“I love change.”

That’s the dumb thing a person says when THEY are in charge of the change. I used to say that all the time at work.

“Why do people hate change? I LOVE change!”

Guess who was in charge of all the change at work? Me.

So, a more accurate statement is…

“I love change when I am 100% in charge of what the change looks like, how it gets implemented, and to what degree I am inconvenienced by said change.”

So that’s really not loving change…that’s loving control, right?

I started thinking about this when I was on a walk a couple of weeks ago. We spend a lot of time at Tablerock Lake in south west Missouri, and I frequently take a walk on these crazy hills near our house. The entire walk is only two miles — one out and one back. But the one out is somewhat brutal…it can slow your gait to a “one foot in front of the other” crawl at certain points, and I have cursed those parts of the walk more than once.

One of the said hills pictured here:

At one point during my recent walk, I wandered off the asphalt path and onto the rocky shoulder. When I did, the toe of my shoe caught a rock, and it skidded quickly across the road to a new spot on the opposite rocky side. It went such a long distance I was kind of amazed at its trajectory. Which also made me think of when you drop your AirPods- have you even done that? If so, you’ve likely seen the actual headphones shoot out of the case and land somewhere 3 rooms away–how do they go that far? And why can’t Apple, arguably the leader in this technology, design a case that doesn’t allow for this?

Anyway, back to my walk.

When the rock was propelled across the road, I stopped. I looked down and noticed the place it used to be lodged. And lodged it was–the divet left by its absence was deep–its open spot was a glaring gap amongst the other rocks surrounding it, and I was so surprised that the casual crossing of my shoe caught the rock so perfectly as to dislodge it and move it so far.

I wandered to the spot of the rock’s new landing…and I looked down at where it had settled. Actually, “not settled” would be a better statement. It was awkwardly perched on branches and leaves; there were very few rocks nearby, and it looked wildly out of place. I had this compulsion to pick it up, move it back to the open spot where it fit so perfectly. I wanted to carry it lovingly in my hand and figure out its exact placement in the prior spot–not a degree turned. I wanted to let it be comfortable again; I wanted it to be allowed to return to where it had always been. Because that’s where it obviously “belonged,” right?

And then my mind started really reeling, but I realized it was such a perfect metaphor for when God decides you need to be uprooted and moved to a new spot. This can happen in so many ways. A job loss, a divorce, a loss of a loved one, a diagnosis…the list is long.

My “kick across the road” came more than 5 years ago with a scary C-word diagnosis. To say that the swift movement to a place I did not recognize came fast and, for lack of a better word, violently, is an understatement. I was securely nestled in my spot, surrounded by other rocks I knew, in a place that was so familiar, so comfortable, and I was cozy there. I wasn’t asking for the move; I didn’t choose how the move came, and I certainly didn’t welcome the kick that sailed me to a foreign place, surrounded by people I didn’t know, places I never wanted to visit, and doing things because of change that I didn’t choose, nor could I control how inconvenienced I was by it.

I did not like this change.

To quote a favorite, Dr. Seuss… “I would not, could not, in the rain. Not in the dark. Not on a train. Not in a tree. Not in a car. You let me be! I do not like it, Sam-I-Am.”

The year of surgery and treatments and the following years of devastating anxiety and worry were brutal. I say that in the past tense and likely shouldn’t because it never really goes away, as anyone who has gone through something like this can tell you. I learned of my diagnosis in a Starbucks drive-through with my daughter in the passenger seat, and I had to act like nothing had happened so I didn’t upend her world before Jason and I had time to carefully choose the words we would use with our daughters. Hell, at that point I was still trying to figure out the words I would say to him. To this day, I struggle to even drive by that store, let alone go through the drive-through. I have to actively concentrate to avoid throwing up, crying, or having a full-blown panic attack. I will add 15 minutes to a trip to avoid it. If unavoidable, I literally hold my breath and cover the line of sight to the store with my hand alongside my head. There are some things that are tough to shake, no matter how crazy they make you sound.

But that moment…that was the sailing…that was right after the kick. I was flying untethered and couldn’t find a foothold; I had no clue where I would land or what my new surroundings would look like. You know when you have that dream where you are falling, and you jerk awake? It’s like that, except you’re awake, the nightmare is real, and every cell in your body is screaming to “find solid ground,” but you never “jerk awake,” even though you desperately wish you would. It is a feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It is also the feeling you recognize so quickly when you meet someone going through the post-kick flight. It is identifiable only by the survivors.

But here’s the thing. You do land. You may be bruised. You may be in pain. You may still be terrified. But you do land. And one day you stop crying just long enough to start looking around. You may like the view, or you may hate it, but the choice you have is to start looking for a new place to nestle in. And then you start figuring out how to make the new space better than the old one. Not that the old one was bad…but remember how deep the hole was that the rock was in? That is, I believe, how tightly we can get wedged in our comfortable spots…and I also think it’s why sometimes, God has to kick you across the road.

Now, whenever I write or say things like this, I get a lot of opinions. Sometimes people don’t like the image of a Father that would purposefully put His children through pain or hurt. I also struggled through many tough conversations with God with a sobbing, WHY as the sole word I could mutter. He always answered…either with peace, or a thought, or a plan, but He never left me unanswered…He never left me weaker than he found me.

I recently heard someone quote a Bible verse that I had never heard. Although the verse was somewhat misquoted, and there is a definite probability I am not using it in the correct context, the feeling hit me…

Hebrews 12:26-27 says At that time his voice shook the earth, but now he has promised, “Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens. The words “once more” indicate the removing of what can be shaken–that is, created things–so that what cannot be shaken may remain.”

This experience…this sailing to a new normal, it gave me scars–literal and figurative ones. But more than that, it shook me. That rock, like me, no matter how wedged in it was in its original spot, was able to be shaken. It simply took one perfect pass of my foot to place it in a new spot. Everyone eventually has a kick…the trajectory of the flight is the only variable.

People ask me all the time: “What did you learn? How are you different?” The only answer I’ve ever been able to say is…

“It changed everything.”

But if I’m really honest and take the time to be a little more articulate… it made me examine my life and my choices more closely; it greatly deepened my faith; it enriched my marriage. It allowed me to lovingly view my children as the people they were becoming vs the people I thought they should be. My biggest prayer was that this event would simply be a tiny blip in the storyline of what made my daughters who they are, not their entire plot. I was blessed with the realization that their path was one to be enamored with–not in charge of–it is one of the greatest feelings of exquisite relief I’ve ever felt. An understanding that I don’t control everything, but that I have the ability and privilege to view everything about them with awe.

Most importantly, and back to the verse… it left me in a place where I am much less likely to be shaken in my understanding of what a loving Father our God is. Because just like I wanted to return the rock to its original nest, I’m pretty sure God had a desire to pick me up and return me to my former place, to remove the pain, to alleviate the anxiety. I have no doubt He looked back at the life He kicked me from and thought…I bet I could put her back so closely that she wouldn’t even know she had been moved. But then…would I still be able to be shaken? Would I have searched for His comfort with such desperation that when I received it I knew it was unmistakably Him and that any doubt of His merciful nature was removed? I wish I could say I would have…but I’m not sure that’s true.

I’m tougher as well as weaker than I was before. I say all the time, “I’m not ready to tell Him ‘thank you’ yet…but I have a real belief that someday I will.”

I finished my walk thinking about what that rock will “do” in its new place. Perhaps it will eventually find its way to have a firmer foundation, a tighter grasp on the earth, and a stronger footing despite its wobbly beginning. Maybe it has great purpose in changing the way water flows down the hill, or maybe it simply provides delight to my grandchild and me when we walk that hill together someday, and he or she picks it up in their little hand.

Maybe my new spot allows me to write and speak in a way that changes how people look at things–a true joy of mine — maybe that grand purpose awaits me… but maybe I’m simply allowed to find that rock with the aforementioned grandchild a few years from now, and we take it home and paint it together.

And I think this might be the biggest thing: Maybe I realize that those are the greatest moments of purpose in my life, and perhaps I wouldn’t have slowed down enough to allow for it, had I not been kicked to the other side of the road.