It was a productive day, but truth be told, it was too much.

I sent the baby to daycare so I could get work done for the private practice. Work was piling up – reports, insurance billing, patient billing, finances, a license to renew, paper and envelopes to buy, and data forms to print. I got a lot done while she was away, and my work plate feels a lot lighter than it did this morning.

But tonight was a little frantic.

The kids were loud. 11-year-old was hyper, baby was whiny, and 8-year-old kept singing a song over and over and over again until it became annoying to not only me, but everyone in the household.

I barely whipped together a dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup. Kids were asking for seconds of milk and sandwiches before I even got baby served. And baby ripped her sandwich into pieces, stacking them on top of the tipped over bowl of tomato soup, then put her sippy cup on top and started laughing. There wasn’t a moment, nor enough for me to eat, so I ate later in peace.

Daddy came home. He gave me the look, not once, but twice. This house was loud, and the kids were jazzed. It’s been negative degrees for days, and there’s no getting out. We’re all a little stir crazy to say the least.

I accidentally left a bag of stocking stuffers on the counter, and of course, the kids found it. I quizzed them about what they saw an hour later, and between the two of them, they saw everything except one item. So tonight, after delivering the 8-year-old to gymnastics, I drove to Target, returned everything and started all over again.

I thought the boys planned to bake the Christmas cookies while we were gone at gymnastics, but came home to discover they’d worked out and lounged instead. Let’s just say my grace was lacking when it was 8:20 p.m. on a school night and dad was just starting to bake cookies with the two oldest. I made it clear – “go ahead, but I’ve got to get moving along with all the other stuff I have to get done tonight.”

I got some laundry in the basket and started a load for the girls – they’re both almost out. Picked up clothes strewn on the floor from this morning, semi-nagged my husband to sign up to work concessions at the basketball tournament this weekend, prepared files for tomorrow’s day full of patients, canceled the babysitter for Thursday and found a neighbor to watch instead, responded to my mom’s voice message via text, cleaned the disgusting toilet because the nanny will be here early in the morning, addressed the overdue thank you notes from my son’s birthday party October 19th, and took a shower. All in 40 minutes.

After a cookie or two, the kids were in bed by 9:00. I managed to get in both of their rooms for apologies for a chaotic night, I love yous, and good-night hugs.

Hubs went to bed by 9:50. He’s not happy about turning 40 this week.

And now, it’s just me – alone, in the quiet.

Dishes are piled high in the sink. The counter is greasy and full of crumbles from cookies. I’m feeling not-so-full-of-grace for messes left everywhere. And the wheels are spinning.

This is my life.

This was my life, today.

Where’s Jesus in this?

Where’s Jesus in the mess?

Where’s Jesus in the chaos and confusion?

Where’s Jesus in the mail piled up high?

Where’s Jesus in a world that goes way too fast?

I can’t even think. I can’t keep up.

Is there a way to escape this rat race?

Am I doing it all wrong?

Is there an in-between place of quiet and rush, where I can live not bored, not isolated, but in peace?

Must I move to a deserted island, Lord, to find quiet?

And these dishes, Lord, they’ll still be here in the morning, and it’ll all start all over again. I’ll be going from dawn till dusk and beyond. And then the next day, it’ll all be the same.

My heart races a bit. Tears well in my eyes with the rapid typing of my fingers. Anxiety’s risen to the top from my too-full-day.

Take it slow, He says.

Lean on me.

You’re doing too much.

It’s not up to you.

Your world will never be perfect. Mine will. Mine is.

Step back. Take a breath.

Let yourself cry.

I’m here.

I AM.

Lean not on your own understanding, lean on Me.

Trust not in your ways, trust Mine.

Believe not in what the world says, Believe Me.

I came to save – you. That you might have life.

So live. Breathe. Dance. For me. Because you are free. In Me.

Amy

I’m the one that manages Christmas cards in our house. My standard operating procedure for 15 years has been as follows:

1. Open the card.

2. Look at the pictures.

3. Read the card and/or letter.

4. Show the kids.

5. Put the card in back in today’s mail pile on the counter, or if I’m feeling really efficient, put it in the Christmas card box.

Sounds a little routine, right? But it’s enjoyable, and I truly love receiving Christmas cards from family and friends. It’s a tradition I’d hate to see go by the wayside.

Since my husband’s usually not home when we open the mail, we have an agreement that he can find all the cards in the mail pile or look in the Christmas box at his leisure. I strive to be his wife, not his mom, so I figure he’ll take initiative to look at the cards as he’s led.

After all the Christmas cards have come in, I bring the full box down to the basement where it’s stored until the following Thanksgiving when we take the seasonal decor out again.

Just this week, I took out the Christmas card box. I opened the box and began going through last year’s cards one last time, something I do at the beginning of every season. I admired each card, verified addresses, added new babies to the master list, removed individuals who passed away, and ripped address labels off to shred (yes, I’m a little OCD like that).

But as I reviewed last year’s cards, I was particularly struck by how some seemed so novel, as if I’d barely seen them, as if I was looking at them for the first time. Beautiful families in the prime of life, retired couples at golf courses and on the beach with grandkids, newlyweds who hand wrote each card, and wise folks who placed focus on the the real meaning of Christmas. Cards from old friends, new friends, colleagues, bosses, immediate family, extended family, and neighbors – an assortment of people we see every day and people we haven’t seen in years.

I pulled some favorites for later viewing – stunning photography, faces exuding joy, beautiful designs, letters that captured my attention with their authenticity and depth, cards brimming with personality, and pictures of dear ones I hadn’t seen for way too long.

But mid-way through the pile, I came across a stack of four or five Christmas cards that had never been opened.

And then I remembered.

I was in such a rush.

I was way too busy.

(And clearly, my husband was too busy, too.)

In my haste, I’d thrown these unopened cards in the Christmas card box to get them out of the mail pile. I can’t stand clutter and excess visual stimuli, so I just wanted to get them “where they belonged.” I assumed I’d sit down to enjoy them after the hustle and bustle of Christmas settled down.

But I never did.

So I found myself sitting in front of the Christmas card box, a full year later, with the cold realization that I never did open those cards. I never took time to sit down and enjoy them like I thought I would.

I sat in silence, ashamed, embarrassed.

I couldn’t help but wonder…

What does this say about me?

Who do I say I am?

Who am I, really?

Do I really love and care for people like I claim? Or am I just filled up with a bunch of words and good intentions?

And why am I so busy? Why have I allowed my life to get so big, so filled up?

What makes me so special to have left peoples’ Christmas cards unopened for a whole year?

There was nothing unusual or unlovable about those four or five unopened Christmas cards that made me throw them in the box and forget about them for a whole year. In fact, they were just like the others – families with littles, marriages thriving in a culture that values otherwise, blended families, and families impacted by disabilities. But that’s what embarrassed me most. I wouldn’t ever want ANYONE to feel as if they’ve been discarded, no matter how busy I am, no matter how preoccupied I am.

I opened each unopened card carefully, examined them respectfully and as lovingly as possible, and then I sat in the quiet, in embarrassment and shame, again. For I had not been who I say I am.

Jesus says clearly, “My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you.” (John 15:12) And just a few verses later, “This is my command: Love each other.” (John 15:17)

In our rushing, in our hustling and bustling, in our worrying about what’s in front of us and all that needs to be done, we forget to still ourselves and really LOVE the ones in front of us. Let’s be realistic, sometimes we don’t even have TIME for the ones right in front of us.

When I threw those unopened cards in the Christmas card box and forgot about them for a whole year, I wasn’t remembering that those cards represented human beings, created in the image of God. I wasn’t remembering that those cards represented OTHERS, worthy of love and care, respect, dignity, a moment of my attention, EVEN IF I was “too crazed, too busy” with life.

So this year, regardless of my mood, regardless of my circumstances, I’m going to still myself longer, sit in the quiet a little more. Because I want to open every card and ponder the significance of each life that’s blessed mine. I want to love as He loves.

And maybe next Christmas, the cards will look a lot more familiar than they did this year.

Amy

I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve been clear about the title of this series for a year, but I’ve never been clear about the details.  As I write in the quiet of my home late at night, I still don’t know how this series will play out.

But I’m launching it anyway.

Because as I’ve thought and prayed about what this series should look like, the enemy has stirred me up. I’ve been doubting, second guessing, over-thinking, dreaming up visions and shooting them down as if they’re nothing, wondering what the point will be. That’s what he wants, folks. The enemy’s out to destroy us. He knows this blog is dear to my heart, and he’s taken my insecurities, doubts and uncertainties and turned me upside down and inside out, every which way.

But he’s not going to win.

Did you hear that? He’s not going to win.

Last Christmas, I played Winter Snow Song by Audrey Assad and Chris Tomlin on repeat in my car, and it’s on repeat again this year. My husband and kids would be bored out of their minds if I played it on repeat with them in the car, so I play it when I’m by myself. That way, I can turn it up loud and nobody’s there to suggest otherwise!

The song moves me every time. It speaks of Jesus, how he came unassuming, in the quiet, “like a winter snow.” Jesus, son of God, made his debut as a babe in a lowly manger. He could have come any other way – loud, boisterous, He could have taken our hearts any way He pleased. But He didn’t. He came in the quiet, and today He gives us a choice, free will to believe, to follow, to trust in who He is.

So we wait. It’s a season of preparing for His birth. Jesus. Son of God. Born in a lowly manger.

He came in the quiet.

He waits in the quiet.

We find Him in the quiet.

In the hustle and bustle of our lives, stress-filled to the brim, in all the questions and doubts and uncertainties of our future, He’s there. But we must be quiet. For He’s in the quiet. In the still, in the moment – we find Him best.

In the quiet. It’s how He works, often without us knowing. He saves us, rescues us from our misery, from the complete destruction that would become of our lives without Him. He’s the light of the world and whether we believe it or not, He works all things together for our good.

So let it be.

All of December, I’ll listen for Him, watch for Him, wait for Him…

In the quiet.

I want to find His still small voice.

I want to get down, dirty and real. It’s time to throw it all up in the air, to Him, for one month, and see where it lands.

In this series, I’ll share how I’m finding Him in the quiet, EVEN IN the hustle and bustle of life, EVEN AMIDST whatever craziness is happening at the moment.

It might be rough, it might be raw, it might be simple, it might be deep, but what I’m hoping most is that this series will be a true integration of real life and Him.

Because as desperately as I’d like to hit the pause button on life right now, it’s going to keep going. I must find a way to find Him more. When I find Him, I find peace. When I find Him, I find joy. When I find Him, my heart is stilled, quieted. When I find Him, my hope is renewed, my faith is restored.

So please join me on this journey? It would be a delight to have you along for the ride. I’m not sure what I’m in for, I can’t promise what I’m going to deliver. But one thing I know for sure – He’s calling me to the quiet. Because that’s where He is, today, tomorrow, always. And maybe He’s calling you there, too.

Amy

After untangling the cord, I place one white earbud in each ear. A first generation iPod Nano loaded with thousands of songs goes in my right hand, an iPhone in my left. I push playlist, then Amy’s workout, searching for the song that matches my mood. Sometimes the day dictates secular, sometimes worship, sometimes a mix of both.

I turn up the music, loud. I can’t hear anything else. The world as I know it is drowned out. I thank God and know this will be good. It’s always good. Because somehow, that drowning out of the world through exercise and music is a filter. It helps me feel and see life more clearly than ever before.

I begin. I let my body take the lead. I walk and run as I feel moved. I’ll worry about the numbers again someday, but for now, I go with the flow. Most days, my body knows what it needs. Just minutes in, I can tell it’s going to be a mostly walking day or a mostly running day. And so goes for the music – secular, worship, or mix. Intuitively, I know what I need.

But whether I’m walking or running, listening to secular music, worship music, or both, one thing remains true. My desire is to see as God sees. I open my eyes, prepare my heart, and listen.

A man with a cane makes laps. He walks with a limp, but he’s as steady and as strong as he can be. As I pass not once, but twice, three times and more, I envision a day when he’ll throw his cane and run free.

It’s a school day and mom has two kids in tow. She teaches them down dogs, they exercise their hamstrings with big balls and shoot hoops on the court. She has no qualms that she’s the only mom with school-aged kids at the gym on a Monday at 9:30 a.m. She’s in her element, that’s clear. Living your dream, living your purpose always feels right, even when it’s out of the ordinary.

Sarah, an employee with disabilities, makes her way down the stairs. An elderly woman stops Sarah half way down and helps her tie her shoes.

Most days, a petite woman with a blonde pony tail spends her time with a personal trainer. She’s strong, she’s a fighter, an encourager to those around her. Her body language says – I’m fighting, I refuse to give up, I will give it my all.

And then there’s the elderly couple. They’re bent over together as they walk the track. It’s phenomenal, a once in a lifetime testimony I wish everyone could see. They’re not just bent over, they’re bent over to the same degree, walking side by side at the same pace. If you look at them from across the track it’s as if they’re one. Others can’t help but notice. Some engage, others smile quietly to themselves as the elderly couple passes. I’m dying to know their story, but I’ve been afraid to ask.

The ladies training below look like robots. They cross the gym the same way every time. One leg up, one leg down, all the way across and back again. Their personalities are completely lost in the robotic movement. They don’t fight, they don’t resist, they just keep moving on.

The man with Down Syndrome stacks the steps. Slowly, but surely, puts each one in place. They’re squared, stacked at the same height. It’s a quiet area. He does his work without complaining, at his own pace. It’s a hidden beauty I can’t help but wonder if anyone sees too.

That woman on the treadmill, she gets me every time. She runs like the wind, throws punches in the air, fire is deep in her bones. She’s strong, fierce. I’m convinced she’s overcome, convinced there’s worship music blasting loud in her earbuds.

The old guys, they’re wearing jeans, leather belts and boat shoes. They walk in groups, at their own pace. They don’t give a damn about how fast or slow anyone else is going. They do it their way. There’s community with those guys. They’ve seen it all, done it all. They’ve paid their dues. They show up day after day, and I love them for it.

He looks over as I pass, attempts to engage in conversation with questions and comments. “You work at the grocery store? You look just like a cashier there.” “It’s been a week and a half since hunting and nobody’s shot themselves.” I remove my earbuds with just enough time to listen and respond – “That’s a good thing, right?!” Some might call him a little creepy. I think he’s quirky, sweet, well intentioned.

Moms wait in hoards for the prime time group fitness classes. They’re dressed in Lululemon, Athleta, Under Armour. There’s pressure to be thin, really thin – fit, really fit – your best, perfect. I spent five years in those rooms. I understand the pressure, I know how it feels. I know the need, the drive, the longing, the striving to be good, better, best, perfect. It’s too much for me these days. I can’t keep up. I take my own path now, but I get it. Believe me, I get it.

She’s thin, sickly thin. Her hair is sparse, thin too. Skin covers her bones, there’s nothing between. The thickest part of her upper thigh is barely bigger than my arm. I wonder what she’s battled, the demons she’s faced, the wars she’s waged. She’s not just thin, she’s hollowed out.

ONE obese man frequents the treadmill on the far side of the gym where the man with Down Syndrome stacks steps. It’s quiet there. Perhaps he thinks nobody will notice him. One day he’s absent. I notice an obese woman hop on the elliptical just two down from the treadmill the obese man uses. Goose bumps run up and down my body. She’s the only obese woman I’ve seen at the gym, he’s the only obese man I’ve seen at the gym. Both choose the same safe hiding place. Slow and steady, they won’t give up. This battle is theirs and they’re here to fight.

I pass her on the track. She’s short and she’s hiding. Her hands are in her pocket and her head is down, way down. Her plight, unknown, but she’s here to walk through it, work through it.

As I sit to stretch, a little girl comes running around the track wild and free. Mom follows close behind. Both with big smiles.

The baby says “hi” and “five” as we prepare to leave. She knows, our buddy’s up ahead. He’s there, every day, washing windows. He has Down Syndrome, but that doesn’t keep him from making a difference. She grabs my hand, wants me to give high five first. All three of us smile at each other, I tell her “It’s your turn, give your buddy high five!” She inches slowly but surely to her buddy, gives him high five. He smiles and waves bye. And as we walk away, I turn to look back and I’m blessed with the greatest gift of all, a gift that can’t be replicated or done justice with mere words. There he is, kneeling down behind the window. He’s looking out at my baby, beaming, bursting full of joy, watching her walk away. She brought him joy as much as he brought us joy.

Yes, thank you God, is the only appropriate response.

It’s all in His hands.

All this, just a glimpse of the way God sees. His love language is music. It’s loud and His song is always right – for you. He knows your heart, He knows your tribulations and your triumphs, and He loves all of us the same. He’s with you every step of the way. His heart is beating fast – for me, for you, for them.

Amy

When you walk, your steps will not be hampered; when you run, you will not stumble.  Proverbs 4:12

The story is still being written.

It’s the sentence that’s been ringing true in my heart for months.

It’s true, you know.

My story? It’s still being written.

Your story? It’s still being written.

I want answers. I want clarity. I want direction. I want to know what’s next. I want to go this way or that. I don’t want the in-between. Whatever it is, it would be awfully nice to have it now. I don’t want to think, overanalyze or wonder what if. There are moments I don’t even want to believe. Because sometimes believing leaves me feeling like I’m grasping onto pieces of dandelions I just blew off in a wide open field. I just want to know. Forget the wishing. Forget the story between here and there, God. Couldn’t you make it clearer, faster, easier? Couldn’t you just get to the best part of my story and leave it at that?

And you. You want to give up, throw in the towel. It’s just too much. You’ve been through enough, had enough of this, done enough of that. It seems there’s no hope. Really, it truly does. Things couldn’t get much worse. You’ve done it all and it all’s left you with nothing. Rock bottom defines you. Heck, it’s defined you for weeks, months, maybe years. Everyone else’s “what in the world was she thinking,” “why in the world would he do thats” take hold of your heart. The weight of hopelessness settles in. There’s nowhere to go but down. Or at best, stay the same. Forever. In a moment of raw honesty between you and God, you ask – are you for real? After all this, is there any chance my life will have a happy chapter again?

But the God I know? He’s not done, He’s not finished with you yet.

Because the story is still being written.

My story is still being written.

Your story is still being written.

This, I know for sure.

If you’re a believer, if you’re not a believer, whether you’ve turned away from God or never known Him at all, whether you’ve felt or denied His presence in your life – it doesn’t matter.

Because the story is still being written.

We’re made in the image of God. His fingerprints are all over us. So He’ll keep fighting and He’ll keep writing till the end!

Trust the sound mind you’ve been given.

Trust the beat of your heart, your soul.

Have faith strong enough to withstand ALL doubt, ALL fear.

BELIEVE that God can enter your story at any second and BLOW you away – just when you think the story’s already been written, just when you think the story’s at a dead standstill, just when you think it’s going to have to be this way forever.

With His truth, His power, His presence, He’ll blow you away, just like that.

He’ll take my story, he’ll take your story, and when you’re least expecting it, he’ll show up. You’ll wake up and realize He’s creating a turning point for you, right now. You’ll wake from your deep slumber and realize He’s performing the miracle you never expected. And suddenly you’ll see there’s a lot more hope today than there was yesterday.

So believe it. It’s true.

My story is still being written.

Your story is still being written.

Because the God of the universe is still working on you. He always has hope, He knows there’s always a way, and He wants to light your way. If you’ll let him.

Amy

Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.  Psalm 139:16