A few weeks ago, after a particularly long day, I went to visit an old friend. As I was sitting in front of her, she said something that was incredibly profound. She looked at me and said, “Breathe in the good shit (pause) and breathe out the bad shit.” She repeated this again and again, until I finally started listening.

It was an important moment for me. I needed to remember I was too busy taking breaths filled with the things that were beyond my control. There have been so many times in the last few weeks that I have held my breath. I have held onto things that were laced with hatred and anger, judgment and even rage. I have been unable to breathe out those things. They have been filling my “lungs” and preventing me from making room for the healthy things that need to replace the rot.

I have a living example of what happens when the bad shit fills the space. My dad has been experiencing fluid build up on his lungs. He had 7 liters of fluid drained off his right lung since January. The first drain collected 4+ liters alone (see lovely visual – no, we were not brewing beer in the hospital room). Can you imagine what it feels like to have that much weight and wet and heavy on your chest as you are trying to fill your lungs to sustain life? Weighed down. Like you are drowning. So very heavy. This sounds eerily like my world when I forget to exhale. When I forget to let go of the weight of the day, the week or the year.

This also prevents me from having the capacity to breathe in new, fresh air. After the doctor drained Dad’s lung, he handed him a spirometer and explained to him that without exercising his lung and training it to remain expanded after the fluid removal, it would simply refill. I can’t help but feel the same is true for my heart when I don’t choose to breathe in hope and renewal and peace.

This morning, our pastor asked us to participate in a corporate practice of silence. I realized in that moment that I had been holding my breath again. I had the figurative weight of heavy fluid on my chest. I spent the entire 60 seconds exhaling. My friend’s voice just kept screaming in my ear, “Breathe out the bad shit. Breath out the bad shit.” It was only when I let go of the weight, the worry, the hopelessness and the unknown that I could make space for anything good. I could not breathe in the good shit because I had liters of weight preventing my ability to take a breath.

What are you holding? What do you need to exhale? May you start this week with the gift of breath narrated by my friend Nadia. She is the best.

As a mom of littles, I HATED when someone would see me – mid 3-year-old melt down – in the Target aisle and say, “Oh, mom, don’t blink they will be grown before you know it.” All I could think in those moments was YOU ARE A BIG FAT LIAR. These moments will never end. These screaming kids will never go away. They will always follow me into the bathroom when I am trying to hide. They will never sleep through the night. And they SURELY will never quit waking me up early on Saturdays. I know that my eyes spewed expletives at strangers and usually my mouth had some smart-ass comment to share.

But here I am. Saying the thing that I didn’t want to hear. Don’t you dare blink. To the momma that has not showered in days – this will pass. To the one that would give anything to leave the house for dinner in a shirt that does not have snot – it will happen. To the one that just found the rotten sippy cup in the dog’s cage – I promise, you will forget these moments. When I was in the trenches, I was dying. Sometimes literally. There were countless days that I crawled into bed and silent tears ran down my face because I dared not admit that I was still awake to the husband that had not been acknowledged in weeks. I’m here to testify: I’m still standing. And you will be, too.

Something terrifying happens when you just keep living. Days pass. Lots of days. And tonight, I am reminded that exactly 6,209 days ago I was in labor with my oldest. Over the past 149,016 hours I have felt all the highs and lows that I could possibly bottle into a choose your own adventure story. We have traveled some roads. Yet here we stand, hours from her 17th birthday. It was just yesterday that I was googling poop colors and stressing over cradle cap. It happened. I blinked. And I am now the mom of a beautiful, independent, capable, big-hearted, brilliant young woman. This means two things: 1) I am old. 2) We’ve survived. Sure, I have more gray hair and wrinkles. But it also means that I have moments of joy and wonder as I have watched this precious product of my flawed DNA lean into all that God has created her to be.

Because I only operate in profound honesty, there are have been some long nights. The cause has changed from sleep training to junior high friendships and the emotional toil has escalated from missing Dora to future life planning, but she is still my little girl. Even on the days when I know that my eyes are looking at maturing beauty, I still see my Monster’s Inc obsessed cheeky treasure. So to all the moms out there, may this bring you some comfort and hope. No matter how long the days seem and how endless the nights are, know that one day you will look back and remember the voice and the cuddles and the way that only their smile made your heart soar. It never changes. And deep in their insides, that precious little one never goes away. Ever. I will, until my last breath, hear AJ’s one year old voice say to me, “Well, acccctuuually, mommy….”

Happy Birthday, AJ. You make me beam with pride.

When was the last time you pushed yourself to do something really uncomfortable? I’m not talking about running a mile as a part of your New Year’s diet plan or folding the clothes that bring you joy in a new way. I’m talking about stretching your bounds of ease, success and competency. Let’s take this a step further. For those of you that chase after Jesus, when was the last time you did something really uncomfortable in the name of your faith?

If it has been a while, let’s talk. There is not one thing about the life and ministry of Jesus that was go-with-the-flow and crowd pleasing. Quite the opposite, I feel certain that instead Jesus was rarely mundane. The great legacy of Christ is the radical way in which he refused to allow those that were longing to see God to remain in a sense of worldly comfort. Rather, he demonstrated quite often that he was sick and tired of religious games.

Jesus was completely uninterested in and often turned off by those that enjoyed safety and comfort. Money and position and privilege were seen as stumbling blocks to faith. Not because Jesus was mean. Not because he longed for people to hurt. Instead, Jesus knew the truth that we often miss. When we have our basic needs met, we don’t need any other help. When we are happy and we have love and warmth and freedom and full stomachs, we don’t need to depend on our Creator. This is where I tell you to sell your car and house and give all your money away, right? I know that some of you think that I believe that to be a socially responsible goal. Nope. That’s not my end game. Instead, I am going to ask again, when did you last do something that made you feel completely incapable, unable, inept?

This morning I left the house at 6:02. Full stop. I was already uncomfortable. But that was only the beginning. I had quite a drive to ponder my ineptness as I prepared for a new experience. There are so many things that I do well. I could walk into any ICU and be completely unfazed. I can hold the hair of a de-toxing puker and feel capable and worthy. I can even sit with the broken-hearted and depressed while they are lost in numbness and not flinch. But not today. Just when I think that God has equipped me with all that I need to do the next thing, bam! Guess what, Lacy? You will forever need me. And when you think that you have things figured out, that’s when I need you to need me again. This was the talk that God and I had as I made my early morning drive.

As I drove through Houston today, I saw more churches than I could count. There were thousands of cars, sitting in hundreds of church parking lots all over the city. I thought to myself, what if every follower of Jesus did one really uncomfortable thing this week? I’m not talking about standing on the street corner with a billboard asking people about their place in heaven. I’m referring to the intimate, soul shaping work of feeding the hungry or facing your own demons or sitting with a dying friend. I’m referring to sharing a meal with someone because they need to be loved. What about having that hard conversation that you have been putting off because you know it is going to hurt?

My friends, we only grow when we stretch. And just when you think you can’t possibly stretch anymore, Jesus sends you on a mission that takes a new kind of dependence. That’s what being a Christ follower is all about. It’s not just parking in the lot on Sunday and singing some songs. Don’t get me wrong, I was running back to my church in time to be fed at the Table this morning. We need each other to do this hard work. But this is more than a one hour a week business. We need 24/7/365 engagement because we have a world that is falling apart on our watch. Let’s get uncomfortable together!

After writing Saturday’s post, I have spent quite a bit of time thinking about how my worldview is formed. I love the underdog story. I want to be on the side of the good fight. There is something life-giving about speaking for the voiceless. I feel like I am singing my best song when I do. But what is the real motivation? There is nothing in my life that has transformed my calling to live outside of my own wants more than these words, “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:34-35 (NIV)

I love the scriptures. I read them for instruction and hope. But it is a rare occasion that I quote scripture in my writing. Too many times, I have seen these ancient words used as weapons in the morality wars of Western Christianity. I have instead chosen to embed them in my being so that just as Jesus talked about in this chapter of John, they are the outflow, the overflow, of my life. Rather than leading with proof-text, I have instead chosen to lead with love. My experience shows me that there is never a time that love does not win. It seemed only appropriate that on this day when we celebrate a man who embodied a passionate and profound love for all people, but especially those that were oppressed, that I take a moment to reconsider the why of my actions.

One of my favorite museums is the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, TN. Housed in the Lorraine Motel, visitors have the opportunity to walk in the final steps of Martin Luther King, Jr. There are many of his words that strike a chord in my heart, but one of my favorites is, “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.”  Want to read more on this idea? Enjoy, this is gold. There are countless ways that we can live out love, but in an era of self-preservation and power and pride, I have really had to work on intentionality in active loving.

One of the most profound ways that I have chosen love is to actively seek out stories that are vastly different from my own. It is impossible to hate or attack or even passively avoid them, when issues are no longer issues. When they are people – people that I know and love. When policy and laws have flesh and blood on them, my ability to ignore the impact is decreased.

I wonder, who are you reading or listening to that looks nothing like you? Do you choose to click on the story whose headline makes you feel uncomfortable? You know the one. The one that means that you will have to deconstruct your 43-year-old version of Gospel truth to really love like Jesus. The one that is riddled with ‘that’s not what my parents or grandparents taught me’ moments. We need to be reading more of these stories. I am especially thankful for voices of color, my LGBTQ friends and my faith community that have allowed me space to deconstruct and process.

I am a white, private school raised, upper middle class, privileged girl. I am college educated, not by my own hard work, but because I had parents that set that as a minimum standard and worked to provide that opportunity with little effort on my part. I married a good-looking, smart, tall, educated fellow. Together we live in a suburb with 2 kids and 2 dogs. We are the American dream rolled up into a red brick two-story narrative. It was only after I I was stuck with the reality that life can bite even the picture perfect in the ass, that I realized that I had so much to learn. And to learn at the feet of and in the humble space of a student and not a savior was the only way that I could love my sisters and brothers that have been fighting for a voice for generations. So, with all of the thanks I can offer, I give you three of my best teachers. They ARE the embodiment of Dr. King to me in 2019 as I learn to navigate the great calling of love.

Jeff Chu (@jeffchu)

Kaitlin Curtice (@KaitlinCurtice)

Austin Channing Brown (@austinchanning)

I spend many weekends at swim meets. Most of them start promptly at 9am. Without many exceptions, 8:59am brings a standard announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the National Anthem.” Today was no different. I was a timer on the first shift this morning. This meant that rather than being in the stands with other spectators, I was standing behind the lane 2 starting blocks at 8:59am. As the announcement was made and the movement around me stopped, I turned to face the flag.

I cannot count the number of times that I have heard and sung the National Anthem in my life. As a lover of sports, this is a regular occurrence. My dad is a proud singer of the National Anthem. He harmonizes and brutally critiques when people change or slaughter the tune. I have a tender spot in my heart for that moment, not out of patriotic duty, but out of humble adoration for his harmonies that I have heard in my ear countless times as we stood court or pool side. As the song began today, I swallowed. I miss the days that he is not serenading me with, “Oh, say can you see…”

As soon as I we passed the first line, I had a moment. Fortunately for all of those around me, this moment was in my heart and mind and gut. I had approximately 90 seconds of song left and in that 90 seconds, my thoughts were anywhere but the tune or the rhythm or even whether hands were on hearts or hats were off. I was somewhere entirely different today.

There were more than 800 athletes entered in the meet today. These represented families included people from all areas of town and a cross-section of industry, education and income. All I had to do was look to my left and my right to see faces of every color and background. It was not lost on me that within the 4 walls of the natatorium, I was standing with those that span the entire spectrum of political leanings. Our stories were all so different, yet here we were, all frozen in a two-minute stop for a song that brings up all the feelings for all of the reasons. Here are just a few of the thoughts that were bouncing in my brain:

• I wonder how many people hear this song and immediately think of family members that are deployed serving America in combat?
• I wonder who is listening to this song and grieving that maybe their family story is not “good enough” for this country?
• I wonder if there is a mom or dad that has seen their child suffer because they cannot afford the healthcare that they need?
• I wonder how my friend that is not citizen of the USA hears this song in light of our current political climate?
• I wonder how the law enforcement personal assigned to this meet feel when they see the people who are not standing in protest?

This is my brain. While some were enjoying a melody, I was having an existential crisis. Not for the sake of debate or fussing, but because I genuinely want to make this world better for people. All of the people. Somehow this just feels like a task that gets heavier and heavier. As the song hit the final lines, my thoughts were ping pong-ing and the face standing next to me was the final punch.

I was standing 10″ from the son of a Coast Guard officer. At 12, he has moved around the country for family and country and yet he has spent the last month with talks of shutdown and no pay. In his own way, through his adolescent filter, he has heard stories and lived firsthand what service and sacrifice means. He has also listened to the policy and talking heads, both in the media and in the junior high hallway. He has his own experience with all of these things, but my heart for teenagers kicked open a new wound in that moment.

I can’t fix all that is broken in Washington. I can’t make my furloughed friends receive a paycheck. I can’t give answers to those that feel like the ‘system’ is failing them. And to be gut level honest, on my worst days, I don’t even have certainty about how my vote or advocacy hours make this world any better for the next generation. I get so tired of the grind of speaking up and being shut down.

But I have to keep going. Not because I have it figured out, but because of faces like my 12-year-old swim buddy and my 16-year-old dreaming daughter and my friend that needs to know he is not forgotten in a massive political juggernaut. This is not about any ONE policy. My feelings of overwhelming weight are about all who feel forgotten and lost and hopeless and voiceless. It’s about the overwhelming sense that many of us have that we are pawns in a schoolyard fight rather than humans with flesh and blood and wounds and scars from executive orders and partisan bickering.

My husband is the anti-political to my rhetoric. During most election cycles, I drag him to the polls with the entire ride consisting of the 5 minute recap of a year of research that I have completed on all the issues and candidates. He is polite. He is tolerant. But he rarely engages. Something bizarre has happened in the last two weeks at my house. I have come in (more than once) to him watching a TV report on the day’s events. The REAL problem has been that he is watching these conversations on the WRONG channel. With my ever annoyed tone, I questioned his motives the other day. This was his response. “I need to hear how the other side is going to spin this, too.”

If you know me, you know that this was not well received. But like most things in this family, my passion was met with his thought and together, we are better. I have no doubt that gut check moments like this make think…and change. I wonder how many of us need to flip the station or scroll away from our regular news sources to fact check or knowledge and listen to the viewpoint of others. I know that’s what was inspiring my thoughts today. I wasn’t just thinking about the Americans with whom I agree on policy. I was forced to think about the whole of America.

Years ago I learned about buckets. In an effort to develop my story telling, a mentor shared that he constantly filled buckets with ideas and wisdom, quotes and thoughts so that when he sat down to work, he could pull from the things that moved him. My bucket list is in Notes and I add to it often. When I hit dry seasons or find myself frustrated with a lack of inspiration, I often go to my bucket.

Confession: I am really struggling with our government. So as not to turn this into a political debate, let me be clear. My struggle is with pain and worry that I see on the faces of friends and real life flesh and blood people because of the current climate of our country. You know I love to debate to finer points of policy, but for this discussion, I need you to hear my heart. I’m angry. I’m tired. I’m losing my patience and the little bit of ‘try to be nice and polite’ that I might have. Ok, you know I don’t have more than a baby toe’s worth of nice, but I’m running on past empty.

I have very intentionally made the decision in my life to enjoy the margins. I have found myself on many occasions to be broken and hurting and lonely, and in those times, it has been people that dared to meet me outside of the comfortable that have come to my rescue. In my personal story, in my faith community and in the way that I see the world today, I choose to walk, no run, to hear the stories of those who are forgotten or betrayed or broken. These are my people. We belong to each other and we are better together. This, however, leads me into dangerous waters in 2019. For many in my circle, the world feels scary and unwelcoming and volatile.

As I sat down to write today, I was struggling. I wanted to be able to offer great hope and a promise of new beginnings. But I cannot. Not today. So I did what I do when I feel dry and uninspired. I went to my bucket. Surely there was a quote or a song lyric that could help spark brilliance. There is some quality stuff in my bucket. But I intentionally went back a few years to notes that were dated. And from June of 2015, I found this gem:

Music
Meat
Queso
Chips
Drinks

That’s all it said. And somehow, it was EXACTLY what I needed tonight. Perhaps it was an inspired grocery list (that’s my best guess). But what if it was more? That’s how I am seeing it tonight. I went digging for answers. In my excavation, I was reminded that what I need today is the same thing that I needed in 2015.

Music: I need a good rhythm to my life. I need to enjoy the times when a moment reminds me of happier times (“California Love”) and be ready when the song that plays on my life’s radio is a call to action (“Million Reasons”).

Meat: My FIL is the master meat cooker. When I saw this on the list, I immediately thought of him. Just this week, I have called him twice just to be reminded that I have a team of the best standing beside me when the days are too full. Who is your meat (or your Goat, in my case)?

Queso: My comfort. I am a Texan and when life gets me down, I turn to queso. I no longer need the margarita, but damn, queso is like wound care for my soul.

Chips: All queso needs chips. Chips are my co-conspirators. Who are you going to war with? Be it as I fight for injustice or as I fight for my own life, I need my chips. All of them.

Drinks: While many would think this is an easy item, this is perhaps the most profound for me. There was a time when the drink helped me to forget or “manage” the painful days. But when I saw this, I immediately thought of the last 4 months. In September, I had to once again choose to put down a drink. I know nothing about moderation, and my all day Coke consumption was adding to compounding health problems. So I stopped. For the last few months, I have had to learn to drink to LIVE.

What a weird find. I went searching for a kick-my-butt-out-of-self-pity quote and I found a grocery list. Perhaps I should pay attention to the signs that are all around me. I have what I need to continue to fight, so its time to get busy.