If you surrendered to the air you could ride it
Seven years of quick lessons thanks to a reel trend
Hello there friends - I thoroughly enjoyed your opinions on #spitgate last week. Thank you.
If you didn't watch the Emmys (because it was a Monday???), please let me share the night's highlight for your mental health and encouragement.
First, 65 where? Second, Sheryl deserves everything good in the world. She is here to remind us to stay after it because some of the best things we will ever do haven’t happened yet. Hope you’re encouraged by that - I know I am.
Here’s something else I’m thinking about from the book Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison:
“If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.”
To be where you are right now and accept it. Lean into it. Gently probe how you got here and decide where you want to go. Then, surrender to the air and ride it. Who are you becoming?
I’m obsessed with a reel trend on Instagram that invites you to take a walk through the last seven years. They take too much time to make but doing the exercise blessed me. Every photo took me back to a moment of decision, a time of transformation, or a season of surrender.
I'm not who I used to be, but I like who I'm becoming.
How about you? When was the last time you thoughtfully reflected on your beautiful life? You're a marvelous human being, a good neighbor, a kind reflection of God in the world. Sometimes, a walk through your photo album can remind you how much you've survived. You're still here, and that's significant.
Honestly, who knew a random social media trend would have such an impact on me? Welcome to 2022. This week, I'm taking you along for the ride because these photos represent significant life lessons and change. Maybe it will make you feel seen. Or at least inspired to reflect on your growth in the last seven years. The trend asks for a photo from seven years ago, three years ago, one year, six months, and now. Ever the rebel, I'm going to work backward and start with now.
A photo of you now:
This is me in Balboa Park, San Diego. Before attending the Padres/Dodgers game, we killed a few hours walking around this stunning park. I spoke at MomCon on Motherhood and Work and got to bring my whole family. The hotel they gave us was beautiful, and it felt so good to be in a room with other mothers trying to figure out how to do this—76% of mothers with children under 18 work. During the Q&A, a brave mama raised her hand to share. She is in the military and about to be deployed.
“My job requires me to leave my daughter. She’s two. How do I soak up the time? Because when I return, she’ll be a completely different child.” I gave her no advice, but the room had a big cry. Women got up to surround her (it wasn’t weird, it was welcome), and we got to remind her that there is grace for her job, her season, and her choices. There’s no right or perfect way to mother.
This photo reminds me that I am finally coming up for air as a mother of three, love my husband and children, and am graced to do this. I am proud of this woman. She is strong, wise, and always in process.
What would you say about yourself right now? What picture would you choose?
Six months ago:
Cody and I walked with Willow on the beach in Wilmington, NC. The boys stayed home with Mama so we could walk through the dunes and reeds. I know I’ve written about this before, but this is the moment that I felt God remind me: “A bruised reed, he will not break. A smoldering flame, he will not snuff.”
You’ve probably heard, “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” Bull crap. He allows plenty we can’t handle. Half the things we go through wouldn’t happen if God withheld suffering and pain on this side of heaven. But he gives grace. And he gives us each other. Somehow, that’s enough to keep us going.
This moment with Cody reminds me how good it is to pause and ask, What do I desire? What is the dream inside me that I push beneath the surface? What is the quality of life we want? What do we hope for our children? The ocean is a partner to purpose for me. Giant, mysterious, uncontrollable. Like God. Like life. It makes an honest woman out of me.
Is there a place that makes you feel small in light of God’s creation? A place that makes you feel alive? What are the questions sitting like rocks in your soul? Maybe you can go soon and listen.
A year ago:
How do we have three babies? My friend Leanne, the best photographer I know, shot these photos at The Row in Downtown Los Angeles. I’d just released my second book with very little tangible support and had faithfully wrestled with the decision to pivot from twenty years in one zone to another. Book writing is a deep passion. (I’ve ghostwritten nine, edited a dozen, and written two of my own.) But God, the marketing, sales stuff, dancing reels, email campaigns, botched ads, “paid in exposure” article writing, and 40ish unpaid interviews that no one can prove turn into book sales… enough is enough. The worst thing I did in my personal publishing career was do everything they told me to do.
Also, just don’t launch books during Covid with babies. If I could do it again, I’d push the date because I love my book, and it deserved better, honestly. I’m beyond lucky and grateful to have published two of my books, regardless of the challenges. Hindsight is always 20/20.
This photo reminds me that you might feel afraid but trust your gut. As they say in the South, “You feeling froggy? Jump.” A year later, I’m so glad I did.
Where were you a year ago? What’s different about your life now? Is there a photo representing a big lesson you learned or a choice that changed everything?
Three years ago:
My whole life was pushing babies around Manhattan, up and down subway stairs, writing, and serving as a pastor alongside my husband, who was on staff full-time. We loved our life in the city so much, and it nearly broke me. The slumlords at our apartment building refused to fix flooded walls and holes in ceilings or deal with the mice and roaches in our building. (Cody caught eight on his own.) This photo is about the time a city inspector tapped on our door. I answered with Lucas on my hip and Levi wrapped around my thigh. "Ma'am, we had another child test positive for lead poisoning in your building. We need you to get your children blood tested."
I'd gotten to a place where I barely wanted to get out of bed every day. A strange sensation because I could work and carry on through almost anything, but the stress overwhelmed my basic functioning. Cody and I attended a friend's 50th birthday party, and I asked if we could grab a bite before. As we sat across from each other at a wooden table in the East Village, packed like sardines with our neighbors, I confessed to him,
"My recovery is in danger. I don't think I can keep going."
I'll never forget his response: "Let's go." He's been in ministry for fifteen years. Maybe it's because we've seen too many families implode, but he didn't hesitate to help me with my weakness. Cody has always said he'd never sacrifice his family on the altar of ministry. I'm glad to tell you that it's true.
I kept my sobriety by a thread of grace and a gangle of good choices. I can't stay sober without margin, and margin in motherhood is tough to find, but I encourage you to say so if you're struggling. Ask for the help you need. Say what's true instead of carrying on as you've always done. Your sanity is worth it. You're worth it. And, I'm really, really proud of you.
Seven years ago:
You know you’ve been working too hard when maternity leave feels like a Sabbath. Here I am, seven years ago, a new mama, trying to figure out how to work the baby carrier. My maternity leave was the first time I hadn’t worked for more than a week or two since I was a teenager.
God taught me so many lessons during that time, but the biggest was how much I’d enmeshed the voices of people I’d admired with God’s voice. I realized how tender, gracious, and close God is. That old hymn I’d sing at Grace Baptist Church as a child became more real. “Just as I am, thy love unknown; Hath broken every barrier down; Now, to be thine, yea thine alone; O Lamb of God, I come, I come” He just loves us, as we are.
The loss of autonomy and productivity taught me to value myself as a person—a human being, not a human doing.
As I bless the woman in this photo for her courage and joy and her passion for justice and community, I think about how this year changed everything. The following seven would be wild, unruly, unmannered, perplexing, and strangely spectacular. I’m glad she didn’t know what she didn’t know.
If you looked back seven years, what would you see? What do you wish you’d known? What are you glad you didn’t know?
Over dinner last week, my friend Jen said, “Can you believe we lived through that?” And we began listing all the things that happened during the harshest lockdowns of Covid and beyond. I GAVE BIRTH IN A MASK, YOU GUYS.
Cody taught the message at church today on rhythms of rest (his sweet spot), and he quoted Dr. Jean Cheng. I’ll leave you with her words because every yes is a no, and great gain is great loss. Grief is very much a part of joy.
“To grieve is to exercise emotional resilience. Grief will not consume us. The avoidance of grief will.”
I love you, friends. I hope you feel encouraged to remember, process, and accept your life. Time to “surrender to the air and ride it.” You are not alone. I love being your neighbor.