Loving Well & Daring Greatly

I sit across from him in the car as we drive casually on a Sunday - the trees bursting with green song, a light rain shower dancing in the windows, a wide eyed six-year-old in the backseat gazing out into springtime as it passes. I look over at this man in the driver seat and our eyes click as we smile, speaking love and gratitude with silence. Throughout the day those moments keep happening - I can’t help but look at him in wonder. It was if we exhaled that weekend, letting all the heavy that we’d been carrying through this transition go, and let rest guide us down the rhythm of this new normal. 

New normal. That’s an interesting saying isn’t it? I’ve never been one for normal until the past couple years when I discovered that routine and normal didn’t mean boring and lifeless. In fact the normal that I see fading into the background was a glorious chapter - laced with deep relationship building with women I hope to know throughout, the discovery of myself and what I love and want, the acceptance and celebration of a slow and mindful life practice. It was reading alone with a glass of wine, bike rides just because, and a lot of Friday nights at home alone. It was lonely and it was perfect. The loneliness gave me space to become. 

It’s dinnertime, and the six-year-old is kneeling on a chair across from me stirring the veggies to coat them in oil - their giggles filling their air as I catch my breath at the beauty of their wide grin. Happiness is floating through the downstairs of the townhouse, beating along to the sound of The Lumineers. Before I know it, I’m hand in hand with Jonathan spinning around the tight quarters of the kitchen. Our rhythms match more with each step we take together, I notice. I feel light, and silly, and his sparkling eyes crease with humor and love. So much love. Soon the three of us are bouncing in circles, dancing together as a triad and my sides are aching with joy. The song ends and dinner preparations continue as we slide around each other gracefully, playfully, as if we’d done it already many times. A new normal blending with old rhythms of food and family and simply being. 

There is so much breath in this new place, so much deep resonating inhalation as I try to slowly soak it all up as it comes, making new space in myself to celebrate this unexpected but most anticipated moment. It isn’t all magical. In fact most of it is made up of the incredibly real, hard, vulnerable there is still dirty laundry in the basket and dishes in the sink kind of new normal. It is the normal of falling asleep before the movie is over because work and kids and life has sucked everything out of us for the day - but it doesn’t matter because it is the most comfortable place in the world. It is messy - this new place - and it is glorious. It is full of laughter, and joy, and love, and tears, and healing. This new normal is what lights hope for the still healing heart - because sometimes normal is what we need after a storm. Sometimes normal is the greatest adventure of all. 

We sit on the bed, the three of us, pillows propped up against the wall, a favorite cartoon on the screen to wind us all down for the night. He weaves his arm around his sweet boy and finds my hand as I snuggle into a giant stuffed elephant - a moment later a tiny hand gently places itself on top of ours. A silent moment of innocent support of what is - a snippet of magic and truth and light amongst it all. 

A little less than two weeks left here, in the decade that may be the most formative of adulthood. I’ve been writing these reflections in some medium since 21, and now here we sit at the cusp of the end of the ten years that have excited, challenged, broken, molded, and made me. Honestly? I feel ready to move on. 

Plenty has happened this year. I started working at the job that would confirm my vocation as a teacher of all things garden and cooking. I celebrated two years in the same apartment - the longest I have lived anywhere during my 20′s. I said some hard goodbyes to once dear friends in exchange for healthier living, and I grew closer with my more recent friends who are the people I’ve wished for all my life. I cried a lot more than I have ever, maybe - something I like to believe is proof of my healing. And I stopped being afraid of confronting my anxiety and now call it for what it is. 

I fell more in love with my quirkiness, despite still having to work through insecurities. I did a lot of kitchen dancing, and living room dancing, and frolicking down sidewalks with little humans beside me. I took a chance and fell in love again - and this time my heart says it’s a good and true one. I am still learning that it is okay not to have all the answers all the time, and that being afraid of the unknown is natural. 

But mostly, I learned to breathe again. I learned to open my hands from tightly formed fists around my life, and faced my palms up to the sky. I am learning to cradle things with hope and gentleness while I cling only to Jesus. I am learning every day how to love people better by trying my best in meeting them where they are at. I am also learning how to tell people what I need - because I’m coming to learn that my feelings and desires are also valid. I have learned that I still want what I’ve always wanted - a family and adventure... which I some how believe I can still have both of. I have learned that I still really don’t like green peppers on my pizza, and chocolate peanut butter ice cream with forever reign. 

I have learned that I like to quietly celebrate myself becoming older in front of the ocean, as year after year I seem to end up there - no matter which country I am in. I like to stare out the massive expanse of water that holds more life than anything visible to those above it - and I think of how small I am, and let my worries be pulled out with the tide. I like to let the sea air cleanse me in silence as I run towards the water, arms open, and feel the foamed waves splash up against my calves as my toes sink into the coastal sands. The ocean is where I am reborn again and again. 

I don’t have much advice going out. Maybe just - “hang in there.” And of course, these truths - May you always remember in the most challenging of moments that will come your way:  

You are always enough. You are never too much. You are doing the best you can. Your worth is found in Jesus alone. 

To the last few days of 29, and a new decade of adventure on this earth. May it be a little more gentle, full of more celebration and new beginnings, and full of the unexpected joy abounding. 

Every day that damn memory thing pops up on Facebook. Some days I find my smile to see things from the past few years - photos of the littles I’ve worked with, memories with my newest and best of friends, even the noticeable change in myself and my writing. But some how I continue to scroll and scroll until I hit years I’d rather just forget about quite honestly. Maybe that is the point of this time capsule’s creation made by some nostalgic driven Facebook employee - to remind us of our whole story. 

Too bad I’m not so nostalgic for that portion. 

If I could describe the feeling at all - it would be grief. A sharp sorrow for the person that lived then, a girl I can barely recognize at all now. Grief for the person who drove so many of her heartbroken posts and bittersweet world adventures. Painful regret for what seemed to be, but wasn’t. Grief for the cheapness that so many of those memories seem to hold now. 

I remember moving back to the states and sobbing with relief and deep confusion as I touched down, five years ago in just a few weeks. I remember feeling like the weight of the world was on my heart as I closed the door to the studio apartment I had found - a borrowed bed on the floor, an old bean bag in the corner, some dishes, and a couple of suitcases full of clothes not suitable for Portland weather. I remember looking around at my mediocre belongings, wondering where my whole life had gone to - where was the home I had built, where was the love I was promised, where was I?

Sometimes new beginnings don’t feel as exciting as you would hope.

Even when there are people to greet you, and new opportunities awaiting exploration - there is a sadness that tinges the unpacking of boxes when you start over. The grief train - it has a mind of it’s own and can move forward and backwards in your life whenever it damn well pleases. Sucks, doesn’t it? All it makes me want to do is say, “well fuck you, you stupid grief! You weren’t supposed to make any appearances anymore! But well, whatever, if you’re here, I guess come in,” and now, I let it in. I let it in, and I just feel it for what it is. Whether it’s about a long lost relationship, or a little I never held, or the memory that hurts more than breathing - I just let it wash me and I keep walking as it does. No trying to fix it, or change it, or make it better. And grief and I go on our stroll until it decides it’s too tired to keep up any longer. 

That’s the thing about grief, it really just needs some acknowledgement and most the time, it’ll go on it’s way. And I’ve found that each time it reappears, it tends to stay for a little less of a visit. Suddenly, months go by full of laughter and lightheartedness and gratitude because I realize I’ve accepted my new self and my new life for those moments. And then maybe grief comes around again and I take a few steps backwards, and you know? It’s OK. 

Today I read this on a blog I follow and she said this,  

“Your life WILL be different. Whatever you lost: A person, a love, a job, a limb, a dream, your way…it will be different. There’s no minimizing that. But accepting that there’s no minimizing that and choosing to keep putting one foot in front of the other anyway…THAT’S when the amazing part is going to kick in. Realizing that the worst has happened, or at least the very bad has happened, and you SURVIVED. You survived and you felt and you lived it and you didn’t run from it or try and turn it into some glittery “aha!” moment…BUT YOU ENDURED AND YOU PREVAILED.”

I think I’ll leave it at that. That there is this reminder in the heart-aching grief that you endured and prevailed - and now? Now you are doing the very best you can, and that grace is always sufficient, and that hope is very much alive. 

Friends, may we always remember, even on the hardest of days, there is so much joy ahead. 

“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they are never weakness.” Brene Brown

We’re driving down the freeway back from Eugene, rain pelting the windshield and the anxiety of the downpour is distracting me from my chest, which has been cut open to expose a raw and beating heart. I am listening to words from my boyfriend, vulnerable and honest words of what was, what is, and what he hopes will be. Tears are in both our eyes - neither of us have pasts that are comfortable to speak openly about, but he holds my hand in a reassuring way that says, “I am in this, and I’m not going anywhere right now.” 

This is the struggle. 

Five years ago in May my former partner walked away from me over a phone call  - this means that this year is the year I have been apart from them as long as we were together. If I am honest, it is terribly difficult to wrap my brain around that. Five years of healing should be plenty, right? Five years of protecting myself in a nice blocked off corner, walls sky high, risks at an all time low. Also five years of discovering who I was without someone defining that for me. Five years without a boyfriend telling me I was awful, pushing me around, and manipulating me emotionally and mentally. Five years of high mountains, a lot of valleys I thought I might die in, and then - eventually - some light. 

So I should be good, right? Healing all done, grieving finished, pieces all put back together so well that no cracks or seams or scars can be seen?

Fourish months ago is when Jonathan and I came upon each other, and it has been a soul-baring whirlwind. I am blissfully in love, it’s true. But as the days pass, I am learning that the love I was looking for all along is not all sunshine and rainbows and kissing in the rain - some of it, but not all. It is hard work. It is talking openly and honestly about the fears, and what is holding us up. It is showing parts of myself on purpose and on accident that can leave me scrambling, or hiding, or worse, attempting to pull away. It is the love that scares the shit out of me - and then makes me want it all the more. It is a love that creates space for my vulnerability so I can be honest and brave. It’s a love I’ve been preparing for, I realize, because I’ve seen it in deep conversations with my parents, my best friends, and in meditation. It’s the love full of grace that says, “you are beautiful, even this part.” It’s the love that has breathed life back into me via so many people and quiet moments - the love that reminds me that hope is not dead in the least. It is the love that says, “Get up! It’s a new day,” every morning, even when anxiety is attempting to suffocate me. It is the love that has been healing me. 

If I am honest, I didn’t think I needed anymore of this love. There was a time in this past year that I wiped my hands and said, “great! I’m all healed up. I’ll probably be alone forever, but at least I am put back together.” 

Ha. 

Now I’m sitting here staring at my open chest, and I can still see the cracks, and that scar from that one time. I can see too, that there are a few pieces still missing - but less than before. I can see where people who have loved me well in these past five years have placed the pieces they picked up back into their slots. And, I’m reminded, I haven’t done this alone. I’m reminded we were never meant to walk in any sort of grief and healing by ourselves - and that God speaks so sweetly and clearly sometimes through people. Maybe we don’t realize it’s God right away, and we’re still staring up at the sky wondering why he’s been so quiet - but then a lightbulb. 

I’m so thankful I found people who continue to be here amidst the best days and the worst. I’m so thankful that when I am ugly crying again, they aren’t asking, “aren’t you all finished with that yet?” I’m so thankful that these people know that growing and healing fully is more important than comfort. 

Tonight I hope you can hear that you don’t have to have your shit together to move onto something beautiful and exciting. And I hope you know that when you hit the hard days, where old memories have you on the floor in the fetal position with tears running off your face, that there are people in these new chapters that aren’t afraid of your past. It will never be comfortable - but when they say they aren’t going anywhere just because it’s hard right now - I hope so much we can believe them together. They might be one of those people to put another shard of your heart back in its place, and we’ll just have to trust them with that. We are all after all, all better in this together. 

Last night I rode up to our community building, endorphins striding through my body, and I felt excited and completely relaxed about the impending night. It was a shift in my demeanor, because if I was quite honest I would tell you that I had been feeling drained and grumpy in the days leading up to it. As we set up, I found our volunteer numbers to be a little less due to sickness and conflicting obligations, an emergency room trip. “I’m not worried,” I said out loud, “the numbers always balance themselves out.” 

My friend showed up with her husband, and with them they brought a fresh faced ten year old, who smiled up at me with her cool asymmetrical hair cut and bright pink outfit. She was older than ten already, bold and well adjusted - maybe given the life that she has been living - her independent and positive personality radiated out of her. 

A while later, one of our long term regular kiddos, saw me as I stood by the door until everyone was inside, and ran over and side hug squeezed me with excitement in her eyes. We chatted for a bit, and I reminded her that we missed them when they were gone last month. “Me too,” she says, “but we were at the beach!” (cue big grin) I have watched her grow over the past couple years from being sweet and a little timid, to being sweet and strong with an opinion and some amazing facial expressions of her own. But her most defining quality is patience. The oldest of a mishmash of siblings, she dons a gentle but firm grace. 

I watched again over the tables as our evening got into full swing and found one girl sitting, staring off into space, her face downturned. Tonight, her older sister had transitioned into the upper tween/teen group. “Are you feeling sad about her moving up out of our group?” Big alligator tears welled up and her tiny nose crinkled, “Yes,” she said, her voice cracking. “Do you need a side hug?” I ask. In a moment she is up out of her seat and her arms are awkwardly around me, with her head pressed up against mine and I can feel her eyes close as she exhales. This girl is not in foster care, but a sibling to many that come through her home. She has learned more about the world in the 8 1/2 years she has been alive than most adults know currently. She tells me about how they have been struggling with a new placement, “It’s awful,” she says, “I hate it.” I remind her it’s OK to feel those things, that it sounds so very hard. “It’s a good thing we all have each other to feel that way together with,” I say. Shaking her head, “Yes,” she whispers. 

Throughout the rest of the night I will interact in silly and serious ways with dozens of these babies. In the hard moments I wish we could embrace them fully, but boundaries are important here. Nevertheless, those three girls I talked about above were laughing and smiling together in play by the midpoint in the evening. I am reminded by them, that our ability to give them a safe space to be as they are, and our actual physical presence speaks louder than a hug maybe ever can. 

There is nothing wrong with the children. They radiate brilliance, and love, and hope. They are stronger than most of us. They will go into this world with a knowledge and grace only discovered in the midst of difficult trials. But I pray that they will find themselves remembering the little moments - even if just for a few minutes - that there were some people who they can’t remember the names of, that were standing in the gap giving them space to just be. I hope that they might know how much they teach me about gratitude, and resilience, and how hope is very much alive. 

There will be a day when my home is full of children who need a warm place to lay their head in the middle of desperate and trying circumstances. For now, this place is where I can do what I can. But if you are able, I’d ask you to consider becoming a foster parent. There are more kids than beds, and they are in desperate need of warm arms who will let them come in as they are to just be kids. 

I’m laying on my bed, listening to the answer to a question I asked upon feeling a nudge from my intuition. I am listening, but old scar tissue is being scratched and stretched, and the lies and the fears start clouding my mind. I keep listening, but sobs are silently starting to quake over my body as tears stream down my face, “you are too much,” the lies say. “You love too much,” they say again. I am listening but I am lost in myself all at once. These moments are too familiar to me, the ache pulls me into a fetal position and I want to press them down and away - this eruption of old pains - but the healed part of me screams back, “just be here with me, this will pass.”

Just be here with me. 

I am standing over the sink of dishes. Tonight, there are a weekend’s worth staring back at me. Usually avoided, I choose instead to commit myself. In the meditative movements: soap, scrub, rinse, repeat I find a bit of solace. Simplicity in this large mound of muck, asking me to stop and take notice - requiring me to just be here. 

I have never been one for slow movements. I moved through my childhood and young adult years and rapid fire pace: “Now can I?” “What’s next?” “Can I move on to the next thing?” were common phrases of my vernacular. Always behind my peers because of moving up a grade, I found myself in a constant yearning to hurry up and catch up. There were never moments to sit still, and then all of a sudden it was over. Those habits followed me hard into my adult life and adult relationships. “Just being here,” was never enough. I had to be moving forward at all times. If things started to feel stagnant or even momentarily still, panic ensued. It made life exciting, as I moved around the globe and can’t count how many homes I’ve lived in on my fingers anymore. It also broke me. I crash landed out of that life about five years ago. 

Since then I’ve been learning how to slow down and ask questions like, “Am I enjoying myself?” “Is this what I really want?” “What does that rose smell like?” Some of my friends think I’m crazy, as I lag behind in the early summer evenings smelling every rose I pass by. “Look!” I’ll say as I point up at the crazy shaped clouds, or the way the sun is setting behind the hills. But I can’t help it, some of these things I swear I’m seeing for the very first time after almost three decades of being alive. What else have I missed by never stopping?

A year ago I committed myself back to the mat, and have developed an early morning yoga routine. A while back a friend posted a new but old idea, to give up distractions and commit to being present with our loved ones to, “Just be here with me.” A few months later, they posted it again for another round. Slowly, the idea started to resonate in my head. But then I began to wonder, why didn’t I just want to be here with myself?

Just being here requires I take note of everything - the good, the bad, the ugly cries. It means I can’t brush the hard stuff away. It means I practice active listening. It means I have to face the day, and keep my hands open and up. I have to slow down, take some breaths, and face the music - whatever that music might be singing in those moments. 

Let me tell you - it’s not as fun as one would think. It’s not all sunshine and roses and rainbows - though sometimes it is. It’s a lot of, “ughs” and “Oh, crap. I’m sorry!” and figuring out what triggers are bringing up what crap and then figuring out how to deal. It’s learning to say yes to emotions and no to the lies. It’s learning to love and accept people for where they are at - for reals. 

Just be here with me. 

Even when me isn’t who you like, but who you are learning to love. Even when me is telling you all sorts of crazy stories, and forcing you to grow some serious emotional muscles. Even when just being here is taking a giant step back. At first you think it’s moving backwards in progress, but then eventually you realize you can see the bigger picture and it takes your breath away. 

I’m sitting over a giant seed tray. Sniffing back my tears, emotions in high gear - one seed in each slot, cover with dirt, repeat. I marvel a little as these little seeds speak their language to me, as I plant them in hopes of a new beginning: 

“Just be here with me,” they say. 

This afternoon I cleaned out the refrigerator. For the past week a smell had been blooming at a stronger rate every time we opened the door, and I had gladly put it at the bottom of my todo list. Because - gross. But finally I dove in, moving through weeks of forgotten leftovers and packages of... well who knows what. As I looked at the growing mess of stuff on the floor I started to feel this creeping sense of shame. How could I, educator of all things homemade and homegrown, let this happen? What did that say about who I was as a person?

I know, you’re reading this thinking, “Jesse, it’s just a fridge. Everyone does this. No one actually eats every single bit of their leftovers. It has nothing to do with who you are.” 

I know that. But for a moment the anxiety that was born out of working through that mess and visualizing the failure of food waste started a new narrative in my head. I began to make up stories that were made up of more false truths than real ones - and you know... for a second I believed them. 

We all do that in our lives, don’t we? Whatever mess it is we are walking through, whether it be our entire life or just a part of it, can easily become a catalyst for self destructive talk. Soon the anxiety, which as an emotion is not a bad thing (we all want to feel) gives way to beliefs about ourselves and paralyzes us in the narratives: “you aren’t good enough.” “You aren’t enough.” “You are too much.” “You did this. You are a failure.” “You are stupid, how could you do this?” “This is why they left.” “You are broken.” “All that you are is a mess.” “You know, no one could love this.” 

Whoosh. 

Let’s take a deep breath, the kind that I teach my students, “smell the cake deeply, blow out the candles.” Repeat until you can see straight again. 

Those are hard statements to read for me. Because they aren’t full of any sort of hope, truth, or light. Who would say those things? Oh wait...

I would. 

My life, in the past, was pretty shitty for a while. And for a long time, I blamed myself for all the garbage that happened or that was done to me. So much so that I let it stay a secret for a long time. I refused to acknowledge or accept that there were also other people involved in the failures. I didn’t know how to separate emotions from what I was believing, and I never - ever - wanted to talk about it. I had decided that all I was, was a failure and a screw up, and too needy - and those were the reasons no one would stick around. I let the mess take over and tell me the lie that all I was - was that - a broken mess. 

It has taken a while, and a lot of mornings where waking up wanting to face the day felt too hard - but I chose to get up anyway. And every day I try my best to choose health and healing. In this time I have learned that what I came to believe about myself was untrue. 

I was not my mess. Who you are is not your mess.

I was not just broken. You are not only broken. 

That is not who we are. We are image bearers of light. We are children of a God who breathed life into us when we were dust. We are imperfect and beautiful and accepted as we are, where we are - every single day. 

We are not only our messes. 

Say it to yourself, “I am not my mess.” Say it again. 

Healing is hard work. Choosing health over flippant living can sometimes feel pretty lame and exhausting. But what a gift this life is, even when it is difficult to see that truth - there are others around who will help remind you. You are a gift, and we need you around. 

When I’m having conversations with myself or friends as we walk through the messes that will absolutely continue to show up in our lives as we go, I remind us to say our four truths: 

“I am always enough.”

“I am never too much.”

“You are doing the best you can. Grant yourself grace.”

“Your identity and worth lie only in Jesus. No one else.”

As we go into this week I hope you find a glimmer of hope. I hope you take deep breaths in the winter air and remember you are alive, that your heart is beating. I hope that no matter where you are, whether summiting a mountain in celebration, or walking through a dark valley of death, that you will remember how loved you are. And I hope that we can continue to speak kindly to one another and remind each other that what is happening in our lives does not define who we are. 

There are words floating around my head - whispers that came off lips and surrounded my soul as I gazed out from the warmth at the deep white powder piling over the sidewalks. I swear I can still feel the place where fingers rested as we opened this door into this new year adventure with classic films, slow mornings, and laughter vibrating across the room. 

I want to say I have felt this before, done this before, been here in this place before - I want to say I know what should be said and done and which order they should be placed in. But I don’t. Nothing like this has ever crossed over my heart and encompassed me with such newness, familiarity, and excitement all at once. There have been prior chapters in this life that I would have thought would be comparable, thus giving me some rest in the minor anxieties born out of the unknowns. And yet, there is nothing. And I am glad. 

As I sat on your couch, wrapped in a blanket soaking in the words of the book you gave me sitting by the tree on the first day of this year, I glanced up for a moment watching you rest and reveled in the comfort of the your presence in the silence. The newness of it all feeling like a deep breath followed by a slow and peaceful exhale. These are the moments that you never get back, so fleeting and quick the beginnings - so I pay attention the every miniature detail and imprint it on my mind. The choice to slow down, to soak it in, to let it be as it is right now and not force it to be anything it isn’t ready to. The choice to let a once broken and closed off heart speak in such ways again. The choice to let it sit upon open hands - not hiding it or suffocating it by squeezing too tightly. The choice to choose you.

And so this not so random encounter has become a beautiful adventure with plenty of blank pages to fill - and with it comes the inspiration to make 2016 the year formed by thoughtful and loving choices. May my choices reflect the joy, and peace, and grace I have been gifted - mostly, may they continue to lead me to people like you who teach me how to love deeply and more truly by being such reflections of the light. 

Yesterday I fell off my bike. Twice. It hurt, and felt a little weird since it hardly ever happens, but I was still thrilled to be out in the sunshine. The risk of riding over the icy streets was worth it - even though I woke up in more pain this morning.

I’ve been falling a lot lately, not out of clumsiness, though I have some bruises to show off. But rather, I’ve been falling because I’ve thrown a lot of caution to the wind - not all of it - but a good percentage. And you know - despite the bumps and bouts of anxiety - I’m probably happier than I was a few years ago. Not because of circumstances, because I’ve learned that change is never far off. No, I’m happier because I’ve learned to jump again. 

When we get burned in life, when the winds shift and a job/love/dream is blown out of our hands like a piece of paper never to be seen again, it can be hard to not crawl under a rock in a tiny tight ball and never wish to join the world again. I think there is a time for that - but eventually you have to come out because you need food, water, Vitamin D. And then you run into a dream you forgot about while you are sitting back in the sunlight, and suddenly that lost thing doesn’t seem like the end after all. 

When I found my rediscovered dreams a couple years ago there was only space for them because another had been stripped away that I was still recovering from; and the others came about because I decided to fail and set some things down that I realized I wasn’t made for. After pondering these renewed ideas for a bit I started pursuing and chasing and jumping over hurdles towards them. Between then and now - I’ve fallen a ton, cried even more, and almost lost hope that my heart could handle it. Even as I sit with my dreams in my open hand, gazing at them and all they could become, I still have moments of doubt. 

But I keep learning: falling requires taking a leap of faith. Sometimes you hit the ground. Gravity is shitty like that. But sometimes, even if just for a minute, you are flying. Sometimes all it takes is a happy thought, some magical dust, and the belief that you could defy what others have told you is impossible. 

On this final day of the year, as I look around at my life and watch myself falling in love in so many places, I want to say nothing but the magical words that sparks the twinkle in my eye: 

I do believe. I do. I do. 

I often lay here on the floor waiting for words to come out of all the jumble that sits in my heart. Tonight the words initially feel sparse. Though it also feels as if there are thousands more that want to come rushing out of me, disregarding every hesitation. That’s kind of always been my problem - speaking before thinking; never stopping to think before I dive straight into a brand new adventure. It’s how I ended up half way across the world from my home several times. My whole life I’ve been terrible at waiting patiently for things to just come as they will, and so I’ve forced many of them. And yet, in the last half of my twenties, I think whether it be from experience or divine intervention (I’m guessing both) patience might be the only nugget of wisdom I’ve panned out of this rapid filled river I’ve been on. 

                                                             ***

I’m staring up at the candles lit on the table glowing softly into the nativity scene, their Advent names: Hope and Joy. Next to them, a vase of pure white flowers given as a gift this weekend. 

Hope and Joy. 

It took me a good long while to reignite my hope in anything when I first returned to Portland. When one finds themselves in the beginning stages of grief, living in survival mode, hope is often the furthest thing from their mind. But as the years have worn on, and I round the bend to year five of calling this home, a great hope has taken the place of bitterness and brokenness. A great hope I have found in the darkest depths of my healing - when facing the demons of my past that rear their ugly stupid heads on my weakest and most exhausted hours. A great hope in the eyes of all the children that pass through my classes and care. A great hope in my community where my roots grow deeper with every passing moment. A great hope in the form of a tiny baby that came bursting onto the scene, through a serious bad ass teenage girl,to be the catalyst for flipping this entire world upside down. In Him, I find great hope in even the dimmest of circumstances. 

And as hope has burned brighter, it fed my faith that grew until a deep resounding joy radiated my soul. It is a joy that lingers as I breathe deeply on my mat in the mornings; a joy that reminds me of sweet grace; a joy that brings me to my knees in gratitude, and raises my hands when we sing. I was lost, but now I’m found. I was blind, but now I see. 

Hope and Joy. 

It is in these gifts that I have found my patience, and my new willingness to wait. They have taught me that there is great lessons and sweet memories taught in the art of slowing down and steeping in the light of hope. They have taught me that joy is often found in the most silent and unsuspecting of places. In a world that teaches us to hustle like its hot; that updates are how you remain cool and connected; that who you appear to be is more important than what you actually believe - In a world full of noisy “shoulds” I find myself craving silence more and more. I find that in all that chaos, sometimes it can be hard to see, hear, or even feel Hope and Joy because no one will take the time to just shut up or slow down or even dare I say, stop. No one is willing to wait until it’s actually the right moment anymore. We all just do what we want. 

There are 27 days left in this year. I say it every year, “where does the time go?” The other day I told one of the boys, “time just seems to move quicker for adults.” He looked at me like I was a couple marbles short. But doesn’t it? 

Doesn’t it feel that each day and month and year speed along at lightning speed as the smile wrinkles crease our eyes and the greys litter our heads? Life here looks a lot alike as it did a year ago - and yet, so much has changed. So a reflection is due, per the tradition, to make sure I’ve at least attempted some of those resolutions I made 300 some days ago.

This year, I had promised to dance my way through the last year of my 20′s - and that I have. I have danced in my apartment, with my friends at church, spinning down the sand toward the ocean, in the kitchen with my littles. I have frolicked across streets with friends laughing behind me.

This year I promised to celebrate the littlest and the biggest things: like tiny new humans, and big life changes for friends. Like the way the roses smell in the middle of June, and friends joining their lives together in marriage. Like Kevin riding a two wheeler for the first time, Ben losing his first tooth, and Mae blossoming into this beautiful loving butterfly. It has been a beautiful year of celebrations. 

I promised to continue to live and love outside every box that anyone ever attempts to place around me or others. And I promised to continue chasing my dreams: which meant becoming a true to life teacher again, being accepted into a masters program, and not giving up on my dream of having a place to bridge community through cooking lessons, meals, and gardening. 

This year I promised to train for and run my first marathon (maybe next time!) - because I also promised to ride my bike to beautiful view points (Orcas Island you were amazing!). I can always work on my promise to climb more mountains and be at the end of the west coast more and more (that’s a promise I’m glad I never quite reach). I promised to continue to sing beneath the trees, and let the glory of this blessed earth soak over me - and working at the farm has fulfilled the wildest needs of my heart. 

In 2015 I promised to feed, clothe, and care for more people in my city - I promised to continue being dedicated in the foster care system - I promised to continue bettering my circumstances so I may one day hold the humble and grace filled title of foster parent. And all these things are still happening as I’ve taken on coordination role at Foster Parents’ Night Out, am striving to seek out a more minimalistic lifestyle so I can give more, and the dream of fostering is not so far off.

I promised to keep breathing and serving because of the love, grace, and mercy of Jesus - and only Jesus. For all my life that will be the truest resolution. 

I promised that my door will be open more, along with my heart, and that I will constantly be striving off a broader perspective. I promised to never stop speaking up with and for the oppressed in my community, city, country, world - regardless of how uncomfortable it makes people feel. And I promised to laugh more, to give thanks every day, to breathe in deeply and remember that I am alive in this very moment right now and sometimes that is all that is important for those seconds.

This personal year has been a year of humongous opportunity, multiple new beginnings, some tear filled tough goodbyes, and a revitalization of hope. It is impossible to write the complexity or completeness of my gratitude - for it is never ending. This year I have learned what it is to believe through the easy and the hard days. I have learned what it means to continuously seek a healthy life, and that great healing can come from those choices. I have learned what it is to savor the slow life - even though much of my year was overworked and overtired - the greatest lesson I am taking away is how it is continuously important to just be here in the moment right now. Don’t worry about the past and what has gone, and let the future come as it will. Just focus on this day, hour, minute, second, breath. Be with the ones you love. Rest. Set down your computer and phone - you don’t even have to announce your absence. On the dawn of every morning I have relearned how to start again, release my overly controlling ego, open up those clenched fists, and breathe. Heavens, learning to breathe again has been like being born again. 

I have learned that we all are doing the very best we can at that given moment - and maybe that best isn’t even close to super great. But everyone still needs grace and love and hope. Such sweet sweet grace. 

It has been five years...  I’m not even sure that the capacity of this blog would carry all that has happened in between then and now. But I think, specifically recently, as I watch life continue to unfold in the twisty, turny, dynamic fashion that it does - I’ve become even more thankful that I didn’t remain where I was back then. I couldn’t be more thankful for all this crazy that has shown up in this last half decade. I couldn’t be more thankful for the healing I’ve received and continue to. And I’m thankful for the perspective. 

But I couldn’t have told you any of that then. Then, the world was ending. My world, in its tiny bubble, had exploded or imploded or dissolved... I’m still not really sure which. So much had happened in that bubble, and it was impossible for me, in those moments post destruction, to believe that I would ever, even remotely, heal. That’s how it feels right? When your life completely fails... the demon of doubt does its best to make you believe you could never be put back together again. If anyone reading this is there right now - I’m here to tell you it’s a big fat lie. 

What comes next does take a lot of work. Counseling, support groups, long walks, runs, bike rides... it takes swearing off old habits, refusing to numb it out, learning what boundaries are. It takes a lot of time praying, learning how to breathe again, acknowledging our own damn codependency, taking risks and finding out what you actually like to do in life. It is conquering fears of being alone - self date after self date. It means working through the easy days, and those other days where you really really just don’t want to do everything by yourself anymore, because you are just so damn tired. Can’t someone be there to help with the chores, errands, or be a good solid hug of comfort after a long stupid day at work? 

God, it has been a shit ton of work... 

However. Yes, however. That work is mandatory - it creates space, time, and teaches you to be you again. But mostly, it develops this deep faith and strength in the core of your being. Because once you make it through to the other side, and then realize you still have a ton of stuff to work through, you won’t be so afraid to keep swimming. Because by now you know God has definitely got you. (And you probably aren’t as afraid to call a counselor anymore. Seriously, what would we do without those people?)