i give you my word

My auntie-heart feels like it could explode (and Oregon feels so very far away). Emmett Foster, I love you already. All you ever needed to do to capture my heart forever was show up. 

CHECK! 

You know what that means?

No matter what, lil monkey, I'm in your corner forever and ever. I'll be your biggest fan, loudest cheerleader, loving truth-teller, and steady hand-holder. I'll be your shoulder to cry on, a refuge when you need one, and your car-dancing partner for life. 

I will stand with you, walk with you, hope with you, and laugh with you (and, let's be honest, sometimes *at* you... but I give you permission to laugh at me too). I'll shoot straight with you, even when the truth hurts, and I won't pretend to have answers when I don't. 

I will learn far more from you than you likely ever will from me, and I'm okay with that. 

I'll celebrate with you your successes and victories; I'll sit in the heavy silence with you when life is hard and things don't make sense; and for all the days in between—monumental and mundane—I'll just be a constant presence, reminding you you're never alone and you're fiercely loved.

All you had to do was show up. 

Down side? You're stuck with me. 

Up side? You are already loved far more than you will ever know.

riscatto

Redemption looks different on different days. 

I've found it curled on the couch on a lazy Saturday morning, sipping coffee, watching the fire, and shaking my head in grateful amazement at this new life I'm living. 

I've seen it in simple text messages that remind me I'm known and loved and not forgotten.

I've heard it in the laughter of a friend I've known for decades and, at the same time, am getting to know anew all over again. 

I've discovered redemption in the doorways of my home, behind the steering wheel of my Rogue, in songs that move my soul, at communion served from a music venue bar... 

I've stumbled upon it in words, spoken and written and read.

And in recent weeks, redemption showed up in an unforgettable trip to Italy...

For reasons that are too many to count and too deeply personal to put words to, this time with my mom and brothers was beautiful redemption. 

Being together in a country I adore—which also holds our precious family roots—was a gift I will always hold dear.  

It was also my first international trip in two and a half years. 

Two and a half years.

That was my longest stretch in one country since I was 14 years old. After over 20 years of frequent cross-cultural travel, two and a half years felt like an eternity to this heart of mine. 

My wanderlust and passport were equally happy to find themselves overseas again... 

I didn't want to forget an ounce of the redemption, grace, beauty, and fun this trip held, so I captured moments six seconds at a time and strung them together in a series of short videos. 

Come along with us wild and crazy Ronzinos to Italia... 

I'd love to hear from you.

Have you been to Italy? What were some of your highlights?
and/or
Where have you seen redemption lately?

better days

As 2014 drew to a close, I was more than ready to be done with it. It was a hard year, a challenging year, and I wanted nothing more than to kick it to the curb.

But that thought was always quickly followed by this one:

January 1st doesn't bring with it a clean slate and a fresh start like we imagine it does.

I know, I know, I know... My cynicism is flaring up big time. But it's true, isn't it? When the ball drops at midnight on the 31st, the troubles and horrors and heartaches of the year don't miraculously vanish like the monster under the bed does when we turn on the bedroom light.

Nope. Waking up on the first morning of the first day of the first month of the new year is really no different than waking up on the last morning of the last day of the last month of the old year. Nothing really changes when we start the new calendar.

Sad. But true.

Yet we hold fast the idea that there is hope and promise in each January 1st. There's a symbol there that we refuse to let go of—a symbol of change and do-overs and redemption...

And maybe the mirage alone is enough.

Maybe the symbolism carries a sort of placebo effect. Maybe it's exactly what we need to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The hope of better days burns brightest at the start of the new year, and the warmth and light it provides is genuine...even when it comes packaged in a sugar pill.

The new dawn doesn't necessarily signal the end of our Dark Night, but it hits an internal reset button nonetheless. So I'm allowing myself to embrace that, and not letting my jaded heart disregard the sacred significance of the moment.

For all of us who were ready to scrap 2014, I'm shaking off my cynicism and raising my mimosa glass:

To new beginnings, necessary endings, unexpected joys, light breaking, dreams realized, hope restored, and unforeseen love.

But mostly... To better days.

Originally posted on A Deeper Story »

a christmas miracle

It was the year when THE Christmas gift for little girls was a Cabbage Patch doll. What year was that? '83? '84? So you were maybe five or six...

You wanted one soooo badly.

You don't know what it was about those ugly-faced, yarn-haired, autograph-bottomed dolls, but you were dying to have one. It was at the top of your Christmas wish list.

The Santa bubble had already burst for you. After all, you'd recognized he had daddy's eyes when you were just three. But—even more recently—Jesus became the only reason for the season.

So that Cabbage Patch doll you wanted? You weren't asking Santa for it. You were asking Jesus. And your parents too, of course.

Despite the hard times and the sold-out stores, unbeknownst to you, your parents had found you one. They had it safely tucked away at the top of the closet where you wouldn't be able to find it.

But when your aunt told them she was struggling to find one for your cousin, they sat you down and filled you in.

They told you they'd bought you a Cabbage Patch doll, and even where it had been hiding. Then they told you about your aunt, devastated over not finding one. You imagined your cousin, brutally disappointed on Christmas morning. And when your parents asked what you'd think about giving up your doll so she could have it, you said yes.

You don't remember what you felt in that moment—because, honestly, you don't really recall any of this, only the stories about it. But you imagine that tears in your eyes accompanied the sense in your heart that you were doing the "right thing."

Fast forward to Christmas morning.

You wish your mind could play back for you in vivid detail this particular December 25th. You wonder if you woke slower than Christmas-morning-usual, less eager to tear into gifts, knowing your prized doll would not be under the tree. You wonder how disappointed you actually were, and if your face gave away your heart.

Gifts were opened. Family came over; more gifts were exchanged. And by the end of the day, you'd somehow unwrapped three Cabbage Patch dolls. Three!

Your parents were just as surprised as you were. But there they were: three Cabbage Patch dolls—when you were expecting none.

It was a Christmas miracle.

Fast forward three decades.

You no longer think in terms of Christmas wish lists, but if you were being completely honest, you'd admit that your wishes bubble at the surface of your heart all year long.

You still don't write letters to Santa about them.

You don't really even ask Jesus for them. Not any more.

But they remain wishes nonetheless.

The memory of your Cabbage Patch Christmas story keeps coming to mind, and you don't know why. It lingers close, pestering you from the inside out. You try to shake it off, but—just like a catchy T-Swift song—it doesn't budge.

And then you realize:

It's because deep down, you're hoping for another Christmas miracle...

"Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight."

comfort and joy

Ohhhhhhh, the holidays... 

How I used to love them.

::

I waited expectantly all year for the sights, sounds, and smells of this beautiful season. I'd transform my African home with all things inappropriately seasonal—autumnal colors in springtime... snowmen in summertime. I'd cook Thanksgiving feasts for twenty, sometimes thirty or more. I'd put up a Christmas tree and hang stockings and spraypaint snow in the corners of my windows. 

It was, hands down, my favorite time of year.

:: ::

But that was before.

And this is after.

After love walked away. 

After trust was shattered, along with my heart. 

And after all of this betrayal and heartache unfolded within the holiday season. More than once. 

:: :: ::

The joy this time of year used to hold was replaced with painful memories and unrivaled grief. The storm clouds that now loom over Thanksgiving week—and stretch all the way through New Year's—are dark and thick and deafening.  

This formerly beloved season now feels like labored breathing. Exhausting. Hard. Painful. And mostly just hoping it will end as quickly and painlessly as possible. 

Sadly, I know I'm not alone in this.

Though our pain and timelines differ, I know so many who have endured their own unspeakable loss and grief, and wish they could just fast forward through the festivities... So many who find themselves under the storm cloud of sorrow along with me...

:: :: :: ::

I hear the words of the song playing in my head: "O tidings of comfort and joy." And I shake my head. Comfort and joy? 

Sigh...

:: :: ::

Those of you who, like me, find the holidays uniquely heartsore, please know you're not alone. And those of you who love this season, please celebrate with eyes and hearts open wide to recognize the brokenhearted around you. 

Maybe we can all be gifts of comfort and joy for one another. 

:: ::

Emmanuel. God with us. 

In our befores.

In our afters. 

In our right nows.

God with us.

::

Comfort and joy, friends...