Shelter from the Storm

It's been a rough week at the "cactus compound and de-tox center" (the name for our rental home given by my husband). Lots of reminders of why we're in the middle of the desert away from civilization. A virus caught at the gym, a reaction to a perfume at a store, headaches from a used computer, etc.

I knew within a month of vacating our home that recovery would mean some major changes. I just didn't know how drastic. Our diet is so radically different I still can't believe my kids are satisfied with stir-fried brown rice and aduki beans as a main meal.

I really can't believe my kids are being taught at home by a tutor provided by the school district. I certainly would never have imagined that the highlight of my week would be my trip to the Farmer's Market around the corner.

That's our life now. For how long? I don't know. I do know that when we signed our 1-year lease in August we were committing to a season of voluntary "confinement" in order to heal from the vicious assault waged by toxic mold.

It's a risk for sure. One that I'm willing to take if there's any chance of giving my kids a second chance at life.

The Bible talks about the sparrow and assures me that I don't have to be afraid for our future, for I am "worth more than many sparrows."

I saw a sparrow not long ago. It was on our back porch during the final monsoon of the season.

We watched in silence. The bird stood so calmly. So confidently. So willingly.
Confident that the storm would pass. Certain that he was safest under our roof rather than the trees. Content to wait. Ready to fly.
I hate that my kids aren't at sleepovers and birthday parties. I miss our friends and community. I long for healthy interaction with the outside world.
But I'm confident that our bodies need this rest. Certain that our immune systems need the opportunity to heal. And I'm content to wait it out. Most days.
My greatest hope is that one day, sooner than I might expect, my children will fly again.
When they do, I hope and pray they witness the same signature we saw moments after our sparrow flew away.

(Photos by Kristen Fabry)