Although We Are Weeping

Although we are weeping,  Lord, help us keep sowing.

I’m weeping tonight, or more accurately, I’m sobbing and heaving.

We are mourning, as several of our friends’ journeys on this earth are coming to an end, or have recently come to an end.

They are not my stories to tell, but they are indeed, losses to grieve.

Every Autumn, after the trees have emptied themselves of their leaves, the temperature has dropped from warm to crisp to cold, and the earth has settled into it’s Winter rest, we plant these bulbs.

Even as we say goodbye with sadness to the life of Summer, and as we anticipate the cold and darkness of Winter, we plant these bulbs.

Although we are weeping,  Lord, help us keep sowing.

These bulbs, they sit in the hard, frozen ground, all winter long, waiting. Waiting in the dark. Waiting in the stillness.

And, that cold, dark earth, even with all its uncertainties, transforms into a sacred space. Because after they’ve endured, after they’ve let go, after they’ve waited, when they are ready, they crack open. And the tenderest of shoots begins to rise up, pushing and fighting and hoping, stretching up toward the light.

And one day, even with the remnants of Winter still present, the ground still cold, and the days not yet warm, a new bulb appears. And then it bursts open, as life emerges once more. Pain that leads to growth.

In this season of great uncertainty and pain, when we don’t know what to do with it or how to be in it, may we simply hold on, in the stillness, in the darkness, holding on - that one day we will find ourselves no longer stuck in it, but having gone through it, standing tall, and basking in the light.

Right now, all of our hard, is hard.

Although we are weeping,  Lord, help us keep sowing.

It strikes me in a profound way that all of this is hitting me on the Thursday of Holy week, a day in which we remember events steeped in relationship, love, humility, betrayal, uncertainty, and impending sorrow, and accompanied by a new and lasting word, to love one another.

As wobbly as my faith may be right now, filled with more questions than answers, I know this to be true, we must keep loving, even when it means losing.

Although we are weeping,  Lord, help us keep sowing, and hoping, and loving.

Love deeply, hold loosely.

Bringing Your Best to the Storm

Sometimes your best self shows up, not when you’re at your strongest, crushing your goals, but when you’re trudging through the hard, messy seasons, summoning grit and grace, one step at a time.

It might not be pretty, but it sure is beautiful.

Yesterday, I set out on my first trail run in nearly 5 months. Of course, I chose the day after an epic snowstorm that brought 15 inches w/ it, for this return to running. (Those who know me will not be surprised by this choice).

But I couldn’t resist the peace of the post-storm sunshine. It’s been a season, these last few months, marked by injury, health concerns, changing hormones, and a total absence of motivation.

I’ve found that the best way through the storm is not by seeking temporary comforts, but by slowly introducing live-giving changes.

I started seeing a therapist again (It’s true, we therapists see therapists too). I went for walks. I scheduled and kept medical appointments. I made nourishing foods. I talked about it. And I’m still doing these things.

I’m proud to be an ambassador for Bigger Than The Trail this year, not because I’m running strong right now, but because I’m showing up to my life, hard places and all.

And I want to connect others with counseling and resources that can bring healing & call forth the best self, even in the midst of the storm.

If you’re longing to lean into that which is life-giving, desiring whole-hearted living, or simply don’t want to walk through the storm alone, I’d love to connect you with resources today through #biggerthanthetrail 

When Emotions Collide :: Reflections on the Life & Death of Kobe Bryant

When emotions collide.

It’s ok to feel sad about the death of someone you didn’t know.

The death of anyone reminds us how interconnected we are as humans.

It touches the place inside of us that, no matter how much we may try to distract ourselves from it, knows we’re all mortals, and that this life is fleeting.

It’s also ok to feel conflicted about the death of someone, who performed some incredible, life-changing feats, on and off the court, and who also did some terrible things.

As humans, our brains are efficient, and they naturally want to sort both situations and people - good or bad, safe or not safe, for or against, right or wrong etc...

But here’s the thing, humans are complex, nuanced creatures. No person living on this earth is all good or entirely bad. And no one act or series of acts defines a person as a whole.

So, it’s ok to feel inspired by someone who was a phenomenal athlete.

It’s ok to feel sad that he’s gone.

It’s ok to feel upset that nine people died and really only two are being mourned by the general public.

It’s ok to feel heartbroken for his family AND for his alleged victim, whose life will also never be the same.

It’s ok to feel raging mad about certain things he did and said, and that he very possibly raped a woman.

It’s ok to feel angry that he and his daughter and seven other lives were lost.

That is actually an amazing aspect of how we’re created as humans - we have the capacity to hold all of it.

We can feel mad and inspired and sad and shaken all at the same time. We can.

We may not want to, because it’s far easier to assign people to one category or another. But we miss out on a whole lot of richness and beauty when we do.

And I don’t know about you, but I certainly wouldn’t want people trying to decide which of the two categories I fall into.

Would you?

When Darkness Comes for Us

Grief. There is no map for grief.

When the sun sets and darkness comes for us, we have two options.

We can head West and try to outrun the darkness.

Or we can turn toward the East, walk straight into the dark, facing the pain, feeling it all, allowing ourselves to be transformed by it; all the while holding onto the hope that one day we’ll step out into the sunrise again.

Reflections on the Decade

While it’s true, every decade accounts for the same amount of time, 10 years, this last decade somehow feels infinitely longer. Perhaps it’s because of all my decades, the time spanning between age 35-45 packed in so much significant change. 

NYE 2009

Ten years ago today, I held an ultrasound picture in one hand, astonished as I rubbed my burgeoning belly with the other. Sipping my decaf coffee, I began mentally preparing for that which you can never really prepare for - the wild ride of motherhood. Soon I’d be thrust into a brand new journey in which I would feel equal parts foreigner and completely at home.

Fast forward to today, on the last day of this decade, where I sit eating breakfast with the three small humans who call me Mom. That little black and white picture from a decade ago, the miracle with a beating heart, now sits across from me at age nine and a half, sipping his own decaf coffee and schooling me on high genetic vulnerability and how it contributes to the endangerment of animals. 

Meanwhile, my middle child, at eight, is asking me how babies come out of a mom’s belly. As I stumble through my response, my three year old spitfire adds to the conversation what is quite possibly, the longest toot I’ve ever heard, and we all erupt into a fit of laughter. 

This is my life. 

So much has changed in ten years. 

Of course, there are the obvious external changes. We added three kids to our family. We moved homes. Tom and I both started businesses. The boys set off to preschool, then elementary. We sat with friends through cancer journeys and funerals and job losses and the dissolution of marriages. Our friendships morphed and shifted as friends moved away, relationships grew apart, and new relationships were forged. Our house changed - filled with more clutter, grime, noise, and love. Our bodies changed. Oh, how our bodies have changed - rounder, softer, achier, and holding exponentially more life and stories than a decade ago.

But where I feel most different is on the inside, where the most notable changes have occurred, though the hardest to capture with words.

The inside. 

It’s where…

…I hold the grief of all that I’ve watched die - friends, family members, dreams, babies, and friendships. It’s where I lament missed opportunities and changes I never made. 

…I began the process of embracing my whole self, all the parts of my story.

…I started to make friends with my imperfections rather than try desperately to hide them away. But sometimes I still try.

…I shifted to a place of valuing the struggle, not just the victory.

…I began to feel at home in my body, and at the very same time, like a stranger in a strange land.

…my life grew more tamed while my heart sprung wings, more wild and free than its ever been.

…I lost my understanding of the world, slogging my way through to the discovery of a new way. 

…I experienced an awakening to injustice and the multitude of ways I’ve benefitted from my own privilege. 

…the words, sharing a table and building a bridge took root in my heart, casting hope onto the decade to come.

…I learned to hold complicated and seemingly opposing emotions and labored to embrace life’s abundant paradoxes.

…my worry over loss increased as my love for my family and friends grew.

…the strange became known and the known became strange and I longed for Love to come in and cover it all. 

…my irritability rose up like a tempest, gathering its strength from a sea of doubt and anger. 

…stress snuck up and quietly lodged itself in my body.

…I allowed myself to ponder the questions and pull on the threads of doubt with both faith and fear.

…I worked to own the insecurities, failures, and weaknesses, and to ask for forgiveness where I had wronged.

…curiosity was nurtured toward people I didn’t understand or agree with.

…I had many an argument with that pesky passenger, Imposter Syndrome, who tried to ride shotgun with me wherever I was going.

…I acknowledged feeling unmoored and also where my True North shown the most bright.

…the roots of my marriage stretched deeper in search of needed water, and grew stronger, even as they bumped into rocks along the way. 

August 2019

So much change has happened in the last decade. And I won’t pretend to say all of it is good. 

But change has a mind of its own. 

This is not where I thought I would be, and still, I’m grateful for the journey.

And as I reflect on this last decade, I no longer see myself as here or there, as an isolated freeze frame, capturing only one moment in time,  but rather as someone in process, as being and becoming; as ever-changing.

If today, on the eve of a new decade, you find yourself weary or wobbly, wondering or wandering, unhappy with where you’ve been or uncertain of where you’re going, be where you are. Keep working to own all the parts of your story, the obvious outside and the unseen inside. Posture yourself toward your source, your True North, and keep going - walking or running, treading or slogging or crawling - until you find your way home. 

But just know, there’s beauty in the becoming.

Here we come, 2020.

Pounding Out Grief One Mile At A Time

With tears cascading down my already salty face, I approached the summit of Imogene Pass -  tears of grief for the losses mingled with tears of joy for the rising. 

The significance of it being a point-to-point race was not lost on me - not only would I finish in a different town (Telluride) than I started (Ouray), I would be a different person as I arrived - lighter, freer, and more hopeful. It also just so happens that Telluride is higher in elevation than Ouray - a metaphor for my year, starting in the deepest of valleys, rising to the mountaintop for perspective, and traveling down that mountain, back into a valley, but a different one, a higher one, countless feet above despair, measuring high in hope. 

Anticipating the 5,000 foot climb ahead of me, I toed the start line with a “fear in my body and a fire in my heart,” to borrow words from the Dirty Guv’nahs. 

The miles and miles of training - climbing mountains up out of the dark into the light, pounding out my grief, one step at a time - culminated in this one moment. 

The volume on my fight song was cranked up as loud as it could go. Hope had risen up and now I would too. 

September 12, 2015 - I ran this race on what would’ve marked 37 weeks pregnant, or full term, had I not miscarried. Not only had my training, my journey to the start line, been a reclaiming of myself, but now I would reclaim the date as well. 

Regardless of what would come next in my life, I knew the healing had come. 

I never could’ve predicted that September 12, 2016, one year later, would be my exact due date for my beautiful baby girl. 

And just 3 days from now, that little joy-maker will turn two. 

3 years have passed since I climbed up out of that one mountain town and flew down to the finish line in the other. And wow, how much life has changed, in ways I never could’ve imagined. 

Like a foliage-filled mountain trail winding through the woods, it’s true, we never really do know what’s around the next bend in our lives. 

We just keep moving, one step at a time, sometimes flying with a rhythm so fast and fluid, and other times crawling - crying and clinging to the little bit of hope that we still have. 

We keep going, following the trail set before us, and trusting even in the hardest of places, that we will be led around bends into new seasons where the foreboding clouds will finally lift, exposing positively unimaginable vistas; into new places, and on to new heights. 

What’s your mountain?

The Case for Choosing Discomfort

Her cries pierced the darkness, arousing us from our chilly slumber, almost every hour on the hour throughout the night. 

Earlier that day, packed for four days of life and adventure in the mountains, we buckled up our kids - ages 7, 6, and 1, and set out in our trusty Honda, affectionately known as Wanda, in search of the the perfect spot to pitch our tent. Upon navigating a steep and bumpy 4WD road that almost took out our rack and scratched both sides of Wanda, we found our little piece of paradise.

View fullsize

At nearly 11,000 feet, we were gifted with stunning scenery and cold temperatures, especially at night. We arrived, all of five of us with colds and my husband fighting a stomach bug. Our one year old, who is already not known for her sleeping prowess, woke up every hour of the night. All three nights. I would pull her in close to me, feed her, wipe her nose, warm her hands, and she would drift off back into her sweet slumber...until her next wake up, approximately one hour later.

We contemplated packing it all up and going home after the first night. And after the second. But we didn't. We chose to stay. Why? You may ask.

Well, while the nights were downright brutal, the days were equally beautiful, as worn and tired as we were.

The intangible gifts of witnessing our little lady dig in the dirt and stomp in marshy puddles; of our boys excitedly hunting for minnows and in relentless pursuit of catching small trout with only their nets; soaking in the beauty of the snow-capped peaks standing tall in a circle around us; our boys summoning their imaginations to transform a pile of sticks into superheroes, attributing a super power to each one; the life-giving smells of fresh pine, mountain streams, and a crackling fire - these gifts were both unexpected and priceless.

Our modern American society holds high the value of comfort. We regularly strive to make our lives easier. Convenience, often prioritized over quality, becomes a primary goal.

Now before you throw your best eye roll in my direction, hear me out. In this season of parenthood, I often find myself longing for things to be easier. I've, on more than one occasion, uttered aloud, "why can't this just feel easy?!" And don't get me started on convenience. I'm the queen of Amazon Prime. I often ClickList my groceries. And I like my drive-thru coffee options.

But just because we long for something doesn't mean it's entirely good for us.

You see, while choosing comfort and convenience offers us a sense of safety and ease, it blinds us to opportunities we're not even aware we're missing out on.

There are plenty of times life carries out an assault on our sense of comfort and control, plucking us right out of our comfort zone and dropping us smack dab into the middle of an uncertain, unwanted, and uncomfortable storm.

So, why would we choose to place ourselves there, intentionally?

Three reasons.

1) Our own discomfort has a way of eliciting empathy for others. Not a forced empathy but an authentic one that naturally rises up out of a personal encounter with pain and discomfort. When we're constantly making things easier for ourselves, we're widening the gap of empathy for and understanding of those for whom life feels hard.

2) Discomfort cultivates a greater appreciation for what we have. Can I just tell you how magnificent my warm, soft bed felt after sleeping (more like laying awake in agony whilst dreaming of sleeping) on the hard, cold ground for three nights? I really can't because it was indescribable. And oh, the long, hot shower washing over me, cleansing the layer of dirt that had covered my body. It's not every day that I stop to give thanks for running water, a roof over my head, and a mattress under my achy body. You better believe I didn't that day.

3) Purposefully placing  ourselves in positions of discomfort adds volume to our reservoir of fortitude. And as you know, a reservoir is a holding space, making itself available for when it's needed most. 

This is a privilege, to have the option of comfort. But when we challenge ourselves to get comfortable with discomfort, we augment the strength from which we have to to draw upon when life drops us, as it inevitably will, into uncomfortable circumstances we don't ask for. And we will discover we're equipped to navigate those storms with more grit and grace than we'd have ever imagined.

Carseats, Cussing, and Crying - Holding the Brutal and Beautiful of Each Parenting Season

I’m going to pull back the curtain a little today.

My frustration reached it’s peak this morning. As it turns out, the peak was actually a volcano, waiting to erupt with a lava of red hot tears.

It all started when I spent 25 minutes trying to wrangle my daughter’s carseat back together. I choose the word, wrangle, with intention because despite being an inanimate object, that carseat possesses wild capabilities, demanding a full-on workout to coerce it into place. The 25 minute workout made even more stressful by my sweet daughter hovering over me crying, wanting to to be held the entire time. 

I wanted to scream. I may have cussed. More than once. “I can’t wait until she’s old enough to be out of this stupid carseat,” I muttered. 

Did I mention the reason it had to be taken apart? Oh, that’s because my daughter vomited all over it last week on the way to music class.

I finally managed to reassemble the beast of safety correctly and re-installed it in the car, using my full body weight to click it into place. In theory this carseat is supposed to be easier to install than those in the days of old. Let me tell you something, theories are useless to real life moms. I digress. Now running 15 minutes behind, I hoisted my daughter into that beast, buckled her up, and drove her to school.

My exciting plans for my precious few kid-free hours? Hit up the car wash. Last week when I removed the carseat post-pukies to clean it out, I about fell over when I encountered what appeared to be an entire pantry’s worth of snacks smashed all over the backseat. So, I opted to spend my coveted kid-free time vacuuming up crushed goldfish. I thought to myself, ugh, I long for the day when my backseat is clean again.

And just as I vacuumed up the last of the snack crumbs, I discovered the catalyst to my ultimate eruption - gum. On the seat. In multiple places. 

I lost it. The white flag raised high. The tears, they spilled all the way to the goldfish-dotted ground.

Yet, we both know the tears weren’t really about the gum. Or the goldfish. Or the carseat. 

They were about feeling like I can’t do it all. They were about my desire, right or wrong, for just one thing to feel easy. They were about feeling like parts of my world are spinning out of control. They were about my inability to stay on top of everything. They were about doing the hardest job I’ve ever done, a job with little to no acknowledgment or feedback. They were about the stressors of everyday life with kids leaving me feeling like anything but my best self. 

As my tears pooled on the ground, something in me shifted. And my anger gave way to a quiet grief.

It’s as though the acknowledgment of all the brutal parts opened the door for the recognition of the beautiful ones.

And it hit me…

When the goldfish are gone from the backseat, I'll be feeling the absence of my boys, no longer riding around in the car with me recounting their daily highs and lows.

When my daughter has outgrown the Beast of Safety, so too will she have outgrown my arms, and the days of rocking her to sleep with her warm body pressed against mine will be something of the past.

When my floors are devoid of books and toys scattered everywhere, it’ll mean my kids no longer come home from school, settle in, and read me stories about nature’s fiercest predators or the Guinness world record holder for Most Backflips Performed While Swallowing a Sword in One Minute. I kid you not.

When I no longer find bandaid wrappers in the toilet or on the floor right beside the trash can, it will mean my boys are beyond the age when they run straight into my arms at the first sign of an ouchy.

When the days of playing referee to the constant fighting are in my past, so too will be the privilege of bearing daily witness to the love and friendship they share.

When my fridge doors are free from all the sticky finger prints, it’ll mean those fingers have grown big enough to grab their own food as they dash out the door, too busy to sit down and share a meal with me. 

When my daughter no longer stands, arms outstretched, crying out for me, it’ll mean she’s forged her independence and no longer finds her sense of security within the confines of my embrace.

When my days of finding broken crayons in every corner are over, so too will be the days when I receive sweet handwritten notes reading, “I luv you mom. You ar the best mom in the hol wolrd.”

Each and every season of parenting holds both the hard and the rewarding. I don’t want to wish away the brutal parts of any stage, because when they pass, which we know they indeed will, they will take with them the beautiful parts too. 

So, we take the good with the bad. We let it out and we let people in. We acknowledge all of it, the brutal and the beautiful. We feel it and share it. We cuss or pray our way through it. Or in my case, both. We press in and we let go. We delight and we cry. We sing and we yell. We give it our best and we ask for forgiveness. We love deeply and we hold loosely. 

And all together it creates the rich context for this play called life.

Why Women Wait to Come Forward

To some, it may seem sudden and suspect, the droves of women coming out of the woodwork with allegations of sexual assault. 

But for those of us who have been that woman, we recognize it for what it is. 

It begins with one woman weighing both the cost of coming forward {be assured the cost is high} and the cost of remaining silent; deciding in the end that she must bring her story into the light. 

As she does, many women in the same workplace, team, group, or church are watching. What will the outcome be?  Will she be acknowledged and believed? 

And when they see she’s taken seriously, it gives them the courage to stand up and do the same. 

Why do women wait to tell? 

Because the fear they will be dismissed or not believed is valid. 

Because the cost of coming forward is high. 

Because sometimes it’s only in looking back that you realize how much emotional damage has been done. 

Because sometimes courage takes years to surge. 

No, all these women coming forward isn’t a fluke. It isn’t a conspiracy against men.  It’s simply a lifting of the veil to reveal the endemic that’s ravished our society for far too long. 

It’s the formation of a critical mass of women who are collectively shouting, NO, we will not be violated like this anymore.

There Is Nothing Partisan About Sexual Assault

Sexual assault is not a partisan issue, it's a human issue. If you truly believe that women {and men too} are valuable human beings, then out of love for humanity, you believe the violation of one of your fellow humans is wrong. And yet, time and time again, I hear people justifying, "it was only one time;" or rationalizing, "he only touched her breasts, it's not like he raped her;" or simply choosing to overlook it all together, "but we need him in the _______ {company, senate, white house, you fill in the blank}. No. 

What allows someone to justify, rationalize, or overlook something so wrong for the sake of advancing their party? Dehumanization. If we can make the accuser out to be a "liar or a slut or a gold-digging, publicity-seeking whore," then we can look past it, right? If we can distance ourselves from or elevate ourselves over someone, it becomes easier to dismiss the violation of that person.

The minute we stop seeing any person as sharing in our same humanity and no longer see the face of God in that person, we have just dehumanized her {or him}. And, as Brené Brown says, "once a person or group of people is moved outside the circle of moral inclusion, we can do anything to them." Including assault. Including giving a pass to the offender. Including the choice to look the other way.

If we want to see an investigation into the alleged assault by a senator on one side of the aisle then we better damn well not elect a credibly accused offender on the other side. Sexual assault is not a partisan issue and we best not make it one. Left or right, one time or multiple times, old or young - it is all wrong and always wrong - and we must come together and collectively declare it so.