Limbo

Limbo.

Hung in suspension between two worlds.

I am trapped, swinging through the holes in space that lead me home and to land unfamiliar.

How do I navigate between two places? How do I settle into my new reality when the old life I know keeps surging to my shore, waves of memory salty and sweet in my mind?

The walls wobble, pressing in and yet shimmering glimpses of where I want to break free.

Humanity

People amaze me.

The depth of their souls, the endless dwelling of joy and hope that bubbles forth and overflows into the outpouring of their lives. The rings of their eyes, so vibrant and hypnotizing and soothing all at once.

The generosity that's given out so freely and without thought, without expectancy of receiving anything in return. It's rare to find in this world, rarer even to hold.

For the beauty in their blemishes, the scratches on their hearts that stay as reminders of what once lashed at them in vain, and the kindness that still beats within their chambers. Humanity is a puzzle, a giant gift without the ribbon to tie it all together, and we are always searching, always sniffing around ourselves to understand what holds us up at the very bottom of our being.

We are loved in the secret, exclaimed in wide spaces. For every brush of hand to hand, bone to bone, we connect in indescribable ways. Sometimes, the best of our words can only be said in silence.

They surprise me, these beautiful, unique angels bound in skin. In unexplained motions that circle my mind in errant patterns. And they knock me breathless to the floor, overwhelmed and understated at the ferocity they rise up to save me from myself.

Hope is a rose that blooms in spite of thorns.
Light is a strike of color that cracks open the night.

And it is a beautiful combination that fuels the relentless pursuit of something more, something greater than the splintered trail I've trekked and tried to keep in line.

Humanity. With the beads of breath I store in my lungs, I push into the air my gratitude, like sparks full into the well of the world, firecrackers sizzling down the sky:

How brightly you burn, how high you soar. How gently you entwine my life with yours. 
Thank you. 

Scent of Rain

I know I haven't been good at writing here. I kind of fell off the face of the earth and have been floating around in limbo. This may be both good and bad.

But I am drinking in the scent of rain tonight, my window open and receptive to the dance of drops that spin across the sky. I am soothed, and reminded of one of my favorite things on this earth.

May you all have a blessed and beautiful week, and remember to taste the rain and all the refreshment brings.

A Sweet, Soft and Beautiful Dream

Was it all just a sweet, soft and beautiful dream?

Was I just sitting with my body arched to the sun, painting warm rays of light across my body, brushed with a bronze glow on both my skin and heart?

Was I just surrounded by the solitude of strangers, seeking comfort to burrow myself in anonymity, slinking through their skin to see into their souls, stories full of hope and hard work and the cracks and crooked lines they walk to find a place in this world?

Was I just so full of blood, heart swelling with my family and the love that radiates in every smile, every twinkle caressing our eyes, every touch of fingers that laced together in the quiet moments of a day slowly settling into night?

To watch the waves roll into one another was to break away from my body and become the spray of salt that licked the air among the blues.

To slide my bare feet into the grains of sand that led me to the edge of the world and freed me from the constraints of my mind was to run upon the clouds without hold of a hollow pavement.

To laugh, deep and wild and bright from my belly, was to understand what had been missing as a part of me.

I was so full with my family, so comforted, so secure and natural and happy. I was genuinely at peace, radiating a sense of belonging and wishing for a suspended eternity. With my family, in a state where the sun shines on all the day's corners and curves,  I holed myself up in a shimmering reality that came and went as transparently as the dusted sunset that breezed over palm trees and silence.

A cool, sharp river running away from the familiar, away from the fresh, clear rain that dropped along the pool's edge, soft and warm and massaging on my skin. I was sinking into the simple spray of water that curled into the edges of my hair. And in a charcoal swept evening curtain, drops dissipate into a black ink that stifles the air, breaks hard in the rest that swaddled me.

I do ache, a dull throb that ebbs and flows through me like the sea I dreamt about so many lifetimes before. And these longings that pried me open and scraped beneath my chest pour like vinegar in my wounds. I was surprised by joy, and terrified when it left me, washed when my poolside lounging launched me back between four walls, bundled up and bent over a desk.

Florida seems a distant memory. Flickering in florescent light, not quite a shadow, more than an apparition. I am alone again. I am forlorn and forgotten in a sun that rises once more on the pure and wide eyed morning. Waiting once more for that call of the cyan sea. For the rain that sings a song into the damp, slow sky. For the hearts of my loved ones to curve once more into mine.

Side Roads

Side roads.

Where do they find me? How do I always manage to reach them? Why can I never just drive exactly to where I want to go?

Even at the mercy of my GPS, I still somehow manage to get mixed up and miss exits, finding new roads that wind miles outside of my city limits.

All I wanted to do was drive downtown to find the coffee shop with a brick wall and high, open ceiling, pulsing with hipsters who take their coffee seriously and baristas that judge me by my order. I followed my GPS, who I have affectionately named Tomi, into the curves of the city, and just as smoothly out of them. Before I knew it the skyline was a scene in my rearview mirror and I was crossing over the river on an old, rickety bridge. An old, rickety bridge that veered and jutted in irregular angles and led me out of the city and around the downtown airport. There wasn't another exit for two miles, and the first one I took led me across wayside streets that stretched into developing land. Two roundabouts later, I merged myself back on the route highway I remembered wrapped around the river and spilled back into the city.

I decided to wing it once I made it onto one of the main streets of downtown, trying to recall familiar signs or buildings that had been shifting shadows in the twilight when I came here once before. I made a few squares, crossing the same streets over and over, gave up on the organic pathway to finding this place and pulled out my phone. It gave me street names, and from there I could determine where exactly I was and found 6th street, then the side street, then rolled onto 3rd. A parking space sat perpendicular to the cluster of buildings, and I quickly claimed it.

I finally made it inside, to the bustling, crowded café teeming with students and artists. Most made me feel super old, for the dawn was just beginning to shimmer its light in their souls. I like to disappear in crowds, but to find a seat I had to be bold and assertive, grabbing my latte and darting to a deep wooden table looking out over the street.

Finally, there are so many words and rumblings within me, so much I want to say, so much I need to ponder and form and stretch into the sound of my mind. But some things cannot be expressed, no matter how much I press them through my lungs.

Baristas are giving each other bro hugs, flannel shirts stitching together in the movement. The guy at the table next to me has a cup of coffee and a notebook, where he is scratching away pen to line and lingering his eyes out the window. Smattered across the rest of the room, girls dip their heads in concentration over textbooks, wrapping their fingers around the ends of scarves and covering the table with crumbs and Confucius.

And I am a girl in purple, pink and blue plaid with my heart against the keyboard, with a distant observance, unraveling brain and wandering eyes.

This place makes me pensive. Only in the city can I see two guys hauling queen size mattresses across the street to maneuver into the bed of a truck. Only in the city can I stand and stare at an expanse of sky that includes brick and window, that stands as a piece of history and clamors for its future.

I wish my friends back home could be here with me, sitting at this table, in this coffee shop, sipping espresso and daring to dream. This place could make me slip to spaces I've long since buried, bound to get me thinking and motoring my mind, and that is not a road I want to drive.

Yes, I've somehow gotten myself lost more times that I'd have liked to already here. But I have always righted myself, always found my way back to my destination. And as I gripped the steering wheel tightly, white knuckled, I found the space to breathe, to undo all that's wound me up and let the roads ahead just flow. I don't need to see where I'm bound to end up.

Maybe life is in the moments when you find yourself down a side street that doesn't look familiar. Maybe there is an unexplainable joy in the detour, a beauty riddled with cracks in pavement and a world of iron gates and bare branched trees beyond the light of a window. Maybe the crowds crunch you in just to see how far you'll push.

But maybe life's just meant to be savored. No gulping, no straining to see what comes beyond. Simply turning to the side road and idling your way around the bend. Simple navigation to linger, to soak in the scenery, the pulse of humanity and it's ever breathing hum.

Transcending Ordinary Life

Connection.

Heart to heart. Human interaction that goes beyond the walls of well wishes and dives to the depths of the soul.

I went out exploring another part of town yesterday with Heather. We drove a bit north and came to an older, quieter area that had a small downtown with a few shops specializing in the gift oddity and fair trade, hand crafted scarves, journals, decorative items. We walked through the shops and tucked our hands deeper in the pockets of our coats to ward off the dipping temperature, and then we made our way to a small locally owned coffee shop that sputtered to life with people wrapped up in conversations across the room. Fresh coffee permeated through the air, and homemade pastries lined the display tables. A stage stood raised from the ground, home to local musicians who serenaded crowds each Friday and Saturday night.

Immediately my eyes drew to the opposite wall, where beautiful seascape portraits hung. The colors, the swirl of the sea and sky, how they danced and the brush strokes that softened the blues and grays so reminiscent of Lake Michigan, it all swept through my eyes and sunk into my soul, erupted me in calming ways that pulled my heart in longing for the tranquil scenes, and amazed me that the artist could capture such divine beauty that went beyond the ordinary cyan and gray and lines that gave life to the earth and sky. They quite captivated me, and I associated with the artist and the breathtaking delicacy he took to create the fluid thunderstorm over the field and rays of God's light burst through the sky from behind a breaking white cloud.

The tall, long haired barista with bright eyes and thick rimmed glasses called out my latte and broke me trance. I smiled and took my cup, making my way over to the plush, oversized chairs and sat next to Heather. I had a view of the entire café and as we talked, I took in the surroundings- the coffee stain on the carpet underneath the table next to us, the line of tin cans across the counter, boasting local blends in eclectic arrangement, the spotlights perched from the ceiling, glowing and giving a slight warmth and homey feel wherever it shed its light.



About five minutes later, a man walked in, leaned over to the barista and mentioned something in his ear before striding over to the wall and began removing those beautiful paintings that struck me so fervently moments before. I watched his gate walking across the room and out the door, watched him place the paintings in the bed of his truck, searched his face to see his story. Something about him resonated with me, and a desire to speak with him welled within.



 

I watched him collect his pieces and trek back and forth from his truck, inside still stirred, the mannerisms of his face, which seemed to take him to be in his 40s, and the pulse ruminating underneath his chest palpable to my spirit. I just wanted to let the man know how much his art affected me. So as he moved towards the door with a painting in either hand, I lifted myself from my seat and met him in the aisle just before the door. He looked at me, eyes curious and open.

"I just want to let you know your paintings are beautiful. You have a talent. This is my first time in here and I noticed those paintings as soon as I walked in and they just spoke to me. They are so beautiful, really."

KenCookArt.com

He pulled back, surprised, before registering my words and shifting his eyes to an electric blue/green. "Thank you. That means a lot. I just started out in January full time painting. I've been a musician but I'm trying this out. I keep hearing my dad's voice in the back of my mind saying, 'You'll never do anything with it, your painting is no good."

A hum buzzed through me at his words, at the doubt and constant comparison he must have carried with him for a long while. I shifted my feet and dug in, pushing past the polite to passionate. "Good for you! That can be scary, I'm a writer, I know how it is. But you need to do this and your work is amazing and it's a gift."

The last words echoed and resonated in the air between us. A gift.. He smiled, glowing, almost radiant. "I needed to hear that... yeah.."

As his eyes dug into mine, I promised him with the sincerity of my voice and bright light in my eyes that he indeed would amount to something with his work. "You have a gift," I repeated. "And your paintings are beautiful. Thank you so much for letting me see them. It is a gift," I paused, letting those words last. "A blessing."

It was a human to human, heart to heart interaction that resonated deep into the walls of my soul. His eyes were bright and clear and open, allowing me to sink beneath the surface and dive into the innerworkings of his heart.

This is what life is about. To take a step across the room, look into another's eyes and read the story in the lines of the iris. To give a little God to the heart of mankind, to encourage and speak on behalf of the Creator to His creation.

It was a beautiful moment to transcend the ordinary life that folds in the walls of a local coffee shop. To break down barriers and burst into the beautiful, to intertwine with another breathing being's life... this is what we were made for. And we don't get the privilege to experience this everyday; or, at least, we don't take the option to look for the beating hearts and pleading souls.

Encourage the very best to shine into this world. We are all searching for someone to see our skin and bones, see what stretches and suspends us. And, every once in a blue moon, someone comes and opens up our heart and releases all that burns within us into the vast star-veiled canvas of the universe.

KenCookArt.com

 

The Miniscule and Miraculous

This has been a long week.

A long, tiring, trying week that attempted to knock me down, but by God's grace, I'm standing at the end of it. Clearing out the debris after the storm, so to speak.

The past week was a battle for me. I got down on the vastness of this new life, how much I'm not used to, the areas of the city I still haven't explored, and even venturing out to stop and see some apartments, hitting me with reality that it's more of a process than I expected. That I have to concentrate on location, safety, distance around the city to various places, all the while keeping it within a reasonable budget.

Over last weekend and through the early part of the week I was also hit with a lot of lies, lies I knew as soon as they broke into my brain they weren't true. I knew these were falsities, weak attempts to take me down, but I admit they were hard to shake. They settled into the soil of my mind and worked their way beneath the surface, and I began questioning everything about my journey these past few months, began wondering how I was here and blue thoughts shrouding the surface of the sun. And I began to think of all my favorite spots in Wisconsin- Port Washington, Lake Michigan in all of its shades and settings, all the ball fields I knew like the lines on my face- and of my family and how distant we really were. It doesn't help that I still don't have a church or life group to get settled in, to learn and grow and fellowship. All I know is that the days drew long and listless, and I cried out to Jesus to get my eyes off of myself and move them to Him. Because He was my true source of comfort, even while my heart flailed and searched in every corner to show me something familiar and soothing.

I know I should have asked for prayer request to help get me through my mind and the rough adjustment to falling back to earth as my "honeymoon phase" came to a close. But I couldn't bring myself to share, and I kept grasping at the small blessings God gave me throughout each day. To see the glass half full takes more belief and faith than to go about the pessimistic way of thinking. It's a good life, and I know that in the big scheme of things I am where God wants me. He has a bigger purpose for me than I can see, though I desperately long to have my reasons for being in this position in life revealed to me. But I was reminded a few times this week that some secrets are the Lord's and He will reveal the mysterious to me when He knows the time is right. And all I can do is take small steps, one step at a time, and tenderly go about each moment reveling in its breath and all I have then is enough for me.

Why is it so easy to focus on the futile, depressing thoughts that appear for only a few moments when the rest of the time is free and full of color? Why can we not see the microscopic blessings that float around us all day and turn our attention so quickly to the tragic that rolls in for a few moments and breezes back out the way it came? To see what is before us requires strength and perseverance, and an abundance of trust to let light into our hearts.

I am going to make it a point to find the beauty in the day. To savor the small things, examine up close the tiny tricks of light that play across creation and be thankful, fully invested in gratitude and throw up my insecurities into the air to come down and shatter in crystal shards across the ground, freeing me to be in favor of the miniscule and miraculous.

 

Light come softly to those who let their eyes lean into the sky.

Stagnant Stretch of Words

I'm stalled. Stuck, so sick of pounding my fingers against the keyboard and getting nothing but incoherent letters and punctuation, run-ons and ramblings. If I even get that fortunate. Lately, it's mostly my mind slipping into such a wake of despondence with sentence after sentence that is jumbled in my mind but lodged inside, refusing to slip to paper.

How many times I have come to coffee shops, soaked in the interior and marveled at the curve of wooden tables, string of lights and stirring atmosphere, quiet murmurs of other patrons. How many times I've nestled into a corner and hunched over my laptop, eager to savor the sanity rolling over me as I cling to the familiar I have in an unknown city- coffee and words. I find the music that sets the tone of my mind, take that first sweet sip of espresso and bid my mind to open to the world writing itself inside me.

And I wait, an uncomfortable fidgeting blooms along the flowerbox of my heart... weeds springing up to trample the flowers of fiction. They take a tight hold, and the color of creative writing dulls and drains into the soil, stagnant and helpless at my feet.

Where is my lifeline? Where is the consistency that has always kept me sane? I don't know why this is occurring, why my writing eludes me and why I'm left grasping in the dark to tie down a few errant thoughts that don't dig deep enough to form a foundation. Why am I consistently staring at page after page of white? I know what I need to do, what I need to write, and in my tentative heart the embers continue to smolder. Still the sprockets of my soul spin and whir along, pushing me forward. I scrape at the sky hoping to pull down a stream of sentences that fall to my flowerbox, once again breathing life, renewing waters to the well of words within.

Lights still shimmer, caffeine still swims through my system. My eyes are wide with hidden hope. I promise myself that these words will come, the scenes will rise and stories unfold. I keep my eyes to the horizon, hold my hand to shade the sun and squint to see the storm swirling in the distance, bringing the downpour.

Outer Rim

This morning is an adventure morning. I woke up early, unable to fall back to sleep, and pondered my day. My roommate is driving me around more of the city this afternoon, but until then, I have time on my hands. So I decided to do a little exploring to find a new coffee shop I hadn't tried yet, in an area I hadn't stopped. Pulling out my laptop, I looked around the wonder web and found a few places and wrote their addresses on a piece of paper. I got in my car, headed towards the general vicinity of one of them and made my way into the correct parking lot.

This place is called Revocup, an Ethiopian café specializing in pure brewing methods and close knit, community feel. They're working with their home country to provide for the people and creating  sustainability. This is a place where older groups gather to catch up on the week and chatter on about the news. I'm in a little corner at the front, sitting in some striped cushion chair, coffee and cinnamon scone close by. It's a very welcoming and nurturing place- cozy and full.

I'm hoping to get here and clear my mind and put to words all the thoughts tangled in me. Maybe work a little on my Bible study, even write a few paragraphs in my story.

I bring up the Bible study, find a section to begin and type. About four sentences. And then I'm frozen. I've run into a few road blocks. First, everything I want to describe or say resonates with my life in Wisconsin. I keep trying to think present tense about the quiet, beautiful gifts of God and my brain stalls. Here in Kansas City, I can't relate to what was so full inside me a few weeks ago. Everything that comes to mind doesn't mesh with my mood. However I want to encourage comes from my memory of Wisconsin and the life I used to live.

When I think up the emotions and settings of my story, I'm at a loss because I'm thrust into the unknown, dropped in the middle of the ocean and expected to find my way to shore. How can I begin to create anything when my canvas is muddled and I'm seeking somewhere I feel familiar?

Words. Where are they? Where is my heart that is the stream from which they flow? If this is where I'm supposed to be, how come I can't feel it? I move my words and mind to stitch together, to find my place and pursue what constantly eludes.

They days are consistently cloudy and gray. On the Kansas side, there's a tint of yellow across the fields. I don't know why, maybe to match the corn? But it illuminates an eerie feel, a wide continuous vastness that has no end but filled with space to imagine.

If I were home, my brook of connections and wisdom would be overflowing. But I'm not. I'm in the middle of that yellow field, hazy silhouette, face shrouded.

This chair is comfortable and the chatter of more patrons keeps the buzz ablaze in this coffee shop. The people around me are all familiar with one another. They smile and wish good tidings to the days to come. Bodies and skin, all tethered together and warm, blood veins and palpable connection.

Everyone knows someone. And I am far along the outer rim.

This is where I am to be for the duration. Lost in the disappearance of my stories and on the search to one day claim them.

Inexplicable Hope

How are you feeling? Full of an inexplicable hope lifting inside of you?

That's how I woke up this morning. The color yellow, soft and buttercream, painting the walls of my heart. For no definitive reason except that I saw the sun taking its time to rise into the sky, slowly stripping off the covers of clouds and dress in robin's egg blue and rose-blushing pink.

This is my first full week of work, and I will say that I miss the two snow days last week- makes time go by much more quickly! But it's good at the office, I really like the people in the building and connect with those in my department. If I get up to get some water, I walk right into staring at the sea of seats across the road in Kauffman Stadium. I don't think I'll ever get used to that view.

And I've finally started writing this week! My editor gave me a few stories for online features and I quickly jumped on the appropriate steps of journalism, sending emails to request interviews, spending time on the phone with coaches, huddle leaders and athletes and piecing together sentences that hit the heart of what needs to be conveyed to readers. My first one turned out quite well (in my opinion), with minor edits and mostly getting to know their formatting. It should be uploaded and published on the website tomorrow!

So there is a brief update on this week. Let us keep our clear eyes lifted towards the sky, searching the silver linings to draw a life we find worth living. Let's keep up the expectancy and soar into the weekend!

Stalled

Emptiness. Bottle seeping, sloshing water over the mouth. Still tides, new moon nights held black against a lightless sky.

And there is where the poetics end.

My brain is stalled at the moment. I don't really know what else to update on. There hasn't been any major happenings lately. It's been a little over a week since coming to KC, and while it seems like I've been here a lot longer than just a week, it's also a realization, again, that I'm not going home and this is only week one in a very long series of weeks to come.

Work consisted of two snow days and coming in late for the other three. I have three emails in my inbox, all welcomes and announcements. No voicemails, no folders, no words yet in writing. But it was a good first week, and once we all get used to each other, I'm going to like my job. Once I actually get to writing stories, I'm going to love it. First week in the history books. Let us rejoice that I know how to get to and from the office, as well!

I guess I'll make this really short, because while there are many oceans swimming through my mind and crashing to the shores of my heart, I cannot quite find the words to accurately vocalize them. So I'll just put up a quote by one of my favorite musicians, Justin Vernon:

And at once I knew, I was not magnificent.
Bon Iver, "Holocene"


There you go. Stalled poetics, taken at the mouth of another's words, heard by another's sound. Make today beautiful. Find your peaceful place and remember how we all yearn for something bright and bigger than our own infinite hopes.

More Snow, More Substance

More snow.

Still soothing, still beautiful and reminiscent of home. But it now reminds me of my restlessness. I want all this KC living to feel natural. I want to know how to do my job. I want to not have to rely on others to show me where to get gas and how to get on the freeway. I want to find my own place to live but I'm only familiar with a large block of area where I've been staying.

Last night I missed my family. It's a lot lonelier going from chaos and noise to silence and subdued. I Face Timed with my parents and brother and I saw their faces, heard the noise and watched them go about their nightly routine that I was involved in so naturally less than a week ago. Let's be honest, it's only been five days since I've been gone, but it was one of those moments last night as I sat in my room and watched the activity on the other side of the screen when I realized I wasn't going back.

I'm not going back. I'm either stuck in place or forced to move forward. I am planting seeds in mid winter, no sign of growth, only brittle fingers burrowing into earth to swipe soil over the new holes, hope and blind faith.

What then, am I hoping for with this transition and new life I live? Am I hoping to make a difference at FCA and impact people with my writing? Certainly. Am I hoping I can find a new church where I can get involved and they can peel away the layers of my soul? Yes. Am I hoping to find my niche, to find friends who can dream with me and encourage me like they did back home? My heart cries its agreement.

There is that restlessness inside me again, scratching at me with dull claws. What do I want? So I chose to move, but it wasn't a choice made 100% enthusiastically. What do I want from this new world? A chance to breathe? To see a familiar face? If I'm out at the grocery store or visiting a church, my eyes scan over the throngs of people, watching to see someone I know.

They are all faces I don't recognize, strangers I've never seen before.

I get notes from wonderful people back home telling me they are happy for me and can't wait to see what is in store for me, what God reveals next. I am thankful for their confidence. I guess I can't see past where I am at this very moment. My vision doesn't stretch far. I see where I have come, and I see a muddle of footprints in the blinding snow. I take one tiny, tentative step after another. It's as far as I can walk. It's as far as I allow my heart to be.

Restless, though silent.

Somehow, the two go together, twisting to combine into something that's bigger than I can see. The sun will still rise, snow will still fall. And I will continue to venture forward and anticipate that each new day will bloom something with substance.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore... Oh, Wait...

Snow flurries.

In the midst of a neverending winter that began in November, I wouldn't think a single flake more would make me smile.

But it does. This snow comes in Kansas, 660 miles southwest of my home.

It is my first morning in an unknown land. In the span of a month and a half, I've gone through multiple interviews, writing and editing assignments, a flight to Kansas City, being offered a job and uprooting my life two and a half weeks later to drive to a new place for a new life.

I don't know anyone, and honestly, my brain is still spinning. I almost don't even know how I got here.

Almost. In truth, though, I do. I am Abraham, going to a land unfamiliar a familiar God has shown me. I should have been a bit more careful what I prayed for.

2013 was a bit of a stuffy, stilted year for me. My beloved coffee shop closed down and I went to work at a new one, where I didn't feel I fit from day one. Going to Nicaragua was the best part of the year and did so much to my heart, but I can't even begin to explain the frustration of having to be back. Home, surrounded by the people who have loved and cared for me all my life, home to the familiar and comfortable.

I wanted to go. Back to Nicaragua. To Colorado and work at Compassion. Even to Nashville to work with some ministry there. I felt like my heart was pulling from my chest to GO and help God's people, to love and live my life in service to others, but I was restrained by my place in life here. It figuratively was me running into a wall over and over.

And that's when I took note of my desire. Ministry. Perhaps I couldn't firmly describe it before. Perhaps it's always been there inside of me, wriggling with anticipation for the day it would finally be discovered.

After Nicaragua, I realized I wanted to do more and acknowledged it head on. I wanted to help people, I wanted to impact people, and I wanted to shine God's light in every corner my heart swept over. The more I worked at the coffee shop, the more frustrated I became. For months I struggled whether I needed to shift my perspective and see coffee as my calling as I once did, while a small voice inside me whispered I may be made to move on. The world loomed large, and God was at work all around it. Where was I to fit in according to His plan?

And so I soldiered on, working while everything within me cried for more. My canvas was a basecoat of gray, and while I was grateful for the life I lived and the people around me, each day I brushed shades of black and white and mixed up blasé portraits. I was not vibrant. My colors had bled and built up a resilience at anything bright.

It got to be too much one day in November and I knew I needed to do something crazy. I wanted to leave the coffee shop. My family supported me and suggested I begin looking for other jobs first before I left. Problem was, nothing they suggested appealed to me. I looked back on the path I've been on, and I saw how God took care of me, and how He provided for me always at the right time and exactly how I needed. Deep inside me, I knew that He would remain true to this pattern. I knew He would show me the next step.

I'd been doing a Bible study with my friend Lynn, and one of the things God was teaching me was about belief. My belief. First, who did I truly believe God to be? Powerful? All knowing? In control? Able to do immeasurably more? Second, if God is who He says He is, do I truly believe Him to be all of the above?

Over the weeks, His voice echoed through me... Bigger than. Brighter still. Believe Me. I looked back on my life and watched His faithfulness appear over and over again like a picture show in my heart, and I came to the point of believing if I stepped out in faith, He would walk with me. So I gave my notice to the coffee shop, finished out my term and drove away on my last shift with a feather-filled heart and a smile that kept shining on my face.

My first week officially off of work... and God came through. Again. In ways unexpected. A job opportunity presented itself to me at a local church doing administrative work and helping grow their coffee ministry. It would have been part time, but it offered me the chance to grow in the ministry I had been in for 2 1/2 years. Within a day, I was online thinking of places to freelance for, trying to boost my writing resume, and Fellowship of Christian Athletes came to mind. I thought it would be a great organization to write for, so I went to their website to see how to go about inquiring about it and found they had a full time opening for a content writer. I don't know if it was my newfound confidence in life and God's hand in it or a short term high of freedom from work, but I figured, "Why not?" I applied, just because I was throwing stars up in the sky to see where they would land.

A day later FCA emailed and asked for writing samples, and the day after that they wanted to set up a phone interview. At the same time, the church wanted me to come in for an interview.

The next week I went to the church to talk about the position, and they offered me the job. So there was one path open, blue skies and sunshine. I had time to pray and think about it, so I did. I had the FCA phone interview a few days later, and that went well, too. They wanted to move forward and give me some writing and editing assignments. I completed those, and kept praying God would shut doors so my decision would be clear.

He kept doors open.

Throughout the weeks that followed, I imagined myself in two different lives. I saw myself at the church position, gathering people in for open mic nights and serving coffee while trying to find opportunities to write for other publications. Then I thought of myself at FCA, in Kansas City, writing. Honestly, I couldn't see it. I thought I more related to the coffee ministry aspect since that's been on my heart more recently. While I had said to God I'd go anywhere He wanted me to, I never figured on Kansas City and it seemed foreign and not what I had in mind. Yes, FCA was a huge part of my development in high school and college, but athletics was a long time ago for me and I was washed up, surging towards the shore of art and coffee.

But writing has been pulsing through my softest spaces and always in my heart's longing.

Kansas City kept calling. I was set on the church and didn't want to deal with the discomfort of disruption in life, though I kept craving more. I didn't think this could be part of the plan. But I kept telling myself over and over FCA would be a great opportunity, and I'd be a fool to not want it. The interview process kept going, and it came to the point where they wanted to fly me down for a face to face interview. I agreed, because I needed to see it through for whatever reason. But the whole week before leaving, something inside me just didn't want to go, said I would be fine at the church. I wanted to cancel, hoped the weather would do it for me. Not to happen. On the coldest day of decades, I boarded a flight and went down to Kansas City, met with staff and clicked with them and the city. It felt very natural and easy, and as I looked around at the landscape, it had that Midwest feel to it I needed. I flew back that evening, wondering what God was doing.

That was a Monday. On Thursday I flew to Arizona with my mom and sister to visit family. On Friday, as I browsed the shelves of my favorite second hand bookstore in Tucson, my phone rang with FCA Magazine's editor on the other line. There, in the poetry section surrounded by words, he told me they'd be offering the position pending a background check. Well. This was happening, whether I fully wanted it to or not. I enjoyed a beautiful weekend with family, and on Monday after clearing security, I found a voicemail from the editor again. I called him back with fifteen minutes until boarding, at an airport café grabbing an iced caramel latte where he told me the background check came back already and officially offered me the position of content writer. I brilliantly responded, "Wow, that was fast," and followed with rambling about being at the airport about to board and can I please have a few days to pray and think it over?  He agreed, and on the flight I discussed it with my mom. As turbulence grew over the Rockies, so did the turmoil inside me. Could I leave my family? They've been everything to me for 28 years, and I've never been more than 7 miles away. To move to another city was one thing; to another state a completely out of the ordinary matter! Being at the church would be comfortable and known, and I could do a good job at helping the people, but when I stepped back and looked at my faith journey, I knew it would be the FCA job lining up to grow me and pull me away from all I knew and place my trust wholly on God.

There was that voice again, prodding me. Bigger than. Brighter still. Believe Me. Did I believe God to take care of me, to take my talents and mold them together for a purpose beyond my imagining? Could I go, and go in assurance?

I've taken the road less traveled over the years. I've dared God to be big in my own timid ways. This time, I needed to take the biggest leap yet.

I called back the editor. I pushed the air from my lungs and said yes. I jumped and landed in my car just 2 1/2 weeks later, driving through cornfield-framed highways, watching the signs for Kansas City and wondering over and over what I was doing.

Exactly what I'm supposed to be.


So here I am, staring at the snow in a place foreign to my Wisconsin eyes. Do I know where I'm heading here? No. Do I know who's making sure it call gets sorted and carried out? Yes.

I am a stranger to these streets. But the snow swirls, tucking tight between blades of frozen grass. I may be away from everyone I love, but I'm surrounded by God who loves me best.

Like the snow that's fallen to its new home, I, too, will find sweet space to land.