Abundant Rest-2020 review

Abundant: existing or available in large quantities; amply supplied, plentiful; rich, copious

Rest: cease work or movement in order to relax, refresh oneself, or recover strength. allow to be inactive in order to regain strength, health, or energy, be placed or supported so as to stay in a specified position; 

Well, hindsight is—2020…. And this year’s theme, abundant rest- was infused in the last 365 days in ways that I couldn’t imagine a year ago.

Abundant rest looks like balance and feels like hope. It is a quiet confidence. A hard-fought calmness and stillness birthed out of a commitment to observing and honestly looking at myself. It was forged as I no longer ignored or dismissed myself- the things I tried not to think about-and the ones I ruminated on for far too long.  It was cultivated by self-compassion—being okay with being in-process, and humbly admitting where I was. Rest flourished as I let others in- my counselor, my old and new friends, and trusted that God would provide for my needs. It grew; even in a pandemic, in processing complex trauma, in the loss of my grandfather, two uncles, and extended family.

Abundant rest is only possible with honesty. Rest cannot be embraced when you’re running from your past, your emotions, your physical body. Rest is found in the process of knowing and being known. In looking at the painful parts of your history, admitting your hopes for the future, and living in the present. It is sustained by sleep, diet, exercise, and creativity.

This rest is abundant because it is holistic. As I look back, this year started with a reversal for me. In my career I was so mentally and emotionally engaged- working to help others through difficult times, to learn and grow- playing my long-held role as the “helper who is fine”. At the end of 2019 I knew it was me who was definitely NOT fine, needed help, and needed a change. So, January 2^nd, I found myself working in a kitchen, packaging food, and engaging in physical work rather than emotional or mental. It was exhausting in the best way. It was just the job I needed for this year-fast-paced, productive, and meaningful- helping to feed others during a pandemic. I’m grateful that God provided the work I needed, almost literally on my doorstep. I also found myself putting the pen down, and picking up the brush- painting when often I would have written- realizing that talking about your emotions is not the same as processing or feeling them- whether your journaling or chatting with a friend. Feeling emotions is a lot like swimming in the ocean- observing the waves, riding them out, and doing what you need to in order to stay afloat.

Leaving my career was the beginning of taking a step back from obligation-one that spilled over into my relationships as well. Learning to have healthy boundaries, to not ignore my own needs in order to meet the ones around me. It looked like discovering what emotional health really looked like- and working towards that. It grew in vulnerability-admitting my needs, wants, and learning to let others into my pain. It was painfully freeing to see the world continue on even if I wasn’t trying to control everything around me.

Abundant rest was fostered by intentionality- weekly video chats with friends, setting time aside to create, read, walk outside, and to have fun. Discovering what is restful for me- cooking a hearty breakfast, exploring watercolor painting, and learning to see my to-do list as a guideline-not a measuring stick.

Abundant rest looks like bravery- admitting my feelings, asking for help, saying no as confidently as I say yes. It looks like admitting what is difficult, what I like and don’t like, and not taking responsibility for things I cannot control. It grew by courageously voicing my fears, my trauma, my dreams. It takes an honest look at the world because trying to avoid, numb, and downplay reality is too damn exhausting.

And yes, abundant rest looked like stillness, too. Listening to others, observing my physical surroundings-cultivating contemplation, mindfulness, and integration. Taking bubble baths, walks for rest not just for exercise, and creating an environment around my home that was peaceful-candles, blankets, and lighting, rest was so much more than stillness.

With just a few days left in 2020. Im grateful for the hindsight. For the ways rest was abundant this year. For the grace of holistic stillness, of quietude that comes when you stop running from what you fear will overtake you, and find that it is in the rest that you can process and overcome it. So today, I pick up my pen, my paints, and pray with gratitude for the abundant rest of this year.

Letting mess in

 

When most people enter my home, the first thing they often remark is “wow, its clean”. As their eyes sweep my organized and cozy living room. Scan the gallery wall, comment on a painting.

But I’m starting to see my surroundings with new eyes. I’d like to punch whoever said “cleanliness is next to Godliness”—have they ever read the Bible? So full of grime, dirt, messy relationships, broken families, hearts torn apart. If anything, I think mess draws us to Godliness. It’s an invitation to holy. The mess around and within us finally too much to ignore or bear-we have to get help. Like the show hoarders- our environments often mirror our holistic health-and betray what we often want to bury.

The tidiness of my home is a reflection of more than my habits, it’s a window into my holistic self.

 As I look around this afternoon, I see it as a sign of how I’ve lived so much of my life. Wanting to be in control, to know where everything is, to routinely go though the forgotten-about places-from spices to mail. Sorting things out gave me a way to feel grounded, command, a foothold. From an early age I learned that the only things I could predict were my immediate surroundings and my words. I wrote with abandon- often to escape overwhelming feelings, and made sure things had their place- because if they did then maybe that meant I did too.

When the adult chaos swirled around me, being organized-in school, in my bedroom, and by writing everything out- was my safety. Hell, I even made a career out of behavior control and change.

But just like hoarders- my overwhelming need to control soon spiraled out of control. It was a vice that had a grip- and one I clung to out of trauma. I didn’t know what self-compassion meant, how to let there be mess and unfinished to-do lists.

But as I’ve healed, I’ve come to yearn for a bit of mess-for the openness and honesty of unfinished lists, dishes, the signs of a life in process, not simply protected.

You see, my space was also a reflection of my heart. My desire to be neat, tidy, and controlled.  That felt safe, but it was also suffocating. Keeping me from being open to being interrupted- to letting a bit of relational mess in-because of the beauty and weight vulnerability and intimacy bring to life. Intimacy felt like a threat- because being known meant being seen-and seeing beyond the dust-free surfaces of my appearance never felt safe, until now.

I still keep things pretty clean, its habit and personality too. But, now I’m not afraid to let a little mess in-to wait to wash the dishes, to transfer my clothes from “the chair” to the closet.  It may seem like a little thing, but this freedom is indicative of my inner world too. I’m okay with being in process, with seeing my own imperfections, with living a realistic life that ebbs and flows between having it mostly together, and also being unfinished.  It is out of this that I am now more open to having the unpredictability of another entering my space- literally and metaphorically. As Lauren Graham states, “ultimately everyone who gets close to you is going to see inside your closet on its worse day, and their reaction to that is what will tell you if you’re going to make it or not. You can’t live your entire life secured in by Spanx”(talking as fast as I can, p. 95).

Here’s to a life of expectation- that the mess is worth the intimacy, that being known and seen is a gift, not a threat, that its worth it, and that I can embrace it. So I’ll let the books pile on my end table, leave the dishes for later, and enjoy the life that’s in front of me.

How steps and strokes changed my perspective

“I don’t know how to very much, can you show me?” Expectant eyes, paintbrush poised, ready to learn and bring her vision of a painting alive.

Little did my niece know, she was teaching ME a lesson.

We painted, I modeled techniques and occasionally guided her hand, provided examples, and gave encouragement. All the while delighting in the process and the outcome. She had the vision and the courage, I helped her bring it to life.

Later on, the essence of her eagerness and energy still lingering in my apartment, I watched different girl tackle another dream—this one I related more to—the Amazon movie, “Brittany Runs a Marathon”. In the movie, Brittany, well, runs a marathon- but more importantly, she learns to let people into her life and heart.  Poised at what feels like rock bottom, she comes to learn that she is worthy of being seen, helped, and encouraged. In reality, she’s loved even before she begins—the people who cheered her on before Brittany first ties her laces, are the ones who cheered her on at the end.

As the credits rolled, I knew that these events had coincided in my life this day for a reason.  I couldn’t help but see the parallels of the painting and the marathon. In both, the finish was beautiful- but mainly because of the process. Both females had a goal, a vision, something they needed guidance with—one invited it from the beginning, the other literally ran from it.

I too, have a similar choice.  Will I eagerly accept help and guidance-or will I fight to keep my walls up as long as possible? Yes walls keep bad things out—and they’re probably there for a reason (I’m looking at you, complex trauma)—but walls can also keep the good things away. They can hinder intimacy, vulnerability, and a full range of human experience- they can keep you from finishing the proverbial painting or training for the marathon.

One thing Brittany learned as she ran, was that she was often her own worse enemy- she had to let herself in and honor her own boundaries. In thinking of this, I was reminded of the quote from “Indestructible” where another timely encounter included the wisdom that “a woman, my dear, will marry a man who wants her about as much as she wants herself” (Allison Fallon).

But, I think that truth also applies on a bigger scale, and in all areas of life. We often accept help in the measure that we accept and acknowledge our common humanity. When I know that I am human-everyone has peaks and valleys in their life, my place is secure. I can live out of security that I have value and worth regardless of my abilities, performance, or beauty- then I can accept and give help freely- I can be in relationship with others who want me as much as I want myself.

So tonight, as the credits rolled, and I smiled at the mental image of the finished painting. I prayed for God to teach me how to accept help, intimacy, and love from Him and others.  And to have courage dream big, in ways that would change my life. To start training for my proverbial marathon by boldly envisioning the life he is calling me to, take the next step. Secure in knowing that he will be faithful as I humbly say—“I don’t know how, very much, but—can you show me?”

love, legacy, and stature.

I can't believe its been so long since I'v posted. I guess my writing has sort of migrated over to the instagram caption route ( instaelise213). However, my days have been filled with work, trying new recipes, and taking time to hike and enjoy the gorgeous pacific north west summer.

This last week was one that reminded me of legacy living--and being reminded that where I am today is purposed and good. It's not a "cute" life until (fill-in-the-blank-life-goal) happens, its a called and good life. NOW.

I went on a gorgeous hike, met fellow hikers- graduates from nothwest university and beginning teachers (what are the chances?!) and spent time exploring ehe snoqualmie area. There's just something about getting outside that clears my head--the journey and goal of hiking is such as metaphor for life-- the winding path with obstacles, fellow travelers, the gorgeous views, and the goal of working hard to reach a summit--all mirror life.

Later in the evening I attended a delightful and poignant musical, "Sweet land" at a local theatre (check it out!)  And again I was reminded of legacy as the story centered on the beginning of Inga's life in minnesota (a German immigrant after world war 1) when she hopes to marry a Norwegian farmer.

My great grandma came over from Norway, and settled as a farmer in minnesota..so the family ties weren't hard to see. but what struck me about the story was Inga's determination--and the flash foward to the 70's and her legacy, which reminded us that we never really know how our lives will impact generations to come. I was reminded that my legacy has already started. I may not have a family of my own, but my life and story matter today.

And then, today, with legacy on my mind I prayed for an opportunity to see how my life and my story could impact another.  Then, I had a conversation with a mom and daughter that was 17 years in the making.

17 years ago I was 13, and had been told by a doctor that I was done growing. There's enough to be insecure about at 13, but thinking you're done growing, at under 5 feet- is not usually one of them. I vividly remember that day-- thinking that life as I knew it was over. that it would literally shorten my future--that my normal dreams would be impossible--that I would fall too short (pun intended).

But today, I was able to look a fellow under-five-footer in the eye, and have an empathy born out of experience. Today, she was me 17 years ago. I couldn't help but be grateful for the opportunity to share in her experience. To let her know its okay to be sad, to see it as a loss. To feel like it makes you different and its not what you thought life would be. later, talking with the mom, I was able to confidently say, that while this may feel like a loss right now (and it is in its own way) it will actually be an important part of her story-- its not an accident that she'll be short, and it's not a hindrance to the life that she'll be called to--rather it will be a foundation. Nothing we go through is wasted. Your experiences are purposed for your life--and to impact those around you. Even if it takes 17 years to see it.

new

“…cultivate self-compassion…I could never do that” she said with a wry and honest smile. Her response a glimpse of her heart.  She sighed in reflection, wondering how to even begin—without seeing this as another expectation.  Compassion, having grace, letting yourself be where you are to get where you want to be, the pause is purposeful. But how do you learn to be gentle withyourself, to preach grace where criticism abounds, to give yourself time to grow when it’s yesterday’s mistakes you can’t get over?

In a frustrated sigh she slammed her journal shut, “just another attribute” she surmised.

 As she looked out the window, leaves dancing with the morning breeze, her thoughts began to soften, maybe there really is another way. Maybe I am my harshest critic. Maybe, just maybe, there’s hope.

Maybe I start by being okay with where I am. Owning my self-depricating “haha” sentence enders. 

Maybe I start there. 

Maybe, I can start today.

When Orpah leaves

  No, I didn’t misspell Oprah’s name.

 I’m talking about a character in the Bible. Orpah and Ruth were sister-in-laws who left their homes in Moab with their mother-in-law, Naomi, after all three were widowed and there was a famine. Desolate much? 

At one point Naomi tells her daughter-in-laws to go back home, go back to their families, and leave her.At that moment they both had a choice, and Orpah turned back while Ruth refused to leave Naomi. Up until that point, their paths had converged, who knows how many memories they shared in the decades married to their husbands, the time cooking, sharing holidays, countless memories of a life lived together. When Orpah left, she didn't just leave them in the present, it also changed their ideas of the future. It could be easy to give Orpah a bad rap, but we all deal with loss and stress and life-change differently. some reach out, others retreat in. And one life change can effect so many others. 

While most of the story focuses on Ruth and Naomi and the loss of their husbands, tonight I was struck by the loss of Orpah—Ruth and Naomi lost her in choosing to moving forward. They lost another dear family member who had been a part of their lives for decades, and the loss stung in a new way because it involved choice and the loss of a living person. Break ups are devastating in their own way, because one or both decide to leave, choosing to sever a relationship. C.S. lewis rightly articulated that in grief we don’t just lose the person, we lose the way they impacted our lives in a million little ways. The silence can be deafening when the phone no longer lights up with messages, and the calendar is full of everything but time with that person.

Naomi and Ruth lost that closeness with Orpah when they each chose a different path. Over the last few years, I’ve had to learn to keep walking forward when friendships are walked away from, sometimes I've been Orpah, other times I've been Ruth and Naomi--surprised and saddened by another's choice to walk away. It is so bittersweet to say goodbye, but at the same time, when I'm grieving the death of what a friendship was, the blossoming of new friendships has encouraged me.

 It may be morbid to say that people will always leave you—but I think in accepting that there is actually more freedom to enjoy and savor the way people impact your life. This also frees you to let go of people, and to invite them into your story in a healthy way. It’s not a lack of commitment, its more about perspective. We all need a tribe---no one can go alone--Orpah returned to those she new from her past, and Ruth and Naomi walked forward together into a future with new community and family.

 When I remember that friendships can change in a blink of an eye, it helps me to appreciate them in the moment—embracing the blessing of the laughter and camaraderie today, knowing that my future and acceptance is secure even if this friendship doesn’t last. While I may lose an Orpah, God has always been faithful to provide the next Naomi—someone who will be pivotal for the next steps of my journey.  

The blessings of brokenness-- a life's example

You’re happy with the life you have, aren’t you? My dad remarked with a smile as I sank into familiar chair. His affirmation caught me off guard, as I looked up he continued “I can see it in your countenance, and the way you talk about your work and your friends. I know there’s things you still want in life, but I can see a new acceptance and joy”.

His acknowledgment of a reality I hadn’t yet spoken aloud, freed me to write these words with confidence. The things that I went through in 2016-leaving a spiritually abusive church system, moving on my own, starting at a new job—sure felt like the end of a lot of things for me. And in many ways, that was true. I did lose familiarity and years of friendships, I lost an erroneous confidence and complacency, and a legalistic view of God and the church. In being lost, I was found.

Just last night I was reminded of the impact one life of faith can have. I didn’t remember parts of her story, ones that occurred well before our lives intersected, but as her husband eulogized her life, I couldn’t help but smile through my tears that it was her brokenness that led to her most profound impact. What we sometimes think is the end of our journey—the loss of a relationship, our health, our old views—can actually be our greatest message and the avenue by which we reach the world. This woman’s life didn’t impact others because she was perfect, always said the right thing, or was in top physical health. Her life’s impact was in her perseverance and acceptance of what was before her—ever growing faith in the midst of worsening health. She gave us permission to accept brokenness as an opportunity to be put back together in the ways that matter.

I may not currently be facing the obstacles that Dollie did, but my own story is also made beautiful through, not in spite of my brokenness. At the onset of our trials-when a diagnosis or a unilateral decision rips you from familiarity- that seems damn near impossible.  Beauty?!from THIS? We certainly think our circumstances are the exception. But, like Winston Churchill bluntly admonished “if you’re going through hell, keep going”. In the middle of our journey’s it can be hard to see the beauty in our brokenness. When everything is shattered hope seems far off and near impossible. It is in retrospect we see the beauty. Dollie’s life is an example of that; for it is in perseverance we regain strength and hope. And as we take one feeble step after another, gaining ground and strength, we too, will be able to look back in contentment at the blessings of brokenness.

Ten Years Out- Reflections on Hearing Loss

Ten years ago today, after my mother gently dragged me to a local ENT doctor, my life changed when he told me I had bilateral degenerative hearing loss. I was terrified, in shock, unbelieving-not me, disabled? At 2o?!  who will love me now? How can I finish college? What will my life look like now?—ran through my mind as the kind, yet ignorant-of-my-situation nurse who took my blood test told me “not to cry, it’s just a shot”, if only she knew.
But now, a decade later, I can’t help but reflect on how many of those questions and fears have drifted away—I finished college and went back. Disability in one area doesn’t mean you don’t have strong abilities in others. We are each more than a single label or diagnosis.

If I could go back, I would tell my twenty-year-old-self—I know you can’t see past this now. It seems to mar your life, to irrevocably screw up your plans, your dreams.  It seems to shatter every truth you knew about who you are and what you’re capable of. Later that afternoon, as you sit on the beach, pen in hand, pages rippling in the forceful wind—you will make a pivotal choice—to turn to, not away from Jesus in this day of pain and fear. You chose not to get bitter, cynical, or self-pittying—and by His grace you live that out. Sure, you have moments of agony and deep fear—but your roots are strong—to him be the glory.

Ten years from now you will be thankful for this day—you won’t wish it away, dread waking up and putting your aids in, live in constant fear of losing the rest of your hearing or not having batteries for your aids. You won’t hide your aids under your hair—you’ll again experience the freedom of wearing your hair up—exposing those ears, knowing that the people who can’t see past them don’t deserve your energy anyway. Ten years out, you will be so grateful for loss—for you have gained so much-perspective, empathy, compassion for the hurting—that far outweighs any loss of your physical hearing. You’ll smile to think how this was made for you—chosen in love to strengthen, EQUIP—not hinder, the life you live. Your eyes will glimmer as your mind fills with pictures of how this loss is gain—from relating to many scared parents with a fresh Autism diagnosis, to the way your niece gently pulls back your hair and in awe and joy exclaims “you got my ears too!”


Ten years from now you will read scriptures like “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him” (Psalm 126) and your heart will smile with an understanding and joy—fulfilling this verse and knowing its truth. Ten years from now, the once overwhelmingly painful anniversary will have faded to one of bittersweet gratitude—for now you have those sheaves—the harvest of suffering that reminds you pain in this life is birth pains. Trembling 20-year-old-self—this diagnosis you think is ending your life—is actually the greatest beginning. 

Reflections on my 29th year

Reflections on my 29^th year.
              Tonight as I baked and cleaned, checked off my to-do list, I began to reflect on my 29^th trip around the sun. Each birthday year, August to August I take time to pray and think of a theme phrase or words for the next year. Last years’ were “trust boldly”, which, to be honest, were the last two things I wanted to do. I had just lived through the hell of spiritual abuse, skeptical and timid were more like it.

But today, almost 365 days later, I can’t help but sigh with a sheepish smirk that those two words were exactly what this year of life was about. On my birthday last year I started my job at a new company which has been one of the greatest joys of this year. I didn’t even know how much the stress of barely having enough clients and hours as well as driving all over the city was affecting my quality of life until they were no longer a part of it. My current company has been a prime example of one that is proactive about taking care of employees and seeking to deal with problems instead of hiding them. I have grown much in my practice as I have learned from others around me, and I’m so grateful.

Another way I learned to trust boldly was by beginning to attend a new church. Every brunch and bible study I either sulked in like an emo teenager, or tried to quiet my racing heart. Everything in me told me to run, to shut them out before I could get hurt. But one genuine conversation at a time my heart began to hope, then trust that this place could be different. I’ve made new friends that embody weeping with those who weep and rejoicing with those who rejoice. I’m allowed to be where I am, because everyone else is responsible for themselves—we are alone together—responsible for our choices yet sharing our troubles. These new friends have enabled me to trust boldly.

Today, I trust boldly that I am where I’m supposed to be—my life is not in limbo because I’m single, it’s not less or “cute”—it is purposed and full. I can’t believe I ever felt that way.  In both my work and church I am equipped and trusted to use my knowledge and gifts for others. My career isn’t seen as a hindrance but a gift. I can trust BOLDLY that I have been called to this vocation and it is my joy.

Lastly, around mid-february, with 6 months left in my 20’s, I started a crazy list of 30 goals by 30—they were divided into categories-head & heart, hope, and health. Some were one time things like funding an adoption, buying a stranger’s meal at a restaurant; others took more planning and time-hiking, reading 10 new books, completing the whole 30. (check the facebook page 30by30 for more details). With days left, I’ve completed around 25 of the 30 but I’m content with my progress. I’ve been humbled by others who have helped me in the process—going on the underground tour, cousins spending the day with me in NYC, and so many others have encouraged me along the way. 30 by 30 has taught me to pace myself and enjoy the process. Because the goals weren’t about completing—they were about becoming. Becoming the woman that is intentional with eating and exercising, taking time to be with others and using my resources for them. It was about becoming who I want to BE in my 30s-mindful, balanced, and intentional with my time, talents, and present in the lives and community around me.

So, as I look ahead to the next decade, I want to have peace in the process. I am not responsible for the choices leaders and others make. I want to have peace in the in-between—tangible grace to be imperfect and humble, working to improve where I can and accepting my limitations. I want to have peace in the process of dating, working with my clients, equipping teachers to educate children with disabilities. I CAN have peace in the process as I trust God boldly-one thing at a time. Thirty and Thriving, indeed.

I'm not waiting for a husband.

I’m not waiting for a husband.
  Yes, you read that right. It’s okay, I’ll give you a minute.

This is not about desire, its about perspective. Do I still dream about marriage and a family—absolutely. I long to be a mother, to have faces to names I’ve pondered and prayed over. But I don’t want to spin my wheels in life until I’m pushing that stroller. The wife and parent I want to be starts with today-my habits, my choices—they are foundational for the future, yes, but important for today.
Living like I’m waiting implies that I’m not where I should be. If I approach my days thinking that they will some day look different—then I’m not really “all here”—and that robs where I’m called today of my full attention and heart. The waiting mentality implies that right now is not enough—and that causes me to miss “right-now’s” joy. The joy of returning to a place I’ve furnished and made a home after a long and rewarding day of teaching. The joy of being able to “drop everything” if a friend asks. The joy of solitude and study.

So, future husband—I’m not living like I’m waiting for you—because if you come, it will be right on time—and no amount of waiting idly will change that. I want to live loved today—knowing that my heart, my hopes, my heavenly Father holds and knows. He’s called me to this place, this season with just as much tender care and divine appointments as our wedding day. Even though I can’t wait to meet you, should God provide—I’m not living like I’m waiting.

Crossing Your Jordan

“Hear, O Israel: you are to cross over the Jordan today, to go in to dispossess nations greater and mightier than you, cities great and fortified up to heaven, ² a people great and tall, the sons of the Anakim,whom you know, and of whom you have heard it said, ‘Who can stand before the sons of Anak?’ ³ Know therefore today that he who goes over before you as a consuming fire is the Lord your God. He will destroy them and subdue them before you. So you shall drive them out and make them perish quickly, as the Lord has promised you…⁶ “Know, therefore, that the Lord your God is not giving you this good land to possess because of your righteousness, for you are a stubborn people. ⁷ Remember and do not forget how you provoked the Lord your God to wrath in the wilderness. From the day you came out of the land of Egypt until you came to this place, you have been rebellious against the Lord”

Deuteronomy 9:1-3,6-7

We all have personal “Jordan Rivers”—pivotal moments where God calls us to move forward, to walk courageously. These  moments often come after wilderness—times of pain, confusion, desolation in our circumstances or hearts. Often we’re fearful to take the next step—to end the relationship, to change our habits. Just like Israel we forget that God goes before us—that it is His power that equips us to walk, to fight our battles, to take the land He’s calling us to. If you’re like me, you do start to think that it’s all on you to make the right decisions, to say the right things, to remain silent—forgetting that it is not by our works that we are even where we’re at today.
I think our wilderness seasons are so pivotal because they forever remind us just how much we need our Savior. When everything around you has crumbled you’re left with the essentials—what you really needed in the first place.

“God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn't. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down” (A Grief Observed C. S. Lewis).

It is often in our wilderness seasons that we are humbled and refined. It can feel like punishment but it’s actually the most loving thing to be reminded of what matters. The wilderness prepares us for crossing the Jordan.
 I don’t know what wilderness you’re in—where your heart is parched by pain—but I know that He will not waste it and that it won’t last forever. Our God is the one who made water pour forth from rocks—and he does that with our heart’s too.

Know that your Jordan will come—and that He goes before you, prepares you, is with you, wherever you go.

A Lesson in Grace from My Grandfather

Speeding down a sun-speckled Midwestern highway, a weathered hand pats my own “You keep writing, Elise. Write about your life, what happens to you. It’s your gift”. My eyes water at his affirmation, his love; his encouragement irrigating dry ground.

Earlier that day I peered through a cracked door to see him pouring over a book, pen poised to take notes. Upon entering the book-crammed study, I sigh and my heart echoes—so this this where I got it—the love for reading, studying, writing—it’s in my blood. As I settle into a well-worn chair, I can’t help but look around at the shelves spotted with photographs of family and friends. I know he prays for these people faithfully, daily; blood related by the cross.

Our roots lead to wings—sometimes to fly away from danger, sometimes to tether us to our calling. “You can’t pick your family”—some grin, many grimace.

“The place you start your journey is your anchor, the filter through which you process every single stop along the way…If, along the way, you realize you’ve been heading the wrong direction, you might change your trajectory, but you can’t change where you started” (Allison Fallon,Packing Light).

My eyes move from pages to photographs, glimpses of what matters to my grandfather. He is a man who has lived quite the journey. He’s the first to admit he’s not the man he once was, and his family echoes this. Grace is exemplified when a person knows they need it—when they, like David, from the heart say “against you only have I sinned” (Psalm 51).


Back on the cloud-shadow spotted road, my grandfather remarks “twenty years ago I never would have thought I would be ministering to sex offenders in prison, but the Lord has changed me”. We never know what events will change the course of our lives—when our hearts will be moved to speak or to be silent, when tragedy or triumph will mark our path. Yet, as I listened to my grandfather reminisce on life and change, I couldn’t help but be encouraged by grace—that sees our pride, our prejudice, our fear—the grace that knows our starting points, the families we’ve been placed into—and calls us to walk with Him. This grace doesn’t demand perfection—casting us away at the first inconvenience, mistake, or conflict—rather, it redeems in the most humble and humiliating way—by taking the punishment for our errors, our anger. The infinite entered time. His grace must be our starting point—it must be our anchor—He has adopted us as family—grace received leads to grace exemplified. Indeed, “His grace has brought us safe thus far, His grace will lead us home”

Though None Go with Me

    "But what about you?" he asked.

 "Who do you say I am?" Mark 8:29

                The last few months have reminded me of this conversation between Jesus and Peter as my own heart has heard echoes of,  “Who do you say I am?”  As I’ve processed and healed and begun to move on, Jesus has gently asked me to revisit who He is—a process that will never end this side of heaven.  The initial confusion and sadness has been an opportunity to restore the joy of my salvation—it has drawn me to Him.  He uses hard things to remind us of His character and call us to rely on it. I can say I believe that He is my strength, my peace—but those are hollow until they’re all you have to hold on to. This year has been one marked by change in my circumstances, my habits, my community. Many nights I’ve fallen asleep praying for Jesus to be my fortress, my clarity, my defender—the way only He can. He has never failed.
                He’s reminded me that he is my hope, He alone is the Author and Perfector of my faith, the Keeper of my Soul. He alone knows my heart. He alone. Though none go with me. He has faithfully uprooted lies, ended harmful thought patterns, and restored dreams. His grace reminds me I’m a work in progress, yet ultimately it is finished. His grace frees me to admit my faults, to look back and repent. His grace beckons me to forgive, to move on, to trust that he leads me beside green pastures and still waters.

                I don’t know what hard things you’re going through today. I don’t know where you feel pressed, almost crushed, persecuted and almost abandoned, struck down seemingly destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:8)—but I know that he meets you there. He was pressed, crushed, persecuted, abandoned, his body was destroyed—for you. When in trials it feels like “none go with you”—remember, He has. He knows. His grace has brought you safe thus far, His grace will lead you home. 

A prayer for the church

Your Kingdom is in-breaking,
Your loving-kindness has no end,
You only hurt to heal,
You are the one who mends.

You are not distant in our pain,
 You are not aloof or cold,
You are the one who turns loss to gain,
You are the one who destroys strongholds.

You know the depth of each human heart,
You know your children by name,
You alone can dissect a hardened soul,
You are the movement for the lame.

You are not finished with your people,
You are not throwing your hands up in despair,
You are the one who allows pain-
The Cross revealing your infinite care.

You will refine your church,
You will redeem your bride.
You are the one who removes our shame,
You are lovingly rebuking pride.

You know this moment many hearts are faint.
You hear each desperate cry.
You touch each soul with your tender care,
You will one day make every eye dry.

Tonight remind us of your love,
Satisfy souls in your peace,
Guide our prayers for you to abide,
Heal this body, from sin release.

--march 13,2016--

Exodus

What if I expected You to move mountains?

What would happen if I trusted You to part the sea?

What would become of my heart wastelands?

What miracles would come to be?

How do I pray in faith without grasping?

How do I seek You in asking for desires?

How should these finite lips call on everlasting?

How does this fickle heart pray with holy fire?

Help my unbelief

Jesus guide my heart,

Remind me You are my perfect intercessor,

In You, my requests are sorted apart.

It was You who led by fire and cloud,

It was You who provided manna,

It was You who asked if the dry bones could live,

It was You who broke walls, they marched around them.

It is You who still makes ways in darkness,

It is You who still calls by name,

It is You who asks me to pray boldly,

It is You who removes my shame.

I can hope in your provision,

I can boldly come before your throne,

I can humbly ask You to hasten your vision,

I can trust You to lead me home.

Now is the time to ask in hope,

Tonight is the night to cry out,

You rend my heart with your unfailing love,

You speak in whispers, in my circumstances You shout.

I ask because you know my heart,

I call because you are my father,

I know you’re the one who leads and sends,

When I on my own can go no further.

You see me when I’m falling,

 You know my words before I speak,

You are the one who’s ever calling,

You are the answer I seek.

You are making my heart-mountains move,

You are parting my fear-filled seas,

You are turning wastelands into streams,

You are performing miracles in me. 

Eight years out—a letter to my younger self on that day of diagnosis

Terrified, in shock, unbelieving-not me, disabled? At 2o?!  who will love me now? How can I finish college? What will my life look like now?
Four  small words forever changed my life—“you have hearing loss”.

Twenty-year-old-self—I know you can’t see past this now. It seems to mar your life, to irrevocably screw up your plans, your dreams.  It seems to shatter every truth you knew about who you are and what you’re capable of. Later that afternoon, as you sit on the beach, pen in hand, pages rippling in the forceful wind—you will make a pivotal choice—to turn to, not away from Jesus in this day of pain and fear. You chose not to get bitter, cynical, or self-pittying—and by His grace you live that out. Sure, you have moments of agony and deep fear—but your roots are strong—to him be the glory.

Eight years from now you will be thankful for this day—you won’t wish it away, dread waking up and putting your aids in, live in constant fear of losing the rest of your hearing or not having batteries for your aids. You wont hide your aids under your hair—you’ll again experience the freedom of wearing your hair up—exposing those ears. Eight years out you will be so grateful for loss—for you have gained so much of worth that surpasses your physical hearing. You’ll smile and think of how this was made for you—chosen in love to strengthen, to EQUIP—not hinder, the life you live. Your eyes will glimmer as your mind fills with pictures of how this loss is gain—from relating to a scared parent with a fresh Autism diagnosis, to the way your niece gently pulls back your hair and in awe and joy exclaims “you got my ears too!” You'll mentally change "Amazing Grace" to "I once was deaf, but now I hear" understanding why John Newton (a man who went blind) would write those original lyrics because of how physical loss can strengthen the Spirit. 


Eight years from now you will read scriptures like “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him” (Psalm 126) and your heart will leap with joy—fulfilling this verse and know it’s true. Eight years from now, today will still bring back a flood of sadness but a bittersweet gratitude—for now you have those sheaves. The harvest of suffering reminds you pain in this life is birth pains. Trembling 20-year-old-self—this diagnosis you think is ending your life—is actually the greatest beginning. 

Let Love in--Part 2

Earlier today I began a separate post, one I hope to share in the, future, but it needs refining.

 I recently borrowed a friend’s copy of “Counterfeit Gods” by Tim Keller.  Read it at your own risk—for your own edification and joy. Throughout the work Keller expounds upon the idea that “the human heart is an idol factory” and how we tend to just deal with the surface idols—money, relationships, work success, instead of looking to the root—what our desire for those things is really pointing to. For instance, you and I could both have money as an idol—something that we find our sole sense of identity, security, and affirmation in. But—I could be using money because it makes me secure and in control of my environment (or so I think) and you could be using money to gain approval—so that others will applaud you and you can know you’re successful. The surface looks the same, but the roots are different.

While the book in its entirety impacted my life, my faith, my views; one section in particular kept coming back to me. In chapter 2, Keller articulates that “love is not all you need” by sharing the stories of Jacob and Leah. Both of them faced life unloved. Jacob spent most of his life looking to others for blessing—he stole the blessing from his twin, was cheated out of the woman he first loved by his father in law, and lived in fear. He was always looking to others to fulfill him and bless him. Likewise, Leah, who the Bible basically calls ugly, lived life in the shadow of her beautiful younger sister. Her own father gave her away in marriage to a man who didn’t love her. She thought she could earn her husband’s blessing and love by having children, but it never worked. In both of their lives they finally turned to God for blessing and love after many unfruitful years of trying to siphon it from others. With the birth of Judah, Leah finally said “now I know God has blessed me”—realizing that all along it was God’s love and favor she had been searching for. Keller further relates that “The text says that when the Lord saw that Leah was not loved, _he_ loved her. God was saying, 'I am the real bridegroom. I am the husband of the husbandless. I am the father of the fatherless”.  In my own life I can see how I have looked to others for acceptance and love—after the early years of being rejected by peers and friends, I spent much of my teenage and early adult years seeking to know that I had true friendships that were like the siblings I never had—I too tried to suck the love out of others or do things for them so they would love me—like Leah I have learned that it never satisfies and pushes others away. There was nothing Leah could do to make Jacob love her more or to make God love her less.  Similarly, Jacob spent his life taking blessing into his own hands—he learned from a young age that he had to fight for it, earn it, and do what it took to get it from others. I too, look back and see how I have spent much of my life trying to earn the unconditional love of God by proving myself to my parents, my bosses, my peers. I thought that if I could just be consistent enough, care enough, share enough—that THEN I would finally be treated that way by others. Like Jacob, I wrestled with others when really, it was God I needed to wrestle with. In Jacob’s story he finally turns to God on the eve of the night that he thinks is his last—his brother Esau is coming toward him and he is certain that this is it—the ultimate rejection by family and retaliation for his past. In the night a man approaches him and they fight—in the midst of it Jacob is told it is God—and instead of fearfully cowering, Jacob clings. He finally fights for the blessing he’s been looking for and tells God that “he won’t let go until You bless me”. As Keller relates “Jacob finally looked to God for blessing”. The approval of others—the encouragement from my parents, the social media rat race, the academic achievement—all of it will fail, all of it is a vicious cycle that never satisfies. People will come through and then fail me, encourage and then tear down.


You see, I do need to let love in—the one who IS love. Who created me to delight in, not deify, the love and approval of others. What we do here is an echo of eternity, the one who loves. It’s time to let Love in. 

Waiting to Exhale

“And Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last, and the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.”—Mark 15:37

Today is the day Christians remember the death of Jesus—Good Friday. Death…good? A man breathing his last as something that is yearly remembered and celebrated? This contradicts everything we and our culture strive for and celebrate. As people we are drawn to life—longevity, new beginnings, fighting for permanency and life is at the root of most of the things we spend our time, energy, and money on. How can death be good? How can we celebrate a last breath.



We can celebrate because the exhalation ushered in eternity—it is the breath we are waiting for, striving for: Jesus’ last breath brings life.



As I write this morning, stripes of sunshine dancing across my journal—I am reminded of the fact that each person is “waiting to exhale” in some facet of life. We are in a perpetual state of holding our breath—we live expectantly for “the next big thing” something that will finally take our breath away, satisfy, allow us to rest easy and drink in the calm of true rest free from striving. We’re all waiting to exhale something—debt, addiction, loneliness, barrenness—freedom, contentment, ease—all seem one breath away.  We order our lives around obtaining things we think will satisfy—but if we’re honest, the next thing always calls out to us before we’ve cleaned up the confetti from our last achievement. We can never fully catch our breath.



This is part of what makes this Friday, good. We can celebrate Jesus’ death because He is the only man who truly was able to exhale and say—it is finished. In Him we have freedom to exhale today because ultimately—eternally, it is finished. Whether you obtain the things you are striving for today—the job, the ring, the house, the family—in Christ we can ultimately exhale for eternity. May the many times we hold our breath in this life remind us of our assurance in Jesus—who breathed his last for us. Let our waiting to exhale point us to Jesus’ last breath that opened eternity.

Thanking God for the Given

                A couple of years ago I read “OneThousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp where she discusses the discipline of gratitude in light of communion—how bringing ourselves and our attitudes before God as a way of communion and worship. In that book, she narrates her personal journey of cultivating daily gratitude by writing a list of one thousand things she was thankful for.  After finishing the book, I was inspired to do the same. Tonight, after a difficult week of others’ joys—babies, engagements, work promotions—reminding me of my unfulfilled dreams—I knew I needed to revisit my own list.  It was encouraging to look back almost to the day in 2012 to things I listed as evidences of grace and reasons for gratitude—my grandfather’s voice, cinnamon scented pinecones, clean sheet night, no-lick envelopes, my pastor’s kid’s wisdom and thoughtfulness, eating popsicles—almost too many to number.

                In today’s social media world, it’s easy to get caught up in numbers—likes, followers, re-tweets, and “friends”. It’s a hamster wheel of futile attempts for adoration and applause—there will never be enough. Similarly, if I approach miles stones in life as simply accomplishments to check off my “life-long-to-do-list” I will always have the next thing in line—and will miss out on the blessing of the moment, the place I am. Companies like Apple have capitalized on the human compulsion for “the next big thing”—we are compelled to look ahead, to have the latest and greatest. But where does this really leave us?


Striving never ceases when our lives are based on what’s next instead of what is here.

 
As these thoughts permeated my disquieted and discontent heart this weekend, I was reminded of Jim and Elisabeth Elliot, who waited years to get married due to their personal convictions that marriage was not something to rush into because their single lives were purposed and full—they were expectantly patient—that God would work his will in his perfect timing, and that it was worth waiting for that. In one letter Jim related to Elisabeth:

 “… We may imagine what it would be like to share a given event and feel loss at having to experience it alone. But let us not forget—that loss is imagined, not real. I imagine peaks—when I think of doing things together, but let not the hoping for it dull the doing of it alone. What is, is actual—what might be simply is not, and I must not therefore query God as though he robbed me—of things that are not. Further, the things that are belong to us, and they are good, God-given, and enriched. Let not our longing slay the appetite of our living!” (shadow of the Almighty p.160)


Exactly. I am grateful for the reminders to thank God for the given—the many blessings I do have in my life today. I don’t want to miss out on today’s joys and purpose because I am too focused on future hopes and blessings. In another book, Elisabeth relates how she personally prays through the implications of The Lord’s Prayer, and when it comes to “our daily bread” she reminds her reader to “thank God for the given, [and to not allow] the not given to spoil it”. If I knew what God does, I would be grateful for where I am, what have, and what is withheld.  May I daily live in thankfulness for the given.

He Hems Me In, Before and Behind--February 7th, 2015

A few weeks ago, in the midst of transitioning to my new job position, new “future” out of school, and renewed faith, I prayed. Boldly. A way I hadn’t since my feet were caked in the red Kenyan dirt.

God, Please show me how you’re working. Help me to have tangible heart-knowledge that you are in my circumstances—working and leading. I need to see you. Show me how your hand is at work—like in Ruth’s life—orchestrating my circumstances for my good and your glory.

                Admittedly, I was pessimistic, jaded, not really expecting an answer—but with a “mustard seed” of faith, hoping that this time, this prayer, would be different. This time he would move my calloused heart and stubborn mind and show me.
                Well, where do I begin? In the last week alone, I have seen answers to things I didn’t even have faith to pray about, months ago. Flippant thoughts of “oh, wouldn’t that be great if___” have actually come about—been brought up as possibilities in conversation as actually happening! The most encouraging was a prayer from December having a tangible, real, answer—yes, this week. My soul has leapt to life with hope and joy—God is present. He does orchestrate. The most encouraging thing is that I’m excited that God’s working—not as much about the specific circumstances and “yeses” but more that I have seen him answer. This is much different than I used to be. A new acquaintance eloquently wrote that “God blesses you seasonally, proportionately, and incrementallybecause he wants to bestow you both with the gift itself, and the gift offaith, and never the former without the latter”.

                Exactly. Awhile ago I prayed one of those prayers you never should pray—like asking for patience, that I would know what it was like to not know the hope of Jesus. Yes, I actually prayed that. And well, look at the last two years. He answered—yes, and the season was a gift. It increased my faith, my hope, my joy. He really does give good gifts—and hems them in, before and behind.