Love is Supposed to be Easy… Right?

Photos & videos by Rachel Perrella Photography; “Dancing in the Minefields” by Andrew Peterson is covered by Alison & Tanner Springgate

“When love is right, it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

Have you heard this sentiment before? I have. Like, a LOT. 

But can I be honest with you? I think it’s reeeeally well-intended… garbage.

I think falling in love with someone you’re compatible with is easy and fun and one of the most intoxicating feelings in the world. But love itself—choosing it day after day, year after year, decade after decade—is pretty dang hard. 

Jasper and I met when we were idealistic teenagers. We didn’t even know what we didn’t know! But we knew we loved each other and we wanted to get married. We chose this lifelong commitment when it was mostly laughter and gentle disagreements and dreamy, late-night talking. But marriage (and early adulthood) quickly shifted the relationship to tight budgets and “Did you finish all the almond milk??” and fighting about sex, parenting, expectations, even how to fight. Y’all! It is MESSY! We have not arrived at the 15-year mark with a soft bead of sweat on our brows. We arrived drenched in muck and rain and blood. 

But here’s the thing: we did somehow make it here. And we’re more aware than ever that the thing holding us together is not our ability or the “rightness” of our love, but the faithfulness of our God. 

Jasper and I fail each other all the time, in a myriad of nuanced, intimate ways only marriage can unearth. But I’m learning that that’s okay, because human love was never meant to satisfy the deepest longings of our hearts. We were made to love God, and God never fails. He meets us where we are. He calls us up to endless patience. He invites us into hard-fought, radical honesty. He guides us to the gentle waters of forgiveness. He restores what the enemy tries to tear apart. And He does it all slowly, graciously, and with the help of other people. 

So, I don’t know if love should feel right and easy all the time. I’m sure it’s possible (genuine kudos to you if that’s your story)! But I know the great love story of my life is not between me and my husband—it is between us and our Savior. Getting to worship the King of Kings next to Jasper, as we laugh and disagree and repent and read Gottman books, is a genuine gift. I am thankful for this good, hard life because God gets glory from it, and that’s all that matters.

——

We like to renew our vows every few years because it reminds us that marriage is a continual choice. And as we evolve, we get to commit our hearts to Christ and one another in more honest, realized ways. So here are the vows I made to Jasper on a gray, chilly beach in Oregon. The day was nothing like I planned in my head. But it was real, and God was in it, so it was beautiful (much like marriage).

Oh, my Furn. I can’t believe we’ve loved each other since we were just baby teenagers! We dreamed so big and we knew so little. But I’m proud of that version of us! Because look where we are now. Look where God has taken those sweet, love-struck kids. 

It’s been a hard and holy privilege to grow alongside you these past 20 years. Even in our hardest moments, you have constantly pointed me to the God who never leaves—who never questions His covenant with His beloved. Thank you for loving me faithfully and taking this commitment seriously. I see you work hard and repent often and seek help, and it all means more to me than you know.

I’ve learned a lot since the first time we made vows to each other. Back then, I promised a lot of dumb stuff about playing ping pong and watching The Cosby Show (man, that one hasn’t aged well). But since those early days, I realized how much I still don’t know about loving someone well. It’s an impossible task, if you think about it, to give your heart and soul to another, day after day, year after year, even when we change through seasons and trials. Vows are not easy things to keep, especially on our own strength. But this one Eugene Peterson quote has stuck in my brain all year, which is why I put it up on our wall at home. He says, “Every day I put love on the line. There’s nothing I am less good at than love. I am far better in competition than in love. I am far better at responding to my instincts to get ahead and make my mark than I am at figuring out how to love another. I am schooled and trained in acquisitive skills, in getting my own way. And yet I decide, every day, to set aside what I can do best and attempt what I do very clumsily—open myself to the frustrations and failures of loving, daring to believe that failing in love is better than succeeding in pride.”

So that’s my honest vow to you here at the 15-year mark: I promise to keep choosing love, clumsily. Even though I’m bad at it and have so much yet to learn. 

I guess, really, the most important vow I can make to you today is to keep loving, trusting, and pursuing Jesus with my whole heart. To rely on our good Shepherd to hold us together, even when we’re tempted to break apart. I vow to pray for you more often. To pause in the middle of an argument to take a breath and invite God into the moment. To recognize and name the hard thing without turning you into my enemy. To continue to pursue therapy and godly community. To be honest with you, but also honestly believe the best of you. To seek to see you every day through the eyes of our Savior. And to embrace the beauty and mystery of this side of heaven with you—my husband, my friend.

I know I will fail at these promises. But each vow I make to you is first and foremost an open-handed prayer to God—an admittance that I am faithless where He is faithful. That in all the ways I can’t, He can. I need His help even to realize how much I need His help. So it’s by the strength of His Spirit that I recommit my heart to you, and I thank you for walking next to me on this messy, beautiful adventure we call love. 

I hope you believe me when I say this: dancing in the kitchen with you and our miraculous Little Furns is worth more to me than all the money in the world. We are rich, Furn. We are rich in every way that matters. 

And so it continues, my dear. Lots and lots of types of days. 

I love you. Let’s keep going. 

Let’s Talk About the Hard Thing

Photo by Rachel Perrella Photography

TW: Sexual Assault

Friends. I have been both yearning for and dreading the process of writing this story down. I’ve yearned for it because writing helps me step outside the narrative, take a bird’s eye view of my life, and speak to myself like I’d speak to a buddy. However, I’ve also felt dread because reliving this story hurts; it’s messy and sometimes embarrassing. I feel like I’ve yet to master the art of turning towards the Lord with my pain instead of questioning His authority and building up defenses in my heart. And I just don’t know what it looks like to talk about my experience when it doesn’t have a tidy ending.

I also know that countless others have suffered events more horrendous than what I’ve been through. So, if I’m honest, I feel some shame talking about it at all. But what I have promised you, as my readers and friends, is to stand in the light. To tell you the ugly truth, for better or for worse, and pray that it somehow draws us both closer to Jesus. Because though I may not fully understand the dance between God’s sovereignty and the effects of the fallen world, I believe my Shepherd is with me… and this story isn’t over.

———

Early this year, I signed up for something called Book Camp. It’s a two-day retreat geared towards women who feel called to write books but don’t know where to start. At any other point in my life, I would have been too insecure to even consider attending something like that. But after some prayer, I talked to Jasper and my parents—my loudest writing cheerleaders—and they emphatically encouraged me to go. “Now is the time, Mel! Open yourself up to being used by God. He has mighty plans for you!” So for what felt like the first time, I chose something brave. I decided to put myself out there in a way that could be humbling and embarrassing, but could also maybe be pretty exciting. I never allowed myself to dream big like this before; me, a potential published author? I was giddy, wholeheartedly completing the prep work about readers, goals, and outlines. I couldn’t wait to arrive in Charleston and get my book going!

The morning I planned to leave, I booked myself a massage here in Greenville to start my self-care weekend right. I signed up to have a female therapist online, but when I laid down on the table, a man came in. I thought to myself, “It’s okay. It’s not your preference, but it’ll be fine.” And everything was fine, until it wasn’t. 

I won’t get into the details, but I was sexually assaulted in that massage room. I was not raped, but he crossed a very clear boundary until I quietly whispered, “No.” But other than that softly spoken word, I froze. I did not scream and run out of the room. I did not report him to his boss. I just laid there, stunned, and then packed up my stuff, paid him as quickly as possible (hastily tipping him 15% on the touch screen), and left. 

When I got home, I told Jasper what happened, and tears grew in his eyes. He reached out his arms to me and said, “Babe… are you okay? That man assaulted you.” But my brain was still frozen. I said, “No, he didn’t. It was probably a misunderstanding or a cultural difference. I don’t think he meant anything sexual by it. It’s fine. I’m fine.” So I hugged him, packed up my car, and drove to Charleston in a fugue state. 

I stopped to get gas before reaching my friend’s house, and as I waited in the car, I did a very human thing. I googled what happened to me and asked, “Is that considered sexual assault?” And Google was very clear. 

YES, you were assaulted. 

NO, that is never okay in a massage context. 

YES, there are regulations in place that clearly state what he did was illegal. 

YES, you should report what he did. 

Through some gentle nudging from Jasper and one of my best friends, I called a confidential sexual assault hotline to ask them what to do. They told me I can’t report a Greenville County assault while outside of Greenville County. But they encouraged me to go to a hospital to get STD testing and potentially collect skin cell samples. So I did that. I kept doing the next right thing, not knowing what was going on or how I got here. But then the hospital told me there was nothing they could do—the man’s mouth and/or genitals were not involved—and they sent me home with a $300 bill. That’s when I cried for the first time. I felt like a fool. Assaulted enough to call a helpline, not assaulted enough for doctors to help me collect evidence.

Why did I continue with the massage? Why didn’t I scream, run, kick, punch, SOMETHING other than just lie there? And why did I pay him? AND TIP HIM?? I felt so unbearably humiliated. Like it was all my fault. Like maybe I did something to give that man the wrong idea. Or maybe Google was wrong, and I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Stop being a drama queen, Mel. You weren’t raped. And you had the power to stop him, but you didn’t. So own it, wash your face, and move on.

I decided to continue with the plan to attend Book Camp. This man was not going to stand in the way of God’s call on my life. So I just kept going. Kept doing the things. Went to church, ate lunch with my friend, and laid out my clothes for the next morning. But that afternoon, something hit my stomach like I’d never experienced before. It was probably a mix of trauma and kid germs, but I couldn’t stop vomiting to the point that I knew Book Camp was no longer an option. So deeply humiliated and feeling like a burden, I told my friend I was going to drive home that night. I was just done with this whole doomed experience, and I didn’t want to risk getting my friend and her sweet family sick too. So I drove home, puking in a bag in the middle of the night, weeping in the car to Jasper, wondering, “Does God hate me? Why is all of this happening?”

———

So that’s my story. I wish it had a neat and tidy ending.

But whatever gastrointestinal distress hit me that night lasted a full two weeks. Longer than any stomach bug I’ve ever experienced. 

My writing stalled significantly, and I struggled to believe any of the stuff I was going to write my book about.

When I went through the process of reporting the assault to the police, it ended with a judge deeming my case a “he said-she said,” with not enough concrete evidence to move forward.

Nothing satisfying happened. Nothing at all. Life just moved on, and I remained—just as I was on that massage table—frozen in time.

Friends, I wish I could give you a reason for these events. I wish I could say, “I’m so glad God taught me this lesson in this way.” But no, that’s not real life. Some things are just awful and don’t make sense. Sometimes it is really hard to trust God—to understand what possible purpose could come out of something so dark. I have no emotionally satisfying answers for you, I’m sorry to say. But I can tell you what I did next, through the strength of Christ: I kept going to therapy. I got extra vulnerable with godly community around me. I cried. I raged. I journaled. I worshiped. I brought all my messy emotions to the feet of Jesus. None of these decisions fixed anything, but they helped me move forward, little by little. And eventually, I learned a couple of hard-fought truths. So, in place of emotionally satisfying answers, dear readers, I offer you the following:

1. Lament well and often: “I am beginning to see that much of praying is grieving.” -Henri Nouwen

If you’ve read any of my writing lately, it keeps coming back to the concept and practice of lament. Because, yes, Mel is (and will forever be) in her lament era. Crying out to God in anger and hurt and confusion and sadness. Whispering through tears, “I want to trust you, I really do. But I don’t know how to believe with all my heart that You are good. Will you teach me to believe?” I’m learning that, of all the places I could’ve ended up, lament was probably the best landing pad for my soul. Because it didn’t bypass my lived experience—it welcomed it. I got to bring my ugly tears to Jesus and know that the “man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” understood it completely (Isaiah 53:3).

He doesn’t judge or condemn my feelings of betrayal. We serve a God who cares deeply about the pain of His people, and He always has. In Exodus 3, God says, “‘I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out... and I am concerned about their suffering.’” And let’s not forget Psalm 56:8, my current favorite verse: “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book." Even I don’t remember my pain as thoroughly as the Father does. I’m just so thankful that’s the Person I get to vent to, you know?

But maybe the best part about lamenting to the God of the universe is the fact that you’re talking to the only One who can actually make things right. He is enacting a real-life, actually-gonna-work-out plan of redemption through which justice will flow like a river and the darkness of sin will be a faint memory. Revelation 21 says, “Then I saw “a new heaven and a new earth”.... I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!””

I wouldn’t have chosen this story for myself—not in a million years. But I learned this technique of picturing the lowest moments of my life, and then inserting Christ into that picture with me. Now, when I visualize myself frozen on that massage table, I see my Jesus, crouched down next to my face, holding my hand, crying, “I’m here. I’m right here. You’re not alone. And I will make this right, my love. I will restore what the locusts have eaten.” Lament brought me to the place where I could sit in the tension of, yes, this horrible thing happened to me, AND God never left my side. Both things are somehow true. 

2. The way you speak to yourself matters: "No one is more influential in your life than you are, because no one talks to you more than you do." -Paul David Tripp

It was good for me to write an honest account about the event, because I forgot how unkindly I was speaking to my soul. Like, I blamed myself for maybe-somehow-possibly giving the guy the wrong idea? What in the world?! 

My therapist often gives me assignments wherein I write letters to versions of myself: Friend Mel, Wife Mel, Writer Mel, Young Mel. I am to tell her the radical truth and also speak to her like a friend who needs encouragement and a soft place to land. This practice has helped me develop deep compassion for myself—replacing shame narratives with gracious ones—and discover what healthy habits and boundaries I want to incorporate moving forward. So for the next few paragraphs, I’m going to speak to Assaulted Mel the way I would if she were my pal, not someone freshly traumatized and grasping for the closest person to blame—namely, herself.

Oh, sweet friend. You are so loved. I am sorry beyond words that this happened to you.

The way you’ve spoken to yourself is a common response to trauma. But I need you to believe the words I’m saying with every ounce of strength you have: you are not to blame for any part of what happened. What was done to you was a violation of your will and your humanity.

Do you know what I see when I read your story? I see a girl who put her trust in a business because she had no reason not to. I see a girl whose therapist request was not honored by that business. And then I see a girl whose sympathetic nervous system kicked in as a response to a huge breach of safety. You came to that place to be taken care of, and instead, you were taken advantage of. So your body’s response to that acute level of stress was to freeze and then flee as soon as possible. It did what it had to do. You did not go into that room prepared with a 5-point plan for how to react when sexually assaulted. And even if you somehow, magically, had that plan in place, you are still human. And your amygdala told you to survive the best way it knew how. It said, “Freeze.” It said, “Flight.” 

But do you know what else I see? I see a girl who told trusted people right away. Do you know how brave that is? Many people do not have the capacity to do that, which is also a very normal, human response. This world is unkind to assault survivors, and we often blame the very ones we are meant to defend. But somehow—I think through the women who have courageously gone before you—you said, “This thing happened to me. What should I do about it?” And you brought it to loved ones and doctors and specialists. You advocated for yourself, with shakiness and fear, through those first 48 hours, and then in every moment since. You did it for the women who would come behind you… But you also did it for yourself. Because just the fact that it happened to you matters. You are a person made in the image of God. And that alone makes you worthy of dignity.

I know you battle shame about your story—that it’s not worth telling because there wasn’t penetration or violence. But God does not compare tragedies. He does not tell you that you should count yourself lucky because other people have it a lot worse than you. God never speaks like that. Period. The perpetuator of shame is the enemy of our souls. He would have you stay silent and crumple in on yourself. But “those who look to [Yahweh] are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame” (Psalm 34:5). Your King is not accusing you or judging you or condemning you. “Instead of your shame you will receive a double portion, and instead of disgrace you will rejoice in your inheritance” 
(Isaiah 61:7). Take heart, dear friend. This is not the end of your story. Your face will continue to radiate the glory of God, for He is turning your mourning into dancing and your sorrow into joy. He will redeem what has been lost, and He will do it with compassion and gentleness. 

He’s not in a hurry for you to heal. So take your time. Cry when you need to. Laugh when you get to.

Be angry, be happy, be lost, be found.

Your Shepherd is by your side through it all, and there He will remain.

3. The Lord can redeem even this: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done—the saving of many lives” (Genesis 50:20).

Did you know that someone is sexually assaulted every 68 seconds in the United States alone? And that is just one of the injustices humanity faces as we inch further and further from Eden. Greed, corruption, racism, abuse… the list of brokenness in this world goes on unendingly. It’s enough to make even the most certain of us grow disillusioned with faith from time to time. So, how do we sit in the tension of the “now and not yet”? What on earth could keep us hopeful and soft-hearted in a world rife with darkness?

I’ll never have a tidy answer to that question either. But I can tell you where I’ve landed today: I don’t believe God to be the author of my pain, but I know He is the Redeemer of it. And while the enemy would love us to stay alone, silent, and bitter, our Good Father invites us to let the light in. 

So why don’t we widen the net a little bit? You might have a story of assault like mine, but maybe you carry a different pain. Maybe you’re angry at God because you lost someone you love. Maybe you’re struggling with a hidden sin. Maybe you’re hurting from a childhood trauma. Maybe you’re just lonely. I don’t know how the enemy, sin, and this fallen world have hurt you personally. But can I gently invite you into something, as someone who is hurting right along with you? 

Let someone in.

Talk to someone you trust about the grief encircling your soul, especially if it’s a part of your story you’ve never shared before. You certainly don’t have to write about it online like me. You could talk to your mom or your small group. A close friend or a therapist. I don’t know who your person is, but I know the Lord will make it clear who He wants you to confide in. And I believe He will give you the courage to speak when the time comes.

Here’s the thing: we weren’t designed to heal on our own. That’s one of the messy parts about being a human—we’re hurt by people and we’re healed alongside people. I know that feels counterintuitive. But it’s the way life works on this side of heaven. Our pain will eat us alive if we leave it in the basement of our hearts. When we open the door… well, it’s kind of brutal, and I can’t promise it’ll feel great. But I can promise you you’ll learn a lot. I can promise you it’ll bear good fruit. And I can promise you the Redeemer will be with you and the people around you every step of the way. He makes beautiful things out of dust, friends. And what the enemy intends for evil, God can and will use for our good and His glory. 

So may we bravely step into the light. And may our vulnerability produce more vulnerability. I believe it can change the world, one redeemed story at a time.

Finally, to the women who may hear echoes of their experience in my story, I hope you know I am here for you. I would never claim to be an expert in trauma therapy, but I can be your friend. I’m happy to grab a coffee and listen to your story. We can just cry and pray and not fix anything. I just need you to know you’re not alone in your pain. Attached below are some resources/tools that have proven helpful to me and/or been recommended to me throughout my therapy journey. I pray something clicks with you as you pursue healing through the strength of Christ.

Whatever you’re facing today, you are seen and you are loved.

Let’s keep going.

Resources:

-Tin Man Ministries: My Tin Man coach is Tena DeVaney in Greenville, SC. She helped me through this particular trauma in 100 different ways. I am so thankful for her ministry. (Her husband, Todd, is also a coach and works with men, if that’s helpful to any Greenville guys out there.)

-Re:Generation Care and Recovery Ministry: I attended through Fellowship Greenville in Greenville, SC, but many churches offer this ministry.

-Onsite Therapy, Counseling, and Wellness Retreats: I have not attended, but I’ve heard wonderful things about their retreats, especially for acute depression/trauma.

-Jon Hagen at Grace Harbor Ministries: I’ve never seen him personally, but he has taught us through the re:Gen process many times, and his heart is so soft and full of God’s grace and compassion.

-ANY GOOD THERAPIST! Ask your friends/family for recommendations! (Mine is below.)

Tools:

-ART Therapy: A special kind of therapy that works through the creative process to heal your brain’s connection to traumatic moments. It’s hard to explain, especially as a non-therapist. But Jasper and I see Lorene Hutchinson in Greenville, SC. We’ve been going to her for years, both for talk therapy and ART, and she rocks. Would wholeheartedly recommend her to locals. But for non-Greenvillians, look up ART-trained therapists in your area.

-EMDR Therapy: I’ve done this a few times in the past, and it’s pretty incredible. A similar tool to ART, but different approach.

-DBT: These techniques are simple to incorporate and were created to develop mindfulness, distress tolerance, and emotional regulation in your body as you heal. Look for a therapist who can train you in these practices!

-SASHET journaling practice: A simple emotional check-in I complete every day. SASHET stands for Sad, Angry, Scared, Happy, Excited, and Tender. I stop at each emotion to process, “Am I feeling this anywhere in my body and mind today?” And then I write it down, no matter how big, small, valid, or petty the reason is. It has helped me get in the habit of paying attention to my feelings and bringing them before God instead of stuffing them down or shaming myself for feeling them at all. Feelings are God-given. They shouldn’t become idols, but they can be very useful tools when noticed and honored correctly. Tin Man helped me in this regard to form a healthy theology about emotions. For local folks, I can’t recommend Tena and Todd enough.

An Oregon Dream Fulfilled

Visiting the Pacific Northwest has been a long-held dream of mine. Years ago, I stumbled upon a photographer on Pinterest and voraciously scrolled through every one of her albums, amazed by both her artistry and the landscape of the Oregon coast. I knew visiting there was virtually impossible; I haven’t been able to find work since Violet was born, plus inflation was kicking our butts. But as I looked through those photos, aching to travel again (one of my deepest loves), I heard a strange whisper from the Lord.

He just said, “Ask me.”

I didn’t know what it meant. I thought maybe it was my own thought swirling around, convincing me to hope for something implausible. But there’s something about the voice of God that presses into your soul in a different way, you know? So I did what the voice invited me to do. I said, “Lord, I know this is a silly, impractical dream. I know that other things are more important. But if it’s Your will, could we visit the Oregon coast one day?”

Years went by, and every once in a while, I would think of that moment and ask God to provide this travel dream, if He so willed. But mostly, I let it go. “It’s too much to ask,” I told myself. Then, a few months ago, Jasper got a job with the Bible Project. That alone is an answered prayer for many reasons, but y’all… guess where they’re located? Oregon, of course. 

——

Before Easter, Violet and I were at a store, and she saw this stuffed bunny that she wanted. I said no; it was too expensive, and she didn’t need another toy. But then, a couple of weeks later, her grandparents gave her an Easter goodie bag, and it had two bunny stuffies in it. They were simpler—less plush and cuddly—but they became treasured gifts nonetheless. I told her, “Remember when you wanted that bunny at the store? And now you have two! Look how kind God is.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I sensed the Holy Spirit in the car with me, pressing deep into my heart again the reminder that my King is good and kind and paying attention. That He sees His children. That we matter to Him. So yeah, we booked the trip. We explored Portland and renewed our vows on the coast (more to come on that story!) and experienced the joy and wonder of a dream fulfilled. Of a prayer answered.

 I promise, this story is not meant to be Mel’s prosperity gospel. The trip was (and our lives are) still hard in many ways. This world is still fallen. The list of things to grieve continues to grow each time I read the news or listen to someone’s story. Even in my own body and mind, I’ve been navigating a deep pain I don’t know how to talk about publicly. My chest aches when I remember how forsaken I felt. How betrayed and broken. Some things just don’t make sense. Some dreams just don’t come true.

But even in the thick of the worst pain imaginable, our Hope remains King Jesus.

King Jesus in His reigning authority.

 King Jesus in His gentle lowliness.

 The One who rules righteously over heaven and earth.

 The One who collects our tears in a bottle.

 The One who didn’t leave my side as trauma unfolded and justice failed.

 The One who opened the doors to a dream trip with my sweet, wild family.

 Man... There is so much mystery to serving a sovereign God, especially when impossibly hard stuff happens. And I don’t think we humans are cool with that tension. But to me, mystery says, “I don’t know everything, and maybe that’s okay. Because God is here. And His heart is worth trusting.”

 I hope to be able to write about my pain story soon… I’m praying about how to do it well. But friend, this I know to be true, whether I’m dancing on the coast of Oregon or begrudgingly cleaning my kitchen for the millionth time: God is here. The story isn’t over. Even the most mundane, lonely, and confusing parts of our lives find sacred purpose in His Almighty hands. And where we see mystery, our Savior sees His plan at work to draw His people to Himself.

 So here the Furnisses continue, crying out to believe as the voice of unbelief grows just a little bit quieter.

 God is here. And His heart is worth trusting.

“We shake with joy, we shake with grief. What a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body.” -Mary Oliver

God Isn’t Afraid of Your Honesty

Photo by Riley Morgan Young Photography

Last week, I was asked to write a little something for my church’s worship night, which just happened to take place on my 36th birthday. Our worship pastor and friend, Jonny, asked me to talk about trusting Jesus when life is hard, and I thought to myself, “What better way to mark a new year of life than to remember my faithful Savior in this way?” I am so grateful to learn what it means to trust Jesus over and over, in deeper, more nuanced ways, until He takes me home. I hope you relate to these words, and sense your Shepherd sitting with you in the dirt today.

——

So, Jonny asked me to speak about trusting Jesus when it’s really, really hard. I told him he came to the right girl, not because I’m good at trusting Jesus—LOL. Nope, not at all. I say it because I’m pretty regularly asking Jesus how to do that. How to trust Him when all signs point to “Don’t do that, girl! Trusting Jesus is foolish in this situation.” 

For those who don’t know my story, I’m a gal who lives with depression. I’ve had seasons of battling really dark thoughts about myself and God and everything in between. So my faith journey, especially in the last five years, has been a true wrestling. I was pretty disillusioned with faith, God, and Church back in the Covid days. And maybe for the first time, I asked the question, “Is there a way to believe that God is who He says He is while also… being kinda mad at Him? While being confused at what He’s doing…or not doing? How do I rejoice in the Lord always, like Philippians says, but also be honest about the very real pain I feel? Is it even possible to do both at once?”

Do you relate to these questions? 

Are you ever tempted either to numb your heart or bypass your hurt with Christian platitudes because you don’t know how to reconcile trusting God with feeling your feelings? Maybe you say, “Well, I’m more blessed than I deserve,” or “I really can’t complain; a lot of people have it so much worse than I do.” These are very normal, human responses to difficulty, and I think they come from a good place. 

But what if…

What if God isn’t scared of our honesty? What if being real about our hurt, fear, or anger actually invites His presence in more deeply? Because that’s intimacy, isn’t it? In marriage, I feel closest to Jasper when I cry to him about the messy stuff in my heart, and he just sees me, holds me, and says, “I get it. That sounds really hard.” That’s what our Savior loves to do for us! And because He is not limited like us humans—because He knows all and reigns above it all—He actually has the ability to shift our hearts gently towards hope, healing, and deeper dependence on Him. Not in an instant, magic wand kind of way. But in an Immanuel, God With Us, kind of way. 

A gal I follow online, Jess Connolly, shared the story this week of Mary Magdalene grieving Jesus’ death in John 20. Mary sees the empty tomb, and she’s shaken, thinking someone stole Jesus’ body. She’s weeping. She’s confused. And our Risen Christ walks up to her and says, “Woman, why are you crying?” That question has always seemed like a rebuke—like, “Mary, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be crying—you should be having faith that I rose from the dead, like I said I would. Remember, sis?” 

But what if Jesus isn’t rebuking her—what if He’s meeting her in her grief? What if He’s saying, “Hey, I’m here. Tell me what’s hurting your heart.” Jess says, “That’s the kind of Savior we have. One who heals but doesn’t rush. One who resurrects but still honors the ache. One who knows the ending but welcomes the middle. We’ve been told (sometimes outrightly, sometimes subtly) that strength equals stoicism. That if we can get through a heartbreak or holy moment without crying, we’ve somehow won. But [God] doesn’t ask us to numb our feelings. He asks us to bring them. He doesn’t say, “Pull it together.” He says, “Come to me, all who are weary.” He sits in the dirt with us. He lets the tears fall. He calls us by name.” 

This is why I’m so grateful the Bible is rich with lament. It is such a powerful way to be honest with ourselves while also trusting in God’s character. It doesn’t have to be an either/or! Lament says, “Lord, everything feels hard and I don’t know what You’re doing! AND—at the same time, in the same breath—I believe You‘re here with me, and You will not leave me to figure it out on my own.” 

So I invite you, in this next song, to get real with God. Lament the hurt you don’t have the power to change. Grieve all the ways your life didn’t turn out the way you thought it would. It’s okay to do that—in fact, it’s worshipful to do that.

Even if it’s messy…

Even if your feelings seem childish to you… 

Even if you “know better”... 

our King is not condemning you. 

Here’s the thing: He already knows what’s in your heart. So He’s just glad you’re bringing it to Him—holding your hurt up to the Light—instead of ignoring it or pushing it down. He wants more for you than a compartmentalized faith. And He’s eager to sit in the tension with you and move you towards healing one small step at a time.

And if you’re out of practice and don’t know where to start, do what the song says: speak His name. Let “Jesus” be your prayer. 

Holy Inefficiency

Photo by AJoy Photography, 2022

I had about 500 errands to run. Okay, it was probably closer to 5, but hear me out: I brought my four-year-old with me. So, parents, you know what that means. I HAD 500 ERRANDS TO RUN.

God bless my daughter—she is one of the great loves of my life—but bringing a little one along to do anything just takes so. much. longer. Sister is in a phase where she has to stop at every brightly colored thing she sees and say, “Mommy, can I have this? Please, Mommy, pleeeeease.” It’s cute at first, but when we’re at Ask #36 in as many minutes, it takes everything in me not to scream, “Stop being just like me! We can’t afford two of us!!” 

As I returned home from our 5(hundred) errands, exasperated and—to be vulnerable with you—angry that even the smallest moments in parenting can feel like filing taxes on a roller coaster, I felt the smile of God upon me. In His loving, judgment-free voice (because that is how He speaks to His children), He whispered to me, “The beauty is in the togetherness, not the efficiency.” 

Hoooold up. I equate efficiency with good stewardship! It’s honoring God to accomplish work quickly and effectively, right? If I complete my to-do list, I have more space to be present afterward (at least in theory). But if I’m being honest with myself, is life ever that tidy? Our family’s days are only ever filled with grocery runs and dishwashing and soccer practice and painstakingly cooking a dinner the kids refuse to eat. Our “doing life” and our “doing stuff” are always jumbled up together. And in those messy, mixed-together moments, our little ones observe how we navigate the mundanities of life. They witness our mornings spent in the Word. They notice how we talk to a customer service rep. They see our reaction when eggshells get in the batter. They watch us navigate a traffic jam (okay, that one scares me). All of those tiny moments somehow form their view of God, themselves, and the world around them. So when my Shepherd gently nudged my spirit last week, I remembered the only thing He ever wants from me, and it’s not an efficiently checked-off to-do list. It’s the same thing my daughter wants from me on a morning filled with errands: simply to be together. To hug and talk and learn lessons in between, even—maybe especially—if the learning process is slow. 

In the story of God, both in the Bible and my own life, I see a Savior who doesn’t prize earthly efficiency in His Kingdom. Why else would He send His Son in the form of a newborn to lead His rescue plan? It’s almost laughable; one could say God had the ultimate errand to run, and He sent a baby to do the job! And yet the God who knows everything that ever has been and ever will be specifically chose that plan.

When Peter talks about the second coming of Christ in 2 Peter 3, he tells us that scoffers will pop up, essentially saying, “Is Jesus even coming back? And if He is, what’s taking Him so long?” Peter says in response, “But do not overlook this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” (2 Peter 3:8-9). Peter is talking about how each day on this side of heaven is an opportunity to become more like Christ and lead others to Him. But I think his words also hint at the fact that God does not view time the way we humans do.

Which is to say, the One who weaves truth and grace into your days on earth holds ALL of time in His hands. Not a moment is exempt from His sovereignty and intentionality. So I have to ask: do you think He speaks to you the way you speak to yourself? Do you think He’s upset that you're not changing fast enough? That you’re slowing down His “errand” of sanctifying your soul?

Or do you think He’s a proud Dad, looking at His baby attempting to walk for the first time and cheering on every wobbly, imperfect step forward… because even that one step is a step closer to Him? 

I don’t diminish efficiency to condone laziness or abuse grace. Without a doubt, stewardship in many areas of our lives does look like working excellently for the glory of God at a pace that honors Him and the people around us. Ecclesiastes 9:10 says, “Whatever your hands find to do, do it with your might.” So live accountably, expectantly, and faithfully. Do your work well. Help your kids with their homework. Repent and repair when there’s a rupture. Wash the dishes before bed. Yes and amen—that stuff is the gospel at work too. However, I think when we apply that same pace to the cultivation of our marriages, our children, and our relationships… when we demand efficiency from the One watering and tending to our souls, we miss the point. The point is to learn from and become like our unhurried Shepherd. The One who wants to teach us by being with us. 

Jess Connolly always says, “We will never graduate from needing the gospel.” God will never hand us a diploma and say, “Yay, I have nothing left to teach you! Congrats on not needing me anymore!” Nope, that day will never come. And thank Jesus for it. Because—listen, oh my soul, and believe it to be true!—the whole point of life is to need Him! To get eggshells in the batter of life and find that His mercy outmatches our failure every time. To draw from His well of Living Water day after day, moment after moment, savoring every sip of His grace and kindness and presence. To cry out, “You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water. Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you” (Psalm 63:1-3). 

What a gift not to rush through a life spent doing just that. To walk toward holiness at the pace of heaven instead of the pace of earth. To know that every failure we refuse to forgive in ourselves has already been forgiven tenfold. To see that, as we wobble towards our Good Father, He is reaching His arms out, whispering, “Come on, my love. I’m right here, and I got you. Let’s keep going.”

Enough

Photo by Briana Autran Photography

Recently, I listened to a new friend's heartbreaking account of a painful moment with her child. It’s not my story to tell, but her takeaway was one I am far too familiar with: the feeling of inadequacy. “When will I be enough?” she asked. We grieved as we sat in that tension with her. Very clearly, I felt the Lord tell me to pray for my friend in that moment. But I froze. I told God, “What could I say to bolster her spirit? I battle the same feeling almost every day of my life, and I have no idea how to fight it. I wouldn’t even know what to pray.”

Yes, I know. It’s a selfish response for many reasons. Why was I trying to be her Holy Spirit? I didn’t trust God enough to speak for me, and I certainly didn’t trust Him enough to use a clumsy, imperfect prayer from my mouth to help my friend. Why did I feel the need to be tidy before I could sit in the grief with her? Well, the moment passed, and we moved forward. But that whisper—you’re not enough—kept ringing in my head.

The story of not-enoughness keeps coming up for me in therapy, too. Whether I’m talking about my childhood, friendships, job dreams, parenting, marriage, money, WHATEVER, the story under the story is constantly the same. You’re not enough, Mel. If you were this or had that, then you would be happy, and you would finally make others happy too. It’s kind of fascinating, actually, to look at my soul from a bird’s eye view and watch myself come to the same conclusion over and over again. Like, really… What is up with that?

Thanks to Jasper’s job at the Bible Project, his team got to hop on a Zoom call with Curt Thompson, a Psychiatrist and Author who wrote books like “Anatomy of the Soul” and “The Soul of Shame.” This man loves Jesus and understands the stories we tell ourselves so well. So when a Q&A time came up, I just had to ask the expert…

I said, “In therapy, I keep coming to the conclusion that I’m not enough, I’m not enough, I’m not enough. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that many, if not all of us, feel the same way. So I guess I’m curious why this is such an insidious shame story, especially for those who know we are saved by grace. We know we could never do anything to earn what was freely given to us at the cross. So why is “I’m not enough” such a hard lie to shake? And what do we do about it?”

His response was so eye-opening. He said the thought “I’m not enough” and shame are not separate entities—they are one and the same. So when we feel not enough, we are simply experiencing shame. And just like it’s easier to learn how to ride a bike at age 6 than at age 36, it’s incredibly hard to unlearn a shame response that’s been ingrained in us since childhood. It’s all we’ve ever known.

He said, “Imagine a kid’s red wagon rolling towards you. You could easily stick your leg out and stop the wagon, right? Well, shame is like a train chugging towards you. And there’s no easy fix for stopping the train. Sticking your leg out will not save you anymore. The only thing that can stop the train is a bigger train. And the bigger train is our trinitarian God-With-Us and gospel community. Which is to say, you’re not responsible for changing that shame story—we are. We are riding that train, and we are fighting with you to rewrite the narrative.”

Phew. Isn’t that the most comforting thing you’ve ever heard? Hearing shame is normal, and fighting shame is a group effort led by our reigning King. That’s why we get to sing, “Shame, where is thy victory?” Because it has been defeated by Jesus forever! And as we are sanctified, we get to link arms with godly community, bring shame out of the shadows, and tend to the children in us who just wanted to belong.

On this Mother’s Day, I am more aware than ever how much women in particular hear the lie that we have to be everything to everyone. And, sisters, that lie is running us into the ground. So, in this moment, I’m saying ENOUGH to shame. Enough, punk—you will not get the final word. You will not leech the life from me and my sisters in Christ with this narrative that we’re not enough. Our train is coming for you, broski, and you don’t stand a chance against the mercy and kindness and almighty power of our King.

——

I ended up reaching out to my friend. I messaged her to confess my fears and repent of my inaction. Of course, she was gracious, and she allowed me to pray for her via text. So here’s my prayer for her, but it’s also my prayer for you and me as we battle this thing called shame (I’m so glad we get to battle it together).

Sweet Shepherd, thank you so much for my friend. For her vulnerability. For her ministry. For her very raw emotions about an impossibly hard circumstance. I pause to sit in that tension with her now.

And Lord, you know I hear the same words whispered over my soul all the time—you’re not enough. You’ll never be enough. You will only ever let down the people you were called to love. My heart shares her sorrow. And I just want to stop and grieve that feeling with her.

It’s debilitating, Jesus. And I guess that’s the point. Those whispers are meant to take us out. To leave us numb to our hearts and striving for an unachievable goal. So in the face of what feels like a really big lie that she and I don’t know how to shake, I’m going to go back to the basics of the gospel.

Do You call us to “be enough?” Is that the kind of language You are even using in relation to us? Or did you send Your Son to the cross because we are physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually incapable of being enough? Is enoughness off the table completely because of the work You did on our behalf? Yeah, I think it is. I think You’re looking at us, striving and grieving our insufficiencies, and just like in the garden, you’re saying, “Who told you that you are naked? Who is speaking those words of shame over you?”

With all my heart, God, I know this to be true: You are not.

The enemy—crafty little jerk he is—is using our not-enoughness as a horrifically effective distraction from our actual call: intimate dependence on You. Walking in the cool of the day with You. Bringing You our joys and our grief, our belly laughs and heart-wrenching cries. Needing You for every single breath. 

You never called us to be our children’s savior. And that is a scary truth, because I would like to protect my kids from the effects of this fallen world. But that is a cross only You are strong enough to bear. So Jesus, we release the grip. With faith and shaky hands, in this moment, we release the lie that we have to be everything to everyone. We release the lie that You are telling us to be everyone’s hero. YOU are the Hero. You’re the only one worthy and able to hold that title.

Savior, empower us when those whispered lies come back again. Help us to speak rebuke verbally when the enemy attempts to hold court in our brains. Send him back to hell where he and his thoughts of enoughness belong. Thank You that YOU ARE ENOUGH, LORD JESUS. YOU ARE ENOUGH, AND WE DON’T HAVE TO BE. What good news that is! What a deep relief! The pressure is off, and hope is cranked up to 100, for YOU ARE OUR HOPE. YOU ARE OUR CHILDREN’S HOPE. And You love them more than we ever could.

Phew! Thank You, Lord! Help our hearts believe it to be true. That as long as You reign on Your throne, we can confidently move through our lives messily and imperfectly and deeply dependent on the steady, perfect, more-than-enough One.

We believe, Lord. Help our unbelief.

Amen.

Soul Camp

Okay, remember when Lorelai comes to Luke’s at, like, 5 in the morning begging for coffee, and he says, “Stop drinking coffee!” and she’s like, “Oh, I can't stop drinking the coffee. I stop drinking the coffee, I stop doing the standing and the walking and words putting into sentence doing.”

Lorelai without coffee = Mel without her comfort zone.

But then Mel signed up to go to Soul Camp all by herself.

I actually thought I’d be good at the traveling by myself part, as well as the getting-to-know-new-people part. I love being by myself! I never get to do it! Give me a good book and some snacks, and I’m a happy girl. Plus, I love people! I have a heart for ministry, and it’s one of my favorite things in the world to get real with women about the mess in our lives. God has equipped me for this exact kind of challenge! I got this!

NARRATOR: SHE DID NOT, IN FACT, HAVE THIS.

Y’all. I was really bad at it. ALL of it. There is a reason solitude is called a practice. I had no idea what to do with myself! Am I hungry? Am I sleepy? Am I just bored? I honestly couldn’t tell! And then I walked into camp, filled with people I didn’t know, and my freak-out-o-meter blew through the roof.

How do I form normal human sentences?

I just asked her her name 3 seconds ago— it would be rude to ask again, right? Yeah, that’s rude. It’s probably, like, Prometheus or Chrysanthemum or DANG, GIRL, WHY WEREN’T YOU LISTENING THE FIRST TIME?! Ohhh, that’s right. Because your social anxiety gobbled up your brain like it was the last of the Easter candy.

Phewwwww. That is a lot of feelings. What to do with them?

It’s in moments like these that I’m endlessly thankful for therapy. No small part of me assumed it would prevent me from having fears in the first place, but instead, it gave me tools to face the fear when it comes.

So 1. I acknowledged my feelings: “Mel, you’re scared, girl. You’re scared of not connecting with anyone. You’re scared of saying the wrong thing in front of a leader you admire. You’re scared of your very real limitations.”

Then 2. I told the truth to myself: “It’s human to feel fear and loneliness in a new environment. It’s okay to feel those feelings for a while. But also, acknowledge that you are not alone. Who can you reach out to for prayer and support?”

And after texting Jasper, 3. I offered my feelings back to God: “Lord, You are not surprised or limited by my fear. In fact, You knew I’d feel this way, and You are with me in it. Help me to live embodied: to stretch my tight back and take deep breaths. To call out my social anxiety and laugh about it with the gals. To replace my shame with Your compassion. I acknowledge that in all the places I can’t, You can. So thank You for being God, and for surrounding me with safe people who love you more than life. Most of all, thank You, King of Heaven, for being my Friend and never leaving my side, especially here in my moment of weakness.”

Over and over—even in the middle of my loudest fears—I felt the Spirit whisper to me, “Sweet Mel, I’m not in a hurry with you.” And I’m rehearsing that kindness to myself as I reflect on all that Soul Camp was. He’s not in a hurry to change me—to remove the mess from my heart. In fact, He loves being in the mess with me. For the One who holds all of time and space in His Almighty hands, the process matters more to Him than the product. So I can freak out and belly breathe and make a new friend and repent of my sin, and He is forever with me and proud of me.

He readily gives rest to those He loves, and—thank You, Jesus—He loves me.

He loves you, too, you know. Let’s pursue His rest together.

(Almost all) gallery photos by Liz Cox

A Psalm 46 Meditation

I lost a battle for earthly justice this week. Maybe I’ll talk about on here sometime, but for now, I’m just feeling my limitations. I’m feeling how little control I have in this life. Ughhhh it’s hard, right? I’m not the only one?

Well, in the face of my powerlessness, I did one thing that was in my power, and I opened my Bible and meditated on a few verses in Psalm 46. Now, I’m no Bible expert, and I’m sure there’s more to this passage than what I journaled about. But this is what the Holy Spirit very clearly spoke over my soul this week, and I think I’m meant to share it with you too.

1. When I picture a refuge, two images come to mind: a fortified shelter strong enough to withstand danger, and a cozy, warm bed at home. Somehow God is both. He is the safe place you run to when bombs are going off or tornadoes are ripping through your town. And He’s a soft duvet and a cup of tea after a long, hard day. He is both a mighty bastion of protection and a gentle counselor, eager to listen to our troubles and offer comfort. How beautiful is that? Only our God can somehow be that strong and that tender simultaneously.

2. So much of what I grieve comes from, like I said, my limitations. I can’t change people. I can’t speed up healing. I can’t control the future. I can’t outrun the Fall. But in every way we are limited, our King is not. He makes a fool out of every possible human limitation, including death! Including the enemy of our souls! Which also means the pressure is off us to try to be unlimited. To fight for control. To be “strong enough.” Freedom is found when we embrace our human limitations and allow God to be God. He is strong when we are weak, and MAN, that is never not good news.

3. Okay, this might be my favorite part: why did the psalmist describe God as a “very present” help? Think of all the words he could have used here: He’s a sovereign help, an almighty help, a trustworthy help. But his emphasis is on our God, getting down on His hands and knees, and meeting His children in their pain. At any given moment in your day, God’s proximity to you is in front of you and behind you and inside you and all around you. Like, what?? And think about this! Psalm 46 was written way before Jesus! Before the Holy Spirit became our indwelling Helper! Our God, from the beginning of time, has always been moving heaven and earth to draw closer to us. To tear that veil. He is our real and tangible and closer-than-our-breath help. Abandoning His children is an utter impossibility.

4. I love a good ‘Therefore’ in the Bible. I’m just gonna start screaming it out when the enemy tries to whisper lies! When this life knocks me to my knees! ‘Therefore’ is a worship song, a declaration, a calling up of our souls to what has always been true. It is saying, “Look back! Do you remember who God is? Do you know how He fights for you? How passionately He loves you?” When you feel defeated, seek out a ‘therefore’ in the Word, in your community, and in your own life. Proclaim how He faithfully carried you through past painful seasons, and cling to the truth that He is the same God today that He has always been. Oh my soul, believe it to be true!

5. I struggle with the whole ‘not being afraid’ thing. “Do not fear” is the most frequent command in the Bible, and yet I often find myself confused as to how to integrate it with my lived experience. Is God asking me to lie to myself? To tell my body, “stop keeping the score already and just trust the Lord”? Nope, I don’t think so. Shame doesn’t move us towards deeper faith. So here’s my takeaway: A Christian’s lack of fear is not foolish or ignorant. It is not a spiritual bypass of very real pain. I believe we are called to hold the tension. Life on this side of heaven can often be scary—AND (not ‘but’) our Father is near to us and will not leave our side. We are commanded not to fear so frequently because fear is a constant companion in our post-Fall humanity. So what do we do with it? We go back and read about our refuge and strength. We cling to the “therefore,” proclaiming who God is and always has been. And then we move bravely towards the hard thing, knowing we don’t face it alone. Our lack of fear is informed by the withness of our Savior.

6. Okay, take a minute. Can you imagine if even one of these things happened before your eyes? Think of the violence tsunamis, earthquakes, and hurricanes have wreaked upon the earth over the course of human history. Think of how hard they are to survive.

What a loss of safety. What a shaking of reality.

So to say the words, “we will not fear though the earth gives way”—that is a serious declaration. How can a Christian honestly trust God in the face of such peril? Well, here is where we call up our souls the most: whatever loss you grieve, whatever battle you lose—in the middle of any joy or pain you could ever experience on this earth—the truer reality (the truest reality) is I AM WHO I AM is on His throne. Creator and Defender Yahweh reigns over every single atom and organism and ecosystem. Every laugh and tear and weary heart. Everything that has ever been and ever will be. He reigns above it all and His sovereignty is unshakable. That, dear friends, is our hope. So as you work and play and grieve and rejoice on this side of heaven, hold fast to your refuge and strength. He will prove Himself time and again to be worth trusting.

Thanks for meditating on these truths with me!

We believe, Lord. Help our unbelief.

Lament is Worship

We had friends over for a worship night a few days ago. Friends called to different churches and living out different seasons, coming together to sing and pray and remind each other that we’re united not by a building but by our Good Shepherd. It was beautiful and soul filling and no one took any pictures cause we were too busy singing our butts off.

My favorite part (and the hardest part) of the night was a time of lament. We honestly shared our pain with each other and—I’ll be honest with you—it was heartbreaking. Immediately, my mind began scrambling, trying to think of words that would placate my friends. But instead, we just sat in that holy tension together… and then we took communion, letting the shed blood of Christ speak where our words always fall short.

2 Corinthians 1:6 says, “if we are afflicted, it is for your comfort and salvation; and if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which you experience when you patiently endure the same sufferings that we suffer.” I love that, baked into the fabric of Christianity, is the freedom to be honest about our pain and to rely on each other in the midst of it. We are meant to grieve and be comforted together. To tell each other, “I’ve been there. You’re not alone.” These small, seemingly ineffective words invite in the sacred. We get to share in each other’s sufferings just as Christ shared in ours.

Isn’t that beautiful? The Lord never tells us to sugarcoat or intellectualize our pain, but invites us to feel it. And then He gives His people to us so we have a tactile representation of His presence. We get to be held on this earth, and it is but a shadow of the way we are held in the heavenly places.

All this to say, thank God for God. Thank God for His people. More worship nights forever and ever, plz & thank u.

The Walking In Between

Photo by Briana Autran Photography (Max Patch, NC)

No one thinks to take a picture when love is hard. When you have to wake up in the morning and actively choose it. But there’s beauty in those moments too. In the struggle, we realize we can’t keep our vows on our own. We need therapy and community. Repentance and forgiveness. Self-awareness and self-forgetfulness. More Jesus than we ever expected.

But I’m so glad love is more than dopamine firing in the brain. It’s stuff like buying him new underwear when his old ones are holey and gross. It’s washing that one cookie sheet that’s been in the sink all week. It’s expressing your needs with open hands, knowing that you’re married to a person, not an omniscient being. It’s laughing about (at?) our kids at night. It’s all the walking in between. And it’s trusting that we do not walk alone.

So cheers to those of us bravely choosing this thing called love, in any and all of its forms. And mostly, cheers to the One holding us together.

Cheers to Jesus.

Comfort for the Anxious Soul

Photo by Riley Morgan Young Photography

I wrote this visualization exercise for Cros as he worked through a hard season this summer. Some of it is specific to his situation, but I feel like it could be easily modified to your kiddo’s needs and likes.

I stumbled upon it recently and cried, because it’s clear that anything I’ve tried to teach my kids about the heart of God, I still need to learn (and believe) myself. I’ve already shed tears about the coming year as if I know even an ounce of what it will hold. But Jesus is bending down to look me in eyes today. To remind me who I am and whose I am. Praise God that we never age out of being His kids.

I hope this exercise is useful to you and yours as you brave the unknowns of the new year.

Deep breaths, friends. (And deep breaths, Mel.)

Everything is going to be okay.

——————

Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and picture yourself walking in a big field. There’s grass and wildflowers and beautiful mountains up ahead. A soft breeze cools your skin as the setting sun paints the sky pink and purple and orange. 

(Can you picture it? What else do you see?)

—

But strangely, in the middle of that beautiful landscape is a big, ugly whiteboard. The kind you would find at school. It’s so out of place here, you walk up to it and see that, scribbled all over the whiteboard in big, black letters, is every fear you have about fifth grade:

1. What if the work is too hard?

2. What if my teachers are mean to me?

3. What if my friends teach me bad things?

4. What if I have to do a lot of presentations?

5. What if it’s too hard to fight peer pressure?

6. What if I feel lonely?

(Take a moment to fill in your own thoughts.)

—

The wind picks up. You start to shiver. And a sense of anxiety prickles your body as you fixate on the whiteboard.

(Where do you notice the stress in your body? Can you pinpoint where it hurts or feels tight? Take a moment to make space for that feeling.)

—

Then you hear something rustling behind you. You turn around and see Jesus walking up to you, smiling a really big smile. He runs up and gives you a huge hug, and immediately, your body and mind sense His deep love for you, and how proud He is to call you His son. You feel His love for you in your bones and your belly and your skin and your fingers and your toes. His love covers you like a soft blanket, and you know that it’s true—that His love for you is the truest thing about you. 

—

In His hand, Jesus is holding a big eraser. He takes your hand in His, and together you begin to erase every fear on the whiteboard 

until the words fade to dark gray… 

then to gray…

then to light gray…

Then they’re gone completely. 

But Jesus keeps erasing. He erases until the whiteboard itself disappears completely.

Now it’s just you and Jesus, standing in that beautiful field, watching the sun go down. 

—

He bends down to look at you with tears in His eyes, and He tells you He loves you so much and He will never leave you to carry your fears on your own. He will always be here to help you and hold you and remind you what is true. 

To remind you who you are and whose you are.

You take a deep breath, put a hand on your heart, and decide to believe Him. 

—

You turn around and see Mom and Dad running up behind you. We give you both big hugs (Jesus swirls us around and makes us laugh!), and then we light a little fire together. We roast marshmallows and eat s'mores and sing songs and ask Jesus silly questions as we look up at the stars. And Jesus smiles at us and kisses our foreheads and reminds us that His Father is worth trusting, even when we can’t see the whole picture.

And as you cuddle near the fire, you notice that your whole body warms with the feeling of peace and belonging and safety. You know with all your heart that you are deeply, deeply loved, and you decide to take this blanket of love with you wherever you go.

—

You inhale slowly from your belly and then breathe out as you count down from 5… 4… 3… 2… 1. 

Everything is going to be okay.

The Richest Gal in the World

I’m still processing so much about 2024. Many parts felt too heavy. An impossible grief. A wearying load. To tell you the truth, I’m tired.

As a family, we wrestled with anxiety, health scares, and questions of purpose… while deep in our souls, there flowed a forever ache for our fourth child.

It’s so strange, when talking to God about all we faced this year, to utter “thank you” and “why?” in the same breath about the same thing. Yet here we are. This is what it is to be human. It’s a gift and it’s a reckoning with grief. It’s loving deeply and having no control over what happens next. And I say this with no pretension, but as a needy person in the thick of it: I don’t know how anyone ‘humans’ without Christ. Without leaning all their weight on the Shepherd as He softly whispers, “Come to me, you 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.” (Matt. 11:28-29)

I don’t know the ‘why’ of so many things, and I probably never will. It’s hard to release the grip on that. But in my days on earth, I have known the comfort of Christ through depression and job loss and death and infertility and, now, the year 2024. I had not known what His presence felt like through this particular valley until now. Now I know. And I believe (or I’m trying to believe) that the deepest valley with the Savior by my side is better than any mountaintop I could stand on without Him.

So as I wrestle with this grief and soul-tiredness, let me tell you what I know to be true:
This life is inescapably hard, and God is inexhaustibly good. I get to call myself rich because Immanuel fights for me; and if I were to lose everything else, I KNOW I could never lose Him.

Maybe that’s better than knowing why.
——

(I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.)

Photos by Riley Morgan Young Photography

(Not So) LoveStoned

Life is weird. One minute I’m making a poster for my OG celebrity crush and the next I’m collapsed on the floor in crushing pain. After a little testing, it turns out I had a kidney stone! YAY! Who had that on their Furniss bingo card??

It’s so weird that life chugs uneventfully on most days, and then two out of three fun plans scheduled this year get derailed by random medical emergencies. Liiiiiiike why, Lord? WHY.

But hey. It was treatable. I’m okay. Flummoxed, but okay. I don’t know if I have any pearls of wisdom to share after yet another “REALLY?!” 2024 event. But I guess I’ll just say, take the joy where you can find it. I thought I’d find it at a concert, but I ended up finding it in the people who surrounded me when I was at my lowest.

I found it in my sister dropping everything and coming over. I found it in my parents stress-cleaning our house as they cared for our kids. I found it in the friend who drove to the hospital to pray for us. I found it in Jasper dancing around my bed in an attempt to impersonate JT (it was as endearing as it was pitiful). I found it in loved ones sending food and gift cards and check-in texts.

I found it in a lot of small stuff. But I’m kinda realizing the small stuff is all that really matters. I know I am loved and covered when everything goes to crap. My people have my back. And it makes the hard stuff a lot more bearable knowing I don’t have to bear it alone.

Also, Justin Timberlake, if you’re out there and you wanna throw two pity-VIP tickets to a future concert this way, my kidneys promise to stop being so *selfish*.

The Adele Concert from Heaven

The original plan was to come in March. But then Adele got sick and postponed the show. We said, “Let’s go anyway!” But within the first 8 hours, I get a call from home that everyone’s got the stomach flu and the kids are weeping for me to come back. As I rush through the airport, I notice my tum tum feeling a little funny too. Before I know it, I’m throwing up in an airport Chili’s and having nausea-induced panic attacks in the plane bathroom. It was, truly, the worst—and the kick-off to what would be a pretty brutal year.

Coming back in October was impractical for many reasons, and I found myself reverting to the old habit of self-shaming. “I shouldn’t be choosing a fun concert in Vegas. I should be keeping my head down and hustling for my family.” But thankfully, I have friends who say yes to the joy in life, even when it’s impractical. I have friends who take me as I am and don’t put expectations on me. I have friends who didn’t even blink when I said I wanted to celebrate my 35th birthday FIVE MONTHS LATE at the bougiest, dreamiest restaurant. And mannnn, we laughed and we savored and we chose joy over and over, and it honestly felt like warfare against an enemy who wants me to stay stuck, sad, and striving.

Then Adele sang me happy birthday, and my Canadian queen Celine was there, and I felt so deeply loved by God and my people and the whole wide world.

So my takeaway is: choose joy whenever you can. Be gentle with all the parts of yourself, especially the messy bits. And surround yourself with people who don’t want something from you—who just want YOU.

And maybe you’ll walk past your airport Chili’s again, and you’ll smile to yourself at how far you’ve come. At, by the grace of God, how much you survived.

(Insert a “hello from the other side” joke? Or too cheesy? Aww, heck… let’s choose joy. 😉)

Esme

Photo by Riley Morgan Young Photography

It took us a long time to name you, to realize how much sanctity it bestows upon your short life to give you a name.

But we finally decided: you are Esme River, because Esme (ez-may) means deeply loved.

And you were,

and you are, little one.

Your time on this side of heaven, though shorter than we would’ve chosen, was marked by the deepest kind of love.

In both your life and your death, you taught us so much about faith, obedience, holy grief, and the shared human experience. I can’t count the number of women with whom I’ve connected just by telling your story. Thank you for that. Now, when I picture Jesus hanging out with you in heaven, I see you laughing with so many of my friends’ kids too. What a sight that will be to behold one day.

Deep in my eyes—and deep in your daddy’s eyes—there will forever be a river running. You are a part of us, and we’re so proud to be your parents.

I think you would’ve been born this month... but I hope you’re having a blast today with Abba.

We miss you, baby.

Re:Gen Round Three Complete!

Y’all, we did it! Re:Gen 2023-2024 is in the books!! I am so proud of my gals for showing up, week after week, with open hands and soft hearts. In a world that tells us to isolate and self-protect, showing up is maybe the bravest thing we can do. I’m deeply grateful to get a front-row seat to life change year after year. Gosh, it’s a commitment—but God is at work here, and it’s a sight to behold.

Huge shoutout to my co-leaders/soul mates Jes Arellano and Christina Wells! I couldn’t and wouldn’t want to do this work without you. Thanks for holding me up so many times through the years. One of the greatest evidences of God’s kindness in my life is your friendship.

14 Years

Photo by Bryan Scott Photography

“When your heart rests in the amazing wisdom of the choices of a powerful Creator, you have given yourself reason to continue.

When your heart celebrates the myriad of careful choices that were made to bring your stories together, you have given yourself reason to continue.

When your heart is filled with gratitude for the amazing grace that you both have been and are being given, you have given yourself reason to continue.

You are not alone. Your creating, ruling, transforming Lord is still with you. He has brought your stories together and placed them smack-dab in the middle of his redemptive story. As long as he is Creator, as long as he is sovereign, and as long as he is the Savior, you have reason to get up in the morning and love one another, even though you aren’t yet what he created you to be.”

-Paul David Tripp

Thank you for 14 years of continuing with me, Jasper. Even on our hardest days, we cannot deny that our Savior has been so, so good.

Cheers, Furn—the best is yet to come.

Errthing’s a Mess (and God is Good)

MAKING HANGING BY A THREAD AN OLYMPIC SPORT SINCE 2014, BABY!!

Parents, I don’t know what your house looks like, but I want you to know you’re doing a good job and God sees you and loves you and is still really happy you’re His kid. Keep loving those trash cyclones we call children. He will, somehow, teach us something about His heart even within the grossest mess.

“Blessed are those whose homes look like doo doo in the summer, for theirs is the grace and mercy of God.” -something I just made up two seconds ago but it feels true

Taste and See

Re-reading Psalm 34 this morning, and remembering afresh how it’s one of my favorites ever. Each line, a testimony to both God’s ruling authority and His soft, gentle heart. One of my favorite verses—though it’s hard to choose!—has to be verse 8: “Taste and see that the Lord is good!”

I went to a John Mark Pantana concert last year, and he was talking about this scripture. He recounted that for most of his life, he knew so much about God. He stored all the facts and memorized all the things. But he explained it something like this (my paraphrase):

“It was like God set in front of me a delicious apple cobbler. And I could intricately describe the crust. I could write a dissertation on the flavor profile. But I never took a bite of the actual thing. It took years, but God finally woke me up to say, taste it. Taste and see what my love does to your life. Taste and see how it reframes and sets ablaze everything you simply know about me in your head. The tasting of my goodness is the whole point. The living as though it’s true—as though the Bible is living and active, the grave is actually empty, and My grace is your only reality—is the reason I gave it all to you in the first place.”

So I’m asking my heart: what does it look like to taste and see today in this good, small life He’s abundantly given me? I think I’m going to ground my feet in the grass and listen to music about Him and believe what it says. I think I’m going to look deep into the eyes of my kids and see the gifts of His beauty and light right there on their faces. I think I’m going to hug my husband and try to make him laugh and cherish this gift of walking through almost twenty years side by side. Because who else could hold these two broken people together but an exceptionally good God?

His goodness is everywhere. The table is set. May I do more than observe it—may I taste and see.

Our Song

TW: PREGNANCY LOSS

I share with the awareness that my default impulse is bitterness and self-pity. So writing this was solely a move of God; the Spirit nudging me into worship. There is nothing good in me. There is only our kind Father, on His throne, making all things new. I hope this brings comfort to someone else out there… even if it’s just one someone.

|| April 13, 2024 ||

Our baby died today.

I think I’m finally making that connection.

I hadn’t strung the words together in a row like that until now.

We just dealt with the blood.

Then we dealt with the ultrasound.

We ran labs and sat in rooms and waited for calls as doctors made conclusions.

We heard words like “not a viable pregnancy” and “this will help dissolve the cells.”

We did the next right thing over and over, and now it is done. It’s done, and she’s gone, and as I drive home from the hospital, I say the words out loud for the first time: our baby died today.

And the pain of that truth takes my breath away.

What happens to these little lives? These blueberry-sized human beings, lovingly woven together by the hands of our Almighty God? Even if I knew all the answers, the truth remains that she’s not in my body or in my arms or in our home. And the pain of it takes my breath away.

What’s strangely beautiful, though, is that I never felt alone today. I definitely had people around me and texting me and praying for me. I had friends and family arranging meals and childcare.

But deep in my spirit, I quietly felt the God of the Universe by my side. He didn’t make a big fuss or speak audibly. But He was there. In the middle of an objectively lonely loss, Immanuel—God With Us—held me fast and never let go.

The beauty of that truth… well, it takes my breath away.

As I drive home, the Spirit speaks this refrain over my soul again and again:

Our baby died today, and God is the Giver of life.

Our baby died today, and the Giver is good.

Our baby died today, and the grief of it is heavy and dark.

Our baby died today, and “the darkness is not dark to Him. The night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to Him” (Psalm 139:12).

Our baby died today, and I serve a God who wholly welcomes the tension of tears and trust, of hurt and hope, of standstill grief and shaky, faith-filled steps forward.

Our baby died today, and somehow, it is well.

Because, somehow, no matter what may lie ahead or what we’ve left behind, He will always reign above it all.

I rejoice today, in the middle of the story, because I know this isn’t the end. The day is coming when I’ll get to hug my girl. “When death is just a memory and tears are no more,” I’ll hold my fourth baby in my arms. I rejoice now knowing I’ll rejoice then too.

And to hold my heart accountable, I confess—I’m not sure I believe these words I’m writing. I hope I do, but it could very well be wishful thinking or just the right thing to say. But even if I don’t believe them a minute from now or a month from now or ten years from now, Immanuel will still be right here, by my side. He will hold me fast. He will grieve with me and laugh with me and guide me one step at a time into the scary, impossible future. He will never let me go.

And maybe that’s enough.

Lord, let that be enough.

———

As I drive home from the hospital, I’m listening to Gratitude by Brandon Lake and wondering if we should name the baby—if that makes sense for us in our situation. But as I listen to lyrics, I think, “Maybe we’ll just refer to her as ‘our song,’” because our song had to end, but He never will.

I’ll never forget the words to our song, little girl. Whenever I sing, I’ll sing with you in my heart, whether on this side of Heaven or the next.