I woke up every morning last week thinking, “I have got to write something today.” It didn't feel like pressure. It just felt like reality. Like I needed to get my thoughts and feelings down on some kind of paper. When I feel like that – like I have to write or else I will suffocate – it’s usually because I’m trying to hide.
Well. I made it to 30. And so far it's pretty good. And not so terribly unfamiliar. I'm still me. I just wanted to check in one more time and update you on the #30in30. This will be my final report. Then I'll just get on with being 30 and you can get on with being whatever age you are, and we don't have to keep talking about it.
Well. I made it to 30. And so far it's pretty good. And not so terribly unfamiliar. I'm still me. I just wanted to check in one more time and update you on the #30in30. This will be my final report. Then I'll just get on with being 30 and you can get on with being whatever age you are, and we don't have to keep talking about it.
If you've been around here (or been around me) for any length of time, you know that laughter is one of my very favorite things. There is something really, really genuine about it. You cannot fake a good laugh. But you also cannot suppress it. It's ever-so-slightly out of our conscious control, which gives it a power beyond words. It is an expression of something deeper, a communication of something stronger. It is evidence of emotion and life and depth that can be known and shared but never explained.
I posted last week about being enough, about believing God has made it so. But since then, I haven't been able to stand quite straight in this impossibly shallow space between the floor of enough and the ceiling of too much.
Israel is not really a place of souvenirs. It’s not Disney World. Or even New York City. There’s something sacred about it—about being in the place where Jesus walked, where His hands reached out and healed, where His words echoed off of simple stone walls. And something about all of that assures you that a t-shirt would not properly commemorate the moment.
Israel is not really a place of souvenirs. It’s not Disney World. Or even New York City. There’s something sacred about it—about being in the place where Jesus walked, where His hands reached out and healed, where His words echoed off of simple stone walls. And something about all of that assures you that a t-shirt would not properly commemorate the moment.
Every once in awhile I get this feeling in my stomach, and I’m not exactly sure why. And then I remember that it’s January. And that my birthday is in February. And that I’m going to be thirty.
I've started reading books about writing. I had to think for a long while about whether this was a good or a bad sign. On the one hand, reading about doing something you ought to just do can be an education-cloaked form of procrastination. On the other hand, reading about something you already do is pretty helpful. And instructional. And encouraging.
I'm a big fan of new journals--the crisp white pages (lined, obviously!), the perfect binding, the unfrayed edges, the way none of the corners have been torn off to scribble down a phone number or dispose of chewed gum. But then I start to use it. And I cross out the third word I write. And I rip out page 6 because I wrote down something that doesn't deserve to be preserved in ink. And I toss it in my purse and the corner gets mashed and then water spills on the back cover.
I honestly don't know what happened to 2015. It was January. And then it was May. And now it is today. Here we are on the cusp of 2016, and I need a moment to look back before we lunge forward. Because this year was fast, but it was also real. And I don't want to forget it.
It’s been awhile. I miss writing here regularly. Life is good, and it’s normal, and some days it’s boring and other times I long for a moment to catch my breath as holidays and activities move at break-neck speed. We live in this constant motion, where we swing from underwhelmed to overwhelmed faster than the traffic light can change. And sometimes we just need to sit down and be whatever it is we are.
Sometimes I have very little to say here. Usually it's when I have a LOT of thoughts that I can't quite get into sentences yet. So, I thought we would revisit my iPhone notes--my antisocial media outlet. Because it's mindless and also a little entertaining (at least to me). My iPhone notes are where I type in incomplete thoughts and keep track of things that I can't keep track of in my head (which--side note--is getting to be more and more things). So there's that.
I think it's Matt Chandler who said: "Where the ideal is lacking, grace abounds." That's true. What's also true is that even where the ideal is present, grace may abound. Since I wrote that post last week about all the wise women God has placed in my life, I haven't been able to stop thinking about the wise woman who gave me life.
I think it's Matt Chandler who said: "Where the ideal is lacking, grace abounds." That's true. What's also true is that even where the ideal is present, grace may abound. Since I wrote that post last week about all the wise women God has placed in my life, I haven't been able to stop thinking about the wise woman who gave me life.
When I get really hungry, one of two things happens. I either get super weak and feel like I’m going to faint or I get super irritable and unkind. Both options are pretty unfortunate and high maintenance. I try to do things like carry Kind Bars in my purse (the irony of the name is not lost on me) and eat snacks on a regular basis. But I do get that hungry on occasion, and when I do, it can get ugly. It’s not just hunger, by the way. Blood sugar is a real thing and when it gets too low, it’s not like I can just act nicer or pull it together. My body is working really hard to stay conscious, and I don’t have the energy it takes to worry about your feelings.
I was the kid at restaurants and holidays who always figured out a way to sit at the “grown-up table,” even if it meant crawling up on someone’s lap. I am also guilty of occasionally faking sleep on the couch so that I could stay up and listen to my parents and their friends. The Lord has been generous, in nearly every stage of my life, to surround me with women who are older and wiser than me--women who will share their stories and graciously listen to mine. And I am so very grateful.
It struck me the other day, as I was mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, that Jesus could have come at a time when it was easier to get information. He could have come after the printing press was invented. He could have come when the radio became popular. Or the television. Or when news channels went to twenty-four hours. Or today—when every detail of every life can be chronicled and published for the world to see should they care to look.
