We've been privileged to hear the hearts of many women. Across borders, blogs, wherever we go it turns out eventually we hear the same thing: I feel like I'm the only one.

So here's the thing. That statement is true. Just not the way you think.

We tell ourselves, "I'm the only one who struggles, feels lonely sometimes, wonders if what I'm doing matters."

Let me lean in and whisper to your heart. We all feel that way. And it's not about failure--it's about being human.

But this what's true: "I'm the only one who can fulfill God's purpose for my life, has gifts He has entrusted just to me, can hang on to the promise that He will be there every step of the journey He's chosen for my life."

It's not about the beginning {I'm the only one who...} instead it's about how we finish the rest of the sentence.

The deeper you move into God's calling for your life, the weirder you will feel. No one tells you that at the beginning. But I'm telling you now. And that opens the door for the enemy to whisper lies. Don't listen, friend. Lean into the truth instead.

Yes, you are the only one.

But you are not alone.

There is a beautiful and powerful difference between the two.

We sip the last of our coffee and soak in the conversation too. When it's time to leave, my cup is empty and my heart is full. And I'm not the only one.

XO

Holley

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I think of words spoken by my life coach and friend, Denise. "Holley," she said, "People aren't made to keep the same level of productivity all the time. It comes in waves. Go with it. You need rest sometimes." 

I watch the ebb and flow of the tide and I know she's right. I've known this somewhere deep inside every time I've come to the ocean since I was a little girl. But I forget. In the middle of the busy and expected it gets lost.

We are not machines. Only machines can work nonstop. And even then, they break down.

Rest is not wasted time.

Rest is preparation.

When it's quiet in my life, when I can't hear God's voice, when I can't see the next adventure, I begin to think something is wrong with me. I try to raise the tide. Surely if I can just do something then I will prove my worth again.

But the God of the Sea whispers instead to my heart...

"Peace, child, you are loved.

Peace, child, you are right in the middle of My purpose for you.

Peace, child, more will come when it is time."

I let those words wash over me again and again until my heart knows their rythm. Yes, this is the way it is meant to be. Work and rest. Rest and work. And love in it all.

I throw a small shell into the water. It sinks to the bottom and I watch it resting there, wondering where the waves will take it next. The inevitable journey.

There is no more reason to strive.

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We're here to celebrate.

We've just finished a project. We don't yet know how it will turn out. We've only seen glimpses.

But we're celebrating anyway.

Because after years of creativity and work we've learned this: we're to celebrate God's goodness and our obedience--not results.

The moment you say "yes" to God and move forward in what He asks of you is the moment you become successful. Not when you hit the numbers. Not when you meet expectations. Not when you make heads turn.

True success happens when no one is looking, no one hears, in the quiet of your heart where there's only a divine invitation and an acceptance of it.

We feast under a clear blue sky that smells like just-after-rain. The pavement is still wet in some places. There are clouds in the distance. Who knows if they may come.

But for now we make time stand still. We don't ask, "What's next?" We don't say, "We really should have...." We hold our God-sized dream in our hands and we drink deep of it. And we feel the delight of the One who gave it to us.

Time ticks again and problems arise, disappointments come and we're glad we did this first. Before all that. Because it reminds us of what matters.

We need celebration because it covers our souls, a red umbrella. Joy stretched out above us, held by the unseen hands.

How do you celebrate?

P.S. I am writing from Canada this morning, Wednesday, May 16th, because I am on the show 100 Huntley Street. If you would like to tune in, please do! Or if you miss it live, you can watch it later online.  

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As I stand there, I think back over words spoken that slashed across my heart just like the heat of the oven. That place within me still feels tender. I berate myself, "Why am I so sensitive?"

I glance back at my arm and suddenly I'm thankful for sensitivity. Without it, the burn would have been much worse. And without the sensitivity of my heart, a relationship I value could have been more deeply damaged too.

Never apologize for your sensitivity.

But don't abuse it either. Being burned didn't mean I should kick the dog or destroy the stove. It didn't give me the right to light a match and go after the next person who crossed my path so they could have a little smoke in their day too.

We need to let ourselves cry, feel the anger, recognize that we've been burned. It's the way we keep ourselves alive to all that's around us. First we feel, then we heal.

I hold a muffin in my hand. Its soothing warmth reaches all the way to my fingertips, to somewhere deep inside.

P.S. Did you miss the deal on Friday? Well, God's Heart for You eBook is still on special for $1.99! Find it here on Amazon or Barnes & Noble! Would you like to leave a comment? 

I am in awe of mothers.

The hand-holding, brow-wiping, life-changing women of the world.

I love how mothers create, bring life into the world, nourish souls, tie the shoelaces of the future.

I love how they wrestle about where to send kids to school, and what to get for Christmas, and how to take the seed of a life and grow it into strong, tall faith.

I love the way they laugh about too much poop and mountains of laundry and the beautiful chaos that they somehow keep spinning in orbit.

I love how time etches memories across their faces, like little lines in an extraordinary story, and the way their eyes light up when someday someone calls them, “Grandma.”

I love how they throw their arm in front of you at a sudden stop in the car even if you’re not their child, even when their hair is silver, even when nursing and diapers feel like so many moons ago.

I love how even women without children {I’m one} somehow feel the need to nurture, to grow, to pour themselves into the next generation like so much water that just never stops. Mothers of the heart if not the body.

I don’t know where you are this morning but I wish I could cup your face in my hands and whisper this, “You are a good mother. You are making a difference. You are beautiful.”

Then I’d drop my hands and smile at you. And in a moment you’d be busy again doing what you do and I’d watch the miracle.

The miracle of motherhood.

The ordinary-extraordinary.

The divine with a little dirt under its nails.

Jill Churchill said: “There’s no way to be a perfect mother and a million ways to be a good one.”

And with all of you mother-wonders out there?

I don’t think I’ll ever stop counting…

* I first shared this post on (in)courage last Mother's Day and I'm thinking of it {and you} again today.

Would you like to encourage a mama in your life? May I invite you to consider the Mother Letters ebook as a gift from your heart to hers? {Delivered instantly so you can still send it today.}

My favorites, two chubby hostas, like to tease us. Every year we wonder if perhaps winter got them and then, at the last moment, they pop out of the ground like smiling children.

Other more sinister green always appears too. Weeds that sneak into corners and burrow into shadows until we find them. They're like secrets in this garden. When we come across one my husband declares, "Weed!" and yanks it sternly from the roots. A swift and efficient extraction.

For some reason, the weeds always surprise me. Every year I somehow think our yard will miraculously be free of them. They're not on my mind when we plant, water, and comment on the growth.

But they never surprise my husband. He's known they're somewhere beneath, just waiting for their chance at light and air so they can make an appearance.

He would never decide not to plant flowers because of the weeds that would come too. And when he finds the weeds he never says, "I knew I shouldn't have planted those flowers!" The nature of growth is that it comes with weeds.

Our hearts are much the same. A sin or struggle pops up in our lives and we're horrified. "Oh no!" we declare, "Now everything God has done in my life is ruined!" But God is only interested in pulling the weed. It's not a surprise to Him. It doesn't change the beauty He's creating in our lives. It doesn't cancel out the growth that we've seen.

God knew all along the weed was there.

And now it's simply time to deal with it.

He chose you knowing that seed would one day come to the surface. And in His infinite love, He picked the perfect time to bring it to your attention so He can remove it.

My husband tosses the weed over his shoulder. I watch it sink out of sight into the trash can. I turn and look at my man, a smile of pride across his face. The weed has already been forgotten. He says, "Don't you think the hostas look especially good this year?"

I glance down at the green, a few stray bits of dirt the only trace of where the weed had so recently been.

I nod my head and agree, "Yes, they're more beautiful than ever."

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As we begin the week of celebrating mothers, I wanted to have offer one more giveaway! Leave a comment by Tuesday at midnight and you will be entered to win a copy of You're Already Amazing and this beautiful 'Loved' canvas. You are all loved & amazing!