2017: Year in Review

Whew, boy, 2017. I thought you were nearly going to do me in, especially there at the end. I spent these last several months thinking I should just go ahead and make myself comfortable on the floor because, quite frankly, I was getting tired of getting back up only to get knocked down again. I figured it might as well just be easier to go ahead and lie on the floor, and tell Jesus to come find me again when the coast is clear. And I know I’m not the only one. Many of my family members and people I love dearly in my circle of influence have faced profound hurts and challenges this year. I've got friends who have been deeply, deeply wounded by things like the weight of a broken engagement, the death of friends or the announcement of cancer at forty-something-years old. This past year just seemed to be the year that was on a mission to outright destroy some people I love. Heck, I thought it was on a mission to destroy me. Our nation and globe have been turned upside down, for better or for worse, on more than one occasion, between mass shootings, new political leaders, and social movements like #MeToo. I can’t say that I’m all that sad to wave farewell to 2017. Not that it was all bad – there were certainly highlights – but it just seemed to be a season of difficulty and grief for a number of people close to me.

But for the first time in a long time, the prospect of a new year personally feels just like that – a new year. I’ve always been rather indifferent toward New Year’s festivities. It just seemed like another day, another year (and I can rarely stay awake until midnight anyway). But this year feels different, like I really am being given a blank slate and a fresh start.

Every year for the last several years, I've taken stock of the year by going back through my journals, re-reading entries, clicking through old blog posts, reflecting on all that has happened. Anais Nin said, “We write to taste life twice.” It’s worth tasting life twice. It’s worth looking back and seeing God’s faithfulness. We don’t write down stories and document the annals of history so we can forget; we do it so we can remember. What good is a nation, a kingdom, a people if they don’t remember anything? What good are God’s people if they don’t recall and bring to mind the evidences of his kindness and provisions? What good are his people if they don’t build an altar to God, raise their Ebenezers and declare, “Thus far the Lord has helped me” (1 Samuel 7:12)?

So, in keeping up with the habit, I present to you my 2017 year-in-review:

January - You ever have those prayers you want to take back? I seem to have a knack for doing that here these last several years. I started off January 2017 by jotting down in my journal, “Rid me of these fears that consume and control me, that hold me hostage and captivate me. I want your thoughts to be precious to me, for your will to become my will, your thoughts to become my thoughts. Help me to live in alignment with your Word.” Yeah, you know what, Jesus? On second thought, let me rephrase that prayer. Or better yet, let’s just forget I made that request at all. By September of this year, I was ready to cry “uncle” on this prayer.

February - Y’all. Jill Briscoe at IF: Gathering. Good Lord Almighty. Just promise me you’ll watch her segment, okay? It’s worth every single minute. I sat leaning on the edge of my chair through her entire message. I also attended Beth Moore’s Lit conference, which was aimed specifically at women in their 20s and 30s who feel called to teach, speak or write. I have poured over the notes from that event several times since then. Profound. I didn't want to leave the hotel ballroom on the final night, I just wanted to linger in those closing moments of worship for hours. The song “Spirit of the Living God” by Vertical Church Band became my prayer, “Because when Jesus comes into the room, everything changes. He changes what we see and what we seek. I want him to change what I see and what I seek.”

March - I wrote in my journal, “I’m so grateful for how you watch out for me in ways I’m not even aware.” I have thought that at least a dozen times over this year, in awe of how God orchestrates and cares for my life, long before I even know there’s a need.

April - I helped coordinate a surprise birthday party for my mom. That event was followed by the words, “I have no intention of ever planning a surprise party again in my life.” It went great, but good heavens, was there a lot of angst leading up to it. I also took a week-long road trip out to Missouri to visit my alma mater and visit some friends I had not seen in nearly a decade. I celebrated 10 years since I finished undergrad by loading up on chocolate peanut butter Big Trains, Beks spinach artichoke dip, and good conversations with good company. I also got a text message from my brother saying his wife was pregnant, after they had been told by 3 different medical specialists that they would likely never have children again. Specialists smecialists. What do you know.

May - Days after I got back from Missouri, my dear friend Myrt was rushed to the hospital, which would be the start of a sudden and rapid decline. We celebrated her 84th birthday in the nursing home by buying her a crown and a scepter, as my friends, Jill and Alex, and I had dubbed her the Queen. She had dubbed us her "Princesses."  They were bittersweet days spent with a very dear person to me.

June - I started a journal entry this month simply with the words, “God works miracles.” I had one particular co-worker that, for a season, I was at perpetual odds with. We might as well have been mortal enemies. We each inflicted wounds on the other in ways I wasn't ever sure we would ever recover from. But my God – my God is a God of mercy and grace, redemption and healing. I got an unexpected phone call from this co-worker late one night, just wanting to chat with me because she was unraveling in a lot of ways and knew she could trust me. We had come a long way in our relationship since the days of hurt, and that phone call truly was a miracle. On a totally separate note, I also got my first article published with Gospel-Centered Discipleship. 

July - Myrt had been rushed to the hospital on May 5, and she wouldn't live to see July 5. Those were hard days, watching her die, watching her in agony and pain. I so often prayed death would come swiftly for her, but then “I began praying that Jesus would come swiftly, not death. And maybe those are two sides of the same coin, but I want Jesus to come. I know he has conquered death, so death doesn't get the final say. Maybe in these fleeting earthly moments it seems death wins, but he loses for all eternity.”

August - I bought a new car. After which, I penned the words, “I should never be allowed to make another major life decision.” I seem to get a little scattered when I make significant purchases. I’m in serious trouble if I ever buy a house.

September - I mentally came off the rails. What I affectionately refer to as “The Week From Hell” occurred this month. I experienced a round of panic attacks for the first time in my life, and they sent me spiraling. I suddenly became incapable of functioning like I used to, and my life came to a crashing halt for a period of a couple weeks. The anxiety truly was debilitating and life-altering.  I selfishly pray I never go through another episode like that again.

October - I typed out nine pages of a single-spaced journal entry, words that just came tumbling out in light of the anxiety and all that was happening in its wake. I was temporarily staying with my parents in the weeks immediate after my panic attacks, but early October would prove to be the last time I would spent the night in my own apartment. I spent one night there after everything started, and it nearly did me in, being there alone. My birthday was that month and it ended up being less than stellar and consisted of a lot of tears and a meltdown for good measure. Hi, welcome to 33, Courtney. Oh, and an essay I wrote got published in a new book.  So maybe that made up some for the crappy birthday meltdown.

November - I keep getting sucker-punched by life. Just when I feel like I was gaining some semblance of normalcy, I find myself standing on the side of the road, giving a statement to a police officer after a woman hit me head-on and did a number on my brand new car. I spent a chunk of time in the ER, missed a week of work, and wondered what on earth the good Lord was trying to tell me in this season of life. I also gave notice to my landlord that I would be terminating my lease 8 months early.

December - I packed up my life into boxes and moved back home, which in some ways felt like admitting defeat, but in a lot of ways felt like relief. I get reluctant to divulge I’m living with my parents again, but most of the time, I’m just grateful I even have that option. I am beyond blessed to have a family that has supported me without question these last several months. I knew at the end of the day that I needed time to heal and recover from this season of life, and that wasn't going to happen if I stayed at my apartment. It was time to say goodbye to my little space and move on. And miracle baby nephew was born.  

So, there it is, a walk down the memory lane of 2017. A year filled with some unexpected twists and turns, but what year isn't filled with those sorts of things? What day isn't filled with those sorts of things? But we always have a choice as to how we weather the storm. 

I choose faith. I choose hope. I choose grit. I choose determination.

My friend Jill bought me a t-shirt for Christmas. It said, “Clear eyes, full hearts, Dave Barnes.” Now, you have to be both a Dave Barnes fan and at least have some familiarity with Friday Night Lights to fully get that reference. The original line from the TV show is “clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose.” As I slipped into that shirt here not too long ago, I began to think, “This is what I want 2018 to look like – clear eyes and a full heart.” I want to walk through 2018 with eyes wide open and a heart that is overflowing with joy and delight, a heart that is full to the brim simply because I know with Jesus I can’t lose. And not losing doesn't mean I think I’m going to sail through 2018 without a care in the world and not an ounce of struggle. I have no doubt those elements will be present. But even in the struggle, my heart can be full, and I can still radiate joy.

So here’s to you, 2018. 

Clear eyes. Full heart. Can’t lose.

25 Days of Drinkin'

I generally consider myself a fairly terrible gift-giver.  It's not that I give bad gifts necessarily (except for that one Snuggie I bought Alex.  Sorry, Alex), as much as I just don't give any gifts.  For the last several weddings I've been to? I'm somewhat confident I showed up gift-less.  Christmas gifts for my nieces and nephews? Nah.  In fact, I don't give them birthday gifts either.  Friends' birthdays? Um, I typically send cards.  I know, that makes me sound like a total Scrooge. It's not that I'm anti-gifts, as much as I just don't think about it. It's not instinctive for me. (Okay, okay, maybe there is a small part of me that is anti-gifts on occasion.) I'm always amazed by people who are excellent gift-givers.  My mom is one of those people.  My friend Alex is another.  Jill, too.  They'll find things and I'll think, "I don't know that I could have picked out a better gift for me if I had bought it for myself."  When I get really stellar gifts from other people, I always feel like such a slouch because I just don't have a strong track record.  Here's my defense for my poor gift-giving skills, though:

• I hate giving gifts out of obligation or tradition.  I'm not interested in buying gifts for the sake of buying gifts.  Those kind of gifts feel pointless to me.  
• I hate giving meaningless gifts.  If I'm going to give somebody something, I want it to have personal significance, purpose or value, not just some random item.
• I'd rather give the gift of experience rather than the gift of "stuff."  I want to buy time with people and memories, not more useless things to fill their homes and collect dust.

But every once in a blue moon, I go out in a gift-giving blaze of glory.  I get struck by a bolt of brilliance and find the perfect gift.  This happens only about once every three years, but when it does - I am golden.  That surprise 40th birthday party for my friend?  Knocked it out of the park (at least I think I did?) And that miniature replica I had made of my parents' house?  Nailed it.  My mom carted the thing around in her purse for days, showing it off.  And the donkey piñata I mailed to my friend Erica?  One for the ages.  Her and her husband were dressing up as Mary and Joseph for Halloween, so I mailed her a donkey to complete the look.  I nicknamed him Hey-Soos. (Get it? It's the pseudo-phonetic spelling of Jesus.  I know, probably a little sacrilegious, but I thought the whole thing was genius.  You can't have Mary and Joseph without a donkey.  And you really can just slap some postage on a piñata and mail it as-is. No need to put it in a box.)

But those are about the only example of brilliant gifts I can think of in my 33-years of existence, which is either a sad commentary on my memory or a sad commentary on my gift-giving abilities.  For the sake of this conversation, we'll go with the latter.

Since I hadn't had a flash of brilliance in awhile, I was due for one.

It has become a bit of a running joke in my family how my dad frequently stands in front of the refrigerator, doors wide open, looking for something to drink, contemplating the options.  "I don't want pop.  Too much sugar."  "I'm tired of drinking unsweetened tea."  "Water is boring."  He usually closes the doors, quietly lamenting, his thirst still not quenched. [Insert #firstworldproblem.]

I decided to solve his problem.

The week after Thanksgiving, my niece and I set off on an adventure to buy my dad 25 different kinds of drinks, one for each day of December.  We only had to stop at two locations to complete the task: World Market and Giant Eagle.  Who knew the average grocery store and specialty store could boast such a random assortment of drinks.  We basically pulled off the shelves the most off-the-wall options we could spot.  The weirder it sounded, the faster we scooped it up and put in our cart (all non-alcoholic, of course). I bought one bottle of each drink, figuring if one was truly atrocious, he wouldn't have to suffer through an entire 6-pack or 2-liter bottle, and instead just had to finish 8-12 ounces of each.  I arranged them in somewhat of an intentional order, trying to balance carbonated drinks with juice drinks.  On the outside of each of them, I wrapped my own label, sort of a commentary on each selection.  Then, each day, I put the day's bottle in the fridge, front and center.

We kicked it off on December 1 with a drink called "Dandelion Burdock."  My dad was mildly unimpressed.  Day 2 consisted of Blume Honey Water, Blueberry.  Also not a real winner.  Along came Prickly Pear, Ginger Kombucha, Cock'n Bull Ginger Beer, Pomegranate Maple Water, Mamma Chia, Thai Tea, Cucumber Sparkling Soda, Rose Lemonade, Matcha, and Lemon Cayenne Drinking Vinegar.  None of which got a thumbs up, let alone two.

But Days 7, 11 and 19?  Real doozies.  In the words of my father:              
             

Day 7, 1915 Organic Cold-Pressed Apple, Romaine, Cucumber, Spinach, Kale, Lemon Juice = "It's like drinking a bale of hay."  He took one sip of this and then promptly poured it down the drain. (You have to realize something - my dad has a stomach of steel.  So you know it's real bad if even my dad isn't willing to finish drinking it.)

Day 11, Alo Exposed Original + Honey (Aloe Vera Juice Drink) = "This is nasty.  I don't know how anybody drinks this garbage.  I sure don't need bits of aloe floating in my drink."  He may have used a different word for "garbage," but we'll keep it family-friendly.  I think he also poured this one down the drain.  

Day 19, Sparkling Jasmine Essence Water = "I'm pretty sure that's just a straight-up bottle of perfume with some carbonation."  My dad isn't a very demonstrative person, but I would imagine he was feeling like Buddy the Elf on the inside when he drank this one.

Day 21 proved to be the most complicated one to get open.  It actually required directions.  I mean, like multi-step directions with images to go with them.  Hello Kitty Ramune Strawberry soda.  Somehow or another, there's a marble enclosed in the bottle, acting like a stopper, so you can't just tip it back and drink the whole thing, even once you do figure out how to open it.  My dad found it frustrating and a "pain in the ---" to open.

I was striking out so bad on the series of drinks that I texted my dad half-way through and told him he was going to be cured of ever wanting to drink anything other than water ever again.

By the time we got to Christmas Eve and 24 drinks later, we had only three winners.  Three.  That's a 13% success rate.  The only qualification for being a winner was whether my dad would go out and buy it again.  Bolthouse Farms Peach Parfait Breakfast Smoothie, Bolthouse Farms Tropical Goodness, and Bai Costa Rica Clementine made the cut. So, yeah, maybe three out of 24 doesn't make me quite the all-star gift-giver I thought I'd be this year.

But then today, Day 25 came, Christmas Day.  I knew I had this one in the bag.  It was a can't-lose-option.  I wrapped up the bottle and put a note on the outside of it:  "Day 25.  This is it.  The grand finale.  The defining moment.  The sum of all things.  The apex of glory.  BEHOLD! The nectar of the gods, and most assuredly a WINNER."

I wrapped it in quite a few layers of wrapping paper, just to keep the suspense going.  I didn't want to make it too easy, after all.  He had made it through 25 days, so what was a few more minutes of fighting his way through some excessive amounts of wrapping paper?

Finally, he unveiled Day 25.  The heavens opened up, beams of sunlight poured down, angels sang.  A divine moment, no doubt.

And what should my dad find buried in the many layers?

Nothing less than a humble, pure, time-tested, classic, loved-by-all, bottle -

Of water.

There was no pouring this one down the drain.

Congratulations, Dad, on drinkin' your way through the holidays. 

You're the real winner of 'em all.

Be Still and Move

I remember when I first moved into my teeny-tiny apartment.  My dad thought I was moving into a glorified walk-in closet, and my mom was concerned about whether I was going to crazy in such a small place.

I, on the other hand, loved my little corner of the world, all 350 rambling square feet of it.  I used to dream of living in this lavish house when I grew up, but then I traveled around the world a few times and discovered that there wasn't a whole heck of a lot that I needed in order to live.  Some books, some clothes, my bed, a small kitchen, a functional bathroom, and enough elbow room to turn around in a small circle and I'm good to go.  And that is pretty much exactly what I got when I moved into my studio apartment over three years ago.

I had no internet, no cable, no microwave, and I unashamedly loved it that way.  I didn't bother using drinking glasses (I eventually just hid them in the back of my cupboard) because I always just drank straight out of whatever carton or container the drink came in.  I never closed the bathroom door.  I had a 23" TV, which my parents gave to me for my 30th birthday, along with a magnifying glass, because my dad had no idea how I was going to see anything on such a small screen.  When you're used to 60" screens, yes, 23" does seem a touch under-sized.  I had a dorm-sized refrigerator with a freezer the size of a glove compartment, so I learned to eat a lot healthier and better because, quite simply, frozen meals were not an option when your freezer was generally pretty worthless.  There were exactly five (six, if you count the bed, which doesn't technically belong to me) pieces of furniture to my name in that space - three bookshelves, one recliner, and a desk.  I lived exactly 0.6 miles from work, 0.2 miles from the local library, 0.4 miles from my gym, 0.8 miles from my favorite park, and 1.7 miles from my favorite pie joint - Just Pies.  I had two windows, which was one more window than pretty much everyone else in the building.  I specifically held out for a corner apartment and paid extra for it, just so I could have that additional window.  I wanted as much light as possible.

I had a string of crazy neighbors that nearly did me in.  The latest one was not only a fan of playing his guitar at all hours, but he never quite understood the purpose of a garbage disposal.  Dude, it's for grinding up your scraps, not your entire refrigerator.  I lost track of the number of times my kitchen sink and bathtub would back up with all sorts of crud and black sludge all because this guy couldn't seem to get a clue.

Despite the paper thin door and the neighbors I prayed God would somehow cause to move elsewhere, I loved that space.  I loved that neighborhood.  I loved living near the library.  I loved walking to the park in the summer.  I loved having a small space to call all my own.  I loved walking to the farmer's market.  I loved being able to run home over my lunch breaks and take cat naps. 

I lived a lot of life in that apartment.  I experienced one of the hardest seasons of my life in that apartment.  I cried a lot in that apartment.  I wrote a lot in that apartment.

I encountered Jesus in that apartment.

And now - now it's all over.

I am learning that God quite literally uproots us from our places of comfort to see to it that we don't miss what he has planned next for us.  I think I would have stayed in that apartment for years without questioning it.  I would have stayed because it was comfortable, and it was convenient, and it was easy.  Sometimes he uproots us in order to see to it that we don't miss the promised land.  It's what he said to Abraham in Genesis 12:1, "Go...to the land I will show you."  Sometimes we have to leave the places we love to go to places not yet named.  In the wake of the upheaval that has been these last few months, I just kept sensing God say to me, "Move."  And then after awhile it became, "MOVE."  I didn't understand it at the time - and still don't.  I didn't understand this command to quite literally move out of the physical space I was living in, a space that I loved, but was now a place of deep anxiety for me.  I started to have a very physical response to my apartment when I would go there.  I started staying with my parents several months ago because I couldn't handle being alone at night, but even when I would stop by my apartment to pick up some things or grab clothes for the gym, I would walk into it and suddenly feel desperate to get out of there.  It was - and is - such a mystery to me. 

When the Israelites of the Old Testament were escaping from their centuries of slavery in Egypt, marching out boldly, they were heading out to a land they had not yet named, this was place that was unknown and uncertain.  And it didn't take long for the fears to settle in.

The Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, so that he pursued the Israelites, who were marching out boldly.  The Egyptians—all Pharaoh’s horses and chariots, horsemen and troops—pursued the Israelites and overtook them as they camped by the sea near Pi Hahiroth, opposite Baal Zephon. 

As Pharaoh approached, the Israelites looked up, and there were the Egyptians, marching after them. They were terrified and cried out to the Lord. They said to Moses, “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? What have you done to us by bringing us out of Egypt?  Didn’t we say to you in Egypt, ‘Leave us alone; let us serve the Egyptians’? It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the desert!” 

Moses answered the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again.  The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” 

Then the Lord said to Moses, “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on (Exodus 14:8-15).

One of the great paradoxes of the Christian faith is that we must simultaneously be still and move.  It is not an either/or state of being, but rather a both/and.  It's also not a matter of sequence, that we are first still and then we move, or vice versa.

The Word of God commands us to be still.  Psalm 46 leaves no doubt about that.  "Be still, and know that I am God," he commands (verse 10).  Be still.  Set your heart at rest and be still.  Sink down, relax, tell your heart to let go, and be still.  Psalm 37:7 says, "Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him."  Silence the noise, and put a damper on all the racket in your head, and be still.  

It's what Moses commands the people to do.  "Do not be afraid," he declares, "The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still."  

[Allow me this minor tangent: That's one of those verses we like to conveniently leave at that, and never continue on to the verses that come after that.  It's kind of like Jeremiah 29:11.  I've got a very personal gripe against people who casually quote Jeremiah 29:11.  Everybody loves Jeremiah 29:11 and claims it as their life verse, but nobody really likes to bother with the weight of Jeremiah 29:1, or Jeremiah 29:13, or Jeremiah 29:14.  These were people living in exile when Jeremiah 29:11 makes an entrance.  These people were not living in the land of sunshine and rainbows when Jeremiah declares over the people that God has plans to prosper them.  They had come to a place that had been named and it was called Babylon and exile.  God's speaking a promise of plans and prosperity all while the people have feet firmly planted in a place in which they do not wish to be.]  

And as Moses declares over the people, "Be still," God follows shortly thereafter with "Move."  

That's the part we like to leave out.  

Stop crying out to me and move.

As much as the Word of God commands us to be still, it also unequivocally tells us to move. Forward motion is the only kind of motion that counts in the kingdom of God. Paul exhorts us in Philippians 3:13-14: "But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."  To the paralytic, Jesus said, "Take up your mat and walk."  To the adulteress, he said, "Leave your life of sin."  To the cripple, he said, "Stretch out your hand."  To Lazarus, he said, "Come forth!"  To the servants at the wedding, he said, "Fill the jars."  Jesus, more often than not, was always telling people to move.  

If we are to commit our lives to Jesus, and to have any hope of following in his footsteps, then we must figure out what it looks to simultaneously be still and move.  We must figure out what it means to set our hearts at rest, to know he is God, and trust he is in complete and loving control.  We must set aside our desire for control and certainty and rational explanations as to why God ordains what he does for our lives.  But we must also figure out how to keep pressing on, to quit our complaining and whining, to get our eyes off the end of our own noses, and move.  In my case, that literally meant packing up my bags and moving all of my possessions, even if I don't understand. Your version of move may look different.  But whatever our relative circumstances, we must simultaneously be still on the inside, while still setting our heart at rest. 

I stood in the door frame of my apartment this morning, my hand resting on the door knob, the door cracked halfway. I stole one last glance, noticing the sunlight filling up a space that was now empty, blank, and echo-y, with nothing in it to absorb the noise. I quietly closed the door, slipped the key into the lock one last time, twisted it, felt the bolt click into place.

Then I turned and walked away.

Be still and move.