It all feels overwhelming sometimes, doesn’t it?  The headlines, the statistics, the almost routine mention of another capsized boat or a small group of sojourners’ bodies found dead along the border of two countries.  We Americans are generally a people of short attention spans: rocked and saddened over Aylan’s little body one day, moving on to a celebrity’s fall from grace or our football team’s poor performance the next.  This mostly steady emotional barometer towards the plight of so much of the world tends to mark the cadence of our lives; we give a nod or acknowledgment to headlines and news stories that, while they should shock us, leave us with a mostly unmoving response.  Or far worse, no response at all.  And then, we carry on.

This cannot be.  It can’t.  I am begging you, friends, to respond.

But how?  How!?  What can I do about ISIS? President Al-Assad?  The Middle East?  I hear these questions, they resound in my mind, too.  And they are valid: most of us are not in any sort of position to speak to these loaded political and governmental concerns and we will likely never be. 

But let’s not do something: let’s not, as Christ-followers, put our God on the same level as our politicians, weighing the power of each with equal belief and confidence.  That’s not even a thing.  Scripture tells the story of a God who has never once wavered in authority over all kingdoms and governments and leaders*.  Never, not one time, has he not been in charge— and this is true in every generation, every pocket of history.  It remains true today.  So that is where I start, with a clear reminder to myself that the terror of my moment in history is not un-watched by the God of all history.

The next thing we can do is know.  Stop looking away.  Read the stories, as many of them as you can.  Know that more than 12 million innocent men, women, and children have been forced from their homes in Syria.  Sit with that number for a moment, will you?  Really think about how many people that is.  Or picture your hometown, the traffic and the grocery stores and the busyness of people moving from here to there; moms doing school drop-offs and parents heading to work, meeting friends for coffee and closing business deals… and now picture it silent.  No food on the store shelves.  No cars on the streets.  No access to hospitals.  Banks are closed.  The water is shut off.  Maybe the biggest buildings are bombed out or perhaps the terrorist group has forced everyone in to hiding.  But there is nothing left of your life, and you find yourself having to answer questions like this: “do we take grandma with us as we flee or will she not make it anyway?”  That’s not really a choice; it is a life-sentence to guilt no matter how one answers it. See this in your mind, friends, because it is real for millions of our global brothers and sisters right this moment.

Once you know, allow it to hurt.  It is ok for someone else’s pain to hurt.  I would argue that it is good.  That hurting is the birthplace of compassion—the kind of compassion Jesus felt when he saw the hungry crowd**, the kind of compassion that means to “suffer with,” and the kind of compassion that makes a space in our lives for the Holy Spirit to come in and inspire.  And that is where we respond with prayer. Just prayer.  So simple, isn’t it?  Oh, but so, so powerful, and perhaps the most important work we can do,  if we truly believe in it.  I think that it gives God the honor he is due when we tell him out loud that we trust him with all of this, and that we believe in him for justice. 

When we go to scripture as our guide, we see thousands of years of men and women petitioning God for help, for answers, and for peace.  We read the greatest writer of the new testament, the Apostle Paul, offering prayers for the hearers of his letters and begging for them for himself at the same time; praying for protection (2 Thessalonians 3:2), for grace (1 Corinthians 16:23), and for clarity and boldness in his words (Ephesians 6:19-20) so that the gospel might go forward and believers would multiply.  If you are wondering how to start praying for Syria (or any number of injustices, countries, or people groups), may I humbly suggest that is a good model to begin with: protection in the face of danger, grace in the midst of chaos, clarity for those sharing the gospel and understanding for those hearing it.  We do not know how our prayers will be answered but we know that they will be heard, and most assuredly, heard by the only One who is perfect and able to answer with flawless justice, impeccable timing, and eternal truth.         

While I believe to my toes that prayer is the most important thing we can do for others, my hope is that as far as we are able, it is not the only thing we do for others.  Let’s not scoff at sacrificial giving, either.  That old Christian alliteration for stewardship applies perfectly here, because between our time, talents, and treasures we can all do something: are you a lawyer who can advocate for asylum?  A doctor or nurse who can volunteer for a few weeks with any number of refugee agencies?  A stay-at-home mom who can make room in her home for a refugee family (or an orphan, a single mom, anyone) for a few months?  I promise if you want a role in helping—with one of the statistically greatest humanitarian crises of our time, or any number of equally heart-breaking injustices— start asking questions and you will find one.  And there is also giving our money, which often feels like the easy thing but it is no small thing.  Because maybe you know someone willing to go, he just needs someone else willing to give.  Or you read about the agencies doing great work but who are sorely under resourced and you give to meet a need and help spread the gospel.   There are great people on the front lines but they are out of resources, leaving them with little capacity to help stop the hemorrhaging of the refugee crisis. Last week I read that on the Greek border refugee camps built for 500 people are housing 5000.  Put this perspective in to our world: the house we comfortably live in with 5 people would all of a sudden have 50. Wouldn’t we all feel the sting and meaning of under resourced in a moment like that?         

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I had the great privilege of speaking to the Chief Catalyst at World Vision last week, and the stories he told me after a trip to Lebanon to the refugee camp in Beirut are, in the truest sense, unbelievable.  And I mean that.  They are hard to believe.  In his words, “Utterly beyond anyone’s capacity to take it in.” It’s crowded.  Abuse is rampant.  Food and water supplies are low, a thriving black market is gaining steam.  Children are drawing pictures of their homes and remembering details like grenades scattered on the floor.  For so many of the refugees, after three years away from everything they know and no real means to an end in sight, a catastrophic loss of hope has settled in.  Truly, there are few things with more devastating consequences than that.

So what will we do?  As some of the most resourced Christians on the planet, the answer simply cannot be nothing.  And every agency on the frontlines, every humanitarian worker who has been there, every Syrian, Iraqi, Afghan, or other beautiful refugee face will beg you to not let that be the answer.  We can do hard things, friends.  But most certainly, we can do these things: Remember. Learn. Feel. Pray. Act.

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Want to do something right now?!  My talented friend Margaret has created the adorable printable in the picture above to remind us to do the simple yet profound work of praying.  It’s yours for a donation of $5, $10, $25 or $50 dollars.  If you know me at all, you know that keeping your money will never be my style, and EVERY SINGLE PENNY of proceeds from these printables is going to World Vision.  And I think we could make a teensy, tiny little dent, friends.

Print out your reminder and then do the most important work: prayer. Pray for the refugees and their loss of hope in the world to be found in Christ.  Pray for the agencies and volunteers pouring themselves out.  Pray for President Al-Assad.  Pray for President Obama.  Pray for your own ideas to grow.  Pray for a small community of friends around you to encourage your creative passions and increase your capacity to give.  Pray to feel this.  Friends, let's talk to Jesus about it all and watch him work in our hearts and in the world.  This story, and so many others riddled with the most nefarious acts humanity is possible of, are not unseen by him.  In fact I believe his heart is broken over them.  There is not a believer on the planet who has not been invited to be a part of his work in the world in some way.  We can, y'all, and we must.   

{Printables available October 28-November 6: TEN DAYS, y'all.  Get yours.  Print it.  Share it.  Pray out loud.  Let's do something cool together}

*Because donators receive a printable, donations made through Just Enough Brave are NOT considered tax-deductible.  If you would like your donation to be tax-deductible, please visit one of the organizations linked in this essay and donate straight to them.

Scripture references (worth memorizing!)
*Daniel 2:21
**Mark 6:34

I can’t stop looking at Aylan.  And I’m sure you’ve seen it, too, the image of a tiny little body with his face down on the sand.  I can’t stop looking because if I trade the sand for a light green bed sheet, the waves for the safety of crib rails, and the shoes for the pajama feet, that is what my little Cannon looks like when he sleeps: arms to his side, on his tummy, no care in the world.

But that was never Aylan’s story. At three years old he has never known a life that wasn’t marred by ISIS and civil war.  He was born into fear, and bless him and keep him forever, Jesus, he died in fear. As a mama, the thought of having my babies on my lap one moment and then reaching and screaming and crying out for them in the rough waters of the ocean the next is enough to put my heart in panic mode even as I sit at my kitchen table.  And she couldn’t swim herself, Aylan’s mama.  She had to have felt the panic before she and her husband paid most of their life savings to someone they did not know to put everything precious in the world on a boat for the journey towards a land where bombs were not going off and terrorists were not coming to their door to rape, kill, and torture them.  She must have felt in her heart not to do it.  But what choice was there?  Possible death or certain death?  Oh friends, that is no choice at all for our Syrian sisters and brothers.

Five years ago, God put a fire in my belly, this burden to do something.  I heard stories I can’t un-hear, I saw images, like Aylan, that I cannot un-see.  I feel guilt that I cannot for anything in me un-feel.  And I wish you truly knew how much I want to un-feel!  Because some days, like yesterday, it paralyzes me.  I have to be a mom and get lesson plans for my students ready and put dinner on the table and wear actual clothes for a four hour night class and all I can do is read, research, email trusted friends and mentors, listen, sob, look again at Aylan.  And I want to walk away from it, I do.  I want to stop crying when I smell Cannon’s beach-wavy hair.  I can’t.

So I pray, and I search scripture, and I write.  At one point yesterday Alex and I had three bibles and two commentaries open, because if we know anything it is that God’s word has the answers and we have to start with him.  But scripture only confirms what I have known for years to be true: we are supposed to feel others’ pain this much.  The system is rigged, friends.  The more we desire to be like Jesus, the more the pain of our friends, community, and the world will wreck us.  There is no pressing in hard to a life following Jesus that will not come with a terrible burden for the well-being of others.  It just is not there.

A great tensions exists in the life of a Christ-follower: the desire for wholeness, self-worth, healing in our broken pasts, thriving marriages, godly children, and hospitable homes set up against the backdrop of a very, very broken world.  The fact that a young girl in Cambodia was just bought for the price of a few of my caramel macchiatos.  The ‘abundant life’ Jesus said he came to bring us juxtaposed with the reality that life is anything but abundant for so, so many.  I have spent so many weeks and months of the past few years feeling like I cannot manage this kind of tension, it’s too thick and heavy.  I wonder if many of us feel like this: we don’t know what to do so we mostly look away.  Or, you may or may not go into the kind of crazy cycle I did a few years ago and throw away all the lavish purchases you had ever made in the name of repentance—my personal sackcloth and ashes moments.  But I don’t think either of those are right, because the former is an attempt to justify ourselves with the “there’s nothing I can really do" mentality and the later is an attempt to justify ourselves by saying “look what I just did!”  Neither line up biblically, where justification is found only in Jesus and his work on the cross.

God did not accidentally put us in this place and time in history.  I did not end up in Spokane, Washington with a husband, two babies, and one on the way outside of what he ordained or allowed in my life.  And I don’t believe that God wants me walking through life apologizing for everything I have that so much of the world does not.  Salvation through poverty is not his plan for beautiful redemption.  But I am also convinced of this to my very core: we are supposed to feel pain for others as much as we feel it for ourselves.  And I think this means fighting back.  It means using my resources in any and every creative manner that I can come up with.  It means prayer, the on our knees, groaning because we don’t know what to say to Aylan’s father kind of prayer.  It means giving sacrificially, considering what our family can do without this month and sending that amount away with trust that God will use it.  It means pushing my daughter on the swing and talking to other mamas about refugees at the same time.  It means Voxing conversations back and fourth all day with a friend talking about dentist appointments and justice in consecutive thoughts.  It means buying pretty flowers at Trader Joe’s for my table and looking at devastatingly painful pictures on the same day.

I can only think of this tension as a rather narrow ridge we are walking on.  But friends, we have to try.  We have to.  In so many ways the footing is a bit more sure on one side or the other, but the life of Jesus was one of both celebration and mourning, and I think he showed us how to do both so that we could do both.  We must do both.  We can be mamas who playdate and advocate.  We can be wives who serve dinner and the homeless, fatherless, or anyone with less.  We can be business owners who make money and a mark in the world. We can be girlfriends who have wine nights and prayer nights.  We can be parents who sign homework folders and petitions.  We can enjoy every beautiful thing God gave us, and we can work tirelessly to help others experience that beauty, too.  There is no formula.  There is just an unapologetic pursuit of Jesus, and the way he shows each of us as we do. 

And to our church and faith leaders: you can ask hard things of us.  You can beg us to look, to empty our wallets, to know what the world is facing outside of our walls.  I promise we can handle it.  We can clap joyfully at the baptism of new family and celebrate wildly when wayward children come back; and we can cry for Syria and Nigeria and so much of the world on the very same day. We can do both, because Jesus did both. We will follow your lead on this.  Please, ask us to do hard things for others.  Give us scripture to sustain us when we are weary and offer a place to rest when we need it, but don’t go easy on us.  If our faith in Jesus is real, it can stand up to pain in the most raw places.  Teach us how to be like our Savior. 

William Wilberforce, one of my heroes of history, will always be famous in our home for his tireless effort to use his position to speak for those who were not allowed a voice.  I think he found that narrow ridge, and history is different because of him.  He also said these words, which I leave you with today: “You can choose to look the other way, but you cannot say you didn’t know.”  Let’s keep looking friends.

The last few mornings have been cool and breezy, and rain is starting to bring our beautiful state some relief from the torrent of fires that have had its way with so much of the beauty God gave the northwest.  (Still praying for you, firefighters.) I think it is more than safe to say that this warm summer is moving on and making way for the fall, a season I love equally as much and have plans to soak up before baby #3 joins the party (P.S. How am I almost in my third trimester?)  But as I look back not only on the last month but on the whole summer, I realize what a growing season it has really been, what sweet lessons I am learning about my marriage, parenting my two very different children, and knowing God and his word in ways that move from heart and my hands from here to there.  And I am so, so thankful for every part of it. 

In the past month, it has become very clear to me the ways I fail to respect my husband, and trade his honor for my own well-being.  I would venture to say that we have had more strong arguments in the last month than we’ve had in quite some time, but that has also brought a really beautiful, very real repentance from me.  I married the most selfless man on the planet.  He married an incredibly list-oriented, get-it-done-and-look-good-doing-it woman.  In this combination, my default is to go and his default is to support.  For so many things it works, but in so many ways I’ve unintentionally elevated my dreams and ideals for what our life should look like over his.  So we are entering a new season starting over.  Every single day I cannot believe God gave me this man forever, and every single day I want to make sure he knows that and doesn’t have any fan in the world bigger than me. 

I also learned to say “no” this summer.  My middle name might as well be “do you like me?” so this simple act was really incredibly difficult to follow through on.  But I did it, and almost immediately God opened a new door that I without hesitation stepped in to.  I’m paying attention to myself more, to who I am versus who I want people to think I am.  With a husband, two babies and one on the way, a real teaching job and a ‘pretend’ writing job, friends who love me, and a teeny tiny ministry God is constantly growing my heart more and more for, my plate is full.  And I’m not doing the whole comparison thing anymore.  Really, no more “she has way more on her plate so I should be able to do that, too” because, no, that is not how this works.  I will flex and stretch and do my best to stand before Jesus and offer him a life that I gave all I had to steward my people and love all of His well.  But I’ve spent a lot of years standing before others and pleading my case for approval and I have to be done with that.  Everything loses perspective when I lose sight of Jesus.  And sometimes the most holy thing we can do is simply say “no” to a good thing so that God can do the best thing in us.

And a few fun things: first, let me tell you about the books.  My summer reading list has brought it.  Y’all, being in a book club and going through Make it Happen has honestly changed my life.  It was such an organically built and diverse group, and I think because of that I learned ten times more.  I also laughed my way through Women are Scary and loved, loved, loved Wild in the Hollow and Chasing God.  To be fair, Go Set a Watchman was not what I expected and I am still having a difficult time taking Atticus off my hero pedestal, but I loved the book and think Harper Lee is pretty great.  And For the Love was a perfect mix of funny and necessary, written in perfect Jen Hatmaker form.  But maybe the best book I read all summer was the shortest, most simple one: Deepening the Soul for Justice was a two hour read, but profound in its simplicity.  Cannot recommend that one enough.  My nightstand is already piled high for the next few months, just the way I like it. 

Also, did you see the sweet cards on Coffee + Crumbs?  The whole site just got an adorable makeover, and the shop is up and running, so stop over there and get yourself some encouragement for your mama friends!

And finally, college football starts this week.  Amen and Amen.  You all now know what I will be doing every Saturday morning for the next four months.  Welcome back to my life Lee Corso, I've missed you. 

This summer has been pretty great.  Turning thirty.  Sun-kissed shoulders.  Five years of sobriety.  Bonding with a new baby boy in my belly.  Asking for forgiveness.  Trips to California and Texas.  Harper's hair finally fits in a top knot.  Tomatoes from the garden.  The lake.  My first attempt at chalk painting (and why this will never be a DIY blog)  Cold brew.  Saturday Farmer’s Market.  My mom and dad moving to town.  And Jesus, with the sweet, sweet grace he offers.  I love Him.  Some days have been full, others have been simple, but I think we have made the most of summer.  And it’s been real good. 

I’ll be taking some time away from social media starting in September, because, you know, I just need to.  I try to carve out space in my weeks away from the screen, but as I did last year, I’m feeling like a longer break is more than merited again.  I hope to write a lot, so ideally this space won’t stay quiet, but the rest of the noise I let in will.  I want to be nearer to the most important people and things in my life, and right now I think that means putting some distance between the not-so-real things.  So, I’ll see you in pictures when it’s scarf and boot season, sound good?!  (P.S. If you mostly stay up with j.e.b from facebook, you can subscribe below and they will come to your inbox.  And that's as close to a shameless plug as you'll get from me.  Promise.)

Finally, thanks for reading what I write here, friends.  Writing is 95% for me as I think and process and fill this need in my life to craft something, but I will never be able to tell you enough what your affirmation does for me.  I don’t want to need it, but gosh, I sure am thankful for it.  Sweet blessings and lots of love for a fall season full of pumpkin bread, red leaves, chunky scarves, and maybe, just maybe, the most genuine love and friendships you’ve ever had. 

*no affiliate links used here

A big yard with room for lots of people.  My dream would be to fill ours just like this, talking about things that matter for eternity.

All of a sudden, I saw my exact reflection in Peter: devoted but selfish, committed but misguided.  And that is not going to be enough.  It won’t suffice to claim good intentions.  Saying, ‘I meant well’ is not going to cut it.  Not with God screaming, begging, pleading, urging us to love mercy and justice, to feed the poor and the orphaned, to care for the last and least in nearly every book of the Bible.  It will not be enough one day to stand before Jesus and say, ‘Oh, were you serious about all that?’… Am I willing to take the Bible at face value and concur that God is obsessed with social justice?” –Jen Hatmaker, Interrupted

I remember it well, the day I found the words that would start changing me forever.  Sitting in my office at Gonzaga University in 2011, an email forward from my boss came up in my inbox with only these words: “I think you would like this writer.”  That email was the link to a blog titled “After the Airport” and the author was a gal named Jen Hatmaker.  And she had me at her “About Me” section.

In the months leading up to this, God had been putting in front me a whole lot of, well, questions.  I had recently read Radical by David Platt and Francis Chan’s words had already been messing with my comfortable Christianity, so when Jen (yes, first name basis, it’s cool) joined that lineup and I read Interrupted and then 7 as soon as it came out, I just felt like I might burst at the seems.  Something was terribly wrong with my faith.  Maybe not my theology, but my faith; my actual understanding of living out an alive and inspired faith in Jesus.  Or maybe it was my theology.  I’m not sure, but I knew something was missing.

So I lost my mind for a few months.  The poor friends in my Bible study.  They sat through rants and soap box moments abundant.  They listened to me say “This is all wrong!  We shouldn’t buy make-up when children are starving!  Do you know how many girls have to have sex with a man they don’t know tonight!  Why do three-car garages exist, don’t even get me started on storage units!  I can’t eat that M&M, it came from child slaves!  We should all be adopting children!  We’re missing the whole point!”  And because I am nothing if not excitable, I threw away almost $1000 worth of MAC makeup that I had accumulated over the previous three years.  Just like that, in the trash.  Because I had to do something.  I can say in retrospect I may have been a tad dramatic.  (But I also had $1000 worth of makeup and only made about $30,000 a year.  That should tell you enough about my priorities).

I can also say that four years later, I still don’t think I have this right, this living out of my faith.  I have not landed the plane in a place I am totally secure yet, but I am not the same person I was four years ago. The turns in my life have been both sharp and subtle, and it’s only in looking back that I can see a change in trajectory.  Y’all, the tension is always thick in my heart; I would just love a formula for being ‘in the world but not of it.’  But I’m finding it is simply one step, one day, one Holy Spirit conviction at a time.  And it involves a heavy dose of a lifestyle that is generous, selfless, and maybe, just maybe, hard and sacrificial. 

So you can imagine that when my friend, Emily, calls me and says “did you see what the Hatmakers are starting?!  Katie, we gotta join them!” (hear those words being said more like a Mexican soccer game commentator than a casual phone call, and you’ll understand), Alex and I were not in need of much arm-twisting.  We read about the Legacy Collective, and our eyes grew wide as we saw the focus on helping not hurting, investing in local leaders already doing the things that are working, the commitment to sustainable solutions, and the most authentic desire to just do what Jesus would do if he had the resources that we have.  I’m learning that resources are not the enemy, not the sin in and of themselves.  It’s our hearts, our stewardship or lack of, our grasp on things over people that get in the way so much.  The Legacy Collective is helping me see this even more.

I have so many stories I want to share about the organization that the Collective is currently supporting.  Protecting children in Haiti.  Keeping families together in Ethiopia.  Empowering the homeless in Austin.  And a hundred more organizations that members of the collective get to nominate for funding in the coming months.  Because the Collective is about doing the work together.  It’s about using what we’ve each been given, be it money, time, or talents, to make a difference for real people experiencing real hardship.   The Hatmakers and the team they have assembled know their stuff.  I am more confident in this organization than any we have ever given money to.  Ever.  Our resources are going to the people who need them, no doubt.  You should join.  It’s pretty cool.

So I went to Austin to learn what this was all about, to understand what we had actually committed our money to, and yes, going to the Hatmaker’s house sounded lovely.  Two of my favorite things were in one place: justice and Jen.  She’s a real life hero to me.  And one of the most rewarding parts of my short time in Austin was seeing her life and talking with her and Brandon even for a few short minutes, because they are the real deal.  Their public lives are not a show.  Brandon cried a half dozen times talking about the work and the people supported by LC.  Jen made fun of him.  Brandon’s mom talked to us about praying that her son and daughter-in-law would always stay humble and she is so proud that they have.  Jen’s dad was the shuttle bus driver.  Ben and Remy jumped on the trampoline as more than 300 people filtered in their backyard.  It was like they said, “This is our home and our family and we care deeply about serving and you’re all welcome to be a part of it all!”  But this was all a bonus to the mission: love God, love people.  That’s the truest, deepest cry of my heart and I may fail in a thousand ways at loving the people right in front of me, but after a weekend like the one I just got to have in Austin, I’m reminded with a beautiful new fervor that it’s the goal and the answer to this life abundant Jesus promised us.   

Brandon Hatmaker told us that, “The church IS what it DOES.”  I love this so much.  As followers of Jesus we cannot earn our salvation, and that is such a freeing truth; but a watching world is longing to actually see what we do with that salvation, that freedom for which we have been set free.  So let’s do something, and let’s do it well, y’all.

P.S. I have to tell you this: I wrote Jen a note, and I actually gave it to her.  I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I’ve embraced my middle-school love for hand-written notes.  I am what I am.  At the encouragement of my friend, Ashley, who was there at the meeting from Atlanta with her husband, I actually said these words to Jen: “I know this is lame, but if I don’t give this to you, I know I will regret it.”  And she looked at me and said, “No, not lame.  Because I need this, I need the words.  Thank you.”  I love her.

Today Alex and I celebrate our 4th anniversary.  I know. Babies. In the marriage sense that is.  Four years hardly qualifies me for any sort of marital advice, so you won’t find any of that here.  But we have had a full enough four years of marriage and just over five years together that, like anyone who has lived, sinned, parented, loved, fought or forgiven, four years does give me story: one larger story of God at work and a hundred short stories reminding us of that very thing.

My friendship with Alex started in January of 2010. I was just starting my last semester of graduate school in the middle of Pennsylvania, and Alex was in the middle of a year-long deployment to Iraq.  So, that sounds like a great recipe for a meet-up, yes?  Besides the problems with the physical locale, each one of us had, well, junk in our lives.  We wouldn’t know the full extent of one another’s stuff until later, but I’ll spoil the ending just a bit: I was rather hung up on another guy, and Alex was not fully free of a life that involved a bit of women and a lot of alcohol.  Still, behind the encouragement of my best friend who had connected us, we emailed and looked endlessly at one another’s pictures on Facebook (whatever, I call it discretion, people; you know you would do the same). 

The email communication with Alex was easy from the beginning.  He was kind and funny and honest.  He emailed when he said he would (a welcome relief for the girl who spent far too many hours waiting by her phone for the text that would never come), and he asked good questions, things I cared about answering.  As luck, or God, would have it, my trip to visit my best friend Emily in Spokane, Washington, would overlap with the first two days of his two weeks of leave from Iraq.  Our first date was March 9, 2010, with the company of great friends who knew enough about me to know that sending me out on a solo date with a guy I had only ever met in words would be, well, disastrous.  Case in point: I went to get dressed for the date and walked out in a black sweater, jeans, and my Nike running shoes.  True story.  Emily took one look at me and said “No.”

Our first date was great, our second over coffee the next day was even better, and by the time I hopped on an airplane back east 48 short hours after I met Al, I was taken.  He was, too.  Mutual taken-ness with one another is perhaps the most fun time in a dating relationship.  It’s all light and flirty and wonderful when you occupy a space in someone’s heart and mind that makes you feel, well, loved. And loved is no small thing at all. 

But every relationship does eventually get real.  Ours did in July 2010.  Alex had been committed to a new life in Jesus and I had finally found the confidence to cut all ties with the other guy- something I should have known to do many months before.  But you know, sin is a hard thing.  You’ve heard the metaphor, but if the wound isn’t completely clean, the infection will just come back even if you diligently change the bandaid each day.  We both had more cleaning to do.

In July 2010, on his way home from Iraq during a three-day stop over in Germany, Alex found himself deep in the elation and celebration that a war-tour for a few hundred young U.S. Armed Services members was over, and he made a few bad decisions.  He called me around 3am that morning, told me through pained tears about the alcohol and the other woman, and listened to me sob on the other end of the phone.  Everything we both feared the most was real and right in front of us.  For Alex, his fear was his past.  For me, my fear was my future.  We both thought our sweet romance was over. 

I could tell you so much about the next few hours, and someday I will.  But there was godly advice from a wise man, there was prayer, there was an ocean, there were a few trusted friends who spoke life and not death, and there was a small spark of hope.  That’s all we needed.  I'm not sure that we have ever done this as well in our lives since that day, but we went to God on desperate knees, and He answered. 

The days and weeks following were painful.  There were more tears, a whole lot of insecurity, and discussions that you truly never want to have with someone you love.  But right there, in the middle of all of that, there was Jesus.  And I can tell you what saved our relationship in those months, and even today, was not our pursuit of each other but our pursuit of the Lord.  Only He can heal in the ways we all need him to.  Only He can teach us what love and grace are supposed to look like, and only He can make it possible to live them.

Alex and I were married at the park of my childhood, where I grew up pulling tadpoles out of the creek and keeping up with my brothers as we climbed from tree to tree.  It was a perfectly warm California August, thirteen months removed from one of the hardest days, but it might as well had been a lifetime, because it truly was the best day.  Between that terrible July night and the beautiful August evening, we had mentors and Alex went through a recovery program.  We read books about purity and marriage and we told the truth to each other- sometimes that is a hard thing to do.  Alex committed to abstaining from alcohol and still does to this day.  I’m so proud of him for that, because it’s not easy.  He’s felt out of place or just left out more than once—as people pleasers social events are often a lot easier to navigate with a beer in your hand.  But Alex has said again and again that his best is sober, and he’s committed to staying that way.  Five years strong.

I love so many things about being married to Alex.  I love that he makes me laugh hysterically and supports every single one of my dreams.  Really, every single one.  I love how he acts like everything I cook is the best thing he’s ever tasted.  I love how incredibly patient he is with me.  I love watching him parent our children, because he loves them so tenderly.  I love how he listens when I talk.  I love the way he cares for other people.  I love that he cried in the Hunger Games when Rue died.

You only have to be married for two hours to know that there are plenty of things you won’t love about your spouse, and yes, we have that list for each other, too.  (Have I told you that when Alex tells a story while he’s driving, he might as well be in outer space because the rest of the world is going the speed limit while he cruises along at 40 miles an hour.  Multi-tasking, not so much). But what being married to Alex has always done is make me want to be more of the woman he loves.  Our marriage most certainly gets tangled with rude comments, shut doors, silent treatments, and irrational anger on my part (see: three babies in three years), but when someone serves as selflessly as my husband does, the only reaction is repentance, and then to try and serve him better. As any married couple knows, the crap comes and your spouse gets the worst of you sometimes.  But when you turn to Jesus before anyone or anything else, He loves making the ashes of that mess something beautiful again.  Maybe more than anything else, being married to Alex made me believe that.

In four years of imperfect marriage we’ve watched two precious babies come into the world and anxiously await a third.  We’ve left jobs, took risks, and lived on a summer landscaping job salary.  We bought a home and a minivan.  We’ve set goals and made mistakes and had to ask for forgiveness from each other, from our friends, from our children.  But here we are, living a story that almost wasn’t.  But it is, because Jesus is, y’all.

To my amazing man, I love you more than yesterday, but not as much as tomorrow. 

*All of these pictures were taken by my beautiful friend, Laura, who is talented and generous and sweeter than I can say.

**I made Alex take these pictures for our anniversary gift to each other, both to document what is *probably* my last pregnancy and remember this beautiful story we get to tell of God.  He's such a good man for saying 'sure.'