I’m just a girl who loves books. I love the adventure and the suspense and the romance found in the parchment pages. Many times I have used the written word to escape life, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve come to the conclusion that my life is a metaphor for a book.

And if you know any English majors, or fellow book lovers, you know that they are a sucker for a metaphor.

Each day of my life holds a new word, a new line, new page, a new chapter, a new sequel.

Each page of this currently written book, holds the story of my life. It is the story in which I am the  protagonist.

Every page records my tale, my dialogue, my heartache, my triumphs. Some of the pages are full of colorfully highlighted words, because these memories I want toremember. Others are worn and torn, these are life’s memories that I’m tempted to forget, but alas cannot, because without them my story wouldn’t be complete. Some chapters are dog-eared and frequently reread, while others made me so frustrated I wanted to throw the whole book against the wall (Virginia Woolf’s Jacob’s Room. Anyone?).

Either way all the words, pages, and chapters compose My Life’s Library (hence the title of the blog. Get it?)

Told you, we English majors love metaphors.

And like any really, really great book, mine has to have an amazing title, right? Thing is I’m just not quite for sure what it is going to be.

Because there are still many pages to be written.

Check out the daily, new pages being written: here. 

I have noticed lately that on this great blogosphere there has been an interest in the word and actions associated with bravery. And I thought maybe, just maybe, it was time to voice my own definition of bravery.

What is being brave? What does bravery look like?

Let me tell you about some brave people I know.

Brave means getting up in the morning and choosing to trust and believe and praise God even when you know your cancer has returned for the third time and you are facing a double mastectomy.

 ______________is brave*.

Brave is continuing to hope for a good future, raising your hands in worship, and praying in desperation and belief, even after your husband commits suicide right in front of you.

______________is brave*.

Brave is walking into an empty nursery, thirteen long and painful years of in vitro and fertility treatments. It is waiting, but trusting that God loves you and has a great plan even amidst the pain of an empty and hollow womb. It is praising God after finally conceiving, but loving Him even if you hadn’t.

______________is brave*.

Brave is searching for hope in the foggy wasteland of loss. It is surviving the death of not just one toddler son, but two. It is saying, “I don’t understand, but God gives and God takes away, but blessed be His Name.” It is the unfathomable courage of helping others who has similar shattered hearts.

_____________is brave*.

Bravery is daily living and chasing after God when you don’t have the answers. When BAD things happen to you and against you. It is not blaming God, but falling on your face before Him. It is taking your painful past and turning it into a ministry. It is being honest and upfront and approachable.

Beth Moore is brave.

Brave is going back to the land where your husband was brutally murdered. It is ministering to the very people who hold the very spears stained with your lover’s blood. Brave is forgiving them.

Elizabeth Elliot is brave.

Brave is refusing to preach what is contrary to God’s Word. Brave is not compromising on Love and Truth, despite the backlash. It is not backing down and giving a watered down, unbiblical version of Christianity just because it is what people seem to want to hear.

Jay Dennis is brave.

So What is Brave to Me?

Brave is having convictions in a world lacking all. It is not fearing what others say or becoming just like every other person around you.

Brave is having stubborn faith even when things don’t turn out the way you want.

Brave is admitting when you are wrong.

Brave is not backing down when God is telling you to stand. It is actually standing for something. Because in the end, those not standing are the ones getting trampled upon.

Brave is turning your dreams over to God, acknowledging that He is sovereign and believing and loving Him whether or not He sees fit to bless your dream into a reality.

Brave is an open heart for obeying Him. It is trusting Him no matter what. It is using the gifts He gave you to glorify and please Him, not promoting your own selfish desires in this “Survival of the Fittest” world in which we live.

Brave is so much more.

Nothing is brave if He is out of it. If you remove Him, all that is left is self. And self is NOT brave. Self is a cowardly, whimpering, pathetic being.

Brave is hope in the midst of desperation. It is believing and claiming His Words and promises even amongst the tears.

Brave is Him in me. 

*Names of personal friends and heroes are omitted for privacy reasons

I have reached the decision that I have outgrown this Tumblr blog.

You can find my new blog here: http://mylifeslibrary.wordpress.com/

I have posted a new post on what bravery means to me in response to all the different opinions circling the blogosphere. Check it out here, if you are so inclined  :) 

Expect the dawn of a new beginning in the dark nights of life - Lloyd Ogilvie

The room was dark, only illuminated by few candles.

One by one these burning lights were extinguished.

But for one. 

One lighting up the Cross.

In silence we remember the Dark Night.

How can we celebrate the morning if we don’t remember the dark?

The last candle is put out.

The room pitch black.

There are no sounds.

Dark.

We leave in the quietness. 

Only the click and shuffle of shoes are heard.

We step out from darkness into darkness.

It was finished.

Done.

The uncomfortable silence was intentional - to remember.

Remember the God-Man on the cross the Dark Day.

A cloud moves and the sky fills with light from the moon.

The full, big, bright orange moon.

Weeping may endure for the night, but joy is coming.

It is the Dark Night before the Morning. 

Photo Credit: Kristen Lynn Davis

The carnage of the woods scratch my legs as I meander through the brush. My eyes squint to find the perfect branch among the shrubs. After many close but just not right sticks, I finally find the wood tree with the perfect thickness.

The perfect thickness for a cross.

The handsaw calls and I methodically propel it forward cutting the wood slow millimeter by millimeter. Sawdust fills the air and covers the ground. It is hot and sweat pours off my face to mingle among the sawdust on the garage floor. Wiping my brow, I pause and remember - He, too was a carpenter.

The wood pieces finally morph into the proper shape and size. I take the nail and attempt to physically connect the two branches of the wood together. It is more difficult than I thought. My mind cannot fathom a nail through the Flesh. Forfeiting the nails, I combine the woods with twine.

The cross was finished. It was finished. He was there no more. Because He became Life and Death and Life Again, the cross is empty…waiting for me to surrender the burdens and worries of this life onto it. To leave it at Death so He could bring hope and Life.

Red ink spilt onto the notecards. The deeply personal things, the not-so personal things, the things that keep sleep from coming, the things that are not mine to fix. Some just had names. Others had small paragraphs.

The nail pierces the paper and hits the cross. Pounded one hammer swing at a time, they were nailed to my little cross, symbolic of the Alter Cross.

Nailed there they will stay. Covered and defeated and redeemed by the Sacrifice. When temptations come to reclaim these submissions, these surrendered, the little crude cross of my hands and heart will not let me take them from its wood.

They are no longer mine. They are His. His to do with as He pleases for His great purpose.

I leave my cross hanging by my door. Reminding me His Blood has covered all. All covered by Life for life.

When I am done, I wash my dirt stained feet. Remembering He who once did the same. And I see, worship is in everything. 

I sit on my back porch and out of the corner of my eye I see the Tabebuia tree. It only blooms once a year. Due to the crazy weather in Florida our tree bloomed early in March. When in bloom, its yellow flowers are gorgeous. The bright hue is extremely visible and even on foggy or rainy days one look seems to brighten your soul. 

Then the flowers start to fall. Making their slow drift off the tree, into the wind, before gently resting on the grass covered lawn. They litter the ground in the most poetic manner. There have been many times that I’ve longed to don a floral dress and lie camouflaged among them. 

Now there are no yellow flowers, only the stalks that once held them. They droop downward, unattractive to the eye. For all intensive purposes the tree is dead, it is in its dormant state for at least a year.

A funny thing happened though, not too long ago. The tree began sprouting a mini-me. Connected to the bottom of its trunk is its child tree. While its mother is a symbol of decay and things of old, the recently birthed tree sports a multitude of bright green leaves. It starkly contrasts from the brown withered one it is attached to. 

Here in death, there is new life. There is hope. There is rebirth.

Even when the tree of life has lost its petals and seems to be in a state of utter decay, suddenly there is a green leaf and another and another and another.

It reminded me, this April day, that sometimes our dreams die so God can resurrect them. In one way or another, He does. Maybe it just isn’t the right timing. Maybe there is growing to be had. Or maybe we have dreamed too small, too little. Maybe He wants to give and birth a new dream.

This tree in my backyard brings me hope. 

Just when you think something is dead and gone, Jesus comes back full of life. With the breath in His lungs and the beat of His heart and the pound of His feet and the scars in His hands and the blink of His eyes and the tight hugging arms: There is hope.

Just when we feel like hope is a lost cause, there is green. And green leads to flowers, beautiful yellow flowers.

Life is full of puzzle pieces. Many odd shapes and sizes. Some broken and bent, some maybe even lost. The broken pieces hurt. The times when you can’t seem to lift your head. The times when you honestly can’t see coming through on the other side without losing a part of you. The times when you struggle to breathe - to smile - to find joy. Simply, the puzzle has fallen apart. Your life has fallen apart. 

Even though you can’t see it at the moment, even though you don’t think you will ever be the same, you won’t ever experience laughter or happiness, you feel like you will never be whole again - hope is here.

Psalm 119:107 MSG

Everything’s falling apart on me, God; put me together again with your Word.

When everything falls apart, whether it is the broken dreams of having a child or losing a relationship or friendship, or not getting the job you wanted your entire life, whatever it is - He longs to put you back together again. He longs to take the broken puzzle pieces and mend them and put them back together again. He longs to take the shatters of the heart and repair them. He longs to make us whole.

Even though you fear you will never make it to the other side, that you won’t live to survive, He will take you through. You may never be the same again. But He longs to restore you. He longs to bring you to Him.

I don’t know who you are or what you are experiencing or what you have gone through recently, but He does heal. He really, really does. And He longs for your healing too. 

Would I…

 Like Peter, throw myself into the sea to get to Jesus? Fully clothed, jump into the cool water? The minutes the boat would take to get to land seemed too excruciatingly long to wait, so I hurl my body over the wooden side into the moving waters. Maybe I hear a distant voice from an observer on land, “Is that Peter? What is he doing? He’s finally lost it.” Emily, has finally lost it.

Would I swim, with water laden heavy clothes, eyes and muscles burning, faster than I ever had before, faster than I ever though humanly possible to get to Him? Perhaps the salty water mixes with my own tears as I see the Man of God that I once denied. Would I move until my arms burned and my legs refused to kick? Would I, to get to Jesus?  

Would I…

Like John, run to get to Jesus? Would I outrun Peter to be the first to the empty tomb? Would I, Emily, a professed non-runner, sprint until my heart threatened to quit for overexertion, until my legs collapsed under me, until I could no longer draw a breath, to get to Jesus?

Would the pebbles sink into my feet causing pain and discomfort, but nothing matters, only getting to Jesus?

Would I…

Will I…

Like Thomas, declare, “My Lord and My God!”

Will I…

Like Cleopas, break bread with Him with a burning heart inside? (Luke 24)

Will I…

Like Mary, want to catapult myself into His arms?

Will I sing and dance? Or will I be speechless?

Will I…

I am working on a project and for this project I need to pick one verse. One verse that had a significant impact on my life in these past few months. In this season of waiting and trials. Minimal trials compared to others, but still my trials. This season that has challenged me and wounded me and healed me and blessed me.

One verse.

How can I ever choose?

Do I write of one that brought comfort as I seemingly exited one trial only to end right up in another, even though the previous one still caused haunting?

Do I write of one that assisted in the revelation that maybe the first trial was to prepare me to better handle the second and others to come?

Do I write of one that spoke healing to my hurting and bruised heart?

Do I write of one that proclaimed that I did not need to remain a slave to my feelings and circumstances any longer? That I was made for a full life of freedom from captivity?

Do I write of the one that proclaims His faithfulness?

Which do I write written by the One?

I take a moment to flip through the pages recording the bleeding heart. The heart that begged and pleaded for healing yet still wanted to cling to that which hurt her. Page after page the same prayer was written in different pens and different words, but still ached just the same.

I came across an entry:

“It still hurts to look back at some entries in this journal. It would be easier to start one of my four new journals instead of carrying around this one which only reminds me of haunting.

But I’m determined to finish this one. Why?

Because I believe that Jesus will turn the anguish at the beginning of this journal into dancing. I’m so sure of it that I want a record of it. Because the dancing is going to be wild, wild and joyous. I don’t want to forget where I was and where He is bringing me.”

I am now ten pages away from finishing my current journal.

It is only by the grace of God that I have continued.

And it is only by the grace of God that my feet have started to tap. That my head has started to bob. That my body has started to sway. Because true to form, He is faithful. And the entry I wrote months ago is coming to life. He has turned the mourning into dancing. I still have a ways to go as certain trials remain, but I am confident I will be dancing in circles before all is said and done. Because He answers prayers. And now one of the greatest comforts and blessings is to look back through this journal that tempted me to quit. To look at page after page that chronicled near despair and the later pages that reveal the process of healing. It is the most beautiful and precious thing.

What verse encompasses all of that? Because that is the verse I want to share.

The sticky note lays stuck on my dash. While driving my eye occasionally glimpses its pink essence and my lips read the words. Sometimes the hues mix, blurred by salty tears. Sometimes the words are spoken in a lyrical joy-filled laugh. Sometimes an angry heart says the words, not to be angry anymore, sad anymore, bitter anymore, insecure anymore.

But the one thing I am really very sure of, positive of in fact – is that I am always, always in need of greater grace. Greater grace personally accepted and greater grace extended.

I tend to think a lot when I drive. Thoughts wrestle, ideas form, usually while I’m navigating down the highway with hands at ten and two. Sometimes while they tap the wheel in synch with music, sometimes they are silent like the radio, only the mind is screaming through the silence.

But -

The conjunction usually symbolizes something else to come. Sometimes something we don’t want to hear, something that finds us lacking.

“We appreciate your efforts, but…”

But, sometimes “but” brings hope.

But He -

Sometimes all we need is a “but He.” When life doesn’t seem to go our way, when the radio blares to drown out memories, when we think we will never change… He is the source.

But He – But He saves. But He said. But He has overcome the world.

But He gives -

A deep-rooted lie Satan tells is that God is a taker, not a giver. Lie. God is a giver. A generous giver. “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows” (James 1:17).

He is not out to get us, dangling the carrot of our dreams only to yank it out of our grasp. It is not in His character. Every good gift is from God. Truth.

But He gives greater -

This God of mine loves to give greater things.

Driving at night with only the moon for company is a time of personal reflection for me. My heart is vulnerable and bare in the empty car. I think of the desires of my heart and wonder when or whether or not I’ll see them fulfilled.

But He gives greater. God doesn’t just want me to settle for what I think I want. He wants to go beyond, beyond, greater beyond than my original dreams. “‘No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him’” (1 Corinthians 2:9).

But He gives greater grace. (James 4:6a) 

Oh, how I desperately need grace. How I desperately need Him. When I am alone with my failures, my sin, my shortcomings, my shame. I need grace. And He is a constant giver of greater grace.

Not only does He lavishly pour out His gift of grace on me, but miraculously gives me greater grace, greater than myself, to give to others.

When the flesh is in its nastiest form and I sometimes don’t even want to fight it, I am filled with grace. The grace to apologize. The grace to overlook the loved one’s mistakes. The grace to deal with that difficult person. The grace to tame the tongue determined to wound.

The note reminds me. This pink sticky note stuck to my dash.

When thoughts haunt -

But He…

When doubts plague -

But He gives…

When I am tired of looking through my messy eyes -

But He gives greater…

When I feel like my need is too great, too long-dwelling -

But He gives greater grace.

What a big, powerful message for such a little post it.

May it not just be posted on my dash, but posted on my mind, tattooed on my heart, and witnessed in my life.

Greater grace.

The sun is bright, shinning on the forest trees. The gathered branches aching in the heat. Some of the branches that once seemed mighty and tall and fierce, are threatened to wither away by the natural elements. Many hang on by one tiny shard of bark. Wounded.

The wind comes all around, so does the fire. The fire that eats. That kills. That steals. That destroys. The fire that makes mulch of the bark. Grinding it until shreds remain of the once strong and sturdy limb. Fire that wants to rob the strong sturdy stable limbs of their glory hanging above the ground, by turning them into shreds that feet stomp on.

The wind spreads the fire. The burning heat. Oh, the heat.

But drops fall. The rain. The rain that comes and gives a respite from the heat. The rain that allows the air to moisten. Allows room to draw a deep breath. To inhale.

Other branches may steady the weary ones for a while, but only temporary, because they too are not strong enough. But The Vine. The vine holds all the branches together. Yes, even the branches that have been worn away and eaten by termites, or have faced the fire and have charred remains to prove it. Even the branches that are one shard from falling, don’t. Because the Vine wraps around us and holds all of us human branches together. In the heat – He stays. In the rain – He stays. And in the glorious sunshine – He stays. And as the branches shake and tremble, He steadies them. Because He doesn’t just hold us up, He wraps around us, encasing us, holding us together.  Even when we feel like we will disintegrate into ash with the slightest wind. He holds us together. 

Don’t fear falling off the tree, dear one, or falling completely apart, because He can’t drop us. He is the vine. We are the branch. (John 15:5). And He has securely wrapped Himself around you. Every part of you.  To hold you. Together. 

The crowds were thick, voices loud. Tiptoes pressed to the ground and heads bobbing among the sea of people. Just to get a glimpse. Just a peek.

Maneuvering through the populated mass was a feat. Elbows assalting ribs. Toes subject to the impeding doom of another’s weight. But the woman made it. She reached out and touched the cloak. And was healed (Luke 8:43).

It is over two thousand years later and there is another woman jostling in the crowd. The clothes have changed. Yet the need of the old is the same. To touch the cloak.

There were many similar among her in the crowd. Also, many different. Some men, some young, some old, some who had lived their lives in relative comfort, others who hadn’t known comfort since they left the womb. Different yet the desire same: touch the cloak.

The girl is overwhelmed by the claustrophobic surroundings. Her whisper barely escaping her lips. No one around her could hear. Yet His ear tilted.

“Cleanse me.”

His feet stopped. His head turned. His eyes found hers.

“Heal me.”

He moved toward her, the crowd creating a pathway.

“Heal my disbelief. My lack of trust. My fears. My paralyzing insecurity. My anger and doubts.”

The last came out of her throat in a gut-wrenching plea, “Heal me.”

He was directly in front of her now. Hearing her every voiced thought. Reading every secret longing.

“Wash me.”

“Use me.”

His hand found her shoulder. His cloak grazed her cheek. It wasn’t the cloak at all. It was Him who wore the cloak.

A voice among many.

And You hear.

The sky has cracked open and sprinkles fall. The girl thinks of His blood spilt and the healing power He gives and the rain falling. Falling like blood – cleansing.

She wants to dance in it. To spin in a circle in His mercy.

So I do.