Hey, you. We’re in a bit of a tough spot these days, huh? Yeah, I know. But I don’t want to just talk about the stuff we’re going through. No, I want to apologize to you. Because I’ve said some things. Some things that have hurt you. Some things that make hard things even harder on you. And while I don’t mean to do it, the words just seem to
Dear Younger Me, I desperately wish I could sit down with you, face to face, over a cup of coffee. Well, today’s me (Or should I say you? This could get confusing.) would have coffee, but since you’re only 16 and still on your caffeine hiatus, you’d probably have Sprite. Anyway, I digress. (Yes, you still wander off on rabbit trails when you’re 39. You’ll learn to adjust. Sort of.) I
Dear friend, You’re not the only one. For years I was alone. Not alone alone, because I had my husband and family and all…but really, I was alone. My life was defined by feeling alone in a crowded room. Maybe you know the lonely feeling I’m talking about. I’m not entirely sure how it happened for me, but here it is: I used to hate Sunday mornings. That sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it?
I remember the morning clearly: I was driving my daughter to Mother’s Day out, crossing an overpass near my house, when a song carried me away from my present reality. With lyrics that penetrated my heart and touched something in me that needed to be reached, the song carried me into worship and brought tears to my eyes. The truth is, this happens to me a lot. Not as
This post was originally published on October 17, 2014, when the Ebola scare was in full swing. Recent events – though different – have stirred some of the same emotions in our collective heart, so I thought it might serve us all well to revisit this message. We’re in this mess together, friends. The other night I woke up in tangled sheets, damp from sweat and disoriented from a dream.
On a Thursday night about a year ago, I sat at the softball field waiting for my daughter’s softball game to start. I wasn’t watching her team warm up, though. I was watching for my parents to get there and claim their spots on the metal bleachers. They arrived just as the kids took the field. “How are things tonight?” my mom asked. That was what I had really been
It was my fifth trip to Belize before I ever really understood why I was there. Traveling with my church mission team, I knew the purpose of our trips: to work alongside our sister church in the capital city to reinforce the work they are already doing. That meant we provided for basic needs like food and shelter and beds and clothing, but it also meant that we led Bible
My husband was waiting for me to finish my nightly bedtime routine as I filled him in on all that had happened at a writing workshop I’d attended earlier that day. I leaned on the bathroom counter, my face lathered with soap, and said, “I just don’t want to be ‘the depression and anxiety girl’.” The workshop had done its job: it clarified my niche in writing and helped me to narrow my
A couple of months ago, while the world still slept in gray and brown here in Georgia, my husband carved an intricate network of biking trails through the woods behind our house. (I use them for walking, though, because the one time I ventured out on my bike I was scared to death. I’ll do it eventually. Just not yet.) It’s been so good for me to have a natural
I had a dream last week in which I was driving a huge truck. It wasn’t just any truck, either, but one of those massive ones they use in the rock quarry down the road from my house. One of those dump trucks on steroids, that dwarf school buses and make semi-trucks look like toys. One of those whose gargantuan spare tires require a police escort down the interstate. One of those. I drive