decide what to be and go be it.

I've been thinking about purpose lately and I've found myself wondering what I want my purpose to be - because, in a lot of ways, I think we choose.

On a walk to the farmer's market a month ago, I asked Liz what she finds herself questioning most, four months after her mom's death. She told me she worried she wouldn't change because in her head, growing in a significant way would give purpose to the loss of her mom. Her response punched deep in my gut but all I could think to say was that it sounded like a stifling amount of pressure. So I awkwardly assured her that she's already changed - I do see a different sort of gentleness and compassion in her. But I hated saying it. The last thing I want is for Liz to put any sort of pressure on herself and it felt like by affirming the change I was confirming that she could make her mom's death worth something. 

I thought about our conversation every day for weeks, taking entirely too long to realize that I face the same kind of fears for myself. Since I live with chronic pain, I feel like I should be helping people with the same story. There is a crushing pressure that I'm supposed to use my specific circumstances in a certain way. I constantly weigh quitting my job as a restaurant designer against working in healthcare design: committed to helping people who are sick find healing and know hope. Or focusing on humanitarian architecture centered around people with disabilities.  Or quitting design entirely and trying counseling - something less first-world than design.

But I have to believe this isn't all a riddle. Even after all my weighing and wondering, I am not meant to sit around and piece together my life experiences to solve the puzzle that will lead to my purpose. I'm incredibly unsure of this, but I'm starting to believe my purpose is simply to know my friends and family in the most ordinary ways. I know that seems small when reading about ISIS, Syria, and Ebola, but I need to believe that living a life without a mom or with a swollen and arthritic body, and still caring to know and love the people around us can be a purpose that is worth something. Because that is the story Liz and I were given, and what are we without them? I know that if I was anywhere else in the world last April when Liz lost her mom, no matter how selfless or adventurous or purpose-filled my job seemed, the only place I'd have wanted to be was outside Barbara's hospital room holding Liz's hand. Anywhere else would have been wrong. That has to mean something.

Lately, a purpose-filled weekend looks like Jess and I spending three hours Saturday morning on the couch, coffee in hand, updating each other about our work week. When Abby and I make breakfast for dinner and scheme about beach trips down to the Keys and train rides up the coast to Maine. When Liz and I go shopping because we have a coupon and not because we need anything. Those moments are never just about work stories, vacations, or shopping. They are filled with laughter, honesty, the courage to admit pain, and the healing that comes from being heard. They're my favorite days. They aren't about giving and getting advice. They're about assuring each other we are loved by hearing each other. I think we are here to know each other and I think that may be all. 

It all makes me wonder how often, when I think of God, I see him smiling at me? Since April, when Liz's mom died and my body started getting worse, I've been aching for Him to come down here - if only for an hour - to help me breathe deeply again. To tell me what to do with the sadness. If He came I wouldn't want to ask him anything. I'd just want to sit and maybe hold His hand, memorizing what it's like to be beside Him and not feel like I'm messing up, disappointing Him, or not doing enough. I wouldn't want Him to explain my pain or the decision to take Liz's mom away. I think if He did He'd seem smaller, because I hope it's not an easy explanation. And either way I don't need it.

I think we'd just sit together and my world would feel whole again. 

the strength of my heart

Since I moved to Atlanta, I've been deeply burdened by the broken places within the city. It is hard to go anywhere without seeing someone in deep need. And although that forces me to feel, sometimes I feel like it bruises me. The city is raw. I love that about it, but it can be dark. Too dark for me to bear alone.

We lost a member of our church family this last week. A ten year old boy from Trestle Tree was run over by a car outside his apartment. I say church family and I really do mean it. The heart of our church was ripped open. I feel like I lost a little brother. I brother I didn't know well enough but I loved deeply.


I'm angry. The sadness is under my skin and I can't get it out. I went on a long walk today because physical exhaustion is the best way for me to keep it in check for now. I find myself wanting to shatter something, because it feels like the city around me is crumbling and there is nothing I can do about it.


There is nowhere to direct my anger. It was an accident. But I can't seem to let go of the truth that this sort of accident would never have happened to me. It makes me feel privileged and naive. And unworthy of mourning.


I think that is one of the strongest lies I believe in times of grief. I become convinced that I'm not supposed to mourn, when mourning is clearly good. I live in a broken down world with plenty of reason to mourn. If I ignore that truth, I ignore the grace that was given me to escape this place. And, in turn, I ignore the goodness of my God.


In the last three months, my deepest joy has come from my time with the kids from Grant Park. And now, my deepest pain. 
I don't dare ask Him why. I know He'll tell me when I'm ready to know. I don't dare direct my anger towards Him. He has proved to bring the most beautiful hope from my deepest grief. I know it won't be different this time.


But, Lord, this is not what I wanted. I hoped for so much more. I wanted Quay here. I wanted to watch him grow up in the church. Watch him become a man after your own heart. I wanted to know him, to encourage him, to rejoice and mourn with him. I never wanted to mourn over him.


I'm angry at the brokenness in this world. Everything within my spirit rejects this reality. 


But there is a glimmer of hope. I have not been this reliant on my God in a long time. He is the only one that can sort out this tragedy. Without him, Quay fades away. This accident wins and there is nothing left but striving after the wind. Without him, the city crumbles into dust, the darkness rolls into my life and into my soul. But He is the strength of my heart.


He promises hope. He promises that He knows Quay. He watched him grow up. He knew his heart, He encouraged him, He rejoiced with him and He mourned with him. And now He mourns over Quay's death. But only for our sake.


I don't know what the Lord is doing. And I'm finally learning to be thankful for that. Every day with the kids from Trestle Tree is an irreplaceable gift. The Lord is doing a great work in Grant Park. Without a doubt.

Please, Lord, continue to redeem the broken parts of this city. It is darkness in our hands and I can't carry this. We can't carry this weight.

saying goodbye to Quay - sending off his favorite color balloons

lights will guide you home

There was this beautiful, gracious woman that helped raise me. I lost her to disease over ten years ago, but Tuesday we will put her body in the earth and I am realizing, for the first time, how deeply I miss her. And how blessed I was to love her.

When I think of my grandmother, my mind first flashes to a rest stop, somewhere between Birmingham and Atlanta, where my parents handed me off to my grandparents for a week. I remember there was banana pudding and I remember knowing I was safe.

My grandparents' house was pretty much made for kids. Acres of land and woods with two large vegetable gardens, a chicken coop and a stream cutting through the middle of it all. The first thing I'd do once I arrived was run down to the stream to see if it had been raining and the water level was high. Floating boats down the stream was the best way to spend the afternoon.

There were sticky pads in her tub the shape of flowers. The carpet in the living room was orange and all the appliances in the kitchen were avocado. She kept potato chips, bread and ice cream sandwiches in her freezer and we never left her house after a visit without a bag of skittles and m&m's for the car ride. She used to say with complete conviction that ice cream is good for you because, of course, it's dairy. And she is the without a doubt the reason I love coffee ice cream.

I've never thought much about legacy. How when we die we leave a little of us behind in the people that we love. But she definitely did - children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren that long for the Lord largely because of the beautiful way in which she loved Him.

It's hard to write about her and feel like my words hold any meaning in regards to how deeply and how fiercely I miss her. She was there at the beginning of me and she is part of the reason I've known love. But for ten years I've longed for this day, in a lot of ways. And finally, the disease hasn't won. My grandmother is Home.