It is in the dark that I hear him. A voice confident. Robust. Jocular even. He fills the room, his response to my simple question so immediate, it is without question He was there all along.I leave off the lights so there is nothing else I see. I want my heart to see. I want my heart to hear. There it is--my spirit inviting my soul to wake: Wake up! Wake up!I love that sound. A declaration of a soul awaking.  A warrior call to live, to not stay sleeping. It is my favorite sound.

She texts me before her trip to the Santa Cruz Mountains, a grove of beauty and respite where she’ll lead women in hearing the voice of God.I am going right through your town on Friday! Do you have time for coffee?I adore her heart, her quiet boldness in leaning with Holy Spirit, the exquisite vulnerability and strength she offers when she paints and teaches and writes.Yes! Absolutely! I can’t wait!

The words come in a rush, but I mean them: “Declare it over yourself. Speak truth over your own heart.”I know this isn’t easy. But it is, oh, so important.

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.

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.

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.

Surrendering might be the most difficult thing. True surrender--the kind where you feel powerless and empowered at the same time. Powerless because everything you've believed, everything you've fought for and were convinced about, is being laid down. Empowered because surrendering is, in fact, an action. No one can force us into it. No one can make us put up our hands and wave a white flag, even if we convince ourselves we are out of options.Surrendering is an act of will. Our will. Despite obstacles, challenges, hurdles where we can't imagine a way through, surrendering is still a choice, a way forward.Surrender doesn't have to mean a step back.

Four eleven-year-old girls running around the house. Hiding and shrieking. Sneaking up on each other and laughing. First half-day of school. This is innocence still.I can’t help but mourn its slipping away.

"You think you're a victim. But you're not. You're actually okay. Everything's okay."Justin tells me this, in the maddening and awesome way that he does. My heart whispers, "Listen," even though my first impulse is to wish this all away.Really? Is this true? Have I believed I am a victim, God? How?I need God’s interpretation now, or none of this is going to make any sense.

The five of us return from Kenya today--a mission trip with a team of twenty-four others people, adults and kids. I scratch out these words on the plane ride home, my thirteen year old son asleep on my right. Two of us in the family are sick now, but they both will tell you the experience was worth it.When you spend a week with a few hundred orphaned children, ages three to fourteen--and you see how they are loved and how they  know they are loved--you can't help but be forever changed.