Gift.

I just received one of the most greatest gifts I've ever received. A student of mine, beautiful bright-eyed perky-smiled kid, came in at the end of the day and handed me a Christmas bag. I asked if he wanted me to open it then, and he nodded with glee showing on his face. I grabbed the paper on the top and was struck. This kid (and his family) donated funds in my name to send an AIDS orphan to school for a year in Zambia! Wow. I have never received a more thoughtful gift; I just kept looking at the paper and looking at him, over and over again and didn't know what to say. Wow. Along with it, I unwrapped a jar of Fair Trade Organic tea [hence from my stint on Fair Trade and my constant plug with the kids] and A Long Way Gone, the book of a memoir of a boy soldier that I have spoke of in class but never completed the whole thing. Wow. What a gift. What a thoughtful gift. And he picked it out knowing me and just how deeply those things would mean to me. I am proud. Proud of my message sent to him on these issues, but proud more so of his glee in jumping on this train and passing the baton on. Wow, what a great, wonderful gift.

Shake Its Fist.

"Her underpinnings had been ripped away with such regularity that she had often been tempted to settle into a life that didn't shake its fist into the Enemy's face."

~ Though None Go With Me by Jerry B. Jenkins

Capture Me Beautiful.

There are several instances where I am posed in a moment of distinct blessing and beauty that I wish it could be captured on film. It really has nothing to do with me, but with the essense of all that is taking place. And perhaps a picture would not be able to portray all that is held within its lense, but there are still these moments.

Moments when a members of my church are bowed over another in prayer.

Moments when I stand next to a friend with our arms outstretched in worship.

Moments when friends curl around a bride with prayers poured out over blessings.

I had one such moment yesterday. I went to a baby shower for a friend; a rather new friend at that. And I just wanted to pick up all the pixels sprinkled around us and put them into film in only the way an excellent photographer can. It's women gathered around with coffee or punch, the smell of sweet baked goods and goat cheese marina sauces spindling the air. Of our hugs as we greet, the pearls on the hostess thin neck. It's the blessing of conversation about books that have blessed us, and boyfriends that bring out the best. It's the blessing of hearing these women really love the Lord with their heart, their lives, their children, and their husbands. These women who make me want to be the best me that I am, who pull out the beauty of that worth.

So it was in these moments, at the end, we circled our blossomed friend and the baby growing inside her. Kneeling around her, we blessed her with our prayers. It was at this moment that I wanted the film to partake in what I knew was so special, so sacred, at that moment, in that place. These friends and mothers laying hands and bringing this radiant beauty to a place filled with glowing embers of fire and brewed hazelnut. This was a moment that was so beautiful, it's one I would capture and frame in my heart.

"And Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart..." Luke 2:19

I Paint A Cynical World.

I grew up a dreamer. A visionary of all things good. Of the great person I could be come, of the things I could accomplish, of the difference I could make. I grew up envisioning the beautiful things that would one day enamor my life, fostering its ability to blossom and give life. I grew up hopeful of the world at its best, believing in the good of people, of systems, of cultures.

Now I see the other me staring back.

Somewhere in the last five years, my idyllic worldview shifted.

When I think of my next teaching job I no longer paint hope, but prepare myself for the hardships of state testing, uncooperative coworkers, low pay, straining parents, and lesson content I'll never be able to know. I can still remember my teaching papers for Taylor... all starting out with "Teaching is not a job for me, its my calling. Its my mission..." and from there rambling on about the great good and hope I had, the love for children, etc. Now I see it as much different. I hate that in me.

I used to grow up praying for a godly man. Envisioning us praying for Rwanda together, chasing and laughing with a four year old in the backyard of our country home, and that feeling of contentment that rests when two people love and care so deeply for each other. I dreamt about cooking beautiful dishes, volunteering in schools, and blessing my children with my collection of children's books. Now instead I warn myself that I'll probably be exhausted from getting groceries, making meals, driving kids, and getting woken up every morning by needy kids. I'll probably be annoyed with my husband, feeling like he doesn't care, Again, this is not me; and I hate this root that grows in me. Deeply choking out everything else.

Its like I've warned myself not to hope for too much, or I will surely be disappointed.

On my bookshelf, I treasure a little blue-binded holder of words called Keeping a Princess Heart in a Not-So-Fairytale-World. I bought it in North Carolina when all this jadedness began. Now and again I pull it off my shelf, line myself with candles and pink and other things feminine. And I try to recapture that innocence that was one in me. But now seems so lost.

The world has fed me spoonful of cynicism, and I swallow(ed) it. I don' t know how to get it out or keep it from choking me. I try to see and say the good things. To capture the beautiful moments. To tell their stories.

But sometimes, in the thick of it all, I see this odd me staring back in the mirror. Instead of the gleaming face of innocence, of Faith Hills "Fairytales" song, of bright eyes ready for adventure and the world and God's blessing... I see this haggard, worn out, leave-me-alone face staring me down.

This other face tells me lies. It tells me marriage will probably end up hurting me so deeply. It tells me good, amazing, godly men don't exist. It tells me jobs can't be fulfilling and beautiful. It tells me children are a bother. It tells me the lines of the nightly news, the jaded women in clusters talking about their families, the worlds measure of success, the comparison games, the woe-is-me... It tells me Satan. And that he is the sin that is choking me through these lies.

I remember the year after Taylor driving with two college friends and having this conversation. Me so strongly resisting this cynical spoon but seeing it so darkly. And them instead remarking that I was too idealistic and a romantic dreamer of life growing up. And that instead of being cynical, I was becoming better because I was becoming more of a realist and it was making me stronger.

In that case, I don't want to be stronger. I want to see the world as God created it to be. I want to live in Eden. I want to hope for a man like David. I want to see the earth sustained. I want to hug children so close their warmth seeps into my chest. I want to teach as if the Holy Spirit flowed from every word and leaked out as a ministry. I want to notice flowers and light candles and wear beautiful sundress'.

Today I paint a cynical world. But as in all things, I ask and pray that God redeems even me, even this.

Somebody Elses

I sat in my car last Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, and watched through the windshield as an elderly woman struggled to balance the bag in her hand.

She was had stopped about 6 inches from my door.

And I didn't move. I pretended to be digging in my purse for something. Because it was too cold and I was early for church and didn't want to go in yet.

The selfishness spews like hot lava from this story, embarrassing and humbling as it is to tell. But it reminds me of the sinful nature inside of me.

As I have grown older, I have taught myself this "its somebody else's" behavior. I grew up a server, a people pleaser, a "yes" girl. But over time, I have needed to [rightly so] develop some boundaries. I can't do everything for everybody. I can't lead every program, clean every room, manage every child, and be everyone's cheerleader. There is a limit to my humanness.

But at the same time, I see this learned behavior at times go way too far over the opposite fence. Where rather than simply setting boundaries, I've chosen to stop serving my neighbor and treating them as Christ. I've chosen to turn a blind eye. To let the yard grow. To draw lines in the sand of "my responsibilities" and someone elses. Again, part of this is healthy... but at times, part it is definitely not.

All I know is, the next time I see an elderly woman struggling with her Thanksgiving gift to the church donation center, I will open my door and smile into the cold with open arms toward her.

Justice & Ignorance.

"The right thing to do, according to Jesus, is never the easy thing. It's never the most convenient of expedient thing; it's always a little more difficult. Christianity demands something that the world would never ask of you." -- Matthew Sleeth, Serve God, Save the Planet, as referenced in Relevent Magazine "Trade In The Lies", Nov/Dec 08


I know this will be a running blog post, which I will make much more clear and fix at other dates.... but the convinction in me calls me now to start writing it.

Ignorance is one thing. And yes, I do believe at many times, ignorance is bliss.

But when you are not ignorance any more, I believe you are held accountable and responsible for the things that you know.


When you are not ignorant to slave labor, when you are not ignorant to trade practices, when you are not ignorant to abuse, when you are not ignorant to poverty, when you are not ignorant to the injustices in this world... you are held accountable.


One day, we will meet Jesus and be accountable for the life we lived on this earth. And in that day, we need to be able to stand free of the convictions that have compelled us on this earth. We need to be able to stand with our Bible planted firmly against us, quoting the words of Isaiah and the prophets and Jesus alike, demanding that we speak up for injustices.


It is one thing to be ignorant, it is another to know.


To know the facts, the faces, the statistics, the stories. And still turn a blind eye to them. To still shop at that store, to still carry a racists tune, to still turn a deaf ear, to still gorge ourselves in ourselves.


To know is to be held accountable. To stand knowing you are the face of justice, you are the wall which speaks. The voice which calls and beckons, or the face of righteaous anger. You are the justice which is held accountable for righting the wrongs in this world.


To be ignorant is one thing.

To be aware and unashamed or live without conviction and still make the choices is another.

Snapshot.

Thank you, my friends Bekah & Kate, for a snapshot of all things good tonight. :) Of flatbread speckled with cajun chicken, garlic, cheeses, and spreads. Of laughter about mall dressing rooms, blog-stalking, and our obsession with lotions. Of giving into our Dutch cheapness while craving Coldstone, which comes especially funny after a decently elegent dinner with wine. :) Of sharing your lives with me ~ the sincere, the funny, the prayful, the playful, the warmth under lights, the cold blustery snow. Thank you for the goodness you bring to my life all year round. And the snapshot of that tonight. You bless me.

Incarnate The Truth.

Tonight on my drive home I heard Chuck Swindoll preaching on three words. Three words that he said he heard as a young lad and that have continued to topple around in his mind many days. "Incarnate the Truth." He spoke about these words, giving depth to their language and adding Biblical background for the phrase. That you can talk about love, faith, etc. all you want, but until you see it in the flesh, it has no meaning. That we speak of faith, but when it is played out in the biography of Abraham, that faith becomes a living being who then has the opening to speak into our lives. And the same with lust and Samson, warrior and Braveheart, obediance and Ruth. And so tonight as I tuck away for bed, these words now ring in my head. Do I 'incrarnate the Truth'? What does it look like to do this? How do I 'incarnate the Truth' as I know it: Jesus Christ, the living gospel? Do I incarnate Truth to my students, to my friends, to my family? With these thoughts, I tuck away....

Greater Is He.

"I'll rise
Out of these ashes
I'll rise...
Greater is He
Who is in Me..."
~Shawn McDonald "Rise"

These words washed over me tonight. Shawn talked about them, explaining them with far more precision, depth, meaning, and understanding than I can attempt to bring in my monologue, his husky voice protruding far past the lyrics and through the hallowed out crevices in his soul where the Holy Spirit has carved out space and moves within.

But to me the words were awash with a reminder. That greater is he who is in me. That the things I toil after and feel so tired from, the things that exhort all energy and enthusiasm, the things that lure me and lurk after my soul, the things which chase me down until I am crumpled at his feet... These are the things that are the human of me. The things that are woman, are feminine, are the points of my life in which I am not physically able to exhurt more than I have offered.

But he who is in me is greater. He who is in me pulls from the depths and comes up triumphant. He who is in me is the constant Creator, the orchestrator of lessons. He who is in me holds control of every classroom he has materialized. He who is in me is the justice that fights for the inferiations, the passion that pours forth like colors erupting, the tender heart who snuggles ones close. He who is in me is the greatest goods. The greatest things that are in me which could ever be shown to mankind. These great things that I think I possess at some points, are him. It is he who is in me who shows himself in these forms!

And when I am dry, when I am weary, when I emptied of all passion, fight, and tenderness... He is still in me. He is my rest. He is my place of quiet, of solitude, of arms held wide. He is in me in my emptiness. He who is in me will use this vessel of emptied me in the world. And he will come forth, once again, like the dawn, and spill in full, fluid, flooding motion.

And They'll Wave To You

Put your pretty dress on

It's time for you to go to the dance

Tie your hair in ribbons and lace

And wear pearls 'round your neck

All the pretty princes will see you

All the pretty princes will see you

Someday, someday...

And they'll wave to you

And they'll wave to you

~ Rosie Thomas "Pretty Dress"

Wound of Grief.

For most of my life, I have been sheltered from death. I mean sheltered in a real, true way. In the way that I was unable to know the depth of sorrow and pain that such deep loss brings. In a way that held me distant from experiencing death as others experienced it. My great-grandparents died in my teen years, but there is still a distance in their passing.

But this year has been different. This year, the thought of it brings memories flooding back and feelings I can't escape from. It brings all the sights and images to mind, the true intensity of grief, and the bleak stare at times as I aim to see through the fog at hope.

My grandpa died last year. Eighty years old of a heart attack. He drove himself and my grandma to the hospital in the midst of it. I still remember the day exactly. Everything about it, from the phone calls, to walking down the hospital halls in confidence, to feeling a literal tidal wave of emotion nail me against the wall as I came to his waiting room. I can remember crying so uncontrolably that I couldn't get my shoulders to stop heaving. The faces... the hugs... the waiting... the last moments I spent tucked inside his hospital room, just him and me, holding his hand and talking to his so gingerly that I knew sacred space was made.

This past September/October, I lost a student. He was the first person under the age of 80 that I had a relationship with whose body no longer splashes in waves. I will never forget standing in the greeting line, unable to look at the faces of his friends in fear of sharing too much of my own grief, or walking my students to the funeral of their friend. The impact of his life, and his death, walks with me nearly every day still, 2 months later. I can't begin to describe it, nor will I try, simply for confidentiality sake... But even as his teacher, it still hurts me more than I am able to admit.

And today, I lost another man. He's my great-uncle, but holds more significance than that title grants [my grandparents on that side died before I was born, so he lingered a bit in their place.] We used to sing them Christmas caroles, eat Werthers caramels, go to the park, and be covered in their prayers. He and his wife [who is still living] truly capture the title of saint. I mourn for him, though I know it was his time and he is with Jesus.

Still, that dull ache is the reopening of a wound. The wound of grief. I wonder if it ever truly heals... or if life simply canters on... and we are stitched and opened, stitched and opened.

[This posting surrounded with grief mimicks several of my friends, who have lost loved ones one after another. With you my friends, I linger at your side.]

Spiritual Buffalo

Once again, why I love Sara Groves. I copied and pasted this from her website as it hit me squarely and truly, again putting words to my thoughts. Especially after conflicting conversations about "Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger" (by Ron Sider), use of time, etc. Thank you, Sara, for speaking out.

"There is a scene in the movie Dances with Wolves where the Sioux are on a much anticipated buffalo hunt. As they come up over a hill, they are shocked to see a field full of buffalo carcasses. The tragedy of that moment is that where the Sioux use every piece of the buffalo—the bladder holds water, the bone makes a tool, the skin is a covering for a tent- whoever has done this has taken the best part of the buffalo for himself and has left everything else to waste. There is no way to make good use of all that is lying in this field.

I was so convicted when I went to Africa that I am not using all of my spiritual buffalo. I have developed this one side of my personal relationship with God. I go to church, I have incredible worship, and I listen to incredible speakers. I have money to buy devotionals, and leisure time to do those devotionals. I have spent a lifetime grooming a personal faith in Christ, but have I been taking the best piece of the buffalo for myself? There has been a joy in discovering the good use of my life. There is a reciprocal redemption that happens when we enter into stories of helping our neighbor—not just around the world, but in our own communities. When I came home from Africa, instead of feeling guilty for my life, I began to hear God in a very clear way say, ‘that thing carries water, that thing makes a tool, that is covering for a tent.’ There is a beauty to the good use of a life, and to the acknowledgment that everything you have and do has a Kingdom purpose."

Trichotomy.

If this is a word, I'm using it. There is dichotomy, so why not trichotomy? :)

I read a question yesterday and it struck me. I wondered the answer to it...

"If you could attempt to do anything and not fail, what would you do?"

So it was our question of the night, last night. We all threw out our dreams and ideas and what things beckon our heart that we always wonder if we'll really be able to do... [though Laura, I'm not sure flying really counts! :) ]

As usual, I could not answer this question straight. There seems to always be a lot of history, experience, and perspective in such a question. And therefore, there were three responses that all lept into my head at the same time.

1) Go to Kenya. I would work among the women there, teaching them. I feel really strongly about using this gift and working with community development through women. Perhaps teaching about health care, family care, economics, or even English in the remote places. I'd pack up my belongings and go. Be with them, sing with them, see God in them. I'd partner with World Vision / Women of Vision, or some other respected and relief, faith-based organization, and I'd go.

2) I'd move back to North Carolina. I'd live amongst the things and places I've come to know and love so dearly, I carry them like a warm sweatshirt around my heart. The minute I touch the soil there, it feels like home. The sprawling trees, the highways lined with flowers blooming red. The mountains winding with trails waiting to be adventured. The southern drawl on the lips. The places of SouthPark and Matthews. The people who have carried me in my friendship there, from teachers to Young Lifers to my coffee shop friends to my "Charleston Retreat" favs.
I'd move back to North Carolina and I'd teach. For a few years, in a public school. Maybe even with Teach for American (again?). I'd put my heart and life on the line and see if I could do it. Reach back into the inner-city and stretch out to those kids. Or maybe even just a public school on the outskirts, like Indian Trail, and try my hand there. And then maybe someday join a ministry more particularly. If I could not fail, and I could not hurt those I love here in MI, I'd move back to the Carolinas.

3) I'd start foster care. I'd take the children into my home and welcome them. I'd buy them clothes, take them to the bookstore, sing them hymns at night. I'd pray over them, hug them, feed them, welcome them. I'd spread open my home, my heart, my schedule, and I would dive into loving this child (probably young) with all that I am. I'd be a safe haven, if only for a time, and let the love of Jesus pour out of me and into his children. I know there are complications, and things that would be so hard and challenging, but I'm willing, perhaps I want, to give up my own selfish time to spend into another. I know there are the babysitters to hire, the two-parent issue, the Saturday morning cartoons, the vacations I won't be able to just pack up and take... But if I could do it whole-heartidly, and not fail, I'd open my home and heart to foster care.

The difficulty, is none of these really mix. Even geographically, they stare at each other from separate plateaus. How does one "pick" which way to step forward? I do all the research, ask all the questions, wait, wait, wait... and pray... but I am still here, doing what I am doing. So Lord, until you say otherwise, I will wait. I teach, I dig in here in GR, and I wait. "Wait for the Lord, be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord." Psalm 27:14.

Lonelines, A Poverty.

We have been talking this weekend a lot about loneliness. Times where we we've faced it, times we have known it. And how very difficult, how very awful, it is.

Mother Teresa wrote, "It is easy to think of the poverty far away and forget very quickly. Today a great disease is that feeling of terrible loneliness, the feeling of being unwanted, having forgotten what human joy is, what the human feeing is of being wanted or loved. I think this is found in very well-to-do families also. We may not have people hungry for a plate or for a piece of bread in [the West] but there is a tremendous hunger and a tremendous feeling of unwantedness everywhere. And that is really a very great poverty."

“In the West there is loneliness, which I call the leprosy of the West. In many ways it is worse than our poor in Calcutta.” ”

"We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.”

These strong words cause me to pause, listen, look around, and think. What does this mean for me? What does this mean for us as Christians? Is, perhaps, the suburbs just as craving as a place as the countries we send our missionaries too? Is it a mission field in itself that we simply need to take much more seriously?

I have a theory on coffee shops. I think people go there simply because of this loneliness. Surely, we all like a good gourmet coffee now and again, or will meet a friend to chat.... But on the larger scale, we go to have people around. We pack our computers, our books, our journals, our selves, and sit by ourselves yet humanly need people around us.

In the 1950s, people parked and walked outside to their house. Creating neighbors. Saying hi to their friends as they walked in. Nowdays, we park in our garages and never have to see a stranger as we walk into our homes. I've heard of people calling for ambulences simply to have someone show up at their house. Or widows who beg the "wrong number" caller to keep talking with them on the phone.

I myself, one day in North Carolina, arrived at coffee shop (Dillworths) with tears down my face on a Saturday afternoon, completely empty and broken to the point of my loneliness that I knew no where else to turn. So I drove, crying, and calling out to God in my pain. I ended up thinking of every way possible to talk with the group of girls, twentysomething age, who seemed to be linked in their friendships. Literally, my one comment, said from behind my lonely but nervous heart, started off friendships I still hold today. But that lonely Saturday is one I will never forget, nor the many others surrounding it. I can literally remember talking with my mom on the phone on one such Saturday and remarking that the only person that spoke with me all day was the guy at the photo shop.

This loneliness hurts. I wonder how many people in the West are in this state. And how do we as Christians enter into those places and walk with them, bringing the love of Jesus and community? Lord, send us in. Open the coffee shop conversations, make room in our hearts, invite space in our existing friendships to always add another chair around the table, sleeping bag in the room, or seat in the row. May this poverty be no longer empty pockets and empty hearts, but a cup that runneth over.

Snuggled in Safety; Friendship.

My college friends are all still snuggled cozily in their beds, nestled between layers of blankets and the love that only these years of friendship entail. I wake this morning with thoughts treading through my head, and the gift of them in my house.

It is a gift, this sincereity of friendship. The hugs, the laughter, the questions we all ask each other. We continue to prod each other along. Seeking out the deepest heart of each other. Calling ones name even closer to the God of us all. How our layers all shed as we enter another's presense.

George Elliot once wrote: "Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keeping what is worth keeping, and then, with the breath of kindess, blow the rest away."

His words bring to language these friends of mine who savor their Saturday morning sleep. They are my "sifters", my safety. They are my sounding board. The are the ones who listen intently to my life ideas and offer only the needed remarks. They are the ones who press me to take the couragous way. Who challenge the ideals I thought were true. Who lead me on into to the Morning Light. They are my friends.

As appealing as evil.

“That most difficult of task: to make Good as believable and appealing as Evil” - Philip Yancey [remarking on Tolstoy] in The Jesus I Never Knew (p140).

I quest for this. Its easy to grasp my kids’ attention talking about the “blood, guts, and gore” and alluring to wars and prostitution and everything. It seems my easy assumption to swirl them back into focus by throwing in a few of these details…

But what is it that lures us so much to Evil? That things like video games are all-the-more-appealing if they are all-the-more violent?How do I make the good [the things of God] as appealing [and moreso!] as the other?

Spanish.

Ugh. Languages. They frustrate me.

Really, truly, seriously, I think there is a gift to learning languages. I'm being honest. It drives me crazy when people can speak a billion different languages. Crazy in a I'm-amazed-at-you kind of way. Its like the words and dialect and culture just flow from their lips.

Kate Avila and I used to talk about this. She learned Spanish her junior year at Calvin College and within two years, she had spent a year in Spain, spoke fluently, got a job teaching Spanish, and married a Latin American man. Wow!

I can't do it. Ugh. I've prayed for it. Seriously. Earnestly prayed for this gift and this ability. Why, Lord? Language is such a powerful skill in our country today, and tool for traveling and learning culures. And it pulls at my heart, most of all, because of missions.

I laugh, sitting here at my frustration. :) Its like being back in high school in Miss Cassel's class with all the freshmen, trying to study for those test as if studying some algorithum for algebra or something. Maybe someday my brain will grasp it. Or, the gift will come. Or, I'll finally be cut out for all the work that is entailed in learning a language. Because, really, I want to learn. I'm so impassioned to learn. I've just got to figure out... how.

My Students.

I realize just how much I love my students in these moments. As I beg of God’s protection over them… in pleading, in earnestness, in fear. They are so fragil. So impactful. One should see their eyes as they look at me, peering in and asking for questions and answers and anything I have to offer. And I just say the same, “I don’t know anything new… I’m sorry. I’ll tell you when I do.” And they respond with solemn, trusting faces, look at me as this shield of protection for them. And so I plead to Jesus on their behalf. Lord God, protect them… keep them safe… hold them… put a shield around them…

And in those same moments, I cry and cringe for my beautiful boys who are now growing to be men. No longer filling seats in my desks, but driving their way to school for the first times… And I think of these boys and fall inside. I am afraid for them. I wish I could protect them. I wish I could shelter them. I wish I could hug them and tell them everything will be okay.
But I can’t.

I can’t do it for either of them, the students standing at my door now, or walking a different sidewalk to school.

And so I pray, dear Jesus, hold them safe.

Protect those I love.

Football.

Today, I am thankful for football. For kids cheering in the stands, for parents docked in green and yellow. For a community coming together.

I talked to my students earlier this week about the difference between rules (religion) and a relationship with Christ. One of the examples I gave for relationship was a football game. I said, "Sometimes, the most worshipful thing you can do is go out and play football."

They had suprised looks on their faces.

But last night proved my point. It was worship. It was the community coming together, the essense of all that is good. It is the aggression that can be taken out and pummeled on the field. The hugs that are given, round after round.

When we all fall down, when our insides are broken, when we have nothing left to give, and nothing left to say...

Thank you, Lord, for football.

When I think of you...

A student of mine who is now in high school is in the hospital, hooked to a ventilator, and has no brain activity. I have no words to speak. I comfort my students. I play the role. But inside, there is so much to think, so much to say. The only way to say... is with words. So here is my letter to him.... from my personal blog... but to share with you for prayer for him.

-----

When I think of you…

I think of you and I smile. I see your face, your spark, your hand raised in the air with questions and answers. I think of you and see a green jersey with yellow writing that first day of class, you armed in your football jersey, me an intimidated teacher by this flock of ‘football guys.’ I look at you and I see potential. I see the kid who wrote with the hardest, darkest, lines I’ve ever seen. Trying to scribble out letters in their jagged form. I look at you and I see the kid who laughed, who played, who cared. You worked with the kid in class who needed help, even microwaving his lunch before you ate your own. You burst with potential. On the field, in the classroom, in your friendships, in your family.

I think of you, and I think of your family. I think of your parents sitting down to conferences and asking why you came home with bruises — making my heart leap — then they laughed about the noodle game. I think of their love. Of [your sister's] never-ending positive attitude and concern. I think of you and these peope come to mind. And I think of your friends… of [--deleted for privacy--] and the countless others who filled your day and banged you by your lockers, all trying to get their books at the same time. I think of you and I think of the people you loved, and who loved you.

I think of you and I think of all these things. Dear -----, you are a beautiful gift of God. A beautiful blonde haired gift. My heart needs you to know this.

Thankful.

I am thankful.
For my corner chair
At BiggyB
And Bekah.

For friendships.
For weekends
And roadtrips
And frisbee games.

For my church.
For Crossroads
And worship
And fellowship.

For women.
For our connection.
Our communication.
Our heart for each other.

For laughter.
For for sunny days.
For the lake.
And waterskis.

I am thankful.
For my family.
For for my place.
For my faith.

A Living God.

So tonight, an adult questioned me about my testimony, specifically about a 'spiritual realm' experience. At the end of the conversation, the man was still professional and polite, but I could tell he was uncomfortable with stories of demons and angels and living life in communion with the Spirit. This man was a Christian. We parted ways and I left empowered, annoyed, and vibrant.

And what struck me most was the reality that:

I serve a Living God.

He is not a God left in the pages of a book. Or simply to be prayed to. Or caught on the context of sermons. [Though he is in all of these.] Or to be seen as a separate identity from the movements of the world today…

He is a God who moves. Who lives. Who breathes. Who IS.

I see it in Acts of the First Church. In the Epistles words. In the stories of the people at my church. In my walking testimony. I my cousin’s experiences. In my prayer life. In incidents of drunk drivers. In the coming together of marraige of my friends.

This God is not done.

I am thankful that he is not done.

That he is a Living God.

[Perhaps I'm way off base... but I have these ideas, this completely non-authoritative theory…. As I teach, I am learning a lot about God. I see his work as the Father, the “God” figure in the Old Testament; concentrating on his laws, judgements, overseeing plan. Then I see the focus shift more to Jesus in the New Testament, aspecting the act of the redemption through this Son third of God. Focusing on his New Covenant, redeeming the people, living amongst the poor, being of mercy, and saving the sins of humankind, overturning the curse of the Old Testament. [The cross wasn't used as a symbol of Christianity until 400 A.D., and though it is central to the Christian faith, the first church focused on the ressurection. ] So my theory then, is that God the Father is still completely active. God the Son is still present and saving and putting to darkness our sin. But perhaps now, we are in the third spanse of the Holy Spirit. That the focus is less on the overseeing God, less on the weight of sin, and more on the movement of the Spirit in our lives today. The other two presences of God are complete still alive and active and necessary…. but I wonder if the role of the Holy Spirit claims a more unique presense...?]

I am learning.

I’m learning. To be aware, to be prepared, to be eye-opened. To know that the Devil is lurking for footholds. I am learning that as each encouragement comes, or each impassionated conversation or moment… that almost always it is followed with Satan’s finger tips. Trying to discourage me, cause me doubt, tweak in any form possible. I am learning to look for it, warn myself ahead of time, and identify any sign of Satans fingertips in my life. Especially at those moments where God was just obvious.

Like today, I am aware that it is Satan causing frustration with my chaotic lesson plans. That he is trying to get me to question my job as a teacher. That he is using entertainment and dating and body-concept and anything else possible to cause a leak in my heart.

Lord, let me stand tall. Let your walls of protection be built stronger and stronger. Give me the tools to identify the Devil, but also the community that fights with me. Let me stand tall.

Goodness.

So I feel like I've written a lot of heavy posts in here, so I thougth I'd do a light one :)

Yesterday was goodness.

Danielle and I woke up, chilled, made a good breakfast.
Went to the Fulton Street Farmers Market for peppers, blueberries, raspberries, bread...
Got Starbucks in East Grand Rapids, walked along the streets.
Checked out books at the library and read on benches by Reeds Lake.
Sauntered along. Dipped our feet in the water.
Ate pasta salad, mahi, curry, and root chips at Roses.
Saw my old friends and fimilar faces...
Relaxed at home [plus some school work]
Met friends for ice cream.
Chilled with them for a movie, and long talks.

Wow. That is goodness. 72 degrees and sunny. :)
Thanks God.

"As you go..."

The actual translation of "go" in the Great Commission is "as you go." I heard this several years ago from a pastor and it has transformed my view of the work of discipleship. Think of it now in this context:

Therefore, AS YOU GO make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you..." [Matthew 28:19-20]

I have had some interesting thought and conversations on this in the last few years... In "Just Like Jesus" Max Lucado writes about how Jesus had a focused heart. He didn't try to do 90 million things, he simply lived to make disciples. I was talking with my friend Emily about this today, and we remarked about how he didn't look for people to heal or places to give speeches, but instead, as he journeyed, he healed and spoke and loved. And he didn't attempt to heal every person that he saw was sick - which I'm sure was many - or correct everyone's misconceptions of the law. He simply lived and the outpouring of his life were things trickes of miracles, though he purposefully surrounded himself with the 12 and dove into them, creating them to be apostles.

I think of this also in geographical terms. Now days it seems to be a 'badge of honor' or a 'rite of passage' for people, especially in their college/20s, to travel. We pride ourselves and market ourselves based on our vast experiences. We deem ourselves 'greater' for stepping into so many lands, sometimes for leisure, sometimes for missions, sometimes for business. However, I look at the life of Jesus and I see that he again, had a focused heart. He didn't travel to China to spread the word, though certaintly people lived there already. Or Ethiopia. Or Spain. Or anywhere else on his Rick Steeves Guidebook. Instead, he mostly stayed around the Judeah countryside. He could have taken his word and his message and tried to jot off everywhere, catchinig each camel that passed for a ride. But instead as he went, he made disciples. The outpouring was the rich lives these disciples of every nation brought back to their own countries.
Now, don't get me wrong. We need international missionaries. We need people to step out of there boxes and literally GO to other lands, cultures, regions, people groups. But perhaps some of us also must stay "home" and make disciples as we live here.

I think about this in terms of my roommate, Young Life, church, my mom, and a woman named Linda from my church. These people are teaching me what it means to make disciples as I go. In my head, I will actually care about missions once I am in Kenya or a Young Life camp or some other capacity, but to bring Jesus to RiverRun [my condo] is awkward and weird. I am so wrong.
My roommate Danielle invites friends to church, speaks about God, and is teaching me what it is like to be a suburban contemporary who bears the fruit in the circles of friendships. Young Life leaders grasp my attention as I think of them hanging out at soccer games and just chilling with people to show Jesus through their love and relationship. My mom has people over for tea or invites the neighborhood kids to play; she brings Bible games to Monday night activities and lives discipleship as she goes. Linda rides her bikes and waves to people; after several days of seeing the same person, eventually she has them over for coffee and forms relationships, sharing the gospel as she does it. As they go. I see these suburban people put me to shame.

So it doesn't mean I'm not still ready most moments to jet off on a plane and make ministry the #1 on some other country. Here, in GR, it seems I get distracted much more easily with work and life tasks and I put "ministry" in a compartment... But I am learning. I am watching and observing my friends, reading about Jesus' life, and trying to process what it means for me to make disciples as I go.

A final epilogue on this... Emily and I were talking about social justice and the use/term tossed around so frequently these days. I am passionate about social justice. I believe if Jesus were here today, he would also see these things happen. The prophet Isaiah writes about these concerns in his Chapters 57-58... But I also wonder if perhaps, as Christians, a few of us are so caught in the actual social justice matters, that we are in it more for the relief of others than the discipleship. Jesus made disciples. Knowing God was his number one. My church stresses this and I love that! Social justice and relief work should be the outpouring of our knowing God, but still second to him. Lets clothe the sick, bring the AIDS meds, sit with the elderly... but let our motivation be rooted in a relationship with the Savior.

Flipped Upside Down

I was reading this morning from Philip Yancey's "The Jesus I Never Knew" and was struck by the beautitudes, once again. This mentality of life flipped upside down. Of living the opposite of the American dream. But what hit me the most was his recollection that Mother Teresa herself spent sixteen years teaching the elite of the elite in Calcutta before disabling her life and living with the poor.
The book section speaks of Yancey's interactions with the "rich & famous" in contradiction with the "poor and destitute" and the people who have taken their PhDs to serve them. It is an interesting paradox, for sure, of the contrast and the state of the people. He remarks that celebrities often are the most miserable lot. But the Amazon doctors, the Chicago homeless shelter directors, the AIDS clinic volunteers, and the countless others who have chosen to life a life devoted to giving of themselves, are those who are most peace. Who feel the intensity of their call and fulfillment.
What I wonder is: how does one take all these faculties of life and be so surrendered that they walk away from it all?
I want to be this type of person. Who lets go of my amazingly cushioned bed and load of pillows, of my soup and bread at Panera, of my music playlists intricately picked on my ipod, and my family days on Lake Michigan with nothing but the boat underneath us dividing us from the waves... The type of person who lets it all go with reckless abandon and takes that Brennan Manning "Ruthless Trust" step to really live, serve, and give.
I think of people who challenge me with a life well-livid. My Granny Smith. Kevin Prins who, after 16 years as a carpenter, packed up his family and moved to minister in Barbados. Of Ed & Christie Miedema and their family transferring life from the States to Haiti back and forth to minister and give and live in both. Of my grandpa who gave so generously of his wealth without others knowing. Of my missionary friends in the Philippines, Kenya, and all over. Of people who open their houses without notice and let people stay who need a place of peace for a time. Of the Boiler Room and other prayer houses in downtown Grand Rapids and the people there who grant access into their community and follow the paths of the unknown. And of the countless others who have lived sacrificially in other ways.
How does one learn this giving? How does one completely let go off all their possessions, their lifestyle, their native culture? I recognize this is an attitude and a soul spirit, more than the actual context of living, but still, it challenges me.
So, Mother Teresa. Lived with the lavish, lived with the lepers. But in every mark it seems, she lived a life well lived.
What does this mean for me? For us? How can we/I live a life well lived in this moment, this space of time, this context and geographical area? What does this mean for the future? How much courage, risk, and disassemblement is involved?

~~~
I must add and strongly note here, that I believe it is important to mention that Jesus was not ONLY with the oppressed. He devoted much of his time and the stories of the gospel miracles to them, but he also had friends who were rich, business women who funded his ministry, and saved people on the Sanhedrin. I think this point is necessary to make because I find, in some context, it seems we limit Jesus' life to only caring about he oppressed and in our modern society, we label a hierarchy of giving as missions in this Christian walk as such. But there are also many who are elite or intellectuals or wealthy who are needed also in this kingdom. I think of Ravi Zacharias who fuels the intellect and challenges the apologetics of the intellectuals, and Henri Nouwen who does the same at Harvard. Of Presidents and Kings and Rulers who have impacted for the good. Of businessmen who impact their social circles and work with integrity. Of friends of mine who make good money supporting non-profits, or send others to med-school and overseas with their earnings. It is easy for me to chastise the wealthy want to throw my own stones [though in many respects, I am one of them], so I add this postscript to diffuse the belief that only the poor are worth loving. We are all worth loving. Its just that it challenges my way of thinking and living to see what some people do in their loving.

Calling

So I know this is probably dumb, but I definately cling still to a quote from the Christy Miller Series [I know, this labels me as a teen: a girl sappy for love stories]. I admit to reading this books a long time ago... and possibly since... :) However, the quote that struck me was this:

“Doesn’t everything you see make you feel something? And don’t you reach the point where you don’t have any feelings left to invest?”
Todd didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be thinking about her questions. His answer came in the form of a few more questions for Christy. “Do you think that’s why the work at the orphanage has been so draining this year? Do you think you take it all in and feel something deep every day about those kids? I wonder if that’s what’s been happening. Then you reach the point where you can’t invest any more emotionally because you’ve spent so much of yourself.”
“Todd,” Christy said, leaning her weary head against his shoulder, “I think you have just figured out the answer that has plagued me for months… The need is so great…”
“But Christy, the need is not the call. You are uniquely gifted by God. The key is to finding out what it is you are uniquely gifted to do, and that’s what you pour out of yourself. If you are operating within your gifts, you will feel energized, not emptied.”

“The need is not the call. I see the need here. I just don’t see the call from God. Not right now.”
~Robin Jones Gunn “Until Tomorrow” p 213; 241

So why am I blogging about all this now? Because these words and the meaning behind them are constant peckings in my soul. Because I want to have that calling that energizes and fuels me, rather than drains me.
I had a dynamic, direct call from God to teaching my freshman year of college. And my first few years teaching reinterated this gift.
But lately, I've been feeling bogged down and drained. It could be as a result of many things. But I also question if maybe there is something else I need to do with my call. If I can use teaching in another area... in camp ministry, in women's ministry, in Kenya... Or if there is something new all together God is using this peroid now to prepare me for.
So I can't figure out and discern if my plodding through teaching, my apathy, and my lack of excitement is simply because I've been in the 'business' for a while, or if it's my attitude, or if it is Satan trying to discourage me and disillusion me to God's call on my life, or if God is calling and alluring me into something else and using these feelings as a prick to gather my attention to his plan and lean my ear in to His heart.

So alas, either way, I have one more year to go [minimally]. I can't back out now and must some how find the Holy Spirit and let him breath into me again. Every minute.

In Julie by Catherine Marshall, Julie speaks with a man regarding the preacher's work with the people of the lowlands. She asks the man if the preacher is part of the Preparers [a group philosophied to do the work of the Holy Spirit in the small tasks everyday throughout the community]. The man remarks of the preacher:
"No. His theology is mostly focused on helping people with their physical needs. All that's important, of course, but he'll hit a dry spell someday and need someting more than social causes to keep him going..."

Again, this strikes me. Causing me to ask the questions of my mission, my heart, and what fuels my soul. Is it simply passion and adventure and feeling? Or is the Holy Spirit so intricately intwined within my being that it is He who is the stirring of all I am? Do I simply want to feed the hungry child, or do I also want to feed with spiritual food? Am I driven by myself, or by the life of Jesus? Is my teaching a task fueled by my knowledge, skills, and excellence in the classroom, or is it an outpouring of the Holy Spirit in my life?

Perspective.

Jesus waking me up for sunrise in Traverse City, MI.

Sara Groves.

From My Blog: August 7, 2008, 10:50 pm.

Sara Groves was born in 1972. That means she is 10 years older than I am. 10 years. That makes her 36.

Which means, I am not over yet.

She didn’t even start recording until 1998, or make Conversations until 2000. Which means, she was at least 26 before she started making music that touches my heart, touring her words across miles, and bringing her message of the Lord to millions. And it wasn’t until her mid-thirties that she stepped foot on the African continent and began making movies and impacting people there. 26.

I note this all, because I want to rush my life. I want to be something. To create something with this life. And I have been frustrated for years, but especially the last two, figuring out what it is I am to do with it. I want to do so much, but am still here…wondering and impassioned and imprisioned in my anxious desire to really do something.

So she’s 26. And after 26, and having those 4 years teaching high school under her belt, life wasn’t over yet. It was just beginning. She didn’t become stagnat. She was released. But only unleashed when God allowed, her calling was ready, and the doors were opened.

So I pray, Lord. For this 26. For this year that I keep swirling. For the fearful clutch around me. For the stagnation I punch my fist against. For this life, ready and able to be spilled, spotted, and spurned for You, dear Jesus. Let me be all of you.

Another Step.

For years I have had a lurking in my heart for Africa. For the continent, the people, the culture, the way of life. I remember crying over it in middle school, applying for trips in college, questioning it in all occasions.

But I have never been sure what this looks like for me. So I keep praying, keep questioning, keep researching, keep wondering.

Small steps.

Towards a bigger goal. Towards God revealing his way for me. For revealing the connection between my heart and that place.

Specifically Kenya.
Why? I don’t know; its just always been that way since high school. A calling tugs at me there.

So I went. The year after North Carolina. Spent a month amongst the people who I had pictured, read on pages, and prepared my whole life to encounter.

It was interesting. To summarize it all would be immense, but I’ll narrow it to the fact that I feel a distinct connection, but have been trying to discern what to do with that ever since.

I gathered that I was not supposed to teach full-time right now at Rift Valley Academy, though who knows someday. I gathered that it does feel like home and life there. But that I also am so internally torn and bratty because I want my Starbucks and Panera and nice bed to sleep in, but I also want to live a life of mission and generosity and simplilcitiy. To help the “least of these”; however that looks.

So the past 2 1/2 years since Kenya, I have been praying. Patiently praying and seeking. I came back and wrote a sticky-note with four words: Kenya. Women. Education. Months. Because the trip [and other missions/life experiences] taught me that relationship is necessary, using gifts and passions imparative, and narrowing my focus helpful. So these four words were my own lead, knowing they would all link together someday.

Which again leads me to the years of praying. And last week. As God revealed another step in this journey to me.

Women of Vision.

I was on World Vision’s website [because I love this organization, and have sponsored a child there for years] just perusing, and came across this new dimension. There are chapters of women who gather in the States to meet, pray, and partner for women in communities across the globe. The goal is to equip, empower, education, and enablethe women of communities in order to impact ther est of the community. This is exactly what I believe and have been looking years for! I am passionate about women’s ministry, but also the idea of microeconomics and using education for health care needs and growing families. Which, I believe, if you start with the women of a culture, their world translates to their children and eventually leaks into the entire neighborhood and culture, revitalizing it from the inside out. Its like reverting back to Republican Motherhood.

So I am excited. Passionate. A friend asked me this weekend what I am passionate about and what to do with my life. Several things flittered through my mind: education, women’s ministry, family, etc. But when I started talking about this next step God revealed, I was like hot fire, the words burning my mouth so hot I couldn’t breathe the passionate fire out of me fast enough. It caught my soul.

So we will see where God leads with this. It could still be years down the road. But I will be patient with this next step he has revealed.

[P.S. Where I envision this all going: I think I'll probably still always live in the states, but engage in converstaions with people (women?) around here and moblize others, while I, myself, will also travel back and forth to Kenya a few times a year to engage and equip the culture there. This could all change... but dreams and callings and strings on my heart tug this way...]

Letting You Peer In

It scares me to blog. There are so many things inside these four walls of my soul, and it scares me to relax the garden around my heart and let other people in. To truly expose and let others know the wanderings of my soul.
Is surrendering to God also surrendering the privacy of the soul? Is it allowing others into all the creavaces we keep so tightly bound?
I keep two blogs. A personal one, for my complete private thoughts, those that unleash the furry of my soul, the quiet desperations, the perceptions of those I love. I protect them. But this is a second blog to allow pieces of my soul to be peered in to. To let the light slowly expose small glimpses. To challenge others. To let my words speak.
So this is my second blog. Due to the prodding of people like Bekah and Becky and all the others who keep asking me to write...