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. 

a letter

Last week, Liz asked if she could write about her mom here, in a place that is permanent and safe, to share what she has been feeling and choosing to believe over the last month. Her words are a raw and courageous picture of God's nearness in the dark. I'm honored and excited to share them here.

To my mom on Mother's Day:

If I could have had the courage and strength to stand up at your funeral and say something, it would have gone something like this- 

My mom was kind, welcoming, and loving.  She was smart, silly, stubborn, and practical.  She thought through everything she did before she did it, sometimes over-thinking things.  She was a lot more creative than she gave herself credit, and she was the best cook I've ever known.  My friends in high school would always joke that there was never any snack food at my house, but there were always ingredients to make a gourmet meal.  And it was true.  My mom never did anything halfway.  I'm a lot more similar to her than I thought, but I see it more everyday.  She wasn't the perfect mom and I wasn't the perfect daughter, but she loved me so well and I tried to love her back the same.

There are so many things that I'll never forget from these past few weeks of her being sick, but two that I want to share right now.  I will always remember the attitude that my mom had in accepting the sovereignty of The Lord.  It was all summed up in one look that she gave my dad.  She was sitting in her hospital bed watching her blood pressure was drop and knowing it wasn't getting better. And she gave him this look that said this wasn't what she wanted, she didn't understand, but she trusted The Lord and knew He was sovereign.  It wasn't a helpless look, it was actually a look of assurance.  It seems strange to get all that from one look, but it was there.

The other memory is that before my mom passed, while I was sitting next to her bed in the ICU, she told me how proud she was of me and that there had never been a day in my life that she had been disappointed in me.  I will cherish that conversation forever.  

While I did believe her that night, there was still a part of me that wasn't sure it was really true - That she had never been disappointed. It wasn't until after she passed that I was going through one of her drawers at home and found her prayer journal.  I started flipping through it, and saw it was from 3-3 1/2 years ago- right around the time I started dating Will, got engaged, and prepared for our wedding.
As I read through I realized a few things.  First, that my mom relied, leaned on, and trusted in The Lord more than I had even realized.  She always came across like she had everything together, but I realized that all her strength had come from The Lord- which I greatly admired.  Secondly, I saw how much she prayed and cared about our family and her friends. (A lot of you at the funeral were mentioned for prayer or thanking God for your friendship.) She trusted God for the future of her family, whether it was with my dad's job, or mine and Tim's life decisions.  Lastly, I realized that what she had told me in the hospital was true.  I got to read through her excitement over my engagement, wedding dress shopping, and wedding planning.  I kept looking for places where she would complain to God about how I hurt her feelings in the process or wasn't appreciating her help, because I remembered acting that way at time, but it wasn't there.  There wasn't one word written that showed her disappointment in me.  I couldn't believe it.  I couldn't believe how much she really loved and cared for me, even though I had seen it and felt it everyday of my life.

So mom, if you were still here, I would tell you thank you, for the millionth time, for being my mom. I wish I could say it a million more times.  It breaks my heart every time I think about you not being here anymore because I still need you so much.  You have given me so much guidance, like how to love my own family well by the way you showed Tim, dad, and I unconditional Godly love for the time you were our mom on earth.  There are so many more things beyond that, but the most important was you being obedient to The Lord and raising us up to know our Savior, Jesus.  The last thing you ever gave to me was a verse from II Cor 4:16-18.  I will cling to that not only because it's the last gift I have from you, but because it contains the promises from God that will hold me through this life.

But I still hurt.  I hurt for my dad - that he has to continue living this life without you as his best friend.  I hurt for my brother - that he lost his mom before he even turned 30.  I hurt that my nephew Caleb, at only one years old, will only have pictures to remember his Nana.  I hurt that my kids will never know you. I hurt that at 26 I don't have my mom anymore that I need so badly.

But through that hurt, I am thankful for the 26 years I did have with you. I was not promised to have a mom who would die in her 80's or 90's, and I also wasn't promised a loving, caring mom that blessed my life and brought me joy and laughter.  But that's the kind of mom I received, and I will rejoice that The Lord gives good gifts to His children.  I will choose to delight in what The Lord has done for me. He has always been faithful to me and never let me down - even in times like this when I'm sad and confused.

I love you, mom.  I will miss you every day. And I rejoice each day knowing I will see you again in Heaven.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus, come.

- Liz J. Mott 

when oceans rise

I have a huge family. 

After a week of tears, that is one thing I want to remember.

I am the youngest in my family, with an older brother and sister. My sister, Jessica, is my best friend, my roommate, my accomplice, my wingman.

But I have more than one sister. 

Mary Beth, Liz and I have known each other for every life milestone. The first day of middle school. The last day of eight grade. Every first date and every breakup. The panic of public high school and the joy of college acceptance letters. Lizzy and I were college roommates for four years. As long as I can remember, we've been each other's first call in times of crisis and celebration. 

After graduating from college, the three of us met for dinner as often as we could - planning Lizzy's wedding, toasting new jobs, and somehow surviving the awkward transition from college to "real life" together. That summer, we went from store to store across Atlanta to pick out Lizzy's wedding dress. But last Sunday, Mary and I helped pick out the dress and shoes Liz wore in the receiving line at her mother's funeral. I think this is what Jesus meant by family. 

A part of the world broke on April 4th, close to 7am, when Liz's mom left this world for a far more beautiful one. I had the privilege of holding her hand for a moment the night before she left us. What I think I'll always remember is that she was concerned about me in that brief moment. I'm not sure there was ever a time that she wasn't taking care of me.

I was truly raised by a village. My village is a small Christian school my Dad had a large part in building. And that's where I found my family. But the thing about it is that it's not just friends that become sisters and brothers. It's parents that become aunts and uncles. Parents that I love in the same way that I love my own mom and dad.

Barbara Dennis was lovely and kind. Her confidence was contagious, and she raised a strong, brave woman that I don't want to live without. I've lived enough to know that somehow we'll survive this,  but I want to protect Liz from this pain - to take the blow for her. When Barbara was diagnosed with cancer three weeks ago, I started planning how we'd beat it. I wanted to drop everything to be available to Liz. My plans were probably unrealistic, but I wasn't going to stand by without doing something. 

But instead, all I could do was stand in the hospital hallway beside Mary Beth on Friday morning and hold Liz's hand, in silence, because there are no words on this day. 

I've wrestled with this post for a week now. I didn't want to publish it, but there is an ache in me that requires I acknowledged this loss - even in this tiny blog that only my family and a couple close friends read. If I've learned anything from growing up it is to acknowledge the pain in the world. To call it out and to mourn openly because otherwise it can swallow us.

I am heartbroken for Lizzy.

I wonder why it is that we are always surprised by pain. We are somehow wired to be hopeful. I think it creates deeper wounds, but it must also make us more brave.  But this time, I don't want more bravery. I just want my best friend's mom back.

feminism part 1: a redemptive movement

About 6 months ago I started calling myself a feminist. Everyone is this year - Miley, Beyonce, John Legend, Amy Pohler. It is all around me at work, in my church, and all over the media. My reaction has been so passionate and unrestrained that it's taken me by surprise.  I've found myself in departmental meetings fist pumping for new female hires, not sure if I even agree with my reaction. And in the last couple months I'm finally understanding why.

I don't want to be a girl that tries to make men and women the same. To say that we are equally talented at all things. We just aren't - my coed flag football team alone proves that. I don't want to be a girl that is waiting to pounce on anything discriminatory or unfair. I don't want those things to fester until I'm the victim and the world owes me something. But I also don't want to be the girl I was a year ago, heartbroken by my strengths I was told I wasn't created to use, and confused by the God that gave them to me.

Feminism started for me in February, sitting across from one of the most gentle men I've known as he counseled me through deep anxiety and doubt. We'd talk and then he'd ask me to write. I would stare at the blank paper knowing I'd have to read it aloud, and I'd panic thinking it had to be beautiful - the perfectly sound words of God. But in my desperation I wrote. First, sentences. Then pages filled with words that are unmistakably His, just for me.  Words that are gentle and kind. Empowering. True. Words that are teaching me to trust myself and forgive myself for the ways I thought I wasn't measuring up. Words I wish every woman could hear.

Feminism for me is about knowing that I am loved as the person I am in this exact moment. It is about believing that I am strong, capable, and gentle. It is about knowing my opinions of theology, business, and the world are valuable, and trusting that what I desire matters. It is about paying close attention to the shoulds and not letting them own me.

More tactically, it is believing my commitment to a career I am passionate about does not make me less of a Christian woman. And that my disinterest in motherhood does not mean I am damaged. Because although I'm single, these expectations have released a huge amount of pain and fear inside of me. Dating has filled me with crippling anxiety as the desires of my heart don't align with who I hear I should be as a godly woman. I see a list of requirements I know I can't live up to and still be myself. I fear I'll disappear - because I've let that happen once before.

I started reading a book last week on feminism and Christianity. It provides biblical basis for some of the things I've heard God whisper to me over the last year - things that I've wept over in the past because I couldn't find them in scripture. The author refers to feminism as a redemptive movement. She argues that any movement bringing more justice and human flourishing into the world is part of the Kingdom of God moving on earth. All of me agrees.

I am a feminist. But I am nothing if not His.

"But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light."
1 Peter 2:9

He has called all of us, alike.

We are all full of the color that has not been dreamed.

Ducking out of the 8 degree weather last night into the subway-level tunnels at Mayo, Mom and I started making a "thankful for" list. At first we were kidding, but somewhere after "last nights pizza calzone" I realized how much I needed the list. In theory, Mayo is a hopeful place with a lot of answers. But it was a dark place for me and mom. Everyone was sick, all around us. We spent over 10 hours waiting on an appointment we weren't sure we'd get. Every time I passed someone underweight or tired I wanted to ask if there was hope for them, and in turn, for me. It was lonely - like you're set apart from the rest of the world because of your illness.

I joke when I say it reminds of District 13, but I really do wonder if the author of the Hunger Games ever spent any time at Mayo. It always felt like we were underground because it was too cold to venture outside and all the buildings are connected by underground tunnels. Although parts of the building are beautiful, it is still sterile. They give you a schedule of your week with a barcode on it, and every time you check in for an appointment you scan it.

But there were also good parts - like the pianos scattered throughout the hospital campus and the large windows in the waiting rooms that overlooked the city. And I left with a lot of what I'd hoped for - a doctor who is on my side and series of tests that may provide some answers.

So here's the list.
1. Doctors that are listening and aren't afraid of a case that isn't textbook. And the hope that some day soon I'll have a diagnosis that makes sense and is manageable in the long term.
2. Taking turns with mom on who the sick one is (so I don't feel so broken) and watching her shuffle down the hallway at a ridiculously slow speed, faking a cough, when it's her turn. She's always been a good actress.
3. Telling my nurse as she removes my IV that the process always makes me think of the tree in Avatar. And seeing the confused look in her eyes right before she bursts out laughing - telling me she'll think of that every time from now on.
4. Sitting down on the marble steps in the lobby Tuesday evening beside my mom, listening to a woman play the piano.
5. Scoring a consultation with a Rheumatologist after 10 hours in the waiting room.
6. My sweet nurse rubbing my hand through my entire liver biopsy - she made me feel safe in a very foreign place.
7. Looking my Rheumatologist in the eyes (who the receptionist insisted looked like Sean Connery) as he explains that none of my symptoms surprise him and yes, even without a solid diagnosis, he's confident he can put my symptoms in remission.
8. "I'm not here to give you drugs that will make you live 10 days longer, I'm here to give you a good life." - Dr. de Groen
9. Finishing the tests and appointments two days earlier than expected, and Dad's amazing skills of persuasion to change our fight plans from Saturday to Thursday to get us home for Thanksgiving.

10. Sitting around the Thanksgiving table tonight at the Brawner's house, sandwiched between my parents, with the sweet reminder that even though we aren't related, the people around me are my family. And I'm home.

if you can't get what you want, you learn to love the things you've got.

I feel like I need to write something about my upcoming week. Maybe just to document it for myself because this blog has been a lot about my illness and my life in the midst of it, and this week is a big part of that story.

I'm headed to Mayo Clinic tomorrow. I'll be in Rochester, Minnesota for the next 7 days praying and hoping that they find something that Emory hasn't.

I don't really think they will. Autoimmune diseases are a mystery and even when they have a real name that doesn't mean there is much hope for curing them. But there is something about knowing that the best doctors in the world may look me in the eyes and say they don't have an answer that brings hope to my heart.

I think a lot about people with cancer. About how they are fighting a mysterious disease that's stuck inside of them, that they can't control or battle without breaking their body into pieces to cure it. I've got to say, I feel a lot like that. There is something inside my body that's working against me and no one can figure it out.

Maybe Mayo will. Maybe they won't. Maybe I'll board the plane next Saturday knowing that my symptoms will always be a mystery. But I'll also know that I'm part of the research now for other people like me that don't know why their body isn't on their side anymore. And then maybe someone won't feel as alone.

Paige told me today that her illness has helped her distinguish between her sickness and who she really is. I used to fear that I'd be defined by being sick. It felt that way in college. But Paige is right - somehow my sickness has helped me see who I am apart from it, and how nothing about it defines me. But I could use a little prayer this week that I'll believe my diagnosis isn't all of me. Because I'm scared my heart can't handle this mystery forever.

Mayo has been a dream for awhile. I'll focus on that.

let the words fall out

I first heard about this book around a table with five girls I didn't know, nibbling on cheese and drinking wine and listening to my beautifully eccentric friend, Carolyn, read quotes she had jotted down on notecards. She had collected the quotes over the previous couple months - mostly from books she had been reading that she found insightful. They were a starting point for conversation, and she called our time that night Curiosity Club. As we read the notecards aloud and shared bits of our stories, I listened to the questions that have been burdening me over the last two years be asked back to me five times, in five different voices. Questions about why church doesn't seem as relevant anymore, when it used to be the one place that felt like home. Questions about where women belong in the workplace and church as gifted leaders, teachers, and thinkers. Questions about how Christian communities can still be unwelcoming to our gay and lesbian friends while claiming the gospel. Questions about how our parents’ generation can feel so sure about certain parts of scripture when we see so many blatant inconsistencies. And questions about our deep longing for the Church to admit that we really don't have anything but the basics figured out.

And then the inevitable fear, what do these questions say about my belief in God?

I heard about Rachel Held Evans that night, and I went home and ordered Evolving in Monkeytown because Rachel sounded a lot like me. As I read, I came across a statement that I wish we'd had that night. "When we know how to make a distinction between our ideas about God and God himself, our faith remains safe when one of those ideas is seriously challenged."

At some some point in the last 25 years, there was a reaction against mystery in our understanding of God. Christians felt like they had to scientifically prove the existence of God or else he'd cease to be relevant. But I think, in doing so, we lost so much of Him. We made him so solid that we forgot about his tears and his poetry, his creativity and mischievousness, his humor, and his frustration over our stubborn willfulness to figure everything out. I think there is a lot more mystery to God than we allow. For me, it is without mystery that He ceases to be relevant, not science.

I grew up in a family of ideas. I'm realizing now that most of my peers did too. As Rachel puts it, we had all the answers before we even had the questions. In some ways this has been crippling and has made me angry. But it has also given me the courage to uncover what I believe about everything. It's like when you tell a kid not to do something and out of curiosity he/she does the exact opposite. We don't react well when we are told what not to think - especially when we are not given a full reason as to why. It makes us wonder what else is out there. With all our questions pre-answered, our parents created the perfect environment to yield a generation of reckless thinkers. And now we are asking a lot of questions that aren't safe to mention in church. But the problem is...when they aren't received well or taken seriously we aren't willing to stick around just because we “should.”

I'd venture to say that my peers and I have witnessed far more pain and horror in this world than any generation before us. Definitely not firsthand, but due to the technology in the world we are aware of evils and catastrophes in real time, and have unlimited access to the ones of the past. They are evils we can't reverse or heal, no matter how many years or dollars we pour into the broken-down places. We are a generation of thinkers, and we are also a generation devoted to causes. We won't sit by and watch the terror in this world without the freedom to ask hard questions. But that doesn't mean that we need the answers. We more-so need our questions validated - simply by the fact that they are heard and that they are truly and deeply understood.

I visited the Grand Canyon last week and I didn't care to figure it out. It could be hundreds-of-millions of years old or not. I don't really care. Either way, God was there then and He is here now.

We left our first meeting of Curiosity Club agreeing that our questions didn't say anything about belief or disbelief.  We decided they we're human and that God is a beautiful mystery and that the issues we raised make Jesus angry and confused too. What I hope I remember is that the questions don't have to shake everything I've ever known. It is more likely that I am simply trying to uncover what I thought I knew and believed all along. And that really, I'm not losing my faith in God himself, I'm simplifying my faith down into what God originally intended.

Good lord, I hope so.