Today was beautiful because:

I got to sleep in and catch up on some much needed rest.

I went maternity clothes shopping with with my amazing sister, Katie.

I tried something new (more on that later).

I held a tiny baby boy until he fell asleep in my arms.

Someone bought me free Subway for holding that tiny baby while the mom did her a favor =).

My husband made me iced chai when I had a headache.

We got to laugh together while watching episodes of The Office on Netflix.

We went for a nice walk and enjoyed the COOL evening breeze (we'll enjoy it while it lasts!)

This hope that carries me.


 There is  beauty and wonder to discover in the ordinary-ness of our lives, but we miss it if we live so hurriedly that we can't see it in the moment or if we don't take the time to reflect on it at the end of the day. I don't say this because I'm en expert at it. Giving thanks and seeing beauty in the ordinary don't come naturally to me. I am much more prone to be negative. But I need to be thankful precisely because I am so prone to despair. I must fight for joy because my default is  complaining and pessimism. 

Proverbs 14:30 says, "A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot," And if envy is what makes a person's bones (their whole inner structure and stability) rot, then might it be that the opposite of envy--contentment--is what produces a tranquil heart? And isn't contentment fueled and sustained by thankfulness, by thanking God for what is, rather than pining for what is not? Elisabeth Elliot ( Let Me Be A Woman) says it another way:

        We accept and thank God for what is given, not allowing the not-given to spoil it.

And when I am discontent, when I complain, when I'm not thankful, when I allow myself to spiral into despair because things aren't going my way, I suddenly become blind to everything that I do have. Because I can't be thankful for what I have and at the same time be discontent over what I don't have. I am extremely blessed, but like all of us, I face trials of various kinds. Some days the beauty and the blessings seem very difficult to see. But it's on those days that this confession will often come to mind:

             Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.

Friends, this is my hope. And if you know this Christ, here is your hope also. The blessings I counted today are truly gifts from a gracious and loving God, but a day may come when my legs might not bear me up for a walk in the neighborhood, or when I no longer even have my sweet husband. Though I count these blessings, my hope is not in the blessings themselves, but in the Giver of all good things--the Giver of even His own Son. On the hardest of days I can give thanks for the objective reality that Christ has died, risen, and will come again. Count your blessings. Keep counting them if you already do. But know that if  it ever seems like there's nothing to count, if grief or disappointment threaten to swallow  you up, who Jesus is and what He has done for you still stand and knowing Him will forever give us reason for thanksgiving.

Of Swings and Surrender

On the day between massaging a scalp gone bald from chemo and hearing from a 39 year old mother of two, "My husband died a month and a half ago," I set out into the warm sunshine for a walk. The swing at the park invites and I accept. Being childlike sometimes helps shed anxiety from a heart, and there's still something exhilarating about feeling the whoosh of the wind as I sore through the air, suspended by these metal links. I look out over so much green and I think, "What would it be like to not see any of this?" I close my eyes, but immediately open them again. My legs continue the same pumping motion; they know what to do whether my eyes are opened or not. So, what is it that makes me feel the need to open them so quickly? And I realize...when my eyes are closed I feel out of control...even afraid. But am I more in control with my eyes open? I feel how tightly my hands grip the metal and I'm gripping my life the same way. And I think seeing everything and knowing how it will all turn out will keep me safe, but what it does is keep me from living. Even this writing is a battle because there's always someone who does it better, and who am I? I want to grip tightly and keep my eyes wide open, never having to feel around to find my way in the dark, never having to take that leap of faith that might leave me suspended and exposed. But do I really?

And might it be, though I would never wish it for myself, that those without sight have this advantage: they must learn to live without a measure of control. They must practice faith every day, trusting that they'll find their way as they step out their front door, or by relying on the help of a guide. And do I trust my Guide? Will I choose to steward my life well, rather than bury my treasure because I'm afraid, or because I don't quite "know" what to do with what I've been given? I have these eyes, but I can't see around the next corner. I don't even know what the next second may bring. And it's not that take up your cross is a dare to follow blindly, but it is a call to surrender. To surrender control. To give my one life up to Him, offering every last bit of myself for what He wants to make of it. And I can't do that when I hold tightly. I can't do it when I'm too afraid to step out into the unknown.

I close my eyes, seeing how long it will take before I feel the urge to open them again. It comes right away, but I keep them closed tight, noticing the light dancing through the lids. Distract the mind with something else. Give thanks. But it isn't distracting me from what is real. It's reminding me of what is real. For green grass. Whoosh. Each time my legs propel me forward I name another blessing. Blue sky overhead. Whoosh. Wind blowing in my hair. Whoosh. The warmth of the sun on my skin. These legs that move. For sending Jesus. And if He gave his Son, the One who died and now lives for us, how will He not also be my Guide, giving me all that I need, His very life indwelling me?

And I'm smiling, and His presence is wrapping me up, and where did this joy come from?