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MY BOOK // Even If Not: Living, Loving, and Learning in the in Between

Even If Not: Living, Loving and Learning in the in Between

kaitlyn_bouch

“Not to diminish your pain, but I bet my sufferi

“Not to diminish your pain, but I bet my suffering is worse than yours.” Blink. Blink. My eyes matched the cursor, frozen in place, mouth wide open as I read the words in my inbox.⁣
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Flabbergasted. Angry. Shocked. Confused. Repeat.⁣
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This sentence, tucked inside a lengthy message of Advice and Some Thoughts from a stranger, arrived last Tuesday in response to Monday’s mention of insomnia and offer/invitation to pray for others who are struggling. I journaled paragraphs, processing. I shared the message with a few friends who have known me really well for years, watching their faces and listening intently to their responses, waiting to see if they recognized anything I should hold onto in it, anything to consider that I missed.⁣
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What I saw: foreheads crease in confusion, eyes widen, two bodies freeze and another physically recoil at the words.⁣
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What I heard: shock, anger, kindness, and then an idea, a wondering, a “What if you made a list of words that have been loving and helpful? Sentences people could remember and then hopefully never say something like… well, that... to anyone again?”⁣
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I designed a list of “say this, not that” phrases for @holleygerth last year. I wholeheartedly echo her thoughtful words, and wrote out my own above. 💛 I don’t share this for sympathy, etc. (I’ve debated posting it for days.) I’m okay, really. Tender, sure, but mostly just grateful for friends who speak truth and love well and prompt me to write down what might, maybe?, help. At least, that’s the hope. :) That’s my only ‘why’ for sharing this. If you’ve heard words like these—I’m so sorry & you are so very loved. If you aren’t sure what to say to a friend who is going through a hard time—here are a few suggestions. (Also: sometimes silence, just presence, is the greatest gift.)

Listen. These stubborn rascals taught a lesson I d

Listen. These stubborn rascals taught a lesson I didn’t know I was signing up for when I stood in the checkout line.⁣
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For two weeks I snipped the ends at an angle, refreshed the water (again)(and again), always paying attention to the temperature. I moved them from place to place based on light and heat, massaged the petals (after a tip from a friend and a google search because what in the actual world?), and even created a temporary greenhouse situation. My roommate smiled with amusement and carried on because she knows me. “I don’t remember praying for patience,” I said, “but here we are.”⁣
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Slowly, slowly, slowly.⁣
Patience, patience, patience.⁣
Delight, delight, delight.⁣
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Beauty came in letting go,⁣
in unclenched fists,⁣
in open palms and petals.⁣
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They bloomed when it was time.⁣
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There’s a whole sermon in that sentence, and in this, too: There’s a quiet beauty in tending and caring and paying close attention. There is thoughtful kindness in keeping watch. There’s astonishing wonder in seeing something grow little by little, in slowing down to the pace of a gentle unfurling, in remembering there is a Man who was called a Gardener who cares so much more about you than you’ll ever care about a vase of peonies.⁣
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They’re stubborn, this bunch. So am I, most days. Lesson learned and reminder received, words from 2019 rushing back to mind, a gracious Gardener repeating “remember, remember, remember” . . . It’s okay to grow as you go and to choose to go slow. 🌸

It’s late and I’m guessing most are fast aslee

It’s late and I’m guessing most are fast asleep, two words sitting next to one another my body doesn’t understand. Insomnia is a thief that moves slowly, cleaning house one toss and turn and tick tock at a time.⁣
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The last few weeks, I’ve settled into a new rhythm of praying just this one verse until my body settles, slows, and finally sleeps. If you’ve been here for years, you know these old words followed me to Haiti a while back. They’re the very ones that broke through the darkness, literally written on the wall the morning after a night terror that shook me to my core. They’ve come back and it’s no quick fix, but it steadies me when the clock ticks on.⁣
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Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High⁣
(breathe)⁣
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty⁣
(breathe)⁣
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If you’re up late tonight worried, hurting, wondering, struggling, tossing or turning? You aren’t alone. I’m here, repeating the words and lighting this candle for you. For me. For all of us. It’s small and it’s flickering, but it’s something. A little bit of light, pushing back the darkness.⁣
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In my experience, Hope doesn’t shout “Try harder! Do more! Be better!”⁣ No… Hope leans in close and gently whispers “You’re okay. All will be well. I’ll stay with you as the night stretches on and even if you let go, I’ll keep holding on. I’ve got this and I’ve got you. I won’t let go.”⁣
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You’re covered. You’re safe. You can rest and breathe, drop your guard and just be.⁣
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Tonight, this candle is for you, lit with prayers that these words (Psalm 91:1 ^) or others will show up and be your own makeshift nightlight. In daylight and darkness, Hope will sing you through (Psalm 42:8).⁣
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P.s. If you’re here and you’re struggling or hurting (etc ^), I’d like to pray for you by name tonight. DM me with a 🙋🏻‍♀️ or raise your hand in the comments. (If you comment, would you pause & pray for the name directly above your own? 💛)⁣

It happens every time. I've read this verse a doze

It happens every time. I've read this verse a dozen times over the years and although I know it's coming, it never fails to surprise. There's a pattern, a rhythm, a flow... until it breaks and shocks and overwhelms with more goodness than we even know.⁣
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"Here is a trustworthy saying…⁣
if we are faithless, he remains faithful,⁣
for he cannot disown himself."⁣
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If I'm reading this correctly, there's no other option. God has limited Himself to faithfulness, eternally refusing to be unfaithful. No matter what, always and forever, amen. I don't know what you're facing today, what your week held, the upcoming change or the path you find yourself on that you never wanted to walk... but I know this:⁣
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All these pages of paper, all these sentences strung together, tell a story that’s as sure as the rising of the sun and the setting of the same. It’s set in stone, guaranteed like goodness and mercy promising to follow behind and cover all your days. They’re pounding the pavement, coming after you. God will remain faithful; you will not walk alone. 🤍⁣
- - -⁣
This four-week stretch holds memories, reminders of what was and is. Yesterday, reading these verses, I was reminded of what’s forever guaranteed. Just past: two birthdays. I miss my grandparents. On the horizon: two markers. The day I learned my brain held a tumor and the day it was removed. Right now: I’m navigating a path with seemingly endless twists and turns of gratitude and grief, and I wonder if maybe that’s part of all the days, in some way. But looking back, I can see I’ve got stories stacked high, page after page that declare it to be true. I can’t tell you what the coming days will bring, but I can tell you what I’ve seen. God’s with-ness has not wavered; His faithfulness has never failed.

Hope will *not* put you to shame.⁣ You have not

Hope will *not* put you to shame.⁣
You have not been overlooked or forgotten.⁣
God is not holding out on you.⁣
He keeps the promises He makes.⁣
Every promise. (Yes, that one too.)⁣
His mercy will show up fresh each morning and will prove to be enough for the day.⁣
You are not alone in the storm.⁣
Hope will carry you all the way Home.⁣
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This is the nine-sentence story I’m sitting in,⁣
the one I’m whispering as I toss and turn,⁣
as I rejoice with friends,⁣
as I fidget in waiting rooms,⁣
as I hold my breath when the text arrives,⁣
as I reheat leftovers and wash dishes,⁣
as I clink glasses in celebration,⁣
as I cry and laugh and doubt and hope and go about these ordinary and extraordinary days.⁣
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Carried, every step, all the way Home.⁣
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(It’s your story, too.)

A whole lot of life feels like one long waiting ro

A whole lot of life feels like one long waiting room and I just don’t think that’s a mistake. The Church calendar celebrates Advent and Lent and Easter… and also this thing called Ordinary Time that stretches for months on end. (It’s my favorite, but that’s a story for another day.)⁣
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We don’t talk about this “season” very much, but it’s the one we live in most of the time (we're in it right now). It’s one long in-between that comes around and sticks around every year.⁣
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I sat in a literal waiting room last week and will sit in another tomorrow. (At least for now, this is my new mid-week normal right here in Ordinary Time.) This morning I read Hebrews 11. The whole chapter points toward Home and I'll admit it’s a gut-punch to read a dozen well-known names in Scripture, all these humans who were so very human but also did “big” things aka kept the faith, and then see it declare not one (!) of them received the full promise.⁣
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They saw it in the distance and every single promise was kept—100%, completely, in full—but they only got a glimpse. And yet they held onto hope even when it hurt, they chose obedience in their ordinary days, and they waited with faith because they “considered Him faithful who had made the promise.”⁣
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It sounds pretty written out, but we all know it’s so much harder to live out. But because they did, because this is our spiritual lineage and our faith genealogy, we’re here today. We may not get to see the full promise, but my word I hope it can be said of our generation that we waited well.⁣
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Today's trouble is enough for today... But so is God. Maybe it’s a cliché, and for sure it sounds cheesy, but also: it’s true. Tomorrow is both a mystery and a gift. Whatever it may bring, whatever in-between we find ourselves in, God will be there and He will be enough. Our waiting will not be wasted; He’s with us in this room too. Drawing closer even now, coming to walk us all Home.⁣
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He who has promised is forever faithful.⁣ Our hope is not in vain.

Show up to the doctor’s appointment. Take deep b

Show up to the doctor’s appointment. Take deep breaths. Read about the SBC. Read about Uvalde. Read fiction that doesn’t break your heart. Pray. Call a friend. Call home. Call representatives. Make the bed. Make soup. Make a spreadsheet. Cry. Watch the storm roll in. Skip breakfast. Drink coffee. Forget lunch. Eat dinner. Eat second dinner. Pray. Call. Read Psalm 23. Repeat the Lord’s prayer. Sit in the lament and the warnings of the prophets. Attend the meeting. Reply “me neither” when someone says “I’m not okay.” Do the laundry. Write an email. Watch This Is Us. Look at the headlines. Look at the sunset. Look away. Look again and find that both have changed. Light the candle. Wrap the blanket tighter. Stare at the flowers who had the audacity to open wide with joy and life and beauty this week. Sit with: The flowers still bloomed. Think “what a strange dichotomy…” Wonder if that’s the right word. Google “dichotomy.” Read “A division or contrast between two things that are or are represented as being opposed or entirely different.” Pause. Sit with: this life, these days, this still being made new world—it’s ordinary and tragic and somehow both/and.⁣
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Hope and heartbreak.⁣
Mercy and mourning.⁣
Grief and beauty.⁣
Life and loss.⁣
Storms and sunsets.⁣
Lord, have mercy.⁣
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Take a deep breath. Stare a while longer. Call. Pray. Repent. Thank God for coming close and holding tight and weeping over loss and getting angry and caring enough to bother clothing each individual flower.⁣
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I’m not okay today. And that’s okay. We shouldn’t be. Both/and.

“You are not a trash can.” My phone rang with

“You are not a trash can.” My phone rang with a FaceTime notification and within seconds, I was staring at the faces of two dear friends. One of them had just ended another conversation, just hung up from an unexpected phone call that provided clarity and also included quite a few careless words. And so we listened and she processed and we nodded and after a while, she said:⁣
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“Kaitlyn, you’ve been quiet but I can tell something is on your mind. What do you think?”⁣
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I hesitated for a moment, wondering just how crazy the answer would sound, but I know them and they know me and so I said the strange six-word sentence.⁣
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“Well... I don’t think I’ve ever said this before, but the more you share what was said to you, the more this phrase keeps crossing my mind… so maybe it’s somehow what you need to hear? I don’t know. Anyway, it’s this: You are not a trash can. You can choose to hold the garbage words that were spoken over you and to you—if you want. But also, you do not have to. They were not kind, they were not truthful, and you do not have to hold them.”⁣
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I watched the screen and waited. She wiped tears away and then laughed, saying I needed to write that out and tell other people too. My immediate reaction was pretty much “yeah, no.” But now THAT keeps crossing my mind, so I’m posting my garbage can on Instagram (life is so weird) to tell you on a Friday night:⁣
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I’m so sorry if someone’s words hurts you this week. Words can wound, intentional or not. But I want you to know—you don’t have to hold onto them. It’s not as easy as tying a bow and tossing out the trash, I know. But maybe tonight you call a friend or two and you let them speak what is actually true. Maybe you laugh and cry. Maybe someone says a strange sentence. Maybe you declare it to be trash day, mentally setting the can at the curb. Who knows. But I’ll say it through a screen again, this time to you. I promise, it’s true. You are not a trash can.⁣
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You are loved.

On an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, I opened my inbo

On an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, I opened my inbox and gasped. Inside, an email invited me to congratulate my grandma on a milestone number of years in her listed profession: pastor’s wife.⁣
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Just past the hilarity of “How in the world is she on LinkedIn and who signed her up?” is the gut punch, the sting of tears, the unexpected wave of sadness rolling in.⁣
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What LinkedIn doesn’t know is that my grandma passed away last year. Today is exactly two years since my grandpa passed away. Two funerals in less than one year is, frankly, two too many.⁣
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Grief is both a stranger and a close friend you know intimately. It can bring you to your knees in an instant, while other times you see it coming from a distance. It’s is a path chosen by none yet eventually discovered by all, occasionally anticipated but mostly unexpected. It shouts and it whispers and it lingers, arriving in waves that can lap at the shore or roar in a storm.⁣
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Within my small circle of close friends, over the last two years we’ve worn black dresses at seven funerals for our parents or grandparents. We’ve walked through cancer, car wrecks, job loss, difficulty finding a new job, break-ups, abuse, starting over in a new city, a heartbreaking diagnosis, medical unknowns from the lack of a diagnosis, and unexpected surgeries . . . to say nothing of a global pandemic.⁣
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It’s been a lot for what feels like a long time.⁣
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And I keep coming back to this… it’s so small, just two words, but it deeply matters: Jesus cried. The Man of Sorrows is acquainted with grief and familiar with waves. We have a God who cries, who comes close and stays with.⁣
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We really do have a reason to hope.⁣
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These words (caption + images) are from my newest piece that went live at @incourage today. I pray it honors my grandparents & also meets you right where you are.

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