In downtown Brookhaven, Mississippi, a block from the railroad tracks, you’ll find a red brick auditorium with Greek Revival columns. Just over a century ago, five brothers built it in honor of their mother, Mary Jane. Today, it hosts performances by the Mississippi School of the Arts.

In a valley in Colorado Springs, hidden behind red rocks, you’ll discover a castle, also completed a century ago, built for the love of another Mary. From the roof tiles shipped across an ocean and a continent to its 15th-century monastery mantel, it tells of a man who loved his wife so much he brought England to Colorado for her.

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I visited both places last month.

And I’ll tell you a secret, if you care to imagine with me.

Ready?

I like to imagine a golden thread that shimmers between the two—unbroken across the miles, glinting in the light.

This golden thread stretches from the stately Great Hall fireplace, framed by antlers and arching beams, to the Lampton’s hardwood stage, crimson velvet curtains pulled back, dust motes dancing in the spotlight.

On the stage, a high school senior sang a song from Violet with a voice that stole our collective breath (if tears from grown men are any indication). This teenager recently starred as Hermes in the local production of Hadestown, and he has vocal power and stage presence beyond his years.

And in an armchair before the fireplace, a woman I’ve come to love dearly sat leaning forward intently, cane in hand, silver hair draped over one shoulder. An overflowing hall of writers hung on her words, pens scurrying to take notes and laughter rippling at her quick wit.

I wasn’t familiar with the musical Violet before last month. It’s based on a Southern Gothic short story by Doris Betts, set almost entirely on a Greyhound bus in the 1960s.

The main character is a young woman traveling from North Carolina to Oklahoma in hopes of a miracle. When Violet was a child, her father’s axe flew off its handle and struck her in the face, leaving a scar. To Violet, the scar represents brokenness that will keep her alone forever, because she believes the scar is all others see when they look at her. (Interestingly, the audience does not see the scar in the musical.)

Violet is on a pilgrimage to meet a charismatic televangelist who promises miracles. On the bus, she meets Flick, a soldier facing racial prejudices and ongoing segregation in the South.

Flick befriends Violet and, as she talks about her plan to ask the Preacher for a perfect face, he realizes she has shrunk her entire identity down to the scar. Instead of pity or condolence, he pulls her attention up and out.

When I first heard this song in the Lampton auditorium, I didn’t know the context. “Let It Sing” is anything but a “you’re beautiful just the way you are” sentiment. It starts with the rhythm of a military cadence, a familiar call-and-response. It’s unassuming at first. Left, right, left, right.

Then the song starts to soar. Flick tells Violet there are two kinds of people in the world, and she is at a crossroads. She can keep hiding, or she can choose adventure and give herself a reason for joy. In fact, he tells her, if she’s brave enough to make music out of her life, it will give others a voice, too. He reminds her, “There’s precious little that folks like us control, but you can make music from the simplest thing.”

He tells her what his mother told him:

He was the only one who could tend his soul,

not to let his spirit close in on itself,

but to be patient,

give it room,

and let it sing.

A few weeks later, as I sat in the castle’s great hall, Lancia E. Smith told us from her armchair,

“The world is full of ways to waste your life. It is not enough to write your thoughts on a napkin or in a notebook. Don’t be afraid to look at the pruning in your life, because there is one true narrative in your life, and it’s the one that matters. Your business, as a writer and as a human being, is to bear witness, to tell the truth with your whole life.

Don’t shortchange yourself.

Please step into a larger world.

Take your power back.

Live largely.

Live like immortals.”

Shame bets on silence and confusion. It cannot survive unless we are hiding, fixated on the scars on our faces or someone else’s. All oppression runs on the same engine—it erases our identity and our consciousness, replacing the one true story with a parasitic one, draining us of life. We cannot lift a voice we don’t know we have.

But shame cannot survive in the face of a loving truth-teller who, in singing their song, helps us remember who we are. Shame is cowed the moment we stop looking away in confusion and realize its story is a lie.

It takes courage to remember and reclaim our identity as beloved children.

It takes courage to look the monster of shame in the face.

It takes courage to tend our souls.

I’ve often thought about a story in the book of Acts about two men singing in prison. It’s easy to assume that Silas had a good singing voice, that Paul chose soothing songs, that the other prisoners were listening to them in appreciation.

But we don’t know if those two could hold a tune. We don’t know how their voices sounded at midnight, with hoarse throats, after being flogged. We don’t know if the prisoners were listening simply because sleeping was impossible. We don’t know if anyone was annoyed.

But none of that matters.

Because what we do know is that while they sang from their chains, an earthquake shook the foundations of their prison, opened the doors, and set them free.

Tending our soul so we can let it sing might start slowly, a rhythm of mundane faithfulness. One foot in front of the other, left, right. Or it might start at midnight, motionless, trapped. It might start with a voice that has long been silenced—an imperfect voice, a voice shaken by pain.

And there is no labyrinth of pressure plates and false floors, no guesswork. Our task is simply to keep going, to keep doing the things that feel insignificant and unglamorous. For when we think nothing is within our control, and we wonder if the song is too faint—that is exactly when hope rumbles deep beneath our dug-in heels. Dungeons shake. And shame recoils into the shadows, though it may claw and snarl in its death throes.

The song has always been closer than we realized. And choosing to give it breath is an act of defiance.

Maybe the most important one we’ll ever make.

Because the song you sing may open someone else’s dungeon, too. I am who I am today because others sang when I couldn’t. Because they “stood between my heart and Satan’s knife”.1

So that thing? It matters more than you think it does.

Whatever came to mind, hold onto it.

I may not know much, but I do know this: it matters more than you think it does.

I promise.

Yes, you. Yes, that thing.

Because C.S. Lewis said there are no ordinary people, and we have never talked to a mere mortal.2 We are all immortals, with souls capable of singing.

And that, my friend, is the golden thread I discovered last month, tying Glen Eyrie’s hall to the Lampton’s stage. Your soul has a song, because you are no mere mortal. And you’ve gotta let it sing. Give it room. Step into a larger story. It’s been waiting for you.

P.S. Here’s a video of Joshua Henry performing “Let It Sing” in his first musical in college, twenty years before winning his first Tony Award on June 7, 2026. He has credited “Let It Sing” as a song he’s lived by since he was eighteen, and God as his “endless creative source”. And his Tony, awarded for his role in Ragtime, is a testament to what can happen when you take it slow, lift your voice, and sing so loud you make them hear you.

(See) how far you have come?
(Down) back roads 
                       to belonging,

(held) in the shelter 
               of this beautiful truth (that)

only the Lover sings:
       (a song) of wings and dirt, 
                                   daily light, 
                                   the weight of glory.

(So keep) adorning the dark 
       (and) reclaiming quiet. 

          Try softer. 

                      Create anyway. 

Even after everything, 
          you could make this place beautiful.

How far you have come (and yet)
         you are only just beginning.  

This spine poem was inspired by page 47 of Create Anyway, by Ashlee Gadd.1

I’m so happy you are here, friend.

Love you.

Mean it.

I’m writing to you around four p.m. my time. I’m curled into my reading armchair with a lap desk and a hot cup of spiced tea. The lamplight beside me is strategic, chosen for hygge, of course. My writing room is also the gift-wrapping station, and shiny paper and festive bows are piled around, waiting for us to finish. This year our six-year-old and four-year-old are out of the toddler stage and actively taking part in traditions, which adds to the magic for Daniel and me.

The light is fading outside my window, golden slices illuminating the moss on my favorite oak tree and tipping slowly across the cold ground. Today is the shortest, darkest day of the year—and a day that I have come to love.

Tonight we’ll light a fire, and I’ll light candles. Neither is unusual for us, but tonight, during the longest night, they symbolize the quiet defiance I’ve come to befriend over the past few years.

December is a kaleidoscope of shopping and parties and events and traditions. It has been especially fun this year.

But tonight, the darkness gives us a space to pause. Tonight, we can take stock of how we’re coming to Christmas.

Will you join me and ask yourself what you’re carrying into this last week of Advent?

Take a breath.

Take note.

Don’t rush it.

As our pastor says, we come limping to church on Sunday. We also may come limping through the dark of Advent to the joy of Christmas and a God who became Flesh to walk with us.

Shortly after I began following Stephanie Duncan Smith’s Slant Letter here on Substack, her December posts on Instagram stopped me short. In tiny squares with highlighter yellow accents, she put into words how I felt about Advent. I felt so comforted by her words about dissonance and darkness and light and presence at Christmas.

Little did I know that she was laying the groundwork for a book, and some of the sentences that resonated most were part of a larger manuscript.

So this summer, when I received an ARC of her book, Even After Everything (October 2024) I read it by the pool and as we began the school year. I read it closely, marking the sentences that bore witness to my own experiences. In her memoir, subtitled The Spiritual Practice of Knowing the Risks and Loving Anyway, she creatively juxtaposes the church calendar with the human experience and grapples with dissonance. She explores time and rhythms and seasons and a God who is With Us in it all, the common thread that pulls safe and taut around what can feel unpredictable and even meaningless.

She says,

It took me long enough to write this letter that the light outside is gone now. Everything is inky black, the colors are gone. The trees that glowed earlier now stand as ghosts.

But the light is coming.

Every day after this will grow longer, as the light triumphs and returns.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

- John 1:5, ESV

That’s what I’m celebrating this Christmas. A God who is with us. And a light that shines in the face of an already-defeated darkness.

Merry Christmas, friend. Thank you for being here.

Read Stephanie’s book here:

Even After Everything

Read some of my recent work with The Anselm Society, a curation of what the editors are loving this winter:

What We're Loving This Winter

I sat with this a long time over the summer, adding words slowly and taking away more. I’m warning you, it’s an eight-minute read. Sorry.

There’s nothing unusual about this summer. But after years of feeling frozen in grief and depression, I want to mark the ways I see the light seeping in and surprising me. I hope you can do the same in your life, too. No matter what you are walking through, leaving behind, or beginning.

This summer, there have been endings and beginnings, fears and heartbreaks, emergencies and surgeries. I’ve walked with friends through excruciating days. I’ve watched other friends welcome new life and soldiers home.

The light has been there, too. And peaches. And music. And joy.

I remember times curled up on my bathroom floor last year, chest clenched like a heart attack, every joint and muscle aching, muffling sobs so my sons wouldn’t hear. I hid the worst of it from them, tried to be strong. No one warned me about the sheer physicality of heartbreak, the aching that radiates like the early stages of birthing a child. Except there is no hope of a new life. Only the saw-edged flipside of love, pain.

I stored up panic because I couldn’t save someone I loved. I held it in my body for more months than I realized, and it started to steal my health. I was broken, out of reach, walled up. Loss, even loss less final than death, is a many-cornered, spiny thing. Once the scar begins to appear, it’s a scar that pulls and pokes, and unexpected stabs still threaten to reopen it.

But (skipping to the good part) in many ways, my grip on my grief is stronger, making it easier to carry. It has taught me much and will continue to do so because I am still learning. For the first time in years, this summer, I’m brave enough to say that I’m healing and learning to trust in healthy ways. I see God’s hand in all of it. I wrote about my faith a year ago here, and I’ll write more about it soon.

And the sunshine? I see it, too. I noticed it first at my brother’s wedding in May.

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There was a storm on the forecast, and the ground was soggy. Nevertheless, the sun burst through the clouds and stayed out all day, unbothered. My brother and precious sister-in-law said “I do” in an intimate ceremony in her grandparents’ backyard. Our two families have been friends since we were children, so we CELEBRATED. And I mean we danced, sweaty hair up and high heels kicked off, to We Are Family and Paper Rings and everything in between. We danced until the sunset glowed over the treetops and illuminated the pool where my brothers ended up pushing each other in, belly laughs echoing.

Summer used to be my least favorite time of year. Step outside where I live, and it’s like breathing through a wet cloth inside an oven. So imagine my surprise when, somewhere between fresh peach recipes, raspberry lemonade, slower schedules, and padding around after the pool with wet hair and relaxed muscles. . . I realized something was softening in me. It had something to do with the long days and all that sunlight.

Joy and sunlight and celebration have been inextricably related, and it surprised me. The sensation of being at home in my skin was so odd and sacred I wanted to weep.

Emily P. Freeman writes of the practice of pointing and calling in the Japanese railway system—a way of adding verbal and physical cues to otherwise automatic actions to limit error. The reasoning? Point and call, and you won’t miss the important stuff.

It may seem frivolous or foolhardy. I’ve written about it many times. But I believe marking the ordinary goodnesses in our lives holds more power and agency than we realize. There is research that supports how these moments, coined “glimmers”, help the nervous systems God made.

I wonder if sometimes, daring to point at a moment and call it good without worry or cynicism is celebration. And I believe that is holy.

In the introduction to her book Cold Tangerines, Shauna Niequist writes,

I love Shauna’s emphasis that having a hard year was exactly the reason WHY she makes a shameless appeal for celebration.

Thanks to this summer, I realize that celebration can show up in the booming bass of a wedding dance floor. It can also show up in a quiet hum in your bones when you’re eating a peach and you realize that you are fully at home in your body for the first time in years.

If you think about it, when boiled down to its simplest form, celebration is simply saying, “This is good. We rejoice.” At its core, celebration is noting and then responding with joy and presence. It can be tremulous, silent, imperfect, halting. . . or ridiculously unbridled.

If my words here make you uncomfortable or humph in skepticism, trust me, I’ve been there. I’m not the only person who has silently feared that if we let life be good (or write about life being good) the other shoe will drop. Please let this be your gentle push to find safe places and people, explore options, and talk to a good therapist. (Here, too, God’s grace is found.)

Please dare to hope that there is a God and He is good. Please dare to see that beauty, truth, and goodness are intrinsically related, and glimmers of them here on earth point to our home. It will feel stupid and awkward at first. (I can’t tell you how many times I grumped about stupid walks outside and drinking my stupid water.)

I hope you practice finding safe ways to let your walls down. I hope you try to let it be good. I’ve said it before but I say it with even more conviction now. Look for the light.

It isn’t gimmicky or woo-woo or “modern” to celebrate life. I think it’s a way of life that has been lost in many ways. And yes, it’s a disruptive way to think in our enflamed society of fear-mongering and offended yelling on social media. We need it now more than ever.

We can—wait for it—still trust that this is our Father’s world.

He does shine in all that’s fair.

And when you spot a glimmer of that shining, even if it’s obscure, will you point and call with me?

Even here, we can see that the Lord is good. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s worth celebrating.

So here’s your shameless appeal to look for the light and celebrate it.

Postscript, Summer Edition

We’re back with a postscript! Here are some things giving me life lately:

1. The playlist for August: A Nancy Meyers Morning.

2. Peach recipes like this collection from Southern Living or this one pulled up on my browser right now. There’s still time before we welcome fall flavors!

3. Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. I was late to the game on this one. Adored it. Devoured it.

4. My gardener son’s cherry tomatoes and my herbs that defied the heat.

5. My Lady Jane on Prime Video. Made me laugh until I cried.

6. The folklore album of course. “Salt air and the rust on your door” always and forever but especially in August. Duh.

7. Stephanie Duncan Smith’s new book, Even After Everything, coming out in October. I’m highlighting almost every sentence in my review copy.

8. Pool pizza parties with friends. So unexpectedly life-giving.

9. If you read one more thing today, please let it be Sarah Clarkson’s stunning essay. This slipped into my inbox as I was scheduling this letter and the timing is impeccable. She can paint with words in ways I only dream of. I beg you (shamelessly) to read it.

   Thanks for reading Cosmos and a Cuppa! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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*This post was written in August 2024.

This morning, I was sitting in my adopted coffee shop. (Yes, friend, when you have a coffee shop + used bookstore in an old blue house four minutes from your home, you can call it yours.)

As I sipped my latte (the day called for dark chocolate and brown sugar) and stared at the blank screen, I finally typed:

Turns out, being sad doesn’t leave you with a lot of words for public consumption.

And then I let the cursor blink again.

Life has been heavy for the last few years.

I know. In a sense, that’s life, pal. You’re on your own, kid. I’ve heard the spiel.

But the heaviness seeps into my bones, especially for two weeks every month, and when it’s present, it doesn’t leave room for much else. How can it, when the slightest thing (yesterday it was POOL CHLORINE) sets off a wave of grief and the accompanying voice that hisses, “Why aren’t you normal yet?” And the voice that mourns, “What are we even supposed to do?” (I’d be lying if I didn’t add the cynical voice that screeches, “Why do humans SUCK?”)

So I sat and sipped and brooded and then packed up with a sigh, planning to grab a book at the library and head home to take Tylenol.

But as I pulled into a parking spot in front of the library, I saw a shiny State Trooper Mounted Police trailer parked outside with three bright-eyed horses. My introverted side squirmed and the voices started back up. Oh gosh, is there some kind of event? Can I just slip inside without talking to people? I pulled up the library’s Facebook page and sure enough, an event was scheduled in 30 minutes. “Whole families welcome.”

Great, I groused. Do I choose Fun Mom and go get the boys, or do I just ignore it because of the headache and busy day?

But then I remembered the pricked ears and sparkling eyes I’d spied in the horse trailer. Fun Mom teamed up with Little Girl Me and won out in a scene worthy of Headquarters in the movie Inside Out. So I drove home, corralled the kids in the car, and headed back up the street to the library.

When we stepped inside, the lieutenant immediately walked up to us, his adorable granddaughter with pigtails and a cowgirl hat in tow. “Are y’all here to see the horses?” he asked kindly, blue eyes twinkling. My kids nodded.

“My mom and Granna used to have a horse but he got old,” my four-year-old spoke up from my hip.

“Really?” he said, looking to me for my confirming nod. “Well, you know, if they get old, that means you took real good care of them.” My heart twisted a little, nostalgia stirring.

Both boys scrunched into my lap amid a small sea of children and their grownups, and we listened to the officers share about their search and rescue work. They told stories of finding lost children and how they were able to help a nearby community last week in the wake of a tornado.

Then the staff sergeant started speaking. The face I’d pegged as stern broke into a beaming smile, boyish excitement radiating from the tips of his shiny boots to his mohawk-style fade. “How many of y’all love horses?” Little hands shot up. My hand crept up inwardly. “I am so excited to be here with you today. I got up early to drive three hours just to talk to you about horses.”

The man was over six feet tall, and his biceps strained at the sleeves of his uniform. But his eyes literally sparkled as he said how much he regretted waiting this late in life to start working with horses.

“I was that little boy,” he said. “Every chance I got, I wanted to be around horses. But I never thought that could be something I could really do as a grown-up, right? I ignored how much I loved horses until I was a lot older, and I really hate that. But my daughter, she’s 23 now, she never stopped asking me for a horse. I was out at the barn last night, and we have eight of ‘em out there now. So you little girls,” he winked, “Y’all let your daddies know you want horses.”

Everyone chuckled. A lump rose in my throat.

He paused. “I am so grateful that every day I get to wake up and work with these amazing animals. It’s so peaceful, man. It’s so rewarding. I never should have waited so long. I’m so glad my daughter asked for a horse. So kids, if you love horses, don’t ignore that. I’m so excited to put y’all up on Tank today and let y’all interact with him. They really are just magnificent.”

I blinked back tears on the library’s tile floor, right there in a gaggle of six-year-olds, faced with this enormous man so unashamedly in love with the very thing I’d been embarrassed to admit I loved too.

What’s that thing that little you—childhood you—used to love? But then it was swallowed by growing up, adulthood, peer pressure, or the fear of cheesiness? Yeah, that thing.

My horse was named Pegasus: the white mythical flying horse, a constellation of stars, and the symbol of a high-flying imagination.

He was white with brown paint markings and striking ice-blue eyes. He had a sense of humor, a streak of stubbornness a mile wide, a propensity for sunburn, and an uncanny sense about people. To this day, I know which people he detested… and then there was me. He belonged to my whole family, but everyone admitted we had a bond.

I sprawled on his back on long summer afternoons and read books while he grazed or dozed, ever gentle with me. I cried into his mane about boys and my fears and how stupid it was to grow up. He’d curve his neck around, concerned, and snuffle at me. He was solid, gentle, silly, grumpy, always there.

But then I did grow up.

I wanted to shed certain identities, the negative connotation of “horse girl” being one of them. I lumped it in with the long denim skirts, braces, awkwardness, loneliness, and the parts of me I was willing to leave behind with my Ariat boots and Peg’s tack.

We made our way outside in the sunshine. The officers lifted my sons to straddle Elvis and Tank and Delta and I snapped photos and breathed the familiar scent of leather and horse again. I stood next to the staff sergeant and asked if giant Tank, with his kind brown eyes, was a draft cross.

He grinned. “You must have horses.”

“I used to,” I said.

“But you’ll get ‘em again, right?” His grin widened.

“Yeah, I sure would love that. Maybe one day.”

Hi, I’m Caroline. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I love horses.

So I ask again.

What’s that thing you love?

I look down as I type these words and smile as I brush horse hair off my leggings. Life hasn’t changed from this morning when I sat in the coffee shop. But I found wonder in the most unexpected place, and that glimmer changed my whole day.

My friend and I have been fangirling over Joy Wood’s song, “My Days” lately. When Joy belts out, “I lived this one wild life, I ripped it apart,” the answer to Mary Oliver’s question bunches itself together in my heart, poised to leap.

Burst through the corners with no apologies, friend.

Name the things that cultivate wonder and bring joy.

Rip the seams of this one wild life.

My phone pings beside me on the picnic blanket as I type this. It’s another friend, telling me about her joyous, “idiot grin” because of the freedom she feels when she runs.

Life is entirely too short to spend it wonderlessly. God made it wild and precious, and it matters because you matter.

As Staff Sergeant B. would tell you, don’t wait to admit the things you love. This, too, is practicing resurrection.

This post was written in June 2024.

“Hey, mama, can you sing ‘Oh dahlin don’t you never gwoh up?’”

“Sure, baby.” I choked a little because it was his last night as a three-year-old.

I cradled him all melty warm against my chest, kissed his nose, sang Taylor’s lyrics, and tried not to cry. Tried to memorize his changing face and the dimples in his hands and the way his lanky toddler legs spilled out of my lap.

Tried not to let my heart explode up my throat.

My five-year-old watched thoughtfully. “But Mom, why do you sing that to us? We’re already growing up.”

“I know, sweetheart. And I’m happy you’re growing up. I love seeing everything you’ve learned to do, like riding your bike without training wheels.”

“So why did you say, ‘Stay this little?’ I’m not little.”

“It’s just a song, baby.” My brain scrambled to explain it and my voice snagged on the ache in my throat. “That’s the funny thing about mommies and daddies. We’re so happy that you’re growing up but we’ll always be a teeny tiny bit sad too. It’s weird but it’s a good thing, I promise.”

“Is that why you’re crying?” The corner of his mouth curved in a shy grin.

“Yes. Sometimes we cry tears that are really-happy-but-a-little-sad. It’s two feelings at once. I’m so excited to see you grow up. I’m proud of you and I love you.” Maybe that wasn’t the best way to explain it, I thought. But then how do I even make sense of it to myself? The ache of time passing and the delight of THIS? This sweet moment before they sleep when I can still solve all their problems?

His eyes were big and bright. “I love you too.”

They’re in their “sleepover” phase (insisting on one bed, two pillows squished together) so I kissed both foreheads and watched long lashes lower over coffee-brown and caramel-brown eyes.

Being a parent makes me more cognizant of the passing of time than I ever would be otherwise.

Which leads us to Bluey.

If you’re on the internet or have small children in your life, chances are, you’re acquainted with Bluey. Last summer we were sitting around a living room with our friends and someone mentioned a trip to Brisbane, where Bluey is set. Without missing a beat, at least three dads in the room replied, “For real life?” in Bluey’s accent.

This week, I talked to my friends about why we love Bluey more than any other kid’s show. Sure, our kids love it, but why do we adults love it so much? Addie said that to her, it captures the preciousness of being a parent.

The show is endearing, funny, nostalgic and/or healing all at once. The writers peg those moments of parenthood that force you to take a breath—and then show you how precious these days are.

As parents, we feel seen when the juice inevitably spills in the car and Chili’s butt is inevitably sticking out the door as she leans over the seat to clean it up. (Parenting is pure glam, of course.) We also feel seen when, in true six-year-old fashion, Bluey goes from saying “This is the WORST day of my life,” to “This is the BEST day of my life!” in about thirty seconds flat. (Ah, the whiplash of tiny big emotions.)

Bluey does what all good art does—first, it hits a bullseye that resonates with the parenthood journey or our inner child (usually both). Then it surprises us with the detail, humor, and cleverness with which it overturns jaded narratives and reframes the familiar in delightful ways.

I’ve cried plenty of times at Bluey, but one of my favorite episodes is “Sleepytime”. It doesn’t matter if I’m at the stove stirring mac and cheese: when Chili tells her youngest daughter Bingo, “Remember I’ll always be here for you, even if you can’t see me, because I love you,” combined with that stunning Holst soundtrack, I’m going to tear up every time.

I believe the power of Bluey is that it gets straight to the beating heart of what matters.

It points a whimsical finger at the important stuff and says, “This. This right here. See it? It’s extraordinary. Don’t miss it.”

Spoilers ahead if you haven’t seen the giant Bluey episode, “The Sign”.

Some people are hung up on the believability of the 28-minute episode’s ending. “Who decides to just….NOT MOVE?” they gasp. “How is that practical? What about the new job? This gives kids unrealistic expectations about happy endings!!” (Actual comments I read.)

The irony of getting stuck on technicalities in an animated show about dogs amuses me. We’re already choosing a certain suspension of disbelief to be emotionally invested in walking, talking dogs that drive cars and own homes.

I have sympathy for these perspectives, I do. Most of my tears during this episode were because of a particular “For Sale” sign representing a lot of brokenness in my past. It cut like a knife to watch Bluey and Bingo sit sadly in the shadow of the sign because I know the helplessness of wishing things could be different.

Honestly, I think that’s why Calypso’s story about the Chinese farmer is a vital through-line for the episode, and perhaps the answer for those who know their ending is a bit different than the Heeler family’s.

“Why do stories always have happy endings?” Bluey asks her teacher.

“Cause life will give us enough sad ones,” answers Calypso. “Listen to this story and see what you think of the ending.”

As she reads about the farmer who simply answers “We’ll see,” to events that his neighbors deem good luck or bad luck, the story ends rather abruptly.

“Is that a happy ending or a sad ending?” Bluey asks.

“It’s both,” Calypso affirms. “Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to, Bluey.”

So do I wonder if these viewers missed the point? You bet I do.

What if THE POINT was never about moving? Let’s face it, only internet rumors said the episode was about moving. The writers ambiguously named it “The Sign” for a reason and even that has a double meaning.

I believe the point of the episode was to ask a gentle question about what makes a good life.

Bandit thought that moving for a job with more money would allow him to love Chili, Bluey, and Bingo by providing “a better life” for them. He was afraid he wasn’t giving his children enough and that more money was the only way to give them a good life.

But if you watched any of the three seasons, you know the Heeler family has so much love in their beautiful, full lives in Brisbane. They already have everything they need. Frankly, that message is needed in today’s lonely, materialistic culture both in Australia and America.

And that's where this gets exciting.

Meg Washington voices Calypso, the teacher who discusses happy and sad endings at the beginning of the episode. It’s a full circle moment for Meg to come back as the writer and vocal artist of the ending song. In her lyrics that describe the power of being seen and chosen, rising out of darkness toward a love as strong as a reviving drug, I think we adults find the clue to what “The Sign” is about.

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As Bandit faces his fears of not being enough and pulls the sign out of the ground, he makes a choice—he chooses Chili’s heart and his girls and the vibrant, backyard-wedding-full-of-extended-family life they already have.

Maybe the most important things were right in front of us all along, and maybe they’re simpler than we dare to think. Maybe when it all boils down, our loved ones just need us. They need to be chosen, and seen, and cherished. When we choose the people who matter most, that’s what makes a good life.

Time is the only thing we can’t get more of. And as I watch my three-year-old turn four and listen to a tortured poet sing “Robin”, a song about innocence and the desire to stop time with “strings tied to levers, slowed-down clocks tethered,” I think I understand.

Because our time is so short, choosing to see each other’s hearts and go all in with our love and our presence is the pith of it, after all.

Maybe when we’re faced with the fleeting nature of time, we can lean into the immortal souls we share it with and the love we find in a God who transcends time. He gives us His Presence, in our happy endings and sad ones. One day, we’ll see.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll find what matters right in front of us—amid our morning coffees, the oranges we peel, and our nightly routines.

But what do I know? I’m just a mom who watches Bluey. *wink*

It’s around this time of year that depression rears its monster heads through the floor of my heart, slamming into every defense I’ve nailed down over it.

I’m thrilled to say that January 2024 was one of the best starts to a year I’ve ever had. The practices of starting gently, leaning into reflection, and early morning writing were life-giving. We were wintering, and by golly we had fun.

Butttt now it’s February, and my body and brain would like it to be spring now, please and thank you. (Yes, I realize my petulance: I live in south Mississippi, where winter is mild and spring comes early, and still I’m impatient.) The ice and rain linger on and on—the kinds that leave an ungodly amount of mud in their wake.

So much mud. (And all the parents of rubber-boot-wearing children said amen.)

It feels like the world is dead. And in a sense, I suppose it is.

I hope you have the luxury of grinning at my words and saying, “Come on, it’s not all that serious.” And of course, you’re right, in a way. Life is still silently tenacious in the dead of winter. Birds floof their feathers, tiny boys delight in icicles, little cold fingers curl inside yours as you go inside to bake chocolate things that steam the windows. When the sun does shine, it’s cool and clear, illuminating buds on the trees and the pale green creeping across aforesaid mud. The world is coming back to life, and it’s the reason spring will forever be my favorite season.

But February forces me to face things about myself that I’d rather ignore. The holidays are a joyful blur and January is a cozy beginning, with new notebooks, the smell of Windex and wood polish, and sparkling clean surfaces.

February is just… February. And I’m just me. Still sad sometimes, still anxious, still don’t have life figured out, still writing about the less-than-sparkly side of things.

Here I am, with all my broken bloody parts and shards of grief and hollow fears and nothing to sugarcoat them. And I realize I’m bordering on navel-gazing but I’ll say it anyway—I wonder if everyone else gets as tired of me as I do.

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Someone recently sent me a video of Makoto Fujimura speaking at the Alliance for Responsible Citizenship Conference in 2023. You’re probably familiar with the ancient Japanese art form of kintsugi—mending broken ceramics with a lacquer technique that repairs the cracks with gold. An artist himself, Fujimura shared how kintsugi dates back to 16th-century Japan.

But the aspect he chose to focus on surprised me. He spoke of how the masters would receive a shattered tea vessel but before beginning the famous process, they would hold onto the fragments without doing anything to them, to respect what had happened. They took their time and studied the fractures.

Some things deserve to be held and noted, not glossed over.

I wonder if times like February force us to behold the splintered parts of ourselves. For growth to come in any relationship—whether with other humans, with God, or with the complicated places in ourselves—we can’t be afraid of the bruised parts on our way to healing.

And on this muddy Tuesday, I’m thankful for mending. What are ceramics anyway, except earthy mud? So perhaps as we behold our brokenness, gold—a symbol of divinity, after all—transforms all. that. mud. I’m thankful that fragments can be renewed. I’m thankful for healing and growing, green life shoving up like a stubborn sprout in springtime.

If you relate to anything I’ve shared here, please don’t ever feel tired of yourself. Because if you’ve had to stare monsters in the face, you are incredible for not giving up. I believe that standing here, loving here, and not giving up despite the tight ache in our chests is fierceness itself.

As we start the trek from winter into spring, maybe we can hold our broken pieces patiently, defiantly, knowing the master craftsman is holding them too.

Hope is here.

Light is here.

Life is here.

P.S.

I’m considering starting a postscript for the first letter of each month!

Here goes! Things that are giving me life lately:

1. Aggressively Happy by Joy Clarkson, especially chapter two, “Flounder Well”, which includes a Malcolm Guite poem.

2. This Instagram post by Tanner Olson about the ways hope (unlike ceramics) is not fragile

3. A playlist for February mornings

4. The Les Misérables U.S. Tour (!!!) Jaw? Still on floor. Ears? Still full of Nick Cartell’s Bring Him Home. Hugh Jackman could never.

5. Taper candles on my writing desk

6. Reading Fairy Tale by Stephen King (not too scary!)

7. Emily P. Freeman’s Next Right Thing Guided Journal, from whence all these favorite things flow. It’s seasonal. It’s simple. It’s awesome.

8. Even If He Doesn’t by Kristen Lavalley. I’m on her launch team and this book is good stuff, friend. More coming soon! If you preorder now for $13, you get the audiobook today and other gifts like a trauma-informed book club guide. See how to get the bonuses here before it releases on the 20th.

Love ya. Mean it.

*This post was written in February 2024.

As someone who reviewed advance copies for publishers like Bethany House, Berkley, and William Morrow for a few years, I’m tempted to be a smidge disgruntled about the books I read in 2023. I read a lot of so-so books this year, and I also read less this year, if my Goodreads record is to be trusted.

So, I’m gonna take my own advice. Ready?

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1. Measuring your reading life in numbers is no way to live, Caroline.

2. It’s okay to read what brings you joy and lights your fire even if it’s not buzzy on BookTok.

3. It’s not a sin to put books down. Even if it’s forever. Gasp.

4. There are amazing benefits in A) reading alone, B) reading/discussing chapter by chapter with one friend, and C) reading/discussing an entire book with a book club, so be open to all of the above.

5. Audiobooks are real books. (You’d think this would be duh to everyone, but no.)

6. Don’t be afraid to try new. Reading fiction is not a cop-out, and nonfiction doesn’t have to be dry.

7. The book police aren’t going to knock on your door if you dogear, underline, or highlight. Just don’t drop copies in the bath, ‘mkay? Moving on.

8. Romance isn’t unrealistic and being a decent human shouldn’t be considered fantasy. (One day, I’m gonna write a whole gosh-darn essay on this, but until then, click and scroll for our convo about James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.)

9. Borrowing books from the library opens worlds just as much as two-story shelves with gilded spines and a rolling ladder and flickering candles and antique window seats and a fireplace and stacks of stationery… and no, I definitely don’t dream about my own Beauty and the Beast library, why—why—would you ever ask that? But to my point: I love my local library.

10. If you have kiddos in your life, be a person who READS ALOUD TO THEM. A LOT. Fan that story-lovin’ spark early.

*sips latte, checks notes*

Let’s dive into my favorite books of 2023. These aren’t all critically acclaimed and I might not have given them all five stars. But they all stood out and stayed with me!

The Next Right Thing by Emily P. Freeman

What a gentle book. I’m using her guided journal too, and both have been so helpful as she explores soul care and how to make decisions. It’s comforting to realize that I can do the next right thing and not live stuck in the future or the past. Emily is a bright spot of hope and discipleship on the internet and her work is kind, wise, and bold.

Anything by Anthony Horowitz, especially the Hawthorne series.

If you like Agatha Christie, BBC mysteries, or, specifically, Foyle’s War (written by Horowitz himself), these whodunnits will thrill you. Anthony’s wit is superb, the writing is smooth and whip-smart, the settings make my Anglophile heart happy, and the creativity makes me laugh out loud. The audiobooks narrated by Rory Kinnear are excellent.

Happy Place and Beach Read by Emily Henry

Both are billed as lighthearted romances but they pack a gut punch between the repartee and warm (spicy) fuzzies. I read each on a separate trip, and they are perfect—I repeat, PERFECT—spring or summer vacation reads. However, if you relate at all to the characters, you’ll probably laugh and cry, so be prepared for odd looks at the beach.

Why We Create edited by Jane Clark Scharl and Brian Brown

This was my FAVORITE book this year, as I told Ekstasis magazine. This collaborative effort, headed up by the Anselm Society, explains what it means to have a Christian imagination— to be a subcreator made in the image of a Creator. Each chapter is by a different author and the result is full-bodied and thought-provoking. “The world God has made is neither spiritually irrelevant nor spiritually ultimate. He made us for more than we have yet seen in this world—and yet He placed us in it.”

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir

This was not a book I would have chosen myself, which is the beauty of book clubs! It’s a 500-page whopper of a sci-fi novel but I tell you, I was ENGROSSED. I can’t say everything I loved about it without spoilers, but Andy Weir is a freaking genius who turned complicated science into a page-turner, tender in its humanity and hope.

Once There Were Wolves by Charlotte McConaghy

Expect an over-the-top ending and a load of trigger warnings, but ooof this one made my jaw drop. Inti is a biologist who works with wolves, reintroducing them into the wild Scottish Highlands. She also has a neurological condition called mirror-touch synesthesia that causes her to physically feel any sensations she witnesses with her eyes. If those aren’t a recipe for a perfect literary thriller, there’s also a murder mystery and the stakes are HIGH.

Atomic Habits by James Clear

I listened to the audiobook read by the author, and yep, it lives up to the hype. It actually doesn’t beat you over the head and is doable and practical on the atomic level of tiny habits and choices. It’s a great companion to Emily Freeman’s book above, and I’ll be rereading it in 2024.

Good Boundaries and Goodbyes by Lysa TerKeurst

The subtitle is Loving Others Without Losing the Best of Who You Are and it’s for us people-pleasers. She explores a balanced view of what it means to love others by doing what’s best for them, based on her own story.

“I had the wrong notion that to be a Christian requires that we believe the best, no matter what. That it’s unkind to draw boundaries; that it’s noble and commendable to stay in a relationship no matter what. I no longer believe any of that. I now believe we must honor what honors God.”

Becoming Free Indeed: My Story of Disentangling Faith from Fear by Jinger Duggar

I have mixed feelings about this one, and the editing errors were unfortunate. But I believe that her message is important, and it was a confirming read. I’m glad she spoke out and used her platform in a wise and graceful way. I personally recommend this before diving into the Shiny Happy People docuseries or Counting the Cost, which are, respectively, a deconstructed perspective and an exposé.

And there you have it, the roundup of my most notable books this year! I’d love to hear what you’ve been reading.

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God With Us has new significance to me this year.

If you were ever involved in spiritually abusive circles, perhaps you’re familiar with the angst of coming out the other side. It’s a journey that some authors call “disentangling” —taking a tangled ball of ideologies and separating lies from truth. And, of course, like any tangled ball of yarn, at some point you’re tempted to throw the whole thing away before the snags finally start to come free.

So it’s safe to say that my understanding of Emmanuel has had some refining. This year, my view of myself in relation to God has felt tender and hard to explain, like I’m tiptoeing into a new room I’ve only ever seen through a keyhole. Maybe one day I’ll have more words about that.

And this new understanding of God With Us is influencing the way I view the church.

For many of us, “church hurt” isn’t a pop phrase. It’s real, haunting, and can cross the line into trauma.1

And the season of Advent can highlight it.

But let’s back up. The first church I really remember was in south Louisiana. My memories are centered around dear souls I still love today—people who genuinely care. When I was eight, sometimes I’d join my mom in her Sunday school class, with its blue carpet, enormous fluorescent lights, and huge circle of chairs, complete with two rocking chairs for the mamas with babies. I’d sit still and quiet during the prayer request time, listening while women of all ages and walks of life shared their pain, struggles, joys, and fears with brilliant candor and vulnerability. I don’t remember the details of what was said, but I’ll never forget the way they studied the Bible, laughed, and passed the Kleenex to dry each other’s tears.

They were “with” each other in their humanity, not just intellectually but in an embodied way, and grown-up me now recognizes it for the rarity it was.

In fact, years later, after a move and some less-than-pleasant church experiences, I couldn’t imagine my wedding anywhere except the place where I felt at home as a child. And so, on a spring day, I slipped into a white gown in that exact Sunday school classroom. I could feel the residual love and prayers from my girlhood wafting out of the walls and ceiling as I prepared to walk down the aisle.

At Christmas, we often focus on the fact that Christ came to save. But he also came to dwell among us. He came to love us not just by defeating death as the Lamb of God but also by touching us, seeing us, hearing us, healing us, and crying with us as he walked the earth.

I wonder if we’ve forgotten how to be WITH each other, the way Emmanuel is WITH us. If the Son of God (while fully God) humbled himself to be fully human, I don’t think it should be such a huge stretch for us to sit gently and curiously with the humanity of those around us. It isn’t enough to be near each other—to simply say hi in our Sunday best.

Advent isn’t just the season of holly jolly red and green. It’s a season of waiting and aching being answered with the crashing joy of presence—which tends to get ignored in the name of the Christmas spirit. I’m guilty of being too distracted or rushed to see when the person in front of me is barely holding on behind their smile. We’ve failed if those who are broken in our midst are shuffled off with platitudes, especially at Christmas.

I think we’re missing out on incredible goodness if we don’t get up the courage to open our lives and hearts to each other. And that starts in tiny ways…as tiny as the Savior’s cells forming in a woman’s womb. Advent is about the gutting grandeur of peace with God, zoomed into mundane moments.

And so it starts with us coming with our confusion, our chaos, our trust issues, and our faithlessness. When we feel like we don’t have the perfect words, or we’re worried about asking or saying the wrong thing, in the words of poet Jess Janz:

Maybe we can emulate what Advent celebrates—the Word becoming flesh—and find ways to not just be near each other but be WITH each other.

Join me?

Merry Christmas, friend.

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The tradition of lighting a candle in the window dates back centuries. In Ireland, under British penal law, a candle signaled that it was safe for a persecuted priest to slip inside under cover of darkness. (When suspicions were raised, they said the candle was in honor of the nativity.) The tradition evolved to simply show that there was refuge inside for any lonely traveler.

In Germany, families lit candles for miners finding their way home in the dark after hours of work underground. As the tradition made its way across the Atlantic to the colonies with Irish and German families, candles in windows served as beacons to the community. They were a reminder that although their homes were far apart, there was light, guidance, and warmth along the way as they traveled to visit their neighbors.

Ultimately, a candle in a window has always been a way of combatting loneliness, cold, fear, and darkness. The tiny flame says, “I see you. I’m here. It’s safe.”

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Are you tired?

I wrote a letter this summer about “doing it scared.” I hope you were able to read that one. I also hope that whatever it was, you’re doing it and you’re doing okay. But sometimes we’re more exhausted than we are scared. It takes just as much courage—maybe even more—to keep going once we’ve begun.

When that heartbreak…exhaustion…diagnosis…loss…isn’t going anywhere, it can seem impossible to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Some fatigue is physical and mental. Other times, it’s an aching in our soul from an impossibly gaping hole, ripped by the brokenness we encounter. And it’s wearying to realize that even as the hole becomes invisible to others, the scar will still be tender as we walk.

When it feels like you have nothing left to give, or there are still no easy answers, please remember you’re not alone.

I’ve been reading A Tale of Two Trees by Matthew Clark. It’s the second book in his trio of books and albums, The Well Trilogy. He says about faith-keeping,

“When I forget the lyrics, remind me. When you break a guitar string, somebody will have an extra one. When we forget the face and smile of Jesus who died for us, we can each offer our best imitation of Christ to help each other remember that this is real.”

We’re not alone when we’re weary. We have each other to help us find our way, like so many candle flames. We’re also following in the footsteps of One who walked the same cold road.

In this season of candlelight, our words, text messages, hugs, gifts, friendship, and community can give us more strength and (en)courage(ment) than we know. Please remind me, and I’ll remind you.

What if instead of self-care, we called it “taking care of yourself”?

Because who can judge you for that?

When did "take care!" shrink from a “God-go-with-you”-sized sentiment into a guilty space called self-care? I’ve heard it equated with a spa day: a once-in-a-blue-moon extravagance.

And don’t get me started on the ways people talk about “taking care of yourself” like it’s about comparing dress sizes and gym memberships instead of getting enough sleep.

Maybe we should flip the self-care script to say, “Take care of yourself.”

All of you.

Your brain.

Your soul.

Your nervous system.

That tense muscle in your neck.

I have it on good authority that in some cultures, they live more like humans and less like robots. But where I live, if the bottom line is the finish line, do full lives fade by the wayside? Have we forgotten how to play? How to rest? How to be human?

So take care of yourself. For goodness sake—eat bread and drink *actual* water, move your body often, look up, and notice those clouds and that sky. Maybe check to make sure you’re not taking shallow breaths, roll your shoulders, choose conversation over chitchat, and belt a Broadway hit in the car. These things aren’t trite…they’re bone-deep.

Watch a rom-com…or a thriller…or read a good story.

Cry honest tears if it hurts.

Don’t be scared to laugh at yourself.

Because last I checked, you’re a human person. And not only that, you’re a human person who’s really, really good at taking care of other people.

Thank God we’re not God—no need to pretend we’re limitless. Needing care and rest is hardwired into our identity.

So, take care …of yourself. Please remember you’re a human person.

In her New York Times article, “Bring Back the Sabbath”, Judith Shulevitz wrote,

We could let the world wind us up and set us to marching, like mechanical dolls that go and go until they fall over, because they don't have a mechanism that allows them to pause. But that would make us less than human. We have to remember to stop because we have to stop to remember.”

Have a restful weekend, friend. Take care.

P.S.

This week, one of my articles was published by The Anselm Society. It’s called “Honest Songs” and is about rediscovering the full range of emotions in Christian music. I loved exploring how co-creation links our stories across time—Aslan’s song in Narnia reverberating across the centuries.

Here’s an excerpt:

Ever since my grandmother taught me to find the middle white note on our baby grand, I’ve been drawn to music, specifically the music of the Church. I’ve accompanied congregations and taught music lessons. But most of all, hymn arranging and improvisation became an unlikely pathway for one young Christian to process depression, anxiety, and her own journey of faith. When almost everything else was confusing, hymns were there with melody and lyrics to speak the truth about God and the world. They stole past the “watchful dragons” as C. S. Lewis would say, sneakily allowing the truth I’d heard in Sunday school my whole life to sink deep and grow roots. …

… Hymns, new and old, are part of what allows Christians to truly acknowledge pain in this world and share hope that resonates—helping us trace the rainbow through the rain. In creating good, brave art, and in embellishing/re-imagining old themes, we’re linking arms with poets like Lina Sandell-Berg, George Matheson, and the psalmists. Their words still ring out during church services, in tearful prayer at a keyboard, as a lullaby to sleepy babies, or around a fireside circle of friends with a lone guitar. The song of Aslan in Narnia is still reverberating through the centuries.

Continue Reading Here

P.P.S.

If you’re like me, you need several fall playlists for this season to feel complete! Here’s my coziest collection for your *restful* weekend.

Hygge Instrumental Spotify Playlist

This week’s letter is a bit more letter-like and less essay-ish! And it’s not coming from my local coffee shop, it’s coming from the road.

This past week, we’ve been in the mountains. Colorado mountains, specifically. I had the privilege of spending time with some incredible souls in Colorado Springs and then we drove up to Estes for much-needed days “on top of a mountain” as my five-year-old says. It’s been a time of family memories, fresh air, and less cell service.

On our road trip to Colorado, we stopped in to stay with my grandparents.

In the past, I’ve written about my grandparents and how they taught me to find beauty in the world. They helped cultivate a sense of wonder in me, the art of noticing and appreciating the simple, unhurried things.

On this stay with my grandparents, I watched again as my sons recreated memories from my childhood. I saw it when my five-year-old lugged the photo album to my grandpa and said, “Can you tell me about this?” They sat together and turned pages and Sean asked, “Then what happened? And then what happened?” I saw it while they fished for bream and watched hummingbirds and played pretend in the same clubhouse my brothers and I made. It made me smile and reminded me of an article I originally wrote in 2021 that Calla Press published last year.

The dear Sally Clarkson writes in her book Awaking Wonder,

As the boys traipsed down the narrow trail along the tundra yesterday, binoculars in hand, tiny and dauntless against the wilderness, Daniel and I grinned. Because we’ve been given the opportunity to watch and help cultivate their unbounded wonder at the world.

And in the process, it rekindles ours.

If there are children in your life in any capacity— please don’t forget that you have an opportunity. Like my grandparents, you can influence them in ways bigger than you might realize.

You can read my piece titled “How My Grandparents Taught Me To Find Beauty” published by Calla Press Publishing below:

Read the Calla Press Piece

Love ya.

Mean it.

It was dark.

The tiny theater smelled like popcorn and fog machines.

Onstage, the light pinpointed the local actress playing Mrs. Potts. As she sang “tale as old as time”, I jumped. Goosebumps covered my arms and my spine did that weird tingle thing.

I jumped because I hadn’t felt goosebumps in so long that I’d forgotten what it was like to be moved. I tried not to let tears ruin my mascara as a heart-dropping sense of relief flooded me. At that moment, to the words of that song, it felt like a piece of me had come back to life.

But let me back up.

I used to be embarrassed by my big feelings—I’d rarely let myself actually cry and only then hide away in a bedroom. I tend to feel everything intensely and utterly, and I often wish I didn’t. Sometimes I wonder if life would be easier if I didn’t feel things in my bones and gut and chest. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that I’m an HSP or “highly sensitive person”. If that’s the case, then yes, I’m aware that I *feel* the world around me more than others. Can you relate?

A lot of my confusion about my emotions stemmed from talk in the church that sounded like, “Oh, you should have more faith in God’s sovereignty so you don’t feel negative emotions—sadness or doubt or anxiety—because those are a lack of faith.” (Don’t get me started on the “let go and let God” verbiage.)

And then there’s the catch-22: these same voices implied that being happy about anything other than the resurrection was edging too close to loving The World The Flesh and The Devil.

Oh, and depression? Spoiler alert, that doesn’t exist. End result? I ended up feeling guilt for happiness and shame for sadness.

It makes me wonder if maybe this creepy Christianese-stoicism-gnosticism mashup gets it wrong.

I say that tongue-in-cheek. You betchya britches it gets it wrong.

God created our emotions, and I believe there is a healthy way to engage them—all of them. We don’t have to ignore them or let them control us. Let’s not forget that the Psalms are poems (the most emotional medium of communication).

You can’t read Psalm 69 and not wonder if David was banging his head on his desk while he wrote, saying “Come ON soul, we’ve been through this before, even though you feel like your throat is dry from crying and you’re drowning under the tsunami and stuck in deep mud, IT’S GONNA BE OKAY AND YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID BECAUSE GOD CREATED THEM AND HE HEARS OUR LAMENT AND HE IS GOOD!”

This is the same David who danced in the streets and played a harp. I stick to what I said. Big feelings.

And it’s not like Peter was a stoic either. At the end of the day, it tells us God holds our tears in a bottle and will wipe the tears from our eyes one day. That doesn’t sound like a “suck it up, buttercup” God to me. We read that he has tenderness like a mother to her baby, and speaking from experience, that is so much tenderness it physically hurts.

And let’s not forget that Jesus wept. And got tired. And needed time alone on a mountain. The Man of Sorrows cried and went through trauma responses alone in a garden while his friends slept. And in Hebrews, it tells us that he can sympathize with us.

A few weeks ago, I shared in this Substack letter about part of my journey over the last several years. If you haven’t read that one, feel free to click here.

I learned the hard way after the birth of my second son that late-onset postpartum depression is very much A Thing. Unfortunately, I struggled through it and didn’t ask for help.

Not many people talk about the numbness of depression—the inability to feel anything beyond a disassociated, out-of-body, robotic way of being. Sometimes depression doesn’t look like constant tears. Sometimes it looks like feeling nothing.

And for someone who has always felt the world deeply, it feels like the murder of an important part of you.

I don’t share this for sympathy or to grovel in my own story. I share it to say that I know how hard it is to be in a dark place and pull yourself out of it. I share it because I want you to know that if you walked through a dark place and kept going, I am SO SO proud of you. I share it because you need to hear that I know what it cost you.

And if you’re still in a dark place where you don’t feel like yourself, don’t be like me and think you can handle it alone. You’re not made to. I desperately need to be reminded that I can trust that God is good. These things don’t come naturally to me. I’ve had to fight for every inch, and I want you to know that there is no shame in the fighting, and you don’t have to fight alone. I’m so thankful that the Son of Man has a gentle and lowly heart toward me.

These are truths that I’ve had to hold onto with my fingernails.

But they hold.

And I promise they’ll hold for you, too. And if you need someone to remind you, I’m here. You’re not alone.

Whether you’re facing feelings that seem too big or wonder if you’ll ever feel happy again, I can say from experience that nothing lasts forever.

There are wise people in the world who write true words and have important conversations about these things. I can’t begin to try to cover all the aspects of these topics in today’s letter, so I encourage you to find those people. Talk to your doctor and make an appointment with a therapist, too. (Here, too, God’s goodness is found. Don’t let people tell you any different.) You are not a coward or a copout for asking for help. But I hope these thoughts give you a starting point.

If you aren’t sure, deep down, how you feel, please consider reading This Beautiful Truth by Sarah Clarkson or Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy by Mark Vroegop, and don’t be afraid to ask your questions.

If any of this resonates with you, I promise you’ll feel goosebumps again. It won’t be dark forever.

*This post was written in September 2023.

Ask me to choose a favorite movie?

Sound of Music.

My favorite point in the story is when Maria runs home to the abbey, convinced that her heart’s desires are wrong and she should punish herself for loving the captain.

The Mother Abbess gently says, “These walls weren’t built to shut out problems, Maria. You have to face them. You have to find the life you were born to live.”

This movie was 73-year-old Peggy Wood’s final screen appearance, and her song “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” was dubbed by Margery McKay. (An unsung heroine!)

I’ve tried listening to renditions by younger artists but they don’t hold the same power. Coming from a young voice, the song sounds like a bubble about to burst: idealistic and starry-eyed.

The strength of the lyrics only shines when sung by the Reverend Mother. This is an old woman at peace with herself and the path of her life. She’s telling the young woman in her office to do the scary thing—chase the dream.

It’s rare to see older generations encouraging the young to do differently than the path they chose. Although well-intentioned, typically the approach is, “This worked for me so you should do it too.”

Instead, the Reverend Mother gives us a soaring song telling Maria to climb every mountain, ford every stream, and follow every rainbow until she finds a dream that will need all the love she can give, every day of her life, for as long as she lives.*

For the Mother Abbess, that looked like pouring into the abbey. But she was wise enough to see that Maria’s calling differed from hers.

She told Maria in no uncertain terms to find what she was called to do and then do it scared.

And she meant it, right down to helping Maria down the wedding aisle and saving the von Trapps’ lives.

My boys and I recently visited a playground with a tall, twisting slide. My three-year-old kept trying to slide down and bailing at the last second. “Mama, I want to do it, but I’m too nuh-vus.” After 30 minutes of trying, he timidly slid down with his big brother. I wish you could have seen his grin and those huge, sparkling brown eyes.

“THAT WAS INCWEDIBLE!!!!”

I couldn’t peel him off the slide after that.

I’ve been blogging since 2019 as a book reviewer. It started from a love of good storytelling, and that love is alive and well. Unfortunately, I’m still that mildly-annoying reader who shoves the books I love in my friends’ faces because I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE THEM, TOO!

Madeleine L’Engle writes in her book, Walking on Water, that:

“Stories are able to help us to become more whole, to become Named. And Naming is one of the impulses behind all art; to give a name to the cosmos we see despite all the chaos.”

So it’s time to start writing some of my own stories.

If I’m honest, I’m as “nuh-vus” as my toddler about putting new words out there. In fact, I’ve spent the last eight months writing some of these letters for you.

But maybe my thoughts will help you feel a little less alone, and give you a bit of courage for the journey.

So this is me, doing it scared.

As Andrew Peterson says in his book Adorning the Dark:

“All you really have is your willingness to fail, coupled with the mountain of evidence that the Maker has never left nor forsaken you.”

We can pursue our callings and dreams faithfully because we are His beloved, and He will never leave nor forsake us. I’m pretty sure the Reverend Mother knew this.

What’s something you’re scared to do today?

Whether it’s starting a new career, being honest with yourself or someone else, asking weighty questions, taking the first step to take care of yourself, or just finding the courage to roll out of bed and face another day, here’s to doing it scared.

Here’s to climbing our own personal mountains a step at a time and giving all the love we have to give.

And who knows? In the words of my toddler, maybe it will be INCWEDIBLE! Not perfect, but infused with the hope that comes from just trying.

What’s one of your mountains today?

*lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II

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