And if you're pursuing a dream, writing or otherwise, there's some encouragement in this post just for you.

I don’t know anything about this little boy.

But I know he inspires something deep in my soul.

Leaving his friends and family behind, this kid takes off to achieve one goal. His movements wobble. He falls on the ball. His speed vacillates from slow to moderately slow.

But his focus never wavers.

Fearlessly, he uses his little legs to take him exactly where he wants to go. He’s not scared of failing. He’s not deterred by a stumble. He’s not even aware of what others around him are doing.

Which is why the crowd’s role in this scene is so brilliant. The momentum of rumbling support is its own character in this story. The energy is palpable.

And when this small one finally kicks the ball over the goal line, the stadium erupts. In a moment of utter beauty, it finally occurs to the precious child that the cheering was for him. Every time I watch his chunky arms shoot to the air in victory, I swallow a lump and fight back the moisture in my eyes.

I want to reach into this video, grasp the pure courage, box it up, and allow it to seep into my efforts to achieve my goals.

What about you?

Is there something you’ve been wanting to try, but you’re afraid of failing?

That. That thing that came to your mind when you read the last line.

The instrument you want to play, the relationship you want to work on, the book you want to write, the closet you want to clean out, the mile you want to run, the small group you want to join, the degree you want to research, the conference you want to attend. The goal that is so embedded into your soul, it came to your mind immediately.

Hold onto that dream. Take the next step.

• It’s okay to step away from family and friends' expectations to try something on your own.

• It’s okay to be imperfect while you work on a new skill.

• It’s okay to stumble.

• It’s okay to go slow.

While you're working towards your goal, a crowd bigger than you can fathom forms. Only instead of being compiled of people, this crowd is composed of the Creator. The One who gave you those dreams to begin with. Because He believes in you. Because He is jumping up and down with every step you take toward using the gifts He gave you. Because His love for you is so much louder than a stadium full of crazed soccer fans.

Want to whisper a dream of yours to me? I’d love to hear from you. 

Sitting on a rock wall, looking over an olive tree garden outside the city of Jerusalem, I was an emotional mess. Mom’s declaration didn’t match the moment.

One of the great privileges in my life was visiting The Holy Land with my parents. We traveled with a group from our church, led by our pastor and music director.

I’m not sure I can convey the significance this trip holds in my spiritual journey. I’m a visual, tactile learner. To walk the roads where my Savior walked was overwhelming. Each stop, our leader would read from scripture and discuss what we knew to be true about the land, people, and history. We participated in beautiful praise services.

I looked out over the countryside of my namesake, Deborah the Judge. Walked the dirt path where the woman who bled for twelve years touched the hem of Jesus. Breathed the air of Galilee. Floated in the Dead Sea. Was Baptized in the Jordan River.

And on that day, I looked over an olive tree garden, flooded with emotions, as I pictured my Lord. Alone. Crying. Praying to His Father. The night before he was crucified.

I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my face. As in, I was creating a scene within our little group because I couldn’t pull myself together. The presence of God was tangible. This is where my Jesus stared His mission in the face. He would love me enough to die for me. In spite of His innocence, He would pay for my sin.

My mother sat on that wall, her arms circled around me, comforting me in the heavy silence of the moment.

This woman. The one who pointed me to God every single time I struggled. The one who pulled the car over to pray for people who were in accidents. The one whose solid faith in God shone brightly during her eventual terminal cancer journey. 

This woman comforted me for long moments.

And then she started giggling.

Our group had long gone on without us, leaving us to our tears. Which is probably why she chose this moment to share.

“Deborah, I went shopping for underwear before the trip.” She shifted. “And I don’t think I did it right.”

My gaze slid to hers. Was she for real? My forever modest mother, with a sense of propriety to rival the Queen of England’s, was discussing undergarments on Holy ground. I wiped tears off my cheeks, and tried to hide my smile. “What are you talking about?”

“The sales lady said something about boy shorts, and I thought that sounded comfortable.” The President of the Granny Panties Club whispered into my ear.

I covered my mouth to stifle the laughter. “Mom! Those aren’t comfortable at all.”

“I know.” She handed me a Kleenex. “This is what I’m trying to tell you. Who invented these? Nothing lines up the way it’s supposed to.”

And there we were. Tears turned to giggles. The gloriously deep with the amazingly shallow.

It’s what she taught me about life. You can have both. Even in the same moment. 

And so I think of her as we near the 20th anniversary of her Homecoming.

Thank you, mom, for teaching me to sit in God’s presence. Allow the tears. And look for the laughter. 

You were a gift. And I miss you everyday.

Do you have someone similar in your life? I would love to hear from you.

“A quiet confidence emanated from this group at the back of the marathon.  The runners had not conceded to their slowness, they had not given into their lack of speed.  On the contrary, they had all conquered whatever might have kept them from participating.”

While on a mission trip to Hungary, I drank some bad water. Undiagnosed E-coli had mutated and hid itself in my body for seven years, taking me down until I was bed-ridden at the age of 27. I searched all over the United States for answers. 

A miracle occurred. I finally found a doctor who provided a correct diagnosis. He knew how to help me fight off the nasty parasite, and how to rebuild me back to not just functioning, but thriving. 

My recovery took three full years.

Maybe the parasite left me insane, but I celebrated living again after a decade of struggle … by running a marathon. It was the best way I knew to yell at the top of my lungs, “I’M ALIVE” to the rest of the world who told me I would be bedridden and propped up on pain killers the rest of my life.

Let me be clear. I’m not a runner. I was an athlete … but not a runner. But I didn’t care. I began a very slow build-up to 26.2 miles. It started with a laborious walk to the mailbox.

At the time of training, I was in my late 20s. Do you know what most people training for a marathon in that age bracket look like?

Nothing like me.

They were lithe, agile, fast, and confident. The epitome of a Nike commercial. Looking to finish their race in under three-and-a-half-hours.

I ran awkward. Slower than Christmas. My form was ugly. I prayed I would finish the marathon under the seven hour cut-off time. But I was alive. Breathing. Moving toward a goal that seemed impossible in the years preceding my training.

In The Courage to Start, John Bingham celebrates runners who are out of breath and sporting tattered clothes, all while encouraging us to be exactly where we are as we complete our daily training. Because he knew something I didn't know how to put into words.

Everyone at the back of the line has a story.

Beautiful runners with stories about overcoming the obstacles of life stand proudly at the back of the line.  Abuse survivors, cancer fighters, fundraising warriors, grief gladiators, weight-loss champions, people from all walks of life celebrating the journeys that could have taken them down. But didn’t.

I know you have a story.

You carry dreams. Goals. Desires of your heart.

• Are you unable to start something because you’re frozen in perfectionism?

• Maybe you already began the work, it didn’t turn out like you thought it would, and you’re paralyzed by your own expectations?

• Are you scared that growing will hurt?

• Worried that changing will be uncomfortable?

Push through, friends. Please. So many gifts are revealed in the process of learning. Even if the process is ugly, awkward, and doesn’t look like everyone else’s.

At mile 25 of the marathon, I was a mess. A generous friend had joined me to keep me going. Nauseated, shaky, and redefining the word exhaustion, the remaining 1.2 miles seemed an impossible feat. I came to an intersection where a police officer directed traffic. Bless his heart, he stopped oncoming cars, just for one lone competitor and her companion to cross the street. 

“Am I winning?” I huffed my attempt at humor as I half-walked, half-jogged past him.

“Yes, ma’am.” With a serious face, he nodded his head. “You are.”

He honored my journey, my place in that race. And that sentiment stays with me to this day.

You are winning. Right now. No matter how far back in line you stand.

Camaraderie awaits you. With me. With others. Where there’s freedom to let the journey be the imperfectly perfect beautiful gift that it is.

You have a story to tell. Someone else desperately needs to hear about the journey that God walked you through.

Push through, friends. Go to your first book club. Sign up for that college class you keep thinking about. Use your out-loud voice to share for the first time in a small group. Purchase the paint brushes that call to you. Put on your old ratty shoes, and take twenty minutes to walk around the block.

It’s okay to finish in 3,247th Place.

With me. At the back of the glorious line.

How are you today? I’d love to hear about how I can cheer you on in your race.

Either that, or my friend, Chris, was going to see me naked.

I wasn’t sure which one was worse.

After hesitantly following a nurse into a Hungarian hospital testing room in 1995, those were my thoughts. Windows were open, people were walking by, looking in, and the out-going patient was unconcerned while she bared her body to us all.

As I stood gaping, several things ran through my mind. Not the least of which was that my fellow American hospital companion, Chris, was next on the list to be called back to this room. Whatever reason I was about to undress, my friend, a man, was going to see me naked.

No-no-no-no-no. I grew up going to Amy Grant concerts, wearing one-piece bathing suits, and making (mostly) the good choices my parents raised me to make. The thought of Chris walking in, seeing me exposed, was enough to make my brain explode.

The nurse dragged me out of my anxious thoughts with her Hungarian instructions. Through primitive sign language, she directed me to undress from the waist up and stand next to the table near her.

Long, beige curtains covered the windows. But when the breeze blew them out of place, anyone walking on the wrap-around porch could see straight into the room. Or, consequently, anyone riding a motorcycle, I thought to myself as one passed by.

Gulping, I disrobed, and approached the nurse. 

She took a wide, plastic band, and wrapped it around my bare chest. Then she used what looked like an alligator clip, and clamped it in place. 

My breaths were short and quick. 

The nurse directed me to lay on the table. She picked up metal, claw-like devices. Only these had homemade-sewn covers of different, fading, fabric patters. 

In horror, I watched as she attached each one. Left ankle. Right ankle. Left wrist. Right wrist.

Dear. Lord. What was happening? 

This was it. This was how I was going to die. Electrocuted in an eastern European hospital.

Sweat broke out over my brow as she talked to me. I have no idea what she said. What I do know is that she clicked on the machine next to her, and I thought I was going to meet Jesus. And then my friend, Chris, would find me naked.

The hot air stirred with the whirring of the machine. I felt nothing but the buzz of my own stress, emanating off my body.

The test didn’t last long. My teeth unclenched bit-by-bit as she turned off the device, and released me from the clutches of the clamps. 

I drew in a deep breath, relieved. But as I watched her walk across to exit the room, the next wave of panic hit. She was going to call Chris to enter. “Wait!” I leaned over, grabbed my t-shirt, and frantically shook it at her. “Please! Wait!”

She cracked her first smile of the day, crossed her arms over Chris’ chart, and stopped her motion toward the door.

Scurrying to clothe myself, I took slow, controlled inhales. Once dressed, I scurried out of the room. As I passed Chris, I offered him a frail smile.

This ordeal, an EKG, was the only test that came out abnormal while a patient at that hospital.

Sheepishly, I had to confess to my translator my stress over walking the Green Mile to my death, and being discovered naked. She, in turn, explained to my doctor why and how my heart was not of any true health concern.

My emotional state, however, was a different issue.

A week after returning to the Hungarian dorms of the English camps where I worked, mail started pouring in. Back in Lubbock, Texas, my pastor organized our congregation to write me letters. He mailed them individually over the course of a couple of weeks. I got seven letters the first day. Four the next. And, so on.

Each day, I would open up sentiments from old friends, complete strangers, and precious children. “Deborah, I don’t know you, but I’m praying for you.” “Deborah, take heart, God uses you, even when you’re sick.” My personal favorite, is the crayon-drawn picture of Noah’s Ark, and the precious child-writing. “God does not break his promises.”

Those letters breathed life back into me. Each one gave me a different piece of truth, love, and encouragement. Powerful words I needed to hear gave me the courage to let go of the strain of the hospital, deal with ongoing illness, and move forward.

They were just letters. It only took a few minutes for each one to be written.

The words weren’t earth shattering. The power was in their mere presence.

Someone took a few minutes to put thoughts on paper, and God made them soar straight into my shell-shocked heart.

Who can we write letters to, allowing our meager few minutes of effort to be turned into something significant for someone else?

Are there teachers you can thank for their patience? A pastor who could soar with a few words from you about their service? Retirement community members who feel unseen? Friends who need someone to notice their struggle? What military personnel can you encourage who sacrifice so you can sleep at night and pursue your dreams during the day? Does your spouse need to know you don’t take their efforts for granted? Or maybe your child needs to hear that you think they are amazing. 

We aren’t responsible for the outcome of our words. God gets to show off in that area. But can we be more available to write them?

Notes. Paper. Pen. An envelope and a stamp. Powerful tools in our arsenal. 

I’d love to hear from you. Have you been impacted similarly? Or, is there someone in your life who could use a good note right about now?

(Postscript: I changed the name of the gentleman named “Chris” in this story. Some things are still too embarrassing to discuss.)

A few months ago, my doctor approved me to swim for cardiovascular exercise. Due to a long, ridiculous story about a botched surgery and subsequent injury, three and half years passed before I heard these beautiful words from my physician. As a former athlete and coach, abstaining from physical activity has been less than ideal. To say the least. 

With great excitement, I purchased a very sturdy, black, old lady swim suit. Match that with my attractive purple swim cap and lovely goggles, and I’m quite the catch at my gym. Not just any gym. The muscle-cars-in-the-parking-lot-that-match-the-muscled-bodies-inside gym. For a majority of the members, I’m old enough to be their mother. 

But I don’t care.

Because my heart is pumping. My body is getting pushed to its limit for the first time in years. It. Feels. Good.

But here’s a tidbit about swimming. It’s not about how in shape you are. Don’t get me wrong, I regularly swim with triathletes, and am in awe of their athletic abilities. I worry I’m the subject of their tweets about the-woman-who-has-to-rest-in-between-every-lap. They are 100% in shape. But they also know something I didn’t know before I jumped into the pool. 

You have to focus on your breathing, or you’re going to sink.

Regulating my inhales during a swim is counterintuitive. As my work-out intensifies, I need more oxygen to compensate my hard-working body. But during freestyle, if I hurry my stroke so I can get another breath quickly, I am exerting more energy. This causes me to be out of breath, which is difficult to handle when I’m under water. I can’t rush the movement to intake more air.

I have to remain calm and make deliberate choices about how I breathe.

Do you know what’s so wonderful about having to focus on breathing? I’m unable to think about anything else. My brain can’t spin in the problems of the day. I can’t feel self-conscious about wearing a bathing suit in public. Gone are my thoughts about my never-ending to-do list.

I have to focus on breathing.

My entire attention is absorbed in calmly working my swim. Taking the breaths I need. At the pace required for me. Letting go of everything else.

It’s like that with life, isn’t it? Focus on your breathing, or you’re going to sink. We wear ourselves out. We choose to push just a little more than we’re designed to go. We shove aside our basic needs - breathing - to “do” more. 

What would happen if we stop? Look to The One who created us. The One who filled our lungs to begin with. The One who has the ability to breathe life back into us … if only we would stop and take in His oxygen.

Just like learning to swim a long distance, learning to be still with God takes practice. It’s awkward sometimes. Other days, it’s frustrating. But it gets easier the more I do it. And it’s addicting. 

Because once I take in a calm breath, I only want more.

What about you? How’s your breathing?

White. The most unflattering color on the wheel. The guarantee I will spend part of my monthly budget at the dry cleaners. The one shade that enhances my pale, Norwegian skin in a way that makes me glow. And not in a good way.

But I watch The Women Who Wear White Pants. They don’t seem to care about the social risk. They’re sassy. They’re confident. They’re chichi. And I want to be like them.

So I did it. I wore white pants for the first time in decades. Do you know what I realized? The pants aren’t enchanted. Rather, the magic lies in everything that led up to wearing the white pants.

Because courage breeds courage.

One tiny, terrifying tread creates a kindle of confidence. A scary start builds a spark of strength. A single leap of risk reaps a roaring fire. Each step breeds a blaze of courage that cannot be extinguished.

Everyone who wears white pants has a story.

Mine meanders over the past several years. It involves whispering a desire to a trustworthy friend. Writing three books without telling anyone. A tiny writers conference. A professionally appropriate, but demoralizing critique. Working on the craft. Grinding through constructive criticism. Asking for direction, feedback, and help from those who have gone before me. A delightfully surprising critique. Deciding to reveal my dreams to my family and friends, even if I might fall on my face right in front of them. Putting myself (Lord, help me) on The Social Media. It entails going to a huge writers conference, sitting comfortable in my skin while participating in classes, reading during open mic night, and pitching my book to agents and editors.

And right now, agented and unpublished, it requires waiting for responses from editors, knowing that whatever the answers are, they don’t define who I am. They only determine my next step in the journey. Forward.

Courage breeds courage.

I’m not going to lie. It took a fabulous pair of Spanx, a friend-who-served-as-a-stain-spotter, and a significant amount of bronzer to pull off wearing my white pants. It felt awkward. I was self-conscious. My safe sweatpants called to me. But I did it.

What I want to know is what small steps of courage did The Women Who Wear White Pants take before they had the confidence to dress in the morning? Because everyone has a story.

What’s your story? What led you to today? What small whisper, declaration, or shout of courage do you need to make?

Please. Put on the white pants. Whatever they are to you. Maybe you need to whisper your dream to someone who can help. Or maybe you need to sign up for that class you’ve been wanting to take. What if you created a workspace just for you? What is the next play? Because whatever it is, that “thing” that popped into your head while reading this post, make the first move. It’s not as scary once you try. 

Your courage will breed more courage.

I am jumping up and down, cheering you on.

Love, The Newest Member of the WWWWP Club.