i will engage // yelling at the devil

It's the season of miracles. 

I suppose you need the darkness in order to see the light, but right now I'm not ready for it.

I'm not ready for more spots. More cancer. 

I'm not ready, so I hide. I go to work, take my classes, try to get over this never-ending cold I have while working out how to rearrange everything into a feasible schedule. I don't let my emotions engage. I take the news in survival mode, where things are statistics and solutions.

It's not that I don't care- I care too much. 

As siblings, we all have this bond. We have the same blood in our veins. When one of us hurts, we all hurt- each in our own way. Some of us hide. Some of us run. Some of us talk, some of us stay silent. We all process it differently, all share it differently...but we all hurt.

I don't want to hide- I want to engage. 

After a long week of classes and being sick myself, I drove home from work today feeling so unconnected. I think back to the last time there was spots on his brain, and no emotion was almost as bad as feeling so much. How can I engage? Stay sane? A song came over the radio, and I sat there in traffic feeling numb.

I am not ready to live without him. 

Words seemed trapped in my mouth, words I wanted to say but wasn't sure if it would be acceptable. If they would be appropriate. If this was how I needed to engage. I tried twice, but they didn't come out.

I took a deep breath, and forced my mouth open:

I yelled at the devil. 

I shook my fist in traffic and shouted-

You cannot take him. 

As soon as the words were out, the tears came. The wall I built around my soul to stop the pain came crumbling down in a flood. I blinked hard to see the slow moving cars surrounding me.

If God wants to take him, it's His right, but I refuse to sit by and let anything else steal him away. Refuse to see anything except the complete restoration and redemption in his life. I refuse to just stand by and pray simple prayers.

I will war.

There in traffic, I shouted out my prayers while the broken dam of tears found their release. I yelled out prayers for him, for my other brothers, for things that have weighed heavy on my heart this week but I've stuffed them aside in my mode to survive. I shouted out for redemption and restoration, for the ability to engage and to awaken my soul to war.

My voice shakes- but I yell out praise for the times he had clear scans. For the time we've had to breathe.

I won't be silent. Cannot be silent.

I will be the watchman for the restoration of my brothers. 

The enemy is defeated. 

The Girl with Blonde Hair

I had never been so broken before.

My heart thundered, then stopped, then thundered a million more rolls again.

I couldn't leave. I couldn't. 

This place where my heart was planted deep in the rocky terrain, where I bled and I cried, where I laughed and my heart was opened to joy again. To letting people into my brokenness. To being raw and vulnerable without fear.

Where my hand was opened again to receive His good gifts. 

Where I physically saw Him answer prayer in ways I could have never imagined.

Where I fell in love with Him all over again. 

Where He romanced my heart, danced with me through the storms and showed me just a glimpse of the breathtaking vistas He has in store.

I'm not a very emotional person. I could probably count on one hand how many times I've cried in public my entire life. Next to the time when we found out my brother's cancer had returned, I had never sobbed so hard in my life. Wracking sobs that shook my soul.

I felt like I was being emptied. I felt my heart leave my chest, heard mom calling my name, pulling my hands to get onto the van, but my eyes couldn't leave this place. They roamed and scanned wildly and tried to lock in every detail through blurry vision, eyelids blinking to clear.

Now thousands of miles away, months later, it's still a moment I relive a hundred times a day. The burning ache where my heart used to be, my soul yearning to be reunited again.

Some people don't get it. They try, but they just can't. They haven't seen what I've seen, felt what I've felt. They haven't had the dirt run through their fingers and the vision seep into their veins until it wraps and engulfs their very core.

And yet, others do. 

I may relive that moment a hundred times a day, but there's more than just feeling my heart being torn, falling onto the sand. I see more than just blurry images through the tears.

I see a girl with blonde hair. 

She followed me all that day. Hugged me. Wiped tears from her own eyes as she saw mine. She stood by me for hours as we waited for the bus. She whispered words of hope into my ear, then was brave enough to stand there in silence to give room for both our thoughts. She was real- beautifully real- giving of her soul not because it was the "right thing" to do, but because she simple did it without any pretenses or reservations. I may have been seven years her senior, yet she so faithfully ministered to my needs without even a clue. She didn't make it her "ministry". She didn't do it for praise. She just did it- because that's what love does.

And after 3 weeks of pouring into everyone around me, her action wrapped around me like a warm blanket that assured me I wouldn't be alone in this.

She didn't say it would be okay. She didn't say I'd get over it. She didn't tell me to stop crying, that the tears wouldn't stop the inevitable. She didn't say that I had a purpose elsewhere and that's why I had to leave.

She reminded me that He still loves me. 

She reassured me over and over that this was not the end- that He would bring me back. This was not a once in a lifetime experience- it was the beginning of a lifetime of purpose I had never known before.

That this look was not the last. 

There were others who had come by my side that day. They spoke as well, gave hugs and even prayed. But somehow, the girl with blonde hair vividly stands out from the rest.

She silently lived with me through that moment. Didn't speak the profound, just told me what my heart needed to hear. She cried, but she didn't leave. She stood with me as the minutes dragged tortuously onward as I waited for the van. She ran with me. She saw the unglamorous and jagged and didn't shy away.

I want to be like the girl with blonde hair. 

Want to live with people in the moment, in the broken, and be fully there to pour into their souls. Not because I have to, not because it's right- but because I'm right there with them. Not to be the hero- but to be the whisper in their ear that He still loves you. I don't want to shy away from the ugly, from the painful, but to embrace it with the arms of Christ.

It's not a duty, not a job to fix the world, never a place of glamor. It's a position of deepest humility, knowing you can't make it better, knowing your words are nothing.

It's standing there, even in the awkward and uncomfortable, to let Him live through you.

Even in silence and not saying a word. Through just being near. To say "You're not alone, because I'm choosing to walk this hard path with you"

And in that memory, I choose to live like that a hundred times a day.

Craniotomy // Letting Go

I feel so far removed.

Since coming back to the States from my time overseas, I've been someone I have never been before.

I'm turning into an introvert.

I can't seem to get back to where my heart is connected to that around me. I know why- it's still on the mountain where I left it, where I felt it rip apart from my soul and stay in the soil when I had to leave. I couldn't tell you exactly where- I couldn't see through cascading tears, wondering when I'll ever be HOME again.

Without my heart, I feel numb. 

So when my brother has craniotomy surgery today, I'm sitting here waiting for news, calmly drinking coffee and watching craniotomy surgery videos, and I know this should not be normal. Why aren't I so involved, so wrapped up in the emotion and the fear and God only knows what the outcome will be? We thought he'd never make it through last year's surgery, when the clamped his lung shut for good and sewed patches on his heart. I vividly remember the fear then. I can still feel the utter exhaustion, mentally and physically, and my hands still shake whenever I recall the utter helplessness of the unknown. Everything about that day was a last- last kiss, last "I love  you", last walk as a family. We prepared, we prepped, we knew the stakes. We were ready. 

Today, I don't feel it. I haven't prepped, haven't gone through the risks. This isn't just a lung here. It's the drilling of the skull, the opening of a brain that pulses and one wrong move changes everything forever. Somehow, I can't even think beyond this surgery to imagine the possible outcomes.

Somehow, I have closure. 

I've done all I can. I've reached out, I've prayed, I've cried. I've been there- always been there- for my brother. I can do no more. 

We send one last email to each other across the miles, both of us awake in the night because still, you can't sleep on a night like that. We say "I love you" one more time. I tell how much I respect him, look up to him. As always, I treasure his words as only a younger sister can. 

But there is peace. 

I don't know how this surgery will go. I wish I could be more in touch, feel it in the depths of my soul. 

Yet there's freedom in the letting go. 

Enough // Fill the Soul

The tea brews dark in the clear pot, the sound of the kettle still bubbling as the leaves sink deep. Steam curls upwards as I pour the golden liquid into an artsy hand-painted mug- the mug that is my favorite, with all its perfect imperfections and uneven beauty. I wrap my hands around ceramic and breathe long and slow. It smells of havdalah in a cup, sweet and spicy. Havdalah, the closing out of Shabbat, when we begin to count the days until it rolls joyfully around again. 

Some days, I wish I could speed the 24 hour periods between then and when I get to rest in His presence. To be undistracted. Still. Quiet. Listening. Ready. 

So instead I pour a cup a tea, steal away where it's just me and a whole lot of Yeshua. 

I sip slow and deliberate. I soak and absorbe the Word in front of me. I ponder hope. I sing softly holy melodies and try to embrace the few minutes I have before the schedule and grind being anew. Another day dawning, another race to run. Children to love on, souls to feed, people to serve. 

I can't do it on empty. 

I don't know what each day holds, but I know that I am not enough. 

I am not strong enough, brave enough, grace-filled enough, courageous enough, joyful enough. 

Yet He is. 

He fills my soul with the goodness of His presence and that, that is enough. Enough for 4:30am mornings, enough for fussy toddlers, enough for 21 meals cooked in the kitchen, enough for listening to another's life story, enough for my long to-do list, enough to love and forgive even when I just feel too tired to. 

My mug lies empty on the quilt, and time runs its last few grains of sand from the never-ending drip of an hourglass. But my soul- my soul is still and I know that this week He's going to give me all I need. 

All. It is enough. 

Dear Me // Letter to Myself

Dear Me,

One day you'll read this and laugh, because you'll see all those dramas and embarrassments that made you want to sink into the floor as what they really are- such small, little things in comparison to what truly matters. Whether you smile with spinach in your teeth or walk with a twisted skirt, it really is not going to make-or-break your dreams. You may feel like they do- may feel like you've ruined your only shot at this- but I promise you, nothing will make-or-break the dreams God has placed within your soul. 

Don't sweat the small stuff. Even in a world that screams perfection, you were never made to meet that standard. Seeking after it will only leave you dry, empty, and drained of all the talents God wants to reveal through you. Give yourself grace and room to breathe. Give yourself time to take in the beauty, and time to heal from the wounds inflicted by others... and by yourself. Give yourself the freedom to be you- whimsical, lioness, freckle-faced and red-headed you- regardless of what other people say.

You'll look back on the biggest heartbreaks and see them as the greatest launching pads towards God's purpose for your life. Like the summer you had heat stroke and your military aspirations drained away with the IV in your arm, the year you traveled South and experienced culture shock but somehow your heart got tied there too, the winter where you went from joy to heartbreak in 6.3 weeks and your soul grew cold like the thick ice on the windowpane, the year you went to Israel and your world turned upside down and was shaken out.

Like the embarrassment, this pain will fade, too- so don't let it stop you from living life with gusto and whimsy, with joy and dancing and taking big risks. The only regret you will have in later years is from not spreading your wings to fly because you clipped them with fear. Don't spend life avoiding the "thud" of falling, because I promise you every "thud" is worth the 30 seconds of glorious flight living fully alive in the calling God has placed on your life. 

Through it all, you were made to worship with abandon, with every fiber of your being. Every meal you bake, every piece of art you make, is all a glorious song of worship to the King. Don't let others dictate what genre that song is supposed to be, what lyrics are to be spoken, or how fluent your Hebrew should be. God just wants you to show up- in the midst of all your passionate soul, in the midst of your imperfections, in the way that only you can worship Him.   

So dear Me, live with reckless abandon, with joy unspeakable, treasuring the raw blessings, wrestling in prayer, and counting the cost. Do life big, and in years to come you will be able to see this glorious unfolding. 

I guarantee, it'll leave you speechless.

Sincerely,
Me

Glorious Unfolding

The water pools in the streets, droplets dancing across the surface. The clouds rumble grey, dimming the lights before the wind carries them away. I watch from the window as the evergreens sway in dance and a mist rises from the ground. The curtains billow, and I edge closer, closer, until my forehead touches the screen.

My heart resonates with this.


I can't help but close my eyes and smile, water spray misting my face. My finger traces the damp windowsill, and I wonder if I should shut this glassy pane- but no. 


In the storm, I smell the fragrance of spring.

In the tempest and storm, life springs forth. In the waiting, He is still creating. And even when I feel the rain beat hard upon my back, I know it is yet for my good- purifying me, causing my roots to sink deeper into Him, into His grace, His love.

I trust in a glorious unfolding.

Because the rain is worth the majesty of the sun bursting forth in glorious array after the storm. Worth the vibrant green of the grass soaking it all up. Worth the brilliant bow of color bent across the sky, a reminder of His enduring promise.

Without the rain, the flowers cannot unfold.

This is life- the storms, the seasons of change, the new and the old and the yet-to-be. And I realize as I pray the Amidah in the jet-black morning, as I bang the pots and pans and the smell of breakfast brings the family together before the dawn- this is glorious. To watch as His glory unfolds- in this world, in the ones you love, in yourself. 

If we knew the end from the beginning, where would the anticipation of the unfolding be? 

I look back, and I am in awe- in awe of the constant refining and the outpouring of His grace to create new things within my soul. I'm speechless, unable to convey all that has been going on in my life and in my heart these past few months, the pruning being done in my life and the anticipation of being on the verge of something new. I am eager to see the unfolding- the gloriously unfolding- of what this new season holds. More refinement. More challenges. More beauty and clearer vision. More opportunity. New chapters, new stories penned by Him. After a year of betrayal and heartache and chemo and cancer, I've only been strengthened. My heart throbs with joy-

And this is just the beginning. 

So let the rain fall, dear one. Soak it up, drink it into your soul, let it seep into all the cracks and wounds. Don't shy away from the storm- life spring up from it. Don't run from the storm, hide in your room, build up fortified walls of protection.

Without the storm, the flowers will not unfold.

(oh, this- an anthem that has been on repeat for the past week. perhaps you'll do the same? make it your candle of hope in the midst of whatever storm you're in?)

Life // Never the Same

The sun dawns brilliantly in ribbon strips of pink and blue. Orange rays hit the dark, cold pines, and the world begins to glow in flaming light. The ice slowly melts from inside the window. It's a normal winter morning. 

No, not normal. Every morning has become so precious. 

Because when you learn that cancer that has been staying in the chest possibly may now have moved to the brain? 

Your mornings are never the same after that. 

I thought this year would be a safe year, a year to heal and grow and blossom from all the pain that last year held. A time where we could laugh and make art and dance and never have the thought of cancer on our minds. On his mind. A year where grudges would be atoned for and everything would be back to the way it was before this battle ever came onto our radar years ago. 

Am I the only one who feels this way? The only one sounding the alarm?

Sometimes you just wish you could shake people, wake them up from a slumber so they can see life flying past. To stop holding grudges. To make amends. To love, because you may never have another day to love again.

Pass it by now, and you'll live with regret.

I just wish I knew my brother. I could count on one hand the memories I have of him from my childhood. And now that I'm older, our relationship has more to do with PET scans and chemo rounds and all the talking we ever do is done in a hospital room. I understand we're both busy. I totally get it. 

But I desperately want it differently. 

There's a large age gap between me and my older siblings, but I have treasured every word they have spoken. Some words, spoken carelessly, I shouldn't have hung on to- but what else is a girl to do? Aside from those few in childhood, I only have one other memory of my brother. He wrote me an e-mail for my 16th birthday and had my nephew sit on the counter with a Tupperware container on his head for a party hat, and sent me the picture. I believe that was around the time he was going through his first battle with AS. I treasured it- still do. I printed it off and pasted it in my journal, always to be remembered. 

This past summer, he told dad that any guy that came for my hand would have to be approved by him, too. I never felt so loved and protected by him before- and I cry every time I realize that he may never have a chance. That my husband may never know this brother of mine- to shake his hand, look him in the eye. He may never have the chance to draw from Ry's wealth of knowledge, to laugh with him, to know who he is. 

In the blink of an eye, life as you know it is suddenly drastically different. And your life? It will never, ever be the same. 

When Cancer Lurks Again

I sense that the nightmare is about to begin again. My brother's life flashes before my eyes. My past year plays over and over again in my memory- and I wonder if every year will feel this way. Will hold this pain. My body shuts down at the thought.

Three suspicious spots. 

I'm not ready for another battle. I'm not ready because I know this round will not grace us with hope. Options will soon be exhausted- and so will our souls.

Yehovah, fight this battle on our behalf- because we have no strength or wisdom to fight this on our own.

I cannot explain the feeling. How one moment you're laughing in the store with friends, and the phone vibrates. No matter how gently spoken, the words ruthlessly toss everything upside down and shake everything into insecurity. How your heart races- and won't stop racing- and your blood pressure throbs in your temples. How every muscle turns taught because it's entered into survival mode and you've been rendered mute because words won't come. You sit in silence- and silence mocks you.

You're filled with dread, because you are no stranger to this feeling You are filled with grief, because you are not ignorant of the grueling battle he will face. Your mind plays tricks on you, because any mention of the word "spot" thrusts your imagination into the scary places of the unknown.

So I pray, but I don't know what words to use. Abba, see our hearts and comfort our souls. We are weary and faint- renew your works as of old.

Personal // It Is Good

To be honest, I dreaded this birthday. Between turning another decade and memories from last year's birthday that still leave me in tears, how could I not? 

So when I'm standing at the sink doing a mountain of dishes alone, still in sweats and the afternoon is flying by, with coughing children on the couch and germs flying in the air- things weren't looking up for this year and I'll admit, depression was setting in. 

It's been one long year. 

Cancer. Betrayal. Death. A horrible family emergency that's still underway. World-traveling. Often being responsible for 6 children when I least expect it. Joy. Tears. 

I stand at the sink and tell mom I don't feel like celebrating. My heart feels as grey as the winter sky above, flakes falling swift and sure, smothering the world below. 

But if you have to do it, you might as well make the most of it. Do something and your heart will eventually follow. I pick out mismatched plates in bold colors (chevron and zebra stripes, anyone?), hang a pin-the-tail-on-Zevi-the-Zebra on the door, try to get in the spirit of joy. Phone rings, I answer, and the bestie's voice bubbles on the other end. She's excited about my birthday, can't wait to show me something....and slowly, joy rubs off on me. 

I hang some streamers to celebrate. Another friend sends me a text out of the blue, makes the sun start to peak around the clouds. 

Mom comes home and surprises me with a bouquet of daisies, dressed in bright bold blues and yellows and pinks and greens. I start arranging them in my favorite little vases I picked up at rummage sales, and the smile comes. 

Yes, this birthday is good. 

Good to leave the past behind. Good to walk through this season and heal. Good to walk life as an adult and take responsibility for my choices. 

I get tangled by a rowdy bunch of kidlets at the door, all clamoring for hugs and kisses. I take the oldest niece to pick up my gluten-free/dairy-free pizza, and we chatter in the car. I share a Virgil's with my grandpa and spin the kids dizzy for pin-the-tail-on-Zevi. 

Yes- it is good. 

And when my Energizer Bunny Boy comes down with a fever and his little body shakes cold, I head out to the store on a medicine run and spend the rest of the evening rubbing Vicks on little feet, coaxing down medicine and wiping tears. Yesterday it was cleaning up blood and rocking the youngest, keeping her calm after a major bloody nose. Two days before that it was doing math and spelling at the kitchen table with six voices asking questions and me trying to wrack my brain to remember the answers (why didn't anyone tell me that I really would need to remember the things I learned in school?). 

Yes- life is good. 

So hello new year- let me take you on with shoulders squared, boots on, and pack empty. Here's to dancing for the audience of One and living fully where He has me- bloody noses, drama, and all. 

Finished

Cancer steals. Destroys. Devours. 

And I'm helpless to it all. 

I've told you about Kelly before. I met her high above the Texas skyline, and we caught the last glimpse of the sunset together. She was beautiful- wore a pretty hat to cover her head, hairless from what chemo stole from her. She smiled through the pain, her body attached by tubes and wires to a tree of life- or death?- with fluids and toxic materials pumping through her. Her quiet southern voice somehow illuminated the room, kept the shadows at bay. Sort of made the sun shine, even though it had slipped below the horizon. She told us of her two lovely girls back home, how God was still working, how she still prayed for the miracle. I gave her a hug before we left, told her we would be praying for her. Told her to keep trusting.

The elevator door closed, and it was the last I saw of her. Last time I ever will have seen her. Cancer claimed her body but five short months later. 

===

A father in our community discovered cancer was taking over his lungs soon after Ryan's tumors were removed from his. We've been praying, trusting, knowing that God is still working. I never knew this man well, but from the times I did spend with him I knew him to be a man of worship. Had a smile that somehow made you feel like you belonged. Quiet, but when he spoke they were words of life. Like David, he worshiped the Father will all of his might, with ever fiber of his being. 

Today I got the phone call everyone dreads, the one you pray against. The one you hope you never have to answer. The phone call that, as a cancer family, you pray you never have to make. 

It'll only be a few hours now. 

I hang up. Dad calls- I answer, and I weep. I grieve. I cry for the children, whose father is their world. I cry for the wife, so strong yet how can frail shoulders hold up the load of everything and watch as the love of her life suffers? I cry for the friends, the extended family, the community who is loosing a mighty warrior of Elohim. 

My soul longs to pour forth prayers but no sound comes from my throat. Dad prays for me instead. 

And Heaven weeps. 

The rain pours from the skies as my tears fall, as our prayers rise upward. Not long after, another phone call follows. 

It is finished. No more pain except the pain that is in our hearts, no more sorrow except for the tears we weep. No more questions, except for the ones we may shout in our frustration and grief. 

Finished. 
__

{please, be praying for this family and our community tonight and in the days/weeks/months to follow. thank you, from the bottom of our hurting hearts.}

Hey Girl

Hey Girl. 

Did the words hurt you? I know the feeling. They hurt me, too.  They say sticks and stones break bones and words will never hurt- but they don't just hurt. They crush. Leave you feeling worthless. 

Oh, how I know. Girl, you're not alone. 

They say the truth hurts, but I think it hurts worse when the truth isn't known. Lies are spewed. Your lungs scream for the freeing air of justice. Your back is against the wall and their hands are raised with stones, poised to strike. You never thought they'd do this, did you? Yeah, me neither. Didn't think it would come to this. Forgot that there's wolves in sheep's clothing and that there's tares among the wheat. 

I'm standing here, and I want to scream for justice at the top of my lungs. To silence the accusations. To set free the truth that's captive. To make known the innocent. You've been there, too, yes? You know the feeling. The burning flame. I can sense your heart is beating it, too. 

But take a deep breath. It's all you really can do when your hands are tied behind your back with pointed last words. Breathe with me, please? Lean your head closer to mine so you can hear my whisper. I've got my eyes closed, head tilted to heaven. Girl, this is going to shake your world...listen carefully now: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Soak it in- take your time. It took me a while, too. Do you see the injustice of thorns and spikes piercing the Body of the Son of God? Do you hear the curses, the lies, the accusations, the anger, the falsehoods that are slandering the character of the innocent and sinless Messiah? And after they flog Him and whip Him and mock Him and tear Him and diminish Him to nothing but a sagging package of bones struggling to make that walk with a stake on His back....He begs the Father to forgive them. 

But it's more than that, Girl. It's more. And this may shake your world even more: He opened not His mouth. 

It's called forgiveness. Compassion. Love. Grace. He extends it all to those who persecuted Him. All those who laughed in His face. Slapped His Face. Tore His Face. 

Soak that in, Girl. Try to process it all in. I'm still trying to fully comprehend it, too. When they're spitting their venom at us, and every fiber in our body demands retaliation...He didn't. Therefore, should we? Let them spew away, Girl. It's hard. It's painful. It's hurtful. But don't hold it in. Count yourself worthy- and know that He knows exactly how you're feeling. He's going to bless you. That's a promise. Count on it, Girl- He's going to get you through this with a spiritual strength that cannot be bent, with a testimony that will touch others, and with a new dependance and reliance on Him. He's going to make beauty from the ashes. 

Say it with me, Girl: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Say it out loud. Claim it while they continue to shoot their arrows at you. Those arrows don't pierce as deep now, do they? Compassion is seeping into your sight. You see how they don't understand His grace and forgiveness towards them. You want to reach out your hand in love to them, to try to break the callous hearts, to help them see all that they're missing. You're weeping for them. It's a different ache you're feeling now. 

Forgive them. 

The shackles fall from your wrists with those words. The arrows won't let up, no- but the prison door will swing open.

When It's Time To Stop Waiting // Jump Out Of The Boat

Life is full of waiting. Some self-imposed, some God-imposed. Some things make sense, while others are blurry visions of things to come. Go ahead, raise your hand if you are waiting…

…for a husband…
…for a job…
…for an education…
…for a child…
…for God to work in someone’s life…
…for God to work in your life…
…for enough money to do this or that…
…for more time…
…for more talent…
…for forgiveness…

…I’m sure I haven’t covered all the bases, so add your two cents here: I am waiting for ______________. Fill in the blank. You’re not alone. 

We’re all waiting. 

But when is it time to stop waiting? Stop waiting to live our lives until the perfect love, perfect friend, perfect job, perfect situation transforms our lives? Isn’t it time that we stop pacing back and forth and actually do something? To you young women out there, don’t get me wrong- I’m not saying that you need to go out and find yourself a husband here. I’m not saying that we need to speed up God’s timing. I’m not saying that we should not wait. 

We need to wait. But we also need to live. And sometimes? While we’re waiting for that big moment to present itself…it’s really God’s gentle push saying, “Jump out of the boat.” 

For me? It’s the fear that’s keeping me waiting in the unknown. 

God wants to bring us to the place where our eyes are fixed on Him and Him alone. He wants us to be focused solely on being abandoned to Him. He wants us to do hard things. 
Peter had that opportunity. 
Messiah called him out to the impossible of walking on water, and his fire-zealous heart leaped at the chance. He took the step of faith. He left the boat…but his eyes riveted off of the Master to what if. The waves were there, and what if they took him under? In that moment, there was no longer full abandonment. There was no longer full surrender. 
A quarter was given to the enemy.
It was all that was needed. Soon fear grabbed his heart, pulling him into the deep. It was a downward spiral to the depths of darkness. He knew he was going under, and he cried out for the Master to save him. 
And He did. As soon as the words had left Peter’s lips, He was by his side. 

I’ve always had a strong connection to Peter. I, like Peter, am zealot-hearted. I, like Peter, am bold when my soul feels free- but when the enemy looks me in the eye, I do the unthinkable and cave in to safety. My heart, like Peter’s, beats the Gospel, but my most desperate pleas are “Lord, save me!” and “Give me grace!”. 
Oh, Peter, I think we would’ve been friends…because your acquaintances Fear and What If visit my house, too. I’m pacing the boat, uncertain of the waters, wondering if He’s going to let me sink or stand. 

And I blame it on the “waiting game”. 

I say I’m waiting for more time, for more courage, for more talent, for more provisions. I blame my refusal to jump out of the boat on things I think I don’t have- forgetting that He will give us all that we need. Fear keeps me chained in the shallow end because the thought of doing what He’s asking me to sends me into cardiac arrest. Fear keeps me bound on the solid ground of self because I know that if I do what He’s asking me to, it’s going to make me vulnerable and uncomfortable and scared out of my wits. Fear keeps me enslaved to complacency because if I leap out of the boat, I’m going to get wet. I’m going to struggle. I’m going to thrash. I’m going to take great big gulps of water that flood my lungs and make me feel like I’m drowning…because I completely forget that He’s just a call away. He’s not going to let me drown in the deep end. 

He’s calling me- and you- to leap out of the boat and live. He’s calling us to pick up our swords, look that monster named Fear in the eyes and say, “You will not run my life-no way.”  It’s a daily battle. Being a Believer isn’t a walk in the park or a tea party- it’s a wild roller-coaster and a battlefield. We have to fight our flesh and die to self so that He can live in us. 

He’s asking us to live while we’re waiting for the things He’s asked us to wait for, and asking that we walk by faith and not by sight. Today will never come again- how are we going to make it count for the Kingdom? How are we going to give Him every heartbeat, every quickened breath, every action of our hands and feet and ask Him to make them count for His glory? 

I swing my legs over the side of the boat. I want to be on the water with Him. The boat lurches at the shifting weight, wanting to dump me overboard. My fingernails claw at the wooden rail of the familiar and the safe. Yet, I want to go. I want to. Fear is looking over my shoulder- I can feel his heavy shadow loom. 
But my eyes look to Him. His hands are outstretched. I can barely hear Him whisper over the wind and the waves- the things that scream that I’m foolish, the things that boss me to do something else, the things that yell that I’ll never make it out there. I can barely hear Him, but I can lip-read enough to know. “Trust Me. Your life is now.” 
My toes touch the water and I abandon the ship of self security to live fully on the waves where He’s calling me. 

Hope // Flood Me

"We have this HOPE as an ANCHOR for the SOUL, firm and secure." 

-Hebrews 6:19a- 

It's underlined in purple pen, the silhouette of an anchor penciled next to it. The pages worn, a spot in Hebrews that always falls open without much prompting. A secure hope. A promise of His that binds my soul, like a grappling hook from my heart to His- a way to bring down these promises, a source of constant hope. 

But sometimes? The storm blows, and the anchor starts to tug away from the cleft in the rocky seabed- and my heart bobs at the top, like a buoy tossed helplessly from the controlling wind. 

Hope. 

How can you live without it? What is there to look forward to without it? Why am I trying to live without it?

Hope. 

Ironic that such hope comes from links of metal, a solid weight, something that drags. We picture such things as bondage, as slavery, as children destitute to hopelessness. But these chains? They're a lifeline. Something sure in this storm, something we all must grasp until our knuckles turn white like it's the only thing left. 

Hope. 

When the cancer consumes and we're sitting here not knowing what to do next, when we're left alone and those you thought would stick around have abandoned you, when you've been tossed back and forth by these waves for weeks and months and years, when you're in the midst of all this- it's hard to see a break in the clouds, a glimmer of sunlight...a ray of hope. 

Hope. 

This hope, it's prayer. It's the certainty that Yeshua has entered into the Inner Sanctuary, petitioning on our behalf. It's praying and tossing this anchor into the heavens, praying His kingdom down. 

Hope. 

I struggle with it. The winds of fear blow me until my vision is blurred and my head is swimming. But I must have hope. Hope that the Son will come. He will shine from the Sanctuary, that the Father's mercy is not exhausted- His Hand is not too short to save me. And sometimes- no, all of the times- He's got us in the deep end for our good. To teach us, to grow us, to stretch us. 

Hope. God, flood me to overflowing. 

(hey you- keep clutching the anchor. i know it's tough. i know it's hard. but cling to Him 'cause He's not going anywhere. firm and secure, girl- those are His words to your storm-battered heart)

Crushed // When the Cancer Strikes Again

Crushed. That sums up just about everything this morning. Crushed. Like a boulder that has been tottering on the top of this mountain we've been climbing just started rolling and smacked us with it's full force. 

Can I say it? Can I be angry? 

I hate cancer. I despise it. 

We were on the top of the mountain. Rejoicing in God's miracles for a miraculous healing from Ryan's surgery. We've been praying for his faith to be strengthened. But this fire we're walking through? I feel like we're all just going to turn to dust. 

When you wake up with this news, and you go downstairs and you hear your parents crying and you listen as your father tries to convey something over the phone but his voice is just too choked up to be understood....

Crushed. 

How do you still believe in miracles? When your dad comes in to kiss you goodmorning and his eyes are swollen from crying, and he has had the faith of a warrior that the miracle would come? When I can do nothing but shake like I'm cold but it's all just shock? 

I can't process it all. I can't. I can't. 

It's here that all you can do is just beg the Holy Spirit to intercede with groans beyond human comprehension. I have no words. I don't know what to pray. As a cancer family, you go from the top of the mountain to crushed in the valley in a matter of hours. It's too much. Just too much. 

And yet He promises He will not give us more than we can handle. 

I don't want to be bitter. I don't want to be angry. More than that, I don't want my brother to be bitter or angry. I refuse to turn my back on God. Refuse. I will cling to Him because just one miracle is enough. I pray that He grants us more. But I have to believe that He is still good. I cannot demand only good from Him. I need to let Him walk with me through these flames. I cannot let my faith be burned. 

I must still say, "You are God, You are good, You are faithful." 

I'm crushed. We're all crushed. But we still have to trust that He will bind up our wounds. He will bind up our hearts. He will make Himself so known to us through the fire. This is in His plan. He knows what's going on. His heart breaks for us as all these emotions rage war against our bodies. But He wants to teach us. To have us grow so closer to His heart through this. 

We are crushed, but not abandoned. 

Please, pray for us all.  

Beautiful Brokenness

How do you put into words the beautiful brokenness that this journey gives you? 

Sometimes, I just have to sit back in silence to see what Yehovah has done. To breathe. To recall, to remember. To claim His promises in the dark, to hold on to the flickering light of hope. 

This journey is painful. It burns. It strips away all that I thought was certain and sure. It causes me to let go of what I hold dear. I don't want to. My flesh, it wrestles against it. I want my will. I want my desires. I want to demand of God to give me what I want, what I think is best. 

But oh, His ways are so much higher than mine. 

And you know? It's worth it. It's worth it to be humbled to this place of surrender. It's worth it to be able to stand boldly on the promises of the Most High. It's worth it to have faith- a deep, undying faith that cannot be shaken. 

This cancer journey, it's been filled with brokenness. Broken emotions, broken dreams, broken hearts. But, it's in this brokenness when we're vulnerable and able to share openly with each other without reservations. There is so much deep beauty in that. 

The memory I treasure the most from our Texas trip was holding my brother's hand after he came out of surgery, the way he lifted his head to kiss my cheek, the way he told me over and over that he loved me and squeezed my hand as we talked. 

But my next favorite memory? It was beautiful brokenness with my cousin. 

I have always admired, respected, and looked up to my cousin. I don't think I've ever seen her not put together. That gal looks beautiful even after she just rolls out of bed. She always says the right things, beautiful things that somehow make you just spill your heart out to her. But that night before the surgery, as we all line up to say goodnight- and goodbye- to my beloved brother...she sits there. I kiss my brother, and I wish I could hold him forever...but I see her in the corner of my eye. I see the tears. I see the brokenness. 

And God moves me. My arms wrap around her, and the broken prayer comes forth from my faltering lips as she cries and I fight the tears and I ask the Father to help us because I am so broken and worn and tired. It was brokenness...beautiful brokenness. To hold this amazing woman that I love so much and to be able to cry together to the Father. This, this is what the journey is all about. 

Falling at His feet....humbled that He works in our lives. 

And today? My bestie and I sit on the floor, and we pour our hearts out in joint prayer over so many things that are laid on our burdened hearts. And all of the sudden, the tears burst forth from my soul. I start sobbing as I pray, and she wraps her arms around me. There's so much on my heavy heart, so many loved ones that I'm crying out for. I'm worn from praying, from wrestling in prayer. I'm so broken. So unworthy to come before this Mighty God. But there's so much beauty here. Broken sisters. Vulnerable together, laying down burdens before His Throne. 

Oh, it's beautiful. Because we don't have it all together. We're human- we're broken. We fail. We aren't perfect. We aren't humble- but He knows how to humble us and to show us just how Mighty He is. It's in the fire that unyielding trust and confidence is forged in Him. He doesn't give us these trials to inflict pain upon us- He's so merciful to allow these things into our lives to cause us to dive into a deeper relationship with Him. To allow Him to hold our hand and to walk us through these things. To allow Him to teach us. To shape us. To use us. 

It's beautiful to be broken. 

Faith // Flood Me

Faith. 

When plan A goes right past plans B and C and on through plan W and we still don't know what we're doing, when we're doing the things He asks us to and yet we're not completely sure why, when you're walking downtown and you don't just see "the homeless"- you see their faces and you hear their voices and would you still have the faith to proclaim the name of Yehovah and speak of His goodness as that man did today when I walked in the park? Would I?

Faith. 

When you're jumping elevators trying to climb to the 22nd floor, when you wonder why drawing near to God couldn't be this easy too, when you're overlooking this vast city and feel so small towering high above the stadiums and hospitals and high rises, when you feel even more insignificant knowing that all this, this is no more than mere specs in the palm of the Creator, and how can we ever feel like we're truly somebody?

Faith.

When you sit up there and wait for the sun to set and never doubt that it will, when you're standing this tall above the world and never question that the floor won't slip out from under you, when you have the courage to let your heart spill- through music, through conversation, through a life lived without reservations- or will you just hold it all inside from fear of the unknowns?

Faith.

When the cancer patients gather here, when they emerge from their rooms to watch this glorious glow of fire, when you know that some must wonder if this sunset will be their last, when you listen in the silent hush to the two cancer patients behind you as they encourage one another to believe His promises, that He's always been enough, and how many times a day do I doubt His sovereignty in my perfect little world? In things so petty?

Faith.

When you're talking to the 36 year old woman who has only known since last June that cancer is wrapping itself around her body and engulfing her liver, when you listen to her say that she still believes in miracles as she sits there with feet tucked up underneath her and more monitors on the pole than I've ever seen before, when you see her beautiful face and yet your stomach is sick because why do these things happen? And how can she keep this faith aflame?

Faith.

When you're angry because you just can't fix all these problems, when you pray and the words come stumbling out, when the head hits the pillow and sleep finally falls- and now here goes the fire alarm, and we all go crazy out the door, and what are the most important things to grab? What do you grab in 10 seconds without your mind thinking? Adrenaline soaring?

Faith. God, flood me to overflowing. 

Faith and trust. They go hand in hand. So God, give me the faith to trust You, and the trust to have faith in You...come what may, day by day, for You, You alone, are more than enough for all my needs.

(tomorrow we say our goodbyes to Texas and head back home. prayer appreciated! and don't just keep Ryan in your prayers- keep 36 year old Kelly there, too.)

Strength // Flood Me

Strength.

When I'm running on 48 hours with only 6 hours of sleep, when there's no time for a shower but just slap some make-up on and hope I look human, when we all sit around in the lobby at 5 in the morning waiting, when he finally walks in the door and how can you add the "good" to the "morning"? 

Strength.

When you watch this brother kiss his sons goodbye and watch as the wife takes a last photo of them being kissed by daddy, when you watch the two of them walk these long steps towards the hospital hand in hand, when you hear the horrible details of a surgery and know the pain he will go through and why is it that we can't share the pain with him? Ease it somehow?

Strength.

When the familiar smell of the cancer ward hits your nostrils, when the memories hit of a summer full of chemo, when we all gather in this waiting room, when you watch your father lay his hands on his son and we all gather 'round and do the same, when you watch your big brother cry across the room by himself because how does a man let these emotions out as you watch your sibling suffer?

Strength.

When you hear him say "See you on the other side", when you hug him and kiss him and wish you could hold on forever, when youngest and oldest siblings embrace in tears and I wrap my arms around these two big men that I love with all my heart and I sob with them, when my arms are full of them and yet they feel so empty because we're missing one of us. 

Strength.

When this head pounds, when you see your father and oldest brother sitting side by side and pray their hearts heal together, when you're in a waiting room full of people of all different situations, when everyone shows their emotion in their own way, when you're praying you can be His Eyes and His Voice and His Hands and His Feet but sometimes perhaps we are just called to be His Tears?

Strength.

When it's not even 7 in the morning yet we're already exhausted, when physical strength wears out with the emotional, when this surgery hasn't even begun yet but this day seems like an eternity already, when I know there's others that haven't been able to show their emotions and how do you help them know that it's okay to share?

Strength.

When your mind is filled of the horrors he must go through, when you think of clamped lungs and gasping for air, when it feels like the air is being sucked out of my lungs, when you're not sure how to minister to others because you need to be ministered to, too, when you see the doctors in their white coats and scrubs and caps walk by and you wonder whose lives will be forever changed? 

Strength.

When you just feel lonely, when you need a hug, when there are those who are hundreds of miles away but I so wish I could just cry on their shoulder and be held and feel secure in someone's arms, when I'm the one praying broken prayers and how long O Father do I have to cry for help? 

Strength. God, flood me to overflowing! 

(today has come- surgery day. may we all be filled with His strength and rest in what He has planned from the beginning of time.)