I’m missing me. . .

Posted in Depression, Musings, Uncategorized by

You know when you’re in a dark room and you feel disoriented and can’t distinguish one thing from another? Even in a room you know well? In your bedroom, you know exactly where each piece of furniture is placed. You know where clothes are left of the floor and the spot where a cord reaches across in peril.

But when the lights are off, all you see is the darkness. There is a bed to walk around, but how far does it go? Clothes usually land somewhere around here. . . are they right in front of me or to the left? My beautiful smoky purple walls look exactly like my yellow bookshelf and my white mirror. The wall that was obvious in the light can only be guessed at by a hand reached out in exploration.

It takes so much longer to walk in a dark room. It takes so much energy to navigate around danger.

Depression is the darkness that darkens every room. I miss the light.

I miss joy.

I miss wonder and peace. And energy and vision.

Perhaps, most of all, I miss hope. Hope is incredibly veiled without light.

I miss how the funky nail polish on my toenails made me smile. I miss waking up in the morning with excitement for my day. Or even energy to want to get out of bed. I miss flipping through cookbooks, imaging flavors coming together and dreaming about when I could create in my kitchen.

I miss clarity of thought. And passion.

I miss me. A lot.

I’m a week into my intensive counseling. It’s been. . . intense. There is someone fighting to breathe hope into my heart. All I can offer are tears and exhaustion to join him. Just showing up is all I have right now. But I’m doing it.

Jumping

Posted in Depression, Random by

I just have to jump.

Jumping

This little spot in the online galaxy has been silent for a long time. Too long.

Reality is that I haven’t felt like I’ve had anything to say. Honestly, I don’t feel like I have much to say now. But that isn’t going to change if I don’t just jump back in.

The harsh, it’s-where-I-am truth is that I’m struggling with some trust issues right now. God hasn’t responded in a way that reflected who I thought He was. Shame covers me as I type the words. My heart is surrounded by sky-high walls. I trusted Him to stand up to my darkness, my searing vulnerability. I didn’t feel anything other than pain.

God is at work, I know. I see Him caring for me and redeeming those around me in a way that is only Him. What I long for though is HIs comfort. I want His peace and joy and rest. I want Him, not just His good and perfect will.

Today starts my sabbatical from work. Four weeks to sit and ask. Four weeks to dig back into my darkness without having to find the energy to put on work clothes in the morning.

Four weeks dedicated to processing. I have to starting writing.

Will you jump back in with me?

The Paradox of Death

Posted in Uncategorized by

A friend of mine passed into glory yesterday.

Right now she is sitting with Jesus. She is touching Him and being held tightly in His arms. The Grace she clung to has now been made complete.

I weep over the joy she now knows. My tears fall over my own craving for the satisfaction of my very deepest longings finally being filled so completely. My friend knew joy before yesterday–extravagant joy fed by an unadulterated love for those around her. But even that beauty was a shadow. She had tasted, but now she feasts.

For a believer in Jesus, isn’t death the fulfillment of life? It’s the birthing process into the world for which we were really created. All the practice, all the yearning is met there. The celebration of angels knows no end.

But doesn’t it stink for those who aren’t going yet?

Kara Tippetts was my friend, despite the fact we had never met. She spoke to my soul and challenged my trust in God’s presence more than anyone ever has. I poured over every word, every challenge she wrote on her blog Mundane Faithfulness. She was only 38-years-old, with four precious kiddos. Her faithful husband pastors the church they moved to Colorado Springs to plant just three years ago. She leaves behind an ever-growing community who want more of her. They want more of God manifested in her profound faith.

I learned a lot from Kara, and I want to be just like her when I grow up. She loved deeply. She overflowed with thankfulness. She challenged me to consider kindess–lavish, godly, inviting kindness. She demonstrated how to die well. She literally showed the thousands who read her blog how to die. My hunger grows for the glories on the other side . But perhaps more than anything, she spoke into me the hope of suffering.

“Suffering isn’t a mistake,” she said, “And it isn’t the absence of God’s goodness, because He is present in pain.” I did not want to hear that when I first met Kara. Suffering did feel like the absence of God’s goodness. I was walking through a darkness I wasn’t sure I would ever see Light in and God felt a million miles away.

God has spoken to that place. He has forced me to be in my pain and look around. Kara suffered the grievous pain of saying good-bye to those she loved deeply. I have suffered different pain. Pain that has made my heart feel like it would literally break in two. I fought it in every way I knew. I ran. I hid. I denied. But as pain pursued, I have been shocked to recognize His warmth. I know that doesn’t sound a very spiritual thing to say, but it was shocking to me. I really believed pain was the absence of God. Kara showed me that is a lie.

“I feel like I’m a little girl at a party whose dad’s asking her to leave early. And I’m throwing a fit. I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t want to go.”             Kara Tippetts

His presence in our suffering is its redemption. It is grace incarnate. God is infinitely good all the time, and no pain can alter that.

There is a community grieving deeply tonight. We have lost one most dear to us. One who made us celebrate love, challenged us to welcome God in our suffering and showed us how to die. But the great paradox of death is the fullness in heaven. Kara is healed. She is complete. She has been welcomed into that for which she was created.

We’re moving!

Posted in Random by

I know there has been dead silence on this line for quite a while. It’s been a crazy year. Hard. Painful hard.

I haven’t had the energy to put words to paper. I hope that’s changing. I’ve been feeling the pull, the stirring.

So I wanted to let you know this address is changing. Starting January 2, the new address will be acrazybeautifullifedotcom.wordpress.com

A mouthful. Hopefully it still sticks in your mind. Subscriptions should remain intact.

And maybe you’ll hear more exciting words from me soon.

Some Recovering

Posted in DIY, Home Decorating by

One of the DIY projects I’ve been excited to do for a while was update the fabric on the chairs in our dining room. Now that I have the gorgeous grey on the walls, the brown had to go.

I’ve looked for fabric for months, with desire never meeting budget. Then someone told me about fabric.com, and I was overwhelmed with affordable options. And I loved that I could order swatches before committing. Eight swatches later, I found the combination of grey and fun I was looking for.

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This is the before shot–the tan fabric that came on the chairs eight years ago.

20130510-130758.jpgIf you’ve never recovered chairs before, it’s so incredibly easy! And so deeply gratifying. First, you turn the chair upside down and find the screws keep the seat connected to the chair.

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After finding said screws, you take them out and remove the cushion from the base, leaving a seatless chair.

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I cut a piece of fabric the size of the seat plus six inches (i.e. the cushion was 30-inches wide, so I cut the fabric 36-inches wide to allow for folding and stapling).

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Fold the fabric under a little and staple one side down. The staple the opposite side, pulling the fabric very taut as you staple.

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The corners were a little challenging on these cushions, since they aren’t perfect squares. But I worked with the fabric until I liked the looked and stapled as I went.

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And that’s it for the cushion. It was that simple.

20130510-130844.jpgThen you turn the cushion back over, line up the screws, and put it back together.

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Viola! Isn’t it cute?! Total time commitment. . . maybe 20 minutes per chair. I love how the whole set turned out. Simple, low cost and fast. What more could you ask for?

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Orecchiette with Broccoli

Posted in Food, Italian by

This pasta is a traditional dish from the region of Puglia. So far, I love everything I’ve ever had from Puglia.

When I first heard of broccoli and pasta together, I wasn’t so sure. After someone made it for me, however, I became converted. This is a staple in our house and a great way to get some veggies in my kiddos.

2 heads of broccoli, cut into very small stalks
1 pound ground Italian sausage
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 t. crushed red pepper (a suggested amount–add more or less depending on your spice comfortability)
sea salt
freshly grated black pepper
1 pound orecchiette pasta (named after their “ear” shape)
1/2 C. grated parmesan

In a well-salted pot of boiling water, cook the broccoli until just tender–only about 2-3 minutes. Spoon out broccoli and set aside, reserving the water to cook the pasta. Put the pasta in to cook, and make sure to set a timer to package directions. Meanwhile, in a skillet, cook the ground sausage until no longer pink. Halfway through the cooking process, add the minced garlic and crushed red pepper. Drain any fat off the cooked sausage.

When the pasta is perfectly al dente, set aside 1/3 C. of the cooking water and then drain. Return pasta to cooking pot or to serving bowl. Immediately mix in the sausage, broccoli, and 1/4 C. parmesan cheese. Add the cooking water until the pasta is just moist. Salt and pepper to taste and serve with remaining parmesan for topping.

My Brilliant Friend

Posted in Books, Fiction by

I was looking for a book to take on a trip, when I stumbled on this carefully crafted novel at our local warehouse store. It caught my attention because it is about two girls growing up in post-war Naples. It is written by one of the hottest Italian novelists and translated into English.

Click on the photo to head over to Amazon and get your own copy!

Click on the photo to head over to Amazon and get your own copy!

The most significant accomplishment of this novel is it’s ability to portray the weight of life in Italy. Sixty years after the setting of the story, the weight still exists. It’s something we found really hard to put into words for our American friends when we lived there. . . the lack of hope most Italians feel in ever expecting life circumstances to be different. Our country was built on the “American Dream”–put your mind to it, and you can do anything. It’s hard for us to fathom anyone not having the same mentality.

Italians don’t. For the most part, they are resigned to their lot in life, without regard for whether it is what they want or don’t want. Change, though technically possible, is not probable.

My Brilliant Friend begins current day, to paint a picture of the result of the story to be told. It’s a short introduction before spending the rest of the novel following two friends as they navigate growing up in a neighborhood of Naples, just after World War II. It does a phenomenal job portraying the sense of family that exists in neighborhoods in Italy. Life does not exist beyond the boundaries of one’s neighborhood.

These two girls wrestle with what friendship looks like. Can friendship exist when it’s always unbalanced? How much can a girl determine her future in a society driven entirely by the men?

The novel ends with no grand closure, and yet I found myself missing Elena and Lila. I wanted to know if they ever experienced happiness. The cover of the book indicates there will be more to this story, but the author is so elusive, who knows.

This was a great book. Not action driven, but the depth of portrayal of the characters was that of an incredibly gifted writer. If you want to feel the weight of what life is really like in Italy, this book is a must read.

A House on the Rock

Posted in Upside Down Kingdom by

I have been thinking about Matthew 7 again. . . that little part about the wise and the foolish man.

I think about the rock. So strong. Unmovable. Where it stands is where its always been. Its history goes back for  perhaps thousands of years.

But the sand, not so much. It’s always shifting. Where it is undoubtedly is not where it began.

Ironically, it’s not the rock that captures me. Nor is it the sand, for that matter.

It is the storm.

This is what it says about the house built upon the rock:

The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock.”

And this is what it says about the house built upon the sand:

The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”

The results were drastically different. But the storm beat against both houses. Rains came down. The streams rose. Winds blew.

Every time I read these six verses, I keep hoping I’ve missed something. . . where is the part that says the storm never beat on the house built upon the rock? Where are the words that bring comfort in knowing I’ve built a house that protects me from the beating wind? If I’m striving to be the wise man, where is the reward of calm and gentle rains? I look and I look, but it just isn’t there. The storms come any way you look at it. I don’t get to make a choice that avoids them all together.

There are days that feel like there is a hurricane swirling around me. The winds are beating so hard I wonder if healing could ever be found from the battering. Streams rise and leave ugly water marks. My spirit feels like its drowning.

But every time a hurricane blows, it is eventually followed by another day where the sun shines.

And I’m still standing.

Though I wish Matthew 7 said something different, I’m experiencing its truth. My Rock is strong and unmovable. He has proven His steadfastness to me for years and years and years. He has never moved. We have history that gives comfort as the rains pound down.

There is no way to avoid the storms. But the longer I stand, the more I trust my foundation. It’s another paradox of the Upside Down Kingdom. It’s the storms that prove the foundation. There is no other way to know its firmness.

The Dignity of Hope

Posted in Uncategorized by

We are foreigners and strangers in your sight, as were all our ancestors. Our days on earth are like a shadow, without hope.  I Chronicles 29:15

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.  Proverbs 13:12

And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.  Romans 5:5

Hope does not put us to shame.

Shame condemns. Shame grows as one’s weaknesses are exposed. Shame is defined as “a condition of humiliating disgrace.”

Shame strips us of our dignity.

There were parts of India that were hard to see. Realities of poverty and the exposure of shame. Dignity was lost between the streets used as bathrooms and the cows that roamed as gods. It was shocking to my soul.

My soul was shocked by the dignity that evaporates when the last drop of hope is squeezed out. Hope clothes us with dignity. Hope is what gives us worth. So what becomes of one without hope at all? It seems inconceivable (especially to an American mind) that one could be completely. without. hope.

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Photo by Kirby Trapolino

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Photo by Kirby Trapolino

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Photo by Kirby Trapolino

Dig°ni°ty: the quality or state of being worthy, honored, or esteemed

Tears stream down my face as I think of the life of the woman cutting shoes for rubber.  Has she never been told the worth she has in the eyes of the very One who created her? I want to tell her.

I want to honor her and the devotion with which she works. I want to give her dignity. And I want to wrap my arms around those precious little bodies of youth and pour over them words of esteem. Of hope.

My friend Kirby, who graciously allowed me to use these photos he took firsthand in Indian and Filipino slums, spends every day of his life working to bring hope to the least of these. I am so jealous. We help him in every way we can and yet I can never send enough to satiate my heart’s yearning to touch these lives.

He provides them with clothes and places to learn. Peace Gospel, the ministry he started, trains widow in how to sew, rescues girls from a life of sex-trade. He takes pictures of those who have never even seen a reflection of themselves before. He brings hope. He clothes with dignity.

It is crazy beautiful.

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Photo by Kirby Trapolino

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Photo by Kirby Trapolino

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Photo by Kirby Trapolino

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Photo by Kirby Trapolino

That is the crazy beautiful I want my life to be about. May God grant me the grace to clothe others in dignity. Dignity brought through hope in a God who loves the very least among us.

A Story From My Grandmother

Posted in Uncategorized by

My mom’s mom died when I was five. My memories of her are vague, and I often wonder what I remember versus what I know from the stories I’ve heard.

She was tall–six feet. She had red hair that has now been passed down two generations. She loved to laugh, to push hard on the gas pedal and made the most amazing chocolate chip cookies.

She was the wife of a farmer and tough as nails.

One of the things I didn’t know about my grandma was that she liked to write stories. My mom and I were recently digging through some old family photographs when we came across a couple of hand-written stories my grandma had put on paper to enter into a contest. I got to see the handwriting of this woman who I hardly knew but who forms such a vital piece of my heritage.

I thought I’d share one of those stories with you. It puts a smile on my face to think of my grandma putting pen to paper in 1956 and now having her words published for the world to read. I hope you enjoy a little glimpse into the life of an Oklahoma housewife.

The Day I Was a Widow for a Few Seconds

Last summer, one Saturday in July, we made plans to meet friends for boating and a picnic a few miles from our home.

We arose to a calm, warm Saturday and proceeded with our plans. We fixed a picnic lunch and serviced our boat.

While my daughter and I got ready for church, my husband decided to go out to our steel granary, which was a few yards from the house, and check the wheat for heat. The wheat had been up in the granary from the harvest a few weeks before. He put a ladder next to the granary and started to climb to the top. He was carrying a long, iron rod, which he always put through a small door down into the wheat.

He had just put one end of the iron rod into the wheat when a gust of wind caught the other end of the rod and blew it against the high-line above, which carried 7200 volts. The voltage went down the rod, into my husband’s hands and on down through his body, coming out his stomach. With his weight being over 200 pounds, he was knocked off the ladder to the ground, 14 feet below. When the voltage hit him, his heart stopped beating, but when he hit the ground, the impact started it again.

When he came to, he tried to stand but couldn’t. So he crawled towards the house until he managed to get on his feet.

Our daughter heard him calling us, and she ran to the door. He was in shock but was able to tell us what happened.

We rushed him to the hospital, which was a long fifteen miles that day. His hands had third-degree burns and for a moment we thought this was all the burns he had. A small hole was in his shirt just above the waistline, about the size of a pea. When we took his shirt off, his undershirt had a hole the size of a cup and a deep third degree burn was staring at us. We removed his trousers immediately, which had pinhead-size holes just above the knees. Everywhere there was a hole, there was a burned place on his legs, the size of a nickel.

The doctor said he was hurt bad, and it would take a few days to know how much skin grafting would have to be done.

My husband has a lot of will-power and decided immediately this would not get him down. By morning, he was out of shock completely, was moving his hands as usual and was very hungry.

He had very good care and by Wednesday the doctor let him come home with several instructions.

It has been almost a year since this accident happened. There is a scar on his stomach and legs, but his hands don’t show a scar of any kind. His was a miracle because he didn’t have to have any skin grafting.

We know someone higher up was looking over us that day and it’s a lot nicer to be a widow for a few seconds than for ever.