I’m no athlete, but occasionally I think back to gym class, and to that brief period when I ran cross-country. I remember the times when I or a friend would stumble and fall, maybe twist a knee or an ankle. I remember those flashes of pain and the thought of, “There goes the rest of today…” as I wondered if I was really injured.

And I remember my teacher or coach saying what I imagine we’ve all heard a teacher or coach saying: “Walk it off. Come on, get back up. Get moving. You’ll be fine.”

I hated hearing that. Am I the only one? In the moment when that pain is still fresh and sometimes throbbing, that command made it feel…inconsequential. Unimportant. Like what I felt was being trivialized.

And you know what made it worse? That more often than not the coach was right. A few minutes of walking, and the pain ebbed.

We hear the same thing after something like a surgery, though from a different authority and in a different way. There’s no question of the gravity of the situation. Which means that the advice isn’t just to separate true injury from minor hurt–it has a far more important purpose. After something like this, our doctors and therapists give the same advice, “Get up, get moving,” because they know through scads of scientific data that it’s necessary to healing.

The longer we lie there, unmoving, the harder it is to move.
The longer we let ourselves drift, the harder it is to get going.
The longer we don’t, the harder it is to do.

When I look back over my last few years, I keep thinking, “It’s been a lot.” My family has dealt with life-changing diagnoses (both my own and everyone else’s), mental health challenges, treatments that knock me flat, surgery upon surgery upon surgery, job loss, moving publishing companies, graduating two kids…yeah. A lot.

And I’ll be honest. There have been some days in those years when the last thing I wanted was to hear “Walk it off. Get back up. Keep moving.” There have been days when I just wanted to not. When I wanted to curl up and just…do nothing. Days when I don’t want to read, I don’t want to watch TV, I don’t want to work, I don’t want to anything. Days when life just feels so hard that what I really want is a little break from it all.

Sometimes, for an hour or two, that’s fine. Take a nap. Take a walk. Sit in silence. Sometimes, that’s exactly the respite our souls need.

Then, it’s time to get up again. To move. To do.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend who’d lost property to wildfires. Her parents had lost her childhood home, and she’d just learned that her father once again has a tumor in his brain. It’s a lot–I could certainly commiserate with that, and did. And then she said something that stuck with me: “I KNOW you understand. More than anyone else I know, you have been through an insane amount and STILL KEEP GOING. I know a lot of folks who have suffered, but the amazing difference with you is how much you just keep going. I admire you deeply and the courage that you display.”

That phrase kept coming back to me: still keep going. And as the words play through my head, I remember those moments over the last few years when I thought, “I’m so tired. I just want to…not. I don’t want to do anything. Nothing. I want to stop for a minute.”

Sometimes, when those moments hit, I just walk into the living room and sit on the couch. I close my eyes. And I soon realize that “nothing” holds no allure. It doesn’t help the overwhelm. It doesn’t revive the tired. It doesn’t fill the places that feel empty. So, instead, I follow that annoying advice from my middle school gym teacher, and I get up.

Walk it off. Get back up. Keep moving.

Now, that doesn’t mean just return to the hamster wheel. But it does mean return to the WORK–and by “the work” here, I mean the work we do for the kingdom, for the Lord. Maybe that means cooking a meal for our family. Maybe it means answering emails. Maybe it means writing a book. Maybe it means nursing others who are sick. Maybe it means teaching. Maybe it means offering a smile to someone in a checkout line. Maybe it means tending the earth and watching things grow. Or maybe, when energy permits none of those, it means sitting with the Word. Maybe it means praying. Maybe it means sitting with a loved one and talking, or just being there with them and loving them.

I don’t know what your work is. But I know that mine calls to me even in those moments of respite. I’m not good at being idle–but I will tell you that for me, intentional rest is for a purpose, and that’s to refill my creative wells so that I can continue pouring myself into my work. My writing. My designing.

Why? Because it matters.

And because it matters, it’s worth doing even when the doing is hard.

Back in sailing days, when a ship was out at sea and the wind stopped blowing, it was called “the doldrums.” I loved learning that phrase back in high school, because it’s such a perfect metaphor for some days or seasons, isn’t it? When the wind’s gone out of our sails. When going, moving, doing seems impossible because we’re lacking that force that usually speeds us on. But there was another phrase from this same era: “to sail by ash breeze.”

Ash was the wood that oars were often made of. The meaning here is that, when there’s no wind in your sails, you make the force yourself. You pick up the oars. And you move.

Don’t wait for circumstances to change–change the circumstances yourself by changing how you participate in them.

It was just about a year ago that I got the phone call that told me I had a tumor in my brain. We were at the office, packing up copies of Love in the Castle Library, which would release the next day. After getting the news, after telling my husband and crying over it, for a long moment I just stood there in his arms.

He asked something like, “What do you want to do right now? Go home? We can do this another day.”

I didn’t have to think about it long. “No,” I said. “Let’s finish up. The books still need to go out.”

He thought I was a little crazy. But I wasn’t.

Because the books still needed to go out–they represented work I believed in, work that needed to be done. Readers eagerly awaiting that story, an author who was depending on us. So I chose to obey the old advice. Get up. Keep moving. Not because it was trivial but because it wasn’t. Not because it’s what I felt like doing, but because it was what I had decided beforehand to do, and this news didn’t change the importance of it.

And it’s what I’ve been doing since then too.

I keep moving. Not because there’s no value in stillness (we all need rest!), but because the work is still good and still needs to be done. I keep moving, not in an attempt to strive and struggle my way past the circumstance, but because the circumstance doesn’t change the fact that God has blessed me with gifts and then calls me to steward them. I keep moving because I’m called to run the race until I reach the finish line, and that is, I pray, still a long way off–so I’ve got a lot of ground to cover.

It’s okay not to do in every moment, every hour, every day. Of course it is. There are limitations that do come with the things we go through. But even in those times, we can still do something.

Find that something. Take it in your hands. And get up. Keep moving.

Your circumstances might not change…but then, they might. Because you will.

I live in the Appalachian Mountains (the part that pronounces it APP-uh-LAY-shun, not LATCH-uhn, thank you). My house is in the middle of a forest, trees towering all around. Here, we can track the drift of the seasons quite easily, as leaves first bud in a splendor of white and yellow and pink, then spread a curtain of brightest green over the hillsides, then darken to emerald, then move into a fire of red and orange and yellow, then drift away into brown and the gray of bare limbs.

Those changing seasons never fail to make me smile in appreciation. But they’re a slow crawl, over the course of the year. The landscape doesn’t do rapid changes–and if it does, it’s usually a bad thing. Trees downed by a storm, gullies carved by a flood.

The other day, though, as my husband and I were walking the beach during our vacation, I realized that one of the reasons I love escaping to a place like this for my holiday is because literally every morning, it’s new.

The tides are constantly changing, and changing the beach with it. One day it will be still and calm, the tide will be out, and the beach will be wide and solid and undisturbed. The next day, the waves will be frothing, the wind will be whipping, wiping out any hint of human footprints, and the tide will be carving cliffs into the sand. When we set off from our rented house, we can see glimpses of the ocean from our upper decks, but we have no idea what the beach will look like. Not until we trek along the wandering path over the dunes, evading cacti and burrs and swatting at mosquitos, and then finally emerge into the loose sand.

Will the beach be wide or narrow today? Is the tide in or out? Soft sand or hard? Windswept clean or still bearing yesterday’s footprints? 

It’s new. Every morning, it’s new. And if you stay down there long enough, you can watch it renew itself with every surge of the tide in and draw of it out. And as I walk the waterline, those verses fill my head each and every time. 

“The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.”
~ Lamentations 3:22-23 (ESV)

Perhaps it’s strange that I ponder the steadfastness of the Lord thanks to a landscape that’s ever-shifting. Perhaps something as capricious as a tide shouldn’t make me think about His faithfulness. Or maybe it’s the contrast that makes the truth so bright.

Maybe it’s because, as ever-changing as this landscape is, it’s also everlasting in its changes, a cycle that doesn’t stop. And isn’t that like the Lord? He doesn’t always speak to us in the same ways, He doesn’t always answer prayers in the way we expect Him to, He doesn’t always give us the same thing in each season…but He’s always there. Always working. So big that He holds the universe in His palm, so exact that He knows how to speak to each heart in the way that will best help us.

His love never stops. And while in some seasons we might sense it like those towering trees or rolling mountains–always there, surrounding us–I think quite often we experience His love like a tide. Sometimes it’s surging high, sometimes our perception of it ebbs. But like the tide, it’s always there, always cycling, always moving. Like the tides, it never ends.

And like the landscape carved by those tides, we can let Him make us new every morning, just as His mercies are.

I love that these verses are from Lamentations, a book literally about grieving and mourning and calling out to the God that hasn’t forsaken His people, even when His people have forsaken Him. It’s in the midst of those tears that the prophet gives us this promise.

Great is His faithfulness. Morning by morning, new mercies are there for us to behold.

What do they look like today in your life?

More life lessons from watching beach sunrises incoming. Or rather, in this case, eternity lessons.

As I mentioned last week, watching the sunrise over the ocean in the Outer Banks is one of our favorite things to do on vacation. In years past, I would always wake Xoe up for it to (upon her request), and usually the wake-up call went something like: I’d shout, “We’ve got color!” toward her bedroom as I darted up the stairs to turn on the coffee pot.

We’d all go out to the deck, and Xoe would take over my phone and take a slew of photos as the sunrise evolved. We’d pick one to send to the grandmothers.

Well, Xoe is in her senior year of college right now and couldn’t join us, so she instead tasked me with the sacred duty: “Send me sunrise pictures!”

Guys…I am no photographer. And as I fuss with the camera on my phone, I realize anew that Xoe put a whole lot more effort into settings than I frankly know how to do. My photos just aren’t as gorgeous as hers were, even on the same device.

Instead, every morning I gasp at the beauty before me, at the range of colors–the gorgeous pinks, the lightening purples, the spilling gold. I raise my phone, I look at the screen and…I scowl. Pinks look orange. The sky looks brassy and yellow. Shadows look black instead of purple.

I know why. I know my phone’s light sensor reacts to the extreme brightness by dimming, to protect itself. I try fiddling a bit with the brightness, but I’m never happy with those results either, and…I give up, because I’d rather watch the actual beauty unfolding than miss it because I’m arguing with my phone’s camera.

This morning, though, as I set my phone aside, I couldn’t help but think that this problem, silly as it is, is a bit like a modern take on Paul’s dim mirror illustration.

See, back in the day when he was writing, mirrors were made of polished bronze, not the silver-backed glass we know today. If a high enough polish was achieved, you could see yourself in that mirror, yes…but it wasn’t the sort of reflection we’re used to. The colors would have been off. The image would have been darker than reality. You could get an impression of yourself…but not an exact likeness.

My phone camera attempting to capture the sunrise has those exact problems. Too dark. The colors are off. The pictures I’m taking and sending to my family give an impression of the beauty, and for those not here, they see that impression and respond with, “Wow, gorgeous!” without ever realizing how much better the real thing was.

And that is exactly what this life is, compared to eternity.

We think it’s beautiful–and it is.

We think it’s bright and brilliant–and it is.

We think it’s bursting with goodness and light–and it is.

But all that it is, all that we see, all that we are capable of perceving, all that we understand and experience…it’s filtered through our very human senses. And much like my phone’s camera, our senses come with protective sensors that dial back the true Light to keep from blinding us.

We know from the stories of Moses having to shroud his face that our eyes just can’t handle the glory of God. And not just our eyes–our minds. Our hearts. We can accept portions of it, of Him–slivers of His goodness, His radiance, His glory. We get glimpses, and those glimpses are enough to make us gasp in appreciation, to prostrate ourselves before Him, to hold out our hands and lift up our hearts and cry out, “Glory to God in the highest!”

But Paul tells us that we’re only seeing in a old bronze mirror, dimly. Our understanding is dim. Our perception is dim. Our knowledge is dim.

And yet most of the time, we’re content with that. We’re happy with our dull imitation of glory, because even it is beautiful. 

But what if we set aside our phones? Our dim mirrors? What if, instead of staring at this imitation as if it’s all there is, we remind ourselves to look up? Look out at the world beyond what we can see? What if we look away from the reflection and to what is being reflected?

His glory will blind us, yes. But that isn’t a bad thing. I’m sure you’ve noticed that you can look at a rising sun in a way you can’t a noonday one…and I’m sure you’ve also noticed that when you look away, you see a lot of spots.

Isn’t that exactly what we should be doing with the Lord? Staring at Him until, when we look away, we see those impressions of His light wherever we turn our gaze.

His light, imposed over our darkness. His goodness, blotting out our shadows. His promise, there wherever we turn our eyes.

These mirrors that we live are always going to be dim, compared to the eternity where He lives. Perhaps it’s all we can handle, most of the time. But praise God that He invites us to look away. To look up. To bask in the light of His face, through the One who tore the veil between us and ushers us into that light-infused sanctuary.

I’m currently sitting in a rented beach house in Avon, North Carolina–one of my favorite places in the world. And one of our favorite things to do while we’re on vacation here in the Outer Banks is to watch the sunrise.

Now, in September, this is no great feat. The sun rises at a civilized 6:30ish, so we have plenty of time to get up and enjoy it (my husband and I usually wake up at 5:30, do our morning prayers together, and then go about our day). As we settled in our beachy routine, we remembered that last year, though we were down here for two weeks, there wasn’t a single day where we had a “perfect” sunrise. By which we mean a clear horizon over the water, some scattered clouds to catch the light and be painted with that gorgeous sunrise rainbow. Each and every day, there was a big ol’ cloud bank on the horizon that obscured the sun.

On Monday this year, I looked out the big east-facing windows of the house, saw a big ol’ cloudbank dumping rain somewhere out at sea (though it was perfectly clear here), and sighed. Still, we climbed the weathered wooden stairs up to the rooftop deck to watch what we could see of the sunrise.

As I was sitting there in my newly-purchased beach chair, looking out at that single storm cloud marring my idea of a perfect morning and reflecting on last year, I found myself praying, Lord, please give us a few good sunrises this year.

And then I sensed the Lord giving me one of those smiling shakes of the head, like we give our kiddos when they’re cute but oh-so-off-base. And a new prayer filled my heart instead:

Lord, I will receive whatever you give me. Help me to do so with open hands and an open heart.

With that prayer on my lips, the morning suddenly looked different. Instead of a selfish outlook that was utterly ridiculous when I stopped to think about it–why would something as large as weather be changed for a fleeting moment of pleasure for me? Not to say the Lord never gives us those gifts, but it struck me as so selfish a request in that moment–my eyes were opened to what He had already given.

If I wanted painted clouds, I had only to look away from that single storm cloud and watch the ones skuttling to the south wash rose and gold. If I wanted drama, I need look no further than the fire-limned edges of that big raincloud. If I wanted a reminder of His goodness, I had only to listen to the sounds of the ocean and the wind and the birds.

One of the reasons I love the beach is because every time I walk outside, no matter where I look, I see the bigness of the world around me, and it reminds me of the eternal vastness of our God. I love the mountains I live in, the beauty they show, but you can’t ever see as much sky as you can down here, nor, for that matter, so much land; the horizon is never a distant thing, it’s just the next ridgeline. I love that…but I love this too. Because as I stand on the shore where the waves lap at my feet or on a deck where I can see for miles, I know that I am such a small part of this world–no more to history than a grain of sand. A drop of water. And yet, as important as every grain of sand, every drop of water, because the Creator crafted me just so, just as He did this landscape that fills my soul with contentment.

When David and I went for our first walk the other day, I kept just sucking in a long breath and letting it back out with a sigh of pure bliss. Life with all its irritations and challenges continues even on vacation–I got attacked (ha) by a cactus the very first time we walked from the house toward the beach, I’m recovering from some congestion we brought back with us from Memphis last week, my inbox is overflowing with tasks I need to take care of. But being here helps me put it all in perspective.

Being here helps me open my hands, open my heart, and turn my face up to Heaven. Being here helps me set aside my own desires and expectations and instead just receive. Receive whatever the Lord wants to give me.

There will be good. There will be bad. There will be victories. There will be defeat. There will be smiles. There will be tears.

Because that, my friends, is life. There is suffering…and there is glory unlike anything we could imagine. We can get a glimpse of it in every sunrise…in every sunset. In every rainstorm…in every gust of wind. We can hear it in the song of the birds…and in our own hearts, when we quiet them enough to step back from ourselves, from our wants, from our desires, and listen instead for His whisper.

He has such wonderful gifts in store for us. Do we have the eyes to see them?