Paths.

I was thinking about Matthew 7:14. My son read it to us this afternoon and the images of the wide path to destruction and the narrow path to life have been cycling through my thoughts ever since. There are many obvious applications.

The wide path is crowded, masses following masses, not brave enough to step out and be different. 

The wide path allows for all appetites, with many temptations which are eagerly eaten up. 

The narrow path hedges you in, with little wiggle room inside God's perfect law that leads to righteousness. 

The narrow path gives no room for veering around obstacles. They must be faced head on for our maturity and growth. 

The wide path is easy, while the narrow is hard and few choose to follow it. Fewer still stay the course once they're on it. 

A word came to mind in reference to the wide path that will only destroy us.

Avoidance.

I can picture myself walking that path, sidestepping anything that makes me uncomfortable or asks to much of me. I see myself taking wide circles around pain and bowing out of situations that might hurt, but cause me to grow. Avoidance. On the wide path, we can avoid accountability, correction, and responsibility. We can choose to run from consequences. We can avoid truth and change it to what feels good, which is why sometimes the wide path looks strangely like a good place. A holy place. But avoiding truth and replacing it with one more comfortable is not holiness. It's avoidance, among other dangerous things.

Then I can picture the narrow path. There is no room for avoidance. When pain comes, we must wade through it. When responsibility arises, we have no choice but to rise and face it. Accountability is a given because we are living in 'tight quarters', walking a path so close that we are rubbing shoulders with one another, instead of avoiding uncomfortable conversations. Consequences for actions must be faced. There are no wide circles around sorrow. There is no opportunity to sidestep because we are hedged in by God's Word. Everything that comes at us must be faced head on.

And we are better for it. We are real, authentic, whole. We aren't avoiding and hiding and copping out. We produce life giving words because we've lived. We can be vessels of hope because we've had to rely on God's peace to sustain us. We know pain, so we can offer encouragement.

Avoidance is easier. It is more comfortable for the moment.

But only by living life can we gain it. We must be willing to face the truth and the pain and the shoulder rubbing to get to the joy and the grace and the hope.

The wide path leads to destruction and has no purpose, except to indulge in momentary pleasures. The narrow path is life lived fully... avoiding no thing that would draw us closer to Him. On the narrow path, your vision is singularly focused on His face. And you run like mad to get to Him, through whatever comes.

The Why.

Why.

The word touches our lips probably more than any other will in our lifetime. Why this. Why now. Why not. Tell me why.

It falls out of silent, gaping lips; tangled with painful, strangled weeping. It dances from laughing tongues, silly at the irony of life. Sometimes it tumbles through clenched teeth.

There's nothing wrong with asking why. Even Jesus used the word when he was in his dying moments on the cross.

"Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?" He cried. "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

Why.

It is a natural part of the human experience to crave reason. To demand the meaning. When we experience pain, we need to quickly define it. Cast the blame. Give it purpose so it doesn't become a black hole that will consume and destroy us. It is a desperate attempt for comfort. And we all do it.

What would happen, though, if we set aside the why. Perhaps not for forever. Instead, for a moment. What if we set aside the why for the sake of grounding ourselves. Getting our footing. Why is shifty. The word tempts us to abandon. If we ask it in our most unstable moments, we are at risk. Why is not wrong. But it is to be handled carefully.

Instead, what if we pause. Close our eyes. Breathe. What if in our ugliest moments, in our deepest aches, we first pause to look at our Creator. What if we had our feet fitted with readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. Peace is grounding. It steadies our shaking limbs. Face to face, we stare into our Creator's eyes. It doesn't mean we say words. Sometimes we're too hurt to say anything at all. But we share a knowing look. We let Him see into our deep and we remind ourselves that He knows it. He's seen it before. He has experienced it.

We breath it in. The peace. We breath it into our lungs and let it absorb into our blood, our tissue, our cells. We wait. The waiting solidifies it, allowing our hearts to engage.

Then.

Then, when we've reminded ourselves who we are, children of the most high God, we begin to ask. When we let ourselves grip onto who He is, we breathe out the why. This time from a different place. Not from anger or hatred or doubt. But from brokenness. Brokenness doesn't bother Him.

He is the Great Repairer.

Show me.

It hurts, guys. I'm not gonna lie to you and make it pretty or poetic. Finding out that my womb may no longer be a safe place for children to grow... hurts.

I thought I ought to wait until the initial sting of loss had passed before I wrote this. But why? Isn't pain a universal language? Can't we learn and bond and grow together through it?

I went in for an ultrasound yesterday. I was 18 weeks and expecting to discover the baby's gender. My kids waited anxiously at home. My husband was asleep in Japan, expecting to wake up and learn great news. Instead, we repeated a nightmare.

This happened to us before. Four years ago I was 17 weeks and learned the same thing, staring at an ultrasound, knowing before they said a word. I remember the way the tech slowly turned the screen from my sight. They did that again yesterday. It wasn't until I sat down with my doctor that I was given the news straight up.

It hurts.

It will go on hurting.

I will be afraid to ever try this again.

But the only thing I can think today, over and over, repeating in my mind like a broken record, is this:

Show me Your glory.

God, show me what you can do with this. Show me how big You are. Show me. You don't have to convince me. I'm already convinced. Show me. I want to see it. I'm sitting on the edge of my chair.

My eyes are red ringed and my head aches from heaving sobs all night.

And I want to see it. What will You do with this? How will You use it? Oh, God, I can't wait to see it.

Show me. Show me.

I'll wait. I'll hurt and I'll heal. As long as You show me.

I want to see Your glory so bad it aches.

Cows are really good listeners.

Sometimes it's just too much. The demands of parenting and cleaning and homeschooling and creating... it grows to a steady roar, constantly filling my head and pushing me to the edge of sanity. {This isn't an exaggeration. Mom's globally, you get me.} Lately, I've allowed myself to shut off completely. Too much became too overwhelming and I just... stopped. Instead of handling this well, I just quit everything. I stopped writing, stopped parenting on purpose, stopped reading, stopped seeking God. It was easier to quit.

The other day, the kids were running around in the woods behind their Granddad's house and I slowly followed along behind them, trying my best to be alert and aware and appreciative of the natural world around me. The woods are small enough and fenced in, so I could let the kids roam free.

There is a hill in the back that leads to the horses yard. Near the top, my feet landed on this rock:

And this was my view:

Okay, minus the cow patties, it was perfect. With the kids in earshot, I found myself breathing deeper than I had in a while. There's something about the country. 

Then these guys showed up:

Who knew cows could be such good listeners? They kept creeping closer until finally they were right up against the fence. Well, until I moved, at which point they all took off running. Have you ever watched a herd of cows run scared? It's hilarious. 

I stood on the rock for a while. The kids would climb the hill, calling me to come join them. Most days that we are in the woods, I do. But this day I needed something I hadn't grasped yet. I encouraged them to go play and fixed my eyes again on the rolling hills. 

I prayed. Nothing fancy or scripted. Just...

What do You want to say to me? I'm listening.

I'd love to tell you I had a life-changing, mind-blowing encounter; something that was so monumental that my life will forever stay on track and I won't ever wonder or question again. 

But to be honest I don't think that's what God intends for us. The questioning and wondering and struggling is what defines our faith in the end. It amplifies the love story. If we never questioned, never wrestled with understanding, our faith would lose it's depth.

What I saw in front of me, the rolling hills and rocky bluffs and, yes, even the cow patties, was life. Life stretched before me like a great adventure. And the question that I received in response to my first was:

There is life stretched before you. What are you going to do about it? 

What I needed was perspective. I needed a glimpse at a bigger picture. Our singular lives become prisons when we lose sight of the bigger picture. The walls slide in around us, pressing us into a space too tight to function.

I had stopped writing because I was too overwhelmed. I had stopped reading books because I was too distracted. I had stopped reading my Bible because I was too frustrated. I had shied away from prayer because I didn't want to be corrected. And I was parenting and wife-ing on autopilot. 

I was choosing nothing. Doing nothing. 

Disappearing. 

But there it was. Life. Still waiting to be lived. 

We each stand on a rock with life rolling and stretching before us. It is wide and long and beautiful. It is full of barriers and pitfalls and cow patties. There are billions of people filling a diverse and beautiful and broken world, and we each have a part to play. 

"You are salt for the Land. But if salt becomes tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except being thrown out for people to trample on. You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Likewise, when people light a lamp, they don't cover it with a bowl, but put it on a lampstand, so that it shines for everyone in the house. In the same way, let you light shine before people, so that they may see the good things you do and praise your Father in heaven." 

Matthew 5:13-16

We were created for a purpose greater than ourselves. But we will never reach it sitting still, doing nothing, feeling sorry for ourselves, or quitting. Trust me when I say that I get it. More than I wish. What gets me is looking at my children. When they reach adulthood, will they look to me as an example of determination and life-living. Will I be that for them? In a decade, what will I have accomplished? And will it be an arrow pointing to God, or will I have gone my own way, ignoring the Gift-giver completely? 

It knots my stomach to imagine the latter. 

So I'm happy to say I have been thoroughly chided. I feel the weight of responsibility again that comes with realizing your gifts and knowing they aren't to be wasted. Life still demands so much, but the bigger picture is in my heart again. 

Oh, and I got these. So now I can see. That helps. 

Paper Kindling.

You know that moment in a project when you're like, Yeah, this isn't working. And you're tempted to scrap the whole thing and start over? Only, you've already put so much work into it that trashing the whole project feels a bit like homicide and starting over a bit like pulling teeth?

This was my struggle for the last couple weeks. 

As a writer, specifically an author of fiction, I get to these points in a story when I wonder what in the world I was thinking. The plot is all over the place and I can't get a read on the characters. The beginning was great. I was inspired and the words flowed out like water. But 20,000 words in (essentially 40 pages of a book),... I think I have never hated a story more. 

I have a feeling this problem plagues more than just writers. No matter what our craft is, at some point, we all want to tear the pages into teeny tiny pieces and use the scraps for kindling. <<< or is that just me?

Well, since you asked, here's how the problem worked out:

I tried a new thing. It's ground breaking folks, at least for me, so hang with me on this...

I kept going. (I know. Mind officially blown. <<< no sarcasm here. I won't tell you how many files are stored on my desktop... books I started and walked away from.)

I ended up pressing delete more than any other key, I re-wrote a few scenes, scrapped others. I started with 17,748 words written and at the end of the day finished with 16,378.  Looks like I'm moving in the wrong direction, but now I actually HAVE a clear direction to move in. I can move past the problem because I took the time to re-evaluate what I had in front of me. It was not easy deleting entire scenes. I hesitated. (My son loves that word right now. He'd be really excited I used it. He asks me questions then says, "You hesitated." Thank you, Olaf.)

Yes, I hesitated, but once the task was done, it felt oddly FANTASTIC. Yes. It felt empowering. No longer was I bond to loyalty to the words I'd written. I was in charge. I chose who stayed and who went. I felt like this guy: 

And I may have done a few impersonations. 

At the end of the day, I walked away feeling like I'd grown as a writer. It takes a while to get comfortable with the process of revising. But if I ever want to accomplish anything as a writer, I have to accept that everything that my fingers type is not instant gold. And I have to learn to push forward and stick with a project; to see it to completion. 

So there that. :)  

FREE book!

Hi, friends!

Today and tomorrow my first book, To Be Free, is available for FREE on Amazon! I'm so excited about the positive feedback I've received from so many of you who have taken the time to read and review! It means so much to me!

To Be Free is a story of young woman lost in grief. As she navigates nightmares and roller coaster emotions, the ache inside of her never relents. A new neighbor brings hope in the form of friendship, family, and a different perspective on God then she'd ever known. Her stubborn views are challenged simply by the way Vin unconditionally cares for her.

The idea for this book came after a period of loss in our family. I watched people I love struggle through grief and I began imagining what it must be like to wade through that without the peace of God.

I hope you enjoy reading To Be Free and don't forget to follow it up with the sequel, To Be Loved! Available NOW on Amazon Kindle for $2.99!

In Love always,

Laura

Remembering...

It's been four years almost to the date. In the final days of September 2010, I was 17 weeks pregnant with our third child. Or so I thought. The bleeding was the first indication that something was completely wrong. I rushed to the hospital and called my husband, who was, at that moment, over 1,000 miles away.

My mom and I sat and waited for me to be taken back for an ultrasound. When the kid finally came to wheel me back, there was a growing feeling of foreboding in my chest. I knew.

The ultrasound tech said very little and at one point turned the screen so I couldn't see it. I'm sure she was trying to shield my emotions, or perhaps she just didn't know how to handle the dread she may have felt for me. Avoidance is always easier.

When the doctor entered the triage room with a woeful expression, I knew my fears were about to be confirmed. Spontaneous abortion, miscarriage, fetal demise. All of these terms were used at different moments as the reality that I'd lost the baby was explained to me. It turned out, the baby had been gone for 2 weeks already. This explained why, when I'd been sitting near the fireplace a week before and rubbing my stomach, I'd noted that I hadn't felt much activity. A week before, we'd also toured a castle that was nestled between New York and Canada. I'd taken the elevator because of cramps.

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I know so many women who have lost pregnancies, some who have suffered still births, and others who have lost the baby they'd already had the privilege to hold. We discovered, a couple weeks after my 4 day hospital stay, that our baby was a girl. We named her Hannah Grace Teague. The names Hannah and Grace both carry a meaning of 'favor'. I wanted to name a daughter this for forever. First Abigail, which is the name of our first daughter, then I wanted a Hannah. The day I found out our baby had been a girl, that dream came true.

I write this to you, women familiar with suffering. The loss of a baby at any stage in his or her life is a mark of suffering. In time, God has healed our gapping wound, but the scar will always be there and there will always be a part of my heart that is waiting to meet Hannah. Please, I beg you, do not be silent in your suffering. The statistic is that one in four women will experience a miscarriage. Some will experience more than one. The habit of women is to suffer silently, not wanting to burden those around them with the sadness they're feeling and the emptiness they are falling into. Friend, I feel your pain. I know that ache in your chest that feels like it's become an extension of who you are.

The experience of miscarrying is now forever one of the greatest testimonies to my walk with God. You see, I was born into Christianity. I was raised in church. While others are more skeptical and struggle to believe the words taught through the Bible, it always came naturally to me to trust it. Still, there needed to be a defining moment for me when I really chose it; when I knew, without a doubt, that I was in for life. God is just and He is good. He took my pain and used it to draw me closer to Him, if I would so choose to let it. I distinctly remember a choice. I remember a quickening in my heart that, if it had been any louder, was almost audible. I became very aware that I had to choose one of two things: despair or worship. Do I bury myself in my pain and let it consume me? Do I become angry with God and shut him out?

Or do I find the strength to worship through it? I chose to worship, and God chose to pour out his love and peace into my life. I felt Him more then than I ever had in my life to date.

In my mind, I vividly saw an imagery that has never left me. I won't call it a vision, but it was definitely an image God was planting in my head to strengthen me, then and for forever. In my mind, worship became a weapon, and depression and despair the enemy. I saw a woman, much to brave to be me, clothed in armor and wielding a powerful-looking sword. Each choice to trust was a slash to the enemy. Every word of belief was a stab to it's heart. A warrior, with a tear-streaked face, fighting desperately for her life. The harder she fought, the stronger she became - infused with the Spirit of God and armed with His Word.

You, beautiful woman, are that warrior. You, beloved mother, have a choice. And imagine an army of women, all choosing worship, bound together by our pain.

Please do not hide your story. If you share your experiences, others become brave enough to share theirs. And for them, it might mean freedom they've desperately needed.

He sees you. He knows you. You're never left alone.

I'll fight beside you. I'll worship with you, desperately fighting for your life.

Always,
Laura