Trust, a dichotomy, and life is messy, y'all.

There is this notebook I have, with gold letters on the front that reads “best day ever” it is cut up and scarred on the front (*ahem I may have left in in the car on a cold day with a bottle of kombucha – that was fun to clean up.) I keep it in my car, and I fill it with my words (of which there are many, most of them ridiculous) while I drink chai tea that gets cold so much faster than I can drink it. The gold edged pages of this notebook have been filled with a lot of questions lately (well, always) but I have begun to notice a pattern to my questions; a place I am struggling to understand.

I sit in guilt as equally as I sit in forgiveness, walking with a weight as much as I am fully free. Trying so hard to reconcile the two parts of my head and my heart. Asking – is this what the journey should look like? Is this the light burden that is spoken of Matthew? As acknowledging my delinquency in equal amount I believe my pardon. I raise my hands, and with closed eyes I sing “You are good, and I am free. I am free.” – the whole time self-recrimination rings in my ears. I repent because I believe in the freedom I am offered, but can I sing with enough passion to drown out my own mind?

Don’t misunderstand, I am not sitting in hopelessness, well not anymore than I sit in complete hope. I sit in both. Is that even possible? That is the dichotomy that I struggle with and I wonder about. I know the words, the verses, the answers, but still question the normalcy of my own head and heart. Is that the journey, do you suppose - finding balance and peace with the two?

 I never used to wonder, you know. Never used to question, I KNEW. I knew I was worthless, but He died for me. I knew that there was nothing good in me, but He died for me. Love is where it gets messy though (isn’t it always!?). At a very specific moment in my past, I remember sitting on my kitchen floor, surrounded by these beautiful, exhausting tiny humans that have been given to me, sobbing because I did not know if God loved me, did not even know if I believed he existed. In those moments I know he shows up – because that is what he has always done, what he has done for me.

I specifically remember him calling out “Beloved” to me (now, that sounds a little happy-clappy charismatic for this born Independent Fundamental Baptist, but hey – I’m a lot more Charismatic than many who love me would be ok with me admitting.) If I am His beloved – if that is the name he calls me, when I am most heartbroken – then He must love me – and from what I know of love that means he loves all of me. I am still learning this, I know, making it a part of who he made me to be, allowing him to weave it in and out of the tapestry of my life, but knowing this, letting it wrap around my heart also opened my heart to so much more. To more love? Oh yes. To more family? So much, y’all. But also to more messiness.

  Like most mommas out there, messiness is not my favourite thing – for the most part it makes life harder. Stepping on a Lego – well they don’t warn you about that one when they hand you your perfectly wrinkled little baby, do they? There is a beauty in it sometimes though – in how driftwood shifts and changes along the ocean, in the bits and pieces of construction paper left after making paper snowflakes, in handprints on the wall.  Those messes? That is where you see evidence of life, of love.

Too, there is a certain kind of messiness that comes along with submission to Him and his guiding. In his love of us he asks for probably the hardest thing, to submit control of how we’d like life to go, of our plans, thoughts and ideas to his guiding each step. Submission is never a one and done, “Here you are, God. I submit this to you.” Well, its not for me anyways. I find I often submit to the lesson I am being taught in layers, often submit my will, part A…”oh, you want part B, too? And part C? can I just keep this little wish I have right here? Please? No? pretty please?” but as He speaks to you of submitting what you are holding, and reveals more areas that need to be passed into his hands – he also opens up a greater capacity for you to trust in Him. And of all my ponderings, all my questions, and doubts – I’m guessing that’s the journey. Facing the dichotomy inside my own heart and mind yet choosing to run after him anyways.  

-xo, Courtney

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Birth and an introduction:

Writing is a lot like childbirth. Starting with an idea in your head that begins to grow and move. Gaining in size and sentience, becoming something of its very own. It becomes heavy, a beautiful burden that the writer enjoys each flutter and hiccup of. Sometimes.., often… along with growth come aches and pains.

Sometimes you begin to think yourself a bit ridiculous. (ha. Sometimes!?) I know nothing. Why does my idea matter?  Why should I birth this thought into more? Why should I allow it growth? Should I continue to sustain it? Inevitably though, you realize you love it, this idea. You struggle to understand it. Ache for this thing, ache for it to have life, ache for it to breathe on its own, ache for it to BE.

Because its pretty..and one of my favourite spots to write.

I suppose I should tell you more about myself, but sometimes I’m not even sure how to introduce myself. I carry many names; Momma (probably my favourite), Courtney (not always my favourite – sorry, Mom!), Daughter, Sister, Jesus-follower, Worshipper (most passionate), Nerd (I wear this one with pride!), Canadian, Runner, and Baker. I am a lover of cupcakes (with sprinkles, y’all), Netflix, a good americano misto, books, wine and cup of tea (in that order generally).

Raised a pastor’s daughter (pk’s represent!), I love Jesus, and struggle to love the church. I am often still questioning and figuring out what I believe about God, and reconciling my past experiences with my now, and wishing I could consult with God about my future (just a bit, possibly in HD with surround sound?). I live my life very much in the spaces and grey areas – a passionate believer in love and the God of it. Never quite fitting in anyone’s box I am learning that I am made exactly as I ought to be – with BIG feelings, lots of words, and more noise than should probably come out of a 5’4”, 30 year old, mom to 3 tiny humans.

I suppose this is a welcome to my birthing room, the place I will allow my thoughts and ideas room to germinate, grow and to become something. Historically birthing rooms were sacred spaces – filled with beauty, pain, work, joy and excitement and sometimes even sadness, my heart is so much that this space would be the same. There is something in the act of birthing that changes you, on every level, mind, soul, body and spirit, and I find often words can do the same; and here are mine, without apology but with much trepidation.  

xo- Courtney

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The Gallery, the Symphony and Starting Over.

Photo credit: Leslie Ghag Photography

My house is a gallery. Maybe yours is one too? A lovingly curated gallery of half empty coffee cups, water bottles, lonely socks. My kids contribute to the curation of this gallery with Lego creations left in windowsills and backpacks left in the front entry way (not on the hooks, of course).  My house is also its very own symphony (very artistic this house is). The washing machine vibrates a bass line and there are tap shoes and cartwheels for percussion, the occasional soprano solo comes out of the bedrooms down the hall “THAT’S MINE!” and the constant harmony rings out in “I love yous” and “I’ll miss yous” and the occasional “PLEASE, please…listen.”

                Our whole lives are made up of these little moments in mosaic.  Most pieces beautifully fit together to make up the galleries and symphonies that fill our days. Each season of life bringing new pieces and new melodies and harmonies. Experience has taught me that there are some pieces that don’t always fit in with the rest of the gallery – or notes (even full verses and choruses, occasionally) that are sour – what do we do with these pieces? We can struggle and fight to make them fit (sometimes this works I think, when pieces break in just the right way and love smooths the cracked edges and a comfortable place is found, adding character and depth to your gallery and dynamic to the melody) We can remove the pieces, lovingly (or sometimes not so much…) take them from the gallery, scratch out the sour notes, fix the holes they left and white out the marks on the staff paper.  Sometimes though you end up in a place in life where you have to empty out the gallery almost completely…what do you do then? How do you fix that kind of upheaval?

                This is place I am so familiar with, and I wish I could tell you the right answer. I can tell you what I did when I found myself sitting in the pile of ashes where my gallery once stood – listening to discordant sounds that couldn’t even be called a song. I’d like to say that I picked myself up and dusted myself off and made art with the ashes, and maybe I did, eventually…But in an effort to be transparent- I will tell you I cried so many tears, I probably could have filled the ocean twice. I threw things, yelled (a lot. Y’all -  I am a passionate person) and I started running (oh, and I ate all. the. chocolate.) Call it part of the mourning process? Part of the growth process? I dunno. Eventually there comes a point, when you have cried all the tears, eaten all the chocolate, and run all the kilometres…then what do you do? (gosh, why doesn’t life come with an instruction manual and guaranteed outcomes? That would make me much happier.)

                Aside from, you know, the normal dance that is survival when you have tiny humans relying on you, what do you do?  In all honesty the day to day dance wasn’t always the easiest – It felt like dancing a dance I didn’t know the steps to, and couldn’t hear the music for. The change is so gradual it sneaks up on you - well it did to me. It was a left foot, right foot, forward and side of changing diapers and making meals and juggling finances and figuring out life as a single mom. One day it wasn’t quite such an unknown dance, I could hear little snippets of the song. I had pieces for my gallery – so different than I ever thought it would be – less socks on the living room floor and work boots in the entry, more coffee and Netflix. More silent beats and empty spaces on the wall when my littles are with their Dad. My gallery is filled and gaining more, I’ll tell you that. Daily there are notes added to my symphony, in conversations over text, and worship practices and inhaling paint fumes and drinking wine (perhaps we should open a window!?).

 So, I don’t really know how it happens, but I know that it does. That God hands you pieces and they fit, and you take steps to put your gallery back together again, you start to hear the symphony flow around you again. There are still empty spaces in my gallery for sure, and whole verses in my song I’d like to see written, but it happens. The gallery is waiting, the orchestra is playing the pieces already written and life is being lived. It could use a few less empty coffee cups though (I’m working on it, y’all).


xo- Courtney

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