A couple years ago, I had a love/hate relationship with my phone. I had this cute little T-mobile Sidekick. I wasn’t as cool and trendy as all these touch-screen phones, but it had what I needed: Full keypad, web access, email, camera, messaging, etc. I’m pretty sure it did more than that, but never took the time to figure it out.

During one strange season, my phone began having email issues. I used to get all my email from both accounts easily. But T-mobile had some server problems and things just were never the same. My work email just didn’t come through at all (which was good AND bad), but my Yahoo account was the most perplexing.

One day, my Yahoo account started coming through to my phone again. But instead of updating the new incoming emails, it gradually began bringing in old ones. It literally started with messages from when I opened the account back in 2001 and five, ten, twenty, fifty at a time, started working its way forward. I think it had made it up to 2005 last time I checked.

To say that the ten years have been eventful would be an egregious understatement. The growth, the change, the victories, the defeats, the tragedies, the celebrations. I began reliving them all a few subject lines at a time for several weeks. And it was exhausting. I finally got worn out with it, logged into my Yahoo account on the computer and just started deleting. Twenty-five emails at a time, select all, delete, select all, delete, select all, delete. Again and again and again. Starting with 5500 emails, I worked my way down to around 3500 at a pretty fast clip. Then I came to a screeching halt.

December 2006. I watched the subject lines and dates close in on the birth of my daughter. Then I couldn’t help myself. I opened a message from my dad, containing pictures of my girl and me in the hospital. I know I have all those pictures saved somewhere else, but I just couldn’t delete it, and temporarily walked away from my elimination project.

Yet the old ones still continued to appear on my phone. So what did I do? I just deleted the account on my phone, so then I got ZERO emails. I probably could have really used that feature. Just couldn’t quite figure out how to do it right then. So I’m pulled a Scarlett: I’ll think about that tomorrow.

In this explosive season of growth, I’ve come a long way in trusting God with my future. There was a low point a couple years ago when tomorrow was just impossible to think about because it took everything I had to survive today. But gradually in my healing, God allowed me to start dreaming again. And in no time at all, my dreams had gotten too big for anyone but my King. So I surrendered them, just out of necessity. God knows my future. He’s looking at it right now. And He’s allowed everything that’s in it, which means somehow, it will be for my good and His glory. (And this is the pep talk I give myself on a regular basis.)

We had just finished Beth Moore’s Esther study in my Ocala Bible study group. One of her most poignant lines to me was “You can’t amputate your history from your destiny. That’s what redemption is.” And what a relief that was for me to hear. I knew my past was important. It’s where my testimony comes from. It’s what gives me wisdom, empathy and depth. Even though parts of it trigger just crippling pain, I know that struggle was for a good purpose when I’m able to use it to minister to someone else. Therein lies the redemption of my history.

But it took me a while to realize that it wasn’t MY job to redeem my past. Once Beth gave me permission to see it as valuable, I turned around and embraced the whole big mess with open arms. And being the packrat that I am, I insisted on trying to drag it around with me. Like a hopeless hoarder, I reasoned that I shouldn’t get rid of any of that stuff. It’s REDEEMABLE! God may want to USE it someday. I better hang onto all of it, just in case.

So while I could look to the future with relative peace and freedom, I was still carrying around my valuable but burdensome history.  Until God convicted me of that, demanding that I surrender that as well:

Yes, My child, I want your future. Yes, I want your past. I want all of your days. Your life, in My hands. Only I remember every last detail of what was. Only I know every moment of what will be. And only I know how all the pieces fit together into that masterpiece I told you about. I will bring hungry souls to you to glean precious truths from the field of your past. I will lead you to those who can speak My words to you from their experiences. Eternity is a grand and glorious picture that I behold. Believe Me for it.

So there you have it. Yes, it’s redeemable. But only in His time and His ways. And He has to hold it in the mean time.

I have since abandoned (but not deleted) my Yahoo email account and have updated my phone. My older, wiser sister said that every time you go through a significant life change, you need a new phone. And I’m not sure why, but I think she’s right. I got my new Gmail account about a year ago when my last name changed again. And now I’m on a family plan with Sprint and a new little Samsung something-or-other.  It’s got apps and stuff. Again, I’m sure it can still do much more than I use it for, but I don’t care enough to figure it all out.

My past is still back there somewhere. Occasionally, it still sneaks up on me and, every once in a while, crashes over me like a rogue wave and I feel like I’ll never come up for air. But I always do. God pulls me out before I drown, dries me off and we walk on. Because every moment of my today is a moment away from being a part of my tumultuous, precious past.

And it is redeemed.

In many ways, I have a remarkable memory.

I can watch a movie once or twice and know all the key lines. I have friends from high school who call or text occasionally asking things like, “What was the name of that one girl who said that one thing that one time?” and I can usually tell them. I’ll hear a song on the radio and remember that my older sister danced to that song in her 5^th grade dance recital. And I can recall most conversations with startling clarity (which is not always a good thing). Yes, I can remember many things.

But when it comes to the great things God has done in my life, I regularly suffer from spiritual amnesia.

I’m quick to tell others that He has done great things for me and that He has saved my life and saved me from myself. And He has. And I mean it. But in moments of crisis, my memory shuts down, I feel hopelessly alone in the world and wring my hands and wonder: What will I do? What’s going to happen? How do I fix this?

Oh, My child. Do you not remember?

The things He has done for me. The depths He has saved me from, the miracles He has performed in my days, the mountains He has moved off the path I have walked. Sometimes the only thing more impressive than my memory of trivial things is my ability to forget the faithfulness and mad love of my Creator King. Lord, forgive me.

Many dear people in my life encourage me to write more and good-naturedly pester me to get a new blog posts up. I recently received a letter from an Ocala friend telling me he still follows what I write and referenced a particular entry that remains his favorite. Sadly, I could barely remember it.

So I opened up my blog and began reading and reading and reading. Word after word, page after page, for the whole world to see: a written record of God’s love for me. Thoughts that once poured from a grateful heart I read with fresh eyes, like I had never seen them before. And I was humbled and convicted.

I was a part of an amazing group of women in Ocala for five years before I moved to Orlando. Starting as a group of three, it grew to as many as 22 at a time with over 30 people who have participated at some point during those five years. There are not words to describe my love for these women. Together we walked each other through engagements, marriages, divorces, pregnancies, miscarriages, infertility, births, unemployment, dream jobs, family issues, in-law issues, addiction issues, a seemingly endless list of life experiences. And surviving those things standing on scripture and leaning on each other has solidified those bonds for eternity.

As my time with them was drawing to a close, I began to reflect on all the things we had prayed for over the years. And when God would answer those prayers, we would get an excited text or email, but for some reason, they were quickly forgotten. But I had written down every last request. And it was time to give credit where credit was due.

Back in the day, when people wanted to remember a certain act or attribute of God, they would build an alter, dig a well, put up a monument of some kind so that they would never forget it. Also, it would be there for future generations to ask about, and it would be a testament to the greatness and goodness of God.

One of the last nights I met with them (not going to cry, not going to cry), I pulled out all my old workbooks. I got out a stack of index cards and several boxes of Caroline’s markers and crayons. Over the course of a couple hours, I read through every prayer request that had been shared over the past five years. We laughed, we cried, we celebrated. And anything that was answered (either the way we had wanted or not), was written on an index card and posted on an empty wall in my house. And there it stayed until the day I moved. I offered them as a gift to my girls, but they insisted that I take them. And I still have them.

One day, my stepdaughter came in and started shuffling through the strange random stack of colorfully written-on index cards and asked me what they were. Emotion flooded my heart and I explained our humble tribute. We went through each one (some of which I moved quickly past) and I told her what the prayer had been and how it was answered. And I remembered.

Just like reading through my old blog entries. The powerful ways God has touched my life, just in the last few years fills me with wonder and gratefulness.

I am more and more convinced that the reason my faith is so weak and my heart is so ungrateful is not because God isn’t doing anything, it’s simply because I don’t remember. Not that I CAN’T remember, but that I DON’T. Satan keeps me busy, distracted, worried and afraid, and I play right into his hand with embarrassing ease. Even when I am disciplined enough to spend time with my King, I often spend much of the time seeking direction and asking, asking, asking.

When was the last time I went on an ‘asking fast’ and spent time just thanking God for who He is and what He has done? Would my time with Him be better spent in letting Him know exactly what I need from Him? I doubt it; He already knows. No, my faith in my God and my relationship with Him would be strengthened much more in regular remembrance.

And God knew we would forget. The Bible is a collection of sacred blogs, guarded closely by the Holy Spirit so we would have no excuse but to remember.

Most of us aren’t big on keeping journals. As you can see, my blog posts are inconsistent at best. But oh, that my speech would be so full of God that even on days when I forget, those around me can remind me on what He has done for me. The faith, the joy, the courage, the power that I would be filled with daily, if only I would choose to remember.

My Jesus, how could I forget? The wounds You have healed. The obstacles You have overcome. The constant protection, provision, deliverance and redemption. And that’s just in MY tiny little life. The wonders we’ve seen through scripture and even our contemporaries around us. My Lord, strengthen my mind, train me to immediately access memories of Your unmatchable love and faithfulness when trials come. You are huge and wild and limitless. I praise You for who You are, and what You have done. May I strive to never forget to remember You.

Okay, so I’ve known myself long enough to know that when I start thinking, “Maybe I should get a tattoo,” that means I’m getting bored with myself and need to go spend some time with Jesus.

My closest friends know that when I start grumbling about tattoos, they are to translate accordingly.

Now, I don’t have anything against tattoos or people who have them. But I’m not a tattoo girl. I’m just not. I wear jeans every day. When I get a haircut, my mom is the only one who can tell. Most days I’m pretty plain, by way of style and appearance. A tattoo just isn’t me. (And honestly, it’s a good thing it’s not because knowing me, I’d get a tattoo of Yoda or something and regret it forever.)

Starting in my post-college early twenties, I noticed about every two to three months, I would quietly start contemplating a tattoo. Occasionally I would confide these feelings and quickly be called back to reality. And I would never really go through with it. It’s just something I say when I’m bored.

Don’t get me wrong: My life is hardly boring. I’ve got two part-time jobs, three part-time kids, one full-time husband and the activities of all five of us in the balance. But I’m finding that I can be bored with a million things to do, just like I can be lonely while surrounded by people. The problem is not with my circumstances, it’s with me.

Most of us have heard the water-into-wine story so many times, it’s not even cool anymore. And as many times as we’ve heard it, we’ve heard just as many interpretations. Most people get hung up on the drinking issue: Is it really wine as we know it today, is Jesus saying we should drink, blah, blah, blah. I don’t know. Lots of theories out there on that issue, and I haven’t studied enough to offer another.

But I know that I often feel like one of those big jars of water.

They weren’t useless. On the contrary, they were very useful, IMPORTANT even. They were used for ceremonial washing. They had a purpose, and they fulfilled it. Water jars hold water. Period.

Until Jesus, that is. He showed up on the scene and did what He does best: CHANGED EVERYTHING. Before Jesus, the jars were practical, dutiful and religious. After Jesus, they were the source of celebration, joy and life. Before Jesus, they held what was necessary. After Jesus, they held something remarkable.

Some days, I catch myself just holding water. Dry tears, fold clothes, put out some fires, try to keep others going, etc. We all live there. And as busy as it is, our bodies may be exhausted, but our spirits are still restless. I feel necessary, even important. But not remarkable.

Here’s the deal: As a Christ-followers, I’m supposed to be holding wine.

Does that mean I’m supposed to blow off my duties as a mom, wife, and employee? Of course not. Should I pursue every hobby or whim at the expense of my family just to feel alive? Heck no. But if I’m spiritually bored, well, it’s certainly not God’s fault. Jesus didn’t change how the jars looked. He changed their contents. My day will still involve my responsibilities, but the spirit in which I do them should offer life to all those I encounter.

We were wired for the remarkable, and we don’t have to apologize for it. We seek adventure through bungee jumping and roller coasters. We medicate to kill pain, feign courage and heighten our senses. We play video games that make us rock stars, war heroes, and big game hunters without having to leave the safety of our homes.

These things aren’t wrong (well, except the medicating part), but they demonstrate our God-given craving for something MORE, Someone more.

So what does that look like? Well, I’m sure it looks differently on everyone. God has put us each on different journeys, resulting in different stories and ministries. For some, maybe it does look like a tattoo. But for me, it’s probably supposed to look more like the circumcised heart Paul was talking about. If I’m bored with my life, maybe I haven’t fully surrendered it to my King. Because Brother Lawrence peeled potatoes to the glory of God and he did so with joy. And he is remembered for being remarkable.

Lord Jesus, I know I was made for the remarkable. And as a believer in You, I know I house the Holy Spirit of the Living God. My King, forgive me for slipping back into water-jar mode. I don’t want to hold out the words of necessity, I want to hold out the words of LIFE. God, I confess my boredom to You, and I repent of it. You have not called Your children to lives of mediocrity, but to be lights in the darkness. And I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like on other people, but I know what it’s supposed to look like on me. You have already changed my contents, Lord. Now give me Your ability to believe it and live it.

Hitchhikers fascinate me.

I’ve never done it myself, nor have I ever picked one up. (Relax, Mom.) And I know everyone in the world has a story. Everyone in the world has some kind of pain they’re trying to hide or function in spite of. But these folks, like homeless people, don’t have the luxury of bluffing. Something went really terribly wrong in their lives, and now everyone knows it.

Some have stuff with them. Maybe a backpack or a small duffel bag. Some just have the clothes on their back and a thumb in the air. Some know where they need to go and communicate it via a small sign. Others know where they need to go, but can’t really say. Still others don’t know where they’re going and probably don’t care. They just know that here isn’t it. Here isn’t working.

Here’s something else I’ve noticed: Some are walking and some aren’t. Some have been pretty beat up by life, but they’ve still got a little life left.  So they’ve gathered their stuff and are moving, albeit slowly, toward the goal. Occasionally they’ll turn and face the oncoming traffic and stick their thumb out while walking backward for a bit. But when no deliverance comes, they turn themselves back toward the destination and keep walking.

But then there are the ones who aren’t moving. They’ve got nothing left. They’re at the mercy of whoever shows them mercy. No more energy, no more will, nothing to contribute toward where they need to be and absolutely no means to get there.

To be honest, I always gave the walking ones a little more credit. I mean, at least they’re TRYING. They’re MOVING. They’re not totally waiting for a handout or a pick up. They’re doing what they can and hoping that someone else can pick up the slack. If not, they’ll probably be okay.

And these judgments are very easy to make from my perfectly-running, air-conditioned vehicle. In moments like that, God lovingly allows me to come face-to-face with my inner Pharisee. And she’s ugly.

I passed a hitchhiker today. He was thin with dark weathered skin. He had a scraggly beard, hair wet from the recent rain, and a small backpack. He wasn’t moving. And something clicked.

He’s me. He’s all of us.

If you’re reading this, most likely you’ve never been that desperate. And the last thing I want to do is take the genuine misery and suffering of a real-life child of God and make it a trite analogy. At the same time, all we know is all we know. We have all experienced varying levels of pain. And most of us have been at a place where we were powerless to help ourselves and not sure how we were going to make it, whether it be physically, emotionally, financially or spiritually.

We all need help. We all need healing. And we all need salvation.

So which kind of hitchhiker are you? Are you pushing forward with your stuff on your back, doing whatever you can to close the gap between you and what you need? Or are you bottomed out, used up and stuck, powerless to make any progress alone?

Regardless of where you are on that spectrum, get your thumb in the air and look expectantly toward oncoming traffic. Because Jesus will never leave you in the dust. He died for all of us hitchhikers. And once He’s picked you up, your eternity is spoken for and your life here on earth is redeemed.

And this is where those who are still walking are at a disadvantage. At least that’s how it was for me at my lowest point. As long as I still had something, I was gonna keep moving. Get to the other side of my pain as soon as humanly possible, even if it was at a snail’s pace. But I was so distracted by my burden that I forgot to stick out my thumb. And God allowed me to get all the way to the end of myself before He let me realize that I was never actually going to get there on my own. And it wasn’t until I had nothing left did I lift my hand and hold out the universal sign for help.

God loves the journey. Most of us are about getting fixed, getting results, getting answers, and getting to the other side. But God is all about the process. He reminds me again and again and again, He doesn’t fix; He GROWS. So wherever you are on your way, regardless of your own resources or lack thereof, get your thumb in the air. Surrender. You may have a lot, a little, or nothing at all. You may know where you need to go and just need a ride there. Or you may have no idea where you’re going; you just know that you can’t stay here.

Your deliverance is as close as your thumb. And Jesus isn’t in a hurry. He’s easing along the slow lane, looking for you.

My King, thank You for picking me up on Your way to bringing Your kingdom to the world. Your infinite power and infinite love still confuse, bewilder and amaze me. My Jesus, take my journey and make it Yours. Better still, I surrender my life to the life You have for me. And we both know You’re a far better driver than I am. My driving got me ended up on the side of the road. I am now a joyfully humbled passenger. Never let me forget where I was when You saved me. And give me Your eyes to see others who need a lift.

Stepparenting is a losing game.

If it’s ever a competition, you, by default, will lose. You will lose to your spouse. You will lose to the other biological parent. You will lose to your stepkids. You will lose to your OWN kids. You’ll just lose. So the key, I’ve found, is to NOT put yourself in a position to lose. If the chance arises to enter into a competition with anyone, choose love. Don’t fight, don’t defend yourself, just love and let it pass.  It always does. (DISCLAIMER: That’s what works TODAY. Who knows how the strategy will have to change for tomorrow.)

Brad and I have been at this for just under six months, and we’ve worked hard for every moment. There have been moments of soul-scraping difficulty. There have been moments of startling peace. There’s nothing easy about the circumstances of life throwing together two busted families and telling them to be a new family. We have five sets of issues, life experiences, perspectives, broken hearts all to be tripped over in this wild adventure of trying to live as a family. Not for the faint of heart. And not for the God-less heart.

It’s been a season of growth. Growth spurts with growing pains that have turned up the heat on the fire of sanctification, revealing who we really are and making us deal with it, in all of its glory and grossness.

Brad and Caroline have had their own unique challenges with each other. I tried (and still try) to mediate their relationship, but in moments of clarity, I step back and let them figure it out. It is THEIR relationship, after all. And they have to do what works for them. Brad has worked incredibly hard and they’ve covered a lot of ground in six months.

I watched a particularly touching and poignant moment between the two of them this afternoon. Caroline woke up not feeling well. She seemed to have bounced back somewhat, but was still dragging after lunch. It was naptime and she was heading toward whining, which is Brad’s FAVORITE version of her. She wanted me to go upstairs with her and help her settle in for a nap. I wasn’t quite finished with my lunch, so Brad stepped in.

“Caroline, want me to give you a piggyback ride upstairs?”

She paused, considered the offer, gave a shy, sleepy smile, then nodded.

He stood up and moved toward her. She went to reach for him but was hindered by her arms full of two stuffed animals and her Leapster. Brad looked at her dilemma and unknowingly uttered some of the most powerful words I’ve ever heard:

“Here,” he said, holding out his hands. “Let me hold your stuff so you can hang on to me.” She quickly obliged and handed over her treasures. She jumped on his back, he easily moved her loot into one arm so he could wrap the other arm around her and they headed upstairs. Tears stung my eyes as I instantly heard God’s powerful words echoing in Brad’s voice.

Give me your stuff so you can hang on to Me.

I’ll carry you. I’ll go with you so you’re not alone. But you have to hang on to Me. Give Me your stuff. I’ll hold it. I can manage it better than you anyway. And you need your hands free to hang on to Me.

Who doesn’t need that reminder? Even the most mature Christians who walk with God with enviable regularity will look down occasionally and find their hands full of things. False security, self-reliance, material possessions, reputation, power, influence, idols. Things that jump into our hands with surprising ease, some of which aren’t bad things in and of themselves, but things that force us to loosen our grip on the only means of true security: Jesus Christ Himself.

I have a framed picture on my dresser. It’s a picture of a hand holding a phone with the text message screen open. And on the screen are these words: Open your hand. It’ll be ok.

My precious friend and truth speaker, Melinda, texted and spoke those words to me on a regular basis during the darkest season of my life. The idea is that if you’re holding on tightly to something you think you want, afraid that God is going to take it away, your hand won’t be open to what He might want to put in it. You’re holding on so tight so you don’t lose, that you’re not available to win. He may want to take some stuff away. He may want to add to it. But the point is surrender; hold everything in an open hand surrendered to God to do what He wants with it.

(And what we don’t like to admit, the truth is, it’s totally out of our hands anyway.)

Melinda took a picture of herself texting those words to me, framed the picture and gave it to me as a going-away present when I made my big move to Orlando. And the wisdom in those words have shifted my perspective in moments of suffocating fear and uncertainty.

Abraham held his beloved son Isaac in an open hand, and got to keep him. David held his first beloved son in an open hand, and lost him. The Lord gives and takes away. May the name of the Lord be praised.

I’ll never forget the tender words of a stepfather to his stepdaughter as he reached out to her in love. And I’ll never cease hearing those same words in my Father’s voice as He tirelessly pursues my stubborn heart.

My Father and my King, how I praise You for lovingly requiring my open hands. There is nothing I can hold on to that can deliver me. Nothing in the world even close to worthy of competing with You in my life. Lord, continue to teach me to hand over whatever I hold in order to cling to You with everything I’ve got. My life is Yours. And that’s the only way to truly live the abundant life: To surrender to Your love, Your all-knowing, all-powerful will, and hang on to You for dear life. Have Thine own way, Lord.

I’m not much for transition.

As I’ve said in previous blogs, I’m a rut girl. I like my ruts, rhythms and routines. Of course, none of those are really in the Christ-follower job description, so that area of my heart is a constant work in progress. I’ve told my friends it feels like my life is a bottle of Italian salad dressing that God just keeps shaking up. The good stuff is never allowed to just settle on the bottom. The trick is to learn inner peace despite swirling circumstances. But that’s another story.

So I’ve been doing temp work while I continue my job search. There’s something very spiritual about temp work. You know you won’t be there forever so you’ve got a limited time to do your best and leave a mark there before you move on. But my heart longs for a place to plug in and invest long term. So I’m working, watching and waiting.

I recently stumbled upon a potential job I wanted so much, I could barely stand it. My heart was running a hundred miles an hour in that direction. There was very little chance of it actually working out, but that didn’t keep me from wanting it, thinking about it, and, well, hoping for it. And it changed everything about my day. The most mundane tasks were done with renewed purpose and passion, because I knew that there was something more ahead. Like a cool breeze whipping through my soul.

You know what it was? Hope.

And it happened again this past week. A new possibility entered my mind and again, circumstances are not favorable in that direction, but my goodness, I just can’t stop thinking about it. Daydreaming about it, making plans for how I would do it, visualizing the fruit of it. And then I started praying. Hard.

Lord, this is not news to You. You know what’s happening. You know what I want. But the circumstances are such a mess. The only way it could happen is if You move the mountain. You’ve done it before in my life, Lord, and I know You could do it again, if this is what You want. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up but…

Stop, came the divine interruption. So I did. And listened.

Why, child? Why should you not get your hopes up? Who told you that?

Well, I don’t know. But it sounds like a good idea. You know, just so I’m not disappointed if it doesn’t work out.

And so what if you’re disappointed? You’ve been disappointed before. And you’ve survived. Disappointment doesn’t kill you. Why are you so afraid of it? Why do you work so hard to avoid it?

I don’t know, Lord. Just trying to be realistic. You know, make sense.

And when have I ever called you to be realistic and make sense?

Well, You haven’t.

My child, you were created for faith. And faith cannot be separated from hope. You were made to live your life in hope, not waste time and energy trying to protect your heart. Your heart is My territory. Surrender it again.

And get your hopes up.

Eesh. I was startled by this firm reprimand and continued to ponder it as I was getting ready for work. I thought back to that day a week or so before when my day was lived in hope. How different I felt. And then I realized what He was talking about.

Hope changes the way you pray.
Hope changes the way you perceive difficulty.
Hope changes the way you invest in relationships.
Hope changes the way you process disappointment.
Hope changes the way you work, the way you sleep, the way you LIVE.

There is energy and enthusiasm just below the surface. Your heart is functioning at full capacity. And you don’t fear not getting what you want, because your faith is holding on hard to the security blanket of God’s sovereignty. If He doesn’t give it to you, He has something else. Something better, for your greater good. And you believe Him for it. Amen, and amen.

We hope for lots of things all day long. We hope we find a good parking place. We hope our kid does well at his baseball game. We hope that dream job finally comes through. We hope we don’t get stuck in traffic. We hope we can lose ten pounds before summer. We hope for that text, phone call or email. We hope. Sometimes it works out. And sometimes we’re disappointed.

But our greatest hope is in Christ. We will never be put to shame when we put our hope in Him. Not to give us what we want, but to make good on all His promises: To never leave us, to grow us, to teach us, to give us power and strength and peace that doesn’t make sense, to credit our faith as righteousness, to guide our steps, to forgive our sins, and eventually to take us Home. That hope does not disappoint.

And when we live in that hope, when we pray in that hope, we are different. And knowing that hope is sure gives us the courage to hope for and trust Him for other things.

So get your hopes up.

My King, please forgive my unbelief and forgive my lack of trust. Teach me to not fear disappointment, to not hold back because it may not work out. You will handle all those things too. But my job is to hope, believe, and live accordingly. Make me fearless, Lord. Teach me to pray fearlessly. Teach me to live fearlessly. My Jesus, You just keep getting better. Better than my wildest imaginations. Bigger, wilder, more loving, more powerful, more anything I than my finite mind can conceive. Thank You for being who You are, my King. And thank You for loving me. May I never get over it.

(DISCLAIMER: This blog post is PG. I’m going to take some artistic license and use bad words a couple of times. The substitutions I came up with just wouldn’t work in some places. So Mom, Grandma and MeMommy: I’m sorry. Yes, I was raised better than this. Yes, it’s very unladylike. No, it’s not your fault. Now having said that…)

Shit happens. It just does.

This is not any kind of big news. This is not some kind of huge revelation. Everybody knows this. Because it has happened, is happening, and will still happen as long as we’re living on this earth. Sin, the fall, all that is why life is just so dang hard.

Yet the uncontested, universal truth of the above statements brings little comfort to a broken heart grieving the death of a dream.

I was on one of my brief but lonely drives back home from dropping Caroline off with her dad for the weekend. I was all prayed up, had my worship music on and I was not, absolutely NOT going to cry this time. And then I did. A long hard, wracking sob that lasted through several songs.

I was used to these cries. They usually stirred up excruciating guilt and all the torturous what-ifs and if-onlys a human being could possibly come up with. They’re lonely cries. Emotionally I crawl into a hole, away from God, away from any support, cry it out, then emerge, ready to function again.

But this cry was different from its predecessors. It wasn’t a hopeless, dark, despairing cry that usually accompanied me in the car on those trips. It was…safe. Normally every tear is another reminder of weakness and failure. But not this time. Each tear that fell seemed to cleanse my pain. God sat with me in it, held me close, and wept with me. And I felt strangely…strong.

As I drove, God began to paint pictures in my head. There was a small but distinct sprout coming out of the earth. It was growing out of soil that was covered with the remains of a dead plant that stood there before. Life from death. Death first, and then life. Real life. Abundant life. Yes, that is a theme woven throughout scripture. That’s how God works.

And as the sprout grew it gained nutrients from the carcass of the plant that had died. The death didn’t just allow new life. It made it grow. Bigger, stronger, faster.

And then God slammed a truth into my heart so hard it almost took my breath away:

Fertilizer.

People spend money on bags of manure to put on their vegetables. Some keep all their kitchen scraps and other organic waste to use as compost. This stuff is valuable, even CRITICAL to the growth of a harvest. I had just done a volunteer gardening project days before. After filling the garden box with topsoil, our team tore open a bag of manure to help our flowers grow.

Did an old school farmer just happen to stumble upon this idea? I don’t think so.

God, the Creator of all things and the original Gardener, knew in all His foreknowledge how it was all gonna go down. Before time began, our King wrote death into the story of the world to give us life. And in awe-inspiring ways we can never imagine, He has ‘worked all things together for good’ for His people.

We’ve all dealt with our share of crap. And up until recently I thought I only had two options: Either sit under the pile of stinky stuff and whine about it. Or consider it my cross to bear and just try to move forward with it.

But that day in the car, God whispered to my spirit:

Grow.

You see it as waste. I see it as fertilizer.

Grow, My child. Grow.

Far be it from me to even begin the discussion of why bad things happen to ‘good’ people and if God is so good then how could He allow…blah, blah, blah. We’ve all thought it. We’ve all said it. We’ve all been there. Did God want this for me? Was this part of His perfect/prescriptive/predestined providence?

I know that nothing happens to me without God’s permission, but that’s about the extent of what I know. And honestly, it’s not my job to know. That’s God’s job. My life got too big for me a while ago and I surrendered it to Him. But being all powerful as He undoubtedly is, He allowed it. He allowed the shit to happen. And while it smells bad and looks gross, I can’t help but think that He’s looking down on me like a hopeful gardener watching a recently planted seed.

There are valuable nutrients to be absorbed from the carcass of every perished plan we held so dearly to our hearts that now lies lifeless on the ground. A new aspect of God’s character revealed through suffering. A new relationship springing through the comforting of a loss. A new understanding of the resilience of the Spirit-fortified heart.

The hardness of life gives you depth. It gives you a story and a ministry. If you weather your pain alone, you trade it in for waste. The crap just stays crap. But when it gives you dimension and compassion that you wouldn’t have had otherwise and it’s used to minister to another, you’ve traded in the crap for gold in God’s economy.

So the question is: Will we sit under the pile that life has dumped on us? Whine about how unfair it is? How bad it smells? How it doesn’t make any sense? Or will we try to trudge forward, dragging it behind us and try to make the best of it and/or pretend it’s not there?

OR

Will we in desperate, dynamic faith, explode in growth, fertilized by the death of whatever dream was sacrificed at the altar of God’s sovereignty?

I. Will. Grow.

My King, dare I even begin to thank You for the fertilizer in my life? The excruciating growth that came from my crap was hardly my choice. But Lord, You grew me anyway. And looking around in it now and back on it then, I see You. Not in the sin, not in the death, but in the redemption. And as long as there is sin, there is Christ. And as long as there is Christ, there is deliverance. My Jesus, thank You for redeeming my crap to enhance the growth of your impatient daughter. Thank You for the reminder that no waste need be waste in Your kingdom. Your ways are so unsearchable, my King. But Your ways are so perfectly good. And I rejoice in that truth. Amen.

Oh Christmas.

The season brings about such a strange mix of emotions for so many people. The joy we are supposed to be feeling is so obvious. Christ coming into the world to set about the greatest rescue mission of all time. Even those who aren’t celebrating Christ’s birth use the season to give gifts and spend time with family. Yes, we all know what we’re supposed to be feeling. Joy. Peace. And hope.

And yet the weight of the holiday also triggers a number of conflicting feelings. Missing loved ones are grieved. Another year passes without the goals we thought we’d accomplish. Finances are stretched. Old pain is dug up. Anyone who has ever been through anything at all feels it at Christmas.

This Christmas is feeling especially poignant for me and my new little family. Brad and I have grieved the brokenness of Christmas individually and together, for ourselves, yes, but mostly for our kids.

We wanted our kids to have perfect Christmas. Mother and father in the same home, gathered around the tree, opening gifts on Christmas morning. No missing pieces. No broken hearts. No what-ifs or if-onlys. At least just the illusion of the perfect Christmas for as long as we could protect them from the life ‘out there.’ They would learn the difficulty of budgeting, traveling, shopping, cooking, etc. soon enough. But if they could just think Christmas was perfect, we could sleep at night.

But alas, the best we could do is a broken Christmas. Two broken families with some parents and not others, with some grandparents and not others, getting some gifts but not others. I mean, I certainly felt like I had it all growing up. And that’s what I wanted to give Caroline.

I pondered this as I was helping mom cook in the kitchen. The brokenness of this Christmas. And I was starting to get terribly sad. This is not what God intended for Christmas. We humans in all our sin wrecked something else God intended to be perfect and beautiful.

Or did we?

I began to take note of the first Christmas and realized it was far from perfect. A long, difficult trip. ‘No Vacancy’ signs everywhere. Crowded streets. A cold night. Mary giving birth without the help of mother or girlfriends. A feeding trough for a bassinet. A shady celebration with shepherds.

If any child deserved a perfect Christmas, it was Baby Jesus. And if any parent could have provided it, it was God. But God allowed His Son to be born in obscurity and skepticism. Jesus’ birth was shrouded in controversy from conception. He wasn’t born in comfortable conditions. He wasn’t hailed as the newborn king. He was just ‘that poor kid who had to be born in the stable because his folks couldn’t find a room. Gotta hate that.’

Mary and Joseph felt judged and rejected by family and friends. They felt like they didn’t have enough anything. Not enough time. Not enough money. Not enough stuff. Their Christmas was not spent surrounded by their family, but by strangers. And yet, they rejoiced.

No, the first Christmas was not a perfect Christmas. Indeed, the first Christmas was a broken Christmas as well. So why in the world should we expect any different? Christmas is not a day to pretend all is right with the world, but to acknowledge life’s flaws and our need for a Savior, and celebrate regardless. Christmas is not about perfection, but about redemption.

My King, we praise You for Your birth. For Your crazy magnificent plan. Lord, You didn’t come to give us a perfect Christmas. You came because we are so hopelessly imperfect. You came to save us. And God, while we’re here, no Christmas will be the perfect Christmas. No day will be easy. No family will be without struggle. And no heart will be unscarred. But You came to make a way home for us. So may we focus on preparing the way for You in our hearts and lives. And Jesus, free us from the desire of perfection from anything other than You. You alone are the perfection and wholeness we long for. Fill us with Yourself this Christmas. Glory in the highest to You, our King and Redeemer. And Happy Birthday.

I hate crying.

No, I really do. For someone who does it as much as I do, you’d think I would have made peace with it by now. Not so. Every time I do it, I despise it. It’s embarrassing. My body is physically reacting to some kind of emotional stimulus and it’s totally out of my control. Happy, sad, angry, scared, tired, laughing. It seems that my tears are always just under the surface, just waiting for a chance to make an unwelcome appearance.

Now, don’t misunderstand, I don’t judge anyone else who’s crying. I’m quick to affirm others giving in to their tears and regularly remind friends to let their feelings out and be true to how they’re feeling. But for me, I secretly admire the poker-faced rocks who always seem to be in control of their emotions. For whatever reason, the feelings of others seem so legitimate and so important. Mine are a nuisance that only muddy the already fairly murky waters of my mind.

However, according to the Bible, if I’m going to be more like Jesus, I need to get over myself. Jesus spoke the language of emotion fluently and often. I’m always particularly intrigued by the heart of Jesus shown in the story of Lazarus. I would read John 11:35 and just turn it over and over in my head. Lord, You knew He was going to die. And You knew You were going to bring him back to life and it would all be okay in a matter of moments. Why did You stop and cry? The only Man who ever walked on this earth who had total control over His emotions chose to pause just before a miracle and weep for His friend. Interesting.

And not only did He allow Himself to feel deeply and express Himself freely, but He praises it in others. Not the performing nonsense of those feigning grief or bluffing conviction, but Jesus’ response to the ‘sinful woman’ in Luke 7 leaves little room for an aloof or blasé believer.

“Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for My feet, but she wet My feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give Me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing My feet. You did not put oil on My head, but she has poured perfume on My feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little.” (vv. 44-46)

I used to picture a fairly unemotional Jesus, continuing dinner and conversation with His friends, occasionally patting the woman patronizingly on the head and looking down on her with supreme satisfaction. But the more I’ve gotten to know my King, the more my picture of Him there has changed. I now see Jesus reclining on the floor, gazing at her in adoration and compassion, soaking in the purest of all worship, and not missing a single tear falling from her puffy, red eyes.

Was He embarrassed by her lack of emotional control? Was He judging her tearful worship? Not even close. She was not only anointing Him with oil, but also with her tears. And those tears, genuine tears, from Jesus’ perspective, were much more valuable.

I can look down on the glass top of my desk and see the salt outlines of tears that have escaped my eager hand. There are mascara marks on my pillow and tear stains on the screen of my phone. All stemming from various disappointments or stressful days. But I remember walking into the kitchen about a year ago, noticing a dull spot on my hardwood floor that had previously been a small puddle of tears. I never cleaned it up because those tears fell in a rush of pure conviction, fresh redemption, and total worship. I offered my tears to my King. And in that moment, I was no longer the Pharisee judging my own heart for not keeping it together. In that moment, I was the sinful woman kneeling at the feet of Christ, who fully experienced His saving power and could do no less than weep and worship in devotion and gratitude. I longed for those tears to fall on His feet so I could dry them with my hair. But I felt His love and presence as surely as if He were physically there because ‘the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise,’ Psalm 51:17.

How quickly I forget that God knows the depths of the heart of every man, and is not limited in guessing by the guarded and contrived outward expressions of our emotions. My King is not one more person on the list of people I have to be brave for. He’s the close friend and/or trusted parent who is always, always safe. So any feeling I try to hold back from Him is a bluff, and we both know it. I long to see those times as opportunities to let God meet me in those places and draw me near to Himself, instead of avoiding Him in embarrassment and vulnerability.

O my Jesus, when did I get so ashamed and afraid of my feelings? When did I decide that You only want my good moods and victorious moments? When did I commit to a life of trying to impress You? My Lord, You know my heart much better than I do. And You speak the language of emotion as well as any other. You created the spontaneous laughter as well as the stinging tears. Maybe You created them because You knew there would be creatures like me who would try to hide how they were feeling. Maybe these outward expressions were designed to draw Your children together to share the highs and lows of life. Lord, give me the security to be who I am and reject shame of authenticity and fear of rejection. The world is full of people trying to be brave. May Your people be a people who are free to be real, no matter what that looks like. And in moments of emotion, may we fearlessly point others to You as our hope. Amen.

For as long as I can remember, when I would think about my future, I would dream of having a normal life. I know ‘normal’ is a relative term, but I just mean I wanted it to look like what was normal to me. I wanted a life I recognized, a life I understood, like the one I lived growing up. I wanted to go to college, get married, have a few kids, live in the same house for the rest of my life, and live happily ever after. Picket fences, tree house, a dog or two. You know, normal.

Never was one to have visions of grandeur. (Although, the situation described above is probably considered fairly abnormal and grand these days.) Never planned on saving the world, curing cancer, ending world hunger, writing the great American novel, composing the greatest rock’n’roll song of all time or winning any Oscars. Just always thought of living a quiet little life on a quiet street in a quiet little cocoon that resembles 1958.

As I began to grow up, God began to little by little chip away at my chances of this ‘normal’ life that I so highly esteemed. But I would not be deterred. The normal life was coming. I was sure of it. Sometimes it just takes a little longer than we think, but it’s coming. So I waited. And life kept happening.

Without getting into all the details: Here I sit at 31, a single working mom, about to enter my second marriage. The wonderful man I’m marrying has two children of his own. I will soon be relocating to a new city where I will hopefully find employment in the next few weeks.

Still even up until the last few months, I stubbornly held on to my very slim possibility of eventually settling into normal. I mean, some of the pieces are similar to what I thought: Husband, wife, kids, dog. And there IS a picket fence in our new yard. Didn’t quite come about the way I was planning, but no matter. We will be NORMAL. Things will shake out and I’ll wake up one day in a normal life.

But lately, as I have been feverishly making my new ‘normal’ plans, God has begun working on me. Not the shoulder-shaking, butt-kicking confrontations I’m used to when it comes to areas of stubbornness. But gentle entreaties, whispered invitations that have been stirring a deeply hidden part of my heart that knows I was created for something more. And whatever it is, I’m starting to want it.

As I began to turn this idea of normal around in my head, I put it next to the call of Christ, looking for any even slight similarities. Nothing. Okay, okay, but doesn’t God call people to a ‘normal’ life all the time? You know, to be missionaries in their own little world? Yes, all the time. But what’s their heart? The things of God? Or the normal life?

Oh My precious child, why do you hang on so tightly to this mediocre dream of normal? What about Me, what about My character is normal? I’ve taken you to My glorious Grand Canyon. I’ve held you in My hand as you have floated in My wild oceans. You’ve seen My mountains and My sunsets. You’ve given birth to a child under My watchful eye. You’ve watched hard hearts soften to Me and proud knees bow to Me. You’ve stood in awe of My plan of salvation. You’ve experienced My forgiveness, redemption and miracles. My dear child, I AM far from normal.

The unknown may scare you, but nothing is unknown to Me. When you finally come home and we look back at your life together, we will not determine its success against how normal it turned out. We will gage it by how much you believed Me, and how hard you followed Me. The moments you thought your life was falling apart were the moments I was releasing you from the idol of normal.  Grab onto Me and hold on with everything you’ve got. I am not calling you to a life of patterns and safety. I want be your wildest dream.

My King, this day in this moment, I am letting go of normal. Because You and I both know Your children were made for more. And no amount of security will ever satisfy those who have been called by God. Lord, fill me with courage and faith. Thank You for saving me.

From normal.