He collapsed into the living room a tear-soaked mess of utter despair.

“Buddy!” Toby exclaimed.  “What’s wrong with you?  What happened?”

The cries slowly boiled into panicked wails that made simple talking impossible.

“Mama. Said. I. Only. Have. One. More. Chance!”  The sound of it was more than his five-year-old self could contain and mournful thunder billowed out of his soul.

“Whoa! Slow down, now.  You have one more chance for what?”

“I can’t stop …  ”  He dissolved into the rapid, staccatoed, hyperventilated weepy inhales that only preschoolers can master.

“I just can’t st… I can’t stop …”   He lowered his head, paused long and deep, and slowly inhaled to catch his fleeting breath.  “I. Just. Can’t. Stop. Saying…. DOUCHE BAG!”

I can relate.  Now, I don’t have a problem calling people “douche bag”; I have many other favorite terms of endearment to choose from.  But, there are things that I know I shouldn’t do that I do.  And things I should that I don’t.

Sometimes, it feels that when I make a choice to do good, the power to put muscle behind my decision bolts out the back door.  If it is simply avoiding a phrase that may not be the sweetest, this is a more of an annoyance than anything.  However, often the struggle is when I’ve made a decision that impacts my dreams or health or relationships or character.  With little warning, my intentions are blindsided and I look down to see my will knocked flat on its behind.  I try to dust my determination off, but it often feels like a losing battle.

I don’t think I’m alone.  Whether we’re lying about why we’re late to work, struggling to find patience with our spouse, judging the people in our lives, wrestling with pornograpy and emotional affairs, or questioning whether God’s love for us is enough, we are often in all-out war with ourselves.

Even the Apostle Paul said, “What I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise.” (Romans 7:15 MSG)

So what do we do?  Do we resign ourselves to a spirit-crushing twilight-zone trying over and over and over with the same repeated results? Do we throw our hands up and squeal, “I just can’t!”?

Anything worth its salt is worth fighting for.  It requires screwing up over and over, and trying again and again.  It deserves the gift of effort and pursuit, grace and gumption.  Whatever it may be that inspires us to believe, whatever dream we hold in our heart, whatever sliver of idea we aim toward, nothing should quench it.

For little boys learning which words are appropriate for kindergarten, a few chances are enough before a consequence is given.  For the rest of us Grace awards a second and third and fourth and infinitium number of do-overs.  In Proverbs 24:16, we read that “The righteous man falls down seven times, but seven times, he rises again.” Another writer in the Old Testament described each morning as showered with brilliant new mercy.

I must be honest; I do not understand grace.  It is not something that I learned in my early church experiences and at 41 it still feels like a foreign concept to me.  But I am seeing it in scripture.  I feel it in God’s presence.  I hear it in his story.  And I want to know it and accept it.

The next time I screw up and overreact to my kids, let stress and worry shadow the good in my life, or slap a “Hello, My Name Is God” sticker on my shirt and start taking control, I will remind myself of these fresh daily mercies.

Today and tomorrow and the next, embrace the grace. Let it flood over you and wash away the mistake.  Let it drench the cries of “should” and free you to begin again.

And if anyone or anything says that it is too late, or enough is enough, or that’s just who you are, well… tell them not to be a douche.

At first things seemed simple.  We bought new clothes and found some books and toys he enjoyed.  We posted a corkboard for his photo and papers.  We installed shelves for his games and trinkets.

It didn’t take long for the treasures to grow and space to disappear.  He refused to get rid of old clothes, several sizes too small and many threads too bare.  He clung to broken games and half-bodied toys.  He cherished every document that came across his little hands: graded homework assignments, scraps with phone numbers, coupons, and torn labels.

So, we made more space.  We added shelves in the closet and bought bins for papers.  I showed him how to use wall stick-um and we added another corkboard.  The stuff still grew.

Food was hidden inside his pillowcase and under the mattress.  One paper-crammed bin became three. Soon, chunks of wood, cardboard and used art supply scraps were piled in corners and under the bed in case there was an opportunity to use them one day. When I walked in to find him stapling a 2×5 foot piece of trash onto his wall, I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.  He had found it on the road on the way home from school and thought he would keep it “just in case.”

As frustrating as the hoarding grew, it was the least of our trouble.  Angry outbursts, threats, tears, lying, fighting, night terrors and a scary darkness began to rise up in his little mind.  We did the best we could and sought help everywhere.  Psychologists and psychiatrists came and went; he continued to rage refusing to speak.

We prayed and comforted and medicated and talked and held and cried and promised to always love come what may.  The hoarding and the emotions still grew.

Two and half years later, the bottom dropped out in our fragile world.  Within a few weeks time, there was a serious threat of harm made to self and others, an emergency pediatric psychiatric hospitalization, and an emotional breakdown that terrified the other children in our home.

A few weeks later, on a cold, icy afternoon, I once again found myself crawling under the bed among the trash trying to reach my broken boy hiding from the scary world outside.  My arms wrapped around his shaking body and he pulled away, cursing and begging me to leave him alone.  I refused and held on silently begging love to become tangibly felt.  After a few agonizing minutes, his shoulders grew limp and years of pent-up tears flooded his cheeks.  We held on to each other, bobbing in the sea of torment surrounding our hearts, the sound of my own cries joining the rhythmic waves of his sobs.

When the storm subsided, the words spilled out.  Memories and fears.  Struggles and broken promises.  Insecurities and pain.  Accusations and confessions.  Guilt and hatred.  Longings and beliefs.  Each syllable, a stone removed from the wall surrounding his heart.

The next day, I walked into his room and found him with a garbage bag in hand.  He was throwing away trash, clearing walls, and sorting through thousands of papers.  He said he didn’t “need” it anymore.

I walked out and began to cry the warm happy tears of relief.  The tide had turned.  Healing had begun.

How many of us are hoarders, refusing to let go of yesterday, afraid of not having enough for tomorrow, clinging to what was or should have been?  We may not duct-tape trash to our ceiling, but we keep boxes of light-neglected memories stacked in garages only to be seen by those who come after us.  I remember a friend telling me of her grandfather who had an old Folgers can labeled, “String Too Short to Use.”

Many of us don’t collect things, but we hold onto grudges and conversations, people and experiences as though the shadow of their existence justifies our identity and directs our course.  We allow the power over our life to be held in the grip of something we disdain or regret, wish or fear.

Every month, I hand everyone in our home a bag and tell them to fill it up.  Clothes, toys, tools, projects.  If we don’t need it, we don’t keep it.   When holidays and birthdays come, we make way for new toys and clothes by giving away something to someone.  As a result, our boys are learning that their worth is not tied into what they have.  Their identity isn’t based on how much they accrue.  And their needs will always be met.

When arguments rise or feelings are hurt, we talk about it honestly, we share, we tackle the monsters, we forgive and we move on.  We don’t ignore or fear the conflict, but we don’t hold onto it.  There is only so much room in our hearts and minds, there is no need to fill them with the negative.  Slowly, I am beginning to see my boys finding the courage to trust and forgive and believe.

Together, we are all seeing the power of letting go.

A few weeks ago, Toby flew to Gambell, Alaska for work.  It’s a remote, rocky island off the coast of Western Alaska in an environment few people could survive, much less thrive.

Aside from the lack of cell coverage and crawling internet, life here is rugged.  Literally perched on the edge of the world generations of villagers live by ancient ways, hunt whale to provide food for winter, and rely on each other for survival. Here, unlike silly Sarah, you really can see Russia from your backyard.

It was the first week of April and while most of the country was enjoying the fresh blooms of Spring, villagers trudged through snow-drift covered streets wearing fur-lined parkas and goggles to protect their wind-burned eyes from the 60 mile per hour gusts.

Toward the end of one of his training sessions, a sweet seventy-year old woman wandered up to get more information from the table.  Her kuspuk was worn and her eyes spoke of years of a hard, full life.  As their conversation grew, it came out that she and her husband shared a little two-room shack with their seven grandchildren.

On top of struggling to fill their cupboards and finding strength to match the energy of a household of children, there was a much greater need: they had no heat.

That weekend in April, the wind chill factor put the temperature at under 30 below zero.  Who knows how cold their little wind-ravaged home was during the deep of winter!  In the Fall, their little stove had died and they found themselves broke and freezing cold.  Luckily, someone in the village loaned them a space heater and so they spent their nights huddled together with the heater and a Coleman lantern to keep them warm.

He didn’t even have to ask.  As soon as he shared the story we were on the same page.  We contacted friends and our church, and ideas began pouring in.

Within a few days we purchased an oil stove and fittings, filled tubs with food, kid’s clothes, toys and books.  We packed the 400 pounds of treasure and sent it 800 miles away.

We’ll probably never meet this woman or her grandchildren.  Her little ones will never come to Sunday School.  She may never even know our church’s name.

But she was in our path.

One of the premises of Christianity is a call to help others, to reach out and share the love of Christ.  For many, this “missional” mindset is a means to increase church membership.  When church membership isn’t the focus, people often think of immunization track marks on their arms and traveling to far away, drought-ridden lands in an experience half do-gooder, half exotic adventure.

Jesus called us to love others, but he didn’t define “missional” as caring for those on the opposite end of the planet, or those who would fill a pew.  He simply said to love the people in our path.  The Samaritan didn’t have to get Yellow Fever shots.  He didn’t throw a church pamphlet into the care package.  He simply cared about the person in front of him.

So, how can you live out Jesus for the people you encounter every day? 

Who is in your path?

Of course, I want to sustain our planet’s beauty for future generations. I use my own grocery bags, shop locally, and reduce-reuse-recycle.  But this year I propose that instead of hand-crafting a compost box that serves better as a feeding trough for my neighborhood bears, we celebrate by enjoying Earth Day.

Unplug the kids from the electronics and have a picnic.

Gather friends for a wild scavenger hunt in an unexplored park.

Plant some flowers.

Run through the yard.

Sink your toes deep into ice-cold Spring waters.

Ride your bike to a coffee shop and when you pass a gas station raise your shaking fist in defiance of all its evil comforts.

Inhale the scent of wet, soggy soil.

Bask in the waves of warmth from our Sun.

Capture the image of a mountain peak etching its name into an innocent blue sky.

Gaze out onto a far horizon as it caresses the curves of Earth and wonder what lies beyond.

Close your eyes, turn into the breeze and embrace the mystery of ancient peoples once moved by the very same wind.

Whatever your Earth Day holds, rain or snow or raging sun, soak it up.  Don’t huddle up in a curtain-closed home and miss one more chance to witness it’s wonder.

Enjoy it. Teach your children to cherish it.

Every day.

But, especially on Earth Day!

Transparent. Authentic. Raw.

Everyone of us have found ourselves face to face with the cultural relevency bandwagon of “real”.  We’ve talked about dropping the masks.  We’ve whined about keeping up with the times.  We’ve applauded our attempts to be organic: intellectually, emotionally, socially, and spiritually.

But what does it really mean to be truly real?  What does it look like to be transparent and vulnerable and raw?

In our relationships with others real can be seen in an overarching sincerity and purity of personal presentation.

As a faith community it is often assumed to be a group of believers stripped of all pretense and traditional expectations.

As one who strives to emulate Christ in their lives it is the idea of being open and honest with the reality of life and struggle and faith.

But how is that lived?

True authenticity is far more than speaking the truth in a hip, edgy, and culturally attractive way.

It is the hunger for such clarity of relationship with others and God, that our desire to connect in a pure way is greater than our fear of what may be uncovered in the process.

When our hunger for transparency goes beyond our willingness to speak the truth and becomes a deep humility to hear the truth, then we become real.

It’s hard. It’s scary. It lays us wide open for healing and hurt. But, that is when authenticity is attained.  That is when transformation begins.

When we finally get to the place where we trust God enough to be completely open with who we are and who he is forming us to be, we wished we had gone there years before. The release and hope in that place is so liberating that we never want to live another way.

So, why do we hold back?  What does it take to be in that place of honesty with God, others, and ourselves?  How do you see this lived out in your life?

It was a little lullaby; a simple, flighty song to welcome the end of the day.  I remember hearing my mother sing it and imagined her mother singing it as well.  But though the rise and fall of the melody was perfectly written to ease a little mind to rest, it was the lyrics that I wanted my boys to hear.

 “I love you.  I love you.  A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck, a hug around the neck.  And a barrel and a heap, a barrel and a heap.  And I’m talking in my sleep about you.”

Every night as I leaned over their beds next to their warm little ears, I sang it.  In the day, every moment I was able to capture their fast moving frames, pull them into my lap, and slow them down enough to listen, I sang it.  When the pavement reached up and scratched their little knees, I sang it.  When they were huddled in a corner trying to get over an angry outburst, I sang it.

In the beginning, they hated it.  Mowgli would kick and thrash his arms, pushing away from me.  “No, you don’t!  I’m a bad boy!” he’d yell out trying to scratch my face.  Another would insert rude words into the song, transforming the message into something far less appropriate.  Often their thin bodies would go rigid and they would turn their face away, averted eyes filling up with confused and angry tears.

Still, I sang.

On good days, on bad days, when they were sleepy, when they were wild; it became my mantra.

Finally, almost a year later, they heard it.  Another two years later, they accepted it.

As time went on, it became clear that I would need another mantra for my boys; one for a very different circumstance and time.  When memories weaseled their way to the surface, when fear gripped them in the dark, when worry blanketed their minds, I’d pull out this mantra and begin to say it over them.

It was simple and easy to remember, addressed their past, present and future, and was no more than three little lines; but those three thoughts had the potential to change the atmosphere.

“Yes, what you experienced was wrong and not fair.  But, you are a survivor; strong and brave.  Now, you are in a safe place and you can make your world a better place.”

It took almost two years before they heard this one; before it’s meaning became part of their fiber.  And then, like the song of love, it took hold.  Today, when times get rough and angst begins to well up, I hear them whisper these powerful words to themselves and each other.

A while back, one of my boys had an extended stay in a hospital.  The circumstances were very scary and leaving him alone was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.  We couldn’t see him for the first 24 hours, and when we finally were allowed 30 minutes all he could do was weep.  Beginning as a slow, quiet whimper, soon his body began to quiver.  Then, waves of tears raged through him as his shoulders shook and his breath became ragged.

My own tears blinded my vision and I buried his little frame into my side.  Words refused to come as my throat closed up.  All I could manage was to slowly hum my little song.  “Hum hum hum…”

A new set of tears billowed out of his little body, but these were tears were of recognition, of hope, and of the love that the song declared.  He knew the tune.  He knew the words. He believed the mantra.

Slowly, his breath calmed and his body grew still.  By the time we left, tears still flowed, but as he was escorted out of the room he was humming the mantra that had become his own.

We all need positive mantras in our lives; simple, easy to recall, powerful and life giving.  These words focus us, define who we are, steady the crazy, and align us with hope.

For some, it is a scripture that speaks to us.  For others, it is a quote that captures our heart.  For many, it is something once spoken to us.

Do you have a mantra?  Is there something that helps you refocus and see things clearly?

My back went out last week.

It’s not a new experience, but unfortunately one that I’m becoming more and more familiar with. This time was worse than before.

So, today here I lie, flat on my back, captive of anyone with mobility; talky kids, wet dog, handsome husband’s dreaming of spring and motorcycles.

Inside, I’m running. Inside, I’m cleaning my neglected house. Inside, I’m outside taking pictures of the gorgeous sun glistening off trees heavy with mounds of snow. Inside, I’m chasing my boys up the stairs tickling them until they pee.

Yet, here I lie.

As I was biding my time snooping around on the internet I came across this video of my beautiful friend, Maykou. She, too, has had back problems; pain and surgery and lying around waiting. But not today. Today, she dances.

On the inside, I’m dancing, too.

It’s been almost a year since I learned how to breathe.  I know.  It’s crazy that I could live for 39 years without breathing; but apparently I did.

I had just joined a pilates bootcamp at Studio One Pilates here in Anchorage.  My intention was to regain my fleeting tone, find a routine that I could stick with, and ease my back pain.  I didn’t know I’d first have to learn how to breathe.

When I walked into the intro session, I instantly felt intimidated.  The women in the room all seemed to be as well-coifed as they could be in workout clothes.  The instructors were ridiculously fit.  The atmosphere was serene and calm.

I entered still reeling from whining kids and rushing a last-minute lunch to the school.  Quickly, I shuffled to the back of the room and tried desperately to blend into the wall, hoping that nobody would notice I was trying to pass off pajama pants as pilates gear.

The instructor began by informing us that the first lesson we would learn would be that of proper breathing.  She continued by sharing that some people have unusual reactions to breathing; they get emotional or have a physical response.  However, once we learned to breathe, it could dramatically impact the way we lived.

Instantly, I felt that I had wasted my money, but thought I should stick it out at least until the break.

We laid back on our mats and began to follow her instructions.  Slowly, inhale through the nose, deep and low.  Feel the air settle into your pelvis and expand your torso.  Just as slowly, exhale through your mouth in a direct flow, strong and sure.

It seemed simple enough, but apparently I just couldn’t get it.  All afternoon, instructors stopped by trying to help me breathe.   Try this.  Do that.  Push here.  Inhale deeper.  Feel it.  Picture it.  Breathe it.

I tried for hours.

The next day, I tried again.

Finally, on the third day… I breathed.

first breath

The air seemed to hit places in my lungs that had never been touched before; so deep and powerful that it completely threw me off guard. Salty water began pouring out of my eyes and my chest caught.  I choked and coughed.  Horrified, I jumped up and ran to the exit door.  Out on the sidewalk, I bent over and tried to stop a tsunami of coughing.  When the wave subsided, I stood there shocked.

Quietly, I returned to the mat.  Again, the coughing took over.  Again, I found myself on the sidewalk outside trying to settle my pulse.

The third time I returned, I inhaled deep and pure; this time the world stopped spinning and time stood still.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the instructor calling out directions and the blurried women around me followed, going through their paces. My mind, heart, and soul were far away.

I laid there in the fog, realizing that I had never fully breathed.  Painfully self-reliant, I held everything up close and guarded: my dreams, challenges, relationships, children, ministry, and even my breath.

As the air poured into my lungs, my shoulders collapsed, the tension in my life slipped away and well-designed wall of strength begin to crumble.  I breathed it in, and let it go.

There are times when we become so accustomed to managing all the flurried details of life that we don’t even realize we haven’t stopped to truly breathe.  We take short, shallow breaths, barely lifting our upper ribcage, and expend all our remaining energy on flailing arms and rushing legs.

Often this stressed response parallels our ability to share our life with God.  We hold onto everything with the grip of a bulldog, refusing to let go, sure that the rise and fall of life’s tides relies on us and us alone.

God doesn’t want us to survive like this; he designed us for a life fully lived, not stressfully endured.  Certainly, he could sweep in and take over our world, answering all our questions and solving all our dilemmas, but he is a gentleman and won’t do anything against our will.  Instead, in Psalm 46:10 he says to us, “Be still and know that I am God.”  In the middle of our chaos, he asks us to stop, release our grip, inhale, and let him do his God-thing.

In that moment of stillness, it is then that we can find a peace that just doesn’t make sense.  It is then that clarity prevails and the truth in our situations becomes tangible.  It is then that we can let ourselves become the life-liver we were meant to be, and God can become the healer, counselor, and answer that he is meant to be.

It’s easy to say, or type, but definitely more difficult to live.

So, here I am, one year later.

These past few months have been beyond challenging, to say the least.  Still, in the middle of my whirlwinds, as decisions and life swirls around me, I am once again reminded to stop, to be still, and simply breathe.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.

Tonight, in the middle of an incredibly difficult life season, I’ve been scouring the internet looking for a ray of light, or a distraction at the very least. That’s when I found this incredible post on the She Speaks conference; a gathering of women who are called to a ministry of writing or speaking. To be completely honest, I had never heard of this before. But, it couldn’t have come at a better time.

the first twinge of calling

I grew up in a Pentecostal church planter’s home fully alive in the power and promises of God; raised believing that prayer and fasting were just as critical to life as breath and water.

At the age five, I knew I was called to speak and write. I didn’t really have a platform beginning in kindergarten, so I began entering into every city-wide contest and statewide competition I could find. I suppose my sarcastic wit and pentecostal-chutzpah-heritage were a great communication combination, as I often ended up taking home awards.

After high school, I tried to align myself up with what I believed was God’s calling, but things never quite manifested. Instead of my assumed course (national bestseller and conference speaker), God took me down a very different path. Though I knew I was following him, I felt as though my life was a failure and I was a mere mess.

not-your-mamaw’s-calling

After several years of working in ministry roles, with tidbits of writing articles and speaking to women, my husband and I felt led to plant a highly non-traditional church in Alaska. It was there that we fully heard our calling.

From the beginning of our little church plant, we were different; kindly suggesting that typical Christian visitors might be more happy elsewhere, and gently showing them to the door.

You see, the calling wasn’t to believers; although I do love to encourage them and share new light from God with them. While I know there are many needs and some who are chosen to minister for just that purpose, these are not the people to whom I am called.

I am called to people who don’t like God. To those who feel betrayed by religion. Those whose questions have been belittled. Those who don’t feel welcome. Those whose pain is too overwhelming for a pew. Those who think Christianity is a dirty word. Those who have never met my beautiful Saviour. Those whose lives are a mess.

These are the people where I belong.

And so, life now finds me smack dab in the middle of a strong, growing group of believers: former skeptics, rebel-rousers, unbelievers, heathens, and glorious messes. In my little corner of the world, God is brilliantly changing lives and intimately connecting with the unreachable in powerful, undeniable ways. He is revealing that throughout the course of their wandering, there has been a purpose within them waiting to be released. Their world and ours is being changed forever.

Throughout this process the sense of urgency to speak and write has continued to well up within me, twisting and pleading to get out. Yet, every time I attempt to kick it up a notch, I hear God say, “Wait. Not yet.”

bringing it home

To add to the excitement in our lives, after over a decade of failed adoption attempts, this Fall my husband and I were finally able to adopt three amazing boys: aged five, ten, and twelve.

At first we were overwhelmed by their complex histories and generations of significant mental health challenges. Again, God spoke to us that our calling wasn’t to the polished world, but to these three messy, broken, living examples of generational curses, the promise and hope of redemption, and the powerful gift of being adopted by God.

While on the outside we cheer and rejoice with our growing family, on the inside our lives have never experienced more opportunity or need for God’s grace. Our new home life with these beautiful children has been difficult at best. Most days I find myself emotionally exhausted and struggling to even breathe.

Yet, in the middle of all the chaos, God has ignited a fiery passion inside me to fight for the lives of these boys. If anything can change the course of generations of darkness, it is a praying mom from generations of God-fearing power.

Invariably when things seem to be escalating to their worse, I hear one of their little voices say, “Ellen, can I hear a God song?” or “Tell me that story of Jesus” or “Can you teach me to pray like that?”  It is then that I begin to see hope peeking out of their own messy little hearts.

As God has revealed himself more to me through their lives, I have often found myself wanting to share it all, blog it all, speak it all. Still, God whispered, “Slow down, spitfire. Hold on. Be patient.”

we, the sacred mess

Often, our daily interactions remind me of the Old Testament stories of God’s relentless pursuit of fickle, broken mankind. Time after time, humanity seeks God, then turns away, toying with his heartstrings and then rejecting him, even denying his existence. We fool around with our lives and purpose, downplaying his desired relationship with us. In the end, we become empty and broken, encumbered by “mess”.

Still he continues to wait for us: patient, gentle, strong, and sure. As we meander through our existence, his intention for our lives remains – a life of great purpose, dedicated for a extraordinary hope and future.

Are we a mess? Definitely. Yet, we are still chosen and sacred nonetheless.

And so it is that I’m humbled and terrified that God chose me to represent this relentless grace and love to my boys and my community. This promise of being a sacred mess.

ready, set, go

Last night, my mind was flooded wondering what the next step would be, how do I proceed from here, and where is this ridiculous life taking me.

As I was praying for my daily dose of wisdom, I finally heard God say it.

It sounded so strange that I asked him to repeat it, unsure if my ears were playing tricks.

There it was again.

“Now.”

Seriously? Now? You throw me into this whirlwind of uncertainty and you think this is the right time? Really? Can I get a second opinion on this?

So, he gave me one: my husband. “You know, Ellen, you need to get away. You need to breathe. I think it’s time for you to follow your passion. You’ve always had a powerful calling. But now you have a new anointing, a new calling, a new message. It’s time to let it out.”

That’s when I found She Speaks.

So here I am, smack dab in the middle of a most unexpected life and gleefully peeking over the hill at forty (thrilled to be embracing the big 4-0 and threatening anyone who dares to throw me a party involving black, a wheelchair, or metamucil). Once again, I’m ready to follow his voice wherever it may lead.

I need She Speaks. I need a break from Alaska cold to feel warm air and sunshine. I need to be around estrogen. I need the reviving blanket of like-minded worshippers. I need renewed strength to face my boys. I need to be inspired by fellow ministers. I need to be move forward in the next step in ministry.

I need to release my sacred mess.

On the third evening of our desert escape, Toby and I decided to tuck away to secluded setting of the Tuscany restaurant in Phoenix. Sitting outside in a 106 degree oven we tried to convince ourselves that this was the good life.  All around us the desert was bursting with hearty, determined blooms, and the occasional, sun-weary critter would skitter by with what I imagined were exhales of exhausted disgust.

As we sat in the stillness of the heat, the earth seemed to slow its spin. Quiet permeated the night, moving through my sweat-drenched linen shirt and seeping deep into my veins.

As my eyes slowly surveyed the landscaped, they stopped to rest on a clock.

Something about it spoke to me, but in the sludge of my heat-weary mind, I couldn’t quickly put my finger on it.

7 o’clock.

As I continued to stare at it, it hit me. There was no second hand. There was no minute hand. Only one lone hour hand stood guard of time.

Instantly, the world stood still and I fell in love with this clock. Unable to break time into minutia segments, everything seemed to slow. No longer could I feel the sense of rushing. No longer did I feel the hurried thumping in my pulse. All my constant stress and watch-tapping were replaced with a sudden calm and sense of quiet.

Basking in the stillness, we sat there for what felt like an eternity, eating our meal and watching the slow breathing of the desert, overwhelmed by a sense of peace and relief. Perhaps it was simply the feeling of years of stress slipping off our backs. Perhaps it was the ridiculous heat that stole away every ounce of our energy. Perhaps it was watching that amazing clock.

Finally, as darkness overtook the view and hints of an electrical storm wove its way through the sky toward us, we decided it might be time to head back to our hotel room.

I turned to the clock to check the hour, when the timepiece gave me one more gift.

7 o’clock.

It was broken.

I loved it even more.