I wrote the following one day for a friend who had suffered a terrible tragedy . . . But I've kept it posted . . . first on my refrigerator, like a child's milestone of discovery . . . and then transferred to my vision board . . . Because it's who I want to become this year.

It's a reminder for me on those days . . . in those times when things fall apart in the microcosm of a single moment . . . when I imagine a catastrophe that's not  . . . when I've underestimated one that comes hurling back at me like a boomerang on a random Tuesday in June . . . or when there's just no mistaking the soulshatter . . .

​In the worst of these (and they're coming for all of us) I want to remember that being human is to open our hearts to the pain  . . . to agree to the suffering because we understand there is something better on the other side of it . . . to know that what we do with the pain might be the key to our own or someone else's heart and healing . . .

​And so I begged, stole, and borrowed to write . . .

Dearest Friend,

​On my very last day I found a note with this key waiting for me when I arrived home . . . As I pass it along to you, I'm reminded that it's not what happens to us that makes us brave, but what we do after . . . when the shock and grief and awe have the power to paralyze . . . and after, when it's only necessity that pushes us forward, and we find, like a discovery, that necessity is still important to us . . . and after . . . when we look for joy and purpose and other things that had lost their importance at a place in time . . .

​For your worst days . . .

​Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones, and when you have laboriously conquered your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.
~ Victor Hugo

​On your better days . . .

​"Go back?" he thought, "No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!" So he got up and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall and his heart all of a pitter and a patter.
~J.R.R. Tolkien

​And on those days when your courage overtakes and exhilarates . . .

​I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had the courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils.
​~ Charlotte Bronte'

​My friend, I am inspired that you've arrived at this place. Go forth with adventure and a lion's heart.

​p.s. Keep the key. I have one for both of us.

In watching the annual TV coverage of the Memorial Day ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery this morning, I'm remembering how this place took hold of my soul a very long time ago . . .

​On a 7th grade class field trip to Washington DC, Arlington was a compulsory part of our educational itinerary . . . along with a tour of the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, the Smithsonian Institute, and a few  other vague and hazy stops. I remember the austere sterility of the White House, standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with friends and looking out over The Mall, and the incongruity of a pair of Ruby Red Slippers displayed behind glass in the Smithsonian (oh, the whimsy of American history) . . . but over the years and all these years later, Arlington National Cemetery is what I remember most with vivid clarity . . .

​There were neat rows  -- rows and rows of bone-white epitaphs stretching out in every direction . . . great lines of marbled, uniform tombstones , intertwined between pink cherry blossoms and stretched infinitely for miles and miles over hills and valleys.  Old soul that I was, even as a thirteen year old girl distracted by thirteen year old girl preoccupations (think bashfully holding hands with the thirteen year old boy beside me on the tour bus and pondering what I would wear for the hotel dance later),  I was able to disengage from the adolescent chatter to internalize the sobriety of where I was -- the significance.

It was terrible, beautiful, and tragic. These people died for me, I thought. Thousands and thousands . . . maybe millions of men died, sacrificed their lives, so that we -- I -- could be free and red, white, and blue.

It was a simple, noble, and enduring concept. I don't remember how quickly my thoughts turned back to the shy hand-holding, but those haunting rows of glory white sacrifice had become a part of me.

​On a different day in a different season . . . I had thought that the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier Ceremony had made a lesser impression. But when -- over three decades later -- we had opportunity to be in Washington DC to watch our daughter run the Marine Corps Marathon, I told my husband, an Air Force veteran with a patriotic soul "You have GOT to see this" . . . as if I'd been there yesterday . . .

​It was October 31st in 2011. The entire east coast had been blasted overnight out of quintessential Autumn and had awakened to a skyfall of snow. By late afternoon, it had turned to a cold onslaught of steady sleet. We stood under an umbrella, under the heavy patter and amidst the blowing leaves. It was cold . . . bitter, bone cold. But we stood in that sobering cold in reverent silence with a hundred other patriots and watched the faithful sentinels step in cadence without flinching, watched the soldier transfer his duties to the next soldier, listened to the haunting melody of Taps . . .

and have never been so moved to understand the sacrifices of the men that lay beneath those tombstones . . . have never since been so thankful and honored to brace ourselves against the cold.

​Since 1937, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier has been honored and guarded uninterrupted, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

The dogwoods are blooming.

The lilacs, the redbuds, cherry and apple blossoms have burst onto our scene. Spring is in a full bloom of color and I'm chasing it like it might never happen again . . . trying not to miss it.

It's important to think this way. I learned this lesson some years back when I woke up one hapless late November morning and realized I had missed Autumn. Completely missed it. I had been slogging through the annual education grind of data analysis and reading assessments and equitable grouping and the training of new teachers. Then one morning the trees were bare and I wondered, When did that happen?

I had missed the first cooling breezes of a balmy Michigan summer for the late hours of an air conditioned office in Detroit. I had missed the magenta morning skies against flaming trees and ignored the wind-blasted, sideways gusts of golden poplar leaves across highways as I phoned home my guilty ETA. I had missed the comforting hush of dusky, waning fireplace evenings and the glow of a harvest moon for the rush of unforgiving deadlines. I had missed everything between the first dazzle of color and up to the November guests. I had missed the thankful . . . the joy.

I hated that I missed it. It had been the simplest, most glorious gift to overlook . . . It was like my soul was choking and I simply forgot to breathe.

Since then I have vowed never to forget . . . to remember the gifts of every season . . . to chase leaves and chase a full moon with free abandon. I chase barns all red and rustic telling the history of the humble and hardworking . . . and I chase sweet, blue-eyed babies across the country. I chase morning glories and mountain paths, waterfalls, and the glinted edges of wine glasses . . . up-close flower faces in bold colored vases . . scarlet sunsets . . . falling snow against twilight sky . . . ocean waves . . . the winding of rivers . . . and the holiness of Words . . .

I chase these things . . . freeze them for a sacred second in the cruelty of time . . . and offer them back to the world. Have you noticed how I chase?

If you've forgotten how to do it . . . or don't remember ever doing it . . . have lost your childlike wonder to the ravages of time and later . . . Later was yesterday . . .

Find something beautiful . . . something that tugs at your soul . . . Intentionally, unabashedly, unapologetically chase it down. Wait for it. Look for it. Or just stop when you accidentally stumble upon it. But when you find it --you'll know it because it used to be yours - - give it your full attention. Now look at it . . . and learn to play . . . like a grown-up. Honor its curves and its lines and its energy. Find its name (that beautiful lavender bush is actually a dogwood tree;). Give your pursuit of it a name . . . Like moonchasing or barnstalking . . . Dogwooding? Celebrate it every time it comes around. Memorize how the light plays off its color at different hours of the day. Angle yourself just right above or below it . . . as close as you can or from a reverent distance . . . but build a relationship with it . . . and remember it . . . trade your own importance for it and lose yourself in it.

It helps to have a friend or two willing to indulge your crazy . . . As in the case of my barnstalking whimsy last summer . . . Someone needed to be driving the getaway car when I may . . . or may not;) . . . have trespassed on private property to get that perfect shot of the antique barn over the bridge with the billowing clouds reflecting in the water. Someone needed to be tied to my innertube when the river slowed to a crawl and the only thing left to do was squint into the sun and kick up our feet against the loveliness of blue-green . . . and simply remember . . . Someone needed to witness the rare in the bluebird flitting among the low branches . . . the fleeting wonders of the running path . . . the one that got away before we could snap the memory . . . But it's there . . .

Friends don't let friends chase alone.

Find your dogwood . . . and a little joy this week . . . before the bloom gets away and you have to wait til next year. Next year is not a promise. Have a simple adventure. Feed your soul.

​Chase the dogwood.

​

​​My first daughter is a busy, harried mother of two blonde, blue-eyed angels -- a precocious second grader and a mischievous pre-schooler -- and she is about to give birth to my third Viking grandchild (presumably) . . . any minute . . . Really. Any. Second. But she took the time to send me a series of ecstatic texts last week . . . Not because she was going into labor (she is now) but because she is just on the edge of her first paid writing gig.

Something deep in our genetic coding takes precedence and compels us to put our words, our hearts, our purpose to page . . . as I am doing now as I wait.

She is me but with a more fully developed sanguine heart and with an energy that defies logic and makes the world a better place . . . Always bubbling over with plans and thoughts and words and stories that must go somewhere. She is brilliant and compassionate, wickedly funny and tenacious in her pursuit of all things life. She has a genuine love for the elderly that also manifests in her life's paid work . . . And a love for the hearts of other mommies who have experienced the same struggles that she has -- post-partum depression, grief, deep insecurities, the pain of rejection and overlook, and just plain woman-tired -- she writes to these women, indiscriminately.

She is real, my little girl turned Little Mountain Momma . . . again and again . . . and again . . . who showed up as the biggest surprise of my life over 31 years ago and turned my life right side up . . . when she was barely a thought . . . 

But considered a choice.

She is real . . . and she is good. I could see it from the day she was born . . . too good for me and where I was in life . . . Just barely 19 and broken . . . With walls built of grief, deep insecurities, the pain of rejection and overlook, and just plain woman-tired already. She was too good for me and I wasn't ready for her. I wasn't ready to give up the dream of the life I imagined. I wasn't ready for the financial responsibility. I wasn't ready to look after  someone else -- indefinitely -- when still trying to find myself. I wasn't ready for the battle of wills that ensued from a seven pound human being and extended well into adulthood (hers and mine;). . . 

​I wanted to sleep. She wanted me awake. I wanted to nurse her. She was diametrically opposed, preferring a bottle. I wanted her safe in a private school. She wanted to stay in public and hated me for a while. I said no boys. She found one from Indiana at summer camp when she was thirteen . . . and married him (not that day). She wanted me to get a flu shot and and a Whooping Cough vaccine before I held her new baby. I wanted . . . well . . . not to . . . 

But do you know what? Nobody is ever ready for the complete responsibility . . . the lifelong commitment . . . . of another human being. Babies have a way of making you while they're breaking you. She deserved better. I got better. She demanded it from the beginning. It was a formidable job for a newborn, but from the day she was born -- even before -- she began chipping away at those walls. On the day she was born, she blasted out a whole section . . . The one with the sign that said: It's all about me.

But in a second . . . in the time it takes to quell the flutter of a heartbeat . . . In a second it could have all been obliterated . . . And I would have never been changed . . . by the ocean blue of her newborn eyes . . . by the white-blonde tilt of her three year old head looking upward for Jesus in the clouds . . . by the compassion poured into the world in the wisdom of her words . . . by the Viking grandchildren she chases . . . the joy . . . the miracle of her  -- and them -- in the world . . .

because I had a choice in her.

And women march . . . not for what's real . . . but in righteous anger for fear of losing that choice. I should pray God forgive them for they know not what they do . . . but my own righteous anger flares because I don't really believe that. My human grace doesn't match God's . . . and maybe it shouldn't . . . maybe that's not my job here.  So here is what I want to tell them: 

March for what's real. March for equality. March for equal pay. March for family or freedom or better child care options. March for respect . . . for common sense . . . for choices that honor and protect all human life. March for open borders or stronger walls or healthcare that works. Save the rainforests. Save the whales. Save the dogs and cats to the melancholy beseeching of Sarah McLachlan . . . Shout til your hoarse and you're heard. Or fight in your own quiet way . . . On paper or on your knees in prayer.

But don't fight for your right to kill unborn children. 

To mature, discerning, educated minds, there are very few issues that don't have shades of gray complexities. This is not one of those issues.

For God's sake . . . For all that is decent and holy . . . Stop demanding . . . Stop celebrating . . . Your right to kill unborn babies. They are not a mass of cells. They have beating hearts and functioning brains with nerves that feel the pain of the needle . . . The knife . . . The machines . . . They hear voices from within the womb . . . And recognize and respond to their mother's . . . their father's . . . their big sister's and brother's . . the family dog's bark . . . after they are born. They turn to the light . . . And recoil from harsh sounds or pressure or pain. They move and roll beneath our seeking palms. They get hiccups. They are calmed and soothed by the same music played for them before they are born . . . and after. We can see them in us in ultrasound pictures They suck their thumbs and wiggle their toes . . . they are the same thumbs and toes before and after.

A hundred years ago . . . Or fifty . . . Or even a few decades ago, we didn't know a fraction of what we know now about how a baby develops. Now we have the technology to look into the womb months before they are born and study facial features to determine who they look like . . . To understand unequivocally that there's an actual person tucked safely within protective layers of maternal flesh and membrane . . . a separate and equal human being. It should bring a sense of shame to all complicit that we've actually been killing babies increasingly indiscriminately and in increasing numbers since Roe vs. Wade . . . Just because we can. . . Because someone told us we had a choice. Instead of feeling shame, though, we choose to ignore what we know -- yes, we know we're killing babies . . . It's long past the point of rational, reasonable argument -- we just call it something else . . . argue from a different podium. It's a woman's body. It's a woman's choice. Oppression. Injustice. Unfair! Inconvenient! Not "viable" 

No, it's not. It's a baby. A child. A person. I know it. You know it. We all know it.

February 1, 2017 .  . .

The photo on the left was taken of my brother and me last month high on a mountain in Colorado. There's no mistaking we're family. It's there in our cheekbones, the curve of our jaws, in the set of our mouths . . . and there's something in our eyes . . . But knowing who we look like has never stopped us from obsessing over who we are.  Our Southern grandmother was always quick and proud to tell us about our Cherokee Indian great-great grandmother . . . but we've checked all the Ancestry.com census records . . . and we can't find her anywhere. So for his birthday on the mountain, I gave my brother an Ancestry.com DNA test kit. He spit and now we're just waiting. It'll be fun to find out for sure. But while we're waiting to find out just exactly how that spit will define us, we're waiting on something else so much more important . . . something else . . . or someone else who will show us who we are . . . and more importantly, who we've become . . .

Any day now . . . any minute . . . my oldest daughter will give birth to her third child . . . my third grandchild. We don't know exactly who this child will be yet. We're not even sure if it's a boy or a girl. Collectively, we have a lot of conjecture, a lot of hopes, a lot of probablies . . . But the absolute certainty is that this child . . . along with its older sister and brother . . . represents a legacy of love.  He or she will be adored . . . safe . . . allowed the freedom to grow and thrive . . . with all the hopes and dreams of a family hanging on their every smile, every heartsong, every unique and God given gift they bring to this world. Those of us who have fought hardest for these simple things -- the way things should be -- feel the profoundest joy . . . and that is reflected in the words of this memory about a family come full circle . . 

I will rise above myself . . . my pain and my fear, my indignance and indulgence . . . to love myself and to love you through our fallen world. . . I will leave behind negativity and words that cultivate it . . . It’s not fair, I can’t, Who did this? and Why me?  will not be a part of my vocabulary. . . and I won’t listen if you say them to me. I will undo what happened to you by making something different happen . . . I’ll weigh the facts against your feelings . . . and then I’ll feel every bit of it and hold your hand while you cry. I will forgive you when you hurt me . . . and strive to understand the reasons . . . I promise not to be the reason and I will ask your forgiveness if I break that promise. I will understand if you can’t forgive me. Forgiveness only comes after grieving and some of us never stop. I will always love you. Never and Always are a set-up for failure and disappointment . . . I will add them to my possibility and make adjustments as needed. I apologize in advance . . . I will try, I will listen, I will rage, and I will die daily . . . and then I will give it to God and begin to love again. 

I was halfway down the mountain and on the very edge of a brand new year when the writer’s panic began to set in. Like a child holding too tight to a handful of sand that is slipping away. . . blowing back to the ocean on a breeze . . . I needed to hold onto the memories.  

But these are not grains of sand that wisp away . . . and not the blue expanse of ocean where waves of grief are carried back to shore over and over. These are bold stars over purple-black peaks with bursts of glory that I want to remember. I want to stay on the mountain this time. And so I write. . .
​
December 29, 2016:
​
Some traversed in quick infinitesimal flashes . . . some fizzled downward like wayward fireworks. . . Some hovered over an arc quickly and just long enough to evoke a sense of wonder. And then . . . there was the one . . .

Not unlike the last one when I wrote,

 “If I never see another one like it, it will be enough” . . .

This one was different, though.  We can never be out-surprised by God. This one hurtled from left to right . . . like words on a page hurtled through the cosmos in a straight line . . . like a declaration.  And there was no arc . . . and there were no resting places.  It hurtled forward . . . burning and glowing and taking my breath . . . and taking me with it.

And I knew this would be another one of those years.  Like 42 years ago to the day . . . and like 31 years ago . . . I would give birth to something beautiful and irrepressible to carry me in this new year . . . Not to a person this time, but to my soul and my destiny.

And I will not rest until -- with all the passion and intention of a divine comet -- I have burned myself out on the pain and the glory of my story . . .

This year.

​The human psyche is a funny, fractured thing. This morning, I couldn't remember where I put my car keys when I was holding them in my hand . . . but I can remember with scary accuracy the exact place I left my red hippity hop ball in the park in 1971 (I was four) and that it was gone when when I came back to get it. A boulder could come crashing through my living room window, shattering it into a thousand pieces and changing the course of my day without shaking my confidence . . . but an ill-timed, but well meaning comment can reduce me to a weepy, frumpy mess for three days.

Actually, a boulder did come crashing through my double paned, plate glass window a week ago last Saturday.  And my feelings were hurt in a strangely inordinate way, right around that same time . . . strange because I'm generally pretty emotionally resilient. But still, I walked around in a fog for days, tears coming unbidden and wrestling with the images . . . and the angst . . . of the boulder and the words and the shattered window . . . the red brick of shadowy apartment building, a paint can, a big red ball . . . a haunting, aching disapproval. 

And when the convoluted images came together, falling into place like pieces of a dusty puzzle, they began to make more sense. And so did the words.

A few weeks ago I passed a story on my way to work. It's not likely that I'll ever learn the beginning . . . And I could only pray fervently for the ending as I went whizzing by at 75mph on the fast lane of a windy highway. But arguably I glimpsed a page of someone's joy . . . or heartache . . . just beginning . . .

That afternoon as I was driving east, I spied the unlikely sight of a large, caramel colored dog trotting steadily toward me, hugging the median. Alarmed, I had just enough time to note it's slightly emaciated condition, ears flopping, tail flagging, in the millisecond before I saw a middle aged woman bearing down on the dog from about three hundred yards behind. I wouldn't call her heavy, but by the way she was moving, or lumbering, determinedly forward, she was definitely not accustomed to chasing dogs down busy highways against traffic on weekday afternoons (who is?). As I passed her, I swear, even with my window rolled up, I thought I heard her scream "Roxy!" Or maybe it was "Outfoxed me!" Or even more likely, it was "Oh, God, please!" which is the equivalent of what I was praying for them even as I passed the third anomaly of a parked car, driver's side door hanging open at an angle against the median. All three were in line and precariously close to the buzzing noonday traffic . . . and as the space that we -- the dog, the lady, and me - had all occupied for just a few agonizing seconds stretched wider between us . . . as the scene flashed across my rear view mirror, I felt uncertainty. What would happen back there? What could I do? But the distance widened into a mile, two . . . and I couldn't find a place to turn around. I offered up one more plea for a happy ending . . . and jumped back into my own story.

But stumbling into someone else's story that afternoon, even for the three and a half seconds it took me to drive through it, had some impact on me -- other than just reminding me that we are all a part of each other's journeys in this great big world . . . even for just a passing prayer . . .

It pulled me out of the reverie of my own false story -- a lie -- that had been forming in my mind.

You see, it was a Wednesday, and the first day of that week that I felt well enough to venture out to work. I do contract work, and if I don't work, I don't get paid.It was a trade off I had been willing to make a year ago in order to write, choosing a degree of independence and freedom over a steady, salaried gig with paid summer vacations and sick days and health insurance. But getting sick hadn't really been open for consideration -- I haven't been sick in years -- yet, here I was, headed to an important, first impression admin meeting, sucking down cough drops like they were lemon skittles and praying I could go an hour without hacking germs all over my new colleagues. But that was only part of the story - the lie:

I won't get better. It's chronic whooping cough-ititis. I'll begin to miss too much work. Lose jobs. I'll get behind on my bills. My husband will lose his job (this really happened a year ago - just after I quit my job - stay with me). We won't be able to afford health insurance. We'll get a penalty. We won't be able to pay our taxes. The IRS will start calling. We'll have to find a cheaper place to live . . . foster out our dogs . . . my nails will be become weak, dry, and brittle from lack of shellac and general nutrition . . . Grilled cheese on white bread will become our staple . . . my wine rack will diminish to the single bottle of Barefoot Shiraz that I keep around just for the funky orange label. . . We'll have to go to government issued flip phones . . . One at a time, the cable will be cut off, the utilities . . . and we'll be forced to wander the mall to keep warm, stumbling into the electronic section of Sears just at the eight o'clock hour on a Monday night to watch the season premier of Survivor for a little life inspiration. . . Why . . .Oh, WHY did I ever quit that job? . . .

So now my dirty little secret is out. Yes, I am a doomsdayer. I look (and generally act) normal enough on the outside. But if you catch me in a moment of uncertainty, when life is spinning out of control, you might catch a glimpse of my soul, haunted by the former shadows of poverty, betrayal, sickness, abandonment . . . whatever calamities I've encountered in life . . . You might witness an ugly lack of faith derived from the "waiting for the other shoe to drop syndrome".

So what does all of that have to do with a stray dog on the side of the road and a woman intent, against all odds, on catching him?

Stories.

We all have them. As a matter of fact, each one of us a living, breathing story that has already happened, is happening now, is about to happen . . . and all three at once . . .

There are the inevitable trials and tribulations of everyday life, setbacks, the mundane and the lifechanging . . . There is debt and divorce, dentist appointments and dairy allergies. There is sibling rivalry and sibilant lisps. There are loss of jobs and loss of security, broken relationships and betrayals, personal failures and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. There are unexpected pregnancies and mean people. There is faulty wiring and househunting, identity theft and neighbors from Hell. There are corrupt politicians and scheming co-workers, lice, GMOs and the Zika Virus. There are bad genes, bad backs, bad choices that ripple through generations . . . and bad dogs that won't come back.

And then there are things that separate us from the truly unfortunate, until we realize (it's always a shock the first time) that we are all on an equal playing field.

There are natural catastrophes -- fires and floods and monster storms -- that take our breath away and leave us feeling small and insignificant. There is true evil -- people that violate us and those we love - that take away our faith in humanity and keep us peering fearfully from behind closed doors . . . and closed countries. Even people we love break our hearts. . . our spirits . . . our bodies. People don't come home. There is homelessness . . . mental illness, birth defects, handicaps . . . broken dreams. There are horrific accidents and horrendous illnesses. Phone calls. Parents get sick. Children die. Children are longed for . . . children are unwanted. There is profound, paralyzing grief and debilitating pain and loneliness. There are moments that bring us to our knees in the knowledge that our world, or the whole world, will never be the same.

Now that you've found yourself in there somewhere (I know you were looking;). . . did you notice I only included the "bad" stories? If not, don't be too hard on yourself. I'm not. I've come to understand that defining ourselves by our challenges seems to be our default mode. It's part of the human condition, and it can even drive us forward to do better, be better. There is wisdom in owning our stories and using them to connect with others, to build one another up in our common tragedy.

If we're not careful, though, our hardships can become our comfort zone . . . even a place to hide that feels "normal" because it's all we know . . . a convenient excuse for staying who we are when God intended us to be so much more..

Nowhere is this illustrated better than in the Holy Bible. I love the old testament stories because they are about ordinary people that God used for great things. In fact, they were extraordinarily flawed . . . like you and me. They doubted a God who would stay faithful to them and make promises in spite of their sins . . . pride and envy, adultery and treachery, murder and deceit. They disobeyed Him. They laughed at Him . . . ran away from Him . . . wrestled with Him. They even cursed Him.

​I am always particularly amazed -- and a little skeptical -- by the story of the Israelites, who grumbled and complained the whole of their journey out of Egyptian slavery, even between the miracles God provided for their protection and provision. Even after witnessing the plagues in Egypt that led to Pharaoh's final capitulation to let God's people go, the parting of the Red Sea and the cloud of fire that separated them from the pursuing Egyptian armies after Pharaoh changed his mind . . . even after God sent Manna from Heaven and provided fresh water in the desert. They Israelites FORGOT these things, and wished themselves back in Egypt. They were willing to trade their freedom for the security of knowing that even meager rations of food and water were readily available from the enemy. They lost faith over and over. Every time I read this, I'm a little skeptical . . . until I realize how easily I forget.

A year ago, I was expending every ounce of energy and God given ability I had into a job -- an institution -- that my efforts were lost upon. A few weeks ago, a handful of beautiful people, a small group of like-minded supporters who had shared that same space and circumstance of journey, sat in my living room celebrating with me (to a person) dream jobs that we could not have acquired or accomplished without that harsh bridge. It was not lost on me that I got to take the heart of that place with me . . . and leave the heartbreak behind. A year ago, my husband suddenly lost his job and we, the home that we had raised our children in. He never missed a day of work . . . and I'm writing this from the loveliest little rental home. I can see that glow of fuzzy duckling yellow kitchen from where I'm sitting. God and true friendship provided. A year ago I wrote a blog to celebrate small journeys in lieu of the big ones that temporary circumstances were forcing me to give up. Next week, I'll be on a beach one day and celebrating life with all of my favorite people in (one of) the happiest places on earth on another.

If we could learn to look at adversity as a bridge or a stepping stone to our destiny, maybe we wouldn't so keenly feel the fear of the unknown, the devastation of loss, or let the paralysis that comes with the pain stop us from living life to the fullest. Are there things that we . . . I . . . would choose to strike from my life if I had the choice? Absolutely, there are. If I had a button for personal do overs and if only resets, I'd be clicking that thing like a ski accident with a morphine drip. But at what cost . . . what compromise to who God intended me to be?

I think that I've come to a place where I realize that the only way we can truly fail is if we're not willing to grow. . . to move forward . . . to take risks even, for the task that God puts before us. As a matter of fact, the more we hope and the harder we live, the more risks we take, the more likely it is that LIFE will happen to us. Think of it this way: If we never jump in the ocean, we'll have absolutely zero risk of a shark attack . . . but do we really want to miss the ocean?

I want to have faith that the same God who parted the Red Sea . . . who sent daily bread from Heaven . . . who created clouds of fire for the protection of His people . . . has the power to create beauty from the ashes of my life. I want to be among the people who took risks, dared to hope . . . the Joshuas and Calebs of the Israelite story . . . who stepped out of their comfort zone . . . believed . . . fought giants to change their circumstances.

In the end, we'll all have a story . . . What will you do with yours? Will you walk in circles in the wilderness for years, robbing yourself of the blessings of life by refusing to move . . . for the fear of the unknown? . . . for regret or shame? . . . worry over the past or fear of the future? Or will you press onward to tell your story with dignity and grace?

Me? While I'm basking in the sun . . . washed in waves of gratitude and joy for the chance to be with my favorite people . . . I'm going to be praying for that lady . . . and the dog. No matter how the story ended . . . I'm hearing the echoes of her voice . . . wishing her to be telling someone "So there I was . . . chasing that dog down the highway . . . risking my life . . . giving it everything I had . . . "

And I'll still be chasing my dreams . . . crossing bridges and fighting giants to tell my own stories. It's all we can do.