Tag Archives: passion

Finding Myself In The Story

6 Dec

Sometimes I’d like to get lost in a crowd

Let the energy swell around me

Until I don’t feel separate

But a small part of a whole entity

I am tired of myself

Everything feels so personal

So internal

So stressful

So petty

I used to see the world differently

And I want to go back to that place

Back to the realization that nothing matters

But my unique contribution

But love

Like every step has meaning

Like no word is lost

Like I know everything matters

Like I can really change things

Change the world

Yes, change myself first

Yes, raise a family too

But what about that BIG thing?

What about my HARD thing that I must do?

What about pouring myself out

and out,

and out again

Once, a long time ago,

A teenage girl sat in her room alone and promised God and herself

Everything would be different

That no day would be wasted

That purpose would seep out of every pore

That she would be single-minded to the point of recklessness

Now she’s tired and feeling 30

And she buries her head in her hands

And thinks of all that’s lost

Then realizes nothing is

Because I don’t have to move mountains

All at once

Only a stone at a time

My promises don’t matter as much

As what’s been promised to me

I can change things

Brick by brick

Bird by bird

Word by word

I can change myself

(I have to believe what I am doing matters. I have to give this everything. I have to become someone else. I have to be me. I have to get lost in the story. I have to find myself there.)

So here I go…

Photo 315

Life, Death & Easter Baskets

5 Apr

I made an Easter basket for the first time today. I wandered the aisles in the store and let my daughter choose between a bunny and a duck. I never did Easter baskets growing up, or egg hunts. It wasn’t the “Christian” thing. While I was throwing together an awkward last-minute basket for my baby, my husband spent the day mourning with friends, and celebrating the life of a young woman who died in a tragic accident. I only met her a couple of times, but the legacy of her life echos far and loud, and I can’t help but feel the void she left behind.

“She never ran away from what she was afraid of. She always ran towards it.”

A friend who knew her well,  spoke those words. I felt them deep down in my gut, the place where my passion for life lives, something I’ve been feeling void of lately.

I place the stuffed duck in the pink wicker basket. He looks goofy there. I wonder what I’ll tell my daughter about Easter.

“Jesus died for your sins, because he loved you. Then He came back to life. Let’s celebrate with candy.”

Lately, I don’t have words. The simple things feel so complex. But I know they are not. Writing feels like a chore and a waste of time. I don’t know how to balance taking care of my daughter and making room to create. I don’t know how to do a lot of things.  I love my baby so much it makes my heart throb. I used to love writing almost like that. I don’t know how to love both. I want to live with passion like I used to.

I don’t want to be afraid to dream.

I don’t want to be afraid to risk.

I don’t want to run away from what I am afraid of.

I am desperately afraid of forgetting what matters and simply existing.

I am afraid of my heart growing cold.

“Jesus died for our sins.”

That line I know. I’ve repeated it since I was 3 or 4 years old. I said the prayer.

I believe, I do.

I know it means so much, but how do I convey it in a way that really matters when someone so loved dies too soon?

How does Easter really change broken hearts?

I took my daughter to some fountains today. The water bubbled up out of the holes in the pavement. She shrieked with laughter as the stream of water got taller and taller, spraying her sweet, round face. I smiled.

She’s never experienced this before. Everything is so new.

And I think about how Easter was the start of God making everything new. How the human race was dying in their numbness and lack of compassion and passion, in their fear and hate, and suddenly now everyone can become like babies again.


Brand new.

Experiencing life like it is the first time.

Full of joy.

Because Love won. Passion kicked apathy’s ass. God made death absolute.

There is newness again.

Even in brokenness, there is beauty.

Even in the worst tragedies, there is redemption.

I know now what I am going to tell my daughter about Easter.


Life began that day.

God died so he could live again, in us.

Now you don’t have to be afraid.

Now you don’t have to be alone.

Now you can feel everything,

Even the most tragic of heartbreaks. 

Now you can start living.

Because LIFE lives inside of you.

And I know I’ve got to do more than tell it. I’ve got to live it.

I’ve got to stop making excuses and overcomplicating things and waiting for someone else to fix my life or be my muse or bring my passion back. I have so much life and love all around me. I have today, and it’s an exquisite gift.

Now I can run towards what I fear.

Narcissistic Notes From My Seventeen-Year-Old Self

2 Nov

Most of the time I remember my teenage self as being super insecure, wanting to be anyone other than me.

Then I come across little gems like this:

I know that I have what it takes to be an author. I know I have what it takes to put  my name on New York Times bestseller. I don’t want to be an author, I want to be the best of the best. Ever. I wont settle for anything else. I have been thinking what does it take to write a best-selling novel? A totally original idea. No one wants to read about everything they have already heard a million times. I need a totally original idea. Something that has never even be thought up or dreamed of by anyone before. That is what will set me apart. I need completely original characters, completely original plot and setting. I need to write something that will grab at the reader’s heart, soul and mind, forcing them to stay up through late hours of the night just to read one more chapter. It need to have a crazy twisted plot that will leave them shocked in the end. I need to write something that will make the reader laugh and cry and stir up something deep inside them that changes the way they view themselves and the world around them forever. Lately I have been asking myself, “What does it take to think this up?” It takes an extraordinary imagination, a certain randomness. It takes a certain perspective on people. Further more, it takes a willingness and self-discipline to sit long hours at the computer writing and writing and living and breathing this story to make it come to life. I figure if I write enough, I am bound to come up with something sooner or later. Brooke Luby will be  written across the smooth cover of that certain book with the unknown title. I will do it.  Sometimes I will try to imitate a certain writer, thinking since THEY have a book published, THEY must be a truly great writer.  I need to learn to erase any writing style I have envied, any form I have been taught, then I will learn to think outside the box, then is when the true originality will flow and the 6 billion will see, feel , READ my soul but not completely grasp it because they can not. They may feel like they can relate, the may feel a connection, but there is one simple fact that will keep them from utterly grasping the words which they will soon all read- THEY ARE NOT ME.


I wrote that when I was seventeen, a few months before I graduated High School.

I admire my own inner tenacity, despite my “slight” narcissism and bad punctuation. (Which I, still struggle with: even though I’am super amazing! 😉 )

When I was packing to move a few months ago, I found a CD with the title scrawled in sharpie, “Writing & Stuff to Save.” It was a treasure trove of memories from my Senior year of High School; terrible half finished stories about suicidal teenagers, notes of advice to friends, and lots of really bad poetry. I had some good laughs. When I read the above statement, I giggled at how ridiculous it was, but I was also surprised at my boldness. Then I realized maybe I have lost something along the way.

Maybe in my desire to avoid pride, I’ve avoided seeing myself as the hero I am meant to be.

Maybe in my “maturing,” my attempts to see the world for what it is, I lower my expectations so I am not disappointed, putting to sleep the dreams of my childhood.

Sure, maybe that girl cared more about her name being out there then the beautiful and sacred process of writing , but she knew without a doubt what she was born to do.

At times I still know, but at times I let “practicalities” speak, damning voices of reason.

After all, I am 26 and I have no degree in literature. I’ve never even taken a college course. I still can’t spell. My grammar sucks. (As if you haven’t figure that out) I haven’t been published anywhere in print. Any attempts to be published have been rejected or ignored.

Of course, I haven’t tried that hard.

But right now I am working on an amazing book. I like to say that it’s one part retelling of a classic story, one part prophetic commentary on the church, and one part cookbook. It’s not my original idea, rather a collaborative effort that I am convinced came straight from God himself.

(Whoa, that’s a lofty statement. Not really. Even atheist artists will admit inspiration comes from something outside of their own minds, that they are simply willing vessels telling a greater story.)

So, this book may not make it to the New York Times Best Seller List, but at the end of the day I go to bed satisfied. I know despite the hard work, despite the times of not believing who God has made me to be, the times I participate in this awkward dance jumping between self-loathing and narcissism,

I am doing what I love.

I am living my dream, and it’s a gift to be able to do so.

So yes, maybe I can learn a thing or two from that funny seventeen year old still rattling around inside me somewhere, wanting desperately to fit in and stand out at the same time, really just wanting what we all want: to be loved and happy.

Maybe I can tell her she is ok, she will be loved, she will live an adventure.

She will write things like no one has ever written, simply because,

no one else is me.

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