Greshniku

It seems most girls have at least a few dreams about what their weddings will look like, and some have the whole thing planned out years before the actual groom shows up. I, however, never wanted a wedding.

I’ve been saying for 10 years that I hated the idea of a wedding. I couldn’t think of anything worse than having to plan centerpieces and color schemes and flower arrangements. And it wasn’t just all the details that I was against. You spend a small fortune, mostly on things you can’t ever use again. Even the most mellow, relaxed women turn tense and overwhelmed, if not downright needy, mean, and controlling. And at the end of it all, you’re too exhausted to remember much of the day, and no one else even cares about all those details you killed yourself to create.

That was my argument, and I believed it completely. Heck, I still believe it. I still believe that if I were to do things exactly the way I wanted them, the only person I’d invite is JC. And maybe whatever pastor had to be there to make things official. And there wouldn’t be any decorations, dancing, flowers or guests. And I wouldn’t regret it for a minute.

Except, I’m marrying this rather astounding fellow who happens to love details. He loves celebrations and elaborate plans and immaculate parties. And we have all these people in our lives who love us and have been hoping and praying for this day all our lives. And we have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to use this beautiful campus and our humble testimonies to offer our friends and family the chance to experience God in a new way.

So, next weekend, we’re having this huge wedding. And I have been overwhelmed by details. I have thrown tiny fits about having to spend money on things that we’ll never use again. I hate to admit that there have even been moments where I’ve been needy and mean and controlling. But I’ve also had fun. I’ve learned a lot about myself and about JC and about who we are together. I’ve been humbled as others have gotten excited and involved. I’ve seen God providing for us and celebrating with us and asking more of us.

As I stare at a long list of details still to be addressed before the wedding, I can’t help but feel grateful. I’m thankful for a fiancé who reminds me that not everything is about me – but who fights for me as if it were. I’m grateful for all of the friends and family who have selflessly served and assisted us. I am humbled by all of those sacrificing their time and money to travel here in order to see us for just a few hours.

This isn’t what I envisioned. And it’s probably not the wedding JC would have wanted if it were all up to him, either. (I’m still not sure how I talked my city-loving fiancé into a rugged wedding in the woods…) But it’s this beautiful expression of what we create together. And the people who have been looking for this day get to celebrate with us, too. And we get to gather them all together in one place and tell them that everything we do is because of Jesus.

When I think of all those things, I’m glad I didn’t get my way.

I almost never watch the news, and that’s kind of an understatement. I can only think of one time in the last few months when I watched the news. And I only watched it then because it was what was on TV when I was feeling bored and distracted in a coffee shop where my fiance was dutifully designing wedding invitations.

Generally, I feel kind of guilty about this, because I think that people should watch the news. I think we should pursue balanced information about what’s going on in the world and how decisions we make have global repercussions. I think we should know who the international decision-makers are, and what decisions they are making. I feel like it’s a human responsibility.

Beyond this, I also work for an organization that has most of its members living internationally, and it is directly beneficial to my effectiveness in ministry to be aware of the political, social, economic, and physical conditions around the world.

And yet, I tend to avoid the news, both intentionally and incidentally. For one thing, I own a television, but not one connected to any channels. I mostly use it to rewatch episodes of Alias. And I store stuff on top of it sometimes. It’s not providing me a lot of access to the outside world.

But I could get the news in other ways if I really wanted to. But the simple truth is, it’s exhausting to care about everything. And I can’t watch the news without a small part of me (or an obsessive part of me) getting invested. I get interested and then I feel the need to keep pursing the story.

For instance, when I was watching the news out of sheer boredom at the coffee shop, it was about the boy in Ohio who killed three of his classmates. After watching the coverage, I actively researched follow-up stories, I created speeches around the difficulty of accurate journalism in a competitive need-information-this-instant environment, and I gave a heated spiel about how worthless and misleading the scrolling bars on news channels are. I also read several spin-off stories about bullying and social media’s role in gossip and hysteria.

See? Exhausting. I’m tired just typing about it all. And that was only one news story! Thank goodness there was nothing else going on that day.

To add to all of this, I accidentally discovered the public radio station in Louisville. I discovered this because I completely hate the commercials on Christian radio, and one day it seemed that all three of Louisville’s Christian stations were on a permanent commercial marathon. In an attempt to find anything else (I was even willing to listen to country), I stumbled across the familiar voice of Ira Glass and stopped to bask in his American Life. And then I left my radio there.

So now, when I drive to and from work, I hear a half hour of news each way. I admit, NPR hardly produces unbiased news reports. I’ve heard plenty of subtle (or sharp) shots at Christians, Christianity, conservatives and morality in general. But with the right mental filter, these stories are still revealing little pieces of the world that I’ve been stubbornly resisting, because I didn’t want to have to care.

And I’m kind of hooked. I want to know about the world I’m living in, even though it means I have to get involved. I’m still getting a little obsessed – researching more sides to the stories I hear each day, giving more and more of my attention the the state of the world. And even though it’s exhausting to care, it’s also exhilarating. Each story provides a little more insight into my prayers for the nations. Each interview puts a name and a voice with someone whose life looks nothing like mine – yet exactly the same. Each opinion challenges me to evaluate what I actually think.

The really surprising part of all this is that I feel the need to confess and repent. I confess that I was acting in a manner contrary to my belief about our involvement in the world, simply to avoid the responsibility that comes with knowledge. And I am trying to repent. I’m trying to be selfless enough to let the messy world into my safe existence – even if it’s only for half an hour at a time.

Today I was reading the blogs of some of our workers, and I wondered how long it had been since I’d updated my own outlet for public attention. Well, so, the last time I wrote anything on here, it was September. Huh. It’s weird, too, because a LOT has happened since September. I was in a wreck and bought a new car. I went to the missionary convention in Atlanta. I placed membership at a giant church. I spent Thanksgiving in Kansas. I didn’t go home to Kansas for Christmas for the first time in my life. I taught two sessions to new missionary candidates. I read a lot of newsletters.

Oh, yeah, and I got engaged. You know those people who are all sane and normal and suddenly get engaged and all they can talk about is wedding and fiance stuff? Apparently I’m one of those folks. I’m not afraid to admit that most of my conversations, reflections, emotional and physical energy, and spare time circles around this rather fantastic fellow who wants to marry me. In addition to this, I’m still trying to focus as much as possible on work and ministry, my other friendships, Bible studies, our house group, service, prayer, and sleep. There simply isn’t enough time to write everything down in a blog.

But just so you know I’m alive – here’s a story I wrote early on in our dating relationship that shows a little bit about the quality and character of my best friend and future husband:

My Kind of Hero
I think I expected to be in an elaborate, flowing dress. There would be flowers tucked in my hair, and my eyes would be bright with joy and affection.  I would be resplendent, a glorious creature of virtue and beauty. I expected to look like one of those immaculate princesses in all the books and movies – like someone worth fighting for.

That’s how I thought I would look the day I discovered my hero.

I certainly wasn’t supposed to be in sweatpants, half-worthless from the flu. My nose wasn’t supposed to be stuffed up and my head was only supposed to be spinning from all the love, not from an invading virus. I didn’t expect to be shivering and sweating in turn, only capable of sitting up in small doses, and hilariously incoherent from the combination of deep sleep and medication.

And this hero. He was supposed to show up on a horse, sword drawn, hair waving in the breeze. I expected him to come in with all his manly strength and courage, challenging the world in defense of my honor and in pursuit of my delicate beauty.  With pure might and muscle, he would intimidate all of our enemies. He might even have a cape.

He would give a speech. I would swoon. The world would tremble.

Instead, he slipped in quietly and felt my forehead. He brought tea and fixed me soup. He crawled right in with me and my company of germs, and he read to me while I slipped in and out of consciousness, one of his hands gently resting on my back.

He didn’t bring a sword. He didn’t bring a cape. He didn’t bring any glory to his might or power. He brought gentleness and compassion and a desire to be near me. He brought me value, and he brought me tea.

Looking up through bleary eyes, I saw this amazing man – reading me a story, checking my temperature, choosing to be with me in all my infamous misery rather than anywhere else. And I decided in that moment that all the books and movies are pointing toward the wrong kind of hero.

And then I thought of another Hero – another who came to us not in our beauty and glory, but in our weakness and shame.  Another who came without a sword. Another who choose to be near us in all of our mess. I thought of this Hero, who sees all of our germs and ugliness, and crawls in next to us and tells us a Story.

And that seems like a Hero worth having.

Last week, I found myself walking through the prayer trails at Emerald Hills, crying like I have not cried in a long time.

My heart was too full to even pray with any sense of discernable clarity. I was overwhelmed with joy and sadness, relief and grief, peace and anxiety.

Half an hour before, I’d read a report from one of our single workers in northern Africa. With astonishing grace, transparency, and gentleness, she had explained a recent life-changing event.

She’d been walking through town to her language lesson when a man had started tugging on her arm, trying to prompt her into a side street. When she resisted, he showed her the knife in his other hand. She began yelling for help, but none came. He pulled on her purse, which broke. The force pushed her to the ground, causing great damage to her teeth and mouth. The man left, without succeeding in getting her into a side street or taking her purse.

Another man approached her on the street, helped her up, got water to clean the blood and dirt from her face, and escorted her to the safety of her friend’s house.

With utmost gratitude, the worker explained how the terrifying and terrible situation was already resulting in amazing good. Her teammates and the local believers had rallied around her in overwhelming ways. National aquaintences were reaching out to her in sadness and true grief for what she’d experienced. She’d felt peace and comfort from God, and assurance of His call on her life. She knew with certainty that, even in this, God was still working for good.

The story, told in her soft way, was already enough to affect my heart and emotions. But the reality was even more overwhelming. This was not a remote worker in a remote place, it was my friend in a country I visited this year.

Only a few months ago, I was sitting with this friend in her home. We put furniture together and talked about guys and God and the unexpected turns in life. We walked through the very streets of her story, greeting her neighbors and local shopkeepers. This was someone I respect and enjoy.

And so her story became an obtrusive reality in my world.

Several things naturally happen to me over time because of my job. One is that I become very close friends with some of our missionaries, and thus have people all over the world about whom I care deeply.

Another thing that happens is that my view of the world tends to look different. My day is saturated with stories of the extraordinary, and so tales of extreme joy, grief, struggle, oppression, victory and hope become ordinary in my life.

And I start to forget how individual and powerful those stories are. And I start to assume that my friends in these varied places are living very safe, normal lives.

When I read my friend’s story, I was forced to remember the reality. People I love are willingly living in situations that could cost them everything. And they are doing it because of the love of a Savior and the hope found in His Name.

I walked through the woods, crying because of what could have happened, but didn’t. I cried because I was so thankful for the protection God had provided that day. And I cried because I knew that even if he hadn’t protected her, He was still sovereign and people would still need His salvation. I cried for the beautiful, selfless people who count the cost, weigh their options, and then choose to follow Him into uncertain places to declare His Name. I cried for a world of lost and broken people – like the man who harmed my friend. And for brave and gentle people – like the man who helped her. I cried for the world God so loved, and I cried because He’s big enough to redeem it.

And then I came back to my desk, thankful for the chance to see the stories. Thankful for the chance to contribute my own.

Her shaved head was tanned as deeply as her weathered face, so that her blue eyes were all the more prominent. As she walked around the coffee shop, clinging protectively to a variety of bags and possessions, she mumbled gently to herself, as if comforting a broken bird.

The collection of late-afternoon coffeeshop personalities registered her presence with a glance and a shift, but she mostly drifted through the room unacknowledged. She didn’t even try to order from the counter, contenting herself with surveying the wall of coffees and art. She hovered for a long time, no doubt escaping the oppressive July heat.

As she floated patiently around the room, I watched from my table on the periphery. As she walked past me toward the exit, I moved the apathy and anxiety out of my way and stood up to follow her. Catching up in a few quick steps, I placed my hand tentatively on her shoulder and let my words tumble out on top of each other.

“CanIbuyyousomethingtodrink? Or eat? Let me get you something.”

Her blue eyes sparkled at the sudden acknowledgement, as if she’d been invisible so long that even she was startled to find out she actually existed. She looked at me kindly, her eyes lending me the courage I needed to be this far outside my comfort zone and thrust so immediately into hers.

She began speaking slowly, conspiratorially. She told me about the bookstore that had paid millions of dollars to have the world’s rotation disrupted. She told me about the drugs forced into children to get them to be happy in the summer. She told me about the weeks of her life that she couldn’t recollect, and how she’d gone looking for them.

While she whispered these secrets, trusting me implicitly with her treasures, I noticed the clothes hanging from her small frame only by the grace of safety pins. I noticed the subtle odor of inattention. I noticed the discoloration at the base of most of her teeth. And I noticed the gorgeous blue eyes that were fixed so purposefully on my own, begging me to understand with each slow blink.

I listened as she shared, commenting occasionally despite the madness, offering what little validity I could. Then it was like she’d been carrying these burdens for so long that she exerted exactly the energy necessary to transfer them to someone else, and then she was exhausted.

I repeated my offer to buy her a coffee or juice, which she gently refused before patting me on the arm, and walking out the door.

As I sat back down, I couldn’t shake the bizarre reality of what had just happened. I’d intended to give to her, and she’d walked out of the store confident that she’d given to me.

I’m not so sure she was wrong.

A Preface

I am almost certain that it is impossible to overstate how much I love camp. I really love camp. And it doesn’t even make sense, because camp in its tangibles is terrible. Sweltering heat with little relief. Disastrous showers. Long days and little sleep. A permanent cloud of mosquitoes. All manner of critters – most alarmingly, the variety of man-eating snakes. Lots and lots and lots of drama and emotion.

But the things you can’t measure or explain are what make camp beautiful. New friendships. Shared experiences. Softer hearts. Unexpected openness and courageous vulnerability. Broader worldviews. A clarity of value and more confident security. Re-alignment. Restoration. Resolve.

These are the reasons I go back to camp year after year. I get to experience these same things in new ways every time I go. And it’s always worth it. But this year, I got to experience something beyond my love for camp and my love for those kids – something bigger than all that camp had given me before.

A Confession

Originally, it was just a way to fill time. I was excited to be the missionary at camp, more because it gave me a chance to be at camp than because I wanted to give daily spiels. I love missions and am constantly amazed that this is my job, but if given the option, I would certainly never choose to stand in front of a room full of people for a week in a public-speaking capacity. So, naturally, I cheated.

I very strategically decided that after giving a condensed depiction of my job, my organization, and global missions in general, I would focus each day’s energy on explaining the major blocs of unreached people. (THUMB. Tribal, Hindu, Unreligious, Muslim, Buddhist.) And after an overview, we’d pray. This is how I cheated. Praying takes time away from talking – takes time away from the time I have to stand up front with everyone watching and judging. Praying. Genius.

I need to explain that I absolutely love and believe in the power of prayer. I believe Team Expansion’s foundation in and pursuit of prayer set it apart as an organization. I do not trivialize prayer. But I planned it into my presentations knowing full well that it was partly to fill up my generous allotment of time.

I was unprepared for the impact I would experience.

A Moment

The first day, when we talked about Tribal and Hindu people, I had everyone get into groups of 5-8 people. And then I explained to them that in the places where Tribal and Hindu people live, there is a lot of noise. Huge populations. Chaos. And so, I concluded, we were going to pray with a recognition that in noise and crowds, God sees individual hearts and hears personal prayers. We were all going to pray aloud, at the same time, and let God sort out the noise.

And we were going to pray for unreached people. We were going to pray for workers in those places, for courage and boldness among the Believers, and for the individual hearts and lives of people we’d never meet.

A perfect teaching moment, right?

As the audible prayers of 60 campers filled the stain-glassed chapel in the middle of wheat fields in Kansas, I stood at the front and cried. Because I suddenly remembered the truth of what I was teaching them.  I wasn’t just filling time in a daily presentation, I was watching teenagers do the actual work of the Kingdom. I remembered that right there in that room, we were changing the world for millions of people.

And if no other good thing ever came out of camp, at least there was that.

Stranded. No money. No suitcase. No way to communicate.

This is how I found myself in Istanbul. It was like something from a movie, except in movies the actors have a script that tells them how it’s all going to work out. I didn’t have that luxury.

Even in the situation, the irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d been saying for weeks that this was the only thing I was worried about. I was not at all concerned about spending a week in a revolution-torn Muslim country in northern African. And I couldn’t wait to experience life in a politically volatile country near the Middle East. But I was worried about the flights that would take me from one to the other.

And here I was, stranded between them.

Being crazy, I’d also gone on this very passionate tirade about how I was tired of praying for safe travels and smooth sailing. “How is God glorified in those situations? I think He gets more glory when everything goes wrong!” Famous last words.

My flight from North Africa had taken its sweet time arriving, getting me to Istanbul nearly an hour later than it was supposed to. My layover was already only an hour and a half. I might have still made my connecting flight if Istanbul’s airport hadn’t been designed by the cruelest, most incompetent sadist in the history of the world.

From the moment I stepped off the plane, every sign pointed in one direction – toward the congested line of weary travelers heading into Turkey. I instinctively felt that this wasn’t where I wanted to go. I didn’t want to go IN to Turkey, I just wanted to pass through its periphery and on to my next destination. But, seriously, every sign pointed one way. So I stood in line, anxiously watching minutes pass. The travelers around me assured me that I was, in fact, in the right line. I wasn’t so sure, but I had no other choice.

Finally, when I got to the angry passport-stamping guard, I was ready to break into a sprint to get to my next gate. But he gruffly assured me that I was in the wrong line and waved me away. There was no hope of catching my flight.

I stumbled in shock and frustration to another gate, where I spent 20 minutes trying to convince the customer service guy that my plane had, in fact, been late. And even if it hadn’t been late, I still needed to get another flight. I resisted mentioning the sadist who had designed the airport. Finally, he printed me a ticket for the next flight – three hours later. I had been more than a little scared that I’d have to spend the night in the airport, so this was a relief.

I walked away from the counter with my new ticket and a whole new set of problems. I didn’t have my computer or a phone with international service. I had no way of contacting the workers who were picking me up. I also was fairly confident I would never see my suitcase again. They had told us on the flight that we would need to retrieve any checked bags in Istanbul and take them through customs before rechecking them for the next destination. The place to retrieve your bags was through that gate I wasn’t allowed to enter.

To make matters worse, my Visa card that I had been so diligent to call the bank about before my trip absolutely refused to work in the airport. The disinterested girl behind the register tossed it back to me stating simply, “Your card is blocked.” After paying for my overpriced, greasy airport food, I had about 3 Euros at my disposal and no way of getting anything more.

And I still hadn’t thought of a way to communicate with the rest of the world. Finally, I started wandering through the airport, praying desperately for some English-speaking, computer-wielding businessman who would let me use his Internet. There was one guy in the whole food court area with an open laptop. He was clearly Arab, but was wearing a suit and playing around on facebook.

I decided to try my luck. In my very most damsel-in-distress voice, I asked if he spoke English. He looked a little surprised, but assured me he did. And then I turned the girl voice up a notch and explained my situation as briefly as pathetically as I could (while still trying to sound like someone who normally has it all together). He happily slid his computer toward me while chatting in whatever language they speak in Jordan on the phone about the crazy (and, of course, charming and beautiful) American girl he was getting to rescue.

I quickly shot an email to my office begging them to contact the workers I was trying to visit. I told them as much of the plan as I knew, and I said a prayer that things would work out.

For the next few hours, I wandered around the airport thinking of a million scenarios. Would my office get the email? Would they be able to reach the other workers? What would I do if I got there and no one was there? What was I going to do about money? All of these thoughts were mixed in with prayers, like when outside noise is woven into your dreams. I distinctly remember praying, You know, God, a lot of people are praying about this day, so You’re going to look pretty bad if You don’t do something.

Finally, late at night, I was able to board my plane and fly the short distance to my destination. During the flight, I came to terms with the fact that I would likely never see my suitcase again.  Who needs clothes, anyway? And I decided that if no one was there, I’d just get comfortable on a bench until the next day and figure out my next steps the next day.

When I landed, I wasn’t even going to look for my suitcase. There was no reason it should be there. As I walked past the conveyer belt, I happened to look up just in time to see it sitting there, just smiling at me. Now You’re just showing off, God.

I scooped up my waiting suitcase and nearly skipped out to the waiting area. The workers, looking as tired as I felt, were smiling eagerly at me. They’d gotten the message – though a little later than was ideal, and were only too happy to finally meet me.

And all of a sudden, my Visa card was working perfectly again, as if we’d never had the little incident in Istanbul. (I found out later that Visa has blocked transactions with Turkey because it is considered too corrupt – information that would have been extremely useful to know when I called them to tell them where I’d be traveling…!)

Suddenly, I was welcomed. I had money. I had my suitcase. I was saturated in communication. A few hours before, everything had been in line for many seemingly unavoidable disasters. I could see no way to get through the situation unscathed. By the time I went to bed, all of my potential problems had dissolved into nothingness.

And as I fell asleep, I thought about that tirade I’d gone on about God being glorified in disaster. And it was so true! Because I’d been almost prophetically worried about that leg of my journey, I’d recruited a small army of people to pray on that one day. And now I was going to get to come home and tell them just how important those prayers had been. I wasn’t going to go home and say, “My travel was uneventful.” I got to say, “Everything went wrong, and then God amazingly fixed it all.”

But next time, I’m still taking more Euros, just in case.

Preparation. Planning for what’s to come, hoping to create an outcome. It’s valuable and necessary. It helps us control small pieces of our world at a time. But it’s also a tricky concept, because of the unknown.

I feel like I became personal friends with preparation over the last few months. Tomorrow, I will get on a plane for a two-week adventure to northern Africa and the Middle East. For months, I’ve researched countries and cultures. I’ve contacted and coordinated internationally with several teams. I’ve compared flight prices and travel costs. I’ve briefed teammates, churches, and supporters. I’ve monitored government action and security concerns. I’ve asked all the questions I could think to ask. I’ve packed culturally sensitive clothes. I’ve even learned a smattering of potentially useful Arabic phrases.

And yet, all of my planning cannot truly prepare me for what might happen. All of my flights could be disastrous. All of my research could be wrong. The whole plan could change the moment I step off the plane. There’s always the danger of the unknown.

But in some ways, I’ve spent a lot more than just a few months preparing for that very danger. If everything goes wrong – if I face obstacles and situations beyond my darkest dreams, I’m prepared by something deeper than travel insurance and emergency contact numbers.

Every minute I’ve spent in the presence of God has been preparation. Every prayer I’ve whispered, every sermon I’ve heard, every song I’ve offered, every verse I’ve read. All of these things have been preparing me for a life lived with God. In that life, I don’t always know what’s going to happen, and sometimes I simply don’t get access to what’s going on, but I always know that God is good. He is competent. He is sovereign.

Faith. Being sure of what I hope for. Certain of what I do not see.

I’d say I’m ready to go.

It’s official. Well, nearly.

Prayers were prayed. Theories were discussed. Fields were contacted. Dates were suggested. Prayers were prayed. Travel agents were recruited. Prices were quoted. Travel agents were badgered. New prices were quoted. Decision-makers/breakers were informed. Prayers were prayed. Plans were approved. Funding was promised. Battered travel agents were assured. Tickets were requested.

Pending unforeseen disasters, it looks like I’m using the last half of April to visit two fields, each a million miles outside of my comfort zone.

For the first week of my journey, two friends will travel with me in North Africa, where we’ll meet with a team of people who are watching God move in unprecedented ways in their country. After a week with these folks, my friends will fly back to their family in Kansas, and I’ll continue on to a tiny country in the Middle East alone. There, I’ll meet up with another team and spend a week listening to and learning from them. I’ll spend Easter in this Islamic country, experiencing in a new way the sacrifice and salvation of Jesus.

As the details for this trip come together, I continually experience polar emotions simultaneously. I’m intensely excited and perpetually panicked. I’m overwhelmed by the details and short timeline, while thrilled by the challenge and timing. I want to dance in the streets, but also hide in the closet. This might be the scariest – and most amazing – thing I’ve done.

But mostly what I feel is humility.

I am already so blessed and challenged by the selfless teams I get to visit. They are willing to share their lives, with all of their joys, fears, insecurities and victories, with me. And they’re letting me print what I learn! I am asking them to be far more fearless and open than I would want to be. I feel a deep sense of gratitude and an eagerness to accurately represent them with the stories I write. God is trusting them with His work in these places, and I am humbled to be trusted with their stories.

I am also humbled by the support of my church in Kansas. I could barely believe it when two members wanted to come with me. It was a complete shock when the church generously stepped up to support all three of us. This is a church to belong to. They constantly amaze me with their love, encouragement, support and prayers. What a beautiful humility I am learning from this church.

The next few weeks will involve a lot of balance. I’ll balance technical details with emotional preparations. I’ll balance my all-consuming excitement with the physical realities I’ll be encountering. I’ll balance my fear with the truth of God’s provision. And I’ll pray. I will pray until every detail of the trip is saturated in God’s Spirit and will.

And then I’ll get on a plane and fly to Africa.

Swing dancing is a lot like life – especially Christian life. Every time I dance, and every time I think about what it takes, the metaphors overwhelm me.

For instance, I’ve learned a lot about what a man should be by learning what a lead should be. The lead is the one who really has to know the steps for the dance, and he has to know how to clearly communicate his plan. The lead’s job is to protect and guide his partner. He has to be aware of the dangers and obstacles around them. To be a lead is to be responsible. A good lead is strong, but gentle. He’s clear in his directions, but gracious in mistakes. He doesn’t dwell on errors, but keeps moving forward. A good lead is also extremely respectful of the girl he’s guiding. If she’s uncomfortable with anything he says or does, the dance is spoiled for both of them. He has to be in control in the most non-threatening way possible. The lead calls the shots, but the goal is for his partner’s glory – for her to look her best.

On the other hand, the follow has to learn to trust. She has to learn to obey. The follow has to know how to receive and react to the lead’s control. As I follow, I have to give up my tendency to direct my own feet and rely on the lead’s choice of movement. Often, I have to sacrifice what I think I know about my own abilities and trust what the lead knows I can do. I regularly complete a spin or a step that I had no idea how to do, and that I couldn’t do again without him guiding me. The follow brings more than trust to the dance, though. She brings the flare and the beauty. We celebrate with our smiles when a spin is executed perfectly. The swish of our skirts adds fluidity and grace to the motion.  By trusting her lead, the follow gets the glory and attention of the dance.

Clearly, these lessons relate to real life in amazing ways. My standards for men have increased, while my willingness to be vulnerable and self-sacrificing has also changed. Dancing has affected how I interact with the people around me. But it has also challenged how I interact with God.

Last night, I returned to the swing scene after many months of absence. I figured I’d be a little rusty, but that within a dance or two I’d be right back where I had been. The skills I needed hadn’t changed, so I assumed I could just snap into “follow mode” and be fine. But I soon realized that it takes regular practice to follow.

It’s not easy to surrender my will and trust someone else’s. It’s not easy to ease back into the right steps and rhythms. It’s not easy to remember the individual promptings and style each lead uses a little differently.

So while I struggled through the evening (with exceptionally gracious leads), I kept thinking about how I follow God. I generally assume I can follow Him at my convenience. I put in the initial effort to get a general idea how following Him works, and then I go for months at a time without practicing. I forget how to trust Him. I forget how He works. I forget the ways He directs my steps.

But just like in dancing, there’s hope in knowing that the more I practice, the better the dance becomes. As I remember how to follow Him, I get more and more excited about where He’s leading me. He’s trustworthy in His steps and in His direction.

I just have to keep dancing.

What do you know about Asa? You know, the king of Judah. The great-great-grandson of David. (David – Solomon – Rehoboam – Abijah – Asa)

Before this week, I had a general idea that Asa was one of the kings in the long line of kings listed in the volatile time between David and the Babylonian exile. And I had a vague memory that Asa was one of the good ones.

It’s a pretty big deal to be one of the good kings in this list. It seems that each king was in a contest to out-evil the one before him. And Asa’s papa was no exception, which isn’t that surprising since his grandpapa had been awful, too. What is surprising is that somehow, despite the men in his life being selfish and disinterested in the Lord their God, Asa turned out OK.

Actually, he was more than OK. During his 40-year reign, he destroyed all of the altars and false gods in Judah, he restored the greatness of the temple, he watched God annihilate enemies who were threatening the country, he led a nationwide revival and returning to God among his people, and his heart was fully committed to the Lord.

In the midst of all these good things, he received a warning that turned out to be strangely prophetic:

He went out to meet Asa and said to him, “Listen to me, Asa and all Judah and Benjamin. The LORD is with you when you are with him. If you seek him, he will be found by you, but if you forsake him, he will forsake you. For a long time Israel was without the true God, without a priest to teach and without the law. But in their distress they turned to the LORD, the God of Israel, and sought him, and he was found by them… But as for you, be strong and do not give up, for your work will be rewarded.” (2 Chronicles 15:2-5, 7)

When Asa received this message, it gave him courage. He continued destroying all that was evil and detestable to God in all the towns of Judah. He even deposed his grandmother, who had built and worshiped a false god. And he gathered his countrymen and together they began a wholehearted return to their one true God.

But Asa only remembered part of this warning. Eventually, after decades of seeking God and trusting in Him alone, Asa forgot Who was protecting him. When a neighboring country mobilized to attack Judah, Asa panicked. Taking all of the gold in God’s temple treasury, he bribed another country to come to Judah’s aid. Nevermind that just a few years before, Asa had watched in amazement when God had destroyed a much larger, more threatening army. Nevermind that Asa had spent dozens of years declaring the love and power of the God of his great-great grandfather David. In the moment of decision, he turned to someone else’s strength.

Unfortunately, this was not just a split-second shift. The bribed country came through, Judah was safe, and Asa tricked himself into forgetting God. Even later, when he contracted a severe disease in his feet (uhm, gross…), the Bible says that, “even in his illness he did not seek help from the LORD, but only from the physicians.” And so Asa died.

The last few years of Asa’s life do not negate the good he did in the first 35 of his reign. He’s still listed as a king who “did what was good and right in the eyes of the Lord his God.” He still stands out as a beacon of God’s light in a string of very dark rulers. He didn’t reject or oppose God. He simply forgot Him.

I think sometimes, I see all that God is doing and I’m amazed. I’m ignited with a passion to trust Him and serve Him and rely on Him fully. And He comes through for me, over and over and over. And so I get used to it. I forget that when God shows up and moves, it’s a really big deal. Instead, it sort of becomes ordinary. And then, eventually, I forget that it’s God who’s doing it. And I think it’s me.

Asa teaches me a lesson. It’s not enough to worship God one day and assume that will carry me through the next. It’s not enough to trust Him in one big thing and then expect that event to be repeated in the future, without any more effort on my part.  I have to set my heart on God every day. I have to deliberately and specifically choose to recognize that it’s not by my might or power that the world is changed – it’s by God’s hand alone.

And that’s what I know about Asa, king of Judah, great-great grandson of David.

The situation surrounding Gateway has changed dramatically. My teammate, Amy, who was not going to be able to go unless I went with her, now has a team with the wisdom, influence, and experience to perfectly protect her. While God has opened these doors for her, He’s been simultaneously making it clear to me that my act of obedience is to now let her go without me. Below is my response to this new direction.

“I’m in.”

This is the sentence I whispered to God more than two years ago, when I finally accepted His steady invitation to full-time ministry. Whatever He wanted, I was willing to give it. Whatever He asked – wherever He required – I was in.

Since that day, He’s challenged that declaration several times.

What if you have to move away from every person who loves you?
What if you have to start over in a new city, with a new career, with a possibility of failure and loneliness?

I’m in.

What if I ask you to give up your salary and independence and personal and professional ambitions?
What if you have to sacrifice all of your dreams of how you hoped life would look?

I’m in.

What if I ask you to move to a country you’ve never considered before?
What if I take away your security, your standing, your influence, your ministry?

I’m in.

Through all of these questions, I’ve squirmed and wrestled and wiggled and ultimately, in all of these situations, I’ve recognized that God’s way is better than mine. His glory is more important than mine. His Kingdom is greater than mine. Through various levels of enthusiasm, I’ve decided to pursue the course He’s set before me. And it is always worth it.

But as I prepared emotionally, financially, physically, and spiritually to move for a year to “Gateway,” the sensitive country in southern Asia, I didn’t anticipate the questions God asked me next.

What if I don’t send you?
What if I ask you to stay?
Will you still obey when doing so seems to be opposite of what you’d agreed to? Opposite of what I’d asked you before?

As I’ve struggled to respond to these questions, I’ve taken a lot of time to sympathize with Abraham, who spent his whole life responding to God’s questions. Will you go? Will you give? Will you trust?

When Abraham answered God’s questions with trust and obedience, God was always glorified. When he decided that he needed to take control, people were hurt and God’s plans were delayed.

And so, even though I don’t always completely understand the way God’s working, I am choosing to trust Him. I am choosing to obey Him. May He be glorified.

And may my response never change. I’m in.

What parts of my day count as worship?

I first began thinking about this one groggy morning, when I was making my lunch. It’s something I do every day of the work week. It’s something I do while only partly awake, in preparation for the rest of my day. It’s something that doesn’t require a lot of effort, creativity, or emotion.

And yet, as I folded each thin slice of roasted turkey into thirds and added a layer of spinach leaves for color, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this, too, was worship. Or at least it was that day, because I was thinking, “If making this sandwich is worship, what would I do differently?”

This one thought has challenged a thousand details of my daily life. If driving to work is worship, what would change? If writing this email is worship, what words would need adjustment? If sitting in this meeting is worship, what would my attitude look like? If buying these groceries is worship, what needs to put back on the shelf? If interviewing this missionary is an act of worship, what questions do I need to ask? And the list goes on.

So today, I was ready. In my office, we have weekly chores on a rotating basis. Usually, we each only have one chore a week, but when I noticed the stress and busyness of a couple of co-workers, I happily volunteered to scoop up their chores as well this week.  As I prepared for an afternoon of chores, I was armed with the desire to spend that time in worship.

Instead of vacuuming around the chairs in the conference room, I went through the extra trouble of putting all the chairs on the table, vacuuming underneath, and then putting them back all straight and ordered. This, too, is worship. I let some perfect music stream through my headphones while diligently cleaning the glass entryway inside and out, a slight sway in each swipe. This too is worship.

Then I swept and mopped the men’s restroom.

Well, two out of three isn’t so bad…

I wanted a bicycle.

I’ve wanted one for months. Until last week, I lived in the middle of nowhere and would have no destination close enough to reach with a bike. So I postponed the purchase, knowing I’d be moving into the heart of civilization soon.

For weeks, I’ve been wandering through Walmart and Target, casually ending up among the rows of expertly assembled two-wheelers. I became quite familiar with tire treads, handlebar positions, seat proportions and many sparkly colors. I had even picked a favorite: a cobalt blue Huffy with a brown leather seat and old-fashioned frame. It was lovely. I was ready.

But I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t really a wise decision. I have potentially less than 5 months before I leave the country for a year, only two of which are going to provide adequate biking weather. The cost of the blue beauty, though an extremely moderate price, was roughly a sixth of my entire month’s salary. These thought were cooed into my ear from that obnoxious place that houses wisdom. I simply couldn’t do it.

But I still really wanted the bike. I tried to be practical and look at Craig’s List for a cheaper alternative, only to discover a lot of more expensive bicycles. So, that was out and I was beginning to think my long-awaited dream was crashing.

So I decided to pray about it. I told God that I recognized all the reasons why I shouldn’t purchase a bike, and I was willing to respect that wisdom, but that hadn’t changed my desire. And I left it at that. This was Sunday.

Monday afternoon, I got a card in the mail. It was from a couple from my home church. I’d sent them a thank-you note a week before in response to a financial gift they had given toward my upcoming year in Asia. The card they sent me indicated that the note I had sent them had been especially encouraging to them and they were grateful. They included a check, written to me, for whatever I wanted to spend it on.

It more than covers the cost of the blue Huffy I’d set my hopes on.

Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!

“To fear the LORD is to hate evil.”

That’s what I read this morning in Proverbs. And it got me to thinking, Do I HATE evil?

Do I even recognize it?

I’m usually a little squirmy when I hear something identified as “evil.” Maybe it’s that pesky optimism. Because, to me, everything is redeemable. Everything has a chance. The list of things I would confidently define as “evil” is very short.

Solomon had no similar qualms. He goes into long lists of things that are evil and that God hates. Pride. Arrogance. Perverse speech. Haughty eyes. A lying tongue. And so on.

And even David, a man after God’s own heart, punctuated the Psalms with his hatred and desire for punishment of evil men. He didn’t seek mercy for his enemies, he prayed for violent retribution. And how many entire people groups did God wipe out in the Old Testament because of their entrenchment in evil?

Now surely, New Testament grace causes us to shift our righteous anger away from the sinner and toward the sin. But we’re still supposed to hate the sin. “Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil. Cling to what is good.” (Romans 12:9)

Hate it.

Not “dislike” it. Not “prefer to avoid it.” Not “get used to it as a normal part of life.”

And this is my problem. When was the last time I was repulsed by sin? When was the last time that I even blinked in its presence? Sure, I don’t particularly want it in my life, but do I detest it? Do I despise it? Do I run from it with every ounce of energy I possess?

It’s like having a venomous snake in the room, but reacting like it’s a fluttering moth.

And so my prayer is that God would teach me to hate evil. In the world. In my community. And most of all, in my own life.

I cannot change everything.

Yes, most people learn this when they’re about three years old. Yes, I’m 27. Yes, I just figured this out. Yes, I’m a little slow. I blame an inflated sense of self-importance and the unwavering flame of optimism.

The list of things I can’t change is painfully broad. Weather. FOX News. (Or CNN, for that matter.) Traffic. Wall Street. Gas prices. Other people’s minds. Kansas State football. Allergies. Rampant poverty. The shape of my toes. War and violence. The landscape of Illinois. Time. Bad decisions other people make. Who loves me (and doesn’t). Large-scale corruption. The smell of cottage cheese.

And so on.

I think for most of that list, I’ve had a background awareness of my inability to affect change. But there are two things where I’m realizing that all of my efforts are just the spinning wheel of a tired hamster. I can run and run and run and run, and I haven’t even touched the ground.

(1) I cannot fix what others have broken without their participation. I look at shattered relationships and my deepest desire is to heal. I have been tirelessly gluing one piece back at a time, only to finally realize that for every piece I put back, two fall off. I will never win this alone. I’m not the potter – I’m just someone who remembers what the pottery looked like before we destroyed it. And all of my efforts to rebuild are quite possibly making things worse. And so, I’ve decided to try something new. I’m going to love the pieces and cherish each one for the wholeness they used to be a part of. And maybe the Potter can restore the original artwork. Or maybe He can use the pieces to make something else – something different, but still beautiful. But I cannot.

(2) I cannot change whether I stay single forever. This is sort of touchy and uncomfortable, and I’m not sure if it’s me making it taboo, or if social pressure decides. (The first one is also touchy and uncomfortable, but I got around that by using a metaphor instead of names!).  Now, in some ways, technically, I can. I could change all of my standards and settle for something less than worthwhile. But in a real sense, I can’t. It’s outside of who I am to do that. So, assuming I maintain my current commitment to pursuing Christ with my heart and life, I simply don’t get to decide if marriage is in the cards for me or not. I don’t get to control who God brings or doesn’t bring into my life. And I realized I spend a lot of time trying to affect this because I’m afraid if I stop trying, it’ll never happen. But nothing I do – what I say, or the way I smile or dress, or the ways I demonstrate my mind, humor or other qualifications – none of this has changed anything, nor is it likely to. And so, I’m grieving the dream I’ve been holding on to, and then giving it away. I’m giving it to the One who really gets to control this situation anyway. I admit, I’m scared to trust Him with this because I’m afraid that how He takes care of me is not going to be the way I wanted. But I’d rather have Him take care of me His way than spend anymore time on this plastic treadmill.

I cannot change everything. But I get to choose how I respond to all the things I can’t control. And today I’m choosing to trust God.

You are all alone.

This is one of the most effective lies I’ve ever heard. King Saul believed it. Elijah believed it. Christians around the world believe it. I suspect it’s been hissed into the hearts of all of God’s people at some point in their lives.

I read all these newsletters about missionaries around the world, including some of the most desperate, dark places imaginable. The newsletters often include stories about locals who had been secretly following Christ for years before they ever learned of another believer. When they learn that they are not alone as they’d thought, they almost always weep in relief. Because the load is too heavy to carry alone.

Elijah called down fire from heaven and God consumed an entire altar before the stunned eyes of all of Israel. He was clearly working for the winning team. He was the host for an enormous victory for God. And then, he believed the lie. He found himself on a mountain, being supernaturally fed and protected – and he prayed that he would die. He was so sure that he was the only one – that he was carrying everything alone – that he wanted nothing more than to give up forever.

Loneliness is a powerful feeling. It’s a powerful lie.

Sometimes, I’m Elijah. I sit back and watch God do overwhelming things, and then I crawl into a cave and accuse Him of putting me out there all alone. I don’t just mean because I’m single, although I’m sure that’s part of it. But it’s also a different kind of aloneness. A deeper kind.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not praying for God to end my life. And I’m still perfectly happy and willing to go out and watch Him change the World and reveal His glory. And I have friends and family who love me and listen to me and go through life with me.

But sometimes, when I’m sitting in my house, or watching people at the airport, or sending out another prayer update, I think, I’m alone here, aren’t I?

This has been especially frequent in the last few days. While my summer and house were occupied by plenty of external presence, the lie hasn’t had a chance to slither in. But now that I’ve been alone for a few days, it hits me like a familiar scent that I had almost forgotten at times when I least expect it.

I’d like to be able to post this blog in the past tense. I’d like to say I have figured out how to silence the lie forever. I can’t in good faith do that. But I can say that I know it IS a lie. And the more I read God’s Word and learn about the Christians around the world, I know that I’m in good company – which makes me feel much less lonely.

And, I can say, that like Elijah, God is showing up in the quiet moments of my fear. Not in the wind. Not in the earthquake. Not in the fire. In the whisper.

And that gives me a lot of hope.

Hurt people hurt people.

This is what my dad taught me several years ago when I couldn’t answer questions about fairness, suffering and the emotional pain inside me so sharp that each breath was a struggle. And he was right. The people who are fierce, cold, manipulative, sarcastic, negative, abusive, oppressive – these are the people who are most wounded, lonely, hopeless, lost and hurting.

I was reminded of this while watching an episode of “Intervention” a few nights ago. This is a TV show that documents the lives of people who are addicted to something so severely that it is literally destroying their lives. My self-righteous, super-Christian side looks at those people, shakes my head sadly, and says, “They’re doing this to themselves. They just need to make good decisions. Look at how selfish they’re being. They don’t even care that they’re destroying the people who love them. Terrible.”

But, like everything else, it’s a little more complicated than that. In following these people around, the show reveals layers of abandonment, abuse, hopelessness, anger, grief, mental and physical disabilities, and a host of equally debilitating demons. Yes, they still made bad decisions along the way, but those decisions were compounded by forces well outside of their control.

Do they deserve my compassion? My action?

What about in the truly terrible situations? I hear about all the trafficking of young girls into the sex industry, and I’m immediately filled with righteous anger and a desire for justice. I want those girls to be rescued and their oppressors to be punished. But then, in the middle of my indignation, it hits me.

Hurt people hurt people.

Oh. Dang it. Those depraved, conscience-less, evil destroyers of innocence and hope – they are victims, too. They’ve been so engulfed by immorality and wretchedness that their very lives are saturated with it. They are so enslaved that they don’t always even know what kind of wickedness controls them.

Do they deserve my compassion? My action?

This nagging question infiltrates countless situations. The guy who cut me off with his car. The friend who constantly picks at what I say. The old lady who gossips and meddles. The careless family member who jokes at my expense. The co-worker who seems to run over everybody. The politician who fails to deliver on his promises. The angry mom who yells at her kid at the grocery store. The workaholic who never sees his family. The teenager who walks into his school and starts pulling the trigger.

And the list goes on. What if instead of getting angry or self-righteous, I recognized each act of pain-infliction for what it really is – a confession of suffering? Would my reaction change? Would my whole world change?

What if I refuse to continue the cycle? What if I take the hurt I’ve received and put it aside? What if I forgive when I want to lash out, move forward when I want to wallow, and restore where I want to rip away? What if I trust God with what I can’t control and pursue Him with what I can?

What if I stop worrying about who deserves my compassion and just start worrying about who needs it?

In the last two days, I’ve really gotten to know this one family. I know the personalities of all their kids. I know about the struggles and victories they’ve experienced while living in Asia. I know what their major prayer requests and concerns are, and also how God has provided for them and challenged them over the years. I know their birthdays, their favorite things, and their heart-level struggles. I know what makes them laugh because I have a pretty good grasp on their sense of humor, and I know what makes them cry because I’ve heard the stories that make them tear up. I really know this family.

I’ve never actually met them. Or talked to them. Or had any kind of interaction with them at all.

I have, however, read roughly 70 of their newsletters.

In an effort to do thorough research for a story I want to write on this family and their ministry, I sat down at my computer and have done little else for the last two days than read their newsletters, rejoice with their victories, cry with their hurts, watch their kids grow up, look forward in anticipation with them at their futures, laugh at their stories, and generally bond with this family a billion miles away. (I hyperbole – more like a million miles.)

So, yes, it’s a little creepy that I’m so attached to them, and that I might know more about them than their own grandparents. But, in another sense, I feel an overwhelming sense of humility and joy. Because I know that in a small way, I’m connected to them and to their amazing ministry in Asia. How did I get so lucky to get the kind of job where I have access to the front rows of what God is doing all over the world? I get to spend two days reading about the lives of honest, obedient followers of Christ whose major goal is that people would know the hope and salvation of God, and that His name would be glorified in all parts of the world.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to talk with them (and not just newsletter stalk them). And if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to write their story.

This afternoon, I was sitting on my porch, in the shade, reading a biographical novel about John and Abigail Adams. I was perfectly content with my moment, and was enjoying a tranquil Sabbath.

This was suddenly interrupted with the wild howls of half-delight/half-terror of my neighbor. Startled out of my revere, I looked up just in time to see my five- or six-year-old neighbor boy, nearly naked, tucked into a ball precariously perched on a skateboard, which was noisily roaring down the natural slope of the street at impressive speeds. His fingers were tightly wrapped around the front of the skateboard, and he was managing to curl his thin body rollie-pollie style, with his chin bouncing off his tucked-in knees.

And he was having the time of his life.

Immediately, I thought of all that exposed skin and all of that rocky pavement. He was traveling much too fast allow himself any control of the board and was gaining speed with each driveway he passed. He had no way of stopping his vehicle of doom, short of dragging an exposed foot, knee, or hand along the pavement or crashing headfirst into a car, mailbox, shrubbery, or innocent bystander.

I looked at this crazy kid having a blast, and all I could think of was how this was going to end in disaster. I could imagine all of the possible injuries: full-body collision with the asphalt leading to an impressive arrangement of scrapes, burns, and bruises; a slip of his small fingers under the wheels of the propelling weapon; a disastrous incident involving my neighbor’s blond six-year-old and a tangle of arms, legs, and inevitable wailing.

And while I was picturing all the possible bloodshed, two things occurred to me. (1) It’s possible that boys are missing a crucial inhibitor in their brains that helps them imagine the possible ramifications of their adventurous decisions. (2) This quality makes them so much more likely to experience exhilarating terror and joy. They risk so much, but they gain a whole world that I’ll never have access to.

I’m really an optimist. I love adventure. But I’ve never completely thrown caution to the wind and pursued adventure recklessly and in the face of unavoidable disaster. I suspect that this is a good quality, but it also raises some pretty important life questions. OK, so, clearly throwing my body into certain pain and punishment for the exhilaration of thirty seconds of bliss would not be a good decision. But what about other risky things?

What about when God asks me for faith that seems dangerous? What about when He asks me to close my eyes and leap, when all I can imagine is disaster? What about when following Him will lead to an array of scrapes, burns, and bruises – but will certainly be the best journey of my life?

In the end, my skin-flashing, skateboard-wielding daredevil of a neighbor used the skin of his left foot to slow and stop the sled of destruction. He yelped for a good 2 minutes about how he no longer had any toes, writhing and sprawling on the ground in a well-deserved celebration of his manliness. And despite his proclamations to the contrary, I truly believe he was excited and even proud of the injuries he sustained.

And this, my friends, is why I can’t wait to have the faith like a half-naked little boy.

There are a lot of things that I don’t know. I don’t know the periodic table or the equations I learned in Physics. I don’t know the constellations beyond the Big and Little Dippers, and the ones I regularly connect in my mind. I don’t know Latin. Or Greek. Or, well, nearly every other language. I don’t know how to cook anything that doesn’t come in a box. I don’t understand any of the positions in football. I don’t know how to keep resilient house plants alive, and can’t even imagine attempting anything that requires more maintenance. I don’t think I can connect any famous painting with its famous artist. (Well, maybe I could get some of the Van Gogh paintings right, and maybe a Picasso or two.) I don’t know the names of my mayor, senators, representatives, or governor. When I go to the mechanic, I don’t know what they’re talking about when they mention the fuel filter, water pump, head gasket, fan belt, or intake valve. Or, well, anything else they mention.

While I’m generally willing and interested to learn more about these things, I am pretty comfortable with the truth that there’s a lot I don’t know. Because, well, I’ve always thought that at least I know myself.

I’ve lived with myself for quite awhile now. I know what foods I like and dislike, and have never tried but assume I don’t like based on texture, content, and previous experience. I know what music makes me dance despite all efforts to contain myself. I know my favorite authors and quotes and poems. I know that a twirly skirt will always brighten my day and a good thunderstorm will completely render me incapable of focusing on anything else, and that I’ll smile in spite of myself with every splinter of lightning that pierces through the sky. I know that my favorite relationships are the ones where we can be introverted socially – doing our own things while we exist in contented silence. I know that everyone makes me laugh and that I can generally make anyone laugh. I know that I’m a little imaginative and that I’m perfectly content to create elaborate stories around the most mundane situations. I know that I like attention, especially if I’m somehow in control of it.

I also know that I change sometimes. I know that in middle school, I was completely uninhibited and fearless, probably to a fault. I know that in high school, I was reserved and insecure.  I know that in college, I was a combination of those personalities.  I know that now, I’m a little more stable, but still not quite definable or containable.

Yes, it’s good to know that in the sea of all the things I don’t know, I’ve landed on a small, secure island of self-knowledge. I’ve been sitting here quite happily for some time now, but in the last week, I’ve been shoved off my island twice – into the salty, bitter waters of discovery.

In the last week, I’ve twice been voluntarily kidnapped and taken outside my comfort zone. I’ve learned about the ways I’ve been protecting myself and calling it “ministry.” I’ve unearthed lingering insecurities that have kept me at an arm’s length from everyone and everything new. I’ve rediscovered a long-repressed ability to genuinely and actively engage people in meaningful conversation.

And I learned that there’s still a lot I don’t know.

“Oh Lord, please send somebody else to do it!”

Moses said that. To God. Immediately after God invited Him to be part of something amazing, Moses begs God to choose somebody else – someone more qualified, someone more capable, someone more powerful. Anyone but him.

I admit, I think Moses is a pansy. God showed up in a miraculous way, establishing Himself as all-powerful. He lays out the problem and reveals His heart to Moses. “I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering.” Then, in no uncertain terms, He invites Moses to be a part of what He is about to do. And Moses, the baby, looks around for someone else.

But when I look at my response to God’s invitation, I see a little bit of Moses in the mirror. Moses wasn’t expecting God to come knocking. He was just doing his thing, watching his flocks and living a content life. He hadn’t had an encounter like that before, nor did he have any reason to expect one. He hadn’t been hanging around, praying that God would use him to deliver God’s people. Sure, maybe he would rather see them delivered than not, but what did that have to do with him?

And then God shows up in a fiery display, and Moses is confronted with a huge decision. Do I live my life the way I’ve been living it, or do I accept God’s invitation to change the world?

It seems like such an easy decision, but if it’s so easy, why did Moses – and why do I – look at God with fear in our eyes and say, “Please send somebodyelse to do it!”

It’s the place I go to pray.

Well, not literally. I curl up in my covers, close my eyes, sigh, and then imagine myself in the middle of the sea. Sometimes, I imagine that Jesus is already there – squatting patiently, watching the waves. Sometimes, I imagine that He comes gently and patiently after I’ve been calmly waiting for a minute or two. Then, I imagine walking with him slowly, the waves cresting on our bare feet while we talk through my day.

It’s peaceful. It’s safe. I’m completely without distraction. It’s a beautiful mental image.

But yesterday, I started thinking about another encounter on the sea that Jesus had with one of his followers. But this situation was anything but serene.

It had been a long day for all of them. Jesus found out about the death of  John the Baptist. He tried to retreat, but the crowds had followed him. He set aside his grief for the moment, and healed their sick late into the evening. His compassion continued, and he provided the dinner for more than 4,000 people. Then, he put the wide-eyed disciples in a boat and he slipped off to the mountain to pray.

Imagine Peter, sitting in the boat that was being pushed farther from his grieving Teacher. The wind-swept waves were crashing against the side of the boat, and his eyes scanned the horizon where they’d just left Jesus. Suddenly, there’s a figure. The other disciples notice it, too.  They automatically assumed that it was a ghost. It was a stormy night, they were emotionally and physically exhausted, and there was a man walking. On the water. It’s not like this is a normal occurrence. So, quite naturally, they turn into six-year-old girls.

Jesus offers quick words of comfort and assurance, and Peter – always juggling his toddling faith with his blind impetuousness, says basically, “OK, prove it.”  I wonder what went through his mind when Jesus said, “Deal – come out here.” Did he hesitate when he swung his legs over the side?

Of course, the second part of the story is when Peter started to get scared. He took his eyes off Him who even the winds and waves obey, and he immediately began to sink. While he trusted that Jesus was controlling the laws of nature, he could move forward, but as soon as he defined the situation by what he could experience with his own senses, he was bound to sink.

Faithfully, Jesus immediately took hold of him. His response sounds like a rebuke, but comes out so gently. “Why did you doubt?” Of course, Jesus knows why Peter doubted and panicked – He knows that He was inviting Peter into the realm of impossible. But Jesus also knows that before all is said and done, Peter’s going to have to encounter a lot more of the impossible.

As I thought about this story, I realized that Peter is a lot braver than I am. When the storm rages around me, I want Jesus in the boat with me. I don’t want to walk out and find Him in the midst of it. I’ve never obeyed Him in such a way that rejects all reason, science, and experience. Sure, I’ll walk with Him on dry ground. I’ll follow Him to the ends of the earth, but get out of the boat? Throw out all caution, security, and inhibitions? It’s one thing to have faith, but it’s quite another to fearlessly leap into the unknown and uncharted at the invitation of Jesus.

Or is it?

Have you ever noticed how the sky fills with light well before the sun actually rises? That’s the way I realize things. I get a hint of the idea long before I fully grasp it. I stand in the light preceding the source for a long time, and then when the sun actually rises in my mind, it’s not that much of a stretch for me to accept the change.

I think I’m standing in the pre-light of a pretty huge revelation. It seems, much to my shock and amazement, I might be considered an “artist.”

In the last couple of months, it’s been suggested to me several times that this is the category where I am classified. Of course, my medium is not clay, canvas, sculpture, music, or anything else in the physical realm. My art exists in the sphere where words meet the imagination and create new worlds.

While I’m slowly adjusting to identifying myself as a writer, it hadn’t really occurred to me that writers fall into the “artist” category. Several incidents have prepared me to accept this shiny reality, and I’m attempting to adjust my thinking accordingly.

And that’s when the insecurities come.

I openly and earnestly admit how much I love to write. It’s my release, my small act of worship, my favorite form of expression. It’s the lens I use to view and process the world. All of this I understand. I even acknowledge that this isn’t true for most people, so it’s something special for me.

But for it to be an art form – for me to be an artist – I have to be creating new experiences and expressions with the things I’m writing. I have to be taking something you’ve seen before and turning it into something you haven’t. Each story would need to usher you toward Truth. Is this not what artists do?

Perhaps the only balm for my insecurity is that I’ve never sought to be an artist. I stumbled into the category quite unknowingly. I’ve desired to chronicle my pursuit of beauty and emotion and holiness and failure and redemption and worship and …

And, I suppose, that is more important than any pressure I put on myself by accidentally noticing that I landed in a category of people who create passageways toward Truth.

Besides, I can’t ever figure out how they all know how to dress like artists, anyway.

A very wise friend of mine recently suggested I memorize Psalm 23 and meditate on it during the course of the day. This advice I promptly disregarded, until I mentioned her suggestion to another wise friend, and then the wisdom of the suggestion sank in. (Yes, I surround myself with wise friends for just such reasons.)

Psalm 23 is the one most people memorized as small children, but I was apparently uninterested at the time. Of course, I’ve heard it and read it and “recited” it hundreds of times, so I knew the general idea, but this week was the first time I’ve ever memorized it in any sort of exact way. And it’s remarkably clear why other, smarter people memorized it a long time ago: it’s amazingly applicable.

And because you were probably one of those people who were fortunate enough to memorize it as a child, you’ve probably already considered the things I have just recently found so powerful. Nevertheless, here’s what struck me:

Switching from “The Lord” to “You” (aka, breaking all the rules of “good writing” and switching narrative styles in the middle of the poem)

David, the writer, starts with “The Lord is my shepherd…He makes me lie down … He leads me … He restores … He guides.” Then, he switches gears: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”  He sticks with “you” for the middle of the psalm (which, in my life, is the most intense and powerful part).

So, of course, I have no real way of knowing WHY David did this, but here’s what I like to think: As I’m reading it, it’s easy to recite the first few lines, like the things you hear all the time about God, and so you know they’re true. But then, it’s like I suddenly realize the truth of the lines I’m reciting. I move beyond the Sunday School response and into the realm of personal truth. I start thinking about walking through my own valleys, and how God’s been there with me, and it’s no longer possible to remain detached. I’m no longer reciting facts about God, I’m reliving a relationship with my God. And at that moment, it switches into a conversation with God instead of ceremony about Him.

You Prepare a Table in the Presence of my Enemies (Or…OK? Where did that come from?)

I mean, really, weren’t we talking about God being a shepherd? Weren’t we just hanging out by some quiet waters? Nope. We were in a valley. In the shadow of death. Where there’s evil that we aren’t afraid of because God’s with us. So, picture this:

You’re in a room with your enemies. They are getting more and more vocal, intimidating, and powerful. You’re getting weaker and more scared.

Suddenly, casually, God walks in. He’s ripped and confident and calm. He starts setting the table nonchalantly, chatting with you in an everyday way, talking about what’s for dinner, teasing you about familiar things, completely ignoring the fact that the enemies are even in the room.

As He continues to walk in and out of the room, bringing food to the table, asking your opinion, humming softly to Himself, you feel the tension drain out of you as you watch your enemies. Their confidence is gone, their eagerness to fight is seeping out of them as they realize that God is completely, comfortably on your side.

You realize that by casually entering the room in the presence of your enemies, He’s changed the entire situation, and you’re not only not alone, you’re powerfully protected.

And it’s in this moment that you think to yourself, “Yeah, I could hang out here for a good long time.” Or, you know, if you were a poet like David, you’d think, “Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

I have one of those old alarm clocks. It’s bright red with a yellow face, sits precariously on three knobby legs, and rings obnoxiously when the alarm is set.

That is, when I wind it up.

When I first received it, I wound it every day, pretty faithfully. I enjoyed the consistent metal metronome as the thin hand ticked off the seconds. I even appreciated the abrupt clamor of the alarm, because it forced me to move forward and face the day.

Of course, toward the end of each day, the clocked ceased to measure time effectively. As it reached the end of its cycle, the seconds grew longer and less regular, until the time reflected no longer resembled the actual time. And it wasn’t the clock’s fault – that’s the way it was meant to work. Most days, I’d remember to wind it up again while it was still faithfully ticking. Other days, I’d have to reset the clock hands on the actual time before I wound it up, because I’d waited too long.

I haven’t wound the clock in more than a year. Now it sits on my shelf – a pretty trinket with no function or form. I’m not surprised that I don’t hear its persistent ticking. In fact, I’d be shocked and terrified if it suddenly began ringing in full force one early morning.

I don’t expect my clock to work when it hasn’t been set, but somehow I expect my heart to honor God even when I haven’t set it do so.

Malachi 2 says “”And now this admonition is for you, O priests. If you do not listen, and if you do not set your heart to honor my name,” says the LORD Almighty, “I will send a curse upon you, and I will curse your blessings. Yes, I have already cursed them, because you have not set your heart to honor me.” (Emphasis mine.)

Too often, my life is a pretty trinket on a shelf. To my frustration and confusion, my heart doesn’t reflect the correct things. There are no alarms calling me to action or pushing me forward, or they come much too late.

I’m not electric. I can’t plug into the wall and expect my life to automatically keep up. I require upkeep. If I don’t consciously set my heart regularly, I wind down and lose my effectiveness. And a tired clock is worse than a dead clock, because it gives the wrong information while appearing trustworthy.

I’m designed with a purpose. My face and hands should reflect the Truth, but that only happens if I actively and regularly set my heart to honor God.

I have this gorgeous zip spider outside of the window my desk faces. I’ve apparently gotten a little attached to her (yeah – I named her – Irina.) And, you know, started using her as the voice for my thoughts…

July 23, 2009
The fly I caught yesterday was delicious, but its struggle had torn and stripped my beautiful home, so last night I remade the web. This morning, my finished artwork glistened with the morning dew in elaborate and intricate perfection. I sat proudly in the middle of my creation and home, watching the geese in the distance and feeling connected to God in that way that only art could create. I had made something beautiful with grace and excellence, and I was content.

Of course, all things are temporary.

I knew it was risky to connect the west side of my thin net to a stack of plastic deck chairs, which are hardly stationary during the day. But the chairs’ stored location offered me the ability to anchor my web in the corner of the window and stretch across, just barely teasing the sunshine on the other side. It was an ideal location, and the risk was worth the reward.

I had just settled in to enjoy the day from my precariously invisible masterpiece, when two women arrived. They needed to use the porch for their scheduled prayer time. The day was glorious, the sun barely shining through the gathered clouds and the wind gently whispering through the trees. The porch was an ideal place for them to experience the glory of God together. But in their pursuit of such glory, they inadvertently disturbed my expression of it.

As they pulled chairs from the stack, unknowingly stretching and shredding my fragile creation, I clung to the strings of my toppling home and hoped that something would remain in the aftermath for me to hold on to. Fortunately, a few threads graciously held fast, and my life – at least today – is still intact.

I’ve begun rebuilding, but I decided to take a break to recognize the absolute beauty – and fragility – of my existence. But that’s the way it goes sometimes…

I didn’t expect to like it.

I noticed the tiny Baptist church off the highway, and decided to go purely because I needed a church to go to the first Sunday I was in town. So I noted the time of the service and tucked it away in my mind as an easily dismissed alternative.

Sunday morning, I rose and dressed up just enough to blend in. My goal was to slip in the back and spend the hour in unnoticed participation and observation, and then go on my way. It seemed like the perfect plan.

I pulled into the parking lot and noticed with relief that there were plenty of cars and that I should be able to remain anonymous.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Upon walking in, I was immediately spotted as a visitor and eager natives began swarming around me. Introductions were made. Smiles were exchanged. I answered repeated questions about where I lived, where I came from, and what I was doing in Louisville. The pastor wrote down my name, and to my surprise and embarrassment, he introduced me from the pulpit to the few people in the room who had not already noticed the presence of an outsider among them. The greeting time that followed brought another wave of introductions, smiles, and questions.

Once the service started, the critical side of me started in. The church was tiny – maybe 40 attenders. The songs were old hymns chalk-full of tradition and conservatism. There wasn’t a single other person in my life category (unmarried, mid 20s).

In the midst of my critique, I stopped. Sitting around me were people. Beautiful, genuine people who were showing an eagerness to love and include me. Their lives were flawed and chipped and completely enchanting. In their tiny gestures of greeting, they were offering me protection and friendship and family. I found myself thinking about how I could be at home there, and how I was already attached to the people sitting around me. How could I ever leave these people? I knew, sitting there, that they would be hurt if I didn’t come back, because they’d offered me a doorway into their lives and given me the opportunity to accept them.

And despite all of my intentions to be aloof, mysterious, and disconnected, I found myself involved, open, and with a serious and tangible desire to be intertwined.

Which was, you know, the last thing I’d expected.

There are currently no fewer than 40 boxes, bags, or suitcases packed and stacked around my house, not to mention the awkwardly tilting piles of furniture, or the couch completely covered in rejected possessions bound for goodwill. I’m close enough that I could be completely done with just a few hours of dedicated labor. I have a few hours that I could be usefully employing in such a way.

Instead, I’m sitting on my bedroom floor with a vanilla coke zero and a handful of oreos.

I stare absently at the curtains that are too high for me to reach, or the half-dozen boxes half packed and sitting on my bed. These problems I could solve. Think of what a great sense of accomplishment I’d feel if I just got to work and finished! And yet, here I sit.

Of course, there are practical reasons why I shouldn’t really finish completely yet. I’m already concerned about where I’m going to sleep the rest of the week, as all of the blankets are washed, folded, and packed away, and the bed is significantly less comfortable without the luxury of sheets.  And I had to buy plastic forks after I zealously stashed all of my kitchenware three days ago. I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t pack all of my clothes, as I do need to wear something between now and when I officially land in Louisville. And there are always things that I really shouldn’t attempt to do by myself, such as moving heavy furniture, or collecting the vases stored a good two feet above my reach.

But as I sit here, munching on an oreo and thinking about renting a movie (yeah, mine are packed…), I realize that there are probably some deeper reasons why I don’t want to finish. That great feeling of accomplishment will likely be partnered with a sinking feeling of completion – with the realization that I’m ending a really great chapter.

I’ve lived in this house for two amazing years – my first two as a true grown-up. Gone are the free days of college, with all of their late nights, last-minute papers, easy access to my closest friends, and part-time pay-the-bills jobs. In the last two years, I’ve had to find my feet in the adult world, put specific and deliberate effort into my relationships, and learn how to be responsible and comfortable on my own. And I’ve loved it from the beginning, but especially now as I begin to really appreciate it.

I’ve also had two years’ worth of Wednesdays full of Jr. High girls who come in with all of their drama, wisdom, humor, and adventures. I’ve had to make my house a metaphorical haven for them – a safe place where they’d love to come and where they’d always feel welcome. Within these now-barren walls are the echos of hundreds of jokes, stories, lessons, and high-pitched squeals. Not to mention the occasional splatter of pumpkin goo, craft paint, or ketchup-as-blood.

In a lot of ways, this house was a witness and host for all of the ways I’ve grown in the last couple years. So I really shouldn’t be too surprised at my reluctance to remove all indications that I lived here. But it would be ridiculous for me to read only a few chapters of a book, no matter how much I loved those chapters. At some point, you have to turn the page and start the next one.

And judging by these two years, the rest of my book is going to be pretty stinking amazing.

Maybe I can reach those vases, afterall…

We talked in our Bible Study about becoming like one of the little children to enter the kingdom of Heaven, and it brought this story to mind. Sorry for the girls who are hearing this for the second time…

My dad pulled up to the elementary school in our little family car, a broad smile on his face. “Hop in!” His eyes sparkled in that way that eyes do when there’s a surprise coming. My brother, sister and I climbed in, feeling the effect of his enthusiasm, but not knowing what was in store for us.

We noticed right away that we weren’t heading back to our house. But Dad was driving, and he probably knew what he was doing. Afterall, he’d been driving us around for years, and hadn’t accidently forgotten to go home even once. Maybe, our hopefull hearts thought, we get to go to the gas station and get a soda! But much to our dismay, Dad drove right past the gas station. As my young vision had only managed to imagine an ice-cold coke-a-cola, my hopes faded with the view of the gas station out the back window.

Fresh out of ideas, I turned my curiosity toward my dad, whose trademark dimples betrayed his otherwise calm exterior. We imediately began pelting him with eager questions, each inquiry implying that maybe he wasn’t quite as in control as we’d thought. “Daddy, did you mean to miss the station?” “Does Mom know about this?” And finally, the obvious, “Daddy, where are we going, then?”

He just smiled, mm-hmmed, and laughed at our peppered questions, telling us with that familiar spark that it was a surprise and we were going to have to just trust him.

Throughout the duration of that hour-long car trip, we asked a thousand questions; we poked and pried and guessed and sighed, and he loved it. But behind each question was unwavering trust, enthusiasm for the adventure, and a willingness to go absolutely anywhere our daddy wanted to take us. We never for a moment assumed he was taking us anywhere unsafe, or that he was going to take us far away and then leave us behind. We never questioned his right to disrupt our daily routine. We thrived in his adventure, and he rewarded us for our williness to participate wholeheartedly.

Sometimes, I think God pulls up, opens the car door, and asks me simply to hop in. His eyes sparkle as He thinks about all the plans He has, knowing that if I just trust Him, I’m in for an adventure. But I stand on the sidewalk and waver. How do I know I even want to go? When will I be back? How much am I going to miss if I go? How do I know He isn’t asking me to go somewhere terrible? Instead of trusting Him, sharing in His joy, and thriving in the moment, I stand back and demand answers.

The grown-up me – the one who doubts and fears and worries and analyzes – she stands on the sidewalk, afraid to start living.  The little girl me – the one who trusted completely and hadn’t fully perfected the art of controlling everything – she couldn’t wait to trust her daddy. She leaped wholeheartedly, without reserve, doubts, or fears. She had questions, but the lack of answers didn’t even challenge her solid faith in the ultimate goodness of her provider and protector. And she got an adventure.

I’d say it’s about time to hop in the car.

I actually wrote this awhile ago, but lately I’ve been reading a lot about Israel the character (embodying the entire nation of God’s chosen children). I’ve always been fascinated/repelled by/drawn to Israel as a character. She had God. She had daily, irreproachable proof. And yet, how often she failed to see Him. Sounds familiar, yes?

I am Israel.

With God walking in front of me – guiding each day and night,

I forget Him.

I give in to every impulse to sin.

And then I slink back to God, like Gomer, who comes home in the early morning hours -

- shame and scandal my only clothes.

Each morning, I promise it was the very last time.

Each night, I crawl out again – hating myself too much to stay.

I am Israel.

The faithfulness of God a daily reminder of my own weakness.

I turn to the things that can never fill me, knowing, at least, that we deserve each other. I can never obey and they can never fulfill.

I am Israel,

Constantly in need of rescue, I call out to the God I’ve abandoned.

He comes back for me every time. Asking, ever asking, “Will you love me this time?”

Knowing my answer and the inevitable future will never match. He scoops me up and carries me home.

If only I could stay.

If only – just once – I could be strong. Stronger than the voice that calls me away – the voice that knows how easy it is to get me back.

I am Israel.

Knowing God – and turning away.

Knowing He’ll always come back for me.

And hating the fact that

I am Israel.

“Well, we had peanut butter and spinach sandwiches for lunch.”

“Oh, so that’s how you got here so fast! Well, I couldn’t make a sandwich, because I’d already gathered all those dandilion greens, and you know, you have to cook them right away, or they go bad.”

Smiling to myself at the foreign-to-me-but-normal-for-them conversation behind me, I thought for what was surely the third or fourth time since I’d arrived, Who are these people? I was sititng in the park, futilely trying to shrug off the lingering cold, and waiting for the annual Poetry Fest to begin. I’d seen a flyer in a flower shop advertising this event, and after appealing to every local friend I knew, I had decided it would be kind of fun and mysterious to attend alone. Among “my people,” I’m the slightly whimsical literary nerd, but I expected to be a little “normal” with this group. I knew it would be mostly older, highly educated and overly cultured participants, and I was more than a little curious to snatch a moment in their world.

The friends behind me continued their conversation about a thousand foreign topics: the best way to cook nettles, the meaning of some French lyrics, the new, non-commercial radio station that would use poems as filler between programs. While I tuned in without appearing to notice, a woman in front of me turned to ask if I intended to recite. “Oh, no. I just wanted to listen, today. I was an English major, you know, and so I can’t resist a good poetry gathering.” I continued to overspeak, feeling like I needed to justify my presence in this elite and mysterious world. She asked me questions about my life, told me she teaches Cultural Anthropology at the University, and then smiled, and let me return to my obscurity.

Things settled down as the recital began. More than a dozen volunteers had signed up to read or recite original or classic works, and the emcee for the afternoon was determined to keep things flowing. After each performance, she’d announce who was next, and who was “in the on-deck hole.” She sort of stumbled over the phrase the first time she said it, but then was quite pleased with it, and used it proudly for the remainder of the event. As I looked around at the crowd of literary professors,yoga instructors, librarians, and even the occassional beat poet (dreads, beads, and beanie cap included), I wondered if any of them there noticed that the phrase was just a little off. They seemed equally pleased with her cleverness, and my lone knowledge further separated the divide between us.

The final poet finished his original work right as the most eager raindrops slipped through the saturated clouds. For the first time that afternoon, the lines of distinction were blurred as we all hurried to fold up chairs and take down the colorful banners. And after the last chair was tucked safely away, and all the loose papers had been secured under the welcome tent, I slipped silently out of their world. As I walked back to my car, slowly waking from the dream of fresh poetry and alternative lives, I smiled – grateful to have been allowed a short visit into a completely different existence.

I could hear the screaming long before I entered the house. The familiar cries of my four-year-old niece were taking on an unfamiliar intensity, and I knew without knowing that she’d figured it out.

My grandpa  -  a strong and meek man, a powerful and humble man, a wise and gentle man – had died three days before. There had been a constant parade of family and friends through my grandma’s house since, and Ashlyn and her little sister, Hannah, had spent long hours playing with toys, diverting attention, traipsing outside with the cousins, and generally going about life.

As I opened the door and walked into the house, the volume of the screams increased. I noticed my brother and sister-in-law, hopelessly negotiating, soothing, and parenting in the kitchen, where Ashlyn was sprawled, unconsolable. My aunt welcomed me with a hug, and my eyes asked the questions. As she hugged me, she whispered, “Ashlyn realized today that she doesn’t get to see Grandpa anymore. She’s been in meltdown mode ever since.”

In that moment, my heart swelled with compassion even as my eyes filled with tears. I hadn’t even imagined how her little mind would wrap around the reality of tangible death. She had been Grandpa’s buddy. Long after the rest of us shied away shamefully in the last months of his life, feeling awkward and sad because the process of loss was too real to us, she’d cozy up next to him and tell him all about her day, her family, her life. He’d listen with joy and rapt attention to the details of her existence. I knew those moments meant everything to him, but I hadn’t thought about what they’d been for her.

As grown ups, we had all of the coping mechanisms. We knew how to talk about our feelings, how to rely on each other for support, and how to look toward Heaven. Ashlyn experienced grief in its truest and most intense form. She didn’t know what her feelings were. She didn’t know how to talk about what was inside. She couldn’t write a poem, sing a favorite song, or even slip away for some solitude. She certainly didn’t understand heaven – all she knew was that she wanted her grandpa, and she couldn’t have him. So, she sat on the kitchen floor and cried.

As I’ve been thinking about my sweet niece and how raw and true her response was, I’ve been overwhelmed with emotions. I’m so touched by the sweetness of her sadness. While the rest of us busied our hands and comforted our hearts, she gave way to the struggles going on inside of her.

I’m excited for her to learn more about Heaven, and for her to one day be Grandpa’s buddy there, too.

But mostly, I’m overwhelmed by the truth of grief. While maybe it gets easier as we get older – as we learn about hope, and we take comfort in the future – I think there’s still a part inside all of us that wants to just sit on the kitchen floor and cry.

And then maybe have a nice bowl of ice-cream.

So, after hours of fidgeting yesterday, today the blog works just fine. I haven’t messed with colors and such much, but at least I’m live and writing.

My favorite (at least lately) verse in the Bible is from the “sinner’s prayer” when the tax collecter whose sins were clear to the world, and who had no hope beyond the grace of God, calls out “Have mercy on me, a sinner!” In Russian, the word for sinner in this context is “greshniku.” Because I want to approach God with that kind of humility – and hope – I’ve become rather attached to the word, and see is as a reminder of who I am, and how much I’ve been given.

I wrote the following the other day, and it’s amazing how much it fits into this theme. I didn’t even plan it this way!

I walk tentatively toward Your throne, My eyes are cast down, yet I know You’re watching me. The loud and varied sounds begin to hush around me. Some of the sounds are joyous – those who already have been granted freedom in Your presence. The silence they slip into is full of compassion and peace. They remember. The cries of those clamoring for Your attention, desperate that You grant them some large or small favor, grow still, but that silence is full of tension, anger, and judgment. They do not want me here. They don’t understand You, though. They don’t understand that You invited me – that You’ve been inviting me my whole life.

My fingers brush absently at my soiled and torn gown. I believe it was once brilliant and white. I’ve heard that it used to glimmer with unearthly radiance. But it’s been passed down to me for thousands of years. Each wearer added her own stains, and I, too, have left on it terrible, deep marks and blemishes on my journey to You. I fell so many times, and the blood and muck, the tears and rips, have joined the others to make all that was once glorious about it now completely unrecognizable.

The shame of appearing before You in such a state almost causes me to stop. I hesitate, just for a moment, wondering if I should wait until I’m cleaner, prettier, more put together before  I come before you. But then I remember the last note you sent me. So tender and gentle, so full of love and urgency.

“Come to me, now, my dear. Come while you carry too much, while your shoulders sag from the weight of it all. You’re bruised and wounded, and the world continues to bear down on you. Come to me so I can carry you. I love you and I will never leave you. Let me hide you under my wings. Let me give you a new heart and a new songs. Let me lighten your load and wash you white as snow.”

Your words trickle through my mind like the water I long to drink. My journey’s been so long and slow, but I’m so very close to You. Maybe You can’t really keep those promises You so convincingly wrote to me, but my heart soars with the idea that maybe You can.

I look up, my eyes filling with the tears of a thousand thoughts. I’m surprised that Your eyes, too, are wet and hopeful. I walk forward with new confidence. Everything else fades away – all the revelers and their songs, all the politicians and their demands – and there’s only You. You’ve risen from Your throne, You’re taking first steps then leaps toward me. All at once, I find myself wrapped in Your arms. You hold me tight and I can feel Your tears in my hair and hear You whispering “Finally! Oh, finally you’re here! How I’ve waited and hoped you’d come.”

And as I cling to You, I notice the tiniest white sparkle shine like a diamond on my tattered gown. And I know, at last, I’m home.