faith

Let her sleep for when she wakes, she will move mountains.

Today has been a day of rest. Deep and necessary rest. In the past 2 weeks I have traveled to Minneapolis twice, upheld approximately 20 social engagements, and gone to the studio more days than not (admittedly, painting is a slow process that refuses to be any other way these days). With the help of God, I survived Mother’s Day and, with the help of a(n incredible) friend, I hauled 7 months worth of garbage to the dump. I got organized (a Herculean task), met with my financial advisor, and came up with a pretty awesome plan. I attended a workshop on project funding, filling my brain and heart with ideas that I’m excited to let shimmy and shake into place. I’ve kept up with a spring load of housework (why does spring have to be such a messy season?!), hosted friends, and took care of a literal ton of animals (1 ton = approx 2 horses, 3 dogs, 1 cat). And the list goes on. In other words…

Life is full. Life is busy. Life is good. Life is challenging.
And?
I am exhausted beyond measure.

Every day contains a week, a month, a year. Or, at least, it often feels like it. On the outside it looks like not a whole lot is getting done. Or maybe that is just my own insanity speaking. Even so, I hold all of this in the palm of my hands with gratitude, the moments of nourishment as well as the accumulation of movement that has so easily worn me out.

This grief is such a strange, strange process. Emotionally, I’m beginning to feel so much better. That’s a serious step in the right direction. Despite this newfound strength, it seems my body is keeping me firmly planted in the present. I often feel so weary that I think my bones might break. Truly. Who is this shattered shell of a body? Lest I forget, I’m reminded in no uncertain terms that my current state of being still requires all of me. The wild blue yonder continues to place patience on the agenda and yet, even in this brief state of slow necessity, God’s quickening has already begun. There will be no rushing ahead and, in surrendering to this, I realize just how quickly a new path is being laid out in front of me. In truth, God is wasting no time.

In the next week, I am attempting a quieter kind of focus. My body simply cannot sustain this pace, at least not yet. May there be nothing but me and God and time in the studio. Nothing but brushing horses and eating a whole lot healthier and going to bed as early as nesessary. Hushing the pace, slowing the speed. Oh, sweet solitude. Daily naps and daydreaming allowed. My life: simplified.

But wait…all of this is just taking us the long way around the mountain. What I’m really wanting to tell you about is the way that things are beginning to lead me forward in the direction that my heart has been praying for all along. Where do I begin?!! The rain falls on the tin roof of my cabin as I write. It has rained so much in the past couple days that there are tiny rivers forming in the sand. A million minuscule rivers, all flowing the path of least resistance. With the persistence of rain, the easier those little rivers flow. The rain that was so very, very needed. Dear Abba, I feel you bringing me to a place that I’ve been praying for since the day Carl died. This prayer that I’ve been putting at your feet since the very beginning of so much loss. This intimate prayer, too powerful for words.

My hands are open, palms up…in willingness, in surrender. As though in answer, a month ago I met two women who are doing extraordinary work in Uganda. Since then, my despair has increasingly been replaced by peacefulness, hope, happiness. My life has not been the same since. I’m obsessed, really. I want to give myself over completely. There is more clarity in my next steps. God is putting the invitation directly into my hands. I can’t know where He’s taking me until I get there, yet I feel profound trust in the path ahead. I understand, even as I write this, that tomorrow might not look anything like I imagine it. I presume nothing, but there is one thing I know for sure and that is the way He’s been answering my prayers…all along.

“There is no patience as strong as that which endures because we see ‘him who is invisible’ (Heb. 11:27).” ~Streams in the Desert (Thank you, Jennifer, for sharing this).

My last journal is filled with so much pain. So much learning. So much faith. And now? There couldn’t be a better time to begin a new journal. To fill with even more learning, even more faith, even more healing. I experienced pure enjoyment in creating this journal cover today. As it becomes so very undeniable to me that Africa is holding a piece of my heart, I am letting God prepare me. If it is His will, I hope to travel to Uganda in August and, until then, I have offered my time and talents to do what I can to be of service to Hands of Action International from where I’m at. I’m also, with equal importance, praying for the energy to get thru the projects I committed to in my life before Carl’s death. I am grateful for the tasks at hand. This is sacred time. I would not be able to handle the weight of God’s gifts if I weren’t slowed down and protected by this timeline of events and even my own ability. I can be patient because I have faith that God is using this time in deep and gorgeous ways.

“God I trust you with all of my heart.
Wherever you want me to go, I will go.
Even if it’s not where I planned
lead me and I will follow.”

I look forward to filling these new pages with whatever is to come.
I love you, Carl. You are with me and in me and a part of all of this.
I love you, Abba. You turned my whole world upside down. And then you gave me everything.

Black and White and the Goodness Found In Between.

God keeps reminding me, over and over and over again, to look to Him and trust. And I do, over and over and over again. It makes all the difference in the world. Throughout every single day, through Him, there is never (not ever) the absence of hope.

“And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.” ~Romans 8:28

Oh Abba, You are the steadiness of my heart.
Lead me on.
I know you will. You are. You have been all along.

Anna and Carl’s tree.

Last month, the plum tree in my front yard burst into a burning bush of white blossoms like I’ve never before seen. In the rawness of my heart it felt like Carl’s love and God’s presence. My wildly untended to, woodland yard was a mess in comparison…but here was this little tree, aflame in white flowers like an unexpected message of hope. My eyes often rested on the tree and it didn’t take long for me to notice that there was always a little white butterfly dancing around it. That little white butterfly made me think of Anna, Carl’s baby niece who died just two weeks before him.

And now? The blossoms are beginning their slow process towards fruit. The tree holds a new kind of beauty. I am not sad for the loss of blossoms, because I know they will turn into something more and then repeat their process all over again. Grief wrecks everything. But then there is this. I don’t feel good or hopeful or anything easy today. But I trust the beauty of this. I trust the beauty of two spirits that I am still grieving for. I trust the story that is unfolding. I don’t want a happy ending for this post (because it neglects the difficulty and exhaustion I’m actually feeling)…but it exists, even when I don’t want it to.

I love you baby Anna. I love you, Carl. May heaven hold our hearts here on earth as beautifully as it holds you.

plans to give you hope and a future

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” ~Jeremiah 29:11

It is a time of preparation. My heart feels full and expectant. I sit at my desk as I write this and, outside my window, the buds of poplar trees have finally leafed out enough to dance in the soft breeze. Sturdier oaks are only just beginning their process of unfurling. And yet…amidst all this northern spring, something in my soul feels dusty and deeply pregnant. I let myself settle into this sense that God has been creating a special life for me all along. I feel that He has already placed a part of me into tomorrow and yet, somehow, every moment of the present is equally important, preparing me for what is ahead.

God is being good to me. He allows me this time in the pasture with my horses and dogs. I sit in the dirt and experience long moments of complete peace. I brush burrs from the horses manes and tails for the millionth time. I go to the studio; I meet with friends; I read (a lot). For once in my life, God has given me the grace of patience. This patience does not come from a desire to wait or from a lack of curiosity, but is instead from a knowing that He is doing the deep work inside of me that needs doing so that I might survive the rest of my days with my health and well-being in tact. That dusty, deeply pregnant self within my spirit knows something that my mind cannot yet comprehend. I am grateful for the way I’m being led forward.

In the meantime, I do my best to show up for the work at hand. It is sometimes difficult. My prayers, at times, still feel like desperate pleas for help. There are moments when it feels nearly impossible to tend to today when I so very much want the fullness of tomorrow. But I’m being taught how to strip things down to their simplest forms. When I want to crawl out of my skin with boredom or anxiety or just general resistance, each time, I am gently reeled back in and reminded to use this time to learn and to bolster my soul with His words and presence. Over and over again I am reminded: I am being prepared. I relax back into the flow that has been waiting for me all along. I find easiness there. Or, at least…easier. I quit fighting with myself and relax back into the gifts of now. Grace takes the form of surrender.

to surrender to God is grace…
I’m a slow learner, but I like what is being taught.

In the past couple weeks I have had more good days than bad. This is nothing short of miraculous. Up until now, I was lucky if I had one good day. But recently I experienced 2 and then 3, 4 and then 5 good days in a row. Then a couple not-so-good days followed by more good days. Sitting in the dirt has been good for me.

God is letting me get to know Him and this causes me to feel hope. I’m given glimpses into what’s to come and it is making all the difference in this tendency towards more goodness. I don’t pretend to know anything other than my own willingness. This necklace? It is a reminder. In this one little sentence, I trust, completely.

I’ve saturated myself so thoroughly in God. As I write, I wonder if I might lose a lot of my friends along the way. And yet…I cannot help it: There is no turning back. I wouldn’t want to. Something tells me that this path is leading me somewhere extraordinary…yes, even in this life.

I lost everything the day that Carl died. I gave myself to God. I vowed that it would not be for nothing.

And I do believe
God will make it so.

Dear Abba, I love you. Thank you for plucking me from my old life. Thank you for breaking me, however painful it has been. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you, through Carl, for showing me what love really is. I am beginning to realize that it was only the beginning…

Only the beginning of
so. much. Love.

JOY

I don’t yet know how to talk about this. I don’t yet know how to talk about much of anything that is going on inside of me these days. All I know is that something shifted in this 5th month of my new life. I could not have referred to my existence since Carl’s passing as a new life before now. My vision and my heart was too full of death and loss and pain. But, all along, I’ve been praying for guidance and, all along, that guidance has been undeniably constant. I have been praying for God to use me. At the center of those prayers was a desperate plea that He make the loss of Carl and my love for him worth something. But nothing has to be done to give it worth. The value is inherent and, all along, God has known exactly what He is doing. All along…there has been a plan…and I’m in it, Carl’s in it, you’re in it, this little girl, Joy, she is in it.

It’s no longer a question of IF God will use me. Instead, I now find myself asking when and where. It is requiring a little bit of patience on my part and, for once in my life, I think I’m ok with that. I sense the depth of where life is taking me and it is not for the fickle hearted. He is preparing me in ways that I cannot yet even fathom. I understand the dangers of rushing ahead and I know my heart will break irreparably if I don’t keep pace with God–whether that means moving forward or holding still.

In the coming weeks or months or years, I will probably be sharing a lot more with you about Joy. For now, I just want to introduce you to this little girl who is already changing my heart. That is her tiny little fingerprint on the clay necklace on the right. She is as real as you and me. I want you to know about her so that you might see the way God is working in our lives…mysteriously, beautifully, powerfully, painfully, JOY-fully.

I don’t know anything. And yet God gives us glimpses. A part of me feels incredibly vulnerable in sharing this, but I feel Him asking me to lay this journey out openly. And so…

Here’s what God has told me so far:

I’m going to bring you somewhere beautiful. It is going to be so beautiful that without Me you would feel incredible loneliness–but because of Me you will instead feel peace, you will feel grounded. You will feel connection.

I am the way and the truth and the life.

Let Me move you.

~

Simplify your life to its barest self.
You’ll find that you don’t need much.

Keep all aspects of life simple so that you will see My way.

Where you are meant to go, I will get you there.

Get radical.

~

You are going to find so much happiness that you’re not going to be able to contain it.

I will ALWAYS be with you.
Every. Single. Step of the way!

Live out loud, for others to see. Share it all. Share Me.

You will have everything you need, in all ways, to do everything I ask of you.
The things I ask of you are the things you’ll want.
Trust me. Even when it doesn’t make sense.

We are creating space for a certain kind of freedom…a freedom that you’ve never before known and that I promise you will love…you’ll love so far beyond yourself that, someday, when it comes time for you to die away from your physical body, you’ll merely turn into particles of light. You’re love will last long beyond you.

I’ll take care of your heart–through it all–just as I always have.
Bring it all to me. All of it–both the sadness and the gratitude.

You are covered in love.

There is an army of angels protecting you. You will be able to go absolutely anywhere without fear. You will go places where other people do not.

You will build a family and it will be brighter and more love filled than you can even imagine!

Your world will look much more different than the one now before you.

Dear Abba, yes…I am yours. I don’t know where you will take me in this life. But I trust you. With my whole heart. I’m in.

with prayers of grace,
Jessie
❤

Psalm 23.

The Lord is my shepherd…

I was letting the words roll peacefully off my tongue, slowly pondering their meaning as I did so. I woke up feeling broken, sad, a little lost. But the grey morning had thinned its sky full of clouds until finally giving way to a perfect blue. I was driving country roads out to a sheep farm belonging to a friend, on my way to help feed the bottle lambs. Little did I know that God had been shepherding me in that direction all along. Not understanding the depth of my need until surrendering myself to the sunlit glow of Julie’s world, what did I know? A world of newly born lambs, attentive ewes, the flitting songs of barn sparrows. All that softness, golden light and energy. Oh, Abba…you knew. All along, you knew.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
forever. ~Psalm 23:1-6

Leah, Carl, and Diana…with Jethro, Bambi and Bashful.

The Lord is my Shepherd…Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I am not alone; I am comforted; I am guided and kept safe. My cup overflows. I love you, Carl. I miss you in a way that can’t be undone. But truly? It is well with my soul. And, oh, dear Abba, I am thankful.

5 months.

Super-saturating the sky above my studio is always an option, especially when my heart feels saturated too.

It’s been 5 months.

I never imagined myself being the sort of person that kept track of these sorts of things. Then again, I never imagined I would be riding shotgun with such significant loss.

Not too long after Carl’s passing, a woman named Stacy reached out to me. She was about my age and also recently widowed. She was 5 months into her grief and, at the time, I remember pondering what a great mystery that distance felt like to me.

I assumed that Stacy was a friend of Carl’s since, after his death, I was getting a lot of messages from his friends. They shared condolences and stories and, quite honestly, those connections helped (and continue to help) in about a million ways. However, in a sea of new names and faces, my connection with Stacy stood out for some reason. Not only because she was in the middle of a brutal loss all too similar to mine, but…I don’t know. We simply found it easy to lean on each other.

It wasn’t until finally meeting Stacy in person that I realized she didn’t even know Carl. With stupefied wonder, we thanked Facebook’s strange algorithms for our chance meeting. The men we had planned to marry had died just 3 months apart and were now buried in the same tiny cemetery tucked far-far-away in the woods, a peaceful place that only locals seem to know how to find. How unlikely. How strange. This new friendship, how perfectly God-sent.

My friendship with Stacy has taken on a life and goodness of its own. I am still in awe of the way the right people have come into my life at just the right time. Stacy…and others, too. Along the way, five months turned into some sort of mental bench-marker. Without rhyme or reason, it lodged itself into my head and there it stuck. I wasn’t consciously waiting for it, but I did know that one day it would just happen. And that’s exactly what happened. I woke up (late)…and half way into my first cup of coffee, I realized it was here.

I started writing the post above on April 8th. I wish I could have written more, but God said: “go to bed.” And, from there, it seems He is doing the rest of the work in my heart, at least until it comes time to write again. Five months didn’t come with ease and very little grace. And yet…there was grace. And a renewed wave of grief, complete with snot and tears and deep gratitude and more tears. There is so much depth and intricacy to all of this, and yet there are times when the human mind simply cannot construct the complexities in any manageable version of expression.

And so here I am. Showing up with undeveloped thoughts and a life that’s still sifting through.

What I will say is this: God is good. Even in the worst of it all, He has given me everything I need, every step of the way. I publish this here, now, only to remind myself that I am merely a work in progress. I am willing, dear God. To do this work, I am willing.

this easter is different.

Carl’s bible.

This Easter is different than any before. I haven’t been able to stop crying all week. It is Saturday. The day before. And the closer it is to tomorrow, the harder I cry. I wasn’t expecting this. The depth, the richness, the waiting this week has taken on.

Easter has become so very real to me. Carl was about the same age as Jesus when he died. I think of Carl. The memory of him takes shape in the sunshine before me. I can still see his smile and that goofy walk he’d do to get the dogs excited and make me laugh. Carl. So capable, so happy. I rest my hands on his arms and they are still so strong. I look up, way up (because he was so tall), and I smile. But I am just remembering. It is Saturday. The day before Easter, the hours of in-between. I begin to understand how Jesus, like Carl, was once a real man. How do I even begin to describe the way this changes things? I’ve never truly understood what this (all of it) was all about…until now. I wish I could have understood sooner…but here I am.

Just beginning. In the face of so much loss. Here I am: just beginning.

We stand in the Light of what we’ve seen, even when it is dark all around. We stand in great Hope, even when it feels like all Hope is lost.

We stand at the grave, longing, grieving and yet, holding out hope that the One who said he is Messiah will somehow make a miracle out of the mess.

And so, like the women, we come to the grave, broken.
We come to the grave, prepared.
We come to the grave, longing for the King and a Kingdom that is not of this world.

We stand, even when we feel lost.
We stand when all we see are broken bodies.
We stand. We stay. We hope.

Today is Saturday. The day of the long walk.
The day of the long believing.
Today is the day of faith.

~Excerpted from “Today is the Day of the In-Between” by Idelette McVicker

I wait to see where tomorrow will take me. And all the tomorrows after that, too. I give in to not knowing. Over and over I pray: God, I am yours. I look over my life and realize that I’ve been catching glimpses. All along. These glimpses. And so here I am, standing in faith. Available to whatever is to come. Dear God, use me. I am yours.

I Believe

There are so many things about you I don’t understand
But I believe
I keep moving forward when I’m holding your hand
I believe

The truest things I know
Are those I cannot see
From my birth to my dying day
I believe

When I’m old I’ll talk about the things that you have done
I believe
Brokenness made beautiful
The wars that you have won
And the storms you calmed in me

The truest things I know
Are those I cannot see
From my birth to my dying day
I believe

I’d rather have Jesus than houses or lands
I’d rather be led by his nail pierced hands
I’d rather have Jesus than anything…

The truest things I know
Are those I cannot see
From my birth to my dying day
I believe ~JJ Heller

I love you, Carl. Without you I would have spent a life and everything after…so lost. When you went Home you showed me the way. And I love you, forever and ever, I love you.

brown rice and spanish horses.

My eyes are tired. My heart aches. I’ve cried a lot these past couple days. It comes unexpectedly, in waves. It began last night with a remark about remembering a time when you heard the desperate, all-too-real sound of sorrow. I was watching a video with a group of women, half of whom I don’t even know. Oh God, please no. Not now. This hits too close to home. I brace myself against the inevitable. Carl’s sister, Christine, is sitting next to me.

I set my coffee cup down on the floor, grab a Kleenex from my purse.

I accomplish neither before I’m sent colliding into my own internal, wailing memory. The phone call. The one that has replayed itself in my head every single day since it happened. It was morning. I was out walking my dogs in the woods, at a curve in the trail, surrounded by pine trees, the ground covered in new snow. The whole world unraveled and all I hear is my own nightmare-stricken voice…NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO…even before I hear what is needing to be said. Something inside of me already knows what I’m going to hear and I’m screaming NO, trying to stop it, undo it, make it not real. Please God, don’t let it be real. Tell me I misunderstood. I didn’t hear right. Please, stop the terrible, unthinkable wreckage that is happening inside of me, my whole world. Stop this loss of everything in my heart. Gone. Please, God, no. Let me out. Let me out of this horrible, unthinkable, impossible news. NO-NO-NO. This cannot have happened. But it did.
It did.

The sound of my own sorrow. All these months later, the memory still deafens me.

I feel Christine’s arms around me, hugging me. I think my body might crumble, but somehow we manage to create a soft net in the outreaching of our arms that holds us through. I hear someone behind us crying also. These losses, they’re all too real. And we’re all too human. Profoundly fragile, even the strongest of us.

Revelations 21:4

Today though, the sun is out. It feels good/It makes me sad. Sunshine mixed with the warm weather of spring confuses me. My emotions come too close to the surface. I feel like Carl should somehow be a part of all this sunshine, but he’s not. At least, not in the way I expect him to be. My make-up was wiped away by tissues and tears long before I even leave the house. I go to an early morning appointment and then the studio. I drink my coffee with cream. There is something comforting about that, a little luxury, since I more often drink it black. The studio is aglow with the warmth of sunlight. I sit on cushions on the floor. I write for awhile, but don’t paint. I feel gratitude for the canvas sitting on the easel and its willingness to wait for me until tomorrow.

These tender days, they still happen. The sun continues to shine. My heart travels entire continents of emotions. I’m peaceful, then agitated, then grateful. I get swallowed whole with sadness, then decide to give up on whatever I’m working on and instead give myself over to editing some Lusitano and PRE photos from Spain. Yes, horse medicine. Sadness gives way to the grace and strength contained in those images. I am in awe of the beauty I’ve witnessed in this world. I wonder where life without Carl will lead me. My heart has been forever altered. Surely, this could be a gift if I allow it to be?

I try to imagine what heaven feels like. I attempt to plug into this feeling as directly as possible. This feeling of Home, I turn it into a map. A conduit, a pathway for every next step. In these moments, I feel closer to God, I feel Carl’s tremendous peace and happiness. I feel some of heaven’s presence on earth. It does exists, in glimpses. Only glimpses, all along. It is all our earthly selves can handle.

I get hungry. I make brown rice. Eventually, the cabin fills with it’s warm scent. I intended to make a vegetable curry to go along with it. But the rice smells so good. I eat it straight from the steamer I cooked it in. I am satisfied in it’s simplicity. I remember that I will be ok. I will make it through. I experienced God in a hundred different ways today. Brown rice and Spanish horses. Little by little, my heart begins to mend.

the debt of time.

Before Carl died, I had a problem. I apply the past tense to the ownership of this problem because in the landscape of grief it has, at least temporarily, been put on hold. “Have, had”…whichever way one spins it, these are both verbs and verbs are identified as actions. How appropriate considering that action is exactly the problem. Or, rather, too much action. And, in my deepest grief, too little action (at least by outside standards).

Have I confused you yet? Yes, it is confusing. It is delicate territory.

I’m having a hard time writing today. At the moment, I feel stuck in my head. I’m attempting to dive deeper into this topic of time and energy because of a question posed to me last week: “What is the importance of this social draw on my time?” The question is annoying. It doesn’t even quite make sense. It misses the mark. The question came about because of a desire to create a more purposeful, God-centered life, rather than allowing myself to be endlessly drained by the constant influx of to-do’s and over-extended obligations, specifically in managing my time and energy in relation to social commitments.

At some point during the most difficult days of my grief-stricken hiatus from work, I attempted to be extremely strategic about my time and energy. I was semi-successful in creating a new work schedule for myself. I would begin by working in the studio 5 days a week for 5 hours a day. I would bring my own lunch and be at the studio by 10am, or 11 at the latest. Other work could happen, either inside or out of the studio. The point was that I at least show up. This was serious progress. For the first three months after Carl’s death, I did not work. I was paralyzed by anxiety and sorrow. Not working only made it worse and yet, every cell in my body needed to simply be still. Despite the pressure of client commitments and financial obligations saddled against horrendous heartbreak, I knew with my whole being that things should not and could not be rushed. I was experiencing sacredness. I could work, always…but in the midst of my deepest mourning, I might never again be able to receive its greatest gifts: such profound closeness with God.

It has now been 4 1/2 months since Carl’s passing. It is a surreal and drawn out blink of an eye. And yet, soon, it will be five months and then six. I dread the continued passing of time. My heart aches at the thought of it. But I can’t stay here, I know that. As much as I’d like to, time is spitting me out into the whateverafter.

And with the movement of time comes all its accompanying challenges. The world and all of its demands come flooding back in. I go to the studio on a regular basis. It feels good. Peaceful. I am grateful for my clients and the work ahead of me. I’ve allowed painting to become a time of prayer. My original schedule has been unashamedly modified, but still bears tangible potential worth orbiting. Expectations for myself are both healthy and dangerous. After all, there has always been a lot more to my life than simply painting. Before I know it, I am once again traveling back and forth to Minneapolis. I am responding to emails, texts, facebook messages and phone calls. I’m packaging and shipping orders. I’m doing photoshoots and editing. I’m catching up with bookkeeping, applying for events, ordering supplies. I’m delivering artwork and scheduling meetings, coffee dates and dinners. I’m tending to life’s details in full force and it doesn’t take me long before I’m flung far into oblivion. As though someone grabbed me by the ankles and hurled me across frozen fields, disoriented, I come undone.

Literally. Undone.

Back I go, to a place that looks an awful lot like those first three months. I cry. Things get ugly. I crawl under the covers. I shut down. I retreat back into much needed solitude.

But here’s the thing…
It’s been a gift. All of it.
An unexpected,
beautiful
gift.

God calls me back and–in my brokenness, in my inability to function–I go to Him.

You see, my life is not meant to be what it once was. It can’t be. What would be the point? I am being led somewhere new and, in order to get there, I need to be able to tune into that still, small voice.

Life is constantly clamoring for me. It clamored so loudly that, 3 years ago, I left the city on a self-appointed “Northerly Painting Retreat.” I still have not returned. But there is that old adage: “wherever you go, there you are.” Yep. Eventually, even in the deepest of woods, my busy-ness caught up with me all over again. Even in grief, it tries hard to sneak its way back into my life. The only difference these days is that my spirit doesn’t allow it. I’ve become allergic to busyness; my body simply won’t support it.

And I want it to stay that way.

Love
Connection
Depth

These are the things I value most. I value God, creativity, inspiration and adventure. In my refusal to go back to the over-obligated trappings of my old life, I find myself needing, wanting to start from scratch. Since the birth of Stray Dog Arts, I have been booked out with commissioned work for 1-2 years or more. Things snowballed early on. It was exciting. I could have easily been booked out another year or two with travel and special projects. It was a “good problem to have.” These successes: I am grateful for every inch of it, even for the lessons that I learned along the way. And yet…I was also miserable, over-worked and burned out. Before starting my business, I was obsessively working on a graduate degree and teaching college classes. I never took even one day off in between. All along, I was single-minded, motivated, stubbornly unstoppable. I was also a workaholic.

Yay me? No. Looking back, I see the banality of it. I was generously well-intentioned, but what was it all for?

The gift of shattering is this:
I can start anew.

There is a high price to pay for busyness and it is a debt I no longer want to have. It no longer offers me the sense of importance I once gave it. This issue of time and energy is not about being more efficient. Rather, it is an issue of the heart. It is an issue of my relationship with God. God is love and love takes time.

Time is something hurried people do not have.

“The decisions you make create the schedule you keep. The schedule you keep determines the life you live. And how you live your life determines how you spend your soul” ~Lysa Terkeurst

A part of me wants to retreat even further. I go online and Google “distant mountains.” I’m drawn to desert-like places, the landscape that exists inside of me. There is incredible beauty, even in its barreness. I imagine a simple shelter somewhere far away, surrounded by mountains, sky and dust and not much else. I imagine languages that I do not understand. A place where the sunrises and sunsets are made of pure God. It is not a fantasy of escaping, but rather of entering in. And maybe someday I will find myself there. But for now, I know that God wants me here. He wants me to sit still. More still than I’ve ever known. He wants me to know this rejuvinating stillness even in my movements, even in my work, even in my time with others.

I am constantly subtracting. And, in doing so, I find the gap–between my debt of time and the holy present–finally begin to lessen. He refuses to let me rush ahead. In that still, small voice He guides. And in the quietness of my own heart, I hear Him perfectly.

I once again find my North Star. And, yes, it changes everything, to be quieted by love.