I hesitate to write this post, as it leaves me vulnerable and open and human and fallible. But such is me and what am I if not all those things? Fake? A parading facade that gives the illusion of whimsy when I am in despair? Let me be frank.

I learned very quickly after committing my life to Christ that I shouldn’t attempt to make too many long-term plans. Our little charmed life seemed to be turned so easily on its head in a moment’s notice. And because we have had a lot of adjustment, shifting, transition, and directional change in the past ten years, Michael has initiated checkpoints along the way.   Our checkpoints are simple. It will be a conversation over coffee, a lingering Sunday drive, a weekend away, in the front porch rocking chairs, or during a routine trip to the grocery store. The setting isn’t so much the point as the content of the conversation.

Our checkpoints must answer a few basic questions. Where are we going? How are we doing along the way?

The checkpoints have been vital to our marriage and ministry. Sometimes they result in seasonal themes like “Family” or “Focus” (<— current). Sometimes they result in additional checkpoints to dig deeper to the root of a problem. Sometimes they result in change. Sometimes they result in staying where we are and feeling confirmed in that position.

I am having the best summer. It’s not only because I am poolside most afternoons. (Although praise God and hallelujah – and I am so sorry for last Sunday when my son puked in the pool and you had to shut it down for the afternoon…) Or because I am hammocking in my yard with my summer fragrance of choice, OFF: Deep Woods. (You can tell your deet-free Avon skin-so-soft that our mosquitos eat repellant like her for breakfast. Give us the deet. Period.) Or because I am getting to reconnect with my friends and family, with whom I have spent precious little time over the past year. I am having the best summer because I am me again.

Michael looked at me with all the intensity that there is a few weeks ago and said, “I’m so glad I have my wife back.”

I am having this best season because I had one helluva spring.

I had been gone. Not physically, but in every other way possible. I had been distracted, stressed, consumed, anxious, and elsewhere for far too long. It was during one of our checkpoint conversations that I had to face the grim reality that my actions were not consistent with my priorities, and I got scared about that. Not the kind of fear that brings about a good fight, the kind of fear that paralyzes. That renders its inhabitant useless. I didn’t know how to escape. I just kept existing and my dearest ones around me just kept suffering.

It was a hard, dark time.

I wish I could say that I came to my senses and escaped on my own. I wish I could say that I willed myself back to the important and back to the present and back to myself. But I didn’t. I had been utterly and completely swallowed up, and the darkness in that pit kept me from finding my way out. The darkness just kept me there…deep in the recesses of its all-consuming command.

Until a checkpoint came.

And my people told me I wasn’t me. And then my people got me out. They rescued me. They got down in that pit with me, hoisted me on their shoulders – they have such broad shoulders – and carried me up, speaking Life and Truth to me all along the way up. Gently and caringly they strengthened me. Strengthened me enough so that when we got to the top, the only thing left for me to do was stand up and walk away from the pit.

And I did.

And it was the bravest, hardest, bestest thing I’ve ever done. That last little bit, where I stood up, required absolute surrender to the Holy Spirit. The End. It was not an action I could have executed without His power. Those standing muscles had been so weak, having been crouched down in that pit and all.

Some seasons are so very light, and airy, and whimsical, and holy, and sacred. Those are the best seasons. Some seasons are so very hard. Some seasons are marked by tragedy, grief, monotony, solitude, despair, fear, or consequences of your very own actions, to be just an absolute truth-teller.  Should you find your season a difficult one, can I give you this little blesson I have just learned five minutes ago and find very worthy to divulge? Let your people in. They don’t want to see you this way. It is sucking the life out of them and it is changing who they are, and that is not fair.  And that is not the holy heritage you are to embrace, nor the legacy you wish to leave.  (Side Note: Your people are not your Facebook Friends List) Your people are very few. Those who know why you’re in the pit. Those who are willing to get in there with you when you finally admit you need their shoulders. These are your people. They are safe, and that is an incredibly important part of this.  They are offering their strong shoulders. Take hold. As you ascend, your strength will return. You will feel the blood course back through your life-giving veins. And you will stand back up on your feet and will walk away from that damnable pit. You will call on the Holy Spirit to help you, and by God’s sweet grace, He will stand you up. But you, my friend, have to do the walking.

I dare you to have a checkpoint conversation. Ask yourself, ask your spouse, best friend, or sister, how you are doing. Ask the person who will tell you the truth. And let him tell you the truth. Let her. Are you going where you want to go? And how are you doing along the way? Be prepared for the truth. The truth may be that you are doing swell! Bravo! Keep up God’s good work! You may be slightly off your intended trajectory – that’s no big deal! Just veer back on the rightful path!

But if you are in a pit (fill in whatever your pit is: unhealthy relationship, job, unholy habit, bitterness, unforgiveness, greed, you get the basic idea) – let your people help you up. Let our God stand you up. And walk the swearword away from that stupid pit.

My dad would tell you that he made mistakes as a father. But I do not have the energy, nor have I the want, to spend time thinking about what went wrong in my childhood. Instead, I have elected to think about what went right. And particularly what went right with my dad.

Though my dad has many unique eccentricities that endear me to him, (like the fact that he never cared about sports but absolutely loved nature, or that he has given me at least 12 Swiss army knives and noted their country of fabrication each time, or that he is a history whiz, or that he can make a garden salad that will put all other salads to shame) there are three things that stand out as particularly formative for me. And they are the following:

1. My dad never told me for whom he voted.
2. My dad taught me to pay attention to my gut.
3. My dad never, never one time, spoke an unkind word about my mother.

These three things, I have come to realize, have helped to shape and form me and how I understand the world. Let me tell you why.

1. My dad never told me for whom he voted. He simply went to the ballot and pulled the lever according to his convictions. And then he went on about his business. He told me that I have that same right; that I don’t have to ever share with anyone my political preference. I have formed by own thoughts and opinions, based own my own critical thinking. Dad has given me space to discuss those things. He has challenged my thinking, but has not pressured me into thinking a certain way. I find this an oddly important formative truth. He didn’t teach me what to think about politics or social issues, but taught me how to think about them.

2. When I would (do) rant endlessly about whatever perceived injustice is accosting me or the world at the moment, my dad responds by saying, “pay attention to your gut on that,” which is entirely different than “trust your gut”. Trusting my gut takes away from trusting my God. Trusting my gut will fail me, as my feelings are as shifting as a wave tossed involuntarily about by the force of the great sea. Paying attention to my gut will allow me the space I need to critically evaluate my feelings with my thoughts. To measure them up against the Word. To seek God’s response. My gut is not always to be trusted, but it is something to which I should be attentive. Sometimes my gut is wrong. And sometimes it is not.

3. Though my parents are divorced, they have been incredibly amicable about the whole thing. I was never a messenger. They had three children together and that was enough for them to understand that they would have to communicate a bunch about life stuff. I had friends who had different experiences than mine, and it made for a very tumultuous adolescence. Additionally, never did my dad ever utter an unkind word about my mother. Not once. In fact, the opposite is true. My dad often said, still says, what a wonderful person/mother/businesswoman/spiritual leader/friend my mom is. It’s true. Perhaps he’s said nothing bad because there’s nothing bad to say, but I think it’s more than that. I think he knows that she is a part of us and we her, and so in belittling her he would belittle us. And he wouldn’t do that. He really loves us. And a fun little dividend? In a way, that observation raised my own standard of how I expected to be treated. I have expected to be respected, and I am. I married a man who would not speak an unkind word about me, not to my children or to anyone else. In fact, should a sweet child of ours speak back to me in his presence…well, he handles it with immediacy. That is not permissible.

And Daddy always checked my heart. He would simply say, “How’s your heart?” During their divorce he asked me that a lot. It was a brave question to ask an already overemotional tweenager in the midst of her parents’ divorce. But he asked anyway, and he always listened to my response. Sometimes I was angry. Sometimes I was angry at him. Sometimes I teared up and sat quietly, staring out the window as we drove down the highway to wherever we were going away from our home. I didn’t always have the words to respond.

He still asks me that. But when he has asked me that as an adult, I have almost always had a contented reply. Because of Christ – not my dad, not my husband, not my friends, my career, aspirations, my home or anything else – because of Christ alone, I have resolved my adulthood on the side of contentment and not despair. So when Dad asks me how my heart is now, I tell him. Exhausted and content. Enthusiastic and content. Directed and content. But generally content. If I answer that I am sad, or confused, or stressed, he texts me encouraging scripture and notes until I am through the rough spot. But I know how to recognize if it my heart isn’t right. If something is amiss, awry, off kilter. I know how to conduct a heart check. It is a practice with which I am well rehearsed. It is a practice that has saved my life, in more ways than one.

My dad has taught me more than how to buy quality products made in countries that pay their employees well, although thanks too for that little lesson, Daddy. He has taught me how to reason. And how to recognize and respond to myself. These blessons shaped and formed and continue to help mold me. They help me to understand my Savior as well…to think rightly and not only emotionally about Him. And to get right with Him, when I have wondered away. To repent and allow God the Father to restore my heart to the fullness that He intends for it.

Daddy, I am grateful to God for you. And my heart is good.

Happy Father’s Day

Today is my little brother’s birthday. I don’t know when is the proper time to quit calling him little. Is it when he outgrows you? Outsmarts you? On both counts, he’s bigger than me now. When we were little he made me laugh. So hard. I’m not sure why, but I thought he was the funniest thing.

He also made me cry.

Those teenage years are so hard and unfair. The deepest times of despair were met with many tears.

But he still makes me laugh.

And he still makes me cry. Like the time he constructed a wooden shelter for a nest of brand new baby birds in the middle of a torrential rain shower. And by constructed, I mean he made an actual fixture and attached it to his actual wooden fence, so that the birds would have a home. He couldn’t bare to see them suffer. His is the most tender heart. When he was little, he often discouraged the killing of ants and other pesky bugs, as they were God’s creatures too. I scoured his Facebook page to find the picture of the bird shelter. I found instead that his pictures have four themes: food, family, nature, and faith. He has loved food his whole life. It’s always been an experience rather than an activity of daily living. He has relationships with sandwiches and sauces. And the messier the better. He still licks his fingers. He has a family. He is a father and a husband. He is such a good father and such a good husband. He lets his kids do the most dangerous things. But the same eye that he keeps on the sparrow in his back yard, he keeps on his kids. He loves the outdoors and always has. A landscape can capture his heart in an instant.

The best picture I found that encapsulates my brother is the following one, which encompasses all of the aforementioned elements:

I wasn’t there, but I can tell you what is happening. First of all, they have just eaten. You can’t see the food, but there is no doubt it was there. Do you see how engaged in conversation he is with my Grandma? Jeremy doesn’t small talk. Chitchatting has no purpose and he is annoyed through 100% of conversations without depth. Do you see one foot casually resting on his dog, Ringo? His dog is old. He’s not a brilliant creature, but he loves Jeremy very very much. And Jeremy loves his dog.

Do you see how he is reclined?

This is his element. There was a time when he couldn’t recline. He could never relax. An unsurrendered life is like that.

Jeremy’s life now is about creating spaces for community to develop. Participating in conversation, welcoming others into their home, eating (because that’s always going to be true), and walking with anyone who seeks to know the Savior that changed his life.

Jeremy, thank you for taking the time to walk with those around you. For loving others and providing space for substantive conversations, generous hospitality, and delicious food. My life is forever changed because you are in it; and it is forever better because you have chosen a life of faith. Thank you for that.

And thank you for roasting coffee. I literally could’t get through the day without you.

Love you,
your sister

Today Michael stopped on the side of the road to FaceTime me because he saw a giant turtle. I love animals. And I love to spot them in the wild. Michael gets it and humors me often. At closer look, it appeared the turtle was suffering, having been hit by a car. I asked him to move it from the road. He said that wouldn’t be the best thing for the turtle.

I trust Michael about these things.

My mom knew my Michael was a keeper when he bought roses for me and for her when our dog of 7 years, Cuddles, died.

She was right.

When I was 23 I bought a small house in the country and a small dog to protect me and keep me company. He was a rescue dog from the local animal shelter who needed a bath, a hair cut, and a whole heap of behavior training. I was ready for the task. I named him Fritz.

The first day I had him was wonderful. I had him groomed, bought him special food, and played and played with him as he was desperately starved for attention. That evening, Michael came to visit along with some friends, and as they were leaving, Fritz darted out the front door and was promptly struck and killed by a car.

They didn’t even stop.

In complete disbelief, I continued to look for my dog. It was so dark. I was sure that he had run into the adjacent field. I went in the house to find a flashlight. Michael approached me so tenderly and said, ‘The car that went by hit him, and he didn’t make it.’

He didn’t say much else. He simply listened to me cry while digging the deepest hole he could. It must have been 5 feet deep. It was such a deep hole. He dug for so long, assuring that nothing would disrupt Fritz’ resting place. When the grave was prepared, he wrapped Fritz in a towel and held him. Michael covered his fractured body and exposed his perfectly intact, freshly groomed face so I could pet him one last time. I asked again, ‘are you sure?’.

‘I’m sure.’

That’s all he said. And then he buried him and sat with me and listened to me cry. And cry. And cry.

That night I knew Michael would be a wonderful father. Wonderful fathers do really hard things, like bury the family pet. My own father must have conducted dozens of pet funerals in my childhood. (One time we hosted the class hamster for a weekend who had a litter of babies and then ate most of her litter. Second grade trauma.)

Since that time, Michael has conducted/attended funerals for cats, goldfish, dogs, and one time a raccoon that we thought was a cat. (It was a WHOLE thing.) Not to usher animal spirits into heaven, or any such thing, but always with the same resolve to provide comfort for the one who grieves their loss.

Last week I saw an elderly man on the side of the road with a shovel. He must have been in his seventies. He was waiting for a break in traffic to retrieve the family cat. I wondered how many times he had done that for his family. They live on a busy road.

Immediately, I was overcome with gratitude for my husband’s ability to do that really hard thing. It is a common thing but it is a great, hard thing. And for being the one who, even though he didn’t have the same connection with Nolan’s goldfish or my mom’s cat or my dog, provides unmatchable comfort for his family when they need it.

I don’t know why God gave us creatures. Maybe it’s a display of His creativity. Maybe it’s to teach us about empathy. Or responsibility. Or compassion. Or death. Or life. Maybe it’s that through them we know more about Him. Whatever the reason, the wonder of it all, for me, is a reminder of our humanness and His eternity.

And, today, a reminder to me that I married a really, really wonderful man.

When I was in 4th grade, I took dance lessons. Tap and Jazz to be exact. Kristi Stuckey’s mom would pick us up each week and drive us to the next town over to eat at Arby’s and then head to the studio where we would spend the next 2 hours highlighting my inability to keep a beat. I received extra support. I had to be tutored. For my extracurricular activity.

I only performed half of my songs during the recital, because I had a costume malfunction on stage. Bless my parents’ hearts for sitting through that 4-hour production. I danced for about 45 seconds of it. They didn’t sign me up the following year. And I didn’t ask.

When I was 21, I had an unhealthy obsession with fame. My life-long bestie, Erin, and I drove to Hollywood in an attempt to meet some famous people and we happened upon the Tonight Show, where we attended a taping. You may not know this if you don’t have these same connections that I have, but before they begin filming they attempt to ‘warm up the crowd’. They asked for volunteers. We were selected. As we headed down to the stage, my mind flooded with possibility. Would we play a game, be interviewed, be given a car?? It was Hollywood, for crying out loud.

But not Oprah.

They wanted us to have a dance off. On stage. In front of the entire crowd. Please try to harness the level of discomfort you feel for me right now and multiply it times a billion. That’s how it was. (Side note: Erin started dancing at age 2. AND she had natural talent to match her seasoned expertise. Plus she’s just all around cooler than I am.) I was in 4th grade again, in front of a much less forgiving crowd. I was actually booed. People do that.

Last summer I went to Jamaica. And if had any shred of dignity left, it was stripped of me when I was instructed to lead the clapping name game entitled “To the Rhythm”. You guys. My Jamaican co-leaders were so annoyed with me. And rightfully so. I couldn’t make my hands and my voice match the rhythm. And they tried desperately to help me. They even held my hands and clapped them together for me a few times. Eventually, they let me assume ‘other responsibilities’. Bless.

So. Just about everyone in the world knows I can’t dance.

Except my children.

I had a frustrating day. I woke up late and, after promising the boys I’d take them to the book fair, realized half way to school that I’d forgotten my pocketbook. ‘Maybe I’ll come at lunch,’ I told them. After dropping them off I realized I needed gas. So I pulled off the interstate, which takes about 10 minutes, and pulled up to the pump. When I realized for a second time, that I REALLY DIDN’T BRING MY PURSE. So, again, I tried to begin my day…but in my frustration, which is somehow born in pride of keeping it all together, turned the wrong way on back on the interstate. UGH. Then my meeting ran long, and I didn’t get to the school at lunch. (THEY EAT AT 10 SOMETHING – WHY???). So on and on my day went until I got home, where my children so warmly received me, despite my failures at getting to the book fair at all. Michael took them instead, and all was well. And they were thrilled with their books.

So thrilled, in fact, they wanted to have a dance party.

And this is something we do. And it is exactly how you would picture us looking based on the aforementioned description. Like a Seinfeld episode, but with 5 Quakers. Ridiculous.

And their are no 4th graders.

No dance instructors.

And no Kevin Eubanks.

My children love to dance. And they love to dance with me. And so they do and I do too, and laughter makes the humiliation bearable; it is ridiculous and freeing all at the same time. We dance like David did, with all our might (2 Sam. 6:14)…with pure joy in the Lord. It is uninhibited. Undignified. Wonderfully humiliating. Pride is not compatible with the Coats family dance party, which makes it all the more necessary for me to participate.

God hates pride (Proverbs 6). And I can’t think of a better way to practice the removal of it than to dance it right out of me.