On time and quiet growth and resurrection

I haven't been able to write for nearly a year. No more than a few words here and there. And it's felt a little like dying. And it fits really, if I'm honest. Because I'm only just now coming to realize that we did, in fact, do some dying this past year. And time has a way of marking necessary growth. We are always changing, shedding old skin ... dying a little ... becoming more and more like new.

It's been just over a year since we started turning right instead of left on Sundays. And it is possible, you know, to celebrate and to grieve. To walk away and also walk into.

When we walked through new church doors one year ago, it was the beginning of Lent. And I watched my husband stand up tall and brave among a new crowd of witnesses. I took in a deep breath of certainty, mimicking him there, and I had never seen him so sure.

And it was like a homecoming.

That was last Easter. And truly? We've declared together and apart:

this has been our finest year yet.

As if we entered a living, moving, turning organism with all its liturgy and its calendar and its rhythms. We were swept up into a current that is fluid and brilliant and deep- its riches seemingly bottomless. And like a whirlpool with Jesus at its center, we have found ourselves plunging again and again into still deeper waters, swimming around and around - and always closer in.

And I am convinced that we were made for this: this spiraling, this liturgical living, this time-keeping. The way we keep hours in a planner and mark days in boxes on our walls. Alarms in our phones. Reminders on screens. We are creatures of habit and time- made with a limited amount of it and always living in a way that just confirms: yes, we are finite. And we were created for rhythms. Seasons.

Sure, we live the daily but aren't we running in much bigger circles, all of us? Large, twelve month, orbiting circles that bring us back to the same points on the calendar time and time again. And we run ahead and fast as if we are one up on time. But really? We crave what is familiar.

And what we know best ... is time kept.

Who hasn't felt it? When we move outside of time's zones, the way our bodies can feel foggy and inside out. And even those of us who long to be globe trotters and time travelers must learn patience ... must allow for the getting there.

And then for the catching up.

I suppose I am learning this right now. We waited quiet throughout all of Lent and the waiting continues. We took a bold step, made the initial move. And I would like for the Lord to be doing visible things and directing us in outward ways. Instead, I sense the same whispers over and over again. Every day, just this:

Wait for the Lord. Create rhythms in your soul and habits in your home. Wait for the Lord. Shed some fear skin and die to control. Surrender to love. Wait for the Lord. Write quiet prayers in secret.

And it is one year later and my heart longs to tap out meaningful words in this space. I want to know that I've grown or changed and so often I can't see myself clearly until I see my own words. I want to know what He has been up to from springtime last.



Instead, this year found me stretched. Quiet. Baffled by its necessary silence. It was Lent again and my struggles were similar, my fasting equally tough, equally eye-opening to my own sin nature and frail human tendencies. And still, I'm thankful for the rhythmic reminders in a year. Lent was a time to slow and remember, go into the desert with Jesus on purpose. To believe that I, we, really do live on something other than bread alone ... whatever that bread may be. It was time again to wait.

And in our church now, we are still celebrating Easter. Six weeks later we are still talking of the resurrection and, yes, I am being resurrected too. And this church calendar reminds me to linger- not to rush necessary growth or grief or celebration. Inside those church walls, time seems to stand still and I'm swept up into something infinitely larger than myself.

I am learning not to fear time.

I am learning, in the quiet, that He is always keeping company with me- this man who is outside of the hours I keep.

I am believing now, with a new posture, that My Jesus really has marked all of my days.

I watch the calendar and pray for growth from this year to the next. It has been a year of sporadic words. And I have learned to be alright in this place. Perhaps gestating. Perhaps finishing up with a necessary grief. And my answer, when someone asks, has become semi-lame but always the truest response I can find.

"I'm really good," I say.

Because I really am. Perhaps moving into a long awaited season of security. I sense an infant, sure   knowing ... both new and strong. I'm not so afraid of breaking anymore. I'm growing into some new word skin. And I think I can see it now- how I needed to find some courage in the quiet.




Friends, time brings change and change brings growth. Growth can bring some hurting. But good, healthy hurting brings clarity and purpose. Vision. And God willing, next spring will come again. We can bet that in the midst of time turning, Jesus will not change. His words will still hold true. His call to holiness will still be clear. His love will still be abundant ... His grace still plentiful.

I've watched calendar months fall away and I've been a bit restless. What will come of all this unmarked time? I can hope this next year is not as quiet as the last. I can hope that as the seasons turn again, my heart will turn too-

always spiraling closer into the heart of the One who holds me, and time itself, in the palm of His hand.

If you are fishing for some encouragement

Hoping your first week of 2013 was filled with happy laughter and a bit of hyper color. 

And if not? No worries, friends. 

Because you've got all year to test new waters, discover new shades, and lay your burdens down. It's our year to be ok in the now, to trust the process we are in, and to let Him 

re-shuffle and redirect if and when we are in a jam. There's no shame in losing a hand or two ...  

Because sometimes losing is really winning and handing over your best card is really making room for one that's better.

Sometimes it feels like all bets are off ...

can we open up empty hands and wait patient?


Friend, this could be the time to stop fishing for what is next.
And simply be.

So whether you started strong or you've already wished for a do-over -- pair up, again today, with the Creator of the game, the One who knows how every hand will end.

We are not yet who we will be.

And someday we will see Him as he really is.  (1 John 3:2) We will know just how faithful He has been, just how trustworthy ... just how committed to make us like himself.

So run the race today, friends. And then again tomorrow. Don't drop out.

Don't flip the board and pout, throw down your cards when your pal wins.
Let's cheer, "Wow, look at you!"

Because we each have winning and losing moments. Refining times. Yes, seasons. We are all growing into maturity. We are all moving toward one goal. And He will keep His promise to finish what He began ... yes, the good work in each of us. (Phil. 1:6)

We have all we need. We are enough just as we are. And we will be made complete.

Someday.

But in this moment ... could we say in faith, "Come, Lord Jesus. Do what you will ... today."

Just one right-now at a time.

2013 is The Year of ...

I have been known to hide out when I am in process.  

To hunker down in the fog and then emerge into the clear, seemingly unscathed.

My mom knows this about me. And when I was in college she waited before calling- always waited for me to check in first. But if I didn't? She knew I had gone underground.

And she hates to leave a message- feels 'so silly talking to a machine,' she says. But she left the messages anyhow, always the same: 'Mary Abigail, I'm missing you. Where did you go?'

Most of the time I called back quickly. 'Sorry mama. I've just been busy.'
But other times, I would only have to hear her voice on the other end before cracking wide open. I would cry quiet into her ear, always trying to hold it together. Keep the flood contained. Keep her safe from my burden.

Because I never wanted to trouble her. Not anyone.

I have a few heart friends who always come to me when they find themselves mid-crisis. Call or show up right in that bad moment when the world is all coming down. And I love them like crazy for this, for the gift of being vulnerable. They don't know it's sacred space when they do this: show up at my door and spill it all out for me to catch ... only to offer it back up to Jesus on their behalf. 

And it's not that they couldn't or wouldn't go to Him in their distress. But it's hands and feet they need and it's holy privilege to be safe space in those gut honest moments. I've been called that:  safe space.

And I have been, for the most part. For every person but myself.

And I've always said I work everything out on paper. That I don't know what I think until I see it. Don't know what it all means, what it is all really about until it's over and done. Until the storm has passed. This is only partially true.

The other part? I don't like to flail. Don't like to fail. Don't like to fall apart. Don't give myself that much room. I'm just private, I say. Not likely to come to your door and spill.

Back in school I never let anyone edit my work ... would have taken my words to the grave before letting you mark them up with red ink. Too afraid to show process. To proud to need direction.

I'll show you my A plus ... just not my rough draft.

And fear and pride will play tricks on your heart- keep you all bound up and alone, tell you you are wrong for needing people. Wrong for being in the middle of the journey. Wrong for being a bit rough around the edges. Fear and pride will tell you to hide out, work it out alone, resurface when all is well.

Pride will whisper that just you and your quiet faith is highly spiritual.

Only, God gave us each other...

And I spent the first half of my life showing only the good stuff. Lived out an addiction-to-thin among college roommates for five years. I led bible study and raised my hands at Inter Varsity, covered up my hurts behind closed doors. 

I finally sought out some help. I did it all by myself. And for months, while living with four girls, I drove away to therapy instead of to class. Four days a week I sat in groups and private sessions,  learned it was alright to say 'I'm not okay.'

I just didn't want others to know.

And I had a major breakthrough- found some power in the Word-made-flesh and I stopped being afraid of my own. When that doc said I had years of work to do, I simply told him I wouldn't be back. I had found some new freedom.

My eventual victory was radical and powerful. It was also lonely.
I had no one to share it with, no cloud of witnesses.
I wondered why I'd done it all alone. And every year since, when spring hits and I smell the first whiff of green grass, I'm bowled over by memories of fear and keeping secrets ... and yes, of finding the way.

God's grace.

Because how do you share your greatest joy when you hide your deepest sorrow?
How do you share real beauty when you hide all of the growth?

And we were created by Him and for Him. All of us are His. And so we are family- brothers and sisters around every turn, if we will allow each other to be. We want so badly to belong, to be known, to find safe arms but we stay all tucked in, arms crossed. We keep people out. We show only our best selves, our finished selves- resurfacing when the hard is behind us, when we can tell about how we made it through, how tough it was, how strong we were.

We are terrified to be needy or lacking or a tiny bit broken ... right now.

 I am guilty of this.

And so when my words go underground, you can guess that I've gone there too. Waiting for just the right thing to say. Packaged well. Perfect.

This word crafting- the putting out into the open is risky. And I just don't know how to write words that aren't a bit transparent. They are real and they are all red streaked. And lately, this life is feeling all inked up. Red. With cross-outs and missing verbs and misplaced punctuation.

But it's what I've got to show, even if it's not that pretty.

What rough draft is?

My goal in school was to have no edits. I wanted to get everything right the first time. I equated revision with wrong. Suggestion with failure. I'd turn a rough draft in a day late before I'd turn it in with fixable flaws. I've been that way here- with all these words.

I want them to be right. And staying right takes tons of energy and we spend most all of our lives being mostly wrong- needy, mixed-up, unsure. I think I might write a bit more if I let you see those parts too.
I think I might like that.

I want this space to have a theme and a direction. A purpose. Truth is? My life looks nothing like that. I am all over the place. Could I be all over the place here too?

I could tell you about how I'm always reading six books at once and how most homeschooling days are a sweet disaster. I'd write about Africa and how I have this crazy notion that I belong in war-torn places with war-torn folks; how I'm learning to rest in my 'right now' with these good gifts of young children and a man who loves me in radical, daily ways.

How I have a roach problem and how, honestly, I've acclimated ... made peace with those sneaky buggers; how I really like my exterminator because he says I'm still clean and that's it's all these woods and all this rain and not at all a reflection on my domestic habits.

How most the time I feel like a lousy friend and a mess of a wife, never calling or showing up or showering when I should; how when I do wash up, I turn the water real hot and sit there too long, pray a prayer or two because I'm finally alone and if someones calling me ... well, I won't hear them.

How I love my new church and how I crave the Mass ... can't get enough of communion;  how it's been the most beautiful and quiet journey of our little family's life;  how I am afraid to talk about it, afraid the right words won't come, afraid I'll be misunderstood ... make another red streak on this page.

But here's the thing. I feel some victory coming on. And I can't share it with you if I won't share a bit of the process too.

I want to celebrate wild with you at the end of all of this.

So, for now, you need to know: I'm in process. And aren't we all?

So what do you say? I'll show my rough draft if you'll show yours. Maybe in 2013 you could let some folks into your journey? Celebrate the messy 'right now' together?

And later ... we'll celebrate together, okay?

It will be a red-streaked party called Grace for all of us who are holding out for the A plus.

Friend, you already made the grade. There's no report card around these parts. I'm tossing it out
(mainly because Jesus did long ago and I'm praying that head knowledge will become a heart truth).

And because I'm ready to be safe space- for you. And for myself.

So ...

I'm declaring 2013 The Year of the Rough Draft.

Yes, this is the year to be okay ... right now ... in the process. Whatever it may be.

And I think I feel better already.




 

At Home in 2012 and a review of sorts

Last year at this time, we were deep in transition. A major life-change.

We were quiet. Private.

I was vague with my words ... hoped you might, or might not, read between the lines.
And we named 2012, the way we do each year, The Year of Finding Home.

And it fit so many themes, really. We were homeschooling and we were home. A lot.
I needed to understand this space and these four walls in a new, everyday sort of  way.

I was planning a trip to Africa- finally flying off to a place that has always been home in this heart. And I stood up in Uganda, around a dinner of lentils and orange Fanta and new friends- told them all how I'd been homesick. And couldn't this African soil be home too?

But more than this- Todd and I were on a journey, one that we had been on, collectively and apart, for quite some time. My journey was emotional, nostalgic, and from a deep place I couldn't articulate. His was intellectual ... at first. And in 2011 I told God, alone and from a church pew on Holy Thursday, that I wouldn't ask it of my husband.

He would find his own way if this place would be our home.

I would wait quiet.

Anyways, I feared resentment. Feared misunderstanding from outsiders. Feared change and estrangement. But the Lord weaved and intercepted, gave us friends who stood in the gap. And
He brought this marriage closer still ... walked us further into communion.

And in our Year of Finding Home? We did just that.

But I've been known to go underground when I'm in process. I want to have it all figured it out and then tell you the back story from a place of wholeness. Clarity.

I've also learned over the years that the less process I share, the less celebrating I do in the end.
Because how do you celebrate wonders and victories if you don't first share the trials and the journey?

We've experienced some quiet wonder this year and I wonder if we, if I, could have shared more along the way. Except that I can hear my husband in my head, reminding me ... "Ab, we're not that cool." And while I wholeheartedly agree about the cool factor, I wonder ...

Because the truth is, you've journeyed a bit with me, with us, over the last year. And I haven't been able to write lately because I don't know how to write words that aren't see through. And because I've been nervous.

To some it may just be a church change. No big deal! Especially not big enough to write about.

But for us, it's been a major shift in community, in comfort, in control. Leaving one beloved church family for another just miles down the road ... this has been an ironic homecoming of sorts, full of beauty and full of risk.

This new community is one that my husband never claimed until now, the very one I left at age eighteen- frustrated with questions I couldn't answer, history and theology I didn't understand, and emotion I couldn't articulate. As a teenager, I embraced a new church filled with dynamic men and women, exciting programs and worship, leaders and teachers of the highest caliber. I got to know God. And my husband served on staff and I led young women and we lifted up brand new babies in front of a great cloud of witnesses. We grew friendships and shared life in all its glory for ten years.

But suddenly on Sundays, we pull up to the neighborhood stop sign and we turn right instead of left. 

We miss our people.

Because we are still here! and we are still the same not-so-cool us. But life is busy and common walls on a Sunday, common childcare rooms, common seats in the back/left of the sanctuary? These givens make staying connected a bit more easy.

But what about when you suddenly find yourself in different space ...?

And we asked ourselves the same questions over and over again, up at night, for a year. Why would we ever leave our people? Why would we give up these walls? This worship? Our history?

We were married here.

And our new space doesn't offer the same kind of childcare. Let's just say we've spent some time in the foyer with some kids. And it's a whole new crowd- equally large, equally rooted.

We have felt lost in a sea of faces.

But then this:

In the past year we've also kneeled, shoulder to shoulder. Cried collective gratitude with foreheads in hands. We've been bowled over by the richness of a sensual, sacramental faith. We've discovered liturgy and tradition- how those alone offer us a community without adequate description. And we have found a family that transcends walls and a history that reaches far beyond ours alone.We've walked forward each week, with palms turned up.

We have found communion.

And despite everything- despite the gratitude, the quiet grief, the immense change; despite what we've left down the road to the left-- the God-given and God-grown friendships, the comforts of familiar space, the full-of-Grace-and-Truth teaching we received, the story of our growing-up; despite all of the new questions we can't answer perfectly and the Mystery we've knowingly embraced ... despite it all, we are sure of one thing:

In 2012, we found Home.


Happy New Year, dearest friends. May you find your home in Him in 2013.

When you want to stay dressed

So here's the deal, friends. I've been out.

Out of words. Out of steam. Out of touch. Just plain out.

And I have this crazy friend who is more like a lifeline and a year ago we decided to "do this thing until it becomes a thing." We didn't have any big plans really; we just knew it was time to get busy being brave. Stop lingering in the back row, start giving what we had. I had stories to tell. She had words to speak over women. And we had quite a year together- doing that thing- whatever it was.

She is one stage ahead in life, with big kids in big-kid school. She does life first, then coaches from a distance. She encourages me to love my man with a thumbs-up, teaches me to spur my children on toward cleaner teeth.

And for whatever reason, for all these years, she has taken on this friendship. Calling, speaking bold encouragement right through the phone and over the distance. Praying me into and home from work, and driving north on 95 to share some weekend courage.  

The other day she proposed something crazy (the way she does) and I protested (the the way I do). While chatting in my ear, she brought me up to speed on her latest Wednesday. And her Wednesdays are all wrapped up in her "doing her thing" and she stands up brave in front of women and she is as real as they come.

She calls it being naked and we talk about that a lot.

Not about being naked, but about how it feels to put honest words out there. How the words can't be taken back. How being brave can leave you a little over-exposed. We talk about how the wanting to hide can overwhelm, how the self-critic whispers in the aftermath, how it's a fight every single time to not cover up thick ... decide right then and there:

"Next time I'll show less skin."

And while she chatted in my ear from another state, I drove and listened and I made two wrong turns before pulling over altogether. Because she asks tough questions and tells straight truths. She requires my full attention. So I parked in the bookstore lot and turned off the engine. I spent the better part of my free afternoon with my car in park.

I cried and told her how I just don't have anything to say these days. She didn't bite. I told her again.
I told her I can't be a good mom and write too. I told her I'm too tired.

And then I told her one more thing and it fell out of my mouth like a brick.
I told her I don't like being naked anymore, that I don't know how to write words that aren't see-through. That, right about now? It all feels too risky.

"What if I can't do it anymore?"

"What if I can't keep writing the real?"

"Because I do have things to say. I just don't want to say them." And my chatty friend said, "Mmm hmm."

I hung up after crying some more, wandered into that bookstore and bought an empty Moleskin.  
It's still empty and the irony is this: I've self-talked myself right out of words. 

And so I guess I have to write about being afraid or else I just may never write again.

And her brilliant plan, the one I protested, was that I write every day in October. Just like last year. And naturally, I froze up afraid this week ... and the week before that ... spoke that whole line again about not having any words. But I've been chewing on my lower lip over here, watching October come and go. We've camped and we've picked pumpkins, plucked apples in a mountain orchard.

All without words.

But my friend called again last night, always right on time. She reminded me gently that we are stewards of words, not keepers. Borrowers of our gifts, not hoarders. And when we manage them  too closely, we can snuff them right out. And instead of slimming down in the sharing, we fatten up on all things self-indulgent. Fear, insecurity, pride ... All the while, we suffocate while others search about for gifts we have - and won't offer. Words, time, compassion, joy.

And I imagine Wednesday mornings with all of those ladies in Florida, poised and ready with my friend nowhere to be found -- hiding out somewhere with words she won't share.

This would never happen, because my friend is fiercely brave. But if it did? What a shame to miss out on her, in her shoes and her bangles. Her sharp, no-frills, no-fear truth that cuts right to the heart in a most ironic and tender way.

Listening to her, I'm certain of this. Her wealth to share with the world? It's truth and grace all wrapped up in words. Every time she stands up, she speaks it. And women drink her in,

because it is the truth that women really want to hear.

And my friend will tell me it is costly. And in the same breath she will tell me it is the only way.
Last night she said, "You have got to speak up. You don't get to stay quiet after you say 'yes' to a gift. You risk everything now. You risk everything to share what you have."

Because what she is really saying is this: "What is your other option?" 

And I know the answer to this one.

I think I'm living it right now. And from where I stand, I'm wondering if feeling a bit naked is really so bad after all. I'm thinking this stifling cover-up is way worse.

I'm thinking that not risking is the risk.

And maybe this is the way. Being keenly aware of our bare spots, we give what we have anyway. And in the crazy risking, we shrink rightly into Him ... into and under the One who covers all.

So, here's to starting again. Here's to putting words on paper. Here's to remembering how to undress, and how to put on God. Taking off the fear, the pride, the whatever ... and dressing in the only other way I know.

Wrapped tight in truth and grace,

and hoping that's all you see.




Wondering, friends. What is your gift to give away? And is it worth the risk?

'Cause maybe you needed this too ...

I know you. I know your heart. I made it.

I know your struggles, your deepest desires, your most honest thoughts.
I know how you sometimes wonder 'why.'


But I am weaving, child. 
And waiting can feel like a death, like you are missing an entire portion of yourself ...
a whole part of your person.

I am stoking a fire. I am always in process.


Child, stop moping. Stop mourning. Stop flashing ahead.
I can't take you there until you are faithfully and obediently here.


Be holy, as I am holy. Be excellent. Persevere.
Allow me to weave and grow you, grow the others I will entrust to your care.


Show me, by faith, that you can trust.
Show me, by grace, that you can be trusted.





You say you feel fragile?
Then break wide open into me.

You say you feel tired?
Then fall hard into this net of mercy.

You say you are disappearing slowly?
Then fade right into the shadow of these wings.

You say the walls are closing in?
Then run headlong into my freedom.

Stop criticizing who you are.
Stop confusing what is good.
Stop controlling how you are perceived.
Stop clarifying what is already clear.



I won't leave you to yourself.
I won't let you fall apart.
I won't forget that I called you.
I won't give away your place at the table.

Stop looking back, stop glancing ahead. And for goodness sake, stop flailing.


Live now, by faith, in joy.

I want to see you smile.
I want to give good gifts.
I want to be your helper.
I want to show you extravagant love.
I want  you to be brave, courageous.

I want you to use your gifts ... for my glory.
This is reasonable worship.



Do you see it?
I want to make you more like me.


This life of yours is yours alone to hand over.
I know how costly this can be.
But lay it down anyway.

Then lay it down again. And then again.


Give it away here and now.
Stop preserving, stop holding back.
Stop saving up your energy.

Live loved.
Love others well.
Spend yourself on their behalf.
Open up your hands.
Only "do the next thing."





Receive my love.
Then let it spill over.

Whatever I give, you give it too.
Mercy. Pardon. Refreshment.

Keep walking straight ahead.
Don't slow down. This is the way, walk in it.

Stop calculating, orchestrating, solving.
Stop adding me up.

I am mystery.

And my puzzle is made of a million intricate pieces ...
all different shades of the same color called Grace.

I am the beginning.
I am the end.

And you?
You fit beautifully into my story.

You bring me joy.
I am singing over you.

So relax your shoulders.
Exhale that stagnate air.
Do only what I've given you ... today.

Look for me.
Thank me often.




And then wait in joyful hope.

'Cause I've got this.

If a little bit of change sounds nice ...

She was just two and a half when she memorized her first bible verse. It wasn't intentional. She had this favorite book about a caterpillar. You know, the very hungry one.

And parenting was still new when she was two and I didn't know how to "train up a child" (I still don't ...!) but it just seemed natural to recite it with her ... the way the old goes and the new comes. And so we did. After that caterpillar munched its way through one piece of chocolate cake, one salami, and one slice of cherry pie, it wrapped its old self up for the waiting.

Each time we turned the very last page we held the book up overhead, opened and closed its pages and pretended to make that "beautiful butterfly" fly. She would articulate it just right and cheer the last part as if there were an exclamation point. Maybe there should have been.



"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old is gone, the new has come(!)."

For four years now, she has recited her "butterfly verse" at the end of that story and at the end of (nearly) every day.

This was accidental parenting too, us not knowing then how it would pave the way for hearts just before sleep. Night time is an ideal time, after a day of mess-ups and missteps, to talk about needing a little new life pumped into day-drained vessels. They seem to do their best thinking after the lights go out. I know I do. And by days end, which one of us couldn't use a little transformation?

Who doesn't need reminding that we are new and we are being made new all the time ... simultaneously soaring while shedding this mess-up prone life-skin -- one real, hard day at a time.

Each Monday here, we begin school the same way. I hand my girl a new character card and we learn the sentence together, then practice the lines from weeks before.  "I don't quit, I persevere."
"I am a wise child, so I work hard." This week she asked why the card included a butterfly. We read the words, "God can make me new."


I smiled, told her I bet she already knew the answer. 

So we read books about butterflies and she drew their life stages. She didn't say. We painted butterflies on canvas and she ran after moths with cupped hands in the yard. But she didn't say. So, when she let that back door slam on her way in from outside, I shushed her loud, nearly yelled  (always ironic) that "Ben is sleeping!" the way I tend to do. And then this ...

"I figured it out, Mama! It's just like my butterfly verse ... God does metamorphosis in us! That's why there's a butterfly on my card. "

And four years later, her "butterfly verse" came into full color and she was animated and jumpy with the knowing. Later, she dug a bit deeper. "Mama, can God make anyone new? I mean ... like anyone?"

I knew what she was really asking. And she wanted to know what we all desperately need to remember. Is there anyone who is too far gone, too far out, too far away? Ah, and this girl of six doesn't know her own heritage, the oldest born to two prodigal parents.



I smiled. "Yes, He can make anyone new." I told her how we don't ever stop loving, hoping with, anyone. "Not ever, ok? Because God can always change a heart."

I say it loud and clear, tender but emphatic. I say it with authority because I've lived it. I've seen it. And I've listened, jaw-dropped to the floor, to humble men and women who speak of the old, but only display the new. Yes, this is one I'll die on -- for myself and for the one out there who appears unchangeable, for the one who believes too much time has lapsed, for the one who has been given up on.

Because really? What good is Easter then?

What are we remembering? Hoping for? Celebrating? Why all the praise that will come on Sunday morning? Why bother with any of it if not for the promise of the new?

Later that day I mess up big and I yell and I have to apologize to my kids. For a minute my couch with green marker streaks trumps a kid's heart and I crush it good. I send everyone outside with wide eyes while I scrub and the marker comes out but I'm all messed up.

I tear up while I apologize and I try to make sure they know I value them more than a piece of furniture. But my oldest girl has internalized this butterfly truth and she leans in, pats my back the way I do hers. "It's ok Mama. We all need a little metamorphosis everyday."

She winks and I'm stunned because what do you do when your kindergarten kid ministers to your soul? I tell her I guess I'm just a stinky caterpillar today and my middle gal just thinks this is hilarious. 



On Palm Sunday we entered into Holy Week and began this final leg of the Easter journey. I've failed miserably in writing about any of it here-- but God has met us in these past forty days. Beautiful things, rich and lovely, are transpiring.

To begin the week, we planted a tiny garden in a silver tub. We chose plants still green with the knowing that they will bloom ... soon.  We bought parsley for the sole purpose of attracting butterflies and Cara has been toting a self-made caterpillar habitat, complete with caterpillar, for three days now. Our house is full of anticipation and the watching for signs of new.

And I just keep laughing, thinking about how badly I need some metamorphosis, and how often. I think on how we shed just a bit more of this everyday skin all the time -- everyday becoming a bit less like a caterpillar and a bit more like a winged beauty (2 Cor. 4:16).

This is the hope we have and the promise He made good on. "God can make me new."

Friends, today is Holy (Maundy) Thursday. If you missed Lent, missed Palm Sunday ... perhaps begin today?  Perhaps read through Mark 14 and 15 and begin to walk this road a bit, before Easter sneaks up?

Because everything changed, and became new, at the cross. 

Peace and grace today.

If you need a little courage ...

May you stand tall today, courageous with your chin held high. May you know Truth as you cling to Him who writes it on your heart, engraves it on your soul.

May you live out what you know. Really live it. Because He can be trusted.

May you lean into Him who makes you brave, moves your feet, and keeps you from stumbling. May you take a leap, or even just one step, and know this: the One who broadens the path beneath you won't let your ankles turn. 

Peace (and courage) to you today, my friends.

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.