Pastor uttered these life-changing, life-breathing, life-affirming words to me after church on December 14, 2014.

“God is going to do phenomenal things through you.”

I didn’t do anything in particular to deserve this blessing. It was, perhaps, the most incredible blessing I’d ever received.

I was alone. Nobody heard. Nobody witnessed this moment but me, pastor and God himself. I’m pretty sure I beamed, glowed with possibility.

Pastor was just passing by. But as he passed, he stopped. He looked me in the eye and asked with all sincerity. “How are things going?” “Good,” I told him, “I just have one more week of work.” “You’re looking good, healthy,” he said. And that’s when he blessed me.

“God is going to do phenomenal things through you.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I said, smiling quietly.

I’m pretty sure I teared up at that point.

Pastor knows my story. Over the course of the past three years, I’ve invited him in on my journey. Three or four times, we’ve sat down and chatted about life. He’s guided me, counseled me, provided Godly insight where I needed it. Our pastor is a man of God. I trust him whole-heartedly. Through our meetings, he has developed a good understanding of who I am. He doesn’t know every detail of my life by any means. But I do believe he has a good grasp of what God might have in store for me.

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Since I stopped working as a speech-language pathologist on December 18, 2014, life has been a whirlwind. I have been pressed to release everything that’s familiar, everything that’s known, everything that’s safe and sure.

Last week, I finally began to grasp new normal. And let me tell you something. New normal is going to be phenomenal.

In the past month, during the heart of the storm of my husband’s eye cancer, God opened doors and clarified His vision for my life. I have greater clarity than ever as to where I’m heading. His call is crystal clear.

In addition to my primary roles as wife and mother of three young children, I believe I’m being called to press forward in two areas of work. For now, I’m choosing to keep the details private. But wonder and worry not. I will most definitely bring you in on the journey when the time is right.

All of this to say that this is NOT going to be easy. It is NOT going to be free sailing. This is going to be difficult and challenging. This will require trust and patience, discernment and discovery. I will be journeying into uncharted territory, and more than ever, I’m going to need community rallying around me, loving me, caring for me, and coming alongside to help and support. The journey ahead will not be easy, but it WILL BE phenomenal. And let me add, phenomenal things will NOT happen if I try to do them on my own. God must and will work through me. Because I can NOT do these things out of my own sheer will and determination. Faith, yes. It will be through faith. And trust that this is God’s plan for my life.

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So today I’m wondering…

Today I’m pondering…

Has anyone told YOU…

“God is going to do phenomenal things through YOU.”

I know reading those words on a screen isn’t the same as having me stop you in the aisle, look you in the eyes, and give you real-life words of encouragement.

But today I want to stop, take time, and give you this blessing through the screen. It’s as best as I can do.

“God is going to do phenomenal things through you.”

Believe it. Trust it. Know it with all of your heart.

Open your heart to the possibility that the thing you’ve been dreaming of, the thing you’ve been longing for, the thing that feels out of reach, the life you’ve been waiting for – is possible.

God is waiting. He wants to do amazing things through you, phenomenal things through you. But there’s an element of surrender, of trust, of believing there’s something more. Even when the “something more” seems impossible.

So please…

Today…

Stop going through the motions.

Stop viewing life and faith as an academic exercise.

Stop surviving and waiting for the big break.

Live.

Have faith.

Take a little step. Or maybe a great big one.

Work with God, even when it seems and feels a little crazy.

Believe that “thing” is possible.

Phenomenal is possible when we step out and do things beyond our human capacity, when we partner with God who’s much bigger than ourselves, when we trust in the unseen, intangible forces of good and grace.

Yes.

Let’s be phenomenal.

 

 

 

The world has rewarded my boxed in living.

Be safe.

Be good.

Do what’s right.

Be as perfect as you can be.

This life, it works. But there’s more. Much more.

The kingdom’s been calling. God has better for me and this life of mine.

His desires?

Repentance. Forgiveness. Healing.

Holiness. Righteousness. Humility.

Grace. Abundance. On earth as it is in heaven.

Trust. Faith.

He calls me, beckons me to chart new territory, swim deeper waters, tread by the bounty of His grace.

I wrote this post on June 10, 2014. It sat, unpublished, in my drafts folder until today, February 20, 2015. I’ve chosen to publish this post in honor of a writer friend who’s been doubting her words. She’s not sure they’re good enough. I relate. All too often, I’m convinced that my words are too much for people to handle. This post is short, for sure. But the words hold great meaning and are worthy of sharing. NO changes were made to the original post. It’s been sitting in my drafts folder for eight months…until today. Our words are enough, friend.

 

 

 

The mood in the car on the way back from Thanksgiving wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as it was on the way there. We were stuffed. We were spent. And we were a little stressed.

Add three days of holiday eating, one sleepless night and doctor calls due to a toddler’s overstuffed belly and ruptured eardrum, one Black Friday, 12 people in one house for three days, then news that’s not so encouraging, and you’re sure to find a carload of peeps ready for deep breaths and quiet space to regroup.

But the Christmas music played on.

We were blindly oblivious to the joy we could’ve received from the Christmas tunes until Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Then everything changed. The whole car woke up. And everyone started singing along.

What was it about this Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer that had the power to light up a whole carload of travelers weary from the journey?

It was magical, powerful, noteworthy, at least for me, the one who’s hyperaware of just about everything. The joy lasted for one, maybe two minutes, the length of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’s song, and that’s about it. Then everything returned to status quo.

That is, until the next day when we passed two freshly-built snowmen on the way out of the neighborhood. A similar glimmer of hope rushed through me. An innocence I desperately needed. A fresh perspective in the midst of the monotonous and mundane.

We passed those snowmen on the way out and in, out and in again. And as we passed, I felt gratitude for their creator, thankful for the frosty gift of simplicity.

So what is it about Rudolph and Frosty that light us up? Why do we listen to their songs? Why do we watch their shows year after year? Why do we buy stuffed Misfit Toys and Rudolphs with shiny noses? And why do we build Frosties with black hats and carrot noses?

I believe we deeply crave Rudolph and Frosty’s innocence. We’re desperate for the glimmer of hope they bring to the table. We long for things to be simple again, for days when all we need to worry about is singing and frolicking in the snow. We want to be jolly and happy, and wouldn’t it be awesome if all our cares washed away in the singing of one simple song? What can we do to bring back the days of old?

On the other hand, Rudolph and Frosty remind us we’re human. We relate to their simple, but profound stories. Rudolph and Frosty are courageous and bold, even in the face of adversity. They know they were created for a reason, and we see them most fully alive when they’re living in the center of their purpose. Hiding the best parts of us, letting our gifts and talents melt away into oblivion isn’t wise. It’s foolish. It’s a shame. We know we were made for more. We know there’s life and light waiting to shine in and through us.

So we watch. And we listen. We sing. And we build.

For Rudolph and Frosty represent you and me in the most simple, but profound of ways.

You and me – with gifts seen and unseen.

You and me – with gifts expressed and unexpressed.

You and me – with beauty and pain and everything in-between.

You and me – waiting for magical moments, ready to break free.

You and me – desperate for innocence and purity, longing for simpler days, slower days, days when we can give and share our gifts in community, days when we can just BE without fear of what MIGHT BE.

So yes, we watch. We listen. We sing. And we build.

Because Rudolph and Frosty? Their stories are our stories.

It sounds dramatic.

But it’s true.

I had to fly away to find myself.

Nearly nine months ago, I found myself alone in a hotel room in Miami, Florida. I’d spent several hours on a flight from Minneapolis, so when I arrived at the hotel, all I wanted to do was get out for a walk in the “warm” February weather and grab some dinner at a nearby Chick-Fil-A. I took my chicken strips with honey roasted barbecue sauce, waffle fries and Diet Coke back to my room and ate quietly on the bed, then turned on the television, slipped into my pajamas, and watched Blackfish. You know, the unforgettable documentary about orcas at SeaWorld? Yep. I was intrigued. I got completely lost in the story. And I stayed up extra late to finish watching it even though I really needed to get to bed. Because I was flying to Haiti the next day to visit our two sponsored children through Compassion International.

When Blackfish was over, when the unexpected flurry of beeps in response to my #Blackfish tweets finally slowed, when I’d decided to call it a night and turn out those lights, that’s when the heart pain kicked in.

I’d been having ever-so-slight heart pains for weeks leading up to my trip to Haiti. So it was no surprise that I had them again that night when I was alone in the dark, Miami hotel. I’ll tell you the truth. I started to freak out just a little. I wondered if I was going to have a heart attack while I was in Haiti. I wondered if I’d been ignoring all the signs of an impending attack. What if I was about to find myself stranded in a Haitian hospital and have to forgo my trip because of these stupid heart pains?!

I started to feel alone and a bit scared for my life. In all the months of planning and preparing for this moment, for this trip to Haiti, this was the first time reality had really set in.

I’m in Miami, Florida. In a dark hotel room by myself. I’m going to Haiti tomorrow. With a bunch of people I’ve never met. What in the world am I doing?!

Through all these thoughts, my heart continued to ache little aches. I ignored them, though. Because those little aches weren’t about to stop me from going to the airport and getting on that plane to Haiti.

Oh, I’m so glad I didn’t let those little aches stop me.

The trip to Haiti was marvelous, wonderful, better beyond anything I ever expected. The children, parents and staff we met at the Compassion centers filled my heart to the brim. I felt completely at home making those home visits. And having an entire day with our two sponsored children was the most amazing, blessed gift I could have ever received.

I felt fully myself.

I was fully myself.

Back home, life had been well. I had pretty much everything I needed and most everything I wanted. And everyone who loved and cared for me was there.

Something was missing, though. That is, until Haiti.

Until Haiti, I’m not sure I knew what it felt like to be fully me, fully authentic Amy.

Let me explain.

Haiti helped me realize there’s a difference between who I’ve been and who God created me to be. When I was there, I experienced what it was like to live in the center of His will. I was fully, fully alive. I was fully, fully me. If I could ever pinpoint a moment in time where I felt 100% comfortable in my own skin, it was then.

How did I know?

Because I experienced the fullest range of emotions I’ve ever experienced. My guards were down, all the way down. I cried, a lot. Not because I was sad, but because I was so full of joy. I felt a little stupid, because, well, I seemed to cry like a baby every time it was my time to share at the end of the day. I said stupid stuff, like “this trip means a lot to me.” And after sweet baby boy said he wanted me to be his mama, I pressed my hands up against the windows on the van and sobbed my eyes out and put my hands on my heart and didn’t even care that someone was sitting between the window and me watching it all go down. Yet, I was filled with joy. Some of the purest, truest joy I’ve ever felt. And I knew, there’s beauty, great beauty in the place where joy and sadness meet. That’s God space, God’s place. He was there. In me, through me, behind me, ahead of me. Everywhere. Everywhere.

So yeah. That’s how I knew I was most fully myself.

Then it was time to leave.

I wasn’t sad to be going home. Because my husband was right, home is where everyone knows and loves me, home is the beautiful everyday God has created for me.

But I was really sad to leave Haiti. Because there, I’d learned to be me, without borders. I didn’t want to fly away from the beautiful everything God created me to be.

I thought the story was done. Back home, life returned to normal. Or not so normal. Nothing was the same.

I took a blogging break for 3 weeks.

I dreamed.

I made some decisions.

I decided I really wanted to go to a writing conference in the fall.

My husband said yes.

So eight months after I got back from that trip to Haiti, I found myself on a plane to a writing conference.

I’d been connecting with this group of writers for four years. I’d wanted to attend the conference for two years. But when push came to shove? I had no idea what I was doing when I got on that plane. I had no. idea. what. I was doing.

But let me tell you. In some odd, totally unexpected turn of events, God showed me, once again, who He created me to be. I came fully alive, again. I felt fully alive, again. I knew what it felt like to be me. Really, me.

I found my people. I felt free. I took risks. Little risks and great big risks. I roomed with someone I didn’t know at all. But in the end, it felt like we’d known each other forever. I got to meet nearly everyone I wanted to and then some. I was me, just me. I wasn’t less than or more than myself, I just was myself. When I sat myself at random tables, I knew there’d be a place for me, because everywhere I went, I felt comfortable as me.

I ugly cried with Jill who pursued and loved me like mad. I got vulnerable and prayed with Christy and Jaimie. I humbly welcomed the love from sweet Darlene when she introduced me to friends and called me “angel.” I felt all the exhaustion when I plopped, hunched and got real on the couch with Jessica, Heidi, Alia & Shelly. I felt God’s divine power pour down when Anna and I had the opportunity to speak at length with Mama Bear Liz. And I hoped and prayed I was meeting friends-to-be when I hugged and chatted with Crystal, and complimented Annie on her way of making me laugh and cry in one hour. I felt like an idiot when I’d completely lost it in that dark, dark room when Judah & The Lion played music that matched the core of my heart. And when I realized someone witnessed me losing all composure? I didn’t even care.

I went all day, and I didn’t want to stop.

I couldn’t get to sleep at night because my mind was racing, my heart was full.

And when I called my husband to tell him how awesome the trip was, I felt the same way I did when I called him from Haiti. I felt full. I felt like me. I wished he was there. To see the real me, the best of me in action. He said he was proud of me, that I deserved this. I don’t feel like I deserve anything, but I was happy he got to hear the real me, the best me.

Before I knew it, I was on my way back home with Traci. God knew I needed her bubbly extroversion to balance what would’ve otherwise been my sadness.

And when I got home, what waited on top of the mail pile?

A blue box. With a Compassion International sticker on top. Inside? The details of our trip to the Dominican Republic two months from now.

I had to fly away to find myself.

And God’s willed. Pure grace.

I’ll be flying. Again.

Perhaps those heart pains weren’t pains at all, but a heart ready to burst open wide.

 

 

 

*Photo at top of post taken by Allume photographer, Kim DeLoach.

I’m not sure when it was. Maybe a year ago, maybe two.

She said those words. And I knew they were true.

“You’ve been sprinting through life. You’ve burned yourself out.”

Yep.

It’s true.

I can’t deny.

Life’s a marathon. And I’ve been sprinting.

First it was tennis, tennis and more tennis. I played morning, noon and night, it seemed. I’m pretty sure I burned out long before I was aware. I knew in my heart that winning wasn’t my goal, so I snapped at the coach at an inopportune time, then kept on playing as big as I could. I played once or twice in college. That’s it. My heart was never in it from there on out. I haven’t picked up a tennis racquet for 16, 18 years.

Then it was flute. Now that I’m a mom of a not-always-excited-to-practice band student, I’m convinced I practiced like a good girl should. I never second guessed the proper amount of time I should put in to perfecting my art. I just did it. It worked for me. I must have loved it, or I wouldn’t have done it. I did band. I did lessons. I did private lessons. I did recitals. I did solos and ensembles. I won awards. I was honored for my achievement and my art. I even did wind ensemble through most of college, even when I didn’t have to, even when I was one of the only non-music majors. And when my best friend asked me to play flute at her son’s baptism, I did. I hadn’t played for three years, and it felt good. I was better than I remembered. Yet, after that day, I didn’t pick up a flute for another 12, 13 years.

Things changed a little when I became a full-fledged adult, a full-fledged wife and mom of one, two, and then three. The race venue changed. But I hadn’t.

I went to graduate school. Let’s just say I burned out before I even finished. My mom can attest to that fact. But I pressed on anyway and got that master’s degree.

We did young married couples’ bible study. With good friends, GREAT friends, for five years straight. Nearly every single week we met, traveled across the metro to another young married couple’s house. We bundled our son, and when our daughter came along, we bundled her too. I loved it and we did it for five years, but after a while, this beautiful bible study thing started to feel a little like a burden, a commitment that wasn’t working as well as it once did. The constant bundling up and heading out with two little ones on cold work and school nights was feeling like too much for this family to bear once a week forever. Yet I knew “good Christians” attended weekly bible study, wouldn’t complain or feel burdened, and would never consider a break. Then we moved. The increased travel to and from was too much more than it already was. We knew it was time to say good-bye to that not-so-young-anymore married couples’ bible study. So we called it a day.

I told her I wanted to run for city council. Perhaps I thought I was superwoman. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I wasn’t superwoman at all. Yet, I offered myself for an open seat on the planning commission anyway. The fit for my gifting and personality? It worked. Fine. I did my job and I did my best. I read every note. I studied and understood as best as I could. I sat in that seat for three years, one whole term. But I knew, this city government stuff wasn’t for me. Plus, I had elsewhere to focus. I’d started sprinting in a new direction.

Wife. Mom of two, then three. Private practice owner. Speech-language therapist. And planning commission.

It wasn’t enough.

I added non-profit board member to this sprint through life.

But at this point, I must’ve known in my heart of hearts. I needed to be CALLED to something rather than just DO it for the sake of doing it. Because all my sprinting was beginning to take a toll, and I hadn’t even begun to identify the problem yet.

So I thought and prayed over the opportunity to join the non-profit board for NINE months before I finally agreed to do it. A series of events led me to believe, very clearly, that I was being called to join the board. So I did. For three years I served diligently as board member. I gave 110%. And my God-given gifts were utilized. To this day, I believe God had called. I obeyed. And it was a beautiful thing. But when my three-year term neared the end, I knew it was time to go. I was growing weary. I knew it was time for fresh faces to step in. And since I started my term on the board, I’d also begun this blog. It was time to focus my efforts here, where I was feeling a strong call to be.

This isn’t the end of my sprinting story. There are parts I’ve left out. Intentionally. Because I’m not ready to tell the whole story yet. And I’m sure you get the point, anyway.

What I’ve written is vulnerable enough for today.

I’ll leave the rest of this story for another day.

This is the only thing I really wanted to say.

I’m no longer willing to sprint through this marathon called life.

It’s time I admit this, now.

It’s time I confess this, now.

Because sometimes life feels short, but more often? It feels like a marathon.

I’ve done things by “the book.” I’ve sprinted with all I have towards the finish line. But if God has me running a full life? I’m not quite half through “the race.”

I’d better start pacing myself.

I’d better start focusing on the things God’s called me to do instead of the things that would be good to do.

I’d better start living instead of sprinting.

So today, I slow myself. Intentionally.

I commit to living slowly, thoughtfully, and gracefully in this writing space. I commit to keeping my heart engaged. I commit to feeling connected. Always. I commit to listening to God’s call for every step. And I commit to staying and doing the hard work even when the journey feels bumpy, unsteady, fully unknown. I commit to giving myself grace and freedom to be and write like me, even when the voices tell me I should change, quit, be realistic, more practical, whatever. Burnout isn’t an option in this place. It just isn’t.

I commit to living slowly, thoughtfully, and gracefully in my living spaces. Yes will no longer be my default. No will be an option. And maybe will be just that. Maybe. We’ll see. I need to stop for a break, clean up the rubble, gather unnecessary things I’ve lugged on the sprint, and toss them out once and for all. For more is not better. And faster’s not always effective. So let me stop, please. Then I’ll pick up the pace, this time slower, with more intention.

I commit to living slowly, thoughtfully, gracefully for the loving faces. Because I’ve loved, but not enough. I’ve been vulnerable with a few, but guarded with most. I’ve lost all trust when all I really want to do is gain, and more. I’ve wanted to connect, but I haven’t known how. I haven’t had time to sit, haven’t had time to be, haven’t had time to linger, with you. A part of my heart has grown cold along the sprint. Cold, believing everyone’s sprinting, that nobody has time, that everybody has their own agenda and nobody’s interested in real relationship anymore. What if most of us are sprinting? What if we’re all burning out? What if we just need to slow down and linger longer, and that’s all we really need for our hearts to burn brighter and lighter again? So I commit. Whether I’m bad at it or not, to slowing and lingering. For the sake of connection. With you.

Life’s a marathon.

I’m slowing.

I might even have to stop before I pick the pace back up to a jog.

But you better believe this.

I will sprint no more.