Making Peace with Me

I have grown a lot. Mostly, God's changed my heart.

I've changed my mind on a lot of things. One might say that I've evolved.

Sarah Bessey thinks that "it’s important to continually give each other permission to change and to grow and to know that we’re not alone as we journey in our lives." I'm glad to know that she feels that way. Her words warm my soul with encouragement.

I used to struggle simply being me.
     Now I think that I honor my Creator best when I am my real self. 

For so long, the Me who I was created to be was tucked deep inside the me who I projected outward for the world to see. Surveying my life story, I see the ways that God chased me to know that I am loved, as I am; to rest in trust of Him that I am, indeed, good enough as I am. I believe God knew just how far He would need to go to get my attention. I imagine that He was waiting with patient expectation for the real me to unfurl.

Sometimes it feels scary in our head to live in this world as we are.

After years of living a certain way, I have a lightness in living. I used to pile expectations and demands upon myself, thinking that the weight was actually making me feel more comfortable like a heavy blanket. I thought maybe I'd be more uncomfortable without them; that I would fritter here and there aimlessly with no sense of direction.

I was intensely focused on thinking that I needed to pray a certain way, act a certain way, think a certain way, and feel a certain way. I was misguided, likely by my own self. I had looked around at the world and tried to sort out who I should be and how I should live, basing the answers on what I saw others doing or saying.

When I started to be the real me, I felt weeble-wobbly, like my nearly six-month babe whose muscles only recently have gotten strong enough to hold him up as he sits. I still feel a lot like that, weeble-wobbly. There are moments when I tip right over, sometimes side ways and sometimes backward. I sometimes cry when that happens.

I wish developing didn't hurt so much. And I wish I could handle the changes and demands in my life with a bit more grace and acceptance.

There are days when I am flat out and just don't want to accept other people's struggle, or even my own. I want every day to feel like a Happy Meal with a toy inside. I don't want to hear the sound of whining, mostly from myself. But I can't get away from myself. And unless I live in a cave, I can't get away from the unpredictability of everyone else in this world who may or may not say or do something that irritates me.

For so long I wanted to control me and her and him and all of them; I still do sometimes. I was angry that I wasn't made with this superhuman strength. I was angry that I was made to live in this world as a human being, prone to making mistakes and living among others just like me.

I used to think that I needed to tap myself on the shoulder and say, "Ahem, excuse me crazy lady, you're an adult, remember? So, shape up, sit up and Be an adult. No crying."

I used to think that I was supposed to ignore my real thoughts and feelings and just steer my attention and mind on the things that matter like having a vegetable at every meal that I serve my family, making sure we sit down and eat together mostly every single night, being home to tuck my children into bed each night, making sure my Boy-Man is polite and kind and organized and attentive and mindful and recalls every.single.thing he was taught.

I used to think that if I stayed married and didn't get a divorce and didn't do drugs and stayed away from alcohol and worked out mostly every day and ate healthy and stayed away from certain foods and didn't get a ticket and didn't scream and shout and didn't walk away in anger and didn't lose my cool and forgave every person who ever offended me and accepted them as they are and didn't make demands or judge them or talk behind their back . . . then I would be "good". And everyone knows that good girls are admired by all the others who are missing out on all the joy just waiting for them to receive when they finally get everything right.

If . . . then.
     I used to live my life rules based, like a mathematical equation. 

I used to think that if I wear certain undergarments and do certain moves with a certain kind of regularity, then my marriage would be happy ever after.

I used to think that if my son gets on the honor roll, then everyone will know how smart he is and that by knowing how smart he is there won't be any opportunity that will be out of his grasp.

I used to think that if I arrive at work early and leave late and work in between and hustle my butt to perform, then I'll be promoted and seen and appreciated.

I used to think that if I run at least every other day and make sure that I keep to a strict calorie count each day, then I will be healthy and well.

I used to think so much that sent me running wildly every single day. Out of breath. Exhausted. And definitely not content or happy.

Now I think that kind of living is no kind of life.

As it turns out, there aren't rules. It doesn't take a mathematician to live abundantly.

Now I think that struggle is simply part of life and that it isn't something we can escape simply by behaving a certain way.

Now I think that we have permission to feel and that we have permission to struggle.

Now I think that facing our struggles and admitting them and being present with them honors The One who created us as human beings with vast, colorful feelings.

Now I think that there are cloudy days and windy days and huge stormy days and that it isn't anyone's fault, but that it's just part of life.

Now I think that there is beauty in the middle of the muck and there is redemption and that we don't have to do anything to make us worthy enough to experience it.

Now I think that our imperfect selves as we are is enough for today, for this moment right now.

Now I think that venting our feelings is like the gutteral roar and scream of giving birth, a sometimes necessary part of the process.

Now I think that receiving ourselves as we are is the pathway to peace
     -- to freedom and life. 

Like Sarah, I've had some sorting out in my life.

Joining others in #OutOfSortsBook syncroblog

when you open the door

We hadn't seen each other in about six years.

In that time, we'd spoken over Skype once or twice. They were good conversations, meaty and rich with sweetness. Yet, still, the times we even corresponded were few.

His life this year has involved giving a daughter away in marriage and seeing her move on, something he didn't experience with his first and oldest -- me. I've thought about the strain of his recent experience contrasted with the one that he lacked and empathy has risen in my heart.

We haven't had the idyllic father-daughter relationship through the years.

He moved away when I was young and our time together became splintered. As I grew older, so did our relationship.

I wanted to know things and was too afraid to ask. When we were together I wanted the happy and fun to last, so I resisted "going there" in deep conversation with him. I didn't want to risk how talking about the heart could affect our time together, making it feel uncomfortable. Eventually, I'd ask a few questions and attempt to gain some color to the foggy parts of our story, only to be met with resistance.

Back and forth we'd trade accusations through the years, mostly by phone because I'm not sure we were ever brave enough to talk face-to-face. We both probably wanted to preserve the sweetness of what little time we had together, yet we both had words we so longed to be said.

In addition to his two other daughters besides me, he has an adopted son just a year younger than mine. It's crazy to think we're raising kids nearly the same age, both in the throes of raising tween-age boy-men. We share a similarity and a bond of understanding, more than just biologically speaking, even though our worlds are different.

While he lives and works in a third-world country, he's in the States for several months to connect with the people and organizations who financially support him. His schedule is exhausting to fathom -- driving miles and miles across the country, sleeping in other people's beds, and living out of suitcases. They still have three more months of this kind of living and I can see the toll its taken on him already.

I could see the strain, not just sense it. 
And it's all because I said "Yes". 

When he offered to visit in between his traveling from here to there, I felt love swell in my heart. I was thought of and loved. I was wanted to be seen. Just knowing this was enough of a gift, even if something happened and we couldn't coordinate schedules.

Our time together would only be a few hours, yet it was more than we would have if he didn't make an effort and if I didn't accept.

In our communicating back and forth about schedules, I considered that perhaps he had a bit of fear and anxiety in seeing me and maybe even in simply reaching out to me. I've been welcoming on so many occasions, and yet there've been others when I've kept the door sealed shut. Would I open it this time? What would be the condition of my heart? 

I thought about what to do, wanting to make sure I didn't have expectations this time.

I wanted to fling the door wide open in love. I wanted to say, "Yes! Come!"

I wanted to connect. 
     I didn't want to think about the strain and the pain.

His second grandchild is expected to be born any week, or any day now, and I want him to meet the babe, and he will, someday. But that doesn't matter so much now. This was our time and I had a choice to accept and be grateful for what we were given. So I did.

After nearly six years apart, we had three hours together. Three precious hours.

Our boys interacted with each other as if they weren't strangers. I talked with his easy-to-be-with wife and got to know his now teenage college-bound daughter a bit. And though we hardly spoke to each other, I watched him from a distance as he played yard games with my groom and our sons. I saw him smile and laugh.

When he spoke, he was funny and reminded me of my groom's humor. I laughed a lot in those few hours and I imagine looking down on us, there were a lot of smiles.

Though we didn't exchange many words, we still connected. 
We shared the human emotion of joy and thanks for the gift of togetherness.

As he drove away, I wished we had more time together and I figured that's a good thing. We didn't cry or make a big deal out of the holes that still remain in our wounded hearts. Our time together was lighthearted and not at all heavy or uncomfortable.

(Tween-age boy-men have this way of distracting a person from being so serious.)

I awoke the next day nearly two hours later than I'd been sleeping of late and was awake in the night much less frequently than has been typical in this, my ninth month of pregnancy. I awoke with memories of my father's smile and laughter, and my heart felt full.

This is what happened when I opened the door instead of keeping it shut tight.

Boundaries are good to an extent and then at some point, they're just not necessary anymore. I needed (and perhaps we both needed) some time and space apart for healing to really begin versus trying to make it be.

Forcing something usually ends up in even more brokenness.

I've seen this occur so many times on such a literal level. My groom reminded me of this when he and our son had set up the badminton net. He instructed Boy-Man to "slowly unravel the net and if it gets stuck, don't keep pulling . . . like you would usually do."

In opening the door and letting us be as we are, and our story as it is, I experienced joy and peace. I didn't need the holes to be healed. I didn't need the fairytale relationship I had longed for all those years.

In opening the door, I saw another human. 
We connected and it was good. 

Our time together wasn't perfect, yet it many ways it was. It was so good -- rich and sweet. And I'm so glad I said "Yes! Come!"

I no longer wish for the idyllic relationship I thought I always wanted.

Now I see that what we've been given -- though crackly and gravely in nature -- has been a gift. We've grown and will continue to grow in ways we never could've if we didn't have this kind of story.

Acceptance is the greatest gift of all.

In opening the door I chose to accept another frail and faulty human, and the story that was perfectly scripted for us -- as it is.

Giving thanks

Sitting in the quiet of the new day's dawn, I marvel at the fresh blanket of new snow.
I hold the moment as a gift and consider whether I'll walk, run, or blaze a trail on skis today.

Thick white powder adorns the trees making them look so sugary sweet. 

It's hard to imagine that just two days ago the temperatures were summer-like.

Lights glow from our neighbor's kitchen window and I suspect she is preparing a tasty feast.
In just a handful of hours the aroma of Thanksgiving will emanate from houses near and far.

Families will soon gather, smiles will be shared and dishes will be passed.

As hunger satisfies, chatter will quiet as slumber has its way again.   

There are some who won't share what my family will today.

I think of them as I recall the distress and unrest that was once a part of us. 

We celebrate the change that comes after a seemingly eternal wait is finally over.

What happens overnight or in a blink of an eye sometimes feels less miracle-like. 

Much of the world still sleeps as I think of all that has happened within me.
It is too early to see many of the tangible signs, yet life is whirling and twirling within me.

More than blood courses through my veins.
Joy and happiness, contentment and peace.

My body holds my own heart and now a small one of another.
Many days my reality still feels like a dream.

I sometimes dismiss the significance of this time since there isn't evidence in my shape. 

Still, cells are being multiplied at a rapid rate as limbs and organs are being formed. 

The wait was long, yet it was purposed for so much more than I'll ever even know.

Though doubt often niggled at me, trust was perfectly honed within me. 

The length of the wait doesn't make today any more or less of a miracle than it is. 

We are simply at the mercy of God for how our story will unfold and how we will grow. 

The seasons sometimes seemed so mixed up. 

There were summer daisies blooming when there should have been fall mums. 

Still, contentment came before this little one was ever conceived.

For this I'm most grateful because it truly isn't circumstantial for me. 

Forgiveness, peace and joy finally fill my heart and my home. 

Today and this moment, as well as the wait and the wonder, was all a deliberately given gift. 

Everything ties together for me as I look out at the perfectly white snow-covered trees. 

The shards of grief gave way to all that has grown within me. 

Life feels a lot like death a lot of the time and we wrestle at His ways. 

Still, peace eventually unfurls within us and for this I give thanks. 

where I'm at these days

I've been somewhat quiet for awhile now. Here and in life.

I had mentioned at some point on Facebook awhile back that I was on a "mini-sabbatical". I didn't have an explanation for it, all I knew was that it was necessary and needed to be immediate. I still go on social media every now and then, but only when I want to and mostly only for a few minutes, at most. I've missed most of what's on the feed and I'm less wanting to be in the know about all things.

Some friends have wondered if I even care about them anymore. Their questioning of my heart has wounded me and worried me. I do care quite deeply about them all, yet my heart has undergone some serious repair that has adjusted how much of it I parcel off. I need to honor this and take the time my body needs to not just recover (because I hope I never recover from a change like this), but to recalibrate my very life. I need to let God do what He wants to do in their life, too, and loose even them. God weaved us together and I need to trust that nothing is lost with Him, not even friendships.

After being so lookatmeish and longing for attention for so long, what I seek now is the quieter moments where there's more space for living. Some people call this the margin and some call it whitespace. Name aside, it's the wide open sky of life where there isn't anything clouding my personal view.

I've been waiting around for so much, so many unrealized dreams, and I realized that I could miss the importance of these days -- these glory-filled days.

     . . . these days when my quirkiness reminds me that I am creative

          . . . when my dreaming reminds me of uncertainties
          . . . when hardly anything I do or say is right, reminding me that all is redeemed

     . . . these days when my waiting actively perfects my patience.

God is so personal in how He loves us, speaking our language and communicating to us in ways He knows we'll best understand.

I've lived with a personal conviction to pursue excellence in all things. The thing with passions is that they can become tangled up in all we do, like a vine that chokes and strangles life itself when it's meant to support growing beauty. My passion to excel led to a tightly gripped life. For so long my muscles flexed to the point that they didn't know how to un-flex. I became stiff and rigid like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz. More to the point, I became dry and brittle.

Relaxing was something I simply couldn't give myself permission to do and furthermore, is something I didn't know how to do.

And so began the year of doing nothing aside from living moment-by-moment. It was the year of not going to church. The year of sitting on my couch weekend after weekend when we weren't in the ice rink or on the road to the ice rink. It was the year of bi-weekly housecleaning. Of multiple days off from working out. It was the year of no baking and hardly any dinner guests. Of avoiding invitations from friends. Of saying no to just about everything.

Last year was about learning to stay put and simply be. It prepared me for this year, to accept what is and embrace who I am -- to learn to live.

Along the way I have faced a few things that needed my attention, like confession and repentance, surrender and patience, fear and joy. All throughout my journey I felt the invitation to "Come . . . Rest . . . Be." You'd think it'd be easy. And for some, perhaps it is. But God's shown me that we all have something. For those folks there's probably something that they struggle with that I don't, and so I can rest from comparing or shoulding myself to be better or different in any particular way.

There is a manuscript that I began and dragged my feet over finishing, stalling until I finally surrendered to the sheer pain of trying to resist it. At that point I so much wanted it to be done that I nearly bludgeoned myself to death with a self-imposed deadline that was more fear based than faith. I miraculously met my specific goal, only to find out that "it isn't done". Though I did all I could do, there's still time to be lived and a process to go through until all the words can find a rhythm to them that makes the message ever clearer. I have to wait on this part. I have to live. I have to breathe. I have to rest.

And so, when all around me I see people announcing book deals and launching their first, second, and even third or fourth book, I take a deep breath. I pray for them to fall deeply into rest, even as life whirls and twirls all tornado-like in front of them. I lift up their fears and anxiousness, and I intercede on their behalf to sip and savor the sweet moments of life, resting as they live.

As it turned out, writing the 68,800, or so words I puzzle-pieced together was the easy part. I actually siphoned off bunches and bunches of words and filed them away for other potential projects. What took the most out of me was the obedience part. The doing. The disciplined doing. The doing even though I feared. The doing even though I ached just to have it over. At the end, I'd had enough of it and sensed that I needed it out of my hands and so I shipped it to a few friends. My heart knew it was, again, all about obedience. Yet, my head wanted affirmation that what I did wasn't a waste.

Crickets. Just crickets.

Silence from my friends was a clear gift of grace, actually. Through my wondering if all my effort was junk or if I actually made sense, I discovered a whole new element to my senses that I hadn't ever experienced. At first I thought maybe I was all mixed up, but God taught me that sight isn't just reserved for the eyes, and hearing isn't just reserved for the ears. The same with tasting and touching, they aren't just reserved for the tongue and the nerves. We teach our children that there are restrictions and rules to the senses, defining them so matter of factly. Yet, imagination and creativity were a part of God's design. He gave us a heart and a soul that defines in ways Webster and others couldn't ever. I'm learning this.

And so, these are the days when I'm breathing differently, sleeping differently, and overall positioning my life differently. These are the days I'm learning to experience and not exploit or explicate. Our family calendar is practically blank, though it doesn't mean that we aren't dreaming and discussing ideas and options. We're careful in our considering, letting time settle our thoughts and sifting them together at an unrushed and less frantic pace. I'm really not nearly as busy as people think I am, and for now I'd like to just keep it that way . . . they with their preconceived notions about me, and me with my little secret.

Sifting always gives way to hidden things. We're finding glitter in our togetherness of sifting. We've not been panhandling for gold, it's more that we've been panhandling for grace, my groom and me.

I'm craving community, though honestly I'm not ready for it yet. And so, we sift and stir and sip and savor these moments, these things of which glory is made of . . .

     . . . the all day long smiles and belly-busting laughter
     . . . the reach-up-my-skirt-while-I-cut-the-peppers-and-make-me-giggle moments

I'm forgetting to bathe the dog and instead learning more about how to throw the lacrosse stick . . . I'm folding laundry and reading novels instead of pounding out miles upon miles in a run . . . I'm listening to The Boy-Man read his own work-in-progress book and pondering all we've gained from our choice to keep him home with us all during his fourth grade year . . . I'm preparing for community in our son's return to playing for our hometown youth ice hockey club and all the politics and personas and particulars that will come of that . . .

These are the days of saying no, thank you to potential job opportunities and moves. The days of learning to stay and be still and let things just settle -- for the wind to die down and the clouds to part and the storm of life to streak beauty across our horizon. The days of hearing a song on the radio and knowing so fully just how much I am loved, of finally getting it and falling in love all over again.

These are the days of tasting again all that delights me and realizing I honor Him when I choose the things He gave me pleasure for and not restrict myself from joy. Of waking up later. Of whispering and saying less because my mouth would rather rest and my eyes would rather feel.

When I say these are glory days, I don't mean to imply these are grit-free days, because they aren't.

It's painful to learn to rest. My legs literally ached for two weeks straight as they developed the muscle-memory to trust more and try less. It hurt my body to simply be. The process has taken time and I still haven't arrived. I'm still quiet and less about making plans.

I still fear people will think I don't care about them and it pains me to even consider their potential thought, yet I know that my honor belongs to One . . . and by learning to rest and not be all things to others, maybe my void will give Him room to move in their life, too.

And so, I'm living these days without a plan or even an inkling of what's next. All I know is that these days I'm living . . . in joy.

Linking with Jennifer and Bonnie. 

broken

I try to scoop them up upon realising the mess I made.

Some pieces come together and yet many remain fragmented.

These temptations to do what I wanted . . . the ones that led me to fall prey to choices that hurt . . .

     . . . they are not exempt from cause and effect.

The truth of this pierces and I bleed shame.

Even when I storm in my house and snuff innocence with anger and the relationships remain, there still is a brokenness that I cannot repair.

I want to fix it all. I search for a super kind of glue that patches it all together seamless-like.

I want to hide the mess I made that lies beneath the spoken surface.

Yet, the real truth is that you color these pieces. And name them.

You allow them to break at exactly the places where they do.

I stand with a naked feeling as I sift through the broken.

You gently invite me to stop sifting. Just stop.

These pieces are yours. All yours.

I can rest. 

Today's post was part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to take five and Just. Write.

     "...for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... unscripted and unedited...

     without worrying if it's just right or not."

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

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Follow A {Grace} full *life* on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

a challenge to consider

I've been thinking lately about taking a different approach with my groom.

There are times when I do or say something that ignites feelings in him that are valid. I understand the frustration he may experience. And then the tone he uses or the way his face contorts into disapproving or disappointed expressions sends me over the edge into a defenders stance.

Competitive and pride filled, I fight to protect my perspective and my belief of being right...
     or even a smidge *right.*

When I am so quick to defend myself and my pride, we often get off course of what our conversation was initially about. And before we know it, it's become a battle of wills and an all out brawl in anger.

And it's always about pride.

The other day I found myself talking with our son about not always having to be right. I suggested that he could say something like, "I could be wrong," or that he could declare in his heart that he doesn't have to be right all the time. It's a mature perspective and one that even I don't practice well. (Kind of like telling him he should floss his teeth and yet I fail to do it more than once or twice a week.)

But it's true, I don't always have to be right. And, I'm usually not, anyway.

And even if I was wounded by something someone said, or even a nonverbal facial expression, it's not my duty to defend myself right then and there.

So often when I have been challenged through an experience and begin to see a perspective differently, I expect the same of my groom. If I see a better way of reaching for grace, I get angry when he doesn't choose it. I expect for us to be aligned.

But, the truth is, we aren't always aligned. And more often, we aren't at all.

What if I choose {more} grace more of the time? 

Grace that says, I understand. Because, I've been there.

     I've given a look that was hurtful.
     I've expected too much.
     I've been unfair.
     I've felt annoyed and shown it.
     I've insinuated others are less than smart.
     I've been frustrated and made sure others have known.
     I've been conditional with my love showing.

God allowed this man to be the father of our son. He will enable him to love on and guide our son. And if my groom says something that provokes The Boy, then God's got it. I just have to trust that God will use every circumstance, situation, and encounter (even with us) to draw our son to His heart.

God also allowed this man to be my forever-this-side-of-Heaven-groom. To be my partner. Not perfectly. Just daily.

What if I hush up when we're in an argument and let my groom's emotions be all sprawled out there...
     even if the way he expresses his emotions hurts me? 

What if I choose a quieter moment when the air is less thick with rife and tell him then that my heart hurt?

What if I waited? Because, maybe I won't ever need to tell him of my wounds. Maybe God will show him. Or maybe it won't matter because in the process of surrendering my pride and choosing grace, maybe He will heal in the process.

What if I were a safe place for my husband's emotions? After all, don't I expect that of him? Don't I lash out and whine and sigh and complain? Don't I feel so comfortable with him that I neglect to use a filter most of the time? Aren't I expecting him to bear *All* of me?

What if I rolled out the red carpet and chose to approach each day of our togetherness with elegant grace?

Pride is ugly. It wears masks and creeps up on love. It's sneaky and obnoxious. And it neglects grace.

I want to live differently. 

I want to live the grace that fills me and pours over.

I want to honor Him.

I want to be less self-focused and more grace focused.

I want to choose a radically different perspective lived out than my story has read up to now.

It's hard to choose this. But maybe it will let Peace reign a little more.

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Follow A {Grace} full *life* on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

how story really does matter

I remember how I felt when I came back Home.

The fear was indescribable, and yet it was most certainly there. It whispered to me that maybe I hadn't changed as much as I thought I did. And that maybe I would notice the hurt still in my heart.

Growing up with the circumstances that I did was challenging. Painful. And most of all, confusing.

I wanted to get away and run from my story. 

No one seemed to understand me, and yet the truth is that I didn't let anyone in my heart anyway.

The women who I spent a handful of hours with this week don't know how nervous I was to be with them. How, I get chatty when I'm afraid. And really, it's because I don't know how they will receive me. I worry I'm not who even I think I am.

I don't remember much about 15 years ago. Maybe I do and I just don't want to.

So much of me is less confused and more accepting of my story. Yet, I don't want to go back to those years and let them define me.

How can you, really? Let time be frozen and memories of what once was be the definition of today? It's not fair.  

Sitting there chatting with these women, I began to relax and consider that perhaps they were nervous, too. Because we've all lived a story that has grown us.

We aren't who we were then. We were only just beginning.

So I began to consider that our being together was more of a getting-to-know-you party. To me, revisiting those years didn't matter as much as visiting the heart of who we are today.

Life has its challenges. And our story-lived influences our steps.

I wanted to know who these women are today. We call ourselves friends and I can't help but to think that our conversation today is so much more meaningful than it was back then. How could we have even said friend back then when it was so superficial? I sit there thinking Today matters more to me than Yesterday and I want to dismiss the memories.

Yet, I suddenly realize that because I knew them then, I trust them more than if I never knew them before.

And I see right then how story really does mean something. 

I consider that maybe we all did some growing together the other day. That all our years of story meeting up with today is what growth really is about. And how friendship understands this.

My heart aches for the pain she feels. When I ask how her dad is and she shares the truth of their severed relationship, I think of my story and my dad, and I just want to weep with her.

And when she tells me how her groom has changed and I see the fear behind her eyes, I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it's worth fighting for. All I want to do is encourage her because I've been there.

Story births understanding. It's how compassion grows. 

I think of the years of wonder I lived, knowing she felt like a sister and was such an important friend, and the selfishness I had that maybe she really didn't like me.

Truth was, she had her own questions and leaving Home was a choice she had to make. If I didn't know her back then, I wouldn't understand as much today.

And there it is again, the realization that story really does matter. 

When she came back to town and showed her daughters where her home was, her heart was welcomed with comfort and peace. Maybe she knew down deep that her story was necessary for where she is today. And that her returning was an important part it.

Truth was, she grew right before her daughter's eyes when she came Home to where her story began. Because growing heals us.

It happened to me when I returned Home, thinking I was all done with my own growing. Feeling like life was coming full circle and fear of losing all that I thought I gained, I realized that the returning part was the most necessary. It's the part in my story where I grew the most. It's when healing happened. The years away mattered, but only because of where my story began--the one that influenced the leaving part.

My willingness to be Home was a choosing to accept that All. Is. For. Purpose. and courage to trust was my worship.

Even when I didn't see it as such, I was honoring Him in my returning to where my story began. 

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