resolution revolution

focus. clarity. I don’t know about you, but New Year’s Resolutions always used to leave me feeling like a big fat failure. Six weeks into the new year, inevitably I’d barely be able to recall what was on my lofty list of goals... which meant I’d obviously not been doing much to work on them.

I’d beat myself up over it, and try harder. But in an oddly contradictory kind of way, making a list of resolutions paralyzed me from achieving them. It was a mental roadblock I just couldn’t seem to conquer. So I scrapped the idea altogether.

And in my own personal resolution revolution, I started choosing just One Word to focus on all year. 

Just One Word, because that’s easy to remember all year long. I place visible reminders of it around my home and workspace, keeping my word ever before me.

It’s become a spiritual discipline of sorts.

Each year, my One Word stands as a touchstone: a reminder not of what I need to do, but of who I want to be.

It becomes the filter through which I make decisions; the home-base to which I return when I’m unsure which way to go. It forces clarity and helps me concentrate my efforts, energy, and time on intentional growth.

It’s a simple concept, but not an easy one. My One Word has always been a challenge more than a comfort. It’s like a pebble in my shoe—an unavoidable nuisance, a constant nudge, a discomfort that causes me to walk differently.

I always have a love/hate relationship with my One Word—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I figure if it doesn’t scare me at least a little, it’s probably not the right word.

Many of the Deeper Story writers have embraced the One Word practice as well, and found it equally life-changing:

Sarah Bessey: "As the year unfolded, I began to realise that my little nudge to choose Fearless was more of a gigantic shove off a cliff by the Holy Spirit, a sort of dinner bell clanging “COME AND GET IT!” for almost every fear and insecurity I’ve petted, hidden, and indulged in my life. I don’t think I’m fearless now. Not by a long shot. I am braver. I am practicing fearlessness, over and over, with the hope it takes deep hold in my life. I want to carry this word with me, for the rest of my life, every day. This has profoundly changed me."

Kelley Nikondeha: "My word for 2012 was Covenant. The word unfolded as commitment, life-long fidelity and tethering to traditions that anchor and nourish me. I found covenant touched my connection to God, to my spouse and even my children—how do I lean into fidelity toward them daily? One Word allows me to focus, the word works on me and in me mysteriously. But, as a cognitive girl, I also allow the definition of the word to flower and unfold over the year so that the meaning is richer now than before."

Elora Ramirez: "Two years ago, my word for the year collided with my heart. As I glanced around at the shattered pieces around me, I wondered how in the world God would bring jubilee to such a place as this :: a broken hope, wounded and wanting. And this past year? He wanted me to abide. For a girl who runs – for a heart that hides – this proved excruciating. I will not lie :: these past two years have been hard. But what’s left is beautiful – a deeper understanding of His love, a freedom to live in His light and a readiness to breathe deep and jump."

Will you join us in our resolution revolution?

Quiet your heart and see what word rises to the surface. Who do you want to be? What character trait do you want to intentionally develop? How do you want to live your life?

Let’s focus this year not on doing more, but on being who we were created to be. 

 

Once you've landed on your word, write a blog post about it, and post it on January 4th to join in our synchroblog. Then add it to the community link-up on the One Word 365 site.

{photo credit}

Originally posted on A Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

one word: enough

I have lived my life on a treadmill of striving.

Always working hard to get things just right... trying to please everybody around me... thinking if I could just do more or do better, then maybe—just maybe—I'd be enough.

The tracks are stuck on repeat in my mind, telling me I'm not smart enough, not cool enough, not spiritual enough, not lovable enough, not _____ enough. Which leaves me just trying to run faster on the treadmill: exhausted, but no further along than I was before.

This year, I'm choosing to step off the treadmill, to shatter the record that's been skipping for 34 years. My One Word for 2013 is enough.

No matter what labels others stick on me—or even that I stick on myself—His banner over me is love.

I am His.

I am loved.

I am enough.

My One Words the past few years have all been verbs—RiskLook. Choose. This year, I needed a word that reminds me—even in its form of speech—that it's not about doing more, but about being who He created me to be. And simply embracing my enoughness rather than striving to accomplish something.

I am not perfect, but I am enough.

I am not more than, not less than. But I am enough.

I won't always fit in, or feel valued, or be loved well. But still, I am enough.

I won't get everything right or accomplish as much as others do (or as much as I want to). I will mess up, falter, and fail. I will hurt and be hurt. I may be discarded, forgotten, replaced. But I am enough.

Those three simple words—I am enough—are so difficult for me to say. To accept. To believe. But I want them to sink down deep in my heart.

I am equally terrified and intrigued to see how enough will grow me this year. Here's to the journey!

Have you chosen your One Word for 2013?

rearview mirror: choose

Choose.

It's the one power I really have. I don't have control. I can't dictate my circumstances or call the shots on what happens to me. But I can always determine how I will choose to respond.

That part is mine and mine alone.

My choice is always entirely up to me.

It doesn't depend on my situation or those around me. It isn't dictated by what's going on in my world or in my heart. My power to choose rests solely on my shoulders.

Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I despise it. And sometimes I cling to it like the life preserver that it is — mindful enough to lift my eyes, take a deep breath, and choose.

There were times this year that I chose joy. Patience. A soft word. I chose to trust when my heart didn't want to. To give grace when it hurt to. To extend grace to myself when I felt I didn't deserve it.

I chose to keep breathing, keep walking, keep loving, keep believing.

I chose to engage when I felt like withdrawing, and I chose to walk away when that was the healthiest course. I chose to love loudly even after I've been hurt. To lean in when I felt like retreating.

I chose to celebrate with others their victories, and grieve with them their heartaches.

I chose to use my words, written and spoken. I chose to hold and give and serve. To engage and work and create. To see and to make feel seen.

I chose to not give up, to turn the other cheek, to stand up for myself. I chose to seek out His divine fingerprints even in darkness and pain.

I chose.

There were also countless occasions I let slip by without willfully choosing anything. And I discovered that my un-choosing was a choice all in itself.

So while I haven't always gotten it right, I'm grateful for this year of intentionally remembering to choose.

I'm thankful for the new habit of being mindful of my response, inward and outward. And while I move into a new year with a new One Word, my commitment to choose goes with me — along with my diligence to look and to risk.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I don't like everything I see. But ultimately I see growth. Progress. Change. And that makes me choose to smile and whisper, "Thank You."

 

Did you write a year-end wrap-up post for your One Word 365? Be sure to go link it up HERE >

Emmanuel: God with us (DS)

"Give us an advent spirit," he whispered as he ended his prayer for our meal. And as we picked up forks and drinks and napkins, that phrase kept bumping around inside me. And it bumps still. I don't feel expectant or joyfully waiting, and so I'm struck by those words. Give me an advent spirit.

The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas have always been my favorite time of year. No matter which side of the ocean I was celebrating on, I waited expectantly all year for the sights, sounds, and smells of this beautiful season.

But that was before the darkness creeped in, marring my whole world and tainting even the holidays I loved. Now this time of year feels like labored breathing. It's exhausting. Hard. Like I'm just waiting for it to end instead of wishing it would linger a while longer like I once did.

This year, I've been intentional to remember my power to choose. And right now more than ever I'm forced to remember that joy really is my choice. No matter the circumstance or the feeling. And while the holidays aren't as sweet or as magical as they once were, I can still choose to find joy within them.

There's a reason we sing, "O tidings of comfort and joy." Somehow, the two hold hands.

And so I put lights on the wooden giraffe by my front door. I placed a nativity on my mantle. I strung lights into wine bottles strewn about my apartment. I stare often at my star-topped tree that stands as a beacon of light, pushing back the darkness. Comfort and joy.

In the words of Elisabeth Elliot—"Joy is not the absence of suffering, but the presence of God."

And what better time than right now to take comfort in that. To allow my heart to breathe, to hope, to anticipate. Because no matter what, God's presence abides...

Emmanuel. God with us.

And because He is here, I can choose joy.

For those, like me, who find the holidays uniquely heartsore, will you join me in choosing to discover joy and comfort in the presence of God, made visible in a manger filled with hay? Let's "lift our eyes", being purposeful to not only seek but also to be comfort and joy.

And for those who love this season, will you be intentional to remember that it is bittersweet for many? Open your eyes and hearts to see the heartsore among you. Extend invitations. Hug tightly. Through you, others can be reminded that God sees and knows and cares.

God is with us.

Comfort and joy, friends...

Originally posted on A Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

emmanuel: god with us

"Give us an advent spirit," he whispered as he ended his prayer for our meal. And as we picked up forks and drinks and napkins, that phrase kept bumping around inside me. And it bumps still. I don't feel expectant or joyfully waiting, and so I'm struck by those words. Give me an advent spirit.

...

on failing well

i heard catherine rohr once say, “failure is really redirection.” that is so powerful, if only i could find a way for my heart to really grab onto it. ::

i feel like i fail a dozen times a day in a dozen different ways. while some of it is genuine mess-ups, some of it—i know—is really just that sense of not-enough-ness that hangs over me like a cloud. (i close my eyes and see that dirty little boy in the charlie brown movies—what's his name??—the one with the dust cloud that follows him everywhere.)

if i could really grasp failure as redirection, maybe just maybe that cloud would lift some...

::

not redirection to avoid what i’m facing. but rather to deal with what’s going on in my heart as i face it head on.

::

the old testament has always given me a great deal of hope. i think it's partially because those we consider men and women of faith have so much failure throughout their stories.

it makes me remember that they didn’t see themselves as people of faith in the way that we do now, gifted with the ability to look at their lives in their entirety. i bet they were just like me and—right in the midst of their grit—found themselves wondering if God could redeem their failures.

because we see their stories all the way to the end, we know He can.

i need to remember that He can see my story all the way to the end, and trust that He can redeem mine too.

::

perhaps failing well means choosing to trust that the story isn't finished—that the Author is still writing.

worthy of my suffering

[photo credit]

I want to live worthy of my suffering.

He’s assigned me my portion, and I want to live worthy of all of it—the gifts as well as the trials.

I’m not saying that God causes me to suffer. But He makes it very clear that suffering and trials are an inescapable part of this life. And I desire to steward well even that which He allows.

I want to live worthy of everything He entrusts into my care. I want to carry my suffering well.

I desire to face my lows with the same depth of character as I face my highs. I aspire to walk through the valleys with as much uprightness as I walk the mountaintops. I want my seasons of want to be as fruitful as my seasons of plenty.

To live worthy of my suffering means to carry my cross with humility, dignity, courage, faith. I want to bear my suffering honorably—not resenting the refining process or scorning the fire in which my faith is tested. I only want my faith to be proven genuine and for Him to consider me faithful.

I want to show myself trustworthy.

Even with this.

Because living worthy of my suffering really means living worthy of His suffering.

wall of thanks

My Thanksgivings the past few years have looked (and felt) very different than they used to. Granted, I've celebrated most Thanksgivings of my adult life across the ocean in a country that doesn't even recognize the holiday. But it didn't matter. We made them uniquely special, and always a memorable celebration of giving thanks.

My favorite tradition is one I began in Africa. Every year, we build a Wall of Thanks.

I place out Post-it notes and markers, and throughout the day, people write down things they are thankful for and post them on the wall.

I always make multiple trips to the wall—to read and to add more things I am grateful for—and love watching others do the same.

It is heart-filling to stand and read the gratitude plastered on that wall. Deep, meaningful, significant things as well as the humorous, inside-joke-only kinds of things.

The wall stands as more than a list of what we are collectively thankful for. It holds memories, hope, promises, truth. It holds what was and may never be again, but also what will someday be. It holds the joy of loving and being loved. It holds... me.

And this altogether new and different and somewhat strange Thanksgiving, I'll surely have my Wall of Thanks yet again.

Will you join me?

Maybe it's a new tradition you can start with your own loved ones. And together we can build our Wall of Thanks wherever we are...

If you post pictures of your Wall or your Post-its, I wanna see them! Tag me on Facebook—and on Twitter and Instagram, use the hashtag #WallOfThanks, so we can celebrate with each other.

No matter what is going on in our lives—no matter the season we've just endured or are currently crawling through—we can choose to say "Thank You" to the One who understands even when we don't.

And please know this... YOU, my Gritty family, will certainly be a Post-it note on my Wall of Thanks.

Will you join me with your own Wall of Thanks this year? What's your favorite Thanksgiving tradition?

shifting sand

I've been thinking about riverbeds lately.

And how, over a span of time, the rushing water cuts itself a unique course. In flood seasons, the water may overflow the banks, and once the flood recedes, the river's path is likely different than it was before. Maybe slightly. Maybe drastically. But even one rock overturned makes the river flow differently.

...

I've been thinking about suffering lately too.

And how it carves and scrapes and plows through the riverbed of our lives, ultimately changing our course and our current. The changes—sometimes slight, sometimes drastic—lie far below the surface of what others can see, leaving us more different inside than our exterior lives will ever show.

...

The entire path of our lives is transformed by the ever-changing current of our experiences. No matter how hard we may fight it, we are changed by what happens to us. But as Maya Angelou so beautifully said, we can "refuse to be reduced by it." And we can refuse to be defined by it.

...

Dry riverbeds don't change. It's only the violent, rushing water that has the power to shift and shape an entire river. I cling to that visual reminder that the pain, heartache, and discomfort stand as proof of life.

...

What I've learned from the shifting sand of my own riverbed is this: Embrace the shaping. Don't fight the current. Give yourself grace for the new normal.

And trust that the divine finger isn't finished carving the course yet.

{photo credit}

around the interwebs

I have the amazing privilege of writing for Deeper Story once a month. And I'm over there today, sharing some thoughts on suffering and riverbeds... and what the two have in common. If you've ever endured any kind of painful heartache, link over and read it. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

My friend Jeremy Statton graciously interviewed me for his blog, aptly called Living Better Stories. He asked some poignant questions about shattered dreams, asking God "why?", and choosing joy. Link over to read my responses.
Will you do me a favor and share a link to one of your favorite posts that you've written recently? I know, I know... That might feel strange to do. But I asked, so no need to worry about it seeming self-promoting. Honestly, I'd love to read the best thing you've written lately... So go 'head.
Share the link!

all skate!

Remember what an all skate is? Think back to your roller rink days... Well, I’m calling an all skate at the Grit.

Everyone’s gotta comment on this one. Even the silent-lurker types. (Yes. You.)

I promise you it'll be quick and easy and painless. Well... mostly painless.

We're all gonna just paste in the very last thing we've cut or copied.

See? Easy. But also kind of insightful in a strange sort of way.

So scroll down to the comment box and hit CTRL-V to paste in whatever's in your digital clipboard. (⌘-V if you're on a Mac. Or Right-click > Paste if you wanna kick it old school in honor of the roller rink mention.)

I'll go first.

To delete a blank page at the end of the document, select the page break or any paragraph markers (¶) at the end of the document, and then press DELETE.

Riveting stuff right there, eh? Sheesh.

Okay, your turn... (And no cheating now!)

What was the last thing you copied-and-pasted?

photo credit.

autumnal hope

Hands down, autumn is my favorite season. And I'm fairly certain October is the most perfect month. I love the rich, bold, warm colors of fall. The landscape comes alive like a wildfire, and my heart catches some of the sparks. Bright blue chilly skies contrast the golden hues. The temperature is just right... Sweater-weather.

Cinnamon and cloves and all things pumpkin dance through the crisp air. Autumn just smells warm and inviting. Like homebaked apple pie. Gingerbread latte. Chai tea. Chicken tortilla soup.

But mostly, I love autumn for its symbolism. The vibrant colors come alive in the process of dying. Leaves fall. Days grow shorter. The dark, overcast, cold days of winter are slowly creeping upon us. But the trees don't surrender without a statement.

Even in the dying—of dreams, of hopes, of relationships, of seasons—there is still beauty. There is beauty in the brokenness. In the transition. In the change.

The new life of spring actually begins with the dying leaves of autumn.

And the leaves' final shout of stunning color helps me to never forget.

What's your favorite season? Why?

[photo source]

commitment precedes clarity

One of the biggest myths of our generation is that we need clarity in order to commit. Before we pull the trigger, we first want answers to all our questions. We want a complete road map. We want to read the fine print before we sign our lives away. We want confident periods not uncertain question marks. We want to fully know what we're getting ourselves into. We want surety before we take a step. And until we get all that, we wait...

We blame our lack of commitment on a lack of clarity.

But it's a myth that knowing more would make it easier to say yes. It's a lie we tell ourselves so that we feel better about doing nothing.

If I knew when I boarded the plane for Africa at 19, all that awaited me there, I never would have gone. If I could've seen the roadmap of hills and deep, dark valleys, I would have stayed Stateside. If I could have imagined all the heartaches and challenges that I would have to endure in order to embrace the victories and successes, I would have cowered in the corner crying.

Details paralyze more than uncertainty does.

If we wait until we have it all spelled out, that's no longer faith-driven commitment -- that's just executing a plan. Commitment must be laced with doubt and hesitation and mystery.

Commitment, in its truest form, requires ambiguity.

Think of Abraham. "Leave your country, your family, and your father's home," God said, "for a land that I will show you."

Without even knowing where he was going or how he would get there, Abraham left. Courageous commitment lined every footstep he left in the rugged soil, stepping away from the known into the land of the unknown.

What's that thing scratching on the corner of your heart? What is that quiet nudge you continue to feel? What's the passion that keeps rising to the surface? Whatever it is... Stop waiting for all the answers, for certainty, for assurances.

Commitment precedes clarity every single time.

So pull the trigger. Say yes. Jump off the cliff. Send that email. Start the conversation. Take the step.

The courage lies in doing it afraid.

{Photo source.}

i'm that girl who's drowning

I've heard that the biggest challenge with rescuing a drowning victim is how they instinctively fight against their rescuer. The sheer panic and fear is so great that they can't stop themselves from flailing, even at their own detriment. But trying to snap them out of it—to awaken them to their need to simply relax and lean into the arms of their rescuer—is nearly impossible.

I'm that girl who's drowning.

I've been fighting against my new normal, almost without realizing it. Maybe if I just surrender to it, I'll discover that rescue is only breaths away. But maybe if I surrender to it, I'll discover there is no rescue at all... That it simply is what it is, and no amount of fighting or accepting is going to change it.

A counselor told me that all I've been through in the past few years wasn't just traumatic. It was trauma. Leaving me with a sort of PTSD that is very real, and that lingers still. {To be honest, that's still a hard pill for me to swallow.}

One of the greatest challenges of my new normal is memory loss. {I can't believe I just said that phrase out loud. Memory loss. But that's what it is, even if I prefer to hide behind calling it Fuzzy Brain Syndrome.}

I used to be the girl who remembered everything. My ex-husband was notorious for forgetting that he'd seen a movie. Even after I described it in detail, explained where and when we watched it, and showed him the cover... Nope. He couldn't remember. Until about 5 minutes into the movie when he'd bust out an, "Ohhhhh yeah." We laughed about it all the time. And now... that's me. I can't for the life of me remember the moves I've seen.

I can't remember names. Or where people live. Or the names of their spouse or kids. Or details of the last conversation we had.

I can't remember much of anything.

It scares me. It brings tears to my eyes and sometimes even causes me to full-on ugly cry. It makes me hate my brain.

I knew I had blogged once about my Fuzzy Brain Syndrome and my battle with my new normal. So I went back to find it. You know what? I wrote it two-and-a-half years ago. Two-and-a-half years. {Here come the tears again...} That is a long time, people. A long time to not be feeling like myself. A long time of feeling like I'm living with diminished capacity. A long time of wondering if it's just a phase and hoping for old-me to surface again.

Two-and-a-half years later, I'm starting to think this may be reality from here on out. And that really makes me hate my brain.

So I just need to say this:

When I ask you again—for the eleventy-second time—what your husband's name is, how many kids you have, where you live, or how we know each other, please, please know I hate it more than you do. It hurts my heart because I know it comes across like I don't pay attention or don't care... and I promise you that's not true.

I realize now that my only choice is to surrender, even while I doubt that a rescue will ever come. But fighting it is just too exhausting. So I give up. I cease flailing, throw my arms upward, and let the current take me under.

And pray grace finds me there...

photo credit: Duncan Rawlinson

Originally posted on A Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

beautiful feet

"How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!" As a missionary, I heard that verse often. People spoke it to me, wrote it in cards, sent it in framed pictures. It was a promise, to me, of beauty in messy places.

My feet walked the dusty dirt roads of Qwa Qwa, South Africa.

They stepped into dirt-floor homes, made of one room and filled with families of 12. Or more. My feet sat me down, cross-legged, to hold precious HIV-infected little ones, too weak to lift their heads, too numb to smile. My feet carried me to my desk (because, you see, I was {mostly} an office missionary), up the hill to my class (to teach a room filled with young beautiful feet), to the shops in my tiny town (where people knew me as that "Yankee girl").

My feet held me as our property raged with a wildfire, as a twister ripped the roof off my house, as the floods broke through the dam wall and filled the landscape. My feet held me as I held others, going through storms of their own, mostly of the invisible kind. My feet took me to Africa, and my feet took me back to the States.

And here I sit, nestled comfortably on the couch, and I wonder where the beauty has gone...

I wonder if an ex-missionary's feet are only beautiful in past tense, or if there could be some glimmer of redemptive beauty that still remains.

What do beautiful feet look like after failure, after shattered dreams, after hope dried up? What does it mean to bring good news in my everyday ordinary life when there are no babies to rock, classes to teach, people asking about Jesus?

I throw back the last sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, and the dam wall breaks...

Maybe the good news is simply a kind word, a generous smile, a lingering hug. Maybe the good news is an honest conversation about my struggles and the grace that clings to me even when I can't cling to it. Maybe the good news is offering the gift of going second, letting others know they aren't alone. Maybe the good news is found in "I don't know"s rather than fabricated answers, in "You are loved"s because it just needs to be said, in humble "I'm sorry, please forgive me"s from a sincere broken heart, in honestly grateful "Thank you"s that honor the gift and the giver. 

Maybe the good news that He sees, cares, and loves is really found in someone feeling seen, cared for, and loved... by me.

And maybe, just maybe, beautiful feet are whatever vehicle used to deliver that good news. A spoken word. A thumbed-out text. A hand-hold. An understanding tear. A joyful laugh. A handwritten letter. A blog post. A not-letting-go hug.

Perhaps this ex-missionary still brings good news, and perhaps my feet are found by Him to be beautiful still.

And maybe that verse still stands as a promise of beauty in messy places.

privacy, authenticity, and living publicly

Lately I seem to have better luck "accidentally" writing blog-post-length comments than writing actual posts. So I'm gonna stick with my new trend of just turning the comment into a post. My friend Sarah wrote an amazing post about privacy and authenticity in the online world. You need to make sure you read it. Like right now. Then come back and read my thoughts.

... ... ...

'privacy' photo (c) 2009, Alan Cleaver - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/I’m a pretty private person, so my choice a few years ago to share about what was going on in my life/ministry was huge. I was very scared of doing it wrong — in a way that would bring more hurt and dishonor — than anything else, so I went about it with great trepidation. I painted with broad strokes, leaving out the bests, worsts, and a lot in between. And I still do. Not just in the ongoing journey of all that (and the many layers it entails) but also in my day-to-day life.

It’s easier to step back now than it was a few years ago. I often go days without being on twitter, weeks without blogging. I don’t analyze my sharing as much, debating on if this should or shouldn’t be shared. Those decisions come much easier than they used to.

Sometimes I have to fight the feeling that I’m missing out on great connections and opportunities (because of watching people quote-unquote “get ahead” with their @replies and intentional online shoulder-rubbing) and that I’m just missing out on all the fun — like everyone else is at the cool kids table and they’re all having this amazing time I’m excluded from. Sometimes I still have to fight all that and sometimes I just don’t even care anymore.

But the bottom line is this:

I value honesty in whatever is shared (by myself or others) rather than the amount/depth of it. I don’t think I — or anyone else — should divulge everything, but wisely withholding doesn’t mean one is being dishonest, disingenuous, or inauthentic. Be truly and honestly you in whatever it is you choose to share, and THAT is all the authenticity I need.

{Seth Haines also wrote a poignant post about authenticity and Sarah Markley unpacked more of her thoughts in a follow-up post. You're not gonna wanna miss these ones.}

Would love to hear your thoughts about privacy, authenticity, and living publicly. Let's talk!