Thank you.

For those of you who commented both publicly and privately, it helps more than you could ever know.

And you know what the best part is? You didn't send "we think you are okay" you sent "we feel that way too." And for some reason, that is the best possible sort of encouragement.

Thank you.

Self Doubt

Even as I post this, I'm wondering if I should. After all, friends and family read this and the natural response to discouragement is encouragement. But this isn't about that. It's about me trying to figure things out. All of that authenticity and transparency that blogging serves as a discipline for.

And now that I re-read that first paragraph I realize that it makes no sense whatsoever In fact, it sucks so perfectly horribly that how can I even say I'm a writer? (Because it does actually say that in the header of this blog.)

And if you are thoroughly and completely confused, well, thank you. You've now joined the status of my head for the past month.

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way I've become completely immersed in self-doubt. For a girl who cut her teeth on performance-based acceptance and tends to set course on some intangible internal radar, this is the worst possible sort of malady.

I don't know what to do. Where to go. Who to be.

Somehow the discouragement hit me to the core and flipped a switch, and all of the sweet words about how wonderful I am (husband) or even affirmation in my profession that I'm "doing it right" (meetings this week) and I still feel this awkward feeling like I just don't fit. That I'm simply not enough.

Intellectually, I'm okay. I see my accomplishments. The tasks I check off. The dollars I produce. But on a heart level there is a miss. As if somehow all the i's and the e's went away. (Ideas, imagination, intuition, insight, inspiration. Enchantment, excitement, emotion, empathy, edge.)

I wish I could flip the switch back again. I wish I knew my place in the story. And I fear that this will produce a slew of "you're okay" comments--which though nice, can't fix the problem. (John's been pretty fabulous at immersing me in it lately.)

What I'd really like to know is what you do to get it back? The i's and the e's. How do you reignite them when they pack up and move away?

I do have the advanced marker class on Saturday. But my guess is pinning all my hopes on that is a lot to ask.

Crayon Devotions

During my sabbatical I took my sketchbook and eight crayons with me everywhere. (It is amazing what you can do with eight crayons.)

And, for whatever reason I chose to draw my 'crayon devotions' in 3 x 3" squares.

This was the first one. Happy blogged about the concept of Vacare Deo--making room for God--which was a phrase I thought about a lot this week.

In fact, my sketchbook contains drawings for each of the major thoughts of the week. (And a random drawing of Nancy-the-Insightful at Bic's and a sketch I did while waiting in the lobby of the tire shop listening to Coldplay.)

I wish I could say I ended the week with total clarity, but I didn't. I do have better understanding of "why my leaves are falling off" and some rough ideas of what could possibly change that.

Mostly, I ended my time with an expectant heart and a little more Vacare Deo. And I suspect that's enough.

The Power of an Image

Several months ago Crosspointe had a learning community where Ron Martoia used the powerful illustration of map making when it comes to traveling uncharted territory. It has remained a powerful picture in my head.

A few weeks ago I was in a conversation with a group at a conference. A man I hadn't met before sounded so discouraged about the challenges of leading a true multicultural congregation. What popped in my head (then promptly jumped out of my mouth) was "That's because it hasn't been done before. You're the cartographer."

And an interesting thing happened when I spit out that image. His face lit up. He stood straighter. And the rest of his conversation changed.

Suddenly, he knew his place in the story.

And sometimes that makes all the difference.

Soil Conditions

While I'm a big believer in blooming where you are planted, every once in awhile you have to assess soil conditions. Am I getting enough sunlight? Is there plenty of water?

If you don't pay attention, you can wilt and not even realize it till your leaves start falling off.

This week, I'm on vacation. A sabbatical of sorts. Dedicated time to walk and talk with God. Assessing where I'm at inside my soul. Taking stock of soil conditions and deliberately feeding my spirit.

Yesterday, my time was bitter cold in a stark landscape with more cardinals than you could possibly count. Little flashes of red against the gray. Made even more beautiful because of the contrast.

Today I'm in search of a book that David-the-Artist pastor recommended. Ignoring my stack of "should" reads, I'm letting my mind play. I have my crayons out. I'm recharging. Blissfully unaware of hours with lavish amounts of unscheduled time. Relaxed conversations. No agenda.

The weird thing is that in this scenario, even the normal is sort of special. Everyone should get to take a sabbatical.

The Haircut

Most of my friends with really cool hair have Shawn Hunter of Splurge Salon in Highland Village as a stylist. And yes, yes, I know I just recently made a major hairstyle change. And yes, everyone liked it. BUT, every photo I saw of me taken after 10am looked like Peppermint Patti of Peanuts fame, and I wanted a change.

So, on the advice of Magical-Kylie-and-David, Courtney-the-Acoustician, Dan-Dan-the-Pixel-Man, Erin-the-Wonder-Woman, Nikki-the-Lurker and David-the-Artist-Pastor, I called Shawn and made an appointment.

First of all, this shopping center in Highland Village is cool! It is in the new style where the shops are close together and parking is remote. I discovered Charming Charlie (the most fabulous accessories store), had a Mayan at the Chocolate Apothecary and bought four really amazing candles at Wik's one free since they are doing a cross-promotion with Splurge.

Now, about the hair. It is very short, so I'm still getting used to it. Plus I'm in that weird phase where I have to train my hair to do what it was cut to do. So, I'm reserving judgment. Hopefully, I will like it.

For Pet Lovers

Vicki Garrett sent this to me today. (You may remember the image of her dog, Carmen, in coat and sunglasses several posts ago.) This is going around e-mail, so I have no idea how to credit it, but it made me smile, so I'm sharing.

Dear Dogs and Cats:

The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Racing me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king sized bed.. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort, however. Dogs and cats can actually curl up in a ball when they sleep. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other, stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out on the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.

For the last time, there is no secret exit from the bathroom! If, by some miracle, I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, meow, try to turn the knob or get your paw under the edge in an attempt to open the door. I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom for years - canine/feline attendance is not required.

The proper order for kissing is: Kiss me first, and then go smell the other dog or cat's butt. I cannot stress this enough.

What if we're wrong?

I get so frustrated by the “saved vs. lost” conversation in Christian circles.

It occurs to me that we are all lost.

We are all sexually broken, have our addictions, our coping mechanisms, our vanities…and yet, a lot of our conversation sounds so much like the man in the temple whose prayer Jesus was disappointed in…”Thank God I am not like this sinner.”

Ours aren’t exactly the same. They have different variations. “Thank God I am not ___(gay, performing abortions, an alcoholic, Hindu, etc.)_____. But the heart behind it is the same.

And I think if we were to be truly honest, we’d have to admit that we want it to be an exclusive club. Like Jonah, we don’t want God to save the world. Because, we believe our efforts wouldn’t be rewarded. Like the older brother in Matthew, we have little use for prodigals.

And so we make rules. And we measure. And we come up with these crazy systems for determining who is out and who is in. Doctrinal lines are drawn and debated so that we know for sure that we are in the "us" that is saving "them".

This week, I learned that a really cool woman who spent 15 years as a pastor’s wife considers herself atheist. And, I get why. People in Christian circles aren’t honest about their lostness. Heck, do you think John and I got to twenty plus years of marriage without catastrophic wrongs against each other? That we’ve skipped merrily along in utter bliss? Guys, the divorce rate among Christians is the exact same as the rest of the world because of lostness.

These divisions aren’t unique to Christians, by the way. Try driving an SUV in Portland or grabbing a muffin that might have egg in it when you are vegan.

The thing is being honest about our prejudices, pride, lies, sexual brokenness, and addictions doesn't mean that they define us. The beauty of the story of the Bible is that there is so much more to us than that. All of the heroes are flawed. All of them. Eve. Noah. Abraham. Sarah. Moses. Peter. Paul.

What if God doesn’t zap us perfect when we turn to Him because then there would be no parity? John Brooks quoted, “God’s strength is made perfect in weakness.” Then aptly added, “ And we hate weakness.”

And here we are. Unbelievable messes. We hide it so that we can hang onto the measuring stick. The “us vs. them” because the picture we’ve painted of the saving love of Jesus Christ has somehow zoomed in on the saving instead of the love. And, “Oh yeah, Jesus. Here. I can help You with that.”

What if the measuring stick were about the love instead of the saving? The “Love is not boastful?” or “Love keeps no record of wrongs.” What about “love your enemies?” Anyone signing up to send a Valentines Day card to BinLaden? What about Bush?

If love is what we measured, I wonder how we’d do.

One thing is for sure, the snotty bumper stickers would have to go. And possibly much of this blog post.

A gift from a friend...

Lynette-the-Cowgirl made the six hour trip from Kerrville this weekend to sit with me at the hospital on Saturday. I didn't ask her to, she just called and said she was coming.

We grew up together and so she knows my mom well. It was much more fun having conversation between the three of us, since I don't have anything new left to tell mom after all the hospital room hours we've logged in the past two weeks. (smile)

Mom is doing much better. She's out of "observation" and in a regular room now. (Actually at a different hospital). It was fun to hear her laugh and she didn't sleep at all during the visit.

As we left the hospital, I snapped a "facebook style" photo where I held my arm way out to get the shot. And after multiple attempts, finally got us both in frame without looking goofy.

Sometimes the story works against you...

Tonight we went to an ArtLoveMagic event at Saxby's Coffee on Midway just south of Addison. Sunny Raschke was one of the featured artists and there was live music, poetry and painting with coffee (so fun).

I spent the majority of my allowance on a bracelet which I loved. It was interwoven rings of silver-colored and orange metal. When I passed Magical-Kylie and Kimberly-who-doesn't-have-a-tag-line-yet, they told me that the artist who made the bracelets wanted some pictures of his work and since I had a camera, I took some.

When he handed me his card with the address of where to send them, it indicated he was from the Texas Renaissance Festival in Conroe. A chain mail artist.

As it turns out, John and I actually went to the Texas Renaissance Festival one year for an anniversary. And I have to say, I have never seen so many naked people in my whole life. In October.

And the thing is, these were not buff airbrushed people. These were normal every day people who give up their weekends to dress like Hercules and Xena-Warrior-Princess. And I learned that when naked isn't about silk sheets and dim lights, it is no longer sexy. It is very, very funny. And I wondered why no one else seemed to notice that simply wearing chain mail and leather does not make you look like Kevin Sorbo or Lucy Lawless. (The formula is actually a combo of genetics, being under 30 and hours and hours in the gym.) It was a very "Emporer's New Clothes" experience.

Anyway, during our day at the festival, we went to see a show in an amphitheatre and were sitting on these incredibly cold concrete slab seats. And right in front of us, a woman in--I kid you not--a chain mail thong and bikini top sat down on the freezing cold seat in front of us and it was not pretty. I have to add that this image is burned into my brain for all time.

And so tonight at Saxby's as I talk with the artist who made the bracelet, I learn that he is the maker of the chain mail bikini. (He showed us his portfolio.) And as I walk silently back to the car, all I can think about is it looks EXACTLY like the thong part of the chain mail bikini. And that is how it happened that the bracelet that originally delighted me, is A BUTT BRACELET.

Most of the time, the story of a piece of art is what makes it. But sometimes, like this time, it works against you.

So now, I'm going to see if Bethany likes it. She doesn't often read this blog, and you can bet, I will never tell her the story.

The Marker Class

There is an amazing art store in Plano called the Stamp Asylum. I had the privilege of taking a class there last Saturday on markers. There is something about playing with ink that is both relaxing and energizing.

The "Copic Markers Class" came with six of the markers and a ton of information on how to use them. (And I purchased an additional six before I left.)

Since the class, I've played and I love them. They blend beautifully.

I put this sketch together sitting at my Narnia desk. Joy...

Antiseptic and Elevators

My mom has been in the hospital for over a week with an infection that her body is struggling to fight. Dad had surgery the Monday before and two days later was calling an ambulance to get mom.

It's been a very long week for both of them.

It's hard to watch your parents age. To watch them manage illness when it
isn't possible to cure it.

Wish I had something insightful to say, but I don't.

Sigh.

The Shack

When I was fourteen, I read the Chronicles of Narnia --a fiction series by CS Lewis.

I was captivated. In reading about Aslan, I felt that for the first time I was reading about the God I knew, and He was far from the being I learned about in Sunday School that "loved me" because he had to. (Like I was spinach or something.)In fact, if I really think about it, the God-of-the-flannel-board looked a lot more like Zeus than Yahweh.

I don't want to say anything about the plot of The Shack so that there is no "spoiler alert" required.

I will say the book is profound. And deeply moving. With a healing story that makes it a "must read" no matter what your spiritual preference or background.

It is causing no small amount of controversy in circles where unapproved ideas are considered dangerous and to be avoided. But from my perspective, the ideas are very beautiful and worth exploring.

This is outside the realm of anything I've ever read before, but very, very worth the time it took to read it. I'm glad Mary Burleson blogged about it and that my mom read it then passed it onto me.