More Than Anything

Dear readers,

I face so much strife on a day to day basis.

Do you?

I encounter a lot of disrespectful people.

Do you?

In recent weeks I have lost the ability to effectively communicate. I have tried to write on numerous occasions but stare blankly unable to form sentences with jumbled thoughts. I have struggled with much inward turmoil, and the more that turns and churns inward, the worse for us all.

More than anything. Today. I love feeling the drizzling rain. Smelling leaves. Gazing at color saturated trees. I read somewhere that the beauty of fall is that the trees teach us how beautiful letting go can be.

You know the "I ain't doin it" lady... C'mon. You know you do. She is all over the place. Imagine me doing the same. I cannot let go. "Good lord" and "I would rather" and "that's not right" and all the other phrases too.

My baggage is deep, wide, heavy, and multiplying.

I am a small person. Although I just told my tall husband yesterday that I feel medium, actually. Because Erin Mummert is smaller than me. And two other people I know. So I'm basically medium. But medium still, my shoulders and back are not up to the task of supporting my baggage.

As a leader, if my reports cannot make it to work on time, or cannot handle the daily assigned tasks, I take that on myself, as a negative reflection of me, when really, it is on them.

As a mother when my child makes choices that are not viewed best by me, I take that on myself.

As a friend who manages to lose contact and connection with other friends, I stack that up.

As a daughter and sister with miles, memories, and no stops for calls in between, I add that to my pack.

As a person who would love to identify as a bondservant of Jesus, I throw right up there on top of the whole heap, the weaknesses of falling short of representing and serving Him well, and at all costs.

Baggage for days. For years. Full. Heavy. Weighted.

I am proud of two, just two, things in my life that I have been able to release. With good grace. Super big baggage that would not pass as carry on, and would require extra handling fees.

More than anything. I am grateful. There is exquisite beauty in the pain of holding, in the rush of bouncing back and forth in the winds of decision and emotion. Then. You let it go.

The person you are now is wiser, stooped, perhaps, but wiser. In the release you can see what has been freed. Space. For healing. For new dreams. For love.

More than anything. I would like to lighten the load I carry with me everywhere. It's so heavy. So heavy. I need three Smarte Cartes. Legit.

When I look out my window, during this my favorite time, I'm reminded of beauty.

Of letting go. With good grace. All the things that are not meant for me. And all the things that do not belong in my pack.

I will forever be hard on myself. I will hold myself to an impossible standard. I will carry bags until I pass from the life.

More than anything. Jesus knows His Angela struggles with pushing and pulling carts of stuff. He knows it. He smiles and looks on her with love and likely consternation that she never ever learns, but His mercy with her is the deepest ocean.

More than anything.

Color saturated trees.

Exquisite beauty.

Decision.

Let go.

With good grace. And a thankful heart.

To Change Me

Today is Sunday.

I am about to consume chili and cornbread for-the-win.

I just mowed the lawn wearing Ryan's hoodie, also for-the-win, along with using his precious noise canceling headphones. (Both of which are basically too large. How did two people so unlike become one? It's a mystery for sure.)

On these headphones I was listening to Christmas music. Best gift ever. Jesus. Love. Came to earth for you and me. No better time than 10/1 to start the joy.

It goes hand-in-hand with my project.

Today, I was given a project, and it would be the truth to say that I am completely overwhelmed.

During the sermon this morning at Grace Fellowship, our pastor said we should look in the seat back pockets in front of us, and grab the orange envelope. I checked, and then dutifully grabbed the one I found and held onto it while he continued. He went on to say that there might not be envelopes everywhere and that was okay.

I began to feel nervous.

Because this was clearly not an assignment for each parishioner.

"Oh,hey new friend, did you just arrive? I think this orange envelope is for you not me."

The orange envelope unwrapped...

Each one contains a $100 bill that the church budgeted for this church (4 campuses wide) project.

Each person must use/invest the $100 for an act of compassion outside the church walls.

You must tell the person/people you help why you are doing it. (ie tangibly showing God's love)

You must write a page about your thoughts - how you feel about being the one getting the envelope, who you helped, and the results.

You have until 10/19 to complete the entire task and turn in your feedback.

You may have to share your story publicly.


Um.

.....

So. Yeah.

The kids wanted to hold the $100 bill.

We talked about the extreme importance of being good stewards.

We talked about what options to pursue.

They laughed because I might have to give a presentation, thankful that it will not be them, giving a public report of how they spent God's money.

I am nervous.

But I am so excited by the opportunity. Compassion as action is what I always want my legacy to be. Love. Lived out. Freely given. When I take my leave of you, whether by relocation, or when I have passed from this life, it is my sincere desire that you would be able to say....she loved well. I could easily see that she lived her faith in a genuine way. That she was different. That she helped me to see even a glimpse of who Jesus is.

It's such a tall order. It really is.

But it is the heartbeat of heaven.

I'll keep you posted on what is sure to be a life changing, joyful experience. Giving is so much better than getting. I love love love giving gifts and treats of all kinds. To get to do so in the name of Jesus is an honor and privilege.

For now. Consider this...

Emmanuel, Prince of peace
Loves come down for you and me
Heaven's gift, the holy spark
To let the way inside our hearts

Bethlehem, through your small door
Came the hope we've waited for
The world was changed forevermore
When love was born

My Husband Says I Need A Hobby

Sundays are the God given day of rest.

I must say. In recent weeks I've had to take both days. I sleep a large portion of Saturday. I've put my health in jeopardy for so long that I find it difficult to manage most days.

I love the day of rest. I love going to church. I love the feeling of refreshing that I feel there. I love that I am always inspired to write on Sundays.

Here I sit. In my living room. Watching the sun pour it's intensely not-Septemberish-rays through yellowing trees. Wearing my awesome not-old-lady reading glasses.

I love stories. I love that every person you meet has a story. I've said it numerous times - I am addicted to the written word. I love words spilling off pages and soaking into my heart. I love reading your heart in your eyes; yes, but I also love seeing your story in print. I can read between those lines and quickly, voraciously, devour all that you would speak. This is why I love writing. It removes that which hinders and leaves behind the beautiful remnant of the tale which will be the longevity.

I love being a story teller. I am not really blessed with the ability to be short winded, because I get so wrapped up in the telling. I am certain you, as a reader, want to know every detail of what it is like attempting to get clean whilst at the campground.

I find it is the personal stories that mean the most. I have tried to write fiction, to pull characters from the sky, and create. But I'm not sure I'm that type of writer. I get the most joy out of sharing the trove of treasures that have been my journey. Some of the goodies are delightful; and some seem better left in the dark, but it is the bringing out that allows those items to lose their hold. It's so therapeutic. Perhaps I can encourage you to be a writer. Get some thoughts down on paper... Even if no one else reads it.

One day I'll be the writer of many stories. I have no doubt that it will be a book that will run the emotional gamut. It will be the truest expression of my life as told best by the person who has lived it.

If you know how to read me, straight up or through the tear blurred lines, it will likely be like visiting an old friend on a rainy day in November. Comforting through the chill. Laughter through the tears. Memories wafting from the tea cups.

I believe this will be my pursuit in the months to come.

My hobby for distraction.

A compilation of my greatest hits.

I'll print it out upon completion and if you desire a copy...

The Long Road

The floor is cold today.

A sure sign of the coming of Autumn.

I'm curled up on the couch, drinking coffee, watching a beloved Julia Roberts movie that matches my pensive mood. I don't care what critics say about her. I think she is iconic. I adore her. When I see her perform. I relate.

I've recently spent a great deal of time rereading my earlier posts. I'm pretty amazing I must say. (Just kidding.) Much that I read though, still resonates.

I see uncertainty. I see fear. I see triumph. I see growth. I see life.

My life has been ever changing. Anything but stagnant.

The direction seemed linear, sequential; but, what if the direction, the daily orchestral movement, is actually circular?

These lyrics play through my mind this week...

If I needed you, would you come to me?
Would you come to me for to ease my pain?
If you needed me, I would come to you.
I would swim the sea for to ease your pain..

Few things are more valuable on the rocky pathway of life than a person meeting you on the journey with a hiking stick, a mug of tea, and companionship for the next ten miles or so. It's my nature to come. I don't want you to be alone. No one should ever journey alone. Feeling uncared for. If I can honor you that way, I will come.

The bittersweet beauty of travel is the detours. The ways that wind and weave through back roads, suburbs, and through breathtaking cities with a million and one twinkling lights. Maybe you do not reach your destination on time. Maybe you never actually reach the place you intended. Maybe you turn back. Maybe you look far down that road. Maybe you see the precious people who have journeyed with you. Maybe you see the fading rays of sun filled years. Maybe you see the achingly beautiful moments that are frozen in time. Like your first house. Like your tiny, sweet baby with cords attached everywhere. Like the day your first child went to school. Like the days you said "goodbye" and walked away. Like the days you reached out and said "hello" to a new friend.

Maybe you look far down that road.

Maybe you see the place you started.

Maybe you turn around.

Continuing

I'm thinking about the perfect job for me. Among many other things. Like whether to continue this blog...

Have you ever sat down to think about it for yourself? Perhaps you already have it so you need not consider additional options.

Here is a list of things I have been recommended for over the years.....

1) Nurse
2) Teacher
3) Secretary
4) Baker
5) School Counselor
6) Writer

Here is what I do to acquire cash - pharmacy technician. For a quadrillion stressful hours per week.

If you look closely you will see that none of the suggestions match my actual position.

Now. I often wonder if it is wise to try to make money at something you enjoy. Does it take the joy right out of it?

I love writing. Would I love it less if I were forced to do it every day versus when the mood strikes?

I enjoy kids. At a limit. I can't discipline the children of others. This greatly reduces my enjoyment of hanging out with them. Honestly, folks, there's a lot of bratty kids out there. Word.

I didn't get in to nursing school. #failure

That leaves secretary and baker on my list. I think I could do either quite well. I worked in a bakery before. As the clean up crew. Might I say here bless all the baker's because y'all are a hot MESS. What a disaster. Every single day. I guess speed trumps cleanliness-as-you-go. America needs them there muffins. Stat.

As much as I am encouraged to write. Professionally. I think it should remain a passionate hobby. It is a way for me to break free from the constraints of the daily grind. When I'm writing, I am all alone in the world. It's just me. My pen. My thoughts. And what follows is music and lyrics. You need both music and lyrics to express the soul and that stirring combination is what it feels like when I write. Forcing such a gift is like opening the Christmas present early.

I'm definitely interested in seeking alternate career paths. I'm definitely interested in the release of the overwhelming amount of stress.

For at least the short present it will come in the form of writing as a hobby only and friendships.

Let's share a cup of tea then, friend, and I have decided to continue writing this blog...

The Chance We All Deserve

How are you at speeches?

Do you like to give speeches?

I took a speech class in high school, even though I had been performing in plays and programs my whole life. I loved performing and did it every chance I got. I have a good memory which makes me perfect for it. The sick kind like - "On the Monday before Christmas in 1987 I was wearing a purple dress with blue flowers and we had chicken noodle soup for dinner." I remember conversations in detail. I remember dates and incidents. I almost do not need to take notes. I compartmentalize everything that I take in and then sort and re-sort the information in the following minutes, hours, and days. Emotions and feelings are attached to each item and then it is stored appropriately. The higher the level of attached emotion, the more often the item will be re-pulled throughout the day and days following. And this is the lengthy process that cements these events. (And explains why I'm exhausted because my brain NEVER turns off.) This is why I remember throwing up all over my Chemistry test in the 11th grade. The 11th grade. Not the 1st grade which is entirely acceptable. It's why I can vividly see myself aged 13, with braided hair, wearing a pink dress, throwing a cup of water in Matt's face when he had the audacity to publicly make fun of me for choosing not "to go" with him. (I secretly wanted to do just that, whatever it meant, but I had trust issues and he proceeded to prove me right and the betrayal stung. Deeply.)

I expected to excel in speech class, but I was nervous. I felt awkward. I felt uncertain. The reason? It was not fear of attention. It was fear of their opinions. In plays the words are not your own so it matters not. In speeches, the words are your own. Or should be. (It's a shame that famous people have writers. If you are speaking before an audience it should always be authentic.) My grade was fine but I never did get comfortable.

Somewhere along the way....

....that changed.

My ability to convey my heart has become so easy. I do all my own work, just so you know. I do not fear speaking in front of others, because I see their eyes, I see their heart, and what follows is a conversation. Even if it's a group of ten, forty or two hundred.

Not everyone is cut out for speech making. Not everyone gets in the spotlight. But it is the quiet conversations that we should all be having. The "Will you 'go with' me?" ones... The "You mean something to me" ones... The "Thanks for being my friend" ones.." And most importantly, when it comes down to it, the "Goodbye" ones....

We all deserve the chance to speak our heart. We all deserve to look into the eyes of an audience of one, or twenty, to share and inspire, and when necessary, let go, which is the hardest of all the things.

Just be sure to do your own work. Be authentic. Or you might get a face full of water.

Broken Pieces

I think that there might be things that feel like a right. Something deserved. Unearned. But deserved.

Like reading. Everyone should get the chance to learn that skill.

Like being part of a family. Everyone should get the chance to feel included in a fold of love.

There are plenty of sorrows to choose from if we were to categorize tonight. So many weighted hearts and minds. Most of the weighted seem to find screaming from the mountain tops the best way to rectify and resolve. I almost cannot bear to listen to one more person rail about racism and our president and the flag and minimum wage and capitalism and socialism and marriage laws and public restroom laws AND.... People, you are daily demanding attention...

I can't listen to one more word that you are shouting. Not one more word.

You know what I love about the Old Testament? What I respect about the Jewish faith? The passing of the Word from generation to generation. Verbally. Instruction is given (even now for us Gentiles) to teach the words and stories to your children when you are sitting, walking along the way, when you lie down and when you get up and....

You know what is the second most favorite thing I love about the Old Testament?

This.

"And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the LORD. And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."

A still small voice.

The I AM. Who alone has authority to demand attention with wind and earthquakes and lightening and rainbows and thunder.

The I AM is found in a still small voice.

He spoke with Elijah. I can't even begin to imagine what that must be like, but one day I will know.

If we read into the passage we understand that He CAME to Elijah.

HE came TO Elijah.

Mind blown.

This is what our God does. This is the love that we cannot hope to understand. That in this season of doubt, heartache, worries, strife...the I AM pursues us.

Friends. He is not likely to join your riots. You will not hear him shouting. His Facebook feed will not be covered in political memes.

For now. He will come with a still small voice. You will have to be looking and listening to find Him. Oh, He knows your earthly fears. The rights you think you deserve or need. Better He knows your heart. Your innermost heart. And He still wants you.

When in my humanness I would wash my hands of all of you....God would not.

I cannot explain it. I cannot adequately share my faith because God blows my mind.

These are some lines from a favorite song...

"All these pieces broken and scattered
In mercy gathered, mended and whole

Oh, I can see you now
Oh, I can see the love in Your eyes
Laying Yourself down
Raising up the broken to life"


All these pieces.

If that doesn't describe our lives..

In mercy gathered.

If that doesn't describe our God...

Friends.

A still small voice is the answer. For your fears. For your pain.

He raises the broken to life.

I'm living proof.