The day I stopped running (A Journey in Grief Part II)

I remember that first time I saw her in the hospital. The way she looked around the room and I could tell she was smiling, even though the mask hid half her face. "He is just so sweet. He is so, so sweet to us." I shook my head and then quickly tried to cover up my disbelief with a toss of my hair. "Make sure they know that. Can you do that for me? Will you make sure my students, all those who care for me, will you make sure they know that He is so sweet? No matter what happens. He is so good to us. Tell them to keep believing that." I told her I would.

I never meant for it to happen the way it did. I never meant for her death to become some crisis of faith for me. I meant to keep my promise. I meant to keep believing in His goodness. The day she died, I hit the keys and sang, "Bless the Lord, oh, my soul!" I sat and I wrote all I could remember about her, preserving that small part of her legacy entrusted to me. Through the phone calls and texts I tried to stay strong. "It hurts," I would respond, "But He is good." I did my best to ignore the aching that seemed to gnaw at my rib cage. Each time the sadness would rise or the anger would peak around a corner, I pressed it down. "She wouldn't want this." I would tell myself. "She would want me to rejoice on her behalf, to continue to trust Him completely."

My wedding day came and went a little over a month after her funeral. I hugged my bridesmaid, the one who knew her like I did, and there was a moment where I let it come out. "She was supposed to be here. She prayed for this day for me. She should be here." And then I remembered that her daughter would say the same thing in coming years, and I shook off my tears. I had no right to cry.

This was the process of my grief for months: sadness, tears, reprimand, run. And my grief included so much more than her death. Yes, that was the biggest, most concrete thing. But there was also the leaving behind of the life I had built. The saying goodbye to a community and starting over. The sacrifice of self required for two lives to become one. I would feel the sadness. The tears would come. I would reprimand myself in a thousand different ways (Can't you see how much you are gaining? Why spit in the face of blessing? Other people have it so much harder than you. If you really loved him, you would be overjoyed!). And then I would spin on my heel and hightail it away from the pain as quickly as possible.

I called it noble. I called it keeping perspective. I called it "counting it all grace." But really? I was just running away from the brokenness. I was letting the fear of truly facing the pain hold me captive. I was avoiding the hard feelings because I was afraid of what they would reveal about my heart, my faith, and my God. But to have nothing revealed is to have nothing made real. We cannot choose the things we feel. We cannot take love and leave pain. To feel is all or nothing. To live abundantly is all... or nothing.

It hits me when I receive the video from her, the Montana roommate gone to Oregon. It is a video from Transplant Day. "It has been one year since her transplant. We had cake that day, so I'm having cake today to remember." One year since the transplant. Also eight months since her death. I can't hide behind, "It is as it should be. It is well with my soul," for a moment longer. I pound my fist on the table and send my phone flying across into the cushions of the couch next to me.

I finally admit it. I am angry. I am so, so angry. She wasn't supposed to die. She didn't deserve to die and her family didn't deserve to have to go on without her. We had so much more we needed to learn from her. So much more we needed her to breathe into our lives. How does this make any sense? How are You supposed to be good and loving? How am I supposed to trust You? How am I supposed to believe You? Why would I want to worship You or follow You or seek Your face? I am angry with You. I am afraid of You. I feel completely unloved by You. I don't feel like I even know You anymore.

All I had been running from came to the surface. And that is where my healing finally began.

The picture that never made it to Insta... and the text that changed so much (A Journey in Grief - Part I)

It's been over eight months. I walked into church alone that morning. My man had taken a day trip, and I don't normally go to church without him, but I needed to be there that morning. I had gotten the text on Friday saying that she was on life support and to pray. My heart had been heavy ever since. I wasn't sure how to pray. Part of me just knew there would be another miracle, just like that test showing her blood free of the cancer cells had been a miracle, just like the transplant of bone marrow from her brother had been a miracle.

They had thrown a party that day, the day of her transplant. They called it her new birthday. There had been cake and games and so much joy and thanksgiving. Four months had passed since then.

I had been with her just a month ago. Made a special trip into town because I missed her. We had coffee together. Her body ached. I knew something was off. She never complained, not ever, but that day she couldn't sit still. I could see the weariness in her eyes.

As always she talked of God and His faithfulness. Told me that the whole point of life is to see the majesty of God and that if we aren't seeing that, there is no point. How she's made it an exercise and was teaching her daughter to do the same. But for the first time, I could see her fighting. Up until then, she had made the battle look almost effortless. She wore that Armor of the Lord like a second skin... like her true skin. She did always say that she never felt like her "earth suit" fit quite right, and I could tell that day that it all felt even less right. And it threw me off.

I've never really forgiven myself for that... for not knowing how to respond to her pain. For asking her to leave the comfort of her home and meet me. For telling her about my own struggles right there in the midst of hers. I know that's how she wanted it. She loved me. She loved pouring into my life. She lived to make Him known and she made Him known to me every time we were together. If we hadn't gotten that time, we would have missed so much, so maybe it's time I let that go and just give thanks.

I cried when I left her. As I dropped her daughter off at their house after we saw that musical together, the one about spoonfuls of sugar and shooting stars, she asked me when I would come back. "Whenever you want me to," I replied. "Be careful what you say... I'll hold you to it," she smiled. "I hope you do." I hugged her one last time. I remember feeling like I might break her if I wasn't careful. I got in my car and pulled out of the driveway. That's when the tears started to fall and I hoped she didn't see. Moving, planning a new life, leaving your friends. It's all so hard.

So yeah, a month later, I walk into church. The choir was singing that morning. I pulled out my phone to take a picture. I was going to post it on Insta with the caption: "When things look their darkest, that is when we must sing the loudest. Worship is always the answer to our heavy, burdened, and broken hearts. Eucharisteo always precedes the miracle." I thought about how this is exactly where she would want me to be. This is how she taught me to live. The way that God taught me to live through her.

I never did post that picture. Because that's when I got the text. I'm sorry to say that she passed away this morning. My heart plummeted and the tears rose. I was out the door of that sanctuary so fast.

It's been over eight months since she died. And I'm still not over it.

How Do You Spell Hope?

In a box somewhere in the guestroom closet there is a journal filled with words from 18-year-old me. I think of it every so often. She inscribed it to me before wrapping it in brown paper and tying it with string (a la Sound of Music, of course!). A single word and her initials. "Write."

A single word can be prophetic, and hope can be spelled so many different ways.



It's funny how I can look at the cover of a journal and be transported to an entirely different season of my life.

That's the one I used to write notes about youth group sermons and notes  to my friend in the pew in front of me.

That one went with me everywhere in high school in case some brilliant, poetic inspiration struck me, whether in class or at lunch.

That one traveled with me to China and tells the story of God making a way for a dream to come true.

And then that one... That one she gave me for my birthday two years ago along with the Chinese silk pillowcases because she loved to feed my obsessions. And in some bittersweet irony, its final pages contain the outpouring of my grief over her death.

These bound pages have surrendered themselves to my ink and my tears and the depths of my heart. They have been my constant companions. Paper and ink can somehow chase away clouds and take down demons. Slay dragons and remind me how to breathe. Stem the flow of tears and tear down the walls that confine me.

I spell hope with five letters: W-R-I-T-E.



I read an article the other day about "high-functioning anxiety." In it, the writer lists all the things she does to combat her anxiety.

It’s always looking for the next outlet, something to channel the never-ending energy. Writing. Running. List-making. Mindless tasks (whatever keeps you busy). Doing jumping jacks in the kitchen. Dancing in the living room, pretending it’s for fun, when really it’s a choreographed routine of desperation, trying to tire out the thoughts stuck in your head. 

I so wished that she could see me applauding her on the other side of the screen. I wanted to tell her that those outlets are pure gift. They don't have to be "a choreographed routine of desperation;" they can be a blessed dance of hope, steps toward freedom, declarations that you have the power to control your emotions and your anxiety and your depression and everything else that tried to beat you down and bind you up. It does not have to rule you, at least not all the time. You can rise above, one step at a time.

So if you have found something that lifts you out of your depression or anxiety, even just a little bit, go forth and DO IT. Own it. Don't be ashamed. Be intentional about making time for it. Find a friend to hold you accountable when you're feeling an "episode" coming on. Don't view the outlets as a crutch or a sign of your weakness. View them as keys to the door of freedom, and use them!

If it's dancing in the living room, do it. If it's reading a book, do it. If it's playing with needles and yarn or canvas and paint, do it. If it's solving a puzzle or baking a cake or serving a homeless man lunch or running through your apartment complex or jumping in the pool even though you can't swim or putting words out there into cyberspace for anyone or no one to read... DO IT.

Embrace your outlets with a brave and risky intentionality. Because the God of Peace can speak in a million different places and hope can be spelled a thousand different ways and you can find it. 

Breathing Through - The Fight to Believe

So much breathing through lately. I find myself shushing out loud as I try to fall asleep, as if I am trying to calm my own mind and heart the way I would a child. Here on the verge of tears because I'm separated from my husband on the airplane.

Breathe, child. You're okay. Just breathe.

My jaw hurts. It was hard to sleep last night. I'm annoyed. I went to see my therapist a couple of days ago. Walk in discouraged and heavy. I had thought I was ready to move on alone. I thought maybe I didn't need her to walk with me every other week anymore... And then I had to call and ask her to move my next appointment up on the calendar. I tell her how it feels like I'm back at square one. She assures me that I'm not and I agree with her. I just don't really believe her. Story of my life lately - I agree but I fight to believe.

I just had to tell myself to exhale again. I'm aware of the muscles in my jaw. I picture myself turning a bunch of tiny vice grips, loosening them one by one. Yes, we all do have our vices.

It's been more change recently - big change, hard change, painful change. It's been more grieving, more fighting. I choose fighting for joy far less than I would like, and I choose fighting against my husband far more often than I would like to admit.

Exhale. Loosen. Release the vices.

Nagging. Criticizing. Fixing. Controlling. White-knuckle gripping. All so much easier than the sitting, waiting, listening, releasing, breathing. I get a choice though. I am capable of choosing grace and doing the hard thing. He can make me strong. I agree, but I fight to believe.

I have to wait a moment for the plane to steady itself in the air before I can continue writing. Strange idea, that - a plane steadying itself on some invisible air stream, the tension of the lift and the drag lending balance somehow. The tension could steady me too, anchor me to the One who saves and make me stable. I agree, but I fight to believe.

My breathing is becoming easier, but my muscles stay tight. One thing at a time. That's how this journey works. One thing at a time.

I feel like we're under attack, my man and I, like we just can't seem to catch a break. No respite from the struggle. Sometimes, when I know he won't notice, I look at him and I wonder if we haven't made a mistake. I know. I haven't been his wife for six months yet. We should still be in that blessed honeymoon stage, all googly-eyed and love-struck. But some days it feels like we're being struck by something else entirely... something painful. And I just wonder if maybe we weren't....

Her voice stops me. God is providential and omnipotent. The marriage covenant is ordained by Him and sacred. He would not have allowed you to make a mistake. He would have stopped you. He loves you both too much to just let you go. It is hard. It takes so much more work than anyone ever warned you. He may even be allowing an attack on your relationship, but it will all come to an end that you can't even imagine - for His glory and your good. I agree, but I fight to believe.

You are loved. I agree, but I fight to believe.
You are valued. All is grace. You are safe and where you belong. He wills only the best for you and His will will be done. I agree, but I fight to believe.

And this journey? It's like recording over a tape that's been playing in my mind forever. I got the first part down and went to play it back only to find that there's more. So we'll start here and keep going. Yeah, it's the same old tape we're working on, but we're not back at the beginning; this is a whole different section. That's fighting to believe.

Or maybe it's like if I decided I wanted to paint those red dining room walls in that little old house I used to rent... If I just decided they needed to be white instead. One coat isn't enough. Put it on. Let it dry. Go again. That's fighting to believe. And that is how I will walk this path. I will keep layering it on. I will keep fighting to believe.

The Day I Realized I had a Mental Illness

I did a phone interview yesterday. The people from my life insurance company had to call and ask me some questions about my "mental illness." I guess I hadn't realized I had a mental illness. It was humbling. I felt so vulnerable. All those questions!

How long have you struggled with this condition? What was the trigger?
Are you on any medication? What type? What's the dosage? How often do you take it?
Are you under the care of a physician? Is this person a psychiatrist?
Are you under the care of a counseling professional or psychologist? How often do you see them?
How many days of work have you missed relating to your illness?
Do you consider your illness a disability? 

Now, this lady was so kind and objective. There was no tone of judgement in her voice. Still, all those questions are enough to leave anyone shaken and feeling insecure. They're enough to make anyone want to hide. Because I just had to answer what she asked. I couldn't tell her my story. I couldn't explain to her what brought me here, or tell her about the everyday victories that surround me. I couldn't shift her perspective and make her see the reality of how I live. But if we had had the time, this is what I would have said.

Hi, my name is Stephanie Campoverde, and I struggle with mixed anxiety and depression. And I'm done hiding it or feeling shame over it. I am getting better. And I'm learning. And even though I still have bad days sometimes, it is good. I was diagnosed four months ago after going through pretty much every major life upheaval that a person can endure in just over a year. I started in a new position at work. I moved into a new home. I reconnected an old friend from high school and we fell in love. One of my closest friends was diagnosed with leukemia. I became engaged to that guy from high school. I quit my job. I was offered an amazing position at a new school. I moved to a new city. I started yet another new job. My friend died. I got married. To say that I had a lot to process would be an understatement. The fact is though, I didn't give myself the time to do that. Not as much as I needed anyway. I didn't think I had to. Most of those things were great things. People don't need to process good changes. I was wrong.

The truth is, I am a high achiever who thrives on success, high performance, and a sense of control. I am so richly blessed. I love Jesus. From the outside, I lead a charmed life. On the inside, I live in constant fear that something is going to break... like that mask I wear. Oh, that would be the worst... if this facade cracked and someone saw who I really am. So I clenched tighter and tighter, and shame tightened his grip too. I grew more and more afraid of conflict. I tried harder and harder to do everything right and make my life into this dream that I was supposed to be living. One that would match what I saw all over the internet. One that would exceed every expectation I felt others placed on me. I couldn't keep up. Finally, I was so drained that I couldn't even do the things I loved anymore. I was so discouraged that I started lashing out or running away or hiding or hyperventilating. Some of the signs were obvious. The tears. The shortness of breath. The clenching of muscles. Some were more subtle. A critical spirit, especially toward my new husband. Sleeping later. Wanting to stay home more often. And some weren't noticeable to anyone but me. The constant tension in my jaw and shoulders. Feeling like every day was an uphill battle. An unrelenting sense of heaviness. That continual sense of fear and foreboding. Racing thoughts.

It took a long time, but I finally realized that I needed help. I realized that I could not pick myself up on my own. I wanted to. I wanted to be strong enough to take care of myself. I wanted my husband to be strong enough to take care of me. But nothing was working, so I finally took the plunge and made an appointment with a counselor. And here's what I learned...

Depression and anxiety can affect anyone for any reason. There are ways to control it through diet and exercise and taking up hobbies. You can retrain your inner voice to speak differently. You can count gifts and give thanks and practice seeing the beauty around you. You can learn a lot of things and do a lot of things. Sometimes these things can be enough. But sometimes... sometimes the chemicals in your body can't keep up with the stress you're going through and you end up having to take a pill each day just so your body stands a chance. And regardless of what your journey looks like, you realize that nothing is quite as you thought it was.

Asking for help is not a sign of weakness; it is a sign of blessed strength. Admitting your brokenness is not giving up; it is giving yourself room to be healed. Taking a pill is not copping out; it is taking in what your body has been missing for so long.

So yes. One could accurately say I have a mental illness. It's not severe, but it is real. It is part of how I live my life. It means that I've had to miss work so I could get help. It means that some days and activities are harder for me. It means that, for this season, I am on medication. But it also means that I have learned how to take care of myself, to love and appreciate who God made me to be (as well as the process of redemption that is helping me become more and more that person), and to embrace others who fight and struggle on a daily basis with whatever. I thought that strength was making it through on my own, but for me, strength was getting the help I needed. And I'm glad that I did. And my life insurance company should be glad too, because my quality of life is a thousand times better now than it was when I was living in denial and pretending I had it all together and could conquer the world. I am not ashamed.

To the Woman in the Mirror - A letter to the depressed and anxious part of me

To the woman in the mirror:

The truth is, you scare me. I roll out of bed in the morning, knowing I will have to face you and I am afraid. I never know who I will see looking back at me. I hope that you will be beautiful and strong, full of hope and joyful anticipation for all that the day holds. I hope you will look back at me with eyes that say, “Mercy is new every morning. Great is His faithfulness. Believe and live.” But that’s not how it’s been. That’s not how it always is.

Sometimes you just stare blankly at me with tired eyes. Sometimes those eyes are swollen from the tears which soaked your pillow through the night. Sometimes they are wild with anxiety, with some inexplicable fear. Sometimes you can’t bear to look back at me. The heaviness of the burden you carry reaches all the way through you and even your eyes lower under the weight of it. Your failures. Your sense of worthlessness. Your lack of interest. Sometimes the confusion behind your eyes is more than I can bear. Where does it all come from? Will you give me answers? I can see you begging me, pleading with me like you plead with everyone around you, to notice, to help, to fix, to heal, to protect, to put you back together again after you humpty-dumptied right off the very wall you built to protect yourself. The truth is, I detest you, your weakness and brokenness. And for a while that made me detest myself.

You see, woman in the mirror, I thought you and I were the same. I thought that we were one. I thought I could look to you and see my identity. I thought that you defined me. I thought that I was the sum of every feeling, every fear, every burden that you reflected back to me. I thought the things I saw in you were my reality, and I could hope for nothing more. It took so long for me to even consider that I was wrong.

But one day I reached up to touch you. One day I decided that I wouldn’t be afraid of you anymore. One day I decided that I would not let you define me or control me. One day I decided to be strong and courageous, so I reached to touch you. You were cold and hard. I pulled back and touched my own cheek – soft and warm. You and I are not the same after all.

You are nothing more than a reflection on glass. No wonder you feel so fragile! But I? I am flesh and bone and blood and muscle and breath and soul and mind and nerves and… ah yes, I had forgotten… A vessel of the Holy Spirit. You are flat – all depression or anxiety or vanity or fear or failure or brokenness. I am so much more. You are reflection. I am real. You are my image. I am made in His. You do not define me. Oh yes, I do struggle with all the things you show me. I am broken. There is absolutely no doubt about that. You are a part of me, but you are not all of me, and you are certainly not forever. Tomorrow you will look different, just as I will. All of these things I see in you? They will pass. He will bring redemption and healing and mend the broken parts of me. And I will tell you this: Sweet woman in the mirror, I will learn to love you as He loves me. I will learn to be thankful for you, because you drive me to His thrown of grace. I will learn to never fear you, but instead to embrace you and speak life to you. There is more than this. There is healing in His arms, and you remind me of that. So I will remind you, oh broken reflection, tell you the thing I most long to hear: Take heart and fear not. Mercy is new every morning. Great is His faithfulness. Believe and live.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 27

I have it written on my mirror. These four words: Taken, Blessed, Broken, Given. These are the words that Henri Nouwen says describe us our life as the Beloved. We are taken, chosen, received, embraced by God as His child. Then we are blessed by Him, given a hope for our future growth and redemption, made aware of the gifts He has given us and our potential to be used as instruments of change in the lives of those around us. Then we are broken, made aware of our smallness, our insufficiency, our deep need for Him. Then we are given in love, in service, in creative contribution, in worship. It is a beautiful idea, but the beauty has been hard for me to see lately.

So I take the marker and I circle the last two words: Broken, Given. The I draw and arrow: I am here. Then I circle the first two words: Taken, Blessed. Another arrow and the words: I want to get back here. Then I circle all four words and I write a final set of words: Wholeness is found here.

Wholeness is found when we live taken, blessed, broken, and given. I have been focused on the last two. I have been feeling the brokenness and I have been giving nonstop, but I have not taken the time to soak in the miracle of being taken and blessed. I'm not really sure what I want to say about this, except that I can force myself to live broken and given. I can clench the fists and squeeze every last drop of myself out. But then I only end up empty and worn. But to live taken and blessed requires the opening of the hands to receive. Once those hands are open, they don't close again. They overflow through all the cracks and give life. And that is the way to living whole. Opening the hands and then overflowing, rather than clenching the fists and pushing through. The try-harder life cannot be sustained. 

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 26

I run to the grocery store to pick up that one ingredient we need for supper that I left off the list when I went yesterday. It's been such a hard day. The pain in my jaw is my witness. I have been clenching so tightly these days. So I walk in, head down, focused on getting that one thing and getting on with life, but they draw me in like a magnet. There are gladiolas in the flower section today. Tall and bright red pushing through the green leaves and opening. Always pushing through. Always opening. I look for the bunch that reminds me of me, the one that wants to open but isn't quite there yet, the one that is just pushing through looking for space to open up. And I find it, this one bunch of orange blooms, and I take them home. I hold the stalks close, like a beacon of hope that will teach my heart how to beat again, teach my eyes how to see again. And I tell him when he looks at them - They're just because. Just because the world feels heavy and dark and hard and broken and ugly and I need just one thing to remind me that at the end of it all, there is beauty. I need just one thing to remind me that life is beautiful, no mater how I feel. I need just one thing to remind me to let the openness be what helps me push through. And orange is such a brave color.

And here's what I've learned today. I've learned to choose the breakthroughs that come in the little things. I've learned that while I want to push through so I can find the space to open, it is actually the very act of opening that creates the space for which I long. Life is still beautiful. And orange is a brave color.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 25

This weekend has been good. A much needed extra day of rest. Rain. Moments of deep connection and reconciliation. Laughter. Words that fill the soul. Paradigm shifts that can change everything. There have been moments over the last few days where I have felt genuinely free for the first time in a long time. Where I have felt like my heart is whole and the weight on my shoulders has been lifted. I've felt like I could breathe. I'm learning to whisper it to myself in the moments when I want to criticize or perform or demand... Enjoy. And it changes everything.

But the hours of the weekend tick away and as Monday morning draws closer, the fear and the anxiety rise within me. The cry of "Not enough!" bubbles to the surface. They will demand of me tomorrow. I will feel pulled in a million different directions. I will go back to feeling fragmented and worn. So here's my question and I'm not sure I have an answer - How do I keep living whole-heartedly in a world that demands pieces of me left and right? I want nothing more than to live whole and live free. But how?

I read it once and I used to live it. Thanksgiving turns what we have into enough. Singing the song of Eucharisteo is easy when there is space and time and the gifts are obvious. But when it is hard to even draw breath, will I still sing? I keep wishing that life would slow down, just for awhile, that it would let me rest and catch up. But it's not going to, not for awhile at least. Can I learn contentment here? Can I still enjoy even as swiftly as life is moving past? It is hard. It is so hard to live present and to enjoy the moment. But I want to. So can I do just one more day?

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 23

Not many words today because I'm still processing, and I feel like it's something that can change everything. I read this quote a year ago and it resonated deep, but here's the thing... I have been killing myself for months. I have been living into this need to make everything perfect and it has been driving me insane. At work. Within myself. In my relationship with my fiance. In my relationship with God. Perfectionism has been killing me. And there is one word that I think might set me free - Enjoy. It keeps coming up over and over. Enjoy God. Enjoy these months leading to your marriage. Enjoy the man you love and who loves you. Enjoy getting to do what you love. Enjoy those children. Just open your hands and enjoy. Stop trying to fix. Stop trying to find all the things that could go wrong. Just stop and enjoy. I'm tired of dying on the inside. I want to live. We'll see where this goes.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 22

I step out on the balcony and sit in the old rocker, just so I can hear it. It started coming down in earnest just as I approached the stairwell leading to my door, cool and soothing on my skin. I just want to hear it. Just watch it come down and flow in rivulets on the concrete. How long have I needed the rain to fall? That chorus rings in my head, I believe You will come like the rain... I believe You will come like the rain. I sing it to myself. And all the pent up stress and tension and fear and anxiety rises to the surface and runs down my cheeks. Release. I believe You will come like the rain. I can hear the planes, but I can't see them through the gray. The whole world looks like that, gray. I used to think it a terrible color. Now I've learned to savor it, the way it soothes and breathes, and makes the grass look a little greener and the red of the curb stand out a little brighter. My senses have been on overload. I breathe thanks for the grays. I leave the sliding door open so I can keep listening.

This morning, I wasn't sure I would make it. I went to bed early last night. Body weary and eye lids heavy before nine o'clock. Still I woke up exhausted. The list of things I had to do slapped me in the face and kept getting longer. My anxiety level was through the roof. The corners of my mouth too weighted down by my heavy heart to smile. My feet felt like lead. Not enough time! I wanted to cry. Too much weight! And then the digging of the pit began... Why can't I handle this? Why can't I control how I feel? What is wrong with me? Why is everything fine but I feel like everything is wrong? Why am I the only one crumbling under the weight of it all? Lies.

He tells me he's let himself run late so he could stop and pray for me. He says that rain always represents God's providence and that he prays that I'll see Him today, not just all the things that need to be taken care of, not just a bunch of rowdy children. I can hear him singing it when I can't... I believe He will come like the rain. This man... He is believing for me. And this is the duet we will sing together for the rest of our lives, trading parts and switching harmonies with the seasons.

My soul longs for You. My soul longs for You. Nothing else will do. Nothing else will do.

I believe You will come like the rain. I believe You will come like the rain. 

The cry and the answer. The falling on the knees and the lifting of the head. The deep need and the deep trust. My man has been strong in my weakness. He has shown me saving grace in the desert. He will need me to do the same soon. Someday all he will feel is the longing and it will be my turn to sing the other part. For now, I let him embrace me and offer grace and forgiveness, until I can join him to sing it in unison, I believe You will come like the rain. And He does. I don't know what tomorrow will look like, but today, I have seen prayers answered in changes of heart and in simple practical ways like an extra 45 minutes to work due to an unexpected field trip. And I have listened to the rain. And it is enough for today, and a bright hope for tomorrow... Great is His faithfulness.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 21

I don't have much to say today. Honestly, I'm facing a major mental block... toward lesson plans, this blog, lots of things. So I'm just going to leave this here, because I need to soak in this truth today rather than try to come up with words. He's a good, good Father.  It's who He is. I am loved by Him. It's who I am. Plain and simple and yet mind blowing. I'll just rest here for tonight.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 20

I started the list years ago. This list of gifts, of little things I saw that I could count as grace and for which I could give thanks. I believed deeply in the power of the list, in the power of thanksgiving. I believed that giving thanks was the highest form of praise, the truest form of worship. I believed that looking for ways to be thankful brought joy into my life and opened my eyes.

Another sunrise
Wind in the trees
Hot chocolate and blankets in October
The first sip of coffee in the morning
Children laughing
Cold water on my face in the morning
Hot water for the shower at night
Sore muscles after a run
A tiny hand in mine
Hibiscus flowers opening to the sun
Late night phone calls
Blue skies
Rain storms
Lightening
Sunsets
Debussy
Newly tuned pianos
Choir music

But lately, making the list has become tedious, forced, dry... Dare I say, useless? It became just another thing to check off, nothing more than scratching words on a page. So I've stopped for a little while. I've stopped making the list until I can remember why I started in the first place. These are not just observations or notes about the world around me. These are evidences of the love of the Father. Each time I write something down, I whisper my thanks, and I feel the depth of His love. Each time I put pen to page, I make it a point to enjoy His presence. If that is not why I'm doing it, then there is no reason to keep the list. Eucharisteo does nothing if it does not open my heart up to the Father. But if giving thanks in the face of brokenness opens my eyes to see in a very real and practical way that God is present in each moment, that He loves in each moment, and that I can taste His goodness in each moment... Then Eucharisteo precedes miracles. Because when I know that He is deeply good and I am deeply loved, there is a power unleashed of which I can only dream. Everything I believed about the list is still true, but it's not about the list. It's about where the list takes me... To a place where I can enjoy God.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 19

I woke up hurting today, and it has not subsided in the last fourteen hours. There is this deep ache in my soul. More than a weariness, though it is that. It's more like the pain of someone who is be stretched too far. I feel like I'm drowning these days. I feel like nothing I do is good enough. It's like I've got a million moving parts that I am trying so hard to hold in place and if anyone comes up and makes me feel like they are asking one more thing from me I will either come out swinging or I will simply collapse into a puddle... or both. Because I have nothing left to give. I spend every moment of every day trying so hard! And these are all the thoughts I went to bed thinking last night and woke up with this morning. Another day of trying to hold it all together. Another day of a thousand cups that need to be filled and me running back and forth with a bucket full of holes.

And that's just it. I can't do this. I can't accept him and support him and love him and serve him and see them and hear them and teach them and inspire them and love them and receive her and pray for her and be selfless and joyful and faithful and gracious and forgiving and compassionate and be an exceptional teacher and plan a wedding and keep a home and prepare to be a wife and conduct the best choir in the district... I can't do it all! And she looks at me from across the table after only a portion of that rant and says, "That is a lot of weight to carry on your shoulders, girl." And it is.

And if anyone else were to say all those things to me, I would tell her to breathe. I would tell her to be still and to hear His voice say that she is beloved before she even gets out of bed in the morning. I would tell her that she doesn't need to do it all and certainly not do it all perfectly. I would tell her that the more she focuses on her own performance the more selfish and self-centered and self-hating she becomes and that no one can love from that place. I would tell her that she is putting those expectations on herself, that the people around her are much more gracious towards her than she is to the mirror and that she is so much more gracious to others than she is to herself.

I would tell her that if she would stop running for just a moment and go to Him with that broken bucket, He would seal it for her. I would tell her that she can stop being afraid that He's going to demand more of her, because He promises that if the weary will come to Him, He will give them rest. I would tell her that He is the only place to find true rest. I would tell her that she doesn't need to dig through scripture, she just needs to open it. She doesn't need to bake the Bread of Life, she just needs to come and eat. She doesn't need to go to the well with her broken bucket, she just needs to sit at His feet and drink in His love.

I would tell her that she does not have to stay in this cycle. I would tell her that there is an enemy to her soul who seeks to steal, kill, and destroy and he is hitting her hard and pinning her down, but Jesus will lift her up. I would tell her that she doesn't have to force herself to believe that. I would tell her that a mustard seed is enough, because she is deeply loved. I would tell her that it is not her beloved who is causing her pain, so she can feel safe enough to just close her eyes, throw her head back and open her heart. I would tell her all of this. So I do. And then I walk away from the mirror.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 18

There are lyrics from a song by The Gray Havens that are resonating in my heart tonight. "Hold on. Hold on, my heart. You once were full and sang of Grace. Hold on. Hold on, my heart. You've tasted Joy that's more than this."

I don't really know what to say about those lyrics except that they seem to express some deep stirring in my soul. She asks me over coffee, the first time we've seen each other in months, if my cup is sealed on the bottom. She tells me that if it's not, I will never overflow. I will always feel like I'm running dry. But the quiet times and the scripture reading feels so empty and powerless. I can't seem to find the words to string into prayers. So maybe this is a season of holding on and remembering the songs I sang of Grace, remembering the Joy I have tasted and keep going back to Him even when it feels empty and He is silent. Because I can't sustain this life on my own. And nothing that He offers me, longs to give me, has changed. The place as His beloved daughter. The abundant life. The intimacy with Him. It is all still there. And if I will hold on, even when it feels awkward and forced and empty, I will be filled and sing and taste joy and grace once again. Because the purpose of my life is to enjoy God and dive deeper into His love for me and for His people. So hold on, my heart.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 17

I didn't write yesterday because I quite simply didn't have the time. We all have those days. And that's okay. I'm back at it today on a borrowed laptop from my second mother. I'm spending the weekend back in that little town where I spent years 18-24 of my life. It's a strange feeling. I've only been gone since August, a little over two months. It feels like no time at all, and yet it feels like forever. Driving these streets is somewhat surreal. It's not like going back to my hometown. Yes, I grew up there and I drove those roads and I had some independence, but here? I built an entire life for myself here. I was fully independent. This was truly a home that I made for myself, or rather that God graciously provided for me. It feels like nothing has changed, even though so much has. Part of me feels like I'm supposed to stay here, like that new apartment and that new job were the real break from my life here. The rest of me is just thankful. Thankful for the memories I made here and the way the good memories miraculously outweigh the hard ones. Thankful for somewhere to return to, a place where I can breathe the peace and quiet. It is a gift, this little town. It was home. And it will always hold part of my heart.

A friend asked me the other day what I thought about nostalgia, if I thought it was dangerous. I think sometimes it can be. Nostalgia gets dangerous when we start pining after a romanticized version of memories and compare those to where we are now. Because our memories are the end result. Our memories are the final product of waiting and struggling and a whole lot of mediocre days. And when I expect the beginning of this season to look and feel like the end of that last season, I will be broken-hearted and disappointed. 

But when I allow nostalgia to remind me of who God made me, of all the ways that He provided for me, of all the ways He filled me and met me and sanctified me and walked with me, and allow it to fuel my faith for what He will do in my new place and my new season... Then it is a wonderful thing. Because the center of change can be a lonely place to live. It can be painful, and it often is for me right now. But I'm not going to run away from it and pine for what used to be. I'm going to take a moment in this old place and remember what God gave me and what it was like at the beginning. I'm going to visit this altar I built and declare that He is faithful and He is good and I am loved and He is at work. Then I will go home, and I will build another altar. I will open my hands in surrender, whether things are exciting and beautiful or painful and lonely. I will walk this journey with him like I have all the others. And at all times, I will declare that He is faithful and He is good and I am loved and He is at work... still.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 15

There's this kid in one of my classes. He is a hot mess. Can't sit still to save his life. Too smart (and smart-mouthed) for his own good. Always wanting to be the center of attention and willing to fight me for it in the middle of lessons. Defiant at times. He is a challenge. But honest truth? I really like him. I mean, yes, he drove me crazy for the first few weeks. He dragged me into a couple of power struggles. But something happened today that changed everything.

This morning at breakfast I stopped by his table while making my rounds in the cafeteria. I asked him how he was doing. He responded with a simple "Good." I got ready to move on. Then he pulls his hat over his face. I asked him what in the world he was doing and he says, "I'm a dinosaur... meow." The girl next to him laughs. I smile and shake my head. "That was actually really funny," I say. The girl asks why I'm not laughing then. I say something about laughing on the inside and she says something that reshaped my entire day...

I like him. He makes me laugh. I have a really sad life, but he makes me happy. 

Now I have no idea what this girl's story is, but this mess of a kid is making a difference in her life. I love that on so many levels. First, it reminds me that every one of these children that I get to work with is a human being. Each one is gifted uniquely and can make a valuable contribution to our world. They are not challenges to be overcome or problems to be controlled. They can't always see their value or believe in their potential... neither can I. But we can try. We can pray for eyes to see more than what is in front of us.

Also, I just love the reminder that no matter how messy we are, we can make a difference in someone's life. No matter how many things we struggle with, we can be a positive influence somewhere for someone. No matter how broken we feel we are, we are still gifted and our lives still have purpose. We may not be able to control our smart mouths all the time, but we can still say things that bring people joy. And that is a good thing.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 14

So I write about the three to one ratio. I write about seeking the light in the dark and choosing joy. And then the next day starts and it is hard. The gifts and the grace are so hard to see sometimes. And it is frustrating to say something and struggle with it so much. But that's how it is sometimes. We get a clear vision of who we want to be and how we want to live and then the opposition hits. And sometimes I just need to know that I'm not the only one. I need to know that I'm not the only one who can't seem to live up to everything I would like to be. That I'm not the only one who feels like a hypocrite some days... a lot of days.

So I keep putting one foot in front of the other. I keep counting the gifts, even though the language of thanksgiving feels awkward and forced. I keep hunting for the light out of pure discipline, because I believe in the power that Eucharisteo holds. I believe that the Joy of the Lord is my strength and that if I allow anything to steal my joy (even my own sinful nature) I am letting it steal my strength. And I sit in wonder at the fact that His mercy is new every morning, new every time I fail and there is always hope. There is always, always, always something to be thankful for and my moods do not define me. They do not need to control me. So I press on when I don't want to. I force a smile, and I keep moving forward. Because He is always good. He is always bigger than my feelings. And He is always worth it.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day 13

The most valuable teaching advice I've gotten in a long time seems simple on the surface, but it has revolutionized my school year - For every time you correct a student, create three positive interactions throughout the day. I know. It sounds impossible. Let's be real. Some of the kids that walk in and out of my classroom are just a hot mess. But I have found that the 3:1 plan is a goal that has changed my perspective not just on my students, but on everyone in my life.

The trick is becoming intentional about hunting for light in the darkness. Doing this helps maintain the humanity of those who challenge me. Because my natural response is one of two things. I either avoid because I don't want to deal with the challenge, or I go on off on some vendetta and consider it my mission to nitpick every detail and fix all the problems (feel free to laugh here!). And it's not just with students that I do this!

But here's the truth. I'm not talking about pop psychology and self-esteem raising. Constructive criticism plays a critical role in our growth and development. But we all reach a saturation point of criticism where we start to feel beaten down. I'm not saying every student needs a trophy, but I am saying that we should celebrate the small victories. We don't need to count every wrong or hold grudges (once again, not just talking about students here!). We can face a problem, forgive, and move on. So I am becoming intentional about creating positive encounters with all my students throughout the day, but especially with those who have been a challenge. And this is how we are called to live, to speak truth in love and wrap hard words in grace. It is a way of creating light in darkness and lightening my load. It has helped change my attitude and the attitudes of my students toward me. I want to build up, not tear down and this is a surprisingly easy way to do that. 3 to 1.

31 Days of Open Grace - Day12

The natural response to the dark moments and dark thoughts in our lives is to shut them up and keep them hidden. We hope that we can stamp out the darkness by suffocating it, letting the walls close in around it, allowing it to slowly die of starvation, but the problem is that we can't isolate the darkness within us, much like radiation trying to kill cancer cells. When we try to kill the darkness this way, the rest of the soul suffers too. We can't drink poison and expect only the dark parts of us to die.

The only way to conquer darkness is to open it up to the light.

For a recovering perfectionist like me, this is hard. I have spent the majority of my life covering up the dark parts of me and molding the good and beautiful parts of me to be put on stage (both literally and metaphorically). I have spent many, many years performing. So many, in fact, that I almost have myself convinced I have it all pretty well together. I've got the bad (one could also substitute "weak" here) parts of me boxed up so no one will ever see, and I've got the good parts ready to go and be shown off. The only problem is that that's exhausting. So there are days when I just can't keep it up anymore. Then toss in a man that I'm preparing to spend the rest of my life with? Well, goodbye hiding! Nobody's got the strength to keep that one up 24/7. And honestly, that's one of the best parts of the adventure on which my man and I are embarking.  Truly, it's one of the best parts of any committed community, not just marriage.

Because when it comes to our darkness there are two different kinds of light. There's the harsh light of interrogation, the one where we feel accused and afraid and worthless. Then there is the much gentler light of the sun. Yeah, that one makes me squint and shield my eyes, but it is also warm and helps me to grow. The difference between the two is the presence of Love. I know that my man loves me. I know he will not run away, no matter how much I may push him (and believe me, I do push him!). So I know that when I inevitably drop the ball and can't hide or hold it together anymore, I am safe to open up to the light. And even better is when I can finally just put it down altogether and say, "I'm not perfect. I have dark and sinful parts of me. Sometimes I hurt others and myself with the choices that I make. But I don't have to shut it down and hope that it won't rise up again. I can open it to the light and receive grace and forgiveness so I can start walking toward redemption and sanctification." And the truth is, at that point, I'm not actually just opening up to my man... I'm opening up to the Holy Spirit. I'm exposing the broken parts of me so Jesus can step in and move.

It's a hard habit to break, this convincing myself that I'm not broken, but opening up is the only way to intimacy with Christ. And I really want that. I really want to be open to that loving kind of light that can bring redemption and healing.