When Wounds Cease to be a Source of Shame

My facebook and twitter have been louder than normal this week. At some point (I'm not sure when), I tired of pretending that I don't have a serious mental illness. At some point, I decided that my story was worth sharing and that people need to know that eating disorders can destroy your life. At some point, I let the skeleton (pun intended) out of my closet.

I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa a week after my 25th birthday. I had been struggling with a sub-threshold eating disorder for years and had been -- for many months prior to the "official diagnosis"-- very, very sick. I didn't recognize it at the time, of course. You never do. In fact, anosognosia (the inability to recognize that you are ill) is extremely common in anorexia. It is biological and brain-based, like many of the seemingly "strange" behaviours people who are malnourished exhibit.

I had a nightmare once. It was one of the few nights when I was deep in my disorder where I was tired enough (and perhaps had enough nutrition in me) to sleep deep enough to dream. I woke up in a panic, my heart racing. What was so terrifying, you ask?

I dreamt I had eaten fried chicken.

I clutched my pillow when I woke up, gripping it for dear life, trying to assure myself that it was only a dream. I had to walk myself through the previous day, accounting for everything I ate, everything I drank, everything I bought. Had I bought fried chicken? Had I eaten fried chicken? In my dream, I had eaten fried chicken out of the refrigerator downstairs. Did we have fried chicken downstairs? It took everything in me not to run downstairs at 3 am and check the refrigerator. I checked every inch of my body, trying to be sure that I hadn't accidentally consumed fried chicken, hadn't accidentally ballooned overnight.

I had no idea I was sick. I had no idea that counting every calorie wasn't normal. I didn't know it was not normal to cut celery into exactly four pieces, carrots into exactly eight, cucumbers into exactly eight, and that your total number of vegetable sticks must always, always be twenty-five. I didn't know that everybody didn't measure out their cereal and soy milk and perform exotic rituals with it every morning. It seemed perfectly normal to me to drink gallons of diet soda everyday in an attempt to keep up my energy, long since sapped from months of a starvation diet and sleepless nights.

I grew accustomed to broken sleep, the muscles in my leg cramping for minutes at a time, the pain enough to wake me. I grew accustomed to staying out past midnight so that I could get in my hours at the gym after long days at work and church. I grew accustomed to lying, to telling the people that I love most that I was fine in an attempt to allay their fears.

Nothing about those years was normal. Nothing about those years was healthy. And while I may wish for that small, androgynous body again, I certainly don't wish for the cracked hands, hair falling out in clumps, bruises forming simply from sleeping. I don't wish for the depression and anxiety, the utter hopelessness and emptiness that overshadowed every day. I don't wish for the worried looks, the shattered friendships, the broken trust.

It's hard, some days, not to be nostalgic for the eating disorder. And if you're early in the recovery process, you need to have an idea of how to deal with those days. I call friends, go to Starbucks, and remind myself that I don't ever want to be getting up at 5 am for vitals again while spending my days in a treatment facility. I create art, and read books, and eat "safe" meals until I feel like recovery is worth it again.

And it is worth it. If you're struggling with an eating disorder and wondering if you want to give it up, you should know that it's much better on the other side. It's much better even in this wilderness land I'm traversing now -- not yet "healthy" or "recovered," but miles away from the sickness I lived in for so long.

You should know this isn't even half of my story. To be honest, I haven't got my "story" all figured out yet. But I know that this is part of it. I know that part of my story involves telling it to others. It is part of my calling, to share my wounds with others in an effort to help them heal. As Henri Nouwen says in his book, The Wounded Healer:

"Nobody escapes being wounded. We all are wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not “How can we hide our wounds?” so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but “How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?” When our wounds cease to be a source of shame, and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers.

Jesus is God’s wounded healer: through his wounds we are healed. Jesus’ suffering and death brought joy and life. His humiliation brought glory; his rejection brought a community of love. As followers of Jesus we can also allow our wounds to bring healing to others."

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My story isn't over yet. Neither is yours. 26 Feb - 3 March 2012 is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. If you think you or someone you know is struggling with disordered eating, call 1.800.931.2237 to get referrals and resources for help. There is no such thing as a small eating disorder and it is never too late to attempt recovery.

Why Weight?

January.

That time of year when every other commercial and advertisement on TV, radio, or in magazines is for low-calorie snack foods, diet pills, diet sodas, weight loss centers, gym memberships. And really, why wouldn't that be the case? Losing weight and getting fit are among the top five New Year's Resolutions in the United States. Any product that isn't taking advantage of that is simply doing bad business. If their marketing departments weren't pumping out advertisements for their products that capitalized on the ready-made market in January, someone higher up in the company would be looking for a new marketing department.

Fine. Whatever.

I recognize the fact that as someone who spent most of the past year in intensive treatment for an eating disorder, I'm slightly more sensitive than the general public to messages on weight and shape. I recognize that on any given day, I'm analyzing the messages that the media is sending me about what weight I should be, at what weight I'll be beautiful, about how great I'll feel when I lose that last 10 pounds. (For the record, I lost that "last 10 pounds." And then some. It was hell.)

So yes, I'm sensitive to weight loss messages. Yes, perhaps the feminazi bitch in me gets angered on a daily basis at the messages we're sending to our wives, daughters, nieces, friends. And yes, perhaps I'm a little jealous that it's okay for other people to lose weight, while I have to maintain or gain to keep myself from winding up in the hospital.

But I don't think any of that is in play here. I think anybody should be outraged at the message Special K is sending this year.

According to Special K, just by losing 6 pounds in 2 weeks, you could gain JOY! SASS! CONFIDENCE! PEP! DRIVE! SHINE! PEACE! HOPE!

I'm sorry?

I can't have those things at my current weight? I can't have those things if I gain the weight needed to reach my target weight? I can't have those things simply by focusing more on the important things in life? (Which, in case you were wondering, don't include: your weight, your pants size, the fact that your thighs touch, how much you can bench, how many miles you run each day, etc. etc. etc.)

Ladies, you're beautiful.

You deserve to have JOY, PEACE, HOPE, SASS, CONFIDENCE, PEP, DRIVE, and SHINE NOW. You don't have to lose two pounds, or six pounds, or twelve pounds to have those things. I didn't find them when I lost 10 pounds, then 20, then 40. I don't think you will either. To be honest, a relationship with Jesus has been the only way I've found any of those things.

And Jesus doesn't care that my thighs touch.

So what are you waiting for? Give yourself permission to have those things NOW. To be those things NOW. You're worth it. You deserve it.

You are more than some stupid number.

The Dirty Truth

I'll be 26 soon. And I'll be honest - my life looks nothing like I thought it would. To be further honest - I'm tired of lying about it. Tired of lying about what my life looks like on the outside when sometimes, on the inside, things are falling apart. Heck, sometimes on the outside things are falling apart (please reference the last 6 months of my life). Tired of pretending that life is all puppies and rainbows and I'm awesome and life is great and I love Jesus.

Sometimes, life is crap.
A lot of times, I'm not awesome.
Most of the time, I don't love Jesus all that well.

Months like the last few have reminded me why I named this blog what I did -- it is a long, hard road. It is a long, hard road where sometimes you can't even see the end. Sometimes, you traverse the same 100 yards back and forth and back and forth. Sometimes (okay, a lot of times), I question the "good, good end."

A friend asked me the other day if I trust God. Like, really really trust Him. Ever since I came back to the church 3 years, I've struggled with the trust issue. My answer to her was that I trust Him for some things, but not for x. Oh, and maybe not y either. And sometimes I struggle to trust Him for z.

It seems like the longer I've been a Christ-follower, the harder it gets to trust. Maybe I'm just given bigger things now and maybe that's a vote of confidence on the part of a God who sees things in me that I don't see. Maybe the "honeymoon" phase has worn off and it's time to get into the nitty-gritty of my walk. Maybe it's both of these things.

So there it is: the truth. Sometimes I don't trust God. Sometimes I hold things back from Him, convinced that I can do it better. (Altogether now: How's that working out for you, Jess?)

Am I the only one with this problem? How did you all learn to trust God?

Picking Up the Pieces

People are messy.

Maybe you already knew that, but I'm learning that. I have spent a lot of my life trying to avoid my own mess, which has necessarily meant avoiding other people's messes, too. If you keep things always on the surface, your mess isn't exposed and you don't have to deal with this person or that person's mess either.

It's convenient, really. It is also very, very unfulfilling. You never get to know anybody truly and nobody ever truly knows you. So a while back, I started digging a little deeper with folks. Excavating parts of myself that were normally kept under wraps. They followed in suit.

And they're messy. I'm messy. We're all really, really messy.

Sometimes, I hate it. It puts me face to face with the limitations of my being only human. It makes me feel painfully inadequate to get a phone call from a woman I love and to hear her fret over not being able to pay her light bill. I drive over there, knowing full well that I cannot pay her light bill for her, and all I can do is give her bus fare to get to the crisis ministry in our city. I listen to her heart, which is scared and frightened, and I have no words to soothe her, but I pray. It is messy. My mess entangled with her mess, my words entangled with her words, prayers to an unseen but very real God. We don't know how he'll clean up our messes, but he will.

So sometimes, I love the mess. It reeks of Jesus, of his redemption, of his glory. It is one chapter in a book that was finished 2,000 years ago, when death and sin were defeated. The mess, when you are reading it and living, is painful. And yet, there is hope.

We are messes, each of us.

We are also redeemed.

I think sometimes we just need to be reminded of how we are human and messy and faulty. So then God can remind us how he is glorious and beautiful and gracious.

I love how God does that.

Dream House

Every morning on my way to work, I pass a small house with a "For Rent" sign. It doesn't appear to be very large, maybe one bedroom, one bath, a small kitchen and living space. It's not far from my parents' business, in a rather industrial, run-down part of town. The majority of the people in the neighborhood are minorities -- and I often get looks being a small white girl driving a big truck down the road. I've checked on rent in these areas, in the event that I ever have the financial ability to move out of my childhood bedroom - a mere $300 a month.

This is not, in a nutshell, a "good" part of town. Not a part of town where my parents would like me to live, not a part of town that is safe for a single female living alone. When my church was involved with the Justice Project last year in a fragile neighborhood in our city, I wanted nothing more than to rent a house, move in, and love people from my front porch. My father was not a fan of this plan and at any rate, I was too broke to move out.

And I know what it looks like - privileged white girl "slumming it" and trying to move in and save the neighborhood!

Really, though, it's not like that all.

In these run-down, impoverished, broken neighborhoods, I feel at home.

I understand brokenness. Understand what it is like to be poor in spirit and poor in finances. I appreciate those people who wear their brokenness on their sleeves, not as badges or prizes, but as expressions of who they are. They are not afraid to show their brokenness, their unlovely-ness, their flaws and struggles and pain. And that is beautiful.

I am tired of running in circles where people say that everything is fine when it is not. Tired of hiding struggles and pain as if that somehow makes me strong. It is my brokenness and my flaws that are the essence of my beauty and the essence of Christ's strength in me.

This sort of honesty and vulnerability is terrifying to so many people. And that is understandable, given the way that our culture has ever-new and varying ways of beating people when they're down, of making them ashamed of their lives and their pasts and their choices. And maybe they weren't great choices, but they can still be redeemed. They are being redeemed.

At the end of the day, I just want to be among people who aren't afraid to speak the truth.

Sometimes, everything is not okay.

And that is okay.

My Father's Daughter

Most often, the follow-up to the "What are you doing with your life?" question is the "So, what do you do for a job?" question. Because, in case you were wondering, following Jesus doesn't always pay the bills and this girl's got a degree that she'll be paying off until she's 90. Give or take.

When I left my job at the end of July, I sort of floated for a while. I filled my days with an internship at my church, my evenings with friends and long runs, and took some time to catch up on sleep. To be honest, it was necessary. The past year has been, in a word, difficult - and while I don't have any desire to unpack that here, the time off and reduced schedule was so very necessary for healing body, mind, and soul.

So I rested for a month, worked at church, and finally started applying to jobs. And got rejection letter after rejection letter after rejection letter. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to hire me. Toward the end of September, I started to get nervous. I have never been one to doubt God's provision for me in physical and financial matters, but I was really starting to question whether or not He would show up "on time" - which is to say, before my bank account hit zero.

Then, one Monday morning, I got a job offer. It went a little something like this:

Mom: Jessica! Come downstairs, please!

Me: [grumble, grumble, grumble, stomp, stomp, stomp] Whaaaaaaaaaaat?

Mom: So you still don't have a job?

Me: [grumble, grumble, grumble, way to rub it in, lady] No.

Mom: Well, your father and I would like to hire you at the office. I'm going to be working out of the office more and we need someone to take care of cleaning, invoices, answering the phone, and eventually start doing electrical drawings.

Me: Okay.

Mom: You start Wednesday.

So that is how I came to work 35 hours a week in a dusty machine shop, breathing in particulates that are probably considered carcinogens in the state of California, and picking up lunch orders for the most insatiable carnivores I have ever met.

I joke that my job description is that of "glorified gopher" - but the truth is that I am incredibly blessed. Incredibly blessed to have a job at all, incredibly blessed that my parents have a business that is doing well enough that they can hire me on for a season. It has also been an incredible blessing to have this simple, daily connection with my family again. I was running around at 100 miles per hour for the past year, rarely seeing my parents, the three of us like ships passing in the night or trains passing in the suburbs or... something.

Now, I see my parents every day for hours a day. It is a reminder that I am a part of a unit, something bigger than myself. I am reminded of that every time I pull open the file cabinet and find the files written in no fewer than six different scripts - both parents, plus all of the kids having done their time at the family business over summers or school breaks. I am learning the business. Learning what my father does. Learning what that symbol on an electrical drawing means and how to strip furniture. Learning the inside language of machine building and how to draw up packing slips and invoices.

In short, I am learning to be my father's daughter.

And in all the quiet moments, mundane activities, and challenges that present themselves, I am learning to become my Father's daughter as well.

This season is a blessing on so many levels.

I am trying not to waste it.

The Grand Life Plan

Something about being 25 years old and three years out of school means that most times when people see me, I am asked one question:

So what are you doing with your life?

I guess it's a question that is valid enough. From the outside looking in, I'm really not doing much.

I don't date, so I'm clearly not on the "married with kids" track.
I work for my parents because nobody else on the East Coast will hire me, so I'm not on the "high-powered career" track.
I spend my free time running, reading, and volunteering, so I'm not particularly "ambitious."
Furthermore, I'm not in Africa, so I don't look at all like the "missionary" I thought I would be by now.

I think people probably assume that because I'm not on the mission field now, I misheard - that missions was never really the plan. And I don't fault them for that thought at all. Heck, *I* thought I misheard.

I didn't. I'm more sure of that today than I was two years ago. I'm called.

But here's the thing: I'm also human. So when God speaks, it gets filtered through my own desires and wills and sinful nature and it ends up looking like a schoolyard game of "telephone."

God might be trying to tell me that to "go to Canada next summer to meet the love of your life."
But by the time it is filtered through my fear of looking ridiculous, my insatiable desire to "be successful," my need to so something bigger than myself, and my [totally God-given] desire to serve, I might hear something more like, "hop a train to Mexico and build houses for the rest of your life."

All this is to say that I didn't misunderstand. I'm called. I'm not in Africa now, but that doesn't mean I'll never be. And it certainly doesn't mean that the last two years has been a waste - the process of applying for missions and the subsequent counseling they suggested have brought out the best and worst parts of me.

These years have highlighted just what tight grip I hold on my illusion of "control" and how desperately I need to let that go.
They have left me floundering, looking silly, taking major hits to my pride - and realizing that it was never about what everyone else thinks of me to begin with.
They have taught me what it means to be flawed and broken and painfully messy.

These two years have been God dragging me into the wilderness (kicking and screaming, to be sure) and stripping me naked. It has felt like an act of violence, but in the end has been the purest act of love.

So now what? Now, as I'm finally coming out on the other side of two of the most gut-wrenching years of my life? Now what's the plan?

To be honest, I've rejected any plan. This seems strange for someone who was, at age 12, planning how to get into Harvard Medical School. But I simply don't know what to do anymore. My plans certainly haven't been working. So I quit.

I'm following Jesus.

I'm getting up each morning and surrendering my crap.
I'm praying and learning to listen for replies.
I'm obeying in the best way I can.
I'm accepting the fact that I probably look really foolish to a lot of people.
I'm learning to give myself some measure of the same grace that God gives me.


It's not perfect.
Most days, it's not even pretty.

But the yoke is easy and the burden is light.
I'm following Jesus.
THAT'S what I'm doing with my life.

That's all I can hope to do.

No Blemish

A friend recently challenged me to write out how I defined beauty -- and to write a definition I would feel comfortable sharing with a young girl. It was eye-opening for me to realize as I sat with a blank stare in front of my computer that I really didn't know how I defined beauty -- defining it by our culture's standards seemed silly and even ludicrous, but lacking a personal definition, that seems to be what I base my idea of "beautiful" on.

Luckily, I have a number of amazing young girls in my life. Girls that I love with every fiber of my being and who I am passionate about knowing that they know just how beautiful they are. I wrote this with them in mind. (And I must have been channeling my pastor, as it came out in letter form.)

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Precious Girls,

I worry about you. I worry about the culture you’re growing into. I worry about the messages that you receive about what makes you beautiful and what makes you worthy. I know your parents worry, too, because we’ve had the conversations about how much we love and care for you.

But I worry more than most, I think, because I know just how hard it is to dig yourself out of the hole once you’ve spent so long believing that you have to look a certain way to be beautiful. That you have to match up to some “ideal” to be worthy of time or care. You don’t, I assure you – and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You are worthy of time and care because you are here. Because you are a beloved daughter of the most high King. You are worthy, dear hearts.

And you are beautiful.

Your confidence is beautiful.
Your perseverance is beautiful
Your honesty is beautiful.
Your generous heart is beautiful.
Your humour is beautiful.
Your passion is beautiful.
Your faith is beautiful.
The way you love is beautiful.
The way you trust is beautiful.

Do not lose those things. They are more important than any physical definition of beauty. And while we’re on the subject of physical beauty, if there were only one thing I could tell you, it would be this:

“You are altogether beautiful, my darling, and there is no blemish in you.” –Song of Solomon 4:7

No blemish. Please don’t mistake this to mean that you are “perfect” in your beauty in the way that the world would like you to believe “perfect” beauty exists. We all have quirks about our appearance.

To say that there is no blemish in you means that there is nothing – let me repeat that – NOTHING about your physical appearance that makes you any less than someone else. There is NOTHING about the way that you were created that spoils your appearance or makes you unlovely.

In fact, it is those very flaws that are the hallmarks of your beauty. Your beauty is not wrapped up in the fact that you are six feet tall with perfect skin and blonde hair and blue eyes – though perhaps that will be true for you, and you will, for a time, get by with relative ease in this culture. But there will come a day when you will see a “flaw” – something that those perfect, airbrushed models don’t have – and you will be faced with a choice. You can either believe the culture or believe the One who made you.

There is no blemish in you.

It is the scars from the times you fell off your bike that are precisely your beauty, because they tell the story of how you got up and kept going. It is the way that your left foot turns in ever so slightly, showing your perseverance and strength as you learned to walk. The way that your nose crinkles just before you sneeze is beauty. Your crooked smile. Your curly, kinky hair. Your long fingers. Your short toes. Your big hips. Your wide shoulders.

Beautiful.
Beautiful.
Beautiful.

Take care of that beauty, girls. Take care of those hips that love to shake and dance, and those legs that are strong and powerful as you run across the playground. Spend time every day acknowledging that you are beautiful now – not five pounds from now, not when you get your braces off, not when you grow a few more inches – NOW. Because you are, beautiful, my darlings – and you have to know that in the core of your being so you will not be shaken when the storms come.

They will come – maybe sooner, maybe later – but they will come. And when they come, you have to be able to stand solidly in the middle of them and know who and what you are. You have to be able to look the storms in the face and tell them that you are a daughter of the King. That you are beautiful and there is no blemish in you. You have to be able to hide that truth in your heart and guard it with your life.

That is my prayer for you, sweet girls.

I love you.
You are beautiful.

Day 4ish: The Underground (Part 1)

(It seems rather silly to keep track of days at this point, but I promised 31 days of Africa - and there will be 31. Just maybe not consecutive.)

I was in the Charlotte 24-7 prayer room last Thursday for a prayer meeting we call KILN. It's a great group of folks who inspire discussions which draw me ever nearer to the heart of the Father. Every week we walk in without an agenda and let the Spirit lead, no small task for this control freak.

We were discussing Haiti last Thursday - the destruction, the callousness of our own hearts, and, yes, the comments made by a certain televangelist. We spoke openly, freely, sifting through our own feelings and thoughts and confusion. We questioned where forces of good meet forces of evil in this world and how to distinguish their works from each other. We read aloud from the Bible, discussing how Old Testament law has relevance for us today. And we prayed, aloud - one by one and altogether - for the brothers and sisters in Haiti who were suffering and grieving, and for the brothers and sisters in that very room.

I closed my eyes as we prayed, and wondered at how lucky I am to do that without fear. The doors were not locked, anybody could come or go as they pleased, and indeed a stranger came in at one point and stayed without engaging us. Here we were, a group of 10 or so modern-day disciples, boldly proclaiming our faith out loud for anyone to walk in and hear and we did so without fearing for our physical safety if someone should find us or know us as Christ followers.

Friends, how blessed we are to be in a country where we can state our beliefs - on t-shirts, on bumper stickers, out loud on street corners, in the quiet rooms of an urban monastery. So many Christian brothers and sisters across the world do not have that security and indeed acknowledge the possibility of martyrdom just by accepting Christ.

So today, I wanted to share some of the truths of just how hard it is to be a Christ follower in some parts of Africa. How often we forget that Christ called us to give our very lives to the Kingdom (Mt 16:25) - let this be a reminder to all of us how present a reality that is for others across the world.

*As a general rule, I do not mention names and countries when talking discussing the work of the church in restricted nations. However, the following information has been published in wide release and therefore, I feel it acceptable to continue the dissemination. All of the following information is taken directly from Voice of the Martyrs' "The Persecuted Church: Global Report 2010." It can be found online (along with many other resources) at www.persecution.com.

Algeria (restricted) - An era of relative liberty to practice Christianity ended in 2006. A new law was passed stating that house churches were not permitted. The law, ordered by the nation's court, is an effort to stop evangelism and church growth in Algeria. Even churches with licenses had to stop meeting. One contact reported their church stopped meeting briefly, seeking God's desire for their church. But they decided to keep meeting and face any consequences. The police came many times to threaten the church, but the believer reported that gathering together melted their fear and renewed their courage.

Comoros (restricted) - Persecution against Christians generally takes the form of social discrimination. There are fewer than 200 Christian nationals in this country of 750,000 people who live on three islands. There are two Catholic churches and one Protestant church, but only non-citizens may use the buildings. There are no official churches for Comorian people. Christians are forbidden to witness in public. In some areas, local authorities limit the practice of Christianity. One believer who left Islam had his travel documents revoked. In 2006, authorities arrested Comorian believers in a Bible study and discovered Christian materials. Four of the believers were sentenced to three months in prison but were released after six weeks. Christian workers report being verbally attacked at a local mosque for leading Friday prayer meetings. During Ramadan this year, one of the local believers was jailed for five days for not fasting and praying as required by Islam.

Egypt (restricted) - The country's constitution gives preference to Muslims. Christians are treated as second-class citizens, denied political representation and discriminated against in employment. On June 13, 2009, a Cairo judge denied a Christian convert's request to change his religious status on his identification card from Muslim to Christian. The man, Maher El-Gohary, has been attacked on the streets and has received death threats for legally pursuing his case. In addition, several riots have occurred between Coptic Christians and Muslims. Unprovoked, three Muslim men stabbed a Coptic Christian man as he left a wedding service, sending him to the hospital with severe internal injuries. On May 9, 2009, a car bomb exploded outside of St. Mary Church, a holy site for Copts.

Eritrea (restricted) - In 2002, the government ordered all independent Protestant churches closed. In the past three years, religious repression has escalated. At least 3,000 Eritrean Christians are currently imprisoned for their religious beliefs. Some have been held in underground cells or metal shipping containers in an effort to pressure them to recant their faith. Mehari Gebreneguse Asgedom, 42, died in solitary confinement at the Mitire Military Confinement Center on Jan 16, 2009, from torture and complications from diabetes. In October, Teklesenbet Gebreab Kiflom died while imprisoned for his faith at Wi'a Military Confinement Center. He reportedly died after prison commanders refused to give him medical attention for his malaria.

Ethiopia (hostile) - In Ethiopia, Orthodox Church members harass evangelical Christians. In one case, the body of a Christian baby boy was dug up in the middle of the night and placed on the steps of the evangelical church. The local Orthodox church would not allow the body of the boy to be buried on their church grounds. In addition, young people who receive Christ are sometimes driven from their Orthodox families. In another incident, a man lost his teaching job at a government school after converting to Christianity.

Part two will come tomorrow(ish). Surely your eyes are tired by now.

The information on Ethiopia made me particularly sad, the news of Christians persecuting Christians. My prayer today is that across the world, we as Christ followers will come understand the truth of this passage and join hand-in-hand to bring in the revolution of Kingdom Come:

"Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to one hope when you were called— one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all."
-Ephesians 4:3-6

Day 3ish: A Blessing or A Curse?

So I've been less than consistent blogging this week. Part of this has to do with the fact that I overschedule myself, part has to do with the fact that I have too high of expectations when it comes to blogging, and part has to do with the fact that I've been busy with my first week of preschool.

That's right, friends. Twice a week I'm sitting in a Catholic church and learning colors, numbers, and that playdoh is NOT for eating. I can already count to 10 without help and that makes me the star of the class.

Okay, seriously - I'm attending preschool as part of my job as an aide for a little girl with cerebral palsy. She is in a classroom with 10 other 2-and 3-year-olds, all of whom are able-bodied and, so far as I can tell, completely typical. She actually had the opportunity to attend a preschool through the public school system with other children with special needs, but her parents thought she was a little young and we all thought it would be a huge advantage for her to be around typical children in an inclusive classroom setting.

It has been really beautiful to watch those 10 other children reach out to her. Part of it is curiosity, yes, but part of it is the acknowledgment that even with a walker and leg braces and eyes that don't line up - she is just like them. She loves to give hugs and play with shaving cream and blow kisses and shake the maracas in music class.

And of course they have questions - why does she have that chair? Why does she wear that? Why can't she walk? And her teachers and I answer those questions in the most age-appropriate way we can, always reminding the kids that God made all of us different and that's okay.

Of course, that's not at all the view of disabilities in other parts of the world, including Africa. Consider:

The Kiswahili word for disabled is kiwete — part of the object class of nouns, a thing, a diminutive, not a human being.

That is a line from an article from a couple of years ago about the situation that exists for disabled children across Africa. There is a movement now for inclusion of special needs children in the schools there, but for many years, they were shunned, hidden away, the skeleton in the closet.

These children are considered cursed by the gods and spirits for the sins of their fathers and mothers, a source of shame for their families. They receive few, if any, services and are often abused, neglected, or abandoned. And maybe worst of all, they are raised to believe they are unworthy of all the opportunities and advantages their siblings and neighbors enjoy.

It makes me sad for those children and just as sad for their families. In a culture where a special needs child is a mark of shame, some parents may never get past that to understand just how beautiful that child is, how full of potential. They will never understand the joy of the small gains and the way a hard-earned smile can light up a room and bless a day.

And so I encourage you to do a little research and a lot of praying.

Pray for the families with special needs children, that they might be courageous in the face of cultural beliefs to love their children wildly and radically.
Pray that legislators, parents, teachers, activists come face-to-face with these children and all the potential they embody - and that they make bold decisions and push for access for children with special needs.
And pray that all over Africa and all over the world, people with be raised up with special hearts for these most precious children of our Father.

Because once your heart is touched by these kids, you will never ever be the same.

(Me and the tiny BFF on her first day of preschool)

For further research:

Comfort the Children International - An organization with a home in Mai Maihu, Kenya that serves mothers and their disabled children

Naro Moru Disabled Children's Home - A children's home in Kenya with the goal of rehabilitating disabled children so they can be integrated into society as much as possible

Compassion International - Sponsor a child. You can even specify a child who is mentally or physically handicapped

Day 2: And You Thought Being Homosexual in America Was Tough

Let me say upfront that I don't really know where I stand on the gay rights issue. I have a Human Rights Campaign sticker on the back of my car, there before I became a Christ-follower. And to be honest, I haven't really re-evaluated my feelings on the subject - a fact that my mentor called me out on a couple of months ago.

And because this is a sensitive subject, let me make myself clearer: I don't know how I feel about the politics of homosexuality - civil unions v. marriage, health benefits, end-of-life decisions and other rights. I know exactly how I feel about homosexuals: I love you. Period. I love you whether it's nature or nurture, whether you're still in the closet or out in the open, whether you are happy or wish every day it could be different.

And because I love you, and because you are human, I believe you deserve basic respect and rights and opportunities. I believe you are entitled to life and safety and the freedom to make your choices just like anybody else.

Which is why what is going on in Uganda is particularly troubling to me. In an effort to reduce the incidences of HIV/AIDS, the country is trying to pass legislation making homosexuality illegal and, in some cases, punishable by death. (First of all, let's not overlook the wrong assumption that AIDS is a "gay disease.")

Here is an excerpt from a really great article, which sums up the Ugandan legislation better than I could ever hope to:

The Ugandan legislation in its current form would mandate a death sentence for active homosexuals living with HIV or in cases of same-sex rape. "Serial offenders" also could face capital punishment, but the legislation does not define the term. Anyone convicted of a homosexual act faces life imprisonment.

Anyone who "aids, abets, counsels or procures another to engage in acts of homosexuality" faces seven years in prison if convicted. Landlords who rent rooms or homes to homosexuals also could get seven years and anyone with "religious, political, economic or social authority" who fails to report anyone violating the act faces three years.

I encourage you to read the entire article HERE. It is particularly interesting and troubling to note that Uganda is not the first to consider or pass such legislation, and it will certainly not be the last.

I think I've certainly gotten in over my head again in terms of subject matter. In short, I don't know if it's God's perfect will for anybody to be gay. I do know, however, that condemning people and threatening death is never going to be a way to show them God's love.

I think all we can do is pray, friends. For the legislators in Uganda and across Africa who see these laws as a way to regulate disease or morality or both. For the people in those countries who are affected by these laws. And for the Christ-followers who come into contact with them every day with the opportunity to show them love and respect and compassion.

And maybe we should do a little searching of the Father's heart ourselves on this. Because when it comes to loving and redeeming and freeing people, no one does it better than Him.

Day 1: A (Really) Brief Look at How Imperialism Shaped Africa

I was in the middle of a blog about Darfur, about to explain the history of Sudan when I realized that what I was going to say would apply to a lot of Africa. I decided that perhaps starting day 1 with a history of imperialism in Africa would be more appropriate. It seems a good introduction and very necessary background for the rest of the month.

The first reaction a lot of people have had upon hearing that I want to go to Africa is, "Is it safe?" This is not an altogether unfounded question - the history of Africa in the 20th century has been, generally speaking, one of violence, upheaval, and tragedy. However, one would have to look a little further back to understand the true reasons for this.

European exploration began in the late 1700s, and a fair portion of northern Africa was mapped by the early 1800s. It didn't take long for Europeans to realize that the continent was ripe with resources (think gold, copper, diamonds, rubber and more). That, coupled with medical and technological advances that made the travel through Africa possible, created what is known as the "Scramble for Africa."

In 1884, The Berlin Conference was called with the intention of setting guidelines for African Colonization. (And as I'm sure you guessed, Africans weren't invited.) The Conference, among other things, set up "spheres of influence" where major European powers could exert their claim to African territories. Their agenda for splitting the continent was absurd. Lines were drawn with no consideration for indigenous people groups, the majority of whom had already drawn their own lines and worked out their own peace accords.

African colonies began their fights for independence after World War II, with the majority of Africa gaining independence by the late 1960s (there were a few stragglers). It is here that the long-term effects of imperialism are seen.

In some cases, civil wars erupt because countries that Europe created involved vastly different cultures and European rule had only exacerbated the differences (see: Sudan). In some cases, civil wars erupt because European rule actually involved creating upside down power structures, where ethnic minorities were given all the power and opportunities, while ethnic majorities were oppressed (see: Rwanda), creating all sorts of animosity and trouble when Europe pulled out.

And those countries lucky enough to have stable governments post-colonialism struggle to feed their citizens and watch as their countrymen die in famines. These famines occur because of drought, certainly, but also because Africans were forced into growing cash crops such as cotton and tobacco, to the detriment of their own food crops. Even after European rule was gone, African farmers continued to supply Europe with their "needs," while maintaining only small subsistence plots for themselves - and growing food that they hardly learned to cultivate during the prior 100 years.

In short, the history of Africa has played out like the history of most of the developing world: The First World (that's us, folks) was built on the blood, sweat, and tears of the Third World. Every major "gain" for industrialism and capitalism was at a great cost for those we considered to be inferior.

Do I consider this to be an exhaustive look at how imperialism shaped the Africa we know today? Certainly not. In fact, I'm a little embarrassed at how little it really dives into the issues. Luckily, we have another 30 days to dive in deep. At the very least, I hope this gave you a little more insight into how modern Africa was formed and will make the next 30 days a little easier to understand.

Until tomorrow, friends. Love.

31 Days of Africa: A Few Disclaimers Before We Start

I'm really no different than you - just a kid who is trying to figure out what is going on in Africa. Trying to figure out how so beautiful a continent became so troubled, trying to figure out where my place is in all of it.

That said, this blog shouldn't be your sole source of information about Africa. I'm guaranteed to make mistakes, misinterpret evidence, omit citations, and let my own feelings get in the way of objectivity. If you're expecting college-style essays with peer-reviewed sources, you will be sorely disappointed. I really just want this blog to be a jumping-off point for all of us - something to highlight our misconceptions and ignorance and push us into a better understanding of our African brothers and sisters.

It is in that understanding that compassion can be fostered, passions can be ignited, and change can occur.

Thanks for taking the journey with me, friends.

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.