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.

A year out west in words

My final days of APU for the year are coming to a close. Last night I took all the memories down off of my walls. I pulled off tape, peeled mounting putty, and carefully placed a year's worth of life into a single cardboard box, ready to be placed in storage.

I read again the letter my real dad gave to me the day I left Florida. I hadn't read it since September, but I bawled again just like I did the first time I opened it. In a sense, he gave me away as a bride to California on that day.  My dad included money in it originally; it was a large sacrifice for him. Today I still keep my emergency cash fund in the same envelope to remind me of the forgiveness, grace, and love that none of us deserve yet we all require.

I skimmed over the cards from my real mom, sent during holidays and simply signed "Love, Mom" with the same blue handwriting. I put them in the box, took a deep breath, and moved on.

I got to the letters from my great grandma, now kept in a separate pile of their own. I read through some of them, smiling as she so calmly stated "I saw a bear this morn" or confided that she needed to eat less cookies (vanity, apparently, is never outgrown). I read again and again through letters asking if I had enough money, if I had found work yet, if I had food to eat. I laughed, remembering the letters where she included a five dollar bill saying "I hope this helps you get some food" or "I was going to send you chocolate, but it would melt. Buy yourself one, or maybe an ice cream." Precious.

I pulled down the cards from friends and friends' moms back East. Christmas cards, love notes tenderly placed in care packages, thank you cards, "miss you and see you soon" letters were tacked to my wall to remind me of where I came from. I pulled down an equal number of notes and cards from new friends here out West to encourage me to keep going, to press on with purpose in every step.

I reread Bible verses I had so carefully chosen throughout the year. I remembered writing each one, recalling the season it had been specifically chosen for. I unstuck photos of the people I love and the memories I shared with them. I pulled down mementos, post cards, foreign currency, Mat Kearney's guitar pick.

So many beautiful memories were carefully laid into one dark box.

And then I cried.

I cried because God is so good. Because my life is so beautiful. Because I am surrounded by so much love and filled with so much joy.

My life is nothing like I thought it would be. I never planned to leave home at sixteen. I never thought I'd pick up and move to the other side of the country by myself. I never imagined the provision God would grace me with. I never anticipated going to a private Christian school. I never dreamed of studying social work or working in a church. I never thought I'd become fluent in Spanish and frequent Mexico. I never felt the transition would be so easy or I'd fall in love so quickly with a place so foreign.

It is crazy to think that the people I love so deeply today I did not know nine months ago. I cannot wrap my mind around not having my beautiful friends surrounding me. I don't know how I functioned without midnight Donut Man runs, late-night conversations about the questions in life that matter, "family dinners" in the caf, breaking fire codes for the sake of movie night in a tiny dorm room, crackling bonfires with an acoustic guitar, cries out and responses to prayer. There is so much value in relationship, both with God and each other.

I have changed so much over the last nine months. Moving away forces you to re-evaluate who you are, what you stand for, where you come from. I've gone from constantly anxious to prepared to be unprepared. I have been deeply convicted about a life of simplicity and generosity, rather than hoarding and greed. I am more aware about my involvement in the globalized crime of unfair labor, conscripted sexual slavery, and environmental and community destruction. I now seek to find my value in the Creator of the Universe rather than the creators of consumerism, greed, and sexual exploitation.

I have been blessed with a new mindset that allows me to see the face of God in the sunrise behind the snow-capped mountains outside my window; in the eyes of a prostitute on Hollywood Boulevard; in a pile of students who don't really know each other yet pray together; in the worn, dusty hands of a Mexican mother; in a professor who asks about my life; in a blessing that comes just in time for the bills to be paid; in an culture that breathes a different air than I do (both literally and figuratively!).

We use a gamut of words around APU: community, formation, intentional, redemption. Yet we use them because they're good. We use them because they're true. Take out one of these themes, and we're a hot mess. I don't want to live in an area without community. I don't want to feed myself nonsense that isn't transformational. I don't want to live my days as if they didn't matter. I don't want to be unable to give or receive the gift of redemption.

Somewhere in this mess of a year, I have realized that my life is not my own. I was created for one single purpose: to love God and to love others. Somehow I knew this all along, yet never realized it nor applied it.

It's been a hard year.
But it's been a good one.

It's been crazy, chaotic, difficult, surprising, stunning, joyful, challenging, formative.
It's been absolutely beautiful.

Broken and together

"Courage" comes from the Latin word "cor", meaning "heart". When it first came into the English language, courage essentially meant "to tell your whole story with your whole heart".

There is a courage needed to be imperfect, to be human.

The people with the most healthy relationships are those who are authentic. They may fear vulnerability, but are not stopped by it. They view transparency as an opportunity to delve deeper into the relationship, not a guarantee of destruction.

Vulnerability is meant to be beautiful.

I have been talking a lot this week with a sweet friend of mine. She has been coming to me for advice on things that, ironically, I need counsel on too. I find myself time and time again saying things that I so desperately need to hear and follow.

I find myself dropping little one-liners like "You're a broken person living with broken people." Yet somehow I think my junk is less tolerable than anyone else's.

I tell her "Jesus didn't die so you could look like you have it all together. He died so that you can admit that you don't, and yet still be redeemed." Yet I refuse to let others see my own depravity.

I tell her she's allowed to say she's not okay, but never expect me to admit I'm having a bad day.

I say things like "You're made to live in community, to be with people, to share a life together that is hard but ultimately beautiful." Yet I doubt that I will ever be able to properly live with other people.

I am going through this season where I don't want people to know about my life back home. I don't want to be the odd girl out, the girl who must come with a lot of baggage. I'm tired of being the charity on Christmas and Thanksgiving. There is nothing that scares people off more than essentially saying "Hi, I was a foster kid. I have crazy parents. I'm going to get jealous of your family, even if they are dysfunctional. I'm going to fall off the face of the earth on holidays. I'm going to have days that are really hard for no apparent reason. I'm going to be homesick for a place I don't miss. I won't understand your life and you won't understand mine. Can we be friends?"

So I dance around the issue. I refer to half a dozen couples as "mom" and "dad", allowing the people around me to assume that I am talking about my biological parents. I give names like "aunt", "cousin", "sister" to people I have no relation to, and often don't speak to very often. I play the part of your average American teenager quite well.

Yet when I intentionally do this, I leave out an entire chunk of who I am. I refuse to allow a person to love me properly. I expect their full availability, yet wall off the places I am not willing to let them into. I stagnate both my personal development and our relationship.

I lack courage.

I lack the courage to be authentic, to be broken, to be human.

And I don't say this in a "poor miserable me" way. I say this because I am humbled and because I am trying to take a history of jacked up relationships and make a Dani that functions, breathes, loves, and gives.

I give people a Dani that eats butterflies and poops rainbows because I am convinced that any other Dani is not worthy of love. I am convinced that people who know too much are a danger - or possibly more accurately, I feel that I am a danger to them.

So here I am, entering my ninth month in my new life on the other side of the country and I still have professors telling me "It's okay to not be perfect, Dani." I still have mentors asking me the same hard questions over and over again. I still have friends wondering why I do things the way I do.

Praise the Lord, they all seem to be still sticking around.

They've realized that it's better to be broken together than it is to be broken alone.

"Vulnerability... is the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness. But it appears that it is also the birthplace of joy, of creativity, of belonging, of love." -- Brene Brown

Mentors

I am beyond blessed to be at a school where I am free to believe and to doubt without looking like a freak.

Several professors at APU are involved with Sticky Faith, a research study on the spiritual development of students from high school into college. The vast majority of students leave their faith at home when they come to college; yet the students who are the most "successful" at maintaining their beliefs tend to be those who had adult mentors besides their parents.

There is something absolutely necessary about being inter-generational. It's no joke that it takes a village to raise a child; we absolutely require multiple voices to speak into our lives. It takes more than two parents with full time jobs to be transformative and develop within us a faith to last a lifetime.

For me, mentors took over the place of my absent parents. They are the ones who taught me how to function in life. The guided me through the mundane of doing laundry and making a budget. They stood beside me through the milestones of my life at graduation and during college decision making. They listened to me whine and taught me to fix all things through prayer.

Yet the importance of having mentors doesn't seem to ever be over. I continue to have people who pour into my life.

I have a sweet friend who sometimes laughs at the amount of people who I refer to as "mentor". But what else do you call them? What else do you call the 20-somethings who let me borrow their car, help me make decisions, and never miss a chance to pray for me? What else do you call the lady who is forty years my senior who I have breakfast with on Wednesday mornings and prays for me by name each and every day? What else do you call the girl who is in her junior year and says "We will get you the money to go to Oxford. When are you free to talk?"

They aren't doing anything exceptional. They're just giving me the time and attention that I crave. And they certainly aren't perfect. Sure, I have been hurt by some of them and occasionally wanted to kick one or two of them in the shin, but they are humans. They are breathing, feeling, and discovering this world beside me. They show me how to gracefully fail, how to recover from poor decisions, how to rely on prayer and God alone.

They are doing nothing special. They are simply doing what the Lord made them to do: love.

And it has made all the difference.

Then they can urge the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subjects to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.

Titus 2:4-5

Unaccounted for

I blogged earlier this week about my worries and God's whispers.

It didn't take very long for answers to prayers.

God is so good.

I wasn't sure that I would have enough of my meal plan to get me through the rest of the semester, so I have been very frivolous in my eating patterns (read as: living on peanut butter and animal crackers). A sweet mentor of mine, a retired lady who lives in the 55+ community by the school, texted me yesterday (yes, she texts!) saying "Hi. Where might you be right now? I bought some groceries for you!"

What?

So the sweet lady walked over to campus with a gift bag filled with juice, tea, apples, bread, peanut butter, granola bars, and (yes!) chocolate. It was a simple gesture that stretched so far in my worried little heart. She knew just what I needed, just when I needed it.

Or even better, God knew what I needed and she was willing to obey.

Later that same day, I was working on a group project with some classmates. Two of us had to run errands in the plaza by the school, so we decided to go together to avoid being the next victim of the ABG (Azusa Booty Grabber). We ran up to our dorms to put away our laptops and textbooks. I opened my online bank account, almost certain that if I hadn't yet overdrawn, I was surely about to.

What I found stopped my heart and nearly brought me to tears.

There, in my bank account, was sitting a large sum of money. An unaccounted for sum of money. A sum of money that had no record of being deposited. A sum of money that won't completely pay the bills, but will certainly allow me to relax.

God has provided through ways I don't understand. For this, I am grateful.

So do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?" or "What shall we drink?" or "What shall we wear?" For the pagans run after these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them.

Matthew 6:31-32

Whispers and worries

Apparently I am not in a "rough week" but rather, a rough season.

This semester has been too short, too difficult, too stressful.

It seems like there are not enough hours in the day, dollars in the bank, or words on the page.

I thought that I heard so clearly God telling me that He wanted me to be abroad for the summer; surely, this is what I was meant to do. I prayed, I searched, I applied, I interviewed. When the rejection letter came through, I was terrified that I had heard the voice of God wrong and justified that it must have simply been a test to see if I was willing to leave.

I applied for Oxford with little prayer, with a prideful heart that literally said "God, I'm going whether you want me to or not." When the acceptance letter came in, I justified that God must have said no to summer missions because I needed to save money to cover the expenses of study abroad.

But there I am again, trying to make sense of a senseless world and of a great big God who must, by His very nature, remain a mystery.

There I am, trying to get inside the head of the Omniscient, trying to equivocate myself to the Omnipotent. There I am, trying to justify the Judge and make excuses for the Divine.

There I am, a little girl, weak and tattered and helpless, yet swelling with denial. I spend my days trying to figure out my life for myself only to become exhausted and frustrated. I acknowledge with my head that I am a child of the Holy God, yet my actions continue to show otherwise. Rather than find rest, I create chaos.

And so I lie awake, worried about where I will live for the summer; God whispers "How many nights have you gone without a bed?"

I crunch numbers, praying for my income to exceed my outcome; God whispers "Did I not provide for you last semester? And the semester before that?"

I search in panic for clinical trials, scholarships, grants, and consider which organs I can go without; God whispers "I own the entire universe. Never think that even your greatest bill is too much for me."

I frantically make TDL's, schedule back-to-back appointments, cram in a suffering social and academic life, and am left completely unsure of where to go next; God whispers "Be still. I will show you great and beautiful things. Trust in me."

I am left overwhelmed and confused by court proceedings and letters from lawyers that seem to never end; God whispers "Have peace. I alone bring justice, for I am the only judge."

I squirm with anxiety and fear as an unpredictable birth mother sends texts and emails; God whispers "She is my daughter, too. Love her as I have loved you."

And so I spend another day frustrated over poor grades, anxious over impending bills, and afraid of people who should not be able to control me. It is another day consumed by worry rather than prayer, fear rather than praise. It is another day of God whispering "I am still here, waiting."

Mexico: Part Dos

I came back from Mexico last weekend frustrated, unsure of our effectiveness, of what God wanted to do with me, of whether or not I should have been there.

I threw a bit of an internal fit. I didn't have plans on going back to Mexico in the future. I wasn't writing it off, but I certainly could not continue to go simply because the opportunity was there.

Confused and frustrated, I had lost a lot of my faith in whether or not what we were doing was good and right.

Monday night I went to go visit a sweet friend in Pasadena. She's away on a medical leave of absence and was upset she could not be with us for Easter, one of her favorite holidays. About ten of us showed up to where she was staying, bringing Easter to her for a few hours. We were all talking, laughing, sharing stories of spring break and genuinely enjoying each other.

We got to talking about Mexico and started telling border crossing stories (the best kind!). Her boyfriend mentioned that he wanted to go back down to the APU ranch for a couple of days. His church back home had been coming for twenty-four years; this was their last final year, and he wanted to make one more visit as a church body. He said he was afraid of driving alone that far and of facing the reckless roads of Mexicali. The poor kid also didn't know a word of Spanish and his team was in need of a translator.

He knew I was a translator and knew I was a driver.

He asked if I wanted to come with him Wednesday morning, half joking.

I thought about it for a moment. I had three papers due. I had just come back the other day. I was a bit frustrated with the whole Mexico situation.

Yet I knew I had a few classes that were already cancelled. My papers were already half written. I still had not unpacked my bag. I also knew I needed to go back south before I became bitter and begrudged. I felt God tugging, saying "Give it another chance. Let me show you."

I said yes.

We loaded up his mom's SUV Wednesday morning after chapel. It was all very last minute and spontaneous, much against how I used to like to run my life. We were both a bit frazzled and a bit stressed. I had to jump out of the car before we left the parking lot, realizing I had left my wallet and passport in my room. I had to give awkward explanations to my friends, my RA, my dad, the staff at the ranch. I emailed my professors, cranked out all of my papers and gave them to classmates to turn in, borrowed a missionary skirt just before leaving from a girl on the trolley. I drove us into base camp using memory and rough directions written on an index card last week (in Mexico, directions are something like "turn left at the gas station, keep left at the fork before the overpass).

The trip was great. I was excited to see what God was going to teach me after a rough week only a few days before. I was greatly encouraged by the veterans on my team who understood Mexicali and had seen the changes through the years. They listened, prayed with me, and gave me advice on how to be an effective change-maker rather than a self-righteous camper. They shared what they felt worked and didn't work when partnering with local churches, sharing stories of success and also of failure. They emphasized the importance of preparation, prayer, and organization.

One of the sweet ladies assured me that the things they do don't require much money and are completely achievable by even a small team. The leader of the group, a wise older gentleman said "We demand a lot out of our kids - but they rise to the occasion because it's what is expected of them. They prepare for months ahead of time for this. If you're going to do it for the Kingdom, then you better do it right."

But it still begs the question: Who in their right mind makes an impromptu trip out of the country with a boy? Did my mother teach me nothing?

I wrote a couple of years ago about feeling like a young nomad when I was in transition between so many homes. There was a lack of stability, a lack of feeling at home and safe.

I suppose I still have this nomadic spirit; but it has transformed into a healthy sense of adventure. I am eager to leave, to travel, to explore. I am comfortable lying my princess head to sleep in a tent in the middle of a desert, in the backseat of a car during a windstorm, in the home of friends I have just met. I am no longer held down by the need to return to comfort; I can fit my life in one bag and be a happy girl for a while.

I am free.

My biological dad has realized that I am no longer content sitting still. He never wanted me to leave the state. I moved to California. He never wanted me to go on mission trips. I frequent Mexico. He never wanted me to leave the country. I am moving to England next year and applying to spend some time in Africa. While I still have bitter moments of him rejecting me so long ago when he tells me he doesn't want me leaving, I do my best to reassure him and hear his concerns. Sometimes it seems too late, but he is trying to learn to be a father.

My high school years weren't stable. They were terrifying, stressful, and unpredictable. But it is in this that I find a spirit of adventure, a promise of freedom, a heart to see God's people. I am in a new phase of life where I cannot stay in one place; I cannot feel tied down and unable to leave. I have been convicted this year of my love of things, of my need to be settled and comfortable. God has shown me that comfort is perhaps one of the most dangerous things to well-meaning believers.

We have been given this beautiful world to love, to explore, to care for.

As you go, preach this message: 'The kingdom of heaven is near.' Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give. Do not take along any gold or silver or copper in your belts; take no bag for the journey, or extra tunic, or sandals or a staff; for the worker is worth his keep."

Matthew 10:7-10

Dust bowl

God showed me a bit of a darker side to ministry while in Mexico this last week. He showed me that it isn't all happy photos. Sometimes the money doesn't come through. Sometimes there's more grumbling than laughter. Sometimes there's chaos, confusion, and lack of preparation. Sometimes you're stuck in the Dust Bowl where the sun is hot, the wind is strong, and the ground is parched.

It started about a week before the trip began. I finally confided in a precious mentor that I didn't want to go to Mexico. There was a lot going on that wasn't as smooth as I had hoped; the team, the finances, the preparation. A project for my ministry class also had my analyzing the effectiveness of MO, and I was discouraged, unsure of whether or not we were making a difference. I was also in a sudden bout of homesickness, being my first spring break in as long as I can remember without my dear friends from home. There would be no lying on the soft sandy beaches, spending too long in booths at family-owned restaurants, piling too many bodies into one secondhand car, living in swimsuits and crashing on each others' bedroom floors.

I just wanted to go home.

But I couldn't go home. I foolishly reminded myself that there isn't much of a home to go back to, and that only made the situation worse. Because I had already put so much money into the trip I packed my bags, grinned and bared it, and found myself in Mexico.

I found my homesick self in the middle of a hot desert during a raging windstorm, cramped in a packed car of girls I didn't know, and questioning whether or not I was even supposed to be there. Not wanting to let my team down, I gave it my best anyway.

The first few days of ministry were horribly discouraging. I felt shafted, unappreciated, bitter about things that had nothing to do with the situation - overall, my internal attitude was poor and my needs centered around myself. I fumbled through translations, watching as my team doubted my abilities and causing me to be all the more discouraged. It was exhausting for me with self-diagnosed ADD to have to constantly be attentive and engaged to the conversations around me. I was preoccupied with my TDL's for when I returned, incoming texts from my biological mother, and upcoming Easter events at work. I counted down the days until we got to go home.

Yet there's something about those little brown faces running down the dusty street towards our dirty minivan. There's something about the forgiving smiles of the parents who line the the back walls of the church as I stumble around the correct pronunciation of "hablabamos". There's something about a bunch of nationals calling all of us Americana when they forget our names or playing soccer against eight year olds who could keep up with Beckham.

My attitude finally changed on the last day of ministry when I was speaking to the pastor's wife, Letty. Much to my surprise, I found out that she was actually from the US. Her mother brought her down to Mexico many years ago because she wanted her children to connect with their people, to realize how blessed they were.

Later as an adult, Letty moved to Mexico permanently to plant a church in a neighborhood where large families survive on about $100 a week, living in houses patched together by shipping crates and wooden pallets.

She shared her struggles with us, of how she had to get rid of her nice clothes in order to fit in with the local women, of how she secretly left food on front porches for two years to families she knew needed it most, of how the Lord finally brought her and her family to a state of depravity so that they may know the sufferings of those they served. She now runs a preschool for local families as well as serves as the beautiful wife to the pastor of a beautiful church that is growing and now has two missions in the area.

Completely selfless. Completely faithful. Completely dependent.

That's Letty.

As I sat there and listened to her story, I thought of how beautiful her life is. How richly she has blessed her community. I thought of my selfish desires for coming on the trip - I simply didn't know what else to do with myself for a week. I didn't want to "miss out". To some extent, I wanted to work my way up the MO ladder. I wanted my real dad to tell me to be safe, to show some concern for my well-being.

I realized that mission trips even with a good heart must be taken only when prompted by God, not my own whims.

I asked Letty if she felt that MO did anything effective or if we were just one-week-wonders. She smiled and shook her head. "No, no," she said, "you can't see the impact because you aren't here. The kids start asking when you will come back as soon as you leave. Some kids only come on the weeks that you are here. My husband was one of those kids. He only came to church when the Americans were here - now he is a pastor. You are making a difference."

This calmed my heart which was so divided on our purpose. It settled my soul to know that God is still using us, whether we are a frumpy bunch of grumpy misfits packed into a hot minivan or a woman leading a radical life in the slums of Mexicali.