How does Your Garden Grow?

I was sitting out in the backyard trying to write; it’s been a real struggle (more on that later). Perhaps you have noticed the lack of blog posts? My backyard is cute, although a little on the unkempt side, but with a small tree growing in the middle of the patio and built-in benches, it has great potential. If someone was more inclined, it could be quite lovely, but I have let it go pretty wild. That is until my son listened to the audio version of The Secret Garden six times in a row (I’m not even exaggerating), so now, naturally, he is all into gardening. I’m more of the let your yard go natural (or wilding) as I like to call it; spell check, however, does not agree that this is a thing.

Thanks to The Secret Garden (which I wish had stayed more of a secret) my son, in cahoots with my mother, is trying to tame our outside space. All on his own, he started weeding and watering “things” in the backyard. My mother was completely impressed with his initiative and promised to come over with a car full of actual plants. I have lost track of all the new additions: six potted plants (in teal to match my doors), ground cover and ferns galore. We (I have helped) have tilled, dug, planted and watered. How much work it is to get things back into order! My backyard, like my heart, wants to run wild.

Entropy (also known as the second law of thermodynamics) is what happens when we do nothing. Order runs to disorder. This is clearly evident in my backyard. When we moved in eight years ago the garden was lovely. Colorful flowers in oranges and purples broke up the lush greens, Hostas ran along the fence and the rocks were all in their proper places next to the house. It was picture perfect. And each spring I did mostly nothing and incidentally, each spring less flowers appeared. Over time the hostas completely died out! I blame the dog. Holes started appearing in my once flawless lawn (for which I also blame the dog). Weeds grew as big as small bushes (I somehow want to also blame this on the dog.)

In short, doing nothing resulted in our cute, cultivated landscaping going back to its natural state. Wild! Slowly at first. All the hard work someone had done held up for a few years, but eventually and almost completely, it fell into decline. I think one flower came up this year (until my dog laid on it, for clearly this was the best place in all of the yard to lay). This makes me think of the state of my spiritual life. I have spent seasons doing the ground work. Breaking up the hard rocky earth of my heart. Digging out lies that I started to believe in my rebellious and young adulthood. Daily watering seeds of truth and being rewarded with flowers and eventually fruit. Painful but necessary pruning of my once held beliefs about God were plucked out as I spent time in the Bible. More growth and more increase as long as I put the work in.

But then there would be dry seasons.

Times where I’m paying more attention to the world than reading my Bible.

I’m complaining more than praying.

Fears would start to sprout around the good fruit of my faith. I would complain and worry more than I would pray. Irritating, prickly thistles make themselves right at home among carefully cultivated flowers of peace and patience. Unlike weeds which seems to pop up without any help, the fruits of the spirit are hard won. I do not naturally go towards love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness and self control (Gal 5:22). I have to get dirty, break a sweat and carefully water these plants almost daily in hopes of a yield. Yet, it just takes one stressful day at work, a differing of opinions or my check engine light coming on and weeds start sprouting up all over the place. I don’t have time for this and pop there is a thorn trying to choke out one of my fruits of the spirit. This is too much work, I’m sick of trying.

I have struggled to write these last few months. I have thought, what is the point? Have you struggled to parent? Work? Clean? Even care? Did you, like me, take in more of the world than the Word? A root of hopelessness took hold, slowly at first but then it gained ground and started to cut off my vine of joy and then my peace and slowly all my fruit started to have spots and then worms. I no longer had fresh, sweet fruit from which to eat to sustain my faith. I was instead chewing on weeds, which are bitter and empty of nutrients. My writing dried up.

Earlier this week, I told my son he should water his plants. He got out the hose and started making his way around the yard. As he turned the corner on the house to soak the ferns, the hose got stuck. I was working on the patio and I watched him start to struggle. He was pulling and pulling on the hose and it was getting more and more stuck. Instead of going back to see what the trouble was he had wrapped himself up in the hose to get more leverage and pulled with all his body weight. I yelled to him to stop! “It’s only going to get worse if you keep pulling”, I told him. “You have to go back and see where you got hung up.” From my vantage point, I could see that the hose was stuck on his bike, which was getting pulled into the wagon and was about to topple over one of the yard games. The more he pulled on it the more damage ensued.

I was instantly annoyed, but quickly saw the analogy. When something gets stuck in my faith, I want to just pull at it, hoping it will pop free. I don’t want to walk back to the other side of the house and see what is going on. As I became fearful, depressed and irritated over the last few months, I wanted to just pull free of these feelings. I didn’t want to examine why I was feeling these things on such a deep level. Sure our emotions get stuck on things—that child that won’t listen, a fight with our spouse, the car won’t start, the check didn’t come. But the deeper things, the hopelessness, the oppression that won’t let up; that’s when my thought life becomes tangled up in something solid. It is caught on a bike and a wagon and unless we go back and untangle it, the knots will only get tighter until eventually the water supply is cut off.

It was planted in a good soil by great waters, that it might bring forth branches, and that it might bear fruit, that it might be a goodly vine.

Ezekiel 17:8

Good plants need water and if the watering hose is caught in my doubt and disbelief, they will shrivel up and die. I often struggle with where God is in my pain. I find myself wondering if He cares. Does He see what is happening? My weeds of fear and worry seem to need no tending. This is as old as the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve lived in a perfect backyard. Fruit aplenty, communion with God as easy as a walk on a shady trail. No stony ground, no bugs eating away at the berries, and they didn’t even need a watering can. Everything grew easily without effort.

Yet, when this first couple decided to eat of the forbidden fruit, their days of ease (and ours) were over. Their choice led to the great responsibility of knowing good and evil. We, today, walk in that garden; one that sprouts weeds and thorns more readily than fruit. Where communion with God is easily choked out by the cares of this world—the bikes and the wagons and all the stuff that gets in the way—the more we pull at it the more entangled we become.

My son had to walk back and carefully, thoughtfully figure out how to unhook the garden hose from his things. In the same way that I have to walk back in my thought life, in my actions and see where I got hung up.

Do I care about this world too much?

Was I making this my “forever home,” when in essence, I’m just passing through?

Did I start to think the here and now is what matters most?

My comforts and my happiness so often get tangled in my “things.” I need to look good, feel good, have nice things and enjoy life to be in a good spot. When ultimately, my faith should be sure no matter what my life looks like. In good times and in bad times, like the Apostle Paul says, my faith should remain constant. My emotions won’t of course, but my faith must be on solid rock, so the storms of life won’t toss it about.

He only is my rock and my salvation; He is my defence; I shall not be greatly moved.

Psalm 62:2

What are my weeds of doubt and sorrow, but too much love for my life and my comforts? What is the worst that would happen? My way of life is threatened; my actual life is threatened? These are scary thoughts to my flesh, but they should not be to my spirit. My spirit is not made for this life. It is bound for the next—it is heaven-bound. No sickness or loss of freedom or devastation can take that from me.

We must work hard to keep our garden in order or it will quickly fall into entropy.

What does this look like for you?

For me it’s time spent alone with the Lord. Sitting in my garden in the morning before I start the day. I breathe Him in by reading the Word and and exhale His truth through my prayers.

I minister to others and let others minister to me. (I ask for others to cover me in prayer.)

I listen to teachings and ask to be lead by the Holy Spirit.

At times my flesh feels that these things are not enough, but my spirit longs for them, knowing they are the transforming of my soul.

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Drafts on the New To-Do List

Today, I came across an old to-do list. It included signing my son up for golf lessons and for art camp for the summer. It made me pause. Will our near future include sports or group activities? I was planning to attend a writing conference next month, one that I had been looking forward to for two years. It is indefinitely postponed, just like the rest of our lives. Pending. Waylaid. Held up. My packed calendar, dotted with coffee dates and meetings and deadlines is now all null and void. I’m not even attempting to reschedule, which is perhaps the most disheartening part. There is no real end in sight.

My once full calendar in now startlingly empty. As if someone took it and dumped it upside down and time scheduled for friends, work, school activities, group Bible studies and writing in a bustling coffee shop all came tumbling out and slipped away. . . just like that. One day I was worried about having enough time and then seemingly overight, wondering what to do with all the extra time.

The New Normal

While none of us have experienced an almost nation-wide quarantine, many of us have had our lives changed overnight. I know I have. More than once. Sometimes we see it coming. Perhaps a move or a divorce or a sick loved one. We know change is coming. It’s not always bad either. A marriage, a baby, a new career path. Our lives are one thing and then the next day they are another. The sudden changes are the most shocking. A few years ago, I had texted about plans with one of my best friends for later that day—but later that day, I would be standing next to her hospital bed. I never got the chance to talk with her again. It all happened so breathtakingly fast.

Perhaps you have had something sudden like this in your life? You have found yourself looking around and saying, now what? What does my life look like going forward? How do I pick up the pieces or find my new normal? How do I rebuild?

Changing Roles

Our lives have been changed almost overnight. All the liberties we’ve enjoyed; so thanklessly gone. School and work to now be conducted from the walls of our homes. So many of us woke finding our roles changed from homework helpers to full-time teachers in a live-in school where nobody ever leaves. We wade through history lessons and confusing math problems, pretending to know obscure elementary English grammar rules, while secretly looking up plural possessives. I have great ideas of writing a book or organizing the junk drawer that doesn’t even really open anymore. And yes, I have seen your posts online—quarantine day 2: organized all my closets; quarantine day 3: taught the kids to play the mandolin and grow our own sweet basil. Yet, I feel like showering and making the bed is a win for the day.

Sudden change brings out different sides in all of us. Many of you will rise to the occasion and color coordinate your homeschool folders, while my dog has walked over ours with muddy feet at least 3 times now (and I write little sorry notes to the teacher in the margin). But I’m sorry about so much more than a muddy dog print. I’m sorry I’m not a teacher or an organizer; I’m sorry I’m not using this forced time at home to achieve more around my home or write a book (although there still may be time). Apparently, not having enough time was not the real problem.

What is on your new to-do list?

As more and more is stripped away, I find there is less and less to distract me from what I really should be doing; and it’s not teaching or writing or cleaning or even panicking. It’s seeking God. Long prayers where I lay it all out—the way I do on coffee dates with girlfriends. Time spent in study, deep study where I doggedly sniff out the meaning layered in the ancient words. And just time at His feet, waiting for healing in my heart and direction in my life. Who is God? Where is He in this? How is it with my whole city shut down, basically my life outside of this house, that I’m still distracted from doing what I need to do? Somehow I’m still focused on the wrong things. God says. . . Know Me. Trust Me. But I’m distracted by my worry of what this all means.

The last year or so I have spent my mornings in prayer. This is the one part of my pre-quarantine life I have held onto (it surely isn’t a normal bedtime). My prayers have gotten noticeably longer. More requests tacked on to the end til the appendix is as long as the book itself. I pray for all eight of our parents by name (and my grandparents); I mention my friends one by one, lining them up before me with their specific needs during this time. I ask for stability in a space that feels like it could easily tip. I ask that we will be extra sensitive to the leading of the Holy Spirit—pray for this person (maybe even call them); tell us where we can go and where not to go. Help me listen to the still small voice in new ways. I pray for our leaders, our decision makers. I pray that fear will not drive us (me), but that we will have a peace and trust in God almighty.

Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust: cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my soul unto thee.

Psalm 143:8

Is your Bible worn with good use?

Life can change without any notice. We prepare for a life of singleness and meet someone. We build our forever home and have to move. We meet new friends we weren’t even looking for and we say goodbye to people we thought would always be there. What is that saying? “The only constant in life is change.” Will this generation ever look at a fever and cough the same way? Will we at times stop and look at full grocery store aisles and think what a beautiful sight. I believe gathering with friends will feel less like an everyday activity and more like something special.

Uncovered Idols

I have been studying the books of Kings and seeing how Israel turned its back on God and chased after other gods. What gods have we chased as a nation? What have I chased personally? Is this a time of calling us back? A time of taking away our idols? Sports. Beauty. Money. Success. Family. I have sat in the dark of my bedroom and asked God to show me where I have gone astray. Where is my heart off? Where have I let things creep in? I believe the world is (has) changed in a very fundamental way and I want to emerge from this time ready for what awaits. I pray that I will “hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering . . . “ and that it will keep me steadfast and rooted. I think more will be asked of me. More confidence in what the Word of God says, more boldness in my life and quick, ready answers for those who ask, why I follow God’s words.

I hope in many ways this does change me. That it teaches me to trust in the Lord more. I found my weak spots in this very quickly. How about you? I read the Word and I pray like I mean it (because I do), but yet worry sneaks in like a tick, unnoticed. It digs in deeper each day trying to poison my faith. I need to treat it like the invasive demon bug that it is. I need to pluck it out with cold, hard tweezers. With precision and purpose, dropping everything else I’m doing and dig it out before it causes real and lasting damage.

What do you need to go after?

What is God calling you to during this time?

Know His Word.

Pray like it changes things.

Teach your kids (family/friends) the most important homeschool lesson of all.

Minister to others.

Who will you be after all this is over? The same or someone different?

Drafts On Soul Wounds

We all have vulnerable spots. I’m sensitive to bright lights, as everyone in my life will attest. I have never met a dimmer switch I didn’t love. We have two light switches in my bathroom. One goes to a lovely muted luminary that bathes the room in soft warm colors. The other activates three fluorescent lights that are equivalent to the white hot glow of an operating room. I never ever use that light. It feels like a direct switch to a headache. I don’t care if I have something in my eye or need to remove a sliver out of a child’s foot, it will be done in that low lighting. While the rest of my family uses this other light switch without a thought; they even seem to enjoy all the extra eye-popping brightness.

In the same way my eyes are sensitive to bight lights, my emotions also have weak spots. Things that have happened to me in the past have caused wounds. Like when people talk about sisters, it sometimes feels like a prick. I have to quietly deal with a wound that no one can see. I lost a sister. So, when someone starts causally talking about plans they have with their sister or how they talk everyday or even how annoying they might be, I can’t help but feel that loss. Time has healed much of that wound, but it’s still there. Nobody means to hurt me, of course. Some days it doesn’t even phase me, but other days it cuts; but I just keep smiling and nodding. I don’t want my friends to not mention their sisters.

Perhaps all your friends are getting married and you just experienced a terrible breakup. How do you get through those wedding showers and sit at a table with your parents pretending to be happy when inside you are hurting? You can’t ask people to not get married, you can’t not be happy for them. But there is a wound there that nobody can see. We have all had losses. A friend mentions how her dad fixed her car and you never even met your dad. A wound is touched. Your co-worker is buying a house when you are thinking you might have to move back home to save money. You started a ministry that can’t seem to get any funding while others seem to flourish. We try to hide our invisible hurts, so no one sees us flinch when when they talk about their spouse, their baby, their job . . .

The Enemy Hits Us Where it Hurts the Most

The places we feel like we aren’t enough are the places the enemy hits hardest, because it does the most damage—the quickest. If you were in a fight with a guy who had a broken arm, where are you going to punch him? In the place that will bring him to his knees. We are in a spiritual battle and our adversary does not play fair! You have a difficult child who is hard to parent, where will you get attacked? There! Someone will point out what you are doing wrong (when they don’t know anything about it). And bam! The enemy has you reeling. Your marriage is struggling and someone will go on about how great their marriage is and how it just gets better every year while yours seems to get harder. A hit in just the right spot. You feel stuck in your office job and are wondering about purpose when your roommate from college calls to announce they are opening their own business. You are glad this conversation is over the phone so they can’t see your face while you take the hit.

We do not feel the punches in our strong areas. If you rock at your job or have an easy marriage or are about to get a book published, comments can be made and they just roll off because you know they aren’t true. We are attacked in the vulnerable places. In the spots we worry about or the areas we carry a hurt or that secret fear. How do you recover when you are punched in a broken spot? Those comments can take your breath away, make you lose your footing. You want to just lay on the ground. It’s easy to be mad at that person or the situation, but we need to remember that it’s often the enemy at work and this is what he does. If you are in a knife fight, you can’t be surprised when you get cut. Yet, I find myself surprised. Like . . . “hey, that hurt!”

Don’t be Mistaken: We Are in A Battle

This life is a battle; it isn’t practice, it’s the real thing. We are in active combat. This is why the Bible instructs us to pray on the amour of God each day (Ephesians 6). Not because we are going to spar with a friend, but because we are in battle everyday—if we like it or not (1 Peter 4:12). So, when the enemy (through that guy at work or even your sweet grandma) says just the right thing, that speaks to your biggest hurts and fears you can know immediately you are in a fight for your emotions and your heart. The point is to take you down. To make you doubt God’s love (If God loved me, would I have lost my sister?). To make you doubt your calling (I’m not good at talking about my faith, maybe I should just be quiet). To make you doubt the hard things (someone else would be a better parent to this child). To make you doubt your purpose (Shouldn’t I find happiness in my family/job/ministry—maybe there is something more?).

As if the hard things shouldn’t be hard.

As if the struggles can and should be avoided.

As if the lies are true.

We must be ready for battle. We must suit up and pray up and read up. The Bible will instruct you; the prayers will empower you; the Holy Spirit will lead you. You have everything you need to fight the good fight. But you will get hurt. Nobody goes into war thinking they will emerge the same. They will be shot at, wounded and hardened by the blows of the enemy. From each battle we emerge with more experience (2 Tim 2:4). I know if I don’t start my day in prayer, I’m already set up for some blows. It’s not that prayer stops the blows; actually, I think it often “ups” them, but I’m ready to handle them.

If we are wounded, it is much harder to keep fighting. We often need others to drag us to safety. We need to go to the medic. Who is our Great Physician? Who is the Healer of our souls? The very One who created us, will also heal us. When we bring our soul wounds to Him, our Lord and Savior will do a great work in us. Sometimes it is major surgery (which could be preformed under the lights in my bathroom!). When we come to Christ, our loving Father lays us out and removes our hearts of stone and give us new hearts.

Ezekiel 36:26-27

“And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes and be careful to obey my rules.”

He will give you a new heart

Nobody questions the major undertaking of a heart transplant. Getting a new spiritual heart is pretty major, also. It changes our life in dramatic ways. Things that used to bring us pleasure become dull, as we shift from a selfish worldly view to an eternal spiritual view. There are aspects of this change that happen suddenly. I once sat with a friend in my home and could see the heaviness of her past etched in her face; yet, a few moments later when she came to the Lord, it was instantly lifted. One of the first things she said after we prayed was, “The heaviness is gone!” She didn’t need to tell me. I could see it in her face. She met her Saviour and he removed her heavy heart and put in a living/beating heart that pushed blood through her soul into places that were formally crippled.

Other changes come on slowly, over years as our new hearts pump the oxygenated blood of new life to parts of our souls we thought were dead. Healing soul wounds that were caused by sin done to us, sin we fell into, perhaps, because of a family cycle of hurt or a temptation that we thought would soothe our wounds. But, in fact, it deepened the damage. I have been walking with the Lord several decades and just in the last few years, I have come to realize some of the places I carry wounds. Instead of letting air and light get to them where they can heal, I instinctively hide them, keeping them in the dark where they fester and spread into other aspects of my life.

Let the Healing Begin

I asked the Holy Spirit to expose them, so I could pray for the healing I didn’t even understand I needed. The wounds I had wrapped up in the loss of my sister were many and painful. There are ways I unknowingly respond to life—reacting in hurt or depression, never connecting it back to that vulnerable spot. God has removed much of that weight, just by exposing it. When something pricks me, I can say I know why this hurts. I don’t want to react in a way that brings me low. I can feel sad. I can feel the loss. But, I don’t want my reactions to be something that causes me to sin or causes me to pull back when I should be pushing in.

What soul wounds do you have in your life?

Can you connect some of your seemingly odd or extreme reactions to that hurt?

What if you asked the Lord to start healing those spots?

The Lord keeps showing me that He is enough. His grace is sufficient. The things I think I need to be okay are the very places He will fill. The hurts are a reminder that this world is not home. I have a promise that I will see my sister again (along with others gone ahead). Meanwhile, He has brought women into my life that I call sister . . .and my heart fills. I stand up in their weddings and the program says—sister to the bride. And that wound closes a little. I have a group of women in my life that are as dear to me as sisters. We have a depth in our relationships that I imagine is as deep as a blood sister (and perhaps deeper in some cases). That spot is very tender, but not as gut-wrenching as it was at one time. The term “soul sister” means more to me than most.

Ask the Lord to reveal your wounds so you can ask for healing in those areas

Have you already experienced some healing? Was it instant or slowly over time?

If you feel led to support my ministry in anyway, I would love to hear from you.

Take heart: Why Our Struggles Are Important

I never want anyone to struggle. I don’t want to walk through hard things. I don’t want you to either. I want our lives to look like a beautiful Instagram feed; where all the tones match, the background is well-balanced with books and succulents and everyone is bright and happy in their organic cotton clothes. Not only that, but full of interesting, if not witty, things to say about life, love and rescue dogs.

My life does not look like this. And that is important, because I’m going to need your help. If my life was problem-free, I would not need your prayers, time and support and we would both miss out on how God uses you and me to move in the lives of people.

As a writer, I have always been told I need a brand, a voice, a genre that people will expect. When you are starting a blog or website it is best to have a look or brand (you will notice mine is mostly typewriters and coffee) in muted tones no less. My life, unlike my website, does not have a theme like “dark and moody”; that is just me every morning before coffee. Or you might find me “bright and colorful,” which is how I feel when someone brings me a cookie (or preferably a baker’s dozen). I’m all over the place.

Life Isn’t A Staged Instagram Post (We Don’t Get 20 Takes)

My real life photo album would look more like this:

First photo: my rescue dog puking on the carpet (not the wood floor, nope the carpet, the one we are going to change out as soon as the dog stops eating uneatable things outside).

Next pic: a demitasse cup of coffee (note the theme) on my coffee table; no, wait . . . you can’t actually see my coffee table because it looks like a LEGO hospital with legs and heads everywhere!

Photo number three: me ruining a perfectly good photo with my friends by being the only one who blinks (always). Actually now that I read this all back it is a recognizable theme: Struggle. Is that a genre? Dickens seemed to think so.

Again, I don’t want to struggle, I want it all to work out. I want all the ends to meet. I don’t want to run out of thread or have the wrong color or just have lost the spool all together. Sometime my struggles are the result of my own sin or bad choices. Like staying up too late to read and then being tired and grumpy the next day and trying to withdraw money from the bank, getting denied, freaking out(!) and then realizing that you are at the wrong bank. Sometimes the struggles are a result of other peoples’ bad choices like when someone steals your identity and empties your bank account buying men’s outdoor gear a week before Christmas. And sometimes struggles just happen, like your kid getting sick on the day you have a big presentation at work, or it downpours on an outdoor party that you’ve spent weeks planning.

Struggles Bring Us Into God’s Work

If it all worked out we wouldn’t really need each other. I wouldn’t need you to listen to me over coffee when I’m worried and upset. You wouldn’t need me to puzzle through relationship problems for hours in a parked car in your driveway. I wouldn’t need that meal during a busy and stressful time. You wouldn’t need me to pray about your job. We wouldn’t need each other’s parenting advice or someone to let our dog out or pick up our kid. We would have it all together and be self-sufficient, untouchable and confident. Yet, in Galatians we are taught to—Bear one another burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Instead we struggle and it creates cracks in the image we want to send the world. That we know how to parent that child and how to communicate in our marriages. That we can handle everything that is coming our way with a smile. I often find myself stressing over the wrong things, focusing on how things look instead of how things are. I want all the homework turned in on time, the lunch box to be a balanced meal instead of an array of snacks (because that’s all he will eat at school and I can’t throw away another sandwich). I want my words to my family to be uplifting and not just an outpouring of my own frustrations. Like an Instagram feed, I want it to look staged and perfect. I want to have 20 takes and pick the best one. Let me try this conversation about not forgetting your homework folder a few times and pick the one that is best, not my knee-jerk, freak-out one—definitely not the one to go with.

But instead of having time to fix my lipstick and smoothing down my flyaways, life just keeps snapping the pictures and they are not all flattering. My instinct is to hide these pictures, not share them with my friends and family. Not tell people my fears and my failures. I want to be a woman that trusts God, that boldly just says, God is working this out. I do believe I can have faith and trust in Him. I believe His Word. I pray because I know it matters and I know He hears me. Yet, doubts creep in, fears dance around in the shadows taunting me; they know me, they know just how to get my attention. These are moments I want to hide, I want to tell you over text that I’m just busy. I want to make excuses to stay home because these pictures are not pretty. They are blurry and the lighting is real bad.

Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.

Philippians 2:4

Ironically, oh so ironically, I dislike this in other people. I don’t want you to hide your hurt, I never want you to pretend things are okay when you can’t sleep because of worry or you are mad at your spouse. I want to walk through that with you. Your struggles are good for my walk because they make me re-examine what I believe about the Lord. Your struggles make me look at God’s Word for answers. They make me pray boldly for you while you cry on my couch (surrounded by all the LEGO pieces). I need to see your trials to see that it’s not just me that feels overwhelmed, tired and out of my depth. And you need the same from me.

Sometimes other people’s issues put our own in perspective; sometimes they make us feel less alone, but they can always give us an opportunity to do the Lord’s work. I can speak truth against a lie you are believing. You can lay hands and pray over my headache. The Lord can use my words to give you insight into a hard relationship and he can use you to meet a practical need, like letting my dog out when I have a day of solid meetings. Sometimes it’s big warfare work, coming against a stronghold in someone’s life and other times it’s something more simple like your husband dropping off a Mexican hot chocolate at work when you’re having a hard day. But I feel God’s hand in the big and little ways others help me in my struggles.

Life was feeling pretty hard while I worked on this piece. But God showed up in big and small ways. He used His people to bless me physically, providing for my needs in practical ways. Even sweet notes full of encouraging words with coffee cards inside (my love language). Someone told me she was having a wretched day when she wrote me a note of encouragement (which I found especially touching). When we can bless people out of our hardships, it’s all the more meaningful. Even in the midst of our own struggles we can do God’s work. I know there was much prayer which lead to the way God used this time to open me up to hear His truth. The Holy Spirit lead me to some teaching that I needed to hear about God’s provision, about His love and His character. I found myself broken and trying to heal. Learning a lesson I could only learn when I felt scattered in pieces. We all need to struggle to grow.

Take heart: I need your struggles and you need mine.

Do you try to hide your struggles? Do you delete the bad photos and only show the world the staged pictures?

How has another person’s struggle helped you to go deeper in your faith so you could encourage them?

Have you seen God’s hand in your life through the acts and words of other believers?

I would love to hear your comments below! (Scroll downs to subscribe)

Drafts on The Unlived Life

Your flight has been canceled! How many times have we arrived to the terminal to be told those soul-crushing words. We had a plan. A ticket, even, as proof of the direction (literally) our life was headed. We had it all mapped out only to be told we would not be partaking in those particular plans. Has there ever been a more fitting metaphor for life? When we are young we make such grand plans. With nary a thought for cost, delays or an entire re-routing. We say such things as, “I shall never get married” or “I will have three kids, two boys and a girl,” with no concept of any interference. We boldly pronounce that we will leave town as soon as we can, securing a flat in a faraway country or a lavish ocean-front home. Dreams are free. Free of cost, free of reality. Free of the entanglements and strange twists of life. But all too often dreams get canceled.

We are just coming off the holidays and I always try to make a point of watching It’s a Wonderful Life. I have seen this movie more times than I can count; I even acted in the play in college. The older I get the more I realize just what George gave up. I’m sure you are familiar with the movie, but in a slight recap, George Bailey has big plans. He grows up dreaming of travel and excitement. In one scene he is purchasing a suitcase for his adventures. The first piece of luggage he is shown is met with a head shake, no that is not big enough! It will never hold the numerous stickers from all the countries he plans to visit. He has a life plan and it is getting out of his little town to see the world. Bag in hand he heads out to say goodbye to friends and family. But, alas, George never puts one sticker on that suitcase. It turns out he didn’t need the extra large one, or for that matter, any luggage at all. That life was canceled.

Do you have a suitcase in your closet for that life you never lived? Most of us do. Have you packed up a wedding dress that never walked down an aisle or put away baby clothes that were never used? Did you plan to finish college and got sidetracked by a baby? The move to Paris or Rome never materialized and you live in the same town where you grew up. The job pays the bills, but you had dreams of a career in fashion or owning your own restaurant. You thought you would go out to conquer the world, but instead you deal with chronic pain or depression and conquering the day is all you can manage. Or you were going to show your kids the world and everything you loved as a child, but they live in their own quiet world that you can’t quite reach.

Most of us are George Bailey with a life unlived. We did the right thing, we stepped up when a parent needed help, we held back when a child needed us. We pay the medical bills instead of booking that voyage. We take in a struggling friend or we do rounds of endless doctor appointments with our spouse. We put the suitcase in the closet and shut the door. Perhaps you made a series of wrong decisions. Invested in the wrong person, left when you should have stayed, stayed when you should have left. Either way you feel like George when it all starts to cave in around you. You look longingly at the empty suitcase and think if only . . .

We Make Resolutions (And Then Life Happens)

So here we sit in the foothills of the mountain that is this year; this decade even, and we are asked to make New Year’s resolutions. To write down what we hope to achieve these next 365 days. I can strive to write more, have less clutter in my house and find something to be thankful for each day. But the truth is I will forget about these small goals in a month’s time. We never talk about these aspirations in March or July. They are long forgotten because life happens. We move again, someone gets sick, someone gets born, we switch jobs, we age. There are triumphs of course. We meet the right person, we get a promotion, we start a business, we finish school. But the trouble with even achievements is that they fade. In It’s a Wonderful Life, George has wonderful things happen. He marries a lovely woman, has four children, helps countless friends, grows the business and supports his country during wartime. He is a beloved pillar of his community.

I do not for one minute think, if George had left town that day and taken his trip, we wouldn’t be having this same discussion—it would just be in reverse. He would have traveled, but never found, say, love or real meaning. He would see the world, but have no sense of home. We humans are genius at longing for what we do not have. If it wasn’t that thing, it would be another. I’m easily tricked into thinking, if I had what I wanted, than I wouldn’t want what I have now. That if I had gotten on that “flight,” I would be happier somehow. I would have a wonderful life. But it is a lie. If we travel, we long for home. If we are secure, we want adventure. If we have responsibilities, we want none and if we have none, we ache for them. We are funny, fickle creatures. Always chasing something. Always wanting more . . . or less.

We are always chasing something.

Always wanting more … or less

We all have suitcases in our closets

I can tell you my perfect life as I’m sure you can tell me yours. We are told the trick is balance. But we can’t, no matter how hard we try, stay in balance; we just hit it once and while, on the way to being out of balance. I’m all for being mindful and intentional. Make New Year’s goals; I did! But what the Bible says in Philippians 4: 11-13 is true; we must learn to be content in whatever state we find ourselves—in plenty and in need. I’m always in both these spots in various parts of my life. Flush with friendships, but struggling at work or dry spiritually but in good health. The life I wanted is not this. How could it be? I long for balance, for perfection and something is always out of sync.

If I could make it all work, I would not need a Savior. My goals are sweet, but small. They speak to the here and now which will never, ever be enough. I can have the best marriage, kids, job, vacations and it would not come close to being enough. One of the greatest blessings in my life are friends, as dear as sisters, and family I enjoy like friends, but it is only a taste of what I long for. Achieving dreams is amazing. I met a goal of getting over 100 pieces published and it was rather exciting and a feather in my cap; but it does not give my soul purpose, it is merely a feather, ornamental. I very much wanted our unique little house with the wall of windows and mid-century modern fixtures, but I have to be very careful not to complain about its lack of a second bathroom and doors that don’t close tight. Opening our own business was exciting, but at the end of the day, it’s a job, and a hard job at that. All the dreams that do come true are still not enough.

God knew it would never be enough. Our bodies were not designed to die, but to live. Our hearts were not created for envy and longing, but for a perfect, complete love. Our minds are meant for good, for edifying thoughts, not negative and evil imaginings. We use our liberty to create bad as well as good. We are victims of others’ free will and they are our tragedies, as well. So thus the world goes: broken, lost, and hurting even in the best of circumstances. The Bible teaches us to control our thought life, to think on things that are good and lovely; not because we will necessarily manifest a better life that way, but because we will need this discipline to navigate life. (Read about this in Philippians 4:6-8) It is a bumpy road. Sometimes the plane leaves on time and we get upgraded to first class and life looks good; but other times we have to sleep in the airport, just to find out we are seated next to a fussy toddler (who is oftentimes our own!).

This post is not about how we miss one flight to make another, different but better excursion. Our lives are a lot of canceled trips, lost tickets, sick on Christmas Day, missed opportunities and so forth. And in many ways we just miss out. But we are mostly nearsighted. We look at the life unlived and we mourn, while God sees eternity, knowing the end from the beginning. He knows our hurts and our disappointments, He is farsighted! Where we see loss, hurts and failures; He sees the refining of our souls. He knows we are pilgrims, just passing through. As it turns out we didn’t miss the flight at all, we are still waiting to board. It’s a bit of a delay, so we set about doing things, having families, working that job, putting our hearts into a ministry . . . all while we wait to live our (yet) unlived life.

Do you find yourself longing for an unlived life this side of eternity?

Have you considered that even if you had that dream life it would still never be enough? Can you think of some examples of people who have it “all” and still struggle?

What can you do to keep your focus on the things that are “good and lovely"?

Drafts on Christmas Lights

Christmas is such a unique time of year. As a kid it’s so intense, mostly about the gifts (let’s be real), but also, all the special things like decorating cookies and twinkling lights and watching favorite movies while snuggled up in red plaid pajama sets. Yet, as I entered my teens and young adult years, it lost some of its charm; I couldn’t quite get those old feelings back. The lights were not quite as bright and the wreath cookies not quite as sweet. The pressure to find the right gifts and fit in all the events started to feel like a chore. As a parent, I get to enjoy the wonder of it all again (but this time on the other side-the work side). The wonder isn’t going to put up its own lights or remember whose gift is in which identically wrapped box after the dog eats the tags off.

As a child of divorce, your lack of not being able to do it all and be everywhere is never felt as deeply as at Christmas; although in retrospect, it was good practice for marriage. The minute I told my Grandma I was engaged to my husband, she blurted out, “I get Christmas Eve” . . . it was July. We still talk about how smart that was. We were too distracted by wedding venues to realize we should probably add a disclaimer, but my husband congenially agreed. Guess where we go every Christmas Eve? (I’m taking notes.) No matter what your arrangement, you can never be in enough places or bring enough gifts or food. Because the thing with Christmas is, that it highlights what you are good at and what you are bad at. My mom can wrap a gift so that the wrapping is the gift, where I just gave a friend a gift with the price tag still on (it was on sale) so at least she knows I can find a good bargain.

While I’m beyond blessed with family and lavished in blessings, I am at the same time more keenly aware of the brokenness that many may feel during this season. The losses are felt in a more profound way this time of year. The strings of white lights reflect not only the awe and magic, but also the loss and heartache. The people that are missing, the fractured relationships, the pushed down depression or anger or bitterness that may surface in the cold air of December. Like Charles Dickens’ famous line “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” Christmas for many of us can be a tale of two Christmases The joy of eggnog by a fire with those we love and trying to smile while Aunt Claire asks you why you aren’t married, have children, or didn’t bring more dinner rolls or Uncle Clyde asks if you have been promoted, published your book or if you would like to hear about his eczema issues (just kidding he doesn’t ask).

Unlikely of Places

As the holidays approach, most likely you are being asked to contribute or attend an event, that although you will show up (with cookies) your heart isn’t right. Perhaps there are family members that are difficult (see eczema story), maybe you feel judged or unappreciated? Holiday gatherings can bring out old insecurities and emotions we thought long buried. We revert back to our childhood roles that are just not who we are anymore. Frustrations, jealousy and misunderstandings may float through our heads as we drive to parties and stay to dance around our conversations. The enemy wants us at our worst during these times. He wants us ineffective and distracted, and while it can be lovely to chat about the job and kids and how amazing the tree looks, maybe there is someone that needs to hear something deeper. Maybe a hot cocoa in a comfy corner by the fire can lead to healing words over a deep struggle. When our hearts are right, the Lord can use us, even in the most unlikely of places.

When we feel warm and fuzzy over Christmas, it’s easy to think everyone feels this same way. After all isn’t that what we see as the cards start to arrive, lining our windowsills—smiling faces looking back in holiday cheer. Isn’t everyone enjoying the parties and shopping and looking forward to the day of being reunited around a tree? What we don’t see in the cards are the sleepless nights over our jobs, anxiety over grades, the toll of finances and the health issues yet shared. We see the good, as it should be, but also not the whole truth. I’m trying not to be fooled into thinking everyone one else is problem-free this season.

I wrote an article years ago on what goes on behind a photoshoot; all the people at work to make that one picture look perfect. Fake hair, fake eyelashes, fake food and computer generated images make models and homes look flawless. I myself have modeled in these shoots and there is not only a small army of professionals styling each set, but also liberal airbrushing to catch any possible flaws. When I look at Christmas cards, I enjoy the adorable children and creative settings, but I try not to think that they have it all together; especially, as I look around my house, at tinsel waiting to get stuck in my vacuum and I still can’t find the O from my silver letters that spell NOEL. (My son keeps asking what NEL means!) I’m behind on shopping, decorating and baking (i.e. buying random things to bring to parties because I can’t remember what I signed up for). Quite obviously, I do not have a team of stylists working on my Christmas card setting (which I’m actually not sending for the third year in a row).

I’ve decided with the house lights off and the Christmas tree lights on, that it looks almost pretty—but those lights also cast shadows. I gathered with some of my best friends last week to celebrate, but one of us is missing (she went to heaven two years ago). I miss her so much and when we are all together, I feel like I’m always looking over my shoulder, wondering who is missing from the table. As we shared salted rosemary bread and warm cookies, we also shared our loss. While I gather with family and friends, I’m overwhelmed with my love for these people. The Lord has been healing my heart with hope of knowing this life isn’t all there is and I will see those who have gone ahead, especially, my sister (who has been in heaven far longer then she walked this earth). I have mostly known life without her, but I still feel her absence more keenly at these times of emphasized togetherness. I, also, long to sit again on my grandma’s bed and tell her all my problems or ride one more time with my grandpa on a sulky, training a young race horse.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord!

The first nativity wasn’t this polished

As I smile for pictures by the tree lights, know that I’m happy and blessed, that I love eating snowman-shaped cookies and watching you open my haphazardly wrapped gift. The Lord is filling my longings with promise and as I look at my nativity set, I know that He, the Christ Child, came to suffer & die for mankind. He is lit by the glow of my tree in this moment; however, He was not in a polished glass manger scene, but in a dirty, smelly stone cave. It was most likely not well-lit, or warm or comfortable, but yet He brought the gospel of peace (“He restoreth my soul”). He would start His life on the run from men that wanted to kill Him, yet would not be angry. He would be called out of Egypt to a humble life, strikingly void of any grandeur, yet He would not be bitter. He is a King, but came as a servant. He was born, so that He might die. He gave all, so that we might gain everything.

The tree lights pale in comparison to my Saviour’s light. He illuminates all my blessings and all my faults, all my efforts and all my failures. He promises to be the strength in my weakness, the grace in my failures, the joy in my soul and He uses everything for His purpose. He is no longer a helpless babe in a manger, but God come in the flesh. He has known hunger and betrayal and deep loss, He knew His purpose and never looked for the easy road, He did not seek an earthly treasure, but one that does not rust. This time of year as the twinkling lights dance in the darkness, I’m in awe that even the tiniest of lights can be seen. I can be a little light in someone’s struggle because His light shines though me and perhaps brightest through my pain. A string of lights during the day goes unnoticed; it is in the darkness that they really shine.

**update: The missing O from NOEL has been found and returned to its rightful place!

What do the tree lights illuminate for you this time of year?

How can you be a light in someone’s darkness?

The Christmas Dress

This post is different than my regular writing. I’m actually sharing a short story (under a different title) that I wrote for a lovely girl’s magazine called Brio. I wrote this piece last year for the December issue and now that I own the rights to the story again, I’m free to share it here. Its just a simple little story that was inspired by my beautiful cousin, Kelsey (but she has great taste in bridesmaids’ dresses).

The Christmas Dress

by Emily Downs

Leave it to her brother to ruin Christmas. Sabina stared in the full-length mirror at her red and green plaid dress with a giant velvet black bow at the back, added for good measure. She looked and felt like she was twelve instead of almost fifteen, her next birthday.

Her mom rushed into the room, “Oh Sabina! You look beautiful.”

“Of course, you would say that! I look like I am starring in a Christmas play of Little Women.”          

Mom walked up behind her, “My own little Jo March.”

Sabina spun around. “Mom, I can’t be seen in this. Why do I even have to be in the wedding?”

“It’s an honor to be asked and Delia wanted you and your sister to be a part. I think it was very sweet of her.”

So sweet, Sabina fumed in her head, to dress her like a colonial girl. Not to mention she was now wearing a matching dress with Samantha, her 10-year-old sister, who could not be more annoyingly thrilled about the forced twin outfits.

Sam ran into the room all bouncy ribbons and bows. “Look at us, we look the same.”                                                                                                                               

“My dream come true,” Sabina said dryly.

Sarcasm was lost on Sam and she beamed.   

Mom gave her a look. “Sabina, I want you to remember that this day is not about you. You are a bridesmaid for your brother and Delia, this day is for them.”

“I’m doing it aren’t I? I’m in this dress.” She picked up the plaid dress with disgust, holding it out.

“Your heart isn’t right,” said Mom flatly.

“I can’t make myself like this dress.”

“I’m not asking you to like the dress, but the attitude with which you do things counts just as much as actually doing them.”

Sabina sighed loudly and looked away.

“You know, daughter,” Mom lowered her voice, “The Lord tells us in his Word that He doesn’t look at the outward appearance, but at our hearts. Anybody can go through the motions, but doing it with a loving attitude, that is what pleases God.”

Sabina shrugged, “As long as I’m doing it, what’s it matter?”

 Mom touched her shoulder, “You have the chance to bless other people with your attitude, don’t miss out on that today.”   

Sam spilled her juice and mom leaped to action to save the dress from a juice stain, which Sabina secretly thought, couldn’t make the dress any worse. She was glad Mom’s attention was off her for a while; she didn’t need a lecture in a good attitude. The pictures would end up all over social media and her whole school would be able to see her humiliation. Nobody seemed to care about that.

She stomped off to the bathroom. Pushing open the door she heard crying. Delia was sitting at one of the vanities crying. Sabina wanted to quietly back out of the room, but Delia spotted her in the mirror.

“Oh, Sabina,” she sniffed, dabbing her eye with a tissue. “Sorry you caught me crying.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sabina, “I can go.” She felt instantly uncomfortable. What if she didn’t want to marry Simon anymore or something awful? She should get her mom.

“Come in.” Delia turned from the mirror and faced her.

“I knew I would be emotional today, but it really just hit me.”

Sabina sat in one of the peach chairs in the lounge area and her plaid dress puffed up around her. She tried to pat it down without making a face.

Delia sighed, “I’m so glad you are in the wedding, it means a lot to me. And you look so pretty in that dress.”

“Sure,” said Sabina with a frozen doll-like smile.

“I don’t know if Simon told you, but my mom loved Christmas. It was her favorite day of the year.”

Sabina’s fake smile slipped a little. “I didn’t know that.” She knew Delia’s mom had passed away when she was in high school, but they had never talked about it.

“I’m not sure how to get through this day without her.” She started crying again.

“I’m sorry,” squeaked Sabina, and she meant it. She had never stopped to think about how hard this day would be for Delia without her mom.

“My mom got married on Christmas Eve, too, and those dresses,” she waved at the plaid fabric engulfing the peach chair, “are the same dresses my mom used when she got married. I showed pictures to the dressmaker and she copied them.”

Sabina stared back at her and felt something start to melt in her heart.

“Well, I better stop crying or I’ll never get my makeup done.” She swiveled back in the chair and started applying blush with a shaky hand.

Sabina watched her for a minute and felt like time had slowed. She looked down at the dress she had hated so much and saw something different. She felt her heart change. The dress was not about her or how she looked or what her friends thought. The dress was about Delia’s mom. About how she was without her mom on her wedding day, something Sabina couldn’t imagine.  

“Delia,” she said in quiet voice. “I think this dress is really beautiful.” She wasn’t lying; it really was a beautiful way to honor her future sister-in-law’s mother. She suddenly didn’t care about any of that other stuff. Instantly, she knew that this was what mom meant by blessing others with her attitude. 

Delia turned back to her, “Do you really think so? I know they’re old-fashioned, but I think they are really pretty, too.”

“Yes,” said Sabina and tears spilled out. “I’m so sorry you have to do this without your mom.”

“Oh, look now I have you crying; here have a tissue.” She laughed, “We have to pull it together.”

Sabina laughed too and wiped her eyes. “Thanks for letting me be a part of your wedding and for letting me wear this dress.”

Delia got up to hug her. “I’m so excited to have you as a sister. Here, help me with this makeup.”

At the reception, Mom brought Sabina a piece of cake. “You did a great job today. Delia told me what you said to her in the bathroom before the wedding. That you told her the dress was beautiful.” Mom raised an eyebrow.

Sabina took a bite of cake and nodded. “It really is. I mean that it was her mom’s dress. And,” she said reluctantly, “it might have felt good to do it with the right attitude.”

Mom laughed. “You will never regret letting the Lord use you to bless others. And,” she said with a tip of her head, “it just might come back to bless you.”

Sabina rolled her eyes, but then laughed. “I guess I did have fun today.”

“It’s amazing how our heart can change what our eyes see.” Mom hugged her, “Your heart does look beautiful in that dress.”

*********

“For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7b

selfie with my story (I love the illustration)

Although this story was written for a young audience it makes me think about the state of my own heart. I can do the right things with the wrong outlook and it falls flat. A Christmas pie dropped on the floor is still a pie, but nobody wants it. As a parent, I’m always talking about doing things with a good attitude because it really does matter. I want the pie served on a plate (preferably with whipped cream); I’m not all that interested in eating it off the floor. Although an argument could be made that floor pie is better than no pie, but it is clearly not the same experience as plated dessert. Eating it off the floor is really not the mood we were all hoping for here. Like Sabina in the story, she was willing to be in the wedding and wear the dress, but her bad attitude was ruining the actions.

How can we change our hearts when it come to the holidays this year? Maybe something as simple as having patience with the long lines at the bakery, asking the harried shop owner how they are doing or waving at an overworked postal carrier. Taking time to really listen (with patience) to that relative that likes to complain and instead of getting annoyed, maybe trying to redirect their thinking towards all their blessings. One less present to buy and to wrap for the kids traded for an extra Christmas story at bedtime. A moment of acknowledgment for the person who lost someone special and is experiencing the holidays without them for the first time.

We go to the work soiree, the family gathering, the school mixer and we are so often overextended that our hearts are not in it. It feels like one more thing to do, one more present to buy, one more veggie tray to pick up. But what if we change our attitudes and look for someone to bless. A sweet outlook can be infectious and perhaps help someone who is really struggling. A merry heart can make a dreaded task sweeter and allows us to bless others in the midst of the swirl of holiday pressures.

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine . . .

Proverbs 17:22a

Drafts on Floating through the Holidays

Winter came early here in Michigan (and perhaps the whole country). Quite suddenly, we had no idea where our ice scrapers were and snow pants were seemingly sold out overnight. And all this, before I even had a chance to assess if we had any matching gloves (by the way . . . the answer is no; I somehow have only seven right hands - if anyone can explain this to me, please do so). And just like that, the holidays are upon us. While I love the first wave of the season, from pumpkin everything and gingerbread lattes to twinkly lights and Christmas music; it’s all the ambiance with none of the stress. I can enjoy the decorations in my favorite coffee shops and fill my car with Carol of the Bells, until the second wave steamrolls in: then these twinkly lights start on full stroke mode, the music becomes too loud and too frantic and there’s so much stuff to buy and wrap and all the traveling . . . oh, my!!

This year I have decided to try and float through the holidays.

Sounds great, right? 

But how does one float?      

A basic staple of any swim class is learning to float. It doesn’t seem like something we would have to be taught. After all the human body is almost naturally buoyant. If we just relax and fill our lungs with air, we sit on the surface of the water with hardly any effort. Yet, as I sat on the sidelines of a class of beginners’ swim lessons, floating was anything but natural. It was downright terrifying.

My son did not take to swimming easily. He, like many kids, was afraid to go underwater. It took some tough love from a wonderful swim teacher to convince him to put his head underneath the surface. Ms. Liz was loving and patient, but no nonsense. She would listen to his fears and say she understood, but he would, in fact, be going underwater. I completely trusted her and I knew it was very important for him to learn to swim. I, too, understood his fears, but I knew this was an important lesson—vital to a kid that lives in a beach town. As I would wade through his fears and tears to get him where he needed to be to learn to swim, I wondered how God looks at me as I fight an important lesson He is trying to teach me. He understands I’m afraid of the unknown and what could go wrong, but He also knows I must learn to swim in this world.

Once my child went underwater a few times, lo and behold, he not only liked it, he loved it! In fact, a new problem arose as the class stood in line on the submerged ledge; instead of being afraid of putting his head underwater, he was always underwater! (Duly missing the instructions in his lesson.) While I gave him my “get it together eyes” from the sidelines, as the teacher had to ask, yet again, for him to keep his head above water; it secretly made me smile to see him enjoy the water so much. Not only do I want him to be safe, I want him to enjoy the freedom and delight of swimming. Just as we learn all the safety lessons from studying our Bibles, I imagine God smiles, seeing his children enjoy life, but like any loving parent, He wants us to do it safely. He designed us for relationships and he gifted us with talents and skills, he gave us passions and callings, but he knows we could easily drown in them. Unless we first learn to swim.

In the swim class, Ms. Liz would have the kids lay on their backs and practice floating on the surface of the water. She taught them that if they ever get in trouble to just flip over on their backs and float. (A skill we all need during this holiday season.) Well, my child could not do this, he would immediately panic, struggle and sink. The instructor would  say, “Do you trust me not to let you go under?” He would nod yes, but his heart wasn’t in it. Has the Lord asked you to trust Him as he untangles your hurts, moves you forward in something new or closes a chapter in your life? And while you are nodding yes, is your heart panicking? What is He asking of you in this season of celebrations and time with family? Are we drowning under doing it all? Doing it perfectly? Sinking while your arms are full of pumpkin seasoning and rustic sleigh bell gift adornments.  

Ms. Liz helped my son by letting him rest his head on her shoulder as he tried to float. That way he could feel something firm underneath his head and she would whisper to him, “I got you.” I see myself in this, God lets me rest my head on his shoulder (my crazy spinning brain that just needs to rest) while I’m learning to float. When I’m tired and worn out by this world, the demands of life, the fear of moving forward in faith — I can’t even float, I just start to sink. We start to think our gifts aren’t thoughtful enough, our party clothes aren’t sparkly enough and that the cookies came out a bit too chewy (well I don’t think that because everyone knows I will break my own oven to get out of baking). I can rest all my inadequacies on the shoulders of the Lord. I can lay my worries and fears on Him.

Last year my sister came home for Christmas and she texted us and said, I will not be bringing any gifts, the gift is my presence! And you know what? I loved it! I do enjoy giving and getting gifts, but the ultimate gift I can give to you and you can give to me is to be in each other’s lives. So that necklace or scarf I got you is just bonus. I can float though the pressure of . . . is it the right color or the right thing? Should I have done more? This is not the real gift. What you are really unwrapping is a ”thank you” for being there when I call too late or need too much. This one day and this one gift will never be worthy of all the times you made me laugh or got me out of a jam. So, I’m just going to float this pair of gloves over your way and if it’s still in the bag I bought it in, well . . . that’s okay, too.          

The interesting thing about floating is that there is a lot of trust involved. Our bodies will lay on the surface of the water, but only if we relax and let go of all the panic and fear weighing us down. I wrote in my last post (Drafts on Ebb Tide) about how the enemy tries to drown us with lies about how unforgivable we are, how we will never overcome our pain or how we can’t handle our present situation. Sure we can struggle through the water with these burdens, but eventually when we run out of our human energy, we will need rest. The enemy knows we can never float with these things weighing on us. His lies are meant to make us sink. And we can go under in a million ways: drinking too much, escaping into entertainment too often, finding our worth in unstable things like status and money and looks. I personally can feel depression and despair start to pull me away from the people in my life that would uplift me; everything looks dark and I just want to stay under a blanket to cope. And the whole point of the holidays is lost in the enemies lies. And the point? A thankful heart around the thanksgiving table and star-lit eyes over the babe found in the manger. Peace in our souls and good will towards men is the point.

Floating is rest. The rest we need. God designed our bodies to need breaks. When we sleep we heal and recharge. He built night into day, sabbath into the week and our bodies float so we don’t have to always be swimming. When my day swarms me; emails, laundry, hurting friends to pray for, research for my writing and 3rd grade math (which in my case means watching instructional youtube videos and still not understanding) and then I have to come up with something for dinner on top of all that?!

Swim lessons; life lessons

I need time in my day to just float and on those days that I can’t even float because I feel too crazy, the Lord lets me lay my head on His shoulder and whisper, “I’ve got you.” I open my Bible and the living Word soothes me and I ask the Holy Spirit to help me and He buoys my soul (even though nothing in my physical world has actually changed). So I heat up soup and toast bread and laugh at 3rd grade math because seriously, what else is there to do? And I float.

We float because our lungs are full of air. My air is God. He fills me. He holds me until I can swim again. When things are really bad, when I’m afraid and lost He lets me lay my head on something firm. His Word is firm. His character is solid. His truth is enough to carry all my weights until I let Him cut them loose. Then when exhaustion hits, I know what to do. I flip over on my back and float. A prayer in the car. A Bible verse check on my phone. Truth is in my head and faith in my heart, where it can’t be lost or misplaced. It’s really not that hard as it turns out, but it feels scary. Like my son in swim class, it takes a leap of faith, that feeling as you start to sink, but then somehow you don’t. The Holy Spirit brings you back up to the surface where you can lay there and just breathe.

So this year I’m going to try and float through the holidays. The gifts will never be enough, I will be overly tired from traveling and a little jittery from all the coffee. I most likely will not be at my best. So if you want to have a little cry in the spare bedroom or borrow my undereye concealer come find me. I’m going to try and not panic and just rest in God.

My advice for this busy, crazy festive season is to start practicing floating.             

In what areas of your life are you drowning and instead of flipping over on your back to float—you are panicking? Is it finances? Health? Relationships? 

How do you drown in the holidays? What would it look like if you tried floating through? Simple unwrapped gifts, less commitments, buy the cookies? (I mean, I have to because my oven is broke)  

Drafts on Ebb Tide

Change is a constant companion in our lives. Like the ebb tide of the waves, the new washes up and the old is swept away. It is relentless. When we are young, this feels slow, as if we will be children forever; remember when summer felt like it would go on forever? One sandy beach day disappeared into the next, marked by dripping popsicles in the hot sun and counting fireflies in the evenings. I never once thought about change on those long carefree days. But change was always there, with me, even when I was unaware. Now as a middling adult, I’m keenly aware of change and the passage of time. My childhood seems a lifetime ago. The changes I have gone through are staggering. The hardships and the growth that followed has formed me into an entirely different person.

As I write, I’m perched at the window bar of a coffee shop and my view consists of blowing leaves and pumpkins on hay bales: it is autumn. This is my favorite season. I identify with its many layers—a clear sun followed by unexpected clouds, cold rain and gusty winds. I have often wondered what our favorite seasons say about us. Fall is a time of change, cooling temps, tall boots and burnt orange sweaters, The days are short, but bright. It is the last brilliant moment before the world resets with a long sweep of cleansing cold, unforgiving air. It is change wrapped around me like a scarf, held in my hands like hot apple cider.

The older I get the more I realize that change is part of the game; it’s not going away. I’m constantly growing and learning. And in that growth, I must face the fact that there needs to be growth, because I’m still not there yet. I see this in my marriage. After 15 years together, we are still figuring it out. Our partnership, all and all, is fairly smooth, but then last weekend we had a fight about a juicer. Yup, a juicer! So guess there is still room for growth there, or at least a glass of carrot juice.

Parenting is arguably the biggest vehicle of growth around. Having a baby is like an instant death to your old self and born in its place is this soft squishy person who cares about bizarre things like the shape of pacifier nipples and who keeps a journal of wet diapers. Who is this person? And in a way you relive your childhood all over again with all the great things, like reading Make Way for Ducklings, but also all the hard things, like when your first fish dies (R.I.P. blue beta fish). And you change. . . you are a parent to a baby and then a toddler and then suddenly the baby is driving. And while you were fine to drive at 16, surely that cannot be true today!

Twisting in the Waves

Change also comes in the form of hardships. Tragedies like divorce, loss or severed relationships that can close off parts of us until they shrivel up and die. We can’t even access that part of our heart anymore. Maybe you have lost someone or perhaps your marriage feels like far more of a struggle than it’s worth, a needy child is chipping away at you and there is no time for anything you enjoy. The grind of life . . . has well. . . ground you up. Those long easy days of summer are a distant memory that play in your head like a movie you watched once. Ten-year-old you would never recognize your life now. Your dream journal seems completely unrealistic. Obviously, you are never going to work for SeaWorld at this point (although, the Blackfish documentary really finished off that dream).

Blackfish aside, I don’t know where you are at today. Perhaps life has come up roses with a few thorns or perhaps it’s thistles with a few flowering weeds. Life is always in motion, the waves are always reaching for us, trying to push us forward or pull us back. Sometimes there is little we can do about our circumstances. My childhood was punctuated with tragedy, there were long summer days and nights on the porch counting fireflies, but storms blew in unexpectedly. Loss and tragedy are big part of my identity. Of who I am. They shaped me young into twisty ways that are taking a lifetime to untangle. But I’m working on it.

The enemy has spent years whispering in my tender ear that this is who I am. That these knots cannot be untangled. The blood supply has been cut off and growth cannot take place. And you know what? In many ways it’s easier to let these areas lie dormant. I’m strangely comfortable in it. Like when your foot falls asleep and you are unaware until you try to move it and as blood flows back into those veins, it is painful. As I have reopened some of my past, it too, is painful; but I no longer want to be pushed into a shape that God did not intend for me.

So I look back at things that happened to me and I start to look at it all through the eyes of the Lord. Sure, He can use these things and He absolutely does, but also He does not want me to be bound up in my losses, my hurts, my disappointments.

When the waves reach for me, I start to sink in the quicksand of my emotions, being sucked under by the past. Bound—unable to swim; sinking into depression and despair. At times, the Lord sends others to swim along side of me to encourage me to keep swimming; but more so, Jesus Christ, my Savior, wants to see me unbound, free to swim over the surface of what tries to pull me down.

Learning to swim

He will Walk on Water

When our minds turn to depression/anger/bitterness/ apathy, we start to feel the weight of our past, our pain, the things that haven’t worked out. It’s too heavy, we are tempted to stop swimming and just sink. We look away from God and we start to go under. We are trying to swim with broken legs and twisted arms. If we are standing on the beach and we see our child or a friend struggling in the water, would we not rush out to help them? Of course! And God our Father does the same. If we cry out, He will walk on water to save us from sinking. But more so then save us from drowning this one time, He wants to teach us to keep our eyes on Him so we don’t sink; showing us how to navigate rough waters, to swim because He knows storms will arise often in our lives. While I want Him to remove me out of the water altogether and put me up on dry land, He knows the world we live in and that it will never stop trying to pull us out to the depths. In John 16:33, Jesus says, “These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”

The waves will roll over my head, the enemy will try to convince me to stop swimming. But the Lord, the Lord Almighty will teach me to swim. The Holy Spirit will buoy me, the Great Physician will heal me, the power of Christ will strengthen me. We will face my crippling hurts together and He will breathe new life into the dead parts of my soul. He will unshackle the weights the enemy has chained to my limbs, and teach me to use them again. I will keep my eyes ever on Him—reading His word to renew my mind and speaking His truth to my hurting spirit. I pray in the power that changes things, changes me; I try (in His power) to cast off the old weights and get my stride. It does not come easy, it is work. I’m fighting the current. But the more I immerse myself in the things of the Lord, the stronger I become. I can only write about this because I have lived it. I have been bound up and I have been set free. Matthew 11:28 says: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest! “ The ebb tide will never stop, but the difference now is that (in Him) I can navigate the rough waters—I can swim..

In what ways is the ebb trying to take you out? How are your limbs bound up?

What would it look if you let the Lord unwind the areas in your life that are twisted up?

Are you being called to help someone else learn to swim?

Drafts on Margins

Let’s see, do I have everything? Computer and cord, blanket scarf (in the unfortunate event air conditioning has turned a lovely fall day into the polar vortex), library book to return, shopping bags and list, Bible study (in case I get a few minutes in car line) and the snack bag (never forget the snack bag!). This is how I leave my house most days. I run from one thing to the next, always having to think three steps ahead. Do I have the notes for that meeting, the right shoes to get a work out in and enough food to get me through the next six hours? It’s a lot and as you can imagine, I often fall behind and have to call my next meeting and say I’m running late. I jam too much into a day and if one thing gets off track, the whole day is off-the-rails and I’m running, running, running!

Have you ever noticed how pages come with margins? That lovely clean space around the perimeter of the words so there aren’t letters or punctuation marks running right off the page and falling into the abyss. Margins offer a space to work that leaves a little room. Margins keep all the thoughts confined to the middle of the page. But perhaps the best part is that they leave room for mistakes. I make a lot of mistakes; how about you? I misjudge how long a conversation will take, what the expectations are, or I show up in the wrong shoes with the wrong attitude. Margins allow time to find parking and to take the long way round if the bridge is out. So, if I get a little lost or need to take a phone call, margins give built-in sidelines to my day—to my life, which gives me space for such things.

Am I Available?

Margins give us room to breathe. A few minutes to collect ourselves and the space to help others. More importantly, margins give room for God to use us. When I pack my day so tight, I’m not available for any assignments He may have for me. Maybe a conversations that starts out about the weather (a fav topic here in Michigan) takes a deeper turn and demands more time or maybe one of your kid’s friends asks for a ride home, but really it’s a divine appointment for prayer. If I don’t have any margins in my day for such things, I will miss out on what really matters. Is my goal to check off my to-do list? Or to bless people? Do I get up in the morning with the goal of turning out three loads of laundry, replying to work emails, and helping with the school play? (Surely these things need to be done.) Or is my goal to be available to those who may need me?

The other day at the grocery store, the checkout girl was new and young and she was struggling. I had built in extra time to go the store so I was able to be patient, but the woman behind me was loudly complaining about how slow the line was moving (I saw myself in this woman), but I just smiled kindly as the girl apologized for needing to repack my bags a couple times; she was going to need some encouragement to get her through the next client. I have to build margins into my day and hope others build margins into their days when I might . . . say, lock my keys in my car (and then my son’s piano teacher has to load up her 4 kids and mine and come get me at the post office and then drive me home to get the spare key and drive me back again!). So . . . I might need some big margins.

Creating White Space

Last week I talked about making time for kindness in our days: see Drafts on Kindness in Tiny Beads. I have been pondering just how does one build free moments into our hectic lives? There is no easy answer and it looks different for everyone depending on where we are in life. Perhaps getting up a little earlier than usual? One of my friend’s gets up at 5:00 a.m. to get her time with the Lord in before her children wake, and I believe she also gets in a whole pot of coffee (I mean—it is 5:00 a.m.!) To me that is a ridiculous time; clearly meant for sleep! But I guess we are all different. Of course, we can not stack our days so tight, perhaps spacing out meetings in case they run late (don’t they always?). If you have small children (or just any children or even a dog) getting ready to leave 20 minutes sooner so you have time for the lost shoe hunt, muddy paws, spilled juice on the one day you actually thought—maybe, just maybe, you could finally wear white again.

I just got a text about a playdate after school today; and while I did say yes, I put a hard border on the time. If I make it home by 5:00 p.m. instead of 5:30 p.m., that extra half hour margin will allow me to be a more patient mother at bedtime, which is most often when we have our best talks about God and life. (I’ll let you know how it goes . . .) Update** So, I did make it home around 5:00 p.m. and still felt crazy trying to get it all done; but when my son asked me later to read to him about the weird creatures in the Bible in Ezekiel, instead of being ridiculously past bedtime it was just sorta past bedtime—so I went for it. I was glad there was that little clean margin on my page for that conversation.

These are simple ideas, and I know there are just days that have no margins (and sometimes the Lord calls for our time when we feel we have no time to give). Yesterday, a friend texted me after her child threw a fit about having to wear pants to school and then they got in the car late to only realize she was completely out of gas. This is the type of day where the words are written right on to the edge of the page with no room to breathe. Maybe there is something you need to say no to in order to have more time in your life for God to work. My husband and I have had seasons of saying no to good and fun activities, like sports and sitting on the board of great nonprofits, because it just made our days spill off the pages. Things I would love to volunteer for or writing projects that I would be thrilled to take on, but knew it would just fill my days to capacity and I need (I think we all need) margins for the Holy Spirit to move.

I find when I don’t build space in my day, I get crazy, I have no patience, no time and I more than not end up with a headache that has me stuck at home anyway. I want to take it all in. I want to fill every second of my day with coffee dates, work projects, community events. I think of those old letters people used to write when paper and postage were expensive and they would literally fill ever inch with teeny-tiny writing, even on the envelope.

Does your life look like a Jane Austen letter?

But my eyes need a place to rest—white space, if you will. Gaps from the words of life to just not have to focus and think and try. Margins allow us to write postcripts to our day, underline and draw arrows out to the edges; making note of this or that, praying for this person or that person as the Lord lays it on our hearts. I know for me, I may need time to take an unexpected phone call. I may need time to comfort and encourage hurting people; taking note of what they are really saying and what they really need. I may need time to stay late and talk. Sometimes I need your margins and sometimes you need mine. I’m trying to keep clean edges on the pages of my day.

What does the Lord want to write in your margins?

Is there space for Him? Or have you filled your days tight like a Jane Austen letter?

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Drafts on Kindness in Tiny Beads

Bins of teeny-tiny Perler beads awaited us at the elementary craft night at our library. My child had been begging for these minuscule beads for over a month. In case you missed it, check out my last post on How I Melted the Dog’s Face to see our first round with this craft. I avoided them for about two years, but my number had been called. We are back for more, but fooled not by their cheerful riot of colors: neon, pastel and sparkly. I know exactly how this was going to go down. There will be certain colors needed, tiny beads stuck to sweaty little hands, all going everywhere except the peg on which they are supposed to land. Tables bumped, tears (mostly mine), and this just a night of fun crafts with kids. So as you can see, I went into the event with the right attitude.

I had brought along my computer to hopefully catch up on some work, thinking I would sit in the hallway and not necessarily participate in this struggle, I mean craft activity. But I could quickly see, with the time restraints, that parental participation would be needed, if I ever hoped to make it out of here before bedtime. So without much deliberation, my son chose to do a wolf and of course would need mostly grays and whites. It became apparent to all the parents that we would be the one digging out colors, that is, if we didn’t want to spend the night to finish this project. While an overnight in the library has its appeal, those bean bag chairs in the corner looked suspiciously like some place I would not like to lay my head.

So, I sorted through hot pink, clear and royal blue beads to hand-pick the desired hues. It was a full-time, absorbing job that had me glancing longingly at my computer. But I resigned myself to my task as his beaded Minecraft wolf began to take shape before my eyes, along side the other creations of butterflies and puppies. As moms asked their kids what colors they needed next and grey, white or pink was called out, something interesting began to happen. One little girl delivered a handful of black beads that she had sorted out for a boy at her table. I thought, well, that was sweet and carried on plucking out our needed colors. Soon another girl delivered a small cache of white to someone else at our table. We all looked up and acknowledged her thoughtfulness.

Next, an adorable little girl delivered an offering of gray to my son. He was thrilled and touched by her kindness. Such a little thing I thought, but it seemed to ignite something at our table. My son asked the dark-haired girl across from him what color she needed and started searching for her orange beads. My rational mind thought . . . well, what’s the point? If we all look for our own colors it would be just as effective. But that’s not the point, is it? While these kids showed up to make Perler bead creations, they were actually participating in a big life lesson. Kindness was being passed out in tiny beads. It was catching!! Most of the kids at our table were actively looking for colors for other children, eager to show a complete stranger that they cared enough to help. They did not know each other’s names or backgrounds; they had no idea if that child had a good day or a bad day, they were not doing it to win favor or get a prize. They were simply being kind.

Our lives are so busy and harried we often don’t take time to show each other kindness. We are always on to the next things, running late, forgetting something, needing to make a phone call or send an email. I think if I just keep my head down and keep typing and posting and emailing, I just might be able to get my work done. I plan my days so tight there is no breathing room for say, a break-down (I usually have those in the car or the shower) or to lose my phone, panic and then realize I’m talking on it (you guys do that, too, right?). I often go to bed the night before already overwhelmed by the day to come. Meetings follow meetings, I dive through the grocery store on the way to something else and vacuum just the parts that show (please don’t look behind my couch or under it!).

I tend to work in coffee shops (big perk of freelance) but one issue is running into people I know when I’m under a deadline. We will say Hi and I try to show through the frantic look in my eyes, that I have just this little window of time to get my work done. I must be doing something wrong because this seems to invite them to sit down at my table and tell me what is going on in their lives. While I feel like I don’t have time for this, I am also quite certain this exactly what I am supposed to be doing. You see, I pray in the morning that the Lord will use me to encourage others, help others and be someone that can show God’s love in a tangible human (although, flawed) way. And then, I promptly act put out when He actually does. People—why are we so ridiculous?

We can all stay in our own lanes, getting our work done, finding our own beads. But is that the point? Maybe part of this time here on earth is helping others find their beads and letting them help us find ours. Not one of those kids was worried about getting their own project done. They were not hurried or stressed. Remember those days? No? Me either. Yes, I need to post for work, and make that phone call and write that piece and there is a time for that, but there is also a time for kindness. There is time to listen and time to do someone a favor and time to pray, and you know what, I never regret it. There will always be another thing in my work inbox and more dishes to wash and somehow we are always out of essential staples, like bread or butter or dark chocolate. But I want to look back and say, I took time to show kindness to the people God has put in my life and the stranger he often sits next to me at a coffee shop.

Although kindness doesn’t cost money, it often costs time. My husband says time is money (when I want him to cut the lawn or wash the windows), but time does not seem to cost as much when there is a baseball game - hmmm? So, there is a cost. When I take a phone call at an inconvenient time because someone needs to vent or when I linger over coffee with a downhearted friend because they need a soft place to cry, I never think . . . well, that was a waste of time. No, I think that it is what I was supposed to be doing. But now, when will I edit that copy I wrote for a client? The time it takes to show kindness is not free, but I count the cost and find it worth every penny! And you know what? Others do the same for me—they listen, they bring meals, they encourage, they let me cry and they give me rides. I don’t usually stop to think that this cost them something; they started dinner late or didn’t make it to the store or lost a precious time to read before bed, but they counted the cost and found it worth their time.

If life is an exchange of colored beads, I want to know what color you need.

Write about an instance where you made time to be kind. What did it cost you? Was it worth it?

Journal about how you can make a change in your day and outlook that will make more time for kindness.

DRAFTS on The Time I Melted the Dog’s Face

Don't worry; this is not a post on housework. But it is about a time I tried ironing or also known as the time I melted the dog's face. There are many, many things I struggle with like the aforementioned housework; and then there are things I'm just plain bad at and ironing would fit into that category. But sometimes we are forced to do things we have no business doing. That is just life. The day of reckoning came for me when I dragged my six-year-old to the craft store while I picked out fabric for a project. As you will soon see, I'm no good at crafts either, so I was forcing my friend, Tracy, to make me a shower gift (I do this all the time) and in exchange I continue to be the Ethel to her Lucy. 

After an exhausting hour in the store, against my better judgment, I allowed my son to pick out a craft. He selected these things called Perler beads. The idea being that you take these beads and put them on a peg board to create something like a turtle or a cat. Then you iron the beads to melt them together. Easy— right!?

So, I unearthed my iron from the basement. As I plugged it in, my son, *Wolfy* asked what it was. Which makes sense because I had yet to iron anything in his lifetime. I replied that it was, in fact, an iron. He asked what one did with an iron and I said, “iron things”. He asked the next logical question: is it scary? And I answered: I think so. At that extract moment, the iron let out a hissing spray of steam like a medieval dragon and both my son and dog dove under the bed in pure fear! This is what happens when you don't iron regularly . . . or at all.

Once I tamed the beast and coaxed the team out from under the bed, I set to my task of ironing this beaded puppy. It must be stated here that my son was called puppy for at least two years, so the love for puppies is fierce. He had worked long and hard on his creation (because Perler beads are no joke) and my only job was to fuse it together with a little heat from the hissing dragon. Wolfy and Scout quickly left the room as I cranked it up all the way and laid it on the dog. When I pulled it away, it looked a little —well—perplexed. I sent Tracy a picture and she texted back: Awww, you melted it’s face.

Yup, I melted the dog's face. My dog, Scout, was not wrong to hide from the threat of a similar fate.

We all have things we struggle with, but can't get away from as parents, spouses, friends, employees and writers.

Fortunate for me, ironing doesn't come up very often, although my mom would argue that perhaps it should, but other things do—more important things. Perhaps forgiveness is hard for you or patience and when you are forced to pull these things out they are rusty and scary and quite frankly could melt a dog's face.

Maybe it’s a part of your job, such as being nice to rude people or maybe you are in a parenting stage that you are just plain bad at like having sympathy for teenage problems. Perhaps being happy for others who are achieving your dreams, when getting there yourself is proving difficult. 

This is great lighting, but this poor dog’s face is much more melted than it appears—we all love a good filter.

What is the "ironing" in your life? Is it something tangible like caring for an aging parent or is it something emotional like serving your boss who you feel should not be in charge of anything. I did go on to iron a turtle, a cat and another dog with varying degrees of success. No one who knows better, will be asking me to iron anything, but I can do it when life demands.   

Ironing aside, we are all asked to do hard things. Challenges we feel unequipped to handle. When we are naturally good at something we tend to do it in our own might; thinking, yes, I’m good at connecting with people or I’m trained for an emergency. But when something arises that is out of our wheel house we acutely feel the lack of our own abilities. It is in these moments that I have learned (often the hard way) to find strength in someone else, someone bigger than me — my personality, education, background — when I’m out of my element, I have to turn to the Lord. He tells us in His Word that our weaknesses are made perfect in His strength. Do we believe this? What does it look like when we live this way? I have to lean on Him to walk through the anxiety and fears that often accompany the areas of my life that make me want to pull the covers over my head.

Parenting asks so much of us, as does marriage or work. At times, demanding things we don’t feel able to give, but know we must. God does not ask us to go it alone. He says come to me, you who are tired and weary. Why does quitting sometime seems easier? Because I’m trying to do it on my own and I simply can not do it. Writing this blog forces me to talk about it, ask people to read and share it and that makes me want to cringe. It makes me want to quit. But I asked the Lord to bless my writing, to use my words to be an encouragement for the weary, a needed word or bright spot. It is only in His strength and not my feeble attempts that any good will grow out of these scattered seeds. Perhaps you feel this at your job or in a relationship, you feel the weight of doing it alone, when the Lord never asked this of us.

Write about something you tried to do in your own strength. How did it go? (Did you melt the dog’s face?) What would it look like if you tried to rely on God’s strength instead?

*This is my son’s chosen nickname, which I’m using for blogging purposes—but ironically one of my fav names growing up was Wolfgang and I distinctly remember my mom saying she hoped I would marry a man that would not let me name a child this. Ha! The Wolfgang name will be victorious. I don’t get this last sentence?? This last sentence is from my mom and it makes me laugh so hard I had to leave it in maybe nobody gets it but me(?)

Drafts on the Comments Section

I have been word-bombing blank pages with my thoughts since elementary school. The journal covers may have morphed from prancing horses and snuggling puppies to vintage travel with Jane Austen quotes, but the idea is the same—I need to write. I find putting pen to paper not only a way to organize my thoughts, but a form of therapy. As my emotions perch on the lines of the pages, I can look them square in the eye. In high school, I can remember writing so hard I ripped the paper (bc teenage feelings are that strong). Some words came carefully, as I tried to get them just right, and others poured out like a faucet, open at full tilt, left to overflow the sink and splash around on the floor.

As I grew older, I started writing pieces to share with others. I wrote poetry for my friends and short stories for class. Teachers and family encouraged me to pursue writing. I would work on stories for weeks before reading them aloud to my sisters. Their excitement over my characters and the dramatic and often tragic storylines would thrill me and encourage my writing. I learned that I didn’t want to just write in journals for myself, but I wanted to write for others. I started taking creative writing classes and reading books on the subject. After attending a writing conference I quickly realized this is what I wanted to do. College beckoned and I went on to earn a professional writing degree and started publishing my homework in magazines.

One of my favorite aspects of being an author is opening a notebook and letting others read my words. Like anyone in the arts, we don’t want our creation to stay tucked away in the studio, we want the world to see it and react. I have written pieces for others like a gift, the same way a potter fashions a cup or bowl with someone in mind. I have friends who cook or sew or make chocolate—I write words. Poems about friendships, articles about my mom’s love and short stories about my dad’s farm. This is an expression of gratitude. I want to see their reaction, like when we find the perfect gift for someone, we can’t wait for them to tear off the paper and see just what they mean to us.

When I started this blog, I really thought it would be mostly about writing and its brewdy sidekick, coffee. I had hoped to encourage writers, provoke ideas and share tips. I knew my faith would enter in at times because it is such a big part of me and my writing. After a handful of posts, with nods to my faith, it began to take a more prominent role, no longer watching from the wings, but stepping out into the spotlight. And it felt right, like that is where it belonged the whole time. Like when the star of the show gets laryngitis and the understudy has to go on and he is amazing! I love to write about publishing and little lessons from my life and will continue to do so, but I have felt that there is more to say. Like perhaps my writing is a form of worship, a love letter to my Lord. And I hope it comes across in my words. I don’t want to live a faith that leaves people wondering.

God did not leave us to wonder. He wrote a book for us so we could know Him. It’s an amazing love story! And like any good book, it has it all—humor, drama, adventure, loss and Redemption. God had His book commissioned—to be read; it has an eternal message we all need. I hand out business cards, post on social media and try to casually tell people in conversation that I have written something (not of Biblical proportions by any means!) but I would love it if they took the time to read my blog. The hope is that lots of people will read it and even more so, leave a comment!

Readers comments are the fruit of my labor. When someone takes the time to tell me what my writing meant to them personally, how it was just what they needed that day or that they shared it with a friend, I’m overjoyed. All the hard work feels worthwhile. I try hard to not have high expectations, for it’s a slow process and I’m figuring it out one hurdle at a time. Which brings me to a recent post I wrote and how it had no comments, not one! I was rather disappointed. Perhaps it wasn’t that great of a post; blogging is such a different thing than writing articles for magazines. Blogs are just quick shots of life, not poured-over manuscripts for which someone thought worthy of pay. I assumed it just wasn’t a comment-worthy piece until I realized I hadn’t turned on the comments section!

This got me thinking about how often I feel that God isn’t speaking to me. I’m praying, asking for answers and guidance and if feels like He stays silent. But have I turned on my comments section? Am I looking for the answers in the right place? God has authored a book and as it turns out, many of the answers I’m looking for are in the pages of His Word—God’s comments section, if you will. If we want to hear God speak we must turn on the “comments section” by opening up our Bibles. Something I have not always done. In my younger years of being a Christian, I did not read my Bible very often and I wondered why God was so quiet. Turned out He had plenty of notes and suggestions, if I cared to read it.

Once I realized I had not turned on the comments section of my blog post, it all made sense. Of course, I wasn’t going to hear anything! I have always wished I could get an audible response from God or even if He wanted to write me a letter—I would wait by the mailbox everyday! Well, He did write me a letter - I just need to turn on the comments section or better known as “opening up” His Word. Of course, God speaks to us in other ways, in our spirit and through His followers as we are His hands and feet (“Now then we are ambassadors for Christ…” 2 Cor 5:20a). He often sends someone to encourage or redirect us. I have sat across many a café table from someone lamenting that they just wish they could know the truth. I love to say God sent me to tell you to turn on your comments section. He is Truth . . . and He has so much to say.

Have you ever been confronted by something you journaled, perhaps putting those thoughts on paper made you examine them in a different light?

If you have journals, look through some old musings and write about how your feelings have changed.

Are you looking for answers when you haven’t turned on your comments section?

Drafts on Smuged Windows

The window next to my front door is always covered in nose prints. If you have read my earlier post, you will know that my dog, Scout, is always very concerned by what is happening on the other side of the door and the evidence of his curiosity (some would say obsession) is always very apparent on the windowpane. So I often find myself cleaning this window. I spray it down and clear away the doggy nose prints so I can see out the glass again. It looks good, sparkly and clean, transparent for about thirty minutes. Sometimes I think, why do I bother? This window will always be smudged. Yet, if I don’t keep up on this task, it will get worse and worse, layer upon layer, until my natural chemical-free cleaner won’t do the trick and I might have to bust out a stronger version to cut through the grime.

One day, as I polished the window—yet again, I was struck with how this window is like me. I get smudged and tainted by life; I can start the day off fairly sparkly, but I leave the house late, forget my phone charger, catch every red light and I already have a layer of grime. It doesn’t take much to mess up a windowpane, but then add that next layer - just one longing look at something I don’t have (in Scout’s case a squirrel) in mine, a book deal or a professional cleaning service - and my view is dirtied. I press my nose to the window and think I need more to be happy. But the reality is that if I had the book deal, then I would want the book to sell well, and if I had a cleaning person, then I would want a cook, which would lead to a gardener (and frankly, I don’t have room for that much staff in my house). In short, it would never be enough.

I have lots of aspirations, and I’m working towards many of them right now. Starting this blog was a dream I had for years. I sat with my nose to the window forever, envisioning my own website, a place to write what was on my heart, things I have learned—little shots of life. It brings me great joy to string words together, to craft them into ideas that can move through the world on their own. I have worked hard to pull it all together, and many people supported me and walked along side me to make it happen. My husband’s unfailing encouragement, my friend, Cordelia, who helped me build the site and ultimately pushed the button to just go live (I would still be trying to make it perfect), my cousin of Lighttighttank has done amazing photo shoots to make my vision come to life and my mom has bestowed her gift of editing and insight on my pieces. And just as important, YOU, my reader (with bonus points for sharing). I spend time praying, thinking, typing, reading and rereading. And, then, I press my nose to the window and I want more. Like all of us, I want to be acknowledged, loved, told I matter and rewarded for my hard work.

Sometimes we send little pieces of ourselves out there and it comes back void. As a writer, I often experience rejection. In the publishing world we have a saying—it’s not rejection, but redirection. I have had lots of “redirection” in my life. How about you? Sometimes instead of pulling back and looking at how far I have come, I look out the window and stare at what I want. The window fogs up and I have a hard time seeing past the condensation. I get in my head and ponder what it is I think I need; what is supposedly keeping me from finding happiness. There will always be another squirrel to chase. And if there is anything I know about squirrels, it’s that there are lots of them. I have a lot of dreams, some are big and exciting and others are small and simple. I want my words to matter on a big scale, but I also want to drink amazing coffee out of beautiful cups. Both these things make me very happy. The first one takes lots of time and patience, where as, the coffee is very obtainable.

I’m doing a project on myself right now, where I really take the time to appreciate my blessings. This means pulling away from the window for a time, to enjoy a homemade scone or marvel that I live in beach town or to simply be enthralled with the slice of heaven that is having hot water on demand. The more I think like this the more my selfishness, envy and self-pity is chased away. It does a good work on my soul to contemplate how very different my life could look like if I had been born in a different time or place, without all the luxuries I so often thoughtlessly enjoy. There is a time to look out the window and dream, but if I do it too much, the window gets covered in longings and what-ifs. Sometimes the door is flung open and we get to run after our hearts’ desires. But just as often the door remains shut and the Lord says this is not for you now, but look at what you have already - '“for with Thee is the fountain of life”. Human nature is so prone to want what we don’t have, to want more instead of less and to think what another has is better than what I have.

I don’t want to fall into the trap of spending all my time staring out the window when life is happening around me. I may not be able to have a weekend getaway with my husband, but we can share small plates on a sunny rooftop bistro in our hometown; after all not everyone has someone special to split a goat cheese crostini with. I spend a lot of time driving my child around to lessons and sports and friends’ houses, but we get a lot of time in the car to pray, we do our best praying in the car. Writing is hard and its doesn’t pay well, but it’s portable, so I can do it from quaint little coffee shops. What could your sentences say about your life, relationships and your faith? Where are you spending time looking for something more, when you are missing all that is right before you?

I want to look out clear windows and see a reflective glass not marred with smudges. As I wipe off my old way of thinking it floats in the air and clings to the surfaces of my life and it has to be swiped away. Just as our bodies are constantly shedding and regenerating, so must our minds be renewed. “And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind”. (Rom 12:2a) I no longer need to think I am not enough or my life is not successful because I have too much dog fur floating on my floors or not enough likes on my last post. Happiness, or perhaps a better word, contentment is a tricky thing. There will always be too many squirrels to chase—I want to say, we should enjoy the squirrels we have already, but I had a squirrel in my home once and I did not enjoy it one bit, so the analogy falls apart here—but you get it!

Write about the dreams that keeps you pressed to the window.

What are some small things you can appreciate while chasing the big dreams?

What are some of the lies that keep messing up your mirrors? How can you work to clean those off?

Please share your response on Typeset or any other writing you would like to post. It can always be anonymous - just let me know when you send the email in the submission form..

Drafts on Lifting with the Heart

Why do kids ask the best questions when it’s ridiculously past bedtime and all you want them to do is go to sleep so you can have a minute to read your book club book (because you meet in two days and you are not even halfway yet?) . . . Or is that just me?

Child: Mom?

Me (annoyed): What? It’s so late, why aren’t you sleeping?

Child: What is the strongest part of the body?

Me: I don’t know! The back I guess or maybe your legs?

Child: No, your heart.

Me: speechless!

This still chokes me up. I laid on the foot of the bed, novel forgotten and thought about this profound late night observation. Children do this all the time. They have these little takes on the world that seem so simple and at the same time complex. They look at life in a different way, unlike us hardened adults, who have been through some stuff and seen some things. We become calloused and practical in a way their untouched souls aren’t yet. My answers to life are so often physical when the real root is deeper into the unseen part of my being. My heart if you will.

Why is it my answer to life’s hard moments is my back? Is that really where I’m strongest? My weak, human, flawed spine. As if I can carry my problems around like a book-filled backpack with all my issues and worries written in the pages, and not grow tired and hunched over. I believe oftentimes what we are dealing with emotionally or spiritually will show up in our bodies. I tend to hunch. Not only is this unattractive, it causes me back pain. I asked my chiropractor for advice on how to not imitate one of Victor Hugo’s most famous characters. He suggested straightening out my posture by laying over a foam roller so my back is stretched in the other direction. Let me tell you, this was pretty painful for a while; I cringed as my back was trying to work through the tightness of bending the other direction. We are so used to carrying our own problems: the downsizing looming at work, the child with a learning disability, the chronic insomnia and so on, that we just get more and more bent over until our bodies cry out in pain. A warning—that it’s just too much!

If my heart is the strongest part of my body, why don’t I use that instead? I have come to believe most of our issues, my issues are heart issues. The Bible tells us this world will be full of trouble - in this world you will have trouble, and that is no lie! My grandma says life is like a bowl of cherries, sweet and sour and full of pits. I have felt that in the lose of loved ones, in debilitating migraines and a longing for things that seem to come so easy for others but not for me. Sometimes my troubles have troubles and I try to lift them with my back, until enviably, I get worn down to the point I can hardly get out of bed. Perhaps the burden of your troubles causes you to feel sick and anxious or speak to others in anger or it isolates you in your own house

I must tell myself to stop lifting with my back, but with my heart. The troubles aren’t going anywhere, but how I deal with them can change the course of my life. Which is why that sleepy nighttime statement is so profound. If I think of my heart as my strongest part I should go there automatically. But the trick with lifting with your heart is that it’s unseen. When I’m sad or struggling, I have to give it to God over and over again and that is hard work, but not a success I can measure in any visual way. Yet, the change is taking place; I’m dropping the weight off my back and putting it on the Lord and letting him work it out. And the way He deals with things is not the way I would. I would bring that person back, I would make someone apologize, I would get the dream job and I would always find success in my endeavors. But when trusting God with problems, I’m trusting Him to not to make it better, but to make me better.

He works on my heart in a thousand quiet ways. Through marriage and parenting, through family and work. All these struggles are teaching me to trust him with my heart, with my failed dreams and the parts of my life that still haven’t worked out. Where He says this life isn’t all there is, where He prepares me for what comes next, where He uses me in my brokenness to point at Him through my tears. Lifting with my heart takes dedicated practice, it’s a discipline like none other. So I take my mind and heart to task over and over as they try to despair and sink in the mire of this world. And I ask the Lord daily to help me - to take my troubles, to teach me to trust Him in all things - even when it seems like He is doing nothing. For He alone restoreth my soul . . .

I’m forever trying to carry my worries all around with me. I used to think it was the writer in me who could jump to imagine 50 ways a particular event, day or relationship could go drastically wrong. But I have discovered that there are many of us worst-case scenario thinkers. While most of you can reasonably say that’s just crazy thinking, I can not. I have experienced worst-case in my life. I want to give myself a green light to think the worst. I want to give in and unravel in my worry because the worse has happened. No one would blame me, everyone would understand. But what I have discovered is that this just feeds the worry more. I give up territory to the enemy and more bricks are placed on my back and I’m more bound in my struggle, sinking deeper in the pit because the burden is too great.

When I don’t carry the fear, the worry, the what-ifs, the should-haves on my back, I can walk upright. My shoulders don’t bow over, but instead I’m lifted up, my neck and head looking forward. We are not meant to look down at our feet, at the hard-packed dusty earth, but to look up at the sky - unto the hills from which cometh our help. My eyes search the vista for what the Lord has for me, and while He says, “yes, there will be trouble” (and don’t I know it), He still wants to give me joy and peace. I will not find it if I try to lift with my back, only if I let my heart take over—the strongest part of the body!

Write about how you carry your troubles on your back and what that looks like physically and emotionally. What if you lifted with your heart? How would that transpire?

Journal about a time you lifted with your heart instead of your own might? Did it work out the way you hoped? Was there a heart change that took place?

Please consider sharing your responses on Typeset. When you email me your work (it doesn’t automatically post on the site) just let me know if you would like to remain anonymous. I have loved your responses to my posts. Thank you for taking the time to write me personally or share on social media.

Drafts on Wrong Notes

Years ago I memorized the song “Heart and Soul” on the piano; I have absolutely no clue what the actual notes are, I just play from memory. I have done it so many times that it is effortless and I sound like I know what I’m doing. Yet, if you put a new song in front of me I would make mistakes, play wrong notes and stumble around for a while. I would need to ask questions and count out loud. At a certain point, it seems, life itself resonates with this; we have our memorized routines and as long as nothing upsets these, we sound pretty good.

My day to day life often feels like I’m playing “Heart and Soul”, it’s an upbeat, if not redundant little song. I make breakfast, clean it up, go to the gym, run to the store, wash the laundry, post a pretty picture for work and meet the writing deadline. I’m programmed to drive through car line at pick up and rinse the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher. It’s a memorized routine that makes me look like I know what I’m doing. I can check the boxes off my list: clean the bathroom-check, forget to get the one thing I went to the store for and go back-check, post for work with the right hashtags-check.

Yet, sometimes I’m carrying a basket of laundry up from the basement and I have this feeling of sadness that seemingly comes out of nowhere. Now, if I was wrestling out the vacuum, this notion would be no mystery . . . but, I actually enjoy folding laundry. This feeling is not part of the song. It throws me off and I miss a beat. Did anyone hear that? Maybe I can quickly get back on track? But my fingers are off now and the rhythm is too slow. I’ll never get everything done at this rate. I’m very busy like all of us, so if I miss a note there aren’t clean towels for showers or butter for the toast in the morning. Work piles up like mail on an entryway table. Tomorrow or perhaps the next day I will open those bills, renew those subscriptions, hang those cards on my fridge.

For me missed notes are felt most in the rare moments of forced slowing down, like in the shower or driving; I perceive sadness like a chill in the air. It may feel slight and undedicated. If I keep moving I can stay warm. I can put on a sweater by turning on an audiobook in the car or playing the news into the hazy morning. A friend’s company can warm me like heat from a fire, but once I step away, the air around me can grow cold. The song grows faint and fades to the background.

My life is a song I play, and it has a rhythm that I know by heart. At times it is complicated with events and trials. We opened a small business and I didn’t even recognize the melody for a while. New people enter my life and add more chords, but my fingers return to the right keys. I can make my life look good on social media. I have access to all those great filters. I can brighten those shadows that follow me up the basement stairs, the fears that keep me up at night, the 100 things I would change about myself. And, I just keep playing.

But sometimes I play wrong notes. I stop in the middle and I forget the tune and it starts to unravel like sheet music blowing in the wind. I practiced. I memorized. But what about when we lose our place and can’t find it again? Our lives were on track and something went wrong. We wrote the novel and nothing happened, perhaps our marriage feels one-sided or our children have problems that we feel helpless to fix. No filter will smooth these disappointments. This song isn’t practiced and perfected until it feels smooth and people will dress up and buy tickets; it’s more like a late night jazz club where the tired musician is making it up as he goes and it just doesn’t quite come together.

The wrong notes for me are focusing on the painful parts. Stopping the music and letting the notes all fall down around me. The people I wish were still here, the let downs, the hurtful words and the places that I fail over and over again. It’s like I’m driving on familiar roads and suddenly fog blows across the street and I can’t see anything. The familiarity has vanished and I have to take the path one second at a time, just following the yellow line with gripped hands. An unexpected diagnosis, a job elimination, a best friend announces she is moving and then the song of your life has changed from a memorized waltz to a clunky jazz piece.

I believe there is a purpose to the wrong notes, but my answer is irregular and mathematically incorrect. The sadness that finds its way into my song will never be answered in this life. That feels like a terrible answer. Even a non-answer. I want a better solution, perhaps living a cleaner lifestlye or being a good positive person, focusing on my family or my art . . . surely these things can chase away the fog. I love the sweet melody they bring to me, yet the mist rolls in unexpectedly. For some of us, like myself, it’s occasional, but for others, it’s a relentless storm. I have always wanted my faith to answer, as in solve, this broken part of my life. I have wondered where is God in this? Why is He silent? Where are His promises?

I have realized, somewhat recently, that God has answered these questions. The answer is more like a symphony than a memorized ditty. Although, I feel His hand in my joys—in a well-written piece, in a child’s sleepy hug and in a friend’s kind words; I find I do not long for my Lord in these moments. I long for Him in the broken parts. When the sadness comes and I look at what I am missing. That’s when I need Him. I need to know deep in my soul that this isn’t it, that this life will never be enough. I have to look upward when the fog engulfs and it reminds me that I am not there, I am not home. I need to hear His voice when the notes are discordant, when I lose my way.

This post feels clunky to me, I abandoned it for weeks only to return to it and try to rework it, yet again. I cut out whole sections and added new paragraphs, trying to make all the pieces fit perfectly together. I have sat here and reread it and thought maybe I just can’t make these scattered notes play the same song. Other posts have felt seamless, like the words were in concord. Not this one—I suspect it has some wrong notes. But suddenly that felt just right for this piece. So I hand it to you, imperfect and broken in places; perhaps it’s just what you needed to hear today.

Write a draft about your personal wrong notes and how they have an effect on you. Have you ever shared them?

Journal about the parts of life that are like a memorized song, what happens when you hit a false note?

Drafts on The Other Side of the Door

Almost every time I walk into the kitchen, I find my dog, Scout, sitting with his nose pressed to the door waiting, hoping somebody will let him outside. We open the door and he skitters his paws like he is on ice, and nearly throws his back out to slide through that door. Once outside he does a quick loop of the yard. If the neighbor dog isn’t out to bark at (they have a fervent contest to be crowned the loudest dog in the neighborhood) or a dastardly squirrel isn’t on the fence who needs to be put in his place, he circles back around to sit with his nose pressed up to the door waiting, hoping somebody will let him back inside. Once inside he does a loop of the kitchen to see if anyone dropped a stray crumb or preferably a whole sandwich. Then, you guessed it, back to the door.

Scout hates a shut door! He wants, nay, he needs to know what is on the other side. If you dare to shut him out of the bathroom, he will press his little spotted nose to the crack in the door and wait in quiet desperation for someone to have mercy on him and open the door with their magical door-opening-hands. But, if you take him into the bathroom with you, he will do the same thing on the reverse side of the door, boring holes with his eyes into the oh, so very opaque wood, longing to know what is happening on the other side of that door. If Scout could have a super power it would be x-ray vision. He needs with all his doggy soul to know WHAT IS HAPPENNING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THAT DOOR?!

I see much of myself in Scout, not only the fierce love (that reads as desperation) of food, the excitement over friends that can seem aggressive but, also, the ability to do nothing all day and still be exhausted. When I watch him, nose pressed against that door, believing with all his heart that there is something better on the other side, I see a flaw in myself. One that has me wasting time wanting something different that will not make me anymore satisfied than what I have on this side of the door.

Why is it that we long for something more and what we have is rarely enough? We want our houses bigger, our thighs smaller, our electronics faster and our lives slower. If we can just take a vacation or get that job or find a best friend or the perfect hair color we would feel happier. We try to claw our way through one door just to turn around and want back inside, because maybe that was better after all. I’m learning to look away from the “closed” door, find what I need on this side. Maybe someone did drop a whole sandwich in here and I missed it because I was too busy staring at the door leading outside.

There is actually a very small window that works for me of not being too busy, but having purpose; of not feeling uncomfortably stuffed, but having enough to eat. Do I really want more house to clean or too much time to sit on the beach alone? In reality no, I want a balance of these things. In the Bible, Philippians 4:12 says something like, learn to be content when you have too little or when you have too much. There always seem to be spiritual issues when we go through struggles, but surprisingly, at least for me, there are just as many issues when we have everything we (think) we want. Whatever side of the door you find yourself on you will have a constant when you look outside of your physical surroundings for contentment and peace.

When I’m struggling through a valley, I just want out of the valley. I want the pain to stop, I want to feel the sun, but I’m usually in deep prayer during these times, depending on God in a desperate way that makes me not totally fall on my temporal helps like family, friends, money, doctors and my comforts. I look to the Lord and build my spiritual stamina like no other time. On the other side of that door, the one full of comfort, peace and light, in my case - coffee, scones, laughter with friends and days at the beach - when all is well; that’s when I can forget that I need a Savior. I can drift from the reality that it’s not about making myself comfortable or happy and this is a dangerous place to linger too long.

There is this really interesting proverb in the Bible where the author asks some things of the Lord. He says don’t make me either rich or poor, but give me just enough for each day. This gives me pause. Apparently, there must be a sweet spot spiritually where we want to live, enough but not too much. Of course this isn’t just with finances and provisions, but with busyness and relationships and work. We seem to be thrown off balance when we have affluence and when we have need. What this prayer in Proverbs 30:7-9 is asking of the Lord is something in the middle, an ease or peace which flows into thankfulness. I’m trying to be at ease in the room I’m in and not standing with my nose pressed to the door wanting something more or different. What this looks like for me is saying this is enough right now in my season of life. Not comparing myself or striving to have everything or be everything. Not saying yes to all opportunities that cross my path. Deciding what is important to me: time spent in devotion, time with family and friends, work I love (like writing this blog) which means not making as much money or getting as many publishing credits, not being part of things that sound really cool, but would spread me too thin. Stepping away from the door!

Write about ways you feel as if you have your nose pressed to the door, wanting something different instead of focusing on where you are.

Journal about what not having too much or too little looks like in your life. Are you too busy? Are you lacking in relationships?

Sharing is good for the soul. Send me your writing, I would love to post it in Typeset

Drafts on Perspective : A Call From Bob

I work very hard to not take my life for granted. The times I have to work the hardest are when I hear about how exciting other peoples lives are in comparison to mine. I have shared that we are entrepreneurs and while that, in and of itself, is not exactly playing it safe, owning businesses and contracting does keep one rather tethered down, at least physically. When I look at Instagram pictures of friends lying on beaches or hiking jungle trails or sipping a café au lait in distant countries, I get a longing in my heart. I try to satisfy it with taking a new route to the coffee shop, but it’s just not the same.

Friends that are crushing it at work, getting promotions, books deals and awards trigger me to look around and think . . . what have I done lately? My awards are getting dusty. My work is quiet and mostly unnoticed, unless you count picking up dye-free laundry soap a win, because I pulled the trigger on that one. Why is it our lives so often feel like an old sweater we have had forever; it’s comfortable and does the job of keeping us warm, but putting it on is not something we are going to post about. Who would appreciate that old pullover with the coffee-stained sleeve and frayed hem?

I was at the “office” — my local coffeehouse and I ran into a co-worker (another person who uses said coffee shop as an office). We are both sorely lacking in the work environment area so have decided to be cohorts and pretend we have important meetings, which is mostly him buying me coffee and cookies while we discuss life. Just like in a real office, right? One day, at a very important meeting (someone has to eat those cookies) he told me about a call he received from his friend Bob. This call from Bob has proven to be a much needed source of perspective for both of us.

My co-worker hadn’t heard from Bob in some years so the phone call was basically a catching up on life. My cookie supplier (his favorite title) has had an interesting life (insert challenging for interesting and then insert crazy for challenging); let’s just say he has made some bad choices and his life has reflected those choices. So his life looked “interesting.” He has since made good choices and now his world reflects those good choices. So he preceded to tell Bob about his life; he described living in a great little beach town that looks like a postcard, how he bikes to a coffee shop and is greeted by name, and can name good friends that genuinely care about him . The more he describes his life to Bob, the more Bob gets excited on the other end of the phone call.

“Wow! Your life sounds just wonderful.” Bob exclaims.

It made my friend put down his cup of coffee and get a little misty-eyed while thinking about what his life looked like through Bob’s eyes.

My life, as well, could have taken so many different turns. I made a lot of bad choices myself. And in all fairness, my life could look pretty bleak, but instead I have been on the receiving end of grace. Spiritually, I could be living in a dry and desolate land. While I love the beauty of a desert and the thorny cacti, it is something to be admired from afar, but nobody wants to live there. It is too hot and too thirsty. I want to live spiritually near a water source where I can cool off from the heat of life and get a drink anytime I want. Adventure has its gleam (and its time) but when you have a family and jobs, it tends to take a backseat.

We so often long for the things we don’t have; I know I do. I have friends that long to be married with small children and I have friends with scores of small children who long to do anything and everything one cannot do with small children. We say it’s just human nature. And perhaps it is, or perhaps it’s something deeper. It’s a longing that will never be satisfied, but we think it will if we can just take that trip to Europe or get a part time job away from our families or meet the right person. If we looked like her or had his brains or had what they have or . . . and the list goes on.

It’s a lie of the desert, the pretty flowers hiding the sharp needles of the succulents. They poke our hearts and say we aren't enough, we aren’t pretty enough or smart enough or clever enough. They say our lives aren’t enough. And we look around, wanting more, thinking it will satisfy us and it never will. We all sometimes need a call from Bob, someone to point out the sweet spots in our life. How far we have come when it could have turned out so different—but for the grace of God.

My friend Tracy and I are often “a call from Bob,” but we take it to an extreme (this is who we are). Tracy called me because they had an undetected leak in their roof and part of their bedroom wall was rotting! She was pretty upset because it would be a major fix. But luckily for her, I just watched a documentary on the Irish Potato Famine and I had more perspective than I knew what to do with. So, she got to have a big ole’ dose of what a little problem this actually was when she could be starving and living in a dank little hovel. Now granted this is not what she was looking for when she called me, but she did laugh and say, “well, when you put it that way.” We often refer to the “potato famine” when consoling each other. We still have problems but when we hold them next to events like World War II or famines or even what life would look like without indoor pluming, our perspective gets a kick in the teeth.

Sometimes the Lord uses “a call from Bob” to remind us of the beauty and blessings in our lives and that thing we think we need to have to be content . . . is just a door to the next thing we think we will need.

Write about your own personal “call from Bob.”

Journal about how perspective has changed you when your circumstances didn’t change.

Notes on Publishing

For those of you looking to dive into the world of publishing, I suggested in a previous post that you start with a list of writing topics. Review post here in the Notes on publishing section.

Now it’s time to look for a place you could send your work. Don’t let compensation play a role at this point. Write for free or very little; you just want to get a credit to your name. Check out local papers, magazines or websites. What are their needs? Does anything overlap with what you could possibly write about? I covered restaurant reviews for a local magazine for a bit, it hardly covered the cost of me checking out these places, but it was fun and gave me a regular byline. You could try book reviews which may add up to a free book or maybe there is a new and growing parenting website that you follow, which might be open to looking at your work.

Look around, pay attention to what is happening in your community print-wise and check out new sites that need content. I also looked at very knish publications that probably don’t get as many submissions. My second published piece was in a lovely little magazine most people have never even heard of called Tea Magazine. I published my story, “Tea and Toast” about the comfort of tea. Perhaps you love sewing or glass blowing, find a publication that speaks to this specific passion.

A great resource for finding publications looking for writers is the Writer’s Market (so many publications you have never even heard of). This source is updated every other year and I use it to find both places I want to write for and possible homes for already written pieces. There are also Writer’s Markets for specific needs such as fiction and poetry. I also love to spend an hour at a bookstore flipping through magazines where I would love to someday see my byline.

After you find a couple options of where to send your work, we will next tackle the crafting of that query letter.

DRAFTS on Demitasse

Drafts on Demitasse

I have yet to meet an espresso cup I don't love and don't even get me started on demitasse spoons. I love tiny treasures. My house is full of random pint-sized things. My windowsill is lined with espresso cups and if you happen to step on something sharp; well, if it’s not a Lego, it’s most likely a miniature chicken or perhaps an itty-bitty baby. My friend sent me a photo of a tiny cow she found in her jacket pocket the other day and I immediately shot back a text of the tiny farmer living in my coat pocket.

Part of the attraction of petite things is that they feel less committal, a mini cup of coffee, a small spoonful of tiramisu. If I drink and eat sample-sized amounts I can try more. Small plates are a revelation. I want a bite of everything - à la carte. So much of life is choosing one thing and sticking to it, that when it comes to food and writing and fashion, I want to sample a little of everything.

We choose a spouse, we become a parent, we pick a career path and the majority of our life is settled. This is what settling down looks like, you have made your big choices and now your everyday path is carved out. And while there is a peace in this, a belonging and a comfort, our minds do wonder at times. What if I had stayed with my music lessons or taken that job abroad? I find it safe to keep my mind close to home, to feel the path under my feet—its sturdiness, its native flowers and its predictable weather patterns. I mostly like my choices as in the bond of family, the pull of the lake and my voice in written words. There are things I would never change, they have grown right into me like tree roots, wrapping, winding and holding me together. Yet, the shifts in seasons, from winter's starkness to summer's bloom is all available whilst staying grounded. This is why I love so many different styles from the saturated colors of a Moroccan market to washed-out variations of white. Demitasse allows me an endless array of options without becoming too full.        

With writing, I like to try my hand in all the genres. I have published short stories, poems, articles and radio dramas. I enjoy writing in little shots, different flavors, colors and styles.

Have you ever dreamed of seeing your words in print? Becoming a published author? Now maybe you just love to write for yourself and that is just great, but if a byline is on your wish list (or maybe just something you would like to secretly try for) this next section is for you. I’m going to start touching on basic publishing ideas. I have taught several writing classes on this topic and will start pouring it out in demitasse-sized cups.

Notes on Publishing

Friends are often asking me if I can talk to their sister or neighbor or friends (if they are super lucky this is the same person) about writing. Typically this person loves to write, perhaps took a creative writing class and would like to know how I went about getting published. I love having this conversation, especially if we are meeting over coffee. This next section is for sister/neighbor/friend who would like to take their love of writing to the next step.

Warning: I am about to ask a lot of questions

What you know, what you love and what you are good at are all great places to start when trying to get some publishing credits to your name. Jot down a list of things you are an “expert” in or at least know more than the average person. Do you work with kids? Are you good at finances? Perhaps you are a gifted organizer or know everything there is to know about essential oils. What are your hobbies? Do you knit or make your own skin care, have a knack for decorating? Unsure? What do family members call you about? That's usually a tip off. Do they call you for parenting advice or for natural remedies or maybe thay ask you to go shopping because you have a good eye for style? Do friends want you to look at their resume or their new business plan? Spend some time thinking about this and make a running list that you can go back to when you need an idea for submitting your work for publishing. I have had many pieces published in writing magazines, tea publications and faith-based periodicals, to name a few, all based on my upbringing, life experiences and what I know and love today. I, also, have penned several stories about farm life including some children’s fiction, based on my 4H years and life on a farm.

Life experience is a great place to mine for those pen to paper ideas. Write about what you have learned from surviving a hardship, for example, or how becoming a mother wasn’t quite what you expected. Maybe a rough patch in your marriage or a time you failed at something, but it lead you to some great insight. The first article I ever published was about a time when an intimidating stranger in a coffeeshop asked me about my faith; and I have since written many pieces on the topic of faith. And even though I’m no expert, I have published articles about parenting and marriage because these are areas I’m familiar with; I have gone through things that have taught me lessons I could share through my writing. Actually though, much of my body of work is for teen girls because, well, I was once a teenage girl and I believe I have some helpful advice to give younger women.

When dreams Come Down to Earth (its about to get earthy)

One of the Catch-22’s of publishing is that you usually have to be published to get published - so the best places to start are with free publications - those which are looking for content. If your initial goal is to make money, I suggest going to law school. I’m sure you will not be surprised to hear that working in the arts is not particularly lucrative; but, it is amazing to get a check in the mail for that first piece of paid writing. I made $250 for “Coffeehouse Witness,” which felt like a lot because at the time I would have done it for free—just so see my story in print.

Just get a few pieces published, so you can put that on your resume. I will talk about rejection in an upcoming post (it demands its own post!) but for now just figure that into the equation. You will be rejected; it’s just part of the game. Don’t let it pull you down, push back and send out more queries. Query: now there is a good publishing word. We will also talk about that later, just work on that list for now and start a piece with the thought of getting published.    

If you are already publishing, try writing a piece in a new genre, perhaps a short story or a how-to-article. I just sent off a submission to a greeting card company.

Try sipping from a demitasse cup. Write little smatterings of life. Make lists. Put pen to paper.

Please share some of your ideas of where to draw writing inspirations in the comments below and post some of your drafts in TYPEset

Drafts on Weariness: A Christmas Story

A Weary World

This year I felt like I just couldn’t. I wanted to blame Pinterest and Instagram for my discontent. I looked at my forever messy house and scowled at the lingering Lego pieces, like unwanted house guests, who make themselves just a little too comfortable. Then there’s the scraps of paper that can’t seem to make it to the trash and scatters of dull eraserless pencils that conveniently skedaddle when it is time to write out spelling words. And I just couldn’t. The box of Christmas decorations sat at my feet, like a puppy waiting to be let out, bursting at the seams with tinsel and cotton ball sheep. And I thought where will I even put you? The level of dust I needed to clean off my sill to set up my nativity scene was too much for the half-hearted paper towel swipe it would receive. These decorations won’t even look good, they will just add to the chaos. Maybe this year, I just won’t! 

Begrudgingly, I dug out the new stockings a dear friend had given me, Scottish plaid with rusty bells. I thought how great they would look in someone else’s house. I hung them on the window cranks and over the back of a rocking chair, the tags still on and thought  . . . this is probably where they will stay. Why do I even bother, these will never get hung properly; we have not once managed to hang stockings on our fireplace. Even people in coal towns, surviving the Great Depression, could manage to hang up stockings; let alone, compete with one of the endlessly beautiful bloggers I follow or my many talented friends and family. Maybe I just won’t decorate this year.

I pondered this idea of not decorating a few days later. Christmas has become about commercialism anyway, I reasoned, and most likely baby Jesus wasn't even born in December, so perhaps I just shouldn’t bother. I’ll take a stand against everything Christmas has become—too many gifts, too much sugar and way too much stress. Who needs it?

Immediately, a small voice came in my head: You need it and so do the people around you. Christmas might not be on the right date, but the time of year is fitting. As December in Michigan is the darkest month on the calendar, with the shortest days, it makes perfect sense that we would illuminate our houses with light. Exactly what God did when he sent his son, Jesus, into a dark world. He could have thought, this world is a mess, who will even notice or who will even care. I’ll send him later when the place is picked up a bit; I’ll wait till he can show up in a palace instead of a stable. When the town isn’t so busy and there is actually room in the inn. But no, He sent Him when the world needed it most, into a dirty, smelly stable and said I'll put Him right here where He is needed.

Following the camel tracks of those wise fellows of old, I followed the North Star, not looking for something that is worthy of social media, not decorations for a photo shoot, but something warm and inviting, however simple or messy. The point of Christmas isn’t so people can be in awe of my house (especially since this is not my gifting) but that I offer light on a dark night. Hope in a messy world. It’s a moment to pause and focus on something else, right when we need it most, in the darkest of days. We love our trees because they are full of light and beauty, memories and hope; besides, they look best in the dark (plus than you can’t see clutter on the coffee table).      

We are desperate for light and hope and what better than a twinkling tree with handmade ornaments? They don’t even have to match. A big hit for me is the upside-down paper bowl jellyfish (move over reindeer) who is down to two paper streamer tentacles, making most wonder just what he is exactly. These little lights on a string and cherished decorations are lifted from their dusty boxes, only slightly worse for the wear and put out to warm my heart just when I need them. And when I see your decorations, either well-appointed or slightly off-skewed, I’m warmed on a cold night.

One of my favorite Christmas presents came after my baby was born in December and nursing was a nightmare and I hadn’t showered and nothing was okay. We were heading to our family’s house for Christmas Day anyway, so I thought, why bother to decorate? I don’t even have the energy to put on real clothes. It won’t matter. But as it turned out, it did matter. On those dark days I did need some light and cheer. I told my friend how hard new life with baby was and how I couldn't put up a tree or manage to eat more than toast. The next day my friends showed up with a tree and decorations and forced their way into my living room. And as I sat on the couch while they decorated it, I knew this had been missing. I did need this in ways I hadn’t realized. I’m reminded of their gift each year when we get out that tree. I still get misty-eyed when I talk about it; this tree was not something you would post on Instagram, it was just an ordinary Christmas tree, but the story is worth a 1000 likes.

The holiday season is often a painful one. I watch people wipe away tears during carols because they miss someone or feel a loneliness more keenly when the focus is so laser-pointed on family and being together. I lost a best friend last year, a week before Christmas, and my family had a tragic loss this year, and it makes you think: Why celebrate? Why decorate? Life is so hard. But that is why exactly—because life is hard and full of dark days—we put up lights to show that there is hope. He, Emmanuel, was born in a barn, but it was right under a bright star.

~A weary world rejoices~

Post Script: My husband hung up our stockings this year – on the chimney – and they look great! Such a small thing made such an impact on me. Sure there are piles of books, glue sticks and puzzle pieces still cluttering the hearth, but the stockings are hung!

Write about light in a weary world, here are some ideas:  

Why do you take the time to do Christmas—decorate cookies, hang lights, mail cards or any other Christmas traditions.

Journal about a gift or an act of kindness that meant something to you around the holidays?

Write about what you struggle with during (at least in Michigan) the quite literally dark days of this month? How can you shine light into this area?

 Share your work here