Qui Transtulit Sustinet

Strange.

Strange how we can be shaped by things of which we're not even aware. Things that are, things that were, and things that may yet be. [Plagiarism? I think you mean, "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery"].

Strange how we only later recognize the things that make us. Sadly, the naming of such things as significant takes place only after the things have taken place. [Keen insight, Randy Disher]. Small moments are more of what I have in mind. Generally, people are aware that weddings, births, and deaths are pivotal. But oh to have the foresight to see when the little things matter.

Was recently chatting with roommates about "turning points." Interpretations of that little phrase are as myriad as the times, places, and circumstances in which we experience them. Retrospective assignment of meaning is often impossible. But when you can pinpoint particular experiences that changed the course of your life—a mere whisper or an earth-shattering roar—it's good to remember them once in a while.

...

"Where are you from?" they ask. A natural question. City. State. Country, on occasion (it's the name and the long nose). And for some reason, I always find it a bit difficult to answer. When you've just moved to an area, that question often translates to, "where did you move from most recently?" They don't want the elevator pitch of your life story. [Which I shan't pretend I've never provided unsolicited upon receiving such an inquiry]. Lately, however, I've settled upon Vanna-Whiting my home state, Connecticut. Though I haven't lived there for over seventeen years, it's where I spent the majority of my childhood and the place that, despite the fact that I have very few connections there anymore, absorbed the most nostalgia.

But you know what I never knew about CT until quite recently? Its state motto.

Qui Transtulit Sustinet: He Who Transplanted Still Sustains

Gosh, how applicable that's unknowingly been. Not just to that cross-county move (only mildly exaggerative for a twelve-year old) seventeen years ago. But to the next one when I was twenty-one. And to the next one several months later. And to the next one a year ago today. And to so many other aspects of existence.

Were I a stronger person and a more mature Christian, perhaps here I would add:

• From east coast to mid-west and back again, He sustains.

• From poor mental health to better and back again. He's still faithful.

• From confusion to clarity and back again. He remains the same.

...as it stands, my confidence in such truths is lacking right now. BUT, blessing of all blessings, my "darkness" scribbled on the wall can't put out the Sun. [Lewis, of course]. My anger doesn't have that power. My sadness doesn't have that power. The strength of my thoughts and feelings and circumstances are no strength at all to Him—a wisp of smoke from a candle extinguished.

...

Whenever I kick my thoughts around in this space, I ask myself why. Why do I write here or write at all for that matter? My insights aren't particularly compelling nor my personality scintillating. The pessimist says, "Don't share that crap. Frankly, my dear, they don't give a damn." But the optimist in me—despite appearances, she's still in there—says that just maybe readers will hear echoes of their own story in mine.

A few weeks ago I finished a book called Q's Legacy, a sort of memoir about how another of the author's works, 84 Charing Cross Road, came to be. The original work was a collection of letters—a twenty-year correspondence between a spunky, literature-loving, broke American writer and a reserved London bookseller. Many years later, she describes sitting in a London theater watching these letters play out before her eyes in a stage adaptation. A somewhat grouchy older woman by that point, she felt more exasperated than sentimental. Vicariously reliving those memories through the actors, she found herself "sick to death" of her own story. She couldn't understand why so many folks were captivated by these letters, by the account of someone else's seemingly insignificant life. Till she realized with a jolt that it wasn't about her story at all. These readers, these audience members, were experiencing their own nostalgia as they witnessed the post-war era that they too lived through each in their own way.

So perhaps even the thoughts from my seemingly insignificant mind about my seemingly insignificant life can strike a chord with you. Have been obsessed of late with a song called Quiet Movie. Hauntingly beautiful instrumentally and vocally. The title in particular got me thinking. The majority of my life is a quiet movie no one will ever see. I'm not talking about fame. In that sense, my entire life is a deleted scene! What I mean is that much of who we are is internal, not center stage. No matter how open you may be, much of your life is similarly unseen, made up of small moments that may seem pitifully inconsequential and small to others, but which to you were a collection of mountainous struggles and victories—your own personal Everest.

This most recent move was a great personal Everest for me, and though many things still seem insurmountable, for today I'm reminding myself: Qui Transtulit Sustinet.

And if the ways you have grown were not in the spotlight this year, that doesn't mean that nothing was happening here... Beneath the surface, your story is still taking shape and you are allowed to look forward with hope for what will unfold in beautiful and honest ways.

~ Morgan Harper Nicols

When you feel discouraged and weak and that you have no strength to fight all that is proud, unruly, and forgetful inside you, remember. The Holy Spirit hates evil, loves good, and he will not quit working on the inside. He will complete the good work he began in you.

~ David Powlison, Take Heart