Fight vs. Rest

I've found that those who are engaged in matters involving injustice throughout the world (myself being lumped into that category) are often some of the most passionate fighters I've ever met. It's almost like God stamped 'right and wrong' upon our eyes and everything is viewed through these lenses. Having worked with children, I can often predict which of them have this gift/curse as well. They can sometimes be found on the sidelines because other children aren't playing fairly, in their perspective. Or they can be found advocating the  rights of their peers or a lost puppy. There can often times be a lot of arguing with them, because when the world is black and white, any grey areas can be hard to swallow.

I mention children, because they are typically the most unfiltered, extreme versions of passion. My poor family had a lot to put up with me: "I will NEVER listen to country music", "I will NEVER eat ice cream", "I will NEVER shop at _____", etc. (and just imagine that 'etc.' to be a VERY long list!) However, there are many adults that don't experience the humbling and mellowing out that the hard knocks of life bring. Obstinate, pushy, controlling, and opinionated are all words that could be used to describe adults who never grew out of their child-like passionate state.

But the reality is that being a fighter, or a passionate person, is a gift from God in many ways. When I look throughout history I see thousands of people that lined this path: Peter, Luther, Mother Teresa, David Livingstone, Amy Carmichael... to name a few known people. Reading these, and other, biographies can be an interesting undertaking. They accomplished massive amounts of good, things that the average person never would've been able to, but at the same time, many of them were very difficult, if not impossible, to work alongside. I'm finding that partly that might be due to them not knowing when to fight and when to rest. Or maybe what is the true fight and what is not.

Throughout my years of being an adult I've been aware of numerous (my pride wants that word instead of thousands) occasions where I've been so dull and blind that it wasn't until significantly later that I could even recognize that it was myself (or worse: God) that I was indeed fighting against. The fights with one's self are very brutal and bloody, not to mention costly! I'm quicker at recognizing them these days, but I can't yet go so far as saying they never occur. Letting things go is likely one of the hardest parts of being a fighter. Accompanying that would the topic of resting.

I would say the Scriptural version of rest (or Sabbath) could be equated to letting things go and simply be in God's hands. To take a day off of working or to not collect more manna for tomorrow requires deep trust in Jehovah Jireh! To know the line of when it is time to "love mercy", when it is time to "seek justice", and when it is time to simply "walk humbly with your God." (Micah 6:8) Trust is a hard thing for a fighter, because we are used to making things happen. To let something go feels impossible. But, as I learn more and more each year, to let things go is to actually accomplish much more!

"Unless the LORD builds the house, the laborers work in vain. Unless the LORD watches over the city, the guards stand watch in vain."

Psalm 127:1

Shutting Borders, Shutting Hearts

In the aftermath of the European Union deciding to close their borders, my heart is reeling. I assumed it was going to happen, but I am still in shock. The more I've thought about this choice on their part, the more I can see the idolatry and shallowness of the West.

I live in one of the richest countries in the world. In connection with that fact are glimpses of comfort/ease being the king ruler of all things in our desires. If something is in the least bit difficult or slightly hard, someone will invent something to remove the work and pain out of the task. Also, walking away from challenging things, like marriage, is very common. Nannies, daycares, and teachers are given the responsibility of raising our children in many places. We pump our meat and vegetables full of hormones (and then antibiotics) to make them more pleasing to our eyes and tongue. These products, along with millions of other things engineered simply for satisfaction, are acquired by aimlessly perusing grocery store aisles on our way between sitting at a desk and sitting in front of a TV. What do we know of hardship, of suffering, of deep pain, of hunger...? I've lived in the two poorest places in my city these past years, and what I've found is children who throw free food away at school and homeless people who want cash and reject food. The majority of our poorest people aren't really in dire need!

There's a passage I've been thinking upon these past days: "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God..." (2 Corinthians 1:3-4) What happens when a people group has insulated themselves from needing comforting by padding their lives with ease and flees affliction at all costs? I just lost my mom a year ago and there were few people around me who knew how to provide comfort for my hurting heart. Why? Because we medicate our hardships- the addictions I see in the lives of those surrounding me are numerous (cell phones, TV shows, busyness, social media, etc). Suffering produces a depth to our lives that is needed to provide comforting to another. If we refuse to plummet the deep waters of pain ourselves, how can we go there with someone else?

When I think about the refugees I met last month, they are no different than my neighbors and friends here. Many were very educated, they loved their families deeply, they were in search of somewhere they could work hard, be safe, and even contribute to economically. A war interrupted their lives! These people aren't scum trying to mooch off of the wealth and prosperity of others who've worked harder and 'done life better' than themselves. They are some of the most afflicted people on this planet right now, in search of comforting and help. Sadly, the places with the most resources have been repulsed by their suffering and have shut their doors in fear. Fear that these people might rob them of their idols and some of the pain might seep into their bubble of safety and ease. If I am being honest, I am truly disgusted at this reaction! Especially in the Church... I can't understand how we can turn our heads away and do nothing. Where is Jesus?

"Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, 'Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? And when did we see You a stranger and welcome You, or naked and clothe You? And when did we see You sick or in prison and visit You?' And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these My brothers, you did it to Me.'"

Jesus is in their midst! Do you have eyes to see this? A heart that cares? Please let go of your idols and comforts to feed, welcome, clothe, heal, visit, and pray for those among you in dire need. He's watching and waiting, Church- ARISE!

The Dying Church

Even before I moved to Europe eight years ago, I had heard talk of how the Church there (and filtering into the US) was dying. Atheism and Islam were taking over, and the large cathedrals were now sitting empty. Once there, I witnessed this for myself. There's something haunting about walking into a massive sanctuary that you know was once filled with worship to the Creator, its dramatic stain glass masterpieces displaying this truth, only to now be a tourist attraction filled with cameras and art enthusiasts. 

But is the Church in fact dead in Europe? I know firsthand that the answer is no. Many of my friends and coworkers can boldly testify to movement of the Holy Spirit and churches growing. 

After living in Eastern Europe for three years and now having spent an additional month there helping with the refugee crisis, there is a strong passion and prayer filling my thoughts at present. If only God would be delighted in using this massive migration of hurting, needy, desperate, searching people to awaken His Bride to be and do what He's called Her to be and do! Life should drip from Her lips. Joy should be shouted from Her doors. Hope should be broadcast from Her all words. Peace should be exampled in the streets. Love should fill Her actions. What an opportunity to arise, to minister, to reach out, to care, to help, and to be Jesus! 

During my month of working in the refugee camp in Serbia, out of the hundreds of volunteers and workers surrounding me, only a handful of them were believers. People are being raised up to help. There is compassion and care being administered. But those things can only go so far when the real needs aren't being met. If the heart isn't ultimately being addressed, what good is a pair of new shoes, hot soup, or information given in the long run? As the chaos filling Europe depicts, there aren't many answers to be had as to what should be done moving forward. My prayer is that the Church would stand up and be the solution! The nations we've so long prayed for are at Their very doorstep, hurting, seeking, and needy... May We do something! Oh, Jesus, awaken Your Bride to take action! 

Windows into a Refugee Soul (pt 2)

To find more stories, click here.

He quietly interrupted my coworker and I while we were standing in the courtyard talking. "Excuse me, do you have information about where we are going and when?" I explained a few things and then ran off to get a pamphlet about their journey in his own language. We stood talking so long that we eventually moved into the warm tent to sit down. He was on his way to Germany from Afghanistan with his mother and sister. He sadly explained that his father was part of the Taliban, so that was why he wasn't with them. Things had become really difficult after America left. "There are no jobs or opportunities for even the people in the city now. There is no one in power that we can trust." And he went on to tell some stories that depicted these things. His eyes grew very sad as he explained that his father was now trying to marry his 27 year old sister to another man in the Taliban. He had taken his mother and sister and fled, not knowing what would happen or where they would go. The bus engines fired up, and I sadly watched him rush away, back to the two women he loved greatly and was trying to protect.

After meeting his request to help him find a doctor, we began to talk again when he found me outside cleaning. He'd spent three years translating for the US army when they were occupying Afghanistan. He'd become quite close to many soldiers and many of his fellow translator friends now lived in The States. We both got teary eyed as he explained how the Taliban had kidnapped his brother and held him, ultimately taking his life. On top of that, life was very hard in his country. There were no jobs, no opportunities, no one he could trust. His wife had remained behind in Afghanistan as he bravely sought to pave the way to a better life in Germany... maybe the US. In spite of years of hearing about my country, he eagerly, with eyes full of hope, asked me: "What is it like in America?" Taking a deep breath, trying earnestly to not crush the expectation that filled him, I simply said it would be different for him than for myself, but that he had a good chance finding work since he knew English. A few other men began to surround us, watching and listening, each with their own set of quiet hopes and dreams. My heart felt overwhelmed, and I uttered the only words that made any sense in that moment: "I will pray for you!"

I sat coloring with a noisy group of children when I heard her speak to me in English, it was flawless, and I was impressed. After a few minutes of conversing I asked where she'd learned English. She said she was only allowed to finish the 7th grade in school, but she so much wanted to learn English that she made her brother teach her everyday when he would come home from classes. She was traveling with her husband and three small children from Syria. She began to explain how some evil men had barged into their home, demanded they leave, and take nothing with them. They quickly fled to his brother's home, but that wasn't a permanent solution. Now they were on the road to Germany, traveling with a large group of women and children who'd been together with them on the raft from Turkey to Greece. She described how the one hour trip across Aegean Sea in the overcrowded boat had been terrifying, as none of them knew how to swim. Their trip had been without problems, but the following day a raft filled with 30 people went under and all drowned. Sadness filled her eyes as she described other aspects of their journey. I was able to spend two days together with this family, while they were stuck at my camp, and since the borders have been closing, chances are very high that they still have not able to make it to Germany. They, along with thousands of others, are likely stuck in limbo somewhere in a refugee camp, uncertain of what tomorrow will hold.

These stories I share because I want to give a face and a sense of connection with these people that are simply being categorized under the label of 'refugee'. Many things I heard prior to going to Serbia were not true! I want people to know and see what is true regarding this situation. I don't want people to just see the big picture, but rather enter into the ground level in an intimate and personal way. This isn't just a mass migration. These are lives, individual people with beautiful hearts, gut wrenching stories, and in need of help and hope. My wish and prayer is that maybe one somebody (or the Church as a whole) will be inspired to give, go, or pray as a result of reading through these!

The Color of My Passport

He found me in the hallway, eyes full of worry and eager searching: "I need the doctor," he said. We walked down the hall to the doctor's office, and he took his place in the long line. I went back outside to clean. A few minutes later I looked up to find him walking toward me, with his head down. "Did you see the doctor?" I asked him. His smile flashed with recognition of my face in a crowd of hundreds. "Yes, it's okay now." We started to talk, and I was quickly shocked by his impeccable English. He was from Afghanistan and had been a translator for American troops for three years. His story was a sad one, and I'll likely share it in another blog, but he said something that has plagued my heart. "All my friends are now in America through _____ program (one for translators), but I've submitted my paperwork and have heard nothing. I am going to Germany, but really I want to go to America! What is it like there?" Pictures of my city and others flashed through my mind as I considered what America was like and how I could describe it. But before I could open my mouth, thoughts of the refugee housing I'd lived in for a year came rushing forward. Curbs lined with men sitting around aimlessly, women saying even as bad as it was in Iraq it was better than being trapped in their house, children joining gangs because there were no other opportunities for them to participate in in this part of the city... "It's different for me than it would be for you there. You'd have a good chance finding a job, because you know English, but I don't know what it would be like for you!" I wanted to cry, as I have dozens of times these last weeks...

I'm surrounded by desperation, it is written on the faces of everyone around me. Their countries are at war. Their family members and friends have been murdered. They've sold all they own in this world and have spent it to come here, only pennies left. People have abused and exploited them along their journey. They are sick, tired, hungry, dirty, lonely, afraid, uncertain, worried.... all because of their passport.

Many times I have looked at my passport and wept: "Why, Jesus? I don't deserve the rights that come with being an American! I don't even understand what freedom is, because it has never been taken away from me. I don't know how to value what I have. I don't give a thought to traveling across borders, to being welcomed into homes, to doing whatever in the world I want to do when I want to do it! Why not them, Jesus? Why me, Oh Abba, why me...??"

This is probably another blogpost, but I am so embarrassed with how my country has responded to this crisis. Out of hundreds of workers here, I've met only two other Americans in my entire month here. One was living in Bosnia, working with my organization. The other stayed 2 days. Every time I'm asked where I'm from, I'm ashamed at how my government has responded to these people in dire need and pain. I look in their eyes, and I have no answers. "I don't know why you're likely going to spend the rest of your life in a refugee camp somewhere, and I'm going to go back to my safe, warm, comfortable home that I've done nothing to deserve. I don't know, and I'm so sorry!"

I had to leave to go pick up some teammates, but I so much want to go back in time and be able to tell my translator friend that he and his wife (still in Afghanistan) can come sleep in my living room, eat my food, and live a life of safety and love. I wish I could change the color of their passport to mine, but instead I'm left trusting that God knows what's best and that prayer is powerful!

Lessons from Trash

A group of us sat around a circular table chatting after a simple meal together. We had few things in common with each other, representing nations spread all across the globe. The two things we did have in common were loving Jesus and having spent time cleaning rubbish at the nearby refugee camp. Laughter began to circulate as crazy stories were shared: things we'd clean, people who'd helped us, what we'd seen, etc. I know it sounds absurd, but it was an incredibly bonding time together.

The leader of our group shared how a few weeks prior he'd spent the day cleaning disgusting filth, only to be invited to preach at a nearby church the following morning. From a position of lowliness to a place revered in a matter of hours! As he was preparing to preach, the thought came to his mind that very few people are in this position. Powerful lessons had been gained from the humility of cleaning another person's filth. Perhaps more street sweepers should be given a chance to preach?! But then another thought entered his mind: "Perhaps the other way would be more accurate: more pastors should occasionally take a position of street sweepers!"

I've found it interesting that when I'm serving tea and soup in the tent or playing with children, people from other organizations or even the refugees approach me and are interested in conversing. I'm from America, I've studied at a university, I've worked various jobs, traveled, and I have a family they'd like to hear more about. But when I don the gloves, grab the dust pan and broom, it is like I become an entirely different person! Most people don't acknowledge me, eye contact is avoided, and few words are spoken. I have become the lowest of the low at the camp in that moment. At times my pride has been insulted, and I am angry that I'm treated differently- don't they know who I am!? But most of the time I like to try to redeem the humanity of a person of lowly stature. I greet them, I smile, I am funny, and I watch how their demeanor changes. It's also fun to use my low position to elevate others in similar places. The porta-potty cleaners have become my friends that I'm always excited to see. Neither have their teeth or any sense of propriety, but they light up when they see me now. Most people don't acknowledge them or even look their way. It's almost like we are afraid of what is unclean, as if it will contaminate us or our reputation. We spend so much time trying to climb up, that to look down would harm something about us.

When I think about Christ, I think the picture of becoming a trash cleaner in a refugee camp fits His leaving heaven quite well! The things I've seen and had to do are unmentionable in most circles, but how much more Christ in all His glory, perfection, and holiness to come to our vile, filthy, sin-ridden planet to live among us in suffering, lack, and brokenness!! He chose humility not just at the cross, but actually with His entire 33 years among humanity. My mind can't wrap around this very well!

As we wrapped up our discussion at the table that evening, the leader stated that rubbish cleaning has been one of the most powerful times of worship for him. In fact, the song: "Here I am to worship, here I am to bow down..." plays on repeat in his head. What a picture of worship: bowing down to clean the filth of another... A sweet picture of Christ! May we all have chances to be more like Him in His humility.

Windows into a Refugee Soul

I'm currently living in Šid, Serbia for a month to help with the thousands of refugees that are crossing the border on their way to Western Europe. Every day I get the opportunity to love and serve them in various ways. My favorite has been listening to their stories verbally and nonverbally. I'd like to share a few with you.

She was a little girl of about 10 years of age. I first noticed the large tears rolling down her cheeks. Next I took in the fact that her grandfather had her by one elbow and was pulling her across the room toward me; her sleeve pushed halfway up her arm. As she got closer, I noticed the large blisters and the red skin from the third degree burn spanning the circumference of her wrist. One word was said: "Doctor?" I put my arm around her shoulders and led her to the onsite doctor's office. I will not go into how much I disagreed with the doctor's methods, but he was far from gentle. As he stuck a needle into each blister half a dozen times, the little girl didn't even shed many tears or utter a single noise. As he pushed and prodded the water to escape through the tiny holes, I held her close, knowing if I was in that chair I would've been holding back screams and wanting to punch the doctor. She barely even flinched through it all. When I took her back to her mother, her mom didn't even once ask how her daughter was, but rather, upon seeing her, told her to go get something for her little brother. This family is from Afghanistan, a place wrought with pain and suffering. Why coddle your child when they will be growing up in the midst of horrific difficulty? A third degree burn is nothing to someone living in a war torn country and now a refugee!

I sat drinking apple juice in the nearby petrol station on a much needed break. As I finished, my thoughts turned back to the tasks awaiting me outside. Slowly I started the walk back into the camp when I noticed a woman a few years younger than myself sitting behind a light pole weeping. Her head covering hid much of her face, but I could tell something was very wrong as I took a seat next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't speak English, so there was no response to my or my coworker's inquiries. She gingerly touched the side of her face, and I noticed a massive welt partially hidden by her head scarf. All of the sudden two people walked up and explained in Serbian that she had just been shoved down in the middle of the street by her husband. He then proceeded to beat her, punching her repeatedly in the face. We tried to take her to the doctor or seek help of another sort, but she just kept responding: "No, no, no..." with fear in her eyes. To be seen with us or anyone else was to likely invoke another beating from her husband that I am sure was lurking somewhere nearby. Her name and the fact that she is pregnant haunt my thoughts. She represents to me thousands of women worldwide who have no voice, no rights, and seemingly no hope.

The trip from Syria to Germany is a difficult and dangerous one, so I am always surprised when I see someone with a disability or ailment coming through the camp. One small boy in particular caught my eye. He was young, but likely older than he looked. His head was misshapen and very large. First glance revealed that his legs didn't work properly, and his body was smaller than it should've been. He was seated in the middle of the table with his father sitting next to him. People openly stared, but no one had wanted to be seated at the table with them. I eagerly walked over and began to engage the little boy in trying to get him to throw a mandarin to me like a baseball. No words came out of his mouth, just clicks of the tongue and motioning with his eyes that detailed his thoughts. The father spoke no English, but through hand motions and mutual words (family, doctor, Syria) I pieced their story together.  His wife was still in Syria with seven of their eight children. This was his youngest son. The doctor in Syria could do nothing to help this little guy and recommended they go to Germany to get medical help. There was a new tumor growing on the back of the boy's head, and fear shone out of the dad's eyes as he showed it to me. There is a common thought expressed by many organizations at the camp that a lot of the refugees don't take care much for their children. Babies get left behind in the beds when the buses go in the middle of the night. Small children play for hours with us in the tent, and we never once see a parent checking in on them. But as I looked at the relationship between this father and son, tears sprung into my eyes. This little boy had nothing to offer his dad, he couldn't even talk with him or know what was going on. But just like the Good Shepherd leaving the 99 to search for the 1 sheep, this father left his family and risked his life and spent all his finances on the hope of some medical help. The love I saw shining in their eyes when they looked at each other took my breath away. I don't know what the outcome will be, but my earnest hope and prayer is that Love will win!

I've found that I look much younger than I in fact am. After explaining to two 17 year old boys that I could potentially be their mother, they then invited me to sit down with their "family" at their table. Both of these boys were traveling alone, their family all back in Syria. They'd met up with each other and this other family along the way and had adopted each other. I would've never been able to tell that they weren't blood related. Having been through such horrors together, the bond between them was strong. As one boy translated, they began to ask me dozens of questions, eager to know all about this crazy American who'd come to Serbia to help. As I mentioned the death of my mother earlier this year, the boy translating got very quiet and serious. In what was the most sincere sympathy I've ever experienced he looked me in the eye and grieved with me. I was a bit shocked. How could a teenage boy understand loss so well? But as I looked at him, I thought about the war and how he'd just left his family and all that was familiar in hopes of a better life. It is I who has much to learn from these amazing people I meet every day!

I've joked that if I was a refugee I'd be dead by now. Upon arriving here I fell severely ill with what I have witnessed is a common sickness among the refugees. Words can't describe how awful I felt! I can't imagine walking in the snow with little clothing on while being so sick. I can't fathom caring for children when I have no way to provide even their basic needs. I can't picture how I'd keep going when I've not had a bed or shower in over a month. However, I've never once heard any of them complain! As they share their stories the difficulties aren't highlighted nor is sympathy sought. They even try to give to me out of their nothingness. They struggle to communicate thankfulness in their broken English. And every day I walk away humbled... If the tables were turned, I can only imagine I'd be barely making it, completely self-absorbed. But these people, the thousands of faces burned into my memory, are beautiful, and truly I wish I could be more like them!

Ignorance is Sin

There's a story from my high school World History class that has haunted my heart for years. After WWII when the concentration camps were liberated, soldiers went into the surrounding villages nearby to inquire about what had been going on. The townspeople most often responded that they weren't aware that there was a camp so close by. Someone in my class asked my teacher how they could just not know that the concentration camp was a mile away when there were people being tortured, bodies were being burned, and horrors beyond imagination were taking place. Surely they must have seen, heard, or smelled something in all those years?! My teacher responded that sometimes things can be so horrific that one's mind simply shuts out the idea that it is even a possibility. I've heard of the same thing happening with a mother whose husband is abusing her daughter. All the signs and symptoms are present, but the thought of that going on is too terrible for her mind to even entertain that thought.

My pastor, Matt Chandler, has made a point of brining up the hot topics of our day and age in his sermons. Racial reconciliation and abortion are two regular occurrences in his speaking. He's often tied the two together through the question that plagues a lot of our hearts toward older relatives regarding the 50's and 60's during the civil rights movement: "Where were you and what were you doing to help?" That very same question is one he feels will arise with this next generation regarding abortion. Where were we and what were we doing to help as innocent babies were slaughtered by the millions?! When I think about the refugee crisis the same thought comes to mind. As thousands upon thousands of people are being displaced world wide every day, people are being murdered in cold blood in their homes in dozens of countries, grandmothers and small children are being forced to sleep in the freezing rain and mud, and the horrifying list goes on endlessly.... where are we and what are we doing to help??

There are many times when I start to think and try to imagine what it tangibly means that close to 60 million people in the world have no home right now. My mind wants to block it out, pretend that it's not real. To not think about winter moving in. To not put myself in their shoes. To decide that it's too big of an issue, and I'm just one person so there's no point in doing anything. My flesh wants to do all these things, but "true religion is this: to look after the widow and orphan in their distress..." (James 1:27) If I say I love God and don't love my brother, I am a liar (1 John 4:8,20). I cannot turn my back on these things! I cannot choose ignorance!

Jesus is calling, beckoning you to come lay down your life, your comfort, your selfishness, your safety, your money for Him by loving the least of these. Will you obey? Or when our children's children look back on this will you be someone from a nearby place claiming you didn't know?

The Face of Suffering

In moments of deep sorrow and grieving the loss of my dear mother, there is a memory that has come to haunt my heart. Every detail is etched into my brain, though a small portion of me wants to cease remembering this moment. On January 18, 2015 my mom lay in a hospital bed, her body straining for a breath as she lay unconscious. Death is nothing like the movies portray; even a 'peaceful death' is quite brutal to watch and hear. When we knew my mom's time was drawing near to leave us and be with the One who formed her, I held her hand and repeatedly told her to let go, to stop fighting, and to just go home to be with Jesus. These last nine months, that is so hard for me to recall because every fiber in my being misses my mom. It seems absurd to have begged to her to give up...

And then times, like this evening, clarity flashes before my heart. I remember what I was thinking and feeling in that moment and all the other moments in the twenty-one years prior as I sat front row to the horrific suffering of one I hold so dear. It was time...

As a child, it was a normal occurrence to stay with neighbors and friends for weeks on end while my mom was in the hospital. It was simply part of life to don surgical gloves, use needles, or change dressings in my parents' bedroom. I knew how to quickly pack a hospital bag after my mom, once again, threw up blood. While my mother was so strong, there were often times when she'd had enough of the pain, and deep sobs filled the air vents in our house. I learned how to listen, ask questions, and be the right amount of silly to bring a needed smile or laugh. As bad as the suffering for my mom was when I was a child, it was nothing compared to what lay ahead in my adult years. Of course, all this I remember with much more vivid detail...

Late one evening three years ago, my dad carried my mom, just like all the times before, into the emergency room. Unlike all the times before, my mom didn't know who she was or who he was or anything at all. As much as hospitals have been a way of life for me, something broke in me that night. It was the first time I had to leave my mom, go out into the hall sobbing, and call a friend to come be with me. My mom had looked me in the eye and told me she didn't know who I was. There weren't categories in my brain for this! Little did I know that my brain would form so many more unwanted categories before the week was finished. My mom's internal bleeding had poisoned her brain to the point that she was like a small child and had to be 'handcuffed' to the bed. Days passed as I sat next to her bed, lying to the nurses about my cold, watching her already frail body not eat for a week, and reading Psalm after Psalm until she would stop thrashing and rest. I was hoarse by the time she started to come back to us, but there was no sweeter moment than when I asked if she knew who I was and she responded with my nickname, confused why I'd ask that.

A year later the situation repeated itself, this time worse. She'd never regained the lost weight from before, and her body was weaker. She had to be put on a respirator, so she was unable to talk. Her eyes just floated to me helplessly, pleading for help to go home, anywhere out of this pain and confusion. By God's grace she recovered enough to go home and leave the doctors scratching their head with what happened. But God hadn't healed her, just given her and us more time together...

This has been a blog written about suffering, but even though I could fill dozens of posts on that topic, I don't want to miss another element that always seems linked to suffering in the Bible: that of joy. While what I wrote above hasn't even touched the horrors of all that my mom suffered, there has come to be a sweetness and joy found in these memories. Not dismissing the grieving or pain of it all, but instead fixing my eyes to see beyond the darkness to the light on the other side of the fog of this world. I can't speak for my mom, but I do know that who I am is richer and fuller having faced such enormous suffering in my life. Yes, I wish I could close my eyes and see a healthy mom in my memory, but so much of life isn't health, wealth, or happiness. This lesson I learned at a very young age. The suffering I watched my mom walk in helped me know Jesus and His resurrection so much more fully. The fullness of the Gospel collides with this world's and my own brokenness...

When life slows for a moment, and I find myself quiet and alone, my mind often wanders to that evening in January nine months ago. As much as I hate that it represents that my mom is no longer part of my earthly life, I rejoice that it happened. She is free. She is home. She has no more pain. No more tears. There is the fullness of joy in His presence, and all suffering has been erased from her mind!

Be Still, My Soul

This song has been encouraging to me as of late, so I thought I'd share a piece of my heart through someone else's pen.

Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul; thy best, thy heavenly, Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul, though dearest friends depart
And all is darkened in the vale of tears;
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears.
Be still, my soul; thy Jesus can repay
From His own fulness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul; the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul; when change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

by Catharina von Schlegel

Marriage & Wildflower Meadows

For my 30th birthday this past summer, I went backpacking with two friends in the Colorado wilderness. I'd definitely recommend doing this if you haven't ever done so! There's something so sweet and special about being far away from all that is familiar and tamed.

 Being the turning of a decade for me, my heart felt very fragile and contemplative. I don't think many teenagers picture themselves turning 30 and still being single. While it has been a gift from the Lord in many ways, it's definitely not typically been a well received present from God on my part a lot of the time. Singleness became a topic of prayer, journal entries, and Scriptural searches during my time up in the mountains. On my last morning there, I sat with my Bible closed and my heart heavy. The wilderness often feels 'home' in so many ways that a big city never will for me. I wasn't ready to return home yet, and I definitely felt weighed down over the thought of going back to my hometown where I felt there were no men of any sort of interest to me (and vice versa).

As I gazed around the large rock I was laying on, I beheld the cascading waterfall, the dozens of varieties of wildflowers, assortment of pine-type trees, and other unique features to this special place. God gently and softly spoke to my heart: "This is you. You are a wildflower meadow. Unique. Wild. Untamed. Rare. But Beautiful, nonetheless. You are living in a world right now where the women surrounding you are manicured, very tamed and controllable lawns. And that is what you often see and feel from the men around you. They want someone predictable and manageable. You feel like you're too much for them, because you are. However, there is a type of man that prefers a wildflower field on a remote mountain peak in the middle of nowhere. Just because he's not been by yet doesn't mean he's not real. And it most definitely means you should stop comparing yourself to other women- I designed you very different from them for My plans and reasons. You, My beloved, are just how I made and designed you. Find rest in this truth!"

It's so hard being back in the US again, living in my hometown that's also a big city, and being surrounded by men that aren't 'rugged, mountain men' (I am meaning that figuratively, but it could definitely be realistic too, ha!). But whenever I recall this sweet truth back to mind, it brings peace and rest to my soul.

The words of Bethany Dillon's song bring freedom as well:
"You can do more in my waiting than in my doing I can do. So I won't run anymore. I am waiting on You."

How to Mourn

This winter I have been pretty absent from the blogging world. It has been a season of great sorrow and deep heart grief. Pawpaw, a close friend from the community I live in, had a stroke mid-November, was taken off life support two weeks later, and buried two weeks after that (once we were able to raise the needed funds). Two days after his burial, his wife, Big Granny, collapsed from a heart attack, was put on life support, and passed away a week and a half later in the hospital. We, once again gathered the needed funds, and she was buried at the end of December. A week later my own mother went into the hospital, and two weeks later, after a decision was made to stop all care but that which relieved the pain, she was gone within a day. The funeral was planned, family came in town, a ceremony took place, everyone left, and life went back to 'normal'. However, the odd thing was that the day after the funeral I became sick... and have been sick since- that's close to 4 months now. Sinus infection, pink eye, loss of voice, coughing, ear infections, etc. You name it, I've had it! I've tried every natural remedy there is, and even finally broke down and took an antibiotic. I'm still pretty sick, which has made me extremely angry often, but more so contemplative now. What if my external sickness is simply a manifestation of the internal sickness of heart I'm experiencing?

As I've been thinking about this topic, Google has become my friend in researching how other cultures grieve loss. And the Bible has been really interesting in looking up the topic of mourning. A week or two ago, my pastor talked about our generation being one of extreme entertainment and valuing 'levity' above all else. That has definitely been how I have been handling this process. I come home from my often emotionally exhausting job, to my house that is across from a brothel and next to a drug house, and there is nothing more overwhelming than the thought of thinking about how much I miss my mom or my dear friends. My life feels so serious and often painful, why in the world would I want to choose to mourn or grieve if I don't have to? So, instead, I turn to funny TV shows on Netflix or I watch 'Whose Line is it Anyway?' (something I'd watched with my mom) episodes on Youtube. I just want to laugh and feel light and jovial. I don't want heavy, and I most assuredly don't want to go to the places of deep pain. But could it be that I need to?

In the US, we have definitely done away with nearly all traditions. I think a lot of that is due to us being a 'melting pot' of different ethnicities, but it could also be due to us not valuing them. When I was looking up mourning on Wikipedia, it listed out the various countries and how they mourned. In the US, pretty much our only tradition is to wear black to funerals... which we also wear to weddings and formal dinners. There's nothing set aside for those that grieve to cling to or hold as sacred. Whereas, in most other countries it is either expected or required for a person who has lost someone close to them to spend 40 days, 6 months, or even a year in mourning. Not just wearing black, but not attending parties or weddings, having time off of work, fasting, or participating in other religious ceremonies. There is actual recognition that they are hurting and should be mourning and grieving. It is understood and even promoted. I am sure this alleviates the pressure I feel every day to act like I'm fine and pretend to be okay when I feel like I'm just going through the motions of life with my arm chopped off. There's been nothing for me to cling to or even have to acknowledge something is missing and vastly different in my life now.

So, the challenge God has laid over my heart has been that of entering into a season of mourning. Allowing myself to grieve, feel the pain that's there, and stop pretending I am fine. This feels very strange and scary to me. It feels like I'm signing up to be depressed on purpose- a place God rescued me from long ago, and I vowed to never return... I have no idea how one goes about mourning. But I guess the Bible will be my starting point: Be wretched, weep, fast, sit in silence, go about in sackcloth and ashes, tear your clothes... I am pretty sure I won't participate in all of those, but, then again, I don't have a clue what this season is going to look like or how long it's going to last! So, if you see me sitting on the curb in burlap, looking like I've just escaped from a fire, be sure to stop by and give me a hug- I'm sure I'm going to need one!

Weariness that Attacks the Soul

In the Fall of 2008 I entered what a lot of people term 'full-time ministry' when I moved overseas. After living and working there for 3 years, I moved home in the Fall of 2011. Within two months I was working in the inner city. It now being nearly the winter of 2014, I have completed 3 years in this position. For those of you counting, that's 6 years living and working in pretty dark, difficult circumstances. I can't express the number of times I've wanted to quit, to give up, to have a 'normal' job that doesn't require people interaction, etc.

This Fall has been one of the hardest seasons of 'work' I've yet had to endure. Most of the darkest, hardest undertakings are things I can't speak of on a public blog, but I will say this: I have been on my knees, I have been in tears, I have questioned whether deep in my heart I trusted God, and this past month I found myself entering 'survival-mode' just to make it to Christmas break. Well, I made it to the break, and here I am trying to pick up the pieces of my heart and run to Him with them. It's been hard and messy these past days!

Just now I was laying on my bed, feeling discouraged. Interesting how Satan likes to attack when someone's down, eh? Little thoughts about how my kids from work, that I've poured heart and soul into, really don't love Jesus, as seen with their words and actions on social media. Thinking about how the house across the street, that not a day goes by that I don't pray for God to move and work over there, has little change in the pimps, prostitutes, and clients that shuffle in and out their front door. How, even at the age of 30, it has not failed that nearly every year I either have to move or get a new roommate on top of already feeling lonely and unstable as a single woman. Things with family. Things with my health. And the list goes on. All that rushed through my head as I lay gazing at my wall I'd just spent a few hours re-doing with pictures and quotes. The verse in one of the frames caught my eye: "You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl..." Matthew 5:14 In those few words I saw a glimpse into my weary heart!

How much I long to turn off the light I'm shining, to hide it under a bowl, to run from having to shine it out to others. But, as the verse says, the Light that's in my heart isn't a thing to be turned off and on. It's become me, now that Jesus has ownership of my heart and life. In His words: "You are the light of the world..." No matter how weary or discouraged I become, I can't stop shining- it's who I am! And strangely, even though I'm not entirely sure why, that brings great comfort to my tired, down-trodden soul tonight. The Light inside will continue to shine, because It's not dependent upon me and how I'm doing, but upon Another. That, my friends, brings hope and is the best of news!

The Proud King

Hezekiah has always been one of my favorite kings from the Old Testament. He's not super famous like David or Solomon, but he's always stood out to me for one particular story. He got really ill, so ill that Isaiah came to him and told him to sort out all his affairs, for he wasn't going to live. Hezekiah's response has always been so powerful to me (God's reply back- even more so!):  "'Remember, Lord, how I have walked before you faithfully and with wholehearted devotion and have done what is good in your eyes.' And Hezekiah wept bitterly." (2 Kings 20:2-3) Isaiah made it midway through the courtyard when God commanded him to return. “'Go back and tell Hezekiah, the ruler of my people, ‘This is what the Lord, the God of your father David, says: I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you. On the third day from now you will go up to the temple of the Lord. I will add fifteen years to your life....’” (verse 5-6) Does God change His mind because of the fervent prayer of His king? It's mind boggling to think through, a task which I've done often throughout my lifetime. 

It wasn't until recently that I really paid attention to the other version of this story that is found in 2 Chronicles 32:24-25. Here it talks about how, even though God had healed him, he didn't "make return according to the benefit done to him, for his heart was proud.." And later it says that "God left him to himself, in order to test him and to know all that was in his heart." Basically Hezekiah's life ends with God saying that there are going to be consequences for his proud choices, but because he's showed some humility they won't happen in H's lifetime. To which H replies: "'The word of the Lord you have spoken is good,' Hezekiah replied. For he thought, 'Will there not be peace and security in my lifetime?'" (2 Kings 20:19)

This man that I've come to admire and the life that I have thought so much about are both deeply flawed! In the small bits and pieces we see of his life and heart, we can notice selfishness, pride, materialism, bad parenting, etc. Not a super quality guy..! But God listened to his cry and plea for healing. It baffles me as to why He'd do that. But at the same time it offers me hope to pray in a similar vein. However, this morning as I read through all of this again, I encountered a different perspective. 

As I've been struggling through various health issues, I've tackled them all numerous ways: rushing about to doctor after doctor, fasting, prayer, changing diet and lifestyle, etc. Somehow each of those has left me back at square one with no answers and frustrated. No one knows what's wrong and nothing seems to be helping. So this morning I flipped open my Bible and read this story again with tears streaming down my cheeks begging God to heal me. And then a thought hit me: I am a very proud person, and God knows my heart more than I ever will. Maybe I'm the same as Hezekiah. Maybe He knows that if He healed me, my proud heart would not make return according to the benefit done to me. Who knows, but what I do know is that God is always after something deeper than just my comfort and my convenience. He's after my heart! And by George, if I die tomorrow or 50 years from now, I want to do it with a humble heart that is daily giving my sweet Abba all the glory and praise He deserves. 

Through Doors of Hope

It's hard living directly across the street from what I call a "pimp house"- it's really just a brothel of sorts. One man lives there and numerous other people flow in and out all day and all night. Scantly clad women sit on the porch or walk next door to the "drug house" to get some "goods". Men with hungry eyes sit in cars as they wait their turn or await their sister or girlfriend's shift to finish. It's a horrific thing to behold day after day!

I've spent a good number of years living and working in the midst of poverty type cultures. Prostitution and drug use aren't anything new to me. But having both fill your eyes EVERY time you leave the house, sit on your porch, or glance out your window has proven to be overwhelming for my wee heart! There's hardly a time when I don't leave my door begging God to shut it down, to bring justice and freedom, or simply to burn down the house. And truly, unless the Lord moves in one of these ways, there's not any way forward (it's so common down here that the police rarely do anything about either of these "petty" crimes). If I'm honest, some days that brings rest, but most days that feels inadequate.

I work with the children and youth in this inner city neighborhood. I have numerous little girls that have been sexually abused. Most of my girls have little contact or no relationship with their daddies. The majority of the moms cycle through men. The boys in their classes speak to them in provocative and sexual ways, even in elementary school. And I can't help but see my sweet babies when I gaze at the women entering the house across the street. Unless God intervenes, such is the future that this neighborhood has to offer and awaits them. My heart isn't okay with that...

So, tonight I sat in my backyard, in what has become a little oasis of peace, and talked with my Abba again about these heavy things. As I flipped slowly through my Bible, pausing to read underlined passages and notes, I ended up in Hosea. The little token that broke through the tears into my heart was that He takes the Valley of Achor (trouble) and makes it a door of hope. He does this as He draws us out into the wilderness, and we are able to see Him as our Love and Husband. I wrote this verse on the wood I was sitting on (the beauty of pallet furniture!), and begged God to one day use this little oasis of peace to be a place where people from this neighborhood find their doors of hope! I can't wait...