And then BOOM! A Mack truck flies through the room.

I’ve never mentioned it here. And, the truth is, I don’t mention it often. I try not to think of it, quite frankly, if I don’t have to.

 

But I was doing some cleaning yesterday and found my journal from last year.

Lots of people journal. My Mom has kept one for years. She writes her ups and downs, her dreams and thoughts, answers to prayer and the ways God moves in her life.

I’ve never read it. But, I think of it often and wonder what it will be like when I read it. How will it feel to look into her head and her heart. To peruse through her life from her perspective, to see myself through her eyes.

And so, I don’t talk it about it much, that my oldest daughter has Multiple Sclerosis. Diagnosed at age sixteen, after suffering through it for at least two years, she battles like a champ. She has always been a champ. At everything.

That’s why it was such a shock. A sucker punch. Yes, God, have my oldest daughter–the National Champion Gymnast. The one with I.Q. of 143 at age eleven. Take her brain, her body, use it how you will for your glory.

Did you ever have to say that? Has it ever occurred to you what it takes to say that? Do you know how...hard, it is to say that?

And so, maybe, letting you peruse my head–and my heart–from the private words I wrote in my journal last year, maybe that will help you see how it feels to say that. At least how it felt for me.

June 14, 2013

I do not want Erin to die.

And I hope no one reads this.

And I wonder why I have to step over throw pillows to find the couch. And where is the switch for the lamp???

And, as much as everything in my life is a story, I do not want this to be my story–my daughter is sick. My perfect, amazing, super-cala-fragil-istic over-achieving ninja daughter is sick.

And I understand what it means to be mad at God. But I wonder how long a person can stay mad at God? And is it really a sin not to trust God with all the bad stuff? When the bad stuff is gone, over and done with, maybe it’s easier to let go of it. When it’s going on, maybe it’s harder?

Does everyone’s life feel like a soap opera, or a bad mellow-drama?! It’s like, “What will happen next? Tune in tomorrow when Pam will say…’Oh, No!’…”

For real.

And even as bad as it seems, sometimes it seems not that bad.

And some days, I even forget the bad things.

And then BOOM! It’s like a Mack truck flies through the room.

 

Words can take us back. But they can also bring us forward. And a lot can happen in a year.

My daughter still has MS. And I am still trusting God. And some days it is easy. And some days…it’s not as easy.

But, I am still doing it. I’m holding His hand as I walk through this life. And, in that, there is life.

 

What are you walking through?

How is He holding your hand?

Leave me a comment so we can walk together.

 

Get real or go home.

 

Music has always moved me. There’s not a day that goes by that music is not part of my life. And although I’m mostly a sing-in-the-shower, and sing-in-the car, and you know, sing-where-ever-else kind of girl, I have also sung in public. Not professionally or anything that crazy, but I used to sing solos in church and at funerals for hire. So, more than just for myself or my husband, kids, and dogs.

 

It’s one thing to have a desire to perform, and something entirely different to actually do it.

 

The more I blog, and grow in my own skin, the more I realize that singing is a lot like writing. Of course they’re both creative endeavors that require you to stand up and speak your own brand of truth. But, even more than that, I’m finding similarities that go further and deeper into what it means to let your heart out in notes, or, well…notes.

 

You have to open your mouth.

 

Although it seems obvious, this really isn’t. And as I’ve aged I’ve had to practice this more and more. Last Christmas I mentioned to our children’s pastor that I might be able to sing a solo in the Christmas Pageant. (Okay, never, ever, say you might be able to do something unless you are fully willing to do it. That’s just the way it is.) Once I got over the “Oh Lord I haven’t sang publicly in years” drama I downloaded an accompaniment track and went to work.

 

And it was work. I hadn’t used my voice in so long it had grown older, deeper, and less attractive. I also lacked the lung capacity to give me the vocal range I’d once had. As disheartening as this was, it also taught me a lesson. As I practiced, singing the song over and over, I realized that the wider I opened my mouth the better I sounded. In fact, with my mouth open really wide, in a strange kind of expression where my eyes were closed tight and my cheeks pulled back, I could reach a higher, more clear second soprano.

 

It felt real and it felt raw. It felt natural to sing that way. It wouldn’t look cute, calm, or reserved, but it would allow me to sing my heart out. In private I belted the song to my bathroom walls, and I’d like to say when the time came I nailed it. But, I didn’t. Unable to get past how I might look, nervousness got the best of me and I was barely able to stay on key.

 

I failed to rock the world, and glorify God fully, because I wouldn’t open my mouth enough.

 

It’s the same way in writing. As a novelist I can feel when I’m and rocking the story, and when I’m not. What’s the difference? Opening my heart and opening my mouth. When I let the words out from a wide open place inside I always score, I always touch others. If I’m too guarded to let you in I won’t ever reach you. I have to risk.

 

You can’t expect to reach deep places of others with the shallow parts of yourself. (Tweet that!)

 

Music, like writing, is about belief. Belief in your story, belief in your song, belief in your art. But mostly, belief in yourself. I’ve found that creating and releasing is both the most terrifying and the most  liberating experience in the universe. It’s so many conflicting emotions all at once. It’s being insanely brave and accepting death. It’s surrender. And it has to be.

 

Because without surrender I won’t buy what you’re selling. (Tweet that!)

 

Let me say that again. If you aren’t sold out I won’t be buying. If you don’t believe it, neither will I. And neither will they—the millions of everyday people out there who are being bombarded constantly with ideas, images, and art. Let me tell you this: don’t throw your art at the world until you are prepared to take it all the way.

 

You can’t kind of like it. You can’t just be messing around. You can’t whisper, or banter, you have to shout. You have to be willing to shout it from the rooftops. You have to be so sold out on it that no one, no where, no how, will ever be able to pry it from your cold dead fingers.

 

Yes. You have to believe in that much. And you have to want it that bad. And more.

 

Because here’s the deal, someone else does. And the world can tell the difference. The good thing about the new freedom of the internet is that we get real now. We get it full-time. All day, every day, every hour, minute-by-minute. Real is crawling all over us and oozing through our fingertips. We eat real for breakfast. Don’t come at us with your half-hearted wanna-be crap. We don’t have time for that. Sorry, but we are getting real shoved down our throats 24-7. You better have something even better.

 

So how do you do that?

 

Easy. Believe it. Write it. Paint it. Sing it. Create from the part of you that can’t be tamed. Tell the world to step off and stop being afraid.

 

Stop being afraid we won’t like you enough and do your thing. Because really, it’s the only thing you’ve got baby. (Tweet That)

 

That part of you. That real part. The part that you can’t put down, or shut up. That part that sings. Yes, that part!Thats what we want. It’s what we need. For crying out loud!

 

Let us see you!

 

Open up your mouth and Tell.Us.The.Truth!!!!

We are waiting. So you better hurry. Do it.

Sing to us.

NOW!

 

And while you’re at it, go check out one of my new favorite groups who is selling us real and giving it away for free! PAPER LIGHTS

 

Trust me. They’re the real thing.

Anyone smell smoke?

You care about something. I know you do. Something more than what you had for breakfast, or the car you drove to work. Even more than a job that pays the bills, or the people you pass in the halls each day. There’s something, something else, something deeper inside that is calling.

 

Late at night, when you can’t sleep, when the walls become a blank canvas, what picture do you see? Or better yet, what one do you paint? When there are no boundaries, no fences, no limits, what do you do? When you’re lying there awake in the black recesses of night…

 

What do you dream?

 

I know it’s bigger. It is. Bigger than bills, and braces, and car repairs and old couches, it’s bigger. It’s more. More than that summer vacation you’re planning, or the Cheerios on your kitchen floor. There is something, something bigger inside of you, inside your heart. It’s there.

 

Oh, you can pretend you don’t hear me. Or it. You can continue on your merry little way whistling your little tune. No one will stop you. Nothing will happen. No major catastrophes will occur if you ignore that something. Maybe. Or maybe not. I don’t know what that something is for you, so I really can’t say.

 

All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

 

There is plenty of nothing to be done. PLENTY. And without a doubt, plenty of people to do it. Plenty doing it right now, and plenty to keep on doing it. Plenty to keep on spending and wasting, keeping up with the Jones. Plenty to keep plastering materialism over a hole that can’t be filled. Plenty—literally billions—of people who will ignore that something, that ONE THING, that still small voice whispering to their soul.

 

Will you?

 

Because here’s the deal: you can. No one will fault you. If you just keep plugging away, being good, taking care of your own, no one would blame you. After all, you have a mortgage to pay, mouths to feed, a house to decorate (better head to Target!) Those are decent things, respectable pursuits. But are they enough? Are they enough to squelch the voice? The voice of your soul crying out for that something, that better thing, that…more. Only you can say.

 

I don’t know what your one thing is. And, if you don’t find out, the world may never know. That still small voice may, eventually, be quieted. You might be able, one day, to shove enough stuff over it, around it, under it, through it, and in it, to make it stop. I’m sure it happens all the time. That vast hole in our hearts is pretty large though, and it’s there for a reason.

 

Don’t you ever wonder what that is…?

 

In case you do, I’ll tell you. It’s no secret. And the fact that I know is no indicator of genius in me.

 

It’s purpose. YOUR purpose. MY purpose. That’s the sound. That thing that keeps you awake. The itch, that nagging ache, that thing that won’t go away no matter how hard you try; it’s purpose. And I can tell you one thing, if you stop ignoring it, it will get bigger. That’s right, it will grow. All it takes is a tiny kindling. Fan it just a tad, just a hair, and it will blaze. Pretty soon, before you know, it will set your heart to flame!

 

And when that blaze is good and fueled, it will spread…like wildfire.

 

Because that’s why we were made. That’s why you’re here. Yep. Despite what you’ve been told, or whats been so subliminally weaved into your psyche, you are not here to acquire more crap. That’s not it. God did not set you on this planet, in this season, with your gifts and talents and desire, with your past and present and people, with all the things that so uniquely make you YOU, He did not randomly do that so you could waste it all. There is a plan. He has a plan. And guess what, you are part of it.

 

I know, I know. That’s a lot of pressure. It is. I feel it too. But here’s the deal, once you start listening to that voice—the voice in your soul—and stop listening to the world, the blaring, blasting, poisonous, penetrating scream of the world, when you stop listening to that, you’ll hear something else. Something better. Something real. You’ll hear…

the truth.

 

And the truth is this; You are art. ART! You were created with a destiny and purpose all your own. There is no one–NO ONE–like you. And your destiny is unique, planned by God, painted by Him, purposed for a bigger truth, an eternal truth. And time is short. So you need to move.

 

NOW.

 

The clock is ticking, the calendar is fading. And you are aging. How many more birthdays have to pass before you get this? You only get so many on this side of the grave. And that’s the truth. No one is promised any set amount of days, purpose or no. And the Spirit? He is a gentleman. He will not force you, or beg you, or coerce you. He simply calls. He built you into this house; walls that won’t be shaken, foundation for you to stand on, a covering over your head. What more do you want???

 

Stop being afraid! There is no time for fear. Oh, you can feel that fear, that’s human. But you can’t let it control you. It can’t stop you. It can’t douse this fire that’s started, this flame about to take over the world. You’ve got to light the match and throw on more logs, many more logs.

 

Burn baby, burn.

Set the world on fire.

Now, while you still can.

I’m waking up to my purpose. And some of it looks like this:

And I can’t wait to tell you more.

 

What are you doing…on purpose?

Is this art?

Sometimes, my heart hurts. Do you ever feel that? Heart pain, heart break? It’s been building in me for over a month now (maybe longer…) and it was sneaky. It didn’t come every day, but instead it would rear it’s head every once-in-a-while, just enough to catch me off-guard–enough to make me nervous.

As someone who’s battled depression off and on most of my adult life, I know how this works. I keep my eyes open. And when I feel like sadness may be starting to take an unwelcome hold on me, I do what has to be done–I withdraw from stress, relax, spend some quality time alone, and regroup. Often, this is a time when I become quiet and just need to clarify how I’m truly feeling and why. If I’m doing too much, or dealing with too much from outside sources, I will evaluate what I can let go. Sometimes, it’s nothing, other times I can find a reasonable way to lighten the caseload.

Yesterday I took some time to work on a project for my daughters room. It’s something I’ve been promising her for…quite a while. It’s a storage necessity that would make both our lives a little easier, and get  rid of some of her “floor-drobe” issues. What I didn’t realize was how bad I needed to actually do it. To do something creative. To make art.

And I’m still figuring all this out–what is art, what is not. And maybe, as I’m learning from Seth Godin–maybe it’s all art. This writing and connecting, creating and joining, these things I’ve done all my life that have brought me joy and success–it’s all art. I am art.

  I AM ART.

In The Icarus Deception, Seth says, “Art isn’t a result; its a journey.”   It’s the way God paints beauty in my life. It’s the people He brings to walk this road with me. It’s the way I’m nurtured by words and images, and creating them both as well as consuming them. It’s everything. All of it! All of my crazy, messed-up, mixed-up life. All the things I say and do and read and write and eat and see and want and love and leave and become and know. ALL OF IT! All. Of. It.

  The challenge of our time is to find a journey worthy of our heart and soul. ~Seth Godin

Knowing you’re on a journey is half the battle. You still have to take that first step. Then, another, and another, and another. And that is hard. Some days, it’s damn near impossible. Today was one of those days where it’s feeling impossible. Until, sipping at my coffee, weeping over my keyboard, I read this:

“Maybe you’re in a season in which you feel like what you’re doing is all for naught, that you’re doing all this work and nobody’s paying attention. But maybe that’s not the whole story.

Maybe you’re being prepared for a season that hasn’t come yet. If that’s the case, may I encourage you to do one thing?

Show up

Even when the fruit isn’t there… show up.

Even when the critics tell you to quit… show up.

Even when you’re tired and tempted to throw in the towel… show up.

If this is a time of preparation for you (and not a time to start), do the work. Show up. Because what you are doing is sowing — that’s planting seeds, for you non-farmer folk — and though you may not reap them for some time, the work you’re doing is not pointless.

Stay the course, be brave, and your season will come.”

Jeff Goins

I know this is a season. And it seems long. But someday, I know I will look back and see how much I needed it. I know, because I can look back at the road I’ve traveled so far and see progress. I see where I’ve been and how it affected me, how I grew, even through rain and storms, the seeds were sown, and many have grown now. Waiting is good. Hard, but good.

The journey I’m on is worth it. I know that. And that makes it worth the hard days. So, if you’re feeling down, your road seems long, take a day–or two–and just relax. Get alone with God and nurture your creative soul.

And remember; spray paint is better than Prozac.

So, is this art? Or is it the cardboard I used underneath the pieces I was spray painting…what do you think?

I’m thinking of framing it.

Because maybe you are too.

At fourteen, I wanted to create art. Not because it was cool, or to impress anyone, but because I had, inside of me, something that needed to come out. I had a darkness that pushed on my flesh from the inside and never let me rest.

 

It’s sad to say, that someone so young could feel that broken. But, it’s true. Yet, telling you the truth is the last thing I want to do. And even though, quite frankly, I’m awfully tired of lying—it wears on me—it’s heavy; exhausting—I am afraid, still.

 

I’m afraid you’ll see me and leave. Not just see me, but really…see me.

 

In the last several years I’ve been on this journey. Sometimes, it looks like words on paper, sometimes, some thing else. And I have kept focused on the road with very few detours. Oh, okay, I had some detours. Who doesn’t? Mostly though, I tried to keep my eyes ahead, to not look back.

 

But something called out. When they said, “Be honest.” When they told me to be myself.

 

What if I don’t want to, I thought. What if I don’t know who that is?

 

But, that’s a lie. And I know the truth.

 

I am an artist.

 

I didn’t not know this. But yesterday I heard someone speaking about who an artist is, and I saw myself. I didn’t really want to. But I did. And art can take on all forms; writing is art. Certain forms of it more so than others. But to paint a picture–whether with acrylics or adjectives—is still rendering a view. There is something created, something new in the universe that wasn’t there before.

 

That is art.

 

And you know I always find it interesting how God speaks, and when, and through whom. This morning it was through my seventh grade art teacher, Sara Pitts. Her written words that have transcended time to speak to me now, some three decades after they were penned.

 

It was Christmas, 1984. The day before break she caught me as I was leaving the building, quickly stuffed a small envelope in my hands and smiled warmly. Her eyes were always dancing, but this time they were more solemn. I don’t remember, but I wonder if they were glassy, if she fought tears. Or did she even know the impact she would forever have in my life all because she saw me, she really saw me.

“Thanks,” I offered, acting adolescently casual. I shoved the envelope in my bag and pushed through the doors into the December cold. That evening I read them, held the crisp $10 bill she gave me. The money intended for me to purchase a cassette disc. I loved music, always. I still do.

I know I read the words then. I know they impacted me, especially because no one else in my struggling teenaged life seemed to give a rats. Her gesture of genuine kindness has always stuck with me. That letter has set in a box of things too precious for me to dispose of for over thirty years. Today, however, I read it differently. I saw it as if for the first time.

 

 

The meaning of the letter as a whole was to encourage me to follow my heart, to see myself for who I truly was, the way others saw me as well—as an artist.

 

 

She knew it would be hard, so she told me to have courage.

Be patient with myself.

But, ultimately, it whispered what she knew about my soul; it would thirst after art. Creating. Living the creation. And maybe, even having a career in art.

 

She said I was special. And I am. And, so are you. You artists. You creators. You dreamers and doers.

 

You who follow the beat of a different drum. You who see beauty in the places others miss.

 

I see this in my daughter, Holly. I see her finding so much true joy in creating art, and I pray that the world doesn’t steal that from her. Because I know it will try. It will tell her she isn’t good enough. It will say art is not acceptable as a career. It’s not honorable work. How can you survive doing art? Where will you live? What will you eat?

 

And while money is important in it’s own right, in its proper place, it is not an end in its self. It is simply a means. And a means will not fulfill. And those who try to stuff their square pegs into round holes will tell you this; no matter how you fold in on yourself, those rough edges just won’t fit. The world can press down, and pound away, but you will never be what you truly are not.

 

If you are an artist, you will never be satisfied until you are creating art.

 

You were made by a creator. The Grand Creator. And if you are knit together with threads of art and beauty, and the desire to recognize and create that, you will not ever be what you were made to be until you fully accept it.

 

So maybe you are an artist. And maybe you’re not. But if you are, listen to your heart. Stop fighting what your soul is so clearly thirsting for. Be yourself. Be real.

Live the art you were made to be.

 

 

 

 

 

Because sometimes I’d rather hide than live my purpose.

 

There was time in my life when I believed I was ready for all God had called me to do. My vision was clear, the goal was in sight, and I felt like my toolbox was full with all I’d need to reach my purpose and live my destiny.

And then, I woke up.

Since that day, I’ve come to realize that when I think I know what God has in mind, I better get my face on the floor and start repenting of my ignorance. You just can’t give God your message, it has to be the other way around. And although I know He works with us and through us to achieve His plans here on earth, I know we are virtually almost blind to these plans until He is ready to reveal them. In other words, when I think I have a handle on things, I better step back because He’s about to blow the doors off.

Quite frankly, that scares me to death. And, to the extent I was willing and ready in the beginning, the closer I get to (what I believe) are His true purposes for me, the more terrified I become. I believe that’s a good thing.

“You will NOT succeed by your own strength or power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord” (Zechariah 4:6 NCV)

 

In other words, if you can reach what you believe is Gods plan for you on your own, then you don’t get it yet. His plans are bigger. Harder. Longer.

You’ll need more coffee. More sleep. More prayer. Got those? Good, now you’ll need more of a hundred other things you don’t have. Things you can’t get on your own. Things only He can provide. And when you come to that realization, you’ll be at the starting line of what He really wants you to do, what He really meant when he called you.

Frightening isn’t it?

So, I wrote this book. And you’ve all heard me ramble a little about it here and there. I thought it held such purpose for me, which is ironic because I titled it, appropriately, Held. When I began I had no writing experience. I’d always been a reader. But at that point in my life, fiction was a distant dream. The words I was ingesting then consisted of medical journals, cancer related stories, government finances. Words far from the life of a young woman in a small Colorado town, a girl torn between the pain of her past and pain of her present. A girl hiding behind walls of self protection, painting herself brave–an island. Far from who I was, and where I was.

Or, so I thought.

But, now it’s finished. And a wonderful editor uses the talents and time God has given her to examine my words and to give them meaning, value, and direction. She is making my words better, making the story better, and weaving Gods purpose through both our lives with this act. And more and more, as I think about Maggie’s story, the one I tell in Held, I realize the parallels to my own life, ones I couldn’t see before this point. I also see my purpose shifting, sands moving beneath my feet and sending me towards higher ground.

At this stage of the game, I want to hold on to my book. I want to clench my little fists around it and protect it. But, as God continues to reveal, His purposes are bigger for this story, and bigger for me. I thought writing fiction was big enough. Hard enough. A long enough wait. Now, I see He was only building me up for a new thing, another step into uncharted territory.

It’s frightening, yes, but this time, it’s exciting as well. And some days I want to camp out with my Keurig and hide in my house. But He won’t let me. He walks with me. He calls me forward. He takes my hand and leads me out of the comfort of the same and into the bigger place He has planned. I’m scared, but ultimately, I know I’m held, I’m safe.

My story–the one I wrote–and the story God wrote through my life (is writing) isn’t through yet. It’s only beginning. And I just know, it’s going to be a lovely ride. So I’m embracing the fear and watching as He reveals it, a little more everyday. I’m rejoicing with every new relationship–every person He brings to ride along beside me, with me on this journey.

But most of all, I’m glad I didn’t give up all the times I thought I could do this and failed, all the times when I thought I had reached the goal line and it moved, all the times when I felt the weight of something that would take more than I had.

I will never have all the answers. I will never have everything I need to accomplish His purposes on my own. It’s going to take me, you, and thousands of others–some of whom I know–and some of whom I will never know, or see, or learn of until I get home to Heaven. Grasping that has changed the game for me. It’s made me more grateful, more receptive to His gifts, and brought me closer to my actual purpose.

What a great place to start.

 

Who says?

What is the truth about you and who gets to say?

Is it your sister, your mother, or your spouse? Is it the amount of followers you have on Twitter or the friends you have on Facebook? Maybe it’s the person who neglected the friendship with you, or that kid in fifth grade who called you dumb. There are voices coming at you from all different directions. But which are valid? Which ones are speaking the truth?

What if I told you you are valued, loved, and cherished beyond belief? What if I spoke into your fear and told you are equipped for every good work which the God of the universe set you apart to do from before the beginning of time? Could you believe it? Would you?

The world will lie to you. Your value is in your career, money, or fame, it says. Your worth is in physical beauty–perfection. It’s the clothes you wear or the car you drive that makes you important. Are you clever or funny? Cynical or sad? Then that gives you worth, it whispers.

But when is it enough? How good do you have to be and what level wealth or success will give you peace? How high is the bar, and who set it?

I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but the truth is, you may never reach it.

Or maybe you will.

And then what?

God set eternity in the hearts of men. You and I, we have a built in longing for a relationship with the God who created the universe and everything in it. We can chase other gods. We can run after other things–money, power, acclaim–but they will never fill us, fulfill us.

Oh, they may be a temporary fix. Does it feel good to win? Of course. Do power and success touch our deep places making us feel awake and alive? I’d be lying if I said they didn’t. Admiration tastes sweet. And when we ache, when we hurt, popularity and fame are like a salve–a healing balm–covering over (even if only temporarily) that nagging void in all of us.

But they will never be the puzzle piece that fits the empty place in our hearts, the place that was made for and by the God of the universe. And I bet you know that. You know it’s never enough.

You know, because you’ve tried, haven’t you? I know I have. Addictions and desires, I’ve let them carry me. I’ve made people my god, their approval my sustenance. So many times I’ve been in that place, over and over. You know that place. Face down broken. Heart dead. Empty.

Again.

Because, here’s the deal–this is truth; whatever you’re chasing–whatever it is you’re running hard after–if it’s not God–it will never be enough. It will never fix you.

There is no pill for your sick heart. There is no cure for this poison you’ve swallowed. There is no repair for your broken. None.

I hate to be the one to tell you, but there is only way out. Death. That one first death and then a million other tiny moments of dying to yourself–your own selfish weakness–is the only way out of this mess we’re in. Letting go and letting God burn you down to ashes is the only true path to beauty.

It won’t be fun, and maybe it won’t look pretty. But it is the answer. It is the cure. It is because He is and always will be the only way to wholeness, to healing, to help.

What are you holding onto, or withholding from God, that is keeping you from being beautifully broken? Be made new today. Die to what you think you need and let God give you what He alone knows will satisfy your heart~

The buck stops here.

 

So. I just wrote that last post and not ten minutes later God pretty much stormed down my door and called me on my B.S.

That’s BRAVE? That’s what I told you to say? That’s how I moved in your heart?

Whatever. Get over yourself and tell them MY words. The words I gave YOU to speak.

None of us wants to do that. Do we? We’re all thinking one thing, and saying another.

Or, saying nothing.

And I want to be cleaning my front yard, or folding some laundry. Okay, maybe want isn’t the right word here. But I have plenty of things to do. My plate is full. So is yours. I have my agenda, you have yours.

But here’s the deal. See, I’m taking this course over at Tribe Writers written by this guy named Jeff. He’s pretty cool. He is good at calling people out, encouraging writers, building influencers; people who want to tell the truth–their truth–but they need help. Inspiration. A kick in the pants. People, like me.

The thing is, I go over there and I’m all encouraging, and supportive (well, mostly) and I keep telling people “Be BRAVE!”, “Use your words!”, “Speak Up!” When really, it’s just a bunch of hypocritical horse-pucky, because I won’t do it myself. I won’t open my own mouth and tell you what I believe.

Because…I’m afraid. Afraid of peoples opinions. Their judgement.

It’s ridiculous.

I’m ridiculous. I have been more afraid of what people think of me than I was of the God of the universe. I think I need to lie down…

But I’m not going to. I’m done wasting God’s time. He doesn’t need another pretty face. He doesn’t need another person to hold up and protect. I’m not going to let Him waste His love on me. He wants me, wants my soul, all of it.

I am special. I was chosen for a reason. God’s not going to walk out on me, He’s faithful. He wants to be all I need and for me to see His heart.

I can’t let another minute go to waste because God was crazy for wanting me. The truth is, He was crazy for wanting all of us. But, here’s the most insane thing: those of us who know that, aren’t living like it.

Where is grace? Do we even understand it? Grace.

You know, people everywhere are talking about how the church is broken. In some ways, maybe even useless. They are walking away. People like Donald Miller, and Barbara Brown Taylor. People in the church, and those outside of it. But The Church is not a place, or a denomination, it’s a people. It’s us. You and me, we are THE CHURCH.

“It is impossible that the church should do anything that individuals do not do”

A.W. Tozer

Hello? The church is people. It’s us people! We are asleep folks. We’re like the walking dead. We’ve become zombies for crying out loud! Just like the new testament church in 1 Corinthians 10, and the Israelites in Deuteronomy 1, we we’ve stayed long enough at this mountain. Much, much too long.

It’s time to possess some promised land.

Do you want it? Because I do.

Because I’m sick to death of the culture war. It makes me gag. I’m tired of us chasing our tails while the world burns down. We want to save the world, just not, you know, all those sinners.We pick our little darlings and parade them around; homosexuality being target Numero Uno.

Am I lying? Really? Prove me wrong.

So, when was the last time you talked to a homosexual? Never? Well, I have. Lots of them. I call them friends. I love them. And when I see them, I have to hold back because what I really want to do is run to them and hold them. I want to weep. I want to tell them I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you are the scapegoat of our generation. I’m sorry you are our pet sin. I’m sorry we–the church–would rather shoot the hostage than kill the kidnapper.

Do we have to agree with their choices? NO. I probably don’t agree with all your choices either. I don’t agree with all my own. In fact, I’m pretty ashamed at my own choices on a daily basis. I have plenty of opportunity to regret.

How would things change if, this Sunday, when you walked into church they gave you a piece of paper at the door, a pen or pencil, and a safety pin.

“Please write down all your sins for this week so we can all see them and judge you accordingly.”

 

Would you do it? What would it say?

Liar? Thief? Adulterer? Glutton? Idolater?

Feeling convicted yet? Or, did you need me to SHOW YOU your sin before you felt convicted? This is a blog for pete’s sake–I can’t see you. But you feel it don’t you. That gnawing, aching feeling in your chest? That? Oh, that’s the Holy Spirit. Yeah. And you know what? He doesn’t need my help–or anyone else’s–to act. He’s pretty good on His own.

Do you think we could maybe give Him a chance to work…all on His own. For once?

Huh, Church? Are you listening yet? Are we awake yet? Or is God going to have to kick start us a little harder. You think He won’t? Because I know He will. Keep ignoring Him and He will just have to start talking louder.

Does this post offend you? Does it make you angry? You know what I wish it would do? I wish it would break your heart. I wish the church really was broken. Broken enough to be what it was meant to be.

I wish this post would make you want to go find the first person you can that needs Gods Love, Mercy, and Grace and hug them. I wish you’d love them and accept them the way God loved and accepted you–with all your flaws. The flaws you have now, still today. Oh you’re forgiven, that’s right. But you aren’t perfect yet. And I’ll bet you know that.

God loved me right in the middle of my sin. He loved me before I sinned. He knew I was going to screw up, and keep on screwing up. Even when I want to get it right. Even when I think I have it right, even now, this second–when I feel like I’m right where He wants me– saying exactly the words He wants me to say–I could be wrong.

But if I’m going to err, I’d rather err on the side of love, than caution.

I’m done playing it safe.

 

 

Right here. Right now. Ash Wednesday.

We are a dirty, filthy, wretched, broken—but beautiful—mess. It’s true. We live in fear and secrets, isolated in our brokenness and shame. At times, we try to stand only to find we have fallen back down again. It is a desperate existence we work hard to hide. We take great pains to cover up our failings and shortfalls, at times, extinguishing every bit of hope the Spirit is offering.

And while some of us (if not all of us, at one time or another) prefer the prisons we’ve fashioned, there exists also a desire to be open, to be unbound from our sin and shame. What we need most, is Permission to Speak Freely.

You won’t find it everywhere, but little by little, word by word, I think hearts are changing. In the beat-up and bruised place we call The Church, I see a glimmer of hope. The spark, though small, has the potential to spread like wild fire through a sea of dying hearts, dying lives, and a generation of dying faith.

So how do we kindle, instead of smother, what could be our Salvation?

I believe it’s with honesty; truth. By taking off our masks and letting the pieces of real fall where they may.

Oh, it may be ugly. And it will—most certainly—be hard. But at some point we have to decide if we want to continue to suffocate, or to take a fresh breath and breathe again, to live again. It’s been too long since we got to the heart of the matter, and the matter—or rather, what’s the matter—with our hearts. This denial has had us in a stranglehold for so long…

It’s fear. Plain and simple. Being real feels strange to us, it’s frightening. We are more comfortable stuck in our past regrets and failures than we are with any change, even for the better. But there is hope. There is, really. I promise. Although, it won’t come cheaply. It will cost you. I think if you’ll wager with me on this though, you’ll see it’s well worth the price required.

And today is a beginning. Today is a time for confession; truth. It’s a beginning of a fire that has the potential to burn down everything you were, are. It’s a chance for God to make Beauty from ashes in your life.

But that road to beauty is straight through death. There is no detour, no way around.

“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”       John 12:24

Unless—and until—we die to ourselves, we will never be fruitful. We will never live. We will never be able to reflect the glory of God who created us until we are able to leave behind those things that detour us, the sin that so easily entangles. We cannot run the race set before us in cement shoes. Those cinder-blocks that are keeping us mired will have to be broken.

So where do we find this freedom? This elusive tool to break our chains is what? Shall I dangle redemption in front of your thirsty soul and leave you parched? Or is there water somewhere to quench you? Is there Living water that will destroy your thirst forever? Is there…more?

Yes! YES! A thousand times YES! There is freedom! There is victory! There is Peace unending and Grace overflowing! And believe me it is for you, it is Him for you–His body broken and bruised for you, an offering for your offenses. Not a bandage but a cure, not distraction from the reality, but a healing, HELP. Help is on the way!

His Extravagant Love Pouring out on your soul. HELP!

Hurt Extinguished & Lives Purified—HELP!

His Eternal Light & Purpose. HELP!

It’s here and it’s real. Real with a capitol “R” REAL. Taste it, smell it, hear it, Feel it REAL. It’s like breaking through the Matrix and finding yourself Real. Climbing out of your tomb and seeing sunlight Real. It is open your eyes and smell the coffee Real. Real love, a Real life, a Real savior.

Freedom. Forgiveness. It’s real; HE IS REAL. Christ and Him raised. Knowing the Truth of all time—knowing Him—is your ticket to real; Real Freedom.

No matter what chains Tuesday held you in, today is new. Today is Wednesday. Today is the beginning of a walk towards Him. Today is Freedom. Speak the words. Right. Now.

There isn’t a minute to waste. Today is the day. Today, you start over. Today you move from darkness into light because you step over the fear of confession. Today we—you and I—together—we take out all our dirty, filthy rags, our wretched sin and shame, our lies—the ones we’ve told and the ones we’ve believed—and we say enough!

ENOUGH!!!

We refuse to let them bind us any longer! This, this is a proclamation. This, is our declaration of war. This—right here, right now—THIS IS OUR BATTLE CRY!

WE WILL BE QUIET NO MORE!

We are tired of wearing rags when our Father has adorned us with robes of righteousness. We are tired of false motives when our Father has given us deeds of Purity, good deeds He planned for us before the beginning of time. A pseudo life isn’t enough for us anymore. We are awake.

We are the body of Christ. The Body. The Church. Us dead in our sins and transgressions and RAISED with Him in newness.

WE WILL NOT BE SILENT ANY LONGER!

Today.

Right Here.

Right now.

Choose you this day—this day—life or death—the blessing or the curse.

Choose Life. Choose Him. Awaken Church and walk forward. Speak freely~

Why I AM a writer.

I’m not a child who grew up with a penchant for prose. Writing hasn’t always been my dream. In fact, it was only about five years ago when the story began to bleed out of me. Maybe they had always been there–the words, the tales—but I only truly became aware of them at that time. This abrupt desire came about after a very distinct dream of a woman abducted by Indians during the gold rush. The dream was so real, and the story so profound, I awoke and immediately began to piece it all together. But, as much as her story affected me, I realized while researching to write the book that I, A. knew very little about the old west, and B. knew even less about writing. So what followed was a scramble as I read every book I could find and every blog or course I could take to help me figure out this writing thing.

In trying to follow this, I went to some conferences, and put down some cash for some online writing guides. But mostly, I just began to write. My first novel, Held, is the by-product of that. And while I will say I believe God lead me through the story, I won’t say it came all at once. It appeared in starts and stops and when it flowed, it was because it was a part that entailed a huge chunk of my heart, of who I was, am. God was using what I knew, where I’d been, to guide me through the uncharted territory of writing. It was such an amazing journey.

But now, I’m somewhere different. I feel I’ve worked and paid some dues. There is solid calling on my life as a writer. And the truth is, I don’t need anyone to confirm this for me, as God has confirmed it in my heart. Don’t think I came by that easily either. I fought. I whined. I looked for every out and excuse I could. I am not a fame seeker, I don’t like the limelight. And if you think that’s why I’m writing, well you just don’t know me. Those things are irrelevant.

There are maybe many things you could do in service of God, but the best is to allow Him to guide you in that one thing he has planned before the creation of time, His call on your life. Can you please God by following your own agenda? Maybe. I don’t really know. But can you find true fulfillment in anything other than His plan for you? I highly doubt it.

Still, some don’t want that. They shy away from full surrender. Total abandon isn’t in their nature. I imagine there are millions of lives being wasted, or at the very least, survived, outside of His ultimate will. That would never be enough for me though. I want more. I want the MORE, the search for the fullness of all God has for me.

So that’s why I find it so amusing that, as I am working through a study on my life, and my calling, I all but missed that altogether.

I have always, always, always been restless. ALWAYS. In so many ways, I still am. It’s my biggest struggle, this unsettled feeling of unknown. Where do I go? What do I do? As I’ve grown closer to God and accepted more of what His plans are for me, some of that has smoothed out. But there is always an underlying tension in following Him. I’m unsure whether that ever goes away, or even if I want it to. Is it possible that electricity is part of what drives us forward? And, as I’m working through Restless by Jennie Allen, I have to wonder, is restless always a bad thing? Possibly, if it keeps us crippled in doubt then that’s certainly not helpful, but if it moves us towards a bigger purpose then, maybe…just maybe, it is.

Occasionally, my restless times have gotten me in trouble. Yet, there are so many ways in which I am restless still. Ways that drive me to God, and not away from Him. I long to see more of His Spirit. I desire to see His Body move in the world. I want to know His purposes for myself–and others–so badly that I chase after Him in everyday and every single experience I can. I am restless, longing for a stronger reality of God, with God. I know it’s possible, I know it’s there, it’s so close to my fingertips. And that sensation of almost catching Him, THAT restless, that’s what moves me out of my comfort zone, into the crazy, unpredictable, life of a follower of Christ. A restless child, I am.

That’s why I love Jenny’s book. And I love her. Love. Her. Period. Her writing is her soul bleeding off the page and I have never felt closer to any other Bible teacher than I do to Jenny Allen. If anyone truly loves her readers, and Christ who guides her, it is Jenny Allen. I dare you to read her words and argue that with me. I dare you. She’s the real deal people. She has tasted the More and she knows we can too, and she wants to help us get there.

In Restless, Jenny walks us through the story of Joseph from Genesis 37-50. But she doesn’t just take us there, she brings it to us. By looking into our lives, through the reflection of Josephs struggle, she helps us see where our past pain, and passions, can help us see a bigger picture—God’s picture—of our purpose.

At first, this was very difficult for me. Quite frankly, though, I wouldn’t have it any other way. When something comes too easily I am often skeptical. That restless spirit in me cries out for opposition, for struggle, it wants to strive. Nothing worth having is cheap. Not a cheap life and certainly not cheap grace. But this study had me stumped.

See, Jenny asks us to look at our past and find times where we felt happy, where we felt special and loved, or times that resonated with joy in our spirit. She breaks this down into age groups beginning at age 0-6, 7-12, 13-18, 19-24, 25+. This perplexed me. Honestly, I couldn’t really seem to find anything in those times where I truly felt what she was asking. At first, I was just confused. Then, I became kind of frustrated. Lastly, after a couple weeks of trying to make something come, I began to get a little scared. Why couldn’t I get in touch with my feelings from my past?

Oh, I could remember my past, at least to some degree.  Yet, I seemed unable to reach in and find any feelings attached to my memories. It was as if I had no feelings attached to my memories. It was as if, I wasn’t in touch with my feelings from my childhood and adolescence. When I realized this, I realized it was true. There was over half of my life that was inaccessible to me emotionally.

Getting in touch with the tragedy in my past was no problem. I could identify a major event, if not multiple ones, in all five time frames she requested. It wasn’t until I started acknowledging those events, and making peace with them, that I began to see what my joys had truly been.

They had been there all along; words. Not in the sense of my own writing, but in story. I have always been a reader, a dreamer, a sojourner into the stories of others.

As far back as I can remember books—words—have been a part of my life. Some of my fondest memories are my father reading the The Pokey Little Puppy and Maurice Sendak’s Little Bear to me as a child. I can remember the tale of Little Bear playing in the snow, and after his many attempts to get warm his Mother Bear informs him he already has a fur coat. Oh, yeah. That’s me, always having to be reminded that I already possess all that I need. (0-6 years)

Then, there was the way I learned to have empathy for the pain of others by reading the biography of Marilyn Monroe in the third grade. I will never forget the explicit (especially for an 8 year old) nature of her struggles with men, her fame, and her own self-image. If I want to draw from a place to minister to the hurting, there’s that. And who can forget the required reading of Old Yeller. Does my love for dogs somehow stem there? And how can I use my understanding of love and loyalty through that tale to impact others? (age 7-12)

I remember in junior high (age 13-18) getting my first taste of Stephen King’s work. And say what you want about him, but he is a master wordsmith. I still get choked up when I think of his description of a father’s pain after the death of his son (Pet Cemetery.) It’s been over 25 years since I read that book, and although the exact words escape, they are unnecessary, because the story remains—the emotion remains. A father dreaming of his son’s name being called as he takes to the diving board to win the Olympic Gold, and then the crushing reality; this dream will never be, his son is dead. It still makes me catch my breath. His characters became as real to me. Their pain haunted me, and still does!

And what haunts me even more? This is what I can do. I can write words that forever change a life. I can write words that will guide a heart. I can write stories that will teach, and preach, and lead the world back to the One who created it. I can, because I am a writer.

I AM a writer.

SO! Here’s your FRIDAY FREEBIE assignment: leave me a comment on your thoughts.

Whats is your calling? What ARE you? What moves you and keeps your spirit RESTLESS for MORE?

I want to know and I want to help you move towards your dreams! How can I help you?

Tell me in the comments for your chance to win a FREE copy of W.G. Griffiths novel Takedown. I just read it last month and it is a knock-out fast-paced battle of Good versus Evil that will leave you breathless! Don’t miss out! And there may be some chocolate involved as well…I’m just sayin’ 😉