Misty Garrison » Gathered Fragments

instagram of the pond on the property

After the hawk experience came the peace of still waters. And with it a confidence that the land was already ours. Not a name and claim certainty, but instead God spoke and it was and it will be. I truly believed this chapter had been written and I knew how it was going to end. All I had to do was enter the story and take my faith and my money to the auction. So I did with much excitement, eager to see God’s word accomplished.

And then I lost the bid.

And my footing.

I found myself plunged into the deep waters of despair.

A soul crushing anguish like I had never experienced before…

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  • mooncrazy - oh my. I love hearing how this story unfolds!ReplyCancel

    • Misty - Thank you, friend. So thankful to have you along for the telling.ReplyCancel

  • Tasha - Yikes! And that is where you leave me for today!!! It reminds me of the end of Ex. 5 as Moses waits for God to respond in Ex. 6. I’m studying the life of Moses this year in BSF, and strangle enough I am feeling so very similar to Moses this time around as I study.ReplyCancel

  • Misty - That sounds amazing. Would love to hear more about it.ReplyCancel

instagram of the old barn the first time we saw it

This one is hard for me, dear readers. I have written it in my head over and over and over. And each time it takes a different turn depending on which ugly becomes unleashed. Or which deep cesspool of my inner mind threatens to swallow me. The facts of the story are safe to share, but the emotions, well, that is scary. And dangerous. And really, where to start? What words could I possibly write that would make you understand the agonizing battle with myself that I experienced during that week of waiting. Alone. And wondering if I had the faith to live what I believe and what I have had the audacity to ask Him to accomplish.

“If you think it, live it. If you don’t live it, you really don’t think it. You are not what you think (or what you think you think). You are not what you say you are. You are what you do. You are Adam, charged to name yourself. But you cannot do it with words made noise – only with words made flesh” (N.D. Wilson, Death by Living). Ouch. Easy with the low blows, Mr. Wilson. Don’t you know that is a sensitive spot with me? Because I live in the world of ideas. Whether I am reading them, writing them, or dreaming them. When the Father began knitting me in my mother’s womb He picked up the thread called “vision caster” and wove them in a pattern named “prophet.” Doing is difficult. Dreaming, ah, that is my mojo.

But there comes a time when a story begs to be lived, not just told. A vision dares to be realized, not just seen. A word demands to become flesh, not just thought. And here I was. My moment. And it smacked me in the face with all my humanness and spoiled Americanness. And I am grieved by how I could possibly have spent all these years walking with Him and still trip on the same stones (and my verb tenses keep shifting – told you this was dangerous territory).

Stones like safety, good schools, privilege, opportunity, materialism, pride, prejudice, closet space. Because you know that last one is the hardest to swallow. Where on earth am I going to put all this stuff that I wish on a daily basis that I could just get rid of? Or maybe its having only one bathroom. Because someone, somewhere wrote the rule that we must have a toilet for each person and an extra for guests. That seems reasonable and necessary, right? Oh, and I forgot a walk in pantry. That’s a must. Surely God would not expect me to live without that. (We’ll save some of the deeper issues in the list for later, because I simply do not have the strength to unpack that case of crazy right now).

Nothing quite like realizing you could potentially walk away from the answer to years of prayer & longing all for the sake of closet space. Cue the self-hatred. And Mr. Piper keeps playing in my mind (insert the entire book, Desiring God, here).

And this, “Most men are not satisfied with the permanent output of their lives. Nothing can wholly satisfy the life of Christ within his followers except the adoption of Christ’s purpose toward the world he came to redeem. Fame, pleasure, and riches, are but husks and ashes in contrast with the boundless and abiding joy of working with God for the fulfillment of his eternal plans. The men who are putting everything into Christ’s undertaking are getting out of life its sweetest and most priceless rewards” (J. Campbell Wright).

Never mind that I could possibly live debt free on 20 acres in a renovated farmhouse, no less. And that barn! Apparently, I can’t live without a powder room.

And then this, “And once you live a good story, you get a taste for a kind of meaning in life, and you can’t go back to being normal; you can’t go back to meaningless scenes stitched together by the forgettable thread of wasted time” (Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years).

Never mind that I have and I can’t. And that I could have the opportunity to live a little bit of Haiti right here. Apparently, I need a closet bigger than most of their houses.

Really? Am I struggling with this? How?! How could I be struggling with this when I know that living among the least is when I feel most alive. Not because of what I can do for them, but because they show me how to truly live. Simply. And to love deeply. When all I want is to spend my life for the sake of others & the kingdom that I may know Him and the fellowship of His sufferings.

And, I know what you are thinking. Can’t you just do that from where you live now? Yes I could, but I can’t. Not when He whispers a different story to me as I sleep. Our story. I am not implying that our story is the only way for people to live and minister to others. But it is the only way for us to live. Without missing out on some very important chapters and the adventures & blessings they contain.

Of course, I forgot to mention that the farm is located a mere ten minutes from my house, my family, my friends. But, if you have ever taken a wrong turn in a big city, you know exactly where ten minutes can take you.

And what about where the girls will go to school? And who will be their friends? And I need a laundry room with a big sink in it. And level floors.

“Lay your life down. Your heartbeats cannot be hoarded. Your reservoir of breaths is draining away. You have hands, blister them while you can. You have bones, make them strain—they can carry nothing in the grave. You have lungs, let them spill with laughter. With an average life expectancy of 78.2 years in the US (subtracting eight hours a day for sleep), I have around 250,000 conscious hours remaining to me in which I could be smiling or scowling, rejoicing in my life, in this race, in this story, or moaning and complaining about my troubles. I can be giving my fingers, my back, my mind, my words, my breaths, to my wife and my children and my neighbors, or I can grasp after the vapor and the vanity for myself, dragging my feet, afraid to die and therefore afraid to live. And, like Adam, I will still die in the end. Living is the same thing as dying. Living well is the same thing as dying for others” (N.D. Wilson, Death by Living).

And right about now is when I begin swearing off books. Stupid books. They are nothing but trouble and anguish.

And then the day peace finally came. I just wish I would quit dropping it.

I was running a route near the YMCA that takes me through a neighborhood, on 86th Street for a bit, down Main and then back. I was heading back in and had reached the track at the Y. Should mention here that I had been pushing myself pretty hard desperately trying to outrun the demons of doubt and the spirits of self-hatred. With heavy feet and an even heavier heart, I was struggling to finish (or even start). Slow steps and fast breaths and tears mingling with sweat. And the snot, oh the snot. I. Just. Couldn’t. And then the rush of wings behind me. Strength floating on air. Majesty in the wind. The hawk swoops down beside me for only a moment, but time stands still. A “thin place.” He ascends, perching on the wire just above me. “And God raised me up with Him and seated me with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus” (paraphrase of Ephesians 2:6-7).

And I can, because He will.

“But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint” (Isaiah 40:31).

And, if not, He is still good.

Even if I am destroyed, I will have lived fully and free from the what-ifs of regret.

But consider this, “What if we trusted the Author to write the pages of our days and finish the book of our lives for His glory and our joy?” What a story that would be! Words made flesh. Risks taken. Lives spent. Nothing left. But Him. Forever and always. Amen.

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  • Disney's World - I love it when God is the author of our life and and stretches us beyond our understanding.

    Did you know that Ross and I lived in a barn once?. Well, it was actually a 2 room shed. Our first born was brought home while we lived there. It was definitely a struggle! We lived there while Ross hand built our 700 sq ft home. It felt like a mansion when we finally moved in.

    When we sold the land and moved back into town I really thought I’d like the conveniences of neighborhood living. The 10 acres of land was wearing us thin and I just wanted a garage with an automatic garage door opener. Silly!!

    We miss the land and the chickens terribly. We are working our way back out of the city. Now that the kids are bigger we are truly seeing that neighborhood life is destroying their servitude. Ross and I are excited to have helpers this time around to make the work more bearable.ReplyCancel

  • Tasha - Oh how I loved this post. If you weren’t states away, we’d so have to do coffee/tea!!! Thank you for sharing. I can’t describe the encouragement it is bringing!ReplyCancel

    • Misty - I love how God uses our stories to encourage other friends on similar journeys. That is why I am so passionate about story and story telling. And yes, coffee would be lovely!ReplyCancel

instagram picture from our first walk on the farm a year ago

Just to be clear, I am telling this part of the story as it has unfolded over the last year with all its peace then anguish followed by certainty. More recently as we have begun taking steps to actually inhabit the farm, well, gnashing of teeth, tearing of clothes, bathing in ashes and what not. But, once again, I get ahead of myself (otherwise known as foreshadowing).

Once we both peaked into the life at Sugarboo Farms and the opportunity such a place would give us to share life with others, we were hooked. We began to plot out a five year plan to make this dream a reality. The initial plan was to buy a piece of land in our current area and spend a few years paying it off, then sell our current home and build on the land while perhaps living in a barn apartment or something. So, being the obsessive compulsive type A girl that I am, you can imagine what filled most of my spare time. I spent hours scouring the internet for the perfect piece of property. Only not really, because it didn’t take long for me to realize that land in our area is CRAZY expensive. Which meant I broadened my search area and even began to include land with houses already on it. After three visits to potential homesteads which left us feeling discouraged and a tiny bit confused, we decided to regroup.

In the meantime, I stumbled upon an old farmhouse on 20 acres which was going up for auction in a week. I had actually found it early on in my search but had originally dismissed it based upon the school district and some of what I saw around it on Google Maps. After driving out to see it on my own one day and feeling a special connection to it, I decided to show it to Steven. He agreed to check it out, but there was a bit of a wrinkle. He was leaving for a week of drilling school and would be gone for both the open house and the auction itself. We called the realtor associated with the auction company, explained our circumstances, and asked if she could show us the house before he left. No one was available for a showing, but she gave us permission to go walk the land.

“I’m afraid to write about it because no matter how I word it you will never know what I felt in that instance” (unknown). But I have to try. You see, I felt called to this place, but for reasons that will be revealed later I didn’t want to be called to that place. So basically, I had decided that Steven would get me out of this. I would take him out there to see it, he would pretend to be interested just to appease me, and then he would finally tell me “No way in heck, woman,” and that would be that. As an obedient wife, I would submit to his decision and then return to my search for dream land. And if we were being disobedient, well, it wouldn’t be MY fault. I’m a peach, dontcha know?

So, on a rainy October Saturday morning we packed up the girls and headed to the country. And he didn’t seem to notice the poverty we drove past to get there. Or the trash piled up at the house just down the lane. And when he got out of the car, yes, he actually got out of the car, he walked all around the house. And then he headed down to the creek and into the woods. And he kept walking. All over the acres we could reach on our side of the creek. And the whole time I was thinking that he had never gone to such lengths to appease me before. Usually its a cursory glance and then a loving no. And then he stops in the middle of a clearing and says the words that could possibly alter this family forever and cause me to have a crisis of faith like no other. He tells me that of all the places we have ever lived including the college years, the 2 years in New Mexico, the 5 years in Bakersfield, the dream house we built when we moved back to Oklahoma and the house we live in now, he has never felt more at home than he does here, in this place. And my plan failed, but God’s prevailed.

So, we drive around T-town running errands for the rest of the day. All the while discussing and praying about our dreams and ultimately our number. The number we would be willing to bid in faith for this little farm located outside of our comfort zone. Then the next day, Steven got on a plane and headed to drilling school in Albuquerque. The girls and I went to church and then met some friends with old house renovation experience so they could walk through the house with us. I sent Steven pictures of the inside of the house which, by the way, did not come close to depicting what it felt like to walk across those sloping floors and duck under the light fixtures hanging from lowered ceilings. And he was even more excited, bless him. And willing to purchase a house that he had never been inside. So we continued on with our plan and our number as we waited for the auction the following Sunday. In which I spent one of the longest weeks of my life struggling against my American entitlement…

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  • Kyle - Opps, and I guess I’m signed in as by hubby. The last post was really supposed to be from Tasha;)ReplyCancel

  • Tasha - Well, I guess the first post didn’t even go through. This is Tasha, and we have a mutual friend named Kari. I read your blog many moons ago, but I lost touch when Google Reader was no longer available. We are in the process of purchasing a home in a … “interesting” location that has brought up many questions. Thank you for sharing. I look forward to reading your other posts.ReplyCancel

  • Misty - Oh, Tasha so glad to hear from a kindred spirit. Have you heard of Shannan Martin or read her blog Flower Patch Farmgirl? I think you would really be inspired. She completely unravels me. She and her family have journeyed from their dream house in the farm to a house on the wrong side of the tracks in the city. Check her out and let me know what you think. You might start with her 31 days of Letting Go and 31 days of Going. http://www.flowerpatchfarmgirl.comReplyCancel

    • Tasha - I just remembered that you might have responded back to my comments. I’ll check out the link you recommended! Thanks for sharing!!!ReplyCancel

thetablePINIMAGESo, here we are at day 3 and I am already second guessing my “title” for the next 31 days. Me thinks now that it should be called “discombobulation” instead of “conversation.” Because that is exactly how I am feeling right about now. My head is spinning. So much to tell you, and I am not sure what to say next. It is all a jumbled mess of, well, discombobulation. Despite the rough outline that I am staring at “as we speak.” I so wish you were here with me, so that maybe the transitions would go more smoothly. But, alas, you are not (and that is a completely separate chat for later on). And just to keep it real, if you were here with me I would completely dominate the conversation, there would be much hand gesturing, lots of fluctuation in volume, and a little over dramatization (perhaps), and a shameful amount of interruptions (that is, me interrupting you – a lot). Which I am realizing now could have something to do with my struggle with loneliness (but lets save that one until after we hash out all this crazy dream stuff, k?).

Back to the dream. The once completely fuzzy, forever scary, no one is gonna believe this dream which I first wrote a bit about here. And some of the heart behind it here. Please take the time to go read those because that chick can write. She had me all choked up and inspired. I mean, really, someone should give her a book deal or something because that is some good stuff. I wish she would stop by and give me a few pointers. Of course, the first would be to stay on topic. Cornflabbit! Darn discombobulation.

I mentioned in yesterday’s post that the dream started out as a table full of people that I couldn’t see clearly. Of course, in the beginning I had grand illusions that all those people were my children. But sometimes one dream must die in order for another more unimaginable one to be born. First came a 10 year battle with infertility which included surgery, temporary menopause, pills, shots and more shots, failed inseminations, and finally a successful IVF that began as triplets and resulted in the birth of our precious Emmylou Grace. Followed by a failed second round of IVF. And then a few years later the emotional roller coaster and amazing miracle that is an open domestic adoption which brought us our Eliza Jane. And, while I am not completely ruling out the possibility of more children someday, somehow, I do however know now for certain that it is more than just my family sitting at that table in my dreams. But who? And how? And why?

A few years ago, God granted me another glimpse into the plans that He has for our hope and our future. If I remember correctly, I was checking one of my favorite interior blogs, The Lettered Cottage, and Layla was highlighting an amazing piece of art from Sugarboo & Co. which I loved, so I clicked on their link which ultimately lead me to this place, Sugarboo Farms. And when I saw the picture of the bunkhouses nestled deep in the woods, I knew. And I saw. Clearly. But instead of seeing through to the heavenlies, it was as if this “thin place” opened a door into our future and I was walking around in it. At the same time terrified and completely at peace.

So what once was just a table now became a hobby farm of sorts full of critters (and animals too). A collection of cottages for the weary to come and get well. And, of course, a table much like the one pictured above. Only much bigger and longer with more chairs and not one of them empty. And each one holding a broken mess that just needs to be with people. Me included. And a pond. Because there has to be a pier. So that Steven can live his own dream as sung by Luke Bryan, “So I’m gonna sit right here/On the edge of this pier/Watch the sunset disappear/And drink a beer.” Life together. Lived sacrificially for one another. Community. Cutting each other with our rough edges, but enduring one another just the same. And binding the very wounds we have caused while lovingly placing salve on the ones we each brought with us. The village. My heart’s cry. May it be so. I am undone.


“You’ll need coffee shops and sunsets and road trips. Airplanes and passports and new songs and old songs, but people more than anything else. You will need other people and you will need to be that other person to someone else, a living, breathing screaming invitation to believe better things.” ~ Jamie Tworkowski

And then just recently, Jen Hatmaker shared about this place. And I lost it. Completely.

But I get ahead of myself. Because next came the search for land and with it the realization that we would not get what I expected. Or what the world would deem wise. “The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps” (Proverbs 16:9). And I am so very thankful. Sometimes. Except when I’m throwing a three year old tantrum or even worse in the vise-like grip of a full blown panic attack.

And let me tell you, it is a fury of unpredictable emotion around here most days. Later, though. Like tomorrow, maybe.

In the meantime…
What are you dreaming?
Any bumps along the way? Or second guessing? Or tantrums?
Please do tell.

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  • Disney's World - Misty…such a lovely dream and obviously God breathed! Over here, we are dreaming of a simple life that puts possessions for sale and requires abandoning all things considered normal. SCARY yet freeing. Planning to live life as a vagabond on the road so that we can actually see the “thin places”. Maybe we can bring the RV full of all our earthy treasures and come share a meal with you someday soon.

    Miss you!

    • Misty - Your adventure and the visit sound wonderful. So glad to here from you and your precious family.ReplyCancel

  • mooncrazy - I can relate to the discombobulating!
    What a beautiful dream.
    Keep asking The Father to show you a clear picture of how he will fulfill it. Hold onto it. Hold on to Him and he will do it. Also, we should talk more about community some time. And maybe you should move to the PNW. We have a lot of that going on.ReplyCancel

I find myself in awe of the sacredness of our everyday lives. And I am humbled by the power of our stories to bind us together healing our wounds as we find ourselves ushered into the presence of Holy. So I watch & wait expectantly for what Mary E. DeMuth calls “thin places.”

“Thin places are snatches of holy ground, tucked into the corners of our world where we might just catch a glimpse of eternity. They are aha moments, beautiful realizations, when the Son of God bursts through the hazy fog of our monotony and shines on us afresh.“

Of course, she got the term and her definition from the Irish: “holy trees, holy wells, holy mountains – places where the veil between this world and the next is so sheer that it is easy to step through.” Barbara Brown Taylor speaks of her own experience after a pilgrimage up Croagh Patrick (a mountain named after St. Patrick), “The ‘thin place’ had done its work. The door between this world and the next had cracked open for a moment, only the light was not all on the other side. Instead, it lit up this side… There is no short of epiphanies in this world. Those of us who have not yet glimpsed the full brightness of the Lord may still behold his glory, reflected all around us as we stand within the the cloud.”

Oswald Chambers wrote, “We look for visions from heaven and earthshaking events to see God’s power… Yet we never realize that all the time God is at work in our everyday events and in the people around us. If we will obey and do the task that He has placed closest to us, we will see Him. One of the most amazing revelations of God comes to us when we learn that it is in the everyday things of life that we realize the magnificent deity of Jesus Christ.”

For me I catch glimpses of “thin places” and of Him in the most ordinary of things which by their power to reveal the Unseen are really quite extraordinary (sometimes I like to call them abundance)…

…a deep breath of sweaty toddler hair.
…a tiny hand reaching for mine.
…the words, “I love you.”
…the bite of a crisp fall morning.
…a patch of sunlight falling on golden curls (the light, always the light).
…the forgiveness of a friend.
…another morning waking up next to him.
…a moment of peace between siblings.
…the smell of soup for supper.
…a soft word spoken instead of a harsh, angry one.
…almost any James Taylor or Zac Brown Band song (who am I kidding? it’s the guitar pickin’).

I could go on for days, but, more often than not, I find myself peaking through the veil when my eyes are looking through the viewfinder. The experience of picking up my camera and placing it before my eyes is much like that of donning The Monocle in The Spiderwick Chronicles or even better yet, having Hogsqueal spit into my eyes that I might gain the Sight. Only instead of seeing fairies, goblins, and ogres, I peer into the Heavenlies – here, now. But the most powerful “thin place” of all is in that fraction of a second before I click the shutter button when the image I am capturing suddenly fades out of focus. And, it is as if through my blurred vision I can finally see clearly. And I feel the weight of the world fall from my shoulders and I am at rest. Because I see Him there. And I see us as we should be and as we will be. When we finally see Him face to face. And we are forever changed.

Then just as quickly as I stepped through the door, it is closed and I am back with my brokenness. Only I have captured the moment and when the glory fades from my memory, I can return to gaze yet again on this precious miracle.

I collect these images. I am undone by them. They are my favorites. And they are my monuments built in the wilderness to remind me of where I have been, where I am going, and to whom I belong. And they also speak to a dream that God planted in my heart long before the miracle of IVF and adoption made me a mother. You see for years I have a had this vision of people seated around my table, but I can’t see their faces. The table is full, but they are not my children. I’m not sure who they are, but that is a “conversation” for another day. For now, please share your own experiences with “thin places.”

By the way, my precious friend and fellow photographer, Jessica Uhler, has joined the conversation over in her corner of cyberspace. You simply must take a moment and reads her words of vulnerability which bring Glory to Him and a deep sigh of relief for the rest of us. She is real, like you and me.

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Writing. Because it is time and what better way for a perfectionist to get back in the groove of blogging than to force herself to participate in a a 31 day writing challenge? Or perhaps its insanity. Either way, here we go.

But 31 days of what? Which topic that burdens my soul do I choose? What can I possibly sustain for 31 days?!?! And even if I manage to pick one, how in great googly moogly will I ever give it a title? And the petrifying paralysis of perfectionism begins to work its way from my jumbled mind down deep into my soul and into the tips of my fingers as they hover over the keyboard wanting so desperately to just type without abandon and compose something, anything…

But really what? And then the seeds of doubt and with them the questions of why or how? And the sheer enormity of the task sends me to floor in the fetal position rocking back and forth, back and forth muttering gibberish. But then these encouraging words from beloved friends flood my mind like the tide crashing on the sandy shore. And the doubts like a discarded shell are carried away to the depths where they belong.

This email: “Hi Misty, I read this blog post and thought of you. I always enjoyed reading your post.” And the gist of the post is this, “I said thank you. Thank you for being obedient to get up in the “cobwebby hours” of the day to write words that no one would leave a comment on, that might not be tweeted or shared. Thank you for writing down the words God gave you, so He could speak to me, too. So, if you’re a writer: a blogger, an author, a note-giver, a letter-writer, an encourager online or a journal-filler-upper, be faithful with the words God has given you. Don’t keep them inside. Just as God breathed His Words into authors to give us the Bible, He will breathe thoughts and words into you. Don’t wonder if someone wants to read, if you’re good enough or if they’ll ever get past the end of your pen.”

Then this text: “”Hi, Friend! I know you struggle with how much to share via written word and photograph, when to share it, how not to get caught up in the accolades, etc. I speak from the heart when I say that your words and photos inspire…keep sharing your God-given talents with us for they draw us closer to Him.”

And these words spoken around the pool watching children swim: “You really need to write this story down. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just write it.”

And suddenly I realize, I just really want to talk to someone about the ache in my heart (and I have 2 years worth saved up). And then listen to someone share her own burdens. And that might not be condensed into a single theme, because conversations really never are. They are organic. Alive. Stream of consciousness. Broken, disjointed and interrupted by tears and bursts of laughter (which is exactly what happens when I sit down to write). But as much as I desire that kind of chat, I shared here too often that seat across from me in the coffee shop remains empty.

So, for the next 31 days let’s have a conversation. I’ll start by sharing a bit about my dreams, my brokenness, my struggle with loneliness, and my longing for life together. Then I would be humbly honored if you might join me in this dialogue. Perhaps when something I share hurts, makes you wonder, or causes you to rejoice, would you do me a favor? Would you share your thoughts, dreams, fears with me? Or when you realize that you have walked this path I am on and have lived to see the other side of darkness, might you share how you made it? Leave a comment or maybe a text or email. I would love to take a moment in the next 31 days to share your side of the conversation with all of us. Because no matter how Fakebook or the enemy may make us feel, we are not alone. We just need to be brave with each other. Real. And ever so gentle too.

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought that I was the only one.'” ~ C.S. Lewis

Bring your tired broken self, a cuppa, and maybe your favorite book and have a seat on my ratty old quilt. Let’s talk.

A few disclaimers:

1. For those of you biting your nails in worry that no one will respond to my convo. And those of you concerned about how I might handle such rejection. Fear not, for I am as good at talking to myself as I am at napping in the middle of the day and always finding a way to put off until tomorrow what should be done today. And whether or not someone responds does not negate the fact that the words need to be “spoken.”

2. And I reserve the right to call in reinforcements when this whole thing goes south about mid-month. Which means you may be blessed with hearing from some guest posters instead of listening to me drivel on and on.

3. I first learned about The Nester’s 31 Days back in 2012 when I was unraveled by Flower Patch Farmgirl’s 31 Days of Going which I hesitate to recommend unless you want your life to be ruined in the best possible way. If you are interested in starting your own writing challenge go here.

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  • Chelsea M - Oh, I’d love to join. I have so many drafts that never getnpublished because they aren’t good enough. I’m in. I’ll look closer at nap time!ReplyCancel

  • Flower Patch Farmgirl - This is my favorite ever, ” Fear not, for I am as good at talking to myself as I am at napping in the middle of the day”. You’re hilar. Also, your photography is so gorgeous and makes me feel a tinge of envy at 8:04 a.m.

    I’ve read 4 or 5 of your posts, still have some nosing around to do. :)

    Keep on keeping on, Sister. This story matters. Also, remember, 90% of the people who read don’t comment. Crazy, right?! As you may or may not know, I’m trying to do better at this myself (read: THIS. haha) but don’t let yourself believe the lie that no comments = no readers. God will send the people here who need to read this. Rest in that, and keep on writing it down.ReplyCancel

    • Misty - Thank you! As my the month progresses and words come more painfully and the visits to my page dwindle, I really needed this. More than you know. Coming from the girl who reads your blog religiously. And sucks the marrow out of every juicy morsel, and is changed. Then returns your faithfulness & authencity with silence. Reminds me of the quote, “if you want a friend, you gotta be a friend.” Might be translated if you want a comment perhaps you should consider being a commenter. And, like you said, even then maybe crickets. Thanks again for taking a moment to speak into my silence.ReplyCancel

  • Misty - This comment has been removed by the author.ReplyCancel

Abundance is…


…a six year old and her first pair of skates.

…the falling and the getting up again.

…the skinned & bloodied knees.

…the torn up pants.

As I watch her struggle, this mama who has spent much of her life paralyzed by perfectionism and the fear of failure, I can’t help but hope that she will always have the courage to risk falling. And failing. And I am reminded of the words of Samuel Beckett:

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.”

Yes. Sweet girl. Fail better. Never, ever stop trying. Not striving, but instead risking yourself while you rest in the One who is worthy. And may your mama learn to do so as well.

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