the long journey to peace, to Life

Several years ago I was given a dream that felt comfy and exciting.

Through a painful process and time, I learned the importance of patience and trust.

I thought surely God must be cruel because I even prayed the desire would go away and still, it remained.

How could I possibly be given such a desire and yet be waiting, still, more than a handful of years later?

I felt tortured -- gutted and raw -- and in that vulnerable state I was faced with a decision.

     Do I keep trying to make this dream happen?
          Or do I simply wait and trust?

     But what if it doesn't happen?
          What if it turns out my dream is something I made up?

There were times when I wanted to run away from everything in my life and even crawl into a me-size grave and fall asleep forever.

It seemed easier to just divert my eyes from the dream and even ignore the tugs at my heart. 

I nearly destroyed my marriage and gave up my child, thinking I wasn't good enough for the dream that hounded me, and perhaps I wasn't even good enough for them.

I gathered us three and we pursued a new place to live with wide open spaces and sunshine nearly everyday. I felt free and started to learn what life is like without the familiar memories from my growing up years. I thought I needed a fresh start and a new me.

Within two years we turned ourselves right back around and ended up in the last place I ever wanted to be -- Home.

The community where I was raised now felt scarier than ever. Everyone remembered the "before me" and I feared they wouldn't see the newness of me.

As it turned out, though I could sense the change deep below the surface, the "new me" was still only a seed. There would be a handful more years to live through until I would bloom and beauty would unfurl.

God asked me if I would stay with the man He allowed me to marry, even if I was sometimes irritated or annoyed by the discomfort of living with someone different than me.

My answer was a vehement "No!" at one point.

He had asked me numerous times to let go of the dream I tried to coerce him into making happen. Time and again I'd try to let go, only to fail over and over again; I just couldn't make this wanting go away.

I tried to coerce my groom to give up on me, convinced I was otherwise just postponing the inevitable because surely he would get frustrated with me enough to eventually give up.

Eventually, I realized my groom was right. What seemed like a good thing had become an obsession. It was my fear of thinking I wasn't good enough that was infiltrating into every single aspect of my life, including my interactions and relationship with him.

I needed to consider letting the dream go and trust that I am good enough, as I am.
     But how?

After actually trying to make my groom go, I finally realized something profound: He stayed.

     No matter how many glasses I threw and broke . . .
     Or how many times I careened out of our driveway and down the street in reckless anger . . .
     Or how much I yelled unfair accusations and ugly, colorful words at him . . .

The man who committed his life to me actually stayed.

I finally understood he was honest all the times his words said my curves were attractive and my edges weren't all there is about me. Most especially, I finally understood my groom's love is genuine when he gave me the space to process out loud.

Even though my behavior certainly hasn't been "good," it turns out I am good enough -- as I am. 

I courageously received his love, choosing to believe him and set my doubts free. After nearly 14-years, I finally married him last summer . . . this time, in my heart.

: : : 

Over a year ago I imagined sitting on a front porch with my hands cupped around a warm cup of tea, and seeing storm clouds slowly make their way across the sky.

I could feel the angst in me as the storm clouds began to whirl and twirl, and I considered making my way inside my house where I would find safety and comfort from my groom. Since he had become a person who I (finally) found rest in being with, my initial reaction was to go inside since a storm was about to brew and let him calm my restless heart.

Just then, I felt a stirring in me to stay, as if it were an invitation.

     Wait.

More storm clouds. More whirling and twirling.

     Will you stay? 
          Even now . . . in the midst of the storm . . . will you stay? 

     Will you trust Me? 
          I will teach you to rest, in the midst of the storm . . . now, as it is . . . 

The clouds thickened and the sky grew ever darker in my imagined moment, and I started to consider what happens during a storm.

I thought of the moment when the storm clouds part and the brilliant colors poke through the darkened canvas of the sky. That parting in the sky doesn't last long and it's sometimes really easy to miss, especially when we're tucked safe inside where it's more comfortable to weather a storm.

Brilliant orange and pink colors make their way through the clouds, though their beauty is not always indicative of the end of a storm. There is beauty in the midst. And we could miss it.

As if it's a reminder to Hope, the call to stay teaches us we can trust and rest. 

This vision grew a passion within me to encourage others to stay . . . to Chase Hope in the midst of the storm -- not necessarily for the storm to end and the hard story to be pretty-bow tied, but rather to stay long enough to see the beauty in the midst of the fog and the grey.

     To hope for His glory to be revealed in some way, even if it's not as we would design it to be.

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion?
Come to me.
Get away with me and you'll recover life.
I'll show you how to take a real rest. 
Walk with me and work with me -- watch how I do it. 
Learn the unforced rhythms of Grace.
I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. 
Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."
(Matthew 11:28 The Message)

: : : 

Soon after the storm vision, I was given a dream that I tried to fling wide onto someone else . . . anyone else. It kicked at my insides like a strange-feeling butterfly just waiting to bust out and fly.

     I itched and scratched, restless and irritated.

This dream just didn't make sense. It wasn't comfortable or exciting. It was annoying and just sounded like work that would interrupt my now quiet, and rested soul. I didn't need to prove anything or achieve anything anymore. I was happy and content with life, as it was.

     Still, I itched.

This irritating "dream" kept kicking me in the belly like a fetus in utero. Though I didn't want to admit it could be real, I simply had to pay attention to this.

     Develop a magazine . . . and name it, "C'est La Vie" -- life, as it is.

     Use this to envelope others around what you've discovered:

          . . . that you can trust me, and you can rest
          . . . even in the midst of life's storms.

It was settled. I would yield.

The journey I lived brought me to a passionate understanding that I can trust Our Creator -- God. I learned that I can rest, even as the battle rages and the storm billows.

I began to believe I am good enough, as I am. 

"Strong" was redefined for me.

I now see Strong as the courage to hold all things loose and to trust God -- hoping -- not for a happy storybook ending, but rather for peace

     . . . even in the midst of the storm
     . . . even if the storm never ends
     . . . even if the dreams my heart longs for never come true.

God gave me the desire to develop a magazine that seeks to dethrone the typical, glossy ones telling readers how to have the perfect body, the perfect children, the perfect house, the perfect marriage, the perfect sex . . . the perfect life -- as if theirs simply isn't good enough, as it is.

"C'est La Vie: The Magazine," the dream God planted within my heart and that I resisted, will be birthed about the time my 10-plus year dream of having another child will be born, the dream I tried to make go away and that remained through the years -- even after my hard surrender.

Having a second child wasn't something I necessarily wanted. It was a dream I believed with all my heart God wanted for us. I wanted it so badly just because I thought it would prove He is real. I imagined saying, "Look! See? God did this! He is real!"

If there's anything my journey taught me, it's that I don't need a baby to prove God is real. 

"C'est La Vie: The Magazine" reminds us that our greatest offering is to unwrap the grace to simply be -- as. we. are. -- and to trust God has purpose for life -- as. it. is.

His heart cry is for us to know we can trust Him . . . we can rest.

     What if I didn't say "Yes"?
     What if I didn't stay?

     What if I didn't choose courage to see what it is God had to show me?

It makes me want to throw up even thinking about how different my life might look right now if I hadn't chosen to surrender my comfort and step with God into the fog-laden path of life.

Deep contentment and joy for life has finally overwhelmed me. I might not always feel this secure, even though I know He will always hold me and keep me safe.

Even if the deep fears that try to niggle at me end up coming true, I know there will be sufficient Grace when I need it.

I don't have to imagine the worst in an attempt to prepare myself for a possible hardship. God will comfort me and He will be enough. Besides, I could never prepare enough for what His Grace wants to show me.

Even in the midst of the storm, He will cascade beauty across the canvas of our sky.

Christianity as I knew it was disassembled in my life. In its place is faith -- genuine faith.

After many years, I finally came to see the wait for my dream as a gift. I didn't need the dream to happen anymore. The journey was about so much more. I now know I am treasured and deeply loved -- as I am.

After such an ugly and hard journey of stubbornness and fear-living, a beautiful peace washed over me to accept my story -- as it is. 

"C'est La Vie: The Magazine" is about to make its debut, and soon thereafter will my second son.

I don't need to see what either of these dreams end up looking like in order to love them now.

Joy and gratitude has come to me without needing to see the proof. 

As these dreams grow their lungs, I imagine them scream: Look at what God did!

     I can already hear their screams of Glory . . . of Life.

Linking with Jennifer

on living sheltered and small

I was raised in a very vanilla town within Central New York, sheltered from a greater reality that is something far beyond my own.

My world was small and with age I started to feel badly about that. I was quietly sad and ashamed for my perspective and shallow thinking, yet it was all I knew. For nine months of my adult life my groom and I lived in a house with nine Boy-Men -- one of our own and eight others who challenged me to consider that we really aren't all the same deep inside.

I remember writing notes to each of the teenage Boy-Men to encourage them or tell them how special they are, yet I don't remember ever sitting down and asking about their experiences -- back in their hometown or as part of mine. I said that I cared about these young men whose voices were changing each week and who spent countless hours on the computer or staying up late playing video games, though the truth is that I wanted to care but a part of me felt shame.

I couldn't help to think that this vanilla community wanted to extend a hand just so that we could say that we're more inclusive than we are, or to feel good about ourselves. We welcome eight teenage boys to our public high school each year and offer them a better chance academically, while expecting these people from different life experiences to conform to our little hockey-town-USA.

I didn't have a clue what life was like for these kids beyond what little I'd read in books, or heard people talk about, or from what I'd seen on tv. The truth is, my world and everything about it was one kind of experience based on one kind of color.

As I was running in the village the other day, I thought about a friend of mine who teaches her children how to represent themselves whenever they interact with police officers. She's black and I'm white; our lives couldn't be more opposite: for my son, these armed guards are helpful heroes; for hers, they are something entirely different. When I told this friend how my groom and I had been houseparents for eight teenage boys from the inner city, I think she began to think of me in a way she hadn't before.

Earlier today my family and I walked to the village in our town for an Arts & Music Festival and afterward I popped on line for a bit to see what's happening on Facebook. This friend had a few posts and so did a few others whose lives are so wildly different from mine. Most of the time I scroll for our commonalities in how we express our heart and faith, and what I don't see is the real differences that are so much harder to communicate and to understand.

I hadn't considered how different our experience walking in our village today could've been if we lived somewhere else, because it's hard to think of what could be but isn't. First-year students are moving into our town's college today and I noticed a slight influx of luxury vehicles and out of state license plates, but I didn't see anything particularly different than usual. Our town is still vanilla. It's still safe and small.

The Adirondack Mountains are virtually in our backyard. Birds chitter-chatter. Kids ride their bicycles. Mr. Ding-a-ling sells Ice Cream. Here, the biggest controversies are around the school taxes, kids riding their bicycles without helmets (and, Where are the parents?!) 

I don't mean to minimize some of the issues our town has experienced, but lets face it: we're sheltered.

Here, we're talking about whether a NASCAR superstar is to blame for the tragic death of a young stock car driver, and we're posting pictures of ice bucket challenges. We're trying to stay current and relevant and helpful, though I'm not hearing people talk about things like what's been happening in Ferguson, Missouri or if we even care that our town is so vanilla.

A few years ago I started reading Michelle Alexander's book, "The New Jim Crow Law," though I had to put it down because everyone in my small world who I tried to talk with about it just didn't understand what I was talking about; our small perspectives just couldn't rationalize the idea of conspiracies around drug arrests and racial profiling. I saw the book on my bookshelf this morning and thought about how maybe I should pick it up again. Maybe it's time to consider experiences that aren't my own.

Personally, I somehow missed the news for two or three whole days and didn't have a clue what people were even talking about when I read "Praying for #Ferguson" on my Facebook feed. And then, there was so much to read and I didn't know where to begin or what to make of it all. I don't know what to say, except I know in my heart that I shouldn't feel badly for what I don't know. It isn't my fault that novels are about the only opportunity I have for considering stories that aren't my own.

A non-white family moved into our neighborhood last year; we've exchanged smiles and waves, though that's the extent of it. I'm afraid I couldn't even pronounce their names if I tried. I don't know if the family is Burmese or Indian or what their nationality is, I just know they are different from me. The other day I was thinking about how I want to know them and learn about their experiences, but I'm not sure how. I might bring them over a tray of cookies or something, though that's about the extent of how far I'll probably go in connecting with them because . . . how?

The family next to us brought over some sort of homemade Korean dish when we moved into the neighborhood a handful of years ago and I'll never forget the kindness of their gesture. We say they're "nice" people because they deliberately smile and wave every single time they drive by us, though we don't know much about them except that they speak with broken English.

I don't know what to say about Ferguson or how to connect with my own neighbors and that saddens me. What saddens me most is that I really do know what it takes and that comfort and familiarity is what I so often choose.

We talk about the cost of education and how one school isn't going to be the first to start reducing the price or even keeping it the same, yet a full half of the students attending the college in our town come from families who are willing to pay the ticket price. There's still a market for the high cost, and meanwhile there's still kids who even if they could attend would choose not to because the cost for them is more than financial, it's about fitting in.

How do we welcome people when we're so used to the comfort of small and sheltered? 

How do we inform ourselves? 
     And do we even care to be informed or inclusive? 

I'm not sure what to do, except to speak to those who live in small world like me and say:

If you're uncomfortable with your naivete like I am with mine, let's do something . . .

Let's learn . . .
Let's open our eyes . . .
Let's consider experiences different than ours . . .
Let's ask questions . . .
Let's listen . . .

my choice, my story

I wish I could wrap a pretty bow around my story and say that I'm "all better" . . .

I'm still tempted to say it doesn't matter . . . that there isn't still a lump that I feel in my throat when I talk about this part in my life story.

I wish I didn't still look around my shoulder to consider who that I know might be listening and fear certain people finding out.

I don't talk about this part in my story much at all, and when I do I still pick at the words as though I'm picking at the hem of my sleeve.

Today, sharing my story is still sometimes very hard for me. I still feel the heaviness in the pit of my stomach.

I was supposed to be the "good girl". This expectation of myself and that I failed still humbles me and I still feel sadness and see shame cowering in the corner when I think about how I wasn't really good . . . 

: : : 

A good friend recommended me to share my story at TheSnapMom.com where I was asked pointed questions that are personal and that I wish wasn't still difficult.

I need you to know that it was a journey for me to get to this place where an interview was even something I would consider and be willing to step into.

I've shared about this on a few occasions, but this one was different and one I had to say "no, thank you" to, and with time ultimately reconsider.

In the telling of my story in this way, God has brought me to an even deeper place of healing. 

I have struggled with the fact that I *still* struggle in ways that I wish I didn't, and in the process of admitting this . . . He has helped me to S T I L L.

     To quiet . . .
     To rest . . .
     To loosen . . .

          my grip . . .

               on all of the fears that have kept my heart boxed up tight.

I chose to pursue hope in the telling of my story in this way, and in the process trust -- that He will purpose and touch someone with His love in some incredibly personal and profound way.

I am humbled that He would use me to reflect His magnificent glory and grace.

Join me at TheSnapMom.com to read more . . .

this is my worship. 

in this place

i haven't arrived.

though, i've sought to. 

and oh, how i wish that i might.

but i won't, at least not this on this side. 

yet, i'm here in this place.

and it's a good place.

a hard fought place.

a God-gifted place.

may you, too, see your place as grace. 

this is my worship. 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

Stepping into Real life

Silk is soft and smooth, hand-pressed shirts crisp and wrinkle-free.

I remember the iron out every evening, the next day's clothes thoughtfully selected and prepared.

Practically everything in the house was an ornate antique of the Victorian era. It was a homestead handed down through generations. The walls reflected beauty and strength inside a brick facade that masked obligation.

I connect with the strong of the brick and the hot steam of the iron that hand-presses the wrinkles out.

Raised as a good girl, I followed the house rules: be polite . . . behave. I was seen and not heard. I didn't run in the house to keep the walls quiet and the precious dishes from rattling. I knew what it took to make my parents happy with me. And so when I found myself pregnant 11 days before my 18th birthday I had one thought: This wasn't supposed to happen to me.

Seated at the kitchen table with a heart full of heavy, my face would give way to the burden I carried. I was expected to find a way to iron it out smooth and I couldn't find the right starch to get the wrinkles out. I couldn't solve this problem, I didn't have a plan. A solution was presented to me and there would be no discussion. Though I stuttered and stammered in disgust, I wasn't courageous enough to choose life.

It was the threat of disconnection that weakened my strength. And the overwhelming concern for what my parents thought of me. I needed them and so the thought of losing them because of a choice I preferred not make was suffocating. I finally surrendered to what appeared as better for me when every bit of me raged with a knowing it surely wasn't right.

I made an appointment for the day after my 18th birthday, to get it done and over with and to make home life happy. This was never to be spoken about and having it taken care of outside of our town would all be to "protect" me; from what exactly I'm not sure, though I suppose perhaps the thought was shame.

I'd cry in my room for weeks, learning how to iron a regret smooth and tuck it away. It took awhile for me to learn how to fold that secret up tight. I'd try and wrestle it to the ground until eventually I ran out of fight. Ultimately, it would be shame that would find me and haunt me and scavenge my very life.

Always have a plan. That's what that moment in my story taught me. Because if I don't, someone else might have one for me. So I spent my days incessantly focused on the calendar, make-believing that planning creates a life. Shame was heavy and led me to a perfection-seeking way of life: always doing what I should, literally sucking what life remained in me right out of me.

Chasing a fabricated life would ultimately become so incredibly and overwhelmingly exhausting. Real would tug at my shirt sleeve and grab a hold of my leg. I'd feel itchy and get all squirmy as Grace whispered in my ear:

     It isn't natural to be all tight-lipped and wrinkle-free. Just Be.

I literally ached to get out of the straight-laced, buttoned-up, suffocated habit of a life that I'd created.

Today marks 16 years since that life inside of me was ended, the day after the one that marks when my very own began nearly three and a half decades ago. I think of how I have feared mistake-making all these years, how I've endlessly planned, ironed my days lifeless.

My story isn't pretty bow-tied -- I'm still in process. But I'm learning to appreciate the messy . . . the wrinkles . . . and to hold my plans loosely. I am learning to trust that every bit of my story has purpose, as I begin to unfold and let me Be. And, be flawed.

I'm learning to step into {Real} . . . into life.

And that this is my worship.

 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

Truth

So much about my life is all about me.

I'm prideful. And selfish. Controlling. And stubborn.

The things I criticize others for are the exact things I sometimes do, too.

Certain struggles continue to be wrapped around me like a vine.

Even though I know what is wrong, I still do.

I don't evaluate my capacity and measure it to reality.

Unspoken expectations make unrealistic demands of myself.

The truth is, I am human.

Planned for a place in today. And prepared to fulfill a role.

Most importantly, purposed to know love.

Broken, selfish, messy, chaotic, shifty . . .

A Hand-selected rock meant for this story. His story.

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

I am from . . .

Big, old, Victorian brick handed down for generations.

Where loyalty and honor and obligation reside.

Where not much is ever sorted through or gotten rid of.

And where quiet and lonely and too much time in my room sparked the curiosity to crack open His Book.

The search began to know the One who my father wrote about in endless letters and on cards. 

Where his words would appear more like a script for a cure or a recipe for a life.

And where I'd first begin the habit of "should's," always wondering just how to cook it up just right.

I am from . . . 

Hay farm and tractors with red worn barns and far too many tools. 

Like a museum, the place holds history and wonder, and a vast array of mystery. 

Where gold-framed mirrors and ornate antiques felt stuffy and too much-ish.

And though beauty surrounds its walls, fancy felt foreign and the women always out of place.

Where peonies bloom full and pine trees have tumbled down in the storms. 

And ivy on brick has stifled and masked. 

Family would come and the bounty would be full. 

While laughter would abound, hurt was hardly ever shared.

Appreciation was guilted and strong was defined by tight lips.

I am from . . . 

Divorce -- an everyday dad and a far away father. 

Of confusion and loneliness and an only-me life. 

Small, quaint college-town village with bike riding days. 

Declared grounded and soap in the mouth would find me for truth-telling failure.

An imagined life always seeming so much better than my own. 

I became Heather and had sister's before reality ever birthed.

Fluffy compliments would fill me and I'd learn "hard work pays off". 

Where I heard "children are to be seen and not heard".

And where adult conversation at the big family table would learn me a strong voice. 

I am from . . . 

"Keep on keepin' on," and powerfully emotive women with mouse-quiet passion.

Resentment and bitterness. Sheltered, though behaved. 

My good-girl mistake would be folded neatly and tucked away.

Hidden and silenced, disappointment would shame me. 

Like fancy desserts that needed to "look good and behave," so too would become my way of life. 

"Be your own counsel" would silence a village and keep me alone.

An Army-baby birthed in the big state of Texas, the only Caucasian babe of them all.

Braces fixed my smile up pretty, all the while feeling ugly and dark.

In search of significance, I over-analyzed myself.

Exhausted and worn, weary and bruised. 

Ashamed and performed out, I'd learn of the habit all those years created.

Of how perfection-seeking colored me and the courage it takes to Be.

I am from . . . 

Encouragement and plenty of cheer.
A single mother's biggest fan. 

A daughter. A mother. A bride.

A writer. A thinker. A lover of sky. 

A friend. A truth-teller. An idea generator.

This is my life story. His Beloved.

I will thrive, though never fully arrive. 

Joining SheLoves Magazine synchroblog today.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

You might be interested in this:

less of us and more of you :: a marriage prayer

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

what I forever want to remember about "the cup"

God is more concerned about having our heart than anything else.

He wants us to know His love for us so intimately that we want to trust Him. Yet, our trust doesn't come easy.

He knows.

He knows the distractions and the weights of the world around us that tempt us to pine for comfort in other places. The ways we build idols in an attempt to make us feel good.

He knows.

There is no shame in our tendencies.

He will go to the ends of the Earth and back again for our hearts. He already has.

When Jesus asked the Father if there was any other way, I think He was thinking about all the things that He knew God would allow to happen on our journey to surrendering our hearts to Him.

     If she could please not be tempted in that way . . .

     If he could please not choose that way . . .

     If that could please not happen to him . . .

     If their marriage could please not get torn . . .

     If their family could please not be scarred . . .

     If there's any way you'd take this cup, Father . . . yet, not my will, but yours.

God uses all things for purpose.

He chooses this.

He takes scrap and makes it Sacred.

He knows that sometimes it takes an affair, a threat, a temptation, even an act of murder, for us to get to the very bottom of ourselves and see that He is even there.

Our sin never separates us from Him completely. He will use every single situation and experience and sin to draw us to Him and for us to hear, "I still love you."

He knows what it will take for us to know His love for us. And for them.

It's not the thing that happens to us, it's what happens in us through the thing.

It's the process He uses to bring us closer to knowing what Love is about.

It's His ways of bringing us ever nearer to Him in such a deep and personal way that we hear His breath and we feel His cloak brush against us.

He has met me there. In the dark. There was scorning or screaming or shame.

Someday this story you're living will be your Ebenezer -- your stone of remembrance for what He has done in you.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

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

You might be interested in this:

learning to trust even when it doesn't make sense

I swear. So what. 

In Between.