Before community groups and life groups, churches held Sunday night potlucks and Wednesday night Bible studies. Whether attending a community-building event, tagging along with my dad to elders’ meetings, or helping my mom fill tiny cups with grape juice for Sunday morning communion, I was always finding myself at the church. I can still remember the smell of the church kitchen and the sound of the empty auditorium, but it’s hard to pair specific memories with the moments my beliefs took shape.
When Chris and I “went public” with our marital struggles, we discovered that people reacted to the truth of our brokenness in very different ways. Some withdrew, afraid that our brokenness was somehow akin to the Ebola virus and sure to be contagious. Others withdrew simply because they had no idea how to help, and the silence and pain was awkward. And yet others withdrew, because they had not left any space in their life for people who were hurting. Some came close, close enough to judge, condemn, and preach. Others came close to join the train-wreck party, and rejoiced in knowing that they were not alone. Then there were Corrie and Sarah.
I love food. All food. Not just the Double-Doubles and the pizookies of the world, but also the roasted Brussels sprouts and the spinach salads with berries and almonds of the world. I heart food. So understandably, diet is a four-letter word that makes me cringe. It brings out all of the nasty in me. I suddenly turn into a mean girl with raging insecurities and carb-withdrawal headaches. But when the number on the scale crept past the do or die mark, I had no other choice than to go on a diet. Read More
I would love to help couples renew their vows. I think there is power in writing out a promise to your spouse and speaking it out loud in front of your friends and family. It seems fitting that the very first redo vows that I help with are our own. And since today is our anniversary, I thought I’d share them with you all today. Read More
This weekend was hard. I found out that the little boy that played kick-the-can and hide-and-go-seek, rode his bike up and down the street, and explored the ins and outs of Elephant Rock with me when we were children passed away. The face in my memory with a big smile and huge dimples is not like the face labeled “fugitive” that is being flashed all over the media. The only label I’ve attached to the boy from my childhood is friend, and that’s the label I’ll choose to keep associated with him. Read More