Village.

Take it to the village.

This is what my friend Jai says. And she’s right.

Got a big decision to make? Take it to the village.

Praying over a thing for a kid? Take it to the village.

Finances got you stressed out? Take it to the village.

Raising little or big people twisting up your insides? Take it to the village.

Losing your mind over job stuff, or joblessness? Take it to the village.

Relationships? Health? Worry?

Take. It. To. The. Village.

Midlifers, you do know the village, yes?

The village is your people. The real ones. The people who tell you the truth, with grace. The friends who love your loved ones as their own. The Believers who pray for you and mean it.

The village is not the internet. The village is not church membership. The village is not abstract. And the village is not a substitute for God.

The village is an extension of God.

Read that again.

And know that the village is real. It is vulnerable. And it raises its hands in celebration for you and bows its head in grief when it weeps with you.

Friends, the village is a gift. And you get to be it.

You get to be the village for others, and you get to receive the gift of the village, too.

On this early spring weekend when the world somehow seems both fresh and brand new but also dark and menacing, and on this weekend when you seek rest but also refreshment, take it to the village.

Be honest.

And messy.

And strong.

And brave.

And faithful.

And safe.

And real.

Step into God’s gift, my friends.

Take it to the village.

Honkers.

Let’s discuss honkers, honking and Midlife.

Because I love it when people honk at me in the Dunkin drive-thru line when I’m also in the Dunkin drive-thru line.

First, a few disclaimers.

If you drive (or ride) in places like New York City, you know that honking and choice vocabulary words are basically a normal extension of traffic signs. In fact, my VERY FIRST international memory features a guy in a suit getting scraped off the pavement in London after head-butting a taxi, so I fully support honking as in the spirit of safety. I suspect those of you who have spent time in major population centers around the globe would agree with me.

Second, only people who are ordering COFFEE or the best DONUTS in the world should go to Dunkin. If you don’t agree with me that Dunkin is primarily a destination for coffee and donuts, you need to get right with the Lord.

Lastly, if a person drives-thru Dunkin, you know they are in the ‘burbs and not in an urban area with the prerequisite honking. People in urban areas WALK to get their coffee because there is too much traffic and no place to park.

Based on all of the above, if a person has the actual TEMERITY to honk at people like me who are trapped in front of them in the Dunkin drive-thru line AND THEN they order a HAM & CHEESE ROLL-UP but NO COFFEE, we all deserve an opportunity to publicly examine said person’s poor life choices.

And to that poor, lost, honking soul who was close enough that I could hear you place your order for a HAM & CHEESE ROLL-UP but NO COFFEE - and to anyone who may be a non-urban honker at people trapped in drive-thru lines across America - I would like to offer you this perspective.

It matters not.

Your honking matters not at all to Midlifers like me.

For example, when you honk at me, you are honking at a mother who has a child taking real steps to fly actual combat helicopters while, at the same time, you are honking at a daughter who serves as on-call tech support for her senior parents.

Obviously, I need ALL THE COFFEE, and your little beep-beep-I-need-a-ham-and-cheese-roll-up matters not.

When you honk at me, you are honking at a traveler who, in her younger years, once had rocks thrown at her in an occupied territory and later, in another country, had to leave a village due to an actual attempt to practice witchcraft on her person.

Your under-caffeinated honking is honestly pretty tame in the grand scheme of things, and it matters not.

And finally, when you honk at me, you are honking at the wife of a long-time (former) pastor and a neophyte who taught the Senior Ladies’ Sunday School class exactly once in her life. I can ASSURE you with one thousand percent confidence that, having survived Ms. Betty’s cross-examination on Queen Esther, your honking is low-brow, poorly informed and, quite frankly, underwhelming.

Furthermore, I feel justified in sharing that your honking is a disappointment, and also that the Senior Ladies of the Senior Ladies’ Sunday School class would effectively handle you, starting with your ungodly aversion to coffee and most likely ending with some pound cake.

I do not know what compels an otherwise lovely human with an inexplicable desire for a ham and cheese roll-up to honk at her neighbors who are very clearly stuck in the same Dunkin line in which she finds herself.

But I do know that everywhere you look, there are honkers trying to tell Midlifers where to go and what to do and how fast to get there, all on high volume. 

And it matters not.

What does matter is that we Midlifers keep holding our own, filtering the things we take in across the totality of our experiences and filtering out the things that just don’t matter at all.

Except coffee. Coffee matters very much to Midlifers.

Fit.

Sometimes things don’t fit.

Like shoes. Or Tupperware lids.

Or the things that I pack in my suitcase that make me have to unzip that zipper that expands the suitcase an extra inch so it will actually close.

Sometimes things do fit.

Like pajama bottoms. Or one more taco.

Or a good book in front of a roaring fire when it’s cool or in the lazy breeze when it’s warm.

Some things don’t fit.

Like schools. Or jobs.

And sometimes even relationships.

But the things that don’t fit teach us about what does. Areas of interest that need to remain an avocation versus a vocation. Seasons of discomfort where we develop our discernment muscles. Trials that build and test our character and faith, pushing us to fulfill our potential.

Nobody really wants the things that don’t fit, the things that squeeze us too tightly in all the wrong places or the things that overwhelm us and make everything look extra saggy.

But the thing about things that don’t fit is that usually we can adjust accordingly until we find something that does fit.

Shoes a half size up. A mismatched Tupperware lid that gets the job done. A bigger suitcase or less baggage for the journey.

Adjusted expectations. A renewed attitude. An acknowledgment that things might not be perfect, but a work in process, a snapshot in time, a discreet point on an indefinite timeline.

Here’s the thing: It’s usually okay when things don’t fit.

Of course it FEELS better when things do fit, but generally (excepting scenarios of harm) the things that don’t fit are temporary and aren’t at all a reflection of our worth.

We shift. We contract in our uncertainty and fear and expand in our confidence and growth. We learn what fits and what doesn’t, and we figure out what’s worth resizing.

The shoes? Who cares?

The Tupperware lids? Let them go.

The schools and jobs and relationships and other weighty things? Develop your discernment muscles. Contract and expand. Be deliberate about renewing, readjusting and resizing.

Because a big part of figuring out what important things have to fit just right is navigating through all the distractions that, most of the time, don’t really have to fit at all.

Friends, spend your precious time and energy on the things that need to fit really well.

What I mean is that I hope no one can ever find matching Tupperware tops in your kitchen because you’re too busy eating tacos in your pajamas, having unpacked all your extra baggage with all the people you can fit around your table.

Teens.

In honor of Midlifers everywhere, here are the things I’ve learned while parenting teens:

Do not wear dry cleaning to sporting events.

Teen girls get a bad rap. They are ravenous. Prepare your pantry accordingly.

Pregame rituals include music that is trash. Learn to enjoy it.

Teens need mental health days, too. Let them sleep. Let them eat. Let them play.

Grades are indicators - a means to an end and not an end unto themselves. Do. Not. Die. on this hill, friends.

Be a safe space for your teen, no matter what, and save the sermon for another day. Safety is what counts.

Closet and drawer space is irrelevant. Every item of clothes serves a purpose, and that purpose is to cover every square inch of the floor in their room.

Talk about all the hard things (sex, gender, race, identity, birth control, STDs, consent, depression, anxiety, suicide, suicidal ideation, eating disorders, vaping, alcohol, drugs, nudes, p@rnography, assault, bullying, social media, overdoses, religion, politics, guns and influencers) because someone already is.

And oh-by-the-way, they’re in your teens’ heads and on their screens 24/7.

Shoes on the kitchen counter, wet towels on the floor and workout clothes left to ripen in various bags simply comes with the territory. Get over it and buy more bleach.

Chocolate milk still fixes a lot of things.

Cereal is not a breakfast food. It is an after school, after dinner and before bed food group all by itself.

Do not freak out. Just don’t. Escalating rarely helps open hearts or heal wounds. Sleep on it, just like you’ve been told before.

Teens need privacy. Teens need you in their business. Yeah, the math doesn’t always work on this one, but somehow you MUST get this right.

Teens are highly capable, talented and intuitive. Be honest with them and yourself, because they’re watching and listening and learning to draw their own conclusions beneath all that hair.

Teens crave connection. Be vulnerable. Be bold. Be brave. Be human. And try to be consistent.

Words matter. A lot. Speak the truth in love and forgive like you mean it. Say good morning, good night and I love you every chance you get, over and over and over, even if all you get in return is the side eye.

Teach teens to self-advocate. Period.

Teens wear inexplicably baggy and shabby things, which makes no sense in the order of the universe, because yes, you wore pants JUST LIKE THAT when you were in school three decades ago.

Give and receive grace. Rinse and repeat. Your teen has never been a teen before, and you have never parented this teen before, either.

The teen years are beautiful, savage, hilarious, irreverent and temporary. Soak it all in.

Soak. It. All. In.

Because your teen who amazes and inspires and twists up your insides needs you.

Teens really are the best, and fuzzy blankets are a love language. Wrap up and be present.

Be present. Be a team. And breathe.

Breathe.

Target.

Dear Parents of Sixteen Year Old Daughters,

I met your girls in the ladies room at Target this weekend.

It was SO LOUD when I burst through the door mid-teen conversation.

But don’t worry, they immediately made eye contact, said SORRY, and lowered their excited voices for a polite nanosecond.

I didn’t mind the noise at all. It was happy-noise, not mean-noise.

I have to tell you, though, that my first conscious thought - after I actually got through the door and sound waves - was IS SHE WEARING PAJAMAS?

Because I’m pretty sure your first girl was in fact wearing flannel pajamas, complete with furry Ugg slippers.

See, I know things because I have one of these creatures at home who, no doubt about it, would wear flannel pajamas to school if I wasn’t there when she departed each morning.

However, your first daughter’s wardrobe selection bothered me not in the least.

I mean your girl is eight feet tall with perfect hair and make-up, and let’s be honest, I think we all want to look this good in flannel.

Or pajamas.

Or both.

So in the event you had opinions about her gallivanting around in her PJs at Target, this Mom thinks it’s 100% fine, but please know that I’ve changed my clothes in a Waffle House bathroom before, so there’s that.

At the same time, your other daughter spun around from her position in front of the mirror, faced me and declared back at jet-engine volume, ILOVEYOURHAIR.

Full stop.

There were only the three of us in the ladies, your girls and me, so I was super confused and asked if she was speaking to me.

YESILOVEIT, your perfect, raven-haired beauty exclaimed, and I instantly recognized her head to toe Lululemon uniform - the leisure brand of choice behind pajamas for teen girls everywhere, and not-for-nothing the brand into which no other demographic can squeeze any limb attached to their bodies.

Please understand that I was gobsmacked and hooked and insanely flattered all at the same time by your enthusiastic daughters, me and my middle-age self, sporting a generic lumberjack flannel and shadow-root hair on a random Target run for paper towels (planned) and, as it turned out, 800 new Christmas lights (unplanned).

I smiled and engaged them, and I guessed they were fifteen, like mine at home.

This is when I learned that I had undershot by a critical year, and I apologize for that. Your girls are sixteen and are perfectly delightful and gracious.

My new young friends said BYEEE and carried on their merry way, only for us to find ourselves in the same inside-the-Target Starbucks line shortly thereafter.

LOOKITSOURNEWFRIEND Lululemon chirped, while Pajamas ordered a gluten-free concoction that required multiple baristas and a science kit to produce, which took whole minutes.

A whole lot of minutes.

SORRY Pajamas piped up, as liquids steamed and machines whirred and the periodic table was consulted.

And then.

And then Pajamas purchased a GLITTER COFFEE CUP.

There was great debate over a bag, but eventually one brave and super coordinated barista poured the gluten-free science project into the glitter cup so there was no bag and it still wasn’t my turn, but now all I really want in life is a glitter cup and this kind of confidence.

During this extended episode while I waited on your girls, I noticed Lululemon’s tags were sticking out of her uniform, so in my best Cool Mom voice, I asked if she wanted me to tuck in her tags, because Girl Code spans all age groups.

OHMYGOSHYES and then a big hair toss so I could tuck them all back in.

So don’t worry parents, I took care of Lululemons tags, and also all the baristas survived the whole gluten-free, glitter-cup, hair-tossing and tag-tucking experience, too.

Dear Parents of Sixteen Year Old Daughters, thanks for reading all the way to this point, because here’s what I want you to know.

When your girls bounced to their next thing (another BYEEE), the baristas - all female and younger than me but older than the girls - stopped and remarked on your daughters.

They did not disparage the volume or the glitter or the maintenance order or all the hair or even the pajamas.

They spoke about your daughters’ manners and their confidence.

Oh to have THAT KIND OF CONFIDENCE at THAT VERY IMPORTANT AGE, the baristas commented.

Dear Parents of Sixteen Year Old Daughters, I bet the flannel pajamas are a thing at your house sometimes, and I know those Lulus leave NOTHING to the imagination, and also that they cost the equivalent to a trip to the grocery store for a family of four.

I bet the volume is an issue at home sometimes, and I know gluten-free and sparkle cups represent their own kind of drama in a household that also has to focus on things like calculus and new drivers.

I bet stranger-danger awareness has given you actual heart palpitations from the time these two formed words, because they are the best kind of FEARLESS.

But I’m here to tell you, in a world full of voices that tell us kids have devolved into cyborgs who are extensions of their phones, your girls are out there in the real world brightening up the lives of strangers simply by being themselves.

Good for you, parents, for giving your daughters the confidence to look adults in the eyes.

Good for you, parents, for teaching your daughters how important it is to be aware of and respectful to others.

Good for you, parents, for inspiring your young women to speak up, unsolicited, and to assert themselves in a crazy world.

And good for you, parents, for clearly valuing wholesome experiences, be it happy-volume or glitter cups, or even that battle you chose to forgo or did not win over wearing pajamas to Target.

Keep doing the good work, parents.

It shines through in your daughters in the best possible ways, even in Target ladies’ room.

Sincerely,

Target Mom & Proud New Owner of a Glitter Coffee Cup

Squad.

This is dedicated to My Squad.

You know who you are.

We didn’t grow up together. We look different. You have kids older than me and none at all.

I am your child.

Some of us are white and some are black. We are different ages, generations even, formed by a multitude of life experiences.

We sound so different.

Some of us but not all of us live in the same places. We come from all over the place but our stories speak the same truth.

We have different gifts and we pursue different paths. None of us go to the same church but we share a common faith.

We like some of the same things and do our own things.

Our histories are different, but we all share some history together. We forged a steel bond during some formative period in our lives.

I call you when you’re far away, when I want to be seen but feel invisible because no one who is physically close is close enough to notice I’m distant.

I text you when my thoughts are too far out in front of me, when I want to feel heard but can’t hear myself think and when I need to find my voice.

We don’t have a coffee or girls-night-out kind of friendship. Our friendship, My Squad, is more severe than that.

We have the kind of friendship where I lend you a child when the days have been too strong and the space too small for me and my people.

We have the kind of friendship where we share out loud the words we say when the doors to the outside world are closed.

We have the kind of friendship where the tears are hot when they fall, the questions hard, the answers few.

Some of you are newer to My Squad than others. We’ve been intentional about sharing life recently.

It’s hard to make new friends in our middle-years, but I’ve needed you and you’ve needed me, too.

We help one another by knowing the other is Out There, doing life. This solidarity gives us comfort on our sometimes parallel journeys.

Some of my Squad is original. We have the kind of friendship where I see you in pictures with my loved ones across all the years and miles we’ve shared - births, marriages, deaths, and all the marking days in between.

You welcome me into your home and I feed you at my table. I watch you and learn, and I try to make my house a place for soft-landings like you’ve shown me.

I come to your table for grace and encouragement and you serve me heaps of it.

We hold hands when we pray.

My Squad is a collection of souls, hunters and defenders of all the good and worthy things.

You are protectors from the things that prey and a shield against the wounds that pierce.

You are brave and vulnerable, a pride of humble warriors seeking the victory of peace and, for invaluable moments, quietude.

You are wise with your words and are powerful in your silence.

You are close when you are far away.

You are strong when I seem weak.

You are fierce when I need a force and gentle when I need to be one.

You are my Squad. Forged by being Out There.

The world nees your kind of Squad in our community today.

I am forever grateful for mine.

Small Things.

It’s the Small Things, Midlifers.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s Big Things, too. But it’s the Small Things that comprise the fabric of the most intimate relationships that blanket our lives.

Like how he brings me coffee every.single.morning.

This is definitely a season - because 23 years of marriage equals 8,395 cups of coffee served and he loves me, but not that much.

But the season before coffee included making the bed - the way I like it made - every morning.

And the season before that included gassing up my truck for me because, like a good Midlifer, I’ve had years of running on empty.

The season before the bed-making and truck-fueling included hanging a dry towel over the shower for me each morning.

And the seasons before that I remember as only a blur because growing my career and family and church. But he took the kids to school everyday no matter where in the world I was with work.

And the newlywed season before kids when he was in seminary and we collectively made $17 an hour less taxes (do not recommend), he made me a peanut butter sandwich for lunch everyday.

Do I remember a bag lunch and morning errands and household chores as romantic across the years of my marriage? NO, absolutely not.

Does he make me ragey with his words or lack thereof and his keen ability to forget literally anything? One hundred thousand percent YES.

Do the coffee and gas and towel seasons weigh as much as continually not knowing, for example, where in our kitchen something as giant as the Instapot lives?

I say yes.

Because it’s the small things - the one million tiny habits of loving - that blanket the daily living of this Midlife, at least as much as him losing the lock for his gym locker at almost fifty.

Love well, Midlifers.

This is my pre-Valentine message to those of you who will be busy engaged in living this Midlife on a random Tuesday next week when I hear a whole day is reserved for buying each other teddy bears and saying tender things.

If you have one, love your beloved well, Midlifer. And may each of us receive with grace the love we are shown daily through all the Small Things from our most dear relationships, my friends

Because I am fully convinced that the Small Things that make us smile over time - not just one time - ultimately write our love stories.

Welcome.

I have something really important to say.

YOU ARE WELCOME.

I mean it. You need to listen. This rests heavily on me.

The things in this life that seek to destroy, to tear down, to overwhelm us with despair and make us sick with worry and fear, these things are real.

And all of it - our desperation, our angst, our brokenness, our fear, our uncertainty, our doubt, our exhaustion, our combativeness, our sickness and our shame - is WELCOMED by God.

Because GOD WASTES NOTHING.

In fact, God is all in for our reality.

God WELCOMES real.

Because contrary to the happy-American-Jesus often reflected in pop-culture (gag), God the Father, God the Spirit, God the Son, invites us to a very real, very gritty, very holy faith.

Somewhere out there, there is a parent with an incarcerated child.

And there is a child of a parent with dementia who no longer recognizes them. Your pain is welcome.

Somewhere out there, there is a spouse who is alone with a shattered heart. And there is a shattered heart that was once whole before addiction moved in and called it home. Your brokenness is welcome.

Somewhere out there, there is a loved one battling an unseen mental illness to fully live. And there is a life that was irrevocably altered by the death of a loved one who no longer thought they could. Your anguish is welcome.

Somewhere out there, there is a high-functioning adult who is sorting through childhood abuse. And there is a child trying to survive devastating adult violence surrounding their little body. Your grief is welcome.

Somewhere out there, there is a nice house in a nicer zip code whose inhabitants are crushed with the idolatry of success. And there is a marginalized worker for whom success - access to fresh food and funded education and safe living and affordable healthcare - feels unattainably out of reach. Your weariness is welcome.

Somewhere out there, there is somebody who has rejected the faith because they were disinvited for some superficial reason. And there is someone exhausted from wearing a superficial mask who is crawling toward the refuge of faith. Your shame is welcome.

Friends, hear me today.

GOD WASTES NOTHING. YOU ARE WELCOME.

Welcome to the God of the real.

The God of the gritty.

The God of the holy.

The God who can handle the raw.

Be welcomed, friends.

Because You. Are. Welcome.

Stay Up.

Midlifers, I have to tell you something.

I stayed up.

After my workout and my shower and when I was ready for bed, I stayed up.

One older teen was restless after work and the other wasn’t home from a late practice, so I stayed up.

I made popcorn (and a nightcap) and I stayed up.

I stayed up because Work Teen and Practice Teen did not need to meet this particular night - stressed out, hungry and exhausted - in an unsupervised kitchen while I slept.

I am a Midlife parent which means I can see the storm clouds gathering, so I stayed up.

I stayed up so I could empathize with Practice who had consulted her calendar and informed me in near tears that she won’t be sleeping for four months due to the demands of the upcoming semester.

I stayed up because Practice needs practice practicing rest.

I stayed up so I could listen to Work decompress, and because most desperately-want-to-be-independent Baby Adults share more freely when Mom sits down with snacks that fill up her mouth so that she is less likely to interrupt with Mom questions.

I stayed up because Work needs to work on how to turn off work.

I stayed up.

I stayed up because - even though we’re far past wanting Mom to soothe away bad dreams, and even though curfews aren’t really an issue at this stage either - I knew my older teen and Baby Adult people needed connection.

The same connection we shared when they wore footed pajamas and we read on repeat “The Bear Snores On”.

The same connection we shared when they were a little older and delighted in completing chore charts because stickers!

The same connection we enjoyed when they were older still and we’d grab after school smoothies and gab.

I stayed up because presence matters.

My often overworked and sometimes underappreciated Midlifers, pop some popcorn and prop open your eyeballs, because the bodies around us sometimes need more from us than leaving a light on and setting out snacks.

Sometimes, they need us to stay up.

King Walks.

Midlifers, it’s time to introduce you to King Walks.

King Walks are Long Walks, except my autocorrect corrects ‘Long’ to ‘King’ literally every single time I type ‘Long’, probably because I’m a sloppy typer who habitually types ‘Ling’ which all my smart devices assume means ‘King’ and not ‘Long’.

Are you still with me here?

Because it’s this week’s #midweekmidlifemoment.

You see, there was a whole, long-suffering season my good friend and prolific social media content creator Faith in the Mess by Melissa Neeb walked through with me.

I was dealing with a very heavy thing one winter, and every time I texted her that I’d taken a long walk to pray about it (I live in a more temperate place), I invariably texted her I’d been on a King Walk.

And because she is a Believer who lives in a winter wonderland where kids cross-country ski as a varsity sport, she would send me gorgeous pictures of frozen lakes and snowy woodlands and tell me she’d taken a (shorter) King Walk to pray, too.

We decided that King Walks were a real and necessary thing.

And I’m here for this week’s #midweekmidlifemoment to tell you that King Walks are legit.

There is science that getting outside and moving your body is beneficial (look up your own verified links, people), but I’m convinced there’s something spiritually healing about it, too.

My heavy thing didn’t necessarily get lighter on those King Walks, but it somehow was placed in better perspective.

The action of physically putting one step in front of the other. The deep breaths of fresh air I gulped down on sunny days just like on the cloudy ones. The certainty that the bend in the path I walked would straighten out and eventually take me back home.

These were tactile reminders to me that I could be in the present and also keep moving through it.

I never listened to music because I liked hearing the wind rattle the tree branches on my King Walks that winter. It felt right to be raw in the cold and know something else more rooted than me was just as brittle.

The loud wind in the quiet outside carried away all my hurt words that season. And MAN did I have some words for our not-fragile God.

I liked that my words had movement on those King Walks, that when I prayed them outloud they were ripped from my lips and flung with an appropriate fierceness into the wind.

You can do that too, you know. Go for a King Walk and tell God all about it. The loss, the grief, the hurt and the uncertainty. And you can retrace that path later in a different season, a season when it’s easier to breathe.

A season when thanksgiving flows more easily.

Friend, whatever season you’re in, I recommend a King Walk - a long walk outside with your heart and ears open. A safe place where you speak honest words to creation, the gentle proof that living things survive storms and live to see the sunshine again.

Today, I take great comfort in my King Walks, and deep inside my Midlife heart, I am greatly comforted by the knowledge that our not-fragile, wildly creative and ever-present God loves it when we offer this sacrifice of praise - a simple walk where we chat.

Shake things up, Midlifer. Take a King Walk.

Heavy.

Ash Wednesday reminds us there are seasons.

Specifically, Seasons of Heavy Waiting. Also celebration, but mostly Seasons of Heavy Waiting.

Maybe you grew up with ashes, and maybe you didn’t. Maybe you’re a Protestant who thinks it’s a Catholic thing. Maybe you’re a Catholic who believes Lent is obtuse. Or maybe you’re in the ginormous category of neither or nothing or something else altogether.

Whatever faith you may or may not claim, hold onto your panties if you decide to keep reading. Because I’m going to talk about God for this whole, entire Lenten post.

Ash Wednesday marks the start of Lent, the 40ish days leading up to Easter, the highest holy day of the Christian tradition, despite the fact that most of us western Christians spend more, plan more, eat more and gather more during Christmas, which is supposed to celebrate the birth of the Christchild - the same Christchild who was crucified (think Maundy Thursday and Good Friday) by the state (Rome) three decades later for preaching a gospel uncomfortable to church and political leadership.

It takes divine inspiration to claim to be the Son of God, after all. The bridge between the Biblical Old Testament - and its millennia of attempting to reconcile God’s chosen people (Jews) through sacrifices, commandments, judges, kings and prophets - and the New Testament - the story of God making possible the restoration of all people (Humanity) to God through one ultimate sacrifice, the unspeakable death sacrifice of the incomprehensible fully human, fully divine Christ.

And then the real kicker, the resurrection (Easter) and ascension (Pentecost) of Christ, which gave us the Holy Spirit.

If you think that’s a lot to swallow now, I assure you first century Middle Easterners thought so, too. 

Hence a dishonorable death by torture on a cross.

You can attempt to read all about it in Scripture, but get a good teacher. Like, one with degrees in history, language and religion, not the loudest, shiniest, most Instaworthy guy with the biggest cross on the block.

At any rate, as a writer (who disclaimer is NOT a Biblical scholar), I want to be relevant, and Ash Wednesday deserves some context to understand its relevance, even if, like me, you grew up in tradition where your church experience focused mainly on the celebration of the resurrection and relied fully on community Easter Egg hunts for cultural currency, because Lent is just so HEAVY.

(I am not anti-Easter Bunny or Eggs, I just have no idea how either informs my faith. It’s like Santa if you’re a Believer: Have fun with it, but don’t get confused.)

The thing is, Lent, in my opinion, is about the most relevant part of the Christian tradition. Because by definition, Lent IS Heavy.

Lent is the heavy SEASON of Christ’s temptation before the ordeal of his death and the New Life that Easter - Christ’s resurrection -  promises.

I mean, how many of us KNOW heavy?

How many of us have experienced or are experiencing an ordeal? A long, hard period of suffering? A time of endless, devastating waiting?

How many of us have prayed for or are praying for answers? Healing? Restoration? Mercy?

And how many of us have felt or are feeling isolated by an unseen illness? Estrangement? Abuse? Addiction?

You see, THIS is what Lent is about. 

It’s about the season of heavy and the season of waiting - the Season of Heavy Waiting.

And it’s about the knowledge that, because of Easter, there is New Life on the other side of the Season of Heavy Waiting. 

And that the Christ who knows the Season of Heavy Waiting waits WITH us. 

Lent means that Hope lives. Adherents to the Christian tradition believe that the Season of Heavy Waiting was overcome on behalf of humanity, and with finality, through Christ and the Easter story.

Friend, Lent is not about giving up sugar or cheese or caffeine. I mean you may need to, and let’s be clear that New Life doesn’t guarantee you get the happy ending you’re after in this lifetime, either. Run far and fast from anyone who tells you it does.

But without question, friend, Lent means you have hope during your Season of Heavy Waiting.

Read that again. And again. Read it for the forty days of Lent if you have to.

There is hope during your Season of Heavy Waiting, friend. And God waits with you. God is with you. In the heavy, in the waiting, and in the celebration, because of the resurrection.

Thank God for Lent.

Desert.

The far side of the desert makes me thirsty.

Thirsty for shelter.

Thirsty for refuge.

Thirsty for hope.

See, “the far side of the desert” is language early in the story of Moses and let-my-people-go in the Old Testament book of Exodus.

It’s a fascinating story fundamental to two major world religions, Judaism and Christianity.

But out of everything that could possibly strike me about the story of Moses and let-my-people-go, the part that jumps out to me is the language in the third chapter of Exodus simply translated as “the far side of the desert.” (NIV)

Not Moses in the baby basket and the crocodile infested Nile that kids are taught in Sunday School, and not the preceding politically motivated massacre that is most certainly absent in those same abridged lessons.

Not the princess and the Pharaoh and Moses’ miraculous escape and his royal life, and not brave Mariam or the steely birth mother who was featured as Moses’ wet nurse.

Not Moses the murderer, not Moses the fugitive, not Moses of the plagues, and not Moses as Charlton Heston and the famous Red Sea parting.

Just “the far side of the desert” Moses, the burning bush part of Moses’ biography and the plot twist between his royal life, his life on the lam and, ultimately, a long-suffering journey with God in whom Moses mostly - sometimes begrudgingly - places his faith.

The far side of the desert speaks to me.

Maybe it speaks to you, too.

Maybe you’re experiencing a major plot twist in your own life right now.

Maybe the plot twist in your life is a relationship.

Maybe it’s a legal mess or a financial situation.

Maybe your plot twist is a medical diagnosis, or maybe it's an addiction, or a loss, or a grief that threatens to consume you.

I don’t know what your plot twist is, but I’m willing to bet my lunch money that you can name it without blinking.

And that your trip to the far side of the desert makes you thirsty, too.

Thirsty for shelter.

Thirsty for refuge.

Thirsty for hope.

Friends, there are some things of which I am certain.

Plot twists are real, and so is God.

Plot twists will keep happening, and God will keep pursuing us, all the way to the far side of the desert.

And the God of Moses, the God of the burning bush and all the rest of the Exodus high-drama, is still the same God who leads us each through our own exodus today to spaces of shelter, refuge and hope.

My beloved midlifers, it’s okay to be on the far side of the desert.

And it’s good to be thirsty.

Because we belong to a God who has a lot of practice - and a great, big head start - meeting all of us right in the middle of all of our individual and collective plot twists, forever and ever, amen.

Masterpiece.

Midlife is a masterpiece, and I’m here for it.

I’m here for the wide-open weekend. And also the strong Mondays.

I’m here for the road less traveled. And also the daily mundane.

I’m here for the wide, wide world. And also my safe, comfy bed.

I’m here for the fresh, new seasons. And also the same, old routine.

I’m here for leaning into life’s curves. And also grinding out the straightaways.

Friends, I’m SO HERE for adventure. But also all the responsibility of Midlife.

I’m here for the spring in my step. And also the weight of Midlife.

I’m SO HERE for holding hands down the path. And also for knowing when to go solo.\

I’m here for what’s next. But also what’s right now.

I’m here for peeking around the corner. And for being thankful for what’s in hand.

Are you here for Midlife, too, friend? All of it? The right now and the what’s next?

The ohmygosh I got that right and the ohmyword that will never get better?

The breath-of-fresh-air and the suck-all-the-oxygen-out-of-the-room?

Midlife is a masterpiece, and I’m here for it. All of it.

Because midlife is smooth and bumpy, hard and soft, light and dark, hot and cold, clear and murky, sharp and dull and high and low.

Both.

In case you need a friendly reminder, Midlifer.

It’s okay to take a deep breath, and it’s just as okay to zero in on that thing that consumes your focus. You can do both.

It’s okay to grieve what needs to be grieved, and it’s absolutely fine to celebrate that which deserves to be celebrated. You can do both.

It’s okay to pause when pause is appropriate, and it’s alright to push through some things, too. You can do both.

It’s okay to be uncertain, and it’s just as acceptable to be hopeful amidst uncertainty. You can be both.

It’s okay to be bold, and it’s good to be prudent, too.You can be both.

It’s okay to feel confused, and it’s spot on to be clear. You can be both.

It’s okay to struggle, and it’s good to experience peace. You can feel both.

It’s okay to feel defeated, and it’s wonderful to feel victorious! You can feel both!

It’s okay to feel beat down, and it’s okay to feel inspired. You. Can. Feel. Both.

The drudgery of another mundane chore but the beauty of a new day before you.

The frustration of unresolved tensions but the eternal gratitude of the relationships they represent.

The stress of competing priorities but the joy of having family, work, friends and community in which to engage.

Friends, I don’t have official degrees in human behavior, but I’m a certified Midlifer, and there should be a diploma for that.

Because I’m here to tell you we’re all these things and often more, all at once.

Sure, there are moments when we are more one thing than the other, and for some of us, there are times of crisis when we are blank with survival.

But most of the time and for most of us midlifers, we are wildflowers, scraggly humans with beautiful blooms and weedy people with some colorful petals.

I just wanted to remind you that you might actually be growing if you’re scraggly but also beautiful and weedy but also undeniably pretty.

You are supposed to be both, Midlifers.

Seize It.

Not a Midlife Crisis, but a Midlife Seize It.

This is what my girlfriend said to me over margaritas.

Did you hear that? Lemme say it louder for the beat-down Midlifers in the back.

A MIDLIFE SEIZE-IT.

See, this friend here is someone I have known since the first day of kindergarten.

I mean we haven’t lived in the same state for more than 30 whole years, but we still managed to be in each other’s weddings 20 years ago, and also up in each other’s personal business 10 years ago, and we send each other’s parents Christmas cards still, and therefore when my friend texted me this morning that she would be  in my city tonight, I immediately made it my business to go spill my guts over drinks and soak in her wisdom even though I literally don’t recall the last time we met in person.

She’s a pick-up-wherever-you-left-off-forever-friend, and apparently Jesus told her to take me to dinner and pour some sense into me.

(I made that up. My friend probably just wanted Mexican food and then I showed up and she was an unsuspecting bystander when Jesus was like FINALLY, SOMEONE TO WHOM WHITNEY WILL ACTUALLY LISTEN.)

Because my friend took one look at my person, hugged me hard and then, right off the bat because I apparently look like I’m in crisis, said to me, “Whitney, we’re not having a Midlife Crisis, we’re having a Midlife Seize-It.”

With which she followed up without blinking, “Yes, you can write about that.”

Then the woman then proceeded to order margaritas and drop some truths on me about men and marriage and Midlife and menopause.

She is basically my hero.

I tried really hard to keep up and take mental notes, but finally I was like I’m going to order more queso and let your Midlife Seize-It magic wash all over me.

My Midlife people, in the highly-likely event you have had, or you think you are having, or will definitely have a not-so-stupid Midlife Crisis, here is a recap of Midlife Seize-It truths to breath life into your soul, courtesy of my friend, margaritas and maybe also Jesus:

1. Marriage is hard.

2. Self care looks different to different people.

3. There needs to be joy.

4. It’s okay to like food.

5. Being a parent is tough.

6. Church is complicated for a lot of us.

7. Judgment and shame generally suck.

8. Speak with honesty and boldness.

9. Sometimes we learn things the hard way.

10. And we’re halfway to 100 already, so SEIZE IT.

There you have it. Your Midlife Seize-It pep talk because you just thought you were having a Midlife Crisis.

I wish I could offer you some chips and dip and a margarita in real life to help you chew on this wisdom, but swear to goodness this conversation poured life into me that I didn’t know I needed.

Now carry on with your Midlife Seize-It, friends.

It’s normal. You’re not crazy.

And you most definitely are not alone.

Hard.

Midlife is hard because we’ve managed hard stuff.

The grief of a lost loved one. The wait of an unrealized dream. The loss of a broken relationship.

Midlife is tough because we’ve navigated tough times.

An unwelcome economic reality. An unabashed faith crisis. An unexpected medical diagnosis.

Midlife is work because we’ve recognized we’re living works. 

We’ve exercised wise judgment and made poor choices. We’ve won personal victories and endured painful defeats. We've cried hard because we’ve loved even harder.

Midlife is contradictory because we’re living a mixed-up experience.

The young adult drifting without purpose while the purposeful elder suffers in pain. The old friend fading away and the new friend mercifully appearing. The shapes of age creeping in and the signs of youth falling away.

But Midlife is actually delicious because we see beauty in this life.

The gathering with the next generation whose laughter is still pure. The laying of the cornerstones for a more hopeful, gentler second half. The celebrating of turned pages, new chapters and finish lines crossed.

Friends, Midlife is all these things, ground up and poured out across our everydays. Midlife salts our big and small moments and flavors our seasons of want and of plenty. 

Midlifers, we are rich with experience but not yet fully baked.

What a glorious dish we are indeed, my fellow Midlifers. May you find respite in this moment from your weary Midlife trials. 

I pray a prayer of hopefulness and send words of peace to your tables. Midlife is many things - tough, mixed-up yet somehow, thanks be to God, still delicious. 

Bon appetit, Midlifers. Bland simply is not on the menu.

Welcome friend! Let’s do Midlife together.

Thanks so much for stopping by!

I’m still working on moving all of my content to the blog, so please check back again soon.