Aloha.

When you travel somewhere - across state lines or across the world - you come home and, with much enthusiasm, you want to tell the stories of your time away. While they might be exciting or scary or very, very funny, no one will completely grasp them - no one will fully understand the way the experiences changed you. In that way, I will never have the words to describe Hawaii. "How was your trip?" I've been asked countless times, but even if I could find the right syllables for all the sights and sounds, they would fall short. It's like when you try to explain a dream you had and the listener looks at you like they desperately want to get it, but detailing how that ex of yours showed up wearing a party hat and holding a kitten just as you were about to slay the blue dragon (or whatever weird thing your brain comes up with) will never be as real for them as it was for you.

When I wrote about the marathon a couple of weeks ago, I wrote that I wanted to step outside of safe and comfortable. It's interesting to me that each time I do that - make some sort of declaration - I'm immediately tested on the sincerity of my words. I left for Hawaii the day after I wrote that post and I did more new things, had more new experiences, and had the chance to slap fear across its stupid face more often in that ten days than I knew was coming. When I backpeddled on wanting to do something - like jumping off a cliff into the ocean or walking through a tunnel carved in a mountain (yeah, we can talk about legitimate vs illegitimate fears later) Aaron would ask me, "Wait... what was that thing you wrote in your blog again?" Cool. Thank you.

But, really, thank you. Sometimes we need a push - I need a push - to do the scary things and it was those experiences that made the trip so memorable. Like I said, I can tell you stories about how we went surfing, hiked to a waterfall, swam with dolphins in the wild, and had a picnic on top of Koko Head at sunset, but if you were to visit, Hawaii would be magical for you in other ways than it was for me.  So instead of detail every minute, I'll just show you a bunch of iPhone photos that tell you almost nothing of the majesty and beauty bottled up in this one place. You must go. It is the definition of adventure and for this summer-loving girl, it felt like coming home. 

The only proper way to be welcomed in Hawaii. 

Okay, hi, are you taken?

It took about three seconds for me to really embrace that no makeup, beach hair, Hawaii vibe.

One of my best girls was in Hawaii with her fam at the same time! 

My parents went to Oahu four years ago and took this picture at the top of Diamond Head.

So we did the obvious thing and recreated it.

My first taste of a malasada. Tastes like dreams and happiness. 

Casual test shot to see if taking photos through the plastic bag you put your phone in is a good idea. It's not.

Pineapple whip at the Dole Plantation. Also tastes like drops of Heaven (and Jupiter). 

 Aaron told me, "A lot of the fun things to do in Hawaii are things they have signs telling you not to do." Exhibit A.

Obsessed.

See?

The definition of haole.

You might not have the luxury of adventuring around the island with a local like I did so if you're interested in going to Oahu, here are a few of the places we went and I recommend all of them. Two thumbs up. Five gold stars. 

Bogart's Cafe - I could live on this Hawaiian waffle forever and ever.
Aloha Crepes 
Uncle Clay's House of Pure Aloha - best shave ice on Oahu
Halona Blowhole
Bubbies Homemade Ice Cream and Desserts - if you leave Hawaii without trying mochi ice cream, you will regret it for the rest of your days
Grondin
Opal Thai - Opal, himself, will customize your meal and make it perfect.
Hanauma Bay State Park 
Leonard's Bakery
Kailua Beach - my favorite and we went to many!
Buho

Mahalo for everything, Hawaii! 


 

Goals.

I am proud of myself for few things in my life, but running this race is one of them - following the training schedule, pushing myself to do better and run farther. I always said I would never run a half marathon and I would certainly NEVER run outside in inclement weather. Well, guess what, blogosphere, the weather on Sunday was awful. It was 43 degrees when the race started - windy, misting, and at times, all out raining. I mean, the only way it could have been worse is if it actually started snowing. I had a few minutes to journal before we left for the race and one of the things I wrote was, 

Dear Jesus, I just want to finish. Please let me finish.

I have never really played sports. I tried a lot of sports, hoping to find my niche, but basketball and soccer were too much running for this girl, I didn't make the competitive gymnastics team, and I could never get that dang volleyball over the net when I served. Athletic has always been close to the last word used to describe me, probably listed right next to quiet and shy. Meanwhile, my sisters both played volleyball all through high school and college and my brother played baseball, and while they were always working hard to improve at their sport, the only goals I really set for myself were academic ones. I pushed through high school and college thinking, Please let me get an A on this test, but even that was never really that hard to do. School was pretty easy for me. So, I don't know that I have really worked toward something - pushing myself to complete a set goal - especially since graduating college. Sure, there have been work deadlines and events to prepare for, but my personal goals were sparse. I've found it's easy to sit in the cozy rhythms of your life and never push yourself to do anything. 

Then, in November of last year, I asked my sister if we should try to do the half. It seemed like the American 30-something thing to do - I mean basically everyone I know has done it. Honestly, it was never a real desire of mine and I thought she would say no, except, you guys, she did not say no. Yikes. So, my mom, my sister and I woke up early every Saturday since January to put in the miles. I battled pain a lot of the way. The forecast was saying cold/rainy on race day. It was everything I didn't think I could do. But, I finished. My official time was 2:05:09. Five months ago, the furthest I ran was a couple of 5K races, but I finished the half without walking or taking a break or any of the things I made goals not to do and I feel pretty good about that. 

Everyone said the atmosphere would be the best part, and it definitely was the best part. I don't know about other marathons, but Nebraskans turn out for each other and I love that so much. I had friends cheering for me at various points along the course and seeing their faces gave me little bursts of energy at just the right time. Spectators held hilarious signs like, Run, stranger, run! and This is practice for November 8 when we all run to Canada! and You're kicking so much ASSphalt! But the real MVPs are my mom and sister who stayed near me the entire race. My mom is a fast runner (her finish last year was 1:41:27!) and she could have done really well in her age division had she put on her jets and run at her own pace. But, since it was our very first half marathon, she stayed with Erin and me the whole time, cheering us on, pushing us to finish. She thanked every single police officer who held back traffic at the intersections, pumped her fists in the air while she whooped and hollered and cheered FOR THE SPECTATORS, and was an encourager for other runners as they passed along the way, as if she wasn't running 13 miles in the cold herself. You guys, she's a 55-year-old Wonder Woman. I was so impressed with her the whole race and also super thankful she stayed near. The three of us trained together each week and we finished together, running across the 50 yard line in Memorial Stadium feeling like some real champions.

People keep asking me if it was fun and I don't know that I would really say it was fun. It was a lot of things - very hard being top of the list - but I don't know about fun. Like, I can think of at least a thousand other things that are MORE fun than a half marathon, but I'm still glad I did it. It was fun to work toward this end goal and do it with people that I love, although I may have reaffirmed my belief that I'm a better cheerleader than a participant. (No, I didn't make the squad in high school. Don't remind me. Too soon.) I think the most important thing I learned was that I could do it.  I'm pretty good at talking myself out of things, telling myself lies, running laps around the inside of my comfort zone, but so far 2016 has been about drawing me out of that - small nudges toward the outer edges of safe. It's so easy to let opportunities slip by because we tell ourselves no or it feels like a risk, but you know what I think about risk. So, now that this is over, I don't know what's next, but I want to do better about setting and achieving goals. I want to do better about pushing myself to do hard things. I want to dip my toes outside of known and do the things I think I can't. What are your goals? Do you have any set right now? Can you set one today? Listen, people, if I can run the half, you can do your very hard thing, too. I just know it.

I posted a couple on Instagram, but here are a few more photos from the day. Check me out, grandkids. I did it.  

At the expo with my running partners.

Trying to stay warm before the start. And now it's pretty clear why I never wear hats.

Mile four. Hi friends!

Grainy photo finish. But, guess what! They send you a video of crossing the finish line. If you're real interested and want to see for sure that I really did this, you can watch that here. 

WE FREAKING DID IT. Two seconds of elation and joy before the freezing post-race body shock set in.

Pictured: Amazing friends who came to the finish line. Not pictured: endless teeth chattering and body shakes.

I don't know if I'll ever do it again, but I'm sure glad I did it with these two. 

Holy things.

I saw this photo last week and instantly felt like it was a personal attack. I'm not one to take offense at every little thing, but who do you think you are, Ann Voskamp? You don’t know my life. What if I can do hair and hard and holy things? Have you ever thought about that?

Clearly, I'm not over it.

I can’t remember when I started doing hair. Maybe you don’t even know that I do hair, but I do, sometimes. I shy away from admitting that, honestly. There are many people who are better than me, have more time to devote to it and really work at improving their skill, and a lot of them even went to school for it, so I feel like a bit of an impostor. I back away from saying I really do hair in the same way I'm reluctant to call myself a writer. Am I a writer? When do you earn that title? How many words do you have to tap out on a keyboard and how many people have to read them? I’m not sure, but I have this blog now, and I’ve done hair for homecoming and prom. I’ve been asked to write for people and I’ve styled brides and bridesmaids and mothers-of-the-bride/groom. So, I guess that counts. I guess I write and I do hair. 

I actually really love to do hair. There’s something about helping someone feel beautiful, helping them create a look they love, that is kind of like participating in a little bit of magic. I love to see the way the hair and makeup and dress come together on a wedding day or other special occasion. Maybe that’s what Ann Voskamp doesn’t understand, you know? I’m creating a little bit of magic over here, Ann. Sprinkling pixie dust. Can’t you see that? 

I often find that when something grates against my nerves, it’s because it’s true in one way or another. I heard one time that when someone does or says something we don’t like, we don't like it because we’re seeing a bit of ourselves in it and that's a little irritating. So, rather than feel our real feelings about that, we get mad and cover up with criticism or avoidance. I could read that quote and then blast Ann on Twitter or Facebook or simply brush it off and try to pretend I never saw it, but instead I took a look at my own life. Rather than feel offense, I decided to really dig into my feelings, mostly because it stung my heart to think the two things Ann referred to could ever be mutually exclusive. 

Certainly there’s some truth to what she said. If all we’re striving for are material things – outward beauty and acclaim – then we’re really missing the point. There will always be someone prettier, smarter, skinnier, stronger, richer, more athletic, more outgoing, someone with more business sense or more common sense, more skill or more knowledge, more, more, more than you, yes you, in whatever way you want to compare yourself. Always. There will always be better writers and people who are better at styling hair. I mean, have you ever seen Hair and Makeup by Steph? Amazing, I know. But, if all we’re trying to be is MORE, endlessly comparing to someone else and how they’re living their life, gunning for position and power, then we’re basically lighting our time, energy, and money on fire, and probably being fairly critical in the process. 

I think the heart of the issue is that Ann picked at something I have been feeling anyway. I have felt convicted lately about not doing the hard and holy things, about shying away from difficult conversations, about not speaking the truth when I feel like it might cost me something. It’s easier to just let the moment pass sometimes, isn’t it? In talking through this very thing last week, it dawned on me that the reason I don’t speak up more, the reason we don’t do hard things sometimes is because maybe, just maybe, we don’t fully believe the answer is Jesus. Maybe we don’t fully believe that that’s what everyone is really seeking – what they really need. I mean, it is for me. Heaven help me, I don’t know where I would be without daily preaching myself the gospel. I have struggled hard and ugly through some circumstances and life events that would have been nearly impossible without this steadfast anchor of hope. But, maybe we step away from hard and holy, from gospel and grace, because everyone seems pretty happy doing it their own way. They're getting along just fine without us speaking up or apologizing or taking that next right step. And maybe the real truth of it is we’re a little bit scared. We like comfort and ease. We like happiness and fuzzy feelings and Instagram-worthy moments. Everything we do is only seeking that end, no matter what decisions we make. We’re always about our own joy. But sometimes that rubs against the grain of hard and holy. Sometimes ease and happiness are wholly opposite of righteousness and sanctification. 

There seems to be some fear in Christian community lately – panic over the times we’re living in because Gosh darnit, can we get back to the good old days when America loved Jesus? Certainly, our country was founded on a belief in God. You can’t deny that because, well, history. But I wonder if it was ever as easy as we think it must have been. America is no Eden and every single generation has had their own struggles and trials. There were laws people didn’t agree with and ways in which they felt everything was in a furious backslide. We romanticize the good old days, but if you look at the history of our nation, I often don't know what good old days we're talking about. Clearly, God has shed his grace endlessly on this country, but there have always been moments in history to go to bat for holy things and what if we just determine that we're here now for such a time as this? 

Last year I read the book, The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd. It's historical fiction (nerd alert, I love this stuff) about the life of Sarah Grimke and what she did to help end slavery in the United States. She lived in the south and defied her family (never speaking to them again), traveled three weeks BY BOAT (woof!) to the north and helped write and distribute some of the first pamphlets about the horrors of slavery and the slave trade. If that's not hard and holy, I don't know what is. So, maybe that angst people feel lately is starting to creep in because we've been pretty comfortable sitting on our hind legs and we don't really feel like doing hard things – there are missionaries for that, right? And besides, it's easier to post an article raging that we should #BoycottTarget or whatever we're offended at this week, than form relationships with real people and give out grace like party favors. 
    
My favorite short story in all the earth is, A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O’Connor. I read it in college and it has been haunting me in the best ways ever since. O’Connor had this transcendent way of mixing religion and prose and working out her faith in story, and one of the last lines constantly gnaws at me when I trade holy for comfort. The Misfit is pointing his gun at the grandmother and, as death stares her in the face, she’s spouting the gospel. SPOILER ALERT: he shoots her in the end and O'Connor wrote, “'She would of been a good woman,’" The Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.'"

I guess I’m not so much worried about the times we’re living in because, rather than panic and shake our fists and yell a little louder about how great it used to be and how awful it is now, maybe it's just time for us all to do more holy things. Maybe in little ways we're all the grandmother and it's time to start telling the truth a little more often. Life isn’t easy - it’s not supposed to be and it was never promised to be that way, and instead of working ourselves into a tizz, maybe now we’ll learn how to really speak the truth in love. At least I hope so. I hope we don’t pass this moment up. I hope I don't either.

Unfortunately, the tendency is to confuse hard and holy with comfortable and joy-filled, but those are rarely synonymous. Rather than complain about the current state of affairs in your life or the country or the world, look for ways in which you can be used – keep your eyes open and step up for the holy things each day. What does hard and holy look like in your life? They’re certainly different for everyone. For me, today, right now, it means sharing the truth in a blog post that would more easily sit unread by others in my journal. Maybe for you it means making dinner, again, for your people or wiping a runny nose for the 28th time or breaking up another fight between littles when all you really want is some quiet time and a night off. Maybe it means inviting the neighbors over for dinner or getting together with an old friend or simply not making that snarky comment you want to make. Maybe it means a tough decision at work or leaving the job altogether. It may mean showing up in your marriage, even when you don’t feel like it, or making the phone call that will repair a relationship or finally quitting that habit that strangles you with its control. Or maybe, if you’re in the darkness today - that dark night of the soul - it means just getting out of bed and living one sweet breath to the next.  Doing hard and holy things means breathing light and life and hope into every arena of our lives.

I actually really like Ann Voskamp. I told you back in January how her writing changed my perspective. So, nothing against Ann, but you can do hair and hard and holy things. There are ways to step up to the plate for holy things no matter where you find yourself today. You can build machines or design websites or heal sick people or start new companies or create art or plan events or be a circus clown, or climb the corporate ladder til you're so high you can't even see the bottom, all the while doing hard and holy things. But, let’s just make sure we’re always doing both and not sacrificing the latter for the former. I think that’s what she really meant. 

Vulnerable.

I have felt uninspired to write lately. It seems that life has been spinning faster these days for a lot of different reasons, but I haven’t even had time to think about what words to share, let alone write them down. Other things have taken precedence – like training for the half marathon. For the record, I’m still doing it for the grandkids, but, sorry, grandkids, I’m kind of over it. It’s been 14 weeks and my shins have been hurting since about week eight. I’ve iced and taped and rested and bought another new pair of shoes. I refuse to quit, but at this point I’m just praying I don’t end up like Kevin Ware during that 2013 Louisville vs Duke game. You know the one.

Anyway, I need to give you a little honesty here – five seconds of unedited truth: I have started to write a few times recently and then shame began to slither into the corners of my heart. Shame is that venomous bully who has me constantly thinking, “Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say.” They warn you about this kind of thing when you start to share your story, your art, your life. They warn you about the voice you’ll hear in your head that sounds so much like your own.

There’s also a bit of added pressure now that you’re reading these words. It’s one thing to write them in my journal like I’ve done for so many years - scribble them out when I have time and then maybe look back on them sometime – a year from now or maybe never. But, now you’re reading them. Now you’re telling me that they’re encouraging and important – that they hold weight and you enjoy them. These words flowing from my head, my heart, and out my fingertips, they seem to matter. That’s heavy… and it’s intensely vulnerable.

I wrote my last blog post – the one about being satisfied with God – I wrote that back in January. When I finally sat down to write, I thought I was going to write to you about identity. I had some thoughts rolling around in my head about how that would look and how the last sentence might hang. Is it weird to admit I think about those things? This is how my writer brain works – it’s usually a complete essay in my head before it ever gets form and syllable on paper. But I had some thoughts about that post and then I sat down to write them and God was very clearly telling me, “No, actually, I was thinking we should write this other thing instead.” So I got out my journal, the one from a while back, where I had scribbled down that conversation I had with God. I looked at the lead words on paper and felt, almost overwhelmingly, that you might need to hear them – words that flowed from a source who was not me. I don’t feel like I wrote that blog at all. Not really. It came so forcefully and with such clarity.

But the point I want to make about that post is that I didn’t know when it would be published. I sent it off to the wonderful women at Empower:Lincoln and they wrote me back saying they received it and then I just kind of sat around and wondered when they would use it or if they would use it at all. Maybe it was too weird, you know, I did talk about a conversation with God and who does that? Well, then they posted that blog I had written. I had no warning that it was my day to be published, no control over how it was presented to the wild web of the Internet. It was just suddenly a notification on Facebook and my words were out there.

I’m only telling you this because there was a serious shock of adrenaline that coursed through my heart when I saw that notification. There was this moment of, “Oh no. It’s out there. People are going to have an opinion now – about me, and my words, and (maybe) my sanity.” See, when I post my own blogs, I do them in my own time. I decide when they’re going out. I decide what it looks like and how it gets posted and when and where. It’s done carefully and with much control and about 29 last minute considerations and then I just kind of close my eyes, click ‘Save & Publish’ and wish myself, ‘Godspeed.’ Because when you’re putting something out into the world – any kind of work from your heart for people to critique or care about – it’s vulnerable. Anytime you’re creating something new and sharing it with others, you’re bound to feel a little bit naked. I said this exact thing to my mom after a couple of posts on this space of mine, “I feel exposed.” She said, “I’m sure you do.” And when we feel that way, our initial response is to run away. We’re so good at hiding - packing it up and saying, “Nevermind.” I don’t know when we learn to do this because children certainly don’t feel it – not right away. They’re so much more free.  

That’s what I love about kids. They know little about the cares of the world – most of them anyway, at least they shouldn’t yet. Do you ever look at the adults around you and picture what they must have looked like when they were a little kid? Before their face bore the lines of decision and mistake. Before their soul was wrought with words that cut deep. Before their heart was broken. Before they knew shame and guilt. When they still had dreams of being an astronaut and when a cardboard box was their rocketship. We can still catch glimpses of it – that sparkle, that light that shines when people see someone they love or when they engage in that activity that ignites their soul. I like to picture people like that sometimes, especially when they’re being mean or when they’re sad because that helps me treat them a little bit nicer. We’re all just beating hearts that yearn to loved.

Brené Brown says, “Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable…”  Somewhere along the way we learn that vulnerability is a wee bit scary. Sometimes it hurts. I saw this photo on Tumblr the other day that said, “Run the risk.” I was already in the middle of writing this post and it just kind of struck me because that’s what this blog has been about – not only this post itself, but the thing as a whole. That’s what vulnerability is – risk. Bravery on display. So much of life involves risk. Taking the job. Diving into the relationship. Making the phone call. I have so many friends who have started businesses on their own. They had an idea and they took the risk. Risked critique and, possibly, failure. Run the risk. Run the risk of looking dumb or being criticized. Run the risk of failing. Run the risk of having to start over again and again. Run the risk of having your heart broken. Run the risk of people not getting it, not understanding, not being in the fight with you. Run the risk of losing because if you don’t run the risk of losing, you never have the chance at winning. Run the risk of being talked about behind your back and looked at as a fool. Run the risk of the worst that could happen, whatever that may be for you, because most of our fears are illegitimate anyway. Anything worth anything is a risk. You could "What if?" yourself into a frenzy. Life is risk.

I sent a message to a friend shortly after that last blog post and said, “There's always a fear right before something is posted where I'm like, "Yikes! Ouch! That's vulnerable!" But then I get to see how God uses it in other people's lives and I can think, "Okay, God, let's do it again.’” I guess I’m telling you all of this as an invitation to tell your story. An invitation to vulnerability. What have you waited to do because you were too scared? What have you put off because you thought other people might make fun of you or not get it? Lord knows I’m a perfectionist with a capital P and if I don’t think I can do something perfectly, I would rather not do it. That’s how I lived my life for a long time, but then I realized, what is perfect anyway? Someone else’s idea of what that thing should look like? What it should be? I’d rather not drive myself mad trying to live up to that concocted standard, thank you.

I watched this TEDx talk from Mel Robbins late last year and it has been ringing in my ears ever since. The last part is what I like the most – the part about the five second rule. She says that our brains like to run on autopilot and the second we think about doing something out of the ordinary, our brain pulls the emergency brake. We talk ourselves out of it. We think, “Yikes, that might hurt, that might be hard. Better not.” But there will always be reasons not to do something. Always. The trick is to think about the reasons to do that thing. If you’re going to do anything worth doing, you have to push past the voice – the one that sounds like you, the one that tells you that you can’t - because that voice is a liar. Don’t let your brain pull the brake. 

There’s this idea called the gift of going second and the thought is that someone has to go first, tell their story first, take that first step. It’s scary and you’ll feel like you’d rather run away but when you go first, when you tell your story, when you share your talent, when you take the first vulnerable step, you’re inviting others into that authentic space – a space to be genuine and real. That’s where connection happens. That’s where growth happens. When you go first and give them the gift of going second, it feels a little less scary to share. So I’m going first today, right now, for you. It’s scary to share - to put your heart out there. Your art out there. Your creativity out there. People can be mean, but usually those people are the ones sitting on their own hands doing nothing. The five second rule is why I started this blog in the first place. I acted before my brain could say no and convince me it was scary. I stopped letting the fear of vulnerability rule the day.

To be honest, I'm feeling the fear right now.  The voice says, "Stop. It doesn't matter." But I'm not letting shame bully me into silence. As Susan Jeffers wrote, "Feel the fear and do it anyway." 

It might be scary. You might feel vulnerable. But, get out there, baby. We need you. Run the risk.