the table

I write at a table. A small, rectangular dining room table, with four tall-backed chairs on the perimeter. This hand-me-down table has traveled all across the state with me. And the four chairs, with layers upon layers of white paint, hail from Iowa, just magically matches the table. I make it my goal to daily write at the table. But rarely do I reach my daily goal. The thing about writing at the table is that there's hardly any room at the table. To scoot around, shuffling what's already on the table, is a frustratingly tedious task. There just isn't enough room.

So I stop writing and sit on the couch. The large L-shaped sofa, with stains and ripped cushions, given to us from a neighbor, has been a place of solace. I read on the couch. I pinterest on the couch. I watch Netflix on the couch. I fold laundry on the couch. I talk with friends on the couch. I drink tea on the couch. But I do not write while sitting on the couch.

The table is for writing. The couch is not. The problem is that there's not enough room at the table for writing. There's not enough room at the table for me.

When there is no room, I don't make space, pulling up another chair, but rather I go sit on the couch. I deny the calling. I ignore the gift. I refuse to write. In a spirit of cynicism, I roll my eyes at the writing prompts, certain someone else has written about that already. The last thing I want to do is just add to the noise.

I like to be needed. I like to swoop in and save the day. I like to see a hole and fill it. I like to be valuable.

So if the table was cleared away and there was room for my computer, my cup of tea, and my strange analogies, then I would sit at the table. And I would write. I'd write about light shining in the darkness. I'd write about hope and fears. I'd write about lessons learned and memories made. I'd write about restoration and redemption. But when the space is already taken up, I see no need to add more.

But a few days ago, I heard an invitation. "There's room at the table. It all has already been said, but it hasn't been said by you, with your voice. This isn't a small table, there's room for you. We'll pull up another chair."

The table I write at isn't my small dining room table, filled with mail and planners and books and plates. The table I write at is a large table, with enough room for me.

I am not the only writer. I am not the most original. But I'm me. And no one else has said it or will say it just like me. My voice matters. There's room at the table.

Your voice matters too. You have something to say. You are one-of-a-kind and you are valuable. And I've pulled up a chair for you. There's room for you at the table.

notice of action

With each passing day, the frustration and fear mounted, the patience and peace shrunk. There were days filled with prayers and conversations and what-ifs. And there were some days where life carried on as usual.

And one day, lying in the mailbox, a simple letter. Trembling fingers shred the envelop to reach the contents. And I read the three simple words that I have been waiting for.

Notice of Action.

Those words were a tall glass of water to my dry, thirsty soul. Almost a year behind my schedule of how I thought things should move along, I finally read the words that confirmed the process is indeed in motion. The case brought before the government, the months of waiting and wondering, and finally here in writing there's approval of my petition.

Notice of Action.

I imagine I'm not the only one who's ever deeply longed for a "Notice of Action." Usually, there's a spirit of anticipation at first. An excitement looms, a turning stomach wondering the impending possibilities. The mind dreams fortunate circumstances. At first, looking forward to something sets self-examination in motion to prepare oneself.

But the waiting doesn't end quickly. Progress stalls though the clocks ticks on.

In the middle of waiting, feeling stuck and hopeless, a sigh is breathed and a prayer is muttered. The empty inbox. One line instead of two on the test. The silent phone. The for sale sign stays up.

I've had my fair share of waiting, and it's never been pretty. From graduations, to job interviews, to proposals, waiting has freckled the story of my life. And rarely have I waited well. I worry and complain and make cynical comments. It's one thing to wait for something that has a date: graduation, wedding, vacation. It's an entirely different thing to wait for something you're not sure will actually come to fruition: the job offer, the date with the cute boy, the greencard.

But waiting is the only option. Notice of Actions cannot be constructed on this earth. No, with all my waiting, it's this last season that I've learned more than any other season, that I cannot manufacture the Notice of Action I desperately long for.

This season of waiting hasn't been easy. Though we've received one letter, we're only one-third of the way through the process. Despite the first Notice of Action, there are more unknowns and questions and fears.

I don't understand the purpose of the waiting. I don't always display immense trust and peace. And I don't like the fact that the process still isn't completed. But I have to believe that my God is a God of Action. I have to believe that though everything in my life is at a standstill, another notice of action will come to me. Maybe later, rather than sooner, but the notice will come.

Because God is living and active. I have to believe He's working in this situation. I have to believe He's working in your situation too. There may not be rustling leaves, or the growl of a motor, or a letter in the mail, or a kick from within...but God is on the move. May peace flood your soul as you wait well, trusting the character of God, despite your current circumstance.

enemies in the dining room

A few weeks ago, I spent some time with a dear friend from college. A beautiful, passionate lover of Jesus, coffee, and adventures. This woman is one of the bravest I know. As we caught up on life, she shared her current reads and the wonderings stirring around in her heart. We re-called a beloved text, Psalm 23, where she pointed out the phrase, "you prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies." And it was there, in the middle of a lodge at a camp in the middle of nowhere that iron was sharpened. "What if God is inviting me to His table? And what if He's extending the invitation to my worst enemies...my pride, my laziness, my sarcasm, and my anger?"

Oh these enemies I have spent years ignoring, running from, and sweeping under the rug! I've hidden from the enemies, suppressing their existence and concealing their stench with obnoxious behavior modification. But here's what I'm noticing about the enemies in my life. The enemies are always lurking in the dining room. They hover in the corner, under the chair, and over the light fixture. They sneer and jab and frustrate. They scoff and jeer and flout. Enemies epitomize darkness. They are the antagonist of your aspirations, the prosecutor of your progress, the defamer of your disposition. How often I despise the darkness. I malign the murkiness. I spurn the shadows. And I can't really run from these enemies. They seem to be as near as the sweat in my pores.

We mused on...perhaps it's at His table, in His presence, that the True Light can shine forth and dispel the darkness within. Light, in it's truest sense, illuminates the obscurity that flourishes in the dark shadows.

So maybe there's a light on in the dining room. Maybe the dining room is the safest place to stare my enemies in the face. Maybe transformation happens at God's table. Maybe it's at the table of God that the masks can be removed, the hiding can halt, and the truth can be revealed. Just maybe...

And when the luminous energy glistens across the dining space, restoration becomes reality. Perhaps under the pride is deep confidence in a big and mighty God. Beneath the laziness is contentment and freedom from striving or proving my worth. Under the sarcasm is hilarious wit, past the interrupting is zeal to participate in sharing life, and beyond the anger is passion and desire for justice in the world. Is it possible that the deep craving to be right is a reflection of the character of the Righteous One who clothes me?

I don't know for sure if this reflection is dependable, but I do know Jesus is the Truth. I know the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can't overcome it. And I know God has met with His beloved around the table for years now. So I'm going to keep saying yes to the invitation to dinner. I'm going to show up, present and attentive. I'm going to take the mask off and rest in genuine acceptance. And I'll experience transformation..because that's God's specialty.

caterpillars and butterflies

A few weeks ago I read about caterpillars and butterflies.

Caterpillars are butterfly larvae. Baby butterflies. Immature. Underdeveloped. Juvenile. Tender. Unfinished. Infantile. Rudimentary.

Caterpillars mature through a series of stages of growth and change, "instars" insect lovers call them. At the end of each instar, there's this process of shedding the old skin or shell that no longer fits or is useful. This molting is renewal at its finest for the purpose of new growth.

The DNA of the caterpillar and the butterfly are the exact same. Sure, there are genes that are turned on and off at different stages of its life cycle, but each cell at every moment has the same DNA.

What an incredible Maker! "God has wired into a creature looking nothing like a butterfly a perfectly complete butterfly identity. And because the caterpillar is a butterfly in essence, it will one day display the behavior and attributes of a butterfly. The caterpillar matures into what is already true about it." ("The Cure" by John Lynch, Bruce McNicol, & Bill Thrall)

And so I considered. I considered the way that's true for us humans. I considered the word justification. I considered depending on Jesus' completed work on the cross that has made me a new creature. I considered a life of security in God. I considered what shame looks like in my relationship with God. I considered the distorted way I view God. I considered accepting the invitation to mature. I considered rejecting the all-too-familiar striving self-effort. I considered the word regeneration. I considered the risk of living in the freedom of this. I considered grasping the weight of this truth. I considered joining God in what He knows is true about me.

What a discrepancy...between who I appear to be and who I really am.

And so I went on a hike. In flip flops. And I asked God, "Is it really true I'm a new creation? Has the old really gone and the new come? I don't feel like a pretty butterfly, or even a maturing caterpillar with the DNA of a butterfly. Can I really develop and grow and eventually display the behavior and attributes of a butterfly? This marriage thing is refining and I see more muck in my life than ever before. Did your work on the cross really change my life? Am I now identified as a saint or a sinner?"

And then, flittering right in front of my face...a butterfly.

Mere coincidence I thought...until along that hike, I saw 7 more butterflies. And in the smallest, most significant way, God spoke to me. The butterflies along the trail were words of truth, comfort and promise to my soul.

Weeks since that walk, I still don't have answers to all my questions, no, the wrestling continues. But maybe that's what this following Jesus thing is about, not a confirmation to every wondering inside me, but rather a showing up and continuing on this journey. So in the midst of maturing, I show up. In the wrestling that makes me weary, I show up. On the walks through nature I show up. And I consider. I continue on and I keep asking God questions. And every once in awhile, I see a butterfly, a promise to the deep, girly part of me that is God saying "I know who you are and who you're becoming. I care and I'm near."

carpet stain

I remember coming home that night, exhausted and hungry, my sister & I raided the fridge before heading to bed. I remember my mom meeting us in the kitchen, asking us how our night of babysitting went. I remember my mom saying her head hurt and that she was going back to bed. And I remember the sound of her body tumbling down the stairs. I remember my sister screaming and us racing down the stairs after my mom. I remember seeing her laying on the floor, a pool of blood by her head...

I folded the washcloth again and continued scrubbing the blood-stained carpet. I thought of my dad speeding to the hospital, ignoring every stop sign. I thought of my mom lying helpless on a gurney with tubes galore. I thought of planning a funeral, filling the church with yellow daisies. I thought of how upset my mom would be if the blood permanently stained the new carpet. I thought of having to call my other sisters and retell the story. I thought of the play I was supposed to see the next day, and how I'd probably have to miss it.

But then my sister interrupted my thoughts, "Knock it off, that's not important right now." She was right. What's a little blood when you're not sure your mom is going to survive? But at one in the morning that's all my eleven year old self could think to do. Somebody had to clean the mess, so I took responsibility.

See, responsibility is this weighty feeling of obligation that has served and plagued me my entire life. Unable to name it until recently, I understand now why I've spent years scrubbing the stain in the carpet. I've felt responsible. Not responsible for the accident and injury, but responsible for cleaning up the mess.

And so for years now, I've tried to clean up the mess. I became a nurse to be equipped to take care of my parents, helping them to avoid the nursing home. I tried to clean up the mess. I changed careers and focused on real health, finding the cause and removing interference. I tried to clean up the mess. I've scrubbed and scrubbed and argued and cried and made suggestions and pleas.

The more I've wrung out the washcloth and continued scrubbing the blood-stained carpet, the more weary, jaded, and bitter I've become. I've clung so tightly to my responsibility to fix my mom's health concerns, clean up the mess, and make it all better.

This weekend, I let my mind wander back to that dreaded night. I replayed each scene over and over, exactly as it occurred. But then, as I recalled scrubbing the carpet, Jesus appeared, though not like a ghost, but as if He'd always been in that room. It was here, in the midst of the memory, I heard the words, "Let Me clean up the mess." And I handed Him the bloody washcloth.

I admitted I don't have what it takes to clean the stain. I raised my white flag and said "I'm done." I'm done exhausting myself. I'm done taking responsibility for something that's not my responsibility. I'm done trying to be the hero, the redeemer of this story. I'm done.

And I'm beginning. I'm beginning to leave the washcloth out of my hands. I'm beginning to discern my true responsibility. I'm beginning to learn what it means to be a daughter. And I'm beginning to trust that God redeems stories and people. I'm just beginning...

repugnant elephants

It was so gradual and undercover that I didn't even know it was happening. There were few words and much space between interactions. And here I am, 4 years later, bitter and sad and lonely and dried up. I am filled with fear, walling myself up so as to never open up and be hurt again. I am angry and filled with the need to be right. I'm unable and unwilling to move first, to humble myself and say "sorry"; the word I don't mean. I'm jealous and so busy comparing and competing...all the while, knowing that I've lost. And I'm aware. Aware this resentment is hurting me so badly...making me a person I hardly recognize; scared to really address the issue and choose healing and grace. I am busy with work and duties and serving and cooking and cleaning. I am upset and full of self-pity, resentful and offended. I am holding deeply this grudge. But mostly, I am sad. 

I deeply miss my friend. The one who watched way too many Hallmark Christmas movies with me. The one who would kick my butt to exercise and eat healthier. The one who took trips with me to Wal-Mart, to fill my basket with things not on my list. The chipper, easy going, comic relief. The calm, intelligent, loyal friend. The open-minded, stylish, food-lover. This person made me want to be more joyful. She made me want to love my family better. She made me want to be a better learner, a better friend, and a better baker. 

And then life happened. She hurt me. And I hurt her too. And we didn't talk. And something deep inside of me took root. Self-pity, the feather mattress that seemed so snug and cozy. Coddled and emotionally unavailable, I felt sorry for myself, replaying the sad story of how my friend hurt me. Telling myself she is mad at me for changing professions..for falling in love and letting my friendships slip...for overstepping my bounds...for not responding to texts...for becoming a different person. That soft, fluffy mattress initially felt so comfy, until I woke one morning and realized I haven't had a restful night of sleep in years because that mattress is really so hard and uncomfortable. The pitiful need to be right was suffocating. The resentment was hurting me more than anyone else.

And that morning, I thought of our last time together, all alone as she curled my hair on my wedding day. I asked her for her best marriage advice. She said, "When you're in the middle of a fight remember, you're not always right."

So I called her, stomach turning and head pounding. She picked up the phone and we talked and laughed and shared funny stories, and potential opportunities, and scary fears, and secret joys. And then I brought it up. The gray, crusty, nasty elephant that has been stinking and filling my heart with lies and grudges. And we apologized and cried and forgave and cleaned the slate. 

And this work of opening the window and shining light on this old, pathetic story of a dark, damp cellar of resentment has been one of the most healing, transforming things God has done in my life.

What freedom and peace and joy there is in truth and forgiveness! What healing and restoration and comfort in authenticity and humility!

I'm just beginning to learn this, but what a breakthrough for me to discover that the destructive forces of the ugly bitterness don't compare to the power of the light shining truth and forgiveness  into the darkness.  


What dark, revolting elephant have you been dwelling with? What steps do you need to take today to open the shades and let the light shine in?

broken owls

I have this owl. It's small and beautiful and black and teal. It holds a tealight candle and it's old. Normally, this sentimental girl hoards unnecessary trinkets because of the story behind these dust collectors. But this owl, there's no story about it. It was in a box in the storage room at my parents' and I happened upon it. I didn't even like owls. But it was love at first sight.

So I took this owl, because I treat the storage room at my parents' like my mom's jewelry box, free for all. For three years this owl sat on my bookcase, collecting dust. How beautiful.

Except I live in a furnace, also known as a small apartment on the 10th floor. And "cool" is 77 degrees. So E leaves the window open. It's a good thing, except that we live in the city windier than Chicago. As chance would have it, one night the owl blew off the bookcase and shattered.
And I was upset. Stupid upset. With myself, the wind, E, and the furnace I live in. Foolish.

How tightly I clung to and treasured this owl! Unbeknownst to me, this little owl nestled itself deep into my heart. In the midst of my frustration, a phrase came to my mind:

Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

We all have owls. Dust collectors, greenbacks, post-nominal letters, kith and kin, idols. These owls entangle our emotions, often so subtly. Our human hearts are idol factories. Our hearts are wells gushing forth all issues of life. How we long for satisfaction and security. How enthralled we are with the temporary. How quick we are to stockpile the fleeting things of this earth.

The place where our treasure is, is the place we will most want to be, and end up being.

So may the Spirit blow these owls off the bookshelves of our lives and remind us of real treasure. May the scales on our eyes be shattered as we see our hearts more clearly. May worms and moths destroy. May burglars ransack and pilfer. May the heaping up of stuff just stop. And may we catch a vision of real Life. May we gaze upon the Eternal and store up treasures in heaven.

busy

The go-to answer people use to describe how they're doing. The number one excuse people use. The default lament. It's an addiction spurned by fear, anxiety, or ambition. And of course it's addicting...the feelings of importance. The glorification of a productive week. The pride of crossing something off a list. The reassurance of meaningfulness. Full schedules, innumerable obligations, noisy phones...hysteria. This current reality of so many Americans isn't inevitable, it's a choice.

This state of being ridiculously busy is self-imposed.

Richard Foster once wrote, "We are too busy only because we want to be too busy."

Oh, how we love to be busy! How we love to spout off lists of things we've accomplished in one day. How we delight in having to keep it all straight in fancy, cute day planners. How we long for alerts in our phone to remind us of the next important thing we have to run to.

And how we love to run! From the minute the alarm goes off in the morning to the race in our minds as our head hits the pillow at the end of the day, we're running. We treat every task, text, and thought as if it's the very most important, emergent duty. And so we run, with our lips, our hands, our minds, we run. And we run fast. Fast is the only speed.

How attractive.

How exciting.

How addicting.

How exhausting.

How dry.

How sad.

What a web of lies we've tangled ourselves in; lies that if we're busy, we're important. Lies that if we're moving fast, we're productive. Lies that if our schedule is full, we're living a full life. Lies that if we're busy, we're worthy.

"Beware the barrenness of a busy life." Socrates

May you be brave enough today to step off the hamster wheel. May you be disciplined enough to leave the phone silenced during dinner. May you refrain from sighing as you slow down for, yet another, red light. May you chew your food 30 times, savoring the flavor. May you answer the question "How are you?" without using the word "busy". May you learn to say no. And may you find your worth in something other than your full schedule.