Running into the fear {Allume 2012 and why I'll keep writing}

Last year we stumbled onto a new favorite place. We walked downhill, carried a baby boy. Answered the invitation of falling water, its far-off roar. We followed its trail between rocks and under leaves showing their first signs of fall. And last year I forgot my camera and I shook my head all the while. Needing desperately to bottle that place, cup all its goodness at the foot of the falls. 


On our last day up north, we packed the van tight and settled in for the nine hours south. And my man knew we would meet D.C. traffic right at rush hour. He also knows me well. So he pulled off the road anyway and handed me my lens. Told me to be careful, told me to hurry.

He said, "go do what makes you you."

 

And I said sorry too many times even though he wasn't angry, told him I would hurry. I left the whole crew on the side of the road and ran into the woods, down the trail and over sopping leaves. I followed the sound all on my own, and the descent out of sunlight- into water- was a bit unnerving. For a minute I forgot the goal, wanted to turn back.

Because the trek into new places feels safer among a crowd. Other voices cushion the quiet; other bodies temper the nerves.

And at the foot of the falls I found myself alone and silent. The waterfall was deafening and I was fine. I was afraid. I wanted to hurry away. I wanted to stay.

And I heard His roar but I saw His beauty. I felt my own heartbeat. 



And when the call of God and the pulse of your own blood meet up in one place- well that's how you know.

I was made for this place.

Because it's how we all started ... the heartbeat of the Maker in our ears, us wrapped safe in a place all our own. So is it really any wonder that we would feel right at home ... and a little afraid too.

Following Him into that space when He calls.

That was last year and just a few weeks ago we made our annual trek again. This time my boy ran down into woods as fast as his feet would carry him. He navigated rocks and crags in his little gray Crocs and we were certain we would sew up a chin by day's end.

But his squeals echoed what we all know when we stumble into the Maker.

This is where I belong.

And when He is nearby, even unfamiliar land isn't so strange and so how do you deny someone running headlong into God. Me, I've been wrapped up in fear too long- not wanting to run. Saying sorry too often for "doing what makes me me."



But last weekend, I spent three days at Allume. I drove north again for the second time this month. This time I went alone. I was afraid.

When I cried, called myself an impostor, my husband looked right into my eyes, said it plain through the iPhone.

"You belong. You are loved. Go be who you are."

And walking into a crowd of women (or four hundred) can feel like running right into the woods. Finding a friendly face ... an empty seat at a table ... can be downright terrifying.

Following His invitation into the unknown can be both inspiring and just scary enough to hide out forever.

Believe me, I tried. (And really, it was this girl who saved the day. Fiercely courageous and for whatever reason, knocking on my door.)

Because my hotel room was just cozy and quiet enough to lounge unnoticed for seventy-two hours.

Only this: I had run off to follow an invitation. A call into an adventure that makes my heart beat loud. I had driven all that way to meet up with word women. Women who love words-

women who love the Word.

Women who have heard an invitation too, to be who they are by putting pens to paper and fingers to keys. Women who meet up with God in the writing down, where they whisper like me:

Ooh, I know this place.

I wanted to hide away. But they had come too. Hearts pounding, inspired, and perhaps a bit afraid like me.

And it's ironic really- how I ran away to learn how to do.
But I came home knowing who to be.

Because this writing life isn't really so much about the words, but about the girl jotting them down.
And it's not so much about who critiques them ... but why she bothers to write them at all.

At a conference, literally, filled with virtual connections- I found out about community and fear and courage. Reconciliation and understanding and how words can break down barriers and unify His people. For our sake. And for the sake of the church. And sure, the converse is true, but why wouldn't we, the Word lovers, use them for good.

I discovered that writing heals and authentic words matter; that the words make no difference if they haven't first been lived, wrestled; that words never take precedence over people- how Jesus was all about relationship and proximity. How we are called to live well in the here and now, with the people He's given us. Right in front of us. And how maybe, just maybe, we might gain a credible voice to share with the more.

And it was dearest Ann who said it soft and straight: the only way to write well is to go lower all the time, writing on lives in the quiet. And if we spend our days seeking word applause, people applause, well ... Heaven's applause may be silent.

I discovered that every time we put words out into the open, we invite others in. We add to our fold and how this tending is no small thing. We are changed in the reaching out ... they are changed as they enter in. 

I discovered how to be content- how my small and nervous words may really be big and courageous enough. How we don't decide our venue or our audience. We merely run ahead through the fear. Answer a call.

And my, how we get to watch Him work.     




Last month on our drive north, with the family altogether, we missed the leaves changing color. It wasn't quite time.

But today the leaves are changing. And so am I.

I'm home and I'm sure of it, this call to authentic words. I was there and afraid but now? I'm ready to find a space, right here in the quiet, with all of the words and all of the women who have been grounded by them.

Because of Him.

Grateful for the invitation. Grateful for women who heard the roar and followed the whisper.  This time, the all-alone was worthwhile.

Sometimes it's in the all-alone that He calls loudest. 
Sometimes it's in the all-alone that we discover our part matters. So can you hear Him ...

He's calling you  too.

"Come on now, girl. Come do what makes you you. Come and be who you are."


For the glory of His name. And for the benefit of us all.

Finding Home

It was on Day 6 of Advent, back in December, when this little family read about Jacob who slept on a rock and dreamt of heaven. When he woke, he was afraid and in awe at the same time.

"How awesome is this place," he said. "Surely God is in this place and I was unaware."

My oldest girl drew Jacob's ladder that day, the stairs to heaven colored red and blue with the angels ascending and descending. Wings bright yellow. God hovering at the top. She folded it up, put it in her pocket like Ann told us to do-- to remember, throughout the day, that everywhere is a house of God.

Later that night I pulled it out of her pants pocket, was reminded of its truth before tossing denim into the wash. How had I forgotten so quickly? I was certain I had missed Him that day ... because some days I just don't know how to make a home.

Some days home can feel elusive.

And Todd and I have always named our years, faithfully together on January 1. For years now we have performed this New Year liturgy. We sit close on New Years day, communion between us. We eat bread, drink wine. We remember the twelve months behind us, ponder the twelve to come. We confess, ask, laugh nostalgic, offer up this next trip around the sun. We ask for grace and courage. We give thanks.

And recently we've witnessed the passing of years named COURAGE, FREEDOM, MATURITY. And it sounds audacious, I suppose, to name a year that hasn't yet happened. But the naming has become, for us, more of an asking ... a recognition of a need mixed with humble anticipation.

Becasue He has worked on this family's behalf.

But this year, we sat together with the calendar wiped clean and we had no name-- 2012 glaring at us like a newborn swaddled tight. Infant hope all wrapped up in endless possibility.

And nameless.

This nameless babe has haunted me for nearly a month. I haven't been able to move on, figuratively speaking. For the first time in years, the weight of a name is weighing me down.

But on Day 6 of this new year, one month after my oldest put that ladder in her pocket, my littlest one stirred something in me. On the day of the Epiphany, I had one.

We were talking about church and how it is a building and how it is also God's people, inside four walls and outside as well. This concept is difficult and I wondered if she was tracking. Then she asked me if it was the same as "that story." "You know, mama? The one with the rock pillow and the stairs and the angels? Not just church, but everywhere is God's house."

I remember how Jacob woke up afraid that morning. And amazed. With fear and wonder mixed together, he got up and declared that place God's house. Awe at what he had seen, fear at what he hadn't understood, wonder at God's presence and the promise ahead of him. All the while, he had a knowing that he was on holy ground.

God there in the mystery.

And I wonder if fear of the unknown (un-named) could be holy wonder too? God here, sprawling across empty calendar space, taking up residence in my nameless days ahead.

I go back and read Jacob. And when he woke he went on his way, but not before making a proposition:

"If you'll be with me and watch over me, if you'll provide for me then you'll be my god. And all that you give me? I'll turn around and give it right back. And this place of rock hard sleep will become your house.  If you'll get me home, I'll declare this place a house of God."

Only this: God had already told him, "I will bring you back to this land. This is the land I will give you." Jacob wanted to get home and God said, this place you named 'House of God' will be your home.

Your home will be wherever I am.  

And in the first four weeks of my nameless year, I've been thinking on this idea of home without even knowing. Conversations and books and prayers and encounters, all pointing not to a place but to a reality. "You have been our dwelling place..."

It's nearly February now and Christmas is lingering under my skin; this God who came down to dwell among us, within us, is reminding me again and again that home is wherever He is.

And so it is one month late and right on time that I'll declare this year The Year of Finding Home.
Because there's a stirring here within these walls and we're sensing that home is far more than where we lay our heads. It's a mystery and it's lovely and the welcome embrace is safe, sure and strong.