Nearly all the guests had left. Just a few remained, mingling and chatting quietly in our kitchen and living room.

The evening was much more than the pipe dream I thought it was when I applied to host two months prior. It was God’s dream, God’s gift to us. Singer/songwriter, Ginny Owens, in our house performing an acoustic concert for an audience of 43.

Who would have guessed?

Who would have known this was possible?

Who would have believed such a thing to be true?

Ginny shared mentoring words with young and wise singer/songwriter, Jessica Joy, on our living room couch. Before I knew it, we were all gathered for a group picture in remembrance of the night Ginny Owens and Jessica Joy performed at our house.

I honestly can’t remember how it all went down or what the conversational context was, but shortly after we dispersed from the photo, Ginny said these words to me – totally unprompted, mind you.

“You’re so fun.”

I promptly called her on her word choice. “Funny you say that because FUN is the last word I would use to describe myself. In fact, I wrote a post about that just a couple weeks ago, how I’m so NOT fun.”

Ginny disagreed, “You are SO fun! You opened up your home to all these people and let us perform!”

Hmmm…

The conversation moved on. I didn’t have much more to say about that, but deep down Ginny’s words struck me like gold.

I’m fun? Really?

She sees me as fun? Really?

There’s no way it’s true.

I’m so NOT fun. I’m one of the most serious people I know. I take everything to heart and have been told hundreds of times to have more fun and be more excited about life.

What is this talk of me being FUN?

The night wrapped and a couple hours later I found myself in bed, unable to sleep. I was wired, like a maniac, like the night before I left for the Dominican Republic with Compassion International and didn’t get a wink of sleep.

I didn’t fall asleep until 1:30 a.m.

I woke up again at 3:00 a.m. and was up wide awake until 4:30 a.m.

Seems there was a battle in the middle of that night. A battle between good vs. evil, a battle between doubt and belief, a battle between the night being an amazing miracle and the night being pretty good with a few mishaps here and there, a battle of wondering why I was mostly serious and if I was even just a little bit fun.

I hope everyone had an amazing night.

I didn’t get to say good bye to LeeAnn & Ed.

I hope so and so felt welcome.

I feel bad that three people from Aaron’s party weren’t able to make it to the concert.

And what about that sort-of-awkward moment when I might’ve dove far too deep into someone else’s most serious conversation?

Why didn’t I get a picture of me and Monica with Ginny? I should have publicly thanked Monica for encouraging me to host the concert.

I feel bad that I broke up Ginny’s awesome mentoring conversation with Jessica Joy.

I didn’t thank Jim and Dianne enough for all of their help today and they stayed far too long and late. 

Oh man.

The enemy came crashing into this middle-of-the-night adrenaline rush party of mine. His intention was to steal, destroy and kill all the joy and peace I ever felt about the Ginny Owens concert that had just happened in my house. But God wasn’t having any of that.

Sometime during my 3:00-4:30 waking, I remembered Ginny’s words.

“You’re so fun.”

What was that?

Why did she say I was fun?

What made her say and believe so quickly and easily that I was FUN?

I was all in for Ginny’s song about God “Call[ing] Me Beautiful.” But “Call Me Fun?” Not so much.

That’s when I remembered. In the middle of the pitch black room all by myself. Overdosed on adrenaline.

I remembered the 10-year-old 1986 self from home videos. The video where I rode my sky blue bike with a sky blue, orange and white striped banana seat. I was proud and true. I wasn’t afraid of what the camera thought or anyone else for that matter. I spoke my mind. I wore my homemade red backpack and striped polo shirt and stood straight and tall. I was clearly a FUN girl.

Tears came to my eyes. I felt the Spirit rush over me, reminding me that while God made me mostly serious, contemplative and thoughtful, a true INFJ at heart, He also made me FUN.

Ginny’s words had opened my eyes.

Ginny spoke what she perceived and believed to be true. She perceived and believed that I was FUN. The absolute LAST word I would use to describe myself. But God knew I needed to hear it.

He whispered it in the dark of night as I lay in bed unable to sleep. While I might not be aware of it, while I might not acknowledge it, God made a part of me to be FUN.

Sure, I tapped into that 10-year-old “fun” self in 9th grade when Jenny taught me how to swear. Sure, I must have tapped into that 10-year-old fun self in high school when I seemed to be friends with everyone and was voted homecoming queen. And surely, I tapped into my “fun” self in college with all that partying those first couple of years. But there’s more fun to be had, a different sort of fun, the kind of fun God designed me for that’s barely been tapped.

Yes, this was eye opening.

I’d go so far to say that this is what ultimately brought me peace and helped me fall back asleep that night. The realization that God created me with MORE in mind, that part of that MORE might be more FUN.

Wow.

How about that?

Thank you, Ginny. I do believe God spoke truth through you that I really needed to hear for some reason.

So I’ve been wondering how this works for you, friends.

What part of you have you been holding back? What are the unknown, unexplored parts of you? Are there facets to your personality that you’ve never acknowledged, never embraced? What have you hidden from the world? What is it for you?

Perhaps you’re more adventurous than you know.

Perhaps you have an edgy side you’ve never explored.

Perhaps you need to let loose.

Perhaps you’re far more confident than you’ve let on.

Perhaps you need to initiate and believe you can do any and all things through Christ who strengthens you.

Perhaps you really ARE gracious and hospitable.

Perhaps your spirit is dying to be free.

Perhaps “just okay” is good enough.

Perhaps you don’t know and understand everything. Perhaps you don’t need to know and understand everything.

Perhaps you’re much more sensitive and tender-hearted than you’ve ever allowed yourself to be.

Perhaps you’re a dancer, a painter, a teacher, a counselor, a lover, a high flier, a farmer at heart. And you don’t even know it.

Perhaps you’re living large and you’re meant to live small.

Perhaps you’ve been living small and you’re meant to live large.

Perhaps you’ve pressed and pushed down half your real self your whole life long.

Is there anyone in the house for that?

I do believe there is.

Perhaps you know yourself oh so very well, but there’s a teeny tiny part of yourself waiting, longing to be expressed. What is that? Where is that? Why is that?

Ask yourself today.

Think about it.

Maybe you’re fun.

Maybe I’m fun.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s something else for you.

What’s the last word you’d use to describe yourself? Does something come to mind? Perhaps, just maybe, God put a little bit of that in you, too.

What is it, friend? What is it?

 

It wasn’t the first time I’d gone through his drive-thru window at McDonald’s.

I knew it wasn’t my first time because of his voice. It was unforgettable.

So when I drove through that window, having recognized “that voice” and “that personality” that captures your attention in an instant, I knew I needed to speak to this man. I needed to know more about him. Because he seemed to love his life. At least, he seemed to love his job. Or maybe he just did a great job making the best of his job.

I told Reno I’d love to contact his supervisor and asked if we could meet someday during his lunch break. I handed him my blog business card through the drive-thru window and promised I’d be in touch.

One week later, we sat down for 20 minutes together during Reno’s lunch break at McDonald’s.

I asked him what made him tick, what made him love his work. Because I’d heard the kindness and the depth of his soul through his voice. I’d seen the fire inside him come straight through that drive-thru window. And it was a beautiful, beautiful fire, like this man is ready to light the world on fire, kind of fire.

That’s when Reno told me. “I beat the odds in my life.”

In 2000, he experienced a house fire. He was 21 years old when that happened. And since then, he’s had a better perspective on life.

Prior to the house fire, he had a job at the YWCA as a child care provider. At that time, he felt the purpose of his life was to provide motivation and direction for younger children who desperately needed it.

After the house fire, he got a job at McDonalds working in the drive-thru.

One day when Reno was working in the drive-thru, a man came through. He’d been through before and had engaged with Reno on several occasions. On this particular day, the man approached Reno with an unexpected offer. “How do you feel about making more money than McDonald’s?” He had lost an employee at his metal finishing business, and was looking for a replacement. He wanted Reno on his team. Reno felt blessed to have been offered this great opportunity, which would also provide him more money than his work at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

So Reno left McDonald’s. And he began working in metal finishing – stripping metal, coating metal, and using a fork lift to transport it here and there. McDonald’s, in the meantime, realized the value Reno added to their business, so they asked him to come back. Now Reno keeps two jobs, one shift at McDonald’s, and another shift at the metal finishing business.

He’s busy “working on bettering himself” and “focusing on responsibilities” and his “well being.” He has five children to provide for – a 6 month old, 7 year old, 12 year old, 14 year old, and 17 year old. He takes his life and responsibilities seriously. I can tell.

Reno shared that he “talks to the man upstairs” and prays “morning, night, anytime.” He feels like he “has a direct connection.” It’s “like HD (high definition),” he says.

Reno’s communication with “the man upstairs” clearly translates to the McDonald’s drive-thru window. Heck, that’s what captured my attention when I came through his window. His voice is incredible, phenomenal, memorable by anyone’s standards. And his personality, just awesome, lovely, delightful. He’s a warm, gentle soul. A man you’d be blessed to engage with any day.

So I wanted to know – what motivates Reno, what keeps him so upbeat in the McDonald’s drive-thru, what’s the philosophy he’s operating under so we can all learn from this man?

Here’s what he said.

Reno is intentional about communicating well with the customers that come through the drive-thru window. He never knows what kind of day they’ve been having, so his goal is to “keep a positive beat.” Even if customers are not responsive, he tries to be “kind and grateful.”

Reno says “I’m kind of like the Dr. Phil of the drive-thru.”

People will change McDonald’s and become “regulars” just because they want to engage with Reno regularly.

I can totally see why people would rearrange their routes to have an opportunity to engage with Reno more regularly. And I can totally see why he’s the “Dr. Phil of the drive-thru.” Because he is. He truly is.

Our conversation was lovely and delightful and I loved every bit of who Reno was, who Reno is. But I had one more question to ask before we parted ways.

I wanted to know what Reno’s ultimate dreams were for his life. I had a hunch those dreams might have something to do with his voice, and I was right. He knew right away – he’d do voiceovers, be a radio DJ, or a motivational speaker.

And with that, I got goose bumps all over. Within seconds, he got goose bumps all over, too. We showed each other our holy goosebumps.

Perhaps we were on to something. Perhaps “the man upstairs” was trying to tell us something that day. Perhaps Reno was made to do voiceovers or become a radio DJ. Or perhaps, just perhaps, he was made to be a motivational speaker.

(Reno, this next part is just for you.)

Perhaps you’ll become a motivational speaker. Perhaps we crossed paths for a reason. Perhaps I’ll see you speak on stage someday. That would be awesome. And if not, I’m confident that you’re motivating people already through that drive-thru. Motivating people to be kind, motivating people to be grateful, motivating people to love, motivating people to live, motivating people to live this day a little differently than they had prior to coming through your line.

So motivate on, Reno. I’m 100% behind you. You are the awesomest.

I do believe your call is to motivate, to love on people with your voice, with who you are.

So motivate on, Reno.

Motivate on.

 

 

It was the second week of August 2013. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. For some reason, I had more time than normal before my last speech-language therapy home visit that day, so I took the opportunity to stop at the grocery store where I planned to do business banking and pick up an ice cream treat.

But I never did make it into the store that day.

This thing that happened? It was a little crazy.

So I got out of my car at this grocery store I’d never been to before, and all I could hear was somebody whistling in the parking lot. It was the kind of whistling that was hard to ignore, although everybody but me seemed to be going about their grocery shopping business as usual.

I looked around and looked around some more. There were NO signs of a whistling person anywhere. But then I looked a couple rows down and saw an older man with a line of grocery carts. He was pushing the carts towards the store, and I noticed he was the one, HE was the one whistling!

So I crossed the two lines of cars separating me and that man in the parking lot because, hey, I had a little time and I really wanted to know what compelled this man to whistle so intently while he was working! I approached, told him how lovely his whistling was, how it captured my attention across the parking lot, and asked if I could tell his story on my blog.

When the man responded, I discovered a MAJOR problem…

He didn’t speak a lick of English. In fact, he responded to my inquiry in Spanish.

Hmm….

What was I to do?

I’d only been blogging for 13 months at that point, and I’d never run into a situation like this!

If I was any other sane person, I would’ve let it go at that. But no. I had to do something!

So I went back to my car and pulled up a translation website on my iPhone while keeping a close eye on the whistling grocery cart pusher. One of the first sites that came up was www.webtranslation.paralink.com, so I clicked on the link, found Spanish translation, and crafted something to say to the man. (And ya, I knew that whatever I said had to be simple and to the point, because I hadn’t taken a Spanish class since high school, so even with translation, I wasn’t going to be blowing the dude away with my Spanish proficiency.)

This is what I had translated on my little iPhone…

I love your whistling. Can I write an article about your lovely whistling for the internet?

OK. OK! So 8 1/2 months later, I realize this is craziness, utter stupidity! The fact that I went back to this whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pushing man just to say that seems ridiculous. I admit it. But for some reason, in that moment, I was compelled to return to him and know more about his story, and those were unfortunately, the best words I could muster in those moments of rush in the parking lot.

So I got out of my car, took my handy dandy phone with those words translated to Spanish, and sought out the whistling grocery cart pusher once again.

Utter craziness, I know.

When I approached the man, he recognized me from before and stopped immediately. I pulled out my phone and read the words, in my feeble attempt at Spanish.

Amo su silbido. ¿Puedo escribir un artículo sobre su silbido encantador para el Internet?

(I love your whistling. Can I write an article about your lovely whistling for the internet?)

The man must have understood at least some of what I said, and must have thought I was fluent in Spanish, because he then proceeded to tell me what sounded like his life story – IN SPANISH! 

As he proceeded, sentence after sentence, I debated in my mind – was this rude, demeaning and inappropriate to let this man go on and on in Spanish, when I don’t understand much of anything he’s saying? Or is it OK? I let my heart and my gut rule, and I decided I’d stay. Although I have to admit, it made me feel a little uncomfortable and desperate for a translator because I knew he was revealing to me, right there in the grocery store parking lot, a story that was heart-wrenching and incredible.

So there I stood, in the middle of a grocery store parking lot, listening to this man tell me his life story, in Spanish. And I didn’t understand a thing. Or did I?

My “translation” and understanding of bits and pieces of the man’s story compelled me to stay when logic told me it’d be better to flee.

This is what I understood of the whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher’s story, despite our language differences. Words paired with gestures, paired with my strong intuition and skill interpreting others’ communication from 14 years of experience as a speech-language pathologist, led me to understand this.

The man had been whistling since he was born. There were no tears when he was born, just whistling, right from the start. He was most definitely sure of that.

He had no schooling. He could write only a few words.

He’d experienced and observed many devastating and horrific things over the course of his life. His wife died. He gestured having an arm cut off from the elbow down three times. He gestured getting his head cut off another time. He took my pen and wrote “WICKED” on his hand, and had many names for Satan in Spanish.

But even in all his pain, the whistling, Spanish-speaking man had a deep faith. In our short time together, he pointed to the ground and then back up to the sky several times. There were many references to “Biblia.” And he even brought out his lighter and lifted it high to the sky to demonstrate the power of God in all the pain.

After about twenty minutes of chatting, it was time for me to go. I didn’t want the man to be fired, so I found an opportunity to politely wrap up the conversation and bid the man a warm farewell as best as I could.

I returned to my car and scribbled notes about my encounter with the man.

I went home that night and told the story to my husband. It all seemed a little crazy, but there was another part of it that felt holy, like it was a divine appointment between me and this whistling stranger.

My notes and the grocery store flyer sat on my night stand for weeks. I finally decided to tuck them away in a special spot in case I wanted to refer back to that story someday.

Six months later, I took that trip to Haiti. And it wasn’t until I returned from Haiti and sought wise counsel about next steps for my life, that I realized – my encounter with that man was profound. I finally got it. I finally understood.

That whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher taught me the only thing I need to know about LIFE. Though life’s handed us the worst, the most devastating and horrific of circumstances, we can CHOOSE to be joyful, we can CHOOSE to whistle and make the most of each and every day. We can CHOOSE to let faith rule our lives rather than fear.

It’s true for me, and it’s true for you. Will you choose to be brought down by your circumstances? Will you choose to let life get you down? Or will you whistle your way through life with faith, finding joy and opportunity in every moment?

That whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher taught me the only thing I need to know about the PURPOSE of my LIFE, too.

The purpose of my life is to be a translator-of-sorts.

To translate stories of fire and ashes – into beauty.

To translate stories nobody understands – into stories everyone can understand.

To translate stories untold – into stories told.

To translate stories of lifelessness – into stories of true life.

To translate stories of pain – into stories of purpose.

To translate stories hidden – into stories brought to light.

To translate stories of misunderstanding – into understanding.

To translate stories of doing what you love, and loving whatever it is that you have to do.

Yes, it’s mysterious work. And I’m still trying to figure it all out.

Before, I believed there was no purpose in me sharing this story – because I didn’t know all the details, because I didn’t understand all of the man’s words, because I didn’t really know his story after all – so I stuffed it away in a hiding spot to keep to myself. There was simply too much mystery in it to believe it had value.

But now, I rest in peace, knowing the mystery is what’s profound. The mystery is where I’m meant to reside. This gift of translating mystery into some sort of beautiful reality? It’s what I’m meant to do.

So whistle on, whistle on people.

Whether you’re winning or losing or somewhere in-between, whistle on, whistle on.

Amy

Within hours of publishing the first post from this week-long series titled “I’m Too Much, Not Enough,” I knew this series wasn’t for everyone.

To some, the words I wrote in that first post read like a foreign language. They didn’t understand what I was trying to say. Late that night, approximately 12 hours after publication, I returned to the post, Too Much, and re-read my words. Maybe they did sound a little crazy. I made some edits to the post and it felt a little less crazy. Maybe getting a concept for a series on Sunday morning, writing and editing on Sunday night, and publishing by late Monday morning was just too quick.

When I returned to re-read and edit the post, Too Much, I wanted to type it all out, provide explanation so every one of my readers would understand the heart and logic behind the post. The things I typed here aren’t actually TRUE. They are LIES, false beliefs I’ve held about myself for way too long. I’m sharing them here so you understand the battle I’ve been facing, and I’m sharing them here so you don’t feel alone in all the ugly things you’ve thought and said about yourself. Please, understand.

But I didn’t type all those things. I made the edits I felt necessary, and left it at that. I instinctively knew – if you don’t get this post, you don’t get it. If you get it, you get it. There didn’t seem to be much middle ground on this one.

The next morning, I received a message from a reader. The reader shared that the post, Too Much, “pulled [her] out of a den of lies,” that my words “ministered to [her] in a very dark hour.” She gave thanks to Jesus, indicating He “loved me enough to allow me to read your love words and bring hope to me.”

As I read her words, I began crying instantly.

Because I believed the words I’d written were too much.

I believed the words I’d written were not enough.

I believed my writing wasn’t good enough.

I believed I hadn’t successfully explained this concept of “I’m Too Much, Not Enough” so ALL of my readers could understand.

But here’s the thing.

The words I’d written were enough.

In fact, those words were exactly what one soul needed to hear that day, that hour, that minute, that moment. Those words ministered to that reader in the way I envisioned from the very start. Because I didn’t start this blog to expose deep dark secrets, craziness, hopes, dreams and joy-filled revelations just for fun. I started this blog so you could know you’re not alone in your pain and struggle, so you’d know hope, so you’d know we’re all in this together.

The words were enough.

God provided a lifeline for both me and the reader, when we needed it most.

And that is more than enough.

Amy

*This is part two of a four-part series titled “I’m Too Much, Not Enough. To read part one, Too Much, click here.

I couldn’t help but feel I was invisible, just another body, as I walked the pathways of Nickelodeon Universe at the Mall of America.

The diversity of people roaming the walkways was undeniable – young, old, black, white, body piercings, Jesus jean jackets, Albino white hair, curly black wig hair, robed from head to toe, and scantily dressed.

But as I walked and then stood among the people, it was easy to see why anyone could feel alone, unimportant, just another number trudging the ground of this place called earth.

What is this place?

And why are we here?

What in the world is the point of all this anyway?

I pondered these things as I waited for my daughter to take a spin on the swings.

I positioned myself near a duck game and as odd as it sounds, the ducks called to me in that moment. Laying there lifeless, they reminded me of what I’d observed about people roaming Nickelodeon Universe’s walkways. Aren’t we all just waiting to be chosen, longing to know our lives have purpose beyond mere existence? Don’t we all want to believe we’re special, that we stand out amongst the rest? And why is it that everyday life sometimes causes us to become silent, lifeless, stuck in what feels like a plastic merry-go-round, just like those ducks? Can’t someone just come and rescue us, get us out of this place, help us know we’re more than just another body on the walkway of life?

This theme continued to emerge in different ways as we made our way through the Mall of America. Life CAN feel pointless at times. It’s not uncommon to feel alone, even in a crowd. And it’s ok to wonder if we’ll ever be fully loved and known here on earth. We wait, sometimes in desperation, for reassurance that our life truly does matter.

In all my Christianity, in all my belief that there IS more to this life, I paused and wondered, not for the first time…

What IS the point of all this?

Why God?

Why do you even have us here?

The next morning, I woke bright and early for a desperately needed workout at the gym. Approximately 15 minutes into my workout, I noticed two women hovering over the ledge, staring down intently at the cardio and weight training area. One of the women was significantly distraught, the other was working hard to calm her.

I have radar intuition and knew something was horribly wrong, so I stopped immediately.

As I approached, the calmer woman said to the distraught one, “You need to leave. Get out of here. Everything is going to be ok. Don’t watch this anymore. Go.”

And then I looked down, into that open area where everyone but a few were completely oblivious.

A man was flat down on the ground between two weight training machines. His eyes were closed. He appeared totally unconscious. His chest was heaving notably. I could only assume he’d had a heart attack or stroke and might just as well be dying, right there as I watched.

Two gym members stood inches from the man; I assumed they were present when it happened. The manager of the gym was there, and one personal trainer. I’d arrived so early on in the scene that they were just affixing some equipment to the man’s chest, and were performing CPR. I wondered if anyone had called 911, but determined based on peoples’ behavior that it must have been taken care of.

I began praying silently, to myself, as I watched from above.

Part of me realized it might not be terribly respectful to watch this man in his worst of hours, his life possibly passing by. But there was a bigger part of me that knew – I needed to see this. Maybe the reason my eyes were opened to the incident while most were still oblivious was because there was something I really needed to learn that day.

So I continued to pray, watch with open eyes and an open heart.

Before I knew it, one first responder entered the main floor through the back door wearing layman clothing, nothing official. When he knelt down, I noticed the man’s chest was still heaving notably but irregularly, and he was still unconscious.

Just seconds behind the first responder came the policeman with a big plastic tote in hand. He, too, knelt down next to the man. They began a thorough examination.

Then, a whole host of medical and emergency professionals arrived. And now, there were too many bodies to count, all hovering around this one man.

His life was on the line.

It was then, when I could barely see the man on the ground because of the crowd around him, that I understood more than ever the fragility and sanctity of a single life.

Gym staff gathered large signs and arranged them as screens around the scene to honor and respect this man’s privacy as his body was transferred from the ground to a stretcher.

At that point, I thought it was best if I left, continued my run.

But as I made my way around the corner, pressed play on my iPod, and reluctantly pushed the headphones in my ears, I realized the most fitting song was playing.

I stopped.

And looked down once again, this time from a slightly different angle.

The music played.

I watched newcomers enter the space with great concern. I watched people on treadmills and ellipticals turn around and become aware of all that was happening for the first time. And I could feel and see the gravity of the situation on peoples’ faces as they passed and moved about.

It was a holy moment. Right there in the gym.

As the man’s body was rolled away on the stretcher, tears streamed from my eyes. Kari Jobe’s “What Love is This” played quietly on my iPod. And I couldn’t help but feel God’s presence.

There was something about those moments that made me realize – God’s truly in control. There’s a bigger story that’s unfolding and it’s richer and more complex than we know. We don’t need to know all the answers. We don’t need to understand every bit of why and what and when and how.

But what we DO need to know, what YOU need to know, is this…

You are chosen. God knows. your name. Your life means something. Whether you believe it or not.

In the end, what matters is that you loved and that you were loved.

Your life is at stake. Live it.

Because in the end, when you’re flat on the ground taking what might be your last breaths, you won’t be worrying about how much money you made, what position you held in the company, how big your house was, how fat or thin you were, whether you ate steak or hot dogs for every meal of your life, whether you wore Lululemon workout gear or cheap Target stuff, or whether your kid owned a real American Girl doll or the Walmart knock off. And in those final moments, nobody will give a rip whether you worked overtime, full-time, part-time or not at all.

Nope.

The only thing that will matter when you’re on your death bed is whether you lived and whether you loved. Whatever your situation, live it and love it. That’s all there is.

And know. People care. People love you.

So be loved. Allow yourself to soak it in.

Whatever life circumstance in which you find yourself – whether you feel completely worthless and purposeless and like nobody really knows the real you, or whether you feel full of life and purpose and known by many – just know. you matter.

In the end, they’ll hover around you. It will be a sacred, holy moment. Your life will prove its worth.

So make the most of these days.

Because your life is short.

Do what you love. And love what you live.

Decide to do that.

Because none of us know when we’ll be flat on the ground.

So live for today, as if it’s your last.

And know. You’re important to the God of the universe. He formed your being, He named you special, worthy. He made you with purpose. And he wants you to live abundant. Today.

As I made my way around, to the place where the windows faced the ambulance where the man lay, men and women stood, looking on. “We all get to go like that one way or another at some point,” an older man said to me as we stood there quiet, watching. Nothing but the man’s lifeless foot was visible from the one ambulance door that remained open.

Live. So when you die, others might live differently because of your life.

That one thing you need to know about your life? It matters. So live it.

Amy