Grape Cough Syrup and other things that don't fix the problem
Does everything have to be a lesson?
I remember drinking small but potent shots of grape cough syrup in the middle of the night, my mom probably tired of hearing me hack for hours, not sleeping, she and I both. “Grape” and “syrup” are supposed to make bad medicine palatable but I still gag at just the thought of it, and a sickening womp stretches out below my ribs. That medicine helped mom and me sleep but it did not taste like grapes and it did not make me well.
I’ve been drinking the syrup and counting my blessings and being thankful because there is so much to be thankful for. But it hasn’t “made me well”, in the sense that I still do not know what is going on or why or for how long.
Our life has changed pretty drastically this summer: we moved away from our hometown, I resigned from coaching volleyball, and we became empty nesters, all at the same time. Each part of this is a long story I keep trying to shorten.
The main question I’m asking is one that I think makes writing this for the public of any use, because it’s a question that frames how we look at our lives: Does everything have to be a lesson?
WHAT
The problem is that we sold our home—which has been our plan for several years as we’ve neared the empty nest phase—and then all our other plans became pleasant dreams that vanished upon waking. For awhile it looked like several fairy tales would merge and we couldn’t believe, couldn’t pinch ourselves awake from the dream, that God would be so good to us. That’s the truth of it: I lived for awhile with my jaw slack in amazement that God would be so extravagant. We were about to have a smaller home on amazing property and all of our people closeby, and there weren’t really any other dreams we held in our hearts that wouldn’t be facilitated by this great change. So many good things would flow from this new situation. Who am I, to be blessed in this way?
We lived in the thrill of this dream for a couple months and then—like a sudden, spasming cough that jerks you awake; like missing that last step coming down the stairs; like being hit by a bus; like all the other metaphors for the unexpected things that disrupt your life—our plans were changed for us. And to tell you the truth, I know this is bad theology but I sometimes feel like this is what I get for questioning God’s goodness. I couldn’t believe things could work out so great…so they didn’t.
We sold our home without any other good options for staying in the place we love.
WHY?
I am learning (relearning, let’s be honest) something about my default way of thinking. When I am looking for The Lesson, I’m really just looking for reasons and causes, for someone to blame, and for ways to improve for next time. I don’t think Jesus has a curriculum lined up for me like that. I mean sure—sometimes I sin and then reap a harvest from my choices. I’m not talking about those instances though. I’m talking about decisions that follow prayer and discernment, plans made with good intentions. When those things turn out bad (or don’t turn out as expected), why? If there is a lesson, what would it be?
Asking why is begging for a satisfactory answer and most often it just seems to be that Jesus is with me, and the return question: Will that be enough?
Ironically1, we have always talked about moving somewhere else, out of the valley. We have looked at properties as far east as the high desert of Oregon, and at times we’ve considered putting even more miles or an ocean between us and this place. But when we followed through with our plans to downsize and sell our home, we had finally settled in our hearts to stay in Camas Valley. Instead, we ended up more than an hour away.
Tim discovered this house about 8 years ago when he was looking at the neighboring property, and he fell in love with it because he’s a visionary and loves a challenge. Or he’s a sucker for punishment. Or he is confident that God directs his steps and his steps lead him to this house on this day.
When I saw the house, I was sure we were about to find an unsolved mystery. It was giving strong “Dateline Exclusive” vibes and there was so much stuff—old cars and a rotted camp trailer and piles and piles of papers and motorcycle parts and appliances and broken furniture. I felt certain that under the rubble we’d find a body.
The house wasn’t on the market but it was vacant, and we began to investigate buying it. Not to live in—the intention was never really that we would relocate here—just fix it up, see what it could be, and look at it as an investment. Initially the answer was no it’s not for sale and we moved on, but months later the family contacted us through a realtor and we bought it.
The owners had begun construction in the early 1980s, adding on and going up from the daylight basement to a third story, while living camp-style in the open framing and raw plywood floors. They never finished any part of it, just kept adding on, living in the middle of unfinished dreams, collecting broken antiques and history along the way. Everything inside was makeshift and primitive. Everything outside was spooky. They both passed away before seeing it finished.
We have treated it like our retirement account, dumping money into finishing the house and hoping for a return on our investment someday. Tim has put so many hours and so much work into it—all joyfully, because he loves a challenge. Our oldest daughter was married in this house when her venue canceled on her in 2020, and it was a gorgeous little wedding. Until this year, there was zero cell service or internet available so coming up here was truly a retreat from the world. All these things and more make it a special house.
And now we live here2, but we don’t know for how long. We don’t know why we’re here and not there. Why are we in a huge house when all our kids are moved out and it’s just the two of us? Why are we so far away from our businesses and our family?
The grape syrup of the situation is that we’re in a beautiful home surrounded by a deep forest, five minutes from the river, and we’re really not that far away from the valley. We’ve owned this house for seven years and (once we got it cleaned up) it’s always been a House of Peace for us—a refuge and a rest. It’s in a great little community, too. That doesn’t fix any of the other questions but there is a hint of goodness in there, and it allows us to rest in the middle of uncertainty.
A little beauty while we wait for direction. That’s what I hope for you as you wrestle out your own questions, many of which are bigger than mine. I hope you know Jesus is with you and maybe he’s not always trying to teach you a lesson.
Cynicism is the sin I am most battling these days. I heard Beth Moore define cynicism as “pride that thinks its smart” recently, and it hurt in a way that tells me it’s true. Calling something “ironic” is usually my cynicism speaking.
And because we live here, it only made sense for me to resign from coaching and for our youngest to move out so he could live closer to his job and friends.
I tried to write a comment earlier, and then our first reading today was from Wisdom Ch 9 (a book which is new to me, that whole Catholic/Protestant Bible thing) and seemed to speak to this all better than I can (also had a very LOTR-esque flavor):
“Who can know God’s counsel, or who can conceive what the LORD intends? For the deliberations of mortals are timid, and unsure are our plans. For the corruptible body burdens the soul and the earthen shelter weighs down the mind that has many concerns. And scarce do we guess the things on earth, and what is within our grasp we find with difficulty; but when things are in heaven, who can search them out? Or who ever knew your counsel, except you had given wisdom and sent your holy spirit from on high? And thus were the paths of those on earth made straight.”
Cough syrup: People always made fun of me for how I gagged at the stuff. Glad to know I’m not the only one who found it revolting haha.
On a more serious note: I’ve been learning this too, that there’s not a lesson hidden amongst every trial. And like you, I think the reason I always searched for one is because it felt like the burden was lighter if I had something or someone to blame.
But what God is offering us in every bit of suffering is himself, and that is what I want to cling to.