"There is a road that leads to Heaven. It is both narrow and wide, both flat and steep, both restful and treacherous. There is a Man who walks this road, back and forth, back and forth He goes. He races with the strong, He nurses the wounded, He calms the afraid; there is not a single one who has traversed this road who has not, at some point, met with Him. He is both gentle and stern, both full of love for good and hate for evil, both full of youth, and yet older than any other. He has a wise and noble brow, hands that are strong but tender, and a gaze that strengthens just as surely as it penetrates.

As He walked one early morning, on a wide portion in one of the most pleasant valleys of the road, he came upon a little girl, curled in a tiny ball, crying rather pathetic looking tears.

Ever full of compassion, the Man stooped to her, "Little Girl, what troubles You?"

The little girl turned her tear-streaked face to the Man, not realizing who He was, "It seems as though I shall never make it to the end."

The Man fixed His knowing eyes on her, "The end of what?"

"Why, this road," she sniffled, gesturing towards the lovely portion of path where she sat.

"The best way to find out is to keep walking, don't you think?" The Man looked down kindly at the little girl, who huffed a big huff, and shook her little curl-covered head. And although she had not meant to, the little girl replied with a voice that sounded very much like a whine, "But it isn't just about me!"

The Man bent his head nearer to the little girl, "Isn't it though?"

The girl sobbed a tiny bit more, "No! Can't You see the other little children that are so much further down this road than I?"

The Man stood and shaded his kind eyes, barely making out the forms of little bodies quite a ways down from where he stood.

"I can see the others," the Man replied thoughtfully, "But I do not know that their progress has anything to do with yours."

The little girl sniffled miserably again, and as most children do when adults' responses do not suit them, she jutted out her bottom lip, which trembled perilously. "Oh but it does! It means that I shall never catch up with them," sighed she, crossing her little arms over her chest.

The Man nodded again, "Maybe not."

To his calm reply, the little girl's eyes filled with fresh tears, "Then what ever shall I do?"

The Man stooped again to her level, and grasping her shoulders, pulled her gently to her feet. "You may keep walking. And even if you should never catch up with them, at least you will still be traveling the same road as they. You will see all that they've seen, taste all they've tasted, if only you'll not tarry here, or worse yet, give up."

The little girl felt her little heart growing more brave with the kind Man's words. She squared her little shoulders and did her best to swallow down her tears, which we all know for a little girl can be quite a triumph in itself. She thought over what he'd said, realizing that although not quite so fast or far as they, she was just as able and willing to keep at the path if it meant she could experience all that her friends had.

But just as quickly as her heart grew bold, a whisper of a doubt sent it crashing down again. "But I am all alone, and they, they at least have one another!" The little girl cried.

The Man's eyes grew tender towards her.He gathered her against his chest and let her cry, which was truly hard to do, she realized, while situated so comfortably in the Man's kind embrace.

When she could not manage one more tear, the Man extended to her one of His large hands, "I will walk with you, if you like. Then you won't be alone."

The little eyes on the little girl grew rather big, considering her size. Her litte heart took flight, like a hummingbird's wings, "Oh, would you?" The Man nodded and smiled the kindest smile down at her as she placed her little hand in his.

It wasn't many steps before the little girl found all thoughts of her companions, whose progress had caused her so much grief before, were erased by the kind company of the strong Man who held her hand and warmed her heart. The road now seemed neither lonely, nor long, so long as she had Him."

How We Grow

Lately there has been this idea growing in my mind, and I keep encountering it wherever I turn. The most recent podcast I listen to is about it, Chad and I flip the channel to GodTV and Sid Roth is talking about it, the book I randomly pick up on the desk is earmarked to the exact page about it. Seriously. Its kind of a creepy, inescapable sort of thing that keeps evolving until I finally look it square in the face and give words to the impressions on my heart. So this is it.

My grandmommy used to always say, (who knows why she was always saying this, but she did) that "the thin just get thinner, and the fat get fatter." I always kind of bristled at that statement, because I was never sure which side I was on...and if I were thin, that was exciting and sort of liberating in a way, but if I was fat, well that just added an impossible anxiety. You get the idea. But there is this spiritual side of this statement that I can't resist pointing out today.

Do you ever notice that people who are really passionate about Jesus just keep going deeper? Its like they just keep getting larger and larger ideas about life and God, and soon its not just every other word they say is life-giving, its every word they say. They just ooze encouragement, and when you ask about their walk with God, they have a sparkle in their eye and a skip in their step and they seem indefatigable. And you wonder, will I ever get there?

Its probably pretty useless to outline the people who first take babysteps away from the "good life" of prayer and devotionals, tired of the routine, and bored with the faith...and a few years down the road they would rather call themselves cannibals than Christians, and they'd rather discuss the goodness of humanity than the greatness of God. And then you wonder, did they ever really meet with God? Did they ever really feel Him stirring in their hearts? Because if they did, they couldn't just walk away from it.

And maybe you're kind of like me sometimes, and one extreme looks unattainable, and the other looks totally unappealing. I heard some words recently from a pastor about how spiritual hunger and physical hunger work in opposite ways. Normally, people eat in the physical when they're hungry...and once they eat a certain amount, they aren't hungry anymore. (Notice I didn't say they stop eating, because if its a bag of pretzel mnm's in my hand, hunger or no hunger, I feel compelled to finish it) But in the spiritual, when you're not feeling hungry, all you have to do is start feeding yourself and you realize, you're hungry. And the more you eat, the more hungry you get. And so its like this endless stream of eating and hunger and eating and hunger, except there isn't obesity or gorging in the spiritual realm. Its more like Eden, when she is in the middle of a growth spurt, and all of the sudden it doesn't matter if its sweet peas or sweet potatoes or formula or milk or whatever, she could eat for an eternity. And her little body metabolizes the food and she grows more, so she eats more, and then she grows more and...in effort to not bore you, I will digress.

I was thinking this morning while I fixed my coffee that, I wonder why some people can get away with only putting a packet of splenda in their cup and they're fine, and why I am gagging unless mine has two heaping tablespoons of sugar. Literally. And then I thought, I bet its because those people haven't had real sugar in their coffee in so long that they think splenda actually tastes good. (I've probably just upset a bunch of splenda-loving people out there, who are spewing at their computer reasons why real sugar pales in comparison to artificial sweeteners...but I know they're dillusional, probably because of the chemicals in their sweeteners anyhow) Anyway, I was thinking that if they knew how good sugar was, they'd toss out their yellow or blue or pink packets. I think its the same way with Jesus. Sometimes I'm content to just live off of fifteen minute reads in the Bible, and a few worship songs, just because I've forgotten what it feels like to read something and pour over it for an hour, and be totally touched to the core of my heart in a way nothing else can touch me...but if I could remember that feeling in its perfection and entirety, I wouldn't be content with anything less.

And that's why I think the spiritually "fat" just keep getting bigger. Their memories are thick with moments like that, where they walk away and their hearts are practically screaming "God is with me!!!" And so they have to keep going back for more.
And sometimes I look at those people and feel discouraged, like I won't ever get there, or that I was once there but I can't figure out how to get back. This morning, the Lord just reminded me though how His economy works. His is not like America's. He doesn't have a certain amount of money in the bank or gold in the reserve that is exhausted at a certain point. He owns the cattle on a thousand hills...and in a non-monetary way, He has riches that are eternal for all of us. There is space enough in Him for all of us to press in. And if you wake up and feel satiated already, and you think, I just don't feel like I need God, go get with Him. Your feelings don't determine reality. And the more time You spend, the more You'll want. The more you feast off His word or in prayer or in worship, the more space you'll create in your spiritual stomach for Him. He is always waiting, always ready to run to welcome you. Its good for me to often remind myself, when I'm tempted to compare my spiritual lot with someone else's, that God never shorthands us. We do it to ourselves. So, hungry or not, go get some.

"The whole outlook of mankind might be changed if we could all believe that we dwell under a friendly sky and that the God of heaven, although exalted in power and majesty, is eager to be friends with us." -AW Tozer

Apparently the world's worst storm was chasing us yesterday as we exchanged Abilene, Texas for a flight back to Indianapolis. In between strapping Eden into the baby bjorn and boarding our last leg of the journey from Atlanta home, I felt sure there was a silent sadness that was creeping in the clouds behind us: that one haunting sadness of bags still unpacked, neatly stacked by our bed, and the realization that I am thousands of miles (okay maybe just 1000 miles) from the people I so love and miss. I hate even the dreading of that moment, and yesterday on the plane I was about to get lost in the feeling when I remembered some words the Lord had put on my heart a few weeks ago: "Frame your heart to the burden."

I'm naturally a happy person, maybe a little bit pensive at times and a tad bit too intense for some people (my apologies), but I generally wake up in the morning feeling excited for the day. I have loved my life all of my life. Not in a prideful way, but in a, I-will-do-the-best-I-can-with-what-I've-got-and-what-I've-got-might-not-be-alot-to-some-people-but-to-me-its-the-essence/extent-of-my-potential. (Its probably illegal to write a sentence like that, but I think you know what I mean). I love the man I married, I love the baby God gave us, I love my family, I love the skin I'm in (or at least I am trying to-- albeit I spent years of my life examining and obsessing over its flaws) and I love...love love love...the fact that I am a victim of grace. (I got that from a book I read yesterday, maybe its one of those well-known Christian colloquialisms, but I hadn't heard it til about noon yesterday and therefore its truth is pretty striking still).

In the past year, however, I have found it more of a struggle at certain points, to wake up blooming with hope. Its been a point of shame for me, and something I hate to even acknowledge. I, who have been given so much to be thankful for, have had the audacity to grumble in my spirit. (My spirit is shuddering even at the thought-- 1 Corinthians 10 makes it very clear how God feels toward complainers). In the wake of the wonderful gift of marriage and this baby and new friends in Indianapolis, I've been hit also with the reality of living away from my family, and the missing of certain people who had become necessary to my everyday welfare. And there are many moments I have found myself comparing my lot to others, whose families are down the street, around the corner, and who are irreparably connected to their hometown, their friends, their place of being presently that they have no need for new friends. And I've muttered under my breath, cried in my car, and tried to figure out a way to get home, to manipulate friendships to fit my needs, and to bother Chad until he does something about it. And quite often, I wish I could see a bunch of trials laid out on a table in Heaven and be able to handpick mine. "Lord," I say, "I could so much better handle financial stress or trouble with a friend or something else...just don't split my heart like this." This, I admit, is totally and completely wrong. Not the missing, not the momentary sadness, but the sense of entitlement to have life on my terms. As if I own my life.

"Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup, you have made my lot secure." Psalm 16:5

I usually have the hardest time with it when I'm freshly home from a visit to Texas. The people, the companionship, the warmth is so accessible to my memory that it makes everything seem paled in comparison. I was anticipating this sadness a few weeks before Christmas, knowing I'd be home for a substantial amount of time and I was asking the Lord how to prepare myself and possibly how to prevent my turning into the worst version of myself.

Very clearly, I heard the Lord say, "Charis, frame your heart to the burden. I've placed you neither by accident nor by punishment in your present circumstance. I know that this very burden is the exact trial I've chosen for you, and if you lean into Me, rather than try to squirm away or exchange it for something else, I'll teach you not only to survive, but to thrive in the face of it."

So yesterday, following the lone line of weary passengers onto the plane, I mentally stood up to the gathering clouds in my heart and told them: "The Lord has promised me that I can thrive in the midst, in the very heart of the trial. And I choose that inheritance." I have to and must learn to frame my heart to the burden, and let the clouds that promise trial produce fruit in my life. I woke up this morning and remembered this verse:
"For ground that drinks the rain which often falls on it and brings forth vegetation useful to those for whose sake it is also tilled, receives a blessing from God; but if it yields thorns and thistles, it is worthless and close to being cursed, and it ends up being burned." Hebrews 6:8-9

I don't believe I'm alone in having a specifically assigned trial, or even a circumstantially assigned one. Whatever your burden is, whether its grad school or that one teacher or maybe even the fact that happiness is so much more of a task for you this season in your life...maybe you can take comfort in the Truth that God is faithful to use the trials we go through, and more than that, He is with us in the midst of them, and His voice and instruction will be LIFE to us if we listen and lean into Jesus. He is sturdy enough, surely. He has joy enough for all of us to glean off. And He can teach us to say what David says at the end of Psalm 16:

"The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places; Indeed, my heritage is beautiful to me. I will bless the LORD who has counseled me; Indeed, my mind instructs me in the night. I have set the LORD continually before me; Because He is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my glory rejoices; My flesh also will dwell securely. For You will not abandon my soul to Sheol; Nor will You allow Your Holy One to undergo decay. You will make known to me the path of life; In Your presence is fullness of joy; In Your right hand there are pleasures forever."

The Power of Words

I am learning to really value the power of words. It may sound hokie, but I really believe the words we speak about ourselves either strengthen the Spirit's work, or quench it. God created the world by speaking it into being...and I believe He highly values words because He knows the power of words.
In the New Testament, the majority of Jesus' miracles take place because He speaks healing to a person, or deliverance. He doesn't get on the ground and wrestle demons out, massage sicknesses from a person's body, or do a dance to raise someone from the dead. He uses His words. I think this is also why God puts so much emphasis on calling Satan the father of lies. The devil speaks lies to us, and his words have the power to enslave us if we're not listening for the Good Shepherd's voice, and dwelling on His word, and words about us and who we are. If I've not convinced you that words are powerful, go read for yourself, and if I'm wrong, feel free to correct me.
Over the past few months I keep finding so many verses that emphasize the power of the spoken word.
"Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit" proverbs 18:21

"if any of you love life and desire to see many good days, keep your tongue from evil and your lips from speaking lies." psalm 34:13

"If anyone does not stumble in what he SAYS, he is a perfect man, able also to bridle his whole body. The tongue is a fire, the very world of iniquity, the tongue is set among our members as that which defiles the entire body, and sets fire on the course of our life, and is set on fire by hell." James 3: 2,6

And so I've been praying about and trying to apply this lesson in large and small instances in my every day life.

Exhibit A: When Chad asks me if I want a Dairy Queen Blizzard, instead of just saying yes, I've been trying to say, "Actually Chad, I am not really a sweets kind of person. Sugar and desserts just aren't for me. I actually don't enjoy blizzards." Inside, my innerself is gawking at me in disbelief. She's reminding me that I drink sugar in the morning, with a few scoops of coffee...but I keep trying to talk myself out of my sweet tooth. Okay so maybe this isn't the best example, as I have yet to really break myself of a sweet tooth.

A better example is trying to speak against insecurity. Chad and I spent the better part of our engagement collecting marital counsel from every godly couple who was willing to share with us. Some of these couples listened to me cry my eyes out about a bunch of lies I had believed about marraige, about Chad, about myself. One man in particular began to always address me by saying, "Charis, because you are insecure..." and he would go on from there. A few months into marriage we were still hanging out with this couple a lot, and he would continually tell me how insecure I was. One night, on our way home from their house, I was feeling really bothered by it. And I felt like in my heart the Lord just said, "You're bothered because he is not speaking the truth about who you are." Jesus did not die so that I could waver back and forth between insecurity and security. I turned to Chad and announced, "I am not insecure." He was suprised, and laughed a little bit, and then agreed with me. I started to really take care to not call myself insecure, even if I felt a little insecure every now and then...because in reality, insecurity is not who I am. Its probably been a little bit over nine months, and I can't tell you the last time I spent even an hour wasting my time over insecure thoughts. Praise God.

This whole emphasis on the power of words has really been taking a toll on my wit, sadly. I can't be as self-degrading as I would normally. I can't call myself lazy, untalented, unathletic, flakey, a terrible friend...etc. I actually have to really watch my tongue. And guard my mind. But what I've noticed is that I really feel better most days. When the laundry has piled up around the house and I am sitting with Eden on the floor thinking about how little motivation I have to actually work, I say out loud "I am made to be productive, and I am not a lethargic human. I love to work hard and be diligent." And the funny thing is, no lightening strikes me. In fact, I feel more motivated. Maybe its because my words become little cheerleaders, rather than little doom-bringers. (And I probably sound insane to anyone who happens to be listening to me, but if anyone is listening to me talk to myself while I am inside my own home, they probably are a little cooky too)

Taking my words captive has even helped me in relationships: A few months ago there was a situation in my life that was so difficult for me, that even the mention of someone's name brought up so much emotion in my heart that I had to literally stop talking about it. I began to just tell the Lord when I was bothered, and I started trying to speak life back into my heart towards this person. I started saying how much I enjoyed this person, how much I valued them, how I wanted to love them. And in just a few months, I began to realize I really did love them. My heart had changed. My words had paved a way for my emotions to follow. My dad always told me when I was younger that God's word at work in our mind should be the head of our train, and our emotions should be the caboose. We don't follow our feelings, we follow the reality of God's words and basically turn our back on emotions until they line up with what God says about us and towards us. Its amazing how effective positive words are.

Someone once suggested that the enemy can't read minds, but he can hear our words. If that's the case, I am going to walk around telling him exactly who I want to be in the Lord. Shouldn't we all? Speak a little bit of life back into our lives.

"How would you treat someone who has lied to you as many times as your fears have?"

I spent this afternoon attempting to breathe life back into the limp branches and flattened needles of our fake Christmas tree. Half way through arranging Chad's childhood ornaments (most of them some sort of candy icon) I remembered my experience putting up this same tree last year, albeit it was less limpid and neglected at the time. I was alone in our house, a week before Thanksgiving, watching Father of the Bride 2 on TV and blubbering like a lunatic. When Chad got home and found me, most likely mascara-streaked and covered in fake pine needles (the genius of having a fake tree is that it mimics a real pine's uncanny ability to lose as many needles as possible in the shortest amount of time). I told him I was just really touched by the movie. A week and three pregnancy tests later, I was a crumpled mess on our bathroom floor...so much for movies touching my heart.

The Sunday we found out we were pregnant, a man got on stage at the church we were going to and said he felt like he had a word of encouragement for someone in the congregation. "There is a door that is opening in some one's life, and it is going to be ushering in a whole new season and circumstance in that person's life. And this person is going to feel like it cannot be of God, and will be tempted to believe God is not in the situation. The truth, however, is that God is right behind the door, and this new circumstance is part of His perfect plan for your life." With those words, the man sat down. And literally I heard in my heart, "You are pregnant". I rebuked the voice, went on listening to our pastor, and spent the rest of the day unsuccessfully trying to repress this strange sense in my heart that perhaps that word was for me. At about eight that night, I asked Chad if we could go get a pregnancy test...you know, just for fun. He indulged me, rolling his eyes the whole time. I didn't mention the feeling I had in church, or the strange urgency I felt to see if I had heard correctly. The minute I saw those little blue lines appear, I slumped to the floor, and felt a huge weight of fear fall onto my heart. What would happen to Chad and I? Where would my youth go? How was I supposed to be someone else's mom when only a few years ago I was sobbing about going to college on my mom's bed, begging her to read me Green Eggs and Ham just once more?

The minute all of those memories flashed into my mind today, I turned around to see Chad carrying my little brown-eyed nugget down from her afternoon nap, and she was staring right at me like she knew what I'd been remembering. That tiny little bundle of life and joy is last year's greatest fear, incarnate. I almost laughed out loud.

Of course, a few days after taking those pregnancy tests, the Lord basically told me that whatever I had fear about, I had permission to believe the opposite would be true regarding having a baby. So I spent the next nine months believing the this baby would bring joy, intimacy, peace, youth, and new life into our home. Eden is all of those things and more. The day she was born, after the tests were performed, the nurses had checked in for the last time, and the family had gotten their fill, Chad and I were finally alone in the hospital room just looking at Eden. Out of nowhere, Chad said, "God knew something we didn't. I wonder how many other good things God has for us that we're just too afraid to say yes too."

What is ironic about the timing of all of these memories, and the haphazard way Chad and I decided to just put the darn tree up today rather than when we get back from Texas, is that I was sitting in church today and felt the Lord start to address the things I am afraid of now.

Lately I have been realizing how much of my life I live in reaction to things I am afraid of, rather than in response to God. I have an audience in my mind that I consult (in my imagination only) about nearly every decision in my life. (if I'm alone in this, I may or may not be outing myself as insane) They are a particularly dreary bunch, full of criticism, cynicism, and bitterness. They represent all of the people who I assume are judging my life. And with their rather vocal opinions on my every decision, they keep me walking a very fine line. At the end of the sermon today I felt like the Lord asked me to just hang up the proverbial phone on them. I gasped and grimaced and second-guessed. I feel badly, really I do. I am ditching some of the finest critics in the world by doing this, but I guess the Lord knows better than I do. With that said, I am going to be keep this blog updated more frequently. (The voices in my head are shaking their heads, raising their eyebrows, sighing those deeply disappointed sighs.)

Nearly every day, I feel like writing about something the Lord has laid on my heart or convicted me of, some sin area I have just realized is in my life, but the audience in my head reminds that most people might assume that I'm writing because I'm pretty impressed with myself, or that I'm pretty super-spiritual and arrogant, and that I think everyone wants to read my blog, or that I'm really a shabby writer and nobody has time to entertain thoughts from a person who spends her days entertaining a three-month-old. And in fear of seeming this way to people, I usually just let those urges to write slip by.

But for some reason today I thought about the people I love in my life, and how much I want them to walk out into their callings, not matter what they are. I want Jackie Blankenship to decorate and be crafty as much as possible, and dance her heart out on stage because it blesses me all the way to my toes. I want Meredith Smith to make as many friends as possible, and be the sweetheart of every fraternity because she is so good at making people feel at home. I want Alissa Mazzenga to keep painting, because every time I see something she's done, I want to pass on to Heaven and Glory. I want Shaylee Simeone to keep singing, because there is something about the liquid clarity of her gift that makes me want to die. I want Jess Graham to keep taking pictures because she manages to photograph the life in a moment. I want Morgan Pilcher to keep travelling and loving every minute of a new life, because I somehow vicariously go with her. I think you get the idea. Everyone brings something to the table, and some people bring a lot more than others. I am not sure if writing is what I bring, but I do know that stuff gets put on my heart and when I don't share it I feel like I am word-constipated...(lovely Charis, just lovely). I feel like I have to get it out somehow.

And so, instead of being afraid of myself, of how I might seem, of how others might hate it, I just want to let you know that I will be trying to be obedient to overcome those fears, and just write when it comes upon me. And whatever you do, just go do it. Don't sit in fear, wringing your hands over every one's opinions and worrying about your own self-concept. So what if there are nineteen million people in photography already? Be the number nineteen million and one. Even if you're not the best, just offer it up anyway. And God isn't the voice in your head. He never asked you to be the best, He just wants you to use what you've got to whatever capacity He asks. Fear never keeps you safe. It keeps you stuck.

"Your way was in the sea, and your paths in the waters, and Your footprints may not be known."



I had a friend once tell me that when God is doing one thing, He is doing ten thousand things. There are sometimes in my life where I feel like I can't discern the activity of God in my heart, but I know He is working. If I've agreed to let His Spirit inhabit me, than I can rest assured He never rests. He is working on me every day, every minute, because His delight is in finishing the good work He started. But sometimes the theme of a certain season in my life isn't really clear until I'm out of the season. It's like a murky pool of thoughts and verses and words that are carving out a greater space for God in me, and I'm not really sure how to label what He is doing. Maybe part of that is due to my own inability to sit still and ask Him, but sometimes I think He loves gigantic surprises, and once a season ends, He likes to map out for me exactly what was going on while I was unaware.



Other times, though, its almost like God announces to me before a season even begins that we're going to be learning a very specific lesson. (Before I go making myself sound like a perfect prophet, let me clarify: walking with God for me is sometimes like driving through an area where a radio station is coming in and out...the impressions on my heart, random recurring thoughts in my head, someone else's words are all ways that I believe God speaks, and sometimes I think He spoke something and I am way off...the beauty of grace. But other times, the most encouraging of times, I grab hold of an impression and circumstances prove that I did in fact "hear" right.) A few months ago, while listening to a sermon, the words "renewed mind" fell like a ton of bricks onto my heart. And suddenly everyone around me was talking about, debating about, looking for the definition of a renewed mind.



"Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you my prove what the will of God is, that which is good, and acceptable and perfect." Romans 12:10

"But we have the mind of Christ." 1 Corinthians 2:16

"For the mind set according to the flesh is death, but the mind set on the Spirit is life and peace." Romans 8:6

These are just a few of those familiar verses, ones my mom used to make me memorize in song-like cadences, that over the past few weeks have been circulating over and over in my head. But what is the mind of Christ? What is the renewed mind? Why, if I have the mind of Christ, do I not always experience life and peace? And those are some of the questions I had over the past few weeks.

I was standing in my closet the other day, contemplating some of my own shortcomings, and I heard the voices of people I love telling me, "Charis, don't believe those lies." As much as I appreciate the people who want me to walk in security and peace, I've always been frustrated by that answer to my own insecurities because sometimes the things that I am thinking aren't necessarily lies.

Exhibit a: When I talk about how I don't have Charlize Theron's legs, I can't really rebuke that thought as a lie, because its true. I actually don't have mile long legs.

So I'm standing in my closet, realizing this root to all of my frustration, and about to throw in the towel on trying to renew my mind when all the sudden the Lord sets this thought in my mind: "It's not whether or not the thought is true or false, Charis, its just that the thought isn't worthy of your attention."

Ok, wow. Why does a thought have to be worthy of my attention in order for me to dwell on it? Because I have the mind of Christ. And His mind is pretty stinking special. It's pretty controversial. It's pretty supernatural. And it's a mind that is holy-- set apart--kingly. He's given me the ability to have His mind, and whatever isn't worthy of His attention isn't worthy of mine. He is calling me up to His level, not asking to sit in the corner while I pour over facebook, magazines or celebrities' pictures, feeling worse and worse about my God-given body, ability, etc. To think that I subject the Holy Spirit to such ridiculous things kind of makes me want to gag. Certainly, He has better things to do.

A few days later I was sitting in our computer room, sipping hot chocolate, watching Eden stretch and coo on her special little mat, and I started contemplating life and the different people in it. All of the sudden I started having jealous thoughts. And the Holy Spirit was waving His arms in my head saying: "Please say goodbye to this thought." But I kept it circulating, and I even justified it: "It's natural for me to feel jealous of this [insert jealous thought here]." And with that, I turned around, and started my quiet time. At the very end of it, I decided to do the random open-up-the-Bible-to-see-if-God-is-speaking act, and the Bible fell to James 3. "But if you have bitter jealousy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not be arrogant and so lie against the truth. This wisdom is not that which comes down from above, but is earthly, natural, demonic."

I nearly fell out of my chair. What is natural for the human heart is to rage against the things of God, and jealousy is just one of those oh so beautiful attributes that I find most becoming when I'm indulging my flesh. But in that moment I paired natural with the words demonic, and I shuddered. And asked God to forgive me. He began to iterate to me how obsolete the idea of a neutral thought is. There is no middle ground, no "no-man's land"...if a thought isn't for God, it's against Him. Over and over again during these past weeks, the Lord has been helping me to stop before I indulge in what I think is "natural". When it comes to drawing a line in the sand, I will not ever be caught on the wrong side of Life. He has been too good to me for me to get lazy.

We're not even halfway done, I have a feeling. I think this is a life-long season, and having a renewed mind is a full-time job. I can't afford to be lackadaisical about it. Its amazing how the more I clear out of my head that isn't of God, the more open space He has to fill with things that are of God. And the best news is, God doesn't hold grudges. So if one day I'm really bad at renewing my mind, we're still on speaking terms the next morning, and He is just as willing, wanting, that I might have the mind of Christ.
"...you lay aside the old self, which is being corrupted in accordance with the lusts of deceit, and that you be renewed in the spirit of your mind and put on the new self which in the likeness of God has been created in righteousness and holiness of the truth." Ephesians 4:22-24

August 6th: The day my heart was ruined.

Our house looked completely ready. Crib decorated, two strollers by the front door, car seats installed in our cars, bibs in the bottom drawer of our kitchen cabinets next to the oven. Binkies, nooks, pacifiers, whatever else they may be called neatly stacked on the counter near the fridge. Tiny little pink clothes were hung in her closet, and piles of precious little onesies were tucked safely into her drawers. For my last-minute, procrastinating self, I had done a very decent job of preparing everything I possibly could for Eden's arrival. The only thing I hadn't known how to prepare was my heart. "Everything will be different," I'd tell Chad. He'd nod, and grin and act like he couldn't imagine anything negative could come out of her birth. I had no idea what I was talking about. Now that everything IS different, you couldn't pay me enough to go back to when she wasn't around. My heart literally exploded the minute I saw her for the first time, and I think all the tiny pieces of it are still littered all over the hopsital room floor. I couldn't pick it up and repair it even if I wanted to.

It was a little bit before one in the morning on Thursday, August 5th. I woke up, thinking I had to go to the bathroom for the gazillionth time, something that I'd gotten quite used to in pregnancy, and realized I was awake for another reason entirely. Contractions. I laid back in bed and stared at the ceiling, "Do not get excited Charis." I had all of the stories I'd heard about false alarms running through my mind. For the next six hours I drifted in and out of consciousness, and all the while I was aware that something was going on inside of my body and it wasn't quitting. When Chad woke up and I told him I thought I might be contracting regularly, he pulled out a piece of paper and pen. We spent the next hour tracking them...every 12, every eight, every seven minutes. Chad leaned over to kiss me before he left for work at seven, and he suddenly was beside himself. It took a few minutes for me to rally him back to reality, and we decided he'd go to work and I'd keep him posted. Once he pulled out of the garage, I gave into my own nerves. I made a phone call to my mom (notoriously not the most calm person in the world- and in this particular situation, she was sure not to dissapoint).

Two hours later, Chad and I were driving to the hospital. Naturally, I hadn't packed a bag in advance, (spurning the advice of every midwife, OB, and mother I ever met) and so I spent the half hour before running around the house throwing random paraphanelia into backpacks.

After telling the doc my symptoms, she told us we'd check into labor and delivery and spend the next few hours walking. And so we walked. And walked. And walked. Around a tiny little labor and delivery area that got smaller with every lap we made. By the end of it, I'd officially dislocated my right hip, broken a a small but necessary bone in my left foot, and decided labor was not for me. Chad, meanwhile, had gotten to eat a Jimmy Johns, visit with a friend, and read as much ESPN off of his phone as he wanted. This was just the beginning of the day.

Finally, at six in the evening, after not eating all day and only drinking elf-size portions of apple juice, the doctor gave us the option of going home to labor or staying in a therapeutic rest suite, where I'd be given copious amounts of morphine and hopefully sleep the contractions away until active labor started. I insisted we leave. We ate at McAlisters, naturally, and then went home, where we (ironically) walked three more miles around the neighborhood. This time I was stopping every two or three minutes, insisting Chad "breathe with me". At 11 that night, Chad fell asleep. I watched him for a few hours, and continued to breathe and sleep between contractions if I could. I couldn't. So finally at three in the morning, I left the bed, and started walking around our living room. Over and over and over again. I think I burned holes into our carpet. I read verses to myself, I tried to prophesy painlessness over my womb-- and nothing seemed to work. Finally Chad woke up an hour later, and we made the final call to the hopsital.

At this point, I couldn't walk through contractions, and I decided the whole idea that epidurals save the day seemed ludicrous- here I was nearly 24 hours into labor and still no epidural. Who wants to go through any part of the labor process? I started reciting all of my bitter thoughts toward anyone who thinks going natural is better. I was daydreaming about the little epidural fairy. And all the while, Chad is gloating. Beaming. So excited to see his daughter. It was all I could do not to injure him.

At seven we were admitted into labor and delivery, I was four centimeters dialated, my parents were in Missouri, and Chad was bouncing off the walls. At one point I told him he was worthless. He just kept videotaping and alerting me how much bigger my contractions were getting. Thank you captian obvious.

As soon as we were in a room, and an iv had been stabbed into my wrist, (savage little I.V.) I asked about the epidural. And in he walked. The man with the goods. It was the kind of moment that ought to have been accompanied by the hallelujah chorus or something. And within minutes, life lightened.

Mom and Dad showed up around 12, and four hours later, the nurses laid this little bundle of warmth and dark, Lebanese hair on my chest. And Chad and I both just stared at her. Little nose, little eyes, little everything. And she is ours. This is Eden.