Missing the Obvious


When I wrote to you earlier this week about the news we got that wasn’t what we hoped for regarding our timeline to London, your responses in phone calls and email messages let me know something I often forget. Love is often taken for granted.

Much of the answers to life’s questions rooted in “Am I loved?” are staring us right in the face. Tainted by misguided expectations from ourselves and others, we often miss the whispers of Jesus. His love letters are daily sprawled with, “Yes, you are loved wildly with abandon.” This journey to London is cultivating a lifestyle of noticing His handwriting in unexpected places.

My daughter’s leaving home to start a new season in college highlights the ways in which God has been trying to get my attention with the utmost of patience. I’m a slow processor but eighteen years might be a little ridiculous.

I’m finding gratitude in our new departure date to London which let’s admit, is a grace gift of large proportions.

On the top of that list of thanks is spending time with my daughter at home for the holiday season.  For most of her life, God has been revealing hints to her destiny as an artist but I was too busy making her happy to notice.

Join me at a new-to-me website, voiceBoks, where I’m sharing a new story I haven’t told you about yet. This online space is amazing with a huge audience, not sure how I missed it. This seems like an echo . . . .



How Our Journey to London Began


I realized that I’ve jumped right into this 31 Days to London series mid-way through my story. While our call to England began almost twenty years ago, this leg with all of its mystery and practicalities started in Dallas last February. A conversation after lunch that changed everything. I’m sharing our “Abraham” story at The High Calling today for this week’s series on Find New Life. I would love for you join me here in the comments. And take some time to meander a bit, there are some of the best writers telling stories there.


When the News Isn’t What You Hope


Drawing a line next to my lashes while looking into the magnifying mirror in the bathroom, I move my mouth letting words out slowly and carefully so as not to inhibit preciseness. “You know,” I say to H, only moving the muscles at the bottom of my face, “we’re bouncing back much faster this time.”

“I know, you’re right,” H says after spitting toothpaste into the sink.

We got some disappointing news on the day that marks the halfway point in this 31 Day series. On October  15th I found out that I will not be ending this series in London but on the shores of the Atlantic in my hometown. I didn’t want to tell you until I wrestled with God about it.

Peace doesn’t come with more opinions.

Through the news coverage about Ebola, I’ve watched the ramifications when people respond too quickly. The way one person of influence can make a wrong decision and create a whole hurricane of fear, people hanging onto trees when the wind isn’t blowing yet.

Sometimes bad news doesn’t need shoulders to lean on or status updates but to settle quietly in your soul for a spell so you can hear the still small voice whispering direction.

Our emotions lead us astray, wandering down a dark path of imagination. We’re all storytellers. But some of us just aren’t attentive enough to know the difference between fiction and non-fiction when we’re  busy coming up with best case scenarios for our problems.


Today, we picked out colors from Pinterest boards for the walls of our new house in London. H asked me if I wanted to go collect paint chips but I told him I couldn’t. It all seems like too much somehow.  Like I’ll pick the perfect grey, allow my heart to swoon over the way the furniture looks up against it only to find it translates to some horrible shade of green  on the painter’s brush I’ll have to live with.

With every delay in the fulfillment of hope comes a new sturdiness to my faith after I’ve done the hard work of surrender. He is wiping away cobwebs of thinking I couldn’t see for looking at the rooms of my life through the same window.

And with that, a lack of tolerance for what is meaningless and trivial. An absence of vulnerability from others when it is appropriate is the death of every good intention.

I know, this could prove to be difficult in England. The British have a hard time expressing emotion if you didn’t already know that. Watch Downton Abbey.

We are now looking at the New Year for departure ( I know, I gave my Christmas tree and decorations to Habitat for Humanity) and it comes down to this. I have no other choice but to trust Jesus. I have surrendered my possessions, reputation, preferred future and all the pennies in my bank account.

I’ll keep drawing lines next to my lashes, looking at transformation staring back and wonder what my children see now when they look at me. On the inside I feel like a different human being.

Ira Glass says, “Great stories happen to those who can tell them.” I’ll let you be the judge of that.


I won’t be sharing my posts on social networking channels daily because who wants to see that much of me, really? If you want to follow our adventure to London subscribe to the blog in the side bar and posts will slide quietly into you inbox. Start from the beginning of the series here.