Growing Is Beautiful

When You Need A New Name

2012-02-24T15:08:00.000-08:00

It's weeks before the new year's beginning when I start wondering what I'll name the year that's about to be born.

Out of all the years I've lived, I've only named one--and that year, it named me, too.

I called 2011 by this one name, Faith. And God, He poured out His Grace on a life, filled up every last day of the year with Himself. I might've given thanks for this a thousand times over, but what He gave in return? A new name.

Loved.

And I wonder now if I really named that year at all.

Because maybe this is the truer thing: Maybe He tore the veil and I caught a glimpse of what He'd bring from a year, if only I'd let Him name us both. And so I did.

But it's when I stand on the edge of another year's coming that I tremble with the weight of all this naming. It feels as if a life's emerging and I'm too scared and small and broken to hold it in my hands.

Because I am.

When I write for the last time in 2011, wrestle out one thing He's teaching, I think maybe, just maybe, I've stumbled on the name of 2012: Home. But I pull back before I can say it sure because I only know this--I don't want to choose a name. I want to see this year for what it really is, call it by the name He's already given.

And I'm terrified this blinded soul of mine can't glimpse what He's unveiling.

So the new year's born without a name and the days of January find me digging through the past, doing the one thing I know He's asked: Letting go. And it's harder than I thought to clear away the ruins of a life, make room for what He's going to build. The grief runs high and the strength runs low and it's a day late in January when I'm brought to my knees on that cold basement floor and there's no getting up under the weight of all that loss.

That's when I know it sure.

He's already lifted the veil, shown me the name of this new year and I've just been too scared to take hold. Because maybe I've been afraid of this very thing. Maybe I've been afraid of the cost of the naming.

Because finding my home in Christ, it might mean a thousand things I don't understand. But this one thing I've already figured out and it's ripped me open, laid me low: Settling into this Home He Is means letting go of every piece of home I've ever known.

And who can stand tall and unbroken when everything's been stripped clean away?

I can't and I haven't and, oh, this stripping away hasn't left me feeling free and unburdened the way I once thought it might. Because this soul's been scraped bare and raw, pieces of the past wrenched straight out of the ground.

And who doesn't feel a bit of aching emptiness when there's nothing left of the life that once was?

It's the last week in January when I write this out steady: God is Home because God is Love. Yes, *Love* is our Home.

But it's not until February slips in and I stammer out what I'm learning--that it's not about letting go but about holding on to Him--that's when I see it clear and strong.

I might've named this year Home. But my Home? It's Love. And this Love? It's Him.

This year bears His name, just like all the ones before.

And I don't wonder anymore who's naming who.

He's already named me Loved and I can't imagine anything more beautiful, glorious, and life-giving than that one word. But I remember this promise:

"...'No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him'..." {1 Corinthians 2:9}

And who wants to doubt that what He has in store is better than anything we've known before?

He's named this year Home and there's no telling what He'll name me, too. But I'm letting go and holding on to Him--because it's only Him Who holds us together anyway.

And He really is the only Home we'll ever need.

When It's Time To Hold On

2012-02-10T18:33:00.000-08:00

Sometimes
we don't know
how to hold on.
Soul-storms rage,
long roads stretch endless,
and we let go of
things that used to matter,
even people we once loved,
maybe God, too.

Sometimes
we don't know
how to let go.
Relationships break,
hopes slip away,
whole lives implode,
and we hold on
to all the pieces
with that white-knuckled
grip of fear and
refuse to feel the loss.

Oh, there's beauty in
all of this, all of us,
because there's a time for both--
the holding on
and the letting go.
But we're broken, too,
and our timing--
it's all wrong.

There's only one way
to fill the gaping, aching
emptiness that haunts.
Just this--hold on to Him
and let everything else go.
Then we'll see
what's always been:
It's only Him Who
holds us together
anyway.

How The Winter Can Bloom

2012-02-07T20:49:00.000-08:00

It's just the first weekend in February and I'm on my way to the letting-go place for the fourth time since the new year's begun. My body, it's a little weary from all the labor, and my heart, it's a little broken from all the burying of yesterday's dreams.

But today I've left home early and the sun's breaking out and the sky's just as blue as ever it's been. I can't resist driving a little off course and it's not long before I find my way to the secret place, that forest of beauty where God's never hidden and I'm always at home.

It might be the middle of winter, but who says there can't be beauty here, too? Who says you can't find Him when the days are hard and the tasks are long and the heart's aching from the cold?

But there aren't any words, really, to tell the story of what I find in the secret place. Because who can explain the way God wakes up the world with shafts of light, paints the branches with buds and blooms and life? Who can even speak at all when the breath catches in the chest and there are tears and laughter and oh-so-much joy all at the same time?

So I click the shutter a hundred times over, try to catch glimmers of His reflection. I bend low and I stretch high and I crane the neck every which way I can--because I can't take my eyes off all this, and who really wants to anyway?

It hurts just a bit to tear myself away from here, wander back to the everyday life where things don't make sense and there's no knowing where the road is leading, where He's really taking me. But I'm carrying all these snapshots of Hope and Beauty and Light, and I remind myself again and again that if He can bring all this Glory right from Winter's barren womb--is there any place I won't find Him? Is there any stretch of road, any cracking of heart, any wondering day when He won't be planting and tending and growing that future full of Hope?

There isn't and I know it and I'm leaving the secret place with the one thing I've been thirsting for in all these hard days--a heart full of Hope Himself.

Linking up a day late with Ann @ A Holy Experience

Counting Graces from the last few weeks, still taking the Joy Dare...

1174. Whole list of chores checked off, nothing avoided or saved for later

1175. Three hours of progress in "letting go"

1176. Storage unit a mess but slowly coming together

1177. Knitting mistakes that turns out to be a gift

1178. Everyone noticing that I'm learning a new skill...

1179. ...and encouraging me to keep going

1180. Hours with a friend, hot drink in hand, knitting projects coming along

1181. Plans made for overdue visit with another friend

1182. Brown bag full of happy socks coming home to be loved

1183. Sun making a long appearance after a whole week without

1184. God who listens to prayers when the sleepless hours stretch long

1185. Friend calling me a kindred spirit

1186. Broken amaryllis bud in a vase, still growing

1187. Another friend calling me Gift

1188. Clear skies on a January morning

1189. Steam rising off frozen rooftops

1190. Casting off at last -- half of first knitting project finished

1191. Unpacking boxes of grandmother's glassware, mom recounting stories from the past

1192. Choosing pieces of history to carry into my future

1193. Sun on my face in the middle of winter

1194. Two cats sound asleep in the warm light

1195. Long overdue catch-up session with a dear friend

1196. Handing over the gift made with hands and hours and love

1197. Color of the gift suited perfectly for the one who now wears it

1198. Unexpected good news

1199. Strength to press on in the long, hard task of letting go

1200. God near when the grief brings me to my knees again

1201. Him picking me up and breathing courage when I just want to turn and run

1202. A few forgotten treasures found among the ruins of an old life

1203. Eight gees flying in formation over the freeway

1204. Friend who says Yes to something out of the routine

1205. Smelling endless jars of tea, choosing an armload to bring home

1206. Long walk by the river with a dear companion

1207. Days of angst loosening their grip a bit

1208. God who loves enough to break us

1209. First morning light dappling the housetops

1210. Salve to mend the cracked hands

1211. Happy scent of lavender, rosemary, and eucalyptus

1212. Amaryllis still growing in a vase, petals popping open one by one

1213. Sunlight silhouetting blooms against purple curtain

1214. Navy-blue horizon at day's end

1215. February days of sun

1216. Long-feared task tackled and finished at long last

1217. Strength for letting go--can there be enough "thank you's" for this one thing?

1218. First morning light landing on the Hope Bird

1219. Cat who purrs at the sound of my voice

1220. Twenty seagulls lined up on the grocery store roof

1221. Me sitting in the car laughing as I count all those birds

1222. Two trips to the arboretum in one weekend

1223. February days feeling strangely like spring

1224. Breathing in the scent of witch hazel, daphne, wintersweet, jasmine...

1225. Chasing sun all over a forest

1226. Bending low, stretching high, craning my neck to frame glimpses of His beauty

1227. The way I'm laughing and crying all at the same time because He's near and He's beautiful and I can hardly breathe it all in

1228. Filling up every last page of the very first gratitude journal

1229. Choosing a new book to hold the pieces of His love

1230. Knowing there'll never be enough pages to write down all the Grace

If You're Feeling Broken

2012-02-01T17:02:00.000-08:00

It's when the darkness slips in and I make my way to the window, reach up to pull the shades on another day that's almost gone. That's when I find one stalk of the amaryllis plant bent low, leaning all the way over.

I don't know what's happened here and I don't know if there's any fixing what's been broken. But I gently lift the stem with trembling hands, hold my breath to see if the bending can be undone. And the smallest of sounds, that tiny cracking, ripping, snapping--it echos loud and I cringe, this piece of green clutched in my hand, its lifeblood pouring right out.

I can almost feel the dying.

It's just one stalk of blooms from a plant that's been faithful to show its joy colors year after year. But lately there've been too many days of upheaval and I'm clinging to every little piece of beauty, hope, Him wherever I can find them. And this one piece, it's dying right here in my hand, and me, I'm a little beside myself with the loss.

So I lay that stem on the nearest table and I rummage through cupboards to find something, anything that might stop the dying. I pull out the smallest vase I find, but it's still too big and it's still all wrong. The hearts around the edge seem garish, trite, oblivious to the broken beauty that's been laid up against them.

But I watch that stem in a vase for days and the cut bleeds red and I don't know what it all means, only this--there's life after the breaking.

The unborn buds, they still grow, even when everything that's anchored them has been torn clean away. And that circle of hearts, I see it now for what it really is--Love encircling when we've been broken straight through and the whole world's counted us out, left us to bleed. Yes, that's exactly when He comes, this Love Who Is, and He wraps His presence all around and He plunges us deep in the Water Who Lives.

And, oh, we still bleed and we still ache and we still wonder how we can open hands, heart, whole lives to any more of these days. But God, He holds us through it all, lets Love trickle up through the veins until we can't help but heal, hope again, live.

Those amaryllis blooms still growing in their pot, they loom large and loud. But it's these small, pale buds opening from nothing but water and glass--they're the ones I can't take my eyes off. Because who's mesmerized by the unbroken whole when He's here doing the impossible, sustaining what's been sheared right off, turning all the bleeding into a river of life?

And this is what He whispers through this one stalk of blooms--sometimes losing everything means gaining what matters most.

I need to hear this again and again because God's digging deep, stretching me out, and some days it feels as if I'm being sheared right off from everything that came before. And maybe I am and maybe it's hurting more than I thought it would and maybe I wonder why He asks so much of a woman who feels so small.

But I'm breathing slow and steady through the growing, birthing pains and I'm tracing my hand across that string of hearts, believing this one thing: God is Love and I am loved and this is enough to sustain a life through every last day, every last stripping away.

Because I've already written it here, those words of the Apostle Paul, that when we've got nothing at all to our names but His Love, we have everything. Maybe He's teaching me this in ways I didn't expect, ways I never wanted to learn, but it's only this that matters--His Love encircling, flooding right over, invading every corner until I can't help but heal, hope again, live.

And this I'm learning through the hard days of living--Love really is the only home we'll ever need.

How Love Can Be The Only Home You'll Ever Need

2012-01-25T17:21:00.000-08:00

It's the morning after I write about Home and my body, it's fighting off sleep, trying to open eyes to a new day. That's when the music on the bedside table makes its way right into my dreams and suddenly I'm wide awake.

Because who wants to keep dreaming when God's got something to say?

...I'm lost and found
I'm saved and drowned
I'm everything and nothing all at once

I'm so far gone
but I'm already home
With everything and nothing but Your love...

~Matt Maher, "Everything and Nothing"

The new year, it's days away from beginning when I hear these words, but God, He's not waiting another minute to pour out Himself on this woman who's yearning to find her Home in Him. And maybe there are still a thousand things I don't understand about the One Who is Home, but maybe He's already ripped the veil over the only one that really matters.

God is Home because God is Love. Yes, Love is our Home.

And I wonder how it is that all these years I've read words so familiar and yet never known what they meant. Because the Apostle Paul writes it over and over that without Love, we are nothing, we have nothing, we gain nothing.

Why did I not see it before that what he's really saying is this--with Love, we are everything, we have everything, we gain everything?

When we've got nothing at all to our names but His Love, we have everything.

And this is the moment when the mystery takes on skin and I know why I've been longing, aching, straining for Home. Because it's only been six months since I first laid the full weight of who I am against the full measure of His Love and found the one piece I'd been missing for a whole life.

The truth that I am loved. A thousand times over. By the One Who spoke me into being, the One Who is Love.

And this truth, it's already changed me inside and out, turned me into a woman I barely recognize. But He's still shaping me into His Glory and I'm still learning how to live loved. Because I spent 29-1/2 years not knowing the Love He's always carried me in and I can't even write those words without the ache raging wild for the girl I was before I knew. And these six months, they've been a different life than the one that came before, but I wonder if it takes every last one of these days we're given to fully settle into Him, settle into who we're meant to be, settle into being loved.

But maybe the settling begins right here with this one thing: God is Love and Love is Home.

Love is the roof that shelters us in every storm. Love is the walls that surround us when we feel utterly alone. Love is the light burning in the window when we need to find our way back in the dark. Love is the hearth fire thawing out our resistance, our cold-as-ice days, our fear-frozen hearts. Love is the dinner table laden with food, filling our starving souls with the only Bread Who Lives.

And the most beautiful, glorious, life-giving truth of all? Love is the Beloved Himself, tending to our wounded lives and our broken spirits, whispering comfort, courage, hope in our ears at every turn, inhabiting every last corner of this House of His Love.

Yes, Love is Home. And in this Love we're in, we are always, always at Home.

I might've spent long years yearning for a tangible place to call home, but who wants what can only be lost when there's a Home that can never be taken?

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

~Romans 8:38-39

And maybe I'll spend the whole rest of a life settling into this Home He's given--this Home He is--but maybe this life begins with just two words. The two words God's been waiting to speak over me since that day I found His Love.

Welcome Home.

When It's Time To Plant Hope

2012-01-22T23:00:00.000-08:00

It's the middle of January when I write about the Joy Harvest and I wonder if anyone really understands what I'm trying to say. Because who harvests anything at all when the ground is frozen right through and the wind whips harsh and unyielding?

But it's the day when snowflakes start falling that I glance up to see the first amaryllis bud breaking wide open, spilling joy into a day that's cold as ice. And I wonder how it is that blooms the color of Summer can emerge right here in the middle of Winter.

And these words, they dance at the edges of my thoughts, make it clear that God's not bound by any conventions of mine or yours or anyone at all.

So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow {Colossians 3:6}

I'm starting to see that a new year's born right in the center of the coldest, darkest days and we might think there's no reason to harvest or plant until the winter months are over. But what if He's calling us to believe, to make a new start here, now, when light's still a long way off?

I hear the groaning as the year enters in, people everywhere fighting against the frenzy of resolutions. Because who can bear to add even one more thing to a list already burdened with responsibilities, expectations, failures?

And I feel it, too, the weight of all that needs doing and learning and being. But it's after I've harvested the joy from a year that's gone that I realize there's more to a new year's beginning than just adding more things to the unending list.

Because maybe every year needs a whole crop of Hope planted deep into its soil, dug into the frozen ground when Winter's still strong and we're still floundering a bit to find our way in the dark. And maybe we need to be reminded that it's not us who'll turn the new year into something beautiful and full of God. No, it's only Him. The One Who takes all our Hopes, breathes life right into them, and grows a life, a faith, a steadfast love straight from the cold, dark earth.

Maybe we'll plant Hope Seeds and they'll turn out to be something wholly other than what we expected. Maybe we'll plant Hope Seeds and find they'll take a lifetime to sprout, grow, flourish. Maybe we'll plant Hope Seeds and realize they're not really what we were hoping for at all.

But see, that's the thing. There's no need to worry that we're planting the wrong seeds because it's only God Who makes them grow, only God who makes all things beautiful when the time is right {Ecclesiastes 3:11}.

And maybe it seems downright foolish to plant Hope when there's no knowing what a year will bring, even what tomorrow will bring. But who wants to live the new year without Hope, without the expectant waiting for what God's going to bring right from the ground?

No year's hopeless unless we choose it to be--and even then, He slips in quiet while we're lost in the dark, plants His Hope where we think there'll never be life again. And, oh, I've had those years, too. The ones where I'm too broken to plant anything at all, too scared to believe there's any Hope to be had.

But this isn't one of those years and, oh, how grateful I am to stand here at the start of a new year with hands full of Hope ready to be set in the soil.

Today the wind rushes hard and the cold bites deep and the weeks of Winter stretch long into the distance. But me, I'm gathering up seeds, pondering all the hopes for a brand new year.

Maybe I don't yet know all the Hopes I'm going to plant, but there's this one that's already been laid right down in the ground. I'm taking the dare to count 1000 more gifts in 2012. Because the counting of His Grace, the counting of Him, it's already changed the woman I am becoming, changed everything. Who wants to hold back from letting Him do it all again?

I don't and I won't and, oh, will you join me?

Counting Graces from the past few weeks...

1119. Full day of work after all the holiday slow days

1120. Little blue bird perched in a friend's home, a symbol of hope

1121. Amaryllis buds growing tall in January

1122. Unexpected post-Christmas gift of tea

1123. Dutch apple cheese muffins for breakfast

1124. New calendars arriving in the mail - new year finally seeming real

1125. Pictures of children I love from afar coming in the mail

1126. Thank you notes all filled out and ready to whisper blessings

1127. Reminder to do a long-forgotten task before it's too late

1128. Money to pay unexpected bills--always, always this

1129. Late-night reading of Anne of Green Gables

1130. Always going to sleep with a bit of laughter in my heart

1131. Cat racing wild as the household goes to sleep

1132. "Talking tea" over email with a friend

1133. Friend who counts it a privilege to advise on hard questions

1134. Wise words to make hard decisions easier

1135. God who's near when the answers aren't

1136. Baby amaryllis plants poking buds above the soil at long last

1137. First steps towards making peace with the past I've stored in boxes

1138. Dear friend by my side all afternoon

1139. Rows and rows of stitches finally nearing completion

1140. Eager anticipation of giving the handmade gift to a friend

1141. Cat who sleeps on the desktop while I work, just wanting to be near me

1142. Candles burning on cold January days

1143. Flock of birds flying straight across this road I'm on

1144. Glancing at the sky just in time to see them fly by

1145. Winter sunrise over frosted rooftops

1146. Amaryllis buds breaking open while the snow falls

1147. Last stitches in place, gift of beauty finally done

1148. Pumpkin cheesecake baking in the oven on a Saturday afternoon

1149. Courage to try a new skill in the late hours of night

1150. Cat nestling in for bed while I struggle to "cast on"

1151. God waking me early to see fresh snowfall

1152. Road covered in white, unmarred by travelers

1153. Standing at the window in PJs and bare feet, watching snowflakes lit up by street lamps

1154. Going to bed frustrated by the learning curve, waking up ready to try again

1155. Snow falling down all day long

1156. Trip to the yarn store on a snowy day

1157. Hands that can't wait to begin a new project

1158. Snow boots with fuzzy fur tops

1159. Snow flurries against the windshield, roads clear enough to drive

1160. Meeting up with a friend, bag of new projects in hand

1161. Telling stories from the week, laughing so hard the tears run free

1162. Friend who advises on the things I'm still learning

1163. Birds playing in the gutter while new snow falls

1164. Mastering the purl stitch at last

1165. Finally believing I might become a knitter yet

1166. Resigning myself to no more snow, then waking up to the world all white again

1167. Amaryllis blooms the color of summer, open wide right in the middle of winter

1168. World quiet under it's frozen blanket

1169. Dad helping in the kitchen because I'm tired and there are things that need doing

1170. Chai topped with marshmallows to end the day

1171. Standing at the window before bed, trying to memorize the winter's beauty

1172. One lone gull flying overhead while the freezing rain falls.

1173. First Hope Seed of the new year planted deep, Joy Dare undertaken.

When It's Time To Harvest The Past

2012-01-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

It's the last day of 2011 when I start yearning for time to slow down. The hours are slipping away and all I want is to grab hold of this year and keep it here for just one more day.

Because these last twelve months, they've held things too beautiful and glorious for words--they've held God in ways I never saw coming, ways that changed who I am and the woman I am becoming.

And who wants to bid farewell to a year that's held more God than all the ones before?

I remember that very first day of 2011 when I pressed my face against the glass and heard Him whisper what the new year would hold.

But how could I have known what it would really mean for a year to be full of Him?

I was starving for Him and I knew He'd come and I knew He'd fill and, oh, I knew it would be beautiful. But I'm standing here a year later and there aren't any words to write the story of what He's done.

And I tell myself if I just had more time, if I just had one more day, maybe I could find a way to say what needs saying.

But there's no holding onto the hours and as midnight creeps nearer, I do the only thing I know. I whisper deep thanks for a year I'll never forget and I let the tears fall free because this heart's too full of Hope and Healing and Him to keep it all inside. And with just three-quarters of an hour left in the year that's changed everything, I turn out the light and let Him put me to sleep with just this truth.

There's no end to Me. This brand new year? It can be full of Me, too. I'm always waiting, willing, longing to fill up every last one of your days. Will you let Me?

And He knows I will because there's no going back after what I've seen.

But I wake up in the new year and it feels all wrong and I just want to crawl back under the covers and find the old year still here. Because sometimes fresh starts feel empty and unfamiliar and it's hard to believe anything can ever be as full of Him as all the months that came before.

And I might've thought I was ready to begin again, plant hopes for the new year, dream of all the ways God can fill up a life. But the days of January start slipping right past and I can't seem to find the strength to move forward.

Until that day when I read it in the unlikeliest of places, how a woman writes a list every January and calls it Celebration. Because who wants to let the old year go before we've harvested all the Joy straight out of ground?

And maybe there aren't any words to really tell the story of what He's done, but I know it now that I can't plant hopes in the new year until I've combed the soil with my bare hands, pulled up all the Beauty and Glory and God that He's grown these past months, and counted all the Joy.

So I pick up a pen and I start my own Celebration. I write down small things and silly things and things that don't mean anything at all to anyone but me. And I place them right up next to the kinds of things that change a life, change a woman, maybe change the world. Because who can resist harvesting all His joy from every last row of a year?

beginning the long road of treatment...
writing myself into words...
hosting my very first tea party...
celebrating two years of blogging...
an afternoon in the arboretum more full of Him than ever before...
The Hope Blanket finished at long last...
a book read from cover to cover (Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts)...
a trip to the lake house with mother, grandmother, cousin...
Him being The Glory and The Grace...
Him being The Fountain of Every Blessing...
blankets made for a son and his brother...
stories from the past spilling out unexpectedly...
finally knowing the damage done by the long-held fear of being a burden to others...
and choosing to believe that maybe I'm not a burden after all...
1000 gifts given, counted, lived...
Ann Voskamp reading my story, calling it beautiful and a reflection of Christ...
now finally, after all these years, believing without a doubt that I am loved by God...
waiting an hour and thirty-seven minutes for God to birth a new day...
celebrating two years of Grace Days since God delivered me from Shame...
turning photographs into 10 feet of beauty, everyone seeing Him right there on the wall...
cutting off my hair, no longer afraid to be who I am...
recording a video to say "hello! this is me!"...
seeing how His Love is changing who I am...
learning how to give thanks when a life's been buried...
Him whispering "it's time to let go..."
beginning a slow climb through the Psalms of Ascent, finding Him at every turn...
choosing to rejoice when home feels a long way off...
bringing order to the chaos, a year-long project in the making...
celebrating my 30th birthday...
seeing Him all year long in the beauty that surrounds...
baking more in a year than I've baked in the lifetime before...
tiny steps toward recovery for a body in need of healing...
strangers who read my words, enter straight into my story, and become true friends...
writing 30 more blogs posts than the year before--nearly a 50% increase...
discovering a tiny corner of this truth--that God is Home and in Him I am always, always at home...

My Joy Harvest here, it's imperfect, broken. I am, too. But God, He's not. Not imperfect. Not broken. Not like me.

And my heart, it might ache a bit with all the things I can't express, but mostly it just aches with Him. He's stretched me wide, filled me to the brim with Himself. And all I want? To be filled again and always and only with Him.

I might long for words to hold every drop of Him that's poured straight down on me all these months of a life. But God, He's only asked this one thing--to be the open hands, heart, life that He can flood right into. And who could ever contain Him in words anyway? Who would ever want to contain Him at all?

So I'm tilling up the soil of a year that's gone and I'm giving thanks for all the Joy and the Grace and the Beautiful God that's sprung right from the ground. I'm making room for the new year's Hope Seeds to be sewn deep into a life.

And my face, it's pressed up against the glass of all the tomorrows, and God, He's whispering the one thing I want most for this brand new year.

This year will be full of Me, too.

If You're Looking For A Home

2011-12-28T20:50:00.000-08:00

It's the first week of December when I write about the call to Joy in the middle of all the unknowns. But it's really the title phrase that catches me when I'm finished, reminds me of something I wrote just a few months back.

It was October when I wrote that it was time to let go.

And it's December when I write that it's time to rejoice.

I'm foolish enough to think it's only the titles that echo each other, because sometimes I'm just as blind as ever to the God who's always weaving the days together, telling a story I don't quite understand.

But God, He's not phased by this woman's scaled eyes and He lets the Truth Whisper slip down into the soul, rustle through thoughts until I can't help but recognize what's been there all along.

It was October when I wrote about letting go of what's been lost--the home that once was and will never be again, the life once lived that's fallen clean apart. And it's December when I write about choosing joy in the "in between"--after it's all been torn down and we're still waiting here in the wreckage for what He's going to build.

And when I write about the "in between," I scratch it down boldly that God is Joy and God is Love--but somehow I stop short of the one thing I'm not yet ready to believe.

But God, He doesn't give up and He takes me to a place that seems unrelated, draws me back to my musings on the Psalms of Ascent. And I pick up where I left off, read through that third song on this long road:

Psalm 122

I rejoiced with those who said to me,
'Let us go to the house of the LORD.'
Our feet are standing
in your gates, O Jerusalem.

Jerusalem is built like a city
that is closely compacted together.
That is where the tribes go up,
the tribes of the LORD,
to praise the name of the LORD
according to the statute given to Israel.
There the thrones for judgment stand,
the thrones of the house of David.

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem:
'May those who love you be secure.
May there be peace within your walls
and security within your citadels.'
For the sake of my brothers and friends,
I will say, 'Peace be within you.'
For the sake of the house of the LORD our God,
I will seek your prosperity.

But I don't understand where this road's going. The one who's been on the journey before, she writes this: "The first Psalm of Ascent {Ps 120} seemed to position the pilgrim in an alien land. Psalm 121 {the second Psalm of Ascent} pictured the pilgrim on his journey, gazing at the hills before him, enduring harsh elements, and dreading the dark of night. In the third psalm {Ps 122} he stands with weary feet and a glad heart on the soil of his destination." {Beth Moore, Stepping Up}

And this is why I can't grab hold of what God's trying to say. The psalmist has reached his destination. And me? I'm still wandering about in the wilderness, unsure if I'm even heading in the right direction.

But I turn to a secondary passage and it's there that I'm undone.

Therefore, remember that formerly you who are Gentiles by birth...were separate from Christ, excluded from citizenship in Israel and foreigners to the covenants of the promise, without hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus, you who once were far away have been brought near through the blood of Christ.... Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God's people and members of God's household, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit. {Ephesians 2:11-22}

And finally it's plain as day the one thing I can't--won't?--declare to the world when I write down words about rejoicing in the "in between." I say that God is Joy and God is Love, but I pull back before I can say this, too:

God is Home.

For two and a half years, I've lived in places I don't call home, and for every last one of those months, there's been an empty aching way down deep. Because I desperately want a place to belong, a place to root right into, a place to call home. And all this time, I thought this longing of mine would find rest when the ruins of a life had been healed, built up--when I'd been settled into a home again at long last.

But it's this truth in Ephesians that shakes me out of my assumptions, reaches into the marrow of a life and turns it upside down. I'm no longer an outsider, a lost pilgrim in a foreign land. I'm a member of God's household--I *belong* in God's family. And Christ, He's building me into a House of God.

God is Home. And in Him, I am always--always--at home.

And this longing that burns and writhes within? It's for Him. I'm longing to find my home in Him.

It's been 12 long months since I named this year Faith, and God, He's poured down a fountain of Grace I couldn't contain. And all that Grace? It's led me straight to the Love I've been shutting out my whole life. As these last days of December slip away, I'm hearing His gentle whispers of what the new year might hold. And maybe I don't yet have a name for the year that's coming, but I know there's at least one thing He's asked--to make myself at home in Him.

Maybe I don't know the how and the what and the when of it all, but I've no doubt that He'll teach and stretch and pull me wide open along the way. And, oh, what sweet hope there is in knowing that He's Home and I'm already in Him--now I've only to figure out how to really live here.

It might take a whole life to learn this one thing. But isn't now the best time of all to begin? It is and I will and, oh, I can hardly wait for the new year to unfold.

When Christmas Is In Full Bloom

2011-12-25T17:20:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas Day here and it's been a full weekend of baking and cooking, giving and laughing, eating and celebrating. And there might not be any strength left for finding words, but on this Day of Hope I can't help but slip in to whisper "Merry Christmas" to each and every one of you.

Some of you are the dear real-life friends who've walked a bit of hard road with me. Some of you are the family who've known me through all the years of growing and struggling and becoming. Some of you are readers who've stepped out of the shadows to speak into my story and now I've nothing but joy in calling you Friends.

And, yes, there are still more of you who've been faithful visitors here at Growing Is Beautiful but you're still slipping in quietly, not yet ready to make your presence known. You may not understand this--but I'm grateful for you, too. If we never meet or even exchange words of Hope and Love and Wisdom, I still count you as Gift. I still count you as Grace, pouring down from the One Who Loves. And, oh, does He love well!

Wherever you are on this Christmas Day, may you feel Him near and know without one shadow of doubt that you are loved, that your life matters, that you--yes, you--are His gift to a hurting, Christ-starved world.

Even in the dead of Winter, when all seems lost and we wonder if there'll ever be light again--even then, He is here and alive and oh-so-full of Grace. He came to us once, a babe in a stable, and He's promised to come to us again, gather us in His arms, take us to the only Home we'll ever need.

But what really matters most of all? He's here with us now.

Yes. Emmanuel.

God is with us.

May you know it today more than you've ever known it in all the years before.

Merry Christmas, Dearest Friends!

{Photographs taken at Molbak's earlier this week, where Christmas was in full bloom and I couldn't take my eyes off all the beauty}

How To Find Order In The Chaos

2011-12-21T19:07:00.000-08:00

It's in the middle of all the quiet days when I turn my attention to a task that's sat unfinished for nearly a year.

It started last fall, when life was changing, trying to re-balance itself under the weight of all that Hope. And I couldn't keep my hands off the clutter around me because who can resist bringing order to the chaos when God's gifted a future no one ever saw coming?

So I recorded all the mess in pictures that held a thousand words, told the story of the path I'd walked in the months before a diagnosis. And then I set to work, carved out a place for my new life--a place to breathe and rest and find a way to really live.

And I took pictures then, too, of all the progress made, and I really did make progress. But there was one corner of space that seemed too big to handle and I might've tried my best and I might've even made it halfway up the mountain.

But that's where I stopped and that's where it stayed and that's where it's been for nearly a year.

And then the days of silence come and I can't make sense of all the chaos of a soul and all I want is to fix something, anything--bring order to what I can touch with my own two hands. And this time I won't give up until it's finished.

It isn't easy and it isn't fast, but after weeks of work, I stand back and I know I've done what I needed. Because somehow, what once held all those symbols of a broken, weighed down, jumbled mess of a life--it stands there now with space and beauty and peace.

Before:

After:

And I wrestle for weeks about the importance of these pictures--whether anyone really needs to see the inner workings of a daily life. But I start to think maybe I'm not the only one who's feeling the chaos of a soul and longing for a way to find a little peace.

God, He's the only One who works out all the mess of a life, breaths order back into the places of a soul turned inside out by change and struggle and the everyday journey. But sometimes we just need to give Him room to work, clear out a bit of chaos in the tangible corners of our lives, give ourselves an object lesson in the process of restoration.

So there's nothing earth shattering here, but I'll gladly share the little steps it took to climb this mountain of mine--and maybe, just maybe, they'll whisper Hope to a few hearts working through some chaos of their own?

_____________________________________________________________________

First I ask for help (something I'm still learning how to do) and it's only an afternoon later when a carpentry-savvy father finishes putting in shelves to make better use of the space on the left side of my desk. Now it holds all the brightly-colored books I need for work, a white wooden box to corral miscellaneous cords and connections, and one over-sized plastic drawer unit for reams of paper, folders and large mailing envelopes.

On the right side of my desk, I use an adhesive-backed hook to mount the wall calendar to the white board I never use. Then I find an incline sorter at a secondhand shop and fill it with brightly colored folders to keep open projects and paperwork close at hand. A small metal desk organizer houses the office supplies I need often and keeps them neatly ready for use. (And the little cat and dog? They are squishy tools for hand exercises and stress relief. They keep me sane while I work.)

And that center shelf that's always collected paper and junk and who-knows-what-else? I fill it with three plastic drawer units, carefully labeled and holding everything from stationery and paperclips to software and blank discs.

Then I find a pack of cardboard storage boxes on sale for half price and choose a roll of contact paper from the kitchen aisle. It might be a few hours of painstaking work, but I turn those plain and empty boxes into beauty-covered homes for all the files my drawers won't hold--and at the cost of only a few dollars per box. They line the top tier of my desk, and I smile every time I look up and find them there.

I've got more music CDs than I can count, so I purchase empty sheets to hold them, find three-ring binders at the secondhand shop, and now they're all happily ordered and labeled. Two clearance CD racks make homes for the new music I've yet to listen to, load onto the computer, and burn backup discs for the car.

And then I turn my attention to the back of this enormous desk, try to wrangle three sets of cords into some semblance of peace. But even then, I'm left longing for beauty, so I use sticky-backed Velcro and a flat twin sheet and cover up all the things that aren't supposed to be seen anyway.

____________________________________________________________________

When I've finally made order out of all the mess, I realize what I've really done is this: Given the soul a bit of time and space to breathe and ponder and find its way back to the One Who is Peace. And when I wonder how there'll ever be a day without the soul in upheaval, I stare long at this desk that's been torn apart and remade into something beautiful and I remember that the One Who turns the ashes into beauty has never seen a mountain He couldn't climb, a life He couldn't rescue, a soul He couldn't make into a Home.

So if your feeling a bit lost inside? Wondering how to find Peace? Maybe turn your hands to a little corner of the tangible world and practice what He's already doing in the soul corners you can't reach. And just maybe you'll discover you've made room to breathe and ponder and find your way back to Peace Himself.

Grace to you, Dear Friends, in whatever state of chaos you may find yourself. May you know He's near and active no matter the depth of your mess.

When You're Looking to Bake a Batch of Joy

2011-12-18T15:58:00.000-08:00

Just slipping in here today to share a few recipes that have brightened up my holiday celebrations this year. Perhaps they might bring a bit of joy to your days as well?

Wherever you are and in whatever ways you are marking the birth of Grace Himself, may you find Him near and feel His Joy way down deep in every last corner of your heart.

Grace to each of you, Dear Friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cranberry Cream Cheese Muffins

(Printable Version)

Prep Time: 15 minutes
Bake Time: 20-25 minutes

Ingredients:
1 cup butter, softened
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
1-1/2 cups sugar
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
4 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
2 cups fresh or frozen (unthawed) cranberries
½ cup chopped pecans

Directions:

In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter, cream cheese, sugar, and vanilla. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.
Combine the flour, baking powder and salt; stir into creamed mixture just until moistened.
Fold in cranberries and pecans.
Fill greased or paper-lined muffin cups three-fourths full. Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. Muffins will not brown, so use the toothpick as your guide.
Cool for 5 minutes before removing from pans and transferring to wire racks.

Yield: 24 muffins

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Cranberry Almond Coffee Cake

(Printable Version)

Prep Time: 20 minutes
Bake Time: 45-55 minutes

Ingredients:
½ cup almond paste
6 tablespoons butter, softened
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided
3 eggs
1 cup plus ⅓ cup all-purpose flour, divided
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon almond extract
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2-1/4 cups fresh or frozen (unthawed) cranberries

Directions:

In a small mixing bowl, cream together almond paste, butter, and ½ cup sugar until fluffy. Add 2 eggs, beating well after each addition.
Combine 1 cup flour and baking powder; add to creamed mixture.
Beat in the remaining egg and ⅓ cup flour.
Stir in extracts and gently fold in cranberries.
Spread batter evenly into a greased 8-inch square baking dish and sprinkle with remaining 2 tablespoons sugar.
Bake at 325 degrees for 45-55 minutes or until toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean. Cool on wire rack.

Note: I threw in the whole bag of cranberries (about 3 cups), which is why the above photo is quite loaded with berries. This made the cake a bit on the tart side (perfect with a dollop of ice cream!), so I'd probably stick with the amount called for in the recipe next time.

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Candy Cane Kisses Cookies

I posted the recipe for these fun treats last Christmas, but I just baked up a batch for a Christmas party and was reminded of just how much I love them. You can find this recipe by clicking here--updated with fresh photos and a link to the printable version of the recipe.

Now go bake up a batch of joy!

When You Want To See Him All Year Long

2011-12-14T21:05:00.000-08:00

**Giveaway Update**

Many thanks to all who commented here, on Facebook, and via email! The three random winners from the drawing are "Tinuviel," "Dustin and Shannon," and "Nellie S." Congratulations!! Send your mailing address to Courtney {at} Growing Is Beautiful {dot} com and I will get your calendar in the mail right after Christmas.

And if you didn't win this time around? I hope you'll still count us friends and keep your eyes wide open to the God who's ever near and ever full of Grace. May the year ahead be more full of Him than any you've known before.

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There's no denying that there's more of God than we can wrap ourselves around. But all of us, we've been given eyes to see Him if we'll only choose to open them wide, let Him blind us with Beauty and Glory and God in even the most ordinary of days.

There are a million places to see Him, find Him, know He's near--and we've each been given our own unique eyes through which to seek His face. No, we'll never see Him fully until that day we're finally Home and Whole and on our faces at His feet--but what if we all shared what we've seen, let everyone else peer through the eyes we've been given?

Wouldn't it fill the whole world with the One Who can deliver us all?

God, He's not been hard to find these last months of a life. I've seen Him in hard days and dark nights, in the wounding and the wondering. But I've seen Him, too, in the healing and the mending, in the Love and the Grace and the Hope that just won't quit. Yes, He's been near and strong and oh-so-glorious every month, every day, every hour of this year.

But these eyes He's given me? There's one place I see Him that pours Joy straight into the marrow. And I capture tiny pieces of His Glory with the eyes of a camera and all I want is to turn around and show the whole world--Look! Do you see Him? Isn't He the most beautiful, glorious, life-giving One you've ever seen?

Oh, won't you let me show you what I see?

I stand in the cold sun of a January day, stare long at branches stripped of green and find God right there at the center of it all--the dogwood's branches bathed in light and life, God guarding Hope in the sacred depths of Winter's silence.

I wander through a grove of witch hazel trees on a February afternoon, blooms dripping straight from the barren places, and God whispers this truth--that sometimes the Beauty and the Glory and the God are found precisely because frozen winds sweep everything else away.

Then March dawns with rain and storm but a promise of Spring--and I kneel on the wet ground to see crocuses heralding the earth's rebirth, mouths opened wide to praise the One Who holds us all together.

April finally comes and I'm stopped short in the middle of the path, one branch of a cherry tree swooping down to meet me where I am, this one cluster of blooms filling me with longing for the face of the One I love--the One Who always meets me where I am.

And it's the month of May that finds me soaking in the warmth of the late Spring sun and I'm circling all the magnolia trees at least a dozen times because I can't get enough of beauty bursting out of cocoons, God delivering life from all these tiny wombs.

I'm lost in the maze of an arboretum one morning in June when I find all these hydrangea blooms darting in and out of the shadows, echoing His whisper, "Come and find Me." So I seek and I find and I can't stop clicking the shutter because I don't want to forget the sound of His calling.

Then July comes rushing in with a welcome breath of warmth and I'm up before dawn to catch all the roses opening up to the day's first light. Now I'm face to face with God awakening the whole garden with His Light and I can hardly bear to go back home.

It's August when I meander through rows of dahlias and I've a whole camera full of their beauty--but it's the one stem I bring home and settle in a glass that captures me most. I snap a photo right there in the kitchen window and I'm beside myself with gratitude for a God so near in my tiny corner of the great big world.

Autumn's arrival isn't yet here, but September enters and the dogwood leaves start whispering of what's to come, bright green changing unexpectedly to glorious pink. And who wants to dread the end of summer when God's busy painting the earth into a masterpiece?

It's October when I hear the Koto No Ito leaves playing the lilting song of Hope--because they've always known what I've only just learned through all the years of grieving: Hope means laying it all down in the dark and waiting patiently, expectantly for the One Who Redeems to come and build the ashes into beauty.

Then November finds me traipsing through dead grass that's taller than me, braving spider webs bigger than any I've seen. Because I've caught a glimpse of God across this field and I won't stop until I'm close enough to touch the Nyssa sylvatica trees all in a row, their leaves burnt orange with every last drop of Autumn's sun.

And maybe December slips in quietly while the earth marches right to Winter's edge--but my eyes are fixed on Him and I'm peering in the shadows, bending right down to the ground until I see the way He's studded even the tiniest of leaves with Winter's finest gems.

Yes, there's more God in this world than I'll ever see with my own eyes--but what I've already seen? It's enough to fill every last one of my days with Beauty and Glory and Him.

~~~~~~~

Tomorrow, that fifteenth day of December, will mark my 30th birthday. And what better way to celebrate the beginning of a new decade of life than by giving away tiny pieces of the God Who's enough to satisfy us all?

I've taken these twelve photographs here and turned them into a calendar--designed and printed through Shutterfly--and I have three copies I'd love to give away, share my eyes for a bit and remind you to look for Him all year long. If you wouldn't mind leaving a comment and letting me see through your eyes, too? Tell me a place or a piece of this life where you see God most?

**Entries will be accepted until midnight Pacific time, December 21, 2011.**

**Three winners will be randomly selected after that date.**

~~~~~~~

When It's Time To Rejoice

2011-12-07T15:25:00.001-08:00

My mama, she labors off and on for three years to make something beautiful for me, her one daughter. She chooses colors no one would expect but she picks them out because it's me she's choosing to celebrate.

And maybe these colors don't whisper Christmas to anyone but me, but Christmas, it's always meant Joy to me--and who can resist celebrating the birth of Grace Himself with colors that seem to shout, "Rejoice!"?

For long months my mama works, cutting strips and sewing seams, then ripping them all out again. She wants everything to be perfect and she's determined to do it as many times as it takes--but all of us, we start to wonder if there'll ever be an end.

She covers the back in the deepest shade of purple because it's the color I've loved the longest, and she spends months figuring out how to surround the edges in snowy white because it's what I've dreamed of and she's not giving up until she's found a way.

And the very last part? All these tiny stitches quilting everything together? She finds the idea in the middle of the night and it means ripping out more stitches than ever before but she presses on and believes that somehow it will all be worth it.

She finishes five weeks before the third Christmas since she began, and when I lay it out on the floor, I see her love there in every little detail.

And maybe she didn't choose the daughter who'd be born to her but I know it now that she chose to love the daughter I am from the moment I was given--and is there really any way to say thanks for that kind of gift?

She asks if I'd let her use this piece of beauty around her tree this year because she knows I haven't got a tree or even a home now. And who wants to pack up the long labor in a box where no one will see?

But my heart, it aches a little thinking about the home I've lost and the future I'm unsure of, and I think it might just be easier to slip this gift in with the rest of the things I've stored and hope that next year I might have a place to call home, a place to let the joy colors come out of hiding.

I see it in her face, though--the disappointment after all the months of work. And I feel the weight of that, too, right along with my own grieving and I have to breathe through a few more days before I know what's right.

Because the sadness of loss, it creeps up sometimes and whispers that it might be better to slip Joy into a back corner. But it's not just these colors shouting "Rejoice!" It's Him, too, isn't it?

This life lived in between what's been torn down and what's yet to be built, sometimes it feels all wrong. But God, He's not just here in the beginning and the ending. He's right in the middle of all the in-betweens, too. And aren't we celebrating the One Who was born oh so far from Home anyway?

So I put on silly slippers beneath serious pants...

...and we hang a garland of color along the fireplace bricks...

...and slip grandmother-sewn stockings onto hooks across the mantle.

But then we start to adorn the tree that isn't mine, in the house that isn't mine either, and it's only a few minutes before one shiny green ball slips straight from my hands and shatters all to pieces on the floor. And the ache roars strong and I shut my eyes tight, because all I want to do is gather up everything beautiful and pack it safely away in boxes again, hide it in a place where life can't break it anymore.

Still, I know this more than I know most things--the way all the Beauty and Glory and God can't be tucked out of sight, the way Joy breaks into pieces sometimes, leaving us wishing for a safety and certainty we can't seem to find.

But God, He's Joy and He's been the One broken to pieces for us and He's calling us to live with the hands stretched open, all His Grace filling us up and overflowing straight into the world.

So I breathe through the aching and swallow down the tears and choose to fill empty spaces with shiny orbs of joy, all the colors reflecting this one word: Rejoice!

And that circle of love surrounds the base of the tree and ties everything together--because God, He's Love and He's the anchor that holds us down when we're afraid we might be torn right from the ground.

I don't know how He'll rebuild a life but I'm certain He'll do it and I've only this one thing to do in the waiting: Rejoice!

Because God, He left everything to find me and He offered Himself up for the worst kind of breaking because of the joy He knew would come on the other side. And didn't He die so that I'd know that Joy? The Joy of redemption, of reconciliation, of life as it was intended to be all along?

So I'll choose Joy here. I'll choose Him in the waiting and the wondering and it won't just be all these colors shouting, "Rejoice!"

Because I'll be saying it, too.

How The Leaves Sing

2011-11-30T15:46:00.000-08:00

The calendar promises a few more weeks before Winter descends, but the last day of November dawns and I feel Autumn slipping quietly away.

There's a tree in my garden whose name--Koto No Ito--it means "strings of a harp." And I might've thought this name was only a description of the leaves in all their finely cut glory, draping like strings from delicate branches.

But then Autumn comes and the leaves begin to sing with a beauty that haunts and I see what this name is really about. Because this tree might not make a sound, except when the wind dances through it's branches or the rain drops softly against leaves. But I hear it now, the way these strings of a harp are whispering the lilting song of hope.

I might feel a bit of sorrow watching all these leaves drift down to an earth that will swallow them in darkness, return them to the dust from which they were born. But I listen to the singing first, all this beauty emerging and descending, and I hear it clear as the notes of a harp.

God, He's here in the changing the of the seasons, carefully laying to rest what will give birth to new life when the light of Spring returns. And it's okay to grieve what's been buried, but we don't grieve as if there is no hope.

Because there is Hope.

And we'll see Him most clearly when we let Him plant all our pieces in the dark of life's soil and wait for the emerging He'll bring.

So as Autumn gently takes her leave and Winter creeps in to cover and darken and silence, I listen to the leaves singing His song and I choose to lay it all down. Because what's buried in Him is never lost and what's withheld from Him is never the life we're meant to live.

And that life He's made for me? It's the only one I want to live.

When You Want to Make the Words Your Own

2011-11-24T16:00:00.001-08:00

My Psalm 121

The mountains rise high
The road stretches long
And courage drains away
Straight into the ground

You've laid out the path
And I've said yes to the journey
But the fear of what's to come--
It can weigh down a whole life

Who will help me stand
Under the weight of all this fear?
Who will give me strength
To walk the hardest road?

It's You, isn't it?
The One Who made me?
You're my Protector
My Deliverer, my God

You're the One Who
Stands Watch through the night
You're the One Who
Steadies me with every step

You're the One Who
Shelters my soul
From all the raging storms
And the quiet battles within

There isn't any need
To wait for help to come,
Only to whisper Your name
And find You're already here

So I'll fix my eyes on You
And let the fear fall away
Because You're my Protector
My Deliverer, my God.

{If you missed my musings on Psalm 121 from earlier this week, catch up here}

On this day, the Day of Giving Thanks, I'm whispering deep thanks for the One Who stands watch through all the dark hours of a life, the One Who holds each of us in His Hands no matter how long and treacherous the path, the One Who covers us with Himself in every storm we face. Yes, this God Who made us, He is our Protector, our Deliverer, our God. And, oh, there aren't enough words in this whole wide world to sufficiently thank Him for that.

Much grace to you, Dear Friends. You are each a gift to me on this journey and today I am giving thanks especially for you. May our God be near and His Grace overflowing on whatever path He is leading you.

When You're in Need of Protection

2011-11-21T13:19:00.001-08:00

God asks for the hardest thing and it's not until I speak it out loud that Fear comes and steals the breath and every last bit of courage I have. The imperfections glare and everything that might have worth seems too small to matter and this time I'm certain God's asking too much.

It's not that I've forgotten all the Truth Treasures from Psalm 121, that second stair in the upward climb I'm making through the Psalms of Ascent. It's just that I haven't let them take root yet in the soil of my deepest self--that place where everything's laid bare and there's no way to stand up under His gaze except to choose Grace and let Shame be washed away.

So I pull out the book again, try to take hold of Him instead of all this fear that's draining the strength right out of me.

Psalm 121

I lift up my eyes to the hills--
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip--
he who watches over you will not slumber;
indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

The LORD watches over you--
the LORD is your shade at your right hand;
the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.

The LORD will keep you from all harm--
he will watch over your life;
the LORD will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.

I can hardly read through the first few lines because there's a soundtrack in my head playing the song I learned a lifetime ago with those very same words. And I remember that year God found me beside the ocean and ripped my heart wide open with longing for Him--the One I'd known all my life and yet somehow never really knew at all until then.

And I might've sung that song with every last fiber of my being and I might still hear that melody every time I read this psalm. But it's not until I'm standing here in the middle of the Psalms of Ascent that I realize what these words really mean.

I might've thought the psalmist was looking to the mountains to find his God. Because all that beauty on the horizon? My heart always find a path straight to the Maker when I fix my eyes right at the sky's beginning. But now that I'm holding these words up in the light of their surroundings, this is what I see:

Psalm 120 [the first Psalm of Ascent] unfolds with the pilgrim still in his remote location, lamenting his living conditions and longing to be near the house of God. Psalm 121 immediately follows, painting in beautiful brush strokes the image of a traveler on his journey. He looks at the hills in the distance, wondering and probably even fearing what might be on the other side. He anticipates the long, arduous journey ahead and, like all of us, wishes he could arrive in the blink of an eye rather than feel the effects of life on the road.

~Beth Moore, Psalms of Ascent

And isn't that exactly where I find myself today--eyes fixed on the long journey ahead, courage slipping away because of the mountains He's asked me to climb? And aren't I standing here with the fear weighing me down, asking Him, asking myself, asking anyone who might know--where will my help come from?

This psalm might be a few thousand years old but I know it now that it was written for me, for this path I'm on and this fear that holds me back. And that question I'm asking way down deep? The answer's right here: My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth. {Ps 121:2}

Then I read this whole psalm in its most literal translation from the Hebrew and the answer jumps clean off the page.

Psalm 121
I lift my eyes up the hills. From where does help come to me?
My help comes to me from Yahweh, who has made heaven and earth.
He does not let your foot waver, your keeper does not sleep!
Behold, neither sleeps nor slumbers the keeper of Israel!
Yahweh is your keeper, Yahweh is your shade above your right hand!
By day the sun does not strike, nor the moon by night.
Yahweh protects you against all harm, he protects your life.
Yahweh protects your going out and coming in from now on and forever.

~Hans-Joachim Kraus translation

The two brief Hebrew words translated "Yahweh is your keeper" comprise the overarching message.... 58 syllables (in Hebrew) precede the phrase translated "Yahweh is your keeper" and 58 syllables follow it.... The central placement of the phrase "Yahweh is your keeper" was not enough for the inspired psalmist to make his point. He repeated forms of the word translated "keeper" numerous times, both prior to and following the phrase.... [The words "protect" and "keep"] come from the root word transliterated shamar, meaning 'to keep, guard ... to preserve, protect; to watch.' Many of our English versions translate different words to make the reading easier and less repetitious. The psalmist who penned this song wasn't interested in varieties of words.... He intended to hammer a point over and over again, repeating it until we got it.

~Beth Moore, Psalms of Ascent

The LORD is my protector. The LORD will protect me from harm. The LORD protects my life. The LORD protects all my comings and goings. Who wants to change the words when all that's really needed is to recount the Truth until there's no holding us back from the path He's called us to take?

There's one more question on the page of this book I'm working through and it's clear that this is the one that matter most of all: What is God saying to you today?

And there are too many days when I can't hear what He wants to tell me, but this day isn't one of them and there's nothing I can do to stop His voice from cutting straight through all the fear.

Wherever this road takes you, I'm going with you. Wherever you end up, I'm already there. And every step you take along the way? I'll be your protector, your defender, your God. Now--will you come with Me?

Maybe the long journey begins with a single word but it never ends there. Because there's always another chance to turn around and go back or stay where we are and refuse to move forward. There's always another chance to say no to whatever He's asked.

But that means there's always another chance to say yes. And it might take me weeks to find the courage for every one of these steps. And I might have to fight a war against Fear and Exhaustion just to stay this course. But, oh, I'll do whatever it takes to say yes to everything He's asked.

Because who wants to take a different road when this is the one God's on?

Maybe I'm not ready yet to pen my own Psalm 121, but I'm ready to say yes again. Because it's all I have and it's all He asks and I'll say it as many time as it takes.

Because God's on this road and there's no where else I want to be.

How To Begin The Long Road

2011-11-09T20:09:00.000-08:00

They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

And it's true.

But sometimes I wonder if it takes a thousand tries just to make that very first step.

Still, I've set my heart on pilgrimage, so I pick up a pen and open the book that's leading me down this road, leading me to Him.

I'm about to make the slow climb through the Psalms of Ascent but I read the first one and find myself lost before I've even begun.

Psalm 120

I call on the LORD in my distress,
and he answers me.
Save me, O LORD, from lying lips
and from deceitful tongues.

What will he do to you,
and what more besides, O deceitful tongue?
He will punish you with a warrior’s sharp arrows,
with burning coals of the broom tree.

Woe to me that I dwell in Meshech,
that I live among the tents of Kedar!
Too long have I lived
among those who hate peace.
I am a man of peace;
but when I speak, they are for war.

The first line resonates deep--but the rest? I wonder where He is trying to take me.

I might hear a voice whispering that I'll never understand, that I've misread His leading, that I should just turn and walk away. But I haven't made a thousand tries yet, so I push aside all the resistance and listen to a woman who has gone before:

The Psalms of Ascent begin with a distress call. Not a bad place to start a journey. Sometimes the best motivation we'll ever have for going someplace new is distress over someplace old.

.......

Note how much ink the relatively brief first Psalm of Ascent gives to the psalmist's complaint about liars. You'd have to live under a rock not to be hurt sometime by another person's deception.

.......

The Psalmist began his pilgrimage by giving way to a classic "woe to me" moment. Before he could make future progress, he tried to take present stock. Though the two place names are foreign to us, what Meshech and Kedar represent certainly is not. The psalmist meant that he was a long way from home and from where he wished to be.

~Beth Moore, Psalms of Ascent

Now it's my turn to pen a psalm of my own, record my journey's beginning with words and hope and courage. But I struggle for days, a week even, to refine thoughts with Truth, cut away all that distracts from the story He's writing. And when I finally step back to see what's come of all this wrestling, it's clear that there's no paraphrasing here, only an echo of the psalmist's heart by a fellow pilgrim on her way to meet with God.

My Psalm 120

Broken on the floor,
I cry out to the One Who
Sees and Hears and Is:
"Oh, my God, deliver me
From the lies I've whispered
To my own soul--
Lies that have left me here
Alone and afraid.

For too long have I lived
In the City of Not Enough,
Made my home among
Responsibility and Expectation.
How I yearn for You,
Oh, my God,
But when I try to reach You
I can't break free from
The chains of my own making.
Is there no hope for me?

But my God sees
And He hears and He is--
And He says, "Come."
It takes everything I have
But it's all He asks
So I take His hand
And I say, "Yes."

At the rate I'm going, I'm starting to think this road might really be a thousand miles after all. But He's speaking and I'm listening and together we're going wherever He wants to take me.

Because maybe the long journey doesn't begin with a single step. Maybe it really begins with a single word.

Yes.

{I'm slowly working my way through Beth Moore's Psalms of Ascent study and trying to share my journey with you as I go. I pray that you will find nourishment here for your own pilgrimage--and please feel free to ask any questions or share any thoughts you have in the comments. Grace to you, Friends.}

When The Journey Is Hard

2011-11-02T21:11:00.000-07:00

I'm just driving down the road when I see Him there on a street corner.

It's a Japanese maple tree all aflame with Autumn's glory, but there's no denying the glimpse of God right there for everyone to see. I can hardly bear to pass by and I raise one hand to the sky with a heart aching for Him and a soul murmuring praise.

In my mind, I'm reaching for a journal full of thanks--because isn't this what it's all about? Finding God in the smallest moments of a life, counting every last piece of Grace until there's no doubt about His love, His goodness, Him running through all our days?

But the journal's out of reach, buried somewhere in a drawer back at home. It's been too many weeks to number since I've recorded God in those pages and now I'm driving right by Him and I'm nearly beside myself with longing.

He hasn't been absent these last months and I haven't been blind. I've pressed my face against the glass when the sky's all lit up with His beauty and I've closed my eyes to listen to His breath rushing through the trees and I've whispered thanks for all the ordinary moments full of an extraordinary God.

But there's been no strength to pick up the pen and etch His Grace into memory.

Life's been heavy for weeks now, responsibility and expectation pressing in. And me, I've been giving it my all just to keep breathing in and out. But some days, most days, today--it feels like more than I can do.

I watch Him in the rear-view mirror and it's then that I hear Him speak and I know what has to be done.

Because vulnerability might come naturally for me but it doesn't come without a price. And it takes every last bit of courage and strength I've got to write my soul on a page of the world, let all the cracked and wounded places unveil His glory.

And sometimes I have to pull the curtains closed, let it be just Him and me for a while.

So I drive home that night and I stop reading other people's words and I stop writing words of my own and I let the whole world fall quiet. I turn my attention to long-neglected things and I rest and I breathe and I find a way to just be.

But it's seven days later when I sit down to gather words and thoughts and I find what I feared the most. The words are gone and I can't speak and suddenly there's no rest in all this silence anymore, only a loneliness that leaves me grasping about.

I might wish I could fill up all the emptiness with other people's words, but I've been here enough times to know it can't be done. I'll just be drowning out my fears, drowning out His whispers, drowning out everything that matters most.

So the days of October slip quietly away and I wonder if anyone notices the void I've left. And maybe I'm afraid that it doesn't matter if I've lost my voice but maybe I'm more afraid that it really does matter. And maybe I don't know how to be who I am when a piece of my soul seems to have dropped clean out of me.

But somewhere in the midst of all the silent days, I feel Him nudging. And I open up a book that's sat on the shelf for two years and I turn on the audio recording and I listen to the words of a woman who loves God with her whole life. I'm not sure if I've the strength to take it all in but it's only a matter of minutes before the loneliness fades and I hear her talking straight to me.

When we're overworked, over stressed, and under rested, we're left with a heaviness of spirit. We're left feeling down and we're not even sure why.

And then she asks this: How many of us just want an invitation to go up? Up to the next level with God, up to His temple to worship, up out of the pit we find ourselves in?

Maybe I'm not raising my hand but I'm saying Yes! with my whole being and it's in this moment that my gratitude overflows for all the silence and the loneliness and the fear that's found me here. Because God's been here, too, and I've heard Him and He's extended the invitation to go up and, oh, how I want to go there with Him.

The first days of November arrive quiet and cold, and my mind's still wrestling through this verse from the Psalms: Blessed are those whose strength is in You, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage {Psalm 84:5}.

And this word blessed it really means "happy" and I keep saying it over and over in my head. Happy are those who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.

This whole life is a journey to some place we've never been. And it's a long, hard climb to grow and heal and become. And God, He wants more for us than we've ever dared to want for ourselves.

These last months and years of a life, I've been a pilgrim pressing on to find God in all the places I didn't expect Him to be, to understand once and for all that He loves me and who I am is enough and nothing will ever be the same again. I've traveled a long road and the burdens have grown heavy and my strength has drained right into the soil of this path.

But He showed up in a maple tree beside the road, whispered for me to let it all go and just be. And I might've thought it was my body that needed rest but I know it now that it was my heart in need of being renewed.

Happy are those who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.

My heart, it's set on pilgrimage again. I'm choosing to grow and heal and become. I'm choosing to take hold of Him with every bit of strength I have and move forward.

And it's 19 days since the silence began when I pick up a pen and etch His Grace back into the pages of my story....

1095. Glimpses of God on the street corner....
1096. Beauty calling me to worship Him....
1097. Heart aching for more of God....
1098. Hearing His whispers....
1099. Time to rest, breathe, be....
1100. Silence...
1101. Emptiness leading me to the Only One Who fills....
1102. Words of a stranger, speaking Truth I need to hear...
1103. His invitation to go up...
1104. Pilgrimage...
1105. A heart set on Him...

Maybe I'm still finding my voice, but God, He's never lost His and He's the One writing all this into His Glory. I don't know where this road leads but He's asked me to come and I'm saying yes because He's all I want and I'll go anywhere just to be with Him.

We're all pilgrims in a world that isn't home. But we're not in this alone and He's taking us to a life more beautiful and glorious and full of God than anything we've ever longed for.

Yes. Happy are those who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.

{Garden Upate} Dwarf Fothergilla in Autumn

2011-10-14T15:36:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I extolled the springtime beauty of one of my beloved plants, Fothergilla gardenii {Dwarf Fothergilla}. And I promised to reveal all its Autumn glory come fall.

What better way to start off the weekend than by breathing in all His beauty in the garden?

May your eyes search out His loveliness wherever you find yourself....and may your heart rejoice to know He's near.

Grace to you, Friends.

When It's Time to Let Go

2011-10-12T20:55:00.000-07:00

It hangs in the air and I feel it as soon as I walk through the door.

I might call this place a storage unit but really it's just a basement room in a building that doesn't belong to me. For two years, it's held the pieces of a life I used to live, and for every last one of those months, I've felt the deep sadness of loss whenever I've come here.

It's as though the sadness lives here, among haphazard piles of boxes and overturned furniture.

I don't regret the choices I've made to find healing for a body ravaged by illness and a soul broken by loss. These two years have held beauty and glory and God in all the places I didn't expect to find them. And God, He tore me out of a life I couldn't stand up under and then laid me down right here in a small corner of the world where I could rest and heal and become.

And oh, I'm so grateful for all of it.

But there's no denying that there's sadness here in the place where I've been storing the past, and I'm starting to wondering if all these boxes are really holding grief instead of my belongings. I'm remembering back to those days of pulling up roots and I see now how everything I owned was packed up under the heavy rains of loss. I might've wanted to believe that I was carrying the pieces of a life into a future full of hope and I might've sworn up and down that my life wasn't falling apart. But it was and it did and, oh, how the heart ripped open along the way.

And all that sorrow, maybe it's found a home here now, in this room with too many reminders of a life for which I still yearn.

I never stay long when I come here. I hurriedly search through unlabeled boxes, try to find what I need before sad air settles deep, unleashes what I don't want to feel. Because the truth is, I'm afraid to grieve this loss.

And for a woman who's grieved more losses than she can count, this fear leaves me unsettled. Of all the things that have been lost, broken, ripped straight out of my hands--why is this the one I can't seem to let go?

I run my hands over these pieces of my history and think I know why I'm afraid. Because what I've held onto all these months isn't the things packed in boxes. No, it's something much bigger than anything I own.

It's hope.

Hope for a return of strength and independence. Hope for a place to call home. Hope for the rebuilding of a life and the birthing of a family.

Sometimes letting go of yesterday's dreams feels like burying all of tomorrow's hopes.

But hasn't God been teaching me all these months that there's Beauty and Glory and God even in the dying? That the burying of a life can be the beginning of our greatest healing? That the laying down of all we have and all we are is the very truest act of hope?

Yes, God pours forth and floods the ground of a soul, but His Truth, it takes time to trickle down through the layers of a life. I might wish He'd just open me up and invade with Himself, but He's the One Who knit me together from the start and He knows I'd just be washed away by the strength of His Current. So He waits patiently for a soul to be saturated with the Truth that changes, heals, sets free. And one by one, the Truth wages war against fears and losses and regrets.

And now I'm standing here holding onto pieces of the past, knowing at long last what I've been doing all along. I've been shutting out the future He holds by clinging to the past I don't want to release.

Because these boxes, they don't just hold my possessions. They hold shattered hopes, dreams crushed hard into the ground. And they hold all the grief over what's been left behind in the wreckage of a life.

But I wrote these words only days ago and I meant every last one of them: When it's God Who'll unearth us in the Spring, who wants to hold back from laying it all down?

When it's God Who plans my future full of hope, why keep holding onto a past I can't get back? Why trade away the life He has in store for the one I wish I still had? Why not bury yesterday's dreams and plant all of tomorrow's hopes in the One Who writes the only stories that matter?

It might take me months, a year even, to do what's needed. But I know it now that I've got to unpack every box I've carried, let out the sorrow and the loss. Then I'll put the pieces back together again, pack up hope with everything I own. Because I won't be holding onto the past anymore.

I'll be planting seeds for the future He holds in His Hand.

It's the laying down of all that we are and all the we have, burying it deep in the soil of the One Who Loves, and waiting in expectation for His Life to emerge within us--this is hope.

Yes, I'll lay it all down, bury it deep, and wait in expectation for the Only One Who bring life out of the dying, beauty out of the burying, and glory out of all the breaking. Because this is hope.

And I might've named this year Faith, but isn't faith the certainty of hope? I'm certain now that there's no past that can compare with what He has planned. And who can deny the joy of waiting for Him to emerge?

I can't and I won't and, oh, there's no telling what He's going to do. But it's going to be beautiful and glorious and oh-so-full of God. And I can hardly wait to tell His story.

...visit A Holy Experience today for more writings on hope and faith...

Chai Tea {A Recipe}

2011-10-10T20:16:00.000-07:00

In case you've ever wondered if I might be a tea snob, I'm about to lay all your fears to rest.

I do love tea. And I do drink a lot of it. And I most definitely have way too much of it on my shelf. But I am absolutely not a tea snob.

Because I drink things like instant Chai tea. And I like it. A whole lot.

A couple months ago, while sipping some Russian Tea, I wondered if I could create a make-it-yourself instant Chai tea mix. And after a little internet research, I soon had a recipe in hand and was headed to the store to pick up all the ingredients.

I followed the recipe for the first batch and was sorely disappointed by the overly sweet and creamy drink that resulted. I couldn't taste the tea or the spices and wondered how anyone could actually label this as Chai tea. But after another round or two of testing, I came up with a lovely version that was wonderfully spicy but still creamy and with just a touch of sweetness.

Since I've had rave reviews and requests for the recipe from everyone who has tried it so far, I thought I'd post the recipe here. Enjoy!

Instant Chai Tea Mix

(Printable Version)

1 cup powdered milk
1 cup powdered coffee creamer (plain)
1-1/2 cups sugar
2 cups unsweetened instant tea (regular or decaffeinated)
1 tablespoon ground ginger
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
1-1/2 teaspoons ground cloves
1-1/2 teaspoons ground cardamom
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla powder (from vanilla beans, found in the spice section)

Combine all ingredients in a food processor (or blender) and process until well mixed. Let the processor run for several minutes longer to ensure spices will dissolve when mixed with water. Store mix in an airtight container.

To serve, add 1 tablespoon of the mix for every 4 ounces of boiling water and stir well to dissolve. If iced Chai is desired, use a few ounces of boiling water to dissolve the mix (stirring very well) and then fill the cup with ice and cold water to the desired amount.

When Every Leaf Is A Flower

2011-10-05T18:56:00.000-07:00

I read these words on the calendar the day after I've given thanks for what's sprung out of the blackened ground.

Autumn is a second spring, when every leaf is a flower. ~ Albert Camus

So I grab the camera off the counter, let afternoon sun find me kneeling beside the tree I've named Gratitude. Because who can resist capturing the blooms of Autumn, their colors dripping off every branch?

And haven't I already written it here, that the falling leaves aren't a rain of ashes but a shower of hope?

Oh, I might've thought Spring was the season when hope was most real--life breaking free from the death-grip of Winter, beauty bursting out from every earthen surface. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has?

It's taken nearly three decades of a life for me to understand, but finally I see what's always been true. It's the laying down of all that we are and all the we have, burying it deep in the soil of the One Who Loves, and waiting in expectation for His Life to emerge within us--this is hope.

Hope holds itself against a cross when the whole world thinks the story's over. Hope lets go of the last breath of life while the enemy's taunt still rings out. Hope lets Love bury it in the darkness and waits patiently, expectantly for God to show up.

Because Hope isn't afraid of the dying and the burying. No, Hope knows that God's never defeated and what's there to fear when the darkness has already been conquered by the One Who lights up the whole world?

And this God Who Loves, He knows we'll see Him most when life comes straight out of the dying, when beauty and glory and God emerge right from the barren ground beneath us.

I never would have believed that hope could ring out in the coming of Autumn, in the burying of all this life. But this song's always been here and I've been deafened too long by fear and hurt and a whole life of discontent.

I might regret all the years I've lived without knowing and I might wish I could go back, rewrite this story. But haven't I always known that He's the One Who writes the story of a life and there's nothing He can't redeem for His Glory?

So I'm burying my regrets beside all the fear and the hurt and the whole life of discontent. Because when it's God Who'll unearth us in the Spring, who wants to hold back from laying it all down?

Yes, the trees are bleeding fiery hope and I'm standing here drinking it in.

Because maybe Autumn isn't the second spring after all. Maybe it's the first.

Waking Up to Muffins

2011-09-30T14:15:00.000-07:00

Muffins are one of my favorite things to eat for breakfast. Especially when I've baked them ahead of time and tucked a whole batch in the freezer. This makes the first meal of the day a no-fuss, oh-so-yummy occasion. And what better way is there to start the day?

I recently baked a couple of delicious recipes and thought I'd pass along the goodness. These are two very different kinds of muffins, but I'm currently in love with them both. They are taken from the February/March 2008 issue of Cook's Country Magazine.

Blueberry-Pear-Ginger-Oatmeal Muffins
First up we have these deliciously good-for-you muffins with an incredibly long name. You'd think with a name like that, it might cover all the major ingredients. But there are still a few important goodies not mentioned. Like almonds. And raisins. And cinnamon. But I suppose blueberry-pear-raisin-ginger-cinnamon-almond-oatmeal muffins would be too much of a mouthful? Maybe so.

These muffins might look rather ordinary on the outside....

....but biting into one opens up a whole new world of happiness.

I don't remember ever tasting a blueberry-pear combination before and I didn't expect it to be anything spectacular. But I was wrong. It really is spectacular. I actually doubled the amount of spices from the original recipe, and next time I might even add a little more ginger--since it's in the name, you really ought to notice it, don't you think? They are perfectly wonderful as is (the recipe below includes my increased spices) but if you're a big fan of spices, feel free to bump them up even more than I did.

Dutch Apple Cheese Muffins
And now for something completely different. But it's probably not what you think. The cheese element here is an actual hunk of cheddar. I know, it sounds a bit odd. Especially if you've never liked the idea of topping your apple pie with a slice of cheddar. I'm definitely in that category, so I hope you'll be brave and try these.

They only have a touch of sweetness from the apples and cinnamon on top, which wonderfully complements the golden, cheesy goodness of the muffin. They don't taste like dessert to me, which was a little disappointing at first. But once I'd thrown out my expectations, I couldn't get enough of these and had to whip up a second batch. They make excellent breakfast muffins, and even my mom, who didn't think she'd like them much, really did like them. A lot.

Recipes
Both muffin recipes are below, including links to printable versions. Now go bake some muffins and start your day out with happy deliciousness!
________________________________________________________

Blueberry-Pear-Ginger-Oatmeal Muffins

Printable Version

Muffins:

1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

1-1/4 cups old-fashioned oats

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup whole milk

3/4 cup packed light brown sugar

1 large egg plus 2 egg whites

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

1/3 cup golden raisins

1 firm pear, peeled, cored, and chopped fine

1-1/4 cups fresh or frozen (unthawed) blueberries

Topping:

2 tablespoons light brown sugar
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 cup sliced almonds

Directions:

Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 375 degrees. Grease and flour 12-cup muffin tin
For the muffins, combine flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, and salt in large bowl. Whisk milk, sugar, egg, egg whites, and oil in another bowl. Stir milk mixture into flour mixture until combined, then fold in raisins, pear, and blueberries.
For the topping, combine sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl. Spoon batter into prepared muffin tin and sprinkle evenly with sugar mixture. Top with almonds, pressing gently to adhere.
Bake until toothpick inserted into center comes out clean, 20-25 minutes. Cool in tin for 5 minutes, then carefully transfer to rack. Cool 10 minutes longer before serving.

Cook’s Country Magazine, February/March 2008

_________________________________________________________

Dutch Apple Cheese Muffins

Printable Version

Muffins:
        2 cups all-purpose flour
        1/2 cup sugar
        1 tablespoon baking powder
        8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
        8 ounces cheddar cheese, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
        1 large egg
        3/4 cup whole milk
        1 pound tart apples, peeled, halved, cored, and sliced into thin half-moons

Glaze:
        1/3 cup sugar
        2 tablespoons water
        2 tablespoons unsalted butter
        1 tablespoon lemon juice
        1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Directions:

Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 375 degrees. Grease and flour 12-cup muffin tin (including the reas between muffin cups, as glaze will run onto pan when applied to muffins during baking).
Pulse flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and cheese in food processor until mixture resembles coarse meal; transfer to a large bowl.
Whisk egg and milk together, then slowly stir into flour mixture until combined.
Spoon batter into prepared muffin tin. Arrange apple slices, cut-side down, on top of batter, pressing gently to adhere. Bake until edges of muffins are just golden, about 15 minutes.
While the muffins are baking, heat sugar, water, butter, lemon juice, and cinnamon in saucepan over medium heat until butter is melted and sugar is dissolved, about 3 minutes.
Once edges of muffins are just golden, brush muffins with glaze. Return to oven and bake until toothpick inserted into center comes out clean, about 10 minutes.
Cool in tin for 5 minutes, then carefully transfer to rack. Cool 10 minutes longer before serving.

Cook’s Country Magazine, February/March 2008

How to Give Thanks When a Life's Been Buried

2011-09-27T20:57:00.000-07:00

It's an unseasonably warm day in the middle of September and I'm standing in the garden with a hose in hand, evening light falling all around. There are dozens of plants left to water but I'm pausing here by The Memorial Tree, tracing the shape of leaves and marveling at the way these colors are seeping in while the green fades away.

It's been two and a half years since I stood at a grave and whispered words to a boy who was already long gone. And that grave, it's too many miles from here, and this tree, it's the only thing I can touch with my hand when I most want to remember what's been lost.

Even with the sun's warmth still lingering on my face, I feel the weight of all the grieving as I'm counting down the days until the one that represents the beginning of all the breaking. And this is the question that haunts me, leaves me empty of words--

How do you give thanks for the beauty He brings out of the ashes when everything began with a life burning down, a boy leaving the world behind on an evening in late September?

The sun lingers a day longer before the deluge begins and I can't help remembering that weekend of saying goodbye--my brother and I driving late into the night, rain pouring down, us trying to find our way through too much darkness. I felt the sky grieving right along with us, and I thought I could stand up under the weight, but it was long months later when I realized I'd nearly drowned in all that sorrow.

Now it's three years later and I'm wrestling with my thoughts, the rain still falling steady and the trees bending beneath the wind. A friend clutches my hand across the table, waits for the grief waves to recede, and I'm sitting here wondering at the way the gratitude mingles with the sadness and leaves me gasping for breath and words.

Because God, He's turned the darkness of a soul into the light of His Glory. And He's taken a girl broken into a thousand pieces and woven her into a woman who bears the mark of His Love. And I've no need to seek out something for which to give thanks. No, there's more than I can even name, and I'm laid low by the Grace He's poured over and under and straight down into me. This gratitude, it overflows even in the sadness of remembering, and I'm not in search of the what anymore--I'm just trying to understand the how.

How to give thanks for the healing and the hope when the cost of my becoming was the blood of someone's son.

Oh, I know I'm not to blame for the dying, but some days I still feel like a cold-hearted thief for reaping all God's goodness after the laying down of a life. Can I really give thanks for what's sprung right out of the blackened ground without dishonoring the one who's buried in the soil?

This is the question I'm wrestling on the eve of the anniversary.

But the twenty-seventh day of September dawns dry and almost clear. And long before noon, the sun's broken through the clouds and I'm stripping off all the layers--because isn't that what these three years have been about? God breaking through, me stripping off the layers of who I used to be? And the sun, it's burning me up but I won't pull the shade because how can I shut out the One Who's refined me in the fire, hammered me into the woman I am, imprinted His Love on every part of my being?

And it takes me all day to understand that every bit of Grace He gives, it comes at the cost of a life, a Son laid down in the darkness of the earth, His blood staining us all. And there's no dishonor in living out the gratitude for all that's come from the sacrifice, even when I am to blame for His dying.

Maybe there's no comprehending what God's doing with all our lives, and maybe there'll always be grief on this day for the boy who left us too soon. But the beauty that's come from all this loss? How can I keep silent when God's using the heartache of a life to show His Glory to the world?

And I'm sure of it now that there's no dishonoring in the giving of thanks. Because what I'm really saying is this--

Your life, it mattered to me. And your death, it mattered to me, too. I'm not the same person I was and God's used your living and dying to turn me into the woman He's always wanted me to be. You were a gift. And I can never say thank you enough.

I remember the promise I made that sunny May day, sitting on a bench at the foot of a grave. A promise to come back, tell the tale of God's redemption to the boy who'd begun my story of falling apart and being made new. And I might've thought I was ready to go back before now, but I know it today that this story's been incomplete before these last weeks and months. Oh, I'm not counting out God for writing more beauty here, but there's enough already to fill up a whole life. And I'm longing to go back, lay my hand against the name carved in stone, and whisper deep thanks for leaving his mark on my life.

This road, it's been the hardest I've traveled in these decades of a life. But everything I've lost? Every night of sorrow and anger and utter despair these last three years? It's all been worth it to find out that God really loves me and to see how this Love is changing who I am.

I might still grieve for the boy we lost one Autumn night, but there's no denying all the Beauty and Glory and God that's come to us since. And there's no better way to honor what's been buried than by letting God grow up a life of thanksgiving in the soil of our loss.

The last rays of sunlight are falling on the leaves of a tree planted in the grieving, but I see it now how this little tree's earned a new name. And I brush my hand against The Tree of Thanksgiving and offer my whole life back to the One Who's turned my losses into a beauty I could never have imagined.

{In Loving Memory of Nathan R. Neahring, July 7, 1990 ~ September 27, 2008}

When You Don't Recognize Yourself

2011-09-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

On a whim, I sit down in front of a camera, fumble with things I don't know how to do, and try to give the world a glimpse of the woman behind these words. My voice, it trembles a bit with the weight of all the nerves, and I'm not convinced this is the right thing to do. Who am I, but an introverted girl with a broken past and a fear of not being enough?

But I write down words here in this corner of the world because I've lived them first and He's the One writing the story of a life. How can I keep silent about the God Who's loved me into being?

And I want you to see my face, hear my trembling voice. Because maybe then you'll understand there are no pretenses here. Only a woman walking with her God, Him healing all the broken places, her letting the Light of His Glory shine straight through.

So I take a deep breath and speak into the empty room, trying to still a heart beating fast and a mind racing ahead. It comes out stilted at first and I start again. And again. And again. I laugh at the mishaps and wonder if I'll ever get it right. But there's nothing to prepare me for what's coming next.

I push play, begin to watch the recordings one by one. And I avert my eyes because I'm afraid to see that I've made a fool of myself, laid out all my imperfections for the whole world to see. But I hear a voice speaking the words I remember, and I'm stopped short.

I glance at the screen and I can hardly breath because I don't believe what I'm seeing. Who is this woman, her voice soft and sure, her face lit up with hope and joy and life? She can't be me.

I've never seen her before.

It's the next day when I sit down to record the real thing, and I'm still reeling from the revelations I don't yet understand. But it's finally clear that I'm doing what's right and I'm starting to see that it isn't just the ones who read my words who need to see this woman I am--it's me, too.

Because God's been unearthing me these last months--years, even. He's been stripping out the fears and pouring Himself right in, and somehow He's breathed courage under my skin, convinced me that who I am isn't meant to be a burden to me or to the world. No, she's meant to be a gift.

He knit me together in the darkness of a womb, carved His own image into the marrow of my bones, loved me without end before I'd even begun. And He knew I'd break before I could even write my own name, knew I'd carry wounds and fears and deep pain for decades of a life. But He knew, too, that this world would never be a match for His Love, that there was no damage He couldn't heal, no sorrow He couldn't use for His Glory.

And maybe it's taken me years to figure it out, but oh, finally I'm learning that this woman I am--she's enough. And she's not a burden at all. She's a gift.

I've been writing it out loud in bits and pieces these last months, and His Truth, it's been taking root in the soil of my being. But in my head I've still been holding that picture of the girl I've always been. Broken, afraid, unlovely.

And then I see myself right there on the screen and I don't see that girl I used to be. I'm stopped short because I don't really understand what's happened. I've still got plenty of broken places. I'm still afraid in ways that I can't name, and yes, there are still pieces of the unlovely lodged deep, waiting for the breaking and the healing only He can give.

So why can't I stop staring? What's made this woman so different from who I used to be?

I wrestle long with what I've seen, and it's days before I remember the words of a friend. She wrote them after looking through the pictures of my growing and somehow she saw what I couldn't until now.

...you look beautiful--His love for you is written all over your face...

And my heart, it falls clean apart when I hear Him whisper the answer I've been seeking.

This woman, she's still broken, still afraid, still full of unlovely places He's yet to carve out and rebuild. But when I look at her face, hear her speaking of life and love and Him, I don't see all of that anymore. I only see this:

She is loved. And she knows it.

It might've taken a thousand different things to finally convince me of the love He's always held me in, and I might've made that declaration loud and clear on a day in the middle of July. And I might've thought I knew how His Love would change everything, but why didn't I realize it would change even the face of the girl I used to be?

I look at her, the woman I am now, and I see Him.

His Love, it's settled down into every part and I'm no longer the one I used to be. He's done what few of us ever thought He could, least of all me. And I'm face down under the weight of all His Glory because He loves me and I know it and, yes, it's changed everything.

Won't you let Him change everything for you, too?