The Bad News: 31 Days of Poor Writing

I wish I were better at blogging. I have some dear friends who are doing some super awesome blogging experiments. They're writing every day about things that matter to them, even when they'd rather not write.

I think the best part of this for me as a reader is learning about the hearts of these friends. Learning those things that perhaps they can't always say out loud, because they are awkward or silly or just don't come up. It is fantastic to see, little by little, the hearts of these women and realize that they are so much bigger and complex than any one of them might let on to in a given day.

It also got me thinking. I have always loved writing, and as painful as going to back to read some of that writing is at times, it is nice to have a record of where I've been and where I'm going. So I'd like to write more - even on days when it's not appealing or when I'm not really feeling it. I think having a solid purpose will encourage that.

I also started wondering if my blog did a good job of sharing my heart for Africa and missions. Perhaps it does at times, but as a whole, I think it does a better job of sharing the dark, selfish parts of my heart. So perhaps by forcing myself to focus on those outward-pouring parts of my heart, I can forget those dark parts, or at least leave them behind a little more often.

So I've decided to begin 2010 with a month-long blog project. 31 days of Africa. Every day, a different story of something that's going on currently in Africa, a profile of a missionary I know who is in the field, a little history to provide some perspective.

I promise nothing, but maybe by the end of January, we'll all have a better idea of what's going on across that continent that has captured my heart. (And perhaps my writing will get better, too.)

Approaching the Heart of God

I have found myself in the past year looking in on the two sides of adoption. This is, at times, a privilege - the ability to see a complete story, to know that on the other side of a tremendous sacrifice is a family that is made complete. It is beautiful to see the way that our loving Father perfectly orchestrates the process - for example, a baby with a strict diet given to chemist parents who are un-phased by measuring foods to the gram and thrive on schedules and routine.

It is more often, however, heart-wrenchingly difficult. Difficult to watch and know that on the flip side of every happy family is a mother whose heart is breaking. I sat with my friend Beth this year in the hospital, held her beautiful daughter, cried with her, and watched as she made the most loving, self-sacrificing decision anyone could possibly choose. This decision was all the more difficult because my friend is someone who could have absolutely raised her little girl. But she chose to give her daughter more - opportunities, financial security, a big sister, two parents who were ready to be parents.

And that decision hurt - it hurt her to make and it hurt me to watch. It hurts to watch now as months later, she continues to grieve that broken place in her heart. She knows, as do I, that God will work this into a beautiful story that will glorify Him in the most spectacular of ways. Unfortunately, that is a process, and one that is probably lengthy and more painful than I could possibly imagine.

But I can't help to think that in those times when Beth's heart is breaking and grieving the most, she is closer to understanding the heart of God than I will ever be. She understands to a degree I never will the kind of sacrifice God made when He put Jesus on that cross. She understands what it means to love a child so much that you are willing to lay down your own heart's desires so that they might have life to the fullest.

Thank you, God, for Your sacrifice that I may live. And thank you for Beth, that I may understand a little bit more the kind of love you have for us.

Simplify

(I meant to write this blog and try this experiment a week ago with the beginning of Advent. As usual, life got in the way, so we shall begin today.)

I have been meaning for quite some time to de-clutter my life. This is as much a spiritual and emotional statement as it is a physical one, but I think the physical act is in so many ways the first step. It clears your mind (not to mention your house) to give you space and new perspective on what is really necessary.

I am learning that I hold on to a lot things to have them "just in case." Just in case I lose a few pounds, just in case I ever go back to school, just in case I get married, just in case I ever need that collection of turtle figurines. I do this with emotional and spiritual things, too - hold onto this coping mechanism or that, refuse to give up this part of my heart, "just in case." Just in case the going gets rough, just in case I need it. Which is to say, "Just in case God doesn't come through."

Maybe that statement shocked you, but I can't be any more direct to the heart of the matter. I keep physical, emotional, spiritual things cluttering my life because I do not trust God to keep His promises. To redeem me, to provide, to be merciful and loving, to be absolutely everything that I need. I think if we're all honest with ourselves, we'll find that a lot of our "stuff" is really a back-up plan "just in case."

Here's the reality of my situation: God has given me everything I need (and much more) for now. Why should I not trust that He will give me everything I need tomorrow, or a week from now, or a year from now when my situation changes? My building up treasures and storehouses here on earth is doing nothing but diverting my attention from my true Provider. It is me telling God that I don't trust Him quite enough to get rid of the back-up plans and extra things that provide the illusion of safety and security and comfort.

So here's the challenge (and maybe you'd like to join in): Every day of Advent, I'm getting rid of seven things. (Maybe more!) These might be seven pieces of clothing, books, trinkets, games, whatever. The point is, I want to spend this season getting back to the basics and learning what is really necessary.

The Lord said to her in reply, "Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her."
Luke 10:41-42

Prodigal Daughter Struggles to Understand an Even More Prodigal* Father

I know, dear heart, that your outward trials are painful and bitter. And I know also that the Lord is able to sustain you through them and make you able to stand your ground. O that you could dwell in the knowledge and sense of this: the Lord sees your sufferings with an eye of pity and also is able to achieve some good through them. He is able to bring life and wisdom to you through your trials. He will one day give you dominion over that which grieves and afflicts you.
--Isaac Penington

This is a part of God I'm learning - the compassionate, merciful, loving Father who looks on His children as broken creatures, wanting desperately for them to come near so He can heal them. For so long, I stayed away when I knew I had sinned (or, more accurately, knew I was in the process of sinning), afraid that my time in His presence would meet with condemnation. I was afraid of the Lord's judgment, just as I am afraid of everyone's judgment - afraid of being deemed unworthy. The longer I stay away, the harder it is to come back - I remain afraid of a Father who wants nothing more than to place a ring on my finger, a coat on my back, and throw a party at my return.

I was in prayer with a pastor at my church over the past few weeks regarding things that are going on - discovering the battle that is always going on for my soul, that is trying to draw me away from my calling, and figuring out how to take hold of the power that is already won in Christ to defeat these forces. We talked about what was going on and then started to pray. She told me that the Lord's heart for me was one of compassion and mercy, not condemnation. She seemed almost surprised as she told me that while the Lord wasn't condoning my choices, He understood why I had done what I had done.

I was, and am, astonished. I am still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of a God, a Father, a Husband, a Lover, who accepts me without precondition. Who loved me before the world began and no series of horrid choices on my part can change that. Who has known my destiny since before I was knit together in my mother's womb and has protected me against all forces of evil that would try to keep me from fulfilling that purpose. Mercies new each morning, and even when I stumble and fall, He brings life and wisdom from these mistakes.

I am so unworthy of such a God. And so humbled that He would call me His own.

*prodigal (n.) - excessively lavish, recklessly extravagant

Sensory Memory

Fall has a particular smell. Perhaps they were doing it all along, perhaps they started only recently--neighbors burning wood and leaves. You can smell it the moment you walk out of the house, the heavy, humid air gone now, the crisp, light air of fall carrying this scent into the core of your being, making you happier than you knew possible two days ago when it was 80 degrees and summer.

Fall explodes in your mind and senses. Fall is orange and green and bright, contradiction between cold hands and warm sky. It is bonfires and camping, cold air on your face while your toes blister from being so close to fire and heat. It is football and marching band, screaming and laughing. Fall is sweaters and slippers and the warm blast of heat coming from a heater newly found on the hearth. It is life and death entangled, beauty coming not from new life, but from the slow death and inward motion of the world preparing for winter, yet somehow invigorating those around.

Fall is parks and children laughing and roadside pumpkin stands. It is that first cup of cider or hot chocolate, steaming up glasses, warming hands, seductively sliding down the throat. Fall is air popped popcorn and Macintosh apples, and Macintosh apples are love, a package sent from far away and eagerly anticipated each year as the leaves turn.

Fall is here and it is beautiful.

wild, radical, scandalous

"Sin has made the basis of things wild and not rational." -Oswald Chambers

I can't help but think about the implications this has for our faith. It cannot be formulas and logic and reason. It must come from the heart, as wild and irrational as sin, the complete giving of yourself to Christ at the expense of everything.

I think I forget this from time to time -- which is to say, every 20 minutes or so. I forget that my faith cannot grow and I cannot be continually formed into a new creation if I am forever trying to "figure out" what God is doing.

There comes a point where I just need to let God do it. A point where I stop analyzing and thinking and considering options. A point where I release my grip on the things that are holding me back, even though I don't understand how that will work or what it will look like.

Another quotation comes to mind: "Faith seeks understanding." Meaning, of course, that faith should precede any attempts to "figure it out." Sometimes you have to take the plunge first and then figure out how it all managed to work out. Because if you never take the plunge in the first place, you drive yourself crazy with possibilities.

Not to mention the fact that you're still standing in the same place when you could be swimming in the cool, refreshing waters of the Father.

Everything Old is New Again

So it's been a while since I've updated this puppy, and to be honest, I have no desire to fill in all the details. They'll all come out eventually and the reality is that if you're reading this, you probably already know anyway.

I seem to have that habit, to quit writing for months or years at a time and then just pick it up. I noticed this as I sorted through old journals, at least a dozen of them, while trying to clean up my room at my parents' house. Of the 12 or so journals, only one was ever actually written through to completion. The rest of them have 15, 20, or maybe even 50 pages written in before I give it up. When I finally do go back to writing in my journal, I hate to taint my new thoughts with the old ones. It's a weird superstition - that whatever has already been written down has the power to influence what will be written in the future. I spent years running from everything, but most notably myself, and it is written all over these journals.

It's been painful to read them at times, realizing just how hurt and lost I really was. And, at times, I am amazed by my ability to look past all of it and see the truth of my situation for what it was. The following excerpt is just one of those times:

"I think that in order for therapy to work for me, I'm going to have to quit intellectualizing everything. I am going to have to accept myself as patient and stop analyzing every therapeutic encounter from a cerebral perspective. I, in general, I think, need to learn to feel things instead of think about them." --March 23, 2005

For the record, I never figured out how to do that - feeling vs. thinking. And this is precisely the issue that I have to sort out in counseling over the next year so that I can finally get to Africa.

So that's my prayer, friends, if you wouldn't mind joining me in it: that I would find the strength in Him to finally feel things and find healing from them where healing is needed. My heart is ever with Africa, but I know I can't go until I deal with things I've avoided for years.

Love.

Easter Baskets, Stockings, and Roses

Nikki and I stopped by Pat's house Saturday to drop off an Easter basket - nothing too exciting, just practical things like toilet paper and deodorant, with a chocolate bunny and some Easter candy. As we've become accustomed to, our knocking was met with a "Who is it?!" that is far more severe than her usual demeanor. "Hey Miss Pat - it's your friends from the Justice Project, Nikki and Jess."

"Oh, all right," she answered and came to unlock the door for us. "Come on in girls." She wasn't expecting us, and was dressed in a housecoat. She went back to get a robe and told us how glad she was that we had come. She told us the story of how a friend's daughter had left her car at Miss Pat's house and left to go out with a bunch of friends. The girl showed up at the hospital the next day, brain dead. The doctors (or her friends?) had said it was ecstasy but Pat was skeptical and to make matters worse the girl's mother thinks that Pat had something to do with it. Her daughter, too, has been having tough week - the dialysis is taking its toll and Pat is always prepared to have to go to the hospital with her daughter. "It's just been a bad week," she said. "Can I get a hug?"

"Of course!" I said, a smile on my face. In all honesty, I was surprised she hadn't asked for one sooner. It is a regular part of our visits, one I enjoy. I stepped toward her to hug her and before we had even fully embraced her body was shaking with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. I reassured her that it was okay, hugging her all the more tightly. I finally let go after about 30 or 40 seconds, hesitating to do so, but realizing that she and I did not each other all that well and I did not want to make her uncomfortable. Nikki gave her a hug, too, and we again reassured her that it was okay to cry, that we were here for her.

We had only just sat down when another of Miss Pat's "angels" stopped by - an old friend named Billy. She had called him up to take her out and get a new pair of stockings for Easter Sunday. Billy had just had two stints put in his heart this past week and was looking a little faint. "Come on in, Billy. Sit down. We was just about to have prayer."

The four of us held hands and Nikki and I took turns praying for Miss Pat, her daughter, and the young girl who had just died. We prayed mostly for peace for the girl's family and for Miss Pat as we all struggled with a life ended too soon under circumstances nobody understands. We prayed for massive healing for Miss Pat's daughter, who is on dialysis three times a week and in and out of the hospital often. We placed all of these things in our Lord's hands and asked Him to carry us through and for Miss Pat to cling firmly to His promises.

We said "amen" in unison and Miss Pat looked up and said, "Thank you." We told her that we were more than happy to do it and, in fact, she is often remembered in our prayers. She mentioned again to Billy that she needed to go out and get her stockings for Easter Sunday. "Well, we'd be happy to take you, Miss Pat if Mr. Billy isn't feeling up to it."

We didn't know it then, but Miss Pat doesn't get in the car with just anybody. She told us later that Billy and the two of us were the only people she'd let drive around. Usually if someone offers to take her to get something to eat, she'll just have them go out and bring it back as opposed to getting in the car.

But she agreed to get in the car with us and after we'd said our goodbyes to Billy, we all piled in and headed for the nearest grocery store, almost 10 minutes away. What a wonderful drive. Miss Pat told us stories of what the neighborhood used to look like when she first moved in to her mother's house in the 60's. Dogwoods on every lot, she told us, just growing wild. But then the townhomes and apartments came in and tore out the majority of them. We laughed about things in common and she chided me on my overly cautious driving until we finally arrived at Aldi.

We grabbed a cart and told her to get whatever she needed. Her shopping list was small, and almost every item she took, she asked for first. Sometimes you could see her eyes drift to something she didn't think was a necessity. "How about some iced tea, Miss Pat? Do you want to grab some?" She did, thanking us as she put it in the basket. Nikki and I followed her around the store until we finally arrived in line.

"Miss Pat, how about we let Nikki stand with the cart? I saw some flowers over on the other aisle - let's go pick some out." We walked over and looked at a small display of flower bouquets, Miss Pat finally settling on a bouquet of wine-colored roses. "Do you think they cost more?" she asked. I smiled. "Don't you worry about it."

A quick trip across the street to pick up a pair of stockings and we were on our way back. Miss Pat, however, seemed convinced that we were never going to get home if I didn't drive a little more aggressively! She told us on the drive back of the revival she was going to next weekend on the coast. In what can only be received as a huge sign of her trust in us, she offered us a key to her house, just in case we wanted to stop by and do anything while she was gone.

We got back to her small house and brought the groceries (and flowers!) inside. We talked and laughed for another half an hour or so, until she started to yawn and we said we'd get out of her hair. She thanked us again and again and we gave her big hugs. A comment about Nikki's working on a farm started another fifteen minutes of conversation full of laughter and the agreement that she would have to come out one day and we'd have a picnic. "All right," she said. "So we got a dinner date. And a country."

We hugged again and she said as we left that she would pet the horse, but wouldn't ride it. "You'll have to pray to Jesus about that," she said. "That'd be a miracle."

I think it was a Saturday full of small miracles.

Eight

I'm a little addicted to postsecret. Some of my happiest memories with Steven were Sunday mornings when the two of us would wake up and snuggle up together in bed and read the secrets together. It would start conversations and encourage us (or, I suppose, maybe just me) to be honest and open and trust the other person with the hard things. At a time when the two of us were desperately searching for something, it was the closest thing we had to religion.

I still check it on Sunday mornings (or, if I've forgotten, Mondays). I love the fact that this little experiment has grown into such a social phenomenon and that people who have felt totally alone are finding hope and community in such an unlikely place.

One of this week's secrets was this: "If I could talk to my eight year old self, I'd say, "Things will get easier, I promise." (It took 16 years, but I am finally at peace with myself.)"

People responded with what they would say to their own eight year old selves and it got me thinking. Things like "stop watching TV" and "don't forget to fly" and "brush your teeth."

I've put a lot of thought into it, and here's what I think I would say to my eight year old self:

"You don't have to be the best at everything. In fact, you will be better off if you're not. Trying to be perfect will cripple you. Be yourself - for better or worse; whether that's straight A's or just average. Accept yourself as you are and you'll be far happier. Perfect averages and a dozen awards will never make you happy.

Your identity will never be wrapped up in your illness, in your intelligence, or in your success. Release yourself of that. You will always be a child of God, first and foremost. Claim that and you will find yourself infinitely happier than grades and 'success' will ever make you."

Heavy and Light

My heart is heavy with grief, but lightened by the knowledge that this is not the end. My grandmother was a courageous woman of God, and she led an incredible and gracious life to the very end. I miss her terribly.

"Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." Isaiah 57:2

And so she did. And now she is not burdened by a sick body, by a mind that fades, but is greeting our Savior and King with great joy.


There are so many more things to say, but my heart is weary. I love you all.

down, down, down

I remember a time when my life was shrouded in secrecy. When my thoughts and actions were hidden from everyone and every moment of life was a lie.

It is painful to think that I am one misstep from that. One bad decision, one moment of succumbing to temptation. And it is getting harder everyday to say no.

Over and over again

I thought the thing with surrender was that I would just do it, give it all over, and be done with it.

I'm finding out that it's not like that at all. I have to surrender it everyday. And sometimes I fear that it's not getting any easier.