More Than Enough.

I sat in the airport three nights ago and watched the sweetest little couple. You know the kind I am talking about. He with his chinos on, polo tucked in too high, reading a magazine. He cleaned his glasses once, twice, then put them back across the bridge of his nose. Clean now, but still crooked. I’d imagine they always sneak into that crack in the sofa, and he likely sits on them before he finds them again.

They didn’t have their wedding rings on, but you don’t need them at their age. Love and marriage aren’t about the shiny baubles that adorn the ring finger of women today, an accessory taken on and off when the mood, the day, the outfit dictates it.

She sat next to him and watched the world walk by, everyone else on their way to something, and looking very important while they do it. No book, no phone, no laptop. Just a quiet stillness in the middle of that holiday mess.

I sat and I wondered what their new year resolutions used to be.

What they would do differently.

What they did perfectly.

Because that night, while the rest of us were clamoring to decide what the next year was going to look like, they were simply resting in that moment.

Yesterday, you felt that quiet pressure. December 31st. You’re actively avoiding eye contact with the christmas tree, the floor below littered with needles. Baby Jesus and the nativity are back in the box. There’s a stack of presents to be returned, the dog still needs a hair cut, and your sister left a set of earrings behind on the table in the guest bedroom.

The shiny new year loomed hours away and while everyone else was texting about sequins and champagne, parties and pasta, you couldn’t figure out how tomorrow was going to look different than today. 

And perhaps last night, when someone inevitably asked what you wanted out of the year, you fabricated some pretty goal of success at work, a size 4, a baby, an MBA. You drank to those resolutions, to the sparkle of the new year.

And, if you are anything like me, you fell asleep wondering what the real answers are to all of the new year’s questions.

Have I saved enough?

Am I doing it well enough?

Fast enough?

Have I achieved enough?

Am I beautiful enough?


enough [adjective]: adequate for the want or need; sufficient for the purpose or to satisfy desire 

I want to grab that. Be that. Claim that. Make it mine.

Enough, that is.

But adequacy, sufficiency, satisfaction? THAT sounds like an unachievable trifecta, markers on the road of broken resolutions. I’m striving to be that?

I’m not sure I can be enough. I’m not so sure you can either.

But I sat and I watched that sweet little couple and I thought, if anything, maybe they’ve figured out this: 

There is no resolution that turns all of you into enough. 

But hang on just one second. There’s more to this than that.

You hang on and I’ll hang on and together we’ll consider this.

There is no resolution that turns all of you into enough, but there is a relationship that does.


Sufficient enough.

Adequate enough.

Satisfies enough.

All of that. 

The King does ALL OF THAT for me. For you.

There’s a cross in the middle of that trifecta and it’s enough.

Tullian Tchividjian, he’s figured it out too. “Because Jesus was strong for me, I was free to be weak; because Jesus won for me, I was free to lose; because Jesus was someone, I was free to be no one; because Jesus was extraordinary, I was free to be ordinary; because Jesus succeeded for me, I was free to fail.”

Can you hear the freedom in that? Do you hear the resolution in that?

I read THAT, and it lead me to THIS.

I am free to do NONE of it, because He’s already done ALL of it. 

Tomorrow, or the next day, someone is going to ask me what I want in the new year. And I’ve set goals, picked mountains, chosen challenges. I’ll have written them down, I’ll tell you all about them, and I’ll slowly cross them off of my list. Some will work out, and some won’t, and there will be nothing but beauty in that mess of achieved and broken resolutions. 

Because the day I made Him mine and He made me His, I became enough. 

This is Home.

I watch my mom move the rolling pin across the counter. Her hands are chalky, covered in flour. They look old too, but in a beautiful way. They’ve weathered a thousand storms, and will likely face many more. An empty Crisco container sits in the trash, because everyone knows the best piecrust starts with that.

The dough stretches, slowly, surely, smoothly. My momma, she always makes the most perfect pies.

Reese’s shoes sit at the front door. Tiny orange Nikes for her new Longhorn adventures. The TV is too loud, but then, it always is. So we talk louder, my dad turns it up…you know how that goes.

I sit and I watch, smelling all the smells, seeing all the things, feeling all the feelings.

My heart, my head, my soul I think, they all yell, this is home.

Our plane lands in Denver and the sky is saturated with color. It’s as if God chose this night, this moment, to try His hand at painting, and not surprisingly, it’s perfection.

The mountains in the west sing their tried and true song of majesty and the autumn leaves slowly make the piles that we’ll all grumble about tomorrow.

Our little home is warm when we walk in. Our 6 copper mugs wink merrily in their spot of honor, as the light of that setting sun hits them one last time.

I wander through this tiny, humble home that Kelvin and I have made ours, gathering the mail, dropping bags and shoes and coats here and there.

My heart, my head, my soul I think, they all yell, this is home.









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What is this? What is it in us that pines so desperately, so longingly, for a place to call home? How can everywhere and nowhere feel like home, all at once?

As I get older, because yes, we all do, I dream dreams of lazy Saturday mornings, cold feet in a warm bed, a daughter splashing in the tub, a game of catch in the backyard. I see it sometimes, that picture of home, and I can’t figure out where I am at. Where I should be.

Do you know the definition of roots?

roots (n): (1) the part of a plant that attaches it to the ground or to a support, conveying water and nourishment to the rest of the plant; (2) the basic cause, source, or origin of something; (3) to establish deeply and firmly

Can you hear the truths in that? Establishing roots is not a mere scattering of seeds. It’s bigger than that, so much bigger.

The place I put my roots is the source of who I am. The support my roots find are meant to nourish me for the rest of my life.

The rolling pin smoothes, the copper mugs wink, and I’m thinking that home has nothing to do with any of it at all. I think I’ve been asking the wrong questions. I think I’ve been looking for the wrong thing.

C. S. Lewis says that “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.

Perhaps that’s been my problem all along. Perhaps this is the answer to the longing in every human heart.

And it’s so simple, really. It’s no wonder my heart and my head and my soul scream home in so many places.

What if home is not about geography at all?

And I think then, that I’m figuring out.

“If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”

I don’t know that it matters what ground my feet stand on. I don’t know that it matters what backyard I see outside my kitchen window.

Home is wherever I am when I’m with you. Wherever I go with you.

This is the place where I deeply and firmly establish myself.

These are my roots.

The King is the place I can always call home.


A Testimony: Found in Africa.

The people in Zambia, they walk everywhere.

The sun melts behind the horizon, the dirt road stretches to nowhere, and as we drive along that bumpy road, men and women walk in twos and threes next to our van. Their arms swing and their bags are full and I cannot help but wonder where they could possibly be headed.

As far as I can tell, there’s nothing out here except fading sunlight, the quiet echo of space and the whisper of the King.


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Before I left for Africa, my pastor asked me to write down my testimony.

I was to write down all the things that had brought me to that place, the struggles that I had overcome, the love I’d lived without, the joy I’d lost and found.

For me, and maybe for you, that’s what a testimony was. A declaration of the goodness of the King in a life full of valleys. A written word, a spoken word, a beautiful story of life after tragedy, of joy in the middle of pain, of healing in the midst of disease. A story to convince others that the King was good.

I didn’t have one.

I had lived a life of plenty. Love had been freely given, joy had been bountiful, tragedy had been fleeting. I had parents who loved me in the way the King intended. Talents that gave me joy, purpose, drive. I had shared secrets with girlfriends, walked barefoot in a hundred backyards, eaten s’mores around countless campfires.

I had lived and loved and laughed in the arms of amazing grace.

What testimony then, did I have? What lesson was there in a life without challenges, in family dinners around the dining room table, in hot chocolate on Christmas morning?



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I went to Africa without a testimony. My edges were too clean, my family too happy, my joys too complete. I had nothing to share that said “Look at what He does. Look at who He is.”

I went to Africa and I joined their story, embarrassed that I had no story to tell of my own.

I laughed at the orphanages, held hands at the AIDS clinics, got blisters at the new build. I slept with cockroaches, laughed at the showers, bought bracelets to help me remember. I wandered down the street and shared the King with the babies who lived there. I showed Jesus to a tiny little foot on a tiny little boy, all in the form of a white cotton sock.

I wrote page after page of a story of Africa. And it’s a beautiful story, I promise you that. Marked by laughter and pain. Anger and tears. Jesus and joy.

I went and I found the least of these and I showed them the King, just as He commands us to do.

And my pages of testimony still lay blank in the front of journal.

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My sisters and I, we kept peeking out the panes of the living room window. My parents had been gone far too long. It’s the tell-tale sign of bad news. Good appointments are short, sweet. “Congratulations, all is well!” Those are everyone’s favorite kind. But these long ones, they never meant good things. So we sat in the living room and we watched out the window and we waited to hear out loud what our hearts already feared.

My mom and dad sat on the love seat. Our upright piano sat behind the couch, weathered by years of little fingers pounding out scales. The sun was low in the sky now, graceful on that early spring night. He sat on her right and he held her hand and tears coursed down both of their cheeks as they told us what we already knew. Mom had cancer. And it was time to fight.

It’s a mind-numbing, gut-clenching fear. Suddenly all the days you had aren’t enough and all the days left seem too short and why in the world did we take for granted what we’d had for so long?

And all of sudden, the pen moves across those blank pages in my journal.

Had I asked for this? I wanted a testimony. I wanted to be vulnerable. I wanted a story to share that said, “Look, the King is good. The things that He promises are true.”

Had the King given me a testimony that would mean my mother’s life?

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Merriam Webster’s dictionary defines testimony in so many ways.

I need you to hear this one.

I needed to hear this one.

Testimony (noun) test-i-mo-ny: proof or evidence that something exists or is true

Years after Africa, I still wrestle with this truth.

That the simplest of lives are the most beautiful proof that He exists. 

Why did I think my life of love and joy and grace had no testimony in it? Why did I believe that the workings of the King only existed in tragedy, in loss, in living without? Why did I see the King all over Africa, but have to look so hard for Him in my clean, happy life back home?

Why do we fail to see the King in the goodness of our lives?

Every joy, every victory, every love in my life was proof and evidence that the King existed and He was true.

“Look at what He does. Look at who He is.”

I had a testimony. I have always had a testimony. I needed to lose nothing to make it true.

The King is good.

The King is faithful.

The King is true.

That was the testimony of Africa. 

And this, this will always be the testimony of every single one of us.

To Be Pursued.

Last week, my little sister had her first baby.

It’s a girl.

All dark hair and double chin, the sweetest little face in the tiniest little package.

6 lbs. 9 oz. 19 inches long. Every single part perfect, a gift from the King.



And while I oohed and aahed and shed my tears, while I fell in love over text and Facetime, my head kept singing the same tune. My heart really, over and over.

Oh, how my mother pursues her children.

You see, my mom got the same phone call I did. “I’m being induced. The doctor says it’s time.” And while I cheered and I prayed and I cast my vote for boy or girl, my mother got on a plane. A red-eye flight, across the country, in the middle of the night. A carry on suit case stuffed full of baby clothes, forgotten jeans in the dryer at home, and a fervent desire to be there for her girl.

Oh, what love.

Can you see it? Her daughter needed her, so she went. If there was help to be offered, than she would offer it. If there was love to be given than she would give it.

A mother running after her girl, because that’s what mothers do.


My heart kept singing after a wedding this last weekend. As we crossed the ferry towards home, my phone vibrated with a text from a friend, sharing her joy as she had looked around the dance floor, watching her girlfriends laugh with the men the King had given them. Dancing with abandon. Singing like fools. And each of us women, fools or not, loved, accepted, pursued.




One by one, her girlfriends were discovering the relentless pursuit of a husband for his wife.

And I heard the song again.

All of those men, running after their wives, because that’s what husbands do.


So there it is. Perhaps the closest we get to seeing or experiencing that kind of love on this side of heaven.

The pursuit of a mother.

The pursuit of a husband.

The faintest glimpses of the love of the King who pursued us first. Who pursues us last. Who will pursue us always.

“Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory.”

[John 17:24]

And that’s the thing, then.

The King wants you to be where He is.

He died to make it so.

And while the pursuits of others may mimic the King’s, they are the faintest echoes of His chase for your heart.

Running after me, running after you, because that’s what the King will always do.

Passionate, relentless, fervent.

So we can be where He is.