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.

leave.

It's hard to put into words what it feels like to leave. To transition. To sell all your stuff and move on. To reflect on the past four and a half years. To sort what feels like pieces of your heart into three piles: take, sell, donate. To say good byes. To say see ya laters. To say nothing at all.

It's hard to put into words the ambivalence of emotion. The joy. The excitement. The sadness. The overwhelmingness. The peace. The heartbreak. The guilt. The hope. The disappointment. The laughter. The tears. The anxiety. The comfort. The thrill. The fear. The confusion. The gratitude. The peace.

It's hard to put into words how to say goodbye. To places I visit everyday. To people who have seen me at my worst and best. To a culture who taught me how to love. To a language that has been both the bane of my existence and a euphoric type of high.

I've heard it said that it's harder to be left than it is to leave. This could be true, to some extent. I've been the one left before - I've waved my goodbyes with tears streaming down my face, wondering how life will ever feel okay again. Wondering if my heart had just burst open right there before me. Wondering if it was really possible to ever get past the sudden sense of loneliness. Oh, I've been left before.

But leaving...leaving brings it's own kind of pain. It's a different, more gradual type of thing. It's a grieving that doesn't come all at once and knock you down. Instead, it slowly wraps itself around you, forcing you to slow down and feel it's weight. It's a complicated, confusing type of sadness that can feel guilt-inducing one day and simply annoying the next. It's a strange concept - to make a decision knowing it will bring that messy, inexplicable kind of pain. To choose pain, in essence.

It's hard to put into words what it feels like to leave. Most days it's too overwhelming to even think about. But there are those few precious moments - where everything seems to slow around you and suddenly you can breathe again. Peace that transcends all understanding washes over you and you just know. You know that at the end of the day - it's right. That you didn't hear wrong, that you didn't choose incorrectly, that this isn't a mistake. You can feel down in the depth of your bones that no matter what level of sadness or hurting or heartbreak that day brings, that you are exactly where Jesus wants you.

Someone I deeply respect shared this quote from Charles Spurgeon with me recently and I continue to return to again and again: "Remember this: had any other condition been better for you than the one you are in, Divine Love would have put you there." Leaving is hard. But it where Divine Love would have me for now. So I'll lean in and keep breathing in His goodness every step of the way.

new.

"For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts." -Isaiah 55:9

One of my favorite things about Jesus is that He is always doing something new and unexpected - whether in us or through us or around us. His perfect Love goes before all things and in Him all things hold together. (Col. 1:10) And it is is always, always, always better than we could have hoped or imagined. (Eph. 3:21) This is the promise we must stand on, take claim of, lay hold of - because if we don't, the unexpected can really knock the breath of out of us.

This was not a blog post I was expecting to write anytime soon, yet here I am. This was not a season of life I was expecting to enter anytime soon, yet here it is. I'm excited and terrified and sad and joyful all at the same time. And underlying all of these emotions, there is a steadfast and firm peace where my heart is resting.

I knew about a year ago that God was doing something new in me but at the time I couldn't quite wrap my mind around it. What I kept coming back to was this: "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28) The one thing I knew that I could trust in was this promise, firm and true: no matter what, God would work all things out for my good and for His glory. And so He is...

After some poking and prodding and exploring, I was presented with a unique opportunity. The Young Life community in Knoxville, TN had been praying for quite some time for a staff person to step into their city and help raise up a new branch of ministry within a people group that has been overlooked for far too long - the Latino immigrant population. The more I heard about the vision of the need and the job, the more I felt a stirring in my heart. Could this be the "something new" I felt all those months ago? After a whirlwind trip to the States, an interview, a job offer and much time of prayer and processing...I knew the direction in which the Lord was leading me. 

"And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, 'This is the way, walk in it,' when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left." -Isaiah 30:21

This summer, I will be moving to Knoxville, TN to continue investing in the lives of teenagers within the Latino community, while training and discipling university students in their walk with the Lord. Although the vision may look a little different, the calling remains the same. First and foremost, a call to be in relationship with Jesus. Secondly, a call to continue pouring out my life for the souls of teenagers in a ministry that has been and continues to be very impactful in my life.

As I was processing this big life decision, I came to realize that for many years - perhaps my entire life - I have allowed for the voice of fear to reign in my life. In every decision, relationship, friendship, job, thought - fear has always been the resounding voice that held claim over me. Without ever really knowing it, I slowly began to confuse the voice of fear and the voice of God. How quickly that line can be blurred. This past year, as I have been learning what it means to be brave, a quote from one of my favorite authors stands out: "Brave people are the ones who hear the whispers of fear and don't listen to them anymore." This decision to pick up my life (once again) and move to another city where I don't know anyone or anything is a step towards a new way of life for me. A way of life that is choosing not to listen to the whispers of fear but instead, listening to the peacefully confidant voice of God.

Choosing to be brave looks different every day - but the more I choose to be brave in the small things, the more I realize how empowering it is to be brave in the big things. Ultimately, I know it is He who makes my heart brave. So as I take this next big step of faith in life, I will continue to stand on this promise:

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go." -Joshua 1:9

twenty-great.

So I turned twenty-eight this week. Once the initial bite of the idea of entering into my late-twenties wore off, I made the decision that I was going to be excited about being twenty-eight. It's all about perspective, amiright??

I think the key to finally being able to look forward to twenty-eight is looking back on what it meant to be twenty-seven. I still remember the exact moment on my twenty-seventh birthday where I heard the sweetest, most gentle Voice speak promise after promise after promise over me. As I stood there on the oceans edge, looking out over the waves crashing before me - inexplicably yet surely, the words came to me.

"One thing I ask of the LORD, this is what I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple." - Psalm 27:4

As I opened to Psalm 27 and read, I watched the tears fall onto the pages because this was everything.  I knew right then and there I longed to stake a promise, a claim, a hope for my twenty-seventh year of life. Little did I know how many times throughout the year I would return to this Psalm, this moment, this sacred word.

On the eve of my twenty-eighth birthday, I re-read Psalm 27 for the hundredth and something time. I was filled with a sense of peace and gratitude as I thought back to all that had happened in the past year. You see, my twenty-seventh year was nothing at all what I expected it to be. In fact, the year was marked with transition, loss, grief, loneliness, heartbreak, rejection, disappointment, failure, challenge. The year brought more tears than I had ever imagined...but there was healing to be found in the tears. There was wholeness to be found in the brokenness. There was growth to be found in the pain.

Twenty-seven helped me learn what it means to be brave, in the big and small. It taught me how to listen to the voice of God over the voice of fear, that had for so long controlled my life. It taught me how to connect to this buried and bruised piece of my heart that I had been ignoring for years. It taught me how to anchor my soul to it's Maker. It taught me how Jesus is always on my team. It taught me how to face the darkness. It taught me how to seek His goodness in the midst of heartache. It taught me how to live wild & free. It taught me how to grow into the person God created me to be rather than the person I thought other people wanted me to be.

When I look back at twenty-seven, it feels like Jesus used the year as a whole to take this one piece of my heart that was broken and bleeding and wounded and sealed it back into place. It feels like the hands of a Healer were intricately and carefully sewing a piece of me back together - one that I did not even know had been severed off. It was painful, that is for absolute certain. But oh-so worth it.

So as I look back to twenty-seven, I can find hope in twenty-eight. Because I know and believe that no matter what the year brings, Jesus will take care of me. He always has and He always will. This is where my hope lies. This is where my heart rests. This is where my soul finds peace.

Here's to you, twenty-eight!

Psalm 27

The LORD is my light and my salvation;

whom shall I fear?

The LORD is the stronghold of my life;

of whom shall I be afraid?

When evildoers assail me

to eat up my flesh,

my adversaries and foes,

it is they who stumble and fall.

Though an army encamp against me,

my heart shall not fear;

though war arise against me,

yet I will be confidant.

One thing I ask of the LORD, 

that I will seek after:

that I may dwell in the house of the LORD

all the days of my life,

to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD

and to inquire in his temple.

For he will hide me in his shelter

in the day of trouble;

he will conceal me under the cover of his tent;

he will lift me high upon a rock.

And now my head shall be lifted up

above my enemies all around me, 

and I will offer in his tent

sacrifices with shouts of joy;

I will sing and make melody to the LORD.

Hear, O LORD, when I cry aloud; 

be gracious to me and answer me!

You said said, "Seek my face."

My heart says to you,

"Your face, LORD, do I seek."

Hide not your face from me.

Turn not your servant away in anger,

O you who have been my help.

Cast me not off, forsake me not,

O God of my salvation!

For my father and mother have forsaken me,

but the LORD will take me in.

Teach me your way, O LORD,

and lead me on a level path

because of my enemies.

Give me not up to the will of my adversaries;

for false witnesses have risen against me,

and they breathe out violence.

I believe I shall see the goodness of the LORD

in the land of the living!

Wait for the LORD;

be strong, and let your heart take courage;

wait for the LORD!

fear.

"The woman in joyful liberty of perfect love knows no fear." 

- Charles Spurgeon -

Have you ever read a quote and had something somewhere deep inside of you sigh with a deep relief? Like suddenly the words that are in black and white before you have entered your mind and worked their way right down to the very bleeding part of your heart? This happens more often than I'd like to admit. Words have a way with me - a way of healing me when I didn't even know I needed it.

When I read this one, my heart immediately longed for what it spoke of. Freedom. Surrender. Liberty.  Courage. And the root of all of this? Perfect Love. Not the kind of love that fills you for a minute and leaves you empty the next. Not the kind of love that numbs you til you lose yourself. Not the kind of love that tells you to be someone different than who you were created to be. These are fake loves - only the most perfect of Love can cast out all fear.

This quote reminds me of another story. One of my favorites, found within the pages of the wildest Love story I'll ever read.

"Now one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, so he went to the Pharisee's house and reclined at the table. When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee's houses, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. And then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them." 

- Luke 7:36-38 -

This. This is a woman grounded in perfect Love. She might hear the whispers of fear but chooses to not listen as she draws close to the feet of Love and pours out her life. Who knows what broken pieces of her soul wept before Him - longing for acceptance, grace, healing? Who knows which part of her bruised heart could not even bear to look Him in the eyes? Who knows her shame buried deep within? Who knows her desperation? I do not know this woman's story - yet I see a piece of myself in her. Begging for the joyful liberty of perfect Love. 

"Therefore I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven - as her great love has shown. Then Jesus said to her: Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you; go in peace."

- Luke 7: 47, 48, 50 -

Oh, to be fully exposed before Love and met with the gift of peace. A peace which surpasses all understanding. A peace which stands as the opposite of fear. A peace which finds joyful liberty at the feet of perfect Love.

Be brave, my dear, tender heart. For no matter your story, this Love will always greet you with the kiss of peace, the arms of acceptance and the eyes of grace. Fear not.

denial.

Dear Denial,

You, unfortunately, are one of my oldest friends. You have always been there for me in times of pain and sadness. Disappointment and guilt. Shame and loneliness. You helped me to survive when the waves of life knocked me over. You were a place of safety when I didn't know how to handle myself. But Denial -- like an comfy, old blanket that is now falling apart at the seams, it's time to let you go.

Deny. Numb. Avoid. Shut out. Shut down. Build walls. Run. Hide. Brush off. Ignore. I could go on forever with all your different names and faces. But it would still come down to this: I don't need you anymore. I don't need your numbing sensations, your pseudo promises of freedom or your so-called protection. With you by my side, I am only living a half-life. My soul dances with a limp. My heart struggles to regain it's strength. I see you now for what you are: a mere band-aid for a wound that needs surgery. But the band-aid isn't working anymore...I need the hands of a Healer.

So I have to say goodbye. I will miss you, that's for sure...you definitely make life easier. Hiding is always the easier option. But in order to honor my God-created center, I have to quit hiding it away. More and more as I let you go, I'm experiencing the sadness, disappointment. shame, guilt, contempt of years and years gone by. The pain running deep and tearing at the flesh of my heart, welling up and pouring over as tears of the soul. Yet - the joy and peace and laughter and victory and courage runs even deeper, springing up as an everlasting fountain.

It's worth it.

Pain screams loudly. Disappointment feels raw. Guilt always lingers. Shame attacks souls. Loneliness is isolating. Contempt grows hatred. But joy brings life. Peace calms storms. Laughter heals wounds. Victory cultivates empowerment. Courage negates fear. And I cannot deny one without denying the others. How intricately connected are these soul emotions of mine.

I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of running. I want to learn how to live again. I want to be motivated by Love, not fear. I want to become the person God created me to be. I know the path is a desert one. Long and dry and lonely. I know the dangers, risks, doubts. Oh Denial, I do wish I could take you with me. But I'm choosing a different path, a unique way, a grace-filled road. One where you simply must be left behind. In the end, I'll be better for it.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference."

-Robert Frost

middle.

Sometimes life feels a little like I'm living it right smack dab in the middle. The place where the initial excitement and storybook fantasies have worn away yet the light at the end of the tunnel still feels a little too far. The place where everyday I wake up wondering how long. The place that feels raw and fragile and real and deep all at the same time. The place where tears flow at even the smallest touch of the heart. The place of process and mess and the will-I-ever-feel-like-I-have-it-together-again.  Oh, the middle.

While the middle often feels like getting repeatedly knocked over by life's overwhelming waves, it is also the birthplace of growth. The place of finally pushing past all the sludge and seeing your heart for what it really is: His. The place of learning the deep places of your soul that have been hidden and buried all these years. The place of fully becoming the person that God created you to be.

That bittersweet place where the highs fill you with such joy, you feel as if you might burst. While the lows are just as deeply felt, constantly on the brink of tears. It's an unexpectedly beautiful gift - to live life in the middle.

I have to believe that the middle is good. I have to believe more than anything else, in the very core of my being - that it is good. Not because of the emotional highs and lows, not because of the seemingly unsteady ground I tread over, not because of the curveballs life throws at me that somehow seem heightened. It is good because the One who is leading me through the middle is good. His hand extended, beckoning me to come. To keep my eyes fixed on Him. To keep taking steps towards Him. To keep putting one foot in front of the other, trusting He will guide each step exactly where it needs to go.

If I'm really honest, most days I really hate the middle. I hate the utter mess of it all and the unorganized way it unfolds. I despise the inconvenience of days that seem wasted having to deal and feel with the storm of pent up energy surging inside of me. It's on these days I have to remember: this is the most important thing. This is the holiest of work I can do, to open my heart to my Healer and walk alongside Him as He makes beauty from ashes.

sliver.

I peeled myself out of bed quite early this morning. My body in complete protest as my feet touched the cool, tile floor. As I gathered my library of books and journals, my mind screamed expletives with every step I made for my door. My heart { and the promise of coffee } was the only thing that compelled me forward.

I needed to feel hopeful. I needed to witness beauty. I needed to be reminded of Love. And at this particular moment in time, a sunrise was exactly what my soul was craving. So I stumbled on through the early morning darkness to park myself in a chair that would face towards the light rising over the horizon.

It wasn't the most beautiful of sunrises. Clouds are covering most of the sky, making for a rather hazy morning. But right above the skyline, there lies my sliver of hope. Light bursting through this one tiny opening of clouds, as if the Hands of a Maker cut open this little piece of an otherwise dreary canvas to pour out His beauty. It wasn't what I thought it would be. Yet, my heart still settled into the quiet whispers of hope with a satisfying sigh.

That's the thing about sunrises, isn't it? Even on the mornings where they seem hidden, you still can see the evidence of their existence everywhere. The birds chirping their hopeful, morning songs. The day waking up to soft, hopeful lighting. The hopeful stillness of the quiet that settles all around and within.

And in a time of my life where my heart feels like it is just now waking up - this is exactly what I needed. A subtle sliver of Hope that settles on the edge of the earth and all around the edges of my soul.

It feels like holy, hopeful ground.

invite.

It's only been fourteen days and already I want to give up. Fourteen days since "a fresh start!" - "a new year!" - "a blank slate!" There really is something so exciting about the turning over of a new year. But sometimes I wonder if I put too much pressure on things to be different. As if an automatic equation forms in my mind: a different year = different circumstances = different me. But what if a different year is simply just that. A mere number changed on the calendar for the next three hundred and sixty-five days... and somehow I still find the same me in the same circumstances. Only now slightly more disappointed because the fresh start/new year/blank state isn't working out quite how I'd hoped.

I have a deep-rooted love in theming my years. I'm three years into this little trend and it has truly been helpful to look back and see the grace-filled little trail of hope threading it's way through each year. Light. Hesed. And now: Invite.

Invite has multiple facets to it but one in particular is the idea of inviting Jesus into my everyday { and not-so everyday } circumstances, feelings, relationships, decisions, ministry, vision - by simply being and listening to what He has to say. I'm a really good surrenderer. I find it extremely easy to throw up my hands in defeat, asking God to take whatever it is that has me in a tizzy. Then walking away. But when I do this, I wind up walking away from God and not to Him. I end up walking towards distractions and numbness and solutions and I. Miss. Out.

I miss out on the realness that comes from raw, deep emotions. I miss out on the connection that comes from being true to my heart. I miss out on the growth that comes from leaning into the process. I miss out on the healing that comes from bearing my soul. I miss out on what Jesus might want to share with me...all because I make this huge, impossible leap from shallow and easy surrender to practical and measurable solution.

So here I am - fourteen days into twenty seventeen - and I'm already trying to figure out how to get to the solution. Because as it turns out, it may be a new year but I'm still me. My circumstances haven't automatically changed just because a number on the calendar jumped from sixteen to seventeen.

But I don’t want to miss out. I don’t want to give up. I want to feel the fullness of all the experiences and processes and growing this year might bring - no matter the circumstances I find myself in or the heavy emotions that come along with the process. To be honest, I really hate the process. I always have. A quick fix is my jam and it is hard to imagine giving that up. But it's what comes after the process - the life changing revelation, the deep soul cleansing, the new way of thinking, the stronger connection to my emotions and heart, the becoming of the person God created me to be…these are the things that make the process worth it. 

This year, I want to learn how to invite the process. To invite Jesus. To invite vulnerability. To invite patience. To invite soul rest. Because with out it, I live in a world were I simply exist rather than live. Oscar Wilde wrote: "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." In these words live my anthem for the year. Inviting real living rather then just existing. Here’s to you, 2017 - and all the crazy, joyful, wild, heart-wrenching moments I’m sure you will bring with you.