A Red Chair

When I was younger my mom had chairs made for our deck . . . a guy she worked with was an amazing carpenter and had made some beautiful pieces so she quickly put in an order for four chairs for our quaint deck so that we may sunbathe, if we so chose. When she brought them home she was so excited - "aren't they great?!" she exclaimed; they were great - beautifully made and they leaned waaayyyy back. They also each had one board that was longer than all the others right in the middle; these beautiful chairs my mom had ordered had a middle finger of sorts - rising for all to see.

But we used them, all the same; we sat in them and chatted in them and caught several sun rays in them, too. They weathered all sorts of weather - the woodiness of their wood faded and cracked and recently she painted them a particularly gorgeous shade of red; the red reminded me of the same color that graced the front barn on my grandpy's farm - and I began to love these chairs even more - I began to love them all over again.

You see, I'm getting ready to move out soon. It's a relatively big step for a homebody such as myself. I was offered a job that has afforded me the time and reality of paying for my own place, of picking out furniture for a place of my own, of creating wonky color schemes for each room in my head; I am excited. But, I'm also scared.

Corn fields and silent, starry nights are all I've ever grown up around. My childhood began and ended just walking steps from a corn field; a little girl's pink bedroom became a yellow sanctuary in which she would entrust far too much to one boy - all with the tall, tasseling corn stalks dancing with the wind. Traffic has never been an issue - in fact the noisiest things get around here are the pieces of farm equipment gathering their money from the fields surrounding the white house that built me.

Within the walls of this home with the middle fingered, red chairs I have felt the love of a family that infuriates me almost as much as they delight me. I have gone from mouthy and sailor mouthed to a woman who likes to think she thinks before she speaks now.

A little boy was once brought home to these walls - they tell me I was quite helpful when he first arrived; I remember greatly disliking him, though - and the smell of his hands and his constant tractor noises. But that's all dissipated - breathing would be difficult without him - and he's never been afraid to live, thus teaching me more than I could have ever imagined about life.

Fights have broken out in this house - heated and ringing with fury. Doors have slammed and names have been yelled - but now I know what I want, and what I don't - what I deserve and what needs to be left and forgiven.

A sweet, black dog has been laid to rest under a shade tree in my back yard and a basketball court sits left abandoned along with my dreams of athleticism. Where weeds now overpower, there used to be the most gloriously large shade tree, it had a wood board around a rope that I used to swing on, but like the most precious people, it was weakened by the world and had to move on.

There sits a fire ring, right in the center of our back yard - many a pick up truck have circled around it, with loud, twangy music sounding - all those nights you hear of in country songs, they took place right outside this white, shingled house.

As I type this just now, I'm sitting beneath a canopy that shades the sunlight and protects the stars - I have sat beneath this canopy before a note riddled Bible, writing my heart before a page, praying for a life that is just getting started, laughing with people I am not quite sure how I survived without before that very moment.

I have, quite inexplicably, gone from a girl who wanted to shed her roots and run for city lights to a woman who loves what she knows about the country because it is familiar - because, as it turns out, it's my heart; sunsets are real strokes from God's hands, and they're the best when viewed from a front porch; the sweet smell of corn means the time is coming to break out the big, green machines; manure isn't always sweet smelling, but it's home; family - no matter how far, no matter the divides are who give you your roots, who teach you how to use your wings.

You see, I'm moving out soon. I look at these sweet, red, middle finger showing chairs and think about how they strongly resemble this particular time in my life - they give meaning to the white house that will always be mine, even when it isn't.

A family, a life, will begin purely and then the world, as it often does, sets both heartache and happiness rapid fire on the skin, the heart, the eyes. We weather these things - our eyes will reveal the storms, our hands show the testimonies, a smile will either color a face or strip it bare. But, lean back - waaayyy back. Trust the people that brought you here, trust that they will help you move forward from here.

This home, these chairs - they are not perfect. They have secrets they don't dare to tell. But, it is here where I first began. It is here where I will always belong - no matter what zip code I reside.

Wreckage

The coffee in my mug has gone cold as I sit looking out over the corn that has begun to tassel - soon it will be down and I will no longer see before me the prospects of a glorious maze waiting to be discovered.
As I so often do, I've let the weeks past conjure up a sort of longing in me - I've let this longing become so conjured, in fact, that I've not taken the efficient amount of time to let my heart be moved for Him. So I set out today, to get back on track - to get caught up with what I should have been caught up by everyday of forever.

You see, I  have these days - I get in these moods where I sit down before an open journal, my Bible and the scenery that has etched itself into my memory and I think today I just want to be wrecked by something. I whisper, in desperate and fevered prayers, just let me be wrecked today; wreck me, Lord - with Your word, with some one's words, just let me be slayed.

So the coffee in my mug has gone cold,  but I'll drink it anyway, as I think about what I've been spending all my time doing these last few weeks in between worrying about getting a job, worrying about how I might pay my bills, worrying, worrying, worrying. I certainly was not hitting my knees and giving Him the trouble that was making me sick - I was, in fact, spending all extra time away from summer camp and children crying and panicking and growing fearsome seeds of distaste and neglect in my heart. Looking back on these moments - these tears and nights of little sleep and maximum anxiety, I realize that then, more than ever, I should have been praying to be wrecked. No, it was in those moments, that I should have been feeling the most wrecked of all.

I was receiving one extra paycheck into August than what I originally had thought . . . grace that should've wrecked me

I had family members that offered to help me pay what needed to be paid - kindness that should have slayed me

I had a House Church community in continual prayer for what was to come . . . utter faith in my story, that I lacked, that should have knocked me off my feet

But there was no being wrecked - I could not be swayed from my steadfast post of worry and panic. I kept thinking, "I'll just take a step back from all of this and hope I can come back to it better . . ."

There is no stepping back, only running away, when it comes to the Author of the universe.

There are no moments of not being wrecked, when you get to wake up every morning to a new day and the freedom to be.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that happens in each second, each moment, of your life that is not grace when He knows exactly what will happen and how it can be used in your testimony to bring Him glory.

There is no reason I should feverishly be in prayer for words or moments or conversations to wreck me when, the truth of the matter is, I am able to write and experience words and moments and conversations - and that alone - should bring me to my knees.

I was offered a job - but He knew that would happen all along, in the eleventh hour, at the height of my angst, in the depths of my lows. And that slays me.
Because - what's a job compared to bodies being burned, ravaged, and used all over the world?
Because - what's a job when children in the very school I worked a year for go hungry on the weekends?
Because - what's a job that pays bills when I'm neglecting the job of winning hearts for the Man who lost His own to save mine?

The coffee in my mug has gone cold, but I will finish it. I will finish it and sit here completely swollen with gratitude and trembling awe. I will finish it and sit here completely wrecked.
Because - I am looked after by the same One who named the stars and walked on water.
Because - He hears my prayers before I even say them aloud - He hears my prayers when I don't even recognize them as such.
Because - I am His. He calls me His own.

And, that alone, should wreck me.

Fine Tuning a Heart

My first love has always been words when it comes to the creative process . . . the amount of words I put out into the world has waned and waxed over the last year or so, but my love for them hasn't ever really changed. I have realized, however, that sometimes there will be a scene you come across that words won't readily convey and I have realized that there will be a person, or two, who understands your heart in ways in which you never imagined.

A sunset won't always need words in order to give power to the majesty of a Father who paints something new each morning with His hands and a friendship can last a lifetime and the laughter will still be fresh, the memories will always be new, and its bonds will grow stronger - and words might not always do that justice, either.

Life changes, seasons come and go, and sometimes, people do, too. And words can offer comfort, they can provide warm memories, they will refresh a broken day. But pictures . . . they will always give color and add sparkle to the life unimagined.

A million moments in a day and we're always trying to memorize this life as it is going, going, gone . . . Here are a few of my one million moments and a few of the reasons my hearts finds a new song to sing - even in the midst of not knowing how to hum the tune.

 

 

 

 

The Good in Goodbye

I’ve never really been good at goodbyes . . . I find myself feeling quite choked by them – the impending moment when one must leave behind a moment or a string of moments that have altered your existence in some way . . . Perhaps it is the physical act of turning away that gags the heart.

 The word bye didn’t used to be as paralyzing as it is now – until a fated cold, winter night in January, I hadn’t realized just how suffocating having to literally say goodbye for good was. But, as life often does, it handed a blow that I was not prepared for, that I was not emotionally equipped for – and it resulted in a goodbye that would forever alter the tilt of my universe.

 So, no, goodbyes have never been great – they have been hard and full of emotion and excruciating . . . I can recall instances during my childhood in which my mom would tell me that things would grow easier the older I got and if I’m being honest, not much has really gotten easier with age that once proved difficult and painful in my adolescence. Girls still bite with words that are cloaked in venom, boys still use and love with a promise that is only fleeting and momentary in its beauty, and, even as I notice fine lines around my eyes and pluck a gray hair, or two, from the crown of my head, I realize I have many more trials to overcome before I can believably say I’m a gift to my reflection – I still have many a lesson to learn, period, before I sprout into the woman that I know is bunkered down beneath my rib cage.

 Along with promises of things getting easier with age and time, I was also promised that I would come to realize the difference between a decision being a good idea and a decision being a necessity. There is truth in that; I am lying in the midst of the bearing of that truth.

 On a clear, humid night, I was lying in the bed of a truck discussing a future that was never going to be brought to fruition and you were feeding me lines about a future that I almost started to believe in – but this is not reality and I am no longer the type of girl that is willing to give up valuables, like what my heart truly needs and wants, in order to claim you as a husband. 

 You throw promises at me, lob “well maybe when’s” my way, and then you kiss me feather-light and wrap muscles around me and I wonder just when they became muscles – just when, exactly, did you turn into a man with sinewy muscles in his arms? Because that’s what you are now – not the boy who let me run and jump into his arms in front of a red, worn, truck. You are a man – with a namesake and enough money to purchase a home and you are filled with words veiled as promises, but they begin to carry less and less weight and I’ve finally lifted off the blinders. . . I recognize your verbage for just what it is.

You’re a man now – not the boy I fell in love with and laid down for. You’re a man now – and I’m no longer a little girl – because kisses don’t wake long haired beauties from a 100 years’ sleep and the tooth fairy doesn’t carry around crisp, fresh, green-faced bills and you’re not going to make me a princess just through your eloquently pronounced love.

I’m no longer a little girl and you’re a man now and isn’t it time we both start acting that way – instead of meeting late at night, in secret, like we’re hiding from someone – because we aren’t, right? Or maybe we are – maybe we’re hiding from that young girl filled with the hope of what desire would bring and from that young boy who thought he could make all the promises she wanted to hear, and keep them, too.

Maybe we’re hiding from the innocence that we didn’t maintain for long, when we were together, and maybe we’re trying to hide from them, from those bright eyes and whispered I love you’s, because we don’t want them to find out that promises don’t always remain kept, that a dark room and shallow breathing don’t mean you’re grown, that a heart can change, that a tangled moment can be sweeter as a memory, that, more often than not, a first love is not synonymous with a final love.

Maybe we’re hiding because we don’t want that blue eyed boy and that green eyed girl to realize that goodbye just might be inevitable.

We don’t want them to realize, more importantly, that there just might be good in saying goodbye.

Uncrippling a Spirit in a Crippled World

"Then the Lord answered him, 'You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger and lead it away to water it? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen years, be loosed from this bond on the Sabbath day?" -Luke 13:15-16

We live and love and breathe in a world filled with labels. Skinny, fat, married, single, rich, poor, believer, non-believer - and that is just the start. These labels are used so often, assigned so flippantly, that they often end up leading our hearts, our minds, our entire selves to the ultimate labels: worthy, unworthy.

It is likely that the labels we use to identify ourselves, the labels we succumb ourselves to, are not a direct assignment from our own giving. It is not as if we wake each morning, stand before the mirror and choose to allow this burden of labeling to sit upon and inside our hearts; it is not as if we desire such labeling to be at the very core of our self-talk.

Recently a dear, irreplaceable friend of mine was listening quite attentively to me, in the most basic of terms, tear myself down for the things I don't have, for not being labeled the things the world has taught me I must be labeled with, in order to be a fuller, more complete version of myself; in the middle of the verbal destruction I have mastered quite eloquently, she looked me square in the eye and said, "When are you going to stop leading with the things you aren't as your identifiers and start leading with the things you are?"

Because, you see, I'm never Steph Duff -  writer, lover of children and the melodious sound of their giggles, loyal friend, loud laugher, voracious reader and journal-er, and caffeine enthusiast, I am always Steph Duff - single, poor, fat, broken, weak, and full of inadequacies.

Her question stopped me cold - because, really, when was I going to stop doing that? When was I going to realize that a ring on my finger, a new last name, and a high paying job was never going to make me the most of who I was made to be? When was I going to realize that, perhaps, I just may be the most effective version of myself right now - poor and single and messy?

I think about the Woman with the Disabling Spirit in Luke 13; in a recent article for SheLoves Magazine, Jonathon Martin writes in his piece "Daughter of Abraham" of this very woman :  Her infirmity defined her to the world around her and to herself. She is the bent woman, the crippled lady. As a woman whose line of sight is always aimed toward the ground beneath her, she is not the sort of woman who would have had the confidence to call out to Jesus.
After reading this article, which you should check out here, I started to consider this woman, "A daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen years . . ." whose eyes could only fall on the ground, whose body could never fully stand tall to greet people with a smile and I realized that, in the midst of always listening to the lies of this world, to the labels Satan has lobbed my way, I was spiritually just like this bent over woman. I am able to stand tall, yet I look away from others' eyes, I avoid mirrors as much as possible, I live with a spirit that has her eyes to the ground.

We live in a world filled with labels, in a world that is in a constant state of motion to inform of us of just what we must purchase to fulfill a, b, and c. We live in a world that is perpetually informing us of what we are lacking and what we must do in order to fulfill that lacking - only to let us down. We live in a world that we were not made for, therefore, our fulfillments are never going to run over, we are never going to acquire just everything we need.

In the moments after that conversation, after reading this particular article, it occurred to me that I very well may change my last name and wear a shiny bauble on my left finger; I may have all the money I could hope for and more and I just may find myself in a smaller jean size one day - but I will still yearn for more, I will still be chasing after another label, I will still be coming up short, feeling inadequate, and identifying myself by what I'm lacking instead of what I'm bringing.

Because I am not a daughter to this world, to our culture, or to every mean comment or look I've ever received. I am not a daughter to my weight, my paycheck, or the ex-boyfriends that have moved on and married. I am not a daughter to the enemy, to the lies of him and this world, or to the lies I feed myself.
I am the daughter of the King, to Abraham, to only the truth and identity that Christ gives me.

Martin says it better than I ever could: Weakness does not define you. Labels that have been assigned by others do not define you. You are daughters of Abraham, heirs of the covenant. You are part of God’s cosmic plan through which He will restore the creation—one of the ones through whom all the families of the earth will be blessed.
What Jesus says is the only thing about you that is true and the only thing that matters. Don’t let anyone else assign an identity, except Jesus. You are a daughter of Abraham–not invisible–and God wants to show you off to the world.

You are a daughter of Abraham - not invisible - and God wants to show you off to the world. (Emphasis mine)

It's time I stop counting the days until I turn the age that I must be married by, it's time I stop comparing my body to every other woman's around me, it's time I just STOP leading with what I'm not. And it's time I START leading with what I am. And Whose I am.

There can be nothing but promise in that.

It's time to loosen these bonds and to dance in this freedom.

Right Here, Right Now

So in a moment of uncommon bravery I submitted some pieces to an online Christian magazine that I am absolutely crazy about; I encourage you to check it out because it's what's up. Unfortunately none of my submissions were chosen, but I would still like to share them with you all. Here is one . . . I hope it lifts some hearts today.

            I compare myself to others a lot. If I’m being honest with myself I would have to say that it started long before acceptance letters from universities and job related insurance benefits were a priority. If I had to guess I would say that many of you compare yourselves to others a lot; I could probably even take a guess at where it all began, too – middle school. Ah, yes, the wonderful years of middle school when puberty kicks in, body parts start growing, and the boys start noticing. That’s where my relative experience with comparisons began, anyway. I was never thin enough, or tall enough, or fast enough, or tan enough, and I can assure you my hair never looked as good as everyone else’s did. It started out as a small issue that grew into an animalistic hunger – how could I tear myself down a notch in comparison to these other girls? And looking back, what made it all so much worse is that these other girls? They were my friends – I loved them, they loved me, but I was perpetually sizing myself up against them and completely disregarding the principles of genealogy and the simple fact that we are all supposed to be different.

            I wish I could say that those days are gone; I wish I could say that I got right with myself and accepted my body, my hair, and all its formidable parts just as they are. But I would be lying. It just so happens that, as we grow and mature and change, so do our comparison tactics; at least mine did, anyway. While I can’t say I long ago left behind the daunting task of comparing and contrasting my body with others, I can, and will say, that my body fell down a couple notches on the totem pole of my shortcomings.

In college it was my major; my major was much too liberal in comparison with more realistic majors around me. So often, when asked what I was studying at university, I would answer quite ecstatically with, “Creative Writing!” only to be met swiftly with a look of confusion and the ever-condescending question of, “Oh, and what will you do with that?” Many a night I would come home and cry, questioning whether I made the right choice by sticking with the pursuit of a degree that fed my heart more than it might feed my literal hunger. I compared myself to every Engineering, Education, and nursing major I came into contact with – and I assure you there was no shortage of them at Wright State University.

            After college it was a rainfall of comparisons – I was single and everyone around me was flashing big, diamond rings my way and having babies with quick precision. I was in three weddings in less than two years and I never had a date to one of them. I found myself looking at each of my married friends thinking, what am I doing wrong? Where am I not going in order to meet the right man?

Due to my liberal arts degree I was not quick to be hired post-graduation and once I did find a job, albeit completely challenging and fulfilling, my paychecks left, and still leave, a bit to be desired. So there I was – cashing my meager paychecks in the throes of single-dom and with a degree I wasn’t entirely using.

Shortly after accepting the job that I am still currently working at, I was invited to join a small faith community. To say this changed my life would be the greatest understatement I could ever utter in my quite verbal, over-articulated life. I was welcomed with open arms, my strength in the Lord grew by marginal leaps, and I was making friendships that I didn’t realize I was missing. But, through the joy of being surrounded by a community that was pushing me to be a better version of myself, I had lingering whispers in my heart and in my head – you aren’t as strong as these other women, you aren’t decent enough for these men, your love for Jesus is miniscule in relation to this family. I was stuck in a tidal wave of telling myself to plant roots with this community and telling myself to flee in the opposite direction from them; what could I possibly offer to this group of believers, to any non-believers that needed to hear the good news, when I was such a blatant mess?

So very much, I heard whispered in my ear gently.

Here’s the thing – in the midst of always trying to measure myself against everyone around me, God was already working in my life and on my heart. He had helped me to forge friendships with women who were living their lives as true, dedicated daughters of the King, He was giving me the opportunity to be a soft landing for students who are struggling with life altering circumstances, He was feeding me good news each morning in His word so that I could step up and be a leader for my parents and my brother. He was showing me love, showering me with grace, and sashaying me into a community of believers that would love on me when I needed it the most.

            In their book, Experiencing God, Henry and Richard Blackaby and Claude King verbalized these sentiments much more eloquently that I could ever hope to:

            Could God work in extraordinary ways through your life to accomplish significant things for His kingdom? . . . God wants you to be the person He created you to be and to let

 Him do through you whatever He chooses. When you believe that nothing consequential

 can happen through you, you have said more about your belief in God than you have

indicated about yourself. . . . God can do anything He pleases through an ordinary

 person who is fully dedicated to Him (47).

God can use me – right here, right now. And He is. He is using this broken, weak, poor, single, and defiant child of His in any way that He can to grow His Kingdom. He can use you, too – exactly as you are, in the spot you’re frozen to now. We need not compare ourselves, friends, to one another because Christ doesn’t want a gathering of clones – He desires a kaleidoscope of breathtaking differences.

When Words Are Not Enough

I tend to get very caught up in the small things of life - so caught up, in fact, that I lose sight of what and who makes my heart happy, of the roots I come from, of the freedoms I am afforded.

These are moments that, at times, cannot be given words . . . or perhaps, I am just not an eloquent-enough writer to give these moments words; so here they are - maybe with a caption or two, the things I so often look past, look over, or just choose not to see, at all, when I am swimming in my own selfishness. This weekend was a quick assurance that I do not know my heart or what it might need in the least . . . because I had no idea that this - these people, these minutes - were exactly where my heart needed to come back to, to heal, because it is where my heart began, in the first place.

The pure delight of a child's eyes is surely a kiss from God

 

Looking at this barn fills my heart with such love - this place makes me brave, this place is my roots

Looking out a backdoor and being able to watch simple growth from day to day is a promise . . .

Farm flowers . . .

Watching Joseph be a little boy brought such joy to my heart . . .

 

There are no words.

We are a family from red barns and football :)

Birthday songs, salutations, and celebrations

beautiful boys

This little girl surely has the sweetest soul - and reminds me so much of my great grandma Jo

 

 

Recently I've been reading One Thousand Gifts and it hadn't occurred to me how therapeutic listing small, daily blessings could be until I reflected on this weekend. My hope, for each of you, is that at least one time this coming week, you allow yourself to see something with the eyes of a child, you allow yourself to feel ravished over the beauty of growth and the color of nature, you allow yourself to be taken over by the One who knows your heart and just what it needs. My hope, for each of you, is that you allow yourselves just one moment, at least, to be completely in awe.