“I don’t need my name in lights”

A few months ago my husband asked a probing question:

What would you do if you woke up famous?

Like everyone-knows-my-face-and-name famous, I questioned.
Yep, he responded, like that.

He was intent on an answer.  And I was quiet, searching for one. Then.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t want success. That I don’t want to be recognized for talents I believe I have. But famous?? That is entirely different.

Contrary to what I may seem, I am an introverted person. I love flying under the radar, allowed to notice and not be noticed. I love peace and quiet. I love being with myself–wholly–even in the dark moments when I’m skillfully negotiating the craggy peaks of my heart’s hurt. I love being allowed that luxury, the luxury of figuring out who I am without the noise of others telling me who they think I am.

Surely, that doesn’t mean there aren’t those in my life who try to make their truth my own.  There are.  But at least they know me. They aren’t complete strangers who take issue with the way I cut my hair, what I choose to eat, or worse…who attack my sacred personhood because of something they read or watched on t.v.

So that famous??
No. Thank. You.

Then last week, while driving to meet a girlfriend for lunch, I was heart hit by a song on the radio:

I don’t need my name in lights
I’m famous in my Father’s eyes
Make no mistake
He knows my name
I’m not living for applause
I’m already so adored
It’s all His stage
He knows my name

As I drove through tears, I realized I’m already famous to a precious and cherished few. They know my name and more than that…they know my heart. That is why the song moved me.  Because it spoke to one of my deepest truths: on any given day, I’d prefer to be Known than known of.

That is my heart’s scripture. Today. Tomorrow. And forever.

I don’t know what the next few years will bring. And I don’t know where my talents will take me, but it doesn’t matter.  I am Known.  And that knowing is more fame than I ever dreamed of.


Our hearts and hands

Our hearts and hands

Nine years ago (this week), I stood at the entrance of a small, glass chapel in southern Brazil.  Inside sat a crowd of beautifully dressed strangers.  The women, painted like porcelain dolls, looked at me, then through me, as my layers of tulle were fluffed and my father tenderly took my hand in his.

“You ready?”, he asked.

I smiled that smile, looked down the aisle to my future husband,  and nodded my head.  Then I started down the satin runner.

I was not ready to get married.

I was ready to pick out a sparkling diamond, make seating charts and choose a delicious assortment of truffles.  I was ready to take engagement pictures, stamp and seal invites, and send for our set of ‘His’ and ‘Hers’ towels.  I was ready to select bridesmaids, a tiara and a gorgeous gown.

I was ready for a wedding


a marriage.

I thought I knew a lot.  And, looking back, I did about select things…a few things…teeny, tiny things.  But when it came to the big things, turns out, I was quite naive.

I didn’t know much about myself.

I hadn’t put in the time.

I hadn’t done the work.

I hadn’t removed my mask (you know the one) and peered into my ugly places; the ones we try to convince ourselves, and others, we don’t have.

In short, I hadn’t been real.  Not as real as marriage deserves.  Not as real as my future husband deserved.

My husband and I both come from what others have defined as “broken” homes.  My parents fell out of love, out of like and out of respect with each other.  In the end, they could barely breathe the same air without being covered by a thick, gauzy haze of dislike and disgust. My in-laws’ end was similar, but more amicable, which led their children to believe reconciliation was possible, if not probable.

During our courtship, we spent hours identifying their mistakes and planning how to avoid making the same.

“We’re going to do things differently.”

“We’re going to be happy.”

“We’re going to love til it hurts…”

And we have…

And. We. Do.

After 11 years together (nine of those married), I’ve learned a lot.

I’d like to think I’m more kind and less cruel.  More accepting and less judgmental.  More loving and less vindictive.  More appreciative and less envious.  More transparent and less dishonest.  More for us and less for myself.

I’d like to think that I know more than that 24-year-old who looked down the aisle and neglected to see her future standing there with moist green eyes and a smile laced with hope and possibility.  Who neglected to understand the gravity of such a choice


that she’d made the right one.

Maybe you don’t fall in love just once, but over and over again, with the same person.  The one who has seen you and your heart at their ugliest and chooses you through it and despite it.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Maybe that’s all we need to know.