Footprints in the Sand

Me, jumping on the shores of Coronado Island,
December, 2022

I’m not particularly fond of beaches. First, there is sand, which in my mind, is like the glitter of the natural world. It ends up in all these places you don’t want it to be. Your hair. Your eyes. Your bathing suit. Your mouth. Second, there’s sun, which also means it’s typically hot. I am not a fan of climates north of 75°.  (Thus, Alaska in December.) And I burn easily. Third, I don’t find swimming to be a particularly pleasant life experience. Any body of water larger than my bathtub has zero appeal, and even that is questionable these days because, hi, seizures and water do not mix. Fourth, beaches tend to be very people-y. Fifth, I just think the beach is boring most of the time. What am I supposed to do all day if I don't swim and I don't want to look like a lobster? All that to say, the beach is not going to be my top pick for vacation most of the time.

With one notable exception: the beaches of San Diego. Particularly Mission Beach and Coronado Island areas. These places are very sentimental for me, so I have no problems enjoying the sand, soaking up the sun, and tolerating the heat. Although, I’m still not going to get in the water. 

A precious friend of mine and her husband moved out to that area a couple years ago, and I went out to visit them in December 2022. For the sake of this post, we'll call my friend Brave One. While visiting, Brave One and I went out to Coronado Island one day, just strolling along the beach and taking in views of the famed hotel, which is gorgeous and full of history. We were there just prior to Christmas, so the place was decked out in Christmas trees everywhere you looked. When everything went sideways for me back in February, I texted Brave One and told her that someday she and I are going to walk the beaches of Coronado Island again. She is going through her own hurricane of a season, so we’ve occasionally been texting one another, checking in to see how the other is doing. We are both in survival mode.

As I was reflecting on recent life circumstances for both of us, I was reminded of the poem "Footprints in the Sand." You probably heard it, but if you haven’t, there's a copy of it here.

I texted Brave One here in the last several weeks, telling her that I'm still praying that God would let me make it back to Coronado Island and that both of us would walk those beaches again - together. 

And then I thought of the poem.

So, to my dear, Brave One. By faith I’m believing we will both walk those shores again, shoulder to shoulder. We will feel the sand in our toes, We will feel the sun on our face. We will smell the salty sea breeze. We will take more jumping photos. And we will lift our gaze and see, even if in our imaginations only, a single set of footprints in the sand, and we will be reminded of all the moments we were carried by God through the current chaos of our lives. That poem will not be mere words on a page or a cute little poem - it will be our lived experience.

And in that moment, by faith I believe we will bend our knees to worship the God who carried us through the storm, leaving behind his footprints in the sand as evidence.

Hold onto hope, my dear Brave One. The night won’t last forever. 

There's a sunrise waiting for us on Coronado Island.

PS: Look at me making plans, vague though they may be! 

 

______________________

Functional updates

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

You know you reach a new point in your healthcare when even the thought of something happening makes you take action. I was standing in the kitchen the other day at the counter, and I got a little flushed, my foot got a little tight, which tends to be a sign of a seizure coming on, so I just thought Forget this nonsense. I don't need another head injury. I’ll be proactive and just go ahead and lay on the floor. So I did. Thankfully, there was a padded rubber mat in front of the sink so I just laid on that. Nothing ever came of it and there wasn’t a seizure, but I can never be sure these days. 

I had another seizure this past Sunday, which was more mild than others, but it seems I’ve had more troubles rebounding with my motor control and strength with this one. So, that’s the third seizure in two weeks. It just leaves me and my parents all on edge because we never know when my brain is going to hit the "detonate" button and the bomb goes off. I get very nervous about going out in public now because I’m never sure if a seizure is going to rear its ugly head and make an appearance. I obviously am still going to all my appointments and rehab, so I’m not a total recluse, but it does make life tricky, never knowing when the bomb is going to go off.

June 10 is the magical start date for chemo, and June 11 is the start date for radiation. Chemo will run seven days a week for six weeks, for total of 42 doses. Radiation will run five days a week for six weeks for a total of 30 doses, which means I will end somewhere around the middle of July. Then I will have a 30 day break, and will then start 12 months of chemo. And that’s just if everything goes OK. (When is life ever linear?) They will monitor my bloodwork on a regular basis and take regular MRIs to see how things are progressing. We won’t know how my body will respond until we get into the thick of it - I may have very limited side effects, or I may have a lot. Time will tell.

I will likely buzz my hair again because I will have a pure bald spot from radiation where my hair will fall out entirely. Eventually, it will grow back in, but I’ll keep it buzzed in the meantime just so that eventually it will grow back in uniform.

Every day continues to be a dogfight. It seems I rarely physically feel good as my brain continues to heal. I still have vision problems off and on and, of course, my left arm is still getting a one-star Yelp review. My left leg is mainly weak and has some coordination issues. I originally thought I would stop rehab once radiation started, but the radiation oncologist actually encouraged me to continue at least therapy while I was actively in treatment. Of course, all depends again on how I'm physically feeling, so I'll have to wing it as I go. 

But keep making plans, y'all!

I Miss My Friend

I have an exceptionally amazing group of friends, as previously documented. This sucky season of life has proven that. Countless cards, gifts, flowers, and texts have been pouring in these last 3 months since my diagnosis. I won't make it through to the other side of this season of life without you all. I will not be the person you once knew. Suffering and hardship inevitably change a person, but don't give up on me. Don't leave me in the shadows all alone. Be willing to sit with me in my grief and sadness, even if you don't know what to say or do. I probably don't know myself.

But there's one friend in particular, though, that I am profoundly missing. Oh, how I wish I could talk to him, now more than ever. There's so much I want to chat with him about. I want to talk about expectations and limitations, joy and sorrow, Jesus and truth, fear and anxiety.

His name was Jonathan Eades. Some of you reading this knew Jon or know his parents, who are equally precious to me. 

We first met after I graduated from college. I started attending a new-to-me church in the area at the time, and then joined a small group that met at his house. Jon was diagnosed with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy when he was five, and by the time I met him in his mid-twenties, he was permanently in a wheelchair. Somehow over the course of time, we fell into this habit of me spending every Thursday evening taking up residence on his couch, the two of us watching episodes of Big Bang Theory and Wipeout.

Jonathan eventually passed in February 2012. To this day, I still have reminders in my phone to mark his birthday and the anniversary of his passing. His parents remain two of my most favorite human beings on the planet.

I know I'll see Jon again someday in heaven, but I selfishly wish he were here now to help me navigate this season of life. He had so much wisdom and perspective to offer on life, born from his own experiences and adversity.

Jon, I hope I have half as much joy you did while traversing the valley, and I hope I shine the light of Christ half as well as you did. Like a sunflower follows the sun, I want to follow you as you followed the Son.

I miss you, my friend.

_________________

Functional updates

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

I'm still doing rehab multiple times per week, which has been going okay. I get very anxious about going because I keep anticipating being confronted by all that I seemingly can't do, but the occupational therapist made a good point - I have to stop comparing the present me to the former me, the former me that could do single leg squats with perfect balance and read 100 pages of a book per hour and had no problems with cognition. That person no longer exists. So, comparing my present self to my past self is a trap. "Comparison is the thief of happiness," he said. I have to figure out how to let go of what once was. No small task.

I connected today with a local cancer community support network that offers counseling and assorted educational offerings. I know I need counseling, especially heading into chemo and radiation. It's been tough mentally to stay between the ditches, with anxiety and fear sometimes rushing in like a landslide at times. I have to do double-time to not get swept away.

I'm at the start of week two for my medication transition, from a previous anti-seizure med to a new one. The old one had the side effect of depression, which I felt keenly. I am hoping the new one will go a long way in lifting the veil.

Some of you have asked about prayer requests. I’ll share with you the list of things that I’ve been praying for myself. I welcome your fellow intercession:

1. I’ve been praying shamelessly praying some versus straight out of Job, particularly Job 42:12: 

The Lord blessed the latter part of Job’s life more than the former part. He had fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, a thousand yoke of oxen and a thousand donkeys.

Emphasis obviously being on the first sentence. I’m asking that the Lord would bless the latter half of my life more than the former half. I turn 40 this October, so it seems like an appropriate prayer, given that I’m supposedly reaching the halfway point of my life. I don’t know that I need the 14,000 sheep, 6,000 camels, 1,000 yoke of oxen, or 1,000 donkeys, but I am shamelessly asking for God's blessing on my future.  
 

2. I’m also praying that I would not be overcome by darkness. John 1:5 talks about this:

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. 

I’m praying that God‘s light would shine into the dark nooks and crannies of my heart and mind, and that I would not be overcome by that darkness, especially in the weeks and months ahead.

 3. I’m also praying that God would fully restore strength, coordination, and motor control to my left arm. It continues to be a source of frustration for me, and I’m having to figure out how to manage expectations, and not get so easily disheartened. 

4. I'm also praying that I would not lose heart in general. Sometimes my worst fear in the midst of this trial is that my faith would fail, or that I would turn my back on God. I start to spiral and imagine all the ways that things could go wrong, one of which is that I would abandon my faith, but then I’m reminded of this quote from JI Packer:

I need not torment myself with the fear that my faith may fail; as grace led me to faith in the first place, so grace will keep me believing to the end.  Faith, both in its origin and continuance, is a gift of grace. 

5. I also pray that I would have eyes to see God’s fingerprints in my life, that I would keep looking for the ways progress is happening, and eyes to see how he is working things for my good (My new favorite song on the matter), rather than dwelling on all the ways I feel like my body still isn’t functioning like I think it should. I pray that he would provide tangible progress that would serve as encouragement and motivation to keep going.

6. I'm praying for quality sleep and good rest. I tossed and turned last night, and could not get comfortable so I just kept thrashing around. 

Even If The Answers Never Come

My friend and I sat in the donut shop, basking in the glory of warm, freshly made donuts slathered in toppings of our choosing. The sweet smells of dough and chocolate and various other forms of sugar filled the air. Conversations from other patrons spilled over all around us as they waited in line for their own delightful donuts. My friend sat back in her chair, hands cradling her swollen belly - all 34 weeks of it. We spoke of baby gifts and nurseries and the wonders of pregnancy. Her face was as expectant as the rest of her body. A baby set to arrive any day, at any moment. It was just a matter of time.

I distinctly remember us talking that Friday morning - Good Friday, no less - how so often in life we can have seasons when it seems things couldn't get any better, seasons when it seems we are sailing along, anchored in our faith, confident in the character and nature of God. But those seasons inevitably are followed by the storms, the trials, the heartaches, the crucibles. The two often go hand in hand, don't they? We both knew from our own life experiences how true that dichotomy was.  

We polished off our donuts and I hugged her, her belly creating space between us. We parted ways that morning feeling light, hopeful of the day when her baby would arrive and we would celebrate.  

I wished our conversation hadn't been so prophetic. 

The next morning I woke early to a text message from her, a plea to come to the hospital as soon as possible. 

The baby's heart had stopped beating sometime in the night.

Thirty-four weeks of hopeful expectation.

Dear Jesus, no. Not this.   

I rolled out of bed, changed clothes, gathered my things and shot out the door. As I drove, the questions and thoughts and prayers tumbled around in my brain, like rogue waves breaking against the rocks on a shoreline, one after another after another.   

She's so close to her due date. How could you let this happen now?

Maybe it's just a fluke and the ultrasound equipment malfunctioned. 

What if the doctors are wrong and the baby really is still alive?

Jesus, it's Easter weekend. This would be a good time to perform another resurrection.  

How do I not be weird or awkward or say the wrong thing? 

What is the right thing to say anyway in moments like these?

And, of course - 

Why?

There is often the danger in Christian circles with feeling like we aren't allowed to ask this question in our moments of deepest pain, that it's too taboo or too blasphemous or quite frankly, just plain ol' too honest and too raw. So we paste a smile on our faces, keep a stiff upper lip, raise our hands in a show of worship and count it all joy when the bottom drops out in our lives. And in all things, we give thanks and we don't dare ask why.

As I drove to the hospital, wondering what I would find when I entered that room, I just kept thinking one thing over and over and over again, the mental waves still crashing against the shorelines of my mind:

Just because we have faith doesn't mean we can't ask 'why?'. 

But because we have faith, we can walk on - even if the answers never come.

I parked my car, fervently praying with every step that took me closer to my friend that somehow God would give me the words - and the wisdom to know when perhaps silence was needed more than words. But still that thought that had bounced around my head while driving lingered. I crossed the threshold into that hospital room and I could feel the weight of the atmosphere change in a very visceral way as I stepped into the hushed silence. I pulled back the curtain shielding me from the view of my friend and her husband. As soon as I saw her face, the tears flooded our eyes. Weeping might have been an understatement on account of all parties.

I sat next to her bed, holding her hand, her husband on the other side. I don't know what I said, what they said, what the doula said. I don't know if doctors and nurses came and went. I don't remember any of it. 

But I do remember praying, out loud, there in that room, holding my friend's hand, asking God one question unabashedly, with tears streaming down my face:

"Why?"

Why, God, in all your sovereign ways, would you bring my friend and her baby this far and then allow his heart to stop beating? It doesn't add up. It doesn't make sense. Our finite minds desperately want reasons and explanations and logic and rationale thought to fill the empty spaces. 

Tish Harrison Warren wrote in her stunning book Prayer in the Night*, "It is better to come to God with sharp words than to remain distant from him, never voicing our doubts and disappointments. Better to rage at the Creator than to smolder in polite devotion. God did not smite the psalmist" (48). 

God did not smite the psalmist nor did he smite us in that hospital room for asking why. He's big enough to bear the weight of those three little letters.  

But we have to be prepared for either an answer we don't like or an answer that never comes. 

And we have to decide what we will do in the face of either of those responses. 

I can assure you my kindhearted and tender friend did not smolder in polite devotion. She came to God with her sharp words in the face of an answer she didn't like. She came with her doubts and disappointments. But I also watched her in the days, weeks, months and years that have followed since that not-so-good-Good-Friday decide one day at a time what her ultimate response was going to be:

She was still going to walk on, choosing to shift her focus to the answer to the question "Who is God?" rather than dwelling on why.

Because the answers to why have never come for her. 

The baby was perfectly healthy. The autopsy report reveals no abnormalities. The doctors don't know why. 

There are no reasons, explanations, or rationale thoughts.

Warren went on to share in Prayer in the Night of a friend whose son underwent surgery. While her friend sat in the waiting room, "she committed herself to deciding whether God could be trusted, regardless of the result of the surgery." Warren reflected,

[My friend] was not simply ratcheting herself up to affirm the goodness of God in spite of contrary evidence. She did look to evidence, though not the evidence of her life, nor the tally of the total amount of good in the world versus the total amount of evil. Instead, she looked at the life of Jesus. It's on this story that she anchored her decision about whether she would trust God, without knowing what would happen next (29).

I watched my own friend look to the life of Jesus rather than merely ratcheting herself up to affirm the goodness of God. I watched her ask why, and I watched her anchor her life to something greater than both the question and the answer - or lack thereof.

I watched her walk on, even when the answers never came.

Because her faith was built not on the question of why.

Her faith was built on the answer of who. 

In your moments of deepest pain and loudest lament, you can ask God why. 

But determine now to walk on in faith, trusting in who he is.

Even if the answers to why never come.

======

*Seriously. Read this book. 

Loved By a God I Can't See

It came in the form of a fire extinguisher, a birthday gift from a co-worker, Simon, after I told him how I paranoid I was about using my fireplace, visions of burning the place down flashing through my mind. He left the extinguisher on my desk with a simple note that said, "Safety first. Always. Happy birthday! Simon."  The gift and the gesture brought tears to my eyes.  Ever know anyone to get weepy over a fire extinguisher? Now you do.  It was practical and thoughtful, and it made me feel known and loved, all because he had paid attention to the details of my life and had listened to my fears.

It came in the form of a late night FaceTime call with a friend of mine, Derek, from college.  I had already crawled into bed, and normally I would haven't answered my phone, but when I saw his name pop up and that he wanted to FaceTime no less, I fumbled in the pitch black to answer my phone, afraid something was wrong. He told me to get my laptop, he needed me to watch something. I opened my email, clicked the link he sent, and picked my jaw off the floor as I watched. It was a personal video from Matt Wertz, a longtime favorite musician of mine. Derek had managed to miss my birthday, and this was his way of making it up to me. It was lavish and outrageous, and it made me feel known and loved, all because he had paid attention to the details of my life and went to great lengths to make me feel special.      

Those moments, those gifts, and so many others in recent weeks have been like spring rains on parched ground.  When my co-worker left something as ridiculously practical as a fire extinguisher on my desk, he couldn't have known he wasn't merely being a gift-giver he was being a human courier delivering a supernatural message.  And when my friend called late at night with instructions to watch a video link, he couldn't have known that just days prior I had penned a note by my bedside, asking myself the question, "What does it mean to be loved by a God I can't see?" 

     
The love of God is terribly abstract to me, like some sort of painting by Kandinsky or Pollock, something you stare at for hours, squinting your eyes, straining to find something familiar but you still leave scratching your head a bit. Ever the 'reliable realist,' I prefer to deal in concrete terms, with things I can touch and feel and lay eyes on.  And God's love is seemingly not something I can touch and feel and lay eyes on. Yes, I can read about his love in the Bible, and yes, I know the Bible verses that say "God is love," but what does all of that really mean? How do I translate all of those abstract concepts into terms I can define and grasp? I want so desperately for God to make perfect sense to me, to have him line up in very linear ways.  I want to strip him of his mystery and put him in terms I can understand.

I have a photocopied version of a story whose source I cannot recall, tucked away in a stack of notes to keep. I've carted it around for years, probably since grad school. It's the story of a little girl who lost her mother tragically and suddenly.  Her father pulled a few blankets into her room one night after the funeral to sleep on the floor next to her bed, just to be close to her in case his daughter needed him.  He could hear her sobbing at one point, and he reached over to grab her hand. She sighed and said, "Oh, that's so much better."  The father responded, "Sweetie, you know we can lean on Jesus when we are sad, right?" His daughter replied, "I know, Daddy, but tonight I need someone with skin on."

That's what I say to God so often.  I know I can lean on Jesus, I know I can trust him and I can intellectually agree with the fact that he loves me.  But sometimes in my humanity and frailty and short-sightedness, I wish he had skin on and was sitting next to me to tell me all that. Maybe then I could wrap my arms around him, to deal with him in concrete terms, to lay eyes on him. Maybe then I could make sense of the words God is love. Maybe then I could make sense of what it means to be loved by a God I can't see.

But that is the crux of faith, to believe what we cannot see, to love what we cannot hold with our bare hands, to trust when it seems there is no net.  "For we walk by faith, not by sight," 2 Corinthians 5:7 declares. Somewhere along the way we have to decide that faith is greater and more precious than sight.  We have to decide that we'll follow God even when we can't make sense out of him, even when his love seems unfathomable to us.      

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls." - 1 Peter 1:3-8

Though I have not seen him - not in the literal sense, at least - I love Him.

Because I know he sees me.

And being loved by a God I can't see often means He sends earthly friends with skin on to remind me of that fact.

He Met Me in a Stable

A couple of weeks ago, I slipped into my old, worn out Carhartt, stained with who knows what, and probably hasn't seen the inside of a washer since who knows when.  I piled on layers of leggings, jeans and ski pants that were doubling as overalls, keeping the cold night air at bay.  I jammed on my winter hat and set foot inside a stable, something I hadn't done in what felt like an eternity.  

If you've known me for any length of time, then you'll be well-acquainted with my longstanding love affair with all things equine.  For those that don't know me, though, you can get the crash course on my horse saga here, here, here, here and here.  Horses (animals in general, really) were my safe haven as a child and as a teenager, my place to run and hide, to retreat from the world and from people.  I found great comfort in their presence, in the routine of caring for them, tending to their needs, working with my hands.  Somewhere in the depths of an old journal is an entry I wrote about my dog Bubbles (yes, I named my half-Rottweiler Bubbles), and how I considered her my best friend.  I still miss that dog to this day and she's been gone for over a decade now.  There was power in the companionship of creatures that viewed life from a fairly uncomplicated lens - you feed me, brush me, pet me, and I will love you forever and shower you with kisses in return.  It's a simple exchange.  

     

I've unexpectedly longed for that companionship again in recent days.  In the craziness and turmoil of this anxiety that has wrecked my world, I found myself wishing for a dog by my side or to bury my face in the mane of a horse. I have found myself wanting to return to the places and interests I once found solace in, place and interests that brought a measure of peace and quiet, predictability and routine.  

Having been out of the horse world for so long now, the outlets I once had no longer exist.  My childhood trainers have since sold their farm and all their horses, so I can't go back there.  My own pony died several years ago, so I can't wander out to my parents' backyard to tinker around.  I haven't had a dog in ages, so I can't even reach out for a wagging tail either.  The closest thing I've had for a pet these days is the Bob Ross Chia Pet my brother and sister-in-law got me for my birthday.    

But thank God.  He knows just what we need precisely when we need it.  The mother of a friend of mine from church has a stable and a barn full of ponies.  Janet and I connected earlier this year when she asked me to judge her pony club show in the spring.  She kept saying I could come out to the barn any time I wanted, just let her know.  I never took her up on the offer until two weeks ago.  I was craving the safe haven of a stables again, so I texted her, asking if I could finally take her up on her offer to visit the stables and her ponies.  Of course, she said.  

That's when I found myself slipping into my Carhartt coat and setting foot inside a stable.  Instant memories.  The smells brought back a flood of images to my mind, the dim lights reminding me of my own grandfather's barn.  Janet showed me where all of the brushes were and where I could cross-tie the little pony I was going to groom, Coco.  She said she had some stuff to get done up to the house, and would leave me alone to the task at hand - brushing a very wet, very shaggy and very woolly Shetland pony.  Just before she slipped out, she called over her shoulder, something that brought me to tears once she disappeared:

"God will meet you here tonight.  I already made a reservation."

She said nothing more as she slipped into the dark of the night, while I was left holding a grooming brush, listening to the quiet munching of the horses eating their hay.

God will meet you here tonight.  

I'm grateful that God meets us in our hours of deepest need, in the places that are neither churches nor temples, but rather the places that are often common, familiar, dusty and smelly.  The places that aren't always tidy, aren't always fit for the presence of a King.  Places like stables and barns and stalls.

He did that once before, you know.

He met all of humanity in a manger, among the straw and the hay, the dust and the dirt, among the very animals he created.  He met us in the common, familiar, dusty and smelly nook of a place, a town called Bethlehem, in the hour of humanity's deepest need.  

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David.  He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child.  While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.  An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.  But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.  Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”  (Luke 2:4-12)

This will be a sign for you - a baby lying in a manger. 

Among the animals.

He met me in a stable as a child - then as a teenager - and now as an adult.

But really he met me over 2,000 years ago when he came as a baby wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger.

Our God is a God who meets us in the places of our lives that are not always tidy, not always fit for a King.  In our less-than-Pinterest-worthy homes, at the bedside of loved ones fighting to live another day, behind prison bars where men and women crumble under the weight of their guilt and shame, in the darkened alleys of the city streets where women sell their bodies, in our offices with desks piled high with paperwork and stress, in our yards where the weeds and the worms grow, in the orphanages filled with children who have no one claiming them.  He meets us in all of those places and countless others.  

There's not a place on Planet Earth where Jesus cannot or will not meet his children.  The psalmist declares in Psalm 139:7-10: "Where can I go from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence?  If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.  If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast."

There's nowhere I can go where I can flee his presence.  There's nowhere I can go where his hand will not guide, where it will not hold me fast.

Including a stable.  

Because he knows what it's like to listen to the quiet munching of horses eating their hay, and he knows what it's like to meet with his Father.

God will meet you here tonight, on this night, and he will do so every moment of every day for now and all eternity.  Just like he did all those years ago.

I'm so very grateful the God of the universe met me in a stable - both now and over 2,000 years ago on a starry, starry night.

To Myrt

Myrt and me at an Ohio State men's basketball game

We were practically friends at first sight. Nine years ago this past January, I walked into a women’s Bible study being held at the local church I had only recently started attending. She had snow-white hair, cropped short, and she walked up to me and grabbed me by the arm and exclaimed, “You’re a DG? I’m a Pi Phi!” I had an old sweatshirt from college on with a Delta Gamma logo and she spotted it from a mile away. Myrt and I have been friends ever since.

And what a sweet friendship it has been. Some days Myrt makes me laugh so hard I cry, and she’s not even trying to be funny, which makes her even funnier. She’s feisty, full of grit and gumption. She uses the word “golly” a lot, which I adore. She will talk politics to anyone who is willing to listen, and she will not be the least bit afraid to tell you exactly what she thinks about Democrats. She has traveled the world and has collected no shortage of stories and adventures from far-off lands. And she loathes the color orange. So much so I found her one Sunday, years ago, standing in the church lobby with a plastic bag in her hands and some orange lilies sticking out the top of the sack. These poor flowers had somehow managed to bloom in her yard, and she simply was not going to have that, so she ripped them out of the ground - bulbs, dirt and all - stuck them in a bag and brought them to church to give away. 

Somewhere along the way, after a few adventures around the world, she went on a blind date and met a man named Paul. And not just any man – the love of her life. The rest is history. People want to talk about relationships goals, or use the hashtag on social media #relationshipgoals. I suppose if I had Facebook or Instagram, I would post a picture of Myrt and Paul, and simply write in the caption #relationshipgoals. You can’t find a marriage any better than theirs, and I’m not sure you can find a woman who adores her husband more than Myrt adores Paul.

Two years ago this past December, Paul passed away. Myrt was already cranky about turning 80 nearly four years ago and still being alive. She had always said she never wanted to live long enough to see that age, mainly because if you’re 80 years old, you’ve probably lived a pretty good life, and so she figured there was nothing more worth sticking around for. And then when Paul died, not only was she unhappy she was still alive past that age, she was now still here without Paul. I have no doubt she has shared a few choice words with God over this fact.

And in the months and years since Paul died, I’ve often heard Myrt say, “I just don’t know why I’m here. I just don’t know what my purpose is.” And it always broke my heart. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and talk some sense in her, to explain to her all the reasons why.

So, Myrt, can I tell you why God has kept you around here on this big blue marble called Planet Earth?

You are still here because there is a girl who has got an occasional thick head and hard heart, and she needed someone like you to talk some sense into her.

That girl is me.

I needed you tell me to stop over-thinking life, and to stop making it way more complicated than it needed to be. I needed to sit with you over dinners at the Village and show me what it looked like to love the same man year after year, decade after decade. I needed you to remind me when I wanted to have a pity party that life was not all that bad, and to stop dwelling on all that was going wrong and focus instead on all that was going right. I needed your jokes and your sense of humor. I needed to witness your feistiness and your attitude. I needed the gift of friendship and conversations shared over rice bowls at Bibibop. I needed time with you at Ohio State basketball games, sitting in the car two hours before the game starts, chatting about life and sororities and whether the Buckeyes are going to be any good this year in football or not.  

I needed your no-nonsense attitude that made faith so black and white – either I trust God or I don’t, either I believe he is good or I don’t. I needed your example of what it looked like to live as a single person well into her thirties, and still find there was so much to do even without a man by her side. I need you to tell me to stop taking myself so seriously. I needed to laugh with you as you yelled at “Alexa” to turn the lights off or the music down.  I needed you and your big mouth to tattle on me to Paul, to tell him I had asked you in the wake of a break-up, "How do you know you have found the one you are supposed to marry?"  Because I also needed Paul to come and tell me, "The Holy Spirit will let you know that you know that you know."  I needed your homemade birthday and greeting cards to brighten my day. I needed your example.  Some days, I just needed your hugs and your hand in mine. 

Alexanne, Myrt and me at the dedication
of a wing of our church, in honor of Myrt
and Paul.

Most days, though, I really just needed time with you.

But when we stood underneath the branches of the tree at church last summer, the one just outside the kitchen door, when you said you wanted to walk around the building and pray for all that would happen within the walls of our church?

That is when I knew I needed you most.

Because I was ready to bail on my church family, to walk away, to call it day and say, “I just can’t do this anymore.” I was full of bitterness and resentment, and my hard heart and my thick head were winning that day. And yet there you stood. There you stood by that tree, a tree you remembered being planted decades before, long before our church became what it is today. You stood there, recounting the many seasons of life you had witnessed during your time as a member of this church, and all the other previous versions of it. The years past and the tree grew, you along with it. You and Paul had made a decision this church was your family, and come hell or high water, this is where you would stay.

As I stood there underneath that tree, fighting back tears and fighting back an equal amount of anger and frustration, I watched you. I listened as I heard the resolve in your voice – you made a choice to stay all those years ago. You made a choice to weather the storms and the changes and the growth. Because in your mind, what other choice was there?

And in that moment, with you standing next to me, held up by your walker, the sun shining down from above, I thought to myself, “Jesus, help me to be like that. Help me to be like this woman standing beside me, and make me like this tree standing before me. Rooted and established. Confident. Steadfast. Ever-hopeful.  Help me to sink roots here. Help me to dig deep. Help me to hold on, to fight tooth and nail to follow you. Because if she can do it – if Myrt, at 80-something years old can choose to put her trust in you above her own personal preferences – then I can do it too. Because this church is my family. And you don’t just walk out on family.”

Myrt, I know you are ready to go home to Jesus and be reunited with Paul. I know. You tell me so often. You always said you wanted to die five minutes after Paul, just long enough to tidy up the place and be on your way. I know you are less than happy that you haven't gotten your way.  Your life has been one well-lived, and I’m honored to call you friend and “Queen.” Your friendship has been a prized possession.

But for purely selfish motives, I want you here, with me, just a little while longer. 

I’m not ready for Jesus to take you just yet.

But when that day does come – and it surely will eventually, whether I want it to or not – I want you to know this:

You had a purpose, and your life had a meaning.

Because you spoke purpose and meaning into mine.

The Stuff of Bucket Lists and Firearms

Me, on the range at Blackwing

Remember that bucket list I wrote about? I had always wanted to ride horses on the beach, which I was finally able to do this past summer.  But then my friend Alex noted that my list also included "learn how to shoot a gun."

I am thankful for her observation skills.  And I am thankful she is my friend.  And I'm thankful she paid for and went with me to a class Blackwing Shooting Center, one of my new favorite corners of the world.  Nothing like celebrating your 30th birthday by learning how to shoot a firearm.

Mind you, I had never shot a gun before in my life, minus a squirt gun, which clearly doesn't count.

But can I just say, I surprised even myself during the 3-hour, ladies-only course at Blackwing. I LOVED learning how to use a handgun.  I loved the intense concentration it required and I loved completely tuning the world out and focusing solely on that target just down the range.  It was a strangely liberating and empowering feeling.  After I got done, I thought, "Why the heck didn't I do this sooner in life?!"

And it turns out, I'm not too bad of a shot, if I do say so myself.

Twenty five rounds later, all 25 hit the target and a select few make it to the center of the individual targets.  (There was that random stray that hit the very bottom of the target.  I must have zoned out for a second when I fired that shot, but hey - at least it was still somewhere on the target.)

I left Blackwing thinking, "Dang, that was fun - I gotta check my calendar and figure out when I can get back up here to fire off a few more of these things!"

So, thank you to my dear friend, Alex, for helping me cross that one off the bucket list.  I have been introduced to a whole new world that I am thoroughly enjoying (in a non-disturbing way, of course, so nobody needs to be alarmed at my newly acquired fascination with shooting firearms).
        

All Things Books

I was on the hunt for the perfect book.  One that I could cut up and basically destroy.  All in the name of love and weddings and friends.

I had the privilege of hosting my friend Alexanne's wedding shower yesterday and I decided to ixnay the usual ho-hum wedding theme and go for one that was uniquely Alex. Book-themed, of course!  The girl loves all things books.  That's probably why we are such good friends.  I think we could sit and talk about books all day.  I drafted the invitations to look like the old library card catalog cards from way back when we didn't have anything saved on a computer.

  

I asked each guest to bring with them their favorite book to give to Alex as a gift to add to her own personal library.  I included a bookplate in the invitation so that they could easily write her a note and then include it in the cover of the book.  This way she would have a personal note from each person, but also have something from everybody at the shower that was uniquely them.  I like it when practicality meets meaningful gifts.

I kept the decorations fairly minimal, but I was inspired by some posts on Pinterest that included the pages of old books used as decor.  I liked the idea and thought I could easily find a book that I could cut up and use the pages.  This is when my hunt for the perfect book to destroy began. It turns out it was harder than I imagined.  I made a pit stop at the thrift store and as I was thumbing through the 25 cent options, I found myself starting to have a mild dose of anxiety because I suddenly realized I wasn't sure I could bring myself to cut up a perfectly good book.  I originally was aiming for a book that would be highly symbolic and meaningful to Alex.  I found Knowledge of the Holy by Tozer, but when I pulled it off the shelf, the anxiety escalated and then I knew for sure I couldn't cut up a perfectly good book.  

Which means I needed to find a perfectly bad book that I had no emotional connection to and felt no guilt over destroying.  

I settled for Tales from Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffett.  I'm sorry, Jimmy.  Don't take it personally. It was all in the name of love, weddings and friends.       

I took poor Jimmy's book and cut it up into a series of pennants and then used mini clothespins to hang the pages from a string of twine.  I draped it across the fireplace and then along the cupboards in the kitchen.  I went for all things colorful, so the pennant book pages were coupled with solid-colored pennants and then all of my tableware and utensils were bright colors - kelly green plates, aqua napkins, orange and yellow forks, pink cups yellow cupcake wrappers and lots of bright flowers.  The more color the better in my world.    

I also then pulled off a lot of my own personal books from the shelves and used those as centerpieces.  I stacked them up, stuck some brightly colored flowers in mason jars, scattered some of the extra pennant book pages and voila - a centerpiece that makes for a great conversation starter.  I highlighted a few of the books by sticking popsicle sticks in them with a flag on them that said "Alex's favorites."  This way people got a chance to peruse a few books that Alex enjoys, learn a little bit more about her and chat about whether anybody else had read some of the books stacked up.

I am not a big fan of bridal shower games, so I decided to spare everybody and opt for a slight alternative.  Since everybody was bringing a copy of their favorite book, I put them in a big stack and told Alex that in order for her to open any gifts, she had to guess who had brought the book.  And then the person who brought it had to explain why it was their favorite.  Turns out Alex knows her friends and family quite well as she got a vast majority of them right on the first try.  The collection ranged from Bossypants by Tina Fey to The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis to To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee - and a whole lot of other titles in between.  It was fun to see what each person brought and why the book had been significant to them.

And because it's a book-themed bridal shower, of course the favor has to be a book!  I found copies of Gary Thomas' book Sacred Marriage super cheap so I bought a copy for each guest and wrapped those up in tissue paper and tagged each one with a bookmark I had embossed with each guest's name. 

All in all, I was delighted with how things turned out.  Sometimes I surprise even myself.  Here's to you, Alex, and your book newly acquired book collection.  May they keep you company for years to come.  Just not so much company that you forget Jed exists.  ;)    

Sweeter Seasons

Some seasons of life are just too sweet to not relish and revel in.  This has been one of those seasons for me.  Maybe not in its entirety, but at least in parts.  

I was re-reading journals from one year ago and I was so overwhelmed by the extravagant grace God had lavished on my life.  It's absurd, really.  I look back over entries from a year ago - a lot of uncertainty about a lot of things, praying for Jesus to show up. Man, did he ever.  And in ways that I didn't even recognize in the moment, but now see so clearly in hindsight.  In my job.  In my adventures to Kenya.  In relationships.  In dreams.  Every prayer I had written down from a year ago, he had clearly answered.     

One reason this season has been so sweet and tender for me is because I have been given a front row seat to the unfolding love stories of three very important women in my life.  I have never been one to be prone to a lot of loneliness or to ever really resent being single.  But that's not to say that I wouldn't hope to someday be married.  It's just that my identity and purpose in life do not hinge on that event.  Whether God ordains some man to come along and be my partner or not will not diminish my pursuit of Him.  But the hard moments have come nonetheless when I would watch other people's stories unfolding and think, "Why them and not me?"  The bitterness and resentment would creep in and I'd find myself forgetting all that God had bestowed upon me. Utter foolishness.  One time in particular was especially difficult.  I watched God pour out blessing after blessing after blessing on one friend.  And I almost missed it all.  I sometimes got so bound up in my own little mind, comparing myself to her, that I nearly missed the opportunity and the privilege to simply celebrate with her and alongside her.  I vowed to never miss opportunities like that again, to not get so consumed by what I didn't have and miss what I did have.  

So in this season when I have a string of friends getting engaged and married, not an ounce of resentment or jealousy has risen in my heart because Jesus has set me free.  Free to celebrate with these amazing women.  Free to enjoy them and to celebrate their stories.  Free to serve them and encourage them in dating, engagement, in marriage.  Just simply free.  Such sweetness and gratitude over that fact.

I was honored to serve as a bridesmaid in my dear friend Emily's wedding a week ago.  And I loved it.  I loved standing up on that stage and hear her singing "in Christ alone, my hope is found..."  Because I know what Em has been through.  We've walked through a lot of seasons together, a lot of seasons of singleness, and I know what the good days have looked like and I know what the bad days have looked like.  I know the smiley days and I know the ugly-cry days.  I know the hope and the longing for someone else to enter into our fears and insecurities and to say "You don't have to face this alone anymore..."  I know when she sings those words, she may be holding the hand of a man she is absolutely wild about, but she is still confidently saying that in Christ alone her hope is found.  

These are the seasons and the friends and the stories I don't want to miss.  What sweet freedom is found in Him.    

           

The Tribe's Trip

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

You've met The Tribe before, as well as Twyla, Jonathan's mom.  A week ago we all made a little road trip down to Virginia.  It wasn't even so much a girls' weekend as it was weekend to just get away, for everybody to have their own personal little retreat and to spend some time taking a break and talking to Jesus.  I do believe this little patch of earth where we stayed is one of my very favorite places now.  There is just such a sense of calm, such a sense of God's presence.  It makes it hard to leave.  And the fact there is no cell phone reception boosts its appeal even more in my estimation.  

The grass was just starting to turn bright green and there was a slight hint of leaves budding on the branches.  The creek was flowing rapidly and the weather was absolutely outstanding.  It really is a little slice of heaven.

We drove down late after work on Friday.  We made a few wrong turns in the dark, but we eventually got there.  The burning lights of the cabin were a welcome sign in the pitch black.  There were a lot of holes in the floor of heaven on those nights we were down there, crystal clear skies with stars poking out everywhere.  You could hear the sound of the rushing water down at the creek.  Bliss.

When we got there Friday night, I think we all crashed shortly thereafter, but we made plans to head to Cascade Falls the next morning in order to hike to the waterfalls.  The sunrise Saturday morning had matched the bliss of Friday night's stars and it was a perfect day to go hiking.  We also discovered everyone else had the same idea when we got to the falls, but we were not deterred.  Now, I think you know I don't harbor an overwhelming love toward hiking.  I will argue, though, there really is something in me that feels deliciously alive on little adventures like this.  I do genuinely like being outdoors and I do enjoy some solid physical exertion every now and then - I just don't want to go overboard on that exertion.  My philosophy is contradictory to the phrase "no pain, no gain."  I say "no pain, no pain."  Sounds like a solid outlook to me.

So, off we go.  Twyla stayed at the trail head as Jill, Alex and I set off on our excursion.  Alex enjoys rock climbing and so on occasion, we made pit stops so she could get out her climbing shoes and traverse a few boulders.  The photos below basically outline how the day went.  Since I am behind the camera, imagine Jill is representative of me.    

Alex climbing.

Jill [Courtney] sitting and watching Alex climb.

Alex climbing some more.

Jill [Courtney] sitting and watching Alex climb some more.

Alex still climbing.

Jill [Courtney] still sitting and watching Alex climb.

You get the idea.  I was more than happy to stand on the sidelines to take pictures and cheer on Alex.  I mean, no sense in injuring myself or anything crazy like that.  Somebody has got to walk back off this mountain if she falls and breaks her neck.  I can totally take one for the team and sit this one out.  Besides I needed to hold Alex's engagement ring, make sure it didn't scratched while she was climbing.

We finally made it to the falls and it really was a pretty spectacular sight.  According to the goodness of God, we had this perfect 70-degree day with sunshine that felt amazing on the skin, especially after feeling like I hadn't legitimately seen the sun in about 6 months.  It was enough sun though to give me a decent sunburn on my forehead, nose and ears.  I had these unfortunate tan lines about half-way up my lower arm from only having my sleeves pulled up so far and I had just the top of my forehead burnt due to the fact that my head had been down most of the day staring at the ground, making sure I didn't fall flat on my face.  But if burnt skin is what I have to suffer in order to see God's beauty for a few hours and to enjoy the sun, I'll take it.

I'm not sure what the funny story was, but I love this
picture of Alex laughing.  

After we hiked the two miles in and the two miles out, we headed back to the cabin.  Jill and I crashed on the deck for awhile, and Alex found her own little corner on the black top to bake for awhile.  Of course, the weekend came to an end all too soon as we left Sunday morning to make the trek home.

Alright, now here comes the part that is now funny in hindsight.  I wasn't really laughing or having much of a sense of humor at the time.  And probably still not really laughing about the fall out, but we'll get to that.

We're all four piled into my car to head home.  Another day of great weather.  We enjoy solid conversation along the way, stellar music, and Jill and Alex caught a cat nap or two.  We are nearly home, maybe 40 minutes from Columbus, just south of Circleville.  I pull up to a traffic light on Route 23.  I feel the car lurch and come to a halt and then everything shuts off.  Well, this can't be good, I thought.  I put my hazards on, put it into park and turn the keys off.  I try starting it again and pop it into gear.  Kills the engine immediately.  Cars are piling up behind me in traffic.  I give it another whirl.  Still nothing.  Few more attempts.  Nothing.  Numerous cars are now going around as I'm nearly sitting in the intersection.

At this point, it's obvious we aren't going anywhere.  So then Twyla launches into action and you would have thought we were having a Chinese fire drill.  I pop it into neutral and out piles Jill, Alex and Twyla, all while Jill is scrambling to get her flip flops on before any of us get hit by oncoming traffic.  Out they go and off they start pushing my car into the abandoned BP parking lot.

In the next twenty minutes, I felt like half the town of Circleville showed up.  I was just waiting for the circus tents and elephants to arrive by the time it was all said and done.  Out of nowhere comes this girl named Misty or Missy, I can't remember which.  I really don't know where she came from.  I never actually saw her appear from anywhere.  One minute she wasn't there and the next she pops the hood and starts looking at my engine.  Then appears James, the owner of Captain D's seafood restaurant just down the road.  He looks at the engine.  Misty/Missy disappears, not to be seen again.  James now calls his friend Tommy, who is apparently the scroungiest guy you'll ever meet but knows his cars inside and out.  So then Tommy rolls up in his beat up SUV of sorts, along with three other guys we don't know, most of them in bib overalls with cut-off shirts and a lot of tattoos.  Then Harley from AAA comes rolling in because I had called for a tow.  Turns out Harley knows Tommy, James and just about everybody else that is standing around at this point, so they all start shooting the breeze.  I found out later that Jill had jokingly mentioned to Alex, "I think there are more people here than teeth."  There was probably a lot of truth in that statement.  

I am now officially feeling overwhelmed and I really just want everybody to leave.  Mind you, I haven't showered since sometime on Saturday.  I'm wearing my pajama bottoms that I've had since freshman year of college. I'm sporting a My Little Pony t-shirt.  Zero makeup on and my hair pulled back in a mess of a ponytail.  I am not immediately finding the humor in the situation, considering I had just had my car in the shop days prior specifically for this reason since I was nearing 100,000 miles on my car.  I am not a happy camper.  At one point Jill says, with a sweet smile on her face, "Should I take a picture to capture the moment?"  I must have given her a look that clearly said no.

Tommy wasn't able to do anything so we loaded it up and AAA towed it back to the mechanic shop.  Twyla's husband, Tim, arrives as do my parents and we all finally head home, albeit not quite according to the schedule we had planned.  I fully realize this is totally a first-world-problem of sorts.  It's just a car and nobody was hurt. It could have been a lot worse.  And there were a lot of pluses to the situation:  1) How often do I hoof it all over the country in my car by myself and the one time when it actually breaks down, I'm not only not alone, but have in fact three other people with me to help.  2) It was a gorgeous day, so at least we weren't standing in the rain.  3) We were close to home.  We could have been in Virginia when it happened.  4) Help was readily available in the form of family and a small band of people who were going out of their way to help.

The downside to the situation is that I have to get a new transmission.  But I'll get over it after I cry a few times about the price tag.  But what's a new transmission compared to a sunburn, an invigorating 4-mile hike for which my body paid the price, lazy days spent sunbathing on the deck of my new favorite spot on earth, some amazing company, and some sweet time spent with Jesus, right?

Besides, driving the big white boat of a family van for a few days while your car is in the shop keeps you humble.

Alex, me and Jill.  Twyla was behind the camera,
so unfortunately we don't have a group shot!  Thanks to these gals
I maintained some form of a sense of humor while Tommy/James/Missy/Misty/Harley
all looked at my car and each declared it officially dead.