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.