the grace of fragility

Cozied up in my comfy chair—still in pajamas, coffee in hand, snuggled under a blanket—I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And I can't help but smile. I have a home, a job, an income. I have friends and family who love me. I have health insurance, a car, a closet full of clothes. I have all I need, really. I shake my head in wonder. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

I open my eyes and breathe in deeply again. This nagging thought—the same one that's been hovering just beneath the surface for weeks now—scratches again and reminds me it's still there. It lingers close, threatening to steal my exhale and my smile. Like a funhouse mirror, it plays tricks on my mind, distorting hope into a frightening creature and making fears appear larger than they really are.

The thought I can't seem to shake is how fragile everything in my life feels, in a way it never used to. I'm painfully aware of how quickly it all can vanish. How in an instant, everything can be taken away.

Realizing life's fragility is ultimately a good thing. It keeps me mindful that nothing and no one ever belongs to me. It forces me to hold things (and people) more loosely. No matter how strong my death-grip, the concept of "mine" remains a mirage. Nothing is mine. And I'm not in control.

The constant reminder of fragility also leaves me feeling unsettled... insecure... unstable. It makes it difficult to invest in relationships, trust wholeheartedly, and put down roots. It feels harder to dream, to laugh, to enjoy the good that's present right now. Joy takes more effort than it used to and anxiety comes more easily. Hope often seems like a cruel joke. Remember Lucy and the football?

Sometimes that's what hope feels like, and I'm left feeling stupid that I fell for it yet again.

Even as I say all this out loud, I know how ridiculous it sounds even in my own head. I hear the nudging reminders not to worry about tomorrow as today has enough worry of its own. I see the "choose joy" on my arm and feel the heart hug of my ever-present friend who showed me what it means to live that out. I hear God calling me to hope. Again. No matter what.

I want to believe that eventually dreaming will feel easier again, that life—though fragile—will feel more secure, and that thoughts of the future will breed more hope than fear. I want to.

So I close my teary eyes again, and take a deep breath. I hold it as long as I can, and as I let the air out I shake my head. All gifts. All grace.

And I whisper a "Thank You"...

remember that time i almost got published?

I was this close to being a published author. Last December I was invited to co-author a book with some incredible writers. Since I've shared about the project previously here on The Grit and many of you have expressed interest in its release, I've decided to try to update everyone rather than have a lot of individually awkward conversations as questions come streaming in down the road.

It was such an honor to be asked to be a part of this amazing collaboration, and the initial phone conversation moved quickly into signed contracts and scheduled deadlines. Each of us contributing authors were invited because of our unique story and journey. We were tasked with writing memoir-style about a moment that changed the course of our lives and the ways our stories have unfolded since then.

The publisher asked us to write from our hearts. To be candid. Honest. Real. I wrote and re-wrote for weeks. Months, even. My story is public, and I've shared about it countless times in writing and in person, but I was being called upon to dig deeper. To divulge more—of my heart, not details. The editing process was grueling and insightful, with countless revisions until the end result was a piece I was honestly in awe of.

The editorial team had drawn out of me what I didn't think was possible.

As always, I felt the risk in such bare-naked vulnerability, but I also felt strangely proud of and excited about my contribution. It truly was the product of an incredible group of people—publishers and editors alike—who believed in me and in my story.

A few weeks ago, I got to see my chapter transform from typed pages in a Word document into its actual layout in the book. Complete with artwork and page numbers, it seemed to come alive in a whole new way. We were getting close, making final tweaks days before going to print. It was exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at the same time.

And then the carpet got pulled out from underneath it all.

While I was in Ethiopia, I got an email that the publisher's legal department suddenly had concerns.

Although my story had already been shared publicly, although I never mentioned my ex-husband or the other woman by name, although I've resumed my maiden name... they worried about liability. Emails flew back and forth in an attempt to find a workable solution to this crazy last-minute "problem".

Eventually the publisher sent me a revised version of my chapter that no longer included specific reference to an affair.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

This was no longer my story.

As I have since the beginning, I'd worked hard to share the painful parts of my journey in a way that still honored my ex-husband. I know my story isn't pretty, and the facts themselves are shockingly and devastatingly ugly. But I've always sought to tell my story in the most tactful and respectful way possible, explaining the facts but focusing more on my personal response and journey through them. This watered-down rendition seemed intent to protect my ex even from the truth itself.

With this now-required omission, I felt my chapter would need to be rewritten entirely. But I was told there wasn't time for that.

This was now the only version that was approved to go to print, and they needed me to sign off on it by the end of the day so it could be sent to the printer.

What was left was no longer a piece I was proud of or confident in. It felt untrue to myself, to my journey, to my voice...

Heartbroken, I bowed out of the project. And I felt the dream of being a published author run like water through my grasping fingers...

I don't understand how it came to this. I don't really get the liability concern when countless books get published all the time by those who've endured much worse at the hands of others. I can't fathom why concern was raised only days before the book went to print. I can't comprehend being invited to be a part of this project because of my story and then basically excluded from it because of it. It doesn't make sense to me, and it probably never will.

A few days out from it, I can honestly say I'm not bitter. Just disappointed.

I feel crazy-grateful for those who believed so strongly in me and in my story. They advocated loudly on my behalf from start to finish, and worked tirelessly to find a way for me to remain a part of the project.

I'm still thankful for the hard work of writing my chapter—the digging deep, the editing journey, the excruciating but extraordinary process of putting my heart on paper. That I don't regret at all. And I'll be better prepared for the next opportunity, whenever that may be.

I'm left with a stark reminder that more important than being a storyteller, I am a story-liver.

And I want to continue to live a story that honors God, that trusts Him no matter what, and that shouts how good He is.

Even in the wake of disappointment.

in recovery

My gall bladder came out on Thursday. I'll spare you the picture my surgeon took for me (he's awesome like that!), but take my word for it—I'm glad to have that thing gone. The pile of stones it held was near record-breaking, that's for sure.

I've done basically nothing for the past few days. Tracee, my roommate, has taken good care of me: keeping me fed, hydrated, and medicated. Oh, and keeping something good in the DVD player at all times. Booyah.

Today I'm feeling more discomfort than pain, which is certainly a welcomed improvement. Laughing still hurts like crazy, and don't even get me started on sneezing. Ouch.

Boredom has started to set in. Maybe you can help stir up my stir-crazy a bit.

Tell me what's going on in your world. Or tell me a funny story (the laughter pain will be worth it). Or link me to something you loved reading or seeing or hearing. Anything at all.

Mmmkaythanks.

rounded the bend

The other day I was responding to a friend's email and found myself rambling. In a good way (hopefully). I was updating her on where I'm at and how I'm doing, and — as usual — writing it out was so good for me. I wanted to share bits and pieces (edited for context) here in this space, because I want you, my friends, to also know what's going on with me. And I already found some of the right words to articulate that, so I might as well start there. The first half of this year has been crazy-transitional... I've moved into an apartment, begun navigating a new "career", and started to get established in a new city. The changes I've faced in the past few years have been plentiful and overwhelming, and I feel as though I am finally exiting the limbo stage. I'm beginning to feel some stability and normalcy, like I haven't experienced in a very long time.

It's all still very new and it's a daily process of embracing my "new normal", but it feels good.

And it is no small thing for me to say that. Things haven't felt good in years, and so it's almost with trepidation that I acknowledge out loud that they do now. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for so long that it feels almost surreal to be out of the tunnel. Quite extraordinary actually...

My Africa trip brought a lot of much-needed healing. It was equally good and hard to be back again, but my time there was long enough for me to eventually begin feeling okay with where things are. With where I am.

A place that once felt like home no longer does, but it will always have my heart... and I'm more okay with that now. For so long I've grieved the loss of even that sense of home and belonging, and I am really starting to be okay with that having been a season. I'm not saying there isn't still grief in that — there probably always will be to some extent — but there is nothing to do but embrace it.

Africa is — and always will be — in the fabric of my DNA.

It is a huge part of what makes me who I am, and for that I will always love her and be drawn back to her.

I am a contributing author to a book that is being published in September. My section is about finding God in Him leading me to Africa as well as in Him leading me away from it. As always, it's about my wrestling... about my questions rather than my answers. While I'd written it prior to my trip, I rewrote it while I was there as I worked on it with my editor. It was certainly not a coincidence, and entirely reshaped the direction of the entire piece. And God really used it to work His healing in my heart. Just incredible...

My Africa trip also brought some much-needed stability. My roles with the two organizations I work with there were solidified and clarified even further. I am now the Brand & Communications Manager for Love Botswana Outreach Mission (Maun, Botswana) and the Communications Director for Bridge for Hope (Cape Flats, South Africa), working from here in the States with trips back there as needed (hopefully a couple times a year). I am assisting both ministries with branding initiatives, online presence development, design project management, and copy writing, and also getting to do some program architecture, which I love. I feel very blessed to be able to work for such incredible organizations, each at very different phases of development: Love Botswana will soon be celebrating their 25th year and Bridge for Hope is in their first. I absolutely love that, as each comes with unique challenges and joys, and I'm grateful I get to be involved in both.

For the first time in years, I have a steady income again. And for the first time in pretty much ever, I'm being paid an actual salary as opposed to raising financial support. It feels unimaginably freeing. Just this past week I was able to purchase a used car (thanks to my parents' assistance with a loan). It feels like such a gift to be mobile again. To have reclaimed a level of independence I haven't had in a very long time.

I've heard it said that in walking through grief, you don’t realize you are turning a corner toward healing until after you’ve rounded the bend.

Then you look back and see that somewhere, something changed, even though you may not be able to identify specifically what or when. That is exactly what happened with me. Right now, looking back, I see a bend in the road. And I have no idea how or exactly when I turned that corner, only that I did. And I find my heart open at last to the possibility of a different future.

I am not saying it was a passive process — that I just woke up one day and suddenly I am “better”. Because that’s not it at all, and I think “better” is somewhat of a mirage anyway. Walking through grief is active. Very active. And doing the hard work of actually walking through it means eventually you find yourself on the other side. Looking back. And seeing that you’ve rounded the bend.

It remains a road I am still walking, and one I will likely be walking for a long time to come. But now, just like way back when I moved to Africa — practically a lifetime ago — my heart is once again filled with a cocktail of hope and doubt, faith and foolishness, and as always, more questions than answers.

And it feels good. Really good.

Thank you for standing with me. For walking with me. For prayerfully carrying me through. I'm grateful for your love & friendship. Tell me about you. Where & how are YOU?

life is messy

"Nobody likes letting go. From our earliest moments, from birth till we're six feet under, our instinct is to grab, grip, cling. To a finger, a bottle, a best friend... Sometimes we hold on for dear life to the very things that keep us from actually living it. But that comes with an upside—It's the way we feel when we finally let go.

The trick, I guess, is to not find a way around the curve balls life serves up, but to live with them. In halfway happy, uneasy alliance. And to search for new things to cling to, and when we finally find them, to hang on just as tight.

And around and around we go, holding on until the time comes to say goodbye.

And like it or not, ready or not, we have to accept one universal truth: Life is messy. Always, and for all of us.

But a wise man once said, 'Maybe messy is what you need.' And I think he might be right."

From In Plain Sight, S5 E8