Call it a practice in contentment or healing, a lifestyle or posture, or simply seeking the face of Jesus, call it what you will. I’m calling it Notes of Hope. In a world marked by pain and darkness, in a culture aching for acknowledgement, in homes desperate for connection, there are beauty and hope spliced and sprinkled within it all. I find it in nature. I find it in grace. I find it in literal light—and figurative light, as well. There’s so much I don’t have answers to, but what I know to be true is that when I take note of the goodness around me, it somehow soothes my nervous system, my fears, my soul.
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“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28
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Smack dab in the middle of some dark, anxiety-inducing days, I bought a print from Etsy to hang in our kitchen. The blue matches my thrifted ceramic vase showcasing whatever florals I clip from the garden; the gold is an ode to the setting sun. While the happy vibe and waves of typography inspire me to run for the coast, it’s really the bold statement that quickened me to add it to my cart. The challenge of the message. The change in perspective and heart posture. The plea for hope.
***
Summer started beautifully. Each morning, I’d wake early enough to meet God among the cosmos and clouds. Rather than sitting by our fire pit which is near our raised garden beds, I pulled up my seat among the flowers. When sitting in my purple-cushioned patio chair, I was tall enough to be a calendula or a snap pea vine racing the cucumbers up the arch.
Most days, fog sifted through the trees. Mockingbirds, yellow finches, and red-headed woodpeckers chatted over breakfast. Sometimes, I’d bring my Bible and a notebook. Other times, only a notebook. Often, nothing at all.
What do you have for me today, Lord?
It seems, the less I brought, the more God showed me. Turns out, he just wants to be with us. In gardens. In cars. At the kitchen sink. At the grocery store.
I’m finding that what he has for me isn’t always tangible or remarkable by any measure; it’s not a verse or a posture or an attitude adjustment.
What do you have for me today, Lord?
Me. Access to all of who I am. The Great I Am.
***
By the grace of God, and the brilliance of Will Parker Anderson and his course, I finished a new book proposal. And my new website. My friend Sonya edited my proposal. Every time she’s gotten her eyes and talent on my work, it comes out of the fire polished and refined, glowing brighter than it ever could have without her.
I’m in the process of pitching literary agents. My hope is that the right person sees the same tenacity and heart in me that my JV basketball coach did. I was rarely a starter but always the girl who played the game like her life depended on it. I pursue dreams the same way, not for the sake of achievement and accolades scored but with all that I can muster until I’m fully wrung out for His glory, until I’ve stewarded every experience and sentence. I write like my life depends on it, because it does. It makes me feel whole and alive, like I’m taking communion with Jesus.
I don’t know what the outcome of this proposal will be. Of course, I want to get this book in your hands—and more books after that, including the two children’s books I’ve already written. But the momentum, purpose, hard work, and heart that have gone into this idea are enough to sustain me, for now. I think that might be what you call contentment. I think that might be what you call living in your sweet spot. Or, I think it might simply be called grace.
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One sweaty day in June, I snuck in early to pick Vera up from FCA soccer camp. The coach was asking the kids what “pruning” means. After they all agreed on a definition, he questioned if God only prunes the bad stuff, like sin.
“Noooooo,” the little voices sang out in unison. A boy in a periwinkle camp t-shirt raised his hand, “Sometimes, He cuts the good stuff too.”
“How come?” The coach responded.
The little boy replied confidently. “To make room for something better.”
***
Almost ten years ago, Jesse and I roadtripped through Oregon and spontaneously came across an alpaca farm. It made us giddy. Maybe it was their fuzzy heads. Or, how it felt when you opened the palm of your hand and the alpacas took the grass pellets with their crooked mouths. Maybe it was because each day was one day closer to meeting our daughter. Whatever it was, we gushed with excitement as we bounced from one alpaca to the next, joy bursting from our bodies as laughter. Before getting back in the rental car, we floated into the gift shop.
We saw it at the same time. A piece of art hanging above stuffed animals spun from the softest fiber. There was a dark-haired girl with bangs hugging a fluffy, cumulus cloud of an animal, both of them smiling. She stood on a plateau of a canyon with a snaking river, purple mountains, and the last of an orange sun behind her.
Without a word, we brought it to the register. It was the first piece of art we bought for the daughter we hadn’t met yet. Little did we know, our sweet baby had just been born—mere weeks before—on the other side of the world. We could only hope that she’d grow to love adventure as much as we did.
In June, we went to Flok Family Camp in Oregon. Before camp ended on Sunday, we debated: Should we leave a little early and drive the extra hour to visit that same alpaca farm? It was already a beast of a travel day—a three-and-a-half hour drive, two flights, and another hour to get home.
But sometimes, you power through another sixty minutes on the road to see the daughter you wished for come alive at the same place that refreshed your soul and rekindled your laughter. Sometimes, you stop at a local market and sugar that girl up for the extra car ride so she can bear witness, so she can feel their fuzzy heads with her own hands. Feed the alpacas grass pellets and watch their crooked mouths chomp the grains. Watch a baby alpaca being born, in the same place her parents felt the spirit of God move—while they waited for her.
***
She slips on her slides, hands me the beach ball, and runs for the trampoline. Jesse and Vera climb up and start their banter. We’ve decided that silly trash talk is allowed.
I stand on the outside, not far from the sea lavender and Mexican sunflowers bursting toward the sky. I toss the ball toward the clouds and hit it over the top of the trampoline, shouting out a number: 200, or 150, or 375. The contestants collect points with each toss over the net; the first person to 500 wins.
We don’t know who will get the next big score. Who will get the book deal or benefit from all the pruning or get to go on the next big adventure. We don’t know who will “win.”
And yet:
I’m back in the garden each morning: 100!
I’m stewarding my story: 300!
I’m writing and pursuing dreams: 500!
I close my eyes and hear my family’s laughter. The damp, evening air settles on my skin. I feel the wind, the Spirit, the God of all possibilities whispering, reminding me He knows how it’ll all play out.
***
I open the laundry room door and step back inside from my morning in the garden. I sit in the white wooden dining chair and sip green tea, writing two quick poems about puppies, prompted by my daughter. I check my email again for a response from literary agents. Nothing yet. But the silence, the waiting, the space between what I’ve done and all that’s to come—I get to choose what to do with it.
I take another sip of tea, lift my eyes, and read the print hanging on the white brick wall in front of me.
WHAT’S THE BEST THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Other Notes of Hope:
Every single time I read your words, I feel inspired to open my heart a little wider and believe more wholeheartedly in God’s goodness.❤️ I am so grateful to know you!🥰
Beautiful, as always.