if it hurts.

Sparkle, shine, music, and sweetness. 
Laughter, magic, and wonder. 
Parties, peace, togetherness. 
Packages, ribbon, anticipation. 
Hope, birth, and warm scarves. 
They say this is it, don't they? 
This is Christmas. This is the holiday season jam-packed with good things. 

... but what about when it isn't. 
What about when the sparkle can't be found and the laughter stings? What about the moment when the music ceases to play and the room full of people becomes a foggy blur?
I'm thinking about those of you today that know pain. Pain that comes like fog and just wraps itself around you. 
Mourning what was. Wishing for what might have been. Aching for what is or what should be. 
The clocks stops for no man. The calendar days march on. And sometimes along the way, hearts are trampled under the resounding drummer boy's beats. 
Jesus sees you, sweet hurting ones. 
Oh, He sees you. 
That baby. The one wrapped in nothing but dust-stained cloth and lying in a manger?
He grew. 
He grew, that wee little baby, into a man. God wrapped in human flesh. 
He loved. He healed. He carried. 
He died. 
He hung, back against splintering wood. 
and He thought of you. 
He thought of your hurt. 
He felt it. 
He knew the cause. He knew the loss. He knew the weight. 
He breathed His last breath. 
And He took it. 
He took the pain. He took the load you carry. 
He didn't cause it's existence to cease. He didn't blot it out of history's ledger. 
But He pulled it to Himself. He brought it upon His own shoulders, and He wrapped you in grace. in perfected love. He took your hand and gave you His strength. 
He whispered, gently, convincingly, "Take my yolk upon you, dear one, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light." 
Your pain is real. I want to recognize that. I see it filling you, seeping from your pores, attempting to suck the life from your heart. 
But that baby?? The newborn Messiah, held close in His momma's arms on that cold night two thousand years ago?
He is power. He is strength. He is comfort. He is love. 
And He came to give it to you. 
To those who are hurting this Christmas season, I pray you will let Him hold you. 
You are loved. 

blueberries.

This weekend was not fun. And when I say not fun, I mean really not fun. like at all. 
There was no fun in this weekend. 
It did not exist. 
and then I dropped a whole quart of blueberries on the ground today. bam. right on the floor. 
Standing alone in the kitchen I looked down at my feet and shouted, "you have GOT to be kidding me." 
It was my fault: I put the carton in the door on the refrigerator and they took flight as soon as I opened it. An entire quart spilled, little berries rolling to the the furthest corner of the kitchen. So I did what any frustrated woman would do: I took a bowl from the cupboard and I bent down on the wood to pick up each pretty little berry. 
Each one was so delicate and just a tiny bit bruised. I couldn't sweep them up. Not even with my hand making wide swooping motions like I would with spilled rice or beans. Nope. Blueberries are far too tender. I knew I needed to save them. Precious berries spread all over the dusty fall floor doesn't mean they are fit for the trash. 
I chose each one by hand, dropping them carefully into the bowl. 
One by one, one by one. 
Into a colander they went. I washed them with cool water, freeing them of whatever they'd picked up on the floor. Who wants to eat dusty fruit? Even more, who wants to eat bruised berries?
I popped one into my mouth. Even slightly bruised, they were perfect. 
Sometimes, I think about my own journey. There have been many times when I have felt like it might have been better if I had been swept up and poured into the garbage. If not better, then at the very least, easier. 
But that just isn't true. 
Each one of us has fallen out of the door. And instead of a wide sweep and an I'm-done-with-you, we've been picked up carefully. Chosen, even. Purposefully, and with extreme care. 
And slowly and gently, we've been made okay again. 
Bruised, and broken perhaps, makes the journey even sweeter, I think. 
Wishing you a Monday filled with love reminders, patience, and maybe even some blueberries.

wherever your feet may go.

Christian University: a place of higher education with the goal of integrating faith into learning and fostering spiritual growth. 

An honest letter to high school students considering Christian school: 
First of all, let me just say this: it's not what you are expecting it to be. 
I know all about the glossy ads. The campus lawns are meticulously, perfectly maintained. They almost look like the green pastures straight out of the 23rd Psalm, and you just can't wait to lie down and rest. A few yards away, there's several hipster college boys lazily throwing a football back and forth in the glorious sun. I know. I know, I know. 
Maybe high school has been hard for you. You just want to belong somewhere. Or maybe it's the total opposite. You are filled to the brim with excitement and expectation, looking forward, full of hope. 
You think "Christian College" and you picture smiley students lit like candles from the inside out, glowing brightly in our dark, dark world. Instant friendships are formed over 2-in-the-morning conversations and boxes of donuts. It feels safe. It feels simple. 
Here's the truth, guys: 
Where Jesus-followers gather, there is love, wildly beautiful and full of grace. 
AND. 
Where Jesus-followers gather, there is pettiness. gossip. pain. 
They are, after all, human. We are, after all, human. Young, searching. Making big mistakes, taking big leaps, just trying to figure out where we all fit in the world. 
It will look like hypocrisy at times, unfortunately. It will make you want to double back. Maybe even question the truth. 
At some point, the scripture themed hallways will inevitably feel like a cliche, and the Bible you carry to class may feel heavy on your back. 
There's a good chance someone will scrawl a bible verse on your whiteboard or slip some scripture on a notecard underneath your door in an effort to insult you or guilt you. It's just part of it. 
The rules you agreed to when you signed on the dotted line will tighten around your neck; you will tire. It's just part of it. 
Friends, sweet friends. This is what it means to grow up. To jump bravely and fearlessly into your future and come down hard on the unyielding ground. You may find yourself a little broken, a little sad, a little lonely. and that's just part of it, too. 
But here's the real big thing I want to tell you: don't give up. 
You will most likely find yourself at a fork in the road of your Christian campus journey: perform or disappear. Prove that your faith is strong and steadfast, or shrink back and hide. 
Choose neither. 
Choose stillness. Choose love. 
Always love. 
Don't fear the darkness. I promise you, it will come. Even in a place that promises light. It's okay to question. It's okay to wrestle. It's okay to discuss. I encourage you not to accept the easy answer or give into monotonous routine that carries little meaning. Push toward the hard edges of pain. Be honest. Be a catalyst. 
Eat cold pizza, stay out past curfew, and be intentional. 
Make friends from outside this place; find them in coffee shops or bookstores or the street corner, if you have to. Listen to their stories. I mean really listen. 
Get connected in community. Find those few people that will battle alongside you. Begin to make heart ties. Begin to branch out. 
Breathe in deep breaths. Often. Jump into the lake in the middle of winter, give tight hugs, and laugh as often as possible. Sing horribly at the top of your lungs, bake cookies at midnight, and study hard. 
Know that God is here. He is there. 
He is alive. You are alive. 
... and that, my friends, is a big deal. 
Here's to late nights, breaking through cliches, and living well... wherever your feet may go :)

take heart

I'm already in tears and the first sentence hasn't even been completed. 
Friends, this post has been long-awaited. I have anticipated it's arrival with great joy and great excitement. It's a huge HUGE deal. 
There have been tears. There has been silence. There has been challenges. There has been opposition.There has also been perfect peace, rest, and victory. Sweet, sweet victory. 
Let me back up a bit. Give you some background. 
She has deep brown eyes and the sweetest little dimples. She has been broken and hurt and bullied, yet has remained eagerly ready to learn how to listen and balance and love. She is absolutely beautiful in both body and soul, and she is one of my most favorite people ever created.  I see good in her heart for a million and more miles, and I love watching her chambers beat hard and fast after God's. She is what good women are made of. 
Is it any wonder that when I met her scared and lonely and confused self...
...and I saw the turmoil raging in her heart
... and I heard the lies being poured out over her
... and I saw the mental, physical, and spiritual repercussions of battling without armor
... is it any wonder that I actually imagined taking the devil by the collar and throwing him across some big imaginary field so he could never attempt to steal, lie, or hurt again? 
I spent many months with her simply consoling, speaking of grace and what Jesus has for those who suffer well. But internally, there were many times where my oven was at the burnt bread level. 
I watched her, day after day, slip her tiny arm under her messenger bag and head out into the world. and my mind just reeled at how much I have to learn. Jesus made no bones about the trouble we have coming in this world.
"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."   What does that even look like?? 
Take heart. 
I can tell you that at the beginning of this year, neither of us really knew. But I knew something had to be done. 
Her world was flat. I mean really, really flat. Flat in color, flat in song, flat in hope. There was a lot of hurt, a lot of anger, and a lot of sorrow. Heart-wrenching sobs and apathy came in waves, darkness heavy and scary. There were several long nights of continuous pleading with Jesus, and several nights where the only option seemed to be sleep. She was deep in a pit. It was unrelenting. 
And it was time she got out. 
So I began to explore on her behalf.
Take heart.   
How do I do that, in the midst of incredible suffering. What am I saying to my sister when I ask her to cling tightly to Jesus? 
As I sorted through the world, and walked so closely with her as she began to come back to life and into His arms... I discovered that there are two ways to handle suffering. 
One way leads to abundant life. 
and the other way??
It has the sting of death all over it. 
__________

... I'm on a bench outside now. I took a break for a while, picked up my laptop, and headed outside. The shadow around me is a tree, and I have a notebook. There's a bush just right here where bees kiss the sweet nectar all over. It smells of cinnamon sugar and autumn. It sounds like the calming whir of hummingbirds and weed-eater. There's boys in the street boarding, and two little wee ones are having a hula hoop contest. I'm laughing. The sun is sweet, and the breeze is making everything sway just a little. There's just the right amount of quiet. 
As I get older, and I encounter more and more people, hear more and more stories, I know more.  I know more of the crumpled-heart, those who never feel full, those who labor with no fruit, those who feel betrayed and worthless and looked over. 
She was just like that, you know. I met her, and she was knee deep in it. I could see how deep she had fallen into the hopelessness that comes from the trouble of the world. 
Take heart. 
If Jesus Himself told us that we can expect trouble, then we better believe it's coming. 
If Jesus Himself told us that we can take heart, because He has already overcome the world, then we better take it. 
It's the choice to suffer in a way that shouts victory. 
Take heart. 
Because if you don't take it, you'll lose it. 
Now right about here is the point where I would love to bold bullet point some amazing step-by-step instructions, but I have none. 
But there is one hard, beautiful truth that has wrapped itself around and around the both of us during this year. It was there, working it's grace and it's beauty and it's freedom before we even realized it. 
It may sound like the worst of news, but to me? to her? 
It is Salvation. 
I am crucified with Christ, and I myself no longer live, but Christ lives in me. 
Jesus lives in me. He lives in her. and if He has called you to Himself, then He lives in YOU, too. Try to wrap your brain around that one. 
Friends, I watched her this year. Believe me when I say her life was a mess. 
Her life was marked by discontentment, fear, and bondage. 
But then Jesus. 
Jesus moved her into unknown territory, and she became a warrior. A courageous warrior because she knew it was He who moved her and He who had overcome. 
At several points over the last year, she would look at me and say "I wish I weren't so weak." 
But in that VERY weakness, I watched in awe as Jesus began to remind her of her worth, of her power, of her beauty. 
It's a funny thing how trials seem to lead us straight into His arms, into an honest way of peace. The weak pit of her soul, the empty places, the crying out places... they became the place from  which she began to renounce the lies and SHOUT the truth that HE LIVES in her. 
Just imagine her dry bones standing up, fighting back.   That's what happened this year. 
It happened 365 days ago, when my sweet little sister said NO to an eating disorder. 
It happened when she decided that her body was a temple and she was not bound to the lies of the devil, but rather she is a vessel of holiness created perfectly and with extreme care. 
365 days of choosing to eat. 365 days of choosing not to throw up. 365 days of training her body.   Friends, she has a long way to go. I'm not blind to that, and neither is she. 
But today? We're celebrating. 
Because 365 days is a LONG TIME. And she made it. She is healthy. and she is filled with joy. 
So why write about it? 
The answer is simple. To be a voice of the gospel, to confess that there is struggle and doubt and disobedience and terribly broken hearts involved when you decide to follow Jesus. 
But I know I can speak for the both of us when I say this: 
Take heart, sisters. I believe that it's true that He lives in you. All these little deaths we die are just sweet, straight avenues right into His arms. Don't miss it. Take heart. It's a stone-real fact that the very essence of Jesus Christ indwells you. 
Every kind of courage and peace and triumph is in Him, and He has overcome the word.   Guess what that means?? 
It means that courage, peace, and triumph lives in you, too. 
Will you believe it? 
Take heart.   Oh, and baby sister? You're a rockstar. Happy I-have-overcome-an-eating-disorder anniversary.  
P.S.  If you are struggling with an eating disorder, I beg you to tell someone. Don't let yourself battle alone. If you want to hear more of Caitlin's story, or chat with her more about her journey out of bulimia and into freedom, I encourage you to email her! cpeterss26@aol.com

I am a child.

It's the night before an exam, and I have no business being on the computer. 
But, ahem, here I am. 
I like to think coming to this space and pouring out lessons and dreams somehow keeps me sane. 
I have been battling for quite some time with some pretty serious health issues. I've been in an out of doctor's offices, scheduling procedures, and trying with all my might to get through school at the same time. 
I am forced to have down time. I am forced to sit and be still. 
I have been forced to wrestle with some issues that I had so conveniently stuffed into the junk drawer of my brain. 
We all have things we put away in a nice and neat little mental file which we plan to deal with the day after never. 
But the problem with being laid up in bed for a good portion of summer, and having no choice but to be in bed during many hours of any current spare time is this: there's nothing to do but think. 
If you know me, then you know I am fiercely driven and easily motivated by achievement. Though those are great skills put to use in positive ways, they can also be my greatest enemies. 
I began to seriously think recently about my value and my identity. 
What is a girl who finds her identity in scratching things off her to-do list supposed to do when she can barely keep her eyes open long enough to hold a pen?
*Go find a pillow. Just for dramatics. 
*Cry. 
*Lay in a comatose state. 
*Finally, begin to realize that achievement, success, and completion have nothing to do with my identity. 
This might sound all nice and tidy and boxed up pretty, but I'm just going to document this as my current reality. 
I am a child of God. 
and that title, label, and identity... is more than enough. 
My completion of tasks, my professional achievement, my success in the writing world is as far from my identity as the east is from the west. I could not make my bed for weeks, stumble gloriously as a nurse, and miss a deadline but it will bear no weight on how I am viewed by God. 
If you think this is a license to go all wild and crazy or become a lethargic vat of lazy skin and bones, then you're seriously trippin. 
I've simply come to the conclusion that my value and my identity is not, in any way, hidden in merit. It's not hidden in achievement or success. 
Rather, my value and identity is hidden in the wounded hands of my Savior... who, thankfully, can always hold a pen, can always render aid, can always write my story. 
We can say our identity is in Him. We can sing about our value as He sees us. We can quote Scripture.   But I think the true test is seeing if I am capable of believing the truth when there is nothing else for me to hide behind. 
If nursing school was taken away, if health was taken away, if family was taken away, if financial stability was taken away, if my job was taken away, if popularity were taken away, if sex was taken away, if husbands were taken away, if homes/cars/boob jobs/texting/hobbies were taken away.... 
Would my identity remain? Do I know who I am?
Would your identity remain? Do you know who you are?
Sweet friends, as far as east is from the west, know this: 
Who you are is not what you do. 
... and you are always, always loved.

you just might like it.

Zucchini, bell peppers, onion, and tomatoes, all in a yummy sauce with bowtie pasta noodles, I proudly said as my favorite ten year old paraded into the kitchen asking what I made for dinner. 

I had just come from studying for a good eight hours straight. I spent 45 minutes squeezing in what could maybe be called a workout, hopped in the car and picked up boys from school and struggled through the homework routine. Then I whipped up pasta primavera from scratch in one quick swoop. 

Henry had zero problem removing my stash and crown as reigning SuperNanny. 

Hen, I promise you're going to LOVE it! And vegetables are good for you. They will help you grow.  

Kid, the meal was made with love. and it's been approved by the FDA's food pyramid! Seriously, what more could you want?! Needless to say, it was not convincing him. When I placed his plate on the table, he laid his forehead on the table and begged me with tears in his eyes. 

Alyssa, please. PLLLLEEEAAASSSEE can we have macaroni and cheese?! I am begging you. Begging you!!

By his expression, you would think he was asking for a pardon from life imprisonment. It was vegetables, not a jail cell. 

As I watched him dramatically try to convince me that life as we know it would be infinitely better if I opened a box of Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, I saw my own reflection if his tear-stained face. He earnestly cried out for something different. He begged- no, implored- me to change the setting. As the nanny, I had the power to change it. But his pain and discomfort- whether real or fantasy- was necessary in order to achieve my ultimate goal of the children digesting a nutritious meal. 

Here's what I know: 

1. Regardless of what he says, the vegetables will not kill him. They will make him stronger.

2. I love him too much to give into his wanton desires. 

I sprinkled some fresh cheese on top of his plate as he whimpered lightly, face still planted on the table. I told him I loved him and because I loved him, I wanted the best for him. He picked up his fork and took a bite. and another one. and another one. 

Nannying is weird. It's like living out this magically beautiful screenplay where children sometimes play atheist to their caregiver. A caregiver who wants only the best for them, yet they deny their existence or authority. 

As Henz ate his pasta, I couldn't help but see myself in his reaction. 

Whenever God asks me to do something, I undoubtedly know that it will have a redeeming end (Romans 8:28). Yet still, I beg and cry and plead for something else. Instead of having fresh, homemade pasta, I would prefer a processed, artificial, powdered cheese substitute. 

Here's what I know: 

1. Regardless of what Jesus asks of me, Satan will not win. I will be made stronger. 

2. He loves me way too much to give into my wanton desires. 

Halfway through finishing his plate, Henry looks up, sets down his fork, and sprints over to me. His flailing little arms find their way around my neck and he says, "love you, missy lou." 

In that moment, all was centered in the world. 

Jesus isn't as concerned with your personal liking or preference as He is your personal betterment. 

Enjoy what He serves you. 

You might just find that you like it. 

Hugs. 

stand up and walk.

"Now a man crippled from birth was being carried to the temple gate called Beautiful, where he was put every day to beg from those going into the temple courts. When he saw Peter and John about to enter, he asked them for money... Peter said, 'Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have, I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." Acts 3: 2-3, 6
If I had all the money in the world, I would fly to see you. Every one of you. 
I'd leave all responsibility behind, and I'd come to your door. With a bag full of presents and chocolate. And we could just wander. We could just wander around your city until we feel a little less lost, and a little more found. 
If I had all the time in the world, I'd invite you over. Every one of you. 
You could sit down at my table. You'd have to move the binders full of complicated, scribbled notes. You'd have to push aside the fifty pound textbooks and look past the neon notecards used in an attempt to somehow memorize dozens upon dozens of medication dosages and side effects. But I'd close my laptop and we could just sit there and hash it all out. 
We'd stop only to eat, go for a brisk autumn stroll, or browse through target. Not so much to buy happiness itself, but at least maybe the $24.99 winter dress version of it. 
... Do you ever just wake up and feel like you're all used up? Like you're empty and tired, and don't have anything to offer anyone anymore. Like you're a shell, and whatever used to be alive and thriving in you crawled away to find a new home. 
In the early morning darkness, especially on an exam morning, I am so aware of my limitations. The dark great need of the world closes in tight, and it just feels heavy. I stand and hold the brightly colored information written in my scrawly script that needs to be poured out onto a scantron, pacing back and forth, because I'll cry if I stand still even just for a moment. Man oh man, I'm so tired. I feel like my legs might crumble beneath me if I keep at this... this stand. this pacing. But I just keep going. 
I realized that I get it. I am beginning to understand where you are coming from. I can feel you all, pressing in against my heart. You are hungry, starving even. You are dying from ruthless disease, dying in guilt. You have been abused. Wounded. Lied to. Hurt. Or maybe you're just tired. I want to rent out a spa for an entire day and just get every single one of you massages and pedicures. I want to make you feel precious. Wanted. 
You are adoptive parents and orphaned children. You guys, I'd fund the whole deal if I could. I know the process is so gut-wrenchingly long and hard. and if I could, I'd pull out my checkbook and write you a big fat check. So you could stop waiting. So you could start letting your lives intertwine into each other in all those challenging, worthwhile, beautiful ways. 
Or maybe you have parents, but they are absent. Oh, how my heart is with you. If I could, I'd snatch you up and put you in a home where you are valued. where you are loved. where you are irreplaceable. 
You are sad in your own hard, real, particular way. And if I had the time, I'd sit on the phone with you all day long and just let you cry. Not say anything, just be there... on the other end of the line, breathing in and out. 
There's not just one cripple begging at the gate anymore. I know this. The whole wide world is broken and waiting for the miraculous. and sometimes, the healing just takes longer than that one binding moment: In the name of Jesus... Walk. 
In this season of intensity, of transition, of loss, of speaking up... I am learning. 
Actually, relearning more specifically. 
Relearning how to pray. 
For a long while I stopped believing that my voice mattered. I imagined it bouncing around in the heavenly realm, then forcefully smacking right back down. 
See, prayer is mysterious. and mysterious things sometimes scare me. It doesn't work like a math equation, where you plug in all the right names and needs and suddenly the answer appears on some cosmic screen. 
But that doesn't mean it's not working. To believe this, even just a little bit, is faith. It's glorious, frustrating, sweet faith. 
So I started writing down the names of everyone I knew. I put them on the big calendar in the hallway. 
Remember. Pray. Watch. Wait to see what God does. 
Every day, multiple times, I walk by those names, and I remember. I speak your name out loud to Jesus. and this is what I have to give. Not silver or gold or plane tickets or even a great big hug. Not always a listening ear or an afternoon uninterrupted, drinking tea at the kitchen table. I am so limited. I am a shell. Sometimes, just an echo. 
And Jesus knows (oh, how He knows), if I could, I'd be with you. We'd prop each other up like a couple of wounded, sleepy soldiers limping home. We'd go read or laugh or see a movie or all of the above. We'd recharge. Then we'd gear back up and hit the battle field again. 
Instead, I have this. Jesus. 
I have this confident, fragile hope that somewhere my voice and His love will divinely collide. 
and it will bring grace. 
and it will bring joy. 
and it will bring life. 
I have hope that it will help you get your footing, stand up, and walk.