Red Sea Road — the most timely hope anthem.

June 20, 2015.

It was just a few weeks after we’d lost Judah Rise. The sting of death still burned all the way to my core, and my heart bore a gaping hole so big that I think it may have been visible from outside my body. Grief marks you that way.

Maybe you remember the part of the story where my sisters were both pregnant at the same time that we were expecting Judah. All three babes were to arrive within a month of each other, and my aunt was throwing a shower for all three of us that Saturday. Within those few weeks between us losing our boy and the date of that baby shower, my sisters had both called me to let me know they understood if I didn’t want to come. I love them for that, but I went anyway.

I knew it would be hard. I knew my family had wholeheartedly released me from having to show up. But I kept thinking about my sisters, who are two of my dearest friends, and my two nieces that were on the way. I was about to move across America to plant a church, and the cost of that was to leave my entire family back in Texas. The years ahead would be full of major life moments I would miss, including the birth of my nieces, and I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to show up and celebrate with the people I love the most.

I remember just feeling sort of numb that day. Grief isn’t really easy for anyone — for those of us grieving or those of us close to those who are grieving. It’s hard to know what to talk about, what to acknowledge or not acknowledge. Especially in a setting where you’re supposed to be celebrating someone else.

It was easily the most uncomfortable I’d ever felt, trying to engage in conversations that day, dodging the sad eyes of my friends and relatives and smiling through awkward small talk. I’ve never been good at small talk, even on my best days.

I remember feeling like people were looking at me like they knew I was in pain but didn’t know what to say about it, so they just didn’t. I don’t blame them. I think I would have done the same thing. And honestly, I didn’t want to talk about it. That day was for my sisters, and that was why I went. But at the same time, I couldn’t ignore how I felt.

At one point I walked over to the corner of the room to get a drink and have a moment alone to regroup, and I happened to look at my phone when I did. There was a message from my dear friend Ellie Holcomb, who may as well have been an actual angel in that moment, because it was as if God had walked into that room and bypassed all the other people to walk straight up to me and say, “I see you.”

She had sent me a message earlier that week, which I guess I’d forgotten about, letting me know that she had been thinking of me and that she’d written a song that day inspired by us and our journey and Judah’s story. And that morning as I sat there feeling so lonely and exposed at my sisters’ baby shower, this is what she said to me:

rsrmessage

I choked back tears long enough to sneak out of the room. I sat down in the bathroom of an old historic hotel in downtown Houston, and I just wept as I sat there with my phone to my ear, listening to her sing a song in a voice memo that seemed to give me language for everything I was feeling but didn’t know how to articulate.

It felt like she wrote me a fight song, ironically partially inspired by words I had written in a blog post earlier that month. For almost a decade Ellie and I have stayed in touch just by praying for one another in every season, holding each others arms up in battle, lighting the way by worship and prayer through the valleys and celebrating with one another on the mountains. This song was a light in the darkest moment of my life, and it has carried the day for me through the hardest seasons I’ve ever lived through.

It’s about how God makes a way where there is no way, the same way he split the Red Sea for the Israelites to walk right through, when death was chasing their heels and it seemed like they had nowhere to go. It’s honest in the way it feels to grieve, doubt and question, and it raises a banner of hope even in the face of death, because with Jesus, hope always rises — even out of the grave.

Tonight as I write this, my baby girl Ellie Joy is asleep on my chest. Every time I look at her I can hear the words of this song in my head declare that He. Is. Faithful. That our stories never end at the graves we sometimes find ourselves standing over, and that our God is a way-maker in the wilderness.

I’ve been listening to this song and letting the truth of our God’s faithfulness wash over me on hard days for a year and a half — through a major move right after losing Judah and a lot of hard days on the way to healing — through a miscarriage and the hard days of healing from that, too.

And for the last couple of months, I’ve been singing, dancing, weeping, fist-pumping and worshiping to this new record of Ellie’s, and I am so excited to finally get to share it with all of you.

Do yourself a favor and go get this record today. I am so certain that it will be water to your soul. I pray it breathes life back into your bones the same way that it has mine. And if you’re in need of a declaration of hope in impossible places, I pray that Red Sea Road becomes your hope anthem the same way that it’s been mine these last couple of years.

I challenge you to do just what this song beckons us all to do…

“We will sing to our souls, we won’t bury our hope…”

Sing. Worship. I have learned it’s the only thing that keeps me whole when everything feels broken.

. . .

Click below to find Red Sea Road on iTunes:

eh_rsr_webcover_1600x1600_edit

Advertisements

Sacred Storms & Wild Hope

It’s been a quiet few months around here. And by “around here” I mean the blog; my life has been quite the opposite. I’d say sorry for the silence, but I think dormancy is essential to growth, and good grief, I needed the space. Sometimes you need a season of just living stories without thinking about writing them — moments too sacred for words, perhaps.

In some ways, this summer has been that. So sacred that I’ve treasured these days in my heart and kept them there like a secret. In other ways it’s been more like “groanings too deep for words.”

It’s a Wednesday morning in sunny Southern California as I write this, and I’m sitting in a dreamy little garden outside of a coffee shop, trying to wrap my mind around the last three months, and I think I may be here a while.

Screen Shot 2016-08-14 at 12.31.28 PM.png

Communal Coffee – San Diego, CA

This summer was made of the things of all great stories. Adventure and surprise. Highest highs and lowest lows. Dreams realized and broken hearts. Crazy celebration and empty-hearted grief. Untamed bravery and wild hope.

I watched as spring turned to summer and the last of the snow melted off the Wasatch mountains and rushed to water the valley below — and it seemed to be watering my soul the same way it was bringing the earth back to life.

I moved into a house I shouldn’t be able to afford, just because of people who love us, who want us to grow our family there. It felt like the beginning of a something-out-of-nothing chapter of our story — the kind that only God can write. I could feel it all the way to my core that this summer was going to be a special one.

I looked into the eyes of Syrian refugees in Europe, and I learned about a bravery bigger than I’ve ever known. The kind of bravery that would risk everything to find hope again. The kind of bravery that gets to the other side of the storm and finds itself in the wilderness, yet still chooses to show up and believe that maybe tomorrow could be different.

IMG_7661

I walked the streets of Berlin with a dear friend and mentor, half way around the world and thinking about how sweet it is that people who feel like family can make anywhere feel like home.

I watched 15 of my new friends from Utah take big risks and live big faith in a way that changed them, changed me, and will change what God is doing in our city forever.

I stood in a hotel room in Germany and stared at the crazy surprise of a positive pregnancy test, a thing I’d written off in my heart a long time ago as something I may never experience, and I celebrated like crazy that with our God, nothing shall be impossible.

Processed with VSCO with a5 preset

I felt the gutting heartbreak of a 2 am miscarriage a month later, alone in my bathroom and in a world of pain, questioning and aching and crying out to God, “why have you forsaken me?”

I sent another round of balloons to Heaven for Judah Rise, still feeling the sting of losing a second baby and wondering what it’ll feel like when I finally get to hold one of ours before God does.

IMG_7664

And all at the same time, I watched our church grow in the middle of summer, a season that churches are supposed to have a lower attendance in, and here we are adding chairs and making more space every Sunday.

I baptized a dear friend, who 8 months ago sat across from me in a coffee shop and told me how burned by the Church she was, and that she wanted me to know that this whole Jesus thing was not something she was going to jump on board with quickly. Now here she is, wholeheartedly following Him and wanting everyone to know.

VSCO Cam-6-1

And don’t get me wrong, this is not a “let me find the silver lining to cover up my pain” kind of post. The surprise promise fulfilled and almost immediate grief and confusion over a lost pregnancy is a thing I think I’ll be wrestling God over for a while.

I know lamentation well in this season, soaking my pillow case each night and the rug on my living room floor every morning in my tears, as I lay my grief and anger and questions before God. But there is something about the way that it’s happening alongside so many miracles around me that makes it hard to not also think, “Surely God is in this place.”

I don’t want to miss all the ways He is moving around me because of this one place that He seems to be absent — albeit a very deep, very painful place. I just keep thinking, “I don’t want to miss the miracle because of the storm.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Israelites on their way to the Red Sea, and how it says that there was a shorter way, but God led them the long way around, through the wilderness, to the Red Sea (Ex. 13:17). I have pored over the book of Exodus this summer, identifying so deeply with so much of the story.

I think about the Israelites, and how they said things like, “did you bring us out into the wilderness to die here? Were there no graves for us in Egypt?” and I can so relate to those raw, honest, shake-your-fists-in-anger questions.

Lord, what in the world are we doing here? This is even worse than the last place you let me suffer.

I think about Moses, and the moments throughout the story where he says to God, “What am I supposed to say to these people?” I have thought so many times in this season of my life, “Lord, I stand on stage at church all the time and tell people how good and faithful you are, and this kind of feels like you’re trying to make a liar out of me.”

I think about the way God led the Israelites through the wilderness in a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, and I am reminded that even in this place, He goes before and behind us.

I stand in the middle of yet another desert place, and it makes no sense to me, but somehow, this is grace. So I keep walking. Not without His leadership, but when I sense His presence going before and behind me, I keep going. Even when it hurts. Even when it makes no sense. Because I know no other way than to hope and believe that He knows where my Red Sea moment is.

For me, that looks like continuing down the adoption road that we were already on before the interruption of pregnancy. It looks like being honest with how painful some of this journey is, but continuing to walk forward because I know without a doubt that this is where God’s presence is leading us. I see the cloud by day and the fire by night, and I will not stay here if His presence is going elsewhere.

Brené Brown calls that “badassery” — when we’re honest with the pain in our story but we choose to keep showing up for it anyway. I really like her.

I keep hearing people use this currently trendy phrase of “wild hope,” and I think that’s what it means to hope wildly. To stand in the storm and say “I’m not moving, even though this hurts like hell.” To get up and get back in the game, even when you’re a little bruised and discouraged from your last losing fight.

I think a lot of us are afraid to talk about our pain until we’re on the other side of it and we can put a bow on it and make it look prettier than it ever actually was, but I think our world needs more badasses who are willing to say, “This hurts. I don’t get it. But I’m going back in, because this is what I’m supposed to be doing, and I’m not willing to quit yet.”

We keep going because it matters. It matters that we are willing to embrace our place in the wilderness and believe God for our Red Sea moment. Honest in our pain but holding on to hope.

Wild, unreasonable, walk with a limp for the rest of your life cause you wrestled God for it, HOPE.

Let’s allow it to mark us. Even when it hurts. I don’t think we’ll be disappointed.

Processed with VSCO with kk1 preset

Grief made me a winter girl

Processed with VSCOcam with b1 preset

It feels weird to be coming up on another winter already. I guess I shouldn’t say “coming up on”… it’s just that I’m used to being in the south where I could probably still be wearing short sleeves right now. Alas, winter is in full swing up here in the mountain time zone. Ski season starts this weekend, which means nothing to me, but I think that at least means there’s a lot of snow on the mountains, so I’m calling it winter.

When I was in college, I had this thing for spring time. Spring brings this sense of newness that washes away the gray of winter and breathes life back into dry bones. There was one really special spring, my junior year of college, when I’d been believing God for a lot of really big, really specific things — and all at once, they all happened.

He was teaching me a lot about His loving kindness in that season. It’s still one of my favorite seasons of promises fulfilled to look back on and remember how faithful He is.

In my mid-twenties, though, I’ve grown this affinity for winter. It’s not the same “butterflies and excitement for something new” kind of love that I used to have for spring, though. It’s a deep love that has known suffering and grown to appreciate the way our barren days beckon us to enter into a kind of rest that makes way for a bigger, better spring.

Last winter was really hard. I remember heading into my second holiday season of believing God for a family, wondering why things were the way they were, wishing they were different. Hope deferred is a hard pill to swallow sometimes, and it seemed like I was having to do it often.

Within three weeks of each other, I would find out that both of my sisters and one of my closest friends were all unexpectedly pregnant. I wrestled with God through comparison and envy and just anger over the way He seemed to be forgetting about me. It was a pretty brutal holiday season.

And then God did the sweetest thing. He redeemed it all. He opened a door to give us a baby boy that was to be born within the same couple of months as all those babies of my sisters and my friend. It really was the sweetest spring.

As you know if you’ve followed along here the last few months, we didn’t get to meet that boy on this side of Heaven. Everything about our circumstances had me expecting for this to be my most painful winter yet. But something strange has happened: I feel more hopeful now than I did heading into last year’s winter.

There’s something about being shaken that tests the strength of your roots. And this year has taught me to dig deep.

I’ve learned that I can rest in my barrenness, because my roots have grown deep and they are connected to the life source.

And there’s something extra special about the winter snow here in Utah. The mountains that look rocky and jagged in every other season get blanketed in white, catching and reflecting light right back in to the valley.

For the first time in years — for the first time ever, maybe — I don’t feel afraid of the barren winter that’s suddenly crept in. I feel rooted. I feel hopeful. I feel at rest.

And you know what I’ve never wondered heading in to the winter? Whether or not spring will come after. It’s a sure bet, and until then, we let our roots go deep and we rest, and we watch as that quiet, healing snow falls and blankets every blemish in white.