30.

I've been very retrospective this week...which makes sense, considering today is my 30th birthday. It's weird, you know. I always thought I would freak out when it came time to turn 30 but I feel a peace about it, even a hint of excitement. By moving into my 30's, I'm leaving behind my 20's. So I've been thinking a lot about these last 10 years of my life - celebrating their joys, grieving their losses. Sometimes to make room for something new, we have to say goodbye to something old.

Goodbye 20, 21 year old Ella. Sad & heartbroken. Lost & searching. Seeking security & safety in places that were all wrong. Trying to figure out which path the Lord was calling you to walk. Trying to figure out healthy friendships. Trying to figure out how to be you without being someone else too. Trying to figure out love. Trying to figure out how to be an adult. Trying (& mostly failing) at trying to figure out a lot of different things.

Goodbye 22, 23 year old Ella. On the precipice of new adventure & a new home in Costa Rica. Discovering longing. Discovering healing. Discovering feelings. Discovering yourself. Discovering culture. Re-discovering God. Laughing & loving. Carefree & silly. Experiencing the dichotomy of joy & sorrow in the same breathe.

Goodbye 24, 25 year old Ella. Freshly moved to Nicaragua. Certain of the trajectory of her life, yet had no idea what Jesus had up His sleeves. Questioning & doubting the goodness of God amidst such terrible suffering. Disappointed & lonely & unsure what to do about it. Constantly feeling the weight of transition. Constantly feeling the humor of transition.

Goodbye 26, 27 year old Ella. The growing, learning, connecting with Jesus, Ella. This Ella is not only my favorite but also the hardest to say goodbye to. The sweetest, most challenging years so far. Learning who He created me to be & growing into that person. Tears...so many tears. But tears that were breathing life back into me. Grieving, life-shaping tears that brought fields of beautiful wildflowers wherever they were sown. Wild & free. Psalm 27. Letting go. Connecting to Jesus in new & freeing ways. Content with the good life He had given her.

Goodbye 28, 29 year old Ella. With all your transition & uncertainty & newness. With your whirlwind years of such sweetness & joy yet such hardship & pain. With so much change in the best way possible. Filled with grace. Filled with wonder. Filled with hope. Filled with love.

As I think about 30, the words that keep coming to mind are strength & courage. Strength & courage. Strength & courage. I'm not sure why. I'm not exactly sure what this means - but I know that I want it. I want to live those words out in whatever way possible. I want strength & courage to encompass me, be a part of who I am.

Yet, not my own strength, not my own courage. I want it to be His strength, His courage.

Here I am: sitting on the back patio of my house in Atlanta, with my handsome husband beside me and the cutest pup running around the yard. Some might say I've "made it" at this point but I know this is not the end goal. This is all simply a gift from Him, my good, good Father. A temporary glimpse of future treasure that does not rot or wither away but lasts for eternity. No. it's You, Jesus. You are the aim & goal, just as You always have been. But I thank You for these momentary glimpses into the sweetness of Your Kingdom come.

Maybe that is why strength & courage are the words He has given me. He knows I will need strength, He knows I will need courage to continue seeking His face in this new year, this new season, this new decade.

Hello 30 year old Ella. Whatever comes, may strength & courage be the cry of your heart.

September.

Things are a bit calmer these days. Busy in the day-to-day, yes. But a general sense of peace has flowed through this new season of life I recently entered. September is a very confusing month, especially in the South. The humidity is still through the roof so morning runs only work at 7am. Starbucks has released Pumpkin Spice yet it's not quite cool enough to enjoy one. Nothing is really in bloom, yet trees have not begun losing their leaves. It seems as everything is just in transition, waiting, hoping for what's to come.

I've found myself nostalgic recently. Last September I had recently moved to Knoxville, TN and was beginning a new job, learning a new place, and recently engaged. Even with all the joy and excitement that engagement brought, I still had to fight through all the questions and confusion to decide that moving to Atlanta was the best next step. Even though this would mean I would only remain in Knoxville a mere five months - which was not the original plan. In this time I was doing my best to survive cultural re-entry, start a brand-new, full-time ministry, plan a wedding, drive almost every weekend to see my better half, consistently walk into rooms full of people where I didn't know a soul and somehow try to be an actual normal, functioning human being. Cue SOS signal.

On top of all that, I also found myself under an insane amount of self-imposed guilt and shame. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was disappointing people for leaving Knoxville and a ministry that I was hired to start. I couldn't help feeling like people thought the engagement happened too fast or the wedding too soon. I couldn't stop feeling like I was constantly just trying to keep my head above water yet somehow still unable to breathe. It was a lot to handle.

And I wish I could say I handled it well. But I didn't. I was one hundred and ten percent in survival mode, just looking for comfort in whatever change or transition was in front of me next. I was so sure that if I could just arrive at that next milestone - getting engaged, deciding to leave Knoxville, actually leaving Knoxville, moving to Atlanta, starting a new job in Atlanta, moving into an apartment, getting married, moving into a new house - that everything would be better. But it didn't. I constantly found myself wondering what I was missing, why I was lacking contentment, whether I would ever feel "normal" again. All the things that used to make me...well, me, were suddenly gone because it was all I could do to simply survive.

Again, I'll say - it was A LOT to handle. My identity was not only being remolded and reshaped. It was completely torn down and stripped away, and it felt like I was left with nothing. I wasn't, of course. I knew this. But my fragile heart felt weighty and different and lost. I missed my life in Nicaragua yet felt guilty about being happy I wasn't there. Even more, I missed who I was in Nicaragua - I missed being known by people I interacted with on a daily basis, I missed having purpose in my day-to-day living, I even missed the hardships that had somehow pushed me to a deeper awareness of my truest self.

But then this year's September came. And for the first time in a long time, I could breath freely again. I had routine. I had a place. I had budding friendships. I had purpose. I had structure. I felt normal. Yes, everything around me was still different. I, in fact, was very different. I'm not the same person I used to be. And that's okay.

I talked on the phone recently to my friend Cindy, who I worked with closely in Knoxville. As she was telling me how the ministry has played out since I left, I felt such relief. As it turned out, God really only needed me in Knoxville for those five months--no more, no less. The ministry I was hired to start didn't fail because I left sooner than everyone anticipated. In fact, it has flourished into something beautiful that I could have never imagined. Maybe, just maybe, in those moments last September when I couldn't get out of bed or wondered what it was all for or felt the weight of other people's disappointment in me--God was whispering "I've got this."

Little by little, this September became a month of restoration for me. A month of laughter and joy and slowness. A month of remembrance and looking back and reminiscing. A month of rediscovering who I am and where I'm going. My life looks a lot different than it did a year ago. I look a lot different than I did a year ago. And isn't that the way it's supposed to be?

June 27, 2018.

A year ago today, I left. Somehow I managed to pack my bags - five years worth of memories all stuffed into three suitcases. And by the grace of God, I actually got on the airplane to make the one way trek back to the States.

As I relive a memory from my last night, the pain is fresh - almost as if I am enveloped into this moment all over again. I am stuffing my computer, books and journal into my worn, leather bag. The last bag, the last of all my things to come with me, the last to-do on my moving checklist. Suddenly, the weight of it all hits me and for a second I can't breath. The tears come soon after: strong, big, heavy. I look to my co-worker turned friend turned family and through the sobs manage to put into words the aching of my heart: "I don't know how I'm going to get on the plane." I crumble into her arms, along with all my fear and sadness and uncertainty and doubt.

It's hard to put into words what it feels like to leave a place that ripped you apart and sewed you back together all at the same time. What it feels like to come back to something that is supposed to be familiar yet instead seems foreign and strange. What it feels like to know that I'll never sit in that worn, teal chair listening to the chirping birds while drinking my morning coffee. What it feels like to say goodbye to people who challenged me, laughed with me (and at me), pushed me and loved me fiercely.

That's why I haven't been writing as much, I realize. The emotions are too raw, the feelings too big to be bound by black ink on white paper. As I glance over this blog, this little space I created to give my heart room to breathe, I see so many unfinished, abandoned drafts - all hidden from the public eye. They begin with sentences and paragraphs that trail off into nothingness. As if I just suddenly couldn't finish. It was all too much - paralyzing and exhausting and scary all at the same time.

But now - a year removed from that tearful night - there is a certain lightness to my step. There is a bit of stability, a tender feeling of normalcy that is poking its head up through the chaotically beautiful mess my life has been for the past year. I feel more myself than I have in a long time. I feel steady and real and calm. No longer nomadic or running on adrenaline or undergoing significant life change. Just simple old me.

Oh Nicaragua, you will never know how my heart aches for all that I left behind.
But Jesus, You know exactly how my heart longs for all that is to come.

transition.

Upon hearing my journey of the past twelve months, people might consider me an expert in transition. Granted, I can't blame them. In the past year I decided to take a new job, fell in love with my now husband while living in two different countries, made an international move, moved to a new city (where I knew no one) and started a new job. Then I got engaged, left said new job and city for another new job and city (again, knowing no one), got married, went on a honeymoon and here I am. If that's not a whirlwind of a year, I'm not sure what is.

And now as the dust is settling from my slightly nomadic state of life for the past year, I find myself  feeling a little...lost. Somewhere in the midst of transition, I've forgotten the heart of who I am and allowed myself to be defined by the "what". What am I doing? What do they think about me? What do they see in me? What is my job title? What is my pay grade? The "whats" haunt my every thought - distracting me during the day, keeping me tossing and turning at night, twisting what once was confidence and freedom into doubt and fear.

It's easy for me gloss over the magnitude of the transition my soul has experienced in the past twelve months. It's easy for me to live just barely surviving between the gap of guilt and grace. It's easy to walk the line of lists and self-inflicted pressure. It's quite easy to ignore my soul needs for the sake of attempting to simply feel better...or to feel nothing at all.

Transition of any kind - stressful, exciting, major, minor, joyful, stormy - is still transition. It still causes some type of shift in identity. And no matter the magnitude, it's still important. Taking time to reflect, remember and grieve the person I used to be, all the while rejoicing in this new person I am becoming because of transition is vital. God is still showing up, weaving in unique pieces of my story and paving a way for a different me to emerge. So instead of the "what", I'm learning to let myself be defined by the "who". Who am I? Whose am I? Who am I striving to be? Whose heart does my heart belong to? These are the most important questions we could ever ask ourselves in these moments of confusion. These are the questions that define us, define our lives, define that deepest part of ourselves that is always trying to surface.

Seasons of transition sometimes feel like they will swallow me up whole. Drowning in the newness of every single little thing, exhausted from the mental game of re-learning all I once knew, seeing a different kind of purpose and watching as a part of me I never knew existed emerges. There can be freedom in transition - freedom to let transition change me and mold me and shape me. Life is organic and I am a fool to believe that I will be the same person for my entire life. Instead of dreading the transition and change and grief, maybe I should open myself to it. Lean into it as the gift of grace it is. God is always moving, working, sculpting our lives into what He sees best fit. What if I actually learned to believe that? That in transition, He is still good? He is still holy? He is still with me?

complicated.

Three months, three weeks and five days. It seems like such a random, insignificant amount of time yet today it weighs heavy on my heart.

It's hard to find words to wrap around that piece of my life. When people ask about it, I smile quietly as to brush them off, embarrassed of the pit that forms in my stomach and the sudden catch in my throat. If I'm quite honest with myself, it's easier to just not think about it. Three months, three weeks and five days since I got off that plane...yet it feels like a lifetime ago.

I'm finding now that the further I move away, the harder it is to pretend. The longings come more fiercely now. The pain of missing the people I love there hits me when I least expect it. The ache for little things like a sun that rises at six a.m., the teal chair I sat in every morning to read and write, the circle of woman on Tuesday nights who made me laugh til my sides hurt. 

How easy is has been to put on a show. Most people, I find, have assumed that with a new job, new fiancé and new city, I have completely forgotten. That because I have Target and Chick-Fil-A at the tip of my fingers, I don't think about Nicaragua anymore. That I don't miss the busy noises of city life, the rice and beans for breakfast, the high quality of coffee that is truly unmerited, the feeling of locking arms with people of a different culture to mutually learn from one another.

But these are false assumptions.

The transition of returning is far more complicated than I ever imagined it would be. The internal battle of identity and purpose rages within me daily. The disconnection from my sense of self has me questioning everything. The paralyzing feeling of constantly being outside of my own skin, lost in a world where I "should be" at home.

I wish that I had a pretty bow to tie all this up in - a way to explain how I am able to put my trust in Jesus, just be in His presence, experience the realness of His promises. But I don't. And I can't. My current reality is one that is all mangled and messy and imperfect. Yes, I have moments of joy, grace and His goodness. Yes, I cherish experiencing the fall, being in love, learning a new job, sitting in coffee shops. Yes, I am confidant that I am exactly where He wants me to be.

Most days I feel as if it should be easier to have it all together here...but it's not. It's only easier to pretend to have it all together. And I'm finally coming into the realization that it is okay that I don't quite yet.

engaged.

{ dedicated to the man who stole my heart, Lee Deneen...}

The shock of it all has taken a while to settle. As I look back on that day, I see it only in small yet glorious moments. Snapshots of a day that would change my entire future in the best way possible.

I remember standing in the kitchen with his mom early that morning, when he walked in and put his arms around me. A sigh of contentment and a smile of relief came, one that only comes when we are in such close proximity to one another.

I remember sharing my heart with him in the car, how hurt and sad I was that our weekend plans had changed so drastically. He accepted and validated my feelings, comforting me with his kind words while guarding his secret of what was about to unfold.

I remember rolling my eyes when he told me about a new "coffee and tea shop" he wanted to try for breakfast, a mere 20 minutes before the church service we were supposedly heading to attend. Wanting to support his adventurous spirit, I kept my mouth closed about the time and followed him down to the river.

I remember sitting on that brick wall, as he opened his journal and began to read. It took a second a for my mind to focus when he opened with: "How do you tell the woman that you love that you want to be with her forever?".

I remember looking down at this man before me, on one knee with ring and heart exposed, asking possibly one of the most vulnerable questions he'll ever ask in his life.

I remember how easy it was to say yes.

I remember walking around afterwards in a daze, moving forward only because of the gentle strength of his hand in mine - leading me, guiding me, protecting me, loving me.

I remember my unrelenting smile while sitting at brunch, unsure of how I got here, looking back and forth between my left hand and the love of my life. How many kisses we stole on that back porch restaurant overlooking the river I'll never be sure.

I remember driving up to his parents home, only to be greeted by family and friends and love and joy and so many happy tears.

I remember later that night, when all the celebration had calmed and all the people had said good-bye. We were left alone, possibly for the first time since it happened. As I sat in that coffee shop, waiting for him to return with our order, it was all I could do to not stare at this new addition to my ring finger. Oh, it's physical beauty is breath-takingly indescribable. But the beauty I found there that night was so much deeper. It was the beauty of a promise, a future covenant, a holy union. The beauty of God's perfect timing, His goodness, His grace. There is much I have to learn about what this ring, this question, this "yes" will really mean. But as I glanced up and saw my now future husband approaching me with that dreamy smile, that goofy saunter, that quiet strength and those handsome eyes that always seem to shine bright with hope, I fell in love all over again.

And I pray that for the rest of our days together, we'll always remember the moments like these that have bound us together, mingled our souls, deepened our love and strengthened our hearts.

return.

It feels like a piece of me is missing.

It feels like I'm standing still watching life happen around me.

It feels like pure exhaustion. My mind can't process anything yet is processing everything.

It feels like being out of place in my own skin.

It feels like I don't know who I am anymore.

It feels like a very low level of functioning.

It feels like shards of glass being raked over my heart if I think about it for too long.

It feels like tears that fall over the edge of my eyelids at the most unexpected of times.

It feels uncertain and scary and unreal and strange.

I don't really know how to put into words what it feels like to arrive. To return, rather. To return to something that should be so familiar-- yet feels so unknown. My thoughts feel disconnected and unorganized. My actions feel sporadic and clumsy. My heart feels timid and unsure. My soul feels tired and fragile.

I knew the transition wouldn't be easy. And in some ways, it has been...easy, that is. Well, maybe easy isn't the right word. Smooth. Full of grace. Small evidences of His goodness woven throughout. Moments of freedom and peace and certainty of His love for me. But in other ways, it's been extremely difficult. Difficult in ways I don't really know how to explain yet.

Little by little I know that the transition will unravel in exactly the way it should. Because even if I'm not confidant of anything else, I am confident of this: He goes before all things and in Him all things hold together. (Colossians 1:17) And He will be with me siempre, even to the end of times. (Matthew 28:20)

So I hold onto hope as I keep putting one foot in front of the other - trusting that even though I don't know the full path in front of me, each step I take is being guided by One who does.