God's Pursuit of Me
To have found God and still to pursue Him is the soul's paradox of love. - A.W. Tozer
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in defense of female friendships . . .
So there’s this part of me that’s afraid of friendships with women. You guys, I have been so burned before. Stack one time on top of another, on top of that, and I’m telling you – I know what the pain of betrayal and broken relationship feels like. Oh – it’s the bitterest of pills to swallow. It stings. It scars. It stays. And I have certainly spent my fair share of time avoiding close community with females. If I am wary, trust me when I say I have my reasons. Yes, I am forty-two years old and I’ve got mounds left to learn, but I’ve also learned a little…
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songs and sundays
Sunday we sang lyrics that found tears streaking down my face. (Which isn’t entirely unusual, of course.) You’re my one defense, my righteousness. O Lord – how I need you. And I was reminded as the pastor prayed – Jesus IS the plan. Like – he’s not the back up plan. In fact, I guess I don’t have a back up plan. Which is saying a lot from a girl who always had a Master Plan and a Short List and a Long List. And a Daily List and a Notebook To Keep All The Lists. So. Many. Plans. And now. Now, I do not. I do not have plans.…
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about hope and band aids that only cover but don’t heal and the beauty that remains
A couple years ago there was this article circulating amongst the social media fodder about the dangerous use of Instagram and Facebook to make one’s life look unreasonably beautiful and perfect. And (way back then) I wrote a post about how I think it’s perfectly fine and completely fitting to share your favorite pretty moments and your kids dressed in plaid if you feel like it. I think that’s how I’ve been feeling again lately with posts and updates and all that jazz. There’s just so much and so much and piles on top of piles (and no, the extra so much is not a typo) of less than stellar moments…
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thriving in captivity: the story of an exile
Today this phrase – this piece of a sentence – was spoken to me. Thrive in captivity. And I can’t stop thinking about it. What does that mean? How does one do that? What does that look like? It’s a garden in prison. You know? A flower box inside a jail cell. It’s being a slave but not losing hope. It’s like being a foreigner but not being forsaken. The idea really captures me. And my language here might be a mix and a jumble of both my words and my thoughts and her prompting and her questioning and I hope that doesn’t qualify as plagarizing…
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the sign for my forehead
And I want to say – I am not the person I used to be. I want it printed on a t-shirt – no, a sign on my forehead in Sharpie or something. (Maybe another tattoo Dad?) I want everyone to know. This life has changed me. The past year my life and emotions and thoughts and actions have shifted and sorted and been bruised and pushed down and spilled over and poured out and exploded and imploded and wrecked havoc and brought peace and in all ways and in all manners have left me a different human. I used to return e-mails on time. Or at all. And I…
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the fact that it passes
My hands shake sometimes when I type. They shake with the fears that still rise and fall with some of my heart beats. (But not all of them.) They shake when my phone lights up with a troublesome text or when I run into a person I haven’t seen in many months and their expression reminds me that they know more about me than I know about them. That’s where I am. That’s what happens. But it doesn’t last. You know? It’s a flash. And it fades. And the fact that it doesn’t last is grace enough for me right now.
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still watching sleeping heads.
I watch kids sleep as much now as I did when they were babies. In those infant days I was checking for breathing. Hovering over their bitty heads and listening for breath sounds. Staring with sleepy eyes at their itty chests to see if I could notice the tiny rise and fall of breaths taken in and breaths breathed out. The fears I am fending off internally now are not altogether different than they were then though. Am I wrecking this one? How can I possibly get this right? There is no way I am a good enough momma to manage this. Their bodies are much bigger now. The crib…
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when there is no answer
The truth is ….. trouble follows you wherever you go. The Avett Brothers have a song entitled “The Weight of Lies” and a couple lines in that song had me thinking on our recent flight to Texas. The weight of lies will bring you down And follow you to every town cause Nothing happens here that doesn’t happen there …. Lies don’t need an aeroplane to chase you down Sometimes I fall into the trap of thinking that a new setting will be the answer. But I forget. There is no answer. Here, on this green patch of earthly sorrow and glory, there is no answer. No answer that satisfies…
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my psalm.
I cannot answer the question of why I signed up for this class at our church. Redemption Group. It’s offered once or twice a year I think. I’ve seen it in the bulletin off and on for a while, my friends have led the class before. I’ve heard of it. And sometime in February I guess – I started taking the class. Eleven weeks. Every Monday night. It was the real thing. Signed contracts to attend every session, to not share the stories of the people in your group. A group therapy of sorts for sure. I attended the first week and was pretty sorry I had signed my contract…
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perhaps today
I was young once. About a million years ago. I think I almost remember it. And back then I remember hearing people – old, crazy, out of touch people – saying stuff like, “I look forward to heaven” and “Goodness, I wish Jesus would return soon”. Back then, Young Lacey, Not Suffered Any Yet Lacey, would listen to those people and think, “Man, they’ve let life get them all bitter. They don’t have much good going on. I hope I never get that old. I like life a lot. Shh, don’t tell these guys, but I sort of want Jesus to come back a long long time from now.” Now…
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transparency: a mixed bag
I am endlessly encouraged by the kind and generous words people place before me – here, in the comments; in parking lots during brief encounters; through early morning texts; in letters (real letters) arriving in my mailbox. Completely unworthy of the words offered, I find myself humbled and grateful and frankly so thankful for friends (and strangers) who share uplifting words and sentiments, who ask hard questions and wait while I consider my responses. One word I can never take any genuine credit for, however, is the word transparent. Transparent. You know that word? I recognize that it is offered as a compliment – but the reason I don’t think…
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nevertheless
My dad said, “Aren’t two tattoos excessive for a forty-one year old mother of six?” I laughed. Grinned at him. And then. Weeks later. A message left on my phone’s voice mail. His tractor-trailer-driving muffled voice at the same familiar lilt I’ve known since birth. “And what will you tell your children when they want a tattoo?” I push call back and answer his question. I’ll say, “Yes. If my daughter reaches the age of forty-one and wants to tattoo a singular word of hope and praise on her forearm, I’ll say yes. Yes – can I go with you?” It’s just a word. In a beautiful…
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wait
I have never waited well. I am terrible at transitions. I abhor in-between. I want to be Here or There but I cannot abide Nowhere. And yet this season this season I wait. I sit still and I try not to pace but I feel my feet shuffling. I try not to fret but I feel my heart pounding. People ask me, “Are you praying? Are you talking to God?” And I say, “Yes. As I breathe in and out. As I drive and as I sit. I mean – I talk, except I’m not certain what words I’m saying.” “And what does He answer?” they ask. I shake my…
