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
 

"All around me are familiar faces..."

Well, it was bound to happen. I think I am going to take a leave of absence from facebook for awhile. Of course, I will be around for ministry purposes, or to stay in touch with friends I don't get to see any other way, but other than that, I plan to be absent. I won't be posting my comings and goings, nor will I be keeping up with anyone else's.

I want to spend time with people face-to-face. While facebook has been great for getting back in touch with people I love and miss in my life, I also find myself watching people say things they probably wouldn't say to someone if they were right in front of them. I'm tired of the unnecessary anxiety I feel when I see people post thinly veiled comments about other people, the state of their own relationships, or the state of other peoples' relationships. I'm tired of my own reaction when I see people pass judgment, lash out, or passive aggressively attack other people. And since I'm calling it like I see it, I'm tired of my own passive aggressiveness, as well.While there is so much good that happens because of facebook, I generally walk away disappointed that more people don't use it as a platform to encourage and uplift each other.

Because I would so miss my favorite part of facebook--looking at everyone's pictures--you can now find me on instagram @stephkonvicka. I don't know why I didn't join sooner, but I'm there now!

Want to get together and hang out face-to-face? Me too. Give me a call. I'd love to sit down and visit. 

Truth Telling

Being thirty-nine has somehow managed to suck and be amazing at the same time. I made a commitment to myself this year to tell the truth more than ever. To myself, as well as to others. When I hurt someone and even more difficultly, when they hurt me. It isn't so much that I have gone out of my way to seek out these conversations--in fact, I have had to take a sit and wait stance on a few I would rather just go ahead and be done with--but I will say this: be careful what you say you are ready to do and be because what you will find is that you are scared and laid bare. And that is only the beginning. And yes, it sucks. But there is peace in speaking into the light the stuff that grows in the dark. 

The following is something I read that speaks loudly to my laid bare heart this morning:

"I believe that by being the best and most healed version of ourselves we can truly make a difference in the world. I’m not an activist or politician, and I’m not able to have any direct impact on the areas of the world where help is needed. But what I can do is make a difference in the small pocket of the world I call home.

I can live with integrity and be honest about my feelings, even when they hurt. I can put my whole heart into my work and pay forward the generosity that was shown to me when my world fell apart. I can look after myself, knowing that by healing my own hurts I won’t be passing them on to anyone else. In a society like ours, filled with so many emotionally wounded people acting out their pain, this is possibly the most important work we could ever do—heal our hurts so we don’t pass them on."

--Susannah Conway

"Stories are data with a soul"

I love watching TED Talks and reading Don Miller's take on walking in this world. If you haven't done either, here is your chance to do both. I encourage you to watch Brene Brown's talk on vulnerability. She is incredibly wise, insightful, cheeky, and accessible. Then read Don's take on the talk. He is also insightful and completely transparent. I needed both of their words this week. Fear has caused me to want to hide. I know that hiding won't make me safe, it will only make me alone. These words spoke incredibly deeply to me. Take the time to watch and read. Chances are they will speak to you too.

Here you go:Vulnerability as a key to emotional health

Watch, read, consider. I would love to know what you think.

The Waiting Place

This month, in celebration of Advent, our Sunday morning conversations have revolved around the theme of waiting. So far, specifically, what it means to wait with hope and wait with peace. It is a sticky subject, this idea of waiting.

These past two Sundays have brought forth memories of specific moments in my life when I have had no choice but to wait. And "the waiting places" as Dr. Seuss calls them, are not always happy places. I know what it feels like to wait with hope when my brokenness tells me I should be hopeless. I know what it feels like to sit very, very quietly when circumstances scream chaos. I'm not saying these were my finest moments, moments that prove me to be the woman God calls me to be. I'm just saying I kept breathing. And somehow found people and moments in which I could find great beauty. And I held faith in a God who was keeping me alive for something I couldn't quite see yet.

I had a conversation with some students tonight about why my husband and I don't have children. I've learned that conversation is just a natural occurence when people are trying to get to know me--us. Tonight, it went much differently than it often does with adults. These young people sought to understand--the process of how I got to where I am today--sharing hope and peace with them--after reconciling myself to the fact that I would not be a mother. Hear me say: They simply sought to understand.

I wish I had a dollar for everytime an adult thought I misjudged the meaning of hope when we were unsuccessfully enduring surgery, treatment, physical sickness, debt beyond our capacity to pay without damaging our financial future, and heartache and disappointment beyond our capacity to share verbally outside the privacy of our home. Enduring those things and being sad, scared, and confused, yet still moving forward was nothing if not an act of hope. Prayerfully deciding to stop subjecting ourselves to those same things was not an act of hopelessness, although many people said they were sorry we gave up hope. There are people still saying that. I choose to think of it as a tremendously hopeful act. It was an act of hope with a heavenly perspective. When we stopped waiting to see what the next month would hold, we started waiting to see how God was going to heal our hearts. That is a faith healing of the miraculous sort and I find that it many ways, it is still happening. But while I wait, I do so with hope, and by sharing peace, I am receiving it, as well.

You see, I know what it means to wait. I have known season after season of waiting. Weeks that seemed like months, months that seemed like years, and years that seemed like one long, painful, unending present. I have waiting down to an artform. But tonight, I knew that without learning to wait with hope, I would not have been standing there among beautiful young people who are learning what it means to live a faith that is so new for them. A faith that will be challenged. A faith that at some point will teach them about waiting with hope and peace. A faith that can be damaged when someone tells them the wrong story about their own hope. I told them a little bit about my story and then later, while waiting at a redlight, I thanked God for keeping me alive.