Apparently the guy in front of me in the security line at the airport knew the guy behind me. They talked through me, as if I wasn’t even there. And I didn’t even care.

“What’s new?” said the middle-aged man in front of me, his hair bleached blonde, skin tan and wrinkled a bit.

The man behind me responded promptly, “Same old, same old.” His hair was dark, clean cut, his presentation professional, business-like. “Money. Money. Money.” He paused a bit before adding “the recession hit me really hard.”

“I stepped out of the rat race four years ago,” exclaimed the blonde. “It’s kind of fun traveling around and all that.”

“On a golfing trip?” asked the business man.

“Ya, I’m going to Orlando for a tournament.” replied the blonde, smiling with ease.

The business man stated what might be an obvious downfall to the blonde man’s lifestyle. “The only problem with being a ‘professional golfer’ is that you have to pay for it all yourself.”

And with that, an airport official yelled to the crowd. Security line two only had an 8-minute wait, and ours was bound to be a 25-minute wait. The whole lot of us fled the scene, speed walking to line two.

I never did get to hear the end of that story, how the blonde man would respond to this questioning, these challenges about leaving the rat race and “paying for it all yourself.” I wasn’t engaging in that conversation other than to overhear, so I might’ve never learned why the blonde man left the rat race, or how he used to earn a living, or how he earns a living now, or anything else about his old life compared to his new life as a “professional golfer.” Speaking of, was he really a professional golfer? Or was he a “professional golfer?” And I never did get to delve deeper with the business man to determine exactly how the recession hit him hard, how he knew this blonde man in the first place, or what he’d do if he left the rat race. But those guys got me thinking.

An hour later, I boarded the plane.

As we ascended, I noted the ground blanketed in white snow. Squares, rectangles and L-shapes divided most of the land into some sort of box. It was, of course, a sight I’d seen before. But this time, I saw those boxes in a new light.

Perhaps we box ourselves in.

Perhaps we’ve divided up God’s land so perfectly, pristinely and professionally, we don’t even realize how boxed in our lives have become.

Could it be that we move from our boxed in home, to our boxed in car, to our boxed in workplace, to our boxed in cubicle, and then back to our boxed in home again? In our free time we go to boxed in churches, boxed in restaurants, boxed in coffee shops, boxed in museums, boxed in movie theaters and boxed in hotels. When we’re sick we go to boxed in hospitals, and when it’s time to learn we go to boxed in schools. And just about everything we do happens on some piece of square or rectangular boxed in piece of land, and we don’t even know we’re living that way until we see it from above.

Could I be exaggerating to make a point? Sure.

Of course, there are roads that wind, curve. They’re paved and they’re pretty, but they’re headed to a particular planned out destination. There are cul-de-sacs, cloverleaves, and turn-abouts, baseball diamonds, open-air football stadiums, and rough and rural areas that don’t have shape.

But really, how much of your life is spent in a box? How much of my life has been spent in a box?

Time passed. And before I knew it, I looked down and the blanket of white snow was gone. But the boxes remained. All I could see were boxes. Boxes everywhere. Big boxes, little boxes, boxes within boxes. And now, box-shaped pools.

So it’s true. This boxing in isn’t an isolated phenomenon.

I felt uncomfortable in my window seat as I tried to find the right time to take my camera out of the case and take a picture to remember this realization about our boxed in lives. Body language experts claim you exhibit insecurity when you rest your hand on your neck. Ya. My left hand was all over my neck, my right hand all over the camera as I brought it up just long enough to capture these boxes a little closer.

As I sat eating Chick-Fil-A, waiting for my connecting flight to Miami, I found myself uncomfortable, insecure again. There I sat in my sweatshirt, black jeans, white socks, and old black tennis shoes I haven’t worn for a couple years. A woman sat down next to me. Her outfit sparkled and it was classy and she was put together. I felt like a frump and knew on any other trip than this one to Haiti, I’d be dressed much more like her. And in that moment, I became painfully aware of how much I care about my appearance.

Ya. Appearances. My safe little box. I do care what I look like. And I want it to appear, to you, that I’m doing the right thing, making the right decision, behaving the way I should. I don’t want to appear as if I’m stepping out of my safe little box. If I suddenly disappear and appear outside of my safe little box, what will you say?

But you know what I had to realize? I am stepping out of my safe little box.

This sweatshirt and black jeans (they’re sparkled on the butt, by the way), and the white socks with the black tennis shoes? So horrible. It’s kind of geeky. And I’d never wear this anywhere important in real life.

But this is my real life. And it’s important, really important. And I’m still me. In fact, it’s possible this trip to Haiti might force me to be and become me more than I’ve ever been before.

The seat belts in the shuttle squeaked loudly on the way to the hotel. The woman in front of me grabbed her seatbelt and pulled it tight. I let mine squeak.

It was Saturday afternoon, but Miami traffic was painfully slow. The driver shared with us – there’d been a big accident. Two fatalities.

And I couldn’t help but think about the blonde golfer guy and the dark-haired professional. It hit home for me and all of us, really. If you were to die today, would you die in the box or out of the box? Do you find yourself trapped in the Americanized rat race of ought to, should, totally could? Or do you secretly long to jump out of the box, running wild and free after God’s unique dream for you?

As for me? I choose, in faith, to step out.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

Who am I?

It’s a question that begs to be asked at the beginning of every new year.

For me, the simplest answer has been this. I strive to do my best, always. I prefer work over play. I notice and tend to every detail. My intuition’s stealth, my insight’s off the charts. I’m responsible, other-oriented, and in my heart, I want to do what’s right.

As I scanned through our CD of family photographs from this fall, trying to find the best picture of myself for the blog, Twitter, and Facebook, I realized something.

My best traits are also my worst traits. Isn’t that the case for most of us?

For five years in a row, we’ve had professional family photographs taken in the fall. The first three years, no problem! I orchestrated coordinating wardrobes for every member of the family without a hitch. You’d never know looking at the photographs, but the past two years, there have definitely been hitches.

You see, the past two years, I’ve been becoming more and more clear about who I am. But this who I am revelation has been colliding with who I was. And as odd as it seems, it hasn’t been easier to live out this new who I am, it’s been harder.

That’s exactly what I realized as I looked through those pictures and couldn’t find a single one I felt completely represented who I am.

Because part of me is still desperately trying to be the old Amy, the who I was. The who I was sort of works, you know? Well, for everyone else, it works. But for me? Not so much anymore.

Let me give you a real life example. I’m warning you in advance, I’m fully aware this is a first world problem, a superficial real-life example. But this example is the reason I’m writing this post in the first place. So here goes…

In the fall of 2012, I had a vision for our family photo shoot. I wanted it to be colorful, playful, casual. I wanted the photos to have a hispter feel, even though we’re totally NOT a hipster family. So I started with the kids. Their outfits were easy. Bright yellow for the baby, pink and green for the 2nd grader, blue plaid for the 4th grader.

Then I started searching for me. Not so easy. You see, I don’t wear much color. And the hipster look or anything close? Totally not me at all. I’ve tried. It just doesn’t work. But I thought I’d try again. This time, it would work. But it didn’t. I’m pretty sure I tried on clothes from every women’s store in the mall, searching for the perfect colorful, cool hipster outfit. Nothing worked, folks. Nothing worked. Between me and hubs, we declined everything I brought home. It just didn’t work. The look, the style just wasn’t me. (Let me just point out, in the meantime, hubs got his whole outfit lined up in no time flat.)

When I’d given up all hope, I reluctantly walked through the doors of my favorite store, White House Black Market. I’d never looked there once in all my searching, because of the obvious – it’s all black and white and totally NOT hipster. I was almost in tears when the clerk approached. I explained the situation and left with the first outfit I tried on. Neutral beige and white, but a whole-lotta style and bling on the ears and neck, totally Amy all around. I promised myself – next year I’m going to dress myself first and I’m heading straight for my favorite store.

As I prepared for our photo shoot in the fall of 2013, I started off on the right foot. I went straight to my favorite store. I was going to set the tone, and determined it was going to include beautiful hues of green and magenta White House Black Market was featuring in stores.

My good intentions went out the door fast. I came home sporting a solid green dress with sparkly green earrings and bracelet, which hubs very politely told me was probably one of the most boring, ugly things he’d ever seen me wear (ok, not his exact words, he wasn’t mean about it at all, but you get the idea.) Keep in mind, I’d already exhausted the store and picked my favorite for the pictures, but I went back a second time, this time returning with a long, luxurious off-white flyaway sweater and patterned green, white and black shirt underneath. Hubs was having a hard time understanding my vision. After desperately trying to coordinate three kids’ outfits to mine with no success, we determined my outfit had to go – again. So I returned it, realizing I was in for a long search – AGAIN. Long story short, I found a shirt from a store I frequented in my high school and college years – it was solid, neutral, with a bit of bling. Hubs indicated I needed a really big, bright pink necklace and big pink earrings. I politely declined the big pink necklace, made a trip to a hipster store, and opted for pink earrings and bracelet the clerk suggested before I’d barely looked myself.

So there I was. Neutral army green shirt with jeans I already owned, a bit of bling. Pretty. But safe. OK. were the words as I looked through the photographs of myself. NOT totally Amy. NOT exactly who I am.

Neutral army green – because it’s always easier to play it safe.

Jeans I already owned – because it’s always best to live predictably.

A bit of bling – because just right is always better than too much, not enough.

The revelation was clear in that moment.

I’m tired of playing it safe. I’m tired of being predictable. I’m tired of doing everything so-called “right.” I’m tired of trying to be any little bit or a whole lot of someone I’m not. I’m tired of feeling like I’m too much, not enough. And let me be clear, I don’t want a bigger than life kind of life.

I want a simpler, smaller, more focused life. I want to discover riches found only in the deep. I want to know in my heart that my life is completely authentic. I want to become more of who He created me to be. I want to be who I am.

So this month, whether I believe you’ll like it or not, whether focusing on myself is the Christian thing to do or not (yes, I’ve debated that exhaustively prior to publishing this post), I’m going to focus on me, what I need to do to become more of who I am. I’ll blog right through it, and hope my journey will spark something new inside of you.

Next month’s going to be a whole-lotta other-centered, and I can’t wait to share that journey with you. But for now, I need a moment to step back and focus on me. Just me.

Amy

On Saturday afternoon, I found my 8-year-old playing with my iPhone. I got a little irritated when I discovered she was fooling around with the alarms. She’d set one to ON, so I turned it OFF. I scrolled through the alarms and when I thought they were all turned off, I took the phone and put it back in my purse.

I woke up at 3:15 a.m. Sunday morning to the alarm going off on my phone.

I literally jumped out of bed. My heart was beating fast and hard. I couldn’t tell where the ring was coming from, so I stumbled in a racing sort of way around the room searching for the phone.

You see, in that moment waking from deep sleep, I didn’t remember my daughter had been fooling around with the alarms. I thought the phone was ringing, and I thought it was my sister calling to say she was in labor.

I finally found my phone and realized it wasn’t my sister calling, but one of those pesty alarms that got by me somehow.

And then I got to thinking, perhaps it was God that woke me this night.

In the middle of the night, woken by an alarm, the one thing that sat in my subconscious sleep-state was my sister. Her life has been the backdrop, the dramatic and always unfolding sub-plot to my life for the past 9 1/2 years. She’s pregnant with her second, due to deliver in five days. And I can’t help but think the story’s still being written.

In the pitch black room, in the dark of the night, in my barely awake state, my heart still racing, the reason I’d been woken was as clear as day.

It’s time to write, Amy. It’s time to write.

WRITE!

I’ve been thinking about those words I wrote about my sister’s journey in 2004-2010. 201 pages, single spaced. 94,271 words. 402,099 characters. And that’s not all. There’s more content in a separate document, more content I’ve published on this blog, a whole host of things that have gone undocumented since I last wrote in October 2010.

Looking back, it seems miraculous I was able to write all that. Surely a coping mechanism, surely the best way for me to process the traumatic events, surely therapeutic. Surely and only written by the grace of God.

I always knew those words were book worthy. But the “book” didn’t have an ending. And to be honest, the thought of reliving those events and getting them in any sort of manuscript form has been overwhelming on all fronts.

But God says….

It’s time to write. The story is still being written.

So I need to write. This week, whether I have time or not, whether it’s convenient or not, I need to open up the document and begin again, on page 202.

Because things have happened, because things are going to happen, because the end of the story has yet to be written.

The scary, the ugly, the completely unknown, the beautiful parts in-between are still unfolding. I’ve recently realized – what if this chapter is the turning point? Do I really want to miss His hand? Would I really want to let the details be forgotten, go untold? My answer has been a reluctant no – the writing of the story is a double living it out. It’s lived in real life, and then it’s lived again on the screen. Sometimes that’s painful and not so pretty. And let’s be real – it’s also a lot of work – and might ultimately serve no purpose except my own release.

But He woke me to say…

It’s time to write. The story is still being written.

Sometimes beautiful, definitely mysterious, and at times utterly confusing, this is just a tidbit of the chapter immediately prior to second baby’s arrival.

I sat at the table in TGI Friday’s, waiting. Tiffany and Stewart were about to arrive. We’d watched my niece, Raegan, for the past day so she’d have experienced sleeping away from her mom when the baby arrives. I looked out the window and there they were. I’d never met Stewart before. They just started dating and I knew very little about this man that came into the life of my 7 1/2-months-pregnant sister. But in an instant, my heart knew everything it needed to know when I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of him opening the door for her.

As the night progressed, my instincts told me – this man is good at his core. He has the potential to be an incredible Godly husband someday. And I felt a possible laying of God’s hands all over this set of circumstances. Because it was SO untimely, SO unlikely, SO seemingly impossible on all levels.

You see, Stewart has a significant history of his own.* His story, much like my sister’s. Stewart has overcome. He’s found healing, grace and forgiveness, yet still finds himself “failing forward” in battle with the enemy. But in my heart of hearts, I’m choosing to believe Stewart is fundamentally a good man who CAN overcome once and for all through the power and strength of Jesus, our Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. 

I’m choosing to let God lead. Because He’s writing the story. He’s writing every word.

Stewart brought a smile to my sister’s face that I don’t remember seeing since 1998.

And He smiled. Well done, good and faithful servant. 

Stewart got my sister laughing in a way I hadn’t heard for years. I didn’t even remember she could laugh like that until I heard it.

And He laughed. Well done, good and faithful servant.

There’s no making up smiles, and there’s no making up laughter either. It’s genuine, or it’s not. When you’ve come from the depths of hell on earth, you recognize real joy when you see it, real joy when you hear it. 

There’s no guarantee for any of us except the promise of heaven. It’s the living between now and then that’s packed-full of possibility.

Stewart’s come on the scene at the most unlikely of times. It doesn’t make sense. It’s hard to believe there could be anything good to come of this relationship. And truth be told, pain has already popped its ugly head.

But I’m believing that there’s something to this, there’s a reason and purpose for these developments. Because anyone who’s able to make my sister smile in a way I haven’t seen in years, and laugh in a way I didn’t even remember was possible – has done something very special in my book. They’ve given me a glimpse of hope.

Even if for one day. One day of hoping, one day of believing, one day of seeing the possible.

For ALL things are possible – in Him.

So I believe.

I believe God is working in my sister.

And I believe God’s working in Stewart as well.

As far as human hearts can tell, their lives lie in the unknown. But a God who’s bigger, greater, stronger – a God who sent his Son to save us from ourselves – is in control.

My planful, controlled, always analyzing spirit wants to know why. Why complicate an already complicated situation, God? Why bring them together when they clearly need to focus on themselves right now, God? Why not later, God, when they’re both healed and whole and wholly yours?

And He says in the quiet…

Don’t ask. You don’t need to know now. The story will unfold. It will take its course. I AM working. Lean not on your own understanding, but Mine. Keep your visions, your dreams, your hopes alive. Tuck them away for safe keeping. And trust in Me.

But in the meantime…

It’s time to write. The story is still being written.

Amy

*Stewart granted me permission to share his story in hopes that it will help even one, but for the protection of my sister and because I’d like to leave room for Stewart to share his testimony on this blog someday, I choose to keep the details private for now.

If you’d like to read more about my sister’s story, click here.

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 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