When people talk on the phone near me, I listen to see if they’ll end their conversation with an “I love you.”
I wait to hear the smile in their voice as they say, “I love you too.”
And it makes me glad for them.
Having someone to say ‘I love you’ to is one of this life’s greatest gifts.
Occasionally, you’ll hear someone talk about something good that happened in their life and they’ll say, “That changed me forever.”
They’ll assert that what happened–the event or circumstance of their past–has made who they are in the present richer and more alive and entirely different.
Which makes me think- Okay, so it’s possible not just to have something bad change you, but to have something so miraculous or good happen to you that you are no longer the same person.
That gives me hope- knowing there is the potential to be so undone and transformed by something (or Someone) that it warrants the statement “that changed me forever.”
“Miracles can happen in a heartbeat.”
I was thinking this morning about home-
The chaos of a bunny and a cat chasing each other through the house.
Something spilled in the bottom of the oven setting off the smoke detector.
Christmas music playing on the TV.
Blowing a fuse because I forgot to turn the heat off before running the microwave.
Another cat meowing to be fed.
Laundry to do.
Cookies to bake.
Flour spilled on the floor.
And I smiled.
Chaos feels like love.
When you have to open the windows because the house is too hot from movement and conversation and baking- that’s love.
When Madison and the kids come over and one wipes their hands on the carpet and another runs off with my cell phone, and Madison is talking and we are laughing and there’s a movie to watch and kids to put pajamas on…
and I have to open the windows…
And when it’s quiet,
and the kids are softly snoring,
and I say goodnight to Madison and go to bed,
and I curl up beneath my blankets and listen to the bunny scratching at her cage,
and the cats jump on the bed and lay at my feet,
and the soft glow of the twinkle lights are coming from the room Madison and her kids are sleeping in…
That’s love too.
Today at Starbucks the barista complimented my freckles.
It always takes me off guard when someone compliments my freckles because I forget I have them. I don’t see them when I look in the mirror. So when someone says, “I love your freckles!” my first thought is: “You can see them!?”
But I love that compliment. Not because it makes me feel beautiful, because I know freckles are not traditionally considered beautiful, but I love it because it reminds me that God put me together special. He placed each one of my freckles.
And when the barista said that today, I felt Him smile at me. I felt Him near- bending down to kiss my forehead. The same freckled forehead He created almost 29 years ago.
I wonder if maybe there’s a reason I look the way I do. Young. Innocent. Not intimidating.
Emily and Kim and I were talking about Batman and who would be cast as who. She said I could be Cat Woman. And I laughed and told her I have zero sex appeal. I said it would make more sense to cast me as a kindergarten teacher or Little Orphan Annie.
Would I like to be beautiful? Sure. But I’m not. I’m “cute”. And that wasn’t a mistake any more than my heart or personality were mistakes. God doesn’t make mistakes.
So maybe my feeling young on the inside isn’t a problem to be solved. Maybe God gave me a face to match my insides.
I’m done calling myself and how I feel “wrong”.
God built me. I am His project. And if there’s anything in me that He wants to change, I trust Him to do it. Otherwise I am going to trust that He looks at me with love and calls me “good”. His creation. His beloved daughter. No less good than the sunrise or stars or birds.
It’s not up to me to call things wrong.
It’s up to me to love-
This is beautiful.
So is this.
“Liminal space is a unique spiritual position where human beings hate to be but where the biblical God is always leading them. It is when you have left the ‘tried and true’ but have not yet been able to replace it with anything else. It is when you are finally out of the way. It is when you are in between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer.
It is no fun.
Think of Israel in the desert, Joseph in the pit, Jonah in the belly, the three Marys tending the tomb.
If you are not trained in how to hold anxiety, how to live with ambiguity, how to entrust and wait—you will run—or more likely you will explain. Not necessarily a true explanation, but any explanation is better than scary liminal space. Anything to flee from this terrible cloud of unknowing.’
Maybe the way forward is not finding THE answer right now but learning to live without an answer, or rather, living towards one.
We need to find our way back to the true meanings of trust, wait and patience; a life of hope.”
I wonder if all this pain of feeling like I don’t belong anywhere… I wonder how God will use it.
I wonder if someday I’ll be in a position where I can mother those who feel the way I do.
I’d like that.
I’d like to have an open door, to welcome people in- whether or not I have children of my own. I want all to feel included. Wanted. I want them to come into my home and I want to greet them a warm embrace. Because I’m a hugger…
which, ironically, is something I got from neither parent.
Maybe I got it from my Father.
I close my eyes and smile and picture the Thanksgivings and Christmasses and Friday nights of my future. Sleeping people scattered all throughout house- beds, couch, living room floor on blanket beds. And not because they don’t have a home, but because my home is just as much their home as the one where they have their mail delivered.
What if I let this make me tender?
What if I let Him empty me out. All of me. My sorrows and grief and longings and hopes and joys and every single corner and facet and moment of my life- committed to Him. In His hands.
What would He do?
It would be good. I have that promise. And maybe it wouldn’t be what I’d expect- maybe I’ll never be a daughter to anyone. Or a sister. Or carry a baby within my belly. Or be the one someone chooses to spend their life with.
And that? The thought of not ever being anyone’s ever again? That breaks my heart. It’s almost intolerable.
But He says not to fear. He says to trust Him. He says He IS Love. He says it’s safe to hope.
He says we won’t understand right now. His ways aren’t our ways.
So I have to tell my heart that. I’m not seeing the whole picture right now.
God doesn’t desire for me to live my entire life gripped with sorrow.
This isn’t where I’m meant to stay.
When I worry I’ll hurt forever, He extends His hand.
Because we’re on a journey.
And I can’t see what’s up ahead.
But He can.
And He says it’s good.
I was skimming Netflix the other day when I came across a movie that seemed vaguely familiar. It was old- made before I was even born, and yet I had the distinct impression that I had seen it before.
And so I hit play on the movie and watched and suddenly I remembered that yes- I HAD seen it! I remembered being in the living room. I remembered sitting on my mom’s lap. I remembered the scene where the kids are in the car.
And I remembered that was the day of The Penny.
When I was a child, I spent an abnormal amount of time praying. Although my prayer looked more like games of cards and reading library books aloud to God – who, looking back now, I have no doubt delighted in every second of listening to me read or watching me play with Him in mind.
And one Christmas I decided to leave Jesus a birthday present. And so I tucked a penny, a brown penny, between the brown carpet of the stairs and the brown wall. (Lots of brown. It was the early 90’s, folks.)
And I was watching that movie with Mom the next morning when I remembered the penny, so I jumped off her lap to see if Jesus had taken His present.
And it wasn’t there.
And I couldn’t believe it. I looked everywhere. I checked every step because maybe I had just forgotten where I had left it, even though I knew I hadn’t.
And it wasn’t there.
So I ran back upstairs to Mom and told her. And I don’t remember her reacting or seeming nearly as amazed as I did. But neither did she say she had found the penny or maybe vacuumed it up or anything. Rather, she seemed more focused on the movie.
And I crawled back up on her lap and kept watching the movie with her, but I held wonder and love within my chest.
And I remember that still.
When I was a child, God seemed SO near. So real. Alive. No less real or alive than my parents or siblings or next-door neighbor.
And sure, maybe someone found the penny, or maybe my parents vacuumed. But however it disappeared, it was God’s message to a child: “Thank you for thinking of Me. I’m here. And I love you.”
And I don’t know that I’m so far removed from being that child- the one who believes in crazy miracles.
I believe in a God who’d take a penny.
I believe in a God who will tuck me in to bed at night and sit with me until I fall asleep if I ask Him to.
I believe in a God who would sit with a child and listen to her read a Berenstain Bears book.
When I watch movies, movies that would seem impossible, where angels visits or hearts are transformed or someone gets the father or mother or child they’ve always wanted… I believe, in some small corner of my heart, that the movies aren’t just works of fiction and that it’s not naive for me to believe that because our God is our Abba Father and He loves us and NOTHING is impossible for Him.
Nothing we think up even comes close to how big our God is. We can’t dream or hope too big. We can’t out-imagine Him.
When I lie in bed at night and sob and tell Him that I need Him or want Him, sometimes it feels as pointless as telling my mom I need or want her. Which can leave me there, wracked with sorrow…
and with something else to grieve.
It HURTS to wanting and needing a God who you think won’t actually show up and be the living and present God He says He is.
And that’s why I am standing firm that there’s more for us.
I’m claiming that nothing is impossible.
I’m going to hope and believe, wildly and irrationally, like a child.
Because God made me.
And I’m done calling who I am wrong.
Maybe all those hours of cards and reading and conversation with God as a child weren’t one-sided. Maybe He used that time to breathe hope in me- the belief in the possibility of the impossible.
This year, I won’t be leaving God a penny. But I’ll be loving those who have no one to love them. I’ll donate money and time to people in need.
And I think about how maybe that’s the greatest gift we could give Jesus on His birthday- loving each other. Being together. What could bring Him more joy, after all? Whether we’re loving those we’ve known all our lives or a year or just met in line at the grocery store, we are fulfilling His deepest desire for us, aren’t we? We’re coming together.
He created us individually.
And placed us here lovingly.
And what could bring Him more joy than watching us come together and love each other?
Especially when we’re coming together because of Him.
Oh, happy, happy birthday, sweet Jesus.
Someday maybe Christmas will look like hot chocolate going cold on the coffee table and people curled up together on the couch, trying to keep their eyes open as the night comes to a close.
Or maybe it will look like being called someone’s sister. A miracle, undoubtedly, to be grafted into an already established family. But God can do anything.
Maybe I’ll have a husband.
Or a dog.
Maybe I’ll eat dinner alone or serve at a food bank or maybe I’ll be surrounded by people I love.
I don’t know. But I know He loves me.
And He loves them. You.
And He put us together on this big, scary, wonderful, lonely, beautiful planet.
And He whispers in my ear, “Hope wild, child. Nothing is impossible.”