The last few mornings have been cool and breezy, and rain is starting to bring our beautiful state some relief from the torrent of fires that have had its way with so much of the beauty God gave the northwest.  (Still praying for you, firefighters.) I think it is more than safe to say that this warm summer is moving on and making way for the fall, a season I love equally as much and have plans to soak up before baby #3 joins the party (P.S. How am I almost in my third trimester?)  But as I look back not only on the last month but on the whole summer, I realize what a growing season it has really been, what sweet lessons I am learning about my marriage, parenting my two very different children, and knowing God and his word in ways that move from heart and my hands from here to there.  And I am so, so thankful for every part of it. 

In the past month, it has become very clear to me the ways I fail to respect my husband, and trade his honor for my own well-being.  I would venture to say that we have had more strong arguments in the last month than we’ve had in quite some time, but that has also brought a really beautiful, very real repentance from me.  I married the most selfless man on the planet.  He married an incredibly list-oriented, get-it-done-and-look-good-doing-it woman.  In this combination, my default is to go and his default is to support.  For so many things it works, but in so many ways I’ve unintentionally elevated my dreams and ideals for what our life should look like over his.  So we are entering a new season starting over.  Every single day I cannot believe God gave me this man forever, and every single day I want to make sure he knows that and doesn’t have any fan in the world bigger than me. 

I also learned to say “no” this summer.  My middle name might as well be “do you like me?” so this simple act was really incredibly difficult to follow through on.  But I did it, and almost immediately God opened a new door that I without hesitation stepped in to.  I’m paying attention to myself more, to who I am versus who I want people to think I am.  With a husband, two babies and one on the way, a real teaching job and a ‘pretend’ writing job, friends who love me, and a teeny tiny ministry God is constantly growing my heart more and more for, my plate is full.  And I’m not doing the whole comparison thing anymore.  Really, no more “she has way more on her plate so I should be able to do that, too” because, no, that is not how this works.  I will flex and stretch and do my best to stand before Jesus and offer him a life that I gave all I had to steward my people and love all of His well.  But I’ve spent a lot of years standing before others and pleading my case for approval and I have to be done with that.  Everything loses perspective when I lose sight of Jesus.  And sometimes the most holy thing we can do is simply say “no” to a good thing so that God can do the best thing in us.

And a few fun things: first, let me tell you about the books.  My summer reading list has brought it.  Y’all, being in a book club and going through Make it Happen has honestly changed my life.  It was such an organically built and diverse group, and I think because of that I learned ten times more.  I also laughed my way through Women are Scary and loved, loved, loved Wild in the Hollow and Chasing God.  To be fair, Go Set a Watchman was not what I expected and I am still having a difficult time taking Atticus off my hero pedestal, but I loved the book and think Harper Lee is pretty great.  And For the Love was a perfect mix of funny and necessary, written in perfect Jen Hatmaker form.  But maybe the best book I read all summer was the shortest, most simple one: Deepening the Soul for Justice was a two hour read, but profound in its simplicity.  Cannot recommend that one enough.  My nightstand is already piled high for the next few months, just the way I like it. 

Also, did you see the sweet cards on Coffee + Crumbs?  The whole site just got an adorable makeover, and the shop is up and running, so stop over there and get yourself some encouragement for your mama friends!

And finally, college football starts this week.  Amen and Amen.  You all now know what I will be doing every Saturday morning for the next four months.  Welcome back to my life Lee Corso, I've missed you. 

This summer has been pretty great.  Turning thirty.  Sun-kissed shoulders.  Five years of sobriety.  Bonding with a new baby boy in my belly.  Asking for forgiveness.  Trips to California and Texas.  Harper's hair finally fits in a top knot.  Tomatoes from the garden.  The lake.  My first attempt at chalk painting (and why this will never be a DIY blog)  Cold brew.  Saturday Farmer’s Market.  My mom and dad moving to town.  And Jesus, with the sweet, sweet grace he offers.  I love Him.  Some days have been full, others have been simple, but I think we have made the most of summer.  And it’s been real good. 

I’ll be taking some time away from social media starting in September, because, you know, I just need to.  I try to carve out space in my weeks away from the screen, but as I did last year, I’m feeling like a longer break is more than merited again.  I hope to write a lot, so ideally this space won’t stay quiet, but the rest of the noise I let in will.  I want to be nearer to the most important people and things in my life, and right now I think that means putting some distance between the not-so-real things.  So, I’ll see you in pictures when it’s scarf and boot season, sound good?!  (P.S. If you mostly stay up with j.e.b from facebook, you can subscribe below and they will come to your inbox.  And that's as close to a shameless plug as you'll get from me.  Promise.)

Finally, thanks for reading what I write here, friends.  Writing is 95% for me as I think and process and fill this need in my life to craft something, but I will never be able to tell you enough what your affirmation does for me.  I don’t want to need it, but gosh, I sure am thankful for it.  Sweet blessings and lots of love for a fall season full of pumpkin bread, red leaves, chunky scarves, and maybe, just maybe, the most genuine love and friendships you’ve ever had. 

*no affiliate links used here

A big yard with room for lots of people.  My dream would be to fill ours just like this, talking about things that matter for eternity.

All of a sudden, I saw my exact reflection in Peter: devoted but selfish, committed but misguided.  And that is not going to be enough.  It won’t suffice to claim good intentions.  Saying, ‘I meant well’ is not going to cut it.  Not with God screaming, begging, pleading, urging us to love mercy and justice, to feed the poor and the orphaned, to care for the last and least in nearly every book of the Bible.  It will not be enough one day to stand before Jesus and say, ‘Oh, were you serious about all that?’… Am I willing to take the Bible at face value and concur that God is obsessed with social justice?” –Jen Hatmaker, Interrupted

I remember it well, the day I found the words that would start changing me forever.  Sitting in my office at Gonzaga University in 2011, an email forward from my boss came up in my inbox with only these words: “I think you would like this writer.”  That email was the link to a blog titled “After the Airport” and the author was a gal named Jen Hatmaker.  And she had me at her “About Me” section.

In the months leading up to this, God had been putting in front me a whole lot of, well, questions.  I had recently read Radical by David Platt and Francis Chan’s words had already been messing with my comfortable Christianity, so when Jen (yes, first name basis, it’s cool) joined that lineup and I read Interrupted and then 7 as soon as it came out, I just felt like I might burst at the seems.  Something was terribly wrong with my faith.  Maybe not my theology, but my faith; my actual understanding of living out an alive and inspired faith in Jesus.  Or maybe it was my theology.  I’m not sure, but I knew something was missing.

So I lost my mind for a few months.  The poor friends in my Bible study.  They sat through rants and soap box moments abundant.  They listened to me say “This is all wrong!  We shouldn’t buy make-up when children are starving!  Do you know how many girls have to have sex with a man they don’t know tonight!  Why do three-car garages exist, don’t even get me started on storage units!  I can’t eat that M&M, it came from child slaves!  We should all be adopting children!  We’re missing the whole point!”  And because I am nothing if not excitable, I threw away almost $1000 worth of MAC makeup that I had accumulated over the previous three years.  Just like that, in the trash.  Because I had to do something.  I can say in retrospect I may have been a tad dramatic.  (But I also had $1000 worth of makeup and only made about $30,000 a year.  That should tell you enough about my priorities).

I can also say that four years later, I still don’t think I have this right, this living out of my faith.  I have not landed the plane in a place I am totally secure yet, but I am not the same person I was four years ago. The turns in my life have been both sharp and subtle, and it’s only in looking back that I can see a change in trajectory.  Y’all, the tension is always thick in my heart; I would just love a formula for being ‘in the world but not of it.’  But I’m finding it is simply one step, one day, one Holy Spirit conviction at a time.  And it involves a heavy dose of a lifestyle that is generous, selfless, and maybe, just maybe, hard and sacrificial. 

So you can imagine that when my friend, Emily, calls me and says “did you see what the Hatmakers are starting?!  Katie, we gotta join them!” (hear those words being said more like a Mexican soccer game commentator than a casual phone call, and you’ll understand), Alex and I were not in need of much arm-twisting.  We read about the Legacy Collective, and our eyes grew wide as we saw the focus on helping not hurting, investing in local leaders already doing the things that are working, the commitment to sustainable solutions, and the most authentic desire to just do what Jesus would do if he had the resources that we have.  I’m learning that resources are not the enemy, not the sin in and of themselves.  It’s our hearts, our stewardship or lack of, our grasp on things over people that get in the way so much.  The Legacy Collective is helping me see this even more.

I have so many stories I want to share about the organization that the Collective is currently supporting.  Protecting children in Haiti.  Keeping families together in Ethiopia.  Empowering the homeless in Austin.  And a hundred more organizations that members of the collective get to nominate for funding in the coming months.  Because the Collective is about doing the work together.  It’s about using what we’ve each been given, be it money, time, or talents, to make a difference for real people experiencing real hardship.   The Hatmakers and the team they have assembled know their stuff.  I am more confident in this organization than any we have ever given money to.  Ever.  Our resources are going to the people who need them, no doubt.  You should join.  It’s pretty cool.

So I went to Austin to learn what this was all about, to understand what we had actually committed our money to, and yes, going to the Hatmaker’s house sounded lovely.  Two of my favorite things were in one place: justice and Jen.  She’s a real life hero to me.  And one of the most rewarding parts of my short time in Austin was seeing her life and talking with her and Brandon even for a few short minutes, because they are the real deal.  Their public lives are not a show.  Brandon cried a half dozen times talking about the work and the people supported by LC.  Jen made fun of him.  Brandon’s mom talked to us about praying that her son and daughter-in-law would always stay humble and she is so proud that they have.  Jen’s dad was the shuttle bus driver.  Ben and Remy jumped on the trampoline as more than 300 people filtered in their backyard.  It was like they said, “This is our home and our family and we care deeply about serving and you’re all welcome to be a part of it all!”  But this was all a bonus to the mission: love God, love people.  That’s the truest, deepest cry of my heart and I may fail in a thousand ways at loving the people right in front of me, but after a weekend like the one I just got to have in Austin, I’m reminded with a beautiful new fervor that it’s the goal and the answer to this life abundant Jesus promised us.   

Brandon Hatmaker told us that, “The church IS what it DOES.”  I love this so much.  As followers of Jesus we cannot earn our salvation, and that is such a freeing truth; but a watching world is longing to actually see what we do with that salvation, that freedom for which we have been set free.  So let’s do something, and let’s do it well, y’all.

P.S. I have to tell you this: I wrote Jen a note, and I actually gave it to her.  I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I’ve embraced my middle-school love for hand-written notes.  I am what I am.  At the encouragement of my friend, Ashley, who was there at the meeting from Atlanta with her husband, I actually said these words to Jen: “I know this is lame, but if I don’t give this to you, I know I will regret it.”  And she looked at me and said, “No, not lame.  Because I need this, I need the words.  Thank you.”  I love her.

I so badly wanted to stage a really pretty picture of my desk and computer, maybe with some fresh daisies behind it.  Whatever.  This is what my writing space actually looks like right now.  And Cannon has been watching Daniel Tiger for 45 minutes.  There.  Now you know.

“For my people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water.”  Jeremiah 2:13

These words have been swirling in my heart for weeks now.  I’m watching the minutes change on the top right of my computer screen, but the sentences are forming at a crawling pace.  It’s hard for me to say these things, to admit out loud my struggle, to tell you the truth.  But for the sake of my own accountability, I’m going to say it all.

Writing can be a little bit hard, did you know that?  Not the act itself.  In fact, for me, the word crafting is usually the fun, easy part where I get to think out loud and pray over my communication and see sentences in front of me that I sometimes didn’t even mean to say, but they sound ok so I keep them around.  The hard part comes from wanting so badly to manage the reception of my words from, well, everyone who reads them.  (I.e. Every writer wants you to like them.  Period). 

There is a little bit of non-prescribed magic in writing.  You have to find your way very apart from the way of others.  You have to speak your voice very apart from the voice you think will make you popular.  You have to pray an unbelievable amount.  You have to give in a bit to the unpredictability of it all, blow words like a wishing flower from your hands and hope they land on hearts they way you intend them to rather than being blown away by the wind.  Writing is obedience, discipline, laughing at yourself, insecurity, vulnerability, confidence and lightness all at once.  It is communicating something you believe in or simply want to share with others, and then it’s actually living what you just wrote and that, my friends, is one reason why I write: you all know a lot of my junk and I can sleep better at night knowing that I’ve been honest. 

I really do not like the word blog when used as a verb.  I would much rather think of myself as a writer than a blogger.  So I will say it this way: I’ve been writing essays for the internet for just over five years.  That means for five years I have wanted my work to be received, enjoyed, shared, commented on, affirmed.  For five years I have wrestled with the beast of approval addiction, sometimes pinning that bad boy with a “my heart is content no matter what people think” attitude, but more often being heavily beaten to the ground with a “what do people really think of me?” insecurity.  If you only knew what a hot mess I am.  Like anyone who does work that the public views in one way or another—a photographer, an actor, a musician, a you-name-it—the way people feel about your work really matters.  Even when you don’t want it to, it does.   

And that’s what I’m writing about today.  My work as a writer.  Because I might burst if I don't, and because I need the reminder.  Last month something a little bit crazy happened: a lot of people read my essays.  And some of those people seemed to enjoy them.  And it felt really, really good.  Better than I am proud to admit.  When I started writing with my best friend Kristin five years ago, the people who read our work were mostly our families and few dozen closest friends.  And that was always enough, too.  I actually don’t have any idea how it happened that a few thousand people found their way to Just Enough Brave in the last few months, because I don’t even know a few thousand people.  It can really only be that some of you are sharing my words (and that’s the absolute best complement you can give a writer, so from the bottom of my heart, thank you.)

Can I also share with you something?  Last week I wrote out my love story with Alex during a week that we fought almost daily about one issue in particular.  I cannot tell you how much your words of encouragement filled my soul after I published that essay. I was so thankful people connected to the story I told.  I always hope you do.  But in the three days that followed, I had two emotional meltdowns (I mean the sobbing, angry, threw a sippy cup on the floor kind) and actually used these words with my husband: “I need to go away from everyone.”  And Alex and I are still working our way through misunderstandings on the same issue.  Why on earth am I telling the world this?  Well, because I still want you to know my junk.  I am an approval addict.  And your approval of me is one of my broken cisterns.  You loved my love story.  I feel like I owe it to you all say both "thank you" and "we are messier than that sweet picture would ever let on." Like any addiction, approval is something that once you get what you are looking for, the high lasts only a few minutes.  A very few minutes.  And approval might well be the most fleeting thing in the world. 

You know what kind of writer I don’t want to be: the one concerned with numbers.  At the very same time, numbers are affirmations!  Confidence!  Cup-fillers!  Oh my!  A few dozen of my closest friends and family reading my words, awesome.  A few thousand of you?  Well please excuse me while I go hide because that is paralyzing.  Thrilling— doesn’t any artist of any kind want that?  And paralyzing—because not really, I’m insecure in my own expectations, I really don’t need any more.  And this happens all at the same moment.  Someone please explain that tension to me because I cannot understand nor manage it.

I so deeply hope what I am saying here is understood.  I fear being misunderstood more than I can say.  But here I am, just blowing these words from my hands: I am not a “big writer” by any means.  Those two words in quotes there are a bit laughable.  I’m on the left side of the bell curve here, I’m very aware of this.  But I did not start writing because I aspired to any sort of notoriety, and I do not keep writing because I aspire to it today.  I just write because, well, it’s what I do.  I was an English major, writing essays is, like, what we are supposed to do to stay in the club (kidding).  Honestly, I just want my words to matter for God’s kingdom, and I want my babies to have them when they are old enough to care.  But with even a little bit more than normal attention on these words and I’m tempted to write for the audience rather than writing for the One I’ve always wanted to honor the most, and that’s Jesus. 

Writing this is my reminder that the God who never changes is the only performance review that lasts beyond the short moments of this life.  And my writer’s manifesto is actually the same as my life manifesto: To know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified…to be regarded as a servant of Christ and steward of the mysteries of God… and to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which we have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.  Amen. 

Today Alex and I celebrate our 4th anniversary.  I know. Babies. In the marriage sense that is.  Four years hardly qualifies me for any sort of marital advice, so you won’t find any of that here.  But we have had a full enough four years of marriage and just over five years together that, like anyone who has lived, sinned, parented, loved, fought or forgiven, four years does give me story: one larger story of God at work and a hundred short stories reminding us of that very thing.

My friendship with Alex started in January of 2010. I was just starting my last semester of graduate school in the middle of Pennsylvania, and Alex was in the middle of a year-long deployment to Iraq.  So, that sounds like a great recipe for a meet-up, yes?  Besides the problems with the physical locale, each one of us had, well, junk in our lives.  We wouldn’t know the full extent of one another’s stuff until later, but I’ll spoil the ending just a bit: I was rather hung up on another guy, and Alex was not fully free of a life that involved a bit of women and a lot of alcohol.  Still, behind the encouragement of my best friend who had connected us, we emailed and looked endlessly at one another’s pictures on Facebook (whatever, I call it discretion, people; you know you would do the same). 

The email communication with Alex was easy from the beginning.  He was kind and funny and honest.  He emailed when he said he would (a welcome relief for the girl who spent far too many hours waiting by her phone for the text that would never come), and he asked good questions, things I cared about answering.  As luck, or God, would have it, my trip to visit my best friend Emily in Spokane, Washington, would overlap with the first two days of his two weeks of leave from Iraq.  Our first date was March 9, 2010, with the company of great friends who knew enough about me to know that sending me out on a solo date with a guy I had only ever met in words would be, well, disastrous.  Case in point: I went to get dressed for the date and walked out in a black sweater, jeans, and my Nike running shoes.  True story.  Emily took one look at me and said “No.”

Our first date was great, our second over coffee the next day was even better, and by the time I hopped on an airplane back east 48 short hours after I met Al, I was taken.  He was, too.  Mutual taken-ness with one another is perhaps the most fun time in a dating relationship.  It’s all light and flirty and wonderful when you occupy a space in someone’s heart and mind that makes you feel, well, loved. And loved is no small thing at all. 

But every relationship does eventually get real.  Ours did in July 2010.  Alex had been committed to a new life in Jesus and I had finally found the confidence to cut all ties with the other guy- something I should have known to do many months before.  But you know, sin is a hard thing.  You’ve heard the metaphor, but if the wound isn’t completely clean, the infection will just come back even if you diligently change the bandaid each day.  We both had more cleaning to do.

In July 2010, on his way home from Iraq during a three-day stop over in Germany, Alex found himself deep in the elation and celebration that a war-tour for a few hundred young U.S. Armed Services members was over, and he made a few bad decisions.  He called me around 3am that morning, told me through pained tears about the alcohol and the other woman, and listened to me sob on the other end of the phone.  Everything we both feared the most was real and right in front of us.  For Alex, his fear was his past.  For me, my fear was my future.  We both thought our sweet romance was over. 

I could tell you so much about the next few hours, and someday I will.  But there was godly advice from a wise man, there was prayer, there was an ocean, there were a few trusted friends who spoke life and not death, and there was a small spark of hope.  That’s all we needed.  I'm not sure that we have ever done this as well in our lives since that day, but we went to God on desperate knees, and He answered. 

The days and weeks following were painful.  There were more tears, a whole lot of insecurity, and discussions that you truly never want to have with someone you love.  But right there, in the middle of all of that, there was Jesus.  And I can tell you what saved our relationship in those months, and even today, was not our pursuit of each other but our pursuit of the Lord.  Only He can heal in the ways we all need him to.  Only He can teach us what love and grace are supposed to look like, and only He can make it possible to live them.

Alex and I were married at the park of my childhood, where I grew up pulling tadpoles out of the creek and keeping up with my brothers as we climbed from tree to tree.  It was a perfectly warm California August, thirteen months removed from one of the hardest days, but it might as well had been a lifetime, because it truly was the best day.  Between that terrible July night and the beautiful August evening, we had mentors and Alex went through a recovery program.  We read books about purity and marriage and we told the truth to each other- sometimes that is a hard thing to do.  Alex committed to abstaining from alcohol and still does to this day.  I’m so proud of him for that, because it’s not easy.  He’s felt out of place or just left out more than once—as people pleasers social events are often a lot easier to navigate with a beer in your hand.  But Alex has said again and again that his best is sober, and he’s committed to staying that way.  Five years strong.

I love so many things about being married to Alex.  I love that he makes me laugh hysterically and supports every single one of my dreams.  Really, every single one.  I love how he acts like everything I cook is the best thing he’s ever tasted.  I love how incredibly patient he is with me.  I love watching him parent our children, because he loves them so tenderly.  I love how he listens when I talk.  I love the way he cares for other people.  I love that he cried in the Hunger Games when Rue died.

You only have to be married for two hours to know that there are plenty of things you won’t love about your spouse, and yes, we have that list for each other, too.  (Have I told you that when Alex tells a story while he’s driving, he might as well be in outer space because the rest of the world is going the speed limit while he cruises along at 40 miles an hour.  Multi-tasking, not so much). But what being married to Alex has always done is make me want to be more of the woman he loves.  Our marriage most certainly gets tangled with rude comments, shut doors, silent treatments, and irrational anger on my part (see: three babies in three years), but when someone serves as selflessly as my husband does, the only reaction is repentance, and then to try and serve him better. As any married couple knows, the crap comes and your spouse gets the worst of you sometimes.  But when you turn to Jesus before anyone or anything else, He loves making the ashes of that mess something beautiful again.  Maybe more than anything else, being married to Alex made me believe that.

In four years of imperfect marriage we’ve watched two precious babies come into the world and anxiously await a third.  We’ve left jobs, took risks, and lived on a summer landscaping job salary.  We bought a home and a minivan.  We’ve set goals and made mistakes and had to ask for forgiveness from each other, from our friends, from our children.  But here we are, living a story that almost wasn’t.  But it is, because Jesus is, y’all.

To my amazing man, I love you more than yesterday, but not as much as tomorrow. 

*All of these pictures were taken by my beautiful friend, Laura, who is talented and generous and sweeter than I can say.

**I made Alex take these pictures for our anniversary gift to each other, both to document what is *probably* my last pregnancy and remember this beautiful story we get to tell of God.  He's such a good man for saying 'sure.'

Oh sweet July, you’ve been a month to dream, to talk, to play, to question, to seek truth, to laugh, and to savor.  July was the month my husband marked five years of being sober and the month Harper learned to take selfies.  It’s the month we hiked and played with friends and finally got a few tomatoes from our garden, and also the month we argued over big things and prayed for resolution that the Lord so sweetly brought us.  It seems like life is a pattern of heavy and light, and we are learning the best we can how to navigate it all with the grace the world needs us to.  As I look back on the last few weeks of sunshine, I know I will want to remember…

…the day we found out we are having another baby boy.  We brought Harper and Cannon into the ultrasound room, and as the technician said “it looks like a brother!” my heart about burst into pieces.  My leading lady, my sweet and playful middle boy, and now a little buddy to round out the starting lineup.  I could not have dreamed up this life I’m living, but I am crazy grateful God is entrusting me with these babies.

…that we are all dreamers.  I read Make it Happen by Lara Casey earlier in the spring, and then when I found out a few people I love had started a book club, well, I went ahead and invited myself to it.  Meeting with these girls and going through the powersheets has been amazing for me.  I’ve been getting clarity on what deserves my yes and bravery on what needs my no.  And I’m inviting God to guide my goals in a way I never had before.  The point of this book and the activities with it is to think about what is possible and be intentional towards those things.  And sharing the process with other people, listening to their fears and then cheering on their ideas and goals, has reminded me that God did give each of us— yep, you too— a big, huge purpose in this world for Him.

…the way my son wants to snuggle every morning. Mornings have always been mama’s territory, so when Cannon started waking up just ten minutes after me, I was mostly frustrated by it.  But then I realized that these days are fleeting, and someday soon he won’t want my lap anymore, then a sweet little routine was born: as soon as I hear him around 5:30, I make a bottle of milk, greet him with a smile, and we go rock in the corner of our living room for about 20 minutes.  When he is done with his milk, he turns around and finds a home on my shoulder, and there we sit in silence—with the occasional glance and smile from him.  The light is so peaceful in the early morning, and when your baby boy is on your shoulder, so is your heart.  When he’s ready, he slides off my lap and goes to find some toys, and I attempt to resume a little time with Jesus before the house is busy again.  But these mornings, just me and my boy, will forever be etched in my heart.

…that our words matter.  I have been more encouraged by the words of others this month than I can remember.  Whether they are congratulatory words, truthful words, sincere words of correction, or encouragement to keep writing, the honesty of so many of my people has been nothing short of soul-filling.  Did you know that every comment, every text, every single bit of love shown to me as a mama, a wife, or a writer feels like an instant reason to smile and keep going?  They do.  I hold on to every one of them.  So if you did not know before how full of gratitude I am for your words, you know now.  I only hope that my words go as far for others as theirs have for me.     

And lastly, I hope I always remember that God’s word matters the most. The last month feels like it has brought with it an unrelenting storm of confusion and sadness in the news, and the vitriol loaded at one another over social media breaks my heart as much as the actual events on display.  And still, there is God’s word, that calls to us as believers and reminds of the truths we desperately need to cling to and boldly believe in, as we always have.  Fear cannot take over our hearts when God’s words have already taken up residence there, it just can’t.  In our home we are constantly remembering the words of Peter, when he reminds us that “we have the prophetic word [the Bible] more fully confirmed [you know, by the empty grave and all], to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.”  Let’s not kid ourselves, God is so much bigger than our tiny moment in history.  Infinitely bigger.  And what He has always said never changes: love Him, love others.  His ultimate justice cannot be and will not be messed with in any way.  Let's not forget that.

Another full, wonderful summer month in the books.  We will be soaking in our last few weeks of sunshine before the leaves turn and the routines come back around, and I hope you will, too!  Happy August, friends.  Let's love well, even better than people expect us to.

This girl.  The one who made me a mama, who looks exactly like me as a child, who makes me laugh, who has made me cry, who I love more than the world.  Harper Kristin, the stories I will tell about you someday…

Permission to speak freely?  This week was rough.  Three out of five days Harper has put her little size seven foot down on naptime, and by 5:00pm we have both been a hot mess.  The last two hours of the day became a bit of a battleground: mama versus two-and-a-half year old, wisdom versus will, maturity versus independence.  Well, the battle should have been those things but I submit that it is all too easy to act like a two-and-a-half year old myself and throw maturity out the door for the sake of winning, and winning quickly.

On Wednesday night I put Harper to bed early.  Still in her Elsa gown, teeth unbrushed.  She did not get a book that night, as I explained to her she did not have a kind heart and she was speaking with disrespect to her mama.  Those things do not get privileges in this house, they have consequences. That, and I simply could not parent any longer that day.  Straight to bed it was.  I put the blanket over her, said I love you, and shut the door behind me.  And then I came upstairs and cried a little.  Because gosh, being a mama just takes every bit you, physical and emotional, doesn’t it?  I texted my husband, who responded perfectly with encouragement, reminded me that the worst behavior of a two-and-half year old does not indicate at all what their best behavior as and adult will be, and told me I’m the best mom for her.

And then, I prayed.  I prayed for forgiveness for myself.  I prayed for Harper, and for Cannon, not that they would be perfect children but that they would see the way God loves us and love him in return.  I asked God for wisdom as I raise my little Harper girl, that her heart would be brave and tender at the same time, that her will would be strong—just like God made her—and submissive to godly authority as well.  I actually prayed myself to sleep, because evenings like those remind me how very incapable I am of raising children without Jesus.

What happened in the morning… I could not make this up if I tried.  After a great night of sleep, I hear Harper calling for me from her room.  I went in with my usual, happily high-pitched “good morning, sweetheart!” and looked at her in bed.  Her big blue eyes met mine and she said, “Mama, I won’t disobey you anymore.”

Um.  I’m sorry.  What?

“What did you say, Harper?”  “Mama, I won’t disobey you anymore.”  Then she grabbed my two cheeks with her hands and kissed me on the lips.  Exactly what I do to her a hundred times a day. 

And there, friends, went my heart.

I squeezed that girl tighter than I ever have.  Not just because she was sorry, but because I was sorry, too.  We both forgave each other.  She will disobey me again, and she did.  I will lose my patience with her, and I have.  I fail daily at this job.  But there’s grace.  Amazing, amazing grace.  And grace, even between a mama and her fiercely independent toddler, is beautiful. 

I offer so little when it comes to parenting wisdom, but this much I know.  Our greatest tool is prayer, and our biggest resource is God’s word.  Harper may not be able to read 1 Corinthians 13 yet, but she will see whether or not I am.  Because just like love, motherhood is patient and kind; it does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude.  Motherhood does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; motherhood does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.  Motherhood bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Motherhood never ends.

Sweet Jesus, I am so glad I am her mom.  You gave me the gift that I needed the most, the one I am so privileged to have, in her.

Read more being her mom essays here. 

I look down at my right leg, the new addition of blue, plump, thick veins being forced from their home under the skin, pressing heavily on the surface, looking ready to burst right out.  They draw a mixed up map around my calf to my shin, and down my ankle to the joint of my foot.  They shrink and swell with my standing and sitting, always seeming most noticeable when I don’t want them to be.  Sometimes I feel like the weight of my whole body is being balanced there, my right leg bearing the brunt of the tiny one growing inside.

This came after the sickness subsided.  Less than two weeks after a pink line appeared in the positive box, nausea flattened me completely.  I dreaded waking up the most, with an empty stomach and no desire whatsoever to fill it, but knowing that if I didn’t, not even a hint of relief would find its way in.  For almost two months we went very few places, preferring the safety of my couch and its proximity to the bathroom.  My two little ones became intimately acquainted with several seasons of Curious George, and I’m certain our grocery bill was cut in half as the three of us lived on crackers and gatorade and the occasional string cheese.  Daddy was pretty much on his own in the food area.  But slowly, steadily, for a few hours in the day I found myself nausea free.  And then, like a miracle, I woke up after one last terrible night to a new person, with a newfound sense of energy and appetite and, praise the Lord, the return of my taste for coffee, amen!

My two amigos and I returned to life a bit.  I did laundry and put on makeup again.  We walked outside and went swimming and re-introduced ourselves to our friends at the YMCA.  I went back to the classroom to teach and opened my computer to write.  Feeling well is a gift I have taken completely for granted, that much I know.

And as my belly grew, so did the veins.  I’ve mentioned them already.  My bras are too small now and very uncomfortable.  My days in shorts that still fit around my rear end are numbered.  And my Harper girl, who still always wants to be carried upstairs when she wakes up from her nap, I can barely manage her now.  Twelve steps up and my heart is pounding, because we are both getting bigger.  I’ll spare the public a detailed reading of more evidence, but I will say the body certainly pays a price to carry a baby, and it seems to me that it costs a little bit more with each one.

Grappling with body changes and physical pain is not easy.  I had so few of these changes during my first pregnancy that I almost celebrated them when the first evidence of growing a human showed up.  But by the third baby, the truth is that it has been much less of a celebration for me.  It simply feels like weight, and it plants dreams of exercise and diet and all the changes I can make when I’m not pregnant in my mind.

And yet, even with the heartburn and the shortness of breath, the uncomfortable trips to the bathroom and unflattering bulge of color on my legs, those things are not the burden.  Symptoms, yes.  Reminders that motherhood means sharing every single part of you, yes.  But burdens, no.

For me, the burden—the weight, responsibility, and anxiety of carrying a baby—is not the things that make it physically hard.  It’s the fact that I don’t know how to do this, and with each new addition God blesses my family with, that realization only grows. 

The burden is that we are bringing babies into a world that is a hundred levels of complicated, and these little faces will learn from watching their Dad and me how to love like Jesus in the midst of it. The weight comes with the fact that our hearts break in a hundred pieces at even the thought of hurt, pain, sickness, depression, or anger being a part of our babies’ lives, but we know instinctively that they will be; that our little people will become big people who have to navigate life, faith, truth, justice, and love independently from us, and we are incapable in every single way of modeling those perfectly.  The anxiety comes from knowing that life is not fair, that bad things happen to good people, that sickness and pain do not discriminate and we cannot predict either.  The responsibility comes with it all, from caring far more deeply about the well-being of a life growing inside you than you ever have about your own, but recognizing that your care can go only as far as it will go.         

Surely the burden is not about my body.  It’s about my baby.

As I write this, I anxiously await the sweet kicks and jabs and rolls of my third little one.  He or she is quiet most of the time, so quiet that I get nervous, and I wait and pray for what I cannot control.  Despite what I thought, It does not get easier, this motherhood thing.  My body will regain some of its normalcy, eventually I will sleep a full night again, and one day I will be done watching my belly swell and shrink.  But the burden, the real burden will never lift, because we will never stop wanting the best for our kids. 

The only thing, and I really do think it is the only thing, that makes this burden bearable is to see it not as a burden at all, but as a gift.  Yes, from beginning to end, a gift, a miracle from God.  The nausea and the varicose veins and the soft muscles are a gift to remind us it is ok to ask for help.  The weight and responsibility and anxiety are gifts to remind us that we are not supposed to carry them alone.  We are meant for a village, yes, but even more we are meant for a Savior who told us as clearly as possible that he will help carry them.*

Embracing that I can’t mother alone, I can’t even carry a baby alone, that has been the only way I’ve found to survive.  But remembering that Christ is most glorified where I am the weakest, that gives me all the encouragement I need for today.  It puts my worry far behind my confidence in Him.  Our babies are safest with Jesus.  We just have to let him help us carry the weight.    

*Matthew 11:29-30

This list has been our summer.  Sure, we’ve had to work and grade papers and enforce timeouts along the way.  But I know I won’t remember those things as much as I remember all of the reasons why summer is the greatest, a little gift from God to remind me that seasons are a beautiful part of life…

Cold brew.  The last thing I do before bed is make my cold brew.  One cup of your favorite ground coffee, two cups of water, let it sit overnight then strain in over a coffee filter in the morning.  Fill a big mason jar with ice and mix with water and creamer.  Y’all, I absolutely cannot get enough of this.  Good iced coffee just makes it feel like it’s going to be a really sweet day.

Early mornings.  One of the things I love so much about the northwest is the long summer days God gives us.  The sun is up before 5:00am, and it makes it so much easier to crawl out of bed (cold brew waiting) and meet Jesus in the quiet.  Alex and I often sleep with our window open, and maybe it’s a sign of me getting older and more sentimental, but waking up to the birds talking to one another could be my new favorite way to wake up.

Open back doors.  Nine months out of the year it is much too cold in this neck of the woods to open any doors.  But summer, oh beautiful summer, your mornings are as close to perfection as it gets. 

Lake days. I’ve told you this before, but in the PNW, we summer.  We go out on the water before work, we come home and go swimming after work, we take days off to spend the whole week near boats, paddle boards, and fishing poles- we simply do this season big.  And our summer so far can be summed up with two words: lake days.  Harper thinks she is queen of the world with her little puddle jumper on, and anyone within five feet of her may have a tiny hand reach out and beg you to stand in the water and catch her seven hundred times.  But we have had the sweetest memories already with friends and family, getting sun-kissed and covered with sand, soaking in the gift of each other.  Because our people truly are a gift.

Hamburgers.  Truth be told, I spent my entire life not liking hamburgers.  Honestly, I have probably eaten three in my whole life.  Well, that was until this summer and this little baby bean in my belly, who cannot get enough.  I have easily eaten five times the amount of hamburgers this month as I have my whole life, and I wish I was making that up.  But you know, something about this warm weather and a big deck just make it feel so right.  (PSA- locals, get yo'self over to Crafted in Couer D'Alene for one.  My friend Kelly and I had a date night there when we meant to get salads and accidentally ordered hamburgers.  Not even sorry).

Hats.  Because I cannot pull them off any other time of the year, and no one looks silly protecting their face from the sun, right?  My straw hat from Target has gotten wet and dried right on my head so many times it really only fits me now, just how I like it.

Little girls in bathing suits.  Chubby legs in a bikini never looked so dang good.

My son’s curly hair.  When Cannon gets a little bit sweaty, or is drying off from a dunk underwater, the hair around the edge of his face curls up around his ears and neck just perfectly.  I cannot stop running my fingers through it.  Mama, Daddy, and big sister all have totally straight hair, so this little guy and his sweaty ringlets are the best.

Fire pits and s’mores.  The smell, the people, the melted chocolate.  I don’t think I need to say anything more about this.

Late nights.  Just to complement our early mornings, we also enjoy a subtly lit sky until about 9:30pm.  I think it could be God’s way of reminding me that enduring the winter is worth it, because once we put the littles down for bed we still have a few hours of fleece blankets, lawn chairs and shared words.  Just a few more of my favorite things.

Here’s to hoping your summer months are filled with tan lines and cannonballs and fresh cherries from a tree in your yard (that would have been number 11 on my list).  Viva el verano!

P.s. The Giving Shop is giving another $75 to Christ Kitchen/Christ Clinic this month-   Thank you for still coming back and spreading a little bit of brave around!

Is there a better place than the ocean to teach your babies about bravery?

When I first started dreaming up Just Enough Brave’s title around this time last year, I swear I felt like I was a pioneer.  Brave was the word God had put on my heart months before as I sat in a room full of women and told them about my very real ache for women working in the sex industry.  I told this crew with something I would call a false confidence (meaning I sounded more ready than I was) that one day, ONE DAY, I was going to do something about it.  I was finally going to be brave.  It was a liberating moment for me: putting my words out there to people other than my husband felt like instant accountability.

And it felt like I was on to something with my writing, too.  The wordsmith-ing geek that lives inside of me went to town with the semantics.  I loved the idea of being brave.  I am obsessed with the concept of biblical justice.  Just. Brave.  Well that sounded perfect.  Just Brave would have been the title but it was taken on the domain purchasing list, and then I added a qualifier and no one in internet land had thought of it before, and it became mine!  Just Enough Brave! I was going to pioneer a brave movement!  I am so creative with my words!  Everyone will want to be brave when they read them!  And everyone will love me!  And think I am brave myself!

{You are certainly free to start laughing here}.

And then this year, brave was everywhere.  It showed up in songs, on book titles, on my instagram feed and in Christian-women-blog-circles the world over.  I even saw a facebook status from a sweet writer whom I respect to no end and it said something along the lines of “this ‘brave’ trend is rubbing me the wrong way.”  And I realized, much to my dismay, I’m actually not the first person who has wanted to be brave.

Most of the months of March, April and May of this year are a blur of me laying on the couch with a bowl nearby.  Pregnancy just had its way with me.  But those months were hard for other reasons, too: I just had too much darn time and space to think about myself.  And so much thinking about yourself is simply not good.  My inner monologue was something like this: you should stop writing.  Who reads what you write, anyway?  Ok, maybe you should keep writing but at least change the title of the blog.  It is far from the original, creative namesake you thought it would be, anyway.  Actually, free yourself from this insecurity.  Hang up the words, girlfriend.  There are enough better ones out there.  On and on it went.  On and on it still goes, to be honest. 

Since last summer, my sweet friend and I have been visiting women working in a local strip club once a month and trying to show them just a tiny glimpse of care with coffee and trail mix and Swedish fish.  Last Saturday, as Jordan and I drove to our destination, I said to her, “You know, this still takes bravery for me.  Even though it has been almost a year, I have to remind myself God is here, that this is obedience, and that he loves those girls so much it is worth my fear to get out of the car and love them, too.”  Jordan agreed, and because she is just awesome, prayed a beautiful prayer and in we went.  An inner dialogue so similar to the one I have over writing usually happens as we walk to the club: who are you?  What are you even doing here, you can hardly relate to these girls at all.  You’ve been coming for months now and nothing has really changed for these girls yet, focus your time elsewhere.  On and on.

When I get inside my own head too much, I can convince myself of a whole lot of things.  That brave is too trendy.  That writing is not worth it.  That my personal brave is doing very little for the world so it doesn’t even count.  But you know, God has been so sweet to teach me something as I emerged from my feel sorry for me I’m so sick weeks, and that is there is never going to be too much brave going around.  Not in words.  Not in deeds.  Just look around, do you think the world needs a few less brave people?  No.  Having too many brave people around is not our problem.

Our problem is that it is just flat out hard to be brave.  It’s hard to share vulnerable words with the world. It’s hard to tell a story about women working in the sex industry that is quite opposite from the one much of the Christian church believes.  It’s hard to volunteer to raise babies who are not biologically yours and may join your family with a whole host of scars from their own.  It’s hard to move your family to a brand new place.  It’s hard to give away your time, money, and possessions.  It is hard to do a lot of things that God asks us to do.

But here’s what I know: he does ask something brave of all of us.  And this brave is a lot of things: it’s challenging and it’s scary, but it just must come with the sweetest feeling of grace once it has done its work in us—I don’t know, because I’m not there yet myself.  But there are also a few things it’s not: it’s not a competition, it’s not a judgment, it’s not a show, and it is certainly not the same thing for everyone.  Brave is between me and Jesus, and between you and Jesus.  He simply will not ask me about anyone else when my life ends and I get to meet him.  Such a beautifully freeing truth. 

So I don’t know, but maybe brave feels trendy because we are finally catching on to this idea, that God really has a brave thing for us.  And we’re talking about it, trying it on and doing our best to make it real.  Many of us are fumbling our way there (can you see my hand raised over here?), but gosh, we are trying.  Perhaps this is a time and place in history when we really see that playing it safe and building only a life of comfort is just not working. 

Could it be that it feels like brave is everywhere because, well, it is supposed to be?

Let brave be trendy. In fact, jump unabashedly on the band wagon.  Because if you be brave, then I will be brave, too. 

I went downstairs to my office, determined to “simplify.”  We have to make room for another baby now, and that means (gulp) my office’s days are numbered.  My beautiful, gray striped walls, big white desk, vintage chair office.  I spent hours making this room over with the vision of a quiet, creative space where words and ideas and inspiration flowed aplenty.  But now it is time to say goodbye, to make room for toddler beds and a dresser full of little clothes.  I have mostly made peace with this, because in all honestly much of my writing happens at our kitchen table, accompanied by my great friends Curious George and Daniel Tiger.  But there is one thing I cannot, just cannot, part with.

My books.

I had every intention of walking in to that office and coming back upstairs with a big box of giveaways. Instead I spent twenty minutes rationalizing why almost every single one of them must find a new home in this house, because I cannot let them go anywhere.

I picked up Cold Tangerines and remembered that sweet flight from San Francisco to Washington, D.C. in 2009 when I devoured every single word.  Shauna Niequist became the patron saint of writing for thousands of young women with her words in that book, and I have no shame admitting that I was—still am—among them.  I devoured Bittersweet the day it arrived on bookshelves, feeling comforted by the solidarity I found in her journey of many uncertain years as I faced two long years of knee surgeries and crutches and never-ending therapy.

I grabbed A Reason for God and was instantly brought back to a dorm room in New Jersey where I would stay up well past the time my little soccer campers were sound asleep, grappling with an intellectual side of faith I had never known before.  I looked at all my underlines in John Ortberg’s and C.S. Lewis’ books, marveling at all that truths some of the great Christian writers and thinkers taught me about a faith I had claimed since childhood but really knew only the Sunday school version of.

I saw To Kill and Mockingbird and Native Son, books I read as a junior in high school that changed everything for me.  These books made me a reader.  A real reader.

And then there were the other fiction books that I adored: Redeeming Love and The Help, books that kept me up late and found a way in to my purse everywhere I went; because you never know when you might have to wait ten minutes somewhere and could be reading.

There are the books that made me love teaching, think about teaching, get mad about the injustice of education in many places in our country, and then want to become a better teacher.  I am forever indebted to Jonathan Kozol for opening my eyes in Amazing Grace, a book I have read over and over and shared over and over.

Of course there is Radical and Interrupted and 7, the White Umbrella and Somebody’s Daughter.  I learned that it is a good thing when something breaks your heart through these books, and I discovered perhaps for the first time in my adult life that finding and loving Jesus means losing yourself.  I’m still desperately trying to live that out, but returning to these words always clears the path a little more.

For most of these treasures, I can remember where I was when I was reading them: the library at Arizona State; the starbucks in State College, Pennsylavnia; the hammock in my parents back yard under a warm, blue, California sky.  And I can remember many of those seasons; when I was in school or single or hurting or growing in my faith in brand new ways—sometimes all of those things at once.  I can remember the inspiration in the middle and the sadness when I came to the last page.  These books bring me back to people and seasons and places as much as any picture possibly could.  And I know that is why I cannot say goodbye.

Words have always been the most beautiful thing to me. They shaped me, encouraged me, challenged me, taught me.  These books that I love and hold on to each tell their own story, but they help make the story of my life, too.  They are the reason I write my own words, today.  Touching these books again has reminded me who I want to be, and what I want to fill our home with.  They have reminded me to turn off the tv, to let my kids find me reading and learning, and to teach them that it is a beautiful gift to give someone your words, your stories.

I want to spend my life adding to this collection, this story that books are telling me. I can’t wait to give Harper and Cannon and baby #3 some of these very words, and I can’t wait to learn what books become part of their story.  

I still have dreams to read some of the classics I have not gotten to yet, to finish Les Miserable in its entirety, to visit the New York Public Library and smell the old pages of so much history, so many words shared.  I have these aspirations to keep learning, and to remind me to keep putting my words on paper, too.  When I line up all the words in my life, the ones I read and the ones I write, I want them to tell the story of a thinker and hearer, someone who laughed and appreciated other perspectives, and someone who humbly submitted that she would never have it all together.  But mostly, I hope they tell they story of someone in love with Jesus and longing above everything else to know who He really is.

So let’s keep reading, y’all.  Books are still a greater invention than the smart phone.