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. 

shells.

Right there under my toes, there were hundreds upon thousands of broken pieces. Shattered and scattered amidst the ocean's sand. Their bright colors clashed against the black volcanic ash-like sand of the Nicaraguan shoreline, a sparkle of hope in darkness. As I walked alongside them, I couldn't help but somehow feel connected to these broken, battered, seemingly-useless shells.

Shells - these shells - their broken pieces press into the bottom of my tender feet and I feel them speaking their story. A story of being broken and shattered and completely undone by the ocean's harsh conditions. A story of being washed up onto the shore and completely forgotten as each passerby looks out to loud, screamingly beautiful sea. A story of being rejected as little hands forge through the delicate, broken pieces in search of the one or two that are whole. Because somehow being completely whole, without a single hole or scratch or missing piece has become the standard for beauty. Has become what our eyes are drawn to and long for and seek out.

I feel for these shells. That feeling of feeling completely unwanted - it slays you. But as I look closer at these million broken pieces, I feel something different swelling up in me. Because when I look, really look, the whole collection of broken pieces that are all right there together under my feet, it's just so dang beautiful. All these shells scattered together - big and small, broken and whole, loud and quiet, colored and muted - when they are all laid out in front of me, I can't help but notice their undeniable, unspeakable beauty. A kind of beauty that lets the soul breathe and the heart sigh and the eyes leak the holiest of tears.

This is the definition of beauty I need for my own life. When I get enough courage to truly look at all the broken pieces that make up my heart and soul and mind, that I would see grace, not shame. Hope, not darkness. Love, not guilt. Acceptance, not rejection. Beauty, not brokenness.

Because the truth of the matter is that no matter how broken life might feel, our broken pieces tell a story. Our story. My story. And these million little beautiful pieces that are scattered all around me - these are the million little ways that Jesus is whispering His beautiful love for me.

gratitude.

It was a Monday morning in January and we met together over frozen coffee drinks and warm croissants at our favorite coffee shop. We gabbed and laughed and caught up about all the craziness that had ensued in each of our lives over Christmas break. Then, quieting our souls and opening wide our hands, we prayed together - inviting the Spirit to enter in and speak to our hearts. And so He did.

Thankfulness. Gratitude. Thanksgiving. What do these things really mean and what do they mean for us as we stumble through this one grace-covered life? This is what we are going to dive into in these next months - she told me - this is what we need.

So in we dove. We studied. We prayed. We asked questions. We cried tears. Each Monday morning over coffee and croissants, there was a new wave of fresh air and fresh eyes to see thankfulness for what it truly was. A life line for the weary. A anchor of hope for the tired. A healing touch for the broken. A light for those hiding in darkness. And we kept a list. Oh, the list. Week after week after week of scratching and scribbling down those things for which we were thankful.

It became a nightly ritual for me. With my notebook and pen living next to my bed, each night I looked forward to looking back at the day to remember. To remember all the grace gifts I could give thanks for. This practice became as natural as breathing. So many nights falling into bed and turning out the light in pure exhaustion - only to find myself five minutes later with the light shining once again, pen and notebook in hand, simply listing and listing and listing. Eight hundred and twenty-seven things. That's a lot of grace in a mere ten months.

Pizza & Bachelor at Jen's house.
Morning light after run.
Riding in car with windows down at night.
Life coaching seminar.
"Let's All Be Brave" by Annie Downs
Andrew looking at rings for Ty.
Sunrise service.
Cali.
Psalm 27.
It's brave to be sad.
Watermelon smoothies at Bible study.
Thank you notes from 4th graders.
Soul touching book.
Spin classes.
Birthday celebration with Isa.
God's promises.
Harry Potter movies.
Romans 12:1.
Dancing at Elsa and Dito's wedding.
Being desperate for Jesus.
Papa's boots.
Grace's gift from Africa.
Milkshakes in movie theaters.
Writing letters.
New students at Young Life.
Girl's winning basketball game.
Honest conversations.
Salted Caramel Apple Pie bars.

To name a few. As our study wrapped up mid-May, the months continued to come crashing in with all their change and loss and grief and insecurity - but I continued to list. I continued to give thanks. I continued to look for grace. Partly because now it was habit but mostly because now I needed this list to survive. I need to know His goodness on days that are filled mostly with tears. I need to see His loving-kindness on days shadowed with doubt and insecurity. I need to be reminded of His grace on the days where I can't see past my own brokenness.

So I will continue to list out all the ways He loves me and I will continue to attempt to live out of this heart place of gratitude and thankfulness and thanksgiving. Without it, I melt into the doubt and fear and anxiety. But with it, I can visibly see His touches of grace that cover this whole and holy life.

fall.

I used to hate the fall. "Fall only means that winter is coming." - I would claim - "It just means colder temperatures and everything dulls and dies. Summer forever!" Throughout my college years I stood by this notion firmly. As my friends all cozied up and enjoyed the new brisk air coming through, I sulked and prepared for what seemed to me "the worst".

I used to hate the fall. Until I moved to country where seasons don't change and it really does feel like  summer forever. Nowadays autumn is one of the seasons that makes me the most homesick. I miss the changing colors, the not sweating every time you step outside, the flannel and scarves, the chill in the air. I miss the wrapping up in a blanket and bonfires and apple picking and fair food and ALL THE PUMPKIN SPICE. And the boots. Oh, how I miss the boots.

But this missing of the fall season goes so much deeper then just the frills that come along with it. I think on another level, my heart longs to see the physical proof that there can be beauty in brokenness. Because in reality when fall hits and temperatures drops, a lot of live things around us begin to die. The leaves changing and dropping from the trees really does signify that winter is coming. That darkness is upon us. That brokenness is all around.

But yet, somehow it's just so beautiful. There is always thankfulness in the brokenness. So really what I think I miss most about the fall is the healing that always awaited me there. That amidst the red and yellow and orange leaves falling, I was somehow falling more in love with Jesus. That as I wrapped that blanket around my shoulders, the Spirit of comfort would wrap itself around my heart. That as I drew close to hot cups of coffee and big, blazing bonfires to warm my fingers and toes, my heart was somehow drawn closer to Him to warm the colder places of my soul.

There's something to be said about the changing of seasons. Each one brings its own ups and downs and curveballs and joys - but autumn and all of it's healing { and let's be honest, all of it's pumpkin too } is one that I will continually miss the most.

wild & free.

I know I need to...but when I'm honest with myself, I don't really want to. Enter into my brokenness. Go towards the darkness. Walk towards the pain. Everything in me sends red flags and loud sirens straight to my heart. A stop sign flashes before my eyes - warning signals all around. Suddenly distractions come at me from every angle. My phone vibrates on the couch. I find my mug of coffee empty (and it was only my first!). My cat curls up next to me, asking for attention. My newest novel sits on the table in front of me, begging to be cracked open.

But I hear the truth sweetly whispering in my ears: Until I finally face the brokenness, I will never experience the healing I so desperately seek. Unless I can admit the loss that has come in this season of change and transition, I will continue to walk around wounded. With my heart bleeding and my soul crying and my mind weakening - making way for the sudden influx of lies and despair that seem to be seeping in.

"Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light." 

- Brené Brown

My friend has this quote tattooed across her side. There, permanently etched in black ink, just about as close to her heart as a tattoo could be. I see it there, from time to time, on beach trips or days spent by the pool. Each time I read it, it makes me sigh with relief and cringe with fear all at the same time.

I also see it on a daily basis - because my friend lives this way as well. Unafraid of her darkness. Confident that by entering in she will once again see and experience the light. She's so very brave, this friend of mine. And simply by living this out in a real and tangible way, she invites me to be just as brave. To face my darkness. Brokenness. Loss.

And to trust that on the other side, there is infinite light awaiting me. There is healing awaiting me. There is wild freedom awaiting me. So I take baby steps - poco a poco and little by little - but with each step I take, my heart grows a little lighter, a little wilder and a little more free.