We don’t actually believe in community…but we need it

I don’t really remember, but I assume I was an utter wreck.

My dad had been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and I had dropped out of a college degree program I loved only a month after starting so I could be at home with my family. I remember feeling lost, like no one around me could possibly understand what I was experiencing. I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders, and I’m sure I leaned quite a bit under that weight no matter where I was or what I was doing.

She and I, we would go to the gym under the pretense of “working out,” but then we would sit in the hot tub and talk for hours on end. She loved me well, even when I was at my worst. She knew I really just needed her to be WITH me, to sit beside me and try to understand that massive burden I was carrying on my back.

We don’t really want community. Sure, we say we do. We want the weekly dinners and laughter. We don’t want the brokenness or mess, though. Because true community means sitting through tears and agony and CHOOSING to carry that weight too. True community means financial and emotional risk. True community means no guarantees, other than that your heart will hurt at some point. True community is often inconvenient and always revealing of your deepest self. We don’t really want that kind of community. 

At the risk of sounding “political,” I honestly believe this is at the root of why we erect walls. This is why we are oftentimes more comfortable dropping money in the collection plate than we are sitting down beside that stranger on the street asking for money. This is why we plug in our earbuds on the plane instead of engaging the person sitting next to us. This is why we drive into our garages at the end of the day and close our doors to the world outside. We say we want community, but we don’t. We need it though.

At the heart of Advent is this deep, guttural cry of longing for a Savior who would love us enough to risk the mess of being WITH us. This God-man, Jesus, will always capture my heart and attention because of this mysterious, beautiful manifestation of divine love: Incarnation…the Word made flesh. 

Jesus put on a skin-suit heavy with the burden and brokenness of humanity.
He allowed himself to be inconvenienced by the unimportant.
He touched those who posed great risk to his health.
He cradled the annoying and called them precious.
He defended the weak, those who had no capability of repaying him.
He chose as his companions the dirty, unpopular, convicted, irreligious, obnoxious, despised.

He not only believed in true community, he embodied it. The messy kind, the kind that demands a life. And I believe he invites us into the same.

He invites us to be inconvenienced by the unimportant.
He invites us to touch those who pose great risk to our health.
He invites us to bring the annoying closer and mine their preciousness.
He invites us to advocate for the weak and those who will never be able to repay us.
He invites us to choose our companions among the dirty, unpopular, convicted, irreligious, obnoxious, and despised.

He invites us into true community, because he knows that ultimately, it is we who need to be saved and transformed. I am the one who needs to be rescued…Rescued from misplaced priorities. Saved from my own selfishness and pride. Liberated from fear of the unknown and misunderstood. I desperately need a Savior, and he resides with and inside those I so often avoid. 

We don’t want true community, but oh do we so desperately need it. Thankfully, we have a Savior who took on flesh and moved into the neighborhood…a Savior who longs to be with us even at our worst, and invites us to do the same for each other. 

Photo credit Lauren Koleff

Exciting announcement…and a fun gift!

It’s Friday, it’s Friday! As we head into the weekend, I have an exciting announcement and giveaway! This coming Monday, I will be sending out my very first #MiningThisMountain newsletter. This will be a fun way for my blog readers to receive exclusive content in their inbox once a month. AND…anyone who signs up to receive the newsletter before this Sunday will also receive a beautiful digital print from the amazing Ahni Art. Printed and framed, this would make a perfect Christmas gift…or a wonderful addition to your own wall 😉

To sign up for the newsletter and become eligible to receive this gift, visit the link below and fill out the form. Happy Friday, friends!

http://eepurl.com/dIIQ7v

A New Kind of “Evangelism”: Being and Becoming a Safe Place

We had only just met when I moved across the country. He was a little bundle of squishy, squealing preciousness. I spent one week with him, breathing in that new baby smell and trying to memorize all his perfect little features. And then I moved. I have visited him a few times since then, but periodic face-to-face interactions and monthly phone calls are not really sufficient to build trust with a toddler. Last week, I scooped him up and squealed his name, and he hit me in the face. Blood relations don’t carry much meaning with little ones, apparently 😉 It was very clear to me who his “safe people” are. You know, those people he will run to when he gets hurt or tired or hungry. Those people he will melt into and cuddle.

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I have “safe people” too: People I will cry with, complain to, or turn to for advice. People I will “melt” into…a safe haven where I can just breathe deep and be wholly myself. Some of these people are family by blood, but some are people who have earned my trust and affection over time. I would imagine that you know who your “safe people” are too.

Ultimately, we all need that safe haven, don’t we? I believe that is what the Divine longs to be for us. Deuteronomy 32 paints this beautiful image of God being like a mother eagle caring for her young: “Like the eagle that stirs up its nest, and hovers over its young, God spreads wings to catch you, and carries you on pinions.” I have watched this beautiful dance unfold between so many parents and their children…this dance of trust. Think about the countless hours a mama spends feeding, rocking, and cooing at her babe. Thousands and thousands of moments that add up to this pivotal bond of attachment and trust.

In my work context, I see the effects of a void overtaking the place of this “safe person”: Anger, resentment, indiscriminate affection and sexual promiscuity, inappropriate attention seeking behaviors, violence and resistance to others’ attempts at connection… So much brokenness. We are hardwired to need a “safe person,” and to develop that bond over countless hours of connection and trust-building. We are hardwired to crave a safe haven, and our human relationships are so often the very best way we understand how the Divine relates to us. It goes without saying, then, that there are a lot of people wandering this planet with a broken understanding of the Divine’s nurturing tenderness. People who have been broken and discarded by other human beings. People who have had weak bonds of trust shattered again and again until they have given up even trying to forge relationships at all. So how do we help someone understand the nurturing tenderness of the Divine toward humanity? How do we invite others into the nest of this Mother Eagle tending her young?

I have thought a lot about this, and I think the answer is that we become the safe place. The only way to help an abandoned child learn the attachment dance is to go back to the beginning…to recreate those thousands of moments of connection, of faithfully meeting tangible physical needs. I wonder if it’s not the same with mirroring the love of the Divine to humanity. We become the safe place…we learn how to nurture and defend others. We develop practices of face-to-face connection with those we are called to care for and love. We earn the trust of others through hours of time spent being WITH them and meeting physical needs. We listen well. When we encompass this kind of nurturing tenderness, I believe we point those around us to a deeper reality. We become the hands and feet of Jesus….and the sheltering wings of the Divine. Humanity is desperate for this nurturing tenderness, to be cradled and protected from the darkness all around us.

I had a hand painted wooden sign hanging over the door frame in my Indiana house. It proclaimed these words: “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge” (Psalm 91:4). My prayer was that the little white house would become a refuge and haven for all who would enter beneath that door frame. I no longer own that little house, but I have come to believe that people can be a refuge and haven too.

May we be and become the safe spaces where the weary and burdened find rest and renewal…a taste of the Divine. 

Guest Post: #MyYearOfGratitude

Today holds the last guest post in this gratitude series, and you do not want to miss it! I have the privilege of introducing you to my incredible friend, Kathy. Kathy and I met when I was a student in her high school creative writing class. What a semester that was! I still consider Kathy to be one of the most influential people in my life, and I think you will see why. She exudes strength, humor, and joy in the face of immense challenges. When you are with her, she has this way of making you feel like the most important person to walk the earth. She has made me laugh when I didn’t think I could laugh again, infused hope into my life when my tank was empty, and given me some of the most thoughtful gifts that have left me feeling seen and loved. Kathy’s words feel like the perfect way to end this series. I hope you soak them up and share them with others.


“Beauty is possible in the storms, in spite of the storms, sometimes even because of the storms.”

On January 1, 2018, I posted the first of what will be 365 #MyYearOfGratitude tweets, taking me through every month, every week, and every day of 2018. The discipline of proclaiming daily gratitude has been at times simple and at other times daunting. I have both resented the obligation and found solace in it. I have fought to keep the tweets real, for myself rather than for my followers, yet I’ve been touched deeply when my tweets were both personal and also meaningful to others. Fitting that bit of gratitude into 280 characters was additionally challenging. Still, I knew It was what I needed to do after a physically, emotionally, and spiritually difficult 2017.

Some of my tweets highlight my life as a blind person working with a guide dog.

  • Yesterday, I walked out of four buildings with Nacho guiding me and no sighted assistance. You who do this daily, don’t overlook the gift of independence. Knowing you can find a door means you can walk through it to anywhere and do anything.
  • Big lab, big job, big brain, big head, big muscles, big paws… Still tiptoes like a big ninny when traversing rain-soaked parking lots!

Others include sweet encounters with children in the classes of new elementary school teachers whom I mentor.

  • A kindergartner said, “Nacho is loving on you.” Definition of loving on someone: The Choice to display love through deliberate actions meant to let others know they matter. Decide to love on someone today. It is so needed.
  • To the child who confidently sings the alphabet song three notes ahead of your peers, you will learn to harmonize one day and will enjoy it, but even then, don’t stop being your own bold self! I hear you.

Some of my favorite tweets feature moments of mindfulness and contemplation.

  • In the chill of crisp autumn air, I hear distant church bells ring. For these moments when I am still enough in body and spirit to notice, I am grateful.
  • I just witnessed wind chimes chiming not because of wind but because of rain. Beauty is possible in the storms, in spite of the storms, sometimes even because of the storms.

Not every tweet is joyful. I believe I have grown the most when capturing pain.

  • Ugg, sometimes it’s hard. Can we be honest about that? Sometimes it’s hard to be OK or stay OK. That’s when we lean against those blessed pillars in our lives, until we can stand tall again and be a pillar ourselves.
  • I lift him from the car. His brittle fur, depleted muscles, and seemingly hollow bones weigh as little as a much smaller dog. He struggles at first then stills. I hold him, remembering. Aging is taking him…but not yet. There is still time to love him.

In every tweet, I have discovered more about myself, my world, and My God. And because of that, I am grateful yet again.

  • My best speeches, lessons, and heart-to-heart conversations include at least several moments when I have almost out-of-body experiences, listening to myself be wiser and better than I actually am. Praise God for such unexpected perspective.
  • When the week ends and there is nothing left in my reserves, I hope…and I believe…that somewhere in the chaos, I did some good for someone.

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Kathy Nimmer is the 2015 Indiana Teacher of the Year and finalist for National Teacher of the Year. She teaches writing at Harrison High School in West Lafayette, mentors new teachers throughout her district, and is a frequent motivational speaker. Kathy is blind from a rare degenerative retinal disease. Faith in God has been her light in the darkness. You can follow her at: twitter.com/Kathy_nimmer.
And, I (Abigail) will add, Kathy is my friend 🙂

Guest post: God Moments

Today’s guest post is brought to you by one of my favorite people in the world…my little brother! Josiah has been my buddy for as long as I can remember. He has the most tender, compassionate heart…Kind of amazing considering what he has walked through. I asked Jo to write for us because I am always so blessed by his perspective. I love his suggestion to us today to be seeking out “God moments.” What’s your God moment today?


“Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep climbing toward the top of
the mountain. But keep your eyes up along the journey and look for the immense beauty that surrounds you.” 

So I’ll be honest: I have never written a blog post of any kind nor am I slightly
qualified to write a post for the blog of the most gifted writer I know. Yikes. Here
goes nothing.

Thanksgiving is my second favorite holiday. Most importantly, it means that my
favorite holiday, Christmas, is about a month away. Secondary to that, it is a season
where I intentionally consider the blessings in my life. When I was thinking about
what to write, it struck me that too often we wait for holidays, anniversaries,
birthdays, or other major events to focus on and express gratitude in our lives. How
different would our world look if we all tried to live our daily lives marked by
gratitude?

Maybe this is a rudimentary concept that you have heard before and have mastered
already. Teach me? My wife and I recently moved into her parents’ home after living
with my mom for six months. We are in a season of limbo while we wait on some
direction and don’t want to commit to a lease when we aren’t sure where we’ll end
up. We had a ‘boundaries’ talk with Anna’s parents and the two of her younger
siblings that still live at home. When asked what she needed from us, my 13-year old
sister-in-law said she wanted me to smile more. Seriously? At the time we all
laughed the request off, but her words have stuck with me ever since. I have so
much to be thankful for, so why is it so easy to get distracted by the ‘meh moments’
in life?

I don’t want to discount the fact that the holidays, and life in general, can be difficult for a lot of people. The world around us so often seems to be falling apart. Having a grateful attitude for the roof over our head or the family at home won’t make hardships disappear or depression vanish. Finding glory in the mundane is not the medicine for the plagues of violence, sickness, and poverty that have infected the lives of so many people. However, I think if we can pursue a heart of daily gratitude, then maybe (and that’s a BIG maybe), we can be part of the solution.

One of the greatest benefits of finding moments of gratitude in life’s routine is being able to identify what I like to call “God moments.” For me, my most frequent God moments are occurrences in nature: a breathtaking sunset, a pair of deer gallivanting through a cornfield, or a magnificent thunderstorm all leave me awestruck at God’s majesty. Like I said, these God moments don’t alleviate depression, end gun violence, stop natural disasters, or squash any of the countless issues that permeate today’s society or our personal lives. These God moments, however, provide me with something so powerful: hope. A hope that one day there will be a world without all of the pain and the suffering. Hope that we can work toward that world today by being kind to one another and looking out for our neighbors.

So yes, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep climbing toward the top of
the mountain. But keep your eyes up along the journey and look for the immense
beauty that surrounds you.


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Because I’m his sister, I can post any picture of us that I want to 😉 Circa 2012. Josiah is married to Anna, dog dad to Bear, and little brother of the Heath clan. He is best known for winning ALL the games in the Heath household, always being up for family time or a movie with his sister, carrying most of the “smart” Heath genes, and having a beautiful heart for people. I’M thankful I get to claim him as my brother 🙂

I Think I’m Dying Here But Let’s Keep Going…And Other Forms of Gratitude

We had been climbing for at least two hours. And I don’t mean just leisurely walking uphill…this was the kind of “hike” that leaves you huffing and puffing and counting steps. Our directions told us we should almost be at the top, but there was not even a hint of blue sky anywhere around. My legs screamed and my lungs groaned.

“Should we stop for lunch?” My friend asked. Really, the question we were all wanting to ask was, “Will this ever freaking end?”

“No,” I said. “We should be there soon, right? Let’s just keep going and have lunch at the top.”

My friends slowed down to eat huckleberries along the dirt path. I pressed on, determined to bring a swift end to this torture. Not fifteen minutes down the path, though, I heard the crunching leaves that indicated some other insane person had also decided this would be an enjoyable weekend pastime. I saw two women approach…surely those goofy grins were masking their exhaustion and sheer fatigue. 

“How much further?” I asked. Just around this bend. Please say it is just around this bend. 

“Um, what time did you start?”

Not the response I was hoping for. Inward groan.

“About three hours ago, I think.”

“Probably about another two hours then. It’s really worth it!”

I thanked them, even as my inner groan turned into inner weeping. Two more hours?! I was already thinking about rhabdomyolysis, a diagnosis I had learned about in nursing school. What more would it take for my muscles to just explode?

We had a decision to make.


Have you ever reached the end of yourself? Found yourself asking if you could survive, wake up another day? There have been few times in my life when I have seriously asked those questions. One was on a mountain a couple months ago. (Truly. Call me a pansy or whatever will make you feel better about yourself, but it. was. real. Ha!).

One was the day I found out my dad was dying. 

There are so many details about that day that will remain forever etched in my brain. It’s almost like everything slowed to a crawl, just so I could watch a terrible tsunami swallow me whole.

That day, standing in my dorm room listening to my mom recount over the phone the details of a scourge eating my dad’s pancreas, I knew I had a choice.

That day, standing on the side of that mountain with two even more excruciating hours of climbing ahead of me, I knew I had a choice.

One step forward? Or do I sit down and end it all?

Sometimes gratitude looks like putting one foot on the ground in front of you and thanking God you are still standing. Sometimes, gratitude sounds less like a nicety and more like a plea for strength, grace, or whatever it is that will get you through another day.

Sometimes gratitude is a groan, a guttural cry that acknowledges you are still here, still alive and breathing oxygen on this tired planet.

Today, a week before the national holiday that will no doubt be consumed with food and family and “thankful” exercises we only practice once a year, I want you to know something: If all you can muster this year is a groan, a plea, a cry for help…that is enough. Choosing to put one foot on the ground in front of you? I think there is a special kind of gratitude in that courageous decision. A gratitude that says, “I’m still here. I’m still breathing. And one day I will remember to celebrate even this one step.”

We did reach the top of that mountain.

(I couldn’t walk for four days).

My dad did succumb to that silent killer.

(And I still miss him every day).

I’m still here. I’m still breathing. And today I celebrate the groans and single steps and I-guess-let’s-keep-goings that brought me to today.

Keep breathing, my friend. To do so is a fierce resistance, the deepest and truest form of gratitude.

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Guest Post: Choosing Gratitude

Our guest writer this week is a dear friend who has walked through an incredible amount of pain and brokenness (both mine and hers) with me. Our stories intersected nearly 15 years ago…I was a naive teenager, she the young mom to twin baby boys. Her husband was deployed at the time, so I would go over to her house most days after school and spend several hours with her and the babies. I always say that Susan taught me how to have fun. When I met her, Susan’s life was not easy. And yet, she knew even then how to find joy and silliness amidst the pain and difficulty. Today, I get to share my friend’s words with you! You will be so blessed by her raw, real perspective. She has practiced the “sacrifice of praise” through incredible challenges and seemingly insurmountable mountains, a vitally important lesson I am still learning from her.


“Gratitude like this is fought for….you have to cry out – lament – rage.  You join the psalmist saying “how long, O Lord” and then end your prayer in praise.”

I remember it like it was yesterday. Walking in our neighborhood at Fort Carson and needing to make a choice. I could either decide that God was exactly who I said I believed He was and admit that He was in control of my life despite the devastation I felt or I could throw away a lifetime of faith and say that there was no god – and life would just happen in a series of random events.

My husband was being deployed. Again. His contract was being extended so they could send him back to Iraq, just weeks after the birth of our daughter. The birth that had been wrought with complications, leaving me with a heart condition that made it difficult to stand, let alone care for my 2.5 year old twins and my newborn. If ever there was a time for God to step in, this was it.

My study of the Bible told me that God was in control and that He was sovereign over all. The God who parted the Red Sea, raised Lazarus from the dead and was preparing a place for me in heaven could in fact change my circumstances. But He didn’t.

As a person with chronic depression, this was only the first of many times that I had to acknowledge that believing in and worshiping the God of the bible meant that I could not look to my life as a barometer of God’s love and provision. My viewpoint was simply too limited. In a static moment in time, I couldn’t see all the ways He was moving on my behalf. I couldn’t anticipate the lessons I would learn. I couldn’t imagine the mercies He would show. Belief is faith. As an extension, gratitude is also faith.

Nichole Nordeman’s song “Gratitude” was an anchor for my soul during those months of his deployment. She sings, “We’ll give thanks to You with gratitude, for lessons learned in how to trust in You. That we are blessed beyond what we could ever dream, in abundance or in need and if You never grant us peace….but, Jesus, would You please….

Her song captured my heart then and continues to move in me today. We are challenged to live a life of gratitude even if we never experience peace in this world. When my depression crushes my soul and I cannot face the day, I can respond in gratitude. When my needs for love and compassion go unmet, I can respond in gratitude. When my plans are stripped away and my future is uncertain, I can respond in gratitude.

Gratitude like this cannot be modeled after the kid who says “thank you” when given a cookie. Gratitude like this is fought for….you have to cry out – lament – rage.  You join the psalmist saying “how long, O Lord” and then end your prayer in praise. You join the martyrs saying, “My God can save me, but even if He does not…”. You join generations of Christians who put their hope beyond what they could see. Gratitude like this can only come when we experience the presence of God deeper than the perceived reality surrounding us.

I wish I could say I was there…but I’m not. Instead, I trust in the mercy of my Father who watches over me as I throw my fits and give into despair and then experience His healing hands, time and time again, as He reminds me that He is who He says He is – no matter how I feel. And for that, I am eternally grateful.


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What can I tell you about Susan? I could tell you that she is a super smart engineer/professor who will be graduating with her PhD in something crazy-over-my-head in just a couple months. I could tell you that she is wife to David and mom to three (almost) teenagers. I could tell you that she loves to travel and do fun, spontaneous things. OR I could tell you that she is the most faithful friend, she loves giving gifts, she is the BEST roadtrip buddy, and she mightttt have some interesting stories about dog ownership.

Pounded and Ground Into Sand

I walked on a beach this week. I can almost guarantee it wasn’t the kind of beach that you pictured when you read that sentence. This beach is wild, untamed. There are no resort maintenance staff combing it for trash, no rakes scraping through the sand to gather up what was washed ashore last night. As I walked toward the sun, I looked down at my feet and took inventory of all that was beneath me. A multitude of shells, all different shapes and colors, crunched and crackled under the weight of my step. Beneath the shells and seaweed and occasional beached plastic bottle sat a shelf of sand that is continually shaped and molded by the huge, mysterious force of the ocean. “What a marvel!” I thought. The sand that makes the beach such a sought-after place, that white shelf we long to lay our towels on and squeeze between our toes, is formed in the breaking. Shells pounded and shattered becoming the powder beneath the feet sifting it. A foundation formed in the breaking. I can appreciate the foundation that becomes…but can I also find gratitude in the breaking?

Maybe perspective has everything to do with it. I was recently telling a friend that I used to dwell in bitterness and discontentment about my singleness. I look back now, though, and see a myriad of opportunities, relationships, adventures, and even the calling I have pursued…a long list that would not exist if I had spent the last ten years building a marriage and family. What felt like a sharp shell cracking beneath my heel five years ago is now starting to turn into that soft, powdery sand I relish feeling between my toes. Perspective.
What about right now? What might you be experiencing as a sharp shell underfoot that could very well become the powdery foundation on which the rest of your life is built? In what situations or areas of your life do you need to shift your perspective? As for me, I am carrying a shell home with me…a reminder from a wild and untamed beach about breaking and becoming. Gratitude is about being present in the breaking and developing eyes to see the brokenness becoming (recycled) new life in and all around us. Being and becoming. 

Guest Post: When You Find Yourself In the Desert…

Throughout the month of November, I am going to introduce you to a few people who are incredibly dear to me. For the next four Mondays, I will be sharing the writing and thoughts of some of my friends on what it means to practice and live a life of gratitude. I am surrounded by incredible people who have journeyed up some tall mountains and maintained a spirit of gratitude the whole way. My hope is that we can learn from each other, even if the mountains you are traversing are much different than mine or those of my friends. 

On this first Monday in November, I have the privilege of introducing you to my sister-from-another-mother, Sarah. Sarah and I met when we attended the same middle school. After losing touch for several years through high school and college, our paths crossed again and we actually got to live together as roommates for two years in Indiana. Boy, do we have some history together! One of my favorite memories with Sarah was the time we opened a door. I’ll just leave it at that for now, but suffice it to say, home ownership as a single woman can be a ridiculously exciting, frustrating, hilarious experience. I was so thankful to have Sarah by my side in those few years I owned the little white house we affectionately dubbed “The Heath House.” Meet Sarah!


I am grateful for the arid places, the deserts of our faith that birth a greater thirst for the Living Water.

There’s a first time for everything, friends. Write a guest post? I still use an alias on my own blog. And to do so for a dear friend whose writing always blows me away—well. Gulp.

She asked for a piece around the idea of gratitude in the desert, a theme the two of us have discussed and lived together in all its various stages. And as I’ve thought about what to write, what to share, the importance of listening struck me as a pillar for gratitude. If we listen poorly and base our expectations on anything other than Truth, how can we ever expect to truly be grateful? Our expectation and reality will never align, and gratitude will be the hardest blessing to experience. I would love to write a beautiful post that simply inspires you, reader, but inspiration is not enough to make it through a season of dryness whatever yours may look like. I so greatly desire for you to move even the tiniest bit more out of the desert, that I earnestly challenge you to think about how you’re listening and even what you listen to.

I awoke the other morning at a decadently late hour to the quiet of a still house. I had time to take my coffee outside and drink it and the sunshine…it was glorious. The birds, too, thought this morning was something special and were positively going to town. My ears were the most awake part of me, and I sat there with my eyes closed, listening to their trilling voices and the tick-tick-tick-tick-tick of a squirrel using the fence as a highway.

Later in the morning I was listening to Rend Collective when suddenly one of the lyrics in My Lighthouse sounded off.

“My lighthouse, my lighthouse 
shining in the darkness, I will follow You
My lighthouse, my lighthouse
I will trust the promise
You will carry me straight to shore.”

Huh? That’s not what I remember. I waited to hear the chorus again.

“My lighthouse, my lighthouse
shining in the darkness, I will follow You
My lighthouse, my lighthouse
I will trust the promise
You will carry me safe to shore.”

Yep, that’s it! Whoa, what a different meaning those have!!

I misheard one word and the entire meaning changed. Had it said “straight,” it would have been very wrong—nowhere are we promised the direct, easy course in life, the straight path through or entirely avoiding the desert. In fact, the Bible is fairly clear that Christians should expect and be ready to encounter trials of all sorts.

What if, more critically than our ears, our hearts don’t hear accurately? What if we fuel our desires with misheard—or misunderstood— promises? What bitter pain we encounter in that place where our hearts hear only what they desire and none of God’s truth! From experience, I know the ugly selfishness, ingratitude, and anger that loves to grow in our sandy places of misbelief. It was not getting what I desired that brought me out of the desert; it was retuning my heart, mind, and ears, in Christian community and through personal work, that enabled me to see and be grateful for the beauty of the desert. Its beauty, rightfully seen, is one that leaves a lasting imprint on willing hearts.

I am grateful for the arid places, the deserts of our faith that birth a greater thirst for the Living Water. I want to intimately know my God and Creator, He who made all that is and was and is to come, and if that means trusting Him through and thanking Him for my time in the desert(s), well, how can my soul not sing?

“But as for me, I will always have hope;
I will praise you more and more.”
Psalm 71: 14


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Sarah has many gifts and talents, but one of them is taking fantastic pictures of me. She also weaves (on an actual loom), has a beautiful passion for serving adults with special needs, and bakes the most delicious pies. Sarah left Indiana the same year I did and now resides in Oklahoma with her family and two puppies. (We won’t talk about it, but I’m pretty sure I got the better end of that deal, what with the mountains and all…). Find more of Sarah’s beautiful words and reflections on her personal blog HERE.

Sometimes We Need to Lend and Borrow Faithfulness

When you can’t find faithfulness, you can borrow some of mine. And when my joy leaks out, sometimes I need to sit next to yours. 

This past weekend, I experienced the incredible gift of gathering with a group of missional leaders who are part of Communitas North America,  the organization with which I work and grow. Wow. What a rich, encouraging time we had together. I sat around the table with men and women who are pouring out their lives and resources to serve some of the most marginalized people in our nation. I learned from friends who are practicing faith in vibrant house churches, serving and living in community with the formerly incarcerated, running nonprofits and larger faith communities that are literally transforming cities, and seeking to reach those struggling with drug addiction and homelessness. What an undeserved privilege to sit in such wise, seasoned company. Here is what I know now more than ever, though: We need each other.

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Life is so full of ups and downs, isn’t it? Sometimes, when I am feeling most down and discouraged, I need to lean on the shoulders of those who are “up.” And sometimes I am in a space where I can be the one holding up and encouraging the friends around me. We can’t live this life alone, though, and you cannot be all you are made to be without community around you, cheering you on. As I have reflected on my desperate need for friends to hold me up, I was reminded of these words I penned a while ago. May we recount faithfulness together, lending and borrowing joy even when the world around us tells us we can and should be able to “go it alone.” 


I have found myself in a joy-drain lately. You know…when the devastating rupture of Eden seems to invade the spaces we call “work” and “home” and even “recreation.” The bleeding has drowned my soul, and the joy has swirled away. I grasp at fleeting moments, hoping to take hold of some kind of joy that lingers, but what of the moments that simply slip away? What are we to do, when “Kingdom come” evades and all we can muster is making it through?

“He tried to kill himself twice last week.”
“Their marriage is over.”
“The death toll is up to eleven.”
“She can barely get out of bed anymore.”

These words, they dump and pour and spill through my heart–a drain, taking the joy with them. How do we count joy, when it seems our lives are only tallying tragedies?

I looked into her eyes, felt the fingers of her story wrap around my own. She was not immune to tragedy, having endured trial after trial under the added weight of mothering through it all. Single. Carrying the…gift? burden?….of six precious souls. Without home. Without hope. Joy was a foreign concept, a distant dream. And yet…the pressing on, the pressing in. The searching for joy, for faithfulness that does not seem real.

I’ve learned that sometimes the faithfulness we recount is not our own, that which we have walked and held and looked at with our own eyes. It’s borrowed. Because we journey together, we recount faithfulness togetherAnd when you can’t find faithfulness, you can borrow some of mine. When my joy leaks out, sometimes I need to sit next to yours. 

She fell into the arms of someone else’s recounted faithfulness. It planted tiny, tender roots of joy in her life. She gleaned from those she chose to trust, and received the gift of a seed. It grows. Slowly, fragile in ground once drained of life. But it grows. She has a home, a place to gather her precious brood, and purpose with which to construct each day. And I call her “Hero,” for recounting borrowed faithfulness. For digging deep to make way for a minuscule little seed, a seed that will surely produce the fruit of joy-tales she can one day lend to someone else.

Me? On the days when my joy-drain seems especially large, when the tragedies tally longer than faithful moments…I might borrow your own proclamation of joy, your account of God’s faithful, steadfast love. Because sometimes I need to recount “kingdom come,” even when I cannot find it in my story.

Friends, let’s lend and borrow joy, okay?