One of my worst nightmares came true a couple weeks ago. I hit the publish button on my essay and sighed the sigh of satisfaction that comes after pouring myself into bending words and letters until they fit (as closely as they can anyway) to the ideas in my head. It had all come together. I had proofed and read, and reread and rewrote and finally it was finished.

Until my husband called less than five minutes later (a very faithful subscriber indeed).

“Hey, you left the AI prompt at the top of your post.”

I didn’t even say anything in reply. I just pushed the bile that was threateningly burning my throat back down as I frantically hung up and opened my computer back up trying not to let my tears soak the keyboard.

But it was too late. Anyone who clicked that link that came to their email would see it. They would see the proof that I was a fraud. They would see that I used AI as a grammar check and they would write me off as a sham, a writer wanna be, one of “those” creatives who have given into the dark side and embraced the artificial.

I lost one of my subscribers within the first few minutes.

I wanted to immedietly write something to explain myself, or justify myself or something. But the time I had set aside to write was over. The demands of life already pulling me from the desk.

In fact, everything you have read thus far was actually written last week (a week after my embarassing fiasco) and I am just now getting a chance to sit down and finish what I wanted to say, now two weeks after my humiliation.

But I think that was the Lord’s design. I am a notorious people pleaser. I care way too much what people think of me. And He knew I just needed to sit with the thing and accept the fact that people would come to their own conclusions with or without me “explaining.” And I needed to sit and think about why it all bothered me so much.

For one thing, I was kicking myself because I had recently happened on some information that Megan Davenport shared on her Substack about writing an AI policy, using AI well etc. You can find it here. And I thought to myself I should do that. I think it is important as the AI presence grows for writers to define their limits and boundaries and let their readers know how/if/when/why it plays a part in their work.

It’s just I am still figuring out how I even feel about AI in general. Does anyone else feel like it’s caught them a bit by surprise? Like one day it was a buzz word, something techy people used sometimes making things somewhere else in the big wide world, and then “bam” all of sudden my search engine is spitting out a recipe with a quaint “personal “ encouragement at the top in response to my search for the Instant Pot recipe for Mississippi Roast instead of just pulling up the website of the food blog I normally find it on. Yes, I never have learned to bookmark things. Don’t judge me.

So, to be honest with you I am still sorting out what I believe about this whole AI thing from a theological and ethical point of view . I have been reading “Against the Machine” by Paul Kingsnorth, and doing some soul searching and praying and getting other’s thoughts and opinions. And anyways, long story short I wouldn’t say I hate AI, or think it has no purpose (obviously, as you will see), but overall I have decided to try to keep it at arm’s length when I’m writing.

Ah, so you see my conundrum now. Maybe you feel the tension, the hypocrisy, the contradictions in what I am saying.

So here’s my confession. I have settled on using AI in editing my personal writing(not submissions, see note below). I sometimes send the drafts to my dad, or a couple of my friends who have degrees in this thing we call English. But the fact is, sometimes those people are doing things, like their jobs to teach English grammar, so I also feed my words to a machine that usually knows grammar better than I do. There I said it, and I don’t know why it was so hard for me to admit that. I feel a strange guilt about it. Why?

That brings me to a second thing I have been reflecting on. One negative thing I think AI has brought to the table (yes, there are many, but follow me here), is the way it can divide people. And really, this is a people problem not an AI problem. We humans are very good at finding hills to die on and then screaming at the people who are standing on the other hill because we think we are better than they are. Politics, religion, school choices , dieting choices, healthcare, apple vs androids, the way we drive. You get my drift.

I’ve heard a lot of screaming about AI, downing people on the opposite side, writing them off. And it just doesn’t set well with me. That can’t be how God wants us to treat each other. I think we can have a personal policy, and I think making that clear to our readers is important, ( I should have done that when I made my decision with grammar checking) but we can do that without shaming people who think differently than us, or use AI differently than us. They are still worthy of respect; they are still human.

My college education taught me more about where to place IV’s than it did about where to place commas. I can tell you how the cardiovascular system works but sometimes I struggle with where to put colons and semicolons. In fact, when I see those words, all I can think about is all the colostomy bags I’ve changed and wonder how in the world we came to use the same word to describe a punctuation mark and a part of our digestive tract. I’m sure there is a fascinating answer. My point is, as a Registered Nurse, though I learned and actually loved, English Grammar, I am not a master of its rules, yet.

I’ve always loved writing, and I geek out about words like alliteration and ellipsis and imagery. I’ve persued my love of language on my own time. And I actually teach a group of 3-6th grade homschoolers Literature and Grammar once a week. Teaching is learning after all.

My whole heart behind this post is to warn us all to be on guard against mounting the “Yes! AI!” or “No AI“ high horses and stop to see the human in front us before we jab a self-righteous joust into their side. Let’s not destroy each other over a machine.

And maybe a small part of me wants you to see one thing from my accidental AI prompt —

that I am indeed human.

PS: Note - For this particular post I am purposely not sending it through the grammar check just to make a point to myself. So you can see me in all my errors.

My quick AI policy( constantly being fleshed out as I learn more):

• I sometimes use AI strictly as a final editing tool, after the writing process is done. I personally do not use it to brainstorm or write in anyway.

• I put specifics like “do not change any of my words, only fix spelling and grammar.” Because when I haven’t done that it “helps” me, and then I can’t unsee what it wrote and then the line can blur on what was my idea what belonged to the machine.

• I also do NOT use it to edit on submissions to magazines and publications that specifically ask for writers not to use AI for any of the process.

• I will NOT write you off if you use AI more or less than I do.

• I will continue to educate myself on AI as we learn more about its benefits and its negative effects.

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Trigger warning: I do describe the sky burial further down and it is graphic and may bother you.

An Instagram Ad got me the other day. As useful as it can be, this whole algorithm thing will never stop being creepy. Nature lover that I am, Florida girl, writer/poet… obviously a haiku contest put on by Audubon would get my attention.

I am not particularly good at haiku; I literally just had to stop and Google what the plural of haiku is (it’s haiku). But the idea of poetry put to pictures for a story walk in the Birds of Prey Center here in Florida was an enchanting opportunity. I clicked on the cleverly designed, high-resolution photo banner to get more information and find out the prompt. I love Florida’s raptor birds. Owls, ospreys, hawks, kites, falcons, eagles—my mind was already spinning with words and ideas to pay tribute to these mighty hunters. My eyes skimmed the page to find who would be the featured bird:

“The Center for Birds of Prey is calling all haiku writers and passionate poets to celebrate International Vulture Awareness Day with haikus (notice they did not Google the proper plural form) celebrating the two vulture species found in Florida: Turkey Vultures and Black Vultures.”

Vultures.

Really?

Who wants to read about the garbage disposals of the bird world? I think my face was probably curled up in a frozen grimace as I read the words again.

And then, as the muses often do, they turned my eyes inward to my own reaction. Why did I respond with such disgust?

My mind drifted to a swirl of dark spots circling over the field neighboring my Meme’s house. My eight-year-old self looked up in horror, heart stuck in my throat, because I knew it would just be a matter of time before those dark forms descended on the dead momma cow I had seen that morning. I would run out later and scare them off her carcass, delaying the inevitable, as if it were their fault death had found her.

I thought of the galumphing, awkward shapes around dumpsters and how my nose would curl—strange how I associated the smell of the refuse they were scavenging with the birds themselves.

I considered the way they are portrayed in movies: always lurking, premonitions of death, scary, disgusting, undesirable, pests.

That’s when I said, I see what you are doing, Audubon. And I like it.

So onward I went to pen a poem about buzzards, as my neck of the woods calls them.

It proved a bit more difficult than I expected. I had a sense of what I wanted to say but couldn’t quite get the words to bend to my will—it is rather challenging when you are limited to seventeen syllables.

I dove into some research to get my brain going. I was originally obsessed with the idea of the vulture and the mythical death ferryman Charon being tied together—both overlooked at best, despised at worst, and yet both vital in their humble, despicable work.

Then I started down a rabbit hole of vultures in mythologies and ancient cultures and landed in the strange world of sky burials.

I am not going to be able to really do justice to this strange and unique ritual found in very remote regions of Tibet. And honestly, all the research I could find seemed to mostly be written by non-Tibetans, so I wonder how much we can understand at all from an outsider’s point of view. But I will give you the gist of it and you can do your own research if you are so inclined. Warning—you may find this disturbing. Just hang with me. I think there is much to learn from the Tibetans.

Tibetans believe that death is a transition to the next life and offering the body back to nature is seen as an act of generosity and ensures a smooth transition. What I am saying, and not very well, is that when a loved one dies, the body is lovingly prepared and taken to a specially chosen location and ceremonially offered back to nature—the vultures.

Just so you can feel the heaviness of what I am saying, here is one part of the ceremony per an article from Pulvis online (website cited below):

“Step-by-Step Description of the Sky Burial Process:

1. Arrival at the Charnel Grounds: The body is taken to specific sites, usually at high altitudes. These places, known as charnel grounds, are carefully selected for their isolation and spiritual importance.

2. Ritual Preparations: Monks or lamas chant prayers and perform rituals to guide the soul’s transition.

3. Body Dismemberment Traditions: The rogyapas then systematically dismember the body. This act is believed to help the soul leave the physical form.

4. Feeding Vultures: Pieces of flesh are laid out to attract vultures, who are considered sacred creatures. Techniques like spreading saffron-infused water or chanting specific mantras may be used.”1

Let that sit.

Can you imagine being that at peace with the fact that your loved one is no longer connected to that body, so much so that you are willing to surrender them to the “body-breaker” (another name for the rogyapas) to take the body apart and offer them to the birds?

To our Western ears this sounds disrespectful. You probably feel revulsion at the thought.

But after I got over my stomach turning, I was completely sobered.

There is a picture online of one of these rituals (I do not recommend looking it up; I don’t see how it could have ethically been taken, as this would have been a sacred ceremony to that Tibetan community).

But I saw it, and now I can’t unsee the massive black birds unassumingly perched on a very human rib cage, picked mostly clean—a group of people blurry and out of focus in the background. And I thought, that is all we are underneath. That is all we are in the end. We are finite, limited, dying as soon as we are born. And when our soul leaves our body, we are just ribs and sinews, fodder for the scavengers.

I think most of us Westerners at least don’t really let ourselves feel the weight of our mortality. We bury or burn our dead, we feel sad about it, eat some fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and remember the ones we lost with stories and what not. But we don’t want to think that that will be our end one day; it is too unsettling to look too hard at that truth.

But I can’t help but think about the Tibetans. What must the mindset be to be faced with such a physical representation of where we are all headed every time a loved one dies? To see the bones that lie beneath and to know the soul no longer lies there?

Of course, there should be no horror in this. Especially for those of us who have the assurance of eternal life because of Jesus. But we do not always live that way, do we? Live as if our days are numbered? Live, knowing we will die and live again if we are in Christ? Live knowing that this body is a temporary home, and be at peace with this truth?

So, despite our religion being different, I am thankful for the example of these rural Tibetans. I am challenged by their peace with death.

I think my initial response of disgust to the vulture was tainted with a little fear. He is a symbol of death. Unfortunately for him. All he is doing is the job God gave him to do, cleaning up morsels of mortality. We see him cleaning up decay and associate the stench and filth with him.

But the world is constantly dying, and even the Vulture plays a role in God’s redemptive story. So I give you my imperfect haiku:

Grotesque, reeking death
dark primeval duty calls.
Carrion, my cross.

If you have questions about your own mortality and the gospel of Jesus Christ please message me or here are some free resources

https://www.gotquestions.org/how-can-I-be-saved.html

https://www.desiringgod.org/topics/the-gospel#

I’ve been known to do drive crazy distances in the name of adventure. Like the time I announced to my husband at 9:00 one night that I wanted to take the kids and drive sixteen hours to catch the full solar eclipse the next day. (Long-suffering husband that he is, after he realized I was in fact NOT joking, ended up going with us).

Or the time I finally scored the rare campsite I’d been eyeing for a year and a half and decided to drive almost five hours to camp for one night. (Long-suffering husband once again accompanied, and was rewarded with not one, but two flat tires.)

I’ve driven hours to gardens, aquariums, zoos, mountains, forests, trails, battleships, museums, beaches, rivers etc. As long we have our audio books (ok, and the tablets), everyone is pretty chill about it, and my husband just rolls with it, or rolls his eyes at me-one or the other.

But even I was questioning my sanity as VBS at our church came to a close and I remembered I had booked a turtle walk on the other coast the next evening. It didn’t even start until 9:00 pm, and we would be out on the beach until at least midnight. What was I thinking???

Well I’ll tell you what adventurous, energetic Amanda was thinking:

“It is only three and half hours away, there is plenty of time to get there, not a bad drive, it will be an amazing experience, a cherished memory…” insert other whimsical thoughts here.

But realistic, exhausted Amanda, (she can be kind of a drag sometimes, always reminding me I have limits, ) was now resurfacing after a week of coraling energetic kids, being inundated with loud music, and enduring way too many late nights.

All the kids were tired. My husband had work to do around the house and our business the next day. I almost scrapped the whole thing. But my middle son, who is obsessed with turtles, and is made of the same “let’s go” material as me, begged and begged. “

So I put on my “fun mom” pants and booked a campsite so we wouldn’t have to drive back that late at night. The three other children opted to stay home with dad and watch the MBA game. Win-win.

It was worth it. So worth it.

I will never forget my son’s face, lit by the soft red glow of the flashlight, as he sat on the sand beside his beloved sea turtle.

What is a turtle walk? All sea turtles are federally protected, as most people know. Many species are vulnerable and endangered and are facing more than a few hurdles to survive and thrive in our ever devoloping world.

There are many efforts to protect and help these amazing creatures and one of the leaders in these conservation efforts has to be Archie Carr National Wildlife Refuge. Along the 20.5 miles of beach that makes up Archie Carr, somewhere between 15,000 and 30,000 sea turtles nest each year. That’s 25-35% of the all the Green and Loggerhead nests laid in the entire United States! There are numerous places in Florida that do these walks, but I knew our chances of getting to see one would be highest if we could make it there!

Part of their educational and conservation efforts are their turtle walks. A small group of people gather with the volunteers at the refuge, and as one gives a presentation, about a dozen others are walking the beach looking for turtles emerginng from waves. Once it is determined the turtle is a Loggerhead (that is the only species their permit from the FWC is for), and once she digs her hole and starts to lay that first egg, they radio in and guide the group quietly to the beach to watch the rest of the process.

We had been waiting for about an hour when we got the radio call. I tried to prep my son that we might not get to see one. After all, you can not predict nature. Everyone in that room was trying not to be too expectant; a preemptive defense to ward off disappointment. But the excitement palpably spread over the room when we heard our guide’s radio crackle in the announcement.

We had all made our way silently to the boardwalk that led to the beach, when we got the bad news.

False alarm.

She was a Green Sea Turtle, not a Loggerhead. Due to the limits of their permit, we would not be able to go down to her. Actually, the volunteers said, they had identified several Greens nesting that night. But we had to wait for our Loggerhead. So we all stood on the boardwalk trying to make out the shapes on the beach, imagining every dark shadow a turtle doing what she was made to do.

I was so proud of my son. I knew he was disappointed, but he was keeping such a good attitude. The guide said we still had a chance, but it may be an hour or more and asked if we wanted to go back to the learning center to wait.

And it was the craziest thing. It was hot. It was humid. The bugs were terrible. But no one made the move to go back in. It was like we were all entranced by being so close to something extraordinary. High on raw nature. We didn’t want to go back to the artificial lights and walled in rooms with pictures of the beach and replicas of Sea turtles. No, we would stay.

No one was allowed to have their phones out during the walk. So there were no lights, no distractions. It was so still. Nothing but the sound of waves crashing to the shore. I kept hearing people whisper how bright and beautiful the stars were. Everyone was either looking up at the sky or out at the sea.

And I thought, “This is how it is supposed to be. Why do we so freely allow the noise of the artificial world to creep in and take over? Why do I settle for busyness and empty entertainment when this is where my heart feels so whole?” I always feel closest to the Maker when I am closest to the earth He made in it’s rawest form.

“Turtles in the night,” a hushed voice whispered beside me. I looked over at my son, body leaning over the boardwalk railing, face full of expectant awe. I smiled at his poetic choice of words.

The wait paid off.

We got the call that there was Loggerhead about a mile down the beach. My son was at the front of the pack, side by side with our guide, first to the scene. Patiently he watched her drop her clutch of 100 plus eggs, as she painstakingly covered her eggs with carefully packed sand, and then as she laboriously moved side to side to camoflauge where she had hidden her brood. It felt as if the whole group held it’s breath as we watched her heave her exhausted body back down to the shore and glide graecefully back into the black sea. The excitement rolling off my son as he watched this show of nature was worth all the tired that I felt.

We ended up seeing about ten other turtles that night, the tracks of close to twenty. One came up not too far from where our sea turtle was. And on our way back down the beach to the parking lot, the guide gave the command several times for the group to stop and wait as more of these ocean giants made their way up from the waters in the distance.

We would see their dark forms break from the waves then make their journey up towards the dunes. Sometimes we would pass tracks and follow them with our eyes and barely make out their silent silhouettes.

I know that riding in the car for hours to traipse into the dark and fight humidity and bugs for an experience like this may not seem worth it to many people, or more honestly may not be realistic for many people.

But there is so much magic to be found in all our corners of the world. Beauty is accessible to us all. The magic, I think, is slowing down long enough to observe the world our good God took the time to create; to breathe in the fact that He thought beauty an essential part of His creation.

That He designed a creature that lays eggs on the beach in the middle of the night, stars that relentlessly poke through dark skies, waves that rhymically beat the shore - whether humans are there to observe them or not.

Turtles in the night - an invitaion. His world spins on, and we can choose to put the phone down, turn the lights off and join in the wonder, or we can let the world of artifice crowd in.

I’ve learned that to brush up against nature, to feel the awe of being a created being in a created world is is so important for my walk with Jesus.

The good news is woven into the maternal labors of a sea turtle. Gospel hope is splattered across an inky sky. The truth of His love crashes with the constancy of the ocean waves.

You don’t have to be a crazy person like me and drive hours to find the wonder. Just sit on your porch, look out the window, go to the park. Be still.

I say this as I sit in the passenger seat, eight hours into a summer road trip. (We can talk about my hypocrisy later.)

Only about sixteen more to go until we get to the rocky coast of Maine. Long-suffering husband is faithfully at the wheel and has only had to do one minor car repair so far. There is something of the gospel in that as well, but that’s another post.

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Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear worn-out basketball shorts that you have threatened to throw away a dozen times. But those ugly red shorts are good for spotting the hero as he traipses through the yard to patiently fix the lawnmower the son got stuck.

And when those shorts stick out from under the car, you smile at the other pair of legs poking out beside them—the red shorts showing him how to change the oil.

Red shorts flapping in the wind as he balances on a ladder, absorbing the sweat dripping down his torso, as he bolts in the shutters against the hurricane hurtling our way. Red shorts halfway into the attic when the AC goes out again. Red shorts flashing by as he plays basketball with his miniature basketball team. Red shorts in the kitchen, splattered with bacon grease, as he cooks Saturday morning breakfast.

The red shorts show up on the sidelines, cheering on his little men and the daughter climbing into his lap.

And red shorts on the couch beside me, as I curl up beside him at the end of the day.

Not all heroes wear capes, so I throw the ugly, worn shorts in the washer so they can serve the hero again another day.

Happy Father's Day, Casey. We are so blessed to have you as our hero. 

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I heard her today.

Amid the thumping of woodpeckers, the whistles of Carolina wrens, and the throaty croaks of Cormorants, the short, high-pitched cry, “Owuh,” stopped me in my dew-covered tracks. I held my breath, trying to ignore the spiderwebs that were clinging to my arms, and turned to look across the fog-dusted field surrounded by slash pines.

There. Again and again and again. Getting louder and longer. I doubted myself; maybe it was a bird. No, there it was again. It wasn’t the long caterwaul she was famous for, but it was definitely her. Maybe she was calling her kittens. Short bursts that sounded almost human. Her throaty, primordial call seeped into my marrow. Not with fear—no, I was not afraid. Awe pumped through my veins, driving my heart to an adrenaline pace. This is why I came.

This is why I got up at 5:30 a.m. this morning. Every hike I have taken the past six years, I’ve dreamed I would see her. Every late-night drive through her territory. Every corner I turned on a trail, I hoped to get a glimpse of that tawny feline body. Critically endangered. Notoriously elusive. Masterfully camouflaged. My chances have always been slim.

But still, a longing I can’t describe drives me forward. And it kills me when I hear stories of someone randomly seeing one cross the road, completely ignorant of how extraordinary it is to see one in the wild at all, and then saying something like, “I thought it was an animal that had escaped from the zoo. I didn’t know Florida had panthers.”

Or people in suburban neighborhoods seeing them walk through their backyards. Aiii! Really? There are only about two hundred of these powerful creatures left, and you saw one walking across the golf course?

Isn’t it crazy that some of us can go out purposely searching for something, and others can have that very thing dropped right in their lap without any effort? I’m sure there’s a spiritual analogy there somewhere, but back to my story.

I tried to follow the sound. It was pretty far away, but still, I hoped I’d see her as I continued my hike. But not this time. I was left with the ghost of her cry, calling to me to come out and search for her again another time.

I’d like to think I’m getting closer. Last time, it was her prints in the sand. A friend and I got up early and hiked the same trail a few weeks ago. We crossed over the tracks of many animals as we trod along: raccoon, deer, coyote, even bobcat. Then we saw some prints we weren’t sure about. No claw marks, bigger than a bobcat. Google Lens to confirm, and yes—panther prints! That’s what pushed me to get up again this morning. The prints had given me hope I was on the right track.

One day I will see her. But for now, I will carry the prints in the sand and the call in the woods to push me forward to keep searching, keep hiking, keep hoping.

And isn’t that like our walk with Jesus? We get glimpses of His glory. We experience a whisper of the belonging we will be pulled into in full, a sneak of heavenly fellowship, a brief rush of the beauty we will one day be welcomed into. And it fills us with longing—oh, the longing to see the real thing, to see more, to be more.

Honestly, sometimes that longing hurts, and I wonder if it was even worth seeing the reflections of what is to come. The longing turns to an ache that sits in my chest like a rock. It’s hard to continue on in the temporal when you have tasted the eternal. It’s hard to walk to the sound of traffic on concrete streets after you heard the cry of a panther in the woods. I get discouraged that it’s only shadows that I get to see. I get stuck in the dark.

But I will press on. May I let the “prints in the sand” that my Heavenly Father has left me push me forward to keep seeking His face, keep working at relationships, and keep letting the beauty He leaves on the path seep into me.

One day I will find my panther.

One day I will see my King.

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I’ve recently been reevaluating several areas of my life and trying to adjust things to a more healthy balance. I feel like the Lord has been giving me and my family one giant tune-up this whole past year. Showing us where we need to tighten up, where we need to let go. Where priorities need to shift, what idols we need to lay down.

On this journey, something curious has started to happen as well. One night before bed, I was in that twilight zone where I’m almost asleep, but not quite, when I realized I was thinking about this one memory from my childhood. I jolted myself fully awake, startling myself. “Why am I thinking about this?” And I realized I think about it a lot. It’s one of those memories that kind of replays in the background on repeat. So I decided to look at the memory a little closer. It was inconsequential, a simple goodbye at an airport, to my dad who was leaving for TDY, for a year, in Korea.

You see what I did there. I dismissed it as not a big deal.

He was leaving. It would just be me, my mom, and my baby brother for a whole year. Before cell phones or the internet. I think we would hear from him once a week or maybe once a month for like fifteen minutes at a time. Waiting by the phone on the designated day and hour, straining to hear his familiar voice cut through the static, if his call could even get through.

“Not a big deal”—that had been subconsciously what I was telling myself all these years. And I had an epiphany. This is stupid. It was a big deal, it was super sad, why have I not allowed myself to say that? And then came the rest of the memory.

They gave me a quarter to get a SweeTARTS out of the candy machine. I was so excited. One of those big ones, that would kind of melt in your mouth. Pink was my favorite. I plunked the coin in, turned the cold metal knob and extracted it from the machine. Eagerly sucking on it sugary disc, relishing the tart sweetness exploding on my tongue and the strange texture in my mouth—when I turned around and I saw my parents embracing and my mom heaving with sobs. And I felt…. sick. Guilty. My dad was leaving. He was leaving for a very long time and here I was super excited about a stupid piece of candy, wasting time, precious time with him. That’s when I realized why this memory was replaying in my mind over and over and over. Guilt had it gridlocked, never allowing me to process, to grieve, to heal… to forgive.

My six- or seven-year-old self had felt guilty, and she had never moved on from that. So thirty-eight-year-old me, who was now for the first time looking at this situation from an unbiased perspective, dug into that. This was not biblical guilt. I had done no wrong, sinned against no one at that moment. A sudden realization - “I can let this go.” I imagined myself kneeling in front of little me, and telling her that. “This is not biblical guilt. You are not guilty. You can let this go.” And it was so freeing.

That was step one. Because once that was cleared, I realized I was also angry. At my parents. Not now, of course, but it had been there. This feeling of betrayal, that they had wanted to get rid of me. Sent me away for candy so they could say their goodbyes. In all honesty, they had not sinned against me, of course—there is nothing wrong with a couple, about to be separated for a long time, wanting to spend a few moments together. But I needed to forgive them for this “felt wrong,” for my own self. That was step two.

Because once that was gone, I was still left with the “not a big deal” that tripped me up at first. I felt guilty feeling sad about the whole thing. And I realized again, I do this all the time. I dismiss my pain, my past experiences, because I feel like if I validate my own suffering, it will somehow invalidate the suffering of others.

Sure, my dad was going to be gone a long time, but some girls didn’t even have a dad. Some girls had abusive, angry dads. I had no right to feel sad. Or—my mom had the right to feel the saddest. Like I didn’t think we both could mourn the same thing. But I think this type of thinking was short-circuiting my processing and stymieing my healing from this semi-traumatic moment of my childhood.

So I let myself acknowledge that it was sad. It was so sad that my dad left for such a long time. It was hard. And it is okay to say that. And then I told my husband, and I let myself cry about it, silly as I felt, because I felt something release in me. I was so thankful to God for bringing it to my attention.

I have identified this thinking over and over and over the past few weeks as the Lord has revealed other memories that I have been letting replay in my mind with no censure.

I know I have had a good, easy, comfortable life, so when things from my past resurface, my initial response is to jump to knowing there are so many who suffer so much daily, who have been through horrors unimaginable, whose wounds run to their core. So again, I get gridlocked by guilt, and I dismiss my own trauma, if you will. I feel guilty right now even calling it that. But I must remind myself that minimizing my pain does not eclipse the pain of others. Actually, it can help me sympathize even more.

All it does is make my own wound even larger. A scrape festers into sepsis. A hum becomes a hurricane.

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I think the enemy has been having a heyday with me, and I’m done with it.

So when I have a memory or a regret pop into my head, I pick it up and look at it a little more closely. Some have been really heavy, deep wounds, others more like my childhood memory from above but regardless, I take it to the Lord and go through a few new steps.

My New Process

1. Why am I still thinking about this?

   Pray: “Are You bringing this to my attention for a reason, Lord?” Let myself acknowledge that the situation was scary, sad, evil, wrong, abusive, or even just stinking hard, etc. Don’t allow the “could have been worse” or “not that bad” narrative to intrude. It doesn’t matter how small or inconsequential it seems. Acknowledge it and move to step two. You do not need to feel guilty for being affected.

2. Is there something in the situation I feel/felt guilty for?

   If so, is it biblical guilt? (A sin against myself, others, or God.) If so, confess, and ask the Lord to forgive. Also, is there someone I need to personally go to and ask forgiveness? Done. Okay, Amanda, it was finished 2000 years ago on the cross. You don’t need to feel guilty anymore. It is finished. If it is not biblical guilt—you can let it go. You are free. You did nothing wrong; it’s not your cross.

3. Did someone sin against me in this situation?

   Again, no “it wasn’t that bad,” and no comparing to others’ experiences. Acknowledge your hurt, pain, and how you were treated. Name it.

4. Have I forgiven them?

   If not, I can prayerfully, mentally forgive them right then and there. It’s actually been helpful to say this out loud if I’m by myself: “I forgive ________ for ________. Thank you Lord for helping me forgive.” I don’t have to carry that anymore either. Not my burden. Not my cross.

5. Gratitude.

   Thank the Lord for showing me, walking me through the memory, for healing me, for His forgiveness, for giving me the strength to forgive myself and my oppressors, etc., and for giving me hope and a future.

My past hurt, trauma, pain, and experiences have had more power over me because they were gridlocked by guilt. And ninety percent of the time it was/is “false guilt” or unbiblical guilt. Blockades of guilt keeping me from facing my feelings head-on. Grief, lament, and mourning couldn’t get through. Healing couldn’t get through. Forgiveness couldn’t get through. Joy and peace couldn’t get through.

But I know a guy, and He saw the impasse of my soul and He said:

“Build up, build up, prepare the way, remove every obstruction from my people’s way.” — Isaiah 57:14

Why?

Because “I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” — Isaiah 57:15

I have been overwhelmed by this passage as of late. He wants to revive me. He wants to revive you. This is the central passage for a book I’m reading with my counselor: Ray Ortlund’s Good News at Rock Bottom. I highly recommend it if you could use some encouragement as well.

One last thing the Lord has brought to my attention is when I dismiss the pain of others or downplay it. Especially with my kids, it is tempting, with my adult perspective and my own adult problems, to feel the urge to dismiss their grievances, their hurt. Not a big deal, get over it. Have I forgotten what Hebrews says?

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who has been tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” — Hebrews 4:15-16

Jesus, the man of sorrows. God, our heavenly Father who sees all the brokenness of the world, past, present, and future—He cares about all the cares of my short, little life. He asks me to lay my burdens down before Him. No comparison. No scale of “how bad is it from 1 to 10.” Just compassion. Just grace to help in my time of need.

Oh, may I mirror this kind of mercy to those around me. May I not dismiss the pain and experiences of others. May I offer a grace that points them to the beauty of His.

In closing, I felt compelled to share this epiphany with you here on Substack, thinking maybe I could encourage others—don’t dismiss your pain, don’t let guilt gridlock your healing. It will just make camp in the back of your consciousness and become a low hum that threatens to drown out the voice of the One who loves you and beckons you to come to Him. Maybe my steps I listed out can aid you in your healing journey. Bring Him your worst and your “not that bads”, and let Him do his healing work.

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I didn’t know she liked cats.

That is to say, I knew she liked animals; we had cats growing up. But they were “our” cats—my brothers’ and mine—just like they were “my” horses and “my brother’s” dog. So it took me by surprise seeing her there on my couch, snuggling the new kitten I had just brought home for my kids. His little gray face nuzzling her seasoned one—a contented smile relaxing her features. She really enjoyed the little thing. And I just... I realized I didn’t know she liked cats.

And I didn’t know she was an artist.

I remember now the scribbles on the notepad as she talked on the phone or as a long sermon dragged on, but those were “just doodles,” as she’d say. And I remember the art classes she would pay for my brother and me. I remember the crafts and art us kids would do and the ribbons we won at the fair.

But I didn’t realize she was an artist until I saw her sitting with my four-year-old at the kids’ table. A final relent to the persistent preschooler’s demand to “paint with Mia.” So there they sat side by side: my daughter mixing the paints and smashing the paintbrush down with carefree delight, and my mother, looking at peace as she wielded the watercolors in front of her. And I thought, “It’s really quite good, those colors—she has an eye for these things.” Then I remembered all the little signs: the birthday decorations, the VBS crafts she would design, the booth she and my Meme would have at the craft fair—among other things. She would downplay these things; I don’t think she realizes it herself. I didn’t know she was an artist.

Even as I reflect on these things, I think of that poem—you know the one—where he talks about his dad getting up to light the fire in the cold house1. I get stuck on that line, the “lonely and austere offices.” Because I didn’t know why she cried behind a locked bathroom door—not until I found myself there too, many years later. I didn’t know why she looked so afraid standing, gripping the counter in the kitchen when she found out my secret—until I saw it in myself during a talk with my son.

So I ponder about the paint she never bought herself, the time she never found to just sit and pet the cat that was hers as much as ours. I think about the invisible weight she carried, the thoughts that were loud even as she was quiet.

It haunts me a little, contemplating these things. I just... I didn’t know she liked cats. And now I wonder: what else do I not know? What else does she not know about herself?

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The Shadow Artists

My creative energy has been low as of late. Not my desire to create; I still feel words pulsing through me like rapids after a rain. But my ability to paint said words to a page has remained frustratingly out of reach due to my health, time restraints, and—if I’m honest—a crippling case of writer’s block.

And this tends to leave me feeling so restless. Like there is something inside of me unable to escape, so it runs relentlessly around my mind, creating what I imagine is an internal case of “restless leg syndrome”—except it’s in my head. And I feel it throughout my body. All the time.

Often, when I get like this, I can “trick” myself out of it by turning my very eye to the “thing” that is blocking me. My fear of failure—write about that. My “perfectionism”—so I write about that. Feeling “stuck”—write about that (see last post). Low energy and writer’s block—write about that (see above). You get the idea.

Just a tip, if you feel blocked at the moment. But again, to be honest, it hasn’t helped me this time as much as it usually does. But that’s okay. Something I’m learning: capacity will change with the seasons we are in; creativity will fluctuate as we cycle through life changes, body changes, and the like. But my identity as a writer, as a creator, is not built on how much I “put out” in this season vs. how much I have in earlier seasons or in future seasons, even. We just have to keep fighting to carve the words from our minds, and even if they aren’t half of what we hoped they would be, rest in that being the way of creating this side of heaven.

I am rereading Jane Eyre. It is my favorite novel for so many reasons, but this time around, I can’t help but resonate with Jane as she reflects on some paintings she had painted:

“I must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects had, indeed, risen vividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual eye, before I attempted to embody them, they were striking; but my hand would not second my fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.”

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?” asked Mr. Rochester presently.

“I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

“And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?”

“Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.”

“Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar.” (Chapter 13, Jane Eyre)

I hope you can appreciate their conversation as much as I. I am the schoolgirl, lacking skill and science to bring my thoughts to full being—tormented by the contrast of what I feel and see in my head and the words I have been able to weld to the page.

As I aim to learn and grow in my skills and knowledge, I will get better, but it must be said that even the most eloquent and skilled artists almost always feel the way Jane did. Maybe we are all shadow artists, the reality pushing us to remember that this world, these bodies and minds, are but “a reflection” of the things to come.

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)

Well, you see what I have done thus far, my dear reader. I have tricked myself into writing over six hundred words. I’ll count that as a win and leave you with a few poems I was originally planning on being the core of this post. I have been really enjoying being a part of the Poetry 201 Cohort with Kimberly Phinney and Heather Lobe Johnson. If you ever have a chance to take one of the classes or join one of the retreats from The Way Back 2 Ourselves, you should definitely do it.

Part of our class this week was blackout poetry, which is one of my favorite activities to do with my students when we cover poetry. There is something mesmerizing about finding a poem from an existing page of words—blacking out all the noise on the page and finding something meaningful that only you could come up with. So, to end my monologue on writer’s block and writing from shadows, I give you some words I was able to carve from the page.

A Night Full of Words
by Amanda Nowlin

Read aloud the way you do.
Make everything come to life.

Read aloud the smooth white pages.
Read his story.
Read a page—and read another—
A tiny little poem...
For me.

In the Hills
by Amanda Nowlin
The hallow was hungry.
He took a few little sticks and lit a fire;
flames bit his nose and lips.
Twigs set light.
Dry grass and grabbed and shook him.
“Listen, Fire—
a dangerous creature.
Not your friend—the wind.
Is wind your friend?
It obeys not.”

Eternity
by Amanda Nowlin

Who wants
to know the end of the story in advance?

And finally one by my 10 year old that he did for my class, that is in fact better than all mine combined. I have to include it because his explaination was just beautiful. He said it represents what a person sees before he knows Jesus - because after we are saved when we look in the “mirror” it is Him that we see, not our sin.

Snakes
by Linken Nowlin

Where most people see mirrors,
you see a curse-
wickedness,
snakes,
nightmares.

Thanks for reading. I hope you leave encouraged to continue creating, writing, and making—even if it is only sketching shadows this side of heaven. Shadows, after all, hold their own kind of beauty.

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Author’s Note

These blackout poems were created using found text (can you guess which book I’ve been tearing apart?) and photographed in their original and physical form. The attached images have been digitally cleaned and enhanced for clarity and readability, while preserving the original wording, composition, and artistic intent of the pieces.

It’s been a while since I’ve written a post. Sometimes that bothers me; sometimes it doesn’t. That pretty much sums up where I am at the moment: stuck. I’m teetering between passion and apathy. There is so much tension in my mind, my body, my faith, my relationships, my responsibilities, my ambition, my capacity… I get stuck on the tightrope between feelings of guilt and the reality that it’s okay to not have it all together.

In fact, if I believe the gospel I proclaim, that is just the reality. A beautiful reality, really. I’ve always been an all-or-nothing person. My husband jokes with me about it all the time:

We aren’t just eating healthier this month; we are eradicating all the sugars, grains, and everything delicious from our diet… forever. I am not just working out; I am training for a Spartan race or a rollerblading marathon (yeah, crises are a real thing). I am not just going to plan a party; it’s going to have themed decorations, foods, and activities, and everyone is going to have the best time ever.

You get the picture. But the truth is, that part of me is… tired. And the “all” part of me can be a bit of a bully to the “normal” part of me, threatening to push me into the “nothing” version of myself. I am here to be honest because perhaps my honesty may breathe life into other “all-or-nothing” folks who may be feeling a little parched, a little stranded, a little stuck.

Here are a few of my “stucks”:

• Stuck between learning to set boundaries with others without building barriers that keep out God-honoring community and fellowship.

• Stuck between allowing myself to grieve without giving in to despair and bitterness.

• Stuck between lamenting and feeling like I have to top it off with a “blue sky.”

• Stuck between the pages of the book I can write and the book I probably should write—but don’t have the courage to right now.

• Stuck between knowing I am not the best writer and this is not the best post, yet knowing I should hit the “publish” button anyway.

• Stuck between wanting to disciple my children—spending time to shepherd their hearts and point them to Jesus—and being really frustrated that I am breaking up the eighteenth squabble today while wondering, Why is there green paint on my bedroom wall… again??

Maybe none of those are relatable to you. But I think what is universal is that we all go through times of knowing what we should do but only being able to muster a “want to want to.” We all come to the end of ourselves. We can’t be “all” we need to be all the time.

And I think that is where I am: at the end of myself. Sometimes I feel like it’s punishment, when in fact, it’s God doing a pruning work. I’ve started to depend a bit too much on the “all” version of me. She’s great at getting things done, but sometimes her productivity and perfectionism leak into her soul and blind her to the gospel that saved her.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. — Ephesians 2:8-9

So, if you have run yourself dry, or are just parched by living in the demanding desert of this broken world—hang in there. Turn your eyes up. He knows where you are. And as you stand there stuck between what feel and what you know to be true, remember —

When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the Lord will answer them; I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers on the bare heights and fountains in the midst of valleys… the dry land into springs of water… rivers in the desert. — Isaiah 41:17-18

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Grief is a beast.

Sometimes he pounces—
You see him coming, but
You can’t get out of his way.

Other times he prowls,
Slowly drawing out the hunt,
Striking when you least expect it—
When you thought 
he had finally slunk away.

Grief is a thief.

He takes a day, steals a season;
But his favorite is to rob the now.
To sink the fangs of memory into a moment,
Turning sweet to bitter, bright to dim.

Oh, how I hate him.

But…
To grieve is to be human, 
to live,
to have loved
to remember—
To grieve is to see that this is not the way things were meant to be.

Perhaps Grief is the marrow in the bones,
The blood that keeps the heart from turning into stone.
Perhaps he is the way forward through the pain,
The whisper of a world we will one day see again.

So - 

I sit a while beside the Thief,
And sadly stroke the head of the Beast,
And together, we will wait for Peace.

Behind the Beast:

This poem has been bouncing around my head ever since one of my best friends lost her dad a few years ago. During our many talks in my backyard, I believe she was the one who said the phrase, “Grief is a beast.”

I lost my Meme shortly after, and I realized all over again just how multifaceted the grieving process is. And this week my Nana went to be with Jesus, so it seemed an appropriate time to get the words on paper.

I wrote this for everyone who is grieving- whether it be a loved one, a prodigal child, a failed marriage, a broken dream, crumbling health. I just want you to know- it's ok to feel .. sad. You don't need to run.

We all have grief. We all wear it differently. But maybe, Grief isn't the "bad guy" we often think that he is. Maybe grief and lament are gifts given by our Good Father to help us heal and ultimately to lead us into His everlasting arms.

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She trots in - her dirty hobbit feet leaving a trail across the tile.
I stop the chide that tries to slip past my lips

Because
She just looks so pleased... holding out a clump of earth and weeds— an offering.

"These for you!" she sings... a smile on her cherub-like face, 
and for a minute I get a taste of something truly full of beauty.

The purple flowers—doubtfully drooping, the leaves—crunching and curling, the roots dangling and dusting my floors with the wild outside—

And in the middle... a feather.

I am overwhelmed.

This declaration of love to a mother too often concerned with dirty feet and dusty floors:

This bouquet of innocence— What more could I ever ask for?

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I have started this post at least ten times. I open the draft, start typing, get distracted or interrupted—close and save. Days go by. I open the file again, type a few more sentences—get distracted or interrupted… anyway, you get the idea.

It’s just ironic. The New Year’s post—following up my self-made resolution to get back to posting every week, on the topic of the New Year—is being posted well after the “New Year” has come and gone.

I’m a New Year’s resolution kind of girl. I love lists. I love trying things. I love goal setting, and I love hitting those goals. I love the promise of a New Year and all the new adventures and unexpected things waiting around the corner.

But as Christmas wrapped up last year and January first crept closer and closer (well, at this point a good chunk of February as well), I found myself feeling… tired. Not just physically tired, but a bone-deep weariness that comes from living in constant transition.

Some of it is a good kind of tired—from a new way of life and a lot of wonderful new things thrown our way.

But paradoxically, some of it is just plain weariness from so much new.

2025 held a lot of new for my family.

A new house.
A new job for me and my husband.
A new business.
A new co-op.
A new church.

We went from island life to country life. From a suburban neighborhood to 2.5 acres. We have three times as much land as we did this time last year and ten times as many animals. We launched a new business in a field we are both completely new to. All six of us are juggling new schedules and routines.

And those are just the big things. There have been so many micro-changes in our life that I’ve lost count.

And among all the good new things, there have also been things that changed that I would have rather stayed the same. Friendships that have frayed under the strain of moving. A certain stability from my husband’s previous job that I took for granted. A sense of identity that I had wrapped up in my and my husband’s role at our old church.

And though I know those things needed to change—and I have already seen the fruit of growth in those areas—my heart still feels raw at some of the loss.

So, in summary, it was one full year of transition. One thing after another. And as it came to a close and the “new” year inched closer and closer, I found myself shrinking back a bit. I just wanted to hunker down and hold on to some of the same.

A lot of New Year posts give advice to reflect on the past year’s highs—what went well, what you achieved—and then reflect on what needs to change.

And as much as I agree that’s a good exercise, I’ve realized, especially this year, that’s not what will bring me peace or joy. There are still too many open tabs, too many redirects, too much unknown still for me and my family. My peace will not come from looking at my list of achievements or from any external stability in my life.

One thing I always enjoy reading at the end of each year is Val Marie's answered prayers post. I don’t know her personally—only from buying her prayer journals prayer journals for years and following along here on Substack—but I love reading her annual account of how the Lord answered her and her family’s prayers over that particular year. Because she doesn’t just list the “big” things. She keeps track of and celebrates the small things too, and it is such a beautiful picture of God’s faithfulness.

Though it may sound similar to the line of thinking behind “list your achievements and wins,” I have found it so much more soul-nourishing.

We spent intentional time this year as a family at the end of December remembering and discussing all the ways God answered our prayers. And it did overwhelm and settle my heart in such a sweet way.

Yes, there is still a lot of unknown. There is still probably a good dose of “new,” both good and bad, still headed my way—but there is peace when I remember all the ways God has answered, and there is awe at all the puzzles He’s untangled up to this point.

So if you are in the new boat with me—whether good or bad—let’s look to Him, our rock and fortress( Psalm 18:2). The same yesterday, today, and forever.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever. (Hebrews 13:8)

In a world that seems to endlessly shift and change, in a life where stability is never promised, you can look to Him—the One who does not change. When you are weary of change, remember what is the SAME:

He is still sovereign
He is still good
He is still for you
He is still not surprised by your failures
He still loves you
His gospel is still working through you
He is still molding you into His image
He is still your provider
He will never leave you or forsake you
He is still on the throne
He is still fighting for you
He is still the God who hears

And as we look ahead to the new year and all the beauty and brokenness it will undoubtedly hold, we can hold fast because

He is STILL making all things new—and that is a “newness” we can lean into, because His mission to redeem and renew all things has never changed.

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This is a special piece to me. I wrote it on a whim last year after feeling super frustrated at the state of my minivan. A few weeks later Calla Press Publishing opened submissions for their Spring Literary Journal. I poured my heart into an essay I felt fit their theme of “Wonder,” but at the last minute, I included this poem as an afterthought.

I can’t describe the surprise when I received the email saying they wanted the poem—not the essay I’d labored over, but this simple response to the chaos of my life with kids. At the time, I didn't even think it was "good," but it had served its purpose: it corrected my perspective and helped me see the beauty in the crazy. It was a reminder to myself that every "mess" I saw could literally translate into a thousand blessings that make up my life.

Their email also came literally days after I had a mini( ok, maybe not mini…) panic attack because I was feeling like a failure as a writer and was wrestling with all the typical “imposter-syndrome” lies that come for all of us creatives from time to time. I will be forever grateful to Calla Press for being the first to publish me. They gave me the courage to keep going. Since then, I’ve had three more pieces published elsewhere, and I’m now working toward a chapbook and a children’s book.

If you haven’t checked out Calla Press Publishing books, please do. You can find the 2025 Spring Literary Journal here and their book store here.

Ode to the Minivan
by Amanda Nowlin

Oh, what’s in a Minivan?
Oh, what does she know?
Open her doors 
What does she hold?

Well…

There's an applesauce mural dried on the glass
Library books hopefully not past 
due.
Lost socks. Forgotten shoes.

Mud
   Sand 
       Shells
           Rocks
               Stones 
                    Bones
                        Snacks
                             A Horseshoe crab

Just his shell; not alive
Well, at least not this time. 

Notebooks and sketchbooks, 
All my best pens I’ve been looking 
for.

Coins,coins! 
Unless
I need a quarter
Several bottles half full of water

A potty seat
A change of clothes
Swimsuits,sweatshirts, because you never know

Leaves and feathers
Lots of sticks
A mysterious black substance
Not sure what it is

Pinecones and shark teeth
Empty cups of coffee

Culver’s coupons
But never enough
To ever get the free stuff

A soccer ball
basketball, 
a balance bike
Because 10,9,7 and a little tyke

Held together with duct tape and dust
This minivan, this is us.

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It wasn’t me this time. Last year, I wrote about misplacing the newborn Savior King. But this year, it’s a different story.

I love the thrill of finding treasure at a thrift store. And this time was no different—I spotted a vintage ceramic barn through stacks of broken ornaments, tacky Santas, and “totally-from-the-Dollar-Tree” garland.

I pulled it out and was surprised to find the barn completely wrapped in masking tape, attached to a grey hospital bin. Peeking through the tape cocoon, I could just make out the figures of an old nativity set. I found two more pieces of the barn nearby. Since it was half-off day at the Goodwill, I was elated to bring the whole lot home for just $12.50.

I prepared myself for missing or broken pieces; after all, the ceramic figures had been haphazardly tossed into a medical bin. But as the kids and I carefully unwrapped everything, I was surprised to find them all there—Mary, Joseph, the animals, an angel, a shepherd holding a lamb, three wise men, and a camel—and none were broken! Well, until exactly one minute later, when my four-year-old was making the donkey gallop and chipped its ear on our tile floor. Sigh. Still, what a beautiful set!

“Where’s baby Jesus?” my ten-year-old asked.

“Wait, what?” I said. “He’s right there…”

Oh.

Oh no!

I frantically searched the now-empty container and all around the unpacking area, but no. He was nowhere to be found. They had lost baby Jesus. That is probably why the entire set ended up at the Goodwill to begin with.

My Goodwill dopamine bubble burst. I looked at the beautiful pieces and thought about the $12.50 I had wasted—what good is a whole nativity without a Baby Jesus?

But then I had to laugh. “I’m going to set it up anyway,” I declared. When my husband came in to see what all the fuss was about, I looked up from my diorama-making and said, “I was so excited, but… there’s no baby Jesus.”

He chuckled, then dramatically declared, “He is not here. He has risen!”

I laughed harder. “Well, we have Him rising before He was even born, but okay.”

I looked at the nativity spread out on the back of my piano.

• Mary kneeling, exhausted and reverently looking at… nothing.

• Joseph, arms folded, a contemplative look on his face, gazing down at… nothing.

• The Wise Men, gifts in hand, kneeling in adoration of… nothing.

• The shepherd boy, kneelin nearby, watching… nothing.

• The angel, wings outstretched, heralding… nothing.

I have to tell you, this nativity without the Jesus invoked more emotion in me than any other before. Because in that moment, I felt the emptiness. The emptiness of a Christmas without Jesus. The emptiness of a world without Jesus.

I let myself feel that weight for a moment, because isn’t that what the Advent season is all about? Preparing our hearts. Remembering a world still shackled to sin, looking for the promised Deliverer, longing for a way back to the Father, and knowing there is no way to get there by oneself.

Then, I allowed present-day reality to wash over me. That time did come! He came. It is finished. (My husband was right to bring Easter into things.)

I think it’s telling that I didn’t notice He was missing right away. I got so caught up in the beautiful surrounding details that I somehow missed that the central figure was absent. Once I noticed He wasn’t there, the whole thing felt—and looked—empty. And the previous owner must have felt the same way; it no longer held value to them.

How much do I do this with the whole Christmas season? With life in general?

Christmas is a beautiful season, and I know our Father God—the designer of all things beautiful, sweet, and joyous—intends us to enjoy it. But there is so much more joy and peace waiting when we look to where it is all pointing: to the Central Figure.

Really, it’s all empty without Him. It’s like the characters in my stable—still beautiful, but they look a little strange, pointlessly looking at nothing.

I’ve decided that my bargain nativity with the missing Jesus will stay, because that empty spot in the middle of the stable sings loudly to me the Truth that makes this season so wonderful: “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.”

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I'm sitting in a room full of seventy-two individuals who look like they want to be anywhere but here.

The styrofoam cups steaming with coffee and the “inspiring” video calling us to our civic duty have done little to stir the crowd.

I’m here by mistake. I got my jury summons a couple of weeks ago and didn't see where to mark that I am the primary caregiver to a child under five. My husband is working from home these days—so here I sit, facing my destiny to serve my country. Meanwhile, he sits (or, more likely, runs) toward his destiny: shuttling the kids to all the places as and ensuring they finish their schoolwork and chores. I’m practically on vacation.

Seriously though, I have to admit I feel “much adult,” as my 11-year-old would say, sitting in this waiting room with my very official “juror” sticker.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn't spend a few minutes envisioning myself in a scene from “To Kill a Mockingbird” or “Where the Crawdads Sing.” Me, the sole unbiased juror, intent on swaying my peers to do the right thing.

But all joking aside, as I wait to see if my name is going to be called—and especially after that video—I do feel the weight of it. The responsibility. I won't pretend to understand the intricacies of our judicial system, but I understand enough: we, the jury, will decide, to a certain extent, the fate of another individual. And I'm not sure I like that feeling.

What if I don't understand everything that is presented? What if my emotions—and I have a lot of those—blind me from making an impartial decision?

And I think what's really bugging me most is this: if I was the one on trial, I wouldn't want a group of strangers, a group of flawed humans, to be the ones to judge me. I would fear that there's no way they could be impartial. They don't know me. They don't care.

I know the right to a jury is a beautiful part of living in this country, and somehow, overall, it ensures justice and fairness.

But this whole experience has made me think of the ultimate courtroom we will all face one day: the moment we stand at the gates of heaven and give an account before the throne of God.

It's terrifying to think about—unless you belong to Christ.

Praise the Lord, it will not be a group of begrudging, flawed jurors that decides my fate—it is a good, impartial, just God who sees all and knows all. And you know what He will see when He looks at my case? When He looks at me?

Jesus.

Jesus, my attorney.

Jesus, my jury.

Jesus, my witness and my proof.

Jesus, who served my sentence for me.

Jesus in my place. Perfect. Without blemish. Paying for all the wrong I’ve ever done.

And because of Him, the good Judge will let me go—let me in to be with Him forever. Even more, that Judge—He knows me.

He has known me from before I was even born and has loved all of me. None of my sins were ever hidden from Him (Psalm 139). And because He wanted me to be set free, He's the one that sent Jesus to fight for me, to take my place.

That’s not just good news for my future. It is good news now. I am no longer condemned. I am fully known, fully loved, fully forgiven. Free.

Well, that's it for now. They are calling names to go back. Wish me luck.

have 15 minutes until I need to pick up my son from youth group. I feel that itch to write, that bubbling inside of me, but feel at a loss for words.

So what does one write when words elude and the moments keep slipping by?

How about -

The way the pink and orange sky coming over the Slash Pines and Cypress trees have sung to me this week

along with the bats that dance each dawn

and the woodpecker chatter that’s greeted me each morning

and boys sleeping in tents in the yard all week or

of books read in swivel chairs

warm coffee in a Christmas mug

the way Psalm 139 never ceases to move my soul- and found me again this week

I could write of the way little girl snuggles warmed my heart

And of my living room being full of seekers - hearts open and craving to know Jesus deeper

my backyard full of kids , running. wild . welcome.

my friend’s sister finding Jesus this week- in spite of living in a place where it is illegal to share the gospel- still He found a way to reach her.

Fifteen minutes isn't much. But it was just enough for me to reflect on a few of the gifts my Heavenly Father gave me this week . Reminders of His goodness and love.

And that's all I've got. No time to even edit. But maybe unedited is how it’s supposed to be.

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I love carving pumpkins. I joked with my husband, “I'm not sure what this says about me that I find this so therapeutic. Ripping the insides out of an unsuspecting gourd and driving a knife through its tough orange hide.”

But this year, as we sat outside—not a few children complaining about having to scoop out the yucky, stringy, orange goop—I thought about it a little deeper. They wanted to get right into the carving part. They weren't so excited about the messy preparation part.

“You can't carve your design until you get all that gunk out first, guys. The cleaner we get the inside, the better the light will shine,” I told them, reaching in to pull out another handful.

As I looked at my now hollow pumpkin, that word kept bouncing around in my head.

To be honest, I've felt a little hollowed out lately myself. Drained. Emotionally, physically… nothing left to give. Hollow.

And that feels so wrong, doesn't it? We want to be full. We want to have all the energy. All the capacity for all the things! But what if feeling hollow isn't necessarily a bad thing?

Later, we placed our lantern lights inside and watched the light escape through the designs we had carved. I thought about the fact that the light couldn't shine through the uncarved pumpkins. The ones still full of meat and seeds sat right there beside our carved ones on the porch, but in the dark, they were invisible.

Just the hollow ones were visible.

As I watched the warm light dance across my dark porch, I felt like the Lord was telling me that sometimes to be “hollowed out” is actually to stand on hallow ground. I must let Him scoop out all the gunk, remove all that is not like Him, laying aside every weight and sin that clings so closely (Hebrews 12:1). It can be a tough and messy process—but He doesn't leave us hollow. Instead, He fills the space so we may radiate His goodness and His grace.

2 Corinthians 4:6-9 says:

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed…

So this is my new pumpkin-carving prayer:

Dear Jesus, I will trust you with the process. Shine through me.

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“Leaf-lookers.” That’s what the Pennsylvania locals apparently call people like me and my friends—Florida girls chasing fall. And we were absolutely soaking it up.

I’m not sure what gave us away. Maybe it was all the pictures we snapped, the slow pace of our walk as we gawked at the foliage, the fact that I kept collecting leaves like seashells on a beach, or maybe that one of us actually tried to climb a flaming red tree. But it’s true: we were most definitely “leaf-lookers.”

I’ve been in Florida most of my life, and despite popular opinion, we do have seasons. They just look different. The changes aren’t quite so “in your face.” Summer slips into fall so subtly you almost miss it. The changes in the trees and the wildlife sneak by as we sweat in our air-conditioned homes and wish for cooler weather. But there is beauty in Florida’s seasons, too—that’s a post for another time.

Back to all that leaf-looking. As I took in the kaleidoscope of fall around me, I couldn’t help but think of us as Christians.

We are all leaves of different colors, all affected by a different kind of “fall,” all in the slow, ongoing transition from the old self into something new—something in the image of Christ (Romans 8:29).

And I thought about how tempting it is to look at a fellow sister or brother in Christ and judge where they are. Perhaps they are still green or yellow, and I feel impatient: “Why haven’t they learned this yet? How could they possibly still think that’s okay, or say that thing, or have that habit?” Or maybe it’s the other way around. I see a fellow believer much farther along than me and think, “I’m the wrong color. I’m so behind. I don’t look quite like that.”

I also think the most intimidating Christians are the ones who are already mostly bare—stripped of the worldliness and struggles that seem to cling so closely to me. And it’s easy in my insecurity to scoff and think, Well, I’m not sure I want to be quite that bare.

And yet, bare we are all to be, until there is nothing of the world left in us. But bare does not mean dead. We are more full of life than we ever were before Christ. The leaves will burst forth in fullness and fruitfulness. We will dwell in the Garden of Life with the Gardener Himself.

The leaves change at different rates. They fall at different times. Yet, it is the same Creator who is in charge of the whole process. He isn’t rushing the yellow leaves, and He doesn’t compare the orange to the red. He doesn’t scold the green for not dropping her leaves yet. It happens in His time. In His grace.

We would do well to stop comparing. To simply soak in the changes and stand in awe of the Leaf-Changer Himself. We should share stories of the ways He has transformed us and point out to others how we see Him moving them into His likeness.

We may never completely understand the process, but we can let our hearts be moved to praise as we observe the small changes we do see in ourselves and in our fellow believers. And we must remind each other that He, who started the work in the first place, has promised to finish what He started (Philippians 1:6).

So, dear Christian, pursue holiness. Let your roots dig down into His word. Encourage and exhort your fellow Christians in their walk. But as you do, cling to the Leaf-Changer and soak in the myriad of color around you in the church. Let us be “leaf-lookers” and love our Jesus all the more as we do.

PS: Due to this being such a short post, I have obviously way over simplified the process of sanctification. If you want to know more, there are lots of resources out there. Just message me if you would like me to share some with you. And here is a short article article that may help.

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Here's  another poem I wrote during the Spring Poetry Cohort back in March with Kimberley Phinney  This one is a spoken word tracing one of the greats- namely Maya Angelou. Her poem Still I Rise gives me chills everytime I read it. 

Enough

You may write me off
when you see my youthful face.
You think I’m much too young and worldly—

“She is enough,” I hear Him say.

Do my doubts unsettle you?
Questions rattling like a cage,
gnawing at my insides—

“She is enough,” still He says.

Does my sadness upset you?
Dark clouds often in my way,
as I battle all my demons—

“Still enough,” I hear Him say.

And what of all my failures?
I’ve so often lost my way,
so many trips and stumbles—

“She’s still enough,” is what He says.

Don’t my emotions scare you?
Feelings fluctuate each day,
feeling everything and nothing—

“Still enough,” I hear Him say.

What of the way I’ve bruised my body?
 “I was battered for your wounds.”

What of the way I’ve mistreated loved ones?
“My forgiveness sees you through.”

What about when I am afraid that I will never measure up?

“Enough.”

Is there nothing that can shake You?
Is there nothing that will change You?
Is there nothing that will make You run away?

“No,” He says.

“Because I live,
you are enough.
Because I love,
you are enough.
Because I forgive you and
I’ve freed you,
because it’s Me that’s working through you,
because there’s nothing that will take My love away,
and just because I AM the one that says it to be true,

with Me, there is enough of you.”

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If these walls could talk,
if they could get the words out
from beneath the dirt and fingerprints,
they'd tell a story,
a collection of stories,
of how two became three,
then four, five,
and finally six.

They'd speak of love-
laughter, fights, and slammed doors,
of games, movies, and wrestling on the floor.

If these walls could talk,
the scrapes and dings
would sing 
of all the times
the Lord provided everything needed and more.

They'd remember tables gathered 
with family and friends,
dozens of children running in 
and out again 


If these walls could talk,
they'd lament the arguments,
the heartbreaks,
and unkind words spoken behind closed doors.


But they would also testify
to humble confessions,
of forgiveness asked and granted,
of comfort and hugs,
and the power of family love.


If these worn walls could talk,
they'd tell tales of birthday parties,
of Christmas mornings and school days
of questions asked & new-found faith.


If these walls could write-
they would fill a book
with the story of us.

So as we close the tome of 124 Tahiti Road
and open another chapter
in a new home miles away-


I'd like to say:
Goodbye, old house.
First house.
Our house.

What a home you've been.

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