When you got a covid-dog, I got a covid-blog.

For two years you fed, walked, and groomed as I observed, edited, and published.

Your dog pulled you on walks; my blog pushed me to look through the lens of hope—even in the darkest hour.

Summer probably has you on a wild ride, packing in more in a week than in one covid season. In the midst of social requests and family adventures my soul's requests are getting louder: to go slower, with less; to be still, in quiet; to pause, in peace.

And when I listen, I welcome joy.

"Hello to here" is one of the chapter titles in Shauna Niequest's new book, I Guess I Haven't Learned That Yet: Discovering New Ways of Living When the Old Ways Stop Working.

Some of her processing parallels mine in this season, though under very different circumstances.

Her dad, the former Pastor of Willow Creek Church, has a story she says isn't hers to tell, but is a large part of what shifts her experience with the communities she grew up in and so much more.

Over the next season, some things stopped working in what felt like a free fall, while other things grounded her: a deep-rooted faith and an ability to adapt to a whole new way of interacting with life.

It was Niequest who wrote Present Over Perfect: Leaving Behind Frantic for a Simpler, More Soulful Way of Living, a book that greatly influenced me five years ago!

This month I was also reading Dallas Willard's Renovation of the Heart: Putting on the Character of Christ, and in the second last chapter he paints a stunning picture of "Children of Light:” describing the thought life, feelings, will, body, social relations, and soul when transformed by the redemptive strokes of Christ.

The entire book inspired and convicted me—how quickly we can deceive ourselves about the state of our hearts and motives!

Where is God renovating your heart this summer?

I am mostly a hot mess with garden dirt or grief-filled tears highlighting my cheekbones, laughing a little too hard at one of my children’s accidental jokes, or staring a little too long at a photo or cloud as I think about my dad.

Sometimes it all feels too hard, other times I try to fix my broken parts. But the sweetest and most hope-filled hours are when I hand over the tools to a Jewish carpenter.

And so, I am encouraged by Niequest’s words:

Niequest’s new book encourages us to stay curious, ditch shame, and welcome self-compassion.

While I advocate for reflection as much as preparation, if we live in these two modes alone our insides shrivel like a plant without water and sunlight.

I have experienced some hello to here spaces this summer—where my soul wasn’t wishing for the past or stressing about the future, accepting the goodness and grief of this season.

Consider how your heart has made space to say hello to here, as I share a few of mine:

Back yard Pool

I imagined it was just going to be a safety headache, daily chemicals, soggy towels, something we would hardly use.

I couldn’t have been more wrong!

The 18-foot pool my husband set up in our backyard this spring is an ocean for daily play for my kids!

It is bliss watching them frolicking with friends and neighbours and the times I do go in, I’m learning to be ALL in!

The simple pleasure of the buoyancy of water reminds our souls of child-like delight and faith.

2. Kayaking with a friend

It was only Monday but we were tired mamas, still figuring out our summer rhythms. And there we were, twenty minutes out of town, unloading two kayaks for a mini evening adventure, paddling under bridges and along reeds, pointing out birds, working out the weighty things of our hearts as our bodies floated.

Nature’s healing undercurrent brought us back to shore refreshed.

3. Lake days

Last August my husband was away on a hiking trip, so I went on a day trip with my kids to visit my parents where they were camping. We met on a sandy beach where thousands gather opposite a road of cute shops and eateries.

My mom had just recovered from her lumpectomy and was preparing to begin chemotherapy and it was a special time as my dad treated everyone to ice cream, a summer tradition.

I took these photos thinking of my mom, never imagining my dad would no longer be with us because of cancer the next time we visited this spot.

This July I returned for a day trip with my sisters and mom and we ended up setting up for the day in the exact same spot where I had been with my parents the year before.

We tossed around a frisbee in the water, ate ice cream by the beach, and had dinner under a grassy umbrella which made us feel like we were on a tropical vacation!

How do you go on with life when someone who was always there, in all the special moments, leaves a gaping hole?

A few weeks later I drive off to another body of water with my family and remember how cautious my dad was around water. How he would carry all the beach supplies, blow up all the water toys and find a shady spot to sit, donning a big hat and sunglasses.

Niequest says:

”When we first moved, I was in the middle of a sea of grief, and I remember my therapist reminding me that grief is somatic, that it locates itself in our bodies and, therefore, needs to be worked out of our arms and legs and chests with movement. For me, that meant walking.”

My body has asked me to ramp up the intensity lately, to go beyond walking to jogging and heavier weights, releasing grief each morning as I run into the sun.

But other times, when my heart and body feel heavy, I practice a different form of courage and self-compassion and curl up under the blanket my dad used at the hospital, shut my eyes, and release everything and everyone to God (John Eldridge calls this “benevolent detachment”).

Now it is your turn.

Yes, you with that COVID dog or blog or whatever you started in the last two years!