Leave a reply

This is going to be a quick, unedited post as it is an ungodly hour of the morning and I am headed off to celebrate a great accomplishment with a friend.  Later, Evan gets his hearing aid.  Who knows how much I’ll have left after that?

But right now here is what I’m thinking: Today is Saturday.  The Saturday between Good Friday and Easter.  What a long, long Saturday it must have been before that first Easter Sunday.

Friday and Sunday get all the glory but I have to think that Saturday must have been a time of such intense grief as to be almost unbearable.  It must have been, in a way, what hell feels like — the absolute void of God.

Imagine what it would be like to have God with you, right by your side, then poof — he was gone.  What sort of black hole would that leave in your soul?  It was, after all, the Sabbath.  They had all day to sit around and do nothing but mourn.  I wonder if they wailed, or did they do their mourning silently?

Imagine the dashed hopes, the deep depression, the absolute longing to just have Jesus with them one more time.  To touch his face, to laugh with him again, to be infuriatingly confused by all his sand-drawings and nonsensical stories.

They didn’t know Sunday was coming.  They anxiously waited to tend to him, to serve him one last time.  They woke at the crack of dawn the next day, desperate to go and care for his body.  But Saturday — Saturday was a day when there was nothing to do but ponder the incredible loss — a loss of a friend, a teacher, a trusted leader, a brother, a son.

And a future — they believed Jesus to be the one who would save them from Roman rule.  They understood the Kingdom that he promised to be gone with his last breath.

Imagine the horrible despair.  Friday had been horrible.  To witness torture of such magnitude would scar anybody but to see someone you loved — there are no words.  And Saturday the images must have haunted them, all day long.  They may have covered their ears to try to stop his screams of pain from echoing in their heads.  Shut their eyes tight to try to squeeze the images from their minds.  But they had to endure it, for they could not busy themselves with the work of the day, for the work of the day was rest.

They had no idea that Sunday was coming.  For all they knew, Saturday stretched out before them like a vast, cold, god-less hell.

But meanwhile, God was up to something.

Thanks for reading, and thanks for your grace for this this completely unedited, first-draft stream of consciousness!



Christians love tom-boys, too.

Leave a reply


I read about little Sunnie Kahle here, and it scared me.  It scared me because I am a Christian, and because I have a little girl who is a tomboy.  Lord knows, I haven’t always come to the defense of Evangelical Christianity and all it stands for.  It’s becoming clear even to me that I definitely land on the progressive side of the cross.  But as I read this story, I raged for little Sunnie, and I also wanted to shout out, Not all Christians are like that!


The bloom on his table.

Leave a reply


tulip w frame

Am I brave enough to write this?



Late to the table, days late in this Instagram world, where vitriol and love pass each other in the hallway with barely time to acknowledge one another.  So much wondering in my head about this group with whom I self-identify: these Jesus people.

I love them. It’s a crazy kind of love.

They infuriate me.


Memories of mission: thoughts from the first day of mentoring

Leave a reply

Yesterday morning I awoke too early with the sour taste of a mistake on my tongue.  I was heavy with the knowledge that during a short talk I had given the night before, I had made a joke that came out badly.  I had possibly hurt someone I respect and care about, and I looked like a jerk, to boot.  I was already exhausted by the long day that was ahead of me, and it was a big one — potent with purpose, mission dancing on the edge of being fulfilled.


A new frequency, a new vernacular: on reverse slope hearing loss

Leave a reply


One Saturday I awoke, life as usual.  By that afternoon, life had begun to slide a little to the left as my son was diagnosed with neurological hearing loss. Words I never claimed as my own began to slowly insert themselves into the vocabulary of my life: disability. hearing aid. 504. child study team.  degenerative? MRI. personal FM.

How do I explain this?  I was not horribly upset by it. More like “…Oh!…Really?


Blog Tour — My Writing Process

Leave a reply

I was invited to join this blog tour by Dr. Mary Canty Merrill ( ). I am to answer four questions about my writing process and introduce you to three new bloggers, who will do the same next week and on it goes.

1. What am I working on?

Right at this moment, I’m working on finishing up a blog post about my son’s recently diagnosed hearing loss and just starting to work on a book of essays about truth.  I know my blog isn’t really a true blog.  It’s more of a literary thing — I write long essays.  I have problems with brevity.  This is nothing to be proud of, I know.  But it’s my blog.  So there.

I’m also working on building my coaching business, She*s ELEVATED.  My work as a coach is incredibly fulfilling, especially when I help women break down the inner obstacles that keep them from being everything that God created them to be.  I love seeing the energy return to their faces as they confidently attack the things that have stopped them and find themselves among a series of breakthroughs.  What an awesome feeling that is!

2. How does my work differ from others of my genre?

As far as my writing goes, it’s really that I’m not in the blogging business.  I don’t usually write short, quirky little pieces that ask you a question at the end.  I write essays.  I’ve not monetized my blog (wouldn’t know how if you asked me) and I suck at writing for a purpose.  Truthfully, I feel like writing is a selfish luxury.  I write to work out my own faith and life, and the fact that other people like to read it is a lovely surprise.  I’m a little strange in that I like to talk a lot, but when it comes to what I’m really, really thinking, I can’t seem to make my tongue form the words.  Even my husband says he has to read my blog to find out what I’m thinking.  It’s true.  If you want something close to what I’m really thinking, you need to either be one of my best girl friends — and there’s only two or three of those — or you need to read my blog.  Or you’d need to be God.  God knows it all — the good, the bad, and the very, very ugly.

As far as my coaching goes, I work with busy visionaries who struggle to fulfill their God dreams. I help them to focus and prioritize so they can live out the dreams God has for their lives.  I love to work with women especially who have a really big idea on how to make the world a better place but need some coaching to guide them through the steps.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I write what I write because the words come at the most inopportune time, then take up residence in my head until there is room for nothing else.  In order to live my life I have to allow them to spill out onto something when they come, otherwise my world would be a distracted, swirling mess of thoughts and words and tangled up stuff.  I know that sounds like I’m trying to be so artsy.  But it really is the way it happens for me.  I remember once in high school I wrote a poem on the inside of a Milky Way wrapper as I walked home from school.  The words came — I had to get them out.

This is what I mean when I say writing feels like a completely self-indulgent, luxurious process.  There are some times when I read other writers and I’m just like, “Oh get over yourself.” I feel like that’s what I would say about my writing if I was reading it as someone other than me.  But then other writers — writers like Donald Miller, Anne Lamott — they write and it’s a generous conversation.  I aspire to write like them someday.

4. How does my writing process work?

My writing process is downright schizophrenic.  The words will come like a mudslide for a while then leave me for months.  I can not attempt to tame it.  The muse is fickle and rebellious.  The minute I decide to be on purpose about my writing she abandons me, cruel and heartless.  It’s a pain in the ass.

I can only write in the morning and I’m often exhausted after I do.  I get frustrated in the middle, thinking what’s the point?  No one would want to read this crap anyway.  I self edit and tell half-truths.  I write, I leave it, and sometimes go back and finish.  There are times when I will go back and read something I wrote a long time ago and think, wow, that’s not bad.  And I will see things in there — connections and ideas — that I hadn’t known were there when I wrote it.  I always like that.  At least I impress myself, lol.

Anyway, let me introduce you to some bloggers.

jazzyMeet Jazzy!  Jazzy is a God-fearing Mother, Wife and Blogger trying to balance the demands of family life, work and, more importantly, her sanity. Fortunately for her, part of being sane requires being a little crazy.  You can read more from Jazzy at




Meet Ali!  Ali is a personal growth expert and author who loves to write, dance, and eat lasagna.  You can discover more about Ali at

Our third blogger for the day was unexpectedly unable to meet the deadline for submitting their bio for this piece.  Please check back, as I will update as soon as they are able to participate.



Rise up, Warrior Mama. Rise up.

Leave a reply

monkey picI didn’t really understand the severity of the problem when I spoke to my husband on the phone.  I was in Dallas on business, and our four year old little girl was at home with Daddy, developing what seemed to be her first ever urinary tract infection.  “She won’t get off the toilet,” he said.  “She feels like she has to pee all the time.”

When the test came back clean, we figured it was just one of those things.  But she wasn’t getting any better.  In fact, she was more adamant than ever about having to be near the bathroom.  When I arrived home from the airport at almost midnight, there she was on the toilet, dark rings of exhaustion under her eyes and a rash in the shape of the toilet seat on her bum.  I knew something was very wrong.