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...

Opinionated Ranting

I don't normally blog on topics that are 'hot' and currently happening around the globe. This is not because I don't care or have passion for them, but more because I don't want my blog to become an opinionated rant. And I can be great at being opinionated and ranting if the issue at hand is one I'm passionate about. However, I am crossing those boundaries today to address something that has been bothering me extensively for a while.

Though I'm relatively young, I've lived quite a bit of life in my years. I've seen the history of many places, experienced many cultures, lived in dozens of locations, and befriended numerous ethnicities. My life perspective has been stripped of much of the pride it was inundated with from growing up in my American (or should I say: Texan? ha) bubble. And I wouldn't trade that for anything- it's a rich treasure! But it serves to haunt me when world issues or crises arise, or really when the public becomes aware of their existence.

There's an Instagram feed I follow entitled Humans of NY. I love the photographer's perspective on capturing people, as it is without bias or personal opinion. One of his most recent pictures/stories was of a homeless man begging for change on the street corner. His story was that of riches to rags from being mugged on the street and losing all semblance of health from the attack. The comments really irked me! "Where is this man? I want to help him." And tons of other shocked responses that such a thing could happen to a person, followed by a desire to find this specific man and help him back onto his feet. Feelings of immense frustration filled my heart- he's the guy on the corner that they pass by on the way to work each day. He's the man that petitions them for change as they glare at him for being in their way. He's the one who they've felt tried to con them into giving him 'bus fare to get to my daughter in the hospital.' They've met him before, and they walked away. The reason they don't know his story is because they didn't ask, they didn't listen, and they didn't care. Looking at an impersonal picture on a phone as one sits in the luxury of their comfort zone somehow brings a bravado that is lacking when one walks past him. A desire to 'change the world' and right all the wrongs as long as it just involves one time giving, no relational investment, and no mess to affect their day to day comforts.

Nigeria is a political mess and has been for a really long time. Travel to any major European city (or even some US ones) and many of the women and men being exploited on the streets are from Nigeria. It's a poor and broken country, which has served as fuel for numerous groups to come in, kidnap, and wreck unnameable havoc among the people... all while the West has turned a calloused face away in apathy. But 276 girls all the sudden show up missing and it becomes the world's highest trending topic on social media? How easy it is to click a button, jump on a bandwagon of 'doing something' worthwhile while they surf the net, and then forget about it in a few weeks time. I found this quote off of CNN's website to be a good telltale sign of what people really care about regarding this issue.. themselves! "Just imagine if 276 girls had been kidnapped in the United States. The response would be mass outrage and a forceful demand for a response. As borders become more irrelevant for terrorists, the whole world needs to take notice of the likes of Boko Haram."

Please don't get me wrong- I care deeply for the homeless and the sweet Nigerian girls!! But I also care about lasting change and genuine care of people, not just a political issue people quickly jump on and off. I've known numerous Nigerian people and love their country immensely! I've known numerous homeless people, and almost all have heart wrenching stories. But I get sick of people acting like they care, but the reality is that their money, time, and everything else prove they actually don't. Trafficking is horrific, and a person would've had to been living in a hole to not know how widespread and disgusting it was before these little girls were kidnapped. Homelessness is everywhere one turns, I don't understand how someone could just not know that they are in fact human beings with really sad, hard stories. How I long for people to live life with eyes wide open! To stop going from one social media political high to the next. To pray to have God's heart for the hurting and pain-filled right there in their own cities and across the world. What movement we would see if even just the Church did this!

Okay my political, opinionated rant is done! :)

The Art of Being Single

I'll be honest, I never imagined reaching 30 and being single. I'm not someone who had my life all planned out and 'knew what I wanted to be when I grew up', but everyone I knew, as a teenager, that was in their 30's was married (except for a few pretty odd people). I guess I just never fathomed or was able to picture life being single long term. Don't get me wrong, being single isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me. I actually quite enjoy my freedom and all the amazing experiences God has blessed with being able to partake in because I'm not married or parenting. But if I was honest about the depths of my heart, being single is a big wrestle my heart struggles with on a somewhat day to day basis. It looks and feels different each day, but the battle is there nonetheless. I often find myself on my knees crying out for God to remove the desire if it's never to reach fruition, but He hasn't yet.

This past week my Home Group from church met together to participate in a Seder Dinner (a Jewish tradition for Passover). It was a rich time of enjoying Jesus, being together, and savoring good food. As we talked about Christ and Heaven, I found a deep longing surging through my heart to see Him and to finally be there at Home. As this desire increased inside me, I found myself glancing around the table at these men and women I 'do life with' on a day to day basis. People I know well through working with, living with, or serving with. As I thought of who I was sitting with, my mind trickled back through all the hundreds of people from my past that fit into one of those categories (I've moved around a lot- the number is massive!). How sweet that day will be when I'm sitting at the banquet feast, the wedding supper of the Lamb!! To finally be united with my Bridegroom and together with all those who'll make up the Bride. What a rich evening, full of all that my soul longs for and desires. In that moment I shall be in want for nothing more than I shall already possess!

I can't help but find my desire to be married to be pale in comparison to that moment. It won't matter who I was or wasn't married to when I reach that dinner feast, will it? Marriage is sweet here on earth, as you love and serve your King together. But really it's simply a tool to spur one another on to keep drawing others into that journey to that table with you. For some reason, for my 30 years and this season of life, Jesus has decided I don't need that. I don't know why, and I still can't understand His ways in this and regarding my dozens of single friends. But I'm learning to trust. I'm learning to look beyond what my eyes can see. I'm learning to focus on my Bridegroom and eternity. And I'm learning that He and He alone satisfies my heart's desires and longings.

So, as my 30th approaches, I raise my glass and toast my singleness as a beautiful gift from the One my heart loves more than all else. And if the only wedding I ever experience is the one to Him, that walk down the aisle to His arms will be the sweetest moment fathomable... worth every moment leading up to it!

And so to Him I leave it all

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
His holy will abideth;
I will be still whate’er He doth;
And follow where He guideth;
He is my God; though dark my road,
He holds me that I shall not fall:
Wherefore to Him I leave it all.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He never will deceive me;
He leads me by the proper path:
I know He will not leave me.
I take, content, what He hath sent;
His hand can turn my griefs away,
And patiently I wait His day.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
His loving thought attends me;
No poison can be in the cup
That my Physician sends me.
My God is true; each morn anew
I’ll trust His grace unending,
My life to Him commending.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He is my Friend and Father;
He suffers naught to do me harm,
Though many storms may gather,
Now I may know both joy and woe,
Some day I shall see clearly
That He hath loved me dearly.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Though now this cup, in drinking,
May bitter seem to my faint heart,
I take it, all unshrinking.
My God is true; each morn anew
Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,
And pain and sorrow shall depart.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Here shall my stand be taken;
Though sorrow, need, or death be mine,
Yet I am not forsaken.
My Father’s care is round me there;
He holds me that I shall not fall:
And so to Him I leave it all.
samuel rodigast

Through My Eyes

He got in the car with me last week, and we began to drive through our neighborhood to the office that was promising to help him find housing for himself and his two girls (one of which I mentor). Small talk and catching up on life filled the car for the first few minutes. When we reached the nearby highway the conversation had changed.

"You came early", he said. "I was just about to write you a letter when you arrived to get me. I wanted to tell you how I was noticing you were different than most people. For you, it's not about color or where a person is in life. Oh how I wish the rest of the world saw other people and life through your eyes. The world would be such a better place..." And he continued on with sweet words that I didn't deserve. Seeing his slight pause as a chance to talk about my First Love and Savior, I directed all praise His way and then changed the subject to all He was doing in his life. But his phrase: "I wish the world saw other people and life through your eyes", has stuck with me.

The reality is that I know my 'eyes' all too well. Most days I wish I could get rid of them! I know the judgmental-ness that I battle as I compare or nit pick things. I know the negativity I fight on a daily basis. I know the fears I have of other people being recognized over me. I know the calloused-ness I face when I survey the hurt and pain around. No, my 'eyes' are indeed NOT a beautiful thing that anyone around should envy or try to pattern after. But His 'eyes', that I'm seeking to put on more and more each day, are loving, gracious, kind, eager to help, patient in suffering, not after their own glory, quick to be humble, and overall the sweetest thing anyone has ever beheld this side of heaven!

I have a love/hate relationship with sanctification. You see, it's great cuz it grants me the ability to live in His ways more and more. However, it's pain-filled and hard mostly, so I very much hate it most days. But the more I'm becoming like Him, the more He is seen instead of me. And that's truly a great thing. Praise His Holy Name that, as He sanctifies me, those around me see I have my Daddy's eyes and mine fade away more and more!

Worthy Life Investments

Today I sat in a funeral for a 7 year old boy; that in and of itself was pretty awful. But compounded on top of that was the fact that he was gone because his 13 year brother accidentally shot him as they found and played with a gun in the garage. During this past school year I've gotten to know the 13 year old boy pretty well through work. When I heard the news, my heart broke, and I just wanted to wrap him (and his 12 year old brother) in a huge hug. A week and a half has transpired, and he's been on my heart in prayer every day; all day long.

There's a lot of times in my job when I wonder whether what we are doing here in the inner city is 'worth' the massive life investment we've all made. You see, tragic things like this happen often in the lives of the students I work with. Some of it resulting from choices they make, but the majority is just really crappy, sad life stuff: sexual abuse, both parents in jail, etc. I often get a picture in my mind of a scales. We are dropping Truth, hope, love, and good (as in God being the definition of this) into one side, but the odds are most definitely not in our favor. You see, for every hour a child spends with us, they spend 23 in another environment. One that often is filled with lies, despair, pain, and bad things. To counter balance the scale would take an act of God! And truly that's what we cry out for each day; that is our only hope!

As I watched the family file into the sanctuary, the boys lost it when they reached the front where the open casket was. Uncontainable sobs filled the room and my heart. Again, the desire to wrap them in a never ending hug filled my heart. I know I can't 'fix' it or even protect them in any way, but I guess that's the 'motherly' instinct inside me! I thought the pastor did an okay job given the situation, and I pray God's truth reaches into the hearts of the hurting, confused family. But all too soon it was over. The family filed out to drive over to the grave, and the boys were gone again. As the room emptied, I made my way outside, eagerly scanning the crowd for my young friend. I finally laid eyes upon him, and 'willed' him to look my way. A minute later he did, and what happened is a moment that I buried as treasure into my heart. A 13 year old boy is hard to understand or predict what he'll do. One time you see them they're excited, the next they are embarrassed to acknowledge knowing you. So, especially given the circumstances, I wasn't sure what to expect. But when he saw me his eyes lit up, and he flashed his braces in a wide grin. Nudging his brother, he said: "Look", and walked over to me and my co-workers. As he walked into my hug, I wanted to cry. I know full well that my hug was probably mostly selfish, but he let me hold him long enough for my shirt to later smell of his cologne and for me to say how I'd been missing him.

That was it. He was gone after a few minutes, but I'm very thankful to God for that sweet moment. You see, for a boy's eyes to light up in such a situation means he feels loved, accepted, and welcome- all things that I daily hope my kids feel and see as from God in me. It was a small, simple moment, but it felt weighty. It was as if God, in the midst of a difficult season, said to my heart: "Hey, We are making a difference here in this community! Keep pressing onward, my daughter, keep going.." And that was what I was needing today!