Seasons

In the summer when I wake
Celebration on my lips
Praising You for sweet revival,
for mountaintops, Your fingerprints.
When I see you in the sunsets,
in shallow puddles left by rain,
I pray Your joy to never leave me,
give me wonder day to day.

And in the fall when I am weary
of cold shoulders and long days
I look for You in long Octobers,
but cracking branches shake my faith.
When all I know is somehow broken,
I cling to Your words' warm embrace.
I look to You for loving comfort
to give me strength for coming days.

And as the winter brings the cold
and I am feeling so alone,
Your words freeze upon my lips
and sharing them feels like a chore.
When I've nothing good to report,
the icy roads block off my heart,
I pray for peace during the storms,
That I will always know I'm Yours.

And in the springtime, budding flowers,
I taste renewal in the air.
The aroma of forgiveness,
faithfulness, and heard prayers.
Lord, when I see a new horizon,
I pray for grace for my today.
That I'll never forget your promise,
I'll live in you every moment,
           every season,
            every day.

Hemingway

Hemingway once said, "Write hard and clear about what hurts".

Write about the feels that you may not feel it's ok to share, it is.
Write about the breaking that sold your soul to waterproof mascara.
Write about the hallways that you can't look down anymore, the slamming doors have jammed too many heart fingers for you to move past.
Write about the scarring words and the trials and the hurt and the pain.
The unfair professionals. The unjust lovers. The undermining schemes.

The insecurities that haunt you when the lights turn off.
The things that cause you to come undone.
The ones you go back to time and time again knowing that they will continue to let you down and yet you still love them with crumpled pieces.
The flaws you cannot overcome.
Write hard. Write clear. Write often.

and leave the hurt on the pages.
and experience more.
and be taught.
and learn.
and write.

and even when you stop hurting, you shouldn't stop writing.

Hemingway once said, "Write hard and clear about what hurts"
...but he deserves an amendment... also write about what frees you.

Write about the joy that overflows into dancing and jumping and screaming.
Write about the taste of a new spring after a long cold heartless winter. Focus on Spring.
Write about the stacks of books and kicked off shoes, the days the sun shines brighter then the darkest nights and the friends that stand by your side.
Write about the thousands of pages waiting before you.
The soft kisses. The salty air. The sleepy talks.

The safety you feel under your covers with your dog as your foot warmer.
The things that make you feel whole.
The people that know your heart better then you do sometimes and sing the song of your soul back to you when you don't remember how.
The smiles you cannot rid.
Write hard. Write clear. Write often.

and let the words envelop you.
and experience more.
and be taught.
and learn.
and love.
and write.

and even when you're overflowing. and even though you'll hurt again.
and even when you don't have words... You shouldn't stop writing.

To Those I Love

I just want you to know now that I am not afraid. I hear of the bombings and the disease and the guns and the mess and your sincere “Be safe” whispered to me as I ramble on about dirty children and full-funding. And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I won’t be safe. I hear myself say that and I’ve yet to flinch and it surprises me, I know I’m not that brave. The only explanation I can settle on is that this is what I was made for. I’ve known for a long time that I wasn’t made for a comfortable life and I’ve always wanted so much deeper that what this world can give me. I’m never satisfied with the white picket fence theology so widely accepted. Safe has never really been a long term goal of mine.

And I know how hard this will be for you to understand and you will wonder how I could “risk it all” for a place I’ve never known. But the thing is I do know it, as sure as my heart is beating right now, I know it. And I have no fear about following my heart in this direction. You know, I don’t sit here and wonder about my next breath, and maybe I should, but without wondering and fearing, love, it came. Life was not meant to be lived on a ventilator for fear my lungs would give-way. God built me with this passion and by His grace, He’s letting me live it out and you can bet that if I had to give up all my comfort: reading books in my favorite chair and fancy dates and a warm bed, my little safe ventilator bubble. If I had to give it all up to be in that passion for but a moment, I wouldn’t think twice.

C.S. Lewis says, “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.” And, friends, until I am in that world I am going to take each of these breaths and urgently love all that I can. And I’m going to go to Africa. And if my bus gets bombed, I’m going to love that man with my last breath because I don’t know how to live any differently anymore.

A beautiful woman, Jane Austen, who speaks my heart sometimes, once said, "I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature”. – I am going to love them. And if it takes all of me: figuratively, emotionally, literally. Ok.

It is well with my soul.

And to you, I will love you too, with every bit of me that flies across that ocean I will love you. But, I will always love Jesus more. And when He says “go”, I will move. And if that means losing you, I won’t be sorry. Being alive is grand, and with every moment of breath I will love you, but I will recklessly follow Him if it ruins me. And if He is what ruins me, what a beautiful ruin I will be.

Numbers

Thirty Two. Seven. One hundred and ahem.

Numbers. Not definitions.

Walking through surround by racks and sizes telling me I must reach past to the hidden places to find where I fit. Not quite a plus but somewhere between, awkwardly falling amongst frumpy and skin tight. Feeling betrayed by something as much of me as something can be. Not my shape, we don’t make that size, maybe something looser. Maybe something different. Maybe try somewhere else. Like the “in” isn’t interested to carry what I could carry on my exterior to define what people see before they speak with me.

They are numbers.

Numbers on pieces of metal you are pushed onto before you can stand. To the times in front of your gym class learning about being “in” shape but maybe our shapes are different and I was taught in kindergarten that round pegs don’t fit in square holes - so, oh educated professional standing in front of me, tell me did you miss that lesson - that you are trying to push me in one now. To the scrub wearers shaking their head and calculating numbers in their minds while they exclaim that you don’t look like your number, but that’s what I've been trying to say.

I’m not a number.

Kiosk standers lining you up telling you all the things you aren’t enough at. All the things you’re too much at. Take our pill. Fix your hair. Give your hand. Lend your ear. Like my body is the local buffet for you to pick and choose what you like and what you want to reorder to make it better. This is not a binder, my pages can’t be ripped out and rearranged like you please. I am bound. Bound with leather and marked and let me tell you now, in order to not disappoint, that I don’t have an index or page numbers for you to flick around because as I said before this is an all-or-nothing deal.

You can’t choose my numbers. You can’t make me numbers.

I am beautiful and, yes, full and sometimes empty from the way you make me feel by telling me I’m not enough to play this part or run this race or be in time with the things that are right in your eyes, but let me say that maybe you aren’t looking through the right set of glasses because I may be a round peg and something you call “full”, but maybe I’m not defined by the way my fed belly hangs over the fabric I push my thighs into. And maybe I’m more then the way parts of me jiggle when I run to his embrace. And maybe I can wear more than a yard of fabric and still be seen as desirable and maybe I don’t have to be hidden behind a crowd and maybe I shouldn’t have to shop in the shadows and maybe I am more than you have assumed. And maybe I’m more in different ways. For I am not defined by numbers. What matters to me is not the size in my jeans but the size of my heart, and not the feel of spandex holding me in but the feel of my soul letting go of prejudice and opening up and being vulnerable and loving people without sucking in the parts of me that are as much of me as anything could be. And maybe I like the way my hair falls wrong and divine body was designed.

I am not a number. I am a person.

A person who can’t be written out in binary – you’ll need a dictionary to define me.

Morning Song

In the morning when I rise
and it feels the sun just barely set
my body clinging to my pillows
my mind screaming, "no, not yet".
Give me strength to face the faces
the long hours, the cold rain,
let Your heart be on my tongue
let my feet follow Your way.

He is taken by you

He is taken by you.

The sleep left in your eyes when you wake up.
The way your socks are half on and your blankets are knotted up and how you never make your bed.
The way you dance in the mornings and lose yourself sometimes in the music.
He adores that.

When you look up at the clock and your grab your shoes and race out the door with the wrong set of keys.
When you forget about breakfast and shamelessly stop at the bagel shop (maybe even doughnuts today).
The smiles you offer strangers at stoplights.
He can't get enough.

The melodies you drum out on your steering wheel with your shoes in the passenger seat, He knows how you love driving barefoot.
How sometimes you prefer tacos from that truck to anything you could make.
How you curl up with that same book even though you brought home three new ones yesterday.

He loves the mismatched socks
and the empty bottles of sunkist .
He loves the heels you keep buying with no intention of wearing.
He loves that you brave the cold to see the stars.
How you write Him love letters,
How sometimes you don't have the energy to write them, so you just pray them.
He loves your last thoughts,
and the smile you fall asleep with.

And on those days when your pillows are salty and you crawl into bed before dinner.
He loves that too.
He loves being your comforter and ears to listen.

He loves to watch you sleep, and send you dreams of peace and grace and wildflower fields.

He loves to think about you and the things about you He would never change,
And just in case you forget, He wouldn't change a thing.

He loves that He made you and all the little quarks, and weird passions, and sleep in your eyes.

He is taken by you.
His breath.
His heart.
His life.
all for you.

Today

Today I gave myself permission to cry.
I think you broke my heart a little. Don't worry though, I don't blame you.

You see, you don't know a whole lot about me - which is probably good now. But let me show you a little...

You see, I've had my heart broken quite a few times. I fall hard, so hard. I have this sometimes curse - mostly blessing where I see the best in people, I see potential with clearer eyes than I see messes. So I let my walls down and am vulnerable and get doors slammed in my face and forgotten phone calls and apathetic excuses. And let me tell you, you have so much potential. You're sweet and funny and genuine and hold all the doors and walk just close enough and you smile like nothing else matters. And I totally fell for it. And I promise this isn't all about you because even if you told me otherwise I choose to believe that night as genuine.

You see, I'm just so used to expectations. Coffee means a kiss and dinner has higher stakes, like some twisted trade exchange that you didn't seem to know the rules to, and I liked that.

You see, I'm tired of letting people break me. And I swore to my walls that I would not prematurely let them down again in a battlefield - I'm not sure how much more this heart can take.

So this morning when I realized I'd done it again... I let myself cry.

It didn't heal me any more than you broke me. But I felt it.

And sometimes when you're broken you just need to remember how to feel.

Africa

Have you ever loved something that you've never known with such a passion that you really didn't know what to do with yourself?

I imagine this is how mothers feel of their unborn children. How farmers feel of the crops that will rise to feed their families. How pastors feel of their planted church that will bring people to know Him. This is my Africa.

I remember in seventh grade when I was first introduced to Africa. I completely fell head over heels in love. The other girls in my grade doodled pictures of their crushes names and I drew up plans for how to get there. They gravitated towards bridal magazines and me to travel sites. I prayed so hard that God would let me go.

My freshman year of high school my small group sponsored a little boy from the Challenge Farm in Kitale, Kenya. I adored him. I kept a picture of him on my wall and couldn't wait for the day I'd get to see him.

My junior year came around and I was coming to a church that had a huge heart for missions and twice a year they would go to Kitale and I would pray to go and God would say no. And I would talk to people and they would say I was just too young and I needed to concentrate on my life here and not worry about the make-believe one I had created thousands of miles away.

As I graduated high school I thought that'd be my chance but I felt God pulling me towards local missions instead. Frankly, I was pissed. God put this passion in my heart five years ago and I wanted to go. Let me go. Let me go.
But He didn't. So I didn't.

Door after door after door was closed.
Window after window was screwed shut.
I was ready to run through a wall.

I was so bitter that God would give me this love for a place He was keeping me away from.
I lost years of feeling like a "teenage girl" because I wanted so much more than bridal collages in my back pocket. College interviews went by and I remember dwelling on Africa while trying to earn scholarships that would hold me here.

Fast forward three years.

My best friend has never had a heart for the third world. And honestly, it was one of my favorite things about her. She wanted Paris and shopping and pastries. And I wanted dirty children and brokenness and languages I couldn't begin to understand. And we didn't understand those parts of each other and that was so so okay with me.

Then God told her to Go.

And my best friend said yes and spent six months in the place that I have loved for as long as I haven't known it. And she loved those people so well. And she told me about the hard stuff and she cried. And I cried because I wanted to be right there. I wanted to be right there for her. But I wanted to really be right there in the middle of Africa, loving children and not sleeping and washing my clothes by hand. And in those moments of not having my best friend because she was living out my passion I gained so much peace. And that sounds so backwards in my head, but I adored the ways God was using her and I looked down to prepare myself for however God wanted to use me. I am pushing through nursing school to be able to love people tangibly. I am becoming ready for where ever He wants me. Even if it was here.

I became content with His no.

And now, nine years into this love affair, I am terrified - He is saying yes.

And I'm walking in Faith that He will provide the strength and the courage and the finances it takes to get me there.

--

January 15th, 2015, I hope to be beginning a long journey to spend ten days with this nation God has engraved into my heart.

If you'd like to know more about my trip, how you can pray for me or support me, please don't hesitate to email me: liz.kaiman@gmail.com

Nothing But You.

O Lord hear my cry.
See my need for help.
In a land where I feel I should be at height,
I get caught up feeling I'm in a depth.

Surround me in comfort,
In wisdom, in Peace.
Make forgiveness and grace cover faults.
Equip me well with mercy and words,
and yearning to walk daily with you.

For my state all of sudden is broken
Teaching your greatest gems how to walk -
And sometimes I feel
it's a hypocritical journey of
preaching to myself through lips in
their direction and eyes set on
anything but a mirror.

Draw me back to your arms.
Draw me back to your heart.
Let me never choose me over You.
I long for your presence,
My Rock and Defender,
My lonely escape, my Desire.
Be the Lover of my soul
Be my go-to best friend.

Hear my cry,
from desperate pedestals I want you to crush beneath me.

Let Your arms be long enough to
Wrap my complacent soul,
And draw it to You.
Let Your arms be strong enough to
Crack my hardened heart,
And draw it to You.
Let Your arms be soft enough to
Touch my sealed lips,
And draw them to you.

Lord, the world is spinning
And I've so many options
But I want nothing,

Nothing but You.

Safe.

Safe.

Cling tightly my child to the standards and rules set before you.
Walk lightly through trials, lest you make light of forgiveness offered to you.

Tightropes and trapeze
try to say the right things
and walk the "clear path" set before you.
But blindness makes things awful hard to see and
legalism does nothing but blind you.

Through my life I've been told,
"rules are there to keep you safe"
Sometimes I feel they are there to restrain me.
But restraining sounds an awful lot like chains and
Jesus broke chains to free me.

Grace.

It's offered to every man once he opens his eyes to believe it.
It breaks chains, shines light in great darkness,
reaches places you never thought you'd see it.

But the best part of grace is the hearts that it changes,
I could give you examples in mine.
And it stops being about the rules, tightropes, and lines
and more about striving to love Him.

Safe.

A word not commonly used by people in my situation.
For is grace is an ocean, my comfort a boat,
I'd fall overboard in an instant.

For as much as my sin has been broken and lost,
so the rules and the acts have too. -
For it's no longer living to impress this safe world,
It's living to love and trust you.

I'm living to love and trust you.

Kintsugi

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer resin dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Philosophically, speaking to breakage and repair becoming part of the history of an object, rather something to disguise.

To repair with gold.

I think that Kintsugi is something undoubtedly inspired by God. Created for us to see how He deals with our brokenness.

As a Christian, neither you or I is promised a free pass from brokenness in our lives.
I've been there. I've lost people I love to the world and further. I'm losing them now in sickness and in schemes from the prince of this earth. I've lost myself. I've thought I lost God. I've lost love, broken engagements, lost dear dear friends due to my selfish actions. Lost my mind. Tried to lose my life. Broken my own heart. Allowed it to be broken again and again. Given away all that was dear to me.

I've literally laid myself down on a tile floor sobbing because I was so, so utterly lost and alone and broken.

An expert on kintsugi said, "Not only is there no attempt to hide the damage, but the repair is literally illuminated..."

How often I see that in my own life.

How beautifully I see that looking back on those things that once had me so broken.

How fondly I look back on that day, on that tile floor, when I looked up and begged God to fix it. Send me something that wouldn't break me like everything else in my life had.

And he didn't.

Instead, in that moment (and those following) He sent me one of my best friends and sisters in Christ. A woman who has such a heart after God, and for others that it amazes me sometimes. Who constantly and consistently encourages me to love God, to love people, and to write. Who has sat with me as I poured my heart out at noon, midnight, and 3am. And who has loved me not only despite every mistake, but because of every mistake. Who sees my beauty in my brokenness. A piece of my kintsugi.

He has since sent to me a friend who I was able to share part of my story with. Who looked at life not believing there even could be a god. Who looked at my brokenness and how beautiful HE made me, and was given a glimmer of hope that He is real. And He's alive and He's doing great and unimaginable things with the least of these in the world. A piece of my kintsugi.

He has given me grace to forgive people who have contributed greatly to my brokenness, who discouraged me, who led me down paths I pray no one else will ever have to set foot on. He has given me strength to love them and tell them about Jesus, and why I don't hang out on Saturday nights anymore. A piece of my kintsugi.

God doesn't try to cover up my damage. He doesn't make me forget the pain. He doesn't make sure it never comes up in conversation again.

He makes it beautiful.
He makes it His.

He illuminates my brokenness for His glory alone, to show that even through this mess, even through these ashes, through every crack,beauty exists.

Amidst My Brokenness

I've been a little bit of a mess lately. I've been a little sad and angry and empty.

Sometimes I wonder how God can let bad things happen to some of the most beautiful and strong people I know. I've been struggling a lot as I watch one of my best friends struggle with a disease where the average life expectancy gives her about 15 more years. I am broken at the lack of support of the people around her sometimes. I am broken when she doesn't want to do her treatments around me, because she's worried about how I feel about them. I am broken that I can't better understand what she's going through. I am broken that I can't help more.

I am frustrated and confused on what God's plans for my life are. Why is He allowing me so much time that I see as wasted. Why can't I just know where He wants me and what I am supposed to be. Why can't He give me answers and clarity and peace. Sometimes it breaks me that I can't control my future.

I break after work some days as I watch parents holding onto hope that their child can learn to eat and live and survive days without medication and nursing and extra. As they rejoice in apple juice swallows and potty training victories. Sometimes it breaks me that I can't fix him.

And it's funny. Amidst my brokenness, I learn that it's okay to be broken. The author of Psalm 102 is so broken.

"For my days pass away like smoke,
and my bones burn like a furnace.
My heart is struck down like grass and has withered;
I forget to eat my bread.
Because of my loud groaning
my bones cling to my flesh...
I lie awake;
I am like a lonely sparrow on the housetop....
For I eat ashes like bread
and mingle tears with my drink..."

So broken they forget to eat. So broken they describe their heart as withered, their flesh as plaster. Their nights endless and demeanor lonely.

And it's so so comforting that someone else has been there too.

And it's so so comforting that their response is a reminder of the faithfulness of an everlasting and all knowing God that loves me.

I still get angry sometimes. Angry that God would let people be sick. Angry that God would let orphans die alone and unknowing of love. Angry that God would let people go their years, even their whole lives without knowing what their passions and callings are. But then I realize, maybe I'm not angry at God. Maybe I'm broken. Maybe God is changing my heart for those sick, to comfort them. To sit with them and laugh and sometimes cry and live life alongside them. Maybe God is changing my heart for the unloved, to teach and show them love in all the ways I can think of. To show them grace that Jesus has shown me. To show them the love that He has shown me.

And crazy as it may be, maybe that's my passion, maybe that's my calling. I am here to show Jesus. I am here to show love. To spread comfort and peace and grace, just as I have been shown.

I wish my college major could be love.

But maybe that's why I'm in "nursing limbo" to learn love better. To learn to be a peacemaker. To emit Jesus like it is my job, because in His eyes, the only ones that matter, it is.

"But you, O Lord, are enthroned forever;
you are remembered throughout all generations...
Of old you laid the foundation of the earth,
and the heavens are the work of your hands.
They will perish, but you will remain;
they will all wear out like a garment.
You will change them like a robe, and they will pass away,
but you are the same, and your years have no end.
The children of your servants shall dwell secure;
their offspring shall be established before you."

Less than Sunshine

I don't like getting flowers.

No, I take that back... I don't like being told I am getting flowers.

I want to be pleasantly surprised on a Tuesday afternoon when I haven't seen him in a few days and it's rainy and he sees the flowers as he's running into the grocery store to replace his expired milk and he can't help but them because they remind him of me.

I want chocolate only when he knows the only reason I'm being a brat is because I'm a girl and rather than avoiding me for a few days he picks up a Hershey's and a heating pad and comes over and holds me while I hopelessly cry over Sarah McLaughlin commercials.

I just want to be more than an option. I want to be more than someone to impress or win. I want to be so engraved in a persons heart, and them in mine that when I am happy, I want to share every giggle with them. And when they're alone, they miss me like Seattle misses sunshine. I want to be someones sunshine.

I want to be someones novel that they can't help but read over and over because every time they open the pages they are pleasantly surprised. I want them to fall asleep next to me, drunk off my pages, and fighting sleep to get one more sip.

And I know it's a lot to ask. But if I love my novel's more than I love you...

I don't want to waste my time on someone I love less than sunshine.

Journeys

I’ve been darker than eclipsed nights;

Tried to find my way through the engulfing loneliness.

I’ve fallen off the tracks to the rock bottom,

Been pulled up just to be dropped again.

I inched my way up to a tightrope,

Tip toed my way to perfection.

Painted a mask of happy disposition

Soon melted under pressure

Lost the facade.

I slipped.
I fell.

And somehow,

You caught me.

Keep Me Safe, with You

Empty Sidewalks
Closed doorways
Welcome to my little life.
Turned faces and Closed off graces
Maybe I should’ve stayed inside.

They look at me like I had a say.
Guess it doesn’t matter anyway…

When darkness closes all around
When hearts are shattered on the ground
Where will I find light?
When dirt has stained my greatest prize
When life has taken all I’ve tried - to hold on to
Keep me safe, with You.

Consequences for my crime
Choices made from others eyes
Who gave them a say?
Why can they take my clean away?
Reckless actions trying to disguise
Control I always thought was mine

And now it’s gone
Now it’s gone

When you thought he loved you ‘till he figured out
When the pool of mercy’s ‘xperiencing a drought.
Where will I find light?
When they think my sin is too grotesque
Grace won’t cover this whole mess
Keep me safe, with You.

And they preach grace washing them clean.
Covering hurt and broken things.
I’m not too dirty for His hands
He washes parts you’d never understand.

And I’m as clean as you…
I’m as clean as you…

When I am lost, feeling so alone
When I can’t find a place to call my home.
You will be my light.
When everyone else sets me apart
You’re still the one that holds my heart
You keep me safe, with You

Let My Broken Heart Write.

Break my heart easy.

Whisper to me, my hidden dreads are being raised to life. Let me know that I’m not enough to write the pages of my story. Promise to me that I am beautiful in the most disastrous way. Break my heart easy, remind me I’m alive.

Show me that you’re worthy.

Wipe away my tears, articulate they’d matter more if I kept them locked inside. Shout that you can save me; soothe me with glances reassuring your lies. Promise you can fix me; make the broken mess a life. Show me that you’re worthy, retell my shattered cries.

Remember why you chose me.

Wait a moment to answer; your words become my pride. Shift my focus from reliving to retracting my life. Tell me I am voiceless, your eloquence outweighs my scribbles. Create for them my story of hopeless abandon and worthless decisions. Don’t forget to hold me, remember why you chose me.

And then someday…

Awake my soul. Leave a pen on the pages sneaking suspects to scrawl. Release a mind out of the disaster on the floor. I will scream it from the mountains, voice very much alive. Worthy to be listened; worth much more than tattered lies. Abandon my hopeless heart – I will live my own life. And then someday I wake up, outshining dark nights. Let my pillow be salty, let my broken heart write.

--
For those who told me to hide myself, reminded me of my flaws, pushed me to silence.
You are my inspiration for speaking up.
You are the creations on my pages.
You are the darkness I will one day outshine.

Sometimes

Sometimes life is tough for no particular reason.
I’m going through one of those seasons.

Sometimes I dream about my future and I can’t figure out if these dreams are from me or God or they’re realistic or idealistic. And I don’t know which path I should take and if certain things are roadblocks or closed doors or just the devils deterrents from achieving what God has planned for me.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone else can relate to this struggle…

Sometimes I wonder about Jeremiah 29:11.

“’For I know the plans I have for you’, declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.’”

And I think about the plans I have for myself: Plans to be a nurse or to work with kids or to write something worth reading, to get married someday, to have a job where I can wear ‘real people clothes’.

And I think about the plans God has for me. And I wonder if any of them line up. What if God has greater things in store for me? I wonder if that’s even possible. I mean I’m just an ordinary 20 year old. I’ve probably made more mistakes than some people. Sometimes I wonder if I could ever impact the world like I want to. And most times I hear a loud voice in my head telling me I’m not enough.

Sometimes I listen to that voice.
Sometimes I listen to God.

“For I know the plans I have for you…plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.”

Sometimes I get really tired of dreaming small, but feel too small to dream any bigger.

Sometimes I have a broken heart for no particular reason but not knowing if I could ever live up to the plans that God has for my life. Wondering if I will ever be bold enough to take steps I’m unsure of, if I will ever be able to leave my comfort zone and step into unsure plans that could very logically harm me, with the faith that God has a future for me.

Sometimes I tell myself, “If I am just patient, God will fulfill His plans for me.”

Then I read on.

“Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you…” (Jer. 29:12-14a)

Sometimes I want to stay comfortable.
Most times I want to find Him.

The Marrying Kind

“You're not the marrying kind"

He said it surely, confidently, as factual as death tolls, equally devastating dreams every girl has dwelled on since plastic high heels clanking on linoleum floors. Practicing curtsies and ‘I do’s’ and ‘I love you’s’, planning dinners and cuddles and how to act surprised when he asks those four words that have kept you up dreaming at night from training wheels, to training bras, to job training.

A sure part of my soul created in the womb with sugar and spice and glitter tiaras and daisies with a string tightly wrapped as to not come undone when thrown in the air, as her dreams and heart come unwraveled with she hears:

“You’re not the marrying kind”

What kind is for marriage?
Those worthy of love. The love in movies, takes place singing outside windows throwing rocks, throwing pillows, throwing pennies into fountains, making wishes on candles and eyelashes and stars shooting across watched skies, waiting for a sign, to be knocked out of dangers way by Prince Charming riding up in an old mustang, being everything you wanted and nothing you expected and oh so much more that butterflies and starry eyes and kisses.

And those who are not?
Evil stepsisters and pre-Madonna’s wanting nothing more than suffering for the underserving. And I’ve never seen myself as ugly or nemesis’ and love is my motto, not suffering, so how can it be...

I’m not the marrying kind?

And with these dreams at the soul of my being, how could I not search for my desires in love and life and I look around and everyone has found it in pressed suits and speed dates and diamond rings – subjecting communities to public “I love you’s” and life breathed fairytales. Making my dreams realities, and then shutting the glass door, locking me in the rain as I watch my impersonated dreams without touching the magic, because:

I’m not the marrying kind.

But I am the dreaming kind. Hoping still one day for childhood dreams come realities in a man who loves me second, and loves me well. And the high heels don’t matter, nor the cuddles or curtsies but the starry eyed butterflies do. For my soul was surely created from the womb of my being for maybe more than glitter tiaras and unraveling string. Penny fountain wishes and daydreams.

For I have dreams in this heart of mine.
That he’s wrong.

I am the marrying kind.

Satisfaction

sat-is-fac-tion (săt′ĭs-făk′shən)noun.

a. The fulfillment or gratification of a desire, need, or appetite.
b. happiness with one's situation in life
c. the contentment one feels when one has fulfilled a desire, need, or expectation

The Rolling Stones once sang a song that I’m sure all of you have heard.

I can’t get no satisfaction. ‘Cause I try and I try and I try I can’t get no, I can’t get no...

I’ve definitely been here. Maybe you have too. I try and I try and I try and I think I’ve done the right thing and lived things out correctly and still no satisfaction. I daily hear people talking about their wanderlust, their hunger, their plans for achieving satisfaction in their lives, their need for more. I rarely meet those people who find the fulfillment where they are looking.

“I’ve always wanted to see the world, been a few places but I’d still like to see China, London, Colorado... (etc.) ”
“I want great success, just one more class, degree, promotion, relocation....”
“I found the one I love… now if (s)he could just…”

We are all born with passions, hungers, the need for more than face value in life. It’s a wonderful and unique part of our makeup. I love seeing people run after their dreams and doing what they love and doing really well, but even when you see someone totally in their element (or if you’ve been there) there is always this pang of wanting more, the hunger is still there.

We have so much, great schooling, families, jobs, stamps on our passports, opportunities for scholarships and internships and relationships but without Jesus it’s like trying to fill a bucket with water without one really important thing…the bucket.

Jesus is the container. He’s the handle. He’s the well filled with water. We go and receive, but sometimes don’t realize all he’s offering: a bucket to be filled to overflowing with gifts, with love, with satisfaction. Without a bucket, going to the well for a drink seems rather pointless, doesn’t it? We are still searching, still wanting, still thirsty. If we aren’t seeking Him first and giving Him the glory through our life journeys, big and small, they will never satisfy us. For the satisfaction comes not from what you’re doing, but who it’s for. The only real satisfaction I’ve ever seen is by those living their lives not for the journeys or next steps, but for the source, Jesus. And He will continue filing and fueling those passions until you are overflowing.

“Jesus answered, ‘Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’” John 4:13-14

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Oh and if you like music, this song is a really beautiful picture of Jesus calling us to Him to drink and be filled and satisfied. Vocal Few, The Fountain.

Real Life in Jesus Christ

It's the talks that start about sports and scarves and end up pouring out your heart at a table, drinking too strong coffee laced with sugar and broken honesty.

It's the doing, not saying you'll pray and worship and "make time" for God, but having bruised knees and tired arms and tear stained pages as evidence of the peace you recieved coming from something much greater than Dr. Phil & self help books.

It's the tangible love offered to a stranger or a friend. Being there to help them move or eat or even stand when their demons seem invisible and they feel alone.

It's more than thinking of them when you see their empty chair. It's tracking their lost soul down when they're so blind to life that they don't even remember how they exist.

Real Life is more than church.

It's laundry late on Friday nights when you and your roommate are both out of clean socks.
It's mornings that deserve cold pizza and pancakes.
It's frisbee on the field even if you have a test tomorrow,
and it's the cups of coffee you'll drink cramming late into the night.

It's more than a Tuesday or Wednesday night in a room with "church people".

It's all people,
all times,
everything.

And we were called for more than a part time job. We were called to love tangibly, pray brokenly, and live selflessly. For every moment to be engrossed in something much deeper than the surface. To carry peace and wisdom. Mercy and Love.
And Jesus.

and to not compartmentalize.

Real life is now.
and it's tomorrow.
and Jesus wants to be part of the frisbee matches and test cramming and laundry and pancakes and brokenness.

Let Him.

Green Hardback Suitcases

Ever since I can remember, running was my instinct. I used to have this green hardback suitcase that was almost big enough for me to crawl into and disappear. I had the need to run. Many times I would crawl under my bed and pull it out. I’d pack it up with crackers and blankets, everything I believed would be necessary for my escape. I’d sneak out the back gate and hide in a corridor near my neighbors avocado tree. That’s as far as I ever got, though. I always wanted to run, but I sat there with wet eyes because I never knew where to go. I never knew where I’d belong. Eventually I’d drag my suitcase back up the driveway and slip it back under to my bed; desperate to breathe from the many suspected voyages, desperate to collect dust as I collected myself. I suspect there are still marks on that hardwood floor from the dragging promises of release, and the disappointed replacement. I know the marks still exist in me.

Ever since I can remember I had an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, the need for home. My only problem was that I had never left, save for my green suitcase corridor adventures. I remember my first house. I remember the hole where our neighbor raccoon sought refuge under our house, the split tree in the front yard where I practiced my gymnastics, the tin roof of my parents’ room that drew me to tears as it sang the most beautiful melody while the sky cried. I can recall the window I had broken in a fit of rage. I can still see my hideaway, my corridor, my secrets. I remember my first house, but I could never call it home.

And what of the second? That must have been my home. I regrettably shake my head as I recall this place. The resting spot of my first pet, first bike, first broken friendship. The grounds so swollen with my tears. I can see myself racing home in the middle of the night after I had been tormented at a sleepover. I can see myself lighting candles over my pets’ vigil. The ground may be watered with my salty tears, but this is not my ground, this is not my home.

The third, fourth, fifth. Same sad reality. I can see the joy. I remember coming home the first time I had felt the sheen of sweat of a nervous boys’ hand. I’ve kept my first rose pressed inside a yearbook. I still have notes regarding my high school crush. But I can still feel my burning knees skid across the ground, my burning cheek introduced to a new side of my mothers’ hand, my burning wrists as I attempted to escape it all. And feeling something is more powerful than all the joyous distant memories one could clamor up. These places were never my home, nor are they now. I still long for that place.

How can I be homesick for a place I’ve never known? As a little girl I remember longing for somewhere I could call my own. I loved my family, but that was not my place. I discovered that time and time again. I’ve moved three thousand miles and still feel as far away and as lost as I was when I reached under my bed for a safe haven.

Ever since I can remember, running was my instinct. But my suitcase has long since fallen apart, my corridor is a lifetime away, my heart is broken, and I’ve yet to locate the harbor.

Carnival Rides

Never once did we ever walk alone,
Never once did you leave us on our own.
You are faithful, God you are faithful

Am I alone? Sometimes it really feels like it. I mean I can be surrounded by people, but I don’t think they get it. Do they feel alone? Have they ever? Is anyone else lost? I feel like I’m sitting on cold concrete. I am alone and tired and I’m trying to be brave but I’m running out of courage. And I feel so very invisible, so very lost, insecure, and left behind.

Never once did you ever walk alone

I wonder how I can sing that if I don’t believe it. And I taste the words as I allow myself to digest them I wonder if this is true. Why do I still feel so alone though? Am I making a liar of myself by professing these words? I wish I could believe that I’ve never been alone – oh how I hope that it’s true. I mean I’m not saying sometimes haven’t been fun, but how is that I’ve been in this place for so long?

It’s like being lost at the fair. It’s fun at first – you ride the rides and eat a bunch of fried food, see some shows. But eventually the crowd will clear. You’ll be out of tickets and have a wicked belly ache and you’ll be alone. The ferris-wheel slowly stops spinning, the carny’s wipe off their makeup and it’s quiet, save for the bleating of the sheep. As they begin to shut off the lights you don’t know if you should cry or scream. Scream I tell you, SCREAM. But by the time you decide – you don’t bother. It’s too late. No one is going to hear you. So you sit down, alone in the dark, lifeless midway – listening to the barely audible clamor of the animals, who from what you can tell have more purpose in their lives that you – and you pray, to whatever god may be listening, that someone will find you tomorrow.

Never once did you leave me on my own

But what if they don’t? What if they don’t come tomorrow? How can I expect to be found when I don’t even know where I am? Or who I am, for that matter? I’m so far from where I “need” to be… wherever that is.

You are faithful
God, You are faithful

And for now, that’s all I have:
The faith that I will be found tomorrow.