“This is just a season,” has become an easy and convenient way to justify chaos and to minimize pain and heartache. It has become a programmed response to avoid pausing and accessing the heart. I’ve found this to be especially true in the areas of kids and hardships. So I’m throwing the flag. I’m challenging

“The unplanned snow day provided me the opportunity to pause. To be unproductive. To be reminded that as summer comes, I can create a new space, a new arrangement, a new view that can bring me excitement. Bring me a sense of pride and joy. Above all, it’s not found on a list. It’s not

“As the doors prepare to open into my next decade, I don’t want to shut the door on my thirties and scream, “Peace out!” It would be easy to do, but it would also be unkind to my soul. The culture would condone it, and even endorse my moving on to the next bigger and

“I know who I am to my Father, but I need to know who I am to me. To Robin. While part of my fear comes from a place of disliking my name, there is a part of me that fears my name won’t mean anything special, unique or powerful. Or at least I thought

“The platforms on the scaffolding I’ve built to surround my heart are fear and shame. It’s from these places that my greatest pose operates. In my ‘identities’ of religion, education, marriage and children, the collaborative pose or message is, ‘I have it all together’. The scaffolding I build, the pose I project, is a way

“When my emotions settled, I felt an invitation to enter into my story. An invitation to a journey. A journey to be taken at my pace. To be taken in my time. To seek the answer to my question. Who am I?”

Yep. You read that title correctly. Heart shaped vomit. And yes, there is a story to tell. A story that I’ve been needing to tell but have avoided for a myriad of reasons. Over the past several weeks, I have felt the weight of everything around me slowly begin to pile up . . .

Listening to a podcast one morning, I hear the phrase . . . accept the Father’s acceptance of you. I froze. Replayed the phrase again . . . accept the Father’s acceptance of you. I finished “listening” to the podcast but truthfully, I heard nothing else. The phrase was swirling around in my head and

I’m preparing to enter into one of the longest separations my husband and I have had to endure. As the weeks leading up to his deployment have come and gone, I’ve struggled to answer a simple question, ‘How am I?’ I’ve felt as though I’m numb. Maybe in denial. Or maybe it’s the peace that