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. 

through fire.

There is nothing more life-giving than when someone truly believes in you. 

Not the cliche, slap-on-the-back "I believe in you." 

Nope. 

Not that. 

I'm talking about the "I've-got-your-back-no-matter-what, you-can-do-this, I'm-amazed-by-you" super cheerleader that it takes a special person with special love and special heart to be to you. 

I can sit across the coffee-date table with a friend and say, "Girl, you've got this." And it goes a long way, I'm sure. I'm not discounting that. 

I can email blogosphere friends that I've never met in person and share a prayer request and they can say, "Lyss, we will pray." and that means the world. I'm not discounting that. 

But when my people, and by that I mean my people, tell me that they believe in me, it goes to the end of me. It moves past belief and into action. and it has the power to move me past belief and into action. 

Today, I'd like you to meet two of my dearest friends. We have walked through fire together. 

Let me explain: we're in nursing school together. 

It's a fire, guys. Let me tell you. 

and we get to do it together. 

These two know what it looks like to believe in someone. They know what it's like to link arms and not let go no matter the fear, apprehension, anger, or unfairness they might face. 

They know what it's like to believe, then act on it. and I'd just like to thank them. 

For walking through crazy nursing school with me. For fighting for what's right. 

For being my friends, and big sisters. 

For knowing what it means to believe in the impossible. 

I love you both. 

To be honest, words escape me when it comes to the incredible Heather. Where do I even begin? She is fiercely loyal. Fiercely loyal. She is the definition of bold, the definition of sincere, and the definition of brave. She is studying to be a nurse (a profession in which she will SOAR), and I feel blessed beyond measure to be able to journey alongside her. Though she fills many roles... fiancee, momma, daughter, student... I am most selfishly grateful that she fills the role of friend. She will be a special part of my world for my whole life long, of this I am sure. 

Katelyn is my seat buddy for this year's obnoxious concoction of nursing school classes. Oh my goodness, do we have fun. She is tender-hearted and spirited, focused and resilient, and the perfect person to be crazy with. I think my most favorite thing about this sweet friend is her deep deep love for family. She represents devotion and faithfulness and flawlessly demonstrates the beauty that comes from a life spent with those you love. I love learning from your example, Kate. Thank you.

Today, I encourage you to find your people, and tell them that you are their biggest fan. 
You believe in them. 
You know they are incredible. 
That with you, love trumps all the rest. 
That you are going to stick around. Through fire. 
... just as these two have done with me. 
Then just step back. 
and watch them fly. 
Jesus, thank you for Heather and Kate. Can't imagine life without them. 
Love to you, friends. Love to you. 

Paul, Erin, Eva, & baby B.

I met her one Sunday at church, when her and her husband dropped off their precious daughter to the toddler room. Momma was kind, grateful, and pregnant. super pregnant. Dad had a warm smile, and kissed his two year old little sweetie on the forehead before walking down the hall with his wife to attend the service.
There was something about them. Their family. 
I turned to the amazing toddler team as the couple left to attend the service. "I like them," I said. 
and I knew. from thirty seconds spent with them. The Spirit of God was ALIVE in their family, and ALIVE in their hearts. and I was going to know them. I was going to hear their stories. I was going to love them. 
Babysitting was obviously the easiest route to go about succeeding in this new plan. So I suggested it one Sunday morning. 
Momma was thrilled. I watched baby girl the very next week. 
... and loved every single second of it. Eva is incredibly articulate for being newly two. She is curious. She is social. She is comfortable with structure and routine. She is a little bookworm. 
A girl after my own heart. 
Life progressed. and so did the weekly visits and story-telling and dessert making. You guys, I can't even begin to tell you how at home I feel. It's a good feeling. It's a really really good feeling. 
Here's the thing. I can smell a fake anywhere. It was a skill I developed and perfected in high school. Perhaps because I'm a professional at putting on a mask, I can sniff out the others that are creating facades, the internal struggle reflecting an opposite reality. 
I really believe that when girls (and boys too, perhaps) don masks to hide their own insecurity and doubt, what they really crave is authenticity. We yearn for sincerity and grace-filled honesty. 
So when I met this mom, and I saw her family so covered in honesty and so drenched in grace, I knew that I was about to embark on a crazy voyage. Of uncovering. Of resting. Of joy.
She was real. She is real. 
My desire is to be known as a woman who's on a wild adventure with Jesus, a woman who loves her people, and lives a full life. But also, a woman who isn't afraid to have the curtain pulled back for a peek at her continual struggle to balance beauty and bedlam. 
This is who she is, Eva's momma. She is one extremely beautiful, hilarious, imperfect, exhausted, Kingdom-building mom who is simply doing her best to point her imperfect children toward Jesus. 
When I'm in her home, I can just exhale. and be honest. 
Because this is real life. It might not always be pretty. It might not always be polite or fun or picture perfect. 
Yet He woos me regardless. Jesus is calling the weary, the hurting, the uncertain, the unorganized. 
Jesus doesn't need perfect people. We just get to come. No strings attached. 
That's what I'm continually reminded of in her home. Because her and her husband have modeled it. Together. As a cohesive, unified, passionate team. 
The Gospel is already complete without me. I'm not called to perform to perfection. I'm not called to have it all together. I'm not called to please people. 
So let's just BE. 
Let's disciple and mentor and share when He's given us wisdom. Let's acknowledge our desperate need for help. Let's be free to rest and abide. 
When that happens, freedom is abundant. 
Wherever you are, whoever you're with, I invite you to be vulnerable. 
The Spirit of God has anointed you as chosen. He dwells with you and in you and through you. So your vulnerability is okay. It's welcome. Necessary, even. 
The older I get, the more acutely aware I am of how little I know, and my desire to know Him more deeply grows. With the increased understanding of my weakness, as well as my strengths, the more I am made aware of my desperate need for Jesus. I so desperately need Jesus. 
In their home, I belong somehow. I am free to be honest in my weakness, and equally as free to exhibit my strengths. I am loved there. I am welcome there. 
... and I couldn't be more grateful. 
Part of the reason I write in this space is to publicly thank God for what He is doing. In a life full of thistles, I struck pure gold when Jesus brought me to this family. 
Thank you, Jesus. 
It is my great privilege to introduce you to some of my favorite people: The Sprague Family. 

     Paul, Erin, Eva, and baby Beckett. 

Don't be afraid to step out in boldness, and watch God move. He loves to bless you. 
*The Sprague's, along with several other people near and dear to my heart, are always visible over in the FACES tab :) 

because this is what I know.

School is rough. School is really, really rough. 
I sat on the phone today and listened to a dear friend cry. 
Because school is rough. And life is mean. and overwhelming. and just plain stupid at times. 
Maybe school is hard for you, too. Maybe motherhood is wearing you out. Maybe you're sick and tired of your job. Maybe there's tension in your marriage. Maybe you are lonely, scared, or confused. 
I don't know where your heart is at. 
But here's what I DO know. 
You, my dear, are meant to be. 
You are supposed to be here, now, in this place. Where you are today, right now, is exactly where you are supposed to be. 
Don't for a single second believe that every single part of you was not planned for now. You were created for this very hour and you were loved into being for this exact moment, and all the moments to come. 
Your presence matters. 
Every bit of you matters. 
So stand up tall. Close your eyes. Breathe it in. 
Remember who made you. 
Remember who loved you first, before the foundation of the world. 
Remember who rescues you, and who holds you perfectly under a covering of grace. 
Remember who will be your relentless advocate, your guide. 
Remember that God is Father. He is dad. 
Remember who gives you breath. 
You, my dear, are meant to be. 
And you are priceless, matchless, and rare. 
Today, and every day, I pray you get a glimpse of how loved you are. 

the treasure book.

Let me set the scene for you. I was in junior high. Seventh grade to be exact. 12 years old. I didn't have braces yet, and my teeth were wretched. I wanted to be a professional singer and actress (like seriously. it was no joke for me), and I was unashamedly a teacher's pet. I was ridiculously good at English, and equally as awful at math. 
It was that year that Jesus sparked a fire in my soul. I couldn't get enough of His presence. and I couldn't get enough of His Word. I read my Teen Life Application Bible (it was purple faux leather and had my name on it) like it was fresh, wild air, and I'd been suffocating my whole life. 
I could sit for hours and soak it all in. Reading. Underlining. Circling. I was writing notes in the margins, highlighting entire sections, ear-marking pages. I didn't want to forget that particular Psalm, and I wanted to make sure and come back to that chapter in Ephesians. I kept my favorite verses on neon notecards, taping them up alongside youth group trip photos and cute catch phrases from Brio mag, Focus on the Family's teen magazine alternative. 
I wanted Scripture to be tangible. I wanted to hold it in my hands. 
Then storms happened. Because life is full of thistles, you know. I was starting high school, after all. I was hurt. I was tattered. I was bruised. The mucky water was slamming against doors and windows, and some nights... it would seep into my heart. The water left friendships streaked and wrinkled, hopes and dreams disintegrated and ripped, and the Bible memory verses ran together like some dark watercolor in my brain. 
Everything began to be muddled together, my life somehow a sopping mess. 
Now I'm in college. Nursing school. and as I study the intricacies of the human body and I journey with our incredible little cohort family and I hear patient's stories, I find my analytical voice quieting. Slowly, slowly. I hear more elaborate melodies in most things these days. I see the complexity and hope of a faith in Jesus that is so very much a process, a journey. I see the unmistakeable beauty and the richness of a life that is devoted to worship. 
Except I struggle with something: The Bible. 
And here is where I get brutally honest. 
I've read the Bible in bits and pieces over the last year. A chapter or two here. A verse there. I open the book because I know that it is Truth. Because I know that it is water and I am forever thirsty. 
But sometimes?? I read the words, and they just feel like the old days. 
The words that I know best as bumper stickers and sing-along songs and felt-board Sunday School stories, they are found here first in the tissue-y paper of my ESV. The idea of not being ashamed of your faith that fueled many of my Christian t-shirt wearing, K-love listening, publicly-praying youth days is right there in Romans, clear as day. "Let the little children come to me"? Yeah, Jesus said that first. In Matthew 19. When times are hard, and you hear someone remind the hurting soul that God works all things together for good? Yep. Straight out of Romans, again. 
I spent a long time stacking together carefully chosen Bible verses into brick walls to deflect arguments. 
I was a master at the answers, before I ever really felt the weight of the questions. 
I shrugged away confusing passages with simple statements and knowing looks. 
And then the storms came, the water got in, and nothing was left untouched. 
A while ago, I went to a friend's house. She's older than me. By a decade or two. and she's so in love with Jesus.
I go because I love her and her home, and because she always seems interested in my day. I go because she is so full of wisdom. I go because she always gives me lemonade out of a mason jar, and somehow that feels like careful, thoughtful love.
She pulled out her Bible a couple weeks ago. Before school started. and she asked me if she could just read to me. 
I said yes. 
She starts to read, and I feel the memories. They're tight against my chest. 
This book, oh this beautiful book, so thick and heavy with story and song, full of complexity and mystery and perfect Love. 
I believe it is strong enough and wide enough to absorb all baggage, all fears, all apprehensions accumulated while running this race. I believe that the one true God of the Bible is big enough to handle my huge questions, my small frustrations, and my scarred memories. 
And I believe that it matters. This treasure book that Jesus wrote just for us. 
So part of disentangling myself from discontentment, worry, impatience, fear, or hurt is being willing to sit through the discomfort. To feel it, to recognize it. To pray into it. 
and to stay. 
I am in tears now as she reads. 
The Bible is open in front of her, her countenance open and curious and kind. She reads the passage aloud: "And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen His glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth... and from His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace." 
It almost takes my breath away. 
That phrase, grace upon grace. 
The rain is falling again. But this time, the words are, too. His Words. It's a downpour of redemption, of glory, of new lessons, of hope. 
And quietly, slowly, all things are being made new. 

spaghetti sauce, justin bieber, and the list.

Perfect Spouse List: A method for encouraging young people to practice patience and fidelity to a future spouse by listing the qualities they hope the person will carry. 
Somehow, we got this idea that it would be good to list out the qualities that we wanted in a future spouse. and it caught wild. 
We were a generation of young, Christian girls, feasting on a diet of Nicholas Sparks movies and Gilmore Girls. In the Christian romance novels we kept bedside, the heroine's love interest was most definitely a surfer with blue eyes and missionary ambitions. 
We knew exactly what our future husbands would look like (right, Kaylin??!), and we were madly ripping out college-ruled notebook paper, planning fairy-tale futures in loopy cursive. 
My future husband will love God. 
My future husband will buy me flowers on Valentine's Day. 
My future husband will pray with me every night. 
My future husband will open the car door for me. Always. 
Occasionally, hearts dotted our i's. 
Marriage was the finish line. The place we all wanted to be, the line on the horizon where all the pinks and oranges swirl in the hazy dawn. It was far. But it was perfect. And we couldn't wait. 
There was a lot of pressure not to settle. Not to make the wrong choice. To wait for The One, to keep your heart wholly together until you found him. 
He would be your Christian Prince Charming, with Justin Bieber hair and Billy Graham faith. The two of you would get married, work with the youth group, and be madly in love. 
At least that's what we wrote on the list. 
I find it all sort of ironic now. This list of expectations in a faith that screams grace. 
We fail. We fail, we fail, we fail. Yet Jesus comes anyway. He came anyway. His feet grow dusty on our weary dirt roads, and He chooses us. Every time. Us who cannot live up to the lists. He settles down deep into the pain and the story and the challenge and the love in it all. 
I'm not married. Yet. 
But I watch. I take in the marriages around me. 
and here's what I've learned: I don't need the man I marry to match the list I made at 15. 
That list, buried in the winter camp journal, in some big Rubbermaid storage bin, is hollow. Its voice echoes, lonely, under the high ceilings of the unattainable and the unnecessary.
The beauty of marriage is in the reality. In the pain and in the drudgery, in the mundane and the ordinary.
I watch her. and she makes a sweet comment about how handsome he is in that old hoodie sweatshirt.  He is sometimes doing the dishes, and sometimes he is not. He is watching The Bachelor with her. He is bent over his remote, playing some video game she doesn't understand. He grabs her hand and twirls her in the kitchen: dancing, just for a moment. She says something cutting; he is silent, distant in anger. They ride it out, together. Apologies are exchanged. They're laughing again. He's barbecuing. She's tossing dried cranberries into the salad. He prays. She smiles. He is throwing the children high up in the air, getting them all riled up before bedtime. Group hug time. 
That's marriage. At least I think so. 
I am praying today that I will continue to dream big dreams for my marriage. Big dreams are good. Necessary, even. But I'm also praying that my big dreams will be a clear reflection of God's heart and design for a man and his wife. 
I'm praying that I would remember that our shared journey of faith won't always look like hands folded together in bed during long evening prayers. Instead, our life together will be a conversation we are always having. It's the way we keep at it, relentless, when life is hard. It's going to church. It's skipping church while he reads the newspaper in his big comfy chair, and I write at the kitchen table. It's fighting and apologizing, compromising and learning. It's a quick kiss on the lips. 
It's finding his shaved stubble trails along the bathroom sink. It's the leftover spaghetti sauce getting crusty in the unwashed pan. It's the toothpaste tubes, the toilet paper rolls, and the bars of soap. 
That's love. 
It's real. It's messy. 
It's beautiful. 
It's breathtakingly beautiful in its complexity, its simplicity, its wholeness, and its brokenness. 
Wishing you love today, whatever that looks like for you.