Begin Again

“See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.”
— Isaiah 43:19

There are songs I like, and then there are songs that won't leave me alone.

Begin Again by Mumford & Sons is one of those songs.

I've listened to it over and over lately, and there are a few images in the song that keep grabbing me. Beginning again. Shedding an old skin. Finding another way.

But mostly, it's the desert.

The desert.

That's the one that got me.

Because the minute I heard it, I thought:

Moses.

& ....Moses and I go way back.

More than twenty years, actually.

There was a time when I followed that man through the wilderness for almost two years of my life.

It was probably about a year after Jack died. I was functioning, I guess, but I was lost.

I had lost my son, but in so many ways I had lost myself too. I didn't understand how life could just keep moving when mine had so clearly stopped.

One night, in the middle of all of that, something woke me from a dead sleep.

It sounded like a stack of books hitting the floor.

And then I heard my name.

Julie.

I know how that sounds.

But I heard my name.

I got out of bed, walked through the living room and into the dining room, and somehow ended up standing in front of this huge picture of Moses crossing the Red Sea.

Now, this picture has a story of its own.

Smith had given it to me for my birthday just months before Jack died.

And he was so proud of this thing.

He loved it.

Me?

Not so much.

I remember looking at it and thinking:

What the heck am I supposed to do with a picture of Moses crossing the Red Sea?

Seriously, Smith.

Flowers? Jewelry? Dinner?

No.

I got Moses.

I had no idea this would be a picture of my own future...

Because a few months later, my own life would have a Red Sea.

There would forever be a divide:

Before Jack.

After Jack.

And now I look at that picture so differently.

There is Moses in the middle of a sea that God Himself divided.

Behind him is slavery.

Ahead is freedom.

And in between is a path.

Through.

Not around.

Not back.

Through.

And Moses is carrying a child.

That part gets me now in a way it never could have when Smith first gave me the picture.

I don't know why the artist chose to put a child in Moses's arms. Maybe it meant nothing at all to the artist.

But standing in front of that picture after Jack died, it meant something to me.

There was Moses, carrying a child through an impossible divide.

And I couldn't carry mine anymore.

Maybe, in some strange way, God was reminding me that Jack was still being carried.

Not by me.

By Jesus.

I needed that then.

But here's what gets me all these years later.

I look at that same picture now and wonder if God is showing me something different.

Because I still have a child moving through what feels like an impossible divide.

And once again, I am standing on the side of something I cannot fix.

I can't make the waters part for her.

I can't walk the road for her.

And as her mother, God knows I have tried to figure out how.

But maybe the picture is reminding me again:

You don't have to carry her through this.

Maybe He is.

Maybe that's what I'm supposed to see now.

Twenty years ago, I looked at Moses carrying that child and thought about the child I had lost.

Today, I can look at him and think about the child who is still here.

Different wilderness.

Different heartbreak.

Same picture.

And maybe the same God saying:

I've got her. Keep walking.

God, how I wanted to go back to "before" after Jack died.

I didn't want a new life. I didn't want a lesson. I didn't want to be stronger. I didn't want God to somehow "use" what had happened.

I wanted my son.

I wanted a random Tuesday afternoon when everything was still normal.

But there was no going back.

There was only through.

And maybe that's what God was showing me that night.

The Red Sea was an escape for the Israelites. They had lived as slaves for generations, and God did the impossible to get them out.

He divided a sea.

They walked through.

And I can only imagine reaching the other side and thinking:

We made it. Surely the hard part is over.

Nope.

Welcome to the wilderness.

I almost have to laugh at that now.

Because isn't that life?

The Israelites were free, but they still had to learn how to live free.

They knew slavery.

They knew survival.

Freedom was going to have to be learned.

And grief was a little like that for me.

I survived the day Jack died. The funeral. The first Christmas. The birthdays. The anniversaries.

But eventually I had to learn how to live in the "after" when all I wanted was before.

Maybe that was my wilderness.

And maybe that's why God gave me Moses.

Because that night, standing barefoot in my dining room staring at a picture I had never wanted, I felt God tell me:

Follow Moses.

So I did.

For almost two years.

And let me tell you, those Israelites drove me crazy.

They would watch God perform a miracle and then turn around and complain.

At times I wanted to climb inside the Bible and shake them.

Do you people not remember THE SEA?

He parted a SEA.

And then God started showing me myself.

Oh.

Right.

Because I could see God one day and question Him the next.

I could believe and still be angry.

I could know He loved me and still wonder where He was.

Maybe I wasn't so different from those crazy Israelites after all.

And that's what Begin Again brought back to me.

Because before Moses ever led anyone through a wilderness, he had one of his own.

Before Moses was Moses, he ran.

He went from Pharaoh's house to tending sheep in Midian.

I wonder if he thought he had blown it.

I wonder if he thought the important part of his life was behind him.

I wonder if he ever looked around at those sheep and thought:

Well. I guess this is it.

Because I know that feeling.

And that's exactly where God showed up.

In the desert.

God didn't wait for Moses to get himself together or find his way out.

He called him right there.

And God didn't give Moses his old life back either.

He called the Moses standing in front of Him.

The older one.

The humbled one.

The one with a past.

The one who wasn't so sure of himself anymore.

That was the Moses God wanted.

Maybe beginning again isn't about becoming who we were before life happened.

Maybe God can use the person who came through it.

My journey with Moses eventually took me through the first five books of the Bible and then deep into the Old Testament.

And I'm going to be honest.

At some point I was over it.

All the rules. The sacrifices. The blood.

I remember thinking:

God, this is exhausting.

And then it hit me.

Exactly.

I needed to understand what came before Jesus to understand what Jesus had done for me.

I needed to understand sacrifice to understand the Sacrifice.

I thought God sent me to Moses to teach me how to survive losing Jack.

And he did.

But my old friend Moses did something else.

He led me to Jesus.

And now, more than twenty years later, here comes this song.

Begin Again.

And I'm realizing something.

I'm in the middle of a "begin again"moment...

Three years ago, I began again with work.

At the time it didn't feel much like a new beginning.

It felt more like:

God, what in the world are we doing here?

There was risk. Financial worry. Disappointment. Starting over. Trying to build something and wondering if any of it was actually going to work.

I wanted a map.

God gave me the next step.

And then another.

And somehow those steps became three years.

And lately, for the first time in a while, I think I can see some light at the end of the tunnel.

I'm not calling it the Promised Land just yet.

I've learned better than that.

But I see the light.

Maybe that's why Begin Again found me now.

Maybe I'm not being told to start over.

Maybe I'm being reminded to look back and see that I already did.

All these years later, I can still picture that night.

The noise.

My name.

Julie.

The birthday present I never wanted.

Moses.

A child in his arms.

A sea divided in two.

I couldn't understand that picture when Smith gave it to me.

But God knew.

He knew my life was about to be divided into before and after.

Maybe He knew I would need someone to show me how to walk through.

So He gave me Moses.

And my old friend is still teaching me.

My life has had more than one Red Sea.

More than one wilderness.

More than one place where I couldn't see how I was going to get to the other side.

And yet...

here I am.

Maybe that's what faith has become for me.

Not having the whole map.

Just enough light for the next step.

And every once in a while, after you've been walking for what feels like forever, you look up...

and you see a little light.

Maybe that's where I am now.

And for today, that's enough.

Because maybe that's what Hollow to Whole has been about all along.

Not getting back what was lost.

Not becoming who I was before.

But discovering that even when life is divided into before and after...

there can still be "again".

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.”

— Proverbs 3:5–6

 I’ve thought so much about Colorado since we got home. There’s just something about being out there in all that wild, beautiful open space where I feel like God gets my attention.

And once again, I kept coming back to these two words He has had on my heart… trust and understanding.

And little by little, I think He’s making it clearer what those two words really mean for me,  learning to trust even when I don’t understand.

And that’s exactly what I got to see and experience in Colorado.

Being out there in all that wildness, you really do have to trust without knowing what’s coming next. You don’t know what’s around the next bend, what the weather might bring, what animal might cross your path, or what incredible view might be waiting for you at the top.

You just go.

You keep walking, you keep exploring, and you trust… and somewhere along the way you realize that not knowing is part of the adventure. Because some of the most beautiful things God has waiting for us are the things we never could have seen from where we started.

And we had so many of those moments.

An unbelievable view, a moose, a bear, a fox, my precious little chipmunks ❤️, a rainbow after a storm, or just sitting on top of a mountain eating lunch with people I love.

We didn’t know any of those things were waiting for us.

We just kept going.

And maybe those little surprises are some of God’s sweetest rewards for trusting without having to understand everything first.

The rivers really brought that home for me too.

The water was so low. I didn’t realize parts of Colorado had been going through a drought, but you could see it in the rivers and streams and even in the land and wildlife around them.

As I looked at those rivers, I realized something…

The water was low, but the banks were still there.

And those banks didn’t just show me what was missing.

They showed me what was possible.

You could see the potential capacity of the river — how high the water could rise, how full it could become, how wild and beautiful it could flow again.

Even in the drought, the banks were still there showing what the river was capable of holding.

And to me, that was possibility and hope.

As we were leaving Colorado, one of my favorite NEEDTOBREATHE songs, Banks, came on. I’ve heard it so many times, but this time I heard it completely differently.

There’s a line I love…

“I’ll be the banks for your river.”

And it just hit me…

God, that’s You.

You hold me close, but You don’t hold me back.

You let me experience those full-to-the-brim moments of life. The wild ones. The beautiful ones. The moments where life is flowing so fully you almost can’t take it all in.

But life isn’t always full to the brim.

There are droughts too.

There are seasons of waiting and pruning. Seasons when things get low and I don’t understand why. Seasons when I can’t see what God could possibly be doing.

I’ll probably never understand all of it.

But Colorado gave me this picture I don’t think I’ll forget…

Just because the water was low didn’t mean the Banks had left.

He was still there.

God is just as present when life feels low and empty as He is when it feels wild and full to the brim.

And maybe when the water is low, those Banks are also there to remind us of the capacity of the river — of what can be full again.

That’s hope.

And that brings me right back to those two words…

Trust and understanding.

I’m realizing I don’t always get both.

Sometimes I just get to trust.

Trust enough to keep walking when I can’t see around the bend.

Trust enough to believe there can be purpose in the pruning and the drought.

Trust enough to enjoy every little gift He puts along the way.

And trust enough to look at a river that’s almost empty and not just see what’s missing… but see the possibility of what it was created to hold.

There are seasons when life feels full and flowing, and seasons of drought and pruning. I may not always understand why I’m in one or where He’s taking me next, but I’m learning that faith is trusting Him anyway.

Trusting that He sees what I can’t see. That He is working even when I can’t see the evidence of it. And that not one season is wasted in His hands.

I don’t have to understand the way He’s leading me…

I just have to know the One leading me.

And I know He is good.

The water will rise and fall. The seasons will change. There will be bends in the river I can’t see around.

But the Banks don’t move.

And neither does He. ❤️

Trust without understanding

 

God Opened Her Eyes

“Just then God opened her eyes. She looked. She saw a well of water.”

Genesis 21:19 (MSG)

Why is it so hard sometimes to study God’s Word?

Have you ever heard that whisper early in the morning, just before the sun rises?

Come and meet with Me.

You feel this tug at your heart, persuading you to get up and go to that place where you meet with God. It begs you to get up, and yet sometimes you stay still.

Why?

Maybe it’s because we think we know what’s waiting for us.

Condemnation. Correction. A reminder of all the things we did wrong the day before.

I’m sorry, God.

I know I’m not perfect.

I tried.

Sometimes even saying I’m sorry gets old.

But I’ve learned something. When I feel that way and obey the tug in my heart anyway, I rarely meet the God I was afraid was waiting for me.

Instead, I meet a God who opens my eyes, once again, to see how much He loves me.

A couple of mornings ago, I accepted that early-morning invitation, and I was amazed by what God showed me.

I was reading in Genesis about Hagar and Ishmael.

Hagar and her son were sent away from the only home they had known. Sarah did not want Ishmael, Abraham’s son through Hagar, sharing in Isaac’s inheritance. Abraham gave Hagar some food and a skin of water and sent her and Ishmael away.

With no plan, no home and no idea where she was going, a devastated Hagar wandered into the wilderness of Beersheba with her son.

Just a mother, her child, some food and one skin of water.

And then the water ran out.

As Ishmael grew weaker, Hagar believed he was going to die. They were alone in the wilderness, and as far as she could see, there was nothing she could do to save her child.

So she placed him under a bush and walked away because she couldn’t bear to watch him die.

I can only imagine that mother’s heart.

I picture her some distance away, curled into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

She wasn’t crying because she didn’t love him enough to keep trying.

She was crying because she had run out of everything she knew to do.

The water was gone.

She couldn’t see another source.

She couldn’t save her son.

But God could see what Hagar couldn’t.

God heard the boy crying and called to Hagar from heaven.

“What’s wrong, Hagar? Don’t be afraid.”

He told her to get up, go to her son, take him by the hand and hold on to him because God still had a future for this child.

And then comes the sentence that stopped me:

God opened her eyes.

She looked.

And there it was.

A well of water.

The water she desperately needed was there.

She simply couldn’t see it.

Hagar thought she had run out of options.

God knew she was standing near a well.

Think about that for a minute.

Hagar’s water skin was empty, but God’s provision wasn’t.

She saw a dying child. God saw a future.

She saw the end of the story. God knew there were chapters she couldn’t even imagine yet.

And here’s something else I love:

God heard Ishmael before Hagar ever saw the well.

Her inability to see God’s provision didn’t mean He wasn’t providing.

Her fear didn’t mean He had abandoned her.

Her wandering didn’t mean God had lost track of where she was.

And her empty water skin certainly didn’t mean God had run out of water.

Ha! I love that.

Hagar was wandering in the wilderness of Beersheba—a name connected with a well and with seven or an oath. She was in a place whose very name pointed toward a well, yet in her grief and desperation, she couldn’t see the water she so desperately needed.

How many times do we do the same thing?

We become so consumed by what we’ve lost, what we fear or what we cannot fix that we can’t see what God may have already placed nearby.

Sometimes the miracle isn’t God creating the well.

Sometimes the miracle is God opening our eyes to see it.

And the story doesn’t end at the well.

God gave Hagar the peace to trust her son to Him.

She could not control what would happen to Ishmael. She could not see his future.

But God could.

Scripture tells us:

“God was with the boy as he grew up. He lived in the desert and became an archer.”

God was with him.

The little boy Hagar once laid beneath a bush believing he was going to die grew up in the wilderness of Paran and became an archer—a skilled warrior with a bow and arrow.

I love the imagery of the bow.

Throughout Scripture, and especially in the Psalms, we see the bow used in pictures of strength, battle and God moving in power.

God was still in action.

He was in action when Hagar couldn’t see the well.

He was in action when she thought her son was dying.

He was in action when she was crying in the wilderness.

And He was in action as that little boy grew into an archer.

God is always in action!

This story gives hope to the mother who is begging God to heal her sick child.

It gives hope to the mother watching her child wander and praying that God will bring them home.

And it gives peace to the mother who has lost a child and has had to place her precious little one completely into the hands of God.

We never know when our eyes will be opened to see the well.

For some, He will lead us to the well of healing water we have desperately prayed for.

For others, He will give us the peace to place what we love most into His hands and trust Him with what we cannot understand.

But either way, God is still in action.

We may wander, but He knows exactly where we are.

We may not see the well, but He does.

We may not understand the path, but He knows where it leads.

Our paths through this wilderness may look very different, but if we trust Him and keep following, they all lead to the same destination- our Heavenly home.

 

This Week, God Met Me in a Mumford & Sons Song — “Malibu”

Still Learning to Trust Beneath His Wings

If you've read my last couple of posts, you know I've been sitting with this idea of trust and understanding.

I keep coming back to Proverbs 3:5:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”

I know that verse in my head.

But sometimes my heart lags behind.

And apparently, God isn't finished talking to me about it, because this week He met me in a Mumford & Sons song.

I love Mumford & Sons. I've written about their music before because every once in a while, they put words around something my heart has been trying to say. This one may have made my top ten.

There are things my heart knows about walking with Jesus that I don't always know how to put into words. Somehow, this song did.

So I wanted to pull out the lyrics that spoke most deeply to me and share why each one felt so familiar, because together, they reminded me of what my walk with Jesus has actually looked like.

Not perfect faith.

There has been doubt. Weakness. Fear. Falling behind. Dry seasons. Valleys. And plenty of struggling to let go of things I thought I had already surrendered.

But woven through all of it has been Someone leading, waiting, staying, restoring, and continually giving me a place to come back to.

And as I listened to these words, I kept thinking:

This is Jesus.

Not because I understand everything.

But because this is who He has shown Himself to be when I don't.

“In all my doubt… in all my weakness… can You lead?”

Yes.

That is the Jesus I've experienced.

Sometimes I think we get the spiritual walk backwards. We think we need to doubt less, believe harder, understand more and get ourselves together before we come to Him.

There is a story in Mark 9 that I come back to because, if I'm honest, I understand the father's struggle.

He brings his child to Jesus desperate for Him to heal him. He wants to believe. He does believe. But there is still a part of him that is struggling.

And instead of hiding that struggle from Jesus, he says:

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” — Mark 9:24

I love the honesty in that plea.

I believe You, Jesus.

But I need Your help believing You.

I understand that prayer more than I'd like to admit.

There are times I know who Jesus is. I know what Scripture says. I can look back over my life and see His faithfulness, and still find myself struggling to trust Him with what is right in front of me.

And what I love most about this story is how Jesus responds.

He meets the father in the struggle.

He doesn't shame him for the unbelief mixed in with his belief. He doesn't tell him to come back when his faith is stronger.

He meets him right there.

Maybe that's why these lyrics spoke so deeply to me.

In my doubt. In my weakness. Can You still lead me?

I can bring Jesus both.

My belief and my unbelief.

My trust and my questions.

My faith and the part of my heart that's still afraid.

And sometimes my prayer can simply be:

Jesus, I believe. Help the part of me that is struggling to believe.

Maybe that's trust too.

“I fall behind… but like You promise, You wait for me.”

Oh, how I know this one.

I fall behind. I get distracted. I try to take control. Sometimes I run ahead of God trying to figure everything out, and sometimes I get tired and lag behind.

Yet Jesus calls Himself the Good Shepherd.

“I am the good shepherd.” — John 10:11

Religion can make us feel like God is somewhere ahead saying, Keep up. Try harder. Do better.

Jesus says:

“Come to me… and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

He meets doubters. He restores people who failed Him. He goes looking for the one.

He doesn't say try harder.

He says:

Come closer.

“And I feel a spirit move in me again…”

Again.

I love that word.

My walk with Jesus hasn't been one long spiritual high. There have been dry seasons when prayer felt different and God seemed quieter.

But I'm learning that quiet doesn't mean absent.

Dry doesn't mean abandoned.

“Restore to me the joy of your salvation.” — Psalm 51:12

Sometimes He restores something in us through Scripture. A conversation. Standing beside a creek.

Or apparently, a Mumford & Sons song.

Something stirs and your heart whispers:

There You are.

And maybe He's been there all along.

“I don't know how it took so long to shed this skin… live under the shadow of Your wings.”

This may be the line that found the deepest place in me.

What is the skin I'm still trying to shed?

Maybe part of it is my need to understand.

To connect every dot.

To know why.

To figure out what God is doing before I can relax into trusting what God is doing.

And then comes this beautiful picture:

Live beneath the shadow of His wings.

Scripture says:

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.” — Psalm 91:4

I can't get that image out of my mind.

A little bird tucked beneath its mother's wings during a storm isn't trying to understand the storm.

It doesn't know why the wind is blowing.

It doesn't know when the rain will stop.

It just knows where to go.

Maybe that's trust.

Not finally understanding everything.

Just knowing where to go when I don't.

Maybe that's some of the skin I'm still shedding, the belief that I need an explanation before I can have peace.

I haven't completely shed it.

I'm still learning.

But maybe Jesus is gently reminding me:

You don't have to understand the storm to know where your shelter is.

“I'm still afraid…”

I love that fear shows up again.

Because that's real.

We can surrender something on Monday and be worrying about it again by Wednesday.

David wrote:

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” — Psalm 56:3

Not if.

When.

Maybe fear doesn't mean faith has disappeared.

Maybe trust is what I choose to do with my fear.

I bring it back to Him.

Again.

“Walking through the valley was what brought me here.”

This one hit me.

There are valleys in my life I would never have chosen. And I don't believe we need to put a pretty spiritual bow around painful things.

Some things are simply heartbreaking.

But I can say this:

Some of the deepest places I've known Jesus were places I desperately wanted Him to get me out of.

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley… You are with me.” — Psalm 23:4

There it is again.

Not explanation.

Presence.

Maybe walking through the valley really was part of what brought me here.

Not because the valley was good.

But because He was there.

“You are all I want… You're all I need.”

And maybe this is where the whole song lands for me.

After the doubt.

The weakness.

Falling behind.

The dry season.

The fear.

The valley.

The struggle to shed the old skin.

Him.

This song reminded me why, after all these years, I would choose Jesus again and again.

Not because I understand everything.

I don't.

Not because I never doubt or fear.

I do.

Not because I've learned to trust perfectly.

I haven't.

But I know something about the One I'm learning to trust.

He meets me in my doubt.
He leads me in my weakness.
He waits when I fall behind.
He breathes life into dry places.
He walks with me through valleys.
And He gives me somewhere to rest when I still don't understand.

Maybe trust isn't finally having enough answers.

Maybe it's knowing where to go while I'm still asking the questions.

Back to Jesus.

Back beneath His wings.

The doubt can still be there.

The fear can still rise.

The valley can still be part of the story.

And somehow...

Peace can be there too.

Not because I finally understand.

But because I'm learning where to rest when I don't.

Beneath the shadow of His wings.

 

What the Creek Taught Me About Trust

After writing about what the creek taught me last week, one thing continued to linger in my heart.

Trust.

I realized my pursuit of understanding had quietly become bigger than my trust in God.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to understand. God tells us to seek wisdom. But somewhere along the way, I started believing understanding would bring me peace.

Yesterday, I stood beside another creek.

This one had a waterfall.

The water rushed over rocks that had been smoothed by years of flowing water. What once created resistance had become the very thing that allowed the water to move more freely.

I couldn’t help but think…

That’s what trust looks like.

The water wasn’t questioning where it was going. It wasn’t resisting the rocks. It simply kept moving, trusting the path before it.

And I realized that’s where I’ve been getting stuck.

Understanding can quietly become a way of holding on to control. I keep thinking if I can just make sense of everything, then I’ll finally be at peace.

But trust asks something completely different.

It whispers, “Keep moving. I’ll show you what you need when you need it.”

Maybe God isn’t trying to answer every question I’ve asked.

Maybe He’s smoothing the rough places in me, just like the water smooths the rocks, so there’s less resistance when He asks me to follow Him.

I’m still going to seek understanding. God tells us to seek wisdom. But I’m learning something I don’t want to forget.

Understanding seeks answers. Trust surrenders to the One who already has them.

Maybe that’s where peace has been all along.

Not in understanding everything…

But in trusting the One who already does.

What the creek taught me...

This weekend, I found myself sitting beside this little creek at the cabin.

There wasn’t anything spectacular about it. No rushing waterfall. No grand mountain view.

Just the quiet sound of water finding its way around the rocks.

As I sat there, I couldn’t help but think about all the conversations surrounding Dr. Fauci this week.

Everyone seems to be asking the same questions.

Who was right?
Who was wrong?
Who knew what?
Who should be held accountable?

Those are important conversations, and I understand why people are having them.

For me, it’s personal.

I believe my health changed after receiving the COVID vaccine. I’ve spent years searching for answers, spending money on treatments, grieving the life I once had, and wondering if I’ll ever feel like “me” again.

Others have their own stories.

Some lost parents.
Some lost children.
Some lost businesses they spent a lifetime building.
Some lost friendships.
Some lost trust.

Heartbreak wears a lot of different faces.

As I sat by this creek, I realized something.

The water never argued with the rocks.

It didn’t waste its energy wishing they weren’t there.

It simply kept moving.

That doesn’t mean the rocks didn’t matter.

They changed the course of the water.

But they didn’t stop it.

And I wondered…

How much of my life have I spent staring at the rocks?

Replaying conversations.
Wanting answers.
Wishing someone would admit they were wrong.
Hoping I could somehow get my old life back.

The truth is… even if every question were answered tomorrow, it wouldn’t change what has already happened.

It wouldn’t restore my health.
It wouldn’t erase the pain.
It wouldn’t give any of us our old lives back.

So maybe the better question isn’t…

“Who’s right?”

Maybe it’s…

“How do we move forward?”

I’ve realized that’s where God has been meeting me.

Not in all the answers.

But in the quiet places.

The places where He gently reminds me that peace isn’t found in finally understanding everything.

Peace is found in trusting Him enough to keep moving forward, even when I don’t.

I’m still healing.

I still have questions.

But I don’t want to spend the next ten years reliving the last five.

I want to become someone who has more compassion because I’ve suffered.

Someone who listens more carefully because I know what it feels like not to be heard.

Someone whose faith has grown deeper because it has been tested.

This little creek reminded me that life keeps moving.

Not because everything is okay.

But because God is still leading us forward.

Maybe today you’re carrying your own heartbreak.

Maybe your rocks look different than mine.

Whatever they are…

I pray you find your own quiet place.

A place where the noise fades away long enough to hear God’s gentle whisper reminding you…

“Keep moving. I’m with you.”

Betrayal and Boundary Crossers

This song captured my attention this past week as I faced the familiar feelings of betrayal. One of my habitual boundary crossers accused me of another lie that keeps their life in constant turmoil. It was wrapped in its usual packaging of blame fabricated by a false reality. I asked, why would you say this about me? The answer, well I didn't know at the time it wasn't you. No apology, no attempt to correct the mistake just another conversation redirected to remind me of what a bad person I am and how I've never been any help. 

I found myself being sucked back into the swirling tornado of trying to reason with a lie.

It begins with hey, this is not entirely true. I remember other events that led to this outcome. Your heart wants to make sense and reveal the truth so you can move through this conflict. The boundary crosser wants no part of this process because looking at the truth at this point is too hard. Living in their false reality is safe and has become the truth from which they live. 

I've learned something through this- 

Boundary crossers use their false view of love to manipulate you to give yourself sacrificially until there's nothing left to give. Then they get mad when there is nothing left to give. It's maddening!

This reminds me of a class I took on boundaries. Our textbook for this class was "The Giving Tree," by Shel Silverman. The room was occupied by ten women whom I consider to be the most giving and caring people I have ever met. They have been a part of my life for over a decade and the bond we share is loss. The story of loss is different for each woman, but the common thread we share is the deep desire to live a life full of abundant joy. I have deep admiration for each woman in this group. They are fighters and over-comers because they have rejected the temptation to wave their white flag and surrender to the ease of living as a victim to their circumstances. 

As we began our journey reading through the giving tree, I was shocked at how this children's book revealed a very unhealthy relationship. The plot is this: a tree loves a boy over the course of his lifespan and, to satisfy his desires, she gives him everything she has—her apples, her leaves, her limbs—until she has reduced herself to a stump. I remember thinking, I don't want to be a stump! I want to be a tree that see's the danger of enablement and the value of growing into a big beautiful oak tree. 

So, do I continue to give? 

or 

Face the hard choice to grow? 

Growing requires one to examine the reality of where we are, how we got here, and where we want to grow to. So when my boundary crosser gave me this ultimatum- "I want you back in my life, but I want to forget the past"- I knew the request was asking me to give and not grow. The reality of that statement is the boundary crosser never wants to look at their part of the past, but they will remind you of how your part of the past has led to all the failures in their life. They refuse to heal the bleeding wounds of the past. And I refuse to continue getting bloody and bruised by them any longer.

Do you see the hypocrisy? Good because your boundary crosser never will.   

This incident revealed a few wounds of my own and some suppressed anger and unforgiveness. I hate the lies and the one-sided narrative being told. I am reminded of how crazy it makes me to try and reason with lies. I found myself questioning if my prayers were being heard. It feels unfair and like I don't have a voice to defend myself against the accusations. I know I can't control others actions and thoughts, but I can control mine. And I knew deep down I have some work to do. 

When I layed my head down on my pillow the other night, I made myself listen to this song. I was restless and wanted to forget. As I listen to the lyrics I was reminded of the title of my blog and why I started writing many years ago. I felt hollow, and I wanted to be made whole. I then heard a still small voice say- Julie, I see the anger in your heart. I understand the hurt, and I see your deep desire for healing and reconciliation. Then I saw Jesus and I standing shoulder to shoulder standing behind a line drawn in the sand. He said - This line is your resolve for reconciliation. It may never happen
because it takes both parties to reconcile. Julie, I promise to stand with you toe to toe and fight with you. But there is one request I ask of you because it is your responsibility in this process. Forgiveness is something you can control - reconciliation is something you can't control. So if you want to continue on your journey from hollow to whole - you must forgive. 

So, here I go.. Another reason to grow... 

To be continued 

VERSE 1: Hold me now 

In the hands that created the heavens 

Find me now 

Where the grace runs as deep as Your scars

 You pulled me from the clay 

Set me on a rock 

Called me by Your Name And made my heart whole 

VERSE 2: Lifted up 

And my knees know it’s all for Your glory 

That I might stand With more reasons to sing than to fear 

You pulled me from the clay 

Set me on a rock 

Called me by Your Name 

And made my heart whole again 

CHORUS: So here I stand 

High in surrender I need You now 

Hold my heart Now and forever 

My soul cries out 

POST-CHORUS 1: Once I was broken 

But You loved my whole heart through 

Sin has no hold on me 

‘Cause Your grace holds me now 

VERSE 3: And that grace 

Owns the ground where the grave did 

Where all my shame 

remains Left for dead in Your wake

 You crashed those age-old gates

 You left no stone unturned

 You stepped out of that grave 

And shouldered me all the way 

POST-CHORUS 2: Once I was broken 

But You loved my whole heart through

 Sin has no hold on me 

‘CauseYour grace holds me now 

Healed and forgiven 

Look where my chains are now 

Death has no hold on me

 ‘Cause Your grace holds that ground 

And Your grace holds me now