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...

Living a Better Story

The September after I turned fifteen years old, my mother taught a creative thinking workshop. I thought I didn't remember much about the workshop when I first sat down here. But as my mind went back, I began to mine up details I should have forgotten long ago.

I remember my shape was a triangle. My color was pink. I described myself as one thousand years old. I stayed up all night long to write a piece of poetry my friend Sarah would dance to as I read aloud. I remember it rained the night before. I remember one assignment was to write about one of my ambitions.

What did I want to do with my life?

I wanted to open a youth center. Specifically, a safe place for inner city kids to come. Laundry facilities, cafeterias, basketball courts, music venues. We'd have church there on Sundays, I imagined. But even at fifteen, I was incredibly adamant about Jesus' love transcending through every day of the week. I knew "church" on Sundays is not what changes people's lives.

Over the next few years the dream would swirl around in the forefront of my mind, eventually settle in a corner, and begin to collect dust.

It was still there.

But I wasn't acknowledging it.

I started college when I was seventeen. I can't even remember what I thought I was going to school for back then. But I do know I went through a few different majors, but could never find a good fit. School was only a formality. I had no goal and no real passion for anything I was doing.

When I was nineteen, I met someone who taught me how to love people. A love that made lives intertwine, provided for needs, comforted the hurting, acknowledged the ignored.

This felt more like a move in the right direction than anything had before.

I remember holding my breath through Anatomy and Physiology class. Crying my way through consumer math. BSing my way through biology. I thought I wanted to be a nurse. Or an occupational therapist. As much as I loved people, I thought I didn't want to work with little kids. I thought I didn't want to live in the ghetto. I thought I would never live overseas.

In the spring of 2009, I took my first social work class.

The idea, which had been resting patiently in the corner of my conscious, began to stir. Stretching tight muscles and blinking sleep eyes, the idea awoke and began to demand my attention.

In the summer of 2009, I read A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. I also did a Bible study on risking taking and discernment of the Holy Spirit. The combination of those three things, and my own restlessness, propelled me forward into a season of divine discomfort and yearning.

I wanted to do something. I wanted to be someone. My language changed and I began to talk and pray about living a better story.

Last summer was also the summer I got sick. We still don't know what was wrong... but the ominous word cancer kept floating around and bumping into my conversations. I was uninsured, miserably sick, and determined, whatever the outcome, to live well.

$3,000 worth of medical bills later, I dropped out of school. Classes would have to wait until I could get my debt paid off. This sudden hiccup in the plan only spurred the restlessness I had been feeling for months.

Restlessness is what motivates me. When I get uncomfortable in my own skin, when I don't know where home is, when I start to itch I know it's time for something to change. So I started praying.

I heard God tell me to get my passport.

I applied for a passport, got eight different shots, bought bug spray, and hopped on a plane to East Africa.

Ethiopia.

Then Restlessness threw deuces up and went home after I landed in Addis Ababa.

I was living a better story. I suddenly found myself in the very throes of character building and plot thickening and dramatic scenery (there were monkeys too... I've come to the conclusion that if your story includes exotic animals, it has great potential).

Africa changed everything.

Africa wrecked me.

I came home and cried myself to sleep under a homemade blanket, which smelled like the postal shops of Addis.

Transition is one of the trickiest parts of a story.

In March of 2010 I came home from Africa finding myself changed and the rest of my world strangely and frustratingly the same. But Frustration, like Restlessness, usually pushes (shoves?) me in the direction I need to go.

Which was how one cool night at the end of March I found myself standing in one particular front yard.

Some friends of mine started a ministry last fall - a real grassroots effort. They adopted the east end of Lexington, which backs up to the free clinic Southland runs. And by adopted I mean, they bring people groceries. Give people beds. Know their names and their stories and when their birthdays are.

I was skeptical for the first seven months of the ministry. Praying for them, but harboring cynicism. Diligently ignoring all the emails and all the requests for my participation.

But things change.

I changed.

And there I was. On East Second Street, in the dark front yard of a crooked shot gun house, watching my friends load a new dryer onto the front porch. It had not been, by definition, a special night. But God had spoken to me. Stirred something deep in my belly, reminding me of my dream. Reminding me of who He made me to be...

Or perhaps telling me for the first time.

As my mind played with the idea, turning it over and over and finding it strangely familiar, I began to hear the sound of children. Running and screaming, they burst through the front screen door (which was missing its screen). Before I really knew what was happening, I was holding a little boy in my arms.

He was laughing hysterically, after launching himself off the porch and bravely flying in my unprepared arms. He told me his name and said he was seventy-two years old. I told him seventy-two years old didn't get to be held like little kids. He shook his head, adamantly reassuring me he was in fact, only six.

While he talked to me, he played with my hair.

Just a few moments later I was ushered into the house. "Here," a teenage girl said to me.

She handed me a baby.

So there I was, standing in a stranger's house, with pit bulls scratching at the bedroom door behind me, holding a teenage girl's three week old baby; happier than a clam.

Five months later, I now help lead this ministry. I am in charge of new volunteers (as this grassroots effort now serves over 50 homes in the east end and has about sixty volunteers show up every Tuesday night). My job is to make sure none of them end up going in a house alone... I don't tell them that's how I got here.

On Friday nights, a small group of us meet down at the medical clinic. Inspired by an elementary-school-age girl who wanted help making a Mother's Day gift, about fifteen volunteers and twice as many children show up for what we have come to call "Kids Club". We feed the children and play games; we have taught Bible stories and taught the boys not to hit the girls. We have plans for tutoring this school year and we have our hopeful eye on an abandoned community center down the street, which has basketball courts and laundry facilities...

We are called to live a better story with our lives. That's the key word here, I think. Better. Continuous. Growing. Progressive.

You see, I'm restless again. I start college back next week; finally, after paying off all that medical debt I am going back to finish my BASW. Facing financial challenges and schedule conflicts and a quiet, but strong, desire to return to Africa... I'm looking ahead.

I want to break cycles of poverty and abuse. I want to have to go to so many highschool graduations I can't keep track; I want to watch these children (I've come to love them like they're my own) become athletes and artists and businesswomen and fathers. I want to watch them live excellent lives. I want to help them overcome conflict. I want to introduce them to Jesus. Living a better story with my life means helping others lives better stories with theirs.

I think, perhaps, the next step in living a better story with my own life is to understand potential. As intuitive and perceptive as I can be, I often fail to remember just because I can't do something now doesn't mean I never can. Especially because I thought I didn't want to work with little kids. I thought I didn't want to live in the ghetto. I thought I would never live overseas.

I changed.

And I need to be bold.

With my life, I want to tell you a story about risk and adventure and conflict and triumph.

http://donmilleris.com/conference/

Living a Better Story Seminar from All Things Converge Podcast on Vimeo.

Heart of Flesh

I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh.

Was it just yesterday I realized how suppressed I had become? Just yesterday I realized... I'd taught myself not to feel?

I imagined easing myself back into a full spectrum of emotion. Maybe, if I went slowly, I could bypass the emotions I had set out to eradicate anyway.

I am not sure at what point Jon mentioned these words from Ezekiel. But I sat there and felt as though he spoke them over me. And God, who had situated Himself in between my shoulder blades, whispered "Let Me."

Let you ... what?

Wake you up.

Oh. But I am awake. It's fine. I've just learned how to cope.

I never intended for you just to cope, my love. Coping was not part of My plan.

I'd really rather not feel those old things again, though. Really. I feel pretty at peace.

Peace? You feel pretty numb, actually. What I have to offer you is not the absence of something. I'm quite a bit stronger than those old things you're afraid of. But if you don't let Me wake you up... you're going to miss out. You're going to forget who you are...

He was asking permission to shake me.

To splash my face with cold water. Raise me from a coma of self preservation.

Alright... go ahead. Take this heart...

Have you ever felt the pinch of severed nerves growing back together? Sharp, healing pain.

God had been hovering. Waiting for me. We had not gotten to the point of disconnect where He was going to act without permission. It was still my choice. He waited patiently, suspended over me, His breath like wind on my face. In the very moment I conceded... He reached for my sleeping heart.

My heart wasn't made of stone. Not yet. But it was callused and rough. Untrusting. Because people can disappoint me. People break my heart. I love them, but there's a wall - for my protection and for theirs. If that wall crumbles, I'm subject to great hurt. Vulnerable.

I might lose you. Or you might leave.

There, then, was a twinge in my heart. Maybe even, like a limb that's gone numb and slowly begins to wake up as you move it. The pain of feeling.

My heart had just fallen asleep.

And exactly as I'd feared, like a tidal wave or a swollen current, there came the tears. Tears for orphans in the DR. For my friends without beds. For the babies I didn't hold in Yaso. I cried for my own loneliness and my own sense of disorientation.

Compassion woke up inside of me.

After I'd let go of all those tears, and then some, I prayed expectantly. Confidently, once again.

Take this heart...

It's been Mine for a while now. Don't worry.

Well, then. If You're going to ask me feel to the sadness and fear and loneliness I was trying to avoid... would You release me to feel the joy and excitement and hope I buried along the way too?

He laughs at me when I talk to Him like this.

Let's go...

I have a lot of digging to do. Some sifting and some sorting.

He's stirring my soul.

He's shaken me awake.

Deep He is, calling to the deepest parts of me.

Like He calls to the depths of tombs. A beckoning more powerful than fear of vulnerability or the grip of death.

Sometimes... God works ridiculously fast.

Wake up, o sleeper...

Codega

In Ventian history, you could hire a man to lead you down the dark streets with a lantern. His job was to protect you from whatever lurked in the shadows. To provide light and comfort. Such a man was called a codega.

My path is taking a turn in the next few weeks. Off a course I've been following for a few years now, I am stepping into very shadowy, very ominous territory. If only because it is unfamiliar, I am uneasy. I do not know the way.

Much like when I am given directions to a place I've never been before, it doesn't matter how thorough or accurate those directions are, I am nervous and doubtful until I see the very first landmark. Until directions or instructions are proven solid, I have a tendency to anticipate a mix up. When you said turn 'right', you didn't really mean 'left'... did you?

I don't do well with new things. Strange really, since at times I have an insatiable craving for change.

I've been told I'm fairly short-sighted. Being an intuitive, emotional, perceiver... I project my vision far beyond my sight. Life hasn't happened yet, though. So I can't seem to figure out how it will work. One step at a time is the hardest concept I have ever tried to grasp.

One step at a time takes more courage than I have.

So here I am: craving adventure, wanting to shake things up. Every once in a while, desiring thrill more than anything else in this world.

Sometimes, however, I suppress my emotions so much, I fail to have them. A few years ago, in an attempt to overcome social anxiety, I subconsciously pushed Nervousness all the way down into my belly. And without knowing it,
Nervousness tried to drag Fear, Excitement, Anger, Passion, Sadness, and Joy with it.

I've been on a rescue mission ever since. Saving the wide spectrum of emotions from a poison called Apathy.

But as the path takes a sharp turn to the left, I find myself standing on the curb. Shadows dance around me and the path ahead is so winding I can't see very far at all. I know it's a long path. I know it's a hard one.

What I don't know, is if I have what it takes.

As I wait to step into the crosswalk, which will take me onto my new path, I hear a simple reminder. "You have what it takes to take one step forward."

It's true.

I'm trying to read ahead. Skip to the end of the book, spoil the secret ending. I cannot get there from here.

Although there is light, I find I am trying to walk out of it.

What I need is a codega. Someone to come and walk in front of me. Casting light on the path ahead. Scaring away demons and thieves. Offering direction and comfort.

John 8:12: Jesus spoke to the people once more and said, “I am the light of the world. If you follow me, you won’t have to walk in darkness, because you will have the light that leads to life.”

One step at a time.

Walk in light. Walk in love. Never getting ahead of the One who leads.

Because I don't know where I'm going.

Alfredo

Sometimes... I just have bad days.

I don't yell a lot. And I certainly don't cry a lot.

I do think a lot. But not everyone gets to hear those thoughts.

Because I don't trust a lot either.

But sometimes... I just have bad days.

Days when I find myself walking through Kroger, pushing a cart, crying into the phone as I pick out blueberries.

Weaving in and out of stands of bananas and full grocery carts, crying and sniffling and verbally expressing my anger with God.

It didn't start out as anger. No. Anger buries itself deep, deep down. There are always a lot of layers to pull back before anger rears its head. Today, exhaustion set in first.

I worshipped this morning... and I felt the tug on my heart. "Loosen up those ties," I heard Him whisper. But I knew what untying meant. Untying means falling apart. I was tied together - neatly, tightly. I didn't want to unravel.

But as I was walking out of church, I ran into Marty. One of the very best men in my life, he gave me a sweaty hug, and the floodgates opened. He hugged me again and sat down with me for an hour. Listening. Watching me cry in a way only a man who had known me my entire life could do. He did for me what no other man in my family does these days. He listened.

But that was just the first layer. Complete emotional exhaustion. Check.

As we peeled back layers of insecurity and restlessness and loneliness... I began to feel shaken. Exposed. Depleted.

By the time I got to Kroger, I was so pissed I might have taken it out on the frozen food section.

True frustration, true anger, was surfacing because a lack of understanding. Because I know the truth. Because I know what I have been promised. Because I know what seasons and cycles mean.

But I cannot see.

In my blindness, I called something anger. Anger that was really just a longing. Anger that was really just hope deferred.

I got so mad I hung up the phone.

How was it that every single week, I trust God to hold back the rain at 7pm on Tuesday nights?

Even when it's pouring the rain, I'll stand in the empty gravel parking lot. Waiting. Expectantly.

Every Tuesday night, right before 7 pm, the rain stops.

So why is it... that with the rest of my life... I have a hard time believing the rain will stop?

That tuition will be covered. That this place God has me, with lots and lots of closed doors, will eventually start bearing fruit. That one day... I won't do all of it alone.

I stood in the aisle at Kroger, staring at jars of marinara and alfredo sauces.

And then my angry heart broke open.

Because, in all honesty, anger is never the final emotion. Never the last feeling.

My angry shell cracked then, as I picked up my alfredo sauce, and prayed.

"I don't even know what to ask You for. I'm just really hurt. And I'm really tired. Really, really tired of having a bad day."

Now... it doesn't always happen this way.

But my Father knows me.

And whether I recognized it or not, He knew I just needed to be restored.

I needed to surpass all this understanding I have... and my heart needed to be reminded.

I needed peace.

-

In a matter of moments, peace overcame me. Washed over me and filled my empty places and dried my tears and lifted up the broken pieces and swept the floor of my heart.

What hadn't made sense five minutes before had been cast away; where there had been no hope, my spirit was suddenly lifted.

-

I still don't know what to ask for.

And I still have a crazy desire for an adventure (my exact words, while picking out salad I think, were that I wanted to blow something up or leave for Africa again).

But in a a moment, standing over jars of alfredo sauce, I gave Jesus the authority.

And He quieted my storm.

Peace

We all want peace.

We associate peace with calmness and tranquility.

Peace and easiness, we think, go hand in hand.

Peaceful is the man's face in the coffin.

Peaceful is a quiet meadow.

Peaceful means free of conflict, chaos, or fear.

-

But what if that's not right?

What if peace is much more about resolve.

About congruency. Rhythm. Assurance.

Reassurance.

Peace does not mean stillness.

Peace means....

what does peace mean?

-

Because there are some who yearn for peace.

There are some who dwell in it.

And there are others who never feel it in their own hearts, but extend it to others.

-

Peace is not easy.

Peace does not mean you are not afraid.

Peace is that big breath you take before you barrel ahead.

Peace is standing in the middle of the storm, the war, the hurt and not losing ground.

-

There are a few different Greek words for "peace" in the Bible. In the New Testament, most of the time the word "eirēnē" is used (εἰρήνη).

According to Strong's concordance, this word can mean,

1) state of national tranquillity
a) exemption from the rage and havoc of war
2) peace between individuals, i.e. harmony, concord
3) security, safety, prosperity, felicity, (because peace and harmony make and keep things safe and prosperous)
4) of the Messiah's peace
a) the way that leads to peace (salvation)
5) of Christianity, the tranquil state of a soul assured of its salvation through Christ, and so fearing nothing from God and content with its earthly lot, of whatsoever sort that is
6) the blessed state of devout and upright men after death

(blueletterbible.org, 31 July 2010)

I wonder if peace is not what you feel.

It is what you are.

I do not feel peaceful.

I am at peace.

Peace is not an emotion, but it is a state of life.

Because our emotions are fleeting and unstable... but if we seek it, peace is a state of being, which bears fruit.

-

There is a form of the word peace, which is used when Jesus calms the storm in Mark 4.

"Peace be still," He commanded the raging winds and waves.

This is the authority I want Him to have over my life.

This word... siōpaō σιωπάω.. means an involuntary quiet.

As in someone who is dumb, someone who physically cannot speak.

In the middle of the storm, Jesus stood up, and struck the storm speechless.

Hold your peace.

Be quiet.

-

My prayer for you is you would find peace. Not as a feeling or an emotion. But peace would become who you are. May you continue to extend it to others who do not know it. May you accept it as a gift into your own heart. May you know what it means to stand in the boat with your Savior, and let His peace carry you through.

May you let Jesus come in and calm the storms of your heart. Striking your turbulent world into peacefulness - with just one word.

Men After God's Own Heart

There was a time when I questioned whether or not there were any men of God left.

I watched as men abused, neglected, and detached. They took advantage and objectified. There was not a leader to be found - not a pure heart to be seen. I was discouraged and all but lost hope.

I am not the only one who felt this way. Everyone saw it: an epidemic of apathy and weakness had ravaged the male population, and even those who called themselves Christians rarely stepped up to the plate.

But not too long ago, it seems, this world was shaken. Hearts were awakened. Maybe... my own eyes were simply opened.

I watched as boys became men. As they began to use their strength and their power to love the world.

I watched as the men around me began to look like Jesus.

As they bent low to pick up small children. As they pursued God with fierceness and intentionality. They were broken, humbled, and put back together.

I grew up loathing the concept of a "submissive woman". I had no desire to be a doormat - to let a man lead, just because he was a man. I was not a "feminist", but I wanted to be respected, to be listened to, and to have an opinion.

These desires were based on my experience with men from the past. Men who couldn't be trusted. Men who weren't providers. Weren't leaders. Weren't seeking after the Father.

But I've been sitting back and watching lately.

As these men pull children into their arms. As they load dryers and washers into houses. Putting together basketball goals. Playing kickball and passing out ice cream sandwiches. Teaching young boys how to be good men.

"You don't hit girls," I hear them say. "If a girl hits you, show her your muscles and walk away..."

-

I have watched you - before my very eyes - become men after God's own heart.

I have watched you rise up as leaders, as providers, as protectors. You are strong. You are being humbled. You are stepping up.

And for the first time ... my heart is at ease, when it comes to submitting to you.

I can trust you. Because you trust the Lord.

I pray for you daily. My heart is delighted in what I see. The hope I'd lost has returned. Because of you, a whole generation will have a chance to change. Because of you and your integrity, there is a neighborhood, which will never be the same.

Because of this change in you, women have been urged to become better as well. The plague of apathy did not just effect the male population - we have suffered from it as well. But God has called to us, and we are answering. We, too, are now striving to fulfill our roles (not gender roles, but roles as women after God's own heart). To do our own work, to complete our own race, to pursue our own calling. But also to support you, work alongside you, intercede for you.

I am encouraged by you - all who, in your own way, fulfill God's calling. Thank you for stepping up. For allowing the power of the Spirit to consume you. For being strong. For being loving. For being wild.

God is working through each one of you. Leading you in a race - rewarding you for your perseverance.

Thank you for who you have become. For who you are.

Lilies and Sparrows

I am being prepared.

In the very midst of training.

What I was, was not enough.

Who I am, would not survive.

But He sees - He knows.

And His love is too great to sit above and watch.

-

"Come to me," He whispers.

I draw close.

Reach high - take hold.

In the crook of His arm, He cradles me.

His face pressed close to mine, He whispers things to me about who I am.

"Hear me," He urges. "My voice, my words, my will... hear."

As I begin to understand, I begin to hear words in a new way.

A familiar Voice, speaking familiar instructions, with much more power.

Much more weight.

"Do not be anxious..."

"Do not worry about tomorrow..."

"The plans I have for you are meant for prosperity and hope..."

"Seek first My kingdom..."

With open ears, open eyes, I hear and see afresh.

Fear rises in my chest.

What this means is a new life.

A life I am not strong enough to live on my own.

He wraps His arms tighter around me.

"Not by your strength. Not by your might..."

"It is through Me, you can do all things."

The path stretches far ahead. Up mountains, through valleys, deep into ravines. But, clearly, I can only make out the next step. One step.

His tight hold on me begins to loosen and I feel Him lowering me to the ground.

I'm not ready to let go.

"I'm not letting go," He reassures me. "But it's time to go."

His large, callused hand engulfs mine. Together, we take one step forward. Side by side.

"Now, you must do. Do what I have asked. Do what I have called you to do - live out what I have taught you."

-

I am being prepared. Even now.

What I was, who I am, is not enough.

But I am not alone.

I, who am so much more loved than sparrows and lilies, will press ahead.

With expectancy.

Armed with a promise.

Of His perfect will, of His great provision.

When Dreams Come True

Seven years ago someone asked me what I wanted to do with my life. Seven years ago I had a vision.

I wanted to open up a youth center. A safe place where children could come. Where food was served and music was played and they were taught about Jesus. I wanted to meet needs - physical and spiritual. Redemption Block.

A few years ago, this vision arose in my heart again when I met five little black boys who were running up and down Maxwell Street at midnight. Some of them lived on the east end. Some of them were refugees from Africa. All of them were bored and up to no good.

Tell me something. When was the last time one of your dreams came true? The last time you asked for something and it was given to you? The desires of your heart were granted? Stop for a minute. Take a look at your life. My guess is you have what you've asked for.

My guess is we have what we've asked for. And we just fail to see it.

On Friday night I carried ten pizzas into a little, while building. Within a matter of minutes, the building and the parking lot were full of children. They had come to eat. To play games. To be loved on. In us, they'd found safety. Positive attention and affection. We laughed with them and mourned the pain of new braces. We played checkers and musical chairs and taught them how to follow rules. Our evening was blessed by a rainbow, which arched from one end of the neighborhood to the other.

I called it a promise.

Tonight, I walked into the same little, white building with more food. We held children tight in our arms and taught women about Jesus. We knew each other's names and brought what we could to the table. But what they taught me was far more valuable. For they taught me...

about how God keeps His promises.

Tonight, I gathered up my books and empty dishes and walked out of the building with my mother. The very first person I'd ever shared my dream with seven years ago. As I shut the door to my car and turned the key in the ignition, I realized my dream had come true.

"Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than we could ever ask or imagine..."

He answers our prayers. He grants us the desires of our hearts. Giving us bread, not rocks. Fish, not snakes. Knocking, He answers.

It just may not look like we think it will.

It may just catch us by surprise.

"As you wish," I heard Him whisper tonight as child after child talked to me with cookie stuffed in their mouth.

Surrender

I basically flew across town last night. I had to get to those I loved. I prayed as I drove up Second Street... please let them still be here. Please let them still be outside.

As I drove up the small hill just before their house, I saw them. Dark shadows racing up and down the sidewalk. I could hear their voices shrieking and yelling.

I was home.

I parked and brought my phone and keys with me for the first time. Having just come from a meeting, I wasn't dressed properly. And as kids began to pull on my skirt and try to climb in my lap, I wished I had a pair of shorts and tennis shoes.

I watched as he played baseball with an old wooden bat and a beaten up Solo cup. As she sat on the front porch at 9:30 at night and ate her dinner, spaghetti o's smeared all over face.

One of my children came racing down the sidewalk after me. He sprung forward and threw himself in my arms. But I was still holding my phone and keys and couldn't get a good hold around his little body and had to set him down.

Finally, at one point, I had to find a place to set everything down. A safe place where I could leave it until it was time to come back. And with empty hands I reached out.

It wasn't long until my arms were filled again. With crying little boys and laughing little boys and little girls with candy necklaces.

Today... God drew me a parallel, as He often does.

"Let go," He whispered.

"I have something for you and you've got all this stuff in your hands. What's that about? Put it down. Somewhere safe. You're going to need it again. But just put it down. I want your hands free and ready... your arms open for what I want to give you right now. I will fill them. Go ahead. Put it down."

He whispers this to me... and I know it's Truth.

It is, in fact, the very definition of surrender.

Fill my arms then, Lord. They're empty now.

O Resplendent Light

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fc2bg5HqId4

I am bloody. Clothes torn from my shoulders, grime smeared across my face, blisters on my feet, cracked knuckles, weary back. My heart is still racing in my chest and I can feel my own pulse under my jaw. I close my eyes, only for a second, breathing deeply.

I am empty. Everything I had, every ounce of strength, every gift... I have used it all. Empty handed, broken, and weary.

I am not the only one.

I look around me and realize I am surrounded by hundreds of thousands more. Fog rises from the ground around our feet, the sky above our heads has been torn apart - the veil between Heaven and Earth has been rent in two.

All I hear is breathing.

I search the faces of those around me, but my heart does not mourn their brokenness. No. Even through the haziness of my own sweat and blood I can see: on each of their foreheads is a seal. An imprint.

And while I would have once mourned such devastation... while I once would have sunk deep into my own emptiness... I know I too bear the seal. Even in my weariness, something within me rises.

One last time, the earth groans beneath our feet. A cry - a birthing pain.

It is over.

Deep, black clouds churn on the horizon. Pushed back. Pushed down by Heaven itself.

Reaching up, I try to wipe away the sweat and grime dripping into my eyes. But before my hand even reaches my brow, I feel my face being cupped by hands, callus and rough.

With His thumb, He wipes away the dirt.

I look up into the eyes of the One for whom I'd been fighting all along.

Into the gaze of the One who'd been fighting for me all along.

And as the blood red moon pours out into the dense clouds, I realize He is bleeding too.

Sweat and grime and blood drip from His forehead, and in the moment when the light in His eyes meets the weariness in mine, I reach up with rough and callused hands and wipe His brow.

"Well done, my love," He whispers.

My Prayer

Use me.

We've been through this before. As I sit here, watching opportunities all around me, I wonder why they don't belong to me.

And I realize it is because I haven't fully exhausted the opportunities You have given me.

I recognize these moments, as well, as the moments of calm right before the chaos.

Chaos that drives me, propels me, into Your will. Into an adventurous existence with You and the world You created.

For some reason, I expect You to work in my life in the same way You are working in others. I expect You to use me in the same ways. Call me to the same work. Respond to me with the same answer.

And I end up pouting. Wishing You'd do something exciting with my life. In my complaining, I fail to see what it is You are actually doing.

I know You have deemed me worthy of use. That on the days I am empty of myself, I am a container You can use. I hear Your words and I see Your hand working and I know, deep inside, that You are using me.

Open my eyes to see what You've already laid before me.

Teach me not to compare myself to others. To wallow in self pity and discontentment because I work in a cubicle all day long. Because I'm currently walking in a life of financial obligation and restraint.

Keep my passion burning. Use it to propel me forward into the plans You have for my life.

I want a life of adventure. Teach me not to be complacent. To be passive and wait. Teach me to be proactive. And to take initiative. Give me courage.

Take the restlessness in my heart and DO something with it.

Into the Wild

At some point, our worlds have to grow.

Or.

They should.

I'm thinking back, nine years ago now, when my world expanded for the first time. Pointed west, the RV drove straight through Indiana and Missouri and Illinois and up through Minnesota and across South Dakota and into the wild.

I thought I had seen mountains before. But while the Appalachian mountains are full of culture and emotion... the first time I saw the mountains of Wyoming and Montana and Colorado... my heart stopped.

And I was only thirteen.

At some point, you are given a decision to make. You are provided an opportunity to push back the walls of your world... to extend your grasp farther than you have ever reached before.

So often, we fail to seize these moments.

But in a few days, the best in my life will push back their horizons to encompass something wild. Something foreign.

They will suddenly understand what I mean when I talk about the big sky.

Or feeling small.

And breathing clean.

What it means to stand still and be overcome with dizziness.

To feel as though you've trespassed... as if we've tried to urbanize, and never quite succeeded.

The first time a bison crosses the road or their voices echo over the Badlands or the sun sets in Kansas; the first time they see Denver's sky scrapers in the shadow of the Rockies, or play in the snow in their flip flops...

Push.

As hard as you can.

Push against the edges of the world as you know it.

Physical, emotional, spiritual.

Test the boundaries and cross them, pioneering new territory.

Where you will find yourself.

Where your soul will meet your body.

They will watch fireworks in a new city next weekend.

And get to watch as two of their grandparents look at this created world through redeemed eyes.

I pray for quiet moments. And for thrilling ones. I pray for patience and flexibility. I pray for hot water in the showers of the campgrounds.

I want one of them to sit in the front seat of that RV and feel the sensation of flying above the road. Or fall asleep in the Walmart parking lot, to be waken up by loud pick up trucks and the hum of traffic.

They will expand their worlds and then turn around and come home.

And home will mean so much more, because they travelled so long to get back there.

I pray for revelations.

In three weeks, two young women's lives can change forever.

Jeremiah

We made eye contact from across the street and before I knew it, his little legs were propelling him across the blacktop.

I know children well enough to know what was coming next. So I planted my feet and opened my arms.

Still a few feet away, he launched himself in the air and landed right in my embrace.

Without a moments hesitation he encircled me with his tiny arms and laid his head on my shoulder.

"What is your name" I whispered in his ear. He pulled his head back and looked me square in the eye.

Something that sounded like "Jeremiah" came out of his little mouth.

He held up four fingers, struggling to hold his thumb against the palm of his hand. "I'm four," he stuttered proudly.

Even as tiny as he was, my heart and arms were full to bursting. He laid his head back down on my shoulder and I had a brief thought - just for a moment entertained the idea of not going anywhere. Just standing there with Jeremiah in my arms.

I don't love easily. And I don't trust easily.

But I loved that child.

And if I love that child... who is not mine... how much more does our Father love us?

Enough that when we run after Him, He stands firm, opens His arms wide, swings us high, and gives us a place to rest on His shoulder.

Later, when my mind returned to Jeremiah, I heard the Father whisper:

"I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future. Call on Me, I am listening to you. Seek Me with all your heart and you will find Me."

I am running headlong in to His arms.

Because I love Him. And I trust Him.

Doubt

He circled around me a few times before taking a seat on the park bench. Fairly nondescript, he didn't draw much attention to himself at first. But as I talked, as I listened, I kept catching him in my peripheral vision.

The bottle, wrapped up in a brown paper bag, sat on the bench next to him. He leaned forward and the silver cross dangling from his neck glinted in the street lights. Occasionally he would look up and connect with my eyes. But his were dark under the flat brim of his hat and I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

Doubt is subtle. He circles around you a few times, judging your weakest points. Doubt is patient and will lurk on the peripheral as long as it takes without calling too much attention, for fear we might recognize him for what he is.

But the Spirit knows Doubt. The Spirit within senses Doubt's approach, and if you have given the Spirit reign over yourself, the Spirit will defend your weak spots.

If Fear is the enemy's greatest tool, Doubt is not far behind. In this life, so little is tangible. So much of what we depend on is Faith - internal and invisible. We cannot see. We can only Hope. We can Trust. And there are ways we can guard our hearts. There is armor to protect us from the fiery arrows the enemy tries to destroy us with. We just have to remember to put them on. Run to the shadow of the Father's wings.

The last time I looked up, he was taking a swig from the bottle. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. And silently, I began to fight my battle. Not the first time I've waged war against him, certainly. "I see you", my heart whispered. "I recognize you, I know who you are. Come out of the shadows. You have no place here."

He put the cap back on the bottle, stood up, and walked away as quietly as he'd come.

Father's Day

He smells like patchouli and wears sandals. He doesn't really ever say much and rubs his lip with his forefinger when he's thinking. He is the one who taught me how to parallel park in an old muscle car with no side mirror, in between two green trash cans.

He is who baptized me and who stood for an entire hour in the living room with my first serious boyfriend. He is who showed up in the parking lot to apologize.

The one who told me secrets. Who asked me the hard questions over Italian food on my 19th birthday. He is methodical and secretive and far more emotionally driven than he'd ever let on.

He doesn't know it, but he taught me to love people. He won't admit it, but it is because of him I have a deep heart for the inner city.

I have his social anxiety and his screwed up digestive system. I have his nose and thick hair.

He is the one who sat with me in the hospital the day the doctors told me my life was about to change. And he was the one who stayed up late in the hospital room, a month later after the surgery, watching West Wing while he thought I was sleeping.

He's the one who used to sleep walk ... the one who would come and eat a whole meal in the kitchen at two in the morning without ever waking up. He's the one who took me to get my first tattoo. The one who acted like he never understood when I broke up with a boyfriend - but would later connect all the dots and give me a high five.

He was the first one on the scene of my car accident.

He's the one who detaches. Who told me to have fun and take lots of pictures in Africa and who unloaded my bed in my first house and left almost immediately.

He's the one who took me to Magees for the first time. He's the one whose attention I have sought for years and years. He's the one who makes friends with my friends. Who would listen to Prairie Home Companion on the radio in the mini van.

He drove me to work for a month when I didn't have a car. He gave me my first camera.

He's the one who has never given me answers. Who quickly loses patience with my emotional baggage.

He's the one whose words pierce the deepest. Whose opinion I grew up respecting the most. He wheezes when he laughs.

He's the one whose music rocked me to sleep for most of my childhood. He's the reason why I want to find a man who can play the piano.

He's the reason I know behavior can be understood in context. He's the one who told me I was miserable. Who bought a car and drove us around, blasting Mutemath through the new speakers.

He's the one who was sitting next to me when I realized why God had kept me in Lexington.

He's the one who took me to the gym and helped change my body... change my life. He's the only one I can run with.

He's the one who has called me with a broken heart. Who called me just minutes after he proposed. He's the one with four daughters. And then three more.

He's the one who grills in the snow and takes baseball bats into doctors' offices. He's the one who taught me to drive a 5 speed and kayak on the ocean.

He's the one who took me on that walk in the rain seven years ago.

I'm not sure I've seen him hold a baby in fifteen years. Or that I've spent more than an hour at a time with him in the past year. He's the one with a totally different life than mine. Who is sometimes hard to get a hold of... whose attention is hard to keep. Whose letters I keep folded up in my Bible.

He's the one who will walk me down the aisle one day.

He's the one who my children will call Poppy.

Today is his day.

Something Beautiful

He was building a sandcastle just beyond the water line. Swimming trunks weighed down by sand and salt water. His dark skin shone in the sunlight, and he laughed playfully as his older brother stomped on the bucket to release the sandy turret.

Occasionally he would run to the water's edge and stick his toes in. The tide would wash over his ankles, just enough to cool him off, and he would run back to his sandcastle. Back and forth he would run, never daring to go deeper. The loud, green waters scared him every time they pulled at his feet... something beckoned him. But fear kept him preoccupied on the shore.

And then I saw him coming. He had been watching for a while under the shade of the umbrella, and he finally came to join the young boy at the water's edge. He reached out his bigger hand and the little boy slipped his smaller one in, squeezing tightly. Together they walked into the ocean, taking a step farther than the little boy had ever been on his own.

The waves were up to his waist now and I watched him pull on his father's forearm, drawing him closer, seeking protection.

Suddenly the little boy let go and ran back to the shore. He stood, shaking his head, covered in sand and dripping wet. His father turned around and came to stand beside him, hand on his shoulder.

It only took a moment before, hand in hand again, they returned to the water's edge. And in one swift motion the father lifted his son up into his arms. He walked slowly into the water, going deeper than they'd ever gone before. The waves swirled around his waist, washing his son's knees.

And watched as waves crashed over their heads and the son came up sputtering, clinging to his father's neck, laughing and laughing...

Where I Belong

I see You.
Here, I see You.
In their faces. In the way they touch mine.
They call my name and run to me.

I see You.
Here, I see You.
They know You differently than I do.
And You remind me I am not here to teach them.

I see You.
I've always said I'm looking for a place where my soul meets my body.
And I threaten, if ever I found a place where You stood, I might stand and never move.
I have found both.

I hear You calling to me.
The same thing I've been calling to You for so long.
Come close! Come quickly!
All this time, You've been drawing near, and I've stayed clean and dry.

The wind whips through the streets.
City blocks are touched by Your unseen hand.
As the sun rises and sets, Your glory and love bathe the suburbs and the ghetto alike.
Both needing to be set free.

You are hungry.
You are poor.
Your pockets are empty and threadbare.
But mostly... You are lonely.

You haven't had a conversation in days.
You haven't had someone pick You up and hold you.
You haven't been told You're loved.
You haven't been told You are beautiful.

But I see You.
I recognize You here. Now.
In their faces I see Yours.
And when I reach out for them, it is You I find.

I've been searching for home.
A place where I belong.
Where i am fully known.
Where who I am and who I want to be, suddenly, are one and the same.

I've found this place once before.
In a culture on the other side of the world.
I met You in between beats of a drum.
In the voices of children, dark and lovely.

I have found it again.
In my backyard.
in the chaos and controversy and conflict.
I do not see what the world sees.

I see You.

Better is One Day

I just came out of a season of clarity. I heard God speak and followed His direction. I felt as though I was moving and breathing in His will and I was confident. I may have even voiced during this season my fear a day would come when I'd no longer be able to hear Him.

During that time, I assumed not being able to hear God meant I had stumbled out of His will. Silence meant I was unfaithful or just too far away. I understood if anyone was straying, it was me, not God. But I didn't want to be far away from Him.

I remember the day I started praying and realized I couldn't hear a response. The voice, which had been so prominent, so powerful, was gone. And I panicked. I stopped dead in my tracks, swearing not to take another step until I heard His voice again. I was afraid.

And then I remembered a prayer my youngest sister prayed over me before leaving for Africa. A prayer saying: even when I could not hear His voice, I'd know the Father's character enough to be able to follow Him anyway.

I fought for a while, holding my breath, waiting for divine instruction. But Abby's prayer echoed in my ears and I turned my focus to the way I knew God to be - what I knew, without a doubt, He wanted of me.

So I took a tentative step forward.

And another.

So here I am.

Friends, I still see the Father everywhere I go. I see the work of His hand and His light in other's eyes. I stumble across Him in our everyday world and I am amazed at His love and provision.

But I still can't hear Him. Not the way I used to.

I want to worship and follow God because of who He is, not just what He does. I want open eyes to see His children the way He does and be able to teach them about Him. When I can't hear Him audibly, I want to hear the Father in His word. I want to pray without ceasing.

At worship tonight, I had the thought: perhaps God had taken a season of my life to work on my spirit and was now teaching me to look beyond myself. To see Him in the things I have no control over, the things I don't need to interpret.

I begged Him tonight to talk to me. Even if it was the still, small voice... any word from Him would quench my thirst. Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought I heard Him tell me I was small. And I needed to be still.

Then we began to sing a song. Which triggered a thought of how lucky I had been to experience a season of spiritual clarity like I have. I wondered how many people live their whole lives and exercise great faith and never receive clear signs and directions from God. My heart resonated with the song.

Better the one day I had with His voice in my ear... better one day of feeling His presence... than a thousand others with anyone else.

So I will continue to take steps forward. Recognizing how blessed I am to see where He has been. I pray for open eyes, to learn to see Him in new ways. Hoping I will be found pure and blameless and will grow to know Him so well that even when He's quiet, I will know which way to go.

Tony

We do not save people.

I was standing in the produce section of Kroger tonight when my littlest sister's phone rang. She immediately started crying and my first instinct was someone had died. I tried to get her to tell me what was wrong and she couldn't get words out. I finally got very stern with her (I was scared at that point) and she pulled the phone away from her wet cheek.

"Papa got saved yesterday".

You have to understand... my grandfather on my mom's side is a tough man. I remember him as the racist, judgmental, harsh man who took me out west in a RV and made my parents take me to the doctor for my scoliosis. A man who loves his little wife (my step grandmother) more than anyone, chews doublemint gum and kisses on the lips. He's who Abby looks like. And he was not a part of our lives for years because... above all else... he's just stubborn.

But, from a distance, I have watched something change in him over the years. And what has changed in him, has in turn effected his entire family. He softened. He reunited with my mother and walked her down the aisle. He retired to a farm in eastern Kentucky where he has taught my little sister to take care of the horses she figured out she loved on her own.

But still, one of my most vivid memories of Tony was standing in the driveway of the Long Avenue house and watching him hit the hood of his truck and tell my mother that we'd wasted too much time in church already.

So I'm not sure what happened. Because I certainly haven't been as diligent as I should have been about praying for him. But I remember when Abby started spending weekends out in Elliott County, telling her that maybe that's why she was supposed to be there. Maybe Abby's life would be a witness. I'm not sure I believed it.

It's a good thing people's salvation does not depend on my faithfulness.

Because yesterday, my grandfather and a step-great-aunt and a cousin once removed and his girlfriend (... try and follow that...) all accepted Christ.

What happened?

I told my mom, who was crying on the phone as I walked through the aisles at Kroger, that I guess someone did die after all. Because isn't that what salvation is after all? A dying to ourselves? Forsaking the old life for the new one?

I got to listen to Abby process it all out loud with more understanding than any other fourteen year old I've ever met... she talked to my mom about how she's not good at sharing her faith. And I laughed, realizing how often God uses people who aren't good at things for His purposes.

Just so we don't get mixed up and start thinking we had anything to do with it in the first place.

Abby and I walked out of Kroger then, right into a sunny rain shower. And I looked up as I was about to cross the parking lot... only to be stopped in my tracks by a rainbow.

A rainbow that stretched across the sky - arcing overhead, ever color visible.

I stood there like a fool in the rain, squinting against the sunlight, staring in awe at this huge promise stretched across the sky.

We took pictures with our phones and loaded up the groceries and hopped into my little station wagon. And I got to pray with my littlest sister. Specifically for the heart of my step-grandmother who was the only one not to surrender her life yesterday.

When Abby and I finished praying there in the Kroger parking lot, we opened our eyes and the rainbow was gone.

In my ears, I can still hear Abby's prayer. That this family, which is just so big and so bold, would be able to change a small corner of the world. Thanking the Father that none of His children ever grow too old...

We are never too far gone.

I started to pray God would continue to love on our family. But I was stopped mid-sentence by what only could have been the celebration of the Heavens, and I knew God didn't need any prodding. He'd been waiting for a while for this child to come home.

Angels are singing tonight. The Kingdom just got bigger.

Bride of Christ

I got to witness something beautiful today: perhaps one of the most meaningful weddings I've ever attended.

Save the bridal party and the family, I was one of the people who'd known the groom the longest. As I walked into the chapel this afternoon, my mind was flooded with thoughts. I was connecting the dots. Recognizing the paths we'd all taken to get us there today.

And as the doors opened and his bride walked down the aisle, I saw Jesus in the groom's face. I saw a transformed man who has helped change my life radically. I remember hearing him tell me about her for the first time. The night after their first date. The night he realized he was in love. When he went to go pick out engagement rings. But I also remember the first time I heard him talk about his love for God. And about God's love for him. I remember watching his life be ignited by faith.

After the ceremony, a few of us walked down the hall and "went" to church.

As I sat there in the midst of a large group of people, I was overwhelmed with symbolism.

Isaiah 62:5 says as a bridegroom rejoices in his bride, so our God will rejoice over us. And I find myself praying we would walk down the aisle and Christ's face would light up... just like that.

May we would be found pure and blameless. May He recognize us as His own. Loving us... pleased with us.

I know God was glorified today by the union of my friends. The holy metaphor, which was played out for us, points to Him as long as they live in love.

What a great story.

Up

Loneliness creeps in. Seeping in the cracks. Only a little bit at a time, but enough to disturb my sleep, invade my quiet thoughts. Loneliness - a missing of something I may have never had at all, wanting someone to share my life with. I have forgotten, quite honestly, what it means to be in love. One day I will have to relearn.

I struggled this morning, bogged down by this feeling. I spent my drive to work talking to my Father, knowing that I was losing control of my emotions because it had been so long since I'd taken them to Him. We are in constant conversation, but I hadn't dedicated time in a while. I knew that He allowed this feeling of loneliness for a reason...

A dear friend would suggest later that God lets us feel the loneliness to remind us to look up. To look towards Him (from where does our hope come from??).

The clouds rolled in this afternoon, threatening rain on our game night downtown. I looked up at the sky, my heart still heavy.
"Fill my empty places," I prayed. "Keep this desire in me, but teach me how to seek You when this loneliness hits. Make me the right person. And please... break through those clouds."

I looked out of the window of my little station wagon then. Just to watch the black cloud overhead split open and sunlight pour out. Rays of light, piercing the darkness.

The wind would blow for a while longer, pushing that black cloud across the sky. I took my journal and headed to the park where I sat down for the first time in a few weeks and wrote out my prayers...

Recognizing the deep need in my heart to go and be with the children. To laugh and play in the streets. To be still for a while. To talk to my Father. Fulfilling those things washed away the loneliness. Not the desire for my own family one day. Just the threatening loneliness - suddenly overwhelmed by a love so deep.

So when sadness overcomes, when loneliness breaks in, when hopelessness sneaks by... I will look up. To Him, the One who has overcome the world. The One who gave me this desire in the first place. The One who made me with a plan in mind and who has been working diligently to get me where I need to be.

And He will break through the clouds. Raining down love, shining His light.

Morning Person

Forecast for today?

Sunny and windy.

My heart comes alive on days like these, when I'm not cooped up in a cubicle or hidden from real light. My heart rate slows down and the tension eases in my shoulders. I am quieter and I listen more. I know Him. I am a better person today.

I flew a kite and laid in the grass and ate lunch outside today. Everything I did was punctuated by the wind blowing... an invisible birthday present.

I look back on the past year and am amazed. More so than even New Years, birthdays are a time of reflection. I always come barreling to a stop and reexamine and evaluate and compare. It is my own personal day... who am I today?

The last twelve months have been some of the most painful, stretching, beautiful, messy, and adventurous of my life so far. The life I lead today is absolutely nothing like the life I led twelve months ago. Most of those changes, however, have been internal, and I wonder if anyone else can see them? I have a sneaking suspicion they can, since one of the things I rediscovered this past year was joy.

I stumbled upon joy and passion; I fell in love with Jesus and the inner city again and with Africa for the first time. I left one family and fell into another. I learned about risk taking and the gift of discernment and the power of prayer.

I allowed God to change me.

To tear down my walls and build upon a foundation He'd built years and years ago. It was a year of breaking, of demolition. He shattered my heart and salvaged the pieces. And I am a mosaic now... reflecting His light.

He was loud. He whispered. I heard the faintest of instructions and completely missed His blatant direction. I prayed the hard prayers and hungered for righteousness in a way I never thought I would. Running headlong into the fear of God and the unhealthy fear of never reaching Him.

I dared Him to do the big things. I asked Him to heal me - and He redeemed me instead.

He taught me about grace and patience.

He taught me about how He's going to have to keep teaching me those things until the day I die... because I just don't get it.

The community, which grew up around me this past year, has pushed me and stretched me and held me up when I couldn't stand on my own. They played such an intricate part in developing my faith and my courage.

This year I began to live a better story.

I let go.

God kept me here. Sent me to Africa. Gave me a loaf of bread. Showed me a dove. Stirred my heart. Broke my heart.

God stepped away and beckoned me to follow. "Come with me. Come to me. I have something to show you..."

He took my assumptions about myself - the things I believed to be truths - and He turned it all upside down. He took a boring story, a passionless story, a mediocre story, and He threw me headlong into the deep end.

But He taught me this past year that He will take care of my heart. To come when He calls. That I am a morning person. He rebuked the lies I'd been telling myself for years and reminded me that I belong to Him (that He thinks I am beautiful) and because of such a truth, I am capable of far more than I ever dreamed.

Daily I struggle with what I've learned and whether or not it has actually sunk in. Will I ever learn? I fall short. I am not good. I am wrong a lot.

I am learning to pray differently. To walk in conversation with Him throughout the entire day. To shut up and listen. I am learning just how much I can trust my own heart these days... and I am delighted.

My prayer for now is that our Father would make me competent and unaware. To forget myself. And remember Him and the ones He loves.

So as I dive headfirst into another year, I find myself full of gratitude. I am nervous, but not anxious. I have lonely moments, but a deeper realization of a plan He is fleshing out. A nagging sense of incompetency and a passion that outweighs it by a ton.

Today I am closer to being who God created me to be than I have ever been before.

Come, grow with me.

Teach me something. Let me show you something beautiful. Let's walk in love.

The wind is blowing and the Father has come close. Best day.

Two Trails

The trail had grown steep again. Narrow and rocky, sometimes it was hard to keep my footing. The trees rose overhead, breaking up the radiant light from the sun. We had only been hiking for a little while. My muscles were warming up, but my lungs were still full of air.

Just ahead I saw the trail split in two. One faint, leaf-strewn trail wound to the left and the other to the right.

I had come to crossroads such as these before. I knew what to do.

I shifted the weight of my pack on my shoulders and stopped. He had been walking beside me the whole time, so he stopped too. Although, this time, he didn't say anything. Just looked at me and then at the trails; sweat was beading on his forehead and light sparkled in his eyes.

"Which way?"

Confused, I frowned and shook my head.

"No, no. You tell me! Which way do we go? Right or left?"

He took a breath and shrugged. "I've been up both trails before. They lead to the same place. I will go with you, whichever way you choose. So you tell me. Left or right?"

I froze. As the sun passed over the canopy of leaves, I could feel its heat on my skin. I shivered. This was not part of the deal.

"But I don't know where I'm going!" I argued, straining my neck to see if I could see if he was right - that both trails went up to the summit.

"But I do. It's not like you're going to get lost. I told you I'd be with you. But I've seen both trails - they're nothing new to me. Beautiful. But not new. You're the one who's never been here before. So you pick."

"Which way is the right way?" I secretly wondered if he was tricking me. If one trail was full of steep climbs or muddy slopes. If one trail housed bears and lions and snakes. Was this a test? Should I already know the answer?

"There is no wrong way."

"But which way is RIGHT?" I was sure he was tricking me. He leaned forward, earnestness filling his eyes.

"Seriously, my love. You want to get to the next summit? Both of these trails will take you there. Both are beautiful in their own way. Let's go. Come on. I want you to decide this one."

I took a deep breath and took a step to the right. A few more steps and I was pretty sure I'd made up my mind. Why was this decision so hard? Why, after this whole journey, would he let me pick now? I just wanted to be told which way to go. I'd go that way, as long as he said so.

But no. There he was. Waiting on me. And I didn't trust him.

I stopped at the trailhead and peered through the foliage. The pit in my stomach wouldn't dissolve. The peace I was so used to feeling when I knew he was in the lead was gone... fear loomed over my head like a cloud.

I was making too big of a deal about this.

He was being patient with me, however, and he had followed me to the right just like he said he would. Maybe it really didn't matter? He had said both ways were beautiful. He'd seen them before.

He just wanted to go with me this time. Experience it with me.

As I looked over my shoulder I watched the light pass over the other trailhead. Casting beams of light on the sparse grass and pebbles. Faintly, ever so faintly, I heard a waterfall rushing in the distance.

"I changed my mind."

The words came over before I'd really realized they were true.

"Alright then." He smiled at me. Reaching out, he cupped my face in his hands. "There's nothing to be afraid of, you know that right?"

And I knew that then.

"Which way?" He asked as he turned around on his heels.

"That way," I pointed toward the left. Toward the sound of the waterfall.

"Let's go that way then!" He said excitedly. "You're going to love this - really, I'm so glad we're doing this together."

My Prayer

Put me where You want me.
To do the work I was created to do.
To be an extension of Your arm.

Reluctantly today I ask You would remind me I am nothing without You.
I don't like to be reminded of this, but I know I will get in my own way.
I will stumble and trip over my own feet if I let myself get ahead of You.

What I am, who I am, the Spirit residing in me is connecting with the Spirit who resides in the world.
Collision.

My perfect life is a messy one.
The one You want for me is a glorious mess.
But that is what You do. Your trademark. Making beauty from messes.

I am called to simplicity.
To diversity.
To chaos.

You have burned on my heart a calling to get in the way.
You have given me a rough edge.
And evolved in me a compassionate heart.

Teach me to be who I am.
To give, to love, to pray.
And nothing more.

To be content with who I am in You.
To not put on airs. (1pet.5:6)
To seek your guidance about where to put each foot.

May I worship You with my life.
To carry Your light to the darkness,
making a life out of remembering the forgotten.

This is not about me.
It is not about the ghetto.
This is not about the suburbs.

This is not about evangelism.
It is not about religion.
This is not about doctrine or denomination.

Forget authority.
Disregard so-called superiority.
Nevermind.

This is about love.
"If I give everything I have to the poor, but do not love, then I've gotten nowhere," (1Cor13)
This is about Who loves us.

So put me where You want me.
To do the work You set aside for me to do.
May my hands and heart and words be an extension of Yours.

For I do not carry You anywhere.
I do not take You to the dark places.
I do not introduce You to the emptiness.

You are already there.
Hovering over the deep.
Waiting, from time to time, for us to make a formal introduction.

May our hearts break as Yours does.
Remind us what matters.
What counts as worthy in Your eyes.

Not commending.
Not importance.
Not attention.

Love.

Go ahead of us.
May we walk in Your footprints.
Be patient with us as we learn to love like You do.

May we learn what may be the harder lesson.
To accept Your love for us.
And to sink deep in the shadow of Your wing.

His Character

I can't hear right now.

I am straining ... cupping my hand around my ear. Come again?

I ask a question and all I hear is its echo.

I am filled with new desires and have been presented with new opportunities. I have been handed new responsibilities. And something inside of me has radically changed.

I am transitioning out of a season where God was vocal. He was blatant, tangible and hilariously obvious.

I am fighting in a way I have never fought before. Sensing this transition, I am filled with dread. The last time this happened, I felt so lost. The last time I began an ascent like this - trails and unmarked paths that took my breath and broke my body - I did all but lose faith. So I sense the way getting harder. I recognize the traits of a strenuous climb and I feel my fear rising.

But I am reminded.

I am not who I was.

I have been dramatically transformed. My roots have dug deeper, spread wider. I am more familiar with the face of the Lord, and my identity is more intertwined with His will than ever before.

So if the Father is choosing to be quiet right now, it is not because He is absent. It is either because I am being too loud, or because He knows I know Him well enough to follow Him regardless. To pursue where He has been.

Oh that I would be so familiar with His character that I would know how to live, how to move, even when my proverbial senses are impaired.

I have so much more to learn. The closer I draw to Him, the more I realize this. But without condemnation -- simply with an increasing desire to be more like Him, to know Him better.

One of the things I have learned is just how vulnerable we can be in a season like this. Satan prowls around like a lion, waiting to attack us in moments just like these. When we are so susceptible to our insecurities, when we so easily could give way to our weaknesses.

So I will be vigilant in calling the enemy out on his tactics. Recognizing his work and rebuking it. Understanding that all our extreme emotions are not prodded by him.... but the ones which attack, the ones that tear down, are his way to gain ground in our lives.

I hate being wrong. But just like before, I am beginning to realize that God uses my best laid plans to get me where I need to be. Whether to distract me, or to get me to take the needed steps ... He has never left me or forsaken me. And despite my attempts to always do right, be right, or sound right ... His will always prevails.

Because despite it all... that is my desire.

To be right in the middle of His will.

To be washed out with the tide - washed clean and rubbed smooth.

And even when I cannot hear, even when I cannot see, even when I really have no clue where I am going or what comes next...

I know my Father.

And oh, though I cannot hear You, I love you.
Though I cannot see you, I trust You.
All my heart desires is to be near to You again...
to rest in the shadow of Your wings.
To be swept away by the wind,
I want Your voice to ring in my ears.
My fingers to tingle with Your power.
Come close, come quickly.
May my prayers rise to you as incense...
Quiet me with Your love.
Reward my seeking with finding.
My knocking with answering.
Come, ready with a response, if not an answer.
In the middle of chaos, transcend with Your peace.
Kingdom, come.

Get In the Way

I want to save the world. I want to give them vitamins and work on their grammar and give them a place to play basketball. I want to hand them hiking shoes and a Bible. I hold him as he sleeps, praying over him, hoping his life will be anointed. And that the cycle will stop here. I watch her buy groceries, wondering how many nights a week she eats by herself and I want to draw her into community.

I don't want to give them things. I don't want to supply the world with what it wants... with stuff to crowd the corners and load the shelves.

If anything, I want to strip it all away.

I do want them to have what they need.

Everything from a hand to hold to clean diapers to hope.

But I find myself seeing ways to help, and I hear myself, reminding myself I cannot change anything.

I want to save the world.

I want to break the cycle.

I want to cure loneliness and resolve anger and end poverty.

I want people to think for themselves. I want people to use lots and lots of energy. I want people to learn and people to make things and people to love each other.

I am an idealist.

I might be naive.

I was raised to believe in the micro-evolution of the human psyche.

Layman's terms? People don't change. Not really. Not significantly.

-

Can I tell you a secret?

I honestly believe we can break the cycle.

By recognizing needs and meeting them.

By identifying gifts and building on them.

By loving.

By expecting more from each other.

By respecting one another.

-

So naive.

-

But not so naive to think I could do it alone.

Not so naive that I don't see what is bad, what is ugly, what is stubborn, what is dangerous.

Not so naive that I expect change to look like I think it will.

-

Because here's the deal.

People don't want to change.

People want different lives. People want to be different. People want more of this and less of that. They want what you have. And they want to give that away.

But people don't want to change.

I'm not just talking about them... those people you see but don't identify with. Those strangers you know are unhappy. That minority you judge. The statistic you scorn.

You don't want to change either.

And neither do I. Not really.

-

So let's hope the world doesn't give up on you... the next time you grow stagnant and fall into unhealthy behavior or are brokenhearted.

Because people can change.

I've seen it happen.

We just don't want to.

-

So. You be change.

Because, where we all get confused, is in thinking we can change others.

Which we cannot do. No matter how hard we try.

No matter how many buckets of food, how many counseling sessions, how many softball leagues, how many cups of coffee ...

What we do doesn't change people.

What we do doesn't save people.

But people are watching you, and you are full of the power of the One who can cause change. A power, which manifests itself as Love.

And Love gets people's attention.

-

So I will spend my life taking the Light I possess one step further.

I will love people who will never love me back. And I'll not want to do that sometimes.

I will be a vessel.

Stir the pot.

Rock the boat.

Get in the way.

-

That is my calling.

To be an empty vessel, filled with the power and love that belongs to the only One who can save the world.

Season of Singing

Feels like just yesterday the ground was frozen and the trees were bare.

Like we were counting the days until spring, measuring shadows, and cursing groundhogs.

We were dreaming of warm weather and of sunshine and flipflops.

Spring symbolized hope and new life for us - a chance to come alive again.

And then the snow and ice began to melt. Something we cannot really explain began to thaw the ground under our feet. You could smell change in the air.

We anticipated this change. Yearned for it. This blessing, come in the form of a new season.

So why is it...

that it wasn't really until today that I noticed the green leaves on the trees?

Not that I hadn't enjoyed the warm breezes and the sun on my face.

Not that I hadn't called it spring - worn skirts and gone barefoot and played outside.

But I just hadn't noticed.

And I realize how often this happens. That we sense a need for change. We anticipate change. What we are, who we are, is barren and cold and hibernating.

We want to be shaken. We want to be warm. We want to be alive.

And He begins a work in us. Thawing our hearts. Pushing through our dirt and spreading roots.

We change.

Even if we don't notice right away.

We are different. We are new. And even though the process is slow, steady, and not at all painless... we don't even notice.

Until one day, we see a brand new picture. A horizon, which has been radically transformed.

What was cold and sleeping is now warm and thriving.

We have been touched by the Creator. Awakened.

Take a look... pay attention... He is doing a work in you, whether you notice at first glance or not.

You are being made new.

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land."

Retracing My Steps

Thank God we change, that we do not become who we want to be.
That we do not pick our destiny at a young age and barrel ahead with a single agenda and no chance to alter our course.
Motivation moves us forward.
Free will is the mother of our failure.
Love redeems us.

One day, surrender will perfect us.

Sometimes I try and retrace my steps. How did I get here... to this moment? What brought me this far, in this direction, through those trials... ultimately to end up here.

How did I become... me?

Many people in my life today don't know who I used to be.

The little girl who was terrified of new places and of strangers,

Who never held a baby, for fear of breaking them,

Who would rather lay on the bed and read a book than spend any time outside,

Who wanted to grow up and open a coffee shop and write books about people who took grand adventures...

-

I walked into their front yard last night without a second thought. The porch light was on and light glinted against the windchimes hanging from their roof. I could hear them yelling inside. The sound of feet pounding on the floor in the hallway... then the storm door being thrown open... then hollow footsteps on the porch.

He threw himself into my arms.

His eyes were wide and bright. He told me his name, then spelled his name, and announced he was seventy-two years old. He played with my hair as he talked to me, sometimes reaching up and touching my face.

Really... he was six. Too big to be held in my arms the way I was. But it didn't matter.

They led me inside and handed me the baby. One month old, he was still sleeping. I pulled him close and they handed me a bottle and walked away. Suddenly... I was by myself. Standing in the hallway of a strange house, with pitbulls scratching at the bedroom door, and an army of people unloading a truck outside.

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So many moments add up to make our lives.

Moments take us by surprise and transform us.

When we least expect it, we are stretched. We turn in a new direction. Scales fall from our eyes.

We discover potential we never knew we had.

We learn how to love.

That babies don't break easily.

We learn how to pray.

And what it feels like to have dirty feet.

-

I did not grow up to be who I wanted to be.

And I will not end up who I am right now.

But there is a whisper I can hear... that suggests I was made for this life.

For adventures and babies and dirty feet.

I retrace my steps... realizing that every one was taken to lead me here.

And every one I take from here on out will be taken to get me there.

Toward becoming who I was created to be.

No time wasted.