Blessings and Raindrops

seeking joy in the midst of the ordinary

be free.

Lately, I’ve had a heavy cloak weighing me down.

As God has been opening doors and revealing more of His plans for my life in recent months, my autopilot response has been fear and insecurity. I literally sat in a meeting listening to someone whom I respect greatly share amazing, amazing plans for the work we hope to accomplish together {I can’t wait to share more with y’all…sorry for being vague, there are a bunch of details to work through first} and instead of excitement rising up, I pressed heavily into fear.

Fear of falling short. Fear of letting everyone down. Fear of inadequacy. Fear of failure. 

Honestly, I suppressed all of these fears fairly well. I carried on with my life and pushed the fears to the background. It became a white noise within my day to day routine. Not debilitating, yet present. Ever-present. And, exhausting.

Do you know what I’ve learned? It is EXHAUSTING to think God’s work actually depends on my performance. {And, yes, when I write that out I can see how ridiculous that line of thinking really is}.

Last weekend, I spent some time away from daily life. I was holed up in a cabin in the woods with some of my absolute favorite people. My people. They push past the surface. Our conversations are full of transparency, brokenness, authenticity, deep questioning, laughter, joy, and tears. They broke through the layers I had worked hard to build. Those shaky layers of self-sufficiency, strength and confidence. With a simple question, I suddenly started spilling it all out. All of the fear, the insecurity, and the doubt came out in the form of a sobbing, messy, confession. I would have been humiliated if this hadn’t been such a safe place to lay it all down.

Oh, friends. We all need a safe place. Instead of carrying that burden any longer, I let it go. I relinquished my fear and instead soaked up the words of Truth that these dear friends spoke over me. The cloak was destroyed. My burden was light.

Once I returned home, I felt a nudge to retrieve an old journal from the back of a drawer stacked full of similar old journals. I know the Holy Spirit was leading because I couldn’t remember what was written in any of these journals off hand yet I was led to that specific one.

I turned the pages and landed on my notes from Rebekah Lyons teaching during last year’s IF: Gathering. The words jumped off the page and spoke directly to my soul.

“As we let our own light shine, we give others permission to do the same.”

The lie I had believed: my light isn’t good enough to shine. Others are doing such an awesome job of shining; they should continue to do so. I really have nothing to add. 


Truth: “When He knit you, He gave you distinct birthright gifts. There’s room enough for everyone! No need to compare – we are ALL unique and we can all live out our gifts.”


Lie: Keep score. You need to know that you matter. 


Truth: “You can be in your calling and still not be free. If you do what you do for an audience of ONE, you’ll always matter.” 

Lie: confirmation from the world is going to heal.

Truth: “The fall may be all around you but the fall is not in you. Christ is in you. You are FREE. Now, go and be who you already are.”

“Heal my heart for good. Make my heart new, not just mended but actually new. 
Create in me a heart that prays bold prayers and believes bold things. 
In the Mighty Name of Jesus, I pray. Amen.”
And I will give you a new heart with new and right desires, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony heart of sin and give you a new, obedient heart. And I will put my spirit in you so you will obey my laws and do whatever I command. {Ezekiel 36: 26-27}

Read the transcript from Rebekah’s reading at IF: Gathering here. 
Read Rebekah’s full prayer from her talk at IF: Gathering here. 

the hardest job.

Even with all of the “mommy-wars” out there attempting to split hairs over bedtimes and food choices and parenting styles, I think we mommas can all agree on one thing: this high calling of raising little people is quite possibly the hardest job in all the world. 


And, I have had the honor and privilege of learning another lesson: this high calling of raising a little person with a broken heart is absolutely the hardest job in all the world. 

Adoption is beautiful. In fact, there are times when it is breathtakingly beautiful. When you adopt a precious one who has lived a life full of brokenness and loss, you gain a front row seat to watch God’s redemptive power at work on a daily basis.

Yet, you also gain a front row seat for more than just joy and beauty and adorable family photos. When this new little one joins your family, you find yourself smack-dab in the center of a trauma ward. Your peaceful home suddenly becomes a place of hostility and stress and pain.

You find yourself tip-toeing around this little person, never knowing when your next move will set off a rage or cause a complete shutdown.

Your heart is on the line for hurt upon hurt. This little person doesn’t hurt you on purpose. In fact, she doesn’t even realize what she is doing most of the time. You tell yourself not to take it personally {which hardly ever happens}.

You learn that love is a verb. You can love with actions and words even when your heart is weary. You can muster up the courage to get back in the ring and try again. You learn that His mercies really are new every day. 

You research the developing brain and the effects of early neglect and hunger and loss. You read articles and books, watch videos, listen to podcasts and seek help from professionals.

You often feel broken and ill-equipped, you make mistakes, you seek forgiveness. You question your responses and reactions, you often feel like you’re failing.

You quickly learn that isolation is a tool of the enemy. 

You surround yourself with safe people. Friends you text at all hours. Prayer warriors, encouragers, truth bearers. You seek authenticity, you need people who can simply say,  “me too, friend. Me too.”

The enemy wants us to feel alone in our pain, to think we are the only ones struggling, to look at the photos and the status updates and believe the lie that we don’t measure up.

God desires for us to believe TRUTH. 

The truth is that most of us have no idea what we are doing most days. The truth is we are all ill-equipped. The truth is, God works best when we come to the end of ourselves and rest in Him alone.

As we approach the one-year anniversary of Sylvie joining our family, I admit defeat. I admit that my human ability is not enough. But, God. God is. He can redeem all that has been lost and hurt. He can and He will. He can heal her broken heart. He can fill the hurting places with His love.


My Hope is in Him alone.

higher and deeper.



“…You have called me higher
You have called me deeper 
And I will go where you will lead me Lord…”

I had forgotten which CD was in the player in my car, assuming it was the usual: last summer’s VBS soundtrack.

“And I could be safe
I could be safe here in Your arms and never leave home
Never let these walls down…”

Nothing was on the radio. I decided a few kiddo worship tunes would make the run-around-town-errands a little easier on my backseat passengers.

“And I could just stay
I could just stay right where I am and hope to feel you
Hope to feel something again”

Instead, this song released piercing truth through the car.

I let the words seep into my heart. Knowing.

He is calling me. He is asking me to step out of my comfort zone.

Yet here I stand: on these shaky knees with fists clenched tightly. Can’t I just stay here? At home. Fortified walls up. Where I’m safe.

The song was a reminder to my fearful heart. His adventure awaits. His hand is outstretched. He beckons, Come, my child. I will lead you somewhere beautiful. Trust me.


I will go where you will lead me, Lord. 

Tell me I’m not alone in this. Are you feeling called to something higher and deeper? Does fear attempt to steal the joy from following where He leads?

slow healing.

Charlotte is in to everything these days. And, she is fast. I turn my head for a second and she is pulling down the wall shelving from the hair salon while Sylvie gets a trim {everyone was fine, just a little shaken up}.

Most recently, she pulled over one of my lamps and the bulb shattered leaving glass pieces scattered on the floor. As I leaned over to collect the thin, sharp bits of glass, I was suddenly struck by an unexpected imagery.

Sylvie left everything she had ever known ten months ago when she boarded a plane to join our family here. She left the people, the sounds, the scents, the songs, the familiar tastes and food, the dirt and the dust. She arrived a broken, frightened little girl. Shattered soul. Sharp edges. Fragile heart. 

Healing for our Sylvie girl tends to look a lot like that light bulb. We work to gently pick up the broken pieces.

Healing comes slowly. We find ourselves stepping on tiny shards of glass in unpredictable moments.

Even with the sharp glass strewn about, we have the most immense privilege: a front row seat to redemption. Glimpses of Glory shining through the ordinary.

Last night, little feet silently tip-toed into our room. I hear her coming. This hasn’t happened in a while. I can’t remember how long – days, maybe weeks? I remain still. Waiting. I know from experience that she will stand at the edge of the bed, waiting in silence, for someone to turn and provide comfort. Maybe it’s fear that prevents her from crying out in the dark of night.

But, instead. Instead, she crawls right over Dave’s legs onto the bed and lies down at our feet.

This may seem small. It may seem insignificant. Yet, I see it. I see the healing. The comfort. The trust building. The vulnerability. She felt safe enough to climb up on that big bed knowing that her people were up there.

I also see that trusting momma wholly is still very scary. Daddy’s side of the bed is safer. Mommas always leave. 


Not this momma, baby girl. Not this momma. I am here always. Waiting. Bending low to pick up the sharp pieces of pain and work on the mending. Fully trusting in the only One who heals and restores.