What Helps a Slow Heart Remember

There is something about the tiny ways we experience a dream coming true that changes our outlook. Whether it’s an idea brought to fruition, a task finished, a plan fulfilled, these moments train us to believe more is possible. There are seasons when my soul needs to witness these tiny wants coming true while I guard my heart, find new energy and pray for grace to refuel my hope. In those times, if I try to rush myself, push ahead, I don’t leave room for the autumn and winter seasons of my soul. Just as all of life needs times of letting go, and the silence of snow, so there are places in my soul that need what is steady, what is slow. When old seasons of life have died, it’s time to hunt for beauty in the little shoots of life. Here are a few ways this looks for me right now. While these practices are small, they are exercises that help me look forward. Right now, I’m wanting to meet new people at church, and needing to keep it simple. This week I met Sally and Renae. I had brief conversations with each of them. I wrote down their names to help myself remember. For years, I’ve been wanting to read historical fiction again. I finally started. A few days ago, I finished a book set in the early nineteen hundreds. Then, I began another, set a few centuries earlier. I’ve wanted to adjust my morning routine in a way that gets me moving and helps me feel grounded. For the last month I’ve rolled out my yoga mat most weekday mornings and used it for ten minutes. As short a time as it is, it helps me feel alive knowing I’m keeping a promise to myself. When I see my small hopes play out as I come to the last page of a book, tell my husband about new people, and spend regular mornings on the yoga mat, the small things stack up. Something inside me begins to notice that I have choices in life. I wished for a reality and it came to happen. These small practices help me embrace life-giving rhythms, even while honoring the season I’m in and the pace of my soul. It’s freeing to acknowledge where I am. When I admit that I’m not in a season of summer plenty, and admit my capacity for life has limits, this helps me live more fully in the gift of today. While life is communal, we experience it individually too. Parker Palmer writes, “We must come together in ways that respect the solitude of the soul…” The solitude of the soul is our garden to tend. It’s different from our neighbors’. Every garden needs water and light to grow, and sufficient protection to help it thrive. Yet, each garden must be tended according to its specific needs, with consideration for the season it’s in. When our gardens are tended according to their needs, there are times of harvest that bring nourishment to others. The solitary tending brings communal blessing. Each season always had purpose. The Lord who knows the necessities of every garden doesn’t rush us forward. He knows the slow work of growth and invites us to stay in pace with Him as He makes the way for tomorrow. When the season calls us to hunt for small shoots, and care for tiny dreams, He honors the solitude within us. The secret place within is always where He waits. A promise: “He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness” (2 Cor. 9:10).

At times, words about goodness have felt vanilla to me, like preschool basics. God is good. The sky is blue. I’ve longed for a goodness that means more than empty positivity. More than rote fact. More than a decade ago, when I was newly married and just entering my twenties, Nano and I sat with a group of church friends who were planning a Thanksgiving gathering. One woman suggested inviting the guests to share four things they were thankful for. Everyone seemed to like her idea. Internally, I sighed. I didn’t understand this and thought we may as well recite our grocery lists to each other. I wondered what might fit what they were looking for, while also feeling more meaningful. I shared the first thought that came to mind. “What if we share one thing we’re thankful for and then four reasons why we’re thankful for that?” They blinked at me and offered polite words acknowledging my idea. The day of the gathering came and I listened as people shared their four-point lists of things they were thankful for. I can’t remember if I recited a list myself. I just remember looking around the room at this group—most of whom had seen many more years of life than I had. I couldn’t understand why this didn’t feel so mundane to everyone else. Thirteen years later, the memory stays with me. I put myself back in that room at the age I am now, and I’ve still seen less years than most of them. Maybe though, I’m a little closer to understanding what they knew. When dreams you’ve hoped for blow away in the wind, when paths you walk turn to somber roads, when the sky around you grows dark, the clouds teach you what you never could’ve learned in the light. Along the journey of life’s disappointments, the soul learns how to see that no matter what blows away, no matter how grave the story, there is always a bird who still sings. The rote facts you learned in preschool become lifelines that save you. God is good. The sky is blue. When a voice inside asks me what I have left, there is still the voice of a child in my distant memory. She sings her alphabet, letter by letter, and somehow every syllable of ordinary life becomes the sweetest song I’ve ever heard. Built into the fabric of this life, into the sound of every letter we work with each day, is a Voice that echoes quietly beneath every harsh blow. God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. He looked with delight and said, “You are very good.” From the beginning, goodness was there. Today, His goodness remains. Last week, my family munched popcorn and watched Tom Hanks in Castaway. After he loses everything, then years later loses everything again, he tells a friend what he knows. “I know what I have to do now. I’ve got to keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide will bring?” The sun still rises, and the goodness God made in the beginning is still alive. I remembered myself at age twenty. I sat in a room where I couldn’t hear more than a grocery list. I wanted to hear the reasons why . Little did I know that when we recognize what is good, we are naming the reasons why —the reasons why we breathe. These are the signs there is goodness. This is the meaning that keeps us open to meet another day.

The heart’s ability to stretch across the widest chasms can feel conflicting—though it’s also connecting. A heart can care deeply for two very different people, can be attached to two places so very far apart, and can find ways to extend itself beyond what it ever thought it could. In one sense this can seem contradictory, but this is what we’re made for. Love doesn't go in one single direction, but forms a connection of paths and bridges that reach far and wide. A couple weeks ago, I stopped by the dollar store after church. However, I didn’t realize until I got back to my car that I had locked my keys inside. After confirming Nano wasn’t too far away with the extra key, I set my groceries on the hood of the car, and found a seat in the lawn chair beside the store's front entrance. Customers passed in and out. Flower pots, garden flags and bags of charcoal surrounded me. Then I noticed a grey scooter near my chair that seemed a little worn, not for sale. After a few minutes, a lady stepped out of the building and began the task of securing her cartful of groceries to the scooter. She was quite friendly. I explained my situation to her, and she shared with me that she lived close to the store and enjoyed the scooter rides and the fresh air. I noticed her accent and learned she was from South Africa. “That’s where my heart is,” she said. South Africa is where she wanted to be. She’d been in Texas for three years. “I met my husband online. He was from here, but agreed to come live with me in South Africa. It worked out for ten years,” she said, “but the whole time he really missed his home.” She spoke of the strain of living a joint life with hearts in two different places. Yet, she spoke of it with a tender sense of joy—an openness to see what lay ahead, and hopeful that one day she would be home again. The conversation stuck in my mind. Her heart is in South Africa. Her heart is with her husband. His heart is in Texas. The math of how a heart works doesn’t add up. I think of the tensions my own heart carries, the quiet ways to be *with* someone when my feet can’t find the way across the same bridge. Does it ever add up? I don’t think so. Somehow though, the unsolved equations in my heart are the places God speaks to me most—when I give up trying to solve them. Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved. Some mysteries come into our lives to tug on our hearts—maybe even to tear us, and somehow…to heal us. To the mysteries we can’t make sense of, to the math that never works, to the unsolved puzzles in an unfinished life, we welcome you. We’ll let you be. This past weekend, I stretched out on the living room floor, chin in my hands, dice rolling, my children cheering. The puzzle in my heart can stay unfinished for now, if it means I can embrace the wonder of the gifts right here before me.

Sometimes when we come to connect with God in prayer, questions are the only words we can find. The Bible is full of heavy questions God’s children have asked Him in prayer. We may feel shame rise over the queries we have for God. Sometimes I’ve wondered if God is disappointed in me for wondering where He is. At times, I am tempted to pull away from God when I think of my doubts and fears. However, God’s Word encourages His people to do something astounding—and beautiful. “Trust in [God] at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us.” Psalm 62:8. When I read this verse, I notice something that makes me feel so light and free. Psalm 62 does not say: Trust in God at all times, O people; quit asking Him questions! Rather than shutting down our inquiries, God encourages His children to pour out our hearts. Scripture takes this act of sharing our raw selves in prayer, and actually connects it with living out our trust in God. It refreshes me to see this in my Bible. Psalm 13 is one prayer that begins with raw questions. “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I take counsel in my soul and have sorrow in my heart all the day? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?” Psalm 13:1-2 God never desires that we would withdraw from him because of the mess we feel inside. If distressing questions are the first words to come when we seek God’s presence, we are still loved by a God who longs to hear our hearts. There are times when trusting God with our messy uncertainties is the best way we can move toward Him. Psalm 13 begins with questions and carries forward still. For two more verses the psalmist petitions God to look upon his troubles, to consider his situation and respond. Then the psalmist remembers the guiding arrow of his internal faith compass that has served him well before—an arrow he knows can be trusted. “But I have trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.” Psalm 13:5-6 A heart that pours itself out to God is not despised by Him. To come to God with our questions is often an act of trust. Our doubts are messy, but they are a doorway—and curiously, the doorway can lead toward God. Although, doubt can also lead away from Him. Some time after God split the Red Sea and delivered the Israelites out of bondage in Egypt, they grumbled about God. Their questions sounded like this: “Why is the Lord bringing us into this land, to fall by the sword? Our wives and our little ones will become a prey. Would it not be better for us to go back to Egypt?” Numbers 14:3 Moses, Aaron, Joshua and Caleb immediately reminded the people of God’s goodness. The people responded by picking up stones to kill them. God felt their actions deeply, asking, “How long will this people despise me? And how long will they not believe in me, in spite of all the signs that I have done among them?” Numbers 14:11 God asks questions too. When doubt rises, He longs for us to run toward Him. He waits for us to remember who He is and who He always has been. Mystery sometimes surrounds heavy questions in the Bible. I just know that if our queries can serve as a doorway to move us toward God and His faithfulness, it is good to ask God our questions. Here are a few more questions the psalmists ask of God in prayer: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?” Psalm 22:1 “God why do you cast us off forever? Why does your anger smoke against the sheep of your pasture?” Psalm 74:1 “How long, O God, is the foe to scoff? Is the enemy to revile your name forever? Why do you hold back your hand, your right hand?” Psalm 74:10-11 “Will the Lord spurn forever, and never again be favorable? Has his steadfast love forever ceased? Are his promises at an end for all time? Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has he in anger shut up his compassion?” Psalm 77:7-9 “How long O Lord? Will you be angry forever? Will your jealousy burn like fire?” Psalm 79:5 “How long O Lord? Will you hide yourself forever? How long will your wrath burn like fire?” Psalm 89:46 “Lord, where is your steadfast love of old, which by your faithfulness you swore to David?” Psalm 89:49 There is one question in the New Testament that, to me, companions all of our human questions with the greatest love. It’s the question asked by Jesus from the cross. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Matthew 27:46 Jesus intimately knows about our questions. He knows, too, about all of our pain and our trials. “For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.” Hebrews 2:18 In light of the cross, the questions and doubts we experience along the journey of faith are among the deepest of gifts we can know. Who knows what good gifts these uncertainties may invite us too? It’s quite possible that our soul-deep questions seek to point us toward the faithfulness of God’s guiding hand like nothing else can.

What we do with longing will shape the course of our lives. It’s essential to consider what we long for—to dig beneath the surface of a wish, and seek to uncover what we truly want. In the words of C.S. Lewis… “We remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy. But is there any reason to suppose that reality offers any satisfaction to it? ‘Nor does the being hungry prove that we have bread.’ But I think it may be urged that this misses the point. A man’s physical hunger does not prove that man will get any bread; he may die of starvation on a raft in the Atlantic. But surely a man’s hunger does prove that he comes of a race which repairs its body by eating and inhabits a world where eatable substances exist. In the same way, though I do not believe (I wish I did) that my desire for Paradise proves that I shall enjoy it, I think it a pretty good indication that such a thing exists and that some men will. A man may love a woman and not win her; but it would be very odd if the phenomenon called “falling in love” occurred in a sexless world. Here, then, is the desire, still wandering and uncertain of its object and still largely unable to see that object in the direction where it really lies.” -C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses , 33. I long for a world where misunderstandings don’t fog our vision. Or, at least a world where that confusion can be cleared up quickly. Yet, life reminds me of a different reality. Bad memories rise. We ponder pain. We worry. Worry stirs fear. Fear clouds judgment. John’s need for quiet is seen as a threat to Jane. Jane’s need for comfort is seen as a threat to John. All the while, they want whatever lies beyond the disconnect. But what does one do with the “want” in the meantime? What do you do with longing in a life where mistaken meanings can carry on for weeks, or a lifetime? Desire is a fire in the dead of a freezing storm. Without it, the cold will thicken your blood and work to stifle the beat of your heart. But, tend to desire with care, or the fire itself may sweep over you with its flames. To tend to desire is the summons of life, and it is a solemn and glorious call. There is longing which keeps the heart beating, keeps a life warm—and helps to warm the lives of others. We keep a fire going, knowing that what we do with longing becomes the kindling of hope. When we remember what we wait for, the slow, steady tending is worth every weary moment. We hope for the day when the cold will be gone, and fires will never consume what is good. “The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us” (Rom. 8:18). We live for the hope of redemption to come. Bad memories rise. But fear cannot defeat Love, and Love is here to hold and share. Jesus draws close to touch the leper. Love leans close to touch the scars. Pain can turn to imagine a future where each wounded place we meet is an opportunity to Love. More than all we can imagine, our good God can move us with hope. With an eternal dream before us, we can learn a long patience. We savor the moments when warmth is shared. We make beauty with our hands while the fire burns on. We’ll consider what we long for. For goodness is in reach.

Sometimes I want January to feel completely new. But she doesn’t show up to replace the troubles of yesterday. She doesn’t come with smooth, new roads, and old damage erased. Instead, she shows up with a new years’ worth of morning light—to shine on the same rugged lines of a perfectly bumpy life. January arrives with familiar potholes and construction zones. Life’s potholes can drive me mad, but the madness comes with memories. And the memories are bittersweet. A life with potholes is a life where I get to experience things that are broken, and the quaint mystery of moments when we bear with imperfections. On Friday morning, I opened the door to leave for my walk, and the tranquility of the day’s rhythms gave way to a familiar, repulsive stench. A few times a year, chicken manure from the nearby egg farm is spread across the fields. The smell is vile and I wanted to retreat, but my dog noticed my step outside. He wriggled and bounced, his tongue out with anticipation. He’s not contained by a fence or leash, but “people walks” are his favorite. Somehow, his playful eyes swayed me to believe a walk in these conditions couldn’t be too bad. Many mornings, Saucer and I walk the road to the creek bridge and back. That day, I beat Saucer to the creek bridge, and the fields held my attention. They kept me walking farther. I’ve loved this place since I was a child, when the best parts of the year were the days at Grandpa’s farm. I spent years dreaming about these fields. Now I’ve lived here for almost ten years of my adult life—about as long as the egg farm has been here, chicken manure and all. For nearly ten years, the smell keeps coming around. Yet, for ten years, this stench has never made me feel done with living here. What do I know deep inside? A place is always more than its imperfections. The goodness of this place stays with me even when the stench is here. People are like places. I want to believe that. People are always more than the stench of bad moments. How do I look for the “more?” At Grandpa’s farm, when life is imperfect, my old longings rise up and help me see more. The deep roots of an old dream make the troubles seem smaller. I’m sure this is a small glimpse of a larger truth. Beneath the temporary frustrations and quick-fix wishes of today, the soul is pregnant with good, old longings. Our Maker has set eternity into our hearts (Eccles. 3:11). Deep down inside us, we long for what is good. We long to connect with each other in fruitful ways, and to conduct ourselves in ways that do not make that difficult. Deep down, we long to live in a world where our ears tune in to the good in each other, and our lips speak like our Father, who calls good things into being with His words. Somewhere beneath the billows inside me, this is what I long for. When life is imperfect, old longings can help me see more. While the roots of my dreams are shallow still, I’m loved by a God who knows. He meets me with His own longing heart and tethers my soul to Him. So here is a January with familiar troubles. And longings as old as eternity. January can come as she is.

Seven years ago at the beginning of December, we put a big red bow on the top of our Christmas tree. A few days later, my kindergartener came home from school and looked up at that bow for a while. Then she found some paper and markers and set to work at the table. With her little hands, she earnestly squiggled out her best representation of a star, and colored it yellow before she found the scissors to cut around it. She poked a hole in the top point and strung her star onto a blue pipe cleaner. When finished, Amayah held it out to me and said, “Mommy, you can use it for the tree. We need a star.” So, I removed the red bow from our tree and used the pipe cleaner to tie the star in place. The top of the tree curved in a point, and there hung our paper star. Amayah knew what she needed to see on top of the Christmas tree, and she couldn’t ignore it. The memory of her paper handiwork is a great reminder to me that good gifts are not elusive. I’m directionally challenged. The week after Amayah made her star, I set out for Mount Vernon. Somehow I got turned around and ended up all the way in Sulphur Springs before I realized my mistake. Minutes after I rerouted, my van ran out of gas. At my own fault, I'd become stuck on the road nearly an hour from home. As someone who’s lost my way often, the star of Christmas is beautiful to me. To show the way to Jesus, God put a star in the sky—like an arrow pointing the way. The simple need was to follow. God’s way of giving directions is comforting when you’re not only directionally challenged on the road, but in your heart too. Amayah’s paper offering reminded me that even as we’re given the gift of God in human skin, we’re also loved by a God who never stops lighting the way to find His good Gift. A God who is faithful to light the way is just the kind of care my heart needs. A voice in my head fights to confuse my sense of direction. When I want to give and receive love, memories play scenes of shame. I become a little girl presenting a bunch of dandelions picked from the grass…while my gift is dismissed and tossed away. When shame speaks through my memory, it drives me away from love. Even still, there is ever-present longing tucked away in the echoes of the past. Those tender yearnings point toward a journey—to find the place where I feel safe to let my inner child exhale. Like Amayah offered her star, we all have a child inside with intuitive gifts to share. When a child gives a gift, they stretch out the fragile shoots of their growing love, unhindered by decades of disappointments. A child’s gift can touch your heart and draw you to the days when life felt so young and new—a blank canvas that couldn’t wait to see the beauty it became. Love is the star that is always a learning, growing, testing dare to let the heart be a child one more time. Remember the child you need. And there is One who made Himself into a child-gift in the most complete way. He comes as a baby and offers Himself as a gift to the child in me. He came as a gift wrapped inside a womb, and Joseph’s first thought was to quietly disown the mother who encased him. Through the bloody entry of a woman’s birthing body, Jesus gave the tender gift of Himself. His offering given with wide-open love was met by King Herod’s order of mass slaughter, a hope to put the new child to death. The Child of Christmas gave the most vulnerable gift, becoming a child for the lost child heart. He offered love His whole life long, until He was crushed. He steps into a world of wounded hearts…and he becomes wounded beyond recognition in a world where we know this language. Who doesn’t know the wounding of love? Who never longs to feel whole again? He welcomes the wounds. He stays for the crushing. To the death, He never falters, never ceases to come as a child holding out His gift still. There is nothing like a gift from a child. A gift from a child can warm the coldest part of my heart. And only the touch from a baby’s hand can reach for me with enough tenderness to draw me from my fearful sense of direction toward the light of Love. I need a gift only a child could give. And with Christmas, as always, it’s what I’m given. The sovereign Author of Christmas remembers the child in me. When I’m too discouraged to hold out dandelions or make paper stars, He stoops down to speak a language my heart can hear. Here is a King who becomes a tiny gift. He is determined to light up my soul with childlike purpose. There are good gifts to bring. Jesus delights in gifts of frankincense and myrrh and also the gift of a manger and the lullaby’s of animals. Why does He receive the gifts of those who can give only what He’s provided? Because He is a King who treasures the beauty of a gift from a child. For broken hearts, there are tiny fingers who can touch fallow ground and make room for the tender shoots of love to grow again. Where there is room for the child, the child makes room for love. When we are lost and turned around, He lights the way. Do you long for a gift from a Child? Like a star, this longing too, is His gift. Follow the star. The Lord has come. “When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. And going into the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts...” (Matt. 2:10-11).

Do many people have a specific emotion they feel the most awkward with? Mine is anger. In some ways, I’d rather meet any other feeling. When my worst memories play across my mind, anger appears as the villain, the direct enemy of love. Whether the anger is from others, or from me, the narrative says that anger destroys. It equates with shame and loss. The rise of this emotion can begin to feel like a threat. Don’t let your anger out, or else. There’s validity to my concerns. Out-of-control anger can hurt people deeply. It can damage and destroy and tear down connections we don’t actually want to tear down. The idea of anger makes me angry. Anger can cause typhoons of damage and sometimes I want to scream about it to the world. Sometimes when I start to feel angry, shame creeps in for the fact that I feel angry at all. On the other hand, part of me knows anger has important roles to play somewhere. It can let us know when something isn’t right. There are times to listen. So, at times, I’ll start to share my anger with someone. Often, I feel clumsy—caught in a world that’s too shaky and uncertain. Anger is a territory full of memories where abandonment happens, people are shamed and nothing is steady. So when I showed up for counseling a couple weeks ago and Chris, my counselor, asked me to consider good things about anger, I didn’t love the topic. But I know her question is valid. In the first several years of marriage, I tried hard to be as low-need as possible. I wanted to be a selfless wife, but I often thought that meant not having needs. The more I contained my needs, the more I felt disconnected from Nano. Anger would find ways to come out of me—it just didn’t look like anger and it always came out sideways. Now, Nano has seen more of my anger than anyone else combined. The more I search for healthier ways to listen to my anger and express my need—and the more we work through those moments—the more I feel connected to him. Marriage is the biggest place where I’ve seen good things come from learning to work with my anger. I’ve also seen hard things come when anger is ignored. How many of us know what it feels like to have a friend avoid us? Then, a long while later sometimes the truth comes out and we find out why. At times, I’ve longed to see a friends’ anger, because I wanted to know that our friendship mattered. In those situations, I’ve felt heartbroken by the silence. The unspoken needs. My own struggles with anger help me understand this better. Often, when I feel anger, something about that feeling is helping me know about a need that I may be struggling to recognize. That’s when fear strikes. I remember the times when I’ve tried to assert myself and lost control. I remember too, the times when my assertion was not received well, connections were damaged, and it felt difficult to know if it was worth it or not. The fear that I feel from those memories is real. Yet, when fear scares me away from navigating my anger, I get stuck in a place where I’m not moving forward. Sometimes we’ve had little experience with seeing positive things come when we assert ourselves. Understandably, this can make us feel cautious about being assertive at all. At times, taking a risk to be assertive in the healthiest way I can find takes all of the emotional energy I can muster. Don’t we all have a point at which the need for assertiveness in a situation drains too much energy and goes beyond what we can manage? Maybe we all have a different level of capacity for that. I have a greater capacity for assertiveness than I used to, though I have lots farther to grow. Often, the person on the other end of the situation is trying to grow their capacity for connection in their own way as well. In some ways, my greatest need may be in learning to be assertive with myself—telling myself what I can do to care for the hurt I feel. There is beauty in the desire to imagine what might be possible when the most unpracticed parts of me find ways to come alive. Somewhere inside, anger wants something good. Peace. Dignity. Better ways to connect. Anger longs to be seen for the goodness she’s after. I want to hear the good things anger has to say—the anger in me, the anger in others. In the movie, Because of Winn Dixie , there’s a nighttime scene where ten-year-old Opal and her father are searching for her missing dog, her best friend. When her dad says it’s time to return home, Opal lashes out at him, accusing him of giving up. In that moment, her deep-seated hurt overflows and she accuses him of giving up on her mother too—being the one at fault for the fact that her mother abandoned her. Rather than lash back at her, her father hears the pain inside her anger. He recognizes her need for safety and connection and he responds in love. That scene always draws my longing and stirs my questions. It leaves me searching to know what I feel invited toward. Don’t we all want to know that we can be seen in our wild anger and still be held in love? But mostly, when we rashly spill anger on people, it leads to less connection, not more. It hurts others, and it hurts us too. So I don’t think it’s correct to name this as what I want to do. It’s been more than two years since the last time I watched that movie with my kids. I still remember how I couldn’t place my finger on what that scene made me yearn for. While Chris spoke with me the other day, she didn’t say anything about that movie, but she brought me to that same place. The same set of questions. She gave the invitation. Feel your anger in the safety of the One whose love is strong enough for all of it. Let yourself be seen by your heavenly Father in your rage. He never fails to see the good longings within your anger and to wrap you in His love. I know what the scene in Winn-Dixie made me want—a place where my anger can co-exist with love. When anger and love find ways to join hands, miracles happen and love is multiplied. May imagination open wide to the good things that can come when we feel our deep anger in the presence of Love. When I remember I am safe to navigate anger, the security of love can guide me in what’s needed.

“Art can be seen as not hostile to faith, but as practice for it. Building the muscle of imagination makes us better fit to believe. And love, the central command of faith, requires enormous imagination, to understand the life, feelings, or needs of someone else” -Carey Wallace It’s because I’ve been deeply affected by good books that I enjoy making art on pages too. When we write, we engage imagination. When we read, we open to the experience of letting another soul’s imagination stir our own. Books are the most patient teachers. They never demand to be read. If you’ve had your fill for the day, they are content to rest in the corner for however long you need—whether a day, or a month. In a book, I step inside another’s mind, made available for me to enjoy or consider. But I can leave anytime I need to. I’m grateful for many people who chose to put their thoughts on paper, knowing they leave their readers with this gift. During the release of Stepping Home, I want to share some books I’ve been taught by—teachers I drew from while I wrote my book about belonging. I’ll share them in the order they appear in the endnotes of Stepping Home. The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses by C. S. Lewis To be honest, I’ve only read one of the other addresses, but “The Weight of Glory” is a must-read for any seeking soul. While originally shared as a sermon, it would never do for this to not be available in writing. I received this book as a birthday gift several years ago and savored every word of this sermon. Lewis puts language to desire in a way that soothes my fears, awakens my yearnings, clarifies my wants, and leaves me feeling free to let my heart come alive. Placemaker by Christie Purifoy I learned about Christie from an author I follow. Christie writes about trees and homes almost like they’re full of dreams—as if they are always open for us to help them bear a reflection of our perfect, eternal home. She leads her reader to see the physical places we share as tender invitations into the art of partnering with our Creator. Her love for magnolias and maples, and her soul-deep ache to tend well to the places that shelter her people, made me see life in our farmhouse home with new eyes. The Soul of Desire by Curt Thompson, MD I heard Curt Thompson interviewed on a podcast and needed to read his book. I read The Soul of Desire right after one of my biggest personal failures. It stirred my imagination for a hopeful future. Thompson explores the science behind our yearning humanity and our need for connection, and he considers it from a perspective of faith as well. His book gave me both scientific and biblical reasons to see my ever-searching heart, not as defective, but as beautifully made and capable of coming to trust and believe in the goodness God has in store. The Meaning of Marriage by Timothy Keller with Kathy Keller Nano and I did this study with a church small group. It’s a grounding, relatable guide that validates the human longing for companionship and takes great care in addressing the obstacles of attachment and commitment. What gave it the most value to me is how it stayed in tune with the desires of the reader and acknowledged our humanity with frankness. Marital conflict and sexual struggles were handled with candor and grace. It prompted good self-reflection. And it did a beautiful job of connecting the needs of marriage, in all aspects, with the work of Christ—both in laying Himself down for His bride, the church, and in submitting Himself to the Father. The Listening Life by Adam S. McHugh This is also a book I learned about from an author I follow. I’ve never read a better book about listening. Every time I read it, I remember how healing it feels to be listened to, and how powerful a gift we share when we choose to listen intentionally. McHugh walks his reader through the art of living life with a posture that holds space—to hear what lies beneath the surface of our lives and those around us. Whenever I return to McHugh’s words, I feel exposed in my need to listen, and also gently led to a richer place. Ideally, I’d like to read this book at least once a year to help myself remember. Sacred Rhythms by Ruth Haley Barton I read this as part of a course I took on contemplative spirituality. In a noisy world, Barton invites her reader to slow down on the inside and embrace rhythms of solitude and stillness. She helped me learn beautiful ways to savor and experience Scripture when I need a break from diagrams and intellectualism. She connects deeply with desire, encouraging her reader to know that the longing for more is valid and worth our deep attention. The Path of Loneliness by Elisabeth Elliot The summer after I turned eighteen, I ran across this book for sale at an event. The title drew me in because I felt deeply alone. I’ve read a few of Elisabeth Elliot’s books and this is my very favorite. While not every page resonates with me, this book as a whole reaches me at my core every time I read it. It comforts me, convicts me and leads me to embrace the gifts that lie along the path of lonely places. While a good bit of what she writes comes from her two experiences of being widowed, Elliot’s words are deeply applicable to any kind of lonely season. Dear White Peacemakers by Osheta Moore Osheta wrote this after George Floyd’s death, and lovingly addressed it to her white brothers and sisters in Christ. In a way, she speaks to Christians who want to help bring us away from racism as a culture, but would like to know more about what it feels like to be in someone else’s shoes. I ran across her book online and wanted to learn from her perspective. She dives deep into the art of balancing grit and grace in the desire for peace. I find so much in her words that helps me consider more deeply, from a biblical perspective, what it means to listen, to repent, to take accountability and to embrace ways that make for peace. Spiritual Direction by Henri Nouwen This was originally a discourse Nouwen shared that was turned into a book after his lifetime—by one of his students, and by his editor. I came across it at a bookstore. I found it to be deeply refreshing in helping me hold space to listen to the voice of the Spirit of God. Nouwen addresses how we can create better space for this in our hearts, in Scripture, and in church community. While reading, I felt encouraged in my identity in Christ, and challenged to plainly see things I chase after for the wrong reasons. Not every teaching in the book was for me—and as for anything, I’d encourage testing this book through the lens of Scripture. Praying God’s Word by Beth Moore In Stepping Home , I share the story of how I stumbled upon an old stained copy of this book on the day I turned 29. The next morning Beth’s words had me in tears. In a kind way, she helped me to be pricked by Scripture, which prepared my heart to be faced a few days later with a difficult truth from a sermon that I needed to hear. This book is a helpful guide to using Scripture to pray through various struggles in life—from rejection, to idolatry, to despair. For each specific difficulty, Beth speaks into your heart, then provides words to help you in prayer—prayers she’s written based on specific Scripture. Gentle and Lowly by Dane Ortlund I learned about this book while sitting in church. I found myself so hungry to hear what Scripture shares about the gentle heart of Jesus that when I finished the book, I turned back to the beginning and read the whole book through again. Ortlund shares the profound truth that when Jesus describes his own heart, the two words He chooses are “gentle and lowly.” This book is full of Scriptural assurance for the sinner, the doubter, the one who lives with fear and guilt. It does a thorough job of reaching into the reader’s heart, and carefully showing from Scripture how deeply God’s heart longs to meet His children where they are. The Holy Longing by Ronald Rolheiser While I wouldn’t agree with Rolheiser on many things, I find so much rich truth in his perspective, so much to gain and learn from. Most every time I hear him quoted, his words strike me to my core, and books about longing will always catch my attention. He speaks to our felt sense that our passion and our spirituality are at odds with each other. He invites his reader to consider how our longing, even our sexuality, is interconnected with our spirituality. Rolheiser invites his reader to come to the table of spirituality as a whole person, where our passionate parts can learn to thrive in healthy ways. I haven’t finished reading his book, and again, encourage discernment. Each of these books have met me in deep places. To share about them all stirs my memories and my gratitude for the means God uses to meet us. Perhaps one or two of these are books God has used, or will use, to meet you too. These twelve books all play a role in my own written journey. If you’d like to read a book that combines these ideas, that’s what you’ll find when you read Stepping Home. How do we engage in faith without pretending away the desiring, aching, yearning parts of us? It’s a healthy question to sit with, one that invites authenticity. I don’t promise black and white answers, but I share my favorite ways God has met me in this question. I’m so happy to share about the gift that is open for all—the gift of always having the option to take another step toward Home. "Stepping Home by Maggie Janaye" is available now through Amazon and other retailers.