life. faithful.

I'm finding myself in a raw place this Christmas season. I don't know what it is--I'm not typically a sentimental person. But this year, I find myself swallowing a lump in my throat and blinking back tears way more often that I would like. Grief is such a bizarre thing. Here I am, 15 years out, fighting tears as I'm driving down the highway. It hits out of nowhere, and it really doesn't care how inconvenient the timing. Like Sunday, after a bad day where I had made my husband, daughter, and son all frustrated with me (for different reasons--I'm talented like that). Then I had fought the crowd at WalMart, something I'm never a fan of, in search of gifts and stocking stuffers. I was driving home in the dark, which is already not such a great thing for me because my night vision is terrible. And there was the flag. After Michael's death, my family had a flagpole installed at the cemetery. There's a light shining on it at night so it doesn't h

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." "Chase your dreams." "Go after what you want!" We hear it all the time, encouragement to chase after our dreams and keep pushing until we get what we're running after. It's the American Dream that everyone wants, right? Work hard enough, for long enough, and don't ever stop setting goals that are bigger and better and you'll get everything. Yet time and time again, the news is filled with stories of people who seemed to have everything...but no matter how much they chased after all the things and met all the goals and found reward on a large scale, their lives felt so empty and meaningless that they thought the only fix was to end it. I have to admit, I fall into the trap of thinking that if I can just make it to that next goal, just earn that next thing on the list, things will get easier and happiness will be a given. I stress and strive and work to make sure that "I can do it

I've debated whether or not to write this post. Even now as I type, I'm not entirely sure I'll hit that "Publish" button. You see, I'm not an expert on anything I'm about to say. I'm not a pastor, and I'm not a mental health professional. Thankfully, I have very little personal experience to draw from when it comes to the indescribably painful and messy thing that is suicide. When that suicide involves a pastor, I'm at even more of a loss. What I am, though, is the daughter of a pastor. So for just a minute I want to talk to you from that unique position. I became a "Preacher's Kid" the summer before 6th grade, when I turned 11. You know, that super peaceful time in a girl's life...right there on the verge of losing her mind in the preteen years. I had always been (and will always be) a daddy's girl. Pop was the pastor of a wonderful church in Bonner Springs, Rehm's Park SBC, until the middle of my junior year of

Sunday was the Norris family reunion, and I was asked to give the devotional. So, yeah...talking in front of people is probably my biggest irrational fear, and I have a physiological reaction to it each time. I'm not talking just something little like sweaty hands or something. I turn red--bright red that starts on my chest and quickly makes its way up to turn my face scarlet. My hands and voice get shaky, I start losing my voice (Nathan lovingly told me it was like I was a teenage boy in puberty...yeah, lots of support there), I barely breathe... You know, just exactly the type of thing you want to see in a speaker. I wrote out everything I was going to say, fully intending to "stick to the script" and just read. I could do that, right? I'm a writer, not a speaker; surely, though, just reading my writing wouldn't be that big a deal. And then, I started talking...and instantly I had this crazy thought that it would somehow be a bad thing for me to just

This isn't one of the counts I ever thought about keeping, the number of years since we last saw Michael. This year has been a rough one. As most people know, my wedding was moved to January so that my big brother would be there. I'll never regret that change because I don't want to imagine the other scenario. I have to admit, though, it's tough when your wedding day is also the last day you were with your big brother . I think I've been in a bit of a funk since January 3rd. I don't know why this year has been so hard. Maybe it's just because this is one of those "mile marker" type years...15. I've found myself being moody and contemplative and even a bit weepy at times, and I don't dare tell people what the heck is wrong with me...because then come the awkward silences and looks of pity that make me crazy. I saw this post one time, and it is a great picture of grief. It seems like the world thinks that after some set amount of time h

This world can be a pretty ugly place sometimes. It's easy to start thinking that the bad stuff is all there is, to get so bombarded by all the ugliness that we forget the world is also breathtakingly beautiful. So in honor of that: Dirt roads. They remind me that it's not always a good idea to rush though life. Sometimes you need to take things slow.  Friends. I've had some pretty great ones through the years. I'm not necessarily still in touch with all of them, but they've all left impressions on my heart that have changed who I might have become otherwise. Summer. Working in an office that leaves my hands like ice cubes every day even makes me grateful for the southern heat. Puppies, even the ones that slobber all over everything. If you need to be reminded that you don't have to take yourself seriously all the time, play with a puppy. Kids, even the stubborn ones. My kids have changed me. They make me crazy, proud, scared, annoyed, amazed, c

I have to say, I love our little church. We're a small group, one in which everyone is considered family. I love these people more than I can explain, and I trust each one of them without doubt. One of the most amazing things about our group, for me, is that our Sunday mornings are open discussions, and nothing's off topic. Right now, we're working our way through the Bible for the second time. Our first time through took about 3 years. We just passed the 1-year mark at the beginning of this month--and we just wrapped up II Samuel yesterday. 10 books down...55 to go. I'm thinking this time through might take longer than 3 years. On that note, yesterday Pop said that David is painted in two very different lights in the scriptures: saint and scoundrel. We're all familiar with the stories that show him as a saint. He was, after all, anointed as the future King of Israel while he was still just a boy, watching over the sheep in his dad's fields. He faced a

Throwing pottery is something I thought I wanted to try once. Once is the key word there--Raiden got a kid's pottery wheel, and I tried to use it. I can't even begin to tell you the mess I made. Wet clay spinning around in a circle seems to have a mind of its own. I tried to make a simple pot; nothing fancy, just something small that actually looked like a bowl or something recognizable. What I ended up with was nothing more than a mess, and I'm pretty sure I had more clay on myself than actually stayed on the wheel. Left to me, the clay was less useful than it would have been if I had left if as a lump. At least then it could have been a paperweight or something. In the hands of a Master Potter, though, clay can become some pretty magnificent things. "The Lord gave another message to Jeremiah.   He said, 'Go down to the potter’s shop, and I will speak to you there.'   So I did as he told me and found the potter working at his wheel.   But th

So, I let a couple of big days pass without really saying anything about them--Mother's Day and Father's Day. I have to say, though, I think I've been incredibly blessed in both those departments. I have parents who have taught me more than I could ever begin to list, who have poured themselves into others selflessly, and who have shown me what it means to love your kids well. In honor of both of them (and the arbitrary days set aside on the calendar to say you love your parents), here are a handful of the things they've taught me. Life is seldom easy. Love means dealing with the best and the worst in people. Wealth isn't defined by money. Set boundaries for your kids, but don't be afraid to let them push right up to the edge. Fight for your family with everything you have. You should pour yourself out for people, but don't forget to refill. "Now you know we don't use those words..." Just because something's "always been do

I'm a big fan of church signs. I can still remember all the times I was responsible for putting the letters up for Pop when he was the pastor at Rehm's Park SBC in Bonner. I wasn't part of figuring out the words--my only piece of the puzzle was making sure the placement didn't look funny. Since then, though, I don't think there's ever been a time that I drove past a church sign without looking to see what it said. Lately on my drive to and from work, there's been something of an anomaly--two different churches with the same message on the sign. Don't let what you see make you forget what I said.  ~God I'm not really a big believer in coincidences, so two little country churches that I drive past on my daily commute both having the same message seems to me like something I should pay attention to. I've been contemplating it for a while now, trying to figure out just why it is that God is reminding me of this simple message. Then

In honor of Memorial Day, I want to share a handful of memories with you...I apologize in advance for how disjointed this post may be, but that's simply because my mind is a bit disjointed right now. *** There's the time I sat on the pipe fence while my brother tried to saddle Red Cloud for a ride. His role as a Cavalry officer had put him in a big Stetson hat, which made him a cowboy...saddling a horse wouldn't be a problem. I laughed while he got mad at a horse who didn't seem fond of the huge guy who wanted to go for a ride. My offers of help were brushed off with comments along the lines of, "I don't need your help to saddle a horse." So I simply watched and laughed and tried not to rub it in too much when Michael finally said, "Get down here and hold your stupid horse." *** Or the time when I got a handmade card for Valentine's Day that said, "Though at times I may pick on you (just a little)...you should know I still love yo

I've stared at the blank page for quite a few days now, unsure of what to write. I've sunk into a place I've found myself many times--what if nobody reads my words? What if they don't mean anything to anyone? What if I work and put something out there and nobody appreciates it? What if my writing never goes anywhere, and it's all just a great big waste of time and energy? It's a dangerous path once I get started on it, where my brain starts spiraling down to questions that most people would probably say I was crazy for asking. Really, though, it all boils down to the same question I've had running through the back of my mind since I was little: What if I'm not good enough? Have you ever been there? Does your mind whisper your fears so loudly that the rest of the world gets drowned out sometimes? It's easy for me to see my faults. I could list more than anyone else could ever dream up about me, and even then someone would probably have

Lydia closed her eyes at the strike of the hammer against nail, wishing she could close her ears against the agonized cries. She wasn't supposed to be here. Abba didn't want her to see the crucifixions, and she had never had a desire to go against his wishes in the past. Today, though, something was different. She couldn't get that man's eyes out of her mind. She had gone home after the rooster crowed this morning, trying to forget the prisoner who had been taken before Caiaphas, but that had proven impossible. Neighbors had stopped by to tell her father that Jesus of Nazareth was on trial, speaking in hushed tones of Pharisees and miracles and prophecies. All those things had piqued her curiosity, so when her mother had asked her to go to aunt's to borrow some necessitates before the Sabbath, she found herself drawn to a place she had always avoided. As they lifted the man to the top of a cross, Lydia took note of the sign above his head, placed there so every