Shatter the Beige

It’s a train station in Belgium, remember it?

Schedules.  Scowl lines.  Such serious faces.

Then, pouring from the speakers, “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…”

Has there ever been a more beautiful voice?

Julie Andrews singing “Do Re Mi” fills the building and shatters the beige.

A balding man kicks his heels like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins.  A little girl in a pink coat with bright yellow flowers grabs his hand.  And the room erupts in dancing.

The beige train station.  Erupts in dancing.

Onlookers are confused, uncertain, intrigued.

They pull out cameras.  They smile.  They are delighted.

God help me, I still cry like a baby every time I watch this video.

My kids ask me why.  “Why are you crying, Mom?  Don’t you like it?”

Like it?

This was the first flash mob video I ever saw.  I remember watching it over and over, weeping and thinking, “My God, we could be doing anything with our time.  Humans.  Human beings.  We could be doing anything with our time.”

I cried because all I could think as I watched was that we fight wars and scream at each other and drive  too fast to the mall like it matters, but we could be spending our time doing anything.


We could be dancing.  In yellow flowers.  Doing anything.

Shattering the beige.

In culture, we are bound in some ways to certain things.  We have to eat and wear clothes.  We need a house to live in, a place to lay our heads.  And we have to pay for these things.  I get it.

But the beige, oh God, the suffocating beige.  The loneliness.  The wondering if anyone sees.  If anyone is connected to anyone else.  Is it ever safe to really share?  Is it ever safe to be silly and laugh out loud?

To just sit on the floor for once.  To roll in the grass after a certain age.  To wear sequins in the sunlight.  To walk over and touch a stranger, just because, you can see the hurt from where you sit a few tables away.

To feel and share perfect love.

This week I have witnessed so much love.  I have gotten to be a part of so much love.

How many times have I heard the verse “it is more blessed to give than receive?”  And yet, how often I doubt.

Sometimes when I feel an urgency  to give sacrificially, I have a hesitation.  It’s not that I don’t want to give, but I am not always sure it’s going to work out.

Where will the money come from?  Will the kids eat beans and rice so I can give an extravagant gift?  How will I make the time–another day without a shower?  How will it be received?  Will it be a waste?  Will it be awkward?

Sometimes, my mind is occupied with other things, and the giving seems small and unimportant.  Acts of kindness fall to the side, not as important as the day’s to do list.

But, when I give, the rushing and stressed humanity around me slows.  Smiles.  Exhales.  Laughs.  Relaxes.  The atmosphere changes to joy, to peace.

The beige is shattered.  Light comes in.

Just like in that train station.  I think a lot of people missed their trains that day.  But, those details find a way of working out when our hearts are full.

I got to see a glimpse of perfect love this week.  Not my own, but Perfect Love, a still small voice nudging me, saying, “stop by and see this one, take this one a little gift, put this letter in the mail, throw this little party.”

I tried to cooperate, but I didn’t really know how any of it would work out or what it would mean.

Sometimes, I second-guess giving or acts of kindness.  Even up until that moment I happen to look over and see the person quietly weeping, so touched to be thought of, so touched to be worth the time and put on someone’s mind.  Remembered by Him.  Seen by Him.  Touched by Him.

And, in that moment, my own heart feels as if it could burst.  I thought I was giving to them?

And I am receiving so much.  Self pity and complaining and boredom fall away when I get to be a part of the exhilerating anything.

Thank you God that you speak to us.  Thank you God for the grace to obey. Thank you that we can spend our time doing anything.  Anything.

Help us to choose wisely.

Because, the blessing is even greater when we give.  And the love makes us bigger inside than we are without it.  We grow in love, and the love strikes down the fears a little at a time.

How can you shatter someone’s beige today–and your own?  A little gift?  A card?  A coffee?  

A generous person will prosper;
whoever refreshes others will be refreshed.  Prov 11:25

Remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’  Acts 20:35

Dear Women!

Last week, the lovely Sierra White featured a diverse group of fabulous women on her blog, women who encourage other women, women who live life to the fullest.

Sierra invited me to be a part of this group, and I am beyond honored.

This week’s post at Lady the Fearless is Sierra’s post, “Dear Women.”  These fearless ladies deserve another look, and I salute Sierra for sharing her platform with her sisters.

Click here to be blessed by much sister-love and some truly “Dear Women!”

Thank you, Sierra.  #goinguptogether

Song Unstolen, or, Lily in the Lions Den

Sweaty palms squeaked across the concrete wall.

I looked down, and I saw my child, hands cupped over her face, body pressed tightly against the white bricks like a clinging vine, a true wallflower.

She slid around the corner of the Sunday School room and inched through the doorway.

Bright posters and small children everywhere, it smelled like bleach.  And cheerios.  And vaguely of bacon.

Lily was convinced that this class was not a good idea.  She did not care for crowds of kids.  Or crowds.  Or kids. Their ways were not her ways.  She was six going on forty.  Clean and quiet and well-read.  Not like the sticky savages in that Sunday School class.

The teacher and I looked at each other.  “Do you want to come to storytime, Lily?”

Um, no.

Forget those crunchy carpet squares.  Lily backed up to the plastic table far behind the story circle and looked at me.

I sat on the little table, and she held tight to my arm.

“Daniel in the Lion’s Den” was the day’s felt board feature.  My daughter was not impressed.  She gazed out the window and twirled her hair with her free hand, the hand not clutching my arm.

She stayed close to me for the entire hour.

Some people had theories about how we should raise Lily–she needed discipline, we were told.  She needed bribes.  She needed something, anything, different than whatever we were doing at the moment.

But, sometimes, kids just need time.  And an arm to hold on to.

Near the end, about half the kids took turns leading the class in short songs.  They were pink cheeked and earnest and endearingly off-key.  The teacher thanked each one and was ready to dismiss.

But, before I knew it, my daughter was at the front of the room.  I looked down at the fingerprints she left behind on my arm and back at her.  She stood calmly near the felt board, small golden felt lions looking out over her shoulders, their mouths decisively shut.

I stared.  My mouth fell open.  A first grader walked by and dropped a cracker in it.

The teacher said, “Oh!  Lily!  I’m so glad you joined us!  Did you want to sing a song?”

Lily announced,  “Yes!  I am going to sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and do the sign language.”

Which she proceeded to do, loud and clear.  I didn’t even know she knew “Jesus Loves Me” with the sign language.

When she was finished, the teacher said, “Lily.  Now, do you think you could do that a couple more times so the rest of us can learn?”

“Oh, yes,” Lily said, and led the class in the song, with the sign language, a couple more times so everyone could learn.

Then they were finished.  Lily walked to me and smiled.

The teacher and I looked at each other.  Shook our heads.  Kids.

I was stunned by the transformation in my child.  One minute, a trembling, clutching case of social anxiety.  The next, a cabaret choir conductor.

We didn’t talk on the way out.  Or, rather, I didn’t talk on the way out.  Lily chattered and held my hand.  She talked about the morning all the way to the car and then halfway home.

When she paused to take a breath I said, “Lily, can I ask you something?  Can you help me understand what just happened in there?  One minute you seemed  really scared, and then the next minute, you were leading a song.  What changed???”

“Oh,” she said.  “Well.  First, I wanted to sing my song.  Then, I didn’t want to sing it.  Then, I knew it.  The debble was trying to steal my song.  And I thought, ‘oh no, I am not letting that debble steal my song.’  So I got up there, and I sang it.  And Mom.  You know a spirit of fear is not from God, it’s from the debbles.”

Holy metronome.

All those nights sitting by her bed, teaching her scriptures to ward off screaming night terrors.

She had actually listened.

And then.

She sang.


What song are you longing to sing?  

Don’t you let the debble steal that song.

For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. 2 Tim 1:7

Open Letter to Fear

Goodbye, Fear.

You are such a bully.

You are a tiny little bully with a big mouth.  You need to know that I am done listening to you.

You wanted me weak.

You tried to control me.  You wanted me scared and codependent.  You wanted me paralyzed by doubt and frozen by insecurity.

But, I have a new love.

I am in love with Love–real, vulnerable, courageous, sacrificial Love.  I have a new strength.  I have a life.  And, I am so over all the wasted time spent listening to your lies.

It is over between us.

When you talk to me, I’m going to out-talk you.  I’m going to tell you that you are a liar.  I’m going to tell you to shut up and get out of my head.  I am blocking your calls.  You are getting no more air time with me.

When I see you coming, I’m calling out to Love.  I’m slamming the door in your face.  I’m doing something good that scares me, just to shake you up a little.  It’s your turn to be shaken for once.

You won’t find me in the same places.

You won’t find me on the phone asking for approval.

You won’t find me trying to make people like me.

You won’t find me trying to impress everyone else, including myself, with my packed calendar and busy schedule.

That thing you do?  Perfectionism?  What a dirty trick.  It’s a trick I’m not falling for again.  You tried to shut me down and keep me quiet with a promise of perfection.  And, all this time, you’ve been running around and cheating me out of  something real.

Those nights you showed me every bad thing that could happen so that I would be “prepared?”  Ha.  The more you talked, the more I studied and planned so I could have it all covered.  And yet, you always left one thing out, and I could never get ahead of you.

But, Love has a way of covering it all, so I’m putting my trust elsewhere.  I’m done hanging with all your thuggy friends so I can get to know how they think.  Death, Violence, and Failure?  They can all go with you when you go.

And, you know where you can go.

That’s all I have to say.  For now.  But know this: if you come back around, it’s never going to happen this way again.  Because you will find something different at my door.  Love will answer.  Love punches Fear in the face, and you will fall.  Again and again.

Consider yourself warned.  And beaten.

Goodbye, Fear.

Hello, Love.


Perfect love casts out all fear.  1 Jn 4:18

What do you need to say to fear? 

What other letters do you need to write?  




The Beginning of Wings

Kids climb to the top of everything.  And fall off.  And climb back up.

My son fell facedown on concrete more times than I can count.  It never seemed to slow him down.

These kids.  They are born fearless.

When does it start, I wonder.

I rest my hand on a child’s back and feel the beginnings of fear.  I am struck by the sharp protrusion of his scapula, the tension that holds his shoulders so high and tight against the world.

He seems so young to hold his body this way.

I know this kid.  He is mostly happy.  His parents are mostly happy, like the best and most honest couples are.  He is well fed and cared for.  He has a bunch of Legos and a little dog.

What is it that fills him with such anxiety?  What at his young age and ideal situation robs him of so much peace?

I ask him.  He is worried about some things at school, academic things.  He worries about poison ivy, he says.  He worries about his parents getting old.  He is only eleven, but he wishes he were younger.  He liked being really little, he says.  He wishes he could stay little, just a while longer.  He tears up while he talks.  This is not a joke to him.

“Why did you like being little?”  I ask him.

“I just did,” he smiles.

I liked being little, too.  I remember feeling the same way, somehow knowing that my parents held back the world for me.  That, just for a minute,  I got to wear my capes and my dress up dresses and run through the yard barefoot and climb trees and play telephone.  Just for a minute.

I remember being about eight years old and hearing about an older cousin at college.  “College,” I thought.  “Oh no.  I don’t even know how to graduate from middle school.  How will I ever manage college?”  And, as a third grader, I added “college” to my ever-growing list of worries.

I thought I had to figure it all out right then.  My shoulders, high and tight.   Like my young friend thinks he has to figure it all out.  Right now.   Including his parents’ elder-care.  They are in their 40s.

“Figuring it all out” is one big lie.  One big fat lie.  We can’t figure it all out.  And most of it isn’t going to happen the way we worry it anyway.

I just saw a quote from Shelley Hitz today.  About how 99% of the things we worry about never even happen.  Strategizing worry is just one big waste of time.

Worry and fretting and anxiety–they are all little ways that fear sneaks in and grows in our lives.

I ask my young friend what would help him worry less.

He says other people can’t really help him.  He says it’s something he has to do.  He says he needs to capture his thoughts.  He says sometimes you just need to let yourself cry.  And then think of something else.  And sermons, they probably help a little bit.

I rest my hand on his back.  He smiles, and the sharpness in his shoulder blades suddenly feels like something else.  His choice is the thing that makes the difference.

That sharp protrusion, not the beginning of fear, but the beginning of wings.


What do you think you have to figure out today?  What can you do to capture your thoughts?  

Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things.  Phil4:8






You’ve Got to Get Back On. Nancy Velvet Forever.

So.  It happened like this.

I was about eight years old, madly in love with all horses.  My uncle had a farm, and he let me ride all over his land.


I could have told you then that bliss smells like horse sweat and pine needles.

But, everybody knows that.

Sunlight streaming through shade trees, a peaceful stallion grazed in the dusty light.

I sat quietly on his back for days, thinking if National Velvet could solve mysteries like Nancy Drew, then that’s who I was.  Nancy Velvet.  Did Nancy Drew like burned marshmallows, I wondered, and glanced over at the field full of cattle sleepwalking in the perfect heat.


One afternoon, they gave me a different horse.  I was disappointed; the other horse and I, we were best friends.  He was going to miss me bad.

But, a horse is a horse, right?

So, I pulled on my boots and walked out, expecting a day of traipsing through tall grass and butterflies, Queen Anne’s Lace.

When I climbed on the horse, he wasn’t friendly like my uncle’s stallion.  He was jumpy and shaking all over.  I thought when he recognized the advanced level of my horseback riding skills, he would calm down, and we could ride on.

He did not.  Recognize them or calm down.

He bolted.

Until that moment, I thought horses understood me and loved me as much as I loved them.  I thought I was a girl in a book, and the horse would know that.


He and I had not read the same book.

I screamed.  The world was a blue-green blur, and a fence was rushing straight at us.  At the last minute, the horse jerk-bucked a hard turn to the left, and I flew off his back to the right.

I lay in the brown grass in shock.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t see.  My heart was broken.

I didn’t get back on him the way they always say to do after a fall.  I couldn’t lift my right arm, and the only horse available to ride at that moment was the one who had just pitched me across the corral.

I sobbed my way to my grandmother’s porch, where they fed me Kraft cheese singles and cold Pepsi in a metal cup—Arkansas smelling salts.  My mother found my glasses in the grass and brought them to me.  My uncle stood looking at me, mournful.

Someone said weakly, “she should get back on,” and we all looked out at the horse, now, finally, grazing peacefully.  Everyone looked away, and my grandmother brought me another slice of cheese.

I had known fear before that day.  Night terrors, alone in the dark with every evil creature staring red-eyed across the room.  Fear of an adult’s anger, fear of injury in childish games.

But, this was the saddest fear, laced with betrayal.  My shoulder was dislocated.  I couldn’t hold reins or get in the saddle for a long time.

I never really rode again after that.

Until a couple of years ago, my husband took us on a vacation to the Rocky mountains.

He wanted me to have a chance to get back on.  He knew that I had prayed a thousand times for another good ride.

I told the lady, “a three-legged nag, that’s all I can handle.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, you need Daisy.  She’s perfect.”  Daisy was a spotted gray horse, an Appaloosa.  She tossed her head when I walked toward her.  I looked at the guide.  She said, “Just climb on.  She loves this ride.”


I thought my lungs would explode.

All I could do at first was clench the reins in sweaty fists and pray and pray and pray not to die.  Pray that none of my family would die.

It was a long way down the side of that tight, narrow trail.


We rode single file through closely spaced pine trees.  The air was thin, and the shade was cold.

I watched Daisy’s feet stumble over rocks and thought I was going to vomit.  Chad looked back at me and smiled.  I smiled.  Gagged.

I could hear in my mind, reassurance, a peaceful sound.  I so wanted to be healed of that moment, such a long time ago.

The trail guide called out, “plan to stop a minute when we come into the clearing.  It’s a lookout point, beautiful!”

When we stepped out of the dark woods, the horse in front of us stopped, and before I said, “whoa,” Daisy stopped behind him.

I bravely took a picture of the back of her head before looking up to see the view.

I breathed in and sat on that old gray mare and cried.  Tears streaming down my face, the sun burning my neck and a cool breeze blowing, I knew blessing.

Snow covered, majestic green and craggy, the Rocky Mountains faded into white clouds.   The wide valleys rolled out like a carpet.  The sky was so blue.  So blue.


In that moment, I could have told you that the purest bliss, the purest of all, smells like mountain air and horses and freedom.  It smells like redemption.

What do you need to “get back on?”  What old hurts have caused fears that keep you from your fullest life?  What are those old hurts and fears costing you?  What will it cost you if you never face them?  What could open up for you if you do–healing, freedom, joy, something else?

Prayers.  For you to get back on.  Remember Lady the Fearless and her lightning water?  Have a cup.  Heaven’s smelling salts.   And get back on.  

Nancy Velvet forever.



Keeping Your Castle: How to Fight Fear.

The following story is similar to the last post but not the same.  Spot the differences?

The egg cracks, and a forked tongue flicks into the night air.  Fragments of the shell, thick and dark, fall into the soil below.  A tiny serpent oozes out of the broken mess, one long and writhing body, two heads.

In a room high above the nest, a woman sleeps.  The walls of the castle keep are too smooth for the serpent’s slick belly, but the vining ivy proves a perfect pathway to her window–or it would, had it not been cut so close.

The double-headed snake slithers its way along the vines and pauses near the window sill.  The smell of life is strong here.  It makes its way a little higher on the vine and then drops, aiming its body at the window ledge.   It nearly falls to the ground far below, but it twists at the last minute and scoots along the edge of the grated screen.

Finding no easy way inside, the serpent stops to warm itself on the rock wall still full of heat from the day’s sun.  Perhaps it has come far enough.  But its instinct is strong, and it pushes along the screen again.  Finding no holes, it presses hard, and the wooden frame comes away from the wall, just enough for the little beast to creep in.  

It makes its way down the heavy curtain and across the floor, but it is weary now from so much effort.  The serpent stops on the floor near the bed and falls asleep,

The woman also sleeps, soundly, having pulled on her helmet before laying her head on the pillow.  This is not her habit, but tonight, a chilly wind blows and bears an ill will.  She holds her sword in her hand.  Intruders would find this maiden hard to handle.

The queen’s guard makes a silent pass through the bedroom, checking to see that all is well.  He approaches the window to check the screen, and as he passes the foot of the bed, his bootheel connects with the serpent’s tiny heads.  It dies without waking, without ever knowing it has lost.

Lady the Fearless sleeps on, dreaming of victories.


The castle “keep” was the ultimate fortified tower.  Tall and thick and surrounded by a stone wall, equipped with weapons and designed for fighting, the keep gave the advantage to the defenders inside.


These towers were made with the understanding of attack, to “keep” the vulnerable ones safe, the ultimate refuge.

In the last post, I gave you a story about a maiden in a tower that was not a keep.

There were several elements to last week’s tale:  a neglected castle yard, a tower covered in overgrown ivy, a wide open window, an unguarded bedroom, a vulnerable maiden, and a lying little snake.

castle-edit 1

In  that post, I promised to share some of my strategies for slapping fear out of my head, for creating a different kind of story.  Here they are:

I try to keep fear from ever getting in.

I believe that I have nothing to fear, that God loves me like crazy and works all things together for my good.  This is not always a natural thought, so I  get it in my mind as often as I can, reading scripture and listening to teachers like Joyce Meyer or Lisa Bevere or Graham Cooke.

I’m aware of how I tolerate dark entertainment or heavy conversations, etc.  Sometimes, my tolerance is high.  Other times, I need to walk away.  Regardless of tolerance level, when negative things come in through the news, movies, conversations, or elsewhere, I make time to recharge.

I’m a pray-er.  Is that a word?  I don’t know, but I am one.  The minute I sense anything weird, I say a quick prayer.  Usually something like “Jesus help.”  Sometimes, that’s all I’ve got.

Fear can grab us physically before we know it.  Once in a while, just to check, I do a quick scan of my body.  How’s my breathing?  Deep breaths calm the body and mind.  How tense are my shoulders?  I consciously relax.

I meditate on scriptures, in my head or whispering if I have to, out loud if I can.  I’m working on making a printable for you guys with paraphrases of these verses.  When I figure out Dropbox, I’ll get it to you.

My friends help me think in a way that brings peace.  I surround myself with an atmosphere of peace and guard my territory in any way I can.  I have many friends from different walks of life, but the ones I spend the most time with encourage me in peace and strength.

Last, I rest.  I take care of myself, mind, body and spirit.  A worn out body drags behind and drains mental and emotional energy.

cherry blossom edit 1

These are my strategies for keeping fear out, for keeping my castle.  I’m not totally fearless every minute of every day, but I’m so much better than I used to be.

What strategy most resonates with you?  What would you add?  Love your ideas–see you in the comments!


Deception. The Adversary Hatches.

The egg cracks, and a forked tongue flicks into the night air.  Fragments of the shell, thick and dark, fall into the moldy soil below.  A tiny serpent, grotesque and deformed, oozes out of the broken mess, one long and writhing body, two heads.

In a room high above the nest, a woman sleeps.  The castle walls are too smooth for the serpent’s slick belly, but the vining ivy proves a perfect pathway to her window.  The double-headed snake slithers its way along the vines and over the window sill, down the heavy curtain, across the floor, and up into the bed beneath the coverlet at her feet.  It pauses a moment, basking in the warmth of legs covered in filmy white silk.

The brains of the tiny snake, vague and primitive, see thoughts in images, and something like firelight plays through its consciousness.  The tongues flicker, and it continues on, following the warmth of her body, leaving the covering of her sheets, and,  finding her head covered in shining curls, it slithers into her ear.  She stirs, but sleep is sweet.

It more thinks the lies than speaks them, and the woman hears its thoughts louder than her own dreams. And, so deep it goes, hiding itself inside her head, that she believes its thoughts are her own.

Each head sends a different message, one of fear and one of pride, and it feasts on the confusion it breeds. The woman holds her head in her hands and cries tears of indecision.  

Her soul opens to Deception.  The little beast settles in, and without waking, she gives it a home.


Every good story needs a terrible villain.  Lady the Fearless?  She battles lies.  Fear and pride.  Dream stealers.  They come in when we believe deceptions about who we are, when we dozily accept any thought that wanders through our minds.  Too bad the sleeping maiden left that window wide open.  Too bad she doesn’t put up much of a fight.

If she would jerk herself awake and slap that little two-headed snake, it would fly across the room and crack its tiny skulls.  And the maiden?  She would find herself that much closer to Lady the Fearless.

So many things in this story could be different.  What if someone were on snake patrol, getting the eggs before they could ever hatch?  What if the castle had a more conscientious gardener?

The window could be guarded.  There could be snake traps in the bedroom.  The little maiden could jump up, throwing back the blankets, kicking like a ninja!   She could protect her ears before she slept, some barrier the lying creature could never breach.

What lies do you need to slap, right across the room today?  What barriers could you put in place against lies?  What fears are trying to take you down, infiltrate your thinking, and steal your dreams with thoughts of failure and risk?  What prideful nonsense is invading?

Every healthy person I know deals with lies and fear and pride; it’s an ongoing matter of what we accept and how proactive we are, how often we go on snake patrol, take inventory.  How sleepy are we when lies try to creep in?   Because they are sneaky, and we do love our slumber.

We have got to get control of ourselves, for heavens sake, and give the little beasties a slap.

I’ll share some of my strategies for slapping fear out of my head in the next post, but would you share some of yours in the comments?  What does courage look like for you in those moments of choice, those moments when you could choose to believe a lie or step out on truth?

Lady the Fearless. What a Character.

“Lady the Fearless.”  People are starting to call me by her name, and I’m happy to answer for her, though I have not arrived.

Sometimes, the minute I conquer one fear, another one seems to take its place.

I’m learning.

Lady the Fearless is not really me.  Or, maybe better, she’s not only me.  Lady the Fearless is an essence, a zeitgeist.  She’s a character.

And, what a character.  She is every woman or girl in fiction or in truth who ever fought any battle.  She is courage.  She is grit and joy and abundant life.

I want to know her well.  What she looks like, what her bravery  requires, how she’s punished for it, and how she inspires.

I’m hoping that her bravery, like fear, is contagious, and I’m praying for an epidemic–bravery in the air, in our lungs, pumping in our veins.

I look at the next generation of young women and men coming up, the teens, the young 20s, and I’m blown away by their beauty and their depth.

The glossy viciousness of the world they are growing up in, the world we are all growing up in, is stunning.  But, the one thing I will not do for them or us, is fear.  I choose hope.  I’m putting my trust in the bigger thing at play, the greater thing happening as we run into a fierce world, and it sharpens us into warriors.

It is a dark and stormy night.  

Lady the Fearless steps to the edge of the cliff and lifts the heavy helmet from her head.  She holds it out to collect the rain coming down in sheets.

 She brings it to her mouth like a goblet and drinks.  

“Lightning water.”  She sighs and smiles down at the full moon reflected in the river in the canyon below.  

She is not afraid of death or of the battle raging in the darkness; she will ride into it on her white horse like she has done before.  She will fly planes into it.  She will carry children into it.  She will show them how it’s done.  

She will shine.


On Vikings, Horses, and Ladies Done with Waiting.


I told a friend the name of my new blog.  He looked confused and said, “Why aren’t you calling it ‘The Fearless Lady?'”

I sighed.

“It’s just, I don’t know, forgettable.  Everyday.   And, it sounds like a housekeeping website.”

He nodded and  said, “Oh, I get it.  You’re right.  And,” he gestured, “‘Lady the Fearless.’  That’s, like, yeah, that’s your Viking name.”

My Viking name.  Exactly.  Lady the Fearless.  The Valkyrie on her thundering steed, flying double fisted on a winged horse through this world of kids and dishes and work and life.  Susan of Narnia shooting straight arrows from a homemade bow in leather cuffs and a metal dress.   Alice, waltzing through Wonderland, unashamed and curious, taking no prisoners, dreaming and believing every impossible thing.

And, really, every day?  I don’t usually feel exactly like any of that.

But, I hold those images of Vikings and flying horses and arrows and Wonderland close, as reminders that we are part of another realm and the war taking place in it.

I am often struck by the intensity of the battle we face.  The battle to live this life and to live it well.

And I want to live it well.  I am so done with fear.

Fear says that nothing will ever be good enough.  Fear tells us to stay low, stay quiet, stay small.  Fear laughs in our faces and tells us to never hope or dream or wish.

I am done with fear running my life, telling me just to wait, wait for a better time, a better chance, a better me.  Telling me what chances to take–none.  No chances, never.

Fighting fear may well be the one battle at the root of all the battles we fight.  Even Eve was afraid that God was holding out on her when she bit into that apple, afraid that she was missing out on something good.

This blog is a journey into saying “goodbye” to fear and “hello” to true love and abundant life.  A habit of calling myself by a Viking name, calling myself “Fearless” as a reminder and not as a boast.  Because we need to be reminded of who we are.  We need to be reminded of the battle.  We need reminders of what we can be if we stop waiting and get in the fight.

I think we are all tired of fear, and I think we are all ready for something better.

I think we are ready for a journey to Fearless.

What’s your Viking name?  What words or images help you stay inspired and reminded of the higher calling on your life?  Reminders like this will be a running theme here at Lady the Fearless, so you have time to think about it if you want to comment at a later date.  But if you know it now, please share in the comments below!  You have something to share that will help others.  I know you do, because God put it there.




Goodbye, Fear. Hello, Love.