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

August 18, 2024 (the #iloveprompt of August)

I love ripe peaches sliced up into plain Greek yogurt. I love the chirps of crickets and frogs at nightfall. I love apples turning red on trees in late August, and cinnamon sugar donuts in September. I love being pleasantly surprised when I discover new facets in the character of old friends. I love being silly.

I love when my dad sends photos of my sister’s dog to the group chat with captions like, “bath time” and, “nap with grandma.” I love being a regular at shops downtown, and when my favorite barista knows what I’m going to order before I even step in line. I love being deeply and fully known—and if not by humans, then at least by God. I love the tiny white flecks sprinkled across the hind ends of baby deer.

I love gardens. I love the aurora, and that God gave me another opportunity to see it in August after missing it in May. I love second chances. I love afternoon naps and sleeping deeply ‘til dawn. I love the free samples and unfettered chaos at every Cherry Republic store in the state of Michigan.

Even though they confuse and confound me, I deeply love a good paradox. I love nuance, and how two conflicting concepts can be true at the same time. I love how Jesus holds these conflicts perfectly—the tension of divinity and humanity held flawlessly within his holy skin. I love how we are all parts of that same body, striving in unison to accomplish the works set out before us. I don’t love how often we fail at this, but I admire the people who keep trying—the ones who turn around, lay down their lives, and offer their backs as bridges so we can walk safely to the other side.

I love grace. I don’t understand it, and it’s easy to resent when it’s given to others…until you realize how much you also need it yourself. How desperate you are without it. I will forever love God’s love that keeps finding me wherever I’m at—as the sun crests each day and sets each night—new mercies and miracles that never run out.

(bringing back the #iloveprompt because idk why, it just felt right.)

What do you love that you’d add to your list? 🤍

May 14, 2024

Been seeing + loving these types of posts lately, so here goes mine:

Things I’m still learning: The delicate art of balancing passion and practicality. How not to procrastinate. How to pour latte art. How to find God’s goodness in the wilderness, desert, and valley. How to support and celebrate friends who have moved on to new life stages while you’re left behind, still stuck. Whether I’m more of an egalitarian or a complementarian (also, the definitions of both). Oil painting, sewing, poetry, and prose. Patience. Hope. Time management. My steady purpose in a fluid life. How to cook for large groups. How to be present, and pray without ceasing. How to take the first scary steps towards change. How to love others well.

Things I’ve come to know: The little things are the big things. You can’t change people. Most answers are found in the messy middle, in the blurry gray between black and white thinking. Time and intimacy are two great revealers. There are two sides to every story. Wearing green makes my eyes pop. Dark chocolate is superior to all other chocolates. Humility is an underrated virtue. Respect is inherent, trust is earned. Forgiveness is a process. That you should consider paying a little extra to get the thing you really want, instead of settling for the cheap knockoff version that you don’t like as much. Life sometimes (oftentimes) feels like the book of Ecclesiastes, but that’s ok. All seasons are temporary. God is bigger and better than I can fathom. I’m more resilient and long-suffering than I give myself credit for. Also funnier.* Also cooler.*

*somewhat of a lie. I will proudly tell any and everyone how funny and cool I think I am.

🫶🏻✌🏻💕

March 19, 2024 (faith for today)

I’m always so astonished when people declare, with seeming certainty, that they know exactly what God is up to in their lives. How he’s moving, what he’s doing, and which doors they expect him to open next. I must look absolutely dumbfounded in their presence as they talk—with my furrowed brow and dropped jaw. Meanwhile, my mind runs circles on overtime, trying to make sense of what’s going on around me. Most days I have absolutely no clue.

I’m not sure what this says about me, or my relationship with God. Surely it could be better, closer, more intimate… if it was those things, would I still feel as in-the-dark about his plans for my life? Maybe. Because even when I look back on seasons when my heart was so sure, so surrendered and honest before him… I still didn’t have a clue. When I felt sure he was zigging, that’s when he zagged. When I felt sure he would open certain doors, that’s when the doors closed and a random, forgotten window off to the side started creaking open.

God and I have an odd relationship. I can never quite figure him out. I wish I could predict, with any level of certainty, the future. My future. How he is moving and what he’s up to. The end result and final destination of my time here on earth.

But, alas. I am not God. It’s not my job to know the future. At this I sigh, and remember the Israelites, stumbling through the desert on their way to the promised land. Complaining, of course, just like me. It’s a sobering thought—that our routes, and the time it takes to get to our destination, could be (at least in part) determined by our poor attitudes.

God, help us (help me) to wander well—to trust you in the process, ever more deeply and with greater sincerity of heart. Help us turn our grumblings into prayers, accented with remembrance and praise of who you’ve been, who you are, and who you will always continue to be. Sustain us with bits of sweet manna, just enough faith for this present day. Help us understand that this, our daily bread, is truly enough.

Faith for today. Amen amen amen.

February 18, 2024

The other week, I drove into town on my lunch break and got a flat white from the local produce stop (I’m obsessed), and then meandered my way down the familiar, yet unfamiliar, streets of my city.

There’s a lovely interior design shop on the east side of Main Street that I’ve visited a couple of times. The first time I went was last June, on a placid Saturday morning, donning my new linen dress—hand sewn, fresh pressed, and clean. I saw a similar linen dress in the store’s own clothing section—one roughly 5x the dollar amount, and I assume 1/5 of the stress, that my own handmade sundress had cost. That was the moment I realized, with desperate sadness, that the beauty of this store was a few tax brackets out of my reach.

But, I went back to wander and window-shop, because the things inside are wonderful: wooden tables with worn edges, tapered candles, plates. Every bit is brimming with rich texture, welded metal, and soft, earthy scents. Tracing my way though the store, with cold hands cupped around my warm flat white, filled up my heart like few other things have during this cold, dreary season.

And that was my epiphany.

For as long as I can recall, beauty has beckoned me. It’s inspired me, woken me, and sent me reaching for more. Reaching: not in quantity, but in essence. In purity, in hope, and in an eternal sort of way. Beauty tugs at an existential nerve we all have. It gives us a glimmer of what could be. Of what we hope will be.

Of what is.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Great mystery of all mysteries, imperfect window into perfect things. Beauty is a small footnote in a greater story—a reminder, a reflection, a gift. It’s something true that can fill you up and take you over, gently leaving you a different person.

Beauty is searching for all of us, always. Well within our reach. Waiting, ever-patiently, to be mutually found.

January 14, 2024 (Trente-Deux And The Grace of Seasons)

L’hiver trente et un

was all cozy things:

warm bread with butter;

steamed milk with espresso;

crinkle-eyed, sleepy smiles;

blankets.

It was summer fruit galettes and winter warm coffee

held between cold palms—

a dear, familiar friend.

It was contentment and sweetness, and

I could have lived there forever.

Le printemps trente et un

was the first taste of angst:

tears and blistering anger at the deer who ate my tulips—

those grazing thieves of joy,

those blasé destroyers of beauty.

Intermingled with my ire

was joy redeemed and beauty reborn.

It was dirt road runs at golden hour;

sunbeams; frog peeps;

and the euphoria of being alive.

L’été trente et un

was mountains and valleys:

in metaphor and truth.

It was winding roads and wonderful heights

along well-worn paths of

switchbacks, backtracks, questions.

It was limoncello on chapped lips; blackberries filled with seeds; and blue stains on a perfect white dress.

It was the tension caught between comfort and change,

the first grumblings

of a well-known,

long-dormant

fault line

about to be exposed.

Automne trente et un

was running fast—hoping

to outrun change itself.

It was deep unease and a deeper yearning for more.

It was despair while eating fresh croissants.

(that despair and croissants can coexist

is surely proof of our messy humanity,

our imago dei:

complex

and full of paradox)

Trente et un melts into trente-deux:

Aujourd’hui.

Blurring the line between future and past,

trente-deux sends me scrambling

to make sense of my life, once more.

Come close,

I’ll tell you a secret:

The older I get, the less I know.

Yet, the surer I am of the things I do:

Seasons change.

Grace is strong.

And French is a difficult language.

// I’m breaking my social media sabbath to be here, today, on my 32nd day of birth. Celebrating with a semi-reflective poem, as per usual. Joyeux anniversaire à moi. Thanks for the love. 😙

January 1, 2024

The ins and outs for 2024.

November 30, 2023

I can lower my defenses with God.

I don’t have to be discerning when I’m with him, because everything he speaks is true.

I can approach him with naïveté and full trust—and that is a gift, amidst a very broken world.

July 15, 2023 (God’s Provision)

There’s a theme of God’s provision that runs through the pages of scripture, like the ring of condensation left by my cold brew cup this morning—seeping, spreading, soaking through layer upon layer. It’s slow, yet sudden; gradual, yet instant; a moment-by-moment dispersal of living water. It’s God’s well-timed provision of:

Manna in the wilderness (Exodus 16)

A way out, in our moments of temptation (1 Cor 10:13)

Words to speak when we are called to bear witness (Matt 10:19)

Essential needs, so we don’t have to hoard, stockpile, or carry unnecessarily heavy loads as we go (Matt 6:26, 10:9-10)

In our moments of lack, we reach out for God. And in the greatest miracle of all, we find him: the alpha and omega; the beginning and the end. But also, the eternal. The one with us, in this very present moment. Emmanuel.

I’m reminding my heart: do not fret, or become anxious beforehand, wondering if God will provide, squandering away present, precious hours in worry and fear. There is no need. He will give as the hour draws near, just as Corrie ten Boom knew, and once touchingly wrote:

“Father sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. ‘Corrie,’ he began gently, ‘when you and I go to Amsterdam—when do I give you your ticket?’

I sniffed a few times, considering this.

‘Why, just before we get on the train.’

‘Exactly. And our wise Father in heaven knows when we're going to need things, too. Don't run out ahead of Him, Corrie. When the time comes (…), you will look into your heart and find the strength you need—just in time.’”

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

---

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 27, 2023

8:43pm: Eating a kale salad with croutons while I recline on my couch with wet hair. Christmas tree is still up and the cozy vibes are strong. Paul Tripp’s Gospel Meditations for Everyday Life is spread open across my lap, to the page titled “Broken-Down House.”

8:43pm: I’ve got the stirrings of a new poem in me—let’s see how long it takes to come out.

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

November 30, 2022

I jumped on the bandwagon and got my Spotify wrapped today! Was so confused that, in the year 2022, I apparently ‘embraced the night’ with ‘lighthearted bold theatre kids’ jams… until I remembered that two week stretch during marathon training where all I was listening to was the Encanto soundtrack.

Bruno came up as #18 in my top 100 playlist.

Another day, another mystery solved.