chasing grace

The thick darkness hangs low. The wind whips in ominous circles. The waves froth and grow steadily. I tread in the dark, icy water. Anxiety from the looming shadows below keep my head from sinking beneath the surface. Numbness provides the only respite from the urgency and pain within. Something pulls beneath; I labor and contest. I glance up, my eyes piercing the sky, looking, searching. Where have You gone?  Have You forgotten me? Have You left me here to slink beneath, to be covered by a landslide of my own making--my own mental instability and perceived expectations and pressures? How long, Lord, must I struggle? How long will You allow me to linger through the hours and days in this way?  But I see You--even if I have escaped Your watchful eye; even if You have thrusted me aside. I see You.  I see You in the long-lashed grey-blue eyes of those who call me "Mama". I see You in their tussled, soft, sandy hair warmed by the sun. I see You in the glorious pink and coral ...

A friend of mine recently took up embroidery. Her first piece was large and detailed. It included a dozen or so different colored threads and several different stitch designs. I was very impressed with her skill. A few days after completing her intricate piece she posted this picture. She was beginning her 2nd pattern, and although it's just a single stitch, something about this image struck me and stuck with me. I couldn't seem to get it out of my mind. What was she making? What would this single stitch become? There was just something so beautifully simple about the image and the great potential that it represented. With her hands she could fashion this stitch into anything she imagined.  As I stared at the stitch I wondered what drew me to it. Perhaps we had something in common. Perhaps the simplicity and potential hidden in this single thread is something that I crave deeply. Perhaps I long to be the artist--to have control over where the needle moves next. Perhaps this sin...

"So he got into the boat." Jesus was familiar with fishing boats. He often used them as a means to get away from the constant hustle of the incessant crowds. Sometimes when the crowds were so large, he would even teach from a boat giving more people the opportunity to see him and hear what he was teaching. In Matthew 8 beginning with verse 23 (printed below) Jesus had just completed a healing spree--a man with leprosy, the centurion's servant, Peter's mother-in-law, and a multitude of both demon-possessed and sick individuals found healing and new life in Jesus. Now, Jesus needs a break. "So he got into the boat."  Jesus' disciples were not strangers to being on the water either. Several of these men were fishermen spending most days, prior to Jesus' calling, in a boat. And after seeing all that Jesus had done, they didn't hesitate to follow Jesus out into the deep sea.  But this was not going to be the restful sabbath that they had in mind. Alr...

It's a part of me. At times it hides deep within me. Sometimes it rages wild, devouring my strength, my peace, my joy. It's not a friend but a constant and dreaded adversary. It leaves me deep in a pit unable to climb or even call out. It controls me; it consumes me.  That’s depression. Depression has plagued me for nearly half of my life. My human strength is gone; I’m just waiting for God to rescue me— “to lift me out of the slimy pit; out of the muck and mire” (Psalm 40). Until I come out victorious, until I’m able to leave this desolate wilderness of isolation, exhaustion, and deep sadness, my life is on hold. My sole purpose, it feels, is to overcome. Everything around me tells me that is where strength seems to be found; only in triumph will I be myself again. Strength is found in victory, right? Many of us may assume that question is rhetorical, but a biblical worldview invites us to something deeper and richer. Jesus teaches a vastly different idea about strength and su...

It's been almost 10 years now since I dreamed up this blog. I meticulously designed and re-designed. I named it and then renamed it. I wrote and deleted, and wrote and deleted. Although I had hoped that writing my thoughts might give me clarity of mind, it has made something else painfully clear... I am not a writer. At 2 AM, I write some really good material in my head but by 6 AM it has either completely fled my memory, or it simply isn't as profound or witty as it seemed then. Although I hold to the fact that I do some of my best thinking at those unwholesome hours, I do not do my best writing then. To be completely honest, I have learned in the last 10 years that I am an average writer, at best, but have virtually nothing to say.  Motherhood has made me a better person in so many ways. I am less selfish, stronger, and more honest with myself than I ever thought humanly possible. But, motherhood has also jumbled my thoughts, induced a mushy intellect, and caused me to be far...