This Is My Season

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

 a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,

 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.”

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I’ve lived in various states and countries where the seasons are much different than the standard four. Costa Rica had the rainy season and dry season. Southern California had the moderate season and the sweltering season, and my Colorado has the classic four, the greens popping out from the snow in the spring, the tank-tops summers, the stunning change of colors in the fall and the get out and shovel again winters.

If I had my way, I’d probably forfeit some of those seasons. I’d wave my wand if such a thing existed and suddenly there wouldn’t be as much snow, especially that heavy kind that breaks limbs (and backs). My skiing friends wouldn’t be happy with me. wouldn’t be happy with me come summer, when I’d want to chill in the river with friends as we tube but would know the rocks would jut out more than would be comfortable for our bums.

No, the wand would destroy.

We all know I can’t change the seasons around us, but I’ve tried changing the seasons of my life. Years ago, I went through a devastating spell. Anguish crippled my heart. I mourned and grieved and mourned some more, but the ache was so great I couldn’t fully let myself grasp it, so I waved the wand if you will, and changed the season. Well, of course the season didn’t really change, but it sure felt like it. I masked it well, like wearing shorts in the winter, acting as if things weren’t really the way they were.

Winter is always winter, shorts or otherwise.

I find myself yet again in winter. 52 weeks of divorce proceedings. Yes, 52. Umpta. The gavel pounded, the decree stamped two weeks shy of a year.

Part of me feels like it should be spring, a celebrating that the proceedings are finally over, yet divorce is never cause for celebration. It’s like having a loved-one on life support: an attempt to mourn a death while the person still lives. Oh, sheer bitterness.

While it isn’t cause for celebration, there is this fear that wells within: If I embrace this winter, will I remain in it forever? Will I be doomed to a life of bitterness or sorrow?

Yes, this thought ravages my mind much too-often, perhaps due to the standard two-week mourning period our society inadvertently doles out. You know, the “what can I do for you?” “I’m here for you” calls and letters after a death, but then the awkwardness most feel around someone whose mourning continues into the next month.

Awkward or not, I’m embracing it (with great fear, that is). This winter has gone on much too long for my liking. I’m ready to skip and sing and laugh with careless abandon. Granted, I do those things now to some degree, but my heart weighs too heavy to do them at the level it once did, but an early spring usually brings death. Buds start blooming, the frost comes, and there goes the crop for the rest of the year.

So this is my season. No, I don’t hope it will last one minute longer than necessary, but I’ll embrace it just the same.

And you know what? This picture I took on a hike reminds me last week that winter can be stunning and exquisite.

winter hike

This is my season.

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What about you? What season do you find yourself in? Are you letting yourself be in that season, or are you attempting to wave a non-existent magic wand?

 

Praising from the Pit

We know the story: God said go one way, Jonah went the other. Waves crashed violently against a boat and the crew decided it was god’s curse against a man, so over went Jonah into the deep, right into the mouth of that huge fish.

We know it. know it. Swallowed up, he cried out and then was spit onto shore. Curse turned blessing, at least in our eyes. But there’s one huge, huge piece I always forget. In fact, I’m not sure if I’ve ever noticed it before today:

From inside the fish Jonah prayed to the Lord his God. He said, ‘In my distress I called to the Lord, and he answered me. From deep in the realm of the dead I called for help, and you listened to my cry.” Jonah 2:1-2

That’s the part I’ve known, that overly simplistic account of what first happened from the pit of a fish’s belly. Here’s the part I hadn’t noticed:

But I, with shouts of grateful praise, will sacrifice to you. What I have vowed I will make good. I will say, ‘Salvation comes from the Lord.’

And the Lord commanded the fish, and it vomited Jonah onto dry land.” Jonah 2:9-10

Did you catch it, those few, little lines before the whole get vomited onto land piece?

Shouts of grateful praise.

What?

See, when I read the first few lines, I can’t help but imagine what “I called to the Lord” really meant. Call for help? Undoubtedly! Call the Lord things that aren’t repeatable? Quite possibly. I won’t begin to claim to know what sailors said back in those days, but let’s remember he just got thrown off a ship! What kind of words had he just been exposed to as they battled the fierce storm? Perhaps some of the same types of words he used as he battled with God for his life from deep within the great beast’s belly.

I’m only speculating and more than anything, am alluding to what unfortunately would probably be my reality if I were in Jonah’s wet sandals. I have no idea what that cry looked like, but this I know:

He decided, even from the pit, to praise. 

Jonah hadn’t seen the flannel-board ending. He didn’t know what was about to happen. All he knew was that he sitting in the stomach of a great fish (okay, really? I type this as if that even makes sense, but how incredible is that? Kinda just shows how creative God is!). You caught that belly of a fish part, right? As far as I know, no one before him had ever done such a thing and lived to tell about it. I doubt Jonah praised thinking it was his life-saver. Instead, I think he sent praise to his life-saver.

I’m not about to say that Jonah is one of my Bible heroes. He isn’t. He fled from God, disobeyed, saw God provide in a miraculous way and then chose to sit and whine. No, he isn’t my favorite, but I sure can relate to him. The part I want to most relate to is that he decided, and I want to as well, to praise from the pit.

How about you? Do you find it hard to praise God in the midst of intense fear and suffering?

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Enjoy

New Year’s Eve receives little fanfare in my book. Yes, there have been a few spent in memorable fashion–a fire on a beach as loved ones and I watched waves usher in the new and wash out the old; fireworks and a new love’s kiss. But most December 31sts for me have been quiet, ordinary, perhaps boring, especially the one many years ago where I listened as my mom slept while Dick Clark counted down, sitting on a bed in a hotel room in some state I can’t even remember after dropping my sister off for camp. Yes, boring.

But I’ve always been okay with that, in large part because January 1st isn’t significant for me. I don’t start an exercise program, for I’m a running addict and hit the streets all months of the year, not just the first. I don’t create resolutions, mostly because if there is something I need to change in July, I get cracking on it–in July.

But this year as I look at the calendar icon and see “31,” a different emotion erupts, one of joy, anticipation, and well, relief. Goodbye 2014. I won’t begin to list out some of the things that happened this year, for you wouldn’t believe me. wouldn’t believe me. It’s been one of those years, filled with death (both the physical kind, as well as the killing off of dreams and relationships), grief, and confusion.

I want to celebrate that the year is ending, that tomorrow I hang a new calendar (as if it makes a difference since I really don’t even look at the paper variety anymore). But it isn’t the ending that I celebrate: it’s the beginning. Regardless of the date, I’m close to the end of my crazy-spell, of days filled with more chaos than I care to admit. I’m not a drama-girl and I haven’t brought the chaos on by choice. Sometimes life just sends too much crazy, but that isn’t the point.

It’s the beginning.

For me, it’s the beginning of a new attitude. I’ve tried to love deeper, fight harder, maybe even laugh louder. I run to God, yet perhaps I’ve come to think I am He. fight, I love, I, I, I.

Dream bigger were the words that echoed last year, an ironic phrase for someone who had more sleepless nights than ever before, someone who wasn’t in the mood for dreaming since she was hoping just to survive at the time. Dream bigger, as if it depended on me.

This year, enjoy echoes deep.

“Enjoy me,” He whispers soft.

Oh, sweet, beautiful invitation. To trade the whys, hows, whens, wheres and all the myriad of questions for one simple statement: enjoy. To stop questioning everything, to stop trying to take the puzzle pieces and attempt to force them in where I believe they belong. To stop, period. And in it’s place, to enjoy. To celebrate my God. To savor that He has the answers to all of my what-ifs. To remember–and cherish–that He loves me so much that He’s promised to never leave. To never forsake. To love in a way my heart can’t begin to comprehend.

Yes, I’ve tasted this love many times, this awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping, why me, God, a messed-up girl, kind of love. This isn’t new to me, but the newness is my desire to run back to that, to lavish it, cherish it, spread it.

Enjoy

So this year, I celebrate. Sweet relief that I made it through 2014, that arduous year that pushed me well beyond myself, many times past the place where I cried out, “God, I can’t handle any more,” only to be hit with yet another umph of perils. But perhaps it is only because I’ve been forced beyond me that I now run more freely to the One who has sustained. Provided. And remained true.

For whatever your 2014 looked like to you, and for whatever 2015 holds on the horizon, may we run. Not necessarily at the gym for the first few weeks of the year, but long and hard to the One who loves in a way our hearts will never be able to comprehend.

Happy New Year!

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I’m not sure, but I think Robbie might be yelling, “You better enjoy this!!”

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Nonsensical Peace

This is undoubtedly the oddest pre-Christmas post ever. Then again, this has been the oddest pre-Christmas for me ever. This past week I didn’t meet with a funeral director. Nor did I talk to the cops. Not even a judge. And somehow, these things I didn’t do come to define this past week as better than the ones preceding it.

Yes, odd. Yes, painful. Surreal and whirling. And if there’s a Santa, please leave me an off button under the tree, for I’ve been on this crazy ride for much too long.

So here’s the odd post, written by me, for me. Those of you living in the odd-season, desperately wanting it to stop or hoping things would return to normal–whatever in the world that might possibly mean–can listen in.

A doe crossed the path no more than ten feet in front of me last week. Crossed really doesn’t describe it, for it wasn’t a “why did the deer cross the path” kind of thing. Leapt is more like it. Gazelle-like. Full of grace (something I admire, probably because my lack thereof).

I’d been running, but how does one possibly go on running after seeing such a stunning sight? I stood, hand over heart, gaping in amazement. And then he came. You know, Mr. Buck. He wasn’t as carefree as the doe, flitting across without a care. No. Mr. Buck stared me down as if to question if I would somehow use my water bottle as a weapon. Um, no sir. My hand rests against my heart only because I’m admiring your beauty.

He walked across the path, looking at me while he did. The doe kept gazelling along, careless, oblivious. Mr. Buck, however, remained aware of my presence, eyeing me continually while catching up to the doe. As she seemed to do her “I have no cares” dance through the fields, he approached her and ever so gently guided her with his antlers. She didn’t mind, at least didn’t appear to. It wasn’t a forceful push, just a tap that led her to the scrub brush. Within seconds, I could no longer see her whatsoever. I knew she was there, yet she was completely hidden from view. Same with Mr. Buck.

Almost.

All I could see of him were the tips of his antlers poking out from the brush. While she was completely safe, Mr. Buck would still have been in jeopardy if I were an armed hunter.

And then the thought, the quiet whispering into my soul that made me gape in even more amazement than at what I had just beheld:

“Don’t you see, my child? That’s how I feel about you. That’s what I do for you. Give me your cares, child. Let me protect you. Hide in the shelter of my wings, for it is there that you find refuge.”

I’d like to say I’ve fully accepted that offer, that sweet, generous gift of letting me flit about yet again while One much stronger, more powerful, and One who fully loves and accepts me offers me refuge. Sometimes I have, or perhaps just a bit more than before. Other days, like now, I look more like Mr. Buck, watching over my shoulder, fearful or just plain overwhelmed. But as we finish wrapping presents, there is one I want to unwrap now. Today.

Rest.

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”

Psalm 91:1

With my world swirling the way it is, I make no promises if I’ll be back on here before Christmas. If not, I pray it is rich and full of God’s mercies and blessings. But perhaps more than that, for you and for me, I pray we find comfort, rest, and nonsensical peace.

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Hope in the Waiting

If strength comes to those who wait, then what can we do while we try doing the nearly impossible task of waiting?

We’ve heard it quoted, seen the pictures of it, even listened to Lincoln Brewster’s son recite it: “Those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength” (Isaiah 40:31, NASB). It sounds blissful. Empowering. Energizing. Wait on the Lord; rise on the wings of eagles. Sign me up!

But here’s the kicker: wait. No, I don’t mean wait to hear the kicker, I’m saying that is the “deal-breaker.” If only it said “those who clean 5 toilets a day” or “those who visit a shut-in every week,” but no, it says the one thing I find most challenging: wait.

It’s sad to admit, but I’ve looked up Isaiah 40:31 in various translations, hoping for a word I have a better shot at achieving, but it was just that: hoping. The NIV says, “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.” Ah, hope! Yes, I hope in the Lord. I believe in Him and His mighty power. I know He will restore all things. I know, which is so very different than hoping.

I don’t have room to hide presents in cabinets and under my bed like I normally do prior to Christmas since all of those places are already brimming with other things like clothes, toys, and who knows what else. Without a place to hide them, I decided to wrap so each present the day I bought it and place it under the tree.

“This one is a Fly Guy book,” my Bubba proudly declared last week as he held up a gift.

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked.

“Because it’s square and flat. And this is a Lego set,” he announced as he shook a box. “But I was also hoping to get some Bionicles. Don’t worry, Mom. You can still go to that big toy store over by the mall and get some for me before Christmas.”

Whoa! Stop the mini-van! Since when does my kid get to tell me what he wants, where to buy it, and when to have it by? Since he started hoping, that’s when. No, he really shouldn’t boss me around (although his last name is Voss and he has somehow come to believe that his sister is not the ‘Voss’ of him).

Yet for as off as Gabe was in telling me what I needed to add under the tree, he was spot-on for reminding me of the meaning of hope. Hope isn’t an “oh, I hope the winning lottery ticket flies through my window.” It isn’t that, “I can’t imagine this will happen, but I sure hope it does.” Hope is the confidence of a little boy who just knows he’s going to get a Bionicle (although he added it to the list after this elf finished her shopping).

You know, that last set of parenthesis makes me pause. I don’t want to include it because it somehow takes away from the point of the story and turns into a little boy’s tears Christmas morning when he gets so many great things, but apparently not the thing. But it also makes me want to recheck my budget and see if there’s a little wiggle room for a $10 toy. Why? Because I just adore that kid. He’s crazy awesome and way too lovable. But more than that, he’s my son.

Tears well in my eyes. Scratch that: they’re now streaming. How many times in my waiting–that seemingly tortuous thing of day in and day out not knowing the why’s, when’s, where’s, or how’s of my life–that my Who reminds me, guides me, provides for me, and oh mercy, loves me in the most lavish of ways.

Oh, child, don’t you know that I love you?

Yes, Lord, I know. I know, and yet so often I forget. I’m so, so sorry. Help me love you more, to trust you more, to listen more, but perhaps more than anything else, teach me to hope in you like never before.

What does hope look like for you? And dare I ask, but how do you go about hoping in your days of waiting?

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The Thanksgiving of Christmas

My mom filled me in on how she spent the few hours between the time all of us left Thanksgiving night and when she left to board the plane to visit my uncle.

In between packing clothes and trying to remove the stain from where I dropped the cranberry sauce on her white tablecloth, she  packed away the harvest decorations, and set out the rest of the Christmas decor.”

Just like that, Thanksgiving was over.

Take a nap after the feast, then hit the stores.

Put up the tree and start baking.

I heard on the radio this morning that there is something about Christmas that stresses out 90% of us, ranging from traveling, to long lines, or gaining weight. In other words, 90% take a day (or part of one if we spent the evening hitting the deals early) to say thanks, only to wake up to a different emotion: frenzy and concern.

It’s makes me wonder if there’s a connection: gratitude out, anxiety in. I can’t say my theory is right, but it’s definitely worth trying out.

Shout for joy to God, all the earth!
Sing the glory of his name;
make his praise glorious.”

Psalm 66:1-2

Will you shout it out, sing of it, or breathe it in? It somehow defies what we’re supposed to do this time of year, and yet is somehow also fully embodies the very thing we should do every time of year, especially now.

Oh God, thank you for being my eternal God, the One who never changes, the lover of my soul, the One who hears, heals, loves. May I never stop singing your praises. Be glorified in everything I do (including the number of cookies I eat or the amount of money I spend this month). I love you. Amen.

What about you? What will you sing out in joy?

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Scarfing Versus Savoring

I figured that since all of Day 1 of my new book, Savoring Christmas: 31 Days to Prepare Your Heart for the Messiah, is available on Amazon, I’ll share it here with you! I’d love for you to jump in and share your thoughts on the questions at the end!

December 1st

Scarfing Versus Savoring

I’ve heard of fast eaters, but my black lab takes the cake (literally!). She can finish off her dinner in twenty-three seconds flat.

Twenty-three seconds!

It happens so fast that I have a hard time remembering if she’s been fed or not. The same is true of her. She comes begging within minutes of eating, apparently forgetting that she just scarfed down her meal.

I laugh and tell her to lie down, but sometimes I look at her and see myself. No, I don’t have fur, nor do I walk on all fours. But I am prone to forget the things I do in haste. Sometimes I touch the head of my toothbrush to check if it’s wet since I can’t remember if I brushed or not. Other times I eat lunch while I work and then struggle to recall if I ate or not. And then there are the times when I race from one activity to the next, dashing so quickly that I only remember feeling rushed while forgetting who I spent time with. The calendar fills and the memory fades.

Schedules bulge this time of year with pageants, baking cookies, addressing cards, and buying presents. If we aren’t careful, our Decembers could be defined by rushing from one activity to the next.

They could be, but they don’t have to.

Yes, our days might be busier than normal, but it can also be a season of heart training. Matthew 6:21 says, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” After the angels echoed carols of praise throughout the skies and the shepherds came to see the newborn king, “Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). She undoubtedly savored that moment and her heart was fully present in the grandeur of God’s miracle.

So many things fight to earn the spot of being most treasured in our hearts this time of year. What will you most treasure?

Stop and Savor

  • What are some things you treasure about the Christmas season? Some examples are looking at lights or seeing The Nutcracker. Perhaps you enjoy being known for finding the perfect gift or baking the best cookies. What do you most want to treasure this season?
  • Deuteronomy 8:10 says, “When you have eaten and are satisfied, praise the Lord your God for the good land he has given you.” I normally pray before a meal, but what if the time of gratitude came afterwards? Would that cause you to savor the food more? Give it a try today and say thanks after each snack and meal.
  • Create a “treasure box” for this Christmas season. Perhaps you’ll use a small bucket or container, or maybe a gift bag. Jot down things throughout December as you ponder them, and then place them in your treasure box. Do you think you can fill it by Christmas Day?
Blessing Box

This is the blessing box my Girlie made yesterday. What would you put in yours?

May Your Hearts be as Full as Your Bellies

El Dia de Accion de Gracias.

That’s what my friends in Latin America call our turkey day. I absolutely love the translation: The Day of Action of Thanks.

Action.

So often we think thanks, or even think that soon we’ll give thanks. We think the thought as often as we think we’ll get in shape, but the action behind either seems to fall to the wayside. Or perhaps we give thanks for the big 3 (possibly our health, a home, or something else), but then have a hard time thinking of other things to take the action of giving thanks for. So here’s a little something that perhaps will help you and me as we prepare food, eat, clean up, and everything else on Thanksgiving. I’m thinking through how things normally look at my parents’ house on Thanksgiving. Of course, you can adapt this.

may your hearts be as full as your bellies

Image Courtesy Flickr: James McCauley

  • As you thread napkins through the napkin rings, think about our Alpha and Omega, Him who has no beginning nor end.
  • As you pull out the fine china, praise God that He can take something as dirty and broken as us frail peeps and turn us into something beautiful.
  • May the water or wine goblets be a reminder to drink deep of God’s love and mercy, as well as an opportunity to praise Him for the mercy He has poured out on us this past year.
  • Turkey. I’m switching to first person on this one, for I know I can be the biggest turkey of all time, making mistakes left and right.

Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men”

~ 1 Corinthians 1:25

God, thank you that you see my many imperfections, my foolishness, and everything else. Yet you love me just the same.

  • Salt

“You are the salt of the earth”

~Matthew 5:13

God uses us, His humble vessels, to represent Him and teach His truths to others.

God, thank you for the opportunities you’ve given me this past year to talk to __________ about you or to reflect your love to them. Please continue to give me the boldness and courage to proclaim you to others.

  • Rolls

Jesus, thank you that you are my bread of life. You have sustained me, even (especially) on the days I didn’t know if I would make it through. Thank you that through you I truly have everything I need, and forgive me for the many times I lose track of that and think I need/deserve so much more.

  • Pie

A friend helped in an orphanage in Africa several years ago. A young child asked her, “Is it true that kids in America actually get dessert every day?” Tears flooded her face. No, not every child gets dessert here, but most of us could if we wanted to.

God, you teach us to pray for daily bread, yet I frequently have pie and chocolate and sweets with my bread, too. Thank you for your abundant provision.

  • As you scrape the dishes clean at the end of the meal, reflect upon Jesus’ sacrifice that removes our filth and grime.
  • As you place extra food in containers and then shuffle things around the fridge in an attempt to find a place for everything, thank God for the way He orchestrates our steps and pray for Him to lead and guide you throughout the upcoming year.
  • Of course, there’s always the one who falls asleep on the couch (I’m not naming names, okay, Uncle Billy?).

“It is useless for you to work so hard
from early morning until late at night,
anxiously working for food to eat;
for God gives rest to his loved ones.”

Psalm 127:2 (NLT)

God, so often I think I’m the one that has to make everything work, to figure out how to stretch my pennies or get the kids everywhere they need to be. Oh, but to be reminded of the way you love me, to remember that you give me rest–even command me to rest in you–and that you give to me, even while I sleep. Lord, even with the chaos and the unknowns, may I rest in you.

This list is by no means exhaustive. Feel free to throw in some more.

Happy Thanksgiving and praise be to God!

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Tweet: May your hearts be as full as your bellies this Thanksgiving. #StacyVossMay your hearts be as full as your bellies this Thanksgiving.

Am I Enough?

An editor wrote me last week, sharing some of the themes they’re hoping to address next year. One jumped out, screaming for my attention as it’s the very question that has been forefront these past several months, or should I say the question that has begged for an answer my entire life. For the first time, I have my response. And my freedom. Here’s a bit of what I shared with her:

Am I enough?

Let’s be clear. No. Absolutely not. Ever. I will never be enough. Neither will you. The chasing, the hoping, the chipping away of self, trading those precious pieces of my identity for anything I thought would make others look at me and give me a different answer. A desperate longing for someone—anyone!—to say I was enough. A thirst that refused to be satisfied.

What I would have traded to know then what I know now. I am not enough. Let me say that again. I am not now, nor will I ever be enough: enough to make everyone happy, enough to make myself happy, enough to do the right thing, or enough to be okay sitting alone with me, that crazy mix of carefree, worried, fearless and yet petrified. I don’t admit this in a defeated state or out of self-condemnation. Hardly. Rather, as I embrace my “so far from enough-ness,” I find wholeness from the place where my lack should glare more than anywhere else, the place where even the facade of having it together crumbles to bits. And it is there that I find freedom. Acceptance. Love and forgiveness.
We will never be enough. Oh, but to have the one who defines love look at us and say that His presence in our lives is enough to, well, is enough. Period.
 Am I Enough?
What about you? How would you answer the question “Am I enough?”
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My Life Compared to Spell-check

“I just hate spell-check,” my Girlie said the other day. “I mean, I’m trying to say one thing, but the next thing I know, it puts in something entirely different.”

“Oh, I know,” I chimed in. “I tried texting Emilynn a measurement, and every time I typed the number 7, it added my entire phone number. She kept writing me back saying it didn’t make sense and it wasn’t until I re-read my texts that I could actually understand what happened.”

“Tell me about it. It’s so annoying,” she replied.

“Yeah, but you know, I also love it, especially when I’m texting. I know I don’t have to get the word right, but it will take care of it for me.”

Believe it or not, the whole spell-check conversation paused for a few seconds before my girl said, “well, I still think it’s annoying. It just makes everything harder. I wish it would just leave stuff alone.”

The light. Yes, I saw it. At that very moment, driving down the road while we talked about texting and spell-check.

“That’s a lot like how we can be. We both want to help others out and we think we’re doing them a favor. Sometimes we are, but sometimes, we really are just like that spell-check, getting in the way and making things harder for others.”

I’ll be the first to admit I’ve spent much too long correcting others, whether that be helping them (even when they don’t want it), or stepping in and taking responsibility for things that only belonged to them. I thought I was helping and I had good intentions.

This is where I toe the line. Where things can be misinterpreted too quickly. Yes, helping is good. Great even. But just like auto-correct is a fabulous tool, there are times where it is limiting, frustrating, even crippling.

See, it’s one thing for Siri to try to have all the answers or help others, but for us human-folk, there’s just too much good living we’ll miss out on if we think our purpose is just to be the corrector, the intervener, the fixer.

As a recovering fixer–the one who always wanted things in order, and if they weren’t, I’d jump in and do my best to make sure they were–I’ll tell ya one thing: I’ve turned off the button. Sure, I still try to jump in at times, like a dirty habit that’s hard to break. But as I gain a stronger sense of exactly who God made me to be, I get to see who He didn’t create me as. He made me to be me, to live this life as fully as possible in a way to bring Him glory. Let’s admit it, no one praises the spell-checker when it’s turning words into something completely different than what we wanted. And no one will praise God because of us if we’re too busy meddling or fixing.

Instead, I choose to live a broken, messed-up, vibrant kind of life (in fact, I’m not even going to proof this post because I’m ready to hit the sack. So enjoy the evidences of my messed-up life, grammatical mistakes and all!). signature