To whom it may concern

The following is a letter I wrote to myself on my fortieth birthday.

Dear, Stephanie.

Congratulations, my friend! And let me just go ahead and say I know those aren't words you expected to hear from yourself. I know you weren't expecting to be happy about this day, but it is here and you are alive. So congratulations! And I know you haven't always considered us friends, but we are. It's you and me, kid. From here on out. I'm your best friend. Get used to it.

You've learned a lot these past forty years. And while it is information that will serve you well in the rest of your years, it is the past. You've made a lot of mistakes and some poor choices, but we aren't going to talk about that. Water under the bridge, my friend. Let it go.

 A teacher asked you repeatedly yesterday, "What do you want?" That's a very good question. And I think this is a great place to start when you stand at the threshold of a new decade. It is time to get specific. And for all of your talk about living with intention, it is time to start walking that out. Let's make this a year of specifics.

I love you. I think you need to hear that more. Say it more. And say it without conditions. You are beautiful. Say that, too. Your worth is in more than what other people think of you. Be yourself. Quiet. Listen. Hear that?  Remember? That's the beat only you can hear. Walk to that one. You'll have more fun.

You are courageous. That is one of the best things about you. You stand up for people. But sometimes you forget to stand up for yourself. Let's start doing that. You speak Truth, Life, and Love into other people all the time. But you withhold those words from yourself. Speak up. That is the root of your own integrity.

Dance and sing more. Read poetry aloud because you know words dance, too. Don't be ashamed of your mind. Or your heart. Laugh more often because it is true what people say, you have the best laugh. You are a healer. People tell you this. Believe it and start speaking healing over yourself daily. Hourly. Minute-by-minute when necessary.

Remember that poem you love? You know, the one by Mary Oliver. Here's your favorite part, the very end: Tell me, what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

My friend, ask yourself this today and everyday from now on. The words from the end of a poem hold the key to your new beginning.

Love,
Me
 

"Signed, sealed, delivered..."

I turn forty in a little over five months. While I am not dwelling on this fact, I do feel the need to make sure I enter this new decade with a little less baggage--especially in the form of regret.

Last night I committed to sending at least one handwritten note or letter to someone every week for the next year. That means at least 52 notes, and hopefully, 52 smiles. Mother Teresa said There are no great acts of love, only small acts done with great love. She's right. I used to think I had to do something big to leave a legacy. I thought that was the only way my life would really matter. But I'm pretty sure I had it all wrong. I may never have the gifts, money, or influence to do the things I would like to do to bring the Kingdom of God on Earth, but I have everything I need to be faithful in the small things. I'm beginning to think that is all God really wants of any of us. And honestly, I'm tired of making excuses for myself. Bob Goff says love does. I agree.

So today I ask you: What is your own small act of love?

"Here comes the sun."

Donald Miller shares a story about how he never liked jazz until one night when he was outside a theater in Portland and saw a man playing a saxophone. He said that the whole time he stood there, the man never opened his eyes. He says that sometimes you have to see somebody love something to be able to love it yourself.

Yesterday I walked out of a hospital with my husband. Hopefully, it was the last hard leg of this journey we have been on for 10 months now. He spent three days isolated in a hospital room, his view little more than a piece of sky and the roof of the neighboring building. Stripped of his belongings, with limited human contact, he waited for the radiation to course through his body on a mission to seek and destroy harmful cells. One little pill can make that happen. I keep telling him it is worth the struggle and frustration.

I know it is worth it. As we walked out from under the shade of the portico into the warm sunlight, I watched him stop in the middle of a busy sidewalk, tilt his head back and let the light wash over him. It was as if he physically melted a bit. I love the sun. I love nature, the outdoors, and the beauty of creation. But I love it all a little bit differently after that moment. You only have to see a man with his face lifted to the sun and tears in his eyes to see everything more clearly. And in the words of George Harrison, "It's alright. It's alright."

All Things New

This morning I watched the sunrise. I just don't take the time to do this enough. To truly watch the day blossom right before my eyes. I watched this daily miracle unfold through the windshield of my car as I made my way through early morning traffic in Houston. I was on my way to pray with a friend and then wait as many other loved ones did today in hospitals everywhere for whatever is broken to be fixed. For another kind of miracle.

I couldn't help but be even more appreciative of the miracle of a beautiful sunrise as I praised God for the miracle of life, for the beauty of my friend, for her courage, for her new beginning.  I found myself overwhelmed by just how much God loves us, each one of us. I was reminded once again that He trusts us to each other's care. He gives us to each other to love.

Alexis is easy to love. She has a great big heart--that now has a little generator to keep it on track. It is a heart full of love for the least of these. For sick children. For the broken and broken hearted. For family and friends she loves like family. I'm incredibly thankful God gave her to me to love and I thanked Him for her all day today. I'm sure I will think of this day the next time I watch the sunrise. And I will remember the miracle of the promise God holds for us: He makes all things new. Everyday. We just have to pay attention.