The question stopped me.

The conversation had turned from perfection to heroes of our faith, the people who had made a difference in our lives and whose words or actions were remembered as if they happened yesterday—notes of encouragement, pats on the back, hugs or a listening ear at just the right time. I had finished sharing a few fond memories of my early heroes when someone asked me the question--Were they trying to be perfect in those moments that were so significant?

I stopped. I felt something small shift inside, like those first clumps of snow that tumble down the mountain before the whole avalanche breaks loose.

Were they trying to be perfect? No…actually, they were just being themselves. They were being who they were created to be.

And that’s when it hit. In a tumbling, exhilarating, white jumble of energy and beauty, the snow plummeted and revealed the mountain beneath.

What if my definition of perfection has been wrong all of these years?!?  (A sobering question for a recovering perfectionist!)

In my mind, perfection was always having the right answers, always getting perfect grades, never disappointing anyone, always doing the right thing, never getting into trouble, always exceeding all expectations…the list goes on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on...as any perfectionist can tell you.  

But what if perfection isn’t really about any of those always’ and nevers?

I remember as a new believer reading that we are called to be perfect as our Heavenly Father is perfect, which felt like a completely overwhelming command. How is that even doable? Aren’t those standards impossible? Why would we be tasked with something so far outside our reach? Yet, I dutifully added it to my ever-growing list as one more thing to try to achieve.

But what if I was wrong? What if being perfect means that God is completely who He is and that’s what we’re called to? What if perfection is really about being vulnerable and brave enough to be my true self?

Maybe it’s not about me being ‘perfect,’ as in doing everything correct, it’s about me being completely and totally who God created me to be when He first dreamed me into being. Maybe perfection isn’t just about striving to be Christ-like, it’s about being me-like. Because in so doing, I live more and more like Him.

God created me as His image bearer. What better way to bear God's image than to be my true self? What if that’s God’s definition of perfection?



(Photo Credit: Deb Turnow)

We sit on the porch
rocking in chairs worn smooth with life
breathing in the beauty
and brokenness of Your creation.
You with me, I with You.
 
Over the years you have made it habit
to sit on my blind side,
and have long since replaced words with silence,
which initially shocked but has gradually opened me
to trust beyond senses.
 
Only later am I aware that as we sit,
You slowly weave into me something
that runs deeper than anything I’ve known
and rings truer than the stars in the sky
and the thumping in my chest.
You with me, I with You.
 
Like old friends
on a porch.
Wordless.
Present.
With.
 
 
(Photo Credit: Warren Lucas)

I enter guarded,
Confident I am less than,
Sadly satisfied
As I collect and string together words spoken
To verify my claim.
 
Lifter of My Head, unguard me.
 
I’m offered inclusion and acceptance,
A rare gift of friendship,
The very thing I long and pray for,
But I deem me unfit and only partially accept.
 
Giver of My Heart’s Desire, unguard me.
 
My soul cries foul with tired tears,
Deprived again of being seen,
Battered by chronic lies of scarcity,
Of fear, of not being enough.
 
Catcher of My Tears, unguard me.
 
Destroy this armor of feeling small,
Breathe into me the courage to belong,
Remind me I am Yours.
 
Lover of My Soul, unguard me.
 
 
Photo Credit: Deb Turnow

Bees aren’t taught the recipe for honey or how to make a hive. They are born knowing. Spiders don’t learn how to create beautiful webs, how to anchor them, how to spin two different kinds of silk-- one sticky and flexible, the other rivaling the strength of steel. They are born knowing. Bears aren’t taught to increase their food consumption and to hibernate for up to eight months straight. They are born knowing. Birds don’t study the architectural or engineering skills they need to build a sturdy and functional nest. They are born knowing. I could go on, but you get my point.
 
What were we, as humans, born knowing?
 
Do we still know it or have we forgotten? Is it something that was trained out of us before we knew what was happening? Maybe it disappeared so slowly we didn’t realize we were losing it. Perhaps, like youth, we were neither aware of its possession nor its departure, but now we feel its absence.
 
I think, maybe, we were all born knowing how to commune with God. Or, as big and as small as the word is, as much and as little as it has come to symbolize, we were all born knowing how to pray.
 
Picture a newborn. When they are in that liminal space between awareness and sleep, there is a sense of peace, a glow, a split second smirk of a smile when somewhere, on some level, there is communion with something other. As small children, we experienced awe and wonder, a sort of visceral prayer, every time we rejoiced over the discovery of something new. In those moments, we connected with something, with Someone bigger than ourselves.
 
But that awe and wonder faded as we grew. Praying became less visceral and more cerebral, less of who we were and more of what we did…or it just faded altogether. We learned to listen to other voices and developed interests that tugged at us and stretched us closed.
  
These days, many of us live with a discomfort, a feeling that something isn’t right. We mask this dis-ease with busyness, laziness, substances, and the like. We forget what we were born knowing.
 
But we still have it. Inside each of us still resides our innate ability to commune with God. We know how to pray. It can be forever forgotten or it can be rediscovered at the oddest times—when we are close to death or to life, when we experience great tragedy or great joy, on top of a mountain or trudging through a valley, sitting in church or standing on a street corner, or anywhere in between, really.
 
Rediscover awe and wonder. Follow God's whisper. Remember what you were born knowing.

 
(Photo Credit: Deb Turnow)

As an oncology nurse, many of the patients I work with have just received news of a cancer diagnosis or have been told they have a recurrence. In an instant, their world is turned upside down. Not only are they suddenly facing weeks of treatment and their mortality, they are trying to figure out how to get through their day-to-day lives.
 
When I see them at their initial consultation, I am often first met by their fear and anxiety, which hangs heavy in every space they occupy. Some patients come with stacks of medical records, ready to discuss every aspect in detail, others come unsure even of the day.
 
During the appointment, we talk about everything from treatment schedules and symptom management to local housing options and how to talk to family members about their diagnosis. By the end of our interaction, my goal is to make each patient feel safe enough (during a very uncertain and unsafe feeling time in their life) that they can smile...and maybe even laugh.
 
When we first meet, their defenses are up and they are in survival mode. I meet an overly protected, cut off version of who they are…  
 
Actually, there’s more to it than creating space for them to smile or laugh.
 
My real goal by the end of the consultation is to find them.
 
At multiple points along the way and in a number of different ways, unbeknownst to them, I invite them to be known. By the end of the appointment, my goal is to get a glimpse of who they are when they aren’t thinking about or defending against a cancer diagnosis. My actual goal is to find them.
 
I imagine God extending similar invitations to each of us. From the time we are born to the time we die, God quietly and continually asks us if we’re willing to be found. No matter how many times we respond (either in the affirmative or negative), God continues to inquire, for being found is a process that takes place in pieces and layers over a lifetime. If we discovered all at once who we were created to be, we would be undone. So, with our consent, He reveals to us a little at a time the brilliance of who we really are. God finds us…not so He can know us (He already does), but so we can know this of ourselves.
 
Sometimes we refuse to be found. What else might we discover? Sometimes we don’t even realize we are lost. However, when we take the risk of being found, it is then that we can be known, and whether we acknowledge it or not, that’s one of our deepest desires.
 
 
Where are you? Will you allow yourself to be found? Today? Tomorrow? Over and over again for the rest of your life? What will God reveal to you about whom He created you to be?

 
 
(Photo Credit: Deb Turnow)

This photograph intrigues me. For some reason, when I look at it I’m reminded of The Emperor’s New Clothes. Remember that story? Two tailors come to town and convince the emperor the clothes they weave are of the finest quality but are visible only to those who are fit for their positions. Neither the emperor nor anyone else dares to say they don’t see the garments for fear they will lose their position and be deemed incompetent. I often wondered as a child how the emperor could be so crazy he'd walk out wearing clothes he couldn't see.
 
Now I wonder how often I do the same thing. How often do I put things on or hang things on my clothespins which others can see right through? We wear masks to say how happy, successful and spiritual we are. We lead conversations with what we do and whom we know. We want people to be impressed, to like us and to accept us for the polished image we display. The problem is many of these garments are made from the same fabric as the emperor’s new clothes. And while most people notice we aren’t as nice, or as successful, or as whatever it is we portray, they don’t usually tell us we aren’t wearing anything for fear of seeming incompetent, or at least being accused of it.
 
In the story, a small child finally points out what the emperor is actually wearing. Thankfully, in our story, God often does the revealing. God graciously invites us to remove the masks and the carefully woven fabrics we have on display and instead He hangs on our clothespins love, inner beauty, brokenness, our uniqueness, scars, courage, peace…
 
What’s hanging on your clothespins? Are they things you’d like others to believe about you? Or are they things that reveal who you really are?
 
(Photo Credit: Deb Turnow)

I'm so excited to share with you that I will be the editor/coordinator/writer for Kavanna House's blog. I will be leading a small group of talented writers, as well as posting some of my own content. When you have a moment, I invite you to wander over there and ponder. There will be a new post every Monday morning. What a great way to start your week! When I post something of my own I will continue to put it here as well. 

May you pause today to notice and wonder,
nicole

There is debate about when Christmas decorations should be taken down (this is assuming:  a.) you put up Christmas decorations, and b.) you don’t leave them up year round). However, I am fairly certain there is no argument that the fourth week of January is well beyond the accepted window of decoration removal.

You may have guessed. I have a confession.

It’s almost February and my Christmas decorations are still up. I could say it’s because my social calendar rivals that of a Hollywood movie star and I’ve been extremely busy, but that would be a fib. I’ve actually had plenty of time to return the decorations to their 11-months of the year (or less) holding place. I’ve even had more time than usual since we just had one of the largest snow storms in Maryland's recorded history and I‘ve been snowed in. Laziness and procrastination may (potentially) play some (small) role, but I think there is more to it than that.

Why then are my decorations still up? I think the real reason is this-- by holding onto what I wanted Christmas to be, I’m not allowing myself to really feel the disappointment of what it wasn’t.

Between the recent death in my family and having to work, Christmas didn’t really feel like Christmas this year. While I had a lovely time with very dear friends, my family Christmas traditions and celebrations didn’t happen. Part of me keeps hoping my idyllic Christmas will magically flow out from my artificial tree while I’m away and will greet me at the door when I return. Instead, it feels more and more like walking into a house after a party is over and finding deflated balloons and crumpled paper strewn about the floor.

The problem is that by holding onto what I wanted, neither my hands nor my heart are able to receive what God wants to provide to me in the beautiful mess of what is. Facing disappointment is hard. And so is mourning, whether we’re mourning the death of a loved one or our longings. But it’s only when we open ourselves to the sadness, the loss, the disappointment, the tears, that we open ourselves to experience how God wants to meet us, comfort us, and hold us in the truth of our present reality.

Rather than living in my longings, I’m learning to accept what is, not in a hopeless, pessimistic way, but in a letting go of expectations and finding freedom way. God is at work in the what is. And if that’s where God is, then that’s where I want to be too. Even if it is hard.

And yes, I’ll go take down my Christmas decorations.

There is magnificent beauty in this photograph—the colors of the sky, the silhouette of the sleeping trees, the brightness of the sun, the reflection and unexpected pattern in the water…
 
And yet…

                                   …the groans of creation are present too.

                                                                                                          Do you hear them?
 
A time of immense joy and celebration is approaching. Greetings are exchanged, merry songs sung…
 
And yet…
 
                                   …a deep sadness is also present.

                                                                                                          Do you feel it?

There is an ache, a knowing deep in our bones and in our soul that this isn’t how things are supposed to be—death, pain, sickness, broken families, killings, poverty, refugees, hunger, violence, fear, injustice (perhaps we are sensing echoes of Mary’s experiences)…
 
And yet…
 
                                   …even in this, we are being made whole.

                                                                                                          Do you sense it?

Before we rush off to the gifts, let us pause and sit in this place of mourning and longing. Look at the photograph again. Behold the beauty, the groans, the celebration, the sadness, the ache, the being made whole. There is wisdom here. This is holy ground.

Like the trees that surrender to this season of barrenness and trust the sun to rise again, can we do the same? The Son is coming…

And yet…
                                   …He is already here.
                                                                                                          Do you see him?


(This piece was originally part of Kavanna House's Advent Reflections. Photo credit: Cliff Engle)

Too often my answer is “no” to each of the questions I posed in my previous post. My excuse? Time, or the lack thereof.

It is practically impossible to notice anything when I am rushing around at work or with my ‘to-do’ list, except the things that block me from accomplishing my tasks. Those things are quite noticeable—the red light, the slowest line, the slowest internet connection, lost keys, no laundry detergent…and when I’m noticing those things, I’m not really in a contemplative space of wondering, but more in a (not so spiritual) mode of, “Seriously?!?”

But is it truly a lack of time? All it really takes to notice something is a breath, a second, a pause.

So, if it’s not time, what is it? The real problem? Noticing requires me to step out of my robot-like trance and to corral the thoughts that are charging through my head, towing me behind like a rider with a foot caught in the stirrup. Noticing requires me to press pause on the constant chatter inside my head and to be present, to be aware of what’s actually happening both in and around me in that moment. (Depending on the situation, I sometimes think I may prefer to be dragged behind a horse than be present, but that’s another post!)

I know. Easier said than done. Step out of the robot-like trance? Corral the thoughts? Press pause? I don’t know if you’ve ever tried, but it’s rather difficult to release your foot from the stirrup when you’re being dragged, either by your own thoughts or an actual horse.

So, I’ve decided to start small. Simple. Three breaths. Throughout the day, I’m trying to  take three deliberate, slow, deep breaths, with a pause between each one, and just look around. It’s amazing what you can notice and wonder about in three breaths--the picture on the wall I’ve walked by a hundred times, the artist who painted it, the tension sitting in my chest, how fear and trust occupy seats of an internal seesaw when I watch the news, the life of the person inside the beat up car in front of me, the taste, temperature, and texture of the food I’m eating, that every person (no matter where they're from) desires to be loved unconditionally, that one star shining brighter than all the rest, that God made stars…

Will you try? I mean you’re breathing anyway, right? Just slow down on three of them periodically and look around. Three breaths while you’re waiting for your browser to open, while you’re standing in line, while you’re waiting for your meeting to start, while you’re pumping gas…what will you notice and wonder about?

By the way, don’t be surprised if you notice a glimpse of the mystery of God moving in your peripheral vision. Or, maybe you’ll find it staring you right in the face.

“But you are a shield around me, Oh Lord; you bestow glory on me and lift up my head.” 
{Psalm 3:3, NIV}

The other shopper approached as I carefully selected my “vine-ripened” tomatoes. I felt his stare before I heard his words.
 
“What’s wrong with your face?” he probed incredulously. “What happened to you?”
 
Perhaps it was poorly worded innocent curiosity, but his words cut deep. Like bullets from a sharpshooter’s weapon, each letter pierced through my already fragile spirit. I reached for the ledge to steady myself and willed the tears not to fall.
 
It had been months since my last operation. Friends and co-workers said they could hardly tell I ever had surgery, let alone twenty-something of them. It started at the age of eighteen. A watery eye and stuffy nose led to a cancer diagnosis, a tumor growing from the underside of my brain and filling my sinus. Fifteen years later, I continued to deal with its painful repercussions.
 
I stared at him stunned, my mind frozen and racing at the same time. Did he really just ask me that? Am I that ugly, that hideous a stranger would stop me to inquire about my face? My hand threatened to catapult a tomato at him, but the rest of me just longed to disappear. Eventually, I stammered something about cancer and stumbled away embarrassed and humiliated. I left the store teary eyed and wounded, with my chin buried in my chest, not making eye contact with anybody.
 
Over time, my body recovered from its hunched posture, but my spirit struggled. The shopper questioned my appearance that day, but his words, as words so often do, seeped deeper. He asked, “What’s wrong with your face?” But what became lodged into every cell of my body was, “What’s wrong with you?”
 
What’s wrong with you? How often is that layered into a look, a comment, or a question I receive? How often am I on the giving rather than the receiving end? Whether spoken or not, we hear it frequently, don’t we? You’re inadequate. You’re not enough. You don’t measure up. There’s something wrong with you...and not just with what you do, but who you are. And each time we hear it, our spirit retreats, chin buried, not making eye contact with anybody.
 
But there are those moments when we become quiet and sense God come close. He sees our stooped posture and downcast eyes, and with fingers tenderly placed under our chin, He gently lifts up our head until our tear-stained eyes meet His. Softly He brushes back our hair to more fully see our face. There is no shame, no surprise, no shock in His gaze. He sees us--not just the person we created to be accepted and protected, but the person He created when He first dreamed us into being. He reminds us that He is our shield against the wounds of life. Without saying a word, He bestows glory on us, in us, through us, until we’re absolutely glowing. We have significance. We have worth. We have beauty. Simply because we are His.



This post was published on (in)courage! Follow me over there to continue reading...

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Look at me closely.
Do you see them?
There are words written all over me.
Some are stuck to the surface and are easily brushed away,
Others cut deep and create wounds that never heal.
They have all shaped who I've become, the visible me and the hidden.
But do they define who I am?
Who am I?
We sit in silence.
Listen carefully.
Do you hear the words playing over and over in your head?
Can you hear the ones playing in mine?
Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?”
I return His question with my own.
Who am I?

He answers…
You are mine.
Before the beginning of time, we dreamed you into being.
We chose the time in history, the place of your birth, your family...
When we knit you together, we placed into you a pearl of great price.
This pearl is a reflection of Me; it is the unique you that is unmarked by words and labels.
However, life’s debris buries it and you forget it's even there.

Come to Me.
Abide in Me.
Rest in Me.
I will help you uncover and discover this part of you.
In finding this jewel--your unique you, your essence, your true self--you will also find Me.
For it is here, in this core place of your being, that I dwell.
I am closer to you than your breath.

Who are you, you ask?

You are My beloved.
In you I am well pleased.
Look at Me closely.
In you I am well pleased.
Listen carefully.
In you I am well pleased.

 

My first guest blog! This piece was posted on Elisa Morgan's website yesterday.

"You are BEAUTY FULL!" a dear friend responded to the picture I had sent.

I smiled to myself as I read her kind words. But even as gratitude caused my heart to swell, questions of doubt pierced it. BEAUTY FULL? Really? Me? Were we looking at the same picture?

I even went back to my "Sent" folder to confirm that I had attached the correct picture. I'm not sure what I expected when the file opened, but my heart sank when I saw the same face I see everyday in the mirror staring back at me. 

Confirmed. Correct picture. Like the lips of the princess on the frog, I subconsciously hoped that the double click of my finger on the mouse had transformed me, as well. No such luck. Still just me.

 Even on closer inspection, I didn’t see what she saw. Part of me wanted to thank her for her kind response, and part of me, with a pang of deep and utter sadness, wanted to say, “No. You’re wrong. There’s nothing about this face that is beautiful.” I felt compelled to point out to her every imperfection, every flaw. Did she not see the unevenness of my eyes, the lopsidedness of my nose and of my smile, the divot in my forehead, the scar that runs under my eye and down the side of my nose…
 
Was she just being nice? Or did she see something I didn’t? Something I couldn’t?
 
Perhaps.
 
Or, maybe the real problem isn’t what I don’t see, it’s that I see so much more.
 
I don’t just see the moment in time captured in the photograph. I see what I used to look like and how much that has changed. I see how many tears those eyes have cried and what is beneath that “say cheese” smile. I hear comments playing in the back of my memory from kids, strangers, and doctors: “Why does your eye look like that?” “What’s wrong with your face?” “There’s been another complication and we have to operate again.” I know what cancer has done to my face and I don’t see BEAUTY FULL when I look at me.
 
But how do I move from avoiding my image in pictures and in the mirror to embodying BEAUTY FULL? Must I forget the years and the memories that live behind my face?
 
“No,” I hear God tenderly chuckle. “I want you to learn through your memories, not carry the weight of them. Embrace all you’ve been through because it broke you open and allowed Me in. You see yourself--your scars, the asymmetry, your (as you call them) “imperfections”--through a cracked and clouded lens. Come close, sit next to me, see yourself through My eyes. My daughter, behold your beauty. You can’t hate what I have created and fully love Me. Honor Me by honoring this magnificent vessel that I so carefully and lovingly crafted just for you.”
 
Wow. I’m off to look at that picture again.

Everything has a beginning--the birth of a child, the first day on the job or in a house, the moment you said, "I do." Sometimes endings are beginnings--the death of a loved one, graduating from school, or even the day the divorce papers were signed. Some beginnings are filled with sadness and others are drenched in joy. More often than not, both show up to the party, along with excitement, fear, longing, hope...they are all present right now.

Today, you are experiencing another beginning. It's the beginning of this website and blog. But it's more than that. It's the beginning of me being vulnerable and trusting God that there is freedom in that place. Today, I'm stepping off the side of a cliff so God can show me that with Him, I do actually have the freedom to fly.

And you do too. What's holding you back?

This blog will be a little different than some others. I don't want to fill your inboxes with useless ramblings (and I'm a person of few words), so I'll only post when I have something to say. I also have some pieces coming out on other websites. When they are posted, I'll put a link here so you can find them.

I'm excited to see what God is going to do through this. If nothing else, He will continue to change me. I mean, come on, look, I'm flying!!

May you pause today to notice and wonder,
nicole