For when you are misunderstood...

Recently, I’ve had two family members, on two separate occasions, reach out and verbally attack me without provocation. The first time, it was after I shared a tribute on social media to my grandmother who had passed away. The second time, it was after I shared a snippet of my story for the first time about my tumultuous relationship with my dad. Both times, the family member felt it necessary to put me in my place. The hard thing is, both times, the claims they made about me in their rants were completely false, based on misinformation they’d received from someone else; I reeled that they had come to believe things about me that couldn’t be farther from the truth. When I shared their words with a few of my closest friends, each one of them were baffled and said that didn’t even sound like me. These family members had taken things they had heard and based their entire view of me on those falsehoods.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. Have you ever felt completely misunderstood? Have you experienced that gut wrenching pain of rejection from someone that was based on an imagined view of you, when it in no way reflected your true self? Have you ever lost relationship with someone because of a senseless misunderstanding?

If so, it turns out you and I are actually in very good company. The more I study the person and the way of Jesus, I read about the many times he was misunderstood by others, his actions set in the incorrect frame. How did he respond? Did he, like I all too often have, try to reason with the person to see his side? Did he beg and plead and state his case, going to great lengths to preserve that relationship? Did he bite back, hit ‘em where it hurt because of the pain they’d caused him?

It’s surprising, but he did none of the above. Most often, he said nothing. He felt no pressure to defend himself, no guilt in his restraint—even when the misunderstanding cost him his life. In fact, when he sent the twelve disciples out on mission, he said these words: “If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet.”

That’s it. No rebuttal. He didn’t say, “Hey guys, if someone doesn't accept your words, then you need to try harder to make them see. It’s your responsibility to build that relationship and endure the strain and hardship to do whatever it takes to convince them. Welcome to ministry.” Sure, he was referring specifically to the spread of the Gospel here, but the principle applies. He said if someone doesn’t accept what you have to say, then just move on.

I have a hard time with that, to be honest. It’s one of the greatest pains to be rejected by someone you love because they chose to believe a lie about you. Because they refuse to see you for who you truly are. It’s grievous to lose a relationship over misunderstanding, when the other person misread your heart. And until recently, I always felt a burden to try and make them see the truth, for truth’s sake if not just for the sake of relationship.

But Jesus shows us a different way. In fact, in the New Testament, Paul writes, “If it’s possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” (Romans 12:18) Meaning, there will be times when people simply do not accept your efforts. And when they don’t, it isn’t your responsibility to try to fix them. Simply be free to move on.

Easier said than done, but such an important practice in our pursuit of mental and emotional health. I’ll leave you with this little piece of encouragement: One of the most relaxing, healthy things you can do for yourself is to let people be wrong about you. Yep, when people are wrong about you—let them be.

Lessons from my therapist.

One of the best things about 2020 was that my insurance company waived the co-pay for therapy visits that occurred virtually, so I received free weekly sessions for a year. Ironically, therapy in sweatpants and a top-knot still isn’t comfortable, but if I’ve learned anything during my 30-something trips around the sun, it’s that the things worth doing in life rarely are.

After having grown up in a family that didn’t really talk about feelings a lot and believed that we keep our skeletons in our closets right where they belong, I’d love it if we could all just normalize attending regular therapy check-ins. They should rank right up there with oil changes and eye exams. Every now and then, it’s good to give our brains a little tune-up (or a complete overhaul, depending on how long you let it go before your next appointment). I’ve been seeing a therapist off and on for years (regularly since about six months after our move to the Pacific Northwest), and it’s been absolutely exhausting…and transformative.

My therapist is less like a stern college professor with an office couch and more like a college bandmate; he’s close to my age and understands the satisfaction of a bass riff in the pocket and the ridiculous pressure of people pleasing. A gallery of instruments hang on the home office wall behind him, and we talk about music almost as much as we process my prickly past.

So every week during the pandemic, I’d sit at my dining table in my sweats behind a Zoom filter to hide the deepening creases around my eyes, because apparently the only flaws I’m willing to reveal are the ones the camera can’t capture. (I may be transparent, but I’m also a little vain.) I’d prop my laptop on a stack of thick books and stare it in the face, confronting the contenders of mental health while my kids are distracted by Disney Plus in the back bedroom.

During these visits, we talk a lot about living in truth, and how healthy boundaries allow us to show up as our whole selves to love others well. Though “boundaries” was a four-letter word in my childhood home, they have been a lifesaver throughout adulthood. Here are some of the most significant lessons I’ve learned from the face on the laptop screen:

1. Boundaries are healthy. The only people who will rage against you setting boundaries are those who benefitted from you not having boundaries. When I started setting limits on what I would and could allow into my life and still be healthy and at peace, it was easier to see which relationships in my life were healthy, and which ones were toxic and enmeshed. I had a lot of friends cheering me on and supporting my efforts to achieve emotional health and live from a place of freedom and peace; the ones who didn’t were angry because they no longer had the control they wanted over me, and they would attempt to guilt and shame me out of keeping healthy boundaries (sometimes even using Scripture as a form of manipulation). The truth is, boundaries aren’t selfish; they allow us to honor our limited capacity as humans and prioritize overall health so that we can love others better and more authentically. We can’t love out of an empty well. Boundaries keep us from being imprisoned by people-pleasing and protect our hearts from acting out of obligation and harboring resentment. In fact, the Bible says that it is for freedom we’ve been set free, that we shouldn’t allow ourselves to be put in bondage again, and that as freed people, we can serve one another in love. Being bound to another person’s demands actually prevents us from serving them in love.

2. What others feel and believe about me and expect from me IS NOT my responsibility. I’ve found that no matter what I do, there will always be others who have decided to believe the narrative about me that makes them feel better, and I am not responsible for changing their minds. When a person decides to believe the worst about you, oftentimes the healthiest thing you can do is let them.

3. I am neither required nor even able to be all things to all people. I am finally learning at 38 what my limits are; for so long, I didn’t realize I was even allowed to have limits. Now, I do what I can where I’m at with what I have and accept my humanity. In doing so, I encourage others to look to God as their source and not to me, and I free up an opportunity for someone else to step in and meet a need they wouldn’t have otherwise been able to. Simply put, I’m learning how to give my best yes, and that doing so is enough.

4. My Creator has spoken what’s true of me, and it’s truth no matter who does or doesn’t believe it. I am worthy of love and acceptance and respect, I am enough, I deserve to take up space and have my needs validated...even if no one validates them. My value is in who I am as an image bearer of my Creator, not in what others can get out of me or what others believe about me. I know who I am and what’s true about me, and being rooted in that truth leads to true peace.

5. A balanced relationship is a healthy relationship. I used to have this mentality that I should give 110% to all of my relationships; and more often than not, the other person let me. I would eventually become exhausted because I took on more of the responsibility than I should have, and it allowed the other person permission not to give much effort. I was basically carrying a lot of my relationships, which wasn’t sustainable. Once I started backing off a little and matching the effort of the other person, I found one of two things would happen: either the other person felt the distance and made efforts to remain close, or the relationship faded. But either way, I felt lighter and freer (and even physically had more energy) because I was no longer carrying the full weight of each relationship on my shoulders. As I’ve gotten older, I have fewer relationships, but the ones I have are deeper and stronger as both of us carry the weight of it together.

Have you ever visited a counselor or therapist? What has been the most beneficial thing you’ve learned from your experience? I’d love to hear in the comments below!

Just a drop.

Even if I inhabited as much space

as my ambition drives me to,

I would still just be

a single drop of morning dew

on the tip of a lacy jadeite fern frond,

reaching its delicate fingertips from the root

of a towering evergreen, stretching heavenward

in the middle of an ancient rainforest

near the expansive Pacific coastline

on a single,

foggy,

dripping day.

Father's Day

The last time my dad and I spoke was four years ago, for reasons too complex and extensive to explain here. He smelled of Stetson cologne and Old Spice and wore a charcoal suit beside my mom in the receiving line at my grandfather’s funeral, trying as hard as an introverted engineer can to make repetitive small talk with doting strangers. I wasn’t exactly invited to stand with the family before the funeral, so I arrived 30 minutes before the service in an attempt to put differences aside and grieve with my family. By my calculations, any sooner would have been unbearably awkward; any later would have seemed callous. I went in for an embrace; his body tensed, and he grimaced in response. His eyes never met mine.  

A father wound is one that runs deep, creating decay in unseen spaces and spreading into a systemic disease; it can cripple and permanently disfigure a person. My story is no different. I’ve wrestled with my worth for a long time—whether I really was loved or even deserved to be— and it’s taken years of excruciating therapy to excavate deep into the source of the pain and scrape away the scar tissue. Still, Father’s Day is complicated. I celebrate the dad my husband is to my children while I simultaneously and silently grieve my biological father, who wasn’t there even when he was.

For a couple of years after we disconnected, I sent a text that went unanswered until I eventually fell silent. To make any effort at all was to make myself vulnerable to the pangs of rejection when it was inevitably unreciprocated, so each Father’s Day, there is a new grief that is resurrected, the death of the healthy father-daughter relationship I longed for but couldn’t achieve with any amount of striving. And no matter how old you get, you’re still an orphan without a father.

This year was different, though. This year was marked by a distinct sense of release and acceptance. This past Sunday, I experienced something that mildly resembled inner peace. Deeper breaths, wider smiles, the ability to rest without guilt. Because throughout this year, the Lord has shown Himself more to me as a Father than ever before.  

“Tell me how You feel about me,” I inquire curiously as I sit quietly with him in the dark stillness of the early morning and listen for His voice. He is nurturing and gentle and speaks the language of love and affirmation. He tells me affectionately that I’m the apple of His eye, a chip off the infinite Block. He redirects and restores when I veer off track–not with the abrasiveness and shame I’ve assumed I deserve, but with an otherworldly compassion and unconditional acceptance. He loves me despite my mistakes and assures me I’m His delight. I finally am beginning to understand my worth through His eyes. I was no accident, a scarlet letter I wore previously and for many years. He gave me His Name as He formed me in my mother’s womb, smiling to Himself as He envisioned my unruly, wild hair and generously freckled skin.

It’s uncomfortable and foreign, but it rubs the faded scars like a therapeutic salve. To be re-fathered by the Holy One is a beautiful mystery. My brain hardly can conceive of it; my flesh wants to reject it. But deep down, my spirit recognizes the voice of my true Father, the one who calls me His own. I’ve resisted before, not actually believing He wouldn’t forsake me or withdraw His affection the moment I step out of His will—all-too familiar gestures that have dug neural pathways beneath thick ginger curls. But He is perfect—faithful and persistent, never pushy or controlling. And it’s brought a healing I denied that I needed and didn’t know was possible. Over and over, He demonstrates that I’m worth the effort.

I’d love to think I’m His favorite, but I have a hunch that He feels this way about all His children. So if you found yourself in a dark fog on Father’s Day—as I know a lot of us do—or if your view of a Heavenly Father is obstructed by experiences with your biological one, maybe it will bring you some comfort, to know that He is as present and nurturing and gracious and loving as He says. Just ask Him to show you.

Some things that shatter just cannot be fixed. This earthly relationship with the man from whom I got my jawline and blue eyes may be one of them. But I have a peace that surpasses all understanding, knowing I’m no longer defined simply as an estranged daughter; I can rest in my identity as His beloved. 

To the trees.

This was my first time seeing the California redwoods. We only decided last-minute to drive down the coast over the state line because it was pouring rain, and we were back to the drawing board, scribbling frantically to write up a new vacation after our camping trip literally drowned. “Why not?” I asked. “We’re only an hour or so from the state line.” It was just over an hour to Jedidah Smith Redwood State Park, two hours to Redwood National and State Park, so we ventured to both.

First off, the drive down Pacific Coast Scenic Highway 101 is simply one of the best road trips. The views are of such magnitude that I felt we should have to pay money for them. The coast is visible through sporadic stretches of rainforest, and each view offers something unique to the previous one. It was the perfect drizzly day for a leisurely drive sipping a latte from Port Orford’s Battle Rock Coffee and listening to the sounds of Johnny Swim.

We’ve only ever seen the parts of California that are visible through the windows of LAX, and Northern California is really more like an extension of southern Oregon than Los Angeles. It’s BEAUTIFUL, and when you start seeing the redwoods above your dashboard, it just keeps getting better and better.

We drove through Jedidiah Smith State Park, which is a beautiful stretch of road and then got back on the 101 past Crescent City to make it to Redwood National Park. Around Klamath, we found the Trees of Mystery attraction, where you can enjoy a treetop skyrail tour of a redwood forest; we opted instead for a picture with the true-to-legend-scale monuments of Paul Bunyan and his trusty ox, Babe, and a round through the gift shop, where we decided commemorative lapel pins made sufficient and inexpensive souvenirs for the kids. (I paid, and the kids paid me back with their money when we got to the car; at this point, Eva learned a hard lesson in commerce and expressed she didn’t like that I took all her money (a dollar and some change) and tried to give me back the lapel pin. Poor girl. As it turns out, she likes how her shiny Babe ox pin adorns her pink sparkly backpack after all.)

Klamath, California, is also home to the tourist trap, The Tour-thru Tree, through which we paid five bucks to discover our massive Ford Expedition would not in fact fit. We snapped a picture anyway and decided a $5 bill was a small price to pay for the laughs and the memory. (That’s what you get when you trust an attraction that can’t spell.)

Then came the elk. And I mean, a LOT of elk. We pulled over to watch them until so many other cars did the same that the elk began to spook. I never get tired of seeing deer and elk, and it was a nice surprise for Kelley’s birthday, considering every other plan I’d made got rained out.

The kind of velvet I love to see.

While our GPS Maps app led us to a key-card-access-only gated road several miles into the Redwood National Park, and we didn’t venture any further south to find another route, we did pull over at the Lady Bird Johnson grove area, which featured a beautiful mile and a half or so walk through the forest. It was raining, we were wearing the wrong kind of shoes, and I discovered my apparent fear of bears and cougars, but once we got over the irritation of being unprepared and resigned ourselves to getting drenched and muddy, we soaked up not only the rain but every inch of the trail we traversed; the kids made forts out of the massive trunks of the redwood clusters and hid in hollowed out trees.

Like snowflakes and fingerprints, each redwood has a completely unique bark pattern, and when I imagine how many redwoods there are in the United States, the thought alone leaves me breathless and full of wonder and gratitude. And my life has been like the bark on those trees—knotted in places, rough and broken in others, aimlessly winding and curving occasionally, but still always coming back to the path upward.

After we got cleaned up from our hike, we ate a picnic lunch beachside just south of Orick, California, before heading back up the coast to our hotel in Gold Beach. (We snagged a beachfront balcony view room last-minute at the Pacific Reef Hotel and Light Show. Though the light show was slightly anti-climatic, the place didn’t disappoint.)

My one regret is that we never did find a place to drive through a redwood, which I feel like is a quintessential thing to do when one visits a park like this. But maybe I’m thinking of the sequoias? Next time we’ll find the bigger trees and perhaps drive a smaller vehicle. Nonetheless, I consider this one item checked off our bucket list!

Must-sees along the southern Oregon coast.

When our camping trip was rained out and morphed into a beachside getaway, we discovered so many hidden gems along Oregon’s coastline that I’m eager to share with y’all.

The Pacific Northwest coast is by far my favorite beach I’ve visited in the United States. As Southern natives, we our first love was Destin, Florida, for its powdery white sand and clear turquoise water, but the heat and humidity of the Gulf Coast are bullies for a fair-skinned and fair-weather family. And the few times I’ve visited Myrtle Beach on the east coast, I got so blistered I couldn’t put on clothes and was resigned to stare at the sliver of beach I could see from the angle of my condo balcony for most of our stay.

The Gulf Coast is like the stereotypical chipper blonde cheerleader of high school—peppy and bright with a bubbly personality, though maybe a little shallow and, for an introvert, tolerable in limited amounts. (I’m personifying here and mean no offense.) But if the Gulf is the pep squad captain, the Pacific Coast is that dark and mysterious brunette who sits in the corner of the library in her combat boots and blunt cut reading Tolstoy. Her beauty isn’t as obvious but just as alluring, and her aloofness is intimidating. You know she’s smart, probably more so than you, and she projects a sense of danger and secrecy and depth that draws you in. She’s breathtaking but not as inviting, and as you get to know her, she seems even more inaccessible, like you’ll never discover all there is to her but you’d commit to die trying.

On a flatter note, I like that I can forego the dreaded bathing suit at the Pacific. There is no scantily clad sunbathing here; no lathering up wriggling sand-peppered preschoolers every 30 minutes. The cloud cover is a welcome friend for these gingers, and regular clothes with waterproof Chacos are completely appropriate. (Though I do have those signature sandal sunburn lines on my pale feet. Should have worn sunscreen.)

These are a few destinations along the Pacific Coast that make our list of must-sees:

1. Sisters Rock, OR. This hiking area is right off Pacific Highway 101, a seemingly lone rock jutting out of the sea in front of a generous parking area; it would be easy to miss the prime hiking trail leading to this landmark. After about a 10-minute walk through a narrow path cutting through local vegetation dotted with vibrant wildflowers, the path opens up to an expanse of rocky terrain that leads to the shoreline on your left and right or a cave up ahead where you can watch the tide rush in. It almost feels like a foggy wasteland, driftwood piled on rocks below hazy cliffs. Like some forgotten Scottish highlands, you’ll see turkey buzzards looming overhead, looking for carrion and carnage. It’s mysterious and a little eery, but in an absolutely appealing way.

When the path opens up.

The shore below.

Pretending to be pirates on the beach.

2. Meyers Beach, OR. This little hotspot off PCH 101 offers a brisk downhill walk and a brief climb over rock piles down to the beach. On this coastline, you’ll see a splattering of rock formations jutting out of the ocean that are prime climbing spots when the tide is low. I perched atop one and watch my kids play tag with the tide. (Just be respectful of the barnacles that make their homes on the surfaces of these rocks.) The sand beach here is expansive and smoother with fewer rocks, though closer to the cliff leading to the highway you’ll find a driftwood jungle gym amidst hot-spring-like tide pools and a waterfall that lends its power to a rushing rockbed creek flowing into the ocean. It’s one of nature’s perfect playgrounds.

One caveat to these coastal destinations: there are no public restrooms. So if you, say, grab an almond milk latte to sip on while you drive down the coast and find you have to go as soon as you’ve arrived, don’t expect to find a row of Honey Buckets somewhere off to the side. You’ll have one of two options: hold it like it’s a quarter between your knees, or duck down somewhere in the rock piles and hope no one sees. This was a little easier for our son; when we got to the bottom of the rock piles and our daughter decided that was the time to announce she needed to go number one, the Mr. rounded his arms into the shape of a toilet seat and…well, this is just the honest journalism you won’t find elsewhere, folks. You’re welcome. (And he’s getting a big Father’s Day gift this weekend, believe you me.)

3. Gold Beach, OR. Gold Beach’s name is a nod to the historic Gold Rush, and some believe you can find remnant treasures if you look hard enough. Though we didn’t go gold mining, we did comb the beach for agates, which is another treasure this beach teases about. We collected handfuls of quartz and other glittery stones, but I’m not sure we ever really learned what an agate actually was. Still, it was a childlike fun to search for cool and unique rocks with our kids, someone yelling every few minutes, “Hey, look what I found!” This was a beautiful stretch of stony beach with a plethora of little rushing rivers flowing into the ocean. And if you visit Gold Beach, you have to try the Spanish omelette at the Indian Creek Café. If you’re of the gluten-free kind, the pineapple and Canadian bacon gluten-free pizza at Sunny’s Family Pizza was the best, flaky, wheat-free pizza crust I’ve ever tasted. It’s extra delicious paired with a Hallmark movie and delivered straight to your hotel room after a long day of driving.

When camping goes south.

We had been planning for weeks. The camp reservation at Humbug Mountain State Park in southern coastal Oregon was booked; we’d even bought a new tent and sleeping bags this year to add to our camping supplies. An upgrade from our 8-person tent that the Mr. and I bought before we even had kids, our new 10-person tent had a room divider and blackout walls. The one thing it wasn’t, as we’d find out the hard way, was waterproof.

The night before we headed out, we checked the weather one more time. For weeks, the forecast predicted the perfect camping weather—around 60 degrees and sunny. But this time, we learned it was going to rain for the next three days, for 3/4 of our trip! At the last minute, we put in a pickup order at a local sporting goods store for a pop-up canopy with a zip-up netting and decided we would keep our plans but bring a few more games to play under cover from the rain.

Before the rain.

We arrived at our campsight, set up fairly quickly, and decided to have sandwiches for dinner. Right after we built a fire for s’mores, the downpour announced its arrival by putting out our fire and soaking our campsight. After three returns home to fetch forgotten items and several hours of driving and wound up kids and water everywhere, I told Kelley, “I just want to go to bed and be done with the day.” So, we got ready for bed and started to get in our sleeping bags when I noticed water dripping on my inflatable pillow. We looked around and our hearts sank as we discovered water was coming in at the bottom seams of the tent and forming pools all around our sleeping gear. Defeated, Kelley scurried to throw our sleeping mats and bags back in the car while I hunted down a motel with a vacancy. We pulled into our motel six miles down the road around 9:45 the first night; we never even got to sleep in our tent.

Sometimes, things just don’t go according to plan. It doesn’t matter how much in advance you investigate conditions and prepare, or how much gear you have—there are going to be times when you just have to abort mission. As we settled in our beds in our motel room from the 1950s (managed by, as it turned out, a fellow Birmingham, Alabama native!), our middle son complained because he didn’t understand why God didn’t help us. He’d kept saying as we frantically packed up our tent, “We can just ask God for help; He says He’ll help us.” To him, sleeping in a dry motel rather than our tent wasn’t the kind of help he expected.

We had a family meeting that night and discussed that when plans don’t work out, oftentimes it’s either God’s protection over our lives from something we may never even find out about, or it’s because He knows what we actually need and has something better in mind for us. In this case, it might have been the former, but it was definitely the latter.

Shoreline at Sisters Rock

If we hadn’t gotten rained out, we would never have decided to drive down the coast to the redwoods of California. We wouldn’t have had the unexpected pleasure of hiking through the Lady Bird Johnson grove in the rain, encountering massive trees that took our breath away with their sheer size. We wouldn’t have seen herds of elk grazing by the mountain roadside on Kelley’s birthday. We definitely wouldn’t have had beachfront views from our hotel room balcony in Gold Beach, nor would I have shared about Jesus and homeschool while combing the beach with a local young mom while our kids hunted for agates. There were little surprises everywhere, unexpected blessings surfaced out of what seemed to be a major hiccup in our plans.

Meyers Beach all to ourselves.

Camping is fun, but it’s also a lot of work. Everything is set up and torn down repeatedly. It takes work to keep food stored at the right temp in the cooler. Activities are constantly interrupted by trips to and from the bathroom with young kids. You’re doing all your own cooking with portable cookware and then hand washing everything with a limited water supply. It’s exhausting. And we were already exhausted.

Our Heavenly Father knows what we need before we do. He knew that although we chose camping because it’s economical, what we needed was rest. So He graciously provided a way for us to experience a relaxing beachside getaway, retreating to the comfort of a warm, dry room after meandering in nature every day. Our campground was nice and cozy, but the expanse of the beach with its sparkling quartz rocks, craggy rock landforms, rushing creek beds, and driftwood jungle gyms were the perfect playground for a family of energetic explorers.

We discovered Sisters Rock with its foggy floral paths, rocky beaches, and hidden cave. We spent hours collecting agates and quartz on the shoreline of Gold Beach and played in a rushing, waterfall-powered creek on Meyers Beach, which we had all to ourselves. The kids imagined forts at the foot of giant redwoods in a forest that smelled of rain and moss. We had a picnic beachside and stood at the foot of enormous Paul Bunyan and Babe statues somewhere in Northern California. We counted elk antlers in a herd grazing roadside on our way to eat pizza delivery and watch the Hallmark channel from our beachfront room. (We were really roughing it, yeah?) We drifted to a dead sleep with the lullaby of crashing waves. We took the scenic route home and listened to the guttural bellows of sea lions piled on top of one another in a dark, smelly cave and admired them perched on jagged cliffs beside a turquoise shore.

Beachcombing on Gold Beach

All in all, we’re grateful our plans were foiled. We came home refreshed and with a renewed sense of peace instead of exhausted from living outdoors for four days. I would say it was a trip of a lifetime, but honestly, and more accurately, it was just another week living in beautiful, picture-esque Oregon.

The ministry of the mess.

The morning that I was supposed to meet up with a friend, she texted me in a complete tizzy. We had originally planned for the kids and me to meet her and her son at their house, but it was raining and her house was a mess from packing for a trip and she was spiraling and thinking of rescheduling. I could hear the harried tone in her words. Her comment: “I’m sorry I’m so unprepared. This is what friendship with me looks like. It’s not great.”

Smiling in a room by myself, I responded, “I understand if you need to reschedule. But it sounds like you need to just come over here, and we’ll eat banana bread and shoo the kids away to play with LEGOs. And I love being friends with you.”

I added: “Also, I’m wearing sweats, no makeup, and sixth-day hair. Come as you are.”

Her response: “Perfect.”

I work as full-time staff at a church here in Portland, and lately, more and more of my most Spirit-filled ministry moments resemble something like this conversation. There’s no platform or faux lashes or mom jeans with oversized blazers. (Why is this the new female powerhouse pastor look now, anyway?? Listen, youngsters, I lived through mom jeans the first time around, and it wasn’t pretty. My skinny jeans don’t make me outdated; they make me wiser and are proof I learned to wear what’s good for me. But I digress…) There is, however, banana bread and Holy Bible truth and rowdy kids and life-giving conversation. A land flowing with hot coffee and raw honesty.

I didn’t go to a fancy seminary to obtain a fancy theology degree; life has been my training for full-time ministry, and I’ve had quite a bit of it. On-the-job, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of training. The kind of wisdom, comfort, and advice that can only be gained by walking through it first and crawling out the other side a little stronger only by the grace of God…and I’ve walked through A LOT of stuff.

One thing I’ve learned is that oftentimes (every time), people don’t need or even relate well to a pastor who seems to have it all together all the time. We are told to hide our flaws and scars, that we can’t lead people where we ourselves haven’t gone as if to say, if we don’t exude complete and total victory and success in every area of life, how can we expect others within our care to? This kind of thinking typically leaves a leader who is put on display, but in a locked China cabinet instead of on the coffee table within the grasp of common hands.

In my experience, the best kind of leadership is that which says, “Let’s walk this out together,” rather than staying so far out in front that we leave others no choice but to break out in breathless full sprint trying to catch up.

Think a lot less Instagram influencer with not a lash out of place naming herself a “hot mess” and more like raw vulnerability of the six-day-hair kind. (I’m not exactly talking hygiene here. Although I’m not exactly not.) The kind of leadership that acknowledges and really even embraces the mess we call real life, rather than tidying up our appearance to play the pastoral professional. You could call it the ministry of the mess.

It’s why I love that the original disciples were referred to as “unschooled, ordinary men,” and it was for that reason that the crowds concluded those men had been with Jesus. Peter, with his impulsiveness and mood swings and John with his “disciple that Jesus loved”-ness (who invited that guy?). My qualifications are the kind that DEMAND the Holy Spirit show up, because without him, the mess just gets worse. Like, let’s throw these ingredients into a blender and hit START with the lid off kind of bad. And since the Holy Spirit loves these people even more than I could, He does show up and meet us both in the imperfect, and my kitchen is cleaner for it.

I want to be the kind of leader and friend Jesus was (and still is): The come just as you are friend. The one who validates because I’ve been there and know that road well; and when I haven’t walked in those shoes, I want to be the one who says, “You know, I don’t have all the answers, but I know who does, and He can help.” The one who doesn’t portray a picture-perfect Christianity that requires VIP access, but one who’s accessible, who offers breathing room and been-through-it-myself guidance…And possibly banana bread.

Master your mornings.

Three babies (four pregnancies) in four years had me savoring my post-kids’-bedtime time with Netflix and chill and then rolling out of bed when the kids woke me up bright and early the next morning. That was my morning routine for the first five years of motherhood. Until I got a little fed up with running on empty all the time—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

So when my youngest began sleeping through the night, I forced myself to start getting up early to have a prayer time and morning workout before the kids woke up. This was both the hardest and most rewarding habit I could have developed for myself.

It’s changed over the years since, but I’ve learned the all-too-important lesson that if you want to have a good day, it starts by mastering your mornings. Starting the day in a way that fills me up not only improves my mood for the rest of the day, but it also leads to other good decisions and makes me more effective overall.

This isn’t a one-size-fits-all habit, but I thought I would share what my mornings look like in this current season to help get the ideas flowing of what might work for you if you’re looking to be more intentional with your mornings. I work from home and homeschool our three children, so although we don’t have to be out the door at any specific time, I still wake up between 4 and 5 a.m. to have plenty of time to myself before the kids wake up around 7:30. It’s been such a special time of day for me that I aim to do it every morning; however, I may sleep in every now and then, especially if I didn’t sleep well the night before (sleep is hard sometimes). I can tell my day feels different if I miss my morning routine, so it’s become a priority for me to “get my head on straight” every morning. Here’s how I do it:

1. Wake up around 4 a.m.

2. Drink full bottle of water.

3. Make a French press of coffee to share with the Mr.

4. Spend time in worship, prayer, and Scripture reading—honestly, the bulk of my time is spent here. I often light a candle, sing, pray, spend time in silence, and slow-read my Bible.

5. Write morning pages—this is a mashup of journaling, stream of consciousness, and creative writing prompts; basically, I get whatever is swirling around in my head out on paper so I can be more focused and clear-minded throughout the day.

6. Go for a neighborhood run/walk and/or lift weights indoors; sometimes I do yoga instead.

7. Often I’ll spend a few minutes completing a Spanish lesson.

8. Get dressed and make up bed.

By the time my kids are awake, I feel refreshed, focused, and clear-headed, and it’s such a gift to start the day off in peace.

If you’d like to start a more productive morning routine but aren’t sure how, may I suggest setting the alarm for 30 minutes earlier than usual and start the day off with a big glass of water and some stretching? That is what I come back to, if ever I get off track. After that becomes a habit, try waking up an additional 15 minutes earlier and adding in something else. You don’t have to do a complete overhaul all at once, but even taking one positive step toward mastering your morning and starting the day off in the right frame of mind will go a long way toward improving your mental, physical, and emotional (and spiritual) health!

The importance of white space.

When I was working as an art director for an advertising agency, we talked a lot about white space (or negative space, as some refer to it). So much so that the copywriters used to make fun of us because of how obsessed we all were with protecting our white space; often times we’d ask them to cut down the copy so that the ads didn’t feel crammed and there was plenty of space for the ad to breathe. Oftentimes, the simpler ads, the ones with less “stuff” in them, were the most eye-catching and effective.

It’s normal for an amateur designer to want to fill up an ad with lots of design elements as a way to prove how creative they can be. Photo collages, or worse—a photo ghosted into the background—drop shadows, flourishes in the corners…One graphic designer that I supervised always wanted to add ALL the Photoshop features: feathered photos, multi-colored gradients, multiple graphics. His ads looked like an acid trip on paper. I’d spend a lot of time crossing out all the extra elements to be eliminated so the most important ones could “be the hero,” as the head of our department would say. The most important info got surrounded by white space so it would stand out. All the extras were just a distraction from the point of the ad, and they had to go.

It took me years to understand that this lesson was applicable in life as well. We innocently (and ignorantly) assume that the more we have—the more we fill our schedules, our fridges, our closets, our garages with—the more successful and put together we seem.

We cram our schedules with more things than could possibly get done because saying, “I’m just sooo busy,” makes us sound important.

We collect clothing items and accessories to crowd our closets because we feel that more is more—more options, sleeker designs, designer labels will…well, I'm not sure what.

We don’t want our homes to feel empty, so we add photos and art to every piece of real estate on our walls, fill up blank spots with side tables and shelves that need to be “styled,” requiring more things to create more vignettes. And all these things will somehow communicate that we have impeccable style. We say that adding layers adds interest. (Because what, we aren’t interesting enough??)

And so we find that we have no white space. There’s no more room. Our lives can’t breathe. And we may feel like we can’t, either.

Negative space is as important in life as it is in design, because it equals more margin, more breathing room. Negative space lends time to rest, time to think and process all the emotions and thoughts that get stuffed down further into our psyche, with to-dos and get-togethers heaped on top.

There’s a reason God commands that we take a Sabbath, one day out of our week to do nothing, a day filled with negative space. Why? Because that blank slate is restorative. It returns breath to our lungs and humanity to our existence. Negative space is anything but negative.

Each of us has more white space than we think. Every time we swerve into the faster lane of traffic or check our phone at the red light or answer emails in the waiting room or Netflix and chill before bed, we’re snuffing out negative space, that precious time to just be. And with every moment that gets filled with distraction, the things that are most important lose their elbow room. We fill up on chips and leave no room for the filet.

I’ve heard so many people say that COVID gave them the time to pause and re-evaluate their lives. A lot of people realized some things they needed to leave in 2020; others started new careers or traded large homes for more family time in smaller ones. Still other families made changes to live more simply, exchanging endless activities for more down time together.

What would it feel like, the next time you have an hour of free time, if you just savored it rather than giving it away to the next demand waiting in line? Look around and take in your surroundings slowly, or take some time to ponder three things you’re thankful for in that moment? What if, instead of saying yes to another activity your child asks you to sign them up for, if you opted for slow family dinners a couple of nights a week instead? What if you embraced an extra hour of sleep instead of another episode of Downton Abbey with a side of Talenti?

Oftentimes, we can become so busy that we lose sight of our values. Maintaining some margin allows us to name what’s most important to us in life. The reality is, if everything is important, then nothing is important. If everything is precious, then by default, nothing is precious. That which is sacred to us should be set apart, bordered by white space.

One thing that has helped me is to keep an actual, physical planner with me. (Kudos to you who can plan effectively with your digital iCals; those make my head spin!) And I schedule out my day in order of priority: first, prayer time and self-care (I have to put on my oxygen mask before I can save others); then, family time; then work tasks, meal planning, chores, etc. I make sure that I have plenty of transition time in between so I’m not rushing from one meeting to the next meal prep. I schedule in margin as another item on my to-do list, so that it doesn’t get crowded out. Sometimes I plan ahead what I will do in my free time so that I choose something restorative, but other times I just let those times unfold naturally.

The concept of white space creates more breathing room in our lives and forces us to name what is most important and let that be the hero. Everything else must take a supporting role or get cut from the script altogether.

What about you? How about keeping a minutes log of your week to track where your time goes. Then, assess and decide one small change you could make right away. Maybe you track your phone usage and find you spend 6+ hours a day with screen time. That’s 42 hours a week! Was that time restorative or wasteful? What could you choose to do instead?

What is the hero of your life? Take a few minutes to sit with that question as a writing prompt. Jot down three things that bring you the most joy and fulfillment. If money were no object, how would you spend your time? Who are the people in your life that build you up? What activity restores your soul? Use the answers to those questions as a jumping off point to decide what other things could be eliminated to create some more white space around what’s most important.

Cheers!

Court

Welcome to my place.

It kind of thrills me to be uncomfortable. I actually begin to feel uneasy when things appear to be coming easily. Maybe the discomfort is what keeps me hungry for more of the things of God in my life, and when I feel like I’m coasting, I am less aware of my need for more of Jesus, and I stop pursuing Him daily.

I think that’s what it’s like with a lot of relationships, right? When we begin a relationship, we put in a lot of energy and effort into pursuing the other person so that we cultivate a strong foundation. But then after the vows are exchanged, and we feel secure in that relationship, we start to ease up a bit. Over time, that easing up can look a lot like complacency, and complacency is a breeding ground for stagnation, which can lead to certain death—death of momentum, of dreams, of intimacy…

You get what I’m saying. Anyhoo, this seeking to move beyond my comfort zone is what catapulted our family into a life of simplicity, essentialism, and intentionality. It’s forced us to come into realignment with our values and return to majoring in the majors and minoring in the minors. We embraced the discomfort we felt when our schedules and home were stuffed full and decided to take action and simplify our lifestyle. As a result, it’s brought a level of peace and a depth of maturity that we just couldn’t have attained any other way. 

I’ve met a lot of you out there who’ve become uncomfortable with your comfort. You’ve done nicely keeping up with the Joneses, but the accomplishments and abundance haven’t satified you like you thought it would. Those of you who are dizzy from running the hamster wheel in a steady pace but just can’t figure out a dismount strategy. Those of you who have it all, along with a splitting headache and an emptiness in your gut. This website is for you. Every word I write here is with you in mind.

Our simple lifestyle is probably what I get asked THE MOST questions about. Most people are intrigued, some are resistant, but a lot of people long for at least a piece of the peace that we’ve experienced, and so I aim to share our journey—the catalysts, the struggles, the blessing of margin, and everything in between—in hopes of inspiring you and introducing you to the possibility of a new way of life, one in which you can have peace in heart and home, time for rest and renewal, memories with the ones you love, and just the overall sense of purpose that comes from a life lived with and on purpose.

I don’t get it all right, all the time. I’m still learning and have in no way arrived at a life of minimalism or über discipline. But every day is a day in which I intentionally take a step in the right direction, and I’d love for you to walk alongside me!