I feel like its been forever since I connected with you all through here. So much has been brewing!
And while good, it has taken my focus away from writing much. Even though “the bug” forces me to put something on paper almost daily.

Have you ever written something that required editing?
I’m not talking about the daily emails, or responses to messages that you want to get just right.

It’s that twinkling lights, Silent Night time of year again.

The season when peace and love take up a little more real estate in our conversations and lives.

When we lay aside our differences and embrace our common humanity.

It’s the time when "believing" seems more possible.

For the past few days, I’ve woke up in the middle of the night battling complications from a rather nasty cold I caught from my hubby. (He’s such a giver.)
Usually, somewhere between the wee hours of two and four AM, I’ve awakened, either coughing my head off, or struggling to breathe and sounding like a squeaker toy.

This week my home town welcomed our first snow fall of the season.
As the huge flakes rapidly fell in what one could accurately call a downpour, I found myself giggling like a kid. I watched as our landscape lights lit each puffy flake from below. As if in a spotlight, they rightly took their place centerstage.

These days, our culture seems inundated with the message that we need to find our ‘brand’. Ways to define ourselves so that our following and influence grows.
In fact, we’re all encouraged to do it in one way or another. We look for ways to be provocative and pithy. A great deal of time and effort is spent on trying to make the most memorable impact with the least amount of words. But reduction comes at a cost. Sadly, we’re losing the important art of intentional communication in the process.

Yesterday I took a break from relaxing and scrolled through my social media feed.
It was a plethora of the usual. Cat videos, pictures of someone’s yummy food and drink, cooing baby photos and of course the obligatory political posts that make your butt scrunch a little when you read them. (Ah, the left and right. Two cheeks of the same…)

I love to write.
Anne LaMott says something to the effect that people love to say 'I wrote a book (blog/article...)’ etc. but no one ever says ‘I love to write’. I get what she’s saying, because the process can be quite challenging. But as much as I love Anne, I disagree with her on this one, because personally, I loves to write.

There’s something about gardening that soothes me.

Maybe it’s the smell of the earth, or the possibility that lies within the seeds.

Perhaps it’s the sun on my back or the breeze in my face.

Maybe it’s some combination of it all.

Whatever it is, gardening is a ‘zen’ activity for me.

There’s a particular word which seems to show up all too often in my life these days.

It’s one I’ve tried to shake off. And times, I can silence it to mere echoes.

Well, for a little while anyway.

In my all-too-often, all-too-fast-paced corner of the world, I find most days are filled with a variety of battles.

Who or what will win my time and attention?

Will exercising win or the donuts?

Will I conquer Mt. Laundry or will it conquer me?

This week a friend and I released an episode of our podcast, discussing how the lens through which we see (and consequently judge) another person has become one made up of soundbites, memes, tweets and bumper stickers. We shared that we believe we can do better. Be better.

Today I read an article that talked about intimacy without responsibility.

Hmmm….

Of course, the title alone was enough to make me curious. You see, in this particular season of life, I’m doing a lot of delving into what makes us tick in relationships and where the foundations of how we relate and engage in intimacy are built. In light of what I’ve been discovering, the idea of ‘intimacy without responsibility’ had me raising an eyebrow in the “I’m skeptical of what you’re proposing” sort of way.

As most of you are aware, This Sunday is Father’s Day.
Some may look upon this as a Hallmark holiday, but the idea of celebrating fathers was actually created by a thoughtful daughter for her beloved Pop in the early 1900’s. It was born out of a desire to honor her dear ol’ dad, who single handedly raised her and her five siblings after the death of their mother.

Do you have a happy place?

Somewhere you go that the moment you arrive your tensions melt away and your face breaks out in a gentle, grateful grin?

Where contentment abounds and life is easier, brighter. Lighter.

I don’t like endings.

I’m not talking about when things come to their satisfactory, predicted resolution. In fact, I rather appreciate those, for the most part.

When I say “I don’t like endings”, I’m talking about the abrupt, unpredictable endings that we don’t plan for or see coming.

We hear it often said that life is a series of choices. For the most part, I believe this to be true. Every day we’re faced with decisions that, when carried out, in their sum total largely make up the life we live.

The past week has been a journey through all the feels.

Again.

I started my Monday with the best of intentions.

Workout? Check.

Then, somewhere around minutes 14, 18 and 25 of 30, the conversation in my head went something like this.

Writing each week forces me to live just a bit on ‘high alert’. While I’m not looking for a threatening invasion, I am on the lookout for what God might be trying to show me in order to ‘put it out in the world’. Sometimes, I think I over-estimate my ability to pay attention.

In my life and line of work, I engage with many individuals who work in what are often called ‘helping professions’. Personally, I think a more accurate descriptor for them is Givers. It’s a privilege to do life with others who have a heart to help the hurting, whether it be physical, mental, emotional or spiritual.