Where are you from?

My great grandmother's hands, they're wrinkled with time. Wrinkled with the work of the Depression and the sending off of too many sons to too many wars and the holding of not enough babies and the snapping of countless green beans. Wrinkled like the knotted wood of the porch on which she sits pruning her tomato plants that are perched up on a bench that lets her old and fragile body continue to tend the earth.

She's claimed 93 for the last few birthdays. Nobody questions it. It doesn't matter much anymore.

She's lived in this house since before anybody can remember. She lives alone, a widow for nearly two decades, the family coming to visit her daily. I don't have a face to put to their names, buts she talks of them highly in the letters she sends me, written with her wrinkled hands.

She's not leaving her mountain.
She's a woman of strength, dignity, and pride.
This is her home.

And how did this woman give rise to a great granddaughter who can't sit still long enough to call a place home?

<><><>

The speaker is about to begin. I make my way through the hallway until I reach the crowd slowly peeling into the conference room.

"Where are you from?"

I don't pause for a moment. I give the name of a city in California.

I realize what I have done. I've claimed California as my home.

My stomach turns in knots. Knots like the ones that make my grandmother's knuckles. Knots like the porch on which she has sat for years. Knots like the mess of keys of old homes that sits in a drawer. Knots that confirm that I am in a new life.

<><><>

In my RA's room there was a frame. On that frame was a water color outline of the United States and the simple phrase:

Home is wherever I am with you.

So I pack my bags for another adventure - one of a new continent and an uncertain end. My heart is in the shape of a globe; a young nomad, a little girl in a big world. I never stay in one place long enough to know if I am coming or going, and so it will be, and so I have accepted..  The story continues over the next eight to nine months - a story of adventure, travel, and a reckless spirit that can only be quenched by the Spirit itself.

To proclaim

Psalm 118:17.

It sits scribbled on a blue index card, sandwiched between the mattress above me and the wire mesh that holds the bed up, the same bed that has left me with a semester of post concussion syndrome. My roommate sleeps on the Word of the Lord. I sleep under it.

I mulled over the verse while working in the library shelving books, ashamedly the most physical activity I have gotten since hitting my head. I wanted something different, something creative to ponder and exegete and revel in as a danced between books and tired students. I wanted to proclaim myself. The psalm returned again, unwavering.

It is easy to proclaim the name of the Lord when it is others' responsibility. It is easy when roommates say kind things and mothers are gentle. 

Proclamation always comes, proclamation of something. 

Proclamation of the Lord rarely comes with ease. 

The problem comes when the task is given to you instead of somebody else. The struggle is to breathe God in and out with every word when roommates hurl softball-sized insults at your stomach and mothers are still burdened by mental illness. We choose to live in the Lord or we choose to die in the flesh, this flesh that knows nothing of Holy and yet is. We choose to show what the Lord has done with this ragamuffin body or we choose to bury His work, showing our own dirty face rather than His clean, scarred hands.

We have a face that no amount of makeup and no length of scrubbing can make beautiful. It is a face that must be washed in blood and blood alone to be made clean. Proclaiming ourselves shows what we have done - the filthy rags we have scattered into the wind. My we use this face, these hands, these lips to proclaim the grace the Lord has brought us to rather than the manure we have reveled in.

I will not die but live and proclaim what the LORD has done. -- Psalm 118:17

I didn't know Grace

The saga of The Great Concussion of 2012 is coming to a close.

There's something about spending a few days unable to read, drive, look at screens, go to class or work, and be around noise and lights without a splitting headache. It was quiet, just the white walls and my breath and a bottle of pain killers.

But there's being alone and there's being lonely.

The other night I ventured back into the social world and sat on the pool deck with a pile or roommates and a gentleman who has a love of Jewish tradition and a laugh that makes everybody smile. A party whirled on around us, a bunch of college kids on a Friday night just trying to pass the time with free food.

He asked if we all knew each other before we lived together.
"I didn't know Grace, but Grace knew me," I said.

I then asked him to to say "grace" in Hebrew. He made a noise that sounded like he was about to choke on his own tongue and smiled. It was a disgusting noise.

I love Hebrew.
And I love when Truth lives where I didn't think Truth could be planted.

I didn't know Grace.
But Grace knew me.

It's never reversed. It's never the other way around.Grace knew me from before the day I was born and said, "You are mine." Grace knew me when I fell off my bike, skinning my knees and cursing the asphalt with red-hot cheeks. She knew me through slammed doors, snide remarks, dirty looks, and a pride that just wouldn't quit.

She still said, "You are mine."

But I didn't know her.
I didn't know she was watching.
I didn't know I had to find her.

<><><>

I sit on the couch with a sweet friend.

"Hey! Guess what I learned today?" She stares at me, waiting for either something silly or mind-blowing to escape my lips. I make a noise that sounds like I need to spit. "It means 'grace' in Hebrew!" I smile, beaming with excitement. She laughs and stares at me, unsure if my concussion is worse than we had suspected.

Maybe the power of Grace is too much to muster. Maybe it can only be whispered; whispered in a tone so low you hardly know that it's there, but you can feel its breath. It can't be put into a word because it transcends everything we know to be true, everything that we know to be normal.

Grace isn't natural.
But Grace is real.

Cheap grace is easy to find. It's the grace that tells me I am smart, kind, important. It's the grace that promises to not keep us awake at night, to never make ourselves feel less than we desire to be, to never disturb us our rouse us or challenge us.

But real Grace? That's who I find the footprints of. That's who shifts around the chairs in the kitchen just enough that I know somebody has been there. If I ever saw her, I'd be overtaken by beauty and awe and unworthiness. She is everywhere, and yet I still must chase after her, striving to touch just the hem of her dress so that I may share her goodness with others.

It's Grace that points out my flaws when I am waiting for praise that is not mine to take. Grace reminds me of all that I am; no more, no less. Grace is who stands in front of you as insults are thrown like baseballs at your stomach. It's the gift you get on Christmas morn even though you've been an awful child. Grace will keep you up at night. Grace will leave you on your knees. She will make you hurt and she will make you smile. Grace empties only to fill. She is always worth searching for, fighting for, running towards.

With Grace, Truth always grows.
With Grace, all is a gift.

Sundays are for silence

The sun slowly sets, kissing the horizon. The neighbors scurry home, collecting their children and the wash hanging on the line to dry. The air becomes still with anticipation and quietness.

It's a tradition three thousand years in the making.

The family gathers around the table on a Friday night, clustered around a candle. The mother begins to pray, for it is the woman that ushers in the rest of the Sabbath and the peace of the Lord. A candle is lit to mark the start of something beautiful.

The prayer ends, but no amen is heard. It is a prayer that will not end until the following evening; from dusk to dusk is a communion with the Lord. The entire time in between is set aside for a continual prayer, an anticipation, an expectancy.

Lord, let it be.

<><><>

My theme for the year is identity. 

Finding myself.

Finding Christ.

Finding myself within Christ.

My discipline for the year is silence. 

It is here that you hear your own thoughts.

That you hear the words of the Lord.

That you commune with the One who made you.

Last year I was redeemed. I discovered what I am not; now I am searching for what I am. 

Last year I practiced journaling. I learned how to talk to God; now I am practicing how to listen.

So if it's Sunday and you need me, come knocking.

My phone will be off. Facebook will be signed out. 

Make plans ahead of time; emergencies will have to wait.

Sundays are for reading The Little Princess on the porch hammock, exploring museums in LA, lying by the pool with an Arnold Palmer, hiking to the top of the A, napping in the ampitheatre, praying and meditating,

just.

being.

quiet.

The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.

Exodus 14:14

Through the peephole

Their music was loud.
Their bass was bumping.
The walls shook early in the morning and late at night.
Girls poured out of their door at the 1am gender curfew.

We watched through the peephole of our own door.
Standing from a distance, protected by a slab of wood, we caught a glimpse into their world; their strange, loud, state university-esque world.
We saw red Solo cups.
We saw multicolored strobe lights.
We saw darkness and bodies and nothing holy.

We, the girls next door, are holy.
We are upright, intentional, Bible believing/thumping/obeying women of the Lord.

<><><>

Roommates nestled together on the pavement with our feet in the hot tub we continued to watch from a distance. We wondered and daydreamed and waited for them to make themselves known.

And they did.
They were transfers from state schools. They had no intentions of being in discipleship house, a community committed to the love and ways of Christ. They were simply put into the apartment next to ours because there were empty beds that needed to be filled.

Confirmed.
They didn't belong. They weren't one of us. Of course they would behave in such ways of the world.

<><><>

The five of us, the women of the Word, sat in our living room snickering about the party animals on the other side of the wall. Then he knocked.

Hello, I'm your neighbor.
We are having a party tonight.
Would you like to come?
We're just going to have some people over for some worship.
We'd love to see you there.

The door closed and before he was out of earshot we erupted in laughter.
"Worship night". So that's what they called it.

We returned to our position in the peepholes, gathering images of darkness and bodies and strobe lights and girls arriving in herds. The music played and the photos on the walls rattled.
We had to witness it ourselves.
We had to judge righteously.
We had to show them what it meant to follow Christ.
We would be a witness at the party; a light among the darkness.

And so we crossed the porch that connected our units.

The image was distorted through the peephole.

A large crowd greeted us, shaking our hands.
I haven't met you yet.
What's your name?
Which room are you in?
How do you like it here?
Sorry it's dark - we've been using Christmas lights instead of an overhead.
Would you like some water? We have some red cups over there.

Then the music began.
A gentle strumming, praising the name of our Lord.

Then the prayer began.
Hopeful hearts and faithful tongues and inter-digitated hands.

Then the evening ended with a blessing.
A desire to live righteously.
A desire to love as Christ loved.
A desire to follow in the ways of our Lord.

And we, the women of God, crawled back to our apartment with our tails between our legs and stared at each other again.

What just happened?

And then the Lord erupted in laughter.
They had shown us what it meant to be Christ.
Next to snobby neighbors.
Next to girls who would not show their faces.
Next to laughter and sneers that could be heard through walls.

Remind the people to be subject to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready to do whatever is good, to slander no one, to be peaceable and considerate, and always to be gentle toward everyone. At one time we were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit.

Titus 3:1-5

Hope and Doubt

I crawl out of my bed, my short legs stretching for the long awaited floor. I grab my laptop, and tiptoe out the door. Stumbling through the darkness I plant myself on the living room carpet of an apartment that breathes uncertainty, pregnant and swollen with the fraternal twins Hope and Doubt.

Hope that this will all work.
Doubt that I'll ever healthfully live with people.

I am afraid of planting myself here; afraid of God uprooting me again and not having my own piece of the earth to call Home. I fear that I will never grow tall and strong like the majestic redwoods of my new state, that my trunk will never grow wide and provide hospitality to all who seek shelter, that my limbs will never stretch beneath the blazing sun to protect all those who seek comfort, that I will be chopped down or blown over or burned to the ground before I ever have time to reach my full height.

There is a fear that I will never have time to grow.
There is a fear of growing, only to be transplanted.

It is there, in the darkness, Doubt is silenced by Hope. The one true Hope whispers, "My child, I have laid your days before you. I know where I will plant you."

My dreams of being a tall, beautiful, glorifying redwood are cut at the foundation and I am reminded that they are not the only things of the forest. They stand firm and tall, and yet perhaps I am designed to be something more small.

Something that can bend and move with the changing winds.
Something that is free and untamed and always searching.

Something that can come and go without a care, leaving my mark everywhere; a simple taste of the Son in many places rather than a landmark settled in one. A dandelion is small, but it can overcome an entire garden in days. The small spores are released and carried and soon the whole land is covered with the scent of pollen, lingering a few weeks then migrating again to the next location.

And as I sit here in my unfurnished apartment, unpacking the boxes of move number twenty, I cannot help but think, "Lord, what is the meaning of this?" My soul rips in two as it finds both excitement in the travel and fear in the uncertainty.

I spend half my days searching for international airfare and mission-esque jobs around the world, living as an annual garden.

The other half is spent daydreaming about white picket fences and cul-de-sacs and raising my kids in small town America as an established forest.

And the Lord says, "Forget about your stuff. Forget about your comfort. Follow me. My dreams will become your dreams." And I fervently pray for all of my Maker's will to become all my own.

I pray for me to forget about the white picket fences.
To forget about the bicycles in the cul-de-sac.
To forget about the comfort and the control and the contentment.
To let go of everything else and let God flow.

My fear shifts from one of uncertainty of control to uncertainty of obedience.
What if I never grow because I am too afraid to allow the wind to carry me to a better field?

My body longs to be a landmark, settled and steady in one land; yet my heart knows this is not true. My heart knows that I have been shaped for another life; it knows that it cannot beat to the same rhythm for long. It is here that Doubt and Hope collide again.

Hope that the Lord will use all of this for good.
Doubt that the Lord will leave me unfulfilled.

"For everything in the world - the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life - comes not from the Father, but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever."

1 John 2:16-17

All whine, no wound

I don't usually do a blog about the oddities of my life without some mini-sermon attached, but here we go...

It's been a bit of a blood bath over here.

I got this brilliant idea one day to get a pet betta fish. Which I did - his name is Glitter. (No, I wasn't an idiot who got two males together).

We then discovered these adorable little fiddler crabs and bought three of them (MacBeth, Hamlet, and Romeo). Google told me guppies could live in perfect harmony with our Shakespearean friends.

Google lied. Within twenty  minutes Gatsby #1 was dead. A half hour later Stella #1 suffered the same fate. (We like to name our creatures after literature. Call us honors students.) We threw the surviving fish into a mason jar and made an emergency run out to the thrift store to find some vases for our poor refugees.

My mother was of no sympathy. After expressing my frustration, she simply replied with "Yeah, crabs eat fish." Simple as that. 15 years of living on the swamp and I have learned nothing. Apparently I am an aquatics idiot.

We returned to find that Glitter had killed his shrimp (aka tank algae eater) friend. The shrimp that was with the guppies has recently gone missing...

Fish keep dying. (We keep naming the fish Stella and Gatsby. So if you want your fish to live, don't name them this.) And we keep feeding them to the crabs. It's like a train wreck - too horrible to watch, too intriguing to look away. It's like National Geographic in my kitchen. I took a picture, but I think it's too gruesome post on such a lovely blog.

I pulled Gatsby #2 out of the bottom of his guppy bowl this morning. That's five creatures dead in less than a week. I am a horrible mother and should never be trusted with living creatures, sentient or otherwise.

Except for babies. I love babies. They're easier to keep alive than fish, anyway. Babies make noise when there is something wrong, and it's much harder to put them on a bookshelf and forget about them.

<><><>

I enjoyed a lovely wedding, celebrating the union of two of my dearest mentors.

I think we were three seconds into the ceremony before I was getting misty.

Thirty-five seconds and I was red-faced, choking back tears.

Thank God for large sunglasses and all eyes on the bride, but good Lord - get this child a tissue and some self control.

I danced with the groom. Which ended up me looking up at him, holding my hands out and saying "I don't know what to do with these." Good thing he is a decent lead, because during half a second of awkwardness of me not knowing what to do with my feet or hands, I wanted to bail.

Of course I let Father Dearest know that I slow-danced with a boy, not letting him know it was the groom/my mentor/someone of no threat or interest. But I gotta make him think that there is a chance of me being married off one day. Mother Dearest chimed in with "Slow dancing is how we got your baby sisters."

Face palm.

<><><>

My diet of sugary cereal and Ramen is going well. I don't know when the last time I saw a vegetable, fruit, or hunk of meat is, but I am still alive. (I'm looking at you, scurvy and anemia).

However, my limited menu hasn't exactly saved me time in the kitchen. In two days I had dropped my food three times - one of those times included spilling an entire cup of boiling water on my poor little hand in an effort to quickly pour the water so it would not run down the side of the cup and burn my other poor little hand.

Fail.

Suddenly I found myself running cool water down my swollen, chubby, red fingers and choking down as many pain relief pills as my liver would allow while simultaneously blinking back tears and trying to keep myself from vomiting from the pain. (My pain tolerance is rapidly decreasing as I age).

After a quick Google search (using one hand to type), and many disgusting images that I will never unsee, it was determined that I probably had a second degree burn in the making and that I could possibly need medical attention. I really didn't want to go to urgent care because they take forever and I still owe them money from the rose bush incident of 2012. I made a phone call to a friend asking her to be on stand-by for an urgent care run and made another call to our delightful 24 nurse hotline (I'm a frequent user of them). Unfortunately I got a nurse who, although sweet, took her job a bit too seriously and decided to give me a lecture on the importance of having a solid general physician even while I am in college and a run-down on the difference between ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and naproxen. She then proceeded to give me step by step instructions for caring for my burn as I paced around the kitchen writhing in pain, watching the clock creep closer to closing time for the medical center.

Twenty minutes later she finally told me that unless my blisters busted, I would not be needing an urgent care trip. I finally wrangled her off the phone after swearing on my unborn child's life that I would find a general physician (lies). The excitement for the night was over. My dear friend on stand-by took me out of ice cream, promising that it would make my hand feel better.

It did.

I texted Mother Dear about the incident, certain that her maternal and nursing instincts would kick in. They did - only to tell me I was being ridiculous. She's that person in my life.

After much insisting that I was in fact dying, she gave up on telling me to put some aloe on it and hush. I woke up the next morning to a hand that was still fully attached to my arm with no evidence that such a traumatic accident had ever occurred. No blisters. No chubby swollen fingers. No red streaks that would surely scar. Nothing.

I'm all whine and no wound.

The problem of comfort

I finished all six seasons of The Hills in one month.

I'll wait while you judge.

Done? Great - because during those 102 (not to be confused with the current temperature) episodes carefully spread out over the course of three or four weeks and a gallon of ice cream, I've learned a couple of things.

They don't worry about paying the bills, because LC makes $1.5 million a season. They don't spend hours pouring over search engines and (heaven forbid) newspapers to find a job outside of television because MTV has internships and snazzy positions already lined up for the purpose of the plot. There are no lonely Friday nights because there's parties to crash and bars to trash. They don't worry about cowlicks and gum stuck under their shoes and dirty bathrooms and all the other mundane nonsense that some days will send us over the edge.

It's perfect. (Besides Speidi).

Then Kristen runs off to Europe to "make [herself] uncomfortable" so that she can "find [herself]".

Her words, not mine. She moved to the other side of the world because there was something missing in her perfect little life.

A purpose.
A drive.
Something that even on her darkest days will pull her out of bed and tell her "You have much to find today."

Did she find it? I don't know.

Do they not know that they were made for so much more?
Do they not know that there is another world beyond what is outside their front door?

Jesus tells us about the danger of comfort, the power in suffering. He talks so much about having everything and yet nothing at all.  Camels, rich young rulers, eyes of needles, selling souls, birthrights, beatitudes...

And Kristen understood this. She found the truth without even knowing she was searching for it.

It is in comfort that we do not find peace, but boredom. It is here that we are left with a constant lust for that which is more beautiful, and in the process find nothing at all that has beauty. It is the same as the addict seeking a harder and harder hit, or the man viewing more and more provocative pictures. The search for comfort ties us into a cycle which knows no end for it recognizes no beginning.

There's a reason ancient monks wore outfits of rough hair, whipped their own backs, and took freezing cold baths. There is something powerful in suffering. It is in our hardest moments that we find our truest self. It is in our truest self that we find the Truth. It is here that we bend our knees and plead to the Almighty for relief, and if we are lucky, it is here that we also thank Him for His breath - the breath that set life into motion and will bring all suffering to an end. On the other side we may come out scarred, but with a gauge to measure good from evil, light from dark, peace from terror.

And we endure only a glimpse of the agony of Christ.

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world." -- C.S. Lewis

Provides and guides

Whether or not we accept it and want to hear it, we are attracted towards truth.

We may hate it. We may reject it. We may turn our backs to it. But by golly, there is something powerful in it that, when push comes to shove, the deepest parts of our heart cannot deny. Even demons know the truth. They shudder - for it is powerful, too powerful to contain or understand.

The truth has been engraved on our hearts and yet we forget.
Or maybe we ignore.

We doubt but do not deny, for doubt is a question and disbelief is a statement.
I spend a lot of time questioning.

The last time I talked to my biological grandmother was Christmas. The time before that was graduation. The time before that was sophomore year of high school. Yet I talked to her again a few days ago on my biological mother's cell phone (that's another story for another day). Our conversation went a little something like this:

"Hello, how are you doing?"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm doing alright. How's school?"

"It's alright. Classes haven't started yet."

"You know, why don't you become a doctor so you can help us?"

"Because I'm becoming a social worker so I can help you."

"You think we need a social worker? You think we are those kinds of people?"

"Everybody needs a good social worker."

"Well. Do you want to talk to your mother again?"

That's been the only conversation we've had since I started school. The shame of me fighting for the dignity of the tax collectors of our time (my grandmother "could not deal with such lowly people" and does not want me to bear their burdens, either). The selfishness of me following my calling instead of obtaining a career that would pull my family out of poverty. The wastefulness of getting a degree that may help hundreds, but would leave me perpetually bourgeois. 

My mother came on the line. Our usual conversation occurred again:

"How's California?"

"It's nice. Kind of hot right now."

"Why don't you come back to Florida?"

"Because I like it here."

"We miss you. Come back to your family."

"I need to be here."

"You could go to Embry Riddle."

"I'm not interested in aeronautics."

"You could go to school here for free."

"I need to be at APU."

It's been hard, to say the least.

These are the days when I cry out, "Lord! Did I make the right choice? Did I listen to Your Voice?"

I talked to my biological father (I've been on a roll with contacting the family this summer). He sang a new song, a song that was so fresh and needed and beautiful and longed for:

"I want you to be able to have a nice life. Where you can go out to eat three times a week and have a big flat screen television."

"Those aren't the things I want in life."

"I know. But I want you to have the option."

"I cannot, in good standing, have all of those nice things and know that there are people without food. I want to live simply so that I may live generously."

"I know. And I have accepted that. I want you to be happy in whatever you do."

"I love social work. I love what I am doing."

"And I support you. I'm working on getting your mother on board, too."

It was only when I stopped seeking after the daughter my father wanted and started running after the daughter my Father created that my two fathers met. I don't think my dad knows that when his lips uttered those words he was kissing my Creator, acknowledging that the one who Made me knows more than the one conceived me.

But he was.
He heard truth. He saw it, he spoke it, and now he tries to share it with others and yet has no idea where the truth is coming from.

Sometimes I doubt that I made the right decision to move to California. The school I attend is not one anybody had expected for me. It's not prestigious. It's not academically intense. It's not cheap. It's not conveniently located or affordable or brag-worthy or making headlines or something Gramma can be proud of.

But it's mine.
It's the Lord's.
And I love it.

These are the moments when the Lord calls back in reply, "Hold on to the things which you knew to be true, my child. Remember the moment when I first told you to go. Cherish that moment and never forget it."

When my heart is heavy and my spirit is doubting, I run back to the truth - the burning, sure, beautiful truth that I felt and knew with my whole soul.

I run back to the journal entries that are so raw, crying out for the Lord's guidance and provision. I flip a couple of pages over and find the Lord's answer, His assurance and faithfulness. An Ebeneezer of paper and ink, bound by a spiral wire.

I run back to the prayers I prayed and the hope that I laid before my God who answered without a doubt. I recall the desperate pleas of "Lord, make it obvious, for I am slow to understand and too stubborn to obey." I see the mirage of events that followed, carrying me with sweaty palms and a racing heart out to where I am now.

It's the truth that sets us free from this doubt, this fear, and this worry.

I ran my budget last spring. I crunched the numbers until I wasn't sure my calculator could handle it. Then I did it again, making sure all of the decimals were in the right place and enough zeros were to be found. I had done the impossible, and cried out to God in thankfulness that I would not need any loans for the coming year. I would have extra. And for a fleeting moment I grieved that I wouldn't have to trust the Lord every month to provide in crazy ways for my every need.

Then I bought a car and lost my job. In that order.

Pride and planning always come before the fall.

My stomach churned as I crunched numbers again and again and again, hoping that I would find a stray decimal or too many zeros in the outgoing column and not enough in the incoming. It was to no avail. I kept calm, carried on, and cried out again to the Lord. And it was at the stoplight of Citrus and Alosta that God said so simply "Would you trust me if I had you take out a loan? I will provide in four years' time. Do you trust me until then?" My heart stopped for a moment because I knew the answer and  yet couldn't admit it to the One who knows all of my thoughts.

Needing approval and assurance, I called on a sweet mentor.

"I really just need you to tell me that I'm not ruining my life by taking out this loan."

"Well, loans will ruin your life. It is true."

"That is not the reaction I wanted."

"You have two options. Take out the loan or go to a different school."

"I am supposed to be here."

"Then the Lord will provide for the loan."

And it was that which I needed to hear.
It wasn't affirmation that a loan was a good idea - it was the belief and faith in a God who keeps His promises. That simple reminder of a single statement of truth, a statement which I knew so well and knew so dearly and had clung to so tightly was all I needed to be told.

The Lord provides and the Lord guides.

Teach me your way, LORD, that I may rely on your faithfulness; give me an undivided heart, that I may fear your name.

Psalm 86:11

In and out

I'm just a girl who grew up between a swamp and an ocean.

A girl who shelves books in the library for minimum wage.

A girl who watches too much television and not enough sunrises.

A girl who skips too much class and does too little laundry.

I'm the awkward girl sitting on the side lines in your gym class. The girl with more paint on her dress than on her canvass. The girl who puts her finger in front of the camera lens.

The girl that God looks at and says "I have placed My Name on you and all that you do."

God has been gracious enough to place His name on everything I am, on everything that I do. My very existence proclaims the name of the Lord.

I worship a God who when asked His name simply replies YHWH. We add in an "a" and an "e" because it is easier to pronounce during a 25 minute sermon on Sunday mornings. Yet in doing this we lose the force behind His name. His name is one we cannot pronounce and cannot spell because it is the sound of breathing.

In and out.
The thing that is blowing in me, around me, through me.
That is the Lord.

The very air I breathe says the name of the Lord. The inhales and exhales as I watch the sunrise along the ocean or the sunset over the swamp all cry out, "Lord, you made this!"

The dust-filled air I breathe as a shelve books chokes "I will rejoice in what He has given me.

When hate is sputtered over me, the words I exhale in reply say "This is who my God is."

The air that runs through my nostrils as I nap in my bedroom instead of studying in my classroom says "Lord, this is how I treat Your gifts. Forgive me."

The tears I unleash on the couch of a friend's apartment cry, "Do I put my faith in You? Or man?"

Sometimes my life is a mighty, deep breath. Sometimes it is a quiet sigh. Sometimes it is a sputtering sob or a choking cough. Sometimes it is a belly laugh. Other times it is a simple rhythm. In my cries, in my joy, in my mundane - He is there.

In and out.
The constant life force that propels my entire body and being forward.
That is the Lord.

The power of the wind is unstoppable. Its direction is unpredictable. It's everywhere at once and beyond what we can control or measure. It is a mystery. I cannot see it, cannot taste it, cannot contain it - and yet its very existence proves itself. He is as the air is.

As the atheist sits across from me, his very breath cries out "I am not my own."

Before the newborn babe has learned to speak, the first word she must utter is the name of the Lord, or she will surely die. His name is our beginning and our end, our first and our last.

We rely on the air to sustain life within us - is that not what the Lord does? I plunge under water and hold my breath for thirty seconds and am left gasping for oxygen. I have left my God for a moment and am left on the other side heaving, puffing, and unable to collect myself.

Yet the air is always there upon my return. And I need air.

In and out.
The power that never leaves me nor forsakes me.
That is the Lord.

Is it that I breathe, and He moves?
Or that He moves, and I breathe?

When we stop living, do we stop saying the name of the Lord?
Or when we stop saying the name of the Lord, do we stop living?

Moses said to God, "Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you,' and they ask me 'What is his name?' Then what shall I tell them?"  God said to Moses "I am who I am. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: 'I am has sent me to you.'"

Exodus 3:13-14

Gratitude makes it enough

I went into the local Goodwill today and thought "Oh my. This place is so expensive. $4.99 for shorts?!"


That's when you know you're a broke college student.

Living on my own at 19 in California has been harder than I could have ever imagined. It's hard to fight off jealousy when it feels like 99.9% of the people around me are still supported by their parents. It's hard to feel blessed when it's gas, groceries, utilities, tuition, rent, or car insurance - you may choose two. It's hard to remain hopeful when it seems like none of it is going to work out.

But it always does.
Every. Single. Time.

Because it is gratitude that turns the "have nots" into the "haves".
It's blessing that multiplies food in the pot and fills up six instead of two.
It's selfless love that keeps honest conversations going until two in the morning.
It's Jesus that says "Don't you worry, my daughter. I have you taken care of."


And this is my hope.

Someone recently prayed for me "May Dani not see ahead to tomorrow."


For a moment I thought this was a strange prayer.

Yet it was so needed. May I not get caught up in the things of tomorrow and be able to remain present in today. May I not be so worried about the future that I forget the blessings of the past. May I never forget that my Father will never change, will never leave me, will never stop loving me, and will never stop taking care of me.

He will never stop doing good to me.

I will make an everlasting covenant with them: I will never stop doing good to them and I will inspire them to fear me, so that they will never turn away from me. I will rejoice in doing them good and will assuredly plant them in this land with all my heart and soul.

Jeremiah 32:40-41

My daughter

The heat radiates from all sides.

It's 8 000 degrees.

Or at least it feels like it.

The tiny apartment is suffocating and the even smaller air conditioner cannot keep up. The Walmart fan whirls and wheezes, incapable to keep up with the rising temperatures.

I sit with a bag of frozen peas to keep my sweating body cool as I continue to search online for jobs. It's another day unemployed. The bills loom above like the sun and my anxiety level rises like the summer's heat.

My tiny apartment has quickly become a cafe, the food going out faster than it comes in. I remember the faithful words of my auntie, who so many years ago taught me that as long as you continue to feed the hungry, the food will keep coming. I know this is true as my roommate and I rummage through the cupboards, searching for a meal to prepare for half a dozen neighboring Marines and friends. I know this is true as I read the words of Christ, commanding me to seek first His Kingdom and His Righteousness, and all my other needs will be taken care of. 


So we stir a pot of goop and chop vegetables and remember the One who gave us this food to share, not to stockpile.  It is in this moment that I am reminded that I am not my own.


These cupboards, these shelves, 
these silly ragamuffin things - they are not mine. 
They belong to a God who lived and died 
and was sent to slaughter only to rise again;
three days later, it was death He had conquered
if only to say "You are my daughter."

My phone buzzes, falling off the stacking-crate-turned-coffee-table as it vibrates. My feet sweat on the industrial polyester carpet as I bend over to pick it up. Another friend looking for lunch? A mother needing a babysitter? A manager offering a job?

No. It is none of these.

A pit falls deep into my stomach and my soul threatens to explode as I slide my nail-bitten thumb across the screen to find a text from the one woman who has the ability to destroy me to pieces.

My birth mother.

It doesn't matter what the letters say; an insult, a plea, an offer of money, a crazy story to get my attention. Ethos, pathos, logos - she's tried them all. So the screen goes black and my view does too as I close my eyes and pray "Lord, not today. Give my wisdom, but please, I cannot take this on today."


The scene cuts back to one of two girls dancing around the kitchen together. The sweat from my palms is no longer due to the heat alone. I chop vegetables; but really, I am cutting into the nagging feeling that tugs at my soul. My mind creeps back to a woman who is lost and lonely and without God's love.

My life quickly becomes a paradox as I stand in a boiling kitchen with a self-proclaimed servant's heart, ushering near strangers into my home, as I ignore the truths of forgiveness and grace to the woman who brought me into the world yet does not realize that the miracle was not her own.

This soul, this heart,
they are not hers to throw around.
They belong to the same God who created me from the dust of the ground. 
My mother, she has her own;
a heart and a soul that will perish and weep
if left untouched, exposed to the elements of bitter distrust.
But as for me, I stand with a heart re-found,
a soul reborn, a spirit resound juxtaposed against
a mother who never knew the Father.
My stomach is tied up in knots, my heart is left unsettled
if only to say "She, too, is My daughter."

Given enough

"Dani, do you think we'd have worked out if you would have come in under normal circumstances?" my sweet new roommate asked as she stirred a can of chicken breast with a cracker.

"I was just thinking that the other day. No, I'm not sure we would have. You would have thought I was insane. But we need each other to survive right now," I laughed as I flipped over an empty box to use as a table.

"We have no power, but it's okay because this is what the Lord has given us."

I smiled. "No problem. It's like hurricane season all over again - just in the wrong state." I immediately began rummaging through boxes, pulling out enough extension cords to reach to the community laundry room and finding emergency candles my sweet auntie had left with me after a Yosemite camping trip.

"I have been living by candlelight. But it's kind of nice, you know? It's like we're Amish. It's just us and the Lord."

<><><>

This was a few nights ago as my new roommate and I began to get to know each other. We had just met a few mornings ago, me crying, overwhelmed by the stress of my ten hour notice to move out of the home I was living in.

Then my car refused to start. The next morning I got a stomach virus. I had to miss my first week at my new job. Then I resigned from my two previous jobs. Then I agreed to move with her to another apartment complex, as she had originally intended before campus housing placed me with her.

Yes. This is what the Lord has given us. It is enough.


It wasn't your typical roommate scenario.
It wasn't your typical week.
It wasn't your typical reaction to a completely overwhelming situation.

But we made the best of it, dancing between half-packed boxes, seeking help from neighbors, mismatching different foods to create a "meal", overdosing me on nausea medication, and telling stories by late night candlelight.

<><><>

My father nearly gave himself whiplash when I told him I had been living with a stranger for five days without electricity or adequate food.

"Yes, Dad, but it is more important to me that you don't blame the Church, the global Church, and one day accept Christ than it is for me to have electricity. The vast majority of the world lives with less than what I have right now. I am fine, I am well. God is good and I am happy."

My father, for the second time in a week, tried to convince me that I could be capable of earning six figures and having nice, shiny things if I sought a different path for my life. I, for the second time in a week, tried to convince him that there is so much more to this life that I want than Olive Garden and a Lexus.

My father, for the first time in my life, approved and gave his blessing, telling me he would support me in whatever makes me happy. Finally, after years of seeking and searching, I had made my father proud. I had gained his approval only after I stopped trying to be the person he wanted and started becoming the person God created.

We began to discuss spiritual things. My father wanted proof in a living God. I wanted explanation for being able to survive without a living God.

Then the phone died (of course).

I got to call him back later. He hung up the phone after our hour and a half conversation and wired me money for food. For the first time since I boarded that Southwest plane bound for LAX nearly a year ago, my father supported me.

He got a job today. A career, actually. One with a salary and a nice office and benefits. It's his first time being employed by somebody else, and I couldn't be more proud. After my cries and my pleas and my prayers, (and a few from him too, I think), my father has a job that may pull him out of poverty.

<><><>

I worship a God who sees my unsettled heart and says "Sleep tonight, my child, for I have already solved your troubles."

He is a God who sees my deepest pains and says "I have felt the same hurts and prayed the same prayers. Take heart - for I have overcome them all... for you."

He sees my confusion and frustrations and deepest hungers and says "Follow my commands. No matter how strange. No matter how much they don't make sense. Just follow them. I promise they will all lead you to me and my richness."

My roommate and I cried in our frustration and we prayed in our hope and we read in our desperation and we sang in our joy and we reminded each other of all that He has done.

Then I came home tonight after a long (yet successful) day at my new job to find a box. In that box was a selection of nonperishable food and drink, a check telling me to pay for my utilities, and a envelope of cash telling me to restock our newly functioning fridge.

Never doubt that the Lord will provide.

Show us the Father and that will be good enough for us (John 14:8).

Because you can't expect normal

It's been a strange week.

2 moves.
2 apartments.
1 house.
2 resignations.
1 new job.
5 days of a stomach virus.
1 holiday spent on the sofa.
1 new roommate.
3 buildings of awesome new neighbors.
7 days without power.
94 degrees.
1 broken down vehicle.
Infinite boxes to unpack, repack, and re-unpack.
Even more amazing friends who helped me out.
And a God who never left my side.

So thanks.

At some point I'll get around to a nice post that does some justice to what's gone down. But for now, I am finding rest in this seemingly empty apartment filled by an uncontainable God.

Counting chickens before they're hatched

God ruined my plans.

I say this half mocking myself and half being honest with myself.

My income went down. My expenses went up. All of it was completely out of my control. My bank account has $1.08 in it and I haven't bought groceries in over a week.

But I take heart in knowing that the Lord has me here for a purpose. He has blessed me with a job, free summer housing, and thus far He has carried me. Who am I to assume He will drop me now?

Quite honestly, part of me was a bit disappointed when I ran my budget a few months ago and found that everything was going to be beyond okay. My life was going to be comfortable. (That dirty little word!) Comfort says "You don't need to pray for this. Why ask God to provide what you already have? You don't need to rely on Him. I've got it all covered. There's no need for a miracle."

I have said a few times that I kind of like being poor. I get to watch God provide every month. I get to see Him drop mysterious money into my bank account the day bills are due. I get to listen to Him tell me "Look in your desk drawer," when I am broke and almost out of my prescriptions. I get to come home after class to a bag of groceries sitting on my bed with an anonymous love note saying "Thought you might need this." I get to pray fervently, knowing that the God who diligently provided manna and quail so many centuries ago is still Lord.

He gives me everything I need. What do I need beyond what He has provided?

My life is not what I thought it would be. I know I've said it before, but I will continue to say it until my life ceases to be more creative, beautiful, and joyful than I could have ever imagined.

So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness and all these things will be given to you as well.

Matthew 6:31-33

Sunny showers

I went to the bridal shower last weekend of one of my dearest mentors.

She was (and is!) absolutely beautiful.

I sat at a table with about seven other amazing women, all of them between four and forty years older than me.

There's some weekends where the sun is shining and I want nothing more than to be back in Daytona with my high school girlfriends. There's some Sunday mornings when I'm holding a child in the nursery and find myself missing my own baby sister terribly. Every holiday I'm stuck fighting off jealousy over the kids that are able to go back home to their families.

And then there's days like this.

Days when a woman who's known me less than a year introduces me as her "spiritual daughter".  When I sit with seven women who represent five continents they've lived in and have endless stories to tell. When thirty friends pray for a marriage and look to Christ as their first love. When the sun is shining, the humidity is low, the breeze is cool, and everything is just so perfect.

California has been hard - in some ways, harder than I ever imagined. Sometimes I find myself throwing my hands in the air and thinking "What am I doing here?"


Yet it has also been more beautiful and more giving and more healing than I could have ever asked.

Life is lovely.

Hunger

I've been stuck in bed for the last five days with the worst cold I've had in an awfully long time.

Between a raging fever, body aches, chills, a stinging throat, and Nyquil hallucinations, I've been miserable.

Yesterday I noticed white spots my tonsils. I sat in the doctor's office, shivering, as they swabbed the back of my throat and drew blood. They sent me on my way with a bottle of penicillin and a handful of pain killers and fever reducers.

I crawled in bed, my overly-dramatic self certain that I was on the brink of death.

Then today I felt a strange sensation that I had not experienced in days.

Hunger.


I was simply hungry.
There was still life in me. My body was still functioning, functioning so much so that it needed to be replenished.

Hunger is an interesting case. It can only be satisfied by one thing: food. Sure, other things can dull the pains for a while, but we will surely die if food does not enter our bodies. Carbohydrates, proteins, fats - all what my body needed and craved. A steamy bowl of chicken noodle soup was the only thing that would solve my problem (and be swallowed by my swollen throat).

Yet this single bowl of soup would not suffice for the rest of my life. We are constantly on the prowl for food, eating several times a day. We are so incredibly fragile and needy.

Hunger reminds us that we are alive. It reminds us that we have needs, that we are mortal humans, that there is something out there greater than ourselves and that we cannot survive alone.

Yet Jesus says that man does not live on bread (or soup) alone.

We have another hunger, one that is greater than a craving for macaroni and cheese or berry smoothies. We are created with eternity set in all of our hearts, and we are hungry for it. We crave a Christ that we may or may not know. It is an innate desire that is central to our existence; a pain that can be temporarily soothed by other forces, yet only one can truly satisfy.

It is a hungry that is constantly needed to be refilled, lest we become starved and malnourished. Like a hungry child, we become angry and bitter when we have not eaten from the table of the Lord for too long. We listen, read, pray, watch, serve, and sing all in attempts to create a balanced diet that will leave us full - yet the more we experience, the more hungry we become the next time. It is a strange paradigm. The nutrition we consume is too good to miss, to satisfying to pass on. Our stomachs grow and we become able to consume more, complex foods.

Our separation from Christ leaves us hungry, a pain that can only be soothed by the presence of Him; it is a pain that reminds us that we cannot survive on our own.

Jesus answered, "It is written: 'Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.'"

Matthew 4:4

Hephzibah

"No longer will they call you Deserted,

or name your land Desolate.

But you will be called Hephzibah..."

-- Isaiah 62:4a

Hephzibah.

It means "my delight is in her". The delight of the Lord is in Israel, a nation of disobedience and desolation. It is in a nation he made new, a nation he redeemed and restored.

Today I was at David C. Cook's The Gathering, a family ministry conference in Orange County. We were asked to pick one word that describes our story and what God has done.

I chose new.

A sweet friend/mentor of mine took me to Laguna Beach last night. It was dark, but we stared out at the ocean. Before my eyes could adjust, it was a scary deep black mass of nothing. Slowly the white of the crashing waves became clear followed by the outline of crags and rocks. The familiar sound of the roaring ocean was accompanied by the new noise of seals barking.

Part of me was absolutely terrified - a horrible mix of my fear of rolling down a cliff, drowning, being crushed between rocks and waves, and the dark. It was a little unrealistic and a little over dramatic.

But as I looked out at the Pacific, I choked back tears. Not because I was certain that at any moment I was going to fall over the edge of the cliff and into the abyss, but because I was overcome with all that God has done. I am still paralyzed by gratitude and awe when I think of where I was and where I am today.

I looked up at my friend, "It's so crazy." She was puzzled and asked me what I was talking about. "I can't believe I live in California," I said, realizing that what I was thinking could not be properly expressed in words. In that moment, there was too much awe, too much thankfulness. My mind was swimming with thoughts of all of the blessings the Lord has given me.

I am made new.
I am redeemed, restored, healed, cleaned and made whole.
I have been given a life I don't deserve, a life full of grace and mercy.

If grace is an ocean and we're all sinking, then yes, let me roll down that cliff and drown in the sea. Let the roar of the waves come over me. The grace of God is uncontainable, and I don't want to simply float or tread water. I want to be completely overtaken by his power, his goodness.

Today I came back home from the conference.
I found myself pounded against the rocks in an ocean overtaken by frustration and disappointment rather than grace.

I saw my grades.
I cried.
I was a failure in my mind.

Then I cried again (I've been a little dramatic this week).
Like when my eyes adjusted to see the majesty of the ocean rather than scary darkness, my mind settled to realize that this is not where my value lies.

While the Lord's delight has been in me, my delight hasn't been in Him.

My identity has been found in things of this world - my grades, my body, my success, my money, my crafting, my good deeds, my friends, my writing, my family, my sickness, my work.

He made me new. I am no longer identified by these things. I am his and he is mine.

I worship a God of strength, a God who created the entire universe - yet he takes delight in little old me, the girl who is afraid of the dark. Who am I to delight in anything but him?

Rallies and radicals

I made a new friend.

She's a beautiful person doing beautiful things with her beautiful heart.

She's been wrestling the same questions that have burdened me this semester.
How do we serve God without making people into projects?
How do we maintain our humility?
How do we address conflict in ministry?
How do we incorporate prayer?
How do we know it's the voice of God?

She humbly introduced me to a ministry she started as a class assignment yet has continued throughout the entire year. She adopted a neighborhood next to campus, returning each Friday with a handful of friends to hang out and mentor the kids on the block. As we walked down the street, a dozen kids or so came scurrying over to her. She addressed them each by name. She knew them and they knew her.

I was talking to another sweet friend last night. With the rise of Kony 2012, I have done a lot of thinking about our generation - we are "movement happy". The main complaint by critics has been "Give it a week."

While our cries for social equality are noble, they are short-lived and half-hearted. We shouldn't be a generation of movements, but rather, a generation of justice. Movements imply that a bunch of us will rise up for a couple of weeks, protest, make posters, share a few viral videos, and then sit back down once the fad is over. Living out justice requires an upright posture that is unwavering.

If we're chasing after movements, then we're simply a bunch of punk kids with pent up time and energy.
We're just a some middle-upper class students in our cool new t-shirts, posing with a dark-skinned child for our Facebook profile picture, tagging all of our friends.

But this new friend I made is looking to relocate to the neighborhood she is ministering too. She prays with them and she prays for them.

I read an article today about why the world needs "boring Christians". The world needs Christians who are willing to spend their summers in Africa or move their family into the bush - yet the world also needs Christians who are willing to stay in their mundane lives, Christians who say no to leading a radical life for the sake of adventure.

The Kingdom is extravagant, but Kingdom work isn't necessarily anything special. Preparing ourselves may mean Gen Bio homework. Our work may involve scrubbing toilets or reading the newspaper. Sharing the gospel may be through a simple girl hanging out with kids on a graffiti-covered street corner.

She really isn't being radical. She isn't doing anything crazy. She's just loving.

She isn't moving to a foreign nation and wearing a skirt of fig leaves. She's walking a block away to a neighborhood that is otherwise neglected.

There's no stipend, no rallies or protests, no trendy logos. She's not looking to save the world or become the next Shane Claiborne. She's just an ordinary person with an extraordinary God.

Monasteries and apartments

"It all started with a box

and twelve broken people who had no idea 

that what they would experience together 

would be the molding they needed to call themselves whole."

-- Excerpt from poem by student A. Wilburn

I saw the above verse on a photo caption on Facebook of a dear friend reminiscing about how beautiful and impacting his year has been.

One of my professors has imparted on me some great wisdom. Contrary to popular belief, two halves don't make a whole. Two wholes make a whole. Saying "I found my other half!" is essentially saying "I don't know who I am, and I found somebody who is letting me escape myself for the moment."

Being whole can be the greatest gift you give somebody, yet it is not something that comes easily nor does it come alone. It's a long, often painful, always beautiful process that requires God and each other.

I've recently become intrigued (aka obsessed) with the New Monastic movement (read as: Christian hippies) I read about in a book for class. Maybe I am becoming a "radical", maybe I am "emerging" - but this is beautiful. It's a movement of people, mostly young, who are finding that it is high time the church actually be the church. Without getting too nerdy and overly historical, the church lost a lot of its followers when we moved into an era that sought proof for belief. Today, our "proof" is found in the way we live, in our testimonies and our actions.

New Monasticism draws from ancient traditions, honors the surrounding culture, acknowledges dignity for all people, and values spiritual discipline. They are economically and environmentally conscious, realizing the impact we all have on our world.  Rather than visiting a ministry site every now and then, the movement advocates for believers to be the ministry site and move into the community they are reaching out to. It requires an immense amount of trust and sacrifice. But Jesus wasn't kidding when He said that to find our lives we must lose them. These bodies, this time, it's not our own.

They seek to create both individuals and communities that are whole.

I have become disgusted with myself this year over the amount of joy I find in things. I have realized the amount of stuff I have and do not use, the amount of purchases I make and do not need. I went through an intense season of evaluating whether or not I would be willing to be a missionary and have decided that I never want material possessions (or the lack thereof) to stand in the way. I have come to admire people who are able to pack up and leave, carrying everything they need on their back. I am far from that kind of simplicity, but I want to live a life that allows me to be both more generous and more conscious of my impact. I have become deeply convicted about buying into a market that abuses the poor, destroys the environment, and sells sex and lies.

Where I put my money shows where I put my heart. If I spend my paychecks on things that don't matter, things that crush dreams and rot in landfills, then I too am destroying rather than shaping.

Next year, I am rooming with five girls in a two-bedroom apartment. We are living in a housing complex that is a mix of students and of local community members. We have vowed to not let this year slip us by. It is an opportunity to not only encourage each other, develop disciplines, and be a light in a town otherwise riddled with gang violence and drugs. It is a chance to share dinner with the neighbors and create a welcoming atmosphere that somehow stands out in a culture that tells us to keep to ourselves.

This could be incredibly healing for me especially. I am still searching for what it means to be a stable, healthy family. I am still trying to figure out what it means to be in a home instead of a house. It could go very well - and it could go poorly, leaving me to doubt again.

Yet we are simply five broken people living together, seeking out what it means to become whole. We are nothing special. We will fight, we will disappoint, we will wrongly expect. The difference is that we will wake up the next morning and remember "I made a promise."

There is something special about living intentionally. I don't mean to say that some people live "accidentally", but there is a difference between simply doing things versus doing things with a purpose, with a specific goal in mind. This fellowship of selflessness we are seeking to create has the potential to transform us more towards the people God created us to be.


We were made for nothing more than to love, to serve, and to worship.

Mother and father

I texted my biological dad today.

"Did you tell mom I'm moving to England?"

There's so much power in that text.

There's joy because I am finally getting to travel to my favorite country, the land of my heritage.

There's pain because I have to keep my life a secret from my mother, the woman who birthed me and raised me.

There's frustration because I feel like I have to be checking up on my dad, rather than the other way around.

And yet there's peace that I am still able to have a relationship with him.

Mother's Day and Father's Day are rapidly approaching. They're hard holidays to get through and I am always left unsure with how to respond to both my birth and foster parents. Yet I have recently realized that it is not an easy day for my mom and dad, either. We are all getting hurt, ripping open old wounds, expecting and disappointing.

They're also two days of the year where I am reminded of God's grace. It is a day where he tells me "They are mine, too. I love them no more and no less than I love you. They are my creation. I birthed you for a purpose, just as I birthed them for a purpose. I knew what I was doing when I put you all together."

There is nothing more beautifully humbling than to realize that the people you struggle with the most are also created in the image of God. While Mother's and Father's Day may never stop being days of pain, they can become times of forgiveness, humility, and repentance. The humanness in me wants to rip away the privilege of a celebration from them, yet the living Christ that breathes through me reminds me that the day represents so much more than my own animosity. It is a day that represents the things they did right, no matter how few. It negates all things done wrong, no matter how many. It remembers the grace of God and the beauty of all of his creation.

I am not sure yet what I will do when next Sunday rolls around. It is a difficult process to attempt to obey my parents, honor the Lord, and keep myself safe at the same time. It is a mess that I still do not understand - but God didn't reject me because of my mess.

Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart.

Proverbs 3:3

A year out west in photos

First day in California!

The Pacific Ocean

My new home

Orientation week

First day of school

Hall mates

Crafting

First trip to Mexico

My new, charming family

The team that changed my life

Yacht Club benefit party

Geek Fest

Football

Alpha paint wars

Movie night + preview weekend

Team Luke - Special Needs

Last Alpha meeting ever!

Christmas celebration

Home for Christmas

Back to babysitting

Mini Mommy

The Screwtape Letters

The Bruner Hike

Exploring new churches

Basketball

Los Molcajetes

Learning to lead worship

Team Steven - Brigade

Mat Kearney concert

Midterms

SYTYCD

The one and only J-Dubs

Photo shoots

Hollywood Boulevard

Spring Break

Easter Sunday

There's too many words to say, too many pictures to post. It's been a great year full of challenges, lessons, and friendship.