People are funny. We are all so quirky and unique, holding a thousand different stories in the palms of our hands. Sometimes we want others to ask us about these stories, and sometimes we don’t. We are full of passion and depression and fear and joy. We all carry a few scars, some of us more than others. We have freckles sprinkled over our noses and pain in our eyes; we hold onto hope like a lifeline from our sinking ships. Most of the time, we are wandering around just searching for the lighthouse that points the way back home. 

I will never stop being amazed by people—their stories and tendencies and the subtle making or avoiding of eye contact. I will never stop being amazed by humans and our ability to love and hate and hold hands, run and fall and get back up again. We are crazy and misunderstood and a misfit tribe of rebellion. We’re all a little mysterious, aren’t we? Even those who wear our hearts on our sleeves, like we’re slipping on a favorite shirt… we all keep changing eventually. 

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The one thing that seems consistent, though, is that people keep surprising me, and I keep surprising people. We will constantly disappoint and hurt each other, stumbling through the everyday with our wounds wide open. Despite all of the good and love we pour out at times, we are imperfect and flawed and failing. There is only One who can satisfy our thirsty souls.

This truth doesn’t mean I don’t love people. Gosh, I love people. Sometimes my heart actually hurts because of how much I love people, each and every one of you brave, beautiful souls. But my one true hope does not rest on any of us.

I empathize with people, too, because I think all of us are trying to find God, even if we don’t realize it yet—that He’s the patch to the hole in our hearts we’ve been trying to fill. We try to fill up our hearts with sex and slander and booze, soulmates and sports and careers. But when we look to the world to fulfill what only God can, we will be hit with a wrecking ball of disappointment every single time. What we thought could make us whole left us with a more noticeable hole, and maybe what we've been searching for all along is holiness. Because these things and people of this world will keep us searching until we find that there is only One who remains enough to patch our broken hearts.

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The love of Jesus is the only thing that can hold me up. The cross is the perfect and holy sacrifice that I so desperately need. I am shattered pieces of china that God keeps gluing back together. I am just a heap of bones that God chased after and breathed life into, tripping over myself and aching for glory.

I will keep failing you, and people will keep failing me, but He will remain faithful.

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Tomorrow we go out and vote for our next president. Hopefully we can agree that our options aren’t great. In fact, this whole election season has me a little crazy. I came pretty close to deleting my Facebook account until all of the articles and arguments blow over.

And I get it, because we are a passionate, diverse people group. We are all shaped by different life experiences and possess a need to feel seen and heard. We believe deeply in our convictions, and we aren’t going to stand on the sidelines silently. We are going to fight for those causes that we believe in, and we should. I’m confident that the Lord wants us to be engaged in the world, to be advocators for the helpless and hurting. We shouldn't shy away from the hard things. 

But can we just take a deep breath for a second?

I want to write to you gently today, dear friends, and I’m writing as much to myself as I am to you. Because there are people out there pledging the end of real, long-time friendships based on political disagreements this season. There are people spewing hateful words and casting stones from behind screens. There are hearts being broken because of a believer’s words and labeling of them. Can’t you imagine that Satan is loving every second of this chaos? 

Sure, I think a lot of us are afraid. We are afraid that Roe v. Wade will never get overturned, that we will stop caring about those in poverty, we will stop loving on gays and African Americans and white-collar workers and refugees. We are afraid that the government will take all of our money or they won’t take enough of it, or that the United States will never be the great country it once was.

And although we are confident that the Lord is sitting on His throne, mostly I think we are all just trying to love people the best way we know how... we just get a little off track sometimes. Underneath it all, we are trying to be faithful to what the Lord has called us to on this earth, in this specific time and place. I think (and hope) most of us have done our research; I think we take our voting rights seriously and we are attempting to make our country the best version of itself.

I believe a lot of us truly want what’s best for our neighbors. Friend, may we never lose sight of the supreme Truth: what’s best for them is Jesus.

So however you think the advancement of the Gospel can prevail in the best way—vote for that. However you believe you can best show Christ’s love to the helpless—vote for that. Stand up for life—in the womb and out of the womb and in the church and out of the church. Stand for or against the policies and laws that you believe in upholding or dismissing according to Scripture. As we know, there are big consequences in this election, and must hold fast to our convictions. We must hold fast to the Word of God. 

I’m not here to tell you whom to vote for, because I think you’re capable of making your own decisions. I’m just here to tell you that no matter whose name you check on that ballot, I still love you and your perfectly imperfect self. I know that sounds silly and ideological, but it’s true.

In the end, when we’re standing in front of the throne, we only have to answer to one Guy. In the end, there’s only one Judge. It’s not the media or our work friends or our favorite Christian writers. We must answer to the God who gave up His Son for us, who loves us in the dark places and in the light, who hands out forgiveness to the least deserving of us. So however you think you can best glorify the beautiful, magnificent Creator of the universe—vote for that. 

Keep fighting for what you believe in, but never let it overshadow Whom you believe in. Keep showing up in love and mercy and grace, like our Father shows up for you.

 

There’s always room for you here,

Alex

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Sometimes I think life is just one giant puzzle. I feel like my little life is separated into 1000 pieces and God is slowly and methodically putting all of my pieces together. But He doesn’t always start with the edge pieces, because that would make too much sense. He decides to put a few wonky-shaped pieces together here and there, and I’m left looking at what seems to be parts of a zebra and a racecar, scratching my head and thinking, “What the heck is this going to be?”

If you haven’t noticed, I write a lot. I have a few Word documents that I fill with jumbled thoughts and childhood stories and life anecdotes. Mostly I write about God, because when I’m not thinking about Him, I want to be.

For me, reflection and writing help me put together a few pieces of this giant, confusing puzzle of life. I can look back and see that the most difficult things I’ve faced thus far were so clearly there to bring me closer and closer to Jesus. Dear God, I wish that heartbreak and trials weren’t part of the puzzle. I wish more of the pieces involved singing in the car on fun road trips and taste testing flavors of cake. I wish the pieces that contained loss of friendships or fights with family members were all replaced with happy tears and job promotions.

Yet most of the time, there are just a lot of seemingly-unconnected shapes lying in a mess on my bedroom floor, and I’m left agonizing over the outcome of the completed picture. I won’t see the glimpses of heaven until much later.

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But one day I’ll look back and see that God was putting together jigsaw pieces of His glory all along. And I’ll stop trying to connect the pieces myself and trust that He has a plan.

And I might just begin making leaps of faith and forgiving the unforgivable, knowing that God keeps forgiving me. I might sing Hallelujah through the hurt and hand out grace to my least favorite people. And then God will probably draw me to love those same unlikely people, because that’s the kind of wild thing He does.

And I might just smile at the fact that most of the time I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m confident that God is orchestrating a stunning picture behind the scenes, so I’m okay with the not-knowing at the moment. I’ll look down at my crazy pile of puzzle pieces and be thankful for my weird, wonky, beautiful life. 

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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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