Taryn R. Hutchison's Blog: The Glorious Muddle, page 36
May 21, 2012
Finding Your Passion
I’m feeling disillusioned. My last blog sparked some conversations with people about what makes them glad in life and what makes them glad in their vocation. The conclusion: a lot of us are in jobs that don’t exactly fit.
As an idealistic art major, my studies were never about finding a job for anything as crass as money, but doing work that expressed who I am. Once Christ captured my heart, He gave me a passion for molding something that would last a lot longer than a clay pot, namely hearts of college students. I became so caught up in the greatness of that work that I sometimes forgot my deep yearning to create. Again, money never factored in. Later in life, when I realized my lopsided life lacked creative expression, I began to pursue writing - not for the royalty checks but for the joy of knowing that I was giving language to what God had put into my heart to be shared.
Somehow I’ve let that passion become smothered. Time for writing is stuffed into the corners of my busy life now, with the endless demands on writers today draining me of the joy I once felt. Gone are the days of authors holed up in a lakeside cabin, withdrawing from all but their craft. The pressure is intense. I must expand my on-line presence. Make my website snazzier. Keep up with social media. Maintain my sales reports. Be diligent to set up speaking engagements. Network and pitch at writers’ conferences. Blog frequently. And switch gears to write at least 2,000 new words a day. Agh! I can’t breathe.
Not only do these activities suck the pleasure dry, but each one comes with a steep price tag. OK, so I never intended to get rich writing, but I don’t really want to lose money either.
How do I make time to write – just write? How do I get back to the pure, simple joy of letting words flow through my fingertips, of trying to lasso ideas and give them expression, of writing fearlessly without any thought of editing? I used to feel passionate about writing. The 18 months I spent writing my book were some of the best of my life; I felt sad when it was completed, as though a good friend were leaving. Now the process feels burdensome because it’s morphed into two aspects that do NOT bring me gladness: technology and business.
As I asked some friends what they are passionate about, some didn’t even know. Maybe passion is a bit too strong if you like accounting, but everyone has something that brings gladness. What can you do to recapture that, to make it part of your life again, to give it centrality in your life? We find our calling in the place where gladness resides. To paraphrase Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire: “When I run (or write or paint or whatever it is for you), I feel His pleasure.” That’s where I want to be.
As an idealistic art major, my studies were never about finding a job for anything as crass as money, but doing work that expressed who I am. Once Christ captured my heart, He gave me a passion for molding something that would last a lot longer than a clay pot, namely hearts of college students. I became so caught up in the greatness of that work that I sometimes forgot my deep yearning to create. Again, money never factored in. Later in life, when I realized my lopsided life lacked creative expression, I began to pursue writing - not for the royalty checks but for the joy of knowing that I was giving language to what God had put into my heart to be shared.
Somehow I’ve let that passion become smothered. Time for writing is stuffed into the corners of my busy life now, with the endless demands on writers today draining me of the joy I once felt. Gone are the days of authors holed up in a lakeside cabin, withdrawing from all but their craft. The pressure is intense. I must expand my on-line presence. Make my website snazzier. Keep up with social media. Maintain my sales reports. Be diligent to set up speaking engagements. Network and pitch at writers’ conferences. Blog frequently. And switch gears to write at least 2,000 new words a day. Agh! I can’t breathe.
Not only do these activities suck the pleasure dry, but each one comes with a steep price tag. OK, so I never intended to get rich writing, but I don’t really want to lose money either.
How do I make time to write – just write? How do I get back to the pure, simple joy of letting words flow through my fingertips, of trying to lasso ideas and give them expression, of writing fearlessly without any thought of editing? I used to feel passionate about writing. The 18 months I spent writing my book were some of the best of my life; I felt sad when it was completed, as though a good friend were leaving. Now the process feels burdensome because it’s morphed into two aspects that do NOT bring me gladness: technology and business.
As I asked some friends what they are passionate about, some didn’t even know. Maybe passion is a bit too strong if you like accounting, but everyone has something that brings gladness. What can you do to recapture that, to make it part of your life again, to give it centrality in your life? We find our calling in the place where gladness resides. To paraphrase Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire: “When I run (or write or paint or whatever it is for you), I feel His pleasure.” That’s where I want to be.
May 10, 2012
For all the Graduates Everywhere
Congratulations, graduates! I'd like to share with you my favorite graduation/choosing a life's work quote from Frederick Buechner. What makes you glad?
The voice we should listen to most as we choose a vocation is the voice that we might think we should listen to least, and that is the voice of our own gladness. What can we do that makes us the gladdest, what can we do that leaves us with the strongest sense of sailing true north and of peace, which is much of what gladness is? Is it making things with our hands out of wood or stone or paint or canvas? Or is it making something we hope like truth out of words? Or is it making people laugh or weep in a way that cleanses their spirit? I believe that if it is a thing that makes us truly glad, then it is a good thing and it is our thing and it is the calling voice that we were made to answer with our lives . . . .
The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.
The voice we should listen to most as we choose a vocation is the voice that we might think we should listen to least, and that is the voice of our own gladness. What can we do that makes us the gladdest, what can we do that leaves us with the strongest sense of sailing true north and of peace, which is much of what gladness is? Is it making things with our hands out of wood or stone or paint or canvas? Or is it making something we hope like truth out of words? Or is it making people laugh or weep in a way that cleanses their spirit? I believe that if it is a thing that makes us truly glad, then it is a good thing and it is our thing and it is the calling voice that we were made to answer with our lives . . . .
The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.
May 8, 2012
Failing as a Southerner
To all my friends who thought, “No way! Taryn can’t live in the South!” when they heard where Steve and I were planning to settle, you were right. The first year and a half that I lived here - while I was unemployed, doing freelance writing from home, building connections in my community (with nothing more taxing than meeting people for coffee at The Grind), unleashing my long-suppressed gift of interior decorating – it was all working for me. I was nice. I was polite. People liked me.
Then I got a job. With it came the pressure of deadlines. My latent commandant tendencies, like a sleeping cat, ready to awaken at any moment and pounce with claws extended, came alive. Action beckoned. Unencumbered by a driving need to please people, I quickly put an end to my office’s typical sweet response of, “You’re fine. True, Graduation is in two days and the printer did suggest last week as the deadline, but if you want to send in your information tomorrow, that’s OK. I’m more than happy to stay up all night typing it for you and I’m sure the printer wouldn’t mind missing a couple nights of sleep either.”
My mild-mannered garb thrown aside, I turned into that person I try my whole life to squelch – the Field Marshal. I set deadlines. I moved deadlines up a week for the chronically late. I hounded people about deadlines. And I got everything to the printer exactly on schedule. What was the fallout? For sure, my secret identity has been revealed and there’s no hiding anymore. I even heard the whispers, “Well, bless her heart. She can’t help it. She’s from the . . . . North.” But did I hurt anyone’s feelings?
Somehow, one of my lifelong challenges is how to express my gifts and let them shine without steamrolling over people, how to be who God created me to be in the power of the Holy Spirit. Sometimes, it’s the other person’s problem. I mean, callously disregarding deadlines is sort of (gasp!) inconsiderate, isn’t it? But more often than not, it’s me who needs to change. Impatience turns into rudeness, which calls for me to confess and ask forgiveness. I moved to the South hoping that some of the Southern niceness will rub off on me. I feel like I’ve failed. My sweet Southern friends, with their cultural bent toward extending grace, will try to assure me that I haven’t. They may even say that they need someone like me. I’m not so sure.
Then I got a job. With it came the pressure of deadlines. My latent commandant tendencies, like a sleeping cat, ready to awaken at any moment and pounce with claws extended, came alive. Action beckoned. Unencumbered by a driving need to please people, I quickly put an end to my office’s typical sweet response of, “You’re fine. True, Graduation is in two days and the printer did suggest last week as the deadline, but if you want to send in your information tomorrow, that’s OK. I’m more than happy to stay up all night typing it for you and I’m sure the printer wouldn’t mind missing a couple nights of sleep either.”
My mild-mannered garb thrown aside, I turned into that person I try my whole life to squelch – the Field Marshal. I set deadlines. I moved deadlines up a week for the chronically late. I hounded people about deadlines. And I got everything to the printer exactly on schedule. What was the fallout? For sure, my secret identity has been revealed and there’s no hiding anymore. I even heard the whispers, “Well, bless her heart. She can’t help it. She’s from the . . . . North.” But did I hurt anyone’s feelings?
Somehow, one of my lifelong challenges is how to express my gifts and let them shine without steamrolling over people, how to be who God created me to be in the power of the Holy Spirit. Sometimes, it’s the other person’s problem. I mean, callously disregarding deadlines is sort of (gasp!) inconsiderate, isn’t it? But more often than not, it’s me who needs to change. Impatience turns into rudeness, which calls for me to confess and ask forgiveness. I moved to the South hoping that some of the Southern niceness will rub off on me. I feel like I’ve failed. My sweet Southern friends, with their cultural bent toward extending grace, will try to assure me that I haven’t. They may even say that they need someone like me. I’m not so sure.
May 1, 2012
My First Ever Writing Award
I'm thrilled! I've just won my first writing award. Check it out:
http://www.amyfound.org/amy_writing_awards/writings/2011Hutchison.html
The Amy Foundation chooses articles published in the secular press that promote a Biblical world view. They attempt to "recognize creative, skillful writing that applies in a sensitive, thought-provoking manner the biblical principles to issues affecting the world today, with an emphasis on discipling." I feel so honored to have my article selected for such a noble purpose.
It's also a mark of validation. My first published writing happened in 2003, when Women of the Harvest asked me to write about a topic I frequently spoke on – contentment for single women. That launched me on my writing path that I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl filling notebook upon notebook with stories. At that point, I started going to writers’ conferences and studying books about writing, trying to learn as much as I possibly could about the craft. Then I began to pursue this calling in earnest in January, 2006 (even cutting my hours at work to free up one day per week designated for writing). In the six years since then, I have published one book (and had it translated and re-published), three short stories in anthology books, and countless articles and blogs. It’s been a long haul and I’m humbled and thoroughly excited by this award.
http://www.amyfound.org/amy_writing_awards/writings/2011Hutchison.html
The Amy Foundation chooses articles published in the secular press that promote a Biblical world view. They attempt to "recognize creative, skillful writing that applies in a sensitive, thought-provoking manner the biblical principles to issues affecting the world today, with an emphasis on discipling." I feel so honored to have my article selected for such a noble purpose.
It's also a mark of validation. My first published writing happened in 2003, when Women of the Harvest asked me to write about a topic I frequently spoke on – contentment for single women. That launched me on my writing path that I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl filling notebook upon notebook with stories. At that point, I started going to writers’ conferences and studying books about writing, trying to learn as much as I possibly could about the craft. Then I began to pursue this calling in earnest in January, 2006 (even cutting my hours at work to free up one day per week designated for writing). In the six years since then, I have published one book (and had it translated and re-published), three short stories in anthology books, and countless articles and blogs. It’s been a long haul and I’m humbled and thoroughly excited by this award.
April 27, 2012
It's Crunch Time!
I am now completely embroiled in the busiest time of the year for me in my new job. Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I'll take busy over boring any day. My big responsibility right now is printing the programs for all three graduation ceremonies - and the names of graduates, award winners, and who does what literally changes by the hour.
Meanwhile, the students are in their final week of classes, about to begin exams and head out for their summer adventures. Every lunch break is filled with final appointments with students in Cru (Campus Crusade). Several are graduating, and about 25 are going on projects all over the U.S. and world. I'll miss them, and the campus will probably feel like a ghost town once they have left.
It's an exciting time. If a few more days than usual pass between my posts, you'll know why. Hope you are surviving your own crunch time.
Meanwhile, the students are in their final week of classes, about to begin exams and head out for their summer adventures. Every lunch break is filled with final appointments with students in Cru (Campus Crusade). Several are graduating, and about 25 are going on projects all over the U.S. and world. I'll miss them, and the campus will probably feel like a ghost town once they have left.
It's an exciting time. If a few more days than usual pass between my posts, you'll know why. Hope you are surviving your own crunch time.
April 18, 2012
Holocaust Remembrance Day
Tonight (April 18) at sundown starts the internationally recognized Holocaust Remembrance Day. The date comes from the Hebrew calendar and corresponds to the 27th day of Nisan. It marks the anniversary of the Warsaw ghetto uprising. In Hebrew, Holocaust Remembrance Day is called Yom Hashoah.
In light of this solemn day of reflection, I will repost a blog I wrote from Krakow, after visiting Auschwitz last spring.
June 6, 2011:
It's been well over a week since we were in Auschwitz. I've needed time to process and couldn't write about what I saw there until now.
This was my second visit to Auschwitz. This time, green grass and tour buses seemed incongruous with death. The last time, in winter in the early 1990s, the starkness was appropriately tangible. The season of the year and the season in Poland's recovery from Communist oppression had added up to few visitors. There had been no signs asking people to be respectfully quiet; yet silence had wrapped us in its black cloak as we walked under the infamous "Arbeit macht frei" sign.
Approximately 1.2 million people entered the dual death and concentration camp of Auschwitz; one million did not leave. The few survivors endured unspeakable, inhuman torture. We saw piles of eyeglasses, hair, children's clothes. Hardest for me to view were the photographs taken of prisoners as they entered. Their haunting eyes pierced and convicted. When liberated, those eyes had become apathetic, sunken in the bodies of skeletons.
During this trip, Steve and I have also visited several synagogues and Jewish ghettos. It seems that every city in Europe has an ugly history of hatred towards Jews. At the end of World War II, thousands of Jewish bodies were found in the streets of the Budapest ghetto. In Krakow, every one of the 68,000 Jews were deported or killed. In Prague, the 1,000-year-old Jewish cemetery houses 20,000 graves, 12 layers deep. Human beings, created in the image of God, treated far worse than animals.
And yet, even in that hell called the Holocaust, there were a few faint lights. Oskar Shindler in Krakow and Raoul Wallenberg in Budapest saved thousands from murder. Priest Maximilian Kolbe asked to die in the place of a Jewish prisoner at Auschwitz. After liberation, the Jewish prayer to the "God of all mercy" was recited over bodies finally receiving their burial in Poland. I believe with all my soul that God is merciful and yet I understand if those people who endured the Holocaust stopped believing.
When I asked our guide at Auschwitz how he was able emotionally to see this every day, he said his life mission is to tell people the truth so this horror will never happen again. We must never ever forget.
In light of this solemn day of reflection, I will repost a blog I wrote from Krakow, after visiting Auschwitz last spring.
June 6, 2011:
It's been well over a week since we were in Auschwitz. I've needed time to process and couldn't write about what I saw there until now.
This was my second visit to Auschwitz. This time, green grass and tour buses seemed incongruous with death. The last time, in winter in the early 1990s, the starkness was appropriately tangible. The season of the year and the season in Poland's recovery from Communist oppression had added up to few visitors. There had been no signs asking people to be respectfully quiet; yet silence had wrapped us in its black cloak as we walked under the infamous "Arbeit macht frei" sign.
Approximately 1.2 million people entered the dual death and concentration camp of Auschwitz; one million did not leave. The few survivors endured unspeakable, inhuman torture. We saw piles of eyeglasses, hair, children's clothes. Hardest for me to view were the photographs taken of prisoners as they entered. Their haunting eyes pierced and convicted. When liberated, those eyes had become apathetic, sunken in the bodies of skeletons.
During this trip, Steve and I have also visited several synagogues and Jewish ghettos. It seems that every city in Europe has an ugly history of hatred towards Jews. At the end of World War II, thousands of Jewish bodies were found in the streets of the Budapest ghetto. In Krakow, every one of the 68,000 Jews were deported or killed. In Prague, the 1,000-year-old Jewish cemetery houses 20,000 graves, 12 layers deep. Human beings, created in the image of God, treated far worse than animals.
And yet, even in that hell called the Holocaust, there were a few faint lights. Oskar Shindler in Krakow and Raoul Wallenberg in Budapest saved thousands from murder. Priest Maximilian Kolbe asked to die in the place of a Jewish prisoner at Auschwitz. After liberation, the Jewish prayer to the "God of all mercy" was recited over bodies finally receiving their burial in Poland. I believe with all my soul that God is merciful and yet I understand if those people who endured the Holocaust stopped believing.
When I asked our guide at Auschwitz how he was able emotionally to see this every day, he said his life mission is to tell people the truth so this horror will never happen again. We must never ever forget.
April 13, 2012
Is your load too heavy?
I'm tired. I feel like I'm running on empty. Since I took this job, I scurry from one event to another, multi-tasking every minute of every day. Once one activity is finished, I start the next. There's no time to plan or dream. No time to anticipate.
My writing is like a part-time moonlighting job on the side. And then there's ministry on top of that. This week, I even spoke at the weekly Cru meeting. And today is the deadline for my next article for the paper. I don't have one single idea. My well is bone dry. It's hard to be creative when your mind is vacant.
Something needs to change. I need to refuel. That means putting aside my To-Do list and taking a time-out from activities. Spending time alone, time with God, feels like a luxury to me now. And yet it's the one necessary thing that should be paramount in each of my days. And second to that is my relationship with my husband. Somehow, I need to let everything else go, knowing that I’ll disappoint people. Knowing I can’t deliver on their expectations of me. Knowing I can't fulfill my own expectations of my ability to do everything, to keep juggling and not let any balls drop.
Can you relate? Is your load heavier than you can carry? Do you feel like the donkey in this picture that I love? May these words that Jesus spoke for us be like cool water to your soul and to mine:
“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30).
My writing is like a part-time moonlighting job on the side. And then there's ministry on top of that. This week, I even spoke at the weekly Cru meeting. And today is the deadline for my next article for the paper. I don't have one single idea. My well is bone dry. It's hard to be creative when your mind is vacant.
Something needs to change. I need to refuel. That means putting aside my To-Do list and taking a time-out from activities. Spending time alone, time with God, feels like a luxury to me now. And yet it's the one necessary thing that should be paramount in each of my days. And second to that is my relationship with my husband. Somehow, I need to let everything else go, knowing that I’ll disappoint people. Knowing I can’t deliver on their expectations of me. Knowing I can't fulfill my own expectations of my ability to do everything, to keep juggling and not let any balls drop.
Can you relate? Is your load heavier than you can carry? Do you feel like the donkey in this picture that I love? May these words that Jesus spoke for us be like cool water to your soul and to mine:
“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30).
April 5, 2012
Not a Victim
In trying to ponder the significance of the next few days to me personally, I've run across a few current statements that demand right theological thinking.
One statement, which makes me livid, is "even God was coerced." The definition of coerce is to compel by force, intimidation, or authority; to dominate or control. God is the Sovereign Ruler of the Universe. No one can coerce Him. No one can even come close. As God the Son hung on the cross, He knew that all He had to do was speak the word and legions of angels would come to His rescue. He chose not to call on the angels. All because He loves us.
The other statement alludes to Jesus being murdered. Yes, the angry mob who came after him in the garden had plotted to kill Him. They tortured Him and executed Him in a gruesome manner. He died a horrible death. But He wasn't a victim. Murder is not the best word choice. Jesus didn't resist the mob or even offer any defense. He willingly chose to die. God planned from the beginning for His beloved Son to come to earth in order to give up His life. Why? So we can have life.
"I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me - just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep. . . . No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down and authority to take it up again." John 10:14-18.
My response to this is gratitude. And a desire to get to know this Person better who so willingly gave up His life for me.
One statement, which makes me livid, is "even God was coerced." The definition of coerce is to compel by force, intimidation, or authority; to dominate or control. God is the Sovereign Ruler of the Universe. No one can coerce Him. No one can even come close. As God the Son hung on the cross, He knew that all He had to do was speak the word and legions of angels would come to His rescue. He chose not to call on the angels. All because He loves us.
The other statement alludes to Jesus being murdered. Yes, the angry mob who came after him in the garden had plotted to kill Him. They tortured Him and executed Him in a gruesome manner. He died a horrible death. But He wasn't a victim. Murder is not the best word choice. Jesus didn't resist the mob or even offer any defense. He willingly chose to die. God planned from the beginning for His beloved Son to come to earth in order to give up His life. Why? So we can have life.
"I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me - just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep. . . . No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down and authority to take it up again." John 10:14-18.
My response to this is gratitude. And a desire to get to know this Person better who so willingly gave up His life for me.
April 2, 2012
Jesus wept.
If you went to Sunday School as a child, you undoubtedly memorized the shortest verse in the Bible. Jesus wept. I've always loved that verse, not just because of its length, but because it shows Jesus' humanity and his depth of feeling. It gives us permission to be in touch with our emotions.
But yesterday, on Palm Sunday, I thought about the object of Jesus' tears. It was us. He wept over the people who he longed to set free, but who chose bondage instead.
As this Holy Week begins, reflect with me on these verses. The first took place on the day of his Triumphal Entry, when everyone turned out to celebrate the one who would save them politically and bring temporal peace. The second verse took place two days before the Passover feast, which we now celebrate as the Last Supper, when the true motivations of the people were about to be revealed.
As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said, "If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes." Luke 19:41-42
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing. Matthew 23:37
I pray that we will know the One - the only one - who can bring true and lasting peace. I pray that He will find us willing to find our refuge in the shelter of his wings.
But yesterday, on Palm Sunday, I thought about the object of Jesus' tears. It was us. He wept over the people who he longed to set free, but who chose bondage instead.
As this Holy Week begins, reflect with me on these verses. The first took place on the day of his Triumphal Entry, when everyone turned out to celebrate the one who would save them politically and bring temporal peace. The second verse took place two days before the Passover feast, which we now celebrate as the Last Supper, when the true motivations of the people were about to be revealed.
As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said, "If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes." Luke 19:41-42
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing. Matthew 23:37
I pray that we will know the One - the only one - who can bring true and lasting peace. I pray that He will find us willing to find our refuge in the shelter of his wings.
March 30, 2012
Eleven Years
Tomorrow is our anniversary. It will be 11 years since the day Steve and I promised ourselves to each other "till death parts us." And it feels like only a few moments ago.
Our tenth anniversary was momentous. I'd spent weeks redoing our wedding album. We were planning a celebratory trip to several countries in Central Europe, and then I was to start my job search in earnest as soon as we returned. But the day before our anniversary, Steve was whisked off to an emergency heart catheterization, in which he received four stents and a gift of several more years of life.
By contrast, this year feels anti-climatic. I'm glad we haven't had the drama, but I realize that my time is too fragmented right now, with work and ministry and relationships and trying (somewhat) to keep up with housework. I love anticipating and planning and dreaming, always trying to have something somewhere down the road to look forward to. And I've hardly had a minute to think about the significance of tomorrow.
So I'm doing that now. And, as always, I am in awe of God's choice for me of Steve. And amazed that Steve waited a decade for me while I sailed off to Eastern Europe. In Steve, God chose for me a man who is kind, fun, loyal, and dependable. A man who puts Jesus first. A man who I easily respect. A man who I will love forever. What did I ever do to deserve such a good gift?
Our tenth anniversary was momentous. I'd spent weeks redoing our wedding album. We were planning a celebratory trip to several countries in Central Europe, and then I was to start my job search in earnest as soon as we returned. But the day before our anniversary, Steve was whisked off to an emergency heart catheterization, in which he received four stents and a gift of several more years of life.
By contrast, this year feels anti-climatic. I'm glad we haven't had the drama, but I realize that my time is too fragmented right now, with work and ministry and relationships and trying (somewhat) to keep up with housework. I love anticipating and planning and dreaming, always trying to have something somewhere down the road to look forward to. And I've hardly had a minute to think about the significance of tomorrow.
So I'm doing that now. And, as always, I am in awe of God's choice for me of Steve. And amazed that Steve waited a decade for me while I sailed off to Eastern Europe. In Steve, God chose for me a man who is kind, fun, loyal, and dependable. A man who puts Jesus first. A man who I easily respect. A man who I will love forever. What did I ever do to deserve such a good gift?
The Glorious Muddle
Life is messy and it’s also magnificent. Traces of grace can be found in both the mire of daily drudgery & the moments so spectacular that you know it has to God.
Beauty and adventure might be around t ...more
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