We all have them.

Some of us were born with them. Some of us have developed them. Some of us have forgotten about them. Some of us can’t remember where we put them.

Don’t you dare try to tell me that you can’t find yours. Ask a friend and she’ll help you figure it out.

A great deal of us, most of us even, have let ours

lapse.

We’ve let them fall into disrepair, like a rickety set of sand-swept wooden stairs leading down to the shore. We’re scared to put our full weight on them because we might go crashing head-first into the driftwood and rocks.

So we just avoid the beach.

And oh yeah, it’s a word that sounds like a cliche.

Gifts.

Yes, I said it.

Maybe I can use a more relevant term, ART.

We all have them. Talents. Propensities. Capabilities.Your calling.

These are the things when you are in the midst of them you know beyond know that you are doing what you are supposed to be doing.

Fredrick Buechner calls it “where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

Can you possibly imagine what life would be like if the thing that you love to do the most, that you know that you should do has the ability to meet some of the needs of this vast world?

But the sad part is this:

Most of us don’t know that deep gladness.

We have forgotten that we are artists of every shade and color.

It’s your singing, your writing, your conversation. It’s your thankfulness, your ability to make a phone call to save a heart. It’s your giving, your creating, your home-building.  It’s being the bridge between people, the saying of the right word, the ability to tell the truth. It’s your ability to look into a child’s eyes and understand his thoughts.

It’s the gift of motivating people to action, the gift of being able to remember important dates and your friend’s likes and dislikes, it’s the desire to open your home to others for a meal, to a child who needs a mother, or to a family who needs a bed. It’s making music with your hands, your voice, your body.

You can do this.

Go back to the beginning. Remember what you are good at, or what you wanted to do, and begin to do that.

Ask God how your calling, your deep gladness, helps to fill in the holes that death and hopelessness has left in the world.

It might take awhile. You might have gotten out of practice. That’s what happens when we don’t use what we’ve been given.

Take a risk. Take a step onto what seems like an ancient staircase down down down to the beach. Put your full weight on what you remember your talent is and go. Let your momentum carry you. Let God, who has perfectly and intentionally given you this talent, carry you.

And then be ready to change the world.

What is your “deep gladness?” What is your calling?

I tell my new-mother friends to view their would be stuck-at-home status as a luxury.

Because it is a luxury to be able to nap when your baby does, to sling her to your belly when you walk in the afternoon, to be able to have your mind free from other worries to make simple, beautiful decisions like

Should I try to burp her after one breast or two?

Shall I watch the Today Show or finish my yoga workout when she takes her first nap?

Even now I’m not that far removed from that, but it still feels like a million miles away to have a day stretch out in front of me without having to juggle dance lessons and school pickups, blog posts and Bible study, dog-walking and cat-litter scooping.

I’m not complaining.

I’m just not a brand-new mother anymore with the brand-new mother euphoria.

Yes, euphoria.

You tell me to remember the up-at-3am-feedings, the spit-up, the colic. You tell me that I can’t forget the diaper “blow-outs”, all the gear that I had to lug in the trunk of the car just to go to the supermarket. You remind me of the high fevers, the reflux medicine, the fussiness.  And the bleary-eyed mornings, the baby-proofing and the pureed food.

I remember all of that.

But I also remember the 5 month old baths, you know, the ones where she can sit up in the kitchen sink and the light from the late afternoon window makes her auburn curls shinier than they already are. I remember wiping off pudgy hands that have gotten into my mascara.

I have my own euphoria during this day, 8 years later.

I look at my four-year-old’s legs, longer, it seems each time I help her with her socks.  I look at her thinning arms, nothing left of the toddler she was just a couple years ago. Her eyes look older, her mouth says words I had no idea she knew and her hair sweeps her shoulders like a much older girl. She tries her hand at grace when she does her ballet, the first and second positions of a girl trying to control her own limbs.

My eight-year-old tells me the dreams she has for the future, asks giant questions about God and heaven. She will outgrow me in the next few years, I’m sure. She rides horses with confidence and she’s already begun transfer that into other areas of her life. She calls me Mama and I answer.

And I know some of you are waiting to be grandmothers. Your girls are grown and they are finishing school. You can barely remember life when they couldn’t tie their own shoes and they sat at your kitchen table for dinner every night.

But it all is a luxury.

Every stage of our lives, whether we’ve come home just this morning with a bundled-infant or whether we’ve been invited to our granddaughter’s wedding. It’s all a luxury.

[Let's not wish anything to come faster than it will.]

When we get to pour our lives into the hearts of others, our children, our nieces, our sisters, it is a privilege. The ability to live with others, to engage others, to raise up children, even during sleepless nights of new motherhood or staying up to punish the missed curfews of adolescence, we are wealthy because of it.

There is luxury in holding the hand of your two-year-old nephew as he crosses the parking lot.

And treasure in answering the questions of your second grader and secretly smiling that she will still sit on your lap.

There is treasure in the laughter of your teenager, even when she doesn’t want you to know she thinks its funny.

And when we can’t remember their footed pajamas any longer, there is beauty in the friendship that we have as adults.

Euphoria, even.

Because life is nothing without relationship.

Luxury? I don’t need a day at the spa or a diamond necklace for my anniversary. I just need today.

Where are you finding luxury today? What stage are you in?

I’m a home body.

I love to travel and I’ve been all over but I’ve never lived more than 25 miles away from my city of birth for longer than six weeks. I‘ve always lived here in Southern California (so before you go judging me for my palm trees and my beach proximity, this is my home).

Last week I got an email from a woman in Papua New Guinea. PAPUA NEW GUINEA! I know that some of you all read in the UK and in Australia, but Papua New Guinea? Amazing!

For some reason that just amazed me. She described her life to me: missions and babies, and I’m thinking

how

different

our

lives

are.

I’m past the baby stage by a few years. I am sitting in my local, favorite Starbucks this morning catching up on emails and figuring out tomorrow’s blog post. I’m thinking about second grade pick-ups and getting to four-year-old dance lessons on time.

This is my home.

But we aren’t really that different, are we?

I give my children baths at night and put them to bed with a story, a kiss, a prayer and a song.  I worry about the future sometimes and about money. I think about my mistakes and regret both what I’ve done…and haven’t done.

I pray and hope God hears it. I forget where my keys are sometimes and am embarrassed that our shoes are piled up outside the front door to our house. I’m learning to say “no” and not to say “maybe” when I really mean “no.”

I got a degree in English and taught grammar to middle schoolers but I sometimes forget where the quotation marks go.

We aren’t that different. We are sisters (and brothers) in Christ. We are humans walking this earth, trying to love, trying not to hurt, and trying to do the best we can. We are tired, we are grace-lended and we forget to laugh when life is funny.

We are part of the same family and we have the same home, even if mine has palm trees and yours has snow-covered plains.

And we will have the same Home someday.

I’ve never done this before, but leave a comment telling us WHO you are and WHERE you are.

Where are you home?

Last week we had a lively discussion about criticism which turned into a banter about makeup and then about comment moderation.  And at the end, it all stemmed back to who we are really.

Who are we really?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this recently. The REAL real me wears makeup. The REAL real me doesn’t feel like walking the dog today because she needs to be trained to walk without pulling off my arm. The REAL real me is tired of the computer.

The REAL real me is a churner, a processor…I take things in, think about them for a long time, then spit it back out with new understanding.

Right now the REAL real me is wearing blue toenail polish. The REAL real me can’t fit into her old jeans.

And that whole van thing? That WAS me. It wasn’t a projected me, or a soft-music-in-the-background me. It was goldfish crackers and can’t-get-in-my-seat-without-stepping-on-something me.

But none of that is important. Not really.

More important than the inside of my van or my purse, or the messiness of my bedroom is telling the truth.

I can tell you the truth right now and say that I’m slightly nervous about the three speaking engagements I have this spring.

I can be honest and say that I wonder if I’m being a good mother: Am I too lenient with discipline? Do I yell too much? Do I model enough trust and grace and forgiveness?

Truth: this weekend I just want to get away with my husband. We won’t, but I really want to. That’s the truth.

And last but not least, truth: I’m on a diet because I’ve gained about 20 pounds over the past couple years and that this is the first time in my life in the last decade I feel unmotivated to exercise.

Ouch. Sometimes the truth is hard to write. Or say.

Authenticity has less to do with what I look like and more to do with what I say and do. I could be wearing a Minnie Mouse outfit and talking to you behind a mask, but if what I’m saying and doing is honest, then that makes it real.

Think of all the people you know whose outside does not “match” their amazing inside.

[Lord, help me never to judge a person by their appearance.]

Truth telling brings the freedom it does because it frees up a person to be authentic with others. If you can be honest with someone, if you can be free to disagree and to risk making someone mad at you, that is real, genuine, authenticity.

In the spirit of keeping the integrity of this blog and in the spirit of REALNESS, here’s me without makeup. Enjoy.

What do you think? Does telling the truth really reveal who you are?

I’m pretty sure that the “It’s-MINE!!” chorus will the be one of the loudest in my ears over the next ten years.

It will probably develop into the it’s-my-phone, or the it’s-my-sweater song, but for now it is the most pronounced when it comes to dolls, legos and art supplies.

And with both of my girls (the youngest definitely learning from the oldest) it has turned into an excuse for disobedience.

“Girls, please straighten up the bathroom,” as I look at the tub toys on the floor, the toothpaste on the sink and the hair bands in different arrays of boy-scout knots all over the counter.

But “It’s MINE” one of them says to me referring to the actual ROOM in question.

The other one asks with honesty, “It’s ours, isn’t it? The bathroom, right? You and Daddy have yours…”

Sigh. “It is yours, sort of. Mommy and Daddy own the house and all the things in it and we allow you access to them. We let you HAVE them in a sort of borrowing way.” It’s too difficult to explain right now.

“Yes and no,” I finish. “Either way, you need to clean up your things.”

Their bathroom, their bedrooms aren’t theirs. They are ours, as parents and caretakers. We are responsible and we are owners. We allow our children to own things that have come directly from us. All of what they “own” was originally ours purchased by our own money.

And the parallel just begs and screams to be highlighted.

All of what we have comes from God, right?

Our money, our homes, our children even are from Him. The common misconception is that we owe God something. Even the word “owe” connotes the idea of repayment. We don’t need to repay God ANYTHING.

Because, simply stated, we can’t repay Him.

How could we repay God for all of what He’s given us? With all the resources we have we could never repay Him for His gifts: life itself, grace, adoption. And all of what we have is directly from Him as a loan of sorts. We are stewards of physical gifts and also stewards of his grace, love and hope here on earth.

And we can never, never repay Him. We can’t OWE him because the debt it too great.

The same way I loan my daughters the use of their bathroom. It is theirs for all intents and purposes, to use and take care of and live with, but in reality it belongs to their parents.

They don’t owe us. In all the elder-caretaking they might have to do in the future, they can never repay us for all of the time, money and energy we’ve loved them with. That’s just how it works.

So I ask them to give back to me just a little of what I’ve given them: the energy to tidy up the bathroom.

God asks us to give back to Him what is His already. When He asks us to give it is simply to allow Him to help us use what is already His.

He owns my money. He owns my time and He owns my heart. So I MUST give.

Because in the end, all we have, including clean water and warm beds, it all belongs to Him.  All of it.

He’s just letting us use them for awhile.

What is the most difficult thing about giving? How do you decide where to give?

Wednesday I guest posted at RefineUs.org about the one thing I wished I knew before I got married: Life doesn’t get any easier once you get married. Today is part two in my thoughts on the same subject.

Before we got married, I wish I would have known that my husband shedding his workday at six pm each evening would mean that he’d leave his dirty clothes in a single stiff pile on the floor near his dresser.

Every night.

Even if I beg, plead, ask, motivate. The clothes are still there: socks hidden by the rumple of jeans or slacks in an upward stack on the carpet.

As if a naked Rapture had happened sweeping Chad up to God’s glory but leaving his clothes.

But that isn’t a deal breaker.

I wish I knew that he would have trouble throwing away his trash, remembering to take his plate to the sink after dinner and that he would continuously forget to change the goldfish water.

But then I’m sure he wishes he would have known that I would take over both sinks in our bathroom, that my makeup would always be cluttered, and that I would be prone to wander.

Prone to wander.

I’m sure he wishes he would have known that.

That I was going to cheat.

But even that, as I’m sitting across from him right now and wondering out loud, that wouldn’t have been a deal breaker. He would have still married me.

(You can even ask him)

Wow.

Would it be a deal breaker to you?

To know your spouse would sin, cause you grief, drag you through months of pain? Would that make you choose differently?  What if you had miraculous pre-nuptial knowledge that your husband or wife was going to hurt you so deeply and break their vows?

What if Christ had known how much we would hurt Him before He went to the cross?

Oh, but I think He did.

He knew we would murder, we would hate and rape and betray. He had full omniscient knowledge that we would cheat on Him with each other, with the world. He knew we would treat Him like dirt and pretend we didn’t belong to Him.

Yet He came.

And He loved. And died. And He sacrificed all for us.

You see, we all sin. We are all broken and we all wound one another, especially our spouses. Some of us wound big and openly (like me) and some of us wound in silent, inside ways.  We begin to experience grace when we can recognize the deep brokenness of even the best of us and our need for healing.

In the few days after my confession six years ago a trusted, godly man told Chad to divorce me. That God said it was okay.

I’m so glad he didn’t listen. Chad is so glad he didn’t listen.

Because if he would have, in knee-jerk reacting, we wouldn’t have allowed God the open space in our hearts and lives to work a miracle.

Is adultery a deal-breaker?

Ask Jesus. It wasn’t a deal breaker to Him in his love story with His bride, the church.

What do you think?

[**DISCLAIMING that if a potential spouse is showing signs of pornography, abusive behavior or infidelity...RED FLAG!! This post is merely speaking to the sin that we all commit as humans, as people living in community with one another, and with US, things that happened AFTER we'd been married. God has the ability (and gets joy from ) mending broken relationships, even ones that have been almost ruined by betrayal. This is not practical advice for people wondering if they should marry someone who has betrayed them, it's simply a spiritual realization that what my HUSBAND did was the same thing CHRIST has done for us.]

Monday made me feel like summer was around the corner.

Sunny, warm and perfect.

Except the sand was a little too cold and the water a bit too icy.  The beach hadn’t been cleaned up since the rain and the sand had collected all the storm wash-up in squiggly lines roughly following the shoreline.  In the zenith of the night-tide the water must have washed up high, depositing the seaweed and wood on the sand.

We had February bare-tender feet so we had to dodge sharp sticks and sea-glass.

It looked like summer. But not quite.

“Mama! Why can’t WE wear our bathing suits?” Eight-year-old whining sounded sad in my ears.

She watched some middle-school aged girls laying on their beach towels, off for the holiday, baring their winter white skin to the wintry sun.

Everyone seemed to be having more fun that her. Building sandcastles in their two-pieces, skim-boarding, splashing in the cold water.

“Trust me,” I told her. “The two of you would be too cold. I know you.”

Hmph. And she ran toward the waves, barely touching her toes to the edge of the water and staring out toward the pier. Her sister stayed back already up to her elbows in damp February beach sand.  For some reason winter sand doesn’t brush off the same way summer sand does… And she tapped tapped tapped her hands on the bucket to clean them.

“But MOM…” Hope said again, turning her head back toward me away from the ocean. And then she gave up. She knew her bathing suit was at home. She knew that she would have to make the best of it. She watched a group of kids dig a castle moat, all of them knee deep in water and sand.

It isn’t fair.

Naomi ran toward the water to rinse off her sandy arms. For a second they stopped watching the sea. For a second they worried about being left out.

And in that second: Crash.

An unexpected wave full of sand that had been churned from the deep hit them both across the fronts of their sundresses. Colder than they’d imagined and sandier than is ever comfortable.

They were wet up to their shoulders.

Before they even asked I began to gather up the sand toys and the towel. I knew they’d ask to go home. “I’m wet!!” one of them wailed. “I need a new shirt,” Naomi complained as she began to undress on the beach.

I knew best. I don’t always know best, but in this case I did.

I knew that entry into the winter waves would send their teeth chattering and turn their lips blue. I knew better than to even bring the swim suits.

And I knew that what they wanted, what they SAW that they might have desired, what looked normal and good, in the end, was not good for them. Because in February, bathing suits would have only allowed for a shivery dash into the water and then out again.

Even though they thought they knew what was the best for them, they did not. They wished for the freedom of sunscreen and flipflops, but I’d planned an afternoon for their enjoyment, not for their capricious desires.

We walked back to the car, a little whiny and ready to go home.

“I want that.” I say sometimes. I whine. I look mournfully and hyper-dramatically at something someone else has and I immediately insert myself into that scenario. That is what I best for me, I think. I should be doing that. Why aren’t I? I wonder.

Where is my bathing suit? I ask myself. Or God.

He tells me, I know best. I understand you better than you do sometimes, He whispers. If I let you have all that you think you want right now, it wouldn’t be beneficial to you.

You’d run cold and shivering back from the water into a warm towel agreeing with me in the end.

So I’m learning to be patient. To trust.

To wander around the waves with my sundress on waiting for summer.

Are you learning how to be patient and trust with anything right now?

I didn’t get a picture.

[You would think I would have, being that I pretty much take photos of everything. My camera has become one of the filters through which I view my world.]

But I had the pleasure of meeting Trisha Davis last week when I was in Nashville. In fact, I got to see her twice but I didn’t take a picture of us so you’ll just have to trust me that, yes, I’ve hugged her in person.

Her’s and Justin’s story of marriage restoration is amazing, close to my heart and it was beautiful to hear her tell parts of it to me in her own words. Their website, RefineUs.org is dedicated to seeing marriages reborn and healed.

Today I’m posting over there (actually WE. Chad wrote some of this one) about one thing that we wished we knew before we got married.

Here’s a peek:

Growing Up Beside You

It’s difficult.

You can’t quantify a question like this.

Because we DID get married when we were 21. We DID have problems with communication. We DID use pornography in our early marriage as a means to quell the disturbing divide between us. We DID yell and scream and belittle and hurt. We DID bring baggage into our fragile relationship, a full set of new Samsonites each.

We DID get married early and young and a little stupid.

And we have the battle scars to prove it.

Click here to read about the one thing we wished we knew before we got married.

What is one thing YOU wish you knew before you got married?

And if you didn’t get a chance last week, visit my new LISTEN page to hear a few MP3s of us/me speaking.

You can also SUBSCRIBE or GRAB A BUTTON here.

I remember the first time I sent off an article to my writing group to have them critique it.

Ouch.

It came back with three different people’s remarks, criticisms and suggestions: the equivalent of your 11th grade term paper coming back with the RED PEN of not just one but three teachers.

After a deep breath and a little growing-up in the space of about 3 minutes I was able to disconnect the critique from ME as a person. They were helping me and not hurting me. These women loved me and sincerely wanted me to do better. So I took the criticism in and used it to work for me.

My article didn’t get published but it was a heck of a lot better than when I begun.

I have a theory.

[Or at least I've espoused a theory that my husband thought up and shared with me during a particularly rough time that I was having.]

The more authentic/raw/real/open I am on this blog the more people feel comfortable with being able to be real with me.

Most of the time that is great. I get both wonderful and heartbreaking emails from women and they are sharing their stories with ME! WITH ME! I am honored and humbled by the raw honesty of so many of you. I wonder why you trust me with your hearts.

But sometimes the whole Raw Theory translates into people feeling absolutely comfortable with trashing me.

• Emails attacking my grammar.
• Comments about how a particular post of mine was far too shallow.
• Or even the reader comment about how my “Real Me” video wasn’t real enough because I was wearing makeup and my hair looked brushed.*

[I'm here to say that the real me wears makeup. I just do.]

In all honestly I’ve never deleted a comment. I return all emails**

But sometimes people are just abusive.

They attack my character, my motives, my mothering and even question my relationship with God. All from what they read on my blog.

There is nothing loving about that. Or helpful.

I’m aware that being raw and honest opens me up to a great deal of criticism.  But to me it’s worth it because by being so open I get to share in all of your beautiful stories.

Your email about your marriage being restored makes me thankful that I’ve said what I’ve said. And that I’ve been as open as I’ve been. Your Facebook message telling me how you stumbled across my blog makes me smile.  Your encouraging words always, always help to heal me.

But please know that I am a flesh and blood woman and bad emails make me cry.

I’m going to suggest something.

Let’s use kind words. Helpful words. Words that heal.

Let’s try not to cast legalistic or judging glances at others.

If we need to criticize, let it be within a loving context where it is welcomed (my article), needed and/or asked for. And let’s make sure that we have the RELATIONSHIP to back up the “helpful” words.

Criticism in the right context is good and part of our growth. It makes me write better articles. It makes me be a better friend.

But in the wrong place or with the wrong motive, that kind of criticism is hurtful and abusive.

What do you think? Has criticism helped or hindered you in the past? Has it been used in the wrong way?

* Said comment was originally tagged as spam so I just left it there nestled between comments in the Czech language and ones trying to get me to buy Viagra.

** I’m running about two weeks behind on emails. If you’ve sent me a direct email previous to two weeks ago and I have not returned it, please resend. I’m not perfect. It was not intentional, I promise. I’m sure I read it and thought I returned it but I neglected to. I’d love it if you would resend it to me.

It takes days to get ready for the party but only about 90 minutes to completely undo all that had been done.

The table is littered with an hour’s worth of four-year-old fun: markers and crayons, glittered heart stickers, glue and tape, sugar cookies on pink plates with colored sugar piled high.  Lunch plates, dessert plates, cake frosting marking the table with hardened sugar.

By the time all the kids have left the Valentine themed birthday party, the balloons have already begun to fall, helium leaking through microscopic holes in the latex.

“Mommy, can you open this?” Naomi asks as she brings one of her new toys to me.

The house is quiet. Only a few grandmothers, aunts remain to stand in the kitchen and wipe cracker-crumbs from the counters, chatting as they clean.

And I grab the scissors, snip a few rubber bands and the new doll is free.

“Thanks, Mom” she says in a tone that sounds strangely pre-teen, even though she’s only four. She runs off, her party dress stained with juice, her cheeks stained with pink cookie icing and her fingers stained with markers. She’s been looking forward to today for weeks, maybe months.

[Every day since Christmas: "Am I FOUR yet?"]

And now, in an instant, all her friends are forgotten, her sweet can-I-be-older-yet longings belong to yesterday and her tummy is full of sugar. All the waiting (all of her mother’s planning and working) are over. It’s undone.

Like the explosion of sparkle stickers on the dining room turned craft table. Order has quickly changed to chaos.

But every minute has been worth it.

Cutting out hundreds (I’m sure) of tiny hearts and taping them around the room. Worth it.

Her face as each of her preschool friends walked up to our porch. Worth it.

Her eyes this morning as she remembered her gifts and specially-created-for-her Valentines that awaited her downstairs on Sunday morning. Worth it.

All this work for a short few moments of joy. It’s all worth it.

And we’re worth it.

Christ creates and plans days and months and decisions and challenges just for us. Millions of tiny details that all focus down into one moment, one time. And He sits back and watches us.  He sees our joy and our growing-up and it’s worth it.

For millennia He has been crafting His story to come down to just a few moments. A few moments in a manger and on a cross.

But all of it is worth it to Him.

Coming to earth. Worth it.

Dying. Worth it.

Enduring the grief and pain of earth. Worth it.

We are worth it to Him.

Have you done anything lately requiring effort but has been worth it in the end?