Living in the Midwest, I get the gift of understanding the longing for spring more than most people. We live in a state of transition for months; gray trees and bipolar weather that can swing 30–40 degrees in a single week.

It births in you a longing.

A longing for any spec of green, any warmth of sun on your skin, and a desperation for the first day you can go barefoot on the lawn.

And so we wait. We wear sweaters in sleet and then shorts the next day in 68°. We drink hot coffee when there’s freezing rain and iced matchas in sunshine. We exist in the in between.

And the ache builds. We know spring is coming. It has to eventually. But we don’t know when we will have our last snowfall or when the sun will stop playing peek-a-boo and start to make its daily appearance.

I have found myself sitting in the in between most of March and April, caught in my desire, refusing to put on my winter coat, and so I suffer through the cold.

But fast-forward to today, the sun rose and revealed some green. We sat on the deck drinking Arnie Palmers and grilling hot dogs, playing basketball in the driveway, and I stuck my bare feet in the grass.

When I lived in California, I took those simple days for granted. But today, it’s a longing fulfilled.

And it’s so much sweeter.

Longing builds something in me. I think it’s why we fast during Lent. It’s why we have engagement before marriage and 9 months of preparation before a baby comes. And I think it’s why we live in the “already, but not yet” of the kingdom of God. God has something for us as humans in our longings. It’s why he doesn’t take them away or fulfill them right away.

I don’t know about you, but have you ever read the Bible and wondered, “Why did Jesus take so long?”

I’ve been reading through the Old Testament for the past two years, and if I had to summarize, it seems like a long storyline of learning what doesn’t work to fulfill our desires. And with each attempt, with judges, and kings and prophets and even reaching the “promised land” it doesn’t satisfy. It only grows the anticipation. It only leaves them sitting in more discontentment.

And then, after all that silence: Jesus.

The ultimate longing fulfilled. Not how they thought. And many abandoned him in the process because of it. But those who let their ache grow enough, found themselves at an empty tomb.

And I can’t imagine the joy they must have had to see it empty.

I still don’t know how to sit in the in-between of seasons well. I sat in this last one with a lot of restlessness and discontentment.

I’m officially 39 weeks pregnant, and I have had plenty of moms tell me that the last weeks are the hardest, the most uncomfortable.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe it’s good not to be comfortable.

Maybe it’s producing something in me.

In the same way, this world is producing a longing for heaven that cannot be satisfied here on earth.

So maybe I’m not supposed to enjoy the cold, dreary, terrible March days in Minnesota. Maybe it’s okay to sit in the ache and not beat myself up to be more content. Maybe it’s pointing to something more.

It’s May now. I drove through St. Paul yesterday with the windows down, noticing all the cherry blossom trees and green that has finally popped. The birds sing their songs and as my hair whips past my shoulders.

This is what I was waiting for.

And the months of waiting are almost forgotten.

“For the joy set before him he endured…”-Hebrews 12:2

For the One,

I won’t lie, “spring” has been hard again this year. I’d rather be in winter or summer, not the awkward transition that Marc…

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Hello, it’s been a minute, but I have good reason (and good content) coming your way from the past few weeks. (One of which is a free printable on creating …

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My generation wants less. Gen Z wants less alcohol, less stuff, and, as we all know, less stress.

I catch myself hopping on the bandwagon, dreaming of 30 days of paid vacation like Europe, riding my bike to work in place of my car, and living in a world without smartphones.

So I felt some inner turmoil as I read this quote in my devotional the other day.

“God’s invitation is always to more, not less.”

Immediately, the pushback came. What about burnout? What about our fast-paced American culture that seems to degrade our souls?

What does the invitation to “more” look like in a culture that never sleeps? Never sabbaths? Never rests?

And yet, as I scanned through the stories of my life and the stories of Scripture, I saw that God was always weaving a thread of more: A job that stretches me, a move across the country, a marriage that challenges me, and always a bigger step of faith than what came before.

It’s all come with more responsibility. More energy is required. More faith to be had, more time management is needed, and more growth in communication. But what came with it was more memories, more miracles, more smiles, more growth, and more meaning.

And maybe what we miss with the call God gives us to more is that it does require less.

Less selfishness, less entitlement. Less room to doubt and grasp for control.

And maybe our overwhelm comes because we try to hold it all- We try to bring our love of self into a marriage, and it doesn’t seem to work. And I imagine holding onto control, and fear doesn’t breed peace in parenting either.

There’s an obsession in my generation about burnout. It’s why we can’t stop talking about sabbath, rest, and work-life balance. And it’s not undeserved. We’ve watched overworked pastors fall into affairs, and stress turn into cancer. We’re overwhelmed by our own scrolling, reeling with the same message over and over:

“You need more.”

And so our generation has longed for less. We want less screentime and less stuff. We want camcorders and film cameras, not endless SD cards and iCloud unlimited storage.

But I wonder if that stops us when God does invite us to more.

I wonder if we feel too much fear to step into our callings.

Or too overwhelmed by the stress that will come with parenting.

Or too afraid of the sacrifice to step into the job we dream of?

I am a big proponent of sabbaths, prayer retreats, long vacations, less stuff, and old camcorders. I am no exception to my own generation’s longing for less.

But I’m recognizing that sometimes, behind that desire for a life of less isn’t a desire to please God, walk in health, or be obedient.

It’s simply fear.

Fear of overwhelm. Lack of trust in what God is inviting me into. Fear of failure if I committ 100% and fall flat on my face.

There’s a subtle lie in my generation that an invitation to more has to be overwhelming.

But what if we walk in faith?

What if we rest when He says?

What if we let go of what’s behind and look toward what’s ahead?

Does it have to be?

I think I’ve fallen for that lie.

And I think I’m done with it now.

And maybe God invites us to more because he sees more in me.

More in you.

For the One,

For four years, I never lived in a place longer than six months. By the end of those years, I was so excited for my “sourdough and kombucha era,” where I could live in a place long enough to keep a starter alive and not get a moldy scoby.

And while I relished the slow living and stability, I realized I had a major discontentment with my stuff. I felt more overwhelmed by my daily to-dos, seemed to spend less time with God, and felt clouded spiritually.

Why did I prefer living out of a suitcase?

So in 2021, I started to purge my things. And while I did feel lighter, I still missed living out of a suitcase.

Fast forward to January of last year, and I realized I needed to figure this out.

I stumbled upon Marie Kondo’s question from The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up — and it became a turning point when I started asking the Holy Spirit the same question.

Her message isn’t just about how to declutter or get rid of things you don’t use. Her central question is this:

“Does it spark joy?”

I was keeping things I thought I needed, were valuable or useful, but at the end of the day, they brought anxiety, not joy.

So I started to go through everything I owned, asking the question — and ultimately asking God to help me get rid of things that were no longer mine to steward. I was surprised by how much I didn’t need. I ended my purge with exactly four t-shirts and a few tank tops.

But I didn’t expect the spiritual implications of my purge.

1. The emptiness is a good thing

I remember sitting in my sunroom with a cup of tea, feeling empty. There was space in the room. I couldn’t cover anything up with stuff. I couldn’t cover the ache in my soul with things to do or a shopping list to check off.

There was less busyness and less clutter in my spirit. My time with God could move beyond processing stress and to-do lists.

He met me in emptiness. I started to let him back into my soul.

2. Gratitude sets in

When I was surrounded by fewer things, it illuminated gratitude for what I had. We don’t realize how much extra stuff clouds our mental energy — things to take care of, things to organize, things to get rid of.

There’s a mystery here I can’t fully explain, but my gratitude increased when I had less.

3. I wasn’t too busy for God

For me, I wasn’t actually too busy for God — I just had too much stuff to take care of. The less you have, the less you need to clean, organize, maintain, and steward.

I don’t think we realize how much time we spend on our things, and how much they cloud our ability to focus on what matters.

I don’t believe stuff is evil. But I am inspired by Jesus, who seemed to purposely live without acquiring too much of it.

He warns us:

“Life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.”
— Luke 12:15

And I think often of His words:

“Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay His head.”
— Luke 9:58

I write this from the comfort of a suburban home, on a laptop, with a king-size bed and a closet now containing more than four shirts. These words convict me even as I write them. I still feel like I have a long way to go in my relationship with stuff.

If we aren’t conscious of it, we unconsciously accumulate more and more — until the spiritual effects hide under the surface and we hardly notice them.

When Jesus told the rich young ruler to “sell all your possessions and give to the poor” (Matthew 19:21), was it about the poor needing money — or about what this man’s soul needed?

Maybe both. And maybe the same is true for us.

I haven’t sold everything I own or given it all away. But I don’t want it to be off-limits. Through this process, I’ve learned that guarding my relationship with stuff is a way of guarding my heart.

How to begin:

1. Go through everything you own.
It will take work, but there is a reward on the other side. Rather than asking, “Will I use this?” I asked, “Does this spark joy?” and let God whisper the response.

2. Find a place for everything.
If I can’t find a place for something, it usually means I’m not meant to keep it. If I don’t have space for it, I can’t steward it. Nowadays I’ve learned when I buy something new, I have to ask: “Where will I put this?”

3. Appreciate it — and let it go.
Now is the time to look back on all those old things you saved to remember one day. If you are nostalgic like me, this is HARD! But now is that day. And I have such sweet memories laughing through my notes from my Bible when I was 12, rereading my first writing in second grade, and crying the last time I wore my wedding dress in front of my husband — and then I let those things go. What’s ironic is that I saved all those things to look through one day, but never did until I finally decided to let them go.

Our life is not our possessions — but how we use them seems to shape what we’re living for.

Maybe it isn’t just clearing your schedule or getting a bigger house. Maybe the invitation from Jesus is the sacrifice and work it takes to have less.

I’m still learning. I still own more than I need. My desk is currently cluttered. But as I sort, and pray, and release, I keep discovering the same thing:

What feels practical is often unmistakably spiritual.

For the One,

Today, the whole world is celebrating the birth of Jesus—whether they recognize it or not. Christmas has captured the hearts of people across the globe.

I love Christmas. And at times, I’ve felt a bit guilty that I seem to put more into Christmas than Easter. Shouldn’t Easter be the bigger celebration?

But I sensed there was something here for me if I leaned in—something hidden in the idea of the incarnation.

Because, if I’m honest, I don’t think I really got the incarnation: fully God, fully man. I learned it in Sunday school so long ago that it’s become more of a theological statement than a mystery that still inspires awe.

As I leaned in—pondering why Christmas is such a big deal—I began to capture why it may be so foundational.

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God entering flesh and time set into motion an unstoppable force of redemption for the world.

That phrase has been echoing in my mind:

“An unstoppable force set in motion.”

When I apply it to the rest of my life, it carries with it a fierce joy, a deep peace, and I’m filled with this hope that I can’t shake.

I sat in my bed Christmas Eve and thought through the things that trouble me—the prayers I’ve prayed for countless hours, the longings that have not yet been fulfilled, the places where God just feels plain old distant.

And I paused to remember the incarnation.

An unstoppable force set in motion.

Jesus.

The arc of Jesus is the story of humanity but it’s also the arc of my life, over and over. Death to life.

And I remembered this: The unstoppable goodness of God has been set in motion—in my life, and in the very places that still seem to be oozing slowly with death and darkness.

Christmas feels like exactly what we need in this “already but not yet” world. Jesus has come and brought an inextricable connection back to God with a hope that it all will be won back to him. And yet death and pain still ooze through our lives, sometimes in what feels more like a gush.

We feel far from heaven, slowly pulling it down, clinging to the promise, hoping for the ultimate end.

But it has already been set in motion.

And so we light candles as we wait.
We bake our favorite cookies.
We place lights on evergreen trees as we cling to our eternity.
We hang twinkling lights on rooftops in the middle of dark, cold winters.
We decorate with shiny, beautiful things.
We sing carols door to door, create family traditions, and give extravagant gifts.

All to remember this:

An unstoppable force has been set in motion.

Merry Christmas. 🎄

For the One,

Hey everyone,

It’s been over two years of starting this Substack. And while I have loved talking about the journey of our faith (and don’t plan on stopping) there has been ideas welling up in me over these two years that don’t fit in that niche.

And so I realized: Why not start another?

But I want your thoughts: The honest, raw thoughts and what content you really want to consume.

Fill Out the 5 Minute Survey

And as a thank you, I’m doing a drawing for one $25 Amazon Gift Card so you can pick up a book or two on your reading list.

Stay tuned.

I’m excited for what’s to come.

For the One,

TAKE THE SURVEY

I’ve always been a Christmas-starts-after-Thanksgiving kind of girl, but this year my husband convinced me to start a little earlier. I was actually excited about it—excited to shop sooner, excited to begin Advent in step with the Orthodox calendar.

By December 1st, almost all my shopping was done. I felt ahead. I felt prepared.

I felt peace.

But then the last few days hit.

Even though my shopping list was empty, my to-do list started growing longer and longer—and with it, my peace started disappearing. Add in a broken snowblower after an eight-inch snowfall, and suddenly, the “all is calm and bright” I was hoping for evaporated.

I wish I didn’t get so easily thrown off by a to-do list.
I wish tasks didn’t hang over my head for months.
But they do.

I want my Christmas season to look like quiet mornings with an Advent devotional, tea by the fire, long dark nights of rest, and slow evenings watching snow drift down.

Instead, I so often begin strong—and then get blindsided by the endless things that need doing. My joy gets snatched, and shame creeps in at my perceived lack of productivity.

But recently, I remembered something a mom of small kids—a fellow woman with a never-ending to-do list—shared with me a few years ago.

“Ask Jesus: What am I to do today?”

And then trust that whatever he says to do is enough.

Period.

You might think, “Of course, Lisa, duh. Pray about everything.”
But when I think back on the times I’ve actually done this—really surrendered my list—I’m stunned by how different my days feel.

When I prayerfully lay out my to-do list with Jesus:

• He highlights things I wouldn’t normally prioritize
• He leaves out things I’m convinced I must get done
• And His list is always shorter than mine

And yet… somehow everything that needs to get done, gets done.

Our to-do lists love to shame us.
They love to define us.
They love to whisper that we are behind, failing, not enough.

But Jesus leads differently.

Rather than letting our to-do list be the judge of a day well lived, we get to let God’s voice set the course.

So today, I wrote out everything on my list.
Then I asked God, “Which ones are for me today?”

I’m committing to those.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.

And slowly—beautifully—peace is returning.

“Seek peace and pursue it.” — Psalm 34:14

For the One,

I’m not saying you need to ditch your list of things you’re thankful for, but I think I’ve found an upgrade.

Here’s my story.

Last year I wrote a post that touched on the power of thankfulness and how I want to reclaim it in our society that has trivialized the art of gratitude.

So, this past week, in preparation for Thanksgiving, I began my list in my journal, starting with whatever first came to mind.

And I was deeply surprised that as I got to the end of the first page. Nothing I wrote had to do with what I had bought or possessed:

• The friendship of Jesus and nearness of God

• The hope and promise of eternity

• The way of Jesus that produces a life of love, joy, and peace.

• God’s movement and activity in the lives of my friends and family.

I realized that the things I was first grateful for were things that could not be taken from me, things completely unrelated to what I owned, where I lived, or what I could buy.

I’m not opposed to counting our blessings or offering thanksgiving for our external things.

But I wonder if there’s a secret here, a key to living a lifestyle of gratitude.

What if living in a constant state of gratitude isn’t about observing our external blessings at all?

What if it’s about focusing our perspective on the intangible things that can’t be taken? And as I read through Philippians I realized this could actually be Paul’s secret too.

We all know the verses, “I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.” (Philippians 4:12-13)

But this time around, I’m wondering if the secret of his contentment wasn’t that he could do “all things through Christ”

But rather that it was through “Christ who gives me strength.”

The first is based on the outcome, the second is based on the source.

In other words, Paul’s secret of contentment wasn’t in the fact that he could do all things, but that he could constantly rely on strength through Jesus, no matter what.

I so often take these realities for granted, but the more I dig into gratitude, I realize they are my deepest foundations for thankfulness:

1. There is constant strength found in Jesus to keep going when I am weak (Philippians 4:10-12).

2. I am promised an eternity with God with no more crying, tears, or pain (Revelation 21:4)

3. God’s ability to keep me is greater than my ability to lose me (Psalm 121:7-8).

And so as we dive into Christmas, as we build our Christmas lists and leave behind our thanksgiving, I’m going to be pondering and meditating on the intangible things that I’m grateful for, the things that cannot be taken.

Maybe you’ll join me.

For the One,

On Wednesday, I shared my journey of buying a sailboat and how it taught me a critical lesson on convenience. I will spare the r…

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I grew up on the water. I can’t remember a time without the deep blue waves, sitting on the bow with the wind blowing through my hair. I could basically tie a cleat hitch before I could tie my shoes (not fully true, but you get my point).

And so from a young age, being on the water was a part of me, and I knew I wanted a boat of my own. And in the array of motor boats in the marina, my eyes were drawn to the triangle tops that towered over me with navy blue hulls and white sheets flying on the horizon.

I wanted a sailboat.

And one day, as my dad and I were walking the docks on our way to the pool, my dad asked me, “What will you name your boat one day?”

And 8-year-old Lisa knew.

“Endless Fun”

And though the dream was left dormant for a long time, I learned to sail, and went on to get my day skipper certification in Italy.

This summer, I found the most beautiful little 16ft restored Leeward Luger sailboat a couple of miles from my house. I knew the next step would be learning to maintain a small boat of my own, so I installed a trailer hitch on my Honda Civic (with the help of my husband), shuffled through old lines and fenders, and stuck the name on the back.

And then I learned this: Sailboats are a lot of work. They’re inconvenient. You don’t just turn on your engine and go. Learning all the rigging, putting up the mast, and trailering the boat, it’s a lot to do. Getting the boat out on the water takes effort.

At first, I missed the days when I could take out boats from the sailing center whenever I wanted, rigged up and ready to go.

But I also learned that the inconvenience brought me something.

One of my favorite things about sailing is the hiss of the water when you start picking up steam, when you feel the heel of the boat, and there’s a quiet excitement that a motor would drown out.

If you’ve sailed before, you know. It’s an indescribable feeling.

I’ve realized that the pure exhilaration of being propelled by the wind on the water costs something.

And that something is convenience.

It is inconvenient to spend 30 minutes beforehand rigging up the boat.

It’s inconvenient to put up and take down the sails.

That moment of pure bliss is built through all the micro moments of maintenance, preparation, and work.

And I realized I had been conditioned by culture to assume that dopamine was meant to be convenient, and that inconvenience was meant to be avoided.

But through having my own sailboat this summer, I found that there was way more fulfillment in learning the process from start to finish to get my sails up and get on the water. When I leaned into the process, I found that the dopamine hit was all the more worth it because of the work that took to get there.

I don’t mean to make an enemy out of convenience. I’ll get grocery delivery as often as the next person, but I’ve been learning that sometimes convenience doesn’t get you where you want to go.

It is simply not convenient for me to stay in shape.

It is simply not convenient to eat healthy, to cook, and meal prep.

It is simply not convenient to spend time with God each morning.

It’s not convenient to stop and pray for someone.

It is simply not convenient to do so many of things that I want to do to be the person I want to be.

And while we can set up our lives to make these choices more convenient, at the end of the day, we have a choice.

Commit to a process.

I’m learning to commit to the painstaking work of consistent choices over time that aren’t easy or convenient.

Convenience is defined as “a thing that contributes to an easy and effortless way of life.”

At the end of the day, easy and effortless probably doesn’t get you where you want to go. Easy and effortless isn’t inspiring, it doesn’t build character, and while we all want our life to be easier, it’s an output not an input.

It gets much easier to lift weights when you’ve put in the hours weight lifting.

It’s much easier to meal prep a weeks worth of food when you’ve planned and done it a million times before.

And the effortless feeling of flying across the water with the hissing of waves as your boat cuts through the water, it’s well worth it.

It’s worth the process. Worth the work.

There is a satisfaction for us to discover.

“The slacker craves, yet has nothing, but the diligent is fully satisfied.”-Proverbs 13:4

For the One,

Most of us want more: More money, more time, more travel, more rest. But I’m quite convinced that most of us don’t…

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I’m going to come out of the gate and say I don’t know if this is a fact checked statistic. A fellow house church pastor told me it, but I’m sharing it here because I believe it.

Because I had friends tell me their husband opened the Bible again for the first time in years.

Because someone I pray for everyday came up to my husband and said, “I went to church on Sunday!” excited to share it with him.

Because I’m seeing the videos on social media.

Because Bible sales are up this year compared to the last.

Because while so many people have spoken depressingly over the state of GenZ, I have watched us grow desperate for faith, and sold out when we find it.

So whether or not 12 million people actually went to Church the Sunday after Charlie Kirk’s assassination, God is on the move in America and I think it requires a response.

As someone who works with young people, I can say that this awakening in America has been brewing for years. There has been an openness to Jesus that I haven’t seen in my short lifespan.

There are key moments that I think we need to take hold of. In Greek it’s called kairos, defined as “a propitious moment for decision or action.”

As a young person, I’ve grown up almost my whole life in an environment that I would say is hostile to Christianity. Not hostile like China or Iran, but a culture that more often than not seemed at best uninterested and at worst completely opposed to any discussion of faith. Church attendance and Christian adherence has been declining in America as long as I’ve been alive.

And so when these kairos moments come, sometimes it’s easy to turn to the last decades of culture trends than to catch a faith-filled hope for revival in America.

We’re so used to the pushback. We’re so used to people not being open to talking about faith. We’re told that religion is one of the three things we never talk about. And so we don’t.

Sometimes I forget that there have been awakenings and revivals in America all throughout its history. I can’t imagine a truly faith-filled America because of the context I’ve grown up in. But then, there’s a kairos moment. And will we lean in?

We need to stop believing people are closed off to the gospel.

I’ve had this message brewing for awhile now that I haven’t been able to shake.

Hope.

Everything in me screams that the last 25 years will not define the next five. My generation won’t have an ending to its story like its beginning. And there are undercurrents much too strong to ignore.

It seems we have two options:

1. We can disregard this moment as just that: A fleeting moment of emotionalism that won’t have any lasting cultural or national impact.

Or

2. We can see it as a kairos moment. An opportune moment that God has gifted to see His purposes go forth.

We can look back at 25 years and expect that the same will occur, or we can take ahold of this moment and believe for a transformation of culture that will impact the next quarter of a century.

I’ve taken a moment to pause my writing and catch what I believe God is doing right now.

And I do, in this moment, believe it’s this:

In the third century in North Africa, Saints Perpetua and Felicity were martyred at roughly 22 years old. Eaten by wild beasts and beheaded in a they refused to renounce their faith in Jesus Christ.

In the crowd was a man named Tertullian who coined the famous phrase, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.”

Years later, the Basilica Majorum was built directly on top of their grave. It was, literally and figuratively, a seed for the Church in North Africa.

If I am honest, I have struggled to call Charlie Kirk a Christian martyr. It seemed to me that he was killed more for his political beliefs than his faith. And yet, as I thought through the martyrs of the past, I couldn’t deny that Christians have so often been killed not purely for a religious affiliation, but for how their faith defined their beliefs: Not bowing to a king or their golden statue, uncontrollable by the communist parties in power, and the belief in the kingdom of God that threatened Roman rule.

There’s nothing offensive or intimidating about a passive Christian who believes in secret and stands for nothing.

And the fruit of Charlie Kirk’s life and death, has been a seed of the Church.

That I cannot deny.

And I cannot deny that Charlie Kirk’s tragic death has inspired me with courage I didn’t know I needed. His tragic death has brought perspective that I believe is transforming the nation.

But my point of writing this is not so much about convincing you that Charlie Kirk was a martyr as much as I want fellow Christians to believe this:

We’re in a kairos moment.

A seed has been planted.

Hope.

Will we water it? Will we do the work of weeding and building the soil? Will we see it to a harvest?

Or will we believe that this is just another moment that will pass? That the ground is still hard, and it’s not worth our effort?

It’s my anthem this season for every believer to walk in the belief that this is true:

“The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.” -Matthew 9:37

So I pray to the Lord of the harvest to send workers into his harvest field in America.

Let me be one of them.

Best,

It was a welcome shift from the humid, sweaty days of early August, but my heart began to realize all the things that remained undone from my summer bucket list. I paused before my heart could panic, taking a moment to realize all the things I have fully enjoyed this summer.

Something I’ve been learning about joy is that sometimes it really is about noticing the little things.

I love beauty. I love arranging a dinner table with a few extra details just to make it feel special. I love a good picnic (you better believe I have the perfect wicker picnic basket I found at Goodwill). And I love teapots with loose-leaf tea. There is nothing more asethetic and beautiful to my soul than tea time with a friend.

There is joy to be found all around you.

So here are some little things I’ve been enjoying this summer that are worth sharing that might bring you joy too, or at least convince you to take 5 minutes to write your own list.

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1. This Gluten-Free Pasta that has changed our lives. If you’ve ever gone gluten-free, you know that pasta is just not the same… until you try this brand! I feel so much joy being able to eat pasta again that actually tastes like pasta! 🙌 The key is to choose pasta made of brown rice! You're welcome. Life changed.

   

2. My homemade mug. I picked this up at a little shop in Stillwater, MN. Something about a handmade mug feels so special. They are perfectly imperfect. Expensive, yes, but sometimes we need extravagant little things in our lives. We need art and beauty.

   

3. Grilled Chicken Thighs and Corn on the Cob from the Farmer’s Market. Something about the mess being outside makes it feel so easy to throw dinner together. Eating on the deck, listening to bird songs, and taking in the summer sun is delightful. Why did I ever buy chicken breasts? Chicken Thighs are the way. I’ve been loving a good coffee rub, or this Grilled Tandoori Chicken has been my go-to. (Go to your local indian grocery store and stock up on the spices, it’s well worth it)

   

4. Picking flowers in a neighbor’s backyard. It was the most beautiful morning, picking flowers and listening to my neighbor’s stories. She had served on city council, lived in this house her whole life, and believed her garden was her way of giving back. I was so deeply impacted. Sometimes I notice that we struggle to freely give and receive like that. And I want to cultivate it more.

   

5. This poetry book: Apricot Memoirs. It’s the most beautiful book, perfect for a coffee table, but the words in it are even more so- it’s been an aid in my journey to slow down and enjoy the beauty that God has hidden in the lesser noticed moments of my life. I adore this book.

   

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July slipped away as it always does. I am usually able to savor June, catch it in my hands and pause long enough to enjoy it, but after the 4th of July, summer slips away until August hits and I count down the days til the state fair. I took two trips this summer, one up north for my anniversary and one to Washington to visit one of my best friends. Both are ones I’m excited to share more about. I got a lot of writing done, but both also had one thing in common: Wildflowers.

There were so many wildflowers: White and blue and purple, and yellow. Some dotted the trails as I walked, others peeked out on the side of the road as we drove by.

I love wildflowers.

They pop up in the most unsuspecting places, always a delightful surprise along the path and trails, or highways and country roads. They seem to have no reason to be there; no one is promised to savor them or take the time to enjoy their color.

I was rereading a book I love dearly, a classic you probably know: Hinds’ Feet on High Places. It’s a beautiful little allegory based on Song of Songs about our journey to the “high places” with Jesus, the shepherd. And along the way, they see beautiful wildflowers.

The Shepherd says this, “The little wildflowers have a wonderful lesson to teach. They offer themselves so sweetly and confidently and willingly, even if it seems that there is no one to appreciate them. Just as though they sang a joyous song to themselves, that it is so happy to love, even though one is not loved in return…I must tell you a great truth…which only the few understand. All the fairest beauties in the human soul, its greatest victories, and its most splendid achievements are always those which no one else knows anything about, or can only dimly guess at.”

Maybe wildflowers have something figured out that we don’t. Maybe they have learned resilient love for an audience of one, while we’re still scrabbling around at every corner for acceptance.

Maybe they know the rewards of perseverance, while we’re trapped in convenience.

Maybe they know something beautiful about love we often miss: It requires risk.

And I think it’s what we’re meant for.

Wildflower

a poem.

i’ll spring up wherever

seeds fall

as the wind goes

i’ll go too

rocky cliffs

don’t scare me

desert mountains,

i’ll take the sun

try my resilence,

i’ll bloom

and fill the place

with scents

fragrance to the pilgrim

who makes his way by;

i’ll trust the rain

to be enough

i’ll let the storms

test my roots,

planters are too easy

garden beds no fun

i belong with forests and mountains

and deserts and trees

but when he’s out in arid land

all night

he’ll pick me

oh he’ll pick me!

For the One,

The day after Valentine’s Day in February of 2024, I felt a prompting through prayer to delete Instagram for a year.

Nowadays, everyone is going off of Instagram, but a year ago, I didn’t know many others logging off completely. And they certainly didn’t tell me what happens when you try to go back on.

I, like many of my other millennial and Gen Z friends, had taken numerous social media “cleanses,” fasting Instagram for a season as we often do. I had even gone 6 months without Instagram when I had a flip phone (and if you haven’t been told already, a flip phone is not as glorious as it sounds, especially traveling during a pandemic that requires you to scan QR codes at every immigration checkpoint and restaurant).

But going off of Instagram for a year felt like a much bigger commitment. It felt like it wasn’t just a temporary cleanse or pause or reset. Deep down, I knew that there would be an Instagram-sized hole in my life that I would need to fill. I would need to learn a new lifestyle, and I would need to find a new default for what to do with all my photos. I was worried about all the people who would message me through Instagram, the ones who didn’t have my phone number. I was thinking of all the baby announcements and engagement photos I would miss.

I wasn’t on Instagram all the time, and I consider myself a pretty self-controlled person. I spent 15 minutes a day on Instagram, +/- 45 minutes, which for someone of my generation doesn’t seem like overkill. I felt in control of my social media use.

I didn’t feel like I was getting sober from social media addiction by any means, but I knew deep down I needed to obey the prompting I felt.

So I went a year without Instagram.

And it ruined me.

• I spent my days reading and finished 3x the amount of books I normally do.

• I ran my first marathon (& a 5k + 10k all in one weekend)

• I completely lost the urge to shop for unnecessary things, getting to the point where I sat in my living room and couldn’t think of one thing I wanted.

• I overcame my “addiction” to coffee shops!

• My confidence was boosted, and feelings of insecurity decreased.

• My marriage is more joyful than ever.

• My screentime went down (I know, this one is obvious, but still).

• I started listening to podcasts & watching long-form videos.

• I cleaned out 50% of my closet!

• I talked to tons of strangers.

• I started dancing and singing again in the kitchen.

• I learned to love contemplative prayer and did my longest prayer retreat yet.

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The list goes on. And I know, I know… was the absence of Instagram the cause of all these wonderful changes in my life? Maybe not, but I was surprised by HOW MUCH more I enjoyed life offline. I can hardly report anything negative about it at all.

I was worried about people not being able to contact me, but it turns out that anyone who doesn’t have my number doesn’t have anything that urgent to say! I felt relieved to not have 1,200 “friends” to keep track of and keep up with.

I was worried about missing baby announcements and engagement photos, but it turns out it’s so much more fun to see people in person and freak out because they have a ring on their finger that wasn’t there before (for them and you). True Story! My friend said it was so nice to have someone be surprised and excited since everyone else found out she was engaged on social media.

I didn’t know where I was going to put my pictures. Turns out having photo albums is SO fun! Every time someone asked me, “How was your trip?” I could pull out my little photo album, and they got a deep dive into the trip. I also had so much fun sending photos to people, remembering memories rather than needing to post them. So much joy!

But the biggest change that I believe came from my year off Instagram is my inability to return. I 1000% have the ick for Insta, and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to keep the app for more than 3 days. It’s ruined me for social media. I’ve tried to redownload and post. I’ve tried scrolling, and I immediately feel gross. I am not accustomed to the feelings of comparison, or constant reminders of the product I don’t have, or the party that I wasn’t invited to (that I didn’t even know about 30 seconds before).

I somehow had become numb to all this when I was on Instagram, but life without it showed me that being inundated with all the things I lack through the means of dopamine is not something we’re built for.

I’ve tried to redownload Instagram, but unlike my social media cleanses of the past, I can’t go back. I don’t even want to. Instagram feels like a toxic relationship where you shake your head and wonder, “What was I thinking?” And while there are far worse ways to spend your time, I’ve realized that Instagram has offered me nothing.

It’s not even worth my 15 minutes of scrolling.

I’ve posted three times since my year without Instagram. Each time, I thought there’d be a hit of dopamine with the likes and comments.

But there wasn’t.

I thought I would feel a slight artistic joy in the photos I shared with the perfect edits.

But there wasn’t.

There was not an Instagram-shaped hole in my life after all.

I didn’t need to add other things in my life in place of Instagram; I just needed space.

As Anna Lembke says in Dopamine Nation (I enjoyed it, worth a read if you’re interested in the neurological relationship with dopamine, pleasure and pain):

“Boredom is not just boring. It can also be terrifying. It forces us to come face-to-face with bigger questions of meaning and purpose. But boredom is also an opportunity for discovery and invention. It creates the space necessary for a new thought to form, without which we’re endlessly reacting to stimuli around us, rather than allowing ourselves to be within our lived experience.”

Getting off Instagram gave me space.

It gave me space to talk to strangers in line rather than scrolling on my phone. I met war veterans and widows and immigrants and moms and had real conversations with real connection.

It gave me space to be myself, not comparing to others’ perfect skin and ideal marriages, and airbrushed photos. I got to enjoy my marriage and my home, and my life.

It gave me space to dream again and find my way back to singing and dancing in my kitchen, not caring if it was TikTok worthy.

It gave me space to be alone with my thoughts, embrace silence and contemplative prayer, and condition my soul to embrace silence, leading up to my first 5-day prayer retreat.

It gave me space to enjoy the beauty where I am, not where I’m not. For years, I was addicted to finding the new coffee shop with the best aesthetic. While I still enjoy that, I no longer feel the need to go out. I can enjoy being at my desk, in the backyard, and in my home.

It gave me space to enjoy what I have, not what I don’t have. I never would have thought Instagram ads affected me (since I never bought anything from them), but I realize now, they simply showed me my lack. There were pretty expensive things they had that I didn’t. Things I could have, with a simple click on Amazon. But without being inundated with what I didn’t have, I learned to love what I did. And it became enough. I don’t feel the urge to shop as much.

It gave me space to see the clutter around me- I cleaned out 50% of my closet (and still need to do more), but I had space to realize that more is not better. And I feel much more joy with less.

It gave me space to read books, 3x the amount I normally do. I listened to podcasts and long-form media, and I love learning again!

It gave me space to reach my goals. My challenge of the year was to run a marathon, something that I thought I could never do (especially since I don’t necessarily enjoy running). But I did a 5k and 10k, and marathon all in one weekend!

I learned to enjoy the space, having margin, and not needing to rush from one thing to the next to fill the empty calendar blocks (something I’m still working on).

You see, my year off Instagram has ruined any desire for it. Life is too beautiful and fun to be scrolling. It doesn’t mean that has to be the conclusion you draw, but it’s the one I have.

I don’t know what to do with Instagram now. I don’t feel a need to delete it, but I don’t feel the need for it. I laugh sometimes at memes I’m sent, but not enough to redownload.

I can’t go back even if I tried.

So dear Instagram, you’ve ruined me.

I can no longer stand even 15 seconds scrolling through your photos.

I see the filters so clearly now because I’ve seen the raw beauty of life.

I don’t need what you’re selling.

I don’t need likes or comments.

My friends will text me.

Or I’ll run into them at the grocery store.

I’ll talk to strangers while I wait in line.

I’ll make recipes from a cookbook.

I’ll read books to learn what I need to know.

I think I much prefer living life off-screen.

I don’t need you.

And you don’t need me.

For the One,

Hey everyone, I’m back!

It’s been a minute. I took the beginning of summer to evaluate my writing. What was meant to be a week or two away from being online turned into almost two months!

For those of you who are new here, I started this substack long before there was anyone really writing on faith, especially from a woman’s perspective that valued praxis over theology.

I started this Substack after I took a faith journey trip to the island of Maui for 48 hours. I had nothing but $50 in my pocket: Nowhere to stay and no agenda.

For those of you who have been here since the beginning, you’ll know I ended up with the most refreshing time in a million-dollar house made of bamboo and got my dream of swimming in a waterfall.

In a season of life where I felt abandoned by God, it blew my mind to see the provision of that trip.

And it inspired me. In the mundane of life, we need little moments to step out in faith. “Faith Journeys,” I call them.

It was a way to bring others with me as I did my best to wake up my sleepy soul to a life of faith and adventure. I wrote about 5-day hermitage prayer retreats and paddleboarding in January. I wrote about lessons from running an undertrained marathon and reading the Bible in 82 hours.

But I also wrote about the little things. I wrote about tea time and savoring my little blue house, and lots of prayer and journal prompts.

But they all had the core theme: Faith in action.

But behind every post was a million other things bouncing around in my head that I wanted to share. I wanted to share the new recipe I found for coconut rice and coconut amino salmon, the best camping trip I’ve ever been on and how I planned it. I wanted to share how I cleared out 50% of my closet and my discovery of a revolutionary gluten-free pasta that everyone should know about.

But I was convinced I had to fit my niche and focus on my devotional style writing on faith.

The thing is, I don’t believe in a divide between sacred and secular. So why was I falling for it on here?

Substack is a newsletter platform, and what I’ve loved most about the writers I follow on here is seeing into their lives. I love seeing how they live, what they buy, how they think, and what captures their eye. I love seeing into their life.

I love living a beautiful life, and that is just as much a part of my faith journey. How I spend money, how I use the body God gave me, and how I enjoy his world is all saturated by the faith I proclaim. And I’ve wanted to share those things.

But does it fit into a newsletter named “Faith Journey”?

I found myself feeling like my fingers were tied. I had more and more to share, but less and less that would fit in the constraints I felt I had created.

And the bigger question that gnawed at me: How much of “me” do I want online?

In a plot twist, one of my favorite authors on Substack ended her newsletter. She was the one who initially introduced me to the platform, and I was shocked to hear of her leaving because she has one of the most successful Substacks.

Her reason?

She got her dream job, still writing, practically on the same topic, but she doesn’t have to be the face of it all anymore.

And so for weeks, I grappled with it.

Do I really want my face online, never able to retreat to anonymity?

So much of social media is an act, when I’m craving authenticity.

But finally I came to a conclusion.

I want to start sharing more.

More poems and stories and testimonies. More lessons I’m learning, and challenges I’m taking on. But I also want to share the simple little joys of life, the recipes I’m loving, the adventures I’m on. I want to let others in. It’s vulnerable, and it’s going to be a lot more work, but there are ideas in me that simply need to be shared that I haven’t shared them yet.

And I think this is the beauty of a paywall. I want to open my life to others, but there are some things that get to go behind a paywall. And that’s the true value I get when I’m a paid subscriber for others. I get to see into their lives. It’s a gift. And to do it authentically can’t be fully public and fully free.

I want to inspire others as I’ve been inspired, but even if I’m not there yet, I can be an honest voice and authentic life to observe. I can share the beauty I’m experiencing and capture the things that proclaim glory.

Despite my desire to live a quiet life away from social media, there are things in me that need to be written and things in me that need to be shared, and I haven’t shared them yet. It’s simply in me, waiting to get out. I’ve counted the cost.

So going forward,

Expect more.

• 🗒️ More notes about my shenanigans and favorite things, and recipes that will be well worth your time!

• 💬 More testimonies and crazy stories about what God is doing.

• 💭 More poems and prose and deep thoughts like usual :)

• 🏃‍♀️More things on health and wellness and how I’m learning to take care of the body God has given me!

• ⛰️More tips for travel and adventures that you can copy to have your own adventures.

• 😊 More of me! Lisa, my silly thoughts and crazy stories and how I’m learning to live a life of faith in all aspects of my life.

What NOT to expect:

• I won’t be writing on politics or theology or the Church. It’s not that these things aren’t important; they are, and there are plenty of people writing about them. But I want to live a life full of stories and beauty and adventure. And that’s what I love to write about.

So if you’re like me, wanting to see how much heaven we can pull down to earth in this lifetime, subscribe 😊

Let’s do this faith journey thing together.

For the One,

I love fall because it’s such a short time and you have to savor it. There are only a few days of peak color, forcing you to stop and admire them. Fall colors don’t change on your timeline. Sometimes life is busy and you miss it. And other times, you catch them at just the right time. Some people don’t like fall because it reminds them winter is coming. But I love it.

Every year I try to catch the fall colors. I bring my camera up the north shore, make pumpkin bread, and whip out my flannels. And some years, I catch the peak oranges and reds on a bright day, glowing in the sun. Other years, I’m too early, or too late.

But it’s good once in a while to be reminded that we can’t get everything when we want when we want it. It keeps us present. In some way, I feel at peace that fall colors don’t change around my schedule. And sometimes I can’t change my schedule around the colors either. But it’s good for me. It makes it all the more special when you catch the birches in golden hour, and glimpse the bright red on the maple ridges.

But as you likely know by now, I didn’t like spring. In Minnesota, spring is chased by winter and it usually can’t outrun it until May or June rolls around. And so usually, I catch myself wanting to skip forward to summer and leave spring behind.

But this year, I heard a whispered invitation to find where it was blooming.

And so I did. I went to the conservatory and took photos of the blooms. I walked to see the cherry blossom trees too early and when I went yesterday I was too late. I sat in my hammock and admired the apple blossoms in the backyard. I planted seeds in my windowsill and waited, finally seeing the green seedings start. I read books and watched movies while it rained, and my husband and I sat on the roof to watch lightning storms.

Rather than looking at the gray skies that took too long to find sun or the brown grass that only turned green just a few weeks ago, I found where it was blooming.

Driving down the road with my sunroof open at sunset, filled with pure joy after a Cinco de Mayo party, it hit me:

I love spring.

It’s worth chasing. It’s a season you have to catch.

It’s easy to look around and only notice the lack of sun and the overuse of winter jackets.

But as I’ve sought out the blooms, I’ve found them everywhere.

I wonder how many seasons of life I’ve missed the blooms, where all I wanted was to skip ahead because all that was obvious was gray skies and brown all around me. I wonder how many times I’ve let pain dominate the day because it’s more prominent, or the times when life was just cold enough to keep me inside, idle. But this season has shown me something:

There are blooms everywhere.

Sometimes they show up in your path and you stumble upon the joy they bring, but other times, you need to go find them.

For the One,

I wrote this little poem a few years back to capture my struggle with spring. It’s always been my least favorite time of the year.

Peop…

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Good Friday?

why do we call it so?

it certainly doesn’t seem to be.

doesn’t feel like it.

death.

of all hope.

when not deserved.

God, you must have a different definition of what is good.

show me?

from your eyes?

eternity in the midst?

i hear the whispers between the silence of saturday

“see the lives forever changed.

eternal glory from momentary affliction.”

but on saturday it doesn’t seem so momentary.

it feels long and lost in the unmet expectations.

not good.

“just wait.”

death & life

life & death.

the cycle demonstrated

a fig tree cursed

a $30,000 perfume wasted

a tree of life

and now a cross.

and then

death & life

life & death.

our lives the same.

could this be the way you’ve made it?

always in tandem

your story

but mine too.

and because you did it

so can i

death & life

life & death.

i need perspective.

the cycle goes on.

in me.

it doesn’t feel good.

but maybe i can trust

it’s good.

death & life.

life & death.

the message of all humanity

just wait.

a little longer.

death…

lean in.

and then…

For the One,