Celebration of a Modern Marriage

Like the Dead Sea

You told me I was like the Dead Sea

You'll never sink when you are with me

Oh Lord, like the Dead Sea

Whoa, I'm like the Dead Sea

The finest words you ever said to me

Honey can't you see,

I was born to be, be your Dead Sea

-The Lumineers, Dead Sea

So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation from the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his interests but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus…

-The Apostle Paul, Phillipians 2:1-5

Part 1

Husbands often get a bad rap, don’t they? Sitcoms tend to portray husbands as oafish and selfish, like Homer Simpson or Kevin James. Columbo may very well be the only TV detective EVER with a happy home life (although I HAVE JUST ONE MORE QUESTION FOR YOU: how do we know that his often-talked-about-but-never-seen wife even exists?). Guys who save the world usually are single or divorced—I’m looking at you, John McClane. Romantic comedies are either about getting the guy or how to cope after you’ve got yourself an actual husband. And let’s not get started on real life marriages, where it’s cool to complain or ridicule one’s husband in public, or at the very least, nurse secret frustrations in private. Sometimes it starts to feel like if you aren’t complaining, you’re not being real about how hard it is to be married to the Modern Man. 

Facebook official.

Just happy.

I am married to a Modern Man myself, and let me tell you, it has surpassed all my wildest expectations, both in bliss and difficulty. I don’t know about you, but I was pretty prepared for marriage to be difficult—after all, that’s what you’re told from your teens onward. When hormones start fizzing and boys start to look like maybe they don’t have cooties after all, that’s when all the kissing dating goodbye and marriage is no picnic talks begin. But this, coupled with multiple heartfelt viewings of Pride and Prejudice (because Colin Firth) and Little Women (because young Christian Bale) and Star Wars (because Harrison Ford) and Indiana Jones (because Harrison Ford), all amounts to a confusing mental picture of what love and romance and marriage should be. What both Christian and secular cultures can agree on, however, is that marriage is hard. And yet still worth pursuing. We all love a good love story: a friendship, relationship, and commitment that is strong, beautiful, romantic, and unbreakable. And we all know, both from stories and from real life, that love and marriage have to go through hard times, because real life happens to the best (i.e. all) of us. 

So while I was prepared for marriage to be hard, I was not prepared for exactly how it would be hard. I knew I was a selfish person, but I really had no idea till after January 22nd, 2011. There were the small and funny and irritating and classic discoveries of “you fold the towels THAT way?” and “why are you making scrambled eggs THAT way?” When we tell other couples this, most of them respond with YES US TOO, which I find to be both hilarious and relieving. Towels and their foldings are a big deal, my friends. As time goes by, however, deep-seated selfish behaviors and attitudes rise to the surface, and I find myself time and time again putting myself first, or even worse, sometimes seeing my husband as the Enemy of my All Important Happiness. Over stupid things, of course, like figuring out the hard way we have to plan our leisure time a little more or trying to decide how much to spend on Christmas presents. It is true that it’s the little things that can have the biggest impact, whether it’s a continuous drop of water on stone or choosing my attitude about THAT thing which is now a BIG thing. 

Yes, yes, yes!

MARRIAGE IS NO PICNIC, YOU GUYS. 

Lest you think it’s all been a vale of tears and gnashing of teeth, let me assure you that I wasn’t prepared for marriage to be better than all my dreams of what it could be. I am so thankful and aware of the blessing of marrying my best friend, and of reaping the rewards of choosing each other every day. There’s been various learning curves, of course, and seasons of figuring out the kinds of conflict that bombard every married couple. But after nearly six years, we’re still madly in love and ask ourselves frequently how did we get to marry THIS person? 

Part 2

This has been a long preamble (and points to you for making it thus far!) to what I really want to say here, and that’s how my husband, whom I regard as the Husband of Husbands, is the king of men. While Ben isn’t a perfect man, as he still has morning breath, still doesn’t think MacGyver is the best show of all time, and still doesn’t drink coffee, he is perfect for me. He loves my random brain, my quirky humor, and knows the difference between my polite laugh and my real laugh. I can tell when he’s tired before he does (he gets really literal), and I love the way he thinks through things, and how perceptive he is. 

Another thing that makes Ben perfect for me is that he’s taken “in sickness and in health” to the next level. Our entire romantic relationship, from dating to engagement to wedding day to now, has been marked by illness. And while it’s made things crazy, it’s never shaken our anchored romance. When we were dating six years ago, I discovered black mold in my apartment, unleashing a series of very unfortunate events. I’ve always caught colds and flus easily, but all of a sudden, I could not bounce back very quickly. Over the next few years, it started to feel like having the flu all the time—deep body aches and mind-numbing fatigue that didn’t go away with a full night’s sleep. 

Three years ago, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a mysterious chronic pain and fatigue condition. Last year, I was diagnosed with IBS (Irritable Bowl Syndrome, which needs no explanation, amiright?) and endometriosis, a reproductive system disorder where the endometrial tissue grows in places it shouldn’t, causing scarring and pain and a host of other issues. These titles, or even badges of honor as I see them in my mind’s eye, carry no weight as to how long and hard and discouraging and confusing my physical journey has been these last six years. And not just for me. But for my husband too.  

Glorious day.

Finally and at last.

Ben has all the finest characteristics you’d ever want in a man: protective and kind and caring and intelligent and hilarious and wanting to provide everything in his power for his family and friends. He also has great taste in music and movies, which is key. His first inclinations at the first signs of my illness were, I’m sure, to smash them all with his might and force of willpower. Also, to bring me snacks, hand me the remote, and rub my feet. But mostly to smash my sicknesses for me, and help me back to normal. We’ve put our heads together and have tried so many things, from new doctors to new medication to new exercise routines to elimination diets to quitting jobs. He does everything he can to relieve stress in our lives, by budgeting and paying bills and cleaning all the hard and annoying things (like tubs and toilets) and making sure I see friends and family enough in this season while I’m not working. He even carries me to the bathroom or to the couch when I can’t move. What I’m trying to say is there’s nothing Ben won’t do for me, for my health and comfort. I know that even if I wasn’t mysteriously sick, he would do all these things anyway. 

The thing that catches me in my throat, in my heart, is when Ben is visibly upset for me and my illness and what it’s done to us. This doesn’t happen very often, because Ben is a careful steward of his emotions and energy, especially towards me, but when it does, it nearly undoes me. He’s not even upset for himself, and all the trouble this situation makes for him. He’s upset for me, upset by my lost dreams, my lost wellness. All he wants is for me to feel better, to feel whole again. But what Ben has become very good at over the last six years is mourning with those who mourn, and what I’ve discovered that means is to simply be with the one who mourns. To do what we can for those in our lives who are sad and grieving and in pain and when we can’t do anymore, because pain is confusing and often unrelenting no matter our human efforts, to simply be present and ready. And to pray, always pray. 

Ben has shown me over the past six years that honest and stubborn prayer is the truest kind of  prayer. When he prays, it’s brutally honest and transparent, full of questions and requests and pleas and cries for help. He has never once given up on God and His love and power in our lives, even though we both have offered up angry and confused and muddled prayers time and time again. Because of Ben, I keep praying and asking and hoping and knocking on God’s door. Because Ben has not given up on prayer or Jesus or the hope of healing, I haven’t either. Because Ben has proven himself to be my helper day after day, crisis after crisis, I know that God is real and true. Who else could sustain a marriage marked by chronic illness, a relationship already preloaded with worldly strain and human frailty? Who else could cause and allow a marriage to flourish and grow in spite—or even because of—of mysterious chronic pain?

The thing is, I don’t know why we’re going this particular struggle. I do know that it is pushing our natural pride and independence out of the way. It’s been a study in giving up our pride and know-how, and depending more and more on our good God and our friends and family for help. When I look back at the lovely and difficult and happy and sorrowful six years of being with Ben, I am amazed and overwhelmed at the goodness of God more than anything. To note and thank Him for His provision of a truly wonderful husband, without whom I can’t imagine life itself. To thank Him for this most unusual and deep love story of our own, for always providing help and light and hope even when it seemed like morning would never come. 

Better together.

We take each other on walks and rest when we (ok, I) need to.

So here’s to the quiet heroes, the patient warriors, the unsung champions. To the men who stay with their wives when it’s hard, ask how to help, and pass the chocolate. To the men who see their wives as beautiful even on a bad day, with no make-up and hair every which way (and definitely all over the bathroom floor). To the men who show love by fixing things, by bringing flowers from the grocery store, and by going to the outlet mall on the weekends. To the men who treat all women as precious sisters, offering protection and the male perspective if needed. To the men who go to work day in and day out, never thinking twice if it’s worth it to provide for their families. To the men who use their strength for good, their might for helping others. To the men who encourage their wives to follow after God in all the ways He made them, whether at work or at home or in community or in skills and talents. To the men who keep dreaming of big things, and who keep trusting God for provision and help. And most of all, here’s to my Modern Hero, who is the funniest and most handsome champion a wife could marry. 

Embracing Being Enough

If you cannot think of anything appropriate to say, you will please restrict your remarks to the weather. 

Mrs. Dashwood, Sense and Sensibility

Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching. 

Hebrews 10:23-25

The other day, I stumbled my way out to my bedecked porch (see previous post obsessing over flowers) with coffee and breakfast in hand. I sat in the morning sun for the first time in a while, as the weather here as been up to its old slight-of-hand tricks. Sunny? Yes, but ALSO rainy! Seriously, last week, I sat in the sun after an afternoon walk, and lo and behold, there were RAINDROPS hitting the tree next to the porch. My poor brain can’t handle the sun AND the rain at the same time. It’s too much. And when I say it’s too much to handle, I also mean that it seems to be too much for the fibro body. Weather changes make it go haywire, and when you have multiple weather changes in a DAY, it goes into system overload. Anyway, FIBRO WEATHER RANT OVER. 

What I really mean to say is that while I was consuming the ol’ iced latte with half-open eyes and a sleepy brain, I saw a beautiful sight across the way. There’s a medical complex across the street, and THERE’S ALWAYS SOMETHING HAPPENING. Today, there were three women surrounding another woman with a walker, while she moved slowly around the parking lot. I believe there is a physical therapist’s office over yonder, and I am guessing that one of the women was the physical therapist. I thought it was wonderful for the woman with the walker to be accompanied not just by her medical provider, but also by two other women, maybe friends or relatives. I can’t help but imagine her story. Maybe this is the first time in a long time she can walk around by herself in the sunshine. Maybe this is after weeks or months of slow and intentional work in the physical therapist’s office, and working at home on what seemed like small or stupid exercises. Maybe she has had to keep going even though weeks of what seemed like no improvement. What struck me the most was that she was not alone. She had two friends obviously invested in her well-being, who cared enough to give up a morning to go to a medical appointment and walk around at her pace and ability. 

I recently read the book With by Skye Janthani, and it’s still resounding deeply in my mind. It centers around the theological idea that what God wants most from us is to be with us, that the relationship itself is more important than what He gets from us or what we want from Him. It’s a revolutionary idea in light of our productivity-centered culture, especially when it comes to faith and religion and living out those truths. It stuck me today watching the women walk all together that when we are with each other, we are acting on Christ’s behalf to each other. We become His hands and feet when we choose to simply be with others. This is one of the most beautiful ways we show the world who He is. We may not know exactly what to say or what not to say to others, especially if they are in pain or suffering or in deep grief, but we can simply sit with others. Or walk with them, as the women across the street did this morning. 

As believers in Jesus, we are called to follow His very example, called to become more and more like Him. In John 13, we are given a picture of what this looks like. Jesus washed His disciples’ feet like the most common of servants. Feet get a bad rap at the best of times, and in ancient cultures, washing feet was among the lowest of tasks. Obviously walking everywhere was the main form of transportation, so one can only imagine the state of feet back then. For Peter, the most impetuous and impulsive of the disciples, this was too much. He believed Jesus was the Messiah, the One to set His people free from tyranny, and this was insane behavior from the Savior of Israel. Imagine if President Obama or Queen Elizabeth or even your pastor or professor or boss washed your feet. And you haven’t had a pedicure for a while. And you didn’t wear socks with your flats all day. I mean, seriously. It would have been embarrassing. But Jesus makes it clear what he’s up to when He says,

You call me Lord and Teacher, and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him (John 13:13-16).

Jesus shows us what it looks like to really be with others—we become servants to all, we look out for others, we provide relief and refreshment, a place for others to truly be themselves. 

Maybe we don’t think of ourselves as ideal hosts or counselor-types or competent to offer what others need. Maybe we feel awkward or at a loss for words. We have to remember that we will never feel perfectly ready to fully be with people. There will always be an excuse or a reason to not offer what we have to others, sometimes very good reasons! However, the ability to be with people, along with any other spiritual gifts or resources, comes from Jesus. He is the One who takes what we have and makes it enough, like the miracles of the loaves and fishes. All He asks is that we show up and plunk ourselves next to His people, His children, the happy and the sad. The apostle Paul says in his letter to the Romans to rejoice with the rejoicing and to mourn with the mourning (Romans 12:15). When we do this, we will find ourselves in the middle of miracles. Because we can do anything, face any struggle, celebrate fully when we know we are not alone. We can take more steps forward, like the woman across the street, when in the company of friends. This is love. This is bringing the kingdom of God in the middle of our daily grind. Jesus promised that the world would know we are His when we love each other. In our busy, productive, networking world, we can practice being present with those around us. We can trust that He will also be present, that He will be completely with us, that He will make something beautiful of our small gifts of time and love and words. 

BLOOMS! GREENERY! SUNSHINE!

Truth and grace. 

SO.MUCH.PINK.

The view above the kitchen sink. 

Learning how to have people over when things aren't PERFECT. It's a THING.

A New Thing

Let no one caught in sin remain

Inside the lie of inward shame

We fix our eyes upon the cross

And run to him who showed great love

And bled for us

Freely you bled, for us

Christ is risen from the dead

Trampling over death by death

Come awake, come awake!

Come and rise up from the grave!

Christ is risen from the dead

We are one with him again

Come awake, come awake!

Come and rise up from the grave!

-Matt Maher, Christ is Risen

“Remember not the former things, 

nor consider the things of old. 

Behold, I am doing a new thing; 

now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? 

I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert. 

Isaiah 43:16-19

My darlings. 

You guys. I am OBSESSING over my balcony. It has become, for the first time in 5 and a half years, one of my favorite spots in our apartment. I now practically haunt the balcony, worrying over the one yellow leaf on one of the petunia plants, fussing like a mother hen over the dirt (is it too wet? Too dry? Should I add more fertilizer?). I am watching the progress of new blooms blossoming with great anticipatory delight. I am moving the wide planter of petunias and the cute little white flowers around to catch more sun during the day, like a human sundial. I am now sweeping up the floor on a regular basis. This is big, as it means I can go outside without shuddering in my flip-flops, like a nervous freshman in community bathrooms. I now try to get outside as soon as possible, both to enjoy the delightful morning sun hitting the balcony and to soak up some light after being enshrouded in the twilight of sleep. I water the flowers before I start my coffee, usually. So, yes. I am a woman obsessed. 

What brought on this transformation, you may well ask? This sudden, abnormal behavior of a Anti-Green Thumb who formally forgot about watering a houseplant till it’s 6 months later and it’s wilted beyond recognition? When the New Plant Glow wears off, and I turn to other more important distractions and activities? When I buy herbs in a kind of feverish, grim resolution that THIS will be the year I enjoy fresh mint mojitos, fresh basil in pasta, fresh cilantro in ALL THE THINGS? Only to watch helplessly as they shrivel and wither and generally give up their herby ghosts? 

Well, it started with the coming doom of a Very Hot Summer Ahead, and asking my beloved father to bring over the ol’ Shop-Vac and erase the effects of a long winter, with its dead and crackling leaves, its sheen of dirt and 30+plus years of who knows what? The DIFFERENCE, I tell you! I could patter out to the patio in bare feet and not cringe inwardly. Or outwardly, for that matter. I could putter about, planting flowers and moving terra cotta pots hither and yon. I could finally lay down the outdoor mats I bought without merely covering the evidence. I hung my silvery Words on Walls purchase above the chairs. And voilá, it felt like home! It felt new, like I’d never really seen it before. It finally felt like a place I wanted to be all the time. Sun-filled, flower-filled, Sarah-in-chair-filled. 

When you want to be some place all the time, it’s easy to care for it. To delight in the very work of maintenance and upkeep. To try to give it the best chance possible. To gently coax it into what it’s meant to be. 

And, of course, this is how God Himself sees us. 

He wants to be with us all the time. He cares for us, delights over us, croons over each new blossom, over each new effort or skill learned or hard thing conquered. He gives us everything we need to grow into whom He’s made us to be. He sees us as new delightful creatures every morning, He sees to us each first thing. Every time we pray, every time we seek His kingdom in our lives, every time we practice loving others before ourselves, He is filled with a kind of pride and joy. All because He rejoices in our very existence, our very being, our very humanity. Zephaniah 3:17 even says He dances over us with loud singing! 

Thankfully He is not daunted by a long winter of the soul. He is not discouraged when we dry out or start to wither or collect a little dust. Even though I am a city dweller through and through, it is easy to see why Jesus refers to God the Father as the Gardener and Himself as the vine in John 15. The Vinedresser takes away the branches that don’t bear fruit and prunes the ones that do. When we remain in the vine, remain in the branch of living with Jesus, we will bear much fruit, for God Himself sees to it, that we are pruned and trimmed and weeded and watered. He is glorified when we bear fruit, when we bloom, meaning that we show the world more of who He is. And that is exactly what the world needs. 

The world needs His beauty. His truth. His grace. His gentle pruning of the things that keep us from Him and from others. 

And somehow, through His mind-boggling plans, we get to be part of showing Him off to a world sick for beauty, sick for wholeness, sick for truth. 

But as Jesus points out, nothing can bloom like its supposed to with remaining in the vine, without taking deep root. You see, we can do nothing without Him. We can be nothing without Him. We are built to be forever with Him. Gloriously designed to walk with God Himself in the cool of the day, and the heat of the day, and everything in between. We do nothing without the Gardener caring over us. And this is one of the best parts of the Gospel, although at first we may balk at not being able to do everything by ourselves. Flowers fulfill their true purposes by just blooming. When we can throw ourselves on the caring mercy and love of our Father in faith, no matter how many times we have to keep doing it, we will know Him. We will be with Him, just as we are intended to be. It is, truly and mysteriously, all about Jesus, doing the work in us and through us. 

No matter how slowly it all seems to be taking, how long it seems to take to throw off the weight of winter, how invisible His works seem to be, we can take hope in the truth that He is attentive and loving. We can’t see what He’s doing in the darkness. We can’t even begin to know what He is doing in us, because we would be dumbfounded and tongue-tied and knock-kneed. Let’s look to the Vinedresser, because He is always doing a new thing, He will make a way where there is no way, He will create rivers in our deserts, and hope in our sorrows. No matter where we find ourselves, in wilderness, in storm, in trial, we will find ourselves at home and with Him. 

Just a little sun. PERFECTION. 

Hope springs eternal, and hopefully these will too!

I told you I moved around the planter all the TIME.

Home indeed. 

Here's How We Don't Give Up

I'm tired of giving up so easy
Tired of giving up at all
Tired of giving up so easy
Tired of giving up at all

Nobody said it would be easy
Nobody said nothing at all
And I'm tired of giving up
-Ryan Adams, Tired of Giving Up

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.
-James 1:17


It’s been super hard to write lately. 

Like, really hard.

I’ve battling severe fibro pain and aches the last few weeks. There’s been some sleepless nights, some really long days. Everything feels like extra work. Some mornings I wake up and the thought of moving nearly shatters my hips, my feet, my legs, my shoulders. All the things you need to, you know, move around. Taking a shower in the morning can be really killer; I practically need a nap afterwards. Surviving on caffeine, short bouts on my exercise bike, and a remote control, I haven’t been feeling very creative at all. I haven’t written much for the blog, in my journal, or that novel I’m always meaning to write.

And you know what?

I guess it’s ok.

I admit I’m just practicing saying that. The concept of not pushing myself forward forward forward is not sitting well with this perfectionist. It doesn't seem right. How can it be ok to just let it go sometimes? Aren’t we supposed to pursue our dreams, foster our creativity? Maybe it’s ok that my writing will look differently than what I imagined. Maybe I’ll be working out this fibro thing instead when I can open up a blank document? Maybe not the next great American novel?  Maybe by putting my thoughts in order, seeing them on the page, I’ll come to some peace about this condition that seems to eat me alive sometimes. And maybe that’s just ok.

I can tell you instead, perhaps, about the beauty I’ve seen lately, even through the fibro. A friend at work gave me a heated towel for my back-that was a beautiful gift. It told me that someone saw me, and believed me that everything hurt. Or how about the time last week Ben and I sat on the couch and watched cat videos on Youtube  for an hour and laughed ourselves silly? Just to relax together and laugh at hilarious cats was so good. Or the many, many times I’m gathered with friends and family at our local Mexican restaurant eating and laughing and telling our stories together? I see grace, beautiful grace, given me when I’m able to make a meal, fold some laundry, take a walk around the block. There’s beauty in the ordinary. I will say that fibro makes me slow down enough to be able to see that, even when I don’t look up enough.

I want to write about these times, the moments that make up my days. Yes, there are some really hard days, some really hard moments. I cry more easily now. I say no a lot more easily now. But there are so many more instances of grace and love and beauty, even with all the feelings of inadequacy and some stalled dreams. My friends are gifts, sparkling my life with the colorful confetti of their time and laughter. My family is a gift-always caring, always asking, always knowing me. My husband is a gift-his incessant love towards me is daily grace: he makes Jesus look so good. Even my desires to write and be creative and be an artist are gifts from God-He instilled me with them, after all; I can trust Him with my dreams. I must breathe in the middle of this rough season and remember all these good things, all these gifts from our good God. I will write the good things, the hard things when I can, and tell this real-life story.

A lovely moment in Rome with my buddies. 

Some happy faces at my graduation party!

This one keeps me sane and laughing.

My darling family. 

My other always family. 

Me and the One. 

Full of the Ordinary

All my life
Been shaking
Wanting something
Holding everything I have like it was broken
Gimme something good
-Ryan Adams, Gimme Something Good

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.
-James 1:17


Well, just doing life these days.

Nothing too crazy, too out-of-the-ordinary, too extravagant.

Actually, we have gone to see two movies in the last two weeks, speaking of summer blockbuster extravagance. And we will see another in a couple weeks. Because…this. But other than that, it has been neither wild or crazy.

We have The Work and The Weekend-dividing our time into rest and livelihoods. We have appointments, meals, hang-out times, and game nights. There’s the shopping, the cleaning, the laundry, the dishes, the recycling. This is the Pacific Northwest, after all. Figuring the fibro out is a daily thing-how to rest, and how to push through; how to breathe through it all-the pain and the exhaustion, but sometimes just the plain unfairness of it all. There’s the texts, the emails, the messages that make the day so much better.

In the past few weeks, I've tried not to see the looming mountain that is August. I've tried to ignore it, block it. Focus on the present and all that. But here we are. I've felt more grief about my miscarriage in the past few weeks, knowing that August and my would-be due date has been steadily approaching. I stopped counting the weeks I “should” be a long time ago, but now it’s mind-boggling and mind-numbing to think that I would be quickly approaching 40 weeks. The start of our baby adventure, the start of a new, terrifying, and completely wonderful season. Names could have been chosen, a nursery all set up by now. Ah well. Grief is thankfully smaller now, not as all-encompassing. But there is a hole in my heart that will never fully close, never completely heal. 

So grief is a part of life now. And so it should be-for to ignore this pain, this season would be heartless. I must give my grief space and room and air-even though it does not require as much now. I’m faced with the reality this month all over again, and I must look it in the eyes. I will hold this month close-cherish my first child with remembering, with celebrating, with writing. I will give thanks for his or her life, and the joy that his or her existence brought.

Even though this month is full of the ordinary, the normal, not full of the anticipation we hoped for, it is still good. There is still joy to be found. This life is a gift. The pain, the aches, the uncertainties, the smallness and the grandeur of life-it is all gift. All grace. The grief of miscarriage, the grief of chronic pain-it is all pointing me back to the Gospel, to the Creator, to the Giver of life. I find myself needing to be held-held by a heavenly Father from whom all good things flow, and from whom all comfort for all sorrow comes. He is the One to whom I bring all my broken things, and while He does not fix them all, He is sad with me. There is also the promise of redemption, of hope, for transformation for all things. The Apostle Paul says in his letter to the Romans that creation itself longs for transformation, for healing. I will cling to the promises, the hope, the love and joy of Jesus this month, this season, and in this ordinary and splendid life.

Body

You have to walk like you have three men behind you.

-Oscar de la Renta

I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. 

-David, Psalm 139

My friend Amy once told me that it was ok, even good for bodies to change. Actually, she said that it was beautiful. This was after I told her I’d gained some weight and my face was oily and acne-scarred, and I was really upset about my haggard appearance. I hadn’t been exercising or taking much care of myself much. Honestly, there wasn’t much to be proud of whenever I looked in the mirror. When Amy said that Big Truth to me, I was stunned. Oh. Wait. Really? Yes, yes, it is good for bodies to age. No one had ever told me this. It’s beautiful for a 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90 year-old to freaking change, to not have the body of someone younger or with a different shape. It’s even beautiful to embrace and love whatever your body looks like. Own it, sister.  

Since that time, I’ve started to see my body as a beautiful thing. I’ve never really heard that it’s ok to see it that way. I used to think I needed to hate it, beat up on it, only see the blemishes, only tell others about the flaws. I never felt really at home in my own body as a teenager, as a young adult. But I started to relax about it. I’ve been feeding my body cookies, kale, coconut oil AND coconut ice cream, carrots, cake, and some really weird hippie stuff. I let it lounge on the couch, then I try to take it on a walk or curl into a yoga pose. I also try to paint my toenails sometimes, or experiment with a curling iron. I want to feel pretty. I admit it! I give it loads of coffee, water, and the occasional margarita. What can I say...I’m all about hydration. I want to feel at home in my own skin. I want to feel my muscles move and become strong. I want to stretch and not die when I try to touch my toes. I want to feel free and love my body. There, I said it. And you know what, I think I really do. 

Of course, it’s not that easy all the time, is it? I’ve been struggling with health for a few years, and it’s a slow process back to some kind of move-ability, health-ability. Food allergies kick one’s tail, it appears. So does stress. The mirror still tells me I look haggard and pale. So it’s been baby steps back to health. I’ve realized that health is not a given at any time. Health can be taken at any time, and put you back any number of devastating steps. There are times when I’m really tempted to be angry and tell my body it’s stupid. Ok, a lot of times. Fine, MOST TIMES. But then I think back to what Amy said, and then I remember truths about being fearfully and wonderfully made, and how Jesus came to heal sick and broken hearts and bodies, and I am encouraged to keep going, to keep trusting that even my sick body is worthy, lovely, and even beautiful. Just how it is. Un-toned. Unable to do even half a girl-pushup. Still acne-scarred. Covered and drenched in aches and pains most times. Participating in Mostly-No-Shave-Winter. 

I believe that when we embrace our bodies as they are, maybe even be kind to them, we proclaim God’s glory in them. God’s glory and creativity and joy in life can be seen by everyone in our bodies. The apostle Paul, himself a man with physical troubles, says that if we are followers of Christ, then we carry in our bodies the death of Jesus. So that the life of Jesus may also be seen in the same bodies! Your body is worthy of kindness and attention-it carries around the essence of God Himself. What a glorious mystery, what a somber truth, what an astounding thing. Your body, as it is right now, is beautiful. Your body, as it is, shows the world His truth and love. Your body is a temple of the living God. Right now. 

So go out there and give thanks by doing what makes you feel beautiful. Maybe even gorgeous? Drink lots of water. Buy new lip gloss. Don’t wait till you’ve lost weight or can run 30 minutes on the treadmill to buy a new sparkly dress or a gorgeous bouquet of fresh flowers. Go on a walk around your neighborhood. Have some friends over and make a meal. Do some art. Sit up straight. Write a poem. Take a really long hot bubble bath. Don’t forget your vitamin D if you live even remotely north of the equator. Go read Psalm 139 or 2 Corinthians 4.  Do some yoga. I don’t know! It’s whatever makes you feel lovely and beautiful as you are.

Self Portrait

I happen to be a beautiful space cadet.

Head in clouds, feet on busy ground.

I am a wonky princess, a gorgeous human being,

A tragic masterpiece, a mighty force, a weak heroine.

This form is a bastion of untried potential.

An unspoken sermon, a quiet storm.

Work of progress, fearless bumbler, the queen of all this.

Faithful mess, a jester of all things me.

Run

Let the waters run down the mountains!
Let the downpour overflow the dry lands!
Raise your hands and watch
Watch the rain flow like floods of silk

Let the rain renew your dry hands, your tired feet
Feel the water run over your head
Feel the dirt and ashes wash away
Dance and splash and laugh

Run to meet the rain!
The floods sweep away the old
Bringing the new for you
Rise up to meet new life, rain upon rain