2016 Book Review: A Severe Mercy

This year I've read quite a few books. When I began writing these posts in earnest, I decided that at the end of the year I would write a book review on one book - I hadn't decided at the time - I finished in the course of the year. I've read quite a lot of really amazing books over the course of the year, but the most gripping by far has been A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken. I cried and laughed and cried again as I read this book. Sheldon is a master storyteller; his story not only captures the attention but grips the soul.
Sheldon tells his own story of beauty in love, in loss, and in grief. His goal is not merely to record his own story, but to tell a greater story. In the beginning of the book we find Sheldon living as a pagan in the most literal sense of the word; he worships beauty as the pinnacle of the world around him. He gives no thought to the idea of a God or higher Being; he is too busy serving and delighting in beauty.
By the end of the story, Sheldon is a very different man. Throughout the course of his - and his wife, Davy's - life, he has come to realize that there is a greater Beauty than the small world they have created. As beautiful and whimsical it was, their own universe pales in comparison to the beauty and glory of the Almighty God's. God, in the course of time, takes ahold of and transforms their hearts.

Vanouken and his wife, Davy

Sheldon's book gives the reader a glimpse of his life with God, as well as the loss and grief he faced when death took his wife. He is open about his struggle within his newfound faith before her death. He contrasts the division of his heart, torn between his love of Christ and his love of beauty, with Davy's own single-minded devotion to Christ. It becomes a more stark contrast as her life fades and then is gone. In the belly of his grief, Sheldon discovers eternity and with it the life Davy has still in Christ.
He says of his grieving, "The pain of the thousand deaths of past Davys in earthly flesh was worthwhile, not only because the joy outweighed the pain, but because I touched her soul. I knew her, at least partially, as her - and my - Incarnate Lord must do."
Sheldon comes to see his loss in light of eternity. Through his remembrances of Davy he catches a glimpse of how his Lord Jesus must know her, and him also. In his pain he finds joy, in his loss he discovers hope, and in death he encounters eternity.
This is a book is one that I could (and probably will) read again and again. I was caught up and carried by this man's story, the closeness with which many parts related to my own, and the hope found in Christ that it ultimately pointed me to. 

I Miss You

When you were here I smiled a lot. 
When you were here I worried less;
I knew you'd come and fix for me
Whatever was broken in my life.
Your smile was quick and easy
For me to smile back at.
Your voice was loud and breezy,
"Full-of-it," some even said.
But they didn't know you like I did;
They didn't see the way
You patiently bore the burdens I carried,
And helped me with life's crazy mess. 

I miss your hugs, so big and nice.
I miss the knives you'd show me... twice.
I miss the jokes and stupidity too,
That we all made when we were with you.
I miss the love we shared back then;
The joy we all reveled in.
Yes, what is now is good, even better.
But still I miss you

                         From back then.

In loving tribute to Ben, who passed away into glory December  6th, 2013

In Retrospect

A bridge in Minneapolis I
ran across.

The past two months have been a whirlwind of activity. I contemplated putting all of it into one post, but since no one in their right mind would read a 10-page post, I've decided to creatively summarize it for you all.

The theme of the past nine months of my life have been running. I've run more in the past two months than I have in a long time. So instead of sharing a long-winded report on what I've been doing, I've decided to use my top ten running songs to illustrate the highlights. I've also included pictures with captions so you can see some of what I saw over the past month as well.

Here they are, in no particular order:

Forget and Not Slow Down Relient K

This song is the first song on my running playlist, which makes complete sense because it sets the mood for the entire run. This month particularly, over and over again, I needed to be reminded not to dwell on those mistakes, sins, and hurts that I had made, to embrace the grace found in Jesus Christ, and to continue running forward. There were many tired nights, in between the driving and flying and visiting people, where I would lie flat on my back and remember all of the mistakes of the day before. In those moments I needed the reminder to get back up and walk confidently into the next day, not in my own strength but in the strength of the One who loves me enough to die for me.

Sahara Relient K

I know how to pick some winner songs. If you are unfamiliar with this song, it tells the story of a man who acts in his pride and consequently falls from grace. I've needed this song, because there are so many times when I find myself in the same place as this man, knocked down by my sin, and asking God to "take these bones and bring them back to life."

I need the grace of God. Every hour of every day I realize my desperate need for the life He gives in Christ. And this past month was no different. I went and visited a friend in Minnesota. The week leading up to it I was working every day, late hours or weird hours, and I was exhausted. The evening before I flew out found me frantically stuffing a suitcase full of what I thought I would need. I hadn't given much thought to what I would like to do when I got there. I hadn't given much thought to what

I would say to her. I was out of time and out of ideas. All I could do was pray and beg God that somehow He would make the time good. I had nothing left, and what I had had wasn't all that great to begin with.

God answered my prayers. Not only did the suitcase get packed, but I had one of the best trips I've ever had. I realized I didn't need to have the conversations or the activities figured out; I really just needed to be there. The conversations came of their own accord; every day was a new discovery, whether it was navigating the bus system, poking around in the bookstore, or walking around her city block. And I was able to experience all of it with one of my best friends. 

God makes dead men alive, and He showers blessings upon them.

Run With Me Humming House

This song lands right in the middle of my running playlist. I accidentally put it exactly where it needed to be. At the point where this song starts playing, I've hit the 5-mile mark. I've been working really hard for the past five miles and my muscles feel it. Then this song starts to play, and it is almost as if I forget how hard I am working. My feet pick up their pace a little bit, I smile to myself, and I let myself really enjoy what I am doing.
I know that sounds like insanity to most of you all - after all, how can anyone enjoy running, especially after they've already run five miles?
My answer is: I don't know. I just know that I do. Maybe it's insanity, maybe it's endorphins, maybe it's grace. Maybe it's a bit of all three.
This song was a lifesaver during the half-marathon. I ran far enough that day that I went through my running playlist and then some. So I got to hear this song twice. And it couldn't have been timed more perfectly. The second time this song came on, I was in the middle of the twelfth mile. I was exhausted, my feet hurt, and it was a mental game just to keep moving.
And then this song came on. Even after running those twelve miles, after abusing my legs and knees for over two hours, my feet still picked up their pace and still I smiled. Yes, in the midst of the struggle and the pain, fighting the despairing urge to stop and walk just once, I still persevered and found joy in it.


Sometimes God makes us run a half marathon in the rolling hills of life. We reach mile twelve and we think, haven't I done enough? Can't I stop now? It hurts...
And right when we think we've reached that point where we can't take another step, can't go over another hill, God gives us the strength and energy and hope to keep running. Just a little farther...
And we run joyfully to the finish line.

Hitch Hike Humming House

I put this song on this list because it's extremely upbeat and one of my favorites, and gives me another burst of energy to keep running. Probably because I like it. Not for any other reason. 'Nuff said.

Young Enough to Try Humming House

I could extrapolate some truth from this song about how young I am, and how this song encourages young people like me to keep going. But I won't, because that's not why I like it. I like it because it has the same affect on my running as Hitch Hike and Run With Me. I guess I also like the encouragement to keep going, especially when I'm running and I really want to quit. This song is towards the end of the playlist, and it begins playing at the moment when I really just want to stop and walk. This song starts playing and all of a sudden I can keep running a little farther.

Free Switchfoot

I really like the band Switchfoot. Quite a few of their songs are good for running, so it was hard to pick my favorites. I chose this one because the entire song is a plea to be set free from the grip of sin and death. The song reminds me of Romans 7:24-25:

"Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? 

Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

The past couple of months I have found myself wrestling with my sin and wretchedness. There were whole days where I felt that everything I touched I ruined. This song was and still is a beautiful reminder that I have been set free from this body of death. That the woman I was is not the woman I am; that in Christ I have truly been redeemed. When I am faced with a day where everything I touch turns to dust, I remember that the same grace that redeemed me covers those things as well. I can rest confidently in the grace and forgiveness found in Christ.

Bullet Soul Switchfoot

Minneapolis. I still haven't
gotten over the beauty of
this place. 

Most of these songs I have on this list because the song itself helps me to push forward even when I'm exhausted. This song is one of those songs. This one falls toward the end of the playlist, and gives  a very nice boost to my very tired self. I think this song, as well as the multiple others on this list that have the same effect, give a good example of grace. God gives grace to those who are tired and weak, ready to quit. Sometimes that grace comes in the form of a sermon, or conversation with a friend. And sometimes that grace comes in the form of a song that energizes you to push on in spite of physical pain.

Feather In the Storm Seth Lakeman

Another long walk we took.
I devoured the beauty of this
place.

This song tells a fantastic story. I have it on this list because this song never fails to distract me from whatever is going on with my body at the point it plays. This one falls at the very end of the playlist. At the point this song plays I don't have any energy reserves left; if any of the songs previously mentioned were to begin playing, I wouldn't have the ability to pick my pace up even if I wanted to. At the point where this song plays I need a diversion. I need to come outside of myself and focus on something else. I need a distraction. This song accomplishes that by telling a very gripping tale about a shipwreck and a daring rescue. I've always loved a good story, and I can and will very easily forget my surroundings when caught in the grip of one. The last few miles are eked out through these kinds of songs.

Savannah Relient K

This song makes me grin no matter where I am or how I feel. It is a really adorable love song that makes you want to sing and dance along with it. Sometimes I do sing along, which is extremely uncomfortable when running. I would not recommend it, unless you can't possibly help it. Which is the case for me in this instance. This song is an instant pick-me-up. And it is the best love song ever. If you haven't listened to it, go do so right now. I dare you to listen to it all the way through without smiling.

This is the End Relient K

Because this is the end of this blog post. I hope you've enjoyed the somewhat rambling journey through my running playlist. Life hasn't slowed down for me since I began the month of October. I like to think it will soon. And yet, even as I keep saying that, I know that it never will; it can only go by even more quickly. 

I revel in the turn of the leaves
each Fall. This year was no different!

Through it all, though, God has given grace, rest, and peace. And I trust that He will do so in the weeks ahead, even if they do go by a little faster.

Goals and Grace

The past three weeks have been a whirlwind of busy-ness, success, failure, crushing realizations of my own weakness, and renewed delight in the grace of God.

Earlier this month I got engaged. After three years of our growing closer together, the most humble, caring, servant-hearted man I have yet to know (apart from my dad) asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.  I still wonder, "Why me?" because I am not the easiest person to live with. I have so many sins and weaknesses. And yet he daily embraces all of them and is quick to answer them by speaking the Gospel into my life. 

This faithfulness still takes my breath away, and probably will for the rest of my life.

This same man has been, and still is, a massive support in both my counseling studies and my desire to run. He has been a weekly encouragement in my studies, reads my essays for any accidental theological discrepancies, and talks me through the really difficult questions (there are quite a few!). 

He has also been a massive encouragement to me as we prepare for the half-marathon coming up (yes, he's running it with me).

Two weeks ago, we ran a 10k together. That was the first time I'd run that far. The entire week before the run, I doubted my ability to run the distance. Not because of the distance itself or lack of training, but because the week began with me feeling less than okay. I hadn't slept well, eaten well, and was physically drained because of long hours at my job. 

I didn't think I could make it. 

I did the race anyways. Not because I felt particularly sure of my own ability - I really didn't know that morning if I was going to be able to make the distance. I did it because I knew that God would give me grace to do what I needed to do. If He wanted me to run that distance, I would find the strength and grace to finish. If not, He would give me the grace to respond to the disappointment. I trusted Him, because I knew He would give grace regardless of the outcome. 

And I ran the whole distance and finished with a personal best in time. It was painful, and there were times when I really wanted to quit, but God's grace was present for those times as well. He gave me the strength to run the really steep hills as well as the winding, gradual (extremely painful!) ones. I found joy in the running, not because I felt wonderful or confident, but because of His presence. 

In the past month, I've come to realize more clearly how God views our weakness. It is not something to be despised, covered over, or ignored. It is not something to wallow in, either. Instead, Paul says, in 2 Corinthians 12:9-10, "Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 

Our weakness is something we are to be content in, not because it is something to be admired in an of itself, but because through it we see the power of Christ more clearly.

I know that I didn't run that 10k in my own power. I know that I don't answer these exam questions in my own power. And if I am successful in running the half-marathon, it will not be in my own power. Every day my training shows that that is not the case; my body is broken, weak, and doesn't do what I want it to do. I have to deal with muscle pain, joint pain, labored breathing, etc. Every day my studies show me my own deficiencies, as I struggle to understand and articulate an idea or fight with writer's block. 

I can't do anything in my own power. I can't even breathe on my own.

But still I am told by Paul that I should boast in these weaknesses. Do I boast in the weakness itself? No, I boast in the power of Christ manifested in and through the weakness.

I know I will fail at this whole marriage thing. How do I know this? Because I fail daily at the whole engagement thing. Because daily I fail in all of my relationships, not just in this one. Because daily I do what I want instead of what God commands. Because daily I am selfish and prideful. 

And yet God daily redeems my failures. Daily He gives me the strength and the ability to put those selfish desires to death. Daily the power of Christ is manifested in my weakness in that He redeems me in my weakness, so that I may daily grow to be more like Him. God's grace is made apparent, not in spite of my weaknesses and failures but because of them. And that is why I can rejoice. 

Carry On Carrying On

The past few weeks have been a struggle. The struggle to keep balance within one's life, I think, is probably the greatest struggles many of us face. And I am no exception.
I have three attributes that make achieving balance in my life extremely difficult:

1. I like to study and read more than I like to sleep.

2. I like to please people, and the chief means by which I accomplish this is by spending time with them.

3. I like to challenge myself by setting impossible personal goals.

Now, the first and second attributes aren't so bad, until you throw the third one into the mix. And then you have a sleep-deprived, obsessive, working maniac who really just needs to stop doing everything she's doing and take a nap.

Just for 45 minutes.

But I don't have 45 minutes. I don't have 5 minutes. Because those impossible goals I set for myself dictate that I must use every single minute I have at my disposal obsessing over whatever I'm obsessing over.

This week it's a toss-up between my certification exams and the half-marathon I plan to run in the Fall. Both deadlines I have set are looming near, and I am not sure if I can finish either of them in time. So the time I don't spend running is spent cramming information into my brain so that I can vomit it back out onto a word processor. Meals are reduced to cups of coffee and bowls of cereal, when I'm not working at my job (because I have bills to pay, let's be real here). When I am at work I am mapping out my evening in my mind to make sure I maximize my study-time, or I block out thirty minutes when I get off to run a couple of miles.
So cereal for dinner it is.

I ate a lot of cereal this week. I averaged about 5-6 hours of sleep a night.

This is why balance is so important for someone like me. Because my life is constantly flip-flopping between weeks where everything works out - I am extremely productive, and I manage to sleep/eat
enough - and weeks where every waking moment is a desperate struggle to get something done, even if it is just the dishes.
I need balance. I need to find a happy medium for myself as I try to finish my exams and train for this Fall. I need to find time to have daily devotions, spend a healthy amount of time with my friends and family, and yes, eat and sleep. I don't have my life together, and sometimes I wonder if I ever will.

Sorry, guys, I am not the picture-perfect model of efficiency. My life is messy, crazy, and sometimes completely out of control.

BUT

This week I was able to have some of the best conversations I've ever had.

This week I was comforted and humbled through what I learned while studying.

This week I discovered just how much I can and should rely upon God for strength.

This week I discovered just how much Scripture-reading I could cram into ten minutes.

This week I discovered just how little of my time is actually my time (none of it), and just how beautiful and satisfying it is to give that time up for someone else.

I might not ever achieve balance in my life. I may not ever have that beautiful, put-together life all of us long for and Hollywood idolizes. I may never learn to completely give up studying for sleep.
But if I can see God's hand in the midst of the crazy messiness that is my life, then I will be content to carry on. 

Who Needs Deadlines?

I do.

Though apparently I cannot make them when I do set them.

Public service announcement: I am still alive.

I didn't fall off of a cliff. I didn't travel to a remote island without an internet connection. My laptop didn't break or drown in a deluge of water.

No, I simply didn't have time to do everything I wanted to for the past two weeks, and unfortunately my blog was first to suffer for it.

Good news: I went to an amazing conference over the past week. I met wonderful, godly people who built me up and encouraged me in my walk with the Lord.
I was cut to the heart by the teaching and preaching I received.
I was stuffed with the Word of God for five days straight.
I reconnected with dear, sweet friends I had not seen for quite some time.
I met a lot of new people (by the last day I was overwhelmed with just how many people I could meet).

It was beautiful, it was encouraging, and now it is over.

Now I am back home, where the dishes still need to be done, my job is waiting, and I have ten million things I want to and need to do over this next week. Reality has hit me hard.

I know the adrenalin from this past week will wear off, probably by tomorrow morning. I know that going to one conference does not eradicate all of the sin and time-management issues I struggled with before the conference.

Photo Credit: Evelyn Reynolds
(because I am terrible at remembering
to take pictures)

But that conference made it glaringly obvious to me that, regardless of how crazy or out of control my life may seem, Christ still reigns. He uses the crazy, the overwhelmed, the weak, the broken, the little to accomplish His will. And I felt all of those things as I worshiped with 1800 Christians this past week. You cannot stand in an auditorium filled with people and not feel small. You cannot listen to great men preach God's Word and not feel overwhelmed, weak, and broken. And you cannot repeat your many goals and commitments to all of those curious friends you haven't seen in four years without feeling like you might be a little bit crazy.
But those friends reminded me that Christ is still victorious in my life. Those great men drew my eyes back to Christ through their preaching. And I mingled my voice with those 1800 Christians in praise to this same Christ.

And so my prayer is that, as I slide back into my overcommitted, crazy, deadline-filled life, Christ will be there, that His victorious reign in my life will remain at the forefront of my thoughts. That He would be the meditation, the delight, and the motivation of my life, even in the midst of the crazy, the broken, the weak, the overwhelmed, the little.

To Him be all glory.

I Love My Writing, I Hate My Writing

In my vast experience writing (note: sarcasm), I have found that, with each sentence I write, I have two opposite emotions at war inside of me. They have thrown up the barricades and settled in for a long, bloody war. At the end of each writing endeavor, I find that neither have gained much ground, though sometimes one may gain slight advantage over the other.

I have a love/hate relationship with my writing. On the one hand I obsessively work on whatever project is in front of me at a given time. I sit and ponder the words in my mind, mulling them over until I have discovered the "perfect" sentence structure and descriptions to use. I become unreasonably happy over the resolution of even the tiniest plot-points, and I am giddy when I nail a thesis statement. I love my work.

And then the battle lines form as Hate rears its cynical head and decimates all that I have slaved over for hours.
 I finish writing the paper or story or blogpost, and I sit back and read through it.

And I hate it.

I do not hate it because the topic is useless, or the argument is faulty, or the storyline is cliche (though sometimes that does happen). I hate it because I know I can make it better.

My hatred for my writing comes not from the content itself, but from what I see lacking in the content. I read the clumsily-constructed sentences and I grimace, because I know that I can do better, that I am able to do better.

And that I failed.

My hatred stems from the deep-rooted fear of failure, and when I read through my writing I see that failure in stark, Times New Roman font.

"And so it begins."

I hate my writing, but I cannot stop writing. Because I love my writing. Even as I think it is pathetic, weak, and inadequate, still I refuse to give up. I will read, reread, tweak, ask others to read, my work. Because I love words too much to give up on them. Somewhere, deep down inside of me, the optimist drags herself out of the mud, stands up, and tries one more time.

One more time. 

Even as the pessimist inside of me shoves her face back into the mud again.

I will never be satisfied with my work, because somewhere deep inside of me there will always be that voice that hates my writing, telling me I can do better and that I have failed once again.
But I will never give up on my work, because there will always be that voice that loves my writing, telling me to try one more time, to work on it, to read through it again, because I can fix it. 

This is the struggle of the writer and the perfectionist in me, striving to do better even in the face of my failures and mistakes.

Note: I read through this post and nearly deleted it three times. It is a wonder I didn't leave it a draft!

5 Essentials Found On My Desk

There are quite a few things I think I need in order to work well and efficiently. Though... possibly the efficiency could be called into question.

Either way, I want to share five things you will always find on my desk in excess. Because I need them, people. I NEED them.

1. Pens, pens, and more pens!

Pens are essential to my very nerdy way of life. Why? Because I write a lot of things down. And when I say a lot, I mean a LOT.
Sure, computers with word processors make life a whole lot easier. But there is something almost therapeutic about putting a pen to paper. I also find that I remember things a lot better when I actually physically write them down than when I type them up. I am a kinesthetic learner as well as a visual one, so when I combine the seeing of the words with the actual forming of the words on the page by my hand, I am can regurgitate the information nearly word-for-word later. I also keep half a dozen of these bad boys in my purse, because I never know when I or someone else may need one.

2. Lots and lots of note pads.

Because my life isn't always efficient and it gets very messy sometimes. I often have my life scattered around my apartment and mixed up with my sister's. There is no clear-cut, completely organized part of my life. ... Except my bookshelves. Because I am obsessive about my books.

But if you step into my room you will realize two things: a. I have at least half a dozen projects I am working on, some of which involve writing. b. I do not have time for all of these projects, let alone time to organize all of them. You will discover that I have two or three very well organized, while the rest will be scattered about in piles on the floor and the desk. Usually they involve a good number of books that I am reading and/or studying.

So I have a lot of note pads because note pads keep me from losing my mind. Anything I have to remember (which is quite a bit on any given day), and that I might forget (which is just about everything that is important on any given day), I scribble down on a notepad. I also have a calendar on my phone that I use quite frequently. But for grocery lists and to-do lists, I have my trusty note pads.

3. Notebooks.

These are not the same as note pads. Note pads keep my life organized. Notebooks keep my projects organized. They are the organization that needs to happen within the organization, if you will. And yes, I don't keep them as well as I should. I have at least a decade's worth of notebooks stashed in my desk, and I pull them out whenever I'm feeling particularly nostalgic. Or if ever I want a good laugh, because reading my ten-year-old self's work is pretty hilarious, and not because she was particularly good at writing.

4. At least one mug.

Usually there's more than one at a given time (at this point you all are probably wondering, "how big is this girl's desk?"), and usually at least one of them is filled with tea. My happy place is my desk, and an essential part of making my happy place happy is the consumption of tea by me. Any time. All the time. Because. Tea.
I also have several boxes of tea stashed in random nooks and corners of my desk, in case of emergencies (people, it's not that big of a desk, I promise!).

5. Books.

I have them on my desk, under my desk, on the little slide-out calendar-holder (no, I don't put a calendar on it. Who needs calendars anyways? They just take up unnecessary space for, y'know, BOOKS). I have books I'm studying for, well, whatever I am studying at the moment (right now it's counseling), I have books friends have given me that are old and wonderful and I want around simply because they make me happy. I have books that I am reading for personal devotions, and books that I am reading just for fun. I read. A LOT. And before you question my definition of "a lot", let me clarify: Reading six books at the same time is normal for me. Right now I'm averaging eight. And no, I don't understand that whole "one at a time" thing - I never really figured it out and it seems awfully dull for my hyperactive mind. But that is just how my brain works. I sometimes envy those who can sit down and read one book at a time, because it is so very orderly and methodical. I try to be orderly and methodical, and then I look at my shelves and all the beautiful books I could be reading...

And "orderly" is thrown out the window.

Well, there you have it! These five must-haves for my desk are what make it an efficient workspace for me. What are your five things that you must have on your desk?

Down a Dark Alleyway

This is the first attempt for me publishing anything remotely fictional on this blog (unless you count the hyperbolic retellings of my life that have happened more than once). It is a one-shot piece that I thought up while walking down the alleyway that connects the building I work in to one of the parking lots (hence the title). I was very tired and so in a very thoughtful mood, and so that is where this came from. 

My forehead was damp and my hair felt hot to the touch. It was going to be another blistering day under the Oklahoma sun. There was not a cloud in the sky, and it looked like the day was going to be beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. I was very thankful for the water bottle I had packed that morning and for the cool, air-conditioned basement that waited for me on the other side of the alley. 

This alley lay tucked between two buildings. A large, sprawling lot spread out behind these buildings, and already it was filled with cars. One building was a doctor's office; the other a hospice-care facility. Across the street lay the hospital. Funny how all the medical facilities seemed to gather on the same block. In each building you discovered the decay and death of humanity. In the hospital, I knew, I found myself practically surrounded by this humanity; the weak, the sick, the dying, and the grieving. They all gathered there, and I saw all of them as I walked those long, chilly halls. I saw the family gathered in the waiting rooms. Some sat with their hands clasped together, staring into nothing, as they waited for news of their loved ones. Others gathered in tight clumps and whispered the terrible news to each other, always in hushed tones as if saying anything above a whisper would cause the worst to happen. There were also those who had been there day after day, week after week, and the waiting room was so familiar that they felt no need for reverent whispers. Their loved ones remained unchanged, and so they no longer openly feared what was to come. Instead they hid their fear under jokes and loud laughter. Then there were those who knew the worst was about to happen, who had seen the doctor and watched him shake his head over their loved one's condition. These stood weeping, holding one another's hands, and praying. They could do nothing else, and in their empty brokenness they ran to the only Being they knew could. Sometimes they gathered in the room of their dying friend and sang hymns, sometimes they prayed loudly in the halls. These were beautiful sights. 

I picked up my pace, eager to begin the long day ahead, and mounted the steps leading down from the lot into the alleyway. The steps were crooked and uneven. The fence surrounding the alleyway was torn in places; jagged chain-link fence gaped at me on one side, a forbidding brick wall loomed on the other. I bounced down the steps - I always bounce down stairs - and as I did I noticed a piece of cast-off trash strewn next to the brick wall. I wondered how it had gotten there. Perhaps a loiterer had tossed it there while taking a smoke. Perhaps it had blown across town and come to rest there. Perhaps it had been tossed and buffeted by the wind for many miles before stopping to rest next to the somber brick wall. What was the story behind that piece of trash, I wondered?

If it could speak, what kinds of things would it say to me? Who was the one to have tossed it aside, and what kind of life did they live?

And are we not all like so many pieces of trash? I wondered. We are tossed and buffeted by the winds of life, until we are left to rest in an alleyway. Is there more to this life than the mere chance of a gust of wind? Or are we abandoned to drift and float in this world on our own? There had to be more to life than mere chance and happenstance. As I thought back to every encounter, every conversation I had ever had, I descended into the cold depths of the hospital to begin my day. 

I emerged later after my shift. The sun had slipped away a long time ago and it was very dark out. I walked with my coworker back through that alleyway, now dark and forbidding. As we walked by, the lamps flickered on, sensing our movement in the darkness and lighting the alleyway.  Curious, I glanced over for a moment at the corner where the piece of trash had been lodged. It was no longer there. It had rested in that corner for a moment and then was gone. 
How like us, I pondered. We are here but for a moment, and then we fly away and are gone. Yes, there must be more to us than this moment. We blink, and our lives are changed. Yet we continue to blink, until we step out of this moment and are ushered into eternity.

Five Reasons Why I Think my Father is the Best

It has been quite some time since I have updated. I am very sorry for this. My life for the past month has been a series of ups and downs and all sorts of crazy in-betweens. Today I am not going to worry about that. Today I am writing about a very important person; a person whose presence has helped to shape who I am today and what I value and love. Today I want to tell you five things you should know about my Papa.

Please excuse the extremely snarky title. I think quite a few daughters think this about their father at one point in their lives. I still think this about mine, and today I will share with you why I do:

1. He sets the standard. 

Whether it is working hard, knowing history, loving Jesus, or being a father, Papa sets the standard. Before I continue, let me just say he isn't perfect, and he will be the first one to tell you that. But when it comes to being a man, a father, a lover of Jesus, a servant, and a worker, he has always set the bar for me. Early on I saw his deep love for God's Word and for those around him; a love that caused him to daily pour out his time, energy, and resources for their good. There were many times he would come home tired from the office, spent from a long day at work, and yet he still picked up the phone for his students and patiently gave them counsel and help with their work. Yet he would strive daily to lead, love, and disciple his family.
 We had so many students over to house for Bible studies and holidays, and I remember how my parents both opened their arms and their hearts to welcome them in, to love them and serve them in a Christlike way. 

He still does this with so many that he encounters.

Papa also has shown me what true humility and submission to the Bible looks like. Because my parents are both sinners in need of grace, there have been times when they have sinned against us and against each other. Yet both are quick to acknowledge their sin and seek forgiveness and reconciliation. I remember many times, as a young teenager, my parents both coming to us and seeking our forgiveness for their sin. Papa has always spoken very candidly about his sin and his need for Christ's righteousness. His ability to do so has resonated into my own life and has helped to show me my own need to be so humbly transparent about my weaknesses and to promote Christ's work in my life.

Papa is the standard for the men in my life. Every time I have become friends with a guy, even with casual friendships, I subconsciously compare them to him. I judge their actions, their faithfulness to God and to others, their work ethic, their intelligence based off of this standard. Perhaps that isn't very fair. After all, he is much older, wiser, and more experienced than most of them. Yet the comparison is still there, and still I have not met anyone who quite measures up to that standard... yet.

2. He loves teaching.

Everything to Papa is a lesson. A random question asked at the dinner table turns into a lesson. Whether it is someone really seeking help and guidance on an issue or simply making conversation, Papa is quick to take the conversation to the next level, analyze the question and the individual asking it, and turn the conversation into a learning experience. He is in his element in front of a whiteboard. 

He has on more than one occasion skillfully turned the emotional rollercoaster of a teenage girl into a lesson she will carry for the rest of her life.

3. And history. 

Papa has shelves and shelves of history books, and he has read nearly all of them. In fact, he is the one who instilled the love of history in me. He gave me the first historical book I read for fun when I was fifteen. I've been hooked ever since. For my nineteenth birthday the two of us dragged Mom to the theater to watch Lincoln. We spent the rest of the evening over dinner discussing the movie and the social-political ramifications that period had (shout-out to my Mom, who had enough patience and love to sit through an entire evening of us geeking out over the Civil War). I love that Papa loves history and that he was able to pass that love on to me. 

4. ...And a good theological discussion.

Papa loves to discuss the Bible. His ability to comprehend and articulate the Bible never ceases to amaze me. I have seen him engage in many a theological discussion. Always he is careful to thoroughly understand the other person's position, whether he agrees with it or not. When the discussion turns debate, he is always at the forefront and (I'm still working on this one) is able to weave Scripture throughout his argument in a very effective manner. Yet, with each discussion I have witnessed, his humility and graciousness towards the other person is apparent. Even as he seeks to call their position into question, he still treats them with respect and grace.
In this way Papa has shown me, not only how to have a good theological discussion, but that sometimes loving your neighbor is more important than winning the argument.

5. He shows us Jesus

Papa always points me back to Jesus. Through his words and his actions he directs my focus back to our Savior. He is quick to bring the Gospel into just about every situation. He and my mom both were the first to talk about the love of God and the hope of the resurrection in Christ when we faced the devastating loss of my brother. I remember quite clearly, the night when we received the news and rushed to be with them, his eyes, filled with tears, yet desperately hopeful as he hugged each of us and said, "he is risen!" I remember the pain and the loneliness I watched him and my mom both go through, and yet he held onto that hope. A year later - a long, painful, dark year later - and still he was quick to speak the light of the Gospel into our loss. A year later we sat around on the anniversary of Ben's death, and we all were able to testify to the faithfulness of God and the life we had in Christ. Papa was the first to draw our attention to it, and he continues to do so daily.

I love my father. He has taught me so much through the years. But the most important thing that he has taught me is to know my heavenly Father, to follow after Him, and to love and serve Him faithfully. My love and respect for my father has grown because through it I have learned the love and care of my heavenly Father. 


As you can see, I love both of my parents very much and I hold them in the highest respect. Papa would not be who he is without Mom, and Mom would not be who she is without Papa. It seems like I cannot speak about one without thinking about the other. Many of these characteristics I have mentioned about Papa I have seen in Mom as well. I am so very thankful to have two godly, loving parents who have faithfully preached the Gospel to us throughout the years, and who continue to live it out in their daily lives. I am a very poor student, but I am extremely grateful for all that I have learned from them through the years (sometimes lessons that literally took years). 

Happy Father's Day, Papa! Thank you for faithfully loving and caring for me, in spite of the little I have done to deserve it. 

Sunshine Days

"Because on and off the clouds have fought // For control over the sky // And lately the weather has been so bi-polar // And consequently so have I // And now I'm sunny with a high of 75 // Since you took my heavy heart and made it light // And it's funny how you find, you enjoy your life // When you're happy to be alive."

Relient K - High Of 75 Lyrics | MetroLyrics 

Two years ago I found myself in one of the darkest places, physically and spiritually, I have ever experienced. I was "recovering" from the loss of a sibling, which felt more like flailing and not like recovering at all. At that same time my stomach and back went on a full-scale rebellion. I couldn't eat anything without experiencing abdominal pain and/or acid reflux. My left shoulder hurt constantly and the muscles were tense all the time. 

I was in a lot of pain and I was not happy. I didn't know how to smile easily, and I was worried I'd never know how to again. I didn't know what I could eat and what I couldn't, and so most of the time I didn't. I couldn't sleep because of the back pain, and I would lay awake for hours trying to get comfortable, feeling the ache and throb of the muscles in my shoulders refusing to relax. 

This was a very dark time for me, and it didn't magically go away.

I spent a lot of my prayer time asking God why He was doing what He did. I was very weak and very broken, and it felt like it would never end.

Then, about a year later, things changed. I went to a doctor who recommended physical therapy, and for the first time in months I felt relief from my back pain. I went on an elimination diet and my abdominal discomfort quieted. 

I stood on a scale last summer and nearly laughed out loud; I had gained 5 pounds. A small win, but a win.

And slowly, over time, I found joy in things again. It took a long time. I had to learn how to trust God again, to not be afraid of His will, to not instinctively flinch in submission to Him. I had to rediscover joy in His purpose, and this I had to do in the midst of a lot of pain and weakness. I learned that being weak isn't a bad thing, but that our weakness often gives the loudest testimony to God's grace and strength. 

I learned a lot over the past two years. 

And more recently I have learned restoration. God doesn't just take things away for no reason, or to fulfill some ambiguous "will" that impersonally dictates hardship upon us. God restores. He doesn't necessarily restore exactly what was taken; He usually gives more. We are the ones who have to take the time to see it.

Two years ago I couldn't run because I was in too much pain. Two years ago I felt sick and weak and just plain horrible because of the weight I lost. Two years ago I struggled to laugh. Two years ago I was resentful towards God's will. It took me a long time to realize He had a bigger, better purpose to all of it, and that I could only see part of that purpose at times.
Today I can run again. I weighed myself for the first time in months and discovered I had gained back nearly everything I had lost. I can laugh easily again. My body and my heart are not the same as before; suffering changes you like that. But they have been restored.

I still struggle to joyfully accept God's will. I still wrestle with the fear of being thrown back into that unknown place of suffering and pain. Some things take a lot longer than two years to overcome, and something tells me that these fights are going to last a lifetime. But I have a great God who will fight with me in those moments, and whose presence is constant in all moments. I am indeed happy to be alive.

A Portrait of My Mom and the Art of Loving Selflessly

My mom has always been someone I've looked up to as being older and wiser (obviously). She also gave birth do me and my many siblings, a feat that should never be taken lightly. In recent years, however, I have been reminded of just how amazing she is. I see it over and over again, and, no matter how many times I see it, each time I stand in wonder at all she does.
I will admit, part of this is because I am her daughter, and so I am already biased in some respects. But I lived with her for eighteen years of my life, so I have also seen her many failings and shortcomings. I am the most biased and the most unbiased, all rolled into one mess of a child. Looking back on the twenty-three years she has been my mother, I see many hurts, dark days, sufferings, and struggles. I remember the times our family hurt together, and the times we healed, and the time we rejoiced. As I think back to these times, one thing stands out to me: my mom's love for all of us.

I took the winding road down memory lane while thinking about this post, and now I'm going to drag you down it with me. Rewind 10 years. My youngest brother was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. He was hospitalized for several weeks; every single joint in his body swelled up and was extremely inflamed. He was in massive amounts of pain.
Mom was hospitalized with him. People so easily empathize with the sick child because they are so young and so weak. They don't understand or process pain very well. People sometimes forget the parents as easily as they remember the child. They don't realize that a parent, or both parents, are hospitalized with their child. they don't realize that each time that child cries out in pain, that parent cries with them. They don't realize that a parent's life stops when that child's life is in danger; suddenly the parent's life doesn't matter, and all of their energy, time, and attention is focused on their hurting child. My mom did that without question. She spent sleepless nights with her son, consulted doctors, wrestled with insurance companies, and learned as much as she possibly could about her child's condition.
My brother couldn't walk for three months. Getting up in the mornings and getting his joints moving was the hardest thing for us and for him to do, but my mom did it without question.
I learned compassion from my mother that year. I learned what expensive love was, because I saw it lived every day.

Fast-forward five years. I was supposed to graduate from high school. Two weeks from graduation I got a phone call from mom while I was driving my siblings to their co-op classes: Our youngest brother was going to be hospitalized immediately for an undetermined amount of time. His body was broken again and they didn't know what was wrong with it.
They were hospitalized again.
I discovered something else about my mom the night of my graduation. My mom wasn't there. She missed it. Two of the most important people in my life weren't there. It was a sweet time, and my dad, grandmothers, and remaining siblings made sure it was. But I couldn't wait to get home. I practically ran to the phone (back when landlines still existed), and I dialed her cell phone.
We talked for almost an hour, and I shared every detail. She cried. She cried because she couldn't be there, and she wanted to more than anything. And I cried, because I wanted her there more than anything. That is when I discovered this truth: My mom loved me. 100%, without question, she loved me. She loved me enough to cry with me and for me. The thing about being a mom that I learned was this: you don't divide your love up between your children. You love each child 100%. My mom loved each of us completely, which mathematically gave her a deficit. Except my mom never had a deficit. Somehow, she managed to love all eight of us 100% each. How did she do it? I wondered this for many years. And it wasn't until two years later that I discovered the answer.
Fast-forward two years from my graduation: my parents' eldest son died in an accident.
Not the one they fought so hard to keep alive all those years. No, this son was completely healthy, thriving, and full of life. I won't go into detail about all of it - that is a story for another time.
But that Summer my youngest brother, the one who was so frequently sick and hospitalized, became sick again.
My mom put aside her grief and struggle over the son she lost, dropped everything, and rushed to the hospital to be with him. Not only that, but she sent out updates to the rest of us on his condition. She had her entire Church family praying for him. She fought with the doctors for a good care plan for him. She stepped into the role of his caregiver, a role she had become an expert in. She laid aside her grief and her heartache, and she loved expensively.
My youngest brother is currently very healthy (praise God!).
My mom lost a son two and a half years ago; she has gained two wonderful sons-in-law and two beautiful grandchildren. What God took away, He restored ten-fold. But mom didn't know that He would do this at the time, and she didn't know my youngest brother would recover.
And in this I came to understand how my mom could love so expensively: Because God, in Christ, made up the deficit, and continues to meet it. Mom now not only has eight, but ten children she loves, as well as two grandchildren. She has more, not less, of a deficit in the love department. Yet she never comes up empty. The reason is not that she is a great mom in her own power, or that she has boundless energy, or some secret healthy lifestyle, or even essential oils (though she uses all of those at times).
My mom is tired; she has given her entire life to us, her children. Yet she has joy. Yet she still loves us. More importantly, she has Christ. She wouldn't have joy and she wouldn't have love if she didn't have Jesus first. Because she has been loved by Christ and because she loves Christ, she can love each of us completely. Because Jesus laid His life down for her, she daily lays her life down for us. This is the secret to her expensive, exhausting love: Jesus.

My mom is beautiful. Sure, her hair is graying, and she has wrinkles. Sure, her body isn't as thin or in shape as she would like. But that doesn't change the fact that she is one of the most beautiful people I know. Those gray hairs and those wrinkles are a testimony to the expensive life she has lived, caring for all of us. I wouldn't want to change a single one of those hairs or those wrinkles, because they tell the story of her love, and of God's provision, better than my pitiful words ever could.
My mom is amazing. She's amazing because of the life she has lived. But even more so, she is amazing because of the One she is living her life for; the One who enables her to love so selflessly and so expensively.
I love you, Mom. 

My Love Affair with Epsom Salts and Discovering my Inner 65-Year-Old

I used to be one of those cool, careless kids. I ate whatever I wanted, slept as much or as little as I wanted, went on ridiculously late-night road trips, slept in tents and on floors (and loved it), gave little or no thought to diet, exercise, or medication. Yes, I used to be one of those reckless kids, living life with careless ease and little concern for myself.
Then one fateful day that all changed. Suddenly - I ate things and the bitter metallic taste of acid reflux would fill my mouth, dull my senses, and leave me guzzling water and mint tea for the next forty-five minutes. I would sleep on the floor and wake to find knots in all the wrong places, that is, all over my back and neck. I would go for a late-night road trip and arrive at my destination cranky. Then the seemingly impossible happened: I started taking vitamins.
Gone were the days of abandoned youth and careless living. Suddenly I had to buy new mattresses, and pillows, and vitamins. I had to start a new diet, and then change that diet, and then modify that diet. I began to feel exhausted by 10:00pm, and I hated being out of the house past 9pm, because I needed that hour to wind down. And yes, that hour had a routine that I had to keep or else I would toss and turn all night.
That all began two years ago.

 Guys, I'm 23 years old.

My "reckless youth" abandoned me pretty fast.
And then I realized something: I enjoyed going to bed early. I enjoyed eating vegetables, lean meat, and all of that "healthy stuff" I used to sneer at. I didn't like candy and desserts half as much as I liked kale and kimchi. Oh kimchi.
I've been obsessed with kimchi since I got my hands on the recipe a month before my 21st birthday. We've been friends ever since. And I've set a new standard this past week: I made kimchi and granola. Both.
But that isn't even the best part of my week. No, no, the best part was the epsom salts.

Yes, I know what you're thinking right now, because I thought it not so very long ago (two weeks in fact): Epsom salts. That's what my grandma used to recommend all the time. Yuck.
And if your grandmother was anything like my grandma (and mom. And mildly hippie sister) she did. All the time. Every time. For EVERYTHING.
And we laughed it off because nothing could be that good. Could it?

Oh yes, it could.

I've taken up long-distance running, because half-marathons are a bucket of laughs y'all. Actually, it's a personal goal I set for myself a while back: to run a marathon by the time I'm 30. But I have to get past the 5k first.
So I started running. A lot.
My job, as stated before, involves a lot of walking and stair-climbing.
Two weeks into training, my knees and calves hurt.
Like any normal sister would, I took my troubles to my older sister, Anna. She prescribed the one thing I should have seen coming but didn't expect: "Epsom salts."
Then she actually explained why these magical salts are so magical: Magnesium. Apparently magnesium soothes sore muscles and eases the pain.
So I went and bought a giant bag of epsom salts. With that purchase I saw the last of my recklessly youthful ideas crumble to the ground.
And guess what? The salts worked. They actually do help with muscle tension and soreness. I've now used them for my neck, my back, as well as my legs. They are fantastic!
And yes, I am obsessed.

I was talking with my other sister I get all my life advice from, Libby, about the wonderful substance called "epsom salts", and in the midst of our conversation I realized something: All this time I thought I was losing my reckless, invincible youthful side, when what really has happened has been the slow revealing of my inner 65-year-old.

As I looked back on the past two years I realized that coupled with each negative, restrictive experience there has been a pleasant revelation about myself.
Let's look at the timeline:
Dietary restrictions -- Discovered I love rocking chairs. I want one, but I haven't found the perfect one yet. I'm still looking.
Inability to sleep on the floor -- Discovered the wonder of a good night's sleep. I just didn't realize I was missing it until I had to give thought to where I slept.
Hatred for late-night road trips -- Discovered how much I loved simply staying home, reading a book, curled up in my favorite blanket with a cup of tea. Spontaneous weekend trips will never rival the comfort of one's hearth, home, and bookshelf.
All of these things I've discovered I've enjoyed have earned me the title "old lady" from my friends.

I still stay up late, because my job sometimes dictates I do so. I still sleep on the floor sometimes, and I don't have as much trouble with it as I used to (epsom salts, kids, they really work), I will still take late-night road trips (though usually someone else is driving and I end up falling asleep in the passenger seat), and I still fail to faithfully keep every aspect of my diet all the time. But my struggle with each of these things has led me to find a deeper and greater joy in simpler things.
But really, I think the reason we classify these things - epsom salts, early bedtimes,  careful diet - as what 65-year-olds would do is because they are the really good things to do. And the 65-year-olds who do these things have spent a good deal of their lives getting to the point where they realized just how good, healthful, and refreshing such things were. The rest of us are still discovering those things, and we're too young to realize how satisfying and good they really are. Maybe that's the reason why grandmothers keep telling us we need to use epsom salts: because they discovered the salts worked first. Maybe we should spend more time listening to our grandmothers and less time listening to ourselves. Maybe we all need more epsom salts.

Lessons Learned from a Pair of Shoes

I don't struggle financially, but I definitely do not have a massive amount of money to burn. Few people my age and in my place on the career totem pole don't have a lot of extra money. And then something rather painful happened: I wore through my work shoes. I say "painful", because it was, literally, painful.

Suddenly another really big, and rather urgent, financial drain loomed on the immediate horizon: buying shoes. 

Now, unless you go to Walmart and buy flimsily constructed shoes from the $30-rack, shoes are expensive. If you walk 5+ miles a day at your job, then you can't get the cheap shoes. Unless you want your knees to hate you for eternity, then you can.
I like my knees too much to let them hate me, so I determined to go to the shoe store at my earliest opportunity, bite the bullet and fork the money over. This last Thursday evening I sat down and crunched some numbers to see what I would have left once I paid for groceries and rent on top of shoes. The prospects looked bleak, but I knew I needed to do something, or I would have to have knee replacements by the time I was thirty.
Before you guys think I'm over-exaggerating the state of my shoes, let me explain: I have had these shoes for close to 2 years. I have had my current job for ten months, and for ten hours every day, four days a week, I have walked all over the hospital. I am pretty sure I walk seven miles on average at work - rough guesstimate, I really have no idea how far. But for simplicity's sake, let's say 7 miles a day. If my calculations are correct (which is a very big if), I have walked 1120 miles over the past 10 months, and that doesn't count all of the walking I do to and from work, and in the grocery store after work, etc.
You get the point; it's a really really big number.
The soles of my shoes were really really thin, and the canvas on top was tearing.

I sat running my fingers through my hair, attempting to work through this problem without going bald. Finally I sat back and did the only sensible thing I'd done all evening: I prayed. Lord, you know my finances. So please take care of me and don't let me worry too much over this. I know you'll provide because you always have.
Then I got up and went back to work.
Friday evening I headed over to my sister, Anna's, with my sister Dani. We sat around chatting as dinner was cooking, and I mentioned needing new shoes, and how I was going to have to go get some the next evening.
Anna had shoes. She had bought them for work, gotten married, had kids, and now could no longer fit them. They were my size, not really worn at all; for some reason she still had them, and she gave them to me. Just like that the prayer was answered. And no money was spent. Here I was expecting God to give me extra funds to cover the expense, to fill in the loss that I sustained. But He didn't let me get to the part where loss is mentioned. He gave me shoes with no expense to myself. He also gave me something greater: People who loved me enough to hear a need in what I said and meet the need. Not because they felt obligated to, but because they cared. For me.

I came away that night doubly blessed, and somewhat stunned, trying to process the vast amount of grace I had received that night.
In Matthew 6 Jesus says, "Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin,  yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?"


God literally clothed me that day; he gave me a pair of shoes. Seemingly inconsequential, I know, but the insignificance of the act makes it that much more amazing. God cared enough to give me, little tiny me rattling around in my very scatter-brained existence, a pair of shoes. Somehow, giving me a pair of shoes fit into his grand scheme of redeeming the world (and me!). 
He cares that much. We don't serve a little God; we serve a great, all-powerful, all-knowing God, who is powerful enough to bend low and put shoes on our feet, clothes on our backs, and food on our table. He cares, not only for our great spiritual need, but for our little needs and concerns as well. And that is comforting.

1500 Words, and Counting!

Yes, people, I have actually made PROGRESS! 

I am one of those people who like to make an extensive plan when I do anything, but especially when I write. I like to work systematically through the problem in my mind (in this case, how do I get the idea in my head onto a page?) before I tackle it.
I've done quite a bit of planning. I've written very detailed outlines on several parts of my story and I plan to follow them religiously. I have a map drawn up, and I know how I am going to use that map. I have characters worked out (mostly), I know their names and what they look like (some of them). I know what they like to do and what is important to them. I have a plan.

And I just threw half of that plan out the window.

There are two reasons I've done this:

First, sometimes my creativity doesn't follow my plan.

And that's ok. When working on a fictitious piece of work you sometimes have to abandon your carefully thought-out plan to follow your creative intuition. Then you proof-read it, and if it turns out to be crap, you throw it out. You don't have to hold onto that burst of creativity you had that one time. 

You can throw it in the trash. Heck, you can throw your plan in the trash if it's no good. You don't have to religiously follow a plan (though it helps to sort out your ideas), and you don't have to cling so tightly to your bursts of creativity. You sometimes have to let your work grow and evolve, and that often means putting those ideas and plans to death.

Second, I've read too much Russian literature.

Russian literature doesn't produce very good protagonists, but it creates some very interesting antagonists. The reason for this, I am convinced, is because Russian authors in the late 17th century had a very stark picture of humanity to work with. Their society, at least as portrayed by these classic authors, was riddled with depression, oppression, and poverty. These authors wrote about their society in such a way that even the prosperous were cast in a grimy hue. 

Humanity in all of its sinful debasement comes to life under the skillful pen of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. Such a vivid and varied presentation gives greater insight to the human condition and so influences my fashioning of characters.

It also has brought about the realization that, when I write, I do not want to create characters out of my ideals. I want them to be human. I want them to sin, to fall down, to look grimy and weak, but always with redemption in view. I don't want my villains to only show arrogant pride in their wickedness but show the varying degrees of villain-hood. I want to show that the weak, apathetic villain is as much of a villain as the cocky, pretentious one.

So I've started a (very) rough draft, and - you guessed it! - I started with a contrast in villainy. I abandoned my original plan and did something else. Only time will tell whether or not it too will need to be abandoned, or completely renovated, but it's a start. 

Reflections on Vacation: Why Taking a Break is Important

My sister, Dani, and I planned a very intricate, people-filled vacation this spring. It has not quite been a week since we got back. We took a train up to the Chicago area to visit an old high school friend on a Saturday. After visiting with him through Monday, we were picked up by our grandmother, who took us back to her home in Michigan after giving us the grand tour of Chicago.
We spent the next three days eating, talking, sleeping, and resting. Then we packed up, picked up, and took the train back home. All in all, a very lovely time.

While packing for this trip I had to sit down and seriously think about what I wanted to take. I don't mean clothes, shoes, or makeup - though figuring those out did take up a good portion of my time packing.
I had to figure out what I was going to do while I was away. A part of me thought, It's vacation. I will take my books, my computer... I wanted to write. I wanted to use my time off milking my creative juices for all it was worth. I spend on average 45 minutes to an hour a week writing. Sometimes I am able to burn through a couple of hours writing in a week.

That's really slow.

I don't like that pace. It's slow, hard, sometimes achingly boring. I want to sit for hours and hours and days on end and perfect my work. I want to lose myself so wholly in my work that it becomes what I've always wanted it to be - my essence.
And then I look at the clock and I have to go to bed because my shift starts at 6am in the morning. Or I have to do some studying for my counseling certification. Or my nephew asks me to come over. Or his mama asks me. Or my boyfriend needs to spend time with me. Or I have spent too much time sitting on the couch and need to go for a run.
Or there's a wedding, or a shower, or a birth to celebrate. And I haven't even factored in my work schedule.
I can come up with an endless list of things I need to devote my time to; all of them essential to living a joyful life.
Maybe I'm not called to devote all of my time to writing right now. Maybe there are other things God wants me to spend my time doing; good things, healthy things, things that honor Him and grow me. And maybe that is ok.

But then the golden opportunity sneaks up on me: I have an entire week with no work schedule, hundreds of miles away from anyone who would ordinarily ask for my time, and limited cell phone service.
Sounds just about perfect, right?

There's only one thing: I'm not going there alone, and I am not staying there alone. I did not take this week to go on a writing retreat. I took this week to visit my grandmother, my cousins, and to build some really great memories with my sister (they were pretty awesome memories too).
I took this week to take a break from the demands and struggles of my every-day life, to come away from the noise and business, and simply be.


I didn't take my computer. I didn't look at a word processor once during my entire stay. I took books for the train ride. I took a lot of books. I didn't read half of them, but I read. I read, and I talked, and I slept, and I ate (a lot), and I simply was.
And it was perfect.

Now I have come back with a head-full of ambitions, thoughts, and desires. I have come back to real, every-day life, and I realize what a treasure my crazy, overbooked schedule is. I realize that I wouldn't change a single minute of the life I'm living now, even if it means I don't get to spend all of my time playing with words and ideas. I realize that God wants me here, in this moment, for right now.
My heart's desire, and one of the greatest pleasures I have, is writing. But I have a greater desire, and that is to love God and love others. Right now that means I only spend a couple of hours a week writing. And that's ok.

Sometimes you just need to take a break from your life to realize how wonderfully abundant your life is.

I'm back, and my head is full of so many ideas. I want to write, write, write. But I reign my heart in and I take one day at a time, one hour at a time, one window of opportunity at a time. A gift is wasted, not when it isn't exploited, but only when it is not used.