I was 10 years old when 9/11 happened, which is a strange age to see tragedy play out in front of you. I was too young to understand the complete and devastating implications, but I was old enough to grasp the weight of death and the horror of terrorism.

We had an emergency school assembly at my small Christian school. The principal prayed while the cries of kids echoed throughout the church. We left the chapel and sat in the hallway; I don’t remember why.
 
Worlds were shattered and people broken, and we left school early to watch the disaster unfold on our tube TV.

A few months later, I wrote a poem and my parents put it in our Christmas card. In the photo on the front, my little sister and I wore matching American flag sweaters and soft smiles. I still have a copy and here is what it said:

“All that’s been happening and going around, makes me want to hide on the ground;
But I’ve noticed a change more Christ-like, this Christmas I don’t want a video or bike;
I didn’t know what to ask for this year, but then I knew and it made me cheer!
I wanted everyone to become a Christian, not just lying there and keep on wishin’;
I know you can’t do it but God can, so if you’ll pray that they’ll understand.”
— A Christmas Wish by Alex, 2001

After the cards were stuffed and mailed, people came up to me and told me how meaningful and beautiful my poem was. I remember one instance in particular where a gray-haired, smiling lady walked slowly over to me and said she cried when reading it and sent it to her son, who was proudly fighting for our country overseas.

That was the first time I realized that writing could have an impact, even on someone I’ve never met.

When I go back and read my little Christmas poem, I see all of its flaws and naïveté, but I also think that I want to write and live like this still.

I want to wrestle with the world in all of its messiness and brokenness and to still hold on to hope, to humbly acknowledge my own inadequacy while firmly grasping the power and magnificence of God.

I don’t want to ignore the hurt and heartache and hunger, but to be vulnerable and bold and faithful, to feel deeply and love deeply and believe deeply in the God of redemption and grace.
 
Whatever the problems or tragedies we are facing, I still want to believe that Jesus is the answer. 

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I'm thrilled to introduce my first line of Christmas cards, which arose out of my love of Christmas and Jesus and stories like these.

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If you know me or my family, then you know that I look a lot like my mom. With every year, I am basically morphing into a clone replica of Becky Sager. On a regular basis, strangers will literally come up to me and say, "Oh my gosh. You HAVE to be Becky's daughter!" I smile and nod. I might as well go around wearing a name tag that says as much. I don't mind, because my mom is awesome. If she had a bad reputation or emerged on America's Most Wanted, then I would probably rethink my association. 

But I've been thinking-- what if our lives shone so brightly that people came up to us and said, "Oh my gosh. You HAVE to be a child of the King"? What if we are constantly recognized as followers of Jesus? I crave that association.

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I was recently reading 2 Corinthians, and a few verses hit home more than usual. In chapter 3, Paul talks about the hope we have in the new covenant, in Jesus and His ridiculously-amazing sacrifice. He writes about the veil as a symbol of separation from God and the tremendous opportunity of removing that veil when turning to the Lord. In verses 17-18 Paul writes,

“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit” (emphasis added).

You guys, that’s INCREDIBLE! We are being transformed to look more like God. I literally drew an arrow beside that verse and wrote “WOW” at the top of the page while sipping too-hot coffee. It’s more than my mind can comprehend.

In Christ, I’ve always known we are called to purity and holiness, but something about that verse made me think about this transformation in a whole new light. I picture God as a sculptor, chipping away at the rock and dirt of our lives—He’s polishing us and carving us to be more like Him, with more glory and grace than imaginable.

It made me rethink my strategy in presenting the Gospel in my own life. I don’t want to align myself with the Pharisees in all of their pomp and rule-following, but I don’t want to align myself with the unsaved and unrighteous, either. Because the story doesn’t end with mess and rubble and heartache. It ends with Jesus.

As children of light, our storylines should be a progression toward holiness. Is my past part of me? Yes. Am I going to mess up even in my pursuit of Jesus? Definitely. But we are being remade into a new and wonderful thing, a God-shaped and infinitely better thing. We can’t dwell on our brokenness so much that we forget the incredible beauty of transformation.

Our lives should look different than the ungodly because we are different. We have experienced this crazy-good love of Jesus firsthand, and it’s impossible to leave unchanged from that.

So, yes—let’s highlight our sins and shortcomings. Lord knows we aren’t perfect and shouldn’t claim to be. But let’s not expound our offenses without a hand pointed heavenward and the workings of a holy life. 

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I used to think bravery looked like jumping out of airplanes or scaling the side of a mountain with your bare hands. I thought being brave was this big gesture—a way of taking a blind leap with zero fear. And I still think there’s bravery in the big moments, the getting down on one knee and the staring at a positive pregnancy test, the moving to a new city and taking of a new job—these moments require heaps of bravery.

But I’m starting to see bravery enter in the small, the seemingly inconsequential and ordinary moments.

Now I think bravery looks more like honesty, in showing up, in words and waking up every day. I see bravery in paying attention when you want to push it deep down in your soul and sitting in silence with your thoughts. I see bravery in being your odd self and believing in yourself, in listening to people’s stories and talking to strangers. I see bravery in allowing yourself to feel the tough things, in discussing the uncomfortable while clinging to grace, in having compassion and acting on it. I see bravery in allowing God to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

I’m starting to see that bravery is like they say: it’s not the absence of fear, but the necessity of it—in all of these weird, in-between moments that make up life. 

It’s a really strange landing place—this befriending of bravery. I feel like we’ve been acquaintances for a while, but I’m just now getting to know her in an uncomfortable way. Like she accidentally walked in on me naked, so there’s no choice but to laugh with her now.

I guess I just recognized the secret truth, that we are all hiding this intense bravery right under the surface, even if we don’t realize that we are actually warriors—that we are all really rockstars brave enough to show up on stage every day.

So I don’t know where you are in life, but I think you’re secretly a fighter. I think you are incredibly courageous, with a lion heart and a chilling roar, even if you feel more like a small turtle too afraid to come out of its shell. I think, underneath it all, you are a superhero. I think you hide your cape under your clothes, ready to battle at a moment’s notice. I think you are capable of the miraculous, of loving on the unlovable and giving grace to every kind of people.  

And you may not feel like it, at this moment in time, but I think you’re a boxer with a nasty right hook. I think we all are. We may be fighting different opponents and battles, but we are all bringing our beating hearts into the arena and giving it all we’ve got. We are showing up full of nerves and mess and apprehension, but we are showing up. And we are fighting.

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I’m going to be honest, right off the bat. I’ve got some mixed emotions about the news I’m going to tell you. It’s both good and bad. Mostly good, because I believe it’s all woven into God’s beautiful tapestry.
 
I guess it’s more sad than bad, a letting-go of sorts. It’s good-sad news. Like finding out your best friend just landed her dream job, but it’s across the country. Good slash sad. Thrilled with a dash of anxiety. This is happy and nerve-racking news.
 
Next week marks the third year of business for Alex Fly Designs. It has brought me so much joy and has grown into this misfit, wonderful thing I never saw coming. I have loved selling jewelry and prints and Scripture-driven products, but I have also felt unsettled and stretched and a little out-of-place. What once brought me peace is now making me feel like maybe I don't belong anymore-- like walking the halls of high school after you've graduated. 
 
So here’s the news: after this Christmas season, I will be taking down most of my product offerings in the online shop.
 
I don’t know if this is a forever-kind-of-thing. It might be; it might not be. But I’m tentatively stepping out on this wobbly branch and hoping there’s a secret trampoline under my tree, just in case.
 
Are you ready for the good news, the kind of news that makes me breathe a little deeper and release all kinds of nervous energy on my kind, patient husband? My business will continue transitioning to a focus on words and a focus on weddings.
 
I will have more time to write, to meet you in your inboxes with my weird ramblings and stories, more time to work on some pet writing projects I have up my sleeve. I will also have more time to focus on my wedding clients in their paper goods, signage, and calligraphy. I will still take on a few commissions for custom artwork each month, but it will be a bit more methodical, and I will be able to dedicate the much-needed time required for each custom piece. 
 
The people-pleaser in me wants to take on every single thing that comes my way, but I’m learning that’s not necessarily in anyone’s best interest. I want to serve you guys in the best possible way, and for me—that’s at a slower pace with a narrower focus.
 
This transition has been a long-time coming, like a train you can see approaching from miles away. I knew I would eventually have to step on board, after last calls and blown whistles and an impatient nudge from the conductor (As a side note: I am imagining the train to be the Hogwarts Express, of course).
 
So here I am, stepping out in faith and fear and everything in-between. I have loved creating these products and prints full of meaning, and I hope you have gained a little inspiration along the way, too.
 
But it ain’t over ‘til it’s over… so happy shopping until December 31st!
 
I’ll meet you at Platform 9 ¾.

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All of the women in my family have beautiful gardens—filled with little white roses and pink peonies and big, blue hydrangea bushes. In the past, they’ve grown giant okra and watermelon and eight-foot-tall sunflowers. There’s usually an endless supply of fresh flowers and blooming, climbing jasmine.
 
I, however, did not inherit their green thumb. I love the idea of having a flower-filled garden. In this ideal garden, I could wander out and trim roses to put in a vase on the dinner table, or watch the ivy and jasmine climb up the side of the house, making our little brick house look more beautiful with every bud.
 
In this scenario, I would also always have an empty laundry basket and be able to fly.
 
But the thing is: I hate gardening. I do not enjoy working in the yard in 90-degree weather (which it almost always is in Alabama). It’s not that I don’t enjoy the outdoors-- I do. Laying by the pool? I could do that all day. Playing fetch with our pup in the backyard? Give me a tennis ball. Reading outside in the shade on our daybed? Yes, please. I love going on hikes and watching the sun set.
 
But pulling weeds while dripping sweat and throwing them in an orange bucket? No thank you. My allergies do not help with the matter. I get all itchy and sniffling and angry.
 
Kevin does yard work regularly and selflessly. I love him and resent him for it. He had been gently reminding me that I was in charge of the flowerbeds for a few weeks, and I had been gently ignoring him.
 
To be honest, I’m pretty good at ignoring things that I don’t want to deal with. The other day, Kevin returned from his work trip and immediately asked about the oversized limb that had fallen off the tree in our front yard.
 
“When did that limb fall?” he asked.
 
“Huh. I didn’t notice it there.” I replied.
 
“How do you not notice a giant limb in the literal middle of the yard?”
 
“I don’t know. I just didn’t see it.”
 
I have supernatural powers when it comes to ignorance.

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So it’s no surprise that I didn’t put too much thought into the fact that our rose bush was dying at a rapid rate or notice the bright green shoots of weeds that were slowly conquering the flowerbeds.
 
But one Saturday morning I vowed to pull weeds to save my husband’s sanity. I changed into my tank and workout pants, turned on Johnnyswim Pandora on my iPhone, and pulled on my pink gardening gloves. I headed out with my bucket and began to tackle the worst of the beds.
 
It was overwhelming at first. The weeds were lined up like a small army, row after row, staring me down by their infinite numbers. But one by one, I started pulling.
 
Some of them were easy to pull up, and I hardly had to exert effort. But some were rooted deeply, like they were holding on with tight fists to the small patch of earth they inhabited. Some of the weeds were disguised as little flowers, and they almost convinced me to keep them around. Almost, but not quite.
 
Most of them gathered around the bases of the bushes, slowly trying to overtake them completely. This army of weeds wanted to be the star of the flowerbeds, and they wanted to kill everything in its path of domination.
 
And weed by weed, I was defending my little landscape, filling up bucket after bucket of the pesky invaders.
 
I had let it go on too long, I told myself.
 
Much like my sins, I had ignored them and they were multiplying rapidly. They were disguising themselves as being good, like the little purple flowers, but they were really trying to overtake anything that was good.
 
Like selfishness or jealousy or bitterness, they were taking root and gripping on tightly-- and one by one, I finally had to face them head-on.
 
I was pulling weeds, thinking about sins and Jesus and eternity, when I heard a voice right behind me and I jumped three feet in the air.
 
I was so busy thinking about weeds and sins and analogies, I hadn’t noticed my neighbor walking up the driveway.
 
Darn you once again, blissful ignorance.
 
I chatted with my neighbor briefly and vowed to myself to stop ignoring and start noticing. I thought about the truth in The Screwtape Letters, when the demon Screwtape comments to his trainee, Wormwood:

“It is funny how mortals always picture us as putting things into their minds: In reality our best work is done by keeping things out.” 
 
Blissful ignorance.
 
Satan wants to keep us out of churches; he wants to keep us away from the hurting and heartaches surrounding us. And that sin that keeps popping up in your life? He wants you to ignore it, to push it deep down until you no longer even think about it as sinful. The devil is rooting for us to ignore the weeds in our lives, wanting us to be overtaken without realizing it's happening.
 
But the more we ignore the weeds, the more they multiply and the deeper they take root. We have to address our sins and notice when we stray off the path of Jesus, even slightly. We must constantly confess our selfishness and inadequacies, remaining open to delight in His merciful love. 
 
We must face those weeds head-on with our orange buckets in hand, and then allow God to uproot them.

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There’s a place on the way to the beach called Tin Top Café. I’ve never eaten there, but it looks like one of those wonderful hole-in-the-wall restaurants that people boast about frequenting. It’s a little run down, like it’s been in that middle-of-nowhere stretch of highway for ages. The thing I like most about it, though, is the sign out front.

It reads, “Tin Top Café. Good food.”

It’s simple and a little sassy. I like that.

I like that it’s not claiming to be anything that it’s not. The restaurant doesn’t claim to have the best coffee or service or atmosphere. It just says, “Hey, we have good food. Take it or leave it.”

It seems they are completely secure in their identity, and I’m a little jealous of that.

Too often, my insecurities follow me around like a small herd of stray cats. They want to be fed with more fear and jealousy and people-pleasing. I’ve tried kicking them out and I’ve tried praying them away. But these insecurities show up persistently and relentlessly, begging to be kept around a little longer in my heart.

I hate that. It makes me feel like I’m not as strong as other believers—not as bold or secure in my standing with God. I tell myself that I’m clinging to humility and meekness, but then I look at the Gospel and my life doesn’t line up. I look at Jesus and I find myself feeling more and more like Jonah, running away from God’s beckoning call.

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I recently reread Jonah, this Bible story that I grew up knowing by heart. I could hardly make it through, though, because I was crying those ugly tears and they kept blurring my vision. I was reading and crying while the TODAY show was on in the background. Al Roker was talking about the weather in Orlando and my dog kept looking at me confusedly, like “What the heck is wrong with you?”

God keeps messing up my tidy little life. . . THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME, COPPER.

But the story hit me harder than ever before, because I saw myself so clearly as Jonah. God called him to go to Ninevah, a city filled with evil and strife. But Jonah knew that God might show up big-time there, that He might forgive the people of Ninevah despite their wickedness and prevailing sins. Or maybe he even feared for his life, which doesn’t seem all that crazy to me.

Jonah was full of fear and insecurity about the Lord’s commands, so he ran. He boarded a ship, but God made a storm. He was thrown overboard, but God gave him a whale. Jonah cried out to God, and He answered. He always does. When the whale spit Jonah on dry land, he finally followed God’s command. Jonah was so angry about God’s forgiveness of the wicked people that he just wanted to die. But God kept saving him. The Lord poured out compassion even when he didn’t want it.

I saw myself as Jonah because I am filled with fear in stepping out into the wildness that is the full grace of God. I saw myself as Jonah because I’ve tried to be holy and perfect, but God keeps knocking down barriers and handing out mercy to the least deserving. I saw myself as Jonah because I keep finding myself in the belly of a whale, desperate and insecure, and God keeps showing up anyway.

But I also saw myself as the people of Ninevah, sitting in sackcloth and ashes and begging God for forgiveness. I think their part of the story hit me the hardest. Because when you’re at the end of your rope and you realize your sins, what choice do you have but to come to the throne in desperation and ashes, crying out, “Who knows? God may turn and relent and turn from His fierce anger, so that we may not perish” (3:9).

The Lord is so full of extravagant mercy, y’all. I just can’t wrap my mind around it. God’s relentless pursuit of us is unnerving and ridiculous, wild and unruly. His love is crazy good.

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There’s one part of the story that I haven’t addressed yet, and I think it might be my favorite part. After Jonah boarded the boat that was headed to Tarshish and the storm rose up to a scary level, the crew of the ship found Jonah beneath the deck. They angrily told Jonah to “call out to [his] god” to save them. The crew obviously did not believe in this God that Jonah served, but they were desperate. When they found out that Jonah was the reason for the storm, they hurled him into the sea after agreeing they were out of options. The storm ceased immediately, and the crew was amazed. In Jonah 1:16, it says, “Then the men feared the Lord exceedingly, and they offered a sacrifice to the Lord and made vows.”

How amazing is that? Jonah wasn’t supposed to be there, on that boat, in the midst of a storm. In fact, he was directly defying the Lord’s commands. But God cannot be limited, and He used this interruption for His glory anyways.

Not only did God reveal Himself to Jonah and the 120,000+ people of Ninevah, but He also showed up to the crew of the boat- the very boat that Jonah was using to flee the Lord. I think that’s incredibly reassuring. Not that we should defy the Lord’s commands, but that He’s there when we mess up.

He can use any circumstance for His glory. The Lord is not limited by kings or countries, timing or timidity, lands or seas.

I’m going to keep praying for bravery, for the removal of the unholy kind of fear and insecurities. I'm going to keep stepping in the direction of faith and boldness. But I’m also going to rest in the assurance that God is going to keep showing up anyway— no matter if I’m confident in my calling or in the belly of a whale. 

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