I woke around 4:30am, and started my usual morning routine. Pouring the coffee. Splashing my face with cold water, washing and waking up. Then it’s on to my prayer spot, a chair where I sit to read, listen, pray, write.
This morning I decided to get a few of the morning’s tasks ready too. With the phone’s flashlight in my one hand, I got the water bottles out of the dishwasher and the cupboard and started filling them with fresh cool water from the fridge. I prefer that one because it at least has some kind of filter, which is presumably catching some impurities.
As I filled them this morning, one of the cups I hadn’t rinsed well enough and it bubbled with extra dish soap. That made me chuckle, there are worse things. But I had to rinse and try again.
The next water bottle didn’t bubble up. But as the flashlight caught it, I saw a film of impurities circling along the top. Not big soapy bubbles. Not tiny moving air bubbles. A film, that would be all but undetected in the morning or daylight.
But here in the dark, under the flashlight, I could see it.
How long had it been this way, I don’t know. It’s a newer water bottle. Perhaps it’s some chemicals leftover from production? Maybe it’s from the dishwasher, a residue from the harsh cleaning agents that are used there? I don’t know. It made me shudder, and physically that’s a whole other discussion.
But spiritually, that’s a good one too.
I thought isn’t this just what I’m doing? Here in the morning, in the dark, with only my flashlight on. I’m coming to sit and to be filled up with fresh water.
I am not looking for impurities, but they rise to the top, too, before daylight and responsibilities flood in. Before I care to try to look for them. Before I’ll be poured out as a drink for anyone else- my family, friends, anyone.
There’s a God who cares enough about me that He not only fills me to overflowing, He washes away the gunk too while He fills me. He wants my water to be fresh too.
I am not trying to look for things with my flashlight. I am not trying to fix myself. It’s not something I can really do.
It’s only His love that fixes and fills me. And as I sit, to be filled, I will be, washed. Filled with Love.
So I will not stare at the residue, I will not be overwhelmed, I will not hold on to it. I will not even need to figure out where it all came from. I might decide what to be careful of next time. But that isn’t the whole point here. Not now.
I will let Him pour His life giving Love into me, through me, and the let the water of His Holy Spirit wash me.
I will let go of the impurities. I will let Him refresh me again and again.
Until He washes -and keep washing-away all of the sediment and other “cleaning products” that clearly don’t make me clean. I will let Him fill me to overflowing. And I will keep coming back for more.
I will never not be thirsty, but I won’t let myself stay that way. Because I will let myself be filled.
In John 14, Jesus replied, “If you only knew the gift God has for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water.”
“But sir, you don’t have a rope or a bucket,” she said, “and this well is very deep. Where would you get this living water?” Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.”
One thing that happened over my break/fast from social media was something glorious. It didn’t stem from those forty days, it was a lot longer of a journey than that, but its culmination happened towards the tail end of it. It’s something some of you may know about, some of you may be surprised to hear, and maybe, others might be surprised that it wasn’t actually true yet. Either way, it’s okay and good, and I’d like to share a little of the journey with you, if you’ll care to hear. This Easter weekend I was confirmed into the Catholic Church.
I’ve been going to mass for the last, almost 23 years, since I started dating my husband. I was raised Protestant, mostly, though I was Baptized Catholic, and I remember going to mass as a young kid. After my parent’s divorce and my mom’s sadness with everything that happened, she continued going to church but joined a separate Bible study. Even though it was a woman’s Bible study, she really met a man that changed her life. Jesus! She knew Him, of course, over the years but something changed when she really got to know Him there, surrounded by a group of wonderful women in the next town over. They welcomed her warmly, and all became a second family to us.
We stopped going to Catholic mass shortly after that and started attending a different non- denominational church. Away from the pain and story of her upbringing years, God continued to meet my mom in new ways. That set me up to meet Him too, from a very young age.
Somewhere in that transitions time I “met Him” deeply, at a passion play. I was overcome at the sight of Him on the cross and His unimaginable love. I “gave my life” over to the Lord, as much as that is possible at the age of four. Since then, Jesus has always been THE MOST important person in my life- even if I forgot at times or acted like this wasn’t really the case. He never forgets a promise.
He’s been my ever-faithful companion since. I went to Bible college, attended Sunday school and Christian school from sixth grade on up. I held my of my own misunderstandings about the (many!) different denominations over the years. We each tend to think that we are or have the right ones. I had acquired misperceptions about Catholics or that particular church over the years myself, which I’m sad to admit. But any “accusations” could be made about any person in any church- if one cares to do that kind of thing.
Where our feet go doesn’t matter as much as where our heart does, every day. Whatever seat we take on a Sunday doesn’t matter any more than the one we take to sit or stand in judgement, or to kneel in grace before.
God doesn’t check the sign on a church door before He comes to meet us, or to woo you. He isn’t bothered by our own hang ups or pre-conceived notions. He breaks down, breaks through ALL the barriers in our minds -and hearts- if we let Him. He shows up at Catholic Church and Protestant church and temples and synagogues. He even shows up at bars and bowling alleys and anywhere people are, because He cares that much. Nothing can stop His pursuit of us. It’s only when we allow Him in that He expands to fill US, whatever and wherever we are.
It took me a long time to really realize this. To break down some of my own pre-conceived notions or built up ideals. It really didn’t matter if I checked all the right boxes, the ones that people pointed out, or proposed to be the most important. That would only PERHAPS, set me up to know Him more. I could only KNOW HIM more- if I let myself.
So when I met a wonderful man, who loved his parents, loved God, and loved me, plus he lived a whole-healthy lifestyle, it felt like a grand trifecta. And it was. But questions came. “Isn’t He Catholic? Aren’t you Protestant?”
Even though it looked like a stumbling block at first glance, and maybe even second and third, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this may be right, good, and exactly where God was leading us. To build life together, even if we didn’t totally “match up” in all the details. Did we really have to?
I remember the exact moment where he asked me what my family thought. I knew they thought a lot of things or at least had questions. ‘What would this look like later when you have kids? And how would this work?”
In that moment I decided that I wasn’t going to let other people’s questions or hangups, or worries even become my own. I knew that this thing, this relationship, this person right in front of me, had more potential than any labels we each came into it with. We shared the same Jesus and somehow He would make our paths- our path, potentially- beautiful and right. I didn’t have to figure it all out. I let go of some things, mostly a need to control, I followed my heart. I was right, and it was good.
We got married in the church. The same one his parents were married in. We have always attended catholic mass. I have found it comforting, and sacred- a quiet, holy practice of my faith. I felt the Lord deeply most times. I’d be the one quietly crying and keeping it together, letting my silent Protestant ways sneak out. I didn’t miss some of the activity and circumstance of the more charismatic service that I went to. I found that the quieter masses suited me, a recovering student and participant of much more dramatic spiritual exercises. Not saying that either were right or wrong, good or bad, it was just me. I found God in the more solitary walk through the church experience the next 20 years or so. Or really, He found me. As He is apt to do. God remained so real, most important, always my life line. Sometimes even my first stop (notice the tongue in my truthful, humbled, bitten cheek.)
Through varying degrees and twists and turns of life and my own experiences, God always remained my confidant and The True North of my soul. I always loved Him- even if sometimes more passionately than others. It is Him who remained constant. He met me in mass, He met me as I was driving or running or walking or working. He loved me always, and He truly listened. He always always always cared for me, and most of the time, I saw it.
There’s a lot of healing that has to happen for us in life I think, a byproduct of being human and misunderstandings and misalignments. We are constantly bombarded with less-than stories and soliloquies that try to omit God from our thoughts and minds. Our hearts are ever wandering, looking for the One who loves us, and seeks us still. We get a little off track sometimes, or a lot. I’m so grateful that we don’t have to wait for Him to love us. Because He already- and always- does. What unimaginable grace. What an unfathomable way.
So over the years, as God has always pursued me, I went through my own highs and lows of distraction and blessings and heartache, I felt comfortable there in those pews, and only vaguely wondered if I’d ever “join the church”. They have rules about communion, you see, and good or bad from anybody perspective, you’ve gotta respect that they have a process. (Heck, you have to jump through more hoops to get a license than you do to take communion in so many places. Good or bad, most people don’t understand what it’s all about or even means. I respect that the Catholic church wants to maintain that it to mean something, and wants you to enter into communion that goes beyond just “taking communion.” It is a sacred thing, and body of Christ that we’re talking about, after all.)
So there is a process – of affirmation and conversion in a sense, (though I don’t feel like I’ve “converted”, but I’m becoming, more of what Christ wants for me to be.) There is a real discipleship that happens, and if you choose to go through the process, you are welcomed with open arms (and I can see that as true, no matter where you are when you start).
This process, called RCIA, it is purely voluntary, it requires self reflection and study, as well as prayer and seeking God. Whatever the outcome one may think that they seek in life necessarily, that process is a very good one!! He will often take us places we don’t expect.
Well, in the years of attending mass, I would talk with the Lord during communion. We communicated about it. I occasionally even took it, though I knew I wasn’t exactly “supposed to.” Most of all, I always understood and knew, that IF it was ever time to commit to the process or think about going through it, I would *know*.
That time never came until the morning of our daughter’s first communion. As I stood there, fully supportive, and deeply involved in her faith journey and discovery, I crossed my hands over my arms. I knew the process she had just gone through, and I knew it would be a disservice to take it myself with going through it too. Properly, personally, myself.
I can’t describe it except to say that in that moment I felt like the men walking to Emmaus. My heart was burning within me. I said those words later, even to describe it. What I forgot was, the men walking with the resurrected Jesus were some of His believers, His disciples (even though not one of the twelve.) They didn’t recognize Jesus even as they talked about Him and what had happened. In the next scene they were all back in the upper room together and when Jesus broke the bread and gave them the wine, THAT WAS WHEN THEY SAW and RECOGNIZED HIM.
It is not lost on me that this all was happening as I was, walking close with the Lord, closer than ever maybe. I was sharing about Him, writing, teaching, and talking about Him. I was, meeting with Him every day myself, in a real and profound way. As I walked, I met Him more and more.
So I guess in a way this Emmaus story feels a bit like my story, too. I keep meeting Christ along the way. He keeps revealing Himself to me in new ways, and I am forever grateful. It’s been a long journey, and I’m a slow learner, but I am grateful for His timing, and for the ability to come into full communion in a church and a community that has grown so dear to me.
I’ll be finishing the journey of almost a year- from burning heart, to deciding, to following through. To meeting, to joining others along the way, discussion, prayer and study. Now, we’ll all be ready for full communion, from Easter, onward. There are people of all stages and types of background in my group this past year. Some were raised without religion, or baptized in another denominational, or raised in the church but not confirmed- any number of scenarios, different for each person. For a variety of reasons and circumstances, each one of us wanted to fully participate now in the Catholic Church and in the sacraments. One of my favorites stories is one of the gentleman among us who is so smart and studied. In all of his study of philosophy, he found that there really was something about this God and the Jesus found in the Bible. He googled churches near him and found his way to a pew that I share often. God in His great love, is actively at work!
I’ve leaned a lot, shed even some more misperceptions, and realized that we are the Church, we all are a part of body of Christ.
No matter what kind of pew we sit in.
No matter what the sign on the door of the church.
No matter our talents or giftings.
No matter our disagreements or struggles.
We work well when we work together. When we recognize Jesus, standing and walking right beside us, holding and drawing us all together- closer to Himself. There are “cradle Catholics” and there are wandering Protestants and there are wandering Methodists.
I don’t care what you call yourself or what church you go to necessarily. Just that you meet and follow that guy. The main on, Who is Jesus. When we can see and recognize Him, that is the One, the main thing, the Truth that heals us and binds us all together, if we’ll allow. That is what really matters, more than any of the details we get so easily caught up arguing over. He binds us together in His more perfect Love.
So here I am now with my family, able to more fully participate in an expression of faith, our expression. I’m tucked in here between the years our two kids will or did take their first communion, and that feels really special. The parents don’t always have to be the ones that lead. This is where God has me, where He has us, and I’m so grateful for it all. Grateful for the community, for the journey, that I didn’t resist it or pump the brakes, even if it took me a while to get “here.”
I didn’t have to figure it all out, God already did. I just had to stumble, trip my way back to follow His heart – which is always beating. That wants us all be together, in Him.
This doesn’t mean that I think you or anyone else needs to follow me “to the Catholic Church”. I think that you should follow Jesus- wherever HE leads you. That’s the Divine alignment that matters MOST OF ALL. He knows where you’re destined for and to be- most of all WITH HIM. The details-the what, where, when and how? They’ll figure themselves out. Just keep finding and discovering, the true and loving God who sees you and who has a plan for your life.
His plans are so good. Wherever He leads you, I know truly, that the body of Christ, we will cheer one another on. We will recognize one another more- not for what the name we give ourselves or what it says on our church door. But for the Christ that draws us, to Himself and one another. The Christ that lives inside of us, that wants us to be one, in Him. A part of the Church, His body, and hopefully a part of a community that He has for you, wherever we are.
Don’t be afraid, don’t get caught up in the less important details. Just keep following Him, for He knows the way. He knows how to sort us all out.
The verse comes to mind, that’s tucked in at the very end of the book of John, where some of the disciples were asking about the “beloved” John. Jesus says “if I wanted to remain alive until I return, what does it to you? As for you, follow me.” There were misinterpretations about that two sentence phrase. It says in the next verse that rumors spread and they wondered if John might not ever die. “But that isn’t what Jesus said” the scripture confirms. In all of the arguing about the details, they forgot the most important part. “As for you, follow Me.”
I care about your soul, but I’m not concerned with denominations so much. I just know that He is so faithful and so kind and so very good. I hope that you can find and follow Him, more deeply, too. Wherever He’s leading you, or will. He doesn’t have any of the prejudices or worries or doubts that we pick up along the way.
Let’s meet Him again at the foot of the cross, and lay it all before Him there. Where He defeated death and hell, and anything less than Love. That’s what matters most of all.
We went to church on a Sunday. We drove all day to get there and part of the one before. It was afternoon when we got their evening when we left. But the lights turned on while we sat there. The warm glow of Christmas that had already begun, started burning brighter.
It wasn’t really a church, or truly, it was. An old church with a new name and the same mission. The Hope that strings back through generations and hold us all together. Hope that invites us and the heartbreak of being human.
And music.
Amy Grant and Vince Gill took the stage together at the Ryman- a couple, with a couple of powerhouse careers- and they shared their time, talents, and a Christmas concert with so many of us. A packed house, plus a few more shows.
I’ve loved her for decades stretching back to the 80’s and love her Christmas stuff best. I even walked down the aisle to a song from one of her albums- an instrumental, but still. The love and tradition run deep. Turns out my husband loved Vince from about that long ago too, as he drove around the south during his football coaching career.
Vince and Amy got married the year before we met each other and here we all were together, 23 years later.
Tennessee Christmas has always been one of my very favorites and here we were all together as our little family of four. We sang it on the road, and our son declared it his favorite (only later to be dethroned by Jingle Bells, but still.) Now we sat on church pews and heard it live and sang along softly, a memory, a wish in the making.
We tried two other times to get here, and it didn’t happen. Yet how here we all were, old enough to enjoy it, young enough to care and still a Family. I don’t know if it was the timing or the wait or forgetting it was even possible. Maybe it was all of those things. But even so. It was magical.
I cried a few rivers of tears at some of the songs, especially Amy’s. Vince waxed long and meaningful about his dad, who had passed on. His life and parenting style was a bit harsh but his memory played several strings on Vince’s heart, you could see. He honored him on his birthday, that very day we sat there together. Amy shared what seemed like a real gratitude for us all coming together, and you could feel the force of the stories we each carried.
The thing I loved most of all I think, besides remembering my times spent listening to the songs and past Christmases, was watching my kids here in the present – on the edge of their seats, elbows propped up on the pew in front of them. Faces reflecting the glow of lights on the stage. Eyes filled with wonder. Lips whispering along to the songs they knew. One’s love waxes super long for music, the other loves it too, though he fell asleep on my lap. I can only hope they carry these memories forward with them too. The warm music, shared experiences. The feelings, of being here, together with our family.
I hope that the thoughts keep them warm some night when the wind blows cold and the usual feelings fade. I hope these memories come to warm them, like all the best memories do.
I know that these memories will keep me warm long after they’re grown, maybe possibly snuggling their own children who are sleeping on their laps. Someday, somehow.
I hope it’s somewhere really good. In a church. In a house. In a warm theater. Wherever they are, in their hearts, hopefully, home. So sacred there, it almost feels like a church. And surely, somehow, it is.
In so many wonders wonderful ways it is. Where God is there with us too. That’s the real “magic” of living, of loving.
There’s something about live music and this one happened to hit so many high notes for us, as a family, shared and separate, old and now new, and Christmas too. By the end we were all standing and singing, silent night. And “holy night” voices raised, and a few arms. Holy night it was, indeed.
We stepped out into the cool night air in the middle of downtown Nashville. The lights had indeed, all come on. As we walked away from the beautiful stained glass windows of the church, I did, know, that the night was special. That I’ll be holding it closely too.
What memories are you holding, close, or making this year too? I’d really love to hear yours too🫶🏻❤️🙏🏻🎄
We were planting daffodils this afternoon, my kids and I were.
A mere fifteen years after I first intended.
We also found out while we were out that the little girl that lived across the street has now given birth to her first baby. Life is wild and Mr. Time sure flies like that.
But here I was, finally implementing and planting some not so big dreams that were also too big, apparently, to accomplish. It seems to be the theme of my life sometimes.
I may be quick to notice a need, a willing volunteer, wanting to be a conduit for goodness. But sometimes I can be very very slow on the implementation.
I could blame it on many many things.
My personality, my faults, but maybe not my laziness. Perhaps the way that my willingness to say yes also sometimes means that I say yes to too many things.
Though the kids have curbed that propensity, demonstrating and showing me both new limits and new heights, they have also joined the wrestling match for my time and attention. They prove formidable foes, and much stronger than their tiny size would bely. I joke, mostly, for it is my extreme pleasure, even if not every aspect of it is a delight. Most of it is.
Certainly, all of the things that I dream and commit to, must wrestle it out. I guess that when they do, the stronger ones usually win.
Which doesn’t always mean the flowers.
Dreams are persistent though, and keep showing up whether we like it or not.
When I realized how much I loved those flowers, I was walking our new dog around the block and couldn’t help but smile every time that I saw them in a neighbor’s yard. I’d pass by and say to myself “come October, I’ll be planting those bulbs.” I too wanted to be greeted by such sunshine in my own front yard.
Well, years passed. Many years. October was apparently a busy month for me, long before those kids even came, and I never once got around to planting them.
Just a few years ago, a neighbor gifted some mini daffodils to me- carrying them right to my door- and I couldn’t have been happier. I felt seen and valued in my tiny daffodil dreams. When they sprung up beautifully the next year, they were a reminder of what waited for me. I was capable of growing something so beautiful. I must do this again, and more. I must dream, and plant more, and even bigger.
Now, something was different this year.
I’ve had this great new helper. He’s not “new”, he’s been around for six and half glorious years. He just happens to be in a different place, as we all are, and he was with me at the grocery store when I saw the daffodils. I casually mentioned that I “always want to plant those.” As I said it I was completely ready to almost immediately dismiss the thought, again.
My little helper was on it though. “Let’s get them!” he said enthusiastically. In a moment of doubt and hesitation, I paused. Then I quickly realized that waiting was certainly NOT in my favor. I remembered his tiny but mighty presence and how that changed everything. He’s my “doer’, my engineer, my fix it, built it, up for the task and finish the job kinda guy.
When I remembered that, the bulbs practically jumped into my cart. Now, I miraculously remembered them today, while we were outside with no plans, and all afternoon.
When I mentioned it to him, he was on it, again. He’s strong and willing, my little six year old helper Pretty capable too. Definitely capable of helping me show up.
Man, my kids teach me a lot. Like having the courage to start, even when I haven’t quite done it yet. Even if at times it felt like they tried to do the opposite of helping, just by being regular kids with regular unending needs.
But when it’s time, it’s time, and God has a way of bringing just the right coaches that you need, just when you need them. Even if it is the same ones who might have appeared to hold you back before. (Spoiler, it never was them.)
This time was different. With him by my side, we could do it. Once begun can be half done, and there was not much we had to do to (finally) get started. He brought all the momentum, grabbed the bag of bulbs, and I procured the shovel. Before we knew it, we really had the bulbs rolling. (Ha ha!)
The thing that struck me the most was how deep we had to plant them. As we started to dig, I knew that it was as good as done. With the first push of the shovel into the hard cold dirt meant that we had a chance. Starting would mean they might grow.
But digging is hard work. My son said as much. He was shocked at how difficult that part was, and how long that it took. Would we be able to plant them deep enough or well enough?
A quick check of the directions had confirmed that the depth must be enough for its eventual height. These guys should be given some space and not be too overcrowded.
But the depth mattered most. Too shallow, and they wouldn’t survive.
As I explained this out loud, I thought that it feels a lot like these last fifteen years or more, too. For years things have been dug and planted deep into my heart. The ground has been cultivated and made soft and dug deeper. It must be this way, it must take time.
Because when it’s time to bloom, you need that equal foundation. Blossoming is never day one. It’s more like year, fifteen, twenty, thirty.
Like I said. It only took me fifteen years to get these daffodils going. Such it is, with so many dreams that I’ve carried and still carry in my heart.
The delays never seem to squash the hope of possibility. It’s only when I start to count the years that I begin to really doubt and worry. When I think about myself, and my failures, instead of the possibility of the dreams, is when they start to loose a little glimmer in my heart.
It can’t be too late for me.
It can’t be too late for you, either.
I am, I think, a late bloomer.
I am, because I want to be. A bloomer, eventually. A bloomer after all.
I have to be, because I am, now.
Because I refuse to think that my best days are behind me.
How can they be, when I still see so much good.
Not ever, if I care to notice the possibility.
I’ll check in with you later.
Next Spring, maybe, or whenever it happens to be time for blooms. I’ll make sure to remind you of what else is possible, now that you see the next, possible, beauty, growing.
“If hope is real, then I want to see it. If hope is thing, then I want to deal it. If hope is a seed, then I want to plant it. If hope is a way, I want to walk it. If Hope is person, I want to embrace him.
Then I pause to think. Perhaps because I think about it, maybe I already have? Maybe I can, even, more.
Always. Always, more, Hope. Because that’s where He always leads.”
Always, Hope.
I wanted to become a journalist since I was young. (That and a teacher previously, as many young girls start to dream after watching the kind souls that teach them. ) But writing, “breaking news”, and sharing stories worth noting was my greatest ‘desire’, apart part from loving (and therefore, serving) God.
That desire was laid upon the altar- unexpectedly, voluntarily, as a byproduct of surrendered prayers- and it went up in flames.
Or did it?
After a memorable visit to a friend’s Wednesday night (super cool and real, by the way) youth group the next city over, I found myself suddenly knowing that I needed to go to Bible college. This was about five weeks before upcoming high school graduation, and a well after my decisions to college, a scholarship and awaiting opportunity and connection.
All I could attribute it to was the time we all spent on the floor of the chapel, praying. I was face down, in my hand made bell bottoms, a hippie redux of sorts, only the 90’s version. I was trying to put out if my mind the young man I was interested in, a fellow “hippie” I had met on a missions trip a few of years prior. I prayed with all of my might, as much as I could at the time, laying both myself and my dreams on the altar.
Well God in His wisdom, took me up on the offer. I wanted to go to Bible college, almost completely out of the blue, and all I could blame it on was that surrendered prayer.
It’s interesting looking back , because I knew that I could serve God in journalism. It did t have to be either or. But I didn’t know then what or how it would need to look. I didn’t know that what I would need to do would look the exact opposite, yet somehow still hit the mark. The heart of what I dreamed, the heart of what I wanted, without all of the extra stuff.
I skipped out on my communications degree and joined the ranks of servanthood at a college full of training ministers and hopeful pastors and oversea missionaries and loving children’s workers.
I fit not one mold in particular, but looking back, have perhaps dabbled in a bit of all of them.
Yes, the “dream” of becoming a journalist smoldered on the altar for a year as I took time to so end “a year in the Son”, as they called it.
At a chapel where the speaker spoke on the life of Mary and her willingness to do and be what God said, I stayed behind and prayed. I remember exact row of chairs that I sat in almost if not practically. End of the aisle, more towards the back, but not completely. On the left side. I sat, staring down at my long- skirted lap, my open hands, a pile of books and Bible probably on my lap. I remember being overcome, and with upturned hands echoing Mary’s prayer.
“Be it unto me according to Your Word.”
I didn’t even know what His Word was, exactly, at the time. I probably still don’t in so many ways. But I said it, and I meant it as best that I could.
A few weeks later, I unsurprisingly had a long, slow and yet sudden change of heart. I wouldn’t return to the scholarship that waited for me. I wouldn’t pursue a degree in journalism. My friends cheered. I had no idea what I might become, but I was going to follow Him. I would stay, here at Bible college, and become whatever God wanted.
What, I still don’t know exactly. But, hopefully mostly His.
Yes, I’m a wife, a mom, a writer. A friend, daughter, sister, neighbor. I’m a bit of a coach and a volunteer, and can be found teaching in short bursts, too. I am a pray-er. A singer, though slight off key. An encourager. A child of God.
Yes, I hope, I’m most of all, His. Broken, chipped, blessedly, meandering even at times, but still His. I’m a runner, though not always in the right direction. I’m a rester, a lover, occasionally a fighter, and sometimes a wrestler.
But the consistent thing is, yes, His.
I decided a long long time ago that I would follow Jesus. Even when I got a little lost or mixed up, He never forgot it, my broken promise. He never gave up. Even when I didn’t know that to do or how to get where He was going, He never gave up on me. And He never will.
You, too.
He doesn’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve done. “What, now?” is as Jesus His question. What next, He asks.
“Together?” He questions, arm outstretched to grab yours.
What did you always want to be? It’s not too late, not really. Not if you’re following the heart that was behind it. It might look different but it probably is still waiting for you to walk in it. It might fit now, “just right.”
I recently saw a post where a friend quoted me. “As long as there is breath, there is hope.” I couldn’t remember saying it exactly, and I don’t know if I copied it or said it exactly like that.
But I thought, “that’s it.”
As long as there’s breath, there is hope. And instead of telling terrible, breaking news stories, I have wanted my whole life to tell good ones. Good ones, true ones, filled with Hope. That are right and beautiful, even if they’re hard. Collected on hard wooden floors, or in soft, unsure chairs of waiting. All gathered together in places of surrender.
Those are the ones are worth telling. Worth listening to, even if it messes up your plans. And I want to be here to help tell them. Yours, mine, all of ours, common threads, with uncommon Hope.
A journalist in the trenches, with one ear to heaven and one ear to the earth. Bringing breaking news of encouragement, not ones t riddled with fear or discouragement.
Thank God I’m not a journalist. Not “theirs” anyway. Because Hope doesn’t sell big or catch a flashy headline as much as fear might appear to. But it’s ironic because isn’t Hope what we really crave? Isn’t good news what every soul needs. It is. So it’s what I want to lead with.
The truth is, if we’re really following Christ- either in the marketplace or out of it- that’s what we’ll lead with too.
If hope is real, then I want to see it.
If hope is thing, then I want to deal it
If hope is a seed, I want to plant it
If hope is a way, I want to walk it
If Hope is person, I want to embrace him.
Then I pause to think.
Perhaps because I think about it, maybe I already have?
And maybe I can, even more, too.
Always.
Because that’s where He always leads.
Hope, always.
Sure, I’ll be a Hope dealer. A journalist of sort. Different, but necessary. Because He is, our Hope in glory, of all that is good. He lives, forever in, and invites us on a journey of eternal hope, forever with Him.
That’s “breaking news.” The sort that’ll make you whole.
What is it about summer That makes you laugh so hard And shine so bright Things seem so clear. The ringing sounds, the music in your ear. The fearful jumps, landing just right. The longest reads and shortest nights. The cool ice cream and the happy screams.
You taught me love and bravery. The scaredest of me coming to my knees. Just by watching you. I learned a lot by, See all the fearful things Things that I wouldn’t do. Whispers In my ear, Rising up agin as I watch you Take all those giants down.
No, they weren’t for me, and they’re not for you
Than again I hear Love Say, Remind me of all I am. I used to look a lot like you. Some things never change.
Sometimes I still do.
I look in the mirror and I see All of what I could be.
Summer makes me think It still could be happening.
Growing up doesn’t have to mean that we’re growing old. We’re all growing up together, that’s what I’ve been told.
That summer mirror makes me see All of what I might be Growing up to be.
Growing young not growing old. Growing wise, not growing cold.
Burning hotter for what’s true. Living, laughing Loving too, until the night is through
So take a running, flying leap, Cause baby I got you 💛
Hey, I'm Courtney, a pretty ordinary girl who thinks we've all been called to an extraordinary life and love story with God. I'm passionate about family, faith, motherhood, and the adventure of every day. I write lots of words, mostly because I can’t help it- and I think it's one of the things I was born to do. I hope that something I write encourages you, to walk in your own unique purpose and calling, set free to love and give it away, starting wherever you are today. That's what Courting the Extraordinary is all about. Finding the good all around you, and giving it away. Finding, too, the God of all goodness who wants to walk with you.
I love quiet mornings, coffee, prayer and “work” before sunrise. Quality time with my family is my jam. I can be found grinning ear to ear when we're out on an adventure. Whether that's in our own backyard or exploring someplace new all-together, I’ll for sure note something beautiful about nature aloud-and maybe repeatedly, ha!. Life is a beautiful, precious gift, and an adventurous path to travel! We might as well learn how to love.
Hey, I'm Courtney, a pretty ordinary girl who thinks we've all been called to an extraordinary life and love story with God. I'm passionate about family, faith, motherhood, and the adventure of every day. I write lots of words, mostly because I can’t help it- and I think it's one of the things I was born to do. I hope that something I write encourages you, to walk in your own unique purpose and calling, set free to love and give it away, starting wherever you are today. That's what Courting the Extraordinary is all about. Finding the good all around you, and giving it away. Finding, too, the God of all goodness who wants to walk with you.
I love quiet mornings, coffee, prayer and “work” before sunrise. Quality time with my family is my jam. I can be found grinning ear to ear when we're out on an adventure. Whether that's in our own backyard or exploring someplace new all-together, I’ll for sure note something beautiful about nature aloud-and maybe repeatedly, ha!. Life is a beautiful, precious gift, and an adventurous path to travel! We might as well learn how to love. 