Thoughts from Oxford

Last week I sat at an old wooden table on a wobbly little stool next to my sister, while we wrote and sketched and breathed in the heavy, spicy smell of piping hot mulled wine.

I was in the back room of The Eagle and Child pub, the very room in which Lewis and Tolkein and all their professor friends used to gather to hang out and talk about big things.

(Without being cheesy or whatever, I WAS LITERALLY FREAKING OUT.)

And I got to wondering.

Did any of those men have any inkling of what Divine plans were being hatched as they drank their mulled wine (assuming they were mulled wine guys...because it is the actual greatest) and laughed and chatted?

I wonder how much Tolkein is in Narnia, and how much Lewis is in Middle Earth. And what other voices spoke, consciously or unconsciously, into those worlds.

I had a long chat with a dear friend recently, during which we spent a great deal of time talking about how (realistically) our friendship, and our little tribe of pals at the moment, won’t last forever.

Honestly, we can all get on pretty well without each other. No one’s going to fall apart if so-and-so moves back home or one of us gets married or something. There’s a season for everything, and people come and go, and the older you get the easier it becomes to replace one piece of the puzzle with another. Humans are very resilient.

(I maybe don't need to mention that my emotional and idealistic little heart can hardly handle such a conversation? Regardless of how factual it is.)

But.

I think there’s a but.

Maybe we kind of do need each other, actually. Here's why: There are times when we need to be refined. Or tested. Times we need tangible evidence of a Love we can’t see.

So God, in His infinite grace and mercy, gave us each other. He didn’t throw us together haphazardly—He set us in place on purpose. To love each other. To fight with each other. To rub each other the wrong way and to be reconciled. To lean on each other. And mostly, I think, to intercede for each other.

In his book, Surprised by Joy, Lewis talks a lot about the friends he met in Oxford, both as a student and as a professor. Friends who were very like him, and friends with whom he argued for hours on end. Friends, like Tolkein, who helped point him to Jesus. 

If I love my people like I claim to, it should be forefront in my heart to help see them safely to the gates of Heaven. If that is my focus the relationship becomes way less about how I am being served and far more about how I am serving.

DING DING DING.

What a lesson for a selfish little soul to learn! Building a community isn’t about finding a group of people who fulfill your every need. It’s about nestling into a group of your people and finding out their needs, and meeting them as best you can.

And because of how life works, those relationships won’t last forever. It’s still true that we are each replaceable and there may come a day when the current state of things will be a hazy (if endlessly fond) memory.

But just like Lewis, Tolkien, Barfield, Cecil and the others each had a treasured place around the table, so you have a place in your community. And it is purposeful and sacred, no matter the length of time it lasts.

Community is a bunch of people who most definitely need each other. Who are maybe even divinely appointed to need each other, even if for a moment.

I've decided it's a great comfort to know that, while it may not last forever, the community I have now exists for a purpose. And not just the purpose of making me happy. 

In fact, that's not the purpose at all. Thank God.

Community is a group thing. It's about everyone doing life together, and (probably unconsciously) having far more of an effect on each other than any one of them realizes.

Kind of like in that back room at The Eagle and Child.  

Specks of Dust

I'm reading a collection of biographies by Eric Metaxas right now, and it's making me kind of starry-eyed and romantic about history. 

History is no fun unless you're a little starry-eyed and romantic about it. That's why I love touring historical landmarks. Standing on the same ground as, say, Victor Hugo makes old, mundane facts begin to sparkle with life. 

Have you ever been in the room where the Declaration was signed?

It's exhilarating. 

I love stepping into history that way. Being immersed in a world that is so far removed from the current one.

But...is it actually so far removed?

I remember walking through gilded sitting rooms and opulent bedchambers at Versailles, and being awestruck. Not because of the splendor, really. No, I took in the grandeur, then I started thinking about what kind of person might live in such a space.

Male or female? I choose female. Royal? Probably. Did she sit in that chair, in her nightgown, with her legs curled up under her, daydreaming? Did she run down that magnificent hall, all gold and diamonds and mirrors, and dance with her reflection?

I want to assume (totally have to assume) that people back then were as real as people are now. Meaning, no matter how royal and rule-bound a person might have been, there must have been the temptation (and maybe the follow-through) to run and shout in long, almost empty hallways. 

That's what fascinates me about history. Not the facts of it, so much. But the not-facts of it. The idea that some girl in a powdered wig and panniers had a heart that fluttered with the same longings my heart feels.

That a group of friends sat around a spinet and talked about God and the heavens and the future the same way my friends do.

After all, we're all people. We were all created by the same God and in the same Image and although times have changed, maybe we haven't so much.

Black-and-white history books make it easy to forget that people have always been people.

But when I stand in the middle of history, at the foot of a palace or on a Civil War battleground, suddenly history becomes much less black-and-white.

It kind of puts things in perspective.

History is, really, just a million little stories about people. Royal people and not royal people, failures and victories and wars and revivals. All of which happened at the hands of humans who have very similar souls. Because they were all modeled from the same Image.

And those million stories are actually telling one singular, spectacular tale of failure, grace, and redemption. Which, to me, is kind of wild to think about. Because I am so quick to make the whole world about me. My generation. My culture. My now.

It's easy to assume that our generation, our time, is the best and most forward-thinking and has more of the right answers than ever before.

The truth is, our now is as tiny and fragile as a speck of dust. We are not not the pinnacle of anything--just another moment in the very, very big Story.

The same Story was being told at Versailles, when that court was at it's most bustling and magnificent.

The same Story was being told during the Middle Ages, and the American Revolution, and in Napoleon's court.

Some girl in Jerusalem in 2 AD felt the weight of her sin and the hopelessness of seemingly unbreakable patterns and felt utterly defeated.

And her Papa held her in the same way He holds me, and whispered truth in her ear. And she understood the Truth and was better and stronger for it.

And because she knew her Papa, and His whispers, other people came to know Him. And the Story lived on, all the way until that girl in the palace ran down the Hall of Mirrors in stocking feet. All the way until me.

And the Story will keep going far past me. All the way until eternity, then further. 

Would you still love me the same?

Photo by Abbey Sargent

I listen to Top 40 radio, and have exactly no shame about it.

Adam Levine has a new single out that is as catchy as it is accurate, and the chorus goes like this:

If I got locked away
And we lost it all today
Tell me honestly would you still love me the same?

(YOU GET ME, ADAM LEVINE.)
If I showed you my flaws
If I couldn't be strong
Tell me honestly would you still love me the same?

(YOU KNOW MY SOUL, BLESS YOUR HEART.)

Maybe it’s an oldest child thing, but sometimes I feel as if I live on a tightrope, tottering back and forth and performing for applause and adoration. I’m very afraid that if I fall, if the performance doesn’t live up to expectations or I am found out as a fraud, the audience will throw rotten tomatoes.

Maybe it’s an oldest child thing.

Maybe it’s just a human thing.

The fear of being found unlovable is, I think, one the deepest (if not the deepest) fear in the human experience.

Do you spend a lot of time feeling like you’re performing for affection? Assuming that if you let people in too far, they will see the mess and run. Keeping friends at arm’s length, to protect yourself from what you feel is imminent rejection.

It’s a debilitating way to live, isn’t it? It is for me.

Here’s an even scarier thing: do you ever feel like you’re performing for God, too? That if He REALLY REALLY REALLY knew you, He would take away your salvation and be all, “Dang, homie, you are too much even for me”?

Sure, people go on and on about “Jesus loves me it’s fine”, “blah blah blah I’m made perfect in Christ”, “I’m justified by the cross”, “PTL for sanctification,” etc. etc. etc.

But, like, I’m still scared and walking on that tightrope sooo...help.

Here’s the thing:

The moment Jesus died on the cross, you were justified. The moment you enter heaven, you will be perfect.

The in between, the journey from justification to perfection, is sanctification. And sanctification is the most crucial part of the journey. Why? Because if it weren’t for sanctification, I don’t know that we would believe God actually loves us.

We long for approval and acceptance, and more often than not we assume the key to approval is good behavior.

I know I do. Do you assume the same?

If we were made perfect at the moment of our justification, I think there would be a little part of us that assumed God only loved us because we were perfect.

Ya know?

The fact is you were imperfect before the moment of justification. Jesus didn’t die on the cross because you deserved it. You really, truly, big fat didn’t.

What does that mean? It means He already knows how messy you are. He knew before you did. He knew, and he didn’t turn tail and run the other way. He said, Yep. Still worth it.

So you were imperfect before justification, and you’ll be imperfect after. Even still, you have been given an identity of perfection.

It’s part of the mystery of Christianity—the now-but-not-yet thing. We are justified the moment we accept the gospel, and Jesus’ perfect record covers our messy record and God the Father chooses to forget all of our sin. Boom. Done.

But we are still sinning. And we will go on sinning until we get to heaven and become our perfect selves for real.

That in between part, the now-but-not-yet, is the part where God proves he loves us.

He loves us even in the mess, even as we wallow through sin and silliness and our clunky, corrupt attempts at following Him. He says, at every turn and tumble,

Keep going. I still love you. I’m here for you.

When we finally get to heaven, and those gilded gates open wide to invite us in, we will be able to glance back at a lifetime of mishaps and say, “Wow, if He could love me then, He must really, really love me.”

And if He loves us, then game over. We are lovable. We are lovable because we are loved, not because we are good.

DID YOU HEAR THAT.

You are lovable because you are loved. Not because you are good.

Which means that yes, if you lost it all today and couldn’t be strong and whatever the heck else Adam Levine sings about, yes you would still be loved exactly the same by a God who sees you at your worst and says,

But I would die for you still.

 And if that is true, we can laugh in the face of fear that says, “If only they knew who you really were...”

Your Papa does know. And it doesn’t matter one bit.

From one of my favorite hymns:

View Him prostrate in the garden;
On the ground your Maker lies;
On the bloody tree behold Him;

Sinner, will this not suffice?

Squad Goals

I once had a conversation with four of my best friends about whether or not we would take bullets for each other, should we ever be held up at gunpoint. How we got to that conversation I will never know, except that it started with, “Would you go to war for your country?” and ended somewhere around, “If worst comes to worst, I would get shot in the leg to protect you.”

But the in between was heavy. Not heavy in a bad way, but full of weight because of the seriousness with which we were broaching this idea: What exactly are we willing to die for?

Turns out, none of us are willing to die for very much. We landed on the short list of definitely our families, hopefully our faith, and maybe our friends. And most of the willingness to fling ourselves in harm’s way came from guilt rather than hero’s valor, which was a fact we conceded to pretty quickly.

Then Keltcey, ever observant and thoughtful, said, “It seems to me that the thing you’re willing to die for, is also the thing you’d most want to live for.”

Boom. 

To live for something is to love it, and to be willing to sacrifice for the sake of that thing. The ultimate sacrifice is death. Literal death, yes, but living for something, or someone, is a figurative daily death of self.

“Greater love has no one than this,” Jesus says to his disciples, “than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

While he was certainly speaking to his upcoming death on the cross, I think Jesus was also laying out a blueprint for how to love well. Real love is, at its core, sacrificial. Love demands we give up our selfish tendencies—impatience, jealousy, pride, self-centeredness—in an effort to care for another person. To love is to be in the habit of constantly laying down our right to ourselves.

Following that logic to its reasonable conclusion would bring you to this: the thing you are living for is the thing you will die for.

Look at Jesus. He came down from Heaven for a single purpose: to redeem his people. On a grand scale, he had to die on a cross and suffer and all of that because the law demanded fulfillment. But between birth and death, he spent a lifetime simply loving people well. He sacrificed in big and little things, to show his friends how he much he cared about them.

Jesus’ coming to earth and dying on a cross was as big as rescuing all of humanity, but it was as small as his friendship with the twelve disciples. Or even just one of them. If I know Jesus like I think I do, he would have done everything he did on earth just they way he did it, even if it meant saving one single soul. He would have done it for the love of just one friend. 

I have always understood God as Papa, Father. It’s an easy comparison to draw—my dad is the best guy I know, and I was beyond blessed to grow up in a loving, gracious, and safe home. So as a kid, when God was referenced as Father, it clicked without a second thought. And most, if not all, of my interactions with Him happen like a child’s would with her parent. But the familial love of a father is easy to take for granted. I do that with my earthly father, certainly, and probably with my Abba Father, too. After all, your parent pretty much has to love you. It’s hardwired into them. So when I think of God my Father loving me, I (unfortunately) can sometimes dismiss it as a given.

Friends are different. Friends choose to love you and stick out the tough stuff and put up with your worst. The best kinds of friends are willing to dig into the mess of life with you and laugh when everyone would rather be crying. Nothing is tying them to you, except their choice. That is a whole other kind of love. Not better than fatherly love, but a different facet of the same diamond.

God your Friend doesn’t love you because He has to (the way I assume God my Father loves me). He loves me because He wants to. Jesus laid down his life for you because you are his friend. Read that closely. Jesus laid down his life for you because you are his friend. Not an acquaintance, not a nuisance, not a person in the social circle that is kept around to be the butt of the jokes.  

Jesus loves you as a real, go-the-distance, road-trip-until-four-in-the-morning friend. Just as you are certain your best friend in the world would do anything for you, be certain that Jesus would do the same, and exponentially more, for the sake of your friendship. He has already decided to stick through the messiness of life with you, because that’s what best friends do.

If all of creation in some way reflects the character of God, I think friendship is the part of the puzzle that speaks to his fierce loyalty and purposeful pursuit. If God is a coffee drinker (maybe he is), he would definitely want to get coffee with you. But he wouldn’t leave it there. After coffee, he would also probably want to talk at great length about your Meyers-Briggs profile and compare sleep cycle charts. You know, #squadgoals kind of stuff.

And then, if you ever talked about whether or not you would die for each other if worst came to worst, he would lean in close and say,

“Friend, I already have.” 

Who Are You, Part II

Photo by Emma Wilson

In January I asked the question, "Who am I?!" with dramatic fervor. Then a lot of things happened and seven months later I ended up in Kansas City for an *extended vacation* asking the same question.  (You're welcome for condensing most of a year into two sentences. Carry on.)

I went home with a long list of demands for God. Chief among them, “Lord, tell me who I am and what you want me to do with my life, please and thanks.”

Basically, I assumed that if God was asking me to give up something I loved (Nashville) to spend time away and alone, He was probably going to reward me with A PLAN AND ANSWERS FOR EVERYTHING. Because that's how it works, right?

I felt so burdened by the fact that I didn't really know who I was or where I fit in. I was spending hours of brain power trying to uncover my identity and purpose. 

But here is what I learned when I took my sabbatical from life: Identity and purpose are not as complicated as we make them. I for sure do this, and maybe you do to. I assumed my identity was long (long) list of personality traits and quirks and gifts and talents and needs and desires and tastes that needed to be sorted through and organized until I was the best possible version of myself. I assumed my purpose would come, hand-delivered from Jesus, on a piece of fancy parchment paper wrapped up with a snazzy ribbon. I assumed I was the center of the equation.

COULD THAT BE MORE SELF-CENTERED. (Sweet Jesus help me.)

Have you framed the identity question that way, too? In a culture that prizes self-centered soul-searching above all things, it’s hard to do otherwise.

The thing is, God answers us ever ever so graciously. Like He does. Because He is gentle and kind and more than willing to work with our clumsy, clunky attempts at following Him.

Here's what I know, now:

Your identity, at its core, has nothing to do with your personality, gifts, desires or talents. It has everything to do with the gospel.

The fact is you and I are sinners of the highest degree, mercifully saved by grace because Jesus died on a cross. We are not our gifts, our desires, or our personality. Those are things about us, yes, but they are not our core. We are ragamuffins who have been invited to the royal feast and adopted by the King. That is our identity. Plain and simple.

So what of purpose? My fellow millennials understand the bone-deep ache to know what YOUR COOL KINGDOM JOB is supposed to be. Are you kind of just sitting around waiting to be given your marching orders? Or are you, like me, demanding God give you a lighting bolt from heaven? (Bless my diluted little heart.)

Your purpose, at its core, is to love God more and love people well. That's it.

There is a not a treasure map of a rabbit trail that you have to follow in order to fulfill your greatest potential. There is no checklist of things to accomplish. Maybe you’re going to write a book, or have ten kids, or eradicate poverty or start a church. And that’s freaking TIGHT. But you’re not going to get an itinerary from heaven telling you so. Jesus has commanded us to love well and to seek Him. If you’re doing those things, whatever great (or small) job He has for you will be happen without you even thinking of it.

Could it be that in the search for identity and purpose, we have over-complicated something quite simple? The answers to "Who am I?" and "What is my purpose?" won't be found by deep sea diving into the depths of your soul. In case you haven't noticed, the depths of our souls are actually pretty messy. I don't know how much I would trust the information coming out of there, especially as it applies to who I am and what I should be doing with my life. Also, the more time you spend swimming around in the depths, the harder it will be to pull yourself out of total self-obsession.

I thought identity and purpose, the two puzzle pieces that would make me, *me*, were things I had to go looking for. The truth is, friend, we can keep searching for ourselves forever and we'll end up chasing our own tails around in a pointless circle.

The quest is over the minute we come face-to-face with the reality of the gospel. I was a slave, now I am not. He has commanded me to love well, so I will love well. Everything else is icing on the cake. 

Stop looking. You don’t need to find yourself. You have been found already. 

Rory Gilmore Made Lists, Too.

Photo by Jocelyn Youngdahl

What happens to you when your brain goes into panic mode?

When I’m stressed, I clean. It fulfills a need for control when there is no control, and allows me to tidy up something physical because I can’t tidy the mess in my head. Ya know the feeling?

But sometimes the stressy head-mess gets so overwhelming, even a deep-clean of the bathroom and closet won’t cut it. What then?

I make lists.

THIS IS NOT A JOKE. I freaking love lists. Lists make sense of clutter. Rory Gilmore knew what was up—a good pro-con list can make or break just about any big decision.

A few weeks ago the mess in my head got too big and I thought I was going to lose my ever-loving mind. I mean it was an unpleasant situation, and my over-active anxious imagination was kicked into high gear. Have you been there before? 

So I sat down and had a big list-making extravaganza. It turned out great. It helped so much, in fact, I thought: “BLOG POST BLOG POST BLOG POST. EVERYONE (who deals with the very real thing of **a lot of a lot of feelings about all of the things**) NEEDS THIS.”

So here it is: How to Make a List That Will Make Sense of All the Crazy In Your Head

(or at least some of it.)

Start by making three columns. Label the first one (in all capital letters): ASSUMPTIONS/LIES. Next to it, in the second column, the label FACTS. And the third column should be labeled TRUTH. Now start filling in the lists. Don’t try to do it in order, filling up one column at a time. Go with whatever thought comes to mind first. Take it captive and organize it into one of the three columns. Be very strict about what goes where. (Pro-tip: the Assumptions/Lies column will probably get a lot of action right at first. That’s okay.)

 In that first column goes anything you might be making up, or making assumptions about, or anything that is a straight up lie from the pits of hell. You know when something belongs in that column. It is possible to be completely irrational about the most normal, everyday thing when your mind and emotions are already frazzled. But here's the thing-- even the most convincing lies aren’t actually all that convincing if you shine a bright light on them.

The second column: facts. Things you know to be true. You may be asking, “How is the fact column different from the truth column? Aren’t facts true?” Hold up a minute, let me explain. My roommate Chelsea (a very wise owl of a person) told me once that facts and truth are, in fact, not the same thing. “Facts can change,” she said. “Truth can’t.”

Think about it this way: A fact can be true for a season, maybe. For example, if I were to write in the facts column, “I am a barista”, that would be a true statement. But it may not always be true. I may not always be a barista. Thus, the statement cannot be called an absolute truth. It is subject to change. Only truth that is not subject to change can go in the third column.

The third column is the truth column. Or, if you want to make it more obvious, the Absolute Truth column. The only thing allowed in this column is stuff that could never, under any circumstances, change (do you see where this is going? If you do, you're smarter than I was when I started making my list).

I found that as I started to fill out the third column, everything started with “God is...” or “God knows...” or “God loves...”

•  God is faithful.
• God is good.
• God loves me beyond measure.
• God knows everything, LITERALLY EVERYTHING, there is to know about this situation.

I was kind of surprised, and then I wasn't. Because duh.

In a world of shifting sand and believable lies and total instability, God is the one constant. Not only is He Himself constant, but His feelings, character, and presence are unchanging as well. As I wrote my list, that third column began to outshine the other two. The assumptions and lies in column one began to pale, and become almost laughable, compared to the Truth. Even the column of facts, for all that it was valid and real information, just didn't seem quite as important after all. Because the freedom of the gospel is freedom from worry and fear.

For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons (also daughters), by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ.

BOOM.

One more thing: You’re only allowed to reread and obsess over the last two columns. If you want to be a real stickler, only the third column. Because harping on assumed facts and lies will destroy you. It will. Acknowledge them, yes. Get those lies out in the open. But ONLY for the sake of exposing them to the Truth that will render them obsolete.

So while you aren’t allowed to reread the first column (ever.), read, reread, and read again the third one. Soak up the Truth and it will begin to change everything. It will heal your heart, calm your fear, and give you a peace and joy. Oh, what sweet relief there is in the knowledge that God is bigger than our biggest turmoil, and stronger than the strongest lie.

Here’s to lists. Here’s to organizing the mess and uncovering the truth, and discovering that the real Truth is more powerful than any stress or worry or panic, and sets you blissfully free.

Technicolor Dreamcoats and White Flags

Photo by Abbey Sargent

I've been reading the story of Joseph this week, and I'm learning more from that guy than I ever thought possible. If we're being real, I associate the story of Joseph with the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and that's about it. It's one of those stories I know I know, so what's the point of reading it? 

I'LL TELL YOU THE POINT OF READING IT.

Andrew Lloyd Webber missed some key components of the story. Bless his heart. Joseph is not, in fact, a story about a coat. It's a story about surrender, forgiveness, grace, and growth. It is kind of, I think, a story about growing up.

In his story, Joseph grows from a self-important (kinda bratty) kid, to a fair and kind VVIP (very very important person). It's cool to read between the lines, at the "then two years passed..." parts. God was working some stuff out in those between places. 

SO, A QUICK RUN-DOWN OF JOSEPH'S DEAL: Has visions of being very powerful. Tells his brothers about it. Makes his brothers mad, gets sold as a slave. Ends up in the house of a man named Potiphar. Doesn't sleep with Potiphar's wife, makes her mad. Ends up in jail. Years later, he interprets two dreams for two dudes. One dies, the other gets out of jail, and promptly forgets Joseph's request to help a bro out. Remembers two years later. Joseph ends up at Pharaoh's side being a VVIP.

I'm seeing two different attitudes here.

EXHIBIT A: Joseph was quick to use (and take credit for) his God-given gift for his pals in jail. "Hey, I can interpret your dream for you!" he said to the cup bearer. "OH ALSO don't forget to get me out of here!" When Joseph tried to look out for himself and arrange his ducks just so, it all fell apart and slipped through his fingers. 

EXHIBIT B: Joseph's conversation with Pharaoh went much differently. More like, "Hey, Pharaoh, God can interpret your dream, I'll just be the vessel. Also, you might want to hire a dude to handle this. Whomever you think would be good." When Joseph chilled the heck out and let God handle the situation, he ended up as the vice president of Egypt. WHAT.

At some point during his imprisonment, Joseph learned to surrender to the process. 

Which, honestly, I think was the whole point of everything. 

I can imagine God saying to Joseph at some point, "Hey, dude, we've got some work to do in you. So some stuff's about to go kind of downhill. DOES NOT MEAN I hate you or I forgot you or I'm out to get you. I'm here. But you've got to understand what I'm trying to teach you, so chill out and let's learn about surrendering."

I'm sure Joseph was like WHAT THE HELL I DIDN'T EVEN DO ANYTHING WHAT IS GOING ON  DUDE. True. He didn't. His brothers were just jealous, and Potiphar's wife lied to get revenge. And because of the angry actions of other people, Joseph ended up a slave and then a jailbird.

But God was right there, the whole time. Years later, when Joseph is reconciling his relationship with his brothers, he says, "Bros, you didn't do this to me. God did. And He had a purpose. Look how awesomely cool it turned out! HOORAH GROUP HUG."

Friend, our sweet Lord has created you for a purpose. He loves you and He is for you and He knows what you are capable of (even if you don't yet). And He has not, and will not, abandon you. If you're feeling at all forgotten or at a loss, or you're staring at your circumstances wondering what is the world is happening, read Joseph's story. Watch God move in the life of a punk kid who ended up being one of the most respected leaders of his time. And notice how he got there.

Surrender. Not the begrudging kind that taps its feet impatiently and checks its watch every two seconds. No. The kind of surrender that peacefully says, "This is all You, Lord. Take as much time as You need to get me in shape for the goal."

The minute you stop trying to control your circumstances, God has room to move. And He will. And as He orchestrates and organizes, fruit will appear and peace will abound and all the sudden you'll be looking back at fourteen years in prison from your giant fancy throne and be like, "WOW, Lord, didn't see that coming."

Or something like that. 

So here's to surrendering to the process. Not trying to rush through the hard stuff, but taking it at it comes and giving thanks because, ultimately, you're being molded into exactly who you need to be for exactly what you've been made to do. You are not abandoned. You are loved. And, DANG, it's all gonna be so, so good.

Cheers to Twenty-Five

Snapshot #1: I spent the morning of my twenty-fourth birthday curled up in my roommate's lap, crying. I had just gotten back from Haiti the night before, so we can maybe blame the culture shock? But it was more than that. My life was broken, in shambles, and I was desperately trying to put it all back together. It was the hilarious epitome of rom-com tragic, and it weighed on me with the heaviness of Shakespeare.

Snapshot #2: On Friday I turned twenty-five. My roommates woke me up with coffee and a honey-drizzled pastry, and a way-too-loud-for-7:30-in-the-morning chorus of "Happy Birthday". The day began with peals of laughter and pajama-clad snuggles. A completely different day than the one 365 days prior.

It's safe to say that the difference between snapshots 1 and 2 is this simple: at twenty-four, I thought I had to have everything under control. Emphasis on the part where it was my job for everything to be under control. At twenty-five, I am as footloose and fancy free as a child. Learning, for the first time, that not being in control feels infinitely better than the alternative.

If I could sum up all the lessons of twenty-four (THERE WERE SO MANY), I think it would come down to this: I am not driving the bus. Not because I can't (free will and all that), but because I've learned to surrender to my sweet Savior (*not perfectly and not always, but I'm learning the general gist). And in learning to surrender to Him, I have seen the beauty of His provision, grace, and peace. All of which move my heart to inexplicable joy, and I'm like OH IS THIS WHAT I'VE BEEN MISSING? 

Life is a constant dance between discovery and flourishing. Heartache and happiness. Climbing and resting. Somewhere between all of those things, change happens. I think life is as cyclical as it is linear. Patterns repeat and seasons cycle through, but we're always moving forward. Always growing, either closer to heaven or further away from it. 

When I stopped to get coffee on my way to birthday lunch, my twenty-three year old barista said, "Twenty-five? Oh wow. If I don't have all my shit together by the time I'm twenty-five, I'm just giving up."

I wanted to hug her and laugh. I didn't hug her. I did laugh. Sweet barista friend, if having one's shit together is an indication of success, then I have royally failed. But the last year of life has taught me that success cannot and should not be measured by what looks, to finite eyes, "together". There will never be a moment when all the right eggs are in all the right baskets. Never a lightbulb when you say, "Oh, I am SO TOGETHER." God and time and living don't work like that. You know? And there is nothing sweeter than the moment (or the year) when you realize "togetherness" is a pipe dream. 

I'm thankful for the journey from twenty-four to twenty-five, for all the wildness and pain and joy of it.  In 365 days' worth of daily plodding and decision making and surrendering everything changed. The Lord moved in ways that were obvious, and in ways that were not. And, like He promised, He worked everything together for my good and His glory.

Mountain Climber

Photo by Abbey Sargent

What is more, I  consider everything a loss for the sake of gaining Christ.

Those, friend, are big words. 

God doesn't joke around about the necessity of giving up what we think we want so that He can reveal what He has in store for us. He desperately wants to be allowed into every corner of our lives, but He can only breathe life in the spaces we have allowed Him to be. My roommate Chelsea is always saying: Our Lord is a gentleman. He will not come in uninvited. But once you invite Him in, He's going to move.

Through the wild roller coaster of the last two and a half years, Nashville has been my constant. Nashville was my greatest accomplishment and biggest joy. I moved here to grow up, to settle down, to prove I could do it. Which I did, and I latched onto that sense of accomplishment with pride and fierce determination to not see it taken away.

What I've learned in the last month in that Nashville has become an idol. It's the one part of my life I haven't been willing to turn over to the Lord (okay I'm sure it's not the only part, but it's the biggest part so roll with me). I have been hanging onto my life in Nashville so hard, my knuckles are turning white. 

But all at once, on a Tuesday morning, I heard the most unmistakable whisper: Go home.

Oh, God, SURELY NOT. Surelysurelysurely not.

Go home.

It took me all of 24 hours to make the decision. The doors are wide open, the request is clear. I'm going back to Kansas City (*for a season). Nashville still feels like home, but I know there is heart-level work that needs doing, and I don't think it can happen here.  

People are asking, BUT WHY THOUGH. I'm going home because He asked. Because a lukewarm life is no life at all and if I say I'm going to follow Jesus I better damn well follow Him. And part of following Him is giving up idols in order to be brought into the fullness of all He is. Idols do nothing but get in the way. It's like my friend Tim says: Often, the things we love the most are thisclose to what God has for us, but we get so focused on what we think we want, we end up totally missing the breathtaking gifts He has waiting.

It's like stopping a hike halfway up the mountain. 

Legs start to become jelly and exhaustion sets in, and, hey, the view is pretty spectacular right where you are and is it really going to be that much different from the top? Let's just take pictures here and call it a day because my legs are freaking killing me.

But, oh, if only you knew! If you work a little harder and make it to the top of the mountain, the view is incomparable. Not only that, but once you make it to the top you know what you didn't before-- you are stronger than you ever believed. You made it, by the grace of God and the discipline of perseverance.  And the reward is wildly beyond what you could have imagined at the bottom of the mountain. Or even at the halfway point where you thought you were satisfied.

That is why I'm leaving Nashville (*for a season). I'm halfway up the mountain, but DANG Y'ALL I want it all. He has whispered so many promises. He is so good and so worthy of possessing every little thing in me. And even if it kills me, I'll give it all up for the sake of gaining Christ (That sounds dramatic, but sometimes that's how it feels, ya know?).

I'm going to keep straining up the mountain, reaching for the fullness of knowing Jesus and becoming more like Him. Moment by moment, mountain by mountain, until Paradise.

This isn't goodbye, I'm pretty sure. Far be it from me to assume I know the plan, but I feel fairly confident I'll be back in this sweet city I love so dearly. But still, to say goodbye even for a minute is hard. I love ya, Nashville. XOXO.

[PSA: if you want to get coffee or confess your deep, undying love before I go, call me.]

The Rickety Unknown

Photo by Jocelyn Youngdahl

I'm subconsciously trying to grasp onto something, a n y t h i n g, tangible in this rickety season of unknowns. Okay, maybe it's not subconscious. Maybe it's very conscious. I'm getting clingy, and frazzled, and expectant, but not in a good way. What I mean is, I think there's such a thing as good expectancy. I know there's a verse or two about waiting on God with an expectant heart. 

(just Googled "wait expectantly on the lord," like a champ, AND...)

In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly. (Psalm 5:3)

There ya go. Good expectancy. The bad side of that is where I've found myself a lot this week. On pins and needles and hoping the answers to all my hopes and dreams are just around the next corner. Expecting them to be around the corner. It's not a restful expectancy-- it's very anxious. There are two internal dialogues fighting for top spot in my brain:

Internal Dialogue #1: Wow, Papa, WOW. You have provided so mightily in this season. No, I'm not where I expected to be, but Your hand of provision could not be more gloriously evident. I'm not even worried because I don't need to be. Mostly I'm basking in the sunshine and Your goodness. You SO GOT THIS!  YAY YOU! YAY ME! YAY EVERYTHING!

Internal Dialogue #2: LISSIN, I have done a very impressive job of waiting EVER SO patiently on You in this season. Like, I lost two jobs and I didn't even complain, and I only cried twice. I'm still super single, and I'm not even making a big deal about it. So any time you want to shower all those forthcoming blessings upon my EVER SO PATIENT BROW, I'll be here. But like I'm waiting. Currently. Still. Waiting. On that thing.

Internal dialogue #1 is more consistent, but internal dialogue #2 is louder. This week especially. Which is natural, even normal, when every building block of one's life is unstable. But the more I think about that, about how everything feels so unstable, I start to ask myself, well, what is stability?

My dictionary app describes stable as "something firmly established; not likely to change or fail."  Friend, is there a thing on this green earth that can truly claim that description? At the risk of sounding pessimistic, I say no. Not truly. Every earthly thing we can cling to has the potential to change, fail or crumble. Job, relationship, home, wealth, status; all of it could crash at any minute.

And here I am flipping out about no job, no relationship, no real sense of being anchored, while God is standing at my back whispering, I'm here, holding you up. What more do you need to feel stable, my girl?

OKAY THEN. GOOD POINT.

Any sense of stability coming from a job, babe, or paycheck will ultimately be, honestly, not all that real. Not if it's the only thing holding me up. But standing on the solid, capital R Rock is the surest of sure things. Isn't there a song?

On Christ the solid rock I stand; all other ground is sinking sand.

So maybe life is not as rickety as I feel like it is, currently. Maybe this is just a season of learning where my feet need to be planted. Not on any physical comfort, but on the One who is firmly fixed and established yesterday, today and always. 

Particularly Epic Twenties

Photo by Abbey Sargent

My friend Brittany and I have spent a lot of time talking about what the heck it means to rest in a season of uncertainty and waiting. We are both jobless, aside from part time work here and there, and both kind of going, "Heyyyy, Gooood?"

We both are in a place of waiting. A place of being and not doing, which for our personality types is like being confined to a tiny yard in the middle of the Grand Canyon. Frustrating beyond belief. 

Guess who else didn't do anything particularly epic in his twenties?

Jesus spent thirty of his thirty-three years of life chilling and learning and growing. Did people ever look at Jesus in his twenties and wonder what the heck he was doing? He knew what was coming, but they definitely didn't. They might have just seen a twenty-something bro spending way too much time at the synagogue. And maybe they whispered about it.

I wonder if Jesus ever questioned his Father in those years before his ministry began. Was he ever like, "Hey, dude, what's going on here? I have a world to save, shouldn't we be doing something about that?" 

(SIDE NOTE: I'm not trying to make the Savior of the universe sound irreverent. But if he was fully human he must've had moments of doubt at one point or another.)

I'm sure, if Jesus ever did ask such a question, the Father responded with something like this:

Dude, chill. I don't need you to do anything right now. I need you to become something. I need you to wait and let the seeds I've planted in you grow. There is such greatness there. I am so excited to see the fruit explode out of you! But it's not time yet. So just rest.

My fellow millennials and I are a generation of instant gratification. Which I think feeds into this intense desire we have to DO COOL SHIT in our twenties (emphasis added to communicate intensity of desire.)   And maybe Jesus did, too. But he heeded the gentle voice of his Father, who was saying, Wait. Don't rush. Rest.

Jesus didn't do a dang thing to fulfill his life's purpose until he was thirty. But there is no doubt that he lived his life to the absolute fullest, and that he walked step by step with the Father. He didn't miss anything. His twenties were not wasted. That decade was a season of becoming. 

So maybe I won't be married and write a best-seller and cure world hunger by the time I'm twenty-five (which is nineteen days from now, if anyone was wondering). I'm learning to be okay with that. Maybe my twenties are a season of becoming. For heaven's sake, it's not like I'm running out of time. Statistically speaking my life isn't even half over yet. And as much as I want to impress everyone I know with HOW TOGETHER I AM and HOW SUCCESSFUL MY LIFE IS, I'm learning to acknowledge the voice that is saying, Your dreams are my dreams, sweet girl. But don't rush. Wait for me.

If waiting and becoming, instead of rushing and doing, will make the end result vastly greater than I could ever ask or imagine (spoiler alert, it will), then I can wait. I want to wait. But it won't be a lazy waiting. It will be waiting on one dream while a thousand others are realized. God is not inactive or complacent. If He's asking you to wait, it's only because He wants to grow you and teach you and prepare you. And the growing, teaching and preparation will be anything but boring. 

So cheers to a season of being, not doing. May it better equip us for the moment He says, This is it, kid. This is your moment. Go do what I made you to do.

Confidence in Rain

Photo by Brittany Greenquist

When I do chores, I listen to The Sound of Music. Well, actually I listen to a Broadway Pandora station, but The Sound of Music cycles through a lot. Which I don't mind at all. Nothing like Julie Andrews singing wildly about confidence to get you through a sink full of dishes or a pile of laundry.

That song, "I Have Confidence," is quickly becoming my battle cry. 

What will this day be like? I wonder.
What will my future be? I wonder.
It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free
My heart should be wildly rejoicing
Oh, what's the matter with me?

Truer. Words. Have. Never. Been. Spoken. Quite suddenly, and not by choice, I am facing the reality that everything I know could change at any moment. I am asking the  question, What will this day be like? very earnestly because I do not know the answer. It's all up in the air like juggling balls at a circus. I'm scared out of my mind, but not (weirdly enough) because I fear my circumstances. Have you ever seen God make a move so big, there was no doubt He was gearing up for something bigger? That's what I'm scared of. I'm scared because I know He's about to ask for my whole self, and I know I'm going say yes.

I've always longed for adventure
To do the things I've never dared
And here I'm facing adventure
Then why am I so scared?

Jesus knows the desires of our hearts better than we ever will. No part of you is hidden from Him. Even your deepest secrets, the ones you've never said out loud, He knows. And I don't just mean the bad secrets. I mean your secret dreams. The things you think you can't possibly attain because they're too wild. He knows those. In fact, He probably put them there. So why is it that when we sense the adventure coming, we panic? I'm asking the question of myself right now. I feel like my toes are on the edge of the cliff, so close I'm knocking little pebbles off the side, and it's almost time to jump. And my heart is pounding.

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries
If I don't I just know I'll turn back
I must dream of the things I am seeking
I am seeking the courage I lack 

I was given the gentle reminder recently that God has promised to go before us and behind us, as our front and rear guard. But He can't protect the front end if we run ahead of Him. We have to move with Him. Step by step, day by day. Bolstered by the courage that comes from the bone-deep knowledge we are safe within the protection of our Savior. No matter what. Doubt and worry vanish like fog in light of God's promise to protect us.

With each step I am more certain
Everything will turn out fine
I have confidence the world can all be mine
They'll have to agree I have confidence in me 

Everything won't just be fine. It will be beyond whatever I could ask or imagine. That is the truest truth I know. If I've learned anything in the last year and a half, it is that God aches to give me every good thing He has stored up with my name on it. But He can only give it when I agree to come further up and further in. The vastness of the Lord's goodness is waiting to be explored the minute I say, "Lead me."

I have confidence in sunshine
I have confidence in rain
I have confidence that spring will come again
Besides which you see I have confidence in me

Confidence doesn't come from wealth, circumstance, or power. Confidence (the good kind of confidence that will last until eternity) is found only in that space between the front and rear guard. When you know you're walking in step with Papa, there is only confident peace. Because to walk with Him means to know Him. And to know Him is the rest in this truth: He loves you wildly, He cares deeply for you and He is unchangingly good.

So maybe in order to get through this season of gigantic unknowns, I'm going to have to sing along with Julie:

I have confidence in confidence alone
Besides which you see I have confidence in me!

Not confidence in myself, though, but confidence rooted in my Jesus, who will never, ever fail.

Lacey Finklestein's Front Door

I have a vivid snapshot from my childhood, a collage, really, of all the times I went to see if my friend Lacey Finklestein could play. Lacey Finklestein was my neighbor who lived two doors down, and she had a cool older sister named Ashley and a brother whose name I don't remember and also a pool. I distinctly remember running down the hot sidewalk (summer afternoons in Montgomery, Alabama were not for the faint of heart or tender of foot) and knocking on her big front door, hoping she would be home. Sometimes she was, and we would spend hours playing whatever games seven-year-olds play in the summer. Other times she would be busy, and I'd run back home. But regardless of the outcome, it was never weird to knock on Lacey Finklestein's front door one, three, or five times a day to ask if she would come out to play (I take that back- it might have been weird. But I didn't think so at the time).

I was thinking about this the other day- about how not weird it was to knock on Lacey Finklestein's door unannounced, and I realized something. Adult me would never show up on someone's doorstep without a text or a phone call first. It would seem like intruding. It has this air of being socially unacceptable, maybe.  Why?

I think it has a lot to do with vulnerability. From both sides of the door. 

First, the knocker: When you rat-a-tat-tat on someone's door unannounced, there is a chance they will not invite you in. There is potential for rejection, which shouldn't be that big a deal but, if you're anything like me, you tend to take any form of rejection way too personally. And willingly nominating oneself for potential rejection is vulnerable.

Next, the door opener: Let's be honest, there is NO TELLING what state you will be in on a random Monday afternoon. Could be PJs, could be underwear (JUST KEEPING IT REAL), could be the middle of an intense musical theatre singalong session. And then a knock. A knock to which you must respond, at the risk of being caught in the midst of whatever is going on in your zone. Very vulnerable.

Kids don't care so much about potential rejection or being caught in an inconvenient moment. They are wildly resilient, less easily embarrassed, and generally not as concerned with social norms as their adult counterparts. We could take a cue from them, I think.

Adult hangs are much more finely crafted. Partly because we're hella busy, but  there are other layers. I only know this because I fall prey to it so often, but there is a big emphasis on going out to meet people. Like, "let's go get coffee at such and such trendy spot," or "hey, this new brunch place sounds nice," or whatever. Do you think there is, just maybe, a little bit of a self-protection thing going on there? I do. When you meet someone out of the house, you can present yourself however you please. Cute outfit, prepared topics of conversation, neutral meeting place. When someone comes into your home, they will see a lot more of, ya know, you. The pictures on your fridge, the books on your shelf. Your not-so-clean bathroom. To invite someone into your home is kind of a next-level friendship thing.

Why can't it be a first-level friendship thing? At what point did running down the sidewalk and knocking on the door to invite your friend out to play become an inconvenience for them and a moment of social weirdness for you? 

I have named this summer the "Summer of Spontaneous Hangs and Door Knocks". I want my home to be a wide-open place to gather. I want my door to be knocked on, when I'm not expecting it. And I'll probably start knocking on other people's doors without calling first. Because there is something sacred about gathering in someone's home. Something special and familial in curling up on a couch instead of sitting across from one another at a coffee shop. I want more of that in my life. More entering into people's real life and inviting them into mine, and less putting on a show.

Seriously, don't be surprised if I come over.

Test Time

My roommate Alida sat across from me in our living room one Tuesday morning, both of our noses buried in our Bibles. (DO NOT be fooled, friend, into thinking this is normal for me. I'm the worst at any kind of planned quiet time, so this particular morning was a miracle.) I don't remember what exactly I was wrestling with that day, but I do vividly remember something Alida brought up. (The following is an artistic expression of our conversation, not the word-for-word thing.)

RACHEL: blahblahblah stressssss blahblah

ALIDA: Hey, Rach, guess what I just learned? Did you know that in this passage I'm reading the Hebrew definition of "trial" is different than what we think of as "trial"?

RACHEL: Tell me more.

ALIDA: We think trials are being on the stand before God, and He's coming after us for messing up. But actually, it's just a test. And tests are just a regurgitation of information we already know, right? So trials are about proving we know something we already know.

RACHEL: HOLY !%$& ALIDA THAT'S BRILLIANT.

Last week, the practical application of that winter morning conversation hit full force. I saw with wide-open eyes the gift an unexpected trial can be.

Here's the thing: Trial is another word for test. When you take a test, you are (hopefully) just applying knowledge you already have. Tests are assessments of proficiency and knowledge. The trip-up, I think, is this: we hear that analogy and we think when God tests us, He's standing over us with a big red pen and if we don't pass the test we're screwed. Which makes the whole trial/test analogy stupid and terrible. What makes it BEAUTIFUL is this: 

The test is not about proving anything at all to God. He already knows what we are and are not capable of, and He promises in Scripture to not tempt us beyond what we can bear. I think He uses trials to let us prove to ourselves that we have grown; that the seeds we have seen (or not seen) Him plant are beginning to bear fruit. And that, friend, is one of the sweetest gifts I can imagine. 

I only say all this because I'm living it. A curveball was thrown last week; the kind of curveball that incited instant panic. But directly on the heels of that panic came a wave of peace. And I practically heard the whisper: My girl, be still. You know me.  You know my character and you know I can provide anything and everything. You know I love you. Be still.

By the grace of a Savior that loves me immeasurably, I was able to say, "Oh. Okay, cool." Which was followed quickly by, "THIS IS THE BEST FEELING EVER, WOW GOD YOU SO GOOD."

Here is what I know I know, now:

1) Visible circumstances are never the whole story. God is busy doing His thing, always.

2) Facts are not the same as truth. Facts change. Truth does not.

3) God is fully capable of and fully intent on providing for my every need. Even the needs I am not aware of.

4) God is good. So sweetly, gently, mightily good.

This is how to become stronger. This is how God grows those fruits of His Spirit. Just like a seed needs seasons to change and rain to come in order to grow, you need seasons and rainstorms to see growth in yourself. And PRAISE BE to a God that gives you a front row seat to see His work in your life. That's how you know He loves you, friend. 

Risky Business

I've been thinking a lot about vulnerability lately. Mostly because I suck at it. And I don't get it. "Vulnerability" is a huge buzzword. People loooove to talk about "being vulnerable" and "being real and authentic." I totally get it in theory, but, honestly, the practical application is wildly out of reach.

Last week my feelings got hurt, like feelings do, and I had a huge epiphany. Yes, yes, those two things are related.

I carried on through my day, being butt-hurt and thinking about how I was going to react when I saw this person who (let's be honest) did nothing more than wound my pride. I was all like, "I'll just not talk to him. That'll show him. Right?"

Then this lightning bolt came down from the heavens and I was like, WOAH.

I caught myself in the act; frantically building up concrete walls of protection to keep from getting hurt and actively choosing to shut down. It's a routine I've practiced for longer than I can remember. Whether in friendship or relationship or co-worker-ship or what have you, as soon as something goes wrong this heavy gate, not unlike the ones on medieval castles, slams shut in my heart.

I may not know what vulnerable is, but I know what it's not. And it's not that.

I swallowed my pride and went out of my way to be nice to said pride-wounder. Well, in my head I did. I'm not sure how well it translated. He probably didn't even notice. But in my mind I was going ABOVE AND BEYOND to be nice and not say something snarky or act all aloof. And you know, everything went right back to normal. 

And I had a new idea.

Imagine yourself living in a castle. A castle with big stone walls, and a moat all the way around for protection. Cool. What if your very favorite activity is to stand atop your castle and throw meaningful, expensive, lovely gifts to everyone you know on the other side of the moat? Seems legit. You are SO NICE to give all those gifts. Except that you're actually totally cut off from real life, from the flesh-and-blood people you're trying to love. You don't really know them, and they definitely don't really know you. How can they? You're on the other side of a moat surrounded by giant, impenetrable walls.

Real love steps out of the castle, out of protection, and offers itself up at the risk of getting hurt. Loving well is not about protecting oneself and only giving what is comfortable. Real love puts others first, which by definition means it doesn't primarily think about self-preservation.

Maybe vulnerability is the willingness to let yourself get hurt by others. They won't do it on purpose. But they could do it unconsciously. They'll do it without knowing it happened. And you might feel a sting, or a bruise, or a slap. But that's vulnerability. It's laying your pride on the line and say, "I'll take off my armor in order to love you for real, no matter the consequences."

Sometime's it will hurt. But sometimes, I think, it leaves us open to love in its truest form. Once the armor is off, and we offer our naked and trembling heart-- we are open not only to potential pain, but also to the potential to receive that same kind of raw, real love in return.

So the question is, is it worth it? I have spent my entire life unconsciously saying no. But all these stupid books I've been reading lately have been telling me the only way to really live is to really know love, and the only way to really know love is to be really vulnerable. I know, very deep down, I want to love raw and real. But it a risky business, actually loving people. Now that I understand it a little better I'm terrified of it. And I'm realizing I have next to no idea how to do it well. But I want to learn.

Here's to draining the moat and letting down the drawbridge and leaving the defenses behind. Here's to vulnerability.

Book Day

Photo by Ashley Campbell

My first attempt at literature, written in fourth grade, was a (very short) novelette entitled The Day Pearl Harbor was Bombed!, which followed the jarring adventures of a young man in the navy in 1941. I was very, very proud of my accomplishment and decorated the cover with patriotic drawings and my mom probably showed it off when her friends came over to visit. Because that's what moms do. 

It's been a long while since Pearl Harbor made its debut, and a lot has happened since. I've grown up, and learned some things, and became a significantly better speller. And I keep thinking of things to say and so I keep writing them down. 

And somehow, by the grace of God and maybe a happy accident, I've managed to write a book. A real one. It's exactly 138 pages longer than The Day Pearl Harbor was Bombed!, and not half as dramatic. 

I would continue to try to wax poetic about writing and Jesus and la tee da, but at this point all I can think is, IS THIS REAL LIFE?!, so there's that.

Here's the link: Buy Relentless here!

I'll just be over here dancing around like a maniac to Broadway showtunes and eating brownies. PT freaking L. 

Here's to you, single gal

Here's something I've been thinking lately: on a cultural level, after a certain point, women quit being celebrated for just being. Hang with me. As a kid, we're celebrated for normal kid things, like walking and reading and graduating swim lessons, or ballet class, or high school. Then we are celebrated for going to college, being active in a sorority or major or whatever, then we graduate and accolades pour in. But after that.... the celebrating kind of stops. Until an engagement. Or a wedding. Or a baby.

Um. 

Now what I AM NOT SAYING is that I hate celebrating engagements and weddings and babies. Those things are great, and beautiful, and I love celebrating women who are walking into those seasons and I can't wait to walk into those seasons myself. But do you see what I mean? There comes a point when the next "official milestone" is something totally out of a girl's control, so she just kind of.... chills?

Listen, I am all about the next milestone, but in the mean time I have done anything but chill. I am learning and growing and changing and I see a hundred women around me who are doing the same. Women who deserve a freakin' PARADE for all they are accomplishing, big or small.

So, here's to you, single gal.

You should be celebrated for learning to change the oil in your car, and also for the time you squealed because you thought your jumper cables were going to blow up.

For all the times you played in the kitchen and concocted Barefoot  Contessa-level meals for one. And for the times you prepared Barefoot Contessa-level meals for the multitudes and opened up your home.

For working hard and paying your own bills. You are a bad-ass. You should be celebrated for putting on your tool belt and figuring out how to fix things around the house. And for being humble enough to ask for help when you need it. 

You should be celebrated for learning how to budget and be a real adult and navigate the stress of payments and loans and flat tires.

You should be celebrated for being powerful. Don't ever be ashamed of your power, or your ability to lead. Those are God-given gifts and damn, girl, He'll use them. You should be celebrated for the moments you don't feel powerful, and you really just want a good snuggle, and the only snuggle buddy available is your puppy.

You should be celebrated for going to that wedding alone, and looking REAL FINE and tearing up the dance floor. 

You should be celebrated for planting that herb garden. And for not waiting to put down roots in your community. 

You should be celebrated for taking that really long road trip by yourself. It wasn't easy, but you DID IT, GIRL. You should be celebrated for killing the gigantic bug in your bathroom. For all the bugs you've ever had to squash, really, because no one else was around to do it.

For being kind, generous, intelligent, brave, sassy, loud, quiet, gentle, bold, creative, vivacious, resilient, tender, strong, messy, and real, you should be celebrated.

 For babysitting your friends' kids on Valentine's Day, for starting your own business, for spending a whole weekend watching Gilmore Girls, for loving your community well, for doing your laundry, for cleaning your kitchen, for chasing your dreams, YOU SHOULD BE CELEBRATED.

Here's to you, beautiful single gal. Even though no one's throwing showers for you, you are doing things worth celebrating. You are great and worth a whole day (other than your birthday) of celebration. If Hallmark needs another money-making holiday idea, I have one: Single Gal's Day. All for you, ya big cutie.

Go forth and be.

Fast.

IN CASE YOU DIDN'T KNOW: the early church, and all the following generations who honored the practice of fasting, knew what was up. If you want God to move, give up the things that are blocking your vision. Because pro tip: He is always moving and doing His grand thing. Just sometimes we totally miss it because we're too busy being distracted. When all the buzz is taken away and we are left with radio silence, the soft voice of God is a lot easier to hear.

So, last week I felt so out of sorts I grabbed onto this idea of fasting out of pure desperation. I didn't know what to expect, or what would happen, but I wanted to shake something in my heart. Here's the thing: I went through a wild season a little bit ago during which I was so raw and humbled, God and I were, like, super tight. I was walking close because I was afraid I'd drown otherwise. And, honestly, it was awesome. Not the season itself, but the closeness to Jesus. 

But then things got better, I got stronger, and I got a little (a lot) cocky. Which felt good until it felt not good. So I fasted. For five days, I turned off my phone and wasn't allowed to spend a single dime. No electronic communication, no spending. I wanted to fast from food, because that's more glamorous, but my roommates and my dad were quick to say, "Nope, that's not it. Pick something else. Something that will actually be a sacrifice." They were right.

Here are some excerpts from my journal this week.

Monday (pre-fast):

Give up communication and spending. Five days. Lord what if someone needs me? What if I miss seeing someone and the world is thrown of its axis? WHAT IF?

Trust me. Trust me, dear one.

What if I run out of toothpaste or food or something?

Just trust me.

Fasting, or this fast in particular, is about trust. Trusting that God is more in control of my life than I will ever be, and nothing I do will get in the way of Him. Who knew?

Tuesday (day one):

I felt out of sorts because I wasn't getting constant affirmation via texts/likes/comments. When there was a moment of quiet during the day I instinctively reached for my phone.

I also have no idea what I'm supposed to be praying about.

Wednesday (day two):

No phone officially feels like I'm on vacation. I'm sitting at the park right now because I'm trying to listen and I think I felt a nudge. Whether I did or not, this dappled sunlight and soft breeze is making my heart swell in my chest. So thank you, Papa.

[Pause. There was more here, but I'm holding onto it for now. All you need to know is, God is good. Real good. Okay, play.]

When did we lose the freedom to just show up? I remember being seven and waiting on Helen Kennamer's doorstep until she got home and we could play. Why is that socially weird now that I'm twenty-four? Why do I feel like I have to call first? It seems to me that living in community should extend into our living spaces. Mi casa es su casa, for real. [more on this next week.]

Thursday (day three):

Finished 7 and started Scary Close. It's funny-- the only screen I'm not allowed to use is my phone. TV and computer are still fair game. But I'm not drawn to those. And since I'm not distracted by going anywhere or trying to go somewhere, I've noticed I'm hungry for something substantial. For some meat to chew on (good thing I'm not food fasting). These books are making my mind spin. And I've got all the time in the world to gobble them up.

Friday (day four):

Got a free beer from Alex at Taproom because I told him about the fast.

Heard "Every Little Thing (Will be Alright)" on the sunny, breezy drive home and laughed from the pure joy of realizing the truth of those words.

Used MapQuest for the first time in like five years.

Saturday (day five):

Sat in the park at Musician's Corner (God bless Nashville and its free concerts) and couldn't keep a grin off my face. God is good. He is moving, big time. He is showing up and showing off and assuring me, over and over, that He has plans He is working out. I just have to be in tune enough to follow His lead. Praise. So. Much. Praise.

Sunday (fast over):

53 unread emails and 60-something unread texts. Oops. But wallet very happy.

Coming Clean

photo by Emma Wilson

UPDATE // 

It's Monday, May (the) 4th (be with you).

Starting tomorrow, I'm entering the before-now-unexplored-by-me waters of a real live fast. Not food, even though that sounded the coolest at first, but two things that are probably playing a big part in the unrest of my soul. 

Here we go.

ORIGINAL POST // 

If I'm gonna be #liveauthentic right now, I'm feeling kind of icky. Kinda of cluttered, kind of distant, kind of scattered. But at the same time, claustrophobic. It's not like THE WORST THING EVER, but it's enough to make me antsy.

I've slimmed down my closet. I've paid my bills (early). I've confessed sin. I've organized and reorganized my sock drawer. But something is going on. I'm telling you about it because if I don't speak up, I think it will only get worse. I'm already in dangerous territory-- I've become pretty cynical and I'm starting to put walls back up that the Lord has spent a lot of time breaking down. 

Last week, I wrote about praying through hard stuff and how Jesus prayed in the garden the night he was betrayed. I wrote about it, fully believe in it, encouraged you to join in it. But I haven't done it. Nope. Not once. Not in weeks. 

Here's my confession: I'm pushing back at Jesus because I don't want to deal with truth. I am subconsciously (but actively?) shutting down my heart to brace for something I'm afraid will hurt, and in doing so am shutting out the One who will actually be able to ease the pain. 

I'm not praying through the hard stuff. I'm trying to ignore it.

Yikes.

I think I just admitted that to myself at the same time I was admitting it to you.

So what does it look like to repent? I honestly don't know, and I'm not going to get on a soap box and preach about it until I do. So maybe there will be a mid-week post update after I've learned something and actually applied it.

Incidentally, I am currently reading Jen Hatmaker's book 7. It's a book about cutting down on excess and letting God in, for real. I'm on chapter three and my world is already shifting. I want to get rid of half my possessions and eat nothing but bread for six months. Not really. 

But almost.

Because I'm getting desperate. I feel bad habits coming back and I don't want them to, but I also don't feel motivation to do anything about it, really. I need an awakening, and I want to ask for it. But what happens when I do?

As it turns out, fasting comes highly recommended by two of my favorite authors. I've read a lot about fasting this week. Not coincidental, I'm sure.

A fast might be just what I need. And after I've done that, whatever it looks like, I'll get back to you. 

Thoughts from Center Stage

So I’m in this musical right now, and it is the very best thing.

Godspell is a chunk of sacred text, the book of Matthew, turned into an experimental piece of theatre that has remained relevant ever since its premiere in 1971. Needless to say, Godspell is one of my all. time. favorite. shows.

What I love about it most especially, besides the music and the fun, is the fact that this totally secular show with absolutely no Gospel-sharing agenda is, almost completely, word-for-word Scripture. HELLO HOW COOL. I really think Jesus gets a secret delight out of showing up where he is least expected. And he definitely wasn’t expected in a Broadway hit in the seventies. Yet, Godspell is a gospel story from top to bottom.

There is a garden scene right before the crucifixion in Godspell. The show goes from happy-go-lucky to downright solemn in about 2.2 seconds. Jesus says goodbye to his disciples and says, “Stay with me while I go over there to pray. My heart is ready to break with grief.”

Every night, I sit just left of center as my little disciple self, pretending to sleep, and listen to my friend Wesley, who plays Jesus. Here’s what I love about theatre: it makes dry words on a page come alive. Every night, I think about how this very scene played out all those years ago.

When Jesus prays, it’s not, “Oh, Father, please give me strength to do this hard and terrible thing.”

Nope. He straight up says, “Father, if there is any way for this cup to pass me by, please make it happen.”

Um. Hello. Trinity Member No. 2 was like, “I know this is the plan, but please no thank you.” IS HE ALLOWED TO DO THAT?

Yes. Of course he is. Because he’s talking to his Papa. Friend, when talking to Papa, I think the only option is to be completely raw and real. I think that’s how God wants us to pray. He wants us to come to Him for comfort, in the midst of our very darkest valleys. He wants us to be real about what we want, even when there’s nothing that can be done.

Sometimes I censor my prayers. I do this thing where I don’t even say what I’m really thinking, because probably He doesn’t want to hear it. And what would it help? And I can't make him mad. I have to be at my most holy at the feet of Jesus, right?

No.

Wow, no.

In the garden that night, Jesus knew what was coming. But that didn’t stop him from crying to his Papa. He didn’t bite the bullet and isolate himself, like I so often do. I think I assume God can’t be bothered. Or, is it really worth it to pray if I know nothing will change? But in Gethsemene, Jesus shares the depths of his heart, the aching and the fear and the panic. He puts it all out there. He asks for the cup to pass.

But then he says, “Not my will, but yours be done.”

That is the trick. To be in tune with the heart of the Father is to be able to be totally honest in moments of hurt, fear, and terrifying trial. But then to stop and say, “Not my will, but yours be done.” If prayer is supposed to be how we get closer to God, then the best way to do that is to be honest about every little thing. But, if we know the heart of the Father, we will always come back around to, "your will be done."

 Listen, God already knows your heart before you say a dang thing. Whatever hurt or fear you are holding onto, whatever rude thoughts you’re thinking about that person you’re really mad at—He knows. So what’s the point in pretending?

I think the example of Jesus in the garden should be our blueprint for praying through trials. Admitting weakness, admitting fear, asking for what we want even if it might be impossible, but trusting the Father enough to say, “Your will be done.”