The Gift of Limitations

It was a rambling college-town that hosted the race that was to be my last for a long time. It is a town where narrow dirt-and-dust roads lead to horse farms with near-perfect views of the Blue Ridge and millionaires shamelessly drive beat-up old Volvos. Eccentric.

Every year, the allure of this four-miler, with its humanitarian push and socialite atmosphere, makes runners out of walkers and athletes out of those who don’t like to sweat. Women train all summer long to run Garth Road on Labor Day weekend.

I was one of many. 

I’d placed in my age group in the past and after seeing the winning time from prior years, I decided that I wanted to try to win this race. I spent my summer mornings following a training plan that my friend (who was also a running coach) devised for me. On race-day, however, I hadn’t accounted for the handful of Olympic Trial-ers who were, unexpectedly, going to run the race this year. I’d also trained at 6:00am during an unusually cool summer. The start time for this race was 8am and we ran on black-top roads in an 80-degree thick heat, that day. 

I ignored the weather and I focused on the runners around me edging their feet towards the starting line, and on the split-times I’d written in permanent marker onto my hand. 

And three miles later I passed out.

Well — before I passed out (in delirium), apparently I stopped to ask the fans lined up along the race course just where I might find the finish line. The heat and the pace set by the top runners and my thick-headedness made for the perfect cocktail. I served myself up a heat stroke.

Weeks later, as I researched the implications of this heat stroke, I came across information that indicated that people who suffer heat strokes are often the ones who don’t know their own limits.


That was nine years ago. Before children. Before the circuitous path to adoption. Before the pursuit of our children’s hearts post-adoption. Before yet-longer years of infertility and losing my dad and rocking a babe to sleep at 3am and riding the roller coaster of my husband’s fledgling business.

And here I am, now, with six children and the most predominant data point I have of myself and my life is this: I’m limited.

I’m grossly limited. 

My limitations press in around me, all the time. The babe wakes at the very moment the toddler decides he’s ready to potty train and my thirteen year-old wants to talk about her heart. Not only can I not avoid these limitations, but they *are* me. I could add much more to this list, but you probably have your own list to harken to as you read this. I suspect I’m not alone and that this issue of limitations is not merely the struggle of the mother of six who moonlights as a writer. But even the mother of two or three (or one) or the woman who finishes a deadline at work just to face another, all while her dry cleaning collects dust, awaiting a pick-up. 

At twenty-five I wanted to conquer my flesh. (I wanted every area of my life to have a six-minute-mile pace.)

But these days, I have learned that what I really want is to surrender it.

More than resenting my failures, I’m starting to (more deeply) resent the days when my heart sinks because I see my failures. This should not be so.

Because in the kingdom of God, it is weakness that incites the miracles. It is weakness that incites the gaze of our Father God. Today, I want those stories more than I want a six-minute-mile pace. 

More than being able to rock the babe, potty-train the toddler and solve my thirteen year-old’s problems (all at once), I want that deep peace that comes with surrender to God. The deep peace that accompanies the safest of friendships. (He never asked me to be limitless. He just asked me to be His.)

This surrender is one of the most becoming things I’ve seen in a person. I’ve found myself scouring faces for it in the way a freshman does at the senior class on her first day of school. What is it that I see in these few sages in my life who finally rest at peace in their pursuit of God — who are relentless but not fearful, reaching but not anxious, determined but not proudly ambitious?

I want that

Because in the kingdom of God, it is weakness that incites the miracles. It is weakness that incites the gaze of our Father God.

You see, being settled within my limitations — seeing them as extensive and forever-lasting and likely growing, as they are — doesn’t actually relegate me to a boring and “mundane” life. It sets me up for the miraculous. 

I suppose it’s touching the part of me that sees the value of putting down my phone and sitting in the quiet, before God, with the acute sense of these limits that I now know I have.

In a given day, faced with all these needs and my inability to even come close to meeting them … I can push harder and plan better. I can Get Things Done™ and multi-task to keep up and shame myself when I don’t. I can scroll for minutes or hours and remind myself of every other person who’s hustling and “killin’ it” with their life.

But He just asks me to bring what I have. To pray. To watch what He does with my lack.

In a moment where I simply can’t meet the expectations of the people and the projects in front of me, I can use the midnight hours to work and sweat or run it around my head in sleeplessness.

But He just asks me to bring what I have. To pray. To watch what He does with my lack.

In the swirl of my children’s ever-growing needs I can solicit even more help. Make more appointments. Research more options. Troubleshoot.

But He just asks me to bring what I have. To pray. To watch what He does with my lack.

The quiet spaces in my life offer me perspective: I’m only five loaves and two fish away from some of the greatest miracles in my life.

His simple words in Matthew 14:18: “bring them here to me.

Perhaps today is your day to put down your phone full of lists and apps and reminders and pins that remind you about the wells that you’re not digging and the birthday parties you’re not throwing and the workout you didn’t finish and you take what little you have and bring it to Him.

Who knows but that basketfuls of overflow might fill your soul?

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God Wants Our Sad

This friend’s eyes were some of the first to read the manuscript that I’d almost tucked under my mattress, hoping it would only be shared between me and God. As a timid response to the whisper from Him — write your story — I stayed up into the wee hours of the night and clicked away at the keys during nap-times. Then that nudge turned into another and what I thought would just be a conversation between me and God turned into a story I would share. It found its way into safe hands, ’cause when you bleed on a page it feels safest having the first ones to read it be ones who also have bled.

Esther Fleece knew how to hold my story because she’d lived one of her own.

And now her words, below and in her book, invite us to stop pretending that everything is fine (as we Christians have too easily mastered) and talk to God with our pain. Esther invites us to bleed. To lament. And not just to the impersonal sky, but before the very personal God, as He tells us in His Word. 

This might just be the permission you need … -S

Lament is one of those words we don’t use very much today. It’s not a regular entry in our vocabulary, even with us church people. I was in my late twenties before I really even knew what this word meant, despite growing up in church and staying connected to a Christian community in my early adult years. When everything hit rock bottom, it was my counselor who was the one to first explain it to me.

Lament, he said, is simply expressing honest emotions to God when life is not going as planned. Whether we’re hurt, frustrated, confused, betrayed, overwhelmed, sad, or disappointed, lament is the language God has given us to talk to Him right in the middle of life’s messes. It’s real talk with God when you’re hurting, when all you can do is cry out for His help. It’s a prayer that says, God, I’m hurting—will You meet me here? And as such, it is a prayer to which God always responds.

This is not a prayer for the superspiritual. Lament is a prayer for all of us.

Not everyone experiences prosperity, but everyone we know will know loss and grief. Each and every one of us will experience setbacks, letdowns, failures, and betrayals. Every one of us will encounter change that is hard, lose loved ones before their time, and see relationships fail with people we counted on.

So what do we do when everything is not fine? Why are we shooting for the easy-street, pain-free life anyway? Where did we come up with the idea that we should be happy all the time? We all need do-over days, and sometimes we will wake up, eat a bowl of ice cream for breakfast, and head straight back to bed. This should not surprise us because Scripture tells us that we will go through different seasons—not all of them pleasant.

Adam and Eve were banished from the garden, the only home they’d ever known. The Israelites wandered the wilderness for forty years before they entered the Promised Land. The prophets ripped their clothing, grieved in the streets, and warned God’s people to repent and return. Jesus died the most gruesome death the Romans could come up with. And the early church faced persecution of all kinds.

I don’t see many easy-street lives in the Bible. And I certainly don’t see God demanding that we keep a stiff upper lip through hard times.

In fact, D. A. Carson, a professor at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, writes, “There is no attempt in Scripture to whitewash the anguish of God’s people when they undergo suffering. They argue with God, they complain to God, they weep before God. Theirs is not a faith that leads to dry-eyed stoicism, but to a faith so robust it wrestles with God.”

So where do all the clichés and false hopes we use to explain suffering come from? Not the Bible, and certainly not from God Himself. My insistence that I have a nice, easy, “fine” life was not only unbiblical; it was also an unrealistic expectation that ended up making me feel disengaged from God and disappointed in Him. I thought I was suffering because I had done something wrong. I had fallen for clichés, which only increased my pain.

For so much of my life, I thought sucking it up and faking away the pain showed true strength. But real strength is identifying a wound and asking God to enter it. We are robbing ourselves of a divine mystery and a divine intimacy when we pretend to have it all together. In fact, we lose an entire vocabulary from our prayers when we silence the reality of our pain. If questions and cries and laments are not cleaned up throughout Scripture, then why are we cleaning them up or removing them completely from our language?

Scripture doesn’t tell us to pretend we’re peaceful when we’re not, act like everything is fine when it’s not, and do everything we can to suppress our sorrow. God doesn’t insist that we go to our “happy place” and ignore our sad, yet so many of our churches preach that we will have peace and prosperity just by virtue of being Christians. Scripture, in contrast, tells us that as followers of Christ, we are called to serve a “man of sorrows” who died a gruesome death. Until we identify ourselves with our Savior and acknowledge, as He did, just how painful life can be, we won’t be able to lament or to overcome. And if we silence our own cries, then we will inevitably silence the cries of those around us. We cannot carefully address the wounds of others if we are carelessly addressing our own.

The fact is, God does not expect us to have it all together, so it is a real disservice when our Christian communities create this expectation. We will be unsuccessful at sitting with hurting people if we have not allowed ourselves to grieve and wail and mourn and go through the lament process ourselves. God understands that life is full of pressures, hurts, stings. He took on flesh so He could relate to us in both our joy and pain. He wants us to feel and express every emotion before Him and not minimize a thing. There is no “fake it till you make it” in Scripture. When we fake fine, we fake our way out of authentic relationship with God, others, and ourselves.


Esther Fleece is an international speaker and writer recognized among Christianity Today’s “Top 50 Women Shaping the Church and Culture” and CNN’s “Five Women in Religion to Watch.” Esther shares her story in her first book, No More Faking Fine: Ending The Pretending. Stay in touch with Esther & share your own lament on her website at


Taken from No More Faking Fine by Esther Fleece Copyright © 2016 by Esther Fleece Used by permission of Zondervan.

I Share a Bloodline With The Children We Adopted

“Look, she’s calling you mommy!” said a beautifully well-intentioned friend, wanting to celebrate just how quickly we’d become a family.

My little girl was building with legos in the corner and her less-than-nimble fingers needed help piecing them together. She called me mommy when she was hungry and when she needed help in the bathroom, too.

We adopted our first two children from Ethiopia at 1 ½ and 3 ½. We were their parents and they came to us potty trained. We were parents and yet we’d never changed diapers or done 3am feedings. The first day we met them, the only words they knew in English were “Mommy” and “Daddy” – and for all they knew, these were our first names.

The reason I remember this friend’s celebratory words were that I wanted to celebrate then, too, like she did. Couldn’t calling me “Mommy” mean that my little girl knew all of what that that name meant — couldn’t it mean that we were more of a family than a mere three weeks of knowing one another might otherwise imply?

As a new mom, then just having crested my twenties, adoption was what I’d seen on Christmas cards and in “Gotcha Day” videos where teary-eyed parents met the children they would spend their lives raising and wide-eyed children met strangers holding gifts and crying.

Sure, I’d read the adoption literature. I knew the stories. But I still was not all that different from my friend. When my daughter called me “mommy”, I ascribed more weight to those words than I did to the fight soon coming to win her to knowing the fierce love behind that name.

Our language betrays how quickly we want to declare victory. How quickly we want to move past pain.

When we adopted our first two, we had scores of friends and family who wanted to agree with what we’d already hoped – that the transition would be smooth and that any past trauma would have left very little imprint. We all wanted that piece of the vacuous American dream “healthy and happy children.”

We all secretly wanted “normal.”

So my little girl – the one I’d only just met – calls me Mommy and we all breathe a sigh of relief, as if this somehow indicates we are well on our way there … to that empty and elusive state of “normal.”

Girl MJ

Mommy is a tender responder to ouchies who fiercely fights for the hearts of her children and is relentless in her love for them, even when they hurt her out of their own hurt. But what I didn’t know at thirty was that the reasons why the ones who called me mommy (we now have four that we adopted) might struggle to believe me as such were entry-points for all of us into the heart of God.

As a culture, we want to stamp “done” and “fixed” over the things that hurt and the parts of us that still bleed. We want to bandage deep wounds without cleaning them first and label “complete” over the parts of us that still need His healing touch.

We want to celebrate a child who calls her caretaker “Mommy” as if this one day in which they were adopted means that all the past was forever erased.

And this is, perhaps, because we don’t yet have a grid for God as the deep Healer of our wounds.

He heals.

We don’t want to bleed because we‘re not yet quite convinced that He, Himself, bandages.

Perhaps we are called (in James 1:27) to care for the orphan and the widow because something happens to us when we get closer to a wound that’s still bleeding. We are opened to a side of God we cannot see when we’re spending our days trying to tidy our lives before Him who promises to be near to the ones who actually aren’t all that tidy, the God who promises to be near to the broken-hearted.

Morning run glory. Waking up expectant. I'm gonna see Him today.

Not too long after we adopted our second two, my husband said to me (about one of ours with a history that still leaves me in tears) “you know, you weren’t all that different from her, when I first met you.”

Excuse me?

This particular child bristled to the touch and averted her eyes when confronted with affection. She retreated down a long corridor of vacancy when she felt shame and shame seemed to be what she wore, no matter how we spoke otherwise to her.

When my husband met me at twenty-three I was more savvy. I hid those emotions that my child wore front and center. I stuffed them down deep, far from sight – except to those who were on a path to really know me. Indeed, I was messy underneath my carefully-groomed exterior.

These children who are now ours, but who were once orphaned, have brought our home a little closer to the mess. Not just theirs but closer to the mess inside of us, the mess we Christians like to tidy. Real fast.

James 1:27 has not been, to us, a call to powerful and strong believers who are wearing badges of rescue and saving the broken ones. Rather, it’s been our introduction to the way we humans bleed. All of us humans. And, even more than that, the God who uses this place of bleeding as an entry-point into our hearts as healer.

I couldn’t begin to know God as healer until I admitted my desperate need for healing. I’m just a few steps ahead of my children, in that. That’s the bloodline we share in common.

For When You Are Fresh Out of Amazing

I managed to crumple into a heap on my bed while holding the babe. I was still a mother, even in this melted state. I finally released the kind of tears you cry when a dozen times previous they’ve been stifled.
 These weren’t just today’s sobs.
The questions I’d been evading for weeks, perhaps even months, fell into my mind like bombs being dropped by planes overhead, strafing across my otherwise rational thinking.

Who was I to think I could live my life well—this life right in front of me—and with any sense of joy?

At what point did I move from having a good handle on my priorities to just surviving my days?

Have I just messed this all up? What is wrong with me that I’m here, now, unable to hold it together?

I clamped my eyes shut, over the tears, as if I could somehow close the door on all the questions, the insecurity, the creeping sense of failure, and go on to make a fantastic gourmet dinner in a spotless kitchen. As if I could even press pause on the swirling around me for long enough to pray, or even form a sentence or grab a tissue.

They were shut for five seconds before the baby cried, joining me in my meltdown and reminding me that I didn’t have the luxury of time to gain perspective on this internal rift. And then a knock at the door and I heard a squabble down the hall, between which there was a lineup of blocks in primary colors scattered across my hallway.

How did I get here? And what do I do now?

Continue reading this post over here –> 

The Myth of Human Strength

My best and brightest moments have been laced with weakness.

We met our first two children in Ethiopia and spent our first days of parenting in a tempered state of shock over the rolling meltdowns. While adopting our second two children from Uganda, I saw miracle-level movements of God I’d never before or since seen. Even in the times when we’ve repeated the stories, I feel that lump-in-my-throat awe over just how rare they were and how near He felt. And yet in between those miracle days were tearful nights under mosquito nets and terse words spoken to the man I love, the one who brought us there, and more of my own meltdowns than I’d like to admit over power outages and the broken shower in the guest home and the smoggy air.

(Nate tells the stories from Uganda — these glorious moments that only God could have orchestrated — to new friends and others who hadn’t heard what we saw and I can’t help but flash back to the argument we had outside of the van scheduled to take us to our court appointment, and in front of the unsuspecting driver who quickly got schooled in American conflict.)

I birthed my first biological baby after twelve years of marriage. Twelve years of waiting … and more than long hours of labor.

Yet somehow I still imagine the most glorious moments I have ahead of me in God to be seamless. I look at others who’ve accomplished what I consider to be great feats of faith and ignorantly assume they came with ease.


Recently, a friend who has been a missionary to a remote village in Africa for years witnessed those she loved getting their hands on the very first translated New Testaments in their language. Translators had been working for 20+ years on these pages and the ones in her community now held their own Bible, in their native tongue. My friend sent me pictures and I cried — couldn’t get it out of my mind for days, this momentous event of hungry people getting the food of the Word. But when we finally connected so that I could hear her voice telling me more of the story, she cautioned me. This is complicated, Sara, she said. Bibles that could be read fell in the hands of many who have never read anything in their own language. This pinnacle moment was, in fact, another beginning towards a different ascent. These Bibles would be sweated over before they were read.

Our greatest moments in God are laced with weakness and we humans don’t like it.


Though I quote Paul’s letters to my children and to my fickle heart, I often forget what he walked through in order to be able to say “I can do everything through Him who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:13). I love that David was a man with a pulse melded towards God and one about whom God looked through his boyishly-rouged cheeks to see a heart that could hunger, but I’d like to ignore the tryst that leveled his life and made him weak and needy for God, and the son who stealthily betrayed him.

I want His best moments to also include me, at my best. I give accolades to friends who “pulled it off” and slap an “I’m doing well” on the times when I feel best about my motherhood and my home and my marriage and my writing and my friendships. I still want the great strength of God and my own great strength, too.

But it never happens that way. No, never.

When my human strength attempts to compete with His glory (let’s be honest: near daily), I am subtly despising the unique way (read: unfamiliar, unconventional, not-of-this-place-where-we-live) that He moves in power.

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us. 2 Corinthians 4:7

It’s a rare thing that I call my weakness a treasure. But to skip to that step and merely use the verbiage — while still secretly wanting the glory of God to seamlessly manifest within my tightened life — I miss what David had. What Paul had. (And, ahem, I then lead people to me.)

They knew His eyes on them when all hell broke loose in their life. They knew destitution of the heart and body and yet also how one received look from God made that single moment their richest. They knew what it was like to have their heart … race. In love. From love. All because of a surprising brush with the near gaze of God in their most unsuspecting hour.

When I’m admittedly weak (because, as my husband sometimes tells me, my stated “weak moments” are truly just the ones where I’m acknowledging a weakness that was already there before I noticed it), I’m supple. Receptive. His glory streams brighter through all the holes in my countenance.

So, people, let’s stop dreaming about the day when it’s all slick and we’re strong and then God is glorified. It’s a myth.

So, people, let’s stop dreaming about the day when it’s all slick and we’re strong and then God is glorified. It’s a myth.

In your sweatpants and a top knot and un-showered, He has power (and He sees you). At the height of some sort of messy unfolding of a new thing He’s led you to do, He has power (and He sees you). With your arms around a child who would rather be anywhere else than with you, He has power (and He sees you). By the bedside of a friend, He has power (and He sees you). In your own hospital bed or nursing a tireless infant at 3am, He has power (and He sees you).

In the kingdom of God, all those places about which we’ve been complaining, where we feel so weak, are in fact the places for our greatest access to the truest Glory.

And He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

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Photos compliments of Cherish Andrea Photography and Mandie Joy.

The Antidote to Comparison

Three sisters share a bathroom, a closet, hairbrushes and the nightly bedtime recounting of the day. They know each other’s strengths just as surely as they know one another’s morning breath. All the girls know that Eden can sing and Hope can dance and Lily can paint. They celebrate each others’ differences readily. They wouldn’t want to forfeit what’s theirs — and doesn’t every girl have their one thing? You’d never catch Lily in a leotard these days and Eden’s paints have long since dried up.

But in the everyday things of life they share – the writing, the reading, the piano playing … oh, and the hair – they often give each other the side-eye. The celebration of one another is a struggle. It’s work to rejoice over a sister’s longer hair and longer books read, and new writing pieces. On these, their natural bent can be to be silent.

Not all that different from us mamas, if we do what’s “natural”, isn’t it?

A friend who’s a triathlete or another who’s in sales or still another who plays the violin masterfully – they’re all easy for me to celebrate. I could spend a whole summer at the pool without getting my head wet, I like to buy (and not sell) and I’ve never once held a violin.

But what about the mom with children the same age as mine? Or (for me) the other writer, the other speaker, the other adoptive parent?

It seems harmless to remain silent at another’s successes – to look sideways and feel better about who we are because our successes might be bigger or to feel worse about what we’re not in light of their gold. It seems harmless to cast the side-eye and to stay silent. I mean they are, after all, succeeding – surely they don’t need celebrating in addition to enjoying all that so-evident fruit.

Within my heart, however, they do need celebrating.

When I don’t see the people in my world with the understanding that God has given to each a unique role within His body and that my job is to feel with another when they’re weak andto rejoice with another when they’re honored, I miss out on the beauty I was meant to receive from that person.

And I miss out on the sweet whisper of God telling me, uniquely who I am in Him.

We dress up comparison like we dress up our pet demons – “oh, it’s not that bad. It’s just a function of motherhood — just a function of a being a woman.” But what it steals from us (in ever-increasing increments over time) is the ability to hear His vision for our particular life and for our particular calling.

It all gets cloudy. And fast.

Comparison is the masqueraded thief  {continue reading this new post over here –>}

The Mindless Looking {and what it steals from me}

“Why doesn’t anyone else have to do this Mommy?” she asks again as we drive to another specialist appointment. No matter how I answer, she still has the same question. It’s as if there are no answers for her, for this kind of question. Yet.

With adoption, there are some days that I feel like we have a home full of cavernous stories that only God fully knows. As each piece is brought out for us to see, not over months but years, I can tell we’re near to change. Near growth.

One of mine reads a novel about an orphaned childhood and a severed story and an absurd amount of pain and asks the innocent question: “does anyone else have as horrific of a story as hers?” I get that lump in my throat. How can I tell her “yes, baby, you — you do.” They forget. Often. Is it our nature that He’s given us by which to cope or is it man’s way of avoiding the wound that enables us to feel the bare hands of God as a salve?

In their amnesia, there’s a lot they forget. And forgetful minds lead to forgetful eyes and those eyes, they go searching for something to make an impression. Anything.

For the one, she looks straight at her toothy-grinned friends eating ice cream with never-interrupted play. Surely never-interrupted lives, she thinks.

And she’s young and doesn’t even yet hold a phone in her hand, this potential portal into feeding our envy that all of us carry.


It’s almost as if it’s inevitable, and at all stages of life, this amnesia. This forgetting that all of our life is entwined with His story — a grand, plot-twisted page-turner. The aimless searching and looking at others’ lives that happens when we forget, it isn’t just for the pre-teen.

Sometimes it’s not the searing pain that makes us forget that all of life is a story, sometimes it’s merely the slow-drip of mundanity. Another carpool run. Another version of the same argument with our spouse. Another trip to the dry-cleaners before Monday’s flight. Another rushed dinner after soccer practice.

When you have twenty-minutes of quiet and you’ve forgotten there is a bigger story and a bigger God, there’s little reason not to “live the dream” through another person’s highlight reel. When you have twenty-minutes and there’s not a bigger story, there’s little reason not to see your pain as “only you” and then isolate your heart into the far corner of the gym relegated for those who weren’t picked to live the dream. Might as well peer into another person’s life and escape.

I have twenty-minutes in the middle of the afternoon and five options inviting me to escape the truth that I was made for something so bright and so real and so powerful that it would illuminate the people I touch and the things I do … that I was made for Someone so bright and so real and so powerful that He would overshadow me with His light.

And sometimes I still want to just choose one of those five options.

It feels easier. The amnesia.

hk-116There’s an epidemic happening among our people. We were meant to carry a glory that would draw any stranger into the person of Jesus and the cure isn’t merely to put down our phones (though perhaps that’s not a bad first step).

We’ve been given a look into our neighbor’s kitchen and our friend’s vegetable garden and onto our cousin’s daughter’s report card — none of which, of themselves, are bad things — but for a people who have forgotten the story we were invited into and the rich and unfolding plot to which we got linked when we said yes to “Jesus”, this look can become an escape.

And, if it becomes an escape, it can derail us.

While I’d love it to be as simple as “put down your phone and take the twenty minutes in the middle of the afternoon to ask Him to show You Himself”, I think there’s a heart-fissure underneath all of it that won’t ever stop alluring us until we see it, acknowledge it and address it.

Some days, I’d rather look at my friend and envy what her hedge-trimmed life looks like — with three well-matched children (that I’ve never seen shed a tear in her feed) and her shiplap walls and soapstone counter-tops — than I would address the part of my heart that started the looking with that slant eye, in the first place.


We’ve subtly made Him out to be a plastic Jesus, such that real-life ache and dreams on-hold and even the droning on of another Monday that was just the same as the Monday before don’t seem natural to bring to Him. So we escape into another person’s storyline — the one we wish we had, the one that we envy them for living, the one that seems brighter and bigger and more alluring than the sock-bin waiting for me in the laundry room. Mindlessly — we escape mindlessly.

There’s a lot more mindlessness than we’d like to admit happening for those of us who are offered the mind of Jesus, inside of our very heads.

All the while, the pages of His Word use phrases like “being filled” (Philippians 1:11) and “the riches of the glory of His inheritance” (Ephesians 1:18) and “He gives power to the weak” (Isaiah 40:29) and “exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think” (Ephesians 3:20).

These aren’t reflections of a plastic Jesus with arms that don’t bend, keeping us feeling human beings at a distance. This is what happens when we take that twenty minutes, get honest with God (and with ourselves) about what we’re feeling in the current moment and ask Him to show up.

So, today, what about that twenty minutes? Or ten? That five minute walk down the street to meet the bus or get the mail? What if instead of stuffing what’s inside and escaping into another world, we asked Him to meet us, right where we were? What if we introduced our eyes to the epic story available in Africa and in suburbia, in five-minute increments, knowing that a five minute conversation today where I feel His spark against my raw insides might actually lead to a ten-minute one tomorrow?


People, it’s time to wake up. There is a deep, thick and ever-unfolding connection with God — the story of all ages is available to us while we change the laundry today.

I don’t want to find myself at sixty-two, having missed it for a lifetime of ten-minute increments of escape (though sixty-two isn’t too late!).

Photos compliments of Cherish Andrea Photography.




That Question: “What Am I Doing Wrong?”

I had to hear it through a half-dozen other mouths before I realized it’d been in my head first, and for possibly years.

“What am I doing wrong?”

It’s the mother whose child isn’t sleeping, and the wife who’s husband isn’t emoting, and the daughter who’s father is still in rehab and the twenty-five-year-old who is still in the same cubicle, with the same title, three years into her job who are all saying it.

Haven’t we all said it? When was the last time you did?

We brought our second two children home from Uganda (which meant we were now parents of four) and this question roiled around in my head at 11 pm, just hours after another child’s meltdown. This was the first time they’d known the safety of a Daddy’s strong-arms, but my husband’s arms still seemed to feel anything but safe. This was the first time they’d known family dinners and full bellies and rhythm, yet here I was staring at their sobs and asking that question: what am I doing wrong?

{Continue reading this post over here —>}

How Marriage is Teaching Me to Search the Whole Person

“How well do you think your husband knows you?” this new-to-me christian counselor asked me on a frigid January afternoon as I sat in her office.

“Really well,” I responded without thinking.

After a studied pause, she asked, “What percentage of ‘all of you’ does he know?” “Eighty percent,” I said confidently. We had known each other two and half years, with just more than a year of that time spent holding hands, not just brushing elbows, in ministry, and several months of being a wedded couple.

“We’ll talk about this more later, but I might suggest that he knows about one percent of you. Five percent, at best. There are vast frontiers of you to be discovered that he has not yet explored.”*

This was fifteen years ago, when I was boldly certain Nate knew most all of me and I knew most all of him.

We were twenty-three.



We do that with people, don’t we? Take a snapshot of their lives and push it through our own grid and come up with what we’re sure is an accurate analysis of who they are and how they fit into our story.

Yet here I am, turning the calendar on 15 years of marriage and realizing that the person with whom I share a bed and bathroom counter space and a checking account is only just in the beginning stages of being discovered. By me.

The man I married has taught me that relationships are a grand search. We barely know what we’re looking for (and whom we’re looking at) when we start.

At twenty-three I was certain I’d married one who would change the world with me. We’d share the gospel to the ends of the earth, seeing every person that crossed our paths as an opportunity to make Him known. This was our common language, what drew us together. We sometimes had single digits in our bank account but it didn’t matter: we had each other and God and we had vision.


But then there were the days when the soul-saving dried up and somewhere in there our hearts went with it. The vision faded and we looked at one another like strangers, wondering who the other was without a mission. (Wondering who we were without the mission.)

So we searched. God and each other.

The first search was intentional — we were desperate for answers and needing God’s perspective. We were needing God in new ways. The second, perhaps fueled by the advice of a counselor and most of it just happenstance. We were finding that both of us weren’t quite who we thought we had married. This wasn’t just that I didn’t know he liked his roast beef shredded on his rueben or he didn’t know I left all the cabinets in the kitchen open when I cooked. He was more thoughtful than I’d assessed, but about things I hadn’t so much seen as thought-worthy. I was more fragile than he’d assessed, and at times when he might have needed me to be otherwise.

We were different in things of substance and we had a choice, the kind you sometimes make without actually consciously making it: would we grow together here, in the newly discovered layers of ourselves and under Him? Or would we passively part ways over time, annoyed by what was masked when I wore white and he looked like he was 17 at the end of that aisle?

But Nate. But God, in Nate.

He led out, and pressed in. He started to study me and he wouldn’t let me box him in. He both fought to know the parts of my heart that were so quick to shut down when exposed and uncomfortable and fearful, and he refused to let me turn him into the man I thought he should be when I was fearful and exposed and uncomfortable.

God has taught me through this man that a person has layers to their story and when you spend five minutes (or even a mere five months) growing in friendship, you only see a very small part of a whole life that pre-dated those sporadic interactions. God has shown me through marriage that staying in it, when they’re unfamiliar and you’re afraid, means you get the gift of searching — on a practical level. You practice searching the other, as a means to grow a relationship.

God has shown me through Nate that there are not just often — but always — two (or more) stories to a person and that there’s a lot to lose when we label and move on instead of digging deeper to see His heart for the one across the table, no matter how different.

Covenant has bound me to a limitless search.

What my counselor said on that cold day in January 15 years ago could likely have been re-phrased ten years later, for the heart that was ever-so-slighly more mature and more experienced:

There’s an ocean of depth to explore in a person — any person. And you don’t know it. Don’t act like you do. ‘Cause then you’ll miss out on what this person is actually positioned to teach you to explore with expectation: there’s an ocean of depth to explore in God and in His Word. You don’t know it. Don’t act like you do. ‘Cause then you’ll step off the wildest ride of your life.

Fifteen years in, and I know Nate’s ticks and quirks and what wakes him up at 3am. I know what I could say that would irritate him and I’m certain what words would raise his spirits up out of the dust on a rough day. And yet. This is about 30% of this man and his story. He’s only just getting to know it, too.


There’s a lot of freedom in saying to one another: hey, we’re only just starting to figure out who we are in God and who we are, together. Just like there’s a lot of freedom in saying to God: hey, I barely know You. Can I go searching? Deeper?

My husband taught me to look for the layers in a person by not letting me respond to the 23 year-old version of him, in that suspended moment, as if that was all there was.

My husband is teaching me to look for the layers of God by the way he’s returning to the search, in me.

This isn’t just for marrieds (though it acutely applies), it’s for all of us: let’s cast off our quick judgments (yes, even the ones that come after a few months or even years of friendship), and instead take this stance of searching. We get to practice our search for Him in the way we search out the people in our world. We get to find more of Him when we see the layers of Himself, tucked away inside of the people we might otherwise peg a certain way.


The splendor of God is revealed in story. Your neighbor’s. Your husband’s. Your child’s. That person’s that just continues to drive you crazy.

Search it out.

*This first italacized section is an excerpt from Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet

For Your Continued Pursuit: 1 Samuel 16:7 | Psalm 139:23 | 1 Chronicles 28:9 | Psalm 139:1-3


Images compliments of Lucy O Photo, Cherish Andrea Photography, and Mandie Joy

I Will Not Defer

I was fourteen and still riding my bike to my best friend’s when I exchanged the innocence of youth for unbelief. I was out of pigtails but still had a bedtime when I siphoned myself off hope.

It would be at least 15 years later before I realized what had happened to my own heart on the day my dad’s injury sidelined him from coaching and teaching and from keeping my world normal.

The day my dad got sick and those subsequent, broken months were what started my relationship with the belief that things never actually do work out for good.

(When was it for you? I whisper.)


My most recent brush with hope — or, more accurately, the most recent time that I stared at cold, distant and masked unbelief in the mirror — came on a Thursday afternoon this April. I was in the waiting room of a doctor’s office — appropriate, seeing as how I’ve spent some time in the waiting room of life.

A broken ankle landed me there. A silly running injury. The x-ray would reveal my fate, except “excuse me, Mrs. Hagerty, we require a pregnancy test for all our patients getting x-rays.” I smiled. She didn’t know I might has well have bought stock in the companies that make pregnancy tests. Even the mere suggestion would have sent me spinning a few years ago, reminded all over again of what that test always revealed.  Reminded all over again that a waiting room might be where I’d spend my life. All she had in hand was a file with my chart, indicating that I had five children. Five names, no histories. A piece of paper. Of course a woman like me, on paper, might need a pregnancy test.

She couldn’t have known my story.

Thirty minutes later and in the most unsuspecting way I heard the kind of news that I’d dreamed about receiving a hundred different ways and over many years of my life. I cried on the sterile waiting room chair in front of women in scrubs whose names I didn’t know. How is this real? 

Then I woke up the next morning and I looked at unbelief in the mirror. Hello again.

Fence MJ2

I’d had this kind of crazy surprise 18 months ago and it ended with a baby that slipped right through me and into eternity. I remember feeling that I might as well be fourteen again, slowly disillusioned by life and now subtly learning the way of the world and that the way most people live is through self-protection. Better to expect the worst than to have it blind-side you in your naiveté.

For the person who’s given subtle permission to “hedging her bets” and “playing it safe” — to the person who is “rightfully cautious” — the opportunity for hope is actually petrifying.

It’s exposing.

I woke the next morning unavoidably aware of just how much I don’t actually believe Him. It felt easier to have a closed womb, a forever-and-done prognosis, than it did to have one small chance to hope that things might not turn out awful. Because if I had the chance to hope that things might not turn out awful then I had to wrestle with all the internal noise that stands between me and that actuality.

The wrestle to hope exposes what we so masterfully shove down inside: our unbelief in God. (We all have it. Let’s just admit it.)


You see, this wrestle isn’t actually for the object for which we hope — the baby that we carry to term, the steady paycheck over a period of time, the marriage that is all we’d wanted it to be when we wore white, the restored relationship — the wrestle for hope is the wrestle for belief in Him. The Person — the Giver — not the object He gives.

If I choose to hope — to throw myself into what most would call crazy, the unstudied and unmeasured and unrealistic possibility for which I desire — then I’m also choosing to trust Him to pick up the pieces of me that might fall if doesn’t come and to trust Him to hold all the mess of me that surfaces as I face the fret and uncertainty that I mostly stuff when I don’t open myself up to hope.


To open ourselves up to hope is to open ourselves up to God. The heart that hopes is the heart of a child, fully open, fully trusting, and perhaps fully ignorant of the negative possibilities because “isn’t Daddy there to take care of it all, no matter what comes?”

It’s a myth to believe that our wrestle to hope is a wrestle with the object for which we hope — the spouse, the baby, the paycheck. My wrestle with hope is a wrestle to believe, again, that God is good … to me.

“Hope deferred makes the heart grow sick” (Proverbs 13:12). It doesn’t read “the object of my hope, deferred, makes the heart grow sick.” It’s when hope is deferred that we get sick.

Could it be that the cynics, the hope-less (the ones like me, at times), are sick … on the inside?

We were made to hope in Jesus. Wild hope. Un-abandoned hope. Little-girl-in-pig-tails-with-a-fiery-look-in-her-eye-and-a-strong-Daddy-to-scoop-her-up-and-kiss-her-ouchies kind of hope.

And lives that don’t hope — lives that hedge their bets and play it safe and live cautiously and expectant of the worst, preparing always for the doom around the corner and saying under their breath at any good moment “this is too good to be true” — have hearts that grow sick.

Trust me. I know.

So I woke up the morning after finding out I was pregnant in the waiting room of a doctor’s office and I met my sick heart. Again. The one that decided at 14, and dozens of other, subtle times throughout the next fifteen years later that things never really do work out for good. No never. (And I don’t often notice the sickness when I’m “prepared” for every awful potentiality, with every rational reason to expect the worst — but yet still reading my Bible.)

Cherish Stained Glass

Meeting up with a chance to hope again has a way of exposing us.

And a way of unlocking us.

Thus, with a miscarriage in my history and a dozen previous years of barrenness, I chose to hope. I choose to hope. Daily. Sometimes hourly, of late.

Mostly because I’m getting old enough that I’m tired of playing it safe and swimming in an unbelief that I mask and I rationalize. I want Him. 

“Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.” Romans 3:5


So yes, you read that right. We Hagerty’s are growing by one in a few more months and I am living up to my namesake and perhaps stifling a laugh that in the same calendar year I turn forty I will have birthed a baby.

I surely didn’t expect this when I was twenty-three.

For Your Continued Pursuit: Proverbs 13:12 | Romans 5:3-5 | Hebrews 6:13-19 | Hebrews 11:13-16 | Psalm 147:11

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