Rulers Relinquished

It started years ago with a song lyric: "Pencil marks on a wall, I wasn't always this tall."  A song about growing up; a song about how God stays beside you in the journey.

In the span of high school ending and college ending, pencil marks on a wall became for me synonymous with all the measuring rods of childhood: growing physical stature, growing maturity, advancing from grade to grade, acing tests, changing schools.  A sense of accomplishment and forward motion traceable by pencil marks everywhere.  On walls, on papers, on the forms you filled out to secure the all important first driver's license.  Rulers that showed your progress.

And one of the most jarring facts of adulthood for which I was completely unprepared was the sudden absence of all those mile markers that had helped me gauge my progress and prove my growth for all those years.  The sudden, unmeasured continuity of things.  How hard it can be to place forward motion in years that merge and blend unbroken, in the work-home-church-chores lather-rinse-repeat redundancy of adult life.  Rulers unexpectedly and unwillingly relinquished.

But there is another sort of ruler that has also been a constant companion on this long journey from childhood to here.  The kind that wears crowns, the kind that leads people - the kind that we always thought we were to be.

My first education on leadership came from old books read as a young girl.  Valiant kings and queens: gracious and diplomatic on the throne; fearsome warriors on the front line; moved by a deep sense of purpose and responsibility.  Always described as beautiful, always unconditionally adored by the people they served.  Always walking especially near to the King who governs kings, who I didn't yet know or understand.

The concept of leadership was further complicated by first brushes with a sense of the presence of this great King who governs kings.  The church royalty comprised of pastors was so transformative, so capturing to the heart of that broken girl with those dream whisperings of what a ruler was meant to be still echoing down after all those years.  They became heroes instantly and I assumed my role immediately.  I admired and adored them.  Unconditionally.

I admired them so that I wished I could be them someday.  Touch others that way, lead others that way, become the gracious ruler.  And when a calling whispered to that passion-stirred heart, young and impressionable, on a youth camp floor I felt dwarfed but determined.  If my name was being called, I needed to respond.  I had been chosen to lead.

To say my first steps were stumbled would be the understatement of all time.  I have never been patient and have always been an old soul.  To me the call to lead meant leading now.  And that brought all sorts of heartbreak.  Feeling neglected when not chosen for responsibilities that I was infinitely unprepared for.  Feeling immense pressure when met with the slightest leadership responsibility to do it well forever, adored by all and to transform the world in that role as my ink-on-page icons always had.  And hurting people, that to.  Shows of power, demands for loyalty, faking knowledge I didn't have.  Because I couldn't fail at this.  And for me showing any signs of fallibility would have been just that: a failure of the highest sort.  Because in my mind, leaders were perfect.  Because in my mind, rulers were flawless heroes.  And I felt like such an impostor because I knew I would never fill that role.

In the years since, the marks on this dream of rulers have been many.  We've seen beloved leaders fall.  We've seen twisted, hurting and hurtful leaders keep leading.  We've wounded others, wounded ourselves and I'm sure at times wounded the heart of God in our quest for leading well.  Ash and dust have settled on this dream, like so many other dreams.  And with the shine that dazzled our eyes dulled by experience, that most brutal teacher, we have come to see it more clearly and less amorously than we once did.

We know without an inch of doubt that leaders are only humans.  Just people - flawed and troubled, full of struggles and striving, full of doubt and pride, full of ambition and feeble attempts at surrender.  Completely mortal, completely imperfect, completely clay-footed.  Just human.

We've learned that there are callings that lift and push and lead; that fill with passion and endow with purpose and demand that we keep pressing on.  And we've learned that there are a thousand, thousand temptations at every side that would use this dream to twist and warp the man who bears it into a monstrosity, obsessed only with his own influence, power and success.  We have learned.

And so in this season of life, I am again relinquishing some rulers.  I've come to realize that both of these loaded types - the kind that measure us and the kind that mark us as influencers - can carry unparalleled spiritual and emotional dangers.  The one driving us to compare, to compete, to strive - and to hide our imperfections.  The other pushing us on to climb, to demand, to power-play - and to hide our imperfections.

My name is Mandi.  I am deeply flawed.  I am failing all the time.  I am constantly crying out to God to remedy the weakness that never seems to diminish in me with the strength that never seems to diminish in Him.  And at my worst, I am not crying out to Him very often at all because I am numbed by the exceeding crazy and the exceeding sane that seem to constantly collide in these lives of ours.  I am no true hero.  I've just come to find a God whose face inexplicably shines on me day by day and draws me ever nearer into the beauty of who He is.  And I wish I could just vanish within Him altogether - melt into His perfection and finally forsake these flaws - because both of these types of rulers in my head are driving me to the worst version of me.  And it is time to lay them down.

The only model for leadership or for measuring success that does not seem to warp me is to love and to serve; to try it the Jesus way.  There is no glamour in washing feet.  But then there are no games there either.

I am not shiny and perfect.  I ask for no adoration or loyalty from an army of followers dazzled by my gracious reign.  I once did, but I will no longer.  I just ask to bring some healing to the hurt that everywhere surrounds, to retain some anonymity amid the cries for a new person to crown, and to be where His heart can define me instead of their fickle applause.

I am trying to let God measure me and measure out influence to me as only He sees fit.  To truly mean in heart what I say by tongue - that they can have all this world; that I just want Jesus.

I am learning to reach for Him.  And I am relinquishing rulers and rulers alike.

Heading...

The certain way to miss your destination is not to have one.

That's the tone the conversation with the family took recently.

When the ship is without a heading, you can be assured that you will not reach it.

I delight in deep discussion and truly loathe small talk.  So I am thankful for the loves who quarry the depths with me.  Deeply thankful.  Yet I digress.

When the ship is without a heading, the voyage is robbed even of the chance for success.  There's no definition of it, no measure for it.  It is nondescript and therefore unobtainable.

When the ship is without a heading, the best to be hoped for is pleasantly lost.

When the ship is without a heading.

That word plays a bit in my mind tonight.

The heading.  The coordinates that clearly define the desired end.  The exact location where you intend to arrive.  The one point that all must move towards.  The heading.

Where am I heading?

If ever I do teach teenagers (as I hope to) about all of the things they don't tell you about being a young adult, I think this one would have to top the list: there comes a moment when you are not just expected to steer or to navigate.  There comes a moment where it is left to you to chart the course.  To set, not just sail towards, the mark.

There comes a day when the heading is asked of you.

Where are you heading?

In youth, this is all simplicity.  Heading to grandma's house because that's where we go on Christmas.  Heading to recess because that's what we do after lunch.  Heading to middle school because that's what follows elementary school.  And so to high school.  And so to college.  And then...

Where am I heading?

The farther I get away from the predetermined course, the deeper in the woods and the farther from the path, the more two things happen simultaneously.

First, I feel dwarfed by the open space, insufficient to the task of determining the course with the wide world laid before me.  I feel inadequate to determine the heading.  How should I know?

And then, most inexplicably, I feel grateful that the heading is not being chosen for me.  That I am no longer riding the conveyor belt being taken where the world thinks I should go.  Because, after all, why should the proper directing of my life's course be left to them?  How should they know?

And so to the page tonight.  Very largely because I have been away from the page for so very long.

And somewhat for the need to state a simple truth.

I do not know where I am heading.

Perhaps a foolish confession to make; certainly the bit of honesty we most often aim to conceal.

But truth nonetheless: I do not know where I am heading.

I know that God is truly the One who directs my days.  I know and find comfort in the assurance that He holds my tomorrows.  I know that life's greatest object is to love and follow Him.  I know.  My heart knows and is at rest in all these things.

And yet there is something of knowing where to work and when to quit; where to serve and how long to stay; who to walk with and who to part from; who to be and who to be free of - this whole toward and away - this constant journey quality of the time-riddled world in which we live that is very like being in open sea and very much without a map.

I love Him and I trust Him.  But I seldom know just what He is about in all these strange every days.

And there's something of me being left to the fine details, to determine the practicality.  And in all of that - that grit of free will meeting Diving providence - that place where it's a dance, not a Dictatorship - in that place, I don't really know where I'm heading.

And I wonder, is that true of you too?

That journey feeling...

There is something about the transitory nature of life that is so deeply unsettling.

We live a life of motion.  Life itself is adamantly un-still.

Planet whirling, spinning as it orbits.  Seasons turning.  Days flying.  Everything moving.

Walk here.  Drive there.  Working and busy.  Celebrations.  Mournings.   Visits.  Conversations.  House to be cleaned.  Car to maintain.  Body to care for.  Meals to prepare.  Kitchen in shambles.  More cleaning to do.  Task list times infinity.  No end in doing.  Everything moving.  And relentless dreams calling.

We live a life in motion.  And life itself is adamantly un-still.

And today, there is something about the transitory nature of life that is so deeply unsettling.

Like the moment, a few weeks in to a months-long journey when a restlessness for the peace of home overtakes you.  And so you endeavor to self-comfort: recount the joys of the journey thus far and the promised highs of the weeks to come, scattered like jewels in your imagination.  Consider all the things you do not want to miss on the journey until you become persuaded by them and your heart demands that the journey continues, insistent upon missing nothing.  Yes, let the voyage continue!

Yet even still that aching for home doesn't quite subside and so you find yourself in that journey-place.

That drinking in of here, wishing for more time to savor the experience, while simultaneously missing and longing for the steadiness of the un-journey.  It certainly takes a while to get there.  The excitement and the adrenaline of the whirling first days of the adventure must subside.  But it is bound to come: that unsettled half-place - the thrill of the voyage and the yearning for home.  Polar opposites of enormous yet proportional strength that leave you feeling torn between desires.

Life is like that.  Transitory like that middle section of a long journey.  There is thrill in the voyage - you certainly don't want the journey abbreviated.  And yet, in quiet moments, when there is that rare, brief pause there comes the longing.  The longing to be still, the longing to be steady, the longing for a completed page and weariness in the waiting.

Life is that dichotomy.  The deep hunger for here so often stifled by the busyness of here.  But there nonetheless - the urgency to taste everything this town has to offer before that voyage across the sea that separates me from this place not knowing if I shall return again to these shores.  That trip-like hunger laced all through this thing we call life.

And then that other hunger - that other place, other town longing.  There is more than this.  There is a quiet, a steady, a place I belong and am at rest.  And I hunger for that place like I miss my mother's cooking when I am a month away.  That taste of a homeland we have never yet seen that somehow lingers on our lips and beckons our souls when we still the motion long enough to feel its pull.

A sharp divide between two strong desires: indeed unsettling.

Like the journey feeling: split in two.  Deep, irreconcilable longings that consume you.  Such is life.

And so in those moments when I am journey-swept wanting to run full speed into the next, voracious for all of life and yet feel weary of all the moving my heart settles into that familiar divide and finds a space to wonder.  And so in the wondering: one simple thought.

Whether at the moment the desire to continue moving, travelling, voyaging through life wins out - or that other that longs for that distant homeland shore; whichever desire may prevail at the moment - neither can stop the moving.  Either involves a journey of a kind.  And certainly whichever desire may overtake, it is not my desire that dictates the shape of my days, the length of my voyage or that final return home.

And so while I am overwhelmed by the unwinding, the spinning, the twirling, as the world circles faster around me and I am dizzied by the motion - it is to the motion that I am given today.  I have been delivered over to it, to be shaped by the journey, to find God in the dance.

And so whether tomorrow will bring me to a next hello or a next goodbye, I am bound there nonetheless.  I am a pilgrim and a vagabond - just passing through.

We live ever in the tension of the journey place.  Heaven beckons.  And so does life here on earth.

And our gypsy souls find a way to answer the calls.  We learn to live the journey.

On wanting to write...

I want to write.

I want to put ink to page.  Commit thought to word.  Leave a trail; a trail in stories told and ideas shared.  A path that will perhaps ease another's journey.

I want to write.

In case the miracle of this may be lost upon us, let me make it plain: I haven't.  I haven't written and I haven't wanted to write in such a long time.

I once said that ink was my favorite word.

For one who always bites their tongue, speaks with thought and rehearses conversations both before and after they occur, I suppose the appeal of ink has always been its honesty.

Without a face to gaze into at the moment, the opportunity to simply say what needs to be said.

There's an honesty to ink.

I love ink for that.

But life has turned a new shade for the eternal optimist in me.  I haven't been able to reconcile the soaring faith in my heart, growing stronger through the fire, with the fire itself or the ash left in its wake.

A distance between the good He works and the brokenness, not His own, that nonetheless becomes a tool in the working.  A distance I cannot bridge.  A forever gap that takes up residence on the landscape of my faith.

A good God.  And all of the un-good we have seen.

And the fact that His power is mighty enough to turn everything back toward good, no matter how un-good at the start.  And the wonderings about why that power didn't choose to stop the un-good before it happened.

There are theological answers, certainly.

But the truest ink answers for me find their chance to live and breathe in the things we do and feel each day.

And these theological answers I know don't lend to life and breath.  It's the distance I find there - in the land of life and breath.  The un-answer the one which actually brings some comfort.  The embracing of the distance.  The fact of this world not being what He had in mind; the fact of a different homeland ahead.  The distance between the two.  The un-answer that has become home for this heart.

And so, my friends, I want to write.

Finally.

Finally.

I want to write.

It has taken some time and I cannot say with any confidence that said wanting will remain.

But for the time being, my soul has settled enough and my heart has rested enough that ink has again become a dear companion.  For so long its honesty made it a feared adversary.  Something I should have predicted in a time when it was so hard to face in bold terms the realities we saw.

But life is beautiful.  And I see beauty breathing in these days again.  And so, dear ink, a happy reunion.

I want to write.

And for that I am utterly grateful.

Beginning again... Again...

There's a word that I've used over and over again to describe "how I'm doing" with the whole job hunt thing. I've used it most often as a sort of response to the sideways, inquisitive and trying-my-best-to-mask-my-serious-concern-that-you're-not-really-looking-yet faces that accompany my initial verbal response: I haven't really gotten there yet...

It's the best word I can find to describe where I'm really at with things.

Daunting.

The prospect of putting in a resume: not so bad. The idea of taking an actual interview: bit more unnerving. The idea of beginning again (yet again) in a new place as the new kid in town: quite entirely daunting.

Over the last few years with all of the many things that have flipped over in our lives again and again and again, one constant that I often took for granted is the fact that I unlike most my age actually worked in the same place solid for going on seven years. At twenty five, that's quite a rarity. Whether positive or negative, the jury is still out, but a rarity nonetheless.

That's longer than I've spent in any school I've ever attended. Longer than the vast majority of friendships I've had (except the legendary loves). Longer by far than my very longest relationship. Longer even I think than the time I spent as a youth leader at our last church.

In short, without realizing it along the way, my job, the place where I was just killing time until I graduated and then dove head first into ministry, became something of a steadying force in my life. With all its stress, long hours, unpredictability - it still had the same calming, grounding pull that any place would given that much an investment of time. Familiar faces, familiar duties, familiar halls to walk. The sense of steadiness and belonging. The sense of having earned your place at the table. Even the crazy rhythym with which new staff cycled in and out came to be familiar. Bare halls each Christmas. Booming noise each fall. Predictable. Known.

I don't mean to write a sonnet to my old job. I learned much there. I grew much there. But all those who know the details know that it was far from perfect.

But somehow in spite of all of that, loosing a job, even one that I knew from the beginning I shouldn't keep forever, feels like just another way in which we have been uprooted and unhinged.

"I suppose I should be used to saying goodbye by now." Something like that was said in a movie we saw recently. I suppose I should be used to it. To loss. To sudden. To unexpected.

I suppose that I should be used to uprooted, used to unhinged. Used to beginning again. Again.

Should there being the operative word. I should. But I am not.

Perhaps it is that this is the first time in this grueling sequence that an uprooting has been just my own to face. Not belonging to myself and my comrades - my fellow exiles. Perhaps it is because this is the first time that I wander alone (although certainly not unsupported - everyone has been so great).

But I think in all likelihood it has more to do with being tired. I love an adventure. But I also love the familiar comfort of home. I love roots and I love wings. I need both to feel satisfied in life and lately it seems as though the scales have tipped toward the unknown and there is yet no climbing back up that slick surface to a place of balance between the two.

And so we dangle in the place where few things are sure. Where there are new trails to be blazed and new challenges to take on at every turn. Where there are new hearts to learn, new faces to explore, new lives to be had.

And while I am grateful that the Lord has brought refreshing newness in such wonderful ways to so many aspects of our lives; the stubborn, silly (and probably just plain tired) part of me looks upon a new venture in the professional realm and sees daunting rather than promising. Exhausting rather than exciting. Intimidating rather than inviting.

Silly self.

And so the old effort again. To remind my soul that He is the great constant. And that He truly does work all things together for the the good of those who love Him. No matter what those things may be.

Self: remember. He has done it. Time and time again. He is endlessly faithful and He has never failed us yet. So courage, dear heart.

And begin again.

Again.

On missing dreams...

Ten months ago today, we felt the world fall down. It was literally as though everything we had known shattered in a moment. A silent, searing moment that a heartbeat should have filled.

I never knew loss, real loss, until that day.

It changed everything. The way we see the world. The way a lyric falls on our ears. And the way that words fall from our lips. It was one of those searing, scarring, shaping things that leaves a mark forever.

Kingston, love, you're written in my heart. You have marked us forever. And so marked all the world. And I wish you were here.

But the tricky thing is that I'm not sure if I can say words like 'should.' To my mind when allowed to make its own decisions, should is a certainty. A heart that should have beat. Feet that should have touched the sand and the waves and spread dirt on our tile floors. A laugh that should have sounded. A life that should have shined. And up to me, should is certainly true.

You should have.

But it's not up to me. So few things are. And frankly, the world is better for it. It would be far too serious and too safe if all of life were mine to choose. And so how can I say 'should?'

A few months ago, He asked me to believe. To believe that He could write a better love story than this. And I'm finding that in all of life, I really believe He does it better. He writes it better than I do. My heart, my family, love, loss and hope. He writes life better than I do. He was the original Author of it.

But there are some moments when I wish that I could grab the pen. And cross out the lines that break my heart and run my makeup and confound my understanding. Like the day we lost you, love. I'd like a revision there.

I'd like you toddling around in the halls. I'd like to have cheered and hugged and celebrated your first stumbled steps. I'd like to see if you would be brave around our big dog or what you would look like when you were concentrating and trying hard. Your mommy used to stick her tongue out when she was little and trying hard - I'd like to have seen if you did that too.

And more than anything I wanted to see you see the world. I wanted to rediscover things through your eyes. And I really wanted to take you driving over the ocean. It's written in my soul and after all of the work morning drives you joined us on, I dreamed that it would be in yours too.

But I am not the Author. I don't hold the pen that writes the days and there are some things that I will never know. Like why we didn't get to keep you, sweet boy. You had the very best parents in the whole world just waiting for you. And today, it doesn't seem very fair. And today, I'd like to make some edits. And today, I wish you were here.

But I didn't write it and 'should' is not certain and in fact 'should' is not true. He knew all along, from the beginning of time that those 'shoulds' were not a part of the story. That there was a greater story. And He knew what your life would say. And though it hurts beyond words - all is as it should be.

But somehow, love, I miss doing all of those things with you. And my heart wonders at how you can miss - truly miss, like a certain childhood joy or like a friend moved away - something that never really was. How can you miss a dream? But I miss the dream of your life here with us on this earth. I miss the moments we thought that we would have. And my heart aches to know if ever we will look upon the sea together.

Today I wrestle with the idea of what should have been.

And I miss the dreams of you.

Time and purpose...

Thank You for the springtime,

for the flowers clothed in dew.

Thank You for the moments

when life comes bursting through.

Thank You for the new day

we hang our hope upon.

Thank You for the springtime.

Thank You, Lord.

Thank You for the summer,

the brilliant sun which warms our days.

Thank You for the moments

to enjoy; to slow our pace.

Thank You for the time of rest

which satisfies our souls.

Thank You for the summer.

Thank You, Lord.

Thank You for the autumn,

the leaves painted with fire.

Thank You for the moments

to reap the beauty of this life.

Thank You for the glory;

Your crown for days grown old.

Thank You for the autumn.

Thank You, Lord.

Thank You for the winter,

for the still and lonely snows.

Thank You for the moments

when we have to let things go.

Thank You for the secret:

that life in death can still live on.

Thank You for the winter.

Thank You, ever, Lord.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Yeah, I miss you...

There's a song I love by Lifehouse called "From Where You Are." A simple, poignant song about missing someone you've lost. The chorus of the song says:

'So far away from where you are

These miles have torn us worlds apart

And I miss you

And I wish you were here'

It captures the essence of loneliness so well. The distance. And a certain emptiness.

At one point in the song, instead of the standard "and I miss you" it takes a subtle turn that makes a big impact (on me at least).

'Yeah, I miss you.'

The rest of the chorus remains the same, except for that simple "yeah." And for some reason that catches my attention in a big way. The "yeah" is truly potent. It hits harder than the line does without it. But why?

I think the reason is that the "yeah" strikes at confession. It's an admission of something that you'd otherwise wish to keep hidden away.

Yes, it's true: I miss you.

Fine, I'll admit it: I miss you.

There's a certain extent to which missing someone feels like a weakness. Because it seems that whatever tangled, complicated reasons that you are no longer in relationship with whomever it is should be enough to negate your emotional ties to them.

But that simply isn't the case.

We've been in a season of great loss. So many ties divided in such a short period of time. So many who we assumed would be on the canvas of our lives forever suddenly absent from at least the day to day and some absent even from the new vision of our future.

And for once, let's just admit that there's something that feels strange about that absence. There's something in us that never quite settles with the fact of loss, however it comes.

Another verse in the same song says it well:

'I miss the years that were erased.

I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face.

I miss all the little things.

I never thought that they'd mean everything to me.

Yeah, I miss you.

And I wish you were here.'

"I miss the years that were erased." I think that hits the heart of it. There's something in our souls that recognizes just how dear an emotional tie is. And that same part of us just cannot accept that such a connection should just vanish into oblivion.

We are creatures of relationship, sustained by it. And I think that is one of the ways that we most reflect the image of God. He is love. And chooses commitment even unto the cross for such a ragtag bunch as we rather than turning His back on relationship. Because He must love. Because He is love.

So for once, let's not be ashamed of the same refusal to forsake relationship that makes separation so hard. Let's recognize it for what it is: one of the ways that we are like Him.

There are so many people who were in our lives last year who aren't now, who we assumed would be there forever. So many different relationships that have been severed or at least drastically changed in a thousand different ways.

And though I'm not sorry for a lot of the things that we've done to bring us to this place and though there are many cases in which I know that, at least for now, the separation we've found has been the healthiest thing and I think truly the Lord's will for this season...

Even with all of that considered, let me say it plainly and honestly:

I miss you.

I miss all of the good times that we had. The bright times that so often outweighed the shadows. The deep, bursting moments when it felt as though for an instant our hearts were singing the exact same anthem.

I miss the laughter. The inside jokes. The dependability that we at least thought we had in one another. It feels unnatural still that such things can be "erased."

I've made my peace with the season of separation that we're in and I'm finding Him here more and more. But I miss you.

And in a perfect world comprised of people far more whole than we, I wish that this separation never would have happened. I wish that we could have resolved every hurt, every issue and gone on in relationship, even if we had to take different paths. And I wish that we had some sort of real connection left now. We are not who we were. And we are sure that you aren't either.

And there is a very real part of me that misses you. And wishes you were here.

So to those of you who we've lost to miles, to misunderstandings, to changes in direction, to trials, to heartache and even to eternity. To all of you I'll say that my hope hangs on the fact that my God is a restorer. He is a redeemer. And He heals the deepest hurts. And I believe with all I am that when we join Him in glory, we will rejoice at one great table and celebrate, not just our reconciliation to our God, but also our reconciliation to one another. To a family that we know in our heart of hearts should never be broken. I anxiously await that day.

And in the meantime:

'Just know that wherever you are,

Yeah, I miss you.

And I wish you were here.'

Loud Enough...

Lately I divide music into two categories: loud enough to drown it out and loud enough to make it speak.

The first refers mostly to tempo and actual volume. And a little bit to pure, simple not-relatedness. Think "Raise Your Glass" by Pink, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by Zac Brown Band or "Forget You" by Cee Lo Green. These are the fun, simple songs that I can actually get lost in just enjoying. Blaring at an ear-piercing decibel as I race across the Howard Frankland with the windows down, these songs are an escape from the steady hum of mental unrest brought on by the events of the last few months. A brief, joyful respite.

Loud enough to drown it out. Bless these songs.

The second deals more with lyrics. Otherwise unrelated songs with one thing in common: words that hit straight to the heart of what we're walking through. I hide from these songs sometimes, in favor of the easier escape songs. But when I decide to bear one of these types of songs, one thing is sure to happen: I find the courage I need to turn and face the questions I've been running from. I have no other choice. The lyrics force me to. They lend clear expression to what I've been choosing not to say. They turn me toward it. They stop the hum by actually calling to the carpet the fears and hurts that have been rumbling about within, nameless.

Words like "we were the Kings and Queens of promise" or "I go back to December all the time" have the power to immediately change the conversation in my mind. I hear "Time After Time" or "The Valley Song" and my mind is flooded with the faces that we stand with through the storms. "If I Die Young" by The Band Perry used to be one of my favorites. I run from it now, because suddenly it's about something else entirely. It's hard to imagine now that the line "ain't even grey but she buries her baby" used to scarcely catch my attention.

These songs make up the soundtrack of this season.

They're loud enough to make the pain find a voice. Loud enough to make it speak, to make it say what it needs to. Poignant phrases that claim a moment of actual thought instead of all the rumbling. Lines that state without shyness what I can't say: how differently I see myself and my family and our future now, the things that I no longer feel so sure of in life, the questions I have for the Lord that I'm not sure He'll ever answer.

Loud enough to make it speak. Bless these songs too.

I've been surprised by how little patience I have lately for any music that's not one or the other of these. Lately, if it's not loud enough... I'm just not interested.

On understanding...

I don't understand.

Something I've been saying in my mind a lot lately. It's difficult to get around.

Life goes on, but it doesn't erase. It keeps moving but it doesn't have the capacity to make it go away.

You go through the moments and you do what you can. You laugh sometimes and you cry just as often. You still shower, make dinner, clean the house. You have beautiful moments where you see the love of God come shining through and redeem the brokenness around you.

But the moments of heartache, you can't avoid. Something happens. Some trigger. And your mind starts replaying what has been. And then come the questions. And you have no answers. Or inadequate ones at best. So then comes the inevitable: I don't understand.

Exasperation. And frustration. And more than anything, brokenness. And then it comes: I don't understand. God, I don't understand.

And I still don't. I've found some good. I know Him, the One I have believed in. I trust Him. And He's teaching me to trust Him more and more.

And I find truth every day as I watch my amazing loved ones walk through this.

Yet I don't understand. And it bothers me. I want to tie it with a bow, lend it meaning and be free to move on with full assurance of purpose. But it doesn't come. It's clouded with ambiguity and for every certainty, a thousand uncertanties come crowding in.

I don't understand.

And it bothers me.

Yet when I consider some of the other things that baffle me, I'm reminded how limited my own understanding is. I cannot conceive of a reality unbounded by time. My mind lurches at the proposition of numbering the sand on the shore or the stars in the sky. And to my finite understanding, the premise of a million galaxies stretching out into infinite space is beyond all comprehension.

This is certainly not the only case in which I simply do not understand. There is far more to this life that I don't know than what I do know.

And to the many things of this life that I do not understand. For once, it is comforting to add another.

"And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." - Philippians 4:7

There are an endless number of beauties and horrors that defy my capacity for comprehension.

But one stands out most exceedingly incomprehensible of all.

Him.

Who He is.

How He brings peace even in the midst of turmoil.

Once more: I don't understand.

I still don't.

And for now, that's ok. It has to be.

A beautiful disaster...

Walking out into our living room today, there was only one phrase that sprang to mind: a beautiful disaster.

It is strewn all about with piles of gifts meant to be taken to one place or another, as well as all the trappings of a pretty gift: scissors and bows, scotch tape and shiny tags, wrapping paper and ribbon.

A lot of love goes into the way that our family does the holidays. True, we trek around from place to place and have our least favorite little idiosyncrasies for each spot. 7 AM is my resounding least favorite part of this whole process. But what child can be asked to wait any later than that when there's a glimmering pile of presents to be discovered? Certainly not I at their age.

But beyond all the hustle and the bustle, the buying and the baking resonates something profoundly good. A pause in the full-tilt pursuit of the ever elusive something we're all running after, just to be with one another, as we find ourselves in this moment.

For me, that is some of the greatest magic of Christmas. A sudden, cinnamon dusted moment that beckons us back to the deeper truth of what this life really is.

We sing songs, we decorate trees, we [alright, alright: I] drape white twinkle lights over everything that will stand still. We bake sweets and then eat them with reckless abandon. And we exchange gifts. In short, we celebrate.

We take a moment to savor the sweet and to embrace the beautiful. To remember that life is very good and traced throughout with wonders like peace, hope and joy.

God created the world and it was good. God wrought us from the dust and we were good.

But then we broke it.

So God sent His Son in the form of a sleeping baby, with all the bright hope and newness of unspoilt life that that image carries, to restore the goodness and to rekindle the light and to set us free to live God-ward in a whole new way.

And there is beauty in that. Redemptive loveliness scattered lavishly over this whole season. And I'm grateful for the chance to stop and see what is good.

The truth is, there's been a lot of seeming disaster in these days we've been walking through. To the naked eye, there's dust and ash laid over everything from all of the breaking that's occurred. And as much as I hate to admit it, there are some moments when my eyes grow cold and that is all that I see.

But my God is kind and rich in mercy and He awakens my soul to perceive His goodness again and again. He wipes a tear and lifts my head and at the perfect moment reveals again that despite all the brokenness I carry, He has come to again make all things beautiful. The world is traced through with His glorious, redemptive fingerprints. And that work continues in me. And in you.

And that, that God-breathed beauty rising from the brokenness, that is something to celebrate.

So Merry Christmas to one and all.

May He bless our eyes to see, in this season and always, the surpassing beauty His love can bring.

Here...

All the loves are here. The talking, the planning, the processing, the quiet certainty of our little family. It's here. And I feel like I should write. I feel the need to make words happen. To put ink on paper and to mine out the meaning from all this mess.

But nothing makes sense. Even with all of us here. Even with a few days and a million, million tears. Nothing makes sense. And I have no truth to offer yet.

But I'm here. And I'll be here. And I love you so.

Mothers...

All of the young mothers who've come to visit us have been so sensitive. They've all been so careful to ask about bringing their little ones along. So many young loves guarding your heart.

I find it really amazing that you've wanted every one of them here. That you've invited them in and held their little hands and kissed their little cheeks and smiled at their precious laughs. How you've loved them and opened your heart to the beauty of them; I think it's a testament to the mother that you are. To the loving, nurturing wonder of you. You've been a mother from the start. A little two year old, big sister mom to me. And you are a mother still. And you are a mother always. It's signed into who you are and you still have so much love and nurturing to give, even in this moment. And the heart of you amazes me, as always.

And speaking of mothers, we've got a really great one, you and I.

Silly confession #27...

Admittedly, I look in the rearview mirror more than any driver has the right to. Probably more than any other driver you've ever met. What can I say? I'm an addict. This is usually because I’m speeding. By quite a lot. And I’m constantly on the lookout for a cop to appear and write me a very painful ticket. Hence the preoccupation with glancing behind me.

But I've come to realize that I live my life that way too. Way too fast, like I'm rushing somewhere. And way too distracted by what's in the rearview. I'm in a hurry to get to wherever I’m going; some abstract perfect future in which I feel like I have it together more than I do now. And I'm constantly analyzing the thing that I’ve just done and wishing that I’d done it better; constantly worried that I’ve just done something that’s going to hinder me from getting wherever it is I’m headed just as fast as anyone else. I'm preoccupied with reaching the destination just when I should. I'm preoccupied with what's behind me. And, thus, I'm somewhat absent from where I am. Because somehow I've convinced myself that paying attention to those two aspects of this journey is the key to winding up where I want to be.

But frankly, by the time there’s a cop in my rearview mirror, that painful ticket is as good as written. And by the time I can analyze it, the moment’s gone and its effect has already been had on whatever this future is that I’m rushing toward.

So forgive me for making such an entirely un-youthful and un-dangerous statement. But all I can really do to avoid the cop in the rearview is to slow down and drive more carefully. On the road and off of it.

All I can do is to be present in each moment; engaging with my life as it is and taking responsibility for living in such a way that I become the person I want to be. I’ll never get there in a state of permanent distraction with both the past (that I cannot change) and the future (that I feel must measure up, and measure up fast).

I can’t drive my car looking only at the rearview mirror. And I can’t drive my life that way, either. Intentionality is squandered when we apply it to the past, re-scripting and re-scripting in our minds. Once the moment is gone, our mind is the only place that script will ever play out. And it will only serve to frustrate us with actions that we can’t fix now. What a waste!

I have to learn to be intentional with today, because who I am in this moment is the only me I can change. The future is still there waiting for me and the only way I have to shape it is with a series of seemingly small, present-tense choices. And it's time I set my eyes on those.

So all you go-getters can go for it. Because the race for the win doesn’t work for me trying to become someone of substance. Instead I’m slowing down and fixing my gaze on what’s right in front of me. Because all I really need to do well today, is today.

Like Frankie said...

And now, the end is here

And so I face the final curtain

My friend, I'll say it clear

I'll state my case, of which I'm certain

I've lived a life that's full

I traveled each and every highway

And more, much more than this, I did it my way

Regrets, I've had a few

But then again, too few to mention

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption

I planned each charted course,

Each careful step along the byway

And more, much more than this, I did it my way

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew

When I bit off more than I could chew

But through it all, when there was doubt

I ate it up and spit it out

I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way

I've loved, I've laughed and cried

I've had my fill, my share of losing

And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing

To think I did all that

And may I say, not in a shy way

Oh no, oh no, not me, I did it my way

For what is a man? What has he got?

If not himself, then he has naught

To say the things he truly feels

And not the words of one who kneels

The record shows I took the blows and did it my way

Yes, it was my way

On the significance of the sacraments...

One of the most challenging seasons I have ever experienced in ministry came when the fellow and I stepped in to meet a need in the children's ministry of our church. I love and enjoy kids, but I don't really know what to do with them. Suffice it to say, it was a rocky couple of months.

That said, it was a season full of learning. I learned so much about joy and beauty and innocence. And I learned so much about patience and discipline and trusting God when you are certain you have nothing left to give.

One moment in which what I learned caught me by surprise came when I was trying to teach the kids why we get baptized and why we take communion. Trying to give expression in the simplest terms of something that is often described in a very complex manner proved to be no easy feat.

But in the weeks and months following that experience, and in light of all of the experiences that this season has brought us, suddenly simplicity has become far less difficult to attain.

It's fascinating to think about all of the things that Jesus never told us to do. He never told us to read ten chapters of the Bible each day. He never told us to pray long, loud, eloquent prayers. He never told us to build buildings with pristine carpet and tastefully selected pews or padded chairs. He never said dress clothes. Or three fast songs followed by three slow songs.

There's nothing wrong with these things in and of themselves. Quite the contrary, I have to believe that church traditions have been established for a reason. Over the years, these things have become traditional because they've been seen as aids in helping people to approach God and each other.

But at the end of the day, we so often forget to differentiate between the mechanisms or vehicles that we use in our pursuit and the pursuit itself.

Approaching God. Approaching each other as we approach Him together. That's it. That's the whole point. That's why we're here.

And when squabbles about the mechanisms and vehicles of that approach create distance between us, then I think it's safe to say that we've lost our focus.

That's what I've come to love most about the simplicity of the sacraments. All theological debates aside, they take us right back to the center of our faith.

In baptism the old, tormented, sin-riddled version of ourselves is laid to rest in a watery grave. And we are lifted up clean, a new creation. We die to self and to this world. We rise to Christ and to His people. Completely forgiven.

In communion, we share a meal and we remember. We remember that Christ lived. That He walked with us, that He ate with us and that He taught us of His Father. And we remember that Christ died. That He poured out His blood and that His body was broken. All to rescue us. To reconcile us to God. And, an unexpected side effect, to reconcile us to one another.

The reminders that Jesus left us of Himself take us immediately back to the heart of God and the heart of our faith: forgiveness. Forgiveness is the heart of who we are. We are a tribe that bears a simple, humble name: the redeemed. Forgiveness is our identity.

And forgiveness is also at the heart of the sacraments.

So perhaps if we practiced them more often and made a point to take note of their meaning, we wouldn't forget who we are. Perhaps if we spent more time remembering that the central reality of Christianity is that God forgives each of us and reconciles us to Himself, then we wouldn't have so much trouble reconciling to those who have wronged us. Perhaps if we remembered forgiveness and restoration to be the heart of God both for us and our competition, for our friends and our enemies, then we would have less contention and more community. Perhaps.

Perhaps if we got back to the basics, we as a people could be more united and less divided. Perhaps we could set aside our petty differences and get about the business of letting a world of broken hearts know about the redeeming love of the Healer. Perhaps the Church could be a more accurate reflection of the heart of God.

So today, I am grateful for the sacraments and for the reminder they bring to this stubborn heart. God's forgiveness has changed my entire world. And He stands at the ready to love and to forgive every single person on earth.

May He make my heart the same.

That atrocious thing - independence...

Dependency. It is not something that we like to entertain in day to day life. We have learned to stand on our own two feet, to rely on our own abilities and understanding and to make our own choices.

We go through the grind. We bark our orders. We rack up our regrets. And we try to change the lives of others with our own limited means. I have seen and I have been this ugly side of leadership. To those who I have wounded struggling to do the work of God relying only on the resources of man, I apologize. I am wholeheartedly sorry. Please forgive me. It was such a mistake.

But for my own heart and for the hearts of every leader, a simple question: why would we ever choose to lead this way?

It must be because we see no alternative option. Because who would ever elect to lead in such a painful, counter-productive fashion if there were another way?

Far too often, I forget that Jesus' instructions to the early church about how to reach the world never left us lacking His assistance. He promised to send us a Comforter, to be with us until the end of the age, to write His law upon our hearts, to fill us with His Spirit and to give us the words to speak. In His comissioning of His followers, there is not a trace of abandonment.

Jesus promises to be present.

While we strive to lead, to speak, to love and to do what He's called us to in this world, we have the full and unmistakable promise of our Savior that He will be with us. He invites us into a state of complete dependency. He never expects us to "make it;" to arrive at a place where we are no longer in need of Him.

Rather, He invites and wholeheartedly encourages us to lean on Him in every moment. To rely on His wisdom, His grace and His leading is the mark of a follower of Him. It is the life that we sign on for.

I am unashamed of my need of Him. I must have Him every moment and I make catastrophic mistakes when I am without His aid. I am not independent. And standing on my own two feet is unwise because far too often they lead me in the wrong direction. Many people have been hurt by those wrong turns in the past and I openly repent. I repent also to myself, for foolishly forcing myself to do what I was never created to: to live and to lead without relying on the Lord.

It is too great a burden for me to bear. And it is not a burden He ever asked me to bear. And I willingly and joyful lay it down at His feet and am met with such sudden relief.

With all of my imperfections and foolishness, I will not posture myself as a perfect example to follow. I will not establish myself as the one you should look to for a model of living for God.

I am broken and imperfect. But my Father loves me. And He is leading me. And I will do my best to follow Him. And the best I can hope is that we can follow Him together, depending on Him to help us do all the things that we alone cannot.

Dependency. The beauty of a God whose love matters in my living; who delights to accompany me in my living. This beauty I cannot contain in words.

It is my joy to need Him.

Find a Voice...

All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing,
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Thou burning sun with golden beam,
Thou silver moon with softer gleam!
O praise him! O praise Him!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

Thou rushing wind that art so strong
Ye clouds that sail in Heaven along,
O praise Him! Alleluia!
Thou rising moon, in praise rejoice,
Ye lights of evening, find a voice!
O praise Him! O praise Him!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

...

Creation... Carriers of beauty... Bearers of the image of majesty... Go ahead...

Speak.

Tell the story that we have forgotten.

Speak.

Remind us of the Hands, the brushstrokes of Eternity that gave you your shape, your color, your light. Trace the image of Eternity in the eyes of those drowning in the stale weight of now.

Awaken in weary hearts the love of beauty and the hope for truth. Remind us that we live in a place still infused with the magic spark of heaven. A place shaped by the Everlasting God. A place that bears the beauty of His heart.

As we gaze up at last in childlike wonder, come right along and fulfill your purpose.

Measure the days. Indicate the changing of the moments.

Remind our hearts that we did not just happen, that we were knit together by skilled Hands. That the very Breath of eternity quickens who we are. That we are our Father's children. And that Him in us never fades.

Remind us that we were made... Made by the same God who made you.

In all your breathtaking beauty, speak.

And tell us to look up. To turn our eyes heavenward and remember that our Father is never absent from even the smallest moment. The He lives. That we live.

And that though you and all the heavens should grow old like a garment and though He should change you like a cloak, He stands forever and His years will have no end.

Listen.

The heavens are speaking. Hearts of men, hear the wisdom of the ages.

Hear them as they whisper: He is God Forever. God before we began. God long to outlive our simple light. He is the Everlasting One. He is the Eternal Beauty, Unfading.

Men of earth, incline your ears, life up the eyes of your hearts.

And Ye lights of evening, find a voice. Oh praise Him!

Psalm 102:25-27

Alleluia!

To The Place Where I Am Known...

Take me to the place where I am known.
I want to go where I am no mystery.
I want to be free of all that is false,
And be clothed instead with simplicity.

Take me to the place where I am known,
Where the patches fall and the makeup runs.
I want to be where I cannot impress.
I want to feel whole when completely undone.

Take me to the place where I am known
Where there is no fear, no urge to hide.
It is the place I most look like Him,
Where both our arms are open wide.

Take me to the place where I am known
And there may I be ever found.
The only place where I belong
Is the place where only He's renowned.

Take me to the place where I am known.
One thing I ask; just this I seek.
Take me to the place where I am known,
And a knower of Him is all I must be.

Time to Be...

Sitting by the window and soaking up the Sunday sun, it's a beautiful moment to be.

Perhaps I am the only one who is still whisked away into foreign lands by the simple turning of a page. Perhaps I am the only one who can find fulfillment in something so simple as a pen and a few blank sheets of paper. Perhaps I am the only one who feels quite entirely beautiful in a pair of pajamas, with bare feet, curled up on the floor.

But I doubt it.

I think that we have all been there and I think we all know the secret: that sweet simplicity tends to bring out the best version of ourselves.

When all the hustle stops and there's a break from all the running; when there's a moment of quiet, a moment to rest and be still; I find myself so much closer to the person I want to be.

Now, to be clear, I'm not talking about the person I want to be in the sense of the woman I see through ambition's eyes. I'm referring to the person I want to be in the sense that who I am when I am still is the person I enjoy being.

When I am allowed to be still and my heart finds some calm, I find myself more like... well, myself. When there is no competition to face and no expectations to meet, I can suddenly find myself laying on the carpet in my room, legs flat against the wall staring up at the ceiling until my feet are hopelessly asleep. Or I can find myself concocting some odd creation in the kitchen with the very glamorous foundation of an Eggo waffle. Or sneaking out in the yard in the middle of the night to sit on the concrete and stare up at the sky.

And somehow, in these silly, simple, sweet little moments that will never be spoken of as any defining greatness in my existence, I find my soul set free. When there is time just to be, and I'm able to shake off some of the monotony that rests like a fine dust on this thing they call adulthood, the oddest thing happens...

Today I celebrate how, in some of the smallest and most unimpressive moments I know, I find myself at the most satisfied with my existence.

So cheers to Sunday afternoon and midnight breakfasts and finding shapes in the stucco on the ceiling. Cheers to pajamas and loose hair and bare feet.

Here's to a moment to stop all the doing and instead to that most beautiful blessing: time to be.

LeChaim.