courage – Page 2 – gianna soderstrom

things that don’t satisfy

May 16, 2018Posted in adventure, Bible study, camp life, courage, writingTagged Anne of Green Gables, blogging, courage, Emily of New Moon, essays, fear, L M Montgomery, Lucy Maud Montgomery, persistance, practice, rejection, writingLeave a comment

I want to write a book. Ever since I was little, I’ve loved reading and writing. My mom’s friend, Jill, used to review my papers and poetry. She’d tell me I had promise, and then critique everything I let her read thoroughly. She told me to keep on writing, that I could go somewhere.

For years now I’ve walked the line of ambition and fear. I eagerly subscribed to Poets and Writers, I submitted an essay to a contest through The Missouri Review, my college major was English Literature. But I also took long breaks from writing (years, here and there.) I wouldn’t attend a writer’s group. I wouldn’t keep writing and submitting if I didn’t get an acceptance and the last one was nearly ten years ago.

This year I stumbled across Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery. I’ve always loved Anne of Green Gables. When I first read the novels, I begged my Mom to tell me that “novel” meant “true story”. She wasn’t completely sure on the point, but thought it meant “fiction”. I refused to look the word up, desperate to keep my heroine really, truly alive. Emily is a more ambitious writer than Anne, and reading it inspired me to write more again. Even if most of it is rejected multiple times, keep writing. Even if I only ever write for myself, keep writing. Keep submitting. Keep trying. Don’t let the restless hours of fear win the battle against creativity and effort.

Today I got an email from a blogger I love asking if I’d submit a trial blog post for them. The sleeplessness of last night stopped mattering – I am halfway to an acceptance letter! My Anne-inspired imagination flew towards the opportunity: I pictured myself writing successful posts regularly for this blogger, becoming a loved contributor. And somehow, the taste of the success became a little empty in my mouth. I held the dream in my hand and realized it wasn’t enough.

Writing will never be enough. Success will never be enough. Being loved by people who will eventually forget me or find another favorite blogger will never be enough. I sat with my head back against the couch, turning over the shining blog post I planned to write, and slowly decided to do my morning devotions first. I moved into the sunlight at the table and flipped open to my soft ribbon bookmark in the gospel of John. Peter’s words from chapter six were underlined, and I read them, trying to find my spot on the page.

“Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.'”

The words of eternal life aren’t “Please write for us!” or “Your post has been successful!” or even a book deal. The words of eternal life are Jesus’ words. Nothing related to writing is going to give me more than a temporary high and a sense of accomplishment. The Way of Jesus is not filled with senses of accomplishment on our part, but on his. He accomplishes his work in us; and that is what I truly want, that is what will truly satisfy and fill me.

I hope we keep coming back to this, friends. I hope even after this blog post is lost we keep coming back to the eternal life words of Jesus; the ones that won’t get lost, that’ll keep us from getting lost. Let us lean towards the words and the One who will satisfy.

gardening

April 20, 2018Posted in adventure, parenting, writingTagged baby boy, courage, daffodils, dirt, earth, flower gardening, flowers, gardening, heritage, hyacinths, plantingLeave a comment

Grandpa used to keep two giant gardens. The front one was bordered with gladiolus, Grandma’s favorite flower. I remember the five-gallon buckets of bulbs he kept in the basement during the winter. I also remember the crates and boxes of squash, carrots, potatoes and parsnips he sent home with us in the autumn. White parsnips, fried up in a little butter? Not bad, my dad would say. I grew to like them just because of the way Dad talked about them.

My aunt kept one large immaculate garden almost as big as Grandpa’s two put together. I spent some hot summer afternoons moving too slowly down the rows of green beans, wondering when the bottom of my bucket would disappear. Harvesting the sweet peas took longer because we’d all stop to shell a few as we went, snacking on the round tart peas, almost crunchy in their raw ripeness.

My best friend grew a garden too. Her mother was an avid flower gardener, and soon Anni had her own little strip of black wet earth, turned over and brightened with tiny moss roses. She took care of the ferns too – large green fronds nearly as tall as I was that we bruised playing hide-and-seek.

Mom’s gardens were a bit more chaotic. There were raised vegetable beds behind the house that we kids toiled over unwillingly. There were marigolds seeded along the edge of the field that came back and surprised us every year, and an odd row of gladiolus we’d planted from bulbs Grandpa gave us. We always forgot to dig up the bulbs for the winter but somehow they came back. There were a few beds around our large lawn, too, planted with tiger lilies and daylilies, sedums, irises, tulips and daisies and geraniums.

I learned what a garden could look like and somehow worked myself up to believing it would be impossible to start my own. I tend to idealize and romanticize new things, new ideas, until I’m actually afraid to try them. It happened with gardening. I love flowers, I want a garden, but I’m terrified I won’t do it well so I haven’t bothered to do it at all. This spring my mother-in-law brought me a potted arrangement of daffodils and grape hyacinths. They’ve run their course and stopped blooming already, and I finally dug up the bulbs.

This autumn we’ll be moving to a place with a tiny garden bed, and I want to at least try gardening, even if it means starting with five daffodil and six grape hyacinth bulbs. I took my wee boy outside to play while I rubbed the dirt off the bulbs and separated them by variety. The hyacinths were already reproducing, I noticed! Some of the bulbs had little half-bulbs growing off of them.

The bulbs are in paper bags in the pantry now, labeled and waiting patiently to be planted in the pre-winter chill. And me? I’m excited. It felt wonderful to get some dirt on my fingers, let the earth touch me again. There will be flowers growing next spring that I dug up and cared for and planted, and though it’s only a few bulbs from a grocery-store arrangement, I’m still proud.

holy Saturday

March 31, 2018Posted in UncategorizedTagged Bible, blogging, courage, Easter, fear, God, habits, holy Saturday, learning, love, outdoors, photography, redwoods, scripture, SFO, travel, truth, truth and love, writingLeave a comment

Truth, truth. It is like a dye, staining every thought I have this weekend. I have scripture ringing in my ears – a lying tongue hates its victims; Proverbs 26. I repeat it to myself, thinking not just of telling lies but of softening truths. It is so easy to sidestep truth, to just assume somebody knows my beliefs and positions and that I don’t need to clarify them.

I never want to present truth unlovingly. It’s the spoonful of sugar with the medicine. But you can’t be nourished on spoonfuls of sugar alone, and that’s the way our culture has leaned. Religion is suddenly acceptable if love is the only real application. But truth and love are inseparable. That is actually my clearest memory from my recent trip to California.

Redwoods are beautiful, don’t misunderstand me! I loved them. But on the way back to the airport, Tiffany reminded me of the absolute vitality of truth. It’s unloving to not speak the truth she said firmly. She’s right. I’ve been mulling over those words since I reached the airport and quietly circled the terminal with hot coffee.

I read a post about celebrating Easter as a millennial who’s left church culture, and the post was about the spirituality (in a loose sense) of the holiday and the beauty of celebrating newness. I love newness and celebration, but the truth of Easter is so much more brutal, so sin-dyed. And it is so much more powerful, beautiful, so earth-shattering light-filled. Easter is the obliteration of our blackest wrongs through brutal death. Earth is the glory of new life where no life was even possible before.

Tiffany was right about truth. To withhold the glorious beauty of Easter and just celebrate newness? That is no kind of love. I do not want to alienate people who are on the fringes of faith and church, but I’m not going to break the truth into pieces we can consume without fear. Truth in love, yes. Half truth, no.

Those are my thoughts on this Saturday of waiting – the day in between death and Resurrection, a grave day of not celebrating, not yet. And this is my invitation to you: celebrate with us tomorrow. Celebrate life and grace and forgiveness, the truth of the holy day.

where courage comes from

March 15, 2018March 15, 2018Posted in adventure, courageTagged blogging, climbing, Colorado, courage, courageous, God, hiking, learning, Minnesota, rock climbing, sky, yuccasLeave a comment

One of my friends talks a lot about courage. We went cliff jumping together once and it became our metaphor for doing brave things. We call each other cliff jumpers for pep talks, encouragement.

I’ve been thinking a lot about fear lately. There have been long seasons where fear played too big a role in my life. Should it have any role? I don’t know the answers to all my questions about fear, but I think maybe courage is the better train of thought. Perhaps questions about courage will inspire, where questions about fear shame.

I was wondering today where courage comes from and I think part of my answer is space.

Nearly every week Grant will send me away to get coffee, take a walk, spend some time coming back to myself. It usually works. I end up quieted. I come home with new energy and joy and ideas. Being alone gives me a chance to talk to God, to remember how much bigger he is than all my insecurities and doubts and nervousness.

You may be thinking coffee shop and that sometimes helps but actual wide space is even better. My home state had space. Growing up in Minnesota the horizons stretched open like arms and when I looked up there were no peripheral borders besides the clouds. The sky was wide, wide, and I could remember how wide and deep and everywhere God was too. I needed the space then and I need it now still, maybe more even. Now I find it in the rock crevices and pebbly trails bordered with spiky yuccas, in the way the rocks reach for the sky like I do.

I climb for the sky with the rocks, and my courage swells up, drunk on all the space I can give it. It is enough.