Hearth & Hive

I wanted a dress for Christmas this year. A new dress. Specifically velvet. There’s just something so Christmassy about a velvet dress. And, realistically, my inner child was delighted by the thought of a twirly emerald or ruby velvet dress.

But this year wasn’t the Christmas for a new dress, velvet or otherwise. Little Ya-ya (thanks, Dad) was sorely disappointed on Christmas Sunday. Don’t we all want to present our best selves to Jesus?

Leaning over the bathroom sink to swipe on a brush of mascara, my Jesus whispered right down deep into the depths of my soul:

I came to a messy manger, an unstable stable, and animal salivated swaddling cloths. There was no velvet, no bows, no finery. Just come as you are. I just want your heart. Let go of perfectionism. I came to an imperfect place, a dirty place, to show you that outward purification is no longer required to have access to God. I am the way, the ladder, the bridge. Come as you are.

I’d searched, tried on, bought, returned velvet dresses, and ultimately ended up mismatched. Imperfect. Nothing matched; my decade old skirt had a hole. Lily forgot her glittery Christmas shoes, and we were walking up to the church doors before I realized she’d put on her clunky, muddy snow boots. She’d left her fancy hat behind. We came as real and authentic as we really are. No best foot forward. No hiding behind velvet and pretenses. Real. Vulnerable.

And no matter because Christmas Sunday was unforgettable. For the first time, I really grasped that in His freedom, I am indeed free. I can simply come as I am.

We’d been taking a peek into the untold stories of Christmas this season at church. Christmas Sunday, pastor unraveled the excruciatingly difficult stories of Mary and Joseph. Their stories that morning wove perfectly into the loving whisper-message Jesus had shared earlier that morning. Everything was as if orchestrated just for me. So personal. So beautiful.

Standing to worship my Jesus, I looked down to see a rainbow there on my boot. A promise. A sign that He’ll always meet me there in my mess, bringing light, bringing beauty. Perhaps it’s when we’re most vulnerable, most imperfect, most real that Jesus can most easily break through to share His love-gifts. He doesn’t want to see the velvet and bows; He wants to see me. He doesn’t want my best self; He just wants me. As I am.

My sister and I were talking this morning about dreams, how upon waking, differentiating between dreams and reality is often difficult. Dreams can be so real. I’m a vivid dreamer—both in nighttime dreams and daydreams. I’ve always been a dreamer, a dreamer who dreams big dreams. Some in my life haven’t appreciated that aspect of my quirky personality (hello enneagram type 4!), and have shattered some of those big dreams until they lay at my feet like tiny, dangerous shards from a broken vessel.

Those devastated dreams, sharp and cutting, can be just as wounding. Because in all the broken places, along all the razor-sharp edges and jagged points, fear creeps in. Fear is suffocating. Once you’ve repeatedly heard “you could never do____,” or “you could never be____,” or my most painful cut, “you’ll never make it in life,” you bury those wounds deep inside until you believe them, and the messages become a part of you, a part of you that desperately needs tender healing.

Working with clay is one of my big dreams. But, I let fear squelch my curiosity, until my dream faded—faded, but didn’t die. A couple months ago, I began The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron course. Immediately, the pottery dream sparked to life. It was kismet, really. Curious again, I explored different classes and avenues to fulfill my clay-working dream.

On a bright Saturday morning, I dressed in play clothes and set off alone to make my dream reality. I was nervous, but this time, my curiosity and enthusiasm won. Drawing strength from my therapy, the Mister, and resilience in my identity in God, I did it!

Just a short walk into my pottery journey, a plethora of lessons have lodged themselves into my heart—the most important being:

DREAM BIG! Never, ever give up on your precious dreams. Stay curious. Walk in wonder. Embrace and love the imperfections because this is where uniqueness is birthed.

A sphygmomanometer and stethoscope. These two devices check blood pressure, a vital sign for life. Who knew that something potentially life-saving could be a source of severe anxiety, and, well, terror, really?

An ordinary Monday morning, a routine physical doctor appointment, and a very unexpected high blood pressure reading created a whole lot of unnecessary chaos in our lives. Worry will do that. And really, that doctor appointment blood pressure wasn’t even that abnormal. My brilliant nurse practitioner wasn’t concerned. But I panicked. And I obsessed. And it all escalated from there.

Fear. You can trust me (and learn from me) that fear can be disastrous. I knew that I’d taken an anti hypertensive since pregnancy, so about five years. And fear started screaming at me, “You’re dying. Something catastrophic is wrong. There’s no way your blood pressure could be high when you’re medicated. You’re going to stroke. You probably have heart issues. Oh, maybe you’re creating an aneurysm. You’re never going to see Lily grow up.” Fear is relentless.

The following Sunday morning, I grabbed my old sphygmomanometer and lavender stethoscope and did a manual blood pressure reading on myself. 180/120!? Impossible. I shrugged it off as old instruments, but asked the Mister to stop on the way home from church to buy a digital monitor. After sitting still, doing those deep breaths, and rechecking, the numbers were still alarming. Panic. Worry. Mental games. In my pajamas, I grabbed my purse, coat, and keys, and informed Rudy I was going to a clinic.

Long story short, my focused worry caused me to lose focus on reality and landed me in the emergency room. That visit did nothing except cause financial worry. See the spiral here? Worry’s a bit like the snowball effect. Back to the doctor the next day, anxiety was diagnosed as the cause for hypertension. We adjusted and added medications, but the worry and fear stayed. Several people reached out to check on me, and their kindness meant so much. One of those people was Ira Konstantinik, who was a former student of my father’s in Ukraine. I’ll introduce Ira in a bit. When I visited Ira’s Instagram page to reply to her sweet message, her bio statement grabbed my heart. Ira had written there:

Let me die living, not live dying.

Let that sink in. Re-read it slowly. See, I’d not only let fear rule, but I became almost catatonic. Everything I did, I did from a death perspective. I’d think, “If I eat that, I’ll die. My blood pressure will never be normal. I’m not going to be able to mother Lily. I’d better not do that exercise and her my blood pressure up.” Then, I read Ira’s life statement over and over and over until that message replaced Fear’s messages. Why? Why did it impact me so much?

Well, let me introduce you to Ira.

Ira is a very young wife and mother. A decade ago, she and her husband traveled to Papua New Guinea to share Jesus in numerous ways with their newfound family.

The Konstantinik family grew.

They heal wounds and touch hearts.

I’ve prayed for Ira and her family as they awaited tribal unrest and clashes. Ira didn’t go to PNG to change those she met, only to bring Jesus and peace to their hearts. If she were sitting here, I’m certain Ira would tell us that she’s been the one changed. Ira lives like, eats like, dresses like, and worships like her very big new family. And, yes, many hearts know Jesus because Ira doesn’t become catatonic in danger. She doesn’t live dying. No, Ira will die living!

Make a warm cup of tea, find a comfy seat, and let’s sit down with Ira and visit her world. In her own words, read how Ira dies living. Welcome, Ira!

WHAT IS PNG?

✔ PNG is when you walk on the street and the truck drivers give you a signal, just because they are happy to see you. 🚚

✔ PNG is when you walk into someone’s house just to say hello and end up having a heavy dinner with loads of roasted sweet potato, greens and very VERY sweet tea. 🍌

✔ PNG is when you stand at the market place, open your Bible and after 30 seconds there is a crowd listening.📖

✔ PNG is when you do EVERYTHING (laundry, marketing, walking, showering… Etc etc) always with someone pointing at you and exclaiming, “ayo ayo lukim” (look at that, look at that!)😳

✔ PNG is when someone comes to get medicine and when you ask him, what’s wrong, he’d just say “I am sick”. And that “sick” could mean ANYTHING – from the running nose, to Typhoid.😷

✔ PNG is when you just compliment someone for his shirt and end up getting this very shirt. AND the bilum. AND the cap.😎

PNG is when you go to town just for one hour to get the things done but come back late in the afternoon, because you speak with everyone you meet on the road- as long as possible. The last one is the bus driver, who’ll possibly tell you the whole story of his family. You might end up invited to his village and you even might actually go there.🙈

✔ PNG is when you go to the store to buy rice, but you happen to meet your friend standing right in front of the store so you both end up spending your rice money for coke and flour balls. 😱

✔ PNG is when you walk miles into the jungles expecting to see half naked tribesmen and end up seeing people making selfies on the latest Samsung phone (yeah and if it happens that they want to post it, they have to take a 4 hours hike to catch the low network signal).📳

PNG is when people have at least 10 facebook profiles with the names such as “Lewa blo yu” (your friend), Smel pukpuk blo Sepik (Stinky crocodile from the Sepik province) etc etc and they all send you a 100 friend requests every day, all from the different accounts.📲

✔ PNG is when you dance in church, just because you are happy that God saved you.🙌

✔ PNG is when you need to be ready to preach ALWAYS, you never know when and where you’ll have to share, so just hold your message ready at all times.🙏

↪ We’ve been sharing on the road, at the market, in the church, under the banana tree or in the coffee garden, during the heavy rain, thunderstorm or extremely hot sun.⚡⭐🌄🌃⛈⛅🌋🌞

You never know where God would lead you and when and how He would speak to you, so you just keep your ears open always.👑

What you learn is that EVERYDAY is Sunday, EVERYWHERE is church and EVERYONE needs God’s love.

WHY-

…We were walking (read: hiking, climbing….) for like 7 hours now, almost half-way through our whole-day journey in the jungles. A team of 5, crazy enough to reply HERE I AM to God’s eternal question, WHO.

I look down at my blistered and bloody feet and smile, surely THAT is exactly what Isaiah meant speaking of beautiful feet of those who bring the Good tidings.

Thats what we do. We bring Gospel along with the medical supply to the remote area of Asiki, Menyama province in Papua New Guinea – to get there you buy K50 fare for an 8 hour ride in a land cruiser to get you to “who-knows-where” and then you just walk. We did 12 hours, could have walked 2, 3 days or 2, 3 weeks, still the same.

There is no store. (like, I MEAN IT. NOT at all!). No one owns a car. Again, I DO mean it. NO ONE! No electricity, no hospitals, but there are witchdoctors everywhere.

“How long you guys need to walk to get to an aid post?” – we ask.

The elderly man does not know the answer to “how long”. He can’t read, write or count, so he replies simply:

“If we leave our village on the sunrise, we’ll get to an aid post on the sunset”.

There ARE schools there, though. On our way we passed through at least two Primary schools. To build the school house, the classrooms for all 8 grades, the people from the villages had to CARRY the bags of cement, iron posts, iron sheets for the roof ON THEIR SHOULDERS for at least 10 hours, through the mountains and rivers.

So we were there, walking towards Asiki – far enough to be tired, close enough to feel even more determination. On the way we met kids. Children there are something else, they do not smile neither cry. No noise at all! As a mother of two, I could hardly believe it is actually possible for a child, not to show any emotion at all.

It took us a whole lot of time and effort to make them smile and even more, laugh.

After they were gone (which took us again, a whole lot of trickery), I looked up at our pastor Joshua.

Tired as much as me, all the boys in our team, like real brothers, took care of me during this journey, always helping me to climb a mountain or walk through a feet-wide log “bridge”, or just made me laugh and forget about the sore feet.

“Why – I ask him, letting out what I’ve been thinking of for the past hours – Why God sees us so special that He did put us where we have an abundance of things, but these people – I had to stop to catch a breath, calming my heartache – why these children have so little?”

Pastor just nods his head, no words needed. I know his heart aches same as mine, but little we can do.

Upon arrival we went right off – all the sick people and everyone who needed prayer were brought to us. Lots, lots of them. Hundreds of people are just lost in the middle of nowhere.

“What is your biggest need?” – we asked them.

Owning nothing at all, exeeding our expectations, everyone at the same time, they yelled: “BIBLES… WE WANT BIBLES!!!!”

Our last evening in Asiki. For the couple days we spent there, we had no time to rest or eat, walking from one village to another, climbing just one more mountain, praying with just one more soul.

The village elders look straight into my eyes (which is not common for PNGeans).

“WHY – he asks, tears in his eyes make my heartache almost unbearable – Why do you need to leave so soon? Why don’t you teach us more? Why?”

WHY. His question rings like a bell in my ears, resounding in my heart even though a month passed by since then.

I went to Menyama and came back. They are still there. Why. I sleep at the queen size bed, with the finest linens, they sleep on the floor, a piece of wood for a pillow, no blanket or bedsheet at all. Why.

I can go to church of my choice and enjoy the best time of worship and dig deep into God’s word, they are eager and so ever hungry for a small “God loves you” talk.

Why. What. How….WHO.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”

Isaiah 6:8

Much thanks to Ira for sharing her heart and life.

I’m half a world away, and Ira has touched my life. Yes, I still have anxiety around that dreaded blood pressure monitor. Yes, I still have hypertension. Yes, we just increased medication not even an hour ago. But, fear no longer controls me, because, like Ira, I want to die living, not live dying. I’ve had pizza, gone sledding, did my workouts, shared my heart and love, reached out to others, and spent time with my family. Because I want to live!

I’m able to die living because I released the paralyzing fear to the Healer Jesus. When I choose to give my life instead of hold onto it, I’m able to die living. After all, Jesus himself said He came to give life and give abundant life (John 10:10).

Since May, I’ve had ever so many thoughts and memories I’ve longed to share, but life happened and days grew long and busy. One of my tasks, a prioritized favorite, is tending my gardens. In the front garden, beneath the canopied trees, is my woodland garden. There, you’ll find varieties of ferns, Jack-in-the-pulpit, yarrow, bleeding heart, trillium, trout lilies, columbine, and bluebells woven among other woodland plants. In the back yard is the kitchen garden full of vegetables. Along the fence near the beehives is my witch (medicinal) garden, tea garden, and kitchen herb garden. Behind the kitchen garden is the pollinator garden for our serenity and a haven for birds, butterflies, and bees. Then, of course, there are flowers and grapes and trees. Gardening and preserving the harvest keeps me busy, thus, a blog neglected.

Apothecaries thrill me. If there’s ever an old village museum, I head for the apothecary. Plants and their healing properties is magical, really. So, I’ve been in the process of building an apothecary in my home. Herbs and plants have been harvested. Now, I’m putting them into sweet jars and bottles until I’m ready to use them. Some will be blended into teas, others into salves and tinctures. There’s something so pure and primal about the old ways of healing. And, I’m a healer, so I’m drawn to the old and natural. Real magic. Healing tea.

For a while now, I’ve followed lovely Rose (Nolemire) on social media. She inspired me to tend my blog as I carefully tend my garden–in other words, to keep up with it. For as long as I can remember I’ve carried so many words inside. Instead of speaking, I’ve tucked the stories down deep inside. They’re finding their way out now. Thank you, Nolemire, for sharing your creativity, your words, your beauty, and your inspiration. I love how you said in your blog that your words there are like a diary you share with the world.

There’s just something about September isn’t there? As summer’s end greets autumn’s beginning, another season begins. Harvest is slowing, and we’re beginning the slower, softer storage season. Like the animals, this is a time to store up and prepare for winter’s sabbath.

September, autumn’s birth month, is a time to slow, savor, and practice self-care. Self-care doesn’t mean caring selfishly about your self. Not at all. Self-care instead refers to caring for one’s mental, physical, and spiritual wellbeing. Think of it like this, if you’re rushed, starved, dehydrated, lonely, and spiritually exhausted, then you’re going to be sick. When you’re sick, you’re unable to give your best self to those who need you. I love the analogy of the teapot: an empty teapot cannot fill empty teacups. However, if the teapot itself is full, then the teapot may pour out refreshing tea to fill teacups. If I’m properly nourished and balanced physically, spiritually, and mentally, then I can offer my best self to others.

And let me tell you—last month, I was far from my best self. Ask those who live with me; it wasn’t pretty. Harsh words spewed from a raised voice that no princess of grace should ever speak. Guttural cries rooted in an anguished soul. I was imbalanced. I’d stopped caring for myself. So, trying to squeeze just a drop of refreshment from a withered, empty self, I cracked. Shattered would probably be more accurate.

Here we are, then. September. As Autumn is birthed, it’s a re-birth of sorts for me too. A re-set.

This month, this season, I’m committed to not only storing up for winter, but also for re-storing balance in my life. Restoration. Whole. Balanced. Complete. Full.

My Re-storing Plan:

• Nourish my body with whole, healing foods
• Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate
• Have daily tea times and rituals
• Journal, read, write
• Slow down, way down
• Linger long at family meals
• Take time to listen
• Practice yoga daily
• Forget power walks and take meditative nature walks
• Follow the sun for sleep rhythms
• Eat seasonally
• Be quiet and still; listen for God
• Do things that make me happy
• Find ways to make others smile
• Forgive; release resentment
• Date my husband
• Write long letters
• Say no when needed
• Stick to my housework routine so as not to grow overwhelmed
• Light candles
• Take long, hot soaks in the tub

Here we are mid-August, riding on the tail end of summer, hanging on for dear life. Hanging on to unscheduled days, dripping ice cream cones, sweet iced tea, sunny days in the water, weekends camping, and nights snuggled together stargazing. This is that rhythm filled season. Long summer days are blending into long autumn nights. Temperatures and weather patterns cycle again. And, children are returning back to classrooms in some form or other.

A lover of learning, I’ve always looked forward to the back to school time. The smell of brand new sharply pointed crayons, crisp blank notebooks full of promise, squeaky clean shoes, organized backpacks, and brilliantly colored pens excite me. The thing that thrilled me the most, though, was that stack of textbooks filled cover to cover with knowledge just waiting to be learned. My curious four-year-old shares my love for learning. She, too, is eager for the back to school season.

Back to school shopping was always an end-of-summer highlight for me. Okay, I admit it–I still love all the aisles of school supplies. I love it so much that before we had Lily, I went a little crazy buying just about every back to school item you can imagine for our niece and nephew. Maybe I just wanted for someone else to be as excited about education.

But it was excessive. The required supply lists schools deliver are excessive. All the varieties and choices and “must-haves” are, well, too much. Way too much. When did we suddenly need scented, color-changing, glow-in-the-dark markers? Who decided the need for three kinds of scented notebooks? And have you been to the notebook aisle?! It’s now plural. A-i-l-e-s. Where did this need–or greed–come from? Entitlement. We have grown into such an entitled society. No longer do we work for things we need or work to improve or enjoy, now, we are groomed to just expect having bigger and better, more and most.

Kristen Welch, founder of Mercy House Global, shares how her family tackled entitlement in her book Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World. Haven’t read it? You should! My eyes have been opened not only to how entitlement actually disservices my child, the difference between needs and conveniences, but also how there is a sense of entitlement in my own life.

So, this year we’re doing things differently. Instead of spending hundreds of dollars on new, more, and convenience, we’ve sharpened last year’s pencils and crayons, moved around furniture to give an updated feel to the tiny classroom space, focused on natural elements, and handmade decorations. And, you know what? Lily is perfectly contented. She hasn’t complained once. The only thing she’s asked for is more books (hmmm, sounds like her grandfather and mother)! Instead of immediately giving in to her wants, she understands that she must earn new books by completing chores and saving her money.

Have you ever packed a backpack of school supplies for a student of a lesser developed country? Over a decade ago, I sat cross legged on a cold, hard floor in Guatemala. Our team formed a small assembly line, and we packed backpacks of basic school supplies for children there. There were no pineapple scented notebooks or glow-in-the-dark markers included, but I’ll never forget the sheer joy on those sweet, brown faces. Entitled, no; they were sincerely grateful. Those children, living in box-sized, tin-roofed homes didn’t have any concept of entitlement, but they knew real joy.

When you need more and more to satisfy, essentially, you’re never satisfied. You have nothing. When you have nothing and can still smile, you have everything.

Last year’s crayons still color. We’ve eliminated extra and excess. Lily’s seen a different perspective and is learning gratitude and that it’s okay to be different. She’s learning that instead of getting more when she has all she needs, to instead give more to those who truly need. She’s discovered the happiness of choosing items to send to a child who doesn’t have school supplies and the fun of filling up a grocery bag for someone who is hungry. Maybe you’re ready for that deep, satisfying joy that gratitude brings and the relief that comes from overcoming entitlement. Dare to swim against an entitled culture. It’ll be worth it.

A couple weeks ago, my friend, Jen Hutson published an article about entitlement. Because I’d been thinking so much about our entitled culture and the way children are being affected, I was thrilled to see her article and read about our entitled society from her perspective. Jen offers practical advice, and its with her permission that I’m including a link to her article here. Thanks so much, Jen!

https://coramdeo-in.com/adversity-sowing-fruit-in-your-childs-garden/

Dear Lily Willow,

Mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. Neither of these foods are frequent in my diet, but the week I conceived you, that’s all I ate. For an entire week, Daddy took me out for mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. I was too nauseated to cook. After four weeks of symptoms similar to ovarian cancer, I was certain I’d developed late stage ovarian cancer. Mommy has PCOS. You’ll learn a lot about that as you grow up, especially because you have an increased risk due to genetics. But, that night, after dinner out, I desperately asked Daddy to take me to buy a pregnancy test on the way home. I didn’t expect to be pregnant; I just wanted to rule out everything before seeing a doctor. Back at home, I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and nervously completed the test. Anxious, I covered the test to keep me from staring at it. Daddy knocked on the door and asked if I was ok. Finally the three hours, er, three minutes was up, and there were two thin pink lines. Pregnant. Positive. I was stunned. After I recovered from the shock, I screamed, “Rudy!!! It says positive!” We were so happy we cried.

Those symptoms weren’t ovarian cancer, but you, Lily. God placed a beautifully perfect little miracle girl inside me. And we loved you deeply before we even knew you. Except we knew that even in utero, you had a taste for mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, cheeseburgers, and milkshakes.

I remember everything about your birth, your journey into this wide, wonderful world. I’d made veggie burgers that night. Sitting where you sit to eat now, I felt this strange, jarring pain. After feeling the tight cramp twice more with increasing length and frequency, I was fairly certain you were getting ready to be welcomed to the world. I called Nommy, and she came down, and I called my doctor. I remember feeling calm as Nommy was getting ready to drive us to the hospital. Daddy, though, was not calm at all! He was so nervous, Lily. You’d laugh if we could go back to that night and see Daddy! He was in such a hurry and so anxious that he forgot his shoes!

I remember contractions so intense I’d vomit with every one. And you know, I still can’t eat veggie burgers! I remember being exhausted with the long hours of laboring, but being unable to sleep because I was so excited to meet you. And I remember having to hold that last push until Dr. Moon could get to our room. And, finally, finally, I remember pushing the final time, pausing so Dr. could untangle your cord, and feeling you, my precious baby, skin to skin on my chest.

I remember the unrivaled joy I felt as I held you and whispered, “my baby” in sacred wonder. We were so happy we cried.

We wanted you so badly. We prayed and prayed for you. And, today, you’re four years old. You’ve made these four years some of the best of our lives, and, really, it’s almost impossible for me to remember life without you. You’re growing into such a kind, thoughtful little girl. And, it’s my honor to teach you, but I’m humbled by all that you teach me. I admire your generous heart, your passionate soul, your zeal for learning, your kindness, your thoughtfulness, your love of Jesus, and your wild-tender spirit.

Lily, when you lived in my belly, I dreamed of having a little girl to follow me around the garden, pick flowers and catch butterflies, and splash in puddles with me. You are even more than all my dreams. Even at your young age, you already understand in the simplest ways about Mommy’s and Daddy’s struggle with infertility; I want you to know that even though we’re sad sometimes, you are enough.

You are more than enough. Don’t ever forget that, little honeybee.

And don’t ever forget that I love you bigger than the whole sky and more than all the stars in that sky. You are so loved, precious one. For those who never make an effort to get to know you or who make you feel uninvited, never let it hurt your heart or bruise your spirit. It’s their loss. You are an otherworldly delight.

I so dearly love your sense of wonder and imagination! Your humor is charming. One day, I hope you read this and smile–today, on your fourth birthday, I told you that you were my present. Confused, you said, “I am not a present!” I explained that when God put you in my belly, you were the best present ever. You asked, “when I popped out, did I come in wrapping paper?” Oh, life with you is a marvelous adventure, Lily Willow, and I’ll always have mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese just for you.

I love you always. Happy Birthday.

Love, Mommy

I woke up this morning disoriented. Yesterday was a beautiful grey, drizzly day that made our verdant grass and budding trees look so much more vibrant. When God paints grey skies and blends that with spring green grass, the masterpiece is breathtaking. The Mister was home, rain day for lawn care. So, I woke at the foot of our bed, snuggled next to Miss Bentley, with morning sun filtering through the lace curtains, confused. “Isn’t it Sunday?,” I mused. No. Just Friday.

During sunrise yoga, I heard him boiling water and slicing lemons. What? He’s making our usual morning warm lemon water. But I always do that. It’s routine. How did I forget? Disoriented. After the last sun salutation, wide legged forward fold, and mountain pose, I stepped from the mat to the chair, ready to read about mountains.

My current morning reading is Kristen Welch’s Made to Move Mountains. Want to be challenged, inspired, moved, encouraged? Read this book. Kristen is the founder of Mercy House Global, a fair trade nonprofit that empowers women globally. I read all about not giving up, courage, and companionship this morning. I love Kristen’s thoughts that “there is likely going to come a day when you want to quit….when that day arrives, you have to stand on the mountain of your mess and remember that quitting isn’t the solution–but surrendering is.” My half awake, confused brain is trying to process this while I sip my honeyed lemon water, and you know, I kind of just wanted to give up, snuggle down into my handwoven blanket, and escape my mountain.

There’s this personal self-care rule that I keep for myself–no hard before the holy, meaning no email, news, or social media before physical and spiritual nourishment. After pondering all this good, good mountain-climbing advice while sipping my matcha berry smoothie, I glanced at social media long enough to see a challenge to get up and get dressed from a lady who has been climbing mountain after mountain. Lily’s sweet music teacher has faced frightening health battles; she could understandably stay in her pajamas all day and rest. But, no, this mountain climber got up, put on her jeans, did her hair and makeup, and posted a challenge for others to do the same.

We’re quarantining at home. All day. All week. All month. Who would know–or care–if I put on leggings or even just stayed in my pajamas? I would. And if I can’t take care of myself, I’m unable to adequately care for anyone else.

Caring for and respecting yourself isn’t selfish.

I headed back to the bedroom, determined this time instead of disoriented. I tugged on a pair of jeans, chose a pretty floral top, a mustard yellow cardigan, a necklace from Amazima, and did my hair in something besides a loose ponytail or top knot. It’s incredible how motivating the simple act of getting dressed can be. I didn’t stop there. I walked into the bathroom, washed my face, applied makeup, and perfume.

All for going outside to get dirty and sweaty. My plan for the day was to plant some seeds in a starter flat. Sweat erased the makeup, dirt clung to my jeans, Lily-girl soaked me with the water hose, but I got dressed and started facing and climbing one of my mountains. Just like I’d equip myself for a mountain hike, I equipped myself by preparing for my day. I got dressed.

The seeds are planted. A couple rows in the garden hoed and planted. Flowers planted. Herbs planted. Lily and I splashed and laughed. After planting and playing, we started laundry, made sweet tea, and Joanna Gaines’ chocolate chip cookies.

I’m dressed. I don’t want to snuggle down and escape reality. I’m ready to climb. There’s a big mountain and an even bigger God. I’m not to the top yet, but the perspective and view from where I climbed today looks a little bit of divine.

Kristen closed the chapter this morning with this quote from Mary Anne Radmacher: “Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying (whispering), I will try again tomorrow.” And tomorrow, I’m going to get dressed again. I’m going to climb a bit higher.