There are things—and people—we just can’t change.At least not on our own.But we really, really want to. We want to control the situation, change this person, change ourselves.We push and pull against God, asking Him to come, to fix this particular situation, change this person, transform us. We are frustrated, struggling to lay down our expectations to God. We desire freedom, surrender, hope. But we don’t know how to get there, live in that place of peace.I know.So we battle, mainly within ourselves, occasionally pleading with God for help.We so need to hear what God’s take is on our situation. We are desperate to hear what He has to say.We're not alone. There are women, just like us, who struggle with this too. Read More . . .

She wore ivory, the same dress her mother wore decades before her.Her satin train melted onto the church aisle in ripples of lace delicate and sheer. She insisted her toenails be painted pale pink, her fingernails lacquered shiny. The flowers were shades of pink and coral—peony and ranunculus stems tied together with ivory ribbon layered over her grandfather’s cotton handkerchief with monogrammed pale blue trim.He stood there at the end of the aisle, young and strong and willing to take on the world. He was her everything, the man she believed she would love until the end of her days. This was it. The beginning of her life, the beginning of all possibility. They were going to be a team, able to conquer any obstacle, steadfast and sure toward anything that got in their way. Love conquers all, right? Love was certainly all they needed. Clearly, it would not fail.And then it did.She tells me she isn’t sure when the fairy tale ended. Or maybe it was never a fairy tale at all. But she loved him. And he loved her. Or I think she thought he did—and she believed she loved him too.Nevertheless, those words, “I love you,” became words for her that meant only what the newly engaged couple, elated and blissful, whisper to each over a candle light meal, a display of false, saccharine perfection displayed in Lifetime Channel movies on TV.She asks now, could love, with a husband, be something that could last—that would be more than a fairytale, but reality, too?Marriage is no fairytale. That’s for sure. Marriage is difficult, God.She prays, “How did it get so hard to keep loving each other? Where did we go wrong? How can I find my way to him—toward You, God, toward love again?”We ask these questions of God.And married or not, we wonder about love. Read More . . .

We were on a walk when she told me.How, in prior years, the darkness blanketed her. How, for months at a time, she was convinced it was swallowing her whole. My stoic, wise, and strong friend spent more than a year feeling trapped, stuck. One thing was certain to her. She could find no way out.The self she used to know was distant—far from her now. The darkness was too thick, too heavy. She could not explain to her family, her friends, what she was thinking, feeling. She was sinking now, surely drowning in the heaviness of it all.“Depression,” is how the counselor described it when she eventually sought help. But yet how can a word, a diagnosis, explain the dark covering of her mind, the despair of her heart?Are you depressed, dear one? Read More . . .

Jesus, it is even in the cracks of moments, when hearts turn themselves over, begging for hope to cover, You come.It is not only in the darkness that you enter, when tears leave us empty, parched. But it is in darkness too, when we are in the desert, wondering if You are close. And You are. We know it, yet we wonder still.The earth is aching. Pain that is too much to bear. And You bear it. In the confusion and disorder. In the darkness unleashed, You are still mighty. You are justice, in the night. You are love in the hate. You are comfort in the chaos. You are peace in the mess.Wise friends share how it is hatred that is here, a thunderous movement upon the scarred land. Hearts are calloused, but the ones who know You cry out. You hear. You are here. You do not abandon the downtrodden, the alone and desperate and afraid. Read More and pray with me . . .

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 . . .

You aren't swimming underwater now, waves tossing you so you aren't sure which way is down, or up. But I know this isn't how you feel. You are convinced you are sinking, that she is smarter, that you are slower. That she's prettier, that you're not so special.Come to think of it, you aren't sure what is worthwhile anymore.That job. This home. This struggle to make ends meet.You scream the prayers in the night. Father, where are you, in the middle of the mess? Do you hear my cries? Do you recognize me, even here, where it is surely only dark? Can your light shine on me? I can't find you.I don't even believe I know where to look.You say it again: Why do your words, God, feel hollow, just letters on a page? How is your voice one I can hear? Would you even speak to me? Would you even want to? How can I believe this love you have for this world is love that applies to me? Read More . . .

They sit, these sisters, clasping tea in hands, telling me the story I know. The story of silence, the story of keeping it all hidden, pretending everything is okay.They sit and share the wounds of the darkness, love muddled in attempt to keep things clean, organized, simple. The problem with pushing down truth is that truth cannot be hidden forever. And there is a cost to silence that is more bitter than the initial pain itself.Repercussions to silence are felt in new ways–all for the fear of letting light shine.Avoiding conversations about the tough stuff may mean avoiding the potential mess that occurs when hearts are spilled open, raw. But avoidance–choosing silence–opens the door to believing lies, to making agreements about things that aren’t true.Do you, friend, have a memory when you, as a child, tried to put together the pieces to a situation you didn’t fully understand? Do you feel the burden of silence, of things unspoken, of relationships strained?We are made for relationship. We are made for community. We are made to share stories and let His light shine on the places of pain, of fear, of pride.My friend leans forward. We must unearth truth, she says. We must unearth lies that need to be surrendered. We must unearth wounds pushed deep into hard, dark ground.I squirm in my chair and my heart leaps with recognition. Yes, I understand this. This invitation to unearth–seeking to discover lies of my past–makes me both excited and afraid.For I remember. I’ve been here before. 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 . . .

Across this screen, we are not so far away from one another. Hundreds of miles can separate us, making it difficult to wrap our arms around each other in person. But uniting of hearts isn't something we're in the business of doing on our own. So miles don't matter, really.I have spent this day unpacking duffels and going laundry--and tossing a lacrosse ball back and forth at the park. Not important things, maybe. But this is: I need to tell you how I believe we see and hear God when we claim what is ours to do, with Him. I have friends who crave to hear God's voice but doubt He speaks to them, only because they think they haven't heard it yet. They believe God speaks to other people, sure, but not to them.I don't believe this.Just because we may not have recognized God's voice doesn't mean He hasn't spoken to us.We have all been given different gifts and personalities, and we are not going to hear the Father the way another person does. But I believe that the God who created each one of us is a communicator, a connector, a relationship-builder. He made us, and He likes us. He loves to hang out and be with us. He does not love from afar. Read More . . .