beach retreat

I’ve always had a thing for water.  Let me clarify:  I don’t particularly like to drink it (much to my dismay) and I’m a mediocre swimmer.  But, for some reason, bodies of water are my sweet spots. 

When I was eight, there was a tiny creek that ran next to our country house.  I used to climb the tree above it, find a spot in the branches, and read for hours.  By high school, one of my favorite places to sit was on my friend’s dock on the lake, feet over the edge and eyes straight up at the night sky.  During my freshman year of college, I found Bowl & Pitcher on the Spokane River where I spent many a day climbing the “pitcher” and watching the current rush under the bridge.  (If any fellow Whitworthians are interested, I highly recommend it—bring good shoes and a journal.) 

All this to say:  there is something humbling about the enormity and autonomy of water that demands stillness and contemplation—especially when you encounter the ocean.

We recently got back from a nine day vacation with Matt’s family on Whidbey Island, just northeast of our sprawling, urban Seattle home.  You could hardly imagine that an hour drive and a ferry ride could land you in a whole new world, but you stand to be surprised.  It wasn’t technically on the ocean, just the Puget Sound… but it still counts.

When the tide was out, we played Frisbee on the beach and explored the sand with our little niece and nephew. 

When the tide was in (by late afternoon), most of us were reading next to the wide windows, making “beach cookies,” or playing endless numbers of board games.     

I wasn’t only amazed that twelve people could survive for a week in the same house with no casualties.  (Yes, we are awesome.)  It was even more surprising to almost never see people on their smart phones or computers.  All of us had them—and I, for one, am nearly addicted to mine—but they took a back seat.  Life outside the present moment wasn’t as “urgent” as it usually seemed.  Looking out on the water every hour of the day seemed to slow all of us down.    

In the end, we had a wonderful time together as a family, as beings experiencing love and rest and joy.  I am indescribably grateful to my mother- and father-in-law for making time like this happen.  And I can only encourage everyone, if you have the time and resources and even if you think you don’t:  take a beach retreat.  Read.  Collect sea shells.  Cook meals together.  Put together a 1,000 piece puzzle.  Draw.  Take naps.  Meditate.  Have arm-wrestling competitions.  Visit the nearest coast town.  Swim in the salt water.  Eat clam chowder.  And, if you have the chance, definitely drink wine with the one you love on the rooftop while you watch the waves…

“Give thanks to the one who shaped the earth on the water—God’s faithful love lasts forever.” (Psalm 136:6, CEB)

simply, a beautiful and restful day

Since my post on hard seasons not long ago, I’ve been putting a lot of thought and prayer into simplifying.  Simplifying life.  Simplifying money.  Mostly simplifying time and how I approach and appreciate it. 

I finally decided to drop down to one class next quarter, and I can honestly say I’m sighing deeply inside with relief.  I have no less of a desire to be going to seminary, but I need the time to let it sink in, not to just “get it done”.  And it will hopefully free up space to have more date nights with Matt, read Scripture for me (not just for class), and even sleep.  I know, though, that if I’m not careful, that open time will quickly fill with mindlessness (where one minute I open my Facebook app, and the next it’s half an hour later and I haven’t moved from the arm of the couch).  I know I’ll have to be intentional about the kind of rest and fulfillment I’m looking for. 

I think today was an experiment in that, the first steps of slowing down.

Matt went out of town this weekend.  He is currently up at a cabin in Leavenworth, having a reunion with his college roommates before one of them moves across the country.  It is a great time for him to be with the people who have been so significant in his story, and for that I’m grateful.  But before he left, as I was concocting a list of all the various things I could get done while he was gone, he slowed me down and said, “Don’t make a to-do list.  Sleep in, have quiet time, go for a walk.  Do whatever you want to do in that moment.”  So… I tried that.  This is how it went:

 

I got nine and a half hours of sleep last night—a record for me in the last three months.      

Then, after I got out of bed, I ground my coffee beans by hand, boiled water in our electric kettle, and used the pour-over coffee pot to brew my morning wake-up juice.  My typical self would look for a more efficient way of completing this process—it took fifteen minutes of undivided attention—but as I listened to the roasted beans pop and break through the grinder and smelled the bold, dark steam as the water fell through them, I realized I enjoyed the pace of life that it set.  I could simply appreciate the time it took to make a simple cup of coffee.

I took this cup of coffee to the couch with my Bible, and I re-read the book of Micah.  “…and you shall bow down no more to the work of your hands” (5:13).  The last pages of my journal were filled today after contemplating that in the presence of God. 

Later in the afternoon, my wonderful friend Martha came over and we took the bus to the University Village shopping center.  We spent two hours wandering through the stores, and in the end, the only thing we purchased was a cup of Menchie’s frozen yogurt, drenched in broken Kit Kat pieces and caramel sauce.  On the bus ride home we talked about making plans for dinner (we do love our margaritas and seven-layer dip…), but as we got off, she said she might need a night at home by herself.  As hard as it is to say that to a friend, to request the end of time together for the sake of solitude, I so appreciated her wisdom in that moment.  At the close of a hard week, I am happy to see that I share life with people who know how to take care of themselves.  As adults, you would think this was common sense.  Yet, we live in a FOMO culture (“fear of missing out,” that is) and I haven’t met many twenty-six-year-olds that are better at resisting that temptation than teenagers, including myself most of the time.

So, now I’m back in my quiet condo alone.  I just finished a bowl of spaghetti after dancing in the kitchen, singing Pharrell William’s song, “Happy,” over and over in my head.  I plan to end the night reading the last few chapters of Shauna Niequist’s book, Bittersweet (a catalyst of sorts in my search for rest). 

I know not every day is going to be like this.  I know I'll see bags under my eyes, turn down shopping dates to write papers, and sprint through Starbucks on the way to important events.  But today was a first drop in the bucket, a day of sun and peace and basking in the goodness of God... and for now, I'll take it.

Photo from luxpresso.com.

“‘With what shall I come before the Lord,

            and bow myself before God on high?

Shall I come before him with burnt offerings,

            with calves a year old?

Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,

            with ten thousands of rivers of oil?

Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,

            the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?’

He has told you, O mortal, what is good;

            and what does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, and to love kindness,

            and to walk humbly with your God?”

-Micah 6:6-9

when hard seasons seem to have no end

(Photo credit;  Lee Orr)

A wise friend once said, “When things get hard, I remind myself: I can do anything for a season.”

This particular friend works in the church, and has realized over the last decade that while ministry is a marathon, not all sections of the course look alike.  Sometimes just as you turn the corner out of a smooth, downhill cruise, the route hits a hill… and the ascent can be brutal.  But every hill has a peak.  You power up the slope knowing that once it’s conquered, there’s light on the edge of that proverbial horizon.

That seems to be what I keep telling myself. 

I don’t doubt the wisdom and truth in my friend’s mantra.  It’s absolutely necessary to remember that sometimes a hard project, a new challenge, or a busy season are going to require us to buckle down and work hard for a time, harder than our normal pace of life. 

But what happens if we let that breakneck pace and uphill grind become our new normal?  When we succeed in the seasons of challenge (even if the process includes suffering), it feels good to know that we’re capable of that level of performance, of conquering something difficult.  We develop self-efficacy and we thrive on it. 

I’ve run six half marathons so far.  My fifth was the Seattle Half at the end of last November.  Halfway through Mile 7, after a long, flat stretch, the course took an uphill turn to head from Lake Washington back over and into downtown.  Many took a break to walk at this point, but for some reason, I leaned in and took the climb without breaking pace.  I wasn’t actually sure I could make it, but I pushed past the crowd and finally crested the top of the first long hill.  And it felt amazing.  It was painful, I was gasping—but I killed it.  Endorphin explosion.  From that point on, I found myself eager, anticipating the next hill like a sane person looks forward to a vacation.  Every time the road would rise, I was ready to take it, even picking up my speed, passing all the lazy walkers in all my sweaty, exhausted glory.   

That kind of high can be addicting.  It was rewarding to know I could do it, so I wanted to do it.  But what if we let that achievement (read: “season”) become the new expectation on our lives?  You can do it, so you should do it, you have to do it.      

…Does this sound familiar to anyone else? 

I’m in a season—a very long season it seems—of busyness and grind.  I’m a student, I work a full-time job, I’m married, and I sometimes like to actually have friends.  Tackle on hours of homework and reading, a few helpless prayers, and three cups a coffee a day and you’re left with an average of 6 hours and 13 minutes of sleep per weeknight (according to my Fitbit).  The endorphins are wearing off.    

Here’s the thing… I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining.  I CHOSE this.  And honestly, it’s because of my inability to let go of “achievement”—all those things I know I’m capable of doing—that what I’m consequently letting go of is rest.  The result:  an unsustainable lifestyle.  A never-ending uphill sprint. 

All of the things I listed (minus the lack of sleep) are good things.  I just have a hard time discerning which are the better things and which need to take a back seat.  Work is not life.  School is not life.  I want more time to spend with my husband, moments to break open my Bible, and the freedom to sit with God and DO NOTHING, just BE.

I’ve been [voluntarily] taken up into a culture that sees, as Brené Brown puts it, “exhaustion as a status symbol and productivity as self-worth.”  Wow.  It sounds so stupid as I say it, and yet I can’t call BS.  That’s exactly what I do. This is not the first time I’ve realized this.  It probably won’t be the last.  But I deeply fear letting what are supposed to be the challenging seasons of my life become the definition of my life. 

It’s one thing to hit the hill running when you need to—we all want to do things well, and have circumstances that will require more from us.  Those are okay.  I can do anything for a season.  But this is a period of time for me when I need to work out what it means and looks like to:

be counter-cultural,

pursue Jesus wholeheartedly,

prioritize my time,

learn to build Sabbath seasons in with the busy ones

so that in the now (not just “in the end”) life can be less about work, and more about the freedom in Christ to rest and play and love. 

a seattle spring

I can’t shake Fall as my favorite season (and not just for the boots and cozy sweaters).  I love watching my surroundings burst into a crazy flame of vibrant color.  It’s intensely gorgeous.

But on the flip side, there’s something inherently beautiful in watching things grow, especially when those things are becoming a sea of green right before your eyes.  This is our first spring in Seattle, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much green.  (Green is my favorite color by the way, so you can imagine the state of joy I’m in.)  Where Fall leaves me eagerly overwhelmed, I’m finding more and more that Spring creates a sense of peace and newness.  I walk around with these soft, “everything is alright” sort of smiles.  Even when it’s gray outside—welcome to Seattle, everyone—it’s still green.  This must be why Seattleites put up with the rain.  

Easter happens.  Everything comes back alive.  We are reminded of the abundant life that can spring from periods of death.    

In the spirit of springtime, I wanted to share a few pictures from a walk I took a few mornings ago.  I put the little boy I nanny in a stroller and we embraced the cloudy day on our way to the grocery store and back.  If these aren't peaceful to you... well, perhaps try going outside and seeing for yourself.  

And we're off...

Watching the boats

The Fremont Bridge (northeast side)

Lake Union

Underneath the Aurora Bridge

Last but not least... this is just awesome.

just for me

I’ve been toying lately with the idea of blogging.  I’ve played with it in the past, but have not sufficiently come up with a definition for what “blogging” actually is.  Should I find a blogging “niche” so that I’m readable, like crafting or cooking or ministry?  (And on that note, what happens if all the aforementioned skills are somewhat, if not seriously, lacking?)  What if I’m not an interesting enough person?  Is it okay to be serious and pastoral in one post and quirky and irrelevant in another, or does that seem completely inconsistent and annoying?  What if no one cares to read anything I say? 

Long story short, I’ve been reading Bittersweet, by Shauna Niequist (who, perhaps not-so-ironically, is also a blogger).  Tonight I read this in her book: 

“We create because we were made to create, having been made in the image of God, whose first role was Creator […] Do the work, learn the skills, and make art, because of what the act of creation will create in you” (pg 160, 163).    

I know this is true with my husband, Matt.  He plays piano, messes with graphic design, loves to paint and draw and write.  He doesn’t do it for anyone else.  He doesn’t expect to be well-known or relevant.  Honestly, most of what he does doesn’t leave our living room.  But the process is therapeutic.  Pulling away from all the other pressures of life (which can be insidious when you’re a married full-time student in a PhD program) is not only relaxing, it’s restful—like taking a walk or sitting with a book and a cup of coffee is for some of the rest of us.  He does it for him, because his creative cups are filling up and overflowing.

So what if no one ever reads what I write.  So what if I don't blog every day, or have anything particularly mind blowing to say every week.  What if it's just about reflecting on the little moments, the stories, the wonderings, the highlights?  If it brings a little light and life, maybe it's worth making time for.  If it's part of my God-created self, maybe that can be enough.