The moments I’ve been collecting lately lack all the luster and idyllic qualities I used to think were needed for holding onto something. 

The other morning I found myself utterly content sitting on the back porch watching the boys draw pictures. We have a goal to fix up our backyard by the time cooler weather hits, but right now it’s a bit of a mess. A collection of unridden bicycles and scooters sit precariously on top of a gigantic slab of rough concrete smack in the middle of our tiny yard. Our oversized kiddie pool lays in a haphazard heap a little to the right. The sun has stripped our deck of stain in various sections from sheer intensity. The summer is lingering even though my husband is back at school for the fall semester, and that fact feels a little bit like a cruel joke. Shouldn’t fall semester begin with…well fall? To top it all off, this summer has been riddled with anxiety that has threatened to take with it every last shred of my sanity. I’ve never fought so hard to reclaim my peace and joy in a season where I truly couldn’t even pinpoint the culprit. Nevertheless, I found myself in this moment in time completely satisfied. For a split second I wasn’t looking at all the areas that needed fixing or taking stock of everything in my life that is not yet how it should be. 

We just returned from our annual summer trip to North Carolina where my parents have been for the past couple of months. We spent two weeks with hardly an agenda—skipping rocks in the river by the house, exploring the local downtown, reading for hours while River napped on lazy afternoons. Matt walked to the coffee shop around the corner nearly every day and we had dinner and game nights in my parents cozy cabin. We played childish card games and laughed with our whole bodies. We spotted fireflies at dusk and visited wineries and ate pizza at picnic tables. It was truly picturesque.

Yet—I spent the better part of our time there feeling anxious and mildly depressed. I was in a rut I was beginning to fear I would never break free from and it was stripping away my ability to see clearly. I had to fight to be present for these moments I had been dreaming about all spring. I scribbled ferociously in my journal every verse on peace and joy I could find and I prayed fervent prayers as we drove down windy roads and danced to movie soundtracks in the car. 

I found healing wading in the brisk cold river tucked in the Appalachian mountains, but I also found it on a splintery deck in my own backyard. 

Eventually, I would have a moment of breakthrough, like the fog had been lifted and reality had begun to take shape and color again. But the juxtaposition of it all left me confused and a little whiplashed. In the midst of my anxious spells I would repeat to myself “if it’s not good, God’s not done” forcing myself to believe that victory was just around the corner. After all, what good is a beautiful setting if the setting of my mind is overtaken by weeds and decay? To see the good things around me, I had to begin with watering my spirit with the truth of God’s goodness. 

I slowly began to collect my peace like stones in a creek. I found healing wading in the brisk cold river tucked in the Appalachian mountains, but I also found it on a splintery deck in my own backyard. 

These moments, this life we are building is never going to be perfect. Even in picturesque moments, we find ourselves grappling for the contentment we were so sure would come with them. So we keep uprooting the weeds of our minds that try to choke out every good thing. We water the soil and speak kindly to ourselves in weak moments. And we work to stay present to it all, not looking for a perfection that only exists on the other side of eternity, but for good things that bring heaven a little bit closer to earth. 

We are not perfect, but as God was placing the finishing touches on humanity, He sat back and said “it is good.” And so it is. And that, I think, is where the healing begins.