Hands down, the question I get asked most often is some version of: "Are you glad you turned down a nursing position?" followed closely by, "What is it exactly that you DO?"
My answer to the first question is always a wholehearted YES.
And my answer to the second question is usually cut off by some sort of assumption.
"oh, that's right. You're the secretary."
"oh, that's right. You're the nanny."
"oh, that's right. You're a barista."
Or my personal favorite: "Oh, that's right. You're the Dutch Bros. nurse!"
So, here's a few answers to set the record straight.
I love my job. I've never loved a job more than I love this job.
I work for Dutch Bros., a drive-thru coffee company chain headquartered in Grants Pass, Oregon with franchise locations across the western United States. More specifically, I work directly for and directly with two of those franchisees.
I'm not a secretary, though some days it feels like it. I answer phone calls, send emails, and keep things organized.
I'm not a nanny. While I love my bosses boys, I'm not their nanny. Chelsea is. And she's fabulous.
I'm not a barista. I don't work in any of our seven stands, though you might see me in and out of them on occasion for various reasons. However, we DO have the best baristas around and I would be proud to work alongside them.
I'm not the Dutch Bros. nurse. HA! Although I did have a conversation with one of the assistant managers last night about icing her knee after running a half marathon. Does that count?!
Now that we've gotten through what I'm NOT, here's what I AM.
I'm a personal assistant for the best entrepreneurs I know. I get to partner with them and champion their dreams and their visions and their goals, and do practical things along the way to see that their business thrives.
And now comes the most obvious question. WHY? Why did I choose this? Why did I turn down an incredible job offer? Why am I "not using" a degree I worked so hard for?
I think the easiest way for me to describe it is to take a look at Abraham's life.
The man chosen by God to become a father of a nation, a man of blessing, of promise. The man that made some serious mistakes in his time.
Like the time he told his wife to pretend she was his sister so the Egyptians wouldn't kill him. And Pharaoh went and made her his wife. Then Abraham did the same thing with her again later on! Interestingly enough, the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. Abraham's son Isaac did the exact same thing with his wife, Rebekah.
And then there was the time when he listened to his wife and took her made, Hagar, into his bed so she would conceive a child for him and Sarah. That didn't turn out so well.
BUT. Abraham was faithful. Even if he was fully human and prone to take matters into his own hands. He loved his Father, and he eventually stopped questioning the promises of God and just obeyed wholeheartedly, trusting Him completely.
And then in Genesis 25:8, we see that Abraham "breathed his last and died in a ripe old age, an old man and satisfied with life."
He died satisfied.
Abraham messed up in some pretty major ways. But he died satisfied with his life.
He was chosen, just as you and I are chosen, for this time in this culture. We are chosen. And when we follow the God who has chosen us, trusting in the calling we may not even know we have over our lives, we will live satisfied. Because what I've learned from Abraham is that maybe being satisfied with our lives isn't so much about the past mistakes or the messes we've made, but the willingness to follow a faithful God with wholehearted devotion.
Maybe living satisfied is about trusting the One who holds all my days.
Maybe living satisfied is about getting up when I fall down, changing direction if need be, and keeping on, gaze set on Jesus.
Maybe living satisfied is about making wide-awake choices, knowing that God lets my decisions stand. My choosing matters.
Maybe living satisfied is about believing that God has a purpose for all my days, planned before the world began, for such a time as this. And my job is to trust Him. To keep moving forward, knowing that nothing is wasted and everything is for His glory and my good.
That's why I chose this job. Because I belong here. Because He gave me peace here.
This is how I'm going to live. With full surrender to Christ, arms high and heart abandoned. Because I want to live a faithful, satisfied life. I want to look back over my life one day, and before I breathe my last breath, feel the peace of satisfaction over my life. I lived well. I followed Jesus. I was faithful.
If you're trying to decide whether or not to step over the edge of "responsibility" and choose into something that's scary, that's risky, thats wild... but there's peace there? I'm your biggest cheerleader.
Your degree, your credential, the letters behind your name? They don't have to define you.
Praying this week for a little more resolve in all of us to be who we were created to be. Unapologetically. Fully. Relentlessly.
Four days ago, I sat in a meeting that changed the course of my life forever.
I almost didn't go. and then my boss said, "It's really important to me that you be there."
So I went. Mostly for my boss.
I walked away and stepped into the most exhausting, terrifying, rewarding, revealing couple of days.
I had a massive decision to make, and I didn't even know where to begin.
I have spent countless hours in tears, countless hours in worship, and countless hours in processing.
and after pouring over three open doors, three ridiculously good decisions, and three places where my heart seems to fit perfectly, I have come to a decision and am preparing to walk through a door.
Chris and Erin, for as long as you need me it would be my privilege and honor to run with you as you continue to pursue with excellence all that is in your hearts.
See, here's the thing.
I am not brave.
I like safety. I like control. I like comfort.
But I said YES to Jesus at the beginning of this year, and I meant it. I didn't know where it would take me, but I knew that I couldn't live another day for myself, in my safe "be careful" world. I didn't know that saying YES would bring me to this crossroads, a journey of wild obedience and endless possibility.
But it has.
There has never been a wild thing about me. Not my hair, not my clothes, not my lifestyle. I mean, I go to bed at 9pm. I have always lived a calculated, well-planned, safe life.
But now, I'm tucking a God-sized yes under my belt.
I am terrified. and yet I am at peace.
I don't need more courage to live out my faith. I don't need more bravery.
I just need peace to look fear in the face and discover that His love is the cure for what scares me.
Whether it's losing my life for the sake of the gospel or dying to my wayward flesh, I am choosing to let fear strengthen me. Fear is a present weakness; but it is also a catalyst to keep saying yes.
I turned down a job offer today. and accepted another one in the same breath.
You must know, I'm scared to death. But I have peace in my fear.
"Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it. Submit to death; death of your ambitions and wishes and death of your whole body. Submit with every fiber of your being, and you will find eternal life." - C.S. Lewis
Fear isn't just uncertainty wrapped up in the unknown. When we peel back the laters, we discover a lack of trust and a loss of control. That's the root of fear.
Our yes to God should scare us.
Not to keep us immobile, but to keep us dependent on the One who asks us to say it in the first place.
Fear keeps us moving towards the Father.
The times I have been most afraid in my life- exposing lies I believed throughout my childhood, stepping into a patient's room for the first time, saying no to security and yes to a God-sized dream- these are the moments when I have felt most alive.
We think playing it safe and living within our comfort zone is the way to feel alive. But when we get dirt under our nails and follow Jesus into risky places, this is where we realize that our comfort was actually slowly killing our joy.
Yes, there is fear in obedience. But peace will keep me on the journey.
And the joy that follows our yes to God? It's wild.
I don't know what scares you today, what keeps you up at night, clinging to comfort. But can I encourage you to be brave today??
Make that phone call. Ask or receive forgiveness. Send that email.
Do something that scares you just a little. Go a little deeper.
Be brave today.
"I commend to you our sister, Phoebe, who is a servant of the church which is at Cenchrea; that you receive her in the Lord in a manner worthy of the saints, and that you help her in whatever matter she may have need of you; for she herself has also been a helper of many, and of myself as well." Romans 16:1-2.
Phoebe. I'd never heard of her until my third semester of nursing school when I knew I wasn't going to be a "traditional" hospital nurse. I'd never heard of her, but here she was, praised by Paul, listed not only as a helper to many, but also a servant. The Greek word used in this passage for helper is the word "prostatis", which means, "a woman set over others" or "caring for the affairs of others and aiding them with her resources."
This Phoebe?? She had influence. She had respect. She was able to use her resources to care for others, and viewed as a leader. She had a servant's heart.
My study Bible makes this comment regarding Phoebe: "Even wealth, position, and influence do not relieve a woman of the responsibility of humble service."
Humble service. I read this passage two years ago, and I began to ask myself a few questions.
As a nurse, how can I use my resources to best serve my community?
As a daughter, how can I use what God has given me to best care for my family?
As a co-worker, how can I use my talents to lift up those around me and offer words of encouragement?
As a writer, how can I use my words to bring glory to God?
I would rather live life as a humble servant than life with a heart made heavy with selfishness. I would rather find myself in a position of prostatis than position myself above others. It is in those Phoebe moments, when He uses me anonymously, selflessly, and humbly that I find myself filled with the most joy.
In light of this, it is with deep joy and humble gratitude that I step into my dream job.
I will be a public health nurse on the Nurse-Family Partnership Team.
A job description that reads as follows: "part nurse, part social-worker, part mental health counselor, part mom, and part best friend."
This feels like a Phoebe moment.
and may there be many more Phoebe moments to come as I come alongside beautiful women and beautiful children and tell them what has been true since the day they were born: they are capable, they are worthy, and they are loved.
Alyssa, RN, PHN. Couldn't be more excited if I tried.
I am not going to write a post about the vaccination decision in California today.
I am not going to write a post about the legalization of gay marriage.
I am not going to write any kind of post in which I put forth an opinion in an effort to gain some kind of following or recognition, and I'm definitely not going to write a post in an effort to convince you that my way is right and your way is wrong.
I'm not going to. I promise. BUT...
Did you know that a 17 year old girl named Kodi died in my town on Sunday after driving into an embankment and rolling her car? 17. She was 17. Seventeen. As in still a child. 17.
Did you know that nine people died while at church in South Carolina earlier this month?
Did you know that a man in Japan set himself on fire earlier this morning while riding a commuter train, killing himself along with another passenger?
Did you know that there are babies born every.single.day addicted to methamphetamine, cocaine, or opiates?
Did you know that dozens of people died today during a plane crash in Indonesia?
Did you know that countless people have cancer, and are fighting a daily battle of life and death?
Did you know this stuff? I did.
... One of my favorite things about growing up in California is the sun. No, I'm not a sun-goddess. My fragile and pale skin has never stood a chance against the intensity of our sun-saturated sky. But I still love it.
Though I love the lake days and the sticky popsicle afternoons with kids, my most favorite thing is the early morning. The hours when the world is still quiet and I can just be alone and wait.
I wait as darkness looms all around. I wait, though there is a heaviness in the air, a stillness that seems as intractable as it is dense. I wait.
I wait, because eventually the moment comes when darkness gives way to a new day. The sky is painted the most delicate array of color. And in that moment, everything changes. I wait for that moment, because every single day the sun rises and I am reminded that the darkness doesn't last forever. The light always comes.
I know there are times when it feels as though the darkness before dawn will go on forever. Each of us will have moments, maybe even seasons, where the struggles of life threaten to overwhelm, to shake us from our safe and familiar bearings and walk us into the coldest, harshest places.
Light in those spaces can seem so foreign, so decidedly out of reach.
So here's what I'm doing my best to remember, on the bad days and on the good days, too.
- Hold on. Though everything in us feels as though there's no hope, joy comes in the morning. Your joy will come. It may not feel like it today, but just as sure as the sun rises and sets, you can be sure that this too will pass. Darkness cannot last forever. Trust that there is light beyond the darkness. Morning is coming. and it will be better than you can possibly imagine.
- Listen. When I am going through a difficult season, often my only focus is getting out of the season. I long for relief. If I could, I'd put on my running shoes and run as far and as fast as possible away from pain. But no matter what, we've got to listen. What are you teaching me, Father? How are you refining me? We can find purpose in the pain.
- Be compassionate and truthful. Sometimes when the light is dim and hope seems so far away, we have the tendency to be seriously critical and condemning. Our thinking becomes both extreme as well as negative. It is crucial that we begin to be compassionate and truthful. The truth is that His banner over us is love. His light reaches into the deepest, darkest places. He is our light and our salvation. We are completely and fully loved by God.
If you are struggling today, I promise you that the morning is coming. Just hold on. Just listen. Just be compassionate and truthful.
Light is made brighter and more brilliant when it is displayed against the backdrop of darkness. His light will be made more breathtaking and miraculous against the backdrop of your night. He can take all darkness and transform it into light.
Trust Him.
Even in the midst of the darkest nights, there is a sunrise coming.
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.
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.
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.
