faith

Weekend Roundup, September 30, 2017: Birthday Edition

09.30.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

Happy fall, y’all.

The y’all is a nod to my mom who turned sixty-five on Thursday. (Happy birthday mom!) She may be sixty-five, but she’ll always be a fresh-faced and bright-eyed girl from Wichita, Kansas.

It’s my personal theory that sixty-five is the new forty, anyway. Minus a bum knee, I think she’d agree. We just got back from mom and Dave’s house where we had ourselves a little birthday shindig, complete with pizza and cake. Actually, mom, Dave and Greg had chocolate truffle cake. The kids and I had Olivia Superfree cookie dough cupcakes that are basically free from all the major allergens and flavor. That was a joke. I’ve been abstaining from gluten and dairy for so long that the allergen-free cupcakes are nothing short of divine, even if a little stale. I may have heard angels singing.

I’m rambling. I need to keep this Weekend Roundup short and to the point.

But short and to the point isn’t my specialty. I prefer long and drawn out. It takes at least 1,000 words before I have a sense of where I’m headed, of where I’m going.

Speaking of rambling, in my last Weekend Roundup I got swept away describing my whimsical bird mug that matches Kate’s. So much so that I forgot to link to Kate’s essay. I was only supposed to mention the matchy-matchy bird mugs as a way to introduce Kate’s essay. My bad. I blame ADHD. And the stomach bug.

Here we go again with the essay. Before I get to it, you’ll remember that I stole a screen shot of Kate’s mug from Instagram but decided it wasn’t Kosher to do so. I deleted everything from my photo library because that’s what rule followers do. But in the end Kate made an honest woman out of me. She commented on a Facebook post and gave me permission to use the screenshot of her picture after all.

Photo by Kate Laymon on Instagram. Screenshot by me.

Anyway, let’s talk about Kate’s essay. Kate writes about how she and her husband said goodbye to weekend fights. I wish I’d know Kate when the kids were younger. Greg and I could have used the encouragement found in How My Husband & I Stopped Fighting on the Weekends. Now that the kids are older, weekends are the best. Spoiler: it’s because we don’t have babies, toddler or preschoolers in the house.

But we do have elementary age kiddos, three of them. And one happens to be a highly-sensitive tween who wears her heart on her sleeve. Vanessa Hunt featured a hilarious post on At the Picket Fence about the things no one tells you about parenting teenagers. Swoon! It really is hysterical. We could all use a good laugh these days, don’t you think? Those of you from my old church, you need to know that I’m talking about a different Vanessa Hunt than the one we know. You can read new Vanessa’s work here. If you’re curious, the other Vanessa can be found here. They’re both wonderful.

This next essay will appeal to mamas of littles and bigs alike. As a mama of three, I more than appreciate Anna Burgess’ take on helping kids develop their own faith in God. Because, let’s face it, we can’t do it for them. If you’re a parent, go ahead and check out Anna’s post right about now. I’ll wait for you.

Switching gears.

Please take a moment to read another one of Erin Whitmer’s essays. You’ll remember her from the Weekend Roundup I finally got around to publishing on Monday. I’m probably taking everything out of context; but Erin’s essay reminds me of the verses in 1 Kings 19 about Elijah seeking God on the mountain. Elijah searched for God in the mighty windstorm but God was not in the wind. Next Elijah searched for God in the earthquake. But, you guessed it, that’s not where God showed up. Again, Elijah looked for God in the fire. Surprise, surprise, God wasn’t in the fire. Instead, our loving Father came to Elijiah in a gentle whisper, which leads me back to Erin’s essay. Do you Hide What God Wants to Reveal? is about learning how God reveals wisdom and truth in the everyday. I think it’s easy to miss God when we look for him only in the grand and glorious moments–and he’s certainly there. But if we’re only looking for him in mighty ways, we’ll miss him in the mundane. I don’t mean to sound holier-than-thou but I see God in many places. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, adult ADHD is both a blessing and a curse, but mostly a blessing for it leads me back to him in random moments and random connections.

I’m just going to come out and say it: I’m nervous to share the following words by Caroline Saunders. Caroline was featured on Sadie Robertson’s website in March. I think I’m too old to know about Sadie Robertson, but here you go. Except Sadie’s name sounds familiar. I want to say from an interview on The Happy Hour With Jamie Ivey, but maybe not. By the way, if I ever get bored of Weekend Roundups (again, ADHD), then without a doubt, I’ll end up putting together some sort of Weekly Podcast Roundup. Now that would be fun. How I love me a good podcast;.enough to use poor grammar.

But the following post is from a talk by Caroline Saunders, not Sadie. I’m cringing as I type this because I’m about to share a purity talk for high school and college students. Yep, I’m gonna linky-link to a purity talk. I dare you to read about it here. I’m just going to come out and say it: I think the church gets a bad rap when it comes to purity talks, and rightly so. Telling woman they are damaged goods and such isn’t cool. Yet ignoring what the Bible has to say about sex other than “don’t do it” is also a big no-no in my book. It’s a tricky balance. Certainly, there are repercussions for risky behavior. But here’s the thing, God is in the business of redeeming; it’s what he does best. Also, I appreciate the way Caroline doesn’t shy away from addressing the guys in the crowd. Anyway, in the next few days you’ll probably find me poking around Caroline’s blog at writercaroline.com. Caroline’s voice is unique. She doesn’t beat around the bush when it comes to biblical truths; but she’s funny, very very funny.

The next-to-last essay of the last day of September is about steps we can take when anxiety rears its ugly head. I found the bullet points at the end of the article extremely helpful, and I’m not a bullet point kind of girl. It sounds too much like the Bullet Journal, which is most definitely not for me. It’s as if anxiety is the latest buzz word. So many in my close circle are living with it, including myself and my favorite little boy. Gosh, even our dog has anxiety. I’ve heard it said that if you’re in the market for a Ford, then all you’ll see are Fords, Fords, Fords, everywhere you go. I’m a Honda gal through and through, but that’s besides the point. Anyway, go check out Reversing the Anxiety Tornado by J. J. Gutierrez, It’s a must-read for the brave one who struggles with anxiety. Yes, the brave one. You’d better believe you are brave if you’re living life with anxiety. In fact, you are a living, breathing example of someone who is being brave when life is hard. You can find J.J.’s essay, complete with bullet points here.

Ramblings aside, I just can’t stop myself from giving you one final essay. I mean, really, why stop at 1,000 words if you can possibly squeeze in 1,500? No, I promise to stop before then. This time. Anwhoo, Bethany Barendregt wrote a particularly moving piece called For the Late-Blooming Souls. I savored each and every word of this thoughtful reflection. Yes to this! Story of my life, right here! How I love quiet and stillness, how I thrive in slowness. I don’t think my kids got the e-mail.

In just a little less than fifteen minutes it will be the first of October. I can hardly believe it. As I said before, happy fall, y’all!

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, especially Sunday. Savor its slowness. Rest up, dear ones. See you soon.

P.S. Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear mom

Happy birthday to you!

The Kindness of an Anglican Priest

09.04.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

It’s raining this morning, and it’s Monday. Ugh. But I’m at a friend’s house, a wonderful distraction from this relentless Seattle rain. We sit on the floor of her living room, by the fire, espresso in hands. Before long I’m recounting a recent storm in my life.

It’s a wonder I’m here in the first place. After all, today is Monday the sixth of March.

If our paths haven’t crossed in real life, even if they have, you might not know about March 6, and what happened over twenty years ago.

I try to avoid making plans on the sixth of March. I never really know how I’m going to deal with it all. Or not deal with it. All these memories, the longing, the aching, the missing that marks the anniversary of dad’s death. The worst part, I rarely mention it.

Some years are harder than others. Sometimes it’s just another day. We flew kites one year. We spent one anniversary at Seattle’s Woodland Park Zoo. Once or twice we remembered dad as we brunched at The Maltby Café in a small town east of us. Of course, this was before my ban on all things dairy and gluten.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could choose when grief is going to wreck havoc, even twenty-plus years into the journey? But grief doesn’t work like that. Not quite. The truth is, I never know how I’ll react until the day is upon me, until it’s here.

What’s strange about today is that I woke to the rain feeling, well, just fine. I actually went to bed last night without a sense of dread looming before me. I know, I know, I just finished telling you that March 6 isn’t always a day of heartache. But this year has been a doozie. I prepared myself for drama. I’m shocked that, today of all days, I’m not overcome with grief. You see, I’ve been breaking down and breaking through a lot these days.

It’s like someone flipped a switch. And just like that my time of mourning has come to an end. For now.

I know it’s coming back though. It’s impossible to escape grief for too long, especially when you loved someone like I did.

I am, and forever will be, marked by the life and death of my father. I wouldn’t change this for anything. I loved him so. To this day my dad is my favorite of all my favorite people, which says a lot because I’m surrounded by people who rank above-average in the loving kindness department.

Yet I can say with absolute certainty that this recent tidal wave of grief, or storm or whatever I just went through, it is finished, calmed. And once again it’s going to be okay.

More than okay. I’m at peace, joyful even. It appears that this little storm cloud of mine has gone and evaporated a year after it first came my way. Thank God. I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried.

One year.

I don’t know why, but I’m reminded of the church calendar. There’s much this Presbyterian turned Nondenominational turned Assemblies of God-ish girl doesn’t know about the church calendar. I’m trying to wrap my brain around the anticipation, the hope, the despair, and the wonder of it all. Let me tell you, much is encapsulated in the ebb and flow of the church calendar. And life in general. I’m beginning to see there’s a time for everything, really there is. Everything has its season. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending how you see it, grief has its season, too.

It takes fancy footwork to allow one’s self to feel all the feels without falling into the depths of despair. But we kind of have to.

It isn’t very convenient to grieve in this culture of ours, anyway. Maybe we’d process grief better if we weren’t so busy and actually had the luxury to properly mourn as the lammentors of days of old, burlap tearing at our fingertips.

It’s getting better. Now there’s even a section at Target for us feelers.

Back to the sixth of March. My friend and I continued our conversation on the sage-green carpeted floor of her living room by the fireplace. I continue telling my tale, describing how he (and by he, I mean God) told me it was time to process what I went through by writing about it.

At this point in our conversation, I speak a bit about running. Not the good kind of running. No, the kind of running that has to do with avoidance. You see, it hurt too much to write. I had to protect myself against heartbreak. So I ran.

I speak also of God’s loving kindness, how he kept on, gently prompting me to write, over and over and over again until I finally did. And when I finally gave into the charge to write, I was able to breathe once again.

I tell my friend this and how it came about while I was too sick to do anything else, thanks to a nasty sinus infection.

The funny thing, if that’s what you want to call it, is that my friend shared a bit of her grief journey and how it resurfaced during a recent illness of her own. She spoke of her priest and how he came to visit, to pray for her during her time of convalescence.

At the end of his visit he turned to my friend and asked, “Did anything come up during your recovery?”

“The mind,” he went on to explain, “has a funny way of catching up with us during illness.”

As it turns out, we can’t run when we’re sick. All the thoughts, the feelings, everything we’re avoiding or haven’t dealt with, well, they have an interesting way of catching up with us once we’re forced to be still. Apparently, it’s perfectly natural to deal with trauma when we’re sick.

Ah, the kindness of an Anglican priest.

He doesn’t even know it but he’s helping me be brave when life is hard.

I don’t know my friend’s priest, but I could hug him. I want to thank this man of God for his wisdom, his divine insight, his encouragement and love. For extending grace and giving hope, for showing me (through my friend) that I’m not a crazy person after all.

I just needed to learn once again how to be still before God. That is all. To slow down long enough to acknowledge the passage of time, and to grieve all that happened many, many years ago by writing it out. And through writing, God was able to break through to me and begin the business of repairing my broken heart.

P.S. I’ve been planning to read Kimberlee Conway Ireton’s Circle the Seasons, about the church calendar. And not just because I know the author in real life. Kimberlee is a kindred spirit and her book is waiting ever so patiently for me in the white bookcase in our freshly painted living room.

The only reason I haven’t picked it up yet is because I got sidetracked by Kimberlee’s second book, Cracking Up: A Postpartum Faith Crisis, which I highly recommend. I even recommend it to those who’ve never experienced postpartum depression. Kimberlee’s book is what got the “ah-ha, you might have anxiety” ball rolling, before we even knew our son and I struggled with it. I am forever grateful for this book and my friend who was brave enough to write it.

Random Thoughts On Healing

04.04.2017 by Nicole Kristin Twedt //

Here’s the deal: I’ve spent many years praying for the healing of my hearing loss. And it’s been hard, really hard. And harder, still, when I think of how my prayers for my own healing overlap with prayers for two of my three children and their very different losses.

Of course, the intensity of my prayers for healing comes and goes. There’s seasons when I find myself crying out to the Lord regularly, begging him to make these ears of mine work and make them work already. Yet in other seasons, healing is a fleeting thought simmering in the back of my mind. In times like these, the need for healing is concealed by the urgent needs of here and now. But it’s always there, this longing for something better.

A thought, possibly a divine one, came to me last week through the Holy Spirit, and homework from a Beth Moore Bible study, of course. He prompted my heart to focus on the promises of his kingdom that are forever, rather than viewing the kingdom and its promises as promises yet to come, like my hearing. Does that make sense?

Here’s what I mean: It’s hard for me to pray, day in and day out, season after season, for the one thing that isn’t getting better: my hearing loss. Especially since my hearing is supposed to get worse. But, this sensitive heart of mine is encouraged to keep on asking, and asking again, because the answer is guaranteed to come and will never be taken away.

What’s more, does it matter when it’s going to happen? Well, of course it does. I’m impatient.

I’m going to ramble for a minute, just go with me. Let’s pretend that waiting for my healing is like waiting for a party to start. I know the party has been planned, the invitations have been sent out to the heavenly hosts, the venue reserved. But I haven’t received my invitation, and I’m getting frustrated. Even though I know in the end it will be a grand affair, worth it in the long run. For it will be a surprise party, and I’ll be the guest of honor. And it won’t matter if the big event happens today or tomorrow, next year, or years from now, on this side of heaven or the next. In the end, I’ll look back and it will not matter. It’s going to happen all the same.

If it’s not like a party, than maybe it’s like a grand celebration at the end of a race. Once again, I’m mixing metaphors.

Either way, in just a little while he will make all things new. All things. My hearing. Lauren’s hearing. Steven’s vision. It doesn’t matter so much that the healing hasn’t come, since this is all temporary anyway. Well, of course it matters. But maybe, just maybe, living with loss or a different sensory ability (never disability) isn’t the short end of the stick that it appears to be. You’d better believe me when I say that it feels like the short end of the stick. But is it?

I keep praying, asking, and hoping for the healing now. But the other side of heaven isn’t so far off. I know that when we look back, it won’t be. I say this with trembling hands lifted high in praise. And of course, I will have to lower my trembling hands from time to time, long enough for me to wipe away the tears.

Because it hurts to wait.

I’m reminded of the wedding reception miracle found in John 2. I know it’s taking everything out of context, but it’s how my mind works. Other women can multi-task. My mind specializes in making random God-connections. And these connections are holy, for they bring me back to him.

Remember at the reception when Jesus filled the containers that were set aside for ceremonial cleansing, and had them filled with water by the servants to be turned into something better? The wine was incomparable, a wine above other wines. The Master of Ceremonies approached the bride groom, baffled really. How could the best wine be saved for last? But you see, I never realized it before but the best was yet to come. It was Jesus revealing his glory in perfect time.

Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with races and finish lines and surprise parties and healing, but I think it does.

I’m reminded once again that his timing is perfect. Always perfect, no matter when his glory is revealed. Even when it hurts. His timing is perfect, every single time.

He’s saying this to me, more and more.

His timing is perfect. The best is yet to come. Hold on, he seems to say, it’s coming.