i am both.

It's the end of a long day. I am tired. 
I'm sitting at the dinner table. I text one of my closest friends "Today, I want all the alcohol". This statement is both shocking and hilarious if you know me. 
I'm maxed out, unable to hold much of a conversation. Before I know it, I feel tears trickle down my cheeks. That's just how my body handles stress, I remind myself. 
One friend asks, "Is there something bigger going on?" 
Sometimes there is, but can it just be the reality of this season of life? Some days don't leave me with much to give by the end of it. 
Sometimes, especially at the end of days such as these, I wonder, truly, if I am the only momma out there who questions her ability, her decisions, her patience. 
I rally. I can do this. and I can do this well. But it is exhausting. 
Living in the world of momma leaves me resting in the tension of both. 
I am tired. I am energized. 
I am empty. My cup runneth over. 
I love having a baby. I miss my freedom. 
Can it be both?
I need it to be both. I need the tension. I need to have the freedom to admit that this is hard. But also, that despite the difficulty, it's fiercely worth it. I need to say that sometimes, if I'm being truly transparent, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I need to say that I miss having hours to myself to write or read or get my nails done or even make a phone call. I need to say that I'd love to listen to something other than "Scripture Lullabies volume I", often the only thing that will calm her. Can I say that and not diminish my love of this season too? Because also, if I'm being truly transparent, this season of my life is my very favorite. It deserves to be celebrated and relished. Can I say that I love living life with my girl by my side? That this identity of momma is demanding and draining, but it is also refining, humbling, invigorating, and awe-inspiring. It is both. 
Can't I be so wholly and completely exhausted that I desperately pray for grace and patience and love that is bigger and more complete than myself because I otherwise don't know how I'm going to make it through the day?
But ALSO, can't I say that I so wholly and completely love my tiny girl? and I wouldn't trade this for anything? That it is difficult to multi-task when she is awake and in the same room- not because she is disruptive or distracting, but because I am drawn into her orbit so easily and find myself tickling her toes and kissing her face before I am even aware of it. 
Can I be maxed out and at the end of my rope? Can I admit that I'm running on empty and not feel like less of a mom? Completely perplexed and frustrated over how to go through this process and go through this process well?
But ALSO, can't I be blown away by the privilege it is that right now, in this moment, she is mine? Can I admit that I miss her when I have an hour to run an errand or grab a tea?
Can I be confident in the choices I am making for my family and not compare myself to the choices she is making for her family?
Can I take a week to finish a single load of kid laundry but decorate (which I thoroughly enjoy) for fall in thirty minutes flat?
Can I skip interactive tummy time, and choose to binge watch all the premieres of all the new seasons of all the shows? 
Can I celebrate the choices I am making, but also celebrate the choices she is making to allow her to be the best and most loving parent she can be even if they're different from mine?
Can I hold tightly to my identity of personal assistant, writer, friend, but be free of guilt that momma has taken precedence as my main and most demanding identity right now?
It needs to be both. I need it to be both. It's okay to be both and not live with feet firmly planted on either side. If I let the pendulum swing too far to either side, there is space for bitterness, alienation, or unhealthy facades of perfection. I need to remember who I was and who I am and be reminded that they don't have to compete with one another. I need to admit that I don't have it all together but come completely undone when she smiles in my direction. I need to admit that it's hard and that I love it. 
I need authenticity as much as I need sleep. 
I am tired and I am in love. 
I am both.

Party of 2.

I had my life planned out. 
Pretty early on, I might add. 
I was four years old and wearing my cousin's wedding dress and pointy heels, asking for help in proper veil placement. We made a paper flower bouquet and I walked down the teal carpet stairs to meet my groom. Four years old and so in love with the idea of love. 
As time went on, I plotted my path to a nuclear family. Husband, 3.5 kids, a house with a porch swing. 
Well clearly, Prince Charming hasn't knocked on my door with that glass slipper yet. 
It's just me. 
and then it happened. and I'm not exactly sure how or when.
It was months and months of a silent battle in my heart. 
You're not married.  Kids need a mom and a dad.  Will I be enough?  I work full time.  You would be a single mom.  No one wants to marry a single mom.  Your friends won't understand.  You're skipping a step. 
And as those months and months went by, in the midst of the above thoughts and more, I slowly began to just know. 
I needed to do foster care. I needed to adopt. 
So I moved out of my little one bedroom studio, and into a two bedroom apartment. 
I started what feels like centuries of paperwork, started collecting all the essentials, and began slowly telling family and friends. 
and I began to prepare my heart. 
I'm gonna be a momma. 
And she will be my baby. 
Not flesh of my flesh nor bone of my bone, but still miraculously my own. 
You guys, I just love her. I love her with this impossible, heartbreaking, beautiful love. 
and I love her tummy momma, too. 
I pray for you, tummy momma. I pray that you will know in the depths of your soul that you are valued and desired. I pray that you will make healthy choices, for yourself and your baby. And I pray that you feel comfort in knowing I will love her for all my days as if I had carried her in my womb. 
and baby girl? oh, baby girl.  You have overturned my normal. My thoughts are filled with you, turning towards where you are, at this very moment. I imagine you doing back flips in your mommy's tummy and I imagine you with a full head of hair.  I'm preparing a place for you, little one. A safe place. A quiet, loud, musical, fun, safe place. A place with walls. A place with warmth in the winter and coolness in the summer. A place with toys and clothes. A place with love. I am studying and praying and staying up late into the night folding all your tiny clothes.  I'm thinking about how having you in my life will change me. You're going to make me a mother. An embarrassingly proud mother. This is big and this is new. Both of us together will simultaneously being ending what was and starting what is to come. How terrifying and exciting.  Someday soon we will meet. I will learn your hunger cues and your wet diaper cry. I will watch you grow, a sensation I will both mourn and celebrate. Someday soon, I will read to you. I will sing to you. I will kiss your sweet face. Someday soon, our lives will become intertwined. For a whole lifetime.  And I can't wait. 
Happy early Mother's Day to all you mommas out there. I can't wait to join your world of midnight feedings, spit up soaked shirts, and crazy deep love. 
And really quickly, to my own tribe of mothers? It's because of each of you that this is possible. You are the moms everyone wishes they had, and the mom I hope to be. 
Alyssa, party of two. Coming Summer 2016. 

because I want them home.

I heard a pastor say recently, "orphans don't want to come home to a family that is continually arguing." 
I read from another speaker recently, "the world needs less sheriffs and more people to just love." 
These things seem to be on repeat in my head as I log onto social media these days. Every day it's something new. Yesterday it was vaccinations, today it's the target bathroom issue, tomorrow it will be gay marriage or the red starbucks cup or gun control. 
There will always be something to argue about. But at what cost? 
We say it's in the name of refusing to become tolerant.  We say it's in the name of choosing to stand for truth.  We say it's in the name of "safety." 
But in the midst of these things, I'm afraid that we're becoming rude. 
I'm afraid that we're pushing away the very same people that desperately need our grace and our love. Our unconditional love. 
Because the truth is this (since we're so hell bent on standing for it, I figured I'd join in): 
The God I know loves me.  He loves you.  He loves the rapist.  He loves the delinquent teenager.  He loves the alcoholic.  He loves the vaccinators and the non-vaccinators.  He loves the carnivores and the vegans.  He loves the disturbed and the healthy minded.  He loves the prostitute and the cheating husband.  He loves Beyonce.  He loves Paris Hilton.  He loves Hillary Clinton. 
Yep. It's true. 
Is God's heart deeply saddened and grieved by any and all behavior that goes against His commandments, His heart, His truth? Of course He is. 
And so am I. 
But I can promise you something. He still loves us. Even though that doesn't make any sort of logical sense. He does. 
He still loves me, in spite of my selfishness.  He still loves you, in spite of that argument you had with your sister the other day.  He still loves the rapist, in spite of the cruel act.  He still loves the delinquent teenager, in spite of the choice to disengage.  He still loves the alcoholic, in spite of the body being destroyed.  He still loves the vaccinators and the non-vaccinators, because He knows moms and dads are just doing the best they can with the information they have.  He still loves the carnivores and vegans, because I just don't think He really cares whether you don't eat meat. He doesn't mind either way.  He still loves the disturbed and the healthy minded, because both of them are broken.  He still loves the prostitute and the cheating husband, though both are choosing something directly against His design.  He still loves Beyonce.  He still loves Paris Hilton.  He still loves Hillary Clinton. 
So I will do my best to do the same. It's hard. Especially when we blatantly disagree with the actions, thoughts, or opinions that are attached to the person with eyes, ears, a mouth, a heart and a soul. 
But I'm not going to give up on the soul. I can't give up on the soul. 
Because He didn't give up on mine. 
I'm not tolerant of sin. I just don't expect people who don't know Jesus to operate from the same heart and mind that I do. 
I will choose to stand for truth. I simply will not be rude or ignorant in the process. 
I will protect myself and the ones I love. Nothing about any sort of controversy changes that fact. 
Here's the deal. We've heard it before. Darkness cannot exist in the midst of light. But if all we're attacking darkness with is more darkness (namely: arguing, belittling, etc.), we don't stand a chance. 
So I will do the research and educate myself, so I can then face darkness with fierce love, firm convictions, and a smile. Because kindness is disarming. 
and because I want orphans to come home. 

i've won.

The hard pavement feels like a punch with every step. The hill's steepness taunts me and tries to steal my breath. But what really tempts me to quit are the accusations that follow me: "You're going so slow. You're not getting anywhere. This must be your worst effort ever." 
I cried the whole run (the whole run), letting that doubt and discouragement sneak into so many areas of my heart.
I cried until I finished. And I noticed something. I finished the "terrible" run only to discover that my time had gotten faster. Huh. 
I started looking more closely at the pieces of my life where negative thoughts tried to trip me up and I found that the same principle applied. In the moments when I want to give up, when I feel weak and exhausted, when I think I can't do it... I'm often getting stronger. 
We're not tired because we're failing. We're tired because we're fighting. 
We're not weary because we're weak. We're weary because we're winning a fierce battle. 
We're not struggling because we're quitters. We're struggling because we're refusing to give up. 
So I'm slowly learning to respond differently. When fear or doubt or insecurity rears it's head, I try to tell myself something like, "This must mean I'm running this race harder and faster than ever before." 
Even if it doesn't feel like it in this moment, in this conversation, in this decision. I am running. I am running hard and fast. and I am doing well. 
Let's not allow ourselves to be convinced we should give up because we think we're not doing well enough. Instead let's recognize the strain and pain for what they are: signs of growth. Resistance usually means we are breaking through what has held us back and choosing to push forward with all our might for what God has for us. 
I've come to love and hate the phenomenon that somewhere in the place between what is comfortable and what feels like it may kill us is where we become all that we were created to be. 
I finished my run. My time was better. 
I'm not taking that victory, or any of the others, lightly. I fought for every teeth-gritting second of it. I'm covered in sweat, smell terrible, and probably looked about as graceful as a crazed monkey by my last step. But I didn't quit. And I didn't die. In this world, that's the best we can do some days. 
The crowd of accusers, of doubters, and discouragers? We can silence them. We can speak out. 
I face the path behind me. The path where I ran, the path of my childhood, the path of my education, the path of disappointment and shame. 
I face that path and declare to all the lies that tried to stop me, tried to stand in my way, "I'm stronger than I seem." 
Then I turn on my heels and walk away. 
I've won for today.         
XOXO                             

already crazy about you.

Dear baby girl, 
I used to shun anything and everything silk or feminine because I never wanted a man to notice me. Because men did things we didn't want them to, and took things that weren't theirs to take. 
I wore bulky sweaters and baggy pants and walked around hoping a lot of yardage might make their souls invisible. I avoided mirrors like an allergy that might make it hard to breath. 
One time, I followed a recipe in Seventeen magazine for DIY mousse. And then I went around with this sticky mess of hair that had sugar shaking out of it like a serious medical emergency case of dandruff. 
And those years in junior high when everyone started highlighting their hair and investing in their own personal curling iron, asking for makeup for Christmas?
I twisted bandanas of every possible color and shade into my messy bun and called it a good day if I got mascara on the eyelashes. Numbers on tags seems like undeniable proof of ugliness and standing in a room full of primped girls could make the self-loathing gnaw right into my blushing insides. 
Bikinis can taunt mean and clothes can mock loud and I've stood in front of mirrors and looked right into those eyes and whispered it loud: loser. 
Being a woman every day can be a minefield. 
But maybe, if you see your momma comfortable in her own skin, if you see her take care of her body, it will spare you just a bit from this phenomenon. 
Because baby, every woman should breathe peace in her own exquisite skin. 
I pray for you that you will see how you sparkle. That no glossy, media-induced, photo-shopped lies can steal away your God-given joy in being fully you. 
Your soul was made to perfectly fit your skin. 
I will tell you at the sink and at the mirror and at the door that your Father made you fearfully and wonderfully and uniquely. I will tell you that you are the perfect-sized you for a God-sized plan. 
I'll say it in the dressing room and to the shaming thoughts you share behind closed doors. And we'll say it to every woman who hides. That you, that I, that we, that they are daughters. His Daughters. And we fit into any swimsuit, dress suit, shimmering suit. Because we are suited up in armor of Christ, so media arrows or childhood arrows or other-people's-comments arrows cannot harm us. 
There will be days that pierce you. Days that hurt. But if you turn toward His grace, the bullets and barbaric of this world stand no chance. You'll only be more lovely, as His grace turns you around and carries you beyond the ugliness of the earth. I promise you this. 
I will love you deeply, little one. And I will see your face as pure Jesus- masterpiece. Because it's the truth. 
I'll tell you how beautiful you are. Maybe even a dozen times a day. I'll say it when you're little, when you're bigger, and even when you say "I do." Because even if you have a man saying it, sometimes you just need a momma to speak into your scraped and bleeding places. 
You are so beautiful. So soul beautiful. 
It may not be easy to be a woman in this world. But it's always perfect to be a woman in His hand. 
I will hold you and affirm you in the firm grip of Jesus and whisper to you what the Father has already said about you. 
You are a treasure. Love is being lavished on you and you aren't ever rejected but instead loved everlastingly and over you, {over you}, Jesus sings this song. And it's one breathtakingly magical song. 
Your someday mom is already crazy about you, little one.  

freedom.

2015. What a wild year. 

It was the year I almost quit school. I was in over my head, run down, and exhausted. 

It was the year I didn't quit school. I kept on. 

It was the year my favorite Rebecca got married. 

It was the year I graduated from Simpson University with a Bachelor's of Science in Nursing. 

It was the year my family and friends planned a surprise trip to New York City full of broadway shows and taxi rides and incredible food. 

It was the year we stayed up until midnight on Mother's day painting the bathroom gold. 

It was the year I took NCLEX; it was the year I found out on my birthday that I had passed. 

It was the year I moved out of the home that taught me what a healthy marriage looked like, what unconditional love looked like, and what boundaries looked like. 

It was the year I moved into my little house on the hill, with its gorgeous hardwood floors and grey walls. 

It was the year one of my most favorite moms planned a birthday tea party for me and one of my dearest friends. 

It was the year I dated a boy named Christian. Before we went our separate ways, he taught me about gentleness and sensitivity and healthy conflict resolution. 

It was the year I met Darsy Claire for the first time, my sweet friend's first baby. 

It was the year my five-year friend Caitlin found out she was pregnant with a baby boy. 

It was the year I found myself in Disneyland a handful of times, each time just as magical. 

It was the year we saw Amy Schumer live. 

It was the year I travelled to Hawaii with my second family. We ziplined. We ate fruit. Lots of fruit. We saw Waimea Canyon. We ate the best fish. We sat by the pool. 

It was the year I met Anna and Victoria. Oh man, these girls. I just love them. I've learned so much from them about communication, about trust, about perseverance, about letting go. 

It was the year I started planning a Disneyworld trip for 2016!

It was the year I pulled my boss's son out of school for the day, and we went to the snow. 

It was the year I became a full time personal assistant. and it was the year I realized this was the best decision I've ever made. 

It was the year I watched countless children grow another year older, a sensation I both mourn and celebrate. 

It was the year I started spending time with Doug and Michelle every week, two people who were pivotal in championing my heart and my dreams. 

It was the year I became a little less independent, saying yes to help when necessary. 

It was the year Erin held me as I cried, and I heard her heartbeat, a moment permanently seared into my brain. 

It was the year I experienced Jesus in a new way; the year I believed Him. 

2015 changed my life. Just like 2014 did. Just like 2016 will. 

Every year, I pick a word. For the month of December, I ask Jesus what He has for me in the upcoming months.

In 2010, my word was jubilee. I learned to celebrate milestones and embrace victories. 

In 2011, my word was cling. I learned to hold tightly to truth, to hope, and to His promises. 

In 2012, my word was disciple. I learned to teach, to proclaim, to learn. 

In 2013, my word was abide. I learned what it meant to rest with Jesus. 

In 2014, my word was contentment. I learned to lean into the wild love of God, to lean humbly and confidently into it's bigness. 

In 2015, my word was yes. I learned that every no is simultaneously a YES to something, to someone. and I found that yes last year. I chose my "yes" well. 

This year? I struggled with this year. What do You have for me, Father? What do I declare over 2016?

It wasn't until late one night this week that it was crystal clear: 

Freedom. 

/ˈfrēdəm/

noun. 

- the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved.

You guys, that definition makes me cry the ugly cry. I am not imprisoned. I am not enslaved. 

I have often pictured God’s will for my life like a thin, definitive line. A tightrope I must walk carefully and with the utmost caution. One wrong step and I'll surely fall. And when I do, I'll mess up my future forever.

But this year, I'm going to experience freedom. I'm going to live in freedom like I never have before. Because when we come to know Jesus, our life is not a tightrope but a wide, open space of grace. We have so much room to breathe, to grow, to learn. He knows we are human. He knows we will take detours, face obstacles, and make mistakes. If He were committed to using only those of us who never stray, then no human would ever be part of His plan.

The fear of not getting it just right can paralyze me. I stand with my toes on that imaginary tightrope, perfectly still, and I miss out on so much of what could be. I miss the invitation from the One calling me to His side.

I'm done missing out. I'm saying YES to the wild journey. 

I was made to move in grace, to act in freedom- not to be held in place by fear. I am guided by love and by a Father who can redirect me as many times as needed. I only need to be willing to follow His voice. He will do the rest. Life is meant to be a glorious adventure, not merely a test of survival. 

So what does this look like? What does freedom practically look like this year? In 2016? For the rest of my life?

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. But I have a few ideas.

Laughing out loud. 

Investing in healthy relationships. 

Spontaneous dance parties. 

Sitting outside, book in hand. 

A nap.

Asking for help. 

Road trips. 

Making mistakes, and beginning again. 

Grace spread out like a picnic and God handing me a paper plate.

I had a friend tell me once: "Lyss, freedom given isn't complete. It’s only when you receive it, enjoy it, give thanks for it that becomes fully ours."

I receive you, freedom. I'm going to enjoy you. I'm so thankful that Jesus gave me you. 

I was not made to walk a tightrope.

I was made to dance.

And it’s not about getting the steps right.

Instead it’s all about being close to my Partner.

Here we go, 2016. Freedom awaits.

brave.

We were acquaintances. 
I knew they owned a successful coffee company.  I knew they had two incredible little boys.  And I knew they were stunning people, in both body and soul. 
That's it. I knew nothing of their lifestyle. I knew nothing about what makes them tick, what gets them up in the morning. I knew nothing of their extravagant giving to the community and to their people. 
Then she posted on social media that they were looking for a part-time personal assistant. I sent her an email that very day, attempting to explain my admiration for them even though I knew them so little. I explained my position in nursing school, explained why I felt I could learn to be a great PA, and explained that I'd love to run with them. 
I interviewed with them a week later.  I interviewed with three of their best girls a few days after that. 
And 365 days ago, I was offered a job that would change my whole life. 
I'm sitting in my little house on the hill, the room lit only by the Christmas tree. I'm working on several projects, soaking up every second of this surprise life. I find myself on a constant journey of searching for bravery and I've realized over the last year that when I look for courage, I tend to find it wherever I go. 
I have friends that live in India. They've been there for several years now, and I look at their lives in wonder and amazement. They learned a new language. They encounter foreign diseases and ailments. They deal with extreme temperatures. They are thousands of miles away from family. They're doing brave, hard things- things I'm not sure I would be able to do. And they do it, not because it's glamorous or glorifying, but because they're in the place where Jesus wants them to be, doing the work that Jesus has called them to do. 
I think that's true for all of us. 
I think we're at our bravest when we're in the place where Jesus wants us to be, doing the work that Jesus has called us to do. 
Perhaps that's not India. Maybe, for you, it's mothering. I'm not a mother, but I know that motherhood is one of the bravest things in the world. Maybe it's stepping into an office everyday or putting a gun into a holster and praying it stays there. Maybe it's taking blood pressures. Maybe it's banking. Maybe it's running a business. Maybe it's pulling shots or making someone's day at the drive-through window. 
And maybe your bravery isn't any of these things, but it's waiting. Waiting never feels brave, does it? Courage generally seems like we should be doing something, or going somewhere. It feels like it should be big and bold and book-worthy. But when we're in the place where Jesus wants us to be, doing the work Jesus has called us to do... that's when we're doing the brave thing. Waiting for the test result, waiting for the open door, waiting for clarity. That's brave. 
Perhaps your brave is trudging through school- with people telling you to determine your future, to choose your life. And maybe it's overwhelming and stressful. But if you're where Jesus wants you to be, you're in the midst of your courage. And if you've decided not to go to school? You're no less valuable or intelligent. In fact, you're very brave. 
Perhaps your brave is choosing to step out of an unhealthy relationship. 
Perhaps your brave is saying NO when it would be so much easier to say yes. 
Conversely, perhaps your brave is saying YES when it would be so much easier to say no. 
I'd hate for us to get caught up in the lie that our lives must appear spectacular in order to be considered brave. 
Some of the bravest things I did this year weren't spectacular at all. My brave was choosing to ask for help when I pridefully wanted to prove I could do it all on my own. My brave was curling up in my bosses arms and listening to her consistent heartbeat when I was ill. My brave was choosing "personal assistant" over "nurse". My brave was celebrating successes and mourning losses and creating healthy boundaries. 
We are courageous because Jesus breathes bravery into the core of our fearful bones, and when we take a terrifying step toward the place we believe Jesus wants us to be, we're living testaments of an audacious God. 
I think Jesus has so much more planned for us than a seemingly spectacular life. 
Celebrating today. Because one year ago my life took a drastic turn. 
and I learned what it meant to be brave.