a letter to Bboy.

Dear Auggie,

My sweet boy, while I can remember life before you, it’s near impossible to imagine it without you now. On our second Mother’s Day, and our first since you’ve been born, I want to jot down a few things for you.

Your dad and I were talking today about how lucky we feel that you’re such a low-key baby. You have the sweetest temperament, with a silly streak that brings us so much joy. Your laughter is infectious, and we are having so much fun finding new ways to hear it. You are fascinated by your dog, and he very patiently obliges your not-so-gentle love. Sometimes you make faces that I’ve often made. Other times I take a photo of you and see so much of your dad. And while it’s so fun to see what parts of ourselves we’ve passed on to you, I love that you are your own person. I like getting to know you.

I have often heard parents talking about giving their kids what they didn’t have, but I don’t think I truly understood what a gift it is to be able to do that until I became your mom. One of the unique ways that I have been able to is perhaps the simplest, and also the most profound—being with you these past eight months. I’m so grateful to have been adopted, but I have also found so much healing in getting to share in your earliest memories and milestones. I love that you know my face and my voice, and that you’re even starting to respond to my name now. You’ll never have to wonder who I am or how much you’re wanted, because I’m here with you and will tell, or sing it to you, every day.

You are my Auggie, my only Auggie.

You make me happy on all the days.

I hope you know, dear, how much I love you;

It’s more than words can say.

I loveyou loveyou loveyou,

Mama

light bulb.

I have encountered many surprising things in these first weeks of being a mom, but the most surprising things are not actually new. They are the familiar truths that I have seen in a new light—truths that I had previously acknowledged but struggled to take to heart. Loving our boy has given me a window into a deeper understanding of these truths: to know and truly believe them; to also accept them for myself as I whisper them over and over again to my son.

I told my therapist that becoming a parent has made them somehow tangible, as if I finally found the light bulb chain that’s been swinging above me, and I’ve finally turned on the light. Maybe you’ve experienced the same light bulb moment, or maybe you are still grasping around for the chain. Wherever you are at, I hope you find encouragement and hope in these things as I have recently:

It’s not a burden to care for you, even when you are having a hard time.

You can feel bad, and that does not make you bad. Feelings are something you have, not who you are. Feelings are finite: this too shall pass.

There’s nothing you could do to make me love you any less and nothing you need to do to make me love you any more. You are loved because you are worthy of love.

seeds for thought

Legacy, what is a legacy?

It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.  

– Lin-Manuel Miranda, “The World Was Wide Enough”, Hamilton: An American Musical

Today is my first Motherʼs Day as a mother. Iʼve thought a lot about my own birth story and my birth motherʼs pregnancy with me over the past twenty-four and half weeks. That is, Iʼve imagined what it might have been like. 

The beginning of my pregnancy was hard. I felt nauseated daily, I had little appetite, I lost weight over the first three months, and I was always exhausted. But I was still excited about our baby and felt proud to know that these were signs of my body doing an important job. 

The symptoms also made me wonder about my birth mother’s pregnancy with me. Did she feel as sick as I did? As tired as I did?

Iʼm acutely aware of the stark differences in our circumstances. I have a few sentences on ghost-thin paper about my mother’s pregnancy and my birth. I don’t know what symptoms she experienced, but I do know she was working in the city to send money to her family in a more rural area. I know she fell in love with my biological father, a “coffee shop DJ,” but “it was a one-sided love.” I know that she bound her stomach so that she could continue working. I know that she made the (literally) life-changing decisions to give me life and a chance at a life beyond what she would ever be able to provide.

I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the sacrifices she made. Her choices made way for the life I have now. As sick as I felt in those early days, I was working from home. I had sick days I could use. I had a husband who loved and took excellent care of me. 

As I continue to grow our baby, now starting to feel their kicks and somersaults, I am amazed at just how much I already love them. I like to think that my mother felt the same way. She saw the potential, the value of my life. Without her knowing anything about who I was or would become—about my personality, gifts, or skills—I was enough. Enough for her to endure the months of unpleasant symptoms. Enough for her to let her body be stretched and altered. Enough for her to go through additional discomfort to hide those changes so that she could continue to do what was expected of her.

My birth mother planted a seed that my adopted mom (and dad) were able to water. She gave me life and a family and opportunity. I hope, somehow, she knows that it was worth it. 

My life is her legacy.  And that legacy continues on through the life of my baby.

 

twenty twenty.

Today is the last day of the year.
The last day of the decade.
I have been feeling the ... impulse? ... obligation? to reflect.
So here is my attempt to put some words down.

This decade has seen such low points.
Ten years ago, at the end of a different decade, depression and anxiety felt like the masters of my life. Panic attacks were a common yet terrifyingly unexpected occurrence. I slept all the time because I didn't feel sad when I slept; I didn't panic when I slept--until I did. That year I found myself wondering if it would be better to not be around at all. It was made clear to me that that was not a better option. I'm thankful.

Two years ago I switched masters programs at Fuller after abruptly and heartbreakingly discovering that the plan and vision I had had was not something I could sustainably do. I'm still in the liminal space of finding what it is I should can will do. In the meantime, I can do what is in front of me. I'm thankful.

This decade has seen high points.
Five years ago Sam and I agreed to love, honor, and cherish one another for better or worse,  richer or poorer, in sickness or health. Only five years in and we've already walked through several of these scenarios. I'm thankful.

This decade brought hellos. 
I met seven out of eight nieces (from my siblings) in the past ten years. I met and became part of the Kelly (and Doman and Lovett) family. I started and changed jobs. I moved to a new city where I met new classmates, friends, and church family. I worked with a couple of therapists who have helped me to learn things about myself that I didn't even realize that I didn't know. I found new places and spaces and returned to familiar favorites too. I'm thankful.

This decade has brought goodbyes. 
Some were healthy; some were expected; others were neither. All of them were difficult.

The freshest goodbye is to the house I grew up in. The house my family brought me home to. The house where I had the room with the famously long closet and the swamp cooler. The house where I took my engagement photos and where I later got ready for my wedding day. It was and is a great place to live. Family members are buying the house so I'll still be able to visit. I'm thankful.


This has been a hodgepodge of memories. Lest you think too highly of me, the thankfulness that punctuates each one is found through much effort, and even then I don't always feel it.

As I close this post, and the year, I'll share this poem by Rilke. It's one I keep returning to and that I feel captures my reflections on the past, the work of the present, and my hope for the future.


God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby us the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

– Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours, I, 59.

2009 to 2019

a letter to my[ten-years-ago]self.

Dear 19-year-old Katy,

You've been on my mind lately. Maybe it's because it's been ten years since I was you. Maybe it's because I'm just a few months away from 30. Maybe it's because it's January and all of the new year reflecting is getting to me. Whatever the reason, you keep coming to mind, and it feels important to sit with you for a moment.

---

It's dark here.
It's really growing now—the anxiety and panic.
My heart is heavy seeing you here, even heavier knowing there's still the worst to come.

I know that words are only so helpful right now.
So many people around you have so many words for you.
I have words for you too. Words of truth. Words of hope.
But it's not time for those yet.

So right now, I'm showing up.
Holding a gentle light of hope into this darkness.
A hope that is rooted in reality: 29-year-old Katy exists.
It's difficult right now. It's so very difficult. It will become almost unbearable.

And you make it. You're still here.

I want to leave you with one more thing.
A poem, specifically.
I know you might not be ready to receive these words just yet.
But you will be.
And I'm already filled with joyful anticipation for the moment you are.


Love (III) by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
                              Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
                             From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
                             If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
                             Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
                             I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
                             Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
                             Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                             My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                             So I did sit and eat.

Source: George Herbert and the Seventeenth-Century Religious Poets (W. W. Norton and Company, 1978).

a good day, 2009

yet.

Last week I opened a large, flat envelope at my parents’ house to find my diploma from Fuller. A couple of weeks ago, I had seen some excited and celebratory posts from some of my classmates who had received theirs, which made me anxious to see my own. However, when I opened that envelope and carefully removed the piece of paper confirming the completion of my master’s degree, I cried — not tears of joy or gratitude (I feel guilty just typing that out) but tears of grief, frustration, and shame.

Because in that moment, that piece of paper did not represent the time, work, growth, and discovery of the past two years. It represented unrealized plans, unmet expectations — my failure. It held all of the shame, anxiety, and anguish of the decision to leave the MS MFT program and switch to an MA degree in family studies — a degree that I had not planned to get nor had a clear picture of how to use. It amplified the unknown and the uncertainty of the past two months of being back in Fresno.

I know my last posts present the opposing and perhaps more rational and reasonable perspectives: the hope found in the unknown, the peace from “just enough light,” and the constant learning process of freely accepting grace. I still believe those are true and valid. They are what I strive for. However, it also feels important to share this true and valid part of my story, because while there is hope in what’s to come, there are also feelings of loss and grief from what I let go, from what could have been.

While I realize that personality categorizations and assessments, especially when self-assessed, should be taken with a grain of salt, I have found learning about the Enneagram to be a helpful and healing resource in this season. David Daniels and Virginia Price’s description of the Type One in The Essential Enneagram is overwhelmingly relatable.

Reading this made sense of the tearful reaction to my diploma. It explained the shaming inner monologue that keeps making an appearance in my mind:

“I’ve been back in Fresno for just over two months. I don’t have a job. I don’t have any actionable ideas of how I want to use my degree or pursue involvement in member care. I don’t have our apartment fully unpacked or decorated. We haven’t joined a church community.”

And it’s helping me to add a little word to the end of each of those sentences: Yet.

I don’t have a job yet. I don’t have any actionable ideas of how I want to use my degree or pursue involvement in member care yet. I don’t have our apartment fully unpacked or decorated yet. We haven’t joined a church community yet.

What a difference that little three-letter word can make.

Predictably, Nouwen again has words to encourage and challenge me. This time from Can You Drink the Cup?:

We have to live our life, not someone else’s. We have to hold our own cup. We have to dare to say: “This is my life, the life that is given to me, and it is this life that I have to live, as well as I can. My life is unique. Nobody else will ever live it. I have my own history, my own family, my own body, my own character, my own friends, my own way of thinking, speaking, and acting—yes, I have my own life to live. No one else has the same challenge. I am alone, because I am unique. Many people can help me to live my life, but after all is said and done, I have to make my own choices about how to live.”

Finding hope in the “yet,”

Kate

just enough light

Today is my last full day in Pasadena. This week has been filled with packing and cleaning; the week before was all about finishing school. We said our first goodbyes (to our community group) two weeks ago and we'll say our last ones tomorrow as friends come to help us load up the moving truck. Over the last few weeks, as the end of school and our time here was fast approaching, I have been trying to reflect upon and reminisce about this past season. There's so much I want to say, so many experiences to recount, so many people I want to thank. Maybe I'll make another post to do that. For now, I want to take a moment to claim and affirm some of the things I'm taking home with me.

My time here has looked nothing like I thought, hoped, or at some times even wanted, but I wouldn't change a thing. I am leaving Pasadena/coming back to Fresno so different than who I was when left Fresno/came to Pasadena two years and seven months ago. I have struggled, learned, ached, and grown in ways that I never expected. I've allowed myself to feel sad, angry, afraid, and confused and because of that, I experienced a greater hope and deeper joy than I ever knew was possible. It's not because those all of those emotions are enjoyable to experience, but rather it is because by experiencing them, I was able to be unapologetically myself. And ultimately, although I have changed, I am still me. In fact,

I am more myself than I have ever been. 

It's probably no surprise that I have found words from the ever-sage Henri Nouwen to help me articulate my perspective.  These excerpts describe hope. The kind of hope that I have found, that I carry with me.

From Here and Now:

While optimism makes us live as if someday soon things will go better for us, hope frees us from the need to predict the future and allows us to live in the present, with the deep trust that God will never leave us alone but will fulfill the deepest desires of our heart. When I trust deeply that today God is truly with me and holds me safe in a divine embrace, guiding every one of my steps I can let go of my anxious need to know how tomorrow will look, or what will happen next month or next year. I can be fully where I am and pay attention to the many signs of God's love within me and around me.  

From Turn My Mourning into Dancing:

Hope is willing to leave unanswered questions unanswered and unknown futures unknown. Hope makes you see God's guiding hand not only in the gentle and pleasant moments but also in the shadows of disappointment and darkness. 

And finally, from Bread for the Journey:

Often we want to be able to see into the future. We say, “How will next year be for me? Where will I be five or ten years from now?” There are no answers to these questions. Mostly we have just enough light to see the next step: what we have to do in the coming hour or the following day. The art of living is to enjoy what we can see and not complain about what remains in the dark. When we are able to take the next step with the trust that we will have enough light for the step that follows, we can walk through life with joy and be surprised at how far we go. Let’s rejoice in the little light we carry and not ask for the great beam that would take all shadows away.

Moving forward in hope,
Kate

a letter to my[year-ago]self.

Dear Kate (or Kathryn, as you've decided to go by here),

You are about to start your first day of grad school after what seems like the longest wait—congratulations! I am happy to report that you make it through the first year. It's both easier and harder than you anticipated. It won't be the most difficult year you've experienced but neither will it be without trials. You will face new challenges, revisit old struggles, and explore a deeper understanding of what makes you, you. From all of that, there are a few key points that I'd like to highlight. You may not believe or be able to fully understand their significance just yet, but they’re worth having somewhere in your mind.

Be like a redwood.
Tap into your amateur dendrology knowledge and remember the way that Redwood trees depend on the vast network of roots surrounding them to stay anchored in the ground. In other words, don’t go at it alone. Give others a chance to see and hear you. Let them hold hope for you, just as you will do for them. You are not excluded from asking for help.

Approach self-care as a posture rather than a task.
Although a “self-care Sunday” routine can provide a helpful structure (and also has a nice alliteration), it can also become counterproductive when you berate yourself for not “doing” enough, in quantity or quality, self-care. Instead, think of self-care as an attitude or perspective you have towards yourself. This leads into perhaps the most important thing I have learned/am learning…

Be gentle with yourself.
Give yourself the grace to do good enough. Failing to do perfect work does not equate to being a failure. You are not perfect, but you are deeply loved.

So there they are; three lessons from a year in grad school. You might be doing the polite "nod-and-smile-because-this-is-obvious" right now but tuck these away somewhere, just in case.

Choose Joy,
Your second-year self

present today.

As of today, I have closed my time at my practicum site. That might seem a bit abrupt, but the past few weeks have been a whirlwind. Here's what you may have missed:

Six weeks ago, I started Spring quarter feeling exhausted. Winter quarter had been extremely demanding and draining in almost every area of my life, and the week between the two quarters felt overwhelmingly insufficient.

Five weeks ago I began practicum. It felt like taking a drink from a firehose. Everyone at the site was so kind, but I came home from my first day of supervision and training feeling overstimulated, underprepared, and even more exhausted.

Five weeks ago, I also received my first client referral and subsequently experienced a panic attack—the first in several years. I was terrified.

The two weeks that followed are a blur. I went to class, went to practicum, and (eventually) completed my homework, but the most prominent things I noticed were the red flags I had come to know so well from my previous struggles with anxiety and depression. I knew I was not doing well.

Three weeks ago, we went home for the weekend to attend a wedding and for the first time in . . . well, it felt like months, but at least since the start of this quarter, I felt peace. I enjoyed time surrounded by family and friends. I went on a bike ride in the foothills of my childhood neighborhood. I leisurely worked on homework in my favorite tea shop while sipping on lavender creme earl grey. Time seemed to stop for a bit, and I finally felt like I could breathe. I did not want to come back to Pasadena.

Also three weeks ago, on our drive back, I received a voicemail from my practicum site that I was not expecting or prepared for. The time-stopping bubble of peace and rest instantly burst and I was thrown into panic mode again. All I could say was, "I want to go home."

The next day, I was ready to go home. I think I had known that this was not a sustainable way to live and that second anxiety attack seemed to block any last hope of making it through the rest of the quarter, let alone the program. I realized that the "home" I longed for was not only the familiar, family-filled fields of Central Valley, but also a sense peace, safety, and stability.

That Tuesday, I had long talks with a trusted friend in my cohort, my integration formation group, some of my closest friends, my therapist, my pastor, and, of course, my husband. I received supportive, nonjudgmental listening, prudent and practical questions, and prayer. My own prayers were more along the lines of, "Help. Help. Help."

The following Tuesday—my 28th birthday—I met with the clinical director of training with every intention of leaving the program and Pasadena. I expected to feel shame and her disappointment but was willing to face that for the relief of freedom. What I received was beyond what I could have imagined. She listened patiently, helped me sort out the decisions and options I actually had, and affirmed her support of me. I had not realized it was possible to delay practicum even though I had already started. I could take a step back to have the time and energy I needed to get the overbearing monster of anxiety under control so that I could make a more informed decision about the future. She helped me to realize that it is almost impossible to make the kind of researched and meticulous decision I was wanting to make (something she caught onto when I mentioned it took me five years to even decide to apply for grad school) when anxiety is in control and safety outranks any other goal or objective. I was not only consumed with anxiety, I was also burnt out. I had an epiphany moment when I realized that this kind of experience is the very one I came to grad school to learn how to help with. When you're feeling completely drained and then pile on stressors, or trauma, or fill in the blank, of course you feel like you just want to quit, get away, and go home.

So for now I am pausing. I am resting. I am healing.

I don't know what the future holds, I may still end up going home before finishing the program. I may delay practicum until finishing classes. I may start up practicum again in June. I don't know, and for the first time in a while, I am (mostly) okay with that.

Sam has been reading The Lord of the Rings to me, often times to help me sleep, and the following quote grabbed my attention a few weeks ago as I was drifting off. I made him go back so I could write it down, feeling like there would be a time and place for me to come back to it. Seems like now is the time.

"The future, good or ill, was not forgotten, but ceased to have any power over the present."

-John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

deja vu.

I should be working other things. Like the paper that's due later this week or the endless reading that will end with the quarter and not a moment sooner. But I think this is important enough for me to take the time to do. Well, I guess I'm making it that important.

Today was difficult. The kind of difficult I haven't seen (or felt) in quite a while. It was a terrible kind of deja vu or like being trapped in an all too familiar dream I couldn't wake up from.

I knew that this struggle was possible to reappear as I went back to school because the first time I encountered it was in undergrad. What I did not expect was how fearful I would be, of even the slightest inkling of its return. All of a sudden my mind was stuck showing reruns of undergrad and I began to despair of the impending chaos that was due to follow.

I did make it through the rest of the day without completely falling apart, until I got to my therapy session.

Thank Jesus for therapy. I guess you could say I'm a bit biased because that what I'm studying now, but really, I can't adequately express the value of having that space of being seen and heard. As my professor said today, it's a sacred space.

A takeaway: Instead of defining my success in grad school as "Doing well without any anxiety"
I can try out, "Success means doing well, acknowledging I will have times of anxiety, and managing it well when it presents itself."

Finally, I can always count on Henri Nouwen to speak the words of my soul. From The Inner Voice of Love in a section titled "Keep Returning to the Road of Freedom":

"When suddenly you seem to lose all you thought you had gained, do not despair. Your healing is not a straight line. You must expect setbacks and regressions. Don't say to yourself, 'All is lost. I have to start all over again." This is not true. What you have gained, you have gained...When you return to the road, you return to the place where you left it, not to where you started...It is important not to dwell on the small moments when you feel pulled away from your progeess...In everything, keep trusting that God is with you, that God has given you companions on the journey. Keep returning to the road to freedom?"

There is hope, friends. Tomorrow's a new day.

And now back to regularly scheduled programming...

begin again

It has been almost two years since I last wrote something in this space. That's a lot of life—ups, downs, and moving arounds. Even now, I'm in an interesting place, though not a totally foreign one. It's a place of ending and beginning, losing and gaining, fear and excitement. It's the coming and going of seasons.

I am heading into my last week of working with Aplos after three and a half years. It has been such a fun ride and I am sad it's coming to an end. I have worked for the best boss, with the best people, and that has made all the difference. I got connected with Aplos by a friend who knew I was desperate to leave the place I was in, but I could never have imaged how much better it would be. Since we were still a smaller startup when I joined there was flexibility for me to find what role fit me best, which ended up being customer support. Yeah, talking on the phone all day was surprisingly the best fit for me. (Sorry to all of you whom I've had awkward phone calls with—not even my husband is exempt from those. This really has been the only environment where I am not as awkward to talk to on the phone.) This season has been full of surprises and unexpected joys. I have been stretched and challenged and encouraged to keep growing, all while quoting Arrested Development daily and eating Chipotle on Wednesdays. I have learned the difference between cash and accrual reporting, about debits and credits for different types of accounts, and that eating a whole Costco chicken bake so I that can go "to the field!" is worth the stomach ache. I have met friends who will be stuck with me long after my last day. Leaving is held with feelings of sadness, nostalgia, and fear that can come with an ending. The overarching feeling, though, is thankfulness. Let's not overlook that. Oh, how thankful I am.

After this week, Sam and I will be headed off to Northern California to visit our ninth and tenth national parks: Lassen and Redwood. I see this as my transition time—something else I am so thankful to have since I know we do not always have that luxury. It is also, of course, a chance to celebrate that we have been married for two years, which seem to have flown by and at the same time it feels like we have been doing this for much longer in the best way.

Once we return to Pasadena, I will head into orientation, welcome week, and all of the other going back to school things. Aside from the handful of prerequisite classes I took online through a community college, it has been almost five years since I was last in school. That really feels like a long time ago. I am hoping that I quickly settle into the new but not so unfamiliar rhythm of being a student. I'm also a wife, which is new this time around. I am thankful for a husband who has supported and encouraged me to go back to school without hesitation from the very beginning. I am thankful for, albeit still working on graciously and humbly accepting, his willingness to "switch roles" so that I can be a full-time student and not have to balance a job of my own.

Sometimes I fear that I won't be able to bring enough to the table. If I am not working and have a schedule filled with classes and training and small groups, what will I have to give? There are times I feel myself heading towards the spiral of anxiety in the midst of this new and exciting next season, which is just frustrating, honestly. I have found Herni Nouwen to be a source of great encouragement over the years and once again he brings a refreshing reminder about what to do when the red flags and flashing lights of this anxiety spiral start to grow:

Perhaps the challenge of the gospel lies precisely in the invitation to accept a gift for which we can give nothing in return. For the gift is the life breath of God himself, the Spirit who is poured out on us through Jesus Christ. The life breath frees us from fear and gives us new room to live. A man who prayerfully goes about his life is constantly ready to receive the breath of God, and to let his life be renewed and expanded. The man who never prays, on the contrary, is like the child with asthma; because he is short of breath, the whole world shrivels up before him. He creeps in a corner gasping for air, and is virtually in agony. But the man who prays opens himself to God and can freely breathe again. He stands upright, stretches out his hands and comes out of his corner, free to boldly stride through the world because he can live without fear. (Henri Nouwen, With Open Hands, p. 64., emphasis added.)

So I am reminded that it is important for me to be willing to bring myself to the table, just as I am. I work on practicing what I preach about self-care and the great thing it is to allow others to help you in that. This is the beginning of much more than a graduate program, it is the beginning of a new season. One of trusting, hoping, humbling, and much more learning. I head into these next few weeks of transition, of endings and beginnings, and all that is in between with my hands open and eyes fixed above.

a thank you.

Based on the speech I gave at the celebration held back in April for Sherry's work and service at Mountain View Community Church.

I met Sherry Martin about 15 years ago. I was a fifth grader visiting a new church that met at Clovis High School. I still remember meeting a petite, soft-spoken, kind-eyed lady who led me to the K.I.D.S. Church room in Building K on that overcast Sunday morning.

Over the years Sherry has been a knowledgeable teacher, a gracious boss, a caring mentor and an ever-loving friend. I have been serving in children's ministry in some capacity for the past 11 years and it was Sherry who provided me with the first opportunity to do so. I will forever be thankful that she extended that first invitation to me.

Sherry has had such an influence and impact on my philosophy of and approach to children's ministry. She taught me through her words, recommended books and faithful example the precious value of a child's heart, faith and prayer. One of the books she recommended to me was When Children Pray, which I've talked about before. Reading and discussing this book with her gave me a fresh understanding of the importance of what we were doing as we served and loved kids.

Sherry has always been one of my favorite people to talk to about children's ministry and member care. I always felt that she truly understood my passion for member care--supporting, encouraging and equipping the Church and encouraged me to keep pursuing that. That's just Sherry. Even though it's been several years since we've attended the same church she continues to be such a whole-hearted supporter and encourager in my life.

I am honored to have had the opportunity to see Sherry before she got to join our Savior. I found the only words I could muster were thank you. It feels like there's so much more I could or should say, but that's another thing about Sherry, she always made you feel like enough while still gently pushing you to keep growing.  Her quiet patience and unconditional compassion inspire me to be a better teacher, small group leader, friend and hopefully someday, a parent. Her life provides such a beautiful example of what it looks like to truly love those you serve.

Thank you, Sherry.

valentine.

I've held off posting this because I wanted to have the opportunity to share the news personally (in person, on the phone) but I wrote this on Friday night, well technically early Saturday morning...


Today will forever be one of the greatest days of my life.

Today was Valentine's day. I have never really been a fan of this day, all of the  pressure for grand gestures and overpriced purchases to tell your love for others on this one day. Still, today was an excellent day.

Can I briefly back up to yesterday? Just yesterday night. Last night the following text conversation happened:

My best friend drove out to my house, brought me a flower and admired the moon with me for a few minutes. A flower on a day that's not Valentine's day--such a great gift.

Okay, back to today. Since I'm a list person, here's my list of what made today so excellent:

Today, my best friend started my day off with a quote from one of my favorite little books, The Little Prince.
Today, my best friend and I dressed up really nice.
Today, my best friend and I ate panang chicken and it was delicious.
Today, my best friend and I shared a pot of lavender cream earl grey while watching Downton Abbey.
Today, my best friend and I came back to his apartment complex to find my car had been towed. Note, this was excellent because a) it wasn't stolen b) nothing valuable was inside and c)...
Today, my best friend took a "detour" on our way to take me home.
Today, my best friend and I took off our shoes and walked around the place where we met, were declared to be BFFs (by me), took classes together, got to know each other, first liked each other (without the others' knowledge): Fresno Pacific University.
Today, my best friend told me he loved me. (and I told him I loved him)
Today, my best friend asked me to marry him. (and I said yes)

I really don't think it's fully sunk in yet...
that I get to spend the rest of my life, whatever that might entail, with my best friend.
I am humbled to be given such a wonderful gift.
Our prayer is that we will be able to serve the Kingdom better together than we would be able to apart and that our relationship would bring glory and bear witness to our gracious God.

enjoying now.

It's that time. New year, new outlook, new goals...new blog post. I can hardly believe I started this blog two years ago. I didn't turn out to be the most consistent of writers, but I'm glad I've at least written as much as I did.

Two years ago.
I was recently graduated from college and about a month into my first full-time,"grown up" job.  I had student loans looming and a heart pining to be anywhere but where I was...mostly for Portugal. I remembering  feeling (and often complaining) that I was in an awkward limbo place life--finished with one chapter, but not allowed to move on to the next.

Two years later, I must say...I was wrong. Lots of life happened during this so-called limbo time. By the grace of God, my student loans were paid off. I learned a little about designing and coding and a lot about what kind of work environment I want (or don't want) to work in. I met some new friends and became closer to others. One in particular being my self-appointed "BFF"(a story worth sharing...someday) who has truly become my best friend. I started a different job and was given the honor of helping out two non-profits run by people near and dear to my heart. I became an aunt to another niece and found out that there will be three more lovies coming this Spring. There's so much more that's happened, but the point is...the past two years have not been empty. They have not been simply for waiting, although there was definitely some waiting...but isn't there always?

Sometimes there are clear beginnings and ends to the chapters in your life, but I'm finding that more often than that, you're in the middle of the next chapter before you even realize it's begun. I've got a couple of practical New Years resolutions written down (in a list with checkboxes) but I think that one thing I really want to focus on is the NOW. I can get so carried away with planning and thinking about the future or longing for what used to be that I dismiss the life space I'm in now as insignificant. It's not until I take the time to pause and look around that I can see how very significant now is.

I realize this epiphany of mine is neither original nor deeply profound, but I hope it encourages someone as it has encouraged me.

Happy New Year!

Just because I never tire of this view, from our most recent trip to Yosemite.

starting on Someday.

It wasn't too long after I started college that I knew I wanted to work in missionary/member care. Through conversations with missionaries I served with and my own experiences with re-entry and debriefing, I saw a need for a holistic approach to the way we take care of the Body—and I wanted to be a part of meeting that need.  Throughout my time in college missionary care remained something I hoped I'd get to be a part of...someday.  Someday, when I've finished college. Someday when I've had more experience. Someday when I'm better equipped.

Someday, someday someday...

During my final semester of college I realized that I didn't know what master's degree I would or should pursue or if I even wanted/needed another degree. The thought of going into more debt, investing more time and money on something that I didn't know if I wanted or needed seemed unwise. 

So, I didn't. I was blessed to find a job before I even graduated and started a week after that. It wasn't what I wanted to do forever, definitely not a career I wanted to build my life around, but I was working full time—a cherished gift for a recent college grad.

But even though this job allowed me to pay off my student loans and start saving a bit of money, the yearning for Someday remained. I still didn't know how to get there, so I just kept working and waiting for Someday to show up.

A few weeks ago I had a chance to catch up with two dear friends (who also happen to be two of the ladies I lived with in Portugal).  I always leave feeling encouraged, inspired, loved and full of potential after spending time with these two. They both just have a gentle and genuine way of reminding me of who I am in Christ and how they see Him working in my life. During this conversation, I was asked about my passion/dream for missionary care and what I was doing to make that happen. I sputtered out some roundabout response about not knowing how to go about it or where to even start and all the unknowns and questions when my dear friend reminded me,

"The beauty is, you only have to make one decision at a time"

So, I've decided to start being proactive about figuring out what it would like for me to serve in missionary care. I've started researching schools, even went to visit one last month! (Arguably) More importantly, I'm having conversations with lots of people. People who I respect and look up to as mentors and friends. People who have the degrees I'm considering. People who have a heart for missionaries and the Church and taking care of other people.

I'm not at Someday yet, but I'm starting to look for ways to get there.

here we go.

to do (and to not do).

Quite some time ago, my sweet friend Emery suggested I read this book:

That day, I added it to my Amazon Book Wish list and then promptly forgot about it until a few weeks ago when I picked it up on sale at a little bookstore in SLO. And am I ever glad I did. 

One of the things I like most about this book is that each chapter can stand on its own, so I didn't feel overwhelmed to read all of it RIGHT NOW. I breezed through the first few chapters, pausing for some "Hmm's" and shoulder shrugs, but I got a big fat  "Oomph" to the gut when I read the following from the chapter titled, "things I don't do":

I'm a list-keeper. I always, always have a to-do list, and it ranges from the mundane: go to the dry cleaner, go to the post office, buy batteries; to the far-reaching: stop eating Henry's leftover Dino Bites, get over yourself, forgive nasty reviewer, wear more jewelry.

At one point, I kept adding to the list, more and more items, more and more sweeping in their scope, until I added this line: DO EVERYTHING BETTER. 

-Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet p. 54

Now, this chapter already packed quite a punch but it wasn't until a few nights later that I really understood how necessary it was for me to read that.

---

It started when a very tired and disoriented me had an argument with my parents about something so trivial. Feeling overwhelmed, I fled the scene to my room. There I curled up in the dark and all I could hear was the booming voice in my mind was broadcasting, "You can't do enough. You can't be enough. "

I felt sick to my stomach, like my even my body was rejecting me.
I wished I could  get up and boldly stand on the truth--that God is enough, He is more than enough. But Instead, I just cried. Mourning over something I'd never had, someone I'd never been.

And then, after quite some time of being paralyzed by the darkness, I realized I was still learning what I had been hit with over and over last week:
it's not about me.

Let me be clear in explaining that this wasn't a beautiful epiphany.
I didn't just snap out of my pitiful state, get out of bed and slap a big smile on my face.

No, it was more like my process of waking up...which is the farthest thing from immediate. (Ask ANYONE who has tried to wake me up). I have stages of waking up including resistance and grumpiness. I need time. And that's how exactly how I'm learning this whole "it's not about me" thing--slowly, with moments of resistance and grumpiness. But I have hope that I'll eventually "wake up" to the idea as I find practical, daily ways to remind myself.

Coming back to the book, Shauna explains in that chapter how and why deciding what you want your life to be about isn't the hard part, but it's deciding what you're willing to give up for those things that is "like yoga for your superego, stretching and pushing and ultimately healing that nasty little person inside of you who exists only for what other people think."

So, the questions I'm leaving here are:  What are the things I don't do, the things I'm giving up, so my life can be about the things I've decided it should be about? (I hope that makes sense, it's poorly worded)

And the moral of this story is, LORD, I need You.

with open hands.

Sam went to a book sale a few weeks ago and picked up this book for me:

and I truly enjoyed it! I really appreciate  Nouwen's writing, and this book in particular had the added aesthetic of black and white photos. 

There were so many take aways from this book, the pages are already peppered with flags and underlines and quotes and notes have been scribbled into a notebook, but there's one in particular that has been showing up in my life repeatedly over the past week so I figured it was a good idea to chew on it a bit more.

"Praying  means to  stop expecting from God that same small-mindedness which you discover in yourself. To pray is to walk in the full light of God, and to say simply, without holding back, "I am a man and you are God." At that moment, conversion occurs, the restoration of the true relationship. Man is not the one who once in a while makes a mistake and God is not the one who now and then forgives. No, man is a sinner and God is love." - Henri J.M. Nouwen, With Open Hands

The message I gleaned from this, the one that kept making an appearance in my life this past week was this: it is not about me; trust Him.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, it was prepping for my Kinder life group.
The theme of the week? "I can trust God  is the One who knows everything; He knows what is best."
I don't know what I want to/am supposed to do with my life,
where I will be in a year
or even what tomorrow looks like.
But it is not about me.
I can TRUST God because He knows everything. He knows all of the options I have before me, and He knows which is best.  He knows my hurts, my anxieties, my sins and shortcomings, my joys and delights. He knows everything that I was, am and will become.

On Thursday it was two and a half hours of sharing life with the ladies in my life group.
Although we did specifically talk about the fact that "it is not about me", it was more than hearing and saying those words.
It was listening to each other's struggles and experiences. It was sharing my own insight and hearing a completely different perspective and understanding from someone else.
It is not about me, it is about US.

Today was probably the toughest bite to swallow. Today it was PJ message on James. My faith in Christ is (far too often) challenged by...myself.
My  desire to be in control
and know the plan
and find a way to make things (that I want) happen.
My plans, my way.
Apparently I still needed to hear it again: IT IS NOT ABOUT ME.
When I let myself get consumed in introspectiveness, planning and all of the unknown in my life, when I try to depend on myself, I grow anxious and ill and completely overwhelmed.

So the aim this week, this month, this year, this lifetime? Fix my heart on the One who it IS all about, the One who knows everything. To release my death grip on the plans and lists I've made and open my hands to receive the LOVE and HOPE and JOY that God gives. To let go, and trust Him.

fourteen. [of ten thousand]

fourteen.

I'm overwhelmed by His great love for us.

You bled your heart out
Now I feel love beat in my chest
How wonderful
You gave your beauty
In exchange for my ugliness
How wonderful

You left your perfection
And embraced our rejection

How marvelous, how boundless
Is Your love, is Your love
How wonderful, sacrificial
Is Your love for me

You put on our chains
Sent us out through the open door
How wonderful
You took our sadness
Crowned us with joy and real peace
How wonderful

You left Your perfection
And fought for our redemption

Yes Jesus loves me
Yes Jesus loves me
How wonderful
Yes Jesus loves me
This is love
You gave Yourself

twelve and thirteen. [of ten thousand]

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. -Sylvia Plath

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect. - Anaïs Nin

I made a decision to start writing again.
(Mainly inspired/encouraged by a cool guy named Dave)

And even though it bugs me to be starting on such a random day —a Wednesday, the 21st—this decision would be meaningless without action. So here I am, 10 months and 14 days since my last post, writing. Picking up where I left off...

twelve.

Praise God for bringing me to Fresno Pacific.
There are many reasons I'm thankful I went to FPU and near the top of the list are the professors like the ones above who taught, challenged and encouraged me both in and out of the classroom. I recently realized that December will mark TWO years of being a college graduate. What a blessing to still be able to call professors like these three mentors and friends.

thirteen.
How can young people keep their way pure?
By guarding it according to your word.
With my whole heart I seek you;
do not let me stray from your commandments.
I treasure your word in my heart,
so that I may not sin against you.
Blessed are you, O Lord;
teach me your statutes.
With my lips I declare
all the ordinances of your mouth.
I delight in the way of your decrees
as much as in all riches.
I will meditate on your precepts,
and fix my eyes on your ways.
I will delight in your statutes;
I will not forget your word. 

-Psalm 119:9-16

Praise God for His Word. 

One of my professors, the one pictured on the right above, introduced me to a new way of approaching the Bible. For each class he taught, he chose a passage that we would read at the beginning of each class period. Let me be clear, we read the same passage every class session. I remember thinking that it was weird and well, boring at first.  But eventually this practice helped me to understand that the Bible is the Living Word of God, speaking anew to us each time we read it. I was reminded that the Bible wasn't simply a tool or resource to use to write papers and tell stories, but that it provides another way for God to reveal Himself to us. 

Still on this train of thought; this summer I was challenged to memorize Psalm 121 with the Midweek Kids Connection team. Honestly, it had been years since I had intentionally worked on memorizing Scripture and I must say, I really enjoyed it! I loved being able to recall an encouraging passage to a friend when they were feeling down. I liked it so much I decided I wanted to memorize something else. So, I've (just barely) begun memorizing the Gospel of Mark. I know a whole book is a big jump from a single (short) Psalm, but I figured, why not? I thought it'd be a good idea to choose a Gospel, so I chose Mark because a) I took a Bib Lit class on it in college and b) it's the shortest, ha. I've currently got down the first...eleven(?) verses, so I've got quite a ways to go (biggest understatement). But feel free to check in on me and make sure I'm actually making time to work on it! I'm thinking it'd be nice to have it all memorized by the end of the year.

Whew, I can really tell I haven't been writing. Here's to hoping I get back into the swing of it really soon!

ten and eleven. [of ten thousand]

Here we are, the end of  a wonderful weekend.

I went to a show on Friday with my [former] roomie and it was excellent. Well, the two of the three bands were excellent. The headliner, The Head and The Heart had a really great set and I found some new music to intake from the opener, Bryan John Appleby.
I've been asked before how I "get into" a band. The typical process is usually:

1. Gotta dig the sound. 
• I have a fairly wide range of genres I like, hard to describe exactly what I like and why I like it...but I know what I like.
2. Scrutinize the lyrics
• Doesn't mean I have to completely understand or interpret them, sometimes that's near impossible. (Or actually impossible...Sigur Rós...) Sometimes the lyrics just paint a brillant image. But sometimes, and best of all, lyrics speak directly to my heart. Those songs that seem to take the jumble of my thoughts and emotions and put them into a great song.
3. Get to know the people.
• Call me a creeper, but I'm definitely in the habit of wanting to get to know the people behind the music. Even if I'm not actually meeting them, I love to learn and hear the stories of the artists, especially the ones who have written songs that really spoke to me. How does their story relate to mine?

Anyway, all that to say The Head and The Heart has written a couple of necessary songs. Songs that have lyrics that hit home. I couldn't help but belt them out with the rest of the crowd. 

ten.

"you're already at home where you feel loved"

Praise God for home. 

The kind of home that is more a state of the heart rather than a physical place. I think I associate "home" with people more than I do with places. My roomie is home. The Feavers are home. The kids and families of Espaço are home. My family is home. 

"these are the places I will always go"

eleven.

"and I am on my way, I am on my way back to where I started"

Praise God for memories. 

I know it's impossible and unhealthy to pine for the past, but I do think it's important to look back every once in awhile. To see where you came from and how you got to where you stand now. To remember and not forget. Look at Israel and how they were called to remember and not forget (the Psalter alone has so many other examples of salvation-history!)   So praise God for reminding me where I was, even though it's difficult to want to remember some of the places I was. Praise God I remember what it's like to be in a place of desperation. Praise God He brought me out of that. Praise God I'm not there now. Praise God I can see the signs and little red flags and have time and energy to do something about them. 

rivers and roads

rivers and roads

rivers till I reach You.