Hot Dogs

November 20th, 2010:

I went grocery shopping.  A few short hours later, a couple dozen of my favorite kids in the world would all be in the same place.  We wanted to feed them... hang out with them.  But there's not a lot of foods elementary and middle school age kids will all eat.

So I bought hot dogs.

I bought enough to feed forty, slightly overshooting our highest attendance.  We got to the church and started getting dinner ready.  Occasionally I would peek out at all the kids that had shown up, but never even thought to count them.

The next thing I knew, a volunteer came into the kitchen declaring there are "at least 35 kids" plus adults waiting in the fellowship hall.  I had forty hot dogs.  Do you know any kid who only eats one hot dog?

I walked over to the stove where the hot dogs were cooking.  Looking into the water, I quickly prayed "You've done it before.  Do it again.  Use what we have, make it enough."  I walked away, feeling kind of silly.

We had a team of kids come in to put the hot dogs in the buns.  Another team of kids served the plates to their friends.  I stood in the doorway and watched as kids started coming back, saying, "everyone has a hot dog.  Everyone has something to eat."  

I looked back at the kitchen counter where a dozen full plates still sat there, waiting to be given away.

I started counting, doing the math in my head.  Suddenly kids started coming back from seconds.  And then volunteers started eating as well.

Still.  There were hot dogs on the counter.

I had a two eleven year old boys approach me and ask if they could help clean up.  I watched as they took away empty plates and pushed chairs into place and came back to the kitchen, asking for more ways to help.

My heart was full to bursting, as it so often is when I find myself in this place.  I am so proud of these children, whom I have come to think of as "mine".  So proud of the adults who stepped up to lead.

And as I came to the realization of what had just occurred... I just couldn't stop smiling.  

At the end of the night, there were seven hot dogs left on a plate.

Who's surprised?

Courage to Change

Suddenly you find yourself reeling in the very moment when everything changes.

And there may never be any words to explain what just happened.

This may be what some call "surreal".

But here you are.

And God is being big and He's being loud and He's pulling back the cover of Heaven to give you a glimpse at His plan.

You've been driving down the long, straight highway for miles and months.

In a moment, a sharp right turn is made.

The one you knew would be made eventually.  You just didn't know when.

Suddenly...

"one day"

is today.

And the Father in Heaven is speaking in sweet, familiar ways about big, scary things.

Wrap your mind around it.

Even still, on this side of the story, all the connections won't make sense.

But something is changing.

Even now Im afraid Im going to forget the details.

And in the same breath I know,

This is not my story.  But it is mine to tell.

To know and tell well.

I will know it by heart.

-

"There's this song in my heart.

For a moment I forgot how good our Father is, that He equips those He calls.

That He knows the plans He has for me. Created me the way I am for a purpose.

And if I seek Him, I will find Him when I seek Him with all my heart.

Wholeheartedly I will run this race. I will not miss His calling. (Jan 24 2011)"

Holy Ground

Imagine an age when the Heavenly Father did not live in you but spoke to you. You are a generation far enough removed from the Garden that God is now big and mysterious and you know you should fear Him, but you can't help but look at the world around you and wonder...

Just how great is He?

Imagine your name is Moses. And you've been through hell and high water already. Today, today is just another day with the sheep. Another day on the mountain.

But on this mountain, on this day, a bush has caught on fire.

You give the blazing shrub a wide berth. But you are distracted - intrigued maybe - when you pass by and realize the bush engulfed in flames is not burning up.

Curiously you draw closer. Only to hear the bush call your name.

And then call it again.

But God is not calling your name from the bush to condemn you. Or to scare you out of hell.

He wants you to take your shoes off.

What?

You don't ask questions. Fear overpowers curiosity at this point.

Immediately shoes get thrown to the wayside.

He calls to you again. To let you know He hears.

He has heard the cries of His children and He has come to the rescue.

-

Ever since the Garden, we have been physically separated from God the Father.

Sin wedged its nasty self in between us at our Creator, and we had been failing to thrive from lack of contact with the One who loves us.

What if... God finally got your attention. In one of His characteristic, over-dramatic, unmistakable manners. Calling your name and telling you to go barefoot.

What if... God just wanted to be close to you, Moses?

What if... it had been so long since God had touched one of His children... so long since His holy skin had touched created flesh...

that He engulfed a plant. Set apart a place. And told you to take your shoes off.

So you and God could be as close as could be.

What if... He's calling your name.

Where you stand is holy ground because He stands there with you.

And He's calling you to remove anything that would get in between you and Him.

That would keep you from feeling Him. Or Him from feeling you.

The Almighty wants to be near to you.

Because He has heard your cries, the cries of His children.

-

Draw near, then. With bare soles making contact with Heaven itself.

And He will tell you His name.

(Exodus 3)

go.

January 29th:

One of these days, I will flip back through my old journals and scroll through these old blogs and I will think: well, that makes sense.

One day, I will be with Jesus. And I will see how my tiny role fits into the scheme of eternity. I will see how I played a part in His redemption story.

Here's some things I'm learning, slowly but surely:

1) When your heart is all wrapped up in God's, you can begin to trust your desires.
2) As hard as it is to choose between good and good, it is truly a blessing
3) Being given the option to choose, from the Father Himself, is the greatest display of His love and trust. God trusts... me?
4) Maybe there are no signs. Maybe... I just want this. And maybe that is ok.
5) When people say "you should do that while you're young"... they're telling you the truth.
6) I want affirmation, justification, and approval from you.
7) Your affirmation, justification, and approval are not what I need.

So in a few years, when I come back to this blog and I laugh to myself and think... "there's no way I could have known"... hopefully I will remember. Remember what got me here. Remember what it felt like to hear Jesus' voice every time the wind blew. And to have an ache so big in my heart. To have my very pulse beat with the rhythm of African drums. To look in the mirror and realize I've changed. And to look at my life and remember...

I have one. One life. One chance. One story.

Go.

Samuel

I'm listening.

I want to hear You. So badly.

Even as I sit here... I realize African music is playing over the speakers again.

Overwhelm my heart.

The heart You've strengthened.

The heart You've overcome.

Be loud.

Because I've let the rest of the world get louder.

Be strong.

Be my joy.

fire.

consume me.

what began as a spark.

a thin tendril of smoke.

a faint idea... smoldering Spirit.

wind has breathed life into.

i am engulfed.

from the depths of my belly

and the trenches of my heart

comes heat.

purify.

refine.

Flashlight

Imagine you're a flashlight.
Lightbulb, batteries, the whole nine yards.
You get put on a shelf after you've been made.
It's not long before you know: you're a flashlight.

There is no question in your mind that you are a flashlight.
Yes. That is who you are.

So you, the flashlight, get left on the shelf most of the time.
Thrown in a backpack on occasion.
Set out on the counter during thunderstorms.

But never turned on.

You are no less a flashlight because you aren't being used.

Your identity is not contingent on being turned on.
On what you actually do.
You are. Because you were made to be.

A flashlight.

But how long does it take before you start wondering what your purpose is?
When will you start wanting to be... used?

At what point do you wonder if anyone needs your light?

It's not an identity crisis. You know who you are.

A flashlight.

You are so aware of who you are.
So aware, you know you weren't made to just sit on a shelf.

You know all it would take is a flip of a switch.
All you'd have to do was be carried into the darkness.
Where you'll be useful.

Sitting on the shelf doesn't make you any less of a flashlight.

You just know you were made for more than this.

Song in My Heart

There is a song in my heart. Drums and sweet voices, words I cannot understand. I hear it. I've heard it before. When I am alone I can sing it. It is Africa. It is risk. It is the life I am meant to live, of texture and color and depth. Rhythm.

I have been up since 3 o'clock this morning. So I am tired.

Winter came early to Kentucky this season. I am genetically predisposed to Seasonal Affective Disorder. And creative melancholy.

Bad combo.

Let's call it what it is. Today I am restless. I have cabin fever. Craving community and starving for spirituality, I found myself in tears multiple times today. Where am I going? What am I doing? Why am I doing this? What's keeping me from doing that?

-

For a couple of hours this afternoon I contemplated quitting. Quitting school, quitting work, packing a backpack, and joining the others. The others who have found their purpose in a journey all around the world.

This is really not a bad idea. Not the kind of bad idea one morning I'll wake up and wonder why in the heck I ever even entertained it. No. This is not a bad idea at all.

But is it a good idea?

Is it rooted in a call to a life of evangelism? Rooted deeply in my need for community, my need to get dirty, my need for a whole, wide world?

All of the above.

Perhaps, is it also rooted in restlessness?

I am in the very middle of something. In the middle of something good and beneficial and purposeful.

In the middle of something incredibly difficult.

And days like today, when the ice only melts long enough to freeze again, I am all tangled up in the difficulty and blind to the growth.

-

So I have this song.

And I was born with this incredible, intrinsic desire to do something. Ironically, while I get significantly stressed when something changes, I crave movement.

-

I woke up this morning with this overwhelming desire to be a part of something large. Something kinetic and dynamic and communal.

I asked God, if He didn't want to me to leave (to just get up and go like I'm sometimes tempted to), would He please take the desire away.

I heard Him whisper about the desire He had divinely placed in my heart. I put that there on purpose, He whispered to me. That's right where it goes. I'm not taking it away.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I went to go meet a few girls to watch the basketball game. As I slid into the booth something settled back into place within my heart.

Something affirming.

Something a bit like common sense.

Something like vision.

-

Time to get movin'.

I know myself well enough to know exhaustion mixed with a little winter blues only leads to a restless heart.

And that when I get like this... something really does need to happen.

Something really does need to change.

-

There's this song in my heart.

For a moment I forgot how good our Father is, that He equips those He calls.

That He knows the plans He has for me. Created me the way I am for a purpose.

And if I seek Him, I will find Him when I seek Him with all my heart.

Wholeheartedly I will run this race. I will not miss His calling.

"Writing Down the Bones"

There are just a few writers in my family. And between us, we have a few favorite phrases we share back and forth. Phrases, mantras, only writers will understand. We "write down the bones" (in reference to Natalie Goldberg's book). And we "write drunk, and edit sober".

Whether you are a writer or not, you have heard of the term "writer's block". As writers we have our own ways of dealing with this obstacle. But as a rule... a flexible, personal rule subject to adaption... you are just supposed to keep writing.

Write nonsense. Words. You don't even have to write complete sentences. But there's a blank page in front of you, a blinking cursor. In order to overcome the familiar hesitation, that dreaded empty feeling, as a writer you almost have to trick yourself into thinking there are still words there.

Tucked away behind your ears and under your tongue.

Kind of like facing a snowy, icy hill in a two wheel drive car. Start at the bottom. Gain momentum. And when you hit the icy incline and your tires start to spin... do not slow down.

Until eventually, something will break loose. And I will drown in a deluge of words... poetic and metaphorical and well constructed and emotive. Eventually.

Until then, here I am. Spinning my tires. Writing drunk. Here are the bones.

-

Lately, I have been strangely fixated on doormats. The kind on the inside, where we first step when we walk through the door. I don't know why I have been so intrigued. But as I sit at my bakery, or at a coffee shop, during this wet snowy season I have watched person after person, of every gender, age, race, and stature walk through the door, shuffle their feet in a funny little dance and keep going. I've tried to extract some sort of parallel, some typical analogy out of this. Usually when I notice something over and over again, there is a lesson wrapped up in it.

But let me tell you. The only thing I keep hearing is my Father whisper, "go ahead. Come in. Leave all that at the door." That proverbial slush and emotional snow, which causes us to slip, sometimes causes us to fall. We carry it in with us. The soles of our boots are heavy. And here He is. Saying, "come. Come into My house. And leave all that right there, you don't need it here."

The funny thing about slush is that it was once snow. Pure and white. And then we got a hold of it. With our asphalt and our tires and our plows. We trod around and stomp around and salt the hell out of it. And it gets gross. He's not telling us to leave it at the door, to wipe it all off on the mat, because He can't handle our filthiness. Have you wrapped your heart and mind around what it means to be loved in spite of what's so dirty about you? He loves you. He also knows walking around with that sludge on your shoes will make you fall.

Just a thought.

-

I want to learn. There is this growing, nagging realization in me. As if I had an epiphany, I thought, "I have no idea what I'm doing."

Yeah...

I know I've had the thought before. In the midst of a situation, or a problem, have been hit square in the forehead with the truth "I don't know what to do".

On Tuesday I walked into tutoring and felt calm and familiar with the whole situation. I'm not in charge, I really am just there to help. But as I walked up the stairs with a group of little boys and girls, one of the little boys threw a trademark temper tantrum.

I'm talking, started swinging his heavy backpack around his head, like he was David and there was this giant....

Everyone else on the team knows how to interact with him. I love him so much. He is the representation of a sweet lesson God taught me a few months ago. But I'm good with shy children, sassy children, sad children, sick children. I have yet to figure out what to do with an angry one.

The situation was quickly deescalated and efficiently handled... by someone else. But it is Friday and I am still walking around, trying to figure out when I'll learn how to do that.

Insecurity is my weak spot. That may sound tautological... (look it up, it's my new college word). But my lack of confidence is one of the biggest chinks in my armor. I know some stuff. I understand some stuff. I see a lot of things. I hear.

But I lack the confidence to act.

So when I stood in the hallway with a little boy with a flat stare and all I really wanted was to see change, to get through to him, and had no idea how...

Something inside me broke.

I have no idea what I'm doing. Or why I thought I could do this in the first place.

I just want to learn.

In the words of a good friend, "I don't know anything. Teach me."

And not just from textbooks. I want to learn how to do something. Something useful. Something helpful.

I want to be teachable and have a great capacity to learn.

To be brave enough to act on what I do know, and humble enough to ask for help.

-

And then there is this steady, steady ache in my heart. This desire to be on the other side of the world. Maybe I want it so badly because I know it cannot feasibly happen right now. Leaving is not an option. Africa... is just too far away. In my heart I feel the rhythm still. Secretly I want to swing my arms the way the Gumuz do. Remember what it feels like for time to move slowly. To sit under a yawning night sky, watching the mountains burn.

-

So here I am. My identity is found within the One who is calling me to risk. Who is calling me to wipe my feet clean. Who breathes hope and promises spring. Words are not sufficient to describe this season. Things will not always be this way. And I will look back and see what I learned and where my heart led me. Eventually I will be able to tell you all about it.

For now, I'm just "writing down the bones".

just a thought...

Broken.
Restored.
Strengthened.
Used.

My heart is tired.
Here I am, not even thirty days into the new year and I know ... what lies ahead is going to change everything.

Sunrise

I work on the third floor of a red, brick box.

Every morning, Monday through Saturday, I get up before sunrise and drive across town. I park in the back parking lot and walk down to the door, use a key fob to let myself into the building and then (depending on the sounds its making) either take the elevator or climb the stairs (in the equally shady stairwell) to my office.

And every morning without fail, after I've been working for just a little while, I get up to stretch. I am still one of the only people in the office at this hour. So I go and precariously lean over one of my coworker's desks, pull open the blinds, and wait.

And every morning without fail, out the back window of my office and above the industrial, gray boxes and smoke stacks of Lexington's skyline, something beautiful happens.

Sometimes, it is the only beautiful part of the entire day. But it happens. Quietly and forcefully.

This past week I walked to the window and stood on my tiptoes to lean as close as I could to the window (over a desk and a heater and stacks of papers). Bonnie had just sent me a reminder to go and watch the sunset, and the most appropriate Psalm to accompany the morning's beauty.

My heart swelled that morning as I watched the heavy, gray sky being pushed back by light. As if it was being rolled away from the horizon. The morning sky, pink and orange and yellow, began to emerge from somewhere deeper. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere sleepy. But the light was powerful and substantive.

And the darkness was no match for it.

Moments like this, time stands still.

"God's glory is on tour in the skies, God-craft on exhibit across the horizon.
Madame Day holds classes every morning,
Professor Night lectures each evening.
Their words aren't heard,
their voices aren't recorded,
But their silence fills the earth:
unspoken truth is spoken everywhere."
(Psalm 19)

Uncharted

I pulled into the a parking space at the far end of the lot. Put my iPod in my pocket and the ear buds in my ears. Climbed out of the station wagon with an already-heavy backpack in tow. I exhaled and watched as the air in front of me billowed white and frosty.

Press play.

I took one step, wrapped up in scarf and coat and gloves. And as I walked I realized it had begun to snow. I searched my belly for the tell-tale nervous ache. The jittery feeling in my armpits (don't laugh, you know exactly what I'm talking about) or the ragged breathing. Not there.

It was then I knew I had changed. Even if just a little bit. I am different than I once was.

So I walked with more confidence through the snow as Sara Bareilles began to sing,

"Jump start my kaleidoscope heart,
Love to watch the colors fade,
They may not make sense,
But they sure as hell made me.
I won't go as a passenger, no
Waiting for the road to be laid
Though I may be going down,
I'm taking flame over burning out
Compare, where you are to where you want to be, and you'll get nowhere"

This, my friends, is what Olivia and I call a "moment". When all of a sudden you are suspended, hovering over your own world, your own body. Acutely aware and intuitively disconnected. You are made aware of the story you are intertwined in. And colors get bright. Rhythms align.

It is hard when you start a day like this not to expect more. To proceed without anticipation of a pivotal moment, of a change of circumstances. Which was what I did. Which is what happened.

So here I am. Facing a ridiculous amount of course work and a pleasant number of familiar faces. A cohort has developed before my very eyes. Every single class today met me with smiling faces, people I began this journey with. People I'll finish it with.

I am still on that long stretch of highway. I'm wallowing in a shallow pool of discontent and it's taking quite a bit of my energy. There is a temptation to compare my story to others'. To fail to be grateful for what I do have. It is so hard to know the difference between being content and God's gentle (or not so gentle) push for growth.

I've never been here before. Done this before. Words, lately, have been failing me. I have been having experiences, thoughts, dreams, wishes... none of which I can adequately put into language. It's all I really want to do. Create something. But I've been so lacking in words it wasn't until last night when I realized this is what they call "writers block". Well. At least now it has a name.

The only remedy is to live more. To walk around and love big and get all caught up in your own heart and the whole wide world. Work it loose, the bolt that's rusted, the door that's jammed. Keep moving. Keep going. Persevere. Hope.

When words (good words... creative words... effective words) come again, it will be overwhelming.

But I am in uncharted territory right now.

And it's cold.

I know, however, good things happen in the winter time. When it's time to come out on the other side of this strange, slow-moving season I may or may not understand. But as a dear friend reminded me today, it is just a season.

The ice will melt eventually.

Jones

I'm going to tell you a secret. A secret that's been buried deep inside of me for many years. It makes me smile just to think about. Especially now, since it's not really a secret anymore.

There is this boy. With nice green eyes and strong arms. Who used to pick us up and spin us around when we were teenagers. The boy who offered to let me move in with him and his fraternity brothers last year when I had no where else to go. The boy I went and sat with, watching pirated versions of Where the Wild Things Are, while his mouth was wired shut. This boy I love like a brother... who has been around just about as long.

There is this boy. Who loves my sister. And I've always known. It's been the worst, best secret I've ever kept. I sat back and watched as he patiently loved her... waited on her... the most amazing display of love I've ever seen.

So after eight long years he finally told his secret and love began to grow between them. I've been feeling as though it were MY story. Just because of how much I love my sister and my brother. How long I've waited to see this happen. Because all along, I've kept this a sort-of secret, knowing when it happened, it would be right.

I am also watching as my brother learns about our Father God. I've prayed more about that than anything else over the past few years... wanting him to know what it means to be fully known and completely loved. To be romanced by the Creator of the Universe. The Creator of trees and wind. I told a friend (who I'd let the secret slip to) that I had one mission this past summer. Somehow, someway, show my brother about Jesus and His love. I knew.... I knew the rest would follow.

I spent all day yesterday crying to God. Missing Him, missing my purpose. Lonely and tired and feeling worthless.

Tears were all dammed up behind my eyes and no amount of sweating, praying, or asking was shaking them loose. Until my best friend let me know that my sign at St. Luke's yesterday wanted me to know God thought I was of immeasurable worth.

I lost it. In the car. On the steering wheel. God still speaks. In the simplest, most straightforward ways. In His quiet voice during this season, He's been whispering "just keep going. I sure do love you."

So last night when I found out that my brother had been reading the book I gave him, and a door in his heart had opened up to the real love of Christ, I cried again. What my brother doesn't realize yet (because, well, he hasn't gotten all the way to the end of the story yet!) is he's been loving like Christ for years. Graciously. Patiently. Unconditionally. All along.

If I had to give up hearing and feeling God for a while, just so my brother could, I'd do it in a heartbeat. If I had to sacrifice my spiritual ear and the feeling I get when the wind blows, just so he could know what it means to be saved by grace, I would. You see... I know the truth. And I've felt God's presence. He's there and I know Him. I know Him well enough to know, even when He's quiet, He didn't go anywhere.

I also realized last night I would be willing to be alone for a little while longer... if it meant this worked out for my sister and my brother. If this loneliness I am feeling could ever mean hope and a future for these two I love the most... it'd be worth it.

I like being a part of this love story. Having a front row seat and watching the greatest of all fairy tales unfold, intertwined with the Greatest Love story ever told.

Finally. It's not a secret anymore.

There's this boy. And he loves my sister.

There's this boy. And my sister loves him.

If You Have Not Love

I woke up in a funk.

Smelling like left over Christmas and lingering New Years, tinged with the melancholy of multiple weddings and a rainstorm.

I am so glad the holidays are over. Seriously. I felt a little bit like I closed my eyes and held my breath and ran through the gauntlet this year, barely experiencing it, just trying to get to the other side without injury. So here we are, a day into 2011. And I can't shake it off.

I've had a lot of car trouble lately. Trying to save money has prolonged the whole process, but surprisingly I've kept my patience through the whole thing. Trusted in God's provision. Been grateful for the community He's put in my life to take care of me. I maintained a good attitude. No freak outs. No anxiety. But New Years Eve morning my back driver's side window broke.

And I lost it.

Seriously. That was the straw. I think it's just the mechanism. But hello, there is now duct tape holding my window up. Duct tape.

I had some serious arguing with God for a little while. Didn't He understand I couldn't afford this? Didn't He get that if He wasn't going to provide, I wasn't going to be able to make it?

Then I went to dinner with two beautiful women. Ended the year eating spicy cajun food. It was in that moment God showed up to me again in a new way. In a way my sister had told me about. You see, sometimes you have to be introduced to God. Someone who loves Him very much and recognizes His face must say to you, "to me, this is God". I introduced Olivia to my sunglasses God. She introduced me to our God in a wheelchair not hours before I met Lauren and Cassandre at Bourbon n' Toulouse.

So when I was sitting at our table and someone came over and removed all the chairs so a young man in a motorized wheelchair could pull up to the table... my heart skipped a beat. So close. So real.

I was successfully distracted that evening when my kids all rolled in to watch Despicable Me. Nothing blesses my heart more than these forty-some kids who curl up on pillows on the floor and eat their weight in popcorn and cheeseballs. I was tackled by one of our best boys who rolls his "r"s and has a box cut. But I was still feeling hollow because of the absence of one of my little girls. And then they walked in. Four of them.

I may have given John a high-five. That's how instantaneously I knew God was filling up my arms again. "Shh, Anna. Don't worry. I didn't bring you here to keep you empty."

Two of these new boys immediately stole my heart. One felt sick and I found him in the back, leaning over the sink. When I came up and sat down next to him, he got really close to my face with tears in his eyes. I rubbed his head while we talked... and I just absorbed the trust and smallness of him.

The other walked around with a hood over his head. He was smaller than the rest and ran around like a mad man until the movie came on, and he passed out on the floor. No blankets. No pillows. Just fell deep asleep. When the movie was over I got down next to him and it took me a good few minutes to get him woken up. He looked at me with sleep eyes and wrapped his arms around my neck. So I picked him up, and he fell asleep on my shoulder again.

I'm here to tell you. I could have stayed there with him in my arms all night long. My gift.

We had a wonderful New Years party which effectively helped me forget about my car stresses. Until I walked out afterwards in the rain and found that someone had written something on the tape. I had a panic moment, standing in the dark in the rain downtown. Thrown off for a second, I didn't even read what it said.

God's way of building character. One broken window at a time.

If that didn't hit a nerve, I don't know what could have.

2010. A year of reparation. He had been building my character. He was still building my character. Using every circumstance, every opportunity. Sometimes just to give me a quick swift in the behind.

2011 began with french toast and lots of tears. Nothing like the holiday blues mixed with two weddings back to back. I didn't have a chance. So we got ready and ran to the car in the rain. Kat and I stopped at Starbucks on the way, knowing we were going to need some help getting through the mass amount of socializing, which was about to ensue.

While we were sitting there a father walked in with his son. A dark eyed blonde haired boy who liked hot chocolate. We didn't think anything about them (except for how cute this little boy was). Until, over the music playing and the hum of people's voices, we heard...

"If I gave everything I have to the poor and even sacrificed my body, I could boast about it;[a] but if I didn’t love others, I would have gained nothing...."

He was reading to his son. And in the moments right before my sister and I went to the weddings of some of our oldest, dearest friends... we were reminded.

That, of course, did nothing for the tears already welling up in my eyes. I was basically a mess for the rest of the night.

If you have not love...

My anthem for 2011.

I've had a year of brokenness, a year of healing.

Here I am. Opening my eyes. Let's see what's next.

Beauty for ashes

She's married. I can hardly wrap my mind around it. One of my oldest, dearest friends. She has a new name.

We've been through so much life together. For the past few years, however, we've not spent much time together. But one day in August our paths began to run parallel again. What a gift. What a sweet, sweet gift.

Tonight I walked into her wedding reception. Tears had been welling for hours already. I was worried about her - her stress level and the burden of a busy, crazy life. But tonight I walked into the large room decorated in the most simple way. And was greeted by her mama who said, "it's about time you got here".

I found her in the middle of the room. And my heart leapt out of my chest. There she was. With light and love in her eyes and a ring on her finger. Bless her... my best friend. A wife.

She was who I grew up with. Not in the chronological sense. But she is the one with whom I found myself. We grew gardens and drank loose leaf tea and burned incense. We hit tennis balls back and forth in Woodland Park and had dance parties in the living room and smoked clove cigarettes. We both were looking for a big, strong man who could handle our boldness. Who would let us be ourselves. Who would love our families.

She's found hers. Her big, strong man. Her husband.

And in her face tonight I saw freedom. Joy. I watched her dance with him and with her nieces and nephews (who she so graciously shared with me since I dont have any of my own). And at one point in the night I watched them as Liza and Nick danced together and sang a sweet song to each other. Then the tears came.

We all danced together before the night was over. More familiar than almost anything, spending New Years Day with this precious girl. What a joy for me to walk away, having seen the way they love each other. Having been assured of God's timing and sweet serendipity.

She is beauty. Pure and simple, at it's finest. God, pour out all Your blessings on your sweet daughter. My dear friend. I am so grateful for her.

End Well

It is the last day of the year. The very last few hours of 2010. There is a lot of pressure on this day.

I woke up with a strange sense of sadness. Reluctant to get out of bed, to start this day. I knew I would spend the day doing just this: reminiscing. I knew I would spend the day recollecting and cataloguing the past twelve months. Deep down, I also knew I'd like what I'd find. But if there's a lot of pressure on today, the pressure on tomorrow is even greater.

I am sitting here in my favorite spot. I could come here alone and sit for hours, never feeling out of place or lonely. Intentionally, I choose a seat facing the door. People walk in and out and every once in a while, someone will catch my eye. Usually a family who has come to share breakfast together. Children with gooey chocolate donuts and parents with Belmont bagels. Today two women have caught my eye. One woman was here clearly waiting on someone who never showed up. I just watched her get up and buy herself breakfast and sit down in quiet defeat, her eyes still watching the door. The other is a tall redhead whose eyelashes and eyebrows are painted on. Her hair is not her own, but most would never notice.

These are the people I come here to see. These people who have stories. Epic, intertwined stories which somehow led them to be in the same place as me this morning.

Outside the big, glass windows the wind is blowing and the air is warm. In defiance of winter I put on flip flops with my sweats this morning. It is warm enough. I believe this is a gift specifically for Rachel Frazier and myself.

This is my safe place. And I have come here today to unpack.

2010 was the year of stories.

Our life is our story. And no matter how mundane, how uneventful, how unfortunate, how lucky or blessed your life so far has been... your life so far has been your story. Your real life began the moment you were born - if not before.

There are moments, however, when everything seems to change. There may come a moment when you begin experiencing life in a brand new way. An instant when the story picks up pace. A pivotal moment, an unprecedented lesson. Circumstances change. The veil is lifted or the scales fall away. You meet him, or her. You will have more than just a few moments like this if you are pursuing a full life, a great story. And even if you're not, even if you have no idea what living a great story even means, you are going to stumble all over a moment before too long.

And then everything is going to change.

In 2010, my story picked up its pace.

Real life had been happening. Real change had occurred. Transformation had taken place within and around me; something had been growing. Something bloomed this year.

For the past few years my only New Year's resolution has been to do better. Steadily, progressively, ever since i made that resolution I really have done better.

2009 was a year of breaking and stretching and growing. There was a lot of pain and uncertainty and searching. This was the year the Father put His hands on my face and professed His love and spoke His identity over me. I stumbled on the Spirit and the beauty of loving Him fully. I walked around with sore muscles and open eyes. The proverbial stitches and bandages on all my wounds were the center of God's attention.

But 2010 came.

A page turned and what had been a story about brokenness and redemption was so suddenly an epic story about adventure and risk and passion. I got a front seat ticket to watch God fulfill promises and connect dots for me. I cannot explain to you the ways in which I've changed. My life has taken a sharp turn, facing me towards more mountains and a new horizon. Forty small children have transformed my heart and stretched my very capacity to love. I don't know how to tell you about the protection God's placed over my life, or about the day when He lifted that - in order to show me how much progress we'd made together. I asked Him to put me back together. And He made that the ultimate work of 2010.

I feel like I've lost a lot of my gifts this year. The creative aspect of myself has dwindled to almost nothingness, and even now I'm grasping for straws. Words are few. You can't explain this stuff. But the Father has introduced a few more, which I never dreamed would be part of my identity. He's taught me what it means to be a leader, and about what it means to use the gifts of His spirit.

Exactly a year ago, I wrote the words "of finishing school, of spiritual gifts, about where to serve, who to reach out to", regarding my thoughts about the upcoming year. I couldn't have known God would be just so good and choose to answer those very questions.

I want you to know what it means to walk down a dirt road in a skirt towards a mud hut, not wanting to be anywhere else in the world. Or watching the sky pour down rain to your right and to your left, while you stand under sunshine. Or to walk into a home and be handed a three week old baby, to have a small boy throw himself into your arms. Or what it means to be stopped in your tracks by what your heart understands to be the manifestation of God. To ask for His presence and have the wind blow.

This year was the year of children.

I went back to school this year. Secretly afraid I wasn't going to make it, I am here on the other side of the first semester, feeling triumphant. I am one of those lucky few who knows what work they've been made to do. With that comes a lot of responsibility and pressure. And a great joy when all else seems to crumble around me. I know my work.

My dad got married this year.

I learned how to listen. And found myself rising up against a glass ceiling.

He decided to teach me how to trust.

I chose singleness.

There were no kisses in 2010, unless little children kissed my cheeks.

There was no hand holding in 2010, unless I was walking down the street with small children in tow.

But God taught me about my worth. Gave me a glimpse of how the world see me. Led others to invest in me.

Actually, I can't believe it's over. I'm so afraid I'll forget.

This year's resolution is the same as the past two: this year I will do better.

Maybe this year will involve more leaving, more staying. More running.

I want to create and listen.

I want to love and be loved. I want to be gentle and gracious and bold.

When I walk through the door this year, I want you to see Jesus. I want His light to shine in my eyes.

-

I'm going to leave the bakery now. Too bad Bonnie isn't here so we can profess out loud that 2011 will be the best one yet.

Because when you say things aloud here... they happen. Just believe me. Who's surprised I have stories?

There's a lot of pressure on today. The high expectation to end well.

Go. Leave slowly. End well.

Beloved

Here is a true test of love:

To want what is best for another. Even at your own expense, at the risk of your own heartbreak.

Who knew small children could cause such an ache. With their dirty faces and sticky hands, eyes deep and watery. They throw themselves in your arms or cower far away in the corner. In an instant your heart belongs to them.

I am threatening the next time I see a greasy, playful child, however, I am going to walk the other way. "No, thank you," I will say, holding up my hands and shaking my head. "No more. My heart doesn't have any more room. It's cracked and fragile and can't take any more breaking."

It's my own fault. I have yet to learn how to rationally detach. How to love and then walk away. How to wash my hands at the end of the day and go to bed with an unburdened mind. I have a lot to learn, and I'd better learn it quick. Because my heart's beginning to look like a patchwork quilt.

Tonight I am reminded how easy it is to love the lovable. As a Christ follower I am called to love those who require much more patience and grace. I am reminded how real love is sacrificial. Love is selfless. But despite those attributes, love does not always come without pain.

When the ones I love leave again... I fight the temptation to give up. I battle internally with the defeat and sorrow, which comes right along with empty arms.

I know He told me to take care of her and to love her. It breaks my heart to think I may have waited too long. Then, by His grace, I remember the first day I met her. Hiding in the corner of a sofa, sick and scared and neglected. I remember calling her over to me, feeling the swollen lymph nodes and noticing the deep uncertainty in her eyes.

My mind then races to the most recent time I saw her. She slipped her hand in mine. A mischievous, happy smile lit up her face. Somewhere along the way she had learned to trust me. Oh, how much easier it was for me to learn to love her.

I was told by our Father to take care of her. She was my burden, my gift. In an instant, however, she's gone again. My time with her was short and seemingly ineffective.

I am a transition person.

This is a lonely place to be. Most of the time I only get a little bit of time to love you.

Tonight my head knows the truth, but my heart can't grasp it yet. Tonight I'm tired and I wonder if I have what it takes.

What it takes to trust. To love unconditionally and without fear of loss. To want what is best for another, at the risk of my own heartbreak.

Snowy Day in December

It is Christmas Eve and I am watching out the window as the snow accumulates outside. Like someone pushed a button and whispered, "this year, we will have a white Christmas"...

I am here by myself. Sitting in the dark watching A Christmas Story. I am warm and sleepy and content to be spending this evening by myself.

But in this quietness, I keep searching for the feeling. The feeling, which means "Christmas". It was distinct when we were children. All I keep coming up with are dusty memories. Faint, vague recollections of twenty some-odd Christmases past. Accumulated somewhere in the recesses of my heart.

Memories of a Pentax K1000. And Christmas Eve parties that lasted too long. Kathy Mattea. Cinnamon rolls and flannel boxers. Carol of the Bells.

I cannot describe to you what Christmas is to me, the way Christmas should feel, because I don't know how to describe the music. What it sounds like when Larry sits down at the piano and, by heart, begins to play Carol of the Bells. When I think of Christmas - good Christmases - I think of this.

This year, Christmas has been significantly different than any other. Our baby, Abby, declared at dinner she would be sleeping in tomorrow morning. We all exchanged glances of, "well, she's not little anymore". And I was flooded with memories of waking up to her standing next to my bed. Climbing in and sleeping against the wall, taking up far too much room for a five year old.

This year, we've been expected to be in multiple places at the same time. Despite our frustration, the four of us recognize how lucky we are to have so many people we love and who love us. But when my sister and I sat down for church tonight, in the place I call home, I leaned over and asked her simply why this year had been so much harder than all the rest.

That's when I cried my first Christmas tears. Which, if you know me, is no real surprise. I always cry at Christmas.

This year, we've asked for things like familiarity. For rest. For peace of mind.

Something in us has begun to realize how much we need, which is not at all material. How much we need each other.

We don't need new laptops or new socks. We don't need gift cards or DVDs.

-

I spent Christmas Eve alone. And woke up alone on Christmas morning.

Like Thanksgiving, I am having to redefine what this holiday means to me.

What it means when you wake up and it feels like Saturday. Instead of Christmas.

But snow fell last night. And I am sitting on my Mama's couch. Not a present has been opened, no stockings are hanging on the mantel. No Christmas movies are playing on the television.

But it is a beautiful, snowy day in December. And perhaps, for the first time, today is about family. The ones my heart loves.

This holiday season has been more difficult than any I can remember before. I've never felt so torn, so confused, so lonely. There is a steady, subtle ache in my heart. Wanting a family of my own, wanting someone to spend this holiday with. But shrouding that ache is the gentle reminder of how lucky I am.

Every time a child wraps their arms around my neck. Or all my sisters are in the same place at the same time.

We asked for rest. For peace of mind. For familiarity.

Because those are the things we really need this year.

-

Merry Snowy Day in December.

Today is about the birth of a baby who was born to save our lives.

It doesn't have to feel like Christmas to be able to celebrate that.

High Expectations

Well. I never thought this day would come. The day I would have the option right in front of me, and I would still choose singleness. When I would be so assured of God's plan for my future, I would be content to continue waiting.

I've always said I'd rather be single than be in a relationship that wasn't right for me. But did I believe it? Maybe not until now. Maybe not until today.

I've also always said I would only date a man who loved Jesus. I keep hearing Braeden's words recurring in my head. "I can't wait to meet your husband. He's going to have to have so much Jesus in him...."

I took that for granted.

I have taken that for granted.

Until yesterday. When I went to explain myself to someone who does not share my love for Jesus. And my words got all stopped up in my throat. He didn't understand.

He told me he could see I wanted to change the world. He found this very attractive.

I didn't know what to say. How long had it been since I'd spent time with a man who wasn't running beside me, changing the world right along with me?

I don't want you to watch and admire. There's nothing to admire. This is my life. My love. My passion. My work. I need you to see a need in this world and run to meet it. And I will run into you on that path.

Realizing this, I walked away from yesterday feeling strangely free. Free to move to Colorado. Free to be single. Free to wait a little longer. Free to have high expectations and higher standards.

Free to wait for the big, strong man with light in his eyes and a booming laughter. A man who will push me out of my comfort zone and play with my hair. Who will love children and fall asleep with his head on my lap. Who will climb mountains and go dancing. Who will smell good and have callused hands. A man who will love Jesus more than he loves me, whose ears will be filled with the words of our Father, whose steps will be guided by His will. A man I will respect, a man I can trust.

High expectations.

Expectations God may completely thwart.

-

What I'm really waiting for is the whisper in my heart. "There he is."

I will hear it. Maybe not immediately. But I will hear it. I will know.

And I can only pray he will be looking for someone just like me.

A short, scarred, tattooed, argumentative, tempered radical.

Who loves coffee way too much. Whose eyes look really green sometimes.

Who will never ever give him a good gift, and may feel really awkward telling him how handsome he is.

But will see him for who he is. And love him as fully as possible.

-

Today, however, I am free.

Today, my house will be full of children decorating for Christmas.

If nothing ever changes.... if I never get this thing my heart so desires... I am still so very lucky.

Interrupt

Sometimes... I forget about people.
Sometimes... I lose hope in people.
Sometimes... I just get really tired of people.

But then I have nights like last night. Nights I am acutely aware of diversity, of the beauty in each face, in each pair of eyes I see. I get all wrapped up in thinking about their stories - these people who pass by me. And I wonder about just how easily I could step into their stories.

With a simple hello, I could interject.

A kind smile and suddenly, our stories would collide.

I could interrupt their life.

I thought about this as I sat waiting in a car with a little boy who is in fifth grade.
He prides himself in how easily he can change the topic of conversation.
Boasting about how he's not scared of the dark. Not at all.

I thought about this as I sat in Starbucks and watched couple after couple come in for coffee before going to the see the Trans-Siberian orchestra. I wondered about their dates, how they met, and just how awkward each one felt. And how long it would take for them to become best friends. If they ever would.

Each person has a story.

A life they are leading.

A path they are walking.

I found myself watching their body language.
Looking for the tell-tale light, the illumination in their eyes.
Searching for something familiar, something shared.

And I fell in love with people again. This is the pattern. The sequence.
I forget about my love for the creations of our Creator.
Then I see a scar. Gray hair on their head. Or I hear one of them laugh.

I am overcome.

Enthralled.

Intrigued.

My hope still does not rest in people.
Sometimes I still get really tired of them. Especially adults.
But in a moment, my love for the created is re-ignited. My love for the ones He loves.

The father and son who shared a slice of pound cake.
Big man in his business clothes, leaning in to talk to the small man whose legs dangled off the chair.
They were my love story.

To most of them, I am simply an observer.

I am not here to interrupt anything.

Just as a witness to your existence - to a brief moment in your story.

There are others however, maybe even you, who will be interrupted by me.
I will walk in on your life, open the door to your story, and let myself in.
And I am in awe of how quickly it may happen.

What amazes me more, is when someone walks into mine.
When he came running through the house and threw himself into my arms.
When you came from out of nowhere and made me take notice.

There are nights when hundreds of faces pass me by.

When I am not struck by any beauty.

When I don't feel any warmth.

But there are others when I just wonder...
What just happened?
What, because of two stories colliding, just changed forever?

Divine interruption.
Serendipitous cameo.
Holy collision.

Wake up. This is a part of the story you don't want to miss.

It's Thursday

As a child, you believe everything will always be the same. Holidays are days set apart. They feel different. You anticipate them. There is magic. Especially in Christmas. Yeah... you remember not being able to sleep, the excited feeling, the way the nighttime hours seemed the drag.

When did that stop?

I woke up yesterday morning. And while Thanksgiving never caused as much excitement as Christmas did, it had always been a day set apart. But yesterday. Yesterday was Thursday.

I got up and worked out and steamed broccoli and chopped onions and peeled apples and made coffee. I enjoyed my day off, as I haven't had a real one of those in a long, long time. It was a good day. But it was just Thursday.

And I wonder if that is a repercussion of blended families and divorce. Of sickness and working on holidays. If we lower our expectations in order to keep from being let down. Because things really aren't the way they used to be. Things changed, and no one really prepared you for that.

Or. Maybe it is just a part of getting older. Realizing that Thanksgiving is really just a Thursday. And Christmas is really just the 25th of December. It changes the way I think. The way I perceive, the way I go about my day. Holidays require some intentionality. But the pressure's also off. It's Thursday. Make it a good Thursday. Be thankful... not because it's Thanksgiving. But because it's Thursday.

I stopped to think about what I was thankful for yesterday. Chin-deep in text messages and emails and phone calls from people saying, I was who they were thankful for. This blew my mind.

I am thankful, above all else, for my sisters. We yell at each other, fight and carry on. We always have. Let's be honest... we probably always will. But when it comes down to it, and we're relieving all our holiday-induced stress by teaching Kat how to dougie in the living room.... they're the best in my life.

I am thankful for my parents. And their new spouses. Everyone has handled this transition with a lot of grace and understanding.

I am thankful for my uncle. And his wife, my aunt. For being my friends. I am thankful that I can look at him from across the room and, without saying a word, we can have a full conversation.

I am thankful for my other uncle... who I talked to on the phone yesterday. He doesn't know it, but I crave his approval and his love as much as my own father's.

I am thankful for the opportunity to go back to school. (I have to repeat that a few times, because today will be spent doing homework, and I'm just about worn out.)

I am thankful for my job. As much as I hate it, I know how lucky I am to have one and to have one that is so flexible.

I am thankful that I woke up in a warm house this morning.

And that I'll shower later with warm water and that if I needed a drink right now... I could go get clean water from the faucet.

I am thankful that I'm not sick. This time last year I was taking medication daily and feeling pretty miserable. I thought I'd never get better. Glad God sees farther than that.

I am thankful for my community. A patchwork of people, they're all so different. But they are why I survive. I hope I bless them as much as they bless me.

I am thankful for my car. Even though the stupid battery light is on and I think there's a leak in the driver's side door. It gets me where I need to go and every month I have enough money to make the payment. I am thankful for that.

I am thankful for Donald Miller.
And coffee.

I just had a strange thought.

I am thankful that I am single. That for the past couple of years, I have been alone. Learning who I am and... trying.... to avoid mistakes. Listening. Waiting. One day, I will be thankful for a husband. I'm thankful for him today - wherever, whoever, he is. But today I'm thankful that God has given me what I need to be patient. Bittersweet.

I am thankful for Tuesdays and two little boys named Alec and Justin.

I could keep going. A stereotypical I-Am-Thankful-For list. But it's true.

Things are hard right now.

But now it's Friday. And I'm still thankful.

Calling

We use this word all the time. Not irreverently, not without understanding implications. Perhaps as a culture however, we use it without understanding fully what it means.

Call.

What does it mean to feel God calling?

Do we have specific callings on our life? Are we given an inherent desire, born within us, to do a certain work?

Maybe by saying calling you actually mean mission.

Maybe by mission you actually mean purpose.

Can (or "will") God call you in one direction and then change His mind? Can you hear His voice, follow Him down one hallway and through one door, only for Him to make a hard right turn?

Some of us have a pretty intuitive ear. God is vocal with us; He is visual. Maybe because those of us with the intuitive ear are also the most stubborn of us as well. He knows us well enough to know we need extra help.

Bless our hearts... sometimes He just has to be painfully obvious.

God changes us. I believe He created us with a holy desire for a purpose. The eternity He so graciously placed in all our hearts whispers our names, flicks our ears, and links arms with us as we walk down the street. The ache you feel when you're unsure of your purpose is there so we won't stay the way we are.

He loves us too much to let us stay that way.

So what is this... this thing we've named a calling.

I say I felt called to Africa. When I say this I mean I sat in my car and basically heard the Father say "would you please just go? I mean really, babe."

When I came home from Africa, my calling meant something different. It was associated with a heartache and a passion. An adventure had married up with divine confirmation. And the bond caused an explosion in my heart.

Today, I wonder if I hadn't been hitting up against a wall for years. A wall of unwillingness and selective hearing. Maybe God used Ethiopia as my wrecking ball.

I came home from Ethiopia (you all know this story so well you could tell it yourself!) and got dumped right into the lap of an inner city mission. There was no calling involved that I could see. Even though God had been connecting dots and foreshadowing this transition for years, it seemed like I just showed up one night. Of my own volition. Despite my own cynicism and lack of desire.

Wall number two came crumbling down.

So tell me: do you have to be aware of your calling? Do you have to know, hear, see, recognize the voice and hand and direction of the Father in order to fall smack dab into the middle of His plan for your life? Do you have to know what He's doing in order for Him to do it?

I just looked up the word "calling" in the NIV. The first thing, which came up was "The Calling of Matthew", where Jesus says "Follow Me".

I worry, almost chronically, about missing God's direction. Of not hearing Him when He calls. I so badly want to go where I'm supposed to, be where I'm supposed to, do what I'm supposed to. My mother always tries to comfort me by saying "anyone who wants so badly to do the will of God, will not miss the will of God."

I'm just wasting a whole heck of a lot of energy in the process.

So tell me, what's your calling? I think I know what it is.

You are called to follow Jesus.

I am called to follow Jesus.

The beautiful thing is, I believe He knows you. And I believe He really does care about your individual life. I think He has plans for you. I think He's created you to do a special work (whether you and the rest of the world thinks it's special or not).

But if you don't know... or if you're like me and He keeps leading you down different hallways...

lean back into Him. Rest in Him. If you love Him, and you are talking to Him and (even more importantly) listening to Him, you'll know when He says "whoa, wait a minute. Let's go this way." And then He takes that sharp right turn.

"If God is fathering us, He is helping us discover what is good, right, pure, and worthy to pursue. He teaches us morality and ethics, but also gave us a heart filled with desire and longing. It’s as though God sets before us a big sheet of butcher paper and hands us a box of crayons and tells us to dream. (Don Miller)"

Go ahead. Say it. Sometimes we're really... really... wrong.

Sometimes we heard Him right. Changing direction doesn't always mean you heard Him wrong in the first place. Because we are so short sighted, we don't understand the far-reaching implications of His work in us. We assume permanency; God reveals His plan to us in stepping stones.

Glory to glory.

Connecting highways.

Bypasses.

What, then, is your calling?

Perhaps it is to love the Lord your God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself? (Matthew 22:37)

What is He saying to you today? Because He will use His words today to lead you into tomorrow.

Trumpets

It happens every time.
I sit and dig deep inside my heart, trying to find the place where I hold all my feeling.
I come to Him lifting up the cold, slow muscle.
Feeling like I'm bringing a broken toy to my dad.

Fix it.

This may be His favorite prayer of mine.
Because He answers me every time.
Reaching into the depths of my heart
and waking me up.

When the resurrected Jesus overcomes me
I am reminded Who it is I worship
Who it is who loves me
Who it is I love.

Suddenly what was numb and lifeless
is warmed by His closeness.
Unbidden tears spill down my cheeks
as if with the words "rest in Me" I am awakened.

He restores.
And I watched His mighty hand at work beside me.
He redeems.
Humbling us and bringing us together.

It is His voice, as a trumpet, I have been straining to hear.
In the middle of this battle, this war
I need His direction, His guidance
To be reminded He has already won.

But this life is not just a battle.
There are sweet moments, meant just to bring a smile to our faces.
Serendipitous.
Refreshing.

Wake us up.
Open our ears and our eyes.
Sing over us.
Lead us in the way we should go.

haiti

Hold on.
All the world's eyes are turned to you
Although it has taken tragedy

Keep on.
As the ground shake and your bodies fall ill
The wind will blow and the waters rise

But God, your Father, is not in those things.

Stay strong
We are interceding for you
You, who are experiencing the first birthing pains

By us you will not be forgotten again
Whatever is within our power
Whatever is within our reach

Blessed you will be
You whose spirits are poor, whose spirits are meek
You who are hungry and thirsty

As the storm rages towards the shore, Father, we ask with all the power of the Holy Spirit in the name of Jesus that you would intervene.

Your children are shaken and sick. They've stumbled all over the imperfection of the world, been drug into the darkness, pushed out of sight, and trod on. You love them. Even more than we do. Your babies. Our brothers and sisters.

We are in a place where we can see it coming. And we ask You'd stop this storm. Tomas, we declare, is weak against Your strength. Doubtful, even. Reroute his course. Change his direction. With Your mighty hand please get in the way.

Let repair and healing begin.

In these children of Yours, there is a determined, deep spirit. Kenbe fem.

May the darkness be so defeated it bleeds Your light...

"Then they cried out to the LORD in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress. He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven." (Psalm 107:28-30)

Awake My Soul

Sometimes we get into habit. We fall into routine, into sweet rhythm.

Sometimes we crave this.

Familiarity is our comfort. We know what to expect. We know what is expected of us. We know how to do what we do. We know who is with us. We know our role.

For some of us, this can quickly turn into monotony. Like an exercise routine that doesn't make you sore anymore, you're moving and working, but not changing or growing.

When this happens to me, the Father who is usually settled in between my shoulder blades, starts walking ahead of me. He waves His hands and looks over His own shoulder, "Come with Me! This way..."

And so I go seeking. Change my pace. Change my surroundings. Switch things up.

It never fails that I find Him there. Crouching over one His creations, pointing and smiling. "Come, look at this. It's so cool."

I've changed a lot over the past year and a half. Father has taught me more than I may ever realize and I no longer even resemble the person I once was. Often we fail to see ourselves in an honest light, however. We are capable of seeing our failures and our weaknesses, but cannot see our strengths. In the words of Needtobreathe, "it's hard to see how far we've come".

So as I pulled into the parking lot last night, I prayed a simple prayer. "Show me what You've taught me. And fill my arms."

I was a follower last night. I didn't know what I was doing. I was in a place I'd never been, mostly with people I didn't know. There were familiar aspects. But as I was submerged in newness, my heart was filled to bursting. I wanted to dance around.

Slowly, Father revealed to me the things I'd asked. Gently and clearly, He spoke over me like a proud parent last night. He also spoke of more change, of preparation, of missions and callings.

I stood around for a while, soaking in everything. I've been striving to be effective; trying to be so faithful. I just wanted to be told what to do. I wanted instruction. I wanted to follow.

Then I heard Him tell me to move. Suddenly I was surrounded by children on bicycles. Children stealing poptarts. Children pulling knives on one another. And the fuse was lit. The flame I'd let die down was, in an instant, ignited once more.

And then He filled my arms.

My empty arms. My empty heart.

Father hears me when I pray. Every single prayer. More often than not these days, He says "wait". Sometimes, "no". But there are some prayers He never even hesitates to answer. Some prayers He answers before the words ever leave my lips.

Awake my soul.

Wake my spirit up.

"There you are," I hear Him whisper as He leans in and puts His forehead on mine. "You're back..."

In a change of pace, I stumbled all over the Almighty.

unneeded

I look around the room, knowing He had promised to interact with us through them.

The little children.

The room is full. Wall to wall there are occupied chairs and plates filled with pizza and children scrambling around and tripping over each other.

I laid down a slice of pepperoni pizza for one of my favorite boys. He's eleven. Already old enough to hide his emotions more than most. Already concerned about what we think about him. Another one of my favorites is still so excited about life his eyes light up. A third is insecure and is often picked on and bullied - especially by adults. But he is a musician and he absorbs everything I say to him. The fourth is quiet and attentive and helpful, and all boy. Each of them have a special place in my heart.

They didn't start eating right away. And in my chaotic mind, I didn't understand why. I leaned over and put my hand on one of their shoulders and told them to go ahead. They smiled and nodded.

And then they bowed their heads.

What??

You know I don't really need you in order to do this work... right?

Days like today I feel ill equipped and unprepared. I am not strong enough. I am not wise enough. I am not friendly enough. I am not faithful enough to do this work.

Days like today my heart is so full of love for these children that I am brought to tears. All I want is to see them love the Father and live great stories with their lives. In each of their faces I see change and hope and light.

There were four who had stolen my heart. Four children whose faces are burned in my memory. When I am sixty years old and people ask why I do what I do, I will tell them their names. That is what they mean to me.

But they are gone now. Moved to a different neighborhood. And there are still some nights when I feel lost without them. My arms feel empty, because they loved me too, I think.

But their salvation... their well being... their protection was not in my hands.

And as quickly as those four stole every last bit of my heart, they were gone.

In their absence, I hear our Father whispering. Whispering about His love for us, His children. We who stole His heart. We whose faces are burned in His memory. When asked why He did what He did, He says our names.

And we move out of His neighborhood. Walk out from under His protection. Wander away from the places He dwells. And I wonder if His arms feel a little empty without us.

It is through this I am able to catch a glimpse of the finite reflecting the infinite. I am overwhelmed by how much He loves us. And how hard He is working.

When He speaks again, it is gently.

I can do this work without you.

This is both a truth that relieves and a truth that humbles.

I want to use you to do it. I have called you to this. I will use this place to change you. But you have to remember. I don't need you...

He doesn't need us the way we need Him. Our Father, whose strength is best displayed in our weaknesses and shortcomings, does not need us to be able to do anything.

Even better though, He wants us.

He desires us.

He misses us.

But when, in the chaos, I forget to teach my children about thankfulness, our Father is already moving. Stirring in their purity and captivating their innocence. Even if it is just a prayer over pizza. I didn't teach them that.

I am not...

Fill in the blank.

I love One who Is.

If I don't need you to do this, then I am big enough to do the rest as well. Ask Me. Ask Me to do what you cannot. Ask Me to come and be stronger than you. To overcome. I'll do it. Just ask.

A New Word

I was whispering earlier.

Did you need Me to be a little louder?

I love you.

Every time the wind blows, I want you to think of Me.

I am going to show up.

I am going to reveal Myself to you in unexpected ways.

Be looking.

You will know Me when you see Me.

-

I've been talking to you.

And I've been laughing at You a little bit, because you're getting so impatient.

There are things, new things, I am doing right under your nose.

You can't see them. But I think you trust Me a little more than you used to.

I've been whispering.

You've been asking Me to wake up your soul.

You've been asking Me to show you risks.

(Two of My very favorite things, by the way.)

Sometimes I like to get loud though.

That scares you, doesn't it?

Don't be scared this time. This time, I want you to get excited.

Remember that walk we took about seven years ago?

I gave you a dream.

Which turned into a passion.

Which has grown into a mission.

I'm doing a new thing.

-

I've been whispering.

Did you need Me to be a little louder?

I love you.

I am doing something.

Don't worry.

You've been waiting.

But I will finish this work I started in you.

Don't become complacent.

Don't forget about Me in the midst of the things about to happen.

Seek Me.

Do My work.

Love My kids.

-

When I get quiet again, don't lose heart.

I am fighting for you.

Get to know My face. The work of My hands. The sound of My voice. The stillness of My shadow.

I want you to be familiar with the places I am. And I want you to stand where I have just been.

Get ready.

I'm about to give you a new word.

Breathing

Infinite.

Infinite number of grains of sand. Infinite number of stars in the sky.

I walk to the edge and look out, searching. Strange how I can't see something so big.

I can hear it.

As it crashes onto the shore and washes over my feet I can feel it.

But as I look out, somewhere in the far distance, the line between sky and sea blurs.

Stars melt into the salty ocean. I am lost, looking for the end of it.

I find myself wanting to think only about You.

Wanting to talk to only You.

Just in case I haven't told You in a while, just in case I forgot to say so...

I love You.

I want You to be louder than everything else.

I want You to be bigger.

Stronger.

Closer.

Than anything else.

But my words are lost. Swallowed up whole by a deep sky and a vast sea.

Moments like these I feel as though I am outside my own body.

Cityscape overwhelmed by the dark, simple depths of the ocean.

Cold sand in between my toes.

The closer I watch the stars, the more appear. Elusive, they reveal themselves only to those who seek.

Indescribable.

Just in case I had forgotten to tell You.

I love You.

I caught a glimpse of You today, sitting on the back of a boat.

Today, You were old. Sunglasses hiding your eyes as usual, You were holding a baby against Your chest. With your strong hands You were guarding the baby's face from the cold sea spray. The baby pressed his face against Your broad chest, seeking rest. Comfort. Protection.

And You were content to just sit there and hold him.

Here I am. Standing at the edge.

I can feel You breathing. Inhale as the waves are drawn away from the coast. Exhale as the tide rolls in.

I find rhythm and peace in this.

Rest. Comfort. Protection.

So we breathe together.

In this transcendental moment... there in consonance. There is vision.

So surreal. This moment just became part of my story.

Wait

I lost my patience.

I lost my hope.

I lost my my vision.

Deep down, I know that more is going on than I can see. Of course, I am so shortsighted I cannot see what part I'm playing, what role I've assumed in this chapter. This, after all, is not my story.

But I feel attacked.

Like the "pause" button has been pressed on my life, while everyone else is out there living great stories. I'm sitting in the turning lane with a red arrow, while the rest of traffic whizzes by. I'm ready. But You say, "not yet". (Maybe literally, "you can go. But you're going to get hit. You should probably just wait. Like I told you to.")

I want to do something.

I want to go somewhere.

I have been asking, and I'm getting weird, ambiguous answers.

I don't like ambiguity, so I'm not doing anything.

I'm not going anywhere.

The enemy is attacking me in my life of habit.

Targeting me with the mundane.

In my routine, in my hectic routine, I can't even hear anymore.

Or.

At least I thought I couldn't.

This is not a season of "doing". As much as I want it to be. This is a season of equipping and growing and recharging and redirecting. Because it is a different season, God is speaking differently. It's taken me so long to recognize this. In my frustration, I am talking over Him.

But He's speaking to me.

In my dreams. In His word. In His lack of words.

Reminding me of a prayer my sister prayed over me a long time ago. That I would know the Father well enough to be able to follow Him... even when I couldn't hear. Even when I cannot see.

He's hiding His face from me.

"Come. Follow."

What I realize, as well, is that He may be whispering. And my life is just so freaking crazy that it drowns Him out.

Where can I find quiet? Where can I find stillness? Make my heart that place, Lord. When the world outside is in chaos, quiet me with Your love. Be Thou my vision...

In this waiting, make me strong. In this waiting, transform me. In this waiting, prepare me. In this waiting, teach me.

It's all so unclear. The next step... the purpose... the plan. I'm asking for wisdom and discernment and boldness.

And You're asking me to be here.

To sit still. To just wait.

Will You wait with me? Sit down next to me, here at this train station. Let's talk. Spend some time together - maybe over a cup of coffee. I just don't want to wait by myself. I'd really like to spend this time with You...

One day I know, You will open the door. And it may be slow. Or it may be quick.

I will be swept away. Back into a flow of things... back into a stream of "doing" and "going".

But not until I learn how to "be".

Here I am.

Being.

Training

That might be the problem. I just realized it. I've been grappling and thinking and worrying it to death. The problem is, I dont have a name for this.

Something is happening. Something big and bold and something of the Father. Something transforming. Something subtle and challenging.

But I dont know what to call it.

It's not brokenness. Goodness, I know what brokenness feels like. I've been shattered and pieced back together. And I expect to feel it again someday.

It's not humbling. I've been humbled before. And I expect to be humbled again someday (probably sooner, rather than later).

I am being trained.

Yes! That's it!

I am in a training season.

Even as I say this, I feel the cool September wind blow past me. Lately, I've been hearing the powerful, melancholy sound of a train rushing through the city not far from here.

The wind means God is present.

The train means He is taking me to a new place.

I am being trained.

I feel as though I have blinders on, however.

What am I training for? What is the goal?

If I am running a race, where is the finish line?

I was thinking about this today. Listening to one of the best in my life talk about healing. And identity.

I am a visual person. I am a listener and I hear God in ways, which might seem strange to some. I like to see things laid out - like on a timeline. I am not the least bit organized, but I like sequential things. I like patterns and rhythms and ... consistency.

But at the same time, I suppose I have asked the Father to give me a different life. I have asked Him for adventure and for boldness and for open doors. Why is it, when He gives us what we ask for, we don't know what to do with it?

How come I've asked for wisdom and discernment and grace and humility and gentleness and community and purpose and for a heart that looks like His ... but I am not so pleased with the methods He uses to get me there? This path I must walk, towards Him, towards righteousness, is not an easy one. I think I've always known that. I think I've always lived that.

But here I am.

You see, I am not healing. (Well. I might be. But that is not the primary plot of this part of the story. We're all healing, recovering, from something.) Right now... I am whole. Not broken. Not shattered.

I know who I am. Now, this might change soon. My identity is always in Christ. I am His. But even beyond that, I know who I am. Who I could become is a completely different story.

I need to know what to call this. This season of what feels like waiting. This season, which is stretching me, pushing me. A relatively quiet season, with the Father's whispers riding quietly on the wind.

I am being equipped!

Even as I write this... I hear it.

I feel like Daniel. (Wish I could say I mean Daniel from the Old Testament. But no. I mean Daniel. The Karate Kid.)

Like I am painting fences and waxing cars and sanding porches. And I have no idea why. I am sore and my knees are bruised and I am clueless to the fact this work I am doing is actually training.

This work I'm doing is actually preparing me for what comes next.

As I've worked, I've been getting stronger. You see, this nameless season has been going on since I stepped foot off of the plane in Lexington, home from Ethiopia. Straight from a season of risking into a season of preparedness. Part of my Ethiopian story was learning to trust in His strength. Understanding His power is made perfect in our weakness.

I remember telling Andy I was afraid. Because when God calls us to do things, which require strength, He is either going to step in and be Strong or He is going to make us strong. In Ethiopia, He intervened. I operated and lived within His strength.

He is making me strong now.

And even as I sit here... the last six months are playing like a reel through my head. I don't know how I got here, except my His grace. The struggles I've encountered would have, at one point in my life, taken me down. But not now. The person I am now... is stronger.

We only get stronger by training.

By letting our muscles get worked; by enduring small tears and fatigue and then filling up...

He has carried me through a season of hope.

A season of transformation.

A season of brokenness.

A season of humility.

And here I am. Knowing this journey, this story I'm living, is nowhere near being done. This is a season of trusting.

Climbing higher and farther and working longer and enduring much much more than I ever thought possible.

It is not over. By giving this season a name, I have not come out of it. No. Here I am, in the shadow of His wing, shrouded in His undeniable protection. He is training me in a place safer than most. Protecting me, shielding me.

Sometimes, you just need a name...