Only in Nashville

When I graduated from college I wanted to work anywhere but Nashville.  I applied for jobs all over the country for months.  Finally, just to be able to say "yes" when my mother asked if I had applied locally, I put in a resume with one company in Nashville. One. And this past week I celebrated three years with that company. That milestone, combined with many other recent events, has made me so happy to call this charming little town home and left me saying many times “Only in Nashville…”. 

I recently went to Keith Urban’s All for the Hall charity concert benefitting the Country Music Hall of Fame with two of my favorite girls (who make Nashville even sweeter).

Downtown Nashville - Cowgirl Boots and All... 

Fro-Yo

 My restaurant selection for the night - Suzy Wong's House of Yum - to use the groupon that I unknowingly purchased while still reeling from anesthesia.

Only in Nashville can a country music star like Keith Urban gather dozens of his closest friends (including Vince Gill, Alabama, Rascal Flatts, Lady Antebellum, The Pistol Annies, The Band Perry, The Oak Ridge Boys, Little Big Town, Thompson Square, Diamond Rio, Blue Sky Riders, Merle Haggard, and Don Williams) to volunteer their performances for a sold out arena. Oh yeah, Vince and Keith played in the band for every group’s performance. Oh, and Keith Urban was invited to become a member of The Opry in the middle of the show. No big deal.

All for the Hall

Speaking of the Opry, my friend/co-worker/fashion expert Ashley and I recently hosted some clients as back stage guests at the Opry Country Classics show at Ryman Auditorium – the mother church of country music.  

Ashley - Backstage

Our backstage hostess, a native Oklahoman, was telling me about how Larry Gatlin was going to call all Oklahomans out on stage to sing a song that he had just written to benefit the recent tornado victims.  She convinced me to go with her since I was an honorary Oklahoman for four years of college (I mean, I am kind of from there).  So he starts the song and a handful of people walk to the stairs to be seated. I sit down, look to my left, and see none other than Vince Gill plop down right beside me with his guitar.  He wasn’t scheduled to perform that night, but he had dropped by to jam a bit with the Blue Sky Riders.  So there I am sitting beside him. What do I do? I take a picture. Duh.

 Vince Gill

Larry Gatlin

So one week I was watching Vince on stage with thousands of other fans, and this week I was just sitting on the Ryman stairs with him while he strummed us a few tunes. Oh, Nashville.

And I would be sorry if I didn’t mention that my favorite team, the Predators, just made it to round two of the playoffs! Yes, I googled it to make sure that it is called “the playoffs”. Seriously though, I love some good Predators hockey.

So Nashville, just in case you were wondering, I am thankful to be right where I am.  Also, I promise that I don’t work for the chamber of commerce.

A Life Worth Living

Moments with my family are anticipated and savored and adored. This weekend we all gathered to celebrate Easter on the farm – the place where our roots run deep and where our most treasured memories are stored – to celebrate the life within our family and the life within our hearts.

We hear laughter and giggles and the patter of toddling feet that remind us of the life in the generations to come.

We sing the little cousins into their next year of life.

We cherish the legacy of the Easters before us.

We rest in the relationships that sustain us.

 The color coordinated gals - great minds think alike.

 The parents

The awesome cookie baker

Today is one of my favorite days of the year because it is a celebration of Life. 

You see, Jesus’ death absolutely changed me. But His resurrection? It saved me. The victory is won. And that God? The God who was and is and is to come? The God who was not held by death? He LIVES. That God left a grave to live forever in our hearts. The temple’s curtain that separated us from God was torn. And now nothing can separate us from the Life that lives within us.

And when I look at my life and realize that I have nothing to offer but empty hands, a broken heart, and a story gone wrong, God looks at me and sees all that He needs. He is a God of The Empty.  He brings us fullness and satisfies our hunger.  He works with empty hands and empty hearts and empty tombs. He fills it with beauty and grace and redemption. A life that could not be held by death is held in our hearts. And the beauty and wonder of it all is that Easter is for all of humankind, but Easter is also just for you. And He moved heaven and earth to get to you. YOU. You are His desire. His intention. His plan. His purpose. Even if you were the only person in the entire world – if no one else ever had or ever would exist – He still would have come here for you. He would have died for you. And He would rise for you.

What a promise and a victory and a Life we have! A Life worth living.  A Life worth dying for. A Life worth celebrating!

Celebrating the Ordinary

Many things are difficult with one hand: Buttoning jeans (Thanks, mom). Driving (Thanks, Travis). Cutting steak (Thanks, Casey). Turning pages in a book (Thanks, Ashley T.). Setting up camping chairs at the drive-in (Thanks, Mackenzie). And blogging (uhhh….. about that…) Typing with one hand takes forever. So yeah, my absence from the blogosphere has been excused for a while, but now that I have moved back in to my own condo, started driving again, and even managed to do a French manicure (after two hours on the bathroom floor with polish on my knees, arms, forehead, lips, and a little bit on my actual nails), my excuse is over. And I am glad to be back! I just didn’t feel like myself for a long time.  I was weak and fragile for far too long. And boy, did people notice. I thought I hid it well, but I was constantly reminded by my coworkers and friends that “This just isn’t you. We miss the old Emily.”  (Perhaps they noticed that I snuck to work in black yoga pants a few times? Nah…) Plus, my physical inability to perform ordinary tasks combined with my independent determination to never ask for help didn’t mesh well. And my bum arm won. I asked for help. A lot of it. So thankful to be surrounded by people to help! I lived at home with my parents for over a month.  My sweet mother drove me back and forth to Nashville every day. And she washed my hair. And she fixed my meals. And she did practically all other two-handed tasks for me. She was my left hand. Yes, I know. I owe two people extra-nice Mother’s and Father’s Day gifts. And probably Birthday and Christmas, too... I was a bit whiny.

So here is where I am now. I have recently downsized from a hard cast and sling into a removable splint. People keep asking if I am just dying to get out of my casts and splints. Nope. My arm hurts when it isn’t supported so my splint is welcomed with (carefully) opened arms.  Plus, I like to think that it makes me look athletic.

I feel like I should be roller blading with this thing on.

The splint will stay for a few more weeks. The plate and screws? They stay forever. At the end of the month I will be flying to D.C.  I’ll let you know all about the metal detector issue then.

The x-rays

Being dependent stinks on ice. But slowing down? Sometimes it’s nice. 


I had many walks on the Greenway with my parents and BFF. 


Picnics at The Parthenon with people who know my heart. 


A hockey game with my sister and some friends.

Ally LOVED the people in the penalty box

Cotton Candy colored sunsets.

Lunch at The Chocolate Covered Strawberry with a favorite friend and her sweet daughter. 


Walks on the farm with mom on 70 degree winter days.

Someone Pinterest this outfit. A shirt 4x my normal size, a sling, a banana clip, and black rain boots. Hot.

My first drive-in movie night of the season: The Lorax and Hunger Games with my girls. (I’m glad we were in a car and not a theater because I asked lots of questions.)

More dinners at the table instead of in front of the tv. 


A huge reminder that Small Town America is a powerful place to be born and raised and a beautiful place to call home. Fight Like A Girl.


Afternoons to read my March Book on the porch swing while having a Homemade Lemon Mint Slush (Ice, fresh squeezed lemon, freshly chopped mint, and a little agave nectar).

Plus an occasional visit from the farm cat. (which is a big deal for me considering I am NOT an animal person)

Bootsie

Primary voting. I love democracy. 


Oh, and right as The Bachelor finished up, the most talented season of Dancing with the Stars began. Perfect.  Although DWTS is not appreciated by all.  Last Tuesday a big Kentucky fan asked me if I saw “the big game”. To which I replied, “What game?”. Wrong answer. I was watching ABC. Duh.

And when I was finally ready to move back to my condo? I was welcomed home by a canopy of prissy pastel pink petals on the most adorable, girly little tree right outside my door.

I was also greeted by month-old laundry waiting for me in the dryer. A dish washer full of dishes, and a dying Valentine’s Day rose bush that had scarcely been watered.  It was as if time stood still here. Which, it sort of did. Most of my clocks have yet to spring forward. Oops.

But I’m back. And yeah, I took a detour or two, but after feeling like I’d never feel normal again, the crazy anesthesia has worn off and I am now fully aware that I am alive and well. And now I have a greater appreciation for the ordinary. Take some time to celebrate it. It’s the beautiful little things in our days that build bold and beautiful lives.

Princess Power

Last weekend I had a Girl’s Day Out with one of my favorite Little Friends to see Disney Princesses Live at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. 

When I went to her house to pick her up, she looked me up and down and gave me a very confused stare.

“You still have fingers???”

“Yes! Of course.”

“And a shoulder?”

“Yes…”

“But nothing in between?” (the part hidden by my sling)

“Sweetheart, I have a shoulder and fingers AND an arm.”

“Oh… I thought your arm broke OFF.”

So just in case any of my readers were wondering, my arm didn’t break off. It just broke.

At TPAC, we settled into our cushy, red velvet seats and prepped for the show – which involved me giving her a bag of Skittles, Pink and Blue Cotton Candy, and a bag of BBQ chips.

Oh yeah, and a pink, light-up wand…

What can I say? I know the way to this girl’s heart. She and I are both big fans of all things Princess so I knew we would have a grand time.  After a few “How many more minutes until it starts?” and “How much longer?”s, they dimmed the lights and drew back the curtains.  Before any characters had even appeared, she, with eyes glued to the stage in eager anticipation, whispered “This is wonderful.” And it was. 

They put on three live performances:  Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Cinderella, and Beauty and the Beast.  The dwarfs were funny, the mice that sang the “Cinderellie” song were irresistible, but Beauty and the Beast? By far my favorite!

A Tale As Old As Time

Don’t get me wrong, I adore a good ball gown and a handsome Prince Charming.  But Snow White had to be saved by her Prince Charming’s kiss. And Cinderella? She had to be rescued from her life of servanthood by the Prince. But Belle? Nope. She rocks.  She pranced her beautiful little self right into the Beast’s world and SHE saved HIM from his life as a Beast.  Not to mention the fact that she had already saved her father from prison. You go, Belle. Girl Power. 

Plus the dancing fork looked exactly like a quiet, unassuming guy friend of mine which made me laugh through the entire “Be Our Guest” number. It’s the small things.

The Road To Recovery: A Surgery Recap

On Tuesday I had surgery on my broken left arm. (I realized that I kept using “arm” and “wrist” interchangeably in my last post. It is technically my arm, but it is close to where it meets my wrist).  Before the surgery my doctor came in to see me. I told him to “Be very careful because this is my wedding hand.” He said, “My goodness! When is the wedding?” “Oh, I’m single. But some day this hand will matter.” He looked me in the eye, vowed to take care of my wedding hand, and then the most important thing happened. He slid his pen out of the pocket of his crisp white coat, knelt down beside me, and he signed my left arm - as close as he could to the place that he was about to perform surgery.  The concept of a doctor signing a patient was new to me, but it is a way for him to show me that he cares. He isn’t in a hurry. He is paying attention me. He is taking ownership. He knows exactly what he is going to do to heal me. It was as if he was saying...

This arm? This broken one? It is about to get all of my attention. It hurts. And yes, it will hurt worse before it feels better. But it will feel better, I promise. I know this because arms are my thing. I fix broken arms. I make them just like new. And I do it well.  Your arm is my handiwork and I am so proud of the work that I know I will be doing on it. Its broken, but it is mine now. And it will be healed. Trust me, it has my name all over it.

I know, I know. Lovely photo, right? But notice the signature on my left elbow right by my cast. That's the important part.

For just a moment, I was calm. I was safe. I was allowing myself to receive healing. In a situation that was out of my control, I knew someone who could take control.  My mind raced with thoughts of how God must feel when we are broken and hurt. As if He were saying...

This heart? This broken one? It is about to get all of my attention. It hurts. And yes, it will hurt worse before it feels better. But it will feel better, I promise. I know this because hearts are my thing. I fix broken hearts. I make them just like new. And I do it well.  Your heart is my handiwork and I am so proud of the work that I know I will be doing on it. Its broken, but it is mine now. And it will be healed. Trust me, it has my name all over it.

Unfortunately, just as quickly as a little signature calmed my nerves and eased my worries, they gave me a block in my shoulder to numb my arm and started giving me anesthesia. I lost my mind. Nothing was making sense and everything felt hazy. And guess what? Anesthesia apparently makes me a worrier. I was scared that the doctor would be in a hurry. I told every male nurse (assuming that he was the doctor I had just seen) to take his time. One finally replied, “We have to be here whether you are or not. We aren’t in a hurry.” Okay. Noted. “But what if I fall off of the table?” “You won’t. You are surrounded by a lot of people” replied Nurse #15 as he pulled a giant black strap across my waist, literally fastening me to the table. Okay. Noted. “What if I don’t wake u…..?”

The next thing I knew I was waking up, complete with a new titanium plate and six new screws. But the worrying didn’t end there. The anesthesia really did a number on my mind and had me ultra-confused. For the next three days my parents were harassed with: What if I’m not alive right now? What if my arm stays numb forever? What if nothing ever makes sense again? What if my scar is ugly? What if I can never move my wrist again? I really want an O’Charley’s Fried Chicken Salad with Bleu Cheese Dressing and five rolls. I think I am alive now but I don’t remember being alive yesterday.  Don’t wreck. Don’t drive too fast. Don’t touch me. Don’t fall on me. Don’t let anyone near me. Don’t talk about me. How many times did I die? Are you sure I’m alive?

You see, when I had started waking up from surgery, they unplugged me from the heart monitor, which resulted in a flat-line beeping sound. Thus the reason for thinking I had died. I had several people jokingly text me things like “Well, are you alive?” or “Welcome to the land of the living.”  Those texts, although now appreciated, thoroughly added to my confusion!

It has now been five days since surgery and I am proud to report that I am completely aware that I am alive (and that I have been the whole time). Although still throbbing, my arm is improving a little each day. My fingers are still tinted with orange from the iodine scrub which has left me with a permanent craving for puffy cheetos. I also scrolled through my text messages on my phone and realized just how many people love me (and just how many delirious replies I sent – most proclaiming “I don’t know if I’m alive or not, but mom keeps telling me I am.”). I checked my online banking account and discovered that I only unknowingly purchased one groupon. Fortunately, it was to a restaurant that I have actually heard of. I’m thankful that I don’t have a Coach account online. I found a few dresses in my closet that I will be able to get my arm into for work this week and have relearned the art of taking a bath instead of a shower.  

Throughout the course of the week, my parents kept encouraging me get out of bed, in which case I moved to the couch.  Then I was encouraged to get off of the couch, so I moved to a chair. Then I was encouraged to get out of the chair and do something which required a little effort, to which I replied “You clearly did not watch me try to put on a pair of jeans.” But yesterday I got out of the house.  Even though I was grumpy and quiet, mom took me to Scarlett’s Tea Garden. And she was right.  Drinking tea from a fancy cup and getting a glimpse of sunlight did make me feel better.

So now my mother fixes every meal for me, washes my hair, and sometimes buttons my pants. I can’t drive yet (legally I can, but the logistics and safety of that are questionable at the moment) so my mom will be dropping me off at work each day as well. So thankful for two selfless parents who put up with my constant whining, middle of the night cell phone calls from the room just down the hall, and my never ending neediness.  Also, when you get hurt, you just want your mom.  And since I broke my arm 3 hours away from her, I discovered that the absolute next best thing is a big sis who is just like her in so many ways. She was an angel! And my other sister introduced me to Words with Friends and activated our wii with Netflix. My nephews, who couldn’t choose between flowers or a Get Well Soon balloon, got me both. And I’m so glad they did.  I needed both, as well as their handmade cards.

I am now well on my way to healing.  The road to recovery has my name written all over it. I did, in fact, just type an entire blog with one hand.

In other news, if you haven’t subscribed to my blog, there are several ways to follow me.  Click “Join This Site” under “Followers” on the right hand side of this page. Enter your email address in the “Follow By Email” section. Or add this hyperlink http://emilysbeautifulstory.blogspot.com/ to your Google Reader account.

Update: Read about my sleep study here.

A Dreamer: The Tale of a Broken Wrist

I’m a dreamer. Anyone who truly knows my heart knows that about me. I dream about my career. About writing. About politics. About marketing.  About my family. About God using my story. I live in a world where my dreams are a reality to me. Where I do everything I can to take advantage of opportunities to prepare myself for these crazy dreams I have. I believe that God shares His desires with us in so many ways, and I know that He does so in the dreams that He puts in our hearts.  But the truth of the matter is that if MY dreams never come true, I will still be satisfied. Fulfilled actually. Because I know that my God has a great story for me. And it may be nothing like I have planned, but it will be beautiful. His stories always are.

I am also another kind of dreamer, though. I have crazy dreams in my sleep. I regularly get up and walk around. I wake up sitting in my closet floor with different clothes on than when I went to bed. I even fold my clothes and put them away which I hardly even do when I'm awake. I roll out of bed more often than a preschooler. I wake up on my staircase after having tripped the motion sensor on my alarm in the middle of the night. One time I even convinced a fellow counselor at Church camp that all of our campers were missing. She gathered some adults and looked all over camp for them. Meanwhile, I got back in my bed. Along with the campers that were there the entire night. Yep. I totally made it all up in my sleep.

Well, for the long weekend I decided to go to Indiana to see my sister and her family. I love those little nephews that I always blog about. I subscribe to their city's weather on my iPhone so that I know if they're waking up to snowflakes or sunshine. I talk about them regularly. I look through old videos just so I can hear their voices. We had the best weekend together. Just hanging out, drawing, building lego towers, racing cars, dodging nerf darts, and playing lots of "I'm gonna get you". Plus, we ate lots of really great food courtesy of my talented sister. About half way through the weekend she asked me if I had any good material to blog about yet (which I now know is a Blogger’s Curse). I replied, "No, not really. Except that a man at church accidentally called me Ashley... Because he thought I looked just like Ashley Judd…" Random. And so not true. I personally think Ashley Judd looks like a brunette Katherine Heigl, but that is neither here nor there.

On Sunday night we all enjoyed skillet popped popcorn and watched Swiss Family Robinson, an old family classic.  The significance of this is still to be determined.  Later that night I kissed the boys Good Night, made plans with my sis for the next day, went down to the den, and got in my cozy pull-out couch bed. I fell asleep quickly like usual. BUT.... The next thing I know I am camping and on some kind of air mattress on the ground. But then my mattress turns into a raft and I am on a river. I see yellow, beady, glowing eyes beside me. A snake! I'm terrified as the snake attempts to get on my raft to attack me.  But just in time for my much-needed rescue, I look across the river and see that there is another raft that's floating by. I get on my hands and knees and, with as much effort as possible, spring off of my Snake Raft and jump onto the Rescue Raft beside me.

And then I wake up. On the hard concrete floor. On my hands and knees. Three feet lower than the pullout couch that I started on. I wasn't jumping raft to raft. I was jumping from bed to concrete floor. In the moment I just think about how crazy I am and try to crawl back in bed, but soon realize I'm in a lot of pain. My left wrist hurts so bad. There are shooting pains from my fingertips all the way up to my elbow. I try to shake it off. Well, not literally because I can't move it. So then I try to give myself a pep talk. But instead of the pain going away, it gets worse and starts to take over my entire body. Even though it is 12:30 am, it doesn’t take long for me to decide to go up to my sister’s room and wake her up. But I realize that I'm in so much pain that walking makes me think I'm gonna be sick. I sit down in her floor, drink a little bit of water, let her put a sling (and shoes) on me, and she drives me to the local hospital.  At this point I know it's broken. If it isn't then something crazy is going on because I can wiggle my fingers a little but there is no way I can move my wrist very much at all. I just know that this is a lot of pain. There are approximately 2 patients at the tiny hospital in town, so my crazy dream story spreads fast. Every nurse that comes in says something to the effect of “What exactly were you dreaming about?” or “How exactly does someone your age fall out of bed?” To which I always remind them that I didn’t fall. I leaped. My favorite was the x-ray tech who hardly uttered any words to me, took my xrays, glanced at the scans and said, “Well… that must've been some snake.” Why yes, yes it was. So my radius is broken pretty good right where it meets my wrist and there some mild displacement. They put me in a splint and sling and sent me with orders to visit a doctor asap.  

Sleep-Deprived and in a LOT of Pain

My sister drove me the four hours home to Nashville so that I could visit a local surgeon.  Tomorrow I will have surgery to have a plate and screws inserted. And then I’ll make friends with the cast that will impair my hair straightening, jewelry fastening, blog typing, jar opening skills for the next couple of months.   

So blame my dreams on the Swiss Family Robinson adventure, the Blogger’s Curse, or some deeply rooted psychological issue that only a Sleep Center could figure out…but the point remains.  I broke my wrist in a dream. Seriously. Who does that? Apparently only this dreamer does.

Update: Read about my surgery here.
Update: Read about my sleep study here.

Where I'm From

Today at work I had a meeting with two sales reps. As my boss and I were talking about Nashville with these first time visitors, he asked a woman with a very thick accent, “Where are you from?”. I knew what he was asking. New England? Boston, maybe? Her reply was something like “Oh, I’m from Bank of America.” In our industry, many times people refer to themselves by the name of the company where they got their start. “Hi. I’m Bill. I work at Wells Fargo. I’m an old A.G. Edwards Guy.” In the moment I just quietly laughed to myself as she proceeded to tell us about her previous company, awkwardly filling a vacancy in our conversation that we had expected to fill with mindless banter about the Red Sox and cream pies. But it got me thinking, Where exactly am I from? I mean, yeah, I’m from Nashville. But I’m from so much more.

I’m from a small country church where potluck dinners can feed your soul.

I’m from two parents who gave me roots and taught me to dream big.

I’m from Times Square and the Grand Canyon and Chicago and Yellowstone and Waikiki Beach and Gulf Shores and Capitol Hill.

I’m from big birthday celebrations and handed-down holiday traditions.

I’m from catching lightning bugs at dusk and finding Roly Polies under rocks.

I’m from best friends who are like family and a family who are my best friends.

I’m from Romans chapter five and Luke chapter one.

I’m from honesty and bravery and courage and joy and confidence.

I’m from cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and nephews who teach me what love is.

I’m from people giving me chances and God giving me blessings.

I’m from Amazing Grace and VBS and youth group retreats.

I’m from a richly colored heritage and a bright future.

I’m from Hope.

I’m from white water rafting in Montana and surfing in Hawaii and skydiving in the Smokies and snorkeling in Kauai and inner-tubing in Percy Priest Lake and kayaking in the Potomac River.

I’m from my Granny’s hugs and my Pa’s eyes.

I’m from a farm in a tiny Tennessee town, a cozy house on Beach Lane, an apartment in Georgetown, a dorm room in Oklahoma City, and a condo in Nashville.

I’m from handmade quilts and homemade peach cobbler.

My Granny Quilt - made from my mom and aunt's old clothes

I’m from two big sisters who taught me how to curl my hair, paint my nails, style a Barbie, and live passionately.

I’m from a God who gave up everything to love me.

So yeah, I am a Southern Belle with pearls on my neck, a guitar in my living room, and an occasional drawl in my voice when I say ya’ll. But I’m from something so much more beautiful. I’m from people and places and experiences and love. And that is a beautiful place to call home.

Living in Light

What do we do when things go wrong? I’m not talking about the little things like losing every picture on my laptop, having my neighbor nearly blow up my car by hooking up jumper cables incorrectly, or getting a 24 hour stomach bug at work on one of the busiest days of the quarter. No. Those things seem big in the moment but can all be fixed by the excitement of a best friend announcing a pregnancy, spending time with my nephews (typically getting into trouble by our mothers for being too loud or too wild),

He's FIVE!

You can totally see the "Cheese" face here...

The best guys I know.

meeting one of my favorite authors at a Lipscomb event and chatting with him before the lecture,

 Donald Miller, Author of Blue Like Jazz and A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

and celebrating a one-year Friendiversary with a new best friend.

Mandy and I painting Mason Jars (thanks to Pinterest) on our Friendiversary

In fact, I’d like to just wrap all of that up together into one little package and just call it “January”.

I’m talking about the really big stuff. The stuff that hurts to talk about. The things that make us wonder about life and purpose.  The events that make us question “Why” and “How”. The things that leave us breathless and make us wonder how we can possibly get up and move on from here.  These parts of our lives are colored with hurt and loss and pain and betrayal.

We’ve all been there.  We have all been covered with darkness and in a place where nothing seems to help. Where words seem empty and hope seems distant and loneliness makes itself at home.

Let God in.

Let Him enter into your brokenness and questioning and trials and emotions. He will always meet you right where you are. Don’t try to assign purpose to your disasters. Don’t try to figure things out on your own. And don’t assume that you are alone. You are never left alone in your time of greatest need. You are held. Surround yourself in Him. In your church, your music, your relationships, your dialogue, your prayers. Allow your lost and wandering heart to be lost in Him.

We all have broken hearts that need Healing.  Our hearts are broken, not because of God’s absence in this world, but because we see just how much we need Him in this world.  

“Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light” – John 3:19

The Great Light came into the world to bring us healing and love and hope, but we were more comfortable in our blind, ignorant darkness. And this is still true.  It is easier to live in the darkness. UNTIL. Until you catch a glimpse of the Light. And when we finally turn our eyes to God's light, we realize how badly we want out. We see what we are missing. We see the mess that we are in. We see that the darkness holds only fear and insecurity and doubt.  And we see that the Light holds truth and healing and redemption.  You may be frustrated with where you are right now or longing to be in a new place. Allow healing for where your heart has been, but keep your heart pointed towards where you are going. Towards Light.

The truth is that God does not cause darkness to show His Light.  Instead He has chosen to bring His Light to a darkened world, His healing to our broken hearts, and His redemption to our wandering souls.  This is our desire. That we may honor Him with bright, whole, redeemed hearts. May He take up residence here, take over the places that we have held on to, and take hold of the parts of our soul that we still own.

And we know that Comfort and Healing seem impossible in these situations. But we have faith. And He is a God of the Impossible. He makes Beauty from Ashes. Every. Single. Time. He never fails us or leaves us or abandons our hearts. He holds us close. May our stories rest in His stillness and refuge and strength.

I also know this to be true: I can’t imagine going through the darkness on my own. If you don’t have a best friend who is rooted in faith and grounded by the Spirit, find someone. I have this pact with my best friend. I tell her everything. No matter how awkward it is, no matter how bad it makes me sound, no matter how long it takes for me to get it all out, she gets it all. And then? Then healing has room to make its way in.  When I open my heart and shed light on my struggles and pains, darkness flees. Sometimes it moves slowly, but it is always replaced by The Light. Healing and Light come to hearts that are open. We all need someone to carry us to Jesus when we can’t make it on our own. So keep talking. Keep asking. Keep questioning. But do it out loud. Let someone in. A Friend of God.  And in the thick of it, sometimes you will get tired of the emails and phone calls checking on you, sometimes you won’t want to answer questions, sometimes you will just want to be left alone and forgotten so that you can dwell in your own darkness for a while, and sometimes you will just want to disappear into your brokenness.  But those sometimes moments don’t compare to the always moments of always needing a friend, always needing someone to point you to God, and always needing help and love and courage.  No matter how hard you push or resist, I pray that you have a friend that won’t leave you there. Truthfully, as friends sometimes we will forget something important or say something to make everything worse, but by opening your heart, you are open to so much more than a friend who always wants to be there. You are open to a God who always is. You are never alone.

And when you are open to God, He will remind you over and over again that His love and redemption and Light is steady. Just like the drops of water that just started falling from a vent in my ceiling. Thank goodness tomorrow is February. We all need a new beginning. 

A World of Contradictions

I live in a world of incredible contradictions.

I live in a world where I know in my mind that medicine heals. But then I go to the hospital and spend a few hours with a precious little girl and I learn that all that I knew to be true may in fact only be a partial reality.  Because when I walked into this shy, introverted, inattentive little girl’s room on Thursday night, I got no reaction. As soon as I saw her glance over her computer screen at me and, with no acknowledgeable response, look back down at her Barbie.com project, I knew instantly that this night would be a challenge. I prayed quickly and quietly “God, please show me how to relate to this little girl.”  I thought back to Kisses from Katie that I am currently reading. Katie is a young girl from Nashville currently working at an orphanage and school in Africa. She notes often that she is not a nurse or a teacher, but to help these people she does the only thing that she knows how to do. She shows them that she loves them. Overcoming language barriers, she feeds them, bandages them, and simply hugs and dances with them. As I looked at this little elementary-aged girl, alone in a room on isolation and not knowing what kinds of medical terms and experiences she knows that I could not even imagine, I did what I knew how to do. I proved to her that I could love. I silently sat down in her rocking chair, picked up one of her baby dolls, and quietly rocked her. The entire time, I didn’t speak directly to the little girl. I knew that would be intimidating. I didn’t even look at her, but I could see her slowly start to pay attention. I hummed a lullaby. I swaddled the doll in a tiny little hospital gown. I fed her a bottle. And when the baby got “fussy”, I stood to bounce and shush her. But you see, I am not the baby doll’s mother. And mother always knows best. The little girl slowly climbed out of bed, came over to me, and carefully took her baby from my arms. She bounced the baby, calmed her, and put her to sleep in her own hospital bed, raising the rails so as not to roll off.  Then the little girl looked at me, took my hand, and smiled. We slowly began to tend to the rest of her babies lining the window sill.  And by the end of the night, I was French braiding her hair while she blared Demi Lovato so loudly that the nurses had to come tell us to quiet down. So while yes, medicine is healing her body, I can see another world. A world where French braids and baby dolls and dance parties bring healing to her soul.

I live in a world of “once-in-a-lifetimes”. I am constantly dreaming of vacations and travels and experiences. I adore the adventure and thrive when I am experiencing new things in life for the first time - like sky diving in the Smoky Mountains or surfing in Hawaii or camping in Yellowstone. But I also live for the day-to-day. Because while those grand experiences add color to my days, the day-to-day is what builds and sustains a life. My home and my family and my friends and my career and my church and my God are beautiful because they are a part of who I am. They aren’t what I do on the weekends or what I look forward to, they are the gifts that are present every day and in every moment. So while extraordinary adventures take my breath away, the ordinary is what gives me Breath and Life.

I live in a world where freedom is so common that it almost feels like a guarantee. I live in a country where I can go wherever I want, say what I want to say, and be what I want to be. But as a follow up to a previous resolution, a sweet friend and I attended a Welcome Home ceremony at Fort Campbell and it became clearer than ever that our freedom comes at an incredible price. Freedom is anything but free. I saw fathers meeting their toddlers for the first time and young women running into the arms of their mothers.  I saw a little boy perched on the shoulders of his grandfather scanning the sea of camouflage anxiously trying to find his daddy. I saw a beautiful woman weep when she saw her fiancé march off of the plane as she yelled his name and waved a handmade sign in his direction. 

And through the crowd of tiny little American flags waving proudly in the air, I saw nearly 200 soldiers march proudly into an airplane hangar, lay down their weapons, pick up yellow roses, and run to the people that they love. 

The soldiers paid an incredible price while they were gone to Afghanistan, many for the second, third, or even fourth time. It was beautiful to see them all come home, but also a painful reminder that not everyone does. And it is clear that the people that they left behind paid an incredible price as well. So if you ever start to feel comfortable in this life that you are in, if you ever want to realize that you are a part of a world that is so much bigger than yourself, if you ever need to see that you live in a world where freedom is not free, attend a Welcome Home ceremony. It will change your heart. But it isn’t for us. It is to say thank you to the people who deserve all of the cheers and the signs and the photos and the flowers that they can get. So for many years my world of freedom lived in no contradiction.  But thanks to the soldiers of the 159^th Combat Aviation Brigade, my world of freedom is now also a world of sacrifice.

I live in a world of physical beauty. The sunsets. The babies. The waterfalls. The smiles. The wrinkled hands. The flying flag. The homemade dinners. The expansive beaches. But I also live in a world of the spiritual. A world where the greatest is the least. Where the weak can be strong. Where the blind can see. Where wounds bring healing. Where losing your life means gaining Life. Where letting go means holding on. Where the broken are beautiful. Where thirsty souls meet Living Water. Where the unseen are the only things that are real.  There is Hope and Comfort and Love and Beauty and Life. This world is not independent of the other worlds, but rather all other worlds are dependent on this. On a Creator and Sustainer and Redeemer and Forgiver. And this world? This is Home. 

This is a world of heads and tails, peanut butter and jelly, hearts and souls, ordinary and extraordinary, freedom and sacrifice, living and Life. And the balance between the contradictions? It's beautiful.