On Weakness & All Sufficient Grace

I've been struggling with devotions lately.  My youngest just turned one and she is just always on the go.  Between chasing after her, keeping my two year old out of trouble, and everything else that keeps a mom of four on her toes constantly, there's just not a lot of time for me to dig in deep to the Word.

I'm very much an all or nothing person and I am not a risk taker - if there's any chance of failure I'm likely to avoid it all together.  I'm working on this, but it's still a battle.

I had a long talk with a friend recently about the changing seasons in life and how hard it is to adjust sometimes.  Every time I figure out a routine, my kids grow and change and the seasons come and go.  I know I need God's Words to get me through every day, but I struggle with the where, how, and when.

As we talked, my friend suddenly looked at me gently and told me something that was so incredibly freeing: you're not a bad Christian if you don't read and study your bible every day. 

I'm a rule follower and sometimes my Christian walk becomes very legalistic if I'm not careful.  I think that I have to do and act and perform a certain way in order to be good enough, but, the reality is, none of us are good enough.  I am not good enough.

But when I am weak, then I am strong.

When Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 12:1-10 about God's all sufficient grace, he begins by talking about himself in the third person.  There was a lot of boasting going on in the early church about great spiritual experiences.  Paul is frustrated with it all and, as much as he doesn't want to, he tells a story about a man (who is really himself) who was caught up to heaven and saw and heard incredible things.

To keep him from becoming conceited about this great revelation, God gives him a thorn.  It doesn't matter what the thorn is - it simply represents something painful, a weakness of some sort that is hard.  My ESV bible says of these verses that "Paul's earthly weaknesses, not his revelations, are to be the platform for demonstrating the Lord's power and grace."

Paul goes on to say that he is content with weakness.  Our pastor explained that the word used here for "content" is the same word used when God says at Jesus' baptism, "This is my son in whom I am well pleased."  That is incredible to me.  I can't say that my response to my own trials and struggles has ever been the same.

But the reason Paul can be content with weakness is because of grace.  Weakness is humbling and keeps us from thinking we're better than anyone else.  It also makes us realize we cannot do anything on our own.  His grace is magnified more in our trials.  When we are at our worst, with no where else to turn, what is left?  Grace.  And it is more than enough.

I'm grateful for my friend's gentle words, for God's grace that is more than sufficient...and for bible study like If:Equip that allows me to spend just ten minutes in His word wherever I am.  On the recommendation of my friend, I begin the study of Nehemiah this week.  I had to remind myself yesterday that I didn't need to do a deep theological analysis of the passage.  I like to dig deep, but right now is not the season for that.  It was so freeing to know I didn't have to do it either, but that I get to and I want to.

So, instead, I simply read the passage, listened to the minute and a half video, read a few comments, and jotted a few notes in my journal.  And I was amazed at how God revealed Himself to me and honored my faithfulness...in the same way He honored Nehemiah's faithfulness.

Nehemiah was broken, so broken, so broken that he couldn't hide it from the king any longer.  The king asks and he's afraid...and I wonder if this is because he's going to have to expose his heart to answer this question.  That's a really hard thing to do, because you never know how others will respond and it's just very vulnerable.

Before Nehemiah answers the king though, he prays.  He spent four whole days praying in chapter one, but he still knows he needs to seek God's wisdom and guidance first.  That is incredible faithfulness.

It also strikes me that Nehemiah respected his position as cup bearer - a hugely important role because it was crucial to the king's safety.  When he heard the walls of Jerusalem were broken and its gates on fire, he didn't just abandon his post to try to fix the problem on his own.  He prayed and he waited for the right timing.  And when the time was right, he told the king why he was sad, made a request of the king, and even promised to return once the city was rebuilt.

God has a unique call for each of us and, in whatever we are called to do, no matter how mundane or ordinary, there is great honor in doing the work we are called to do.  There is also great honor in following God's leading instead of our own plans.

 

Fearless

What does it mean to be fearless, to LIVE fearless?  Fear has been my sidekick since that day I lay on a mattress on the floor of an empty room in a house full of boxes waiting to be unpacked.  Sleep wouldn't come that night as my mind wondered at a God who was so big and how I mattered when I was so small.  Some days I'm not so far from that little girl.

She still lives in me, hiding in the shadows of broken hearts and traumatic memories.  I try to ignore her, to pretend she is long gone, but then she returns in vivid nightmares that leave me tormented and weary.

There I am, desperate for sleep, falling and fading, waiting for a deep slumber to take over and wash away all the days woes.  But instead of a deep rest, she appears in a memory exaggerated, making me feel every emotion all over again.

Who am I?  I am trapped and cornered, my whole being crying out for rescue.  The others in my dream laugh and mock, angry at how I feel it all so deep and wide.  They want me to fit in their little box of how I should act and respond and FEEL.  But I can't.  I just can't.

In memories, I was huddled in a corner, hiding and waiting for the panic to settle, hoping no one discovered me.  It's my secret still, no matter how many times I write here or voice there.  Anxiety lurks in every day.  Most days now are okay, but still some are a battlefield.

In my nightmares, I am screaming and falling apart in front of everyone.  Words spill like poison from my hurting and defensive heart.  I want them to hear me and to really see me, but sometimes anger is all I can manage.

My husband can attest to that.  He sees what I hide so well from the rest of the world.  He's the one who sits with me, holding my hand and drying my tears as the anguish spills out.  He becomes the object of all my frustration when I've kept it bottled for so long and it pours out without warning.  He sees the worst in me, but he never seems to forget the best.  When the storm settles, he waits as I process and find the words to really expose my heart.

But that little girl in me?  She wonders if her words really matter.  She fears so many unknowns and she cowers in the face of both imagined and real danger.

Sometimes, I'm learning, the only way to quiet her turmoil in me is to let her be heard.  I have traveled back to the hardest moments, even when everything in me wants to run away and lock the door on those memories forever.  But I watch them unfold, standing from a distance as a bystander to my own past, and I cry again for the way she ached and broke.

I don't stay there though.  I listen to that little girl in me remind me of the past and I hold her close the way she wanted to be held before but couldn't seem to find a way out of her solitary storm.  And then I hold her chin high and show her the rest of the story.  Because the worst of times were not the end of times.  And they weren't all bad.

There was good woven into those desperate places.  In the middle of it, when I was walking through the actual days, I couldn't see past the hurt and pain.  It takes seeing from the other side looking in to realize there is beauty that comes from ashes.

Days later, I listened to that little girl in me again, just for a moment, and then I spilled ink on paper and gave voice to her anguish in my words.  I purposed to see the good in the middle of my jumble of words and I listened for another voice, the One who calls me even when I don't want to hear.

He says I can be fearless but not on my own.  More words fall on the page, a gradient painting of bad turned good.  And then I see: beauty from ashes.  He makes all things beautiful in His time...and that includes me and all my mess.

I watch the page burn, words melting as the flame absorbs every piece of brokenness I don't need to hold onto.  I let it go with every flicker of the flame and I breathe in peace.

The blank canvas before me is spiritual whitespace for my creative soul.  Stroke by stroke, I watch an image form and catch me by surprise.  The moon in all its blue fullness shines in the dark like the One who has been the light in all my dark places.  The One who hung the moon and stars also wrote my story, piece by piece, and He's not finished yet.

The woman takes shape and her hair - all that hair - was not what I intended.  She took shape as if she was meant to be there before my brush even took its first stroke.  I remember the way my kids have laughed at my big, wild bedhead after a restless night and the way my husband sees me when I am completely undone.  And no matter how messy I am, they love me.  Oh, how I am loved.

The woman in my painting is me, an unruly and unkempt mess.  And yet there is beauty: the curves of her body and the gentle stroke of her arms, the wind blowing her hair into the night.  She holds out her hands, the ashes of all her hurts and fears painted right into her wild hair...and she blows them away.

Gone are the ashes of all her tears as wishes and dreams fall from her lips.  The night wind carries them towards the stars that He hung in place and the moon shines, illuminating the beauty of another day waiting with fresh hope and new mercies.

As she watches the stars shining, she knows her wishes are being found and heard by the One who sees.  The night sky twinkles with more than wishes upon stars.

A small bird takes shape in the shadow of the tree forming a canopy of branches spread out over her like a blanket.  It begins to sing, a gentle melody carried by the night wind and she listens, her thoughts stilled as the words behind the song fill her soul.

"His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me..."

In this world there will be struggles, but she can take heart knowing He sees, He knows, and He overcomes.  Fearless does not mean without fear.  It means knowing there is less to fear in the shadow of His wings and that all her fears are meaningless in the face of a mighty God.  The fear of the Lord is the beginning of understanding and maybe, just maybe, everything little thing is going to be alright.


 

Book Review: Pesto & Potholes

My real life friend, Susan Baganz, is the author of the incredible book, Pesto & Potholes, about the road to healing and the potholes overcome along the way.  For a debut novel, I was just so impressed with how well written and full of depth her character and stories were.  I love to write, but fiction is not my strong suit, so I'm always impressed by authors who can weave a story together that is so real and captivating.  I literally could not put this book down!

The story begins with one of the most heartbreaking chapters I've ever read.  You know a book is going to be good when it makes you cry real tears and immediately makes your heart ache for the character as though she is a real life friend. I won't give it away, because you just need to read it yourself.  I couldn't even summarize it better than the words written on its pages. 

The main character, Renata, is one of those characters that seems to be a magnet for all the bad things in the world.  She begins as a broken and hurting woman who has made a courageous step away from her past to a future of new beginnings.  But the hurt doesn't end in the past and, as she quickly discovers, you can't simply run away and close the door on the past forever, especially for a victim of abuse.  My heart ached for the way men have treated her, including her own father and brothers.  And even though the story is fiction, I know there are far too many women whose stories are painfully similar. 

When Renata meets Antonio, she is drawn to him in a way that both comforts and terrifies her.  Can she ever fully trust a man when she's been so hurt in the past?  His gentle assurances and patient friendship are a breath of fresh air to Renata, but he doesn't come without his own broken past.  I love the way that Susan weaves their stories together in a way that beautifully displays God's grace and steadfast love.  No matter how broken, God can create beauty from ashes and this story is an incredible example of that. 

While Renata and Antonio are the main characters, there are many other secondary characters that provide wisdom, humor, and juxtaposition to the story.  Here are just a few of my favorite lines from the story:

"Everyone hemmed Renata in, safely and securely. Valued. Her eyes watered because it was such a singular realization. 

She bowed her head and prayed to settle her spirit and prepare for worship.  She smiled that the God who called her 'friend' would provide many people around her to be 'Jesus with skin on'. It was sweet. Maybe her healing would be possible here." (page 38)

"I have to learn to accept those comments as truth, and use them to override the lies many others have told me for too long.  Satan would have me believe lies rather than truth.  Please don't stop speaking the truth to me, even if I don't always receive it well." (page 90)

"Antonio, we love you.  Make sure you spend your time on what counts. This restaurant could burn down tomorrow, and what would you have to show for your life? Your siblings have jobs, too. Yes, but they invest in far more than that. It's a dangerous business to let your work become your god." (page 197)

You really just need to read this book for yourself - and, there's no better time than now, because it's only 99 cents for Kindle!  (If you don't have a Kindle, you can still download the free Kindle for my PC app!)  It will seriously be the best 99 cents you've spent!


***Disclaimer: I received a complimentary copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest review. 

 

Of Pickles & Graduations

It's funny how a simple hors d'oeuvre can invoke such a deep and vivid memory.   
I was standing at the kitchen counter today, my hands covered in green while my two year old tugged at my leg. 

"Mommy, why you take so long?"

I smiled as I stared into his deep blue eyes that always see more than I expect.  I looked back at my hands, covered in a mix of pickle and ham and mayo, the fruit of my labor carefully laid out on a plate for a mid day snack...and the setting before me began to fade. 

Memories resurfaced of a day that seems so far and yet so close.  My hands are once again a sticky mess, but this time the magnitude of my task has stained them a nearly permanent shade of green. 

I laugh along with my young not yet sister-in-law as we compare our hands and our eyes grow wide at the plates piled high with enough pickle roll ups to feed an army.  The man who has only recently captured my heart walks behind me and sneaks a bite while I playfully swat him away. 

The cozy little kitchen is crowded with family preparing for an open house, a celebration of a high school graduation.  I'm trying hard to remember the names of immediate family, knowing full well that I'll only be bombarded with more names and faces today than I'll ever remember. 

Still I smile, because no matter how much chaos and noise fills this house, it feels like home to me. 

Now ten years later, I laugh as my six year old walks in the kitchen and her own eyes grow wide at the sight of a different kind of lunch than she's used to. 

"That looks SO yummy, mommy!"

I look around at the chaos and noise that fills my days now and I wonder at how much has changed since that May day so long ago... 

In just a few hours, my husband will walk through the door after a long day of work and I'll greet him with the warmth and love of a wife who is grateful for the man who captured her heart so long ago and has weathered the storms of life since them, daily choosing love even when it's hard. 

It was during that long ago visit that I knew...he was my home and his family would be mine. 

I think about the place that became my Michigan home...burned to ashes...and the new house whose walls are just beginning to understand the stories of a past that has been broken and mended and is still being pieced together today. 

I think of the good and the bad of memories that have weaved a far different tapestry than any of us could have imagined.  I ache at the pieces that are still frayed and wonder at how they'll ever be mended...but I stand amazed still at the way pieces that were once broken and singed have been made new. 

So many of the events and circumstances that have unfolded in the years between don't make sense to me.  They certainly aren't how I would have written the story.

But God.

Even when I don't understand, He knows the beginning, middle, and end, and how it all fits together.  Looking back and uncovering even the painful pieces that are much easier left buried reminds me of the good that's been there all along and the God who has never forsaken.  And sometimes that journey back to the past is just what I need to walk forward with hope and confidence into a future yet unknown.  


 

Fighting For a Better Life

This morning, I woke abruptly from a restless sleep.  I moaned and groaned about the late night battles with our boys who seem to think sleep is optional.  Add it to the night time nursing sessions with a still growing baby girl and, well, I'm beyond exhausted.

There has to be a word for more than sleep deprived.  You know, when it's been years since you've had a full, rest filled night of sleep?  I mean, I tell my husband I'm tired, but that one little word doesn't sum up how depleted I feel most days.

I reach for my phone and the moment my eyes adjust enough to the light, the panic sets in.  We're late...a half hour late, to be exact.  Somehow, I forgot to set my alarm and now I have about twenty minutes to make school lunches and get everyone out of bed, dressed, and fed before loading them all up in the van hoping and praying we can make it to school on time.

In my sleep deprived stupor, I nearly stumble down the stairs and I cannot control the fear in my voice.  "Everybody get dressed NOW!  We're going to be late!" I rush to make my daughter's lunch while she rushes to get dressed, all the while holding back the rush of tears that is sure to come.

My husband comes down with a smile and asks me to start breakfast.  My words fall out like poison and I feel powerless to stop the panic attack that comes next.  He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.  "Let me help you," he pleads.  "Don't push me away."

Slowly, the panic recedes and my breathing settles.  My knees feel weak and I want to crumble on the floor, but he won't let go.

***

It was only a few years ago that I had pushed him away and he was fighting to help me find my way out.  Panic attacks became daily occurrences and it was a battle just to pull myself out of bed.  Tears came without any warning and I didn't understand why the one thing I wanted most was just so hard.

I wanted to be a mom long before I met him.  I dreamed of holding my firstborn in my arms and watching her grow.  I knew I'd have a daughter first and I knew her by name before she was even conceived.

But the reality of sleep deprivation and the overwhelming feelings of anxiety over EVERYTHING brought me to a place I never thought I'd be.  I picked up the phone to call my doctor and the next thing I knew I was filling a prescription for a medication that became my lifeline. 

I grew up hearing whispers about what mental illness can do to a person and a family, but I never really understood how real it was.  There were days my sleep deprived state mixed with the dark thoughts and feelings I couldn't shake and I thought I was losing my mind.  I felt like a horrible mother, a terrible wife, and awful Christian. 

But then I began to speak out, to share my story, and I realized I wasn't alone...and that it was okay.  There was nothing I did to cause it.  It wasn't my fault.  Mental illness is just that - an illness.  

The day I took the last of my pills and tore off the label of mental illness, I stopped talking about it.  Every so often I would raise my voice, but, mostly, I wanted to move on and put it behind me.  There was a part of me that just wanted to forget it ever happened...until I came face to face with it again.

***

The postpartum days following the birth of my third child were incredible.  I felt as though I was being given a second chance.  I was enjoying every moment, even the late night feedings and I was soaking up gratitude for this gift of another child.  I was afraid I couldn't handle another pregnancy and another postpartum, but here I was, holding my third baby and the days of panic attacks and all consuming tears were far behind.

When I found out our fourth baby was on the way, I was nearly exploding with joy.  I had always dreamed of being a mom of four and I couldn't stop praising God for answering my prayers.  But then the bleeding started...and we said the hardest goodbye to a baby whose short life had already been forever imprinted on our hearts and lives.

Losing a baby broke me more than anything else.  The grief nearly overwhelmed me and, though I still believed God was good and was learning to praise Him even in the storm, depression and anxiety began to find their way back.

I knew that mental illness wasn't ever something I caused, but I always thought I could prevent it from happening again now that I knew what it was like and had fought my way out.  I didn't ever want to go back there.  

***

When I woke up puking on New Years' Day, I was terrified.  I knew without even taking a pregnancy test and I was frozen with fear as my husband and kids danced and celebrated around me.  "I just can't bear to lose another baby," I whispered and he just held me tight as the tears came.

For the next eight months, I had to fight fear every single day.  I couldn't seem to stop the what ifs and the panic that rose every time I wondered how long it had been since I felt her kick and every time even the slightest aches and pains surfaced.  I felt so often like I was holding my breath until she was here safely in my arms.

The funny thing about anxiety is that there is really no rhyme or reason to when it will surface or how you can stop it from happening again.  I hoped and prayed the anxiety would lessen when she was here, but when I found myself lying in a heap on the kitchen floor gasping for breath while she rolled around and smiled at me I realized I couldn't pretend anymore.  I needed help.  

***

The day I went to see my doctor I didn't want to tell anyone, but the words slipped out to my mentor mom at MOPS as I left the meeting early.  She hugged me close and urged me with her eyes and her promise to cover me in prayer that this was my brave.

I didn't want this to be my brave.  I wanted to be okay this time, as though I had to prove to myself that mental illness didn't define me.  As I sat in the waiting room, my knees weak and my hands shaking, I remembered my husband's words from just days before. 

"You take medicine for your asthma, medicine for allergies...and so you take medicine for anxiety.  It's the same thing and it's okay," he said, so matter of fact.  To him it made perfect sense and there was no shame in it.  He knew what I was struggling to believe - that I was more than asthma or allergies or anxiety.  

My hands didn't stop shaking until my doctor walked in the room with tender eyes and encouraging words.  She didn't question me or shame me; she simply reminded me that the medicine that worked before would work again and that it would be okay.  I walked out of that appointment feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, but I wasn't ready to talk about it yet. 

I kept quiet and I urged my husband not to tell anyone either.  A few people knew, including my family, but there was a part of me that was still afraid to admit to everyone else that I had postpartum depression and anxiety...again. 

But this morning, when I saw the concern my kids had as they watched my panic attack unfold and listened to my daughter pray for me when we finally left for school, I realized it was time.  For my sake, for their sake, for every other mom, sister, friend who struggles - we need to share our stories to break the silence and end the stigma. 

My kids have seen my struggles, but they've also seen me reach out for help, they've seen my husband stand up for me and hold me close in the middle of it, they've listened to me answer their questions, and watched us learn how to cope and live in spite of it.  My daughter asked me about it this afternoon and after I explained what a panic attack is, she hugged me tight...and then ran off to play with her brothers. 

She doesn't see labels when she looks at me - she simply sees a mom who loves her and, though she sees me struggle, she also sees me fight for a better life.  So, for as long as it takes and as long as I need it, I'll take that one little pill, and I won't stop fighting for a better life for me, for them, and for so many others.

 

All Things New

 
I am so ready for spring.  As a Midwestern girl, this time of year is really hard.  The dark and cold of winter just seems to never end and I find myself dragging my feet to get out of bed...when I would really just rather stay there and hibernate until the sun shines and the grass is green again. 

As I read the words of Isaiah 43:19 today, I couldn't help wondering if the Israelites doubted God's promise that spring would really come.  It's so hard to believe every little thing is going to be okay, when you're stuck in the middle of a cold, dark winter.  Waiting is not my strong suit. 

But as I dug deeper into these words, I realized there's more to it than hiding or waiting.  Without winter, there wouldn't be spring.  All the seasons would just meld together into one and we would miss the beauty of each new season and the good God can bring despite the weather and the circumstances that surround us.  Because it's not just the ground outside that needs to thaw; my frozen heart needs the relieving thaw of spring that is only found in the One who makes all things new. 

David Guzik cautions that "staying stuck in the past can keep us from the new thing God wants to do".  I write here a lot about some of the hard things I've endured and, while it's good to remember how far I've come and not forget the way God made beauty out of ashes, it can all become a stronghold if I don't allow God to keep moving me forward.  "Though former mercies must not be forgotten, fresh mercies must in a special manner be improved...And will you not own God's hand in it?" (Matthew Henry)

This week began the season of Lent, a season of fasting and self-denial observed by many Christians in the days preceding Easter Sunday each year.  I've been struggling to be focused and committed to time spent in His word, so I decided to remove one of my biggest distractions - my Facebook app on my phone and my Kindle.  It's amazing how freeing it is to not be "connected" all the time and to realize just how much free time I really do have. 

Still, today was a struggle.  I should have expected that after two days of long, quiet nap times where my heart was open and ready to receive His words and my mind was undivided, there was bound to be a day where everything seemed to fall apart.  I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but, in reality, I chose to have a bad attitude from the start.  I could name a million excuses for why my mood was gloomy, but that doesn't make it right.  By the time nap time came, I had already lost my temper with my boys more than once and my mind was reeling with to do lists and schedules.  I really didn't want to take the time to go to Him, because, frankly, I knew I was a mess and I wasn't ready to get over myself. 

I ended up spending nap time trying to calm a fussy teething baby and made the bad decision of taking all four kids to Walmart after school to pick out a present for their daddy's birthday and to spend their hard earned chore money.  I should have known better, but I kept marching forward, determined to finish what I started.  Needless to say, we were all a mess by the time we got home.

When my husband arrived home, I melted onto the kitchen floor in hot, angry tears. My words came out as accusations towards him, but, really, I was mad at myself.  Like Paul says in his letter to the Romans, I do not do the things I want to do but instead do the things I do not want to do. I am frustrated at how many times I find myself back here, knees bent, head down, tears pouring.  As today's She Reads Truth devotion says, "On our own we are diametrically opposed to the way of Christ and when given the chance to be selfish or selfless, we choose selfish every time."

This Lenten study is breaking me.  I keep coming face to face with my own depravity...and, yet, He continues to pursue me relentlessly.  I know that as long as I walk this earth, I will have to battle my flesh, but I'm so grateful to know it's not a hopeless battle.  So tonight, as I sit here in the quiet after a day full of chaos, I'm laying it all at His feet and asking Him to continue the work He began in me. 

Paul says in 2 Corinthians 5:17 that in Christ we are a new creation.  The word for creation used here means to bring into being something that has not existed before.  Only God the CREATOR can do this new thing.  That is the hope I hold onto on the hard days, knowing that His mercy is new every morning and that, on the day I reach the final page of His story for my life, He will make all things new.

 

Bigger Picture Moments: In Spite Of Fear

 
My daughter holds my hand tight, skipping along with a smile on her face.  I stare at her, mesmerized. 

It's dark out and all I can see are shadows and unknowns.  My mind is racing with all the what ifs and I can feel panic rising.  I wish I could fast forward time and just step from here to the safety of my bedroom and my husband's arms. 

She is non-stop chattering, retelling stories of her school day, the dance she is learning, the friends she is making, the things that make her laugh, the thoughts that make her wonder.  I remind her to watch where she is walking, because there is ice and darkness and cars to consider.  She holds my hand tighter and smiles again. 

"I love when it's just you and me, mommy."

I smile as I buckle her in, but I'm only half listening.  I'm looking around, wondering what is hidden in the darkness and locking the doors quickly before hurrying down the road that leads us back home. 

I breathe deeply, asking for peace and calm to cover the fears and I listen once more to my daughter's words.  Her stories are full of details and emotion, because she always remembers faces and she feels everything deep and wide just like me. 

But it doesn't bother her.  She doesn't know what it is to be ashamed of the way her heart breaks over every little hurt and the way words stay with her long after they've been forgotten and forgiven.  She simply lives and loves with everything she's got. 

The conversation returns to her dance class and the recital that is drawing near.  I ask her what it's like to wait backstage with a room full of people and if it bothers her that I'm not there.

"Well, I'm always nervous at dance, because I don't really know anybody.  But that's okay."

Her words pierce my heart and I remember the way she danced tonight.  She didn't pay attention to anything or anyone else besides the music and her own body.  The music moved her in a way that took my breath away. 

She may seem shy and even afraid, but she doesn't let it stop her.  She simply does what is hard because she loves to dance. 

I remember what my husband told me just a few days earlier.  "Sometimes you have to do the hard things, even if you're afraid."  

My daughter has figured out what I am still struggling to learn, because I've spent my life running and hiding from fear.  Being brave doesn't mean not being afraid; being brave means being afraid but doing the things you fear in spite of fear. 

So maybe this year is not really about no more fear.  Maybe this year is really about being brave.