WELCOME

 The sign has been hanging on my bedroom wall for years...

Bob's wife said it weeks before he passed away recently... 

"Let us be present to the now. It's all we have and it's where God will always speak to us. The now holds everything, rejects nothing and, therefore, can receive God too. 

I'm living in the heart of a miracle right now. For the last several weeks, a story has been quietly unfolding that has literally taken my breath away and at times, reduced me to tears. It's everything I've prayed for and needed, wrapped in the unexpectedness with which Jesus often presents His greatest gifts. If you follow this blog regularly, perhaps you're guessing by now that it has something to do with the book I was recently published in. Surprisingly, it doesn't. It's been a completely separate story that's been running simultaneously and only a couple close friends outside my immediate family even know about it. Much like when Jesus healed somebody and told them not to broadcast it, it's not time yet to share the story. I can sense I'm just supposed to sit in the moment right now and savor this journey - this testimony that God is building in the most beautiful of ways. 

 One of the perks of living in a place like Alaska is the limitless hiking one can do, even within a fairly reasonable distance of the populated areas. Visitors to any of the major cities are surprised that someone can take advantage of these chances to get out in nature so close to the more developed communities. It's what I love about being here - you're never very far from the peace and quiet, if only you choose to go seek it out. Creating breathing room in your life is fairly easy here, compared to some places, and I never tire of jumping in the car and heading out to one of these tranquil spaces, throwing on a backpack, and engaging with the wonder of being alive.  

Often, when we think of wilderness seasons in our lives, we think of isolation. grief. desolation. loneliness. suffering. endlessness. Wilderness seasons are, for the most part, viewed as unwelcome. We do not like to approach them with any sense of opportunity or positivity. If anything, they're something most of us would like to avoid. They disturb our daily rhythms. They shake us out of the comfort of the lives we've built. They disrupt our sense of identity and belief. These are not things we readily run to. However...  

Sitting at the riverside in small-town Alaska, I'm pondering the words of a business owner I got talking to a few minutes before. I had sat down on a bench beside main street and was enjoying the warm sunshine for a moment, people-watching while I took a brief break, and the guy had been sweeping the sidewalk nearby. In the typically-Alaskan and friendly way, he said hello and we soon got into a pleasant conversation about the things we love about living here. Working in a tourist town, he was very much enjoying chatting with a local and I found his company quite interesting as well.    

I live in avalanche country. It's true! It's the land of oh, so many mountains, creating the perfect environment for these massive snow-slides to occur every Spring. Often, around that time of year, the local news or traffic reports will inform the public of some road or mountain pass that's been closed due to avalanche for a period of time so snow removal and clearing can happen. Take a hike around many trails in this place and you'll find signs warning of avalanche danger or even telling of a specific incident many years before where one occurred. There are occasionally stories of someone who gets trapped in one and isn't recovered in time to save their life. That's the sad part of it. You can even see in various places that you drive or walk where the stumps of trees serve as reminders of a past slide that took out huge swaths of nature in its devastating path.  

 A year ago June, I was invited to attend my very first military ball - the Marine Ball, to be exact. It wasn't going to be held until late Fall, but a longtime friend wanted to take me and give me the chance to experience something I'd wanted to do since I was a teenager. You see, my grandfather was a Marine and I've spent the last twenty years of my life working closely with the military community, especially the Marines, offering mental health support to many active personnel and veterans. I have pictures of my grandpa Irving attending the Marine Ball in Hawaii during WWII. My late friend Alex always planned to take me at some point as a thank you for my support of his career and our friendship. But then... Alex died suddenly and the dream got put on hold yet again.  

When was the last time you truly stopped to behold?  

 I can't recall ever having seen so many babies. They've been everywhere this summer! Baby robins, baby nuthatches, baby chickadees, baby magpies, baby moose, baby bears, baby geese. It's like the whole area has been teeming with the sounds and movement of new life, and it's been nothing short of amazing and adorable. I've loved every minute of it! Sitting down at my kitchen table and eating dinner while watching the mother nuthatch feed her three little fluff-balls is something I'll never forget. 

They don't tell you that waking up can be so hard. They always say that to awaken to the life you were meant for is to find something awe-inspiringly wonderful but they don't let you know that it will come with such pain. They don't give you a warning ahead of time - you just find that, one day, there you are. And you surprised: surprised by the prospect of a new beginning yet grieved at what you'll have to leave behind. You are hopeful: looking ahead and opening your heart to the reality that there is another way but also dying at the same time to a version of yourself and your life that you know you'll never see again. It is equally the most agonizing yet amazing journey you can ever embark on. And somehow, holding both feelings at once is the heaviest...