I see love.

Even with the most unreadable handwriting in the world, there is something so valuable in a handwritten letter.

That's probably why I have boxes of letters, cards, and scribbled post its that seem nearly impossible to relegate to trash.

I still have scripted paper from camp counselors in junior high, pages upon pages of words written but never sent, and dozens of creased and folded notebook paper gold mines passed from friend to friend in class. Why on earth would I save those?

I can still close my eyes and see their writing on the page, and it's familiar as their faces- Maeghan's handwriting was always my favorite, and it suited her; full and cheerful, each letter a stroke of happy on the page. Matthew's had a sophisticated, artistic flair. Kelsey's slanted backwards, a leftie for sure. Andrew's- delicate, smart, clean.

Pretty positive that at some point, I tried to copy each of them, but my handwriting always looks disappointingly like... well, mine. I've decided that the way we glide the pencil across the page must be an expansion of the thumbprint, as special and unique as the person to whom it belongs.

Brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, moms, dads, cousins, children... their letters and cards swirl briefly through my thoughts and I feel the encouragement and the love all over again. Not just in the words themselves, but in the intention. The purpose.

They lift my spirit, fill my heart, touch my soul.

Probably my favorite notes and letters are the ones attached to such vivid memories. attached to people who I have loved deeply and will never forget. I cherish them. In each letter, someone speaks. I can see the face, hear the voice. Then, somehow, mysteriously, I'm able to hear their hearts better NOW than before.

I write to my future children. and to my husband, too. So they will know my heart. So they will know that I loved them, even now. So my husband and daughters or sons will never have to crave my voice in the written word. They will have traces and signatures and scrawls. They will have pen and paper that will long outlast my earthly whispers of affection and ability to hug them close.

In an ever-growing age of technology and instant communication, I feel like we've lost something so lovely amidst convenience. I'm so thankful for emails and texts, blogging and even facebook.

But I can't feel an email between my finger tips or smile at the way he dots his i's and crosses his t's in a text message. Sure, I can pick a font that I think fits my mood for an online conversation or message... but it's not the same. There's so much personality in handwriting.

I see love through words. I think this love is rooted in the very nature of who my Creator is. Certainly His fingerprints are painted beautifully all over the flowers and the sunsets... but He also chose to lavish us with his holy, perfect, God-breathed words through Scripture. He affirms in my heart the significance and value of written word. He preserved His own words, for us.

Today, I am setting aside twenty minutes or so to write a letter. Then I'm going to address it, place a stamp in the top right corner, and send it off in the mail.

I encourage you to do the same. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe this weekend. Write someone you love a few words of encouragement... the "old-fashioned way". Pen and ink, envelopes, a signature in your beautifully crafted handwriting that's like no one else's. Maybe it will be an overdue thank you note, words to honor your husband, a peace offering for a broken relationship, words of affirmation for your children, hope for your compassion child, kindness to your best friend, thankfulness to your employer.

Words leave a mark. I still pull out those old letters and read them. I remember. I find encouragement and love in their pages.

So go ahead... write.

Twenty, thirty, or fifty years from now, someone just might need to hear them again :)

Love to you,
Alyssa

Stones, freedom, and a piece of trash.

"... but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, 'Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?' They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, 'Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.' Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.
At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked her, 'Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?''No one, sir,' she said. 'Then neither do I condemn you,' Jesus declared. 'Go now and leave your life of sin.'"

John 8:1-11 gets me every time.

I read it, and I try to put myself in her shoes.

I wonder about the range of emotions that had to be swirling through her head and her heart.

She stood there, caught in her shame. No hiding place. Nowhere to pass the blame. No getting away from her sin.

Caught.

Her captors meant business.

But as I read this today, I realized something:

So did He.

See, He already knew her. He knew her ugly habits and shameful past. He knew her dreams, too. The secret longings she whispered in the night. The ache that must have been present in her heart to feel beautiful, to BE beautiful. To know she was loved.

See, He knew everything about her.

... and He still loved her.

Try placing yourself in that situation. I can tell you that she probably felt deep humiliation and fear. I imagine her eyes darting from stone to jagged stone held in the hands of the men, waiting to be condemned. I can hear the hissing and spitting and calls of disgust in the large crowd. I weep at the thought of life closing in around her, unable to escape. Caught.

But amidst the horror, there was HOPE. There's always hope.

There was a man standing next to her.

Simple, but majestic. Fierce, yet serene.

Jealous. He was jealous for her.

Then the voice: "Abba!! We caught her. She was having sex! With a woman who was NOT her husband. You know the law. According to Moses, she deserves to be stoned." I imagine that he threw a furtive smile at his friends before challenging Christ, "Well, what's it gonna be, LORD?"

Silence.

I'm sure there were several chucklers and a few sneers.

She groaned. Winced. Waited.

Oh, they had Him now. Everyone knew the truth about her. She was a whore. A slut. A good-for-absolutely-nothing piece of trash who sold her body for scraps of day-old bread and measly pennies.

Grace doesn't change the truth... right?

Then, quietly, confidently, He stooped down. And He wrote.

If I were here, in this place, I would probably be closing my eyes right about now, waiting for the impact of that first stone.

But His voice shattered the quiet: "Yes. She has sinned. BUT. Let the one without sin throw the first stone."

Eyes still closed, the tears would've started flowing now.

Thud.

The first stone hits the ground with shocking finality. Shoulders slumped, stone dropped, the man walks away.

Thud.

Another one hits the ground. Another man turning his back on the scene.

Thud. Thud. THUD.


One by one, those stones fell to the ground. One by one, the men disappeared. Left.

Oh my goodness, can you imagine the woman? Was there complete amazement and awe? Or did she even have the strength to stand under the weight of such perfect forgiveness?

All the men are gone. Except One.

"Where are your accusers? Your captors? Did no one throw their stone?"

Perhaps her response was a humble whisper: "No, Abba."

I can picture Jesus smiling, replying: "Well, neither do I. Go and sin no more."

Oh, the emotion in that moment.

With that resounding thunder of grace ringing in her ears... did she sing her praises back to Him? Or did she dance?

Or perhaps she clung to His hand. Did she feel beautiful? Loved? Did she see her worth as far more than rubies and jewels? Did she rest her head on His shoulders as He so gently wiped the tears from her cheek?

I don't know what she did. Or how she felt. And I'm not claiming to know.

But I like to think that she did a little bit of all of these. I like to think that she was so overwhelmed that she fell humbly at His feet and wept bittersweet tears of redemption and thankfulness.

I like to think that when they parted ways, she knew what it felt like to be forgiven.

To be free.

He loves you,
Lyss

The Thread.

I can feel it in my hands.

Delicate thread, intricately woven together for me. I hold it loosely. I don't want to snap it. I'm following it. These spider web strands are leading me, pulling me forward.

One hand in front of the other... the routine.

Sometimes, in the darkness, I can't actually see it anymore. But I can feel it. barely. Light and taught between my blind fingers. It becomes so gentle, so insubstantial, that I worry that it doesn't really exist. Can this thin strand really lead me?

I panic.

Oh no. What if I am lost?

But then.

Then the sun rises, and it gleams off the tiny strand and I hear my heartbeat calm. I keep walking.

One hand in front of the other... toward... well, I'm not really sure today.

Today, I'm tired.

It's been a long road. I am marveling that the thread never gives out. It just keeps trailing between my fingers as I walk, walk, walk. Some days I stop walking.

There are days in which I sit with the thread draped over my scraped up knees. Days where I feel lost. Lonely.

But time passes. Today it was with tears. with worry. with hurt.

Then it's prayer time. Sometimes, honestly, it feels hollow. But safe. Always safe.

Then I set aside the emotion, and pick up that thread. I stand up, and keep walking. Keep following. Keep trusting. I grip tight to what I know is true.

I'm waiting patiently for the day when I make it. When the journey is done, and I am called home. For the day when I see Him standing there, grinning wildly at His daughter come home. For the day He takes the thread from my hands, and ushers me into His kingdom. For the day that I tell Him I felt so often like I was going to drop it, break it, or miss where He was leading me. And in the very same breath He will whisper back, "I love you. Welcome home."

I'm excited to look back and see where I've come from.

I'm excited to look back and see what my amazing God has done.

So, for now, I'll keep grasping to the thread... knowing that one day soon, it will lead me home.

Hopeful,
Lyss

I just have to take a deep breath.

Into the chaos, into the week, into the wonder of being a nanny, a friend, a woman, and a daughter of the King.

Sometimes, I just have to take a deep breath.

Deep breath into the work and the calling and the words and the ways to encourage and love and laugh.

Deep breath into the tears and the lonely moments.

Deep breath into standing in the gap alongside friends who have lost their voices, their way.

Deep breath with the boys and the dirt and the incomprehensible ways they find to challenge, to push, to pull, to teach.

Deep breath with the girls and the ruffles and those dramatic moments involving tiaras and gummy bears.

Deep breath with expectations and disappointments.

Deep breath with selfishness and the things I cannot comprehend.

Deep breath with broken bridges.

Deep breath into the deep heart of my Father God who made me and calls me His own. A Father who breathes grace and passion and LIFE into my lungs that rise and fall.

Deep breath.

Deep breath.

Yahweh, I love you.

Overwhelming Love.

I am a nanny. and I LOVE my job. It's slobbery and messy and yet somehow wonderfully beautiful.

I am thinking tonight about the lessons I've learned from my work. I could sit here for hours and tell you all the things I have been so privileged to glean from the children and their parents.

But here's some of the most amazing: I've discovered JUST how much parents can influence their children. Just how important those daily doses of fresh air, healthy food, and good old country music dance off's can be for the kids. I've learned how going with the flow is sometimes the only way to go. I've learned that there really is no such thing as super mom. But there are supremely hardworking, selfless, exhausted women with more love in their hearts than they know what to do with. I've learned that it IS okay to let a child watch Dora or Bubble Guppies for half an hour, so I can do the dishes and fold some laundry. I've learned I'm not the only one who has escaped to the bathroom, locked the door, and counted to fifty just so I could gather my thoughts. I've learned that these little girls are fearless, the boys have an endless supply of energy, and children love wholeheartedly. I've learned that the opportunity to speak truth and life over little hearts is one of the most humbling gifts. I've learned that I could stare at any one of their faces for hours, soaking in the simplistic beauty of their innocent eyes. I've learned that on the average day, they teach me a whole lot more than I could ever teach them.

When I made the decision not to go back to school, one of the things I knew was that I didn't want to spend the next year of my life sitting around and doing nothing. Although nursing isn't where God is calling me, KIDS are where God is calling me. There is a burning in my heart for His children, for the little people that grace the earth. I've wanted to be a mom since kindergarten. I actually wrote "mommy" on the "when I grow up..." worksheet.

I don't have years of training under my belt, a blog with a trillion followers, or a show on national television. I don't even have children to call my own!

I just have a deep rooted dream, a passion for kids, a disney imagination, and overwhelming love.

And so far? It's worked out pretty delightfully.

Love and hugs,
Lyss

Forgiveness, Vulnerability, and Demolition.

They were there. Tall enough that I was forced to stand on my tippy toes to peer over the top. Four walls, built with my own two hands. Built for safety, for protection, for hiding.

But inside the walls that were supposed to be a place of safety and comfort? Loneliness lived there. I could feel the emptiness as it continually invaded my space, just big enough for me. No one else. "It's so much better this way. Just me. No vulnerability." I whispered this to myself as I continued to create a paste to hold the walls together. "Can't make it too big... don't want people to think they can come and stay."

So I continued to build. Brick by brick, the walls were formed. With each brick came hope of safety from the hurt and the pain, wishing with all my might that it would keep out the monsters and dragons. And they did. Those four walls were good at it. They kept those creatures out. But the thing about walls? No matter who I might have intended to keep out, they kept everyone else out too. Everything that existed in the realm outside these walls, was kept out.

I would stand on my tip-toes and watch as the people I loved walked by. Most days, they'd stop. They'd stop and see my fingers tightly curled over the ledge in an effort to hang on. Sometimes, I'd get brave. We'd chat. Maybe even have a meaningful conversation now and then! But always with the walls there, looming between us. You see, it was so easy for me. I could always just crouch down if it all became too overwhelming, hide from the voices of truth that I so desperately needed to hear.

But with each passing day, the absence of visitors inside my confining space became an echoing reminder of my isolation. I started to forget who built the walls. I started to wonder why no one was visiting me. I attempted to blame the lack of community on the community itself. I started to stand and watch for someone, anyone... then slowly lower myself back down and mutter, "Whatever. I don't need any of you, anyway."

Years later, not so long ago, I found myself peering over the walls at the exact thing I had feared the most: those monsters and dragons. I saw the walls I built. Walls that I had built with incredible care, with the intention of protection. Instead, it reeked of isolation and selfishness. As I peered at the dragons and monsters that I'd been so fearful to face, so afraid of the vulnerability and exposed pain... I began to realize what I'd created: a prison. I built a house for safety, yet it had fed fear and inhibited what I really needed. Reconciliation. Redemption. Relationship. Forgiveness.

I imagined what it would be like if the walls were destroyed. To stand next to the monsters and the dragons with nothing but the wind between us. "I can't", I thought. "I can't destroy these walls, but Jesus, oh Jesus, I don't want to live like this anymore. Please take them down. I'm so scared, but I know you can heal and mend and create." The walls I had around me were walls that I had made. They were of human origin and therefore completely fallible. The only true protection comes from Christ, and the best way for Him to be my protection was for me to have nothing between us... to have the walls come down so He could be my first and my only defense.

So I stood in the center of the walls I had created, and watched as brick by brick, the walls came down. At first, it was Jesus. Jesus taking brick, reminding me with each one that my safety and security comes from a life hidden in HIM. Then, it was Jesus equipping the people I loved to come help with demolition. A humbling time.

I prayed with each brick that my amazing God would equip my heart with courage. Courage to stand tall, and not crouch down. Prayed that I would breathe deeply and savor the fresh air as it began to replace the stagnant air I had become to accustomed to within those walls. Prayed that I would choose gratitude in the air between us, rather than attempt to reconstruct the walls. Prayed that Jesus would take my fear captive and replace it with His fullness of joy.

So I inhaled deeply, eyes closed, and ask that God prepare me for what was to come. The last of the bricks came down, and the scent of clean air hit my nose.

I opened my eyes.

And began to face those monsters and dragons: insecurity, doubt, hurt, rejection.

In the most beautiful, open space I was able to face and fight, grow and heal.

Sometimes, I still feel like building again.

But then I remember what God has done in the open air.

... and I realize that I now know the freedom that comes when the Lord is my protection, my fortress, my strength.

There's no going back.

Today I'm thankful for forgiveness, vulnerability, and demolition.

Love to you, friends.

~Lyss

At all times.

"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." I think about Proverbs 17:17. A lot. Specifically. A friend loves at all times.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again... I have amazing women in my life. They have showed me what this looks like. Taught me what SAFE feels like and how encouragement makes my heart feel something like a balloon: filled with so much helium I could float straight up to the moon. I could laugh until 5 am with these women and still feel as though I was squinting at the wonder of that pink sunset sky- so full, so beautiful, so... heard. Toes have poked through the sand, meals have been shared, and stories have been swapped. Sisters. Family. Different seasons, different callings, different gifts, but one Father God. We are daughters and children of the King.

I will wade through shallow waters, and step into the deep with these girls when need be.

I love the nights of sinking deep into the sofa and whispering those loud dreams. Together.

Friends. They love at all times.

I'm thankful.