I push my cart down aisle 4 and just as I reach the snacks, I imagine Jillian Michaels walking up behind me and in her bossy strong voice, she points right in my face and says, Do you really want to put that in your cart? And can you believe that just the thought of of Jillian at my Harris Teeter looking into my cart keeps me from buying the Oreos? Invisible, pretend, Jillian.

The college boys in front of me have their arms filled with beer and toilet paper, and I wonder what type of night they’re going to have with all the beer. And the toilet paper. But I don’t really wonder because I kind of know, even though I’m a good girl and didn’t have many (any) beer and toilet paper kind of nights. Girls who don’t buy Oreos because of imaginary Jillians don’t have beer and toilet paper kind of nights.

I think about the book I wrote that I feel like I’ve talked incessantly about to you (gracious, beautiful you), but I think about it because it’s coming close to the point where I no longer have a hand in the words anymore, the point where my hands are off and yours are on. And since I’m on my own nerves talking about how terrifying that is, I won’t say it  again. But you know. I’m not sure when I grew up, exactly. Maybe sometime around when I bounced my first check in college (ohhhh, there has to be money in there) or had my first and second babies within 3 minutes of each other or drank a big glass of wine on my honeymoon, sans the toilet paper.

Driving home from the grocery store, I am so deep in thought that I miss my turn. I drive home the long way, pause to take a picture of a pretty house, hum a little of The Story, ask myself if the pace of my life fits the pace of my soul. Life lately demands performance, while my soul demands space. I think of Ann’s words: Life is not an emergency. I dare myself to believe her. I pray peace words over the whirring hum lodged in my heart. It’s a physical whirr with emotional impact. Peace looks me in the eye and asks to do what Peace does best. Let me be your umpire. I consider it, but I hold back. It feels risky.

His words come to mind, Be still and know that I am God (Ps. 46:10), and I notice especially today that it doesn’t say to be still and feel. It says know, and that feels particularly important today.

We talk here about belief, about creating and risk and making art with our lives. Sometimes faith feels full and other times, it is only a pencil dot on the paper, but we struggle through and hold tight to our threads. If you would like to receive these daily-ish perspectives in your email inbox, simply click on subscribe in the navigation menu above and choose the email option in the ‘subscribe now’ box.