I'm a small town girl.  Growing up in a rural community in Iowa, life seemed pretty simple.  In my little world there were bad people and good people and wise people and foolish people and the good, wise people usually rose to the top of society   Unfortunately, life experience did not match that presupposition and my naivety didn't last very far into my adult life.  For the last few decades my world has continued to expand, and with it, my ideas and experiences around how life plays out.  

But my week in Guatemala has stretched my social, cultural and religious assumptions to some pretty freaky places.  I have never much enjoyed spending time in arenas where I don't feel skilled or competent.  Combine that with my go-to response of shutting down when I feel overwhelmed and you've got a recipe for denial.  Essentially, the equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears and yelling, "La la la la la la"! when certain issues are being discussed.  

But God is showing me that this will not do if I am going to call myself a follower of Jesus. The God of the Bible is a lover of justice and his call for the church involves the implementation of justice.  "To do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with our God."  To uphold the cause of the widow, to proclaim freedom for prisoners, to care for the fatherless, to bind up wounds and ensure justice for the poor and oppressed.  Not just to pray for the poor or marginalized (although prayer is vital).  Not just send money to others who can deal with the messy, complicated webs of injustice and suffering.  But to engage in the pursuit of justice personally, even if it's imperfect.  

Last week, one of our excursions was to an organization in Guatemala City dedicated to exhuming the remains of the thousands upon thousands of casualties of the civil war that waged from 1960-1996.  These victims were branded 'guerrillas' and were captured, raped, tortured and killed, then thrown into mass graves.  But most were not guerrillas.  They were innocent mothers and daughters and fathers and sons.  The truth is beginning to come to light and the healing process begun as a team of scientists undertake the painstaking work of finding these graves, carefully removing the bones and other personal items, returning the remains to the lab and reconstructing them.  In this process they note trauma, gunshot wounds, shrapnel, etc., test for DNA, interview family members or other community members who may have known them and work to connect survivors to the dead.  They do this so that families and communities can heal and truth be told and forgiveness be given as injustices are exposed.  And, they do this in the hope it might not happen again.  

What I observed as we entered the facility, was a hallway stacked floor to ceiling with boxes.  Each box held the remains and personal items of one person (two, if it was a mother and her dead infant).  

It was hard to believe it was real.  After an introduction of their work by one of the scientists we were ushered into the lab.  On the tables in front of us were the meticulously laid out skeletons of perhaps six bodies.  Two were tiny--toddlers at best.  


How does one process the horror and sadness contained in that one room?  I do not know.  


We were then shown a large storeroom where the remains of hundreds of victims in newly uncovered graves were stored.  As our guide shared what they knew about the circumstances surrounding the deaths of these children, women and men our group stared blankly at the rows of boxes.  We asked questions, not really wanting to know the answers.  "Did they have to dig their own graves?"  "Certainly."  "Were they dead when they were buried?"  "Not always."  
 
One classmate asked our guide how she dealt with all the death and sadness and injustice and apathy from the general public.  She seemed so calm as she stated, "Well, with the passing of time..."and then the tears began to stream down her face as the rest of her sentence was swallowed up in the sorrow.  

As my black and white world continues to grow smaller in the distance, I am left moving toward an uncertain future.  The heroes and villains are beginning to look a lot alike and I sometimes recognize my own face among the perpetrators. I feel damned if I move too quickly or too slowly.  But I know I must do something.  Not everything.  Not regarding every injustice.  So what is God inviting me to? 

I don't know.

It's complicated.  

But I can start with telling the story.  

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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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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In our family, we love to watch the first weeks of American Idol.  The train wreck portion of the show.  We know its all staged, but we can't look away as person after person sings their heart out--poorly.  We're left asking, "Where are her friends?  Who let her believe she could carry a tune? Why didn't her parents protect her from this delusion?"  Of course, that's all part of the drama.  

I often fear I'm deluded.  So, to insure that I don't make the same mistake as thousands of American Idol hopefuls , I study people's reaction to me very closely.  I've learned to read when their words don't match their body language and I've placed a high value on the opinion of others.  When I ask Richard "Do I look fat in these jeans?" He knows its a setup.  I can tell what he thinks before he even speaks.  

This pathology isn't all bad.  I'm open to feedback and it allows me to grow.  I surround myself with good counsel and it helps me make better decisions.  

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If  you've ever seen the show, or one of the many knock-offs, you know that sometimes the judges have different opinions about the contestant's talent or potential.  For a person like me, this is a conundrum.  I like unanimous affirmation.  Some people like the challenge of proving people wrong, of overcoming their objections.  I think that sounds like a lot of work that could potentially end up in failure.  

But nothing of value comes from so little effort.  

Many of you know I have a book proposal making the rounds at publishing houses around the country.  Earlier this year, one of the smaller publishers made an offer on it.  However, in the meantime I'd decided that wasn't the book I wanted to write and we withdrew the proposal so I could make some changes.  A few weeks ago we resubmitted the proposal.  I was pretty excited about the changes and we received some very positive feedback from the initial query.  Photo Cred 


Sure enough, one of the big publishers was quick to get back with some feedback.  I was in a conversation with my son when I saw the email notification from my agent.  My insides started to churn.  I couldn't keep myself from hope.  This might be it!

I paused Caleb in mid-sentence and went to my inbox.  Yes, I was talking to Caleb with my computer in front of me.  In my defense, I was working when he came in to talk. Plus,  he was going to be very proud of his mom in just a few seconds so this faux pas would be forgiven.  

As I skimmed the email looking for the words "loved your proposal" and "made an offer", I became aware that I wasn't breathing.  My brain seemed to be floating away from my body and the room started to spin.   "False alarm."  I stammered to Caleb.  "They don't want my book."  

But that was an understatement.  I finished the conversation with Caleb and went back to the email.  This publisher didn't just pass on my book, they seemed intent on dissuading me from the whole writing game.  My first thought was, "How did I miss the signs?  I must have been delusional to think I could do this."

I toyed with the idea of sharing this rejection with you only after I was sitting comfortably with an actual offer.  How dramatic that would be.  And, inspirational.  

But this is reality.  I may never get an offer.  And, I'm learning that a book deal may not be the primary reason God had me in the process in the first place.  (Although, I'm really hoping it is a by-product.) 

Something is different and God used this event to show me what he's doing in me.  

The first hours were tough.  I wondered if I'd ever feel good about myself again.  Or, at least, my writing.  But I decided to let myself experience the hurt and the pain.  Not push it down or pretend that "sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me."  On the contrary, I was acutely aware of the power of words.  I made a couple of attempts to read my proposal; to see if I could fix it and make these people like me.  But I was too anxious, too wounded to view it objectively.  So I went for a run, hung out with my kids, played a game on my iPad.  I talked with God and cried with my husband and then went to bed.  

I woke up feeling less anxious, but hardly back to normal.  I have a morning routine that involves writing three pages of longhand ideas and thoughts each day.  I didn't feel like writing.  I stared at the blank pages for a long while, silently justifying a pass for this daily discipline.  I picked up the pen and wrote a paragraph.  I stopped to feel sorry for myself.  I picked up the pen and started writing again.  But this time I'd decided to suck it up and keep going.  What is a discipline for if not for the days you don't feel like it?  By the end of the exercise I had processed through my next steps.  And the anxiety was gone.  

I called my agent (who confirmed that the feedback was unusually harsh) and shared my potential modifications.  She agreed and I got to work.  

And it was done.  A miracle.  I was at peace.  Not defined by someone else's opinion of me or my work and still able to learn from it.  

This must be what it feels like to be a grown up.    

Whales leave a trail of chaos.  And... It. Is. Awesome!  

Today when Richard and I arrived at the beach so our old and stubborn dog could chase a ball, we were greeted by hundreds and hundreds of birds in the water.  It was a little unsettling.  I felt like the odds of getting pooped on were very high.  

Both of us wondered what all the commotion was about, but only Richard was willing to stop another spectator and ask what was going on.   I don't know why I have such an averse reaction to his inquisitiveness--it was a perfectly acceptable response, but I hate bothering strangers.  I prefer to stand quietly behind a group of bystanders, hoping they're talking about the thing I'm questioning so I can gather the necessary information without having to speak to anyone.  That's not creepy at all.  

Anyway...thankfully Richard asked the right person and we got a short marine biology lesson in the process.  First of all,--there were whales in the bay.  Jackpot!  I was going to see whales today.  More on that later.  Apparently when whales travel through the bay this near the shore, they disturb the kelp beds in a rather violent fashion.  This brings all sorts of debris, fish, bugs, crustaceans (a.k.a food) to the surface, creating a feeding frenzy.  Yum!  And it wasn't just birds.  There were seals everywhere.  One so near the shore that our aforementioned old and stupid, er...stubborn, dog tried to swim after it.  Very sad to watch her swim in circles after the seal disappeared under the surface.  

But back to the kelp beds.  Just yesterday I had been out stand up paddle boarding with Caleb and commented on the smoothness of the water in the middle of large kelp beds.  As soon as we navigated through one of these areas, the water became less choppy and the current seemed less forceful.  Perfect for a calm day of paddle boarding.  But today, not so much.  Today the kelp beds were teeming with life.   What was not good for a recreational cruise was a huge celebration for marine life.  

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And, sure enough, within minutes there were whales.  A couple of them straight ahead.  Their long, shimmering backs cresting just above the water line, then gracefully disappearing before the final show of power--the tail rising and descending like a conductor's baton eliciting a dramatic crescendo.  

Over and over.  More chaos.  More beauty.  More awe.  

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I really like a calm kelp bed.  I usually prefer to sit on the beach and watch when there are disturbances of this size occurring.  But today I found myself drawn in.  Wishing I were closer.  Less afraid of turbulent waters and more open to the new life that follows in its wake.  Because, while it is terrifying and messy and more than I can control, the beauty it displays and the transformation it produces are not to be missed.  

Here's to more beautiful disturbances! 

Reality hits in waves as I age.

At 20, my eyes were opened to all I could be and I embarked on realizing my greatest potential. This wasn't about vocation or notoriety. I simply wanted to fix my unhealthiness. To work through all of my issues and get my "healthy" stamp. I showed myself to be a hard worker emotionally and the future looked bright.

There were moments when I admitted the impossibility of my goal. I would never be perfect. But couldn't I be a really, really good version of myself?

But today, I'm aware again that I'm more than a tweak away from "dealing with my issues." Admitting this has seemed unspiritual to me. Isn't God able to redeem my unhealthy patterns of relating? Isnt that just a cop out? An excuse for bad behavior?

I don't think so. In fact, to deny this reality is to live inauthentically. Hopelessly dependent on my own strength or ability.

I've got intimacy issues. I often prefer to be alone. Yes. Some of it is introversion. But some of it is just plain fear and the result of past wounds.  

And, my humanness. 

I'm making progress, but in the end the chasm is too vast.  Ultimately, there will be no closure on my self-improvement project and much of the good that comes from my life will be in spite of who I am, not because of who I am.  That doesn't mean these imperfections and idiosyncrasies can be redeemed.  It just means they don't result in my perfection, but in the perfection of God's purposes.  

Of all the things I've never wanted to be, an angry woman is at the top of the list.  An astute observer of cultures, I realized early on that angry women were not welcome in the church.  Quite frankly, they weren't welcomed anywhere, but the church had an arsenal of spiritual weapons to use against them and I did not want to be on the receiving end of this kind of criticism.  

And so it has been.  

I've flirted with 'angry' in the past.  In my twenties I was forced to address the underlying anger because I was literally vomiting it out of me in the form of an eating disorder.  

In my thirties another layer surfaced and I went through a 'swearing' phase. I'm told it was hilarious. Cute, even.  

And now it's back.  I'm angry.  Still hesitant to embrace it, it leaks out slowly.  Often surfacing at the most inopportune times.  An offhand comment has a little too much bite.  What sounds like an affectionate jab in my head comes out as a punch in the gut.  

Earlier this week I sat down with an unsuspecting group of pastors and they invited me to share about my experience as a woman in the church.  I would not have told the truth to everyone, but to these brave men I chose to entrust just a bit of my story.  The raw emotion that curled up from deep inside took me off guard, but these good shepherds seemed unfazed by my messiness.  

Infinitely more surprising than the rage, was the compassion I experienced on the other side.  In the wake of my anger, I discovered the tenderness I'd been searching for.  

I recognize the bread crumbs God is laying out for me.  His invitation to walk through this dark forest of frustration.  Not alone and for a purpose.  Trusting there is no other path to the open spaces on the other side of this blackness.  

Because now I know that the only way to avoid becoming an angry woman is to get angry.  

I've picked up some helpful nuggets in all my years of therapy.  And I don't mean the obvious analysis or guidance with all my neurosis and obvious character defects.  Along the way my therapists have sometimes blown my mind with passing statements.  Like this one...

She said it like it was an obvious truth. A basic life skill.  This axiom was thrown out on the way to a bigger problem solved but I wasn't going to let that one slide in under the radar.  This was exactly the opposite of everything I learned in my Midwestern Ethics workbook. (Okay, that book doesn't exist, but you know what I mean).  

"Like what?"  I asked.  

She went on to explain that sometimes things were worth doing even if we couldn't do them at the highest level of our ability.  

"Like what?" I inquired again.  

"Well, like bringing store bought sweets to your child's kindergarten Valentine's Day party."  

Still not getting it.  

But over the years I have perfected this art of doing worthwhile things poorly.    

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This simple philosophy has helped me experience numerous joys that I would have otherwise avoided because I could not undertake them with perfection.  Take last weekend, for instance.  Madison invited 17 girls over for a Murder Mystery Dinner at our house and I had exactly two days to prepare.  In fairness, she did have a distracted discussion with me earlier about this which I vaguely remember, but the reality hit me two days prior to the event after a two day business trip to Dallas.  

What I  wanted to do was go all out.  There were two games with two different themes and I could instantly picture the Hollywood room and the British Manor room.  I envisioned gold statues at each place setting in one room and real china with cut flowers and biscuits in the next.  But I had two days and I was working on both them and I had no budget.  

As I saw it, I had three viable options...  
1. Cancel the event.   
Not fair to Madison since I'd already agreed 

2.  Stay up all night preparing. 
Nope, that was not going happen.  I'm too old.  

3.  Go ahead with the evening with less than perfect ambiance.  
Because they are in middle school, they've never been to a murder mystery dinner and I have nothing to prove.

You guessed it...I went with option 3 (if, for no other reason than to be a good steward of the thousands of dollars I've spent in therapy).  And, I'm so glad I did.  

Yes, they ate Costco food on paper plates.  There were no themed decorations, I had no costume, the food was average at best and there was no prepared playlist filling each room with sound.  

And...it was awesome.  The girls laughed and ate and laughed some more.  They accused each other of murder, lied about their alibis and filled the house with shrieks and giggles.  They emoted and cried crocodile tears.  And when it was all over there were white boa feathers scattered throughout the house and plastic cups in every room.  

I have to admit that I had moments of loss prior to guests arriving.  I so wanted them to be 'wowed' by the event...by my creativity and work.  But on this night it was relationships that stole the show.  And my beautiful daughter who has an amazing ability to bring people together and make them feel good about themselves.  

Perhaps next time there will be glitter and streamers and fine china.  But perhaps not.  Either way, this event was worth doing poorly.  

I've spent a fair amount of time in counseling.  So much time that I sometimes list it as a hobby.  

(As a side note: I'm also a counseling evangelist of sorts.  One year I referred so many people to my favorite counselor she sent me a Christmas gift.   It was a plant.  I killed it--requiring more counseling.  She's brilliant!)

My point is that I have an innate hunger to grow.  Its something God placed inside me when he formed me and its a part of how my story continues to unfold.  

My first experiences of counseling were dramatic.  Big breakthroughs, seismic internal shifts, and addicting 'aha's' characterized that first season.  The transformation was so evident that my physical appearance morphed.   The photo snapped as I graduated from my eating disorder treatment program documented a starkly different young woman than the 'before' picture taken just six weeks earlier. Nothing about my body was different but my face was lit up, my eyes were no longer vacant, I emanated hope.  

But there have been more seasons of slow growth.  A seed  buried deep in the soil, mysteriously, stealthily becoming something new.  Taking its own sweet time before it reveals a small shoot.  Then more time as it lengthens and broadens and flowers.  Painfully slow.  
Photo Credit: Jason Samfield

I know I'm growing.  At least I think I'm growing.  But sometimes its hard to quantify or articulate.  How does one measure 'more faith' or 'less anger?'  Especially when its been a "long obedience in the same direction".  

So, last week, when I had a distinct 'before' and 'after' moment I engaged in a little celebration.  And now, I'm going to share it with you.  

                               Photo credit: wwworks

I love a good makeover (I'm taping The Biggest Loser as I write this!), but the most important spiritual transformations occur internally, over time, through consistent disciplines, in the context of community, and the power of the Holy Spirit.  They don't make front page headlines and are rarely blog-worthy.  But they are the stuff the spiritual journey is made of.  It's the evidence of the continuing work of the gospel in my life and some days that encouragement will go a long ways.  So here is my little piece of mundane transformation:

1. On January 16, I read Isaiah 43:1-7. As I reflected on the passage there was nothing that stood out to me.   It did not connect to my heart and I moved on to meditate on a different passage.  
   
2. On January 20, God broke down some of the walls I had been building to protect myself from pain.  (see my earlier blog) 
3. On January 22, I again read Isaiah 43:1-7 and I wept.  I could now read these words --"because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you"--and hear God, my Father speak them to me.  I could 'feel' him loving me.  He had opened up space in my heart for me to experience (not just intellectualize) his love for me.  I am changed.  

See.  Nothing to write home about.  But I believe there is someone else out there who needs to be encouraged in their slow journey.  Who needs to be reminded that these are the biggest miracles--the changing of a heart.  And there will be other days in my journey that I'll need this reminder as well.  And, now, I'll know where to find it--filed under 'Precious'.