autumnal hope

Hands down, autumn is my favorite season. And I'm fairly certain October is the most perfect month. I love the rich, bold, warm colors of fall. The landscape comes alive like a wildfire, and my heart catches some of the sparks. Bright blue chilly skies contrast the golden hues. The temperature is just right... Sweater-weather.

Cinnamon and cloves and all things pumpkin dance through the crisp air. Autumn just smells warm and inviting. Like homebaked apple pie. Gingerbread latte. Chai tea. Chicken tortilla soup.

But mostly, I love autumn for its symbolism. The vibrant colors come alive in the process of dying. Leaves fall. Days grow shorter. The dark, overcast, cold days of winter are slowly creeping upon us. But the trees don't surrender without a statement.

Even in the dying—of dreams, of hopes, of relationships, of seasons—there is still beauty. There is beauty in the brokenness. In the transition. In the change.

The new life of spring actually begins with the dying leaves of autumn.

And the leaves' final shout of stunning color helps me to never forget.

What's your favorite season? Why?

[photo source]

commitment precedes clarity

One of the biggest myths of our generation is that we need clarity in order to commit. Before we pull the trigger, we first want answers to all our questions. We want a complete road map. We want to read the fine print before we sign our lives away. We want confident periods not uncertain question marks. We want to fully know what we're getting ourselves into. We want surety before we take a step. And until we get all that, we wait...

We blame our lack of commitment on a lack of clarity.

But it's a myth that knowing more would make it easier to say yes. It's a lie we tell ourselves so that we feel better about doing nothing.

If I knew when I boarded the plane for Africa at 19, all that awaited me there, I never would have gone. If I could've seen the roadmap of hills and deep, dark valleys, I would have stayed Stateside.If I could have imagined all the heartaches and challenges that I would have to endure in order to embrace the victories and successes, I would have cowered in the corner crying.

Details paralyze more than uncertainty does.

If we wait until we have it all spelled out, that's no longer faith-driven commitment -- that's just executing a plan. Commitment must be laced with doubt and hesitation and mystery.

Commitment, in its truest form, requires ambiguity.

Think of Abraham. "Leave your country, your family, and your father's home," God said, "for a land that I will show you."

Without even knowing where he was going or how he would get there, Abraham left. Courageous commitment lined every footstep he left in the rugged soil, stepping away from the known into the land of the unknown.

What's that thing scratching on the corner of your heart? What is that quiet nudge you continue to feel? What's the passion that keeps rising to the surface? Whatever it is... Stop waiting for all the answers, for certainty, for assurances.

Commitment precedes clarity every single time.

So pull the trigger. Say yes. Jump off the cliff. Send that email. Start the conversation. Take the step.

The courage lies in doing it afraid.

{Photo source.}

i'm that girl who's drowning

I've heard that the biggest challenge with rescuing a drowning victim is how they instinctively fight against their rescuer. The sheer panic and fear is so great that they can't stop themselves from flailing, even at their own detriment. But trying to snap them out of it—to awaken them to their need to simply relax and lean into the arms of their rescuer—is nearly impossible.

I'm that girl who's drowning.

I've been fighting against my new normal, almost without realizing it. Maybe if I just surrender to it, I'll discover that rescue is only breaths away. But maybe if I surrender to it, I'll discover there is no rescue at all... That it simply is what it is, and no amount of fighting or accepting is going to change it.

A counselor told me that all I've been through in the past few years wasn't just traumatic. It was trauma. Leaving me with a sort of PTSD that is very real, and that lingers still. {To be honest, that's still a hard pill for me to swallow.}

One of the greatest challenges of my new normal is memory loss. {I can't believe I just said that phrase out loud. Memory loss. But that's what it is, even if I prefer to hide behind calling it Fuzzy Brain Syndrome.}

I used to be the girl who remembered everything. My ex-husband was notorious for forgetting that he'd seen a movie. Even after I described it in detail, explained where and when we watched it, and showed him the cover... Nope. He couldn't remember. Until about 5 minutes into the movie when he'd bust out an, "Ohhhhh yeah." We laughed about it all the time. And now... that's me. I can't for the life of me remember the moves I've seen.

I can't remember names. Or where people live. Or the names of their spouse or kids. Or details of the last conversation we had.

I can't remember much of anything.

It scares me. It brings tears to my eyes and sometimes even causes me to full-on ugly cry. It makes me hate my brain.

I knew I had blogged once about my Fuzzy Brain Syndrome and my battle with my new normal. So I went back to find it. You know what? I wrote it two-and-a-half years ago. Two-and-a-half years. {Here come the tears again...} That is a long time, people. A long time to not be feeling like myself. A long time of feeling like I'm living with diminished capacity. A long time of wondering if it's just a phase and hoping for old-me to surface again.

Two-and-a-half years later, I'm starting to think this may be reality from here on out. And that really makes me hate my brain.

So I just need to say this:

When I ask you again—for the eleventy-second time—what your husband's name is, how many kids you have, where you live, or how we know each other, please, please know I hate it more than you do. It hurts my heart because I know it comes across like I don't pay attention or don't care... and I promise you that's not true.

I realize now that my only choice is to surrender, even while I doubt that a rescue will ever come. But fighting it is just too exhausting. So I give up. I cease flailing, throw my arms upward, and let the current take me under.

And pray grace finds me there...

photo credit: Duncan Rawlinson

Originally posted on A Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

beautiful feet

"How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!" As a missionary, I heard that verse often. People spoke it to me, wrote it in cards, sent it in framed pictures. It was a promise, to me, of beauty in messy places.

My feet walked the dusty dirt roads of Qwa Qwa, South Africa.

They stepped into dirt-floor homes, made of one room and filled with families of 12. Or more. My feet sat me down, cross-legged, to hold precious HIV-infected little ones, too weak to lift their heads, too numb to smile. My feet carried me to my desk (because, you see, I was {mostly} an office missionary), up the hill to my class (to teach a room filled with young beautiful feet), to the shops in my tiny town (where people knew me as that "Yankee girl").

My feet held me as our property raged with a wildfire, as a twister ripped the roof off my house, as the floods broke through the dam wall and filled the landscape. My feet held me as I held others, going through storms of their own, mostly of the invisible kind. My feet took me to Africa, and my feet took me back to the States.

And here I sit, nestled comfortably on the couch, and I wonder where the beauty has gone...

I wonder if an ex-missionary's feet are only beautiful in past tense, or if there could be some glimmer of redemptive beauty that still remains.

What do beautiful feet look like after failure, after shattered dreams, after hope dried up? What does it mean to bring good news in my everyday ordinary life when there are no babies to rock, classes to teach, people asking about Jesus?

I throw back the last sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, and the dam wall breaks...

Maybe the good news is simply a kind word, a generous smile, a lingering hug. Maybe the good news is an honest conversation about my struggles and the grace that clings to me even when I can't cling to it. Maybe the good news is offering the gift of going second, letting others know they aren't alone. Maybe the good news is found in "I don't know"s rather than fabricated answers, in "You are loved"s because it just needs to be said, in humble "I'm sorry, please forgive me"s from a sincere broken heart, in honestly grateful "Thank you"s that honor the gift and the giver. 

Maybe the good news that He sees, cares, and loves is really found in someone feeling seen, cared for, and loved... by me.

And maybe, just maybe, beautiful feet are whatever vehicle used to deliver that good news. A spoken word. A thumbed-out text. A hand-hold. An understanding tear. A joyful laugh. A handwritten letter. A blog post. A not-letting-go hug.

Perhaps this ex-missionary still brings good news, and perhaps my feet are found by Him to be beautiful still.

And maybe that verse still stands as a promise of beauty in messy places.

privacy, authenticity, and living publicly

Lately I seem to have better luck "accidentally" writing blog-post-length comments than writing actual posts. So I'm gonna stick with my new trend of just turning the comment into a post. My friend Sarah wrote an amazing post about privacy and authenticity in the online world. You need to make sure you read it. Like right now. Then come back and read my thoughts.

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I’m a pretty private person, so my choice a few years ago to share about what was going on in my life/ministry was huge. I was very scared of doing it wrong — in a way that would bring more hurt and dishonor — than anything else, so I went about it with great trepidation. I painted with broad strokes, leaving out the bests, worsts, and a lot in between. And I still do. Not just in the ongoing journey of all that (and the many layers it entails) but also in my day-to-day life.

It’s easier to step back now than it was a few years ago. I often go days without being on twitter, weeks without blogging. I don’t analyze my sharing as much, debating on if this should or shouldn’t be shared. Those decisions come much easier than they used to.

Sometimes I have to fight the feeling that I’m missing out on great connections and opportunities (because of watching people quote-unquote “get ahead” with their @replies and intentional online shoulder-rubbing) and that I’m just missing out on all the fun — like everyone else is at the cool kids table and they’re all having this amazing time I’m excluded from. Sometimes I still have to fight all that and sometimes I just don’t even care anymore.

But the bottom line is this:

I value honesty in whatever is shared (by myself or others) rather than the amount/depth of it. I don’t think I — or anyone else — should divulge everything, but wisely withholding doesn’t mean one is being dishonest, disingenuous, or inauthentic. Be truly and honestly you in whatever it is you choose to share, and THAT is all the authenticity I need.

{Seth Haines also wrote a poignant post about authenticity and Sarah Markley unpacked more of her thoughts in a follow-up post. You're not gonna wanna miss these ones.}

Would love to hear your thoughts about privacy, authenticity, and living publicly. Let's talk!