lion heart.

Two weeks ago, I almost shut my blog down. 
and this is the story of why I didn't. 
I was seventeen years old when I realized that I could write. I remember the day well. It was one of those impressionable days, the kind that engrave themselves kindly inside of you. It was quiet- her class was always quiet- but that day seemed especially reverent. I went there daily, the obvious reason being because I had to attend class, the other because it was a sanctuary of sorts. In those days, I needed a safe place. I still do sometimes, I suppose. 
It was November, I think, and the rain was pouring hard outside. My seat was close to the window so I could see the pools of water collecting in the chasm between the cement and the grass. I was tired, but so awake. There weren't very many literature inclined people in our class; most people just showed up so they could graduate. I showed up because I thought I might be found. 
That's usually why I write, I guess. 
She started off class in her usual way, with some inspiring quote and a quick word of prayer. And then she said, just like she'd said all the days before, "And remember, when you write: write from what you know." 
It's one of the best pieces of advise I've been given, unbeknownst to me at the time. Because I didn't know a lot then, not really. I didn't know that the pain, the trauma, and the heartbreak that I'd experienced mattered. I didn't know I could write from what I knew, when all I seemed to know felt terribly secretive and shameful. 
But I did know words held power. I knew this because of how their power had affected me. There are words I've read in books that I could quote to you, words that have impressed themselves deep into the folds of who I am. 
Those are the kinds of words I wanted to write. 
I thought about what I knew, pondered what seemingly unimportant thing I could offer to the world. I wanted my words to be grand and bold and impossibly profound. I wanted them to be remembered... because I thought maybe those were the only words that mattered. 
A week earlier I had written an essay. That day my teacher returned it to me. When she came to me, she smiled. I leaned in to read the comment that was written near the top. 
Alyssa, it said, you have the heart of a lion. 
I remembering sitting there for a long moment, staring at the red cursive that inked the paper. The words blurred in front of me. Maybe I could write? Maybe I had something to say?
Then I packed up my things, shoved the paper into a folder, and promptly forgot about it. 
Until yesterday. When out of the blue, the words appeared again. In a vox. *If you don't know what voxer is, go look it up in the app store. It will change your life.* 
Anyway, there they were. Those same words. Five years later. 
"You are a lion-heart."
I walked into my bedroom and dug for that paper from all those years ago, hidden deep inside a box labeled "high school english". I found it. I found it, and I wept. 
Sometimes I feel that lion-heart inside of me. But other times, like two weeks ago, I don't. I feel shy, insignificant. 
Those letters from yesterday, and from five years ago are now permanently embedded inside of me. When she wrote that, the words I had written- the ones I knew surely lacked knowledge and poise and depth- suddenly mattered. 
I write because I'd be wasting a gift that Jesus gave me if I didn't. I write because I have something to say. I write because I hope maybe you'll see a glimpse of the Father's deep desire for you. I write because I love it. 
So whatever your giftings are, use them. I wish I could take you by the shoulders and get you to take the time to see your worth, see your bravery, and see your necessity. 
As for me, I'm going to keep writing. 
Because words matter. 
I hope you trust me when I say this- there's someone out there who will never forget the words you've given them. 
They said I have the heart of a lion. A lion is courage, is boldness, is strength. Lion heart. Brave heart, bold heart. My heart. It beats strong, and it beats courageous. They said I have the heart of a lion. 
Maybe someday I'll believe that it's mine. 
Your words matter. 
and so do you. 
Much love.

mom, momma, mother.

I went to New York last week. And I had a blog post written detailing all of the beautiful, hilarious, magical moments. But instead of filling you all in on the best graduation surprise ever, I want to just talk about moms. 
Mother's Day is quickly approaching, you know. It's a holiday I've loathed since I was tiny, and I have never looked forward to it. 
But this year, I'm taking a look at my world. I'm spending some hours and minutes digging deep into my mother-heart. And I'm finding a couple of things. Over and over again. 
1. I was made to mother.  2. I am rich with mothers. 
I was made to mother. I mother everyday. Without knowing it or calling it "mothering", I mother the world that shows up at my doorstep. I mother even though I'm not married and even though I've not squeezed a hand during a contraction. 
I mother. 
Because I'm called to it. 
This desperate catapult of a life-jacket to a drowning sister, toddler, teenager, working professional, grandmother with soft and thin skin, or that blonde ragamuffin who always shows up at your door the second you've turned off the ignition. 
I mother because I can't not. 
I mother because there are hearts that have been hurt and need a soft, safe place to simply come undone. I mother because the toddler needs help going potty and because the eighth grader kissed a boy. I mother because she locked her keys in the car so I call AAA for her and wait. 
Because, of course. 
This is what mothers do. 
I've watched it. 
You give yourselves away, little bits and pieces of who you are. of your courage, of your deep faith. Even on the nights when you're most afraid. You bear down and find ways to bring life to people just desperate for air. 
The mothers. Wrinkled foreheads and hands wrung wondering if they matter. 
I see you. You matter. 
I see you. Throwing your hair up in a ponytail when you hear "mama!" coming from down the hall as you wipe sleep from your eyes. I see you grabbing coffee as you smile across the countertop. 
I see you. Choosing to take the phone and listen to the scared and crying high schooler as she wonders how she will make it one more day. 
I see you. At the store with your yoga pants, little Superman hanging off the side of the cart, and the baby in the seat chewing on the handle. I see your kids eating their toast, still in their pajamas with little Elsas all over. I see your patience as you answer the thirty-fourth question in five minutes while simultaneously finding the groceries on your list. And the smile you give them. I see that too. 
I see you. Hauling your two littles into McDonald's (yes, McDonalds). One kid hanging on your leg as your maneuver the infant car seat. I see you chasing down little Houdini as he escapes from your hand yet again. I see your exasperated sigh... and I watch it dissipate as you see that ketchup smeared smile and can't help but smile back. 
I see you. Staying up until the wee hours of the morning to make sure he is home safe. 
I see you. Running a classroom of thirty with ease, as though it's the highest privilege and pleasure and you can't imagine being anywhere else. I see how they watch you. and I see how they love you. 
I see you. Reading Go Dog Go for the fourteenth time in a row, giggling with your tiny one each time you get to the fancy hat-with-all-the-things-hanging-off part. Yes, I see the laundry in the corner. But then I see you snuggle in close, smile, and go for the fifteenth time. 
I see you. Striking up conversation with the widowed man at the dog park. I see how he lights up at your interest in his story, at your interest in who he is. I see how you light up, too. 
I see you. When the little tap on your shoulder comes one too many times and before you can think, the words, "Just STOP it already" come spilling out and cut deep and you feel terrible. I see you doing the hard thing... swooping down with an "I'm sorry" and kisses and a big heap of humility. And I see the smile you share. 
I see you. Reminding her of her worth, reminding her that her cancer is not her definition. Reminding her of her identity. Reminding her of the promises. Reminding her of goodness. I see her tears of gratitude.
I see you. Exhausted and terrified that your teenage son doesn't know you love him, so you call him. Just to remind him of your undying love and forever bond. 
I see you.
I see so much incredible. I see the incredible of your normal everyday. The incredible of little people with pudgy hands calling you mama. The incredible of people calling you friend, calling you confidante, calling you a safe place. Yes, you. Messy, beautiful, grateful you. 
I see you. 
And I'm thankful for you. 
I was made to mother. 
And I am rich with mothers. My part-time mommas with full-time love and full-time heart-space. 
Erin. Ears always open. Taught me that home is a safe place that can be trusted and valued.  Erin. Tough to crack, but genuine and refreshingly honest. Taught me that risk can be responsible and dreams are necessary.  Cindy. Strong, but gentle. Taught me that vulnerability is beautiful and homemade waffles can fix any bad day.  Connie. Organized, but flexible. Taught me that spontaneity is worth it and marriage is forever. Mandy. Selfless and hospitable. Taught me that the cliche isn't crazy; moms can be your best friends.  Carolyn. Beautifully patient. Taught me that spilled milk can be easily cleaned and family is a priority. *I miss you* Pam and April. My long lost nanny and her mama. Taught me that love withstands distance and time.  Brandi. Faithful and true. Taught me that perseverance pays off and consistency is key. 
I am rich with mothers.
Rich with mothers who taught me that I was made to mother. 
Happy Mother's day, mommas. I get to watch a generation rise up because of you. and I couldn't be more grateful. 
Much love.

cancer, culture, and boundaries.

I'm reading this book. Not because I want to. It's required. For school. (*can we pause here and please note that I'm so.over.school.) This book. It's filled with insultingly simple questions, and I find it mind-numbing. 
Boundaries. 
It's what the book is titled. Boundaries, that cliche Christian book on emotional health, promises to teach readers "when to say yes, when to say no, and how to take control of your life." My copy has an image of a white picket fence with a heart shaped hole in its gate, but Amazon shows me a low rock wall instead. The wall is downright quaint. It separates green grass from more green grass from a beautiful blue sky. Boundaries. 
The happy freedom of the Christian life can be mine if I only build a low, sturdy wall around the beating center of my heart. 
At a mandatory 10:20 chapel, I get a text message. It's vague, but I know what it means. 
She has cancer. 
"Boundaries help keep the good in and the bad out", write Cloud and Townsend on page 31 of Boundaries. I try to catch my breath, as I feel my insides dissolving and attempting to rebuild. I feel the impact again and again. 
"Boundaries help us distinguish our property so that we can take care of it," the book continues. And it occurs to me in an instant that evil doesn't care one little bit about your pretty brick walls, your property. Sometimes darkness and pain just crashes into you, and your patch of perfectly maintained interior landscape is scorched in the resulting brushfire of grief. 
It's been one year since I got that text message. and in it's wake, I've got a handful more just like it. I'm thinking today about all that I have built around myself. 
Therapists love to talk about saying no, about self-care, about creating a kind of sustainability for your own soul. 
and all of that is great. really. don't get me wrong. 
But as I walk to the edge of my gated heart today to remember all that the last year has held, I wonder about these "boundaries" I have built. Are they really about health, or are they about comfort? In my effort to be well, have I insulated myself from the sharp grief of the world? Have I missed out on opportunities to love well in the name of "protecting myself"? It all just sounds so selfish. 
So much of the way we interact with others in their grief, or suffering, or even just stress... is ritualistic. We bow our heads to say a quick prayer. We send a text offering to help, knowing that most likely the answer will be a "thanks, but no thanks." We make a meal and drop it off. We write checks or stuff bags full of clothes. We put a dollar in a can for a disabled veteran, or we just don't say anything at all. And then we promptly forget all about it. 
In becoming our heart's own gatekeepers, choosing what is "good" and what is "bad", what to let in and what to keep out, I think we might have missed the point. 
It is, after all, the hard things that make us softer. More full of grace. More like Jesus. The things that we are so determined to keep out- the pain and stress and grief of other people's lives- those are the things that Jesus lets all the way in. 
So maybe the best way to honor the brave women in my world is to step out from behind my walled-in heart. Maybe I can honor them by being brave enough to enter someone else's turmoil and be present. 
Grief, after all, is grief. Stress, after all, is stress. Frustration, after all, is frustration. No matter the magnitude or the news coverage or the shock value. Pain is pain. The world is cruel and hard and ambivalent towards our efforts to protect ourselves, and maybe the bravest thing we can do is walk into someone else's struggling heart and just stay. 
And the thing is? There's a good chance you'll feel useless. Like there's nothing you can do, so why should you be there at all? Don't worry. That means you're in the right place. Sit down. You don't have to say anything at all. Set out the dinner, but don't force her to eat. Pack away the leftovers with care. Stay until the house is quiet and the lights have dimmed. Stay through your own discomfort and your own pain and your own awkwardness. Stay despite your busy. Leave only when it's time to go. 
This is how we change a culture steeped in messy: by climbing over the low, brick walls of our own boundaries and into each other's story. We change culture by saying yes when it would be easier, more comfortable, less time-consuming to say no.
We hoist our lanterns and walk humbly. We move one step at a time across the surface of a fire-scorched world, arms open wide, hearts beating loud and unprotected in our chests. 
To those who have held the lantern for me, and refused to leave until it was time to go: thank you.  And to those riddled with grief, riddled with pain, riddled with heartache, it is my privilege and joy to hold the lantern for you. 
Wishing you a week of torn down walls and authenticity. 

when Mary gave me hope.

"But the angel said to her, 'Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call Him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David, and He will reign over Jacob's descendants forever; His kingdom will never end.'" Luke 1:30-33. 
I decided to just flip through the gospels this morning. Because I'm overwhelmed and I'm tired and I'm disappointed. So I just went back to the Christmas story. The hope story, where it all comes together and the world is saved from eternal destruction. 
And the words have been echoing in my heart ever since. I've heard them since I was a child and imagine you might have too. But this time I discovered something new. A faint whisper of the hopes that must've been born in Mary's heart that day. 
The angel didn't say that her joy would be turned to sorrow before the story was finished.  The angel didn't say her Son would be misunderstood by most and rejected by many.  The angel didn't say He will be crucified right before her eyes. 
Instead, the angel said He will be great. He will be given a throne. He will reign and His kingdom will never end. 
I don't know what was going through Mary's mind as her Son's life unfolded, but I can imagine what most likely filled her heart at times. Confusion, questioning, wondering if she heard God wrong. 
I feel that. All the time. that confusion, that questioning, that wondering if I heard God wrong. 
But this morning, Mary gave me hope. 
Just because what God has said doesn't turn out the way we pictured it doesn't mean it's not real. 
Jesus IS great.  Jesus DOES have a throne.  Jesus IS reigning over a kingdom that will never end. 
It just didn't happen the way Mary probably expected. What got her through? I imagine Mary kept praying the same prayer she did in Luke 1:38 when the angel first spoke to her: "I am the Lord's servant. May Your word to me be fulfilled". Perhaps she softly spoke it as she leaned over a manger. Maybe she spoke it every time she overheard rumors and gossip about Jesus as she stood in the local marketplace. Maybe she spoke it as a cry of grief and surrender at the foot of the cross. 
Her prayer is the prayer I will never stop praying. 
I am Your servant, Father. May Your word to me be fulfilled. 
I will say it in desperation with tears streaming down my face. I will shout it at the top of my anger-filled lungs. I will whisper it with the last bit of strength I have left. Because God is faithful, and what He has spoken will come true. 
Maybe not the way I pictured.  Maybe not the way I planned.  Maybe not the way I wanted. 
But it will happen. 
So I will continue to live in the heart of this truth. and I will not give up. 
If you are weary today, I pray you will remember that you have not been abandoned or forgotten. God is working. 
and when you least expect it, in a way that you may hardly even recognize at first, He's going to fulfill all that He has promised. 
You are His servant, and it will be to you as He has said. No matter what. 
I am His servant. and it will be to me as He has said. No matter what. 

hot pink cherry chip cake.

I walked into the kitchen this morning and found a cherry chip cake covered in hot pink icing and sprinkles. Just for me. Cherry chip cake is my most favorite kind of cake. It tastes nothing like cherries, but instead has a yummy almond/vanilla flavor. 
I ate some. and as I ate some, I tried not to cry. 
Today marks one year. 
365 days ago I took everything out of my childhood room and moved it into a new room. A room with navy blue chevron curtains and hand-sewn pillows. A room smothered in grace and a room welcoming my mess. It was a big mess. 
Let me back up and invite you into a piece of the story that isn't super fun to tell. The piece before the grace-room and victory cries. 
The childhood piece. 
My childhood was hard. It was really hard. 
It was filled with mental illness, lies, abuse, and a whole of pretending. 
I was an expert at pretending. An expert on the stage (as I filled my school days with performing arts) and off. A handful of people knew the truth, a good sum of people denied the truth, and countless people were kept in the dark regarding the truth. 
A year and a half ago, stability went from bad to worse and I knew I needed to get out. I was one test (literally. one test.) away from failing out of nursing school, and the bondage threatening to shackle my soul was almost too much to handle. almost. 
I discreetly began to house hunt. I looked into apartments and room rentals, guest houses and even permanent sleepovers at friend's houses. One by one, doors were closed. Discouragement set in and I attempted to battle it by begging for peace as I realized my lot in life was smaller and more glim than I ever would've imagined. 
Then I got a text message. It said, "We have a room for you and you are welcome to live here." 
I responded in shock, and quickly made plans to meet with them. I wept as Paul and Erin very delicately told me that it was time to learn love. 
And so began the last 365 days. of learning love. 
I had NO idea how to respond to love. I didn't know how to react when a mom wanted to hug me every chance she got, or a father wanted to know when I was going to be home at night. I didn't know that it was normal for a mom to ask about your day and actually listen to the response, and I didn't know it was normal for a father to give good, sound advice. I didn't know how to accept help and I didn't know how to say "I love you" in response to parental figures. I just didn't know. 
I didn't know how to be a daughter. 
So I learned the past year. and I continue to learn today. 
I look back at the last 12 months, and I just smile. So much progress, so much growth. 
I discovered new areas in my life that Jesus wanted to stretch and grow and blossom. I discovered healthy ways of dealing with fear and being out of my comfort zone. I discovered how to appropriately handle conflict and how to communicate more effectively. I discovered that holidays can be fun and it's normal and right to look forward to vacations with family. But most of all, I discovered just how loved I am. 
Of course, I always knew the Father loved me. But to be in an environment where that perfect Father love is embodied, where there is safety, and the Spirit of God- well, it's just unlike anything else I've ever experienced. 
I love my home and my life. I look back, and I can't believe how much life was injected into my soul in one little year. Like the defibrillator was placed on my family-aching heart and got a much needed jolt. I found my heartbeat again. 
A heartbeat that chases after truth, clings to family, and believes in the beauty of orphans coming home. 
I sit here looking at my hot pink slice of cake, and I know. beyond a shadow of a doubt: nothing is wasted. nothing. I love looking at the landscape of my 22 years and knowing that Jesus will use every failure, every success, every crooked path, and every obstacle for His glory. 
He promises to wipe tears from our eyes. 
He will turn our sorrow into rejoicing and weeping into dancing. 
He will comfort us with His rod and staff in the valley of the shadow of death. 
and He will use every bit of it for our good. 
He will waste nothing. 
Hope fuels the soul to impossible places, and that's exactly where hope took me this year. To impossible places. 
Thankful doesn't even begin to describe my heart today. 
I'm thankful for patient parents and belonging. 
I'm thankful for the bedroom down the hall that housed so much healing. 
and I'm thankful for hot pink cherry chip cake. 

pick up the torch.

I have seen my fair share of children. 

I've seen sweet ones and smart ones, wild ones and frustrating ones. I've seen perfectionists, leaders, dreamers, thinkers. I've seen deception and I've seen raw honesty. I've seen peace-carriers and I've seen joy-carriers and I've seen victory-carriers. I've seen kids in tune with the spirit realm, and I've seen kids struggling to understand the existence of God. I've seen kids who can't go two minutes without a hug and kids who would prefer to go a lifetime without a hug. I've seen excellent communicators, creative souls, and kids who would choose to jump in the mud over just about anything. 

I've seen a lot of personalities, a lot of hearts, and a lot of souls. 

But there is one piece of a child's identity that always, always sticks with me. No matter the age, gender, or maturity level. 

Any guesses on what it is??

It's gratitude. thankfulness. appreciation. 

Because here's the deal: 

How long do I really have to figure it out?

How long do I have to figure out how to live a life marked by fullness of joy? 

A life that my husband will delight in. 

A life marked by a woman who knows how to laugh at the days to come. 

A life built so that my children will have memories of a mama who smiles easy, listens long, makes jokes, and sings His praises on good days and in crazy messes, too. 

A life where the Christ in me, Joy Himself, is apparent to the world around me. 

How long do I really have?

I have no idea. 

But I know that all the minutes, they will have enough troubles of their own. I also know that the days I have with these people, in this place... they have enough joy. These days have more than enough Jesus. 

I just have to choose to see. 

Perspective can always, always adopt gratitude. 

And gratitude always parents joy. 

So I work on seeing. 

And sometimes, I get to work on seeing together. 

Like I said, I've seen a lot of kids. and in many cases, I have quite a bit of authority. Not only in their daily activities and schedules, but in their hearts as well. 

So together, we can choose to see gratitude. 

Any still moment we have, we pass the imaginary baton and discuss the gratitude. 

"I am thankful for my dad. For sunshine making the air warmer. For hot soup and good bread." 

"I am thankful for cheese." 

"I am thankful for my teachers and for my house and for the color orange." 

"I am thankful for trees and I'm thankful for the alphabet and I'm thankful for juice." 

"I am thankful for shoes and for sisters and for second chances." 

"I am thankful for my toys."

Everyday, we count blessings. We grow blooms of gratitude, a perspective that helps us see more clearly. 

When we give thanks, we gain joy. All of us. 

Because what will schoolwork really matter if we are bitter souls?

If the house is immaculate, but our attitudes are a mess?

If they can count, but don't know how to count all things as joy?

If we get lists done, but have lost sight of togetherness in Him?

No amount of grammar skill will ever be worthwhile if my kids don't know the language of grace and thanks. What good would it be if they could recite all the major world wars, but they don't know how to see beauty?

Focusing on what is beautiful, good, true... isn't this the truest, most important form of education? Philippians 4:8 tells us so. 

I'm not mother, but I do have the heart of a mother. and I know this: 

Kids that are grateful have better attitudes. 

Kids that are grateful better achieve their personal goals. 

Kids that are grateful have closer relationships. 

Kids that are grateful do better in school. 

Kids that are grateful have greater energy, attentiveness, and enthusiasm. 

Kids that are grateful have greater sensitivity. 

Kids who are grateful just live overall "happier" lives. 

Why?? How can gratitude do all of this? 

It's simple really. 

We were made to live in gratitude to God, giving glory to Him. 

We were made to live in a posture of grateful worship. When we live in praise, we live our purpose. 

We hand children a torch when we hand them the opportunity to be grateful, a dare to hunt for His beauty and goodness. Sparks fall and the world catches and they see light everywhere, God-glory igniting everything. 

Hand them the torch. 

Please. Please hand them the torch. Invite kids to be grateful with you. 

I don't know what that looks like for you. Maybe it's turning off the music on the way to school and beginning the day with a list of things each person is grateful for. Maybe it's keeping a journal, full of things you notice throughout the day that are beautiful, things that you love. Maybe it's writing a card once a week to someone in your work environment, school environment, home environment telling them why you're grateful for them. Maybe it's creating a thankfulness jar- filling up a space with reminders of gratitude to pull from on the crappy days. 

Maybe it needs to start a whole lot simpler than that. Maybe it's learning to say thank you for breakfast, learning to say thank you for ballet lessons, learning to say thank you for gifts and surprises. 

Or maybe you already know a life of gratitude. Maybe you already live from a place of acknowledgement, and are looking for the beauty. I am proud of you. and I am grateful for you. Keep going. Even on the days it's hard, I'm sure you can testify to it's worthiness. 

I've seen a lot of kids. 

But the grateful ones?

The grateful ones are never far from my mind. 

Hey, parents? THANK YOU. Your grateful child makes my heart beam with pride. 

My watch is ticking quiet today. 

I don't know how long I have to live full of His joy. 

But I do have right now. 

And if perspective adopts gratitude and gratitude parents joy, I will pick up the torch and run fierce and long and hard to be that kind of student, friend, daughter, sister, spouse, parent. 

The one who chooses gratitude.

yes.

2014 changed my life. 
2014 took everything I knew, everything I thought I wanted, everything I had dreamed, everything I had cried over, everything I longed for. 2014 took it. and 2014 flipped it upside down, viciously shook it, then somehow set it upright again. 
2014 changed my life. 
2014 was the year I moved out. Not just moved out, but moved IN. Moved into stability, moved into grace, and moved into peace. Moved into a home marked by Holy Spirit love and Jesus contentment. 
2014 was the year I stepped down from a five year commitment serving in the kid's wing at church. 
2014 was the year my dear friend Emma got married. 
2014 was the year I said "absolutely yes" when a handsome boy named Brett asked me to be his girlfriend. (remember this blog post? it makes me laugh). 
2014 was the year my biological parents told me they were getting a divorce. 
2014 was the year I realized that being a big sister is even better than being a princess. 
2014 was the year my best friend Rebecca got engaged. 
2014 was the year God made it clear I would go into psychiatric nursing, coming alongside those who are forgotten and stigmatized. 
2014 was the year I claimed belonging. 
2014 was the year that truth was exposed and darkness was brought into the light. 
2014 was the year I met Cindy and the year I met Michelle, two women who fiercely loved me and championed my heart. 
2014 was the year I was bombarded with tragic stories, death, and emotionally impossible situations.
2014 was the first time that holidays were met with excitement and there were too many people to count present at the dinner table. 
2014 was the year I began an extremely hard, extremely valuable healing process that drew me straight to the heart of Jesus, asking Him to mend the broken pieces of my soul. 
2014 was the year my bosses bought me a Disneyland ticket for Christmas and I almost cried. 
2014 was the year I went to bed at 10 o'clock on New Year's Eve.  ... Oh wait {just kidding} I do that every year. 
2014 was wild. 
and 2014 changed my life. 
I look ahead at 2015, and I wait with great anticipation to see how God will move and shake. 
2015 is going to change my life. 
It's going to be the year of "YES." 
I woke up this morning fully immersed in the Holy Spirit's desire for me this year. 
It's a yes year. 
I'm kind of known for "no." 
No, you can't. No, that's not a good idea. No, put that away. No, I'm not going. No, let's not. No, not now. 
And those are solely the ones directed to others. No one can know of the ones I speak only to myself, about myself, for myself. 
No, you can't be that. No, you can't do that. No good, no chance, no hope. 
Or how about the ones I try to veil, the ones I shamefully stomp at God? 
No, I don't want this! No, I'm not doing that! No, don't change this! No, leave that alone! No, don't ask this of me!
What we speak to others is what we speak to ourselves. And what we speak to ourselves is what we then speak to God. 
I have wrecked two whole decades with that two letter "no" that falls so easily from the end of my tongue, steady drip like a faulty tap. With two letters of the heavy iron, I've crushed. I've crushed hope, dreams, desires. 
True, it's the mantra of national campaigns. "just say no" is a part of every high school routine.  True, it's what is suggested we learn to say in an effort to simplify our lives in the face of constant demands on time. "Learn to say no", they say.  True, it's necessary and vital that we choose "no" in regard to sin and in regard to darkness and in regard to evil. 
But I woke up this morning, thinking back on 2014, and I know this is the year. 
I am done with "no." 
This is the year of yes. 
Yes, as in: 
"Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure." Luke 10:21 "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you." John 21:16 "For no matter how many promises God has made, they are 'yes' in Christ." 2 Corinthians 1:20
This is the year of yes. 
Yes, let this moment be just as You intend it.  Yes, Your will be done. Not mine.  Yes, you have my whole heart. For my whole life. 
This is the year of yes. 
Yes, He made me and designed me. Perfectly! Yes, I can try!  Yes, be creative!  Yes, laugh! Yes, give it a whirl! Yes, it's really okay! Don't be afraid!
This is the year of yes. 
It's the year that I will kneel down and peer into eager faces and say, "Yes, you can!" and "Yes, that's a brilliant idea!" and "Yes, you can make that dream a reality!" 
Yes, honor. Yes, love. Yes, submit. 
Every command of "thou shalt not" ultimately is a simultaneous "yes" to Christ. 
So I choose yes. 
For every no, I will find the yes. and I will be glad in it. 
I slip out of bed and into a fresh new year. 
Into the year of yes.