the grace of fragility

Cozied up in my comfy chair—still in pajamas, coffee in hand, snuggled under a blanket—I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And I can't help but smile. I have a home, a job, an income. I have friends and family who love me. I have health insurance, a car, a closet full of clothes. I have all I need, really. I shake my head in wonder. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

I open my eyes and breathe in deeply again. This nagging thought—the same one that's been hovering just beneath the surface for weeks now—scratches again and reminds me it's still there. It lingers close, threatening to steal my exhale and my smile. Like a funhouse mirror, it plays tricks on my mind, distorting hope into a frightening creature and making fears appear larger than they really are.

The thought I can't seem to shake is how fragile everything in my life feels, in a way it never used to. I'm painfully aware of how quickly it all can vanish. How in an instant, everything can be taken away.

Realizing life's fragility is ultimately a good thing. It keeps me mindful that nothing and no one ever belongs to me. It forces me to hold things (and people) more loosely. No matter how strong my death-grip, the concept of "mine" remains a mirage. Nothing is mine. And I'm not in control.

The constant reminder of fragility also leaves me feeling unsettled... insecure... unstable. It makes it difficult to invest in relationships, trust wholeheartedly, and put down roots. It feels harder to dream, to laugh, to enjoy the good that's present right now. Joy takes more effort than it used to and anxiety comes more easily. Hope often seems like a cruel joke. Remember Lucy and the football?

Sometimes that's what hope feels like, and I'm left feeling stupid that I fell for it yet again.

Even as I say all this out loud, I know how ridiculous it sounds even in my own head. I hear the nudging reminders not to worry about tomorrow as today has enough worry of its own. I see the "choose joy" on my arm and feel the heart hug of my ever-present friend who showed me what it means to live that out. I hear God calling me to hope. Again. No matter what.

I want to believe that eventually dreaming will feel easier again, that life—though fragile—will feel more secure, and that thoughts of the future will breed more hope than fear. I want to.

So I close my teary eyes again, and take a deep breath. I hold it as long as I can, and as I let the air out I shake my head. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

life is messy

"Nobody likes letting go. From our earliest moments, from birth till we're six feet under, our instinct is to grab, grip, cling. To a finger, a bottle, a best friend... Sometimes we hold on for dear life to the very things that keep us from actually living it. But that comes with an upside—It's the way we feel when we finally let go.

The trick, I guess, is to not find a way around the curve balls life serves up, but to live with them. In halfway happy, uneasy alliance. And to search for new things to cling to, and when we finally find them, to hang on just as tight.

And around and around we go, holding on until the time comes to say goodbye.

And like it or not, ready or not, we have to accept one universal truth: Life is messy. Always, and for all of us.

But a wise man once said, 'Maybe messy is what you need.' And I think he might be right."

From In Plain Sight, S5 E8

embracing uncertainty

I am learning to live in the tension of uncertainty. To simply embrace it, rather than fight it. Because contending with it doesn't get me anywhere. It doesn't yield answers or bring clarity or cause lightbulb moments of understanding.

Because honestly, more often than not, there aren't really answers to be found or resolution to be sought.

God promised to redeem all things. He never said they'd make sense.

That's why He gives peace that surpasses our understanding. While there's a lot I will never understand, I can be anchored by peace even in the tumultuous seas of ambiguity.

God shines brightest in contradictions. There is wholeness in brokenness. Sufficiency in weakness. Strength in surrender. Honor in humility.

I've equally found Him to be ever-present in the contradictions of my life. Those moments and seasons that seem contrary to His character and inconsistent with where He'd been leading me. Those situations that pull the rug out from under me and even those that shatter my world and my heart.

He is right there with me in those painful, dark, confusing contradictions. Ever calling me to trust and to let go of my need to understand.

Faith and uncertainty can dance together.

Not canceling each other out, but also not at odds with each other. Both beautiful in their honesty and gut-level rawness. Lord, I believe. Help me overcome my unbelief.

And so I am choosing to live in the tension of the contradictions, and to trust that He is redeeming even what will never make sense.

Because I know that redeeming what is hopelessly irreconcilable is His specialty...

in the cleft of the rock

"God said, 'Look, here is a place right beside me. Put yourself on this rock. When my Glory passes by, I'll put you in the cleft of the rock and cover you with my hand until I've passed by.'"

~ Exodus 33:21-22

Sometimes when it's the darkest...

God is the closest.

heart homelessness

Sometimes I feel like my heart is homeless. As though she has nowhere to land. And I'm swallowed up by loneliness, even if I'm surrounded by people. And my feelings are all over the map rather than in one specific place. And home—a place where I feel safe, understood, seen—is nowhere in sight.

Each of us walks such individual journeys, that even someone who has been somewhere similar still can't fully understand the place we find ourselves in. There is a unique loneliness that comes with our paths. A loneliness that cannot be avoided. An inevitable they-just-don't-get-it-ness.

Heart homelessness.

Sometimes it feels more overwhelming, and sometimes I don't feel it at all. It comes and goes like the tide, though without predictability or rhythm.

And my heart's left carrying around her makeshift cardboard shelter... always looking for a place and a people that feel like home.

I know deep down that Home is only in Christ. That He is my shelter, my refuge. He is my security. In Him I am always seen, known, understood, loved, and safe.

But I also think He calls us to find a mirrored sense of home in community.

In those times when it happens, it is absolutely beautiful! A miraculous gift... I have lived this, experienced this, time and time again. There are no words to describe the matchless wonder of this tangible extension of our Heavenly Home...

Yet relationships have seasons... Friends move on... Even the best-intended aren't always trustworthy (myself included)... And everyone's journeys are different (even when they are similar)...

So sometimes our hearts simply have nowhere to land...

What then?

I don't know...

As usual, my writing (like my heart) takes the shape of a question mark rather than a period. And so instead of presuming to have an answer, I ask you...

What do you do when your heart feels homeless?