About my book.

The phrase “my book” still feels incredibly strange to say or even type. To be honest, it has never truly felt like mine. I love what one of my favorite authors, Annie F. Downs, says regarding her writing process that she likes to imagine she is simply writing books that are already written on heavenly shelves.

I tend to describe myself as an open book, yet when it comes to this process, both in the constructing and its publication, I have kept it more under wraps than I was even aware of. I shared with a few select people over the past three years that I was working on something and mentioned to a few that publishing might just be a dream. But I have even been taken aback as people have asked questions that I have kept this process so very under wraps. (I have learned my editor would tell you I love the words so and very.) That literally no one but me has read this book, and after signing my publishing contract, my boyfriend shared he didn’t even know what it was about… (oops).

But it’s here. The book that God wrote on my heart will be in your hands soon and very soon. So let me peak open my book for you and answer a few questions.


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TITLE

Let’s Be Real: Cultivating Authenticity in a Journey from Loss to Life

MESSAGE

I would have always told you I had a strongly formed, unshakable faith. Then I lost my Dad. And it was shaken and formless. I begged God by his side day after day for my dad’s healing and restoration. I claimed Scripture and prayed with countless friends and family members as they so graciously came by. But the day I turned 22, really the second I did, my dad’s body took it’s last breath on this earth. My dad. The strong invincible one who could face anything. The one who stood by my side and made me fearless. Gone.

It was severing and quick and the deepest hurt I have ever felt. And God? Must have forgotten. He must have either not seen the life I had lived trying to please Him or just completely not cared and I had no clue how to accept either.

This grief catapulted me into a form of myself more raw than I could have ever imagined. I stripped away lies about my faith, myself, and my family. I saw God not as I wanted Him to be or even hoped He would be, but for who He was. And I walked away more real and with a more real faith than ever before.

PUBLISHER

Morgan James Faith Publications, New York

RELEASE DATES

Be on the lookout for some local signings in the Rome, Georgia and Spartanburg, South Carolina areas. (If you or your church would like to host a signing, let’s talk!)

E-book will release November 2019.

Let’s Be Real will be available in all stores February 4, 2020.

FORWARD

The forward to Let’s Be Real is graciously written by my home pastor, Dr. Don Wilton.


QUESTIONS ASKED:

What made you keep going once you started writing?

To be honest, many days, despair. A deep deep hurt I couldn’t put words to but fighting like hell to eventually see a glimpse of light in the deepest of darkness. Knowing that maybe just maybe God had a purpose for this book and that maybe just maybe it would meet someone one day in the loneliest season I ever experienced.

Who is it for?

Depends on who you ask. I primarily write to believers or those who have a concept for Jesus and Christianity. I specifically fought for this work to be addressed to both men and women as both face grief and disappointment.

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Inconvenient.

There’s never a convenient time to break a dish, but especially when preparing to cook dinner.


I reached into the backseat of my car into my duffle bag to find something to blow my nose on.  Tears poured down my face and my chest hurt deeply for my best friend facing her first Mother’s Day without her precious mama.  And it hurt a little deeper for precious friends who were also facing the day without theirs.

This was a hurt I knew.  I remember my first Father’s Day fatherless.  I sat on one of my best friend’s front porches and wept on his shoulder.  I kept asking him how in the world I could ever face more Father’s Days.  I knew my friend would probably go to sleep that night with a pillow full of tears as would a handful of my other friends wishing they could buy their mama flowers.  That tearful pillow was not just something I could imagine, it was a feeling I knew all too well.


I was trying to cook dinner tonight after a pretty long day at work with lots of questions swimming in my head.  I reached to grab a cutting board to chop up some ginger and garlic when a glass dish fell and shattered all over my kitchen floor.

Everywhere.

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I froze for a second (which is my typical stress response) then grabbed a broom and began sweeping up each and every piece, amazed at how tiny shattered pieces found their way in each nook and cranny of my kitchen.  In one hand, I was thankful no one was hurt, especially the three baby kittens that have found residence in my laundry room (We’ll talk about it later).  I was thankful no one was about to come over and that I didn’t have a living room full of guests, but that thankfulness lasted for about a minute.  I was frustrated, not to mention hungry that I could not even cook a meal without something going wrong.  And this just was not the best time for my kitchen floor to be covered with glass.

As I swept pieces big and small into a dustpan all over my kitchen, I thought of how tired I can feel of cleaning up messes.  Yes, physical ones at times but so much more messes in my heart.  I am tired of weepy drives when I struggle to see the road through the puddles of tears crossing South Carolina state lines, wishing with all my heart when I saw the beautiful state flag flying I didn’t think of the one handed to me next to the casket that held my Daddy’s body.

And the inconvenient grief can hurt the worst.  This week I stood with my coworkers in an activity that was supposed to be fun and exciting that for me required choking back tears.  I’m just tired of explaining why things are hard or triggering.  I’m tired of jumping when I hear certain cadences of beeps in a nearby printer because it reminds me of machines in the hospital that I pretended to understand to fathom together some hope of my Dad surviving.

I’m tired of holding the broken with the blessed.  Of receiving sweet sweet blessings, that somehow prove themselves to be the tipping point that knock my mended heart off the counter and back into a million pieces.

The inconvenient grief is often unexpected.  The moments of pure bliss and joy, of answered prayers, knowing there’s a presence missing in the room.  Of still trying to call him after two years to talk through those questions swimming in my brain.


There’s never a convenient time to be broken.  To hurt and to grieve.  But sometimes the shoe drops, even in the sweetest moments, and the pieces of hurt and reminders of loss scatter deeper and wider than you could have imagined, making the cleaning more detailed and time consuming.

Because glass will always be breakable and we are too, but some of the best dinners are served in glass dishes.


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A few summers ago I was rushing to a work dinner when I hit a curb, causing my tire to deflate.  A dear friend and his family pulled up in their van right behind me for the same dinner.  As he began replacing the deflated tire on my car with my spare, his two oldest daughters came up to me.  The oldest began asking questions of how this happened, how it could be fixed, and if all cars traveled with an extra tire in case you hit a curb?  But the younger came and stood by my side and in every bit of her six year old wisdom looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “Hey Emily Katherine, I’m sorry your car is hurt.”

And I’ve learned these are my two options in those unexpectedly hard moments- to question or to lean in.  To either ask why in the world this had to happen or why ofall moments this had to be the one for me to be upset, or to let myself have the tenderness of my six year old friend, Selah, and just admit that I’m sorry things are the way they are, whether that’s a shattered dish on the kitchen floor at diner time, a hard moment of fighting back tears at work, or a Mother’s Day without a mama.


Thanks for stopping by!

My name is Emily Katherine.  On this page you’ll find lessons I’ve learned through my own story.  You’ll find book reviews and recommendations.  And in between you’ll find a few resources I use in teaching middle school through college students.

I would love to hear from you through your comments!  Click the follow button to stay in touch.

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Unspoken Broken

I’ve been wrestling with this a good bit recently.  It’s been one of those things that keeps swimming around my mind, bumping up against my daily interactions repeatedly, yet I’ve convinced myself I don’t truly have the time to name it.  Which is truly the fear of feeling it.  Of being honest with who I am, where I am, how I feel, and the lies I believe.

The unseen.  The broken.  The ruins.

To know me well is to know I am deeply passionate about deep, honest, and open friendship.  There is no better means to overcome shame and hopelessness than a brave friend saying the words, “me too.”

To advocate for your self, own your presence, and speak honestly about someone’s pointed words and how you experienced them, whether they were purposefully saying what they said or not is holy and sacred work.

Yet, what I’ve been drawn to is the unseen, the unacknowledged, or even the under-acknowledged.  I recently read Unseen by Sarah Hagerty and felt her naming things I had yet had the resources to.  The way some of my struggles and battles have felt unseen, unknown, or under-acknowledged.

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In The Broken Way, Ann Voskamp names these hurts as your own “unspoken broken.”  The battles you face that are forgotten or overlooked.  I have felt and seen the world of “Mommy bloggers” acknowledge so many of these unspoken brokens we carry, especially as women.  Brokenness like infertility and miscarriages or the unseen daily sacrifice and service of changing diaper after diaper and picking up the same toy over and over again.  How real is that.

And how real are our unseen hurts, our unacknowledged sacrifices.  The prayers I can’t count how many times I’ve prayed, without the result I’ve wanted.  The emptiness of grief that feels too sacred to share.  The hurt that’s overshadowed by someone else’s.  The sacrifice it’s better if no one else knows.  But I know.  And you know.

Hiddenness.  How sacred yet how shattering it can be.

Sometimes the bones we hope could remain “unseen” slip out.  Sometimes in a startling way.

His flesh wastes away to nothing,
and his unseen bones stick out.

-Job 33:21

And sometimes we feel known and loved by our Father who knit us together when we were formless.  Who knows our innermost beings.

 Where can I go to escape your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
If I live at the eastern horizon
or settle at the western limits,
10 even there your hand will lead me;
your right hand will hold on to me.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me,
and the light around me will be night”—
12 even the darkness is not dark to you.
The night shines like the day;
darkness and light are alike to you.

13 For it was you who created my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 I will praise you
because I have been remarkably and wondrously made.
Your works are wondrous,
and I know this very well.
15 My bones were not hidden from you
when I was made in secret,
when I was formed in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes saw me when I was formless;
all my days were written in your book and planned
before a single one of them began.

-Psalm 139:7-16

The unspoken hurt, suppression, anger, grief.  The overshadowed emotions, fears, doubts.  The under-acknowledged sacrifices, unmet needs, and untouched wounds.  Unseen.

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It feels hard to touch, to dissect, to understand which unseen things should be brought into the light and which should remain sacred.  I think truly only we know.  And truly only we hold the true weight, depth, and ramifications of our broken heart.  Of the lies that ensue and the whispers that sting like venom in the quietness of the night.

You weren’t enough for him.

You weren’t what she needed.

You’ll never be able to do that.

You’re being dramatic.

 I recently watched the movie Joy on a flight.  Joy is a mother in her thirties barely surviving, raising her children as a single mom and caring for her parents who face some mental illness.  She constantly sacrifices to make ends meet, but has a dream where she remembers how creative she was as a child.  She realizes that for almost 20 years, she’s been hiding.  In the dramatic dream, her twelve-year-old self looks at her and says, “That’s the thing about hiding, you think you’re safe but the truth is that you’re so lost, you’re even hidden from yourself.”

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I’ve played that scene over and over again in my head trying to understand what it is about that scene and that dialogue that struck such a deep chord inside of me that has continuously reverberated into my heart, thoughts, and words.

I think sometimes my unspoken broken has been due to external issues, like someone else’s hurt or someone else’s grief, but the most sacred work I have done in the past two years is walking toward the 12-year-old girl inside of me, peeling back every layer of the ways she has hidden from herself to be safe.  And in that lost herself.

I think holding some things close to our hearts is sacred, but keeping our own hurt from our own heart is the very opposite.

I think acknowledging our own unspoken broken, begins with seeing ourselves, acknowledging our own broken heart, and meeting our own tender souls with the same generous and gracious care we offer to those around us.


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Thanks for stopping by!  My name is Emily Katherine.  On this page you’ll find lessons I’ve learned through my own story.  You’ll find book reviews and recommendations.  And in between you’ll find a few resources I use in teaching middle school through college students.

I would love to hear from you through your comments!  Click the follow button to stay in touch.

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Review of And Still She Laughs by Kate Merrick

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Click image to purchase

I tend to find out about books to read through other author’s recommendations via Instagram or Twitter, but I found this read quite nostalgically.  I was in a strange period of time in my life when I was between books without a queue.  That feels strange to even describe as I now have a stack of at least 20 (no joke).  I channelled my inner Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail and went into a bookstore.  I walked down the aisle and this book caught my eye.  Though familiar with the publisher, I had not heard of the book or its author.  It felt strange to hold a book in my hands rather than read reviews on Amazon.  I remembered lessons from my elementary school librarian and read the back cover and flipped through a few pages.  I was sold and I’m so glad I was.


We all have a story.  We all have tragedies and losses and heartaches and miracles and real life, and while so much of life is glorious, sometimes it gets ugly.  No one is exempt.  We share in this thing called humanity, and I want us to feel– really face head-on– the reality of life with all its pimples and less attractive bits.  I believe it makes the joy more vibrant, the laughter louder and stronger.  So bear with me, cry with me, but please, please, laugh with me.

In this work, Kate Merrick shares about the difficult journey her family faced through her daughter Daisy’s cancer, ultimately ending in Daisy passing away.  She describes the ups and downs of Daisy’s cancer, when she and her husband felt hopeful and hopeless, when she was angry that these were the cards they had been dealt, and when she would lay in bed and hold every precious minute she had with Daisy.

While this read is heart wrenching at times, I was so blessed by Kate’s metaphors for grief.  She described the phenomenon so well and so honestly, even naming some facets of grief I had yet been able to put words to.  She talks honestly and openly about meeting God in the depths of doubt, hurt, pain and bitterness.

Nearness to God results in a banquet of peace beyond understanding, with a heaping side of joy.

Merrick connects her own story and struggle to many women in Scripture who were similarly handed unfortunate cards.  She bravely challenges her readers to move at their own pace, but to keep moving.  To keep pushing on and pushing away the barriers to return to the sweetness and intimacy of God.

If broken Bathsheba can say in Proverbs 31 that an excellent woman laughs at the future, so can I.  If Sarah laughs at the newborn manifestation of the promises of the Lord, then I will too.  Grief is real.  It is intense.  But what is more real, what is more intense, what is eternal is the hope of Christ, the drying of tears, the new heaven and new earth, the final conquering of death.

Through some of the most broken experiences of her life, Kate Merrick nudges readers of And Still She Laughs to shift their perspective from defining God through our circumstances to defining Him through His Word and proven character.  She holds the sacredness of grief and the depths of suffering she has faced, but walks with bravery and honesty into the truth of Scripture that provides the hope with which broken bones can rejoice.


Cwo_36H90YyZDh57ZRc3-wLpbFUXDKAFpDqTD3rIdhQThanks for stopping by!  My name is Emily Katherine.  On this page you’ll find lessons I’ve learned through my own story.  You’ll find book reviews and recommendations.  And in between you’ll find a few resources I use in teaching middle school through college students.

I would love to hear from you through your comments!  Click the follow button to stay in touch.

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Review of Out of Sorts by Sarah Bessey

 

We sort through our mess on the threshold of change.

To know me well is to know my deep adoration of Sarah Bessey, not for her books alone, though Jesus Feminist was extremely influential in my life and story.  I enjoyed her work and commentary so much that I followed her on social media like any good millennial.  When I stumbled upon Sarah and her husband dressed as Sookie and Jackson from Gilmore Girls, the deal was sealed for me.  Sarah Bessey is one of my favorite Christian speakers and writers.  Beyond her love of one of America’s greatest TV shows Sarah is full of wisdom, interjecting Truth both to the global and local church.  She is a precious mama and her Canadian grammar idiosyncrasies grab my attention and wrap her closer around my heart in each read.

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To know me well is also to know how timely Out of Sorts publishing was in my life and story.  I had not yet purchased the book when news spread Sarah Bessey was coming to speak at the college where I work.  Upon the loss of my Dad and the grief that followed I had not picked up a piece of Christian literature in a while, including my Bible.  I was angry and lost but I knew I loved Sarah Bessey, I mean she dressed like Sookie, so I went and could not put to words how thankful I was.  She shared about braving the wilderness of doubts and questions, pressing into our wrestling and never feeling like we need to protect God.  It felt like a scene in a movie when the lights go off in a room and one single light was on me.  At a time when I felt completely missed, I felt completely seen and understood by her words.  I waited in line to speak with her afterword and shared about her voice in my life and story and how sweetly the Truth God laid on her heart had met me that night.

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But you didn’t come here to hear me fan girl about Sarah, you came to hear about Out of Sorts.


Real life is the undignified life and it is the classroom for holiness.

Sarah Bessey begins this book by describing the process of cleaning out her grandmother’s attic upon her passing.  She then opens up to describe the “sorting” of our faith and theology that grief brings.  Grief of losing a loved one, grief of hurt from a friend, grief of a divorce, or grief of losing a job.

She shares of her own journey of walking away from the Church for years as she questioned her faith while her husband was still working in ministry.

She unpacks the preconceived notions about faith and ministry she and her husband carried for years, without ever bringing them into the light of analyzing their true weight or faithfulness to Scripture’s call.

Out of Sorts is honest about the difficult tension of holding allegiance to the evangelical church amidst watching many actions and decisions taken and made in the name of Jesus and disagreeing with them deep in our bones.  How do we reconcile the Church we claim and the Church we are ashamed of?

She speaks of taking off the cape and crown of being a modern, evangelical hero and learning to be the faithful friend that brings over dinner when a friend just had a baby.  In a world that applauds those who take big steps of faith in obedience to move and sacrifice, she affirms those who stay, who brave it out in movements that are slow to change.

I believe we don’t give enough credit to those who stay put in slow to change movements.

 


I recently listened to a podcast by Annie Downs, in which, she encouraged us to pay attention to the trends of Christian books as they represent the heart of believers.  Recently, especially within women’s circles there were trends of bravery and courage and more recently friendship and finding your “tribe”.  I have found this idea of real sorting, of reaching back to the broken places to be a recent trend in Looking for LovelySearching for SundayOut of Sorts, and more classically The Inner Voice of Love.

We are in a unique age in the Church.  A changing age.  A time of sorting, reorganizing, and reorienting.  Sarah Bessey sets an incredible stage through her own story of how we on and individual level and collective level can truly sort our faith, returning to the often hidden Truths of Scripture’s true call.

 


 

dalton-31Thanks for stopping by!  My name is Emily Katherine.  On this page you’ll find lessons I’ve learned through my own story, primarily in the sudden loss of my precious Dad on my 22nd birthday.  You’ll find book reviews and recommendations.  And in between you’ll find a few resources I use in teaching middle school through college students.

I would love to hear from you through your comments!  Click the follow button to stay in touch.

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10 things to say to a grieving friend

1. “You can only be where you are.”

My counselor said these words over and over to me as I kept feeling like I should have made some kind of peace with my grief, I should have found some kind of purpose in it, or I should feel like I could go a day without a splitting headache. Shoulds can be really loud sometimes, but what wise friends shared with me in the pit of grief was I could only be where I was.  If that meant that day I was angry, that day I would be angry.  If it meant that day I wanted to cry, I would cry.  And if it meant that day I just needed to do something mindless, that was okay too.

2. “You’re going to disappoint people.”

Any experience with true grief is an experience of disappointing those around you. Expectations will go unmet and obligations unfulfilled and while I often carried this guilt, I learned that to truly hold my grief often meant not having space to hold ways I had previously shown up.

In her book Out of Sorts, Sara Bessey states that “We sort our lives on the threshold of grief.”  Something about grief, about seeing the frailty and brevity of life changes us.  It makes us.  Often for a time it sends us searching but it always leads us to new understandings and perspectives, also manifesting in new parts of ourselves.  A friend shared with me that this sorting of ourselves on the threshold of grief is like rearranging your house.  While we are reevaluating and moving around the furniture for its best, practical use, if a friend comes in to sit down on the couch where they have always sat, they will fall to the floor.  Becoming new versions of ourselves means not showing up in ways we always have.  Honest grief will cause you to disappoint people and it is a season, in which, they can only be understanding.  Their season will one day come.

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3. “That makes sense to me.”

No more gracious words graced my ears for the summer months of 2016 than these. When I would share the deep pains of my heart, the big questions that kept me up at night, or the fears I had facing the future, some would try to start statements with “at least” or quote scripture to me, but blessed friends would look at me with love and say the most honoring words “That makes sense to me”.

4. “I love you.”

Simple enough but goes the longest way. Your words won’t fix the hurt, but your continued loving presence will minister so much more than any words ever could.

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5. “I’m so sorry.”

Affirming the hurt and not trying to fix it. Saying you’re sorry to a grieving person makes room for them to sit in their pain in your presence.

 

6. “I’m here for you.”

When you need it and when you’re ready, even if that isn’t right now. I’m here for you leaves room for them to best define how they need you rather than assuming.

7. “Where do you see God right now?”

This one is not for the faint of heart due to the extremely honest nature of the depths of grief. You may be met with “I don’t. I literally can’t even begin to think about him.”  And you may be answered with “everywhere and in it all.”  But making room for them to share and wrestle with their walk with God when you aren’t afraid if their wrestling, anger, or doubt is an incredible way to care for those who are grieving.

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8. “That’s really brave.”

When someone is honest about the questions they are wrestling with or the doubts they have in their theology, rather than answering their questions, sitting with them in the asking and affirming their courage makes you an extremely safe place.

9. “How are you?”

They key to this question is to not stop asking. “How are you?” “What does grief look like for you right now?”  not only the week after a loved one is lost but in the months to come.  Remember the anniversaries and birthdays.

10. “It’s not lost on me.”

This is one of my favorite lines Coach Taylor on Friday Night Lights would say to a hurting player. He would look into a young man’s broken eyes and compassionately share “It’s not lost on me” that you’re hurting, that you’re angry, that you don’t know what’s going on.  Friends who remember your grief and bring awareness in a caring and private way are friends whose ministry is never forgotten.


 

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Thanks for stopping by!  My name is Emily Katherine.  On this page you’ll find lessons I’ve learned through my own story, primarily in the sudden loss of my precious Dad on my 22nd birthday.  You’ll find book reviews and recommendations.  And in between you’ll find a few resources I use in teaching middle school through college students.  I would love to hear from you through your comments!  Click the follow button to stay in touch.

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Fall can be beautiful again.

While I will immediately claim many of my “basic white girl tendencies”, I have never been one to freak out about Fall, at least as much as many of my friends.  I remember my freshman year in college feeling like everyone around me was truly worshipping Fall, collecting leaves, putting pumpkin in every possible thing you could dream of, and wearing scarves while it would still reach 80 degrees each afternoon in Northwest Georgia.

 

 

 

Don’t get me wrong, there are so many things I love about Fall.  My favorite festival my sweet little town hosts takes place on a brisk weekend in October full of kettle corn, homemade fudge, beautiful pottery, jewelry, and precious familiar faces.  Each time I pull into the gravel parking lot and open my door to smell the kettle corn and hear the local music being played my heart jumps like I’m riding the ferry across the lake into Magic Kingdom.  Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  Each Thanksgiving I wake up, make my first cup of coffee and sit to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and typically cry due to just how much I love that day.

But I would never be the one in line the moment Starbucks opens on September 1 to get my first pumpkin spice latte.

Yet, this year the magic of Fall hit me.

I am a summer girl.  I love the beach, sandals, pineapple La Croix, watermelon, and just how much simpler and lighter all of life feels.  I love that anytime spent outside is typically spent on the water and I love that vacation is so encouraged.

September to me is usually a reminder the school year has fully set in and honestly since I was 10 been the mark of volleyball season being in full swing.  Somehow though, on labor day I found myself at Target (praise hands!) purchasing a new mustard cardigan, grey nail polish, and pieces to make my Fall table arrangement (I have a new fascination with my table being decorated appropriately for each season).  I bought a small pumpkin from the dollar section, a mustard felt leaf from the home section, and searched all around for whatever Fall pieces I could find.  I even considered buying a PSL from the Starbucks at the front of the store when I left.  WHO AM I?

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I remember how much Fall really felt like a punch in the gut last year.  It already felt like death was at the forefront of my mind, having just lost my Dad less than 6 months before September.  Then, death was everywhere.  So colorfully proclaiming on each and every limb of every tree on the 3 mile empty road I take to my office every morning, shouting how deeply death takes effect.  How intricately.  How it changes everything.  I just couldn’t celebrate it.

So I came home following my Target trip and put out my Fall decorations, even lighting a cinnamon candle.  But it hit again.  The death amidst it all.  No matter how much I loved the decorations on my table, it didn’t cover up the mess in the living room.  The wedding shower invitations I haven’t RSVPd to, the crumbs on the kitchen counter, the leftovers that need to be thrown out, the laundry that needs to be done.  Then, brokenness continued to set in throughout the week in the lives of my people.  How deeply death takes effect.  How intricately.


So last night I found myself determined to not let myself sit down unless I deep cleaned the entire house.  I was going absolutely insane to see death and darkness and brokenness be anywhere else in my life.  I was tired of everything feeling out of control.  If you know me well, you know how deep my deep cleaning can go.  And it did.

I began wiping off counters and putting dishes in the dish washer and soon found myself organizing every piece of Tupperware we have and making sure it had an appropriate lid, folding every blanket we own, and eventually take each and every cushion of our outdoor furniture on our screened in porch and giving it a bath.

I mean a deep bath.  When I told one of my best friends about this, she laughed until she cried.  And now that I’m sharing this, I’m sure so many of you will have ways I could have done this so much better, but it was 11:00pm and I was determined to get it done.  I filled my bath tub with water and laundry detergent, took each cushion one at a time and submerged it into the soapy water.  I pressed and pressed for it to absorb every bit of soap it could.  I held it against the wall and let the shower rinse it, applying more pressure to let the soap out.  Then, I drained the cushion, which was very heavy at this point, as best as I could.

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Somewhere along the way in this process, I was absolutely soaked, along with my bathroom floor, and pressing that cushion against the wall to get all the soap out became deeply spiritual.  I found myself working some anger out in that process that came from deep deep inside that I couldn’t even name.  But I leaned into it.  Eventually I was soaked and sweating with a disgusting bath tub, but let me assure you these cushions are CLEAN.

Clean.  Free of the death it had previously been filled with.

Death I know your sting.  I know your intricacy and I know your defeat. 
And I needed to feel that defeat.  To feel all of the anger in my body well up inside of me and get these cushions as clean as they every could be.

I hate death.

And last Fall as each leaf screamed to me of death’s fury I just felt powerless to it.  I felt like it won.  Read more about last fall for me here.

But last night I needed to win.  And I am sitting in my pristine house today, knowing in about 2 hours it won’t be perfect and I’m okay with that.  But celebrating that Fall is beautiful, that I love a cinnamon dulce latte, and that

DEATH HAS LOST ITS STING.

That as each little leaf so beautifully puts its innermost glory on display then falls to its death, as each tree lays barren over the winter, draped and dusted in snow, creation knows it hasn’t lost.  It isn’t defeated.  It is not scared to hope that new growth and new life will come when the first bird of Spring sings its song.

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