In Between

I feel so caught in the in between. Christmas is over, but the new year hasn’t started yet. I find myself standing with one foot in and one foot out. I’m not ready to take my tree down, but the Christmas clutter that litters my countertops has me feeling claustrophobic. And as sad as my heart is to see the holiday season come to a close, my head longs for a fresh start, a clean slate. And even still, deep down, a sense of trepidation at what the future could possibly hold. I used to have a plan. 

And so. These in between days when it’s popcorn for dinner and clothes that linger in the dryer cycle after cycle just begging to be folded each time I get them hot but undoubtedly forget. I think for a moment maybe this is how I should feel all the time. The longing, the waiting, the in between. Maybe expectation starts here. A heart made for heaven should long to go home. 

When the fanfare ends, when the bells stop ringing and all is still, what fills the quiet voids of my heart?

Joy

If there is joy

In butterfly wings

In marigold petals
The song the bird sings-

Where is that joy 
When caterpillar’s cocooned?
When the seed is still buried?
When the egg seems a tomb?

And when the night
Brings weeping and sorrow?
Are we still promised 
Rejoicing tomorrow?

Long may he tarry,
In darkness we wait
But we aren’t forgotten,
For God is not late.

There’s joy in the process,
There’s joy by design
Because our creator
Is gracious and kind.

Even when joy
Feels flimsy at best
I take hold of gratitude,
It shows me the rest.

Protection, provision,
Strength for today
When my footsteps falter,
He still leads the way. 

And so I ask 
For eyes to see
And feet to follow
Wherever he leads

When legs grow tired,
My blistered feet weary
I’ll finish the course
And trust he stays near me

There’s joy in the journey 
Even when the path’s steep
There’s joy in trusting
He cares for me

There’s joy in the flower
Bloom, seed, and bud
There’s joy in the growing

The days in the mud. 

There’s joy in the waiting,
His promise is true
There’s joy for tomorrow

He’s making us new.

For further Reading:

Psalm 16:11

Psalm 30:5

Psalm 32:8

Hebrews 12:1-3

Psalm 145:8

Isaiah 42:9

Peace

I didn’t realize I was settling. This idea of what peace should look like, what it meant, how it felt. I had reduced it to an absence of anxiety, one often inextricably tied to some fixed outcome that my heart and mind agreed was “good.” It’s the reason I watch Hallmark movies… the predictability, comfort, and ease. I thought peace came from this unshakeable sense that things would all work out the way I wanted them to. And so, in this advent season of waiting and anticipation I found myself doubting and questioning. I know the outcome- we all do, but the road from here and now to then and there suddenly became anything but predictable and I got scared. 

I made peace too small. 

“For if, while we were God’s enemies, we were reconciled to him through the death of his Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved through his life!”

It was never about a life without fear or confusion. Peace is knowing the war is over. From children of wrath destined for eternal damnation to beloved sons and daughters and co-heirs with Christ! This is peace! Reconciled to God through the precious blood of his Son. So when anxiety’s fiery fingers wrap themselves around my throat and chest in the middle of the night I can rest assured, peace has a name, and his name is Jesus. I don’t know what tomorrow looks like, but I know how eternity goes.

An often quoted line from the Grinch that reads, “What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!” What if peace isn’t about the years I spend on this earth, what if peace is about eternity instead. The sooner I accept that there was never a guarantee that my days would be easy and my burden light, the sooner I can live into my purpose and calling and the sooner I stop expecting this place to be heaven. 

“I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.”

I think about all these advent themes and the watered down versions I’ve reached for as a cheap substitute. I traded hope for desire. I replaced peace with calm. Joy was reduced to happiness. And instead of love I willingly settled for warm feelings of fondness or general affection. But God is so much bigger and so much greater than our finite minds can fathom, and he lovingly placed eternity within our hearts. We just have to take the time to reach for it. 

Turns out John Lennon was right. 

For further reading:

Romans 5:10
John 16:33
Romans 8:17
Ecclesiastes 3:11

Hope

It’s the first week of advent so I make my morning coffee and then I try to sit and meditate on “Hope,” but the timing just feels a little cruel. I have always loved this season of waiting, the eager anticipation, but this year it just doesn’t resonate like it usually does. There are songs of Bethlehem and the manager, but even the angel costume from the Christmas pageant has a hole in it. Instead I find myself abiding in the 400 year gap. What does it mean to hope in the midst of so much disappointment?

There’s a wedding dress hanging in my guest room collecting dust. And there are thousands of private prayers that feel like they went unanswered. Hearts weren’t changed and lungs weren’t healed and tiny flutters in a hopeful mama’s womb never materialized and dogs don’t live forever so I’m sorry but hope feels about as slippery as the bar of soap in the shower and her suds and my tears seem to disappear down the drain just the same. 

“The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.”

And so. Maybe hope isn’t something solid for our hearts to take hold of, maybe it’s the light that peeks through the cracks the broken things have left behind. So instead of trying to take hold of it maybe we just let it illuminate the path and our hearts while we lean into the darkness, the not knowing, the dreams that never came true and the sorrows that took root in their place instead. In this land of short days and long nights, when all seems lost maybe hope is simply exhaling and saying, “ok.”

Because hope was never meant to be the balloon that carried us blissfuly to our hearts desires, but the anchor that holds within the veil. So I stop making it about my hopes and dreams and rest in His faithfulness, believing we serve a good God who is still at work making all things new. At times it is an act of bravery to let our hearts hope, even more so, an act of courage to let our hearts heal. 

The twinkle lights on my Christmas tree stay lit all day, but you can’t see them gleaming from outside my window until dusk settles. Hope shines a little brighter when all around feels bleak. So I tuck a handful of tissues into my purse before I head into church, and when the hard feelings come- when I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall… this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope. 

Our solace in so much darkness is that heaven shines brighter still. 

For further reading:
Lamentations 3:19-33
Isaiah 9:2
Matthew 4:16
Hebrews 6:19

Unpublished 12/21/15

I wake up in the middle of the night. Something stirring me from my sleep, eyes opening: Darkness. In the still quiet I hear the soft, shallow breath of my dog curled up beside me. My heart fills with love and warmth and peace.

I think back of the sleepless nights of months past, fearful, fretful hours spent pondering and wondering.

"She laughs without fear of the future..."

I don't know why it took me so long. To listen, to obey, to rest.

Peace is a gift, but we can't unwrap until we submit to obedience.

On Broken Faucets (and waiting)

Things are harder than they have to be. Faucets break and disposals jam, I feel like I’m flying from one task to the next in a hurry to fix one thing before another one breaks, but in the frantic frenzy to pull my toolbox out an entire bottle of ammonia gets knocked over and noxious fumes fill the room as it pools under my dryer. It’s supposed to get easier. Things are supposed to work out for the good and people are supposed to keep their promises and damnit nobody ever said it would be this hard. 

And so. On hands and knees I sop up the ammonia with the dirty dish towels that have accumulated in my hamper. And then I try to replace the cartridge in the broken faucet and every piece that the nice man on the YouTube video says should “slide right out” is stuck. And it’s my first time and I’m doing all this alone so I open another tab and google “why is my cartridge stuck?” And I’m reassured by Men Who Know More About These Things that I could break it if I try to force it so the best thing to do is douse it in white vinegar and give it time. And that’s only hard when you feel like you’re running out of time or when you think maybe you’ve missed your chance. But they know more than me and I’m absolutely terrified of breaking something else so I let it sit a while as I stew over my big mug of tea. It’s warm and comforting and it feels like a hug, but in this moment I feel so very alone and abandoned. 

By the time I reach the bottom the soothing liquid’s gone cold. I hold my breath and give the cartridge a gentle nudge and I see her budge ever so slightly and then release. It feels like a reminder from God and the universe to be patient, to not force things, and in that moment I want to flip the whole wide world the bird. Instead I rush to finish fixing the faucet and damn if I get that thing reassembled and my hot water still doesn’t work. 

Refusing to accept defeat I take it all apart again, this time it’s easier, the pieces that are supposed to slide right out do just that and it’s my second time taking it apart so it all feels natural, familiar. And yet- I don’t rush. Slowly, methodically, piece by piece I go all the way back to square one. I take my time, painstakingly cleaning out every nook and cranny. The cartridge is new, but the same sediment that jammed the old one is still lingering in the dark places of the faucet’s heart. Carefully, lovingly I remove the debris. Slowly, methodically I put it back together again. On my knees, I turn the valve and say a silent prayer. I push the handle and water springs out, warm at first and gradually heating as it flows over fingers that reek of ammonia and vinegar. Before I know it it’s even hotter than the tears that stream down my face. 

I look up at the letter board that sits above the sink and notice the “F” in “Thankful” is crooked and it only irks me for a second before I find it oddly amusing, like it’s given its last “F” too. I can’t help but laugh. 

1!

Crazy to think, one year ago today we made our way through pouring rain and rising floods to pick up the part of my heart I never knew was missing.

I could tell you the story of heartbreak, of hard days and lonely nights, a year of tough decisions, of struggle, of hardship. Aint it just like a dog? To turn my life upside down. The story of the past year looks so different now- such sweet mornings and belly laughs, new experiences, a love I longed for but failed to fathom.

I’ve said it a thousand times: he’s the best gift I’ve ever received. The reality though? So much more. He’s been such a promise of what’s to come, a down payment, proof of God’s faithfulness, the giver of all good gifts… Oh to think what else He has in store!

I can’t end without a thank you—To my amazing mom, who braved the (literal) storm and made the trek to Lynchburg with me to pick up my boy. To my sweet aunt (and uncle) who hosted us on the way home that first night, reassurning and kind, feeding us pizza and calming my nerves as I stressed about the possibility that he might pee on their rug (he didn’t!) To Q’s precious foster mom who opened her home (and her heart) during his transition. To countless friends and family who encouraged me along the way (and understood when I cancelled plans because I had left my dog home alone all day and couldn’t justify leaving him again.) Thank you doesn’t seem like enough, but please know that I am blessed because of you. 

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

—Roger Caras

show me your glory

It’s a familiar path, this is home. I feel my body relax as soon as my feet hit these salt-stained, splintering boards. They lead me out into the water, closer to the deep. I know these waters; I’ve splashed in her brackish shallows on sunny days of seasons past. I’ve watched her rise, angrily battering these same weathered boards, leaving them warped and twisted, but better for it. Tonight, in the quiet stillness, she reflects the sinking sun, the daytime sky’s final dramatic act before the nighttime curtain call. She doubles the beauty that dances above and everything seems multiplied.

“Show me your glory!” Moses cried out to Creator God. A humble man’s bold request in a moment of passion. My plea echoes the same. Just a girl standing on the edge of the earth, peering up at the almost-night sky, “Show me, God. Teach me your ways, show me your glory.”

“I am loving and I am compassionate and I will show you. But there are things far too wonderful for you to see.”

So God placed Moses in the cleft of a rock, high enough and close enough to see his goodness, but hidden and protected and from the things too wonderful. The mighty hand that lovingly reached down to cover him on that hill is the same hand that curled around a mama’s finger in a stable somewhere in Bethlehem. And when those same hands grew strong and calloused, they climbed a different hill to do the only thing that would truly accomplish what they had set out to do since the beginning of time when they gathered dirt in a garden: to make us close to him.

That is the hope and the heart of this season, and the joy of this promise is what sustains us throughout the year. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Not to be close to us, but so we could be close to him. That is reconciliation, that is forgiveness, that is hope. 

I pause to take it all in, living in the cleft of this mountain is daunting and thrilling and scary, but the view is impossible to beat. When I’m overwhelmed by the wonder of it all, I can’t help but smile at the glorious unseen. The things too wonderful…

Someday.

For further reading:

Exodus 33:12-23

Ephesians 2:13

Romans 5:8

He binds up our wounds

By the time I make it to the bottom of my second cup, the last few sips have gone cold. I'm reading through the framework of the faith, the pages written by spiritual giants, scrawling out notes as I try to make sense of it all. But the truth is, I'm distracted. The snoozing pup beside me, the hum of the washing machine upstairs, a buzzing phone at arm's reach.

Be still//And know//That I am God.

  

But what does that even mean? And who am I to stand before a holy & righteous God, perfect in wisdom and power, and yet-- mindful of me.

I find Him in the beautiful. The flaming sunsets and twinkling stars. Changing leaves and roaring oceans. The cooling air and a blazing fire. I feel the warmth of His presence like the sun on my skin.

But the ugly?

I wrestle with the demons of doubt. Nights clouded with fear. Anxiety that sneaks up like a thief at my door, stealing joy. There are wounds. Old hurts that ache as the weather changes. Stiff ankles and creaky knees. "Why haven't you healed me yet?" I cry out in frustration, bleeding and crying.

He's tried. Lord knows He's tried.

But the stitches He used to bind my broken heart? I tugged them out long ago. The nasty, ugly scab that He forms time & time again? I pick at it like a child. At my darkest I doubt His goodness...

God what do you know about wounds?

And He reaches out His hands. 

What do you know about pain?

He pulls me close to His pierced side. 

What do you know about bleeding?

Faithful and patient, abounding in love and mercy... “Child, what do you know about healing? Will you trust me this time? Give up the jealousy and the bitterness and fill your hands with the hem of my garment instead?”

I will try. Because the last woman spent 12 years bleeding. And that’s no way to live.

There’s no doubt I find Him in the beautiful. But He finds me the ugly. Right at the center of my broken, fallen existence. He binds up our wounds. This is the fullness of grace.

For further reading:

Matthew 9:20-22

Psalm 147:3

what a difference...

He picks us up.

Dollar plants, sitting parched in garden store bins.

Wilted and lifeless, He takes us home.

Easing us out of our plastic containers,

carefully tearing us from the things that hold us back.

He breaks up our roots; awakening, stirring...

pouring leftover soil into hand me down pots.

Chipped and tarnished: in broken vessels He places this:

hope.

Summer is rough.

Oppressive heat chokes the life out of us.

Torrential downpours leave us battered and bruised.

Deadly pestilence eating away...

But we are not destroyed.

All along- He is watering and feeding,

pruning and nurturing the life He sustains.

‘til one day you look and suddenly see:

growth.

What a difference a season makes.

the cure

It's a strange juxtaposition... The floors are still sandy but the house smells like apples, cinnamon, and cloves. Pumpkins sit perched on tabletops while beach towels tumble in the dryer. The sun hangs high, brave in the sky right now, but I already know she'll go to bed a little earlier today than yesterday. 

Isn't that the way it goes?

The calendar says summer for another week or so, but my heart? It's ready for harvest. This is our fallen existence. A heavenly creature landlocked on earth, a spiritual being trudging through the monotony that is this physical life. It's not all bad. The joy of fellowship, His revealed truth, the blessings of a truly beautiful existence. 

But all too often I catch myself clawing selfishly, longingly for what lies ahead just beyond my reach: certainty, an explanation, answers. The day I look back and say, "It all makes sense! The struggle, the pain, the joy, the victories, the defeats." Other times I find myself holding on white-knuckled to the things of the past: comfort and the familiar. The terrifying unknown terrorizes me. My dreams taunt me with what might have been, the things I let slip through my fingers like sand upon the shore, too numerous to count.

I'm a kid at summer camp. A girl in a foreign county with no luggage of her own.  

But He calls to me. Like a crying baby, He hushes me in the stillness of the night. He knows my wistful spirit, my homesick heart. He breathed life into these bones, for such a time as this. And it hits me, maybe my comfort isn't His top priority. Maybe I'll never be fully comfortable in a place that isn't my home. And maybe, probably I'm not supposed to be. 

Maybe the nagging, the longing isn't for anything seen, it's the unseen. Maybe the desires of my heart were for Him all along, I just didn't realize it. It only makes sense that the cure for our ailing hearts would be found in the One who formed them. 

Anchor of my soul- you sustain. 

this is love

I went to Hospice yesterday. I rode along with my mom who went to visit her precious aunt battling a brain tumor. In the car I watched a video of a pregnancy announcement, in an entertaining turn of events, the husband surprising the wife. His eyes filled with happy tears when he realized they were going to be bringing another little life into the world. When she finally caught on to what was happening she was elated. As she started to cry, I did too, thinking to myself, "This is love..."

Moments later we pulled into the facility. A kind woman with a warm face pointed us in the direction we needed to go. Quiet and clean, peaceful yet sterile. We rounded the corner and entered the room. Her breathing was heavy and labored, the morphine and the swelling of her brain keeping her in that place just beyond our reach. After a while in the room, we went outside and talked with my mom's uncle. He had spent most of the morning working out the excruciating "details."As we talked, tears filled his eyes and he said, "I'm glad it's her. I would hate for her to feel this pain, this loss." And then, I realized, "THIS is love."

There's more to love than pregnancy announcements. It's miscarriages and infertility. We get caught up in weddings and forget about funerals. It's not simply the person standing beside you on the mountaintop, it's the one prostrate beside you in your deepest valleys. We think it's hours of endless conversation, but what about the time when no words can fill the space? It is more than having a hand to hold, it's the one that keeps holding on when the other can no longer squeeze back. Love is sacrifice, pain, and vulnerability. It's risking it all for another. Sometimes better sometimes worse, sometimes sickness sometimes health. Til death do us part. 

So love, sometimes, means letting go. But holding fast. 

For her, today holds the hope of heaven. For him, it's day 1 in a world that for 34 years his precious wife held together. Choose love and choose wisely. 

Oh July

July is the oldest sister, established and stable.

She's fiercly independent, but painfully nostalgic...

Naturally nurturing and overly empathetic.

High standards and expectations, she can't help but be disappointed at times. 

She's cutoff jeans and a hand-me-down ring.

A calculated risk, understated elegance, saving grace.

At times predictable, but the kind of girl you can count on.

Tears of pride pooling in her smiling eyes

Wise beyond her years, but the first to admit... 

She's got a lot to learn.

Sometimes she lets her heart get in the way.

Oh June

June, June... we thought you'd never make it. 
She's fashionably late, always the life of the party. 
Warm, suntanned skin that only you can feel the burn of fresh sun. 
She's old enough to know better, but too young to care. 
She's vibrant, but temperamental 
Cautious with others & reckless with herself. 
Unfinished business, unsolved mysteries
life's great intermission
She's sunshiney days and dark, stormy nights. 
She's the first cold beer, condensation running down the glass
Flighty and fleeting, here today and gone tomorrow. 
Always leaving you breathless in only the best way.

set apart

I had a painful conversation with some friends last week. We got together for lunch and on the way there, one shared that she was absolutely heartbroken over news she had received. A friend from college had called to tell her she was considering having an abortion. She had become pregnant by someone she didn’t see a future with, and in the days since, had continued partying, drinking, and had even done cocaine several times. My friend was devastated, and against her best efforts to dissuade her, the girl proceeded, arguing that having a baby at 25 "wasn’t right for her" even though she “knew the baby would be beautiful.” So at two months old, a life was ended and my two friends in the car were in tears. I sat quietly in the passengers seat.

I recounted the story to my mom and dad at dinner last night. Their eyes filled with tears, but I was filled with something else.  Anger, disgust, righteous indignation. How can you be so careless? Reckless? At 25 years old, with a college degree, how can one not realize the consequences of her actions? I openly admitted it to my parents… “I don’t feel grace. I don’t feel sympathy. I feel disgust.” I’ve become conditioned to this way of thinking and have even put a personal spin on it: my brother and sister are adopted. Their biological mom is a heroin addict (or was at the time.) She has made a lot of really bad decisions. But she made two really good ones. Having her babies, and realizing she was unfit to keep them. Because they are the best gift God ever gave our family. I left dinner feeling self-righteous.

Until this morning... I was reading in Romans and I got to chapter 2…

“1 You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. 2 Now we know that God’s judgment against those who do such things is based on truth. 3 So when you, a mere human being, pass judgment on them and yet do the same things, do you think you will escape God’s judgment? 4 Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realizing that God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance?

5 But because of your stubbornness and your unrepentant heart, you are storing up wrath against yourself for the day of God’s wrath, when his righteous judgment will be revealed.”

And then I heard that still, small voice say “She’s my baby too.” And my selfish heart shattered into a thousand pieces. How can you be so careless? Reckless? At 25 years old, with a college degree, how can one not realize the consequences of her actions?

It’s easy to sit with likeminded friends and talk about the goodness of God… but approaching a nonbeliever with that same boldness? Banish the thought. At the end of the day, I am no different from the girl in the story. My sins seem more sophisticated, but the consequences: eternal. The fullness of God’s grace is that this precious baby that died too soon will spend eternity in heaven. But the unbelieving momma? My inaction will only result in her spending eternity in hell.  At best my actions are careless, at worst they’re truly diabolical.

We have a family friend who has been an activist for the pro-life movement for many years. He tells a story of a pro-life rally and someone coming up to him and yelling, “You only care about the babies!” He took it to heart and came back and started a nonprofit to provide support for expectant moms. If abortion breaks your heart as much as it breaks mine, do something about it. But don’t forget, it starts with the moms.  There is no life apart from Christ, and we have no business identifying with a movement that calls itself just that, pro-life, if we are unwilling to reach souls for Christ.

Cheers!

Here's to...

...choosing happy, making someone's day

...house to home

...contentment

...making the days count, not counting the days

...seeing the good, being the good.

...not trying so hard

...eliminating the excess

...singing in the shower (even off-key)

...taking pictures, taking the time to stretch, taking deep breaths

...patience/persistence/peace. 

Never a resolution, always a toast. 

Here's hoping your year is off to an exciting start & that 2015 is full of new adventures. 

[2011, 2012, 2013, 2014]

walking on water

We are walking on water. 

It hit me this morning during my "quiet time" with Jesus. I was reading and praying and drinking, arguably, too much coffee. My devotional was about giving thanks in all circumstances as an act of spiritual obedience. It's not easy. The best way to explain what happened next is to say the Holy Spirit hijacked my morning and took me to another passage of scripture entirely (he's funny like that.)

I found myself in Matthew 14:22-36. The story of Peter walking on the water resonates with me. Peter is not challenging Jesus when he says "If it is you, command me to come to you!" He is exhibiting bold, unwavering trust. He knows only Jesus can give him the strength and the ability to do the impossible. And he's right! But moments later he loses sight of that simple truth, and that is when he sinks. 

Isn't this the perfect picture of how we live? My faith is bold, my trust runs deep. I can thank God for my circumstances, I can trust that He is using them for my good and His glory. Until ugly, nasty fear and doubt creeps in and pulls me under. Suddenly I catch myself drowning in a sea of anxiety. It rushes over my head. I panic. 

The truth is, anxiety feels a lot like drowning. So frantically Peter calls out "Lord save me!" 

I've been there. I've so been there. 

There are deep pains. There are hurts that you think can never be erased. There are fears and struggles and disappointments.  


The life we have been called to live is impossible. We simply cannot do it on our own. To give thanks in the worst circumstances? To lift our hands in praise when we are weary and burdened? To put the needs of others before ourselves? To trust that God is working in every situation? It's like walking on water. That's why we cannot do it without Him. 

We are walking on water, one step at a time. Sometimes we sink. But before we even utter those three simple words, He's already there, reaching His hand out to save. 

[throwback: more thoughts on anxiety here]

on my wind...

revving up, s l o w i n g  d o w n. stop then go. 
hear the sounds of cars passing right outside my window
it's locked closed but air seeps through it's worn-down weatherstrip
that empty space, it leaves a crack
that's the way it goes. 

he doesn't care if he's welcome
anyone will tell you that
permeating hidden spaces, buried deep in this old house
too hot in summer, too cold in winter:
extreme and uninvited. 

try your hardest just to fight it
resist with air conditioning and manufactured heat. 
fill that space with new air, breathing life into these rafters 
but that old window can't be trusted
she'll let the bought air out

so now it's cold and I should've seen it coming 
it's happened time and time again
the Indian summer is all too cunning
he'll have you believing he's a faithful friend.
when that October breeze wraps itself around you..
don't buy it. don't give in.
this tired game we play so often, I know it all too well. 
he doesn't need an open the door, he much prefers creeping in
so batten your hatches and play pretend
tell yourself you're safe. 
but wait.



boy you take the cake
I've made my share of mistakes  
but you are-- by far-- my greatest disappointment

revving up, slowing down. that's the way it goes. 
the problem with old houses... 
all the old windows. 

beloved

I went for a run yesterday morning. The sky was clear, the air crisp, the day promising. I set out on an old familiar course, a looping path I often take. I felt good until I rounded the last turn and saw the final mile stretch out before me. I felt the wind blow hard against my face. I resented it. I battled it. I struggled and pushed through that last mile, relieved when I finally reached the finish. 

I set out again this morning for that same familiar path. It was another glorious day, and feeling all the wiser after yesterday's struggle, I reversed my regular course, thinking I'd tackle the long stretch first, thinking the wind would push me along, thinking it had to be easier. But from the first few strides I struggled. My joints were achey, my muscles sore, and my mind was a jumbled mess. I didn't feel the wind helping me along, I felt my ankles locking and my heart hurting. And then I rounded that turn, only to realize my familiar course didn't seem so familiar after all. I never noticed the way those winding turns all have a slightly downward slope. Only this time I was fighting an uphill battle. And I was losing. When things go your way, you don't realize that you're coasting down easy hills, taking His provisions for granted. You don't realize that the other side of the street has always been shaded until you have sun and sweat burning your eyes.

It's supposed to get easier.

Like training for a marathon: each day gets a little easier, you're a little lighter on your feet, your gait becomes more natural, your stamina increases. Except when it doesn't. I struggled through my run and I caught myself wrestling with God. Instead of His beloved bride, I morphed into a bitter, nagging wife, bending His ear and hurling accusations. "I cooked dinner! Can't you at least do the dishes?!" What was relational became contractual in my limited mind. "I'm holding up my end of the deal, God! When does it get easier?! WHEN are you going to SHOW UP and make everything BETTER?!" I was drowning in my sinfulness, clinging to my self-righteousness like a flotation device, failing to realize it was a weight pulling me down even deeper. But grace abounds. 

He doesn't see me for my faults and my failures. He doesn't see a nagging wife, He sees His blushing bride. Sanctified, a new creation entirely, wearing the veil of righteousness of His perfect son. Your Maker is your Husband. (Isaiah 54:5)

YOUR MAKER is YOUR HUSBAND!

He created the entire universe and He cares for me. He holds eternity in one hand and my hand in the other. (Isaiah 41:13) On my own I am stubborn and indignant. In His sight, I am blameless. (Colossians 1:22) No matter how many times I fail Him, no matter how many times I turn or push Him away, He never gives up on me. He pursues me relentlessly. He reminds me who I am. 

So I'm realizing that sometimes it doesn't necessarily get easier. I can't say He didn't warn me. "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33) There's peace in knowing I will never have to figure it out on my own. 

Oh October

Oh October… She's stolen a place in my heart forever. Summer's final flourish, one-upping the months before her with a welcome change. A breath of fresh air. She can't keep a secret, heralding good things to come. She's sandy toes wrapped in a beach blanket. A clean house and messy hair. An old soul, a kindred spirit. "A pretty girl who plays her cards as if she were plain." She'll knock the wind out of you, an unexpected icy chill, but her golden rays will warm you to the bone. She's a quick wit, a kind heart with a sharp tongue. She means no harm, but she'll break your heart. It's not her fault, she knows good things-- they rarely last. She's used to getting her way & some will call her a show off, but I can't say I blame her. She laughs 'til she cries and cries 'til she laughs. She's a million contradictions, but her intentions: all good.