On turning 40: a celebration

To Julia, my sister in all the important ways. Happy birthday.

"What are you going to do to celebrate turning 40?"

You said it so cheerfully and so naturally. Like turning 40 is a good thing.

"Uh, I, um . . . " I didn't want to say that I had been avoiding the idea and was hoping that 40 might pass unnoticed.

"It's such a milestone, don't you think?"

Yeah. One I'd been thinking of rather too much lately.

"I don't really know . . . " I stammered. But I listened to you joyfully taking command of your own birthday and just diving in. And I started to wonder.

Maybe I could relish turning 40 instead of regretting it?

And today is your day. Your 40th. (I'll be joining you soon.) And while you are very far away today, I'm thinking over your words and the heart they reflect.

This heart is one I cherish. It's a heart you freely gave me all those years ago in the desert of teenage loneliness. I had lost my best friends and was starting a new school, terrified, shy, despairing. I remember my mom asking, "What about Julia? Maybe she could be a good friend."

You were the girl I had seen around town all my life but had never really spoken to. And I don't remember how it happened--did our moms set up a meeting?--but we did meet, finally, and my definition of friendship changed forever.

You were the one who always knew how I was doing even when I didn't say. You were the one who ate lunch with me every day, always told me everything and listened to everything, went on long walks with me and talked about God. You were my confidant when I got my first boyfriend and then broke up with him six weeks later. You and my sister threw me a surprise 18th birthday party when I thought no one noticed (that was one day I wanted to celebrate!). You left for college in California and faithfully wrote me letters--real letters, long and honest and meaningful. You remembered everything I told you and always asked about the important things. And in all the years since then, though we both have families of our own and live thousands of miles apart, you are the friend who is there. Present and engaged in my life, real and honest, checking in with a call or a text at least once a week.

You are the one who encouraged me to start writing. In fact, this very blog is a promise I made to you.

And today, celebrating you, friend, I have realized something new you have taught me. As you have grown older, my love for you has grown deeper and more beautiful. The memories in our friendship have become the foundation stones for something much more significant and lasting. And you yourself--you are more radiant, more giving, more alive than I have ever known you. Those teenage years of pouring into me were only the beginning of the life of loving you would lead.

I have been looking at turning 40 like a door closing, a passing away of something I can never have back. And of course that is true, in some sense. But you have helped me to see that I don't need to mourn the past. And I don't need to dread the future.

It is time that makes us truly beautiful. Like a tree with roots searching ever deeper and branches yearning ever toward the light, we are shaped by our journey into the daughters God intended for us to be. Unless we stop seeking. Unless we stop hoping. Unless we stop living intentionally, choosing the blessings of each day. Choosing to be in the moment. And when the moments are difficult, that is our cue to draw in deeper, to live even more purposefully.

.

Maybe it's no accident that we share the same name, and that our names mean "youthful." We may not have youthful bodies, but we can choose youthful spirits even as we remember how far we have come. Anyway, who would want to go back to those high school days of drama?

Thank you for celebrating our turning 40. I'm thankful for you, dear sister. And I'm looking forward to 40 more years of friendship.

This is me

I have started and not finished several posts, and I have just felt stuck lately. God keeps bringing me back to this. It doesn't yet feel complete or totally right, but it's (so far) my response to 2 Corinthians 4 and 5. These passages won't let go of me. I thought I'd share to see if any of this resonates. So often we are told how sinful and broken and shameful we are, but God has so much more to say . . .

I am

chosen.

I am

the breath of wonder,

the sharp gasp

of beauty formed

of light.

I am named and known

remembered and forever

engraved.

I am seen and sought after,

cherished and

highly prized.

I am held.

I am mended brokenness

shining shame shot through with

splendor

divine dust

dirt and bone held together

by glory

blood of eternity.

No longer crushed

perplexed

forsaken

or destroyed

I carry the life in death

the perpetual awakening.

Get your toes wet

Early morning. Too early for two tousled-hair girls to be awake, disturbing my few moments of quiet before a busy day. But here they are, one on each side of me on the couch, squirming and expectant. Waiting for whatever I have to give.

But I have nothing to give them this morning. I struggle with the resentment that comes from the stretched- too-thin, running-on-empty, don't-know-what-to-do prayers they interrupted. Here is another need I feel helpless to meet.

Wearily I open The Jesus Storybook Bible and start to read. "Moses and God's people escaped out of Egypt and into the wilderness. They didn't know the way, but God knew the way and he would show them."

I read without paying much attention until I reach page two. "What were God's people going to do? In front of them was a big sea. It was so big there was no way around it. But there was no way through it--it was too deep. They didn't have any boats so they couldn't sail across. And they couldn't swim across because it was too far and they would drown. And they couldn't turn back because Pharaoh was chasing them."

This is beginning to sound familiar.

"They could see the flashing swords now, glinting in the baking sun, and the dust clouds, and chariot after scary chariot surging towards them. So they did the only thing that was left to do--PANIC!"

How many times have I read this story in my life? Yet have I ever really understood that place, standing on the thin strip of faith between death and destruction? That place where my own strength can do nothing, IS nothing, and there is nowhere to go. Where panic grips the heart and I long for the safety of slavery again.

"'We're going to die!' they shrieked.

"'Don't be afraid!' Moses said.

"'But there's nothing we can do!' they screamed.

"God knows you can't do anything!' Moses said. 'God will do it for you. Trust him. And watch!'"

In the Biblical account in Exodus 14, Moses says to the people, "Do not be afraid. Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will accomplish for you today." But God says to Moses, "Why do you cry to me? Tell the children of Israel to go forward."

Oh, of course, God. Go forward. Right into all that churning water. Right into the sea of fear that will swallow me up forever.

If God were the sarcastic type, I could see him rolling his eyes. "Don't you get it yet? Is that how little you really trust me?"

Why does God's deliverance so often take us to the wilderness instead of straight to the Promised Land? I wonder. If the Israelites had not had this experience (and the thousands of other experiences of God's faithfulness), if they had not had to walk right up to the sea and get their toes wet, would they have ever really known God? Would they have ever truly understood what He wants to set us free from?

Slavery, yes. Oppression, yes. Doubt and crippling fear, yes.

Psalm 106:8 says, "He saved them for his name's sake, that he might make his mighty power known."

He wants us to know him, and so he's in the business of making himself known. And when we know him, we are set free from more than we ever thought possible. And when that sea opens up right there before us and our feet trod the muddy path of grace through death, we begin to know the power of this crazy love.

Maybe I need to get off the couch of desperate prayers and get my toes wet. Walk into that sea and watch God work.