I tell them I've been running. Running and running and asking God to keep up. And it is tiring, depleting.Of course.Especially during this Advent season.Jesus, help us prepare You room.

She doesn't mess around, in the best way. As a sequin-wearing, homeschooling mother of four--a woman who adores Jesus, people, and words--Kris Camealy loves to go deep. In relationships. In the pursuit of Christ. In leading women to be raw and vulnerable and open to God changing their hearts. She's beautiful in her authenticity, her willingness to surrender and trust God in making us brand new.

Her room smells of sweetness. Fruit soap, from her shower. Citrus-sugar, from the pink candle, unlit, on her dresser. She is a tangled lump, a mound of cotton comforter and sheets.The room is dark. I crack the shutters open. And still, just the beginning of sunlight, shy and rosy, peeks slow. I open the shutters wider. I invite light further in.

The uncomfortableness starts in my chest. A feeling unclear, but decided. I am lonely, in a room of women who for years, I call friends.I am convinced there is opposition to connection--opposition to vulnerability, a digging in and asking God to lead, to show what He has.But rather than do that--seek God, we get in our own way to freedom. We get in the way of a life that, while not immune to superficiality, insists on playing it safe.

We grasp hands and lean back, digging our toes as deep as we can into wet sand.We are sure to topple over, I think. And I dig my toes in deeper, lock my knees, stabilize my legs. My daughter clings to me with the silliness and joy that gives her her nickname, "Golden Light." And the waves crash against our legs and the sea water splashes into our open, smiling mouths. We stand side by side, heads back, delighted by our ability to not fall despite the surf's resolute heaving of itself onto shore.This is the best. I don't want to miss it.So I don't take many photos, just a few. And then I put the camera and the phone away, tucking them into my running shoes near the sand castle we built higher up the beach.To look and to see, to listen and to hear, I have to fight against every distraction, every obstacle threatening my awareness of love, joy, beauty. I struggle with the tension of wanting to remember moments like this--the moments I am aware of as holy, filled with love and God's presence and glory. And it is my heart that needs to remember, needs to see, hear, be.A phone, an Instagram feed, a Facebook post, a journal description--none of this can adequately capture what it is God is doing in us, this moment. This moment.Wake up. Read More . . .

We are upstairs in my father-in-law’s house, in the bedroom quarters our family shares during our little house’s remodel.We have the laptop set up on a cardboard box on top of the bedside table so we can easily see the screen. We sit side by side on chairs borrowed from the kitchen table, watching this couple’s faces over Skype. They are kind, wise, gentle. But strong. They nudge us forward intentionally, inviting us to listen carefully for Jesus’ words to our hearts.When Justin and I gather with our mentors over Skype, they invite the four of us to listen together, asking what Jesus wants to say. For me, I hear silence. Nothing. Not a mental picture. Not a thought–no sentence or idea. But I am not distressed about this. I am not anxious.But I must be depleted of energy, or distracted. And I tell them this. For I hesitate to ask Holy Spirit to use my imagination, like I usually do. I struggle for energy, desire, to say yes to Jesus’ invitation to be in the presence of the Father. I am not sure I want to listen to any invitation Jesus might have to make.But I sit. Seemingly empty. In quiet.But it is not dark here.And I am not alone.I wait. I let the openness of my heart be enough. It is all I have, right now, to give.But I have a feeling my soul knows what it is Jesus is saying. So I wait. And I become aware of the barrenness surrounding me. For I am seeing now–I see myself in a gray, depleted, washed out place of no water, no green, no life.I look up.“I am in a desert place,” I say aloud. Read More . . .

We lean in closer. We need to hear it again. "You are loved. I will love you outrageously all the days of your life."Graham Cooke declares it. He declares it with the Voice of truth singing loud and strong: "You can only love Me as much as you love yourself. So my love comes to set you free from yourself, to set you free from how you see yourself, to set you free from the smallness of your own thinking about yourself."Our Father comes and frees us from the smallness of our own thinking because of the abuse, the self-contempt, the despair, the shame, the pride, the fear.The six of us sit in a circle around the small portable speaker placed on the ottoman in the center of the room. We are hungry, searching. We are missing God. We are tired and want to lay ourselves down.We gather, the six of us, because the lies have come again. Silently. Stealthily. They have crept in, and we didn't even see them. But they are tangible. They are dark. We can feel them on our skin, our minds, our hearts. Read More . . .

I am breathing Eden. Let's declare this together, shall we?I think this is the best hashtag ever. (Okay, I admit: I am totally not impartial.)Throughout the summer, you've heard me share about the release, on October 4, of my new book Breathing Eden: Conversations With God On Light, Fresh Air, and New Things via Zeal Books. You know how I believe this book can help women, in their unique life situation, hear God's response to specific, real-life prayers.I want everyone who needs this book to know about it. And I would love your help.Join the Breathing Eden book launch team!As a member of the team you will get an advance review copy of the book (via mail to US residents), access to a private Facebook group with our team and much more. Read More and learn how to join! . . .

There you are, on the other side of the world, a sister decades younger, and we are connected. I feel your strength, even here. And in this circle, I am strengthened too.We send each other stories, emails. We explain heartbreak, words typed on blank white and sent to each other's computers thousands of miles away. We can't do this alone--hold each other close, listen to one another's story and not feel overwhelmed--without Jesus.We can't love each other well unless we choose to see Jesus in the middle of everything we say. Read More . . .