I ordered a new computer the end of April. I’d dragged my feet long enough; I had to get set up on a new laptop before the old one bit the dust, taking all my files with it. Ready or not, I was going to have to deal with Windows 8 and everything else.

But that unopened box sat under my desk most of May, taunting me. If you don’t hurry up, your old computer will die before you’ve transferred everything to my shiny new self. Better open me, I might have a defect that you need to return me for (remember, that’s what happened to the first Windows 8 computer you bought?). Seriously, you are a techie kind of person—aren’t you supposed to enjoy trying to software and stuff?

It was the slowly speeds of my old computer that forced me to open that box. We could hardly get anything done on the old computer any more. It was time, whether I liked it or not.

But using a new computer means transferring files, which necessitates going through folder after folder and deciding whether I really need to keep these things any more. I know I’m a file junkie—but I just can’t bear to delete something I might wish I had not. There are entire websites archived there on my old laptop, both ones I created and those of others that I loved. And when a site or two went down, I was always glad I’d saved it there. Archived blog posts that are no longer available on the world wide web (and you know, I just might want to reference them some day). Every picture I’ve ever taken of my man. Every letter and every email to every pen pal.

The last two weeks I’ve been using both computers side by side. Jumping back to the old laptop when I need a code editor or FTP program, because I haven’t set up those on the new one yet. Using the new one for anything I wanted to get done within any sort of timely manner. Syncing any file I might need in the near future to DropBox so I can actually access it on whichever device I’m using at the time. Treating Evernote like I used to think I’d treat my Household Notebook. And watching countless videos on inbox optimization and to do list apps in search of the perfect way to set up every system in my life on my new laptop.

There’s something so disorienting about switching to a new computer. Even the keyboard has a different layout, and I type a few sentences of gibberish each time I switch back to the old laptop now. No wonder I put this off for so long. Forget trying to work or to write—I think I’ll just go read a book. 

But I’m realizing I treat seasons of life the same way. I want to avoid drastic changes, because I’ll have to learn the ropes all over again. Just the moment I get comfortable in our wintertime routine which involves delicious mornings of sleeping in and sitting down to breakfast all together, it’s spring and light at five o’clock each morning and my husband is out the door the moment he grabs his go-to breakfast of yogurt and granola. Just when I’ve figured out how to layer for my winter wardrobe, it’s too hot for layers and I am back at GoodWill once again. Just the moment I’ve grown used to assigning tasks to my current helper, her visit with us is coming to an end.

Maybe it’s just like I was telling a friend the other day: so often God seems to break us out of the little boxes we create for ourselves, to upset our plans we’ve made so carefully—because it’s then that we have to lean hard into Him to get through each day.

When my work area (aka my computer) is in a state of flux, it forces me to evaluate how I’m doing things and what I should streamline next. When the weather changes, I have to jump into grass or the mud with both bare feet in order to embrace the new season wholeheartedly. And just when I’ve gotten comfortable, I know something will change again.

Dear Father,

You know this weekend is the one our calendars call Mother’s Day. And you know the mixed emotions it brings to the heart of every woman old enough to be a mother.

You know the feelings of inadequacy that inevitably come to my mother heart every Sunday morning, only magnified on Mother’s Day by squirmy children whose actions aren’t exactly rising up and calling me blessed, even if their prompted words and scribbled cards are. You are adequate in my weakness.

You know that new momma delight in receiving a first Mother’s Day card. You know the tiny toes and pink lips we marvel over as those little eyes stare into ours and babble something that sounds like “Momma”. You knit each little one together in our wombs.

You know the pain of the mom who remembers every Mother’s Day that first child she conceived, the one she left behind at an abortion clinic. You bore her guilt to the cross. You love her so much.

You know the loneliness of the single mom who is going it alone, who never pictured raising children without their daddy by her side. You are a Father to the fatherless.

You know the ache of the would-be momma whose arms are empty this weekend, when she thought she’d be holding her first child in church this Sunday. You hold her child for her, for now. You comfort her as only You can.

You know the emptiness of the woman who wants to desperately to be a momma. You hold the barren ones so dear to Your heart. You bottle their tears.

You see the daughters trying so desperately hard to honor their mothers this weekend, even though nothing they say or do is quite enough. You see the daughters who don’t have anyone to send a Mother’s Day card to today. You see the daughters who long to be the mother they never had.

You see the mothers whose daughters won’t speak to them. You see the mothers who wish for any kind of a relationship with their daughters. You see the mothers whose children are serving their country in dangerous and far away places. You see the mothers whose children are waiting for them in Heaven.

You see and You know, Father. You comfort the wounded and bind up the brokenhearted. You, Who came into this world through the womb of a mother. You, Who asked the disciple whom You loved to care for your mother but at the same time diverted praise from her.

You know how thankful I am for my own mother, my mother-in-law and my grandmothers. You know how blessed I am in their heritage and that I must rise up and called them blessed.

You know how I delight in these little ones You have given me to mother. You know how much I long for that same gift for my friends.

You know that motherhood means pain, both in its presence and in its absence. You know.

Thank You for being the God Who knows. Thank You for being the God Who sees. And please, be the God of all comfort for each of Your daughters this weekend.

Because You Live,
Your daughter

{Linking up with Five-Minute Friday’s prompt “Comfort”}