My Favorite Memory - Father's Day Special.

I worked at Starbucks, I was just settling in to a comfy chair in the sunshine and looking forward to eating my pastry and drinking my coffee when a co-worker sat down next to me. He had his lunch break too I guess. We were classmates as well as co-workers, and he decided then was as good a time as any to ask about my life. "What is your favorite memory of your dad?"... well that came out of nowhere. I smiled, and said as plainly as possible, "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into." You see, I had my hesitations in sharing my life with people I wouldn't consider close to me, but at the same time he happened to ask about one of my favorite subjects on the entire planet- my Dad, and holding back wasn't much of an option for me. Unfortunately for him, if he thought he was going to get a fun 5 minute story, he was wrong...he has just lost his lunch time.

I had to think about it for a minute, I tried to tell him funny stories of when my siblings and I were children, how my dad would give us bull rides and play out characters for each bull. The strong one was "Daisy", the pansy bull was "Butch" (see what he did there?), we would climb on his back and our mom would let us out of the gate (otherwise known as a pillow cushion), he would gently buck us around until we laughed so hard we couldn't hold on anymore. My co-worker looked at me with a big silly smile, and I was so discontent with my answer.

"Listen," I said, "I'm sure you love your dad and I bet he's awesome... but my Dad is unlike anyone I know. I talk to him almost every day. I've felt loved and wanted by my Dad everyday of my life. I don't have just one favorite memory for you." My co-worker assured me that was okay, he was happy to listen to them all. "What a weirdo," I thought. But I happily obliged, and talked his ear off about one man for the remainder of our thirty minute lunch. When our lunch was over I went back to work feeling like I had just stood in the fresh air on the top of a mountain for a whole day. I couldn't wait to get off of work and call my Dad.

As soon as I jumped in my car I called him, I had a twenty minute drive from work to home, and more often than not this was our daily catch up time anyways. "DAD! GUESS WHAT!" I shouted when he answered the phone. "What is it Ash?" He seemed a little put off by my unknown excitment. "I got to talk about you during my lunch break!" (yes I was a 23 year old adult here). He laughed... I miss that laugh. I told him all about the conversation, and how I was so thankful for a Dad like him. I told him that I believed God was good because of him. "Oh Ashley, I'm not anything special, but I'm so glad you feel loved by me." Was his response. Not anything special?! Really?! I told him I know a lot of girls who don't have dad's or who have dad's they aren't connected too, he really was something special. The conversation slightly shifted from there...

"You know Ash, I was sitting in the church parking lot the other day waiting for my ride to the mine." [Please note here that my dad hadn't stepped foot in an actual church in probably over a decade. He just carpooled to the mine with his buddies, and they all parked at the church and went from there] continuing on he said ... "I was sitting in that parking lot and I remembered that God said our righteousness is as filthy rags, and I thought 'man, if everyone's righteousness is of filthy rags...mine are shitty diapers.'" I couldn't agree more with him, I had shitty diapers too. He continued on, "But then I thought to myself, well...if God wants me and my shitty diapers, I have to give it to Him. I have to let Him have them, have me, and He can make whatever He wants of me from there." We ended our conversation an hour or more later. I'll spare you the rest... But I will never forget that conversation.

My dad was the least religious man there was, he was a miner...and he cussed like one too. He was vocal about his dislike for "scumbags" and if he didn't like you, he didn't like you, but he brought holiday dinner to his lonely buddies he knew from the local diner. He watched reality TV and smoked two packs a day. His road rage was short lived but very real, and he would apologize for laughing at dirty jokes while laughing at the dirty joke. He would chuckle and shake his head at you while he smiled and muttered "you're pissing me off." He was so real, and so far from perfect, that to me he was perfect. And while most people elevate the deceased blocking out their faults after their death as a sort of coping mechanism. I remember my Dad's faults, I cherish them and laugh at them still...like I did then. I loved how wonderfully unapologetically human he was.

My times with him are my favorite memory. I couldn't count just count one or two or fifty. Because once I start, it's quite hard to stop:

Learning to dance with him at 3 years old in our small living room and still dancing with him in that same small living room at age 24 is my favorite memory.

Helping him pick out a shirt for the day and being so frusterated that he took longer to get ready than I did is my favorite memory.

Holding his hand or locking arms as we walked from store to store even as an adult is my favorite memory.

Long drives and him keeping me awake with music and dashboard drumming is my favorite memory.

Sharing one dang couch for years and fighting over cushion space is my favorite memory.

Driving on his lap at 5 years old is my favorite memory.

Him becoming my friend as I walked into my 20's and still feeling like his baby girl all at the same time is my favorite memory.

Him staying on the phone with me, half listening to my story, half listening to the baseball game until he got caught is my favorite memory.

Driving at 2am to the gas station to get "snacks" because "A pepsi sounds nice" is my favorite memory.

Sitting at the counter at our small town diner is my favorite memory, whether we were talking or both reading a piece of the newspaper.

We always fought over who had cuter feet (I still think I do). Favorite memory.

Growing out his beard as long as he could until I came to visit...only to shave it because I liked seeing his face, is another favorite of mine.

Convincing him that we should have "lunch" before 4pm on a daily basis is my favorite memory.

Taking me to shop at my favorite small boutique in his flannel shirt and logging boots and activly helping me pick out the cutest purse is my favorite memory.

Packing my overnight bags for sleepovers and filling it with ding dong's and ho ho's for me and friends is a favorite memory.

Learning to drive a stick shift up the small path on the side of a mountain...another favorite memory.

Going for drives through town late at night teaching me to harmonzie with him using our favorite hymns "As the Deer" and "More Precious Than Silver", once again...my favorite memory.

And so for Father's day, when I wish I could buy him one more card and a gift he "didn't know what to do with" (hardest person to shop for... favorite memory), instead I go over what made him my Dad, and it's so sweet to me. If he was here he would say that this blog was enough, that I didn't need to get him anything for Father's Day because this was more special than any gift I could buy him. And I would know deep down he meant it, but I would still buy him a thermos or a gift card to "The Olive Garden" since he "loved those damn breadsticks." Because I know what he didn't: that he was special, and he deserved every useless gift, every handwritten note, and every gratitude filled phone call I could ever bring his way. When you have the best dad in the world, that's just what you do.

This picture was totally his idea. I was the guilty party who took it.

Dark Rooms

We live in a time where everyone knows everything about us. That's mostly our own fault, Facebook asks me What are you thinking? and you know what, I tell Facebook...every time... exactly what I'm thinking. But most of the time I won't dig into the depths of my thoughts, I skim the surface of my mind for a basic, perhaps funny, or a slightly profound thought, and that's what I tell the world.

I don't share what keeps me up at night, or the subtle changes I'm recognizing in my psyche as I process through the twists and turns of my life. Those things are precious, those things are painful, and still so unknown to me that I wouldn't know HOW to broadcast it, much less feel like it is appropriate. 

I have wanted to write again for some time. But all I can write about is what is seeping from my skin, my deep self. It normally releases into the atmosphere in the form of tears, or yelling, or a weird giggle that I wish would go away. It sounds like silliness but it's not, it's uncertainty. To write it down is so vulnerable, but to keep it in is detrimental. Is it weird that I hope few actually read this?...what am I saying only a few do anyways!

What would I write but the truth...and the truth is I'm scared, I'm terrified of life right now. It has been wonderful, it has been excruciating, and I just feel like I'm sitting in the middle of a dark room with my head spinning. Is that gruesome? Yeah, I guess a little.

How do you deal with your downfalls? How do you embrace your weakness? How many times can one person say they're sorry? Welcome to my world...have you been there too? Weakness is ugly, and only those who don't feel weak at the moment would instruct you to embrace it. I know because I've done it...right in the middle of my stronger moments. But when you feel weak, yeah that's not advice you easily adhere to. 

So here I am feeling wonderful, feeling terrible...and I'm looking for God. What is He like? I know that He's real, I've been too convinced in times past to doubt that. I'm not asking of His existence, I'm asking for His consistence. What is He composed of, what is His nature? I've met people that have told me He's cruel. But that's not what I've ever found. And even now when I feel like I deserve to be turned away instead I'm met with mercy. Lord help me, I can barely stand it!

I found myself bawling in my car two days ago, overwhelmed that I'm nothing like Him. I cried because the ones that love me most are the ones I can be the most terrible to (you know who you are!), especially when it comes to THE ONE that loves me most. Love Himself- He's so relentless, and I'm here with an empty flask of perfume once poured out looking at Him like: Oops! It's all gone now! I've got nothing left. I feel like I should be the last to talk, the last to pray, the last to sing, then all of His stories come crashing over me, all of His parables that He told the crowds wash my wounds. And in my undeserving state I try to push it away, not because I don't want it, but because it's so hard to accept. 

That's why I know He's real, I know He's real because the world condemns, they even condemn Him. The world shames, the church shames (though in my case most have not), and I shame myself. But not Jesus, not this One that won't leave. He's different- if my mind made Him up, He wouldn't be so nice right now. He tells me His ancient stories again and again, reminding me that he is 'The Lord God Gracious, The Lord God Merciful, Slow to Anger, Abounding in Steadfast Love...' (Exodus 34) He tells me again that He has my ring and my robe, and sandals for my newly swollen pregnant-lady feet (Luke 15). He reminds me that He is indeed the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob (Exodus 3), men with stories, men drenched in humanity and failure, and the one's God has decided to make His name known through. He's the God that chose a prostitute as the lineage for His perfect Son (Matthew 1). He says to me in stillness, "Let's talk, I never leave, I never forsake...(Duet. 31)" He knocks on the door I'm so hesitant to open, scared that I will find arms calked back ready to cast stones, but still He whispers to me through it, 'Open to Me, My love, My dove, My perfect one...' (Song of Solomon 5). And I know that slowly I will, after all, it's lonely in this dark little room.

Dignifying Dirt

"...then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature." Genesis 2:8

There we were: a million little pieces of crushed rocks and roots. We were what mother's now make their son's and daughter's wash off before they eat lunch. We were messy, we were nothing, we had not yet taken form or breathed our first breath... we were dirt. 

I don't know what made Him do it the way He did- the cosmos came from one word, the animals in similar fashion. And then there was us: man. We were made from particles already created, when He had gathered up the seas we were exposed. Soon we would tread upon the clay from whence we came, our newly fashioned feet, our gloriously beaming bodies. But first we had to be pieced together...from dust. 

I see the Ageless eyes looking at a heaping mound of dirt. Twinkling. Ecstatic. He saw something there in that red, brown, rocky powder. He saw fingers and toes, muscles and bones, more than a frame- He saw potential. He saw image bearers, He saw glorious dreamers and risk takers, He saw a declaration to the rest of creation of His goodness and nature. 

Yep, that was us...dirt. 

Wait, what else was there tangled within this soon to be living thing? Ah, yes...sin. It wasn't present in the moment we know that, but it loomed not far ahead. He wasn't oblivious, He knew. He knew we would choose self one day. It looked like pleasure and fulfillment, it looked harmless and sweet... and it would take us out. 

And He considered.

Undeterred by the shadow of death that He foreknew...He dug in. Tilling us up, spreading us out, fashioning, forming, molding. We laid there still- lifeless until He breathed into our deflated lungs. Our eyes opened, we were perfect, we were complete, we laid there and looked at Him and had no idea we would mess it up, and He didn't tell us, because that wasn't the point. 

He made us because out of every part of Him oozed perfect Wisdom and perfect Love. He sees how He wants to see, and with that does what He wants to do.

He saw this powdery substance, treaded on by beasts, home to roots and leaves, undignified... and in His wild creativity and fiery love He gave dignity to the dirt. What has been walked upon, what has been taken for granted, dismissed, and forgotten- He dignified. What was messy and undefined He brought life to, and I am convinced that He has asked us...post dirt, to do the same. 

While I cannot create something from nothing, and I have no ability to make humans from dust, I can see how He sees. I can give dignity to the undignified. They don't have to ask for it, I didn't... I was dirt, what did I know? But He gave it anyway, He pulled us up, brushed us off, breathed into our lungs, and called what was not as though it was.

I believe that I have been wrong in my views of humanity. In my own pain and experience of dirt, I have written people off. I have stereotyped. I have acted superior forgetting underneath my nails a distant home...dirt. 

I want to join His perspective, I want to dignify the "dirt". I want eyes to see what doesn't clearly present itself in my neighbor; regardless of what lies behind or before them, I want to love. Those who are just plain different than me, the ones I have brushed aside and looked down on; because I am still broken and my eyes are dim... I want to love. I don't want to come from over them, I want to dig in, side-by-side, tilling and sowing dignity into lives that need to know they are worth it, that they are seen, and they are loved.

We may have made excuses for our closed off hearts and our hands in our pockets, not so quick to reach out; uncomfortable with those a little messy, those not like us, muddied by life and even their own decisions. But I'm asking Him to help me change: because from the dust, He saw man...and He made man in His own image. 

Living in Yesterday

Time. How we measure life. Seconds build to minutes and then to hours. Soon enough (quite often too soon) the hours result in days passing by, months, and then years. I've heard it said we ought to "live in the present" and I think for the most part I've agreed. It's not a bad rule to follow after all, we're in the present right now. Right...now. Right now. But what about five hours ago or yesterday? What constitutes the present moment of our lives? When did last week become history, the past...not as important as right now?

I'm fighting against time. Actually in more ways than one, after all it is 2:30 in the morning and I can't sleep. Why? Because I have 9 days left of my life in Kansas City. I'm fighting to fit in the present, and reconcile my history here.  I read a quote this evening that said, "The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal." And that is the deal indeed. Without the joy and happiness attached to a person or a season of life, the level of sorrow is significantly lower. Have you ever left a place or a relationship with a sigh of relief? I have, and it wasn't because it was awesome that's for sure. But that sinking feeling in your chest as you see time closing in on you, that's because of joy, because of the people, the history, the journey. 

Now I'm not saying each and every season is solely bliss. Heaven knows my 3 years in Kansas City have been far from that alone. In my first 6 months I lost my step-dad, 18 months later my precious Daddy, and in-between I watched my sister from a computer screen as she laid in a hospital for months at a time fighting to keep her babies alive within her womb. Those my friends, were not joyful times. But I tell you what, from that pain I've been given eyes to see, ears to hear, and a heart that has been expanded in my chest. I see starry nights differently, hear other people's stories with more empathy, and love with more gratitude than ever before. I did all that in Kansas City, away from my family, but leaning on a new one...

I've lived with my best friends. I've eaten more cookies than should be permitted in one's lifetime. I've had more living room sing-alongs, dance parties, and heart-to-hearts than I ever could have dreamed. I've talked-it-out, shook-it-off, and let-it-go. I've hugged longer, laughed until I cried from the other side of the wall, and sighed deep content sighs over my kitchen sink. I've cooked over a stove with at least 4 other girls at the same time, worked out and then went on a milkshake run, and power cleaned faster than I thought possible. I've learned their mannerisms, laughed at their quirks, and appreciated them more because of those very same things. I found Jesus in hidden spaces, worked my dream job, and dared to push that dream a little further.   

I've been loved. In-spite of myself, everyday. I've been celebrated, encouraged, and strengthened. I've been held up, understood, and challenged. These people have rallied around me, fought for my destiny, and cried over my losses. 

I could go on and on. I'm looking at my story and the one's who have helped the writing process. I want to make sense of it all, knowing deep down this season of life will continue to unfold in the chapters before me. Yet I'm still trying to take away all that I can right now. I'm taking in expressions from precious faces, listening to laughs and tucking them away, driving down streets and memorizing trees. I'm realizing that my present is made up of history. A big extravagant history. I've been written up to this point by many moments from my yesterday's. It's as though I've been chiseled away at by victories and embarrassments, by disagreements and compromises. I've been molded by dirty dishes, packed out schedules, and learning to say no. I'm shaped by other people's twinkling eyes, guitar melodies, and forgiveness. All of these things are making me, me. And right now...right now. Right now. I'm living in my yesterday's.

Letter to a Little Girl

If I could tell you one thing I would tell you that you are precious. Before you learned to do a single thing, you were more valuable than all the money in the world. You were priceless, worth more than jewels, success, and all my dreams multiplied by a million.

If I could continue on with my words, I would tell you that you make me smile, even when I can't see you. Before you could say my name I enjoyed you, probably more than you enjoyed me. You made me feel homesick when I was away, you made me not want to leave the room when I was near.

When I'm with you I see the flowers better and fall more in love with the water at our feet. You make it new again, you make it fun again. Every song sounds like one we should dance to, every tear you cry should be noticed and tended to. I want to taste everything you taste and smell all that you smell; wondering if we are experiencing the same thing. It's new to you, it's not for me, but afterwards I love it more than before.

With you, messy hair is cute and morning breath is sweet, at least for me. I want to show you the world and protect you from it all at the same time. I see you years from now full of beauty and destiny, and yet...you'll always be the quirky baby blonde that runs funny and talks with a lisp.

If I could tell you a little more, I would tell you that God is good and life is hard. But don't get discouraged with that equation, because where God is there is hope, and hope changes the way we see everything. Making even this often hard life... wonderful!

I would tell you to dream big, big dreams. I would also tell you that the small things matter. You will experience more small things than big, but it's those insignificant day to day's that make you great when the moments of greatness fall upon you.

I would tell you to ask questions and to search them out. Ask hard questions and don't give up finding out the truth. I would tell you to feel what is inside of you. When you are happy, feel it. When you feel sad, cry it out. When you are excited, shout really loud in your room, or your car, or in a park, anywhere...just please feel it. 

You have the cutest little voice now- singing songs only you understand, and I would tell you to keep on singing. You were made to sing. We were all made to sing. Nature likes to sing too, open your ears to hear her. 

Read books and tell yourself stories as you walk past giant trees and rushing rivers. 

I would tell you to look up at least once a day and give yourself permission to wonder, to be amazed, and once you find God, take the time to thank Him too. Jump in the leaves, play in the snow, run barefoot in the sand, lay down in fresh grass.  Look for beauty in unsuspected places, once you look you'll start to find it.

I don't know it all, I am still a long way from figuring it all out. But if I could tell you anything, I would tell you that you could never be loved more than you are right now. Long before school grades and sports teams. Right now when you love makeup only because your Mommy does, and your tiny feet shuffle around in my shoes. Right now when the only boy in your life is Daddy, and Mommy is your best friend.

Long before you ever felt like you deserved or didn't deserve it...

You are lovely.

You are worth fighting for.

You are loved.

Immanuel.

December is passing through my fingers quicker than I can blog about it. But what I most desire to write about this month has to be written about very early on, so as to allow time to think upon the subject for the rest of the month.

December holds so much in it, there is so much to enjoy about this time of year. Peppermint mochas for instance, or scarves, the Christmas lights, the family, the sweets, the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. I mean really, the list could go on...

and on...

and on.

The list is so plentiful, so wonderful, that is slightly easy to lose a great opportunity in the midst of the holiday cheer. Of course by this time, some of you may be getting a hunch, you may think I'm going to start talking about Jesus and how on Christmas time we must remember the "Reason for the Season". Well, you are right. Remembrance is powerful, the Bible calls us again and again to remember, to think upon and meditate on. It would be great if we remembered the Lord daily, if we re-told His story to ourselves, to others, in our heads, in a song, in a journal, anything. But we have this little snippet of time at the end of the year, a month called December, and while there are the swirls of atheists protesting the Nativity or Christians protesting the Paganism of the season I can't help but notice the benefits: a 25-day stretch of the gospel being proclaimed through the shopping malls, on cards, on billboards, on every radio station possible!

"Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, 

till He appeared and the soul felt it's worth. 

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices

 for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn..." 

There is something more beautiful than a house decked out in twinkling lights. Something more pleasant to gaze upon. There is something more wonderful than presents stuffed under an ornamented tree. And even more meaningful than spending extra time with your family (if you know me...you know that is a big statement). Because long ago, the Creator became the created. God, high and lofty, the One who stretches the heavens out like a garment, Who puts spirit in man, and is the Author of time, stepped into His story. He came in controversy: His mother being a young engaged woman not yet knowing a man making her womb His home. He came in humility: born in a  barn with a few animals as His greeting committee. He came in tribulation: a king seeking to put him to death for fear of His predicted future reign. The real quencher of all these (and many more) factors is that...HE CAME! 

You know, I have tried to write this blog about 3 to 5 times now, and each time I start I just end up staring at the screen. I'll get out a sentence and then backspace and start over. If there is one story I can't do justice to, it's this one. It's so beautiful, it's profound, and it sounds crazy! God became a baby - so that He could become a man- so that He could take us back to His Father, as the Repairer of the Breach. The Ultimate Missionary. God is saying so much about Himself as He put on human flesh.

Can you believe that the Lord of Hosts knows what it is like to be wrapped in swaddling clothes? Jesus was dependent on another for food, for shelter, for warmth, and protection. Transcendent and Perfect Light became confined to flesh and bones. What does this say about His humility? Do you believe He can relate to you in your pains, in your loneliness, in your vulnerability? How far will He reach for your friendship? Can we say again, "He doesn't know what it's like to be me?" when He is indeed Immanuel, God with us.

I could go on and on as I think out loud on this entry. My own questions and thoughts overflowing at the baby who has changed everything. A short blog on God Incarnate will never do, but then again someday we will stare at this Jewish Man, the firstborn from the dead, the Living Word of God, and we will wonder at His kindness, we will wonder at His humanity, we will rejoice over His willingness to chase down this wandering race.

My encouragement to you is to take advantage of this Holiday Season, to slowly, in your day-to-day activities think upon these things. Take a passage like John 1 and chew on it "In the beginning was the Word...and the Word was God...and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us..." Maybe take "O Holy Night" or "O Come All Ye Faithful" and sing it over and over again until your heart starts to connect to the words in a deep and meaningful way. It is not a difficult thing, at least it is not meant to be. It doesn't even require you to sit long periods of time, the holiday's are busy, so take it with you. Sing as you shop, remember Him as you bake, it's all the same to Him; I just encourage you to not wait until Christmas Eve or Christmas morning, for the sake of knowing Him more and honoring His immeasurable humility.

The bonus? How does wonder filling your heart sound? Or how about thankfulness and knowing the love God has for you in a deeper way? Talk about presents!



Merry Christmas!

The Mystery Man

Why did you read this blog? Did you think I was going to unveil my Mystery Man? Well, you're right. You nosey little reader.

I met Him a little over six years ago now, I was young and really messed up. I had agreed to go to a weekend getaway with a couple people I barely knew, there were a lot of people talking about it and so I jumped on board, I was desperate enough in my broken life to try a weekend getaway with strangers.  I had a boyfriend at the time, he rolled up my sleeping bag (since we would truly be roughing it), gave me a smooch and told me he'd see me when I got back. Little did I know...

It was like He met me at the door, that Mystery Man. We spent the whole weekend rubbing elbows and dancing around my broken heart. It wasn't until Saturday night that it was official, I was leaving it all and following Him. You see, I listened to a friend of His talk about Him, and it was like the light in my dark little room got flipped on, I saw clearly; and even though my dark little room was full of dark little things I was so undone by Love. I knew this Mystery Man would repair the repairable, and wash away the stains. I knew all of His life He had me set before His eyes. I was His reason.

Have you ever felt utterly loved? If you haven't let me tell you. It is powerful. In that moment of utter love, it's the only food you need to eat, it's the only air required to breathe. That's it. You've won life in that moment of rapture. Often, you spend the rest of your life wounded with love and going after the One who's done it (which is exactly what I've done).

I have followed Jesus ever since that day (there you have it...He's my Mystery Man). Last night I sat in the back of the prayer room and while the worship filled the room, my heart was full of gratitude for the cross of Christ. The girl sang "You so loved the world that You came down..."and I remembered again that giant, incalculable, wonderful heart of God and His plan for humanity. Then as I wondered at His cross and His love, I began to think about the very Mystery that is Christ. He is the Mystery of God. From the first bite of sin God promised man that He will bring man's wandering heart back to Himself. Throughout the Law, the Psalms, and the Prophets, He hints (often quite loudly) at His glorious Plan. But none of us would have guessed it looked like a baby lying in a manger. Who would have supposed it looked like a carpenter serving His family for 30 years in obscurity? Who would have even sort of thought it looked like a cross beam? That God would die for the disobedient ones?

Is His heart that big? 

His love that real? 

Is His justice so thorough? 

His mercy so great?

Have you been brought into the Mystery of God? Has His Secret been revealed to your heart? If you know Jesus is the Son of God. If you know that He "so loved the world that He came down". If you believe in his death on the cross, His complete (body, soul, spirit) resurrection three days later, His ascension to the right hand of the Father, and His soon and imminent return. Then you have been given the Mystery of God. (If your not already pausing here, please do so now and breathe that in.)

This undoes my little heart! I can't contain it. He let me know about His Son, He breathed life on His Gospel as it fell upon my heart. And now here I sit, full of gratitude and wonder; astonished that I've been told, confident of His ability to do the same for others. Oh Lord use me as a conduit of Your precious Mystery! 

His cross woos this heart and assures it of love, and the fact that He has unfolded His Mystery to me makes my insides dance around like crazy. Like every part of me is weeping, and laughing, and singing. Yet all that I can do is softly whisper, "Thank you" over and over again.

"...that their hearts may be encouraged, being knit together in love, to reach all the riches of full assurance of understanding and the knowledge of God’s mystery, which is Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge." Colossians 2:2

Beauty

In the beginning of this blog, my initial purpose was to write for no one but myself. I needed a place to write down the many thoughts and emotions I had in losing my Dad. While I did buy a new journal, that was almost too painful, a blog was a little easier to write down my thoughts at the time. I named it Simply because though my heart was in the most pain it had ever encountered I was at the same time experiencing beauty in the little things. I wanted to write about and process the pain, but I wanted to remember the beauty.

It's crazy how the little things become so precious in the midst of a crumbling life. I would look at my family and think to myself, "Remember how they just smiled" or "Don't forget that laugh." I began to cherish deeper my little Montana town. Night after night I would sit on my Dad's front porch, I would cry, and feel, and breathe. My brother would come out and sit with me and we would do it again together. I would write, and sing, and pray. Even though I've lost that front porch forever, it has held memories since I was a baby, and has become even more dear to me now. Just the other day as I was praying I found myself trailing off to that front porch in the dusk, I sat there and breathed deeply the mountain air, and stared up into that big purple sky, and longed for the mountains, the simplicity found there.

Beauty is everywhere, we are utterly surrounded by it. I work for an anti-trafficking organization and am astounded at the darkness that covers the earth every day, you don't have to convince me for a second of the evil that is out there, I believe you. Still, there is beauty, I know there is, and it's not to far off. It's in the simple things each day: the conversations, the faces, the things you're so used to that you forget their very existence. What are those little things in life that make your heart come alive? Is it the smell of rain before you feel a drop? Is it the bright eyes on a tiny messy face? Is it boots walking over the kitchen floor to greet you after long days work? Is it a walk you take each morning, or listening to a symphony? Is it an open field or a bright clear sky? Is it fall, or winter, or spring?

The Bible reminds us in the book of Isaiah that what we now live in and all of it's beauty will fade away, the lasting source of our current and everlasting life is the Word of God. What does this tell me then? That the earth will be rolled up like a garment and dismissed into nothingness? That the physical and temporary beautiful things I'm around today shouldn't be enjoyed or embraced? No, quite the opposite. The passing beauty we encounter every day is not the end in and of itself, but they are gifts...doors even. We have been given eyes to see, ears to hear, and a heart to understand. Where was beauty born, and where does it find it's source? Beauty begets beauty, it cannot produce anything else.

Still, I have this little tension in my heart thinking perhaps we first need God to recognize beauty, but then I think, well, maybe some of us need beauty to recognize God. Romans 1:19-20 tells us that God has made Himself known in creation, and that those who suppress the reality of God will stand without excuse because His creation has made Him plainly known. The mountains, the oceans, the trees, the sky, all those things that take my breath away tell me of Something greater.

I realize I'm not leaving you with many conclusions, perhaps mostly questions (welcome to my world) but that is kind of the point. Beauty is a process, instantaneous yet ever unfolding. In this world we rush around sunsets, and family, and small things that would and could usher us into such wonder and joy but that's just it...we rush. We forget to look up, we forget to look out and be amazed. We let bitterness and anxiety push out gratitude and wonder, and by the end of the day nothing looks beautiful...nothing. But I have a hunger in my heart to take in the big picture, to stand back as best as I can in the midst of pain, or the mundane, or a hectic life and behold beautiful things. These little moments of transcendence that tell me again "look up...I am but a shadow, a hint of the Source of beautiful things..."

I encourage you to do the same, baby steps, one heart movement of gratitude at a time, until you become more and more alive to the small facets of eternity all around you.

Here is to beholding beautiful things and Beauty Himself!

Ashley

Dads and Dreams.

An incredible thing happened after my last blog: a precious woman read my blog and offered to pay for the writing class I had mentioned at the beginning of my post. I really can't explain what this did for my heart, well...yes I can.

A friend once said to me, losing someone close to you is like losing a leg. You can live without your leg, but the way you live changes drastically. Five months into losing my Dad, I can vouch for this analogy and say this is a very true statement. I'm still breathing, but life has changed and at times it feels like I walk with a limp. It is the little things that hurt the most. For example this week I watched a sweet little movie called Flipped. In a quick, subtle scene the girl jumps into her dad's pickup truck and they drive through the countryside. Before I could recognize the buildup of water in my eyes, I was weeping, it actually took me a moment to notice the onslaught of tears on my face. A dad, a truck, and the country, they didn't even talk during the scene. It's the little things that hurt the most.

This class was one of those little things. My dad was a dreamer, he was a mountain man that lived in a tiny mountain town and drove a tiny pickup truck. But that man knew how to dream (I'll share his awesome ideas sometime). My dreams were equally important to him, if anything I would say my dreams took priority over his own by a landslide. I could picture me spilling my heart to my dad about the writing class. How it would help me become a better writer, and someday I would write a book (this is where my dreams come in). He wouldn't say much on the other end, mostly because I wouldn't take a breath to allow him a word in. When I had finished talking about this class and my dream. He would tell me how wonderful it sounded, that I should do it (knowing that I couldn't afford to do such a class). I would then inform him that I couldn't afford to do such a class (though he already knew it). 

"How much does it cost?" He would say to me.

 "Seventy dollars" I would reply.

"Honey," he would say, "You know I'm going to pay for your class." 

And he would, he would pay for my class. 

The money isn't the issue here. It's the man behind the money, the supporter of my dreams. So when these things come up and I want to call him and say, "Dad! You got me on this one?" but can't... my heart breaks. Not because I lose an opportunity. I miss my dream holder-upper. My provider. To be honest, I don't think I prayed about this class, maybe I did but I don't recall. I tucked it away in my back pocket and allowed it to inspire my heart to write again. I read some blogs on writing, sat outside and brainstormed, and wrote a new blog. When I got the message on Friday from a friend who wanted to pay for my class, and wrote "I believe in you so much" in that little text, well...it felt like I got a heart massage.

I so needed to be reminded that God in His truest form is the Father. He loves to see me dream, and He wants to be a part of it. He loves to make a way! I remember thinking to myself (knowing He was in on the conversation) "You saw that?" I find it completely enriching and almost laughable. He sees and loves and supports... ME!? I knew my Dad got it from somewhere (ahem...God).

Well, tonight was the first night of my writing class. It's a small little class, perfect in size. The instructor's advice in starting to write was, "just begin." Edit later... but you have to just begin to write. So that's what I just did! I was planning on writing about something completely different (don't you worry, I'll get there someday) as I wrote, the aforementioned flowed out... and voila! A blog.

On an all day Daddy Daughter Date.

Myths and Reality

There is a class that will be starting soon in the community I live in called, "Writing the Book That is In You." I. Want. To. Take. This. Class! Oh do I want to take this class! It may not work out for me due to finances. Still, it has my heart stirring and I have been praying asking the Lord to open up and enlarge my creative capacity. I read a quote the other day, the long and short of it was: make art unashamedly, and while people are critiquing and deciding if they like it... make more art. I found such encouragement in this since the art of writing is something I so desire to do and do well. But intimidation has held me back time and time again.

I love to read and to write. I love to imagine what could be or what will be. C.S. Lewis is, without question one of my favorite authors, and as much as I love his non-fiction pieces and his genius essays. What I love more is his "children's" stories. The Chronicles of Narnia is one of the most fantastic works I've ever read. Once I read one of the books in the series, it's as though I'm in Narnia for days. I'm always looking at the trees waiting for them to lean in and tell me a mystery.

The beauty of his work lies in the fact that what he speaks of is actually...reality. Types and shadows. The tales create wonder and longing in the hearts of the readers, because here's the secret, deep down we know it is true...we at least hope it is true. Something in us bears witness when good ol' Edmund eats that turkish delight, and even more, we cry and rejoice at the redemption of that tender yet fierce Lion. His fiction is really "non" fiction. Myths and fables have their roots in reality. They may have gotten twisted over the ages, but I tell you, God has written eternity on the hearts of man and our imaginations expose this truth. 

I found the best places for me to tap those creative wells is either outside staring out at the sky or studying the trees, as well as in the Bible. If you really think about what they are saying in the Bible, it is wonderful, terrifying, beautiful! And we can retell the story in so many ways. I've been sitting in Isaiah 24 through 26 lately. And here is just a little poem that came out as I've thought about it! Until next time :)

When You return we will weep and dance.

Our faces will shine with light and joy.

Thankfulness will pour from our hearts like singing rivers.

“This is the One we have waited for!”

Your appearing will prove the foundations of myths.

The longing of nations solidified in Truth.

Dragons are slayed and Justice rides on.

We have looked to the sky as we’ve waited for You.

Has this been the whisper of the human soul?

“Gentle Majesty wipe my tears away”

We join with the trees that writhe in longing

Our desire alone is the remembrance of Your name.

Return! Return! Oh Lowly One.

Hearts they long to be satisfied.

Awaken Dawn, usher Him in with singing!

Soon upon You we shall set our eyes.

Amen.

Bringing Christ Glory in Suffering

I can name on one hand the number of messages I have heard that have wrecked me to the core. Actually, I would say that I could probably chalk it up to two messages total. I remember I went to church alone one evening in November 2010, and sat in the center section a few seats from the back. A man named Stephen Venable spoke that night and his message was on "Bringing Christ Glory in Suffering". I sat in my chair that night and wept afterwards, knowing this was the desire of my heart... how I longed that my life contain such a testimony. That in every season of my life, I would ascribe worth and proclaim the beauty of Jesus even in the midst of my darkest days. 

I cannot tell if that message catapulted me into the next season of my life, or came along in the midst of that season and solidified what was already happening. But what I do know is that desire was being fashioned within. My heart was marked with longing to bring glory to Jesus in all things. Even in suffering. 

That message from Stephen Venable has come floating to the surface once again. It's always been there, it never leaves me, but it has been hidden under a few layers of life (something I regretfully admit). In the middle of what has yet to be my greatest trial, I wish I could say I have from the get-go sang "It is well with my soul" but alas, I've curled up with Ben & Jerry's Half Baked ice-cream, and watched more sitcoms than I care to admit (consider this my confession). Still, I want so badly to set my heart on things above, I want to love and to know Jesus. 

But here is what I'm discovering, I am bad at that! I will not scratch my own back and tell you how I've come up out of the miry clay because I did it right. He will do it in me and I will say yes. I'm not negating my part in this. I have a part to play, I have a yes to give, a heart to open, and a mind to set on things above. But He will be the One to pull me through it all. I can't go back and re-do what has been already done, but I can allow my life to again embrace the worth and beauty of Jesus. 

If you're interested in the message, I found it here. Just click on the link below.

The Glory of Jesus and Suffering

Hope.

Just when it feels like your heart can't beat one more beat... It manages. Have you ever had to labor to breathe...you know- it isn't how it usually is where you don't even pay attention to the oxygen flowing into you lungs. No, this kind of breathing requires focus, your heart feels to big for your chest, and deep intentional  breaths are the only way you get any air at all.
I hate that kind of breathing. I hate that heavy heart. But that's what I have as of late. I lost my dad March 27th of this year. Almost 2 months ago. That's one of the reasons I started writing again actually... I figured the processing had to go somewhere.
Life doesn't feel real right now. I fully expect to see his name on my caller id. I wait for him to walk out of his bedroom with an ashtray and his "jammies" on, ready to watch his shows, and laugh, and on commercial break go on a snack run. I almost feel him pat my feet as I lay on the couch and ask me how I'm doing. I hear him laugh, and know just how he would tell me he loves always adding a term of endearment at the end. But no, my memories betray me to easily these days. Someone...Get me out of the twilight zone.
I have no current lesson learned. I have no advice or wisdom. I have heartache, but that's not something I'm interested in passing along. And I'm sure it's not something anyone is interested in taking. The only thing I can somewhat toss around in my mind right now is
Romans 5:3-5
More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
I'm not yet rejoicing in my sufferings, so I'm still at the beginning of this verse. But it is in my head for a reason. Because I believe that as foreign as those words look like right now, someday they will be a reality for me. Up until this point in my life suffering has been a more ethereal idea, something I hoped was limited to dealing with my inner life and getting along with difficult people. And now my body feels physical pain and restrictions from the emotional pain in my heart. Big leap for me in the realm of trials and suffering. So I'm grabbing on to this seed of hope: that hope does not disappoint, that I will not be put to shame... and I'm riding it out. Both hands on the bars here, now isn't the time for stunts or showing off. Now is the time to hold on.

Simple Beginnings

I have tried to blog time after time each time ending soon after its beginning. Still here I am again, hoping to set out into this sea and perhaps I'll stay awhile and test the waters. The truth be told, I love writing... and I hate writing. The pen (or in this case keyboard) is to me a mark of permanence. You can't (or at least shouldn't) go back and erase things you write down, they either are or were, but you cannot say they never have been. That's delusional. Words make my heart soar, and there have been times they've caused me to lose my breath. With words I've been to places I've never really traveled to, I've met people I'll never really know. And at the same time I've written things down in that painful book we call a journal that I will forever regret. But I'm not erasing those words, nope... I won't do it. So often I want to sit down and write: a story, an entry into my scattered journal, a poem, a song I made up and want to remember for later, and then it happens- I internally panic. What if it's terrible. What if it all changes next week. What if it was an emotional high or perhaps an emotional low, and I wish to God I could take it back the very next morning. One of my favorite writers said, "to love is to be vulnerable..." well I agree, and I would substitute at this time with, "to write is to be vulnerable." But I have to get over that, I have to choose to write much like I have to choose to love. And so my blog begins. Simply...a blog about life, because what else is there? And quite honestly, I happen to think life even in it's most brutal twists and turns, can be quite beautiful. At least that's what I've found...

 and I plan to share only what I've found.