurance. I don’t want to grin and bear it; I don’t want a brittle resilience here.

I want to be made new.

I say all of this, not to complain, but to let you in on where I am. I want you to know that my silence has been born, not of neglect, but sheer overwhelm.

I want you to know that when your packages have shown up at the end of my driveway, I’ve wept at the return addresses. And I’ve wept again at the astonishing love and thoughtfulness behind their contents. I’ve adorned the fridge in our temporary home with your cards, and I’ve tucked your letters between the pages of my Bible where I can read them over and over again.

Bonnie and the kitties are thankful, too. 😉

I want to assure you that we’re all right, that we are being held, and that while there is much, much to grieve, we’re not counting losses so much as mercies. Mercy tips the balance every time.     

(Every time.)

But I also want to invite you into this place. From the earliest days after the fire I’ve had a running list at the back of my mind of things I’ve wanted to tell all of you. I’ve found myself describing this season in bits and scraps of mental prose (gone a moment later!), narrating a story I feel you’re all a part of. So many of you have been reading here since sunnier times—a fact which, for all my fits and starts, never ceases to fill me with gratitude. The least I can do is let you into my “dark wood” as well, where, together, perchance, we’ll see the night lit up with stars.

For the truth is, everything I always believed about the shaping of a home, the sacredness of place, and the enduring worth of beauty matters more to me now, not less. In the face of ruin and loss, this physical context of relationship appears more critical than ever. Philip and I are not merely rebuilding a house—we’re refining a vision, evaluating (and re-evaluating) every single aspect of stewardship in the light of what’s lasting.

Like outposts in a heartbroken world, our homes have the potential to image what it means to be “at home” in God. This is as true of the travel trailer we’re currently occupying in the backyard as it is of the house we’ll return to someday. I want to affirm this here—and I need you to affirm it back to me.

There’s so much more I want to say, but if I try it will be yet another week before this post is published. Let it suffice for now that I’ll be back soon with a report on our home, our current living situation, and the faithfulness of God.

Thank you, thank you, dear ones, from the bottom of my heart. Words are so inadequate to this burden of gratitude. But you have blessed me with courage and hope and beauty and truth. May God bless you in return.

Under the Mercy,

~Lanier  

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52 Comments

  1. I am so glad that you have been so showered in love. I was just thinking of you and wondering how things are going. I am sorry I was not able to send you anything! I am so glad to see you having tea! I went about a month without having tea (unheard of for me) and am finally back to having tea again. I know how important these daily rituals are… so glad to see that beautiful tea cup. Lord bless, guide, protect and comfort you. Hold on to this, which was told to me recently, “wounds heal.”… this is not forever, you can indeed be restored and I know that your home can too, as hard as it is right now. God be with you, comfort you, give you song in your heart and hope coming as a flower slowly opening.

    1. Thank you, Elizabeth–and what a good word: “wounds heal.” Yes–so deeply good and true.

      I’ve meant to tell you that the Georgian tea set did indeed survive the fire, and has been safely packed off for cleaning and storage. It will be a long time before I see it again, but I’m thankful it was unharmed.

  2. I have thought of you and prayed for you and your hubby for joy and wisdom in these days,weeks, and months ahead.God’s grace is sufficient to supply your need, if that I am confidant.

  3. It is a relief to read this post–to know that your home will be rebuilt. Not quite the same perhaps in its fabric of boards and windows, roof and furniture, but retaining a spirit of warmth, welcome and refuge.

    1. Yes, we are going to great pains to make sure that the demolition is on an “absolutely necessary” basis, and that the rebuild is in keeping with the spirit of this dear old place. Thanks for your words, Sharon. xx

  4. Reading through smudged glasses, I misread “the night lit up with stars” as “the night light up the stairs.” And I thought of George MacDonald’s A Broken Prayer.

    “…Oh, take me like a child,
    If thou hast made me for thyself, my God,
    And lead me up thy hills…

    I am a child lost in a mighty forest…
    There is a voice which sounds like words from home,
    But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems
    To leap from rock to rock: oh…descend,
    Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand,
    And lead me homeward through the shadows.”

    The Lord bless you and keep you.

  5. When I read about your house, I wept for you and your family, for your loss, as if you were my dear sister which you are. Time and again, I have found grace and beauty and joy in your words and have breathed new hope and inspiration to seek the beauty of God in my little corner. I’ve kept you in my prayers and am so glad to know that you are holding onto and are being held by His love. Take heart, dear one. Courage.

  6. I have followed you for a long time and your words, heart for the Lord, eye for the beauty that surrounds us, love of home and your animals has always resonated with me.
    I only just learned of your tragedy, and while phrases like “beauty from ashes”, and “refining fire” come to mind, suffice it to say that you and yours will be in my most fervent prayers.
    I see a most beautiful Christmas coming for you.

    1. I love this comment on your heartfelt, heart-rending post – especially this sentence: “I see a most beautiful Christmas coming for you.” Yes, indeed – absolutely yes. You love Christmas more than anyone I “know” and you will make it gorgeous for sure.

      I think the losses I would (and do, *for* you) feel most painfully are the bits of history that cannot be replicated in that grand old farmhouse, Philip’s heart pine bookcases, and of course Flora. When you lose everything, there seems even to be a hierarchy of loss – as if possessions are assigned value in tiers. Watching this happen to you from afar, and unable to be close and help (because I totally would) I find myself praying for your recovery mostly. Stuff like this is akin to PTSD, Lanier – don’t discount your feelings and I hope you talk to someone if you feel like you can’t “get over it” based on your own idea of what that timeline ought to look like or Heaven Forbid, what you think other people think. Time does heal, but losses of such a profound nature *back-to-back*(!) are so hard to bear.

      All I know for sure is that you are a Steel Magnolia if I’ve ever seen one, you are an incredibly lovely and classy person in general, and I wish you “laughter through tears” as soon as you are able.

      Love, Love. Prayers and Comfort.

      1. Yes, do pray for recovery–thank you, Holly!!

        And, yes, I am going to great pains to process this in a healthy way–thanks for the insightful comment. It’s the same thing I’d urge on anyone else in this situation. Sadly, the priority of self-care is not as honored as it should be in our society, but, thank God, I’m surrounded with people (both in person and over the internet :)) who understand the psychological impact of all this–and who remind me to give myself permission to heal. Thanks for being one of them. xx

  7. Oh I am so sorry, Lanier. I have just caught up with your terrible tragedy now. I am so thankful that you are starting to recover and rebuild. So grateful that God is holding you in the midst of it. And very glad to see you having tea. May God bless you and keep you and yours. He is the Rock, and He never fails us; even when He feels farthest away He is close at hand. I pray you will be able to see His love for you even in the midst of this dark time.

  8. You are yet in my prayers, dear Lanier, and your spirit of grace is yet coming alongside me and comforting me as I walk through my own dark patches–praise God they are sprinkled with little specks of light! Much love.

  9. Thank you so much, Lanier, for popping in to share how good the people of God are ministering to you and your family…

    I was blessed by that good word: as my “word for the year” has been STRENGTH.

    How our Good Shepherd leads us along on each our appointed paths and makes his genuine presence known! The “burden of gratefulness,” as you put it, is a very good way to describe our thankfulness for this.

    You may feel the “whirling fragments” as you begin to write again but the Spirit of God took all your blog post’s words and made them exactly right for us, your readers. A gift is a gift and you remain his instrument!

    Keeping you in my prayers, Lori

  10. The comment I made did not take the phrase I highlighted:
    com-fort — with-strength
    Just wanted to clarify the second weird sentence! *-P

  11. Friend. For a gal who has no words, you have blessed me and reminded me of a thing or two once again through, um, your words. That redemption and meaning come from God alone — we are “midwives.” That our homes have the potential to reflect the image of what it is to be “at home” in God. Your tender expression of gratitude is lovely — but for these reflections: thank YOU!

  12. Lanier: I can’t tell you how many times God has brought you to mind these past weeks. Each time was an opportunity for prayers of blessing and mercy and grace to be prayed! May you know each of these in abundance, my dear sister in the Lord! Standing with you across the miles and believing that you have and will “see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” May He continue to be your strength and song!

  13. Still praying for you! I stumbled across your blog many years ago, in a much older form. And even in words, you do seem to have a talent for shaping lovely spaces. So I’m sure your home in its older form was even more so. And that it will be again.

  14. Words take on fresh and unusual significance when sifted and measured by such “severe mercies” as have been your experience. Let nothing be done in haste, dear woman.

  15. Thank you for taking the time to write down another chapter of your journey. (Those first 300 words are beautiful.) I only discovered your writing very recently, but felt instantly at home in your paragraphs.
    I recognized you as a kindred spirit during our first meeting. I pray that God will continue to shower blessings and support on you as He carries you through this difficult season.

  16. You have been in my heart as well (and prayers) as you make your way through all that is going on right now. It is so beautiful to read your posts and see all the beauty that you are seeing in everything. The blessings are that much more special right now. Continued prayers are with you.

    1. Thank you, Terri–your prayers are dear to me. You’re right–the blessed glimpses of beauty that we catch in the midst of darkness are all the more precious, aren’t they?

  17. “Like outposts in a heartbroken world, our homes have the potential to image what it means to be “at home” in God. This is as true of the travel trailer we’re currently occupying in the backyard as it is of the house we’ll return to someday. I want to affirm this here—and I need you to affirm it back to me.”

    Oh, yes. If we do not believe it to be true in the trailer, then we rob the poor of the world of the capacity for receiving and offering the wondrous gifts of beauty and hospitality. A bouquet of flowers, a cup of tea and words typed out on a laptop there are no less a sacred ministry representing what it means to be “at home” in God, than they were, and will be again, when offered in and from the farmhouse graciously given by Him.

    In terms of the hospitality of blessing family and friends, which you love to do with joyous abandon, perhaps you might view this as a season of being given one ‘talent’ rather than ‘ten’ (Matthew 25:14-30). God only asks that we use what He has given in order to hear His “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” And that is what you are doing.

    (P.S. I did notice your whispered ‘note’ in the photograph (smile).)

    1. Yes, Judy, such a good word. These are definitely “one talent” days, and it’s something of a relief to acknowledge that. Thanks for reminding me to live the blessed ‘given life’ within its God-ordained boundaries. “He makes peace within…”

      (And I’m so glad you noticed the ‘note’. It was entirely intentional. ;))

  18. Oh my. Dear Lanier. I just read your piece “Basket of Fragments” at The Rabbit Room and was caught up in the language of how you think and express yourself. I vaguely recognized your name and remembered loving another writing last year … suddenly I needed to find you and express my appreciation for your words. And then I found you . . . and read about the fire. Oh my, again. You are in my thoughts and prayers, dear new friend. Blessings on your sweet head as you press forward.

    1. Leslie, thank you so much for taking the time to introduce yourself, and for such warm, encouraging words. I’m glad to know that you are here, and that you’ve found a friend in this place. 🙂

  19. Thank you for sharing with us what it is really like to go through something like this. It is so comforting to know how the Lord is sustaining you — how we may expect Him to sustain us in similar trials. May God continue to bless you as you recover from this. (Loved seeing that afternoon tea was the first ritual to return.)

    1. Thank you, Heather–and thank you for coming alongside me in this journey. I’m so thankful to know that my experience (and His faithfulness) have been a comfort to you.

  20. Your words affirm that home is a holy place and the home we think about is always evolving because we grow in our longing for our heavenly home. I like what you say about valuing home MORE rather than less after such a blow to the earthy life you’re living. That rings very true. God’s arm is very long and His administrations to you are sacred. God be with you. Thank you for sharing.

  21. Lanier…”we come in expectation…waiting here for You..” So so glad He knows our thoughts when we can’t say anything…simply “O Lord,Lanier __________, please fill in the blanks Lord with what she needs.” I am so thankful you can still sit at His table, amidst the rubble and deep grief, and let Him feed you in a different way…” Please if at all possible let us continue on this journey with you…we all need that…praying, dear sister…

    1. Thank you so much, Debbie. It is no small thing to hold one another before the Lord. And it’s encouraging to remember that we don’t even have to know specifically what to ask for–just that He would portion out daily bread to the ones we’re praying for.

      (And I’m working on an update post as we speak… :))

  22. YES. “My life is hid with Christ in God”. This truth of scripture seems to truly ‘come home’ to us in times of great distress and turmoil. And what a profound and peace-bringing experience that is, despite the pain.
    Thank you so much for your open heart and your writings.
    Jama

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