On the Labels that Bind and the Shaking Off

How often do you think about labels? Too fat, too thin, weak, strong, taken, married, single, childless. Wanting. Waiting.

Because we are all wanting and waiting, simultaneously, for something, aren't we?

How often do you take a label - self-given or slapped on from a bystander to your life, and slide into it as if it's a second skin?

We live in a world, in a culture, that wants nothing more than to hand out labels like lollipops to young children in the candy store. People often have a visceral desire to inform you of all the ways you can improve and grow and lose and gain; there is a perpetual well that is seemingly endless - full to the brim of advice waiting to be given, handed out, laid down.

I've spent a lot of my life trying to adjust under the weight of labels. Some of them I, admittedly, have given myself. They're not often kind and they tend to have quite localized pressure points. I've met these labels head on, nestled into their breast, and awaited the coddling that will never come from slipping into a skin I wasn't ever supposed to carry around.

And then there are the ones that have been given. And these really seem to be the ones with the sharpest edges, the most devastating with their pitch perfect aim. These labels can become like bondage. We hear them, we hear how we should go about changing them, and then we hold out our wrists and wait for the shackles to be locked and the proverbial key thrown to the bottom of a well that once housed our self-esteem.

Here's what my heart tends to hear when labels come up: change. Change who you are. Change how you look. Change your levels of willingness. Alter. Alter your size. Alter your ego. Alter the amount of things you feel for people. Succumb. Succumb to what this world says is best. Succumb to saying yes, always. Succumb to being an object to be noticed. Give up. Give up your ideas of what you thought were best. Give up believing what you bring to the table is enough. Give up thinking you are enough.

Hear me out. Change is good. Change, in my story, started out like that step sibling I never had, nor did I want, that I just longed to stomp into the ground and never be heard from again. And then I realized how much they might actually add to my life. My step sibling change ended up scraping off all the crud I had let build up in the crevices from staying put. I think change is beautiful and revolutionary; it has the propensity to create growth you never knew you were capable of.

Change has become a character I consider to be a leading role in my story.

But the changes I've made, the times I've said yes when I wanted to say no, the space I've allowed for growth and learning, is because I wanted it.

Not because someone else told me it would be best.

Not because it would garner more attention for myself.

Not because it would allow me to slip into a better label.

I am not perfect. Neither is anyone else. But for the better part of the last 48 hours I've tried slipping into a label because I started to believe it was true of me; I held out my wrists, that I've always been really hard on because they're not thin or delicate, and awaited the clank of the shackle to be locked -- because someone compared this me to what I could be.

Truth? I could be a lot of things. I could be thinner and quieter and less likely to cry over music. I could be less sensitive and more unwilling to let people know how much I love them and I could definitely eat less dairy and think less about bread.

But those things make me, me. And if I'm going to go about altering any of those things, I want it to be as a result of believing it's what's best for my own life, not anyone else's.

And I've spent the last year trying to remind myself to be softer to my own reflection. I've actively not thrown hate filled words at my jeans before I put them on in the morning. I'm trying to learn to give myself some of the love I easily give out to others.

I don't know what labels you're carrying around. I don't know if they've become freeing and enlightening or if they are holding you stiff and immobile. But I have to believe that we need not stuff ourselves inside them in order to survive.

How many years have I been existing because I bound myself in lies and claimed them as my definers?

I don't want to exist in a life when I can actually be living it.

Shake off the labels. If change is healthy for you, then welcome it. But do it for you.

Because, I don't know about you, but it's high time I stop fighting for people that only make me feel worse and start going to battle against those that make me feel that worth is lacking.

And y'all, more than I'd like to admit, I'm at the front of that charge, carrying the weapons that scar and desecrate.

And it's time to stop.

On Being Reached

I don't know how God is reaching you these days.

I don't know if you're tuned in to Him or wrestling with Him or fighting to run from Him.

But here's what I know. He catches up. In fact, we're most likely never ahead of Him, no matter how slick or speedy we think we are.

And He's always listening. He is there on the mornings we rise early to spend time with Him and He's there on the mornings we hit snooze three times because the day already feels too heavy and we actively don't talk to Him about it. He hears our little messy, siren, heart songs then, too.

He can handle the wrestling and the questioning and, most certainly, He can outrun our running.

But I don't know where you are.

I know that for every 24 hour day I am alive and participating in this life, I am spending a significant amount of time trying to shove Him in a box -- whether I am aware of it or not. I doubt His capabilities. I question His motives. I yell at Him about the poor timing He has set for the trajectory of my life.

I know that for a long time I never thought I needed to leave my comfort zone to know Him or feel Him better. It wasn't necessary. Passports and Visas and plane rides were not necessary components for my heart to be opened.

For an even longer amount of time, in what I refer to as the driest wilderness of a season, I tried to - hourly - take the control and rewrite what He was writing. And I failed. Every single time, I hit a brick wall and instead of it falling under the sheer power of my stubbornness, I crumbled.

These may not be pieces of your story. Or maybe they are.

But here's what I'm learning. My King reaches me best, is the loudest voice in my head and strongest force in my heart, when I am not home. He moves in Dayton - through the kids I am blessed to work with and the community that is more like family and in the evenings that I get alone in my own space. He's moving. And He's working in Casstown - over the cornfields I grew up watching and debating on leaving for so many years and in the living room where my family gathered the most together and in the eyes of the people I trust the most. He's at work.

But most of the time, I don't hear Him. Most of the time, I don't even know that I should be looking to Him. Because I am caught up in what I might be missing out on. Or what my relationship status is. Or making sure I can be at everything I am invited to, even if I have no business being around people because my body  and heart just need to rest. So I am not wired in to what He wants to do with me and through me and for me.

I just returned from Mexico. I spent a week in a new place, with familiar people I love intensely, and God was louder than He's been for a while.

Because I was listening.

One afternoon I got to go to the beach and we sat our towels down and walked out into the water and waited for it to rush up to tickle our feet. I looked out over the rolling water - blue and rich - and I got tears in my eyes.

The cornfields I grew up near - with the sorbet colored sunsets that'll knock you off your feet - had been enough for so long that I had begun to believe that this was all He was capable of. But as I looked out over the water that seemed to go on forever, I thought about this King that I had tried to box in so many times, and I realized that if He can make the waves and the mountains, if He can rustle the corn on a summer night gummy with humidity, if He creates the unparalleled heat of a June night in India, then He could most certainly handle the reckless, wandering human that is me. What is more, if He can create all of those things and continue to inspire awe, then He, without question, knows what's best for our stories.

Last week I went to a new country. And the Captain of my story met me there - unchanged and unwavering - and I slowed down and opened up my heart and He set to repairing the knicks and chunks of myself I had broken off or allowed to be punctured.

I don't know how you're being reached in these days. I don't know if you need to travel or leave home or simply stay just right where you are. But I hope you open up yourself to coming to understand where you are at your best to be healed by Him.

Maybe it's the water. Maybe it's your kitchen, in front of a pot of steaming water, with olive oil on hand. Maybe it's sipping lemonade on a friend's porch or getting lost in the back corner of a bookstore with creaky floorboards. I just hope you find it.

I am learning, in these days inching closer to 30, that if I am getting on a plane, I'm likely going to feel Him moving magnificently within my heart. But before I came to that understanding, I had to be willing to say yes to His asking to get on the plane. I had to stop putting God in a box and assuming I knew what was best for my future.

I had to cease and desist with putting my life in a box and preparing to ship it into my version of forever.

I don't know where you are. But it is my deep desire that we all learn to let go significantly more. Because He's got this.

On the Embrace

I am chronically wishing away my time. I dream about owning a house with a large backyard and an even bigger front porch where I can drink coffee in the mornings and whisper to Jesus; I think, almost hourly, about what my new job will be like, how I will decorate my desk, the stories I might get to write; I'm currently wishing away March like a junkie in search of her next high; and I can, quite often, be found imagining what my life will look like in the event I get to become a Mrs. someday.

I am perpetually pondering what tomorrow will bring, just what it might hold that today is lacking, but I think it's time I stop.

I have this really cute duplex that I rent for next to nothing and it's the most beautiful shade of green; I got to decorate each room exactly how I wanted. And what that means is that each room is this carefully assorted eclectic display of syntax, weird art, and items that give me the most ferocious case of belly butterflies. I didn't have to consult anyone on my choices and it kind of gets my adrenaline pumping that not everything matches. Because that's who I am - messy and unmatched and just this side of wacky. It has been my desire for each wall and surface to breathe of me. So, can't the big front porch wait a little while longer?

I have worked at my current job for four years. It was the job I took after graduating from college. It's taught me how to put children before myself. It has shown me, both delicately and intensely, how to love small humans who hurt and laugh and scream because they want to be seen. My current job brought me to Dayton and the church I now attend and into the community that is now more family than friends. And these kids, man, these kids have broken me and helped shape me and they've wrecked me in life shattering ways. So, while I am over the moon about the job that is waiting for me in June, would it really cause pain to hug the sweet little girls and tease the boys who think they're men for a little longer?

At the end of this month I will be flying to Mexico to see two of the most influential people in my life. They are my best friends and world shakers and they've held my hand and picked up the pieces and they make me aware of what true, deep, raw friendship is. I haven't seen them or squeezed them or drank coffee with them since September. Friends, my insides hurt over how much I miss them. And in 19 short days I get to be in the same home as them. I'm smiling as I type this out. But between now and then, my students will perform in a musical I've been helping with and it's hit me, just today, that it'll be the last production I assist with. It'll be the last March I work alongside a dear friend. So, I can get through the next 19 days with grace and joy, right?

Last night I ate ice cream in my bed and watched old episodes of Grey's Anatomy. And sure, it'd be cool to have a live-in snuggle buddy that I got to call my husband, but eating in my bed is pretty much the best thing.

I listen to music. Loudly. And I do odd, seizure-like dance moves in the middle of my teal-tiled floor and it makes me rather happy. I don't have to wonder if someone else will like the music I am listening to (although I will go on the record and say that my taste in tunes is epically legit, so get on the train, people) because the time I have right now allows for ice cream in bed or cereal for dinner at 8:00 PM and funky dancing that makes me giggle uncontrollably.

Is this what I thought my life would look like at 28? If you've been following this blog, or reading any of my writing in the last five years, you know the answer to that is no. But how much of your life looks the way you had mapped it out?

Because here's the deal. I could've fought for the pen, not listened to my heart, and written out the narrative myself. I could've married that boy I fell in love with 10 years ago and made a life with him. But, ya'll, how often do we take the time to consider what we wouldn't have if the writing were up to us? How often do we sit down and truly try to draw the lines, connect the dots, of what we thought we wanted and what we actually needed and then measured how often they were in sync?

If I would've taken the last name of that curly haired boy from 10 years ago there are significant moments that would've remained in the dark. He wouldn't have a little girl that greatly resembles him. I would've never left home. His education track may have looked drastically different. I wouldn't have stepped onto a plane and fallen in love in India. We would not have grown up the ways we needed to. Guys, we would still be those kids thinking they had the whole thing figured out.

I am so glad I am not that girl.

I am so okay with the two of us being strangers. Because it means we got to grow. Because it means we broke the threads of adolescence and became who we needed to become.

I have the propensity to think life will truly begin when the corner points of my self-designed constellation are finally connected. And it is a guarantee that, in the midst of my desire to shake up my life like an Etch-a-Sketch, I'm missing out on sweet delicacies of why right now is monumental in its own right.

The pieces and tangles and pixels of today are shaping me; they are necessary and littered with impact and they make the tapestry of a life stronger and more secure.

Let's try to be intentional about living thankful in our current season. Let's try to recognize that it probably does sting that our lives aren't following the coordinates we had mapped out for them years ago, but that it's okay.

 Mourn it.

Raise a glass to the life that is lost because it's not developed the way you had hoped. Then hit your knees in gratitude. Because oftentimes that little life, that is born in the wake of the one you had counted on, ends up breaking the mold of what your human hands thought they had the capability of crafting.

On the Vision

I have spent most of my adult life having a love affair with words.

In the middle of my junior year of high school a creative writing class was offered as an elective and I remember thinking, "okay, I'll give this a go." and there was really no looking back after that. I wanted all the prompts. I wanted to litter every single journal page in every single journal I owned with formulated words and sentences laced together with passion and heat. Up until that point the only writing I had done was to honor hearts that had ceased their beating much too soon for my liking. And it was therapeutic. It was therapeutic in a way I'd never experienced before. Prior to the writing you could have found me sitting firmly at the top of the stairs leading to my bedroom, the landline cradled between my jawbone and shoulder, coiled phone chord stretched to its capacity, crying or laughing to the girlfriend I had chosen as my therapist for that week.

But with this creative writing class it was as if I had found the proverbial buried treasure I never knew I was really looking for in the first place. With my brightly colored pens and the same three lines of a song, I could create an entire world of my own. I could be the girl that looked just right and had it all, and always got what she wanted. I held power when I had the pen in my hand. I read and wrote about anything and everything I could get my hands on, whatever popped into my head. So, after realizing that writing came increasingly easier to me than math or science or anything, really, it seemed like a natural step to declare Creative Writing as my major in college.

I spent entire quarters falling in love with crafting fiction and characters and work-shopping pieces that had come to be like delicate, tiny newborns to me. All the while, I was proud to claim that I would be a writer one day. I will be a writer. I was wholly convinced I could, and would, do it.

And then I graduated. And I got a job that had nothing to do with my degree. And I ended up really loving that job. And my heart - that had beat and pulsed most vividly when I was writing, started to shut down over the idea that I would, one day, be a writer and make a dent in the world with my words. And I was mostly okay with it. I was a grown up. Grown ups don't spend time wishing over these things when they have bills to pay. I would be remembered some other way. I'd figure it out somehow.

Because, in transparency, THAT is what I was concerned about. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be heard. The desire to be remembered sat at the core of my chest and was reiterated in everything I did. I wanted to be seen. Period. And so I did just about anything I needed to in order to feel seen and heard. I was reckless and senseless and dangerous. It wasn't attractive or endearing. I look back on those days and my throat threatens to constrict with gasped thanks that I am here to even look back on it in the first place.

And then I got on a plane and flew to India. And everything changed. Jesus stepped into the cyclone of my existence and single handedly calmed the storm. Because that's what He does, guys. He knows the storm will come, how long it will last, and the damage that will result from it. And then He commands it to stop.

He silenced the winds that were roaring and lying and wreaking havoc and He used a 13 year old boy to crumble down the walls I'd managed to build in the midst of the storm.

And my life never looked the same.

I have spent most of my adult life having a love affair with words. And then I closed the door on ever getting to write them full time. And then the unthinkable happened.

I got a job as a writer.

I could try to put words to this, but I'm going to let someone much more brilliant and seasoned do the work for me:

I feel, in the best moments, in spite of the uncertainty, in spite of the fear, like Lily Brisco in To the Lighthouse. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.  . . . I have had my vision, and I thought it would come in a flash, a bright beam of knowing. But it has come in the same way that all things come to me. It has come to me with a fight. It has come to me the hard way, through tears and fog and fear and chaos, and now has landed in the palm of my hand like a firefly. There now, I have had my vision. --Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines

I have had my vision. And I am seeing it literally come to life before me. I was given my first assignment for the ministry I am going to be working for and I cried when I read it; the 13 year old boy that God worked through to flip my entire life upside down? Well, I am being asked to write a story about him.

I received the necessary backstory on his life before I met him for this assignment. I will confess here that I am terrified by this piece. I am simultaneously humbled and absolutely wrecked that this is my first assignment for my new job. That sweet boy, his story has known darkness. And I found myself wholly distracted today in Dayton . . . I found myself desperately wanting to be with him. To hug him. I find myself wanting to whisper flurried, hushed proclamations of love in his ear -- Jesus loves you. So do I. Over and over again.

I feel like, up until India, I spent all of my time wanting to be known and seen. And, as I mentioned before, that led me to put myself in horrible situations . . . because it didn't matter if they loved me or not - if they were taking time, I was seen.

And now, post India, all I want to do is spend my time making sure HE feels known and seen.

Perhaps that is what having had one's vision is about. You see, for yourself, something that you've spent an expansive amount of time wishing for and hoping for and when it comes to fruition, it's nothing like what you expected it to be. Mostly because you simply aren't who you started out as. I have come to not be wholly occupied by being seen. Generally, I yearn to simply see him, this little boy who changed the wiring of my heart.

I've spent most of my adult life having a love affair with words. And being seen. And being known. And it wasn't until I left the familiar, said yes to the unknown, that I came to find that I am wholly seen, fully known, and that my dreams - my vision - they are placed delicately by Him, nurtured by Him, and brought into the light by Him.

If your dreams, your hopes, your vision are from Him, He delights to bring them to life. He delights in being the One who fully knows and sees us.

And that's what I'm learning my having had my vision -- I need not perform extravagantly or behave foolishly to be seen. He simply asks me to say yes.

On Valentine's Day

Another Valentine's Day is upon us. It is always an interesting day of the year for me; we live in a culture, in a society, that likes to try to make us feel lacking if we are without a significant other. Singles have the propensity to feel on Valentine's Day what I might imagine a woman deeply desiring children might feel on Mother's Day; I could be wrong. I am not a woman who has wanted a family since the days of playing with dolls, but I can imagine that it is a hurt that nestles in deep under the collar bone and these days of the year - single days earmarked for celebration in some capacity - have an intrusive way about them that can quite blatantly sucker punch someone with the reality of what they don't have, but want. Or, at the very least, are consistently being asked when they will obtain said thing by well meaning family members and friends.

I've had quite a few Valentine's Days with no significant plans or significant other. And I used to feel alarmingly bad about this. What must it say about me that in the days leading up to this one day of pink and red and white, I have been found spending too much money on supplies to make handmade valentine's so that I wouldn't feel so bad about not having one person to shop for. What does it say about me that I found myself getting pissy over the many posts of flowers and chocolate and jewelry that my friends were receiving, all in the name of love? I was finding myself becoming one of those people that shouted obscenely about Hallmark and it's attempt to raise their sales on the 14th of February every year -- I was white hot mad because each year they were missing the sale of one card - the one that I should have been receiving; the one I so desperately wanted.

This day, ya'll. This day has a way about it that will allow you to feel either chronically happy or acutely aware of what you're missing.

But I've been thinking . . . As I sit here typing this out, there is a beautiful spray of yellow roses, daisies, and lilies on my coffee table from two people that took the time to surprise me. And last night, way too late, I made a not so wise decision, as a bit of a glutard, to eat a donut that two other people had dropped off at my house as a surprise. And last night I shared a meal with one of my dearest friends.

And who is Hallmark, or the media, or this culture to tell me that that's not big love?

I don't know where you're at today. Maybe you woke up and you knew exactly what your plans were because someone took the time to plan a whole day for you - to celebrate  the love they have for you. Maybe you woke up, next to your husband or wife, and you don't have plans, but you smiled knowing that you have a valentine year round - and I am convinced that is one of the best feelings. But maybe you woke up like me -- in a bed with no bones lying next to you. And guys? That's okay. There are certainly mornings I wake up and I feel the emptiness more than anything. I can feel the ache of wanting what is not yet here. And that's okay. But one of my people is always quick to say a particular set of words to me in instances where I'm prepared to blow the kazoo to begin my pity party of one: "feel this, but know I won't let you sit in it."

If you feel sad today, or mad today, or broken because it's another "day of love" that you don't have a date for, feel that. But don't pull the blankets over your head and make a fort in it.
This is something I'm always having to work at. Consistently, I am having to allow myself to feel what I need to feel but reminding myself that this is not a life lived - holing up in my house with junk food and milk and sappy episodes of Grey's Anatomy or the exact same plot line with a different title written by Nicholas Sparks; it is not a life lived to sit and list all of the things I do not have and feel cheated for. It is not a life lived if I am not celebrating the people, the moments, the things I do have.

Feel your feelings. My God knows I definitely do that. But know that, wherever you are, however you woke up, a girl in Dayton is cheering for you - whether you have a Valentine or not.

Because you are more supremely loved than you can even imagine - and you have a tribe that will be quick to remind you. And, hey, if you don't have a tribe, find one. Name them. Make each of them a part of your life and piece of your heart.

One of the best things I ever did for myself was find my "persons" and name them and call them my tribe. I let them see the grime and grit and they still choose to stay. To stay is to love out loud.

It's another Valentine's Day. But it's also a Sunday. So I may not have a date that I need to get fancy for, but this has been a week of me realizing I am wildly loved and fiercely protected and I do absolutely nothing to deserve either of those things. But He chose to die for me and fight for me, even when He knows I'm going to try to run from both of those gifts.

I will save you the cheesiness of claiming that Jesus is my Valentine. I won't say it. But I might say this.

He loved me first. Before my babe parents held me in their arms. Before they argued over what to name me. He loved me. He saw me. He created me and knew that I would be stubborn and reckless with my heart and body; He knew I would run from Him, and often; He knew I would hit brick wall after brick wall before finally realizing He was the one who built it up for me. He loved me first.

So today, on Valentine's Day, that is also a Sunday, I'm going to choose Him first back. And I'm going to keep choosing Him first.

So, holler at a girl, Hallmark, when you wanna make a card for that.

On True North

I've been thinking a lot about direction lately. Where am I going? Where have I come from? From where have I risen and where, next, will the falls occur? I think, as someone who has claimed storytelling as the heartbeat of her life, I am learning more and more that direction is a key component in any story. It is, without a doubt, intrinsic to my little life.

I've been quite clear on where I came from; raised in the midst of cornfields and wearing Carhartt isn't something that escapes a girl's mind easily. I never felt quite right in the middle of all the jacked up trucks and driving behind farm machinery on those back roads, but I willingly admit that I began a love affair with my roots in the country the moment I left them for space of my own.

The where I'm going seems to change from season to season; I can recall my mom very lovingly nudging me, saying, "You will change what you want, coco. What you desire at 21 won't be the same at 25. And rest assured they will change again before 30." I finally was able to admit to her recently that she couldn't have been more right about this point -- along with about a million other points, but let's not stray from the subject at hand . . .

Where I am headed - the direction, the location, the heart state from here forward is not wholly known. I can tell you simple things. I live in Dayton; shortly I will work in Mason; in August I get to put my heart back together when I am reunited with Goutham in India; tomorrow, I will go to work and probably make funny faces to get my students to laugh.

Two years ago, if you would've told me that on the cusp of 29 I would be entering into my dream job I wouldn't have believed you.

Two years ago, if you had told me I would have traveled to India, fallen crazy wild for a 13 year old boy, and met Jesus in a whole new way I would have laughed in your face.

Two years ago, I would have entered into a relationship with a man who was kind to me, regardless of his beliefs or who he claimed King over his life.

So here I am - on the cusp of 29; I am raising support for my dream job. I visited India last summer, came to love a little boy named Goutham, and am counting down the days until I get to be with him, again. And I stopped a relationship from starting because, although this man was kind, Jesus was not his first love.

If we are to stay on theme with direction, folks, you must know that, on the subject of my heart and falling in love, I was prone to allow the compass needle to spiral heedlessly in efforts of finding someone.

But something has altered my course.

Here's the thing . . . when you accept a job that is ministry based, when you sponsor a child because Jesus asked you to, when you leave the comfort of a job you've been at for more than two years -- it's because something, someONE, bigger than you is saying go, say yes, follow Me. So then you start to consider that Someone over every area of your life - it's not just about a job, it's about building accountability with people so they can ask the hard questions; it's about confessing past sins to your support mentor so she knows to pray and ask in the future; it's about recognizing that I cannot claim to live my life for Jesus and only allow Him into the parts of my heart that I have "mostly" together.

It's about being able to look myself in the mirror every morning and know that, while I'm never going to get it right or perfect or stop struggling, I can lay it all at His feet and He will make things come together the way they need to.

I know where I have come from -- and I am thankful for anytime I get to talk about the dips He's allowed me to fall in to - because He gets the fame over carrying me out.

I know where I've been.

And every now and then I am able to see glimpses of where I'm going - the way there is paved with roads littered with whispered prayers and journaled desires of a life I so desperately wanted. And I can see into the panes of the windows of what it will look like when I get there . . . And ya'll. It's dreamier and richer and more delicious than anything my human imagination could wish to muster.

So here's what I've come to learn about direction. . . I'll always choose the wrong way. Nearly every starting point will go South of where I need to be going, if I allow myself to make all the decisions. Jesus will always step in to redirect my wild, wandering, flight-risked steps. And because of that, because He never stops stepping up and swooping in, He needs to be my first choice every time. Every moment needs to be insulated with the knowledge that He created me - He formed me - and He knows how this all ends before I get to the starting line of any plot.

I will not choose kindness from someone I barely know over relationship with my King. I will not, I cannot, choose anyone over my Father.

I know where I come from. I can celebrate the valleys because I have been rescued from their clawing depths. And I may not have all the answers for where I'm headed, or what may happen along the way, but I am more sure of this than anything else . . .

 Jesus is my true North.

On Protection

I've been thinking a lot about protection lately. I've been considering all the ways we have come to be protected in our little lives on this planet.

When we are young and fragile and naïve, our parents protect us; they shield us from illnesses by bundling us up in the winter time and always having cough medicine on hand; they hold us as we cross streets, reminding us gently, but firmly, that we are to look both ways before crossing; they teach us to not speak to strangers or take candy from unfamiliar faces; they are supposed to be the barriers between us and a world that doesn't stop to consider what our age is before it attempts to wreck us.

As teenagers we go through classes of varying topics to maintain safety; we must take a written test to obtain our driving permit to ensure we understand traffic laws; we are required to drive with an instructor and our parents so they can correct mismanagement of the wheel; we're asked to complete a driving test, then, to make sure we absorbed said laws before we are given the keys to a machine on wheels. Depending on where you go to school at, you go through sex-ed classes to enlighten you on safe practices; you are forced to succumb to vivid photographs and videos of sexually transmitted diseases, what a labor looks like, and then all the wear and tear that comes with those consequences of intercourse too soon; we are educated in a way that might deter our desire to participate in certain activities. You can either be protected by abstaining or you will learn about protection that can be purchased with consideration.

There is protection blanketing nearly ever facet of our lives this side of heaven. We aren't supposed to drink until we're 21 because, hopefully, we are wise enough to make better choices at this age. Tobacco cannot be purchased if you are under 18 - because perhaps you've had the misfortune of watching someone become ill as a result of tobacco consumption. If you wish to serve our country, you must be trained, and trained well, before you are handed the tools you need.

Vaccinations and  medications and prayer groups are integral parts of our lives to add layers of protection to our mortality on this planet.

Daily, I go before my Father and pray for protection over my family and friends. I ask Him to blanket Goutham in safety, in whatever he is doing, in Hyderabad. Losing someone you love deeply at 15 will surely guarantee you are acutely aware of the fallibility of our flesh and pumping organs.

Most of our lives we see protection as something that is soft and affectionate. It doesn't hurt, it comforts. Protection ensures our safety and well-being - it is the cool side of your favorite pillow right before you slip into sleep.

But what happens when protection goes from feeling warm and succulent to cutting and jagged? Just how are we supposed to react when it is the protection that stings and that which we are being protected from seems welcoming?

I have written here often about my struggle with God's timing in my singleness. I will not bear false witness and try to make you believe that it is something I am thriving in and excited about. Certainly, it has served me well because it has brought me closer to Jesus; it has allowed me to say yes to things that having a partner may have deterred me from. But I do not consistently like this season. And there is freedom in being honest with your King about that, guys. I'd like to believe when I start getting fired up in my prayers and get angry with Him, He sits back and thinks, "there she is -- there's the sass I laced in her veins in 1987."

So in the midst of this season - that has felt long and dry and drawn out - I am finding protection to be much less of the down comforter variety and much more like the searing tip of a hot fire poker.

I'm realizing slowly (sometimes I'm a slow learner) that this single gig - it's much less about me and significantly more about what He is doing IN me. There is a very good chance I will connect with someone in a way that I truly didn't believe was possible only to find myself wondering where he went when a week goes by and I've not heard from him.

That's protection.

You can love someone very deeply and care for their well-being and they are so unquestioningly wrong for you, but you can't see it - so they'll start ignoring you. Or they'll be really hateful to you. Or they will do something so gut wrenching you'll wonder how you'll rise up from the cramps of pain.

And that's protection.

You'll have a friend that you've watched and wondered about for years; he will move away and finally come back home the week you've gone to India to have your life forever changed.

That right there, that's protection.

And sometimes it has nothing to do with falling in love or finding the person of your prayers and dreams. Sometimes it's the two people who made Dayton feel like home being called to Mexico and you realizing that you can't follow them because you're not being called to Mexico. You're being called to stay.

The call to stay is protection.

See sometimes protection is the stop to something that felt good so that catastrophe doesn't follow closely behind. Sometimes protection looks like the only One who knows your soul and all its idiosyncrasies building a wall so high around your heart that it will take someone extraordinary to scale and conquer it. And sometimes protection is just learning that you can do things, be in places, stay and show up for people even if they're not five minutes up the road from you anymore. Protection, for me in the last year, looks like learning how to show up for myself just as much as I am for my people.

I have a feeling 2016 will be another year of big lessons and hard truths - and I'm coming to be okay with that because I love how it all tends to feel on the other side of the heat. I'm realizing that these new forms of protection that can cut and bruise, scar and tear, and hurt before they become pleasant dawnings of thankfulness, are just as integral to my little life as the protection my parents afforded me when they offered their much larger hand for my small one all those years ago at the crosswalk.

I'm learning the best things often come after many tears, ragged breath, and the whispered admittance that I simply cannot savor any sweetness without chewing on the bitter first.