On the day of your first art show

On the day of your first art show, you wake up smiling. Literally. You're surprised by this because all week you've been worrying: worrying you don't have enough art, worrying no one will show up, worrying you might have the date wrong. Your brain sometimes goes a bit nutty when something important is about to happen.

So you wake up grinning, and you get up and survey the artwork that's threatening to swallow the entirety of your bedroom. Eighteen canvases, hundreds of paper prints, even more cards, over a dozen notebooks, two globes, and a map. Your fingers have worked on all of these, and soon they'll be hung on a brick wall and people will come to see them. Or so you hope.

You go with your mom to the nail salon, because you bought high heels which show off your toes. When you return home, you go back to your room and gather together the materials you'll need to set up. For the past few weeks you've continually thought that no one will come to your show. You think it will flop, crash and burn, and every other sad cliche you can grab hold of. Positivity hasn't exactly been your forefront, and suddenly, as you're putting together your crates of prints, and piles of canvases, you feel the breath of God within you whisper, "I am giving you favour. Aliza, I am giving you favour."

You could cry because your faith is so small, so pitiful in spite of the goodness that has been poured over you. Your fickle human heart felt as though it would be far easier to doubt than to hold onto hope that God has good, kind plans for you. You were wrong, as per usual. You've sucker punched yourself in the chest, and when you retrieve your breath it's withering and fragile. You straighten your spine and thank God earnestly for his kind favour.

And then you go to your art show.

On the day of your first art show, God opens his arms wide and parades his grace through the loveliness of humans. When, what you estimate to be around ninety people walk through the doors to see your artwork, you are stunned. Stunned is an understatement, actually. If what you are feeling within manifested into actuality, you would have fallen flat on your face on the floor, unable to get up.

You are blown away by how much it means when people show up. God is always there, it's true, but he so visibly shows up when people show up for each other.

The next day you wake up smiling again. Your heart is so full, so grateful, so near exploding you wonder if you were to add anything more to your soul, it would overflow and brim over, and brim over, and brim over some more.

[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDgEofbMpmk&feature=youtu.be[/embed]

When I found love by the sea

We had driven eight and a half hours — longer if you count how many times I had to stop and use the bathroom. (If you’re wanting to get somewhere quick, I’m not exactly the most ideal person to road trip with.) We drove from Ontario to Massachusetts, right across the state of New York, and the closer we got to the coast, the more I thought I could smell the salt rise from the sea.

The sea does something to me. It opens up a well inside of me — some deep, cavernous place I had forgotten about, and it brings out realizations and understandings that I hadn’t quite grasped before.

Cape Cod is nothing short of stunning. Despite the fact it was freezing, I slipped my toes out from my shoes and felt the sand beneath me as I walked closer toward the ocean. My sister wrapped her arms tighter around her small son, a fuzzy blanket keeping him warm.

We were small, minuscule in fact, in front of that gaping water.

I have felt small before — the good kind and the bad.

I have felt small in the good way: while standing in front of the sea, sitting under the star speckled sky, looking out at the mountains of Rwanda and Peru. And the bad way: feeling unloved and like a desperate disappointment, all the while convincing myself I needed to do something in order to measure up.

I'm over at (in)courage today and would love for you to come join... 

I'll be planting a garden

God told me to plant a garden.

Not a literal one, although I'm debating starting that kind too. Sunflowers that stretch taller than me -- I'd like to have that. It's not my hands that are stained with dirt, instead it's my soul, which Jesus kindly whispered to pay attention to.

It was a nice thought, to plant a garden. So I told Him, "Okay."

The problem with creating a garden is finding understanding that what you will be creating will not be immediate. I don't know exactly how the whole process works, but I do know gardens take time and tending and watering and waiting. You don't see much progress for awhile, do you? You just plant your bulbs, dust your hands, offer a little water each day, and wait, hoping that something is forming deep within the ground below you.

I did the same thing with my soul. I got real quiet -- just me and Jesus and my innermost parts which were feeling shaky and untrusting. I prayed for faithfulness and patience, two things that are not my forte, and I planted my bulbs. I could picture them rooting inside of me. Red and orange tulips, I liked to think.

One thing I'm realizing: if you're going to pray for patience and faithfulness, God is most certainly going to provide you opportunities to grow those bulbs.

The past month and a half I have felt like my life has been on hold. Like I'm waiting for something, for anything really, to just click into place and get things moving. In the beginning of my waiting, I didn't mind. I thought, "I am being such a faithful, patient servant. Jesus is working in me so clearly." And then my waiting felt like it was stretching out much too long, and much too slowly, and soon I was done with waiting. But I was praying for patience and faithfulness -- so why would anything come quickly when what I deeply wanted was to learn how to wait?

One night, when I was significantly tired of waiting for something to happen in my life, I told Jesus how I was feeling. "You say You have good plans for me, Jesus? If this is true, tell me, where are these good and lovely plans and why aren't they happening yet?"

I'm over at (in)courage today and would love for you to join me...

On the day that I saw Jesus

I wrote this a few years back, for (in)courage. But today, on Holy Saturday, when Jesus was buried and the people thought everything was over and finished and done, we can hold onto the fact that Sunday is coming. That Love is still being redeemed.

I saw Jesus the day my father shaved the hair off my mother’s head.

This was two years ago, back when she had cancer. Jesus was there that day, too.

When my mom asked my dad if he would shave her head -- because the chemo was causing her hair to fall out and it was just too hard to pick up the pieces -- he said yes. When my mom asked my younger brother and I if we would be there when he shaved it, we said yes, too.

Jesus was on her right side, my dad on her left. Eli and I stood behind. I looped my arm through his and watched.

Watched the hair and tears mingle and fall together into the sink.

Watched my dads hand curve gently on the small of her back.

Watched love happen right there in front of me.

And Jesus was there for it all. He saw every hair fall -- and since he knows how many hairs are on our head, he knows when those hairs aren’t there anymore -- and I wonder if maybe Jesus was crying, too.

You see -- this is what love looks like to me:

Love is a husband shaving the hair off his wife’s head. Love is holding the razor steady while watching her body rack with sobs. Love is clinging to her tightly afterwards and whispering, “You are beautiful, you are beautiful, you are beautiful.”

Love is a Groom taking the sins of his bride on his shoulders. Love is carrying her shame to Golgotha, all the way to Calvary. Love is nails hammered to bones, thorns thrusted to scalp, spear stabbed to side. Love is the Groom writhing in pain, bathed in blood, so the bride can dance free.

But Love didn’t end when that last breath was taken. Love rose three days later, and because of that, the bride can say:

I am redeemed.

I am forgiven.

I am set free.

My mom’s hair was all there in the kitchen sink. Long tears streamed steadily down my cheeks as I hugged her closely. But I witnessed love that day.

I saw love.

Jesus holds me, holds her, holds you, and whispers: You are redeemed. You are forgiven. You are set free.

You are loved.

Did you hear that? Lean in closer.

Let those words wash over you, like a balm on your weary, weary soul.

The Groom is whispering to you – to his sweet, broken, beautiful bride.

You are loved. 

Now, we can dance free.  

The beginning of Holy Week

Jesus is going to die on Friday. 

That's what I keep thinking.

You can go through twenty-one Holy Weeks, and yet each time Palm Sunday comes around you grapple with a gaping, gasping afresh realization: Jesus is going to die on Friday.

I think about it again and my heart slips into my lungs, making it hard to breathe. It's the beginning of Holy Week, which tends to feel both reverent and loose -- as if I'm teetering on the edge of a very large cliff, staring down at my miseries and burdens, all the while knowing the Saviour of the world is deep in the midst of saving me.

We were handed his execution date a long time ago. We break bread and remember him, but this week he's dying all over again. We know Sunday is coming and that there is hope, but Friday comes first and my mourning has already begun.

I mourn my faithlessness.

I mourn my pride.

I mourn my denial of him -- and not just three times like his dear friend Peter -- but more, so many more. He is my Lord and my Saviour and there are innumerable times where I have cast him aside. Holy Week brings that all back to me.

It is here, during these days, where I am most aware of how utterly weak my fickle human flesh is.

I could've been the girl to sing hosanna and five days later yell crucify him. I could've waved a branch like a flag in praise of him, only to turn my back when the nighttime came. I could've loved him on Palm Sunday but left him on Friday along with all of his friends.

I am a runner. I get scared when times get hard. I deny; I betray; and most certainly I run away. And yet what causes me the most grief is the understanding that he knows all of this, and still chooses to have nails pummelled into the beautiful hands which formed me.

Jesus is going to die on Friday.

For a girl he loves madly, a girl who doesn't deserve him. And yet he wants me, and suffers for me, and forgives me over and over again.

I realize how desperately I love him. And I pray I'll love him even more.

"To make of his story something that could neither startle, nor shock, nor terrify, nor excite, nor inspire a living soul is to crucify the Son of God afresh." -- Dorothy Sayers

Dear girl who thinks she's not enough

Dear girl who thinks she’s not enough,

My best friend's sister just had a baby girl, and already I'm praying that her baby girl will grow up feeling confident in her worth and enough-ness. But I'm not that naive. I know when you're a person trying to find your place in this world, your inadequacy shouts far louder than your gifts.

Each day I wake up and try to choose that I am enough, and still there are days where I am crippled by my insecurities. I used to think I could get to the point where I would always feel enough. Now I'm realizing that enough is not a feeling, but a choice.

I could tell you a million times over that your worth is far greater than all the stars gathered up together in the sky.

I could tell you that I'd pour your worth into the sea, only to hear it clang like a tambourine and come crashing back upon me, its tidal wave astronomical in strength, gushing across the plains and hills and valleys, cresting along the barriers of the Earth.

I could tell you that I'd like to take a measuring tape and wrap your worth around the circumference of the globe, only to see it wrap around a thousand times, immeasurable, a never ending ruler of your worth.

We could do these things together; I could show you your strength and dazzling significance, but still, if you haven't chosen to see that you're worth far more than all of these, you'll stay weary and crippled and believing you're not enough. You and I both know that you have a great deal more to offer the world than a weary and crippled girl.

Sometimes I like to dream about what the world would look like if we all chose to believe that how God made us is entirely good enough. And then I go one step further and start to dream about what the world would look like if we not only believed we were enough, but believed that who we are is just plain good.

When I am feeling most afraid and un-enough, I go back to God's words in the beginning where he calls you and me and the flowers and the birds and the trees and the ocean and the thousands of stars and the millions of grains of sand good. And then I think, "If I am good in God's eyes -- eyes that see beauty far more detailed and intricate and stunning than I could ever see -- why am I not good in my own?"

This is who I am:

I am a sinner -- elaborately flawed by my own self. I screw up consistently, so much so that somedays I don't even realize how much I have sinned.

But I am saved and forgiven and enough. I am worthy and valuable and significant -- not because of anything I did, but because Jesus has deemed me his.

You are all of this, too.

All of the people of the world could affirm your worth and value and enough-ness, and yet if you don't choose to believe it for yourself, you'll never believe it. 

Dear girl who thinks she's not enough -- you are.

But enough is a choice and not a feeling. It's a daily, sometimes minutely in my case, decision to retrain your thoughts: I am enough as I am. I am enough as I am. I am enough as I am. 

You have so much to offer the world: beauty and art and rare gifts that can only come from your hands, your voice, your beautiful brain. But ultimately you have to choose to believe that.

I hope you do. And I hope you know this: the world is a much, much lovelier place with you in it.

Let's meet up in diners

Let's meet up in diners, I think as I wrap my hand around my lukewarm cup of coffee. I've poured in too much cream again.

I'm sitting across the table from an old friend I knew when we were fifteen, when the world literally revolved around having plans on the weekends. Jesus and I were acquainted then, but when I look back I knew I missed him more often than not. He was steady. I was consistently changing my mind.

My friend and I are in a diner, the kind with red vinyl booths and a black-and-white checkered floor. She is honest, she is authentic, and I am so glad we are twenty-one instead of fifteen.

We're catching each other up on our lives. Most of this has to do with Jesus, and if I were to draw out my relationship with him on a map, you'd get dizzy from the ups and downs. I've dropped Jesus more times than I care to admit. Lent is a good reminder of this. I lean into this season of suffering and grief, and mourn the times I've denied him.

Perhaps -- because it is Lent -- I feel more content in my season of waiting. Or maybe God is working in me in ways he hasn't worked in me before. I picture myself a red-orange tulip, still burrowed deep within the ground.

I look at my friend, her hair framed by the winter light behind her, and she tells me how she was in her own season of waiting. She took a job that involved going to high schools and talking to students about how loved they are, and for the first year she said it was the hardest thing she ever did. She kept waiting for it to get better. She kept waiting for it to not be so scary. Instead of quitting, she waited. Instead of quitting, she kept showing up. 

Over spinach and feta omelettes, and rye toast, and soft eggs, something was opening up inside of me that had been closed for awhile.

Waiting -- whatever it is you might be waiting for -- has the capacity to do a few different things to a person. It can make you bitter and sad and longing for what someone else has. (I've allowed it to do this to me before.) Or it can carve and mould and form you into a person who doesn't quit, but instead keeps showing up.

I look at my friend -- and I am so grateful she kept showing up for those high school kids. One year later, her time of waiting is over, and she is a part of a ministry she never dreamed she might be a part of. Those kids needed her to show up for them. I needed her to show up for them, too. If only so one year later she could sit across from me in a diner and tell me she kept trying. Bravery often works best that way, I think. Someone is scared and tries anyway. Then they see someone who's scared and tells them to try anyway, too. 

Let's meet up in diners, I think as I wrap my hand around my still lukewarm cup of coffee. Let's show up for each other, even while we're still waiting and hoping and praying. Let's order coffee and get plenty of refills. Let's be authentic and vulnerable and say: I don't think I'll ever have it all together. Let's be scared and brave, all at the same time. We know it's easier to be brave together. Let's be honest and kind, and thank God for the girl sitting across from us in the red vinyl booth.

Let's not quit. Let's keep waiting. Let's show up.

And let's meet up in diners.

Please don't let rejection have the last word

Aliza -- 

Recently I've been struggling with rejection and countless doors slammed in my face that I thought would be wide open and I have been rethinking a lot of my dreams and goals and the things that I thought I was good at. I've been discouraged, felt like giving up, and doubting my passions and talents.

I'm a writer. 

I have always wanted to be a writer. 

I want to create beautiful things for the people I love. 

With colleges breathing down my throat and so many life changing decisions to make in the next year, I have been feeling so overwhelmed and scared and confused recently. When I try to explain what I want to do to people, it never makes sense. It doesn't fit in a specific category of careers.

-- E. 

Okay, E --

Let me first tell you how sorry I am that you've been experiencing rejection. It's such a crappy part of being a human, isn't it?

I read something this morning that bruised my heart until it was swollen: "Jesus, who never rejected anyone, was rejected more than anyone else." Suffice it to say, God gets rejection. He was the most rejected person on the planet.

On a scale of things I'd be fine with never feeling again, rejection is at the top of the list. So I want to affirm you -- it’s totally okay to feel crappy after experiencing rejection. And after that affirmation, I want to encourage you -- even though you’ve been rejected, that doesn't mean you’re not good at what you’ve been rejected at.

Kathryn Stockett, author of The Help, was rejected by agents and publishers sixty times before someone gave her a shot.

Kathryn's friends and family members said, "Kathryn, we really think you need to move on from this project." Kathryn disagreed. So Kathryn started lying to them about where she was going. She'd say she was moving on, and then she'd sneak away to work on her book, to revise it one more time, to prepare it to send to -- yet again -- another literary agent.

One day, presumably after years of work and tears and sweat and effort and a whole lot of cursing, someone said yes to Kathryn. Someone gave her a shot.

Now The Help is a best selling novel and a major motion picture. All because one person, after sixty people saying no, one person said yes.

This story matters to me. I think sometimes rejection is a sign to move forward, but I also think sometimes rejection is when a person (or sixty) may not have quite grasped the potential of what stands in front of them.

I got shake it off stamped into a bracelet.

So that a) I can continually channel my inner T Swift and b) when the rejection comes -- which it always will -- I can do just that. Shake it off, shake it off. I know it's not that easy. Rejection is a slow and harsh burn. But I think sometimes we convince ourselves it's better if we hold on tight. Let me assure you from some serious experience: when your burdens are heavy, it's always better to let go.

For a long time I thought I had to do very specific things that would fall into line with God’s Big Plan For My Life.

What I’m learning is this: if I’m walking beside Jesus, completely in line with who he is, then his plan is going to fall into place because I’ll be beside him. I believe God’s plan for all people is to follow and love him so deeply, that everything we do is a reflection of that love.

Please don't let rejection have the last word, E. Let's be real, it's Fear who is speaking now -- hissing that you're not good enough. You can mourn and grieve how you're feeling in this period of rejection. But get up again, and try one more time. Maybe that time will be the moment when someone says yes. Maybe tomorrow someone will give you your shot.

If you need to write, write. (I happen to think Kathryn Stockett would agree with me.) If you need to create, create. But writing a book is not the epitome of success, and success doesn't equal happiness. Stick to who you are -- more specifically, to who God has created you to be.

And don't forget, E -- Jesus gets rejection.

Here's to fighting the winter blues

Although February is short, it's probably my least favourite month. It's like a constant state of exhaustion. You go to sleep tired, you wake up more tired. I don't understand how that even works.

Author Sarah Dessen tweeted this, which made me laugh:

February: the month where all I want to do is sleep. #tired#always

— sarahdessen (@sarahdessen) February 11, 2016

I think the winter blues are a real thing, and here's how I'm fighting them -- with lots of my favourite things.

1. I'm reading blogs.

I don't normally read too many blogs, but this winter I have. My current favourites are Flower Patch Farmgirl (she's a gem in real life, too!), Hannah Brencher, and Flannery O'Connor. All right, I know Flan doesn't have a blog, (she and I are on nickname level friendship now) but I've been reading her Prayer Journal which feels more personal and vulnerable than a blog might feel. I hope she doesn't mind the millions of people reading her journal entries. They have comforted me considerably. I wish I could thank her.

I think I like all of these women so much because they are raw and open and real about God, and in the middle of winter I really don't want any more fluff.

2. Summer candles.

These are the candles I keep lighting: lemonade, mango tango, and grapefruit. If you close your eyes, you're basically on instant summer vacation.

3. Cuddling my boyfriend nephew.

I wish everyone had a baby nephew. I wish everyone could hold their nephew and stare into his deep blue dazzling eyes, and wonder why their chest is hurting -- quickly realizing it's because their capacity to love is literally growing deep within them. I have loved more in the past three weeks than I have in my life. Noah Justice is the kindest, smartest, most beautiful baby in this entire world -- and yes, I know I'm biased, but I think you would agree if you knew him.

4. Starting each day the same. 

I don't generally love routines, but for this year I think I have found a routine in the morning that really works for me. A few people have asked me about it, so I figured I may as well share. It might be too long or too short for you, but it works for me!

1. I begin with my bullet journal. I heart my bullet journal so much.
2. I read the daily devo from My Utmost For His Highest, which I am madly in love with.
3. I write in my journal. I used to only use my bullet journal, but I really missed long form writing. Since I've started up again, I feel like my head is clearer to begin my day.
4. I read my Bible -- following a three year reading plan. Last year I made it my goal to finish my Bible in a year. It was great, but I felt so much stress! It was always about the goal, instead of about what I was reading. This year I'm trying this -- it's slower and I can savour it more. No stress, and there's more time to get it inside of me.

Now that it's Lent, I've switched a few things around to focus more on the journey to the cross, but the essence of it is the same. This is working really well for me.

5. Prison Break.

Oh my gosh, I forgot how much I love this show. I flew through the first season on Netflix, intermingling with my other new-to-me favourites, Grey's Anatomy and The Office. I still haven't finished Gilmore Girls because I don't want it to end. I also am working my way through Lost.

I can only read one book at a time, but I can have seventeen hundred shows in my brain at once. Although I think I've been watching too much Prison Break because I've started to dream about it:

I've been watching too much Prison Break. I know this because last night I dreamed Rory Gilmore and I escaped from prison together.

— aliza latta (@alizalatta) February 7, 2016

 So this is what's helping me fight my winter blues. Tell me what your favourites are this winter! 

PS. Thank you so much for all of your support with my previous blog post. I don't think I've ever been so encouraged. 

Happy Thursday, pals. 

I turned down a book deal and this is why

This past October I was offered a book deal. A few days ago, I turned it down.

I hadn't sent out a book proposal because I wasn't even considering writing nonfiction. But a publishing house had somehow discovered my blog, liked what they saw, and wanted me to write a book. It's strange to even type that.

When they first emailed me, I was in the Lima airport in Peru at four in the morning. I think I literally squealed. I was elated, delighted, flattered, exhausted, and shocked. Mostly I couldn't believe it. I read the email over and over again, and I remember feeling like I was still on the plane, like I was flying or hovering, like my backpack didn't weigh a thing. I also distinctly remember feeling like I was on fire.

There was a lot going on inside of me that day.

Over the next few months the publisher, editor, marketer, and I chatted. They were nothing if not kind. We conceptualized ideas, talked about titles, looked over marketing plans, and did a lot of other book-ish things. I was happily overwhelmed through the whole process, until one week when I started having nightmares.

I am slowly learning that when I have anxiety, she often shows her face through dreams. She sneaks into my head at night, and I wake up feeling sad and confused and lonely. That happened for a week and a half. I was so tired, and didn't have much energy. I binge-watched a lot of Grey's. I didn't write.

Since they had offered me the deal, an endless loop had been playing in my mind: I'm going to be published! I'm going to be published! I'm going to be published! 

I thought being published was the epitome of success. I thought I would have something worthwhile to tell people when they asked me what I did for a living. I thought I would write this book, but I was thinking that for all of the wrong reasons.

I made a promise to myself years and years ago, back when I was seventeen-years-old, when I began writing a novel. The promise was this:

I will not write a book solely to get published. I will only write a book if I desperately, relentlessly, urgently need to write the book. I will write because I need to write, not because I hope to be published.

That was a promise I made to my heart, if only to help me come back to the reason why I started writing in the first place.

I can't write a book just to write a book. I mean I could -- but I don't want to. It has to be carved so deep within me that I will do literally anything to see its release. I feel this about other projects, other words. I didn't feel that about this one.

I will be so 100%, blatantly honest with you: for me, this book wouldn't have been about the words. It would have been about the idea that being published somehow would make me enough.

One day after the anxiety was on full blast in my brain, I woke up and started to fervently pray, using Philippians 4:6 and 7 as my lifeline: “Don’t worry about anything, instead pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank Him for all He has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your heart and mind as you live in Christ Jesus.”

I wanted peace more than anxiety. I wanted my enough-ness to stem from God and not a publishing deal. I wanted Jesus more than anything. So I took my shaky hands and typed an email, clicked send, and didn't have a book deal any longer.

Immediately I wondered if I made a huge mistake. Would this be my only opportunity to be published? I asked God to confirm that I did the right thing. Not even a half hour later, I felt inexplicable peace.

Everything about this was good. The publishing house was kind, the concept was fantastic, the timeline lovely. It was all good. Which is, I think, why I was feeling so confused. If all of it was lovely, why was I anxious?

When the world offers you something gleaming on a shiny silver platter, it seems foolish to say no. It's so pretty, so tantalizing, so easy to pick up and run with. But in the deep recesses of my heart and soul I knew this shiny morsel wasn't right for me yet. I have to believe that what God has for me -- though perhaps not gleaming or shiny or silver -- is so much better.

Writing a book to try and prove your worth is not nearly a good enough reason to write a book.

I thought long and prayed hard about this, and the storyteller inside of me wants to write fiction until my fingers bleed. I thought I needed to be a nonfiction writer because that's what was being offered, but I know now that's not true. I thought I needed to accept a publishing deal, because maybe it will be the only one ever offered. But I want to trust God far more than all of this. I need to instead lean into what God has in store for me -- and quite honestly, I have no idea what that is.

So there we have it. Maybe foolish. Maybe brave. You can decide, because the truth is I don't mind which one you choose.