Story.

It's a big deal these days for people to share their story. Go tell it on the mountains. Spread it over the world like jam on crusty bread. Be known. Be heard for helping and for encouraging the likes around you. Story? I'm all about some story. I love hearing the tale's of how people's history has been made. You know, like what made them choose the college they attended, how they met their sweetheart, when they knew that he/she was the one, the wedding details, when they first found out they were pregnant and, of course, the birth story of all their bambinos. I am so easily transfixed on the intricate details of other's story. I think backpacking the emotional climb of someone else's mountains brings me to a stronger place of self. I also think lending your ear to someone else's timeline of hope is just one tiny way encouragement for the continued climb is transferred. Listening is kinda like belaying another's soul.

My story? Oh, just spelunk around this site and you can read all kinds of chapters in my book. Chapters about frugal fashion, my two growing boys and my husband. You'll see that I like to bake. You may want to dog ear a few recipes in that chapter of me for later use perhaps. You'll learn I'm a designer and that I love to celebrate. You can skim or sink your eyes into these chapters of me any ole time you want. Like Krispy Kreme's HOT NOW sign, the story of me is forever flicker-flashing here in this neon light of the internet.

And that's cool. It's forthright and feels good. I want it to. I want my story to be one of truth, of trial and of telling it right. I want to leave these words like a trail of bread crumbs for my boys once I am gone. For following my crumbs dropped, will hopefully help them learn more about their mother, their family and themselves as they read snippets of their very own story in this space.

Yet with all this talk of story, there's one more valuable than mine and most worthy of being told. It's the story that so many send out wrong and pressure into people's hearts through shame or guilt. It's a tale that can only be believed and lived when it is first felt in you. It's a story I am a part of. Yes, I have a chapter in this book. We all do. And today is a day that I want to honor this story. I want to tell it right with no pressure and with all kinds of love.

No alter calls, shiny coins clanking into the offering plate or fancy Easter dresses made me His. Hurt led me to Him. Hurt like nothing I have ever experienced. Hurt that led me to a bottom where everything I oozed was ugly. I twisted within myself and into my surroundings only making the knots of life tighter and more suffocating. Huge gaping holes were all I could see.

I felt him. Working into me. Yes. I felt him surrounding me. Holding me even. I doubted. I disbelieved. I turned away. At 22 years old, I knew him not nor had any real plans of meeting this so called maker. Yet, He held the pen that bled into my story book. My chapter would be written. And forever I will be grateful for his ink.

The series of life that has followed in the past 16 years has brought me unbelievable amounts of joy. I create for him. I teach for him. I hurt with him and cry with him too. I still feel his pains there on the cross of me. For that's what happens when stories are read in truth and through trial. Telling it right is our mountains.

He is strength and love fantastic. And just when I feel like I've come to a dull, low spot in my book of him, I am overwhelmed by his plot twisting. Marvelously and behind-the-scenes, he stories me on. And that's my faith. It's free. It's functioning through failure. It's moving to where his light shines best in you.

Below is a post from 5 years ago. It's in this memory, I share a little more of his ink:

{April 24, 2009}

15 days ago the boys and I played with sidewalk chalk on Good Friday.
The air was moist, sticky on our skin.
The chalk against the concrete seemed to melt vibrancy into our creations.
Names first, middle, and last scribbled.
Trains sketched.
Noah's Arc.
Scattered colors.
Cheeks smeared with chalk.

I drew this:

He was heavy on my heart that day.

He?

Jesus.

And within an hour's time, torrential downpours commenced.
The southeast experienced severe weather.
Tornado touchdowns.
Destruction.
Even some deaths.

I was actually on my way back from my local fabric store in Kenny's truck. Windows up and pellets of rain pouring vehemently down, I heard the strangest howling noise. It was the Chattanooga area's weather siren.

Immediately, I clicked on the radio only to hear:

"Take cover. Stop driving. Get in a bathtub. Stay away from windows."

Freaked and under control ironically at the same time, I called Kenny. The power was out at our home and he and the kids were safe. Together, he slowly talked me through the storm as I gave him updates on the weather forecast and where tornadoes were hitting.

I made it home.

Limbs down and leaves scattered like the toys in the boys' bedrooms was the extent of our damage. Our imperfect scribbles, scratches, and drawings had vanished; gone forever with the storm. We were without power for almost 24 hours after that.

In that space of time sans sewing machine humming, dishwasher drumming, and light flicking amid the wrestle play fights by candlelight and the snuggles in bed listening to the rainfall, I reflected on my today.

No paper needed as my thoughts seemed to tattoo my very mind and soul:

The air was moist; sticky on our skin.
He was heavy on my heart that day.
He?
Even some deaths.
And within an hour's time, torrential downpours commenced.
Our imperfect scribbles, scratches, and drawings had vanished; gone forever with the storm.
Freaked and under control ironically at the same time...
He was heavy on my heart that day.
Take cover.
Jesus.
The chalk against the concrete seemed to melt vibrancy into our creations.
I made it home.

And there it was, my words right before me.

The story of Easter

His pain, the heaviness of his struggles

[The air was moist; sticky on our skin. He was heavy on my heart that day.]

People gathering to see this miracle worker slain.

[He?]

His death on the cross.

[Even some deaths.]

The curtain to the Holy of Hollies ripping; the Earth shaking.

[And within an hour's time, torrential downpours commenced.]

Our sins forever forgiven with His blood.

[Our imperfect scribbles, scratches, and drawings had vanished; gone forever with the storm.]

Compelled, inspired, a desire to know him more...his body in the tomb.

[Freaked and under control ironically at the same time.]

Mourning His death likewise mourning my soul for its imperfections.

[He was heavy on my heart that day.]

Accepting His place forever in my heart and temporarily with His Father in Heaven, I am covered. Wrapped in His love forevermore as in the tomb His body was not found.

[Take cover.]

He is here for all of us to do just that.

[Jesus.]

With Jesus, my life is more vivid, more alive.

[The chalk against the concrete seemed to melt vibrancy into our creations.]

I am His. Kept. Saved. Forever.

[I made it home.]

And there is no place I would rather be. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for the many blessings you give, the wisdom you share, the glory You are through us all. It is a privilege to know you more and more everyday.

15 days ago symbolically; forevermore internally

No alter calls, shiny coins clanking into the offering plate or fancy Easter dresses made me his. There is a story more valuable than mine and most worthy of being told. It's the story that so many send out wrong and pressure into people's hearts through shame or guilt. It's a tale that can only be believed and lived when it is first felt in you. One of truth, of trial and of telling it right. I am grateful for his ink

{UPDATED POST: April 2021}

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