shouts of joy

Sharing is a thing I don't do we'll. Too often I figure I'm just far t oo selfish to want to share with other people, but maybe my heart needs some healing. Maybe I'm selfish, but maybe I'm afraid of slipping from the place where we've been planted, from the safe strongholds that have brought so much healing. I understand that sharing a bowl of curry isn't going to hurt me, and somedays I really don't want to share my curry. And I know that sharing a skirt that has no sentimental value is going to be just fine. I get that. I share living space pretty well these days, and dirty dishes in the sink don't bother me like they used to. In fact I prefer to share some things. I prefer sharing a tent when camping, or a pot of coffee, a good book with lots of underlining, or a ride to the beach or mountains. However there are some things I'm having difficulty sharing lately.  Yesterday I was on Hayden Lake. The glorious jewel of a lake that has been my sum

I forget things. Some things I wish I could forget, but can't. Then there are the things I wish I could always remember, like dreams and answers to prayer. Lately I've been remembering the pain that comes from loving and losing. I've forgotten how my prayers have been answered and that my dreams are coming true. I've forgotten about the times I've vowed to risk it all for whatever the case: adventure, service, passions, devotion and even love. I've forgotten how I've loved and been hurt, loved and been hurt, loved and been hurt and healed every time. I've forgotten how the impossibles become possible. I've forgotten the ones I admire and their stories of heartache, loss, rejection, brokenness and failures that lead them to their love, commitment, perseverance, strength and successes. Wow, how I've forgotten. Today I spent several hours over lunch with my friends Troy and Nick, good buddies from high school. We caught up at a small Lebanese jo

I appreciate the act of acceptance. Just makes you feel bigger than before, brighter than before, like you have something to give. When you encounter a funny tattoo on a girls leg, and soon enough her smile relates to yours and the tattoo is part of a unique story that becomes your own and acceptance happens. When the truth of his story is revealed and before you can say another word you know by the depth in his eyes that his past is another life which he hardly recognizes and acceptance happens. When you sit down and focus on the eccentric young woman across from you and learn that her heart is more eccentric than her funky dress and layers of jewelry and that she speaks 4 languages to teach mothers in Africa about health and survival and somehow acceptance happens. Somehow the stories behind the frames can mold our perspectives. So often I feel that our outward appearances are overlooked and sadly what is stirring in our hearts is masked by the makeup, jewelry, colorful dresses, shap