Faith in the Dark

I don’t talk about my “faith journey” much. I don’t write about it. Sometimes I try not to think about it.

I have faith (some). Jesus still captivates me and moves me, inch by inch, toward Truth. I still believe. But most days, I’m not sure what that means anymore — all the familiar landmarks smack false to me, the faith of my youth all tied up in a problematic youth pastor, an American evangelical Christianity I no longer recognize, and lots and lots of “feelings” (feeling close to God, feeling a fire in my chest, feeling his presence close to me) that have gone blank.

Years ago, we stopped going to church. We stopped at the very moment most people keep going “for the kids.” I thought that after we did that, clarity would come. I knew that church as I knew it — meeting on Sunday morning, learning piety, AWANA, a caring community sometimes filled with too much small talk — was no longer where I found Jesus. It wasn’t them, really, it was me. There were too many trappings, too many triggers. Everything there reminded me of the faith of my youth, an easy belief that didn’t come so easy anymore.

So we left. And clarity didn’t come.

I felt my faith withdrawing into itself like a cocoon, distilling what was essential, closing up and hibernating. I waited. I expected an unfolding, an unfurling of a new expression of my faith, a butterfly emerging beautiful and whole, a phoenix rising from the ashes.

But it didn’t happen like that. And all these years later, it still feels dark.

In many ways, I’m still in the messy middle.

And I’m not sure why He still has me here, what else I’m supposed to work out, how in the world I’ll be able to reconcile what I knew with what I know, and why I have to make it so complicated.

I have to believe that something is still happening here in the dark, that God is still at work, that everything will be illuminated in time. But even in the darkness, He speaks.

In the dark, I’ve learned that God never leaves me.

I’ve learned that He’s sometimes silent, and sometimes I need Him to be.

I’ve learned that He’s not afraid of my doubts or my questions or my anger or my fear.

I think I’m learning that it doesn’t have to be a dramatic unfurling of knowing, or a sudden rush of belief, and certainly not a moment of blinding clarity. If that’s all I’m looking for, I’ll miss the little sparks that illuminate the next step forward.

I’m learning that it’s going to be slow. I’m learning that it’s OK to try new things. I’m learning that Going To Church doesn’t have to be a Major Event, it can just be something I try. Or not.

I’m learning that if I pay attention, sitting in this darkness can be a kind of prayer.

I believe; help my unbelief.


Here’s another thing I’ve learned about the darkness: Not only has God been here the whole time, but there are others here with me, too.

I’m so grateful for people like Addie, my blog-acquaintance-turned-immediate-friend when we met a few years ago. I think we saw some familiar topography in each other, a knowing that comes from being where we have, from the fading of a youth faith on fire, the wondering what now. And being honest about it.

Addie has now written not one, but two beautiful memoirs now. The first was recalling the days of her on-fire youth and what came after. Her second memoir, Night Driving: A Story of Faith in the Dark, releases today, and it’s required reading for all of you. She says she thought her second memoir was going to be about “finding a faith home” until she realized it’s not all that neat and tidy after all. She’s hosting a synchroblog today about faith in the dark; you should click over to her site to see all the beauty gathered there.


And if the winding journey of your faith has taken you to unexpected dark places, I think you’ll love this book as much as I do. Addie has a way of piercing the mundane to see the meaning and life in all of it, and writes it out with such beauty you can’t help but see something that wasn’t there before.

Happy book release day, Addie. I’m so thankful that you’re willing to dare greatly and share yourself. We’re all better for it. xo


I’m a block back when I see the older couple turn down my route home.

It’s dusk.
I’ve taken the old dog out for a walk in the fading daylight,
The fade lasting deep into evening these days,
Just after summer solstice
When the earth and air and sky are touching
and no one wants to miss the magic of this late hour.

I watch as they get closer to the curve in the road
The one I passed this way before circling back
to give the old dog’s hips some relief at home.
The same curve marking the place where
a doe is laying down in the middle of the manicured lawn
Visible over the hedge

They almost pass right by and then
Their bodies speak surprise and delight
Lingering, admiring, maybe snapping a picture.
And then the deference, starting to walk ahead,
not wanting to disturb
And just before turning away,
A beautiful, silly little wave
Goodbye, deer. Goodnight, beauty and surprise and delight.

They hold hands then, just for a few moments.
I find myself wondering how many times that can happen over a lifetime —
A thousand? A hundred thousand?

They don’t walk far before
he starts chasing fireflies
their light growing brighter
in the faded soft gray.
Three times he stops, reaches out, gives up, goes on.

Just before I turn away down my road home, I steal one last look
to say goodnight to beauty

And I see a glow light up right there between them,
But it’s so close they can’t see it
illuminate their faces
before it fades and flits away.

The fine art of getting over yourself

I was listening to a podcast last weekend in which one of the hosts was describing going into a season of increased attention, glamor, and also vulnerability. Before it all started she went into the bathroom and said these words to herself in the mirror: You are not allowed to think of the ways you’re not measuring up. You’re not allowed to cut yourself down or feel unworthy. If you’re going to survive, you’re simply not allowed to think those thoughts.

She made it sound so simple.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel completely impossible to me.

(Do you listen to the Dear Sugar Radio podcast? If not, start immediately. If you’ve never read Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed, do that yesterday.)

I’m not sure if it’s come with age, experience, or both, but oh, it’s a lovely thing to start seeing the true nature of my insecurities.

These invisible, powerful forces have loomed so large throughout my formative and adult years. I have long believed that I’m good enough, that I don’t deserve love, that I’m not worthy of beauty and hope and belonging. Like a weight around my shoulders, these lies have held me down. They’ve changed my mind, they’ve made me doubt, and I don’t really want to know how much they’ve shaped the course of my life so far.

But just in the last little while, I’ve started to see through those beliefs, those lies, those deep anchors of my soul.

See through them as in, they’re phantoms. Shadows. They’re real thoughts I have, but they just don’t matter that much.

A few times lately when the old familiar untruths started grabbing at my ankles, I have somehow been able to see them clearly, to recognize the pattern before it held me down again, and I almost laughed.

You’re not good enough. You’re ugly. You’ll never change. You’re weak and hopeless and kind of dumb.

Ha, I thought. That’s funny. Those things are super untrue.

And even if they hold some grain of truth in them, even if I sometimes believe them, even if I’m not all the way there? My next through was oh, you again. The same, tired thoughts. Good grief, who the hell cares?

Maybe I’m just so sick of the power they’ve had over me. Maybe I’m ready to be done carrying that burden and believing things that don’t serve me.

Because it’s true, you know. Those thoughts, those beliefs, those patterns that have held you back and seemed so powerful to have held you under their thumb for so long? They just don’t matter that much.

Maybe it’ll take a thousand, a million, more tiny decisions to put down the burden of those thoughts, to shake off the weight of entrenched belief. I might carry some shadow of it on my back my whole life, but most times, I’ll be able to wave my hands and clear it like so much smoke, like a vapor, and it’s gone.

The value in the attempt (even if)

One of my college professors told me over and over again to submit my poetry, my creative writing, my work to literary magazines. He talked about it in class, in meetings, and even a couple years after I graduated. I was writing to ask him something, and at the end of his response, he asked, “Where have you submitted your work lately?”

The answer then, and the answer every time: Nowhere.

Do you do this, too?

“I really should.”
“I will. Soon.”

and then

“I don’t know if my work is what they’re looking for, though.”
“I don’t have time to keep track of all the submission guidelines.”
“My work never really feels finished — I don’t want to submit until I’m confident.”

And you know what happens next.


I haven’t chosen a OneWord resolution for this year, but something is pulling at me all the same. Maybe my mid-thirties are giving me more boldness. Maybe I’m ready to get out there. Maybe I’m just sick of hearing my own excuses.

This year, I’m trying. Doing. Shipping. Risking.

My first attempt? I submitted workshop ideas for a conference. Last week, I found out that none were selected. My first rejection. Guess how that felt?

Nope. It was fine.

Sure, I was a little disappointed and kept it to myself for a couple days, but then? I was proud. Because I hadn’t submitted anything the previous year, or the year before, and realized that (the not trying) felt worse than having tried and failed. At least this time, I put it out there. And now I have more ideas for next year. I even feel emboldened by this rejection, because now I know it’s not that bad. So why not risk some more?

Yesterday, I drove to St. Paul for an audition. I’ve known about Listen To Your Mother shows for five years. I was thrilled when some amazing women finally brought it to Minnesota three years ago.

“I really should audition.”

But this year, when a friend reminded me auditions were coming up, I looked at the “should” for a second, then clicked over to the website and signed up for an audition slot. Last week, I worked and reworked a poem, then yesterday, I drove 75 miles for a 10-minute audition.

I don’t know whether I’ve made it into the show, but even if I didn’t? It was worth it.

The doing, the trying, the risking is worth it.


It feels risky to announce this to you, to say I’m trying and doing. Because I know what you’re all thinking. (At least this is the elephant in my room.)

My book.

It’s been so long since I started writing it that the tone has changed. So has the title (more on that soon). The first draft is done. It needs some work, sure. But I’m staring her down this year, my year of doing, my year of risking. For conferences and shows, I’m asking to be picked. For my book, I’m picking myself.

I know my words have value in the adoption conversation. I know there are adoptive families in the trenches who need my book. So what am I waiting for?

You heard it here. Now hold me to it.


What are you waiting for? What have you been saying you “should” do but haven’t attempted? Let’s jump together this year. Let’s try. Let’s risk. Because being brave and failing feels so much better than making excuses for not trying.


***Hey, I think I’m going to consolidate my Facebook identity, because I don’t want to double-post on my personal and writer profiles, but then I just never post on my writer profile. Whatever. I’m just tired of splitting my identity.

So, if you follow Kim Van Brunt – writer, would you do me a favor and click over to just plain old Kim Van Brunt and “Follow” me there?

On intention and reality


I wake up two minutes before my alarm, my body already (still, always) thinking of them, my babies sleeping next to me. Getting up early to write means so much more than just rolling out of bed and pouring the coffee. For a mother, it’s about mothering, first.

So I carefully slide out of bed, then push the comforter up next to my three-year-old  as a substitute for my warm body next to her. But I know she’ll know. In her sleep, she’ll sense it, and I know it’s only a matter of time before she’s up, seeking me out again.

I tiptoe through the hallway and kitchen, careful to avoid the loudest floor creaks, turn on the coffee maker and then sneak downstairs to quietly close the doors of my children sleeping down there.

The coffee made, robe on, lights out again, I sink onto the couch and exhale.

I sit quietly in the darkness for eight minutes, maybe ten, when I hear movement and I know that soon, I’ll have company.

But it’s okay. It’s okay.

I used to be annoyed when this happened, wondering why I woke up early anyway, feeling like it was for nothing. But it’s not. Because I can hold my big boy for a few sweet minutes, I can let him curl up next to me and watch me write, I can take it all together. The intention isn’t wasted just because I saw it differently in my mind. The reality doesn’t need to fight it. If I don’t let them be at odds, they won’t be.

This isn’t my writing time, not solely, not unto itself. I can’t check creativity off my list any more than I can mothering. I used to guard my time, to see divisions, try to keep everything neatly in its own space, its own box, its own time. But that’s an illusion. It was a frantic rearranging of a dream, nothing more.

Mothering is creativity is writing is nurturing is thinking is planning. It’s all me, and I have everything I need right here. I carry all of it with me. And it’s when I can see it all together, when I let the lines blur and give myself over to the beautiful mess, whole, that I’m free.

On adoption, vulnerability, and how our children lead us home


It wasn’t because my son wasn’t all I thought he would be. He was cuter than the pictures, he was sweet and soft and innocent and bewildered. He was everything.

It was me. It was my heart and its hardness that surprised me. I was closed off somehow, unable to open my heart up and love the way I wanted to.

But here’s the truth that I learned over the next year: As their parents, we show our children the way to vulnerability. When their hearts are wounded deep from broken connections to birth parents, birth culture, orphanage nannies or foster parents, they’re caught deep in their own fortresses, built up so quickly in their short lives to guard against another heart-deep wound. And as their adoptive parents, we don’t come storming in to destroy those protections. We open our hearts and bleed for them.


I am so honored to be sharing a guest post over at Carissa Woodwyk’s space today. I met her two years ago at the Christian Alliance for Orphans Summit, and knew her voice was one I was waiting for. She’s an adoptee, and a therapist, and she speaks with such truth and grace about the adoptee experience. She’s hosting a guest post series on her blog for National Adoption Month, and my story is there today.

Click here to keep reading…

For the adoptive mama at the start

You are amazing.
I’ve done it myself, but every time I see an adoption announcement, another family jumping into these uncertain waters of adoption, I’m still astounded.

Know this: You are braver than you know.

You might feel exhilarated, you might be giddy, you might feel more ready for this than you have felt about anything. You might feel overwhelmed. You might be terrified.

You might have nagging doubts at the edges of your mind, little questions about your family dynamic, how life might get turned upside-down, what this might do to you, what this might do to your marriage.

Know this, too: You have a cloud of witnesses who have gone before you. Nothing that you are feeling is foreign to adoptive mamas everywhere.

And we are here for you.

At some point in this adoption, it is very likely that things will go sideways. You’ll have an unexpected delay, a government official won’t show up, you’ll wait and wait to get picked and wonder if it’ll ever happen, you won’t know whether it’s best to go on or start over, your heart might feel like it wasn’t made for this.

But just wait. Wait and see.

I always thought the miracle of adoption was bringing the child home, redemption, hope, putting the lonely in families.

But now I know there are a hundred little miracles along the way.

When you open your heart to adoption, when you follow God’s lead wherever he might want to take you, you’re saying “yes” to a whole lot more than just a new child.

You’re saying yes to surrender.
Yes to sacrifice.
Yes to unspeakable joy.
Yes to hope against all odds.
Yes to healing — in your heart and in your child’s.
Yes to opening your eyes.
Yes to a love the depths of which you haven’t known before.

You are braver than you know.

You join those who have gone before you in saying, yes, God. Yes. Whatever it means, yes.

The thing about the bowl of cereal

It’s not the cereal. It’s not hunger, really, unless we’re talking about the non-physical kind.

It’s not even the compulsion, though I do wonder about that.

My on-again, off-again habit of a bowl (or two) of cereal before sleep, when everyone else is already in bed, when the day’s responsibilities are not done but put to bed, at least, when all is quiet and it’s just me and no one can see me or judge me or count how many nights in a row this is now? It’s not really about the cereal, the habit, the hunger or non-hunger. It could be a little about the carbs’ quick-hit brain rush, but really really really?

It’s about feeding something.


It’s a deep belief of scarcity. That I’m not enough, that I have to fill something up and in and all the way, that somehow if I numb it, if I stuff it, if I just feel one more bite going into my mouth, I will finally feel complete.

And then after that second bowl and I’m alone again, I’m emptier. Because it doesn’t really feed what needs feeding. And it doesn’t matter that no one saw me and no one knows. I was there to judge me, and believe me, I’m harsh enough.

How can a mother get the nourishment she really needs?

When will I stop looking outside myself for validation, for job well done, for I’m sorry, for I’m here, I’m here, I’m here?

When will I wake up and go to bed believing I’m enough? That I’m worthy?

I don’t know, honestly. I keep waiting for something to shift in me, but I might just have to live as if for a while, until my habits can give meaning to my internal truth.

I eat well because I’m worth it, not because I have to shed these extra pounds. I run and practice yoga because they feed something else in me, they make me feel good and strong, and not because I hate my body and need to punish it. I drink water because it doesn’t make my stomach hurt like cereal does, and I’m worth feeling good.

Say it again, all together now: I’m enough. Now and 10 minutes from now. At this weight and other weights. At this job and not at this job. Being a mother and taking a break. I am enough, no matter.


For more scarcity and abundance inspiration, I highly recommend my friend Abby Norman’s Scarcity Hunter email newsletters. Check out her blog and contact her for more info.


On inspiration overload: My time at Festival of Faith and Writing 2014

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The first day pulls you in.


The opening plenary, amazing. You see friends from Twitter and have the strange experience of mentally fitting their face to their avatar. It’s too hard to choose breakout session options, and when you peruse live tweets you always feel like you picked the wrong one. But no matter. Tomorrow’s a full day of sessions and speakers and options. And although it’ll take you another month to listen to all you want to, you silently pray thanks for session recording.


Throughout the conference you feel a thousand emotions a minute. Inspired by one author’s words, weighed down by the next, both lifted up and cast into despair several times just that morning. Those writers you admire so much give their gift and you can’t help but feel dim next to their glow. You see the overabundance of talent and gifting and all the words being sent out into the world, and you wonder if your small voice matters at all. You suspect it’s already all been said.


Then, Anne Lamott gives you permission to be yourself just by virtue of being so genuinely herself. But seriously, the woman tells us she’s trying to love her body, then stands up and shakes her back fat for us. It’s so bizarre and yet, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen anything more brave and beautiful. And though you know of her success, you’ve read her and you know how widely she’s read and how beloved she is, but she doesn’t let jealousy or despair dominate. She tells you to write, she asks you please to write, to create, to do what you were made to do, and you believe her. She sounds like God herself, full of grace and love for your angst and small gifts.


By the third day, maybe you’ve already cried a few times. There’s only so much time, so Festival organizers have to pack the schedule full. I’m sure they turn away many worthy session options, even. But the truth of it is — there’s no margin. You want desperately to take a break, but more desperately don’t want to miss this next session on writing and justice, or the one after that on voice or memoir or poetry. I mean, it’s Luci Shaw. How could you skip that? You find a bench in the sunshine to just sit, and a new friend finds you, and it’s wonderful and important and when will you next get this chance?, but then you’re rushing off again. You’ve underestimated your need for downtime, especially in a creative and inspiring space like this.


You keep thinking ahead to the last plenary session, okay, partly because you want it to end even though you really really don’t. But most of all you know you’ll need the true words you know will be spoken on jealousy and art. Because have you stopped comparing yourself since you arrived? Have you been able to stop just for one minute and recognize how your unique calling fits, really sings here among all these voices, and you can stop looking around now? Maybe that’s why you’re so exhausted.


So when Rachel Held Evans says “We serve at the pleasure of a generous master. There’s plenty of work to do,” and then repeats it again and again, keeps singing it over us, like a psalm, like a lullaby, like a benediction, you can finally exhale. You can see how patient God is with you in your smallness, in your ignorance. You can see how he delights in you and gently tells you to knock it off already. Because comparison and jealousy will always cloud the real work He’s calling you to.


And to quote Annie Lamott (and her friend Pammy), honey, you don’t have that kind of time.


When your body remembers: Adoption and grief

I’m not sure if it’s the smell in the air, the feeling after the holidays or the letdown of post-Christmas that makes it hit me every January.

But every January, without fail, a weight settles in.

I wrestle with it for days, even a week or two, and then it finally dawns on me: Oh. My dad. He died January 25.

Even when my conscious brain isn’t registering the reason, my body remembers. She remembers and she starts preparing for grief, for shock, for pain. It’s been 13 long years, and it still hasn’t faded. Every January, the familiar, bewildering weight. The depression. The fog.

And when I realize what it is at last, there’s nothing to do but to sit with it. I just have to let myself feel the loss again.

* * *

Three years and three days ago, we brought an African baby home to cold, dry, unfamiliar Minnesota. We brought him from Uganda — land of red dirt and stunning beauty; of honesty and pain and wonder and staggering contrasts. Of warmth and light. The only land he had ever known.


In the jubilant homecoming airport scene, he was scream-laughing and making everyone smile so hard it hurt. His body was electric, shaking, excited, overstimulated, overtired. He was just 9 months old. It was a lot to take in.

Now we are three years later and I swear to you: His body remembers.

These last weeks have been full of heightened anxiety, of acting out, of impulsive action, of tantrums and neediness. There have been many more questions about “my ‘nother mommy” and of Uganda, of his beginnings and identity and story. We’ve looked at pictures of our days together there, of kicking in the bath basin, of walking around the guesthouse grounds, of his auntie. He looks at the pictures and tells me he was sad.

He’s only 3. This is the first year there have been enough words to explore the feelings, I think.

And I want to give it all to him, I want to fix it, I want to reach the hurt places and wrap them in love, love, love.

But I can’t touch all of it, because it doesn’t belong to me. I have to let him sit with it. I have to let him feel the ache of loss. It’s only after he feels it, explores it, gives it a name before we can get back to the ordinary business of gradual redemption.