Author: Stephanie Rollins

 

I am on the beach at Whidbey Island looking for sea glass.  This is my favorite place, and my favorite pasttime.  I walk along the water’s edge with my three children: Camden way ahead, Ellie right beside me, and Mitchell in a pack on my back.  My phone plays worship music.  Ellie and I hold hands, and I sing to the Lord.  A new song starts and grabs my heart, so I stop and face the ocean, close my eyes momentarily and sing to Him: OH LORD, YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL.  

And He is.  It is July in the Pacific Northwest, and the salty ocean breeze is crisp and almost cold.  The water is too cold for me, but the children don’t seem to notice.  In the distance beyond the water, somewhere out in the Sound, mountains rise up out of the ocean like brushstrokes in shades of blue.  YOUR FAITHFULNESS REACHES TO THE MOUNTAINS.  

The water is out with the tide, and the sand at our feet is a treasure chest of marine life.  Ellie holds up a crab claw for my inspection.  She then drops the claw and picks up an empty oyster shell.  YOUR JUSTICE FLOWS LIKE THE OCEAN’S TIDES.   

Behind me is a forest of tall, evergreen trees.  Where the cove wraps around, the trees continue and become smaller, jagged lines against the sky.  A Great Blue Heron swoops down and glides silently over the water.  THE TREES OF THE FIELD CLAP THEIR HANDS.  

I am now crying, because I almost always cry when I worship.  Ellie realizes this and wraps her arms around my leg in a huge hug.  She then tries to wave Cam over and shout-whispers: “Mom is worshipping again!” 

Yes, Mom is worshipping again. 

I turned 37 yesterday.  I am mindful of where I have been, where I am today, and where I will go.   That I am halfway through or so, but still have so many things to learn, books to read, and places to see.  But also, a new thought in my thirties: the truth that if I didn’t learn those things, or read those books, or see those places, I am content. 

Content, humbled, and grateful.  

I point to sea glass with my toe and Ellie scoops it up and puts it in my hand.  This one is blue, a very rare find here.  Brown and white are most common, then green, then lastly, blue.  Something to do with the colors of glass in Asia where it begins as trash.  I turn it over in my hand.  

Proper sea glass is frosty and smooth, and this one is, too.  It tumbled in the ocean for so many years and lost all its rough edges and glassiness, and it is now a treasure that only time and friction could have  made.  YOUR KINGDOM IS LIKE A PEARL OF GREAT WORTH.  

It all takes time— sea glass, pearls, diamonds— time and resistance.  YOU HAVE COME TO MAKE ALL THINGS NEW IN THEIR TIME.  Even litter.  Even a grain of sand stuck in an oyster shell.  Even me.

These days I don’t feel young.  My face is aging faster than I’d like, and my three kids have changed my body.  (During my last c-section the doctor kept saying, “sorry it’s taking so long, there’s just so much scar tissue.”  Which is an odd thing to hear when you’re on the table.)

But I don’t feel old either.  My body is stronger than I ever knew.  It carries my children on my back and in my arms, and in the lines of my face.  It goes all day, and then some more.  I feel able.  I know I am in the middle of it.  

These snapshots I take today of tiny feet in the sand are the ones I’ll look back at and think “those were the days…” (Hopefully not followed by, “…before we messed it up,” or, “…before so-and-so fell off the wagon.”)  

Inside the cabin at the end of our beach walk is a cross-stitched pillow.  I’m not really one to have a cross-stitched pillow speak to me, but this one says: “Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Or do without.” 

Yes.  That is good.  That sums up my thirties.  And motherhood.  And the quiet confidence that has come in this season.  I am being used up, worn out, made to do, made to grow, made to repent, and at times, made to do without.  So much of my twenties was spent trying to turn heads.  In my thirties I’ve said my goodbye to all that, and now am just trying to turn my kids’ heads.  And there is so much peace in that transition.  

I am certain that others in their thirties would disagree.  They are at the height of their striving: for more money, or a bigger house, or a better spouse, or a new thrill, or still at trying to turn heads.  Or they are super mindful of places they could be that they aren’t.  Or they’re striving against fear about their kids, or their own mortality, or aging.  

But I feel content.  I am at peace with all people; I feel love for mankind and this world.  I feel so blessed— blessed beyond dream or hope or expectation, pressed down and shaken together.  I feel loved by a God so much bigger and deeper and stronger than I am.  I feel content with what I have and what I don’t.  I would love to live more days, but if I didn’t, I trust Him to watch over all I’d leave behind.  I feel every day used and tired, but in the most satisfying way.  I feel poured into and poured out.  I feel less preoccupied with the appearance of my vessel and more interested in what’s inside.  I feel sinful and humbled, and like I have so far to go, but I also feel as though there’s no rush in getting there.  I feel as if I’m tumbling in an ocean, wearing down and wearing out, in the best possible way.  

Which brings me back to the sea glass.  I find another piece and Ellie acts as my arms to scoop it up for me.  This one is green.  I walk a little farther and find a white, and then a brown.  And this is my favorite thing to do.  It is relaxing to walk along the shore and look for that little glimmer, a glint in the light, that calls to me: Here I am.  I am not wet seaweed, I am not shell.  I am what you are looking for.  And when I spot one, my heart lights up, and my eyes squint (there are those pesky wrinkles again) as they narrow on my treasure, and I feel joy when it is in my hand.  I delight in it.  

And that’s Him, too, isn’t it?

I pray that He delights in finding me, and you, along His walks.  You know He takes them as He did in the garden.  He walks in the cool of the day, looking out for one that is His, worn down by an ocean of resistance into the perfect treasure to stand out among the grains of sand and among the seaweed, to bring Him joy in His hand.  

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https://money.usnews.com/careers/applying-for-a-job/articles/2018-06-26/pursuing-justice-how-to-get-a-job-helping-kids

This photo and link are from a U.S. News and World Report article featuring my dear friend, Brandy Bailey.  She is a real life superhero. God knit my heart to hers ten years ago at the District Attorney’s Office in Brownsville, Texas, the day she asked me to be her partner prosecuting a child sexual abuse case.  I said yes, and God joined in and blessed it.

We tried child abuse cases together for several years, through the first two of my three pregnancies.  I remember feeling both spiritually satisfied, and emotionally drained.  I remember days I cried my eyes out in my car after work.  I remember bringing the facts of the cases home with me at night, unable to shake them.  I remember praying for many months that God would take that cup from me, and find another way to use me– one that didn’t require so much.  I loved my work, but I wanted to be home with my kids.

My third child, Mitchell, is the only one born outside of Brownsville.  The only one that while in utero didn’t try a murder case with me.  The only one to know a mother who is home all day, every day.  Some days this feels like a win, and some days it feels like a loss.

Often I remember my prayer for a different cup.  I know that God would have continued to use me there, on the front lines, had I asked.  Some days I wish I was as strong as Bailey, to pray only for what God wants of me and not insert myself into the prayer.  But then I remember that He knows my heart before I tell Him, and He knows my limits.

My decision to stay home felt easy at the time.  I would make the same decision again.  There are days I really miss the courtroom; days I really miss Bailey.  There are days I miss putting on high heels and leaving my house.  There are days I miss showing up at day care to pick up kids I actually missed.  All in one weepy jumble I both miss the abused children and hope to never meet another one.  I always miss feeling like I was at the center of God’s heart, fighting on a front line next to my friend.

I enjoyed my job.  I miss my job.  I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to it.  I probably won’t.  My portion right now are the three children under my roof.   These truths feel better on some days than others.

A strange thing I learned as an adult is that all the people who are running the world are just people making choices.  Just like the people in the Bible.  You don’t achieve magical wisdom in your thirties, and adulthood doesn’t deliver you to the wizard behind the curtain.  Superheroes are born as ordinary people, sometimes quite flawed, not knowing they will be superheroes.  But somewhere along the way, their choices make them heroes.  They say Yes when it is asked of them.  They make sacrifices when others make excuses.

Brandy Bailey has always inspired me.  It isn’t that she has raw intelligence, hidden talents, or a wellspring of courage when others feel afraid.  In fact, we often felt afraid together.  It is that in the face of fear, time and time again she chooses to go in.  She chooses what God wants for her life over what she wants for her life.  She chooses to lay it down and watch it burn.  To do what is right.

I believe God ordained me to be the Jonathan to her David.  I am her encourager and her friend.  I show up every now and then to say, “You’ve got this! You are right where God wants you!”  And like their relationship, ours is sometimes too deep for words.  We have more than once wept on each others’ shoulders.  We won’t ever be able to explain to other people what those days were like.  The cases and kids and late nights and bathroom breaks and hallway sobs and last-minute prayers that bound us.  Much like soldiers who go to war together, there are some things only we will ever know.

I know, I know, it was just the practice of law.  And what I’m doing now is just motherhood.  True, true.  But also, this is it— these hours and these days and these choices.  This is a story He is writing on our hearts and in our lives and in our relationships.  I am so deeply humbled and honored that at one time, my story came alongside that of Brandy Bailey.  I am better for having known her, and called her friend.  Her everyday choices– the small and private and hard ones– turned her into a superhero.  I want to be a witness, not just in this life but in heaven, too.  I hope He lets me stand close by when He welcomes her home.  I’d love to see that.

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My favorite place to be is under my covers. I nap every day I can. It’s a favorite pasttime. Often as I drift off I think of the proverb: “A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest, and poverty will come on you like a thief.” But then, I fall asleep. I’m okay with that.

Being under my covers reminds me of being a child in my parents’ house. I feel safe. I feel hidden. I feel at peace. As my family says, I feel “cozy in my bozy.” What is a bozy? I’ll never know. But there’s no better feeling than to have a cozy one.

Being with a strong, good man feels the same way. As a little girl with my father, I felt safe, hidden, and at peace. When I grew up, one day he asked me: “what do you look for in a spouse?” I answered, “to feel safe.” On this first and most important requirement, many a boyfriend failed. Some were too violent, some were too inconsistent or unpredictable, some were too foolish. Some were compromised by giving me my way too much. These things kept me from feeling safe.

My favorite love story of all time is the one in the book of Ruth. In it, a strong, salt-of-the-earth and destitute widow works and serves her way into the field of a rich, powerful, older and less attractive city leader. He falls in love with her character, and she falls in love with his. One night she puts on perfume (this is getting good!) and goes to where he’s lying down and says, “Spread your covering over me, since you are my kinsman-redeemer.” (And here is where I cry, every time, like the women do in Sleepless In Seattle watching An Affair To Remember). Here she is asking for him to extend his provision to her: to take her under his wing and under his roof and under his covers. It’s beautiful.

I think the reason I love my covers so much is because that was God’s design. The feeling of being covered is one He wants us to relish. It draws us to Him, our Kinsman-Redeemer. He set up that incredibly sexy, “cozy in my bozy” metaphor as a way to show us what it is to be desired by a redeemer, to be under His banner of love, to be safe. This is the role of the husband, and this is the role of the father.

I have been fortunate in my life. As a woman who specialized in child abuse prosecution back in her career days, I know how twisted the role of father and husband can be, how selfish and perverse the world can make it. But my father, Norton Anderson Colvin, Jr., was a good, good father to me. And my husband, Derek Taylor Rollins, is a good, good husband to me and father to our children. And both point me and my children toward a richer and deeper appreciation of what it means to be under the covering: safe, hidden, and at peace.

The job is hard. The world says that for a woman to be under the covering of a man is an antiquated and sexist notion. That man and woman, even when joined in marriage, have the same job to do. I believe that my job is equally important, necessary, and difficult. It requires gentleness, long-suffering, patience, and a thousand other attributes of God that require His Spirit. But I am not the captain of this ship. If we run aground on these waters, God will call out: “Derek, where are you?”. It is an awesome and huge responsibility he carries.

I sleep better at night when Derek’s home. I think: “He’s got this.” Derek lays his head down at night and has to think: “I’ve got this, because God’s got this.” I appreciate all that feminism has done for pioneering women’s rights, I really do. Because of their efforts, I went to law school, and I vote, and I have a voice, and I can write this blog. Praise where praise is due. But I also hold fast to God’s original design: the beautiful love story he wrote into the lives of men and women all over the world. The one where a woman and a man find their destinies when she says to him, “spread your covering over me,” and he says, “I will.”

To all the good husbands and fathers, to all the captains of the ships on whom the mantle of responsibility falls: I salute you. Because of you, we sleep well.

Happy Father’s Day.

 

My 6-year old, Ellie, finished an intense swim program yesterday. Her instructor claimed success in only eight sessions with a “tough love” method. She pushed students’ heads into the water and towards the steps with little explanation. They were thrown into the water, often kicking and screaming. Putting their faces in simply wasn’t optional.

My oldest child, Camden, didn’t need these classes. When enrolled in regular swim school, she drove herself through every level with relentless determination. But my Ellie, my sweet Ellie, needed something more. She did nine months of regular swim school, “red-carded” every week, never putting her face in. She needed a push.

I, too, need a push. I find it very easy— too easy— to only spectate. I don’t want to become a judgmental critic. I want to be vulnerable, living my messy life alongside yours, remaining humble, honest & engaged.

I need to write. First for me, because failing to write makes my heart sad. It helps me to think, process, and grow. Secondly, for my kids. I’d like them to have a mother who doesn’t stand still, but moves in the direction of her life’s great loves. Maybe one day they will read it and learn about me and about themselves. Lastly, for my community— to offer up my light as a fellow doer.

Ellie swims now. I can’t say that it’s pretty; it’s more powerful than pretty. She explodes through the water. If she wasn’t moving forward, you might think she was drowning. But she is, in fact, swimming. All she needed was a little shove.

So here I go, world. It may not be pretty, but I join my mess with yours. I fear that if I don’t move forward, I just might drown.