First Impressions

Posted on October 10, 2017 by colleenfrasier — 2 Comments

Well hello. My name is Colleen – a name that I love because it’s Irish, and don’t really love because while your name probably means something like noble, to excel, or little fire, mine simply means girl.  Not a whole lot to live up to.

I grew up in western New York – a part of the state that pretty much everyone else in the country seems not to know exists. My hometown is known for its antique shops, hosting the county fair, and reenacting the civil war every September.

I love open fields, don’t mind getting stuck behind tractors and Amish buggies, and appreciate the smell of manure.

I graduated from college in December of 2012 with degrees in English and Communications.  Feel free to make a joke about studying to be unemployed here. I’ve been a full-time nanny and part-time freelance copy editor for the last four years. But time has a way of going on, even if you didn’t ask it to, the little ones are in school now, and I’m attempting to make the switch to full-time freelance copy editor and part-time nanny.

I not only believe in Jesus; I love Him dearly.  I am forgiven by His grace, restored by His love, and overwhelmed by His beauty.

I am daughter, little sister, wife, auntie, and friend.

If I just met you, I can’t think of a single thing to say.  If I’ve known you my whole life, I rarely stop talking.  If I can make you laugh, today was worth it.

If it’s irrelevant I’ll freely give my opinion, and maybe, just maybe, argue.  If it’s of real importance I’ll stay silent because I hate confrontation almost as much as I hate tea, and I hate tea almost as much as I hate hurting someone else.

If being awkward was basketball, I’d be Michael Jordan.  If overthinking pretty much everything was the Olympics, I’d be Michael Phelps.

“Eclectic” is a nice vague way to describe my taste (for lack of a better word).

My favorite authors are Jane Austen (please don’t ask how many times I’ve read Pride and Prejudice), Victor Hugo, J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis.  Call me antisocial if you like, but I prefer an evening with any one of them to a night out on the town.

I am sometimes disappointed by the singing and choreography that doesn’t exist in real life. My love of musicals extends from Les Miserables and The Phantom of the Opera to Hamilton to High School Musical 3 and Camp Rock 2.  That’s probably heretical, but that’s the way it is.

I was raised on Buffalo Bills football and wouldn’t trade each heartbroken season for anything – unless, of course, that anything was a super bowl.  But in all seriousness, I love the hope and potential that a brand new season brings.  I love the sound of my dad yelling at the refs from his recliner.  I love perfect spirals, going for it on fourth down, quarterbacks blocking for their running backs, creative touch down celebrations, the roar of the crowd, players who do great things on and off the field, Aaron Rodgers State Farm commercials, and when the Patriots lose.

I could quote Leap Year word for word.  The same could probably be said for Remember the Titans, The Return of the King, Cars, and Dark Knight Rises. I told you, eclectic.

Right now I’m most likely listening to Needtobreathe, The Civil Wars, or a Hans Zimmer soundtrack.  Or there’s a slight chance I’m listening to Justin Bieber.  The only guarantee is that I am listening to something.

I’ve been drinking coffee since seventh grade (which I like to blame for stunting my growth).  I prefer cheese to chocolate and hand-picked wildflowers to perfect roses.

I like big jewelry, bright clothes, awkward sweaters, and Toms.  I’ve also been known to wear fake glasses.  Call me hipster if you’d like, you won’t be the only one.

Now that we’re slightly acquainted, feel free to stick around for a while.  And by stick around for a while, I mean read more of my whimsical, paradoxical, and possibly crazy ideas about everything.

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Burden Bearer

Posted on May 24, 2017 by colleenfrasier — 1 Comment

I’m a burden carrier. Whether people ask me to or not (or even whether they need me to or not), I see their struggles, their stress, their unanswered questions and prayers, and I am Pilgrim; shoulders bent under the weight of all the burdens I am carrying.

And don’t get me started on the burdens that have my own name on them. The question marks looming in the future, the day to day stresses and struggles, the anxieties and insecurities constantly fighting their way to the surface.

In the Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf tells Frodo that when Gollum first found the ring he was interested in growing things. He was forever hunched over, looking down at dirt and the roots of plants, trees, and mountains. He was so consumed that he forgot to look up. To appreciate the beauty; the mountains and plants, the sunlight streaming through the trees.

While this may seem like a forced or cheesy cliché, I find that I too often let the weight of all I’m carrying force my perspective downward. I am Gollum, crawling in the mud, forgetting to look up. And like Gollum, this need to hide in caves (to hold onto these burdens) seems to become synonymous with life itself. Will the world keep turning if I stop worrying? If I don’t carry these burdens, who will? I get bogged down, back sore, knuckles white, and I forget about the sun.

Is it any wonder, then, that the slightest things make me clench my fists or cry tears (for any number of reasons, really)? Why the bigger questions keep me awake at night or haunt my dreams?

Flipping through my notebook, I found this “I wonder how much of what weighs me down is not mine to carry”.  Like seeing the sun for the first time in months, I was reminded of this scripture: “Then Jesus said, ‘Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light.’” (Matthew 11:28-30 NLT)

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These heavy burdens are not mine to carry because I can bring them to God in prayer. After all, He is the true burden bearer. Rather than carrying heavy weights for others, I should be interceding on their behalf (who else better knows what they need or is more capable of being their provider, healer, peace, etc.?). Rather than worrying myself sick over decisions, I should “be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let [my] requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard [my heart and mind] through Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:6-7 NKJV)

We will have worries. We will have struggles. There will be burdens. But we don’t need to hold onto them. We don’t need to let them overwhelm us. We are not helpless or alone in the fight. We only need to surrender, to bring our burdens and lay them down at the feet of Jesus. And there, we will find rest for our very souls.

If you’re in need of some more encouragement, this is a current favorite song of mine.

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My Shepherd

Posted on January 19, 2016 by colleenfrasier — 1 Comment

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Most everyone is familiar with Psalm 23. Whether at a funeral or in Sunday school every year of your life, at some point you’ve probably heard David’s famous prayer/poem.

It’s all about God taking care of us – as a shepherd with his sheep – providing for us and staying by our sides.

Not just in the good times. Not just when things are falling in place. When you or your spouse gets a promotion, when that long awaited baby is finally in your arms. Not just when you feel like you’re finally where you’re supposed to be or that God is answering all of your prayers.

But also in the broken times. When the burden is too heavy and your feet are too tired. When your marriage is falling apart, when a loved-one passes away. When it feels like you’re all alone and no one cares. When everything in your life is demanding all that you have and you feel, as Bilbo Baggins would say, like butter scraped over too much bread.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies: You anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over.” (Psalms 23:4-5)

David understood that tough times are inevitable. He knew – first hand – that a life surrendered to God does not equal a life free of pain, struggle, or even enemies. We were never promised that; in John 16:33 Jesus told His followers, “These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” (italics mine)

We live in a fallen and broken world. We’re surrounded by hurt people who hurt people. And we will face hard times. We will ride the struggle bus. But we won’t ride it alone. We won’t face those hard times by ourselves. Because we have the sure and true promises of God. That He will never leave us or forsake us. That He has already overcome the world and thereby given us the victory. That God is Jehovah Jireh, God my provider.

David went through his share of struggles and trials – his own son tried to kill him, for crying out loud. But he had a relationship with God and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God was with him. That God led him and provided for him. He was so sure that even in the midst of his pain he could say his cup was running over.

And that’s the beauty of the gospel, of the love and the promises of God. That in Him we can have peace and joy. That when fear beckons and trials taunt His rod and staff comfort.

So when I’m anxious or restless I have to remind myself that God is with me. I have to remind myself of the final verse of Psalm 23: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” I might be walking through the valley of the shadow of death, I might be overwhelmed. But right here, now in this moment, God, in all His goodness and mercy and love, is right here with me.

And though I grow tired and sometimes choosing to do the right thing mostly just feels like banging my head against the wall, my God never grows tired. Nothing overwhelms or surprises Him. His goodness and mercy follows me all the days of my life.

“Have you not known? Have you not heard? The everlasting God, the LORD, the Creator of the ends of the earth, neither faints nor is weary. His understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall, but those who wait on the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:28-31

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the rain(fall)

Posted on August 9, 2015 by colleenfrasier — Leave a comment

Parched.

Parched and cracked.

She could hear it in every crunched step as she hurried through the deserted streets. Her worn-through shoes kicked up clouds of dirt as she cut across the ancient ruins of a corn field.

Dirt. Seems to be the only thing that grows here anymore.

The rain had long since gone – clouds had not graced their unforgiving sky in years. There was no hope for them there. Only hunger. Only harsh sun beating on backs forever bent to the soil.

The days were difficult and far too long. The few who remained had grown hard and tired like the earth around them. She had tried to make them leave. Pleaded. Begged on calloused hands and knees.

They would not listen. They would not leave the land that their ancestors had tilled and worked and harvested for hundreds of years. This was their home. This was where they belonged. If the drought killed them, so be it. Just bury them in the cemetery next to the dried up river.

They stayed. They dug deep wells. They planted desolate gardens. They scrounged and gathered. When the plants were gone, they ate the weeds.

The dirt caked onto her skin and hair and under her fingernails. It seemed to be inches deep now. Like a part of her. A new layer of skin. It gave the people an eerie similarity to the land.

She had a flower garden once. She sold sunflowers and pansies in the market. There was an old man, with thick glasses and kind eyes, who visited her stand every day to buy one single white rose for his wife. They left with the rain and she often wondered what became of them.

The time came when her father told her, tears on both their cheeks, that water would have to be rationed. Water must not be used on anything unessential to life. No more selling flowers in the market. No more saving the best of the daisies for the kitchen table. No more serene mornings spent tending the flowers as they touched her soul. No more flowers.

She knew her father understood it was a sacrifice. She wasn’t sure he understood just how much.

The rain will come, she told herself. It was a sort of silent prayer they all sent up millions of times each day. They prayed it when the final two wells with water began to dry up. They prayed it when they couldn’t dig any deeper.

She prayed it and doubted and believed all at once. It was hard not to doubt when each new day ended without a single drop, without a single hint of clouds. And yet there was an unquenchable hope, a burning desire to truly live, that made it impossible to stop believing rain would once again fall.

The rain will come. She prayed it and dug and scavenged and attempted to keep the dirt from taking over every inch of their home. She prayed it and banged out the carpets and used dirty rags to dust the tables and chairs.

She prayed it as she carried her worn and aching body to bed each night. She prayed it as she slept and dreamed of flowers.

Her mother shook her awake. It was too early. She was too tired. She wanted to go back to sleep where the flowers were. Her mother continued to scream and shake and cry.

“There’s rain! Wake up! It’s raining!”

Rain. Rain!

She jumped out of bed and rushed to the door, dream flowers forgotten, knocking over a chair or two in her hurry, in her thirst for rain.

Her bare toes squished in the damp soil as she joined her people in the rain.

It was a downpour. Big drops that seemed to be racing each other to the ground.

She cupped her dirty hands, let them fill, and raised them to her parched lips. She drank and refilled her hands and drank.

With her thirst quenched, she stretched out her arms, lifted her face to the sky and let the rain wash her clean. The dirt and water mixed and ran like little rivers down her skin. It felt like being reborn.

And as she stood there, the rain making her new, she remembered something old. Something her grandmother used to say when she was a little girl and rain was taken for granted. Something that had once been a part of her, but long since forgotten. Something buried deep in her heart like the old books stacked in the dark corner of the attic.

God is in the rain.

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(only)love

Posted on June 24, 2015 by colleenfrasier — 1 Comment

When I was little we used to sing a song that said “and they will know we’re Christians by our love, by our love.”

Unfortunately, far too many Christians – including myself – have bought into our culture’s idea of love and lost sight of Love Himself. We’ve bought into the lie that love is an emotion, a feeling. Something that we can fall in and out of. I love you in this moment because you make me happy, but as soon as I’m not…well, we’ll see.

The thing about the way we use the word love today is that it’s easy. We constantly throw it around – I love this song, I love pizza, I love her she’s so funny – without any commitment. Tomorrow our tastes will change and what we loved yesterday may not make the cut.

And we transfer that easy, convenient love into the way we interact with others. We’ve made it into a selfish love that says as long as it works for me, as long as it makes me happy, I’m in.

But love – true Love, the love Jesus has called us to – is counter-cultural. It goes against the flow. It continues on in the midst of hurt. It lasts through trends and trials. It stands strong through storms and doesn’t get lost in chaos.

It’s more than loving those who love us. It’s more than treating the people we like with respect. It’s more than giving honor to those with whom we share the same opinions. It goes beyond what is easy. It goes beyond what is natural to us.

“But to you who are listening I say: love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.” (Luke 6:27-28 NIV)

That sounds impossible, and frankly, like no fun. Our flesh starts kicking and screaming and we feel that if we love those who hate us they somehow win. That our needs (and especially our wants) are being pushed away, swept under the rug. And that’s just not fair.

But a couple of verses later Jesus continues on, “If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners do that. And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, expecting to be paid in full. But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back.”

Loving our enemies is such an integral part of our Christian walk that Jesus says it twice in that short speech. Because wishy-washy, feel-good love isn’t even going to make a dent in the problems we’re facing in our world, and even in our churches. But loving our enemies, doing good to those who hate us, forgiving those who refuse to ask for forgiveness, breaks chains. This counter-cultural, counter-intuitive, and potentially painful love is how the world will know we are followers of a good God.

It’s not simple, and Jesus understands that. He knows He’s giving us a hard task. But He’s called us to be separate, to come up higher, to live bigger. He’s called us to what’s great, not what’s easy.

Thankfully, He doesn’t stop there; “Then your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High, because He is kind to the ungrateful and wicked.” By loving when we don’t feel like it, when it’d be much easier not to, we become more like Christ.

We become more like the Man who bore our guilt, our sin, and our shame on the cross.

Obviously much can be said about the death and resurrection of Jesus. But I am truly amazed by the love that not only forgave the hypocritical crowd chanting hosanna one day and crucify Him the next, but also forgave the disciples who had abandoned Him.

The love that forgave Peter. Peter who had walked with Him for so long. Peter who had seen the miracles and walked on water. Peter who had boldly proclaimed that though the others might leave, he would never ever desert Jesus. Peter who, scared for his own life, denied even knowing Jesus three times.

Our natural mind would tell us that the only way we’ll feel better, the only way we can have closure on a situation is if there is some kind of judgement. If those who wronged us get what’s coming to them. As if it is our job to judge, our job to decide what people deserve.

But the God who knows first-hand the pain of betrayal and loss also knows that true healing only comes through forgiveness. Only comes through love.

When we choose love, we choose life. The life abundant that can only be found in Jesus.

And when we choose love, the world will see the One we follow.

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Are We There Yet?

Posted on March 3, 2015 by colleenfrasier — 2 Comments

I think I speak for everyone when I ask: is winter over yet?

Even those of us who love this season are getting sick and tired of the constant snow storms messing up plans and the bitter temperatures keeping us cooped up inside.

But this winter has taught, or at least reminded me of, two important lessons.

The first one should be obvious, but needs to be said anyway: complaining about the weather does not change the weather. You are not God, nor are you Queen Elsa. Your bitter groaning will not thaw the feet of snow around you and it won’t stop another storm from coming. Let it go. (Cliché, I know, but it had to be done.) Adults in winter are the equivalent of the child on a long road trip; no matter how many times he/she whines “are we there yet?” the trip home does not end until the car pulls into the driveway and the constant nagging only seems to prolong the trip and make everyone in the car miserable.

Which leads to the real lesson: constant complaining about things we cannot change does make a difference. It negatively effects our attitudes and the attitudes of those around us. It takes an already bad or difficult thing and makes it worse. It is nearly impossible to see the good, to be grateful for the beautiful, when we’re surrounded by and filled with negativity. When I am focused on how much I hate this cold, I’m more likely to miss the way the sun dances off the snow. When I tell every single person I see how miserable my life is because winter, I’m more likely to ruin someone’s (or lots of someone’s) day.

And the negativity feeds off of itself and grows. It starts with the cold and the snow, and then the traffic and the rising gas prices, and then there’s your co-workers, etc. Before you know it, everything is terrible and everything is miserable and winter is the worst because it ruins everything and this is a run-on sentence because I’m just so fed up with how awful everything in life is because it’s too cold for three months of the year.

Please understand I am not saying you must love winter or you will be miserable. All I know is that winter – especially in the north east – is a long hard season. If you wake up every morning and scowl at the snow out your window, winter is going to be an even longer and harder season. Try being grateful for something instead and watch what happens.

The second lesson I’ve been reminded of this winter came when someone, deep in the midst of a winter-hating rant, told me that snow is a result of the fall of man.

I just cannot agree with that.

Perhaps winter is a part of the fall. The way the ground gets hard, the temperatures bitterly cold, making it impossible to plant or harvest a crop. The way leaves fall, everything dies and the earth is left barren.

But if winter is the result of sin – if it’s nature’s metaphor for what sin does in our lives – then snow is the result of God’s grace. It’s the beautiful picture of the love and mercy of God covering our sins. It’s the reminder that no matter how broken and hopeless, no matter how lifeless my sin has left me, the sacrificial love of Jesus has made a way. Snow blankets the cold hard ground, clothes the trees’ naked branches, and covers the ugly and disheartening with radiant beauty.

Such is love. Such is grace. Such is God.

“Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” (Isaiah 1:18)

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(be)Love

Posted on December 5, 2014 by colleenfrasier — 1 Comment

Having grown up in the church, I’ve put an exceptional amount of pressure on myself to become someone great. Someone who does mighty things for the Kingdom of God. Someone who goes out and changes the world. Someone who knows their place in life, knows the gift they’ve been given and selflessly uses it to make a difference.

But my goodness. That’s an overwhelming responsibility. And while changing the world for the better is obviously the best life goal, for me it too often becomes a roadblock.

I’ve spent so much time over the last several years trying to figure out what I’m going to do for God. How am I going to make a difference? What if I miss my opportunity? What if there is something God wants me to do and I completely miss it? What if, with the best of intentions, I do the wrong thing and make a fool of myself?

And with all this wondering, all these “how in the world am I going to change the world” questions, I’ve done two things.

One. I’ve wasted time. Or you could say that the first thing I’ve done is nothing. Just as it’s tempting to believe nannying isn’t an important job because it seems so small in the grand scheme, it’s tempting to believe that doing something small for someone else isn’t going to make a difference in the grand scheme. What good is my tiny contribution when there’s so much anger and hate in the world? And so, far too often, rather than simply doing the little thing, I’ve done nothing.

Two. I’ve put all the pressure on myself. Convinced myself that I alone can change the universe. Me, in my own strength. It’s all coming down on my shoulders. And, believe it or not, I’m just not that strong. The very idea makes me anxious and the more I think about it the more I’m aware of all of my weaknesses. And I forget. I forget that it’s never been up to me. I’ve never been asked to do this alone. I forget that it’s not me, but Christ in me. I forget that “[His] strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

And I forget that it’s not about doing. It’s about being.

That at the end of the day it comes down to this: I was made for love.

Rather than spending so much time worrying about what or how I’m going to do, my focus should become who I am. Who I reflect. I was made in the image of Love Himself. My search for who I am or who I should be need not go any farther than that.

Be love.

It’s really that simple.

Be love.

That means respect yourself. Give yourself grace. Remember who you are and be real. Give yourself some credit sometimes and stop worrying so much about what everyone else thinks about you.

Be love.

That means treat everyone with respect and kindness. Walk a mile in their shoes. Find the person beneath the first impression.

Be love.

Most importantly, that means pursue God. With everything you have. With everything you are. Run hard after Him. Because it’s from loving God – Love Himself – that everything else flows.IMG_0272

When you love someone, you spend time with them. When you spend time with them, you become like them. You talk the way they talk. You respond to situations the way they do.

If I want to make a real difference, what better way than to love God? What better way than to pursue Him? I pursue Him, I find Him. I find Him, I become like Him. And if I’m more like Him and less like myself, I’ll be gracious. Gentle. Kind. Thoughtful. Patient. I’ll remember that true greatness bends down low, it leaves its throne to serve the least of these. I’ll remember the golden rule and that everyone is my neighbor. I’ll remember to forgive those who’ve wronged me and to love my enemies.

One day at a time. Step after step after step. I’ll pursue my Jesus. And in my pursuit I will make the choice to live love. To be love.

And who knows? I might just change the world.

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(Why I Love)Fall

Posted on October 25, 2014 by colleenfrasier — Leave a comment

Leaves like moon reflecting sun, setting mountains and hills ablaze.

Leaves like fire smothering trees in glory.
Leaves like feathers drifting, floating, falling. Carefree and calm, carried by the wind. At peace though everything is out of their control and home is left behind.

Leaves like broken dreams strewn about. Gathered together, heaped in a pile, left to be forgotten.

All good things come to an end.

Children wrapped in jackets and smiles. Braving wind and bubbling with laughter.

Children running, racing, jumping.

Children like leaves falling;

A leaf pile is too special a thing to be ignored.

Blue sky, golden sun, leaves in flight once again as children toss them over their heads like pixie dust

Even in death, there is life to be found.

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It’s Not What(It’s How)

Posted on July 9, 2014 by colleenfrasier — 1 Comment

I’m a nanny. Every day I chase after a rambunctious three year old and a lively one year old trying to keep up. I am storyteller, boo-boo kisser, maker of lunch and bringer of sippies. I am pusher of swings, painter of trucks and lawn mowers, wrestler, and walker for unsteady feet.

Most people do not seem impressed when I answer “what are you doing since college” with “I’m a nanny.” Some ask for how long, as if this is just a placeholder, something I’m doing until I get a “real job”. Some ask what I really want to be doing, as if I’m unaware there is an entire world outside of the house and have naively settled for something less. Some ask why, as if I’m completely wasting my degree – and therefore, somehow, my life.

(Quick side note, I know plenty of people with a degree and no common sense, and even more brilliant people with no college diploma. It seems to me that, while pursuing higher education is a great way to better oneself, there is knowledge to be found outside of the classroom and, therefore, a diploma in itself does not make a person better than the plumber or electrician without one.)

I’ve always wanted to do something great with my life. Something that made a difference. Something that mattered. Something people would remember, admire.

And I always thought that meant I had to do something big. Something crazy and brave that few would dare try. Something that would make me famous, or at least not invisible in a crowd.

But I’m just a nanny. That’s small. That’s less. That’s nothing to brag about at family gatherings. That’s not going to change the world.

I took a Pinterest break during nap time today. (Yes, I’m publicly admitting that I have finally given in and started pinning. And pretending “pinteresting” is an adjective.) And there among a ridiculous number of quotes about who even knows what, one stuck out to me. “Do small things with great love.”

And it hit me; it’s not what we do that makes us great. It’s how we do. It’s not income, titles, or bragging rights, it’s effort, love, passion, and putting in a good hard day’s work regardless of how we feel. In other words: it’s not what we do, but who we are.

It doesn’t matter how small the task, how insignificant the job. When you approach it with love, when you give it your best, you are doing something great.

Which means I’m not “just a nanny”. After all, children only get one childhood. Here I am with the privilege (and responsibility) to make these children’s one childhood the best possible. Which means regardless of outside opinions – whether I’m using or wasting my degree, whether or not I have a real job, etc. – every day is an opportunity for me to do something great.

An opportunity to do lots of small things – changing diapers, dancing like a fool, giving baths, building block towers, cleaning messes, reading books, singing nursery rhymes – with great love.

Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how much I have. It doesn’t matter how many people know my name or if strangers recognize me on the street. It doesn’t matter if your diploma has a higher average or a more esteemed name than mine. None of it matters, if I don’t have love.

Which, contrary to chick flicks and every Disney movie ever (with Frozen being the possible exception), includes giving love. Because love isn’t just something you receive. It’s not just a feeling. It’s an action. It’s a choice you make every day.

Love is crazy and brave. Love is something that not everyone dares to try. And loving others, regardless of who they are or how much it puts you out, is different. Choosing to do ordinary deeds with great love, is different. Giving when it’s easier to take, serving with gladness when it’s easier to sit back and be served, will make you stand out in a crowd.

If you want to change the world, start doing the small everyday things with great love.

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(Why I Love)Summer

Posted on June 4, 2014 by colleenfrasier — Leave a comment

The snow has melted, taking the cold with it. The last of the dead leaves that managed to hold on through the winter have fallen. Vibrant green leaves have taken their place, clothing the naked trees with splendor.

The garage is cool and my bare feet hurry across the cold concrete. I unlock the door and step in to the sun. It’s a beautiful clear day. The grass is freshly mowed. Myriads of flowers are beginning to bloom.

As soon my feet hit the grass and the sun hits my skin, I stop. Eyes closed. Hands raised. I breathe it in. Soak it in. The warmth washes over me like a wave and my heart swells.

It’s simple enough. Prickly grass between my toes. Purples, reds, oranges, blues and yellows dancing in the breeze. Blue skies dotted with cotton ball clouds. Birds and lawn mowers and children playing baseball.

And yet it’s the simple things that remind us of what’s important in life. The simple things – a brand new summer bursting at the seams with life – that slow us down. That remind us life is more than work and schedules and getting ahead. It’s more than pins and follows and likes. It’s more than dishes and laundry and brooms. It’s more than constant worry or constant motion.

As I stand in the sun, the simplicity of it all reminding me, I laugh.

It’s not forced or cynical. It’s not nervous or thin or worn. It’s genuine and carefree.

All around me summer is displaying the glory of God. Revealing His beauty. The tulips echo a sunset, in full bloom despite my not planting their bulbs deep enough last summer. Grace. The rosebushes know full well the pain they will endure and yet their thorny branches are beginning to bud. Grace. All around me summer is declaring that God is Life. That God is Caretaker.

I laugh because I’m reminded I take life too seriously. I laugh because seeing God so beautifully displayed before me reminds me that He is ever present and eternally constant. I laugh because I’m reminded that the One who clothes the lilies of the field with the glory of kings loves and cares for me. (Matt 6:28-30) I laugh because the joy of the Lord is my strength, and Lord knows I’m too weak to truly live in my own.

I laugh because God is good and summer has returned.

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Posted in Why I Love