December 31, 2024 (New Year’s Eve)

Today, on this last full day of 2024, I bumped my finger into my car dashboard and made it bleed. And that pretty much sums up how this year gone, more or less. 😹

Admittedly, I had pretty high hopes for 2024 (it’s the idealist in me). Yet, looking back, the vast majority of those hopes did not transpire. I wanted 2024 to feel like the release and cozy comfort of a weighted blanket—steadying, stabilizing, sure. Instead, the weight felt like an anchor—heavy-laden and crushing. Twenty-twenty-four ended up being a year of intense burnout, the kind that results from being consistently caught in the crosshairs between the restless desire for freedom and change, and the reality and necessity of responsibility. It’s been a tough lesson to learn: that we cannot simply will or work our dreams into reality.

However, 2024 wasn’t allllllll bad. I finally achieved my seemingly life-long dream of visiting France. Little Michelle would be so proud, as I’m pretty sure I wrote “go to Paris” on a line for a bucket list assignment sometime in the eighth grade lol. It was wonderful and I ate too much baguette. 😹

This year had many other highlights, of course. Lots of snuggles with Luna were had on the couch; many flat whites from Agricole were enjoyed; and I rediscovered my love for trail running.

I may be weary… but I am also somehow never able to outrun my stubborn hope. So, I am officially ✨NAMING AND CLAIMING✨ 2025 as the year of universal redemption and fulfilled longings. LOL. LORD LET IT BE SO.

Cheers and AMEN.

#godblessthenewyear

January 1, 2024

The ins and outs for 2024.

Ash Wednesday + some thoughts on Revival (February 22, 2023)

“I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” — Jesus

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Since my return to social media last week, I’ve been loosely tracking the outpouring/revival happening at Asbury University. And in so doing, I keep stumbling upon articles, like this one by Christianity Today, that use words like genuine, peaceful, quiet, and ordinary to describe what’s happening there:

“The mix of hope and joy and peace is indescribably strong and indeed almost palpable—a vivid and incredibly powerful sense of shalom. The ministry of the Holy Spirit is undeniably powerful but also so gentle.” — Christianity Today

When I read these words, I’m absolutely beside myself. I’m filled with encouragement and deep hope.

Because for some years now, I’ve been feeling a profound and relentless ache for the church—a hunger—to return to a simpler way of being. With every sensationalized headline of evangelistic abuse, and with every experience I’ve had of disillusionment and spiritual manipulation, my heart has broken. It has cried out for justice; for sincere hearts; for return and repentance. Without using so many words, I think my heart—for all this time—has been crying out for revival.

I firmly believe with every fiber of my being that the church needs to (and perhaps now, is) move, shift, recount, and recalibrate. I believe that’s what she needs. Because her people are tired. People, especially young people, are tired of the façade. They’re tired of power plays and empty consumerism; of performative religion executed in the name of love. Quite frankly, I am tired, too: tired of personality-driven churches and celebrity culture; tired of deceit; dishonesty; and exploitation. I’m tired of churches that place a higher value on serving Jesus than knowing Jesus. I’m tired of hyperactivity at the expense of spiritual formation. I’m burdened by the amount of Christ-confessing sisters and brothers who are still living, unknowingly, in deep bondage, because they haven’t been discipled into the presence of God. They don’t realize that where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom (2 Corinthians 3:17). They’ve been serving and singing and they know all the words, but they haven’t yet tasted and seen that the Lord is good (Psalm 34:8).

They don’t yet realize that they are deeply loved.

And my heart is shattered by that.

For many months, I’ve been searching and scanning the greater church for others who feel and sense the same pull that I do: towards simplicity, health, and wholeness. In a world that largely resists the humble, small, and slow — and a church that has replaced ordinary faithfulness with an endless scheme of grand gestures — it has been rare.

But I’m seeing a glimpse of it now at Asbury.

“Anyone who has witnessed it (the outpouring) can agree that something unusual and unscripted is happening. […] There is no pressure or hype. There is no manipulation. There is no high-pitched emotional fervor. To the contrary, it has so far been mostly calm and serene.” — Christianity Today

When I read words like these, I find the strength to reach for those shattered fragments that rest on the floor; I find the faith to mend them back together.

When I read those words, I find Jesus: the one who describes himself as gentle and lowly.

And I begin to hope again.

January 14, 2023 (my thirty-first birthday)

A letter to my 10-year younger self:

Happy 21st birthday. You’re drinking a Peach Bellini with friends at Dublin Square, the same restaurant you and Lea went to during freshman year—when you hid in the bushes after the MSU homecoming game, trying to catch a glimpse of Gerard Butler. You were so stealthy.

Earlier in January, you welcomed the New Year in Indianapolis, at a conference. It was a conference full of Christians. You felt awkward and out of place. But it was in that place, on that night, that you chose to believe in Jesus—what he said, how he lived, who he was.

Your heart was beautiful. It was beautiful like flowers, like the way they shoot anew from spring-frosted ground in May. Their gentle, fragile shoots, and the way their heads tilt toward the sun. They are hopeful, and hopelessly naive to all the death that will come in future seasons.

You’re blowing out candles and probably making a wish for love—like you do every year—except 10 years ago, you didn’t quite realize that you already had it. You’re still unsure of yourself, still new to the reality of God’s all-encompassing love. You haven’t figured out what it means for your life.

In many ways, you’re still learning this, a decade later.

In the years to come, you will date boys, cross oceans, find friends, and lose parts of yourself you used to take for granted. You will buy a house (this one still surprises you), adopt a cat (you’ll love her more than you expected), earn a master’s degree, and learn how to appreciate the little things.

Ten years later, at 31, you’ll be proud of who you are and how you got there. They’ll sing HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU at the top of their lungs, and you’ll stand in the candlelight and revel in your moment. You’ll let their eyes and their song and their attention sit on you, and soak you through. You’ll finally believe that you’re worthy of it. It’s been a long road coming to get to this point, and only God could do it.

Because the pain of life has taught you wisdom.

But the love of God has made you free.

#thisis31 🤍

January 10, 2023

Lake Tahoe and Fallen Leaf Lake, California

My new year didn’t start off with a bang. Well — aside from some fireworks that shone bright, like all my high hopes, in the 2023 sky. This year, I made no resolutions, no new habits, and found no solitary ‘word’ sufficient enough to guide me through my next twelve months. My new year started off plainly— in the company of friends and with a cup of Thai tea. (Thai tea is delicious, by the way.)

Barely a week into January, and I’ve also made a mess of my home. The dishes are, once again, piled high in the sink. There’s new carpet in my bedroom, but my bed itself sits in the living room. Dresses hang idly from lopsided hangers — flat across the guest room bed, instead of in my closet. However, my alarm clock is in the closet, sitting high atop a pile of folded sweaters. My framed sunrise photo of Fallen Leaf Lake, California is stacked on my kitchen table. So is my jewelry box. And my bedside lamp is… actually, where is my lamp?

Just like that, disorganization has burrowed its way into my January, finding comfort and refuge between the four walls and littered floorboards of my tiny, quaint home.

Even better: I turn 31 this weekend. But come Saturday, I might still be sleeping on stacked mattresses in the living room.

I don’t necessarily want to ring in my birthday on the living room floor. But I’m realizing this possibility also speaks to a deeper yearning that I seem to always carry: for the day that not only my room/house/kitchen, but my entire life, feels finally put together, complete, and unbroken.

I haven’t quite figured out how to navigate this— this in-between, this messy middle, this life full of seams and uneven sutures. Except that I’ve just kept living, despite it. I resist the inner voice that chides, telling me that life must be perfect in order for it to be worthy. That I can’t enjoy my life as it is, longings and all. But, deep joy and unruly clutter can exist simultaneously, and for that I am grateful. God is writing a story more beautiful than I could imagine, and more impactful than I know.

This is true for every child of God.

Come Saturday, I might really still be sleeping on stacked mattresses in the living room. But I’ll wake up and there will be a cat at my feet, soft blankets around my legs, and light beaming through my windows.

And I’m going to be perfectly pleased with it.

On the cusp of a new year

In for 2023:

this blazer that I got from goodwill // saying what you mean, and meaning what you say // being open to the unexpected // traveling for long-distance friendships // investing in close-distance friendships // luna, my sweet cat // forgiveness // trusting God // open hearts and open minds // more novels // more dinner parties on the deck // more sweet & simple joys // international travel and experiencing new cultures // being brave and comfortable in your own skin, and being secure in your own self.

Out for 2023:

baggy jeans & crop tops (it’s not cute?? or am I just old??) // cancel culture // making excuses to not do the things you love // being too busy to swim in the lake // fault-finding as a defense mechanism // $7 lattes // curating your brand instead of forming your character // insincerity // skin care (or anything) that over-promises and under-delivers // daylight savings.

Cheers, my dears: To finding the good, beautiful, perfect, and lovely for the next 52 weeks, and all our days. 🥂🫶🏻

—prompt inspired by Ashlee Gadd