curveballs.

First thing this morning, I came across this quote:

‎"Faith in the nature of God is what keeps you moving even when situations are against you. You KNOW that God is faithful, so even when a situation seems bleak or even impossible, you know enough to wait for Him to come to your aid.” {Graham Cooke}

This statement really struck me, and naively, I wondered how exactly I could apply that to my life right now, seeing that things are going fairly smoothly for the first time in a long time. You know, as though I don’t really need faith in this moment. Or something like that.

Then I got a phone call. An answer to my question. My husband called with a curveball, and it threw me for a loop. Suddenly this quote I’d read just hours earlier was swinging right back on to the forefront of my mind, and I realized I had a choice to make. Either I react in fear and worry, my usual “panic mode” response, desperately gathering up all my resources and trying to find a solution -- or I trust. When life throws a curveball, it really does feel like the situation is working against you. It does seem bleak or even impossible. But thank God He is faithful in spite of what seems. Thank God that we have all those stories of His provision in the lives of the fathers and mothers of our faith, of our friends, our families, and in our own lives to look back on and remember that He is good. That He will come through again and again for us, because, simply put, He loves us.

It’s not easy to surpass our humanity, is it? Sometimes it feels like God is asking me to do so much more than I feel I’m capable of -- but the truth is, I am incapable. Curveball moments prove that fact. The great news is, He is able, and because His Spirit lives in me, I’m empowered to keep moving forward in faith.

‎"Faith in the nature of God is what keeps you moving even when situations are against you. You KNOW that God is faithful, so even when a situation seems bleak or even impossible, you know enough to wait for Him to come to your aid.” {Graham Cooke}

the door.

Jesus came to my door last night. I was busy in the church kitchen, cutting cubes of cheese and strategically garnishing silver platters with Ritz crackers. It’s all about the presentation, I reassured myself and the girls who were helping me, as I silently criticized the way my friend towered the grapes on the plate. Did you brew the coffee? Do we have any cream? Should I offer tea? Oh shoot, where are the stir sticks? So much to remember, so much to do…

And then He came. In the form of Christy, my beautiful friend with Down’s syndrome. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her standing quietly, unassuming, at the kitchen door. I scurried about, my head swimming, my stomach in knots, acknowledging her for the sake of being friendly.
“Hi Christy,” I said, refusing to look her in the eye.
“Hey guys,” she replied softly.
For a few moments, she said nothing. I scurried. Then a still, small voice:
“Uh, guys, I feel that maybe you would like some help. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Silence. More scurrying.
“You know, Christy, I think we’re OK. Thanks for asking, though,” I answered.
For a brief moment, I looked at my friend as she stood still and silent, the mark of disappointment and sincerity on her face. Surely I could find something for Christy to lend a hand with, but that would only set me back. Why waste time delegating when I could just as easily do it myself? I quickly set my gaze back to the task, back to the cheese and crackers and the characteristically bitter church coffee. All the while, songs of worship to Creator God echoed from the sanctuary. Christy was gone. And I was busy.

Last night, Christy was Jesus. Maybe just for me, just for that small, significantly insignificant moment. Vulnerable, she stood at that door – He stood at that door – offering Himself to a busy and hurried, overwhelmed and over-done girl in desperate need of care. Gentle and meek, fiercely loving, Jesus came to me without agenda, without reprimand, to say, “Let me help you.” And swept up in a sea of duty and control, prudence and efficiency, I said in reply, “You know, Jesus, I think I’m OK.”

faith to fly.

It's no secret I'm absolutely terrible at keeping up with the blog. A few of you wonderful people have poked and prodded at me to write, which really has been encouraging. So thank you! But to be entirely honest, I've been struggling with it. I've been quietly wondering about the purpose of this little online journal, about my focus here, my motivations. In my first post, I expressed similar sentiments, but decided to take the plunge anyhow, and I really am glad I did. But I think it's natural to reconnect with and reevaluate your motives every once in a while, and I suppose that's been the sound of my silence.

I love me a good, "everyday-life" kind of blog. I read Kelle Hampton so often she feels like a friend (Pathetic? Perhaps.), and my real best friend, Heather, and I recently joked about how reading those blogs is a little like reading People magazine. Once you start, you just can't stop. It's addictive. Like crack for the stay-at-home-mom or procrastinating student! The reason I started "in search of words", however, wasn't so much to document my everyday activity, as it was to stay accountable to my passion. To share some of the thoughts and musings swirling around in my head. To maybe validate someone, nurture someone, encourage them and point to Light. I suppose that writing, for me, has always been about self-expression and the freedom that accompanies that -- but it's also an offering. A way to worship a God who's instilled in me a passion for weaving words together to (hopefully) form something beautiful.

Have you ever read Madeleine L'Engle? She wrote a wonderful book called Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art, which I highly recommend if you're artistic or creative in any way. She writes this beautiful account of how her faith and her art of writing are innately interconnected; how, like life, creating is a risk, an act of faith. The book is filled with some great parallels and metaphors, but one idea in particular that spoke to me years ago when I read it still speaks to me today: You must serve your art. A profound little sentence with so much meaning.

And what does it mean? For me, when I think of serving my art, I think about honouring, respecting, and trusting it. Honouring my writing enough to try my best. Respecting it enough to not put it down if it isn't shaping up to be what I want it to be in the moment. And trusting that maybe, just maybe, the sometimes long and arduous process of creating is worth the time and the risk.

I'm a perfectionist, often too hard on myself. What if the point of all this is to learn to trust? To offer up, in faith, that part of myself that loves to create, and just let it be what it's meant to be? We all have gifts that are meant to be given, and I think at some level, we're all just a little bit of afraid of what might happen if we give those gifts away. But I truly believe that God wants us to live in freedom, wings out, confident that we are valuable as we are and empowered to make a mark on our little corner of the earth. It really does take faith to fly, doesn't it? With that renewed sense of purpose, I think I'll keep on sending up my offering and let God do with it what He will.