7 Things I’ve Learned from 7 Years of Blogging


birthday cupcake

Yesterday was my blog’s seventh birthday.

I had big plans to celebrate seven years of blogging. I was going to re-post old blogs, one from each year. I was going to do “seven days of giveaways” to celebrate. I was going to write something important and good, but you see, I don’t really have it all together right now. Life, I mean. I’m sort of in a barely-craping-by season that requires me to say no to simple things like having coffee with a friend. It’s the season I am in right now and I’ve decided to stop worrying about it and just press in and get the work done, but it does mean I don’t get to do a big birthday bash on my blog and that sort of makes me sad.

Instead, I am going to do what I can handle and manage today, from an airplane after a glorious fifteen-minute nap during takeoff, which is this one post and jotting down a few things I’ve learned about blogging these last several years.

I wrote my first blog post on September 15, 2008, from a house in England. I had just moved there. My parents were helping me settle in, and they hadn’t left yet. After a busy few days of trying to find a house and then trying to find a store that sold things like plates and mugs and then trying to find my school to make sure I was registered and enrolled, I decided to sit down and create andrealucado.blogspot.com. My first post was about an experience I had had at an ice cream shop called G&Ds.

It was fun to tell the ice cream shop story, so I told a couple more stories on my blog and then a few more and a few more and one here and one there and before I knew it, I had been blogging for an entire year. And here I sit, still blogging seven years later.

I keep seeing things on Facebook about how “blogging is dead” and now marketing professionals are speculating about what will replace it. But then I keep seeing people post on their blogs, and I keep seeing new blogs born all the time. So I’ve decided that blogging isn’t dead, and I guess I’ll keep doing it. Until it is really, actually dead. Like My Space.

I am really the last blogger on earth who should be giving blogging advice. I mean, I hardly even touched this space for the entire year of 2012. But I have made a few observations in my years of blogging, and that’s what I’d like to share with you today, the day after my blog’s seventh birthday.

Here it goes, 7 things I’ve learned from 7 years of blogging:

  1. The post you thought was awesome and that you poured your soul into, and when you hit publish you had no doubt that this was going to be “the viral one” and people were going to LOVE it. You know that post? Inevitably, for those types of posts, four people are going to read them, and no one is going to comment. And you will suffer a night of deafening internet crickets.
  1. But, you know that post you slapped together in a 30-minute rush just because you had a quick idea and wanted to get it out there? That one? One thousand people are going to like it on Facebook and every other one of them will comment. We can rarely predict what our readers need to hear when they need to hear it. It’s not really up to us, this is what I’ve decided.
  1. People Google really weird things. I cannot tell you how many people find my blog each year searching various combinations of the words “beans” and “toast.”
  1. Blogging has forced me to learn to write concisely and clearly more than most forms of writing that I do elsewhere. It is excellent practice no matter what type of writing you do for your day job.
  1. Blogs don’t have to be pretty. I would like for mine to look nicer and more professional, and I plan to get on top that here soon, but one of my favorite blogs—and one of the few I actually read on a regular basis—is orangette.blogspot.com. Molly Wizenberg, the author, has a huge following and has been blogging since 2004, but she doesn’t even own her URL. I don’t care about that because her writing is wonderful and draws me in each and every time. Content matters most. I’ve decided to only focus on the aesthetic details as I have time for them.
  1. It’s awkward to talk about your blog with other people in real life. Whenever someone says, “Hey, I read your blog today!” and then wants to talk about it, I sort of cringe. Sometimes I prefer to live under the illusion that this is my diary and nobody actually reads it.
  1. I am at my blogging best when I’m writing on something I care about that happened recently. When I’m writing in real-time. For some reason, it seems to resonate with people more on the days that I talk about what I learned that very week. I’m not sure why, especially because usually those ideas and lessons are not fully learned or understood yet, but they seem to be what people need to hear, so I think I’ll keep doing that.

I don’t know if I’ve ever thanked any of you for reading my blog.

Thank you.

It really is amazing to have people to share my stories with. Even if I’m awkward about it in real life, I love that I live in a time in history where this type of cyber sharing and storytelling is possible.

I don’t know what my writing avenue and place will look like after the next seven years, but secretly, I hope it’s still here, in this little space.

I like it here.

What It Means to Be Loved By God

I’ve been quiet in this space lately. Work has been consuming. Any spare time I have I devote to writing other things and writing here gets pushed farther and farther down the priority list. I don’t like it, but it’s the season I’m in right now.

I listened to a song the other day that stopped me in my tracks. It stopped me so hard and rattled me so deep, it got me to finally sit down here and write. Because I want you to hear it too. It’s called “Love You More” and it’s by one of my forever favorites, Nichole Nordeman. This song speaks the truth about God’s love for us better than any song I’ve ever heard.

After listening to this, all the things I’ve been shuffling and trying to keep together and stay in front of and on top of and be on time with, all of my work and my deadlines and my emails, they all sort of tumbled to the side and made way for this one truth: God loves me. Not only does He love me, but, as the song says, He’s “been loving me since time began.”

It reminds me of Psalm 139. “My frame was not hidden from you
 when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body;
 all the days ordained for me were written in your book
 before one of them came to be” (vv 15-16).

Not only does God love us, He loves us deeply and knows us fully.

And I wonder, how many of us operate and live our lives under the assurance of this truth? And if we don’t, and I am among the ones who don’t, how could things be different if we did? What would life look like? What would it feel like to take each step knowing that God loves us so deeply, and there is no such thing as a limit to that love, and we have not strayed too far this time because he gives second chances, third chances, fourth chances…

What would it feel like to live this way?

This question stopped me in my fast-moving tracks. I looked at the balls I was balancing and I realized living under the promise of God’s love would probably look like letting some of those balls drop to the floor. It would look like putting everything down because there is absolutely nothing greater or more important than the knowledge of God’s love. Receiving it has to be the first move of our day because without it, life is up to us. Without it, we do run out of chances. When we  don’t believe, at our core, that God loves us deeply, we walk around life afraid, regretful, uncertain, and suspicious and untrusting of our God.

His love—the kind that wove us together in the depths of the earth—protects us as much as it propels us. It shifts our priorities. It takes away the fear that we’re doing it wrong or that we will do it wrong. It allows us to trust in the goodness of God.

Take a minute today and ask yourself if you believe God loves you. Do you truly believe it? No matter what you have going on today, the answer to that question is really the only thing that matters.


(Yes, I wrote down all the lyrics for you because they are SO GOOD. Read them. Sit in them. Believe them.)

Love You More by Nichole Nordeman

You said go and sin no more

though my eyes could not meet yours

I started running the third time the rooster crowed

You threw a party just for me though I squandered everything

I was blinded in the middle of the road

I climbed up a tree to see you

Swallowed by the see to flee you

Sold you for a little silver and kiss

Killed a man to love his woman

Burned a bridge back to your garden

Hung beside you while you took your final breath


You’ve been loving me since time began

You’re behind my every second chance


I love you

I’m trying to love you more

I’m ready

Please help me

love you more


I keep thinking there’s a limit

I’m sure I must be getting near it

I’ve used up every pardon and regret

But you promise there is freedom

Gathered up my broken pieces

Scattered them as far as east is from the west


You’ve been loving me since time began

You’re behind my every second chance


I love you

I’m trying to love you

I’m ready

Please help me

love you more


For all the sand that fills the hour glass

Every breath between my first and last

I love you

I’m trying to love you more

I’m ready please help me love you more

The Two Choices You Have Today

Two Choices TodayI recently returned from ten days in Peru on a mission trip with the student ministry at my church. Every day was different: street evangelism, building a house, playing with kids in the local community, encouraging the church there. We slept on the floor. We took cold showers. We stayed up too late.

On mission trips past, I’ve walked away feeling I’ve learned more about the poor, or about the needs all around the world, or about feeling more grateful for what I have and wanting others’ eyes to be opened the way mine were. I suppose I expected this to happen in Peru, but it didn’t. Well, not really.

In Peru, I was a “leader” on the mission trip. One of six other adults helping lead 30 students around a foreign country. As one of the “adults” I found myself stepping back and watching more than if I had been a student. I kept looking around and taking in aerial views of what I saw.

Of all the sights, experiences and conversations, I noticed a theme: openness. Openness among the Peruvians and openness among our students:

girls linking arms on a dirt path up a mountain

card games on the airport floor

spontaneous dance parties in the dining hall

Peruvian students and American students talking to each other and laughing as if they went to high school together and saw each other every day

We were there for ten days, but by the tears I watched being shed as we left for the airport, you would think we had been there much longer.

And in the open hearts that I witnessed, I saw the hesitation in my own. I saw a heart that is not as open as it used to be.

It made me think of summer camp when I was twelve. It was a fun week, I remember, and I made good friends. On the final night we all stood around and cried and hugged. We had known each other for six whole days. But then, at that age, we weren’t conscious of our own vulnerability. We weren’t worrying about the future and how difficult it would be to keep in touch. We were not jaded or hardened by broken relationships or dreams.

Peru made me remember when I too was open, vulnerable and had a more embracing posture toward life in general. It reminded me that growing up can chip away at our openness, making us wary of others, making us wary of our own selves.

I didn’t expect to be reminded of this in a place like Peru, but I was, and I am grateful for that. I began to ask myself why and when this chipping away happens. Is it a moment? Is it a certain event? But I think it’s more subtle than that.

Each day, we are offered two choices about our posture toward others and opportunities: open or closed. We are offered this in the tiniest of things:

Will I smile at the person I pass by on the street, or will I keep my eyes on my phone?

Will I invite these people over for dinner, or will I make up an excuse not to?

Will I say yes to this or will I say I don’t have enough time, energy, money, etc?

Will I be open to life, or will I be resistant to it?

My knee-jerk reaction is to be resistant, to make up excuses that close me off to people and experiences. And I don’t think I’m alone in this.

Living slightly resistant is an acceptable choice. You can still achieve things and meet people, though you are resistant to them. You can live your entire life this way. A lot of people do.

But think about this: If you can do a lot while resistant to life, imagine what you could do or who you could meet if you were open to it? I imagine worlds and worlds and worlds would appear before you that you had completely ignored, shrugged off or pushed aside before.

In Peru, I watched people live with an open posture. Arms stretched out, palms unclenched. The Peruvians, the students—they were open to each person and experience. They were open to allowing their hearts to change and their minds to be transformed by a single visit.

They were not jaded or afraid. They jumped in the water.

At some point, I forgot how to do this, and maybe you have too. The good news is, it’s never too late. Your heart remembers the way; you just have to tell your feet where to go.

Who Is God to You, Really?

Who Is God to You Really?We all paint pictures of God. Over the years, we gather some information here, some scripture there, some thoughts from a pastor here and, subconsciously, we put them together and piece them in such a way that they make up our God. Our own little personal mosaics of who God is, to us.

As we live, this mosaic changes. I lived a few years with a nice, pretty picture of a young God who was my friend. Then, it was the old man – grandfather – Santa Clause hybrid God. And most popular these days, a more stern God who is disappointed with my sin and behavior when it’s not just right.

Of course, I have days where my mosaic of God reflects love and deep, deep care, but this is a picture I’m only now learning to paint. And still, it is only a picture.

The point is, we can’t help but create God into something tangible because the only thing we understand as people, mortal people, are tangible things. Trees, mountains, dogs, etc. But confining God to a picture is dangerous. It’s dangerous to us and it’s dangerous to those around us.

Take a moment now and picture “your” God. What does he look like? If he were a painting, what form would he take? If he were a mosaic, what pieces is he made up of? And, this is important, where did those pieces come from?

Do you have the picture in your head? Good. Now I need you to do something else.

Take that picture and tear it up. Then, take the torn-up pieces and set them on fire. Then, gather the ashes into a bucket and explode it into a million billion little tiny microscopic bits.

If we want to understand who he is and how that plays into who we are and how we live, we have to be willing to let go of our paintings and our mosaics. We have to be willing to be wrong.

Over the past year this question has been on my lips, “Who are you, God, really?” It’s a question that comes from the suspicion that I have created God to be someone he is not. Whenever we feel like we have an omnipotent being figured out, that’s when we should question ourselves, back away slowly, (maybe repent…), and begin to ask God, Who are you, really?

Are you actually mad at me? Are you really watching my every move, waiting for me to mess up? Are you as distant as you feel, meaning I can operate how I please? Are you really just a nice dad who wants me to have what I want? Are you condemning others but elevating me?

When we live and breathe under our paintings of God, depending on what that painting looks like, we grow accustomed to feeling shame, or paralyzed in our decisions, or we experience the type of freedom that is really bondage. And then we begin to reflect that kind of God to others.

We glorify a Santa Clause God or a BFF God or a cruel teacher God. I wouldn’t feel inclined to worship any of those, would you?

This scripture is becoming more and more true for me these days: “For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away…  For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known” (1 Corinthians 13:9-10,12).

God knows us fully. We are pretty easy to understand. And, he made us. He, however, is not as easy to understand. Once you think you have him all figured out, he blows your mind with something that shatters the image of him you painted.

I don’t want to confine God to a painting anymore. Instead, I want to just keep asking, Who are you, really? And keep asking it and keep asking it and keep asking. I think the more we do and the more we genuinely seek an answer, the more glimpses we will receive of truth. And the more glimpses we receive of truth, the more beautiful God will become.

The Lie That You Can Always Be Better or More

The Lie that You Can Always Be Better

Last Monday night I set my alarm for 5:30am to get up for a 6am workout class. My plan was to go to that class, then come home, shower, get ready, go to to work and then go to an afternoon meeting.

This was my Tuesday plan.

What happened instead? Well, Monday night I couldn’t sleep because I was having one of those can’t-shut-your-brain off kinda nights, so when 5:30am rolled around, I hadn’t been asleep long enough to be functional at 6am.

I eventually rolled out of bed around 7am and felt frustrated with myself for not sleeping well and failing to wake up in time. So I resolved to attend the 10:30am workout class instead.

I was going to exercise on Tuesday no matter what.

I show up for the 10:30am class and notice everyone seems to be really sweaty and tired already. Am I late? Did I already miss the warm up? I look at the instructor and mouth, “This is the 10:30, right?”

No, she mouths back. This is the 9:45.

There is no 10:30 class. In my sleep deprived stupor I made up that time and arrived 45 minutes late to a one-hour class.

I left the gym, tired and defeated. I went home and, unable to let go of the idea that I needed to workout today, I went for a run in the sweltering Nashville June heat and almost died.

By the time this shenanigan was over, so was half of my day. Driving to my afternoon appointment, I beat myself up for not only missing the 6am class but for thwarting my entire schedule and wasting time.

I was very mean to myself last Tuesday.

If I had been kind to myself that morning when I couldn’t drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn, I would have simply let go of working out that day and proceeded with other activities.

Instead, I ignored the little voice inside that was quietly tapping me saying, “It’s ok. Let this one go. Burn calories tomorrow or the next day, or whenever.” Because this nice little voice inside me is often overcome by the loud angry YOU CAN ALWAYS BE BETTER voice that also lives inside me.

This voice says things like, “You’re a failure at sleep, and working out and you better make this right.” And it says lots of other mean and untrue things all the time. It’s exhausting to listen to, but I do anyways.

As long as I keep listening, it will keep talking because the thing with the YOU CAN ALWAYS BE BETTER voice is, it is never satisfied. You can feed it and feed it and make it to the gym at 6am every single day and still, it would want more from you.

But you wouldn’t listen to someone in your life you knew was mean and a liar would you? So why listen to the mean liar inside of you?

When we choose not to listen to our harsh voices, we starve them. They can’t survive if we’re not doing what they tell us to do. And eventually if we starve them long enough, they go away.

So this is what I’m trying to do now when it comes to the gym, and my body and a lot of different things. I’m ignoring the mean me, and paying more attention to the quiet and kind me. I might miss more 6am classes, but at least I’ll like myself at the end of the day.

Two Things Daughters Need to Hear from their Fathers

father daughter final

A few weeks ago I was assigned to write a Father’s Day article about what daughters need to hear from their fathers as teens. Immediately I remembered this one time I did a Q&A session at a youth leaders’ conference. I and another preacher’s daughter answered a few questions about what it was like to grow up with a pastor as a father.

At the end of the session, the conference leader asked us what piece of advice we would give to fathers in the audience about daughters.

My fellow interviewee gave a very articulate, smart and somewhat long response. People applauded. It was a good answer. She talked about women being strong and independent and how beauty was often too central in our upbringings. I looked at her and nodded along. Then it was my turn.

I felt embarrassed. My answer was much shorter than hers. Less eloquent. It sounded superficial. But it was all I could think to say, so I said it: “Tell her you love her every day. Tell her she’s beautiful every day.”

If I were given the chance to answer this question today, I would say the exact same thing.

I believe when a dad tells his little girl she is beautiful before she is old enough to read magazines or understand dress sizes or compare her selfies on Instagram to others’, she learns to identify beauty as an intrinsic part of her soul, rather than a physical attribute she must strive to attain.

The concept of beauty in and of itself is not a bad thing; beauty is of God. It is the connotations we have put onto this word—looking a certain way, being a certain size, color, etc.—that make it seem like a negative thing.

If a father can tell his daughter daily from an early age that she is beautiful for no reason except that she simply exists, she is raised with a healthy idea of what beauty truly is and where her worth is actually found.

It is the same when she is told she is loved from day one, and every day after that. Somewhere in her subconscious she realizes that she isn’t doing anything to earn her dad’s love because he tells her, even on her worst days, that he loves her. “I must simply be worthy of love,” the little voice inside of her says.

My dad did this for me and my two sisters growing up and he does it still. He told us he loved us. He told us we were beautiful. In my teenage years, I rolled my eyes at these words of affirmation, but I’ve noticed that they have in many ways carried me into adulthood.

Even though during difficulties, setbacks and failures, I try to push this little voice of assurance away, I know it’s still there. And some days, it is the only thing that keeps me going.

What power the words of a father can have over his daughter.

It’s hard for me to hear stories that are not like mine. Stories that come from girls whose fathers didn’t think to say “I love you” and “You’re beautiful.” It’s such a simple thing. It’s such a crucial thing.

If we are sustained by the loving Word of God our Father, why would we not also assume that our children are sustained by the loving words of their earthly fathers?

Thank you to my dad and all the dads out there who are making the daily, conscious effort to speak truth over their girls.


You can read a better articulated and explained version of this post in an article I wrote for the June issue of Parenting Teens magazine: http://www.lifeway.com/n/Product-Family/Parenting-Teens

The Opposite of Fear Is Not Courage

The Opposite of Fear Is Not Courage

A few months ago I had a week full of fear related to my work. I felt overwhelmed, andthe thoughts running through my head looked something like this:

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“This is too much.”

“I need to just find another job.”

“I’m not going to be able to fulfill everyone’s expectations.”

You may recognize this pattern of negative self-talk. Rapid-fire statements rooted in a place of fear. Each one you listen to and believe hits you a little harder and if you’re not careful, you will one day find yourself leveled by your own thoughts, flattened by your own fears.

I think our reaction when we feel afraid about something happening in our lives is to look for courage. We listen to familiar messages about inner strength and digging deep down to find it. Fighting through and being stronger than you think.

But what about those times when you do dig deep down searching for inner strength and courage within yourself and you come up empty handed? What do you do then when your knees are still shaking, what’s in front of you remains daunting and you determine that your inner strength must be so inner at this point that is un-findable?

I am beginning to wonder if courage is the appropriate response to fear.

One morning as I sat on my couch allowing the negative and fearful thoughts to play in my head I noticed a quality of these thoughts I hadn’t seen before: They were ungrateful. Not only were they negative, untrue and made me afraid, but they lacked gratitude.

Which got me thinking, what if I combated this season of fear by being grateful, rather than courageous?

So I tried it out and began to argue fear with thankfulness.

For example, I was worried about an upcoming conference call. It was with people in my field who were much more seasoned and smarter than I and I was afraid I would say something stupid or they would be able to see how ill-equipped I felt.

But before the call, as soon as I caught myself feeling afraid, I stopped and said thank you. “Thank you, God, for the opportunity to speak with people who are more knowledgeable than I am. Thank you for this chance to learn and grow. Thank you that I even get to do this as my job every day.”

The gratitude didn’t say I was courageous. The gratitude didn’t say I was stronger than I thought I was or more capable than I knew. No, gratitude simply put me in my place as a human and put God in his place as God.

When we are grateful in the midst of difficulty or fear, we are forced to take a posture of humility before our God. Nothing like saying thank you can do this to us.

When our fear comes from a place of insecurity in ourselves or uncertainty about the future, courage may not be the answer for us, but gratitude shifts things into perspective. The blur of scary and fearful focuses into a more accurate picture in which God is big and we are small and this is exactly how it’s supposed to be.