TRUE BLUE

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The newest thing at my house is blue. Midnight blue. It’s hard but smooth, and has angles I’d never want to try to measure without a protractor.

And it’s glorious.

So what is this thing? It’s my birthday present. And in fact, there’s not just one, but two.

Two midnight blue, sleek, wooden (that part is key) Adirondack chairs. They sit outside as you walk up to our house, and seeing them makes me smile. And it also makes me wonder why it took us so long to get them.

I’m a person who loves being outside. I always have. I love the mountains, the ocean, parks, sunshine, and sitting outside at coffee shops. The green and blues of nature remind me that God is there and that He is good.

So when we moved to a place with a patio, you’d think the first thing I’d do would be to set up an outdoor space. But it wasn’t. Why? Because I was afraid of spending the money. So, instead we bought some used plastic chairs. Within two weeks they had cracked. Within a month they had scratched. Still, they were what we had, so I didn’t think much of it.

Until my husband told me that for my birthday he was getting me real, wooden Adirondack chairs.

We picked them out, came home and put them together and we spent the next two hours siting outside, talking, sipping on a cocktail and then eating dinner.

In the last two weeks I’ve spent more time sitting outside my little house than I have the three years combined. Why? Because I have something real and solid to sit in.

Yes, they cost more than the generic plastic chairs. Yes, they might chip or fade over time. But every penny was worth it. It was worth it for the quality. It was worth it for the joy it brings to me when I walk out in the morning with my Bible and a steaming mug of jasmine tea.

And it was worth it for what they say.

Those chairs speak loudly. They remind me that my husband he sees me. He knows me and knows what makes me smile. He knows what feeds my soul and he’s willing to spend the money to give it to me, even when I won’t spend it on myself.

And that is love. Real, true blue, stable, won’t crack when you sit on it love. And it’s pretty magnificent.

A CHANCE

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There are people you meet who change the direction of your life. Today I found out one of those people passed away. And while there is sadness, it’s almost entirely eclipsed by gratitude.

I met Rob at an interview for a non-existent job. I had recently decided to try to make a go of it as a freelance writer (which I never would have done without the support of my husband, Erik). I spent hours on craigslist and job sites looking for writing gigs to build my resume. But Erik is more strategic than I am. He didn’t get distracted by one-off paychecks but has the gift of looking a bit further ahead. He’s the one who saw the posting.

A company was looking for a writer, a graphic designer and a proofreader – all in-house positions. Because I matched up with some of the criteria, Erik encouraged me to put together a proposal for them. I did, and sent it to the Creative Director, Rob. He graciously met with me and told me that he believed I had talent. (Those words were the first gift he gave me.) Then, he told me because I wasn’t interested in full-time work they didn’t need me at the moment, but would keep my information on file.

I left thinking I wouldn’t hear from him again. But a few weeks later, I did.

He said if I agreed to come in and train in-house for two weeks, they would try me freelance. I accepted, and the chance he gave me changed my career path.

Rob didn’t make me a writer, but in that moment he affirmed that I already was one. By taking a chance on me he told me that maybe my crazy dream wasn’t so crazy after all.

I worked with him for a just a few years before moving on to another organization doing similar work. I learned so much from him. His willingness to take a chance on me helped make me the person I am today.

He didn’t have to take a meeting with me.

He didn’t have to look at my clips.

He didn’t have to hire me.

But he did.

Because he was willing to take a chance on me, my life changed.

I don’t know who the “Robs” in your life are. But I know you have them. I hope as you picture them you smile and are inspired to keep an eye out for the people in your life who need what you can give them: a chance.

THE THIRD SPOON

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We have three wood spoons.

One we got as a wedding gift. It’s a good brand. It’s strong. It has a few scaly patches that may splinter your tongue, but it’s still in good shape. It’s the biggest of the bunch.

Another I’ve had for years. It’s rough and flaky. Not because it ended up in the dishwasher a few too many times, but because I probably bought it at the dollar store when I had just graduated from college.

And then there’s the third spoon. Its bowl is closer to a circle than an oval. Its handle not much bigger than a pencil. But when my fingers fall on this one, I smile.

The third spoon is smooth from decades of stirring. There’s no telling how many circles it has made around the pots and pans in my family. In spite of its age, there are no splinters, rough patches, or flakes. It looks like it could outlive us all.

It might.

I got this spoon as a hand-me-down. It was my grandmother’s. I don’t know how long she had it, but when I pick it up, I see her arthritic knuckles and neatly trimmed fingernails, her cream-softened hands and the love she had for making food for her family.

In the mornings, when I pick up the spoon to stir my steel cut oatmeal, I imagine her stirring her own version of the breakfast classic, which she called “mush.” I wonder how many times she made it? I wonder how many pounds of cracked oats she went through over the years? How many times did my grandfather sat down to a steaming bowl? My mother? Her siblings?

Those questions and the memories that flood back when I use the third spoon are what make it special.

It isn’t just a spoon. It’s an artifact.

The third spoon is teaching me how important it is to listen. It’s teaching me that new and flashy isn’t always best. It’s teaching me the importance of long lasting-quality, family, history and shared meals.

If anyone else picks up that spoon, they won’t hear the stories and lessons I do. They won’t picture my grandma’s grey, short, permed hair. They won’t taste her “Posner’s” chicken or spaghetti sauce with grated carrots.

But I will.

The third spoon connects me to her, even though she left this earth years ago.

For that I’m grateful. It makes me want to listen more carefully. It makes me want to sit down with my family. It makes me want to buy quality products that might last for generations.

But most of all, it makes me want to smile. And so, I do.

EIGHT

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Eight years ago I did something I didn’t know I could do.

I ran. A half marathon.

I had looked up to distance runners for a long time, admiring them for their strength and perseverance. But I didn’t ever think I’d be in that category.

Then, with two of my best friends by my side, I signed up. I had only ever done two road races:

  1. I had walked (yes, walked) a half marathon. (I’ve never been so sore!)
  2. I’d run a 5k

The half marathon had been in November. Four months earlier. And now I was setting out to run that same distance. I was nervous.

We got there early, not wanting to miss anything. The extra time added to our nerves, but it also gave us time to bow our heads and pray, reminding us of the bigger picture of racing and life in general.

And so, the gun went off, and so did I. As the wet miles of Mercer Island passed by, I realized I could do it. I was going to make it.

At the finish line I was flooded by mix of emotions. Pride, gratitude, excitement, accomplishment.

Then something else set in. The bug.

I knew I wanted to do it again.

Eight months later, with one of those same friends by my side, I ran the full Seattle Marathon.

I never would have guessed that I’d keep running all these years. I never would have guessed that that one race was the start of something big in my life. And that’s the thing, you never quite know when you’re at a turning point.

By God’s grace it just happens — sometimes when you least expect it.

I’m not fast, nor will I ever be, because in running — like in life — it’s not how fast you get to the end that matters. It’s what you learn along the way.

Running has given me a lot over the years: time with God, time with friends, time in creation. It’s helped me push myself, it’s broken me, it’s shown me how incredible the human body is. And so as hard as it is, I keep at it.

Today I had planned to go out for a four-mile run, but a friend wanted to go further, so we did.

Over eight miles. Today, in celebration, that feels like just the right distance.

DREAM HOME

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I’ve always been a dreamer. Imagining perfect scenarios, setting my sights high — often unattainably high. One could say I’ve long had champagne taste and a beer budget. And yet, it doesn’t stop me from dreaming — even when I know that the snapshots I create behind my eyes will likely never happen.

Some people could look at my life and say that I am already living the dream. I live in Honolulu, for goodness sake. The place people save their whole lives to visit once. Paradise. But living here as taught me that we all don’t dream the same dreams and that reality (no matter how close to our dreams it is) seems to leave us wanting.

Which puts me in good company with the (I assume) millions of other people dreaming of winning the 2018 HGTV Dream Home.

But I’m pretty sure my dreams are rooted in something different than anyone else’s.

The house is stunning. It’s the kind of place I’ve always wanted to live but knew I’d never be able to afford. The details are incredible. The renovation spot on. The décor, gorgeous. And those views. . .oh those views.

Those are the views of my childhood.

And that’s why I really, really, REALLY want to win.

As incredible as the Dream House is (and it’s incredible, see for yourself here), I want to live there not just because of what it is, but where it is. Specifically.

My parent’s home has a view of the beach that the house sits on. I remember walking that beach as a five-year-old, gathering oysters that my mother would bread and bake so we could sit on our deck eating their briney goodness.

My sister had one of her birthday parties out there, her friends and I balancing on the rocks, trying to avoiding slipping on barnacles. One of her friends found an actual pearl in the oyster she picked.

Then there were the summers where I’d jump in off the boat ramp, sometimes neglecting to close my mouth and swallowing a big gulp of seawater. No adult would dare get into that freezing Puget Sound water, but I relished it.

I’m not sure how many shoes I lost out there during low tide. My feet sinking into the mud as clams bubbled nearby.

Thinking back now, I realize how magical it all was.

Erik and I have lived in Hawaii for over six years, making annual trips back to Seattle for work and to see family. We love Hawaii for so many reasons. That’s why we’ve stayed.

But the chance to live so close to family, to get to attend my nephews’ football games and cross country meets, and to get to go to my nieces’ basketball games and ballet recitals, that’s what makes the 2018 HGTV Dream Home a true dream to me.

I know my odds are feather slim.

I know that it’s probably more likely it snows in Hawaii next week than it is that Erik and I would win that house. But I’m still going to dream about it. Because what’s the harm in dreaming? After all, I’m a northwest girl, and like the Seahawks said when they last went to the Super Bowl, “Why not us?”

BEDSIDE MANNER

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Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.

THROW PILLOWS

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I’ve been redecorating lately. Buying fabrics, thinking about color schemes, imagining newly framed photos on the wall.

For some people, this isn’t anything exciting. They redecorate all the time, making sure the current trends are well reflected in their picture-perfect homes. But for me, in this season, it’s a big deal.

When we moved into this house over a year ago, we were thankful to sign a six-month lease. We thought it would just be temporary in every sense of the word. I hated it, but I figured we would soon be moving on. We didn’t buy new furniture or new artwork. We used what we had and called it good. And it has been good. It’s worked. But every time I had a longing to do something different, to make it feel more settled, I told myself it wasn’t worth it.

We’d move soon, so anything we bought now would be a waste of money. The next place will be better. The next place we’ll settle more.

And that’s where I’ve always lived. I’ve always lived for next. Even when my sister went away to college and I moved into the larger bedroom, I didn’t hang any posters. I didn’t repaint the hideous Pepto-Bismol pink walls because I knew, in a few years, it would be my turn to leave.

The same thing happened in college. I’d only be in a room for nine months so why do anything besides hang my clothes, set up my desk and put on clean sheets?

So here I am, years later, and I’ve decided I’m done living for “next.” I want to embrace where God has me today. I want it to reflect us, right where we are, at this moment.

These days are fleeting. That part I’ve always gotten right. But where you go from there, that’s the part in me that’s changing. Because they are fleeting, I want to be present. I want to be right here, right now and I want to be thankful for it. I don’t want to wish it away (although there are things I wish could change), I want to embrace it. I want to make it mine. Make it ours.

I’m learning that even if we only live here another two months, it will be money well spent. And so, while we aren’t buying the new couch I want, we will hang new curtains, and I’ll sew new pillows. We will print those amazing photos that Erik took and we’ll frame them and hang them on our wall. When you walk in our creaky front door, you’ll see beauty. You’ll see us.

I want to make this place ours, and I want to like how it looks. I want to invite people over and not give them caveat. I want to stop making excuses and telling them about the amazing condo we used to live in.

I want to be here, now, because this is where God has me. This is where He has us.

CURTAINS

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Pulling the curtains open was hard this morning. Not because they are awkwardly behind our aging sectional, but because I didn’t really want to open them.

There are days when I leave them closed, and the light never pours and puddles on the scratched coffee table.

But today, I made myself.

I made myself because I knew that I needed to let the light in. I’ve been feeling down lately. And when life feels heavy, it’s easier to stay in a cocoon. To take longer lying in bed, to leave the curtains closed, to wear stretchy pants and put your hair in a messy bun.

Part of the reason I’ve been feeing out of sorts is I’m a gal who craves connection. Not the surface, small-talk kind, but the deep kind. That kind that makes you feel like you matter because the conversation matters.

The other side of that coin is that I’m private. I want that connection, I long for it, but I’m not the best judge of when it’s appropriate to go there, and who it’s safe to go there with. So, in this house on a busy street with a bus stop on the corner, I often keep my curtains closed. It’s a way to protect myself. To stay private, safe, contained.

Except – why is there always an “except?” – then I stay stuck in darkness (or worse, artificial light).

So today, I did it. I opened the curtains. I let the light in. Yes, there will be people passing by my gate peering in all day. I don’t like it. But to let the light, in I realize I have to let those people in, too. We were created to be in community. Even if that community is just a nod to the neighbor or a kind smile, it matters. It’s the light. The light that we all need, whether we realize it or not.

I don’t know that tomorrow will be any different. I don’t know that I’ll feel more connected or more at peace. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that today I opened the curtains. Did you?

CLOUDS

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Guilt. It’s like winter in Seattle. The grey always hanging around, covering up any light that tries to sneak in. When you try to run from it, putting on layers and turning the heat in the car all the way up, you feel better for a while. But eventually, the chill resurfaces in your bones and you just can’t shake it.

I’ve been living with guilt my whole life. I don’t know where I picked it up, but I want to put it down, bury it and never mourn its death.

Guilt has chased after me, clung to my clothes like bonfire smoke and tried to stifle me in big and small ways. The big ways are debilitating, but the little ways. . .Those are the ones that eat away at your soul.

I should have worked out today.
I need to clean.
My to-do list is so long and I’ll I’m doing is sitting here.
I could love my husband better.
We don’t have kids. Should we have already had kids?
I’d weigh less (and look better) if I hadn’t eaten that cookie.

The list goes on and on. I’m drowning in things I could have done different, should do different, or promise myself I’ll do different tomorrow.

Yet, when I stop running from the guilt, and let it catch me, I can pick it up and turn it over in my hand. That’s when I see the truth: My guilt is always about what I want to look like to other people.

I want “them” to look at me and love me. I want “them” to think I’m great. Most often, it’s a far darker desire: I want “them” to not be ashamed to know me.

So when I stop running, when I give myself time to examine the clouds that chase me, I realize that fretting over all the things the world tells me to do will never feed my soul.

And if it comes down to feeding my soul, guilt will never do that. Only the God who created me can. You see, this, right here, this is where I believe that many in our wonderful faith tradition have gotten stuck. We tell ourselves that our guilt is from God.

But, my friend, I don’t believe that guilt is from God. Guilt nags at you even after you’ve been forgiven. God tells you that if you accept His grace, you are washed clean, period.

Guilt claws at your back, telling you that today wasn’t good enough, but tomorrow could be. God tells you that in him you’re already good enough.

Guilt wounds. God heals.

But conviction, conviction is holy. Conviction doesn’t tear apart your soul. Conviction feeds it. Why? Because while guilt separates, conviction draws you in.

This is where some may say that I’m just mincing words. But I’m not. For me, they are completely and utterly distinct. Or at least I want them to be.

Using two different words lets me examine my feelings and see where they are coming from. It lets me assign different answers to each question I ask.

Are the clouds clawing at my soul, or is God pursuing my heart?

You see, when you define it differently, you get to have a different answer. You get to throw away the guilt and keep the conviction. You get to ask God for help. You get invite Him in, and ask Him to help clean you up, rather than push Him away because you feel too dirty. And that, that’s the stuff that will feed your soul. Instead of clinging to you, it will free you.

I don’t know about you, but I want that freedom.

 

BUILD IT

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I’ve been thinking about Noah lately. Noah from the book of Genesis. I like to think I could be like him, but when push comes to shove, I’m not sure I’m strong enough.

How about you? Could you be Noah?

God called him to do something utterly and completely crazy.

We teach it to children with a bit of a sing-song lilt, focusing on the happy ending when most of the story isn’t happy at all.

God tells Noah He’s going to flood the earth to destroy all of humanity. All of it. Except Noah’s family if he follows God’s call.

That call? To build a boat. A giant boat. A boat that was about 450 feet long.

I can see Noah’s neighbors laughing at him behind their hands. Rolling their eyes at the religious fanatic they dismissed as crazy.

But does having a call make your crazy? Sometimes I think it’s the most sane thing in the world. That we all have a call, a unique task – something we have to build. It takes bravery and faith to do it, especially when it’s something as outrageous as building an ark.

Some say that before the flood it had never rained on the earth. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but if it is, that only adds to the ridiculousness of Noah’s task.

I wonder if Noah ever had second thoughts. If he considered never nailing those first few cypress boards together. Or if he wanted to quit halfway thorough.

The truth is, it doesn’t matter. Noah did build the ark, and because of that, you and I are here today. We come from his line. God used him to rescue all of humanity.

Noah’s crazy task had a purpose. No matter what anyone else thought, he fulfilled his call.

I want to be like Noah. I want to have a direct call from God and faithfully put in the effort to complete it. But I think I care too much what people think. I want to fit in and only stand out for good reasons. For accolades. Not because I’m weird, or crazy, but because everyone wants to be like me.

I’m pretty sure while Noah was building the Ark no one wanted to be him. But once the door closed and the rain started falling in heavy, thick drops, I bet they had second thoughts. At the end of the day, Noah wasn’t crazy. He was a hero. Why? Because he followed his call.

God said build it, and he did.

In that case, I want to be as crazy as Noah. I hope we all can be. I hope we can become more willing to be used for something bigger, and ignore the snickers and stares we get as we live out our callings—whatever it might.