"If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones." — Luke 16:10

I’d taken my Mum out for breakfast for her birthday. Time spent talking with her is always my absolute favourite thing in the world. Processing life and faith and lessons learned together with her is one of the greatest joys and encouragements that exist in my life. 

This particular day, we were discussing Christian growth, and how God uses His Word and opportunities to grow people into leaders. I related to her the story of a man I admired for his many faithful years of ministry work, how at one point in his life, he sat in a corporate office and was asked by a very successful man how he became such a good leader. Surrounding him on the walls of the office were certificates of leadership studies and achievements, and the man was floored that someone in such a position would ask him the question. He put it down to leading on beach missions for many years. I could see how all those years of saying yes to God helped mold and shape him into the leader he is now, and I marvelled that there are yet Christians who do not seem to grow in the same way. 

“It’s like, God starts by offering you a crayon,” Mum said. “When you pick up and draw with the crayon for a while, God then offers you a water-based marker, and then a paintbrush. Then he gives you a pencil, and from there as you get better with it, a pen. After this, you’re offered a permanent marker, and then a wide paintbrush, and before long, you’re painting the side of a building. But it had to start with you saying ‘yes’ to the crayon. If you never pick up the crayon, you’ll never paint the side of a building. You won’t grow. By the time your friend found himself in that office, he’d already painted so many buildings, but he had to start with the crayon.”

I was really struck by this metaphor. Coming home, I was still turning it over in my mind as I stood in the sun, hanging washing on the line. I was thinking of someone I know, who, though a Christian, seemed to have no interest or desire to be a part of any kind of ministry or mission, even though people very close to them were passionate about it. For a long time I have wondered why this was so. The memory of Mum’s analogy and the answer suddenly hit me like a meteorite. I said out loud to myself, right there at the clothesline, pegs in hand:

“It’s because they never picked up the crayon.”

Cooking for a camp full of boys was one thing. Leading girls was another. Girls were weird. Girls wouldn’t like me. But the need for girl leaders outweighed the need for cooks, and so I reluctantly raised my hand. Turns out the girls adored me. I sat and wrote calligraphy in all their notebooks, let them braid my hair, and read stories to them around the fire. I fell in love with these girls that were my sole responsibility for a week, and I looked forward to the next year I could be with them again, praying with them, and sharing with them God’s Word. 

The paintbrush God handed me was transitioning into leading at the youth group of my church. Every fortnight, and more often if I could, I would show up to lead 30-40 kids with a great team at my church, because I now knew that I didn’t hate kids, and they didn’t hate me either. I helped lead worship, and–thanks to the experience of sharing my testimonies at ag camps–I wound up preaching at youth a couple of times a term. 

My permanent marker moment was directing ag camp. I had a small team, little knowledge of who they were, and barely a meeting to pull us together, but I showed up with a whole lot of trust in God and a whole lot of scared stiff to boot. God pulled us together as an incredible team, and the camp was a success. I thought I’d never do anything so terrifyingly stressful and fantastically good again. 

After chasing these various ministries around as a volunteer, a couple of years later, God offered me the thick, wide paintbrush. I was offered a position on staff with Scripture Union. I remember exactly where I was: on a mission at Tamworth Country Music Festival, sitting under a tree in the shade of a 40 degree day, on the phone when the words came through. 

“Are you interested in a job with SU?” 

Time seemed to stop for a moment. I could feel my fears rising to the top, anxiety flooding my brain with every reason why I should say no. “It’ll be scary, you’ll have to talk to so many people you don’t know, you have no idea what you’re doing, you don’t even know if you can do this, you’re out of your depth, you’ll fail, you’ll disappoint, you can’t–” It would have gone on forever except I heard a sound come out of my own mouth unbidden. 

“Yes.”

I can’t help but have the greatest compassion for the Christians I see who never seem to have the courage to pick up an ugly crayon and give it a go. I can see the way it brings a hardness to their hearts; keeping them from being sensitive to opportunities from God, and causing them to overcommit to what they claim to despise. I don’t think I ever really hated kids. I was just afraid of what it would cost me to love them. I was afraid of the effort it would take, and how it would hurt to fail, and maybe I was afraid that I would actually like it more than I expected in the end.

One of the more inspiring quotes I’ve ever heard I heard from a 31 year old woman who died of cancer this year. She was only a year older than me. She said, “Don’t you want to see what happens if you don’t give up?” In that same vein, my challenge to you is, “Don’t you want to see what happens if you say ‘yes’?”

Who knows what might happen if you say yes? 

Oh it can be difficult, but trust me–trust Jesus–it is worth it. 

I pray you pick up the crayon.

“Hold still, don’t run. You’ll never find the love you want if you take off when it gets real, you wanna be held, you gotta hold still.” – Taylor Leonhardt

Melodramatic as it sounds, thirty is fast approaching and with it, the culmination of my worst childhood fears: I was going to be thirty, single, and still living at home. That had truly been my nightmare as a teenager. If I’d let it, it had the power to keep me up at night worrying about it. For all the good it did me.

Something about being alone, however, often has a way of amplifying the voids in your life God wants to fill that you might have otherwise been unaware of. 

This year I’ve been doing a leadership development course with Arrow Leadership, and while leadership on the surface seems to be about what you do, Arrow makes it clear that leadership comes from who you are. So who was I? I remember tears coming to my eyes on my first residential, sitting in the foyer at dusk with a fellow participant who was sharing his story of burnout and God confronting him with the fact he didn’t truly believe God loved him. Ouch. I felt the twang of something true go off in my spirit. I was exhausted from serving. Should someone who was at rest in the love of God be feeling like that? Unlikely. While I felt like the time to hit pause at that residential gave God the space to rewire some of the tangled up parts of my soul, I still had a long way to go. 

My challenges with work and the insecurities that flared as a result brought me back to that same exhausted place a mere few months after those revelations, and after serving on Leadership Conference in July I was in desperate need of a break and some fun. By an absolute stroke of God’s grace, the snow trip my friends and I had planned from the beginning of the year was able to go ahead despite all the COVID and lockdown scariness, and we spent six blissful days on the slopes of Perisher in the peak of the season. I couldn’t remember a time before when I had been so happy. Good food, plenty of laughs, the thrill of getting to ski again, and be in fellowship with such fantastic company felt like a slice of heaven. I drank up every drop of that high, and went home intensely grateful. 

The only problem with a high, is that inevitably, a low must follow. Which it did. 

“You’ve heard it all before; the tired metaphors don’t move you anymore, you’re out of tears. If you get cold enough, maybe come close enough to let somebody love you; maybe Me.”

The week in lieu I’d put aside to rest and recover from my trip to the snow was spent grieving a risk I took that ended with what felt like a slammed door to the face rather than the opportunity I had been hoping for. I was truly shattered. While not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, the pain was raw and the feelings of inadequacy swamped my heart enough for it to run aground on that question again: who am I? 

So maybe that was why I was in front of the mirror, pulling out grey hair, reflecting on the past ten years of my life and wondering why I still didn’t know who the heck I was. I’d arrived back at the empty house with an emptier heart and sad eyes, and the silence seemed to whisper the question to me: “who are you?” That night I shared with my leadership partner over Zoom my struggles, and she too, managed to place her finger on the wound. 

“You know who God says you are in your head, but who do you say you are?” 

I didn’t know how to answer her. The question haunted me for weeks. It felt as though everywhere and everyone else I looked at could be seen clearly and in focus. Yet the second my gaze turned inward, my vision became blurry and everything was indistinct. I sat for quiet hours in stillness on the floor of the living room; Bible open on the coffee table, curtains back to allow the sun to stream in, murmuring prayers and marvelling at what a beating the heart can take and still have the perseverance to go on beating.

It was in the middle of all this when NEEDTOBREATHE released a new album called Into The Mystery (yet another grace: God always provides the music I need the moment I need it). It captured the very essence of what it meant to be an innocent child, untainted by the world and full of wonder at its beautiful possibilities. It hurt to listen to. I’ve talked about my complex love/hate relationship with my childhood before. As I was grappling with learning who I am, this album on repeat achingly reminded me of the child I was, and how much I missed her. When we were young and we were undefeated, the line sang. Argh, how I missed being undefeated. I felt defeated in work, in love, in life. Again, the greatest fear of thirty, single, and living at home mocked me from just around the corner. Three strikes, you’re out. Dumb as it is (because believe it or not, I do know my life won’t end at thirty!), I was feeling the impending weight of that last strike teenage-me had cursed me with. 

These were the songs frequently pumping in my ears when I went running. I don’t know when I fell in love with running or when it turned into a need, rather than an obligation. But it got so that when my head was full of voices, my heart was full of emptiness, or work got to be too much, running became my answer. Spring came early to Ashtonfield, and so golden hour was warm and sweet, and the deep orange of the sun at dusk flooded the streets with glory. I craved the beauty. I needed it. Three times a week, often more wherever I could fit it in, I would hit the pavement and breathe a sigh of delight and relief, reveling in the feeling of my feet moving beneath me. I had the fleeting thought that maybe I was running from all my problems, but I pushed it away. Exercise is exercise, I told myself. 

“Everybody has to land sometimes. You’re born to fly, I know. I’ve been watching from the ground. Sending smoke signals in case you need a little sign it’s safe to come down.”

Springtime had arrived, and gardens were blooming everywhere. For some reason, most of my cherished childhood memories are always accompanied by the smell of blooming Jasmine flowers, and there is no scent that holds a stronger sense of nostalgia for me. In Ashtonfield, I don’t think there is a single street that doesn’t have it growing somewhere. So every evening when I went running, the air was thick with the rich smell of my namesake, everywhere I went. The irony was not lost on me. Here I was, out running; running away from the problem of who I was, and the scent that bore my name was in every breath I breathed.

I literally could not run away from myself if I tried. 

Sitting in silent sadness at the piano one night, I flipped open my iPad on the music stand and spontaneously selected a video I had sent to Olivia earlier that year. It was an excerpt from Andrew Peterson’s Resurrection Letters Easter tour, and one of the openers was a young woman by the name of Taylor Leonhardt. Even though I’d listened to this song before, it felt like I was hearing it for the first time, and I sat there—crying—as the words washed over me. Hold still, don’t run. You’ll never find the love you want if you take off when it gets real, you wanna be held, you gotta hold still. I might have started running for exercise, but I think I’ve been running for many years in other ways. Running from my fears, running from good memories, running to serve others and forgetting that all I really want is to be loved and held; and I already am. Gosh. Why is that so hard to learn? To grasp? For it to move from my head down into my gut where nothing can shake it? 

It’s hard because I’ve got to be still. To stop. Conversations with my leadership partner about rest felt like ripping all the bandaids and scabs to boot. Everything I learned on my Arrow residential about spiritual practises and rest; what one of the speakers said to me about “find your milk crate”; a place to sit and be until you remember who you are—I know how necessary it all is in my head, but do I gear my heart and my life towards it? Just stopping to know I’m loved, and letting that be enough? Barely. Yet everything I do flows from the person that I am, and I can only know who that is when I sit and be still long enough to know who He is, and who He says I am. 

“No shame in coming back from all that greener grass, turns out you never lacked a thing.”

After hearing Taylor’s song live, I eagerly waited for her new album to drop. When her song Poetry first released, I was driving home with it on loop, sobbing the whole way. It came right in the middle of that intense time of disappointment and was akin to a friend taking my hand. I knew that when “Hold Still” came out, it would be the next hand to guide me on from here. Weird, yes, I know. But it truly is amazing the level of grace and kindness God extends to me; in that He knows how to give me a hand to hold when I feel most alone. I listened to the whole album all the way through, and almost constantly once it was released, but it took me some time to discern one lyric in the song that made me cry that night: Turns out you never lacked a thing.

Wow. 

My mind raced back to Leadership Conference in July. I’d sat under teaching for five days straight on the book of James, and the entire conference was based on three little words. Three words on a hoodie I designed, no less.

Lack no thing. 

I had been running for so long. For six months I had been wandering around lost in my own mind, trying to discover who I was, and it turns out who I was had been there all along. 

I am loved by God. 

Not for what I can do, or achieve, or for how useful I am. Just for me. 

It’s not that I’m enough in and of myself, but just my being with Him, and in His love… that is enough. I was made for loving Him, and to be loved by Him. 

Taylor was right. I couldn’t find the love I wanted when I took off running when things got real. My soul craves nothing greater than to be held by someone who loves me. 

And Someone does. 

I just need to hold still for it.

“You wanna be held, you gotta hold still.”

On the last night of my time in Ashtonfield, I went for a run. My last one. The weather had been grungy for most of the week, but it cleared up that day, and golden hour was as glorious as I’d hoped it would be. I was listening to NEEDTOBREATHE again, one of their more worshipful songs. Bear Rineheart’s voice was belting out the chorus as my feet were belting the pavement: I am Yours, and You will always be mine, it seems like madness, I'm invited to the table by Your side. 'Cause I am Yours and You will always be mine; I'm a man whose one ambition is to dance with my Divine. 'Cause I am Yours, and You are, You are, You are, You are mine. My heart was so, so full. Full of gratitude for my time in Ashtonfield, in such a beautiful home and a beautiful place. For music, that spoke to the deep sadnesses and joys of my soul. For the ability to run. For the joy of sharing that space with friends and family. For good food. For even the tears, and the sorrow, and for what it taught me. For the knowledge of God, and His love for me. Those words, “I am Yours, and You are mine” seemed to echo and reverberate in my mind as I ran, breathing deeply of the Jasmine-scented air. The tears in my eyes were only the overflow of the thankfulness in my heart.

I backed up to read it again, and I glanced at the house. I had no idea who lived there, or what the nature of the message was, but it resonated. I stood there for a moment, gazing at the jagged chalk letters. As I turned to leave, I placed the sprig of Jasmine on the drive next to the text and continued walking. 

Someone does, little one. Hold still, and you’ll know it. 

His love is as close and present as the smell of Jasmine in the air.

---

I arrived to serve on Leadership Conference for the week like this, but I knew God was faithful and would give me the energy I needed. More than that. I knew that Leadership Conference, a week spent in the company of young people, good teaching, and hands on work would be what I needed. The chance to feel good at something again. The chance to see—with my own eyes—the impact of all the behind the scenes work I had been entrenched in for months. To see Jesus touch lives. 

Which I did. Oh, how I did. We heard well over fifteen testimonies from the kids on the last night. Each one so different, yet so full of God's grace. I saw them rise to the challenges over the week, and become confident, strong, assured. I saw kids open up to the love they were experiencing. I saw leaders connecting deeply with one another. We laughed. Cried. Prayed. It felt like I'd gone from trying to breathe underwater to being yanked to the surface to take a deep breath from an oxygen mask. 

I returned home at the end of the week, and spent a day with my family, reminiscing the week and catching up with one another. I was mostly present, but I was also preoccupied by the need to finish my sermon for the following day. I preached at my church twice that Sunday, and I knew I was going to crash as soon as I got back to the empty house I was staying at. I was completely done. 

I went to bed at 10pm and didn't set an alarm. I awoke sometime this morning and stayed in bed, dozing in and out until I finally decided to get up. It was almost midday, the longest I've slept in for years (if ever). There was work I could've done, but I decided my soul needed a break. My pantry and fridge also needed restocking. Grabbing my Bible and my journal, jotting down a quick list of groceries, then grabbing my keys, I headed for the mall two minutes around the corner. 

I decided I would go treat myself to breakfast (even though at this point in time it was more like lunch) and sit and read my Bible; maybe journal for a while. My phone had gone flat as I'd lost my charger over the week, so I went to Big W first and bought a portable charger. On the way there, I'd noticed Cino's Cafe, and it looked full, so I dismissed it. A quick wander through the rest of the floor however didn't yield anything that looked cozy or out of the way enough, so my feet eventually returned to the doorway of Cino's, and I waited to be seated.

I was greeted by a cheerful young man, who led me to a place at the bench looking out over the plaza. I sat down and allowed myself to take a breath. My mind was still quite cloudy, but I pulled out my Bible preparing to read Philippians for our next church series topic. As the young man returned to take my order, it took him what felt like a minute to get his first syllable out. 

"D-d-d-d-d-d—did you want to order now?"

I told him my order swiftly, thanking him as he confirmed it and went on his way. If only I could have returned to my thoughts as easily. 

It had been a difficult few months for me with work. Strange, how I can love my job and all it stands for and yet find it so challenging at the same time. I'd been feeling constantly out of my depth, drowning in all that I could do and struggling to be sure of what I should do. There were people to meet, events to coordinate, meetings to run, paperwork to process, and I felt as I though I'd spent the majority of my time mustering up the courage for all the demands I could feel pressing in on me. "Mustering up" is a phrase I've heard Brené Brown use for trying to build up courage to face the challenges of life, and it feels like my modus operandi these days; the only way to push back the rising anxiety and fear that deep down, I am simply not cut out for this job. 

So to see this young man with a very apparent stutter waiting on me, a job that requires an awful lot of speaking, floored me. I sat there, staring out across the mall watching the assortment of people walk by, and my eyes misted over. I felt shame for myself. Here was a guy who had showed up for a job where talking to people was at the heart of it, and he had a stutter. I don't, and I still often quail to pick up the phone to a stranger. I watched him greet the next set of people to arrive, and behind me I could hear him confirming their order, pausing on the start of almost every other word to wrestle through the syllable before he finished. He apologised, and I heard everyone at the table affirm him and tell him he was fine, and I could hear the encouragement in their voices. Tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn't contain them. It was an effort to compose myself before my meal arrived.

My Bible was open, and I moved slowly through Philippians, savouring each word as I savoured every bite of my eggs benedict and sip of good coffee. However my heart felt bruised. I felt both challenged, and caught out. It was no coincidence I ended up at this cafe. I even thanked God when I walked in, because I'd wanted breakfast, and it happened to be an all-day breakfast cafe. I was alone, surrounded by strangers, and yet God used someone to pierce my heart to the core. I don't know if the young man knows God, but if not, if he can have such courage to show up at a job that much of the world would tell him he is unqualified for, why can't I? All my excuses and validations seemed to fall to the ground empty. 

It threw new light on the Scripture when I arrived at Philippians 4:13, I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me. Why don't I live like that? Clearly it's possible. I have Christ. While I have striven not to allow fear to dictate my life, it has been exhausting fighting against it. What if I realised I have no reason to fear? What if I viewed everything as possible, not because of anything I can bring, but because of Who is with me? How much more peace I would have then, and maybe not even need the courage I have been working so hard to muster up. 

I turned over the serviette at the end of my meal and wrote a note:

To the young man who served me: thankyou. Your courage inspired me today. I am not good at my job, and so often I feel afraid. You have reminded me that we don't have to be perfect, we just have to show up. Thankyou for your courage. Keep showing up. Philippians 4:13. God bless.

It's evening now, and sitting here at my computer I'm thinking of a song by Ben Rector.

I've been scared to death of failing
Scared that I'd look like a fool
And I'd rather quit than risk that I could lose 
And I'm not proud of that position, no
But it's the hand that I've been dealt
But as far as I'm concerned that hand can go to hell 

Chase me down outside of Georgia
And I was sure that I was done
Something in me would not turn around and run
I heard the Lord in California
And I remembered who I was when I learned to dance with the fear that I'd been running from.

And I remembered who I was when I learned to dance with the fear that I'd been running from. Maybe I'm remembering who I'm meant to be, and these are my first steps in that dance. 

Sometimes I’m the lifeboat, sometimes I’m sinking. Sometimes the shepherd, sometimes the lost sheep. But always I’m shaped by the people who love me. — Andy Gullahorn

People often wait to become something great or create something epic before making a public show of thanks. They appear in movie credits, book forwards, or speeches at significant birthdays or weddings. That’s valid. No one wants to spend every day of their life writing exhaustive lists of everyone they owe their gratitude to for everything. However in lieu of these milestone events, the opportunities to publicly honour those who have contributed to your journey are sadly few. 

I don’t like that. 

The last twelve months of my life have been phenomenal. I’ve grown so much, learnt so much, met so many people and been so blessed by them on this journey. It has been one of the most profound years of my life, and I truly feel like a different person to who I was this time in 2019. So I’m taking an insignificant moment to offer some significant people a public thankyou for their presence in my life and for the unique ways they have contributed to who I've become this year. 

In no particular order:

Sarah Carter, Michaela Mason, Elizabeth Allen, Josiah & Katrianna Hoodenpyle. You are the ones who stay. Time and space literally have no bearings on our friendship. Your faithfulness and nearness of spirit—no matter the distance—are such bulwarks in my life. You are safe places. You are always a phonecall or a text away, even if it has been months in between. I know if ever I were in a crisis, you would move heaven and earth to support me. That surety is priceless. Thankyou for your enduring love. 

Madeleine & Clayton Cowley, Bethany Bell, Hannah Alley, Rachel Bemmer. You have let me be real in ugly ways and loved me despite it. You have been voices of wisdom, a safe place for my wounded heart, and a kind spirit when I needed one. Whether you've known me for half my life or only recently, our connection has been close to kindred for me. In many ways, God has rescued me through you and I am deeply grateful for your lovingkindness and godliness. 

Lindsay & Nicole Teasdale, Julie & David Guy, Stephen & Cherie Punch, Andrew & Sue Betts, Neil & Jenny Parish. You not only invited me into your church and your homes, you invited me into your hearts. You have upheld me in prayer, held me when I’ve cried, been a steady support I can lean on, and you have loved me when I have had nothing to give in return, and that humbles me to my core. I could not have asked for better mentors and Godly examples in my life. “Thankyou” is too small a word for all I wish I could express.

James White, Glenn Coombs, Dave Tankard. The Lord used you to set me on a path I never would have found on my own. When I had countless voices in my head telling me “you can’t”, you said “you can”. The extent of your belief in me humbles me to this day, but more than that, the extent of your belief in the mission is what matters most. The way you live dedicated to the call of Christ continues to inspire and challenge me to live wholly for Him. I cherish your wisdom and knowledge so freely shared, and I am grateful also to Miriam, Leanne and Jude: your gentle support, strength of character, and quiet wisdom has been a gift to me, even just by your presence. The beauty and peace each of you carry have been so influential in my life. What incredible teams you are. I pray someday I am able to be even half as inspirational to someone as all of you have been to me. Thankyou for your faith. 

My extended family. You know who you are. You are the aunts, uncles, cousins, and cousins’ children who have shown me what family means. You show up, you travel long distances, you call, you remember birthdays, you visit, you invite, you work through hard, hard things. You keep looking forward. Your presence in my life means I have a strong foundation under my feet that tells me to keep walking, and to make a difference. You remind me life is worth living.

My brothers and sisters-in-law, Jacob & Emily, Isaac & Kate. You have invited me to be a part of your families, allowing me to be an aunty to your children and so freely given me the opportunity to love them. Don't underestimate the gift it is to my single heart to have children around me, and to have your interest in my life amidst the fullness of your own. It is so deeply appreciated. Having you all in my life is one of the brightest parts of my existence, and it’s a gift I pray I never take for granted. Thankyou for your presence. 

My siblings, Olivia, Thomas, Lily, Caleb. You make my life fun and interesting, while always challenging me to be a better person. You’ve been along for the ride with my crazy adventures, you’ve supported me, loved me at my worst, and made me laugh more than anyone else on earth. Life would simply not be as rich or as colourful without you. Thankyou for loving me. It means the world. Shoutout in particular to Olivia for being the soundboard for hours of processing/venting, the kick in the butt when I sorely needed it, the always supportive, always optimistic, always challenging, always hilarious, and always striving for excellence sister and partner in ministry. You've made me a better person simply by being you. 

Dad, thankyou for your love and your support in all that I do. Knowing you approve of the life I'm living blesses me more than you'll know. The way you continually seek out the best on my behalf, the energy you give to helping me when I need assistance with anything, and your tireless work ethic are gifts that are irreplaceable to me. Thankyou for the sacrifices you have made, and for all that you have given me. I'm undyingly grateful. 

Mum, our souls were cut from the same cloth. Words will fail to articulate my deep thankfulness for the way you have counselled me, mentored me, discipled me, mothered me, befriended me. There is no one like you on the planet, and I owe God a debt I couldn't repay—even if I lived a hundred lifetimes—for giving me you. Thankyou for the depth of your love and support, but especially, thankyou for the way you live like you believe the truth of who Christ is. May I ever follow in your footsteps of faithfulness. 

Jesus. Only you know the journey it has taken for us to get here, and where we are to go from here. You have seen me at my absolute worst, and yet you stay. In fact, you still consider me worth the cost of your life, even knowing all the ways I am weak, pathetic, needy, broken and sinful. You have carried my grief and my sorrow, you have shared my joys and delights. This year you have walked with me through the darkness of tragedy, death, sickness, pain and heartache, and even when I haven't felt you anywhere, you brought me through it into the light again. You discipline me, correct me, teach me, and help me endure hard things, yet always you love me, give me more grace and mercy than I deserve, and make me better than I am. You have suffered my anger with kindness, my secret shames and burdens of guilt you took on yourself, in the times I've forgotten you, your faithfulness has remained. You love me too well to leave me as you found me. You are a friend that is closer than a brother. No one cares for me as you do. You are worthy of all my awe, all my devotion, all my life. May I ever be found in Thee. I love you. 

There are many more names I could add to this list, and my gratefulness overflows to them also. Every kind word, every gentle rebuke, and even every hardship given for God to use as an instrument of goodness in my life I am growing more and more thankful for. It is with this deep sense of gratitude in my heart that I face the coming new year. I feel more whole than I have for a long time. I have been trained by the Lord's discipline, and by His grace, it has given me a strength and readiness to face what comes next with courage and perseverance. As I look back on the person I have been, I find myself so thankful for where God has brought me, and for the people He gave me. By His mercy, may we all be found faithful still. 

Welcome, 2021. 

I don’t know where I’m going, these dreams are all I’m holding. Take me down any road, I’m dancing in the dawn of the unknown. — Jake Scott

 “Now when He saw that He did not prevail against him, He touched the socket of his hip; and the socket of Jacob’s hip was out of joint as He wrestled with him.” - Genesis 32:25

“Everyone wants something they don’t have. Everyone can point to a place in their life that feels like a barren wasteland. Even if someone was in their best season ever, and you handed them a microphone and asked, ‘What do you want that you don’t have,’ they’d still be able to give you an answer. Whether it’s a bigger house, or more job opportunities, or greater influence, or kids, or a girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever—everyone I know wants something they don’t have. Don’t you? What do you want that you don’t have?” — Remember God, Annie F. Downs

“This darkest season marked me forever. It’s done a thing in me I can’t explain, except that I keep picturing what happens when a chunk of stone gets chipped out of a statue. It doesn’t ruin the statue, but it sure does change it permanently.  And that feels like me. I can’t pretend I didn’t stand out in the storm while my entire self got soaked and beat up. I can’t pretend my soul hasn’t been weathered. It has. I’m rougher for it. I’m chipped forever. I have a limp that will not heal.” — Annie F. Downs

“And it was good, good, good / now it’s gone, gone, gone / and there’s a little boy who’s lost out in the woods always looking for the fawn / So come back to me, please come back to me / is there any way we can change the ending of this tragedy?  Or does it have to be this way?” — Andrew Peterson

"This album at its heart is about the loss of innocence that we all go through. The fact that it's a universal experience. Everyone, I think, has inside of them a ten-year-old version of themselves who lives in their heart and is looking around wondering what went wrong.”

“When the struggle is over, Jacob is left with a limp that - as far as we know—never went away. He wanted a blessing, and he got a limp. Or maybe the limp was his blessing. “ — John Ortberg

“And it hurts so bad / but it's so good to be young / and I don't want to go back / I just want to go on and on and on / So don't lose heart, though your body's wasting away / Your soul is not, it's being remade / So don't lose heart, don't lose heart / your body will rise and never decay / day by day by day.” — Andrew Peterson

"He answered me, 'I am all you need. I give you My loving-favor. My power works best in weak people.' I am happy to be weak and have troubles so I can have Christ’s power in me." — 2 Corinthians 12:9 NLV