Does it vex anyone else that all used furniture from the last millennia is advertised, “Vintage Mid-Century Modern”? I’m in the market for a new (or used) couch, but I haven’t found one worth the delivery effort to the fourth floor.

The sofa is a very important piece of furniture; for me, it’s home-plate to play the game from. It’s where I do my best praying, thinking and planning; where I make calls, tickle the girls and make-out with Marc. But don’t blush—while you’d probably be captivated by our couch’s admissions—this post is just a few of my confessions since moving.

Confession isn’t specific to faith practice, it simply means “truth-telling”. I’ve been doing it with God lately to receive direction, and the feedback’s been really helpful; like punching in my exact location on GPS (I find it easier to get where I want to go if I start with where I am).

Since my last update, Love Will Meet Resistance, I took time to move-in, celebrate my birthday, and start learning new rhythms of Hollywood life. Humming lullabies in the suburbs for so long, I forgot how the beat of the city energizes me.

This energizing would not have happened without Marc’s leadership, which leads me to my first confession:

Without going overboard to sing, “Let’s Hear It For the Boy,” I toast my husband who leaned into what he heard God saying, despite my side-eyed opinions and questions.

If you missed how blindsided and hostile I was, read Here’s that End of Summer Feeling followed by Back on a Bike for the First Time. As I compose my journey with Jesus for you in real-time, you live the hits and misses as they happen. . . I missed this one. Was all the drama, questioning, and fear needed? Probably not, but if I could have seen the future, I couldn’t receive the reward of faith!

Admitting to God that Marc did hear His voice rightly for our family in such a big transition, required me to admit I did not. This was humbling and helpful. Jesus and I are close and communicate a lot, but I don’t get it right a lot of the time. Surprisingly, this fact blankets me with a deep sense of security and gratitude—His faithful goodness is not dependent on my performance.

Marc’s not the “told-you-so” kind, but he’s had plenty of opportunities. For years, I would feel slighted if God told Marc something He didn’t tell me. The shackles of competition and resentment toward men were forged from the lie: God prefers men over women, that began when I was young.

As I taste more freedom as a beloved daughter, no longer resenting or competing with my brothers (or sisters) I desire to help other women experience the same freedom. I’ll write more on this another day. . .

It’s been a major shift from driveways and private gardens to parking ramps and elevators, but the adjustment is aligning us. It’s where quirky and confusing puzzle pieces finally seem to fit.

Nothing we surrendered was worth more than what we’ve gained.

The girls are finding new favorites and our youngest has claimed ownership of Hollywood Boulevard; she asks to go to “her street” then skips from star to star. The people are my favorite. Where else but the city can you engage with a tourist, student, professional, homeless, and wealthy on the same street? All I can say is God was faithful to His word when He promised something better suited for me than my lemon-tree-back-yard.

We quickly caught-up to the pace of the city, but as each week sped into the next, my writing habit lagged. I frequently checked-back to remind myself how I enjoyed it, but it seemed love (for my readers and my craft) wasn’t enough to get me going again. Was ‘writing Merry’ sitting this season out? When I finally talked to God about it, I made a helpful discovery:

My plate was already full, then the city offered a whole new buffet of options. As a (mostly) responsible adult—I know the soup, salad, turkey, and pie don’t all fit on the same dish—something has to wait. About to scoop the blog into some Tupperware for later, I paused to run the idea by my husband, Marc.

If you’re reading this, you have him to thank. The conversation was short:

“Did God tell you to stop?”

“No.” (Why didn’t he ask about my full plate?)

Truth is, I can justify my decision without talking to God—writing is not my profession and feels selfish because it’s a single player game I enjoy (most of the time). Plus, I’m not the first mom to sacrifice a hobby for the sake of their family—what makes this hobby any different?

Marc’s question shot to the heart, refocusing me back on God’s way to truly living (mainly, in friendship with Him). Later the same day, I ask God what He has in mind for this new season. His response surprises me. Indeed, some things have to go, some have to wait, but not what I assumed. Writing stays on the plate.

He sweetly reminds me it’s a gift to enjoy, process my life, uncover identity, connect with my heart while engaging Him, share a message and maintain my sanity (among other things). But more than that, the blog was His idea and if He needs it on the altar, He’ll ask.

That’s what makes this hobby different.

By sacrificing His idea without His input, I risk killing something He may intend to thrive.

What a sobering thought.

He’s the God who breaths life into dead things, but, in this case, I save Him the trouble by trusting Him instead of relying on feelings to direct me. In this season, to write in dis-comfort is the sacrifice He’s asked for.

As I mentioned before, I don’t get it right every time, but I’d rather risk trusting it’s Him than not—especially when His words resonate.

With new understanding, our conversation turns practical:

“How do I write in an unfinished apartment with unpacked boxes, projects and kids calling my name all day? I want to write when life settles down and it feels right.”

The confession spills out.

I picked a sweet writing spot in my bedroom, but situated between precariously stacked boxes, if there’s another earthquake, they’d bury me. God acknowledged my frustration, but offered another option until the apartment comes under order. Now, I face a corner in the main living space, don noise-cancelling headphones, and tap away at the shared computer. It’s not pretty, but corners are effective for discipline (and I can’t see any boxes).

In the future, He may request I lay down the writing, but until then, I’m still here (now in Hollywood) with a lot to tell. . .

Speaking of Hollywood,

All my life, I despised this town’s reputation. After visiting (almost a decade ago), I compared her to Ephesus, mocked her idolatry and saw through the mask she used to hide her pain.

Now, I relate to her.

Clean House is what He loves to do. If He can do it for me, why not a whole city, a region, a nation, the world? He liberates us to join Him in liberating others. I expect God to do great things and I’m honored and giddy that I’m here for it!

With everything just a ‘skip’ away, we spend more time on the streets. On one of our first outings, the girls and I happened upon a gem—The Hollywood Roosevelt—a glamourous hotel from the champagne and velvet era (when the city first hid her pain behind a glittering image). The lobby’s original Spanish tile and painted ceiling made it an easy pick for my upcoming birthday, and the lollipop-on-top was hearing Shirley Temple tap-danced the stairs.

For years, I pictured myself standing on a rooftop praying God’s heart and promise over the city; on my birthday, it finally happened. We’d just enjoyed some live music in the hotel lobby when the head of security surprised our little group with rooftop access for a private photo shoot. That night, while I watched flocks roam in and out of attractions along the boulevard of stars, God answered my longing to pray and see the city—His city—from a new vantage.

Celebrating the culmination of time and work is practically an artform here in the city of premiers. As my screenwriter husband remembers hearing in film school, “It’s easy to be an overnight success, but it will just take ten years”. It’s been years in the making, but God was preparing me for a premier of my own. A new season has just been released. . .

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I’m thankful for confession; it’s how we plug-in our location to receive direction. God’s not a satellite way “up there” (or a map with words and pictures to follow), He’s our Father. Our masks don’t hide anything from Him, so why not get real and get to the good stuff He’s offering?

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