always {a broken hallelujah}

Hallelujah, 

every breath is 

a second chance. 

A reminder

that we can

start again.

With every breath

we inhale

and exhale–

we have a new chance

to live into grace.

we don’t

have to stay

where we are,

or where we were found.

even if we are broken,

destroyed by life unforgiving.

even if we were found broken by life choices–

our own or others–

it does not matter

anymore. Not to grace.

we can still

take a second chance

with each breath given.

A broken hallelujah

is still a hallelujah.

No matter how battered,

or bruised,

or faint.

We can still sing.

We muster our courage,

we gather our strength,

and we take a deep breath–

for each breath

 

is a new hallelujah,

a new shot at new life.

—

This is the start,

the start of a new thing.

a new day,

a new life born,

a new hallelujah

to be sung.

we cave in,

overwhelmed

by the chances given,

the grace received.

 

all of our scars,

our holes

torn by life,

they are always ours.

But so is He,

the One who takes our mess

and wretchedness

and gives us grace

and do-overs.

the one who heals our wounds,

and mends our brokenness,

but gives us scars to tell His story

of redemption and second chances.

While our mess is ours,

He is too–

and second chances

are  part of

the game.

 

—

 

 

 

Hallelujah,

every breath

is a second chance. 

Broken and battered,

my hallelujah still sings:

And I am always yours—

faults,

scars,

holes

and all.

—

Yesterday I went to a poetry workshop/poetry slam on campus, where we were led in an exercise to use a favorite song as a theme of a poem. (I also performed a poem we wrote from another exercise– file that under “something I never planned on doing ever.”

I decided to take what I wrote and turn it into an actual poem, which is above. It’s from the song  “Always” by Switchfoot– one of my favorite songs of all-time, a reminder that grace is real and second chances are as close as the rising of my chest.  When I’m overwhelmed, I sing this song. And  I remember: He is always ours. I am always His. And that is something worth singing.

All of the italicized portions are direct quotes from the song– the rest is me.

I never claim to be a poet– it is not my strong suit. But I hope this does this song justice.

because it’d be cruel if I didn’t link to the actual song…

always the helper, never the helped.

A few days ago I was spending time with a friend and 2 of her kiddos on campus. Her son’s newfound hobby is climbing trees, so when he saw other kids climbing he decided to join in.

He climbed the tree quickly, not looking back. Strong and confident, he scaled it. He soon decided he’d climbed enough, and started making his way down… only to realize that he didn’t know how to get from the last branch of the tree to the ground.

“Mom, I’m stuck.”

His mom soon went to him to help him down, grabbing his hand and helping him jump safely to the ground. Soon, he climbed again and fell under the same dilemma.

“Mom, I’m stuck.” and again she went to extend a hand, laughing as she said, “at least he knows when to ask for help.”

~~~

I have never been a person willing to ask for help.

I’ve always been the person on the other side, extending an outstretched hand to the friends around me that need my help. But asking for friends to return the favor? Forget it.

 

credit: twloha

I am always the helper– the doer. the pray-er. the server. the giver. but I don’t accept anything in return– even when I  need the help.

I am always the helper, but never helped.  I refuse to admit when I need help. Until i fall apart.

 

 

 

 

There are many reasons excuses for this in my head. But they all result down to this:

I am stubborn as a mule (I get it naturally);

I’ve always thought asking for help was a sign of weakness;

and, asking for help means relinquishing control, ever so slightly, to the situation or problem.

My friend Rivers said this recently and it struck a chord: “I’m great at holding up other people’s arms when they are tired; I’m terrible at leaning on them when I am.”

I hate leaning on other people. I’ve fought the idea my entire life– I can do things on my own, I can handle my own mess and everyone else’s too, gosh dangit.

I put all my weight on my own shoulders, then let others put theirs on them, too.

But putting my weight on anyone else’s shoulders? Nope. Inexcusable! At least it is in my brain.

If anyone asks me, I’m fine. I’m okay. Tired, but okay. Nothing more. Even when I’m falling apart at the seams.

And yet, I wear out. Carrying the load on my own is hard. 

But letting other people carry it for me is even harder. 

I don’t like burdening people– even though they say it’s not a burden.

I’m afraid people will see me and run.

I’m afraid people won’t find me and my baggage worth dealing with.

I’m worried people will forget me and my issues, see them as something insignificant.

I’d rather do things alone, my way– but in doing so, I isolate myself into loneliness.

I don’t want people to see me as weak– and I want to control the parts of myself people see, so they see me in the best light. So I hide myself.

I can be vulnerable online all day long. But face-to-face, and you’ll most likely see a show. 

When I’m anxious, I turn within. Internalize it all until I explode.

When depression hits in rogue waves, I hide under the covers and veiled smiles.

When I’m sad, I only shed tears on my pillow or in the shower (and professor’s offices, but that’s mostly when I’m angry).

And yet, I go through the motions of the day, letting other people give me glimpses into their life and their hurt, without so much as letting them get below the surface of mine.

I’m great at helping people. But I suck at helping myself. And accepting help from anyone else.

~~

A twitter friend (hannah collins) wrote today, “I’ve found myself praying, “Help me ask for help” recently. It’s the scariest whisper I’ve made.”

I think I’m about to start praying the same, even though it scares the hell out of me. I have help available, friends with shoulders to cry on and hands to hold and words to pray… but it’s the accepting of help that I falter at. The admitting I need people. The admitting that I’m screwed up enough to need help. Realizing I can’t do this life thing alone– and when I try to, I feel nothing but grief and loneliness. The giving up control enough to let someone else in to my story. Letting people see me weak–when in reality, it makes us all stronger

credit: twloha

when we realize how much we need each other.

 

There are people willing to lighten the load I’m carrying– not by taking my weight, but by helping me carry it.

People that remind me day in and day out that they love me, messes and all. That I’m not a burden– and my problems aren’t, either. I’m a human, screwed up royally just like everyone else. And we all need each other to lean on when we get too tired to carry ourselves.

On our own, we can only do so much before we burn out.

A couple weeks ago, a friend asked how I was doing. I said fine, and she read right through me. (she’s good at that). when I told her I didn’t tell people when I was struggling because I felt like a burden, she reminded me what I already knew– that there are always people willing to help. I just have to ask for it.

There are people waiting with their hands outstretched to help me. They’ve been there before–springing into action the minute I finally admit I can’t do this on my own. There are hands of friends willing to stretch out for me to grab when I’m needing help. I’m praying I learn how to not merely find said help, but accept it when the hand is outstretched.

I just have to be willing to admit that I’m stuck.

Maybe then I won’t feel so alone in this mess of life.

 

 

unite {five minute friday}

The word for five minute friday is:

 

Solidarity is a powerful thing.

When we unite under the things we share– our likes, our faith, our struggles– we suddenly feel less alone.

I cannot tell you the relief it is hearing someone say, “me, too.”

Whether it’s about a shared show or a favorite book or family drama or a struggle with mental health like mine, “me, too” gives me room to exhale.

Hallelujah, I’m not alone.

I’m not weird, or different, or other.

I am not the only one that feels this or understands this.

That’s a beautiful thing to me.

I struggle so much with vulnerability in certain areas of my life– yet whenever I share, I learn that someone else deals with that, too.

I was chatting with a friend of mine a few days ago, a fellow English major, and we talked about how much we loved spending time with other English majors– they just “get us.” They understand.

For Cozumel this year, we did a prayer calendar thing where we all shared our stories (how much or little we wanted) with the group, and every day we’d pray for the person whose story was shared that day. I was towards the end of the calendar, so I got to see/hear so many of my teammates and friends tell their stories– and see that they, too, deal with similar things I do.

I was willing to be more vulnerable with them than I’ve been with anyone else, because I saw that they struggled the same ways that  I did– so they would understand.

We unite in our similarity. In our “me too.” In our likeness, our understanding.

We unite when we discover that our lives belong to each other.

And we unite when we say me too.

leaving the now.

3 weeks.

That’s not a lot of time, you guys. 3 weeks. 19 days, if we want to be technical.

I’ve been fielding a lot of questions along the lines of, “are you excited?” and/or “are you ready?” along with exclamations of “you’re almost done! can you believe it?!?”

Well, after being a 5th year senior, you’d think I could believe it. But still, I can’t.

This is typical for seniors, as we wait with baited breath for graduation day to arrive. We get used to the questions, the excited repsonses when we say we’re seniors; we smile our way through the “what’s next?” question we get at least 10 times a day, and anxiously wait for the day to actually arrive so the questions stop. (at least that’s me).

I’m excited and ready to be done with school, for sure. If this week was any indication, I was ready to be done with schoolwork in February.

On the outside, I am thrilled. To everyone that asks, I’m pumped and excited to be done, finally, and for whatever is next to be here already. Even though I don’t know what that is. (*deep breaths*)

And that’s true. But it’s not the whole truth.

If I’m being completely honest, the closer we get to the end… I’m realize that no, I’m not that excited. I’m not quite ready. The bigger the lump in my throat gets, the more the tears begin to well.

Because no matter how prepared or ready I am for the future,  I am not ready to say goodbye to my present. 

I am not ready to leave my right now. At all.

The cliche of how fast college goes by becomes really true when the graduation countdown hits the 30 day mark.

I’m not ready to leave Lipscomb. I’m not excited about saying goodbye to this chapter, or leaving this community I love so much. I’m not ready or excited about leaving these people, this dorm, this location. The buildings and the relationships I’ve built. Sure, they’ll still be here, but they’ll be forever changed.

It’s my safe place. My home, moreso than any home I’ve lived in. I was talking to a dear friend last week, and she commented that Lipscomb was our stability– the most stable thing we’d ever had. I can’t disagree with her on that. It’s my crutch– without it, I’m afraid the world is going to fall from under me.

My favorite memories have surrounded this place and the people here– whether in Mexico or New Orleans, Elam Hall or the student center, my most favorites parts of my life and myself are swept up in this community.

This place has made me who I am. It’s so much more than a school, than a 4 (or 5) years of learning in a classroom and getting a diploma to hang on the wall. Lipscomb is so much more than that. It’s changed my life, and it’s changed me. My faith has changed. My personality has changed. My friend group, my passions, my hobbies, have all been shaped by this place.

I’ve had more fun here, more than any other time of my life. I’ve had hardships and people to love me through them, unlike any other time in my life. I’ve had happy days and sad days, and in-between days. I’ve had friends hold me when I needed, and I’ve held friends. I’ve had countless coffee dates and group meetings and lunches and dinners with people I love. I’ve sat through mission trip or service club meetings and tutored students and held hands of strangers in chapel. I’ve interned and taught students, I’ve danced with and sang worship songs with a mission team in the heat of Mexico.  I’ve been baptized by a friend at a church that meets in a bar, and watched others be baptized in the fountain in the square.

I’ve made memories and laughed till I cried or cried till someone made me laugh. I’ve done it all, all the things I wanted to and more. But I still am not ready for this time to end.

I found myself here. I found God here, and finally learned what a relationship with Jesus is supposed to be like. It’s saved my life, and has made me a much better person than I was when I walked on this campus Fall 2011 as a freshman.

I love this place so much, more than I’ve loved anything in my life.

There’s no way I’m ready to say goodbye.

I can’t think about leaving without crying. There’s a lump in my throat just thinking about it, every day, everywhere I go. I’ve cried almost nightly at the thought of having to leave this place, and everytime someone asks me how excited or ready I am, I feel a pang of sadness in my heart.

My present has been the best chapter of my life. I’m scared of it turning into the past. 

I was sitting at the bell tower tonight, something I do when I’m overwhelmed and need to journal and pray, with a clear view of the starry sky. And all I could think of while I was there was the fact that  in three weeks, I won’t get to do this anymore. And I cried. I won’t be able to waltz out of Elam on a whim’s notice to do this anymore. Or go to Ezell Chapel when I want to have quiet time. Or sit in Starbucks when I want to socialize. Or play banangrams in Elam Lobby.

I was sitting in my swing (yes I have a swing, anyone that knows me on campus knows which one it is), and all I kept thinking about was what I’m going to do without my swing. 3 weeks, then it’ll be a memory. That’s all.

I’m not ready for that.

I haven’t told this to anyone, but last fall, before I quit student teaching and my semester went to hell in a handbasket,  I didn’t feel like my time at Lipscomb was over yet. I felt that something was going to keep me here a little while longer… Lord I didn’t know how that was going to be answered at the time (and how I hate that that was what happened), but I’m thankful for it– if only because it gave me the gift of more time.

But this time, that feeling is still here– that lingering feeling that I’m not done here just yet. But this time, there’s nothing able to keep me here any longer. And I hate it.

—

If you ask me if I’m excited for the future, I’ll say I’m getting there. (This post is helping me breathe and trust the path right now).

If you ask me if I’m ready to be done with school, I’ll say a hearty yes and respond with the days countdown to May 7th.

And yet, thinking about these things right now makes tears well up in my eyes, because the thought of saying goodbye to my present to make way for my future is absolutely breaking my heart ten ways to Sunday.

Know when you ask me these things, that the day May 7th actually rolls around is going to be more bitter than sweet for me. It will be a celebration, for sure, one that I have earned and worked my ass off to overcome a boatload of challenges to earn. But it will still be a hard day. Really hard.

Because once they call my name, I’ll get my diploma, then get into a car and go to a home that’s not Elam Hall–and for the first time in 4 years, I leave knowing that I won’t return in the fall … off to a new chapter that hasn’t been figured out yet. The thought steals my breath.

No more safety net, no more stablity. No more ‘home’.

And I don’t know how I’m going to handle that.

If it’s anything like I’m handling writing these words right now, it’s not going to be pretty.

We see that Winnie the Pooh quote about goodbyes around this time of the year — as cliched as it is at this point, it still rings true:

How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

And Jesus, am I ever so lucky.

But that doesn’t make saying the goodbyes any easier.

Be gentle with your senior friends, y’all. (Especially this one). They probably don’t want you to ask them about graduating for the 100th time that day. They could probably just use a hug, a reminder that it’s going to be okay (eventually).

today.

I’m sitting in the campus starbucks. I’m surrounded by people– it’s currently packed, at least packed for a Sunday afternoon. Lots of people chatting around me, some doing homework quietly. Some I know, and I wave a hello to them.

I am surrounded by people. Yet I have never felt so alone.

I have so many people around me constantly– friends, neighbors, RAs; tripmates, classmates, professors; campus ministers, mentors, counselors.

Yet still, I have never felt this alone.

I’m sitting here, in a crowd of people, overwhelmed by loneliness. And I don’t know how to fix it.

I’ve surrounded myself with friends– going to dinners and events and reunions of the like. Yet still, I feel alone. Like I’m walking through a fog and no one can see me in the midst of it.

I’m surrounded by people that love me, that support me and constantly help me. Yet I feel none of that right now. And it scares me.

—

Friends constantly ask, “how are you?” or “how’s it going?”

On a good day, I’ll say I’m fine. It’s fine. when in reality, there’s nothing fine about how life is or how I’m feeling right now.  There’s nothing good or okay about how I feel like I’m being swallowed whole by life. There’s nothing okay about how apathetic I am towards life right now, or how terrified I am of the future. There’s nothing good about feeling so alone in the crowd of people.

On the worst of days, I say I’m surviving. I’m making it. Which is true, but not. I’m floundering, badly. I’m barely treading water, keeping my head above the waves that I’m being hit by. I’m making it, but only by the grace of God and the skin of my teeth. I’m only scraping by barely, and every day I wonder if it’s the day I’m finally going to fall off the ledge this season is pushing me off of.

Despite it all, I smile and say hello when people ask how I’m doing, knowing that inside of me it’s dark and sad and I’m falling apart at the seams. No one sees the sad. No one sees the ugly. Because I don’t let them. I’m scared if people see how I’m actually doing, they’ll run. Or they won’t know what to do. (a hug and a listening ear work wonders, in case you don’t know). Sometimes I feel like I could text people and tell them how I’m feeling and ask for help, but the loneliness and depression whisper in my ear that people won’t care. Or people won’t take it seriously. Or people won’t know what to do about it. Or people won’t want to help, don’t want to hear about my problems.

So I stay silent, letting myself fall further off the ledge.

Today, I was reading the lectionary scriptures for this week in my SOD  planner. The Psalm for the week was Psalm 30. Because of course it was. God has an incredible sense of humor, I tell ya.

Psalm 30 tells us that the weeping may last for the night, but the joy comes in the morning.

Many times during this mental hell I’ve been comforted by this Psalm– this reminder that God restores us from the pit, that hope will come. But right now, I don’t find comfort in it. Because I don’t know  how much I believe it. And  I prayed as such. Right now, I can’t find the hope. I can’t see the joy in the morning because this dark night has lasted so long it’s all I know. I want to believe that I’ll get out of this pit and be restored, but right now it’s impossible for me to see.

Today, I’m sinking slowly. And I don’t know how to pull myself back up above the water.

five minute friday {whole}

happy five minute friday!
Today’s word was an interesting one:

current life status:

broken.

mentally drained.

no energy. no focus. no drive.

I graduate college a month from today (the 7th) and I’m both excited and terrified.

I have no desire to do schoolwork, and have to force myself to get things done. I simply don’t care anymore- this semester is useless to me, anyways, so why bother?  My apathy is maddening. My depression and overwhelmed-ness is frightening.  I cannot get through the day without tears.

I am emotionally spent. no desire to do anything but sleep. I’m on autopilot, just getting through the day. Going through the motions.

I’m too close to the finish line to give up, but I sure as hell want to.

I’m the opposite of whole right now: I’m shattered into a million slivers of emotions and feelings and anxious thoughts and ideas swirling in my head. I’m broken because of how hellish this semester has been, and how scared I am of what’s to come. 

And yet.

Tonight, I walked outside late at night. For a breath of fresh air, and to run an errand for work.

I walked back to my dorm in the cool calm quiet, head up towards the sky.

Stars covered the sky, despite the stormy clouds still lingering.

They shined bright against a black sky, sparkling– I felt like they were putting on a show just for me.

In that moment, I heard God whisper through the starry sky:

I’ve got you. 

Quit worrying about things that are out of your control.

I’ll take care of it.

And in that moment,

as I exhaled a peaceful breath- the first I’d felt in a long time

I was reminded that on my own, I am completely and totally broken. My life is in pieces.

But with Him,

I am fully whole. 

I shared this on instagram today– 1 month from graduation. My thoughts exactly.

 

 

 

looking for {and finding} lovely

“ Finally, brothers and sisters, fill your minds with beauty and truth. Meditate on whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is good, whatever is virtuous and praiseworthy.”  (Philippians 4:8, The Voice)

I’ve never been much of a perserverer. When the going gets too tough, and I get overwhelmed with the tough, I give up. I’m a quitter through and through. I know this about myself– I’m very quick to leave when things get too tense or too hard. I avoid conflict with all my might– hence why I attempted to drop my  Holocaust lit class instead of go talk to my professor about what I’m struggling with. (that’s another story for another blog).

I focus on the bad. My brain is always anxious, always heading straight towards the worst-case scenario. I’m not a pessimist, but a realist: I see things for how they are. And I almost always see how the bad overpowers the good.  And it’s because of this– this hopelessness in seeing the bad– that I quit instead of keep going. 

I don’t get my hopes up for the miraculous. I roll my eyes at the happily ever afters and the fairytales. I hardened my heart to the world and people when I was a kid, and have slowly been learning how to trust them again.

I’ve never been too good at focusing on the good. On focusing on anything but the ugly, really.  There could be 10 things going right, but I only see where I’m failing.

While I’m a details person in how I function (as in every detail has to be perfect omg), I am not so much a details person in paying attention to anything but the big picture. And when the road to the big picture looks bleak or the path is filled with conflict or stress, I run away. Fast. 

And then, Annie Downs comes along, and teaches me a new way of thinking that isn’t really all that new, but framed in a way that has re-taught me. She’s helped me learn how to fight against this quitter mentality, how to see the little details as the big picture of life.

She’s shown me how to look for lovely.

Annie F. Downs is no stranger on this blog. She’s basically one of my favorite people ever. I’ve heard her speak three times now, and read Let’s All Be Brave so hard that it started fraying and falling apart. We share a birthday which makes her automatically fall on my list of favorite humans in all the world. She’s a loud laugher like me, a lover of good music and books and glitter like myself.

And, she was a quitter. Until she started looking for lovely. Now she knows what true perseverence– and hope– looks like. And she learned, as I’m learning, that lovely and hope don’t always look like things we’d think they do.

Annie has this way of taking a concept that the world defines and twisting it on its head–kinda like Jesus did. Reading her books feels like getting coffee and having life talks with a friend- refreshingly light and funny while powerfully life-giving. She has pointed me more towards Jesus than any other author with humor and grace and just plain normalness, and she has taught me so much about what lovely– and hope– looks like in my life. Even when lovely and hope aren’t very visible.  

I always thought the lovely things were big productions and giant gestures of grandiose proportions. Annie says no, that’s not what we’re talking about when we look for lovely. At least not all of the time.

We find lovely in the smallest, most obscure ways– and in the littlest things. It’s those seemingly little things that turn into the biggest seedlings of hope we need to persevere through whatever life is throwing at us.

When I eagerly signed on to become a member of the launch team for her new book, Looking for Lovely, I was mostly excited because she’s Annie and I love her. What I didn’t know at the time was how much God was going to use this book to get to me.

**

Annie starts the book by talking about her “broken crazy,” a time in her life that she started seeing some issues she had going on in her life and sought help in a few different ways– which led to her looking for lovely. It was kind of funny to me reading about her “broken crazy,” because I soon figured out that my broken crazy happened right around the same time. I’ve stayed mostly afloat since then (thank you Jesus for therapy and paxil), but more broken crazy has arisen the past few months.

This semester has not been my favorite. At all. This season of life– stuck  in a useless “bonus” semester while being anxious and unsure about the future and what I want to do– has truly been awful. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I’m just done with it all. I’ve wanted to give up more than once… I still do, if I’m being honest. I told two different professors today that I was completely apathetic towards the rest of this semester. (One took it better than the other).

Besides Cozumel, there has not been much lovely or good about this semester.

Until I started reading Annie’s book.  I soon started looking with a different set of eyes– and God revealed to me what lovely looked like.

“And as I’m collecting these moments that matter, I’m actually just seeing more of Him. When you find Jesus, you have found lovely.”

Lovely looked like random encounters with long-seen friends.

Lovely looked like a sunny Sunday in February, reading my Bible and books outside.

Lovely looked like seeing a counselor and exhaling for the first time in months.

Lovely looked like laughing with girlfriends about chick flicks and youtube clips.

Lovely, I learned, was everywhere. I just had to re-train myself how to look for it.

Lovely looked like singing and dancing and laughing alongside some of my favorite people in  Mexico.

Lovely looked like friends seeing my broken and loving me anyway.

Lovely looked like friends seeing you sad and bringing you flowers to cheer you up.

Lovely looked like singing hymns under the stars in Mexico with 40 of your favorite people.

“It’s not that my life is all that different; it’s just that I see it differently. So it feels like a  brand new life.”

When I started paying attention, I found lovely. It didn’t just start happening or showing up suddenly– I just became aware of it. 

The season may not be lovely right now, God says, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t any lovely in it. It took this book to remind me that there was–and is– hope that lovely will come across my path, and hope will be waiting for me around the corner. Even when it doesn’t feel like hope is possible anymore.

**

After the broken crazy, Annie talks about how she has to be rebuilt– and in this rebuilding, she starts watching for a miracle and looks for lovely. The book goes through the different places she finds lovely– and how she finds hope and God in her right-now life, giving us suggestions for how to find our own lovely in where she finds it.

Even when life isn’t lovely itself, she finds the lovely in the margins– and she clings to it.

Kinda like I’m doing right now. I’m clinging to the hope that is anchored in looking for the lovely things around me. Even though life is chaos and stress and mental hell right now, there is lovely in the midst of it. I just had to rebuild myself with a new lens to see it.

I could go on about the book, and there are a few future posts that will probably come from chapters of it, but for now: this book was just what my heart needed. It’s become an anthem for my life: look for the lovely. Even when it hurts. Even when you’re scared.  Even when lovely is nowhere to be found.

I adored this book. Annie is so personal and honest– I was so teary reading parts of it because I know her better now (and how much more I’m like her than I realized). My favorite chapter is the end, because she tells us that this journey is still a work in progress– it’s not unfinished. She doesn’t tie it in a pretty little bow and say that Jesus fixed every problem. Nope. She tells us she’s trying, aiming to be the person that looks for lovely in all things, finds hope in the lovely, and see Jesus as the most lovely thing we can find. But she’s not there everyday yet. That takes guts to admit– so many times Christian authors want a concrete ending that says that they’ve figured the answer to all their problems.

Annie instead offers us a grace-filled “I’m in this with you– and I am unfinished” ending that reminded me it’s OK not to be finished. It’s OK not to have it all figured out, to not neccesarily be able to find the lovely every second of every day. We just keep trying, refusing to be quitters anymore. That’s what  I see when I see Annie in this book: a flawed, funny, grace-filled daughter who is trying to look for lovely and see hope in all circumstances. She doesn’t get there 100% of the time, but she isn’t letting the broken crazy in her life turn her into a quitter anymore.

I don’t want to be a quitter anymore, either. Thanks, Annie.

Looking for Lovely is out in stores everywhere now. If you’re in a place where you’re needing to find slivers of hope and help to cling to, please look at this book. Annie writes about her story and her path to finding lovely in such a funny, open-hearted way. It’s worth checking out. Jesus and hope are on every page, and it is a beautiful book that captures what God has been trying to teach me.