31 days of choosing enough

Each day this October on my blog, I'll be walking through this idea that I am enough, that we are enough. I would love you to come join me in this series, 31 days of Choosing Enough. I don't claim to actually know anything, but I do want to learn. I do want to know this truth, deep within my very soul. Let's walk this together? the posts :: 

day one ||  choosing enough (and choosing ice cream)

day two || rest in this

day three || we are enough

day four || I like you just as you are (a free printable) 

day five || believe the unbelievable

day six || a prayer for a weary monday

day seven || the words of a lion heart

day eight || for when your face burns red

day nine || Christ, be enough for me

day ten || that word for the year? It wasn't what I wanted

day eleven || known and approved (a free watercolour printable)

day twelve || not because you did, but because you are

day thirteen || you are more

day fourteen || a letter to my body

day fifteen || the wednesday collection

day sixteen || the adequate inadequate

day seventeen || may we celebrate you

day eighteen || you are enough (a free printable)

day nineteen || who you are is enough

day twenty || fighting for myself

day twenty-one || I'll try and stop running away now

day twenty-two || may I not let that define me

day twenty-three || make a list (and a free printable)

day twenty-four || let us both show up today

day twenty-five || the prayer I need to see (a free printable)

day twenty-six || find your safe people

day twenty-seven || buying yourself a reminder

day twenty-eight || trying something new

day twenty-nine || the long walk home

day thirty || where my worth is rooted

day thirty-one || so they say this is the end

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this is how I see you

Dear Mom, You're beautiful.

You're the most beautiful person in the world, if you want my opinion.

If I were to write these words large and proud right across your bathroom mirror so you could see them in the morning, or stroke them on a banner and wave it tall and high all stretched out from each corner of the sky, or whisper them quiet in your ear every moment of every day, it still wouldn't be nearly enough. 

You've taught me that when you love someone, you tell them who they are to you. So today I'm telling you - you're beautiful, Mom. And more than that, you're funny and kind and tender and spirited. You're all the best things that there are in a person, really.

But you're absolutely beautiful.

You emit grace with every breath that releases from your lips. Slow, patient, untiring. Grace for me, grace for others, gracefulness in all you do. Because of the immense and extraordinary love you have for me, you've shown me how I should go out and love others.

And yes, I know we've had our days (cough, years), like when you were home schooling me in eighth grade, and I yelled at you almost every day that you were COMPLETELY RUINING MY ENTIRE LIFE. Remember that? Yeah, I'm sure you do.

But we got past that, didn't we? We got past the days of Liv and I fighting over our Ken doll, past the days of us refusing to eat your tuna melts, past the days of not getting my favourite part in my favourite play. We've had good days and bad days and each day we made it through. Together.

You welcomed me into this world, and then you held me close after I fell down all those stairs, and you kissed my fingers when I burned my hand, and you prayed over me more times than I can count, and you cried with me when those girls were cruel, and you waved goodbye when I left to go to Africa, and then, in that airport, you welcomed me right back home.

When you told me Jesus loves me, I believed you, because you love me.

When you told me that I am beautiful, I believed you, because you're beautiful.

And when you told me if I said one more mean word you were going to wash my mouth out with soap, I believed you, because you're honest and you stick to what you say.

When I was little, I wanted to be just like you when I grew up. And the truth is, at twenty, still little in so many ways, I still do. I want to be like you.

So, this is how I see you, Mom.

I see you strong and brave and humble. I see you empathetic and adventurous and kind. I see you classy and smart and creative.  

I see you beautiful. I see you so beautiful - altogether beautiful, beautiful in every way. 

Let me ask something of you. Tomorrow when you wake up and look at yourself in the mirror, when you're tempted to see you as you've always seen yourself, will you think about this? Will you think about how I see you instead?

Maybe I can't write these words across your bathroom mirror, or hang them on a banner high, but I can scratch them down here for you to come back to.

I see you beautiful. Here, now, always.

I love you forever,

Love me

I believe that you are altogether beautiful, too. For you, this print is on sale for 25% off for the next week, using the code "altogetherbeautiful" at the checkout of the Choose Brave Shop, choosebrave.bigcartel.com. 

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someday #letuscreate

I've been looking for a place to share some ugly poetry, some unfinished stories, a mish-mash of all the things I want to write. And I want you to feel free to join in with me. Don't worry about it being finished or beautiful or published. Be brave. Let us create. Here. I'll go first.

Someday

I am an old woman in this young girls body

My flesh and inabilities stretched right across these bones

Your fragile weight precariously placed upon my shoulders

I love you don't you see? and that is our sweet dilemma

My love runs too deep like an ache un-relieving

You ache too and with this your aches become mine

I can see our tapestry once woven

But the seams split apart in the centre now

We ache together but in different rooms separate places worlds away

do you feel this too?

I wonder I wander Often

Wonder if anyone can be further even with this proximity

I long to rub your ache away to feel your withered fingers but you, too, are old

Wise and old and only a boy

You'll sleep soon, I know and when you wake I'll be here

Our stories spread wide our exhaustion worn thin

And you'll know my love my achy, desperate love a love in which I've had for you your whole life long

Someday

When you link up you'll be eligible to win a huge Choose Brave print bundle featuring my own hand lettered prints. I'm excited to read your words!

An InLinkz Link-up

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Let us create

I like you people so let me tell you a dream of mine: I want to someday have a fiction book with my name on it. I love fiction.

I love poetry.

I love stories.

And sometimes I find that there isn't really a place for me to share these short fiction stories, or midnight poetry, or scenes of a movie that have danced round my head.

So. Let us make a place.

Let's have a place where we can collide worlds of fantasy and fiction, of poetry and prose, of things we've always longed to write. I have about seventeen unfinished books. I'm pretty good at writing only the first chapter.

The unfinished chapters of the book you're hoping to someday write? That's welcome here.

The scrawled out thoughts on the notes section of your phone? That's welcome here.

The poetry that wakes you up in the middle of the night simply begging to be written? That's welcome here.

The lyrics that appear in your head that have been scrawled down on a receipt or napkin? That's welcome here.

The artwork you've always wanted to show someone? That is welcome here.

Your stories -- your raw, unedited, don't-really-want-anyone-to-see stories -- they are welcome here.

So let us create, with words and imagery and lyrics and poems.

Meet me back here next Tuesday (September 9). Bring your works of fiction, your songs, your rhymes and ballads and we'll link them all up right here. And let us be brave, and let us create, and let us share with one another.

I'll see you here.

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in the year since africa

In the year since Africa, there was one trip to the beach.

I stared at the water - so vast and limitless - contemplating the reality of how simultaneously in that moment, a Rwandan hiked hours to fill his yellow bucket, while I took mere steps to stand beside an entire ocean.

In the year since Africa, there were hundreds of people who informed me what they “needed”.

These “needs” included: more steamed soy milk, decaf espresso only, less space in their coffee cup, a larger piece of banana loaf, a cheaper drink, more space in their coffee cup, or the homeless person that was begging outside to please leave as she was disturbing "the coffee shop vibe".

In the year since Africa, there was a diagnosis. 

There were innumerable doctor appointments, eight chemotherapy treatments, one surgery, more needles than I can count. Pills, a lot of pills, and charts, and IV watercolour bruises, and nurses that came to the door almost everyday.

In the year since Africa, there was an opportunity to join the amazing community of (in)courage. 

It was here I was extended grace and community. It was here that, for me, my inexperience and inadequacy became prominent, and it was here where that prominency was promptly ignored, because I was accepted simply for who I am.

In the year since Africa, there were more prayers uttered than ever before.

I ignored God for a little while (I thought this would help, when in reality it only hurt) but when I came back to Him, I asked for a cure for cancer, for an end for world poverty, for a tangible way to make a difference, and hundreds of other requests in the gaps between.

In the year since Africa, there were people who changed my life for the good and for good.

There was a lot of writing, and a lot of drawing, which led to a small shop opening. There was a search for hope. There was a longing for something more than what I had been living. 

In the year since Africa, there were many celebrations. 

There were six birthdays, Christmas, my parents 25th wedding anniversary, and then there was the fact that my brave beautiful momma finished her eight rounds of chemo.

In the year since Africa, there was a moment of realization in which every day is a day deserved to be celebrated. 

In this year since Africa?

It was a year I never imagined, nor expected, nor wanted - not in my wildest of dreams. But it was my year. And it was the worst and the best of times commingled and wrapped into one.

So today, as I reflect upon this, I take a breath, and ask Jesus to keep holding me through this next year, this next season, this day.

Hold me. Hold me. Hold me.  And whisper Your grace through it all. 

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five minute friday: belong

Linking up with Crystal Stine today for Five Minute Friday, where we write for five minutes flat. No editing, no backspacing, no need for perfection. Just come as you are kind of writing. The prompt today is:

belong...

You don’t belong there. 

That’s what I think when I see you today. All hooked up with those watercolour bruises on your hand; the IV drip the lullaby which sings you to sleep. And you just don’t belong there. 

For the hundredth time, I wish it was me in place of you. I wished that during the diagnosis, during chemotherapy, but today I wish it harder. It still doesn’t come true.

You don’t belong there.

Not on that bed, or in that gown, or with that bracelet which bears your name wrapped all tight around your skinny wrist. 

You belong in a thousand, thousand other places. 

On the beach, your floppy hat perched right on your head, the yellow bucket swinging low in your hands, while you stoop gently to carefully pick up shell, after shell, after shell. 

Sitting on the porch swing, your book in your lap, a cup of coffee steaming hot beside you, with the birds chirping loud and you humming along to their tune. I’ll tell you a secret: your voice is even prettier then theirs. 

At the table around us, your hands clasped with mine and his and his, like an unbreakable chain, a force to be reckoned with, and we all know you’re the head of that force, because you’re stronger than all of us combined. 

You belong whole. You belong healthy. You belong here. 

And here you’ll be. 

Soon. 

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the story of her strength

I saw the scars on her wrists, her arms, her shoulders. Tiny marks she had tattooed to herself, as she ripped the blade into the depths of her skin.

I don’t cut. I’ve never cut. The thought of cutting myself makes me wince, because pain isn’t something I’ve ever been very good at dealing with.

But she cut. And she’s smiling.

I try not to stare at the scars, because I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. And yet, I’m overwhelmed by their raw and tangible beauty. She’s standing there, smiling, scars on her arms and strength in her voice, and I see those scars not as shattered flesh, but as things that tried to kill her, and yet didn’t - and there she stands, tall and victorious.

And she is strong.

She doesn’t cut anymore. Instead she smiles. She smiles a lot, actually.

And those scars bear proof of her strength. She may think them ugly, but I think they’re beautiful. 

Her scars tell the story of her struggle, but they also tell the story of her strength. 

I think our scars and our struggles and our strength go right there, hand in hand, and that beauty comes from the depths of our pain. It is real and it is human. And maybe that’s why the scars are so beautiful to me. Perfection is incredibly unattainable, isn’t it? It’s something so many of us desperately strive for, and yet it’s simply a facade no one can possibly keep up.

But raw, broken, scar-worthy beauty? That’s human. That’s real. And that’s beautiful.

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I look at her again, and this time I don’t see the scars, or even the smile that lights up her entire face. Instead, I see a girl who once was broken, and now is on her way towards becoming whole. Who once needed the companionship of a razor blade to feel complete, and now rests in the comfort of Jesus. Who once thought seclusion was the only way to live, and now knows authentic relationships with people brings healing.

She is the face of one girl, but she represents so many.

We as people, young or old or in the middle, can share - not only about our scars, our struggles and our strength - but about the hope that is formed in the midst of it all.

Our scars tell the story of our struggle, but more than that, they tell the story of our strength. 

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dear John

His eyes were blue.

That’s what I remember when I think back to our conversation. I remember thinking his eyes looked exactly like the ocean.

We were on our way home, from Moncton to Toronto, and he sat in the aisle seat, while I had the window. I love the window seat the most, because I like to look out at the millions of tiny houses and cars and people and pools and pretend they're a city I could hold between my fingertips. 

The plane had just started to climb into the air when he knocked his elbow against mine. I turned to him. I smiled. 

I always smile when I feel awkward. 

“My name is John.” He said, each word painfully slow, his hand sort of flapping while pointing to his chest. 

“Hi John. It’s nice to meet you. My dad's name is John, too.” 

He sort of smiled and then asked me, long and slow, each syllable a marathon, “What is your name?”

I felt guilty when the word slipped quick and easy from my lips. “Aliza.” 

“Aliza,” he repeated, nodding. 

He looked at me, his blue eyes sharp but kind. 

“I have to apologize.” His face contorted as he said this, and I wondered if he might cry. “I haven’t always been like this. It wasn’t this way when I was born. I got into an accident.”

It took a few moments to comprehend what he said, because I found it hard to understand some of his words. But then I realized. 

I have the same feeling now as I had then - this deep set sinking in my gut, a pain that sits inside every string in my heart - knowing that this man felt he needed to apologize to me because I might think him different. 

I knew when I had sat down beside him, that by physical standards, he and I were not exactly the same.

What I didn't know, was that it was an acquired brain injury, and what I couldn't fathom, was that he would feel it necessary to say sorry to the girl who sat beside him.

“You don’t have to apologize.” 

He simply smiled, and I wondered: how many plane trips had he taken where people didn’t talk to him because people thought he was different? How many times had he walked down the street and was treated unkindly because people thought he was different? How many days did he wake up wishing, praying, begging God to go back to the day where people didn't think him different?

Before John’s accident, no one would have looked at him twice. But I saw the looks he was given on the plane, looks I was given on that plane - as if they pitied me for having to sit next to him. 

My heart hurt then, because the truth is, John’s no different then me. 

The function of our bodies may not work the same way  - but we were fastened and formed and moulded and made and brought into this world by a God who loves us madly.

The insides of our brain may look a little different - but we're both searching and hoping and laughing and struggling, and so yes, maybe those things don't look the exact same for the two of us, but who is to say that determines that he is different and I am normal? 

I despise the fact that he felt he needed to apologize to me, as if I was this poor, unlucky, burdened girl by having to sit next to him on the plane.

John’s favourite movie is 21 Jump Street. He reads a lot of books and loves Netflix, and used to be a really good biker. He was a daredevil when he was fourteen years old, and he loves going to the gym.

He pointed to the long scar on my right knee and asked me what happened. John is well aware of peoples' scars.

He wondered if I was in university or college, and I said no, but I told him I write. He smiled when I said that, and he told me he likes thinking of ideas for books, but he would hate to actually write one.

"Way too much work," he said. I laughed.

Before we got off the plane, as we descended low into Toronto, John elbowed me again. I turned to him, and I’ll never forget the words he gave to me.

“Aliza, I hope you do well with your writing." And in the sincerest voice I've ever heard, "And I hope that you are able to do everything I can’t.”

I wanted to cry as he bestowed those words upon me. 

I prayed for him while I meandered down the airport halls, watching the people hurry off to wherever they so desperately needed to get to.

Let him know he is valuable. Let him know he matters. Let him know he’s worth so much more than he could ever comprehend. 

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for the hope-full, and the hope-filled, and the hope-less (and a giveaway!)

“Aliza,” he said, and his voice sounded full so I craned my neck to listen closer and she was there, too, smiling, looking directly into my heart as he spoke. “It’s okay to not be okay.” I sat back, and the tears welled up behind my sunglasses. Because no one had ever said those words to me before. And maybe, even if someone had said them, maybe I wouldn’t have believed them, because doesn’t being broken scream to people that you’re weak?

So my friends, Nick and Sarah, they say this to me, on a six-hour road trip to the capital city of Canada. While the trees roll by, and the silence seems holy, and these words are the kind that sit in the pit of your soul just aching to be spilled out of your lips and given as a precious offering to others.

We are twenty-three, and twenty-two, and nineteen, and we are Generation Y.

I once read that “Y” is the worst letter. It’s the wishbone, it’s the fork in the road, it’s the empty wineglass. It’s the question we ask ourselves over and over, as our worlds seem to shatter around us. A fitting description for my generation.

I believe that Generation Y is hurting. And broken. And hopeless. And maybe there are times where you feel hurt and broken and hopeless, too.

I'm writing over at (in)courage today where we're hosting a Hashtag Hope GIVEAWAY... join me? 

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when the lilacs remind me of Your love

She picks me up from work today.

I hand her the tea and sit next to her.

The car still has that new smell, reminds me of a mixture of chlorine and the Garden Gallery. I look over at her and she is radiant.

She asks me if we can go pick some lilacs. It’s the last few lingering days of May and we can almost taste June now. And this winter was very long, and very hard, and you all know that because you felt it, too. Through that long, hard, seemingly never ending winter, we longed for spring. And spring has arrived, in all her succulent glory. She tells me she’s learning to bring the beauty inside. So when she asks me if we can go pick some lilacs, I say yes.

We drive around our little town of Dundas, on the hunt for that taste of spring. The sun is shining bright, and though the air is sort of nippy, we don't stop looking. And we find them, after a little bit of searching. Because sometimes things don’t happen as quickly as we hope for them to. But it doesn't mean you stop searching.

She grins when we spot them, tucked behind the few trees over there, and there’s a man waiting by the bus stop just down the hill, and a slight thrill runs through us when we go to take some flowers.

She inhales deeply, smelling them, and I watch her. Their fragrance is overwhelming in the best, most summery way, and we’re surrounded by purple and white and lavender and mauve, and they smell like all the prettiest things in the world. We gently pull them off, creating small bouquets in the center of our hands.

And the lilacs remind me of Your love.

“Look at them, Aliza,” she whispers. “Isn’t it amazing how God created these flowers purely for our enjoyment?”

I look at her and I see You.

I look at the blooms and I feel Your love.

We gather ourselves back into the car and head home, and when we get there she puts the lilacs in that green redeemed jar - because we are redeemed, and the lilacs are Your love, and every time I look at them, I see You and her and my redemption.

And the lilacs remind me of Your love.

She smiles again when she smells them, and I smile, too. Because her smile has so much meaning these days. The simple spring flowers fasten so much joy into her heart, and I wonder why it's so hard for me to find simplistic beauty all around like she does.

I look at her. I look at the flowers.

These lilacs remind me of Your love.

I pray they always do.

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