• This is 49. For those who worry about birthdays, I’ll give you a secret: . . When you’ve had to face the fact that you might not see another, you start to celebrate each birthday as the wonder that it is. . . 49?! Heck YES. What a surprise. I’m still here. 🎉🙌🏻❤️
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    This is 49. For those who worry about birthdays, I’ll give you a secret: . . When you’ve had to face the fact that you might not see another, you start to celebrate each birthday as the wonder that it is. . . 49?! Heck YES. What a surprise. I’m still here. 🎉🙌🏻❤️
  • “To live by grace means to acknowledge my whole life story, the light side and the dark. In admitting my shadow side I learn who I am and what God's grace means. As Thomas Merton put it, ‘A saint is not someone who is good but who experiences the goodness of God.’” —Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel
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    “To live by grace means to acknowledge my whole life story, the light side and the dark. In admitting my shadow side I learn who I am and what God's grace means. As Thomas Merton put it, ‘A saint is not someone who is good but who experiences the goodness of God.’” —Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel
  • Sunrise ski. ☀️#weekend
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    Sunrise ski. ☀️#weekend
  • I used to think Psalm 23 was a psalm meant for the dying. I now realize it was written for those who really want to live. . . If you’re feeling overwhelmed, discouraged, exhausted, anxious, try this: . . Find a quiet place. Take a few deep breaths. And then read the words of Psalm 23, slowly and out loud. Maybe more than once. 🌿
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    I used to think Psalm 23 was a psalm meant for the dying. I now realize it was written for those who really want to live. . . If you’re feeling overwhelmed, discouraged, exhausted, anxious, try this: . . Find a quiet place. Take a few deep breaths. And then read the words of Psalm 23, slowly and out loud. Maybe more than once. 🌿
  • Every time I hike Colorado’s high country, I see one of these. It’s called a cairn, and hikers express mixed opinions about them. . . Some feel like they are a disruption to the natural environment, that we should leave nature be. Others, including me, feel they serve a purpose, when used with wisdom and intention. . . 8+ months out of the year, it snows in Colorado’s highcountry. And it doesn’t take much of that white stuff for a less-trafficked trail to get buried, sometimes in the span of minutes. And when it does, it is often a well-placed cairn that keeps a hiker on her path and gets her back home. . . It’s not decoration; it’s a salvation. . . Goodness, this year has felt like a long, hard, and uphill hike, with all kinds of unexpected weather. Over the last week, I’ve been feeling the bone-deep weariness of it, the on-the-edge-of-the-abyss overwhelm of it. And I’m hearing from so many of you who are feeling the same. We’re beat, feel a bit lost, and want to get home. . . We need to find a cairn, rocks marking our path and telling us where to step. And we won’t find it in the news, a political candidate, social media feeds, or a wine glass. . . “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold ... As for God, his way is perfect: The Lord’s word is flawless; he shields all who take refuge in him. For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God?” —Psalm 18:2, 30-31 . . Who, indeed? Yes, and amen. ⛰
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    Every time I hike Colorado’s high country, I see one of these. It’s called a cairn, and hikers express mixed opinions about them. . . Some feel like they are a disruption to the natural environment, that we should leave nature be. Others, including me, feel they serve a purpose, when used with wisdom and intention. . . 8+ months out of the year, it snows in Colorado’s highcountry. And it doesn’t take much of that white stuff for a less-trafficked trail to get buried, sometimes in the span of minutes. And when it does, it is often a well-placed cairn that keeps a hiker on her path and gets her back home. . . It’s not decoration; it’s a salvation. . . Goodness, this year has felt like a long, hard, and uphill hike, with all kinds of unexpected weather. Over the last week, I’ve been feeling the bone-deep weariness of it, the on-the-edge-of-the-abyss overwhelm of it. And I’m hearing from so many of you who are feeling the same. We’re beat, feel a bit lost, and want to get home. . . We need to find a cairn, rocks marking our path and telling us where to step. And we won’t find it in the news, a political candidate, social media feeds, or a wine glass. . . “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold ... As for God, his way is perfect: The Lord’s word is flawless; he shields all who take refuge in him. For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God?” —Psalm 18:2, 30-31 . . Who, indeed? Yes, and amen. ⛰
  • All afternoon, I’ve been looking for something to make me laugh. I needed it. You, too? Here you go. You’re welcome. . . And to all those who (wrongly) think the Mullet is a style, it’s not. It’s a message to the world that says “I gave up.” Let me send you scissors. We believe in you. ✂️ . . P.S. You find what you look for. Keep that in mind when you wake up tomorrow. ❤️
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    All afternoon, I’ve been looking for something to make me laugh. I needed it. You, too? Here you go. You’re welcome. . . And to all those who (wrongly) think the Mullet is a style, it’s not. It’s a message to the world that says “I gave up.” Let me send you scissors. We believe in you. ✂️ . . P.S. You find what you look for. Keep that in mind when you wake up tomorrow. ❤️
  • I took three days off last week and spent it hiking the Colorado Rockies, alone. The quiet, the majesty, the beauty ... it was about as close to heaven as can be found on earth. (I’m pretty sure eternity will come with a pair of hiking boots). ⛰💙
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    I took three days off last week and spent it hiking the Colorado Rockies, alone. The quiet, the majesty, the beauty ... it was about as close to heaven as can be found on earth. (I’m pretty sure eternity will come with a pair of hiking boots). ⛰💙
  • Every day I wake up and do this extraordinary thing called “talking.” I parent children who ask a million questions, make appointments with schools and doctors and dentists, chat with friends and family, lead countless meetings. I push through the embarrassment of how I sound because I refuse to be the woman who feels like she needs to hide. And because I know that if I stop talking, I’ll eventually lose the ability to do it at all. . . Even so, every word takes effort and comes with a cost. I try not to talk about the pain, namely because I don’t want pity and I don’t want to slip into a habit of negativity or feeling sorry for myself. Something that would be so easy to do, trust me. . . But every now and then God sends me someone who SEES me. A speech pathologist at a speaking event who knows how hard I’ve worked to be able to say words at all. Or a head-and-neck oncology nurse who has seen the damage and knows the hill I’ve climbed. . . Or a reader—listener—who chooses to listen to me read my own book. . . Sometimes being seen is the sweetest, most compassionate gift you can give a person. . . Thank you, Shauna R. Your words made me cry. And your words made me want to keep talking. ❤️
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    Every day I wake up and do this extraordinary thing called “talking.” I parent children who ask a million questions, make appointments with schools and doctors and dentists, chat with friends and family, lead countless meetings. I push through the embarrassment of how I sound because I refuse to be the woman who feels like she needs to hide. And because I know that if I stop talking, I’ll eventually lose the ability to do it at all. . . Even so, every word takes effort and comes with a cost. I try not to talk about the pain, namely because I don’t want pity and I don’t want to slip into a habit of negativity or feeling sorry for myself. Something that would be so easy to do, trust me. . . But every now and then God sends me someone who SEES me. A speech pathologist at a speaking event who knows how hard I’ve worked to be able to say words at all. Or a head-and-neck oncology nurse who has seen the damage and knows the hill I’ve climbed. . . Or a reader—listener—who chooses to listen to me read my own book. . . Sometimes being seen is the sweetest, most compassionate gift you can give a person. . . Thank you, Shauna R. Your words made me cry. And your words made me want to keep talking. ❤️