Last night I attended my last Okinawa Chaplain Spouse meeting, and laughter and tears flowed in equal measure. These women have enriched my experience here in every way. I had the honor of sharing during the evening and thought it might encourage some of you who are in the midst of transition, too.

(pic courtesy Memphis- which also explains the tilt)

These are hard days. We’re in our last weeks on Okinawa, and to add to the chaos, our cul-de-sac is being renovated, which means every family is being moved out in the next two months. Not a day has gone by in the last two weeks that moving trucks haven’t clogged the street. It’s a tangible reminder of the shifting nature of our lives. These hard days are when I often begin to pull back, to try to make the pain of leaving hurt a little less, but it never works.

There are certainly days I decide I am not going to put myself out there anymore—it hurts too much, it’s too hard, it takes too much energy—I’m just going to stay safe at home with my kids and block the rest of the tipsy turvy world out.

I’d like to say it began with our time in the military, but that would be a lie. Early on in our ministry, we were basically run out of two churches within a year—not because of anything we had done wrong per se, but because of instability in the leadership—when the pastor who had recommended us for the position was fired or left, we understood in clear terms that we were welcome (and encouraged) to follow them out. We limped out of that second church cut to the core.

My husband Matt, ever the optimist, and always well-connected, was recommended for a position at another church within a week, and hired within a month. I was three months pregnant and highly stable when I told him in my most submissive voice: You do what you want. I’m not going. I’m done.

And I made good on my word. I didn’t go for the first month.

Eventually, I agreed to go ONLY on Sundays.

By the time Cora Jo was born that summer, I had good reasons to stay disconnected: we had moved into a new house in the two weeks before Cora was induced, and we suddenly had three kids ages 3, almost 2, and an infant. I tried to hide behind the baby bucket and keep everyone at arm’s length, but I am so thankful for that body of believers who didn’t let my woundedness stop them from loving me. They breathed life back into Matt and I began to catch it from him. (He’s contagious that way.) For nearly a year and a half, that body of believers loved us unconditionally, and God used them to heal us and prepare us for the next chapter. We learned to forgive people who would never ask for it. We learned how to engage again after deep hurts. Good thing too, because Matt went active duty in October 2004 and would be in Fallujah with an infantry battalion by January, while I sat alone in a new town, in a new church pew waiting for one of my preschoolers to curse or hit their way out of the nursery canceling the only 30 minutes of quiet I would have all week. I took risks and met other moms, and God graciously brought women into my life who are still dear and precious to me today—over ten years later.

I’d like to tell you it gets easier with practice, but every place we go, it’s a fight. Hide or risk. Hide or risk.

The only thing I DO know is this: RISK IT.

Will it hurt? Yes.

Is it safe? Probably not.

But it is so, so worth it.

And it is the only way to live fully. When I tentatively enter new places and spaces, I make a conscious decision to lean into my faith and RISK. We love to spout Philippians 4:13- “I can do all things through Christ,” but so often we ignore the context—Verse 12 says “I know what it is to be in need and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well-fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want; 14: I can do all things through Him who gives me strength.”

This military life teaches us what it is to be in want and to have plenty, especially in the area of relationships, but we can do it though Christ who gives us strength. Risk knowing people and being known. Step into circles outside your comfort zone. Fight to stay open.

You can only do this if you know how much you are loved by God. KNOW HOW MUCH YOU ARE LOVED BY GOD—how you are already enough!

When I cling tightly to my identity in Christ, it spills into every area of my life: I can let go of controlling my kids or rating my ability as a parent based on their good or bad decisions, because I know God loves us and carries us; I am able to accept leadership and responsibility without the need to impress people; I can rejoice with those who rejoice without feeling envy and jealousy and weep with those who weep without getting lost in their current. When I am discouraged or feel like I am failing in one area or all of them, I know it is time to return to the truth that I am deeply loved by God and THAT IS ENOUGH. I AM ALREADY ENOUGH IN CHRIST.

When we KNOW who we are in Christ, the small steps of faith we take make a KINGDOM’s difference.

This is my prayer for you—stick together—share each other’s highs and lows. I look around and see the joys and griefs we have shared—I’m in tears tonight precisely because I have laughed and cried so hard with all of you. Keep reaching out and treasure your tears as evidence that you have loved well.

Here is my prayer as I close:

Ephesians 3:16-20 God I pray that out of your glorious riches you will strengthen us with power through your Spirit, so that Christ may dwell in our hearts through faith. I pray that we might be rooted and established in love, so that together, we may have power to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is YOUR love for us, and to know that this love surpasses knowledge, that we may be filled to the brim with the fullness of God. This is hard. But I know you are able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine according to your Spirit at work within us.

As we embrace our singular identity in Christ, I know that it brings you glory. Thank you for loving us so much.

*To all my military chaplain spouse friends far and near, thank you. My goodness, I love you all, and I take comfort that you are strewn across the globe being light and hope in places where it’s often hard to see. Stay present and know you matter.*