Author: debbiewebel

I can count on one hand the number of nights Kathryn hasn’t gotten a bath. It’s always been a part of her bedtime routine, even if it was the “fastest bath” (enter made-up song, a quick dunk, fast scrub, and back out again). We may have even been a little superstitious about it. “If we don’t follow the routine, she may not sleep”. And we loved our sleep too much to risk it. So, baths… every single night. 

It seemed entirely plausible to add a bit more purpose to this already established routine in our home. And, honestly, there aren’t many other points during the day where Kathryn stays in one place for longer than five minutes. The bath had already proven to be a perfect opportunity for a deeper conversation (as deep as a four-year-old goes, anyway). 

Several weeks back, we had finally gotten her in the bath after an exasperating show-down of “who has the strongest will”. I asked her, “Kathryn, do you just not like to do what Mommy asks you to do?” I had convinced myself that she was intentionally opposing everything I asked her to do simply to make the night as horrible as possible. 

“I do want to do what you ask, but I can’t.” 

Her abnormally quiet voice cut through the loud flow of water as the tub filled up. 

Me too.  

I couldn’t believe it. My 4-year-old was, unknowingly, quoting Paul. Romans 7:15 flashed before my eyes,  “I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate.” This little soul was in the midst of her own battle, one I am all too familiar with. 

I felt a bit more empathy for her that night. Maybe she wasn’t willfully trying to be the worst. Maybe, in fact, she’s wanting to do good… but she’s four and other things are exceedingly more tempting and distracting than immediately doing everything your mom or dad asks you to do. I get it. Sometimes. 

It was a profound bathtub moment for us. And so now, we try to have them on a more consistent basis. 

The Five Thankfuls

I’ve never been really good at the gratitude journal. Never consistent. Never super original. But, I’ve always thought that maybe if I actually paused and thought about what I was grateful for once a day that it could be a good exercise. And maybe, perhaps, a good habit at the end of a weary day with a kid who, while she does want to do what I ask…she oftentimes, apparently, can’t. 

And so we’ve introduced the five thankfuls as a new bath time rhythm. 

Sometimes Kathryn is thankful for Paw Patrol, or bath toys, or playing in her bath (yes, both of those things). Sometimes she’s thankful for dandelions in the grass because she likes to blow on them. Sometimes it’s Mommy or Daddy or Brutus or kitty cats. Usually it’s something bath-related, because it’s what’s right in front of her. 

Then she asks me what I’m thankful for. As I list out various things, she says, “That’s good.” eager for me to be done. 

But now she expects it. 

Within the span of a few nights, that turn into weeks, we are together creating a habit that holds some form of intentionality. 

It’s a brief, imperfect moment that forces us to pause, to think, and to be grateful. 

Even when we can’t always do what we want to do. We can be thankful that we know the One who can.

When COVID hit and we lost our jobs, the timing had been perfectly lined up with a group of us (living in three different states) starting to incorporate new habits into our lives. If you’ve followed my journey, you may remember reading about this.

Our lives had been truly turned upside down and it was one of the simultaneously most magical and saddest seasons. But we had been given the luxury of time and space to insert a new way of life and we didn’t want to waste it. It’s been over three and a half years since all of that transpired.

And while some of the habits stuck, not all of them did. Busyness picks up and becomes an excuse for most things.

Margins get smaller.

Days, weeks, months go by and you’re oblivious to the fact that you’re mostly on autopilot. Things (or people) demand your attention. And you pay attention to whatever is loudest. How time is spent feels less like a choice, and more like a list of “have-tos”. Waking hours are but a flash of obligations and survival. Sometimes your coping mechanisms doing more harm than you realize.

I’ve recently picked up another book on habits. Same author, new book. There are a million books on habits. Tons of information about why the rhythms are critical, how they form and shape us, and ideas for implementation. I think I’ve gravitated toward Justin Whitmel Earley’s because they seem plausible to replicate.

I’ve also been challenged in the last year to not go it alone. But, instead, to bring others along for the journey. It may be slower, more tedious, more painful, more heartbreaking… but perhaps more beautiful and more whole. I had gained a sort of independence in my spiritual journey, often fooling myself into thinking that I don’t actually need others.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

About a year ago, I was patting myself on the back for all I had accomplished. I felt like I had established and kept many of the healthy habits that we had begun during COVID – habits that were reminding me of and re-centering me back on the Lord. But as I looked around me, I knew was pretty alone in that. I hadn’t really brought others in for the journey. Maybe in the beginning, but then I just took off running not overly concerned with what everyone else was doing or not doing. I couldn’t make them do anything, you know?

And as I told my husband about all my epiphanies and a deeper longing for community (doing the running WITH others, even if it was hard and would mean I might need to slow down), he just stared at me. He eventually said something that I now regurgitate as something along the lines of, “Debbie! I’m RIGHT HERE. You’re talking about wanting all of these things with all of these people, but I’m right here. Start with me!”

Here was my husband, wanting me to include him on the habits, lifestyles, and conversations that recenter us back on Jesus. My husband, asking me to be gracious with him when he isn’t perfect at it.

Oh.

And so I’ve been learning the art of slowing down, in a new sort of way. Of trusting intentions over output. Of recognizing my strengths of discipline and consistency might be necessary to combine with another’s of passion and wisdom. That a daily walk with another in prayer might be just as “spiritual” as a walk alone.

As I pull out a new book, filled with new suggestions for habits to implement in our household, it’s definitely one that I cannot do alone. And while I read alongside a few other women, and while I share the musings and desired implementations with Kel… I will also share with you.

Because we aren’t meant to do life alone.

Get Ready

And join the fun with me, if you’d like! I’ll probably throw in other habits that aren’t in the book, especially with the start of Advent. But, the goal is always the same: creating life around habits, in community, that remind and recenter us back on the One who is sovereign over all.

When we left New Mexico, it felt, in many ways, like a “fresh start”. Yes, we were in a pandemic, but options still felt a little limitless (barring resumes, finances, pedigree, of course). It was as though I could ask the question of my youth: What do you want to be when you grow up? And then try to fulfill the dream. 

But, I felt a little disoriented in my quest for what was next. What if the things I thought I had been good at weren’t things I was good at all? Or what if what I thought I loved wasn’t something I was going to be able to do anymore? Where did it leave me? So, I asked for help. 

I reached out to some older, wiser people with the inquiry, “Hey, based on what you know of me, my skillset, and passions… is there anything you’d recommend I pursue?”

Among those I contacted, one responded with a thought from the book, “The Call” by Os Guiness. She summarized his words, writing “…somewhere in childhood unlocks the door to the future.  In other words, there is a memory in childhood so clear that it provides a clue regarding how God has wired us and what He has planned for us.  (We may not even know why we remember this moment so clearly.)”. She encouraged me to ask God to bring this memory to mind and clearly show me what path to take.

I can’t say that I’ve been able to conjure up this exact memory for myself, but I’ve spent the last 3+ years wondering about it a bit. Believing that somewhere and somehow the past informs the present and the future. That there are pieces of my history that, now, make perfect sense in my present… and, in 5 years, will also provide clarity. The perspective of time, perhaps. The gift of catching glimpses of how things actually worked out, in some weird way, to be exactly how they were supposed to be. 

I’ve wondered about this often, as I drive down the familiar streets packed with an assortment of memories. Throwing tantrums and running away into a neighborhood, away from the stopped car and my “irrational” parents. Driving by old friends’ houses, wondering if their parents are still there. Seeing the old pool, parking lot filled, remembering our attempts to get there early enough to beat the crowd. Evading one of our friends’ parents in, what felt like, a massive car chase in the middle of the night after we had chalked his car. 

Growing up in Columbia, Missouri is entirely different from living here as an adult – a married adult with a small child, mind you. Attending a twenty year high school reunion has a way of bringing up and bringing together friends who knew you during the most awkward and, dare I say, selfish years of life. We laughed, caught up on life, reminisced. My heart was full, grateful for these people who had endured my self-righteous, self-absorbed antics. We had banded together, an unlikely group – playing Smash Brothers (I was always Kirby), ultimate frisbee at Stankowski Field (or from our jeeps), watching millions of movies, or attending Friday night football games. 

My love of white cheese dip started at El Magueys, a frequented place of mine in the early 2000s. Show Choir practices were my early morning wake up call. Except for the year I randomly decided to try diving and my mornings began much earlier at the school across town – because they had a swimming pool. Three of us wore RBHS green and gold that year on the diving team. Bus trips for volleyball and soccer games or show choir tournaments (one on which we composed almost an entire musical score of inside jokes). 

This town is sprinkled with memories – sometimes foggy, sometimes clear. And I’ve wondered if it’s less about an isolated memory, instance, or relationship and more about themes in my life that consistently emerge. A woven thread, perhaps, stitching together elements of a soul that was, is, and is becoming. 

There’s a chance (a much more likely chance) that all of it actually has less to do with the soul attached to this earth and everything to do with the One who created it. That all my deeper longings and angsty moments have been telling evidence that we are, in fact, made for more. 

In an ironic twist of events, I’m right back where I began. But more content than I ever was. Not because Columbia has changed drastically (even if it has), but because my perspective has shifted. Priorities have changed. The central Character has become more clear, and *gasp* I didn’t get the part. 

It’s a better story than the one I began telling almost 40 years ago. 

The details of my wirings are still getting figured out, and while I may not know everything about what that entails or where it will lead me, I know the purpose centers me back on the God who made me.

Words.

I have words.

Words floating around.

One here, another there. Put it down. Say it outloud.

Words with meaning, words with air.

What would it feel like, if I had none to share.

What if my words fell on deaf ears

What if interpretation wasn’t near

What if the words only stopped here, with me

I can only wonder how lonely it might be

If I spoke and no one could hear

If I wrote and no one would read

How isolating, how absolutely terrifying

These words that are floating

These words that I wade through

These words that I flee from because of what they might mean

But, alas, I have forgotten they are quite a luxury

When I scratch them down, with paper and ink

It’s a relief I can let others know what I think

Because then sometimes… sometimes, I’m understood

What a privilege it is to simply have words. 

Mommy, race me!

Let’s go fast. I’m getting bigger!

The proud 3-year-old yells

A wishing away of time and necessary growth.

All she sees is where she wants to go

Not the hard lengthy process of getting old

Mommy, race me!

This speedster mentality

Rattles my core

Every natural human inclination begs for us to go fast, to beat all the others, to compare ourselves

Yet a quiet voice calls through the culture

Slow down. Slow doooooowwwwwwwnnnnnnnnn.

Don’t be in such a hurry.

Don’t wish the time away.

Enjoy the process from here to there.

Even if it’s slow, painful, and feels like you’re going nowhere.

How do you tell a 3-year-old that?

Mommy, race me! 

Before I know it, she’ll be 5, then 12, then 30, and more.

Doesn’t she know that some of life’s greatest moments are only found when we slow down and really see? 

But the reality is, this all starts with me. 

Slow down. Slow dooooowwwnnnnnnnn. 

I decided to participate in City of Refuge’s first ever Poem-a-thon. All participants commit to writing every day during the month of April. 30 days of poems. The goal is to raise support for each day of the month (hope is at least $30/sponsor, $1/day/poem) that goes directly to City of Refuge’s refugee care and programs.

I’m no poet, but I have a thing for writing. I’m no poet, but I have a growing love for refugees and newcomers that are coming to us from around the world. Beautiful souls who are changing my entire view of what matters in this life.

I decided to get some practice in today. Here is a pre poem-a-thon original. If you’re up for sponsoring me (which really just means supporting our work with refugees), head to cityofrefugecolumbia.org/poemathon, click “Donate to a Participant” and find my name. I’d love to have your support.

Is it safe here? 

Safe enough to share, safe enough to listen, safe enough to stay? 

Our hearts beg to know the answer: do I have a place where I belong? 

Is there a place where I can be fully me, fully imperfect, fully different? A place where I can admit when I am hurting, when I am lonely, when I am selfishly longing for more? Is there a place safe enough to hold all my thoughts, all my tears, all my dreams? 

Is it safe here? 

I hear my daughter asking. She’s only 3, but her question strikes a chord – maybe it’s something we’re all desperately wanting to know. Are we safe? Do we fit? Will you stay or will you go? If I close my eyes, will you be there when I wake? Will you help keep the scary things away, or will I have to hide, defending myself alone? 

Of course I know the answer… yes and no. It depends on what we mean by “safe”, it depends on where we place our hope. Safe, but only sort of… this life holds no guarantee. Are we talking about our lungs’ ability to breathe, are we thinking about our figurative hearts’ ability to cope, are we wondering if our soul will withstand the journey from here to there? 

Is it safe here? 

We stand resolutely in the middle. 

Safe, not in the temporary … safe, only in the eternal. 

Safe beyond what our eyes can see, beyond what our hearts can fathom. 

A perspective that supersedes today’s realities. 

Here may always be unsafe.

But we live, we laugh, we love… fiercely, selflessly, willingly…because our hope is in the eternal. 

Not here, but there. And there is what we live for.

___________

Falls in New Mexico were always pretty dreamy. I remember being immersed in a golden grove of Aspens on a mountain somewhere near Santa Fe thinking, “I wish everyone could experience this right now.” There were never words to attach to those moments, but something about those hikes stilled my soul. It was a vibrant beauty that none of my photos could capture, it was encapsulating of the whole self. As sunlight streamed through the quaking leaves, my heart burst with an unchained melody. Thin spaces – where heaven and earth seem to merge into one, for only a brief moment in time. 

For the seven falls that I lived there, escaping into the green-turned-yellow mountains was always a priority. Some years were better than others, but there was always that same feeling: everyone should get to bear witness to how beautiful this is. 

Up until last weekend, I hadn’t felt like that in a long while. Not with the same intensity, the same earnestness. This time, however, my surroundings had nothing to do with beautiful mountain scenes, or changing leaves, or the brisk fall breeze. 

Instead, I was seated between a woman from Ethiopia and a woman from Rwanda. Across from several men and women from Burma – representing their tribes: Karen, Karenni, Chin, Rawang. A pastor from the Democratic Republic of the Congo was also there. We had gathered a handful of refugees and former refugees that we know in Columbia so we could begin to directly hear from them about their needs and needs of their communities. 

I mostly listened as they introduced themselves in English, all with thick, rich accents. Some have only lived in Columbia a few years, while one has been resettled and helping others who continue to come for the last 28 years. And while, for many of them, their native tongue isn’t the same, they have found ways to communicate with their second or third language. Many from Africa can speak Swahili, even if their first language is different. Many from Burma can speak Burmese, even though every tribe has a different language. And, for this particular meeting, they all spoke English. 

I saw nods of agreement as they shared some of their similar, but very different experiences. Living in refugee camps, acclimating to life in America, taking care of each other as they navigated this new world. One gentleman shared about moving here from a jungle and how learning to drive had been a challenge. There was a lot of laughter in their shared journeys. Their joy was powerfully contagious.   

“It doesn’t take a language to help someone. It takes a heart”. One woman insisted on this, remembering the connection she had shared with one of our staff when language wasn’t something they could yet share. Beyond the ability to audibly understand each other, there was an alternative language being communicated: compassion, love, a desire to know the other, a longing to help. 

I marveled at the beauty I was seeing in my new friends – a soul-level, no words for it, type of gratitude. Again thinking, “I wish everyone could be here, I wish everyone could hear what I’m hearing, see what I’m seeing, know the people I am getting to know.” I felt deeply honored to be sitting there, among men and women who have known loss in ways I can’t begin to fathom and who are choosing every single day to not only put one foot forward, but who are actively working to help others. Many who are still aiding their families and friends who stayed behind. Many of them work hard to help those like themselves who have resettled in America. One man from Burma, readily opens up his home to more families who have no place to immediately reside. 

Among this culturally diverse group there was another common thread that stuck out to me: faith. The communities they spoke of were rooted in their churches, in a common belief system. God is real, alive, and moving deeply in their hearts and in their communities. He is who they find hope in. 

I could hear the echoes of my seminary classes on missions – to listen to my fellow believers from across the world. That they most likely have more to teach me about following Jesus than I have to teach them. 

My new friends laughed about their long church services, knowing full well the contradiction between American churches and theirs. Many of us Americans likely don’t have the time, or the patience, or the desire to be in church all day. But for them, it’s different. A man from the DRC told me recently about how his church service the previous weekend had felt a lot like “home” (Africa). These church services start in the early evening and go long into a Saturday night/early Sunday AM – every single week. 

The more this group chatted, the more I longed to hear more. I could have sat there for hours, honestly. My heart was swelling, longing for everyone to know. To know that within miles of their homes there may be people from Africa, Asia, Central America, South America, Europe … people who had to come here because staying wasn’t safe for their families. People who often don’t speak English, not because they haven’t tried or because they don’t want to… but because it’s hard or they are too busy trying to work so their families have enough to eat. People who possess a type of joy that is contagious and authentic. People who know a simplicity of life without all the distractions. 

People who have a lot to teach you and me. 

If only we listen. If only we desire to learn. 

Everyone should get to bear witness to the type of beauty that only comes about in the bringing together of many tribes, tongues, and nations. It’s where we will find ourselves together in the end (Rev 7)… and when you get the chance to experience a little bit of heaven on earth, you can’t help but want others to have that same opportunity as well. 

Thin spaces. 

Right in the middle of Missouri. 

God, you’re so good.

Tears welled in my eyes this morning as we sang the lyrics at church. 

I had to take a minute to process why the flood of emotions had attached themselves to this simple declaration that I had made thousands of times. 

The words have never been untrue, and at times, that’s been hard for my doubter-of-a-heart to believe. 

God, you’re so good. 

Even when…

My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Or when my brother and sister-in-law gave birth to our stillborn first nephew after finding out he had Trisomy 13. Or when I struggled through years of singleness and then infertility. Or when we lost our jobs, our home, our community; an identity. Or when we found out that my barely 2-year-old niece had leukemia. Or when it took years to adopt the little girl who had quickly become our daughter. Or when my brother became the 1% of complications and lay open all night on an operating table because of an allergic reaction during open heart surgery. 

As I recounted God’s faithfulness through the valleys of uncertainty, fear, and heartbreak I have faced, I was alarmingly aware of his unwavering goodness. 

Today, I have the gift of perspective and time. Where I can look back and see how God has been good and present, even in some pretty bleak moments. 

He never changed. 

My circumstances may have, but His character has remained the same. He is steadfast. 

I think it’s why we are asked to REMEMBER a lot. 

Deuteronomy is filled with Moses pleading for the Isrealites to remember. 

Remember what God has done, how He brought you out of slavery, through a sea (what!), how He rained food from the sky – He took care of you in the lowest, hardest places. Your feet didn’t swell, your clothes didn’t wear out. 

You, God, are so good. 

How can we forget? 

And yet, sometimes, I do. 

We peer into a future of uncertainty, filled with fear and worry. We can’t see the other side of the sea and so we fret constantly about how we will get from here to there. How can we possibly make it out of this mess? How will we ever survive? There’s no way to escape – we are surrounded on all sides. It feels helpless. Our efforts get us nowhere – working through every human possibility, coming up empty-handed, coming up defeated. 

But then the sea is literally parted. A way forward now,  when there was no way. 

When we remember, we can’t help but come face to face with the God who can do immeasurably more than all we ask for or imagine. The God who knows our hearts better than we do. The One in whom we find refuge, strength, and comfort. 

The gift of time and perspective remind me that my plans, my hopes & dreams… they must be held loosely. Because God, in His goodness, has shown me over and over again that His ways are better. His ways are the ways that my human brain can’t even begin to fathom. 

He will get me from here to there. 

I don’t have to know how. I don’t even really need to know where “there” is… because His destination will always be better. 

Where I think I may want to go isn’t actually where I need to go. 

When I thought I needed to be married by a certain age, God showed me that it was infinitely better to wait. When I thought I must have biological children to be a successful woman, God showed me that His plan for our family would surpass my wildest dreams – a little girl that has radically transformed my world in some of the best ways. 

Scripture reminds me of the larger narrative. 

The truth of God’s goodness isn’t limited to me and what I have experienced. 

It expands beyond time, weaving its way into human hearts and souls since the very beginning. It’s a story we are invited into – over and over again. 

God, in His goodness, bringing to life what was dead, what was lost… because of how much He loves us. 

God, you’re so good.

I pray that, no matter how many times I sing or say it, that this truth dwells deep in my soul. That I would be a person who remembers, who declares it, who trusts it – despite the highest highs and the lowest lows. Even when I’m walking in the valleys of the unknown.

His goodness may look different than what I anticipate in the moment, but He is still good. 

All the time.