Today I watched the Holy Spirit weave his way through the hearts of the women I'm leading and it frightened me.  

This week I have the privilege of serving a group of women who use television to share hope with women around the world.  We're in the idyllic setting of the Princess Islands--a short ferry ride from Istanbul, Turkey.  

I've written about this reality before, but tonight when I returned to my hotel room, I collapsed on the bed in exhaustion and trepidation.  I wanted to ask with the disciples on the boat when Jesus calmed the storm, "Who is this man that the wind and water obey him?"  

In an ironic twist, I had led a discussion on I Kings 19 earlier in the day.  In that passage, God has just defeated the prophets of Baal and Elijah has seen God rain down fire from heaven and ignite soaking wet wood.  The people recognize the presence and power of God and a lengthy drought ends in a downpour.  It was a big ministry day.  

But instead of riding on a spiritual high, Elijah finds himself afraid of a woman--Jezebel.  She was a scary woman, but after what he'd just experienced you'd think he might have some faith that God would protect him.  His weariness quickly turns to whining and he collapses under a tree and begs God to die.  

As I read it today I was struck again with the usual response to a powerful experience of God.  Contrary to what we think, it is often not peace and joy, but fear.  

At least that's what Elijah experienced and its what I'm experiencing tonight. During one of his whining sessions Elijah confesses "I am no better than my ancestors".  What an interesting thing to say after standing up to the prophets of Baal, much of Israel and the very frightening, Jezebel.  

But I get it.  After experiencing first hand God's powerful love and redemptive presence, I feel more unworthy than when I started.  And it makes sense.  To come in contact with the Holy Spirit in this way is unsettling in a beautiful way.  It is so 'other' as to be enticingly disorienting.  I am suddenly aware of my smallness.  My complete inability to accomplish anything resembling a real work of God.  And my unfitness to be a representative of this message.  

This is not false humility or an feeble attempt to garner some affirmation.  I believe it is the only response that makes sense.  I feel appropriately uncomfortable and undone.  I pray he will touch my lips with coal as he commissions me for tomorrow's work.  It is the only hope I have.  

But it is a well-placed hope.  

I know it's impossible to add more hours into a day, but I really thought I'd figured out a way to beat the system earlier this week.  

In fact, it seemed so simple I felt embarrassed for not having thought of it sooner. My no-fail solution?  

Get up earlier.  Like, way earlier.   

I'm currently experiencing a season of unusual busyness.  Crazy busyness.  So busy that my mother has told me she will not be visiting me in the mental hospital because I've done this to myself.  She's right, of course.  But I know that if I can make it through May, I'll be okay.  And I was up for the task.  I'm more disciplined, focused and productive than I've ever been and many of the tasks I'm engaged in are life-giving.  The ones that aren't I get done early in the day and I've added more time for exercise, prayer and Sabbath to help me survive.  

And then my carefully crafted Jenga pile collapsed.  On Tuesday we received a notice to vacate our rental property by the end of May.  Nothing we did, its just that the Catholic Church needs it back so a priest can move in.  It's their house.  They can do what they want with it.  But that little letter put me over the edge.  

That's the thing with seasons of high activity and low margin--it doesn't take much to throw you over the edge.  

I was in shock for the first couple of hours, reminding myself that God was in control and I would be okay.  I had lots of very spiritual thoughts and believed I was handling it quite nicely. 

Until night came.  What is it about evening that makes everything seem worse?  

It took me a while to get to sleep.  My mind was racing.  And then I was up at 4:30 a.m.  The worst time of morning.  I knew it would take me at least 30 minutes to get back to sleep and then I'd have under an hour before I had to get up for the day.  

And then it hit me...I should just get up now.  In fact--this will be my new start time for the day.  Brilliant!  I add an hour and a half to my day.  That's nearly eight hours in my week!  I'll use it to look for houses and pack and organize stuff.  See.  I'm a problem solver.  

I was so productive in that pre-dawn period that I had a hard time reigning it in when it was time to get started with my actual day.  By 7:30 a.m. I was out the door with Madison and already three hours into my work day.  After dropping her off, I headed to a breakfast meeting--fueled with caffeine--and then off to Oakland for another meeting.  Also fueled with caffeine.  By this time it was lunch and I'd been up for eight hours.  I usually fast on Wednesdays, but today I needed food.  I inhaled a quesadilla from Chipotle and stopped at Starbucks for another shot.  My brother was in San Francisco for business so I headed across the bridge to see him for a few minutes.  I noticed I was feeling shaky and tired and emotionally exhausted.  

After spending a few minutes with my brother I headed back home via Highway 1.  This section of Pacific Coast Highway is one of the most beautiful and it takes me almost directly to my front door.  And, in spite of this awe-inspiring scenery and gorgeous weather my mood continued to plummet.  By the time I got home I was in the tank.  Tired, nauseous and weepy. 

 I was beginning to think this new wake-up time would not be sustainable.

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I tried doing some homework but it was no use.  I headed to bed and immediately fell asleep for 2 hours.  So much for the hours I added to my day.  And when I awoke I was even more depressed.  And hungry.  I ate junk and became more and more irritable.  My family gave me a wide berth.  It was really ugly.  

The world seemed to be collapsing.  Maybe not today, but I could feel it coming.  I wasn't sure how long I'd be able to keep up this pace.  And to stop now would be to drop a lot of very fragile plates.  Loud and messy.  

I did get on the elliptical machine in our garage for a quick workout and that helped keep me from sinking further, but after stretching I went directly back to bed.  Beside myself with panic but a little wiser about what I truly needed.  

And, it isn't more hours in the day.  It is continuing to trust God as I keep moving forward.  One day at a time. One foot in front of the other.  One breath prayer at a time.  

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I  may still get up a bit earlier in the coming weeks.  But in the end, I don't want to be more productive--I want to be more God-honoring.  More loving. More responsive to God's movement in my life and a more vibrant part of the community of faith.   

So, I will faithfully walk and wait on God.  Of course,  it may involve dropping a plate or two.  But it's not really about me.  Its about the God who loves me and whom I desire to honor with my life.  

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It has always fascinated me (read-- frustrated me) that Abraham was actually living in the Promise Land when God established his covenant with him.  Abraham was prosperous, righteous, chosen, obedient and willing.  And, BONUS--he already lived in the place God promised to give to him and his descendants.  It seems a lot of time, trauma and trekking could have been saved if God had simply established their residency early on. I'm just saying...

A little over five years ago I attended a silent retreat at a beautiful Mission on the west coast.  I remember it well because I was coming off a four year journey of deepening my relationship with God through the contemplative disciplines.  It had been a season of healing from addiction to busyness,  compulsive codependency and activity-based Christianity.  I longed to help other Christian leaders find the sanity and soul nourishment I experienced and I assumed God's next step for me would be into the field of spiritual direction or coaching Christian leaders.  I wanted to spend more time 'being'.  I was afraid of 'doing'.  It felt like death.  

So, of course, that's where God sent me.  Not because he's a masochist, but because he conquers death.  

As I sat on the cool grass in the center of the Mission courtyard I began a collage that I thought would depict 'being'.  Somehow I found myself gluing the word 'DO' to my paper.  Then...ACT.  In the midst of all my being words, God was clearly directing me to action of some kind.  But what?

I left the retreat confused.  I thought I'd misunderstood.  I pursued a job coaching leaders but  some wise people around me shared they felt it wasn't a good fit and that door slammed shut.  

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God waited a week, then showed me his plan as I drove to Home Depot.  I don't know why he chose Home Depot as my burning bush moment, but it has forever changed my experience of home improvement.  Anyway...as I drove to Home Depot, God suggested I call Apartment Life and see if they were still looking to fill the regional leadership position.  They were.  Through a serious of miscommunications with my husband I ended up putting my name in the hat and in January of 2009 I was fully immersed in a world of doing and performing and activity.  
The next three years I spent trying to integrate what I knew about formation into my life as a leader.  I felt propelled for a purpose--creative, energetic and resilient.   Then, just as quickly as the energy appeared, it was gone.  I knew it was time to move on.  

Then, two more years of wandering.  

And here I sit.  In the same place I thought I would be five years ago.  Pursuing a master's degree in spiritual formation.  More and more drawn to silence and solitude. Repentance and rest.  Waiting and watching.  Loving and listening.  

There are days I wonder if it wouldn't have been simpler if God had led me here in the first place.  I was already sitting on the edge of this new land.  Did we really have to walk away, only to return a few years later?  

Yes.  So clearly, YES.  I don't claim to understand all of what God was doing, but I honestly wouldn't have done it any other way.   And, although I'm sitting in the same place, I come as a different woman.  A woman with more depth, more pain, more healing, more dependency, less certainty, more beauty.  

Today I see how God took my desires from that day at the Mission and grew them.  How he lovingly held them with me, then took my hand and led me where I needed to go in order to fully enter into his plan.  I have a feeling there'll be more of this in the future.  Glimpses of the future, abrupt changes in direction, wandering and then...home.  

Until we're finally face to face.  

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Well, it happened.  All the people who were concerned about my involvement in Christian Yoga and contemplative practices were right.  They clearly saw the danger ahead of me and the perilous path on which I was embarking.  They must have known that yoga and silence were just gateway drugs.  If I was open to such questionable activity, my judgement couldn't be trusted and certainly I would end up abandoning my faith or, worse, becoming a...gasp...liberal.  

This week I found myself so deeply impacted by the love of God that I had no words.  I found myself loving others so deeply I felt like an idiot.  I found myself ready to abandon everything for Love.  

Who am I?  

While this was no sentimental, sappy, Hallmark card experience of love, it was an emotion.  Or, perhaps more of a physical presence. How weird is that?  

I don't want to write too much because words seem to diminish the sacredness of this transformation, but my foundation has been rocked and I'm amazed at a God who would so lovingly disassemble my prickly, protective coping mechanisms so I could fully live and love and be loved.  

Today I find I'm not hiding behind my life experience or my emotional health or my spiritual resume or my well-crafted sentences.  I'm a beginner again.  Sitting at the feet of Jesus while he introduces me to so many I've dismissed and overlooked who may have much less external success or platform but have love in great measure.  

For the first time in my life I'm beginning to understand what Paul means when he says, 

" But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord." 

Do you see what's happened?  I started a journey some years ago and I was adequately warned that it would lead to something radical.  Something unsafe.  Something that would change me. 

 I insisted it wouldn't affect me.  

I was wrong.  Praise God.  

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As my first accomplishment in 2014, I completed a small home improvement project.  No applause necessary.  Really.  I painted my coffee table to match the rest of my room and the furniture.  That's right.  I've lived here two years and I finally got off my butt and took care of that little project.  

After spending four days in Arizona painting, cleaning and improving a house I'll never live in again, I decided to do something about the home in which I currently reside.  

And it was tough!  I first had to walk across the street to buy a can of paint (because I forgot I'd purchased the paint for this project two years ago).  It took a good ten minutes to complete the process.  And then there was the waiting for the paint to dry.  Insufferable.  But I made the best of it and used the time to get a pedicure.  

Now both my coffee table and toes are painted (different colors) and thus begins a new era in taking small steps toward improvement.  

I really can't help myself.  How can I not spend some time reflecting on what would keep me from doing such a simple task?  I saw this coffee table every day.  Every day I noticed how it didn't really match.  And, every day I chose to do nothing about it.  Eventually I stopped thinking about it.  I became numb to the discomfort of my avoidance.  But the longer I avoided, the larger the task seemed.  

And then I picked up a paint brush again and I remembered how easy it is and how much I love transforming something with a fresh coat of color.   How the color of a room or an object can impact our emotions and the 'feel' of a space.  And I remembered the joy of making something beautiful.    

As I begin this new year I think some more reflection is in order.  Are there areas in my life where I've grown numb to the nagging pain of avoidance?  Have I grown too comfortable with ugliness in my midst?  Is there more beauty to be experienced with a simple step of obedience?  Where could I be experiencing the joy of creativity and fresh color in my life?  

I'll have to sit with those for a bit, but first for something more practical. Time to dust the mounds of dust from my fan blades.  

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In my reality, today is the REAL first day of the year.  Today is the day the kids go back to school, Richard goes to the office and I get the house to myself to work quietly and efficiently.  Today is the day I've been waiting for. Today I'll be able to think clearly again.  Today I'll string together a couple of sentences that don't make people wonder if I'm 'special'.  

But, perhaps I was a bit too optimistic.  Apparently you can't go from stressed-out-babbling-idiot one day to competent, wonder woman, the next.  At least, not completely.  

I was so excited about this fresh start that it wasn't even hard to get out of bed early and begin my day with disciplines to aid my emotional and spiritual health.  It caused me no irritation when Cade commented that I was up early and then noted that 'Dad doesn't seem to have a problem getting out of bed in the morning' even though Richard was still in bed and I was up being productive.  

When Richard did get up he volunteered to take Madison to school so I could stay in the groove.  Awesome!  This day is getting better and better.  With Cade off to school and Richard taking Madison, I basked in the quiet and stillness.  I sipped my coffee, enjoyed the warmth of the fire and congratulated myself on a very good beginning. 

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 A few moments later I heard the car in the driveway as Richard arrived home.  The door opened and Madison appeared.  Strange.  It occurred to me immediately that I had not doubled checked the first day of school for her.  Oops.  It's tomorrow.  

Other than the disappointment of being up too early, Madison was excited to have the whole day off.  I , however,  was a bit disappointed.  (I might just poke my eyes out if I have to hear/watch another episode of 'Chuck'.)  But, since she's a much better person than I, she had already contacted her mentor to see if she needed help in her classroom today.  Minutes later, I was alone again.  Crisis averted.  

After paying bills, planning this week's menu, creating my weekly task list and putting the roast in the crock pot (Yes.  You read that right.), I sat down for a long day of productive work.  And that's exactly what happened.  Weird.  

I did stop for a minute to make a delicious carrot-beet-strawberry-tangerine juice for lunch, but other than that I was on a roll.  

Then I pushed my luck.  I felt a little guilty for being so glad the kids were gone for a few hours that I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies for an after-school (or after teacher's aid) snack.  I've found a plethora of parental transgressions can be overlooked when the smell of warm cookies greets a child upon entering the home.  

There were two slight problems with this evil plan (besides the fact that it was a guilt offering):

1. I hadn't really used the oven since Thanksgiving when the lower element started on fire and quit working about 2 hours into the Turkey prep, and... 
2. I had a carrot-beet-strawberry-tangerine juice for lunch

I learned today the new  lower element works really well and I definitely need to put cookies on a higher rack in the future to avoid burning the bottoms and, even burned, its extremely hard to resist a chocolate chip cookie after having a salad drink for lunch.  

But all in all, the real first day of the new year turned out pretty well.  Probably unsustainable, but truly enjoyable for however long it lasts.  

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Today I packed away the last few remnants of the holiday.  Christmas is over with all its parties, presents, lights, decorations and high caloric, coma-inducing food.  And, frankly, I could not be more relieved.  That's not a comment on Christmas, per se, but more on my need for a return to normalcy.  

Besides, this year never really felt like Christmas to me.  In fact, I would have been fine without a tree or any decorations. 

That is not like me.  

I love my Christmas house.  I love the smell of fresh pine needles, the warmth Christmas decorations add to our home, the external reminders something BIG is happening.  But this year was all 'bah humbug'!

I usually participate in some form of Advent observance and enjoy focusing my attention on the waiting.  The anticipation of  hope dawning on a weary world. But I never established a healthy groove.  I got carried along with the activity and programs and found myself easily annoyed with this disturbance in the calendar.   I lost my alone time when the kids entered winter break, my diet was horrendous and the shorter days gave me a significant case of the blues.   That is not a formula for Christmas joy.  

So now I enter the New Year without living into the excitement of anticipation or the wonder of the incarnation. Bummer.   

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Not only did this negatively affect my Christmas spirit, it also generated a total funk around my usual New Year's excitement.  I'm a sucker for new beginnings and ceremonial landmarks but this year it just wasn't coming together.  

No sense of where God was leading me in 2014.  No path. No verse.  No word.  Just silence.  Of course, there's nothing innately spiritual about proclaiming a new beginning on January 1.  I mean, the most dramatic changes often happen in the course of our ordinary lives, but I have come to enjoy this discipline in my life and was disappointed in its absence this year.  

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I tried out a couple of ideas to see if any of them resonated with me.  I knew God was inviting me into a different kind of prayer practice, but still I had no sense of a theme or focus for the year.  I read of someone else's word and I really, really liked it.  I mean, there's no saying two people can't focus on the same thing for a year, right? Unfortunately, it wasn't the word God had for me.  

On January 2 I sat down to pray and observed that I felt particularly happy; excited about what was ahead.  I had no idea what that might be, but I had a sense of anticipation.  

In an early December meeting with my Spiritual Director, I sensed God inviting me into a season of active waiting.  Waiting with a sense of hope and joy and expectancy.  Not waiting to act, but waiting for the fullness of what God has.  Not forcing my agenda or manipulating circumstances, but living fully into whatever God puts in front of me.  

And there it was...a year of Advent!  I don't actually have the word or a particular verse, but I am confident God is inviting me into a season of  expectant waiting.  The kind of waiting that Mary understood...or, more accurately--didn't understand.  Saying 'yes' to crazy things. Making preparations for the fruition of God's plan regardless of how people perceive me and whether or not it makes sense.  A year of hope and curiosity and wonder.  A year of questions and disappointment and abrupt changes of direction.  

Perhaps that's what I'll call it.  My year of Advent.  Makes sense.  I'm a very slow learner and I often require more time to grasp things than your average person.  So God is giving me my own remedial course.  How very thoughtful.  

Or, maybe, its not my word for the year.  Maybe its just for this next season--until God moves me to the next thing--however long that may be.  This really is new.  

I should probably wrap it up.  Things are getting crazy!  I'm winging it and there's no telling what could happen!  

I'll keep you posted.  

Katy Perry's song Roar hit the airwaves en force last month.  Since then it has become an anthem for discouraged, seemingly-defeated-but-resilient people everywhere.  Just yesterday Richard showed me a YouTube video with kids in a children's hospital lip-syncing to this song.  There's no way around it--I'm inspired.   

Given my 'no love' stance toward Taylor Swift, you might assume Katy Perry was on my 'do not listen' list as well.  But you'd be wrong.  If I were interviewing nannies, I would go with Taylor, but otherwise--Katy's my girl.  I can't help it.  She has talent and soul.  And, every once in a while I see remnants of holy in her.  

With the release of her new album, Prism, this week she's been widely interviewed about the inspiration for her songs.  It doesn't take a degree in poetry to gather that she's writing about a time of difficulty in her life.  In her interviews she confirms that she went through a period that took a toll on her self esteem.  But it was out of that darkness that Roar was birthed.  (Apparently hyper-sexuality was also part of the healing process, but I'll leave that alone for now.)  

As a woman who has a daughter and who works with women leaders to help them find their voice, Roar should be my theme song.  You can't hold me down! I'm a fighter!  You hear my voice...like thunder, gonna shake the ground!  I'm a champion!  Roar!

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There's only one problem.  God isn't asking me to roar.  I'm not saying that having some fight isn't often what's called for, I'm simply observing that the way of Jesus is, more often than not, a much quieter path.   

Today I wanted to roar.  I'm physically, emotionally and mentally exhausted.  As I meditated and prayed this morning I secretly hoped I would emerge from this time feeling energetic and ready to take on the world.  After all, isn't that how the agreement works?  I plug into the power source of the Holy Spirit and, just like my iPhone in the morning, I leave fully charged and ready for another day of productive activity?  

I'm currently taking a class on the Disciplines of the Spirit and one of our textbooks is a favorite of mine...The Spiritual Disciplines Handbook by Adele Calhoun.   This week we completed a brief assessment designed to surface where God might desire to shape us.  I faithfully completed the assessment and moved on to the reflection questions.  What I hoped would come out in my reflection was a sense of deep rest and encouragement.  I found myself drawn to the disciplines of Sabbath and listening to God.  
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Inwardly I crouched, waiting for my time to roar.  

And then, he spoke.  

"Kelli, ask a friend to show you your blind spots."  
"Kelli, you've wounded another friend.  Ask for forgiveness."  

So, let me clarify.  I feel tired and vulnerable and God wants me to invite someone to point out areas of weakness of which I'm blissfully unaware.  And then he wants me to admit to another that I've neglected our friendship.  

Just what I was hoping for.    

After accepting his invitation I am more amazed at God's faithfulness and grace.  But I do not feel like roaring.  On the contrary, I feel more dependent, quieter, still tender.  

I love Katy Perry, but, for now, she'll have to roar without me.  

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I don't drive in the slow lane.  At least not until last week.  Now I'm hooked.  

I didn't set out to conduct a personal experiment--it just sort of evolved.  Last week I headed over the hill to San Jose to see my spiritual director.  On my last visit I was pulled over for the first time ever and politely handed a speeding ticket.  This time, I decided to leave early and drive the speed limit.  

This is new territory for me.  I left in time to arrive fifteen minute early and I instantly felt guilty.  There is so much I could have accomplished in that fifteen minutes if I weren't driving.  But within minutes I decided to make a game of it.  What would it feel like to stay in the right lane for the whole 45 minute drive?  I felt ready for the personal challenge.  

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As cars sped around me I felt an initial tinge of anxiety.  It was really more a sense of inferiority.  I was driving slowly and I felt stupid.  Recently Madison and I saw a car with this sign taped to the back--"New driver.   Just learning stick shift.  Sorry."  I wished I had that sign on this particular drive.  

(Quick aside--if you're a right lane driver already, this blog will only disgust you.  I've got problems and let's just acknowledge that you're better than me and move on.  You don't need to read to the end because you've already mastered the art of slowing. ) 

The first ten minutes were a battle of fighting my well developed impulse to move as quickly as possible.  The next ten were a battle of fighting my new self-awareness.  It didn't take long to uncover some serious pathology brewing beneath my need to speed.   

Here are the top four:

Image Management.  I drive a mini-van and I feel the need to represent mini-van drivers everywhere.  We are not unskilled or unimportant.  We have places to be too.  For some reason,  I believe that my superior driving skills will leave people with a good impression of me.  For what end?  I do not know.  

Competition.  I like to win.  And most things can be turned into a competition--even if I'm just competing with myself.  Can I get there faster than I did last week?  Can I accurately decipher traffic patterns?  Can I safely weave my way through the checkerboard-like traffic?  It's a sickness--until you need me to get you somewhere fast, then suddenly, I'm your best friend.  

People Pleasing.  I hate to be in someone's way.  So, if a driver gets up too close on my rear bumper, I usually feel bad.  Like I did something wrong.  The least I can do is get out of their way so they can move forward at the pace they desire.  This is closely linked with my desire that other people get out of my way when I'm in a hurry (which is most of the time).  

Over Optimism.  When calculating how long it will take for me to get from point A to point B, I am always optimistic about the conditions.  I know which lanes are fastest at any given point of a commute.  I know that if I make the light at King, I'll have to speed to make the light at River.  I know to take King on the way to school and Mission on the way home.  I know short cuts going either way on Morrisey.  But I never factor in a car turning left or an accident or a pedestrian throwing off my groove.  All things that occur regularly.  Truth is, I over estimate the positive factors and pretend the roadblocks don't exist or that I can find a way around them without much cost.  If that isn't a metaphor for my life, I don't know what is.   

Twenty minutes into this experiment and I was hooked.  It was so calming!  I didn't worry about changing lanes or getting out of people's way or calculating how to get around slow vehicles and I could feel my blood pressure dropping.  Plus, with all that strategy-building space freed up in my brain, I could think about other things. Creative things. Prayer, even.  

I arrived at my appointment feeling relaxed, peaceful and centered.  Weird!  After that I headed up to San Francisco for an extended time of reflection and then an evening meeting.  I decided to drive slowly for the entire day.  What I found fascinating, was that everything was less irritating.  Traffic jams didn't faze me.  Slow cars in the fast lane had no negative impact on my day.  Someone wants to merge in front of me?  Go right ahead!  All emotions completely foreign to me in a commuter setting.  

On the last leg of my journey I elevated the challenge.  I was actually running late as I left Golden Gate Park to head to my meeting.  But I decided to continue my pattern.  Even running late, I found slow driving to be a balm to my soul.  And, when I arrived at my destination I was more settled and less frenetic.  I listened more attentively and was less tired after an evening of extroverted activities.  And, even with open highway, I easily stayed within the speed limit on my 90 minute drive home.  

And, yes, I'm aware we are celebrating my success at simply obeying the law.  Just go with it.  

It occurred to me in the slowness, that I'd heard about this before--this wasn't my idea.  When I returned home I pulled out my Spiritual Disciplines Handbook and looked it up.  Sure enough, there is discipline of slowing.  And--get this--one of the suggested exercises is (and I quote) "Intentionally drive in the slow lane."  

Way ahead of you Adele (she's the author).  

According to the handbook, the desire in practicing slowing is "to curb my addiction to busyness, hurry and workaholism; to learn to savor the moment."  She quotes Peter Kreeft--

But practicing the discipline is not the end goal.  It's simply a way to make space for God to do his transforming work.  In this discipline, I may see some of the following fruit (again, taken from the Spiritual Disciplines Handbook):

• keeping company with Jesus as I live at a saner pace
• freedom from an addiction to hurry or spiritual shortcuts
• patience--waiting with grace
• living the present moment to the full
• trusting God's unhurried time schedule
• freedom from addiction to cell phones, e-mail, instant messaging and all that speeds me up
• living the truth that love and hurry are fundamentally incompatible
• receiving interruptions graciously
• realizing the work of the Spirit is not an "instant" work

I'm reminded that this experience essentially resulted from a speeding ticket and my desire to not have that happen again.  Funny how God gets our attention sometimes.  But I'm ever so grateful.  

I'm looking forward to more days in the slow lane as I engage in the revolutionary act of "unproductive" living for the joy of sanity, freedom and trust in the long, slow work of God.  

How about you?  What is it like for you to choose to do things slowly?  How do you react to a slow sales clerk or a child who is dawdling?  I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Last week I promised to share some of the principles I'm using to clarify my voice.  It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I'm having serious doubts.  One of my chief concerns is that 'advice' blogs don't really feel like my voice.  But, what the heck--I'm in research mode so let's give it a shot.  

I've been thinking and rethinking and pondering and re-pondering.  And then it came to me...this isn't working.  

Instead, I started listening. 
 
If this is the voice God gave me and the message he has for me to share, then I should probably get his thoughts on what to say and how to say it.  True to form, he hasn't laid out a four-point plan or wrapped up his thoughts in a concise revelation.  But as I've been intentional to spend extended time alone with God, some things have strangely started making sense.  Its less  a detailed syllabus and more cartoon map.  There are general shapes and major landmarks, and the distances are a little off .   But I trust the details will get filled in as I actually start traveling.

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Mistakes are painful.  Therefore, I want a fool-proof plan before I take any action, complete with pie charts and line graphs and clear, measurable outcomes in place.  

Just kidding. 

In fact, part of the process seems to be trial and error.  Not as a cruel test, but as a refining tool that shapes and sharpens as I learn to trust God's direction and the values he has been developing in me.  Don't get me wrong--I like a good goal.  But to overuse a cliche'--it's not the destination, its the journey.  

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If I'm listening to God and I feel strongly about something, I should just go for it.  After all, it's probably divinely inspired, right?  

Maybe, maybe not.  

One of the difficulties I experience as a human is the deceitfulness of my own heart.  Such a drag.  And along with that condition comes a propensity to both overvalue some of my insights and ideas and undervalue others.   I've been known to trivialize important topics and magnify mole hills.  I've used humor inappropriately and sometimes been careless with my freedoms.  All this to say...my heart cannot be trusted.  It may be a starting point, but in anything I say or do I want to first ask what will be accomplished by my sharing.  Does it build up the church?  Is it honorable?  Does it accurately reflect the heart of God?  Does it help?  Is it necessary?  

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In the interest of full disclosure...I'm on a lot of cold medication right now so this post likely doesn't meet any of the criteria I just established.  But just in case you're also under the influence of similar drugs (or, very different drugs that alter your reality) let me summarize:

When discerning my voice--the thing God uniquely put in me--I have found it helpful to:

• Listen (and not over analyze),
• Take it one step at a time (not expecting perfection), and 
• Commit to being a voice that builds up and reflects the heart of God (not just any old muck that bubbles to the surface of my heart).  

Once again, not sure this is of any assistance to you at all, but, since I'm not going for perfection, I'm willing to give a shot!