But somewhere between Serena and now, Jesus found me. He showed me this chubby former tomboy had a beauty in her heart. He showed me I didn't need dates or special hairspray. My beauty was curated by His Spirit living in me. My natural beauty was worth preserving and advocating for. I didn't need makeup to feel complete. I didn't need straightened hair to be accepted by others. I didn't need anything more than what He had already given me.

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Yes, I trust in God. But as I carry all these broken pieces and tears are relentless down my face, I don’t trust that God won’t hurt me. I pause in shock as the thought slips and my facade of perfect Christianity is dropped between God and I (as if I can hide anything from Him) lay all my cards on the table. I don’t trust your calls.

Are you in this? Have you forgotten me? How could all these random losses, closed doors, and no’s have any divine purpose beyond this mess?

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For years I had studied and practiced (and studied some more) learning about the field of psychology. I had the privilege of traveling around the world while utilizing my degree, studying under wonderful professors, and even receiving a master’s degree. However, no matter how many textbooks I may read, I find constantly that life is not a textbook. In recent years of counseling individuals, families, and couples the most important lesson I’ve learned is that God’s presence in the therapy room is essential. 

Being a therapist and sitting with patients in the midst of the storms of life is one of the most difficult parts of my job. In the midst of suffering we usually start with questions such as, “God, what are you doing?” We often pray “Is this season over yet?” or “Is this part over yet?”. I don’t know what season you are in today, but I desire for you to know that you have a God who is with you, in every season of life including the hard places.

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In honor of October being over we are sharing three miscarriage / infant loss stories that we curated on our Instagram for this month. Join us in weeping and celebrating with Sarah, Cristin, and Taylor as they open their hearts and hands to the Lord’s plans. The Bible says there is a time to mourn and a time to dance. Each of these stories share how God was there in the darkness and led them back to the light.

If you are experiencing the pains of miscarriage or infant loss, we are here to pray for you and talk with you. One out of four women experience either one. And we know the church is not exempt from that statistic. Our heart is to share more so healing can happen more. Praying for your heavy hearts friends.

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Wave after wave of emotion washed over me as I immersed myself in the culture for three weeks; I felt sadness, incredible joy, heaviness, elation, awe, and hope (to name a few). My experience in Kenya challenged me in innumerable ways and broadened my perspective of what it means to have a relationship with God.

I saw God move and I saw people respond.

Visiting churches, staying at an orphanage/school, and interacting with locals opened my eyes to the kindness and deep hurt of the people here. However, it is because of this hurt, poverty, longing, destruction, and brokenness that they have such admirably firm faith. They rely on God for their next meal, they rely on God for a roof over their head, they rely on God for income, they rely on God for medical attention — and miracles happen.

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Now, I’m no Laura Jean Covey (she's way cooler than I am), but sometimes it sounds really amazing to write a letter to all of my ex-best friends. Maybe to rehash how we ended our sweet sisterhoods, maybe to rewrite old wounds into little bruises to keep them in my favorites, or maybe to just say, “Wow I miss you and I'm so thankful for you.”

I don’t think we give enough credit to the hurt a dear friend leaves when you or they leave.

It hurts. And it's a deep hurt.

I started listing their names, starting in kindergarten and I got to mid-high school when it really hurt. And my eyes started swelling. I couldn’t type past my best friend from high school’s name because honestly, I never really mourned that it ended. Can you think of friendships that sounds like that? Did you lock those feelings in a box and slide them under the bed? Yeah, me too.

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As night neared in the Land of the Midnight Sun, the sky melted into a display of vibrant purple, pinks, and orange. A fishing boat appeared to be chasing it, finishing up the summer season as August bleeds into September. The vessel broke through the water gently and became a silhouette on a greater canvas. Classic Alaska, showing off again.

This view became my daily view for a precious week this summer when I traded triple digit temperatures for sweatshirt weather, sand in Chacos for Xtra-Tuff rain boots on the rocky coastline. I had spent all of 2018 preparing for the Harvester Island Wilderness Writing Workshop. After encouragement from friends and family, I finally took the leap. I would return to my roots in Alaska to participate in a week long writing workshop.

I came knowing that regardless of what I learned at the workshop, it would be life changing. Yes, I might not leave with a fully drawn out book plan, but I felt it inside me–– I must go.

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I think sometimes we have this notion, even if we think we don't, that our pastors or mentors or teachers or parents or idols don't struggle ... that they never fail. They have a limit to the wrong they can commit because, well ... they're better than we are, right? At least they were supposed to be. It's easier to see where they've fallen, now that they've picked themselves back up. We love to hear their testimonies of past failures, of how God pieced together a broken drunkard's life. We feed on stories of rock bottom epiphanies and jail cell redemption. And then we use those to put them on a very high, and very small pedestal and tell them never to fall again. 

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I fell in love with my first Christian church.

When I became a Christian it was at the largest church in my hometown. I was raised in a stale version of Catholicism that left me hungry for more than unexplained traditions. 

I loved it so hard that in my spiritual infancy I thought to love it meant to dislike other churches that fell in the same genre as my church: Nondenominational.

Nondenominational churches have been compared to, by one of my favorite college professors, the Hometown Buffets of denominations. Denominations of the religion of Christianity are served to unite folks that believe and prioritize specifics of theology or religious rituals versus others who may have different priorities. 

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December 19, 2015, was supposed to be my wedding day. Then, with just 6 weeks to go, it wasn't. The impending significance of that day disappeared and I was left with tearful eyes, unsteady feet, and a broken heart.

Most of my life, I’ve been the girl who always has a smile on her face and finds the greatest joy in the smallest things like puppies, warm coffee, and having friends to binge watch Gilmore Girls with. I make terrible dad jokes, am way too competitive at card games, and always want to hug and be hugged … unless you’re a creepy stranger ... but if you’re a creepy stranger holding a puppy … we might still hug.

But in that time of pain, it felt like there was a severe lack of puppies and warm mugs of coffee in my life. While I sat and cried over the shattered pieces of what I thought my future would be, I felt like those little things that used to make me so happy didn’t matter anymore. I couldn’t fool anyone with my new fake smile because I didn’t even have the willpower to fool myself. I couldn't talk myself into thinking I was okay and I couldn’t control my frequent breakdowns into ugly, painful, silent sobs in my little office cubicle.  

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