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.
When I was in the ninth grade, I watched my dad fall off of a horse and land, unconscious and facedown, in the grass. He was fine in the end, but it is one of the only times that I remember my knees actually giving way beneath me. I wrote a whole paper about it that year because, well, this is what I have always done. I write the words that I cannot speak but also that I cannot silence.
I took a picture of my ceiling on Sunday. Because I'm strange. But also because I was so thankful to be home. In my own bed. Staring at my own ceiling. We had the best time away as a family, but ten days is a long time to be gone, and I am glad to be home. Glad we went. Glad we came back!
Today is my half birthday. Don't worry about gifts. Or cards. Or candles. Or singing. Or even texting. I'll just understand your silence on the matter to be your speechless excitement. Only kidding.
I started training for a triathlon. Today I ran for fifty minutes. I’ve been training slowly enough that I really can run for fifty minutes. But I get bored. And I have to play mind-games. Run 30 minutes. Then run 10 minutes past this spot. After that turn around and run 15 minutes in the other direction. Then run 5 minutes back, and you’ll be at your car.
I started training for a triathlon. Today I ran for fifty minutes. I’ve been training slowly enough that I really can run for fifty minutes. But I get bored. And I have to play mind-games. Run 30 minutes. Then run 10 minutes past this spot. After that turn around and run 15 minutes in the other direction. Then run 5 minutes back, and you’ll be at your car.
A few days before I turned 29, I made a list of things I wanted to do before I turn 30. I need to keep you updated on my successful completion of these things. One thing on the list was to roast a turkey. When you roast a turkey, though, you need a lot of mouths to feed. So I rallied the troops, and we had Christmas in July!
Last Friday, some friends and I floated down the Comal River. It’s a big thing to do in Texas, and I never had. It was a lot of fun! It was also a lot of work. I fluctuated back and forth between “I’m so relaxed” and “I’m so exhausted.”
To sister is to protect, to defend, to correct, to teach, to occasionally manipulate, to fully embrace even if you don't always approve. To sister is to be insanely jealous from time to time but never without also being completely proud of and excited for the other. To sister is to compete, to annoy, to enjoy, to make laugh and to let cry.
On June 23, 2015, I signed my name and accepted the terms of employment. I signed my name and accepted, or maybe declared, the conclusion of a season.365. That's how many days were in the last year. It felt like forever. It feels like no time at all.
On June 23, 2015, I signed my name and accepted the terms of employment. I signed my name and accepted, or maybe declared, the conclusion of a season.365. That's how many days were in the last year. It felt like forever. It feels like no time at all.
Seasons are strange things. Twenty-four hour days swim together, all seemingly the same until they are suddenly different. Some stretch endless toward evening. Some escape our clutches, sunlight seeping through clenched fists. Some just pass. And we hardly notice.We keep making breakfast and washing dishes and looking out that same kitchen window.
Seasons are strange things. Twenty-four hour days swim together, all seemingly the same until they are suddenly different. Some stretch endless toward evening. Some escape our clutches, sunlight seeping through clenched fists. Some just pass. And we hardly notice.We keep making breakfast and washing dishes and looking out that same kitchen window.
I’ve always thought it was his bravest moment, stepping that foot over the edge of the boat, planting it firmly on water that everyone knows should not have held his weight (Matthew 14). I’ve always thought it was faith at its finest. The boldest trust. The truest courage. But five years ago almost to the day, I sat on a boat in the middle of the Sea of Galilee, and I listened to Beth Moore teach about Peter and the sea. And I knew that I didn’t know what she was talking about. And I also knew that one day I would understand.
I’ve always thought it was his bravest moment, stepping that foot over the edge of the boat, planting it firmly on water that everyone knows should not have held his weight (Matthew 14). I’ve always thought it was faith at its finest. The boldest trust. The truest courage. But five years ago almost to the day, I sat on a boat in the middle of the Sea of Galilee, and I listened to Beth Moore teach about Peter and the sea. And I knew that I didn’t know what she was talking about. And I also knew that one day I would understand.
I trust You. I say it like I mean it, but there is this tiny halting in my voice, and I know that I don’t really know what that means. I know it more than I did last year. Last month. Last week. But I still don’t really understand it.
Sarah is a dear friend from college, and she was my roommate sophomore year. She is one of the most genuinely kind people that I know. She is calm and thoughtful, and she moves through life at a pace slow enough to notice it. She refuses to get caught up in the whirlwind life tempts us toward, and she reminds the people around her to slow down, to look around, to enjoy a moment.
