She's the wise, indefatigable friend you wished lived right next door. The friend who loves God. The friend who mentors and creates and serves. The friend whose favorite thing to do is work alongside Jesus. The friend who does all she can to equip you to be the person God made you to be.

I am in the tension. I miss my home.The smell of a burning candle. The creak of floorboards under bare feet. The windows opened wide in the morning. The bluejay in the primroses outside the kitchen.The kitchen itself is torn up, the first place I would head to each morning. Tiptoeing to open the shutters, letting out the dog, waiting for the light to flood in while the house still sleeps.My soup pot is tucked away in storage. My baking sheets in boxes with my spices and mixing spoons. I miss cooking. I miss baking. I miss the familiarity of simple things: walking our dog around our neighborhood, going across the street to get the mail each day, visiting Berta, my ninety-two-year-old neighbor, playing music through the speakers while I write and then make dinner, leaning on the counter while my kids eat a snack and tell me about their day. Read More . . .

The dog let out a howl in his sleep this morning at 4 a.m.Low. Weird. Totally annoying. I awoke, startled, but fell back to sleep, dreaming that our oldest, who just started high school, was attending my university alma mater’s rival school across town. No, he can’t go to school there!We are living in a cozy space this fall, displaced from our home due to a house remodel. The kids are in three different schools for the first time. There is a lot of driving now, meetings with contractors, trying to not get overwhelmed by a book launch. Oh, and Justin and I are working on another writing project together, too.In the evenings, with our family crowded into a single room, we watch the Olympics, the TV blaring too late into the night. There have been a few nights, when I have had deadlines, that I have had to crawl into the bedroom closet, across from the bathroom, and write. Earbuds in my ears, cranking up music by Jonathan David Helser or Lauren Daigle.This album is on repeat when I write now.Crazy? Good? Too full, God? Can you help me keep my eyes on You? Read more . . .

There are stories that have yet to be told, yet to be whispered, even in the dark when we believe no one could possibly hear. But we wonder yet if these words, hidden in secret places, could be gathered up. We wonder if there is a place for them. For the question is about more than words. It's about the claiming of our stories, often the ones most difficult to speak out loud.I know.It's hard to share. There is fear of rejection; we're convinced that the person to whom we share will condemn us. There is shame, the cruel and twisted feelings of humiliation at having sinned. We want to keep the story secret. It's a story too painful to tell. There is disbelief that sharing the story--even a story of beauty, or joy--will help. We think it surely can't bring about any healing--for the person listening, or for us.So we struggle, even, to open up our hearts to God.And sometimes we don't even know what the prayer is, until it is unearthed, the Spirit searching our heart and revealing to us the hidden, fragile places that need to be coaxed into the light.I know.It can feel impossible to discern, sometimes, how to pray. It can feel impossible that the beginning of prayer--sharing our heart with God--can even do any good. I know this from my own experience, and from leading women's groups for years. And I've been wondering why we feel this way.And I've also been wondering what it might be like to walk like Eve did, with God.What would it be like for us right now, in our particular life situation, to hear God's whispers? Read More and learn all about my new book! . . .

I grasp the black handle of the tea kettle, turn to the sink behind me and fill it with water. Put on the lid and turn back to the stove. Place the kettle upon the gas burner and turn on the gas. Watch the reflection of my self in the kettle's stainless steel. Listen for the gas. Vrmmp.Consider how, if this were a movie, if this scene were being filmed, I would assume the moment was one of importance somehow, maybe even reverence. You know, the every day, normal activity to which we can all relate but so easily overlook.Fill the kettle. Turn on the stove. Wait for the water to boil.Except this is my life. And I am not in a movie. There is no beautiful angle or amazing lens or talented photographer here to capture this and convince me this is more significant than it really is.And yet this life is amazing. It is holy. It is beautiful and sacred space. I know.I have a conversation with myself, wondering why I push against what is sacred? Whom am I to decide what is holy, worthy, good?Why do I need documentation of my life to believe it is worth something?To whom am I looking for validation? To whom am I asking, do you see me, notice me? To whom am I asking, what am I worth?It looks prettier everywhere else sometimes, unless I look at my life and recognize it as holy. Right here. Right now. I am holy, a daughter of God.Fill the kettle. Turn on the stove. Wait for the water to boil. Read More . . .

"How are you doing? How is your heart?""I'm good. Not awesome.""Yeah. Me too."We check in over text, me and the friend I used to see face to face. The one who came from Colorado and went back again. The friend I didn't know I needed. The friend who wants the best for me, who is candid and raw and sweet, who goes on walks in the rain and lets water splash full in her face.I am in a coffeeshop, Justin in his black beanie by my side, watching rain drive sideways in sheets. The pavement is shiny black, and my boots are damp. People in raincoats or no coats at all jump out of cars pulled up to the curb, running in through the coffeeshop door, heads ducked down. It is glorious, the rain falling down.A few days ago, Justin and I skyped with our mentors--an awesome husband and wife team. My friend connected us with this couple after she left. Through their words, their example, we feel God rescue us again. God uses people who are free. People who are able to offer wisdom because they not only know they are loved, but they know the battles we face in this world are not against flesh and blood. . . Read More . . .