life

DON’T BE LIKE THEM

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Photo by Bob Jenkin on Unsplash

This might sound dramatic, but I think it’s true. 

The world started falling apart the moment someone said, “I want to be like them.”

Hear me out. 

The problem of sin and brokenness starts — and continues — with God’s people to wanting to be something (or someone) other than what they are. 

It starts in the garden, with the serpent tempting Eve with the promise of being someone else. 

“You can be like God. You can know everything. Don’t settle for being reliant on him.” (Genesis 3:5) 

And Eve falls for it. So do I. I’m guessing there are times you’ve fallen for it, too. 

Another place where we see this problem (it’s all throughout scripture) is in Genesis 16. 

God has promised Abram that He will make him into a great nation. Sarai, Abram’s wife, doesn’t seem to be able to have children. She’s not happy with the situation she’s in — with the place God has her — so she comes up with a plan that will make her the mother she wants to be. She tells Abram to sleep with her maid servant, Hagar. He does and Hagar has a baby, Ishmael. 

Sarai gets even more jealous and things start to go south quick. And they keep going. By the time we get to 1 Samuel, people aren’t even disguising the fact that they don’t want to be who they were created to be. 

“Give us a king,” the Israelites, God’s chosen people, say. “We want to be like all the other nations.” (1 Samuel 8:19-20)

As I read that passage, something clicked deep inside me, and I had to stop and sit with the feeling for a moment. 

How many times have I wanted to be like “them”? To be someone other than I was created to be? To be in a place other than the one God had placed me at that specific time?

Way more than I can even begin to count. 

But what if, instead of looking for ways to fit in, I let God allow me to stand out in whatever ways He wants? 

Living that way is counter-cultural, especially in our media and marketing-driven society. 

Many of the messages that bombard us every day are crafted to tell us that not only can we be someone else, but we should be. And if we don’t want to, there’s something wrong with us. 

Don’t get me wrong. Dreams and aspirations aren’t bad, but where those dreams and aspirations come from matters. 

Often, the root is that we want to live a life other than the one we have. 

We want to look different than how God hand-crafted us. 

We want to be someone other than who we were created to be. 

And that’s the real tragedy, because what if you already are who you were meant to be? 

I believe with every part of me that God has a unique call for your life. You reflect Him in a way no one else can. Are you leaning into that? 

God isn’t cruel. In fact, He often gives us what we want. But what if, instead of wanting to be like someone else — or everyone else — you wanted to be more fully you? The unique, beautiful one-of-a-kind you that you were created to be?

What if we all did? 

CONSIDER THE SQUIRRELS

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Photo by Jacob Amson on Unsplash

One of the first things we bought when we moved into our current house was a matching pair of padded chairs. We hadn’t been looking but stumbled upon them at Costco with the tell-tale “closeout” asterisks on the price tag and a price that was hard to beat. 

Erik called my brother-in-law, who had a truck, and later that afternoon, the chairs were dropped off at our new home. 

Without even unwrapping them I knew where they would go. We have a large bay window that desperately needed seats and this value-priced set was perfect. We threw away the boxes, screwed on the feet, and set them side by side in their new home with a small table settled in between. 

Very quickly, the chair on the left became my morning chair. Each morning, cup of jasmine tea in hand, I’d settle in with a blanket and stare out the window. More often than not, within ten minutes I’d be giggling. 

“You sitting in those chairs and giggling is one of my favorite things about this house,” Erik said.

What was I giggling at? 

Squirrels. 

The cluster of tall trees that the bay window looks out on is  home to at least one colony of squirrels. Most mornings, they scamper their way over the branches and down the trunks to our front yard patch of lawn. What they do then is rather extraordinary, and I can’t witness it without giggling. 

The squirrels play as if nothing else in the world matters. 

Sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, their furry grey bodies tumble in summersaults as they zoom from one tree to the other, one stick to the next, pausing only long enough to juggle a pinecone with their feet before scurrying on with their joy-filled movement. 

They have no worries. 

They have no worries. 
They aren’t trying to collect food for the day. 
They are simply being. Playing. Delighting at being alive. 

As I watch them, I think of the birds and the flowers Jesus describes in Matthew 6:25-28. 

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? 

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” 

In those morning moments, it’s as if Jesus is saying, “Be like the squirrels, Jess. Live. Delight. Play. I’m taking care of everything else. Trust me. Just enjoy.” 

While I’m thankful for those moments, and the lightness those long-tailed rodents bring to my heart, I must admit I don’t carry that feeling far past my morning chair. 

All it takes is two steps into the rest of the day and I’m back to worrying, striving, trying to earn my right to live, breathe, and take up space in this world. 

But most mornings, the squirrels are there, reminding me that I have another day to try again. 

In the TV series Ted Lasso, Jason Sudeikis’ character, becomes known for telling the players on his team to be like a goldfish. Why? Because according to him, goldish have the shortest memory of any animal. They can’t remember what happened five minutes ago, and therefore they can’t be mad about it. They can’t seek revenge. All they can do is be fully in the moment, giving that brief time in history their all. 

There’s some good truth to that idea, but I think I’d rather be like a squirrel. I don’t know how long their memory is, but after watching them every morning for the last several years, they always make time to play. 

I think we could all stand to do that a little more, and I’m not the only one. David Bently Hart, in a recent essay in Plough Quarterly, titled “Running in Circles,” wraps up a compelling argument about the value of baseball by saying, “Only in play… can we really understand the true nature, the original peacefulness, and the final purpose of creation.”

We were created only to play? I don’t think so. But I do believe that play can unlock the true purpose of life, which, as the Westminster Shorter Catechism says, is “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” 

ON BEAUTY

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Photo by Habila Mazawaje on Unsplash

I just finished reading The Mockingbird: The Beauty Issue. (The Mockingbird is non-profit print magazine that Erik subscribes to that I have come to really appreciate.) As I flipped through the pages, a multitude of questions popped into my mind.

What is beauty, really?
What do I believe about it?
Who or what have I allowed to define it?
 
Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I fell into the trap of believing that what I looked like mattered as much as (or more than) anything else.
 
I thought that if I looked “right,” I would be admired. Respected. Loved.
 
The scary thing is that I simply accepted the standard of beauty set by magazines, advertisers, the fashion industry, and Hollywood.
 
I didn’t question it.
I didn’t consider they could be wrong.
I assumed that to be beautiful, I had to conform.
 
So for years I tried, which left me depressed, struggling with my body image, and never feeling good or beautiful enough. But as I read through The Beauty Issue, I began to question my old thoughts.
 
Who is it that says a flat stomach is more beautiful than a round one?
Who says that thin and tall is more beautiful than short and stout?
Who says that long, highlighted hair is prettier than a bald head?
Who says that grey is the best color for my living room walls?
 
More important than “Who says it?” is “Why the heck have I believed them?”
 
Like a flash of lighting, I realized I don’t have to believe it anymore! And then, Romans 12:2 popped into my mind.
 
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
 
I’ve spent a whole lot of my years trying to conform to the world’s standard of beauty, and by doing that I’ve actually been a part of the problem.
 
By complimenting people when they lose weight, I’m saying that skinny is beautiful.
By admiring someone’s smooth skin, I’m saying that wrinkles should be erased.
By telling someone how great they look after having Lasik, I’m saying that people who need glasses aren’t as attractive.
 
All this really hit home for me the other day. I was in the car, listening to the radio and a catchy song came on. I started to automatically sing along.
 
I knew all the words.
Verses.
Bridge.
Chorus.
 
But I hadn’t ever stopped to think about what the song was saying on a deeper level. As I listened, I realized the song was all about women dancing for the admiration of men.
 
WHAT?
 
I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve sung along with it for years without ever questioning the lyrics meaning. I’ve bobbed my head to it and tapped my feet. It’s got a good beat. But now I’m realizing that’s not enough.
 
Disgusted with what the singer was saying, I changed the station. But as I scrolled, I discovered most of the hit songs were about lust, sex, and physical beauty. Sometimes it was veiled, but it was always there.
 
So I turned off the radio. I decided that by listening to it and singing along, I was celebrating the lie that what we look like (and who we attract) matters more than anything else.
 
Ok, back to Romans 12:2.
 
I’ve spent too long conforming to this world.
I’ve spent too long letting society tell me who I should be and what I should look like.
I’ve spent too long believing that beauty is finite, when really, it’s infinite.
 
Even though I’ve spent years hearing about the impossible beauty standards our world sets, it’s taken me until middle age to realize that I’ve been part of the problem. By trying to match the world’s standard of beauty, or following trends, or whatever you want to call it, I have actually fostered it.
 
By trying to conform to it, I’ve said that it’s ok. That it’s right.
 
I don’t want to live that way anymore.
I don’t want to let the world tell me who I should be or how I should look.
I don’t want to keep nurturing a false ideal of beauty.
 
Instead, I want to celebrate the things that God says are beautiful. That type of beauty is nothing like what you’ll see on Instagram or TikTok. It won’t be on the cover of People magazine.
 
It’s too vast.
Too infinite.
Too  varied.
Too real.
 
True beauty includes bruises and blood.
Tears and sweat.
Broad smiles and chipped teeth.
 
Most importantly, it goes beyond what you see.
 
Rewriting my definition of beauty isn’t easy. I can already see that I have a long way to go. But I’m grateful that it’s starting and I’m grateful that The Mockingbird spent the time and money to put out a magazine that’s helping rebellion bloom in my heart.
 
I have a choice.
I get to choose to turn off the radio.
I get to choose to put down the magazines.
I get to choose to stop scrutinizing myself in the mirror.
 
You have a choice, too.
 
I know I’m not the first to recognize this problem. Just last month, I went to see the musical Hairspray  with some friends. It’s based on a 1988 film, and the storyline proves that people have been talking about (and wrestling with) false beauty standards for decades.  My prayer is that those conversations not only continue, but that someday the voices proclaiming real beauty — and all its many definitions — will be the loudest.
 
Following a standard of beauty is just another way of trying to people please, which dims your true beauty.
 
The beauty that God gave you.
The beauty that reflects His creativity and love.
The beauty that He delights in.
 
People will try to take that beauty away from you. They’ll tell you that you should change. Don’t listen. Even if the voice you’re hearing is your own.

GRANDMA’S HOMEGOING

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Fourteen years ago, last Sunday, my grandma died.
 
I have the date on my calendar – along with the dates of several other loved ones who have passed away – so that I take some time to remember them each year, on that day.
 
Usually my remembrance feels solemn, and part of me always thought that was a good thing. After all, death is serious business. It’s sorrowful and grief-worthy because it’s not how things were created to be.
 
Every time someone or something we love dies we feel it from our toes to our souls because every part of us knows it’s wrong. Death is a part of this broken world. It’s a reminder that all things haven’t been made right, yet.
 
So, on Sunday, when my phone popped up, “Anniversary of Grandma Millie’s passing,” I took a deep breath, bracing for the wave of sadness to hit. But this time, it didn’t. Instead, I smiled.
 
This year, my heart didn’t see the anniversary as the day my grandma left the earth, but as the day she finally went home to Jesus.  In my mind I started calling it her “Going home birthday,” even rushing to my office before church to scribble the words down on a piece of scrap paper. I didn’t want to forget how I felt in the moment. How this tickle of joy in the back of my eyes made my lips curve into a smile.
 
Those of us still on earth mourn, and rightfully so, when someone we love passes away. But as I think about my grandma on that day 14 years ago, I know she wasn’t sad to leave. In fact, she spent the better part of the last 10 years of her life telling God to hurry up and come get her already.
 
“I don’t know what’s taking Him so long,” she’d say at family gatherings. “I don’t know why I’m still here.”
 
Occasionally, she’d also add, “I just want to be with Ralphie.”
 
Ralph, or Ralphie, as my grandma called him, was her husband. He passed away decades earlier, when I was just 10 years old.
 
Grandma missed him every day after, but instead of his death making her faith shaky, it seemed to make it stronger, at least in my childhood eyes. She went to church weekly, and her Bible, nestled into it blue embroidered cover, was never too far away. When she moved from California up to Washington, it was always on the coffee table in front of the blue and white striped couch in her combination sewing/guest room. The couch was a pull-out, and I slept on it several times, always careful to move the table (and Bible) aside before attempting to unearth the iron legs from underneath the cushions.
 
I don’t remember if she told me, or if I just assumed, that she sat on the couch every morning, doing her quiet time, talking to God. We found several journals of her prayers after she passed away.
 
So grandma, she wasn’t scared of death. On the contrary, she was ready for it long before she tasted it.
 
Several years before she passed, she unknowingly had an infection which had weakened her body. She fell getting out of bed early in the morning, and my mom found her a few hours later, when she had stopped in for a visit. Grandma was unconscious and my mom did the only thing she could think of. She called 9-1-1. The ambulance came and the paramedics revived grandma before loading her in the back and taking her to the hospital.
 
My mom was relieved. It looked like grandma was going to be ok!
 
Grandma, on the other hand, was furious.
 
“Why didn’t you let me go?” she grumbled to my mother. “I was almost there.”
 
According to my mom, she stayed mad about it for months, maybe longer.
 
Grandma knew where she was going and nothing was going to stop her from getting there as soon as she could. Except God’s timing, and He had several more years before He finally took her home.
 
When I got the call, 14 years ago, that she was gone, I wept. She was 90, but it was still not what I expected that July day. And it’s taken me this long to turn the corner from honoring the day she died to wanting to celebrate.
 
My grandma is where she always wanted to be.
 
She’s home.
She’s with Jesus.
She’s not in pain.
She’s not lonely.
She isn’t wondering what her purpose is.
 
She knows.
 
As I think about her homegoing now, I’m confident she wasn’t the only one rejoicing. She had something like 9 or 10 brothers and sisters, all of whom passed on before her. Her parents, her own grandparents, and of course, my grandpa, had all left this earth decades earlier. It’s fun to imagine them welcoming her home with hugs, kisses, and embraces that never have to end. But I think their celebration was nothing compared to the celebration of the angels and God, knowing that their beloved Millie was finally home with them and would be for all eternity.
 
Psalm 116:15 says, “Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his faithful servants,” and from what I saw, my grandmother was a faithful servant.

THE SUDS OF GRACE

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Our kitchen sink has a built-in soap dispenser. While I’m sure you could fill it with hand soap, we use dish soap. That way we have easy access for all the things we handwash, like sharp knives, pots, pans, and our favorite mugs. 

The dispenser works great, except when it comes time to refill it, which I did today. I often ask Erik to do this little task — having studied biology and chemistry in college, he knows how to pour slowly, with steady hands. But he was busy and I figured if I was careful, I’d be fine. 

Within seconds of starting to squeeze the soap out of the bottle and into the dispenser I decided it was taking too long. So, to speed things along I unscrewed the flip-top cap and set it aside. Now we were talking! Soap steadily streamed from the bottle into the neck of the dispenser. Not one drip escaped. Feeling smug, I tipped the bottle a little more, ignoring the fact that because the sink was solid chrome, I couldn’t see how full the reservoir was getting. 

Convincing myself that there would be some sort of miraculous sign from heaven when it was time for me to stop pouring, I gently squeezed the side of the bottle and kept watching. 

But there was no sign. 
Not even a tiny bubble telling me the dispenser was almost full.
Then it was too late. 

The blue soap started oozing over the neck of the dispenser and within seconds had puddled on the top of the sink and started running down the sides. 

Dang it. And here I thought I was doing such a great job. Oh well, it’s just dish soap. It should be easy to clean up, right? 

Do you see where this is going? 

Water + liquid soap = suds. And because we buy the concentrated soap, a little goes a long way. Within a few seconds of turning on the faucet, my soap volcano erupted into a mass of suds. The more I rinsed, the more it grew. 

Looking down at the mountain of tiny bubbles, I was transported back to middle school on a night when it was my turn to do the dishes. I was alone in the kitchen. My parents had gone out for a few hours. My older sister was probably watching TV or hiding in her room. 

As I slid the last plate the dishwasher, I thought of a commercial I’d seen recently. It was for a brand-new (at the time) product: gel dishwasher detergent. The commercial made this new innovation seem cleaner and simpler to use than the powdered stuff in the green box my family always bought. So, thinking I was being clever, I reached under the kitchen sink, grabbed the liquid dish soap, filled the triangle dispenser, closed the door, hit start, and left the kitchen. 

About five minutes later I wanted something to drink, so went back in and found a river of tiny bubbles pouring out of the dishwasher. I hollered for my sister, who came in and said something equivalent to, “You’re gonna be in big trouble.” 
I grabbed the nearest dish towel and started to frantically wipe at the explosion of bubbles escaping through the sides of the dishwasher door. It was no use. A waterfall of suds kept pouring out. 

My pulse pounded in my ears. 
What had I done? 
Could I get it cleaned up in time?

Nope. Mid-clean up, my parents came back home. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said and explained that I thought I could use liquid soap in the dishwasher because of the commercials.
My mom grabbed some rags and larger towels, got onto her knees, and started mopping up the mess. She was silent as she cleaned. My heart pounded as I braced for my punishment.

Then my mom spoke. 

“This is a lesson everyone has to learn once. Now you know and you won’t make the same mistake again.” 

Today, as I looked at the mound of suds in my sink, I smiled remembering the sweet relief I felt in that moment. Even though it was totally my fault, even though I had deviated from what I’d been taught, and even though I had made a huge mess, my mom didn’t scold me, yell at me, or punish me.

Instead, she got on her knees and cleaned up my mess. 

I haven’t thought about that day for years. But today, the suds lining the bottom of my sink led me right back to that moment. I think this is the first time I’m seeing my mom’s response for what it really was. 

A lesson in the grace of God.

When we’ve made a mistake, He doesn’t yell at us and storm away. 
He doesn’t dole out a list of punishments — even if we deserve them. 
He doesn’t abandon us to our consequences. 

Instead, He gets on His knees and cleans up our mess. 

That is grace. 
That is love. 
That is Jesus. 

MY LIFE IN ORCHIDS

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There are three orchids sitting on the windowsill in my office. Each one was a gift. 

One given as a housewarming welcome. 

One given as an encouragement for surgery. 

One given by a friend moving away who wanted her plant to continue to live. 

Right now, all three are blooming. Bursting forth in various shades of dark violet, magenta, and white. Their flowers a splash of hope against the rain that’s falling from a grey sky outside. 

But as I look at those orchids I see more than flowers, or even hope. I see my life. 

I went to Hawaii for the first time when I was in middle school. The warm air, balmy breezes, swaying palm trees and turquoise waters captured my soul. Orchid leis were everywhere; their monkey-face flowers strung through to make necklaces. I don’t remember if I got one on that trip or if it was years later when one was lifted over my head, given with a kiss on the cheek. 

For years we returned and the orchids were always there to greet us, no matter what island we landed on. 

The ocean called to me more than the vibrant blossoms, but they were always a part of the experience. A part of all the trips I took to the place I loved. 

The day of my college graduation, my dad surprised me with an orchid lei. Its flowers were the same bright magenta that now adorns my windowsill. Leis are a big deal in Hawaii. They mark special occasions. Moments of note. Celebrations to remember. And even though we weren’t Hawaiian, or anywhere near Hawaii, my dad wanted me to have a touch of the place we all loved, a reminder of all the beauty and color that exists in the world. 

Fast forward a few years and I’m in my mid-twenties, walking home from the bus stop on a drizzly Seattle day. Just as I get to the hill, I look up and see Erik walking towards me. In his hands he held two things. A bottle of 7-up and a bouquet of orchids. 

“You always feel queasy when it’s a rainy day and you can’t see out the bus window,” he said, handing me the soda. 

How did he know that? I hadn’t even realized it. We hadn’t even been dating that long! 

Next, he handed me the orchids. 

“These are for you,” he said. 

As I remember it, there was no reason. No anniversary or birthday to celebrate. Those “just because” orchids were the first flowers he ever gave me. Even though we hadn’t said  “I love you,” yet, they made me feel special and, well, loved. 

A little less than a year later, “I love yous” already said countless times, I got on a plane to Maui with my parents and sister, but without him. We scheduled a phone date for the same time every day, and each day I pestered him with the same question, “Are you coming?” 

His response was always Socratic: “Did you buy me a plane ticket?” “Did you want me to come?” “Did you talk to my boss and get the time off for me?”

Little did I know that he and my parents had planned to surprise me so he could propose on the beach. A few days later, he arrived, fresh off the plane. Shocked and delighted to see him, it took me a while to understand his mission for being there. Finally, he talked me into going for a walk on the beach, where he proposed. 

I didn’t say yes once. I said yes three, maybe four times. 

Overjoyed, we celebrated at a nearby restaurant – the Sea House – each plate and cocktail glass garnished with, you guessed it, orchids. 

When I designed our wedding invitations, I made sure there were orchids on them. After all, they were part of our story, even if only a small part. The bouquet I carried down the isle also had orchids. Orchids that Erik scoured the Seattle-area for after our original order was lost. 

At the time, neither of us knew that years later, we’d move to Oahu and be greeted by people who would become some of our best friends with more orchid leis. 

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Special occasions, the orchids would show up. We’d find wild ones on hikes and nearly every grocery store sold different versions of the potted flowers. I tried growing them several of the places we lived. Orchids are supposed to thrive in Hawaii, right? Mine always died. But even though I wasn’t growing them myself, orchids were a part of our life in Hawaii. 

Then we moved back to Washington and in with my parents. Somehow my mom has mastered the art of growing orchids and almost always seemed to have some in bloom. Yellow. White. Purple. We had left Hawaii, but the orchids still surrounded me, surrounded us. 

The day we moved into the house we live in now, some friends brought over the first orchid I mentioned. The housewarming one. How fitting, I thought, but was leery that I wouldn’t be able to keep it alive. Over three year later, it’s still happily growing alongside the other two. 

All three have been blooming for months. And that’s the thing about orchids. When still connected to the stem, each flower can last for weeks, if not months. Their blooms on display far longer than any other flower I know of. 

I don’t know how these three plants are thriving in my office in Washington, far from their native lands, but I’m glad they are. I’m thankful for their blessing that reminds me that you never know what will be around the corner. But God-willing, there will always be beauty … and maybe an orchid…to remind you that life is good, beauty is worth celebrating, and things can thrive in unexpected places. 

LOVE AND A LAPTOP

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Erik bought me a new laptop. It’s still in the box, sitting on top of the armoire in my office. 

I haven’t even taken it out of the cardboard yet.

Part of that is practical. Erik will help me set it up and he’s been busy with work all week. I’m telling myself I want to keep it pristine until I actually start using it. But that’s not the whole story. 

Hiding behind that practicality is the fact that I don’t think I deserve a new computer. If I keep it in the box, I don’t have to face some of the realities of life right now. One of the biggest ones is the loss of my job. 

I loved the writing job I had, but it ended a little over six months ago. My computer has been a reminder of the 15 years I did that work, and now, the new laptop is sitting here, ready to be opened, reminding me that the season is over. 

I want to open it. 

I want to use it. 

I want this computer to mark a new season of my life. 

But I don’t know what that will look like yet, and because I don’t know, I don’t feel ready to step into it. Especially because right now, I can’t “pay back” the cost of the laptop with my next paycheck because I don’t know when my next paycheck will come. 

Never mind the money was already in the account. 

Never mind that I’m the one who earned it at my last job. 

Never mind that my current laptop is six years old — ancient in technology terms. 

I still feel the pressure to make the cost worthwhile. To somehow prove that I’m worth it. 

And that gets to the heart of it, doesn’t it? The reality is, I’m afraid I’m not worth it. Not only of the new laptop, but of the love Erik has for me. So I keep trying to do things that prove my worth. 

See? I can earn the money back. 

See? I can grow a garden so we have food. 

See? I can cook a good meal.

See? You made a good choice marrying me. 

It’s not that I don’t like gifts. I do. But I accept them much more easily when they are small and don’t cost too much. 

A surprise matcha late? Sure!

Extra vegetable seedings? Absolutely! 

Clothes you don’t want anymore? Yes, please! 

But a laptop? That wasn’t cheap. That was a sacrifice. I’m not sure I’m worth it. 

As I thought about it, I began to wonder, how often do I say the same thing to God? 

How often do I try to pay back the gift of salvation? 

How often do I attempt to earn the love I’m already given? 

Why do I feel like when I’m given a gift I need to figure out a payment plan? 

I think it comes down to a quote from the late author and spiritual director, Judy Cannato, that I’ve been pondering for weeks. Here it is:

“Everywhere the Holy One is shouting and whispering, ‘Let me love you.’ And all that is asked of us is to receive. In reality, that is our life’s work. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

I could have easily missed those four sentences. They were in a forward from my uncle, sandwiched between morning spam emails all wanting something from me. 

Money. 

Time. 

Attention. 

But my uncle’s email didn’t want anything from me — it was offering me something. So, I read it. Then I read it again. And again. Now, this idea of simply accepting love has lodged itself in my brain, like a worm in an apple. I can’t get it out, and even if I do, there will be a trail left that can never be erased. 

I have spent so much of my life trying to be worthy of the gifts other people give me. Of their time. Attention. Love. 

But what if, instead of trying to make myself worthy, I let myself be loved? What if I open the new laptop, ask Erik to set it up, and focus on being grateful that God loves me enough to have given me a man who encourages me at every turn? 

Oh what grace! Make no mistake, it is grace. I’ve attended churches that have talked about grace my entire life, but it’s still a struggle for me. Not only when it comes to things like laptops, but ultimately, to the love of God. 

Just like letting yourself be loved, at its core, grace sounds simple. The most common definition I’ve heard is that grace is unmerited favor. It’s goodness and generosity given to you even though you didn’t “earn” it and can’t pay it back, and that gets to the heart of it. Erik doesn’t expect me to pay back the cost of my new computer. He’d laugh at me if I even tried. He knows that it will be a blessing for me and he wants me to have it. He wants me to delight in it. He knows it’s a tool that will help me to do whatever job I get next. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

The grace of God isn’t something He expects us to pay back. There’s no way we ever can. He knows that, but He gives it to us anyway. In His mercy, kindness, and love He wants to bless us. He delights in it. And He wants to equip us to do the work He is calling us to do. 

 But how often do I — do you — leave the grace of God in a box on the shelf thinking that if I work hard enough, then I can enjoy it? 

What would it look like to live in the fullness of the gifts I’ve already received? 

To live in the love that has already been poured out? 

To live as a chosen, ransomed daughter of the God of the universe?

To live in freedom from the chains of death?  

To live fully forgiven, fully loved, fully redeemed? 

Maybe this new laptop is just the start. Not of a new “work” life, but of my life’s work. Letting myself be loved. 

If Judy Cannato was right, and I think she was, it’s your work, too. 

THE CAR WASH

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In my family, washing the car isn’t just about getting dirt off. It’s not only about making chrome sparkle and the glass shine. 

It goes much deeper. 

Growing up, every time my parents got a new car (almost always used), the first thing we would do is wash and wax it. 

That first wash and wax was a way of claiming the car, saying, “This is mine, and I’m going to take care of it from now on.” 

When I got my first car, the first thing we did was, of course, wash and wax it. 

We did it in my parent’s driveway, the plastic five-gallon bucket filled with soapy water and decades old sponges. As the sun shone down, we had to work fast for fear of the soap drying before being rinsed away to seep into the nearby lawn. 

When everything was good and dry – maybe even a day or two later – we’d wax it. I can still smell the scent of the orange bottle “Nu-Finish” wax we poured onto old rags and rubbed Karate Kid-style in small circles on every painted surface. 

It was a liquid wax, so you had to wait for it to dry before you could go back with a clean rag – often cut up bath and hand towels that had outlived their usefulness.

You knew it was ready when the wax turned foggy and frosty, with no shine left. You could test it with your finger. If it wiped away completely, it was ready to be removed. 

I have no idea how long it all took. Probably an hour or two. But it was usually a family affair, all of us putting in the elbow grease to welcome a new vehicle into the family. 

It’s a lot of effort, and the wet days in Washington don’t always leave a window for that act of claiming to occur. But even as he’s gotten older, my dad has found a way to still make sure it happens. 

He takes us to his favorite carwash, pulls out his credit card, and pays for a wash and wax. 

Every time. For every one of us. 

Me. 

My sister. 

My nephews and niece. 

We don’t buy cars too often, so it’s not a major expense. But in many ways it’s a rite of passage. 

It’s dad’s way of taking care of us. Of honoring the car and maybe asking it to keep us safe. Plus, it’s his way of reminding us that stewardship matters. 

Wash and wax your car. 

Get oil changes. 

Pay for regular tune ups. 

Fix things when they go wrong. 

Do all that and your car will last – and serve you – for a long time. 

He’s right.

Just this last spring, we retired a car that had been in our family for well over 20 years. 

A 1996 Toyota Camry. My parents bought it for my mom, used, when she was still teaching. After she retired, she kept driving it for years, toting grandkids to soccer or going to Bible study. 

But as the years went by, my dad encouraged her to get a new car. So she did. A Subaru Outback with safety features that weren’t even a dream back in the 90s.  

And that’s when we got the good ole Camry.

We were living in Hawaii, and one of our two cars was no longer drivable anymore. Mom and dad paid the shipping, and the Camry took a voyage on the high seas to get to us. 

A week of waves meant that when we picked up it, the car definitely needed a wash and wax. It got one. And honestly, it probably should have gotten one more often than it did while in our care. 

Without a garage, the salt air and Hawaiian sun did a number on its beige paint. But that thing kept running and running. When we moved back to Washington, it came with us. And we drove it a few more years until it was obvious it had earned its final rest. 

As a flatbed trailer took it away, I got a bit choked up. 

Sure, it’s just a car, but it had been a fixture in our family for so long that it was weird to see it hauled away by someone I wasn’t related to. 

Was it that very first family wash and wax that made the Camry last for so long? Of course not. But I can’t help but believe that its initiation, which started with soapy hands and waxy rags, made a difference. 

My husband and I have had our current car for almost three years. We bought it used. And of course, the first thing my dad wanted to do when we showed it to him was treat us to a wash and wax. 

We let him. 

Today, the sun is shining – a rare treat in Washington in winter. I texted my parents to see if they wanted to go for a walk. They did. So I drove over, my car dusty from weeks of rain and the lack of a garage at our rental house. 

When my dad walked outside, he took one look at my car and said, “We should wash that and get the ceramic wax on it today.” 

“Sure dad,” I said. 

So after our walk, we did. And even though I’m 45 and have been married for over 18 years, I let my dad pay.

I know for him it’s a small way of taking care of me. Of showing me that he loves me and reminding me that how you take care of things matters. 

STOP

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STOP

2019 was the year I lost my best friend, my dog Jude.
I lost my father-in-law to complications of heart disease and cancer.
And I had a heart attack.

Those three things have been devastating. They’ve been heavy. They’ve been lingering. But those three things have also taught me. They’ve taught me that it’s ok to stop.

It’s ok to stop and cry.
It’s ok to stop and let go.
It’s ok to stop and grieve.
It’s ok to stop and ask for help.
It’s ok to stop and slow down.
It’s ok to stop doing it on your own and seek professional help.

And it’s ok to stop running.

That last one has some extra weight to it because running for me means a lot of different things. I run from my emotions. I run from my pain. I run from chaos. And I run, literally. Or at least, I have.

For the past 10 years, I’d say at least four days a week I’d lace up my running shoes and crank out miles. There were times I enjoyed it. There were times I used it to connect with God. There were times it was life-giving. But there were also times I did it just because I felt like I had to.

But then, on a run one day I started having crazy symptoms and ended up having a heart attack later that day. I literally had to stop running because I couldn’t continue. Then, after surgery, I had to give my body time to rest.

As of today, I haven’t run for three and a half months. While my emotions are mixed about it, the most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s ok. For years I was afraid to stop running. I was afraid I would lose the strength I had gained. I was afraid I’d gain weight. I was afraid I’d slide backwards.

So I kept pushing and pushing and pushing, until I couldn’t anymore. I was forced to stop and when I did I realized that, sometimes, stopping can be a good thing. In fact, it can be a great thing.

I needed to stop running to reconnect with my enjoyment of slowing down and just being outside.
I needed to stop running from my emotions and grief and cry as often and as long as necessary.
I needed to stop trying to fix the pain my husband and I were feeling and just accept it.
I needed to stop and reasses my life and what I wanted (and want) it to look like.
And so that’s what I’m doing. I’ve decided that I want 2020 to be a year marked by rest. Not sitting on the couch, scrolling through Instagram kind of rest, but true, deep rest.

I don’t know exactly what it will look like, but I think it will include more walks, more reading, more journaling, more praying, more slowing down, more yoga, more quiet time with God, more acceptance, and more discovering joy.

After last year, that sounds pretty darned amazing.

83

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Eighty-three days ago, I had a heart attack.

It’s hard to write about because it’s hard to believe, and even harder to process.

But facts are facts.

The sun rises every morning. It sets every evening. When it rains, things get wet. And almost three months ago I had a heart attack.

I didn’t realize what has happening at the time. It was nothing like they show in movies. I didn’t fall over clutching my chest. It hurt, but I could handle it. Afterall, it was the middle of the night. So I took some Tylenol and tried to sleep.

I didn’t even tell Erik until the next morning. Concern swept over his face. He wondered if I needed to go to the doctor. I waved off his question. The pain was better. I’d just wait and see.

But then I got to thinking.

I still didn’t feel right. Something had happened that morning while I was running. I almost blacked out. I got crazy nauseas. That’s not normal, but because I’ve run five marathons, I know that some runs are hard.

Plus, it was hot — in the 90s, with a humidity factor like a sauna. I told myself that I must have gotten over-heated. The chest pain later that night must have been from that. Yep. Heat exhaustion. Or maybe I was just anemic. The symptoms matched.

I had some routine blood work scheduled for a few weeks out, but I decided to do it early. I sent my doctor a message saying what had happened and asked him to check for anemia when the tests came back. The nurse called the next day.

No anemia. Everything looked great.

Then the Holy Spirit must have nudged me, because before she could hang up I told her what had happened. I said that I still had pain when I exerted myself, but that it was better. I figured I just needed more rest.

If she could have forced me to come in, she would have. But instead she pressed as hard as she could and then made me an appointment for a few hours later.

Fast forward through some more tests and that night I end up at the ER, being told I was going to be staying the night.

And then the next morning, the cardiologist walks in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said with a straight face. “You’re too young, too healthy. It doesn’t make sense.”

Great. Then, I’ll just go home.

“You had a heart attack.” Those words came out of his mouth and I would have lost any poker game I’d been trying to play.

“No one told you yet?” he asked.

Nope.

Rushed into more tests and then surgery to have a stent placed to open a blockage, another night in the hospital and the next evening I finally got to go home.

Two nights may not sound like much, but I felt those hours. I know Erik did, too, as he sat next to me in one of those squeaky, vinyl reclining chairs you only find in hospital rooms.

So there it is. I had a heart attack. A mild one, as the doctor told me, but still a heart attack.

What do you do with this type of news?

If you’re like me, you try to figure out whyit happened. But sometimes, there just aren’t answers.

Sometimes you can run 15-20 miles a week, eat healthy, not smoke, not drink much, never set foot in a fast food restaurant, be in your 30s and have a heart attack. And sometimes you just won’t be able to make sense of it except for genetics being at play.

But the thing is, as true as it is, the moving on is hard. My desire to want to control everything leaps to the surface as I figure out how to change my diet, dig into books about how to recover, think about stress management and try to start exercising again.

83 days in, I still don’t feel great. I still have some pain. I’m still tired. I had another test today, I was sure the news would be bad. But the doctor called to say the damage that had been done from the heart attack has reversed itself. My heart is healing.

It’s a strange thing when you brush against your mortality and I’m still not sure what to do with it.

But I’m learning to lean. I’m learning to lean on Jesus. I’m trying to trust that He’s in control. I’m choosing (ok, trying) to believe that He is good. I’m choosing to see my lack of control as something I can grow into, something that God-willing can be a good thing, can give me freedom. What that freedom looks like I don’t know. But I hope to taste it soon.