Daytona 500 in California

I always hated race week and Bike Week.

It makes life an inconvenience.

There's no lazy Saturday trips to the mall.

No running errands. No visiting my friends from school who lived to the north.

Traffic is a nightmare - as it if isn't bad enough in a town where a third of the population is over the age of 65.

Sobriety checkpoints at the Pub wanting to check my provisional license after curfew.

Men with mullets and skullcaps. Chunky women in skin-tight chaps.

Halifax and Bert Fish's ERs overflowing with road rash and collision injuries.

The smell of beer and barbecue. The constant roar and clack of Harleys.

Rednecks, RV parks established on vacant lots, kiddie pools and Daisy Dukes.

Black shirts, tobacco smoke, Sin City making its way onto our otherwise calm island.

Now that I'm not in Florida, I kind of miss these weeks.

They made a rhythm in my life. Race week meant spring break was coming up. Bike Week fell on my birthday. The roar of motors and the smell of pumpkin spice lattes was how I knew Halloween was approaching. I remember being a small child and my parents doing some spring cleaning, the windows open and the Daytona 500 playing in the background. It always annoyed me, both the cleaning and the monotonous rumbling of the engines, but it is a very comforting thing to me now.

Now it's time to establish my own traditions, new rhythms, and continue to find comfort in the things that remind me of home.

Manzanas y Calles

If you've talked to me for more than two minutes, you know that I love Mexico. I love the dry dirt that makes me feel like I'm in the middle of the Dust Bowl. I love the helado callejeros that walk up and down the gravel streets selling ice cream (which I also really really love). I love the warm air in the sunshine and the coolness of the shade.

I love the children with dirty brown hands that hold my soft white hands and tell me that they love me; to them, it makes no difference that I am a foreigner, that I garble their language, that I make strange sounds they cannot understand when I speak to my friends. They just love. Their sweet mothers smile, serving me hot food and doing their best to impress their guests. Most of their fathers are not around, but when they are they smile and stay quietly in the background; perhaps they are unsure of us, perhaps they don't know what to say. Either way, they are gentle; the hands and faces of all of the adults hold the stories of years of hard labor.

Who am I, to be so blessed with their presence, their kindness?

Manzana Lift or Manzanita Sol. Liquid Crack.

Mexican apple soda aka the only soda I really

really like. I brought home multiple bottles.

Don't judge - it's real real good.

The next big, week-long trip is over spring break. My heart was set on team Rescate de Calles, translated as "rescue of the streets". Essentially, the team focuses on "street children"; kids who can't afford to go to school, foster babies, beggars, factory workers, victims of abuse in a system that fails to protect, little people far too young to be abandoned. They're the forgotten children of the streets of Mexico.

I applied for a leadership position. I was denied.

I was disappointed, but did my best to keep Jealous Janet away (I try to not let her come out to play too often). I talked to the leader of Rescate and essentially arranged for me to be on his team; I was excited, I was determined. Two days later, a sweet friend of mine told me she had crazy news for me that I must hear in person. We met outside on the lawn, but I already knew what she was about to tell me; God had placed me on her team. Now, don't get me wrong - I love her to pieces and I know she loves the Lord and the work He has assigned her to in Mexico.

But I want what I want when I want it.

The perfectionist in me knocked on the door of the closet I keep her locked up in. "Two denials in two weeks. What next? How silly of you to even think you could get a job in Latin America for the summer. What were you thinking? You don't ever understand what God is trying to tell you - you weren't meant to be on that team, or go to Mexico, or travel abroad anywhere else."

That was enough of that. She went back into her closet where she belongs.

I was left a bit disappointed and I simply could not figure it out, why I felt like I was supposed to lead that team, then be in that team - only to be denied. It seemed like such a great fit.

I don't have time to sulk around; the day is just too precious and too beautiful. I spent a few moments in prayer. Then it hit me.

I wanted to be on Rescate because it somewhat reminded me of my own life over the last few years. I connected with it, I empathized with them, I felt like it was almost my duty to protect the unprotected. But it occurred to me that my problem was perhaps that I am too emotionally involved. I'm not healed and therefore not able to heal others. This part of my life is still tender, still an easily opened wound. To be a member of this team at this time in my life would almost be a disservice.

So today I take joy in knowing that I have a God who protects, a God who heals, and a God who provides. I am praying that I not only work through my own junk so I can serve others, but that the Lord will use team Rescate de Calles in beautiful ways as He uses me in others.

Everything

The smog softly hangs low over the mountains. The ground is dry once again from yesterday's rain, bringing life to the blooming flowers and washing the pollen off of their petals. The breeze blows gently, giving the pollen from the landscape a free ride.

This is the only thing that threatens to ruin my day. With burning eyes, impromptu sneezing fits, and a stinging throat, I lie in the soft springy grass to enjoy the warm sunshine against the cool breeze.

I love everything about this land, about this place, about these people whom I live among.

Let that be enough

My phone beeps. I pick it up, slide my bandaged finger across the screen, and open a new email.

Financial Services.

Your payment is ready to be viewed...

A couple of checks sit on my desk, crisp and ready to be deposited. Their little white boxes mention a series of numbers that I have crunched, stretched, saved, and sweat for - but there is so much more to them.

Written on these two muted blue checks is a beautiful fulfillment; it tells me "The Lord has provided for you yet again. You are done, sweet child. You have finished the impossible. Take these and remember Him."

My year of private schooling will be paid off in cash, minus a small subsidized loan.

I do not understand God.

He is so good.

I have been blessed with such a beautiful life; I do not know how I failed to see it for so long. He provides for me who can give nothing. He protects me who is just one in seven billion. He loves me who is so unworthy.

I was listening to my iTunes today and came across Switchfoot's Let That Be Enough. Some of the lyrics really stuck out to me today.

"I wish I had what I needed to be on my own...

And all I see, it could never make me happy.

And all my sand castles spend their time collapsing.

Let me know that You hear me.

Let me know Your touch.

Let me know that You love me.

Let that be enough...

Yeah, who am I?

Just a kid who knows he's needy."

This is such a fitting prayer for the season of life that I am in. The Lord has blessed me with jobs that allow me to provide for myself and be on my own; He is creating a new life within and for me. Dependence on Him brings so much freedom.

But the more He provides, the more I am realizing just how much stuff I have. None of this matters. I have a disgusting amount of shoes, tops I have not worn in years if ever, jeans that I have long-forgotten about. I have beautiful things while others don't even have food. I build up my storehouse, my resume, my sandcastles and in the end they mean nothing. In the mean time, I am simply shrewdly stockpiling, scoffing to the world saying "You do not deserve to be blessed in the ways I have."

I am a glory stealer.

I am a thief of justice.

A hoarder of goodness.

I deserve none of what I "own" and do not have the right to keep it for myself. I do not want these things, these checks or clothing or books to be what I base my joy on. It is mine to give, not mine to keep.

I know that I am needy, oh so needy. I cannot do a thing for myself without the hand of God - that is all I am, a little girl completely dependent on a big God.

I simply want Him to be enough.

"But goodness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that."

1 Timothy 6:6-8

With each passing day, I find myself thinking more and more in terms of that which I never thought I would or wanted to be - a missionary. The Lord has a hold on my heart.