In the treetops of your wildest dreams

Radnor has become my refuge. The perfect escape. My own Green Cathedral. Where peace emanates throughout. Cares wisp away in the wind. Obligations and to-do lists sink to the lake bottom. The hazy fog is pealed back from my strained and weary eyes, and brightness seeps in. Brilliant colors glisten on the water's surface.

Reflections shinning through the kaleidoscope ripples. I can see colors once beyond my vision. As if I'm looking through a photographer's filter, enhancing shades once dimly dull to indescribable brightness and hue. Even the crunchy piles of brown leaves now glimmer with a gold that burns the stare.

My eyes, before heavy laden, accustomed to being stuck only on the screen dead in front of me, are finally light enough to gaze into the distance. Beyond the lake and into the trees. Up past their tallest branches and into the sky. I am no longer constrained by a small space I inhabit between man-made walls. Limits are no more.

I can smell the freedom in the scent of pine. Hear the possibilities in the chatter of the birds. They live uninhibited, wings stretched wide, flying from tree to tree. Flowing swiftly with the wind, or fighting against it if they so please. Freedom is their very means of existence. Their breath of life. They chirp profound whispers in my direction...

"Spread your wings and fly with us. Drop your back-breaking, overstuffed baggage and come away with us. Adventure awaits you in the treetops of your wildest dreams. The ones you consider impossible. Far-fetched. Childish. Unrealistic. Selfish. Absurd. Yes, those. The very ones you were meant to live. Believe in them again, and you can fly freely with us.

Imagine the brilliant sun warming your back. The undiscovered colors and smells and sensations. Transformation awaits you up here. Come experience weightlessness and ease. An indescribable peace will accompany you on this unpredictable journey. And up here, you will become who you were created to be.

So, will you believe in your wildest dreams again? So you can spread your wings and fly with us? Believe and you will find freedom that puts that which resonates here on the ground at Radnor to shame. Just believe."

The birds beckon me with their song. One that I'm certain they sing for me alone. And just like that, I am lost in the depths of my wildest dreams. Watching them dance gracefully in technicolor reflections atop the ripples of Radnor Lake. And I just might be on my way to believing once again...

Voice & Vulnerability

My writing is beginning to transform. It's not always showing. It's not a constant. There are gems that glitter with relatable truth and clumps of crap that reek of the mundane. That's how writing goes. Just like any other art form. There are on days and off days. A few masterpieces in between loads of shit. That flow of ups and downs will inevitably continue. But transformation occurs despite them.

Overall, your work develops as you discover and fine tune your voice. The ebbs and flows, valleys and peaks, occur in an upward direction, always moving toward telling your truth.

That is what I'm noticing with my writing. Reading over my pieces, rather written on the up or the down of this dynamic wavelength, I can see more of me. My voice is growing more audible. It's slow going and perhaps hard to recognize, but once a faint whisper, it now resonates at normal volume. Shinning through the carefully crafted words, creating smoothness and revealing character. When you read my work, you now come to know me. In a far more intimate way than you used to. A way that invites you into the unpolished, ugly, embarrassing, quirky, and raw.

Reading my words, you enter my reality. Not as I dream it or desire you to see it. But as I actually live it. You discover my humanity in watching me screw up and fail time in time again. Seeing me struggle with the same battles you fight. You learn little things about me like my worst nasty habits and my most pride-stripping moments. You get inside my head and see the thoughts, ideas, dreams and desires that inhabit it.

It's like seeing me in my sweatpants on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Hair pulled back and greasy, acne rather than makeup covering my face, while I sit on the couch shamelessly stuffing my mouth, eyes glued to the television while I catch up on crappy shows. Up close and personal. You can smell that I haven't showered or even brushed my teeth.

Or like you're watching me fall to the floor, hunched over and heartbroken. Breathless from crying so intensely. Knees too shaky to stand. Mascara tinted tears staining my white t-shirt. Self-esteem shattered. Identity stolen from me by the one who left me at my weakest.

You watch me put up walls. See me build them back up each time, brick by brick. Only to see them crumble down once again when the next one comes along. You want to scream at me as I search and search in all the wrong places for who I really am. Shake me while yelling in my face, "You're better than this!"

No, I can't hide those dark moments anymore. Not from you. Not if I want my voice to come through these essays and blog posts and someday maybe, books.

Because fine tuning my voice, finding, developing, and sharing it...is really just about breaking down wall after wall that covers my fragile heart. It's tearing down layer after layer after layer, until every bit of excess, including the fear and pride that cripple my development as a writer, have been thrown away along with them.

I can only find my voice by embracing vulnerability. Vulnerability is the absolute key to sharing my truth. The more vulnerable I become, the better writer I will be. I've gotten just a glimpse in the past few months. And I'm ready to step into the boxing ring and take out those protective shields I've built around my true self. Until only me and my truth remain.

Here's to a season of embracing vulnerability, and in doing so, finding my voice.

Story is enough

Published on 1/18/13 as a guest post on The Marcella Project.

Lately I’ve been learning the importance of my story. The need to find and share my voice. I’m a writer, as much as I’ve fought saying those three words, never thinking of myself as a creative. Even though words were my craft, the only thing that ever really made sense to me, my method for processing, and basically my very breath. I just didn’t think I qualified for that creative realm that artists occupy. Not until I started wrapping my brain around the idea of being created in God’s image. You know, God THE Creator. But that’s another story…

As a writer, I’ve been struggling to find license to share the real stuff. Permission to leave my voice on pages in its natural state. Constantly thinking that my words are too raw and unpolished. My writing not nearly poetic enough. My experience average and uninteresting. My story too unimportant. Not worthy of being told.

I spent time looking back through the books that have shaped me over the past few years. You know, those books that make you laugh and cry and aspire to be a better version of yourself. The ones that hit hard and then don’t fade away after you turn that last page and place it back on the dusty shelf. The ones that actually impact you as much as if you had heard their story face-to-face meeting in a coffeeshop.

One of those was Bittersweet by Shauna Niequist. I skimmed through the list of chapters, all short stories on her experiences of life as a combination of bitter and sweet, highlighting that one without the other just wouldn’t be as beautiful. I was really doubting the importance of my story that day, certain the idea of sharing it, even if only through a blog that few read, was a dumb idea. My eyes spotted the last chapter title, “You Must Tell Your Story.” Well, guess I should read that one, huh?

In five short pages, my opinion on story was transformed. Writer to writer, believer to believer, person to person, Shauna convinced me that my story, along with everyone’s, must be told. There’s no other option. And nothing more important.

I learned from Shauna that story is enough. We constantly invalidate it. Overcompensate for what we think story is lacking. Adding unnecessary fluff and overused clichés. But story, raw, untouched, organic story…is enough. Absolutely enough. People tend to think otherwise, because like me, we assume we are nothing special and that God is doing much bigger, more impressive things in the lives of others whose stories speak more highly of Him or have a more impactful finish. Sure God’s shown up in my life, but he cured that person of cancer. And he redeemed that broken marriage. And he [insert many other cooler stories of God’s goodness and grace] over there.

But if you have a relationship with God, then whatever your story is, God is all up in it, around it, and through it. And that means your story reveals a piece of the bigger story. The story of who God is. His heart.  His character. His promises. Chances are, the biggest part of your story has yet to unfold, because it’s how your story when told will impact the lives of others.

We’re all a piece of the bigger story. And the coolest part is that the bigger story isn’t complete without us. Our perspective. Our experience. And our voice. It’s just like a 5,000 piece puzzle you assemble on your dinning room table only to find out one tiny piece was gobbled up by your dog. You stare at what should be a masterpiece, furious at its incomplete state. It’s just not done without that one missing piece. While we may be a very tiny, seemingly insignificant piece of one massive puzzle, the big picture just isn’t complete until you add us into the mix.

Shauna (I really do feel like we’re on a first name basis at this point), explains this:

“The big story really is actually being told through our little stories, and by sharing our lives, not just our sermons, we’re telling God’s story in as reverent and divine ways as it has ever been told. God’s story was told in Hebrew and Greek, and I believe that it’s also being told in whispers and paintings and blogs and around dinner tables all over the world.”

I love this. It’s exactly what The Marcella Project is doing through blogs, salons, and bible studies in wineries. Telling God’s story. Digging into God’s word, yes. But without the common trend of separating it from what God is doing in our own stories. From real life as it unfolds day to day, uniquely for each of us. That’s why I love The Marcella Project. It validates voice and experience. Creating avenues for raw and organic truth…which ultimately makes the conversation relevant.

“Let’s resist the temptation to hide behind theology the way a bad professor hides behind theorems and formulas. We dilute the beauty of the gospel story when we divorce it from our lives, our worlds, the words and images that God is writing right now on our souls.”

I completely agree with Shauna’s take on story. It is indeed enough. Simply because it brings the gospel to life. Reminding us that God is still moving and working today in each of our lives.

As we start a new year, I want to challenge each of you to grow more comfortable sharing your story. In whatever shape or form that takes. Maybe that’s in a blog post or while teaching a classroom. Or during a small group or bible study. It could be at coffee with a friend or in conversation with a whole group at a dinner party. Boldly validate your experience by telling your truth. Accept your role in the bigger story by believing your story is enough. And sharing it with others. Because…

“If you have been transformed by the grace of God, then you have within you all you need to write your manifesto, your poem, your song, your battle cry, your love letter to a beautiful and broken world. Your story must be told.”

Will you tell it?

Through and Through

1/8/13

"You see me.
And You know me.
You love me through and through."

It's so much more than enough. Not only do You see me when it feels like no one else does. But You know the depths of my heart. Every dark corner and bright fiery passion. All my secrets and past mistakes. All my hurts, broken pieces, and slow healing wounds. Every scar. And every scene in the story behind it. Every dream. Sleeping haunts and daily longings about the future. My biggest fears and tiniest worries. Every ounce of anxiety and its specific source. My language of life and of love. My favorite book, food, song, and all the rest. What inspires me and what enrages me. From the smallest pet peeve to the deepest cut. What challenges me and what's static. Where I feel stuck and where I long to venture. My lowest lows. Those moments of darkness creeping in. Anger and resentment taking over. Bitter roots and unforgiveness. You know every tiny detail and every major climax.

And you...love me. Always. Through and through.

You aren't enough. You are so much more.

Longing for daybreak

1/7/13

Already thirty minutes behind schedule, work assignments and emails beginning to occupy my mind once again. But I just can't seem to pull away from paper and pen. From the brilliant sunlight pouring through my bedroom window, announcing a new day. From the soft sounds of bluejays perched on the tree just outside. From the permeating smell of fresh brewed coffee. Exhilaratingly strong.

I know You're always here. Practicing Your presence throughout the day is critical. I'm working at it. Becoming more aware, in tune, and better at receiving You. But I can't pull away right now. Like most days, Your presence is just more powerful in the morning. For me at least. I want to soak it in just like the sunlight warming my toes. Breath in the deep, awaking smell of like this coffee. Hear its perfect music inviting the day like the bluejays.

Because here, here in Your presence, I am complete. I have all I ever wanted and all I'll ever need. It's not an either or. I will carry You with me throughout the day.

But I can't help but long for the morning sun these days. For it reveals Your glory. And the new day, Your goodness. Thank You for the perfect power of Your presence. Especially the way it permeates throughout at daybreak.

Burning Biscuits

I awoke this morning with a strong desire to bake something from scratch. I had planned to get up and go to zumba class at the YMCA I joined this week. But as I laid in bed adjusting my eyes to the light and stretching my stiff legs that had spent all evening in fetal position, homemade, buttery something sounded a hell of a lot better than sweaty exhaustion. Working my hands into a rich mixture of ingredients sounded much more fun than working my body to death through tough dance moves. Besides, I wasn't awake enough for that pump-up music. No, a little Civil Wars and Ray LaMontagne would be a much softer wakeup call.

I did some basic prep work while thinking of potential recipes to try. Unloaded the dishwasher, made coffee (a MUST), washed my face and brushed my teeth. But I didn't get around to putting on real clothes. I enjoy baking in my pajamas...a t-shirt and underwear, that is. Yes, that's right. I prefer to bake, like I prefer to sleep: pants-less. But hey, that's one of the simple pleasures of living alone. You can do those sorts of things. You can prance around your kitchen elbow-deep in flour with nothing on but your Hanes. And that's exactly what I did. You should try it sometime, assuming you live alone. It's quite freeing.

Anyway, given my limited supply of ingredients (no milk, buttermilk, or shortening), I didn't think it would be possible to make my ultimate craving: flakey, buttery, homemade biscuits. Nonetheless, I flipped through some recipes on my iPad.

Almond milk biscuits.

My eyes stopped on those three words. I did have almond milk in the fridge. Almost a whole carton. And that could be a fun twist! So I clicked on the link and skimmed through the full list of ingredients. Flour. Banking powder. Salt. Sugar. Butter. Almond milk. Yup, I had all of it. And it looked easy enough.

I turned on pandora, unloaded all the ingredients form the pantry and fridge, got in the zone and got to work. Measuring all the dry ingredients into a big bowl, I felt all my worries float away. My senses were tantalized with smells, sounds, and textures. Coffee brewing. Flour particles clouding the air. I was back in my refuge.

Measure. Pour. Measure. Pour. Stir. Sift. Measure. Pour. Cut. Work. Mix. Fold.

I found the rhythm and felt like I was back in sync. With the universe, my surroundings, and myself. Working the consistency together with my very fingers, ever so gently as to not over-mix the biscuit dough (the key to a perfect, buttery-flakiness), I felt alive again. Connected to the creation of something. Doing the very act of creating. In the messy, exhilarating way of working with your hands until they're sticky with chunks of dough hanging off each finger.

Lately I've felt so far removed form this sensation. Working a desk job, wether in an office cubicle or a loud, vibrant coffeeshop, it's easy to feel yourself slipping away form your natural identity as a creative. Developing spreadsheets, composing emails, and even designing graphics just aren't the same. The computer screen somehow creates this physical divide between you and your work. Fingers typing on a keypad or moving a mouse just doesn't quite qualify as hands-on creation. Maybe if you're a techie person. But not for an old-school girl like me, it just doesn't have the same life-giving effect.

But baking...starting with pure, raw ingredients. Mixing them together in various quantities, orders, and combinations. Measuring, pouring, and mixing with your human hands. Until you've created something out of nothing. With smells and tastes and textures that bring your senses back to life. It's intoxicating. It's creation.

I'd forgotten how much I love to bake. Because I don't really have a lot of time for it these days. But the moment I stepped into the kitchen and got back into the rhythm, I remembered. And I was hooked again. To the stimulation of my senses, awakening the creator within me.

I have a very small kitchen in my one-bedroom apartment. So I haven't felt the need to fill it with all the awesome baking instruments I don't need, desperately want, but don't have the room for and really can't afford. Uhh, someday I will shop at Williams-Sonoma. And fill a glorious, granite-counter kitchen with everything in that store. Someday. But for now, I improvise. Like using almond milk for biscuits because I don't buy milk anymore. Or using two knives to cut the butter into the flour mixture, because I don't have one of those fancy tools for that specific task. Or using a plastic pipe my baking friend Sue gave me for a make-shift rolling pin, because you guessed it, I don't have one of those either. And you know what? It works great. It rolls out the dough just the same. Smooth and even. Ready for the measuring cup I use as a biscuit cutter to sink in and form "perfect" circles.

Improvising. It's a life skill I highly recommend learning if you haven't already. And low-budget baking in a seriously small, understocked kitchen requires an extra large dose of it.

Finally the time had come to plop those buttery bites of heaven into the oven. The recipe called for 22 minutes at 450. So like any good baker, I set my timer for less than called for: 18 minutes. Planning to check on it at about 15 to be safe.

Well, after about 15 minutes, my nose detected that oh so familiar smell of burnt to a crisp baked goods. Running to the kitchen (yes, the one that is about a foot away from the couch), I reached for the oven mit, pulled the oven door toward me, and grabbed the piping hot tray. A heavy cloud of smoke filled my tiny kitchen. And the second I set them on the stove, I heard the obnoxious, high-pitched beep. The smoke detector. SHIT! (I'm full of profanities when I bake. Seriously. While some chefs stick to "pow" or "kabam" for their signature kitchen phrases, I prefer the F-bomb).

I sprinted to the balcony door, swung it open, hurried back to the kitchen, grabbed the oven mit again, and proceeded to fan the smoke detector. More F-bombs escaped my lips between the fanning motions and ear-canal-bursting beeps. This was not my first smoke alarm scandal in this apartment. And so as extra seconds began to separate the alarm sounds, I knew I was in the clear. "Whew. That was close," I said, always fearing being that girl who burnt down the apartment complex and had to embarrassingly evacuate the building in nothing but her underwear. Yeah, that would be bad. So I threw on some pants before reassessing the plan for round two of biscuit baking.

That's another thing about baking. If you aren't prepared to totally bomb, don't even try it. Recipes are great, but every oven is different. 450 on your oven could be like 400 on mine. Especially when you're working with older kitchen equipment, you just don't know how accurate your power is. Same with microwaves and stoves. You gotta consider electric differences and tread carefully. But more importantly, you have to be comfortable with the idea of putting a lot of work, time and money (depending on the ingredients) into something that might come out a black, crunchy, bitter mess. Because you just never know.

It might be totally inedible. It happens. Or, in my case, you might have to slice off the bottom half and throw it away, leaving yourself with a half-decent, half a biscuit. As someone reminded me today, butter fixes everything. You know what I'm talking about, Paula Deen. Toss the burnt to a crisp bottom, spread some yellow lard on the top, watch it melt into the flakey dough, and sink your teeth into what will still be delicious. That's what I did.

But don't stop there. Try again. Cheesy? Yup. But you gotta do it. Reassess the situation. Think back through the steps to see what went wrong. Make some changes. And take another whack at it. Why else do you think recipes make such large quantities? It's to ensure you have enough to screw up a little. There's always plenty of dough or batter to redeem yourself in round two. Always.

And redeem myself, I did this morning. I turned the oven down a little lower than 450 and placed the second tray of biscuits in, setting the timer for 10 minutes, less than half what the recipe called for. I kept the balcony door open to continue airing the place out and my nose alert, sniffing the air for the faintest hint of burnt biscuit. Checked on them a couple of times. And when my timer went off and I opened the oven for a sneak peak, guess what I found? Just golden brown biscuits. Not a single sniff of burnt crumbs in the air. Even the bottoms were golden, sliding off the tray smoothly with a spatula instead of sticking.

They were perfect. And you know what I realized? If I hadn't burnt the batch before them, I just wouldn't have felt that good when I caught my first glimpse of those flakey, unburnt biscuits. Sure, they still would have tasted delicious come time to bite into their fluffy layers soaked in melted butter. But they wouldn't have had the sweet, sweet taste of redemption flowing through every bite.

The satisfaction in myself and in the final product I created just wouldn't have been so high.

I'm coming to realize that we're supposed to screw up. We're supposed to get messy, go the wrong way, and burn the crap out of biscuits every now and then.

It's more than the simple fact that we're human. We are, and so we'll never be perfect. But we also have a God who redeems. And I want to be able to notice him do just that in my every day life. I'm not saying He wants us to continue to knowingly follow a dark path of destruction. Or to willingly stay stuck in a cycle of sin. But I do think He wants us to be the type of person who sees His very acts of redemption unfolding in our lives. And I think its the screw ups, failed attempts, falling down, and recipes gone wrong that develop an eye for noticing. Taste buds for detecting the sweet flavor. Noses that can pick up the faint but ever so delectable scent of redemption.

He's always working to redeem. Every single broken piece of our lives. And I think when we focus too much on doing things right, striving for success, becoming the best, or developing perfection, we unfamiliarize ourselves with reality. Broken, burnt reality. To a point that redemption is no longer the supernatural, glorious gift that it is. And so we don't see it. We miss its very happening. We can't experience it in its fullness.

You see, redemption is always sweeter. And always taking place.

Burning biscuits just helps us taste its full glory when it arrives.