Coffeeshop counters are filled with felted cupids and red glittered hearts. Men walk the streets of Palo Alto with bunches of flowers pressed into hands.I lift my face to the sun as I walk. Justin is close, this partner of mine who pushes me toward love more than anyone else I know.

It’s been hard, for sure. I imagine it always is, when we’re taking a good hard look at ourselves, the parts previously hidden, the parts we wished we could hide. When do we ever feel in the mood to consider this truth: we each have an affinity for certain sins? Are we ever? In any case, the process, even the outcome, doesn’t sound fun at all.

We feel hollowed out. Words, thoughts, feelings play hide-and-seek. We want to cajole them, coerce them into cooperating. No need to be shy. It’s just me.We are on our knees again. With no answers. No words. Will worship music help? What about beauty? So we find the songs that help our hearts remember who we are. We look for light falling on our face, our hands, bare branches in bitter cold outside. Words for our feelings might come now, yes? Oh, God, what is going on with my heart?

It’s the waiting that is hard. Sometimes it’s the waiting for healing, physical or emotional. Sometimes it’s the waiting for hope, for the darkness to lift, for the sun’s rising in the morning to feel like possibility, not another opportunity to worry, to wonder if this day will be any different than the next.It is heavy, the ache of lost hope. It has a smell, too–like decay, sometimes covered in the masquerade of new clothes, a tired smile, a pretend “fine” when it is the last thing you feel.Sometimes we ache for what’s next when what’s right now is actually what we need.

It can be awkward, fighting fear.The times when your mind is too full and your heart is too aching and--when it is time to speak--tears come instead.The noise is loud now, yes? The invitations to do and go and respond feel all too much?I know.I feel it too.

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 . . .

It is empty space I need more than anything. Not another latte. Not a list of things to do. Jesus, will you come into this space? Will You convince my heart it is big enough for You?You see, I trick myself into thinking it is good for my heart to crowd out the Savior who restores me. This happens because it is so easy to say yes to the next thing to do. But I can only give from what He gives me. Anything else--it is not love; it is not good.What you see when you are not just doingI can live in my head a lot.I fill my mind with information, thinking that more knowledge is what will make me more something somehow, or more responsible, or more productive. But what does it mean to be more? What good is more if this more is not from God? What value is anything if what is achieved is done with us not holding fast to our Savior's hand?Jesus, hold fast to this hand.The best ideas come from a soul restored--don't you agree? My true heart, the one that knows how to love, exists in the broad space, the wide-open space of my heart where the Holy Spirit resides within me.Do you agree? For I think you know this too. Will you join me in letting go of the things--unique to each of us--that are in the way of us being fully present with God?What are those things, Jesus? 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 . . .

It is evening light, I think, that I'm chasing. Or that I'm desiring to enter into. I can't tell. But I'm hungry for rest. For restoration. This I know.I listen to these wise and beautiful words as I walk. And I remember to breathe in the holiness of this moment. The beauty of quiet on California suburban streets, tree branches burdened with once-green leaves now aflame. A stillness that settles upon me but feels fleeting too.I am missing God. I know it. I am afraid, I think, that time is going by so fast, and I am just not spending it the way that will bring God joy, the way that will make my heart satisfied.I feel my heart pull toward Him, begging for answers: "Is it okay to be hungry for You? I am eager for your presence to overwhelm me in the night. I lay my head down and fear that I am most surely not a good friend, a good wife, a good mom, a good daughter. And it is becoming too late."On these nights, on this night, I can feel hope slipping away. I watch it leaving, a bright spot blanketed by ingratitude, selfishness, pride. I watch it go, covered by blackness. And I stay in the dark.And I don't even care.I think I don't even care. Read More . . .