I said something out loud last week, something that only my husband and very closest people knew has been brewing in my heart for two decades. It’s a little big dream. Sometimes really little, and sometimes really big: it floats back and fourth between being buried in real responsibilities and burning to come out as if absolutely nothing is in its way. But lately, even though the responsibilities are bigger and heavier and feeling much more like I cannot do this all than at any other time in my life, this little big dream is trying to get out—forcing its way in to my thoughts and daily rhythms, sometimes invited, but more often than not showing up like a surprise houseguest that I must quickly change the dirty sheets and vacuum the guest bedroom for.

(And now that I write it, that is a fairly accurate metaphor for what this dream feels like.)

I want to write a book. A real one. I want to force myself down a path of focus and discipline and hearing from the Lord; crafting all my thoughts, my fears, what I’m learning, how I’m failing, where I’m growing and how the gospel enters in and turns all of that on its head, and I want to put that journey into prose that feels like having coffee with a good friend or wrapping up in the softest blanket. I want to write words that resonate, that connect us all by the common threads of never measuring up but longing to be enough. I want to tell the truth about myself, sharing stories that make readers feel like we’ve been friends for a lifetime. But mostly, I want it all to point to Jesus.

That last part is the real dream. Living a life and leaving a legacy that gives God glory.

But here is the hard part: they say you need a platform. The people who know about book writing stuff say you need to have a following, a social media presence, and a significant corner of the internet carved out that readers actually stop by and say hello in. They say people need to sorta-kinda-already-know who you are.

Well I don’t like any of that, not even a little bit. Because that advice feeds an idol in my life that I desperately want to leave at the foot of the cross; broken in pieces right there so that nothing stands between me and an unhindered gaze up at Jesus. (Jesus lets us look up at him, let’s not move past that miracle without a moment of awe). I am too quick to take comfort in the approval of others while my husband is concerned about our time together. I am all too easily comforted when my words about motherhood draw applause while my children are shooed away for the fourth time while I finish crafting them. I easily mistake writing about faith and justice for actually living faith and justice.  And that’s the thing about writing: when you have done it long enough, you start to get real good with words but can become real bad with life. And since only real life counts, I want to put all my stock there.

But there remains this dream to create, and my heart and mind long to do it. So the only way forward, the only way I can think of to make this houseguest comfortable while still being a woman of great faith in Jesus and true devotion to her family, is to pray, to offer this process back to One who I believe started it in me.

I’m praying big to stay small.

God, I am so very grateful for the cross, where every bit of my faith is centered. It’s where you took all the sin, all the ugliness, and all of the condemnation of my life and burned a path right through it for me to walk on straight to you.

I ask for forgiveness for the times my feet have strayed from that path towards ones that give the illusion of fulfillment, the ones that promise happiness but deliver emptiness, the ones that scream in bright lights ‘you’ll love it here’ but end up trapping me in a darkness of self-absorption.

I pray that this desire to create is guarded by your Word and fenced in with a reverence for the gospel that every sentence I write submits to.

I ask for inspiration that is saturated in the Holy Spirit, because on my own I have nothing of any lasting value to offer.

And I thank you for words, because in the right hands—yours—they are such a gift. May the ones you give to me always tell stories that make you beautiful, because you are… more so than I would ever be able to say.

When all is said and done, keep me small, Jesus. Give me a work to do, but keep me and my pride out of the way of getting it done.

You are so, so good to us, God. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, Jesus.     

So many things amaze me about the life of Jesus, perhaps none more than the way he could perceive the true intentions of the human heart.  He knew, he always knew, the motive behind the questioning onlookers and the fear behind the pleading petitions for healing.  He knew the faith of the woman willing to merely get the “crumbs” of his power or the other just needing to touch the hem of his garment.  He knew the doubt and disbelief behind the passive aggressive prodding of the religious leaders, wanting only to catch him in a battle of rhetoric they tried again and again to win. (They never could).  And he knew our tendencies would be to feel all of these same things at different seasons in our own lives.

As I have planned and prayed intentionally for a fruitful new year, God has done some serious business in my heart through the beautiful, timeless words of Jesus.  This should not surprise me; He always seems to do business with me when I’m getting serious about being in the Bible.  But this time around, He has gotten straight to the heart of a struggle that has always been real for me, and I think real for many of us: our desire to be seen.

In Matthew’s account of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus sets a pretty high standard for the life of a believer.  There are a hundred things I want to process and apply in my life from these three chapters in the Bible; but this idea of “being seen,” well, it has not left me in two months.

Matthew 6:1- “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people to be seen by them…”

Matthew 6:5- “And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites.  For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others…”

Matthew 6:16- “And when you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by others…”

Three times in eighteen verses, Jesus, the Savior of the world, the one who knows the hearts and motives of men, the only perfect man to put his feet on the soil of the world… tells us to throw away this desire to be seen.  Three times in eighteen verses.  I think he must mean it.  Don’t act godly to be seen by others.  Don’t pray or throw around scripture to be thought well of by others.  Don’t sacrifice or give or serve so that others will admire you.  Don’t do anything if your motive is the applause of men.

And I cringe. I have a physical response to this because y’all, this is my struggle. I may not have a temptation to stand in front of church and pray as others file in for service, but you better believe I want you to like me, comment on my writing, think highly of my children and how I parent them, like all the pictures, and essentially, see me. I am so often over here in my tiny corner of the world silently yelling “do you see me?!”

The world has taught us to do all sorts of things to be seen. It says we need a social media platform to be an influencer. It tells young men and women—who am I kidding, all men and women—that our value is found in likes and followers. It convinces so many of us to keep score like crazy people, and in that even the good things we pursue end up being done with selfish motivations behind them.

And God sees. And he hates it. Because while we are working ourselves into a frenzy to be seen by others, we miss seeing Him completely. (We often miss our husband and our kids, too, if we are really honest. The ability to carry the façade of our reputations with us on our smart phones at all times has us hooked). There’s a better way, a much better way. And, gosh, I want so desperately to walk in it.

While Jesus tells us to not do things to be seen, He also promises that He does see: “And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” Isn’t that so much better? The idea that we could get to heaven and have nothing to show for our lives but a hustle for approval in this world; or the thought that we could stand with Jesus as he introduces us to the people that we silently, compassionately, bravely pointed to him with the truth and humility of our lives.

I’m working hard on figuring this out. And I know many of us are. Because we are tired of the temporary satisfaction found in the way others celebrate us, and we hate the jealousy that arises when others are celebrated more. We feel guilty when our family calls us out for looking at our phones, and we are starting to wonder how on earth we will raise insecure teenagers in this social media world when we cannot even navigate it well ourselves. We want Jesus, we look at the world today and we are desperate for him; but we are so distracted, so tempted at every turn to point to him but make sure we are still peripherally in the picture. This struggle is certainly harder for some than for others, but the desire to be seen is as old as humanity.

This year I have taken a step back from social media, not so I can be legalistic about 365 days without instagram or facebook—there is nothing wrong with instagram and facebook, and from time to time I will jump on and connect— but so that I can give myself the space to check my heart. It can get yucky in there, and I am more aware than ever how big the idolatry is in my life. There are a hundred good things that grow from the connection with others that social media gives us, but I need to pull out the handful of weeds that come with it. I do want to take and share beautiful pictures of my family, but I don’t want that more than intentional, real moments with them. I do want to put my writing out there so more people will see it and maybe even affirm it, but I don’t want that more than I want to steward this space and the love of words God gave me.

I want Jesus. So there has to be less of me.

I want others to see Him, because there is not anything else worth gazing at.

When I think about my life and making this year the most purposeful year yet, it is not captured in filtered images. It is simply lived, and much of it in secret, like Jesus told us to.      

We are eleven days in, and so far, SO very good.  NO-TV November.  For the second year in a row I have committed to turning off the television for the whole month—with the exception of college football on Saturdays (because I made this whole thing up and that means I make the rules) and kids’ shows (because I’m very pregnant and not ashamed to admit I need a little help from Dora, Diego, and Daniel—you all know how I feel about that Tiger— #lovehim).  But outside of that, during afternoon naps, or post bedtime when my usual routine might include turning something on the screen that would give me permission to turn off my mind, I’m being more intentional about making space for silence—a discipline that is rather difficult for me and always has been.  One really only has to be my friend for five minutes to be keenly aware that I process, out loud, all the time.  And if no one is around to hear me, well I typically like at least a little “Chopped” on in the background.  But because the gift of alliteration that comes with NO-TV November is just too good for a writer to pass up, I’m enforcing it again.  And that quiet space being created? It really is amazing the good things are filling it up.

First, I’m in scripture more than ever.  Being a morning person works greatly to my advantage here, because I wake up craving, needing, excited for the peace of my time with Jesus in his word.  He is blessing me with a can’t get enough season.  And it has not always been this way.  For most of my life God’s word sat on my shelf and I pretended I knew what it said.  But I started paying attention to the people around me who always seemed so grounded, so humble, so wise in their speech, and without exception the difference was their love for and faith in scripture.  Just over a year ago I started praying for those things, and I’ve found that asking for a genuine love of God’s word is not a request He is likely to turn down.  Quite the opposite, really.  He gladly throws kindling on that fire.  Because we are a generation rich in resources to talk about God through books, blogs, sermons, study groups and the like, I think it is easy for us to believe we know God’s word when we may actually not.  But there is no one and no thing that can replace the beautiful intimacy of just you and just Jesus in scripture together. And I want to be so careful not to have a relationship with God through my favorite authors or pastors, as thankful for them as I am.  The divine interaction with that book sitting on my nightstand proves again and again to be my greatest hope in the world.

I’m also setting goals and making steps towards accomplishing them, a discipline that easily gets relegated to the “someday” category all too often.  On the first of the month I sat down and wrote out all the things I want to focus on in the next three months (because that’s how Lara Casey does it and I think she is so legit).  And, well... wow, the intentionality that follows in my actions when I stop and think about them!  This is the most common sense thing in the world: think about what you do before you do it.  But for long seasons at a time I just haven’t, and I end up stretched thin, tired, and giving too many things, or the wrong things altogether, too little of my effort.  I have eight things on my goal list.  Eight.  For the next few months if something is not falling in to one of those categories, it gets a “no for now” answer, not because I’m putting any amount of pride in being “right” about my prioritizing but because it has to be that way or I will not make it.  I want to be someone who gives all of herself to a few things, a depth over breadth approach—something I would not have said just a few years ago when my mindset was framed around getting everyone to like me (I’m still working on that).  Today, my mindset is more time on the things Jesus would like from me.  And the three items on the top of this list are my faith in God, my marriage, and my babies, which you all now have permission to keep me accountable on because I’m saying them publicly.  So please do.  I have a tendency to schedule coffee dates when I should be scheduling, you know, like real dates with the man who made me his bride.  He is really the best person I know. 

And I’m reading some pretty great books.  Y’all, if you want to read but don’t think you have time, I’m telling you, just turn the TV off.  Twenty-minutes here, another half an hour there, and you’ve got yourself so excited to turn the next page that pretty soon you are looking for time to read.  My favorites this Fall have been Just Mercy, Reclaiming Home (by my friend, Krista, who is the real deal), and When People Are Big and God is Small.  A full nightstand equals a full heart for this girl.  (Also, I’ve read/skimmed approximately 700 books on natural childbirth, because my heart says “Your body was made for this!” and my head says “Epidural and sprite on ice, girlfriend.” But let’s just talk about all that later). 

And finally, I’m listening.  Or, I should say I’m trying to.  The words of one of my old mentors hang over my mind here: “Only speak if you can improve the silence.”  And let’s be honest, silence is really a pretty great thing in this world, so it's no small task trying to improve it.  And that whole external processing thing, it does not go away overnight.  But I’ve been sensing that too often I speak when I should listen, to both God and others, and I really want to practice a much more thoughtful approach to those relationships.  Believe it or not, a silent home during the hours that I can swing it has been unbelievably helpful in that.   

Now, if I have presented a version of myself that includes any mental image of a clean home, meal plans, sorted laundry, or really any manner of a thoroughly put-together life at all, I must undo them here.  Y’all, I am hanging on by a thread in these last few days and weeks of pregnancy.  At my 36 week appointment last week I was already 2cm dilated and 50% effaced, and I feel like it.  Each day the contractions get a tiny bit more real, and this little limp-waddle-walk I’ve got going on is evidence to the world that three babies in three years has done a number on every one of my core muscles.  But because I can’t do much but wait through the physical pain of carrying my third sweet baby, my heart knows I have to find my rest somewhere.  It won’t come at night and it won’t come from the couch and it certainly won’t come from listening to all the noise (there is so much noise!) in the world.  The only place I have ever really been able to find rest is in Jesus.  Which should not surprise me, He basically told us that would be the case*.  But I am never short on awe when it really does come.  And friends, it does.

{And y’all, feel free to use that little NO- (you pick) November alliteration trick I mentioned above, because who says a little giving up of something is only for lent or the first of the month?  It’s for anytime your heart needs it, so I say go ahead and give yourself permission.} 

*Matthew 11:28

I can hardly believe it, but this space, this tiny little slice of the internet that I named just enough brave was born one year ago.  For twelve months I’ve been putting my thoughts, my convictions, and my heart into words and putting those words here.  I’ve spent—and still spend—my fair share of time questioning this space and my ability to fill it with anything worthwhile.  And truthfully, I will probably always fight that battle with myself.  But writing… this is how I learn.  It’s how I process, how I sort through messes, how I both vent and apologize, and how God teaches me that every good endeavor can truly be done for his glory. 

This past year has both surprised and humbled me.  Almost without exception, the essays that I sat down and wrote in an hour were the ones that resonated most with readers, and the ones I labored through or worked too hard to be funny in mostly fell flat.  So, I guess like everything else in life, when something genuinely comes from our hearts the world can tell, and I think we are a people that appreciates genuine over fake any day.

What I have learned in a year is simple, yet worth reminding myself of.  Part of the beauty is in the journey, and remembering that journey. 

Lesson 1: don’t try to be someone I’m not.  A few weeks ago I wrote a post, a satire, if you will, on social media and my poor attempt to stay off of it for a while (I made it 12 days, in case you were wondering).  After one reader commented I realized I may be saying something I did not mean to at all and offending others in the process, and I took the post down 20 minutes later.  Remember what I said above about trying to be funny?  Well, I’m really not, and if I ever am it’s probably an accident.  So, staying clear of those essays from now on.  The things that truly get me excited to write about are motherhood, faith, justice, friendship, and other lessons life teaches me.  Straying from what I know in an effort to be more generally appealing, it doesn’t work.  And I would tell my kids this same thing in any endeavor they went after, so I have to model it as their mom.  Be you.

Lesson 2: if I live for approval, I’ll die for approval.  Am I the only one who puts something on social media and checks back a few hours later to, you know, see how it’s doing?  And by that I mean, “I’m just gonna log on real fast and see how many likes it has?”  Just looking for a friend.  Truth: this is not a sustainable way to be a writer, or an artist of any kind, I might argue.  It kills the whole spirit of creating something you believe in.  Shauna Niequist has said, “You are a writer if you write.”  I adore this, and so want to live it out.  Because I love words, and I also love when others love my words, it would be a lie to say that I didn’t; but even when they don’t, in my stillest, most honest moments with Jesus, I can truly say that I love putting them together.  When I invite God into this work and share the best of myself, public reception becomes much less important.  Plus, my husband and my mom will always read what I write, so I can rest knowing that (trying to be funny, friends).       

Lesson 3: vulnerability is good, but God has to be in it.  Many of you know that one of my very best friends and I wrote a blog together for four years.  I loved it, because I always felt like I was in this strange internet-writing world locked arms with someone.  Last summer when we both felt like God was stirring in us some individual directions for teaching and writing, I took almost three months to start j.e.b. because it felt too vulnerable, and I have never liked that feeling.  I didn’t want to be just another voice making noise.  I didn’t want to clamor for attention on my own because what did I even have to offer?  But with a lot of prayer and at the encouragement of a few friends, I bought the url, thought of a name (a reflection of how I want to not only write but live), and started sharing.  And, you know, it is vulnerable.  I am always wondering how others perceive me based on what I write.  But I also really believe in the power and beauty of words, and I really believe in God.  And sometimes, I wake up with things to say burning in my mind and all of a sudden it doesn’t feel vulnerable, it feels right.  Vulnerable comes when I am trying to make something of myself; peace comes when I am trying to make something of Jesus. Amen, and let it be so.

Lesson 4: I will fail.  Did you all know that I wrote a book 3 years ago?  No, you probably didn’t.  I think it sold 7 copies or something like that.  And even now when I read it, I feel like I am not the same writer.  Sometimes I cringe a little going “that’s really what I published?”  But I don’t remember the process like that.  I remember loving every second of putting that little project together during my first pregnancy.  I would write it very differently today, that’s for sure.  But if I had not written that and spent the hours I did on it, I wouldn’t even be the writer I am.  And I think that’s a lot like life.  We don’t arrive as perfect people; we make a lot of mistakes in the process of being good wives, mothers, friends, and most importantly, Christ-followers.  I have to ask forgiveness daily.  Daily.  Something I said, something I failed to do, a pride-filled attitude or action, you name it.  But those moments are almost always where I learn, and where I understand grace.  So really, failure isn’t all bad—it’s a step back and then two steps forward as someone with a slightly more humble heart.  That's the direction I want to be moving in, always.

Lesson 5: we all want to fit somewhere, and we are better together.  Really, isn’t it the best cheering others on?  So much more good gets done in the world when we do it together, and when we actually act like fans of one another in the process.  I really believe this. 

In the end, I have been writing here for a year because the best version of me is the one on paper, and I want to actually live the things I say.  I am inconsistent at best, but I keep writing because I keep trying, and because I want to love Jesus more.  And then, every once in a while, someone tells me with the most sincere encouragement, “Katie, please keep writing.”  You have no idea what those words do for my heart.  Thanks for being with me for the last year.  Here’s to a few more!    

I so badly wanted to stage a really pretty picture of my desk and computer, maybe with some fresh daisies behind it.  Whatever.  This is what my writing space actually looks like right now.  And Cannon has been watching Daniel Tiger for 45 minutes.  There.  Now you know.

“For my people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water.”  Jeremiah 2:13

These words have been swirling in my heart for weeks now.  I’m watching the minutes change on the top right of my computer screen, but the sentences are forming at a crawling pace.  It’s hard for me to say these things, to admit out loud my struggle, to tell you the truth.  But for the sake of my own accountability, I’m going to say it all.

Writing can be a little bit hard, did you know that?  Not the act itself.  In fact, for me, the word crafting is usually the fun, easy part where I get to think out loud and pray over my communication and see sentences in front of me that I sometimes didn’t even mean to say, but they sound ok so I keep them around.  The hard part comes from wanting so badly to manage the reception of my words from, well, everyone who reads them.  (I.e. Every writer wants you to like them.  Period). 

There is a little bit of non-prescribed magic in writing.  You have to find your way very apart from the way of others.  You have to speak your voice very apart from the voice you think will make you popular.  You have to pray an unbelievable amount.  You have to give in a bit to the unpredictability of it all, blow words like a wishing flower from your hands and hope they land on hearts they way you intend them to rather than being blown away by the wind.  Writing is obedience, discipline, laughing at yourself, insecurity, vulnerability, confidence and lightness all at once.  It is communicating something you believe in or simply want to share with others, and then it’s actually living what you just wrote and that, my friends, is one reason why I write: you all know a lot of my junk and I can sleep better at night knowing that I’ve been honest. 

I really do not like the word blog when used as a verb.  I would much rather think of myself as a writer than a blogger.  So I will say it this way: I’ve been writing essays for the internet for just over five years.  That means for five years I have wanted my work to be received, enjoyed, shared, commented on, affirmed.  For five years I have wrestled with the beast of approval addiction, sometimes pinning that bad boy with a “my heart is content no matter what people think” attitude, but more often being heavily beaten to the ground with a “what do people really think of me?” insecurity.  If you only knew what a hot mess I am.  Like anyone who does work that the public views in one way or another—a photographer, an actor, a musician, a you-name-it—the way people feel about your work really matters.  Even when you don’t want it to, it does.   

And that’s what I’m writing about today.  My work as a writer.  Because I might burst if I don't, and because I need the reminder.  Last month something a little bit crazy happened: a lot of people read my essays.  And some of those people seemed to enjoy them.  And it felt really, really good.  Better than I am proud to admit.  When I started writing with my best friend Kristin five years ago, the people who read our work were mostly our families and few dozen closest friends.  And that was always enough, too.  I actually don’t have any idea how it happened that a few thousand people found their way to Just Enough Brave in the last few months, because I don’t even know a few thousand people.  It can really only be that some of you are sharing my words (and that’s the absolute best complement you can give a writer, so from the bottom of my heart, thank you.)

Can I also share with you something?  Last week I wrote out my love story with Alex during a week that we fought almost daily about one issue in particular.  I cannot tell you how much your words of encouragement filled my soul after I published that essay. I was so thankful people connected to the story I told.  I always hope you do.  But in the three days that followed, I had two emotional meltdowns (I mean the sobbing, angry, threw a sippy cup on the floor kind) and actually used these words with my husband: “I need to go away from everyone.”  And Alex and I are still working our way through misunderstandings on the same issue.  Why on earth am I telling the world this?  Well, because I still want you to know my junk.  I am an approval addict.  And your approval of me is one of my broken cisterns.  You loved my love story.  I feel like I owe it to you all say both "thank you" and "we are messier than that sweet picture would ever let on." Like any addiction, approval is something that once you get what you are looking for, the high lasts only a few minutes.  A very few minutes.  And approval might well be the most fleeting thing in the world. 

You know what kind of writer I don’t want to be: the one concerned with numbers.  At the very same time, numbers are affirmations!  Confidence!  Cup-fillers!  Oh my!  A few dozen of my closest friends and family reading my words, awesome.  A few thousand of you?  Well please excuse me while I go hide because that is paralyzing.  Thrilling— doesn’t any artist of any kind want that?  And paralyzing—because not really, I’m insecure in my own expectations, I really don’t need any more.  And this happens all at the same moment.  Someone please explain that tension to me because I cannot understand nor manage it.

I so deeply hope what I am saying here is understood.  I fear being misunderstood more than I can say.  But here I am, just blowing these words from my hands: I am not a “big writer” by any means.  Those two words in quotes there are a bit laughable.  I’m on the left side of the bell curve here, I’m very aware of this.  But I did not start writing because I aspired to any sort of notoriety, and I do not keep writing because I aspire to it today.  I just write because, well, it’s what I do.  I was an English major, writing essays is, like, what we are supposed to do to stay in the club (kidding).  Honestly, I just want my words to matter for God’s kingdom, and I want my babies to have them when they are old enough to care.  But with even a little bit more than normal attention on these words and I’m tempted to write for the audience rather than writing for the One I’ve always wanted to honor the most, and that’s Jesus. 

Writing this is my reminder that the God who never changes is the only performance review that lasts beyond the short moments of this life.  And my writer’s manifesto is actually the same as my life manifesto: To know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified…to be regarded as a servant of Christ and steward of the mysteries of God… and to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which we have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.  Amen.