Busy Season.

It's busy season.  For Mark.  Brutal hours.  Laboring efforts.  Long days.  No weekends.

My husband is amazing.  On all levels.  I don't know how he does it.  I don't know how is brain still works at the hours he's working, how his body doesn't fall over at the amount of sleep he's getting, or how his texts and lips aren't full of complaining after the rigor he's demanded.  And, somehow, in the midst of all of that, he makes such effort to still communicate, still care, still listen, still encourage, me.  The man is wonderful.  I absolutely love him and can't brag enough over him.

But, this little post is about the "others" in my life.  Those who have filled in the spots of Mark's absense and taken me on like a Spiritual Sister, coming and walking side by side, with, and through busy season with me.  Its incredible.  Seriously, incredible.  I think when I look back on busy season, I'll remember long hours and lots of worrying to care over my husband, but I hope I remember each person who has found a spot for me under their wing, in their car, or at their table.

I'll think of Judy who lets me drop by whether she's home or nannying, and fills spots of listening and caring and talking through jobs and dreams and missions and mommy-life and Jesus.  I'll think of her openness and acceptance and love and ability and availability to share time with me.

I'll think of Amy who brings Dunkers on a tray with tea to the porch of windows, the couches beneath us but our hearts filled within us.  I'll think of Gordon on the Upwards basketball court and third grade boys running around and Amy and I yelling and the little cheerleader pom-poming.  I'll think of lobster rolls at the market and her Milwaukee people and dinners at the table and talking at the bar while she baked.  I'll think of the Mexican train game at night and Gordon laughing and all of us chatting.  And good breakfasts and dinners and soups and life.

I'll think of Melissa who meets me at movies and lets me "supervise" while she's crafty.  I'll think of piano benches and spread candles and nights at the Lawsons and hugs and times to just sit and be.

I'll think of Kara who sends texts and shares wine and prayers as if they are one in the same.  Who makes space in her life to bring me and food to the table, and relax and linger for moments and simply share in that ability to be.

I'll think of Trish who throws on tennis shoes for S.O.S. walks at the park, or calls on the drives to work, or offers to sit on a Friday Eve.  I'll think of her book arriving in the mail, and her body and soul besides me at Sunday morning Study.  I'll think of Sleepy Poet and bookends and silver mirrors and searching through gorges of antiques.  I'll think of her friendship and remember her "I love you!" sent so often in smiles through texts.

I'll think of WLT and these church women who have shepherded and prayed and guided me through hard spots and choices and courage.  I'll think of their offers to sit on their couches, play with their children, join their study, or plan a day of things in Charlotte to see.  I'll think of them caring and writing and asking and coming beside me.

I'll think of Sheree and how she sits on my couch while we share tea.  I'll think of her texts and how she remembers and how her friendship so strengthens me.  I'll think of her pursuing and emailing and caring, and being such a light and spark to me.  I'll think of how God knew I needed her, and how she has gripped his love and call and grace, and how she is one with such a gift to just "be."

I'll think of phone calls from Kate and Kate, and offers to simply fill time from Kelsey.  I'll think of the "covered" card with the umbrella of love from Heidi and know prayers have been lifted and sheltered.  I'll think of working out at the ROC and women who have come to know my name and care about me.

I'll think of Mark's mom. For prayers and moments of sanity.  For listening through tears about nannying, and offering time and insight whenever I needed it.  I'll think of her encouragement and wisdom, and things like Matt's windshield wipers making me laugh.  I'll think about her always picking up phone calls for endless time or quick opportunity.   I'll think of shopping for broaches in Greensboro, and really understanding that yes, there is the Thrill of the Hunt.  I'll think of Sleepy Poet and packing for Florida, and never questioning how good God could be to me in giving me her.  And then I'll think of Mark and I'll smile and brag and love him even more.

And so when I sit and think and look at Busy Season.  I'll feel the void of my husband, and the earnest I feel to walk with him and encourage him.  I'll think of wanting to strengthen him and offer him reprive.  I'll think of sharing texts and pictures and verses and mornings.  And I'll think about how much I love this wonderful man.

But I'll also think of, must think of, need to think of, the women in my life who have taken time to care and shelter over me.  And in this, they are Jesus to me.

900 Square Feet.

900 Square Feet.

I can't help but feel this story over and over again.

Because it feels refreshing, it feels valuable, it feels encouraging, it feels like real life, and real memories, and real truth.

There are days all I see is big houses and expensive cars and boutique clothes and think I've got to run and chase after the dream.  I think that's the accomplishment, that's the mission, that's the goal.  And if only we could get there, we'd have room for everything we need.

But the Lord put rest in my heart with a conversation with a friend.  She's in her fifties, children grown, with a well-established home in an elite neighborhood of Charlotte.  She and her husband have "arrived," have "made it."  And our conversation flowed to their early years, intertwined with Mark and I's ambitions and worries and work.

But the Lord smiled upon us with her story.  900 Square Feet.  It was the size of their first house, lived in for ten years, raising their children there, until they were 7 and 4.  A boy and a girl, sharing a bedroom.  A little tiny space, crowded but full with their memories.  Her husband worked and worked, struggling to feel like he was getting ahead.  And it wasn't until he was 35 that he did, and they moved. But for ten years they had 900 square feet of children and love and toys sprawled and blankets dragged and tears shed and meals made.

I think of them now, with a few other women I've talked to lately, who have lived in small spaces, with children sharing bedrooms, and yet have full lives.  And I think of years that children shared spaces, and toys had no rooms but boxes and kitchens were cornered and tight. Yet the food was cooked with care, beds tidied with comfort, books read on the couches.  And I think of our home, a beautiful space that we rest in, and am thankful.  Because memories are made in the house, no matter the size or splendor.  Their made at the Lawsons table, Heidi's canning counter, Trish's kitchen.  Places where love is served.

So no matter if the home is 900, 1400, or 4000 square feet, it is who we are with and how we live that life that honors, blesses, and serves those in it.