I Chose You.

If you were to ask me if Africa was everything I expected it would be, the answer would be no.

Honestly, after ten years of waiting for something, I didn't exactly know what to expect - and I thought about that a lot as checks and well wishes came in, as the team began preparing and I started praying and letting God prepare my heart, as I went out to lunch and coffee with some of you and you graciously prayed over me and that my hands would be used, as I packed my bags; but I never could quite come up with an answer?

And as I was there I found myself asking in the few quiet moments that I had

"What in the world am I doing here?"

followed each time by a shrug up to God and my semi-control-freak self left with nothing but leaving my hands lifted and open and saying, "Here, I don't know, this is Yours."

And I really didn't know. And the days never ended with clarity. The days ended with exhaustion, utter exhaustion.

Luckily I didn't have huge portions of time to figure out what my "purpose" was in Kenya between organizing medications for the clinic, blowing up inflatables for games, attempting to put together kites (I'm convinced you need an engineering degree to do so properly), and spending as much time as possible with the precious children I had the opportunity to meet, and fighting some bug I picked up on the planes over. In the absence of these things I was still in school full time - and trying to turn in assignments via Kenyan internet. So, yes, utter exhaustion.

The week went by in a blink. I met kids who broke my heart each time they hugged me. And then I was leaving. And ten years of dreaming was over. And I really had no idea how to feel about that.

For the next few days I was kind of in a Kenya blur. And my brain really started to pick apart the "Why" behind me going.

And the devil really started attacking me, making me feel like my time there was useless, like I needed to work this next year to reimburse those who supported me, like my Africa calling was a delusion and I was worthless.

And I listened to him and my heart was broken in a bad way and it was a week after I got home that I first admitted that I wasn't at peace when a friend asked if Kenya was "everything I hoped it would be" and I started sobbing as I choked out no.

It wasn't until I had admitted that my expectations weren't met that God began to remind me that His plan is not dependent on my agenda. And He began to show me moment in which He used me.

I was reminded that I didn't choose to go on this trip, that He chose me.

"...but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit and your fruit should abide..." John 15:16

He chose me. He graciously provided all my funding (through some of you beautiful people). He caused safe arrival and health and energy day after day. He kept me encouraged and ready.

And as I stopped listening to the devils lies and started focusing on God's plan I realized that I was:

Encouragement and love and thousands of hugs and "I love you"s for little boys and girls that maybe don't hear that everyday.

Energy to teach baseball and jump rope and push kids on swings. To stay up and write letters by flashlight for these kids.

 

Strength to listen to stories that I couldn't even imagine living through and the strength to not break from them, but to see strength, to give strength, and to love them through it.

A testimony on Sunday morning that spoke of God's like shining in dark times in life, that may have touched lives and shown that darkness comes in all shapes and sizes and the devil knows how to break us, but God will always be our strength and light.

 

Medicine to the most impoverished community I've seen, that maybe won't rid chronic diseases or give someone 100 years to live, but gave them today, and honestly, none of us are even promised that.

Smiles and hope to children of the God I love and serve.

 

The love and story of Jesus, and His saving grace, to people who maybe had never heard it before.

 

And really, if one ear heard that from my lips or saw that in my life than every second, every drop of sweat, every penny donated was more than worth it.

I expected to change someone or something - but instead, I was changed.

Maybe Africa wasn't what I expected it to be. But it was a story, chapter, page in my life that God wrote reminding me of His grace and how He can use broken, selfish, stubborn people who want the next five years planned out and handed to them, to live out His plans for sharing His love with this broken world. And that's something I won't forget.

Spotlight Breakdown

When I looked in the mirror last night I saw the face of an insecure thirteen year old girl looking back at me. 

It was one of those weird moments, like when you write a word so many times that you don't recognize it anymore, I didn't recognize me. I saw a little girl lost in the grocery store and the one crying on the tile gym floor and the one watching her life disappear through the rear window of an old gold minivan. 

I wasn't strong. I wasn't independent. I had eyes full of regrets and pain and unresolved brokenness. The superglue was wearing apart, I wasn't holding myself together. All the things I prided myself in being we're as worn away as the eyeliner I had put on flippantly at that morning stoplight.

And I had to admit I'm not ok. 

It's funny how Satan works. You don't even realize all the pieces are falling out of place. You don't see the shots taken at your heart, the speakers in your head, the soundtracks of all the things you never wanted to hear being put together carefully and cleverly and then all at once when you've been weakened to the point of submission, he yells action and the bright lights hit your face and you realize that your to-done list of moving on has a sequel and you're once again the star of your very own insecurities. 

Congratulations. An Oscar to you for the most realistic breakdown of the year. 

But the most twisted part of it all is that when the breakdown is over and the crew is gone and lights shut off you're left alone with those speakers they conveniently left in your head. 

I think the worst part isn't the building of the Trojan horse, it's not the betrayal, it's not the initial, blood warming attack. It's that it's left there. It's that it's written about in the history books of your head. It's that you survived it just enough to lay there at night and listen to that record playing on repeat whispering, "you failed, you failed, you're not enough and you won't be and this happy little fantasy you're living out is just going to be another disappointment in your life because that's all your worth." 

It's the twisted Grimm brothers ending to my spotlit breakdown. 

It's the voices I can't mute because I've lost the remote. 

...hey Jesus, can you mute them? 

Is there a sledgehammer handy to smash them once and for all? 

Your eyes

So around the world
I see stars
I count them

Falling asleep to
reflections
of the light

Finding beauty in
continents
moonlit nights

But of all the stars
all the worlds
all the skies

Not one I've found
sparkles quite
like your eyes

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.