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A few months ago, I was brainstorming some ways to get a really high value silent auction item for our non-profit for one of our upcoming fundraisers. Taylor Swift tickets. It was genius. Now, all I had to do was find a way to slide into her DMs and be one of thousands of other non-profits who were hoping for the same charitable donation. After a few quick Google searches, I gave up. It felt futile. 

Not too long after, I was reading the news and finding myself wondering what it would be like to just sit down and have a conversation with some of our elected government officials. I wanted to ask questions, to listen, to get beyond the noise of the media and the public personas and find out just who they are. Like, really. Imagine the amount of time it would take for a president to sit down with every constituent and respond to the same questions, over and over again. It makes sense that we can’t, but I wish (sometimes) that we could. 

Fast forward a few more weeks… I’m in my room praying before the start of the day when it hits me, like really hits me. Perhaps it’s the same epiphany I have every few years, but it’s especially poignant on this particular day. 

No, I can’t have unfettered access to some of the most famous and most powerful people in the world… but I do have it with God, the most famous and powerful being over all time. 

And yet, I carry on my day like prayer is something to be inconvenienced by or roll my eyes at. Instead of possessing awe, wonder, and an overwhelming gratitude that The King who reigns victorious over all eternity wants me to talk to Him… I’m too tired, or too distracted, or too… fill in the blank. 

But let me repeat that… He wants me to talk to Him. He doesn’t just allow it, He longs for it. He doesn’t have some third party assistant writing some form email to appease all of His fans. He actually cares, knows us, and wants us to be in relationship with Him. 

It makes me think a lot about who I really believe God to be. Because if I really believed that every time I prayed that I was standing in some supernatural space communing with the Creator of all things who has parted seas, made the blind see, and the dead rise? It would change how I pray. It does change how I pray… when I remember. 

But, too easily I forget. Or, worse, I’ve grown numb. Perhaps prayer has become too ordinary a task. The sacred made ordinary. 

But, I think that’s what’s so beautiful about God’s desire for us to be in constant union with Him. That He would be so naturally a part of our every day, all day… that we would be so in sync with the Spirit. That it would impact our every waking moment, every waking thought. That He would reign supreme in our hearts, at all hours of the day. 

And then BAM. We remember. 

That when we pray, that no, the words aren’t being offered to world class celebrities. Our problems aren’t being heard by world leaders. Instead, they are heard, known, and cared about by the One who was and is and is to come. And isn’t that better? 

We remember what it means that we have access. We remember what it cost. 

Awe and fear are restored.

The dance resumes. 

He leads, I follow. 

Forgive my moment(s) of disbelief, restore my faith. Remind me, again and again, especially when I forget who You are. Remind me what it means that you made a way when there was no way. 

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.

___________