It’s Holy Week and, like years past, I’m stuck on resurrection. I’m dwelling on the areas of my life that feel so dead, so very much over, so that door has been slammed shut. And the resurrection they preach of on Sunday mornings means new life and second chances and healing and restoration in those areas of life, right? Resurrection means life conquers death and God reigns, hallelujah, amen. Resurrection means it’s all going to be okay. Right? Right??
I always feel a little guilty, come Easter. I’m always reminded that God brings LIFE and He LIVES and we should never forget He can BRING LIFE TO THE DEAD. Every year I feel bad about the areas in my life where I, resignedly, claimed death. Endings. Donezo. El fin. Areas of life I had given up on, places I knew would never be fixed, relationships and people that would never be part of my future. And Easter Sunday would come and I’d think, okay, okay – maybe there’s life still to be had here. Maybe these bones will come to life. Maybe God will breath new life into these ashes.
But what if resurrection is something else? What if some of those doors that slammed shut stay shut? What if some of those broken relationships remain broken? What if God meets us in the death and destruction, sits down with us in the ashes – and instead of breathing new life, He simply points the way out. Read More
I’m not the biggest new year’s resolutions person (I find they typically involve weight loss and equally get forgotten about), but I do love dreaming up when the new year can hold.
The latest craze, that I love, is choosing a word for the new year. One word. Focusing on it, digging deep into it, maybe reading a book or two on it or learning its origin. For the less nerdy, possibly just writing it on the front of their journal and calling it a day? One word. One. As much as I love this idea, I keep failing at it. I keep getting four.
Last year I tried so, so hard. I really did. I still got four. Maybe it’s my indecisiveness. Maybe it’s my love for words. I think it has more to do with a sneaky God who keeps reminding me it’s okay to live my life outside the lines I create for myself. Fine, Jesus, whatever – four it is. So this year, when they were spoken into my life, I didn’t even put up a fight. Yup. YUP. That’s it. That’s me. That’s 2017. Read More
The music was taking me back to another time, as music tends to do. Lyrics that hold so much hope, so much truth. Lyrics that shaped my middle school angst, my high school worries. Lyrics that hold more memories than I know what to do with. They were all coming flooding back as Relient K and Switchfoot switched from new stuff to old stuff to really old stuff to the somewhat new stuff. It took me on the sweetest trip down memory lane, but it also reminded me how much words matter. How much artists putting words to feelings matter. How much these specific words have mattered to me, in different seasons of life.
It was four days before my 25th birthday – the tickets a birthday present from my brother. 25 is a strange year, as you’re a legitimate adult now and should probably know and do lots of adult-y things… and yet you’re kinda just making it up as you go (I hear most of adulthood is like this, I’ll keep you posted). You feel a little on the young side still – you aren’t 30, after all. But you feel a little on the old side – it only takes 20 minutes with 20 years olds to make me crave an 8:00pm bed time.
I haven’t been dreading turning 25 at all – I think life is a gift and another year older is never something to complain about. But I have been feeling this upcoming birthday. 25. Quarter of a century. Halfway to 50. It’s been drawing near and I can’t help but start asking questions. Is this it? Am I doing it right? Should I change anything?
In the midst of these questions, seven days before my birthday the unthinkable happened. The week leading up to my birthday was a strange twilight zone: a time warp of memories of my youth and proof that I’ve aged, dreaming big dreams and settling for lower standards, so much celebrating and so much mourning. Read More
I wish I could tell you more about my grandma.
I’m the youngest grandchild. This probably means I was spoiled in some way, as I was the last baby to cuddle, the last toddler to dress up, the last little kid. I don’t remember any of that – I just remember being the last to grow up. The last to be old enough to play with the big kids, the last to be mature enough for the adult table. It also meant I had the least amount of time with my grandparents, the least amount of memories stored up. When I was only 13 and my grandfather passed away, I remember being bitter my older family members got more time with him. My brother and cousins got his presence at graduations and promotions; he would never be at mine. They got more opportunities to ask him questions. They got more time.