I live by the beach. Actually, I live in a funky, ghetto-chic neighborhood filled with organic vegetable farms, horse ranches, avocado ranches, and lemon ranches, just over the hill from the beach. The dwellings near me consist of everything from tiny trailers and shanties to the big mansion next door. On our property we keep pigs and chickens and the occasional horse, and the whole rest of the canyon is filled with donkeys, mini horses, full-grown horses, dogs, barn cats, and even some mules. The hawks circle endlessly, and coyotes hang around at twilight, waiting for a house cat to be let out—just in time for a feral cocktail hour.

We’ve even had bear sightings when the weather gets really dry. When those big furry fellas work up an awful thirst in our perpetually drought-ridden Golden State, they come out of the Los Padres National Forest to drink out of a garden hose or lounge in a pool. This doesn’t have too much to do with the story I’m about to tell you, but because we’re friends now I thought I’d give you a snapshot of what it’s like in my world. And I like to stage a story before I get to the heart of it, as you may have noticed—so enjoy the journey, man.

So, the beach. I was driving down the Pacific Coast Highway awhile ago with my crazy bearded husband in his giant Silverado. We were searching for waves. There are abundant great breaks up and down the coast, some popular and crowded, some secret and localized (which basically means you had better know someone who surfs there unless you want your tires slashed).

There is one particularly popular spot that is perfect for beginners, and it is always crowded. Like, jam-packed. The parking lot is a colorful medley of humanity. There are old VW vans plastered with social-consciousness stickers that suggest we question reality. There are lifted four-cylinder trucks boasting the typical Mexican beer stickers of the college bound—the proud stamp of a first surf trip across the border without your parents. There are Subarus bearing Patagonia stickers and toting rugged, adventuresome, REI-shopping thirtysomethings, and minivans crammed with piles of kids and their various flotation devices. You’ll see crossovers with aging women grasping at the shadow of their athletic youth, recapturing the feeling of freedom via wave riding, and you’ll also see cheap, beat-up cars with stacked surfboards sticking out the passenger windows—not enough cash flow to buy a set of surf racks. It’s hilarious.

But what’s even more hilarious was the man we saw in a beach chair that day. There he sat, tan and leathery, sunning his voluminous white beard in all its glory. He looked like Kris Kringle on vacay. Carbonated beverage in holder, chair back reclined. Enjoying the day and taking in the sights, breathing deeply the exhaust from the cars whizzing by mere feet from his face.

What? Yes, you heard me. The man was sitting on the side of the road, right where the cars were parked. He was facing the beach, I suppose, but the highway and a rock wall lay between him and the sand. Just about twenty-five yards farther, and this man could have dug his old brown toes gratifyingly in the sand. He could have traded toxic fumes for salty sea air. What was he thinking? So close, yet so far.

I don’t know what the problem was. Perhaps he’d had some bad experiences at the beach in the past. Maybe a dog had lifted its leg on his lunch box or a seagull had pooped on his comb-over. A stray kid could have kicked sand all over his freshly laid towel, or sand crabs might have nibbled his toes. It’s possible that he was afraid of sharks or stingrays or wanted to avoid the occasional dead seal decomposing at low tide and the stink associated with it. All these things were possible, or even probable. Comes with the territory.

Whatever his issue was, it got me thinking. He thought he was at the beach—but he wasn’t actually at the beach. He was near the beach. With only a short walk, a bit more effort, and a pinch of resolve, his experience could have changed from mediocre (torturous, in my opinion, to not be lying leisurely in the sand) to magnificent. So often we are that guy when it comes to following Jesus. We set up camp nearby the prize, we come close to the real thing, but for whatever reason, we don’t fully engage.

How often do we act satisfied in our walk with Jesus without actually going the distance? We say we follow him, we sing the songs, we show up on Sundays, but we don’t engage in the scarier stuff. The costly stuff. The risky stuff. Stuff like true and unshrinking love. Serving. Teaching. Giving. Praying. Even accepting his will. We miss out on the honesty of opening up in authentic relationship, letting people see the real us. We miss out on answering God’s call, on saying yes to him and his crazy ideas.

We want the blessing of a Christian life but none of the pain. We think twice about diving in, risking love because we might lose it, risking reputation, comfort, all these things we think will keep us safe and happy. We sit in a beach chair across the street because we don’t want to get dirty or uncomfortable or become a target for seagulls. Well, guess what? Going all-out with Jesus will be messy! Jesus even said so himself. We will get wet and sandy and pooped on. We will get exhausted and spend time cleaning up messes, we will become war-weary. No one ever said it would be immaculate.

I got peed on at the beach this year. It was humiliating and infuriating. It was during a local surf contest my husband and son enter every year. I had spent the past two contests either bulging in pregnancy or tending a needy newborn, so this year I was enjoying the dignity of having all my parts tucked in.

This surf contest is great fun. It’s a long-standing tradition. Everyone in town comes out for it, and there are so many people to catch up with. The guys lightheartedly rib each other about who will get the prize belt buckle this year and who will be the “first loser” (second place). Bags of chips travel between sand-covered kids, and naughty dogs make off with turkey sandwiches. Sunscreen gets slathered until the distinct smell hangs thick in the air, a charming reminder of our own childhoods.

I was sitting in the sand in front of the crowd near the water’s edge, watching the action while deep in conversation with a friend. Almost unnoticeably, I felt a light sensation of fur on my side. And then the warmth. The pee spread down my ribs and onto my hip, thick and noxious. It was the Australian Shepherd that lives at the house there on the beach.

“Are you freaking kidding me?!” flew out of my mouth before I could stop it, and I jumped up in a rage. I saw a few people try to act like they hadn’t noticed, which was kind of them. But many more did. I’m not a violent person, but in that moment I would have punched the dog in the face if he hadn’t run. I stamped off the beach—irate, disgusted, pathetic.

It was a bad day, though all signs had pointed to it being a glorious one. But can you imagine all I would miss if I never went back to the beach again? If I gave up on beaches because of an unfortunate situation? Since that miserable day, I have surfed sparkling waves, built countless sand castles with Fifi, and enjoyed sun-drenched conversations with great friends. I’ve had the pleasure of sharing waves with my son, and I’ve watched my husband outsurf every guy in the lineup. Not going back to the beach because of a potential bummer is like sitting on the highway: I would be missing out on some great stuff.

If I’m sitting on the highway, if I don’t cross over, I won’t experience the fullness, the fierce living I was made for. But if I go back to the beach despite what happened, I will have seashells as a reminder of the beauty I breathed in there. My sore muscles will echo all the great waves I rode and the hard work it took to catch them. I will bring home the sounds of the surf crashing, the glow on my face, the spent feeling of the full experience. The truth is, I can wash off sand and dog pee. I can take a shower and get comfy in my favorite sweats, my skin still warm underneath. I can always remember the splendor of crossing over. But if I gave up and never went back, I would have none of the blessings.

I have the privilege of being close friends with some of the coolest women on the planet. Women who haven’t had the easiest rides, which were either out of their control or due to their own sin. Women who have faced the disgrace of having children out of wedlock despite being raised in Christian homes, women who have endured the sorrow of carrying an infant to term who, because of a severe genetic disorder, would die mere hours later. Women who have been faithful to husbands who are addicted to pornography. And women who have been faithful to Jesus and his calling throughout their forty years of singleness, when their hearts’ desire is marriage. Women who have situations in life as unglamorous as Bathsheba, as Sarah, as me.

You know what makes these girls so cool? They crossed over. My friend with the child out of wedlock? She helps run an orphanage in Uganda and cares for the cast-aside and unwanted. And by the grace of God, she eventually married her son’s father. My other friend whose son was born while she was unmarried and barely more than a teen? She and her baby-daddy husband became foster parents, adopted two girls into their family of five, and made it a family of seven. She also founded a nonprofit benefiting foster kids and their families. The dauntless mama who loved her infant son for eighteen hours then handed over his body? She leads worship with courage and pluck, heartbreaking honesty mingling with pure love, bringing others into intimacy with Jesus by the voice God has blessed her with. The dear one who has chosen to love her husband through his gut-wrenching pornography addiction? She now lovingly leads other women down the same rough road with truth, strength, humor, and exceptional grace. And my wonderful friend, single at forty, who would have married twenty years ago had she met the right man? Well, she has been a missionary for the last ten years in the Middle East, sacrificially sharing Jesus with Jews and Muslims while living a life of adventure, however uncomfortable and lonely.

Though each woman bears scars, however fresh or faint, not one has allowed her circumstances to keep her from a full life, from serving God in the sphere she has been given. Each has found real joy in the surrender. They are all beautiful, hilarious, fun, talented, and hardworking, but the bottom line is, these girls are awesome because Jesus is awesome. Through faith and because of deep love for the Savior, each has made a choice to cross over. It was not easy, but they did not stay in sadness or shame or even cling to earthly comfort. Rather, they sacrificed and believed and continue to live lives worthy of praise—just like the Proverbs 31 woman. I am honored to be surrounded by such faith and chutzpah.

I don’t want to miss it. I want to cross over, to follow Jesus to the ends of the earth and right on into heaven. Sarah has followed. Bathsheba has followed. Mary has followed too. I refuse to allow grief and bitterness to keep me from following. In the face of the sand and salt and seagull poop, I say to my God, “Pick me! I’ll go!” I’ll risk potential pain and discomfort. I’ll give up what’s easy for a far more glorious life, for a life that is nowhere near perfect. I’ll take a life that includes radical loss and great pain but is fully in him.

Being paralyzed with fear and sadness, being rendered useless because of bitterness, only marks a victory for the enemy of my soul. But do you know what agrees with the Father, what shines in triumph, what brings glory to the Lord of heaven? Choosing to bring all I’ve learned, all the Scripture, all the words of Jesus, to the front of my life and standing on it. In him I stand and don’t fall, and I live. I live for eternity.

Choosing to live for eternity is such a game changer. It holds much meaning for the future, yes, but for the here and now it brings with it the ability to laugh. A hundred years ago, when I was in college, my pastor used to say, “You do what you believe.” He meant that we say so much—we talk, talk, talk—but what we do speaks louder. We can talk until we go hoarse, but our actions show what our faith actually looks like.

If I believe I will see Daisy again, I can grieve, but not as those without hope grieve (1 Thess. 4:13). I can cry and hurt and wail and get it all out, but I can be confident in our future reunion (1 Thess. 4:14). I can wonder joyfully about her and what she’s doing. I can picture her in heaven riding a bear—or any of the crazy animals she loved so much—while eating a juicy mango, wild and free. I can see her meeting new friends and Jesus swinging her around like an airplane. I can trust she is well, she is whole, and she has done more than the things on her bucket list. I still keep that list tucked in the middle of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s On the Banks of Plum Creek, the last book we read together, the one we never got to finish.

I believe she is with the Lord. I can rejoice in that, and maybe, if I really think hard about it, I might even be able to laugh.

Do you see it? Hope. Confidence. Wonder. Joy. Trust. Laughter.

If I believe Jesus is the Bread of Life, the Beginning and the End, if I believe Jesus adorned himself in humanity, lived a humble life, and was scorned, tortured, and crucified to make atonement for me, will I not love him with all I’ve got? Will I not still follow him regardless of where my life goes, regardless of any suffering I might endure? I have decided it has been my honor and pleasure to love and serve with my whole life this God who became humble, even to death on a cross.

If I believe this life is not all there is, shouldn’t I live accordingly? Will I allow despair to swallow me when I know the goodness that is coming is incomparable? If I know I will be with Jesus, face-to-face with him forever, will I not now live like a child who is well taken care of and loved by her parents? Free, joyful, secure. I believe that I will be in the presence of the Lord, and part of being ready for him is enjoying the goodness we have now. Crossing over into the fruit of belief.

If broken Bathsheba can say in Proverbs 31 that an excellent woman laughs at the future, so can I. If Sarah laughs at the newborn manifestation of the promises of the Lord, then I will too. Grief is real. It is intense. But what is more real, what is more intense, what is eternal is the hope of Christ, the drying of tears, the new heaven and new earth, the reuniting with Daisy, the final conquering of death. When I am pressed down, these truths pull me back up. They are air to lungs submerged nearly too long.

Don’t miss out—don’t trade inward thinking, skepticism, lies, and emotion for truth and joy. We are so prone to giving up the real for the perceived. One epic way we miss out on life and focus on untruth is with social media. Like many other things that can be good if they’re not exalted into an idol, social media is something that I don’t partake of right now. Some have issues with alcohol. Others have made their home a god, and still others elevate entertainment or food or shopping or beauty treatments or exercise. Any of these things can be good if kept in check with wise boundaries, but they can also quickly steal joy when they spin out of control. For me, right now, it’s social media.

I discovered this back in 2012, when we spent another summer in hospitals seeking treatment for Daisy. She was hurting and crippled from all the surgeries, treatments, and chemo, and things were unsettled and frightening. Plus, being in the hospital just stinks. Bad.

I’d never had a Facebook account but did have Instagram at the time. If you have an account, you know it’s like crack in your veins. You scroll through people’s pictures, eyes rolling back in your head, numb at the sight of so many people doing so many things. Things you can’t do. Things like going to the beach with friends. Like barbecuing with family. Like not worrying about their kids dying from cancer.

And so the crack that entered my veins poisoned me. It drove my self-focus, it fed my self-pity, and it fueled my discontent. One day, out of sourness and resentment, I posted the view from Daisy’s hospital room in LA, where we were waiting to harvest her stem cells. I was secretly wishing for the rest of the world to stop and notice our rotten lives, and hoping for some sympathy. It was then that I realized I was becoming jealous of other people’s apparently easy lives. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was, to live anyone else’s life but mine. And it was wrong. I was convicted. I felt God saying, “This is your life, the one I gave you. Be present, feel it, walk through it with me. Don’t miss it.”

Thank you, Jesus, for lifting my head, for showing me something that was taking from me, not giving. Thank you, Jesus, for exposing an unhealthy habit, for helping me cut it off, for replacing it with joy and the beauty of caring for another. I chucked Instagram that day and never looked back.

From now on, I only want to live my own life, not salivate after the lives of others. I want to relinquish what I wish my life looked like and relish what it is. I want to be all there; I want to be all-in. I want to be grateful and aware and responsible and respectful, and if I can’t do that while scrolling past everyone else’s posts, then peace out. Later. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

God has so much for us when we are present. Lovely little gifts he gives us on a daily basis. What is hindering you from opening these gifts? From seeing them and snapping them up and trying them on right then and there? Whatever it is, get rid of it. Don’t look back.

Because I ditched Instagram, I became aware of so much else. I saw things I never could before when I was so busy comparing my life to everyone else’s. My heart was in such an open state, reaching out and grateful to God. We didn’t know that the trip we were about to take to Israel would be the most soul-molding time of our lives. It was our last good time ever with Daisy. I was so grateful to have left Instagram behind beforehand, to have been able to enjoy each moment completely engaged. We made memories purely for ourselves. As gnarly and scary and uncomfortable as it was, the trip was a gift. A gift I took and opened and kept for myself without sharing with those to whom that gift was not given.

We, in our last few months with Daisy, were fully present. We were hurting and wrecked and questioning, of course, but we were all-in with both feet. We lived the life God had given us. We put on the running shoes because we didn’t want to miss the race. Regardless of the sadness and stress, it was the most incredible time of our lives.

Last week I saw a woman wearing a shirt that said “Bloom Where You’re Planted.” I loved that. Sometimes I see a big flowering plant bursting out of a crack in the sidewalk and marvel. It appears that it is indeed possible to bloom wherever the Farmer has planted you. You might be planted in a sea of concrete, unexpectedly breaking through what was thought to be stronger than you. Or you might be planted on a windy hillside, roots exposed, growing lopsided from the struggle to survive. Some are planted in English gardens, amid beauty and abundance, drinking freely the water that gives generous life. Yet others fight for existence among a whole crowd of opposition, riddled with holes from the pests that are sucking their lifeblood.

I can’t decide where I’ve been planted. Sometimes I think I’m in that lush English garden, water showering down on me in gentle abundance, surrounded by displays of beauty and life. Yet other days I feel I’m that anemic, cliff-dwelling tree, fighting every element against my ability to thrive, battling a constant barrage of hostility. Perhaps it’s both. Both are a blessing to their environment. Both have purpose and beauty and are life-giving to their surroundings.

Just as I was all-in while we fought for Daisy’s life, I have discovered how to be all-in when mourning her life. Shall I not laugh and play and nuzzle my daughter with the fawn curls and olive skin, because the one with the blond mermaid hair and sprinkling of freckles is gone? Shall I not honor God and enjoy all his gifts even if some are only given for a short while?

You can believe something is real, but unless you cross over it means nothing. Remember how my pastor said that what you do is what you believe? James said faith without works is dead. I’ll show you my faith by my works—and sometimes that work is the simple act of choosing joy, choosing freedom, choosing to honor God through actions that spring from a sometimes harsh environment. I pray, Lord, show me the way of beauty.

When I am free to cross over and enjoy the goodness of family, of the earth, of friends and love and food and music and dancing, it glorifies God. It says, “I believe you. I agree with what you’re doing.” Crossing over draws out laughter, draws out worship, draws out trust, draws out love. Do you see it?