a birthing of a God-sized dream

Stories connect to other stories and suddenly there's an afghan-length of thread to sort through with the beginning knit so tightly with all the others that it's unrecognizable. Such is the way with how to navigate where the journey began for me to discover the simplicity, breadth and depth of love.

For a long time I tried to be a fixer -- of situations, of circumstances, of hearts, of people. I lived a lot of my first 35 years as an anxious person who tried to control every single thing, including people.

The truth is, no matter how hard I try there's quite possibly someone I won't please, or something that I've overlooked, or a better way. Still, I expended an inordinate amount of energy on a highly unlikely outcome of perfection; it was a bit like insanity.

Eventually I realized how completely exhausting it is to constantly be on the lookout for brokenness. I sat there with all that wasn't whole and considered what it might mean to simply and fully loose all that I grasped with my hands.

Like a bird set free, my unfurled fingers gave permission for dreams and wants and visions to fly away . . . for me and even for others. 

This unfurling made space for new things to find their way in my hand and new people to find their way into my heart; things and people I hadn't anticipated or even considered.

In the loosing, I went through a period of grief in which my tendencies were shaken. Muscles were learning a new way of being, no longer constantly constricted. I learned to be patient with myself as I navigated this new way of living. Still, I found myself afraid of the openness that became of the new-found space in my hand and was tempted to grip those fingers tight again. The joy I felt was almost too much to bear.

The restful state I was living in was almost dream-like and I feared waking up from a slumber that resembled a fantasy-like world because, surely, I thought, the bottom would eventually fall out. I was afraid of living happy-clappy and not being prepared enough for the hard times, so I tried to brace myself and quickly realized that it was the reverting back to a constricted way of living.

Slowly, I discovered that there are people surrounding me who actually love me as I am; I don't have to do anything or be anyone differently.

There are people who see something in my brokenness that is more beautiful than I'll ever see. 

People who think that I am perfectly imperfect. People who accept me and adore me. Period.

I had slammed the windows shut and bolted the door tight so many of those people would stop looking at me and talking to me and thinking of me. Because I imagined I was a nuisance and a pest, a hypocrite who wanted to change and who couldn't. And then one day I thought about how lonely it feels to always be by myself, running from here to there and making it a sport. So, I chose to open the windows and let in the cool breeze. I opened the door and let in all the people. It was one of those moments when I decided to test God and see if I really would be okay.

And it felt like nakedness, I tell you.

Letting people in made me want to scream: Hand-me-a-bathrobe-please! Because it's scary to be standing there all red in the face and raw from the tight-grip life. It's vulnerable and incredibly uncomfortable. Yet, those people knew all of that about me before I did. And they stayed. I didn't need to send out invitations to welcome people back in, they were just there -- smiling and cheering for me the whole time.

I used to not want to be seen anywhere I went. 

I'd wear a baseball cap and flit my eyes around people to the "others" I presumed were more important. I avoided fitness centers and churches and coffee shops and parades. I wanted to be among but to actually be incognito. Secretly, I wanted to be seen and known, and deep inside I begrudged the people who just didn't try hard enough to see through my tough-girl image. I had created a story in which I made myself the victim and everyone else the villain.

I realized a lot as I considered all the people who remained in my life even though I tried to hide. Though I cannot control the future, I can choose how I react to today. I can hold my hand open and my fingers loose for whatever might find a new perch with me, or let what needs to fly away simply go, all the while living in a state of rest. I can trust God with me, as I am, and with my life, as it is. I learned that love looks at a person with empathy and says, "I get you more than you realize" and "I've been there, too".

Love allows us to hope even when we fear.

Love bolsters us in the midst of fear in a way that doesn't hide the truth of potential reality
     . . . and love reminds us that it is safe to celebrate joy, as it is.

Love knows that we're all humans starving for grace.
Love knows that no one is better than another.
Love knows that we all have something about us that makes us needy and needed.

I started letting my face show and my voice be heard, and you know what? I didn't die. My worst fears didn't come true.

I was most surprised at the head nods and me-too's that I heard, affirming that I belong and I matter. 

As it turns out, that feeling of nakedness is actually quite freeing (though I promise you that I won't be making it habit to streak bare-butted across my neighborhood.)

Nowadays I like the girl I see in the mirror; I love her, in fact. I accept her and treasure her, as. she. is.

And nowadays, though I honestly still struggle with grasping for control and find that my muscles twitch in a restless-like way as they continue to learn how to rest and simply let things (and especially people) be, as they are, I am passionate about encouraging others to loose their tightly gripped fists and to simply accept their lives, as. it. is.

When we decide not to fix the brokenness and simply be, we reflect that we trust that the One who created us designed us with deliberate intention.

And when we embrace ourselves as we are, our lives reflect a living worship; the real kind that says, "I receive your love. You are enough for me."

Might we embrace our stories as they are.
Might we seek to know God and find peace.
Might we redefine strong and bravely live naked, trusting Him -- as we are.

: : : 

I said "Yes" to a crazy vision that didn't make any sense to me.

Slowly, passion and joy for this God-sized dream unfurled.

Birthed today, this here is a collection of hearts who have chosen to embrace life, as it is --
     . . . this is C'est La Vie: The Magazine:

Visit C'est La Vie: The Magazine on Facebook. 

learning the ways of rest

I was deceived. For years I was under this misunderstanding of Grace.

Scratch that. I didn't know about Grace. Really, I hadn't heard of it.

For years I judged women. Admittedly, I still do.
     Mostly, I judge myself.

So when the Physician's Assistant asked me four weeks before my due date how I was feeling, and I told her the truth (because I've learned its importance), I wasn't quite ready for what she offered me.

I had a plan to be out of work on a set date and even that plan was a generous helping of rest I hadn't ever considered nearly 11-years ago when I was last pregnant and down to the wire, so to speak. Back then, I worked until Noon on the day of my scheduled induction . . . two-weeks after my due date. Yep. I sure did.

Everything had been going so well and I truly didn't even consider an end date for work except unless something happened that would require being taken out of work, or actually being in labor.

This time, I mostly had the same viewpoint; except, I thought about how difficult it is to go to work each day and wonder if it'll be any day, and I thought about my nearly 11-year-old Boy-Man and how I'd really like some time together before we become a family of four. So, I planned to take a "vacation" starting the week preceding my due date and just continue a stay-cation until the delivery, at which time maternity leave would begin.

Knowing our "plans" can get sidelined, I was prepared for the possibility of potentially getting taken out of work earlier than expected, or of something going quirky that would derail all of my highfalutin plans. So, I kept my ideas loose-ish.

What I hadn't considered was being offered to be taken out of work "to rest," and it not necessarily being because anything is wrong. 

I told my PA how exhausted I am . . . how the baby is "so low" . . . how I'm incredibly uncomfortable . . . and of the regular-ish (Braxton-Hicks) contractions.

She reminded me of the magnitude of pregnancy and encouraged me to consider resting even more than I'd so diligently and deliberately focused on (and was) doing.

     But, it just seems so silly . . .
     Women have babies all the time . . .
     There's not really a compelling reason . . . 

     What will people think? 

My perception of pregnancy had deceived me from reality.

I thought mean things like:

     Women who didn't enjoy their pregnancy weren't appreciative. 
     Women who complained about the discomfort of pregnancy are weak. 
     Rest is for the weak ones.

Yeah, I was a judgy one -- tight-fisted, insensitive, irrational, and incredibly intense!

I'm not sure I ever considered all that pregnancy requires of a woman's body, especially in the last month of pregnancy. I'm not sure I ever considered kindness, either.

So here I am with nearly two-weeks until this baby's due date . . . with a tween-age Boy-Man who is so happy to have his Momma home . . .

     And I'm still learning the importance of rest . . .
          I'm still learning the ways of Grace.

You can preach truth at me all the livelong day to loosen my grip and rest, and I'll nod my head in agreement that I get it. I write about it. I preach about it.

But growing is a process, and it requires my patience.

Even though we know truth it doesn't mean our "muscle memory" automatically reprograms. 

Though I am willing and aching for a life with less fear-based living that is the reason for my tight-constricted way of living, I'm definitely a work in progress and still growing. 

     I'm continuing to chase hope for my "muscles" to further develop . . .
          that I will live less clenched and rule-based.
   
     I'm learning to be patient in and with the process.

Maybe this whole experience of letting go and saying "yes" to the opportunity for rest, offered by one sensitive, understanding, and wise Physician's Assistant was one of those moments that will bring me ever further into living the kind of life I believe I was created to live.

I was hardwired to be a hard-worker, a "go-getter," and (at least slightly) Type A. This is a good thing. It helps me get things done and accomplish goals. Yet, it isn't all of me.

About my concern of what people might think?

I'm hoping that like my Physician's Assistant ultimately did, others might look into my eyes and with honesty say:

     "I get it. I so get it. And, I'm with you."

Because, as much as we all know loosening our grip is important, and we want to grab our friend's by the shoulders and shake them until they get it, I have to believe we're all a work in progress . . . we all struggle to fully rest.

And one of my biggest realizations?

    There is no shame for the difficulty in ever more fully learning this truth.

It was a couple of friends who stood in the gap for me, holding space for my continued growth. They walked alongside me in my struggle and didn't judge me or make me feel inadequate.

These few friends didn't try to fix me. They didn't tell me to get over it and command me to "simply" loosen my grip.

These few simply held space for me by opening their hearts, offering unconditional support, and let go of judgment. These friends honor the necessary part of the process.

As one dear friend prayed for me, I also pray, for us all:

"That the paths you are so prone to go down -- the ones of production, the ones of appearance, the ones of showing yourself worthy -- that the rigidness of those routes would soften, and that what spills out the edges of that would find new ground and new ways to make paths . . . for newness of life to grow . . . and a new strength to come from giving over to the work of God."

on contentment (and how to be a Warrior)

Once upon a time my mother would occasionally ask me if I was happy, and I would cringe whenever she did.

I would defend my life choices and try to convince her (and even myself) that I was indeed, happy, even though I wasn't really. I lived discontent and frustrated. Mother's just know these things about their children, and try as I might to fake her out, I couldn't.

My mother wanted her daughter to be happy and she was poised to give me whatever advice she could to help me get out of a situation that made me unhappy. Still, I cringed because I wanted her concern to be greater than circumstantial-happiness.

I knew that it is awfully selfish of me to pursue happiness over what's right for my story and quitting a challenging marriage, for example, wasn't something that I thought was right for me.

I craved inner peace, even though I didn't know it back then. 

When other people start questioning our lives or even making suggestions, we can tend to get all tripped up and find ourselves defensive, or think the easier way is to go it alone and to shut everyone out. So I tried.

I lived so restless and dissatisfied and pined for control -- for. so. long.

I thought I needed to be better and different. I couldn't accept myself and that bled into not being able to accept others, either. I lived for so many years with a scowl and nasty look plastered to my face. I was angry at the world for doing all the wrong things when I was trying so hard to do the right things.

Anger made me resent living. I tried to do everything and have the attitude I was supposed to have or should have. I was too ashamed for not being where I thought I should be.

     I didn't honor or even pursue my heart. 
     I didn't even try to get to know me. 
     I was so mean to me.

Whenever people asked me my "favorite" anything, I'd stumble and fumble for a decision, claiming that I didn't have one, because really, I just didn't know. I was more focused on what I should like that I didn't even consider what I liked or wanted in life.

I'd complain about what I saw and judge everyone, yet I wouldn't be able to articulate what I would want, even if I could have anything I wanted.

I didn't accept my story and instead wanted to run away from it. I envied people who went on trips to far away places, yet I didn't stop to think about all that a trip like that would require and whether I would even think it's worth it if I were given the opportunity.

Nowadays I reflect something far different than I did all those years ago. Sure, happiness alludes me a lot of the time, but it's more than that -- it's contentment.

     I am content with my life, as it is, and with myself, as I am. 
          And truly I tell you, this is no small thing. 

No matter what happens, I know that I can trust God, even when life looks ugly and feels brutal and the storm clouds begin to whirl and twirl in front of me. I can trust Him because I've seen beauty come out of what seems broken and impossible.

It took a long time for me to realize that we weren't made to go it alone. We weren't made to keep a closed heart. We were made for so much more.

My heart is full of joy because I am so overwhelmed with gratitude for every single bit of this, as Glennon says, "brutiful" life I've been given.

I've discovered that there is purpose in all of life and that it isn't up to me to decide what should happen just based on my own feelings or want or comfort. 

There are lives affected and influenced by how my own story unfolds and though sometimes I'd rather be the writer and producer of my own story thankyouverymuch, I know deep inside that so many would miss out on what their own story will become because our lives were interwoven. The same goes with my own life and the importance of the story of others' who I get to know, if even for a moment.

Every single person I meet has happened on and for purpose.

Once I discovered that we are all on-purpose people, I began to truly rest. I began to find contentment with my life without trying to change it or wait for it to be different until I finally decide to embrace it.

Perhaps the most amazing thing that has ever happened in my life so far is this contentment. 

God loosed my white-knuckled hands that nearly suffocated everything and everyone. He gently steered my attention to see the perfect ways He created me and my story, and he helped me to simply live instead of stroking-out from such an intensely focused try-hard life, or flat-lining from giving up entirely.

I learned that I am happiest when I am doing what I like. My heart beats louder and stronger when I'm doing what I enjoy. It requires that I sometimes ignore the Facebook feed and ignore all that everyone else is doing; that I sometimes live with blinders on, at least for a little while I'm gaining strength to run my own course.

When I live my life and let my heart pursue it's desires, I live the Me that God created. 

I learned that I honor Him by noticing His creation -- the part in the clouds that give way to light, the giggle of a baby, the wag of a dog's tail, the touch of my groom's hand, the smile and nod by a friend that communicates I am understood . . . the flavors and colors and experiences and hobbies that feed my heart.

I learned that it takes courage to trust that when we let others in, we won't lose ourselves. That, no matter what someone says about us, suggests to us, or smirks about in front of us, we can still be our real selves. 

God did some profound things to get my attention. 

I don't bother so much with theological discussions these days. Or Bible memorization. Or even church attendance. I don't call myself "religious" and actually can't stand to be referred to as that.

I don't concern myself about what people might think of me anymore. Or get all wrecked inside when I get a nasty look or tone from someone. I am letting people be messy, mistake-prone humans. I've chosen to live by faith and not by the attention from others.

     I am leaning into grace for me and for all of them.

I am passionate about teaching my son that he matters and that everyone around him does, too. And I can't help but to encourage others to see the beauty in their story, as it is.

I simply and fully choose to trust the very personal God who made me and live a simple and restful life.

When I look past how the world or people think I should be, and instead remember that someone will always disapprove of me and I will always come short in some way, I give myself permission to consider that the messiness doesn't mean I don't matter.

When I give myself permission to simply and fully be, I live as the Warrior who He called me to be.

on being "fit"

Last week I listened to the co-creator of a successful adult "game" speak about the initiative he created to help people make a positive change in their life.

Prior to hearing this man speak, I had nearly made up my mind that this challenge that takes the form of a competition is not sustainable. I remembered that I've been known to be wrong about a few lot of things, and so I decided that I'd hear him out and then decide for myself whether joining this challenge would be right for me.

I was careful not to judge and most especially, I was really sensitive to not coming across as better than those who are looking for help. Ultimately, I walked away with a decision that though this isn't for me, it could be right for someone else.

The essence of the challenge is about accountability and having to daily report ones measure of success at following the "rules" associated with challenge.

I like the idea that over a set period of time a person might like any changes they've made in their life as a result of following the rules. Maybe a person will end up noticing that she doesn't need to make a change after all; perhaps she didn't follow any of the rules and felt good about her decisions.

What I'm most concerned about is the quick-fix sought after through physical or dietary challenges, followed by the realization that sustaining the behavior is impossible in real life. The glare people give themselves in the mirror and the words they tell themselves are critical of not measuring up to their own unrealistic expectations.

Ripped abs and a sugar-free diet aren't all that. Sure, on the surface they are evidence of will-power and perhaps even an applaud-worthy kind of discipline. But, life happens and not all things stay the same forever . . . unless coerced or forced.

There are people who can get themselves through all four seasons and still have the same shape to their bodies all throughout. Most people, though, rise and swell with the tide. Reality for humans is that we can't usually hunker down and stay focused on a rigid kind of disciplined life for long.

I've prided myself for getting through seasons and years with the same weight and shape. The reality is that kind of rigidity wasn't something that I continue to be proud of, in spite of the praise I have often received from numerous kinds of people in my life.

A few years ago I learned that I had the power of turning people off -- that they looked away and down when they saw me. I made some people feel as though they could never measure up. Knowing this made me feel sick with embarrassment. It's not that I had the kind of body that we see on most magazines, by any means; however, I was living life and still able to keep up a regimented discipline and for some people, this "discipline" was admirable.

For me, this "discipline" simply became my way of life. I was proud of that kind of life until I realized how incredibly exhausting it was -- how it had actually robbed me of life.

Truthfully, I was only happy when I was exactly the shape and size that I preferred to be; otherwise I was mad at myself for being so weak. Taking a hard-core evaluation of my contentment, I realized that most of my life was in a state of work versus a state of rest. Simply eating and moving had became a full-time job. I needed to discover what I actually like to taste and do, versus just telling myself something is good for me.

One day out of the proverbial "blue", I decided that I'd consider a different kind of discipline; the kind that says "this is enough".

At first it was difficult to tolerate a reduced running distance or even a simple walk around the neighborhood. Like a baby being spoon-fed, I needed to repeat the words: "this is enough," over and over again to myself.

Eventually, simply breathing and stretching really was enough. I could feel the tension in my body ease and I could actually feel the benefits of nurturing my body versus torturing my body in a quick, rigid way. I discovered that strong is actually so much different than I had ever defined it to be.

I have a general feeling of how much exercise I need to put in each week for my body to feel good -- not just to burn x amount of calories, but to actually feel good. Having this kind of awareness is so different than calculating what I ate and how many miles I need to run to make it so that my body doesn't reflect my not-so-perfectly-healthy choices.

I reached the point where I decided that I'm okay eating a sweet treat most days, or maybe even not exercising on a given day (or two, or more). When I've gotten off course from what feels good to me, I make adjustments. And I make them because I feel better when I do, not because I have to.

Berating myself or placing restrictions and rules on myself does nothing for me except to make me feel angry that I can't have what she's having. I've learned to pay attention to how I feel when I reach for a spoonful of peanut butter and that when I neglect to do that, I might pay better attention next time.

Being "fit" is about so much more than what a gym membership or a several week challenge can ever do.

Being fit is recovering when we've sabotaged ourselves -- by breathing in our humanness . . . acknowledging our distraction by the rules we thought would save us . . . and being at least a little more conscious in this moment than the last.

Freedom doesn't lie in our will power or in books or diets.

Freedom comes when we acknowledge that we are loved -- as we are -- and when we decide that having peace and joy matters more than having a certain type of body or certain type of lifestyle.

So let's begin there. Let's begin with love.

The power of one teeny, tiny word

On this Christmas Eve I am reflecting on the life I have and how I almost missed it and quite nearly lost it.

For so long I focused on being better than I was. "Grow" was on my daily task list, though it needn't actually have been written. It was a priority for me to improve myself, assuming that staying as I was would be irresponsible and a waste of time.

When I wasn't fixated on me, I was trying so hard to help others become better versions of themselves. I could see the cracks and holes in everyone around me. Like a mason, I assumed that I would not be fulfilling my obligation if I didn't do what I could to patch everyone up.

Contentment was something I'd never allowed because I didn't believe we should ever accept the imperfect.

Stress was a constant feeling that I experienced. There was always work to be done, either in me or in others. Rest was something I assumed to be reckless and wrong.

Innately, I believed strong was the mighty warrior who never gave up; the one who stayed in the ring and fought to the very end. Strong was getting better at holding up the weight, and seeing the ripples of muscles was evidence I would be ready for a storm. I feared my grit and guts would be overlooked during the quieter moments of life so I perched and flexed myself to be noticed, poised for battle.

I couldn't relax.
I couldn't even smile.

"Be ready", and "Trust no one" were the two mantras I lived by deep inside. I needed to be ready because I knew life is imperfect and each day is a battle.

Anger became my constant way of being.

I was mad at myself when I couldn't do what I knew needed to be done.
I was mad at everyone else when they didn't do what I was certain they should do.
I was mad at things and situations when they failed to meet my expectations.

Blowing up, lashing out, and distancing myself were my go-to tendencies when I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't ever "good enough" to make things become the way I believed they should be, whether it was people or possessions or even what I sensed was unseen and hidden potential.

I was disengaged with the beauty of life, devouring every moment as a battle for love. The possibilities of what I could become was what I thought was lovable about me -- not who I simply was, but who should be. I thought people had a far-off view of who I was supposed to be, yet never knowing for certain what they saw.

Exhaustion eventually had its way with me. I couldn't keep up with even my own expectations and exclamations. I began to consider the life I had around me in spite of all the attempts I made at giving it all up because I just couldn't get myself to be good enough. The hardness that had become of my heart began to crack as I noticed beauty in places where I thought there were only broken pieces.

Practically a dead girl walking, I was barely able to feel anything, much less even see love that surrounded me. I made myself the victim and whined at how "he", and "she", and "that moment", were the reasons for my distress. I neglected to consider the beauty that I could behold from the weaving of all moments without trying to better situations or become someone different.

Seeing the unraveling of beauty out of broken situations was an amazing sight. It became addictive to uncover it hidden deep within the darkest places. Gratitude for gritty, gunky moments welled up within me and though I felt silly and a bit crazy, I discovered joy and peace in a way that a "try hard life" never gave me.

Deep inside, though, I was scared to accept these gifts that came of all that was loosed within me when I knew that nothing lasts forever. I wanted to be prepared for the inevitable and the proverbial bottom falling out. I tried to guard and protect my heart from hurt, bracing myself with a strength that I thought was necessary and that would negate the power of any blow. Flat-lined was how I started to become, until I discovered that even that isn't living.

I considered that I could be wrong about what I imagined myself, and others, and life might someday become. In one seemingly random moment I decided that what I wanted most was to jump right off the train that I had let get out of control and simply sit on a bench, spending the time I've been given scouting for beauty and letting myself feel deep, abiding joy. Even in the midst of all that I sensed was wrong and broken, I discovered that I was strong for accepting what is, not for trying to make what isn't.

I considered the condition of things, as they were.

As. This teeny, tiny word tickled my heart and whispered into my soul. And soon, perfection started to loose in me; it wasn't my attempts that did it, and I haven't arrived at a place where I don't try for it. Still, in place of my daily grind for perfect, I discovered a contentment for me, for others, for life -- as. it. is.

God has done in me what I could not. In seeing all that He's done, I have decided that I can trust that He will do whatever else in me that He sees as necessary. I can trust that I am loved in such a way that I can rest.

I am now convinced that there is no greater way I can worship my Creator than simply by being -- as. I. am.

on life and death

I think we should be talking about a topic that, generally speaking, a lot of us tend to avoid.

We let the moments of our days burlap-cover and tuck underneath what fear says we can somehow protect. We force-feed ourselves with various remedies that we think will manipulate a kind of growth to make our heart superhero-strong from pain.

Just below the undergrowth that we use to camouflage the tender shoots of our heart is a unique, one-of-a-kind treasure that was specifically designed for this crazy, mixed up, wild-like world. Yet, we don't believe it.

Acknowledging death in the periphery of our vision, we shirk off any consideration that our hearts matter and we try to better ourselves with busyness, expecting it will actually give us life.

Fear partitions us from our senses, keeping us focused on protecting ourselves at all costs.

We sacrifice the gift we can unwrap in tasting flavors mixed together because we're so famished for attention and we have this idea that we need to look a certain way to have what we crave.

Engaging with our children or even noticing them as they play feels like a waste of precious time and we want to do things that really matter, so we sacrifice the gift of seeing and feeling all that play and the perspective of a child can give us.

. . . and the list goes on.

People have shared their experience with me of how quickly time goes and they have encouraged me to hold onto it and to treasure the moments before their gone. Though they've been well-intentioned in their advice, I've always felt like their comments were itchy, like a wool sweater. I want to appreciate it for its warmth and comfort, yet this heaviness I experience with this kind of advice is sometimes too much for me.

I'm discovering that time is not something we can control. The vulnerability of not being as strong as we would like to be is what scares us the most I think. We fear the imperfect of our humanity, that we will miss something about a moment, or that our choices in how we allocate our time will somehow be wrong.

I believe that we were created by God who fully knew that we'd make mistakes. To go a step further, I believe He purposely created us this way.

We would be wise to face the hard fact: we will always miss some. thing.

We were purposely created as imperfect beings. This may be simple truth to some people, yet for me I somehow managed to misplace my focus for so many years. I spent my living days aware of my imperfections and thinking that my purpose each day was to fix me, or at least make strides toward fixing . . . toward perfecting what isn't. I thought God tasked me with the responsibility of fixing His mistakes or what He left undone.

My fear of complacency has been like a worm that wreaks havoc on a body, including the neurological system. I was afraid that if I accepted my imperfections then I was resigning myself, giving up on what I could be, and that I won't have what I hope for if I don't put in the effort to get there.

Did I think that my hope was used as some sort of carrot to be someone better?

Did I think life was a cruel test of will? 

Perhaps it's the American way, or maybe it's just me, but somehow I thought success was a constant highway of always improving, always growing, always striving; while, maybe, someday, arriving . . . at least mostly.

In the Spring I was faced with a question that rocked my world:

     How have I spent my life so far?

Truthfully, my own answer made me cry. Because, for so long I wanted to be someone who I'm not -- at least not yet. I've held such hope in my heart that I'll be someone different or better and so I've focused on being her, instead of simply me.

I didn't consider Who gave me my hope . . . Who will lead me to see it fulfilled . . . Who wrote a part for me in the plan for this world.

When I stood at the altar nearly 14 years ago and committed my life to my groom, words stirred in me that have stuck with me. They were words that made me consider how limited my time with him will be and that is what I focused on more so than the other part -- the part that said, "I love you so much I am giving this man to you as an example of my love for you."

There weren't expectations that I be someone who I wasn't, just that I know I am loved. That I receive the gift.

Back then I was ten pounds heavier than I am now. I didn't think then that I had any weight that I needed to lose. Now, if on any given day I'm a bit squishier or pudgier than the previous day, I somehow think I need to hide from the man who said he'd love me until death and who shows it to me everyday with his steadfast stickwithitness. Because, I've learned to eat even more healthy and to take care of my body even better than I did before. Knowledge has side-swiped me from living free to living focused.

I've focused so much on the end -- on when our end will be and how it could be any time, or on what is good for me and will help avoid this or that disease.

I've focused on so much that I thought would protect me that I limited myself from simply falling into the moments and receiving them. 

Living free is vulnerable and scary. I've seen people have the proverbial rug pulled out from underneath them, gutted by utter surprise at death or disease and I've not wanted to be left in a lurch like that, so I've done everything I could do to prepare myself and protect myself.

: : : 

This summer has felt a bit more like winter to me in that it's been a time of restful sitting on the couch with a cleared agenda and calendar. That my family and I haven't had plans has actually felt refreshing, like the comfort and warmth of a blanket.

I've discovered that I actually want to be home, even though it's not exactly the way I want it to be. Traveling and hustling with plans to do this and that really is just one big headache and my typical attempt to avoid the discomfort of imperfection.

I've discovered that I'm loved, even though I'm a wreck a lot of the time and as much of a yo-yo emotionally as the weight of my body. I've felt like new life is hidden just underneath the burlap and that an unfurling will happen, even though it's not quite happening when I think it should.

In the midst of feeling like each moment I live is one step away from falling on an icy patch and feeling tempted to be timid even to breathe, much less walk, I've realized that like my legs, my heart actually feels better when I exercise it instead of focusing so much on keeping myself safe and secure.

I found that by accepting the conditions of each moment, I am able to really live. And by that I mean, to embrace joy in the midst of the jaw-gripping, fault lines of life.

There's a young man who died recently, sparking so many conversations about people's perceptions of other people, particularly of biases as it relates to race. So much of the world noticed because the killing seemed unfair, judgmental, and irresponsible. People have been angry and rightfully so, yet I wonder if they expected some sort of perfect that hasn't transformed humans in spite of the strides that have been taken around human rights.

There's another young man who died recently, sparking another kind of conversation about how experience and success should somehow making him exempt from incurring pain or harming another person.

And then there's a third young man who died recently, sparking attention from a smallish-size group. Though not a nation-wide news story, people stood in lines for hours upon hours yesterday to pay their respects to a roughly 40-year old young man's family -- a village bartender -- who suddenly died of a heart attack.

I feel badly for the families of these men. I feel badly for their having the weight of sadness and for how these deaths have affected so many other people connected with them. I even feel badly for seeing goodness in all of these stories, because declaring any smidge of beauty in the brokenness feels so trite and dismissive of the pain people are experiencing.

Yet . . . I believe there really is more beauty than there is brokenness in this world . . . and most especially, that brokenness always gives way to beauty -- that it's purposed, even though we sometimes can't fathom how or even begin to pretend that we agree.

In the winter-like summer that I have experienced this year, I have hibernated and learned to rest. While doing so, I have contemplated the fragility of life and the risk of love and life.

I decided that I want to live, even if it means I'll experience brokenness.

I decided that holding my heart hostage from joy is more torture than any loss could ever be.

Death will happen. I will likely come when I least expect it. And though I am sometimes tempted to consider which way is a better way or which is a crueler way, I want to stop doing that as often and instead just breathe -- while I can -- sipping, savoring, and sometimes even slurping down the moments.

I'll sometimes evoke all my senses and might even taste life as I drink it in, yet there will be times when I'll gulp it right down with the mindlessness of a 1,000-thoughts-at-once frantic human being.

Maybe talking about death more would help us to be more comfortable with the imperfect nature of how it comes upon us. Maybe it would help us not to be so consumed with the idea that we can somehow perfect our handling of it.

Like parents do with children, we will mess up life.

We will forget to watch our tone and we'll even forget to wash our hands. We will forget that we really don't want the cookie and we'll reach for vices that have become our habits.

Life isn't something we can perfect or get through without pain. Though we want to be better, the truth is that we will die and we will die imperfect.

I don't want to spend all my energy trying to perfect me (or others) when I'll never finish the job anyway. 

I've decided that if Someone decided this world was worth having me a part it, then I can trust that Someone knows better than me.

That Someone wants me to embrace what is, as it is -- even what isn't exactly right or how I'd like it, including myself and other people.

Who am I to question Someone's Art?

Linking with Jennifer and Bonnie.

on learning to accept fear (Part 2: responding to a mother's worry)

My mother texted me the other day to express how "sad" it is about Robin Williams. I agreed and commented how mental illness is definitely very real.

She then said: "Promise me never to do that."

And I couldn't reply.

Sometimes the truth is too scary to face, so I hide.

I was afraid of my mother's fear so I chose not to respond to her request that I make such a big promise to her. Mostly I was afraid for her because sometimes the truth can feel like too much. I wanted to protect my mom from worry.

I've been paying more attention to fear these days.

I've been noticing that like children, fear just wants to be noticed. Even though fears can't just get what they want and don't have the right to push me around, I'm letting them be heard. I'm asking questions and trying to learn from them, even though rationalizing with or talking down fear doesn't always work.

Like the white hair, and wrinkles, and aches and pains that have been slowly making me notice that in spite of my feelings, I'm not 25 anymore . . . fear reminds me that I'm human.

I'm learning that I can rest when I simply accept fear as a part of life, kind of like germs that I can't just perfectly cleanse away. I make a choice to accept the risk that I might get sick and live.

No matter what we do, fear isn't something that we can make go away.

Fear isn't something to feel shame about -- neither that we have fear, or that we struggle to control it.

I hope that in time I'll become better at thoughtfully responding to fear instead of impulsively reacting to it and that my body will be strong enough for it the next time it invades me. For now, I'm learning to be honest that this conditioning takes a lot out of me.

I feel like a person who is just beginning a new fitness routine and is tempted to give up from feeling more exhausted because of the workouts. I'm learning to be gentle and patient and kind with myself as I develop the strength to stand strong in the midst of fear that is a part of life. Like wind, I can't control fear from happening, but I can do what I can to be prepared for it. Yoga reminds me of this as I contract my core muscles and stand strong like a tree, imagining that I can't be pushed or blown over.

I'm starting to accept fear and it's wonky ways. I'm also starting to accept it as a part of others, too, and how it spills over and makes a mess sometimes.

Though I couldn't promise my mom I won't one day take my life and I was afraid of how she might feel and what she might think if I spoke the truth, I decided not to let my silence be so deafening.

In my response to my mother's worry for me, I addressed it by saying:

I saw your text before I went to bed and didn't know how to respond, so I let it sit.

The truth is, I can't promise something like that to you. I can't promise that to anyone. Not even myself.

Does it mean you should be worried about my mental health? Not necessarily.

None of us are immune from random and seemingly sudden moments of onset anxiety and depression; however, I'd venture that the "sudden-seeming" nature is really a surfacing of the truth that's hidden below.

I've struggled in my own silent and scary ways for a lot of my life, and it's likely why I created "rules" that were my way of trying to fix myself.

I'm aware that my son and my husband and I could choose not to be brave in this life; we could choose to give up.

That I haven't . . . that any of us haven't . . . is truly a miracle. 

I share this piece of my response to my mom because truth alone isn't enough to set us free

     . . . neither is love from our family, and
     . . . neither is time.

It isn't because we aren't good enough that explains why we continue to struggle in life, it's simply because we haven't arrived in a place where anything is perfect.

When we accept that we were made human, we just might begin to accept our brokenness . . . and even ourselves. 

Maybe, just maybe, we'll begin to simply be, as we are, instead of work to become someone we aren't (even yet).

Maybe we'll begin to see our beauty as the kind that in its rawness is sometimes hard to look at, yet reminds others that they aren't alone.

Maybe we'll begin to see our imperfect bravery of accepting ourselves as the most perfect beauty of all.

Maybe we'll begin to accept grace.

Maybe we'll begin to rest.

Maybe we'll begin to live.

on holding dreams (and my self) loosely

I'm developing a different kind of muscle memory these days; the kind that rests more than it clenches. My whole being is learning to loosen the grip I long held on everything that nearly strangled life right out of me.

A lot of my days were spent so focused on growing that I overlooked who I was. Laughing at my mistakes was something I couldn't imagine doing. I intensely and perfectly tried to be someone I wasn't and missed out on simply appreciating and enjoying me. Rules became my Ruler; my rigid and legalistic ways become my god.

God is so much bigger than me and any of my rules. He allowed me to reach a point of exhaustion where I fell in a heap and said:

     "If there's work to be done in me, You do it.
       I'm too tired to try anymore to fix me! 
       I'm choosing to just be me, as I am
       I'm trusting this is enough." 

In the midst of my giving up with trying to be better or different than I was, my hope was restored and I was given a fresh anointing of peace. And I was able to see that rest is the kind of offering that honors Him best.

To simply live, as I am . . . this is the heart of worship.

It took a long time for me to realize that no one and no thing could fulfill my dreams and give me the kind of life I longed to have. I was angry and agitated for so long, disappointed by all that I thought would give me happiness and peace.

It took brokenness for me to discover that I am loved far more than I ever considered.

It took a depleted heart for me to trust God and rest . . . to live. 

Each new day -- moment-by-moment -- has become an opportunity for me to unwrap God's grace, His true gifts . . . such rich evidence of His love for me.  

Even in the midst of uncertainties and questions that tempt to evade our very peace, we can trust that God loves us and He's got us, and everyone else, too. He knows just how far to let us go and just how far to take us in the valley; we can take a hands-off approach to fixing us (and fixing others).

We can rest.

Though it looks like God is cruel in allowing detours, delays, and disappointment, we can trust there's something He has for us to learn in the process that we've called waiting and simply call it: living.

: : : 

Join me at God-Sized Dreams for more on how I'm learning to hold even my dreams loosely. 

Also linking with Jennifer. 

an open apology, and an invitation to simply be . . . as . you . are .

I'm not sure how to address this . . .

To the ones I've embarrassed . . . 
To the ones I've judged . . . 
To the ones I've turned off . . . 
To the ones I've hurt . . . 

To all-y'all . . . 

I confess that I've been too much and not enough at the same time. 

I worried about this, knowing innately that something wasn't quite right, though not knowing exactly what or how to fix me.

The way I lived for so long (and might still have a tendency to sway toward) has been as an extremist. The kind who people look away from and talk about to other people. I've labeled my actions as passionate when really, I've been more than a tad over the top most of the time.

A heart can only take so much of this kind of living. Whether it's extreme happiness or extreme anger, living with such a level of intensity is too much for a soul to rest in peace.

Constantly flittering from one emotion to the next, I lived restless. To "abide" always seemed to me like "complacency" and that just didn't seem like the right thing that I or anyone should be. So I searched harder for what I thought I should be. I tried harder and harder to be who I thought I needed to be.

When I admit that I've lived like this, constantly wondering how I ought to live and to what, and where, and who my attention should be given, I realize that I sound crazy. Quite literally, I've felt it a lot of the time.

I tried all sorts of things to live differently and eventually realized that what I've missed is the "live" part. 

A lot of the time I just wanted to die and I spent my life waiting and even hoping that I would. Just being me, as I am, has always felt so weak when I thought there's more I could be doing. And sure, I could, but there's always a cost.

I thought that if I could just be certain that the reason why I don't have the desires of my heart isn't because something is wrong with me . . . that it isn't my fault why certain things are the way they are . . . that I can fix me and everything else, even if it's true that I've done something, then . . . maybe then I can live . . . but what then? 

Do I really think I'll have this peace-filled, joyous life more than I can have now? 

It's exhausting to try to be someone who I'm not.
It's equally exhausting to try to make someone else be who they are not.

To let things be goes beyond waiting. It ignores for a moment what might be or could be, and just let's what is to simply be. When I just sit back and let things be, there's a great sigh of relief from the intense pressure to perfect me, and you, and everyone.

There's joy to be found right here . . . 
   
     where we're mindful of all that is . . .
     where we simply unwrap it . . .

               and receive it . . .
               and marvel in it . . .
             
               as. it. is.

Personally, I believe that God allows all things for purpose and even when something or someone appears so ugly that there doesn't seem like there's any hope at all. I believe there are immense possibilities for the beauty that will be made out of everything. I think of these fuzzy little stuffed animals that existed when I was young that we could turn inside out and they'd become a different creature.

I see life this way:

     Transformable (also sometimes referred to as Redeemable)
     Brimming with beauty (in spite of any apparent brokenness)
     Hope-filled (even though . . . )

I've been so excited about so much in my life that I've wanted to share it with everyone.

That said, I confess that I have hardly considered what words I use that might trigger something in someone else and I have rarely exercised sound judgment. I've been reckless and abused my influence. I've spoken loudly and often, as if I'm on stage all lookatmeish.

I've assumed that I have a responsibility to preach people to conformity after I have been changed, myself . . . to take what I learn and turn it inside out for all the world to see.

I'm learning that I can let people be, as. they. are . . . even if (I think) they're blind.

Eyeglasses aren't meant to be shared.
The script that I have is unique to me.

I can't just toss my glasses to the next person and say:
     Here, take these . . . look through these and you'll see!

It hurts my groom when I share details about him and our life with people. I used to be flummoxed about this, and nowadays I really appreciate the intimacy that we share when we keep others out.

I'm learning that I don't need to share every single thing with every single person, including my relationship with God. My experience as His daughter is unique.

To blabber about what my Father says about me and my life is a lot of the time boasting and bragging doesn't do a bit of good for anyone. I wouldn't do this with my siblings and I wouldn't want my children doing it among each other, either.

My relationship with God is personal and private; not secretive, per say, just not necessarily appropriate for public display. I'm living by faith and less by fear. I'm resting as I trust that what I know is enough.

There's a loosing happening in me. 

     I'm learning to be quieter. 
     I'm learning what it means to live a life of rest. 

My heart is saddened as I'm aware of how I've turned people off and quite possibly hurt them without knowing it; maybe even knowing it and not caring.

For many unique reasons, some people have a problem with me and have chosen to distance themselves from me.

     Some might have blocked me on their Facebook feeds.
     Some might see me and look the other way.
     Some might cringe when I come.
     Some might wish I didn't exist.
     Some avoid my call or text.
     Some lie to me altogether.

I'm incredibly sad at this, heavy-hearted, and quite a bit embarrassed. But what keeps me from running away and hiding my face now is realizing that they knew things about me before I knew them about myself. What difference does it make to run away now? They have already done what they've needed to do since I couldn't see what needed to be done in me.

The people who have remained in my life are examples of how I am loved. They aren't any better than the people who have chosen a life with distance between us. Some might have better off if they did chose another way, though I am selfishly grateful for their choice to stay and maybe even suffer right along with me in their own unique way.

I don't want to imply that I have that much clout in people's lives, because I don't. 

     However . . . I know the influence people can make
          and the ways that we sometimes toy with each others hearts,
          as if we can just pull and tug however we want. 

I've toyed with people and nearly destroyed so much, but thankfully God is so much bigger than me, and her, and him, and you, and all of us. I'm so grateful for this, even though I've resented that I wasn't chosen to be more than who I am.

Pride is a part of being a person. It's ugly and wretched. Yet, it's okay that we are because it reminds us who is God and plays a big role in keeping us all praying in our own way. God can handle our horridness; He really can.

So, to the people I've hurt, I'm sorry for who I was. I'm sorry for who I am a lot of the time. Yet, I can't help it, and I trust that you'll see that, too. I trust that you've found, or are on your way of finding your own peace.

I pray that we'll rest, all of us . . . that we'll live . . . in joy

     . . . even though there's brokenness, and berating, and blaming,
             and behavior that makes us feel like we'll never be enough.

Nothing we've done has gotten us to where we are at this very moment. It's a gift we've been given because we are loved by Someone far better than any of us will ever be.

     You are enough.
          As you are.

     We all are enough.
          As we are.

Our lives were weaved together for purpose that our being imperfect won't ever mess up. 

I'll just keep on breathing, because breathing is something I really can't not to do.
I'll just keep on living, too, because it is also something that I can't not do.

Whether together or apart . . . let's live, let's learn, let's love . . . as. we. are.

     This is our worship.

Linking with Bonnie. 

embracing life, as it is

I've spent many days of my life intensely focused on me, thinking about what I need to do better or how I should live differently. Growing has always been a goal for me.

One of my friends has told me on several occasions that I know myself better than anyone she knows. The thing is, I don't. For so many years I studied myself and my circumstances in order to understand why things happened and how I can make things be different than they are. I've tried to forget and to forgive, all to fix the frail parts of my heart.

Accepting myself was something I struggled to do, and so I didn't know who I was created to be; not just created to be, as in the future, but created to be in each moment-by-moment. I've not rested in simply being me. I've not realized that I am allowed to be as I am, and to seek God for who He says that I am.

My life has always felt regular and average, yet there are people all around me who hurt far worse than I ever have. While there are people who don't feel safe in their own home, I have never experienced a life like that. In all my growing up days, my heart was heavy with disappointment over how people can possibly hurt other people, though I was not even physically threatened. I grew up in a loving home and I continue to live in such a place where I don't doubt that I am loved. I feel badly even saying that, as I imagine the people whose lives are far different.

I want to protect other people's heart, yet I am restless and sad when I try to silence my story. I wasn't made to box up my joy in martyr-like ideology with an attempt to make someone else feel better. I cannot control or contain my feelings and experiences and still expect to live. And so, I'm learning to share without shame. I'm learning to let loose my joy and to let it unravel and spiral down through my veins and out my pores. I'm beginning to realize that when I do this, it doesn't make others wounds more painful, it gives others sight to grace and to hope.

My intention isn't to rub salt in a wound by saying, look at me and my happy-clappy life. God is loosing my fear of hurting others by giving me a longing to speak the truth about what He has and continues to actively do in my life, regardless of what that means for someone else's story. The process comes with a lot of trust on my behalf that He will fill the gaps and meet the needs of those weaved with my life; that if something I say or do triggers something painful in them, that He will make them whole. After all, He is always bigger than me.

For most of my life I struggled to receive love for myself; to even consider that I am valued. Now I see all the gifts in my life as evidence of God's personal love for me. 

God knew what would make me smile. He knew what would make my taste buds tickle and what would satisfy me. God matched me up with just the right people and experiences -- some of who even hurt and disappoint me -- for me to discover who He is and that His love comforts me far deeper than the circumstances of my life might momentarily seem to dictate.

I see all the ways God followed me into the trenches of my life. He knew just how far He needed to go to rescue me . . . from myself and my fears . . . for me to surrender my fear-focused life and trust Him.

God knows what it takes for me to see His love for me, moment-by-moment. I'll miss out on experiencing what He desires for me to experience and to know about Him and even my own self if I keep my life tucked away and hidden. And so I'm learning that each moment is a gift and my unwrapping and receiving as it is, is my worship to Him. Unwrapping my story honors all that He Handcrafted for my story and that though I don't understand, I can trust He has purposed. So, I am beginning to tell the stories of my life and I tell them with brave boldness.

: : :  

The home I live in with my groom and our son is filled with love, peace, happiness, and joy. We do things together like play Dutch Blitz, throw the lacrosse ball back and forth to each other, and play video games. There is a lot of laughter in our home on a daily basis. We sit down and have a semi-unrushed breakfast together every day, and most days we have lunch and dinner together. We go for family walks around the neighborhood with our dog and our weekends are mostly quiet-ish and relaxing.

My life is good, idyllic-like. And though I'm aware that it could be different, I'm also aware that I really don't know just how different it could be. I grip tight to this life. I fear that I will be shocked and saddened if our tomorrow isn't like today. And the truth is, I will be. Because, no one can prepare for a diagnosis or a death or a disaster. I will need a strength that is beyond me. I will need God.

I find myself thinking that our Norman-Rockwell-like life can't possibly go on for much longer; we're bound to encounter a tragedy any one of these days. A lot of mornings I gasp at this thought and fear letting myself sip and savor this life as it is. I fear receiving the moments as they are because I know everything could be different.

When a miscarriage ended our baby girl's life, I kept thinking of the women who have carried a baby full-term only to lose him or her. And when a doctor said I had cancer, I kept thinking that there are people who have much worse and more real kinds of cancer. In both of those experiences I placed limitations on my feelings, just as I continue to do with my life as it is today as I try to protect my heart in preparation for a potential hurt.

This tightly gripped "self-protection" kind of life actually has taken more energy and has inhibited me from experiencing perfect peace and joy, and most of all, Real life.

God is teaching me what it means to live a life of rest. My life might be different tomorrow or even two minutes from now, and while I don't want to take it for granted, I feel called to count my gifts and live with thanks for each moment, as it is.

My life has purpose for what it is right now and for what it has been. While several friends are frantically raising several littles who are one, two, or three years apart, I am raising one Boy-Man who is nearly a decade old and still hoping for another who will be at least nearly 11 years apart in age. While my friends speak of their life as chaos, I envy the comfort of having a larger and not so contained sized family. My friends aren't better than me with their multiple, close-in-age children who have siblings as their best friends and I'm not better than them with my simple and quiet life.

When I simply live my life, I am reflecting a heart of gratefulness for how God allows it to be. To live my own life is to trust Him. This is the heart of worship.  

If God should see it necessary for my life to change, I can trust that He's got it and He's got me. For now I can use these days to learn more about what it means to rest and not worry, to quiet the noise that says I'm missing out or wasting my days by living so simple and still. I trust God's training me today to rest and to respond, instead of react to the change or challenges in my life with shame for how I've lived.

When the tumbleweeds should start to whirl and twirl in front of me and the storm clouds rush in (because clearly we're not in Eden and this is the stuff life this side of Heaven is made of), I hope I will trust Him and abide in the peace He has given and will continue to give.

Today, I'm simply breathing and give thanks for this life, as it is. I'm trusting that this is the worship He desires from me: to live, as. I. am.

Linking with Jennifer

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. 

close

Standing on the fringe. 

That's what it felt like to me.

Like I was just a smidge outside of His perfect will, or calling, or whatever you call it.

All I could think about was that I was so close. Yet, all His Spirit kept whispering to my heart was: you are so much closer than you think. 

I was there. In His presence. In the glory. As in, IN. I was, and am, that close.

That I've been or might be forgotten is what I've feared, though I hadn't actually labeled the fear as such. Anxiety would sweep me up in a whirlwind to hurry up and make visions happen because I might miss out. It'd be my fault, or my doing, or something that I'd done or didn't do that would cause me to miss out on something my heart truly desires.

               Hurry. Hurry!
               Choose now.
               No matter whether you're ready, just choose. 
               Just do it. 
               Do it now. 
               Hurry. 
               Hurry! You might miss out.

These were my steady mantras. Manifestos for me, or something like that.

Fear-driven. That was me.

Driven. Intensely driven.

Anxious.

I'd call it passion. But really, it was fear that causes my anxious way of living.

I've lived an angry life for a very long time. My anxiousness comes out in anger. I have a tendency to be irritated and annoyed and downright angry at everyone and everything, and mostly myself.

               So close, but not enough. 

That's what I've feared.

               Standing on the fringe. 

: : : 

People ask God to be a part of their day. To join them or be with them, or whatever.

I think it sounds so crazy.

               Isn't He always with us?
               Isn't He always there?
               Isn't it He who ordains all things? 

Truth tells me this, yet my tendency is to ramble and rush and react. When really, I can rest and rely and relate.

I'm not crazy, as in totally not someone who belongs. I do belong. I am good enough to be a part of this world.

Muscle memory develops in time. My muscles are learning how to respond to the truth that I know and not just react to truth out of fear that says I must, or should or need.

All muscles need rest in order to grow. My heart needs conditioning as much as it needs rest. This is the discipline God is teaching me.

He wants me to rest, as I am.

I've been obedient. I've done all that I can with what might someday be a manuscript. And I've done all that I can with what might actually become of a God-sized dream of a magazine.

I believe the heart of C'est La Vie: The Magazine (or whatever it might really become) is a community that will unleash and free people to live their life, as it is. This community will do this by bolstering one another to know we are not alone.

I can rest that what I've done in defining the mission and articulating the vision for this dream is enough for the rest to be.

What I've done is enough for me to rest and to see: how it develops . . . how He brings it together . . . how He grows me and it and all of us in the process.

I can rest that I am good enough (as I am) for Him to continue to develop this and me and us.

               I can trust Him. 
               I can rest. 

This is what is requested of me now: to rest and not rush.

I understand even more now that this, right now -- this choosing to rest and accept me, as I am -- is my worship.

My choosing to submit to God and trust that as I am is enough . . . that I am a part of glory that already is and already will be . . . I'm that close . . . is my real and raw worship.

Amen.

Linking up with Lisa-Jo 

(even though five minutes took 15 today)