quiet-Christmas-spirit-peace-whispers.

Christmas usually comes in bright lights and crackling colors for me. It's loud and in my face, laughter and anticipating excitement that carries through all of December, Christmas carols and live productions, family gatherings and races through Michael's, shopping lines that seem more like black holes than anything else.

It's so fast, it often flies by like the flurries outside, and then

The magic is gone.

But this year, I haven't even had that much Christmas spirit, haven't felt it in the air or breathed it in my lungs. If anything, it's felt like a slight burden, cardboard gifting checklists that never dwindle. Just keep crossing the Ts and dotting the Is, breathing will come easy later.

At the same time, I also recently submitted a blood test to find out the details on a rather extensive list of foods my body is currently rejecting. The results were disheartening, to say the least, and the next several months will be a pretty challenging road of a very limited diet to get my system back in working condition. Hearing the news around Christmastime added to the discouragement, seeing that cookies and pastries become another food group during the month of December.

But after the grieving, after the mini-self-pity-party and anger at my body, I came to a place of contentment. I began to see it as a gift, as one less Christmas obstacle that gets in the way of seeing Jesus. It reminds me that he really is ALL and the season isn't always meant to be loud.

My Christmas spirit has been awfully quiet this year; it's come in subtle little bursts throughout the mundane, the day-to-day tasks I don't think twice about, but suddenly Christ is there and I'm resting in His arms of grace and lovelovelove.

It was listening to Katharine McPhee's stunning rendition of "O Holy Night" while driving, and taking in the full meaning of the lyrics for the very first time as she didn't belt out, but gently cried, Fall on your knees! A simple, childlike plea, true intimacy with the Father that reminded me why He came, so we could be brought near as children.

It was driving through the plain country side at night, sparsely lit farm houses and small grave yards coated in snow, listening to A Fine Frenzy's Redribbon Foxes, one of the most haunting, truly gorgeous Christmas songs I've ever heard. The truth of the song hit me fullest when I was away from the bustling city life, the raging lights and crowded shops, when I had time to slow down and soak it in, the peace that isn't always found in a carol, or a store, or even a service at church, but in the raw bareness of the quiet, where I hear God whisper and he tells me that everything really is going to be okay.

For love doesn't come in boxes
No truth in a crowded shop
Those redribbon foxes are not so easy caught
But the search goes on and on.

It was falling asleep next to an uncovered window looking out over an oak tree, layered in blankets of peaceful white and keeping watch as I smiled at God and closed my eyes to dream.


It was turning off every light in my place except for the glowing bulbs on the Christmas tree. I sat in my pajamas on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, just sitting. There were no sudden revelations or life changing epiphanies. I wasn't praying, I wasn't even really listening for God; I was just being. And each little light on the Christmas tree was like a bright spot called hope.

Still, still, still.
All is calm, all is bright.

It was receiving a handwritten letter and chocolate bar from my dear sister, Emily, halfway across the world in New Zealand, experiencing adventures walking in the Spirit and listening to His voice, drawing nearer to His heart and speaking prophetic words of encouragement into my life from thousands of miles away. It was reading her letter in a dimly lit room by myself, yet feeling like she was right there with me, talking comfortably like we've done since childhood.

It was listening to one of my good friends play violin with his mother's piano accompaniment, a reluctant one song limit that turned into two, then three, then four beautiful hymns of praise to this Holy Breath Child, lifting cold spirits up and bringing life to the room. For it was just as much a gift to his mother as it was to me, and for several minutes at least, all really was calm, all was bright.

It was driving up north with friends, winding roads and endless conversation to keep us awake, probing depths of hearts that beat inside our chests and bind us closer together, brothers and sisters in Christ that light up with life. It was spending the weekend close by their sides, leaning heads on shoulders and resting in the sheer comfort that comes with knowing such friendships are for life. I see Christ so vividly there, He's radiating off of everyone's words and eyes, filling me with His joy, the same joy that came down into this world with weak baby hands to push back the darkness and stretch out His peace.

Mercy is here.

Joy to the world
The Lord is come
Let earth receive her King
The glories of His righteousness
And wonders of His love...

Christmas is still three days away, so I may add to this list before that time is up. Until then, these are some of the small things in life that have led me deeper not only into the Christmas spirit, but into communion with Christ, Light of the World stepped down into darkness.

Merry Christmas, beautiful friends. Peace to you during this season of Light.

throwing up yellowtree on paper.

December 1.

Total words written in the month of November = 50,072.

Total words currently written in Yellowtree = 80,923.

I guess you could say I just barely scraped by, 72 words over the minimum requirement, but it still counts as a victory in their books.

Here's why it counts as a victory in my books. I really could've cared less about the word count and the quantifiable progress I had to track throughout the month, statistical bars rising with each passing day. What mattered the most to me was getting myself into the habit of writing, in hopes that it would become something I make time for every day, whether or not I'm feeling 'inspired', whether or not I like my characters on that particular day.

In reality, I hated my characters for about half of the month. The beautiful, as well as agonizingly difficult part of National Novel Writing Month is that it forced me to just plow ahead, not looking back at what I had written and taking time to edit, but throwing up on the paper so I could look back at the end of the month and actually have something to edit.

Now, I'm still not finished with Yellowtree. I still have quite a bit left to write, and I made it my next goal to finish the rough draft by the end of the January, giving me 62 more days to throw the rest of it up. But thanks to National Novel Writing Month, I know the fallacy of waiting to write until I get a good idea, of holding off because I'm not feeling in the mood, or any of the other cardboard excuses we authors like to come up with to procrastinate. For I have sat at the computer for hours now, feeling completely uninspired and telling myself over and over again that I'm writing crap, it's better to just give up and delete it.

Don't hit backspace.

Not yet, not now. For that is writing. It's the nitty gritty, day-to-day clicks of the keyboard that feel like they're echoing into space, but somehow manage to forge a path in the wilderness when it's dark and I can't see what's in front of me. It's bringing human beings to life when your words feel dead and it's 2 AM. It's the small victory of finding that one perfect sentence in the midst of pages and pages of nonsense. It's hard work and sweat, all while lying down in bed, computer in your lap. It's not glamorous or glitzy, not New York Times bestseller lists and Harry Potter success. It has the potential to become all of that, but only after the hard stuff, only once your brain is mentally exhausted and you start seeing words in the grass.

NaNoWriMo wasn't some breezy blast where I got to accomplish my dreams and earn the right to brag about being an author. Actually, for a lot of the time, it wasn't even that fun. But that's what gives me hope that I'm maturing as an author, the fact that it was somehow still so wildly exhilarating and addictive, the fact that I wanted to keep going even when I hated my book and wanted to make my characters strangle each other so I wouldn't have to keep writing about them. Because deep down, it wasn't a hate of writing that was driving any of it - it was a love of it.

And that, my friends, is how I know it's worth it, and why I'm so crazy passionate about finishing Yellowtree.

goodbye cardboard, hello yellowtree.

So, it's November 1 (technically it's past midnight, but that's beside the point). November also means that it's National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days (approximately 1,667 words per day).

And if you've been paying attention to the recent updates on my blog, you'll see that I'm currently working on the novel, Yellowtree, and I've become pretty passionate about it. But I've also been majorly slacking off in working on it, so I decided to just go for it this month and try to add 50,000 words onto the bugger. There may be some days I don't reach the exact daily word goal, but as long as I'm writing every day, I figure it'll get me into a good habit and prod me forward in the long and strenuous (but oh so beautiful) process of writing.

All of that to say, I will be taking a one-month hiatus from this blog to focus whole-heartedly on my novel. If all goes well, I may share more of it with you here (the first chapter is already posted). But if I'm going succeed at this and balance it with all of my school work, I need to give some things up for the month of November, and unfortunately, the inside cardboard world is one of them.

I'll let you know how I do on December 1. Until then, peace to you. And pray for peace for me as I embark on this crazy adventure.

the good, the bad and the ugly truth.

"Love... rejoices with the truth."
--1 Corinthians

That one line is such a profound little statement, I don't think I fully realized its brevity and beauty until this past week. I was sitting out at camp, only feet away from a gorgeous lake, and I decided to re-read 1 Corinthians 13: the love chapter. It's such a well known text, people like to stick it on the backs of postcards, coffee mugs and magnets without even giving it a second look. While the entire chapter really is incredible, it was that one verse that stuck out to me the most.

The Lord's been teaching me a lot about honesty lately. There's something so simply beautiful about telling the truth. Some times, it doesn't have to come in any cardboard, gift wrapped packages with elegant, fancy bows; just the bare truth is enough, lying out in the open where it can be stepped on.

But where it can also be seen.

I think a lot of the times, we like to tell the truth to gain something for ourselves - to get something in return from a certain person, or to get a specific response out of them. And sometimes, we very well need to receive something from the whole ordeal. But there are other times when the truth just needs to be told.

I recently was confronted with either keeping the truth inside, pressing it deep down where others can't really see it, but where it festers and cracks and rots underneath the surface, or telling the truth just to tell the truth. It wasn't a very pretty truth, and it was painful for me to say it to one of my dear friends. But there's something so incredibly freeing about getting it off your chest, even if it leaves you completely vulnerable. And even if I can't look back and pinpoint a specific advantage or goal or prize I received from it, I can at least look back and know that I told the truth.

Sometimes, that's enough.

Beyond that, as the verse above states, as Christians, we're told that love rejoices in the truth. No matter how ugly, no matter how painful, no matter how hard it is to get off your chest, a real, deep and raw love is one that sees the truth for what it really is and doesn't shy away from it. Rather, it rejoices in its very nature, knowing that God himself is Truth. It goes against our nature to celebrate something that can be so unbearable and challenging, as it's so much easier to slip inside our shells and keep our issues to ourselves. It can be a truly terrifying thing, but it's also completely humbling, as we have to stop thinking about ourselves and what we want to get out of the situation. Instead, we have to come to terms with the fact that we may not get a pat on the back or a thumbs-up for being brave and telling the truth. Our feelings might get hurt, our hearts could get trampled on, and people may judge us. But in the end, we can still always rejoice, knowing that we demonstrated a real, agape kind of love in telling the truth.

We don't often think about this kind of love while reading 1 Corinthians 13. We like to write it in the middle of a beautiful painting of a garden, surrounded by birds and quiet scenery. But love isn't always smooth, it doesn't always flow peacefully like a river. And when it does get rough, we like to pout and slam doors and clench our fists.

But if the truth is based on Christ*, then it's going to be beautiful no matter how painful it is; it will flourish like a house built on the Rock. This itself is a hard truth to accept, but it's worth it to know and accept and preach to ourselves daily.

Love rejoices with the truth. Yes, let us preach that to ourselves daily, so we always remember the healing power of not only the truth, but of the one and only Truth.

*Emphasis on the "based on Christ" part of the sentence. I'm not advocating for everyone to go around and just speak their mind. Caution, discernment and prayer must be exercised in telling the truth.

one-word-descriptions around a late night bonfire.

My cousin’s going to China.

I think it still feels slightly unreal. I’ve known Katie since diapers, back when we were stupid and naïve and played with cardboard and almost annoyed each other to death every time we got together to play. Fortunately for us, we grew out of those tendencies once we hit the teen years, and we’ve been best friends for quite some time now. 

Katie’s also worked at camp with me for the past four years – ever since I’ve been there, she’s been there too. She left this morning to go home, headed halfway across the world for a five week internship in just a few short days. Last night, the entire camp staff had the wonderful opportunity to sit around a bonfire and tell everyone what they appreciated most about her. We all came up with different words that best described her, and then expanded on why we chose those words.

Faithful. Spirited. Questions. Quiet force to be reckoned with. Uplifting. Delightful.

For this sure to be awkward blog post (Katie’s uncomfortable with so much attention focused on her), I decided to elaborate on the three words that I chose. Because at the very least, someone as beautiful and courageous as Katie deserves to have a blog post written about her.

Servant- Katie lives her life in a constant state of servitude to others. She has this constant posture of stooping below people to lift them up, not to gain anything for herself, but because the love of Christ pours out so abundantly from her heart, she can’t help but put others first. It doesn’t matter how uncomfortable, inconvenient or challenging it is for herself, she presses on anyway because she sees people for who they really are: beautiful image bearers of Christ. Because of this truth, she can’t help but serve them whenever possible.

Comfortable- Katie’s one of the most comfortable people to be around. It’s like she wears this big welcome mat around her heart, standing with open arms where anyone can come in for a hug, some laughter and a cup of coffee whenever they need it. My first year on camp staff, I felt pretty uncomfortable in such a new environment, surrounded by new people. It was mainly because of Katie that I came into my own skin and felt comfortable coming out of my shell. She just has this incredibly simple way of making you feel like you’re sitting at home with close family and friends and are able to relax no matter what stress the day held earlier.

Passionate- I will never forget the night that Katie left me an at least five minute long message, ranting and yelling about one of her friends that was convinced women couldn’t be pastors. While I could really only make out about half of it, I’m still always a bit taken aback by Katie’s passion. She stands firm in what she believes in, planted on Christ The Solid Rock, and it’s so encouraging to see her so unwavering in her faith. She is stable. She is steady. She truly is a quiet force to be reckoned with. I have seen the same passion come out in the way she talks about China. It’s been a desire pressing on her heart for many years now, and her commitment to spreading the Gospel there, no matter how dangerous or challenging it is for herself, has never faded. My cousin has guts.

Another purpose for this blog post is to serve as a reminder, a reminder to lift Katie up in your prayers, to call out to the Lord for her safety, but also for her mission, that the light of Christ would burst out so powerfully from her heart, it reaches people and pierces past their walls, sinking deep down into their souls.

I love you, Katie.

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified, do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."

--Joshua 1:9

my dad did teach me to ride a bicycle.

This was my present to my dad for Father's Day.

* * *

If you’ve read even just a verse of my, “I Am Not A Man” poem, you’ll catch on quick that I don’t exactly fit the ‘manly man’ ideal. Ever since my toddler years, I’ve had a flair for the dramatics, preferring acting, singing, writing, and piano playing over any kind of sport. I tried. Oh, I tried my hand at quite a few sports (volleyball, soccer, and basketball, to name a few). But I just didn’t enjoy them. So I stopped. I opted for high school choir over the football team, and I graduated without ever having been on a sports team beyond the fifth grade.

My dad, on the other hand, played sports all the way through college. So, as you can predict, upon hearing the news that it was a boy, he jumped to quite a few assumptions about me. I can just see him, looking into my eyes as he held me for the first time, imagining playing football with me in the park, teaching me how to swing a baseball bat, competing against me in one-on-one basketball games. Oh, the list goes on. Now, knowing what you already know about me, this story seems to be heading straight downhill. Sports-loving father has a boy who grows up to suck at all sports and excel at the arts.

Don’t be so sure.

It’s funny, because I actually am very similar to my father, in terms of personality and quirks and what not. I think it took a while for him to realize that the typical, pre-paved path he was planning on just wasn’t going to work out (for that, God gave him my sister). But once he grasped that, he did exactly that: he grasped it and moved on. There were no special strings to be pulled or shady tricks up his sleeve – he loved me just the same as when he first saw me.

And I think that speaks a lot to my dad’s character. Because he never did have a son he could sit back and watch football with. He never had a son to play Horse with or a son that would get excited with him when he landed free tickets to the Packers game. But never have I felt like that’s changed his constant love for me. He still read every short story I wrote, even critiquing them for me and inspiring me to better my writing. He still sat through every eternal piano recital, pinching himself as he sat quietly through song after song. He even acted in the homemade movies I’ve made, giving it his all, like he always does. I’ve never felt judged or like ‘less of a man’ for who I am (and he’s never used the wretchedly horrible ‘man up’ phrase on me).

My dad loves people, no matter how different they are from him.

This is true not only with me, but with everyone who comes into contact with him. This is true of the way he leads the Disability Ministry at church: with open eyes that see people beyond the outer layer, digging down underneath to find the heart, where it beats and bleeds and yearns for authenticity. It doesn’t matter if you can’t speak, have a cognitive disability or don’t fit into a typical cardboard-box-role. Dad has this ability to treat everyone like a human being, one that deserves to be loved and be heard and be seen.

I’ve had some people tell me that they find my dad intimidating, to which I always respond with laughter. Because that’s probably one of the most absurd statements one could make. Sure, I definitely see why people feel that way. Before you get to know him, he can seem pretty uptight, serious and monotone. But for anyone that takes the time to crack a joke with him or get on a subject he enjoys talking about (football, anyone?), he comes crackling to life with bright colors and hooting laughter. He’s probably one of the most laid back, relaxed people I know. He’s one whom I can both joke around with and have a deep, intellectual conversation about the church with. He doesn’t pretend like he knows all the answers and he’s not shy to admit when he doesn’t. He speaks the truth, whether or not that makes him look like some big, tough macho-pastor man or not.

I’m expected to give him a Father’s Day card today with a little boy in a blue baseball cap, sitting next to his father, fishing on the lake or running to catch a football. It’d say some kind words about how well he raised me, and how he taught me to ride a bicycle (all in bold, black, masculine font), and then I’d sign my name and maybe say ‘I love you’ (depending on how feminine I’m feeling).

But that’s not my dad and that’s not me and that’s not how I feel.

Dad, I love you. I love you for your incredibly humble strength, the way you lift others up to go before you, unafraid of how that will affect your reputation or image, but dedicated to serving people and letting them know that they in fact are people and that they are beautiful. I love you for encouraging me in my dreams and pushing me to go the distance, even when it was in the exact opposite direction you initially wanted. I love you for how comfortable you are to be around, for the jokes you tell and the laugh you laugh and the wisdom you speak and the love of Christ that you reflect.

You have raised me well and you did teach me to ride a bicycle. But that’s really just the beginning.

---

Click here to check out the first chapter of my work-in-progress novel, Yellowtree!

my mom's human too.

This was the present I gave my mom for Mother's Day this year (and yes, I asked for her permission before posting it).

* * *

I had a rather shocking epiphany this morning, pondering about the sparse hours ticking away before Mother’s Day, the day society demands we call our moms up (no matter how long it’s been since we’ve last talked), tell them ‘I love you’ (no matter if we really mean it or not), and maybe buy them some flowers or a pretty card with a mother’s hand holding a baby’s hand on the front (but only if we’re feeling like extra nice children). And here’s what I realized: we love to glamorize our mothers. Like that air-brushed model that looks just a tad too skinny to be human, we stick our moms up on plastic billboards and surround them with words such as, ‘perfect,’ ‘angel,’ or ‘superhero.’ We elevate them to this alien pedestal on Mother’s Day, praising the fact that they raised us without resorting to suicide, and then often times go on to forget about them the rest of the year.  

So, here’s my thought: my mother’s not perfect. She’s not an angel, not a fashion model, not some inhuman Super Mom. And no, she doesn’t save the world (trust me, I’ve looked into it). She’s my mom.

Most cards like to highlight a mother’s instruction, the numerous things she teaches her children with her words. And yet, I feel like I’ve learned so much from what my mom hasn’t said.

I’ll never forget the time I caustically said to her face that I wished she had never married Dad. I spit those words out like venom, my mind warped into believing that it would actually bring about my victory. But my mom? At the least, a spanking with the wooden spoon and a firm yelling were warranted. But she just looked at me. She looked at me with sadness in her eyes, seeing right through my brave mask that tried to conceal the fact that I didn’t actually mean it. She sat me in my room and left me to stare out the window, all without saying a single word. We eventually talked about it later on that night, and I’m sure I sobbed and sobbed, assuring her that I didn’t mean it (one of my incredibly dramatic attempts to avoid a spanking or no Disney movies for a week), but I will never forget the way she looked at me. At a time when she could’ve so easily raised her voice and let her emotions drive her discipline, she was silent. She didn’t need words, her eyes had the depth of a star field, seeping underneath the outer skin with its white light and saturating my little-kid-angry-heart.

Moms aren’t supposed to sweat either. No, they’re mostly advertised as ones to stay inside, teach kids how to read, and maybe get a little warm making dinner that night. But my mom sweat. I remember one weekend where Dad was out of town, and both our lawn and my grandparents’ lawn needed mowing. Seeing that my mom suffers from pretty aggressive back pain, my Dad’s usually the one to do the outside work. But that didn’t stop her. She cranked that mower up and got to work, finishing all four yards that day. I’m sure her back killed for weeks after that, but she did what she needed to do, even when she sweat like crazy and her hair got messy and her makeup rubbed off.

My mom uses the word ‘honey’ like normal people use the word ‘the’ or ‘and.’ It doesn’t matter if you’re a three-year-old girl or a forty-year-old grown man, if my mom talks to you for more than five minutes, she’s bound to call you ‘honey’ at some point in the conversation. We love to poke fun at her, she gets teased so many times, and yet she just keeps going. It’s super annoying and really embarrassing at times, but for every ‘honey’ she throws out, it’s just one more reminder that she views you as an actual person. I get tired of people who like to treat other people like robots, like their own personal machines to get them food or give them money or help them buy a house. We are not scrap iron parts that can be rearranged to fit other people’s standards. We are human beings that live and breathe, molded in the image of God for his glory. My mom gets that. She sees that as she talks with someone, hears their point of view, looks them in the eyes and compares them to the sweet nectar that bees throw up.

In light of that, she understands that humans are imperfect beings who slip up. Despite phrases like ‘the golden child,’ reaffirming this delusional idea of a perfect child, my mom is always the first to say that she gets I’m not perfect, and that that’s normal. She pushes me to do my very best, but if that ends up falling short of perfection, that’s okay. I don’t ever have to feel like I’m striving to reach some impossible standard, dancing around the edges of who I really am, because my mom sees that I’m not just her son. I’m human.

I love the rare occasions when my mom says words like ‘shit’ or ‘damn,’ because it’s always followed by this never-ending remorse that is absolutely restless until one of her kids calms her down and assure her that they’ve forgiven her and they still love her. I lose track of how many times she apologizes, as if her Mom-Badge has just been tainted and she’ll never be able to shine it up again. So, after I’m done laughing, I’ll nod my head and inform her that she’s still my mom and I’m still her son. But it humanizes her, and I think that’s scary. Because it means that she’s sorta messy, which isn’t a word you normally throw about with the woman who spends years and years cleaning up other people’s messes.          

Speaking of messes, I really, really hate it when my parents cry. I’m sort of a hypocrite in that respect, seeing that I just talked about humanizing my mother in the paragraph above. Because that’s what crying does. For most of my childhood, I did view my mom as this inhuman parental being whose sole purpose was to serve me. Someone who would hold me when I cried and kiss me when I fell down, but never actually cry or fall down herself. So, when my mom and I were talking a few years ago, and she started tearing up for one reason or the other, I didn’t quite know how to react. All I knew was that I didn’t like it and I needed to get out of the room as soon as possible. But I think something beautiful happens when your parents feel comfortable enough to cry in front of you. As much as I tried (and probably still try) to push away any instance that may or may not result in tears, there’s no denying the fact that it brings parents and children a little closer together, connecting them on an emotional level that’s deeper and not as much of a one-way street. Yes, my mom is my mother and she raised me and she’s very wise and stronger than me in a lot of ways. But she’s also human, and she cries sometimes, and it’s awkward and painful and gorgeous all at the same time.

On the other side of the spectrum, Mom’s not afraid to laugh. Anyone who’s been around her for a few minutes will know that she has one of the most distinct laughs on the face of the planet, one that will find you when you’re lost or searching, one that will lead you from one end of Wal-Mart to the other. I’ve seen many families that love each other deeply, they care for one another and are always very kind, but they just don’t laugh enough. And sometimes, that’s really all you need. My mom laughs until she farts, cries or sometimes (on rare, horribly hilarious occasions) pees her pants. Because for all of the messes that we make and all of the messes that we are, there’s something incredibly healing about laughter. Just the sound of it alone is like an internal hug to the heart. Every time she laughs, it’s just one more of the unrealized ways she says, ‘I love you.’

I know Mom worries that she raised us wrong, that she didn’t teach us enough or tell us enough bumper sticker mottos to follow when we’re struggling. But I’ve learned more from her than she’ll ever know, partially from the many ways she doesn’t even realize, the ways that are too human to stick on the front of a greeting card.

From all of those indelible moments when she held her tongue and didn’t say a word, I saw a love so deep and a grace so extensive, I had to come to grips with the fact that she would always care for me, and that her eyes would always reflect forgiveness.

I saw her sweat and strain her back over and over again, teaching me to give my all, even through the pain and ugliness that would sometimes unfold.

For the simple, often annoying names she calls people, I saw them as exactly that. People.

And for reaffirming the beauty in those people, despite their imperfections, helping me to find gold not in crazy-golden-child standards, but in the intricate, often bloody complexities of the heart.

From the cuss words that accidentally slip out, to the tears that are shed, my mother has shown me that people don’t come in stark black and white, but that we’re poignant watercolors that bleed various hues of yellow, green and blue.

And from her rambunctious laugh, the North Star that always reminds me I’m home, alive with the presence of joy and life and my mom’s constant shout: I love you.

I love you too, Mom. And I mean it.

“There’s no way to be a perfect parent, but a million ways to be a really good one.” –Cheaper by the Dozen 2

the missing cross meets my cardboard-component-efforts.

I quit both of my jobs.

Fiscally speaking, was it the most responsible option to choose? No, I don't think so. But spiritually speaking, I'm feeling pretty assured that I'm exactly where God wants me to be.

Starting a few months ago, I began to feel a greater and greater disconnect with God. There was just this icy distance between us that I couldn't understand. So, the first thing I assumed was that I obviously wasn't trying hard enough. If I just put forth a little bit more effort for God, he'd eventually come back and we could be tight again. So, I tried to get more involved in church, I tried even harder to get up early to read the Bible and I really, really tried to be more consistent in my prayer life.

Tried, tried, and tried.

It didn't take long for me to realize how futile that approach was. The following Matt Chandler quote pretty much sums it up perfectly: "All your church attendance, all your religious activities, your Sunday school attendance medals, your journals, having a "quiet time," reading the Scriptures - it's all in vain if you don't have Christ... We are saved, sanctified, and sustained by what Jesus did for us on the cross and through the power of his resurrection. If you add to or subtract from the cross, even if it is to factor in biblically mandated religious practices like prayer and evangelism, you rob God of his glory and Christ of his sufficiency."*

And that was it. All of the components were there. All of the components except for the one who truly makes them worthwhile and beautiful: Christ. I kept trying to rely on my own works, my own cardboard-component-efforts to be a better Christian, thinking that God might see something bright there and decide to give me a nice feeling in my stomach once again (see my stuffed in the trunk post for a further discussion on that).

I think I grasped then that I didn't really understand God. Or the cross. Or the beautiful, constant, ever present power of Christ's sufficiency, not because of me or what I do or how long I have quiet time, but because God is the GREAT I AM. So, realizing that I would soon be whisked off to another amazing, yet crazy busy summer of working at camp, I turned in my two-weeks notices and am currently in the midst of taking a month to refocus on Christ. And no, I'm not bashing prayer, Bible reading, quiet time or journaling (these are all an essential part of my work break). But I've realized that they mean nothing without Christ, are purposeless without the cross, and are just downright boring and obnoxious to stay on top of when their core is buried in all of our self-reliant, last-ditch attempts to get close to God.

It's hard to admit that sometimes we just need to slow down. It's hard to sit still and breathe in the quiet presence of God. And it's hard not to feel like our standing with him fluctuates like the wind, always changing with how we rate on the 'good' or 'bad' scale of the day. But God's not the one who moves. He doesn't change our status as saved-by-grace-sinners, heirs of God, children of the Most High, a royal priesthood. And while I'm definitely not advising everyone to go out and quit their jobs, I want this post to serve as a reminder of the powerful core truth of the cross, and how we will always feel distant from God if that's not at the very center of everything we do. Whether it's taking an extended period of time to be alone with God, or working overtime seven days a week in a high-intensity job, it's still the same. God's still the same. The cross is still the same. His truth is still the same. And that's not ever going to change.

*Chandler, Matt. The Explicit Gospel. Crossway Publishing. 2012.

empty castle time bombs.

This blog post stemmed out of all the times I’ve heard guys talking about how reluctant they are to ask a girl out, and all of the times I’ve heard girls talking about how much they like a guy, but are going to wait until he comes to them and initiates. Both of these situations result in the same exact thing...

Nothing.

So, this is my probably controversial attempt to turn nothing into something. Here we go.

We’re all so shy, it’s scary to open up that bottle with truth and feelings, where the vulnerability aches so badly it screams and the glitter falls off your heart to reveal the gooey shades of black underneath. We’re all so scared, it’s easier to stitch on our cardboard masks and smile as we sink deeper and deeper into the dirty quicksand our idleness soon becomes. At the same time, we’re all so loud that our hearts practically jump out of our chests to beat on our arms, staining the sleeves and crying out for someone to hear them and notice them and love them. We’re all so bold, we can march right on into the storm and laugh at the darkness, completely oblivious to the raging lightning until it strikes us with an electric pulse.

For those of you who aren’t catching my drift yet, we are messy.

But a lot of us (myself included) like to think we aren’t. We like to think we’ve got everything under control and that it’s only a matter of time before the right person comes along and cleans all of our messes up for us. Men are princes and women are princesses. That’s the fairy tale girl's dream, right? To twirl around in her satin dress, watching the fabric as it dances and spins around her snow white body, just waiting for her Prince Charming to come galloping to her tower where he’ll hold her and kiss her and assure her that she’s the most perfect, beautiful young lady to ever walk the earth. Meanwhile, his shining armor will still glisten, completely unscathed by the winding path he’s journeyed, slaying the dragon with the flick of his sword and reaching his true love right before she loses hope. He can carry her on the back of his valiant steed, dashing off to his castle of sparkling silver, glowing like the miles and miles of stars he passed underneath to reach her side. Happily ever after can begin. 

But we aren’t princes and princesses, and we don’t hold onto the promise of a castle as a future home. We work in dimly lit offices on crowded city streets, sneaking out of the cubicle five minutes early so we can have a slightly extended lunch break at that greasy diner down the road.

Men are not knights; our armor isn’t pure, like silver, but chipped, like the paint on your old neighbor’s house, and rusted over with dents and holes and plenty of places where a knife has come in a little too close. We aren’t superhumans with space on the back of our horses. Superman only flies on paper.

And women are not princesses; their ripped up, scarred dresses aren’t tailored by the fairy godmother. The door to leave their tower is swinging wide open in the wind, all they need to do is walk through it to feel the grass. And happily ever after does not exist; happiness is a state of mind, as fleeting and fading as the stroke of midnight.

So far, we’ve established that we’re human. Not superhuman, and not sketches out of a dusty book of fairy tales. Now it’s time for the gritty details. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy (I hope you caught the differences in “like”). What is the next step? 

As a common relationship metaphor goes, men are the hunters and women are the prey. It is the man’s duty to be on the lookout, scanning the area for any signs of movement and then going after it. He initiates. Meanwhile, the woman gets to bat her eyes and send out slight hints that she’s there, cracking twigs and rustling leaves. Eventually, the man will find her and ask her out. The best formula for happily ever after (tick tock tick tock).

But what if the man isn’t hunting? What if he’s just taking a quiet stroll through the forest, completely unaware of the snapping of branches and crunching of dead leaves around him? He doesn’t have a gun and he’s not on the lookout. He just closes his eyes and lets the summer fill his lungs as the leaves continue to fall. If this is the case, it doesn’t matter how many times the woman bats her blue eyes or cracks down on those twigs. She’ll just keep dancing circles around his tracks, floating like a gray haze over his invisible rifle. Yet we are assured this is the best path to happily ever after (tick tock tick tock).

So now, girl still likes boy. But she’s also mad, infuriated that he hasn’t caught onto the plethora of glass slipper hints she’s dropped like bombs in front of his face. They’ve exploded and the dynamite’s sent debris flying all around, but he’s sleepwalking; every bit of rubble seems to hurtle just a smidgen of an inch above his head. So we blame it on the man, for it's obviously always his responsibility to initiate. And just like that, the woman’s problem, something she should be assuming complete responsibility over, has suddenly become the man’s problem, weighing down on his shoulders like a little glass house. But he doesn’t cave and he doesn’t break, he just keeps walking, oblivious as this eye-batting, twig-snapping, leaf-rustling girl carries on in the whirlpool of limbo she’s created for herself. Don’t worry, she thinks. Eventually, she’ll find a sandy shore that leads to her silver castle of starlight, where happily ever after twirls around in the main ballroom (tick tock tick tock).

At the same time, there are also many men out there dawdling along, trying their best to conceal their so-called "hunting" with a vague trail of flirty hints and clues that do nothing but lead the girl on. He's too reluctant to actually make the first move and put his heart out there, and so, once again, the limbo whirlpool continues. And why not? It's so much easier to sit back, play hard-to-get and find comfort in the freedom from responsibility and commitment the whirlpool so generously provides. 

We are shy, scared, loud and shockingly bold people; we’re not looking for a human savior, just another rough and jagged soul that doesn’t walk away when we bleed all over the place. And sometimes the truth can make us so jarringly vulnerable that saying it and letting it hang to dry in the open seems absolutely unfathomable. But not everyone can see the whole truth. In fact, most of the time, we’re holding onto a split-second-shard that just barely scrapes the surface before curling back up in its safe straw house.

When one of my close friends liked me, she didn’t wait around for me to initiate. If she had, she would’ve been waiting for pigs to fly, as I didn’t feel the same way about her and had no idea how she really felt about me. Instead, she put her heart out there, slipping it out of the pent-up cage we all construct for ourselves and letting it stain her sleeve. It must’ve been painful, but she knew that it would’ve been even more painful if she hadn’t, if she had kept quiet and played damsel, like so many girls are taught to do. Because of her boldness, she was able to pull herself out of the limbo whirlpool and open my unarmed, oblivious eyes, bringing us both a little closer together, even though the feelings weren’t reciprocated. We are now best friends, a thing that would have been impossible had she decided to sit in the quicksand and wait for a rescue that would never come.

If you still aren’t following anything I’m saying, at least leave with this: if you like someone and are interested in pursuing a relationship, don’t wait for them to come to you. Ask them out. Tell them how you feel. If you’re a man reading this, stop hesitating. Step up and ask her out. And if you’re a woman reading this, stop waiting. Step up and tell him how you feel. Even if a relationship doesn’t follow, at least you’ll know the truth and feel free to move on. Stop wasting time dancing around the edges, playing Ring-Around-The-Rosie, talking about a potential partner with everyone except the actual person of interest and waiting on some obscure vision of happily ever after (tick tock tick tock).

Oh, look. It’s midnight. The masquerade’s coming to an end. Now it’s up to you.

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Click here to check out the first chapter of my work-in-progress novel, Yellowtree!

big-cardboard-whinefest prayer.

I am such a whiner.

A couple weekends ago, I had the opportunity to head up north for my church's young adult retreat. The topic of the weekend was prayer. And seeing that my prayer life usually happens in short, sporadic bursts, I was pretty excited to fix that. I waltzed on in expecting to learn how to really 'pray' so that God would swoop down and take away all of the burdens I had been piling on him. I wanted him to give me some jaw-dropping revelation that would just help make everything better and easier.

But then we had some quiet time, and I was given the opportunity to spend two hours in prayer, walking around to different prayer stations with different tools to help us pray. While all of them were rich and incredibly beneficial, the one that really hit me hard was the 'Names of God' station. It was very simple, with just several pieces of paper plastered to the wall. Each paper had a different name for God, what it meant, and where it was found in the Bible. I took down the verses and went back to my seat, looking up these holy, sacred names that attempted to capture just a shred of God's glorious majesty.

And that's when it hit me. Here I was, going all this time thinking that prayer was solely about me. That it was just this beautiful time of humble surrender, pouring out my heart and my complaints and my thoughts and my struggles, bare before the Lord in all of my vulnerability. And don't get me wrong, that is definitely an important aspect of prayer. But it's also about God. I would just go and go and go, whining to God about all that was wrong in my life and how much I needed him to fix it. I took prayer, this beautiful privilege that God has graciously allowed us, and turned it into a big-cardboard-whinefest that revolved completely around me.

Reading the names and just breathing in the vast hugeness of God was incredibly humbling in refocusing my attention on what was really important. I could almost hear God as I fell before him in worship, patting me on the back and whispering, "There, there. You just forgot what was really important. Come back to me. I'm right here, I haven't moved, I'm still just the same as I was before." It wasn't this gigantic, life changing revelation, and I certainly didn't resolve all of my problems right then and there.

But for a few moments, I stopped whining and started breathing, started breathing in the sound of stillness, of just sitting in the splendor of God and beholding his Love, his Might, his Glory, his Peace. From the way he saves us, to the way he consumes us and is continually sanctifying us - he was there and I was there. That's all there was to it. God is so incredibly magnificent if we just take a second to slow down, take our eyes off of ourselves and our own problems, and just look to him. He never gets old. He never gets less exciting or jaw-droppingly gorgeous or awe-inspiring. He is the same constant, perfect God that desperately wants to hear us.

Sometimes that includes our complaints and our whining and our frustrations and our requests. Other times, it's just as simple as saying his names. "Jehovah Sabaoth. King of Kings. Qanna. El Shaddai. The Everlasting God. Jehovah-Jireh. Living Water."

Amen.

***

I have included some of the names of God and their verses that I was able to look up during the retreat. Hopefully you will find them as awe-inspiring and humbling as I did.

Jehovah Sabaoth: "The Lord of Hosts" (Psalm 24:9-10, 1 Samuel 17:45, Jeremiah 11:20, Psalm 80:19, Isaiah 1:24, Haggai 2:6)

Qanna: "Jealous, Zealous" (Exodus 20:5, Exodust 43:14, Deuteronomy 4:24, 5:9, 6:15)

Jehovah Mekoddishkem: "The Lord Who Sanctifies You" (Exodus 31:13, Leviticus 20:8)

Jehovah-Jireh: "The Lord Will Provide" (Genesis 22:1-14)

Jehovah-Rapha: "The Lord That Heals" (Exodust 15:26, Isaiah 30:26, 61:1, Jeremiah 30:17, Psalm 103:3)

El Olam: "The Everlasting God" (Genesis 21:3, Isaiah 26:4)

El Elyon: "The Most High God" (Genesis 14:18-22, Psalm 18;13, 57:2, 78:35)

El Shaddai: "All Sufficient One, Lord Almighty" (Genesis 17:1-2)

natural night vision goggles.

I know I haven't blogged for a while, but I am currently trying to finish up the book I'm writing by May 1, and so I've been putting most of the time I have for writing into that. I'll still try to post on here as often as possible, but it won't be as frequently as it was before. Now, onto the real post...

There's something about power outages that bring people together.

Several nights ago, the power went out at my small group. The group meets in an apartment, and by the time I arrived, the power was out across the whole building (and the whole block). One of the guys who was already there graciously volunteered to continually run up and down four flights of stairs to lead the people arriving up to the apartment. Once there, the place was lit up with an array of different candles that several people helped light. When someone needed to use the pitch black bathroom, someone lent them the flashlight on their phone to light up the way. We gathered around peaceful candlelight, the entire atmosphere eerily quiet. Maybe it was the absence of the normal hum of the refrigerator.

When someone had trouble seeing the words to read in their Bibles, another would shine a cell phone or an iPad over them, illuminating the wispy-thin pages. People scooted closer together, opting to share Bibles, so they wouldn't need as many lights. Not to mention the fact that the heat was also run by electricity, so the temperature ever so slowly dropped. And yet, I had never felt warmer.

The power was revived about halfway through, and while it was a good thing for all of the businesses across the street that had also lost power, I couldn't help but feel a hint of sadness. Because we felt just a little bit more like family throughout the power outage. People were just a little bit more willing to help, a little bit more willing to be that awkward person that sits real close to another. Now, obviously, the need to lend someone your phone as a flashlight so they can navigate the murky terrain of the bathroom disappears when the power's up and running.

But the need for community? The need for having an ever watchful eye for people in need, whether it be for a light, food, or just a listening ear? That won't ever disappear. And even when we're surrounded by a sea of people, it's so easy to get wrapped up in ourselves and never venture out past our cardboard walls and comfort zones. When the lights went out, people became more mindful of the needs of other people, but it really shouldn't have to be that way. It should just be a natural lens, the night vision goggles with which we see the world and its crazy, beautiful inhabitants. I want to be a light for Christ, a light that warmly welcomes people in and helps them out even when it hurts me. I want to be that awkward person that scoots in way too close to someone else, saturating the cracks and crevices of their hearts with the Living Water. When someone's lost and stumbling and caught in the darkness, I want Christ's light to burst forth so powerfully from my heart, they can't even see me anymore, just the radiant beauty of our Savior.

Now, I know this is so much easier said than done. And, frankly, I'm not even sure what it will always look like. But I'm tired of waiting, tired of passing by all these people in their own power outages and never stopping to lend them a light. So, let us make it our daily prayer to put on the eyes of Christ, his eyes that see through the outer layer and pierce the darkness underneath with a living and active peace. I'm not sure where it will go after that, but it's a start, a tiny seed, and that's enough for God to take and plant and grow into a beautiful thing.

I never would've thought that a power outage would be so convicting, but God's used crazier ways to communicate with people before, right?

identity crisis: man up.

Don't tell me to man up.

You can tell me to step up, or buck up, or cheer up, but don't you dare tell me to man up. And here's why.

1. The term "man up" is often used in correlation with things a lot of society or the church has deemed masculine. "Just man up and ask her out" or "man up and get your hands dirty" or "man up and take charge!" It reinforces the typical stereotypes that all men must be sports-loving, aggressive, action-oriented, visual, Bob-the-Builder type handymen that just go at it and lead all the time. Not that men can't love sports or fix things or be action-oriented. But in pairing those qualities with the phrase "man up," it implies that they are actual requirements of being a man and attaining true manhood.

2. Furthermore, masculinity is not something that can be lost, it's not something that fluctuates. "Man up" implies the need to do something in order to keep or further your masculinity. Like, in order to be a man, you've got to take one more step up and ask the girl out. Or initiate the first kiss. Or fix that leaking drain pipe without complaining. As Sarah Sumner says, "The challenge 'Be a man!' doesn't rattle a woman, but it grips the very soul of a man. Even in the church, it is not a given for men to feel like men just because they are men. Yet I know it's not from God when men fall into the trap of wanting desperately to prove themselves as men on worldly terms."* If manhood truly does go up and down that much, if it's really a roller coaster that can be lost or gained or proved in a heartbeat, then I have no desire to step on board. Count me out of that wild thing.

3. You never hear anyone telling any girls to "woman up." Why? Because if we used the same logic that people use when carelessly throwing out "man up," it'd go something like this. "Come on! Woman up and make me that sandwich!" or "just woman up and follow!" or "woman up and let your emotions run wild!" The stereotypes for women include their roles as housewives, babymakers, followers, overly emotional crybabies, and gentle, relational beings. And by boxing off little cardboard molds for men and women based on these shifting standards, it creates absolute chaos if one of the genders tries to step out of his or her box. So, if the man decides to stay home and raise the kids while the woman works to provide for the family, according to these conditions, they would be losing a part of their masculinity or femininity and gaining a part of the other. Talk about an identity crisis.

4. In conclusion, if masculinity and femininity truly do fluctuate as much as we say they do, then I don't want it. Instead, I'll take the identity I've found in Christ. With this new identity, I don't strive after true, tough, aggressive manhood, or even biblical manhood. I strive to be like Christ, to imitate him in everything I do. I fully believe that if that happens, if we surrender our entire being to God and allow him to shine through us, true manhood or womanhood will emerge. It's not based off of our likes or interests or gifts or how well we lead or how often we cry. True identity is rooted in the character of Christ and the aggressive and gentle, logical and emotional, action-packed and radically relational life he's called us to live as Christians. "Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children" (Ephesians 5:1).

So don't tell me to man up.

You can tell me to step up, or buck up, or cheer up, but don't you dare tell me to man up. There's why.

*Sumner, Sarah. Men and Women in the Church: Building Consensus on Christian Leadership. 2003. InterVarsity Press.

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Click here to check out the first chapter of my work-in-progress novel, Yellowtree!