The book looks worn already. And I’ve had it just a few weeks. Pages dog-eared and stuck with post-its. Sentences penciled under, words I want to keep close and not forget.

Justin Camp is a guy I want you to meet. Okay, I am totally biased. This is the guy I married. And I like him. . . a lot. But, I promise, even if we weren't married, and we didn't work together, and we didn't love cheering one another on . . . I would still want to profile him here. And it's because his new book can be the gift you absolutely need.

A friend asks me a question that makes me consider my story. She knows it; I've told it to her, leaving nothing out. She worries that the sharing of my story might make a person more anxious, more worried about sinning themselves.I am confused. Conflicted. No, actually . . . I am none of those things. . . I am resolved.The story of God's rescue of us is beautiful. It is what makes us beautiful.

Last month (how did time go by so fast?) I promised I would share with you what practical things I do to fight for my own heart when God feels oh, so far away. You ready?

He had me close my eyes and walk into the bedroom. "I have a gift for you. Keep your eyes closed." I feel my way into the room, fingers extended, and then sit up on the edge of the bed."Keep your eyes closed. Listen to me describe it first. This is what I want to tell you." . . .

"You are not the forgotten one."I hear it--a statement, simple enough, from a Father who pursues. He wants this truth to sink in deep this time. He wants me to believe it: Achievement does not make any person more worthy of love."You are not the forgotten one. You are the chosen one."Oh, Father. Take this heart that doubts your truth. Kill it in me. Give me a new heart. Help me deny the temptations of this world.Yes, something in us has to die to make room for God's truth.

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.