Christmas Cleansing

After Thanksgiving, I committed to a cleanse to rid my body of built-up toxins. It’s a routine I have completed before, yet I always seem to forget the toll it takes—and how inconvenient the timing can be. This particular cleanse works by pushing impurities to the surface, manifesting as breakouts and painful sores on my face. With holiday events and gatherings in full swing, it was not exactly the most convenient time for my body to wear its detox on the outside.

This season has a way of catching me off guard every year. Deep down, I know there’s historical trauma tied to it, yet I cling to the hope that time will heal all wounds. In recovery, I have been told "if it's hysterical, then it's historical." And the truth is, some scars have a way of reopening without warning, reminding me that healing is an ongoing process and what I "resist will persist." 

It’s inconvenient and far from pretty, but the real danger lies in avoiding the intentional work of "clearing out the toxins." When I neglect this process, the things getting stirred up within me have a way of spilling over, affecting those close to me in ways I never intended. 

Sometimes, the right person asking the right question can draw out information I never intended to share. In the midst of my wandering thoughts and assumptions, I found myself having that exact experience—right in the middle of the grocery store.  Of course! 🙄 This person's simple but piercing observation stopped me in my tracks: “Julie, that doesn’t sound like you at all.” Deep sigh. I realized I hadn’t lost myself completely. It was more like yanking out a stubborn weed, not overhauling the entire garden. 

Holding the tension between the joy of the season and the grief of past wounds is messy, but even in the discomfort, I can see God’s gentle kindness. He uses this tension to bring healing—not just for me, but for my family as well. The holidays, with all the cultural busyness and pressure to create “magic,” offer me a choice: to join in the chaos and distraction OR to slow down and mirror nature’s Winter rhythm of rest. When I’m gentle with myself, that gentleness naturally flows to others.

Through the traditions and reflections of Advent, I’m drawn back to the foundation of my faith. It’s a time of rediscovery, where light exposes what’s hidden and pruning shapes what’s fruitful. Luke 6:45 reminds me that “the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.” This verse challenges me to examine what lies beneath the surface. Left unchecked, hidden wounds or unresolved struggles can erupt, causing others—and myself—to question the fortitude of my foundation. There may be cracks from neglect, but it can also simply reflect normal wear and tear that requires care and attention. How do I know the condition of my heart? By slowing way down and embracing stillness and quiet. Simple enough, and yet the most difficult for me. Hebrew 4:11 sums up my efforts "striving to enter that rest." 

But the beauty of God’s work is in His discipline. While it doesn’t feel like love or progress in the moment, I am trying to see it as evidence of His active presence in my life. He has shown me, time and again, that even in the strangest of seasons, He is there—rescuing, refining, and resurrecting.  

One of my favorite Advent readings is the story of Zechariah. His season of silence might look like punishment, but it’s a powerful display of God’s grace. That time wasn’t wasted; it was a space for reflection, growth, and the fulfillment of God’s promises. It reminds me that God’s light exposes and His pruning refines, drawing me closer to Him and preparing me for greater fruitfulness. 🙏

Fear shouts that I’ve been spinning in circles, that my efforts have been meaningless, and I’ve missed the mark entirely. But when I reflect on my past experiences with God, I realize that whenever I start asking, “Am I crazy?” He is usually on the brink of something incredible. I see the evidence of growth in the rhythms and practices that sustain me. Over time, both physical and spiritual cleanses reveal fewer toxins, yet certain seasons stir up silt I thought had settled or awaken things I believed were long gone. This Christmas, I’m choosing to embrace the pruning process, extend extra grace to myself, and trust that it is worth it regardless of outcomes.

As this season of celebration and reflection unfolds, I’m choosing to slow down and remain open to the awakening it offers. God’s work in my life is steady and unwavering, even—and especially—when it feels uncomfortable. For that, I am profoundly grateful. Looking back at my written memories of Christmases past, even during the most turbulent times, I see a common thread: a miracle always arrived, in subtle and unique ways, but precisely in the way I needed it most.

Julie, Are you so foolish? After beginning by means of the Spirit, are you now trying to finish by means of the flesh? Galatians 3:3

What Makes Me More Dependent?

A few times each year, I get the chance to experience a unique blend of complete calm, intense exhilaration, and profound release—a sensation of transcending from one world to another. Paddling out into the ocean, just far enough that the laughter and chatter of kids swimming fades away. There’s complete stillness, except for the gentle roll of waves beneath me, and then I lie down, perfectly in line with the water. When I turn my head one way, I’m reminded of the shore’s safety, just minutes away. But turning the other way brings an entirely different feeling—a lump rises in my throat, and my heart races slightly at the thought of the unknown depths and distance stretching out beneath and beyond me. The feeling can be so overwhelming that I lose track of time and space, reduced to the size of a spec within the vastness surrounding me. When I surrender to it, I dissolve into an entirely different universe. In this out-of-body experience, I’m reminded that I am more spirit than flesh. Then I pull myself back, urged by a mix of fear and responsibility, reminded that the only choice left is to return—but not without releasing some of the weight I carried—a transformation of sorts.

How can I describe an experience that resonates at a soulful level when so much of my life feels measured by practicality, shaped by the depths of others’ experiences or what they choose to reveal about themselves? As I grapple with the cultural idea that freedom lies in individuality and independence, I find myself swimming in the reality that true freedom may actually come through dependence—a freedom that is accompanied by a cost rather than one that I simply deserve. This brings me face-to-face with an internal conflict.

The word for 2024 is "Wild," and reflecting on its implications sent me into a panic. But then the word "love" emerged as a soothing anchor, connecting me to the source of all love. As I was called to take steps and then leaps of faith, I became aware of parts of myself I never knew existed, and miracles manifested that I could never have imagined. Then, layers that needed to be shed were revealed in God’s perfect timing.

Love has been my anchor, but my understanding of it has been entirely changed. Surrender and I have become close companions in recovery, yet I’ve never had to be so willing. In a year filled with abundance and overflow, nothing and no one was taken from me; I had to choose to let go. The reflection looking back at me asks, "Julie, Have you truly 'came to believe'?"

A haunting from the past emerged in my nightmares. Was I ever genuinely invited into my relationships, or was I merely there for my function—something to offer, someone to be consumed? A statement made to me many years ago echoes in my mind: "You are a lot to take in; most people can only handle you in small doses." Questioning my relationships now, I wonder if I was only permitted to have input, experience a semblance of vulnerability, and share life rather than really doing life together (both of us participating actively in each other's lives equally)? 

And now the deeper end of the question...Was I doing a version of this in my relationship with God? I can see hints of it as I began to view Him increasingly as the gatekeeper of all answers and guidance. I knew I needed Him, but more often than not, my prayers were aimed at seeking direction to feel secure in my circumstances, rather than finding my security in Him. 

It only took a short stroll down memory lane to retrace His fingers in all my protection and provision. And one question that I had been taught a few short years earlier...What makes me more dependent? 

I needed to approach that question with some trepidation, as it has previously led to spiritual whiplash. My relationship with God has been nothing short of wild up to this point, and now it feels emphasized, bolded, and italicized with the word for 2024.

There is overwhelming beauty and terror in this question (similar to being one with the water and the sky in the ocean). Because the direction can change at any given moment...creating a dependence in and of itself. A few examples:

Continuing a relationship or relinquishing it.

The job that requires more time and provides more money or the job that makes me financially unstable

Pinching pennies to save for retirement or investing in something now

Sacrificing to homeschool or trusting God with my children in public school.

{Insert any crossroads or intersection of life}

In any given season or sometimes any given moment what makes me more dependent can change. I had a year that I was given 3-4 different directions for one single issue. 

Why on Earth would I want to be more dependent? Because, although it is incredibly uncomfortable, I have chosen to be a citizen in that upside-down economy of God, where every other day can feel like opposite day. 

As I've been provoked, stirred up, and shaken by this wild year, what settled at the bottom of my overflowing cup has been revealed. I realized that my own version of vulnerability has enabled me to exhibit transparency and a semblance of authenticity without truly engaging or participating as fully as I could. I was not really "going there" like I thought I was. 

My ability to be dependable, trustworthy, and attached is directly connected to how much I rely on God, trust Him, and engage with Him—delving deep to receive His love. Today, I realized that when I explore that level of “known-ness,” it can be overwhelming, much like being in the ocean. I often find myself scrambling to escape the fear of exposure and the beauty of acceptance. Yet, when I lean into it, the experience is profoundly fulfilling, and I emerge transformed. (Something that I typically sum up as "operating out of an overflow rather than a deficit.")

The path that encourages my dependence carves a way through a relationship that moves me forward toward Him, even in the absence of answers. And, paradoxly, therein lies the answers. 

John 15:5, Galatians 3:3, Proverbs 3:5-6, Psalm 37:4, Mark 2:22, 2 Corinthians 5:17, James 1:5 and 1:17

 

Frail Moments in a One Parent Home

When visiting my family in the Spring of 2012, I received the news that my grandfather had unexpectedly passed away. I did not get to attend my grandmother's funeral, so I was grateful to be in the area at the time. When we arrived at the service, I sat myself in the back row with my toddler and infant completely oblivious to the obvious...toddlers and infants don't sit through funerals. After several attempts, I accepted defeat and allowed my other family members a more peaceful grieving experience. In that moment, my heart realized my reality, I would not be afforded the luxury and privilege of tending to my grief when it showed up. 

At the time, raising two children on my own was temporary. My mantra was "I can get through anything with an end date." The art of powering through, until I could arrange for, or schedule the care of my children, and shield them from my own trauma, began. And to my credit or demise, I came close to mastering it.

Now, with older children, my four daughters are not easily fooled by any facade. They call me out when they catch that faraway look in my eyes, revealing I'm not fully present with them. Long car rides that once allowed me to quietly release pent-up tears are now noticed rather than ignored. They sense the palpable distance created by the weight on my chest that I try to carry with confidence. The guilt consumes me when my frail humanity shows through instead of the strength, they should be able to rely on. I have spent much of their lives shielding them from the negative behaviors and choices of others. But who is there to protect them when I fall short?

This week JoJo was upset about a minor issue right before bed. On a whim, I asked her if she could possibly stop being upset, if I allowed her to express her feelings the next day at 1:00pm. She paused her whole tantrum in shock over this request. She very matter of factly told me "Absolutely not, I feel this now, and I am going to get this out."  She is right. It is an absurd request.

I am 100% responsible for 4 humans. Experiencing life with them is one of the biggest joys most days. I don't wake up with the weight of responsibility, but rather the anticipation of what the day will bring with each individual personality and contribution to the collaboration. On my fragile days, though, I can be consumed with the fear that my weakness will create insecurity as their protector and provider. I never want my children to feel like they must take care of the person that is here to take care of them. 

Then, I had an interesting experience with JoJo.  I was doing yoga in the living room while JoJo played quietly by herself. As I attempted a difficult balancing pose, she noticed my foot wasn’t in line with my hip like the instructor in the video. JoJo gently placed her hand under my ankle to lift my leg. Although I was still using a good portion of my own strength and effort, she adjusted my leg in a way I couldn’t manage on my own while also keeping my balance. Once I moved to the next pose, she simply went back to what she was doing

The significance of that moment has run through my mind multiple times. I did not feel weak or inadequate. JoJo didn't lose her confidence in my capabilities. She saw that I couldn't manage that part of the practice on my own, then once I could, she returned to her play time. I did not feel guilty that she interrupted her play to participate in my practice. And most likely she left with a sense of pride that she had what was necessary to help. 

It's a delicate balancing act. I preach that there is a measure of grace given to each of us for the season that we are called into, and I can summon that belief for my children as well. Ultimately, I am not their protector or provider or the one that loves them most. And I can find gratitude that they have had opportunities to witness this truth.

In this recent season of uncertainty and waves of unexpected grief, I have been giving myself a 2 hour window (expanded from usual 45 minutes of spiritual maintenance). I pour myself into reading, writing, praying, meditating, and physical practice. And even though I can't prevent all the impromptu moments of sadness, grief, or frustration… This intentional, scheduled time fills my cup to overflowing; resulting in much more of me available to be poured out. There is also a release of guilt as I invite my children to swim in the overflow, share in the supernatural joy, and allow them occasions to support in the difficult. 

They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit. Jeremiah 17:8