Hi friends! It’s been a long time since I posted over here on Tumblr. Just wanted to make sure you know I’m still blogging over at GODscout.com. 

Yesterday I took my kids up to an especially lovely part of town to hike.

We hiked. We stopped and played in the river. We threw rocks and watched the way they plopped. And we found creatures. In the first five minutes we'd already rescued a crawfish and a tiny, baby turtle from an especially aggressive water feature.

The crawfish pinched me six times as I threw it back. The turtle though, we kept him. #becausebabyturtle

For the next thirty minutes or so we explored and walked and saw creatures. All the creatures. London, delighted, started a list:

Eventually, after a much longer walk than I'd intended and no end in sight, I realized we were lost. I'd never walked these trails before, and while I had a pretty good general sense of where we were, I couldn't get us turned around. I kept the lostness to myself for as long as I could. And then, after an hour of hiking, a discovered map, and the realization we were very far from our car, I told them, "Girls, we have to turn around and walk this entire trail again."

Eve freaked out.

London skipped ahead.

The next twenty minutes included a lot of Eve whining, crying, and telling London and I exactly how hungry, tired, and thirsty she was. London, on the other hand, never said a whiny word.

On the way back I kept my eye out for shortcuts. We tried one that had us climbing through tall grass and traversing a river. When Eve saw a snake we turned around (and London happily recorded the sighting in our book).

Eve and I almost walked straight into a dangling silk worm, but London stopped us. And wrote it down in the book.

Eventually Eve's complaining peaked, demanding a conversation. I gave a speech about the importance of perseverance. Eve seemed mildly affected. But then London put her arm around her sister, smiled, and said this:

"Eve, it's okay. Think about all the things God showed us on this walk."

London reminded Eve that we wouldn't have seen all the creatures we'd seen if we hadn't gotten lost. She pulled out the book and said, "Look at the list."

...

Way too often life is like a long hike on a hot day with no water fountains and no end in sight. It's hard to keep going, I know.

Eve's reaction makes lots of sense. It's my reaction all the time. Things go wrong. People disappoint me. Stuff breaks. And I whine.

But London's reaction is the one I want to have. And it's only possible with prayer.

What London did on that walk, paying attention to what she experienced and writing it down, was a form of prayer, a way of talking and listening to God. In recording her blessings she saw clearly what God was doing--even in a less-than-ideal circumstance.

I think we need more prayer--more gratitude, more perspective, more connection to God, a deeper understanding of what He's doing in our lives... I suspect I don't need to convince you; your prayer life could be better. And if your prayer life were better, your life would be better. Continual, daily prayer is like walking around with an ever-lengthening list; it lifts our eyes.

This summer, decide to ignite (or re-kindle) your prayer life by attending In Practice: A Prayer Workshop. Spend an entire day learning to pray AND actually praying. Give yourself space and time to re-connect with God in a powerful, personal way. You won't regret it.

Workshops will be held in Huntsville, AL on June 13th and Jackson, TN on July 19th. Check back tomorrow for a Texas workshop date and location. For more info, visit the In Practice webpage: http://www.jlgerhardt.squarespace.com/inpractice

Also, you might want to check out this super-cool video:

https://vimeo.com/jlgerhardt/prayer

In the summer of 2006 my husband and I sold everything we owned (excepting our clothes and books) and moved from Huntsville, Alabama to Brooklyn, New York to plant a church. We didn't have much of a plan--looking back we wish we'd had a better one--but we did have heart. A lot of heart...

The story of Justin and I moving to New York is a defining one; it's the story that most explains who God's calling us to be. It's a story about risk, obedience, priorities, light and dark. It's a story about following God to unlikely places...

In December of 2003 my brother died in a car accident. Two years later I found myself talking about his death to a room full of college kids expecting modern world literature but settling for a story. I guess it was Tolstoy who got me going on death and grief. I like to think it was him or Dostoevsky, a holy nudge from one among the cloud of witnesses.

After class that day one of my students stopped at my desk. He pushed his long hair out of his face--what was his name, again?--and asked me a question. I can't remember the exact words he spoke. I was packing my things, shuffling papers, barely registering. But I know he asked me about my brother and I know he told me about his dad, his dad who'd died in a car accident, his dad who he loved like maybe he'd never loved anybody else. I remember looking up at him, standing straight up, and realizing this was a different kind of moment than any I'd ever had in my whole life. As Matt said these words "Why is it that you seem to be doing so well, and I'm not?" I prayed, "God, don't let me mess this up."

Over the course of the next few weeks and months, Matt came to Christ. It wasn't smooth. He almost drove away the first time he visited our old, country church building--it just seemed like everything he'd always avoided. But he was patient. And God was good. And Matt was baptized, washed in the river I played in as a little girl on vacation, visiting Alabama cousins.

Matt was the first person I ever helped bring to Christ. I was twenty four and I'd been a Christian for fifteen years.

In the first few months after he was baptized Matt started a Bible study group with people he worked with. He studied with his best friend. Eventually he moved across the country to attend Bible college. Blue-haired with a studded belt, he was absolutely full of the Spirit of God.

That process--meeting, loving, and introducing Matt to Christ--was the most exciting, satisfying thing I'd ever done.

At some point I remember sitting across the table from Justin, probably over Mexican food, and hearing him say, "If I could just do that all the time, it's all I'd ever want to do." I couldn't agree quick enough.

Meanwhile...

The Bible Belt began to itch.

Justin and I both grew up in coastal Florida. We attended small churches. We'd never heard of Christian pop music.  Our friends at school mostly didn't go to church anywhere. And, as vocal Christians, we were widely considered strange or other. I narrowly avoided being voted "Most Likely To Be A Nun" because it quickly got around that being a nun was "against my religion."

Somehow we heard about a college in Tennessee where everybody was a Christian. And we just about fainted (our "youth groups" combined totaled ten). So we went. And it was wonderful. Not perfect, but good. It felt good to be understood.

After college Justin started preaching at the first church to give him a job, a beautiful, small congregation in the sticks just north of Huntsville, Alabama. We have only good things to say about that church. God blessed us through those people.

Still. We couldn't help noticing a few things about Bible Belt culture, things we'd never before experienced. First we noticed there were a lot of churches. A. Lot. Of churches. One afternoon I found myself printing mailing labels for ladies' day invitations. Surprised we needed four sheets of labels I decided to count the churches, all within thirty minutes of our building. I counted 64. That's 64 separate buildings, 64 sets of elders, 64 preachers, 64 places with "Church of Christ" on the sign.

Every day on my drive to work, I passed seven. Not seven church buildings. Seven "Church of Christ" buildings.

This unsettled us.

Further, we began to notice the divisive ways congregations, even congregations under the Church of Christ heading, talked about each other. Have you heard how much they pay their preacher? Why do they need such a fancy building? I heard so and so left because so and so did this and that. Even the way members of one church would say the name of another betrayed their feelings.

Similarly, churches saw enormous flux in membership when a new church would crop up or an old church hired a new, exciting preacher. Attendance came in waves as people migrated liked neurotic geese.

The worst consequence of all these Christians crammed into the same space seemed to be this: they began to forget who they were. Because we'd grown up in spiritually sparse communities, Justin and I expected to be in the minority. We expected people to disagree with us. We expected people to mistreat us. We remembered that our citizenship was in Heaven, because it for sure wasn't in Clearwater, Florida.

In Huntsville, you could pull up to a light and, odds are, one of the six cars stopped with you would carry a member of the Church of Christ. Four more (that's 5 out of the seven total) carry evangelicals Christians. Those odds are decidedly not stacked against you.

Justin and I became convinced that not only was this intense concentration of Christians in one geographic area bad for the nationwide growth of the kingdom, it also seemed bad for the too-packed Christians.

That's when we decided to get out.

We sat down at our dining room table with a map of the United States, a list of major city populations and a list of the number of Christians in every major American metro area.

We typed numbers into a calculator and decided to move to New York City.

The entire time we lived there, in Brooklyn, we met only one Christian (outside of a church building or personal introduction). The people we met were fascinated by our way of life. They asked all kinds of questions. They wanted to know how it was we were married and still liked each other.

One night at a party, Justin found himself cornered by a woman who had never met an actual Christian. She said, "Really? You're really a Christian? Like you believe the things in the Bible actually happened?"

In that moment, we knew we were exactly where we needed to be.

We stayed in Brooklyn for a year. We'd have stayed a lifetime if we could have. We're just outside Austin, Texas now, and the two cities aren't that different. Both places desperately need more Jesus. On any given Sunday 85% of people in Round Rock (our part of the Austin metro area) don't go to church anywhere.

-

Just so you can understand the ungodly concentration of Christians in the American southeast, consider this map from Gallop:

Do you see the dark green? That's where the light is. Do you see the khaki? That's where the light isn't. Because Christians don't live there.

Even this map doesn't tell the story perfectly, because it doesn't account for the significant discrepancies between Christians in urban areas and Christians in rural areas. States like Florida (and Texas barring Dallas) are statistically more Christian because of the significant rural concentration of Christians. The cities are much less densely populated by believers. For some reason, Christians avoid cities while everyone else flocks to them.

Let's be clear, there's nothing sinful about gathering with like-minded people and living in light-blessed communities. But there is something sinful about hoarding the light while others suffer in the dark.

Jesus told us to "Go into all the world." He said, Be salt and light. He said fish for men. He said the harvest is white and the workers are few.

What are we doing clumping together in saved places?

You might say, "Well, what about people like your friend Matt? Clearly there are people to be saved in Huntsville, Alabama." And to that I'd say this: Matt almost didn't become a Christian because of the Christians in North Alabama. He was exhausted by the judgmental signs and the obvious division. He didn't know which church to try and when he tried one and hated it he hesitated to try again. Matt didn't need more Christians. He needed better Christians.

As far as I can tell, Christians are better when they spread out a little, when they have a clear sense of mission and a sizable mission field to keep them busy. When they don't spend so much time bumping up against one another.

So, am I saying you should move? Am I saying you should pack up your life and move away from your family and quit your job and buy a house in Detroit or L.A?

Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.

Of course there are exceptions. A few exceptions. Of course some of you have health problems or six kids and need to be near family. Some of you are doing great, sacrificial kingdom work with significant results right in the middle of Nashville. Some of you make a TON of money in Birmingham and send it all to churches in Africa or India. I get that. I'm not talking to you. We don't all have to move.

But some of us do. A lot of us. Many more of us than are willing.

Friends, I'm not asking you to plant a church. I'm asking you to move out of the Bible Belt and attend a church that's already there. I'm not even asking you to move to a big city or a bad school district (though those are worthy callings). I'm just asking you to, at the very least, move to the safe suburbs of San Francisco or Phoenix or Boise and live like Jesus.

It's not okay for me to meet a person who has never met a Christian at a party in Brooklyn. It's not okay for Christians to be so under-represented in socially liberal states that they're easily made into stereotypes and caricatures. It's not okay for me to spend an entire year church-shopping in Dallas while my friends in Vermont drive into another state to attend the closest church to their house.

Will it be inconvenient to move? Yes. Will the church you find in your new place have all the programs your suburban Kentucky church did? Nope. Will your kids have as many God-loving friends. Probably not. Will there be a Chick-fil-a? Can't guarantee it.

Yesterday I was talking to a friend among a group of friends about hard conversations. He knew he needed to tell this other friend this awkward thing (we nodded, "Yes! You totally need to tell him). But he didn't want to (we groaned alongside him, "Yes! That is soooo hard").

We all took a moment to gripe about how we never really want to do the good, hard things God's calling us to do--not before we do them anyway. Later we'll look back and be glad we did it. But in the moment, it feels like swimming upstream in a river of half-dry cement.

Someone said, "I hope one day when I'm like fifty or something, I don't have to deal with this. I hope I just want to do all the good things. I hope righteousness gets easier and easier until I don't have to fight for it anymore because it just flows out of me."

And we all fell silent and hoped...

That does happen. But also it doesn't.

Over time we mature. We find ourselves transformed more and more into the image of Christ. Things that were hard aren't so hard any more.

But here, there will always be hard things, always forces to fight, always pressure to do the wrong thing, always something to push against.

I said to my friends, "This is the way it is for us Christians, because we're The Resistance."

-

For the last few years I've watched my wardrobe take an interesting turn. I've shifted from a closet full of color and prints, flow-y sweaters and floral dresses, to what I have now: grey t-shirts, dark jeans, boots, and jackets--a motorcycle jean jacket and two (yes, two) army green parkas. I look like a character from The Walking Dead.

I didn't make a conscious choice to change the way I dressed. I think it sprung from this feeling inside me, this feeling that I needed to be ready to fight.

-

A few months ago I told my daughters a story about a broken kingdom ruled by a dark queen, about how the kingdom hadn't always been dark, that the previous king and queen had been good and generous, loving, but the dark queen had deceived the people and convinced them to overthrow the ruling powers. So the king and queen left--no need to force them. They walked through the city in their robes and crowns, down the winding streets and into the woods. And no one had seen them since.

Rumor had it an army had formed in the woods, and any day The Resistance would emerge from the tangled trees, led by the king and queen, to take back the city and free the people from their slavery.

The Resistance.

The moment I said those words my daughters' eyes widened and sparkled. They smiled like cats with mice in their paws. There's something magical and epic and heroic about an army compelled by what should and could be, willing to defy what is.

Something inside us, even the five year old us-es,  longs to resist.

-

I typed the word "resist" into Bible Gateway tonight, not expecting much. I couldn't remember a passage about resistance--the principle yes, the word no. But then this came up, from the book of James, and I felt like you needed to read all of it:

What causes fights and quarrels among you? Don’t they come from your desires that battle within you? You desire but do not have, so you kill. You covet but you cannot get what you want, so you quarrel and fight. You do not have because you do not ask God. When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.

You adulterous people, don’t you know that friendship with the world means enmity against God? Therefore, anyone who chooses to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God...

Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Come near to God and he will come near to you. Wash your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded. Grieve, mourn and wail. Change your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom. Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.

God will lift you up. He'll do it here and now--some. He'll do it here (and there) and then fully. Either way you look at it, you exist today in opposition to "the world." That doesn't mean earth. It doesn't mean the people on the earth. It means you directly defy the prince of this world, the father of lies, the ruling dark queen. It means, for as long as the devil sits on a throne, you fight for The Resistance.

My prayer for you today is that you'd do hard things. Push through the half-dry cement. Sweat. Cry. And remember: your fight is worthy, your Commander good and true, your enemy weakening every day.

Last year I began writing a novel about absolute freedom. I asked, "What would it be like to exist in a world where every choice was yours to make, where every detail of your life matched up exactly to your own preferences and will, a world with no boundaries, with no "No."

I wrote a hundred pages and stopped. Because absolute freedom is impossible. Even after I'd isolated my character in a world of her own making, I found the consequences of choices she'd already made hemming her in at every turn. And she couldn't be around other people because other people made choices that affected hers.

"Absolute freedom" turned out to be just another form of slavery.

Since then, I've been thinking a lot about freedom and slavery. And I've found myself frequently wandering in the book of Exodus--a book almost entirely about liberation. I like Exodus because it's a complicated story, because it doesn't shy away from the darkness, and because it shows me where to find real and lasting freedom.

We live in a culture that proclaims freedom as an ultimate value while simultaneously enslaving us in addictions, greed, anxiety, comparison, and even cell phone contracts. We are a nation of slaves, groaning under the weight of our (sometimes self-imposed) burdens.

We're so much like God's people in the book of Exodus. And that's good news. Because Exodus ends in freedom.

"The Israelites groaned in their slavery and cried out, and their cry for help because of their slavery went up to God.

God heard their groaning..."

What I learned in the book of Exodus is that humans can't free themselves. Not really. They can try, but they'll most likely run from one master into the arms of another. I've seen it in myself--when I run from overeating into self-loathing and gym-devotion, when I quit trying to please others and instead seek only to please myself, when I give up one addiction and pick up another two... Freedom is beyond our ability to apprehend.

But with God nothing (even freedom) is impossible.

That's why I created How To Be Free: A 40 Day Devotional and Bible Study in the Book of Exodus--because I wanted to share with you the freedom I'd found.

Freedom is beautiful, joy-soaked, and peace-giving. It makes decisions easier. It makes everyday living lighter. It's good.

So good you have to have it.

If you're interested, check out the How To Be Free page on my website. You'll find more info on this daily devotional and study, delivered to your email address every morning for 40 days.

Can I tell you a secret? I love Christmas cards. I love receiving them, sure, but mostly I love making them:

I like scribbling the list of people I'll send them to in my journal; I like writing those names so much that sometimes (okay, lots of times) I cry.

I like picking out a design on Shutterfly. I like planning what I'll have my kids wear in the picture. And I even like taking the pictures (despite my eldest's annual protest against Christmas card perfection).

I LOVE the day they arrive on my doorstep. I like putting them in envelopes, addressing them, and affixing stamps. I like the way they look in my mailbox, a pile of packaged love waiting to be sent.

Maybe I'm weird. But I love sending those cards. If I had more money and more time, I'd send them to everyone I know.

Sending Christmas cards represents hours of work for me, and it comes at the busiest time of my year. But I do it anyway.

Because it brings me joy.

Do you know what I don't do at Christmas?

A well-planned, every-day Advent ritual

Elf on the Shelf

Christmas craft exchanges

Hostessing

Dinners that take longer than fifteen minutes to cook

Christmas cookies

Oh, and one more: making people who do those things feel bad.

You won't be surprised when I say women often make other women feel guilty about their choices. Facebook's a hot bed for that kind of thing. But what surprises me is this weird backlash against women who aren't doing anything we oppose, but rather seem to be excelling in areas we aren't.

So, we see a friend with a handmade wreath and a gorgeous tree and  instead of thinking, "Wow. She's so talented at decorating," we think, "She must be neglecting her children to make crafts."

Or, we see a friend doing daily Advent devotionals with her kids and (instead of thinking, "That is so great. I love her heart.") we feel judged and accuse: "She probably won't let her poor kids believe in Santa."

Or, we get a beautiful Christmas card in the mail with a beautiful picture of a friend's kids and we think, "I'm so glad I didn't waste time on a fake picture of my family."

You guys. Why are we so eager to turn another person's joy into judgement?

Probably because we're overwhelmed and insecure.

This holiday season, instead of trying to do what everybody else is doing and instead of feeling like a loser when the people around you do impressive things, you need to do THIS:

Do what brings you joy.

There are too many things to do. Too many pins on Pinterest. Too many traditions. Too many parties. Too many opportunities to completely stress yourself out.

Don't try to do everything.

Don't even try to do most everything.

Do what brings you joy. And only that.

To be clear, Joy is not pleasure. Do NOT:

Drink all the wine.

Buy all the things.

Ignore your relatives, and

Hide in your room watching Netflix.

Joy most often comes in and through hard work, work that aligns with our talents and traditions.

I find joy in Christmas cards. I find it in wrapping presents for my kids late at night drinking Chai tea with the lights turned down and candles flickering. I find it on road trips with my husband and from behind the camera at big family functions. I find it in writing, even during the hectic month of December when more practical pursuits jockey for position in my planner.

I don't find joy in keeping my house spotless for a stream of holiday guests. Or in remembering to plan antics for an elf. Or in thoroughly and thoughtfully decorating my home in red and green. So I don't do that stuff.

But I suspect you're different.

You find joy where you find it.

So when I see your Christmas lights extravaganza on your front lawn, I will be excited for you. And when I see you selling purses or nail stuff on Facebook I'll be impressed with your efforts to help your family. And when every present you wrap looks like a work of art, I will carefully unwrap my present and save the tag and bow, because you made something beautiful and I love that.

I'm going to remember that you and I are wired differently, that you really find joy in the stuff that makes me cringe, and I'm going to appreciate every cool, beautiful, meaningful, amazing, and hilarious thing I see you doing (and posting to Facebook) this Christmas.

I'm going to find joy in your joy.

Scout's honor.

Congratulations to coordinates-to-thoughts for winning the Field Notes giveaway!

If you feel like Field Notes might be good for you, check it out HERE.

It's hard to be human. That's a fact.

We have to deal with other people--messy, not-us people, people who say they'll love us and hurt us, people who couldn't care less we exist.

We have to do things we hate like the dishes and calling the cable company, paying back student loan debt and forgiving our parents.

We have baggage, mountains of it sometimes, and we carry it on our shoulders like a yoke.

We want to do right and we do wrong. And we feel small and shame-soaked and like we'll never be who we really want to be one day.

We love God. Or we want to love God. But we don't feel like He's close.

THIS is why we need writing.

I've been on Tumblr for long enough to know people here value writing. We see it as a way to find the answers, a way to process the hurt, a way to push aside the crap and see what matters.

That's what Field Notes Online is all about. It's a workshop in writing to see, using writing to understand your life and chart your future. Too, Field Notes is about writing to see and connect with God (no matter how far from Him you are right now).

"Field Notes gave me in a day what therapy could not (and has not) in a year—a fresh, light-filled, God-inspired perspective on the people, places, and moments in my life.”

-Erin G. (Field Notes participant)

Field Notes includes...

over two hours of video instruction

reflection questions

and dozens of personal, revealing, helpful prompts to get you in the daily habit of writing to see.

You can buy Field Notes HERE for $39. You can also pass along the link to eager grandparents (they'll be so proud of you--bettering yourself and whatnot).

If you're a little cash-strapped right now, REBLOG THIS POST and you'll be entered to win a FREE Field Notes Workshop. I'll choose a winner randomly and send a message through Tumblr with the workshop URL and your personal password.

Hey guys and gals! My Field Notes Online workshop in writing to see is Up, Up, Up!!!

The last time I saw my brother was over dinner at a Cracker Barrel on I-65. He was headed home for Thanksgiving, and I was sad I wasn't. He wore a grey Freed-Hardeman sweatshirt, glasses, a baseball hat. He slumped at the far end of our table, a crooked grin plastered across his already-tired face.

I can't remember what we talked about. I only remember dropping heavy-handed hints about how "I sure would love a sweatshirt like that" and him lecturing me on the appropriate way for a girl to wear a sweatshirt so she didn't look homeless or pregnant.

The only reason I remember that conversation is that we pulled a brand-new, size small sweatshirt (just like the one I'd asked for) from his totaled car a few weeks later. It's in my drawer now. I hardly ever wear it. It is, and has always been, uncomfortable. We ladies like our sweatshirts big and cozy--even if we do look homeless and pregnant.

Today is Thanksgiving--twelve years since that Thanksgiving--and I'd wear that stupid sweatshirt, today and every day forever, if it meant I could see my brother again for just five minutes.

The day my brother died was the worst day of my life. I awoke to the call and walked through a nightmare for the next, I don't know, year? It took me twenty four hours to get to my parents, every second of those hours an empty eternity. We planned a funeral for a twenty year old, and while there were beautiful moments, it was still a funeral for my little brother and it was exactly as terrible as you'd imagine. We went to New York as a family to recover after everything had died down and accidentally ended up in Les Miserables bawling our eyes out.

Even now, I see all of December 2002 through the filter of tears.

You can understand.

I hope you'll understand this, too: I thanked God the day my brother died and have every dark day since.

-

Here are eight things I thank God for about December 13, 2002:

That my brother was close to home when he died

That he'd said goodbye to all his friends and moved his stuff out of his dorm room because he was moving to Florida

That no other cars were involved in the accident

That he died upon impact with the tree, likely without even waking up, and no one had to make any hard decisions about life support

That even though my dad cosigned my brother's student loans nobody had to pay them

That I was married to my best friend and my brother's best friend, too, and we could hold hands on the plane while we cried

That I knew where my brother was

That I knew I'd see him again

-

The Apostle Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, "Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus."

I'm writing this post on Thanksgiving because I'm certain, every day merits Thanksgiving. Even the worst day.

-

Since my brother died I've had a lot to thank God for:

The way--way back then--He used my grief to bond me to a new church family, people so different from me, people to whom I will always feel deeply connected

The way he redeemed my pain, relentlessly using me to comfort others with similar hurts

The way He brought light out of darkness, leading my friend Matt to Christ through our stories of shared loss

The way He filled my gaping hole with friends like family; so my girls don't have one uncle, they have twenty.

I don't think God killed my brother. But I do think God showed up when he died, working in every wound to heal and propel, mend, correct, grow and shape.

I'm thankful for the perspective He's worked in me, the wisdom He's grown in me, so that I can miss (is there a better, stronger, more aching word?) my brother on Thanksgiving and give thanks all the same.

I am thankful for what God did and what God's doing.

-

Tomorrow  I'm launching Field Notes: a workshop in writing to see. It's something I created from experience, writing my way through grief, bouts of depression, identity confusion, the ups and downs of marriage, motherhood, sickness, joy...

I have processed all of life through writing, and in the writing I've learned (among other life-changing things) to be thankful.

If you don't feel like you have much to be thankful for...

If you're struggling with something...

If you feel far from God (or just not as close as you'd like to be)...

If you're tired...

If you have a secret...

If you want more joy and peace...

If you're a human...

Field Notes is for you.

This self-paced online experience (including video teaching, reflection questions, and writing prompts) will introduce you to the act of writing as mirror and microscope, therapy and exercise.

If you'll commit to it, it'll make you better. Actually, God will use it to make you better.

This morning, reading my Facebook feed, so full of hate and anger, disappointment, apathy, and ignorance, I felt tired. And completely ill-equipped to speak anything close to wisdom. I don't know what should have happened in Ferguson last night--not precisely.

But driving my husband to work this morning, listening to my daughters argue in the back seat, the conversation becoming less and less productive as the volume of my seven-year-old's voice rose, I thought maybe I did have something to offer. Not something for the people in Ferguson (I doubt they'll read this). But perhaps something for you and I. Something Ferguson can teach us about being human in the community of humans.

-

All I heard was my oldest, and what I heard was painfully familiar.

"EEEEVVVEEEE!" she yelled.

I looked back to see Eve had stepped on London's blanket, a simple infraction, likely accidental.

But London's yelling turned a switch inside Eve and I saw her face settle into anger. Eve pushed her foot to the car floorboard, blanket beneath it, and began rubbing the sole of her shoe into the cotton.

"EEEEEEEEEVVVVVVVVEEEE!!" London yelled louder, yanking the blanket from Eve. As London yanked, Eve fell back against something, bumped her head, and began to wail.

If I had been a good mother, this is where I would have stepped in, but I couldn't because I was taking notes...

Later, I told London, "If you hadn't yelled at Eve, she wouldn't have messed up your blanket."

And London said, "If she hadn't stepped on my blanket, I wouldn't have yelled."

And both those things are true.

But if we want to live in community with other people, someone is going to have to do the right thing, the generous thing, the merciful, graceful, LOVE thing. And they're going to have to do it first.

Personally, I think the eldest bears guilt in this situation. Because she was the one with power. But Eve is not innocent.

-

I tell married couples, Love hopes. I didn't make that up; God did, of course. And I tell them that means when your husband's coming home late, believe the best about why. I tell husbands, when she disappoints you, believe that one day she won't. I tell them, when you're in an argument, don't assume she's only thinking about herself. Assume she's thinking about you. Assume she loves you. Assume she's rooting for you.

People sometimes tell me that's naive.

I tell them, "That's love."

-

Love works. It's like a magic key for life. If you have it and you use it, life is better. Not just better, right. Life in love works as it should. People get along. Cooperation happens. Forgiveness spills. Joy blooms.

Take away the love, substitute it for some not-as-good alternative like equality, respect, or tolerance, and everything starts to break down.

That's truth.

Am I going to relentlessly simplify here and say Michael Brown's death and the subsequent rioting happened because people didn't love one another? Of course I am. Because it's true.

And if love were this intangible feeling we couldn't manufacture, that would be a simplistic and unhelpful explanation.

But because love is entirely doable, practical, and accessible, that explanation is the first step toward a solution.

-

I have no interest in talking about what people in Ferguson should do. I have opinions on what law enforcement should look like, but my readers aren't in charge of that stuff (by and large). I'm not either.

My readers are people like you (and me), people who will eat lunch with a toddler today and clean spaghetti up off the floor, people who will sit in traffic this afternoon and try their hardest to be patient, people who pay too many bills, people with neighbors who look and act differently than they do, people who sit on city councils and people who lead churches.

So for my readers: you need to know Ferguson isn't as far away as it seems. Ferguson happens, just a little, every time we choose anger instead of grace, every time we speak harshly, every time we withhold forgiveness, every time we grab for what's "rightly ours" instead of offering what we're privileged to give.  And every time we assume the worst about what another person is going to do.

Today, you have the opportunity to love other people.

Every time you hear about Ferguson, every time you read a status about it or listen to the radio or overhear a conversation, take a moment to commit to love. To assert your desire to hope, to believe the best about other people, to give instead of grab, to be patient, and kind, to not be rude, to seek the good of others and not yourself...

Every Sunday, my church celebrates communion. Someone prays. We drink juice. We eat crackers. And we sit quietly for several long minutes waiting on everybody else.

While that sounds like a pretty ordinary, not particularly special routine, it's actually one of the most consistently magical moments of my week. That is, when I remember to think magical thoughts...

Communion depends SO MUCH on what's going on inside our heads and hearts. The act of eating and drinking is transformed when it's backed up with remembering, discerning, hoping, and proclaiming.

Unfortunately, that's easier said than done. Too often I find myself thinking about lunch or my kids or where I put the checkbook.

If, like me, you've ever struggled to stay on task while the trays go round, consider this list of communion thought-focusing prompts:

1. Look Back.

When Jesus eats the Passover meal with his apostles, the meal later appropriated by Christians, He tells them to "do this in remembrance of me."

So, communion (like the Passover celebration) is a time to remember what's God's done in the past.

Often I'll use this time to thank Jesus for rescue, listing His past victories over sin and darkness in my life and the lives of people I love.

My husband and I make a habit of answering this prompt during our communion reflections: "Because Jesus died and rose again..." I've filled in that blank a hundred ways: Because Jesus died I'm not mean and lonely (like I was before). Because Jesus died, my parents stayed married even when it was hard. Because Jesus died, I don't mind it when the money's tight. This week, just after we'd passed the bread, my husband whispered to me, "Because Jesus died and rose again, I feel like I've never sinned."

2. Look Around .

In I Corinthians chapters 10 and 11, the apostle Paul makes it clear communion is a whole-body activity. Yes, we commune with God in it, but we also commune or share with one another. When we ignore each other during communion, we're ignoring the power of the multiplied presence of God in His assembled people.

Often, I'll spend the communion period praying for my brothers and sisters in the room. I'll thank God for them by name and ask God to show me how best to love them. In this way, I'm remembering the connecting work of the cross, asking God to help me fully embrace and bless His children.

You might jot these words on the back of your bulletin: "The cross connects me to...." And then list the people you see. As you write each name, make room for the Spirit to convict you. You may need to make amends, apologize, encourage or help one of the people on your list.

One of the primary purposes of communion is to create unity in the body. Let your thoughts lead you toward deeper connection.

3. Look Ahead.

My favorite part in the very spare description of the first Lord's Supper is when Jesus says one day we'll eat the communion meal together--He and I and us. All of us.

Communion is a moment when we "proclaim the Lord's death til he comes." Because He's coming. Because Christ's death on a cross opened a portal between here and there, now and then. His death made possible my death to sin, and His resurrection made possible my new life with Him.

So, sometimes I  spend communion dreaming about what isn't yet but one day will be. I think about what it'll be like to have finally, once and for all, vanquished the sin in my life. I think about broken bodies healed. About not crying. I think about perfect peace.

The next time you take communion ask yourself, What will be different when I drink this new with Christ in the kingdom of God? And then let yourself get really, really happy.

--

What about you? Do you have any go-to communion thoughts, ways to keep your mind focused, or helpful filters for understanding what we're doing as we eat and drink?

Share below in the comments. I'm excited to hear your ideas!

What I wrote in our family album tonight upon discovering all the photos from London's birthday party (except one) had been erased...

Today we celebrated London's seventh birthday. She's seven. A beautiful, independent, wisening seven. She planned a party at the peacock park in Austin, planned it months ago. She and I imagined kids en plein aire drawing peacocks, collecting feathers, breathing the wild air. We bought peacock napkins and pink goldfish crackers. We woke this morning to 40 degrees and wet skies. I watched London's face fall. She worried and worried over lunch. What if it rains?  And I worried, too, because it was already raining and I had no rainy day plan. Alas. So we packed up the party stuff and drove it to the church building and I tried to set up something special in a big empty building, and I called every guest and I rushed and I bossed and I didn't have time to let London "design" the fruit plate. I grabbed the camera two minutes before guests arrived, and I tried to make her smile beside her cookies in a room with no peacocks and no feathers and no smell of green. She strained at the smiling. The party went okay. Kids came: Micah, Sienna, Nola, Katie Grace, Evie and Henry, Kate and Hope, Joshua and Skylyn... Adult friends came, too: Eric and Jodi brought origami animals. We watched a movie on the big screens in the auditorium and drank hot chocolate with whipped cream out of tiny Starbucks cups like London likes. We searched for paper feathers. We painted peacocks from the images of peacocks in our heads. As I experienced it, largely from behind a camera, it seemed a little flat and not what I'd hoped. But looking back, I see London running with friends through the halls. I see her biting her bottom lip while she focuses her eyes and balances her brush. I see a smile plastered across her face as she opens presents perfect for the kid she is, evidence of being known, loved. I took a lot of pictures today--a lot of them posed--trying to force the day into something better than I thought it could be. I liked the pictures, and they'd be here on this page if I hadn't lost them all. But I did lose them. And all I have to remember London's seventh birthday is one snapshot from a phone and a few pictures of details strewn at this very moment across my kitchen counters and floors. I cried when I lost the pictures. Because I really do love pictures. And I'm not apologetic about that. I grabbed a picture of London and Eve that I'd really liked. And one of London with her art. And the picture of all the kids with their hands on London's head and shoulders and arms as we prayed for her and the girl God's making her into. I'm sad not to have those pictures. But I'm glad I didn't have any pictures to put on this page. Because it meant I had to use words, and words are more honest and precise. Today was a beautiful day. It was a celebration of a little girl I love so much I could explode. But it wasn't much better than yesterday when she and I got lost in Angie's neighborhood and had to stop and pray for God to help us find our way, and London suggested that perhaps we were lost because we'd accidentally travelled back in time. And it wasn't better than tonight when London and Eve and Justin and I cuddled on the couch watching The Gabby Douglass Movie and eating pizza. Sometimes special days are special. And sometimes they're not as special as we'd hoped. That's okay. Our life with London is sprinkled with special, sprinkled liberally the way she sprinkles chocolate pieces on her fancy hot chocolate.

This year for Halloween my girls dressed up as Wyld Style and Unikitty from the Lego Movie. They decided on those costumes in June. By August they'd made sketches.

Halloween is pretty huge in our home. Not the spooky stuff or the candy. Just the costumes. The girls LOVE costumes. And I love making costumes.

One year I made Eve a Cookie Monster costume and let her eat all the chocolate chip cookies she could stand.

Last year London was Glinda the Good Witch, and she almost exploded with giddiness.

I work for more than a month planning, gathering what I need, and crafting before the big day. My costumes aren't the best (I can't really sew too well), but they are always exactly what my daughters want.

I take their wishes seriously.

This year, as is my custom, I dressed the girls for a Halloween morning photo shoot. London needed hair paint and makeup. Eve needed a lot of makeup. Thirty minutes worth. She and I sat at the table, me painting, her laughing. When I finished, she was overjoyed.

Both girls said, "This is perfect."

They put their shoes on.

I said, "Let's get in the car."

And then it started...

London's pants were too loose. She didn't like the way they hung. She cried. I helped her adjust them.

Eve didn't like the way her tail hung. She cried. We pinned it to her jacket instead of her pants. The crying dimmed.

Then Eve tripped. And the crying flared.

Eve decided she didn't like the way her horn attached to her head. I helped her change it. She liked it, but couldn't stop crying.

Now she didn't want to get in the car. I carried her. Still crying.

In the car the crying escalated to full-blown, all out, weeping.

Eve: "Mom (sob), I'm soooo suh-orry (sniff, sniff). I don't know why I'm crying (more uncontrollable crying). But I can't stoooooooop. (wah....)."

After five minutes of crying, Eve was a mess. Black paint covered her palms. White paint dripped down her cheeks.

London told her she looked horrible. And the weeping reached an even further level of intensity.

--

Here's why I'm telling you this story:

In that moment, I should have been furious. I'd spent two months getting these costumes ready. They were exactly what the girls wanted. Here it was Halloween day, a day Eve had made me count down to on the calendar, and she couldn't stop complaining, whining, and crying.

I had every reason to lose it.

But I didn't.

I walked into the house, got a damp paper towel, and tenderly wiped makeup off Eve's face. I said, "Let's skip the photo shoot. How about we go to the park?" She smiled. I said, "Let's have Chick-fil-a for lunch." And she smiled more.

I took a sip of my coffee and climbed into the front seat and was amazed to realize I wasn't stressed out or frustrated or even bothered.

"Who am I?" I wondered.

--

I have been praying for God to fill me with the Holy Spirit and grow in my heart the fruit of the Spirit almost every day for the last three years. I say, "God, grow in me love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control."

I pray for it because I am convinced, convinced by previous years of slow and faltering progress, that only God can give it. I can't love on my own, not His way. So I pray He'd teach me to love.

And the wild thing, the thing that's blowing my mind, is that He's actually, really doing it.

That moment with Eve isn't an anomaly. Often I find myself being a better person than the person I am should be.

I'm more patient than I've ever been. I'm full of joy even when it doesn't make sense. And I'm doing the hard work of resolving conflict and making genuine peace even though I hate the process and don't want to do it at all.

And all of that is the answer to a prayer.

For me, it's the prayer that changed everything.

I read Galatians last night and found this: "But by faith we eagerly await through the Spirit the righteousness for which we hope." (5:5)

And I recognized that waiting--waiting for God to turn us into who He wants us to be.

I'm not perfect. You know that. I know it better. But I am growing. And bearing fruit. I'm seeing God lead me into righteousness, right-living, and I am delighted.

It's not as hard now to make the right choice. I'm not always fighting the flesh's first impulse. More and more, the Spirit responds first, pushing the desires of the flesh aside.

Praise the Lord.

I won't, I can't stop praying for fruit. Because it's one prayer I know God answers every time.

I want you to pray it, too. Because, why wouldn't you? It's magic.

Trust God to make you better than you ought to be.

Pray:

God, fill me with your Spirit. Grow in me the fruit of your Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control...

And wait with open hands.

--

I realized as I finished this post and re-read it, that what God does for me is a lot like what I do for my girls at Halloween.

When I look at myself and see someone who isn't quite me, someone better, I'm actually seeing the righteousness of Christ; I'm clothed by God in Christ.

Costumed.

When my girls pick their costumes I have only one rule: It must in some way represent who they are on the inside. For us, Halloween costumes aren't disguises, they're revelations. A peek behind the curtain.

Every year my church hosts a fall festival on Halloween. And every year we welcome close to 1,000 visitors. These are not people from our church. They're people from our neighborhood. Some of them aren't wearing very much clothing. Some of them try to steal extra candy when you aren't looking. And some of them dress up like the devil.

Every year I am so glad they've come.

This year I manned the temporary tattoo booth. I dressed up like a tattoo artist, displayed my pumpkin and bat tattoos, and welcomed child after child.

What I hadn't thought about when I'd signed up for tattoos is how intensely intimate it would be. See, as the tattoo artist, it's my job to place the tattoo on the customer's body. I lift my sponge to his cheek or forearm, push against the tattoo and her skin, water dripping, Halloween makeup running. I put down the sponge and place my palm against his hand or neck. And I hold it there for twenty long seconds.

For twenty seconds I held a child's hand (a hundred children's hands), a grandmother's neck, a baby's face. I touched complete strangers. I told them how beautiful they looked. How tough or scary. I laughed with their friends standing by. I looked in two hundred big, brown eyes and smiled. Every time I smiled.

Because it wasn't awkward at all. It was beautiful.

I talked to a friend later that night; she'd taken over after my shift. I said, "It's so personal, right? Putting those tattoos on people's bodies?" And she'd smiled and said, "I loved it."

Me, too.

Recently I heard a real tattoo artist talking about his craft, about how so much of what he does is relational. About how he spends hours with strangers, touching their bodies, making art of their most beautiful, tragic stories.

And I thought of God. God sitting beside me, me watching His hands, Him touching me, making art of my joys and hurts.

A long time ago God told the prophet Jeremiah to go to the potter's house. God told him, “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, Israel."

I've felt that hand.

It's the personal, lingering touch of love.

I've felt it in joy. In long lists of thanksgiving. In warm words from my husband's lips. In hugs from my girls.

But most often I feel it in suffering. When I'm suffering the consequences of my own bad choices or the consequences of someone else's. When I'm enduring what I didn't think I could endure but find I can with Christ. When I'm pushed to the very edge of my comfort zone or fuse or patience. 

It's in those moments I feel God's hands pressed against me, shaping me, changing me.

And it's in those moments when I experience God most powerfully.

Lately I've been walking through easier days, and truth be told, I've missed the intimacy I experience in trial. The other day I prayed about the house I'm selling, and I told God, "Obviously I'd like You to sell the house right now. But if You don't, if it takes a long time to sell and the money gets tight, I'll enjoy our time together."