a new home for t.a.m.

We've moved over to a new home: http://theresalwaysmonday.com

Hope to see you over there, the door is always open!

worship and sweet city nashville

My sister left for Belmont this Friday. She is now a Tennessee resident. She forewent the deep dish and baseball caps of Chicago for the southern drawls and cowboy boots of sweet-city Nashville. I got the chance to talk to her tonight and I beamed as she gave me the ‘I got there and…” story of her first few days at school. There's something ironic knowing that as I prepared a stovetop dinner for Austin and me, my little sister was venturing into the wonderful world of cafeteria-style dining. How good it is to have her in my life. As often as it may seem that I am a few steps ahead, Katie, in her twenty-one years, lives and operates in such gentle-joyous-wonder, that I often am forced to take notice. And learn. A lot.

One thing I did love about having my sister close by was the randomness of our hangout slots. My most favorite came when Katie received about twelve hours notice of the road trip that she was accompanying me on. We got in the white Honda, dressed, without question in Lululemon, and headed towards St. Louis. We paused only for things worth stopping for: Panera salads, soft-serve ice cream and ravishing sunsets. Once we got there, I became absolutely awed by the lessons I learned from watching my sister. She gives of herself in ways I am afraid to. She has patience with people that I would be guarded with. And she worships her creator in ways I wish I knew how.

Worship for Katie is the natural outpouring of her life. All you have to do is spend a few minutes with her to be convinced of that. She embodies a radiating, abiding joy that comes only from intimately knowing the One whom made her. Worship in her life means more than the songs that start and end a church service. Her worship is the surrendered posture and response to that which truly gives LIFE to her life. It is an acknowledgement of the one behind the wheel. A tipping of the hat to the glue of her well-being. And a fascination with the soul-satisfaction she gains from worshipping this God. 

I’ve worshipped several things in my life. When I was little I worshipped my parents because of the ways they provided for me and loved me.  When I was a bit older I worshipped my friends’ comments and put all my chips of self worth into the pot of their opinions. When I was a teenager I worshipped being noticed by guys, and their thumbs up/thumbs down approval determined whether my day was a good one. And when I was in college I worshiped my body’s ability to play volleyball and the recognition it brought me. But, wouldn’t you know it, my parents were human, my friends tore me down, guys’ approval was lost in the ways they cared only for themselves, and my body was broken time and time again because of the sport I loved to play.

It wasn’t until these shortcomings of my worship were removed that I was able to see my God, my creator, as the sole being worthy of my worship and incapable of failing me.

We’re all worshipping something. Our abilities, our productivity, others' applause, a form of technology, what we see in the mirror, or maybe a relationship. But one steadfast truth remains. This God. This Creator is the one and only thing that can not, and more importantly will not ever fail. He can’t. It’s not in his character of perfection. So, the next time I’m unusually distraught by the let down of a relationship or circumstance, I will remember who it is that I worship and why he deserves my praise. For unlike this sandy world of false idols, the foundation of my soul is built on the rock. He never, ever, ever fails.

Like EVER.

(For you, Katie and your likeness and ‘non-worship’ of T. Swift. Love you and the ways you worship God daily.)

Zephaniah 3:5

beautiful and real

Sometimes life makes perfect sense.  Your best friend visits from Chicago.  A baby is born healthy and happy.  Two friends get married on a perfect summer evening.  You stay up late talking about life and faith around the fire with your friends and mentor. A beautiful little girl is adopted and brought home.  A one year anniversary.  Seventy-five degrees at 7:00pm.  A pumpkin muffin and chai latte at the bakery.  A baby kick so strong you can see your shirt moving.  Life is sweet here in these places that make sense, these places that make you a better person than you were before they happened.  But life can’t stay here.  It moves on to the realities we all live with—whether that is sickness or longing that there is no cure for yet, or money we just do not have, or a relationship that we once fought hard for and have now relegated to a category not worth fighting at all for. 

Life bounces between the walls of hope and apathy so quickly.  One moment can feel like all is well and the next like nothing will ever be the same.  Some seasons our lives feel like one long facebook status roll of highlights, and other seasons we feel like if that person posts one more picture or one more brag-status about her perfect life and perfect home and perfect baby I am de-friending her (not that I have ever, ever felt that way).  Some days we feel so, so good about the work we are doing and we wouldn’t want any other job in the world, and other days we feel like—no matter what the work is—there are no children being freed from slavery and in that case, it is not nearly noble enough to give your heart to.

We are up then down, left then right, confident then lonely, secure then anxious, sometimes all in the same day.  This is life, and the beauty is not always in what is perfect or makes sense; the beauty is in what is real and true and what faith sustains in you.  If your relationships are real, then even when they are hard, they are beautiful.  If your desire for healing or for answers is real, even if it is long-coming, it is beautiful, not to mention inspiring.  And if your faith sustains hope in your heart and the knowledge that your life is being orchestrated by a God who is able to keep us from falling, then it is beautiful. 

  

Real is simply beautiful.  Sometimes it means you are happy and other times it means you are broken, but it always means you’re authentic.  For me, the most life-giving people around me are the truth-tellers, the real ones.  The most deep and formative experiences have been ones I would not have chosen to go through, but they did their job in my life because they were real.  In a world full of false praise, dishonest critics, and let’s be honest, a whole lot of never-going-below-the-surface friendships, real is more needed than ever.  Being real is the only stabilizer in life’s tennis match of emotions and circumstances, and it is the only thing that allows us to truly leave our gifts with the world.

In the days that make sense or in the days that leave me without words, I want people around who will celebrate like crazy over the smallest things, and who will cry an understanding tear when the news is bad.  And I want to be that person to others, because I have found that even in the worst times, when I’m around the truth-tellers, things always make a little more sense. 

Beauty is honest, and the world needs more of it.  We don’t need one more person trying to be someone they are clearly not, or portray a life that doesn’t exist.  We just need more of what is real, because that is what is really, really sweet about life.   

the 'group' recipe

As of late I have fallen head-over-heels in love with the Food Network.  Any timeslot, any show, I’m glued.  This is a very new development, but slowly I am beginning to experiment with how certain ingredients play off of each other,  how to finely mince garlic, and marveling in the new-found knowledge of what exactly a shallot is. My dad works effortlessly and joyfully in the kitchen, and I am crossing my fingers that those chef-tastic genes are among some other late-blooming traits passed down from my parents.

One of the catapults into cooking more consistently came from the group that Luke and Jess dreamed up that meets on a mostly-steady, at times-irregular basis.  We started by calling it Bible study. Then small group. Now we’re close enough to the idea and each other that we just call it group.  I love group. I love this group, but mostly I love the ways this group does ‘group.’

 Before we made the move up to Chicago, Austin and I were blessed to be part of the most wonderfully random and refreshingly honest group of young adults back in Arizona.  Every Thursday night our 3958 Cat Balue door would fling open and we would be greeted by a plethora of lifelong friends, sweet new acquaintances, and complete strangers, each somehow invited by another member of the ever-growing and ever-different group. I don’t think there was a single repeat of the same crowd, and yet miraculously, we never lost steam.  These were brave and passionate men and women of God that came to lay their hearts on the line, ask questions that would forever matter, and take part in 30-minute long prayers, as each person prayed for the person on their left (or wait, was it the person on the right? Wait… J)  We would pop popcorn, eat dark chocolate M&M’s and laugh uncontrollably whenever Allie would bust into an impromtu yoga pose, when Lad would fall asleep in the middle of prayer, or when Max ‘showed off’ his new tattoo.  God moved in mighty ways and found great pleasure in those hours that we met because,

“All who believed were together and had all things in common,” Acts 2:44. 

We didn’t know each other well. We had many nights of ‘nice to meet yous,’ and yet, each unique member had nearly all things in common. Some were in school, some working, some graduating, some looking for a job, but nevertheless, we were united in our phase of life, in whom we believed, and in the fact that we were together, and when all who believe get together, miracles happen.

Our group now is similar in many ways, but also different. The chief difference came naturally and beautifully as Austin and I shuffled into a new phase of life. Now, we meet on Friday nights, and consider it our social lives in action instead of a social life buzz-kill. We cook for each other, do dishes together and always have about 3 options for dessert.  We watch lessons, pause for clarification, ask deep-rooted questions of each other and demand honest answers. The funny ones of the group silence the room with their profound reflections and the quiet ones make us roar with the pitch-perfect side-comments. Jess always asks the best questions, Lauren never misses the chance to join another by saying ‘me too!’ And I think Dan laughs the hardest when Luke’s wit fills the rare, silent moments. We look to Austin for theology definitions, to Katie for heartfelt prayer, and to Melissa for the perfect sum-up. Molly brings story-telling to a new hilarious level, Kyle asks questions that we’re all thinking but don’t end up saying, and newbies like Zach and Allison come with their armor down and heart open to all the crazy our group has to offer. I love how we do group because we are devoted to truth and unapologetic of whom we know Jesus to be. Yet, we acknowledge how little we have figured out, we’re floored by the grace God showers on us, and we lock arms in an effort to be such solid disciples that we could’ve blended in with the twelve originals (okay, eleven). 

“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.” Acts 2:42

If there is a true ‘group recipe’ it has equal parts of these descriptions in Acts. We long to be like the early church because of the awe that came upon every soul (vs 43). This man, this Christ is the real deal. And sometimes all you need is your well-seasoned, God-fearing group around you to be convinced of that.

‘…And he added to their number day by day those who were being saved.’   Acts 2:47b

the list that never got made- part 2

...the second part of the story began with tears, good ones, that is...

she's a little camera shy

The confetti was pink.  It was festive and exciting and beautiful.  And pink.  For the last three months I told everyone it was a boy, I just knew that it was.  Chinese calendar said boy.  I am apparently carrying low, which usually means boy.  My husband has only male cousins on the paternal side of his family, which means strong genes for a boy.  I had two brothers so spent as much time playing sports and burying G.I. Joes in the backyard as anything else growing up, so I was ready for a boy.  I believed, one hundred percent, it was a boy. 

And then just a moment before Emily opened the box of confetti to pour over us, I thought, “wait a second, it could be girl!”  And then we held hands and looked up to a shower of pink.  Our little blessing, precious Harper.  Second only to being announced as Mrs. Alex Blackburn, this was the sweetest moment I've ever been blessed with.

And now Harper is on some part of my mind all day, every day.  My heart could run in circles around all of the things I cannot wait for, and all the things that scare me to death for hours.  It is times like this that I am especially thankful for the gospel, for a power and a strength that is made perfect in my weakness.  I know I will never be enough on my own for Harper, but Jesus will.  And it is in that place of gratitude I want to stay forever...

Dear Harper,

It is amazing how quickly you burrowed into our hearts.  Less than four months ago we did not even know you were coming, and now we cannot imagine our lives without you.  I want you to know, sweet Harper, that even though there is so much we don’t have yet that we want to give you, your daddy and I are ready for you, because we have so much love, and it is going to cover you in hugs and kisses and cuddles.  Making and checking off a hundred lists could not prepare us for you more than feeling you move, seeing your heart beating strong, and now, knowing your name.

I don’t know how to be a mom yet, Harper, but I promise to be a quick learner.  I’ll listen to your cries and learn what they mean.  I'll watch your expressions and learn what makes you smile.  And as you get older, I learn what food you’ll eat and what food you’ll spit out on me.  I’ll pay attention to your favorite books, your favorite colors, your favorite toys, and your favorite hobbies and I’ll encourage you to be creative as you explore those things.  When you are a student, I’ll do all I can to help you learn.  When you are a teenager, I’ll hear your stories about the boys that will break your young heart.  We will probably fight and I will need your forgiveness, and I will be quick to ask for it.  I can promise you I will be worried sick about you when you are old enough for a curfew, even if you are just around the corner, but your daddy (who will also be worried but he will hide it better than me) will remind me to relax and remember that you have a God who is a protector much more capable than us.  

We will have really hard days together, Harper.  Maybe your Dad and I will have a fight and you will see it, or we can’t afford the shoes you really want, or you will get sick and there is nothing I can do about it but let you lay in my lap while I run my fingers through your hair.  But we will have really, really great days, too.  We’ll bury daddy in the sand, go to the zoo to learn about animals, make pancakes on Saturday mornings, and we’ll paint our nails pinks and purples or blues and greens.  And we’ll pray together, Harper, because we have so much to be thankful for… always.

I promise you that daddy and I will always love each other, and that together we will put your needs before our own.  I can’t wait to introduce you to so many people who love you and will always be there for you—in fact, it is because of the beautiful body of Christ that I know we’ll be ok.  And Harper, our amazing blessing of a little girl, I cannot wait to tell you about Jesus, because He is the best.

So keep growing, keep kicking and practicing your summersaults in there, and in the meantime we will keep praying for you and anxiously awaiting the day we get to meet you. 

More than words, we love you Harper.

the father of light

There’s something about Spokane, Washington in the summer. The breezes carry fresh scents of rain-covered greenery and the sun gives off warmth as steady and powerful as the friends I come here to see. It is busy, but stilled. Passes quickly, but stops time in its place. It is vacation, but with more work done to my soul than nearly anywhere else. It is a deep love of mine because of the memories built, the stories shared and the ridiculous amount of snacks consumed.

I get to live an incredible life. I have hurts, land-mines, deep-rooted insecurities and more weaknesses than I often care to expose, but this life that God trusted me with is a good one. I know God adores the moments that I pause in unanticipated silence and thank him for his good gifts.

James, the brother of Jesus, said in his New Testament letter (epistle) that every good gift and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of light, with whom there is no variation or shadow due.

God sheds light. He illuminates the dark. Brightens the dull and sustains the shine. He shows no variation and is always and forever without shadow. We are the shadow makers. In view of his mercies, we squint and put blinders on, turning our backs on the good and perfect gifts he gives.  I picture myself as a little girl sitting around the Christmas tree. Placed next to me is a beautiful present, trimmed and wrapped with such love and care that it’s practically glowing. I open it up and see it is everything I have ever needed, ever wanted. I look straight into the eyes of the gift giver and say:

“The timing was all wrong when you gave me this, why couldn’t it have come sooner?”

Or

 “I think I’ll just take credit for this one because it was all my doing and my idea anyway.”

 Or

“I actually like the gift you gave her better than my own gift.”

Imagine for a second the face of the gift giver if those were the responses of our hearts. It pains me that those three sentences came too easily. My heart is the ultimate shadow maker.

Let me let you in to some of those shadows:

My husband and I seem to be doing great in our marriage (Well, that’s because we work really hard at it and have had ideas to make our marriage better that we’ve carried out- on our own.)

I absolutely love our house (But I think I’d be much happier if I had that house across the street with the front porch.)

It has been great connecting with friends (Where was this relationship before? I needed it then and it wasn’t there- nothing happens when I need it to.)

Husbands, homes and friends are good and perfect gifts from the Father of light. Discontentment, pride and selfishness cast shadows in my heart that make it impossible to see all things as gifts from the God without variation.  There is no stop in the flow of his giving. The halt is a result of me and only me. I want the face of my gift giver to be beaming with gracious love because his daughter is achingly grateful for the constant stream of goodness he pours out. Contentment is where God’s sufficiency truly holds water, and a grateful heart opens the door to gifts I have never given God credit for. He sheds light on my darkest shadows. May it be said of me that I am thankful without variation.

the list that never got made- part 1

Pre-Baby Bucket List.  Love this idea.  I think it is a super fun and creative way to see that you and your hubby are doing all the things you want to do before baby comes.  Things like:

Go to Asia
Spend a long weekend in a cozy cabin
Complete a triathlon together
Take a few Ph.D. courses
Finish Nursing School
Build up our savings accounts

This was our list-in-the-making.  We had never officially written anything down, but we had started putting money away for our trip to the Philippines, we looked at triathlons in Seattle and California, we even scoped out cute cabins on the Puget Sound.  We have been contributing to our 401Ks and Mutual Funds and the savings account was slowly—pretty dang slowly, if I'm honest— making its way along. 

And then the test had two pink lines.  All five of them did, actually.  (Yes, I took five tests over the course of 3 hours.  In that state of shock, that was the least crazy thing I said/did in those 24 hours in April). 

Here is the honest, from my heart truth: I have never wanted to be anything more than I want to be a mom.  Alex and I talked about baby names in our second month of dating (hey, that can be a deal-breaker, ladies), and he has had to put up with my dreaming and talking about “let’s start trying late in 2013… well how do you feel about maybe September of 2013.. ok, you’re right early 2014 is better…” almost our entire marriage.  It was definitely there, that desire and dream and wish to have a baby.  But it was out-there, somewhere in the intangible future, far enough away that my only job was to keep dreaming about it.  And now it’s not just there, existing in my hopes and plans, it is here… that baby is (almost) here.

We have our 20 week ultrasound this week, and we’ll get to see if our baby has all of its organs and arms and legs, if the brain looks healthy so far, and of course, we’ll find out what his or her name is (for the record, my money is on boy).  I am anxious before every doctor appointment.  Every single one.  But this one, this is the half-way point.  I am beyond excited to see our baby, but I am in total disbelief that half of my pregnancy is behind me.  I still feel like I just realized I am really pregnant.       

So our Pre-Baby Bucket List has changed.  The Asia trip fund is now allocated for medical bills, the triathlon goal has been exchanged for “get up the stairs without getting winded,” and the long weekend in a cozy cabin actually means road trips to Seattle to savor time with family and finding fun recipes on pinterest to make at home.  Now, the things we want to check off of our list before the baby arrives looks like:

Prayer
Spend as much time together as possible
Say “yes” to time with friends, as often as we can
Ask good questions of good mentors
Pray some more
Ride the bike to save money on gas
Finish the “Friday Night Lights” series.  Again.
Sleep in while we can
Pray a whole lot more

It is an incredible blessing to have to change your plans for what is so clearly God’s plan.  I really do feel that way. 

There are a thousand things that scare me about raising a baby (finances, work, health insurance, health in general, oh, and just keeping another human being alive are among them).  But they are all trumped by the fact that God is giving this tiny- but actually huge- miracle to us, so in some crazy way, He must think we are ready.  I love our unpredictable life, because we have an unchanging God.  And the miracle of all miracles is that this God loves us with a crazy love, far greater that how I feel about Alex and already think about baby Blackburn.  It’s a love bigger than words, bigger than life.

P.S. I’ll be back late this week to tell you who baby Blackburn is.  In the meantime, if you are a mom, longing to be a mom someday, or just loving the moms, dads and kiddos around you, can I say from the bottom of my heart thank you.  If I understood God’s timing, how he gives and holds back, like He means us to understand it I would certainly share that, but I don’t.  But I understand at least one thing: I think we are all in this together, and I have learned and gleaned lessons about being not only a mom, but a teacher and a mentor, from my own mom, from my best friend who is raising little babies, from my best friend who prays in big ways for my little growing family, from the woman who has 3 of her own kids and 4 from other moms, from my old mentor who is still waiting for her baby, from co-workers, from friends who are adopting, from friends who have lost a baby, from the moms of my close friends, and from those of you honest enough to share your lives in writing.  God has graciously weaved our stories together in both big and small ways, and if I am at all at “good” mom it is only by God’s grace... and because I have known some really incredible women along the way.            

recalling names and seeing sights

Before I left for Zambia, I knew that I’d come home a day before it was “my Monday” on this blog. I sighed a heavy sigh, imagining how I could muster up accurate words, depictions, and stories to suit all that I saw and experienced. Well, I am officially back in Illinois and somehow, much like my carry-on baggage, my sigh grew heavier upon stateside arrival.  

As I sat next to Austin on the flight from London to Chicago, I wrote ferociously in my journal recalling and recounting the trip we had just journeyed together.  I was only interrupted by the occasional hand cramp or the small, energized, Indian boy sitting behind me, (I didn’t recall paying extra for the massage chair. American Airlines, I owe you.)  Nevertheless, my hand could not keep up with the speed of my thoughts and my brain could not accurately articulate the flashes of memories begging to be pieced together into stories.

I wrote and prayed, thought and worshipped, and tightly closed my eyes as if to squeeze every ounce of my mind to remember names.

Zachary. He sat in the front row of his third grade classroom. He wore a forest green sweater, oversized with rolled sleeves. He had New Balance tennis shoes on his feet, too big, with no socks. His legs were skinny and such a beautiful shade of brown that it looked as if he had tights on. He answered loudly and proudly when his teacher prompted him, and smiled with the most perfect, pearly teeth. Zachary was the last boy I spoke to at that school. When I stooped down to look at him at eye level, I noticed he had what looked like a Staph Infection scar on his chin. His eyes flashed to mine, caught me looking at his scar, and quickly covered up his chin with his floppy, green sleeve. I touched the back of his head, looked him straight through his marble eyes and told him how handsome he was. He smiled through his sweater, looked down and then sat up a little straighter as if he had chosen to believe it. I asked to look at his notebook with him and he showed me all the division problems he had gotten right before the crazy group of Americans interrupted his class. “You are so smart!” I said over and over again. Each time I said it, he would show me another page and believed me a little more. Soon his arm came off his chin and he grinned, exposing kilowatts of happiness. 

About two years ago I had a strange scar on my chin. After hoping it would go away, I was embarrassed to find out it was a small batch of Staph Infection.  I still have the remainder of that scar on my chin and am grateful for the invention of concealer to cover it up.  But now, I look at that scar and I think of Zachary.  How sweet of God to connect me forever with a beautiful boy in Africa because we were both a little embarrassed about the scars on our face. What a privilege it is to see past Zachary’s scar because of the Jesus that daily looks past mine.

Ruth. I had prayed one day before my trip for specific names to remember while in Zambia. Then, I did a crazy thing that I hardly ever do. I waited. I waited upon the Lord for his answer, for his timing, for his prompting through his spirit. My heart started to beat a little harder and I could not get the name, Ruth, out of my mind. I turned to the book of Ruth in the Bible, read every word and sat so encouraged by the way God can speak through his word. The faithless part of me thought that was it, but there was a mustard seed-sized part of me that thought maybe I’d meet someone named Ruth in Africa. 

After a few days of ministry, I had forgotten all about this cool encounter with God. It was almost my turn to speak at the women’s conference and I was preoccupied with finding some water for my scratchy throat before I spoke for forty five minutes straight. I walked down the hall and immediately stopped because of the face of a little boy. Regretfully, when I see an African baby, all other life forms surrounding that baby seem to disappear. Mothers, fathers, older sisters, teachers- gone. All focus is on that sweet child.  The young woman holding this boy humored me and asked if I could hold him. Duh. We played and laughed and soon I forgot why I even came out to that hallway. The young woman came back a few minutes later. Out of sheer politeness I asked what her name was.  Ruth. I stopped dead in my tracks and probably freaked her out a little by the look on my face. Only for that name would the little boy have become of little interest to me.  Ruth? I have never been more intentional with a person. It’s as if God had given me one mission to find one girl on earth and love her until the cows came home.  We parted eventually and still in shock, I got up to speak. Don’t ask me what I said, how I said it, or what I covered, but somehow I remember sharing the good news of our gospel at the end. The majority of the girls that came to the conference were churched, so I was so encouraged to know of the re-commitments that several girls told me they had made.  Only God.

After we cleaned up, I sat against the edge of the building, exhausted and without thought. Angela came up to me and asked how my small group had ended. After exchanging stories and laughs about the barriers in dialect and culture, she beamed while describing the quiet girl in her group had accepted Christ for the first time.  Full of joy, I asked, “What’s her name anyway?” hoping to remember.

Ruth.  

For God so loved his Ruth that he sent Angela and Kristin over to Africa to love and minister by his power, so that if she believed in him, she would not perish but have everlasting life.

He loves his children that much. Me. You. All of us. He loves THAT much.

I learned countless truths on this trip, but if the only eternal impact came in the form of a sweet, young lady named Ruth becoming fully known by her father in heaven, wow was it worth it.  


Was Victoria Falls the direct portal into the sights of heaven? Yes. Are elephants as big as they look when you’re at the zoo? Bigger. Is the African sunset truly one of the most breathtaking sights? Undoubtedly.  But Ruth’s going to be in heaven for the rest of eternity. With an unveiled face she will see her savior. And that is the most glorious sight she will ever see. 

John 3:16

Pursuit

If there is one thing that can keep me up past my bedtime these days it is the Olympic Trials.  I can’t get enough of these athletes, I love hearing their stories and the things many of them have overcome to be where they are.  And I can’t lie, I have total track-runner-butt-envy—those ladies have unbelievable backsides if you ask me.  I have become so emotionally attached to the competitors that my eyes began tearing up when the former gold medalist gymnast fell off the high bars, and I could hardly watch the young lady who fell three times and then could not finish.  And the track runners or swimmers who are literally a finger nail’s distance between going to the Olympics or walking away from their careers, I can’t even handle that, my heart honestly hurts for the ones who fall on the later side of that distance.

I think what captivates me about amazing athletes like the ones at the Olympic Trials is the pursuit.  The relentless, focused, disciplined pursuit of their goal.  An Olympian can’t simply decide one day to work hard enough to achieve that status, they decide with their entire lives and the habits of their days follow suit.  They build a rhythm and a balance around the thing they want the most; rigid enough to make them better each day, but free enough to love the process.  It’s a delicate balance that becomes less delicate with experience… and it’s what I want my pursuit of Jesus to look like, too. 

Those of you who know me are well aware that I am a total jock (let’s not confuse this with “athlete” or “extremely fit,” as those are adjectives which no longer describe me).  I could watch Sportscenter all day and I still set my alarm clock to College GameDay on Fall Saturday mornings.  But I will never be the athletes I love watching so much, because I simply look and admire, cheer and yes, critique.  But I am not out there doing what they are doing, I’m just observing.  And the truth is, it is far too easy for me to do this with my faith.  I can go to church and Bible studies, spend time journaling and listening to sermons, I can even talk about Jesus with my friends, and all the while, if I am really honest with myself… I’m still just observing, I’m not out there living like Jesus actually did.  Without a constant heart check, I could spend the majority of my life as a Christian from the couch, and that is not who I want to be. 

This is not about doing more.  For me, it is about finding that balance between trusting the boundaries that will make me more like Jesus, and living in the grace He offers.  It’s about being done compartmentalizing, done taking God off of my bookshelf when I need something, done building a little kingdom in which I get everything I want.  It’s about the pursuit, about being a woman after God’s own heart.  I don’t want God to find me on the sidelines, watching and admiring the lives of others.  I want Him to find me struggling and messing up and doing really hard things, but with a heart that is so fully and genuinely pursuing Him.  It would be much easier and a whole lot more glamorous to observe, but I want to be in, spending my life like I am only a finger nail’s distance from Heaven. 

biking, going and staying

Today I was able to bike to work. Due to the fact that I have a rotating office, the park that is tucked in between the playground and the prairie path turned into my work space for the day. Hard job, I know. After answering emails, calling a few people back, and attending to some administrative duties, I sat. Book open, headphones in. Not reading, not even listening to the music. I sat and watched the trees. Directly in front of me, a tree of magnificent size and stature captured my full focus. If I were colored blind I would be in awe of this tree. But thanks be to God for sight in all color, (especially when it comes to coral- which may slowly be taking over my closet) because the tanish-brown hue clued me in to its deadening demise. This tree was by far the biggest, most capable looking tree in my line of vision. From the roots upward, the tree was a masterpiece. But, as the wind picked up, my eyes glanced to the smaller trees surrounding it. I noticed something different about them. I watched, in wonder, struck by how God is found in absolutely every moment. Even this one.

 

These shorter, unable-looking trees that neighbored the one, rhythmically danced in harmony with the gusts of wind. Their leaves, lush and green from the connection to their trunk, their life source, (their vine), blew wherever the wind directed them to blow. Each leafy branch followed the leader and swayed in a gorgeous melody of obedience.

In contrast, the massive, decomposing tree towered among the others in an eerie rigidity. It was firm, set in its ways and obviously a little too comfortable in the position it was slowly dying in.

Austin and I are leaving for Africa on Thursday.  Close to unbelievable, but true. If I were to reexamine my heart even a few years ago to see how Africa-inclined it would be, chances are my inward being would resemble that of the rigid, brown tree mentioned above. Gloriously, through connection to the true vine and his word, my heart has expanded and softened towards God and his people. I am learning anew what it means to allow the gusty winds of the Holy Spirit to lead me and motion me closer to the cross. My story is a small amount of proof that a big and marvelous God chooses the unable-looking trees because they choose to say ‘yes’ when the wind blows. Africa will be a continued dance of spirit-prompted opportunities. I am slowly discovering that the more the branches of my heart cling to Christ, the true vine, the better the chance of a faith-inspired ‘yes’ response. I want to say yes so badly, all the time and with great fervor. But sometimes I don’t. Instead, I walk away from a God-breathed opportunity, disconnected from the vine, feeling stuck despite the fluidity of the spirit.

This morning I read the book of Ruth. Foreshadowing outlined each page like a pencil sketch before the masterpiece painting. Ruth desperately loved her Mother in Law and was committed to follow her even into a land she was completely unfamiliar with. Suddenly, the verses below meant more to me than some recent Chris Tomlin lyrics:

“…where you go I will go, where you stay I will stay...” Ruth 1:16

God’s calling me to go. He’s calling me to do something, to move with his spirit, to break out of my natural rigidity. But here’s what’s beautiful about God, sometimes he calls me to stay. I’m not noble, righteous or better than anyone whom has or hasn’t traveled overseas. I am a girl after the heart of God longing to honor him and admonish others along the way. And right now, he’s saying, “Child, go!”

So wherever you are, whether you’re going, staying, or maybe even a little rigid, all that matters is your relationship with the true vine. Jesus. Are you connecting yourself, moving in sync with his calling, or finding yourself deadening from a lack of spirit-led motion? I can assure you that he’s asking you to do something. Go? Stay? Wait?

Whatever it is…

Say yes.

Jeremiah 17:7-8 encourages us,

“But blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord,

whose confidence is in him.

He will be like a tree planted by the water

that sends out its roots by the stream.

It does not fear when heat comes;

its leaves are always green.

It has no worries in a year of drought

and never fails to bear fruit.”

a grandpa, a baby, and the sum

Me and Papa- 1990

I spent Father’s Day with my 94 year old Papa, a man who has spent almost an entire century on this earth.  Papa is a proud Ironworker, and his body bears the scars and the aches from all the decades of physical labor.  His hands shake, he can barely hear the conversations around him, and his poor knees have the most terrible time holding his body up anymore.  Every day he fights off pain, but he also fights off pride, as the things he used to do so easily are now nearly impossible.  My Papa is such a good man, with the most gentle and caring heart.  And as someone who has been alive most of the 1900’s, he has lived through a Great Depression, served in a World War, built some of the first buildings in a big city, witnessed the Civil Rights movement integrate white and black, watched his friends' children go off to Vietnam, saw a man walk on the moon and a president be killed, raised children and welcomed grandchildren and great-grandchildren, said goodbye to all of his nine siblings, and saw his own grandson go off to Iraq.  And every July, he had a small garden of fresh raspberries ready to be picked by little hands, cleaned, and eaten with his famous pancakes.   

When I think about my Papa, I see his life as the sum of many, many big things.  I don’t think about the days he worried about putting food on the table or paying the medical bills.  I don’t think about how many weeks he had to heal from his broken back and how painful the process was.  I don’t think about the nights he didn’t sleep worrying about his kids.  I don’t think about the mistakes he made or the fights he had with my grandma.  I just think about the sum of 94 years’ worth of life, and how much I admire about my Papa for really living them.

I am someone who worries a lot about the day to day, much more than might be obvious to anyone but my husband.  But in just over five short months, I’m going to be a mom.  Sometimes I still can’t believe that is a true statement, but I am really going to be a mom.  What I know from living my own life is that there will always be good days and bad days, and a lot of things will happen that I did not see coming and feel totally unprepared for.  What I learn from my Papa’s life is that all of those days, no matter what they bring, add up to a legacy for my family.

Alex's baby blanket, a gift from his Mom

A funny thing happened to me when I found out I was pregnant (that is after I panicked first and called my mom and dad way too early in the morning to ask what to do…), I started to think about the sum, not as much about the individual parts.  I am beginning to think that Alex and I really can love and teach this little baby even with second-hand furniture and a real small fiscal safety net.  I am already watching people show up for us and God provide in ways we had no idea we could expect.  It’s like I am really starting to believe that the sum of my life might just be one big story of me having no idea how I was going to make it through something, and God showing up again, and again, and again.  I have no misconceptions that having and raising a baby will be hard, but I want to believe in the sum, the big story, not in the nights we won’t sleep and the things we won’t be able to afford or the days when life feels anything but peaceful.  I want to always believe that what God is doing in and around me is about the end, it’s about all of it together.  It’s about all of us together.  And it’s about Him. 

My hands have never been so open in expectation, and it is not because I finally get what God has been trying to tell us from the beginning, but it is out of necessity, because I know Alex and I cannot do this alone.  We have a God who cares deeply about the details as he writes the big story, and as this little heart beats inside of me, my own heart is clinging to that beautiful truth.

I am so grateful for the big stories of great lives, including my Papa’s.  They remind me to put my heart only in safe places, to hope only in things that last, to invest only in what I can take with me in the end—God’s word and God’s people.  I don’t think I want to be known for great things, but for a lot of small things that made the sum of my life much more about others, and much more about Jesus, than about me.    

hotel stock

This month has been anything but June gloom. Not only have there been unseasonably warm spans of days that have turned into weeks, but there has also been a sunny, revolving door at the Stockfisch home for visitors ranging all the way from Florida to Arizona. We have housed meaningful conversations, bbq’s, FCA prayer meetings, loud laughter, old friends, and shopping bags. Many a tired head have collapsed on the guest bed, air mattress or couch, sleeping soundly after a buzz of activity and reconnection.

I absolutely love housing these faces, hearing their voices and knowing their hearts. But one thing I am not is a natural hostess. I embrace guests. I love how they bless our home with their unique passions, and get to leave filled up on Christ’s love and deep-dish pizza. I love the crash-course of catching up and the late nights that organically call for late mornings. But despite the ministry God’s called me to, and the people that I cannot live without, I am convinced more now than ever that I am one hundred percent introverted. I gain energy in the quiet. I lavish in the alone time. I am restored in the stillness. And sometimes I feel like an introvert thrown into an extraverted calling.

Today, I am tired. I’m flat and exhausted. Bruised (literally for those of you that know the train station story) and battered. I’m coming face to face with my frailty and getting to know my weakness on a very personal level. So on a cloudy day in June, I am sitting awhile in my weakness. I’m not going to sweep it under the living room rug, or turn on the smile to reveal a façade-driven, stronger self. I am weak. I am unable. I have an expiration of self-sufficiency, and a line in the sand of personal power. My own strength has been steadily decreasing and in a bizarre turn of events, I feel strangely secure in my delicacy.

In John 3:30, John the Baptist talks about how we must decrease so Christ can increase within us. In 2 Corinthians 12:9, Paul talks of how the grace of Christ is sufficient, and how his unmatched power is made perfect in our weakness. In Matthew 11:28 Jesus says one beautiful, hard, yet simple command, “Come.” Come to him, all who are weak and heavy laden and he promises us rest.

The tragedy is, I rarely sit in my weakness when I am not forced to. I freshen up, put on my big girl pants, and ride the train of self-reliance into the ground.

If I am not constantly, consistently, and whole-heartedly humbling myself before the cross, God will creatively find ways to get me to that spot. Pride comes before the fall, but it’s my stubborn human strength that makes me trip on the way down.

Without the abiding, abundant love of Christ, I am nothing. Nothing. But it is only when I make myself nothing that I truly can experience his love. Our God is full of these supernatural paradoxes, and I’m finding that the end of my rope is the beautiful beginning to the lifeline of Christ and his available power. So, the next time I sit across from a friend and pity the tough spot she’s in, I will rethink, budding with loving jealousy of the ways God is revealing himself to her. And the next time tears well up and stream down my face, I will see clearly through blur to the face of Christ, thankful for the avenues of weakness that lead straight into his glory. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

bits of inspiration

“The life of true holiness is rooted in the soil of awed adoration.  It does not grow elsewhere.”  –J.I. Packer

One of the greatest things about our world can be summed up in one word: unique.  God just knew that we would need to feel awed, alive, and connected, but He crafted our hearts and minds in such a way that some of us need a beach and an ocean, others would need a mountain and a climbing pack, and still others would need a telescope and a clear night.  But I believe he gave every one of us an ability to be inspired, to be taught, and to be humbled in the most redeeming way.  I think when God made me, he thought about the many ways he would grab my attention and then inspire, teach, and humble me, and then I think he listed books right up there at the top of that list. 

This season of my life has been full of inspiration and lessons and most of them have humbled me.  I thought I would share some of the heart and soul-shaping thoughts that have been planted in my mind, written in journals and on bulletin boards, and constantly gone back to for reminders.  These words inspire me, they make me want to not stay where I am, and they remind me that the life so surely worth pursuing is found in the simplest and purest of places…

The three laws of relationship are “observation, observation, observation.”  People who give life to us are people who notice us.  They know what we love and fear.  When we work to truly notice someone else, love for them grows.  When we work to truly observe another person, in that self-forgetfulness our own soul flourishes.
-John Ortberg, The Me I Want to Be

I know there is poor and hideous suffering, and I’ve seen the hungry and the guns that go to war.  I have lived pain, and my life can tell you: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and the good things that a good God gives.  Why would the world need more anger, more outrage?  How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us?  Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn’t rescue the suffering.  The converse does.  The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world.
-Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

"if you learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks.  You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view- until you climb into his skin and walk around in it..."
-Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird


"Without prayer," Catherine Doherty once wrote, "the life of the Christian dies."  Her words scare me; I have edged closer to them than I'd like to admit.  The problem is that your Christian life gets sick before it dies, and it is hard to keep praying when you are sick.."
-Lauren Winner, Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis


Living a life fully engaged and full of whimsy and the kind of things that love does is something most people plan to do, but along the way they just kind of forget.  Their dreams become one of those "we"ll go there next time" deferrals.  The sad thing is, there is no "next time" because passing on the chance to cross over is an overall attitude toward life rather than a single decision.
-Bob Goff, Love Does

Criticize by creating.
-Michelangelo


There is very little cohesion in all of these words.  They are scattered and random, and yet I think true and inspiring.  And as I mentioned, they make me not want to stay where I am.  What things do that for you?  Where are your bits of inspiration and are you filling your life with those things?  God gave us an endless supply of wonders, words, places, and people to be inspired by, all in the hope that we would stand in awe of him.  We simply have to pursue those things... not what anyone else is pursuing, but the unique things that make each one of us stand in awed adoration.    

old books and altars

I do not give this title out lightly, but my favorite book of all time is To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.  This book, and a handful of other classics, made me love to read.  It did not hurt that I had a fantastic teacher who brought it alive {thank you, Mrs. Stein}, but in the end it was Atticus Finch that sealed the deal.  In our generation of literary trials and bravery, my opinion holds firm that Harry and Edward and Katniss have nothing on the hero that is Atticus Finch.

I went to the library last week and found the oldest copy I could of TKAM.  I wish I could describe the euphoria: an original 1960 first edition, with the most lovely old book smell and slightly yellowing fragile pages.  I own an iPad and I have an almost brand new printing of the book at home, but for some reason, I wanted the realest, oldest, closest to how Harper Lee wrote it edition that I could get my hands on.  I just wanted to be reminded of my love for that book and those characters, to go back to being sixteen years old and remembering the moment that I really loved reading, and back to a place and a memory that something really good changed in me. 

What are those places for you?  What are the moments and who are the people that bring you back to something really good in your life?  Where do you know, without a doubt, that God was there?

In the Old Testament, when God showed up in the lives of his people, they built an altar.  There are probably not a whole lot of us today who can just grab some large rocks of out the nearby river in order to build a symbol for the memory of that day.  But I do know that in my own life I want to remember, and I don’t have enough of my own altars.

My faith falls into periods of doubt, question, anxiety, and at its very worse, apathy, when I let one really easy thing happen: I don’t remember…  I don’t remember the thousands of answered prayers, or unanswered-because-His-option-was-way-better prayers.  I don’t remember the cards that came in the mail at the perfect moment.  I don’t remember the scripture that promises He will never leave or forsake me.  I don’t remember that this really is not my home.  I don’t remember who He is- the God whose complexity and simplicity defies language in such a way that he is all, but He is simply, I AM.  When I fail to remember the ways that the steps of my life have been wholly directed by Someone other than me, I grab on to the illusion that I am doing ok on my own.  It never, ever, lasts long.  

    

Sometimes, I think we all need to go back to the really good places in our hearts so that we can live in light of that goodness today.  This may be as simple as a box of kraft macaroni and cheese or as lavish as renewing your wedding vows on the beaches of Fiji.  Maybe it means looking back at old pictures or journals, perhaps it is listening to that sermon from a few years ago that was just amazing when you first heard it.  It could be simply making a list of all things we are thankful for.  Our lives are so full of altar moments, altar places, altar people, and we should fight to bring the best of our past with us to our present and future—that might really be why it was given to us in the first place.  Let’s be really, really good at celebrating and remembering the joy we have lived in so that when life does get dark it is never outweighed by light.  Let’s not be known as the generation who could never have enough, get it fast enough, and never be enough… but as people who stopped to remember that all God created was good, and is good, and He is more than enough.      

friends and nature tunnels

May in Glen Ellyn just might produce some of the loveliest daysI’ve yet to be a part of. There’s something about an old neighborhood. Thetrees, in all of their wisdom, gently lean toward the road in a way thatcreates shady, green, nature tunnels. Pockets of natural light poke througheach little crevasse and wind moves the branches at a slower speed, nodding toboth the weight and the age of each tree.

Glen Ellyn is home now, but the times Austin and I get tovisit Phoenix, we are greeted by some of the most familiar smells, sounds, andfaces. Often I feel like a member of the Rolling Stones on a reunion tour(minus the obvious rock concerts and drug usage). But in a whirlwind ofsqueezing my favorite people, eating my favorite foods, and soaking in themighty sunshine, I sometimes forget to slow long enough to breathe, converse,notice and sit in wonder.

On the last day of my trip two marvelously, beautifulfriends stopped by. We sat at what will most likely always be known as ‘theconference table’ and shared hearts, prompted hard questions, and listenedintently into the wee hours of the morning. I love conversations like thesebecause true friendship is born there. I love the parts of friendship thatdemand more honest answers than the ones you give to your dentist. I lovetears, in a weird, non-creepy way because frequently, they give insight intothe deepest soul-driven places that we don’t visit quite enough. I love thebelly laughs that only happen when friends have ventured long enough togetherthat polite laughs simply don’t cut it anymore. I love friends. Actually, Ilove my friends. I love them because the condition of their hearts would win ina beauty contest against what they see in the mirror. I love them because ofthe inside jokes, the awkward encounters, the full disclosure and commitment tobe better. But most of all, I love them for what they teach me.

On Saturday night, well, actually the very beginning ofSunday morning, after questioning and encouraging two of the best in my life,the tables were turned and they asked about me. And this is where the lessoncomes in.

Sometimes friendship is just as much about allowing othersto be there for you as it is being the friend that’s constantly there forothers.

I had prayed that day for God to encourage my soul, and Ifigured it would come when I went home. A few hours later, I found myself, soul-bared, tears cried, while two friends stood above me and prayed. I was wideopen, vulnerable, completely unguarded and it was the most free I have felt ina long time. I think I always would say I need friends, but in that moment,those friends were my life source, the pointers to hope, the bridge from emptyto fulfilled, and I am learning the power that comes from soul bearing of that kind.It’s how I feel truly known, and somehow, that truly known feeling may just bewhere peace puts up its residence.

God says in his word that he knows how many hairs are on my head. He knows when I rise and when I lie down. He knows my fears, he knit me together, and he thinks that I am his masterpiece. I crave the feeling of being fully and truly known because there is a God that knows me as his own. I long for freeing community because in his presence rests the pinnacle of communion. I desire to be a great friend because Christ alone is my advocate. Beyond cute clothes, funny stories, and common interests, my friends point me to the cross. They bear his image beautifully and reflect his love in ways that seem to beam straight from heaven. So to all you lovelies, and you know who you are, thank you for letting the most Kristin parts of me be enough.  

a fruit-full life

Is what I am doing today a reflection of who I really want to be tomorrow?

My small group asked this question of one another last week, and it still sits at the front of my mind every day.  There are dozens of things that will happen to all of us on a daily basis that we have no control over, we can only react and respond and hope that we do so with grace.  But punctuating our days are a hundred choices that we do get to make, small ways that we determine by our decisions what our day might look like.  We are co-creators of the story of our lives, and that is a beautiful thing.

If I want my life to be characterized by humility and gratitude, I will recognize the amazing gifts around me each day… the sunshine, the amazing blue of my niece’s eyes, the letters from friends, the clean clothes I put on, the books on my coffee table, my husband’s smile.  Too often I see the agenda for the day and make a beeline towards accomplishing each and every task listed.  But the pace of fruitful gratitude is much slower than the obsession with the means and ends I easily get caught up in. 

If I want to be a woman confident in her faith, I will really study and know it.  I’ll have conversations about things that matter and I will engage the hard questions with people who want to do the same. 

If I want to be a better friend, I will really pray for you.  I won’t merely tell you I am and then go on with my day, I’ll care about your hurt or your longing like I would if it was mine.  And when I really walk with you in prayer, I can really celebrate with you when it is answered, or cry with you when it is not.  But either way, I’m with you because we need each other, and between me and you it is only authentic, only honest, only grace. 

If I want to be a faithful wife, a better mom, a dedicated teacher, a strong athlete or anything else tomorrow, I’ll do things differently today.  I’ll make a hundred choices that reflect those desires, and then I’ll do the hard thing… I’ll let them go and remember that becoming that elusive woman of God is not about my striving but about my understanding grace.  It is the hardest thing in the world to walk that paradox but such a relief to know we are not doing so alone.   

I do not pretend to be a theologian nor an expert on the sovereignty or will of God.  I don’t want to debate Arminianism and Calvinism and I have no idea if bad things happened because God is punishing us, disciplining us, or just because bad things happen.  But I do know that God is just and good, and that He wants all of us… and every day I make decisions that reflect whether or not I really believe those things.  It gets harder to do that all the time, as our worlds grow bigger—and sometimes scarier— with dollars and houses and properties and new things and new kids and new cars and new friends.  But at the end of the day, we all get to decide who we truly want to be, and we all have the chance to do the hard, messy, grace-filled work of living in to that person.  We were created to live lives that bear fruit—not for ourselves but for Him, the One whose life was given for us… that is a privilege I don’t want to miss.