November 30, 2023

I can lower my defenses with God.

I don’t have to be discerning when I’m with him, because everything he speaks is true.

I can approach him with naïveté and full trust—and that is a gift, amidst a very broken world.

November 23, 2023 (Thanksgiving)

This Thanksgiving—and for the better part of these last six months—I’ve fallen somewhat short of thankfulness. My soul has felt buried under the weight of the mundane. Heavy, hardened.

Brokenness and toil feel foreign to us, and they should. Our hearts were made to be ravished, wooed, and adored; we were built to flourish in a world that only existed in Eden. We were made to walk with God in the cool of day, on gentle mornings, shameless—with lives so drenched in meaning that they would outweigh the ocean.

And that is something my whole being longs for, in this broken world.

( s e h n s u c h t )

But while on this side of eternity, I will pull on divine strings, reach, and beckon God within me to name and give thanks for the things my flesh cannot—for the flash of sun after days of rain; for stubborn hope that does not die (hope is eternally alive); for truth like an anchor; for warm coffee mornings in the November drear. I’m giving thanks for the fleeting nature of feelings; grey hairs; and for hardened hearts that can still unthaw at the touch of unfettered kindness, awe, and sincere love. I’m grateful that we were made for more—even as Jesus came and gives meaning to our “unseen” and “less.” What a paradox to embrace this, to live it out.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. May you turn your heart towards what is lovely, good, and true—because the deepest love we long for does, in fact, exist.

July 15, 2023 (God’s Provision)

There’s a theme of God’s provision that runs through the pages of scripture, like the ring of condensation left by my cold brew cup this morning—seeping, spreading, soaking through layer upon layer. It’s slow, yet sudden; gradual, yet instant; a moment-by-moment dispersal of living water. It’s God’s well-timed provision of:

Manna in the wilderness (Exodus 16)

A way out, in our moments of temptation (1 Cor 10:13)

Words to speak when we are called to bear witness (Matt 10:19)

Essential needs, so we don’t have to hoard, stockpile, or carry unnecessarily heavy loads as we go (Matt 6:26, 10:9-10)

In our moments of lack, we reach out for God. And in the greatest miracle of all, we find him: the alpha and omega; the beginning and the end. But also, the eternal. The one with us, in this very present moment. Emmanuel.

I’m reminding my heart: do not fret, or become anxious beforehand, wondering if God will provide, squandering away present, precious hours in worry and fear. There is no need. He will give as the hour draws near, just as Corrie ten Boom knew, and once touchingly wrote:

“Father sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. ‘Corrie,’ he began gently, ‘when you and I go to Amsterdam—when do I give you your ticket?’

I sniffed a few times, considering this.

‘Why, just before we get on the train.’

‘Exactly. And our wise Father in heaven knows when we're going to need things, too. Don't run out ahead of Him, Corrie. When the time comes (…), you will look into your heart and find the strength you need—just in time.’”

May 3, 2023 (and on seasons spent seemingly sowing to the wind)

I’ve been recently realizing that there are large chunks of my life that, looking back, feel like wasted time. Empty and arid. I confessed this to my counselor last night—sheepishly, tenderly, and full of regret. I confessed to her that I have entire seasons that, in retrospect, feel like a desperate and sorrowful “sowing to the wind”—years spent scattering my time and my energy to things that now seem fruitless and barren. And if there really was once ever fruit, it now tastes spoiled and rotten, in retrospect. It curdles my soul and devastates my joy.

They say hindsight is 20/20, and if that’s true, then the view must be bittersweet—the joys more sensational, but the losses much more crisp and clear. It’s hard to reckon with a spreadsheet made up—not of days and hours, but—of years of service and prayers and tears, that all register now as “net loss.”

It’s ironic to me, as someone whose favorite verse is Romans 8:28, that I could still feel this way about life. It’s embarrassing, and is laced with a defeatist, hopeless attitude that I don’t find becoming. But I sometimes do struggle to wholeheartedly believe that God could yet “make good” out of so much loss, and out of so many hopes and dreams I forfeited along the way. The loss has felt too heavy for me to carry simultaneously with hope; so, somewhere along the way, hope was dropped, and traded for more “realistic” desires. I traded hope for gratitude and called it “being content.”

I know our God is capable of redeeming all things; I know he is the God of empty tombs and full wombs. Yet, I must admit there are areas of my life where I doubt, not his power, but his power executed on my behalf. In this lifetime. For my good.

I say, along with the desperate father in Mark 9: “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.”

//

“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.

The Sovereign Lord is my strength;
 he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to tread on the heights.”

(Selah)

March 25, 2023 (it’s been a minute)

When it comes to my blog, I feel like most of the time I: 1) either have nothing noteworthy to say, or 2) I have too much to say that I get overwhelmed and don’t write ANYTHING. However, I now have a new reason to add: I’ve been sewing up a storm!

( the backstory )

I was visiting my grandma last December, when she pulled the classiest trench coat I had ever seen out of her closet. I went, “Wow! Grammie! That’s a beautiful coat!” And she went, “Oh! I sewed it. I made it a while back.”

And that was when I learned that my grandma is a secret seamstress.

Naturally, I set up a time for us to meet ASAP so she could teach me her ways.

( present day )

I’m obsessed.

Three months, many hours, and one repurposed sewing machine later: I have made one duster cardigan, one linen wrap skirt, one pair of shorts, and two shirts. AND COUNTING.

There’s something so satisfying about being able to wear an article of clothing that you made with your own two hands… and the foot of your sewing machine. It’s intensely empowering. It’s just you, the thread, the needle, the fabric. But the freedom and possibilities are endless. And that feels exciting. ✨

I can’t wait to keep learning, refining, and perfecting my seamstress skills in all the days to come. Essentially, what I am saying is this: everyone go buy (find! beg! borrow!) a sewing machine. You really CAN make your own clothes!!

Here are some photos of my most recent creations ~

Ash Wednesday + some thoughts on Revival (February 22, 2023)

“I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” — Jesus

---

Since my return to social media last week, I’ve been loosely tracking the outpouring/revival happening at Asbury University. And in so doing, I keep stumbling upon articles, like this one by Christianity Today, that use words like genuine, peaceful, quiet, and ordinary to describe what’s happening there:

“The mix of hope and joy and peace is indescribably strong and indeed almost palpable—a vivid and incredibly powerful sense of shalom. The ministry of the Holy Spirit is undeniably powerful but also so gentle.” — Christianity Today

When I read these words, I’m absolutely beside myself. I’m filled with encouragement and deep hope.

Because for some years now, I’ve been feeling a profound and relentless ache for the church—a hunger—to return to a simpler way of being. With every sensationalized headline of evangelistic abuse, and with every experience I’ve had of disillusionment and spiritual manipulation, my heart has broken. It has cried out for justice; for sincere hearts; for return and repentance. Without using so many words, I think my heart—for all this time—has been crying out for revival.

I firmly believe with every fiber of my being that the church needs to (and perhaps now, is) move, shift, recount, and recalibrate. I believe that’s what she needs. Because her people are tired. People, especially young people, are tired of the façade. They’re tired of power plays and empty consumerism; of performative religion executed in the name of love. Quite frankly, I am tired, too: tired of personality-driven churches and celebrity culture; tired of deceit; dishonesty; and exploitation. I’m tired of churches that place a higher value on serving Jesus than knowing Jesus. I’m tired of hyperactivity at the expense of spiritual formation. I’m burdened by the amount of Christ-confessing sisters and brothers who are still living, unknowingly, in deep bondage, because they haven’t been discipled into the presence of God. They don’t realize that where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom (2 Corinthians 3:17). They’ve been serving and singing and they know all the words, but they haven’t yet tasted and seen that the Lord is good (Psalm 34:8).

They don’t yet realize that they are deeply loved.

And my heart is shattered by that.

For many months, I’ve been searching and scanning the greater church for others who feel and sense the same pull that I do: towards simplicity, health, and wholeness. In a world that largely resists the humble, small, and slow — and a church that has replaced ordinary faithfulness with an endless scheme of grand gestures — it has been rare.

But I’m seeing a glimpse of it now at Asbury.

“Anyone who has witnessed it (the outpouring) can agree that something unusual and unscripted is happening. […] There is no pressure or hype. There is no manipulation. There is no high-pitched emotional fervor. To the contrary, it has so far been mostly calm and serene.” — Christianity Today

When I read words like these, I find the strength to reach for those shattered fragments that rest on the floor; I find the faith to mend them back together.

When I read those words, I find Jesus: the one who describes himself as gentle and lowly.

And I begin to hope again.

February 8, 2023

Someone from Alabama hacked into my socials last week. And they must have been naughty, because I’ve been locked out of them ever since.

The silver lining of this though, is that I’m absolutely lol’ing when I reflect on the Insta conversation I had with my friend Lydia, not even 48 hours before all of this went down, and well before I woke up to find myself banned from all accounts.

Cheers to the social media hackers out there: for giving us the Instagram fast we didn’t ask for, but maybe needed.

January 27, 2023

8:43pm: Eating a kale salad with croutons while I recline on my couch with wet hair. Christmas tree is still up and the cozy vibes are strong. Paul Tripp’s Gospel Meditations for Everyday Life is spread open across my lap, to the page titled “Broken-Down House.”

8:43pm: I’ve got the stirrings of a new poem in me—let’s see how long it takes to come out.

January 14, 2023 (my thirty-first birthday)

A letter to my 10-year younger self:

Happy 21st birthday. You’re drinking a Peach Bellini with friends at Dublin Square, the same restaurant you and Lea went to during freshman year—when you hid in the bushes after the MSU homecoming game, trying to catch a glimpse of Gerard Butler. You were so stealthy.

Earlier in January, you welcomed the New Year in Indianapolis, at a conference. It was a conference full of Christians. You felt awkward and out of place. But it was in that place, on that night, that you chose to believe in Jesus—what he said, how he lived, who he was.

Your heart was beautiful. It was beautiful like flowers, like the way they shoot anew from spring-frosted ground in May. Their gentle, fragile shoots, and the way their heads tilt toward the sun. They are hopeful, and hopelessly naive to all the death that will come in future seasons.

You’re blowing out candles and probably making a wish for love—like you do every year—except 10 years ago, you didn’t quite realize that you already had it. You’re still unsure of yourself, still new to the reality of God’s all-encompassing love. You haven’t figured out what it means for your life.

In many ways, you’re still learning this, a decade later.

In the years to come, you will date boys, cross oceans, find friends, and lose parts of yourself you used to take for granted. You will buy a house (this one still surprises you), adopt a cat (you’ll love her more than you expected), earn a master’s degree, and learn how to appreciate the little things.

Ten years later, at 31, you’ll be proud of who you are and how you got there. They’ll sing HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU at the top of their lungs, and you’ll stand in the candlelight and revel in your moment. You’ll let their eyes and their song and their attention sit on you, and soak you through. You’ll finally believe that you’re worthy of it. It’s been a long road coming to get to this point, and only God could do it.

Because the pain of life has taught you wisdom.

But the love of God has made you free.

#thisis31 🤍

January 10, 2023

Lake Tahoe and Fallen Leaf Lake, California

My new year didn’t start off with a bang. Well — aside from some fireworks that shone bright, like all my high hopes, in the 2023 sky. This year, I made no resolutions, no new habits, and found no solitary ‘word’ sufficient enough to guide me through my next twelve months. My new year started off plainly— in the company of friends and with a cup of Thai tea. (Thai tea is delicious, by the way.)

Barely a week into January, and I’ve also made a mess of my home. The dishes are, once again, piled high in the sink. There’s new carpet in my bedroom, but my bed itself sits in the living room. Dresses hang idly from lopsided hangers — flat across the guest room bed, instead of in my closet. However, my alarm clock is in the closet, sitting high atop a pile of folded sweaters. My framed sunrise photo of Fallen Leaf Lake, California is stacked on my kitchen table. So is my jewelry box. And my bedside lamp is… actually, where is my lamp?

Just like that, disorganization has burrowed its way into my January, finding comfort and refuge between the four walls and littered floorboards of my tiny, quaint home.

Even better: I turn 31 this weekend. But come Saturday, I might still be sleeping on stacked mattresses in the living room.

I don’t necessarily want to ring in my birthday on the living room floor. But I’m realizing this possibility also speaks to a deeper yearning that I seem to always carry: for the day that not only my room/house/kitchen, but my entire life, feels finally put together, complete, and unbroken.

I haven’t quite figured out how to navigate this— this in-between, this messy middle, this life full of seams and uneven sutures. Except that I’ve just kept living, despite it. I resist the inner voice that chides, telling me that life must be perfect in order for it to be worthy. That I can’t enjoy my life as it is, longings and all. But, deep joy and unruly clutter can exist simultaneously, and for that I am grateful. God is writing a story more beautiful than I could imagine, and more impactful than I know.

This is true for every child of God.

Come Saturday, I might really still be sleeping on stacked mattresses in the living room. But I’ll wake up and there will be a cat at my feet, soft blankets around my legs, and light beaming through my windows.

And I’m going to be perfectly pleased with it.

On the cusp of a new year

In for 2023:

this blazer that I got from goodwill // saying what you mean, and meaning what you say // being open to the unexpected // traveling for long-distance friendships // investing in close-distance friendships // luna, my sweet cat // forgiveness // trusting God // open hearts and open minds // more novels // more dinner parties on the deck // more sweet & simple joys // international travel and experiencing new cultures // being brave and comfortable in your own skin, and being secure in your own self.

Out for 2023:

baggy jeans & crop tops (it’s not cute?? or am I just old??) // cancel culture // making excuses to not do the things you love // being too busy to swim in the lake // fault-finding as a defense mechanism // $7 lattes // curating your brand instead of forming your character // insincerity // skin care (or anything) that over-promises and under-delivers // daylight savings.

Cheers, my dears: To finding the good, beautiful, perfect, and lovely for the next 52 weeks, and all our days. 🥂🫶🏻

—prompt inspired by Ashlee Gadd

December 21, 2022

I made a joke to myself tonight—as I gazed into the abyss of my kitchen sink—that ‘I really better get this cleaned up before Christmas! Can’t have Jesus coming when I have a dirty house!’

But then I quickly realized how faulty my thinking was, even as a joke, because isn’t humanity’s cumulative mess the very reason Jesus came? Jesus—who was born in a cave, or a manger, or however those verses translate contextually—is certainly not afraid of disorder. The one who dined in the homes of tax collectors—with their dirty kitchens and dirty hearts—never once shied away from a mess.

Jesus would surely understand my cluttered kitchen, and my thoughts tumble onward until I also realize: Jesus would probably help me do my dishes, because isn’t that just who he is? A God-man with a servant’s heart, who has all the time in the world to help clean up our mundane messes.

Both inside and out.

Merry (early) Christmas, friends.

November 30, 2022

I jumped on the bandwagon and got my Spotify wrapped today! Was so confused that, in the year 2022, I apparently ‘embraced the night’ with ‘lighthearted bold theatre kids’ jams… until I remembered that two week stretch during marathon training where all I was listening to was the Encanto soundtrack.

Bruno came up as #18 in my top 100 playlist.

Another day, another mystery solved.

November 28, 2022

Some random Monday musings:

• I work in the administrative field for my ‘real job,’ and I’m coming up on 6 years in my role. One thing I’ve learned/realized: administrative work is pretty much just all of the work that no one else wants to do. It essentially trickles down to me and my team, where we work. It’s quite humbling, really. It has been a terrifyingly effective sanctifying force in my life. Yee-haw.

• I made myself a homemade latte before leaving my house this morning for work, and that, in and of itself, is a straight miracle.

• My thumb has been twitching all day and not only do I not know why; I also don’t know how to stop it.

• Perhaps the most difficult and important work of all is this: learning to see ourselves, others, and God for who they (we) really, truly, and honestly are (and not for who we wish or want them to be).

November 23, 2022

I went to Ohio this past weekend to visit friends, and on Sunday found myself driving along the most quaint and winding back road that made me very nostalgic for the holidays. Farms and rolling hills flanked my car on either side, while I clutched a semi-warm Starbucks caramel macchiato in one hand and warm glove on the other. A truly warm cashmere scarf fell across my neck as I drove around tree-lined curves and passed below tiny cows grazing atop hillside pastures. I couldn’t help but think of myself as a main character in some cutesy and terribly cliché Hallmark movie.

And ya know what? It was great.

October 13, 2022

My Cosmos finally bloomed, and she feels like a metaphor for late-blossoming beauty:
rebellious,
curiously out-of-season, yet not behind,
startling,
resilient,
hopeful.