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?

 

We’re hosting a Ginny’ Owens acoustic house show two weeks from tomorrow.

I’m outside wiping down the siding, railings, window sills and window boxes in our front porch. They’re full of dried up bugs and leaves from fall, crusty things, gross disgusting dirty things, caked on muddy things from barn swallows who attempted to nest on our front door. I want to wash it all away. I want to make it clean. I want to make all things new. For Ginny. For our guests. For my husband. For me. Make us new, Heavenly Father.

It feels good to wash and wipe surfaces. But it’s all surface, isn’t it? All this cleaning, all this preparing? This house show isn’t about that. Because we’ll never be clean, we’ll never be wholly pure, we’ll never be whole on earth.

So I stop.

The realization washes over me at the window box filled with coral geraniums and tiny, but sturdy multi-colored flowers I discovered at our nursery’s mid-season sale.

The only thing she’ll see is my heart.

There’s grace in that realization.

Freedom.

Freedom to be me. Fully me.

The only thing she’ll see is my heart.

God’s preparing this moment, this concert, to help me see that life’s not about appearances. It’s about my heart. Where is your heart? Where is your soul? Where do you stand today? Are you all about appearances and making things look clean and sparkly on the surface, or are you working in deeper, hidden places?

I stop and create. These words, they fill me. These words, they nourish my soul. My fingers fly like the wind. Because I was created to express God’s beauty, God’s truth, God’s wisdom.

Today, as I clean and make all things new on my front porch, I know one truth for sure.

The only thing Ginny will see is my heart.

The only thing God sees is my heart.

And the only thing people really need to see when they come to our house for that concert – is faith, hope, love and the sweet Spirit who will meet them here. Right where they are. Clean and unclean. Tended and untended. Always loved. As is.

 

Most of high school I weighed 126 pounds.

Most of college I weighed 132 pounds.

When we got married in June 1998, I was down to a new low of 126 pounds. (I lost 5 pounds the week of the wedding due to crazy busyness. That was, no doubt, a one-week low.)

After college, but before babies, I weighed a steady 141 pounds.

After my first two babies, I hovered around 146 pounds.

After my sister’s first baby, I weighed 151 pounds.

After four months of intense personal training right before I got pregnant with our third baby, I was super happy with a new low of 143 pounds. (But let me tell you, that was really hard work and I was watching my diet like a mad woman.)

After our third baby, I got back down to 146 pounds, but it wasn’t easy. With very regular exercise, I still waffled between 146 and 151 pounds.

By the time I stopped working as a speech-language pathologist, I was at a new steady high of 151 pounds with all the stress.

And after two months of poor eating, poor sleep, and tremendous stress due to my husband’s eye cancer diagnosis, treatment and recovery at home, I was up to an all-time non-pregnancy high of 158 pounds.

I felt like junk, to be honest. The pounds were piling on for no reason. I was beginning to get worried, in fact. My body was taking on a life of its own. It seemed like all I had to do was step on the scale and another pound would be there. Permanently. Like it wasn’t going away anytime soon. Like I had no control over how this body of mine was reacting to life. Like I was barely fitting into my pants.

One day in early March, when I was at that all-time high of 158 pounds, I stopped by the personal training desk and spoke with a trainer. I’d been working out 3x/week like normal, but I was convinced that all the stress and life changes had literally blown my metabolism to shreds, that my body needed a major re-boot. I’d heard good things about some new metabolic, hormone, stress & vitality tests my gym had available, and wanted to see how much they cost. I had a conversation with the nicest, most helpful and kind personal trainer in the world. Heck, after we chatted a while, he even brought me up for a meeting with the gym’s nutritionist so we could look closer at those tests I was hoping to run. Needless to say, the tests were out of my financial league. No personal income to speak of and many doctor bills left me realizing I’d have to walk through this weight problem on my own.

The personal trainer offered me a Sunday afternoon friends and family class for $10 a session, but between family events, my son’s basketball tournaments and my daughter’s volleyball practice and tournaments, I haven’t been able to attend. He also said I’d fit nicely in a group personal training session he runs weekly, but to be honest, I don’t have an extra $50 a week to put into group personal training right now.

Since we met briefly in early March, that personal trainer has been the nicest, most supportive guy in the gym. When he sees me he says hi, and asks how I’m doing. He stopped me on the track the other day to let me know the tests are on sale this month. And he reminded me again with all sincerity, “let me know if I can help you with anything.” A couple weeks ago, I shared that I’m down 4 pounds since I talked to him in early March. “Keep up the good work,” he congratulated.

I’m down to 154 pounds. Still an all-time non-pregnancy high. The pounds are still coming off my body like molasses. But hey, I’m 4 pounds lower than that all-time high of 158.

The past four weeks, I’ve begun lifting weights more than I have for several years. When I spoke with the personal trainer, he reminded me I should be lifting at least a couple times a week. And I promptly reminded him that I hate weight training, that I avoid it like the plague. But I knew I had to change something. I knew I had to kick this body into a whole new realm. I knew I had to do something different. So as much as I hate weights, I began integrating lifting into my workout program again. I’ve actually been lifting 3x/week for the past month.

But yesterday when I was lifting, I realized something. I remembered WHY I hate lifting. I remembered why I STOPPED lifting during my sister’s first pregnancy in 2010.

Because life feels weighty enough in itself.

Too often, I bear the weight of the world on my shoulders. I sense deeply. I feel deeply. I live far beneath the surface in my heart. Lifting extra weight adds burden to my already worn and torn body and soul.

I knew that was true back in late 2010 when my personal trainer was pushing me beyond my limits with weights, when I crumbled in tears and she couldn’t understand why. I knew that was true yesterday when the weight of the world just felt too heavy to lift, when I couldn’t even curl two 10-pound dumbbells three sets of 12 reps.

Yes, it’s all becoming crystal clear. This is an unintended consequence of slowing my life to a new pace, an unintended consequence of shifting directions. It’s all crashing down on me, or should I say, it’s all piling up on me?

I’ve spent a lifetime bearing the weight of the world. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectations I set for myself. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectations I set for others. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectations others have for me. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectation of doing what the world thinks I should do, and being who the world thinks I should be. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectation of thinking I can help, fix, restore, renew and remove everyone’s burdens.

Yes, it’s becoming crystal clear. A lifetime of mental, emotional and spiritual weight bearing has taken a toll on my physical well being. I haven’t known my boundaries. I haven’t honored any boundaries.

158 was an all-time high.

Now I’m at an all-time (lower) high of 154.

What weight do you carry?

What weight do you carry physically?

What weight do you carry mentally, emotionally, spiritually?

Just because we can feel the weight of the world, doesn’t mean we need to bear the weight of the world.

How’s that for a revelation?

Let’s lift the weights we’re meant to lift, and loosen our grip on the weights we’re meant to set free. You and me, friend. Just you and me.

 

 

 

A couple weeks ago, I shared that I’ve begun the lengthy process of cleaning out and cleaning up our entire house, top to bottom. One of you asked if I would please continue to share updates as I moved through the house. So here I am. In the kitchen today.

When I shared the last blog post about clutter, one of the areas I’d recently cleaned out was the kitchen island. It seemed like a small thing at the time. After all, the island only accounts for a tiny piece of our kitchen. (And just to be clear, the island doesn’t look much different than it did before the clean out. But hey, I know it’s been done and I feel better, so doesn’t that count for something?)

At any rate, I knew today was going to be another clean out day. I didn’t have anything planned outside of the house until early evening, so I had time to dedicate to a big project. It was time to get back to the kitchen.

I began on the far side of the kitchen, the side closest to the living room. I figured that way, it would be easiest to keep track of where I’d been, as well as where I’d left off for the next round of cleaning out and cleaning up. That brought me to the refrigerator and cupboard above it.

I started up top with the dusty cabinet near the ceiling. I wiped the cupboard door fronts well, and was quite surprised at how dirty they were. Then I opened them to discover all the things that are way up high, on top of our fridge, for good reason. Bottles of alcohol. A swath of glass vases. Random things we very rarely use, including an ice cream maker, an old-fashioned coffee pot, the turkey roaster, and a leather wine pouch for all the romantic opportunities we have to picnic together with wine.

I found an old bottle of alcohol in the back that had never been opened. Did my husband even realize it was there? I moved it to the front.

I combined two bottles of Two Gingers Irish Whiskey, a task I asked my husband to do last weekend when the screw top on one of the bottles was stripped. He told me we didn’t have another bottle of Two Gingers. Today, I was glad to discover we did have two bottles. I married the two and promptly recycled the stripped bottle.

I considered getting rid of the leather wine pouch, but decided who knows, maybe someday we’ll have another opportunity to picnic in the park with wine.

Then came the inevitable. All those glass vases. There was one big, butt ugly golden vase that had to go. No doubt about that. I wasn’t even sure why I kept it all this time anyway. Then all the others. I’m not even kidding you, we had about 25 glass vases. I inspected them all. I looked at all the different styles. I imagined how I’d pair them beautifully on tables when we hosted holiday meals. I imagined how I might need them someday if I host a fundraiser and want to line tables with flower vases. I imagined summertime, where I’d bring in beauties from the garden and arrange them in Mason-style vases. Sure. It was possible that any of those imaginings could and would be realities. But how many glass vases do we really need? How many pairings of vases can we actually use for our little family of five?

So I got rid of several vases. The ugly gold one had to go, of course. After that, it was just pick one, pick another, pick another, and so on. For the most part, I realized I really didn’t care. Vases are vases. There was nothing particularly spectacular about any of them.

I washed them up so I would feel better about donating them to the thrift store. (They were quite dusty, after all.) Then I got out a box and started loading everything in.

That led me to realize that I needed to just go ahead and fill up that box with as much stuff as I could. It was all going to the thrift store. Today. I was determined to fill that box as quickly as I could. So I moved a few cupboards over to the massive space I was so excited about when we moved into the house. The massive cupboard space that’s now full for the most part, full of a lot of stuff we don’t use that much. Within minutes, I cleaned out several water bottles that I hate to use or wash, some random glasses, four or five cheap plastic kids placemats, and other random junk. Okay, junk isn’t the best description at all. It was actually good stuff, decent stuff. I just didn’t have any attachment to it. I didn’t see any reason to keep any of it. In one swoop, I’d filled an entire box.

When the box was filled, I took this picture and just stared at all the items that filled it.

I didn’t care about one single thing in that box. Not one single thing. It meant nothing to me. Nothing was useful to me. Nothing was beautiful to me. Nothing was sentimental to me. Nothing.

I wondered. Why do we keep things we don’t need? What is the benefit? What is the point of having things around that we don’t need OR use? All these excess things do is clutter our minds, our hearts, our souls to the point where we can’t breathe anymore, to the point where we can’t think anymore, to the point where we can’t just BE anymore.

I’ve had enough.

Getting rid of the box of junk (a.k.a. good stuff, just fine stuff) I never use.

There’s no use keeping stuff I don’t need.

There’s no use keeping stuff I don’t use.

It’s cluttered my life long enough.

Good bye.

I promptly plopped the box in the front seat of my SUV, loaded my baby girl in her car seat, and told her we were going to the thrift store. When we got there, I picked up the box, walked in briskly, sat the box down on the donations table, walked towards my car, and didn’t look back one second.

Good bye.

Good riddance.

There’s no use keeping stuff I don’t need.

Why?

 

 

 

 

For six or seven years, I’ve been significantly burdened by all the STUFF we own. Everywhere I look, there’s clutter, STUFF we don’t need or use. I have no problem stating the brutally honest truth about all that STUFF.

I can’t stand it.

It’s exhausting to manage and suffocating to my soul.

I don’t need anymore STUFF.

One of the tasks I’m bound and determined to get a grip on between now and the end of the school year is decluttering our house. The past two and a half weeks, I’ve begun to dig out. I realized from the start that it’s going to be a huge job. In fact, I’ve just begun to scratch the surface with a partial clean-out of one side of our master bedroom, a partial clean-out of our master bathroom, a partial clean-out of our baby’s bedroom, and a pre-Easter dump of seasonal goods we don’t use anymore.

I’ve sorted through old t-shirts and barely-worn lingerie stuffed in dresser drawers, jewelry from junior high, over-the-counter medicines already expired, gross smelling lotions only partly used, and hand-me-down toddler clothes that didn’t get used nearly enough. I donated several pair of pants that didn’t fit anymore, sweaters that have gone out of style, necklaces and bracelets I once thought were real gold but discovered were all fake when I brought them to the Gold Guys in hopes of cash. Books that no longer resonate have been tossed in a donation bag along with the free, but ugly hair clips that came with the hair dryer we bought in December. And I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve saved boxes for a year now. You know why? Because I want to sell a bunch of valuable STUFF on eBay, but putting all that STUFF up for auction takes so much time, I haven’t even gotten to it. So there sit the boxes.

The STUFF.

It’s a burden.

Whether we know it or not, whether we’ve had time to sort through it or not, whether we’ve had time to realize how much we’ve collected or not, it’s a burden to our souls.

We collect, purchase, acquire, buy and borrow hoping all these things will fill the holes in our hearts, this longing for something more. But STUFF doesn’t fill holes in hearts. STUFF fills our houses, fogs our brains, clogs the free-flowing life waiting for us on the other side.

We’re drowning in STUFF.

Me, you, our whole culture.

More is better. Or is it?

What if less is truly more?

What if we stopped believing the lie that STUFF will make us happier?

What if we stopped expecting STUFF to fill the holes in our hearts?

What if we decluttered once and for all?

What if we realized that a life worth living has nothing to do with the acquisition of more STUFF?

What if we released the STUFF and opened our hearts to the possibility that freedom’s waiting on the other side of STUFF?

What if we need clean places, wide open spaces so our hearts and souls can breathe and just be for once?

What if?