Today is my 30th birthday.

I'd be lying if I said there's not a part of me that laments this milestone. There are times where I long for the days when the sun’s appearance on the horizon meant the end of another adventure. For the late nights filled with wine, music, and laughter that never seemed to end as we dreamt about futures ripe with hope and possibility. For when my body was equally as strong and beautiful as it was comically unappreciated. For when life was guided by a gentle and joyful naïveté.

There's also a part of me that grieves the way this milestone 'should' look and the characters that are noticeably absent today.

There should be two sets of muddy little footprints by the door. Rather than teaching Lora to recognize 'Nonah' (as Lora says) in a picture, Lora should be getting into trouble undoubtedly instigated by her spunky big sister. My mom should be so distracted by those two wild granddaughters that she barely sneaks in a Happy Birthday before getting pulled into their crazy antics.

But turning thirty is a privilege I don’t take lightly. Having lived another 365 days is no small feat.

2020 has highlighted the cracks, broken pieces and dark alleys of this world. While this brokenness isn't groundbreaking news to myself or many of you, its familiarity in no way negates its heartbreaking weight. The truth is we live in a world where 'genetic flukes' can take the life of an infant not even a week old and steal the last breath of an otherwise healthy mother.

Walking through the valley has reshaped my life over the last few years. It has completely redefined faith, hope, love and grace.

I'm entering into this decade having been, and continuing to be, refined by fire.

Today I celebrate each beat of my heart, because friends, there is an exquisite and overlooked beauty in simply being alive.

So to honor this life in all its broken beauty, I'm sharing 3 lessons I've learned from my daughters. Lessons I hope will propel me into this new decade, a decade of revival.

1. Take one step.

Author Emily P. Freeman has a fantastic podcast called ‘The Next Right Thing’ and while I like to think that everything I know about decision-making and keeping my eyes on the next right move came from being a diligent student of her podcast, it truly came from my daughters. My high-risk pregnancy with Norah plunged us into living day-to-day as a way to navigate and survive the ever-evolving story Norah and God were writing. Focusing on only the next right step allowed me to slow down, to be present, and to catch my breath. It gave me a second to focus on what I was capable of controlling in a situation that was completely out of my hands. What was the 'next right thing'? Put my shoes on. Eat breakfast. Brush my hair. Take a shower. Simple steps, but each one moving me forward.

Lora has reinforced this idea in a different way. If you have spent any time with a toddler, you know that you absolutely cannot say – “We will go play outside, but first we need to XYZ.” They don’t yet understand the order of operations. So while I may have a list in my head of tasks that need to be completed, I have to slow down with Lora and focus on completing one step at a time.

Honestly, sometimes just getting your shoes on the right feet needs to be celebrated.

2. Have limits, boundaries, AND grace.

Right now, Lora's world collapses if a toy gets stuck, she can't open something, or we don't let her stick her finger in the outlet (what a mean mama, I know). My strong-willed girl's big emotions mean far more about her personality and experience of her world than my abilities as a mother. If I collapsed every time Lora cried in frustration, then she would never learn about important natural limits and boundaries and I would be making her experience about me and my ability to cope, rather than giving her grace and the appropriate space to feel, process, learn, and grow.

When I share about Norah and Mom's death for the first time, people tend to have a strong emotional reaction, or none at all. Their reaction to our story is entirely out of my control and has no bearing on the validity of our experience and grief or the beauty of Norah's life. They're processing the heartbreaking information through the lens of their own unique life experience. If I broke down whenever someone had a poor reaction to our story, that would allow them an access to and control of my heart and emotions that they in no way earned. Keeping my heart protected while having respect for others provides grace for their experience, as I hope they would do in return.

3. It's all worship.

Shortly after Lora was born, I started going to therapy. One of the (very long) list of topics we addressed was the new sense of overwhelm I was feeling, the chaos, the lack of peaceful moments to just sit in the presence of God, moments that had been a lifeline in surviving grief up until Lora’s birth. What my therapist said to me was so simple yet it caused a foundational shift in my heart: “It’s all worship.”

Doing laundry, taking a shower, crying in frustration – it all happens in communion with the Holy Spirit. Your time with God doesn’t need to look like that influencer’s intricately-documented morning routine. It can look like taking an extra breath when your baby keeps crying and you’ve tried everything. Like listening to the birds singing as you pull weeds in your garden. Like the warmth of the sun on your cheek as you stand in a cemetery. Like enjoying the scent of coffee as it fills your kitchen in the early morning before work. God is VERY into the details, friends.

It took a while after Norah died for me to be able to read my bible again. I knew and believed in God – I had felt his undeniable presence and our entire family being held in his hand. But I was angry, and the idea of making time for a God who I felt had completely abandoned me, my daughter, and my family was like nails on a chalkboard.

I couldn’t meet Him there.
So He met me where I was.

He met me in the tears. In the letters from friends and family. In a long hot shower, or a perfectly-timed song.

Every detail matters to God.
That includes you.

Wherever you are, I promise He’s already there.

May this new decade be defined by revival, worship, hope, and love.
Hello, 30. Let’s do this.