On a recent day in May, I roused myself for a painfully slow jog at the bright and early hour of noon. Exerting energy felt impossible, but I was desperate for relief from anxiety that had gripped my insides since 4am. As I walked down the driveway, I spotted a bird sitting peacefully beside my car. I inched closer but still, it did not flinch. “I cannot deal with an injured bird today.”

I went back inside and called my husband to examine the bird while I endured my jog.

“The bird’s fine,” he told me when I got back. “It flew away as soon as I went out there.”

Not being an ornithologist, I can’t tell you why a bird sat motionless in my driveway as I inched closer. Nor do I know why it finally summoned the strength to fly away.

I only know that I’m the bird. (You knew where this was going.)

It’s May 23rd and I am losing altitude. Perhaps you are too.

Family + home + a graduate + jobs + eternal to-do lists + sports + phone reminders that never rest. Yet somehow still forgetting things and / or showing up at the wrong time.

Laundry? Dinner? Those tasks are for people who are not mothers in May.

And why is it that the seasons with the least margin invite the most mayhem? My vehicle breaking down in the middle of nowhere. (Shoutout to Ronald’s Garage in Kings Mountain, NC.) Vandalism. Grief. The general overwhelm that comes with parenting teenagers. Jury duty.

It’s a lot.

This morning I’m still thinking about the bird. Perhaps she just needed a minute to gather herself before heading back to the nest. Who can blame her?

I have zero life hacks to give you. No “Best Life” mantras. I only know that when life’s at a fever pitch, I can be still—if only for a few moments—and anchor myself in what is most true: “The tender heart of the Son of God is shining on me. This is an unflappable affection.”*

The love of Jesus for me and within me provides strength to do small tasks with great love, to collapse into his sustaining grace and get back up. And in those moments when I cannot, in fact, get back up, I remember that his affection for me has not wavered in the least.

May it be so for you too.

*Dane Ortlund from his book, Gentle & Lowly

On a weary Wednesday morning in May, I sit on my screen porch in a flood of feelings so thick, I can barely move.

We returned last night from the state golf championship. My son is a senior and his team got to compete; the journey has been one of such joy. When he teed off on the 18th hole yesterday, I felt a lump in my throat. “This is it. The last hole of his high school career. How are we here already?”

He has been a beautiful son to raise. Yes, there have been (and still are) moments of bewilderment and cluelessness as a parent, moments when he pushed all of my buttons. But as my eyes scan the last 18 years with him, I’m overwhelmed by their beauty.

On the 18th green yesterday, he had to make a long and difficult putt downhill in order to save par. The putt was incredible, and he missed it by a hair. My heart broke. It felt like a metaphor for the last two days—near-perfect execution, but it just wouldn’t come together. His scores were not terrible, but they were not at all what he’d hoped and what he knows he’s capable of.

We want picture-perfect endings, especially when they’ve worked so hard for so long. And, it just wasn’t.

As I reflect this morning, I start to see it a little differently. The truth is, he never stopped giving 100%. He never does. He perseveres intensely but honorably. There are many ways we can all learn to do this, but for him, golf has been his teacher.

During his years in this sport, there have been far more disappointing days than victorious ones. Perhaps the elusiveness is what makes the rare moments of glory so sweet.

Life is not a string of wins. It’s not what I’m preparing my children for. To put it bluntly, our days can feel like a string of losses, both individually and collectively.

Because it’s May, and we’re in the season of celebrating endings, I leave you with this: Despite what we’ve been led to believe, endings don’t always get the last word, nor do they define all that came before. When you gaze a little longer at the not-picture-perfect finish, you might just see a deeper, more lasting beauty in the virtues forged from the journey itself.

This past week marked eleven years since my life caved in on itself. Eleven years since I fell to the oak floor of my living room and wept until my inner well ran dry. Eleven years since I decided to fight back against the darkness that threatened to crush me like a locomotive.

The story is deeply personal and the details would only distract, as details often do. But the truth is, many of you have been there, are there even now, and you are desperate for the smallest sliver of light to break through the darkness and illuminate a path forward, desperate for Hope to take your shaking hand in hers and lead you out, one trembling step at a time.

This morning I happened to notice the words I’d scrawled on my desktop stack of spiral-bound note cards in November. Back when past trauma suddenly resurfaced and pulled me under for a time. These words from Isaiah helped me get back up, and I share them with you today in case you need a hand.

“Do not remember the past events; pay no attention to things of old. Look, I am about to do something new; even now it is coming. Do you not see it? Indeed I will make a way in the wilderness, rivers in the desert.” Isaiah 43:18-19

Always, we must reckon with the past. But always, there is hope of redemption and renewal. Because always, there is a living, loving God who promises to make all things new. A God who came to earth and made healing a centerpiece of his life and work here among us.

Twenty seven years ago, I trudged up a snowy mountain wearing his mother’s coat and snow boots.

I said “Yes” at the top of Prospect Hill, the highest point in southern Michigan. I cried and laughed, as young love swallowed us whole, insulating me from the snow and wind of a Michigan winter.

Faded Polaroids show us with fake champagne and my tear-streaked face. After hugs with his family, we walked across the street to celebrate with his grandparents, old love joyfully welcoming new love like parents ushering a baby into the world.

I wonder if their thoughts echoed the words of Frederick Buechner, “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

We only had visions of beautiful.

I remember last year at this time, how my husband and daughter had an early Valentine’s lunch. Instead of talking about her life, which they normally do, they focused on his. He confessed that his husbanding had come up short lately, and he shared our well-worn dynamics of mutual retreat and withdrawal. It stunned her. “You guys still do stuff like that?”

Yes, we do.

“Will you have this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? This woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Yes, we do.

Again and again, we do. We fail. We retreat. We repent. We have and we hold all over again.

“Why don’t you just talk to her about it?”

And so he did, weeks of tension dissolving in a matter of moments. “I’m sorry. Will you forgive me? I’m sorry too. Will you forgive me? Here’s what I need from you. Ok. Here’s what I need from you too. Ok.”

That evening, we sat on the sofa, my arm wrapped through his, the dog vying for a spot between us. Last night we did the same, another year of hard-won love that points us to a divine faithfulness and grace much greater than our own.

Enduring love sees you at your worst and loves you there. It hopes for the best but loves you even if you never get there. It helps. It forgives. It does not enable. But it does understand.

If you’re lucky, on a cold February night, young love might swallow you whole again, as pride gives way to grace and vulnerability gives way to repair. Again.

May your hard-won love endure.

Within the last year alone, I’ve stumbled upon a $4,000 piece of art at the Goodwill for $50.

A Givency necklace at the Salvation Army for $3.

A vintage Tod’s bag in mint condition for $1 at a yard sale.

A brand new Capri volcano candle for 50 cents (which my daughter promptly took to college.)

Anthropologie blouses, a gold sequin dress, a new faux cowhide rug, a pair of lamps, and a menagerie of other junk shop goodies I won’t bore you with, have all found their way to my wardrobe, my home, and my treasure-loving heart.

Finding beauty and finery and usefulness in unlikely places is pure joy for me. From the bags of clothes people handed the pastor’s kids after church, to the yard sales I combed in fancy neighborhoods, I’ve been a treasure-hunter since childhood.

People often tell me things like:

“I just don’t have your luck.”

“There’s never anything good when I go.”

“I get overwhelmed. It all looks like junk.”

I get it. A lot of it IS actual junk and I don’t always find anything worthwhile. But I usually find something.

Is there an element of serendipity? Standing at the right place at the right time? Of course.

But it’s more than that. I simply know what to look for. A fabric or print or finish often jumps out at me. I’ve learned to see past the dusty porcelain dolls and old sorority tees, to block out the clutter and behold loveliness.

I “have an eye,” as they say.

But having an eye for beauty and meaning and possibility doesn’t just apply to the local Goodwill. It’s a skill we can all cultivate. If the treasure we seek is a life of love and meaning, how do we block out the junk and sharpen our vision?

Detaching from my phone this week has given me eyes to see the beauty that’s already here, helped me access time and headspace I didn’t know I had, dusted off ideas and hopes that are still alive and well.

When we clear away the clutter in our digital lives, we might just uncover the hidden treasure in our real lives.

……….

Day 4 of a writing challenge with @hopewriters. Today’s prompt is SERENDIPITY. ✨

“Do more things that make you forget to check your phone.” It’s a quote I hear from time to time and while I get the sentiment, it implies that there must be a certain grandiosity to daily life. Adventure! Dreaming big! Bucket lists!

Like, if you’re not living from one rapturous moment to the next, what are you even doing with your life?

My simple experiment during this week of detaching from my phone has reminded me that the constant hum of digital life can actually numb us to the wonder of real life. In our passive state of scrolling and shopping, clicking and connecting, are we unknowingly disconnecting from what is real and beautiful and true and lasting?

The gurgling creek as I walked the dog.

The bouquet of September wildflowers I plucked from the pathway in front of my house.

Prayer.

The headspace to explore my own thoughts and ideas, instead of constantly reacting (if only in my own head) to others’ thoughts and ideas.

The freedom to not have an opinion.

The life-giving realization that I’m not actually missing out on anything at all.

Turns out you don’t need a bucket list day to forget to check your phone. Wonder isn’t just “out there.” It’s right here. But we have to look up from our screens to see it.

…………

Day 3 of a writing challenge with @hopewriters. Today’s prompt is EXPLORE.

“A goal without a plan is just a wish.” —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I know I’m on my phone too much. When we use the same device as a map, a camera, a business tool, grocery shopping, entertainment, communication, news—the lines get blurry. It’s hard to know when the essential drifts into the unnecessary.

All I know is that I often feel gross at the end of the day, the soulful equivalent of eating nothing but chips and candy.

I’m tired—

Of low-grade envy and anxiety that seeps from someone’s curated life through a screen and into my spirit.

Of nibbling on snippets and sound bytes instead of feasting on long-form, thoughtful prose.

Of feeling the need to have a well-formed opinion on the news of the day.

Of knowing everyone and their brother’s opinion on All The Things and then making value judgements about them as human beings.

Of wanting to buy things I don’t need.

Of not “having time” or energy for life-giving endeavors: writing, making things pretty, reading books, baking.

If I intend to maximize the fruitfulness of my real, right-now life, I need to minimize my digital life.

This week, I’m conducting an experiment:

I leave my phone behind when I take the dog for walks.

I don’t pick it up unless it’s for something specific: sending a text, making a call, ordering groceries, opening the GPS, listening to my audiobook, a necessary work task, a very limited scroll on social media (like 3 minutes.)

I’m only a few days in and here are the results so far: I’ve slept more each night, written two posts, read half a book, and listened to two-thirds of a book. Dinner prep has felt more leisurely. I even tried a new muffin recipe and organized a drawer. Nothing changed about the rest of my life. I’ve had all the same responsibilities, but somehow more time and headspace.

I’ve had the intention of spending less time on my phone for months, but until I crafted a simple action step, it was just a wish. It never got traction.

What’s an intention you have? What’s one baby step you could take today toward turning a wish into a plan?

……….

Day 2 of a writing challenge with @hopewriters. The Day 2 prompt is: INTENTION.

This morning after everyone left and a holy hush fell over the house, I considered the word “quiet.” How it’s ironic that I need quiet in my outer world, yet struggle to pursue and receive quiet in my inner world.

I paused my own thoughts as I read a devotional. Today’s passage was one in which Jesus encounters a man outside the synagogue possessed with an evil spirit. He doesn’t wrestle the man to the ground or speak an incantation or even quote scripture. Jesus simply opens his mouth and says to the loud spirit, “Be quiet.” (Mark 1:25)

Naturally, I paid attention, zeroing in on the word “quiet” that had already been rolling around in my mind. I opened a lexicon and saw that this word here literally means “to muzzle, to put to silence.”

It felt like a timely word for me. Perhaps for you too? We need “quiet” as a verb as much as we need it as a noun.

What voices of authority does Jesus want to quiet in my own life? What voices are smothering his authority? What voices undermine the life-giving authority he’s entrusted me with as a child of God?

More than ever, our world clamors with voices and viewpoints. With loud and angry opinions. With subtle and seductive influencers. With pride and self-righteousness cloaked in causes.

As someone who’s allowed far too much input in the name of being informed and educated, or perhaps just to numb and escape, my mind is anything but quiet. Rather, it’s a cacophony of voices that haven’t earned an ounce of authority to speak into my life.

No wonder I have a headache.

No wonder I’ve struggled to find my own words even though I have a million thoughts a minute.

At the start of a new week and a new season:

Let’s invite Jesus to muzzle the many voices that distract, confuse, paralyze, and unduly influence.

Let’s pursue a necessary pruning, taking steps to ruthlessly reset our input boundaries.

Let’s pray for a sacred quieting so that we can hear His voice above all others.

And out of this quiet, may we humbly yet boldly use our own God-given voices for others’ good and for his glory.

……….

I’m joining a 5-day writing challenge on Instagram with @hopewriters. Today’s prompt is QUIET.