the cost of fake community: a short rant

The uncomfortableness starts in my chest. A feeling unclear, but decided. I am lonely, in a room of women who for years, I call friends.

I am convinced there is opposition to connection–opposition to vulnerability, a digging in and asking God to lead, to show what He has.

But rather than do that–seek God, we get in our own way to freedom. We get in the way of a life that, while not immune to superficiality, insists on playing it safe.

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the beautiful hard

It’s been hard, for sure. I imagine it always is, when we’re taking a good hard look at ourselves, the parts previously hidden, the parts we wished we could hide. When do we ever feel in the mood to consider this truth: we each have an affinity for certain sins? Are we ever? In any case, the process, even the outcome, doesn’t sound fun at all.

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We feel hollowed out. Words, thoughts, feelings play hide-and-seek. We want to cajole them, coerce them into cooperating. No need to be shy. It’s just me.

We are on our knees again. With no answers. No words. Will worship music help? What about beauty? So we find the songs that help our hearts remember who we are. We look for light falling on our face, our hands, bare branches in bitter cold outside. Words for our feelings might come now, yes? Oh, God, what is going on with my heart?

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When You Have Exactly What You Need

It’s the waiting that is hard. Sometimes it’s the waiting for healing, physical or emotional. Sometimes it’s the waiting for hope, for the darkness to lift, for the sun’s rising in the morning to feel like possibility, not another opportunity to worry, to wonder if this day will be any different than the next.

It is heavy, the ache of lost hope. It has a smell, too–like decay, sometimes covered in the masquerade of new clothes, a tired smile, a pretend “fine” when it is the last thing you feel.

Sometimes we ache for what’s next when what’s right now is actually what we need.

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Loop Advent: be part of the conversation with God

It was days after the launch of Breathing Eden, when my soul was weary, that I began listening to God’s whispers.

The house dark, a blanket pulled across my shoulders, I sat on the floor, reading Scripture, asking Him what it is He thinks about Advent, this season of both awaiting the birth of Christ and celebrating Christ who has already come.

I wondered what God might say if we asked Him how we should celebrate, how we should prepare our hearts, how we can be present with Jesus in this busy season? So I asked Him, and I waited for answers. And like I did with Loop, I wrote it down.

Loop Advent

And these four letters are Loop Advent, four beautiful devotionals, one to read during each of the four weeks of Advent. And there are four unique 8 x 10 art prints inspired by His words–to print out on watercolor paper or card stock, too.

I love what the words in Loop Advent say . . . Read More . . .

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at twilight – how to stop your soul from spinning

It is evening light, I think, that I’m chasing. Or that I’m desiring to enter into. I can’t tell. But I’m hungry for rest. For restoration. This I know.

I listen to these wise and beautiful words as I walk. And I remember to breathe in the holiness of this moment. The beauty of quiet on California suburban streets, tree branches burdened with once-green leaves now aflame. A stillness that settles upon me but feels fleeting too.

I am missing God. I know it. I am afraid, I think, that time is going by so fast, and I am just not spending it the way that will bring God joy, the way that will make my heart satisfied.

I feel my heart pull toward Him, begging for answers: “Is it okay to be hungry for You? I am eager for your presence to overwhelm me in the night. I lay my head down and fear that I am most surely not a good friend, a good wife, a good mom, a good daughter. And it is becoming too late.”

On these nights, on this night, I can feel hope slipping away. I watch it leaving, a bright spot blanketed by ingratitude, selfishness, pride. I watch it go, covered by blackness. And I stay in the dark.

And I don’t even care.

I think I don’t even care. Read More . . .

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