Holy Week is a study in paradox. The somber and the celebratory.
I know many people politely pay their respects to Good Friday, impatient to get to the explosion of praise on Sunday. These people want to celebrate and give thanks for the life and abundance they are experiencing in their season. I get that and I think it’s wonderful – I’ve been there. I am there, in a way.
Last year, I visited a different camp. I spent last Good Friday as a Mourner. (I suppose I always will, in a way.) And to the people in that group who resonate terribly with this ‘holiday’, who recognize all-too-well the specter of death, the hope extinguished, the DARKNESS…I am so sorry you’re in that place. I know (I’ve felt) that He promises to be near to the brokenhearted and crushed in Spirit. But that doesn’t make it much easier, does it?
But there’s a third group. The Saturday people, often overlooked in the church. I think it’s because we make projects out of the Friday people and leaders out of the Sunday people. But what about the people in that bleak and weary middle. Who have heard the repeated promises of redemption and are just…waiting. Who commiserate with the Mourners and can’t help but grin at the Sunday celebrators, but go home to their threadbare resolve.
This is the story of my very best Saturday. But I won’t ever forget the time I spent in that waiting place.
Several of you have asked if there is a story behind Noah's name.
Oh, guys - you know me so well. OF COURSE THERE IS.
I've told you before that grief is exhausting. In the early days, it ate up SO MUCH of my emotional bandwidth, leaving me with this strange feeling of scarcity. I would acknowledge that my threshold was necessarily low, and end up doling out my emotions with pinching thriftiness.
A little for you, a little for that. Whoops, I anticipate a tough weekend coming up, so I can't have this conversation right now.
So when my best friend Danielle asked me if we were trying to have another baby, it took me a while to come up with the words to text back.
I....don't...can't...no know how to words I think about that...
**I feel the need to clarify that the majority of this post was written when we first moved to Nashville and I was not nursing a newborn...
"Let's drink tequila and talk about the universe."
This is how I wish I could make friends in my new city. When I see that girl with sick dreadlocks making amazing watercolors in the corner of the cafe or pass the cool moms at the farmer's market whose kids dress better than I do...I wish I could skip the whole introduction/small talk/feel each other out and get right to the point.
So what do you think about God's interaction with the space time continuum?
I like to think that I am not typically a bandwagoner. I resisted the acid wash revival trend and I don't like pumpkin flavored drinks and I still don't think Seinfeld is funny.
But on the occasion that I do jump on a bandwagon, I make sure to try and drag everyone on with me. (I'm not #basic, you're just dumb). YOU'RE NOT WEARING HIGH WAISTED PANTS!? WHAT, DO YOU HATE YOUR INTESTINES OR DO YOU SIMPLY ENJOY THE SMALL MORTIFYING EXERCISE OF TUCKING YOUR BELLY INTO YOUR WAISTBAND BEFORE YOU SIT DOWN?
That being said, I am ready to announce my #wordfor2018. Yes, thank you for waiting on the edge of your seat.
I know you feel stuck and bleak and frustrated. I know being in the bleary, grinding middle is exhausting. The days run together and you feel like life is passing as you tread water.
Hear me when I say that hard is relative. Hard is just hard, regardless of where the weary comes from. Yes, there are the orphans with the distended bellies and the war widows and the homeless and the whole broken weight of humanity. But you are still allowed to say "this is hard." Because everyone is fighting a battle and it's important to be kind - especially to yourself. So look at your fight and your Fear and acknowledge that yes, it is hard. This is your hard. Be in it and don't run from it or numb from it or hide from it. Be in it.
Nine years ago this week, Drew and I got engaged. He got on one knee at the farm near my parents' house. He was on crutches at the time and I definitely thought he was falling down on his face. We were just babies -- 21 years old. We grew up together, Drew and I. We became our true adult selves in each others' impossibly close proximity and it was really funny sometimes and really confusing sometimes and hell on earth a lot of the time.
This is not a fun or snarky post. I'm here to talk about sad and hard things again.
The short version of our story (which you can read more on here and here) is that we lost our second daughter Finley to a late-term miscarriage in December. I've mentioned this before, but I still don't know how to be a person who grieves in a public space. I can't tell you how many posts I have sitting in my drafts folder that I abandoned, thinking "this is just too much of a downer".
You guys know I like to do updates in batches, so as to appear very interesting and important. I have five things going on right now. FIVE NEW THINGS. It's no big deal, really. *hair flip*
1. THIS SASSY NEW SITE
Drew, angelheart that he is, built me this new site in his very limited spare time and I am over the moon about it (and him). Of course, there are still tweaks to be made and sexy new updates we'd like to add. But as my girl Liz Gilbert says: done is better than good. So here we are.