Fool-proof Art as Prayer

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Fool-proof Art as Prayer

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An Invitation:

Read a scripture passage. Choose one phrase that jumps out at you and write it slowly in a journal or notebook. Paste an image from a calendar or magazine with it as an act of reflection and prayer.


What this looks like for me:

I’m on a three-week trip away from home—the longest I’ve been away in over a decade. Sometime it’s hard to keep up with spiritual practices when I’m out of my regular rhythm.

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Shortly after I arrived at my parents’ house in Wisconsin, my dad received a Nature Conservancy calendar in the mail. I admired it, and he gave it to me. The beautiful photographs sparked an idea.

Every afternoon, I drink a cup of tea and read a short passage of scripture. I’m slowly making my way through the Psalms. Many days I read only a few verses before a phrase jumps out at me. I sit quietly with that phrase for a few moments, listening for God’s whispers. What does that phrase say about God? About me? About the world?

Then, I cut a strip from the calendar to go with the phrase. I tape it into my journal, and slowly write the phrase under it. 

It’s only recently that I call myself an artist. Not all art requires skill or training. Creating, even something this simple, can connect us in powerful ways with our Creator.

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Words on the Page

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Words on the Page

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An Invitation:

Uncover a “found poem” in an old book, a magazine, or a newspaper. Allow words to jump out at you and discover hidden meaning and beauty there. Invite God’s spirit to speak.


What this looks like for me:

I discovered “found poems” in my high school writing class, and rediscovered them much later as one of many creative ways to listen for God’s voice in my life. 

Where can I uncover truth and beauty? Almost anywhere, when I pay attention.

I like using old book pages. Our library has a giant book giveaway every year, or I find books at thrift stores.

I begin by scanning over the page for words that jump out at me. I try not to read whole sentences, just a word or two at a time. Anything that jumps out, I circle.

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Then, I look at the words I’ve circled. Is there a pattern? Any meaning in them? Are there more words on the page I want to add to this poem?

After I’ve finished selecting the words to keep, I cover the rest. Usually, I just doodle with the same pen I circled with. Occasionally, I’ve pulled out watercolor paints and used those instead.

Years ago, as I was first writing A Good Way Through, I had questions and anxiety about whether or not the book might help people. As I put my soul on the page, I feared how it would be received. Was it worth putting this story out into the world?  Would it be good enough? Would there be fruit from this labor? 

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In that season, I “found” this poem.

 

Later, I rewrote it like this:

 

THE GREAT OAK

Standing before the altar, 
I raised my eyes to heaven, 
unashamed.

There grew, by the place,
an oak with wide-spreading branches.

Then the tree shook—

and night came on.

Dawn, and morning.

The tree stood before me, 
still,
her branches blooming,
twigs swirling, 
and her flowers were faces.

I heard, “Behold!”

I gazed with wonder,
kneeling.

(Excerpt from A Good Way Through)

 

Poems can mean many things, but to me, in that season, it was one piece of the answer to my questions. There would be fruit from this work I was doing, and it would be beautiful, but it wouldn’t be mine. I wouldn’t have to create the fruit, only to behold with wonder.

There is beauty in obedience to a call. I was called to write; I was not called to make the perfect book or fix anyone else’s life with my words. I was called to obey, and by God’s help the rest would follow.

 “In that day the Branch of the Lord will be beautiful and glorious, and the fruit of the land will be the pride and glory of the survivors in Israel.” -Isaiah 4:2

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Even the Rocks Cry Out

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Even the Rocks Cry Out

An Invitation:

Discover the gifts hidden in the natural world. Enjoy them where they are, or bring them into your home as tangible reminders of God’s love and the truth about God, yourself, and the world.


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What this looks like for me:

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My friend Stephanie and I often joke about “nature trash.” Both of us are constantly bringing things into our homes that look might surprise the average interior decorator: bowls of pinecones and acorns, vases full of dried leaves, sun-bleached bones or driftwood. Most of these things look pretty when elevated by a nice piece of pottery or when an air plant is tucked inside. But there is more to these items than their beauty.

Last weekend I was at the beach with my family. It was sunny, but cold and windy with powerful waves: a day for exploring, not for swimming or sunbathing.

“Look, Mama!” Everett, the five-year-old scientist in our family, called me over. “I just discovered that the sand is actually tiny rocks!” I hunched down next to him, and so began hours of sifting through rock and sand.

The rocks on this beach were every color of the rainbow. Granite, limestone, opal; veins of white running through deep red; brilliant yellow; soft, mossy green. We collected rainbows of tiny rocks. Asher, age two, scooped them with a small shell. Dave brought me a handful of green in every shade and Everett a handful of gold.

How am I changed when I pray with a handful of stones?

We talked with Everett about God’s love, and how these rocks are a gift from God, reminding us that we are beloved. “These rocks tell me that God loves me, Mama,” he said, “because God knows how much I love rocks.” (It’s true, this boy LOVES rocks.)

There is more to the metaphor. The colors in these rocks were particularly brilliant because the rocks were so smooth—pounded day after day by the surf. This was a wild beach, with water that wrecks and tumbles. It is not a gentle place.

“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.” So ends the Psalm that begins with “As the deer pants for water, so I thirst for you…”

Today I ponder this as I hold one smooth rock in my palm and pray.

It is important to remember that to enjoy nature does not mean we get to possess it. There are wild places and things that should be left as they are (like state and national parks, for example). Be mindful of where you are and what you put in your pocket as you explore this invitation.

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This Body

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This Body

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An Invitation:

Remember the goodness of your body. Remember the truth of who you are in Christ. Speak a blessing over yourself and anoint your body with fragrant oil. 


What this looks like for me:

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Several years ago, during a long bout of depression, I happened upon a little bottle of frankincense anointing oil that I bought on a whim. Frankincense was one of the gifts the magi brought to welcome Jesus at his birth. Although it was mid-August at the time, I felt drawn to this fragrance given to the infant Christ. 

At Christmas we celebrate the Divine Incarnate—God revealing God’s self in flesh and bone, blood and breath. The Incarnation reminds us that God became a body, and that our bodies are very good. 1 Corinthians proclaims our bodies are the very dwelling place of God, the temple of the Holy Spirit. What good news!

During my long season of sorrow, I desperately needed to remember this truth. Each morning I would look at myself in the mirror, and anoint myself with frankincense oil, speaking a blessing over myself as I did:

This is the fragrance of the infant Christ
Who created you in God’s image (anoint forehead)

washed you in his blood (anoint wrists)
indwells you with the Spirit (anoint throat)
With great Love you have been welcomed.

For good measure I would dab a little under my nose so I could smell it throughout the day. When depression washed over me, I would press my wrist to my nose and take a long, deep breath allowing the fragrance to remind me of the goodness and wonder of this body, this life. 

Gratefully, I have been free from depression for some time now, but the goodness of this anointing practice is one I still relish. Each Advent season, I pull out my little bottle and add its fragrance and blessing to my morning quiet time. I carry the bottle in my purse, and sometimes occasion will arise to share its blessing with another. 

We cannot offer what we have not received. May we open ourselves to the profound blessing of God, that we may extend it forward into our world. 


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Middle school teacher, foster mama, and creative contemplative, Stephanie Jenkins is a southern California native who currently lives in Los Angeles with her wonderful husband Billy. In addition to relishing time spent outdoors, she also enjoys yoga, art-making, poetry, and journaling. 

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Napping as Prayer

Napping as Prayer

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An Invitation:

Autumn and winter are seasons of rest and release. Enter into this seasonal invitation by curling up in a cozy spot.  Allow yourself to fall asleep as an act of surrender and prayer.


What this looks like for me:

The second half of the year, nature’s seasons invite us to slow down, do less and rest more. In southern California where I live, the seasons are quite subtle. With almost constant warmth and sunshine, it is easy to forget or ignore the seasonal changes happening in the natural world. Even though these months still might hold 80-degree days for Angelenos like me, I find the pull of shorter days and lengthening nights inviting me to rest nonetheless.

The prophet Isaiah reminds us of the goodness of rest : “in returning and rest is your salvation; in quietness and trust is your strength.” 

Rest is an act of radical surrender and bold trust. It is an act of salvation. 

In a culture bent on productivity, choosing rest is daring to claim that there is already more than enough. That the world will keep turning even though we stop our anxious striving. Choosing rest is choosing to place our trust in God rather than in our own frenetic efforts.

So in these shorter, cooler days, when my body feels more tired and in need of a nap, I don’t beat myself up about it. I choose not to listen to the riot of “shoulds” in my head telling me how much better my time ought to be spent.  

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Instead, I choose to recognize the goodness of rest. I choose to claim that rest is an act of trust in a God who doesn’t need my busyness, who created the seasons, who made both day and night, winter and summer. I choose to believe that rest is a way to say yes to the abundance of God’s Love.

Keeping Isaiah’s words in mind, I curl up on my couch, lovingly cover myself with a quilt a dear friend sent me in a time of struggle, close my eyes, and imagine that I am falling asleep in the arms of God.  

In this way, a midday nap becomes a countercultural act of prayer.


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Middle school teacher, foster mama, and creative contemplative, Stephanie Jenkins is a southern California native who currently lives in Los Angeles with her wonderful husband Billy. In addition to relishing time spent outdoors, she also enjoys yoga, art-making, poetry, and journaling. 

God Hides in a Catalogue

God Hides in a Catalogue

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An Invitation:

Find words and images of hope and truth hidden in a holiday catalogue. Use tape or glue to put them into a poem or a work of art.


What this looks like for me:

The Christmas season means that my mailbox is suddenly stuffed full of catalogues and advertisements urging me to “get into the spirit” by buying things I don’t need.  The advertisements tell me that I need more, what I have is not enough, if I really love my friends and family, I will spend a lot of money buying them stuff. 

Christ have mercy.

Rather than getting pulled into the consumer frenzy or falling into depression over our excessive consumption, this week I decided to use the extra supply of glossy images for creative exploration. 

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The Incarnation of Christ invites us to expect the Divine disguised in the ordinary, the everyday. Jesus came as a little baby, born in a stable.  Hardly the form or the place anyone would expect.

So I decided to look for God in a catalogue.  

From our recycling pile, I pulled out a catalogue with a stunning image on the cover and gently leafed through with eyes open to see what might be hiding there. 

Images of darkness and light emerged—stars, snow, search lights, night sky. I ripped out the images, carefully tearing away any evidence of advertisement, and glued them into my journal. In gold I rephrased the verse from Isaiah I’d read earlier that morning: “those sitting in darkness have seen a great light.”

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Next I found a page with a large text bank of words that all seemed to jump out at me. I tore out the page and began to cut out all the words that stirred me. After arranging and rearranging them in my journal, a simple poem emerged. I taped down the words with clear tape. It felt a bit like wrapping up a lovely gift. One I both offered and received. 

In this season when so many voices vie for our attention, may we have the clarity of vision to see what truly matters, and may we find God hiding in the ordinary stuff of our lives.


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Middle school teacher, foster mama, and creative contemplative, Stephanie Jenkins is a southern California native who currently lives in Los Angeles with her wonderful husband Billy. In addition to relishing time spent outdoors, she also enjoys yoga, art-making, poetry, and journaling. 

Lists as a Spiritual Practice

Lists as a Spiritual Practice

An Invitation:

Make your to do list help, not hinder, you. Let you to do list become a prayer.

First, listen in stillness. Then write somewhere on your list what you hear. Then categorize your tasks, focusing on what is essential. Let go of those things that can wait (for now or forever).


What this looks like for me:

I've hoped that Advent will be a time of winding down, a space for listening, rest and celebration. Yesterday, I found myself overwhelmed. Each time I looked at my list of tasks, anxiety crept to the surface. Each task was just a pebble, but I had a mountain before me.

So I turned to a fresh page: December.

I started with a simple doodle—tiny circles and bulbs, then lines to connect them into strings. I let my mind calm and wander as I doodled. I wrote “December” slowly and carefully across the top of the page. I wrote “What is essential?” underneath, a question a friend posed to me recently on a day I felt stressed. 

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As my hands were busy, my mind stilled. I listened. The carol “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” came to me. It's not a carol I sing often, but as I thought about the words they felt fitting: “God rest ye… [be] merry… Let nothing you dismay… Jesus Christ our savior was born upon this day!” These are words I need right now. I need good tidings of comfort and joy. So, I wrote those words at the top and bottom of the page, framing my list. When I turn to my list of tasks, they will remind me of what is important: in this season, I want to slow down, be present, be merry, and rest in joy. 

Next, I categorized. I’ve been playing with how to categorize tasks lately, and this month, I have four columns: 1) projects (major things that require ongoing work), 2) tasks (for those little things I just need to cross off), 3) ideas and questions (to keep track of and look at later), and 4) things to do later or never (tasks I’m not quite ready to forget I intend to do, but that don’t really need to be done right now.) These categories help, because my work time is unpredictable. Sometimes I catch 5 minutes while my kids are playing—good time for a quick task, but not for a project. Other times I have a few hours that I can use to dig into something bigger. I also have discovered that I like monthly lists for work and separate weekly or daily lists for home-related things. For a while, I made my lists on a whiteboard, because I loved that when everything was finished it was clean instead of messy. 

It takes time to figure out how your lists can work for you, and plenty of trial and error. Seasons change, and your needs change with them. But lists can be more than lists; they can be intentional practices that center you and remind you of what you need to remember.

To download a free template for Advent listening, see last week's post. :-) 

A Practice for Advent

A Practice for Advent

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An Invitation:

This Advent, listen for one word for each day. Find a simple way to record your words.


What this looks like for me:

I love Advent. I love the sense of longing, the deepening darkness, the waiting for the already-not-yet arrival of Jesus, hope of the world. In what is often a season of scurrying, I desire stillness and reflection, warmth and conversation, creativity and peace.

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Each year, I read at least one Advent devotional along with some scripture. (Here are a few of my favorites.) This year, I will listen in my daily reading and prayer for a word or phrase to rise to the surface. Perhaps it will be something I’m hoping for. Perhaps it will be the name of a person I’m praying for. Perhaps it will be something I recognize that day as a gift.

Inspired by Praying in Color, I’ll write my word in a calendar-of-sorts I drew based on a stained glass window I found on the internet (pictured above).  Then I’ll paint over it in watercolor, because that’s my favorite medium these days. (You can download the calendar here.)

Some other method may work better for you. You could find a friend and text each other your words each day. You could write them in your planner or Google calendar. You could cover your mirror with Post-Its. However you do it, I invite you to find some tangible way to record your words—it will put them into your body’s memory in a deeper way than just thinking about them.

May God bless you as you listen this Advent season!

Practice Remakes Us--Announcing a New blog series!

Practice Remakes Us--Announcing a New blog series!

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My friends, I'm excited to tell you that tomorrow launches a new series of blog posts about spiritual practice!

As I’ve thought about this blog, I’ve been asking (and praying) the question: What do people need? A friend said to me recently, “Don’t forget that most people don’t do the kinds of practices you do.” An answer, perhaps, to that question.

This series will be simple. Each post will start with an invitation into a spiritual practice, followed by a bit more explanation of what the practice looks like for me.

Why practice? Practice is how God transforms us. Take hospitality, for example. We can read about hospitality and think about it and talk about it, but our transformation into more hospitable people is limited unless we practice hospitality. It’s much more effective to act our way into a new pattern of thought than it is to think our way into a new pattern of action. Spiritual practices open us to the work of God’s Spirit within us. 

 In Philippians 4:8-9, Paul writes:

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.

This series will show you how I practice. I’d love to hear how you do, too.

Stay tuned for an invitation into practice for Advent tomorrow!

The Listening Day by Paul J. Pastor

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The Listening Day by Paul J. Pastor

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The kids are down for nap and rest time. It’s 2pm and I haven’t had much time to be still since my oldest woke me at 6:30 to separate a couple of stuck Lego pieces. If I’m not careful, I’ll spend this precious time catching up on email and doing dishes. Today I am careful. I put water on to boil and collect a few supplies to carry to the front porch for a moment of listening: my journal, a travel set of watercolors, my Bible, and a book. Today, as it often is, the book is The Listening Day.

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My friend Paul J. Pastor has now released two volumes of this wonderful book, a record of his own time listening to God. The books are slim and easy to carry. Paul’s words are honest, artful, theological and poetic. The Listening Day inspires me on two levels: I love the wisdom Paul offers, and I’m inspired to do my own listening.

Paul has generously offered an excerpt of his book here, along with a reflection and invitation into listening. Even better, I have three copies of The Listening Day to give away. (Details below.)


An excerpt from The Listening Day, Volume 2, by Paul J. Pastor:

 

O Lord, you are our Father;
we are the clay, and you are our potter;
we are all the work of your hand.

Isaiah 64:8 (NRSV)

THE REAL QUESTION

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.

Psalm 139:14 (NRSV)

+++

The real question is this:
how can you believe I am who I say I am
if you will not believe that I made a good thing,
a very good thing,
a wonderful thing—
a fearfully wonderful thing—
with my own hand,
in my own image,
from my own life,
when I made you?

+++

Father, forgive me for disbelieving your good work. Let me see myself as you see me—not ignoring my sin or flawed nature, but seeing beyond it to your true and good image that you created and redeemed in me through your Son and Spirit. Amen.

+++

A reflection and invitation into listening:

The Listening Day is just my published practice of the ancient devotional method of lectio divina (Listening Day, Lectio Divina…yeah. You get it). The goal of lectio is simple: to use a short bit of scripture to initiate prayer and conversation with God. Traditionally, the three steps of read, ponder, and pray guide us. 

We read a text (in The Listening Day, two related verses) with careful attention. I try to notice what is strange or surprising—something that challenges my way of thinking or living, or undoes a lie or half-truth that I’ve believed. As I read, I listen—asking God to show me what’s supposed to stand out to me today. Reading the Bible becomes a two-way invitation. God invites us to listen, we invite him to speak.

This naturally transitions into an opportunity to ponder the text. I allow it to simply sit with me. I allow my mind to go where it needs to, even if it feels like it’s wandering. There’s no wrong way to do this—even distractions that arise can be given straight to God as part of a healthy process. 

Then, I simply pray. I try to keep this short and to the point. I talk to God about what I have read and pondered, and ask him to help me live and understand the way of Jesus in a new way.  

What sets The Listening Day a little apart from classic lectio is that I’m writing it down and sharing my own practice. It’s a bit raw and honest, but I’ve heard from many readers that it has inspired them to their own practice of conversation with God through reading, pondering, and prayer. 

This is becoming a transformative discipline for me. If you’re interested, try it with the two verses below. If you feel like it, share what comes out of your time with a friend!

I love the Lord, for he heard my voice;
he heard my cry for mercy.
Because he turned his ear to me,
I will call on him as long as I live. Psalm 116:1-2 NIV

+++

This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us. 1 John 5:14 NIV

 


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GIVEAWAY Details:

If you would like a chance to win a free copy of The Listening Day, Volume 2, do one of the following by Monday, November 20:

  • Comment on this post with what it looks like for you to set aside time to listen to God.
  • Share this post on Facebook. Tag @kristenleighkludt and @pauljpastorauthor so we can enter you in the lottery!
  • Follow @agoodwaythrough and @pauljpastor on Instagram and tag two friends in the post.

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Paul J. Pastor is a writer living in Oregon's Columbia River Gorge. His writing on Christian spirituality has won numerous awards and critical recognition for its beauty, insight, and biblical depth. With a M.A. in Biblical and Theological Studies from Western Seminary, Paul brings his passionate style to life as a frequent speaker at churches and universities. Paul and his wife Emily serve as Deacons of Spiritual Formation at Theophilus Church in Portland, Oregon.

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Good Ways: An Update

Good Ways: An Update

My friends,

What a year this has been! It has been a great honor to host the wisdom of so many thoughtful friends in this space these last six months. Good Ways is taking a break for the next month as I focus my vocational energy elsewhere, but my hope is to launch a new round in October. (If you are interested in submitting a post for the series, please contact me. I’d love to hear from you!)

If you are looking for a new practice for connecting with God, whatever season of life you’re in, take some time to read through the Good Ways archives (or pick up a copy of A Good Way Through). My hope in all that happens on this page is that we, together, would be motivated and inspired into action. We can read and think and talk all day about meeting God, but we are transformed best through practice. 

Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies.
— Phillippians 4:8-9, The Message

If you’re looking for a bit more inspiration this month, I’ll be posting more of my own creative practices on Instagram (@agoodwaythrough) and Facebook (@kristenleighkludt), so join me in those spaces to continue the conversation. Or, even better—share about your own and tag me! I’d love to see what you’re up to.

I am so grateful for your presence in this space. It is an honor to have you.

With love,

-Krissy

P.S. Some things I love right now:

 

Consider the Lilies by Stephanie Jenkins

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Consider the Lilies by Stephanie Jenkins

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


“Not possible.” 

The words ring like a bell over the phone, summoning me out of the dream we dared to pursue despite our history of pain and the high risk. 

“Not possible,” says a second opinion. And then a third. 

Scouring the internet, pouring over long text banks of legalese, the harsh truth that indeed this dream is not possible finally sinks in.

Just a few days ago, my husband and I opened our hearts to the possibility of adopting a baby girl soon to be born on the other side of the border. Her mother’s aunt, a friend, reached out to us believing she’d found an answer to both her teen-aged niece’s desperation and our desire. Our hearts soared with hope as we jumped into action, but today we discovered international law prohibits this adoption.

This dead end is yet another in a long line of disappointments on our path to parenthood. Since I was a small child, I have longed to be a mother. For the past eight years, my husband and I have pursued this dream in myriad ways, yet still we remain a family of two.

With no resolution to our infertility or our childlessness, with little change in our desire to parent, we’ve carried our loss through the changing seasons of our lives. Sometimes it is a silent companion, content to sit in the corner unnoticed. Other times it is a raging fire threatening to consume us. 

Time has made this loss more quiet, more often. It has become more familiar and less frightening. We’ve even witnessed beautiful growth and opportunity sprout from the darkness of our loss. 

But there are days, like today, in the face of this heavy news, when the wound reopens and bleeds fresh, and the pain feels just as raw and deep as ever.

How does one continue to grieve the loss of something that never was?

Today my heart feels so heavy that it is literally hard to move. Every step feels laborious. Slowly I walk through my neighborhood and down into the Arroyo Seco—a dry and dusty natural area that hugs the edge of Los Angeles. 

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As the asphalt underfoot shifts into the soft sand of the arroyo and the sky opens up into a wide expanse free from the usually trappings of telephone wires, I feel my body begin to relax. My breath comes more fluidly. The pain in my chest feels less sharp. 

In this wild space there is room to simply be. 

I am held by nature’s quiet presence—no demands or expectations. I don’t have to mask my pain or force a smile. Here in this open space, I am allowed to hurt. And this freedom makes my burden lighter. 

A prairie falcon cries out. I catch sight of its white breast curved like the crescent moon above. Two cotton-tailed rabbits dart into the safety of a sugar bush, and the wind makes the dry grasses sing. On the dusty trail, I find a bright green parrot feather. I hold it between my fingers, and the words of the psalmist rise up within me, “I will shelter you in the shadow of my wings.”*

Nothing has changed really. Yet in the beauty of the natural world around me, I sense my awareness shift and open to the comforting Presence of God pulsing in the arch of darkening sky, in the soft breeze against my skin, in the quiet confidence of the creatures who, as poet Wendell Berry puts it, “do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.”**

In Jesus’ sermon on the mount, he offers the following antidote to worry, “Consider the birds of the air,” he says, “…the lilies of the field.” *** I have found that this is also good medicine for grief. 

Loss can shrink my vision to the throbbing ache of my own wound. Turning outward into the rugged beauty of wild places, I find perspective. 

Here my senses are awakened and soothed. I am drawn outside myself. Instead of breathing in ragged gasps between sobs, I inhale the sweet scent of California bay laurels. Rather than tears, my eyes fill with the bright orange of poppies in bloom.  

In nature I find space for my loss. There is everywhere evidence of both life and death, darkness and light—it is a space where everything has its place, nothing is left out.  The cosmic dance of the created world in all of its variety is on display, and I am a part of it. Here I see my own grief as part of a larger story, one in which everything belongs. 

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Most significantly I sense in nature the deep and abiding Presence of the God who, in great love, created this world, created me. I breathe in this Presence, and in this radiant moment, my heart knows the truth it is always seeking: I am Beloved. This is enough. 

INVITATON TO PRACTICE:

  • Go outside. A patch of grass or shady tree will do.
  • Be in your body. Let your five senses engage with the space around you carrying you into a deeper experience of the present moment. 
  • Be present. Prayer is the simple recognition of the Presence of God right here, right now. In this space of beauty, can you sense the Creator’s presence? You are held just as you are in abundant Love. Can you bring your real and raw self into the awareness of this Love? 
  • Rest. Grief is exhausting. Rest here in Divine embrace. Maybe even take a nap!
  • Repeat. For me, this means sitting in my garden each morning and hiking once a week.

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Middle school teacher, foster mama, and creative contemplative, Stephanie Jenkins is a southern California native who currently lives in Los Angeles with her wonderful husband Billy. In addition to relishing time spent outdoors, she also enjoys yoga, art-making, poetry, and journaling.  


 *Psalm 91:4
 **Berry, Wendell. “The Peace of Wild Things.” The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry. Washington, D.C: Counterpoint, 1998. Print.
 ***Matthew 6:25-32

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Surrendering to Silence (or Tired Kids Won’t Sleep & I Can’t Rest) by Dave Kludt

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Surrendering to Silence (or Tired Kids Won’t Sleep & I Can’t Rest) by Dave Kludt

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


“Why won’t he fall asleep?”

“He’s too tired to fall asleep.”

“Huh?”

For me, the “I’m so tired but instead of sleeping I’m going to scream and cry and throw things and/or bite you” phenomenon is one of the most confounding realities of parenting.

It makes no sense. 

If you’re tired, fall asleep.

If you are having trouble falling asleep, close your eyes and be quiet and pretend to sleep.

If all else fails, count sheep or try to pray and chances are you’ll just fall asleep.

Generally, sleep is a pretty great thing and I’m pretty great at doing it so I’m pretty unsure why those kids of ours won’t sleep.

Rest is also a pretty great thing. Sleep is a part of rest, but so are quiet, solitude, contemplation, and prayer. God’s good and sacred vision for human flourishing involved a regular rhythm of rest (daily and weekly in addition to times of festival and celebration throughout the year). Rest is an invitation into the fullness of life. In the Scriptures, I think rest is framed as a command not because it is another hoop to jump through, but because rest is a critical component of our humanity. In the beginning, God created humans and not robots, and (even though I have a healthy respect for robots) this was a very good thing.

But a recent week I spent with my family in the wilderness of Yosemite gave me a glimpse of why tired kids won’t sleep. Even in the midst of the beautiful wilderness I had trouble surrendering to the soulful rest I knew I needed.  

The mental space I inhabit most of the day is incredibly noisy. There is the hum of technology. There is music blasting through headphones or speakers. There is my digital disorganization, with notes scattered across Asana and Gmail and Evernote and Notes and Dropbox. There are the endless advertisements that pop up from every direction. 

Technology does a great job creating compulsive tendencies. When my computer is open, I’ve caught myself loading social media sites in multiple tabs at once because, in scattered moments, my muscle memory takes over, moving my fingers across my keyboard to command + t + f + slight delay for Chrome to autofill facebook.com + return. Throughout the day, my hand instinctually reaches toward my front pocket where I often keep my phone. 

Last week, in the meadows of Yosemite outside of the range of cell service, the hum of technology was silenced as soon as we arrived at our campsite but my compulsion towards noise did not diminish so quickly. Even after entering quiet, the muscle memory, the digital allure, the ghost vibrations continued.

I came to this beautiful place to rest and play with my family—to live into the divine command to experience life as a rested human being—but my mind and my muscles were constantly listening for the noisy signals of my everyday soundtrack and reaching for the dopamine device that far too often accompanies me throughout my days. 

Eventually, after a few days, I was able to surrender to the silence, but this made me consider: are there new habits or practices I can form that would allow me to enter into rest without experiencing days of digital withdrawal?

Here are a few practices that I’m experimenting with as I seek to live into God’s good invitation and command to enter into rest:

  • Regularly, choose analog over digital (i.e. write a postcard instead of sending a text, listen to vinyl over streaming music, binge-read the book instead of binge-watching the show/movie).
  • Daily, create distance from technology (i.e. create & protect tech-free space throughout the house, refuse the impulse to start the work day with email, leave your phone at home while taking a neighborhood walk or going on short errands).
  • Annually, plan at least one multi-day rhythm that silences the hum. Get into the woods, go to a retreat center, and wear a hole in the “airplane mode” button on your device. Shut off the technology, patiently pray through the withdrawal, and enter into the rest.

Dave Kludt lives and serves in the East Bay outside San Francisco with a group of mostly-young, all-creative, Jesus-following sojourners called Open Door as the directional leader and Pastor of Mission and Formation. He rides bikes and trains, reads and writes as much and as broadly as possible, tries to grow plants, and watches Jurassic Park.

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The Cadence of Clarity and Peace by Mark Scandrette

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The Cadence of Clarity and Peace by Mark Scandrette

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


I used to think that my melancholy had to do with the external circumstances of my life; the sadness that comes from great disappointment, like the loss of a job or a death in the family. But I’ve gradually come to see that what happens and how I feel about it are not always related. Someone breaks into my car, stealing thousands of dollars of my stuff, and I feel nothing. A stranger leaves a critical comment under one my Facebook posts and I’m devastated. 

Recently I overheard my wife Lisa saying how difficult last year was for her. Later I asked what she was talking about. “Well,” she said, “You were hospitalized with viral meningitis and completely incapacitated for a month.” Oh, yeah, I forgot. I wonder why my being terribly ill would make Lisa’s year so hard and she might wonder why I can’t just let go of that one critical Facebook comment. What’s hard for me might not be hard for you, but we are all looking for a good way through.

There are predictable ways we search for comfort. When I’m sleep deprived I crave fatty foods, sugary snacks and naps. When I’m stressed or fatigued I want a glass of wine, a good T.V. show or an orgasm. When I’m sick or exhausted, I want solitude and silence. Sometimes when I’m discouraged I’ll talk to a friend. We naturally look for sources of solace, and food, sex, sleep, company and beauty can all provide a measure of what we need. But anything that helps us get through has its limits. Too much talk about my problems leaves me feeling like I’m needy and powerless. Too much wine, salty snacks or binge watching makes me feel blurry, bloated and lethargic. And sometimes silence or time with a journal only creates more space for me to obsess about whatever bamboozled me. 

When I’m sad, stressed, exhausted or overwhelmed, the practice that most reliably helps me is walking. Unlike so many of my other coping mechanism, the only downside to walking that I can think of is an occasional blister or sore feet.

I first discovered the magical healing power of a walk when I was an angsty and hormonal teenager. Desperate for time and space to process my complicated feelings I stopped taking the bus and started walking the two and a half miles each way to school and back. I didn’t have a Sony Walkman so I was free to meditate, pray and notice the grit and beauty of the city streets that surrounded me. 

In college my mind was flooded with questions and uncertainties. Who am I? Why are we here? What should I do and who can I spend my life with? I explored these questions on early morning wanders in the woods. Or, I’d take a solitary stroll down the moody streets of a low rent neighborhood at sunset.    

In my twenties, married, working, going to graduate school, and raising three kids, there was less space for quiet reflection. But sometimes in desperation, I would take a moonlit hike at midnight to sort out my thoughts. On summer evenings I would walk a child to sleep or clock miles on a trail while reading my seminary textbooks. 

For me walking creates a cadence that brings clarity and peace. When my body is occupied by movement my mind is free to wander and wonder. The rhythm of my steps resets my internal symmetry. I am open to what I see in front of me and and what is buried deep inside. 

I love the life I have as a teacher, writer and activist. But the flow of my work means that I am often jet lagged and over stimulated by public speaking and meeting new people. Too many days of creating and relating can leave me feeling spun out and emotionally discombobulated. I know what I need to do. Pack a water bottle, a jacket, sunscreen and some nuts and walk from morning until dusk. I walk myself back to equilibrium, slowly stepping down paths or cobblestone streets, stopping in a museum, garden or cafe. And then keep moving until my mind is clear and my soul is at rest and I can hardly take another step. Eight miles through cool gray San Francisco. Twelve miles criss-crossing the bridges of London. Fifteen miles wandering the arrondissements of Paris. Eighteen miles strolling the beaches and docklands of Sydney and Melbourne. Four miles along the freeway in Visalia.  

In the oldest stories of our ancestors, it is said they walked with God in the cool of the day. And I can relate. At the end of the day we find our rest, not by sitting, but by joining a peripatetic journey with the one in whom we live and move and have our being.    

God’s country, they call it, 
a land of sky wide sunrises
where water is king,
the divide between
bone dry desert and fertile green.

I walk the lonely back roads
through fields of tall corn and stone fruit
as men in oversized pick ups barrel past
kicking up the San Joaquin valley dust.

They call this the heartland, the bread basket
and beyond the miles of well ordered orange groves
the snow capped Sierra mountains hang
like pink and grey clouds on the horizon. 

What I see right in front of me,
is what falls off or gets tossed out of moving vehicles
a stray bolt, old tire tread,
piles of worn out shoes and baby clothes,
beer bottles, condoms, tobacco tins,
rodeo flyers and McDonald’s cups.

The heartland doesn’t look as beautiful
when seen close up. 
I see the landscape as I see myself.
Searching for treasure amongst the debris
Hunting for a view of the sky among the trees
Hoping the truck behind me doesn’t speed up or stop, 
Veering towards the ditches just to be safe. 

At sunset the temperature drops
A stray cats purrs
A cool breeze blows
Hush falls over the valley
Glowing with the possibilities of a new day tomorrow. 


Mark Scandrette is a teacher, activist and coach for leaders and teams who want to create a better world from the inside out. He is the founder of ReIMAGINE, one of the key creative shapers of the NINE BEATS Collective, and author of several books including FREE, Belonging and Becoming and Practicing the Way of Jesus

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Let it Come, Let it Go... by Nancy Lindroth

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Let it Come, Let it Go... by Nancy Lindroth

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


Generally I love my life. I feel more blessed at age 60 than I ever could have anticipated. Yet, even in the midst of a “normal” life I struggle with anxiety. My wiring, a six on the enneagram for those who know it, enables me to anticipate challenges, see around corners, bring things together and recognize how everything and everyone fits together to create a better world, a safer world, a happier world. But that has its downsides. 

I work at a church and am fondly called “chief of staff” by the Senior Pastor. Sometimes I think that means if anyone or anything is messed up, I’ll take care of them, fix it, get things back on track. I realize how much my wiring fits this. My boss has said more than once “your anxiety helps us.” But it can also easily get on overdrive and drive me and everyone around me crazy! So when anxiety starts to overwhelm my insides (too many people and things to “fix”) I have learned to recognize anxiety starting to control me. I take a step back, breathe deeply, and recalibrate. Years of therapy, prayer and practices have allowed me to gain peace and perspective. At least some of the time!

When my anxiety is in charge, I often struggle to accept reality. I have a strong sense of how things should be: how I should feel or act and how others should feel or act.  I don’t listen to the moment, the person, or God. Instead I project what I want to be true onto others, and work to make it so. Then I become the great controller of all things, and those around me sense that. And fortunately I have begun to sense that in myself. 

I have learned that I need a gentle acceptance. God’s grace brings freedom: freedom to fully accept the truth in myself, in others and in the world around me. I am free because it is all going to be okay. A perfect God’s love for me, and others, and the world is boundless and in complete control. God will make a way for each person, each situation. I don’t need to be the fixer, but instead the responder, lover, friend, and mentor. Working from a place of reality, not a secure place of my own making. 

Several years ago my daughter gave me a copy of the welcome prayer. I keep it in my Bible. I have learned to practice “welcome” and “letting go” when the overwhelming feelings come.  I can now do this on the fly in the middle of a situation, but only after many times of working through this line by line on a regular basis. I did this daily for many days, then once a week, and now as needed, every month or so. I fill in my own words where the bold is with very specific things, writing them in my journal. And I follow it with some silent centering prayer. And most often I come away calm, and renewed in my trust of God. Settled, and at peace. 

Welcome, welcome, welcome. 

I welcome everything that comes to me in this moment because I know it is for my healing.
I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions, persons, situations and conditions. 
I let go of my desire for security.
I let go of my desire for approval.
I let go of my desire for control. 
I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person, or myself. 
I open to the love and presence of God and the healing action and grace within.

––– Mary Mrozowski 1925-1993

A good friend shared a phrase God gave him during a difficult time that has the same nature of the welcome prayer. “Let it go, let it come.” I use this as my mantra during the day to awaken the Spirit of God in my heart and mind. I say it this way: “Let it come….Let it go….Trust.” 

This has become the 10 second practice I use when I feel the tension rising in my encounters with people, situations, conditions, or myself.

And God’s gentle reply is this: “I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, do not fear: I will help you.” Isaiah 41:13


Nancy Lindroth has served on staff of Blackhawk Church in Madison Wisconsin for 18 years. She is married to Rick who is a Professor of Ecology at UW Madison. They have two grown daughters (both are married to wonderful pastors—ministry must run in the family) and two grandsons. When she is not working, Nancy enjoys reading, journaling, art, road-biking, hiking and fly-fishing with her husband, and visiting her daughters who live on opposite sides of the country. You can read more of her writing here

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 Who Am I? by Rachel Powers

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Who Am I? by Rachel Powers

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


Have you ever felt a loss of identity?  Or confused about who you are or who you are supposed to be?  I have.  At one point I believed that I was nothing; worthless.  I had lost my health in such a way that left me trapped with no end and no escape from constant debilitating pain in my head and in my entire body.  I’d been struggling to fight for survival five years already.  The constant need for help made me feel a burden to those around me, and I so longed to be a blessing.  I believed if I could be a blessing I would have value and identity.  My hope for a future of happiness was gone, all that I thought I would and could become; as a professional, friend, wife, mom, daughter, sister and woman, just snatched away.  There was nothing good left of the “me” I thought I was.

All alone and hopeless, I knelt in front of our couch.  I cried, “God, I’m completely lost.  I’ve done all I can to get well.  Nothing helps.  Any choice I make at this point will lead to more pain.  I don’t want to live through the suffering that inevitably awaits me.  I can’t handle the pain, the sadness, the confusion, the loss, the struggle to survive any more.  I’m done.  I don’t want my life anymore.  I hate my life.  All that I do and try feels worthless and destructive.  If YOU can bring something useful and good out of what’s left of me and my pathetic shell of a body that’s broken and hurting, You can have me.  I’m sorry for doubting You, Your love for me and that You are good.  I’m sorry for holding You responsible for my pain.  I’m sorry for the resentment I’ve had towards You and others who have hurt me.  Forgive me.  Please reveal Yourself to me.”

All of a sudden it was as if a giant weight was lifted off of me, off of my heart; like I could breath deeply and laugh genuinely for the first time in my whole life. 

Depression had been a struggle since childhood.  I remember lying in bed at five years old, paralyzed with wishing I had never been born, and not knowing why.  There had always been this cloud in my mind and heart that was sad and heavy.  My life may have looked easy on the outside, but it felt hard and lonely on the inside.  Then my external health began to imitate the internal.  Doctors had no answers for my symptoms, there were no explanations, no understanding of what was happening to me.  I had a constant “WHY?” in my mind for every ache and pain, day after day, month after month, year after year.  But in this transformative moment, the “WHY” no longer mattered.  Joy overwhelmed me.  A prayer of rejoicing, like a song, just poured out of my mouth.  I didn’t want it to stop.  My mind was saturated with the thought that God was indeed good and worthy of my trust.  And MY understanding or not understanding the “why’s” in my life or in anyone else’s life, was suddenly no longer an obstacle in believing in a truth so much bigger than me.  

I had been looking to God for a miracle.  And until He would give me some sign that He was going to help me in my pain, I was not going to be content or trust that He was good.  I wanted Him to meet me on MY terms.  But He had already done the miracle; laying down His life willingly for mine, so I could experience knowing Him and being loved by Him with no strings attached.  FREE LOVE!  Was that not enough?  Until this moment, it had not been enough for me.  Until I laid down my expectation of Him, I was unable to fully receive, experience and appreciate His love.  Once that happened, I discovered my value rested simply in the fact that I had breath and could use it to rejoice in a God that is good.  My identity is simply BEING a child of God; a child that is known and loved, just because.  Do you have a child?  Have you longed for a child?  God longed for you and He loves you just because you are His.

Fear is the obstacle to Joy; fear of the future, fear of pain, fear of failure, fear of loneliness, fear of abandonment, fear of what others think, fear of not being enough.  Trust and gratitude are the antidote.  Laying down the fear and choosing trust and gratitude is an intentional discipline.  It takes work.  There is always something to be grateful for and when I meditate on those things, and trust that God is bigger than my understanding, JOY comes. 

Eventually answers regarding my health did come, treatments happened and my health improved.  Once I completely surrendered myself to Him, God took my suffering and used it to reveal my worth and identity as His beloved child.  My heart feels FREE; free to love, free to embrace, free to care, free to sing, free dance, free to BE.  He healed my heart and in time my body followed.

A practice we use in our home daily is to verbalize and rejoice in truth.  There are so many lies that continue to bombard our minds, seeking to kill, steal and destroy the JOY available to us.  Words have power.  So choose words of TRUTH.  Make a list or collage, hang truth on your walls, wallpaper your mind with it. 

Every night before going to sleep, I turn to my best friend; my partner; my husband and ask him to speak some truths over me, and he does.  He reminds me who I am and of all the good.  It never gets old to hear it. 

“Always be joyful.  Never stop conversing with God.  Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s desire for you.” 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18


Rachel Powers enjoys being a Fitness Instructor, a Wellness Advocate for DoTERRA and an Actor/Singer/Dancer/Model.  She works at Lareen Fender’s The Ballet School, Pure Barre WC, and Forma Gym, while residing in Walnut Creek, CA with her husband Adam, daughter Lucy and cat Carmel. 

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What Are Your Hopes? by Lisa Scandrette

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What Are Your Hopes? by Lisa Scandrette

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


Evidence of my life’s work thus far is everywhere. As I enter my house, to the right is a bookshelf filled with titles like “The Joy of Science,” “Greek Myths,” lectures on “The Great American Musical,” and numerous history titles. In the living room, my shelf holds Greek plays, “My Antonia,” “Frankenstein,” and works on both world wars. My kids and I dove deep in that well together and drank it all in. We splashed around and luxuriated in our books and learning experiences. There are many volumes there waiting with promise for us to delve into as well. Books waited for our attention—that I bought with every intention of reading, but never got around to. The books are intoxicating. I want to read all of them. I want to live for a while in their pages and swim in their ideas. 

If I go into our attic and look at the books there, they outline a history of our education—my kids’ education and the one I received while teaching them over sixteen years of homeschooling. There is richness there. I have read beyond what I believed myself capable of. I have facilitated the learning of history, English, Biology, Chemistry, Algebra, and more, and in the process have deepened my own knowledge. I have built a culture of sharing knowledge. I love this world, particularly when it just is…a world of learning because learning is our job. I love seeing connections being made and those “Eureka!” moments. I love when one of us is so excited about a discovery that the words just tumble out on top of themselves. And I love when one path of learning leads to another and we can keep following those new paths until we hardly remember how we got there. Of course, there were times of slogging, times that were less joyful, but it was deep, meaningful work for me.

Starting in 2012, I started reaching the end of this iteration of the job. My oldest had begun her university studies. And because my kids are close in age, all three had begun college by 2015. The pieces of my life felt loose—as if someone has taken my 1000 piece puzzle, disassembled it, magically changed the shape of the pieces, and handed it back. Most of it needed to be remade. I wanted to make a plan. I wanted to know what was next. How will I use my skills to be of use in the world? How will I structure my days? What is my five year plan? At this point, I couldn’t begin to imagine it. I didn’t know how to make this transition. Change is uncomfortable and nearly everything about my days is changing.

Some of my friends speculated that I just couldn’t let go of my kids. Honestly, there was some normal needing to let go of grown kids. But layered on that was a sense of grief and loss. I told my husband, “You are just reaching your stride in your career…just getting really good at the work you feel called to, and able to let go of the things you are not good at and should let others do.” For me, at that same moment in my life, I have worked myself out of the job I love and am skilled at. I am grieving that loss. And I am anxious to see if my work will truly measure up. Will my kids have the tools they need to succeed in university, or will they come back to me and tell me I have not prepared them? A book I read at the time suggested that in a healthy transition, we both grieve what we are losing and embrace new possibilities. I had the grieving part down, though I felt embarrassed at my emotions. What was harder was seeing the possibilities.

With my mix of grief and anxiety, I could not formulate a plan. In the middle of this period, I had a spiritual direction session with a mentor. One of the things she said was “faith is being sure of what we hope for. What are your hopes?” She encouraged me to make a box of my hopes filled with images of my ideas, hopes and longings.  When I got home I found a sparkly gold hexagonal box among my things. On the lid, I glued a strip of paper that said “Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” I gathered pretty paper scraps and cut them in the same shape as the box. Each morning I wrote a hope on a hexagon of beautiful paper, praying to inhabit those longings. As I did, I realized that most of my hopes had to do with who I wanted to become and the kinds of relationships I had with others. Who do you want to be? That is a question I could answer. And it was something I could live towards immediately. Here were things I could imagine: “I want to enjoy a vibrant relationship with Mark in this next phase of life,” “I want to keep learning,” “I want to live simply and beautifully, enjoying what I have,” or “I want to appropriately love and support my children at this stage in their life,” “I want to live towards compassion and justice.”  Slowly, I began to see ways to move towards the hopes God had placed in me. I could see the possibilities.

This practice helped me to breathe more freely, to relax in to waiting for the answer to “What will I do?” to begin to work itself out. Frankly, if you asked me what I will do at this stage in life, I still don’t have a plan or a long term answer. I am saying yes to projects that fit with who I want to become in the world, trusting that the “what I will do” will continue to emerge from that.


Lisa Scandrette loves creating with her hands, connecting with neighbors near and far, and beautiful stories. She lives with and enjoys adventuring with her husband Mark and is enjoying every day that their three adult kids still live with them in their little Victorian in the Mission District of San Francisco. Together, Mark and Lisa are co-authors of Belonging and Becoming: Creating a Thriving Family Culture and Free: Spending Your Time and Money on What Matters Most. 

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An Invisible Force by Shauna Springer

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An Invisible Force by Shauna Springer

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


We are never very good at predicting what we are going to feel in the future. In 2016, during an Open Door women's retreat, I spoke about wanting to make a bigger impact on the heart-rending tragedy of Veteran suicide. Less than a year later, through a string of miraculous events, I now have the opportunity to do just that, to serve as the suicide prevention senior advisor for the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS), an organization I have held in very high respect from a distance for a long time. 

As I made the departure announcement to colleagues at the VA (in a Veterans behavioral health clinic), I was initially focused on what I was going to be doing next, filled with hope and excitement for what the next chapter would bring. What I didn't expect was to feel such an impact of grief – the direct result of severing ties with the hundreds of Veteran patients I have worked with for the past eight years at the VA. This grief has been profound.

I have lived in nearly every time zone and whenever I have severed an attachment in the past, I have always been able to find solace in the idea that “true friends easily pick up where they left off.” My husband and I are blessed to have friends like this, including two very dear friends we hadn’t seen in 8 years that we recently stayed with in Australia with my remaining vacation leave balance. Even with very little contact, I’ve felt able to hold attachments to dear friends like these because there's always the hope of the future reunion. 

But it isn't the same with my former patients - in the vast majority of cases, I will never see them again. I have walked alongside them in their most sacred pain, and known them through critical times of transition in their lives – marriages, births, and deaths of family members and friends. In most cases, that very private, safe place in my office was the only touch point we ever had or could expect to have in the future. And no matter what they tell you about “clinical reserve” in graduate school training, if your heart is really in the work, it creates an attachment. It's certainly a unique kind of attachment in that my patients know very little about me and they are not there to serve my needs, but my heart has been fully invested in their growth and recovery. So, there is a strong attachment nonetheless and one that could not translate into the way I have been able to hold other disrupted attachments.

As I began to sever ties with them, some of them went into crisis and it was a very scary, turbulent time for them and for me. I had nightmares that about them, thought about them all the time, worried over them, prayed for them, and struggled with how to let them go. 

In the context of this time of suffering, I developed a spiritual practice that gave me a good way through. This practice was an adaptation of how I have helped people grieve other types of losses. First, I had to realize that this was indeed grief. Second, I had to acknowledge that grief was the appropriate emotion to feel. Essentially, I needed to get comfortable with the fact that I was experiencing attachment loss as an extension of doing the work with my whole heart, and this is not pathological.

Once these two connections were made, I was able to rely on what I know about healthy grieving. As I have told my patients, a healthy grief journey is one that allows us to remain connected with the one we have lost, rather than making it our goal to forget about them and move on. So, in those final poignant sessions with my patients, I locked the memory of their faces and voices in my mind. I strained to listen to everything they said in the context of terminating our therapeutic relationship. 

As Veterans generally are, they were extremely generous in spirit. Some of them acknowledged that it “really sucked” but without exception, they thanked me and gave me words of encouragement. They told me that they believe in me and that they would always have my back if I ever needed them. So that is where I have placed them in my mind. They are standing right behind me. I can almost hear them because I know what they would say. For example, I was recently traveling to the reunion of some Marines in a Unit that has seen an especially high suicide rate. I had a terrible sinus infection and the descent in the plane was excruciatingly painful - so much that it brought tears to my eyes from the sheer physical pain. I felt like my head was going to explode or maybe that I would have a stroke or something. But then I heard the faint echo of the voice of one of my patients behind me, saying "embrace the suck doc" (which is how Marines effectively say, "just lean into the pain and you will get through it"). 

When I assemble them as an invisible mental force, I can easily call them to mind. I can continue to hold and carry their stories. I can pray for them as a group and I do. I can honor them in the next chapter of my life. I can draw from their strength to be bold as I work on their behalf. 

God has said that his power is manifest in our weakness. In my new role, I have already had several experiences that remind me of this truth, and they are often mediated by the collective strength of the invisible force at my back that I am now working to serve. I still miss my patients, sometimes acutely, but as in any healthy grief journey, I also can access the happy memories of our conversations, recall some hilarious stories they shared, and I know that I have a way to hold them close as I move forward in this new chapter of my life. This has been a good way through for me.


Invitation to Practice:

Grief may be a part of the process of transitions for any of us who serve in helping professions. Recognize it when it surfaces and make a decision to honor this attachment by creating a clear mental image of those you have traveled with that you can carry with you on your journey forward. 


Shauna Springer, Ph.D., is the Senior Advisor of Suicide Prevention for the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS). She has particular expertise in attachment processes, trauma recovery, innovative suicide prevention approaches, relationship counseling, peer support program development, and Veteran’s issues, including post-discharge adjustment and strategies for engaging Veterans in behavioral health care. For the past eight years, Dr. Springer has served as a front line mental health provider for hundreds of Veterans, helping them see their worth in the community, re-connect with their warrior family, and build hope to live for those who didn’t come home and those they fight for still. Dr. Springer is a licensed Psychologist with an undergraduate degree from Harvard University and a Doctoral degree from the University of Florida.

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Why Do I Do This? by Paul LeFeber

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Why Do I Do This? by Paul LeFeber

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


When I was 15 my friends and I started a ska band. That’s right, a ska band. Horns and everything. We played every church basement in town, and had an absolute ball doing it. It was a pure creative energy. 

When we were in our 20s we started to take the band real serious. We had dreams of playing for thousands and making a living. We made new recordings to sell and promoted ourselves to anybody who would listen. All of this of course meant we could no longer be a ska band. Who takes ska music seriously?

Toward the end we started to get pretty desperate. We wanted things to work because we loved it so much. We put a lot of pressure on ourselves to make it, earn money, to get to the next level. The glory days we experienced when we were younger never really returned. 

Eventually we signed up for a music competition. I know…we weren’t exactly thinking clearly. The television show “Showtime at the Apollo” was coming through town as part of a national talent search. You could win the chance to be on the TV show. Seemed like a good idea at the time.  

Alongside about 20 other artists we showed up to perform the night of the show. The hall was filled with several thousand people ready to either cheer us on or boo us off the stage. That’s how it works. It’s all about audience approval. 

Midway through the show we walked on stage and started to play. About 5 seconds into our song the audience started to boo. It started with just a few people, but it grew louder and louder until the sound was overwhelming. In all our dreaming we never imagined it would come to this, being booed offstage by several thousand people. It was humiliating. 

I kept it together long enough to gather up my gear and make it out to the parking lot. A friend who had been in the audience was waiting for me. He looked at me like I had just backed my car into a lake. He reached out to give me a hug and I started to cry. I remember well the words that came out choked. “Why? Why do I do this?”

In those days, had I been more honest with myself, the answer was clear. I wanted success and everything that comes with it. I wanted approval and respect. I wanted people to admire me. I wanted to stand out. I wanted to be important, someone people listen to. I wanted to matter. 

Does any of that sound familiar? 

The world functions on an economy of power, successes, and usefulness. The work of your hands either accomplishes something good and worthwhile - something useful - or it doesn’t. The message we get over and over again is to try harder, do more, produce, succeed. 

No wonder artists and creative types have a reputation for being moody. We often end up on the fringes of society. We’re prone to discouragement and depression. What good are we?

What is the use of a painting? What good is a poem? Why write a novel about pretend people’s problems when we’ve got a world full of real problems to deal with? Why choreograph a dance to communicate an emotion? Isn’t it easier to just use emoticons?

Ultimately, though, artists are at their best when they’re useless. It is in being useless that we find kinship with the useless people of this world. It’s in being useless that we allow God to be God, and us not. It is being useless that we understand grace. Art and grace live in the same house. They belong to the same space. Art is grace. 

I’d like to suggest a practice to help remind you that being useless is ok. Find that creative or artistic thing you love to do, and then do it. But do it simply for the joy of doing it. 

Write a poem, and don’t show it to anyone. Put on some music and just dance. Sing a song all alone. Get together with some friends and harmonize. Play your instrument just for the joy of playing it. Write about something you love to write about before you write something you “need” to write. Draw or paint something with no agenda, no preconceived notions of what you’ll use it for, or who you’ll show it to. 

Getting booed off stage reminded me how easy it is to forget why I do what I do. My sense of self and accomplishment were assaulted and I had to go back to the beginning. Why do I do this? To accomplish or succeed? Not in the beginning. When it all started I did it because I loved it, and that was more than enough.  


Paul LeFeber is a pastor in Portland, Oregon. He plays music and speaks regularly. He spends as much time as he can with his wife Mariah and daughters Adah and Junia. Learn more about the church where he serves at newhopepdx.org.

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Overcoming the Lies by Rebecca Olson

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Overcoming the Lies by Rebecca Olson

This guest post is part of the Good Ways blog series, a collection of stories and practices for finding God in hardship.


Last fall I started going to therapy. 

One year before, I left my full-time job to be home with my daughter more. Then, that spring, I launched a life coaching business with the hopes it would bring in the income we needed to sustain my staying home part-time.  To be honest, the whole change felt like we were walking the plank over deep waters. I was changing careers, choosing a life of less money and less security and there was no guarantee it would work out.  The song Oceans by Hillsong comes to mind, “You call me out upon the waters, the great unknown, where feet may fail…” It felt like I was being called out of a boat and very possibly I would fall straight into the sea.

Within a few months of launching my life coaching business, I felt paralyzed: Where would I get clients? How could I grow the business with a young toddler at home? What if I don’t make enough money? I struggled with what others thought of me. If they thought I was making the right the choice, if they thought I could even make it as a life coach. I feared failure and I feared hardship. 

These thoughts were not new for me. The situation they were surfacing in was new, but the thoughts were old and familiar and they halted all movement forward. There was no way I could grow my business with these questions and fears haunting my thoughts. I either needed to work through them or my business, and ultimately the stay-at-home life I was seeking, would fail. And so, I started seeing a therapist. 

Therapy is the beginning of a journey and you must be willing to face whatever surfaces in order to illicit change. My hope was that it would uncover hidden truths that might otherwise never come to light. I am grateful for what came out of my time in therapy. Though it was hard, I believe lasting change has taken place and I am better equipped to navigate the issues I face. 

Three main issues surfaced during my time in therapy: 

  1. I am a people-pleaser who looks toward others to validate who I am
  2. I need to always appear as an expert and will never do anything that might make me appear otherwise
  3. I am hyper-critical of myself and tend to subconsciously repeat my “failures” over and over in my head, which in turn, clouds any joy or success I may have 

After becoming aware of these three self-sabotaging mindsets, I had to make a choice: continue on as normal (where I would continue to be immobilized by these mindsets) or face them with the hope of lasting change. Of course, change doesn’t happen overnight, it would likely take many years to overcome a way of thinking that is deeply ingrained in me. It would be a journey. And so it began… 

To start, I did a few key practices that provided a foundation to begin uprooting my old way of thinking. 

Practice #1: Name the Truth:

Identify the lie, counter it with truth and find scripture to back it up. 

Lie: I need others to validate who I am. 

Truth: I am valuable because my God has deemed me so. 

Scripture: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; and before you were born, I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet.” Jeremiah 1:5

Lie: I should always be the best at everything I do. 

Truth: It is ok to grow and get better at something. 

Scripture: “For the Lord gives wisdom, from His mouth come knowledge and understanding.”  Proverbs 2:6

I have come back to this practice often. My hope is to make it a habit so that as an old mindset surfaces, I am able to immediately counter it with truth. It also helps to read through the truths/scripture I have already stated so as to make the thinking more habitual. 

Practice #2: Prayer Coloring:

Write the thing or person you are praying for and then color in and around it, thereby creating a little prayer doodle for each item you pray for. I used Sybil MacBeth’s book, Praying in Color to provide templates for my prayer coloring practice. In this case, I listed out all the ways I could think that God had faithfully provided for me and as I wrote and colored each one, I remembered and thanked Him for His provision. The practice built up my trust in Him, allowing me to put my business and our finances just a little bit more in His hands. 

Since I started therapy last fall, my circumstances haven’t changed much and I still find myself asking the same questions: How will I grow my business? Will I make enough money at this? What do others think? But I have been able to counter these self-sabotaging thoughts with truth and trust and have thus begun to live a life in less fear and with more freedom. As I said, it will likely take many years to overcome mindsets that are deeply ingrained in me…but I am grateful the journey has begun. 

 


Rebecca Olson is a life coach, primarily working with mompreneurs who are seeking to grow their business while balancing life at home. She helps them create a vision for their life and business while setting manageable goals and navigating the challenges of motherhood. She is a mother of two in Albany, CA where she and her family love to walk the neighborhood. You can connect with her further at www.rebeccaolsoncoaching.com or on facebook.

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