Archives For my story

In the words of Vonnegut, “Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.” And so it was, my story has got pneumonia. There’s no doctor for this and no cure or medicine. It’s not writer’s block, it’s the opposite. It’s not fear of saying something, it’s fear of saying everything.

Others think of writers as prophets of sorts. Don’t ask me what writers think of themselves. The way blogs go these days it seems we all think we’re on a reality show or talk show or the stage and we are the star. Someone’s salvation is always resting on the crux of how well a writer can write it, and what we need someone to tell us is maybe it’s just the working out of our own salvation in the crux. I have never understood people who had books “just burning” inside them to be written or who have always known they would be a writer or who have messages they know only they can tell. I have always been on the other side of the spectrum, tapping the mic endlessly asking, “Is this thing on?” if only to say to the naysayers and bystanders and passersby that there is nothing to see here, carry on.

Thank you for staying, readers and friends. You didn’t have to and I’ll understand if you leave. I might leave if this was the story I came to hear. Or I might not. I have been prone to unpredictable behavior of late. This is what I do want to say to you though, if you have the patience and the benevolence to hear it.

This is how it happened, from the almost beginning: Nate and I met in the foyer of our church, it was a non-event except that I liked his beard and he was still not dating girls. A few weeks later a church in Denver asked me to consider working with them. I hemmed and hawed and talked with pastors and elders and friends and traveled there three months later to figure things out. Then I came home and made the decision in a conference room upstairs in my church with a few pastors and elders and friends.

I also told them then that the night before Nate Wilbert had asked me out. Who knew what would happen? Not us.

The decision to go to Denver was made, though, and when Nate and I knew we would be getting married, the decision to go to Denver was back on the table for a hot minute, and by minute, I mean second. “Do you wanna?” “Yeah, I wanna.” “Okay, let’s.” There was a bit more to it, but that was the general decision making process. We hardly knew one another but we knew we were going to get married and that everything in our lives was going to be One Great Adventure because we were doing it together and everything looks shinier when you’re in love.

Denver or bust. Except we didn’t really expect the bust. Everyone says it, but no one actually expects it.

Then the bust: a newly acquired house, a new job with more challenges than we could have envisioned going in, a few miscarriages, shootings, job loss, and so much more. You know the wrap. What you don’t know, maybe, is that we’d been encouraged to step back from leadership as much as possible in our first year of marriage. We were going from living in the middle of ministry in our respective homes to our primary ministry being one another. He didn’t know how to do that well in his first marriage and I sure didn’t know how to do it at all. So envision with me this: two people who don’t know how to swim, deep sea diving into a wreckage where they have to surface with precious artifacts without damaging them. This was our first year.

You know most of the story—but not all of it, please don’t ever assume you know all of someone’s story unless you’ve sat across from them with tea or coffee or your beverage of choice and watched them cry ugly tears or say angry words while you just sat there and were a presence beside them. This is bonus talk right here, not the point of this post at all. I just want to remind all of us that we fall under the shiny spell of interconnectivity more often than not, commentating on lives based on photos and 140 characters. As if the sum of a life can be measured in a snapshot or 140 letters.

Am I rambling, I probably am, but if there’s something I’ve learned a lot this year it’s how easy it is to assume really bad things or really good things in the lives of people as we voyeuristically and unthinkingly scan the artifacts they share. Social media isn’t a lie, friends, as some would have you believe, but it is just the tip of many, many things. So, maybe I should rephrase, you don’t know most of the story, in fact, you know very, very little of it. The mountain of things you don’t know about our lives this past year could not be moved by the pile of things you do know.

Moving on.

So, bust it was. We didn’t intend on leaving Denver, or the church. It’s not the church’s fault we were newly married and had disobeyed good counsel and had jumped in with both feet and were in over our heads. We had every intention of staying, of Nate finding a job there, and of learning to swim. But, God, in His strange sovereignty (and I don’t say that sarcastically, I truly mean it was strange), did not provide a job there.

When Nate first broached the subject of looking out of state, and in fact the mid-Atlantic region, my first response was, “Well, if we’re looking out of state, why not Texas?” For reasons I didn’t know at the time, though, his response was an emphatic no. And because my dear husband had uprooted his life to move for my job in Denver, I agreed to the mid-Atlantic region if a job awaited him there. He went to high-school in DC and had fond memories of the place, but I confess, I was envisioning something more along the lines of bucolic pastures and Shenandoah valleys. I am nothing if not idealistic.

There were interviews all over the mid-Atlantic region, but the one job I didn’t want him to get was the one job—out of myriads of interviews and applications—he was offered. In the heart of D.C. Across the street from the Smithsonian, in view of the Capitol, and every stately monument along the way.

I remembered driving through D.C. years ago. It was Thanksgiving weekend. I was traveling to a friend’s wedding in the Carolinas. It took me nearly four hours to get around the beltway. I swore to myself, probably drawing blood with my fingernails into my palms, that I would never live in a place like this. I was made for hills and mountains and crickets and fireflies. I know there are some who love and feel called to D.C. and these people I commend, but give me the country air and people and problems there. I would never live in D.C.

I remembered saying the same thing to the Lord right before I moved to Texas, though, and see how I was wrong? So I didn’t say any of that to my dear husband. As much as I couldn’t see myself or our family, or him, thriving in the area, I wanted him to feel wanted and approved of and needed by someone, anyone. And they were offering him a job. So I kept my mouth shut and I said, “Babe, I know you want to work and I want you to work, so wherever that is, I will follow you.”

And I did. And we’re here. And his commute is three hours a day. And this week they told him they’re most likely moving his team to another building in the District—one that will add 30 minutes to his commute, making it an even four hours of traveling a day. Whenever we mention that to people around here (because the cost of living pushes people outside the city), they nod and say things like, “Yup, well, that’s just how it is here.” Or “Well, sometimes you have to make sacrifices.” I want to across from those people and say, “You don’t have to. What you’re saying is ‘I’m choosing to sacrifice community on the altar of my commute and job.’”

But we’re not.

Here is why I told you all that above, in case you’re wondering. I’m telling you because in the first move to Denver we moved for my job and he did not talk to me about some reasons he had for wanting to leave Dallas. The second move to D.C., we moved for his job, and I did not talk to him about some reasons I had for not wanting to move here. We both sinned against one another in that process and I have all sorts of excuses for why: we didn’t know one another well, we were just figuring this out, we loved the other one and wanted them to flourish, our proclivities and personalities are to stuff things instead of expose them, and we gave into our flesh in these ways. There is so much more to say, but that’s the bottom line. We sinned, a bit unknowingly and naively, but still sinned.

I’ve said before that marriage isn’t hard, not like the drama queens say with their hands across their perspiring brow, “Marriage is the hardest thing you’ll ever do.” Marriage isn’t hard like that. It’s got hard things for sure, but what’s hard about marriage is you’ve put two sinners together until death them do part. And for us, we left the safety net of community and friends, and like frogs in slowly boiling water, our sin was eating us alive, we just didn’t know it.

Until now.

Even though the cost of living is high here and he is gone twelve hours of our day and we’re struggling to feel at home here, and now know we’re not going to be at home here, we’ve also had space and time to sit under the weight of our sins of omission toward one another. Maybe this doesn’t seem like a huge deal, “So you withheld your true feelings, big deal, harder things are coming for you.” Except withholding those feelings and fears and hopes meant we moved across the country twice, lost a church community twice, lost $100,000 and our home, lost a lot more than just the benefit of having your feelings known. So, all I’m saying is there was a big price for those small secrets.

Everyone knows that seeing a counselor means everything is going to be fixed though, so that’s what we’ve been doing. Kidding. We told our counselor first thing, “We don’t expect you to be our savior,” and he’s made good on that expectation. But it has been helpful, in the way that peeling an onion is good before cutting it up. You peel back the layers and then you cry a lot. It’s like paying money every other week to peel a single onion together. I highly recommend it.

He’s asked good questions and pressed pretty hard on some things and not very hard at all on other things, but in the process it’s getting revealed that Nate and I need to learn to emote and talk and that it’s okay to say, “I don’t like _____, and that’s okay.” And also it’s okay to grieve what we’ve lost this year. And also it’s okay to not be super Christians. And it’s okay to withhold information from blog readers and even friends, but not from one another. And it’s okay to say, “Denver wasn’t a mistake. D.C. wasn’t a mistake. But also moving again doesn’t mean we’re running away.”

It’s been cathartic to be able to step back, a year into marriage, and talk about, well, what do we actually want our lives to look like, what do we want our family to look like, when we can start the adoption process, how we want to raise our kids, what sort of church do we want to be married to and serve in, what do we value in church leadership, what do we value in a city, in a town, in the country, how little can we live on instead of how much. All of those questions are things that maybe should be talked about before marriage (though I think the pressure to have all questions answered before marriage is one of the ways the enemy keeps people living in sin instead of covenant), but they are certainly things that should be talked about within marriage and without fear.

We’ve been doing that en masse. It’s been a veritable share-fest around our house these days. We’re making lists and unmaking them. We’re talking through cities and ruling them out. We’re aiming toward relationship building instead of job getting. We’re concentrating our search on churches and not employment. A job is important, even necessary before we move, but our primary posture right now is: where is God calling us to love one another, to raise a family, to invest into a church and city and people, to grow old in our marriage together?

So, because seven is the number of perfection, we’re making it The Seven Moves of 2015-16.

And we think we know where that place is.

It’s a place that holds a dear spot in my heart and a place that’s only a few hours from his family and a few more from mine. It’s a place I spent many happy years and many more happy holidays. In the past few years it has been like a vortex for some of my closest friends, pulling them back to various neighborhoods and churches. It’s the place I wept to leave and always feel at home coming back to. At the end of the month we’re traveling there together for a few days, to see if God might be drawing us there too.

We’re holding it loosely, but we’re talking about it instead of just pretending it doesn’t exist. And for the first time in a long time, we’re feeling excited and expectant and hopeful. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t say to me, “I’m really looking forward to our visit there.” And each time he does, I remember again what it means to be drawn closer to another person in a strange way. I can’t explain it. I know it’s good. And hard. And not impossible. Not easy. But good.

One of the things we failed to do in Denver was to prioritize relationship over normal mechanisms for getting a job. Partially Nate just didn’t have any connections there aside from other church staff. We were only there a few months when he lost his contract. We didn’t know where to turn or to go. He turned to sharpening up his resume, online searches, Linkedin connections. In Dallas he would have had a job in weeks. We knew this because he’d never been without a job and never had to look for one. But in this new place he didn’t have relational capital built up and he confesses now his pride got in the way of working on it.

In this season, we have been deeply convicted that God is more than capable of being our provision in every way, including by giving Nate a job. We have prayed more as a couple and found joy in restraint in the past few weeks, by not trying to manhandle this situation, but by being patient and faithful. We’re reaching out to friends in the area, we’re passing his resume on, and we’re scheduling meetings for him when we’re down there in a few weeks, but we’re not going to put getting a job before building relationship and building on relationships we already have there. In the ministry world that’s the norm, but in the business world, in Nate’s world? That is abnormal and especially abnormal when we don’t live in the city we’re looking to be in. But we’re trusting God is bigger and better than norms and we’re just asking for clarity in all things.

This is nearly 3000 words and kudos if you’ve made it this far. I wrote this mostly for me, but for you too, if it helps you to pray for us or for you to understand you. That’s why I write at all, honestly. It’s not to be understood by you in some needy way. None of us need to be understood by anyone and no amount of postulating or explaining will accomplish it anyway. I’ve learned that. But I write because it’s humbling for me and maybe it helps one or two of you understand yourself too. I’d be happy with that.

Will you pray friends? For us and our marriage? We have no idea whether we’ll be moving or not, but we’re learning to communicate, to dream, to talk, to be honest, and all of that is good wherever we live. But also pray for you, that you would learn to take your hands off your wounds, to stop self-protecting in your marriages and friendships, to be vulnerable with your fears and concerns. Not to the whole world, like Vonnegut says, but to one, just one.

Chattanooga or bust.


fruitI caught of a whiff of longing this morning. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like. I stood in the parking lot and let the Texas breeze wash over me—and I felt a burst of hope inside of me: I’m going home!

I am sitting at the table with two dear friends the other day, an elder from my church and his wife, one of my first friends in Texas. They are New Yorkers, upstaters like me, and they have loved me well in my time here. This year has been one long shove, I said, a pushing away from all the reasons I would have to stay here. But are you running? they ask. Is it still running if you’re going home?

New York is a big state, divided into sections. The City, Upstate, the North Country, the Adirondack Region, the Finger Lakes Region, the Thousand Island Seaway, the Catskills. It’s all New York, but so much more than just The City. I’m not moving to the same region from which I hail, but I’m moving to the state I call home. Is it still running if you’re going home?

When I first visited New York I was 18 years old, a sullen teenager whose parents wanted to buy an old farmhouse and homestead it, growing organic vegetables and raising animals. I was born and bred in an affluent county north of Philadelphia. The earthiness of our new home didn’t bother me, but the humbleness of it did. It was a bigger, grander house than the one we’d left, but the life we now lived was simpler. I never felt at home there.

New York took from me, from beginning to end, it seemed. The timeline of my time there is dotted with its thievery. Home, life, family, security, finances, faith. By the time I left, my small car packed with every earthly belonging, I would have been glad to never return.

I tell one of my girls this morning that it was the lonely, poor, and rejected times where I now see the providence of God. It was not New York that stole from me, it was God who pruned from me. Cutting off what didn’t bear fruit. My first three years in Texas I felt strong and tall and healthy, free of the dead branches. But new branches grew and they have to be pruned too. That is the truth I am learning: to bear healthy fruit, even new branches have to be pruned.

One of the most painful lessons God’s children must learn is that we are not God, and our strength is only as strong as our dependence on Him. He is our strength. That which bears fruit in us, is born of Him. He is the producer, not us. He is also the farmer and the vine-keeper. He decides what is not best, what is not fit to produce.

I have some fears about moving back to New York, going home to a state that took from me, a place where my faith withered and died. I have fears that feel paramount today. Fear that some will think I am running away. That some will think I will never settle down. That I am making a mistake. That there, where I am known, I will slip into old patterns and ways of thinking. Deadly things.

But at the bottom of those fears, I land on one solid truth: He prunes. He takes away and gives something better. And he does it over and over and over and over again until we are his likeness. Because He is the vine and the vine-keeper, and truest fruit-bearer.


You’d have thought I put on a tin-foil hat this afternoon when I tweeted, “Scuse me for being a little wary of conspiracy theories. I grew up thinking Keith Green was the antichrist & Social Security numbers were the mark of the beast.”

I can remember the exact moment one of my parents removed a Keith Green record from the player and returned it to its owner under decided instructions to never play it in our presence again. I also remember the day I walked into the social security office at age 19, signed my name, and apparently my soul, over to the devil. The lump in my throat was surely the first sign I was hell-bent on hell. Truthfully I just wanted my driver’s license and to stop getting paid under the table.

We cannot grow up unscathed by anything; we all carry the bumps and bruises of what our parents thought was best (Hebrews 12:7-11). Some will bear the presence of scars and some will bear the fruit of pruning—but we’re all carved out, shaped through, and pricked by the reality of life in a post-fall world.

And we’re all children of somebody broken by the same reality.

You don’t have to look far back in my family history to see dysfunction; in fact, a good hard look at just me will probably keep you busy for a good long time. We’re a mess, all of us, all the way back to Genesis. I don’t write about my family often because I love my parents, I know they love me, and I’m convinced they were doing what they thought was right. And, trust me, the antichrist and the mark of the beast are a small fraction of the oddities we embraced while I was growing up (and also a small fraction of the beauties of growing up in my particular family).

A few weeks ago I had a discussion with someone who landed on a very conservative position on a tertiary doctrine. My soul and flesh blanched, and my first thought was for the children. The children! Adults can navigate these difficult matters with a decorum of sanity, but children? Children are simultaneously the most accepting and most polarizing creatures. The world is so black and white to us as children, right and wrong, good and evil. We accept what is good, abhor what is evil, and call spades spades.

At some point, though, introduction to gray areas must happen with children, and eventually we need to decide for ourselves where we land on gray areas. Open-handed theology, secondary or tertiary doctrines, even matters of finances or what is considered modest—these must be areas where we are given the freedom to wrestle and own for ourselves in light of gospel implications. We are exposed to violence, politics, death, joy, sex, divorce—some of us are exposed to all and all are exposed to how everything is broken in a sense.

But the very first brokenness we encounter as children is our parents—and that is so very difficult.

I’m not a parent, but I imagine how difficult it must be to have concluded ideals that broke my child and for them to see my own flawed nature so clearly. I know, as a child, how very difficult it was for me to realize the devil didn’t reside in every song with a drum line; or that I wasn’t going to hell in a hand-basket when I got my little nine numbered blue card. It wasn’t wrestling with the music, though, or the number that was most difficult—it was the acknowledgement that Mom and Dad didn’t know best even if they were doing what they thought was best. And that that’s okay. Because God.

Every one of us has a story about our parents. We laugh about how over-protective they were, or under-protective. And for those of you who are parents, your children are crafting those stories about you right now. Some of them will be nostalgic “remember whens” and some of them will carry the weight of brokenness you tried to protect them from, but our prayer ought to be that these stories are told with greater perspective and deeper truths.

We pray we would not be like arrows kept in the quivers of our warrior parents, but that we would hit the mark, strong and true—even from broken bows.

The first words I remember hearing when I came to my church, “We’re okay if you’re not okay.”

And I knew it would be okay.

I would come as late as I could and still get a seat, sit in the back corner, closest to the door for a quick getaway. I knew I was still licking my wounds, but I couldn’t let anyone else see them, not yet.

“Who wounded you?” I would ask myself because I loved my former church and I loved my family and I loved my college and I loved my life and there was the wound, I found. I loved my life.

There was nothing to love about my life: I was a washed up homeschooled kid, battered by extremes, ideals, and strange theology, still trying to figure my way through life when death and divorce swooped through and wrecked everything I thought would protect me from what I’d been protected from. I was not okay. But I grabbed and clenched every scrap of life left to love. And I hated myself for it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Every generation of the Church comes along and finally corners the market. The Jesus Movement, the Bible Thumpers, the Emergent, the Young, Restless, Reformed—we’re all taking back something of what felt stolen from us. We’re learning to be okay in the face of what was not okay. We have never been a people much content with what we do have—we have pioneer blood running through our veins and there are always new lands to forge.

Someone asks me recently how it is that I am so okay with the wreck behind me and I remember the poet Adrienne Rich’s words, “I came to explore the wreck; the words are purposes, the words are maps.” I tell them I am not okay with the wreck behind me, but I am okay with not being okay. I thought once it was these words, the words I write every day, that let me be okay, but these words only help me navigate the invitation.

Peter was faced with the opportunity to listen to what others were saying about Jesus, and he said, “to whom else would we go? You have the words of eternal life!” He knew the invitation was not to fame or fortune, sense or stability—the invitation was to eternity and his only ride was upon the words of Jesus.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

We’re okay if you’re not okay, “but we don’t want you to stay that way,” is the rest of the invitation at my church.

This morning I read Revelation 19:9, “And the angel said to me, “Write this: Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb.” And he said to me, “These are the true words of God.”

The truth is none of us will corner any market in the Kingdom of God. His kingdom is not a store or an auction, selling to the highest bidder or best-behaved sinner. On the threshold of His kingdom is a feast and a marriage; our King is a Lamb and all His children are invited.

So I don’t know what your wreckage is, and I don’t know what your story is, and I don’t know how the Church has hurt or harmed you, or grown or strengthened you, but I know this: it’s a blessing to be invited to the table and He’s okay if you’re not okay: He has the truest words of all.



You’re probably wondering how I can confidently say that 2010’s file was marked “the year everything changed for the rest of my life.” I tend to be intuitive, but even I surely can’t know that things are changed for the rest of my life.

But I won’t renege on that one. Because here’s what I’m not saying:

I’m not saying that things will never go poorly for me. I’m not saying that the void inside of me is filled, brimming over with love for others or myself or God. I’m not saying that there won’t be more death or divorce or pain or depression or suffering in life, or that the doubt that plagues the deepest parts of me, clinging to me like packing popcorn to a pea-coat, will never come again.

What I am saying is that everything changed.

At the end of 40 days of fasting where nothing changed in my heart, my soul, or my mind, I was really ready to walk away entirely. But God is a God of small details and He began to line up small things that were imperceptible to me, but which now I see were acts of His grand sovereignty.

A book called The Reason for God. A sermon called Preaching the Gospel to the Dechurched. A best friend, who tirelessly fasted with me and walked through the bible with me. A spontaneous trip to the Dallas area. A card from my Mom. My car being totaled. Taxes that put me in the red. For four months, God was sure and certainly moving me into a place of absolute emptiness.

I had nothing in mid-June. Nothing.

But I had the inklings of hope that there was something.

People want to know what made the difference in me. What changed? Did I ‘get saved’? What clicked?

And the truth is that I don’t know. I don’t have the answers to those questions. Here’s what I know: we go from glory to glory, faith to faith, and my faith has taken a long, long time to get here. There was no On switch or Ah-ha moment. There was only the sweet, gentle, sometimes painful drawing of my eyes off of me and onto Him.

What changed is that I realized that I was not living my story, but that I was living His and that His glory was the only glory that mattered. All my hopes and dreams and righteousness and labors of love were filthy rags before Him. He alone was worthy—and as long as I competed with that, I would find myself in a false gospel.

What changed is that where God had been my genie God, who I would put in my debt, and then my caricature God, whose only features were the hell-bent, fury-filled, standoffish, or selfish, that God doesn’t exist in my head or heart anymore. It’s not that there are even recesses of Him remaining. I really mean it when I say that that God doesn’t exist.

He never did, not really.

It is just the residue of what happens when I’m more set on my glory than His. 

So what changed is that He doesn’t change.

Before I was concerned about my hopes and dreams, my righteousness, now I care about seeing His glory magnified, His righteousness glorified.

Before I was concerned about feeling loved and filling my void, now I am consumed with loving Him and filling my life with gratefulness for Him.

Before I would tally-mark my actions and keep score with all the “good” gifts I received and I always came up lacking, now I barely notice the good things I do (if they’re there at all!), and I’m astounded at the goodness He puts in my life.

Before I dwelt on my doubts, now I seek refuge in His wisdom.

Before I gathered my goodness, now I am grateful for His.

Before I was desperate for love, now I am overwhelmed that He chose me.

Before I fretted about finances, now I ask Him to make me poorer and His kingdom richer.

Before I was prone to depression, now I understand that He made me to feel things deeply, but to find my deepest joy in Him—and to confess my deepest fears to Him.

Before I ignored the cross, despised my sufferings, rejected grace, now I cling to the cross, treasure my suffering, and receive grace daily.

Before I worried about life turning out okay, now I long for heaven more quickly.

The difference is that in 2010 a fullness of the gospel, the parts I’d been so blind to for so many years, was revealed to me.

And my life was changed.


In 2007 I moved back to New York, where life had taken so much from me, but where I knew I was also loved deeply and known deeply. My church family there had adopted me richly and loved me so well.

I put my hand to the plow and determined to love well in return. I served hard. I served long. I bit the bullet. I did it in the name of love. I felt as though I had been given the gift of love and the only thing to do in response was to love back.

The thing is, it is so easy for me to love that place.

It is beautiful country. The skies are magnificent. The mountains are near. The seaway is near. The college town is quiet in the summer, wrought with fun things to do and campfires to be had. It is bustling in the autumn with new and returning students, fresh opportunities. It is still and quiet in the winter, when the snow piles high and the only thing to do is drink tea and shovel the driveway. It is fresh and perfect in the spring, green, lush, and alive. It is so easy for my soul to write there. I find things to write about every day because there is always something to notice or some parallel to be made.

It is easy to love those people. They are loved, with their homes busting at the seams with children and whole foods, homemade things and hospitality. It is impossible to not love them. And I so deeply love them. I wrung myself out with love hoping that I would fill the void that was so present in me.
I served myself dry in hopes that the prayers I was still afraid to voice would come true.

I was certain that if I could just love widely enough or deeply enough, then God would find that void in me and He would fill it with His love.

He wasn’t my genie God anymore, but He was my caricature God and all I was beginning to see were the seeming flaws.

Someone said to me recently that they were afraid to leave some theological questions unanswered because what if that unanswered question was the question that kept the seeker awake at night and would render them faithless without an answer? I tell him to trust more, because it was those unanswered questions that led me to one February night in 2010. I was curled in fetal position on my bedroom floor and I was saying things to a God I wasn’t sure existed about a salvation I was sure was never mine.

The thing about unanswered questions about God is not that they will all be answered here on earth, but that at some point it is the mysterious magnitude of a great God that leads us to trust that sometimes they are simply too wondrous for us to know.

At the threshold of questions about Church membership and tithing, liturgy and the Holy Spirit, I did not know that asking these things would lead me to question the very existence of God, but I would not trade those question marks for a host of periods.

There was a question posed to me a year ago: Recall a time when you were humbled by God?

And the answer was easy, it was that moment I was curled in fetal position on my bedroom floor, telling God what I really, deep down, honestly believed about Him. Not what I wanted to believe. Not what I was told to believe. Not what I knew I should believe.

But what I did believe.

To empty my soul of all my misconceptions about God, His character, His attributes, His glory, His church, His love; to say to God all the things I really believed about Who He Was and Who He Wasn’t—this was necessary to pull out the file marked “2010, the year everything changed for the rest of my life.”

 My front porch, seemingly perfect, 
but where I filled hours of time voicing 
my doubts, fears, and frustrations with God.


To be continued with TRADING: LIFE Part V

In 2005 I found myself again at a wilderness camp, coming home to a very different move. This time it was on my own accord. I finished out my work at the camp, left the next day for a trip to Nepal, and stepped off the plane three weeks later to drive 17 hours to a new life in Tennessee.

I was ready to start something new. Both of my best friends had gotten married that year. I felt crushed on every side by everyone’s life change but my own. So I invented life change. The south had always been a haven for me, I was ready to leave cold weather, finish my English degree, meet a man of my own, or, at the very least, have an adventure.

Within a few months in Tennessee I felt myself come alive. Classes invigorated me. Professors challenged me. I found a church. And most of all I found a posse of friends that still remain my favorite posse. I met a guy who was easy to be with, who made me laugh, who challenged and inspired me in every area of life. I had roommates who were healthy and happy. I learned to worship in quiet ways. I learned that life was worship. I learned that the Holy Spirit was a joy-bringer and that the lack of joy in my life was evidence that I wasn’t walking in the Spirit and not evidence that God had left me.

I dwelt deeply in those years. 

I lived deeply. Loved deeply. Hurt so, so deeply. I conversed deeply. I drank deeply from the well of art, writing, worship, prayer, and communion. I felt like I finally stepped into my shoes and they fit! They fit!

I discovered that I loved color and color loved me. I painted. I wrote. I played the piano.

I began to realize that even orphans were people and I was a person. I began to love the other orphans.

I began to learn about how I was knit together, how I was purposed, intended, meant. How parts of me were meant to work in certain ways and how this would make me feel fully alive.

And I’ll be honest, there were still some deep voids in me. I learned to love deeply in these years, but I remained staunchly doubtful of anyone’s love for me, including God’s love.

One night, a friend and I sat out in the back of his pickup truck and at the end of our conversation he said some words to me that I have never forgotten. He told me how much he loved me, respected me; how he loved the way I loved our group and the Lord. How he loved the way I dressed in creative ways. How I brushed my curls away from my face and how my eyes sparkled when we were all together as the Makeshift Family.

This might sound like an admission of love, and it was, but not the sort of love you may be thinking. Because he is the same friend who, in the absence of any of my family, stood as my brother when I walked magna cum laude across the stage to get my diploma. He is the same friend who, when he and his wife were expecting their first, called on me to pick Gideon Archer’s middle name. In the bed of that truck that evening, he was the first friend who looked at my orphan soul and said, “No, we’re not walking in that. You’re beautiful. You’re chosen. You’re precious. You matter. You matter.

It was in this period of time that I learned that other people loved me. That I was loved. That wherever I went in life I would not be alone and I would not be lonely.

I might carry with me the scars of brokenness and the heaviness of depression for the rest of my life, I might never feel the love of God, but I knew in this period of time that I would not walk alone.

 Six years and counting, 
the Makeshift Family still loves each other deeply

Continue Reading…

In 1998 I came home from a summer working at a wilderness camp to my parents telling us that we were leaving that week for a trip to northern New York.

And a mention of a possible move to New York the following spring.

Our family is the adventurous sort. We are made of soldiers and entrepreneurs, business owners and people on mission. None of us shy from risk; in fact, we are the opposite, running full-force into it, waiting for the cards to fall where they will. If there is possibility of failure and probability of success, count us in. But New York, just a neighboring state to our native Pennsylvania, felt too big of a risk.

It would be a seven hour trip from home—a move from comfortable suburbia, towering trees, and an area wrought with historic significance for us as a family, but also us as a country. There was nothing, that I could see, that New York could offer us.

Even now, looking back, New York did not offer us anything, in fact, it was a taker from beginning to end. Even in its giving moments, it was still a taker.

It took me far from everything I’d known. It killed my brother in an accident within that first year. It took me away from college. It took my parents marriage apart. It took every ounce of energy for me to make ends meet. It offered me a haven and friendships in my church there, but one by one, in those next few years, I felt taken from even in them as friends married and my homes never lasted much more than nine or ten months.

I remember vividly one freezing winter night, driving home to an empty apartment in 2003, my window wiper broke. It was snowing furiously outside, I couldn’t see anything outside my car; I felt lonely, forgotten, empty, void of anything good and hopeless disillusioned with myself and God. I pulled my car over on the side of the road and wept furious tears. I pounded my steering wheel until my hand was bruised and I screamed, “I was good and this is how you repay me?

I stayed there on the side of the road until my tears dried or it stopped snowing, I don’t remember. All I know is that something broke in me that night.

I was orphaned.

I received something that night that until the past year I have lived with for a decade. I realized that all my goodness wouldn’t result in anything good in return, so I would continue doing the right things because they found me favor with people, but I stopped expecting anything from God.

He could say He was my father, but I would never know that. And I would be okay with that.

Other people would understand love. Other people would understand affection. Other people would feel the move of the Holy Spirit. But me? Me? I was orphaned. Set aside to show people what happened when you were handpicked by God to show what his wrath here on earth looked like.

In a meeting with one of my pastors soon after this dismantling of everything held precious, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “I don’t know why this hand has been dealt to you, and I am so, so, so deeply sorry for that.”

I grit my teeth then. I set my face like steel. I braced myself for earthly wrath and constant disappointment.

And He didn’t disappoint.

If life is a file drawer and each year a file marked by bad haircuts, first kisses, diplomas, and good decisions, I would have a file from 1996 marked “the year things started to get better” and a file from 1999 marked “the year things started to get worse.” One more from 2006 marked, “the year things started to get better” and another, from 2010, marked “the year things started getting really bad.”

Tonight a song comes on my car stereo and I am thrown back to 1996 when I first heard the album and where things seemed to start to get better. But first you should know that I made life a living hell for my family pre-1996. I have a mouth that will send any sane person running and a caustic sneer that deserved every length of discipline directed toward me. I honestly don’t know how my parents ever let me out of my room, let alone let me interact with people outside our immediate family.

If I thought about it, I could probably come up with some seemingly legitimate excuses for my behavior, but I’m prepared to take full responsibility for the wretchedness of my heart and its impending actions.

Something changed in 1996 though. A few things changed. One, I met a family with a son several years older than me who took a vested interest in my writing, encouraged me, emailed me, corrected me, challenged me. Two, I attended a conference meant to stir lukewarm kids into radical, faith-filled obedience—though unfortunately resulted in a hardened legalism for most of us. Three, I discovered that my quick mind worked toward better causes when I kept my mouth shut and my fingers penning.

I remember coming home from that conference determined to make things different in my heart. I apologized to my parents for my despicable behavior, I cut ties with friendships that led me away from anything wholesome, I secreted my bible by my bedside and began to journal religiously. I made lists of everything bad I wanted to do and lists for how I would counter every bad behavior. Where sinful thoughts reigned, I memorized counter verses. Where selfish behavior manifested, I self-disciplined myself into modification. Where doubts arose, I squashed them down with a furrowed brow and a stalwart heart.

I did right things. I did.

I read the right books. I said the right things. I dreamed right dreams. I asked for right things. I intended toward right behavior.

I collected my righteousness, watching it pile up like sand in an hourglass, waiting for the right time for God to turn over that hourglass and start pouring his blessings like sand in my direction.

I was sure this would happen.

I had dreams, folks, big dreams. I was going to do things with my life and accomplish things and I was going to change the world with my words and my right acts. People were going to pass me on the street and smell righteousness on me. God would stand back, fold his arms, nod and say, “Well, done. Good, faithful servant. Very well done.” And then He would answer the list of prayers that were piling up in my prayer notebook. Prayers, dreams, whatever you want to call them. They were my bribe. I would do this, and do it well, and He would give me everything I could imagine.

My genie God.

I rubbed that genie God for five years. I dressed modestly, meticulously. I kept my thoughts pure. I didn’t date around. I monitored my friendships. I invested in my family first. I kept my mouth shut for the most part. I had cache of memorized scripture. Friends called me a walking concordance, the speed at which I could recall Bible verses was brilliant. I was a leader among my peers. I gave 200% at everything I did. Horse-back riding, lifeguarding, camp counselor, friend, confidant.

I rubbed that genie lamp until I shined. 

And then God started the file of 1999.

Continue reading…