Every Year Has a Word…

Okay not EVERY year, sometimes life falls in more of a season of two to three years than a single calendar year. Over the past several years, I’ve been living under the theme of “Wild and Whimsy” and, oh my! I have done all the things.

I spontaneously went on a first date with a boy I hadn’t laid eyes on in over eight years. I planned and led my first team trip to Nairobi, Kenya (East Africa). The team stuck in transit in Paris, so I got a accidental vacation evening to see the sights while riding down the Seine River. God provided every penny for the team trip.  I was offered a teaching job overseas without reviewing any of my credentials and without an interview… which I accepted, duh. Again, God provided every penny needed for me to be comfortable really leaving to start my overseas teaching job.

In October of last year, I left the United States for Honduras to take on 10 months of adventure. In my first week, I met tons of new friends (two who quickly became some of my BEST friends), my adorably sweet boss, my precious Honduran coworkers, and even a local barista of a charitable coffee shop (I mean… Priorities). Also in the first week, I got a call from that same boy telling me he’d spoken to my father to get permission to ask me to marry him. So naturally, I had all the feelings.

I came home to Georgia for Christmas and the boy asked me the very important question. I said yes and got a very sparkly accessory. We celebrated Christmas and New Years. I bought a wedding dress. We booked a venue and set a date. My mom and I met with the florist. Then I was zooming back to Honduras to complete my contract for the school year. I got a new teaching assistant and resumed my Spanish Review Lessons. Later, as a part of governmental visa restrictions, I needed to exit the country and re-enter – so my friends and I went just two border-ways away to Placencia, Belize for magical mini vacation and right back to Honduras. Then in June, I came home for good.

Almost immediately, we were into blitz wedding planning and finding the right apartment for our new little life. To make ends meet while sorting things out, I took a temp job back at my old office. And then like a dream, I was offered a temp position, which has since become a permanent stay, at my precious local community, Stevens Creek Church. I then got married in October. The day husband and I returned to work after our honeymoon, we were notified his company was “dissolving the support department”. We immediately set into grieving and searching for solutions. Then Thanksgiving – still haven’t found a great solution. Then Christmas Crazy -still no solution.

And now a new year is dawning. Today is ground zero. We’ve been sprinting for months. I did all the things and I have no regrets. God is good. But this new season needs to be different. I’m no less wild and no less whimsical so that may end up being more like a life-theme, however, there’s a different thing that I’ve been learning from my time in Honduras and my short time married thus far.

We live in the umbrella of God’s grace-zone. All we do, say, think, plan, whatever… It’s all under His grace and with His hand ALLOWING us to make mistakes and be forgiven and re-start and keep working at this life. It is a huge reminder that we are YET the loveliness that He calls us. Similarly, sweet husband tells me I’m beautiful at the ODDIST times. It’s hard to always believe it when he says it too, but I’m working on really listening to him and letting those words sink in and move me. I’m in sweet husband’s grace-zone too…

Because I am yet the loveliness that he says I am.

My friend Jessica got a tattoo years ago that I thought was just stunning. All it says is “yet lovely” on her dainty porcelain wrist. I didn’t understand it at first although I thought artistically it was show stopping. (No Jess, I’m not stealing your ink. 😉 I don’t know the exact story she was walking through in that season of her life, but I know that for me these tiny two words sum it up gorgeously.

“I am very dark, but lovely, O daughters of Jerusalem, like the tents of Kedar, like the curtains of Solomon. Do not gaze at me because I am dark, because the sun has looked upon me. My mother’s sons were angry with me; they made me keeper of the vineyards, but my own vineyard I have not kept!” – Song of Solomon 1: 5-6

I know you’re thinking, “That’s an odd scripture to run with as a theme for the new season.” As always, I ask you to trust. In this portion of scripture, Solomon’s beloved is responding to him explaining why she is the way she is. She’s telling him yes, I’ve had a hard life, but I trust somehow you are right and there is still loveliness inside. I would say that my life hasn’t been HARD necessarily but it has been one that fosters and values independence; something I’m trying  to re-write now to instead foster and value interdependence with sweet husband. It’s not lovely yet, but I know that somehow God and sweet husband are right and there is indeed still loveliness inside.

#YetLovely

xo Meagan Balram

When Tough Boys Chase Butterflies

So I’m living in Honduras as a teacher of 5 and 6 year-olds in a mid-sized town in the mountains. In addition to that identity, I’m currently engaged to a beautifully strong boy back home and planning our wedding in October. It’s a bizarre reality I’m straddling.

The other day, after lunch my 22 sweet wild kids took a recess and in the middle of all the swinging and sliding and benevolent wrestling… Three of my toughest boys (and by toughest I clearly mean “most often caught fighting”) were blitzing across the basketball half-court. This may not strike you as it struck me, but this zone is strictly forbidden during our recess time as it is paved and thus, my kids have a much higher injury rate than our ample grassy play areas. Also, the basketball area is for other classes to use during PE. So… Traffic is not so controlled when it comes to potential interactions between preschoolers and 4th graders.

They were sprinting, FAST, away from me… On pavement. I felt fear and so much tense curiosity. Why the heck were they breaking the rules so adamantly?! I glanced just ahead of them to see what they could POSSIBLY be running toward, and I saw the tiniest pale yellow butterfly.  Wait really? A single tiny flitting creature captured my little fighters’ focus long enough to enrapture them across half our school property? I felt so many feelings: Pride and wonder and awe and joy and warmth and … Well just very teachery tender goofiness. I sneakily called to my assistant and nodded to them. She beamed across the playground too.

Then the others started to catch on. “Mariposa! Mariposa!” It was darling little squeaks and squeals and for a few minutes I didn’t care about correcting Spanish to English while they were with me. They ARE mariposas after all. And we circled back another day to remember that in English, Mariposa is “butterfly”, which they find hilarious because butter cannot fly. Fair point, kid, but I didn’t make it up.

I guess what I gathered was that, when the people we KNOW are dreamers, dream a new dream it doesn’t always thrill us. That can be sad because these new dreams can be exquisite grand life-changing wonders to behold, and we aren’t even excited. But when someone unexpected catches a vision for their life, a dream… Oh the delight of those who are watching, coaching, and cheering from the sidelines! We want you to catch hold of it and grasp it tenderly and gaze into all the beauty and mystery that’s eluded you before.

We should cheer for everyone that way. Not just tough boys chasing butterflies.

Xo -M

Skinned Knees, Storytelling, and Shopping in the Dark

I envy the lion but I am the river.

I’ve been in Kenya and it has changed me. The people we met were so beautiful in spirit… I will never forget them and never stop telling their stories. One of my favorites was of a beautiful young woman named Evelyn I met at the well drawing water on our second day in Nairobi. I even just love being able to say that much.

She is tall with lean muscles and a darling happy face. She taught Maddie and me how to draw the water and fill the re-used oil containers for easier carrying. And the she asked me to help her pick up the container to place it on her head to carry home.

This is beautiful Evelyn taking her water home past the blue gate of the church grounds.

 

I said to her, “I’m not sure I can. I’m not strong.”

She quickly said, “You are strong. Look at your body. We are the same.”

I knew what she meant, and I’m generally the first person to agree that we are the same in essence… But when it comes to ability, I totally disagreed with her. Evelyn had likely been drawing water and carrying it long distances her whole life. I’m pretty sure this was my first time. My muscles are laughable – just ask my weight-lifting boyfriend.

Anyway, the thought Evelyn planted in me that morning stuck and I couldn’t shake it through my entire trip. I spent much of my reflection and journaling time revisiting that thought and disecting how exactly God made me strong. So much so, I guess, that I incorporated it into my sermon there in Nairobi that Sunday. And after telling the conversation I had with Evelyn, it started something like this:

“I envy the lion but I am the river. I do not roar or have great muscles, but I am small and quiet and stumble over rocks. I tend to make my change in the world gently over time, carving away canyons in what used to be flat deserts. So I do, I envy the bold lion, but today God brought you the quiet river.”

One of eight lionesses we saw inside Nairobi National Park. Yes, I cried like an idiot.

 

My journey to Africa and back is going to take a good long while to fully process and own in my heart but I can earnestly say, my family is broader and more colorful and more beautiful than I had ever imagined. Brace yourselves for more Africa-related blog posts.

Xo-mal

Paris.

I’m drafting this blog post from Paris… As in France.

Roy would be giddy.

Technically it was supposed to be a layover for less than 4 hours. However, when your reputable airline sells your team tickets for a flight, and then fails to reserve the seats on said flight, you tend to be forced to linger longer. No hard feelings airline; there are worse places to be stranded. (And don’t worry friends and family at home, they’re putting us up in a hotel and rerouting our flight tomorrow to, eventually and by way of another layover, get to Nairobi.)

But for yesterday and a tinge of today, I’m in France. I felt so ill-prepared. But I can see the grin on my late uncle’s face if I were able to recount for him the story later. He’d say something like, “Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t Paris just great!?” (in a very naturally Bob Goff tone) I’d glaze back and say, “Well sure but I think you missed the point…” Which he would ignore and ask about what we got to see and what we ate and such. I’d try and remind him that it was a less than 24 hour stay in his beloved city. That could never matter to him. His thirst for breathing deeply of life was insatiable even if behalf of others.

It was delicious by the way. We made the most of our little stopover. We strolled rainy crowded Parisian streets and crossed busy traffic and and stopped for pictures every five to seven steps. We took a boat tour of the highlights down the Seine River and cried at the beauty of the Lord’s provision in what could have been a downright BLEAK scenario. We also cried at the actual beauty everywhere. Okay…maybe I was the only one doing the crying. Judger-McJudgersons.

I saw Paris in 24 hours. I ate an apple turnover and had a cafe au laiux from Paul. I had creme brûlée and THE best chef salad and smoked salmon I’ve ever tasted. I rode pasted a foggy and fully lit Eiffel Tower teary and in awe. I have seen the Louvre. I witnessed a FrenchAir protest (but don’t worry- it was super peaceful, what else would you expect?). I tasted life. It is delicious. 

Pictures to follow.

As Big as the Tiniest Thing on Stage (1 of 2)

When I was in school, I was a member of Drama Club and Thespian Society. I know – go figure, right? I actually did so much in the theater community that I earned myself some swanky honor cords for graduation. That’s right. I was awesome. Anyway, the point of this post is actually not to display all my goofy awkward obsessive past. In truth, I spent more time working in the drama department off-stage than I likely ever will acting on-stage. I love being in the lights, don’t get me wrong. I just really like great supporting details too, and in school, I was petrified of virtually everything. The journey to thirty has been good to me in making less paranoid of the general opinion of me.

I’m not going to lie – This is from Edina High School (where I did not attend) and they did Fiddler on the Roof (which I was never in, nor worked on crew). I Googled for this photo. Evidently taking great photos of the work I was involved in was not something that was important to me in high school. Lesson learned.

In my time off-stage in the theater at Evans High School though, I remember vividly a specific show that we did for a one-act competition. I adored working on those one-act shows and getting to see how all sorts of other drama departments pull off their one-act shows. It was the epitome of creative genius at times and other times… uh not so much. One of the rules though, is that you must begin and end with an empty stage and everything that happens in-between has to be within a certain time limit. Also, you get penalized if your set is off-center (which is a bit of a big deal because you have to do it quickly). At any rate, my drama teacher, who was one of the most loved and feared women of our school, figured out a relatively genius solution to the could-be crisis. The first person on stage would be tasked with the job of walking to the center and running a small piece of glow tape so the entire cast and crew could see it and quickly build around it.

I remember Ms. Lee being so impressed by a certain very tall bleached-blonde actress who was “not particularly helpful” during setup or scratching the set, as far as carrying heavy things or doing anything that might possibly snag her costume. Ms. Lee said charmingly, “Oh yes! I have the PERFECT job for you!” … And she was entirely right. We literally built the show around that supporting actress’s amazing glow-tape work. I remember in the days in weeks leading up to competition we’d take turns putting emphasis on different elements of the show. Maybe one week we would really focus on lighting and blocking… the next week, we’d be tweaking costumes to death resewing leaves or sequins onto dresses and ill-fitting suits. Maybe the next week we’d be building and painting props and set elements until our fingers bled – mainly from accidents while we weren’t paying attention or someone lost control of a nail gun. Ah, good times. 🙂

But eventually, we’d have pulled all those elements together into a cohesive show that we were proud to present to our families and peers. Some of my favorite high school memories where in that theater buzzing around prepping for shows and sending my friends out onto the stage to shine! And although generally, I hated being on stage for acting purposes, I loved competition week. The feedback in any competition setting has always been the bit that kept me coming back. Fall One-Act Competition was no exception indeed. We’d get there and it was a BLUR to get to our time-slot. I’d drink in all the other shows though loving all the creative stimuli in one setting. But then, inevitably, it was our turn.

Again, I think this is from “the Odd Couple”, which our school did not produce during my time there. Also, I Googled – so these are happy strangers.

The clock for competition ran through the entire “scratch” process. So we had to remove every set piece, every prop, and every stray button from a costume that may have popped off mid-show. For good measure, we included sweeping the stage (it’s about excellence people!), and then the very last step was that same tall loud blondie… basically skipping front and center to retrieve her precious glowing tape. She’d skirt away into the stage wings and judge would call out the time. That was it. It was over.

… part two coming soon …

the Beloved Frenchman

I have strong feelings that every time it comes, death comes to interrupt. The passing of my uncle, the beloved Frenchman, was certainly no exception. It’s been three weeks to the day and I’m just now ready to really post my thoughts on the matter.

The Frenchman was forever a talker, a thinker, and ever the rascal. Stories of how he teased and pranked my father and their baby sister growing up preceeded him, and likely forever will, at every holiday and family gathering. He had the widest smile and would throw his head back in laughter watching his five grandkids do all sorts of fantastical things. We always joked that he wasn’t allowed to pray at the outset of meals because, if he did, we’d never get to actually eat. HA! He could debate with the best of them but mainly just because he liked the thrill of the challenge. He’d say while sparring through a big grin that looked like it hid secrets, “Does it matter if I’m playing devil’s advocate or if I actually think that? The point is- someone does think that.” Better men and women would continue the exercise at that point, but not me. I knew there was no beating this man.

While I was growing up, the Frenchman always engaged me in conversations about languages I was studying and places I’d still like to visit in the world. We’d compare notes on all the places we’d seen and interesting people we’d stumbled across. He also tried to teach valiantly me to drive a stick-shift… Once. Ha! But mostly… I’d ask him about France and he’d get to talking, at which point, I’d catch myself having listened intently for hours. He’d gone to France countless times before I ever thought to ask him about it. I’m so glad I finally did.

See? The Frenchman full of sheer joy showing Christina and my parents around Paris.

He loved all of it. He loved walking to work while he was working there. He loved riding a bike around the cities. He loved all the tastes and smells of Paris and the sights of the vineyards and castles to the south. He loved strolling through museums and sauntering between market stalls. He loved all the families that would welcome him for weekend dinners or holidays when he was stuck there without the rest of his sweet family. He absolutely loved talking about France and I completely loved listening.
His very favorite thing to remember about France, though, was the summer his wife and brave teen-aged kids came to France with him. It was an adventure for the books, or at least that’s how he’d retell it to me over and over again. He was such a vivid story-teller too; full of luscious scenary details and decriptions of all sorts of sizzling, smoked-gouda-drizzled-with-some-words-I-don’t-recognize types of foods.

While the beloved Frenchman was eager to share all those wonderful special memories and scrumptious experiences, my most favorite thing about him was that he abolutely had this miraculous way of doing so in a way that still made me feel important. He was genuinely interested in what was going on in my life and he would shoot my spontaneously inspired texts from random points all over the globe. He never once tried to guilt-trip me or manipulate me into anything, but somehow his earnest way of genuinely and steadily loving me in our little rhythm inspired me to be more, be better, be braver and stronger and fight harder. I knew that’s what he wanted for me, but I don’t think I ever thanked him for helping me see that I wanted that for myself, too.

What I’ve internalized over the past few weeks since the passing of my precious dad’s rascally big brother, is simply that we grow the most when we’re loved patiently from a genuine spirit just right where we are and as we are. He was an expert at this. I hope to forever waste my life on learning to love exceptionally well in the same way.

Uncle Roy, I miss you and I love you. I honor you in wisdom and adventure, and mostly in wildly brave love. XO

Schooled by a Two Month Old

I have a niece. (What a fantastic new sentence I get to say!) She is two months old and her name is Baylor… well, affectionally Baylor Bear or, my favorite, Bay City.

My sister has two other rock star kids too, boys actually. Harrison, who is now ELEVEN years old (how did he get this grown!?), and Collins, who just turned five but keeps telling us that in a few weeks he’ll be six. They are the portrait of wild hooligans with skinned knees and dirt on their faces. In their own right, those two Brothers Barnett have taught me a good many lessons about adventure and fearlessness and the powerful nature of subtle thoughtfulness.
But tonight, I want to highlight some of the tender lessons I’ve garnered from sweet Baylor Bear in her few short weeks of life.

First: Keep your eyes wide open all the time. (There was even a song that I used to obsess over had that in the hook. – Thank you, Sixpence None the Richer.) I’m learning as I watch this tiny beautiful girl gaze out at a big new world, that the world hasn’t changed since we saw it that way. We just changed. We stopped seeing it for the newness and wonder that it possesses. It’s important, I’ll dare to go for drama and say vital, that we make the effort to restore the awe to our world.  As a person who feels responsible for simultaneously loving and changing the world, I know that asking ourselves to “restore the awe” can feel like a daunting task if you keep up with modern world events. I get it. I believe strongly, however, that this is a matter of perspective. We must actively choose to be motivated toward making the world better and also seeing the beauty that’s been here all along.

Secondly: Let people know when you need something. Pout. Whimper. Cry; Scream if you need to, but let someone know that you have a need. We start to implode (or in Baylor’s case, have a diaper “situation”) when we fail to notify the people around us that we aren’t okay. This is something I feel pretty strongly about too, actually. I’m convinced that if we can team together to be honest about when we’re not okay or what things upset us, then we can break this ridiculous cycle of having to uphold this appearance of perfection or even “okay-ness”, normality, or whatever you need to call it. We can just cry it out or have long conversations and sort our differences out and begin to be well as individuals and as families and communities, big and small.

Thirdly: Smiles really do win people over. When Baylor’s eyes light up and that grin begins to crack on her little face, I could just do backflips off a skyscraper if she wanted me to. She’s intoxicating and actually, the boys have the same power over me – which is terrifying. But what a powerful, teachable thing?! Genuine smiles and enjoyment can heal a world of hurt and inspire a whole new realm of creative happy possibility! When those Barnett Babies smile at me, or anyone in my family for that matter, we all just want to jump at the chance to help them, to do nice things for them, to be kind and play together, and so much more. This is not a unique thing to only my nephews and niece. I’ve seen it among strangers as well, but you have to put away the skepticism to see it.

Lastly: Let your people hold you close. We clamor to get a squeeze in with Baylor. Okay, poor word choice but if you’ve ever held a delicious baby – or, my goodness, smelled a delicious baby – you know what I mean. We benevolently war to let the tiny bear baby know that we love her by way of snuggling her and letting her nap on our shoulders or laps. We voluntarily carry her around stores and push back our plates a little quicker to get in a few more minutes of holding her. What I learn from this is that our people are still living like this. At least those in our inner circles are continually looking for ways to hold us close and love us well. You watch for it and I bet you ten gold stars that they are there just attempting to crash a big ‘ole love wave over you. Yes, that was cheesy – some of the ways your family and friends are trying to show you love will probably be goofy too. Allow it anyway. You won’t regret it.  Baylor doesn’t. 🙂

xo – M

(or MayMay as I’m known to the littles)

Soaring with the Jet Fuel from 20%

In my family, we have a lot of adopted slang that few other people understand. Tons of those morsels come from family vacation memories like: “Don’t let this be a D.C. trip.” (Kind of a long story there – we love you, Mom.) Some of them come from movies we’ve seen a thousand times and we now just quote in conversation: “The penny drops.” (from Mission Impossible) What can I say? We’re a strange bunch.

But perhaps my favorite saying thing that has stuck came initially from, I think, my mom. Of course she didn’t discover it originally, but she’s the one who has perpetuated it as a gentle reminder that she is “with us” and not everyone else has to be. Affectionately we call it the 80/20 Rule (Read my mom’s take on that here) and we often find ourselves explaining to each other, “they’re not in your 20 so they just don’t get it – but they love you.” What we mean by that is, in essence, they aren’t with you. They may really love you. They may meet you in the middle of the night to help you change a flat tire an hour and a half outside of the city. They may violently defend your honor in your absence even. But they aren’t with you, because they can’t be.

The 80/20 Rule – which you really should read on Mom’s blog for the full version of our family take – tells us that 80% of the people who are in and around your life cannot grasp the full vision of the project you’re undertaking; only 20% of that same total mass of people can and will encircle you will love, support, and will be with you in that vision, no matter how messy, risky, or chaotic. When I first started getting my head around this phenomenon I loved trying to pick out who was in my 20% on which endeavors. I took it on like a mystery novel almost. I would throw a heart-party every time I solved who landed in which camp.

But as a part of my personality, which I assure you will come up in more blog posts, I’m quick to put people in a fairly sturdy box. The trouble for me came as the 80% box turned into more of a pile… and then a mound. I was growing increasingly bitter and frustrated with this overwhelming 80%. Why are there so many of them!? Why can’t it be more like 60/40 Can’t they see that I have earnest motives? Why can’t they just think a little bigger and be happy for me? Why is everyone so scared of… everything!? … And then it dawned on me.

Being in someone’s 80% doesn’t make you the enemy. It doesn’t make you a naysayer or an evil super-villain. In a lot of cases, the 80% can even be the dirt, you know – the reason that keeps you from floating away with your all-too-rash ideas that your 20% would love and support and cheer for, perhaps without asking hard questions. The point is that we need both. It’s the natural yin and yang of life, the natural order that God established before time began.

My new favorite writer that I’m obsessing over, Shauna Niequist calls these 20% people your home team. But she talks too, about how it’s important to remember that sometimes your home team, or in our case your 20, can change a bit in various seasons. Maybe people move away or you move away or have some other major life change which just breaks up your bond a little. Just keep in mind, there IS an 80. They aren’t evil, they just don’t get your vision on this thing you’re working on. Also, there IS a 20, and they are with you. You may have to tell and retell yourself that if and when you start feeling all kinds of blue and discouraged. But you have a home team – you just need to fall into them, utilize the strengths they offer when you’re weak and learn to take their encouraging morsels to heart even when it sounds so foreign that you have a hard time translating it. Let it be the wind in your sails, the jet fuel to your life.

“As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.” – Henry David Thoreau

Go hold your 20 close.

xo -M

Here are some of the inner-circle of my 20%: (L to R) My all-star brother-in-law David, my brave and fierce friend of a big sister Christan, my scholarly dad and Bob-Goff-doppelganger Jerry, my sweet lets-all-get-along mama Paula, & myself. To the front, (L to R) my tender hooligan nephews Harrison (10) & Collins (4). *Not pictured in our little family is darling lady Baylor bear (5 weeks).

I Saw the Signs

I was dating a guy once who told me (in front of a bus full of people), “You know, you need to be more like my mom: silent and supportive.” I knew instantly it wasn’t going to work out. Another time, people kept suggesting I like this guy from my church and then I told him about how I held a deliciously squishy black baby at work one day while their mom was seeing the doctor. His response was, “Ew. Why would you do that?” Again… I knew instantly… Not the guy for me. No dinner necessary. #SorryNotSorry (Please know, I’m not trying to demonize those poor fellas. I promise not to Taylor Swift them to death in this post.)

Sometimes I wish all of life’s circumstances and opportunities were that clear, as if all the things that were going to be so ill-fitting for us could just go ahead and out themselves so plainly as those guys did. But not every fork in the road of our lives has a flashing red arrow overhead leading the way. Some do (THANKS GOD – for real).

Yogi Berra said, “If you come to a fork in the road, take it.” Perhaps that may not be the most clear advice ever, but I do love it actually. It’s essentially the short version of a longer lesson I learned from a sermon series from Pastor Steven Furtick at Elevation Church, called “God’s Will is Whatever”. It may sound a little disrespectful out of context, but the entire series is based on the scripture in 1 Corinthians that says, “So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.” (10:31 ESV emphasis added) If you’re brave enough I encourage you to listen to that series when you get a chance. It lifted a weight for me. I stay so worried that I’ll miss it… whatever “it” is. I just want to do the right thing, the best thing and only make the good choices. But the lesson here is just that if I’m doing my very best to honor God and I choose the path on the right, God is going to have my back. Similarly, if I’m doing my very best to honor God and I choose the path on the left, God is going to have my back. Either way, He knows our unveiled hearts and sees the motive and core of what we’re after and He chooses to honor that by way of His support and protection. I really believe He does love all of us, each of us, that much.

I go to a phenomenal church that seems to just have the most timely God-breathed memos to my heart. Even Pastor Dave Willis said at my church on Sunday, “God has a really hard time speaking through a closed Bible.” I agree with that but I love that Pastor Dave didn’t make that an exclusive statement. God is bigger and has the capacity to speak to us where to go and when without the help of the Bible, but since He’s already given us that tool, I agree with Pastor Dave that it would be foolish of us to not use it. That would be like having a screwdriver in the toolbox and trying to wrestle a screw out with just my bare hands instead. It can be done, sure. Why not use the tool provided though?

Not that I read scripture as my desperate hope for a flashing neon, but I do think that as a tool to know God’s heart, the Bible can make us less reliant on crazy signs and less desperate for specific direction. It’s the same concept as long conversations with the people I love. At some point, I stop wondering what they’d tell me in specific situations and I just intrinsically know their unfiltered response. But just like time away from a loved one or the silent treatment chips away at those intuitive unsaid conversations, time away from reading and re-reading Scripture can do the same thing I think. Reading it once through won’t cut it to know the heart of God. I have to keep getting back in there and having those “hard conversations” – which sometimes are actual hard conversations in prayer and tears and screaming in the car so no one can hear me and such, but sometimes they are reading the footnotes He sent on Himself through other folks, i.e. Scripture.

My dad (my actual father – I’m not using an immensely casual term for the Lord here) has a ton of quirky habits which he likely picked up from his father, but that in itself could probably be another post altogether. One of the things that drives me nuts about my dad is that when I go to him with a hard question or a big decision, he typically says, “I can’t tell you what to do here. What do you think the wise thing to do is?” It drives me insane. (He knows this by the way. We have many open conversations about how, sometimes, I wish he’d just tell me what to do. Ha!) I understand, though, what he’s saying when he says that. He wants me to make wise choices. He wants me to also own the decisions I make for my life. I want those things too, really. And think in that way, the Lord wants that for each of us. That’s likely why He doesn’t send us ridiculously clear signs more often; He wants us to use our brains. He wants us to be fully engaged in the life we’re choosing to live, you know – active participants, so that any regrets we have can’t honestly be blamed on others or outside circumstances.

It’s often these million decisions with no obvious wrong choice that shape us into the people we become. Like that photo says, the pressure is good for you. It turns us from the rough coal and mineral we once were into the fine gemstones we are becoming. The color and quality are still being determined – but regardless, what gemstone would you really throw out? I’d love them all.

xo- M