Daybreak

Today began with bacon and coffee.

I hardly ever cook bacon, but man, my Grandma Billie did. Coffee and bacon. The bold, darkness-to-dawn aroma so hefty, it could wake you fully from a deep night's sleep. Steamy streams of Folgers and hickory smoke swirling through the heater vents and under the bedroom doors of her sturdy brick home. Thick wafts of preparation, provision, and peace. Strong and sweet.

As a girl, I remember staying at Grandma's house for Thanksgiving holidays. I found the sleeping part to be often fretful and lonesome … always tired from station wagon travels, overstimulated by the togetherness, and unable to rest in a place that was not my home. I remember straining to catch what the adults were discussing in the living room down the hall, but all I could hear was intermittent knocking and aggressive crackles as though from a fire place (but it ended up being the shuffle & cut of cards in a late-night, aunt and uncle game of spades).

Mornings at Grandma's were quiet and calm, though. I would blink awake, then close my eyes again to listen. A sort of sizzling syncopated by faint flips and the gentle scraping of a cast iron skillet meant Grandma was up and I wanted to be up too.

My whole life she has greeted me and treated me with confident cheer. Her high-pitched Arkansas twang calling my name and saying "I love you!", a resting smile transitioning to an open-jaw grin, and the way her curiosities started with, "Well, now, Cari…" Her tight squeezy hugs where she'd drum on my back with jangly bracelets and manicured hands while my face mashed into her hairline, pressing against the teased shellac of curls.

She had a standing appointment at the beauty shop on Fridays, then she'd sleep with toilet tissue wrapped around her bouffant for the rest of the week. She insisted that I bathe in her bathroom and gave me full permission to use her Avon bubble bath (the kind with the bumpy pink bottle and a tall white lid). She also reminded me to "dust off" afterwards using an enourmous pink powder puff as big as a fur frisbee. It had a handle in the center made from loops of pink satin ribbon so you could gingerly pull the puff out from the round flowery box in a poof of shimmery floof. Bathtime adventures never smelled so strong or so sweet.

I remember Grandma scolding us collectively as cousins scurrying through the house. Her screen door could only slam a few times before she would squawk, "In or out! You kids decide where you wanna be and STAY in or out!"

And the next child who passed by her chair at the table would get snagged up into a giggly hug. Strong and sweet.

Tonight, my Grandma lies in a rehab bed alone. In her nineties, her mind (that until recently had been sharp with opinions and stories and thoughtful generosity) is slipping away while her frail body persistently remains. Just a few years ago she was the designated driver for her friends in assisted living … doctor appointments, bingo night, Braum's or church, she was the one at the wheel. 

In the spring of this year, she and I danced in the dining room to more than one chorus of "Sweet Home, Alabama". But a series of mini-strokes and string of subsequent falls have changed everything. 

It is so hard and sad.

If this were simply a[nother] sizeable challenge, Grandma could manage and overcome … widowed three times, weathering all that death leaves in the wake, and yet characterized by bright gladness, Grandma can absolutely slay the hard and sad.

But this is not merely a challenge, it is thievery. The taking away of what we know and love, the robbing of communion and coherence … awareness of where you are and who everyone is and why we're together in the first place. Standing by while sanity, stability, strength and sweetness are stolen in slow motion … is hard and sad.

I don't know if it is more selfishness or compassion, but a secret part of me wishes she could stop teetering at this edge of earthly stuff. "In or out. Decide where you want to be ..."

In this dreary dusk of such a wonderfully beautiful life, I imagine it must feel lonesome and fretful to her … tired from her journey, unable to truly rest because this is not her home. I pray for peace and provision believing there is a place prepared for her.

In this dim waiting, I believe God's presence envelops her now and forever …

Strong and sweet.

And I smile when I wonder if heaven smells like coffee and bacon.

Soundtracks

My fourth grade P.E. class presented a choreographed workout routine to Olivia Newton John's "Let's Get Physical" for PTA. (She was not talking about the cardio our 9-year-old brains were thinking about, boys and girls!)🫣😅

The opening notes to "Hard Habit to Break" spin disco balls and boy drama through the rollers rinks of my mind. (That confident heel crossover on a couples' skate, or even better … the somebody skating backward … the best.)😍

"Friends are Friends Forever" … the [OG High School] MUSICAL. No one should have to play the lead character who is moving away the month before she is moving away, actually. But I did. And then I played the lead again when I got to where I was going. All the feels ALL summer long.😭

The night my first baby was born, we were alone in the hospital room and he wouldn't stop crying. I whisper-sang through tears, "You are beautiful beyond description …" halfway to him as I stared at his adorable face, and whole-heartedly to the Maker who was going to have to help us face this new season with gratitude and grace.🙌

Music in all its forms is magical in the way it lays tracks for our emotions to follow while mixing sights and sounds with thoughts and feelings to produce memories forever linked to a particular tune.🤍

Months before his wedding last year, Luke sent me the link to "A Mother Like Mine." He wrote, "This can be our song for the mother-son dance at the reception ... I'll shorten it and make sure we have plenty of time to practice."🏆

Weeks passed before I could listen without bawling. Once, I was minding my own business in Walgreen's and heard it play … and almost came undone.🥺

As Ardyn and I chose [a bazillion] songs for her [perfectly brief] ceremony and reception, I made my own playlist of songs that I thought were such a great fit for my daughter, for her man, and for the hopes and prayers that Philip and I were holding up on their behalf. I still listen to it every couple of weeks. It reminds me of the beauty that infused every minute of their wedding day, and it ushers in a sense of rekindling and recommitment in my own heart. Good stuff.💕

What songs take you back? What music keeps you going? I'd love to hear your memory-makers.🎵

Come Right On In

 

He is waiting for us in the driveway as we arrive just after sunset. His grin squints tanned wrinkles into tight pleats as we exit the car to see his face. One strong hand pulls us toward him while the other gently beats our backs with a steady mix of sorrow and gratitude.

Come right on in … relatives greet with hugs as they scoot around the perimeter of the living room. Three generations spread out to share a sofa, two chairs, and some barstools surrounding the hospital bed that consumes the space. Mechanized oxygen gasps and spurts in the background … loud but strangely calming … like the rhythmic white noise of ocean waves.

And there she lies. Frail and fragile … her depleted frame unable to support the internal battle much longer. Indigo eyes sparkle as her sweet smile speaks love and joy even before her feeble voice has a chance to welcome us in.

Pillows gird her on every side while layers of blankets guard her from the chill. A bruised and bony hand emerges from the warmth and reaches for a touch. 

We take turns greeting her, holding her hand, and stroking the soft tufts of hair that have somehow survived the brutal blend of disease and medication. We say how much we love her and we swoon over how fancy she looks with her zebra print pillow case.

"I'm all right. I am good. I'm going to be good. I'm ready." She comforts us.

Peaceful. Happy even. Incredibly brave and humble. She has made her decision to give up the fight in order to claim her victory. There is freedom in hope.

As we settle in to separate conversations, she drifts in and out of sleep, but she still listens. Even with her eyes closed, she smiles at the jokes and nods in enjoyment.

We linger in the togetherness. Some munch on burgers and chips, others chat about houseplans and fishing. Everyone takes a turn sitting face to face with her.  

Girls who couldn't make the trip show up on a video call. "HI, Granny! I love you." Tears flow on every side of the phone as sad sentences are choked out with laughter and love.

It's late, and it feels equally bothersome to go as it does to stay.

The grandson who lives across the highway whispers to his mom, "I'm tired. Is it ok if I go?" She nods approval and encourages him to say his goodbyes and run quickly to arrive safely.

He circles the room trading hugs for "I love you" and then he is gone. Foreshadows of days to come follow him into the night.  

Soon, Granny will say in her spirit, "I'm tired, is it OK if I go?" Family and friends will draw near to usher her gently with truthful hope and demonstrative care …

And just before daybreak she'll see Him waiting for her as she arrives. Face to face with the Source of her strength and salvation, she'll be wholly healed. No more pain. No more tears. No more death nor sadness. 

Only Light and Love saying, "Come right on in!"

John 14:3 | Rev 21:1-4 | Ps 27:1

Birthday Book Launch

Mile Marker Fifty-Two | A Year of Companionship, Wisdom, & Truth"

Enjoy this seasonal collection of short stories, essays, and prayers that encourage and inspire.

Just in time for turning 52, I present 52 brief but thoughtful opportunities to sharpen the focus or soften the edges of our lives together … whatever works, a little at a time. 

Hundreds of copies have been processed for delivery, and several remain. You may purchase your copy and/or gifts for your friends HERE.

So Here's the Deal

Writing is like quilting for me. I gather segments of my days and mental snapshots of experiences and as I lay them out, I find pleasant patterns and colorful balance. 

I stich and sew, a little at a time, word by word, and phrase by mentally melodic phrase. 

Sometimes amid the purposeful structure and shaping, there emerges a kind of beauty and warmth I could only hope for. Careful to bat and bind each idea with the truth of Scripture, each piece is an adventure for me. 

This "quilting" is a self-serving endeavor at its roots … my release and expression, my hobby and joy. All my days are spent mentally weaving words. But when I share my pieces, some of my friends and even a few strangers seem to enjoy them too ... kind indications that there is value in the comfort, warmth, and design. 

Social media has been like displaying my "quilts" at a flea market (without the giant turkey legs). Passers-by pause to engage. Each cheerful heart affirms the landing and I watch as some enthusiastically share with their friends. *I am genuinely surprised by these generous responses almost every time. 

Occasionally, I have opportunities to create commissioned pieces. Sometimes I even get paid for my work. It's all just a marvelous gift.

Last year, I made it my goal to self-publish a collection of my pieces (essays not bedspreads ha!) by the end of summer for the purpose of making them available to your friends and mine.

It's called "Mile Marker 52 | A Year of Companionship, Wisdom, & Truth". Just 52 brief but thoughtful opportunities to sharpen the focus or soften the edges of our lives together … whatever works, a little at a time. 

The goal is to have it ready in time for my 52nd birthday in late August. Get it? 52=52. I am sneaky and attached my goal to a fixed moment in time so postponement is simply not an option. I have been knowing me and all my procrastinative weaknesses for a WHILE.

Am I excited? A little. Do I have time to be messing with is? Not really, but I said I would do it and it feels super icky to give up now.

This is my dream-laced prayer ... that my little "crafting projects" continue to prove to be useful and / or enjoyable to whoever chooses to partake.

Thanks for all the ways you are already helping to make this a super sweet deal.💗

Choosing Sides

Their backyards share a property line. A single wrought-iron fence marks the boundaries you can see right through, and a swinging gate pass-through facilitates boundless peace and joy.

For years, both sets of neighbors enjoy the freedom to come and go as they like, sharing flour, swingsets, vegetables, and life.

When summer comes, the gate remains open for the series of splashy evenings spent poolside. As autumn breezes cool the air, the fire pit magnetizes people with stories and laughs. Whenever storms come and limbs fall, everyone works together toward restoration. When heat or cold keep people indoors, the shared fence with its propped gate can be seen through sheltering window panes from any direction. 

One spring the western house sells. 

Friends vacate, leaving a quiet void. New owners come and occupy the space but choose to dwell at a distance and rather avoid. 

No one knows why. No transitional explanations are offered, but they leave nothing unclear.

The new kids on the block are at school the day their parents build the fence. The brand new wooden privacy fence butts up against the sturdy little scrolls of spaced-out iron as it towers solidly over both yards. And it has no gate at all.

The brick stanchions of the pass-through gate rest midway against the impenetrable barrier. Robbed of purpose. Silly looking, really. Noticeable by the eastern neighbors alone, the faithful little gate is positioned for connection and rejection all at once.

This is a true story about a real gate and a real fence in a real backyard … not in the town where I live. 

But it is in a land of brave freedom. So those eastern neighbors can circle the block and walk right up onto the western front porch. They can politely knock and say hello, share some zucchini, and smile goodbye. If they so choose.

And they are free to keep doing this forever. Until neighbors move along or change their ways. Until the wooden fence rots or falls. 

Even if it is repetitively reinforced, there is freedom to engage the whole neighborhood and freedom to keep that little wrought-iron gateway clear of weeds, the handle loose, and the hinges greased. If they so choose.

I wonder …

Who shares the proverbial backyard of your heart?

Is the gate open or has someone built a wall? Which neighbor are you?

"If possible, as far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all." Romans 10:18

Leave it to Love

 

It is time to pivot. But I want to be careful.

In 2019, my mom sold her house in Austin, and Philip and I sold our home in Marshall, and together, we invested in our current property. This place has been such a blessing with its wide open spaces and ample rambling room for every Sunday lunch, all the family gatherings, and especially the many weeks of quarantine. It has offered a good many challenges as well, and I count those as blessings, too. Hard thanks.

All three of us sense the start of a new season that is surely filled with freedom and hope. We may revisit a similar setup later on, but for now, we are unified in our posture to step away.

And so … we have made some repairs, freshened the paint, decluttered the nooks and crannies, and Lord knows we have mulched. My stars, the maddening amounts of mulch. It has been all hands on deck for weeks because tomorrow we have photographs taken, and soon it will be listed to sell.

Four years ago, the right thing was to partner together and buy this house. Now, it is time for our next right thing. But before we step away, we are intentionally painstakingly infusing this possession with effort and tender care so as to acknowledge its value that we know to be true. 

Stewarding real estate investments is hard work, and as far as it depends on us, we want to leave this better than we found it. I'm going to be honest. This place looks fantastic! It hasn't been this wholly clean in a while, with so much love and life left to offer. What a blessing it will be to the next family!

Stewarding real relationships is hard work, too. Every human connection (save marriage) bears the freedom to step back or away, and as far as it depends on me, I want to leave people (or watch them leave) better than I found them.

Whether we're the ones staying or going, before it's all said and done we can intentionally put forth the effort to offer tenderness and care, painstakingly affirming the value in others that we know to be true. Wholeness and clean starts ... what a blessing for everyone waiting out the next season. So much love and life is ours to offer.

It's OK if it is time to pivot. Just be careful.

From Our Home

 "Hey, do you have the recipe for Mrs. Mullikin's banana bread?"

"Yep! Memorized: 3 cups flour, 2 cups sugar ..."

"No, I mean the actual recipe. You know the little piece of paper you used to scribble down the recipe for me? It has to be 15 years old with oil smudges and drops of vanilla all over it."

* Please hold.

"Buh-Nuh!! I found it!! Do I get a gold star for producing such an obscure yet beloved artifact??"

"Sure. As long as I get two gold stars for describing it perfectly." 

•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•

"Happy Mother's Day!"

(Scroll to see scratchmade banana bread and a laser-cut wooden plaque of the recipe)

"Oh my gosh, my sloppy handwriting ... but I love it so much! Thank you!"

•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•

Mrs. Mullikin, a widow in her eighties, befriended me in my first years of marriage and parenting. Hers was the first banana bread I actually enjoyed. When I would swoon over it, she would emphasize, "It is Hawaiian. That's probably why you like it."

She shared her recipe with me, and I found even more to love. It only required one bowl and two measures: a cup and a teaspoon. I committed it to memory with little effort and lots of gratitude for dishwashing in a snap.

Many a Saturday morning of my kids' lives were spent boiling eggs for tuna salad, then immediately compensating for the stinky kitchen by baking a batch of banana bread. I still think the kids would conspire to stop eating fresh bananas once there were five left, knowing I would bake bread before letting them rot.

Once a child was old enough, I would share the prized recipe and let them give it a go. How many mushy bananas were rescued and redeemed by simply adding some staple ingredients, heating the oven to 350°, and waiting for an hour. Loads of sweet loaves made for many sweet memories.

•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•○●○•

Parenting is a rich blend of challenge, failure, and reward. What is preserved is not perfect. The memories and messages are messy, but I have to believe in the gift of grace. 

Grab some sugar and a wooden spoon. No matter how rotten things might seem to get, this will not be unredeemed.

Join the Club

 

After watching him for decades as he consistently enjoys his own recreation (while "providing meat for the family"), I am finally wising up.

He is a hunter. In every season, he anticipates his next excursion and prepares. He chats and strategizes. He gears up and heads out. He can be gone for the day or the weekend.

Sometimes he returns with nothing outward to show for his absence. Other times he comes in with harvest tales, renewed wholeness, and the promise of a hundred and fifty pounds of frozen [expensive] meat to arrive neatly packaged and labeled with his initials.

Wisdom ... choosing rhythms of re-creation ... a change of pace and scenery in which to find provision, fresh perspective and rest. 

And so. 

I hunt dove … true story …

and grass-fed cattle.

Figurative peace and actual beef. Of course I never have to fire a shot. The whole operation is clean, understated, and wonderfully time consuming.

I intentionally set aside a day or a weekend and I quietly anticipate the goodness until I boldly depart. 

My favorite hunting spots:

A conference. Any conference. I love a good framework of well-organized, informative sessions where everyone sits in climate-controlled comfort doing more listening than talking. I love it.

A concert. Assigned seats in a darkened room where it's too loud for small talk. Deal.

A casual stroll. Where gentle movement is the destination and the revelation runs wild.

A cottage. Clean and cozy space where there are no responsibilities and ample freedom to gather and share my thoughts.

A car. I love a good road-trip. Cue the audio books, shuffle through new music, or just ride in silence letting the road noise drown out any anxious thoughts so the dreams pipe through the daytime loud and clear.

A cause. If I am thriving in my real life, then I prefer to vacate with a purpose. I volunteer. I'm addicted. Homeschool conventions, women's conferences, advocating for orphans at concerts … I love how helpful teamwork behind the scenes improves everyone's experience. It's also interesting that sacrifice grants access before the crowds and beyond the curtains.

My favorite supplies:

Fancy snacks. The kind I would never buy as part of a click list or on a normal Tuesday.

Fuss-free clothing. Comfort and monochromatic dependability are key.

Fine point pens and a college ruled spiral. At all times. Lists or lyrics, sketches or scripture doodles … the possibilities are endless and the end result is scribbled joy. Flip the page: another marvelous fresh start promising even more joy.

I love the pursuit of peace … my version of a dove hunt. And I love the flexibility of hunting grass-fed beef … hunt year round, anywhere you like (I'm looking at you, sandy beach), and rock the solo trip, bring a buddy, or pack the full band.

I typically return with nothing outward to show for my unusual exodus, but I have tales of beauty and renewed wholeness … and the eventual bounty of a [comparably priced] side of beef neatly packaged and ready for my sharpied initials. 

All the love,

cdj

PS. As much as I've been hunting over the past few years, there has always been plenty of venison in our freezer, so I've not yet had to place an order with the ranch. We've got a good thing going.

Blessings for Mom

A Mother's Day Meditation on Jeremiah 17

Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord,

whose trust is the Lord.

Happy is the woman...
... who denies herself to find joy.
... who relies upon her Heavenly Father for peace and comfort.
... who depends upon the truth of her adoption in Christ for her validation.
... who treasures her weaknesses - knowing God will accomplish His goals in His strength.

He is like a tree planted by water,
that sends out its roots by the stream ...

Her life is supple and secure,
resiliently grounded,
sensitive, sweet and strong,
refreshingly pleasant.

She'll continue to abide and seek sustenance from the One True Source of Life.

... and does not fear when heat comes ...

Even when the trials come, she doesn't worry.
When pain lingers,
and problems persist,
she is not ruined - she finds courage and hope.

...  for its leaves remain green,

For His Life flows through her.
She abides in Him. And He abides in Her.
His Word dwells richly within her and she keeps in step with His Spirit.

... and is not anxious in the year of drought,

So she has nothing to fear. No worries.
She puts no faith in circumstances.
She is patient and does not grow weary.

... for it does not cease to bear fruit.”

With passionate purpose, she'll give everything she has
to this beautifully sacrificial life that will render her
fertile, flourishing and fruitful.

Attitude of Being

Happiness is knowing where we stand, realizing every ounce of goodness is a gift, and intentionally aiming to live emptied; giving thanks for the fulfillment that is ours.

Happiness is knowing we're never alone, feeling separation and sorrow cut deep, but sensing bonds of hope and joy; giving thanks for the communion that is ours.

Happiness is knowing it's fine to be last, and there's no need to be loud; giving thanks for the identity and inheritance that is ours.

Happiness is knowing the pangs of purified desires and the diligence of pursuit; giving thanks for the satisfaction that is ours.

Happiness is knowing that life isn't fair and relinquishing our right to get even; giving thanks for the mercy that is ours.

Happiness is a clean conscience and a humble heart; giving thanks for the holy perspective that is ours.

Happiness is treating others with patience and respect; giving thanks for the royalty that is ours.

Happiness is standing firmly in the light; giving thanks for the future that is ours.

*Inspired by Jesus in Matthew 5:3-10 (Beatitudes)

Losing A Grip

 

This photo is 100% swiped. It's all I have to show for a wonderful day spent on my feet without my phone in my pocket.

Four slow cookers, 36 dinner rolls, two worship services, six households, three pots of coffee, 110 minutes of four square, eight hours of conversation, 9 fewer fish in the pond and zero photos.

Not one picture of my handsome hubs ... who wore the shirt his daughters picked out for him to coordinate with them the best.

Not one picture of the man-cubs. None of Grammy or me or our guests. Not even any of the egg-hunting cuties who call me Granna and give great hugs. 

Just this one picture of my four favorite women shining a little of the light and love I walked in all day long.

But I feel like I need to back up into the whole truth. TBH Saturday was one of the hardest days I've had in a while. I was angry and anxious and deeply discouraged. I was moody and lonesome, resentful and mean.

It felt like a battle. An irrational bout for sanity and peace. I mean, yes, there were preparations for today, but I honestly wasn't stressed about that. I felt some fear and grief from the previous weeks sort of catch up with me, but (with Jesus and His wisdom) I'm usually pretty good at assessing and processing all that, too. 

It's fair to say I was a little tired, and there are always hormonal complexities to consider, but for real. What in the actual world?

We went ten awful rounds, the no-good tempter and I. And while the darkness stood its ground, eventually, the only thing I could swing was to give up and go to bed.

Often, whenever I go to bed, my mind shifts into overdrive, but not last night. The minute my head touched the pillow, there was a palpable hush. Like the shush of holy white noise drowning out the chaotic lies with mercy and truth.

"I will rest in the Father's arms. Leave the rest in the Father's arms."

Just before my alarm began to chime on Sunday, I opened my eyes to a bright new day. A fresh start to a life worth living.

So I kissed some foreheads, curled my hair, plugged in the crock pots and sang some praise.

All because He lives.

"The risen King of Victory is alive inside of me!" 

Happy Resurrection Day (even without a bunch of sweet pictures)!🌻

Behind Closed Doors

Besides his emotional sniffles as he walked me down the aisle, I only have one memory of my father crying. 

I wasn't supposed to see, but I had proceeded too quickly after my knock at his bedroom door had not been heard. I was twelve I think. He was on the floor, sobbing into the carpet. I quickly backed away into the hallway, closing the door in front of me. 

I learned a few years later that he had been enduring terrible grief related to the church and his ministry. For me, this revelation yielded equal parts explanation and confusion. 

I loved my dad, and I loved the church - mainly because he modeled such devotion to her, and I wanted to love what he loved. I wanted to be a part of the body he lived to serve, a part of the flock he loved to lead and feed and protect.

Today marks 28 years since his death. I can still see his smile, the fervor and whimsy in his eyes, and his short stubby fingers curiously smoothing the pages of his open Bible. His sermons my whole life were deep dives of sage exhortation, simple outlines springing up from scripture, and well-developed word pictures with a fair amount of self-deprecating silliness.

I am blessed to be able to describe him as joyful and fun. But I will never forget that single image of him, broken on his bedroom floor, buried in the weighty rubble of despair. He was desperate and literally crying out … empty with nothing left to give and nothing more to lose.

I don't think he wanted me to see, but I did. A little seed was planted in the secret places of my mind: "hide your heart". 

Was he told that big [little] boys don't cry … the day his mother suddenly died? Then, in between his father's lengthy deployments, did he miss the opportunity to watch a grown man grieve?

His father died when I was a baby. I wonder if dad felt like, once again, he needed to "be strong" for the family especially his beloved step-mom who, yet in her forties, had been widowed twice. The oldest son, a licensed minister fresh out of college … did he feel pressure to shut out his own struggles and sadness? Or perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation, he was already accustomed to involuntary suppression.

I really don't know. I appreciate his efforts to shield me from pain back then, but I wish I could offer him a safe space to process now. I'd love to hear his heart.

He was not perfect, but his love for God and the church was undeniable. During my teen years he took a sabbatical from pastoring. I remember noticing how faithfully he attended to Christ and His bride even when it wasn't his "job".

I inherited Dad's affection for the body of Christ, the family of God. In his footsteps, I have spent my days in pursuit of a call to shepherd … in every corner of my life. I see little gatherings of folks and my soul is on alert. I am naturally aware of where we could be headed, what needs can be met, nourishment to offer, and little nudges to keep us on track. 

But after repeated opportunities to stumble or be humble, my spirit is developing a supernatural awareness that my only hope to serve well is to remain deeply dependent on the Savior. 

Jesus meets me behind closed doors (just like He did with dad). He shows up in my desperation with pure compassion because nothing is hidden from Him. With resurrection power He helps me to stand again to walk in hope and peace. 

But also. I have learned to celebrate that recovery with others. I have sponsors and mentors who frame my challenges with gentle rebuke and solid wisdom. I have a mental health counselor who offers tools and language so I can better navigate the mysteries and mess. I have a husband who is honest to the core as he loves me. 

And I have children who have seen me cry. They know when I am struggling with sin, when I'm scared about the future, or when I am simply sad because the world is filled with hurting people hurting people.

Maybe I've let the transparency pendulum swing too far, and maybe they wish I'd close my door more often. But I know the heartache and joy associated with following Christ. It is a package deal that Jesus makes abundantly clear. 

You can't have the blessings of the Father without enduring the sufferings of the Son. You can't corporately worship in spirit and truth without the risk of getting wounded by humans bent toward deceit. You can't devote yourself to Jesus and then despise His bride.

I don't want my kids to give up, and I don't want them to sell out. And I never, ever want them to think they have to suffer alone because that is absolutely not the truth. 

"This, in essence, is the message we heard from Christ and are passing on to you: God is light, pure light; there’s not a trace of darkness in him.

If we claim that we experience a shared life with him and continue to stumble around in the dark, we’re obviously lying—we’re not living what we claim. But if we walk in the light, God himself being the light, we also experience a shared life with one another, as the sacrificed blood of Jesus, God’s Son, purges all our sin." 

(1 John 1:5-7, MSG)

Divine Appointment

 

We learn of a sizeable gift waiting to be awarded and it is my job to find a suitable recipient.

I make a plan to set up a meeting with a colleague to discuss potential possibilities.

But then I remember his department has an event, so to be courteous, I table it until the following day.

I make a new plan to set up a meeting, but discover he can only meet after 4 and I can only meet before 3.

I decide to meet with his assistant instead, and I plan to walk right over. However, interruptions and distractions delay my departure.

Hours later, I walk across campus.

Since the person I need to speak with isn't where I thought she might be, I climb the stairs to try to find her in the workroom.

I pass by a series of open office doors, and wave hello to friends who look up from their work as I quietly parade by.

I pop my head around one doorway and whisper, "Good morning, Friend!" 

"Please come in! I want to talk to you."

I never planned to stop or sit down or to plunge into a deeply authentic conversation. I was unaware that we had been at odds, that I had unknowingly caused confusion and pain more than a year before. I hadn't anticipated the heartfelt exchange of apologies and forgiveness that was literally waiting for me in a room to which I hadn't planned to go.

We share our sides. Bitterness is confessed and remorse is expressed. There is a holiness hovering heavy as hushed and humble words miraculously clear the air. I look up and use my ring fingers to wipe the moist mascara from below my eyes and then I stand to go. We thank each other for the honesty and grace and then marvel at how fresh and welcome the freedom feels.

Eventually, I finish the scholarship conversation I planned from the beginning. But not before God was able to use delay and deferment to position me with precision timing for the greater purpose. 

There was indeed a priceless and powerful gift to be offered and it was my joy to find - and to be - the suitable recipient.

"In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps." Proverbs 16:9

Typos & Terrain

When my friend texted, instead of "trial", she accidentally typed "trail". 

As I ponder it, I gratefully sense an invitation from the Lord to shift my perspective and view a “trial” as a rough and rutted “trail” toward more of His [good and wise] plan for me. 

Instead of feeling stuck in this stationary [momentary] hardship, this renewed outlook postures me for progress and patience and [eternal] peace. 

Yet those who wait for the Lord

Will gain new strength;

They will mount up with wings like eagles,

They will run and not get tired,

They will walk and not become weary. 

Isaiah 40:31

Lord, we praise You for Your wisdom and kindness. Thank you for promising never to leave us. 

Help us as we walk with You up these paths You're working to make straight. Equip us to offer truth and grace to those who walk beside us. 

Together, we pray for faith enough to surrender, and patience enough to keep in step and see Your Kingdom come.

Steps

Step 4: "We made a searching and fearless inventory of ourselves."

As I take note of past hurts, harmful habits, and selfish hang-ups, I just keep digging up dirt. To surrender my life to the Lord for long-term, deep cleaning, I must continue to look for things about which to be brutally honest.

I feel like I'm constantly dealing with nasty mop water.

I get a section of my life processed ... like mopping half a room. But then the water is disgusting. Grateful to be rid of the funk, I empty it out to choose new, fresh water.

In the progress, I force myself to see the good along with the bad. I choose to believe the truth of forgiveness and mercy instead of the enemy's lies about shame and condemnation. I choose to live according to God's promises, and to commit each day to clean and holy living. Mop it up. Rinse it out. Dump it out. Fill it up.

I remember my grandmother could mop her floors and the water wasn't even dirty. Seriously. But let me tell you a few fun facts about her home ...

No one ever wore shoes in her house. Ever. Food was consumed at the kitchen bar or the dining table, washable rugs covered 70% of her floor space, and I think she mopped every day. Ha!

So, no dirt in, a limit set on potential spills, measures of safeguard against wear and tear, and daily attention.

No wonder her mop water was clear! How can I apply this principle to my life as I celebrate recovery? 

Dirty influences and muddy temptations are checked at the door. No garbage in. Less garbage out.

Set standard operating procedures that minimize a moral mess ... like screens staying in the family room, plentiful healthful snacks in the pantry, and keeping a gratitude journal.

Have trusted accountability in place so that when life becomes a wreck, partners can bear some of the burden, help keep things in perspective and preserve what's really important.

Daily attentiveness is key.

"Let us examine our ways and test them, and let us return to the Lord." -Lamentations 3:40

Thank You, God, for tools that bring discipline. Thank You for mercifully dumping my dirty water "into the sea of forgetfulness" again and again; and for faithfully refilling my bucket with clean and pure water ... so I can keep mopping. Please redeem my messes into a message of hope.

Entreatment

 

The silent treatment. 

A false reprieve. Passive aggression. The worst kind of tension.

There is so much that needs to be said in the pursuit of peace. And yet with willful determination, everything is muzzled into pressurized coexistence.

No clarifying perspectives, no humble apologies, no gentle rebukes. No resolution.

I despise the awful space at the receiving end. And to be honest, I have often dominated in the dreadful dishing out.

. 

.

.

On the other hand ...

Silence.

A holy pause. Intentional margin to listen and remain calm. Collected.

There is so much that could be said in the name of profuse progress. And yet, with willful determination, everything is muted into an expanse of hallowed hush.

No cluttering preferences, no weighing of options, no confirmation nor denial. Only resolute faith.

I resist this posture of patience. And to be quite honest, I don't practice it enough.

.

.

.

People who have yet to properly process their own hurt are masters of the silent treatment. Soundly driven, the wedge forces relationships further apart and deeper into despair. 

People who are mastering the disciplines of being quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry can confidently offer the gift of silence. Quietly we are drawn into more of God's presence where healing and hope abide.

.

.

.

And all the people aside ... when I think of how easily and how often I treat the powerful stillness of God as if it were some petty silent treatment … I weep.

He is never far and His purposes are pure and kind. He cannot fail.

I will not fear the silence.

.

.

.

Processional

He wanted to find a quiet place to be alone. He was looking for a secret spot to read his Bible and talk to God, so he walked around until he found it.

Then he met me.

And when he decided he could love me forever ...

He wanted to find a quiet place where no one could bother us. He was looking for a secret spot to offer me a diamond ring and ask me his life-changing question. He walked me down to the water's edge to find it.

And I said yes ... to him, to all the adventurous possibilities, to the perpetual unknown, and to the protective One who knew us best and seemed to be arranging it all.

That was twenty-nine (and a third) years ago. #TeamShortEngagement

Today, when he wanted to find a quiet place to spend time with me and feel close to God, he knew exactly where we should go. 

And together we found it.

Our anniversary [re]discovery: familiar peace, our firm Foundation, and a fresh breeze of renewal and hope. 

.

.

.

*Sometime ask me about our proposal and I'll tell you how Philip faked a fight just to hear me beg him not to break up, and so I had to punch him twice on the arm and once in the gut before taking the ring and kissing his giggling mouth then say that I was sorry but he should be too, and I realized I loved him so much because I wasn't even bothered by his off-pitch top-of-lungs rendition belting John Michael Montgomery's I Love the Way You Love Me with the windows rolled down alllll the way to the lake ... just a grinning.💗

RESeT

There is a corner of my bedroom that few people see. Honestly, I haven't even seen it in months! All year long it has welcomed towers of transparent tubs with clearly labeled lids. Preparations, wardrobing, and supplies, packed and stacked, piled high with hope and readiness for all things wedding.

Over the holidays, I finally got it all cleared out, and it feels new and wonderful. The lingering fullness and lack of margin certainly held meaning and purpose for a time. We have found ourselves in a season of serving and sowing along with all the celebrations. 

Sadly, without noticing, I had grown accustomed to the looming excess and crowded feelings of anxiousness, but now, in this freshly exposed space, all I can sense is a new start, uncluttered and calm. Life-giving.

With similar, happy resolve I also addressed my jumbled jewelry hanger that clanged necklaces against my closet door with each swinging entrance and exit. We all know there are only three or four that I want to wear, so the rest have been released.

All that remains is tidy and still. Quiet.

Next, I purged and organized the contents of each of my desk drawers. Nothing I don't need. Everything in its place.

There is peace in being systematically prepared with merely the necessities. Come what may.

Then I even went through my closet, giving away the clothes I only think I might wear, leaving the garments that I actually use with ample room for each to hang loosely so as not to wrinkle.

Honesty. Simplicity. Room to breathe.

Could it be true that our living spaces reflect our soul and its health? 

Well, there remains an unstable pile of papers mocking me from atop my desk, a windowsill disguised as a library shelf, the hall closet crammed with overstuffed photo boxes, and the cabinet under my bathroom sink riddled with randomness, Lord help us all. 

Nothing to fear. Plentiful opportunities to show myself some grace, a little patience, and all the freedom . . . to further explore the wisdom of less becoming more.