Join me here for conversations on sacred listening, faith, poetry, and wrestling with God.
Recent Posts . . .
Featured
As we age, do we grow more resilient—and then appreciative of life with all of its goodness and strife? Or do we grow more exhausted, the longing for heaven intensifying each day? Aging messes with one’s identity, for sure.
Who am I now? Who was I then? Given the truth of who I am, I can only explore through my distorted self; how do my age, life experiences, and wisdom affect my interpretation of my worth?
The three of us are up in the mountains, cedars and redwoods reaching toward warm October sky. The path we walk is wide enough for Mugsy, who, on her leash, finds every rustle in the shrubs an irresistible invitation to explore. We make our way to the lake, a wide expanse of deep blue and teal sparkling with ripples across its otherwise smooth surface, and walk out onto the dock, intent on getting as close as we can to the cold water without plunging in.
It was a delicious four-hour drive to our friend’s cabin, talking about family and makeup and wallpaper and God. I love her dearly, the friend who loves me and moved away and still comes to visit often. Each time we are together, people ask if we are sisters and we love it—leaning in close, hip to hip, head to head, and smiling ear to ear. I am most myself—the child He draws out and the woman He loves—with her…
You don’t have to justify your life.
I am in my bedroom, about to lay my head on the pillow, thinking about how this was just one more day that felt like so little had gotten accomplished. Or, perhaps, my expectations were warped in the first place? What did I really believe I could get done?
You don’t have to justify your life.
When I hear the Father’s words in my heart, I am disorientated, desperate for recalibration: Productivity. Expectation. Accomplishment. Time.
Father, yes, for most of my life, I have been sacrificing the miracle of the present for the future’s ever-elusive false promise of achievement. The gift of a moment lost when, for the sake of the future, time is something to conquer, manipulate, and control. The cost I’ve paid? Peace. Contentment. Love. To engage with God, I need, of course, to be where He is. I need to be right here….
The heat wave that has smotherd California for more than a week is less intense today. As I write this, I am sitting outside, the air cool in the morning shade. An Anna’s Hummingbird is singing in the olive tree behind me—and then zooms up from a fuchsia bush to the highest point of the magnolia tree. Huge black bees the size of a jack ball fly heavily, slowly from the tips of lavender blooms to the garnet gladiolas, heavy and swaying in the breeze.
This stillness is good for my heart. And then the upstairs window opens, and a paper airline tumbles out of it to the ground near my feet. I look up and hear Justin’s laugh, then see His smile as he leans out the window, cracking up. He intended the plane to sail gracefully to my lap, not tumble awkwardly like a drunken acrobat committing suicide. We are catching our breath, about fully moved into our home. It feels good to be here. I am less overwhelmed than I’ve been in a while. Less rushing around, things feel closer to peace.
It also has been helping me to dream.
In the chaos of the last 10 months—full of physical and emotional transitions—the rhythms of relaxing in the arms of my Father, seeking His strength, voice, and wisdom wanned significantly. I tried to squeeze in time with Him around all the other things I had going on—layering prayer and worship while doing something else simultaneously. Seldom did He have my full attention. Seldom did my heart receive His peace.
And then, in the throes of moving in, exhausted from carrying furniture and unpacking boxes, I felt desperate for Him. I missed Him terribly. His presence, His whispers to my heart. I was eager to be with Him, to pursue Him earnestly…(Click the link in the title to read more.)
I am in the midst of carrying my cross, and I am embarrassed about it. I want my eyes fixed on Jesus' feet: His toes caked with dirt, leather straps stretched across his insteps, blood dripping from his head and down his face and hitting the crusted ground. And I am not doing my part, I've decided. For I am on Jesus' back, underneath my cross, which is on top of Jesus' back. And he takes one labored, tortured step and then another. Stumbling and holding the cross--His cross and my own--and getting up again, always moving forward, forward, forward.
Look up, my darling, look up.
When I hear Him, this space I’m in, at this plain wooden table, this window with the cobwebs at the corner of the metal screen, this soft rumble of washing machine, this smell of wet dog near my feet, I study the room, looking for clues for what is different.
All is different? No, all is the same.