.on Swedish scissors and minding my own business.

I pinned a pair of Swedish scissors to one of my Pinterest boards yesterday.

I can't say I even knew there was such a thing. Until yesterday. When I pinned it. Because they were pretty. And Swedish.

There's probably some deep psychological explanation as to why I feel the need for Swedish scissors when they do the same thing as American scissors. (American scissors? Sure.)

All I know is that when I pinned them, I wanted them. 

I want a lot of things.

Today was one of those days, when most of the day was spent griping about this and complaining about that. A grown-up tantrum is probably a better way to put it. And these can be uglier than tantrums that littles throw, starting with the fact that we've got a broader vocabulary and some 4 letter words and we can't chalk it up to our 4-year old issues. 

Because that was like 20 years ago.

Most of this tantrum was regarding things I don't have, but really want. Things I feel like I've been waiting a little too long for, things that haven't changed, relationships that have yet to heal...and at one point I definitely was all, "God, really? Why are you so mean to me?!"

Dignified, I know.

One thing I've realized is that things get really ugly when I stop minding my own business. It's when I start looking around and seeing other people's "Swedish scissors" when I'm stuck with boring old Fiskars from the 5th grade that aren't even hipster or vintage, just old Fiskars, maybe with some dried glue on them. Nobody wants to be holding Fiskars when the Swedish Scissors are at the next table over. 

Somewhere between pinning scissors and calling God a big meanie I started thinking about the Apostle Paul and his contented ways.

"...for

 I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. 

I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." Philippians 4:11-12

What I gather from this is that Paul stopped looking around, kept his eyes on his God, and was a little too busy minding his own to be comparing himself to his neighbor, brother, sister, prison-mate, or what have you. He was on to something. He still is, friends.

This passage came to mind today and it was a very timely word heard over my inner kicking and screaming.

This doesn't mean that my list of desires has gotten any shorter. There are things these hearts of ours want that are good and right and beautiful. One thing that's fabulous about God's word is that it reminds us to put those things in their rightful place which is right back in those hands of His that tend to these hearts of ours if we'd only look at Him and remember it. Paul knew this. We know it too. 

And we don't even have to trade in our Fiskars.

.homeward.

we look for rest in circumstance.
we look for rest in ability.

but You, our friend.
we really just want to be with You.

but we can't comprehend it.
this thing called Eternity.
and we can hardly comprehend love unconditional.
and so we ask, while we are here, is there really no rest for the weary?

we catch glimpses in our mind's eye,
of You with us, as promised,
and in all that reminds us of Home,

a solitary spot in the back of the house
the floorboards that creak under our feet,
newspaper ink on our hands,
kin around our table,
and the way that our loved one holds their cup of coffee.

You make Your presence known to us,
in that way You tend to do,
some of which we only see upon reflection.

in laugh lines
groggy-eyes
the clink of glasses
wooden spoons in hand
laughter down the hallway

we see in silhouettes only,
a bit about where we are headed,
and still You are so much more.

the sun on our backs is You pushing us forward,
homeward,
nearer to our rest.

Until then, we are intent on finding You here, in the lowliest of places,
content to see You in fragments only.

We'll find You in the frames above the mantel,
in the words on a dog-eared page,
in our family names,
when the dishes are piled high in the sink,
during the long goodbye's at the back door.

And You will meet us there as well, right where we are.

.reflections on the long way around.

Learning lessons can be slow in coming sometimes. And getting off the beaten path can be easier then staying on the one set before us.

Maybe it's because I have a tendency to tell myself that my own way of doing things is like "trailblazing". Which is embarrassing because it's mostly like stubbornness.

But see, when you're the "trailblazer",  it's easier to call it all an adventure and call it a day, then to call it being lost and call for help.

And so if you were to take a look in this rear view mirror of mine, you'd most likely find me taking the long way around.

Either heading in the wrong direction. 

Or heading in the right one and everything's just taking a bit longer.

--

The thing about choosing the long way around, is if it's headed in the wrong direction, you don't get very far.

It goes in circles and is filled with rough patches of pride and isolation and lots of walking along trying to prove something to yourself. Or to somebody who's probably not even paying attention. 

It's when the map has been laid out in front of you, but you refuse to look because you want to take a different route. You're convinced you know the lay of the land and there's a compass in your pocket, so what more could you possibly need? 

And usually, you find yourself right back where you started. 

Been there.

--

But when you've been led through the long way around? Well, then it feels a bit more like a long story.

There's times when you're walking in the sun and it smells like autumn and you can see what's in front of you. The road is smooth and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you have a Companion who knows what He's doing, so you don't have to.

And there's times when you turn a corner and the terrain isn't as forgiving. The sun's gone and you've got a twisted ankle and some questions for that Companion of yours who's lead you here. 

And you're mostly just weary. 

So you check the map again, but find that this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

This road, however long, will always be headed in the right direction. 

--

And It's at the mile markers, when you can take a look back and tell that story about where you've been.

It's the kind that will mingle with the stories of others. And so you'll want to tell it bright-eyed to your best friend over a glass of wine or to your folks when your standing in the kitchen in your socks, or to those someday-grandkids who aren't around to hear it yet and probably won't want to hear it again when they are around.

Because you'll have already told it a hundred times. 

It's the kind that doesn't have a "long story short..".  And you'll re-tell it to yourself too, over and over again over the years, long after your twisted ankle has healed and you've had a good night's rest. 

You'll get perspective and it may look a little different farther along.

But all in all, it will always be a good story about the miles of ground you covered. Because it's been in good Hands.

And you've lived to tell about it. 

.the ugly cry-laugh thing.

I turned 23 back in April.  And that was a really big deal for me.

I know, I know.  

23 is not old, and it's not 25 either...I can't even call it a quarter-life crisis. dammit.

I guess I'd liken it to an awkward cry-laugh.

You know those times when you don't know whether to cry or laugh, so you just kind of cry a little, then laugh because maybe life is a little too ridiculous at the moment, then eat some chips & guac or what have you, then cry-laugh a little more?  

That's been 23 for me so far.  I guess you could say it would make for a good parody of T.Swift's "22"...someone should write that.

This isn't to say that being 23 has been all bad or even mostly bad, 

just different. Very. different.

By this point I've realized how little I know about what I thought I knew a lot about.

Like life, for instance. 

After I left a big city Bible college about 

2 years ago, there were some earth-shattering circumstances that occurred, one right after the other, and I started to realize that I didn't know as much as I thought about life or being a Christian for that matter. And in full disclosure, I became anxious, depressed, and apathetic. But I hesitated to call those things by their rightful names when talking to others (or even when acknowledging my own story) because I thought I was better than that. Until...23. 

It's a strange feeling when you really start to see you for exactly who you are and name the places that you've been and start to say, "Yes, I've struggled with this."

"Yes I'm a Christian, and I struggle with anxiety."

"Yup, I'm a Christ-follower and I struggle with depression."

"Uh-huh, I can be a pretty apathetic believer in Jesus...you too? Awesome. Not that that's awesome, but let's talk

about it."

It's a chaotic combination of terror and relief. Kind of like a good cry-laugh. But getting honest is the best part. The healing part. The part that changes your perspective and forces you to wrestle with life and faith alongside some solid people who will ask you the hard questions. 

I have been surrounded by some amazing people who have been doing just that and are quick about helping this girl to get a firm grasp on her 23 year old self, either by saying "This is good" or "This is not good and needs to go." They keep it simple. I can recall a friend who basically told me as I was tearing up over breakfast food, "You're not believing the truth...that's dumb."

Thanks.

But you know, it's refreshing, and I think it's actually one of the greatest things, to have friends like that. The ones who will tell you over a plate of comfort food or a hot mug, "This isn't you. This isn't what you should be believing. Duh...but I love you." 

I never was very big on "community" up until life started happening at a ferocious pace beyond anything I could control. Then I realized how weak I was. Alone. By myself. And that's a great place to be really, because it makes us realize how much we need people. And they can help us say all the things we were too afraid to say in the first place. 

Like how it's easy to call my stubbornness "conviction", when really it's just stubbornness dressed up in it's Sunday best.

Or how I sometimes dismissively say, "Psh, this person is..." when, in some ways, I was just like that person not so long ago. 

Just to name a few.

These are the ones who give us permission, and often the words, to call something what it is. And it's something everybody needs.

All this to say, I'm 23 and might not be so good at it, but I am happy to have the people who are in my life with me right now who I can cry-laugh with from time to time. 

I'm also becoming more grateful to be in a place where I just don't know about a lot of things. I've found more freedom in saying "God, I just don't know right now and I'm kind of angry and scared about that." rather than "God, I've got this, I've totally got it and look, I'm not even crying about it." 

This kind of freedom makes the "I don't know, but I'm trusting..." plan not just a 23-year-old thing, but an all-life-long-99.9-year-old thing. And I sincerely hope I'll still have some good friends in wheelchairs playing Scrabble with me someday saying, "don't be believing that...pass the letters."

.for the battered and the weathered and the ones who finger-paint.

"Imagine yourself as a living house.  God comes in to rebuild that house.  At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing.  He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on;  you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised.  But presently he starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense.  What on earth is He up to?  The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of-throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards.  You thought you were  being made into a decent little cottage: but he is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself." :: C.S Lewis, Mere Christianity

I'd really like the blueprints, please.

because the honest truth is it's easier to feel at home in a "decent little cottage", when we know what the rooms look like and where the light switches are. In fact, I 'd prefer it.

I'm not familiar with this structure He's building, towers and wings and all.

It could be fun, you know.  I could make like a Narnia kid and go running around the halls looking for the wardrobe, not knowing what I'd find around every corner.

When did that kind of adventure become less exhilarating and more terrifying?

"...isn't he the carpenter, the son of Mary?" Mark 6:3

He can build His home in me. The palace intended.
I hesitate to hand over the hammer and nails.
I fear demolition and additions.
I hate not knowing my way around.

I had ideas of my own. Blueprints of what this "living house" should look like.
But more and more everyday I find myself loosening my grip on them, crumpled and worn from years of white-knuckles & holding tight. They've practically disintegrated in my hands.

maybe that's the point.

The plan was for my mom to get well.
The plan was to leave college toting a degree.
The plan was to be living somewhere else.

The plan was to be dating by now.

The plan was to be confident by now.
The plan was to be a grown up by now.

The plan was not what things are.
Nowhere near them.

And so He's watched me draw these plans out and color in the lines, like a loving Father watches his girl with her finger-paints creating her own "masterpiece".

According to my finger-paints, this house should look different.

but a finger-painted blue-print makes for an unsound structure indeed.

He knows this.

So I think maybe He's framed my crumpled and worn, colored-in painted-on plans to lovingly hang on the wall of the Home He's building for Himself, just like a Father would.
My "masterpiece" in His grand plan.
And the thought of this pulls out the adventurer in me.
The one who looks forward to exploring the halls and rooms He's building.

"What on earth is He up to?"

: "I should really learn to make an omelet.." And other such thoughts:

thoughts I've had today :

1. "I should really learn to make an omelet."

2. "I need to get that haircut because I look like an amazon woman and people are starting to stare."

3. "Oh gee, my stomach...it's looking a little like a stuffed potato. Time for that post-holiday tone-up. Can I still call it "post-holiday" if it's basically March? Yes. Yes I can."

4. "Did I just say, 'oh gee'? Mental note: do not say this out loud"

5. "If I'm ever a mom, I will never be joining a mom's group. NEVERRR *echo echo*"

6. "I should move to Kentucky" closely followed by, "nah you won't make it and if you do you'll most likely be disappointed. And poorer than you are now."

7. "Lady who just beeped at me for pulling out of a driveway, you make it really hard for me to be like Jesus."

8. "Why am I such a perfectionist? I hate it"...*purposely moves vase of flowers off-center on the table* 

"Ok, I'm crazy. There is something wrong with me."

9. "Dear God, you still love me today right? Even though I think mom's groups are annoying and I hate money and get defensive and sometimes squirm at accountability because I just really want to be perfect and good at everything, okay? Yuck. I'm sorry. Amen."

This is embarrassing. But these are the things I think. Because I really just want to get to a place where I'm ok with myself and, for goodness sake, make an omelet. 

But if there's one thing I'm learning these days is that my brain has this default setting and when I wake up, the voice  starts. It's like sitting within the four walls of my mind and putting the needle to the record player and all I'm hearing are words like the ones above bouncing off one wall to another.

And really, I'm sick and tired of it.

It's a lovely thing when we realize that we don't have to sit in that room anymore. We can switch the record player over to an old Billie Holiday vinyl, grab a mug and a good read and sit outside and think on better things.

Things like how we're loved despite our quirks and awkwardness and lack of domestic ability. Our hearts are tended to by a Loving Hand, broken as they are. And if we're honest, broken is how they come.

I don't mean this to be yet another post that we've all undoubtedly read about "loving yourself" or "acting like a daughter of the King" or "How to Build Self-Esteem, Memorize the Book of Romans, Skydive, and Be Better than Julia Child in 5 Easy Steps". 

I'm just saying friends, we can choose something else. We can choose to say, "I'm not thinking that today because it's not who I am." and move on with our day, leaving these thoughts with a "better luck next time." 

Meanwhile, I'll be working on that omelet. Fax me some recipes.

.when you're confused because aren't the holidays supposed to be the best kind of days?.

It's either very late or very early. 1:05am to be exact. And I've been warned that writing past midnight can lead to regretting your words when the sun rises.

But in these early morning hours, I've been thinking. And so, I've been writing. They go hand-in-hand for me most times.

I was thinking about a couple of days ago, when most of us gathered around tables laden with food and family and gave thanks for all that's been given to us.

That word "all"....hmm

"give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
1 Thessalonians 5:18

But what about when grief is what we're given? And when the night before Thanksgiving is the sleepless kind?

In all honesty, this Thanksgiving was a difficult one for me. For my brother. For my Dad. And last year's as well.  It's been almost two years since  my Mom passed away and I've been missing her in a way that I can't really put words to. Since then, I've realized that giving thanks in all circumstances can look different and in fact be wholly apart from laughter and gathering around a table.

I'm suggesting thankfulness can look like honesty and that's part of why I'm writing this here.  We give thanks to God in sharing our story of what He's done and all He's yet to do. In sharing what He's allowed for, and the fact that we may not be ok with it. 

And that just because we're not ok with it, doesn't mean He's thrown in the towel.
Or turned and walked away.

Sometimes that's all we have to bring to a table filled with food and family and thanks. 

I know what it's like to feel guilty for not feeling all that thankful because shouldn't I have more faith than that? 

I'm hoping that this brings comfort to the reader,  who doesn't really know what to do with themselves and their story at this time of year.

There's room at the table for you and I. Let's give thanks for simply this.