Rachel

“I remember the first time I decided to try to put on more Joy.

As if Joy was a perfume sample I tried on briefly at the mall and liked so much--how it made me feel to walk into a room smelling like distilled righteousness--that I decided to buy a travel size so I could carry it with me at all times. An easy application for a quick cover-up. a potent enough aroma of pep in my step to cover all manner of bad days.
...
The first time I tried to put on Joy like it's something that you wear, it ended up biting me in the backside.

Because that's what happens when we try to use Joy to mask, to cover up, but never to actually heal.
...
Either way, it's not fooling anyone.

And either way, that's not how true Joy works.

True Joy doesn't overpower. It doesn't accost someone until we are the only thing they can smell in the room. True Joy is a breath of fresh air. It is a permission to breathe easier. It is an invitation, not a full-scale assault on the senses.

It also isn't an overdesigned, overstaged, mass-marketed picture of perfection. To me, true Joy is like a tree planted by the water.

It gives more oxygen than it takes. It provides shade and shelter to those who want to come and sit by it for a while. It is a welcome place of belonging. A much-needed respite for the weary. A place to come and rest their tired souls.
... (reference to Jeremiah 17:8)...
Joy was never only for those found laughing in a field of flowers. It is also for anyone who finds themselves weeping in the thickest part of the weeds.

Joy doesn't mean the drought won't come and the storms won't rage.

It just means that when they do, you'll know where you're planted. You'll know what it is you're anchored to.”
― Mary Marantz, Dirt: Growing Strong Roots in What Makes the Broken Beautiful

“Having a birthday is like reaching a higher peak on a mountain. Pause to admire the view; reflect on how far you have come.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich, Being Bold: Quotes, Poetry, & Motivations for Every Day of the Year

“What does it mean to honor parents--and yet own the various sentiments we have toward them? Years ago I came across an article by J. Wesley Brown that spoke honestly about our parents: "That they did not have total wisdom when they raised us, that they did not always know exactly what to tell us, what to let us do and what to prevent us from doing, does not mean they did not love us and intend to do well by us. Perhaps the greatest honor we can do our parents is to let them down off the pedestal of our imaginations, where we are inclined either to idolize them or to flog them as gods who failed (as indeed they must fail), and to accept them as people--people who need forgiveness as well as respect, who need honest relationships with their children perhaps more than anyone else.”
― Donald McCullough, Say Please, Say Thank You: The Respect We Owe One Another

“I think about that often.

I think about the boots and the bones, and how I didn't want to be so lowly as to stoop down and help another human being take off their layers of mud. to wind up with their dirt on my hands.

I think that's because for a long time I believed freedom looked like getting to a place where none of the people were muddy. Where everyone was shiny and clean and took care of their own front yards. Where everywhere you looked, there were white picket fences and perfectly manicured pansies lining the front walkway.
...
And then I think about God and what neighborhood He would live in.

I think about Jesus washing the feet of the disciples. Those dusty busted-up, sandal-blistered feet they rolled up with to His supper table. I think about the Savior of the world kneeling there at His last meal, before His body was broken and His blood was poured out, first making sure that none of them had to walk around with muddy feet.

At this I picture Jesus kneeling at the feet of my father.

I think about the conversation those two might have. I think about the care Jesus would take in removing those heavy weights from around Dad's ankles. how He would hold all those broken parts in His light-filled hands and weep with Dad for all the pain he'd been walking around with. I think He would tell him that He sees how hard he's been fighting to hold it all together, sees all the sacrifices that he's made. I think Jesus would sit with him there for a while in the mud, not even caring about Dad's boots leaving marks all up and down His crisp, white robes.

There comes a time when every person who believes in God also has to decide what kind of character they believe He has.

Is He a cold and distant God, withholding every good thing, just waiting for the chance to take back what little He has given?

Is He a God who only gives out begrudging scraps of joy after first putting you in very hot water, His red-letter way of ensuring that you've been washed clean?

Or is He a God who sits with you in the mud, who stoops to serve before the sacrifice?

I used to think freedom looked a lot like being around people who aren't muddy.

Now I realize we're all pretty muddy and maybe just a little bit broken too, no matter what kind of place we call home.

And when it comes right down to it, getting each other's mud on our hands--this serving one another in love--that's what true freedom has always been about anyway.

Because love, like integrity, is also about what we do when no one else is looking.

And how we do anything is how we do everything.”
― Mary Marantz, Dirt: Growing Strong Roots in What Makes the Broken Beautiful