the spiritual side of plowing

There are about 937 times a day that a writing topic pops into my head. I’ll read a short devotion and think it is the perfect subject matter to reflect more on. I’ll hear a quote and want to take it apart with my thoughts. I’ll do, see, or experience something that I just have to share. Often times, I ponder people and relationships, current events, and really, the world I live in, solely through the lens of how I would write about those things.

Because when you love to write, your mind just works like that.

One good part about having a “need-to-write-about-this” brain is that for someone like me (type-A, high-energy, finish one task and right on to the next, has an opinion about most things in the world- some more merited than others) is that putting words to something forces me to think about it… quite a bit, actually.

And today, I’m thinking about dirt. (But please, keep reading).

Hosea 10:12 talks to us as if we are the gardeners of our lives. We are to sow righteousness and harvest the fruit of unfailing love; we are to break up the unplowed ground of our lives, and do so as we wait for the Lord to come shower his righteousness on us. And so, I am thinking about dirt.

Did you know that plowing the soil before planting anything in it does more than loosen the dirt so it is easier to work with? Plowing brings oxygen and minerals to the soil, giving the seeds planted a better chance at thriving. Plowing also breaks up the dried soil clods so that surface area contact between seeds and soil is greater. Break the hard surface... stir up what’s below... allow life back in... produce more life. That’s what plowing does.

How many areas of our lives are “unplowed ground?” Personally, I can name two big ones (and a whole list more, but I do want this to be a manageably-readable blog)

Habits. Those nasty little parts of my routine that I have let myself believe are healthy and normal when they are, in fact, far from either of those things. Take for example my laundry habit. I make the worst San Francisco-native-environment-loving-pro-green-girl when it comes to laundry. Sometimes I leave a load in the wash one (or two, don’t tell anyone!) day(s) too long and thus, have to waste water re-washing it. I don’t iron, because ten minutes in the dryer does almost as efficient of a job loosening up those wrinkles. And I have never air-dried clothes in my life, because I am already short and, unlike my tall friends, don’t have a problem with clothes shrinking on me—that, and I buy most clothes a little big to feel thinner (it’s true).

But I have habits that are a lot more damaging, and as I get closer and closer to married life the yuckiness comes much more clearly into view. Being single is wonderful and bursting with opportunities and growth, but if you’re not careful, singleness can cultivate selfishness. When you don’t have someone you love to answer to, you can be in a bad mood— actually linger in that bad mood— and no one will challenge you. You can make your plans with no regard for the schedule, desires, dreams, abilities and plans of someone else. You can spend your money exactly how you want to, and not on something you will never touch but you know means the world to your love. You have much less accountability when you’re single. And after 25 years of doing my own thing, I have developed one too-many super selfish habits, and these traits and default modes are simply, well… harmful.

Relationships. At this moment, I can think of a handful of relationships right off the top of my head that have not been cared for in entirely too long. I’ve thought about calling and haven’t. I’ve been meaning to slip a note in the mail but put it off (and that was around Easter… last year). And on the other end of the spectrum, there are other relationships that need mending, a good heart to heart, maybe even closure.

I believe there is a very natural life cycle to the relationships in our lives, some end after a season, some last a few of them, and a select few are forever. But each one, according to the season it is in, needs the appropriate amount of care. If it is early and we want it to grow, it takes a little more attention, a bit more detail-work, and a bit more tender touch. After a season it might die, and that is ok, it is part of God’s plan for the body of Christ to come together and then walk away. But it might, after a season, find its rhythm, and taking care of it is easier the more time goes by because you learn—and can supply— exactly what that relationship needs to grow. I would guess that we all have people in our lives that fall on both ends of the spectrum, and everywhere in between.

Where I live in the Northwest, I think we are in spring—although some days feel like summer and others winter—but for the sake of my metaphor, I will go with what the calendar says and say it is spring. And that means it is the perfect time of year for gardening. And really, I don’t think it is an accident that I am so caught up in the “plowing” thing, in fact I think my life is over-due for some plowing. Time to break the hard surface of habits and attitudes that have been allowed to sit and solidify so many months and years. Time to stir up the routine of “me-first” thinking and truly serve others first. Time to allow life back in to the places and relationships that have sat neglected. Time to let the newness that comes with the discipline of plowing give life to what is so near me, even in me, and not fully living.

It’s plowing season.

empty

This past Saturday was moving day. May 21^st, 2011: instead of the world coming to an end, my own little world was sorted through, packed up and shipped to Wheaton, Illinois. I was also very sick this weekend. I felt as though I had been emptied of almost everything previously swallowed up the week prior. It’s funny when life parallels itself like that. Funny, and in this case, terribly inconvenient. I would gather strength to stand up, pack a couple boxes, and lie down again drowning myself in Gatorade and saltine crackers. Even though this soon turned into a grueling process, it meant so much to me to pack up the things that made 3958 E. Cat Balue Drive home. Packing with my own hands, listening only to the quiet murmur of my thoughts; remembering, going overboard with sentimental imagery, and continually thanking God in soft prayers for the ways he molded us in that house. As boxes piled up, the walls grew bare, I began to feel as hollow as the house. Feeling, noticing, and running on empty.

If you’re a fan of Meg Ryan in RomCom movies, chances are we’d be good friends. There is a scene in You’ve Got Mail towards the end where her character, Kathleen Kelly, gently glides her fingers along the shelves of her emptied bookstore. As she narrates, the scene fades into her apartment. With a bowl of cereal in hand, she walks through her sunny bedroom- furnished beautifully with a cozy bed and several nice-looking chairs and chooses a seat on the floor in the corner. What I always thought was a silly, unimportant scene suddenly resurrected itself in my mind in a nourishing, relatable way. I feel like sitting in the corner to think a little bit deeper and a little bit longer about the past eighteen months. Why? Because they were good. These months have shaped, stretched and even scolded me more than any other in my twenty-five years.

I have been humbled by a job that doesn’t always have a black or white solution to problems. I have been shocked by several of my own issues that would have only been brave enough to surface if secured by the covenant of marriage. I have prayed for people and have had people pray over me. I have learned from teenagers, taught adults, and studied people in a way that leaves me convinced God not only made us, but he loves us enough to make us different. I have been poured into time, and time, and time again. I am filled up to my brim. And that is precisely why I feel empty.

My life is ‘pinch-me’ good. It rocks. Not gonna lie. And though I am on the edge of my seat awaiting this next chapter, I feel so honored, so grateful, so moved that God allowed me multiple years in this place. Desert often gets a bad rep. But the tapestry of my life in Arizona is living proof that time spent well in the desert soaks up more fruit-bearing, river-flowing life than perhaps anywhere else.

So if you know me from Arizona, and you know who you are: thanks for the sweetest bites of life I have ever tasted. Even though there will never be an end, the time seems right to say thank you from the bottom of my full and hallowed heart.

time for a career change

This is an entry I have been trying to write for months. Maybe longer. I have attempted the words, crafted the sentences, re-read the statements and arrived again and again at the same conclusion: this is not good writing and I am not a good person. I typically got no more than a paragraph into the subject before deciding to stop and change it, and then came the familiar “tap, tap, tap” of that Godsend of a key in the upper right corner: delete, delete, delete. Even now, as I sit determined to get this out, there is a lot of staring, a lot of delaying, and still, a lot of deleting...

Subject: disingenuousness. Object: me. By the way, sorry for using the word “disingenuousness.” I am not trying to be stuffy, it just is the only vocabulary that really fits here.

The problem with me, my writing, the subject, and the culmination of all three of those things is that I have been writing for you, for an audience. I have been writing so that you like it. And what has happened as a result is that I haven’t at all been able to write truthfully about my shortcomings. I have been writing so that you will think I’m honest but still an ok person, safe enough to babysit your kids and maybe even cool enough to have coffee with.

And then, I stumbled upon the profoundly simple words of the always reliable Henri Nouwen—and my reflection on these words is changing something in my heart…

“For as long as you can remember, you have been a pleaser, depending on others to give you an identity. You need not look at that only in a negative way. You wanted to give your heart to others, and you did so quickly and easily. But now you are being asked to let go of all these self-made props and trust that God is enough for you. You must stop being a pleaser and reclaim your identity as a free self…”

And all God’s people said, “Amen.”

Or not, but I definitely did.

My life’s complex discontent is captured in what Nouwen said: “You are being asked to let go of your self-made props and trust that God is enough for you.” What a fitting word-picture “props” gives, because the Katie Theater has been stockpiling the back stage of my life for twenty-six years with props. There are the collections of masks I put on for different people, categorized most typically by who that person is and who I want them to think I am. There is the scenery I put out when I want everyone to see how beautifully put together my life is, furniture and décor placed accordingly. And then, perhaps the most often used prop of all: the seasonal backdrop. I could be in the middle of a long, cold, wintry season of darkness, but in an instant I can bring down the sunny background and make everyone watching my life think it is the middle of summer: happy, bright, full of adventure. I am ashamed to admit how helpful my props have been at helping me act my way through so much of my life. I am ashamed that I am far more concerned about my performance than the true and real state of my heart.

And after months of living with this palpable sense of discontent, after deeply feeling the highs and lows that naturally come when your goal is the of the approval of others, I am ready to abandon the acting career.

I do not want to live feeling any less than fully genuine. I do not want to spend my time caring, worrying, stressing about the things that very often consume the better part of my day: Am I pretty? Am I fit enough? Are my clothes ok? Am I a good writer? Do you like me? I just want Jesus to be enough for me. And truly, I want the opinions of others to matter only so much as they point me to the Cross, to Grace, and to stillness before Him.

_________________________

So, after many attempts at articulating some things about myself that I have been afraid to say, to put permanently on paper, and to share, I am still not completely pleased with the production. But I’m not hopping on this treadmill anymore. Anne Lamott says, “I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.” Thank you, Anne, I needed that.

Here’s to a life fully genuine, fully committed to the people you love, fully savoring the beauty in people and places, fully laughing at the messiness we can create, fully devoted to fixing what is broken, and fully honoring to the Creator and Sustainer of it all. He is the only audience in our theater, anyway.

why i write

This all started when my husband was asked by his former teammate what my hobbies were.  Austin loves golf. He played baseball professionally, but he's somehow infatuated with all things golf. He wakes up extra early to play it, goes to bed extra late watching it, and will even grip my fingers in the position of his club to get some practice swings in as we stroll through Barnes and Noble hand in hand. But my hobbies? I was stumped.

Before I could come up with an adequate response,  I asked Austin how he answered the question. “Blogging and writing in your journal.” He answered matter-of-factly. I was shocked. Here I am, a newly-married, former D1 athlete and my husband’s idea of what I love to spend the majority of my time doing was blogging and writing in my journal? “I’m a loser.” I muttered, looking blankly past him. With many awws, kisses on my cheek and some inadequate convincing of his undying love of my new-found, nerdy self he gently inquired, “Well what would you have wanted me to say?”

I spent the next few hours feeling dizzy from the rounding circles in my mind. I thought until my head hurt. What do I like to do? What are the things that make Kristin tick? And after what felt like miles on a track, I huffed and puffed my way back to the starting line. It's true. I love to write. Before this breakthrough, writing was all about me. I wrote in my journal to try to bring order to the frenzy of my thoughts swirling around me. I wrote to keep my focus on God while I prayed. I wrote to remember the answered prayers I had written months before. I wrote to be quiet for more than two seconds. And I wrote because it made me feel like me.

I think I have many insecurities. I don’t think. I know. I am pretty good at hiding them though. I never wanted to be a girl that constantly drew attention to herself and her faults in an effort to be built up by the people around her. So when an insecurity comes to my mind, I am an expert at sweeping it under the rug. I think to myself, I’ll deal with that later, or who really cares? The idea of writing for someone other than myself crawls with insecurities. And candidly, it scares the crap out of me. But maybe when God gifts me with a desire or a passion it's a good thing to share it. Even if I'm terrified. 

This is my free time. This is my escape. This is my fun. This is my hobby. I want this to be a story of God in me. A story that illustrates that even a tall, quiet girl that tends to slouch in public has been guided down a journey filled to the brim with ravishing highlights, heartbreaking let-downs, and enough spectacular everyday moments to believe down to the hollowest parts of me that life's stories are worth listening to and even more worth telling. 

So maybe you're operating in your sweet spot. Maybe you create for a living. Maybe you get paid to do something you both love and fear. But whatever it is that you love, that hidden treasure of passion that too often slips through your fingers... share it. Share it when it hurts. Share it when you're afraid. Share it. Because I believe God's greatest pleasure and most genuine joy comes when his sons and daughters walk on the balance beam between fear and fulfillment. Our steps may be wobbly, but as long as we keep walking in our gifts and passions I know for certain that the God of the Universe will overflow our hearts with His goodness.  And that makes me want to write. 

amazing friendships

Laughter. That ab-workout, can’t catch your breath, happy tears in your eyes kind of laughter that takes our souls to a place it does not get to go every day.

Surprise. Totally unexpected, incredibly thoughtful, couldn’t-have-planned-it-better-myself surprises that remind us that we are so deeply cared for.

Talk. Genuine questions, honest answers, hard topics and funny ones, catching up, sharing stories, loving one another by listening to what is real about our lives.

I have amazing friends. They are the kind of friends that will plan a surprise-filled weekend for me to celebrate my move from a Ms. to a Mrs. The kind of friends that put thought, care, fun and love into each part of our time together. The kind of friends who would get dad to babysit the kids for a weekend and buy a plane ticket from out of state just to make an amazingly special memory for me. They are the kind of friends who make me tear up with gratitude.

In Seattle this past weekend, I laughed a lot. I was surprised again and again with fun things. And I talked a lot about life, engagement, men, and everything else girls talk about when they are together. It was a picture perfect weekend and will be a time I cherish forever. But I think the reason I am so overwhelmed with gratitude is that above everything else, I felt so deeply known this weekend.

Emily, Aubree and Kristin planned 48 hours of “Katie time.” They know my taste in snacks and packed accordingly. They know my insecurities and could pick out all the right clothes for me. They know I am a tad-bit shy at times but created space for me to have a ton of fun. They know me and Alex and our story, and they asked all the right questions. They know how humbled I am when people pray for me, and they did.

Isn’t that what everyone wants, to be deeply and truly known? To be listened to, teased just enough, encouraged, cared for… just known. In all my strengths, weakness, success and shortcomings, I felt accepted in all of them this weekend.

My dear, dear friends, thank you for knowing, and loving, me so well. You make me want to be a better friend to others, and you give me a glimpse of how fully known we are by our Creator. Thank you for the laughter, the surprises, the talk. I needed all of those things, I needed you. Life is meant to be done together. Forever my sisters.

worth waking up for

For the past week I’ve slept with a sleeping mask on. I read recently in some over-informational health magazine that sleeping with a mask enables you to drift into a deeper sleep in a shorter amount of time- creating more complete rest and an increased amount of energy throughout the day. Naturally, a satin, Tiffany’s-blue mask was soon a welcomed addition to my nighttime routine in Arizona. Sadly though, the mask was greeted by quite the condescending chuckle when I got to see my husband this weekend. I believe his exact words were, “what are you, eighty?” (NO- in fact- when we’re actually eighty I’m going to look sixty because of all the great sleep I’ve gotten using my beauty sleep mask!) Regardless of its function or aid in my night’s sleep, I wake up unaware of the morning, the light, and the promise that bursts through the window until I remove the mask from my eyes.  When it’s off, my eyes squint and work hard to adjust, like the first few steps outside the movie theater after seeing a matinée . And even though the mask made for a comfortable and needed night’s sleep, it’s the awakening that I most look forward to.


Easter was yesterday. Never has this holiday seemed to mean more or move me more deeply than this year. Maybe it was because I spent it in Chicago where the hope of spring is more tangible than the morning newspaper. And even though there are days that do not make sense for the end of April (40 degrees and rainy,) I develop a very short-term memory when the sun beats down and the breeze carries summer promise. Or maybe it was because I spent it with my family. We all seem to be making tremendous life-decisions lately and there is this beautiful, unspoken understanding when we gather for a holiday knowing where each member has been and where he/she is going that demands a grace-filled, grateful heart. Or maybe it’s because with each new year I live and breathe on this earth, I mature in my knowledge of what really went on 2000 years ago on a cross, in a tomb, on real soil and in heaven.  Christ awoke from a sleep not many get to brag they awake from. What others thought to be an endless sleep of death was cut short by the power only possible through God on the third day. He woke up, he sat up, he walked around and saw his friends. His wounds were fresh and his heart was rested- for it was finished. His profoundly-perfect purpose was complete on earth, and for the first time I pictured what it would be like to look into the eyes of a resurrected savior. With soggy eyes I think of my own completion, made possible by this one act from a man I get to call my friend.


For too long now I’ve had a mask over my eyes when it comes to the significance of this day. Jesus awoke and his lungs filled with breath on Easter so he could breathe the breath of life into me. Only when I choose to know Him do I awake to the possibility and potential of this life. And only when I awake to the power, grace, and love at my disposal are my crusty, sleep-filled eyes opened to the greater purpose He has for me. Easter awakens years of mundane lives. It makes new of old habits. It puts power behind scary leaps of faith, and it completes our messy, broken, over-slept lives. But the best news is, with a creator like God and a savior like Jesus, Easter can happen      every      single    day.        And that’s something worth waking up for.

soul cravings

I spent the past weekend in Laguna Beach, California. Salty ocean smells and sweet, sea breezes lifted my spirit and hugged every inch of my frame. The beach magically lengthens thoughts, muscles and time in a way that shouts of the realities of heaven.  My body and my mind left refreshed and rejuvenated. But something deeper went on. Something so important and often tragically forgotten. My soul was replenished.

I took time to notice the divine beauty that lives, breathes and thrives all around us. I crunched my feet into the sand and wiggled my toes until they were buried. I looked deeply into the eyes of my sisters and thought intentionally about how valuable friendships are.  I had conversations with complete strangers. I gave things away and acquired new treasures and didn’t care if I doubled up on bowls of cereal.  I slept in and walked slowly and laughed… a lot.

What’s the condition of your soul lately?

(Not how are you doing? What’s new with you? Or even how are you feeling?)

How’s your soul?

The deepest parts of me are set free when I allow my soul to be moved and to give in to its cravings. I have soul cravings that liberate me to be more ‘kristin’ than I have ever experienced before. I know some of them and I’m still discovering others.  But here’s a few of mine. Hopefully my list can trigger a soul craving in you.

-Sitting outside by myself so I can talk with God without feeling the urge or necessity to carry on any other conversation.

-Stretching every single muscle until I feel like a walking noodle.

-Riding a beach cruiser bike with a basket in the front when it’s sunny and breezy.

-Taking part in a sunset along any body of water. Anywhere. Any day. Ever.

-Discovering something in depth about someone I love and loving them more for it.

So even though I am not carrying a tiny Stockfisch bun in my oven, I have cravings. These soul cravings can speak more life into me than any composition of words ever could. Our souls were created to be our life source. When we pay attention to them and give in to what our souls crave, we become more than a life… we learn what it means to be alive. What does your soul crave? If you’re anything like me, you will find that even through the stretching, the bike rides and the sunsets the one common thread through the tapestry of my soul is that it craves my creator. It craves my God, my savior, my author and perfector.  And it is only when I find Him in the midst of life’s goodness that I truly begin to live.