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Some days are harder than others on this whole “I am enough” journey.

Some days it seems as though everyone is shouting at me with their words, their actions, and everything in between, that once again I don’t measure up. I’m not enough.

Some days the demons grow louder, my heart grows quieter, and I feel myself shrinking inside. Cringing away from others, from hope, from myself. It’s hard to believe — really, truly believe — that I’m enough when everything seems to tell me otherwise. And I crumble at my core—sometimes slowly, as if my foundation is being chipped away, and other times all at once, like a tsunami washed it out from under me.

And then I lay my head on my pillow at the end of another exhausting day, close my teary eyes, and ask Him for the grace to try again tomorrow. I mutter those three challenging words over and over and over:

I am enough.
I am enough.
I am enough.

Then I open my eyes, with the sun and my alarm, and at once, I have to fight the scarcity that immediately rushes in close — telling me I’m already starting the day without enough sleep, without enough time to do what needs to be done, without enough friends or family or purpose or plans. Already not enough before my feet hit the floor.

And I have to once again close my eyes and ask Him for His more-than-enough grace to carry me. Fill me. Uphold me. Remind me. Center me.

I am enough because I AM is enough.

And, whether I like it or not, whether I believe it or not, whether I feel it or not, that is all that matters.

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Sometimes
prayer is simply the steadfastness
of going about my day,
doing what needs to be done—even—especially—that
which I’d rather not do,
or that which I feel unable,
inadequate to do.

Sometimes
prayer is simply one foot in front of the other.
Sometimes
arms raised in worshipful surrender actually looks like
putting tired, aching “hands to the plough,”
not looking back.

My greatest, truest, most honest prayers
aren’t the interjectory conversations
with God
throughout the day. They are
merely the faithful stewarding
of what He’s given me to do—
who He’s given me to love—
today.

My intimacy with Him is measured not
by the length or frequency or eloquence
of my verbalized prayers,
but in my active trust in the small moments
of my everyday—
in the quiet prayers of a life sought to be lived well.

Sometimes
prayer is
simply breathing in, breathing out,
and doing—with moment by moment grace,
integrity,
and love
—what’s right in front of me.

[photo credit]

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My soul was brimming with eager expectancy and apprehension. There were equal parts passion and fear, joy and sadness, excitement and hesitation. Like most people following God’s promptings in their lives, I faced a whole continent of unknowns.

I was moving to Africa.

I was 19.

Read the rest over at Deeper Story >>

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I saw this exercise in the archives of Brené Brown’s blog, and loved it so much I decided to resurrect it here at the Grit. So here is my TGI this Friday…

… … …

I’m trusting that all the details will work out. Somehow. I’ve got a lot of puzzle pieces I’m trying to sort out at the moment, but I’m choosing to trust that God sees the full (finished) picture when all I see are fragmented bits. And that it will all come together right when it needs to. Trusting that His timing won’t be late means accepting it might not be early either. Eeeeeek.

I’m grateful for the sunshine that’s finally broken through after weeks of dreary winter. My soul needed it. Badly.

I’m inspired by friends I spent time with this week. They are wise and compassionate and focused. They are humble and strong and funny. Their gracious gift of friendship speaks “enoughness” to my heart and pushes me to live life fully.

… … …

I would love to know what you are trusting in, grateful for, and inspired by today.

Happy Friday, Gritty family.

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I haven’t been a very consistent blogger lately. (And of course by “lately” I mean “the past couple years”. But, whatever. Semantics.) But over the past few months, my words have found a home in various corners of the web that you may have missed.

_________________________

Like my post for Deeper Story on “his affair being my fault” —

“How do you think you contributed to his affair?”

I swallowed hard and blinked back tears, to no avail. They were quickly streaming down my face.

She leaned forward with an I-didn’t-mean-to-make-you-cry look in her eyes. “Oh, why are you getting upset? I know he made the choice to have an affair. But there had to be a reason he looked outside the marriage. Why her? What was she offering him that you weren’t?”

Read the rest here >>

_________________________

And my post for Prodigal Magazine on the false promise of abstinence —

Abstinence was drilled into me as a young girl. To the point where it was implied (and at times, even directly said) that sex was bad. At the same time, like a dangled carrot, I was taught that if I wait (because that’s what ‘true love’ does), then sex in my marriage would be amazing.

At the right time, with the right person—in a marriage relationship—sex would be good. It would be better than good. It would be incredible. Easy. Passionate. Fulfilling.

And so I waited.

Read the rest here >>

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There’s also the interview I did with Jeff Goins for his podcast —

Jeff wrote briefly about my decision to move to Africa in his book Wrecked. In the podcast, I unpack my story some more, talking through my thoughts on commitment, being wrecked, and dealing with life not working out the way we plan (or hope).

Listen to my interview >>

_________________________

 Happy April, Gritty friends. 

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My heart is camping out in the empty tomb today.

The empty tomb that isn’t actually empty. Because it’s filled with hope.

Promise.

Undeserved freedom.

Scandalous grace.

The empty tomb is actually bursting at the seams, overflowing with unexpected second chances.

What seems like the end isn’t really the end.

When it’s over, lost, gone, broken beyond repair… that’s when things have really just begun.

Life after death is so much more extraordinary than life before it.

Wholeness comes from brokenness.

Beauty is birthed in ashes.

The new life of spring actually begins with the slow death of autumn.

And that, to me, is the joy of Easter. Found right here in the empty yet abundantly full tomb…

Happy Easter, friends.
He is risen!

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Waiting is hard.

Waiting in silence is even harder.

I keep thinking about this Silent Saturday wedged between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. This day we know very little about.

What did the disciples do? Were they crying? Praying? Angry? Hopeful? I don’t know what they were doing, but I know what they were hearing.

Nothing.

All they could do was wait.

For what? They didn’t even know. For how long? They had no clue.

I’m sure the night-hours seemed darker. I’d imagine the questions kept coming and the fear grew crippling. I’m sure it felt like they were holding their breath, hoping against hope that Jesus was still who He said He was and that the last few years hadn’t been a complete waste.

But their waiting was met only with deafening silence…

Just like yours and mine sometimes is.

So on this Silent Saturday, I’m reminding us of what we know to be true:

Keep waiting.

Redemption is coming.

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I’m thinking about this day we call Good Friday. And how it felt anything but good at the time.

It was dark and heavy.

A day with more questions than answers.

More confusion than peace.

More doubt than faith.

Despair hung thick in the air, hearts crushed and despondent. The soul-depth disappointment in God was palpable and suffocating.

How could He? Why would He? What do I do now?

None of it made sense. It didn’t line up with all they had seen and heard and experienced. The miracles… the teachings… the love… it all hung in the balance of two wooden beams on a hillside.

Everything they thought their Messiah would be, died that day.

All their hopes and dreams shattered with His nail-split hands. They’d given up everything to follow Him — families, careers, homes — and now this. A horrible, wretched death.

Of Him.

Of their hearts.

Of their hope.

They didn’t know what we know now, looking back thousands of years later. That life comes out of death. That new beginnings spring forth from the worst of endings.

That hope rises.

To me, this Friday is so very good because of the mere fact that it was so very bad.

It reminds me that the dark and heavy times of my life are not devoid of Him, even when I can’t see Hm or feel Him. That doubt doesn’t nullify my faith. And that questioning isn’t wrong.

It reminds me to let everything I think my Messiah should be, die. Because He is so much more than my imaginary version of Him, made in my own image. He loves, redeems, and saves me in ways I would never expect and could never imagine.

And it gives me hope that someday… Someday I may even call my darkest Friday “good”.

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I’ve spent the past week in Vancouver, and my soul has loved every minute of it. Have you ever been up in this corner of the world?

This is my first time here, and I hope it won’t be my last. It is stunning in every possible way.

What are you drawn to when your soul needs to breathe? A bustling city, a forrest trail, a gorgeous beach, mountain vistas, a quiet sunroom…? Or, like me, a mix of a few?

If you close your eyes and go to your happy place, what does it look like?
Take us with you…

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